#return to planet phlegm

[roxy206]

No I’m not about to cry because I’m so proud of Irma it’s fine

[pathetiic-fallacy]

I should have worn a condom... over my heart!

[comatosebunny09]

heel | sylus

summary: he knows without looking that you’re beside him once more. you always are. like a faithful crow perched on his shoulder, awaiting his command. he wouldn’t have it any other way. warning(s): reader is implied to be female, reader has hair, guns, mentions of violence, implied minor character death, innuendos, you’re a little unhinged and sylus is here for it, & maybe he has a thing for you, scent kink (?), mdni notes: idk what this is. i just wanted to write something about sylus having a bad-ass lapdog. inspired by that unleashed movie with jet li. might continue this. thank you for reading!

He can’t focus. Not with you smelling like that behind him.

It’s an arresting scent. Sweet, floral, nostalgic. Intertwined with your natural fragrance, it’s quite a heady mix.

He first catches wind of it when you angle yourself over the table beside him to place a case—heavy with military-grade weapons—onto its polished surface. Your warmth fades along with the aroma, the wispy tendrils of your hair grazing his neck.

Sylus finds himself chasing the smell when you ease back to rejoin the twins. He peers at you over his shoulder as if to convince himself he isn’t imagining things.

You bear a deceptively innocent smile. Acknowledge Sylus with a nod, and your eyes darken into something indistinguishable. Mischief? Admiration? Murderous intent?

You’re always itching for a good fight. Vibrating with the need to protect and maim at the drop of a hat. At the subtle tremor of Sylus’ fingers.

Sylus shakes his head to dispel the tension, smirking down at his lap and returning his attention to the table. Regains his composure, fixed on the gentleman seated across.

“Ten million,” Sylus simply states through the lazy furl of cigar smoke. Beneath the sepia-toned veil cast by the filament lights overhead.  

The portly man on the opposite side of the table harrumphs. Gradually erupts into a fit of laughter mixed with coughing and wheezing. Sylus winces. Maybe he should give the cigar a break.

As if reading Sylus’ thoughts, the gentleman does just that. Signals to one of his bodyguards—one of ten. For little old Sylus? He then snuffs out his smoke on the summoned guard’s palm, not batting an eye.

Disgusting, Sylus thinks, lips twitching with the urge to sneer. How could humans make themselves so disposable?

“Mister Sylus,” the gentleman begins, disrupting Sylus’ inner monologue. He folds his fat, liver-spotted hands on the table and leans forward until his chair creaks. “My family has worked with you for years—”

“Your point?” Sylus interjects, his brow ticking. He’s trying to keep his cool. Trying to maintain that poker face. Between this deal sapping up more time than he initially anticipated and your heavenly scent beckoning to him like ghostly tendrils curling under his chin, he’s more than a little antsy.

The gentleman clears the phlegm from his throat. Tugs on the round of his tie, disbelieving Sylus’ gall. He tries again, sitting up a little straighter.

“My point, Mister Sylus, is that ten million is a little…eh, steep.” Leaning back, the man’s lips crook into a smirk. Sylus narrows his eyes. He knows this song and dance. This fool thinks he’s already won. “Especially given that these weapons are mere prototypes—”

Sylus doesn’t have to speak. Couldn’t even if he wanted to, that fragrance once again pervading his senses like creeping mist. It’s accompanied by a swift breeze caressing his cheek. By the clack of something metallic set on the table. He knows without looking that you’re beside him.

You always are. Like a faithful crow perched on his shoulder, awaiting his command. He feels it rolling off you in waves. The vitriol, the malice.

Down, girl, Sylus thinks, eying you in his periphery. Swells with pride. Leans back in an easy slouch, crossing his legs with humor gracing his features. He pushes that bewitching smell to the backburner. There’s money to be made and a scourge to be wiped from the face of the planet.

The room had lapsed into an impenetrable silence when you slammed a pistol on the table. A show of power. A threat bleeding into a promise.

All eyes are on the shiny gleam of the revolver.

The gentleman swallows thickly, fretting with his tie, Adam’s apple bobbing. He glances between you and Sylus, and it’s comical how a bead of sweat forms on his mottled temple.

He swiftly feigns nonchalance, throwing his hands up as he cackles with his guards over his shoulder. Red-faced like it’s the funniest thing in the world. “What is this? Am I—am I really supposed to be intimidated by that?” He gestures to the revolver like it’s something of child’s play.

Another gust of air grazes Sylus’ skin. He’s bereft of the scent you carry, finding his wits scurrying back to him. Like you released him from a spell.

In an instant, you’re behind the gentleman. A deviously soft hand presses between his shoulder blades. You pitch yourself forward over his shoulder, your lips brushing the outer shell of his ear.

“No,” you whisper, and the man shirks away with a shriek pinched from his throat like he’s seen a ghost. Your accompanying giggle bodes danger. “But you should be scared a’ me.”

The click of various weapons shifting to semi surrounds you. Ten guns aimed at your back, threatening to rend you to sinew and bone. But you’re too quick. In the blink of an eye, you’re seated on the table before the gentleman, one leg crossed over the other, leant back on your hands, your head coyly cocked to the side.

You’re a cheeky little shit. Sylus wouldn’t have you any other way.

The man’s tie is suddenly between your fingers. You’re admiring the texture of it, lids lowered, lips pursed whilst you tug him forward. Your breath fans over his blanched skin, and you scrutinize his features like a curious feline. He’s petrified, his men’s weapons poised at his back.

You grin something sultry, toying with the gentleman’s tie. Gaze flits between him and his goons, signaling for him to call them off. They’ll have to riddle him with holes to get to you. Have them do the dirty work for you. Crafty little thing.

His bodyguards acquiesce when the man raises a trembling hand. Reluctantly lower their weapons, a symphony of quickened heartbeats and clenching buttholes invading the air. The man’s stricken by your beauty and otherworldly speed. He thought this would be cake. Figured he could pull one over on Onychinus’ notorious kingpin, unaware that he would drag his guard dog into the fray.

Sylus sighs, shifting in his seat. Stuffs a hand in his pocket, nothing short of amused. “And here I thought you were a smart man,” he huffs, examining his nails. “This could’ve all been so very easy.”

“But you had to make it hard,” you tack on against the swell of the gentleman’s lips. “Not that I’m complaining.”

At some point, you pilfered the man’s phone from his pocket.

You hold it to his face, unlocking it with his biometrics. His bank app has already been cued up with Sylus’ information. Your humored visage ebbs in and out of focus as the gentleman peers between you and the screen.

The man swallows again, his throat clicking. He cautions another look at your boss, silently willing him to call you off. Sylus does no such thing, instead holding his hands up in mock surrender.

Shakily, the gentleman keys in the proffered amount. Presses send, the chime of it the only sound heard in the tense atmosphere.

You look at Sylus over your shoulder. Smile sweet as sugar, and something in Sylus’ chest pulls. He nods once he’s received the transaction. Quietly praises you with a smoldering look before maneuvering to dismount his seat with a flourish of his coat. Luke and Kieran flank him without a hitch, snickering at his sides.

Sylus smiles, playfully waving his phone in the air. “Pleasure doing business with you,” he says, moving to the room’s only entry point with the twins in tow.

The man bristles, sweat coasting in rivulets down his neck. He moves to stand, but you bar him, blotting out everything from sight that isn’t you. You twist his tie around your fist, wordlessly telling him to heel. He’s already lost. Already tried to undermine the devil and failed. No sense in prolonging his sentencing.

Not that Sylus intended to let him live from the start.

“Oh, and, sweetie,” purrs Sylus, halfway through the threshold over his shoulder. Your gazes interlock for the briefest of seconds. He does so love it when you look at him like that. “Have fun.”

You need no further goading as the door slips shut with Sylus’ exit.

Your body hums with the prickle of your Evol, and a crazed smirk warps your countenance as the gentleman’s bodyguards close in.

[mothiir]

the watcher from the wastes

Mortarion jerks it. That’s it, that’s the fic. @moodymisty and @kit-williams to blame, specially @kit-williams since I basically stole her entire idea.

cw: wanking. self loathing, sort of. mort being a creep and having issues with bodily autonomy. self harm in a weird 40k way. did not mean it to be this gross but ended up that way because morty.

—

—

This process is deeply unpleasant, and Mortarion prefers to go through it as little as possible — and yet you, cursed thing that you are, have forced him to drastic measures.

First of all: the mask must be removed. He unhooks it from his ears, curlicues of oily smoke escaping as the suction gives way. He holds his breath, keeping the toxic fumes nestled in his lungs as long as possible, and sets the mask onto his desk. His work-chair is hewn from the sort of raw pig iron that has Horus despairing. Brother I can have something nicer made — even something with a cushion —

Mortarion does not need such frivolity. It is a chair. He can sit upon it. Thus it serves its purpose.

He can hold his breath for hours, should he need to, but that would defeat the whole purpose of this exercise. With a moment to brace himself, Mortarion exhales the last of the gas, momentarily covering his face in a rank green shadow.

It dissipates, and Mortarion waits for a few heartbeats to pass before inhaling.

He tastes his own flesh: half-cooked, and putrefying.

It is not an unfamiliar taste — it’s almost nostalgic. For a moment, he is a boy once more, nailed to the bowels of an alien planet, eyes fixed on the distant, uncaring sky.

He inhales again. Sharper now. The glutinous phlegm his sinuses produced in a vain attempt to capture the worst of the toxins is starting to thin. He coughs it out into his sleeve, then spits on the floor. Another breath. His throat is always the worst. The gas rots the tissue within, destroying the tender membranes, rendering his voice raspy and ragged.

Without the constant application of the gas, his body has time to heal. And oh how the healing hurts. He hacks up a glob of snot, and then of quivering red tissue. Inside, his cells multiply frantically, like they know that they only have a scant space of time before the mask is reapplied and the perpetual injuring begins once more.

Another burst of coughing; then a frankly revolting sneeze — again, captured into the billowing sleeves of his robe.

He inhales again — and curses, because the healing has moved faster than last time, and his sense of smell has returned with a vengeance. By the Emperor’s ballsack, the stench is overwhelming. What —

He looks down at himself: robes stiffened with effluvia from experiments and battle, fresh gobbets of snot and rancid blood dripping off the end of his sleeves. Hm. Yes, well — that would explain it.

—

By the time he has finished bathing, his body has healed as much as it will ever be able to, and he feels acutely uncomfortable. Even without the influence of the gas, his voice is still a guttural rasp, vocal cords ruined from years of experimentation. His shoulders still hunch instinctively, used to crowding through narrow corridors; his eyes — though brighter — still have sclera of sulphur yellow, polluted with broken blood vessels.

When he inhales the poison of his homeland, at least he has an excuse for how broken his body still is. Without it, his weak flesh stands in testament to the monumental failure of his youth. Not only did he fail to slay the monster who held him captive, he failed to recover from its abuses, remaining a broken-limbed mess of a Primarch.

And yet — and yet a part of him enjoys this feeling. There is no pain in his throat, or behind his eyes; he is not subject to the constant cycle of his lungs rotting into slurry and healing themselves once more. His gums are shiny and pink, not sloughing off his teeth in grey scraps.

Best of all, his senses have returned to their Primarch peak. Even constantly poisoned, and half-crippled, he can smell and taste and hear better than any baseline — pathetic little things the lot of them, no better than scurrying ants.

Apart from…well. You smiled at him You did not cower from the pallour of his flesh, or cringe from the huff and click of his respirator. You looked him full in the face and you beamed.

Lord Primarch, you called him. Lord Mortarion.

And afterwards, to your friend, where you thought he couldn’t hear you: you never said he was handsome.

He pointed you out to Typhus, a little later. Asked his eldest son why they were so desperate for staff that they were now employing defective baselines, like you, who clearly had an incredibly limited range of vision — if you weren’t blind entirely. Typhus had informed him that he didn’t think you were blind — indeed, you had cleaned his armour to perfection just this morning — but if you displeased Mortarion he could have you —

No, Moration cut in. No, that wasn’t necessary.

Not blind. Just — stupid, possibly.

Probably.

Anyway — if you are stupid then he is a fool as well. And worse: he does not have the excuse of being mortal.

Soapy and slick, white hair hanging in a curtain down his back, Mortarion sits in the deserted communal showers and stares at a little plastic sleeve in his left hand. It’s sealed tight — waterproof, preserving the object within as well as can be hoped for. He wonders if you have noticed the theft yet. Probably. Serfs aboard the Endurance do not have many possessions — they do not need them. More than likely he’s caused a little bit of grief, with you either blaming yourself for the loss, or snapping at one of your fellows, blaming them.

He cannot bring himself to care.

His clothes are long gone. The serfs will incinerate them, and bring him new ones when he sends for them. Perhaps this time, he will not go so long without cleaning them. Humans have terrible senses, but he wagers that you would probably prefer —

He amputates that thought abruptly. It does not matter what you prefer. It does not matter what anyone prefers. This is a temporary indulgence to end his madness, and then he will move on.

The plastic crinkles as he opens it, his tongue dashing out to wet his lower lip. The garment is plain cotton, with a little green bow at the front.

Garment. Fabric. So many distancing words to cover up the fact that he has stolen your underwear. He can never let Horus find out. He can never let anyone find out. Even though there is no one here to witness his shame, he feels a flush creep up his back. His cock leaps eagerly as he takes himself in hand, his toes curling on the wet floor. It has been so long since he last touched himself.

It’s pathetic. It’s revolting. And yet —

Mortarion buries his face into the gusset of your underwear, inhaling deeply as he strokes himself. Your scent is faded, but still clings to the fabric, thick and musky and sweet. He can imagine burying his face between your thighs, just inhaling. He’d bite your soft flesh, leaving bruises the exact shape of his teeth — and he would not let them heal. He’d do it every night until they scarred, and you could not change clothes without remembering exactly whose bed you were crawling into.

His breath stutters; his drool seeps into the cotton as he sucks. He’s never taken anyone to bed — there have always been more important things — but he knows what he wants to do. He knows that you would smile at him, and stroke his scars with gentle hands, and welcome him in so deeply that no one would ever be able to pry him out. You’d let him ruin your insides, stretch you so no other man would ever be able to satisfy you again. He’d fill you up to the brim, and then he’d do it again, and again, and again. He’d make you swallow him until you were coughing his seed up, he’d cum in your hair and —

His orgasm rips through him like a tempest, so abrupt that he cries out in shock, cum spurting up over his chest. His flanks heave, and he comes back to his senses in a humiliating rush — he’s chewed through your underwear, shreds of fabric stuck between his teeth. He picks them out, grimacing.

A shameful display. He cannot wait to do it again.

[heliads]

In Sickness And In Health

Based on this request: "a Thomas x reader where y/n is sick and Thomas takes care of her and worries even though it's just like a cold or something."

masterlist

Today is shaping up to be an absolutely excellent day. It’s perfectly sunny, despite the chilly dampness of far too much rain that has hung over the Glade for the past week or so. Alby’s assigned you to something actually interesting today, so you won’t be forced to skulk around with nothing to do. Plus, your boyfriend, Thomas, is scheduled to have a rest day from his time spent running in the Maze, so you’ll be able to see him for longer than the typical scant few hours at dawn and after he returns from mapping out the labyrinthine corridors all day.

You lay in your hammock for a few seconds longer, blissfully picturing the day before you. It’s one of those good sort of days where you wake up with a smile in front of a tired sigh, where you can keep your eyes closed and visualize the hours awaiting you like it’s a dream come true. You take a deep breath in and out, and then you freeze.

Suddenly, your day is ruined, utterly so. There is one problem, one problem that never once showed up in any of your carefully laid plans. It’s not like you can think around it, either. Here is the issue that presents itself before you, the one grievously simple error that now consumes your every waking thought: the rattle of phlegm in your lungs, the clear sign that you have a cold.

It’s a terrible fate. You, much like any other sane person on the planet or within the Glade, whichever seems more real at the moment, are bound by the capabilities of your health. So, when your head starts to pound as it is now, as if your mind just realized that you’re sick and so you’d better play the part to the full, terrible extent, the urge to simply go back to sleep until it’s all gone washes over you in waves.

However, bed rest is not an option at the moment. You’re still a Glader, one bound by the wishes and whims of Alby and Newt, and they both say that you have to get up and complete your tasks, even though you can hardly breathe through your nose and you feel as if you have the strength of a failing coma patient.

You might be exaggerating a little, but still. You feel terrible. At the same time, the sun climbs higher and higher into the sky, and you have to face the awful reality that you must drag yourself from your hammock, corral yourself into some twisted imitation of a healthy Glader, and progress throughout the day as if nothing were wrong at all. The Glade only functions because everyone here plays their part, so you cannot afford to take a sick day.

All the same, you think as you force your eyes open, the thought of resting for even a few minutes more sounds rather promising. Would Alby even miss you anyway? Surely he wouldn’t notice you were gone. Even the thought of this makes you want to laugh. Yes, he would notice. Alby once yelled at some hapless Builder for fifteen minutes because the guy thought he could get away with taking a forty minute lunch break instead of the designated half an hour. You’re not going to be able to fool yourself into thinking you can miss the morning shift, no matter how much you’d like to do so.

You take a deep breath, and force yourself out of the hammock in one fell swoop with the air of someone plunging themselves into ice cold water. Surprisingly, it’s not as bad as you think. Besides, once you get up and moving, the phlegm forces itself away to some unseen part of your lungs, no doubt doing damage where you can’t feel it. You’re okay with this, though. Whatever gets you through the day without having to go beg the Med-Jacks for some cough drops is fine with you.

You get ready for the day, then prepare to leave the sacred hammock space for the rest of the Glade. Just as you’re about to get some breakfast, though, an arm quickly stretches in front of you, blocking your path forward. You glance over at the owner of said arm, and chuckle slightly when you realize it’s Thomas.

“Everything alright?” Thomas raises an eyebrow, coming to stand in front of you. “I don’t know. You tell me.” You frown. “That’s a very open statement. Am I supposed to be confessing to a murder or something?” Thomas rolls his eyes. “I was talking about the fact that you seem to be sick. Although, if you killed somebody, I’d like to know too.”

You grin. “Would you help me hide the body or turn me in to Alby?” Thomas scoffs. “Hide the body, obviously. I’m not getting you banished.” He pauses slightly. “That’s not what we’re talking about, though. I heard you coughing.” You grimace. “Ah. I was hoping you wouldn’t notice that. I’m not contagious, I swear. At least, I don’t think so. I’m not sure it matters, though, we all live in the same place and don’t ever leave. Germs kind of do their own thing.”

Thomas folds his arms across his chest. “No jokes, Y/N. You need to be healthy.” You blow out a tired breath. “Tell me about it. I have so many things I have to do, and a cold isn’t going to make it any easier.” Thomas gives you a look. “This is exactly what I’m talking about. You need to get some rest, and the only way to do that is to take care of yourself.”

You glance at him curiously. “And what do you suggest?” Thomas gestures towards the hammock behind you. “Get some more sleep, for starters. I’ll bring you some water.” He smiles, as if pleased with himself for coming up with these solutions despite not being a Med-Jack. You fight the urge to grin. “I’m not going back to bed, Thomas, I have things to do. Supplies to organize. First and Second-in-commands to not aggravate, which is why I’m heading out.”

You duck under Thomas’ arm and start to head towards the center of the Glade. Thomas, however, just jogs after you, walking in front of you to get you to stop. “Alby and Newt will understand if you need to take a day off.” You raise your brows. “They will? Are you sure?” Thomas sighs. “Newt will, at least. I can work on Alby. I’m serious, though. You need to take it easy.”

You smile reassuringly at him. “I am taking it easy. You’ll notice that I’m not running or jumping or challenging any Builders to hand-to-hand combat.” Thomas runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Y/N, I’m worried about you! If you try to do too much now, you’ll only get worse. You’re literally coughing now.”

You freeze, and quickly pretend as if you weren’t just hacking your lungs out. “No I wasn’t. I, uh, have allergies. They don’t affect me that much.” Thomas stares at you in disbelief, although, judging by the quirk of his lips, he’s doing his best not to laugh. “You’re terrible at coming up with excuses, you know that?”

You grin. “I pride myself on it. Now come on, we should go get breakfast.” Thomas goes to complain, but you hold up a hand. “I can’t be super healthy if I don’t get fuel for the day, right? Honestly, by trying to force me back to bed, you might just be making me worse.” You cower slightly under the force of Thomas’ exasperated look. “Alright, that was a stretch. I’ll admit it.”

Thomas finally lets himself laugh, although you notice that he keeps staring at you as if he expects you to keel over at any moment. “I should hope so. I’m going to get the Med-Jacks to carry you away halfway through the day if you’re not careful.” You smile back at him. “Don’t try to threaten me, Thomas, I’ll just hide from them.”

You expect Thomas’ worries to disappear. You’re up and active, which should be a clear sign that you’re doing just fine. Sure, you can’t seem to shake a sniffle in your nose, and your head is pounding like it’s recently been mauled by a Griever, but you’re fine. However, Thomas’ watchful eye just gets worse as the day progresses. He’s certain that you’re going to tire yourself out and make things worse, and no matter how many times you tell him that it’s just a cold, he refuses to budge.

Take right now: Alby has assigned you to categorizing the extra boxes of medical supplies currently taking up space in some abandoned corner of the Homestead. Clint and Jeff barely have enough space in the Med-Jack hut as it is, so they can’t afford to take on anything new. Alby wants you to take a look at what’s been festering in the crates, maybe organize a few things and try to clear out the rest.

Thomas, however, sees this as an opportunity for you to try and lift something too heavy and pass out. So, on his off day, when he should be kicking back and relaxing to make up for the fact that he’s out running every other day, Thomas is in the Homestead with you, hovering over your shoulder and constantly trying to take things out of your hands when he deems them too dangerous to your invalid self.

At last, you get tired of it and set some things straight. “Thomas, I’m fine. Honestly. I can do this.” He folds his arms over his chest. “I am taking care of you.” The way he says it, with a slight proud tilt of his head like this is a task of the gravest concern, makes you smile in spite of yourself. “And you’re doing a great job of it. Maybe too great a job, though, because I’m not going to get through these boxes if you keep trying to stop me.”

Thomas protests this. “You were trying to lift them! They’re really heavy!” You give him a look. “And I can handle it.” He frowns. “Not if you’re sick.” You consider lifting a box just to prove your point, but decide against it. “I have a feeling that I’ll be okay. How about you give me ten minutes to finish this, and then we can go take a break?”

Thomas considers this for a second, then nods. “Alright. But if I see you trying to exert yourself too much-” You cut him off before he can finish whatever threat hovers on the tip of his tongue. “You can stop me immediately, I know. Anything for you, Doctor Thomas.” He smirks at that. “Maybe I should become a Med-Jack instead of a Runner. I’m pretty good at this.” You turn so he can’t see your grin. “As if you’d ever pass up the chance to go explore the Maze.” You can hear him hum in agreement behind you. “That’s true.”

True to your word, you let Thomas lead you away from the Homestead the second you finish categorizing the boxes. You’re not entirely sure it’s a bad thing, lying on a hammock with him, watching the sun appear and disappear behind the whitest and fluffiest clouds you’ve ever seen. In fact, it’s rather nice.

You speak up, breaking a rather peaceful silence. “I’m sorry I’m probably infecting you with my cold.” Thomas chuckles, and you can feel the beat of it against your chest. “I won’t get sick, I’m immune to all colds. I’d outrun the germs.” You snort. “That’s not how that works.” Thomas shifts slightly, and you can see the grin on his face. “No? I’m pretty sure it is.”

You laugh again, letting the sound disappear into the quiet stillness of the sunny afternoon. “I’m not sure about that.” Thomas reaches out, wrapping his hand around yours. “Think about it. I’ve literally never gotten sick here.” You ponder the sight of his fingers intertwined with yours. “That’s going to change in about three hours when the cold sets in.”

Thomas shrugs, moving you along with him. “Well, at least I know I have you to look after me.” You nod. “Of course. It’s my turn to play at being a Med-Jack.” Thomas pokes you in the shoulder. “Hey, I was great at this. Don’t make fun of me.” You grin. “I’d never dream of it.” The two of you stay there a while, basking in the sun, until Alby starts calling your name and you know you have to go back to work, despite Thomas’ protests. Until then, though, you’re content to stay here and watch the day drift by in one slide of endless sky blue.

maze runner tag list: more like loveSICK for you babe @rogueanschel, @ellobruv-blog, @lxncelot, @neewtmas

[after-witch]

Ginger Tea [Yandere L Lawliet x Reader]

Title: Ginger Tea [Yandere L Lawliet x Reader]

Synopsis: You’re sick. Unfortunately, your captor has no intentions of leaving you alone to recover.

For request: something concerning death note L? 

Word Count: 1500ish

notes: yandere, kidnapped

You’re sick. Not sick-sick, not enough to land you in the hospital--which briefly makes you wonder what L would do if you needed serious medical attention. Would he take you to a hospital himself, spin some life about being a concerned spouse? Sneak you into some clinic on the opposite end of the country, so no one might recognize you? No, you think--if it came to that, he’d probably have the resources to bring in a team of private doctors to poke and prod you and hook you up to IVs until you somewhat resembled your old self again.

Not that he’ll be bringing in any doctors for your current mundane, yet wholly miserable condition: a nasty cold, maybe a sinus infection. Whatever it is, it has you feeling like absolute shit. 

Your head feels so tight that you swear it’s pulsing. Your throat is scratchy and sore, yet thick with phlegm that has you coughing, chest burning and tight, until it makes its globby way onto a napkin. Even your ears hurt, which is the worst, and when you cried out earlier, L had practically bound into the room like a wild dog to check on you.

Part of you hoped he would avoid you, be afraid to catch whatever it is that has you stuck in bed, feeling heavy and tired. If he caught a terrible cold, it might derail him from the mission he refuses to talk about except in the vaguest of terms.

But you have no such luck. Instead of leaving, he hovers. He clings. He checks your temperature with a thermometer, then with his hand (an excuse to touch you, clearly, but when you grumpily called him out for this he merely ignored you). 

He swaps out cold washcloths when they're warmed by throbbing forehead. He even brought in a humidifier, unceremoniously plunked down in a corner of the room; you can't complain, the warm, steaming air has been heaven for your aching lungs.

And a few minutes ago--or maybe more, you couldn't open your eyes to look at the clock if you wanted to--he asked if you were hungry. You weren't. He hmmed. And said he would fix you something, anyway.

It's funny. He has become so attentive, so caring, that you would feel flattered under different circumstances.

But it's hard to feel anything right now except sick, sick, sick. Weak. Helpless. In more ways than one. You hate being sick, as a rule; being sick at the mercy of your kidnapper is... not something you ever wanted to experience. Even if he is fawning over you like a mother fawning over her baby’s first sniffles.

You take a slow, deep breath, wanting to avoid the stings of pain that came with breathing normally. When you do, you realize that there's something else mingled with the hot air steaming out in intervals from the humidifier: ginger. Muted through your stuffy nose but noticeable enough to make you realize that he’s back from the kitchen.

You open your eyes and, sure enough, L is standing in front of you with a bed tray. He sets it on the nightstand and pulls the cloth, now warm, off your head.

"Do you want a new one?"

You nod. He hums, and quickly finds his way into the adjacent bathroom. You can hear the water running for a moment before he returns with a damp, achingly cool cloth that is refreshing and soothing as he places it on your warm, hurting head.

You want to go back to sleep, and half-close your eyes. Maybe if you just go back to napping, he'll leave you alone for a while.

The feel of the mattress dipping as L sits next to you on the bed destroys that thought. You open your eyes, weary, and see that he's opening up  the kickstands on the tray so that it can easily (and safely) rest over your lap. How thoughtful. How annoying. He’s gone to a lot of work to make you food. He kidnapped you.

You glance at the tray. Hot ginger tea, you can see granules of sugar melting away inside; rice porridge with eggs, scallions. Your favorite sick foods. You briefly wonder if he somehow knew this but, barring his somehow developing actual mind reading powers, you tuck it away as a coincidence.

“I don’t want anything,” you say, voice scratchy. 

“This will help with your symptoms,” he replies, lifting the cup of tea in his hands. “Drink the whole cup.”

You turn your head slightly and murmur, but all that comes out is a vague mm-nn before the cup is lifted to your lips. You can smell the ginger, warm and rich, before tasting its warmth on your tongue. With nothing else to do, you swallow. The liquid does feel soothing on your throat, in your chest, and you sigh, deflated, and gently take the cup from his hands.

You sip and sip, waiting for him to go. But he doesn't. He sits on the bed and stares at you.  You have the nerve to glance up at him, and you wish you were as good at reading his expressions as he was at reading your... everything. Your motivations. Your personality. Even your thoughts, you swear, sometimes. But when you look at him, all you see is his focus, his interest. He always looks the most intense when he’s focused on something. At the moment, that interest is you.

The mug is halfway empty when you set it down. He doesn’t protest, so you consider it a small victory. But when he plops a spoon into the rice porridge and pushes it closer to you on the tray, you shake your head.

"M'not hungry," you murmur.

"You are hungry," he corrects. “You haven’t eaten all day.” He’s right--but it’s hard to think about hunger pangs when your head hurts so much, when your lungs keep you in coughing fits.

If you were feeling healthy, you might be able to banter. Argue. Get him going until he huffs and stomps off. But right now, there's no arguing with him, and no arguing with the firm yet gentle way he shoves a pillow behind your back, propping you into a better sitting position. You feel too weak to muster any further protest when he lifts a spoonful of porridge to your lips, and you open your mouth just a bit--feeling a twist in your stomach as you do--and meekly accept the soft mixture.

The taste brings back memories. Of your mom, of course, but even of your old life. Before he took you. Making yourself steaming bowls of porridge in your apartment, thumbing through recipes on your phone to find something to target ear aches or headaches or nausea. Back when you were free to leave and do and say whatever you wanted. Back when life was simpler, when you didn’t have to play battles of wits and walk on eggshells and find yourself plotting a thousand ways to escape only to find out that he was ten steps ahead of you the entire time.

Back when you weren’t struggling with the realization that someone on this planet was so obsessed with keeping you that they kidnapped you, and now, they’re hovering over you like a lover, making sure you’re okay.

You don’t know you’re crying until L’s thumb wipes away a tear. You don’t have the energy to flinch, so you just stare at him, eyes half-lidded.

“Is it your ear again?”

“No,” you murmur. It’s not your ear that hurts.

L looks away. He brings the thumb, still salty with your tears, and swipes it on his lip, before returning your gaze again. He lifts up the spoon brings more porridge to your mouth, spoonful after spoonful. You must admit: it is nice to have something in your stomach, something soft and filling.

When it’s nearly empty, you turn your head and he lets you, opting to set the spoon in the bowl and put the tray back on your nightstand. He gently removes the extra pillow and you feel yourself sliding back down,  your eyes barely able to stay open. He takes the washcloth on your head without a prompt and returns with a new one, freshly cold and damp.

“Thanks,” you whisper, half-sighing from the cool comfort. It’s the first time you’ve thanked him since he started his hovering.  The first time you’ve thanked him about anything, actually. Your eyes are shut before you can see his reaction--a quiet moment of surprise, then pride, before he lifts up the comforter on the bed and pulls it up to your shoulders.

You turn slightly, tucking yourself on your side for comfort. You can feel your head buzzing, feeling fuzzy and thick from your headache and need for sleep. As your thoughts dim and your mind begins to slip back into slumber, you can feel something soft, something light and slightly wet, press on your cheek.

He kissed you.

[secretly-a-ghost]

this feels weird since I don’t say things here much anymore but I wanted to do a list of releases I liked this year. I’m going to do 2019 as well since I always meant do a list for last year and never got to it. These are just going to be in the order I think of them, with some quick thoughts on each also it’s mostly noise since that’s what I’ve been fixating on since late 2018/early 2019 Backxwash - God Has Nothing To Do With This Leave Him Out Of It  this year has been so fucking long I had to check to make sure this wasn’t released in 2019

Subklinik - Necrosanct I-IV this one quickly earned a special place in my heart. The second song started playing in my head out of nowhere one night when I was alone in an empty parking lot. I’m pretty sure I had only heard it like twice at that point, so I don’t know how/why my brain remembered it but it was such a surreal experience, it felt like I was on another planet

Mistletoe - Gestas & Dismas early Atrax Morgue vibes, only less death obsessed (still fairly death obsessed though) and more like otherwordly?

Mesmer Trial - Atropine, Muskeg, & Telemetry

Cervical Smear - Ophelia I was hoping there’d be a new Cervical Smear album this year, and this doesn’t disappoint. It’s more restrained than the previous album so my shit ass brain decided to designate it as comfort music. On new year’s eve I fell asleep sometime before midnight, woke up at 1:30 am, put this on, and went back to sleep

Herukrat - Darkness Over Najaf + Songs of Religious Devotion after 6 years of nothing, Herukrat finally returned and released two of the best power electronics albums of the year in the space of like seven months, the absolute madman

Himukalt - Last Wish

Fleshlicker - Nest of Hairs

Stress Orphan - Rank and Filth

Bloated Subhumans - Nerves  more noise rock/PE dirges from the homie, either you fuck with it or you don’t (you probably don’t)

also honorable mention to Sock Swap - Sheer Black Faceless Exchange, probably my favorite reissue of the year

2019

clipping. - There Existed an Addiction to Blood something good happened on my birthday. They did this for me, and I am grateful

Charles Razeur s/t this tape is straight up haunted. Definitely my favorite hnw(ish) release of the year, possibly my favorite ever

Wet Nurse. - Thanatosis this shit is like some of my most unsettling dreams converted into music, it’s beautiful

Miscarriage - Imminent Horror uhhhhhh sick

Sepsiss - Festering Pathogenic Bath my hot take is that this is the best thing Mack Chami put out this year. He and Mike Finklea somehow found a way to convert a Lymphatic Phlegm album (or something) into power electronics and it rules

Striations / Sodomy From Beyond - Otocephaly I’m mostly here for the Striations side tbh, it sounds like it was recorded in the sewer under a morgue. But the SFB side is like fine too

Cervical Smear - Real-Death Enthusiast

View From the Top s/t

Frataxin s/t

also Breathing Problem - Bed of Sex, Pit of Tar gets a shoutout for being the album that I most regret not checking out until 2019 despite being aware of it since it came out the Fleshlicker / begravd - Black Tongue / Black Death split had probably my favorite cover art of the year

[ahoperekindledrpg]

The Start

[NSFW, 18+, Graphic Violence and Sexual Content]  ( 1 Day Before Present Time – “Bear” The Raider – Outer Rim Planet 223 )

  They had killed them quickly and it had been good. Bear had been right in assuming the mercenaries guarding the merchants caravan were carrying unloaded weapons. Few guns that he saw upon the road were loaded now. The firepower lay within the towns, guarded carefully, and those that wandered for trade or better fortune could not find ammunition or failed to conserve it.  This was the Outer Rim.  His men had carved through them, bathed the battered asphalt of the road in their blood, and begun the celebration that followed each hunt in earnest.

 “Strip ‘em?” Asked Lizard, named for his sun-scaled skin and the look of his eyes through the small sun-goggles he wore.  This world was sick with radiation.  A stripped atmosphere leaving it naked to the abusive rays of a massive sun.

 Bear nodded.  “Be quick.  That was an Imperial shuttle that went over us.”

 They had no use for the clothes. They were well-clothed. Their armors, patchwork, were already threaded with bits of metal and cloth. He watched as Lizard bent and slashed a nose from one of the mercenaries and threaded it to the necklace he wore. Bear had the most noses and ears of any in this troop. It was why he lead them. It was why he needed to watch them now.

 The merchants had lead four skinny banthas behind them, loaded heavily with goods. Bear watched as those packs were opened. Cigarettes, Imperial Credits (the Imperial Republic’s currency), and dirty water. Fresh water was hard to find now and unnecessary. The radiation did not hurt in small doses. A man might piss blood or lose some teeth but he would not die. Drugs helped with those things and they liked them anyways. On the right dose of smack Bear could rip most men apart with his hands. The Merchants did not carry it but their cigarettes would help him get it from the Black Skulls across the hills.

 It had been a successful morning.

 “Bear?” Came a voice. Cracked and feminine.

 Bear turned and saw Bird there, gangly as she was, on all fours with her pants thrust down. The pale skin of her backside was dirty from the road and sweat ran down the small of her narrow back and vanished between her cheeks. His prick swelled. Hard suddenly. He’d almost forgotten her in the high of their success.

 It took a moment to move her with his big hands. Pushing her down, lowering her as he claimed a place on his knees behind her. He coughed up a thick wad of phlegm and spat it on the head of his dick, closed his eyes, and sank into her. She gave a rough grunt of discomfort that he ignored. Pounding into her.

 She braced herself against his weight with her small hands for some time, pushing back against him, and then it was as though the air went out of her lungs and she went suddenly and abruptly quiet. The strength left her hands and she crumpled beneath him. Bear did not care. He kept pumping, feeling his moment on the horizon.

 A shot rang out and he opened his eyes. A big, booming, distant shot that sounded almost as though it came from across the ridge and upon the otherside. So far off that at first he did not feel concerned.

 Then, as he looked across his men as saw them return to their work, he saw Lizard. For a moment, Lizard was looking into the hills, and then he was lifted from his feet as though struck by some imaginary fist. It picked him up and rolled him across the roadside, where he landed, absolutely still. The sound of the shot rolled out a short time later. Followed by another as SoreFoot, to his left, crumpled.

 “Bird.” He said, and cinched a fist on the back of her vest. She was light and he was strong and even with his body aching with his oncoming climax she offered no resistance.

 “Fuck, come on!” But she did not move. He looked down and saw a neat hole behind her ear on one side and a hole the size of his fist on the other. Her brains were splattered in a wide arc across the asphalt and her eyes were pinched closed, features twisted in a grotesque and feral mask of a woman being roughly and unlovingly fucked.

 Bear pissed himself. A hot jet of urine arced from his softening prick as he stood ram-rod straight upon the road. He saw the last of his men, Wolf Moon, turn toward him in blind panic. Their eyes met and then Wolf Moon’s head exploded. One moment it was the man’s bearded face and the next it was just a shower of blood and pale bits of bone and flapping flesh. The body went down in a pile, arms twitching grotesquely.

 Looking up into the hills, Bear searched for the men who had snuck up on them. He saw nothing. It was not the Black Skulls or more Boot Thiefs. It was only the barren desert hardpan and the broken, rocky ledge. He raised his axe, terrified, and shook it. Then, impossibly far away, Bear saw the flicker of a muzzle flash. He had time to think that nobody in the Outer Rim could make that shot before everything went dark.

 ( 1 Day Before Present Time – Simultaneous – “The Mandalorian” Garrus Stark – Outer Rim Planet 223 )

 It stretched beyond the limit of his eyes and forged itself into an uneven and craggy horizon some miles ahead. Experience had taught him to measure those miles, one after another, in a scale of hours. Time was a more precious currency than miles. Value in the Imperial Republic’s Outer Rim was determined by a survivor’s measure. Imperial Credits and fresh water had become more invaluable than diamonds or gold. Even corpses, the fresher the better, had their worth in trade. This world did not always have time for the rituals and rights to which humanity had at one time been accustomed. This world was an angry, red world. The sand shifted coarsely across the hardpan on hot breezes by day and billowed against the raging, chilled winds of evening. Beneath his feet, cracked and sand-swept, a broken road stretched on like a long dead snake. Dunes had slid across large sections of it, hundreds of feet at a time, and there were places where the breeze had brushed back the sand and revealed uneven, glossy black glass where the world had been melted under the poisonous blanket of nuclear fire that had swept away the civilization that had once owned this world.  Planet 223 had become an example to the galaxy at large.  

 He walked on and squinted against the sun, despite the power mask that he wore. Beskar and Titanium, the mask gave him the look of some nightmarish haunt. His eyes were green, inhuman slashes that ran jagged down the front of his mask. His nose and mouth were veiled beneath smooth, tactical and featureless metal. The mask took hot air and filtered it into something cooler. It veiled his voice into a low, raspy mechanical growl. In the mornings when he rose from his camp and pulled it into place it turned him from a man, fair-haired and sharp-featured, into the monstrous apparition that the raiders of the road and even the brave Caravaneers from the east had come to fear.  Something all feared.  Even the Imperials.  Looking now, he let the automated computer sharpen the lenses like binoculars. The horizon immediately grew into focus, swelled up to reveal the broken and ruinous cityscape of Dodge City. He was close. He would not camp for the day. He would not stay upon the road.  His ship waited and it was finally time to get back to the planet where he had found love and destiny.

 Turning, he cut his way from the asphalt and onto the hardpan. The sand was not soft. His boots did not sink or leave impressions. This was a desolate place. It was an unforgiving and calloused place. The sun was high and merciless in the sky. Unprotected skin burned quickly here, burned near to the point of blistering within two afternoons of exposure. The experienced travelers of the road covered themselves and he was no different. Dust clung to his coat, it invaded all spaces. It took a great deal of oil to keep the leather from cracking and drying and still, in the folds where the skin of it bunched, the sand found places to hide. It was discolored now. The deep, charcoal gray was now thinner. That suited him fine. He was no carpet bagger. The trenchcoat had the unenviable job of taking the beating of the hardpan. It hid the armor beneath it, the weapons, and all else that would have made him such an obvious and easy target. The high collar of his coat, the cut of it, and the helmet were what defined him. They were his face.  The only face the Galaxy would ever know.

 The road lay in a depression between two rocky hills and he climbed the one to the left. Few people braved the hardpan at all on their own. Fewer still were brave (or foolish) enough to stray from the road. His Geiger counter buzzed gently within his mask, numbers scrolling abruptly in the Heads-Up Display it provided. This place was familiar to him and he did not startle. Radiation was a frequent danger on this planet but the hill only provoked the meter to spark a soft, pickle green. The crescent Geiger was metered into three sections. Green, which while irradiated was not inherently dangerous. Yellow, where prolonged exposure to any area or deciding to eat a material registering this high could bring on minor symptoms of Radiation Sickness. And Red, which if not avoided quickly and entirely could rapidly ruin an otherwise survivable day.

 He slowed on account of the terrain. The hardpan was unforgiving in every account. A slip could plunge him into a crevice filled with mutie snakes. It could cost him a broken ankle. Time had ensured he would not take his footing for granted and he had taken to measuring his experience in years. He had spent far longer than most travelling the Outer Rim planets . Countless years surviving in hard worlds.   This was not the first world slagged by the Empire, left broken and dead, inhabited by drifters and desperate deplorables hungry for freedom and the way to survive.  He slowed and that experience paid itself back to him. The display of his helmet flickered to alert him of movement two-hundred meters ahead of him. He picked his way across the boulder-strewn hillside as quietly as he could manage and settled upon its crest. There, under the slits of his helmet’s eyes, the ruins of a Caravan lay strewn across the black skin of the road and the hardpan.

 A pair of merchants had passed not long ago with an accompaniment of mercenaries. They wore patchwork armor and hardened faces and each lead a pair of skinny banthas burdened with bundles of material for trade and sale. The banthas were large and grotesque, as unthreaded as could be, but docile and capable and toilless as they moved along. This was the Outer Rim. The mercenaries carried blaster carbines but not one of them looked as though they were a capable shot or practiced. He had appraised them from the ridge, low and quiet as they passed, with the same scrutiny he afforded all strangers now.

 Now, strewn upon the road, the ruin of their caravan lay open as a group of eight began pillaging through it. The banthas, too far from threaded to be eaten, had been butchered crudely regardless and would be left to rot in the desert sun. The mercenaries had formed two loose lines against the ambush and been cut down where they stood. It had been fast. Not a single man had survived long enough to lose his nerve and make a break from the road. They were riddled with horrible rents and their patchwork armor was cleaved over and over. Bodies upon the hardpan did not make pools of blood. The desert, hungry for the wet, drank it up so quickly it was as though it had not been there at all. A waste for raiders, most of whom were cannibals, so survival and bestial ingenuity had taught them to line their wagons in plastic. They dragged these behind them. The raiders were dressed in clothing stitched together with the prizes of their kills. Teeth. Bones. Ears. Noses. They were festooned across their chests and necks in horrible necklaces.

 They were armed with a variety of weapons. Spears fashioned from sign-posts and machete cleavers. The truth, sad and ugly, was that few men brandishing blasters had ammunition for them. Raiders, often drug addicts with a predisposed taste for mayhem, were notorious for charging at groups of armed men. Blaster power cells were expensive and difficult to find, harder to conserve, and so the Raiders had descended upon them and ignored their lofted firearms and weak threats. A few heads lay in the sand, eyes wide with the horror of inevitability, seeing nothing and echoing the moment of grim realization that fell upon them. A few had drawn their knives. Too little. Too late.

 The man looked down upon the carnage dispassionately. His eyes counted and recounted the Raiders numbers and took stock of the ridges nearby. None of the men looked up from their pillaging to search the roadside for signals or to give any. The eight were alone. Two of them, a particularly well-decorated man and a small, stringy woman, were fucking like dogs beside the road. The Imperial Republic had not been kind to the Outer Rim planets.  Some had been slagged in the purges that followed the Emperor’s succession. This planet had gotten it worse than most because it had harbored the Rebellion. The man unshouldered his rifle and laid its long barrel on the sun-blistered surface of stone. The helmet was synced with the weapon’s scope and allowed him to magnify the scene. The ruined caravan’s strewn loot drew his immediate interest. Cigarettes, which were being gathered in a small heap at the roadside, and a few small rations were being piled into a wooden cart took his immediate interest. Drinking water was being stacked more neatly beside the Raider’s carts and he studied the big plastic jugs. It looked dirty. Unclean. It did not interest him.

 Despite eight blaster rifles there appeared to be no ammunition in the loot. The firearms had been left where the men holding them had fallen. They were in fair condition. Most likely, either through neglect or time’s course, a few would not fire. Still, in his mind, he saw the potential for parts. Repair or trade, it did not matter. There were pans, pots, and playing cards. The Raiders ignored them all. They could not trade with towns and did not care to. They traded only with the gangs that existed miles away. It was a grim exchange. The loot of the dead for drugs and liquor. This was not the humanity many had envisioned. The man frowned, took aim, and exhaled.

 He squeezed the trigger and felt the rifle kick, too focused to register the booming retort of the high-caliber round exploding from the barrel. The woman, her twisted and sallow face blistered from the sun, crumpled beneath the large man thrusting roughly into her. His eyes were closed and he did not register the sound of the shot. Two shots took two more of the men while the Raiders began to take notice and stare up at the ridges that flanked them.  He was unwilling to use Disruptor or Disintegrator rounds on petty raiders. The massive slugs were overkill as it was.  The first took the impact hard and was much lighter than he expected, lifting clean off his feet and rolling across the road. The other crumpled immediately, one hand lifted to point (wrongly) to the hill opposite where the man firing at them still crouched, and went still. He fired on until the eight was reduced to one bewildered and frightened man with pants half-done and his pecker shriveling. For a moment he though the Raider saw him. His horrible features tightened in a crude, ugly grimace up towards the proper hill. He lifted one hand, carrying a rusty and carnage-stained axe, and shook it. The last shot struck true and did not quite remove his head. Instead, as the man in the mask looked on, the top of the Raider’s skull evaporated in a puff of red and pink mist as the large-caliber round turned his head into a canoe. The body fell straight back, stiff as a board, and the booted feet twitched madly.

 The planet had been a nightmare.  Thirty days prior he had landed on its surface with Corbin Cross, one of the boss’ least favorite men, Garrus had sensed the ambush from the start.  But Corbin, while a good gun and dependable man, had not listened.  They had shot their way out, barely, as an entire two platoon formation of Storm Troopers opened fire.  Corbin had been wounded and he had left him after it was done, well-armed and hidden, before he’d taken the cargo skiff they had driven out to the rendezvous and ran it out towards the spaceport several days away to draw them off.  The Imperials had given chase, taking the bait and leaving Corbin to hide and wait for him to rescue him.  But, they had managed to disable the skiff, nearly killing him in the crash.  He’d left them dead on the hardpan and been walking since, evading their scouting parties, killing those that could not be avoided.  And now, having come across the Raiders, he had found his way back to town. The single speeder bike, veiled behind the skiff, was a ruinous thing.  Dark smoke belched from its exhaust – signs of leaking manifolds and broken exhaust trim valves.  But it ran. And it would do so – long enough for him to get back to his ship.

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

( 1 Day Before Present Time – Two Hours Later  – Corbin Cross – Outer Rim Planet 223 )

 Don’t try comms.  They’ll be listening for signals.  

               The Mando had, thankfully, not said much.  He had never said “I told you so”.  He’d never said, “You nearly got us killed.”  What he had said, two brisk sentences, had been designed to keep Corbin alive and Corbin had listened.  They had never gotten along much.  Mando was a tough one to connect with.  It wasn’t just the helmet, or the mythos, or the legend.  It was his silence.  The man spoke so little that often standing with him was akin to standing alone.  It had always felt arrogant to Corbin.  And now, suddenly, it did not.  

                 When the ambush had sprung itself – nearly all Boss Jewel’s hired hands were killed in the first few seconds.  Blaster bolts had ripped through the air and torn through the men, lightly armored or unarmored entirely, punching searing holes through their bodies and throwing them back onto the cargo decking of the spaceport.  The stink of singed flesh and blood had quickly filled the air.  Dockhands, civilians, anyone close was gunned down. Imperial Stormtroopers were remarkable shots.  They moved as units.  Silent, coordinated, fearless.  They overwhelmed you with numbers and firepower.  Corbin had scuffled with squads before but never entire platoons.  The experience was sobering.  The difference between a talented gun and experienced soldier was immense.  

 And then there’d been The Mandalorian.

                 He moved steadily from cover to cover, leading with the muzzle of the blaster rifle he carried.  Each shot that Corbin had watched him take had found a Stormtrooper. And while, so far as Corbin could tell, the Mandalorian’s blaster rifle could penetrate the Stormtrooper’s armor at this range, he always seemed to land a shot in the gaps that the armor did not cover.  Under the arms.  At the neck. They crumpled heavily under the impacts. Most were dead, Corbin reckoned, before they hit the ground.  He’d returned fire, too.  But he’d mostly found himself pinned by some crates.  Unable to move without exposing himself.  The Mandalorian had moved constantly.  In and out of cover.  Taking angles that Corbin would never have seen that minimized his exposure – turning the entire battle line of Stormtroopers so they could never all get angles on him.  Corbin watched him lean from a stack of crates and gun down an entire squad in a few short seconds, only to displace and move again, getting close to the Imperials and throwing confusion into their formations.

                 He moved more like a soldier than any mercenary that Corbin had known.  But he moved more fluidly than any soldier.  The Mandalorian never appeared frustrated, afraid, or anxious.  Instead, the armored figure had effortlessly moved through them.  He cut them down with cold, ruthless efficiency.  Gavin watched as he shot a man in the chest and dropped him to his knees, only to move past him and put two more rounds into the back of his head along the way, blowing his helmet and brain out through the front of the trooper’s visor.  Another had been too near, and the Mandalorian had swept the Trooper’s barrel aside and in the same, fluid movement drew a vibroblade and passed it along the unarmored throat until the trooper dropped gurgling, bleeding out. It was a veritable ballet of death.

                 The grenade that nearly killed him had been thrown to flush him out of his position.  Corbin had seen it too late, mesmerized by The Mandalorian, and only turned to watch it strike the deck nearby.  It’d landed a few feet behind him before going off with a massive “BOOM” that knocked him off his feet and sent him spinning to the ground.  The Mandalorian had found him there after beating the Stormtrooper’s back into cover and that’d been when he’d said those first sentences to him.  Told him not to forget.  Then, he’d given Corbin a few spare power cells for his blaster, some rations, and removed the large piece of shrapnel in his side before binding it with a bacta infused dressing.  The drainage culvert Corbin had selected was cramped but it was dark, hard to see from the outside, and it’d have to do.  And it had – for days.

                 The Imperials had not left.  Instead, through the mechanical filtered voices, he’d learned a few precious and important things.  The first was that they were hunting The Mandalorian and had not found him. The second was that, for all his maneuvers, Marlin Jewel had stumbled upon a hornet’s nest with several of his last deals in contraband and brought the wrath of a young, eager Imperial Moff named Yannix upon his head.  The show of force on this desolate world was a fraction of what would fall upon the estate if the Moff was not appeased.  They had to get back.  And this, hiding in a culvert, was not helping.

                 The Bacta had healed him.  Mostly.  It was not as efficient as a proper dip but he’d never have anticipated one.  The wound had closed and the flesh had knitted together in pale scar tissue.  It still hurt to move – but it would not be a danger to reopen.  He slid his blaster pistol, an Imperial model DL-17, infront of him.

                 The drainage culvert was mostly empty and stunk of mildew.  Corbin began to shuffle his way forward, inching along, leaving behind the mess of waste and wrappers that would leave evidence of his grim existence here.  He had not slept well in days.  The cramped quarters, the stink of the pipe, the constant presence of the makeshift Imperial Garrison being set up above his position did not lend itself to sleeping.  He wanted a shower.  A bed. A meal.  But it all seemed so impossible.  He’d made a life out of surviving, in finding a way through hard situations, but this was the hardest he had known.  His best plan was to get onboard one of the Imperial Shuttles undetected.  There, he could seal the bridge, and hopefully get off the ground.  Once he was airborne he could purge the oxygen in the rest of the craft and kill those inside.  He’d try and find the Mandalorian if no TIE Fighters were scrambled to intercept him.  But they likely would be.

 He found himself pained at the thought of leaving his savior behind.  Surprising, really.  

                 At the mouth of the pipe he fought the urge to loudly suck in fresh air.  The sweetness of it was so sharp it made his head spin and he gathered himself, here in the dark, grateful to be here.  If they found him and killed him here, at least, it wouldn’t be in that forsaken pipe. His clothes were covered in a thick layer of grime.  It was a surprise he did not feel the urge to wretch.  Instead, inspired by his thoughts of the Mando, he simply slid his blaster forward and checked it.  It looked operable.  The Power Cell inside fully charged.  It was not an impressive pistol but it was common, dependable, and did the job for a sidearm.  It was a shame that if he found cause to use it here his plan had failed and he was most certainly dead.  There were too many.  Maybe forty or more of the Troopers moving around.

                 Getting to his knees set off a fierce ache in him – and he remembered suddenly he’d been holed up in a drainage culvert for days and had not stood, or even brought his knees up bent, in as long as a week’s time. They did not respond as he was used to. It would take time.  Time he did not have.  And he realized suddenly that getting to the shuttle would be a much harder proposition than he first believed.  Two crafts loomed on the landing pad.  The first was not his target.  A Sentinel-Class transport was too large, too slow, and too hard to pilot alone. It was also still functioning in some ways as the home of the Platoon of Stormtroopers currently nearby.  His target was the Lamda-Class shuttle further along.  And now, looking at the near 100 yard stretch between his position near the pipe and the shuttle, he felt his heart sank.

                 Corbin dragged himself to his feet.  The 100 yards he had to cross was cluttered with containers, both Imperial and otherwise, and it was dark.  The Storm Troopers had no idea anyone had survived at the Space Port besides a few locals, which were human, and had treated them dismissively as cattle.  That was good.  He had areas of cover and the area wasn’t entirely locked down.  Skilled fighters, or not, the years since the Rebellion’s collapse had made Imperial Forces a far cry from the paranoid police force that so many remembered.  It was strange how he could always summon up the optimism.  It was something others had always thought was wild.  And still, even as that confidence filled him again, he felt a sinking ache in his gut at the prospect of crossing to the shuttle.

                 The blaster pistol had always been a comfort to him – it was not one now.  There were easily a dozen, or more, blaster rifles and pistols between his position near the drainage pipe and the shuttle that represented life.  He was underfed, weak from days spent in the pipe, and alone. Still, he had to try.  There was nothing but for him to try.  Corbin liked his life but had long suspected the luck would run out.  When he was younger, of course, he’d all the confidence of youth.  Death happened to those more foolish, less talented, and less lucky than he’d been.  Now, he knew better.  Death simply happened.  It didn’t consider who, or when, or where.  He checked the pistol one last time.  He flexed his legs.  And then Corbin, feeling more aware of his own mortality than he ever had, made up his mind to cross to the shuttle or die trying.

 ----------------------

( 1 Day Before Present Time – Same Time  – The Mandalorian – Outer Rim Planet 223 )

 “Query:  Master, Corbin Cross has proven to be fairly useful for a meatbag, but retrieving him seems an unnecessary risk.  Are you certain we should?”

                 The droid looked disarmingly similar to a protocol droid – tall and bipedal.  Two rectangles for eyes glowed gold, a narrow profile of features that held the vague structure of a humanoid face, but there was something cold and empty in its lack of expression.  Still, Garrus felt a smile tug at his lips beneath the expressionless mask of his helmet. Six One’s disdain for organic beings was something he’d come to find humor in.  It lightened an otherwise grim moment.  Still, he did not answer the droid, and instead fed a fresh cell into the HD-507a Blaster Rifle with a metallic “CLACK!” as his palm shoved it into the receiver.  

 “Resigned Statement: Very well, Master.  Are you going to attempt a quiet insertion?”

                 It was his preferred method and he was not surprised the droid had made the assumption.  Still, partnerships were about compromise, and The Mandalorian could not refute the cold-blooded truth that he hated the Imperials.  Now, more than ever.  A hard exit, or an easy one, did not matter.  In his mind he saw two paths converging to the same impossibly true end.  It did not matter.  Either end drenched in blood.  They all did. And so he turned to leave the cockpit and head into the hold, rifle in his hands, and spoke without looking back to the droid.

 “No time.  Come in firing.”  He said.

 “Delighted Exclamation: Oh, yes, Master!  I will be sure to eliminate all of those filthy IR meatbags.”

                 The droid’s reply was filled with audible excitement.  And, almost as quickly, he heard the familiar tones as the console echoed preemptive warm-up commands for The Unbroken Promises’ various weapon systems.  The ship’s corridors were familiar haunts. It had been his home for many years. The durasteel decking gave metallic clicks beneath the weight of his purposeful strides.  Under the leather duster his armor moved with him, flawless in fit, molded to the powerful stretch of his body.  Atop it, crossing his back and flanking his shoulders, his bandoliers were presently empty.  He turned into his quarters, spartan in décor, and moved to the far wall where his fingers made familiar movements over the false wall’s hidden keypad until it retracted.  Within, veiled in an internal vault, he found what he needed to fill the pouches of his bandolier with spare energy cells for his blaster rifle and projectile cylinders for his sidearm.  A few grenades were hung on the leather sling as well.

 Inside his helmet, through the onboard commlink, he heard the droid’s voice.

 “Preemptive Statement: Master, thirty seconds until we are in weapon’s range.  We are, so far, undetected on their scanners.”

 “I’ll be at the port loading ramp.  Engage their vehicles first.  Make it loud. Drop the ramp when we’re in position.”

 “Affirmative, Master.” The droid responded.

                 Moving, Garrus found his way to the cargo bay. His gloved hands cleared the weapon hot. The familiar weight of it in his arms, the familiar strength of his hands closing around it, and the way he shouldered it.  All at once they closed into weapon’s range and he felt the familiar sounds of The Unbroken Promises’ twin missile launchers unload their ordinance. “THUMP” went the starboard tube. “THUMP” went the port.  And briefly in the hold a flare of heat as they sent the high-explosive concussion missiles streaking towards their targets.

 “Six One, give me the feeds.”

 “Affirmative, Master.” Came the reply.

                 And at once, within his helmet, he saw Six One’s perspective as the missiles flashed out across the hardpan of the ruined planet. They elevated as they neared the spaceport, coming on quickly now, as The Unbroken Promise sped full tilt towards the spaceport.  The missiles arched swiftly down.  Striking, savagely, the Lamda-Class Shuttle amidships and detonating in a plume of fire and molten steel.  The shuttle lifted briefly off the pad, as though it was attempting to take off, before it erupted from stem to stern in a mushroom cloud of heat and fire.  It was gone a moment later.  A fin from its tail went spiraling across the spaceport, crumpling as it went.  He saw the white shapes of troopers scattering in confusion.  The other missile struck the larger troop transport in the nose.  The explosion broke the ship’s back, lifting the tail nearly thirty meters into the air, before it fell back heavily and buckled on the decking.  Men died as they were consumed by the flames and shards of steel and armor as it splintered in all directions.  A larger, secondary explosion rippled across its back to the stern as fuel lines ruptured and the sublight engines cooked off in spectacular plumes of flame and fire.

 “Master, ten seconds.”

                 It was all gone then.  The feeds from the ship’s cockpit, the noise and the thoughts.  All at once he toggled his helmet’s display to feed him with targeting data.  How familiar it was.  The sterile oxygen fed through the scrubbers of the helmet.  He was not like those Troopers.  Not like the smugglers, the farmers, the settlers, or the politicians. He was heir to a legacy.  Forged of steel.  Forged of blood.  Forged of battle.  The oath lived in him, as it had generations before.  This was the way.  The way it had been for all those who had given their life for a cause, for honor. For the countless men who had died in battle besides brothers he would perhaps never know.  They were all but extinct now.  Scourged from the galaxy by the Empire.  Broken.  Ruined. And all those had given their lives. All of those had poured themselves into battle for one another, for the creed, for the timeless bonds of brotherhood forged in war after war after war.  They were gone now.  Ghosts forgotten to time.  But they were not.  

 ----------------------

( 1 Day Before Present Time – Corbin Cross – Outer Rim Planet 223 )

                 He had made it half-way to the shuttle when he was spotted.  And they’d opened up on him.  He’d barely made the crate for cover before blaster bolts lanced crimson death through the air, cutting past him to strike the duracrete decking and strike the large loading crate he’d tucked himself behind.  He’d simply been too slow.  There’d simply been too many.  In truth – he suspected most wouldn’t have made it nearly as far.  His number came up and Corbin did what he could, cleared the pistol a final time with a quick glance, and leaned out.  The first two Troopers had moved up on him quickly, closing the distance, not respecting his ability to defend himself.  He used them to send a message.  His first shot caught the left-most trooper in the throat and torn it out, sending him backward to paw feebly at it as he bled out on the landing pad.  The other had snapped a panic shot off that had missed him.  Corbin flinched, but recovered quickly, firing a shot in reply. The blaster bucked gently in his hand before his bolt hit the Trooper square in the chestplate and staggered him, absorbing the impact.  He fired two more times.  The first glanced off the Trooper’s helmet and whirred harmlessly into the night sky. The other caught him in the much thinner armor near his underarm and punched deep, burning through him, a lethal hole that clearly took some lung with it and the trooper sagged heavily before going to the ground.  

                 The others began to take tactical positions that pinned him where he remained.  He barely made it back behind the crate as they returned fire.  But none advanced.  Wary, suddenly, now that he’d killed one of their ranks and potentially mortally wounded a second.  This was it, though.  He knew that. With grenades, maybe, he could fight his way to one of the shuttles or a nearby speeder to try and make a break for it. But he had none.  And this was not a good position to be stuck in.  Sooner, not later, they would begin to use suppressing fire to keep him pinned before flanking him.  The only question was where they would flank from first.  His guess, the most accessible position they had, was to his left.  And so, dropping to a knee, he levelled the blaster and trusted his luck.

 He saw movement and fired. His bolt didn’t land but the trooper turned to consider where it came from.  He’d chosen correctly.  The next shot struck the trooper in the belly, soaked by the armor, but he landed two more that knocked it on its back and it did not move.  Unconscious, or dead, Corbin did not know.  The second trooper was trying to run past and he fired a volley that missed him.  Cursing, Corbin immediately replaced the pistol’s power cell and unloaded the entire thing on the Trooper’s position.  In cover, the Trooper was not in harm’s way, but he couldn’t fire either. Corbin reloaded.  He had two cells left.  

 And then he felt something pass overhead.

                 The blast knocked him off his feet.  He wasn’t sure exactly what had happened until he landed on his back and turned, taking note of the fireball lifting into the sky where the Lamda-Class shuttle had just been a moment ago.  Now, all that was left was a swirling mess of twisted steel and flames, a few dead Troopers littered the landing pad. Corbin was beginning to rise, his eyes darting to a few of the cargo skiffs and speeders at the far end of the dock, his gut telling him this was his chance.  But the second explosion knocked him flat again as the Troop Transport bucked off the pad under the force of a missile strike that tore it asunder and broke its back.  Secondary explosions began to belch fire from its belly hatches before the engines cooked off and Corbin, for the first time, took a moment to recognize what was happening.

 “Mando?!”  He shouted into the commlink.

 “We’ll cover you.” Came the cold, mechanical voice of The Mandalorian.

 “I’m moving slow.”  He reluctantly confessed in answer.

                 The Unbroken Promise was unspectacular looking form the outside.  The Corellian Disc Freighter was a design from the middle of the Galactic Civil War, a YT-1930, and its flanks were painted an unimpressive grey trimmed only in red and green.  It looked battered and aged.  And, while maintained meticulously (he knew) did not appear nearly as dangerous as it was. The ventral quad cannon opened up as it descended side-long in a skid-like maneuver to the pad.  It moved rapidly, selecting vehicles as targets, and cycled through dual blasts of heavy laser cannon fire that ripped targets to pieces.  From hidden compartments two repeating blasters dropped, moving by the Droid’s command he knew, and opened up on the Troopers beginning to recover and respond to this new threat.  

                 A virtual torrent of repeating blaster fire opened up as both ventral cannons machine-gunned down Troopers caught in the open.  Their bolts passing entirely through men and their armor as though they were paper, knocking them aside with murderous ease.  Corbin was moving already, abandoning his cover, struggling forward in the open as the docking ramp opened.  The Mandalorian had his rifle at his shoulder and was firing.  Corbin didn’t bother to look back.  He did not need to.  All he knew was gratitude.  And surprise. The Mandalorian had returned.

                 The armored figure leapt down and in an instant Corbin felt lighter.  The Mandalorian had curled an arm around his back and lifted, displaying an almost unnatural strength.  The world tilted, grew fuzzy, but the last he knew was a sense of being lifted off his feet entirely.  And the vague, absent sense of relief.  

 He was saved.

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

(Present Time – “The Mandalorian” Garrus Stark - Jakku )

                 She circled to her right, away from his own right hand, with footwork much improved since their previous turn together. Here, upon the empty pad, they were free to train in the ruinous shadow of abandoned buildings and docking facilities. The morning sun was only just rising to spread a slow blush of crimson and gold along the horizon, bathing them in fresh morning light.  She circled to her right, and he cut her off, forcing her back the way she had came. She switched her feet to compensate and her left hand, predictably, lifted to afford her vulnerable jawline its protection.  It was sound technique.  And that pleased him.  She’d learned the hard lesson of passive defense and taken it to heart.  But his challenge of her path to his left hand forced her back, revealing her intent, allowing him to once again pin her on her heels.                Boxing was, between them, the most brutal of courses.  She lacked reach, size, and strength.  She lacked experience.  In their other endeavors of training she had found ways to adapt, overcome, and compensate with skill or precision.  But here, now, she retreated too readily with both feet and thought. The lesson that she would learn was a hard one.  They had been sparring for twenty minutes and already her body wore a new host of bruises. She had not, as of yet, mounted any real offense.                Respect did not keep them from this.  He did not spare her his correction.  The world was a cold place and she had asked, insisted, that he give her the means by which she might one day defend herself.  Her independence and freedom so ferociously hard-earned that it provoked her to desire to keep it by any and all means.  But, to wandering eyes, what followed would have been hard to watch.  For, in his estimation, she required a reminder of failure’s cost.                He popped her with a left-handed jab that caught her glove, skipped off it, and deflected against the top of her head.  She moved through it easily, her left hand raised, but he doubled the effort and she stepped away, trying to create space and distance. Between them, in styles, she had long ago learned to adapt to the difference in their physical prowess.  In Judo, and other aspects of training, she had moved more quickly.  In fencing she had rapidly shown promise.  But boxing was a difficult problem for her to solve.  And now, abruptly, he punished her.  Her attempt to claim space forced her to step back and to her left, avoiding his left hand, and circling her directly towards his right. He unloaded, savagely, a brutal hook that her glove mostly caught but sent her staggering.                  And he was on her then, digging his glove into her lean ribs, thudding blows that sought soft tissue and to drive the air from her.  Patient, relentless, digging as she weaved, covered, and weaved again.  Trying to keep her left hand by her ear, protecting her head, and using her elbow and arm to “chicken wing” her ribs and keep them covered.  His punishment was savage.  Relentless.  And here, here the dichotomy between their nights together and others seemed most stark. It was not a fair fight.  His size, his power, and more importantly a life within Mandalorian culture had honed him for this.  He took his time, buying space, until at last her left glove slipped down to try and cover her ribs after a particularly rough blow cut past her arm and struck her solidly.   “Oof.”  She grunted as the air nearly left her.                And then there was a low “thud” as his gloved right hand smashed brutally into her temple, driving her down into the deck and ending, for now, their brief but brutal contest.   “You defeat yourself before you begin.” He said steadily.  The blunt nature of his criticism often riled her. He did not console her with the encouraging sign of her lifted hand.  Nor did he address that the job had taken him away from her a month, returning him only the day prior, or any rumors as to it she may have heard.  This was the way it had always been between them.  And, more pressingly, she had not found a way to beat him by hand.

                 Jakku was, in a strange way, beautiful.  The bleak purity of it stretched out beyond, endless, in the shifting and rolling tides of dunes.  It was home, of course, to the usual scum and less-fortunates that the galaxy offered.  It was a hard life here.  But there was a purity in it, he found, which was why he lingered here rather than the seductive promise of Nar Shaddaa.  The girl had never seen his face.  None had since he had sworn to the code.  All she knew of him was the mask’s cold visage, pale green slits where his eyes should be, and unchanging beskar forged around him.  The voice she heard was filtered through a vocal modulator.  And, still, there was some fondness between them. She did not look capable of living alone in this place but she had, and had been doing so for long before he had helped her improve her martial arts.   “But you kept your left up this time.” He said steadily, watching her rise, his hands working the padded gloves off.  This was the most she had seen of his skin.  Hints of the man beneath.  His hands were bare, scarred, and broad-palmed with long, capable fingers.  The bulk of his armor lay aside, resting on the walkway of The Broken Promise, the ship that was his home.  An old Corellian disc freighter, The Broken Promise looked every bit as rundown and hard luck as the planet that currently held her.  Pale grey armor plating had been coated with slate grey paint once, long ago, and now showed fading and peeling from wear and tear.  The edges, chased in Crimson, had faded to a well-worn burgundy.  The massive exhaust port for her ion engine loomed over them and they retreated under the port-side of it into the shade and towards the ramp that lead into the cargo hold.                  The armor, a rig of matte black plates and nano-weave fibers, lay crumpled there.  And the Mandalorian, wearing his helmet, wore only a slate-grey body glove that veiled all his flesh (save for his hands) from view.  She was the only human, for as long as he could remember, that had even seen him in this much undress.  The bottom half of his body was still clad in armor.  Tactical leggings with tactical knee pads, greaves, and beskar thigh plates. “I got a deal for you.”  He said then, changing topics, watching her through the mask of his helmet.

[tipsycad147]

Nettles

Common + Folk Names : Stinging nettle, wild spinach, bee sting nettle, devil’s leaf, hidgy-pidgy, hoky-poky

Planet : Mars

Element : Fire

Signs : Aries (Guardian), Scorpio (Guardian + Remedy), Capricorn (Remedy), Pisces (Remedy)

Moon Phase : Waxing Quarter Moon

Parts used : Leaves, seeds, roots, and young tops

Habitat : Just about everywhere.

Growing conditions : Grow in wet, rich soil – think compost heaps and old manure.

Collection : Cut three to four inches off the early spring plants. Seeds can be collected in the early fall when plants are brown.

Flavor : Salty, slightly bitter

Temperature : Cool

Moisture : Dry

Tissue State : Cold/Depression, Damp/Stagnation

Constituents : Amines (acetylcholine, histamine, serotonin), ascorbic acid, flavonoids, minerals such as iron, potassium, calcium, silica, vitamin B, C, E, K, silicon, manganese, zinc, magnesium, chromium, protein, tannins.

Actions : Alterative, antihaemorrhagic, antiallergenic, anti-rheumatic, anti-inflammatory, astringent, blood tonic, circulation stimulant, decongestant, diuretic, expectorant, haemostatic, hypoglycemic, hypotensive, immune-stimulant, nutritive, vasodilator, thyroid tonic, antiseptic

Main Uses : Herbalist David Hoffman has a wonderful quote about Nettles that I heartily agree with: “When in doubt, Nettles.” A wonderfully nutritive herb, Nettles has a nourishing effect on the entire body with a broad range of uses.

Nettles has an affinity for the blood. It moves stagnant blood, improves circulation, and is a rich source of iron. The herb is also useful in reducing blood sugar levels and balancing blood pressure. Use in cases of anemia and general weakness and debility. The herb helps alleviate heavy and prolonged periods, nosebleeds, and to stops excess bleeding both internally and externally. Nettle also has a strong relationship with the kidneys, stimulating sluggish kidneys, moving stagnant water, and generally cleansing the fluids of the body.

During pregnancy, Nettles, in combination with other herbs such as Raspberry Leaf (Rubus idaeus), is a wonderful daily multivitamin for parent and growing fetus. Use in postpartum, too, especially if there has been blood loss. Nettles has an amphoteric affect on the milk supply meaning that it increases milk if there is too little or reduces it if there is too much.

For reproductive systems in general, Nettle root has been used to treat prostatitis, vaginitis, and vaginal discharges. If infertility is an issue, Nettles is almost always useful for nourishing and revitalising the body attempting to conceive. If low libido, erectile dysfunction or general sexual anxiety is present, Nettles helps to resettle and centre the nervous system (combine with Avena sativa for an especially nourishing brew). Use during menopause for nightsweats - take as a tea before bed combined with Sage (Salvia officinalis). The root reduces prostate enlargement.

Nettles are a strengthening herb to use when a person’s constituent is weak or weakened – when anemia is present or with a weak digestive system and especially during convalescence. Helps increase energy and overcome fatigue. Restores a worn-down emotional system. Nettles strengthens the kidneys and adrenal glands, activates the metabolism, nourishes the liver and blood, and improves elasticity of veins. The diuretic and anti-inflammatory actions of Nettles are useful in treating rheumatism and gout. The herb enlivens the immune system and has been used traditionally in the treatment of cancer. Overall, Nettles are great spring medicine - they help to brush off the heaviness of winter and enrich our bodies with an injection of Vitamin C amongst other nutrients. Include the tea in your morning routine and cook the young greens like spinach for your spring green meals.

As an anti-allergen, Nettles strengthens the outer membranes of cells which makes them less vulnerable to inflammation and allergic reactions. Nettles are used to treat eczema, hayfever, asthma, acne, and food allergies. Warm Nettle tea helps the body to release excess mucus from the lungs and colon and stops the cycle of mucous membrane hyperactivity.

Use externally as an oil or wash for bedsores, diaper rash, burns and wounds, brittle nails, and to treat the sting of Nettles itself. Traditional use includes hitting arthritic joints with fresh Nettles to alleviate pain and stiffness. Matthew Wood uses Nettles topically for muscle weakness of the inner thighs (especially for the middle-aged and older) to great success. I have found Nettles to be good (both internally and externally) for growing pains of all sorts, emotional and physical.

"No plant is more useful in domestic medicine."

- Hilda Leyel -

Magickal Uses : Protective powers employed to reverse curses and return negative energy to the sender. Use as a protective powder around the boundaries of the house and to keep away ghosts. Tossed into a fire it averts danger and combined with Yarrow (Achillea millefolium) it turns away fear. As a “carnivorous” plant it is used in purification baths to eat harmful energies. Used in wash to consecrate athames.  Lucky for fishing. Silver Ravenwolf suggests an association with the Greek Goddess Hekate and the Egyptian Scorpion Goddess Selkhet.

The Nettles Personality : The Nettles personality struggles to live in the moment. They are often dazed, brain-fogged, and worn down. Many are simply going through the motions of their day, the little pleasant details of life are simply a blur, and pass by unappreciated. There can be a lingering feeling of sadness, wariness, and uncertainty. The blur and sameness of it all can make a Nettles person feel like their are boundary-less but not in an expansive and blissful sort of way. They can get walked all over by others and begin to feel resentful for not being appreciated. Fortunately, Nettles helps to bring us rapidly back to the moment (think about how their sting does just that when you accidentally stumble upon them). For the muddled and unmoored a healthy re-centring can go a long way in helping them to feel better. In addition to re-centring, Nettles also helps us to set boundaries with our selves which, in turn, allows us to set healthy boundaries with others. With the heat and stimulation of Nettles, the fog can lift and the excitement of life come rushing back in.

Contraindications : Do not take root during pregnancy. Nettle Seed can be too stimulating for some. Avoid overstraining the kidneys by using Nettles for 3 weeks on and 1 week off.

Drug interactions : Use with caution with blood thinners.

Dosage : Leaf: 1 teaspoon per of 1 cup of water. 3 -  40 drops (1:5, 60% alcohol extract).

Remedies + Charms

A General Sense of Wellbeing Tea | Alexis J. Cunningfolk

Combine equal parts of the following:

Oats (Avena sativa)

Nettles (Urtica dioica)

Chamomile (Matricaria recutita)

Let steep for 20 minutes and then add in a generous amount of your milk of choice for a nourishing and relaxing brew.

Menopause Nightsweats Tea | Deb Soule

from The Roots of Healing

Combine equal parts of :

Sage (Salvia officinalis)

Nettles (Urtica dioica)

Prepare as standard infusion and enjoy 1 hour before bed.

Electuary of Nettles | Elisabeth Brooke

from An Astrological Herbal for Women

Beat some dried nettle leaves into a fine powder and pass through a hair sieve to remove any large particles. To 25 g (1 oz) of powder, add 75 g (3 oz) clarified honey and mix well in a mortar. Store in an earthenware pot.

Dose: 15 g to 25 g (1/2 to 1 oz) to purge the body of phlegm.

http://www.wortsandcunning.com/blog?offset=1491999120489

[journeysintowebcomics]

Homestuck Liveblog #181

UPDATE 181: Meat

A long time ago, I finished reading Homestuck. It was quite the long tale, and it was rather enjoyable! At the time I thought there ‘d be nothing else, because Act 7 seemed like quite the final chapter – or if there was anything, it’d be bits and pieces that wouldn’t warrant a liveblog. Yet here we are! Turns out, after this long, there’s epilogues. In plural, as you can see. Somehow, there are now epilogues and they’re said to be quite long, too. After taking a cursory read that made me read more than I thought I would, here I am, reopening this liveblog to explore the epilogues.

What I have read so far...is not particularly enticing or even likable, at least in terms of enjoyment, really, but there’s something about the writing that makes me want to continue. Credit where it’s due, yeah. Still, I’m interested in seeing where this is going, and now, I’m posting my thoughts here for everyone to see. Here we go! So, let’s start with the epilogue liveblog!

You know, before that, I should note that now the story has its own URL instead of being into the old mspaintadventures website. Kind of late in the game for this change, Mr. Hussie. I mean, the story is over, and although there’s a whooole lot of new content, it seems a bit senseless to have this in its own domain. Then again, the rest of the mspaintadventures stories were kind of...hidden away in the website? I don’t remember links to them, when I used to read Homestuck. Maybe Homestuck getting its own domain is for the better. I do wonder if this is a hint more stuff will come in the future. The extra-epilogue. The postscript-extra-content. The seriously-guys-this-is-the-end chapter.

There are two epilogues, it seems. One is meat, the other is candy. I immediately notice this is related to the cherubs’ food. I wonder if it means one epilogue will be...bloodier? Crueler? More chaotic and violent? I mean more like something Caliborn will like, while the other will be more to Calliope’s tastes. I’ll start with the meat epilogue, simply because it’s to the left.

From what I can tell at a glance, there are no images, but there are colored words, most likely from conversations between characters. That should be fine, although Homestuck was pretty visual at times, its strength was the writing and characterization.

Well then! The very first paragraph already beats most of Homestuck in terms of extremely descriptive stuff. Heck, this reminds me of Worm, with its extensive paragraphs about bugs and how they crawl on people and cause all sorts of nasty effects. I’m not sure that’s a good thing.

Meat was definitely the right choice, you think, as grease drips down your chin. The meat is cold and undercooked, so you have to grab it with both hands while you rend it apart with your incisors. It bursts in chunks, filling your mouth with blood and your throat with mangled knots of gristle and long strings of muscle fiber. You take big bites, almost too big to swallow, so big that you choke on the meaty mulch and hock some of it up into your nasal cavity. You sneeze out a gooey rope of phlegm and flesh. You stop for a moment to wipe your face, but your chin is still slippery after you swipe the mess away. Slivers of meat catch between your teeth as you masticate with bestial enthusiasm. You use your thumbnail to fish them out.

...am I eating this meat straight from the cow.

Apparently the person who is eating meat that’s almost raw is John, who I guess gained a taste for raw meat at some point. Maybe he’s trying to emulate Jade’s canine half, for all I know. He’s with Roxy and Calliope, the later providing the meat. I suppose cherubs wouldn’t know about cooking meat. Speaking of cherubs, eating meat reminds John of Lord English, and he gets so sick thinking of Lord English he decides he knows what he must do. Alright! Didn’t waste any time dilly-dallying around!

JOHN: i have to go back and kill lord english.

ROXY: u sure?

JOHN: i think so. it will probably be hard. but i think it’s the right thing to do.

JOHN: everyone is counting on me.

When is this epilogue set? Before Act 7? I thought by now Lord English was dead and gone, not that it still was something that needed to be done. Then again, it’s not like Lord English’s death was shown on screen, if I remember correctly. Maybe this is after Act 7 and he’s going back in time with his retcon powers. I suppose he’d still have them.

Roxy seems disappointed, so I suppose she knew this had to be done at some point. Given John’s retcon powers, it’s not impossible this is the last time she sees John if things go wrong. Calliope is more accepting, saying it’s John’s decision. Time to leave?

Seriously, things have gotten quite more descriptive now. Still unsure if that’s good or not.

The farewell is quite unsatisfying, and the moment passes without John being able to make it better, so he goes to prepare himself and write a note for Roxy as a farewell and/or apology. Not only to her, to all of his friends. It’s like he’s aware the chances he’ll return here aren’t that high. I wonder if John would die here at the end. It’d be quite...something!

In this epilogue, there’s a Troll Kingdom, which I imagine is ruled by the trolls who survived Homestuck, raising the grubs created by ectobiology. Dave and Karkaroni are there, Dave lives with the trolls, I suppose because his relationship with Karkaroni now includes living in his hive.

KARKAT: NOT NOW DAVE. JAKE’S ASS IS ON TV AGAIN.

DAVE: stop ogling jakes ass this is important

KARKAT: WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU TO TELL ME WHOSE ASS I SHOULD STOP OGLING.

Apparently the reason why Jake’s ass is on TV again is because he and Dirk have a show involving rap battles and robot wrestling, which I suppose is the natural progression from when Jake used to get said ass kicked by a robot. People like the show, and I’m already convinced it’s partly because of the schadenfreude of seeing Jake losing against robots – because no way Dirk is losing, hah

Karkaroni has a few choice words for the fake gladiatorial show, and points out this show is all about zooming onto Jake’s ass. Maybe ‘pumpkin patch’ is an euphemism. Either way, the relevance of the TV show is eclipsed by the announcement Jane is running for president of the entire Earth. Aha, truly the wretched pastry baroness’ descendant.

DAVE: i dunno crocker is just an ambitious woman i guess

KARKAT: THIS SOUNDS FUCKING AWFUL.

DAVE: oh it is

DAVE: it absolutely is

DAVE: also like

DAVE: dont tell her i said this but

DAVE: i think shes basically a fascist

...well then. Oh all things that could have been used to describe Jane from what I remember of her, ‘fascist’ didn’t come not even close. Then again, it’s not like Karkaroni had any meaningful contact with Jane, and all Dave did was call her hot, which isn’t really the epitome of camaraderie and intimidate knowledge. They both even admit to that.

DAVE: oh also shes a fucking xenophobe

KARKAT: OF COURSE SHE’S A XENOPHOBE!

...ah.

...

Did I miss something? Was there something between Act 7 and these epilogues that revealed Jane harbors xenophobic inclinations? Why am I having to ask aloud ‘hey is Jane a xenophobe’

KARKAT: DAVE, I DON’T KNOW IF YOU’VE NOTICED, BUT

KARKAT: A LOT OF HUMANS ARE???

DAVE: yeah ive noticed

Well, that part isn’t really surprising. Humanity just has a knack for looking down on other people, I can only imagine how it’d be when it’s about other sapient species. If aliens ever make contact with humanity it’ll be a social mess.

Since letting Jane claim the spot of president of Earth is not good, apparently, Dave wants to stop her, eliciting laughter from Karkaroni who is already imagining Dave running against her. No, Dave couldn’t handle that responsibility, no way.

DAVE: anyway no

DAVE: im not running

DAVE: you are

Hm...unless Karkaroni got over the many issues he had from his leadership attempt during Sgrub this can’t end well. Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t like the idea, precisely because he doesn’t feel like he has what’s needed to be a leader. It’s not that he would lose horribly – Karkaroni actually is rather popular. I suppose all of the Homestuck survivors are popular – it’s that he doesn’t feel ready and he seems to hate the attention. Understandable.

KARKAT: MAYBE I DON’T ACTUALLY LIKE BEING FAMOUS?

KARKAT: AND MAYBE THAT’S AS GOOD A FUCKING REASON AS ANY *NOT TO RUN FOR THE FUCKING PRESIDENCY OF EARTH*?????

KARKAT: NOT TO MENTION THE IDEA OF AN ELECTION IS KIND OF A FUCKED UP AND WEIRD THING TO ME CULTURALLY ANYWAY, AND I’M STILL KIND OF GETTING USED TO THE IDEA THAT PEOPLE CAN JUST... “CHOOSE” THEIR FUCKING LEADERS AND NOT HAVE THE SAME OLD MERCILESS BITCH IN POWER FOR SEVERAL MILLION YEARS.

Perfectly valid reason. I mean, it’s not something kind of inconsequential as being the class president of sophomore year in school or whatever it’s like up there in America. It’s president of the entire planet. If Karkaroni wins there will be consequences, even if he steps away immediately. Either he commits to this fully, or he simply shouldn’t run.

DAVE: ok ill just be the one to come out and say it

DAVE: shes going to be a fucking disaster for the economy

So Jane’s a republican. Haha! Ah, I shouldn’t touch this not even with a ten-foot pole. Nevermind that.

DAVE: i guess i have to admit

DAVE: part of this

DAVE: for me personally

DAVE: its

KARKAT: WHAT ARE YOU SAYING DAVE

DAVE: its about obama

Somehow, I didn’t even bat an eye with Dave described part of the reason why this is personal for him is because Obama didn’t get to be president due to, you know, the end of the world. I find it in-character, somehow. This isn’t the first time Dave extols Obama’s virtues, and after quite an extensive diatribe, he says maybe Obama reincarnated in Karkaroni. Thaaaat has to be the most Dave-y encouraging thing he could have ever thought. It’s for things like these that I like Dave, haha

Apparently only humans have tried to get to high offices, because no other species has even tried. They lack ambition, and given what I remember from Sburb, that’s believable. The only species that could come close to taking part in this are the trolls, and they’re not used to elections. No wonder humans have the high spots of politics.

DAVE: karkat dont stereotype

DAVE: remember the mayor

DAVE: remember how at one point a long time ago he raised an army and rebelled against an evil king

KARKAT: OH YEAH

KARKAT: SOMEHOW I ALWAYS FORGET HE DID THAT.

KARKAT: KIND OF MIND BOGGLING, REALLY.

KARKAT: HOLY SHIT, I MISS THE MAYOR.

DAVE: me too

Ah, yeah...I miss him too. I wonder what happened to him.

The government is in charge of troll reproduction through cloning, I suppose because the mother grub isn’t ready yet. In the meantime, the balance of power will get entrenched to the point where even when there’s a functional mother grub, humans will restrict troll population so they don’t take over the planet and make the horrors of Alternia happen. No lie, that’d be pretty bleak for humanity. Last time the horrors of Alternia were forced onto Earth everyone died. No troll right now would try, buuuut yeah, that’s not going to be forgotten...for a while.

Somehow, Dave’s arguments about how Jane has zero business acumen, is sinister, and trolls are getting the raw end of the deal are actually getting Karkaroni to pay attention, until he finally caves, simply because it’d make Dave happy. That’s sweet. But yeah, this is...not what I expected what would happen in the epilogue. Well then!

DAVE: aw yeah

DAVE: you wont regret it this is gonna be dope

DAVE: i think we have a great shot too

DAVE: with my political savvy and economic genius and outrageous flair for subversive anti establishment messaging and propaganda, and your big loud fucking mouth...

KARKAT: WHAT THE FUCK

DAVE: um i guess also your charisma and likability and shit

KARKAT: YEAH.

KARKAT: YOU MIGHT BE RIGHT...

KARKAT: I’M PRETTY SURE I CAN FAKE THOSE THINGS WELL ENOUGH.

DAVE: oh also

DAVE: your weirdly sincere humility

KARKAT: I PREFER THE TERM “SELF LOATHING” ACTUALLY.

DAVE: ok lets try to avoid that phrase on the campaign trail too

KARKAT: THIS ALREADY SOUNDS LIKE A PAIN IN THE ASS.

I’m not a political strategist, but if Karkaroni is going to run on a platform about how Jane sucks and there’s inequality towards the trolls, I’m not entirely certain it’s good there’s a shadowy human pulling the strings in the campaign. Kind of seems like bad optics to me. Then again, can’t say I know where this is going so let’s just wait and see.

Yup, Dave definitely will be the brains behind this presidency. They already agreed he’ll write what Karkaroni will say, even though he should improvise and speak from the heart, like he tends to do. Not a bad idea, it’s part of what makes him endearing.

DAVE: time to talk some strategy

DAVE: we need to rally as much high profile support to our cause as we can

DAVE: but there are some uh

DAVE: “lines of loyalty” to figure out

KARKAT: WHAT?

DAVE: i mean which of our friends are going to side with us and which ones will side with jane

It’s a safe bet to think the New Wonderteam will side with Jane and the Original Flavor Wonderteam with Dave and Karkaroni. Calliope likely will stick with Roxy, so she’d be on Jane’s side. All the living trolls would go with Karkaroni, so...overall? It seems to me the advantage is clear. Dave is slightly less optimistic than me, but he does think they can get many on their side.

...okay, what happened to Jade? What kind of twisted scenario involved her to the point where neither Dave nor Karkaroni want to talk about her? I’m almost afraid of finding out.

So there are four kingdoms, if I understand this correctly: one for humans, one for trolls, one for...carapaces, I guess, and one for the consorts, which would be aaaaaall the silly reptiles and amphibians from Sburb.

Jake’s support will be pivotal, and since I’m already betting he’ll be on Jane’s side out of, you know, being friends with her for quite some time, it seems like she’ll have the edge there. Then again, it’s true Jake is fairly timid, so there’s also a chance he’ll refuse to take a side. I’m starting to think any sane person would stay the heck away from any side in this mess, honestly. These two haven’t even announced Karkaroni as a candidate yet I already kind of dread what’s coming. I don’t know, it’s just this...constant atmosphere that something’s pretty wrong. I don’t really like it.

During all this, Dave receives a call from Dirk, so he calls back to ask what’s going on. This page ends with Dirk abut to insinuate he needs Dave to cut his head off again. I see these two’s weird pseudofamilial relationship is as messed up as ever. Charming.

So, back to the more Homestuck-y stuff. John zaps back to the story, apparently he agreed with Rose what needed to be done. First he makes sure Aranea won’t be up to shenanigans, taking off that ring of life from her finger. Good! Then he stashes Gamzee into the fridge again. Good! Everything’s fine over here. John zaps to the next plot point.

Ah, I have to read just two paragraphs to know what moment is this. The conversation below confirms my thoughts. Wait, I have to get the image for this moment:

There we go. Boy was it a pain to find it now that the long outline list is gone.

I think in Homestuck they had noticed John hanging out above them, and this time they see three of them, one of the Johns being an adult version. That’s going to be difficult to explain. Questions are asked, and evil Jade is zapped away to maybe get ready for the fight against Lord English, hopefully she won’t still be evil when the time comes, even if she technically is against Lord English and wants him dead. John is here to talk with Dave, anyway. If I recall correctly, Dave was supposed to give the final blow with that sword with the Welsh name, so my guess is that John is here for that. Get ready, Dave, you’re going to fulfill the fate you didn’t want in the first place! But at least I’m fairly certain John will be more successful at this than evil Jade was.

Turns out I’m not wrong about why John is here. In fact, the narration even says this:

Dave’s eyebrows descend beneath his sunglasses. You feel pretty bad because you’re about to completely circumvent the life-changing epiphany he’s just had that you know for a fact will make him a happier, chiller, and altogether more well-balanced human being.

Pretty unfortunate, really. It sucks to be Dave.

As I said before, Jade is zapped away to parts unknown, and Dave is informed of how everyone was spending their lives as normal adults with no big problems and a fairly peaceful life. Clearly John left the present before Dave and Karkaroni started their political war against Jane. Oh well. Off you go, Dave, get ready for a fight with Lord English. In the meantime, John will gather the rest of the team.

You know, I’m starting to realize I had a lot more to say about Dave and Karkaroni’s new political adventures than about the more familiar Homestuck-y messing around John is doing with the plot. I guess it’s because, as strange as the other plotline is, it just has...a lot other stuff to comment about that hasn’t been present in Homestuck before? Hm.

Yup, Dirk immediately asks for his decapitation as a solution for the tremendous defeat he has suffered at Jake’s hands, defeat that shouldn’t have happened because, as Dave states, Jake is pretty awful at everything. Either the show is rigged or Dirk must have quite a lot in mind for him to not even make an effort.

Yep, it’s rigged. I hope Jake knows. That guy never had a break during the game, hopefully he’ll get a break now. Speaking of Jake, he has to take the brunt of entertaining everyone while Dirk takes the call in the middle of the show. Whatever he has to talk about must be somewhat urgent, if he felt like calling Dave in the middle of it.

This narration sure is calling attention to Jake’s ass a lot, I lost count of how many paragraphs include something about it. Hussie, is there something you’d like to share with the class? Last time I checked the story he didn’t seem particularly interested in Jake’s ass, or in...Jake in general, really.

It seems what Dirk is doing here is intentionally making himself the villain of this show, but it’s not because he’s throwing Jake a bone or anything. No, it turns out there are more sinister goals here, or at least they’re sinister for Dave and Karkaroni’s newfound political ambitions.

DIRK: The point is, this is much less about me, and more about providing a foil for Jake’s heroism and charisma.

DIRK: It’s very important that his popularity continues to be cultivated, to maximize his political capital.

Sounds like they were planning Jane’s campaign for quite a while, if they went so far as to make Jake the hero of their show just for political capital. I bet that was the plan all along, right from the very first time this was broadcasted. How long ago was that, I wonder? But yeah, as Dave predicted, Dirk is fully on the Jane corner of this mess. He’s fully aware of Jane’s flaws and theoretical fascist/xenophobic tendencies, I presume, and he believes Jane’s the best for the current situation of the world. Whether he’s right or not...well...until proven otherwise I believe that too, yeah.

DIRK: We’ve all had our fun here, but it’s easy to overlook the fact that civilization on Earth C is hardly a sustainable proposition.

DIRK: Just beneath the surface, it’s quite a dangerous and unstable place.

Won’t lie, that never crossed my mind at all. From the way Act 7 ended, and how happy the ending was supposed to be, I simply thought things were going to be just peachy. I’m interested in knowing just how exactly it’s a quite a dangerous and unstable place. Care to explain, Dirk?

Guess not. I hope he explains how he knew what Dave and Karkaroni are planning, then. They took this decision like ten minutes ago.

DIRK: I think your heart is in the right place, but the dude is a complete amateur.

DIRK: He’ll get eaten alive. I also have a hard time imagining he even wants the job.

DIRK: Really, it’s an awful idea for him to even run. Think about how much it’s going to inflame the interspecies tensions on this planet. Is that what you want?

DIRK: I’m happy for both of you, really. It’s nice that you encourage and support each other in this way. But you’re sending him on a fool’s errand which can only end badly.

To be perfectly honest, other than the part about inflaming interspecies tensions on the planet, that was more or less what I thought. So far I agree. Even the part about inflaming interspecies tensions sounds plausible.

You know, it’s kind of fun both sides have a savvy Strider political operative. These two are more alike than Dave would like to admit, really.

The reason why Dirk is calling is because he wants to dissuade Karkaroni from running, even if he doesn’t say it. He admits Jake is not under Dirk’s beck and call, though. Does that really change anything? Dirk may not be on Jake’s good graces, but perhaps Jane is? Either way, this is a call to subtly dissuade and it’s not going to work because Karkat is stubborn as hell once he gets his head into something and he did. Tough luck.

The call is over, Dirk is back into the staged fray, so Jake thinks about Dirk’s capricious nature.

DIRK: Sorry for the momentary diversion, Jake. Now where were we?

JAKE: Momentary??? Gadzooks man you were on the phone for half a friggin hour!

JAKE: I know you like to get the crowd all hot and bothered but we are supposed to be professionals here!

...no wonder the crowd was starting to get so upset. Half an hour?! Just how slowly were the Striders talking?

Jake pulls out rhymes that honestly reminds me of Dave’s old rapping convos from like Act 1 or 2, peppered with old-timey sayings. It’s the kind of thing that makes me wonder how Jake is popular all over the planet. It’s said it’s out of pity, but goodness, that must be a metric ton of pity. The rap fight ends with Dirk sedating Jake to take another call. Geez, no wonder you’re not on his good graces anymore, Dirk.

Aaaanyway, back to John. He has gathered everyone back at his childhood home, ready to start the discussion on how to get rid of Lord English once and for all.

Jake is sort of ruining the mood anyway by bouncing away on your old Green Slime pogo. Doesn’t he realize how dangerous that thing is? Of course not. The fool.

To be frank that thing looked fun to me, even though I wouldn’t ride it without a helmet. John needs to appreciate more the painful playground elements in his life.

It’s nostalgic to read a convo with the kids. I hadn’t realized until now I missed Jade’s goofy mannerisms. Jade was always someone I was so fond of. Heck, all of the kids are people I’m fond of, although I’m less fond of Dirk and Jake than the rest. My opinion of Homestuck may not be as high as it once was, but the characters are something I still appreciate.

John answers a question: what happens to the people from the timelines they all left? Who knows. They may have stopped existing, which I’m sure is something they’d have liked to know before, but there’s nothing that can be done about that. Better start planning so they don’t die horribly and make nothing matter, alright.

The planning is mostly disorganized and structureless, although some common themes that often recur involve you and your original three friends leading the charge, since you are the oldest and wisest, and therefore the strongest, with the exception of Jade, whose gaudy array of powers make her the most formidable of the group, bar none. Aside from that, it appears the consensus is that the melee will likely devolve into an absolute free-for-all—at least going by the general patterns of incoherent banter, shit-talking, and points of pedantic tactical disagreement plaguing the jam session.

Sounds about right. I still think Jade would be very useful in the fight as long as she’s actually there and not...getting knocked out by mailwomen-turned-winged-dog. Maybe this time there’ll actually be something about the kids getting into a fight with Lord English. I’m not really going to hope for that too much, given how Hussie is not into catering to orderly narratives, but eh. No harm in dreaming.

The reunion ends when Jake eats dirt when he falls from the pogo, and in all this there wasn’t even a word about the plan. Not a good omen for the ‘show everyone fighting Lord English’ dream, really. The kids all talk together, some of them meeting each other for the first time, while John wistfully stares at Dad Egbert who is visible through the window.

The sun is hitting the glass in such a way that you can’t see his face.

Ah, yes, how could I forget the eternal sun that was in Dad’s vicinity all the time, that’s why his face always appeared mostly blank. That’s why the sun was right beside the Homestuck letter logo, it’s always there. Besides, if it’s a bad idea to go talk with Dad Hebert, may I ask why they’re all gathered in this yard, one week before the meteors strike? I know I’d be alarmed if I looked out of the window and saw seven hooligans and one adult hanging out in my yard.

There are other things to be wondering about, anyway, like the fact John may not be seeing these as real versions of his friends. Then again, in my opinion, he’s thinking a bit too hard about this. Of course he’d feel kind of detached, simply because of the age difference. That’s hard to overcome. Is it time to leave and go possibly die? Grab hands and hope it’ll go okay!

No, seriously, why am I taking like a page for John’s retconning and like three and half for Dave and Karkaroni’s Elect-a-Troll 20XX? Oh well. Dirk is still in the stadium, apparently their shows always ends in a riot, making me wonder how are they popular with people. Public disorder doesn’t really paint a good image of you. The caller is Rose, and she’s not feeling happy.

ROSE: The bottom line is this.

ROSE: I am ascending, and it is terrible.

Is Rose reaching Nirvana? How else am I supposed to interpret ‘ascending’? It’s not like she’s not a higher existence already, what with godhood and all.

What’s going on is that Rose is being plagued from visions and a higher awareness of her alternate selves’ lives and tribulations, giving her something close to omniscience when it’s about the universe, and Dirk is going through that too, which I suppose helps explain how he knew what Dave wanted to do. That’s what Dave will have to go against? Good luck to him.

I have to wonder if Dirk being such a stalwart Jane supporter is fueled by his recent omniscience. Maybe he knows something Dave and Karkaroni don’t, maybe the warning he gave them was something he foresaw. That aside, then he also must have known how useless it was to call Dave and that it wouldn’t make much of a difference. Having omniscience must seriously suck. At least Dirk has a way to work with his omniscience in a way that won’t wreck him apart, and I’m curious what it’s going to be. That said, though, a story about Dirk and Rose having foreseen a nasty future and working to stop it even at the cost of a few valuable friendships would be interesting. I’d read that.

Any conversation that will come from this will be at the studio later. I for one am looking forward to it, I admit. It’s an interesting topic, rich with possibilities and potential for development. It’s a shame these are epilogues, though. In the end, this will go nowhere, I imagine. Isn’t it a pity when you come across an idea or a plot that could span an entire story, but you know it’s not likely to come to fruition? Real shame, that.

I think I’ll stop for now. I have read only seven pages out of forty-three or so, but this should be enough for now. I can’t say I have been...enjoying this. I’m interested, but not really happy so far. Maybe it’s because a couple rather questionable things have come out of the blue and for the life of me I can’t make them fit with the characters or the story. Strange.

Also, something about the writing style is...off. It’s far more descriptive than Homestuck usually was. Most of the time it’s nice, other times I wonder if it was necessary. Still, I wonder where this will go, so at least the epilogues have that on its favor. Just for that, I think liveblogging it will be worth it.

Still, these epilogues are non-canon, aren’t they? If they’re canon can you please tell me that? Thanks, readers! So, for the time being, this update ends here.

Next update: next time

[ahumanintraining]

renewed “Police, firefighters, community leaders honor memory of Texas firefighter during I-35 procession”

keith-centric. link to ao3. 

once,

I was not afraid of fire.

you made it seem easy. you would walk into the heat and the sparks and the smoke and you would do it with a bright smile that outshined even the base of the flames. you would wear fifty pounds, carry another two hundred, run over disintegrating roofs, climb on burning walls. even sleepless, you would rescue a family, help a mother grieve over a lost son, take on extra shifts for your tired colleagues, change the coffee filter at the station when the grounds started tasting like coal.

at home, you would cough black, spit grimy phlegm into the sink. if I caught you, you would wipe your mouth and flash me a confident smile. I would ask if the fire made you sick and you would reply that the fire only gave you a good fight and this — your gray-stained fingertips and heavy breath — was just you letting fire take a swing.

you were a hero. indestructible. everyone would thank you for your service and you would brush their gratitude off and let good fortune and luck take the credit for your actions. you would hold my hand as you went to the grocery store, went to the bank, went to the auto shop, and I would hold yours just as proudly.

I never thought I would have to say goodbye to you. I never thought you would never come back home. so sometimes I went to school without turning my head. so sometimes when you were late for dinner, I would just return to a screen. after all, you were invincible.

until one day, you were not. and

then,

I was afraid of fire.

fire frightened me because fire swallowed you whole and turned you into dust and memories.

there was no body. there was only a flag, some condolences, many trays of casseroles and pasta dishes. there were bits and pieces they asked to identify as you. at first, I denied anything was you because I denied that you, so big and strong, could be reduced to a palm-full of charred remains. but then as I saw that the pile of vestiges grew smaller, I agreed and said that everything was you because I feared if I continued to say no, I would truly have had nothing left of you at all.

and then the fire chose me, and the gleam in the Lion’s eyes when it recognized me felt like flames in spirit trying to take me down to hell to join your ashes. it was like the fire knew your story, knew my fate, and was determined to fulfill my destiny for me.

saving the universe? freeing enslaved planets? fighting for justice across all galaxies? how could I be a hero when the only example of a hero I knew was one that had fallen?

in donning this bayard, I accepted I was fire. but how could I embody the element that destroyed you? how could I take power in what made me the broken orphaned boy I never wanted to become? how could I pride myself in being the guardian of fire now when I knew if I had been back then I would still have you instead of your ghost?

I asked myself these questions well into the hours of endless space black nights. but then by stroke of luck, or maybe something Mother planned all along, the two of us slipped through cracks in time and space and memories of you.

I was finally able to say goodbye to you. and

now,

I am not afraid of fire.

fire is my sword and my shield, my strength and my weakness, my past and my future intimately entwined around each other. I rise from its ashes and I consume its air. fire no longer blinds me in shame of a father long gone; it lights the path to a journey in which I grow and eventually thrive.

and one day I hope I become as much of a hero as you are, and always will be, to me.

[roxy206]

Waiting for this Return To Planet Phlegm livestream to start makes me think of Werq The World last year where the line to get in was absolutely blocks long & took forever, & once I got into the venue this guy & I heard music start & started sprinting up the stairs going DRAG SHOWS NEVER START ON TIME

And the show in fact had not started on time 😂 It was a pre-show playlist

[give-soup-please]

(Platonic) Narrator Being Sick and Caretaker Reader

(going to assume he’s in human form for this one)

The narrator is very stubborn and has an ego the size of a planet.

So when you notice that he’s getting sick, he’s not having any of it.

It starts with him clearing his throat more than usual.

His breathing is slightly congested, and he begins to realize with horror he’s going down with something.

His voice gets a unique vocal fry that under other circumstances would be very charming.

You tell him that he should rest, and he scoffs, then chokes on his own phlegm. He’s utterly embarrassed.

Who do you think you are, giving instructions around here? It’s his job to tell people what to do, not yours.

He continues to push himself more than he should, to prove that he’s fine.

You get a bed ready for him to collapse in. You go to the store and pick up foods that are easy to digest. Crackers, ginger ale, soup, stuff like that.

You pick up some extra tissue boxes too. By the time you return, you pick up your courage and order him to get into bed.

He refuses again. You roll up your sleeves and drag him out of his office. About ten seconds of struggling later, when he realizes how weak he’s become, he gives in, and settles on grumbling non-stop.

“This is stupid. Altogether ridiculous. I’m fine, let me get back to work!”

You unceremoniously push him into his bed, ignoring his mutterings and pressing a cup of soup into his hands.

He may try to sneak back to his work station. It’s advised that you keep a close eye on him until he settles.

After a while, he begins to preen on all the attention you’re giving him. Bringing him food, water, helping him… He loves it.

“Well,” he says with a rumble of satisfaction. “Despite not being sick, I must say I enjoy watching you rush around for my sake. It’s very rich. I almost wish it wouldn’t end.”

Your concern deepens as the sickness moves further into his chest, causing his coughing to get worse. The narrator sees you worry and tries to comfort you in his own special way.

“It’s nothing to fret about, reader. I am the very embodiment of health!” He says this directly after going through an entire tissue box in a day, the absolute liar.

Day by day, he gets a little better. A little stronger. More able to work, though you insist he takes breaks more frequently than he wants to. 

After about a week and a few days, he’s mostly back to normal.

As a joke, he claims he wasn’t ill at all, and merely pretending to be for the extra consideration you were giving him.

You hold eye contact with him for several seconds, not saying a word. 

“Fine. I was sick. I was having bad symptoms and you helped me. Why, I can’t imagine. But thank you.”

You shrug it off. Friends are meant to take care of each other. The narrator begins to debate ways to make it up to you anyway. 

Perhaps a new story for you? Or a gift of some kind? You had put up with him despite him not being a good patient. He begins to brainstorm in earnest. 

(What gift he gives is up to you, dear reader)

How about something platonic with the reader trying to take care of a sick narrator while he's in denial that he's sick?

hehehe... I like this. Expect it in a day or two.

[aion-rsa]

Legends of Tomorrow Belongs to John Constantine, At Least Until This Season Ends

https://ift.tt/eA8V8J

This Legends of Tomorrow review contains spoilers.

Legends of Tomorrow Season 6 Episode 13

I think I’ve been a little hard on this season of Legends of Tomorrow. I’ve been fairly vocal about how Constantine was starting to fall apart for me, but both from my own perspective and from what the show is trying to do, that turned around with “Silence of the Sonograms.” All it took was John getting the absolute piss beat out of him.

Every season of Legends of Tomorrow has an episode where the various plots start to knit together and the show starts barreling towards that season’s endgame. Normally, it’s a plot-heavy episode where things happen, with little space or time for character development. This week was that episode, only they did a little bit better with the character work than the show normally does with the endgame episodes. 

The Return of Bishop

We’ve had three plots working recently: Sara dealing with her newfound alien-ness; Mick’s pregnancy; and John’s magical addiction. All three converged with the return of Bishop, who was reprinted by Kayla on the Waverider and did the classic “I actually meant to be captured” bit, manipulating the entire crew to get what he wants. 

But he also pushed Ava into some really nice self-reflection. Bishop helps her work through her anxiety about the wedding, her existence as a clone, and her worries about Sara. Sure he’s doing it to manipulate everyone – we find out at the end of the episode that he induced Mick’s labor so he could steal Mick’s earpiece. But it’s several nice moments set to a very good Lou Reed song, maybe the least obnoxious he’s been all season.

We also find out that he’s 6% Sara. He was reprinted using her DNA, to fill in the gaps from the failed backup when she blew up his computer escaping from his planet. He uses that 6% to take control of the Waverider, because apparently DNA memory includes passwords now? I’ll admit, I actually spoke to the television at that one (“That’s…not how DNA works?”), but that’s part of how I came to terms with the Constantine story.

John Constantine vs. Dark Constantine

John gets caught using by Zari, Spooner and Astra. Spooner figures out that she has a hole in her memory, so Astra helps her fill it in, and Zari lifts the flask of blood from John’s pocket. They have an inadvertent intervention when he walks in on them discussing what to do, and he decides to toss the flask and try and quit so he can stay with Zari. 

Only that’s not quite how it goes down. Dark John, the one who escaped during the board game gone awry last week, decides he’s not going to let Constantine walk away. He uses his magic to brutalize John in one of the most graphic and effective action sequences this show has ever done. And then Dark John decides to take Bishop’s call about getting his magic back.

This episode is where John’s story (and really the whole season) clicked into place for me for two reasons: the first is my own acknowledgement that the John Constantine on Legends of Tomorrow is not and cannot be the Constantine I like from the comics. Hell, the Constantine on an HBO show will probably never be the Constantine I like from the comics. And that’s okay. 

If I can zoom right past “all the passwords on the Waverider are GATTACA now,” then I can chill out and enjoy some excellent acting from Matt Ryan, even if he’s not a perfect adaptation. It’s not really fair of me to demand that of Constantine and not of Commander Steel or Isis or Heat Wave.

The other reason this worked for me is because bloody, sputtering John is the moment when I realized someone on this show who’s calling story shots has dealt with addiction before, and this is how they’re sharing some of that story. As an ex-smoker, I have definitely felt like I’ve been scrabbling through broken glass before. This was an extremely real portrayal of sitting in a dark room, extremely hung over, staring at a ¾ gone pack of Parliaments and hacking up a fist of phlegm, and Ryan sells the hell out of both sides of that internal argument. 

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

With two episodes left, Legends of Tomorrow is starting to wrap this season up, and “Silence of the Sonograms” is one of the best starts to the endgame this show has had.

The post Legends of Tomorrow Belongs to John Constantine, At Least Until This Season Ends appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/3sDz3Fe

[sarah--writes-blog]

Shiro to Hero

VOLTRON SEASON 3 SPOILERS AHEAD!

A/N: A commission for a lovely person who wanted to remain anonymous! Thank you for allowing me to indulge in some angst - it paid off very well!

Shiro was practically given a huge welcoming party when he returned, but he wasn’t exactly in the partying mood. He spent an unknown, yet certainly long time in the sharp winds of the ice planet before being subjected to depleting oxygen, food, and water. And even then, who knows what happened to him before that on the Galra ships? Tired was an absolute understatement.

But in the typical Shiro fashion, he tried to stay strong. The healing pod did some work on him, mostly on his frost-bitten fingers and lack of proper nutrients, but when he finally fell out of the pod, he simply couldn’t stop coughing.

It lead to a perfect storm. A lot of the symptoms for Shiro’s eventual illness lined up with those from being discharged from a pod. Body aches, fatigue, and a cough, just to name a few. But when they didn’t go away within a day or so, the others began to get worried.

“Shiro, I really think you should just sit and recover for a while…” Pidge insisted, “You’re still getting your ass kicked from the healing pod, or maybe it’s even something else.”

“Pidge is right,” Keith agreed, “At most, we should let you rest for another day, then put you back on a training schedule instead of sticking you right in your Lion.”

“I’ll-” Shiro’s breath caught, and he coughed and sputtered a few times, “I’ll be fine, I gotta get back in the lion. We can’t form Voltron without her.”

The room went dead quiet. No one had had the heart to tell him yet, and the fever flushed on his face only made the revelation worse. Hadn’t he seen Voltron before in the escape pod? Perhaps that was the doings of the lack of oxygen. Allura was ultimately the one to break it to him.

“Shiro…we can form Voltron.”

“What do you mean? You need all the paladins for Voltron, you can’t form him without the head.”

Hunk chimed in to deliver the rest of the blow. “We do have the head. Keith’s been piloting the Black Lion since you were gone.”

Shiro didn’t think that one would hurt. But it really did. It ached more than his chest. The paladins watched as his face fell. If each lion had a distinct connection with their paladins, was it really so easy to swap? Or was this just another one of those pseudo-meaningful relationships that happened too often on Earth?

But without too much hesitation, Shiro made his pale face brighten up as his body gave a small shiver. “That’s great! Maybe I should stay and rest if you guys have it all covered.”

Recovery wasn’t so simple. What was normally dubbed “Healing Pod Flu” turned into an actual respiratory infection. All the paladins made a ruling on that statement when Shiro started coughing up a sickly-green mucus from his lungs (and subsequently caused the Alteans to panic). But the universe, and more importantly, the Galra forces, trekked on, and Voltron was needed. So the former Black Paladin stepped aside.

“You’re sure you’ll be okay, Shiro?” Princess Allura asked. Despite all the paladins’ warnings, Shiro followed them to the launching bay to see them off. He nodded with a watery smile and turned to sneeze into his elbow.

“I’ll be fine, Princess.” His voice was congested enough to make her smile a bit. “I’m more worried about you guys out there without me.”

“We’ll be alright. We’ve been working together ever since you were gone. And we’ll have you on the intercom just in case.”

“That makes me feel a bit better.”

It didn’t.

And so, time and time again as his body fought, Shiro found his spot on the floor of the deck, watching as colored dots zipped back and forth on the screens. It’d been days since he was ‘diagnosed’ with the respiratory infection, and things seemed to be getting worse before they got better. He could hardly keep track of his team mates without making his headache worse, but they seemed to be doing well. He only got a few moments of precious silence before Coran stepped onto the deck as well. But Coran understood the magnitude of his illness, and simply sat down quietly next to him. Eventually, Shiro spoke first.

“I’m glad they’re out there and can’t see me like this, Coran,” he chuckled, but it didn’t have much humor in it. He was their leader, it was important for them to see him as strong and dependable, not taken down by some measly respiratory infection.

Yet as the former Black Paladin watched his team mates soar through the skies and across the monitors, he felt a twinge of…something. It was a complicated feeling, a cocktail of pride and joy mixed with a bit of abandonment and some other negative feelings Shiro didn’t exactly want to address. But the largest portion of that cocktail was uselessness.

The red-headed Altean watched the human’s face fall, eyes that were intent on his paladins now looking to the ground. He knew that look. He knew that feeling a bit too well. With a quick dash to the kitchen, Coran brought back a steaming-hot towel. He got a nod of consent, and slipped it into the back of Shiro’s robe, draping it right over his lungs.

“There you go, that should help. Take deep, slow breaths,” he hummed as he sat down next to Shiro, “How’s that headache that’s been bothering you?”

“It’s still there,” Shiro sighed, “Right at the base of my skull. Seems like that’s the worst of my worries, though.” Though he inhaled deeply, the exhale was shaky and choppy, riddled with coughs and wheezes. He had a brief look of disgust before spitting a decent-sized wad of phlegm into a designated bowl. Coran chuckled a bit in sympathy, and the two fell into watchful silence once more.

“Coran?” the former paladin said quietly, voice getting rougher by the minute, “How did you guys do while I was gone?”

“We managed well enough,” he watched Shiro’s face fall again, and tried to revise his statement, “But that’s just it. We managed.”

“Looks like they’re managing pretty well out there now.”

The two looked up at the screen, watching Keith bark orders and the others follow them well. Allura was bonding with Blue at an exponential rate. Lance handled the Red Lion almost like a professional NASCAR driver. Almost, Shiro thought when Lance turned a little hard and bumped into Hunk.

“They don’t need me anymore.”

The words had just slipped out of his mouth, he didn’t think about them. He looked equally surprised as Coran did. Maybe the fever was really getting to him.

“What on Altea are you talking about?”

“Well…look at them. They’ve got a new Black Paladin, and they’re figuring out the whole paladin shuffle pretty well. This team set up looks like it’s working better than when I was a part of it! I’m a useless part of the team now.” The exertion got to Shiro’s lungs again, and he hacked more mucus into the bowl.

The older man sighed, his heart strings tugged by both the words Shiro said and the way he sounded when he coughed. “Sometimes that’s how the universe works, Number 1. Not everyone can be the hero. Sometimes, we need to take back seats. Or else there would be no bystanders for the hero to save.”

There was a deep past behind Coran’s words, Shiro could feel the weight of them. He never considered Coran to feel the same level of uselessness. Yet here they both were, while their close ones were in a giant mech saving the universe.

The former Black Paladin sniffed. Whether it was from sorrow or from sickness, he didn’t know. Inklings of doubt crept into his chest and mingled with the infection, both spreading at a rapid rate.

“Well, not to fret, Shiro!” Coran jumped up and proudly pointed at his chest, “You’re still a hero to me! You’ve lead our paladins well enough to be self-sufficient, and if that isn’t the test of a true leader, I’m not sure what is!”

Shiro could, in fact, find many definitions for true leaders, and that may have not been one of them, but he still smiled at the sentiment. “Thank you, Coran. Maybe the fever is just getting to me.”

“You should go rest, then. Not to worry, I’ll look out for you and the other paladins while you take a nap for a few vargas.”

“That sounds…actually pretty good…”

“Right then! Chop chop, back to your bedroom chambers!” Coran helped the taller man up and quickly shooed him off to the bedroom with an extra blanket and another hot towel. Shiro gave him a brief smile before closing the door. Finally, something was starting to feel better inside of him.

And just like that, the red-headed Altean was left alone on the sidelines. Again.

[lady-divine-writes]

Klaine fic - “Underneath the Magic” (Rated PG13)

Kurt, a tree demon, runs a magical, supernatural circus that, unfortunately, is in the red. Trying to come up with a way to keep them afloat, his right hand man ... uh, goblin ... convinces Kurt to hire some new acts. Kurt reluctantly agrees, as long as that new act isn't human.

Enter Blaine - the human conman who's about to try and change Kurt's mind. (10511 words)

So, this started life in a number of different ways. I wanted to write some stuff for @sunshineoptimismandangels, for her birthday, and at the time, I had started writing this as an original piece, inspired by @vampireisabitstrong's "Graveyard Book au" which I was also writing at the time. But after a while, I had to come to grips with the fact that I was writing Glee characters. The character of Puck, in particular, was inspired in part by sunshine's character of Felix from her amazing story Heartstone (whom she's reluctant to admit is a goblin, but I know better xD) Also, Kurt is a Spriggan, but I added hints of Kapre as a nod to Darren's Filipino heritage. I hope you all enjoy. Please let me know. And no, if you're curious, I wasn't smoking anything when I wrote this xD

For @sunshineoptimismandangels . I know I’m writing a ton of stuff for you but look! Something shiny!! <3

Read on AO3.

On the farthest outskirts of town.

Past the dead end streets and the no trespassing signs.

In a place with no light, artificial or otherwise. Where the full moon fails to penetrate.

In the center of a deep, dark forest.

In a clearing where no grass grows, no animals graze, no water flows.

Where the still air settles dry and musty, like the breath of death, and even the spirits of the wicked dare not tread.

The perfect place for a satanic ritual, to cast a spell …

… or perform a sacrifice.

Or hold a circus.

But not just any circus. Here there be no clowns, no acrobats, no elephants, no loud emcee dressed in a sparkly red coat and tall top hat.

Spriggan and Company’s Supernatural Circus - where the freaks control the show and the straights wind up in cages.

It is a commonly accepted belief in the earthen realm that the modern circus originated in the late 18th century, but Spriggan’s circus (and this particular Spriggan preferred to be called “Kurt”, derived from the Old High German Kuonrat and meaning wise counsel) has been around for far longer. For those few who know of Kurt and his past, it is rumored that he and his circus have performed for every type of creature that has ever walked the planet Earth – human, vampire, werewolf, cryptid, in every station imaginable from Neanderthal to Czar.

But that doesn’t necessarily mean that his circus is easy to come by.

One can find it only if they truly believe, if they possess a heart of darkness (of their own or in a box - either way works as long as it doesn’t leak), or if they can stare into the abyss and fear not what they may see. But if none of that applies to you personally, there are gigantic possessed road signs set up every few miles to help guide you on your journey. They flash in a dazzling array of colors, sing opera, and even dance the polka. They might scream at you if you ignore them for too long before you reach the turnpike, helpfully directing you back to the exit you accidentally missed because every person, demon, beast, warlock, and road sign in those parts knows that if you have gone this way, Kurt’s circus is the only place you intend on ending up.

Come one, come all! Don’t delay! Come now! the signs cry, luring pedestrians and motorists alike to behold the most spectacular feats of magic and wonderment ever known to man or Gorgon. (The older signs scream obscenities in cryptic forgotten languages, but you have to forgive them. After several centuries, there’s no changing their ways.)

And like all respectable circuses, this one takes place beneath a “Big Top”. The tent they use, however, is actually a bigger than big top, made of thick, heavy canvas woven by the gnarled hands of Stygian witches, with long, vertical stripes running from peak to the hem. The stripes are pink and white if you’re a Virgo, black and purple if you’re a Scorpio, green and gold if you’re a Taurus, and just plain red if you’re an Aries. If you happen to be a Capricorn, it’s something else entirely, like an antique greenhouse with fogged glass panes or an old abandoned inn whose lavish furnishings have faded with age.

Aquarians, however, don’t come here. It’s nothing personal (cough-cough). It just kind of is.

But regardless of its dreary and gothic portend, none of it is meant to hurt, frighten, or offend. It is all the work of a master trickster who has spent the long millennia offering unique entertainment open and accessible to beings of all ages, races, genders, sexual orientations, religions, political affiliations, etc. (except for Aquarians - refer back to the above), and promises to be vegan friendly, as well as gluten- and cruelty-free.

Behind the main tent, cloaked to mortal eyes, lies the encampment where the performers live during their time in the human realm, each tent enchanted to match the personality of its inhabitant – moss covered tombs for the vampires, veiled by an eternal darkness; bogs for the swamp monsters, shrouded with twisted, overgrown vines, their tepid waters slick with a layer of putrid algae; a stable for the unicorns, where inside an illusion of the forests of their world stretches, blue shimmering skies and silver lined clouds above, rolling green hills and fragrant wild flowers below, and filled with rabbits, eagles, deer, and all of the other animals they have sworn to protect (which unfortunately escape every so often and run amok, as evidenced by the Australian rabbit pandemic of the past 150 years).

Beyond those tents grows a thicket of trees not native to these woods – stunning mangoes, thorny acacias, dense bamboo, and brooding banyans. Travel through their maze and you might stumble across the ruins of an old plantation house, it’s once proud, whitewashed walls slowly being reclaimed by Mother Earth, devoured by the softly swelling ground beneath it. Follow the branches that break through its foundation, compelled to grow by the power within, and you will find him. Here, apart from the others, dwells the founder of this folly, the creator of this circus, the manager of this mélange.

In short, the guy in charge.

In the midst of this ruin, hidden by scores of overhanging branches, Kurt sits, red eyes glowing in the descending mists of twilight, fingers drumming his knees, deeply troubled as he counts and re-counts his take. A rap on the door doesn’t distract nor disturb him. He knew what was coming. He smelled him on the evening breeze, sensed his arrival in his bones. He felt his footsteps disturb the ground, and the trees surrounding him warned of his approach. In his heart, though he hopes for good news, Kurt already knows this intruder doesn’t bode well.

The door swings open, hinges creaking like the tortured gasps of a hanging man, and the foul thing walks in – long, hooked nose preceding him by about half a foot; hunched over as if pressed down upon by an invisible burden; favoring one leg while the other hits the boards beneath him with a resounding clunk, his slow march tapping out the foreboding cadence of a funeral dirge. His skin glows slightly in this absence of light, lending an eerie cast of unnatural grey to the room. Cracked, thin lips outline a mouth of yellowing, rectangular teeth, gapped in the center while the rest hang askew like dominoes forever falling. The creature smiles. It splits his face almost entirely in two. He’s dressed in the humblest of clothes – a shirt made of burlap that continuously irritates his skin, which sloughs from his shoulders and back in sheets and leaves a ghastly trail behind; and pants fashioned by the very same witches whose arthritic fingers stitched together the tents. His pants in particular are two sizes too loose at the waist, tied around his torso with a piece of rough twine; and three sizes too long at the legs so that the bulk of their length drags behind him, his feet sticking out of two ragged holes where everyday use has worn them through.

“My Lord,” the detestable creature rasps, hobbling toward the tree demon, who towers the approaching goblin even while reclining, “I bring to you the book of holding, ripe for your approval. Snoooort!” He sucks in through his nose what sounds like a century’s worth of phlegm, then bows his head in reverence as he offers Kurt the book.

Kurt stares at the ancient, leathery object, held aloft by an even more ancient, leathery creature. He sits up in his chair created by the twining tree roots of two mighty banyans, straightens to an even loftier height, and with a disapproval wrought by hundreds of years of monotony, rolls his flaming red eyes, and says, “Can’t you just call it a ledger, Puck? For crying out loud! You do this every … single … night!”

The goblin huffs and stands upright. He glares indignantly at his friend and Master, but to Kurt, it looks more like he’s pouting. “Where’s your flair for the dramatic, old man? Or your sense of humor?”

“It’s gone on vacation with the petty cash.” Kurt sighs, rubbing his pinched brow with woody fingers. “It’ll return when we clear a profit. So, how did we do?” Kurt extends sharp nails to take the smallish ledger from his goblin companion. “My cash box here’s a little light.”

“Not as good as you had hoped, I’m afraid.”

Kurt flips through the pages carefully to keep from slicing them to bits, mulling over the less-than-impressive numbers. “Hmm. How many performances do we have left in this realm?”

“Only three,” the goblin says regretfully. “Then we move on.”

“Ugh!” Kurt slams the book shut in his hand, squeezing so hard he nearly drives his fingers straight through it. “If we could only sneak five more in before the next full moon!”

“I don’t see how that’s possible. Not with the portal to our next destination opening soon. And it’s a good thing, too. The glamour shielding the meadow is already starting to peel … and it’s gettin’ kinda gross,” Puck remarks, recalling the trail of mushy magic he’d had to sidestep just to get to Kurt’s sanctuary. He’s pretty certain that, despite his best efforts, he still managed to drag the hems of his pants through it. There’s a stain that’s impossible to get out, and it’ll smell like raw eggs and rotting swordfish given enough time. He grimaces just thinking about it.

Kurt grimaces, too. Not at Puck’s mention of “peeling glamour”, but at the avalanche of skin flakes that tumble from the goblin’s body when he shivers. Kurt would never outright tell his friend this, but he’d much prefer stepping in a pool of mushy, decaying magic than another pile of desiccated goblin skin.

But back to the real issue …

They’d discussed this before. There’s no use repeating and rehashing it, and yet, every time they start this discussion, they both hope for a better outcome.

The definition of insanity, Einstein would say, which is exactly why Kurt doesn’t speak to him anymore, the insufferable old fool.

“I don’t see how, either,” Kurt admits. “I’d like to leave this plane without any red marks in our ledger, but it seems to be nothing but red lately.” Kurt peeks through the pages of the book one last time, looking for something that will prove him wrong, a page full of pluses instead of minuses that he had read incorrectly. When he doesn’t come across one, he raises a hopeful eyebrow at his shifty friend. “No chance you were balancing the books while eating your lunch again, and that’s blood on these pages in place of ink?”

“I wish,” Puck snorts. “But no. I’m using a ballpoint pen nowadays. You know that.”

“Yeah, I know that,” Kurt grumbles.

“We have to face facts. The crowds have been thinner lately,” Puck points out as if Kurt didn’t already know – as if the whole company, stressed out over incidentals day after day, hasn’t realized it. “Believe it or don’t, many humans are choosing to go see Cirque du Soleil over our vastly more phenomenal circus. Human acrobats are a bigger draw than supernatural ones, ironically.”

Kurt stands and paces the room. He’d noticed that also, how those human equivalents of tree frogs outperform his circus almost ten to one. Meanwhile, they have a pair of Siamese twins who can switch heads, but meh. That’s old hat compared to a woman who can spin inside a metal ring.

“There’s also the matter of us being stuck in this dreary ass meadow in the middle of nowhere,” Puck continues. “You might consider springing for a few weeks at the convention center - center of town, free advertising, lots of parking and bus access, a handicap ramp …” Kurt nods as Puck counts off the pros on his fingers, giving this option more thought than he had in decades. Kurt can be stubborn, set in his ways. He’s very much an “if it isn’t broke, don’t fix it” kind of demon. His decision to set up camp in meadows like this one wasn’t simply a matter of personal preference, or even safety for his performers. They could always camp in a remote location and teleport to their performance venue – that wasn’t the issue. It was about ambiance, the air of authenticity that holding their circus out in a spooky forest lent to their shtick. Kurt thought that that was one of the things that set them apart from other circuses. It made them special.

But apparently the definition of special had changed over the past three hundred years.

“Also … uh … you could start letting Aquarians in again,” Puck adds under his breath. “I hear they make up a good portion of the population.”

“You know how I feel about that, Puck,” Kurt grumps. “Inconsiderate little dung beetles, the lot of them.”

“Their money spends just like everyone else’s!”

“No Aquarians! That’s not negotiable!” Kurt declares, dropping a period on the end of the discussion.

“Anyway …” Puck sighs. Demons and their egos. There was no way around them. They were the experts at holding a grudge. And once they found one, they latched onto it tight and never let go. Puck knows he’s not going to win. He might as well let that one lie. Besides, he has other suggestions, ones that Kurt might object to more than the inclusion of Aquarians.

“You could always start smoking your magical pipe again. The one that attracts the humans’ attention? You can lure them here that way.”

Kurt curls his lip and pulls a face, one that would be more effective if, at the moment, he weren’t a giant tree. “You know the stigma that surrounds smoking in this century. These mortals are headstrong, more so than their 12th century ancestors, especially when it comes to their health. This mindset of “drugs evil, weed bad” kind of counteracts the effect of the smoke. And not just smoking either. Alcohol, gambling, it’s apparently all a no-no to them. These 21st century humans,” Kurt huffs, as if the mention of them put a bad taste in his mouth. “All they want to do is sip wheat grass, do yoga, and have heated arguments with strangers about something called smashing the patriarchy.” He digs the toe of his trunk-like foot into the dirt, mourning the end of an era. “They don’t know how to have fun anymore.”

Kurt actually used to enjoy coming to Earth a decade or so ago. It was one of the few places where he could indulge in a good, old-fashioned, PG13-rated vice without accidentally declaring war on an indigenous culture.

Not anymore.

“Well, you could at least try it with the pipe for our last three shows, couldn’t you?” Puck suggests, exasperation draining his crooked body. “Or maybe just closing night.”

Kurt shifts from foot to foot, negotiating with himself. He tries his best not to interfere with the humans anymore, not the way the Spriggan used to, which included putting them “under the influence”, causing them to do things against their will. Though, to be fair, refraining from using his pipe goes against his nature, bred from a morality that he’s acquired, not one he’s been taught.

Among Spriggan, Kurt’s the exception, not the rule.

It’s more of a guideline. He doesn’t have to break it. He could just bend it a little, for the holiday crowd, who will more than likely be drinking their heads off anyway. If he lures them to his circus, they’ll all be in one place, bound by protection spells. They won’t be driving while intoxicated. They’ll be safe. Kurt would be doing a public service.

And there he had it! Loopholes! They were amazing things!

“I guess I could do that,” he decides, feeling good about this decision. “I’ll break out the old pipe, smoke some green, and we’ll have a packed house once again.”

“Yeah,” Puck says, a bit uneasy with the direction he was about to take their conversation. Maybe he shouldn’t mention it. He should just let it drop. Kurt finally looked relaxed after the long, hard weeks of constant worry. The problem was that Kurt’s pipe only worked on humans. They were having similar difficulties gathering crowds in other realms they went to, and for a number of reasons. They didn’t just need Band-Aid solutions.

Something else needed to change.

Puck shifts his gaze to the ground, scratches his abnormally large ears with his abnormally longer fingers. “And … maybe … we might consider … um … hiring some new acts?”

Kurt turns on Puck so quickly, the goblin hears the demon’s torso crack, splintered bark breaking from his body and dropping to the earth.

“Puck!” Kurt roars. “We’ve discussed this! There’s nothing wrong with the acts! Bringing new ones on board isn’t the answer!”

“Kurt! We can’t keep slogging along with the old acts if they’re not bringing anybody in! I know you’ve gotten used to our little troupe the way it is. So have I! You know I have trust issues! It took about seven centuries before I could relate to any of them! What does a Pukwudgie have in common with a half-angel, half-dragonfly nomad princess? I’ll tell you what, Kurt! A big fat nothing, that’s what!”

“And yet you still managed to get her pregnant,” Kurt grumbles bitterly recalling the talented, silvery-voiced, platinum-haired enchantress they’d had to send back to her home realm because Puck couldn’t keep his fetid dick in his drooping trousers. Though, on the other hand, Princess Quinn slept with him, so Kurt had to question her life choices.

“But you have to think of the good of the show! You’re working our old acts to death! All of those performers out there that bust their butts every night? You owe them, Kurt! They don’t have to stick it out with us for another millennia. They could transport back to their own dimensions, every last one of them, and then where would we be?”

“I know, I know, you’re right,” Kurt agrees, knocking on his wooden head with wooden fists.

This was another argument they’d been having for longer than Puck could remember. The difference was that on this subject, they strenuously disagreed, to the point of a deadlock, and Kurt didn’t foresee things changing in this instance. Puck argued that they wouldn’t be getting rid of any of their old acts, so there was no reason to be so pigheaded about finding new blood. Kurt countered that their group worked best with the acts already in it. Getting more would be adding unnecessary stress and strain on their already thinly-stretched resources. As far as Kurt was concerned, his circus ran like a well-oiled machine. Adding new acts meant advertising, interviews, auditions, negotiations - things that Kurt couldn’t stand but which would fall on him since he was the owner and all.

On the other hand, it might be nice gong out of his way to meet new beings, for pleasure as well as for work. Bouncing back and forth for centuries has been the death of Kurt’s social life. He’s not looking to settle down or get married. He never wanted to have spawn. He doesn’t even want to date really. He just wants someone nice to go to dinner with every once in a while, tell Dark Age jokes to, share an offering with once in a while.

Not a human. Kurt has been very careful not to become attached to humans. Spriggan as a species can develop a sentimental skin where it comes to humans. If they find one that they consider an equitable match, either as a friend or more, Spriggan will follow that human for the rest of their days.

Ha! Kurt thinks. No, thank you.

But as for everything else, was that too much to ask?

He’s spent his entire existence making others happy – humans, deities, sirens, and banshees galore. Doesn’t he deserve a little happiness, too?

“Okay,” Kurt says, a crumb of reluctance clinging stubbornly to his acquiescence. “We’ll find some new blood. One act, but that’s all.”

It’d better be one hell of an act, he thinks. Kurt hadn’t come across anything in all the infinite realms of the universe that tickled his fancy, nothing that even came close to fitting the bill.

Who was he going to find that would make any sort of a difference in their lives?

“Great!” a cheerful, new voice intervenes. “That’s excellent news! I’d hoped you were hiring.”

Both demon and goblin fall gravely silent.

Kurt looks at Puck.

Puck looks at Kurt.

They turn a full circle, unable to see, at first, the man dressed in head to toe black, standing in the center of their meeting room. But when Kurt sets his red eyes on him, his surprise, which makes his eyes glow like hot coals, pins the man to his spot.

“What the …?” Kurt growls. “Who are you!? How did you get in here!?”

“It wasn’t easy, I’ll tell you that! I had to sneak past your guard at the front door,” the man admits proudly, as if he thinks thwarting their security would win him points.

Of course, considering the fact that their guard is a giant, two-headed, man-eating, spectral spider, it might …

Kurt appraises the man with an unimpressed demeanor. He knows enough about human aesthetic preferences to know that this man – with his tan, unblemished skin; his clean-shaven face; dark hair slicked back; and golden hazel eyes – is handsome by their standards. By demon standards, he would be considered more appetizing than most, and that’s a compliment. And yet, if Kurt had to choose between devouring this human and his usual offering of mangoes and papayas, he’d pick the fruit.

It’s at that moment that Kurt remembers he hasn’t had a decent offering in weeks.

Great. Now his stomach’s growling.

Kurt takes a subconscious breath in and catches a whiff of the man’s cologne – an appetizing blend of cinnamon, cardamom, black pepper, and hibiscus. Those happen to be four of Kurt’s favorite scents in the universe. They remind him of his childhood, of family and friends he knew growing up that have come and gone.

They remind him of his home, a place he hasn’t been to in forever no matter how many times he visits Earth. He can’t. It holds too many memories, and has too much narrow-minded prejudice to make setting up their circus there worth their time.

Damn. Now his stomach’s not only growling, it’s churning like a church fire.

When Kurt snuffs that fire out and shoves the ashes of that nostalgic b.s. aside, he smells power - low levels of it, not nearly enough that it should interest him.

But for some reason, it does interest him.

“Maybe.” Kurt puts his hands on his hips. “And you are …?”

“The name’s Kevin,” the man says, thrusting out an arm, hand open, ready to shake. “Kevin Fitzpatrick at your service, kind sir.”

Kurt looks at the hand presented to him, a blank expression on his face. Kurt doesn’t shake hands. He doesn’t touch other beings if he can help it. He has a thing about germs, especially human ones. It’s not a speciesism issue. It’s a preservation issue. Humans are notorious for their tendency towards self-destruction. Everything that they need to live a long and healthy life, they destroy – their air, their water, their animals, their planet, themselves.

Kurt tilts his head and quirks a brow. “That’s not your real name,” he says, ignoring the man’s hand altogether. For the moment, he’s guessing. It’s part of his mantra. He tries not to invade human minds when he doesn’t have to. They tend to be chaotic, cluttered, unnecessarily confusing, even among the exceptional ones. Humans as a whole don’t know how to think straight. They can’t seem to set their minds on one road and follow it, finish a single task before launching into the next. From all outward appearances – this man’s skin, hair, and eye color, his bushy eyebrows, his stature, average for adult males – he doesn’t seem like he should own such a name. But it’s the way his eyes dart left and right, imperceptible to humans but obvious to a demon, that truly gives him away.

The man’s smile loses some of its strength but none of its luster. He drops his hand to his side, feeling foolish for keeping it extended after several long seconds of Kurt refusing to shake it.

“No, it isn’t,” he admits, sounding like he genuinely wishes it were. “But I thought a traditional Irish name might go over better with you traveling folk.”

Kurt and Puck exchange a pointed look.

“That’s racist,” Kurt says.

“Says the demon. One who looks like a giant tree, I might add.” The man gestures down Kurt’s body with inexplicable confusion.

“Still racist,” Kurt insists.

“By the way, how do you do that?” the man asks. It’s not an offhanded question, which makes it a difficult one for Kurt to comprehend. This man is standing in the middle of a circus made up entirely of supernatural creatures and beings from other worlds. Why should what Kurt looks like be a concern to him?

And yet, it’s significant because it has always been a concern to Kurt. Spriggan traditionally are stocky, big-headed, and short – the ghosts of giants, but really only a shadow. Kurt, on the other hand, is lithe, fair, and tall (by comparison) – traits that set him apart from other Spriggan by a mile.

He’s his father’s son, but in looks, he belongs solely to his mother.

“How do I do what?” Kurt asks.

“Look like a tree. I thought Spriggan were supposed to look similar to men. Or like … woody Big Foot.”

“He compared you to a Sasquatch,” Puck sniggers. “What a noob.”

But Kurt lets the insult go.

He debates how much he wants to tell this human. Why Kurt looks the way he does isn’t exactly a secret, but it would still be sharing something that’s part of him, and to a human.

“I’m only half Spriggan,” he confesses, figuring there’s no real harm in letting that tidbit out. The man would probably learn it eventually. There isn’t a single monster in Kurt’s employ that can keep their mouth shut. “I’m High Faye on my mother’s side.”

“You don’t say?”

“A-ha. That’s where I get my magical abilities, my shapeshifting powers … and my short temper.”

The man smiles, pleased with this new information. “Coolness.”

“How do you know what Spriggan look like anyway?”

“I read,” the man says. “I use Google. Which leads me to my next question …”

“If you’re the one applying for a job, how come you’re asking all the questions?”

The man shrugs. “You don’t learn anything by not asking questions. Besides, you don’t have to answer.”

“Fair enough.”

“Why the disguise? I mean, why turn yourself into a tree?”

“Because without it, I’m invisible to the humans,” Kurt says. “And if humans can’t see me, that’s kind of bad for business. Besides, it’s part of the draw. We live in a time where the only way people would believe in a living, breathing tree demon is if they saw something that looked like … well this.” Kurt copies the man’s gesture, sweeping a hand down his body.

The man’s smile dips. “That sucks.”

“Yeah. It does.”

“And there aren’t any other Spriggan in your circus?”

“Nope,” Kurt says. “I’m the only one. To be honest, I haven’t seen one in ages.”

“Must be lonely,” the man decides.

It is, Kurt thinks. It’s not some huge revelation, just an acknowledgment of fact. But what he says is, “Meh. I’m never really alone, so, not so much.”

“Yeah, but there’s a difference between being lonely and being alone.”

That comment silences Kurt. He agrees entirely, even though he’d never thought of it that way. He often felt lonely, even in the center of a crowd. He thought he was weird that way.

He never thought anyone else felt the same.

“Hey! I've seen you!” Puck jumps back into the conversation, pointing at the man with a twisted, accusing finger. “You hang around the crowds. You loiter on our property and swindle for spare change outside our tents!”

“I like to think of it as co-op’ing.”

“And I think of it as dipping in to our profits!” the goblin hisses.

Kurt scowls. He didn’t know this about this man. How come he didn’t know? As a demon who tricks travelers, and who has been known to indulge in a game of poker now and again, Kurt can appreciate a good hustle … but not when it lightens his pockets! And just when he was beginning to not despise this guy.

Thank goodness for Puck. Admiring a human in any small measurement isn’t the kind of complication Kurt needs right now.

The goblin bares his teeth, Kurt grows another foot taller, and suddenly the man feels outnumbered.

“Okay, okay, I see your point,” he says, putting his hands up in defense of his life. He’s not sure how that would help him, exactly, but it’s worth a shot. “B-but, now I'm looking to give back. To help you guys out.”

“Looking to escape, more like it.” Kurt tuts. “Who did you piss off here, human? Hmmm? A local gang? Loan sharks? The police? I know your type. Do you have mafia after you? Because I don’t need that kind of trouble hanging around my circus. I’m not looking to defend anyone.”

“No! I’m not---wait …” The man stops when an absurd thought pops into his brain. “Aren’t Spriggan bodyguards? Fairy bodyguards? I mean, I assume that’s how your dad met your mom, isn’t it?”

“Assume nothing!” Kurt says, appalled at the man’s gall. “You’re not a fairy, and I’m not my father! Plus, that’s beside the point. I like to choose who I call enemy, thank you. I don’t need people I’ve never met mounting a vendetta against me. I don’t want that kind of heat on my tail. The mob has some pretty powerful demons working on their side ... and lawyers.”

The man looks at Kurt and Puck, wide-eyed. Something like a smile tickles the corners of his mouth, something he’s trying hard to suppress. He doesn’t end up smiling, but he does chuckle. “So, lawyers are worse than demons?”

“Yes!” Kurt and Puck answer together.

“Everybody knows that!” Puck says, aghast at the human’s ignorance. “How you can live among them and not know of their treachery is beyond me.”

The man continues to laugh, and Kurt shakes his head.

“This back and forth with you is exhausting me, human. I feel like there’s something you’re not telling us. You’re beating around the bush. Speak plainly!”

“But beating around the bush is something I happen to do exceptionally well,” the man says with a wink. Kurt detects the innuendo and rolls his eyes.

“It’s time to find out who you really are … and what you want.” Kurt strikes quickly, reaching for the man and wrapping slender fingers around his throat. Kurt squeezes slowly, till his twig-like appendages settle into the soft, delicate flesh around the man’s windpipe.

“Uh … wh-what … what are you doing?” the man squeaks, keeping his words to a minimum when it becomes harder for him to breath.

“I’m reading your mind, Kevin,” Kurt says, closing his red eyes.

“D-do you … have to … hold my neck … quite so tightly while you read my mind?” He grabs a hold of Kurt’s arm, but it might as well be made of stone, so rough and so thick, there’s no way to remove it.

“It keeps me calm,” Kurt says, grinding the words out one by one through locked lips. “Be grateful I’m not peeling the skin from you bones.”

“Oh,” the man says. Kurt feels him gulp nervously beneath his palm. “I see. Yes. Thank you for not doing … that.”

“Shh. I need to concentrate.” Kurt takes a deep, cleansing breath, and enters the man’s mind. It’s easier than Kurt remembers, but then again, the man’s not resisting. And that’s a good sign. People often resist when they’re trying to pull something over on you. Kurt sifts through the man’s thoughts to find his more recent memories – name, occupation, address, the basics - trying his best to ignore the ones that go out of their way to reach out to him, the sympathetic ones that long to be revisited, like memories of this man as a child, on vacation with his parents, throwing a ball to his brother, learning how to ride a bike with two wheels, learning how to cook with his great-aunt Teresa, playing video games with a friend that he seemed to hold dear, a friend that Kurt sees no more of after the man reaches thirteen. He stumbles across memories of a terrible fire, of their house burning down … of him burying his mother and his father … of his brother running away and never contacting him again … “Uh … y-your name is Blaine, but your parents called you Coqui?” Kurt asks. He releases his grip, his mighty wooden arm - a thick, unyielding branch - trembling as it returns to his side.

“That’s right,” the man says. His eyes leave Kurt’s face and follows his arm for a second before the conversation continues.

“It doesn’t bother you that you’re nicknamed after the sound a frog makes when it wants to have sex?” Kurt crosses his arms, hiding his trembling in the wrap of his limb around his body, and using that remark to will away the image of this man as a teenager, crying on his knees over a freshly covered grave, negotiating with whatever God he believes in for his parents to return.

“Why in the world would that bother me?” Blaine chuckles. “If you knew me better, that would actually explain a lot.”

“Do I want to know you better?” It seems like a ridiculous question seeing how much Kurt already knows about him. Stupid, unpredictable mindreading. He never could get it quite right. Of course, the fact of the matter is that Kurt, being even half High Faye, wasn’t a thing like his mother in anything other than looks.

Which is why his father raised him.

“You’re the mind reader. You tell me.”

“And you’re the human, so if you want me to let you join our group, you’re going to have to make a more compelling case for me hiring you.”

It shocks Kurt when he hears those words come out of his mouth. He was determined that, no matter what, no human would have a place here. But now here he was, considering this no talent human into inclusion in their troupe, and he had no idea why.

And still, the low level power simmers, humming in Kurt’s ears.

That has to be it. Wherever it’s coming from, that’s the thing that’s causing all of this.

He would ask Puck if he hears it, too, except Puck’s looking at him with the gaping maw of a dying salmon, equally as astonished at what Kurt proposed.

“Certainly,” Blaine says, elated. “Watch carefully.” He puts his hands up, holding them open so Kurt can see that there’s nothing in them. He flips his hands quickly, exposing them front and back. Kurt’s eyes bounce from his right hand to his left. When Kurt sees the right hand again, it’s holding a deck of cards. Blaine fans the cards with one hand. “Pick a card, any card.”

Kurt’s jaw drops.

“What?” Kurt can usually see things before they happen, but he didn’t see that coming. “No! Why?”

“I’m making my case. I’m proving to you that I can be a contributing member of your group. Consider it my audition.”

“I don’t have time for this,” Kurt mutters. He takes Blaine’s empty hand and holds it by the wrist, letting the man’s beating pulse speak to him. It was easier reading his mind at arm’s distance from his brain. That, and Kurt wasn’t convinced he could restrain himself from throttling this man. But Kurt can see from the smile on the man’s face that he’s getting the wrong idea. That wrong idea starts to blossom in Kurt’s mind the longer he holds his hand, and it makes him feel warm inside.

Oh, please, Kurt pleads. This can’t be happening.

Kurt immediately drops the man’s hand.

“Your father was a sorcerer?”

“Yup.” Blaine puffs up his chest as if he had taught the man everything he knew. “One of the finest.”

“And your mother, too.”

“Yes, sir. She was the more powerful of the two by a long shot.”

“Well, do you have any of their skills?” Kurt tries not to get ahead of himself, but he can’t quell his excitement, finally seeing a silver lining to this obnoxious human’s intrusion into his life.

“Oh, no!” Blaine laughs to Kurt’s dismay. “Good God, no! Not an inch! It’d be amazing if I did though! Think of it!”

Kurt had thought of it, for just a brief, glimmering second. But the more he thinks he knows what’s going on with this man, the more questions he has.

The easiest way to sort them out would be to go back into his mind for an extended stay.

But Kurt doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to see the things his mind wants him to see.

“Okay,” Kurt begins again, feeling like pulling the man’s molars out of his skull would be easier than this. He asks his next question slowly, like he’s addressing a child. “What else do you do?”

“Just this.” Blaine folds up his fan of cards and shuffles them dramatically from hand to hand. “Sleight of hand.”

“You do card tricks,” Kurt mutters like a curse at a power higher than he. “Just card tricks,” he repeats, pulling a card from the pile. This couldn’t be it. With the lineage he’s boasting, this can’t be Blaine’s only talent. What did he do that he missed out on the magic lottery? Did he step on a brownie? Run over a druid with his car? Did he make-out with the wrong virgin sacrifice and get cursed?

Card tricks. That and his charm will maybe get him a cup of coffee.

Maybe.

“Hey. Why you hatin’ on card tricks? They put me through college.” His hands don’t stop moving as he speaks, shuffling his deck, the cards flying from his fingertips faster than Kurt can keep track of. That alone is impressive, but still …

Card tricks?

There has to be something Kurt’s missing.

“Here. Let me show you something.” Kurt takes Blaine by the shoulders and turns him around. With a blink of his red eyes, they’re out of the ruins and standing in the center of the big top, watching as performers bustle around, putting away props and striking equipment. They’ve teleported. They could have just walked. It wasn’t that far, not even as the human walks, but Kurt did it on purpose. The jump through time and space, even though no more than a skip compared to what they’ll be doing when they leave the realm of Earth, was supposed to give Blaine a taste of what dimensional travel would feel like. Most humans puke their guts out immediately after.

Blaine barely seems fazed.

Damn.

And to top it off, his hands have found their way up to Kurt’s, resting over his and holding on gently.

Kurt clears his throat. He removes one of his hands.

Only now that he has, he kind of wants to put it back.

Kurt points past Blaine to a man with radiant wings stretching out in both directions, measuring from tip to tip about the length of a Cessna. He stands ramrod straight and over seven feet, dismantling a large, titanium octagonal cage with a wave of his hands. “Do you see him?” Kurt asks. “He’s a descendent of the god Loki.”

“Ooo,” Blaine marvels, watching as he folds the cage into a small box that he puts in his pocket.

“Ooo is right. He can fracture sunlight and turn its rays into golden snakes. With a single blink of his eyes, he can make you believe that you’re your own mother and compel you to give yourself a spanking.”

Blaine chuckles, picturing himself wearing his mother’s thick, tiger eye framed glasses, her faded yellow housedress, her matching house slippers, and the pink foam curlers she rolled in her hair every night covered by a white hair net, bending himself over a chair and slapping his own bare ass while angrily yelling at himself in his mother’s tongue. It’s an image Kurt glimpses in Blaine’s eyes as the man laughs sadly to himself, and Kurt finds himself wanting to join him. He feels drawn to this man’s easygoing nature. Blaine seems slow to anger, difficult to offend … and impossible to frighten. His sticktoitiveness is admirable, if not misguided. Once he has his mind set on something, he’s not easy to discourage. Kurt will give him that. And Kurt has always found those traits attractive in most beings. A soul that can laugh at itself can weather most storms.

But again – human, and Kurt can’t get attached to a human. Not even one who’s proving to be as … well … what would the word for him be? Bearable as this one. Maybe Kurt could see himself sharing a veggie burger with him while they binge watched Netflix (once they find themselves in a dimension where they can pick up a signal) but that’s as far as he’d take it.

But wasn’t that what Kurt wanted in the first place?

No matter. This is neither the time nor the place for this dilemma. Kurt squares his knotty shoulders and continues.

“And the young lady in that tank?” Kurt takes Blaine by the shoulders and turns him again slightly. Only by, like, seventeen degrees. He won’t admit to himself that it’s an excuse to touch Blaine. No. He’s just trying to be clear with him. Get his point across. “She calls herself Brittany. She’s a river mermaid. I found her sunning herself on the banks of the Mississippi. She’s over three hundred years old.”

“Amazing,” Blaine breathes with the genuine awe of a child seeing a rainbow in the sky for the first time. “She doesn’t look a day over eighteen.”

“She can make rocks and boulders sing,” Kurt explains, trying to come up with anything else she can do that might impress him. “Rumor has it she used to whisper in the ear of Mark Twain as he traveled the river boats so, in essence, she’s the author of most of his more memorable stories.”

“Awesome.”

“Quite.”

Another blink and they return to the ruin of Kurt’s makeshift forest. As soon as the black night surrounds them, Kurt feels cold. There was so much under the big top for Blaine to see.

He teleported them back too soon.

And Blaine, not in the least bit affected by zipping through the fabric of reality, returns to his chipper self.

“Nevertheless,” Blaine says, turning to meet Kurt’s eyes, “can any of them do this?” Blaine tosses his deck in the air and starts juggling individual cards, catching them with his knuckles and then flipping them in the air again until they create a perfect arch. It’s rather intricate, and Kurt questions how a mortal who boasts no particular supernatural powers can accomplish it … but by his circus’s standards, it’s just cute.

“Probably. But here’s what you’re missing – they have power. You have none. And a lot of them aren’t as patient or as congenial as I am. If they get angry with you, or if you get in their way, they will kill you, or worse. They may imprison your soul, shrink your head while it’s still on your body, remove your brain and keep it in a jar.”

“Aww,” Blaine coos. “Are you worried about me?”

Kurt scoffs. “Not in the slightest.”

“Well, don’t be,” Blaine says, ignoring the demon’s last remark. “I can take care of myself.”

“I don’t see how. Tell me, human, what have you been doing with all of your 35 years on earth?”

“This!” Blaine holds up his deck and gives it a shake. “I’m an entertainer! A jester! A magician!” Kurt stares, waiting for the shoe to drop. He knows it’s coming. This man’s whole presentation has been nothing but dropping shoes.

And yet, it’s probably the most fun that Kurt’s known in years.

“But I work the register at a dry cleaners to pay the bills.”

“And there it is,” Kurt says, throwing his arms up in exasperation. “I’m surprised that I’m even surprised. So you have no circus or performance experience of any kind?”

“Yes, I have! I was an ale wench for six months at Medieval Times.”

“An ale … wench?” Puck chortles, wheezing when he pictures Blaine in a corset and a dress. Though, oddly enough, he has to admit, it’s not a bad look for him.

“Oh, and in high school, I was in The Wizard of Oz.”

“As what? A Flying Monkey?”

“No.” Blaine smirks. Then he snickers. “As one of the angry trees.”

Kurt feels his cheeks flush red but not out of anger, and that’s the part that makes him the most livid. “You’re ridiculous! Do you know that?”

“Well, you must like ridiculous.”

“And how do you figure that?”

“It’s been over an hour, and you’re still talking to me.”

“You’d never survive traveling with us,” Kurt says, stomping his feet and raising his voice, furious because, for a second, half a second, less than half so he won’t have to loathe himself for thinking of it, he began to ask himself - could it be that this time around, Kurt doesn’t follow his human love interest for the rest of his days on Earth?

Maybe he takes the love interest with him?

He hears the low hum of power again, tickling in his brain; he sees the barrage of memories that aren’t his; feels the warmth throughout his body that gathers in his stomach, trying to tell him something that he refuses, under pain of dismemberment or death, to supply any credence to.

There is absolutely no way, here or in hell, that he wants to have any attachment to this human! The man’s a hack! A con! A dime-a-dozen trickster out to make a quick buck at Kurt’s expense, and that’s all.

And Kurt’s first priority has to be to make him leave. He’s done entertaining these thoughts any longer. He was right to begin with. They don’t need to add new blood to the mix. New people only cause trouble. This proves it! They’ll figure something out. They’ll find another way. It’s a good plan. A sound plan.

So why does it make him feel emptier inside?

“We cross dimensional portals,” Kurt says in a stern voice. “Humans are soft. If it doesn’t make your blood boil, and if you don’t get torn limb from limb, it’ll turn your stomach inside out.”

Kurt stares at Blaine with an intensity that will turn the man into a candle if Kurt’s not careful. But somewhere in the man’s golden eyes, Kurt sees something click. He’s getting it. He’s finally getting it. He understands. This isn’t the place for him. He doesn’t belong there with him. With them.

With him.

Blaine lifts one shoulder. “That’s okay. I don’t get travel sick.”

Kurt slaps himself in the forehead with his palm.

“He has power,” Puck hisses in a whisper, having warmed to the idea of Blaine’s joining them over the course of the conversation.

Anyone who can get on Kurt’s nerves this badly might be worth keeping around.

“I can smell it. And I know you can smell it, Kurt. He has it in his background. Even if he can’t use it, it’s most likely in his blood. It might be enough to protect him.”

“What are you doing!? I don’t need you taking his side!”

“I’ll bring Dramamine,” Blaine adds. “Just in case. It’ll be good.”

Kurt laughs in vexation, knowing he’s losing this battle. Fine! Whatever! So what if the human comes with? It’s no skin off Kurt’s nose. He’ll just leave the dirty work to Puck, have him clean up the man’s guts when he implodes! Or mop him up when Loki’s great-great-great-great-grandnephew turns him into an oil slick. Or chase him down with a glass jar when Brittany transforms him into notes of music!

Or, Kurt could fit him with a protection spell. Something mild that might boost his power. Kurt hates to admit it, but this is workable.

The only problem is what it might do to him personally if the human stays.

“We pay minimum wage,” Kurt says, his methods of dissuading Blaine getting weaker and weaker.

“I’m fine with that. I was planning on cashing in my 401K anyway.”

“Wait, wait, wait … you work at a dry cleaners as a cashier and you have a 401K?” Puck gasps. “How in the world did you manage that?”

“I was a business minor in college.”

“You don’t say.”

“Yup. I set up a portfolio using eTrade online, diversified early, made a good call on some high risk investments …”

“Guys! We’re getting a little off topic, don’t you think?”

Blaine turns to Kurt. He stares deep into the demon’s eyes, as if he’s about to relate something profound, and says, “Ace of spades.”

Kurt jerks back. “What?”

“Your card.” Blaine points to the card skewered to the palm of Kurt’s hand. “It’s the ace of spades, am I right?”

Kurt looks at the card he’d forgotten he’d been holding, the one he’s been strangling this whole time. “How did you know that?”

“Your eyes give you away,” Blaine says with another of his infuriating winks. Kurt doesn’t like Blaine’s winks. They’re sly and disarming … and they make his stomach wriggle like a mass of earthworms struggling to rise through a thick puddle of mud. But Kurt finds himself grinning over the comment about his eyes until he remembers one thing.

His red eyes are reflective.

Which means Blaine’s just a con-man. A charming, handsome con-man.

But he’s a good one, there’s no denying that. He’s pretty much conned his way into Kurt’s circus, whether Kurt likes it or not. He’s conned Puck into taking his side, though that’s probably not as difficult a feat as Kurt is giving him credit for.

Conning his way into Kurt’s life - that Kurt doesn’t like. But Kurt will find a way around that. If Kurt could tame him up a little, Blaine might be of use to them.

If anything, he might be more qualified to balance their books than Puck, the neutered Pukwudgie.

“Look.” Blaine closes his eyes and exhales, rubbing a hand over his face as if he knows he’s running out of options. And on his face, Kurt catches a look that he’s seen on other humans a thousand times.

He’s even seen it on himself.

I just don’t want to be here. I just don’t want to be alone anymore.

That speaks to Kurt. Here it was, the truth behind the con.

I can’t stay here. There are too many memories here. I’m trying to live, I’m doing the best I can, but there’s nothing for me here anymore. If I have to stay here another week, another month, I won’t be able to take it. I’ll do something rash. Please. You have to take me with you. You have to let me in. I’m so lonely, and I just want a little bit of happiness. It’s been over twenty years. Don’t I deserve that?

Kurt nods at Blaine’s sentiment, the one in Blaine’s head, but that’s not what Blaine says.

What he says is this:

“You guys used to do well here on Earth because witches and warlocks and mermaids and unicorns and …” Blaine looks between Kurt and Puck. He makes a quick decision and points to Puck “… him … were the stuff of fantasies and legends. But now they’re the stuff of movies. Summer blockbusters by the dozens, coming out year after year like clockwork. With modern technology, computers and CGI, humans can create fantasy. Anything they want, even in their own homes. Kids more than half my age are becoming Internet famous with sci-fi movies they film in their basements and upload on YouTube. And that’s bad for you guys. Really bad for you. I’m not going to sugarcoat it. But where you guys are headed, won’t I be the thing of fantasy? The oddity? Won’t I be what draws a crowd, even if all I do are card tricks?” Kurt’s eyes are immediately drawn to the man’s hands, but miraculously, his ever-present deck of cards seems to have disappeared. In fact, dressed in a pocket-less black button down over a black tank top, skin tight jeans, and boat shoes on his feet with no socks, Kurt has no idea where that deck of cards even came from to begin with. The man shouldn’t even be able to wear underwear in those jeans. Where the hell is he hiding a deck of cards? “Maybe you guys can’t break even here, but why not get a head start wherever it is you’re going, and come back here with a better game plan?”

“And I assume that you are going to want to help us with that game plan?”

“It’d make sense, wouldn’t it? I mean, I know what the people here want. I have the inside scoop.”

“I also assume you’ll be expecting a cut,” Puck grouses.

“Not a cut,” Blaine says, that exhausted look evaporating with the arrival of a single, effervescent smile. “An opportunity.”

Kurt’s eyelids narrow. “What opportunity?”

Blaine turns his attention Kurt’s way, and Kurt notices the way Blaine’s eyes light up when he looks at him, the way his face seems to shine when he aims his smile at him.

“Well, now, that remains to be seen.”

Kurt sighs. He doesn’t know what to make of that comment, how to feel about it, but he moves on nonetheless. “Listen,” he says, already regretting what he’s about to say. But Blaine has a point. In other dimensions, he would be the oddity. That might be worth something. “I don’t know that you’ll fit in here, but you can come with. I’ll give you a trial run, so you can figure out if this is really the future you want. And if it’s not, we’ll drop you back off the next time we’re nearby.”

“You have the power to see the future, don’t you?” Blaine says.

“Sometimes,” Kurt replies, though seeing as he hasn’t been able to predict anything that’s happened so far, he might have to scratch that one off of his list of abilities.

“Well, what do you see in mine?”

“Me changing my mind if you don’t get your ass out of here.”

Blaine smiles his megawatt smile, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a golden retriever puppy. “You mean it?”

Kurt’s head tells him to say no. Regardless of if this is a workable idea, it’s still not an advisable one. Bringing a human through time and space may have consequences. But it’s not Blaine’s brilliant con that made Kurt’s mind up for him. It’s not even the warmth that’s been bubbling in Kurt’s heart since Blaine arrived.

It’s that one sentence Blaine uttered without saying a word.

I just want a little bit of happiness.

Kurt has dedicated his life to bringing happiness to others. That’s what his circus has been about. He didn’t create it for wealth or fame. He’s been sidetracked a little bit lately trying to keep their heads afloat, but not out of greed. Out of responsibility. But if he overlooks this man and his gifts simply because he’s human, Kurt will be a hypocrite to the ninth degree.

Besides, maybe helping this man find his happiness will help every one of them in the long run.

Even Kurt.

He’ll have to set the wheels in motion and see how this plays out.

“Yeah, I mean it.” Kurt shrinks a few feet to meet the man’s height. “Go home and pack up your things. Get your affairs in order and say your goodbyes. In a couple of days, we’ll be leaving this dimension, and I don’t know for sure when we’ll be back. Does that sound okay with you? Does it sound like something you can do?”

Kurt holds his breath while he waits for Blaine to answer, not because he’s afraid that Blaine will say yes, but because he’s suddenly afraid that Blaine might say no.

“Yes!” Blaine claps his hands. “Yes! I can! That’s no problem! Absolutely no problem, I …” Blaine rambles as he backs out of the room, planning out loud “I’ll pack up my things, I’ll say my goodbyes, I’ll cash in my accounts, I’ll … thank you!” He rushes over to Puck. He takes the goblin’s sticky hand and pumps it hard. “Thank you! Thank you so much!”

“Don’t thank me, young man,” Puck says, extricating his hand from Blaine’s grasp as if he were shedding himself of a slimier than normal banana slug. “Thank the demon. He’s the one who’ll be vouching for you from now on, so I suggest you don’t mess up.”

“Of course not! Of course I won’t!” Blaine launches himself at Kurt. Kurt reaches for his hand, but Blaine throws his arms around his waist instead, hugging him with all his might. “Thank you,” Blaine says, softer than a whisper. “You won’t regret this.”

“Make sure that I don’t.” Kurt can’t bring himself to hug the man. Not just yet. Not with those painful memories laying siege to Blaine’s mind. So Kurt pats him on the back instead. “Remember that if you piss me off in any way, peeling the skin from your bones is still an option.”

“I’ll remember.” Blaine detaches himself quickly and, with a wave at Kurt and Puck, races from the ruin, presumably heading home to collect his things and bid a fond adieu to his life.

He’ll be back. Kurt knows.

He doesn’t need to be psychic to see it.

“You like him,” Puck sneers, following Kurt’s eyes as the demon watches the human go.

Kurt clicks his tongue with disgust. “No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Don’t be ri---” He’s about to say ridiculous, but he remembers what Blaine said about liking ridiculous. He won’t prove him right. He refuses to use that word “… stupid.”

“A-ha,” Puck says, insulted. He takes one look at Kurt and his eyes grow wide, becoming the size of saucers, outdoing his nose for the most outlandish feature on his face. “Kurt! You---you’re budding!”

Kurt’s face scrunches. “What?”

“Look for yourself! You’re actually growing leaves! And flowers! Gah!” The goblin exclaims in disgust. “Is that … an apple?”

Kurt twists his torso in an attempt to get a better look. He spots his reflection in the filth-covered windows a short distance away and sneers. “It happens,” he says, trying to bat it off his body with his fingers. “It’s almost spring.”

“Don’t give me that!” Puck groans, swiping away Kurt’s excuses with his hand. “You’re wearing a disguise! One that you control! That apple is all you, buddy!”

“Well, what was that with you talking shop with him? About his portfolio?” Kurt counters. “You were practically drooling! It was pathetic!”

“Don’t talk pathetic with me. I’m not the one sprouting fruit. And I’m not fanboying! I’m trying to keep us in the black, Kurt! Remember? I’m not too proud to admit that that young man might know a little more than me in that regard.”

“Stop trying to be hip, Puck. It doesn’t suit you,” Kurt sniffs. “Having a blog on Tumblr doesn’t make you relevant.” Kurt plants his hands on his hips and goes back to pacing, trying to come to grips with these changes, what he did - inviting a human to travel with them, making him part of the troupe.

Possibly flirting with him, and how that made him feel.

How it felt to give in to his nature after so long.

He taps his fingers on his hip as he marks off the many, many mistakes he made in the past two hours. When his finger hits something – or more to the point, the absence of something - he can’t help the grin blossoming on his face among a small patch of moss and a cluster of bluebells. And if a small robin’s nest sprouts somewhere in the vicinity of the new growth behind his left ear, complete with momma bird and a clutch of pale blue eggs, well, he won’t be the one to point it out.

He doesn’t have to. Puck sees it and shakes his head. “So, tell me this, Kurt - if you don’t like him, then why are you blooming? What’s with the smiling? I haven’t seen you this giddy since The Great Emu War.”

Kurt chuckles before he answers, patting down his body once to be doubly sure. He’s been using magic to change his appearance, giving himself a façade that aligns with what the humans believe a “tree demon” should look like. It covers up his vaguely human form, including the clothes he wears (which is a shame because he happens to have amazing fashion sense). It had to have been when Blaine hugged him. Kurt had been caught off his guard. It had happened so quickly, he didn’t even notice.

The sly bastard.

Blaine must have been looking for Kurt’s stone. Of course, he was. Blaine, with even a Google knowledge of Spriggan would know that Kurt might have one. Many a Spriggan does - a beautiful, snow white keepsake - and the Spriggan who loses his is required to grant wishes to the person who finds it. Blaine must have felt it. It’s difficult to miss once you put your hand on it.

Kurt can imagine what Blaine would have wished for if he’d taken it.

But for some reason, he didn’t. The most precious of Kurt’s possessions, and Blaine left it behind.

There is obviously more to this man than meets the eyes.

But that doesn’t mean he left empty handed.

In that same pocket was something else, which has now gone missing, and Kurt smirks thinking about it.

“He stole my wallet.”