#predated the staff announcement by a few hours

[izhunny]

↑↑↑ time of OP

[dragoneyes618]

"Perhaps presenting all these facts has the opposite effect from what we think. Perhaps we are giving people ideas.

I don't mean giving people ideas about how to murder Jews. There is no shortage of ideas like that, going back to Pharaoh's decree in the Book of Exodus about drowning Hebrew baby boys in the Nile. I mean, rather, that perhaps we are giving people ideas about our standards. Yes, everyone must learn about the Holocaust aso as not to repeat it. But this has come to mean that anything short of the Holocaust is, well, not the Holocaust. The bar is rather high.

Shooting people in a synagogue in San Diego or Pittsburgh isn't "systemic"; it's an act of a "lone wolf." And it's not the Holocaust. The same is true for arson attacks against two different Boston-area synagogues, followed by similar simultaneous attacks on Jewish institutions in Chicago a few days later, along with physical assaults on religious Jews on the streets of New York - all of which happened within a week of my visit to the Auschwitz show.

Lobbing missiles at sleeping children in Israel's Kiryat Gat, where my husband's cousins spent the week of my museum visit dragging their kids to bomb shelters, isn't an attempt to bring "Death to the Jews," no matter how frequently the people lobbing the missiles broadcast those very words; the wily Jews there figured out how to prevent their children form dying in large piles, so it is clearly no big deal.

Doxxing Jewish journalists is definitely not the Holocaust. Harassing Jewish college students is also not the Holocaust. Trolling Jews on social media is not the Holocaust either, even when it involves photoshopping them into gas chambers. (Give the trolls credit: They have definitely heard of Auschwitz.) Even hounding ancient Jewish communities out of entire countries and seizing all their assets - which happened in a dozen Muslim nations whose Jewish communities predated the Islamic conquest, countries that are now all almost entirely Judenrein - is emphatically not the Holocaust. It is quite amazing how many things are not the Holocaust.

The day of my visit to the museum, the rabbi of my synagogue attended a meeting arranged by police for local clergy, including him and seven Christian ministers and priests. The topic of the meeting was security. Even before the Pittsburgh massacre, membership dues at my synagogue included security fees. But apparently these local churches do not charge their congregants security fees, or avail themselves of government funds for this purpose.. The rabbi later told me how he sat in stunned silence as church officials discussed whether to put a lock on a church door. "A lock on the door," the rabbi said to me afterward, stupefied.

He didn't have to say what I already knew from the emails the synagogue routinely sends: that they've increased the rent-a-cops' hours, that they've done active-shooter training with the nursery school staff, that further initiatives are in place that "cannot be made public." A lock on the door," re repeated, astounded. "They just have no idea."

He is young, this rabbi - younger than me. He was realizing the same thing I realized at the Auschwitz exhibition, about the specificity of our experience. I feel the need to apologize here, to acknowledge that yes, this rabbi and I both know that many non-Jewish houses of worship in other places also require rent-a-cops, to announce that yes, we both know that other groups have been persecuted too - and this degrading need to recite these middle-school-obvious facts is itself an illustration of the problem, which is that dead Jews are only worth discussing if they are part of something bigger, something more. Some other people might go to Holocaust museums to feel sad, and then to feel proud of themselves for feeling sad. They will have learned something officially important, discovered a fancy metaphor for the limits of Western civilization. The problem is that for us, dead Jews aren't a metaphor, but rather actual people that we do not want our children to become." 

- Dara Horn, People Love Dead Jews: Reports from a Haunted Present

[s0ulm8s]

boys like you (1.0)

✿ summary : alone and left in a mansion with nothing but your canvases and the dust slowly collecting on the window sills - a commission and a call from a childhood friend completely changes your life.

✿ genre : ot7 x f!reader, poly au, hybrid au, soulmate au, deer!seokjin, black panther!yoongi, great dane!hoseok, wolf!namjoon, calico cat!jimin, tiger!taehyung, bunny!jungkook

✿ warnings : mentions of death, maybe some mentions of assault, some fluff, reader is described as small (i.e smaller than jimin), slight age gap (reader is younger than jungkook)

✿ word count : 2.2K

✿ author’s note : i am inexperienced in hybrid aus, smut, and series so pls bare with me (not proofread yet)

✿ series masterlist! | 2.0

making yourself buckle down and work on the piece in front of you had proven to be more of a task than you had originally anticipated. the wide expanse of blank canvas you had stretched yourself 3 weeks ago, mocked you from the the sun room. it was only four days before you had to deliver your piece that you had really forced yourself to pick up a paint brush and do something useful.

the endless days spent alone in the vast building you now called home was doing a number on your psyche. the sheer loneliness seemed to eat away at not only your sanity but aided to your artist’s block - it was truly a gruesome cycle. locked away in an beautiful estate that you never asked for.

not only that, but working from home and having an all but nonexistent social life in a country you only permanently moved to a year prior was a fate worse than you had imagined.

you huffed, finally setting your small brush down on the easel, stepping back to assess your final draft. despite being so unmotivated and plum out of ideas, you were still proud of what you created - you had promised yourself long ago that you’d never sell a piece you abhorred, and you’d remained true to that promise thus far.

a blaring ring ripped you out of your critical trance trained on the landscape in front of you, startling you as your heartbeat quickened in pace.

“hello?” you answered, soft voice flowing through the other end as you anticipated the response from the unknown caller.

“yah! y/n! is that you?” the voice that responded was loud and excited, the baritone of it something you could never forget. a staple soundtrack from the summers you spent with your father in south korea.

“mingi? how’d you get my number?” you asked, a genuine smile flooding your face at the sound of his familiar laugh on the other end. 

of course, the two of you had stayed in brief contact since meeting as children. but as you grew, you saw less of each other. three years ago he and his boyfriend, yunho, had successfully started their own rehabilitation and adoption center for hybrids. the first year was hard, but the business quickly gained popularity and as the creator - he’d been exceptionally busy since her permanent move to south korea. they had two permanent doctors on staff, kim hongjoong and park seonghwa, along with a 24 hour staff. the workers were really exceptional, but you had only ever met their core group when the business first started. which included: choi san, jung wooyoung, choi jongho, kang yeosang, the two doctors, and of course the two owners.

“you were commissioned by a friend of mine! which is actually why i wanted to reach out.” he answered happily as your breathing evened and heartbeat finally settled.

“it’s good to hear from you, really. what can i do for you?” you asked sweetly, and mingi only briefly thought about teasing you for your soft tone and giving nature.

“would you be able to come to the adoption wing today? i’m working here all day as we’ve some new hybrids ready to find a new home. maybe in about an hour? you could join me on my rounds and we could talk. i’d like to see you, anyways. i’ve missed you.” mingi spoke professionally, but his admission made tears prick at your eyes. he almost sounded like the sixteen year old boy who had stolen your first kiss when visiting your father that summer and the memory of when things were simpler stung in your chest. your cheeks flushed. mingi smiled at your silence, knowing he had flustered his best childhood friend. you narrowed your eyes briefly, as he had tried to convince you many times in the past to adopt a hybrid of your own - but you had declined, not entirely convinced that you could provide an exceptional life for another being. because even though your knowledge on hybrids wasn't nearly as advanced as mingi’s, you still knew the basics. they weren't just animals, they were human. and there was no guarantee there. there never was with humans. you hesitate.

“y-yes. i can come by, i’ve just got to swing by and deliver my painting beforehand.” you answered as you both agreed on the meeting the time. “oh, and mingi? i’ve missed you, too.” you said genuinely as he broke into a toothy smile. it had been ages since he’d seen you, and though he knew he could blame it on his work - he didn’t know how to face you after the death of your father. he couldn’t bring himself to be there for you, to see you so broken, and he had blamed himself for that everyday. it was a relief to hear you say it. you had always been so forgiving, sometimes to a fault.

after bidding your goodbyes to the tall boy on the other side of the phone, you quickly changed clothes into something not completely ruined by the muted pigments of your paint, loaded up in your small suv, and you were off.

the delivery of your piece went smoothly, no heckling or disapproving gazes from the wealthy couple, which made your trip to TWILIGHT that much faster. you pushed open the double doors connected to the building in the right wing, clearly labeled ADOPTION. 

the smell of roses and lavender was strong in the reception area, the scent was welcoming and calming as you walked up to the front desk. 

“y/n!” the dark haired boy behind the computer called, finally rolling away from behind the screen. kang yeosang. “it’s so good to see you!” he exclaimed, eyes scanning your face as he made his way around the counter and pulled you into a soft embrace.

“likewise, yeo! it’s been a while hasn't it?” you ask rhetorically as you stare up at his daunting height.

“mmm” he hummed with a nod, releasing you. “i'll let mingi know you’re here.” he called, returning to his place behind the sleek desk, paging mingi, and then proceeding to catch up with you.

the small conversation didn’t last long before a pair of heavy footsteps drug your gaze to the wide staircase, mingi barreling down them.

you braced yourself as the giant scooped you up into a bone crushing embrace, spinning your small frame around in a circle as he let out a happy laugh. your arms snaked around the man’s neck to secure your place and return the hug.

you giggled happily as mingi finally set you down in your original place, looking down at you excitedly. had he gotten taller? impossible. maybe you had shrunk?

after an exchange of excited greetings, mingi gestured to his clipboard before finally asking, “you ready?”

you nodded softly and followed close behind as he guided you down the halls of the adoption center. he gave you the rundown of their center, showing you the wide expanse of spotless rooms sealed in by plexiglass to show the hybrids ready to be rescued. he explained that most hybrids were separated by predator, prey, species, breed, etc. but many were grouped together with their respective packs. the rooms were quite lavish, but not very homey. but what could you expect from an adoption clinic? the point was to find homes.

you passed many show exhibits, watching intently at the small dogs or tall humans sitting in the rooms patiently, playing with one another or napping quietly. you cooed at a few.

“so i asked to see you because i’d love to have your art displayed in our business.” he propositioned, leading you into an empty room as the automatic doors opened and shut behind you. you nodded, heart lurching a bit as you recalled your artist’s block. you shook the thought away as you observed the room. it was large, littered with scattered pieces of nice furniture and random toys. “ideally, i’d love to have your pieces throughout the whole establishment but this is my main concern.” he finished, gesturing to the empty space on the large wall, the one you’re faced with when first entering.

“are you wanting a mural?” you ask, voice now stable and a bit louder. 

“i'd like the piece to cover the majority of the wall, but i’d rather have it on canvas if that’s doable. in case it needs to be moved.” he explained as you nodded, taking in rough measurements of the space as mingi explained his vision for the space - effectively helping you circulate a few ideas on what you could create. you accepted his offer as he discussed payment and supplies with you, adding in an extra cost at the large measurement of the canvas you’d need custom made.

the air in the room grew a bit thick at the sound of a small beep, alerting the two of you to another door opening. your skin was now a bit hot and you suddenly became very aware of your surroundings. your fingers tingled a bit. usually a foreign feeling such as the one you were experiencing would send you into a panic, but it didn’t. if anything you felt quite calm as you looked on inquisitively at the distant thump coming toward the two of you.

“ah, it’s look like some of our hybrids are finished with their check ups.” mingi announced as you nodded lazily. he turned to you. “we usually send them into the lounge area for about an hour after routine check ups. helps them calm down.”

suddenly, you could pay no mind to mingi’s words as a black bunny rounded the corner, back foot slapping the tile exceptionally hard every so often as you smiled down at the creature happily. it stopped in it’s tracks as it’s gaze landed upon you, rearing up on it’s back legs, and tilting it’s head innocently as it examined you. 

you knelt down to greet him, the bunny immediately approaching you and sniffing your hand before accepting you and nuzzling into you closer. mingi was taken aback as he observed the usually reserved and nervous rabbit.

“hello.” you cooed, stroking the bunny effortlessly, careful to avoid his ears and tail, briefly recalling how sensitive they could be. “what’s your name?” you asked as mingi coughed.

“this is jeongguk, he’s one of our younger hyrbrids. the youngest in his pack.” he told you as you picked the bunny up and set him into your small lap. mingi almost gasped at the interaction between you and the rabbit as you pet him happily.

your trance was interrupted at the light purr and brush of a small calico next to you. you instinctively reach out to pet him, as he rubbed into your hand. “and who might you be?”

“this is jimin, the two are in a pack.” mingi attempted to explain, trying to understand the absence of jimin’s usually protective behavior and unable to tell you the full story before you asked him something he was not expecting.

“and they’re ready to be adopted?” you asked softly, not even looking up at mingi as he stuttered. the idea of adopting a hybrid didn’t seem so far-fetched now at how taken you were with the two animals in your lap. you could handle the bunny and cat, without a doubt.

“y-yes but we only adopt out entire packs together and -”

“of course, i wouldn’t dream of separating them. is there anyway i could meet them properly, as soon as i possible i think -” you interrupt. starting to gush a bit, voice hushed and excitable.

mingi cut you off, “no, y/n. you aren’t listening. they aren’t just a pack of two.” he sighed, as your gaze finally met his. “in fact they aren’t just bunny and calico, they’re pack also includes that of a wolf, black panther, deer, great dane, and tiger... their pack has been hard to adopt out as it’s so rare for such a large mix of predators and prey... but they found each other and experienced a lot together... it was only inevitable. and we can’t separate them, we refuse to. and they won’t leave one another.” he finally finished explaining as your expression fell. you let out a breath. seven hybrids. all male. and three apex predators, at that. the thought of suddenly thrusting seven knew faces - seven new men - into your home was intimidating to say the least.

you looked down at the two animals in your lap, the bunny almost looked cresfallen. gauging your reaction as his big brown eyes stared at you expectantly. as if he knew you’d reject him. mingi continued rambling on about how many adopters had expressed interest in at least one of the pack but were never willing to bring in all seven. it hurt your heart as you watched on the bunny and calico.

the estate your father had left you was empty, though. begging to be occupied. you had more than enough room and were blessed with an untouched inheritance. maybe this is what you should use it for. you had always felt too guilty to spend it. but nothing seemed more right, which was a shocking realization to someone who never thought they’d adobt a hybrid.

“could i meet them? the seven of them? i’d at least want to give them a chance... truthfully, i dont think i can leave them behind.” you admitted softly, the bunny and cat both perked up, ears raised and twitching.

“of course. i can arrange a meeting and speak with them tonight... i’ll gather their files for you to take home tonight. can you make it back in again tomorrow?” mingi asked after a deafening pause of hesitation, mouth hanging agape before coming back into reality.

“i’ll be here.”

[themurphyzone]

PatB/BatB AU: If I Can’t Love Him Ch 1

Summary: Sequel to Imprisoned and part of the PatB BatB AU.

The Beast knows he’s too far gone, in too deep to ever have hope of regaining what he lost. But one action leads to another, and through a series of mistakes, discovers he may have been wrong about so many things.

Pinky is running for his life. He knows he made a promise, and he finds the servants charming, but he can’t stay. The castle was not and will never be his home. But things aren’t always as they appear.

AN: OK ok technically the disastrous dinner request does happen first (as of posting this first chapter, the dinner request scene has not been written yet but I do hope to get around to it), but I just wanna write the West Wing and its aftermath ok lemme have my angst.

This will be a 4 chapter story, each chapter named for a lyric from If I Can’t Love Her from the BatB Broadway musical. It’s a really heartwrenching song and every time I hear it I just wanna hug poor Beast.

AO3 Link

Ch 1: Careless and Unthinking

The Beast heard music drifting from the large dining room, traveling along the wind until it reached his usual haunt on the castle roof just above the West Wing.

Though he was too far to properly hear the lyrics, he recognized that irritatingly catchy melody to Be a Pest, a song the Warner siblings performed on a semi-regular basis ever since the curse upended their lives.

He should’ve known the Warners wouldn’t leave the prisoner alone in his room to starve.

The Beast huffed, a misty cloud forming in the frigid air.

He wasn’t sure why he said that when he didn’t actually want the prisoner to starve. It was counterproductive to breaking the curse.

And that mouse was far too foolish to suit his purposes. Arguing every order, determined to defy him at every turn, uncaring of self-preservation when he skipped into the castle and announced his presence without the slightest attempt at stealth.

Not that anyone else bothered to heed his orders, despite his higher station, but it was especially irritating from someone who was supposed to be a prisoner.

Surely all his hopes of regaining his rightful position weren’t dependent on an idiot whose head was permanently up in the clouds!

Rage mounted in the depths of his deformed body, and though he tried to hold back, he couldn’t stop the primal roar that worked its way past his throat.

It echoed off the trees, a flock of faraway birds taking to the air to get away from a perceived predator.

He struck the roof with one clawed, oversized hand. Several loose tiles spiraled into the abyss below.

The rush of adrenaline was overwhelming. It felt good to be so powerful. His old body was woefully lacking in strength and height.

He’d never been able to climb onto the roof before. A mouse was far too small and fragile to ever attempt something so death-defying.

Nor was he able to tear furniture apart so easily. But now he could.

Give in, a voice whispered, sweet and tempting and malicious all at once. Why resist your anger? Give in now, and you won’t be hurt ever again. I promise.

Anger was the only emotion worth feeling. It was blissful to not experience anything other than splintered wood and torn cloth under his claws. No worries, doubts, or fears to hold him back. When his thoughts became nothing but a simplistic chant of destroy, destroy, destroy.

Then all coherent thought would cease, and only instincts were left.

But anger was a fickle companion. It would encourage him, drive him forward, yet it would suddenly flee. It didn’t stay with him in the wake of his destruction.

And the guilt came.

His shortsightedness robbed everyone of a comfortable life. Nobody was spared. Not the innocent toddler, not the orphans or stray animals seeking a safe haven, nor the regular household staff.

On that first long, horrible night, he’d promised to break the curse. They’d be back to normal before they knew it, and they’d only remember it as one odd, terrifying nightmare.

But his plan didn’t work. And he made that promise again. Then his next plan failed before he set it into motion.

Tomorrow night. I’ll break it tomorrow night for sure.

For the past five years, he made that same promise every night.

But the curse wasn’t broken. The nightmare wasn’t complete.

Every plan failed. He tried everything.

That is, he tried everything except for the condition laid out from the very beginning.

The beautiful witch’s voice haunted him, mocking him through every waking hour and dream, taunting him with fate-sealing roses and mirrors that reflected the monster he was.

“If you can find somebody to love, and earn their love in return, my enchantment upon your castle shall be lifted. Fail in your quest, and you shall remain a beast for all time.”

The condition was an open secret in the castle, though only the Warners dared to bring up the topic within his vicinity.

He laughed, but it was a harsh, guttural laugh, completely devoid of joy.

Love? How could he possibly love anyone?

Love only brought pain.

As a foolish child, he loved his parents.

Then they abandoned him in favor of the lavish court. His existence was a scandal unto itself, and he was secreted away to a province with little royal oversight.

He let out an ugly snarl, cruel fangs digging into his upper lip.

The harsh, unnatural sound only served as a reminder that nobody would ever love him back. His mind, which once held ideas on how to reclaim his throne and improve life in this neglected province, was now dull and dimming further by the day.

He couldn’t read or invent anymore. His hands were too large for the delicate machinery, his claws ripping apart everything he touched. He barely remembered how to stand on two legs, and the few times he tried, he quickly lost his balance and had no choice but to stalk the hallways on all fours, stripped of all dignity.

Intelligence was all he had. And even that would be gone soon.

Nobody wanted a dumb, slavering, mud-colored beast for a lover.

A chilly wind blew snow into his fur, startling him out of his ponderings. The night had quickly grown dark and cold, the land below shrouded in an early winter. The moon and stars were hidden by thick, low clouds.

He didn’t hear any music. The prisoner had likely eaten his fill by now.

The silence unnerved him.

It was quiet on the rooftop, but without the background noise of the servants working or screaming from the unfortunate souls who were assigned Warner or Mindy duty, it was far too quiet for comfort.

When it was silent, the most unwelcome thoughts nagged at his deteriorating mind.

He sighed, regretting his decision to ponder on the roof this long. But then, it seemed his entire life was just one bad decision after another, so he was hardly bothered.  

Stretching his sore limbs, he carefully gripped the slippery tiles as he descended down to the West Wing balcony. The wind whipped at his cape, and his exposed fur stood on end to keep his body warm.

This body was more resistant to the cold, able to endure conditions any weak, normal mouse would hide themselves from.

He was powerful.

But that thought quickly came to an end.

He lost his grip on a handhold, sliding several inches on the slippery stone.

The brief scare made whatever remained of his shriveled heart leap in fear, and he was reminded that regardless of physical prowess, he was still mortal.

On some nights, being mortal was a good thing.

He took hold of a thick, tangled growth of ivy that crept up the stone walls over the years, so thick that even his sharp claws couldn’t cut through it. The servants had valiantly battled the plants over the years, but there was only so much they could do.

The castle would crumble once the curse took hold permanently and become nothing more than a relic lost to time.

He crept down the ivy to the West Wing balcony, allowing the mysterious, cruel light of the enchanted rose to guide him to safety in the darkness.

Brooding over a rose and making doomed plans in the vain hope of breaking this curse.

That’s all he was good for these days.

Just as he set foot on the balcony, his ears perked at the sound of footsteps within his chambers. He growled quietly to himself.

He wasn’t in the mood to deal with the Warners’ antics tonight. Not when their advice proved little use against the prisoner’s stubborn refusal to have dinner with him.

But the footsteps sounded…different. Lighter.

Not brassy like Yakko’s, wooden like Wakko’s, or clinking like Dot’s.

The Beast inhaled sharply.

No.

It couldn’t be.

His prisoner was an idiot, but surely he wouldn’t break the only rule he’d been given. He should’ve been thanking the Beast for his leniency with the guidelines to follow for his stay within the castle property.

Don’t go into the West Wing.

But the mouse was right before his eyes, still on the far side of the room, twirling around in awe at the torn draperies, splintered wood, and haphazard bedding.

“Narf. This room could use a good sweep. I’ve seen pigsties cleaner than this!” the mouse tsked, shaking his head at the sorry state of the West Wing.

Really? The Beast wanted to scream. That’s your main concern right now?

Never mind that the West Wing was a grim testament to just how far he’d fallen, the shadowed lair of a beast, the broken décor scattered and abused throughout the years because it felt so good to lash out at something without guilt, and his prisoner commented on the mess of all things?

His claws brushed against a shard from a broken vase, and he sullenly flicked it aside. The ceramic remains skittered across the balcony.

Alright, so maybe the West Wing was a little messy…

An odd sense of embarrassment washed over him.

He crouched behind a thick tangle of ivy, feeling very much like a predator lying in wait for unsuspecting prey. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to do anything, and the mouse would just leave on his own.

The mouse picked his way through the West Wing, stopping to gawk at a shredded mattress and pile of ragged blankets that served as the Beast’s bed. He plucked at a strip of fabric that had fallen on the floor, and the Beast growled lowly. His sleeping area wasn’t a spectacle.

It was simply where he woke up from a nightmare, only to find that he never truly left.  

The mouse gasped, his ears twitching. For a fleeting moment, the Beast believed he’d successfully chased him out of the West Wing. But the mouse turned to a portrait in a golden frame, one that had been painted so long ago, in a faraway life.

He’d dragged his claws across that painting many times, when he could no longer take the image of himself as a prince, mocking him with his dead-eyed stare and prestige.

Reminding him of what he used to be.

Though he wanted nothing more than to be rid of it permanently, some part of him couldn’t bear to throw it away. He didn’t know why.

He was tempted to spring out of his hiding place and tell the mouse to get out right now, but the gentle, almost reverent way the mouse pulled the hanging scraps of the portrait up to what remained in the frame made him hesitate.

In the entryway of the balcony, the rose sparked within the bell jar, its ethereal glow blinding for just a moment before it settled once again.

His hesitation cost him.

Slowly, the mouse approached the enchanted rose. The glow was always mesmerizing, always the only beautiful thing in an otherwise dark and ugly room.

Sometimes he fantasized about shredding the rose to pieces and scattering the petals to the wind, so that he wouldn’t ever have to look at it anymore.

But he wasn’t the only one affected by the curse, though he was the one who bore the brunt of it. Too often, he’d come close to forgetting that.

The rose floated just above a small, elevated platform. Five petals had fallen so far, lifeless and dead. More would join them soon enough. The pink glow illuminated the mouse’s unusual blue eyes, which were already lit up in idiotic wonder and curiosity.

With a surprising amount of strength for a mouse so slim, the prisoner carefully lifted the bell jar and set it aside.

The sheer stupidity of that action stunned the Beast.

Then the mouse reached out, fingers outstretched, just a few inches away from-

THAT FOOL WAS GOING TO DAMN THEM ALL!

All-consuming fear and fury seized hold of the Beast’s mind, his vision filled with red haze as he sprung out from behind the ivy thicket.

Protect the rose. Protect the rose at any cost.  

The Beast snarled, ignoring his prisoner’s startled gasp. The mouse tripped over his own feet as the Beast snatched up the bell jar and slammed it over the rose.

For a moment, he feared he was too rough with the precious items. Though no petals fell, he wouldn’t allow himself any relief.

Not until the intruder was dealt with.

He gripped the bell jar tightly, slowly turning to face the mouse who thought he could just barge into the West Wing without any consequences whatsoever.

“What are you doing here?” the Beast growled, blocking the rose from the mouse’s view.

The mouse held his hands in front of his face. “I…I’m sorry!” he stammered.

Did he truly believe a simple placation would work? That he broke the one rule, a rather generous rule, just to satisfy his own curiosity?

“I warned you NEVER to come here!” he snarled, caring nothing for the apology.

The mouse stumbled over the corner of a ceramic vase which had oddly survived the carnage the Beast had wrought over the years. His eyes were wide, his ears limp. He squeaked something in protest, pitifully trying to justify his poor reasoning.

“DO YOU REALIZE WHAT YOU COULD’VE DONE?”

A roar tore out of his throat. He was dimly aware of a terrified scream, his large paws smashing a vase into jagged shards, and all he knew was the pleasure of unleashing his wrath upon anything that couldn’t fight back.

He only saw red.  

“GET OUT!”

A pile of broken wood flew past the mouse’s head. He let out a ragged cry and fled the West Wing. His piercing scream echoed in the Beast’s ears, banishing the red, vengeful haze that overtook his mind.

Broken furniture surrounded him.  

Downstairs, the servants pleaded in vain for the mouse to stay. A cold wind blew through the castle, icy enough to pierce through his defenses.

The Beast turned to the rose, just in time for the sixth petal to fall.

It had a wicked sense of humor.

The enchanted mirror reflected cruel, sharp fangs as he panted for breath. The portrait’s gaze bore into him, dead-eyed and mocking and judgmental.  

And the twisted black horns which adorned his head were heavier than before.  

AN: I’m sorry mice, I love you, I swear…

No I did not start the BatB AU as an excuse to torture Brain as much as I already do. It’s kinda sad that many character traits of Disney’s Beast and Brain overlap. Short temper, arrogant, a goal they want very very badly but their own vices prevent them from ever obtaining it, brooding, someone they love so much they’ll do anything for, even give up their own desires, but they don’t believe they can be loved back…yeah. 

I tried to do the West Wing justice cause it’s such a great scene in the movie, but I don’t think it translates well to a text based medium. Oh well, you can just listen to the soundtrack, but I think I did well enough with it.

[jaskier-cult]

Different not Normal

Different Not Normal [OR; Blue Moon Eyes]

AO3 link here!  (Might write a second part! Leave a reply if you’d like to see that). 

Madeleine Caillebotte of Armeria and Alfred Gabriel Pankratz of Lettenhove were married in August under an arch braided with buttercups.

Both noble families were in attendance to witness the arranged marriage that would solidify the union between Armeria and Lettenhove, which were now trading partners and past long-time feuding neighbours. Her Lady Madeleine wore a baby blue dress that hung with a golden lining. His Lord Alfred bore his father’s ceremonial sword at his hip, adorned with jewels of far off lands.

Young and terribly in love, the nobles kissed under the arch.

Three months later, they fell pregnant.

It was a joyous occasion when Madeleine Caillebotte of Armeria, now countess of Lettenhove and newlywed wife of Alfred Gabriel Pankratz, discovered her pregnancy.

They were complimented by their noble peers and people alike when it took little effort on Madeleine’s part to fall pregnant. They were praised by their healers and midwives when the pregnancy was smooth and easy. Madeleine practically glowed. The pregnancy milestones hit like clockwork. And when the nine-month mark hit, she went into labour.

That’s when complications arose. 

The countess fell faint with painful contractions. Labour lasted a consecutive twenty-six hours. The midwife and healers were late. The babe was delivered without help.

Her babe is stillborn.

It would have been a girl.

But there is was no use in what would have been, or naming the stillborn, because there was no fruit for their labour. The babe is buried in the back of their garden with an unmarked gravestone, for mourning.

A few months pass before the two nobles try again, still and love and wanting for a child.

Again, they fall pregnant easily. Celebrations are twice as boisterous as before, putting stock in the second chance the gods had given the Lettenhove noble family. Their would-have-been firstborn is forgotten in the wake of a new expected babe.

When the nine-month mark hit, complications arose.

The delivery is difficult. Labour lasts for sixteen hours and counting, shorter than the last pregnancy, but more painful. Madeleine almost loses too much blood, the babe is breeched, and the countess passes out during labour, unable to keep up pushing.

Her babe is stillborn.

It would have been another girl.

Tears are shed for another would-have-been babe, but there was no use for naming, because there was no fruit for their labour. The babe is buried in the back garden alongside the last with another unmarked gravestone, for mourning.

The nobles try again, hopeful.

This time they do not have celebrations. They do not accept favours from neighbouring noble families, they do not throw a party, they do not announce it to their lands. Instead, this time, they visit as many healers and mages as possible, and pray to the gods every day and night in hope for a healthy born babe. Their prayers must be heard, because the pregnancy is once again easy. Madeleine practically glows. It’s even easier than the first two times.

But then the nine-month mark hits, and complications arise.

The babe is stillborn.

Another girl.

Another unmarked grace.

Again, they try. And again, they fall pregnant. And again, the babe is born at nine months to the second and is stillborn. All are girls and all are buried in unmarked graves.

The gravestones line up on the Lettenhove estate.

Six stillborn babes and nothing, and the Pankratz family is desperate.

Tension runs high. Arguments and fights break out amongst the once lovers, so happy with their arranged marriage, now angry and bitter. Fingers are pointed every which way for who is at fault for the problems with fertility and birth. Madeleine breaks down sobbing in another man’s arms for comfort, a secret between the countess and the young minstrel presiding in their manor. Alfred leaves for hours and drinks away the sorrows in the bottom of a bottle when he laments over the loss of children and an heir. At the end of the day, both always go back to one another, but the relationship is tenuous and wearing thin. Courting offers from close noble families lay at the viscount’s desk every morning.

Then the viscountess begins to panic.

If Madeleine can’t produce an heir for their estate, she knows she will be killed or divorced, with nothing to her name. She was the fifth-born daughter of her family, only used for political gain, and has no place back at her home estate. She must bear a child, and there’s only one thing she can do.

It’s early spring, and in the middle of the night, Madeleine sneaks out and runs to the forest.

The viscountess knows she should not be in the forest, especially not alone. Predators prowl at night, and not of the natural kind.

But in the middle of a field of wildflowers, she prays.

“I need a babe,” she cries. “I’m tired. I want no longer. I need a babe.”

Someone must hear her, because she gets an answer.

A creature unlike anything she had ever seen before steps into the moonlight.

Black henbane and bloodroot flowers curl under their toes and their eyes gleam silver. They look human in a way one would if they saw a human once-upon-a-time and had attempted to replicate the image from a dream. They’re tall and willowy, and their skin is flushed pale under the moon. Their ears curl and their teeth are sharp. Something dances with their fingers.

They’re very much human, but Different. They’re Different in a way a Normal would know, even if they didn’t know they knew.

But despite this, the countess isn’t scared.

Madeleine is entranced.

“Who are you?” She demands.

Lettenhove was not known for its Differentness. They were more Normal than most parts of the Continent, and that was something the Pankratz family took pride in. They had a scarcity of monsters and magic. Or, they were supposed to.

“I can help,” the creature says, and their voice is deep and smooth. “I can grant you what you yearn.”

“But why would you help?” She says.

“I can do it, for a price.”

Now, the countess isn’t stupid. So, she becomes wary. She had long heard about the give and take of chaos as a child, through the ballads and tales wandering bards would spin.

“It’s simple,” the creatures assured her. “I will give you a child – I will give you back what you have lost – but I ask this only in favour for the first. I only ask for what you do not have, but for which you don’t know you want.”

Madeleine laughs. How can you take what someone does not have?

The creature is a fool.

“My name is Breuganaifìrinn,” the creature says. “And you shall but kiss me for destiny.”

She’s dragging him into a heated kiss before he can finish.

<><><><> 

Julian Alfred Pankratz is born Different.

He is born to the viscount of Lettenhove under a full moon that is blue. A blessing, some said. An omen, others said. Whatever they said, they were hushed into the shadows and secrets, for the viscount would not have his son spoken poorly of among peasants.

It’s winter, and he is born under the first snow on the thirteenth. A late winter.

And his mother, Madeleine, sweat shining on her brow, takes the little babe in her arms after hours of hard labour. Pride swelled in her chest. The pregnancy had been unbearable, and they thought they had lost the babe many times. But now in her arms is her sweet little Julian. He has a thick tuff of soft brown hair, almost golden in the dim lantern light.

And Julian is red and icky, but he is perfect. He is too quiet and too still, but he is perfect. He is small and thin, but he is perfect.

But then he opens his eyes, and Madeleine’s breath catches.

His eyes are blue.

His eyes are the moon.

Her little Julian is no longer perfect.

<><><><> 

Julian Alfred Pankratz is soon handed to his father, when the healers and midwives deem the babe strong enough. As consequence, his father is the second person to see his blue eyes.

The midwife ushers the viscount into the room once the babe is taken from his mother and hastily washed in a basin of water and wrapped. The viscount kneels by his wife’s bedside, eyes wide, as he takes in his firstborn son. Little Julian, who was too still and scared the healers, quietly gazed up at his father with his blue eyes.

He opened his mouth for the first time.

And he wailed.

And he never stopped making noise after that.

And instantly, Alfred Gabriel Pankratz was smitten.

<><><><> 

Julian hates the colour blue.

His eyes were blue, and his mother hated his eyes, so he hated the colour blue.

When they made eye contact, when she looked down at her firstborn son, every time his mother’s expression would tighten. Her lips would become pursed, her eyes would darken, and she would look at Julian as if he had done something wrong. As if he was disappointing her.

But Julian tried so hard to be perfect.

He sat still at the dinner table, he didn’t fuss when he was dressed, he listened when told what to do, and he never complained or wailed after the first spanking his mother gave him.

But still, it wasn’t enough for his mother.

He was enough for his father.

His father would praise his blue eyes. The estate staff would praise his blue eyes. A far cousin once said that she was jealous of his blue eyes, because all she had was brown.

But that was all Julian wished for, was brown eyes. He wished so dearly to have the brown eyes of his parents – to have the warm fondness lingering in his father’s eyes, or to have the vibrant woodsy brown of his mother’s eyes.

But Julian had blue, so he hated the colour blue.

<><><><> 

There was a common saying – “a face only a mother could love” – that seemed to apply to Julian. It applied because it was ironic. It was ironic because everyone but his mother seemed to love him.

<><><><> 

Julian is gifted a younger brother when he is yet old enough to talk. When he has not yet learned of his wanting for love, for Normal.

His mother and father try for another child too soon and fall pregnant almost too easily. The pregnancy is smooth, almost too easy. The midwives hold their breath as the viscountess goes into labour, expecting the same ill curse of stillborn babes to continue haunting the Pankratz family, but they’re pleasantly surprised. A healthy babe is born, a boy, that is named Hanson Alfred Pankratz. The spare to the Lettenhove estate.

Madeleine has done her duty to the viscount; an heir and a spare.

Hanson is born in early autumn, in September, on the thirteenth.

Hanson has blonde hair and beautiful brown eyes.

He wails as soon as he takes his first breath.

He’s pink and squirms and shakes his first.

And he’s perfect.

<><><><> 

More siblings follow, one after the other, all pregnancies easy and glowing. One babe each year, nine months to the second. The years are filled with bountiful harvest and good economy. The noble family thrives. After Hanson there’s Edmond, with dark brown hair and rich brown eyes. Following the first three sons, the Pankratz family is blessed with a healthy girl, whom they name Isemay Caillebotte Pankratz.

Isemay is the spitting image of her mother, Madeleine. Soft brown hair and woodsy brown eyes, and she has a cute little button nose, too. The first daughter is soon gifted a younger brother, another boy, called Oscar, who could be her twin they look so alike.

Two more babes follow, making a total of seven children.

A lucky number.

A blessed number.

Pricilla Caillebotte is born next, another healthy girl, who sports the same blonde as her older brother Edmond, and the natural brown of her father’s eyes.

Carellus is born within the same year, Priscilla in January, her younger brother in late autumn. He looks like his older sister’s twin, with slightly lighter blonde hair and sprite brown eyes.

All Pankratz children have brown eyes.

Except for Julian, the firstborn.

Julian is the only one with blue eyes.

<><><><> 

Julian grows up yearning for his mother’s love. All he wants is to feel her touch him without flinching, to see her look at him without contempt.

He wants to hear her tell him she loves him.

His mother tells him a lot of things, but she never tells him she loves him.

She tells Julian that he must be a proper noble boy. She tells Julian his infatuation with music and flowers and nature are bad and wrong and Different. She tells him to hide his Different nature. She tells Julian that he can be fixed, if he would just let her help him get rid of the Differentness.

She tells Julian he was born Different. He didn’t have a choice in the matter, but she could fix him. His mother doesn’t tell him anything else, but she doesn’t have to.

He knows he is Different.

It doesn’t have to be drilled into him everyday.

He is Different in a way that he blends in well enough, is almost impossible to spot out of the masses, but with which the Normal know something is off. Humans know he is not One of Them, even if they don’t know they know.

His blue eyes make sure of that, an inhuman feature on an otherwise human boy.

<><><><> 

Before any of his siblings were born, Julian is but a mere six months old when his teeth finally start to grow in. His father, Alfred, is simply delighted to play with his rascal son. He loves to indulge in Julian’s incessant need to chew on everything to alleviate the pain of his growing-in teeth. He’s hitting all his milestones perfectly, and the viscount could not be more pleased with his firstborn son.

His mother watches with unease.

When his teeth fully grow-in, they’re sharper than Normal.

But not sharp enough to be Different.

So, Madeleine leaves it be.

Until years later, when he’s six with six siblings, and he starts losing his baby teeth.

Fangs grow in.

Horrified, his mother takes to filing them down in secret.

It’s a messy procedure to do alone, but Madeleine Pankratz is not a foolish woman. She knows how the gossip would spread amongst her servants and ladies in waiting. She knows how the secret of Julian’s Differentness would escape their estate. She does not know how the viscount would respond to knowing his perfect firstborn son is not so perfect after all.

So, she grips her crying child in an iron hold, and she takes a file to his teeth.

This follows Julian all throughout his childhood, and he wishes he could stop his canines from growing in sharp every month. He wishes his eyes weren’t blue. He wishes he was Normal not Different.

Poor little Julian cries and screams and thrashes as his mother forces him into a dark room to file them down every month.

“Hurts, ma!” He cries every time.

He cries even when he is eight and is old enough to know that his Differentness is not okay. Is old enough to know he must do this to make his mother love him, no matter how much it hurts.

His mother holds him tighter.

Julian’s head vibrates with unease and pain as the file scrapes along his canines.

They’re filed down too low and there is blood, and it’s Julian’s fault, he’s told. He didn’t cooperate, he was too difficult. The metallic tang feels familiar in his mouth in a way that his newly shortened teeth do not. His mother holds him closer, not tighter.

“I love you, Julian,” she says. “I only do this because I love you.”

It’s the first time she tells him she loves him.

As far as he can remember, at least.

But for some reason, Julian feels his chest constrict painfully.

The admission did not feel as good as he wished it to be.

<><><><> 

Julian is eight, and his fangs are filed down, when he runs crying to the gardens of their estate. He runs and runs until he collapses underneath the biggest tree they have, where the estate gardeners do not bother with upkeep, where he can sit in shade and cover. And Julian tries so hard to be quiet. He doesn’t want his mother to find him; he does not want to hear that she does this because she loves him. It hurts too much to hear.

And as the firstborn son of the viscount of Lettenhove cries beneath the old oak tree, buttercups grow under his feet and dandelions blow in the wind.

His mother, who followed him, turns pale.

And she is terribly reminded of the black henbane and bloodroot caging the graves in the back.

<><><><> 

Julian hated his blue eyes.

They were too blue, too bright. They caught too much attention. That was all anyone ever saw when they looked at Julian, were his blue eyes, his Differentness.

And all he wanted was to be noticed for being Normal.

To try and distract from his blue eyes, Julian used clothes as another, more overpowering form, of attention-grabbing. He took to wearing brightly coloured garbs. He would wear everything from blood red to deathly purple. He would wear ridiculously gaudy clothes to drown out the bright blue. It didn’t work. He wore drab clothes, cloths and fabrics to make him look pale and gaunt, but still his blue eyes shone. He would style his hair just so, so that it hung over his face and shaded his eyes. He would do anything he could to stop others from noticing his blue eyes.

It never worked.

The more over-the-top the clothes, the more colour he drowned himself in, the more attention his eyes seemed to draw.

They would glow.

They would shine.

His blue eyes would do anything to draw attention to themselves, and Julian hated blue so fervently.

His mother’s lingering looks of discomfort and hate stayed, and Julian hated blue with his very being.

Blue ruined his life.

<><><><> 

Julian’s siblings were a grab-bag of friends. He loved them all very dearly. As the eldest, he felt responsible for them, felt a protective urge for his younger brothers and sisters.

All were close in one way or another, especially the three eldest brothers – Julian, Hanson, and Edmond – but none of them truly understood Julian’s struggles. His brothers and sisters grew tired of his lamenting over his blue eyes and teased him about being vain, about trying to draw more attention to his blue eyes, when that was the last thing he wanted.

They all had brown eyes and would scoff when he expressed jealously.

They didn’t understand his hate of blue because they all had the love of their mother.

Sometimes he didn’t think she was his mother.

<><><><> 

Of all the colours, though, Julian found solace in one.

Yellow.

Yellow was the colour of the gold his mother cherished so deeply. The colour that would drape across her collar and wrists and ankles in a beautiful fashion.

Yellow was the colour of the bright dandelions and buttercups that would grow, only for him.

Yellow was the colour of the sun and happiness and everything good.

Yellow had never done anything wrong.

And Julian loved yellow with all the love he didn’t waste on blue, because in his mind they were opposites; blue and yellow, one made of destruction and one made of light.

<><><><> 

The first time Julian dressed in yellow, he wanted to cry.

The colour he loved so much could still not drown away his blue eyes.

In fact, the bright buttercup yellow of his doublet made his eyes stand out even more. He tried gold and amber and dandelion, but his eyes were bluer than blue. And his mother still hated his eyes.

His eyes were blue, and his mother hated his eyes, so Julian hated the colour blue.

<><><><> 

One day, his younger sister suggested he try wearing blue.

Priscilla, the second youngest Pankratz, was rounding out to be a problem child. Where the other girls were learning how to be proper noble ladies, she was following her big brother Julian around their estate like a lost puppy.

Everything he did, she wanted to do, too.

Priscilla wanted to learn how to sew flower crowns like her brother Julian. Priscilla wanted to learn how to wield a rapier like her brother Julian. And when Julian’s interest in music was discovered, Priscilla wanted to follow him with a lute of her own.

Separated by five years, they were still thick as thieves. In line with his first two brothers, Hanson and Edmond, Priscilla was Julian’s favourite sibling. She was wild like he was, but held all the Normal that Julian was lacking, and he felt better when he played with her. Like somehow, he could blend in with the Normal just a little bit longer, because she didn’t care that he was Different.

And though Julian loved his little sister, the mere thought of touching a blue doublet made him physically shake with hate and anger and disgust.

Still, he indulged her, if only because she looked so hopeful.

“This will go perfect with your bright eyes,” Priscilla says.

Priscilla will use any number of words to describe Julian’s eyes. She will use descriptors like bright eyes and big eyes and beautiful eyes.

But she never just says blue.

He steps out from behind the divider and does a twirl to amuse his sister. He’s wearing a cerulean blue doublet with matching trousers, accented by red and yellow. He feels awful. But his sister’s breath catches, and her brown eyes go wide. Her expression is pale in shocked awe.

“You’re beautiful,” she says, breathless, like she’s seeing him for the first time.

He turns to face his mirror.

His blue eyes blend in with the doublet, making them shine twice as bright, and the yellow and red are stark in contrast. He looks unusually pale in the get-up, his freckles more prominent, his hair darker than the blonde it had started to grow into.

He doesn’t see what Priscilla sees. All he can see are his eyes, too blue.

Julian rips the doublet off in anger, upset with everything and nothing, and his sister never asks him to wear blue again. She never mentions the word again.

Priscilla may not know the reason behind it all, because Julian sees the love she holds for their mother and would never forgive himself if he ruined that, but she learns to avoid blue. Because Julian’s eyes were blue, and his mother hated his eyes, so he hated the colour blue.

<><><><> 

One day Julian woke up and realized he didn’t want to be himself anymore.

It was a startling realization. It hurt too, like a sudden wound, and for over an hour he laid in his bed and stared up at the ceiling with impossibly blue eyes, heart hollow and aching. He didn’t want to be himself, but he didn’t want to be anyone else. More specifically, he realized, he didn’t want to be what his mother so desperately tried to force him to be.

He was Different not Normal.

He was born like that, his mother said. It was wrong, she said. He needed to be right, she said.

But she never told him what was right, only what she wanted him to be. And for years, his entire life, he tried to meet her expectations. He tried so hard for her love.

How fucked up is that? He thought, for the first time.

<><><><> 

That was the day Jaskier was born.

[aka-irish]

Apex Legends: The Top Predator Part 1

A cough can be heard as a pair of large metal doors slide open, a bespectacled older man in a lab coat with combed back white walks through with a few military-esque soldiers clad in a black armor, holding assault rifles trails behind him. Another man dressed in a dark grey military garb with various silver and gold medals pinned to his suit can be seen staring at a bunch of monitors, displaying the legendary Apex Games. "Doctor Traxler, thank you for meeting me here today." The doctor removes his glasses, giving them a quick breath and wipe with his shirt before putting them back on. "Colonel Braxton, thank you for inviting me into this...most interesting opportunity." Colonel Braxton points to the monitors, "I love these games, Doctor. But I feel we need to really shake things up. New competitors keep climbing aboard and accepting the challenge, but I feel the competition has become stagnant. The new girl Rampart is quite exciting but soon shall she grow old with the world as well. With the Syndicate scouring for new players, I feel now would be a great opportunity for our organization to come up with a perfect solution, test the might of the competitors and bring forth a combatant of our own. But alas, I feel we need to...start from scratch. Basically, what I am implying here, Doctor, is that we create our own competitor, someone that the Syndicate and Apex games cannot find an answer for." Doctor Traxler strokes his chin, pondering the offer. "And you want me to create a being...a whole person...or something akin...to place in the games to rival the Syndicate?" asks the doctor. "Yes" says Colonel Braxton dryly. "Then what would you suggest, Colonel?" asks the doctor. "I say we collect information of the combatants, learn weaknesses...strengths...how their bodies function on an internal level. That way we can provide adequate measures to create the unstoppable force...an Apex Predator. "Hmmm, very well" says Traxler. "Which one do you think we should pick first?" The Colonel looks sternly at the monitors as he thinks. " "I say we start simple and work from there. Crypto runs with a scanner on him and is quite a technological genius...I don't want his drone discovering anything, same with that Lifeline girl. Caustic is quite smart himself and I feel would be able to notice anything different with his body. Wattson would provide useful but regarding her electrical prowess, she could potentially short any ship. Revenant is a robot, he is out, same as Pathfinder. Bloodhound doesn't have any readily available info to start with. Octane runs too much on stimulants and would require a special ship to enter his bloodstream to start, something more durable for the extra turbulence. Wraith would be great to discover any diagnostical differences with her teleportation technology, but she possesses a danger sense. I feel Gibraltar, Mirage, Bangalore, or Loba would be a good start" The doctor looks at screens. "Let's start with thief. I feel she is a safe bet and no one would look twice at any complaints from her." "Very well" says the Colonel. "Prepare a small group and enter the shrinking bay, we will provide a ship for you to go." The doctor smiles, almost menacingly "Of course". The doctor and the two guards behind him leave as they begin preparations for their experiment. *On the drop ship hours later, just before the new game. The Legends prepare themselves for battle, awaiting for the groups to be displayed. Loba sits alone, legs crossed as she stares in thought at the wolf staff she carries with her. Unbeknownst to anyone, a small spherical ship flies into the dropship. Doctor Traxler and a couple henchman are aboard as they travel through the air towards the unsuspecting aristocrat. "There she is, men. I want all things ready to go before they drop, cameras on, diagnostics going, shields up. We need to enter her heart and station there, that way we can monitor electrical currents and other stressors that may occur or are induced" the doctor exclaims the orders. The ship itself flies towards Loba as she retracts the staff and expands it, the ship enters her nose and follows the passage of air as she breathes. Loba twitches a bit as her nose tickles slightly from the near microscopic ship. The screens display the teams, Loba is partnered with Wattson and Bloodhound. "Oui" Wattson squeals in excitement as she claps, entering her loading station. Bloodhound stows their knife as they step. Loba flicks one of her red braids as she enters next to her team. Mirage yells out "We are so gonna win. Bamboozle ya foozles...ok that was bad..I'm sorry" he stutters. "Ya plonker, keep yer head on straight, mate" says Rampart next to him. Gibraltar lets out a big bellow as the platforms begin to drop. "Time to crush some hearts, team" Loba says as she slyly smirks and smiles to her team. The hatches open and the teams deploy, the jetpacks enabling them to drop. Inside of Loba, the ship travels through her lungs as the wind from her breathing can be heard, a small thumping echos in the distance. "Alright men, we are near her heart" announces Traxler as the booming grows. We will monitor and record all cardiac activity...as well as induce a few misfires to see how well she recovers. Start recording in 3,2....1" The ship enters atop her pulsing organ "Thoom-thoomp...thoom-thoomp...thoom-thoomp" her heart beats strongly within her chest. Outside, Loba and her group are engaging in a battle with some of the others. Loba throws her bangle and teleports behind a rock, drops a click out of her Volt SMG and reloads it. *Boom-thoom. Boo-thoom. boom-thoom, her heart picking up, racing slightly more from the excitement of the combat. She peers out from the rock and starts laying fire, a shot hits a Mirage clone and it fades. "Tch, stupid dupes" scoffs the Brazilian thief. She leans out further and a bullet hits the rock "DAMMIT", she ducks back behind. *BOOMBOOMBOOMBOOMBOOM* pounds her heart as the ship maintains stability on top of it. Inside of the ship the doctor marvels at the success of the plan so far as her heart squirms and throbs inside of her breast. "The project is going so well so far, I am impressed. Alright men prepare to induce irregularities in 3...2..1" The doctor pushes down a button that yields a small current throughout Loba's body. *BOOMTHUMPBOOMBOOM* her heart flails inside of her for a brief moment*. "Tck" she gives a brief wince at the slight pain her chest. "What the hell was that?" she questions. She fights the pain and jump drives behind another rock, tossing an arc star at Mirage, Caustic and Wraith. The grenade explodes, releasing a gas trap Caustic laid out...Mirage and Wraith begin coughing as they run from their cover. A scanner deploys from Bloodhound from the distance near them, they fire off a few sniper rounds, hitting Wraith as she appears out from the miasma cloud. She falls and Mirage preparing another dupe but runs into one of Wattson's electrical fences. "DAMMIT" he yells as he falls, defeated. "My vision doesn't change..I don't need my teammates" yells the angry Caustic, as the large sociopathic doctor throws a gas bomb towards Wattson. It hits and she begins coughing before going down to a flurry of bullets fired from Caustic's carbine. "NO" yells out Loba as she tosses a second grenade at him before pulling out her pistol from behind the rock and starts firing a few volleys. Caustic ducks into his gas cloud and unloads a few bullets. One hits Loba square in the shoulder "I'm hit she yells as she falls back. "BUMPBUMPBUMPBUMP goes her heart, pounding away from the bullet hitting her. She heaves as her chest rises and falls, "hit her again" commands the doctor as they unleash a second current through her pumping organ *BOOMTHUMPTHUMP...THMPHBOOM..THUMP* it stumbles in her chest. "GAHK" she yells out as she reaches a hand to her chest, as it heaves...all she feels is her organ fumbling. *BOOM THUMPthHMP...THUMP..THUMPTHUMP..* the pulsing muscle inside of booms and lets out a few, sharp beats before regulating itself. Loba herself loosening the grip as she pops back up from her, focusing on the task at hand. She fires off a few shots from her SMG and it strikes surfacing Caustic, downing him. She picks herself up, hand re-clutching at her breast, heartbeat still pumping hard due to adrenaline, but steady nonetheless. She reaches Wattson and injects her with a revive shot, enabling the French woman to resume fighting. Bloodhound approaches them, "Thank the gods, you are alright" They look at Wattson. Bloodhound turns to stare at Loba clutching her chest, panting and sweating. "Are you alright, friend?" they ask. Loba gulps before straightening up and steadying herself "I'll be fine. Let's go finish this up..I want to wash the blood off my heels" says the woman. Inside of her, Doctor Traxler looks at the recordings and listens to the sounds of her life giving muscle pounding away "Beautiful...isn't it, men? We are inside a very person...detailing and dictating how their very essence beats. It's...exhilarating" Back to the fight at hand, the group treks further across the sand of King's Canyon, Wattson looking around and Bloodhound scanning for the remaining group or groups. Loba rubs her chest as her feat drag slightly. "Are you sure you are okay?" asks Wattson. "She swallows and nods, the effects on her heart taking a small toll already. "EAT LEAD, YA BLOODY SISSIES" the quick rattle before booms of a machine gun fire up as Rampart sits a top a small building, raining bullets down on the squad. They manage to duck behind another shack and few open supply bins. "Can you guys distract her while I take aim?" asks Bloodhound. "I can give a few moments" proclaims Loba, as she stamps her wolf staff in the sand, opening up the black market boutique. Loba summons a devotion LMG and prepares her bangle to jump drive. Wattson grabs a couple grenades and starts to toss them. Bloodhound activates their Beast of the Hunt to switch their vision to see the target and increase their speed. The grenades Wattson toss manage to spark up some dust as Loba throws her jump drive to get closer to Rampart. "YES YES YES YES...THIS IS THE BEST BLOODY DAY EVERRRRR!!" Yells out Rampart in excitement as she continues to storm down the artillery fire. Wattson rushes out as Loba preps for one more jump drive..she throws the ring and lands behind her while Rampart's attention is on Wattson. "Blood hell?" says the girl as Loba lights up a devotion her, taking her down. "That's the last one" says the man-eater and lady killer. "Think again, little girl." a shriveling and cold voice pierces from the shadows, as Revenant grabs her from behind the building and takes her down. 'NO" as Loba gets dragged down. The woman hits the ground and rolls back. As she recovers, she starts firing bullets at the simulacrum. He weaves through the bullets and throws a spinning back kick, hitting the gun. "Gah" Loba squeals out as she loses her weapon. She pulls her pistol from her hip and throws a kick of her own, the master assassin dodging as she thrusts a clawed hand at her. She throws an arm out, dodging to side as he takes a few strands of hair off. Knocking his arm, she lines for a pistol shot, he dodges as the bullet grazes across the metal face plate, sparking. With her heart pounding, she continues to engage as best as she can with the superhuman android. They exchange and deflect blows, Rev slices her pistol into pieces with a bladed hand. Loba manages to flip back, throw her ring and slide it under his legs. Not registering yet, he charges forward with his bladed fingers. They pierce the wall behind her as she ports behind him. Staff expanded, she hits him, rattling the android. He recovers and grabs the staff before pulling her in and throws a massive knee to her gut and an elbow to the back of her neck, flooring her. "Awww..what's the matter? A little disappointed" he mocks her. "Go to hell, demonio" she spits at him. The cold, bright yellow eyes glow with murderous intent as he straddles the downed opponent, hand shifting to it's bladed form. He slides the blade down her neck to her chest, right in the center between her breasts. "I told you...I'll slice your heart out." He presses the blade slightly against her breast, it bounds heavily from her heart throbbing furiously beneath it. *BOOMBOOMBOOMBOOMBOOMBOOM* Inside of Loba, Traxler is smiling even wider. This fight is everything we needed...but this Revenant will be a hard one. Strike a current, I want her in full cardiac arrest. She's done her share and we can blame it on the robot. His henchman strikes a final current. Outside Rev prepares to sink the blade as a shot is fired off and strikes the side of his head, downing the simulacrum. "For Artur" says Bloodhound as they managed to find a proper angle to get the shot, and more importantly the win. Wattson leaps for joy as she celebrates and the rest of the legends are up and about from the games. All but one. *BMPHTHUMP* Loba gasps as her heart gives a crunching beat. She lays their gasping as she clasps her chest, her body convulsing. "Wait hold on, LOBA!!" scream the legends as they run to the champion. *THMPH...THMPBOOMTHUMPTHMPH.....THMPBOOMTHUNLUBDUBDUBDUB...THMPHBOOMP* her heart squirms and uncoordinatedly convulses in her chest. Lifeline rushes next to her as she lays an ear on her thrashing chest. "THMTHMBOOMBOMM...THMBUMPBUMPTHOMM..THOOM....THOOM...thoomp...thmp..boomp...thmp* Loba's heart starts slowing. "Her boom-boom's goin crazy" as she starts to compress against it. "thmph...thooomph....thmBOOM...thmbooom...THMP.. the organ squirms and fades before picking up. Inside of her "she is a fighter" proclaims the doctor. "Begin to charge another shot". Lifeline hooks her medic drone to Loba, and shoots her with a syringe. "I can help" Wattsons chimes in as she charges a small electric current herself and places her hands atop the chest of the now almost motionless Loba. She can feel the struggling heart beneath her and with a quick jolt lets loose a small defib like charge. Loba's chest jerks up. Wattson can see her hands shaking from the organ pumping. *BBOOMP..BOOMTHMPHBOOM...Ba-boomp..thmp..boom. Lifeline lays her head back down on her breast "Give anotha zap" Wattson charges and zaps her chest again *BOOM THUMP...LUBDUB...DUBDUMTHOMMPBUM*. Inside her chest, the ship starts to spark as her organ can't decide if it wants to steady itself or flatline. "Dammit! We need to get out of here. We can deliver the currents but the external ones from that Wattson are going to fry us and leave us for dead. We have what we need..let's go" commands Traxler as they detach and start leave her body, passing out through the lungs and the nose, making a narrow escape. "Clear" yells Wattson as she discharges and jerks the chest of Loba up once again. She feels for her heartbeat..the strong organ pulses beneath her, pushing her hands up. Lifeline listens again, ear sinking against her chest *boom thoom...bump-thoom...bum-thoomp...bump-thoomp...bum-thoomp. "We got her beating steady" she proclaims. The Maori mammoth Gibraltar bends down and picks up the limp woman's body. "Let's get er back home, bruddas and sistas" Somethin ain't right about today. He glares at Rev, and the simulacrum just stares back. The legends start to head to the drop ship to return home. At the secret base of the new unknown organization, Traxler returns and walks into the screen room to meet the Colonel. "How was the mission" he asks. The doctor pulls out a small USB like drive. "Splendid" He smiles. "Good job, Doctor Traxler. We just a couple more..dives...and we can begin building our creation. "I can't wait" says the gray haired man. "It will be...beautiful." "That it will indeed my good doctor...that it will indeed" says the colonel before turning back to the monitors. At Mirage's Bar..the home of the legends, Loba lies in the bed of her room before stirring. "MMhmm" she groans as she wakes up. She sits up and clutches her chest with a wince, "what the hell happened today?" she questions to herself. "I'll tell you" says that same, hollow voice from the shadows as the smoldering yellow eyes pierce through the veil of darkness. The 7 foot simulacrom lurches forward with an unnatural silence. "DEMONIO!" Loba growls out.."tch" she grasps at her chest as the other hand tries to find her pistol at her bedside. "Someone tried to take you, little girl. That heart of yours almost failed and trust me...it wasn't me." says the assassin. "I don't know how...but I know you're stronger than to fall to a heart attack in battle...you're much stronger than your parents were..hahahah". He chokes and laughs". Loba growls and groans again..finding the pistol, she weakly aims at him. He mockingly puts a finger to and holds it down. "I told you..I want you to be the one to truly end me. I wouldn't kill you and my means are more direct that to cause a heart attack. I'm the best bet you guys have here. And I will be keeping an eye out for this to happen again. You can thank me later..Loba...hehehehahahah" The simulacrum chuckles once more before fading back into the shadows and disappears. Loba lies there, dropping her gun onto her sheets before collapsing back down. "He isn't wrong" she says before taking a few deep breaths, eyes shut and she drifts asleep.

[elexica]

Last Chance Christmas - Chapter 1 {{December 20}}

In honor of the season, I’m pointing my fic Second Chance Christmas on Ao3, and cross posting here! Summary:  The radio had droned on about an incoming polar vortex. How could the weatherman have known that his ex-husband would be on the plane? - - - Following an acrimonious divorce, Joey and Kaiba have managed to co-parent the kids without seeing each other for three years. After Kaiba is caught in a blizzard, Joey is forced to spend the holiday with his ex-husband, and confront certain feelings that he thought were dead. Tags: Jounouchi Katsuya | Joey Wheeler/Kaiba Seto, Kaiba Seto, Jounouchi Katsuya | Joey Wheeler, Tenjouin Fubuki | Atticus Rhodes, Tenjouin Asuka | Alexis Rhodes, Getting Back Together, Post-Divorce, Reconciliation, Family Fluff, Family Feels, Family Drama, Dysfunctional Family, Christmas Romance, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, Domestic, Fluff and Angst, rekindling relaitonship, Christmas Angst, No infidelity!, AU-gust 2020, ygocollablove

Other notes:  Kaiba and Joey were married and have two children – Alexis and Attius (from GX, but you do not need to see GX). This is a get-together-again fic. The divorce was not amicable, but no cheating/infidelity. They’re about 40 in the fic, in honor of them being 40 in 2020 if they were 15 in 1995. Joey is half-American, and his mom and Serenity live in New York, too.

Chapter one under the read more! 

The sleet fell heavily against the car, turning the view through the windshield into an impressionist painting of abstract asphalt and splotchy red break lights.  The drives to the private airport in Westchester were always the worst.  Even though Kaiba rarely accompanied the kids on the flight from Japan, even the haunting proximity to the shiny private jets and the trappings of his ex put Joey on edge.  Not because he longed to be driving the expensive cars parked in the lot or any other petty envy, but because the whole place always reeked of Kaiba’s ghost.  How the man could haunt the freeways and tangled overpasses from thousands of miles away was yet another unsettling superpower of his ex-husband.

The sleet, the traffic, and the eerie nature of the drive allowed frustrated ruminations to wind their way into Joey’s head.  Like the suction cups on the edges of an octopus’s tentacles, little doubts and regrets clung to his mind.

Was it petty to fly the kids back and forth from Japan in the dead of winter for only a week?  Yes, of course it was.  But the custody arrangement hadn’t even demanded that Joey allow that week.  The kids were in school in New York, and it was his year to spend Christmas with them.  They spent the full summer break in Japan every year.  It was Joey’s only time of year—and even then, only every other year—where they all could spend time off together.  He didn’t want to give it up without a fight.  And Joey was still a fighter.

When Mokuba had announced his wedding date for the first week of the kids’ Winter break, Joey was so tempted to force some other concession out of Kaiba.  Joey had been invited as well, but the thought of attending turned his stomach something fierce.  He could see it in his minds’ eye: watching his family, his children, and his closest friends, dressed to the nines, celebrating something so pure.  And him, looking at the ruins of the most significant relationship of his life.  It felt like a mockery, to stand there and watch Mokuba enter a beautiful marriage while he stewed in the wreckage of his own.  Plus, Joey’s self-destructive streak was supposed to have died with his relationship.

So, what remained was that precious promise: every other winter break.  And this one was his.  Sure, his ex-husband was one of the greatest negotiators in the business world, but Joey had thrilled, just a little, and with more than a little guilt, at the thought of bringing him to his knees over this.  The opening was his to take.

He hadn’t quite calculated all the way out—indeed, the long game was Seto’s specialty.  And once Atticus had been informed that he would be both a performer at his uncle’s wedding reception, it was game over for Joey.

Of course, that was so Kaiba, ever on the offensive, always flipping the script.  Stuck negotiating over Christmas and coming to this frustrating solution.  He was a cruel rival and a bitter adversary.  An altogether dreadful ex-husband.

Weaponizing Atticus’s precious enthusiasm was a perfect move.  Which left Joey messing with the logistics and driving in this awful weather.

. . .

The radio had droned on about an incoming polar vortex.  How could the weatherman have known that his ex-husband would be on the plane?

Joey hadn’t noticed him at first—he was too busy catching Atticus’s tackle hug, and patting Alexis gently on the head.  All that warmth and love had blinded him to the frigid bastard standing at the other side of the gate.

But one his heart was full again, the primal part of Joey’s brain was triggered.  Like he could sense the predator lurking, he looked up and saw those stupidly long limbs.  He’d know that silhouette from a mile away.  “What’re you doin’ here?” Joey shouted.  It was so reflexive that he forgot to hide the vitriol from the kids.

Kaiba stalked over slowly, as if he was trying to take too long, waste all of Joey’s time.  “Waiting on my return flight plan,” Kaiba said.  His voice had gotten more gravelly over the years, but his cadence remained  almost robotic.

“Alexis was scared of flying home in the storm!” Atticus laughed, still embracing his father.  “And she said the only way she’d fly back was if Oto-san promised he’d pilot!  It was so cool dad!  Did you know he could fly planes?!”

Joey forced his mouth into a pinched smile.  “I did know that.  That was very nice of him.”

Kaiba looked at him.  “The children anticipated being in New York for Christmas.  I am still a man of my word.”  Joey wondered if he was tired from the 14 hour flight—he certainly didn’t look any worse for wear.  

Frankly, he didn’t look much different than the last time he had seen him, three years before.  He was still unfairly trim and perfectly composed.  The only noticeable changes were the introduction of a few grey hairs, scattered among the deep brown and a pair of wire-frame glasses that looked like he’d always had them.  His black turtleneck was as clean and tight fitting against the prominent muscles of his shoulders and chest as it had been.  His dark jeans were still the same stupid level of tight that looked a little like he hadn’t realized he wasn’t a teenager anymore.  Between the black Armani loafers and black Burberry trench, he looked like he was about to return to a casual Friday in the Financial District and get drinks at the most expensive bar he could find.

Joey had not anticipated seeing anyone other than his kids, and maybe Isono, and felt instantly exposed.  Without the pressure of having to be Kaiba’s arm candy at events, Joey had put on a fair amount of weight, and settled into something of a dad-bod.  He was wearing his comfiest jeans and a puffy winter coat.  The worst part was the recognition in Kaiba’s eyes—it was the same coat he’d had when they were living together, only more faded and a little tattered at the edges and unzipped.  It revealed a shirt that he’d acquired as a volunteer at a concert-fundraiser for Atticus’s youth orchestra.  It was an unnecessarily bright green, mercifully faded by the washing machine.  His white chunky sneakers looked just like ones he had in high school—and only a little less scuffed up.  Overall, the look was one meant for a quick trip to the grocery store, and the last thing he’d wanted be wearing to see his ex-husband for the first time in years.  Joey braced for some comment to that effect.

“Well, I’m glad they’re here.  We should get going, after all—how many days are there until Christmas?” Joey asked Alexis.

“Five!” She announced.

“Yep!  And the tree isn’t even up yet!”  Joey said, in mock shock, and smiled at the kids’ surprised faces.

While Atticus was bemoaning how much crucial Christmas celebrating needed to be done in the next five days, a member of the airport staff approached Kaiba.  Kaiba stepped away to discuss the flight plan, but Joey kept an ear out.  It’s not eavesdropping if it’s your ex-husband, after all.

“Mr. Kaiba, this airport is being closed, effective immediately.  The entire metropolitan area is bracing for a significant blizzard, and you are absolutely not cleared to fly.”

Joey couldn’t make out his husband’s harsh whispers, but relished in how they were tinged with a light panic.  At least the bastard was freaking out a little.  It felt nicer than he would ever admit to know that he made his terrifying ex-husband a little scared.

“Mr. Kaiba, we cannot permit that.  I will personally be turning off all lights on the runway and not approving any plans that you submit.  It could not possibly be worth dying to avoid spending a few days in New York.”

“That is not your determination to make!”  Kaiba’s voice was slightly heated, which was another signal that Joey had gotten to him.

“I’m sorry sir.  You are a valued customer, but it would be deadly for you to depart at this time, and I refuse to be a part of such a flight plan.  As soon as I can permit take-off, I will personally contact you.”

With that terse statement, the administrator marched off.

Kaiba stared at the ground with a combination of fury and focus.  After a few terse breaths, he whipped out his phone and began tapping away.

Joey was about to tell the kids to say Goodbye Oto-san!  But deep down, Joey had done the math too.

“Dad, is Oto-san going to be able to stay with us for Christmas?” Alexis said, looking up with pleading eyes.  “Like we’re a family again?”

Alexis was smart as hell, and even at age six was a master of strategy.  Someday, Joey thought, she’ll be devastatingly skilled at Duel Monsters.  Today, she was inconveniently cunning.

“It depends on what arrangements he wants to make,” Joey deflected, hating that an offer slipped through the cracks.

Kaiba looked up from his phone.  For a second, he did look a bit tired from the flight.  From his life.  It was humanizing, and Joey tried to discard it.

“I could stay in a hotel in Manhattan, and visit,” Kaiba proposed, grip on the phone like a vice.

“That’s not what families do…” Alexis whined.

Kaiba’s jaw clenched.  Joey was familiar with this face—Kaiba was acutely aware of his compromised position.  It felt like they’d never finished the dreaded conversation.  The energy that hung in the air was the same as that trite explanation of divorce.

It still was sickening when Atticus echoed the conversation from three years prior.  “We’re still a family, Lexi.  But Dad and Oto-san can’t stay in the same house anymore because it isn’t—”

It was too much, and Joey couldn’t help himself, “Of course your Oto-san can spend Christmas at the house.  If that’s what he wants.”

“If I’m cleared to fly back to Domino sooner, of course I should return to work,” Kaiba answered the unspoken question, and trailed the group back to the car.  Atticus was already sharing stories of how well his performance at the wedding had gone.

. . .

The house was a nice house—large enough, with a pretty backyard and a pool in a good neighborhood.  It had more expansive grounds when they had been together, but the family didn’t even use the stables or tennis courts, and Joey had sold them off to people who would actually enjoy them.  Kaiba had forced his hand when it came to the mortgage and upkeep, but other than the house and the kids’ schooling expenses, Joey had refused any formal alimony.

At the time, Joey had thought it was a brilliant plan.  If Kaiba really wanted to value his work over all else, then he would have to suffer through watching all of that effort not change a damn thing for his family.  Joey refused to be truly dependent, fifteen years of the golden handcuffs had been more than enough.

Now it was a little embarrassing that the house hadn’t changed a bit more.  Since Kaiba had been gone, more of the children’s artwork graced the ornate walls.  No interior decorators had been hired, so any new pieces of furniture clashed with the pre-existing scheme.  It looked more lived-in, and Joey tried to take some pride in that.

Kaiba was examining a particularly poor crayon representation of the Red Eyes Black Dragon.  The scale was completely off: the face was much too big and the eyes bulged grotesquely.

“Don’t say anything mean,” Joey whispered harshly at Kaiba.  He was shocked when Kaiba obeyed him.  “Now, who wants hot chocolate?” Joey offered, and the kids practically cheered.  Atticus was en route to the kitchen already.  “Seto, could you start a fire in the living room?”

Kaiba nodded, turning towards the room from perfect memory.

The milk was quickly heated, and the cocoa mix dissolved like magic, swirling into a pleasant warm desert within minutes.  Joey had wondered if Kaiba would come into the kitchen to join the family, but he remained in the living room.  The kids ran off to the playroom to mess with whatever new game Yugi had sent them home with.

In the soft lighting of the warm fire, Kaiba looked frustratingly, devastatingly, untouched by time.  In brighter lights the fine webbing under his eyes and frustrated crease between his brows brought attention to forty years of an overburdened life.

But instead the fire burned away the years.  With his glasses stowed away, he looked like the exact same man who he had fought with in the same damn seats three years ago.  Hell, he looked like the same man he’d dueled on the beach of Duelist Kingdom island.

“How much do you want?” Kaiba had asked in that god-awful conversation.  Kaiba spoke coldly, as if it wasn’t his husband standing before him but an uppity secretary demanding a raise.

Joey had the messy manilla folder out.  The old prenup looked fresh other than the creased corner, the bends around the staple proving that someone had read it.

Without a word, he handed it over to his husband.  Kaiba skimmed it, eyes quick and calculating.  Then he tossed it in the fire.

“You’ve always been a terrible negotiator,” Kaiba said, pouring a bit more whiskey in the glass on the coffee table.  The liquor was erasing the bored look in his eye.  For the first time in a long time, Kaiba’s glare looked a little unhinged to Joey.  Like he was as a teenager—barely suppressing his manic energy.  Kaiba took a long, slow sip of his drink before returning to the conversation.  “I’m not trying to hold out on the father of my children.”

“Say what you want, and it’s yours.” Kaiba’s words sounded completely empty of passion, drive.  Everything that Joey had fallen in love with.

The combination of venom and possession in those words made Joey’s blood boil.  How impersonal, as if there was no other important relationship there.  Nothing else that he could recognize.  Just the father of my children, like a job title.  And wasn’t that just like Kaiba?  Generosity as the ultimate weapon.  Proving he cared so little for the entire situation by abdicating any role.  Take whatever you want—none of it matters anyway.

With the paperwork in flames, Joey’s lawyer would have told him that he was entitled to half of everything his husband owned, including those valuable shares of Kaiba Corp.  If Joey had been thinking cruelly and carefully, he might have realized then what he only contemplated years later: that he had been the only person who could have taken Kaiba Corporation away from Seto Kaiba without a fight.  Those shares and the right collaborator… Joey could have taken the whole thing in a matter of months.  Ousted Kaiba, put his ex of the street.  Reminded Kaiba what that felt like.

But of course, Kaiba had played three steps ahead, and even his evaluation of Joey’s demands was insightful.  He had correctly assumed that Joey wanted nothing to do with the company.

“I don’t want any money.  I don’t need it.  I can figure something out on my own.  I don’t need you for that,” Joey said.  Honda had been pissed at him about it when Joey had called the next morning to tell him that terrible bargaining position.  Honda supported any way to make sure that Kaiba got the fullest “Fuck You” that Joey could manage, but he was floored that Joey wanted to have to work, and budget, and live like he hadn’t spent the last fifteen years of his life in a world where money was ethereal, unimportant.  So plentiful that it had lost absolutely all value and meaning.

Kaiba laughed villainously into the whiskey, campfire scent bubbling up.  “Keep the house.  Our children shouldn’t have to move.  This is more instability than they deserve anyway.”

Joey didn’t push the issue.  The instability stung, and the fact that he repeated his parent’s pattern of getting divorced with young children was absolutely searing on his heart.  Instead of mourning, he let the bitterness curdle.  And Joey couldn’t help remarking, “I’d be surprised if they noticed a difference.”

Kaiba said nothing, kept his face schooled in that icy way that sickened the blond.  But it was imperfect to the skilled observer, and his eyes heated up, eyelids becoming just a little wider.

“They should continue to attend their current schools, this cannot interfere with their education,” Kaiba droned, as if it was just another term of a perfectly standard consumer contract.  “And they should spend the summer in Domino.  We can switch off for the winter holidays.”

Part of Joey was waiting for Kaiba to suggest that they split the kids up.  A perfect 50/50 of the children.  It was the worst thing that Joey could think to do, really.  Shove in Joey’s face that he had made the same mistakes as his parents, had learned nothing.  Demonstrate, viscerally, that Joey was going to dissolve their marriage and hurt his kids in the same way that he had been hurt.

But it never came.  In the moment Joey felt so defensive.  So certain that Kaiba would exploit every vulnerability—that was the man he knew.  Ruthless in every sense.

In the years that passed, Joey realized that he wouldn’t have married someone so evil that he’d do that.  That Kaiba’s own pain should have been enough to guarantee he had no interest in splitting the siblings.  But in the battleground that their living room had become, Joey couldn’t trust anything.          

“Fine.  But otherwise, I don’t want to see a cent of your goddamn money.”

This line, which Joey had considered so fucking crystal clear became the core of their most prominent post-break-up arguments.

Joey had always been a crowd favorite at the kids’ daycare, and his transition to part-time employee was seamless.  A quick mention of the divorce was all that it took to silence any lingering questions.  He was good with kids, warm and patient, and he wasn’t far from his own.  The job paid enough, the hours weren’t demanding.

After Kaiba had returned to Domino City full time, the economics of the problem became apparent.

Simply put, the mansion upkeep was entirely unreasonable on Joey’s salary.  Everyone was aware of this, especially Joey.  He was planning on letting the gardens narrow to a level that he could manage on the weekends, drop the security teams, just let everything mellow out.  The household manager was fired on day one.  The maids on day two.  The house was never as spotless, but the traces of dust and dirt were a small price to pay for the lived-in feel that grew.

But the bills never arrived.  No emails, no letters, clearly they were rerouted.  Gardeners that Joey had fired showed up Monday, as if they hadn’t gotten the news.  No house staff returned without a request, and Joey really was going to let it slide.

But the next month Joey received a notice that the utilities had been overpaid.  Not by a terribly extravagant amount, but by about a thousand dollars.  Joey knew better, but he resisted looking the gift horse in the mouth for just one month and accept the refund.

The next month, the refund doubled, and Joey wasn’t going to take it.  When Kaiba answered the phone, Joey didn’t even give him the opportunity to pick a greeting.

“I told you, I don’t want the money.  I’m gonna send it back to you, what’s the address again?” Joey demanded.

“Put it in the children’s trusts.  Put it towards—” Kaiba’s answer was harsh and quick.

“I don’t want the money, Kaiba.  I don’t need it.  They don’t need it.  We’re fine without it.”  Without you, Joey almost shouted.  But Kaiba was smart enough, right?  He should be able to understand that much.

“Fine.”  Kaiba hung up first to spite Joey’s victory, but the refunds on the utilities stopped.  Over the last few years there were a couple more schemes.  Refunds from the school.  Overpaid property taxes.   Every time Joey whined to Honda, his friend told him to give up and just take it.

But Yugi had a different guess.  Yugi pointed out that, well, every time Kaiba came up with a new way to slip money to Joey, Joey called to clear it up.

“I don’t know how many people he talks to, Jounouchi-kun, but maybe… he just wants to call.”

What an entirely too human thing for Joey’s ex-husband to do.  “He has my number, if he wants to talk, he can try, instead of buying it.”

Yugi had shrugged and wisely changed the subject.  The whole thing left an odd taste in Joey’s mouth.  Even though Joey was the one who had asked for the divorce, Kaiba had done his utmost to seem entirely unaffected by the whole thing.  Joey had been prepared for a knock down, drag out fight.  Instead, Kaiba kept such an impartial face, it was as if the dissolution of their union didn’t perturb him in the slightest.  As if it were some sort of contract terminated at inconvenient time, and no more.

Mind returning to the present, Joey scanned Kaiba’s face in the glow of the fire for any sign of humanity.  Any indication that their separation had bothered Kaiba just a fraction of the way it had hurt Joey.

Finding none, Joey handed off the warm mug of hot cocoa.  If Kaiba realized it wasn’t coffee, it didn’t show on his face.

“So, anyone miss me at the wedding?”

Kaiba gulped down some “Your friends were there, of course.  I think they would have preferred to see you than me.” Kaiba took another pensive sip at the cocoa mug.  “Atticus was right.  His piano performance was excellent.”

Kaiba pulled out his phone.  The screensaver of a Blue Eyes White Dragon melted into a sea of icons.  KC must have released a new model in the intervening years.  Joey took a bit of joy in the fact that he hadn’t even noticed.

The screen dissolved into Kaiba’s photo album within a few taps.  The grid was full of almost identical images of their kids at the wedding, and Kaiba had to scroll for a bit before tracking down a video.  It pricked at Joey’s chest, just a touch, to see how many duplicate photos Kaiba had taken of the little subjects.

Finally, Kaiba pressed play and there was nine-year-old Atticus, fluffy brown hair tamed in the back just barely in a tiny low ponytail.  Between the hair and his light blue suit, he looked like a baby Mozart, Joey thought.

The image of him at the white grand piano began to move, and the boy played some classical music that Joey couldn’t identify if his life depended on it.  It sounded pleasant, the notes flowing and smooth—clearly the little guy had been taking his lessons seriously.

“He is good, huh?” Joey smiled, looking at Kaiba.  The radiant satisfaction in Kaiba’s eyes hurt to look at for too long.

Kaiba handed him the phone and stood up.  “I’ll check on them.  They’ve been quiet for too long, I don’t trust it.”  Kaiba rose with his usual dignity.  Even without the trench coat, the man swept out of the room with such presence.  For better or worse, Joey’s house had lost the melodrama without him marching about.

His ex-husband’s phone sat heavy in his hands.  The new release was slim, all flawless and shiny and new.  It was a little hot.  And it was unlocked.  He could search through anything—did Kaiba really still trust him that much?

Joey smirked, and continued to look through the wedding pictures.  The rest of the reception looked very precious.  There were many attempts to capture a decent shot of Mokuba and his new wife Yui smiling with the kids.  From the number of goofy pictures and the relative paucity of serious ones, it had been an uphill battle for Kaiba to get one decent picture that he could put on his desk.

The next series appeared to be taken by Atticus, a legendary phone thief, and was largely shots of Kaiba’s arms and hands grasping for his phone.  Joey’s own phone had more than enough pictures like that, and sometimes he couldn’t bring himself to delete them either.

There were a couple of cute shots of Alexis challenging Yugi to a duel.  She could read the majority of the cards.  Joey didn’t know how she convinced Kaiba to let her bring her duel disk to the wedding, but he was always a sucker for the kids.

There were some pictures what were just Kaiba and Mokuba, and Joey couldn’t help but gaze at his ex-husband.  Standing next to his brother with that small smile that looked so hauntingly like the photo in Mokuba’s locket.

They weren’t teenagers, but the pang in Joey’s chest was not convinced.  

The next few photos hurt even more, just Kaiba and the kids.  Alexis, duel disk still strapped faithfully to her arm, appeared to have requested to be held, and Atticus stood in front making little peace signs and sticking his tongue out.

Kaiba was smiling that tiny, genuine way—still.  Through rows of photos, he didn’t stop, except for a few when Atticus jumped to try and steal his sister’s duel disk.

Joey’s eyes pricked with tears, and all of that curiosity was silenced.  He had meant to do some snooping—follow up on some headlines about a secret lover that Honda had sent him—but any curiosity was stamped out.

Joey decided it was because he was sad to miss their friends, not their life together.  And that everyone had been playing quietly for too long.  He abandoned the phone on the couch to see what had happened in the playroom.

The playroom was a nice, cute space.  Light blue walls, big windows facing the gardens, plush tan carpeting.  Back when they had maids, the room was always tidy, but now Joey had given up.  It was for the kids to play in, anyway, so if the train set and crayons and common Duel Monsters cards littered the floor, who really cared.  Against the wall, there was a fairly large grey couch that had seen better days.

It was almost too much, to see Kaiba, passed out with a book in his lap, and the kids on either side snoring away.  Alexis’ hair dripped over the side of the couch.  Atticus was leaning against his father.  Joey leaned over to collect Alexis first to take her to her bedroom.

The soft vision was hard to face, and Joey couldn’t resist the simple thought that “this is what I wanted.”

At the movement, Kaiba stirred.

Joey resisted smiling at the spacey, sleepy face.  Kaiba blinked tiredly, slowly collecting himself and gathering his bearings.  It took quite a lot of effort.  “I’m putting them to bed,” Joey said.  Kaiba nodded and ruffled Atticus’s hair.

By the time Atticus had been dropped off at his room, Kaiba was missing.  But Joey had a decent guess where to find him.

. . .

“So, who’s the secret lover?” Joey asked, wandering into the room that had once been Seto’s study.  Joey hadn’t changed anything about it.  He hadn’t even removed the decanter of expensive Japanese whiskey or the two crystal glasses that sat next to it.  To be honest, he hadn’t spent time in the room at all, except occasionally dusting when he remembered.  After the kids were asleep, it was Seto’s usual haunt back in the day.  Seto was nothing if not a man of certain preferences.

The decanter was already wide open, and Seto was making significant progress in draining it.  He looked quite at home for a man who had been threatening to stay in a hotel.  His cheeks were just a little flushed and Joey could tell the liquor was affecting him because Seto laughed at Joey’s comment.

“Please.  You don’t have some sort of web alert on my name, do you?” Kaiba said, raising his glass like there was something to celebrate.

“Nah.  But Honda does,” Joey answered, and was rewarded with another one of Kaiba’s signature cackles.  It was close enough to friendly that Joey decided to take the companion chair in the study.  Joey hadn’t sat in that chair even once in the three years since Kaiba’s departure.  Leaning into the plush velvet, he realized he had missed it.

“Of course.  There is no one, naturally, just that endless speculation.  A man continues to take care of his appearance and he can never do it for his professional image and personal health,” Kaiba pulled his phone from his pocket, scrolling absently.  “It must be for a lover.”  The echo of blue light from the phone contrasted the warm yellow light from the study’s art-nouveau inspired banker’s lamps.  It traced Kaiba’s high cheekbones in a flattering manner.  It made Joey instantly more insecure about his own softer face.

Between the baggy sweatpants and charitable flannel bathrobe, he felt like no one would accuse him of taking up a new lover.  If anything, he had spotted a few unflattering headlines in the last couple of years.  The attention died off dramatically after Kaiba was all the way out of the picture.  “Well, I’m sure you’re not worried about me finding anyone else.  Don’t think anyone’s interested these days, I kinda let myself go.”

Kaiba’s eyes snapped away from his phone and back to Joey with a fierceness that Joey hadn’t expected.  “First of all, I do not tolerate anyone talking about the father of my children that way,” Kaiba spat, the liquor making him slur the edges of some of the words.  “And second,” Kaiba huffed a short breath, “you really have no idea what’s going on in my head.”

“Y’know what, Kaiba,” Joey challenged, “I really fucking don’t.”

Kaiba downed the rest of the drink.  “I was thinking that you look just as attractive as the day I met you,” and Joey could spot that hunger in his eyes, seductive as ever.  “Your hair is still always tousled, like you’ve been playing outside all the time.”

Kaiba returned his full attention to the decanter.  “And I can’t look in your eyes without my heart absolutely aching,” Kaiba said as he refilled his glass.  He sounded a bit angry to deliver the compliment.

The heat rose in Joey’s cheeks with the compliments.  Joey released a sad little laugh before commenting.  “Why do you gotta hold back on stuff like that ‘cept when you’re drinkin’ or whatever?”

Kaiba didn’t answer.  He put his drink down and leaned in, so close that the heat of his breath tickled Joey’s cheek.  Kaiba’s hand floated up to Joey’s face, the pad of his thumb running tenderly over the stubble on his jawline.  Those haunted blue eyes saw straight into Joey’s soul.

“Even though you have done nothing but break my heart for the last four years, you are just as irresistible as ever,” Kaiba whispered, before pulling Joey in.  There was no force behind the touch, as if he didn’t quite believe he was allowed to.

Maybe, Joey thought, if he hadn’t had such a dry spell, if he wasn’t so intoxicated by Kaiba’s praise and presence, then Kaiba wouldn’t have been allowed to.  But the combination of loneliness, yearning, and unspoken regret was too heady.  Always, Kaiba had to be too powerful.

And the kiss could have been their first kiss.  It could have been the kiss that sealed their marriage at their wedding.  It could have been the kiss after Joey first saw Kaiba hold Atticus.  The kiss after they brought Alexis home from the hospital.  It was tender and warm and peaceful.  It was so right it felt like nothing had every happened to them, between them.

It was soft, and chaste.  And too loving.

After Kaiba released, he must have noticed the tears that had leaked involuntarily from Joey’s eyes.  The next kiss was not nearly so pure.

For one thing, Kaiba couldn’t seem to resist sticking his hands in Joey’s hair and pulling him in.  If that first kiss was asking for permission, the second was to put Joey on notice that he was going to be devoured whole.  It was hot and the lingering whisky all but burned Joey’s mouth.  The campfire smell was almost too much—a warning that this was a bad idea.  That they were both vulnerable and volatile and misguided.

But that hot mouth once again overpowered good sense.  It always did, after all.  And Joey only broke the make out in order to rise from his seat and straddle Kaiba’s hips in the opulent chair.  It was clumsier than the last time they had done this, and Joey felt a bit insecure and out of shape, too much on display.  But before the could undo his bold move, Kaiba grabbed him by the hips, long fingers artfully playing with the band of his sweatpants, dancing under his shirt and to his back.  Kaiba smoothly scraped his nails down the soft flesh.  Kaiba’s efforts were rewarded with a full body shudder, and he smirked back, as if to say “I’ve still got it.”

Joey moved in for another kiss, just to get that stupid, self-satisfied smirk off of his face.  He was interrupted by his own moan at the sweet sensation of Kaiba grabbing and kneading at his ass.  It was sexy as hell, and he felt so wanted.  Like Kaiba was drinking in every second of his time with him.  Like the last four years had faded away—or maybe never happened.  

Joey knew enough signature moves to reduce his partner to a quivering mess.  He decided to run his own nails over Kaiba’s scalp and was instantly pleased when Kaiba purred into his mouth.  Putty in his hands.

As they proceeded, Kaiba continued to make desperate, needy noises.  After his shifted his hips up and whimpered, Joey determined that something was up.

Well, something else.

After he pulled back and rose shakily to his own feet, he offered a hand to his partner.

Kaiba stumbled.  He caught himself, but only by relying on Joey’s stability.  He looked a little dizzy just to be standing.

“Goddammit.  You’re really drunk Kaiba.  And you probably didn’t even take breaks or shifts on the flight over, so you’re exhausted too,” Joey sighed.

Joey should have caught on faster, should have known better.

“This is so totally you, so fucking classic.  You haven’t changed.  This is why I fucking left, and never looked back.  You’re exhausted and want to pull something and just… I really just get the dregs of you.  Like you give your all to every single thing on earth, anything, so that you’re a mess by the time that you get to me.  I’m the last priority every damn time, below even your desire to fuck off.”

“Jou…” Kaiba said his name on the exhale, and it evaporated in the room.

“You haven’t changed a bit in three years. I’m wasting my breath, you’re too much of a mess to even appreciate this.  But I’ll tell you I feel like you bought me, and our relationship comes last.  I’m your child-rearing assistant, the head nanny, and you don’t even have to try to be my partner.”  Joey could feel his face going read with anger.  “I get the worst of you, every time.”

Kaiba was silent.  One of the most frustrating things about Seto was that no matter what he was going through, the processing power of his mind was rarely genuinely diminished.

“I am a good father.” Kaiba said, more to himself than to Joey.

“Yeah, but you’re a shit husband.”

Joey regretted it the second he said it.  Hearing it out of his mouth felt unpleasant, like he was possessed by someone else.  Someone a lot crueler, more dismissive.

Kaiba had no comment, no stinging rejoinder.  He leaned onto Joey’s shoulder, long brown strands falling against the flannel bathrobe.

“C’mon, you can sleep in the guestroom.” Joey’s arm wound around Kaiba’s waist as he dragged him through the hallway.

[rosethornewrites]

Fic: The Rebellion of Adrien Agreste, ch. 12

Relationships: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir & Gabriel Agreste | Papillon | Hawk Moth, Juleka Couffaine/Rose Lavillant, Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Luka Couffaine, Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug & Kagami Tsurugi, Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir & Luka Couffaine, Lila Rossi/karma, Gabriel Agreste | Papillon | Hawk Moth/aneurism, Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug/Kagami Tsurugi, Plagg & Tikki

Characters: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir, Gabriel Agreste | Papillon | Hawk Moth, Lila Rossi, Jagged Stone, Plagg, Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Luka Couffaine, Penny Rolling, Anarka Couffaine, Rose Lavillant, Juleka Couffaine, Kagami Tsurugi, Alya Césaire, Chloé Bourgeois, Wayhem, Nadja Chamack, Nathalie Sancoeur, Sabine Cheng, Tom Dupain, Tikki, Fang, Principal Damocles, Caline Bustier, Ms. Mendeleiev, original minor character, Alec Cataldi, Lila Rossi’s Mother, Sabrina Raincomprix, Roger Raincomprix, Mylène Haprèle, Le Gorille | Adrien Agreste’s Bodyguard, Nino Lahiffe, Nooroo

Tags: Lila Rossi salt, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Teenage Rebellion, Swearing, Bad Parent Gabriel Agreste, Crack Treated Seriously, Lila Rossi’s Lies Are Exposed, Cuddling & Snuggling, Luka Couffaine Needs a Hug, Paparazzi, Parentification, Marinette Dupain-Cheng Needs a Hug, Gabriel Agreste Needs an Aneurism, Uncle Jagged Stone, we’re all queer here, the spirit of punk is sometimes just being allowed to be yourself, Kagami Finds Her Groove, punk rock fashion, Savage Kagami, Marinette protection squad, Good Parent Sabine Cheng, Good Parent Tom Dupain, Protective Kagami Tsurugi, Protective Luka Couffaine, Bisexual Marinette Dupain-Cheng, Pansexual Luka Couffaine, Sharing a Bed, Pet Names, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Themes, Instagram, Bullying, Social Media, Anxiety, Makeover, Hugs, will cure your acne, Face Punching, Bad Ass Juleka Couffaine, Rumors, Protective Juleka Couffaine, Protective Adrien Agreste, Lawyers, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Holding Hands, accountability, mental health, Jagged Stone’s well-paid pet shark, How to Make the Evening News, Sexy eyeliner for days, one fish two fish Lila is a screwed fish, How to have fun and piss Gabriel off, Fuckery, sweet litigious karma, Alya sugar, lawyer shark doo doo doo doo doo doo, Schadenfreude, Bad Ass Alya Césaire, Gaslighting, abuse denormalization, Jagged likes his lawyers like he likes his pets: toothy af, Blood in the Water, Everything you didn’t know you wanted and some things you did, Gabriel Agreste is shark bait, Denial, Consequences, Principal Damocles salt, caline bustier salt, the impotence of Gabriel Agreste, snarky Nooroo, lies and the lying liars who tell them, Lila’s brain is a narcissistic hellscape, Lila’s mind is built like an Escher piece, Alec Cataldi salt, Adrien Sugar, wholesome salt, Fu Salt, Kwami Shenanigans, Nooroo is a little shit

Summary: Big Hero Juleka Couffaine

Note: Wound up being more complicated than I expected. French law is different from the US, and though I could fudge it, I didn’t want to.

AO3 link

Chapters 1-2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11

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

The lawyer explained in the limo that orders of protection, under French law, were limited to domestic violence between partners, and though workplace bullying was considered “moral harassment” with criminal consequences, there were no such laws in place regarding school bullying.

“That is so not rock ‘n roll,” Jagged muttered, scowling. “French law is not cool.”

“However, French defamation law is strongly in our favor here, and you have can file a criminal complaint on your own behalf due to her defamation effecting your honor. Mlle. Dupain-Cheng’s parents—whom I am assuming you are including in your representation, M. Stone?—may file on her behalf given the impact of Mlle. Rossi’s defamation on her reputation.”

“Definitely including,” he said, nodding and glancing at Tom and Sabine. “Assuming you’re alright with that?”

Marinette’s parents nodded. They both seemed eager to have this taken care of.

“I’ve been concerned about Marinette for a while,” Sabine murmured, taking her daughter’s hand. “She’s seemed so… down, so distressed. I want this handled, and we’re happy you discovered this and are taking action, M. Stone.”

“I found out from Adrien, really. He came looking for help with his pops, and it all came out.”

Tom offered Adrien another pain au chocolat, smiling at him. “You’re always welcome at the bakery, son. Even if it’s just to hide from your father for a few hours.”

Adrien blushed at the attention, then was distracted when they pulled up in front of Collège Françoise Dupont.

The route from the limo to the collége was lined with reporters. Most students seemed to have all retreated into the school to avoid them. They could see Juleka peering out a window in one door, and Chloé stationed at the other.

Except for Lila, who was trying to talk to a reporter, who was clearly disinterested. When the limo driver opened the door for them, her voice lilted over the murmur, “and he used me and then dumped me!”

Marinette was getting out of the limo when they heard that, and she started to lose her balance. No one was in a position to help her.

Kagami hurried forward, managing to stay dignified as she drew Marinette into a hug that served to balance her.

“Good morning, Marinette. I love your outfit! Are you still willing to design one for me?”

Marinette flushed crimson, managing a wobbly grin as she straightened in Kagami’s embrace. “Of course, Kagami!”

They moved out of the way as Tom and Sabine exited the limo, receiving only confused murmurs from the crowd of journalists and paparazzi. They were joined by the lawyer, then Jagged and Penny, to excitement.

Lila’s eyes went wide at Jagged’s appearance, and he mugged for the cameras, tilting his Eiffel Tower sunglasses with one hand.

“This here’s my niece and favorite designer, Marinette. She designed these sunglasses, and of course my last album cover. She’s going to help me with the concept for my next album, too.”

That announcement led to shouted questions, both to Jagged and to Marinette, who stared at the journalist with wide eyes and tried (and failed) not to stutter.

It was easier after Kagami hooked their arms together and whispered. “Deep breaths. Slow exhales. You can take your time.”

Fortunately, she only had to answer one question before Adrien and Luka left the limo. After that, all attention was on them.

They were holding hands, as planned, shoulders together as though they were leaning on each other. Luka looked a little frazzled at the attention they were getting, but Adrien leaned close and murmured something Marinette couldn’t hear, and that eased the tension in his shoulders and led to the soft look that made the boyfriend claim seem believable. Flashes blinded them as journalists caught that moment on camera.

Lila chose that moment to stalk forward, pulling her hand back as though to slap… Luka? Before she could, Kagami grabbed her wrist.

“Are you attempting to assault Adrien’s boyfriend?” she demanded loudly, clearly playing for the cameras.

“That boyfriend is a pervert! A pederast!” Lila shrieked.

Luka blinked. “I’m not an adult. We’re both teenagers.”

“You’re no teenager. You’re a predator!”

Marinette stepped forward, about to lose her temper, her own hand itching to greet Lila’s face.

A slam sounded and Juleka pushed past Marinette and Kagami, her fist cocked. It hit Lila directly in the nose, sending blood droplets against the pavement, and Lila flying back against a paparazzi.

“How dare you talk about my brother that way! You’re not worthy of the bottom of his shoes!”

Juleka started to advance on the liar, who was wide-eyed and silent, sprawled on the ground.

Penny pulled the raging teen back, and Rose joined her, holding her around the waist and looking horrified.

“And that, folks, is Luka Couffaine’s little sister, Juleka,” Jagged announced. “Little spitfire, she is, just like her mum. You may recognize Couffaine, as in Anarka, my former guitarist and their lovely mother. You don’t cross a Couffaine.”

Lila tried to get herself together. “Luka was trying to court Marinette first!”

Marinette took a deep breath, taking comfort in Kagami’s hand on her back. “He needed a cover to be able to go out with Adrien. Kagami and I stepped up. That’s all.”

“There was reason to keep it secret,” Kagami said, taking over the story they’d decided on. “The moment Adrien’s father learned of it, he tried to make Adrien break up with Luka and date Lila. She is furious because her plan to entrap him did not work.”

That news was greeted by another murmur from the crowd, this one louder. Marinette could see the Gorilla on the outskirts, towering over the rest. Adrien waved at him, and the man cocked the first smile she’d ever seen from him, and then walked away.

Marinette remembered it was her turn to speak. “And, really, Lila’s been grabbing on him and verging on sexual assault for weeks. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. If anyone’s a predator, it’s her.”

Lila let out a growl and threw herself toward Marinette. Kagami pulled her out of the way and left her foot out to send the girl sprawling.

“Perhaps this is a good time for me to step in,” the lawyer said smoothly, stepping between them and Lila. “You have been lying about my client and his employee. You claimed you were injured on behalf of my client while saving a nonexistent kitten, and that he then wrote a song for you in gratitude, spreading this rumor around your collége, and reaching beyond via a blog interview. You have engaged in a defamation and insult campaign against his employee, Mlle. Dupain-Cheng, and even attempted to have her expelled based on lies. You have, in fact, threatened to do worse, which I’m guessing is what the attempted assault just now was. M. Stone does not tolerate defamation against himself or his staff, and M. Dupain and Mme. Cheng do not tolerate defamation against their daughter.”

She pulled out several papers, holding them out to Lila as she picked herself off the ground.

“The offense against M. Stone is public, as it appeared on a public and widely-read blog. The offenses against Mlle. Dupain-Cheng are considered non-public. But we have filed criminal defamation charges against you, Mlle. Rossi. These are copies of the filings. Copies are also being delivered to your mother at her workplace.”

Lila snatched the papers and crumpled them, her jaw tight with rage, blood still dripping from her nose. “M. Agreste made me! He said to deal with Marinette, that she was a bad influence!”

Marinette gasped, feeling Kagami stiffen beside her. Adrien was staring in open-mouthed horror. Luka looked angry, and Jagged looked livid. Tom and Sabine were exchanging worried looks. The reporters were murmuring again. All of this was, of course, being aired and reported on.

“Interesting public allegations.” The lawyer smiled. “Obviously, you will receive more official documents on the charges by the court.”

“Just what is going on here?”

Principal Damocles was standing inside the door of the school.

“This is a place of education, not a media circus!”

Lila seized an opportunity. “Juleka punched me, M. Damocles! I think she broke my nose!”

“Juleka—”

“Actually,” the lawyer interrupted smoothly, “given that this took place on the sidewalk rather than within the school, M. Damocles has no jurisdiction. Mlle. Rossi is of course able to file assault charges; however, given that Mlle. Couffaine is the daughter of a former employee of M. Stone, and Mlle. Rossi had just engaged in very public defamation against her brother on camera in front of journalists, it is likely M. Stone will ask I amend the filing to include M. Couffaine as a victim.”

“Yep!” Jagged popped the ‘p.’

Lila went pale, her fists shaking.

“And we have further business with M. Damocles. Given the ‘media circus,’ and attempted assault by Mlle. Rossi, M. Couffaine will be escorted home by M. Stone’s limo driver.”

Marinette turned to Adrien and Luka, who were still holding hands and looking a bit frozen. Adrien recognized that it was their cue first, turning to Luka and looking a bit shy.

“Will I see you for lunch?”

Luka smiled, reaching up with his free hand to brush a lock of hair from Adrien’s face. “Of course, mon étoile. I look forward to it.”

The blush on Adrien’s face looked real as Luka brought up his hand to kiss it, then embraced him.

The cameras ate it up, just as they had expected. Luka managed to look longing as he let go of Adrien and stepped back into the limo, his part of the morning done.

Kagami squeezed Marinette’s shoulder, leaning close. “I must leave if I am to arrive to school on time. You will prevail. And if you need protection, I believe Mlle. Juleka is a wonderful candidate for the job.”

Marinette turned to give Kagami a hug. Adrien did as well, and together they watched for a moment as she weaved her way through the paparazzi before they turned back to the task at hand.

Phase Two: the school.

[nevergiveupneverrun]

Bodyguard - Chapter Fifty-nine “With time...”

Hello , how are you? Here is chapter Fifty-nine of my Story Bodyguard, yay!! I hope you will like this chapter. Sorry for not posting last week... 

I’m sorry in advance for the mistakes… English isn’t my first language and I do my best. Here is the link to the previous chapter: Click Here.

I hope you will enjoy this chapter :) 💛

             –––––––––––––––––––––––

- A glass of champagne, sir?

- No, thanks, I stay with orange juice, I answer, pointing to my glass, still half-full, in my hand.

The third server that I dismiss since we arrived at this reception of the nominees at the awards.

A furtive eye to my watch reminds me that we have been here for more than an hour.

But time seems much longer to me… if there is one thing that I do not appreciate in my job, it is these receptions of convenience where the big family of showbiz finds themselves in a still heavy atmosphere, where hypocrisy and personal interest mingle.

A familiar sound reaches my ears and I discover Amelia, a few steps from me, laughing at a joke from Andrew, present at her side.

For this reception, I had informed her that I would stay slightly behind.

To avoid her having too many questions about me, I preferred that she did not have to explain herself constantly about my presence and that she did not reveal to too many people who I was…

However, I was very focused: attentive to each person who approached her and each silhouette who did, if only to touch her.

I applied to the letter one of the basic guidelines of my profession: do not take your eyes off her…

- Hard to detach from the show, right?

A teasing voice awakens on my left and a glance on the side reveals me, Meredith, smiling and adorned with a sober black evening dress, the eyes also riveted towards Amelia.

- Can you help me monitor to rest my eyes if you want? I answer by bouncing on the teasing that she expresses to me.

With her new role as manager, I had quickly become closer to Meredith and a certain complicit had naturally settled between us.

- I don’t want to spoil your pleasure, she bids with a smile. Joke aside, you will see that Amelia has attracted certain glances, stay on your guard. It’s impressive how she can capture light and attention in a room… without her having the slightest awareness.

- It’s perhaps the most dangerous thing that she doesn’t necessarily realize.

- It is intimately linked to her nature. With her story, she suffers from a chronic lack of self-confidence… in her job… in her personal life… I don’t know who will be able to cure her of this weakness, but he will have my eternal gratitude.

Her last words are spoken in a calm voice but in a weaker tone, which leads me to listen carefully to perceive her words beyond the music echoing in the room.

As if she shares a secret with me.

Confidence.

Or a hope…

I try not to read more than is necessary for this remark and content myself with nodding without replying.

- I understand that tonight you stay away. To let her enjoy this moment. And avoid questions. But tomorrow, I only want to see you in one place: by her side… on the red carpet… near the stage… if he tries something, it’s probably during the ceremony.

- Don’t worry, Meredith. Tomorrow, I will be near her as far s the protocol allows me… and I will always be close to intervening.

- I do not worry… if Richard trusted you, I know you are the best. I’m just trying to remind you that you also have to know how to erase the distance when it’s necessary… when it’s the right time…

I feel her hand lay furtively on my arm, then a breath of air rises on the side as she moves away.

——

I turn my head a few moments to follow Meredith’s silhouette with a look, puzzled again after her last words… as for the chance of my observation of a few faces in the room, a very familiar facies appears to me.

Memories of a nightmare night invade my mind.

He looks proud and arrogant just a few steps from me.

This charming and self-confident air.

He’s the same man… the one who represents everything I hate…

I perceive a tension taking hold of me, as he advances in the room, approaching dangerously Amelia… henceforth alone, Andrew had left his place at her side.

I suddenly notice that his approach is becoming more assured: he is moving precisely towards the singer.

Like a predator having spotted its prey.

I immediately forget my guideline to stay away and join Amelia, at the precise moment when he approaches her.

- Mark… good evening, Amelia says, a discernible unobtrusive embarrassment in her response.

- It’s nice to see you, how are you? He inquires with a false innocent air.

I meet Amelia’s gaze, once at her height, before placing my attention on the intruder.

- She is doing very well… much better than the last time she saw you… I answer firmly.

A heavy silence settles for a few seconds.

Seconds when I look at Mark.

Seconds when he easily retains his proud and detached appearance.

- Mark, I think you better go talk to someone else, Amelia replies then, breaking the silent duel that had settled between us.

- I just wanted to greet you, and wish you good luck for tomorrow, he resumed, detaching his gaze from mine and directing a cheerful smile towards the singer.

- Well, you can consider it done…

He observes Amelia for a few seconds, surprised by her evenness and undecided on her reaction.

- I thought we could also talk about this duo project that I have already mentioned in the past with your staff, he continues, stammering slightly.

- Fine, what did you want us to discuss? Amelia continues in a softer voice, with a thin smile.

Her answer takes me by surprise: I expected a sharp reply from her, and not a cordial opening to discuss this project. Mark smiles widely, savoring this small victory and glancing at me, before speaking again.

- We could start by exchanging our availability to work on the song? Share song models we might already have?

- Yes, let me think… answer Amelia thoughtfully. Well… come back in 30 years and I may have a quarter of an hour to devote to you… in the meantime, I advise you to waste your time with your usual bimbos, as long as one of them can align two notes… or read three lines.

I spontaneously laugh at Amelia’s reply, completely unexpected. 

Mark’s face immediately breaks down when he realizes that the singer has been playing with him for the last minute.

She dips her lips in her glass of champagne, watching her victim, with a falsely innocent look on her features.

- Make fun of me, Amelia… but tomorrow, I’m sure you will laugh less when you come back empty-handed… Mark says with a frank disdain in his words, like a snake spitting its venom.

He immediately goes away and quickly disappears behind the silhouette of the many guests present.

- You scared me, I didn’t see you coming… and neither did he visibly, I say, once Mark is out of our sight.

- It was much more enjoyable than if I shattered all his hopes from the start, right?

- He loved it, I said, smiling slightly, Amelia laughing briefly by my side.

- Bodyguard and funny with that, you found the rare pearl, Amelia!

A voice rises a few steps from us and we recognize Jo, dressed in a short black leather dress, very precisely shaping her shape.

- Yes, there is only one like him, Amelia retorts, observing the host stand by our side.

- When do you allow him to return to the market? I hope you haven’t negotiated an exclusivity clause for 10 years…

- Owen is free to stop his mission whenever he wishes… I let you discuss your offer, Jo, I have a question for Meredith, Amelia suddenly announces, walking away to join her manager, in discussion with two other people.

- Amelia, you…

I do not have time to finish my sentence that she is already a few meters away… beyond my reach and my voice. An unexpected contact arises parallel against my arm… a hand of Jo resting firmly on the fabric of my jacket

- What does it take for me to suggest that you come to work for me?

My gaze remains fixed on Amelia: her reaction leaves me perplexed… and embarrasses me as she seems to encourage me to change my mission…

- Excuse me?

- Give me your conditions…

- My conditions?

- To be my bodyguard? Maybe it’s money?

I remain silent to her question, my attention still placed on Amelia, now talking with Meredith.

- From what I could see, you have been working for several months for Amelia… you are one of the best, if not the best from what I read about you, but also one of the bodyguards changing the most employer…

I redirect my attention to the host, surprised by the information she reveals… and the time she has visibly spent identifying me.

- I can offer you twice what she offers you… or is it something else? She asks in a soft and almost tempting voice.

- Listen, Jo, I say, looking at her. I’m not in the habit of negotiating a contract when I haven’t finished the current one… as I told you, I am not available… I protect Amelia until further notice… this is an open-ended mission…

- I will be patient in this case, I do not insist… this mission looks special…

- Thank you, I appreciate, I say, without echoing her remark.

- Reassure me, she said after a short break. You are not on 24 hours service here? You can take a break, forget the bodyguard… even for a few hours? She whispers when approaching me, until invading my personal space. 

- Uh… Owen… we can go, I got the details I expected from Meredith, announces timidly Amelia, back by our side. Unless you want to stay…

- Fine… ok… Let’s go, I answer still stunned by Jo’s question while taking a step to get closer to Amelia and guide her to the exit.

- Have a good evening Jo, the singer launches with a slight smile.

- Thank you… and Owen, concerning my last question, your availability will be mine, she specifies with a mysterious air.

——

- We can go back on foot, it’s not very far? Amelia offers, once we are outside. 

I nod, placing myself at her side in the wake of her steps.

The air is pleasant and still warm, despite the late hour.

I follow her, silently, for a few meters, when the direction she tales suddenly leaves me perplexed.

- Amelia, the hotel is just a little further at the end of the avenue, I inform her of pointing to the building already insight.

But the singer continues to advance and ends up bending over after a few meters to remove her heeled sandals… and put her bare feet in the sand.

- We can take a little detour, right? She finally announces, turning to me, shoes in the hand.

- I don’t know if it’s a good idea… I concede, walking in my turn on the fine sand of the beach, the sound of the waves echoing up to me.

- Look, there is nobody, Amelia specifies, running a few steps in front of her, before sitting in the sand, facing the sea.

I join her in a few strides, my shoes accompanying my suit are not the most practical in the sand; then sit down next to her.

I observe Amelia for a few seconds, looking at her from the side, while her attention is lost in front of her… on the immensity of this stretch of water facing us.

- It’s calm here… and melodious…

- Because you thought that the little reception we just left was not calm or melodious?

- Seen those we met there… not really, no… Amelia answers, smiling, her face turned to me.

The natural light of the stars above us maker her face shine.

Time seems to stop suddenly while I draw eyes with her face, facing me.

- Why are you still here, Owen?

Her question breaks my feeling elsewhere and out of time, as she scrutinizes me intensely.

- What? What are you talking about?

- Your words of earlier made me think… made me considerer your presence differently… you revealed to me that you never stayed very long on a mission… how long was your longest mission?

- 3 months, I answer, spontaneously, without thinking.

- And you’ve been protecting me for almost 6 months… Amelia says, surprised by the information she discovers.

6 months… I haven’t seen the time go by.

I forgot all my past precepts which pushed me to leave after a few months…. Because there was someone I wanted to protect more than anyone else… above all… myself.

- Why are you making an exception with me?

I stay in my thoughts for a few moments, realizing for the first time, that my biggest mistake is there… time is my biggest enemy… I let it pass… I got attached…

- You… you need me… with Richard’s death, the attacks on you… I couldn’t leave…

And I didn’t want to leave, continues my little inner voice.

Revealing my reel defeat.

That of staying too long with Amelia.

That of having let her gradually approach, breaking down my barriers.

- If you want to regain your freedom, don’t feel guilty… if you want to work for someone else…

- I’m here until the end… the time it will take for you to be safe… I confirmed to the singer.

- Until the end… what does that mean exactly? She questions again.

I pause, then objectively reveal the option.

- In my job, there are only two possibles outcomes… I arrest the man who wants to harm you, by putting him out of harm’s way…. Or I’m not the quickest to prevent him from acting… but I protect you while he is exposed… others who can finish the job…

- And the second alternative, how does it end? You with a bullet in the heart, in the head? Amelia asks with a hint of nervousness.

- He may opt for the bladed weapon, I resume smiling. Between us, I prefer. Bullets, it hurts like hell… I supplemented with a detachment to relax the atmosphere.

- How can you joke about this stuff? How could I wish you to be killed in my place?

- Amelia, that’s part of my job… I’m here for that if need be… take a bullet if it is for you…

- Well, I hadn’t realized it until now… and I’m not selfish enough to accept that you die through my fault…

- It won’t be your fault, and I’m consenting in this story. This job, I chose it. This mission, I accepted it. I’ll go all the way, fully aware of the risks.

The singer stares at me intensely, visibly destabilized by the exchange and the context in front of us… the threat is here, more real than ever.

- Aren’t you… aren’t you afraid of dying?

I laugh briefly at her question, looking away from hers, but I feel her attention kept on me. 

- Not really, no… I even wanted death at certain times in my life, you know… so be afraid of it… and fear is a dangerous feeling for my job… fear, it petrifies, it paralyzes… it blinds…

- Are you never afraid? She whispers weakly.

                –––––––––––––––––––––––

Thank you for reading. Stay safe and have a great week 💛

[theofficersacademy]

                                             Emblem of Trust

                            Claude        Myrrh       Camilla       Erk      Mist                           Mozu      Inigo      Shigure      Tibarn      Caeldori                             Python       L’Arachel       Charlotte      Ike                       Cordelia       Alfonse       Byleth (M)      Soleil     Henry                                   Sara       Siegbert       Patty      Louise    

Week 2

Setting: Bridge of Myrddin (Adrestian side), 1186

In the darkness of sleep, a golden stag bounds through the forest with grace and desperation. An eagle as red as blood dives towards him, talons outstretched, but the stag fends her off with his mighty antlers. A lion as cold as ice roars as it pursues the stag, easily closing the distance and leaping at its prey with claws outstretched. Claws pierce the stag’s hide, teeth bury themselves deep into his throat, and the scream that the stag makes is both terrifyingly human and familiar. The stag throws the lion off of his body, delivering a sound kick that sends the predator away.

Shaking, wounded, bleeding, the stag lifts his head and turns to you with a calm and steady gaze. He limps towards you, and you find yourself reaching your hand out as he approaches. As the stag rests his head in your hand, you feel his life, his warmth, his trust pulsing through you.

And then–you can’t control what happens next, you can’t understand why the stag is bleeding so much, when that slit in the stag’s throat appeared, why the bloody knife is in your hands. You watch the light die in the stag’s eyes as you hold him down. When he stops struggling, you stand, staring down at the lifeless body of the golden man with magnificent antlers.

The voice from your dreams speaks, and their words echo in your mind as you wake up to the shouts of men and leathery wings unfolding...

“One of your number shall bear a traitor’s cloak.”

—

In the dead of night a dozen horses ride into the group’s makeshift camp, quickly surrounding you all before you have a chance to brandish your weapons. “Arise! Arise!” A man with long purple hair strides in upon a pure white warhorse, holding a strange-looking staff that glows with a bright, ominous red light. A wyvern’s scream draws your eyes upward: a wyvern lord swiftly descends, landing in the center of the camp. Wings outstretched, maw open wide, it takes a step towards Tibarn and releases a deafening hiss. Its rider, however, calmly strokes along the back of the wyvern’s neck. He scans the camp, as if searching for something, before his eyes land on Claude.

He frowns.

Finally, the man speaks to the entire group, “I’ve been told that none of you belong here.” The wyvern lord kicks his heels against his mount and the wyvern backs away from Tibarn, mouth closed and head lowered. “And that you have been searching for me.” Another pause as the wyvern lord squeezes the reins, as you slowly make the realization that there is something eerily familiar about this man. That you’ve seen him before in his dreams, and that this isn’t the first time that you’ve heard his voice. “I am Claude von Riegan,” he announces, eyes firmly fixed on the Claude that came with you. “You’ll all be coming with us.”

Things to note:

The illness that affected Group 2 last week has subsided (for now at least). However, magic will still be difficult to pull off, and even Faith spells appear to be touched by dark magic. Occasionally their chest will hurt from the memory of the dream, but not enough to be debilitating. 

The group is escorted into the Alliance military camp by a group of paladins and wyvern riders. Escaping will be difficult, and if you prove to be more trouble than you’re worth the soldiers will not hesitate to kill you.

Your arrival in camp is met with a great commotion, with many soldiers flicking about as they prepare for your arrival. The lack of bounds (unless you were caught) gives you the impression that you aren’t prisoners, though soon enough you realize that many of the soldiers are keeping their eyes on you.

All of you that have been caught by the Alliance are divided into your own tents and kept apart. A few of you are even forced to share a tent with soldiers. However, what waits for each of you in the tent is a fresh change of clothes and a bedroll. 

Entering the Alliance camp opens a lot of doors in terms of who you can speak to and the new things you learn in your first few hours in the military camp. Please see the Info Tracker for more information.

What to do (suggestions):

Find out what you can about the situation from the soldiers and people in the Alliance camp.

With the man in your dreams now right in front of you, perhaps now it’s time to discuss your dream and understand what it is you all need to do.

Find the traitor before they strike.

If you have threads from W1, you can finish them up this week. However, note that we should be pivoting over to W2, so don’t linger on them for too long.

Talk to Mod Bren for hints or NPC dialogue / actions to be included in your threads.

Recap from last week:

The group wakes up along a major road in the Adrestrian Empire in between the Alliance military camp and a smaller town aligned with the Empire.

You find out that there is a war going on between the Empire and the Alliance, which has now resulted in the Alliance breaking through the Bridge of Myrddin and invading Imperial lands. 

The townspeople hold a lot of ire towards the cruel Duke Riegan, whose wyvern’s talons and mouth are said to be stained with the blood of Ferdinand von Aegir.

Certain members of the group have been affected adversely by a dream they received before they woke up. They have been sick for a good chunk of last week, and they have found magic spells to be more difficult to pull off than they are used to. You don’t quite know what caused it, but your best guess is some brand of dark magic.

[theonyxpath]

Pirates of Pugmire art by Pat Loboyko

Pirates of Pugmire, which as of my writing this, has 16 days to go and is just under 75% funded! Thank you to everyone who has back, shared, and commented so far, and I’m so excited to help bring all the new pirate rules to the Realms of Pugmire, including ship battles, bird and lizard characters, new callings, firearms, and treasure! We’d really like to get this traditionally printed and in stores, so if you would, too, or just to see manuscript previews, head over to the Kickstarter at http://kck.st/2EoRkyp, yar! But who is writing this, you ask? (We’re going to pretend like you asked. And by “we” I mean “I.”) It is I, Dixie Cochran! Yes, that’s right, I’ve taken over the blog this week while Rich and the rest of the gang who attended UK Games Expo are on their way back from England (or in Matthew’s case, back to elsewhere in England). I’m sure Rich will provide a full account when he returns next week, but until then, here’s a report from Matthew, along with some photographs he kindly sent along.

“The team of Rich, Eddy, Matt, Matthew, Klara, John, Steffie, and Chris had a fantastic time at the UK Games Expo this year, where we ran a demo table, ran over a dozen games at the Hilton, and sold product from Leisure Games to great effect! It was Onyx Path’s first time having a booth at a British convention, and the sheer number of people who thanked us for coming or showed a keen interest in our games (Pugmire, Scion, and Prince’s Gambit were standouts) was staggering.”

L to R: Matt McElroy, Rich Thomas, Chris Allen, Klara Herbøl, Steffie de Vaan, Eddy Webb, and John Burke play Prince’s Gambit! The Sabbat wins!

“We organized our very first Chronicles of Darkness tournament at the Expo, with players from each game of Vampire (run by Klara Herbøl), Werewolf (run by Chris Allen), Promethean (run by John Burke), Changeling (ran by Steffie de Vaan), and Geist (ran by Chris Handley) went on to participate in an Antarctic session of the Contagion Chronicle (run by Matthew Dawkins)! The final winner was Michael, who played his changeling from Steffie’s game, and won a prestige copy of Demon: The Descent. The tournament concept was so good we’ll aim to do something similar next year.”

Matthew and the players of the final game of the Chronicles of Darkness tournament, Stephen, Chris, Sophie, Michael, and Andrew! Congratulations, Michael!

“All in all, we had a superb time. It was great to meet freelancers who haven’t made it out to Gen Con before, the business meetings we held were fruitful, and everyone had a lot of fun. Here’s to the next one!”

The Onyx Path crew at UKGE: Matthew, Klara, Eddy, John, Steffie, Chris, Matt, and Rich! No wonder it’s been so quiet around the office this week. Wait, I work from home…

Eddy welcomes folks to the Onyx Path booth at UKGE! Look how excited he is! “You’re all good dogs!” he seems to say

Dixie again! Isn’t it just like Matthew to interrupt me on my very first blog entry here? I feel like I’m sensing a pattern. For real, though, it looks like everyone had a great time at UKGE, and I hope it’s a convention to which we return in the future! (See how I said “we” there? Maybe I’ll come next year! Who knows? I got so much done while they were gone, though…) For those of you who aren’t as familiar with me, let me actually provide a bit of my history with the company. In 2015 or so, I was chatting with Rose Bailey, just catching up, and I mentioned that though I’d gone to school intending to pursue a career in copy editing, I was having trouble finding a way into the field (at the time, I was mostly focused on fiction and comic books). She subsequently tried me out on the Demon Translation Guide and from there I moved on to supplements and eventually cores. I’d been playing White Wolf/Onyx Path games since about 1999, but for some reason hadn’t considered the RPG industry as a career path until it fell into my lap. Now, several million words edited later (I’ve lost count, but it has to be over three million at this point), I ended up stepping into a version of Rose’s former position when she left to focus on her personal projects. I’m the in-house developer for Chronicles of Darkness and Exalted, so I make sure those lines are doing what they need to, and I still edit quite a bit of our books myself, though I outsource a lot of the smaller supplements and a few core books to other editors, depending on my current workload. In addition, as many/most of you know, I’m one of the three hosts of the Onyx Pathcast, along with Eddy and Matthew, which I enjoy immensely.

It’s been a really great 16 months or so working for Onyx Path, and I look forward to doing even more in the future! Let me know in the comments if there’s anything you’d like to hear about or anyone you’d like to hear from on an upcoming Pathcast episode!

The classic Shén pantheon from Scion: Hero!

Anyway, if I seem to be stalling before I get to the actual Monday Meeting notes, it’s because we didn’t actually have a true meeting this week, what with half the staff still traveling. I have updates and teasers, as usual, but as to what we talked about in the meeting? There wasn’t a lot. (Mostly I asked Mike to give me art, which he did! Thanks, Mike!)

Now that UKGE is past, I’m looking forward to seeing everyone at PAXU, though of course bits of our team here and there will be at other conventions throughout the summer. Say hi if you see one of us!

To reiterate a couple of teasers from Rich from last week, we’ll be announcing a new developer for Scarred Lands and the projects they are overseeing once everyone gets back. Plus, on the Scarred Lands Community Content site, the Slarecian Vault, the beginning of July marks the start of a phenomenal linked adventure series you will not want to miss! Also, June 13th we’ll be starting a little treat for everyone that leads into the aforementioned July event. (Psst, it’s one we get a lot of questions about.)

The modern Shén pantheon from Scion: Hero!

One last tease before we get on to blurbs and updates, for something else that is coming soon…oh? What’s this?

Oh, sorry, that just fell out of my email, but hopefully it will help people create

Many Worlds, One Path!

(Did I do that right?)

BLURBS!

Kickstarter!

Our Pirates of Pugmire Kickstarter is nearly 75% funded, so swing over to our ship and check it out!

Pirates of Pugmire is a chronicle sourcebook for both Pugmire and Monarchies of Mau. It’s usable in either game, or as part of a joint experience. Some highlights include: * Two new species for players to enjoy: lizards and birds * Six new callings, including two for dogs and two for cats * Rules for building, sailing, and sinking ships * A trove of new allies, enemies, and treasures * Information on Waterdog Port and Port Matthew * “Going on the Account,” a chronicle of three new adventures, taking characters from 1st through 6th level

You can also hear Eddy discuss the writing and design of Pirates of Pugmire on the Onyx Pathcast on your favorite podcatcher, or here on : https://onyxpathcast.podbean.com/)

ONYX PATH MEDIA

Onyx Pathcast art by Michael Gaydos

This Friday’s Onyx Pathcast is an update straight from UK Games Expo!: https://onyxpathcast.podbean.com/

And Here’s More Media About Our Worlds:

Beanduck Productions’ crew has been playing Exalted! They’re on session 13 of Full Party, but the rest of the sessions are on YouTube if you want to catch up! There are hours of Exalted goodness there.

Garblag Games is still playing Scion! They’re on episode 9!

The ever-wonderful Saving Throw Show is also playing Scion! (So much Godly goodness!)

Twin Cities by Night just released Chapter 1 of their new Chronicles of Darkness game!

Occultists Anonymous’ Mage: The Awakening chronicle delves into magic-crafting territories with the following episodes:

Episode 17: We Got Our Scryes on You – The cabal establishes surveillance on the Predator Kings alpha and begins to track him. https://youtu.be/GP3500xZ41s

Episode 18: Preparing For War – With a scrying spell established, the cabal creates support spells and curses the alpha every way they can think of. https://youtu.be/-8uetChnfEM

Meanwhile, Red Moon Roleplaying has just concluded their Scarred Lands actual play run by Matthew, over on www.redmoonroleplaying.com! Stay tuned to their channels, as soon they’ll be participating in a V5 Chicago by Night chronicle!

It would be remiss of us not to link you again to the fantastic Pirates of Pugmire story Travis Legge ran for us, both parts of which are available on our channel! Here’s episode one: https://youtu.be/fU9y3tl77GM

Darker Days Radio interviewed a bunch of Onyx Pathers and Matt Timm from Modiphius at the UK Games Expo, the recording of which is here: http://podcast.darker-days.org/e/109-darker-days-radio-live-at-ukge/

And Roll the Role recently concluded an excellent Trinity actual play that can still be viewed on their Twitch channel here! https://twitch.tv/rolltherole/profile?desktop-redirect=offline_channel

Please check any of these out and let us know if you find or produce any actual plays of our games!

ELECTRONIC GAMING

As we find ways to enable our community to more easily play our games, the Onyx Dice Rolling App is now live! Our dev team has been doing updates since we launched based on the excellent use-case comments by our community, and this thing is awesome! (Seriously, you need to roll 100 dice for Exalted? This app has you covered.)

ON AMAZON AND BARNES & NOBLE:

You can now read our fiction from the comfort and convenience of your Kindle (from Amazon) and Nook (from Barnes & Noble).

If you enjoy these or any other of our books, please help us by writing reviews on the site of the sales venue from which you bought it. Reviews really, really help us get folks interested in our amazing fiction!

Our selection includes these fiction books:

OUR SALES PARTNERS:

We’re working with Studio2 to get Pugmire and Monarchies of Mau out into stores, as well as to individuals through their online store. You can pick up the traditionally printed main book, the screen, and the official Pugmire dice through our friends there! https://studio2publishing.com/search?q=pugmire

We’ve added Prince’s Gambit to our Studio2 catalog: https://studio2publishing.com/products/prince-s-gambit-card-game

Now, we’ve added Changeling: The Lost 2nd Edition products to Studio2‘s store! See them here: https://studio2publishing.com/collections/all-products/changeling-the-lost

Scarred Lands (Pathfinder) books are also on sale at Studio2, and they have the 5e version, supplements, and dice as well!: https://studio2publishing.com/collections/scarred-lands

Looking for our Deluxe or Prestige Edition books? Try this link! http://www.indiepressrevolution.com/xcart/Onyx-Path-Publishing/

And you can now order Pugmire, Monarchies of Mau, Cavaliers of Mars, and Changeling: The Lost 2e at the same link!

On Sale This Week!

This Wednesday, we’re releasing print versions of both Origin and Hero for Scion Second Edition on DriveThruRPG and in stores!

CONVENTIONS!

Gen Con: August 1st – 4th Save Against Fear: October 12th – 14th GameHoleCon: October 31st – November 3rd We’ll also be back at PAX Unplugged later this year!

And now, the new project status updates!

DEVELOPMENT STATUS FROM EDDY WEBB, COMPILED FOR THE FIRST TIME BY DIXIE COCHRAN (projects in bold have changed status since last week):

First Draft (The first phase of a project that is about the work being done by writers, not dev prep)

M20 Victorian Mage (Mage: the Ascension 20th Anniversary Edition)

Geist2e Fiction Anthology (Geist: The Sin-Eaters 2nd Edition)

Exalted Essay Collection (Exalted)

Scion: Demigod (Scion 2nd Edition)

Trinity Continuum Jumpstart (Trinity Continuum Core)

Wraith20 Fiction Anthology (Wraith: The Oblivion 20th Anniversary Edition)

One Foot in the Grave Jumpstart (Geist: The Sin-Eaters 2e)

Dragon-Blooded Novella #2 (Exalted 3rd Edition)

Exigents (Exalted 3rd Edition)

Terra Firma (Trinity Continuum: Aeon) Titanomachy (Scion 2nd Edition)

Crucible of Legends (Exalted 3rd Edition)

Many-Faced Strangers – Lunars Companion (Exalted 3rd Edition)

Redlines

Monsters of the Deep (They Came From Beneath the Sea!)

Tales of Aquatic Terror (They Came From Beneath the Sea!)

Scion: Dragon (Scion 2nd Edition)

Kith and Kin (Changeling: The Lost 2e)

Masks of the Mythos (Scion 2nd Edition)

Second Draft?

Tales of Good Dogs – Pugmire Fiction Anthology (Pugmire)

Dragon-Blooded Novella #1 (Exalted 3rd Edition)

Across the Eight Directions (Exalted 3rd Edition)

TC: Aeon Ready-Made Characters (Trinity Continuum: Aeon)

Mummy: The Curse 2nd Edition core rulebook (Mummy: The Curse 2nd Edition)

City of the Towered Tombs (Cavaliers of Mars)

TC: Aeon Jumpstart (Trinity Continuum: Aeon)

Legendlore core book (Legendlore)

Development?

WoD Ghost Hunters (World of Darkness)

Oak, Ash, and Thorn: Changeling: The Lost 2nd Companion (Changeling: The Lost 2nd)

M20 The Technocracy Reloaded (Mage: the Ascension 20th Anniversary Edition)

Creatures of the World Bestiary (Scion 2nd Edition)

Heirs to the Shogunate (Exalted 3rd Edition)

Scion Companion: Mysteries of the World (Scion 2nd Edition)

Deviant: The Renegades (Deviant: The Renegades)

Chicago Folio/Dossier (Vampire: The Masquerade 5th Edition)

Let the Streets Run Red (Vampire: The Masquerade 5th Edition)

Cults of the Blood Gods (Vampire: The Masquerade 5th Edition)

Heroic Land Dwellers (They Came From Beneath the Sea!)

DR:E Threat Guide (Dystopia Rising: Evolution)

DR:E Jumpstart (Dystopia Rising: Evolution)

Manuscript Approval

Trinity Continuum: Aberrant core (Trinity Continuum: Aberrant)

Pirates of Pugmire (Realms of Pugmire)

Hunter: The Vigil 2e core (Hunter: The Vigil 2nd Edition)

Editing

Memento Mori: the GtSE 2e Companion (Geist: The Sin-Eaters 2nd Edition)

Night Horrors: Nameless and Accursed (Mage: the Awakening Second Edition)

Spilled Blood (Vampire: The Requiem 2nd Edition)

Lunars: Fangs at the Gate (Exalted 3rd Edition)

Post-Editing Development

M20 Book of the Fallen (Mage: the Ascension 20th Anniversary Edition)

V5 Chicago By Night (Vampire: The Masquerade)V5 Chicago By Night Screen (Vampire: The Masquerade)

CofD Contagion Chronicle (Chronicles of Darkness)

Witch-Queen of the Shadowed Citadel (Cavaliers of Mars)

Distant Worlds (Trinity Continuum: Aeon)

Scion Ready-Made Characters (Scion 2nd Edition)

Blood Sea: The Crimson Abyss (Scarred Lands)

Dark Eras 2 (Chronicles of Darkness)

Indexing

Trinity Aeon

ART DIRECTION FROM MIRTHFUL MIKE!

In Art Direction

Contagion Chronicle

Scion Ready-Made Characters – Art is in.

Dark Eras 2

M20 Book of the Fallen – Drew’s finals in

VtR Spilled Blood

Trinity Continuum Aeon: Distant Worlds

Trinity Continuum Aberrant – Sketches

Hunter: The Vigil 2e

Ex3 Lunars

They Came From Beneath the Sea

Ex3 Monthly Stuff

In Layout

V5: Chicago

Trinity Core 

CoM – Witch Queen of the Shadowed Citadel 

Proofing

WtF Shunned by the Moon

Signs of Sorcery – At WW for approval

DR: E

Scion Jumpstart

Aeon Aexpansion

C20 Cup of Dreams

Ex 3 Monthlies – At WW for approval

At Press

Dragon Blooded – Deluxe Printing

Dragon-Blooded Cloth Map – at press

Dragon-Blooded Wallpapers – Going out to backers

Dragon-Blooded Screen – Printing

The Realm – Gathering errata

Trinity Core Screen – Printing

TC Aeon Screen – Printing

Tales of Excellent Cats

C20 Player’s Guide – Gathering Errata

Adventures for Curious Cats

Geist 2e – Gathering Errata

Book of Oblivion – Out to backers

Trinity: In Media Res

Scion: Hero – Wednesday

Scion Origin – Wednesday

Today’s This Month’s Reason to Celebrate!

It’s Pride Month! This year marks the 50th anniversary of the Stonewall riots, so let’s remember Marsha P. Johnson, Sylvia Rivera, Brenda Howard, and all the other activists throughout the years who made Pride possible. Happy Pride to all our LGBTQI+ fans and freelancers, and I hope any celebrations you attend are amazing!

[rpgexperience]

My servant  Devil - session 27

Aaaaaaa.... So many nat 1’s and low rolls on insight on Ambrose in this session… 

Seirus and Aenon take Abigail back to the water surface, bid her goodbye and dive back in. It’s freezing cold and Abigail is shaking, her heavy dress is drenched. As she attempts to climb out from the water to the shore, she trips few times, scratching her hands on the rough stones. She wraps herself in her new towel and walks to the carriage. Bart is standing outside of it, smoking a cigarette. The moment he spots her, he wraps his coat around her and helps her inside the carriage, driving her home. 

When they arrive, Ambrose is standing at her front door, waiting. Abigail gets out of the carriage and walks to the entrance, still cold and shaking. “What happened to you?!” Abigail invites him inside and explains that she was swimming in the Themes to meet the people living in the river and the ringmaster. Meanwhile, Bart has light up a fireplace in her bedroom, so they move there, Abigail warming herself up, eventually getting rid of her wet clothes. Ambrose questions her about the meeting with the ringmaster and Abigail explains that he grant her more power and wants her to travel to the barrier. Ambrose’s face is very unreadable, except for the fact that he seems unbothered by her taking her clothes off, or at least until she has reached her undergown and asks him to wait outside, so she can get changed. He doesn’t leave the room and instead helps her get out of all her clothes but then also seems very happy that she’s putting new dry ones (I really can’t roll). 

He agrees to accompany her to the barrier tomorrow morning and traps her in his embrace, while his eyes wander to the staff resting against the wall of her bedroom. She remembers that she was supposed to read up about the new powers when she gets back but Ambrose doesn’t let her  leave, holding her tight. Instead he drags her over to the bed to “warm her up”, sitting down and pulling her on his lap. 

Abigail quietly tells Ambrose that she’s been thinking and that he deserves a chance.  “A chance? And what does that mean?” Ambrose asks, flipping them around, pinning her down, eyeing her like a predator watching his prey. “What chance do I deserve?”  Abigail fails to avoid his questions: “To be taken into consideration.” Ambrose bites her neck: “Taken into consideration? Don't you think I deserve more than that?” Abigail chuckles, trying to mask how scared of him she is: “Of course you do. I’m just messing with you.”  He looks at her dangerously: “Don’t do that.” He pins her down with his whole weight: “You don't want to challenge me, Maglocke.” He then leans down and presses his mouth forcefully against hers, thrusting his tongue between her lips and into her mouth. 

[...]

Ambrose lies on the bed next to Abigail, trapping her in his arms, pulling her to his chest and holding her imprisoned in a tight grip. He gives her a kiss on her cheek but soon he slowly drifts off to sleep next to her. 

She watches him, for a moment thinking that he looks kinda cute when he’s asleep. She would like to sleep too but there’s still so much to do. Tomorrow morning she must travel to the barrier. She needs to read the book and tell everybody to get ready for the trip. She tries to get up stealthily, escape from his grip without waking him up. Unfortunately, as soon as she starts to move, he tightens his grip on her, making it impossible for her to get out. She sighs and gives up, letting herself get some sleep, deciding to just deal with everything in the morning and read on the way. 

That night Abigail has a different dream than usually. She’s not on the ship anymore but instead in a labyrinth made out of stone, with walls so high she cannot see the ceiling. At her sides are massive metal doors, all locked. She wanders through the labyrinth, the corridors seem to never end, until she finally finds an open door. 

Inside she finds Lucian, hanging from the ceiling, hands above his head, risen on golden chains, his beautiful white wings beaten and stained with blood, he looks like he is asleep... or worse... But as she walks up to him and reaches out a hand to touch his cheek, he opens his glowing blood red eyes and asks her a single question: “…Why did you do this to me?” 

Abigail wakes up from the nightmare with a jerk, feeling incredibly sick. She tries to get up but is still captured in Ambrose’s grip. Surprisingly enough she manages to get out and tries to run for a bucket placed by Kathy to her room, unfortunately to the other side of bed. She doesn’t quite manage this and instead throws up on the side of the bed, waking Ambrose up. “Abby? What’s wrong with you?” he asks while rubbing her back. He suggests calling a doctor but Abigail shakes her head, apologising, telling him that a doctor was already here. Ambrose looks at her surprised as she shyly announces to him that she’s pregnant. He jumps up at that, hugging her: “Oh Abby! That’s wonderful!” She is quite surprised at his reaction but eventually she realises why. “Whom have you told about it? You cannot tell anybody! We should marry quickly before it shows. If we marry soon, it will still be able to pass that it happened on our honeymoon.” He gets up and starts rummaging through his pockets. He gets out the little box with the ring and opens it for her and looks at her with a sweet smile: “Well then, Abigail Maglocke, are you ready to marry me?” 

Abigail stares at him for a moment but she just comes to a conclusion that she doesn’t really have much of a choice. It doesn’t matter whether she wants to or not, she has to marry him. So she gives him a weak smile: “Yes. Yes, I am.” He grins and kisses her and quickly slips the ring on her finger before she can change her mind. The ring weighs on her a ton and while kissing Ambrose, she get a flashbacks of her dream and the picture of Lucian suffering. No… You’re not suffering, right? You’re somewhere out there, making out with some other girl, having fun, not caring about me, maybe even forgotten about me. 

Ambrose pulls back and smiles at her,  disturbing her thoughts: “You’ve made me a very happy man.” Abigail says, as if only now realises: “Oh! The barrier! We need to get going!” He frowns a bit, holding her close: “You’re pregnant! You can’t go to the barrier in your current state! It's too dangerous.” Abigail protests, she has to. She’s not that pregnant yet. “Nonsense. You cannot save the world on your own, Abby. You are just a little girl. You should let me deal with this and stay at home where you belong.” She shakes her head. “No. This is my responsibility. I am Maglocke. I must deal with this. I”m going. And you cannot stop me. If you want I can stay home after this.” He narrows his eyes at her and to Abigail he looks very shy and so smitten by the possibility of marrying her that he just can't believe his own luck. Abigail doesn’t let him say anything else. She grabs her staff and walks to Kathy’s room. 

Kathy opens the door and makes a curtsey. Abigail announces to her that they are leaving in an hour which absolutely shocks her, that’s impossible. Abigail discards her surprise and instructs her to let Fynn and Bart know about this and prepare a carriage. And also send the maids to her room to clean up. She grabs a pastry for breakfast and returns to her bedroom. Ambrose is gone and the maids have cleaned up. They help her get dressed for the journey. Abigail then looks around for Ambrose who seems to be gone. She equips herself with the gun, carrying her staff around. 

She then walks to the office to pick up the book so she can at least read it along the way. But the book is… gone. Abigail goes into panic as she searches for the book but it’s nowhere. Just gone. After about two hours, Kathy finally comes to tell her that they are ready for the journey. Abigail sighs. She will have to cope without the book. She walks downstairs and boards the carriage with Kathy and Fynn, telling Bart to first drive to the Whitlocke mansion to pick up Ambrose, who probably went home. 

Abigail lets others wait in the carriage as she knocks on the large entrance door, asking for Ambrose. To her surprise and disappointment, she is told that Ambrose hasn’t been home since yesterday, when he left to visit her. 

She returns to the carriage to discuss this. Kathy has seen him leave the Maglocke mansion but unfortunately was too busy preparing for the journey to notice where he had gone. Fynn begins to just clap his hands and exclaim: “Kapoof!” Abigail looks at him confused. Kathy explain that he’s just excited for the journey and talking nonsense but Fynn opposes and claims that he’s talking very much sense. He says that Kapoof is where Ambrose always goes. But Fynn can’t explain or show where it is, just… Kapoof. Abigail tries to understand what Fynn is trying to say but as much as he’s trying to explain, it doesn’t lead anywhere. Eventually Abigail shakes her head and gives up with a sigh. They don’t have time to look for Ambrose, they have already lost far too much time. It’s time to get going. Everybody boards the carriage and Bart drives it away from the town.

[quee--ra]

Predator 4 - Arnold Schwarzenegger interested in participating in the new sequel

Schwarzenegger: A portrait for the Governator

It was only a matter of time before these two Styrian Buam ran into each other. That was how it happened in Kitzbühel one summer. Real recognize real, there was an extraordinary friendship between men. Schwarzenegger invited Gabalier to Los Angeles, they trained together in the legendary Gold's Gym in Venice Beach and cruised through Brentwood. Of course, a friendship with an Arnold Schwarzenegger leaves its mark and Gabalier was motivated and inspired to the tips of his hair. Together with McCain, he performed at an event in Columbus, Ohio, a few days before the election. Due to his very successful and turbulent life, he is considered a prime example of living the "American dream". He became one of the most famous personalities the United States and one of the most successful action actors in film history. Before being saved, Lauda was in the flames for 55 seconds, breathing in toxic fumes. His lungs were burned. Nevertheless, Lauda struggled back to life in record time and started racing again after 42 days. In 1997 and 2005, he underwent two kidney transplants. In the morning, Lauda's coffin had been received by Birgit Lauda and his eldest sons Lukas and Mathias at 8:00 a.m. Trends and tips from the areas of fashion & beauty, travel, love and cooking - read the best of Brigitte at the start of the week. He is the Terminator, Mr. Olympia and ex-California Governor. Arnold Schwarzenegger is the guy who misses nothing and makes it all the way to the top. Now he's becoming a hero online too. So much so that he made a song for Arnold on the steel body. But he was amazed when the terminator was so enthusiastic that he wanted to be part of the song! Pump it up is the story of someone who set out to motivate others and exemplifies what is possible in life. For almost an hour, the Hollywood star then gave deep insights into his very personal success story. With a lot of humor, he described numerous anecdotes from his time as a bodybuilder, action star and politician, with what resistance he had to fight and how hard he had to fight again and again for his success. He also owes the latter to US President George Bush () who died on Friday. "He was a mentor and a father figure for me," he thought to the once most powerful man in the world. For example, he appointed Democrat Susan Kennedy as his new chief of staff in 2005. [32] As a former actor, he knew how to present himself skillfully in public; Humor and a sense of family painted a sympathetic picture of him close to the people in the media. His announcement that he wanted to forego his salary as governor also contributed to this. “Terminator” 3 to 5 are considered a bad fever dream in the fan base. That's why director James Cameron, who held the reins in the first two parts, stepped in again.

According to his own information, Schwarzenegger spent three to four hours a day with the make-up artists - even then with an obligatory cigar in hand. The prosthetic arm must of course have the same bullet hole as the make-up on Arnie's arm. To complete the order, please click on the confirmation link that you have just received by email. Arnold Schwarzenegger received an electric off-roader in Kitzbühel.

[yasbxxgie]

My love for walking started in childhood, out of necessity. No thanks to a stepfather with heavy hands, I found every reason to stay away from home and was usually out—at some friend’s house or at a street party where no minor should be— until it was too late to get public transportation. So I walked. The streets of Kingston, Jamaica, in the 1980s were often terrifying—you could, for instance, get killed if a political henchman thought you came from the wrong neighborhood, or even if you wore the wrong color. Wearing orange showed affiliation with one political party and green with the other, and if you were neutral or traveling far from home you chose your colors well. The wrong color in the wrong neighborhood could mean your last day. No wonder, then, that my friends and the rare nocturnal passerby declared me crazy for my long late-night treks that traversed warring political zones. (And sometimes I did pretend to be crazy, shouting non sequiturs when I passed through especially dangerous spots, such as the place where thieves hid on the banks of a storm drain. Predators would ignore or laugh at the kid in his school uniform speaking nonsense.)

I made friends with strangers and went from  being a very shy and awkward kid to being an extroverted, awkward one. The beggar, the vendor, the poor laborer—those were experienced wanderers, and they became my nighttime instructors; they knew the streets and delivered lessons on how to navigate and enjoy them. I imagined myself as a Jamaican Tom Sawyer, one moment sauntering down the streets to pick low-hanging mangoes that I could reach from the sidewalk, another moment hanging outside a street party with battling sound systems, each armed with speakers piled to create skyscrapers of heavy bass. These streets weren’t frightening. They were full of adventure when they weren’t serene. There I’d join forces with a band of merry walkers, who’d miss the last bus by mere minutes, our feet still moving as we put out our thumbs to hitchhike to spots nearer home, making jokes as vehicle after vehicle raced past us. Or I’d get lost in Mittyesque moments, my young mind imagining alternate futures. The streets had their own safety: Unlike at home, there I could be myself without fear of bodily harm. Walking became so regular and familiar that the way home became home.

The streets had their rules, and I loved the challenge of trying to master them. I learned how to be alert to surrounding dangers and nearby delights, and prided myself on recognizing telling details that my peers missed. Kingston was a map of complex, and often bizarre, cultural and political and social activity, and I appointed myself its nighttime cartographer. I’d know how to navigate away from a predatory pace, and to speed up to chat when the cadence of a gait announced friendliness. It was almost always men I saw. A lone woman walking in the middle of the night was as common a sight as Sasquatch; moonlight pedestrianism was too dangerous for her. Sometimes at night as I made my way down from hills above Kingston, I’d have the impression that the city was set on “pause” or in extreme slow motion, as that as I descended I was cutting across Jamaica’s deep social divisions. I’d make my way briskly past the mansions in the hills overlooking the city, now transformed into a carpet of dotted lights under a curtain of stars, saunter by middle-class subdivisions hidden behind high walls crowned with barbed wire, and zigzag through neighborhoods of zinc and wooden shacks crammed together and leaning like a tight-knit group of limbo dancers. With my descent came an increase in the vibrancy of street life—except when it didn’t; some poor neighborhoods had both the violent gunfights and the eerily deserted streets of the cinematic Wild West. I knew well enough to avoid those even at high noon.

I’d begun hoofing it after dark when I was 10 years old. By 13 I was rarely home before midnight, and some nights found me racing against dawn. My mother would often complain, “Mek yuh love street suh? Yuh born a hospital; yuh neva born a street.” (“Why do you love the streets so much? You were born in a hospital, not in the streets.”)

* * * *

I left Jamaica in 1996 to attend college in New Orleans, a city I’d heard called “the northernmost Caribbean city.” I wanted to discover—on foot, of course—what was Caribbean and what was American about it. Stately mansions on oak-lined streets with streetcars clanging by, and brightly colored houses that made entire blocks look festive; people in resplendent costumes dancing to funky brass bands in the middle of the street; cuisine—and aromas—that mashed up culinary traditions from Africa, Europe, Asia, and the American South; and a juxtaposition of worlds old and new, odd and familiar: Who wouldn’t want to explore this?

On my first day in the city, I went walking for a few hours to get a feel for the place and to buy supplies to transform my dormitory room from a prison bunker into  a welcoming space. When some university staff members found out what I’d been up to, they warned me to restrict my walking to the places recommended as safe to tourists and the parents of freshmen. They trotted out statistics about New Orleans’s crime rate. But Kingston’s crime rate dwarfed those numbers, and I decided to ignore these well-meant cautions. A city was waiting to be discovered, and I wouldn’t let inconvenient facts get in the way. These American criminals are nothing on Kingston’s, I thought. They’re no real threat to me.

What no one had told me was that I was the one who would be considered a threat.

Within days I noticed that many people on the street seemed apprehensive of me: Some gave me a circumspect glance as they approached, and then crossed the street; others, ahead, would glance behind, register my presence, and then speed up; older white women clutched their bags; young white men nervously greeted me, as if exchanging a salutation for their safety: “What’s up, bro?” On one occasion, less than a month after my arrival, I tried to help a man whose wheelchair was stuck in the middle of a crosswalk; he threatened to shoot me in the face, then asked a white pedestrian for help.

I wasn’t prepared for any of this. I had come from a majority-black country in which no one was wary of me because of my skin color. Now I wasn’t sure who was afraid of me. I was especially unprepared for the cops. They regularly stopped and bullied me, asking questions that took my guilt for granted. I’d never received what many of my African American friends call “The Talk”: No parents had told me how to behave when I was stopped by the police, how to be as polite and cooperative as possible, no matter what they said or did to me. So I had to cobble together my own rules of engagement. Thicken my Jamaican accent. Quickly mention my college. “Accidentally” pull out my college identification card when asked for my driver’s license.

My survival tactics began well before I left my dorm. I got out of the shower with the police in my head, assembling a cop-proof wardrobe. Light-colored oxford shirt. V-neck sweater. Khaki pants. Chukkas. Sweatshirt or T-shirt with my university insignia. When I walked I regularly had my identity challenged, but I also found ways to assert it. (So I’d dress Ivy League style, but would, later on, add my Jamaican pedigree by wearing Clarks Desert Boots, the footwear of choice of Jamaican street culture.) Yet the all-American sartorial choice of white T-shirt and jeans, which many police officers see as the uniform of black troublemakers, was off limits to me—at least, if I wanted to have the freedom of movement I desired.

In this city of exuberant streets, walking became a complex and often oppressive negotiation. I would see a white woman walking toward me at night and cross the street to reassure her that she was safe. I would forget something at home but not immediately turn around if someone was behind me, because I discovered that a sudden backtrack could cause alarm. (I had a cardinal rule: Keep a wide perimeter from people who might consider me a danger. If not, danger might visit me.) New Orleans suddenly felt more dangerous than Jamaica. The sidewalk was a minefield, and every hesitation and self-censored compensation reduced my dignity. Despite my best efforts, the streets never felt comfortably safe. Even a simple salutation was suspect.

One night, returning to the house that, eight years after my arrival, I thought I’d earned the right to call my home,   I waved to a cop driving by. Moments later, I was against his car in handcuffs. When I later asked him—sheepishly, of course; any other way would have asked for bruises—why he had detained me, he said my greeting had aroused his suspicion. “No one waves to the police,” he explained. When I told friends of his response, it was my behavior, not his, that they saw as absurd. “Now why would you do a dumb thing like that?” said one. “You know better than to make nice with police.”

* * * *

A few days after I left on a visit to Kingston, Hurricane Katrina slashed and pummeled New Orleans. I’d gone not because of the storm but because my adoptive grandmother, Pearl, was dying of cancer. I hadn’t wandered those streets in eight years, since my last visit, and I returned to them now mostly at night, the time I found best for thinking, praying, crying. I walked to feel less alienated—from myself, struggling with the pain of seeing my grandmother terminally  ill; from my home in New Orleans, underwater and seemingly abandoned; from my home country, which now, precisely because of its childhood familiarity, felt foreign to me. I was surprised by how familiar those streets felt. Here was the corner where the fragrance of jerk chicken greeted me, along with the warm tenor and peace-and-love message of Half Pint’s “Greetings,” broadcast from a small but powerful speaker to at least a half-mile radius. It was as if I had walked into 1986, down to the soundtrack. And there was the wall of the neighborhood shop, adorned with the Rastafarian colors red, gold, and green along with images  of local and international heroes Bob Marley, Marcus Garvey, and Haile Selassie. The crew of boys leaning against it and joshing each other were recognizable; different faces, similar stories.

I was astonished at how safe the streets felt to me, once again one black body among many, no longer having to anticipate the many ways my presence might instill fear and how to offer some reassuring body language. Passing police cars were once again merely passing police cars. Jamaican police could be pretty brutal, but they didn’t notice me the way American police did. I could be invisible in Jamaica in a way I can’t be invisible in the United States. Walking had returned to me a greater set of possibilities.

And why walk, if not to create a new set of possibilities? Following serendipity, I added new routes to the mental maps I had made from constant walking in that city from childhood to young adulthood, traced variations on the old pathways. Serendipity, a mentor once told me, is a secular way of speaking of grace; it’s unearned favor. Seen theologically, then, walking is an act of faith. Walking is, after all, interrupted falling. We see, we listen, we speak, and we trust that each step we take won’t be our last, but will lead us into a richer understanding of the self and the world.

In Jamaica, I felt once again as if the only identity that mattered was my own, not the constricted one that others had constructed for me. I strolled into my better self. I said, along with Kierkegaard, “I have walked myself into my best thoughts.”

* * * *

When I tried to return to New Orleans from Jamaica a month later, there were no flights. I thought about flying to Texas so I could make my way back to my neighborhood as soon as it opened for reoccupancy, but my adoptive aunt, Maxine, who hated the idea of me returning to a hurricane zone before the end of hurricane season, persuaded me to come to stay in New York City instead. (To strengthen her case she sent me an article about Texans who were buying up guns because they were afraid of the influx of black people from New Orleans.)

This wasn’t a hard sell: I wanted to be in a place where I could travel by foot and, more crucially, continue to reap the solace of walking at night. And I was eager to follow in the steps of the essayists, poets, and novelists who’d wandered that great city before me—Walt Whitman, Herman Melville, Alfred Kazin, Elizabeth Hardwick. I had visited the city before, but each trip had felt like a tour in a sports car. I welcomed the chance to stroll. I wanted to walk alongside Whitman’s ghost and “descend to the pavements, merge with the crowd, and gaze with them.” So I left Kingston, the popular Jamaican farewell echoing in my mind: “Walk good!” Be safe on your journey, in other words, and all  the best in your endeavors.

* * * *

I arrived in New York City, ready to lose myself in Whitman’s “Manhattan crowds, with their turbulent musical chorus!” I marveled at what Jane Jacobs praised as “the ballet of the good city sidewalk” in her old neighborhood, the West Village. I walked up past midtown skyscrapers, releasing their energy as lively people onto the streets, and on into the Upper West Side, with its regal Beaux Arts apartment buildings, stylish residents, and buzzing streets. Onward into Washington Heights, the sidewalks spilled over with an ebullient mix of young and old Jewish and Dominican American residents, past leafy Inwood, with parks whose grades rose to reveal beautiful views of the Hudson River, up to my home in Kingsbridge in the Bronx, with its rows of brick bungalows and apartment buildings nearby Broadway’s bustling sidewalks and the peaceful expanse of Van Cortlandt Park. I went to Jackson Heights in Queens to take in people socializing around garden courtyards in Urdu, Korean, Spanish, Russian, and Hindi. And when I wanted a taste of home, I headed to Brooklyn, in Crown Heights, for Jamaican food and music and humor mixed in with the flavor of New York City. The city was my playground.

I explored the city with friends, and then with a woman I’d begun dating. She walked around endlessly with me, taking in New York City’s many pleasures. Coffee shops open until predawn; verdant parks with nooks aplenty; food and music from across the globe; quirky neighborhoods with quirkier residents. My impressions of the city took shape during my walks with her.

As with the relationship, those first few months of urban exploration were all romance. The city was beguiling, exhilarating, vibrant. But it wasn’t long before reality reminded me I wasn’t invulnerable, especially when I walked alone.

One night in the East Village, I was running to dinner when a white man in front of me turned and punched me in the chest with such force that I thought my ribs had braided around my spine. I assumed he was drunk or had mistaken me for an old enemy, but found out soon enough that he’d merely assumed I was a criminal because of my race. When he discovered I wasn’t what he imagined, he went on to tell me that his assault was my own fault for running up behind him. I blew off this incident as an aberration, but the mutual distrust between me and the police was impossible to ignore. It felt elemental. They’d enter a subway platform; I’d notice them. (And I’d notice all the other black men registering their presence as well, while just about everyone else remained oblivious to them.) They’d glare. I’d get nervous and glance. They’d observe me steadily. I’d get uneasy. I’d observe them back, worrying that I looked suspicious. Their suspicions would increase. We’d continue the silent, uneasy dialogue until the subway arrived and separated us at last.

I returned to the old rules I’d set for myself in New Orleans, with elaboration. No running, especially at night; no sudden movements; no hoodies; no objects—especially shiny ones—in hand; no waiting for friends on street corners, lest I be mistaken for a drug dealer; no standing near   a corner on the cell phone (same reason). As comfort set in, inevitably I began to break some of those rules, until a night encounter sent me zealously back to them, having learned that anything less than vigilance was carelessness.

After a sumptuous Italian dinner and drinks with friends, I was jogging to the subway at Columbus Circle—I was running late to meet another set of friends at a concert downtown. I heard someone shouting and I looked up to see a police officer approaching with his gun trained on me. “Against the car!” In no time, half a dozen cops were upon me, chucking me against the car and tightly handcuffing me. “Why were you running?” “Where are you going?” “Where are you coming from?” “I said, why were you running?!” Since I couldn’t answer everyone at once, I decided to respond first to the one who looked most likely to hit me. I was surrounded by a swarm and tried to focus on just one without inadvertently aggravating the others.

It didn’t work. As I answered that one, the others got frustrated that I wasn’t answering them fast enough and barked at me. One of them, digging through my already-emptied pockets, asked if I had any weapons, the question more an accusation. Another badgered me about where I was coming from, as if on the fifteenth round I’d decide to tell him the truth he imagined. Though I kept saying—calmly, of course, which meant trying to manage a tone that ignored my racing heart and their spittle-filled shouts in my face—that I had just left friends two blocks down the road, who were all still there and could vouch for me, to meet other friends whose text messages on my phone could verify that, yes, sir, yes, officer, of course, officer, it made no difference. For a black man, to assert your dignity before the police was to risk assault. In fact, the dignity of black people meant less to them, which was why I always felt safer being stopped in front of white witnesses than black witnesses. The cops had less regard for the witness and entreaties of black onlookers, whereas the concern of white witnesses usually registered on them. A black witness asking a question or politely raising an objection could quickly become a fellow detainee. Deference to the police, then, was sine qua non for a safe encounter.

The cops ignored my explanations and my suggestions and continued to snarl at me. All except one of them, a captain. He put his hand on my back, and said to no one in particular, “If he was running for a long time he would have been sweating.” He then instructed that the cuffs be removed. He told me that a black man had stabbed someone earlier two or three blocks away and they were searching for him. I noted that I had no blood on me and had told his fellow officers where I’d been and how to check my alibi—unaware that it was even an alibi, as no one had told me why I was being held,  and  of course, I hadn’t dared ask. From what I’d seen, anything beyond passivity would be interpreted as aggression.

The police captain said I could go. None of the cops who detained me thought an apology was necessary. Like the thug who punched me in the East Village, they seemed to think it was my own fault for running.

Humiliated, I tried not to make eye contact with the onlookers on the sidewalk, and I was reluctant to pass them to be on my way. The captain, maybe noticing my shame, offered to give me a ride to the subway station. When he dropped me off and I thanked him for his help, he said, “It’s because you were polite that we let you go. If you were acting up it would have been different.” I nodded and said nothing.

* * * *

I realized that what I least liked about walking in New York City wasn’t merely having to learn new rules of navigation and socialization—every city has its own. It was the arbitrariness of the circumstances that required them, an arbitrariness that made me feel like a child again, that infantilized me. When we first learn to walk, the world around us threatens to crash into us. Every step is risky. We train ourselves to walk without crashing by being attentive to our movements, and extra-attentive to the world around us. As adults we walk without thinking, really. But as a black adult I am often returned to that moment in childhood when I’m just learning to walk. I am once again on high alert, vigilant. Some days, when I am fed up with being considered a troublemaker upon sight, I joke that the last time a cop was happy to see a black male walking was when that male was a baby taking his first steps.

On many walks, I ask white friends to accompany me, just to avoid being treated like a threat. Walks in New York City, that is; in New Orleans, a white woman in my company sometimes attracted more hostility. (And it is not lost on me that my woman friends are those who best understand my plight; they have developed their own vigilance in an environment where they are constantly treated as targets of sexual attention.) Much of my walking is as my friend Rebecca once described it: A pantomime undertaken to avoid the choreography of criminality.

* * * *

Walking while black restricts the experience of walking, renders inaccessible the classic Romantic experience of walking alone. It forces me to be in constant relationship with others, unable to join the New York flâneurs I had read about and hoped to join. Instead of meandering aimlessly in the footsteps of Whitman, Melville, Kazin, and Vivian Gornick, more often I felt that I was tiptoeing in Baldwin’s—the Baldwin who wrote, way back in 1960, “Rare, indeed, is the Harlem citizen, from the most circumspect church member to the most shiftless adolescent, who does not have a long tale to tell of police incompetence, injustice, or brutality. I myself have witnessed and endured it more than once.”

Walking as a black man has made me feel simultaneously more removed from the city, in my awareness that I am perceived as suspect, and more closely connected to it, in the full attentiveness demanded by my vigilance. It has made me walk more purposefully in the city, becoming part of its flow, rather than observing, standing apart.

* * * *

But it also means that I’m still trying to arrive in a city that isn’t quite mine. One definition of home is that it’s somewhere we can most be ourselves. And when are we more ourselves but when walking, that natural state in which we repeat one of the first actions we learned? Walking—the simple, monotonous act of placing one foot before the other to prevent falling—turns out not to be so simple if you’re black. Walking alone has been anything but monotonous for me; monotony is a luxury.

A foot leaves, a foot lands, and our longing gives it momentum from rest to rest. We long to look, to think, to talk, to get away. But more than anything else, we long to be free. We want the freedom and pleasure of walking without fear—without others’ fear—wherever we choose. I’ve lived in New York City for almost a decade and have not stopped walking its fascinating streets. And I have not stopped longing to find the solace that I found as a kid on the streets of Kingston. Much as coming to know New York City’s streets has made it closer to home to me, the city also withholds itself from me via those very streets. I walk them, alternately invisible and too prominent. So I walk caught between memory and forgetting, between memory and forgiveness. [h/t]

[fandomkid101]

Knight and the Beast Part 2

The next morning, the Knights and a squirebot named Kyle were helping Merlok pack a few boxes of fireworks into the back of a traveling carriage for the two hour trip to Festaville. Merlok was to be escorted by Aaron, Macy, Axl, Lance and the squirebot while Clay was to stay and watch over the study.

"That's all of them." Aaron announced as he put the last box in the carriage. "I think we’re just about ready."

While Aaron, Axl, Lance and the squirebot were ready to go, Macy was saying goodbye to her father and mother were Merlok was saying goodbye to Clay.

"Now Macy, are you sure you want to go on a mission like this so soon?" King Halbert asked worryingly. "Festaville is so far away and there could be monsters out there."

Macy rolled her eyes and crossed her arms, as well as her mother.

"Dad, it’s only a two hour trip to the other side of the mountains; I’ll be fine." Macy tried to reassure.

"And there hasn't been any monsters seen in decades, Sweetie." Queen Halbert agreed with her daughter.

The king and queen hugged and kissed their daughter goodbye; telling her to be home in time for dinner and how much they love her.

"Well Clay, if you’re not coming with us, at least let me bring something back for you." Merlok said as he shook the Knights hand.

Clay thought about it for a moment; smiling when he thought of something.

"Just a rose, please." The knight asked politely of his mentor.

"A rose? You always ask for that whenever I go out of town." Merlok replied with a hearty chuckle.

"And you always bring me one." Clay smiled warmly.

"Princess Macy, Merlok, are you ready yet?" Kyle the squirebot asked; ready to go.

Macy and Merlok quickly made their way to the carriage and hopped inside. When everyone was in, Kyle the squirebot made the carriage go as everyone inside waved goodbye. King and Queen Halbert and Clay waved back before the carriage made it outside the castle gates and into town. While going through town, a majority of people saw the carriage; some even waving as it passed by. But in the shadows, the hooded man and his accomplice Roberto watched as the carriage containing the royal wizard and four of the five Knights left town for the time being. The hooded man smiled under his hood; revealing an almost demonic looking grin with his yellow teeth.

"Now’s our chance." The hooded man said with delight. "You have the watcher, artsy boy?"

Roberto reached into his pocket and pulled a golf ball sized stone.

"Here you go. I made it with all my love." He handed the stone into his masters’ hand.

"You say that about all the soldiers."

Roberto rolled his eyes as the hooded man tapped the stone with his finger. In a few seconds, the stone cracked like an egg; turning into a small bat like creature made from stone. The creature let out a high pitched screech as it awaited orders.

"Go to the castle and spy on Moorington. Report back if anything comes up."

With that, the creature flew out of its masters hand took off towards the castle.

"So are you going to try and offer the knight a better job again?" Roberto asked as he cleaned his nails on his cloths.

"Please; you know that's not what I'm really doing." The hooded man answered. "I'm getting old. If I ever become ruler of this land, I’ll need a new vessel so I can rule for as long as possible."

"But why him?"

"He's a knight. He's probably fit enough to lift two people on his shoulders."

Roberto turned his back to his master as he flicked a bit of fluff off himself.

"Shame that was what the other boy was for... right, Sig Monstrox?"

The hooded man went wide eyed and put his hand over Roberto’s mouth; scaring the sculptor.

"Don't call me that out in the open! Everyone thinks I'm dead, and I want it to stay that way. For now." Monstrox whispered angrily.

Roberto nodded quickly; not wanting to be suffocated. Monstrox let go of the sculptor to let him breath before looking towards the castle; planning to approach Moorington when the midday bell rung.

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

Two hours away from Knighton, the carriage with Merlok and the four Knights was halfway to its destination. The weather above them was looking very cloudy with high chances of rain and thunderstorms. Kyle the squirebot looked at the map in his robot hands; thinking or at least hoping he was going the right way.

"Are we there yet?" Aaron asked in a bored voice; laying back in his seat.

"Still a long way to go, Aaron." Merlok reminded the archer.

Macy looked out the window as the carriage went through the woods. The dark trees and the clouds up above made the view look like something from a horror story. The princess Knight turned her head back into the Carriage to see Lance combing his hair(again) and Axl was holding his stomach in discomfort.

"You ok, Axl?" Macy asked the big knight.

"I'm a little hungry." Axl answered as his stomach growled. "And I didn't bring a snack."

"Hey don't worry, big guy. When we get to town, we can get a big roast boaring for lunch." Aaron reassured.

Just as Axl started thinking about how delicious roast boaring would be, the carriage came to a halt; making Lance fall out of his seat. The rich Knight quickly sat back up and ran his hand through his hair.

"I've been combing my hair for the last two hours!" He said in an angry and sad voice.

Macy poked her head out the window to see what happened. Her eyes went wide when she saw that a large tree had been struck by lightning and fallen over; blocking the path to town on the cross road. Merlok poked his head out the window and also went wide eyed.

"Oh my." The wizard gasped at the sight.

"What happened?" Aaron asked curiously.

"I-i think the tree might have been struck by lightning at some point." Kyle spoke with a nervous stutter. "Should I take the other path?"

"I suppose we'll have to. Kyle, go that way until we find another path." Merlok ordered; pointing at the unblocked path.

"Yes, Merlok!"

Kyle made the carriage go forward into the open path; looking a bit nervous. As the carriage went further into the path, the forest turned dark and the trees around were dead and lacking leaves. Macy and Aaron looked out the window and noticed something odd about the ground. It started out all green and grassy, but as they moved foreword it slowly turned white and the trees were covered in white.

"Is that snow?" Aaron questioned; baffled by the sight.

"In the middle of June?" Macy added in disbelief.

As the carriage went further down the unknown path, Merlok began to feel uneasy. As if something bad was about to happen. The wizard rubbed his head, trying to sooth the feeling.

"Are you alright, Merlok?" Axl asked out of concern.

"Something is amiss." Merlok said in a worried tone.

Kyle gently stopped the carriage when everyone heard a howling noise. The squirebot started shaking as he looked around for what made the sound while everyone else stayed still. A low growling noise from behind the carriage made Kyle stop shaking and freeze up. Lance and Aaron looked behind the carriage to see a pack of wolves with piercing yellow eyes. Everyones nerves went up when the vicious and aggressive animals growled louder.

"Kyle, step on it!" The Knights shouted in unison.

Kyle did just that and put the carriage on full speed as the Wolves chased after them. The carriage was going fast enough to bump against the road; making some of the boxes of fireworks fall out of the back. But that wasn't enough to stop the wolves. Kyle kept his eyes on the road ahead as Lance order him to go faster. Macy, Aaron and Axl looked out front to see a big iron gate ahead. Kyle rushed the carriage through the gate, but came to a halt at a bridge beyond the gates.

The Knights watched as the wolves closed in, but the gates shut on them. The wolves barked, roared and growled as their pray got away, but Macy and Aaron stared as the predators retreated.

"Did those gates close by themselves?" Aaron questioned; thinking he imagined it.

"I think they did." Macy answered in disbelief.

Axl got up out of his seat and climbed out of the carriage; making it shake as he stepped out. The big Knight looked around while scratching his head; wandering where he and his friends were. Axl looked at the bridge in front of them. But he went wide eyed at what was beyond the bridge.

"Hey guys; get a look at this!" Axl called everyone to come out.

Macy, Lance, Aaron and Merlok climbed out of the carriage while Kyle climbed off. They looked in the direction where Axl was looking, and they went wide eyed as well.

Ahead of them was a giant castle made of red stone and rock. Most of the towers on it were pointed and crooked; giving it a semi gothic look. But it looked like it was falling apart and covered in a thick layer of snow.

"Whoa; that place looks wicked, man!" Aaron said in amazement.

"It looks terrifying!" Kyle said opposite of Aaron.

"Who would put a castle all the way out here?" Axl wandered.

"Someone who’s rich and loaded, of course." Lance answered.

Merlok put his hand to his head as the uneasy feeling became stronger. Macy noticed how the wizard was struggling and quickly gave him support.

"Merlok, what's wrong?" She asked in worry.

"There’s something in that castle." The wizard stood back up; using his staff for support. "Someone in there is in great pain."

"You think someone in there is hurt?" Aaron questioned; looking towards the castle.

"Well we gotta go help them!" Axl proclaimed; readying his axe.

"Wait! There’s dark magic surrounding this place." Merlok warned. "We must proceed with caution."

"Please; caution is my middle name." Lance boasted proudly; readying his lance and shield.

Aaron laughed a bit as he readied his energy bow.

"I thought it was Leslie!" Aaron joked; getting an annoyed glare from Lance.

Kyle looked at the group nervously when Macy readied her mace and the group started making their way towards the castle. The squirebot looked back to the gate; jumping in fear when he heard a howl. The squirebot ran after the Knights and the wizards.

"Wait; don't leave me alone, please!" He shouted as he caught up to them.

Kyle ran behind Macy as the group crossed the bridge. Axl looked over the side; feeling a little sick when he saw a moat full of lava. How could lava and snow exist in the same place? Merlok said that he could sense dark magic; maybe that had something to do with it. The group reached the front entrance to the castle; being towered over by large iron doors. Axl was about to push the door open. But it opened inward on its own. The Knights took a step back as the iron doors made a metallic creaking sound. Merlok walked ahead and entered; followed by the brave Knights and the fearful squirebot. When inside, the Knights looked around; noticing that the inside of the castle looked a bit less grim then the outside did, but it was dirty and unkept. Macy looked up a giant set of stairs; wandering if there was anyone here at all.

"Ummmm. Hello?" She gently called out. "Is anyone here?"

"We don't wanna barge in or anything, but our friend said that someone here is great pain!" Aaron called out a bit louder.

"And we got lost in the woods!" Axl added.

Lance looked around the large entryway of the castle; appalled by all the dirt and dust. Kyle the squirebot followed the Knight closely; looking around with a fearful squeak.

"Sir Lance, I think something might be watching us." The robot said in paranoia.

"Oh calm down, Kyle. It's not like some horrible creature is going to jump out at us." Lance disagreed; making Kyle freeze and look over his shoulder nervously.

Axl looked at some cracks on a wall; thinking the place could be old and falling apart. Axl stopped thinking about it when a small reached his nose. The big Knights eyes went big as he sniffed the air as he tried to figure out what it was that he smelt. A huge smile appeared on his face when he recognised the scent.

"Roasted boaring!"

Axl laughed excitedly as he followed the scent; going into another room lit by a fireplace on the other end of the room. The hungry Knight gasped when he saw long dining table stacked with freshly cooked food. A bowl with various fruits, a plate of bread rolls, a saucer filled with gravy... And two roasted boarings.

The sight made Axl made his stomach growl and rumble. The hungry Knight was tempted to take a leg from the big meaty boaring, but he didn't want to take anything from the table without permission from whoever lived in the castle. Axl looked around to see if anyone was in the room.

"Hello?" He called out. "This is a nice looking lunch you have out. I don't wanna be rube and intrude. But would it bother you if I took a leg off of that roasted boaring?"

Axl stopped smiling when he was answered with silence.

"Ok, but can I have a roll, maybe?... Please?"

The hungry knight twiddled his thumbs as he was answered with silence again; starting to feel creeped out. A light thump from behind made him turn around to see what it was. There was nothing there when he looked. Just a second later, a roll flew over Axls’ head, hitting the wall and flying towards him. The Knight caught the roll in his hands; smiling before he turned around to thank who ever threw it.

"Wow, thanks pal; I was getting really-"

Axl fell silent and stopped smiling when he saw a flame creature standing across from him. The creature was shaped like a person, but its body was made from lava and fire with its head as a shapeless flame. Axl stood completely still as the creature sighed and rubbed the back of its neck.

"My brother said I shouldn't show myself because it might be scary." It said in a shrill voice. "Sorry."

Axl blinked before calmly putting the bread roll into a pocket in his armour for; feeling like he lost his appetite.

"That's ok. I don't mind." He said in a calm voice.

After few awkward seconds, Axl bolted out of the dinning in panic. Back in the entrance room, Merlok and Macy noticed that Axl disappeared from the group. The wizard and the mace wielding Knight looked around but he could not see him anywhere.

"Wait, where’s Axl?" Merlok questioned.

"He was here a minute a-"

Before Macy could finish, Axl came charging in and picked up Macy by the shoulders; making her panic as he shook her.

"There’s monsters in this castle!" Axl shouted in panic as he held Macy up and shook her up and down.

Before Merlok and the Knights could calm Axl down, a monstrous roar erupted from the top of the stairs and a soccerball sized creature flung itself at Kyle; making the squirebot fly backwards out the door and into the snow. Merlok and the Knights watched in horror as two giant monsters jumped from the top of the stairs; both made out of rock and lava with monstrous looking horns, while one had massive fangs and the other had one giant eye. A massive amount of smaller red devil like monsters and more ball monsters followed. Kyle got up out of the snow as the ball monster tried to attack him again, but the squirebot fought back and kicked it like a football; sending it flying back into the castle. But the iron doors closed shut; leaving Kyle outside in the snow.

"Ahhh! Oh no; this isn't good!" The squirebot panicked as he tried to open the doors; having no luck at all.

Kyle started running back and forth as he tried to think of what to do.

"I need to go get help! I need to Hurry!"

The squirebot ran across the bridge at lightning speed; running so fast he didn't bother to use the carriage. He had to get back to Knighton to get help for Merlok and the Knights.

Inside the now locked and monster infested castle; Merlok and Knights fought back against the hoard. But the sneer amounts of numbers were too much for the group of five and before they knew it, they were trapped in a rope and iron net. The Knights struggled against the net while Merlok stared in shock and horror at the monsters surrounding them. The monsters growled and snarled at the intruders.

"Let us go, you ugly monsters!" Macy shouted in retaliation.

"I can't be captured; I have a date tomorrow night!" Lance begged in a less then dignified way.

Arron and Axl continued to struggle and the monsters continued to intimidate the captured Knights.

"SILENCE!"

The growling and snarling immediately stopped upon hearing the command from atop the stairs. Merlok and the Knights looked up to see a figure jumping from the Stairs and landing on the ground floor. The monsters moved out of the way as the figure made his way to the captured group; the two giants even bowing as he passed. Merlok and the Knights watched as the mysterious being stopped in front of them. Upon closer inspection, he seemed thin but he was wearing a cloak that concealed most of his body and a yellow and dark purple hood resembling a pair of horns that hid his face. He stared down at the intruders; showing a pair of glowing yellow eyes. Merlok and the Knights could feel chills going up their spines as the figure continued to stare.

"Who are you?" The figure finally spoke in a voice filtered with electricity; gashing a set of white sharp teeth through the darkness of his hood. "What’re you doing here?"

Everyone stayed silent, until Lance tried to explain.

"W-well we got lost in the woods and-"

"Not you!" The figure shouted; making Lance quiet.

Everyone tensed up as the figure pulled his cloak open and pointed at Merlok. The Knights stared at the figures hand and arm; freaked out by the blue colour of the skin and the moving marks resembling lighting.

"Speak, wizard."

The monsters watched as Merlok prepared to speak.

"We mean no harm." Merlok warned. "These Knights and I lost our way in the woods, and I sensed a got deal of dark magic here that was making someone stuffer."

The figures glowing eyes went wide when Merlok finished talking. But they quickly went back to being angry.

"Well, you found my castle." The figure spoke calmly. "But you're not welcome here, so you're trespassing!"

The monsters backed up as the Knights tried to explain themselves, but it just got worse. The flame creature from the dining room poked its head out the doorway to see what was happening.

"Look man, this is just a big misunderstanding." Aaron looked up at the figure as he tried to explain. "We were just trying to get to the next town."

"But the road was blocked." Axl added.

"Yeah, so we-"

"What are staring at?" The figure interrupted.

Merlok and the Knights didn't realise they were staring right at their captor. The monsters backed up a bit more; knowing what was coming next.

"We weren't staring at anything!" Macy still struggled against the net.

The figure did not listen.

"So you've come to stare at the beast, have you!?" He shouted at them in his electrical voice.

"No, we don't want any trouble!" Lance tried to reason.

"Too bad! You found trouble the second you barged in here!"

The figure looked at the two giant monsters; making them stand up and pay attention.

"Burnzie! Sparkks! Throw them in the dungeon!" He ordered.

"Yes, boss!" The giants both spoke with deep voices as they carried out the order.

The smaller monsters began to growl and snarl again as Burnzie and Sparkks grabbed the iron net and carried it downstairs into the dungeon. The Knights began to shout and beg in protest while Merlok watched through the tangles of the net as they were taken into a dark basement; the light disappearing as they went deeper into the depths of the castle.

[readbookywooks]

PART I "THE SPARK"

1. I clasp the flask between my hands even though the warmth from the tea has long since leached into the frozen air. My muscles are clenched tight against the cold. If a pack of wild dogs were to appear at this moment, the odds of scaling a tree before they attacked are not in my favor. I should get up, move around, and work the stiffness from my limbs. But instead I sit, as motionless as the rock beneath me, while the dawn begins to lighten the woods. I can't fight the sun. I can only watch helplessly as it drags me into a day that I've been dreading for months. By noon they will all be at my new house in the Victor's Village. The reporters, the camera crews, even Effie Trinket, my old escort, will have made their way to District 12 from the Capitol. I wonder if Effie will still be wearing that silly pink wig, or if she'll be sporting some other unnatural color especially for the Victory Tour. There will be others waiting, too. A staff to cater to my every need on the long train trip. A prep team to beautify me for public appearances. My stylist and friend, Cinna, who designed the gorgeous outfits that first made the audience take notice of me in the Hunger Games. If it were up to me, I would try to forget the Hunger Games entirely. Never speak of them. Pretend they were nothing but a bad dream. But the Victory Tour makes that impossible. Strategically placed almost midway between the annual Games, it is the Capitol's way of keeping the horror fresh and immediate. Not only are we in the districts forced to remember the iron grip of the Capitol's power each year, we are forced to celebrate it. And this year, I am one of the stars of the show. I will have to travel from district to district, to stand before the cheering crowds who secretly loathe me, to look down into the faces of the families whose children I have killed... The sun persists in rising, so I make myself stand. All my joints complain and my left leg has been asleep for so long that it takes several minutes of pacing to bring the feeling back into it. I've been in the woods three hours, but as I've made no real attempt at hunting, I have nothing to show for it. It doesn't matter for my mother and little sister, Prim, anymore. They can afford to buy butcher meat in town, although none of us likes it any better than fresh game. But my best friend, Gale Hawthorne, and his family will be depending on today's haul and I can't let them down. I start the hour-and-a-half trek it will take to cover our snare line. Back when we were in school, we had time in the afternoons to check the line and hunt and gather and still get back to trade in town. But now that Gale has gone to work in the coal mines - and I have nothing to do all day - I've taken over the job. By this time Gale will have clocked in at the mines, taken the stomach-churning elevator ride into the depths of the earth, and be pounding away at a coal seam. I know what it's like down there. Every year in school, as part of our training, my class had to tour the mines. When I was little, it was just unpleasant. The claustrophobic tunnels, foul air, suffocating darkness on all sides. But after my father and several other miners were killed in an explosion, I could barely force myself onto the elevator. The annual trip became an enormous source of anxiety. Twice I made myself so sick in anticipation of it that my mother kept me home because she thought I had contracted the flu. I think of Gale, who is only really alive in the woods, with its fresh air and sunlight and clean, flowing water. I don't know how he stands it. Well ... yes, I do. He stands it because it's the way to feed his mother and two younger brothers and sister. And here I am with buckets of money, far more than enough to feed both our families now, and he won't take a single coin. It's even hard for him to let me bring in meat, although he'd surely have kept my mother and Prim supplied if I'd been killed in the Games. I tell him he's doing me a favor, that it drives me nuts to sit around all day. Even so, I never drop off the game while he's at home. Which is easy since he works twelve hours a day. The only time I really get to see Gale now is on Sundays, when we meet up in the woods to hunt together. It's still the best day of the week, but it's not like it used to be before, when we could tell each other anything. The Games have spoiled even that. I keep hoping that as time passes we'll regain the ease between us, but part of me knows it's futile. There's no going back. I get a good haul from the traps - eight rabbits, two squirrels, and a beaver that swam into a wire contraption Gale designed himself. He's something of a whiz with snares, rigging them to bent saplings so they pull the kill out of the reach of predators, balancing logs on delicate stick triggers, weaving inescapable baskets to capture fish. As I go along, carefully resetting each snare, I know I can never quite replicate his eye for balance, his instinct for where the prey will cross the path. It's more than experience. It's a natural gift. Like the way I can shoot at an animal in almost complete darkness and still take it down with one arrow. By the time I make it back to the fence that surrounds District 12, the sun is well up. As always, I listen a moment, but there's no telltale hum of electrical current running through the chain link. There hardly ever is, even though the thing is supposed to be charged full-time. I wriggle through the opening at the bottom of the fence and come up in the Meadow, just a stone's throw from my home. My old home. We still get to keep it since officially it's the designated dwelling of my mother and sister. If I should drop dead right now, they would have to return to it. But at present, they're both happily installed in the new house in the Victor's Village, and I'm the only one who uses the squat little place where I was raised. To me, it's my real home. I go there now to switch my clothes. Exchange my father's old leather jacket for a fine wool coat that always seems too tight in the shoulders. Leave my soft, worn hunting boots for a pair of expensive machine-made shoes that my mother thinks are more appropriate for someone of my status. I've already stowed my bow and arrows in a hollow log in the woods. Although time is ticking away, I allow myself a few minutes to sit in the kitchen. It has an abandoned quality with no fire on the hearth, no cloth on the table. I mourn my old life here. We barely scraped by, but I knew where I fit in, I knew what my place was in the tightly interwoven fabric that was our life. I wish I could go back to it because, in retrospect, it seems so secure compared with now, when I am so rich and so famous and so hated by the authorities in the Capitol. A wailing at the back door demands my attention. I open it to find Buttercup, Prim's scruffy old tomcat. He dislikes the new house almost as much as I do and always leaves it when my sister's at school. We've never been particularly fond of each other, but now we have this new bond. I let him in, feed him a chunk of beaver fat, and even rub him between the ears for a bit. "You're hideous, you know that, right?" I ask him. Buttercup nudges my hand for more petting, but we have to go. "Come on, you." I scoop him up with one hand, grab my game bag with the other, and haul them both out onto the street. The cat springs free and disappears under a bush. The shoes pinch my toes as I crunch along the cinder street. Cutting down alleys and through backyards gets me to Gale's house in minutes. His mother, Hazelle, sees me through the window, where she's bent over the kitchen sink. She dries her hands on her apron and disappears to meet me at the door. I like Hazelle. Respect her. The explosion that killed my father took out her husband as well, leaving her with three boys and a baby due any day. Less than a week after she gave birth, she was out hunting the streets for work. The mines weren't an option, what with a baby to look after, but she managed to get laundry from some of the merchants in town. At fourteen, Gale, the eldest of the kids, became the main supporter of the family. He was already signed up for tesserae, which entitled them to a meager supply of grain and oil in exchange for his entering his name extra times in the drawing to become a tribute. On top of that, even back then, he was a skilled trapper. But it wasn't enough to keep a family of five without Hazelle working her fingers to the bone on that washboard. In winter her hands got so red and cracked, they bled at the slightest provocation. Still would if it wasn't for a salve my mother concocted. But they are determined, Hazelle and Gale, that the other boys, twelve-year-old Rory and ten-year-old Vick, and the baby, four-year-old Posy, will never have to sign up for tesserae. Hazelle smiles when she sees the game. She takes the beaver by the tail, feeling its weight. "He's going to make a nice stew." Unlike Gale, she has no problem with our hunting arrangement. "Good pelt, too," I answer. It's comforting here with Hazelle. Weighing the merits of the game, just as we always have. She pours me a mug of herb tea, which I wrap my chilled fingers around gratefully. "You know, when I get back from the tour, I was thinking I might take Rory out with me sometimes. After school. Teach him to shoot." Hazelle nods. "That'd be good. Gale means to, but he's only got his Sundays, and I think he likes saving those for you." I can't stop the redness that floods my cheeks. It's stupid, of course. Hardly anybody knows me better than Hazelle. Knows the bond I share with Gale. I'm sure plenty of people assumed that we'd eventually get married even if I never gave it any thought. But that was before the Games. Before my fellow tribute, Peeta Mellark, announced he was madly in love with me. Our romance became a key strategy for our survival in the arena. Only it wasn't just a strategy for Peeta. I'm not sure what it was for me. But I know now it was nothing but painful for Gale. My chest tightens as I think about how, on the Victory Tour, Peeta and I will have to present ourselves as lovers again. I gulp my tea even though it's too hot and push back from the table. "I better get going. Make myself presentable for the cameras." Hazelle hugs me. "Enjoy the food." "Absolutely," I say. My next stop is the Hob, where I've traditionally done the bulk of my trading. Years ago it was a warehouse to store coal, but when it fell into disuse, it became a meeting place for illegal trades and then blossomed into a full-time black market. If it attracts a somewhat criminal element, then I belong here, I guess. Hunting in the woods surrounding District 12 violates at least a dozen laws and is punishable by death. Although they never mention it, I owe the people who frequent the Hob. Gale told me that Greasy Sae, the old woman who serves up soup, started a collection to sponsor Peeta and me during the Games. It was supposed to be just a Hob thing, but a lot of other people heard about it and chipped in. I don't know exactly how much it was, and the price of any gift in the arena was exorbitant. But for all I know, it made the difference between my life and death. It's still odd to drag open the front door with an empty game bag, with nothing to trade, and instead feel the heavy pocket of coins against my hip. I try to hit as many stalls as possible, spreading out my purchases of coffee, buns, eggs, yarn, and oil. As an afterthought, I buy three bottles of white liquor from a one-armed woman named Ripper, a victim of a mine accident who was smart enough to find a way to stay alive. The liquor isn't for my family. It's for Haymitch, who acted as mentor for Peeta and me in the Games. He's surly, violent, and drunk most of the time. But he did his job - more than his job - because for the first time in history, two tributes were allowed to win. So no matter who Haymitch is, I owe him, too. And that's for always. I'm getting the white liquor because a few weeks ago he ran out and there was none for sale and he had a withdrawal, shaking and screaming at terrifying things only he could see. He scared Prim to death and, frankly, it wasn't much fun for me to see him like that, either. Ever since then I've been sort of stockpiling the stuff just in case there's a shortage again. Cray, our Head Peacekeeper, frowns when he sees me with the bottles. He's an older man with a few strands of silver hair combed sideways above his bright red face. "That stuff's too strong for you, girl." He should know. Next to Haymitch, Cray drinks more than anyone I've ever met. "Aw, my mother uses it in medicines," I say indifferently. "Well, it'd kill just about anything," he says, and slaps down a coin for a bottle. When I reach Greasy Sae's stall, I boost myself up to sit on the counter and order some soup, which looks to be some kind of gourd and bean mixture. A Peacekeeper named Darius comes up and buys a bowl while I'm eating. As law enforcers go, he's one of my favorites. Never really throwing his weight around, usually good for a joke. He's probably in his twenties, but he doesn't seem much older than I do. Something about his smile, his red hair that sticks out every which way, gives him a boyish quality. "Aren't you supposed to be on a train?" he asks me. "They're collecting me at noon," I answer. "Shouldn't you look better?" he asks in a loud whisper. I can't help smiling at his teasing, in spite of my mood. "Maybe a ribbon in your hair or something?" He flicks my braid with his hand and I brush him away. "Don't worry. By the time they get through with me I'll be unrecognizable," I say. "Good," he says. "Let's show a little district pride for a change, Miss Everdeen. Hm?" He shakes his head at Greasy Sae in mock disapproval and walks off to join his friends. "I'll want that bowl back," Greasy Sae calls after him, but since she's laughing, she doesn't sound particularly stern. "Gale going to see you off?" she asks me. "No, he wasn't on the list," I say. "I saw him Sunday, though." "Think he'd have made the list. Him being your cousin and all," she says wryly. It's just one more part of the lie the Capitol has concocted. When Peeta and I made it into the final eight in the Hunger Games, they sent reporters to do personal stories about us. When they asked about my friends, everyone directed them to Gale. But it wouldn't do, what with the romance I was playing out in the arena, to have my best friend be Gale. He was too handsome, too male, and not the least bit willing to smile and play nice for the cameras. We do resemble each other, though, quite a bit. We have that Seam look. Dark straight hair, olive skin, gray eyes. So some genius made him my cousin. I didn't know about it until we were already home, on the platform at the train station, and my mother said, "Your cousins can hardly wait to see you!" Then I turned and saw Gale and Hazelle and all the kids waiting for me, so what could I do but go along? Greasy Sae knows we're not related, but even some of the people who have known us for years seem to have forgotten. "I just can't wait for the whole thing to be over," I whisper. "I know," says Greasy Sae. "But you've got to go through it to get to the end of it. Better not be late." A light snow starts to fall as I make my way to the Victor's Village. It's about a half-mile walk from the square in the center of town, but it seems like another world entirely. It's a separate community built around a beautiful green, dotted with flowering bushes. There are twelve houses, each large enough to hold ten of the one I was raised in. Nine stand empty, as they always have. The three in use belong to Haymitch, Peeta, and me. The houses inhabited by my family and Peeta give off a warm glow of life. Lit windows, smoke from the chimneys, bunches of brightly colored corn affixed to the front doors as decoration for the upcoming Harvest Festival. However, Haymitch's house, despite the care taken by the grounds-keeper, exudes an air of abandonment and neglect. I brace myself at his front door, knowing it will be foul, then push inside. My nose immediately wrinkles in disgust. Haymitch refuses to let anyone in to clean and does a poor job himself. Over the years the odors of liquor and vomit, boiled cabbage and burned meat, unwashed clothes and mouse droppings have intermingled into a stench that brings tears to my eyes. I wade through a litter of discarded wrappings, broken glass, and bones to where I know I will find Haymitch. He sits at the kitchen table, his arms sprawled across the wood, his face in a puddle of liquor, snoring his head off. I nudge his shoulder. "Get up!" I say loudly, because I've learned there's no subtle way to wake him. His snoring stops for a moment, questioningly, and then resumes. I push him harder. "Get up, Haymitch. It's tour day!" I force the window up, inhaling deep breaths of the clean air outside. My feet shift through the garbage on the floor, and I unearth a tin coffeepot and fill it at the sink. The stove isn't completely out and I manage to coax the few live coals into a flame. I pour some ground coffee into the pot, enough to make sure the resulting brew will be good and strong, and set it on the stove to boil. Haymitch is still dead to the world. Since nothing else has worked, I fill a basin with icy cold water, dump it on his head, and spring out of the way. A guttural animal sound comes from his throat. He jumps up, kicking his chair ten feet behind him and wielding a knife. I forgot he always sleeps with one clutched in his hand. I should have pried it from his fingers, but I've had a lot on my mind. Spewing profanity, he slashes the air a few moments before coming to his senses. He wipes his face on his shirtsleeve and turns to the windowsill where I perch, just in case I need to make a quick exit. "What are you doing?" he sputters. "You told me to wake you an hour before the cameras come," I say. "What?" he says. "Your idea," I insist. He seems to remember. "Why am I all wet?" "I couldn't shake you awake," I say. "Look, if you wanted to be babied, you should have asked Peeta." "Asked me what?" Just the sound of his voice twists my stomach into a knot of unpleasant emotions like guilt, sadness, and fear. And longing. I might as well admit there's some of that, too. Only it has too much competition to ever win out. I watch as Peeta crosses to the table, the sunlight from the window picking up the glint of fresh snow in his blond hair. He looks strong and healthy, so different from the sick, starving boy I knew in the arena, and you can barely even notice his limp now. He sets a loaf of fresh-baked bread on the table and holds out his hand to Haymitch. "Asked you to wake me without giving me pneumonia," says Haymitch, passing over his knife. He pulls off his filthy shirt, revealing an equally soiled undershirt, and rubs himself down with the dry part. Peeta smiles and douses Haymitch's knife in white liquor from a bottle on the floor. He wipes the blade clean on his shirttail and slices the bread. Peeta keeps all of us in fresh baked goods. I hunt. He bakes. Haymitch drinks. We have our own ways to stay busy, to keep thoughts of our time as contestants in the Hunger Games at bay. It's not until he's handed Haymitch the heel that he even looks at me for the first time. "Would you like a piece?" "No, I ate at the Hob," I say. "But thank you." My voice doesn't sound like my own, it's so formal. Just as it's been every time I've spoken to Peeta since the cameras finished filming our happy homecoming and we returned to our real lives. "You're welcome," he says back stiffly. Haymitch tosses his shirt somewhere into the mess. "Brrr. You two have got a lot of warming up to do before showtime." He's right, of course. The audience will be expecting the pair of lovebirds who won the Hunger Games. Not two people who can barely look each other in the eye. But all I say is, "Take a bath, Haymitch." Then I swing out the window, drop to the ground, and head across the green to my house. The snow has begun to stick and I leave a trail of footprints behind me. At the front door, I pause to knock the wet stuff from my shoes before I go in. My mother's been working day and night to make everything perfect for the cameras, so it's no time to be tracking up her shiny floors. I've barely stepped inside when she's there, holding my arm as if to stop me. "Don't worry, I'm taking them off here," I say, leaving my shoes on the mat. My mother gives an odd, breathy laugh and removes the game bag loaded with supplies from my shoulder. "It's just snow. Did you have a nice walk?" "Walk?" She knows I've been in the woods half the night. Then I see the man standing behind her in the kitchen doorway. One look at his tailored suit and surgically perfected features and I know he's from the Capitol. Something is wrong. "It was more like skating. It's really getting slippery out there." "Someone's here to see you," says my mother. Her face is too pale and I can hear the anxiety she's trying to hide. "I thought they weren't due until noon." I pretend not to notice her state. "Did Cinna come early to help me get ready?" "No, Katniss, it's - " my mother begins. "This way, please, Miss Everdeen," says the man. He gestures down the hallway. It's weird to be ushered around your own home, but I know better than to comment on it. As I go, I give my mother a reassuring smile over my shoulder. "Probably more instructions for the tour." They've been sending me all kinds of stuff about my itinerary and what protocol will be observed in each district. But as I walk toward the door of the study, a door I have never even seen closed until this moment, I can feel my mind begin to race. Who is here? What do they want? Why is my mother so pale? "Go right in," says the Capitol man, who has followed me down the hallway. I twist the polished brass knob and step inside. My nose registers the conflicting scents of roses and blood. A small, white-haired man who seems vaguely familiar is reading a book. He holds up a finger as if to say, "Give me a moment." Then he turns and my heart skips a beat. I'm staring into the snakelike eyes of President Snow.