#she’s kind of a blunt instrument

[morgacht]

Day 3 - Old OC - Fiadh Soot step cloud

Fiadh ! My little lady, my first character (a Charr ranger)

Formerly of the Soot warband, Fiadh’s an ash legion ranger who really has spend her time out in the wilds to the detriment of her social skills. Her first warband was pretty disfunctional, and while that’s not. Great. She kind of really wishes they hadn’t gone and DIED-

She didn’t languish as a gladium for long however, taking back up with the Cloud warband and changing her name accordingly.

She like. Fairly languishing around level 35 right now, smh. And she has been since 2020! I just didn’t vibe with ranger so much and used a lv. 80 boost on morg and RUINED MYSELF

She’s fun, she has stuff I could work with and I’ll certainly get back to playing a ranger eventually. I just prefer Elementslist and Mesmer right at the moment.

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Collision Course

14/12: Blizzard and Blowjob - Ettore Word Count: 2.7k~ | Warnings: dub-con, face fucking, Ettore is a dick yada yada, facial

12 Days of Smuff Masterlist

A/N: I was on something nasty when I wrote this FYI

“Dibs says there’s gonna be a solar storm soon. With any luck it’ll take us with it”, Mink mutters distastefully between bites of lumpy, cold rations.

“Hm..” 

“What’s that old cunt gonna do when it hits? Not like we have any escape pods.”

“Yeah…” she murmurs half-heartedly in response, only partially listening. Lost in the repetitive motion of pushing her food around her plate with a fork. It doesn’t even look edible, she thinks with displeasure. They’re all dying on this stupid ship, and somehow the rations look worse off.

Mink flicks her hand against her arm, prompting a sharp look, “Ow! What the fuck—”

“You’re not listening to me.”

She scoffs, rubbing her arm in more of a theatrical way than to show it actually hurt. “So?”

“The hell’s wrong with you? You’ve been weird a few days now.”

It’s been longer than that, is all she thinks with bitterness. About a week now she’d wager. 

Longer than that, really, she thinks with a familiar bitterness. About a week, she figures, maybe a little more. She’d known getting involved would be a bad idea. She knew better than to get involved with him, to anyone on this miserable tin can. But there had been that inescapable pull, that sharp ache that was part loneliness, part hormones maybe, stupid as it seemed now. And now, she was paying for it.

Mink’s voice pulls her back. “Is this about… Ettore?”

The name hangs in the air like smoke. She freezes, doesn’t answer, just stares hard at her plate. Mink leans closer, her brows drawn.

“Oh, come on. You think I didn’t notice?”

She wants to lie, but somehow, she doesn’t have the energy to. So, she shrugs, and that’s enough to make Mink snort.

“Thought you were smarter than that,” Mink says, and it’s not unkind, exactly, just blunt in the way only Mink can be. “You know what kind of guy he is.”

She sighs, finally pushing her tray aside. There’s no point pretending the food’s worth eating. "I’m not exactly winning any prizes for smart decisions lately, am I?"

Mink snorts. Glad she’s finding this amusing, she thinks bitterly, but really holding no resentment. 

“We have enough on our plate without getting tangled up with wanting dick. Not to mention it’s against the rules.”

“I’m aware,” she states bleakly, feeling that familiar flicker of irritation at the reminder. As if she needed another living soul to tell her what she could and couldn’t do. She’d done the worst things imaginable to end up here, as had everyone else, and yet that slimy, smirking doctor was gonna tell her she couldn’t fuck whoever she wanted? 

That was the reasoning initially anyway.

Now, she knew there’d be consequences if Dibs did find out. Punishment in the form of what metal instrument she could shove into their bodies next. 

As much as she enjoyed the release. It wasn’t worth that. Besides, she knew there was never any future in it. Never anything more than a few stolen moments in the middle of the night. A bit of relief in the endless monotony of living in the hollow, metal hell of this ship.

“I’m done, anyway,” she says, almost to herself, “should have stopped it before it started really.”

“Should’ve, but you didn’t. But you’ve given him a taste now. Who says he’ll want to stop?”

She sighs, eyes closed. Yeah, I’d considered that.

Ettore wasn’t the type to let go of his toys easily. Especially when he’d been given something he wants, something forbidden that he knows could be taken away. It seemed that the thrill wasn’t even in the sex, it was breaking the rules that had half the appeal. 

“If he pushes, he’ll get the message I give him.”

“Sure, but he’s not exactly the type to take ‘no’ for an answer, is he?”

“No,” she admits, looking off. As usual, Mink was right there. 

She had seen that look in Ettore’s eyes, the one that says he’s already decided what he wants, and nothing will stand in his way to get it. The thought had been exhilarating at first, that singular, dangerous focus. Now, it feels like a liability, a choice she wishes she could rewrite. 

“As much as I hate to give you ammunition, you are right,” she adds, “I gave him an inch, and he’ll think he’s got the whole mile. But I’ll handle it. Somehow.” She doesn’t know exactly how yet, but one thing was clear.

She could not keep going down this path, not with the risk getting sharper and closer by the day.

When she’s alone again, the silence presses in, heavier now, weighted with the knowledge of what comes next. She takes a breath, bracing herself for the inevitable fallout. Ettore may come looking, but this time, she’s ready to hold her ground.

Maybe, she thinks, the clean break will be worth it, if she can manage it before he pulls her back in again.

The worst part of trying to keep her distance from Ettore was the way it left her awake at night, her body a knot of unresolved tension that refused to let her sleep. She lay there, wide-eyed in her bunk, staring up at the dull, metallic ceiling and then over at the other bed, where Mink was already sound asleep, breathing evenly.

Bitch, she thought with a pang of envy. 

Mink never had trouble sleeping in this place, not like she did, tossing and turning every night, gnawed at by this frustrating, white-hot need she couldn’t shake.

She shifted, but no matter how much she tried to will it away, her mind continued to drift back to the last time she’d been with Ettore. How it had felt to give in, to let that need unravel. She could still feel the press of his hands on her hips, the roughness of his touch as if he needed it as much as she did, the intense look he had given her that made her forget the rules and her situation. The risk. Everything but him. She’d wanted to stop it, she really had.

But when she had him once, that familiar fire burned in his eyes, and it was hopeless to resist.

Now she was paying for it. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to erase the memory. But the tightening in her stomach, the craving, was near unbearable. 

Must be ovulating or something, she thought bitterly back to her last appointment with Dibs.

She was sick of lying here, wallowing in horny self pity. Glancing over at Mink, she saw she hadn’t moved an inch. The cold air hit her bare legs as she swung out of bed, not even having the effort to pull anything else on as she made the mercifully short journey to the Box. She hated using it. But any relief at this point was welcomed. 

Making her way down the steel ladder, she groaned and wanted to smash her head against the nearest wall when she found it occupied. 

At least the washers are on. Whoever’s in there better be out in ten seconds flat or else–

The door slid open with a hiss. Ettore stared right back. Surprise at first perhaps. But the shadows darkened over his eyes, looking her up and down.

Fuck.

And if that wasn’t bad enough.

The alarms blared to life, shrieking through the narrow corridors as the ship jolted under the force, lights flickering wildly. A shiver shot through her, but before she could shove past him, he reached out, his fingers closing firmly around her arm.

“Ettore, let go,” she hissed, trying to pull back, but his grip only tightened, and there was a glint in his eyes that made her pulse jump.

“Not a chance,” he murmured, a dark edge to his voice.

He moved quickly, pulling her into the Box with him as the door slid shut behind them with a heavy clang. The sound of the emergency lock echoed around them, trapping them in the confined, dimly lit room. She tried to turn, to make for the door controls, but it was useless, the ship’s emergency protocol had sealed them in tight. 

Emergency. Solar Storm. Automatic shutdown is in effect.

She was locked in with him, and judging by the way he was watching her, Ettore had no intentions of keeping his hands to himself.

With an annoyed huff, she slammed her palms against the door, the low light in the Box now charged with thrumming red glints of warning lights. Steadying her breath, she turned to him, schooling her expression to something calm in the face of his low, dangerous one.

He was not happy.

“You've been avoiding me.”

It wasn’t a question. He stood tall, blocking her like some predator in a cage, his jaw tight and his eyes burning with accusation.

“Maybe I have,” she said, crossing her arms and leaning against the wall, trying to appear calm even though her pulse was racing. “Take the hint.”

Ettore’s lips curled into a humourless smirk. “That’s not how this works.”

“And here I thought this wasn’t supposed to be anything,” she scoffed right back.

“It wasn’t.” He stepped closer, and she pressed her back to the wall, her defiance faltering. “But then you decided to ignore me, and now it is.”

She swallowed, trying to do the same to the rising discomfort as he caged her in, trying to cover how she felt with her voice.

“You're all talk,” she says low, firm. “Trying to intimidate me. What you gonna do, hm? I bet you can't even get it up.”

The flash of anger in his eyes made her breath hitch. And yet, there was something about it that made her want to push him more.

He moved then, so fast she barely had time to react. One hand slammed against the wall beside her head, his body crowding hers. She should’ve been scared, should’ve shoved him away, but the sheer heat rolling off him pinned her in place.

His other came to her neck, fingers curling around her flesh, slow, deliberate, as if daring her to stop. But her lips parted slightly, exhaling so soft it was near imperceptible. She watched the pulsing red light on the side of his face, casting sharp shadows on his skin where his features were carved out.

And found she didn't want him to stop.

She swallowed hard, her bravado crumbling as his touch ignited something low and insistent in her belly. This wasn’t supposed to happen. She’d come here to forget him, to regain control, but now, locked in this room with him, her control was slipping fast.

“I hate you,” she whispered.

“No, you don’t.”

Ettore’s hands were on her, firm and unyielding as he grabbed and pulled her toward the bench that stood in the middle of the dim room. She stumbled, jerking against his grip, but he didn’t let go.

“Ettore, what the hell are you doing?” she demanded, her voice rising as she struggled against him.

“Stop fighting,” he muttered, the edge in his voice sharpening as he manoeuvred her onto the bench.

She tried to push herself up, her palms bracing against the hard surface, but he was already lowering her down, his strength undeniable as he guided her head to the edge of the bench. Her neck arched uncomfortably as she twisted, glaring up at him.

“Ettore, I mean it, what the fuck are you doing?”

His hand gripped her chin, tilting her head back so she had no choice but to look up at him. The dark hunger in his eyes sent a jolt through her, half fear, half something else entirely. Stood tall over her, head level with his strained crotch.

“I’m gonna feel your throat around me.”

Her pulse thundered in her ears, watching as he pulled his erection free of his sweatpants. Her mouth went dry, a mixture of anticipation and panic rising in her gut.

“And you're gonna take every fucking inch.”

She barely had a moment to even speak, before his cock head was prying her lips apart, his length sliding mercilessly into her mouth without care of comfort. Just the idea that he was looking down, watching, as she took him, her throat trying to close around him.

Her hands instinctively rose to push at his hips, her palms flat against the hard muscles beneath his sweatpants, but he didn’t stop. His hand tangled in her hair, holding her in place as he drove himself deeper, filling her mouth until she could feel the head of him brushing against the back of her throat.

Her eyes watered, her nails digging into his hips, but he didn’t relent, his other hand gripping the edge of the bench for leverage as he rocked his hips, sliding deeper with each thrust.

Just the idea that he was looking down, watching her struggle to take him, sent a strange thrill coursing through her, a mix of frustration, humiliation, and something far darker.

He groaned, his grip on her hair tightening as he angled her head just the way he wanted. “That's it,” he breathed darkly.

Her throat clenched around him as he pushed deeper, his hips rocking with steady, deliberate thrusts that left no room for her to adjust. The stretch was intense, her lips aching as they strained around his girth. Her gag reflex fluttered again, her eyes squeezing shut as she tried to suppress the instinct, but Ettore wasn't about to let her hide.

"Don't close your eyes," he said sharply, following with a light smack to her cheek.

Her cheeks burned with humiliation, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. The smug satisfaction on his face only made her breath hotter, stuck in her chest.

"God, you're such a mess," he said, his voice dripping with mockery as he watched her struggle to accommodate him. "Look at you. Choking on me like it's the first time you've ever done this.”

Her lungs burned for air. He was relentless, thrusting into her mouth as if it were just another hole for him to claim. Each slide into her throat was deeper than the last, and the vibration of her whimpering around him made him groan out loudly.

His hand slid to her neck, as if to feel himself in her throat, squeezing experimentally, stimulating himself through her flesh in some lewd, completely wrong but erotic way.

"You feel that?" he said, his voice low and strained, using the grip he had on throat as leverage to pull her onto him harshly. “Bet you can't even breathe.”

His pace grew erratic, his grip tightening painfully as he chased his release. "Fuck," he growled, his voice breaking as his head tipped back for a moment.

Suddenly, he pulled back, his cock slipping from her mouth with a slick gasp of air that left her coughing, her chest heaving. Before she could gather her bearings or even protest, his hand was still firm in her hair, holding her in place as he stroked himself roughly.

Her stomach twisted, shame and anger warring with the simmering heat in her belly. "Ettore, don't-"

"Shut up," he cut her off, his tone sharp as his thumb angled her face up toward him. "You wanted to push me? Then take it."

She barely had time to process the words before his release hit her skin, hot and thick. He groaned deeply, his body jerking with each pulse, the sound low and guttural as he painted her face with his cum.

The humiliation burned hotter than her anger, her hands clenched into fists at her sides as he finished, the sticky warmth dripping down her cheeks, her lips. She wanted to wipe it away, to shove him off, but the way he looked at her, satisfied, smug, and utterly in control, froze her in place.

"Look at you," he muttered, his thumb smearing the mess across her cheek almost mockingly. "So fucking pretty like this.”

She glared up at him, her voice hoarse as she spat, "You're disgusting."

Ettore only laughed, the sound dark and unapologetic as he tucked himself back into his sweatpants. "You're the one who came crawling to me."

The door hissed open as the emergency protocols finally deactivated, the solar storm subsiding and red lights receding to normality. Ettore stepped back, the smirk never leaving his face as he looked her over one last time, his eyes lingering on the mess he'd made.

"Clean yourself up," he said lazily, turning toward the door. "Wouldn't want anyone to see you like that, would we?"

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[mixtpecas]

It's 2 am and I'm just thinking about how Cas and Eileen became such complimentary partners for Dean and Sam even when the show (slash Chuck) didn't let them have a happy ending.

Like, Sam wanted independence from his family and hunting. Not because he hated hunting necessarily, but because it represented everything his dad seemed to value over him and his opinions. And throughout the show he does make his own choices, but more often than not they end up with him getting possessed or some other kind of loss of autonomy. And with everyone he dates there seems to be that fear of losing control - not that he's controlling per say, but that he can't really let his guard down. Jess, Amy, Amelia, might know About him, but he doesn't seem to show much real vulnerability or deeper trust in them.

And Eileen gets that - she was written to mirror Sam, but it's not like she's his clone. While Sam seems more run down by everything that's happened to him by the time he meets her, Eileen still has that fire that leads her to do good on her own terms. And because she understands both the hunting and independence aspects of Sam's life, her and Sam can see each other as equals, instead of falling into that civilian/hunter or protector/protectee approach that relationships in the show usually lean towards. It's a real breath of fresh air for me, and feels a lot like how I'd imagine an ideal relationship for Sam - someone that isn't afraid to challenge him, but also encourages him to speak up for himself and value his own feelings.

Then with Dean, there's a lot of similarities to Sam (obviously, with their shared upbringing lol) but he can also be his counterpart. Sam wants trust placed in him and independence, Dean wants commitment and for someone to not leave him. But like Sam's relationships, Dean definitely falls right into the Protector role and what he thinks he should be doing, not what he actually needs or wants (like with Cassie and Lisa). And for him, I feel like it's less about not trusting them (Dean actually confides in people fairly often!) but more about his understandings about relationships and his own self. Dean has been treated (intentionally and unintentionally) as a blunt instrument, someone unchangeable, someone to look to for comfort, etc. even before Mary died ("It's okay Mom, I'll never leave you" comes to mind).

Cas reflects this in the extreme - any of his own feelings were lobotimized out of him and it was seen as impossible for angels to feel at all without falling. For him, he could see Dean as a smaller-scale mirror to what he was feeling. And Dean could see Cas as a more abstract, less intimidating way to see his own life. Like Eileen and Sam, Dean and Cas understand each other as soon as they meet each other. Cas tells Dean he has doubts! Dean prays to Cas after a lifetime of not believing in angels! Their similarities let them connect but their differences let them grow - Dean is so stubborn and full of feeling that Cas finally has the final push to rebel. Cas is the most powerful thing Dean's ever met when he saves him from Hell, so Dean feels safe to rely on him and trust someone to answer him if he asks (or prays). And again, their similarities are at the ground of it all, so they stay as partners and equals.

For Chuck (and the writers) this kind of healthier partnership dynamic goes against the kind of romance they love, that focuses on avoidance and saviour complexes. If Dean and Sam feel secure in their senses of self outside of one another, and are encouraged to keep that up, what happens to the Cycles of Family Trauma Show?? Plus, there's the added elements of Cas being a man and Eileen being deaf (resulting in Despair and the Blurry Wife). Sam and Dean both needed Eileen and Cas at certain points in their stories, whether that was to rescue them, motivate them, give them something to lose, etc. But even though plot development was the main intention for these relationships, they signalled something outside of the routine Cain and Abel story. Instead of just representing that kind of unattainable happy future, Eileen and Cas developed genuine relationships with the brothers that encouraged them to be more genuine people, and eventually led them to defeat God.

[meryldian]

★ Growing up with Tokio Hotel (Devilish) ★

AN: It is no secret that I adore the childhood friends trope with all of my soul. This is very self indulgent and I have zero shame about it.

!! Some if not most hcs are based off events from Bill Kaulitz’s book “Career Suicide” !!

Part 2

Warning! Underage drinking and Smoking, small mention of bullying, some sexual themes briefly addressed. Friendly reminder it’s Tokio Hotel we’re talking about

How did you end up in Magdeburg or Loitsche is up to you, but there is no denial in saying that you were at the right place, at the right time when you met a little boy with spiky black and red hair at your new school playground

Little Bill Kaulitz thought you were cool from the second he saw you. There weren’t many people in the school that he had an interest on or that even payed any positive attention to him. With you it was different. You looked kind and unique!

Quickly he introduced you to his brother Tom, him being a kid with a bit of an inflated ego it would take him some more time to warm up to you.

In the meantime, you and Bill became inseparable. You were basically glued to each other’s hip. His mom would drop him off at your place every Saturday for you guys to play with your Polly Pockets, Power Rangers, dressing up in some ridiculous outfits that were the highest of fashion for your little selves.

Bill’s mom genuinely loved how her son was not scared to be himself around you. She would often ask how you were doing and when you would come over next.

You started to grow on Tom thanks to his mom’s faith in you. If his beloved mom trusted you then so could he.

Tom was getting into skating at the time, he would offer you to learn with him or watch him do tricks.

He loved the attention.

He probably tried to charm you up but gave it up when he saw of how much worth you were. You guys did not bring it up again, only in interviews later on when you wanted to dirt on Tom.

Unfortunately you wouldn’t always be shielded from the chaos in their childhood. One way or another you would probably end up trashing a train or smoking blunts behind the school bushes very early on.

It wasn’t uncommon for you to show up to class totally high.

On the evening you guys would grab your bikes, or you would ride with one of them, and head down by a lake to smoke, chat and unwind. Throwing rocks in and seing how many times it bounced.

With time the twins found their one true love, music. They dreamed big, long gone were the school talent shows and weddings. They wanted to reach the world.

For that, their little singer, guitarist duo with a keyboard that played bass and drums wouldn’t work.

One morning right before class the boys came up to you, literally sprinting and blabbering at the same time. You only understood “band, you, join, casting”

From that moment on you were doomed.

If you didn’t play an instrument already the twins’s step-dad would happily accept you into his music school for free.

Through his acquaintances you guys found a drummer. He was immature for his age according to Tom. He wore glasses and a little shirt with a cow skiing.

When the day of the “casting” as the twins called it came, Gustav played some Phill Collins and solos for you guys. Clearly it wasn’t a real casting and you were fully aware that this boy was your best bet at getting a drummer for your newly formed band. Yet, the boys took it very seriously.

Tom replied “alright good you have the job” and rolled with it.

What were the odds that at the same music school Gustav attended there was an aspiring bassist.

Again, it was your best bet so you took Georg in.

If your first language was english it could’ve gone two ways when the twins came up with the name “devilish”. You either loved it and thought it was sick or you cringed yet had to tag along with it for the boys.

Now you guys had the time of your lives with the band.

Weekdays after school would be spent entirely at the garage jamming out and drinking. You all sucked at the beginning, barely mastering your instruments but your charm stood out.

Georg and you became friends right away. His energy jumped right at you and you both became such a comedic duo.

He started the fire and you just added fuel to it.

You loved to prank your friends so much.

And innuendos. So many innuendos.

Once Tom joins into your madness, it’s over for everyone else.

It wasn’t rare for you three to come back home all messed up and pass out on Tom’s couch.

Gustav baking and making little snackies for the band while you rehearse !!

Well, you drank and lazied around more than rehearsing per say.

Tom, Georg, Gustav and you playing video games all coddled up on a couch together.

Thank god Bill is there to kick your asses so you actually play music.

Tom and You developed a habit of playing back to back. You thought it looked cool.

Gustav is the glue that keeps you all together, and away from major trouble. Half he time at least.

Quickly enough you gained a little fanbase in town.

At school you might’ve been the outcasts still, but the older and “cooler” kids took you in happily.

Not much changed, it was the same old story of drinking, smoking, trashing shit down but now with the slight change that everyone around you was discovering their sexuality.

You walk in and Georg’s wanking in the corner? Throw a blanket over him and continue with whatever you were doing.

Being around four young boys and their friends surely set you up to become just as shameless as them.

You guys got very familiar with one another and could not care less about changing in the same room or sleeping in the same bed.

You guys were starting to become a set of quintuplets.

You were probably one of the first if not the first person that Bill ever talked to about questionning his orientation and the little romance he had with his old friend.

If you happen to be a part of the community as well, Bill was your confidant as well. It was you guys’s little secret before coming out of the closet.

Needless to say, when Bill got the confirmation that he would be attending “Starsearch” he jumped right into your arms. You were one of his biggest supporters and he wanted you to be there for him.

Bill might’ve not won the competition, but it opened a door for your little band.

[armed-with-a-waffle-iron]

a pretty ambitious ask, but let's go:

suppose, you are now in charge of writing a dual story for stephanie brown and helena bertinelli. it can be a mini, a standalone, a comic series, or an entire run. you can use any version of them (as in, any alias or any particular storyline) and it doesn't have to align with the current dc storyline — simply, the floor is all yours. it can have connections to blunt trauma but it's not necessary. you can also revisit any past storylines and rewrite them newly for this dual story.

how would you go about this? what ideas and themes would you like to explore? or would you like to aim for more of a buddy vigilante adventure action thing?

(this is meant to be lighthearted and a roundabout way of me asking what sort of purple power comics you'd like to see more of, heh 💜💜)

Ooooo. It'd be a miniseries (4-6 issues), sort of a sequel to Blunt Trauma. I'm calling it Huntress/Batgirl: Blunt Instruments.

Dustin Nguyen is on pencils. It's set in the Batman: Reborn era. The Birds of Prey are broken up and Bruce is "dead". Stephanie is still established herself as the new, wild-card Batgirl and Helena has been vigilante-style globetrotting with bestie Renee Montoya. They're both feeling a little out of place and little lonely but won't admit it. They're both actually struggling with their complicated feelings over Bruce's death but won't admit it. They're both struggling with the open question of who they will become after this hard reset. Sky's the limit now right? So why doesn't it feel like that?

"Blunt instruments" is gonna be a phrase they've both heard Bruce use to describe them; undisciplined, heavy-handed loose cannons, ill-fit for vigilante work.

I wanna get to the bottom of what kind of heroes Helena and Steph are. What can they do just as well as Batman? (combat, crime-busting know how...) What can they do that Batman can't? (being more human than idea; approachability/intuition with people, viewing Gotham from a socially-concerned lens, lives/work outside batman-ing, faith/spirit, unpredictability...) What really drives them? (Helena as a teacher & Steph as a nurse) What's Gotham mean to them? (as people who live there and breathe the same air, instead of living in an ivory tower) To do this, they're gonna have to reckon with something close to home that raises old sins and old demons.

It's gonna be a mob story, drawn in the style of film noir but more playful. No super-powered threats. The antagonists are the Gotham Mafia, specifically the Inzerillo Crime Family who are primarily involved in racketeering and headed by an old-fashioned, "Mustache Pete" called Boss Enrico. The Inzerillo's secret weapon will be a young woman, Steph's age, who is the Boss's adopted daughter. She's an incredibly gifted assassin with a point to prove. She's desperate to "make her bones" and establish herself in a tyrannical, male-dominated space which ostracises her.

While they'll mostly be beating up male mafioso no-names, I also want Huntress and Batgirl dealing with youths and female spouses getting involved in the rackets; criminal receivers, runners for drugs, racketeering vandals and arsons, or even murders of those who dishonour the Family. I want these "complicit innocents" to have agency, and I want Helena and Steph get that (and get them).

I want them to deal more with the social ramifications of organised crime which Batman stories neglect. Lost kids, broken families, debts, addiction, incarceration, sexual exploitation, over-policing, police brutality... Things you can't just slap "Wayne Foundation" onto as a fix. I wanna show how better equipped these characters are with reckoning with more socially-concerned themes.

I also wanna really draw out their shared antiauthoritarian bent. The authorities, cops, and even Batman (Dick) and Robin will be barriers as they fight, dirty if they have to, to bring down a despot don with far reaching tentacles. What have authority figures ever done for them? They're used to flipping-off authority.

In a sense Batman, as an idea, that gave birth to Huntress and Batgirl/Spoiler and also represented to them a distant, disproving, unpleasable patriarch. Who are Helena and Steph in a world without God Batman? I want the story to be an answer. Batman will always influence who they are but who says they can't be independent and distinct in their own right.

Supporting cast. Their "mothers" will both show up to stir the pot, and by "mothers" I mean Catwoman and Dr. Thompkins. Oracle, and to a smaller degree, Misfit will help out on the case. I want them to come off as part of a (complicated) community, however alone they may feel.

Also, they're both only going to use their signature piercing weapons (crossbow and trick-batarangs) in the final issue, as a kind of we're not blunt instruments after all huh?

We're not getting a happy ending, but they'll come out with a hell of a lot of respect for one another (and hopefully themselves).

[rageprufrock]

Superposition | The Devil Judge WIP

Just a sneak peek into the inevitable outcome of me finding out that I can write a story about a 17 year age gap.

After the fire, Yohan wakes up every morning knowing that Isaac is dead. 

Elijah wakes up every morning convinced her father is alive. 

It's the crush damage of new grief each day, too big for her tiny body and too heavy for her to carry. It's worse than all of Yohan's years under his father's belt; it's not until he loses Isaac and Heejin, until Elijah cries herself unconscious in his arms, that Yohan realizes that his father had been a clumsy jailer, that for all his cruelty he'd been a blunt instrument compared to all the ways suffering can visit itself upon a person. 

It's a miracle Elijah is alive, surviving multiple complex fractures and then delayed treatment. They save the flesh and bone of her legs, piece her back together with literal pins and needles. Her x-rays are difficult to look at; the scarring across her ghost-pale skin is worse. She hurts, in a relentless way that is at first impossible to explain to a child, and then is so ordinary she goes quiet with it, turns it inward. She stops crying. She's too weak and immobile for her once-infamous tantrums. She goes quiet instead. She throws books, toys, anything that Yohan brings into her beautifully appointed private room to try to distract her. 

"It will be hard, and it will take time," her doctors say, with an infuriating paternalism, as if their performed empathy could dampen constant burn of searing fire across Yohan's shoulders, cut into the shell of him. "But she's young and she's resilient—she'll surprise you." 

For the first six months, Yohan spends his limited waking, functional hours desperately trying to hold back the flood with his bare hands. He wakes and he's in too much pain to function. He sleeps and his doctors adjust his pain management regimen. He wakes and he tries to comfort Elijah. He sleeps and he dreams about the skin grafts he's been informed are needed. He wakes and he calls Lawyer Ko. He sleeps when he knows Isaac's Social Responsibility Fund donation is canceled. He loses hours and entire days in the labyrinth of the hospital, winding between the VIP ward and the children's wing, meeting with Elijah's orthopedic surgeon, her occupational therapists, the revolving cast of nurses that transport her from procedure to scan to bedside. He arranges Isaac and Heejin's funeral, and ends up back as a patient when Elijah's meltdown at the gravesite has him tearing one of his barely healed graft sites trying to contain her flailing arms, to swallow all of her screaming pain into the bottomless well in the base of his spine. 

It's eight months and six days after the fire that Yohan hears Elijah laugh again. 

***

Later, he'll get a comprehensive readout from the hospital grapevine, but the day he meets Gaon for the first time, all he knows is that he's been summoned by the terrifying peds nurses because Elijah and her new friend have committed some kind of juvenile crime.

Yohan's not ignorant to the fact that Elijah is a nightmare child, but he's still a little confused about how a five year old who is—frankly—abysmal with her new wheelchair is any kind of threat to society. He fetches up at to the pediatric OT clinic fully prepared to act like a complete entitled asshole about this, because while Elijah is a monster, she's his monster and therefore completely innocent of all sin, original or otherwise. 

Except halfway down the hallway there, he hears the sharp cackle of Elijah's laughter, a goblin shriek of pure wicked joy. It lands like a punch, like a blessing, it leaves him lightheaded. 

When he rushes the door, it's to find Elijah in full glory, giggling so hard she can't speak. Her hair is tied up in a series of tiny ponytails that frame her face like a lion's mane, her face is covered in marker, and she's clutching a filthy orange cat to her chest. 

"Kang Yohan-sshi," says one of the nurses, who is trying and failing to look severe, from the way her mouth keeps wobbling and her voice is trembling. "As you can see, we have a situation."

"I—where did she get the cat?" Yohan asks, faint.

Another nurse, who is making no effort to hide her grin, says, "Apparently, they found him behind a trash can in the garden and snuck him into the hospital." 

Yohan slants his eyes toward her. "They?" 

"I'm really not sure how you missed her very obvious partner in crime," the nurse tells him, actively laughing now, and when Yohan turns to look again—turns to see anything other than the miracle of Elijah's smiling face—he sort of understands her point.

Because sitting next to Elijah is a skinny teenaged boy wearing Elijah's headband, all of his short hair pushed back and sticking out like a massive frill around his thin face, his nose colored black and whiskers drawn across his cheeks. He looks less embarrassed than he probably should be, and more incriminating, he's holding some contraption made out of stolen hospital supplies that looks like one those little fishing toys for cats—a single inflated glove hanging from the end—that the fat orange on Elijah's lap keeps reaching for with outstretched paws. 

Standing in the doorway, surrounded by staff and other parents who are barely containing their hysterics, the whole thing is even more batshit. Nurse Woo Yeji, the iron fist of the pediatrics ward, is looming over Elijah and the kid on the ground, hands on her hips as she booms out:

"Kang Elijah-sshi, give me that creature immediately." 

Elijah narrows her bright little eyes. "Oh no," Yohan mutters.

"My cat," she declares, her chin stuck out in defiance.

"He was so sick and skinny, we had to rescue him," the boy chimes in, with the admirable application of a pair of doleful, sweet eyes. It might be more effective if his face wasn't covered in washable marker and he didn't have a purple heart drawn over his left eyebrow. 

"That cat is at least 4 kilograms overweight," Nurse Yeji tells them both, unmoved. "And let me say: Kim Gaon, I thought you had better judgment than this."

The boy, Gaon, takes the comment with the ease of long familiarity with disappointment, but Yohan still sees his eyes go briefly flinty, briefly cold, before he pastes on a smile and says, "I rode my motorcycle into a wall. If you thought I had good judgement, that's your own fault." 

"Yah! Kim Gaon!" the nurse yells, which just sets Elijah off again into pealing laughter. 

And from the back of the room, Yohan watches the way this mouthy kid, this little punk, glances over to his niece, watches how the fake grin on his face dissolves for something softer—something run through with tenderness too old for his years. 

***

Kim Gaon is 17, orphaned, and a frequent flight risk from the group home he's been remanded to with both his parents dead. In the 13 months since his father had died by suicide, and the 10 months since his mother had followed, he's been picked up by the local cops at least a half-dozen times: for smoking, for drinking, for fighting. Yohan looks up photos of Gaon's once-happy family, reads SNS posts mourning the closure of their family restaurant, the police reports about the suicides, the note in Gaon's hospital file that notes that he's going into arrears for his parents' funeral costs. Kim Gaon's social worker talks about him with a sort of resigned apology, approaches Yohan's interest like another black mark in the boy's service jacket. She looks at Yohan's suit and briefcase, takes his business card and calls him Lawyer Kang, spills the whole of Gaon's history, reassures Yohan that however self-destructive, however volatile, Kim Gaon's never displayed any violent tendencies toward children, that Lawyer Kang should feel free to reach out immediately if he feels concern that Gaon has become Elijah's friend.

"If you'd like me to speak to him, to tell him you're not comfortable with him spending time with you niece, I completely understand," his social worker says. 

Kim Gaon has been treated for two different STIs and tried to kill himself with a motorcycle three months ago. The only people he has left in the world are a childhood friend from down the street and Judge Min Jeongho, who used to eat lunch at the Kim's restaurant every day. 

Kim Gaon is 17 and entirely alone.

Yohan smiles at her. "No need," he reassures her. "I'll handle this on my own." 

***

Too much of Kim Gaon's character reference is ultimately hearsay. Yohan doesn't trust himself, exactly, but he trusts his judgement, so he watches quietly from the sidelines, collecting data. Yohan hears all the nurses talk about how Gaon is achingly polite, how they can't understand how such a nice boy could be such an evident wild child he would ride motorcycles with reckless lack of self preservation. He watches Gaon do other peoples' homework, quizzing them on Joseon history and showing a middle schooler who's learning how to write with his left hand trigonometry. Kim Gaon plays Smash Brothers with a flock of elementary school kids and ruthlessly kicks their asses every single time.

The Kim Gaon that's considered a neighborhood menace, the one sends his teachers into a blind fury, that's the protective armor. Yohan knows from defensive adaptations. 

But being a nice kid isn't the same as belonging in Elijah's life in any meaningful way, Yohan acknowledges, and spends a pointless day drafting soul-killing discovery motions and wondering why he's devoting so much time to this distraction. Maybe it's how Elijah's sleeping through the nights better, communicating her pain and what she needs better. Maybe it's how she tells stories about her friend Gaon, and it briefly feels as if they've traveled backward through time, that Yohan's watching her for the night, hearing and becoming deeply invested in all of her day care drama. 

"Elijah-ah, why do you like Gaon so much?" Yohan asks her one night, midway through the intricate ritual of her bedtime routine.

From her bed, Elijah says, "Gaon is funny and cats like him and also his parents are dead, so someone has to take care of him," and without missing a beat, points her sparkling princess wand toward the closet, commanding, "Check there, too." 

Yohan climbs off of the floor where he'd been checking under the bed and goes.

"Would you want to see Gaon even outside of the hospital?" he asks her, doing a careful four-point inspection of the closet: more clothes than one child could ever wear, 200 pairs of shoes, a stuffed sheep the size of a horse—no monsters. "Closet's clear."

Elijah makes a considering noise. "Gaon-oppa said he was a really good cook, so I want to eat his food," she decides, and shy now, she waves Yohan toward her, tiny hands flapping. "Samchon, come here. I want to tell you a secret."

Yohan cherishes every secret he has with Elijah. Since she was born, he's kept so many for her: that she stole a cookie, that she's really really not scared of thunder, that she loves her uncle best, that church is boring. 

"I'm ready," Yohan promises, and sits at the edge of her bed with his most serious expression. 

Elijah looks left and right, as if there are spies around every corner, before she cups her hands around her mouth and Yohan curls over her so that she can whisper:

"Sometimes I forget I'm sad about Mom and Dad, but Gaon-oppa says that's okay because I never forget that I love them." 

It lands somewhere in Yohan's soft underbelly, in the forever ache of his scare tissue. He looks down into Elijah's solemn little face, her riverstone eyes, and he wonders what kind of benevolent God allows this—forces children to patch one another's broken hearts. He used to wish that he would have died instead, that he could trade himself for Isaac, for Heejin, but he's comforted Elijah through too many nightmares of his own death to entertain it any longer. Love's always been a chain, whether wrapped around his wrist with a cross or trapping him in his father's house. 

"You will, you always will," he whispers back. 

"And they love me, too, of course, in heaven," she tells him, with the haughty confidence of a spoilt only child, who'd grown up with three adults circling around her in constant adulation. 

"And I love you here, on Earth," he says, and does not add, your grandfather loves you, too, from where he's burning in hell.

Elijah goes suddenly quiet, thoughtful and a little distant, and Yohan waits patiently until she says at last, "Gaon doesn't think his parents love him in heaven." 

Yohan stills. "Did he say that?" 

"He told his friend, the unni that visits sometimes," Elijah reports, and staring dead into Yohan's eyes, she adds, "I was hiding behind a curtain listening. He also said he can't be her boyfriend." 

"Okay, well, time for little goblins to go to sleep," Yohan says, because he absolutely cannot start laughing about this because somewhere out there, in the beautiful hereafter that Isaac so fervently believed in, he would be furious if Yohan encouraged this kind of behavior.

***

For all Yohan's been investigating the mystery of Kim Gaon, he's wholly unprepared to be confronted by the reality of the boy while sitting in the hospital cafe at half past five, working his way through a stack of files for court the next day.

"Kang Yohan-sshi?" comes a voice, and when Yohan looks up, it's into the shaggy bangs and thin face of the boy who makes Elijah laugh, standing awkwardly at the edge of his table.

"Ah," he says, flipping his pen across his knuckles. "You're Kim Gaon."

Gaon's eyes round. "You recognize me?" 

"The nurses tell me you're friends with Elijah," Yohan says, and waves at one of the empty chairs at the table, shuffles a few folders around to make room. "Please."

It takes more than a little maneuvering for Gaon to take the offered seat, between his backpack and his crutches, his leg still in its cast, and Yohan offers him a steadying arm, takes his bag, helps shift the table this way and that way. Gaon looks mortified the whole time by these small courtesies, stumbling over thank yous and apologies. It tells on him in ways Gaon can't possibly know, but that Yohan can't possibly ignore.

"What brings you to my temporary office?" Yohan asks, when he's sure the kid isn't going to tip over and break anything else, and is only in immediate danger of blushing to death.

Gaon squares his shoulders, and taking a deep breath, says, "I wanted to talk to you about a cat."

This is how Yohan learns that the orange furball that he's first seen that day in the OT room all those many weeks ago is a stray that's been named Gam, and that Elijah's youthful enthusiasm for petty hospital-based crime has undergone a metamorphosis toward more elaborate heists.

"Not that I don't admire her ambition, but I'm pretty sure you'd notice the yowling lump in her sweater when you pick her up from OT," Gaon says, still nervous and too polite, darting wary little glances upward at Yohan. "I tried to talk her out of it, but she started arguing about how cold it was going to get and I had to admit defeat."

Yohan feels the corners of his mouth curl up, reflexive. "There's wisdom in recognizing when you're beaten," he says. "And I appreciate your letting me know."

"Sure," Gaon says before going quiet for a long measure, some unfinished sentence still hidden behind his lashes. Yohan's patient, waits him out, and is rewarded when a half-minute passes and Gaon says, with a brittle courage and poorly concealed vulnerability, "I—I'd take him with me if I could. I like Gam. But the house where I have to stay won't allow pets."

Yohan can hear a universe in between the confession here: that Gaon must have been worried about the cold weather long before Elijah even noticed, that he'd tried to find an answer all on his own. Yohan feels, tugging in the hollow underneath his breastbone, a hurtful recognition of a younger version of himself, all those raw edges fraying, and maybe—sitting here—he can understand a little of Isaac's quiet sadness, the way Yohan had carried all his suffering alone, as a matter of course, without ever trying to ask for help. 

He looks at the slope of Gaon's shoulders, the wrinkled collar of his school uniform shirt, his terrible haircut, the little divot of a piercing in his ear. Yohan thinks about the sunburst of Elijah's laughter and all the terrible things he's willing to do to sustain it; it's strange to realize he hadn't anticipated something so easy, something that wouldn't hurt at all. 

"Do me a favor," Yohan sighs.

Gaon's head darts up. "Um—if I can?" he says.

"Back me up when I tell her that I thought long and hard about this, and that I'm going to be a strict taskmaster about this cat," Yohan says, with a rueful certainty that there's no way in hell that Elijah is going to buy this narrative, because it looks like the sun is rising in the brightness of Gaon's eyes, the pink happiness of his too-thin cheeks. This kid couldn't lie effectively if his life depended on it. In this light, Gaon looks a little like Isaac, if Isaac was too thin and too hopeful, all gamine pleasure; it makes Yohan feel his bones creak just to look at him. 

"I will, I absolutely will," Gaon promises, smiling now and still shy, but so achingly sweet that it makes Yohan want to buy him hot chocolate, to tell him he's done a good job, to ask if he's eaten dinner. 

He forebears, and starts packing up his work documents instead. 

"Come on," he tells Gaon. "If I'm going to make a fool of myself trying to trap a feral hospital cat, you're coming with me."

Yohan ends up scratched to hell and back, his hand-tailored wool trousers covered in mud, while  Gaon laughs at him with a wide-open happiness that makes something in Yohan's chest feel too big for his rib cage. He decides not to think about it in favor of fetching Elijah from her PT and ferrying her down to his car, where Gaon is waiting for them both, a sulking Gam zipped into the front of his hoodie like an uncooperative child. His smile could light every building in Gangnam. Elijah's shriek of pure joy when she spots him leaves Yohan half-deaf for the drive home, and so the warm patter of Elijah and Gaon talking in the backseat rolls over him in indistinct syllable noises until he drops Gaon off at his group home and helps him to the door. 

"Thank you, for today," Gaon tells him, starry and still rosy, covered in cat hair. 

"Elijah's already drawing up plans for shared custody, so don't be a stranger," Yohan warns. 

He'd been ordered by Elijah to participate in an exchange of contact information with Gaon because everybody in the car had a unique and unaddressed relationship with the trauma of abandonment, and so of course Gam could not be suddenly bereft of one of his humans.

"I won't, I promise," Gaon swears, and nods back toward the car, where Elijah is holding Gam up against the window and waving his paw at them. "You should get her home."

Elijah talks nonstop during the drive out of the urban density of Seoul into the forested beyond where their family home is perched on a melodramatic cliff above a lake. Yohan hears about her nurses, her rivalry with another little boy in OT who sounds like he has a world-ending crush on her Gaon-oppa, and listens to the way Elijah sometimes stops mid-sentence when Gam meows at her and then replies, as if she can understand cat. 

Whatever is bubbling in his veins, its too violent to be the warm kindness of joy. This ferocity feels like some holy gratitude, feels like the way Isaac used to talk about God. Yohan has never any good at faith, but he thinks—to himself, so loudly he hears it over the roar of blood in his ears and the chattering happiness of Elijah, vividly alive—he thinks, thank you, thank you, to whoever is listening: to God, to fate, to fortune, to the fucking cat—to Gaon, waving at Elijah with both hands, a smile on his face and Gam curled close against his chest. 

[strangelittlestories]

It was 4am and Treasure was forcing down a third can of energy drink when thing got *weird*.

The library was hazy with that kind of quiet hysteria that blooms late at night, when impending deadlines crush the soul down into fertile soil for strangeness.

The fluorescent strip lighting and insufficiency of windows didn't help any.

Treasure was tired in a way that banished coherent thought and made sleep an impossibility. Her eyes kept trying to close, but when they did, she just saw spots of dark light floating on the inside of her eyelids.

She stared at those spots, daring them to make sense.

Imagine her surprise, then, when those spots - those holes in the reality of her - began to stare back.

Treasure opened her eyes. She looked down at the energy drink and considered setting it aside (she did not). She looked up again and found she had opened a new document on her laptop.

"MAKE AN OFFERING" It read in bold Grotesque font, each letter an oddly elegant blunt instrument.

Treasure looks from the energy drink to the laptop. Her hand moved on its own, pouring a splash of blue neon liquid onto the keyboard. She resisted the urge to wipe it off. She failed to resist the urge to swear.

The liquid fizzed and hissed on the keyboards and there was a scent of sickly fruit tinged with ozone in the air. The keys, already gummed up by solidifying chemical sweetness, began spitting out characters onto the document.

At first, they were nonsensical - no words, just a jumble of letters, punctuation and blank space. But as Treasure's eyes began to unfocus, the whole mess began to coalesce like one of those magic eye images (but made out of ASCII art).

The figure on the screen was a mess. Eyes like black holes. Lines running down them like cracks or oily ramen stains. Hair like thunder.

"What are you?" Treasure whispered.

Amongst the slurry on the screen, a few letters became bold and spelled out a sentence.

"I AM OVERDUE. GODDESS OF BURNOUT."

"Do you..." Treasure's voice was quiet, reverent, hesitant; a hymn in the key of awkward. "...do you want me to worship you?"

The letters swam. Rearranged.

"YOU ALREADY DO."

"What do you want from me?"

"GET SOME SLEEP."

"I ... I can't. I have a paper on Applied Theurgy due tomorrow."

"NOT A REQUEST."

Treasure's eyes closed. Sleep came.

When she awoke, days later. She found out that she had submitted a paper to the Arch-Professor. It was junk. The same mess of forehead-smashed input through which the goddess had appeared to her.

She had received a B minus.

The title of her paper was "It Is Better to Fade Away: An Accidental Communion."

It had been submitted with the note: "Please Give My New Disciple A Good Grade."

Treasure went in search of coffee.

[incognitobobcat]

Headcanon Tomáš

Photo Source: @jojogreg8441 on Twitter

Name: Tomáš Vrbada

Birthday: July 11, 1993

Zodiac Sign: Cancer

Birthplace: Prague, Czech Republic

Languages: Czech, English, Chinese (dialect unknown), learning Japanese

Fighting Style: Ninjitsu and Pencak Silat

Weapon: Karambit

Religion: formerly Catholic

Favorite Colors: Silver and light shades of blue

Favorite Foods: Svíčková, Řízek, Rajská omáčka, Madam Bo’s cooking, homecooked meals, Gyoza, and food from the Osaka night markets (ie. Kuromon), enjoys food in general

Favorite Beverages: Water, Pilsner, milkshakes, and some juices

Favorite Pastimes: movies and tv shows, music, walks in nature, traveling, enjoying various foods from restaurants and night markets

Favorite Actor: Johnny Cage

Favorite Movie Genres: Action, adventure, suspense, psychological thrillers, comedy, and whatever else from other genres that appeal to him.

Favorite Music: Contemporary music, alternative metal, classical and soothing instrumental music.

Favorite Dating/Hangout Spots: Osaka night markets, cozy and casual and cozy restaurants, and romantic and peaceful natural spots.

Personality: He is stern, intimidating, and quiet on the outside. He is able to command the respect from his subordinates. He is assertive in a firm and confident way. As a trained assassin under two established clans, he is true to his oaths and never backs down from kombat. He is loyal, courageous and deadly in his profession. As a person, he is kind, gentle, soft-spoken, eager to help and caretake others. He is intelligent and kind. He enjoys favorite past times with people he likes to hang out with and a woman he’s interested. He can be funny and is a good actor.

Ideal Woman: Tomáš likes a soft and gentle personality who can really connect with him on an emotional level. He values kindness, compassion, and empathy. He needs a partner who can give him the emotional safety and space to be vulnerable. Being a giver himself, he loves it when a woman graciously and enthusiastically accepts his gifts and chivalrous gestures. He also wants a woman who can handle his constant need for reassurance and appreciation, so constant attention and physical touch are very important to him.

Turnoffs In A Woman He Dates: Abrasive, angry, negative, careless with how she words things (straightforwardness is a gray area as it varies from individual to individual), blunt to harsh, overall oné who isn’t “feminine” in behavior. Fiercely independent women are frustrating for him to deal with. He may not be aware of this: even though he has fought alongside strong women who are fierce warriors, he has traditional views of how his woman should be and prefers her to be meek and dependent on him, as it feeds his masculine ego and need to look after someone who is weaker.

Deepest fears: To expand on the last point mentioned above, Tomas’ need to look after someone weaker stems from his past traumas of losing loved ones. He has a fear of abandonment. Subconsciously, this is his way of being in control of what he views as his and those who he sees are in need of his help. This brings him alot of gratification and allows him to feel like he is in control, sometimes in an intrusive way.

Furthermore, When Tomas feels he is not being seen and recognized for his acts of kindness, this will further fuel his fear. When someone can do for themselves what he desires to do for them, he interprets this as a message that he is no longer needed, and therefore discarded.

Turn Off For A Potential Partner: Once Tomas has decided that you are the woman that he wants because you check all of his boxes and meet his needs, he will physically and emotionally latch onto his partner. He would want to be with her as much as he can. Tomas is a very physically affectionate person and will want to cuddle, hold hands and make out as much as possible. He loves frequently having sex as a way to pour himself into his partner and bond with her, and it helps him de-stress, so he will make sure that he gets this as much as possible. This may drain the woman, especially when she is tired or not in the mood.

If the woman isn’t on the same level as Tomas is regarding falling in love at his pace or is more reserved regarding his physical and emotional needs, is not ready to open up about the details of her life, or cannot be emotionally present for reasons ranging from business to tiredness to being with girlfriends, he can get frustrated, insecure, and extremely jealous, to which he will verbally express this making him come across as whiny. If she is careful with her body and not want to have sex during certain times of the month out of fear of unwanted pregnancy, Tomas may eventually accuse her of making excuses to not want to be intimate. In his mind, there must be something wrong with him or she may be falling out of love that she’s distancing herself from him. Repeated reassurances may fall on deaf ears as he may shut down and walk away, or argue her points in such a way to make her feel guilty. The woman may feel obligated to give in to soothe his fears and build resentment over time or she may have to end the relationship.

Tomas expects his partner to be able to pick up on what he is feeling and can’t shut down when his partner doesn’t. Because he fears abandonment, he can be emotionally selfish where he will emotionally manipulate his partner with guilt trips on how much he has done for her, her not appreciating him, and playing the victim to get reassurance and physical affection from her. This may make the woman feel like her efforts are not good enough, which affects her self-esteem, she may feel abused and and be emotionally drained to the point of apathy. Her pulling away from him will further trigger his fears and Tomas may cry and beg, promising to change. If she chooses to stay, things may get comfortable for the old habits to come back. If she walks away, Tomas may double down on his efforts, making it even harder for her to leave.

These behaviours only manifest behind closed doors when you are his person. Outside of that, things are normal to untrained eyes.

Healthy Tomas: If he is healthy and secure in himself and his partner, Tomas is the most giving to her beyond the physical. He will make her feel like she is his priority and she will feel emotionally safe and contained by him. He is empathetic and is attuned to her moods and needs. He also knows when he needs his space and can communicate clearly with his partner, and vice versa. He is also able to walk away from a toxic relationship or once he feels that a relationship has run its course while holding on to the good memories. Tomas is respectful of his partner’s refusal to be intimate for her reasons and will make sure that her needs are taken care of when she is tired or stressed while putting his feelings aside. He is a great friend and lover, and wants to build a family with his future wife when she is the one. He will make an excellent father and husband and would die to protect his family.

[deep-dive]

2024 year-end:

albums: A. G. Cook - Britpop Actress - Statik Amnesia Scanner & Freeka Tet - HOAX Astrid Sonne - Great Doubt Belong - Realistic IX Bibio - Phantom Brickworks (LP II) Billy Bultheel - Two Cycles Biosphere - Patashnik (Decrypted By Sketch) Bladee - Cold Visions Body Meat - Starchris Broadcast - Spell Blanket & Distant Call (Collected Demos 2000-2009) Camila Cabello - C,XOXO Caribou - Honey Chanel Beads - Your Day Will Come Charli xcx - Brat Cindy Lee - Diamond Jubilee Colin Self - lemniscate d’Eon - Leviathan Dawn Richard & Spencer Zahn - Quiet in a World Full of Noise DJ Sabrina the Teenage DJ - Hex Eiko Ishibashi - Evil Does Not Exist Erika de Casier - Still ESP - Promise Felicia Atkinson - Space As an Instrument Fennesz - Mosaic Geotic - The Anchorite Good Sad Happy Bad - All kinds of days Hesaitix - Noctian Airgap Iglooghost - Tidal Memory Exo Jack J - Blue Desert Joanne Robertson & Dean Blunt - Backstage Raver Joseph Shabason, Nicholas Krgovich & M. Sage - Shabason, Krgovich, Sage Julia Holter - Something in the Room She Moves Kali Malone - All Life Long Klein - marked Laurel Halo - Octavia Loidis - One Day Merely & Malibu - Essential Mixtape Mk.gee - Two Star & The Dream Police Molina - When you wake up Mount Kimbie - The Sunset Violet Naemi - Dust Devil NEW YORK - Side A/B Nilüfer Yanya - My Method Actor Oliver Coates - Throb, shiver, arrow of time Otha - Club 20 Pet Shop Boys - Nonetheless Priori - This but More Saint Etienne - The Night Shinichi Atobe - Discipline ssaliva - Eat the Night Original Soundtrack Tems - Born in the Wild Tindersticks - Soft Tissue Total Blue - Total Blue Torus - Summer of Love (2024) Toxe - Toxe2 v/a - Hypersensitivity: A Decade Of Allergy Season v/a - TRANSA: Selects Vegyn - The Road to Hell Is Paved with Good Intentions Xiu Xiu - 13” Frank Beltrame Italian Stiletto with Bison Horn Grips Yung Lean & Bladee - Psykos

songs: Actress - Ray A. G. Cook - Crescent Sun A. G. Cook - Crone Amnesia Scanner - AS Over Astrid Sonne - Give my all Baths - Sea of Men Billy Bultheel - Snows of Venice - Snow Cycle Bladee - END OF THE ROAD BOYZ Boy Harsher - Machina (ft. Mariana Saldaña) [Dark Mix] Carolina Polachek - Coma Chanel Beads - Embarassed Dog Charli xcx - 360 remix featuring robyn & yung lean Colin Self - Doll Park Doll Park Contrahouse - Big Time Sensuality 2 crushed - milksugar (DJ Python Remix) deBasement - FTDJ (Thank God) d’Eon - Gilded Cutlass (Kallisti Version) DJ Sabrina the Teenage DJ - Come In, Carmen Dorian Concept - Hide (Bibio Rework) Dua Lipa - Houdini (Dally L Harle Slowride Mix) Erika de Casier - Test It ESP - Break Free Fennesz - Love and the Framed Insects Fibre Optixx - What Is Love (Priori Dee-Dub Remix) Geotic - The Going Herbert - Fallen (ft. Momoko Gill) Hesaitix - Santorosae (Black Dolphin) Hesaitix - Anticrime HTRK - Dream Symbol (Loraine James Remix) Iglooghost - Coral Mimic Jack J - At Last James K - Blinkmoth (July Mix) Jensen Sportag - Power Sergio Jim Legxacy - aggressive Joanne Robertson & Dean Blunt - she’s lost control again Job - Fun Town ‘24 Joseph Shabason, Nicholas Krgovich & M. Sage - Patti Jump Source - Balance Kode9 - Nuvola Loidis - Wait & See Marie Davidson - Sexy Clown Merely & Malibu - appregiated romance Mica Levi - Slob Air Milan W. - Days in My Arms Mk.gee - Dream police Mk.gee - ROCKMAN Molina - Flowers Mount Kimbie - A Figure in the Surf Naemi - Ambergris NEW YORK - ah Oklou - family and friends Oliver Coates - Backprint radiation (ft. Faten Kanaan) Otha - Effin Pet Shop Boys - New London boy Physical Therapy & Patrick Holland - 7PM Drive Priori - Moonstone (ft. Ben Bondy) Rat Heart - Picky Eater Rat Heart - U Can See Alex Park From Ere Ryota Kozuka - Da’at: shinjuku gyoen Sade - Young Lion Saint Etienne - Daydream Shinichi Atobe - SA DUB 8 SINN6R - Ay Caramba SOPHIE - Love Me Off Earth (ft. Doss) ssaliva & DJ KIT - I see the future Tems - Burning Tindersticks - Always a Stranger Torus - Lose Control Total Blue - Heart of the World Tove Lo & SG Lewis - Heat Toxe - Som En Sol Toxe - Eating Hearts Vegyn - Makeshift Tourniquet witchcell - Killswitch Xiu Xiu - Maestro One Chord Yung Lean & Bladee - Sold Out [playlist]

movies: 103 fever (Conner O’Malley) Caught by the Tides (Jia Zhangke) Challengers (Luca Guadagnino) Chime (Kiyoshi Kurosawa) Cloud (Kiyoshi Kurosawa) Dune: Part Two (Denis Villeneuve) Evil Does Not Exist & Gift (Ryūsuke Hamaguchi) Fallen Leaves (Aki Kaurismäki) Furiosa (George Miller) Juror #2 (Clint Eastwood) La Chimera (Alice Rohrwacher) Misericordia (Alain Guiraudie) Monster (Hirokazu Kore-eda) Problemista (Julio Torres) Red Rooms (Pascal Plante) The Shrouds (David Cronenberg) Smile 2 (Parker Finn) Stress Positions (Theda Hammel) The Taste of Things (Trần Anh Hùng) Trap (M. Night Shyamalan)

games: Animal Well Astrobot Balatro Elden Ring: Shadow of the Erdtree Final Fantasy VII Rebirth Metaphor: ReFantazio Persona 3 Reload Unicorn Overlord Shin Megami Tensei V: Vengeance – Armored Core: For Answer (2008) Record of Lodoss War: Deedlit in Wonder Labyrinth (2020) Resident Evil (2002) Vampire Survivors (2022) Xenoblade Chronicles X (2015)

[zodiyack]

Pregnancy (A drabble)

Pairings: Jace Wayland x fem!Reader

Warnings: angst, pregnancy

Words: 526

Author's note: Just a little idea. I can make this a full fic / miniseries. Only Y/N and Clary have gone in to see Magnus in private.

Masterlist | The Mortal Instruments Masterlist

Taglist: @matth1w, @redspaceace-writes, @fandom-puff, @darling-i-read it,  @simonsbluee,  @thewarriorprincessxo,  @sebastianstanslefteyebrow,  @livlaughquinn,  @bubsonnobx,  @bunnyweasley23

Magnus hesitates when he passes Y/N. His expression shifts to one of concern and curiosity. "I'm surprised you're here."

Her brows furrow. "I'm a Shadowhunter, of course I'm here."

"Not that." He chuckles. "Given your predicament, I wouldn't expect you to join them on this journey."

"Why's that?" She asks, genuinely curious.

Magnus looks at her with amusement, then hovers his hand over her stomach. "You're with child."

Clary gasps in place of Y/N, who is too in shock to even react.

"No- I'm not... I mean, I've been sick lately, just... I'm not pregnant." She shakes her head, in denial.

"Y/N, I may not like your kind, but I would not deceive you. You. Are. Pregnant. I recommend that you withdraw from any strenuous missions, avoid putting stress on you and your baby, as well as putting yourself in danger if you wish to keep your child." He orders her. The topic is simply dropped when he returns to Clary.

(After the fight with the vampires)

"You really shouldn't have come, after what Magnus told you?" Clary announces to the group, but directs to Y/N.

Y/N widens her eyes and whips her head in Clary's direction. "Don't."

Jace looks at the two in concern and tilts his head. "What did Magnus tell you?"

Clary opens her mouth to speak. Y/N quickly replies, warning the redhead. "Don't. It's not yours to tell."

Izzy and Alec look at each other with confusion, but wait for Jace to reply. "What did the warlock tell you, Y/N?"

"Do we really have to do this right now?"

Clary rolls her eyes and speaks up, "How long are you gonna hide the fact that you're pregnant? They'll notice eventually! I mean, what about Jace?"

The three's eyes all widen at the reveal. Jace looks upset, but Y/N is livid. Seeing her reaction, Alec's expression darkens and he steps forward.

"Even if that is a concern, it's none of your business, Clary." Her name drips with venom when it comes from his mouth. "You've been ogling Jace since you got here. Your jealousy cannot hide forever either."

"But- Jace, she lied to you!" Clary averts her gaze in shame when he doesn't acknowledge her.

"Alec is right. Though I'm upset Y/N hid it..." Jace looks toward her with a sorry nod, "I still wish it would've been her to tell me, especially since it's between us. I've tried to brush off your advances, but I suppose I must be blunt now. I plan to stay with Y/N and my unborn child. The fact that you've known of our relationship and continued to pursue me has made me question whether I want to train you or not."

It's Izzy's turn to step forward. "We can talk about this later. For now, we need to get back to the institute and put Simon in the infirmary."

"Yeah." It's the only word Y/N lets out before she walks past Clary, bumping her shoulder on the way. Jace follows, also ignoring Clary. The girl can only watch and realize how much she's hurt him.

[pareidoliaonthemove]

Wounded in Action

It had been a carefully laid trap, but as an aeons old adage says: ‘no battle plan survives first contact with the enemy’.

That said enemy was the Chaos Crew – who were charitably considered to be a ‘blunt instrument’ even by the Hoods rapidly dwindling standards – meant that first contact was Fuse’s ‘Basher’ vehicle bursting through the wall.

Lady Penelope rather grudgingly awarded them points for knowing how to make an entrance – even though said entrance was a £700,000 hole in the wall that destroyed two Ming Vases – reproductions, of course, but of an age and quality that meant they were of cultural and monetary value in and of themselves.

From there chaos had spread. Kayo, Lady Penelope and Parker, playing Keep Away with a briefcase that supposedly held a rare and immensely valuable star sapphire – second only to the famous ‘Star of India’. Exactly the kind of thing a cash-strapped Hood seemed to be targeting of late.

As the situation continued without either side managing to gain the upper hand, Kayo summoned their backup – Scott, Virgil and Gordon, along with Captain Rigby and his hand-picked team of GDF fighters.

Slowly the defenders made headway against the Chaos Crew’s all out attack. Fuses’ explosive charges were being defused before they could detonate and Virgil’s shoulder-mounted laser had scored a direct hit on Fuse’s power suit, disabling his ‘Power Punches’. While Havoc’s decoy hologram emitters were systematically destroyed, and well placed beanbag rounds had put enough of her acrobatic landings off that she was now moving with a distinct limp.

The Chaos Crew had been in retreat towards the Basher for five minutes, when there was suddenly, shockingly, a canine scream of pain.

Everyone froze in place, and all eyes swung to where Fuse stood, balanced awkwardly on one foot, his face stricken as Sherbet cowered at his feet, his left front leg pulled up against his body, whimpering pitifully.

“Bertie!” Penelope rushed forward to rescue the dog, hugging him to her breast and retreating to where Virgil was already pulling out a medi-scanner.

Gordon and Parker advanced on Fuse, their body language and expressions telegraphing violent intent.

Fuse backed away. “I didn’ mean ta…” he protested, his eyes wide, his lower lip wobbling dangerously. “I wouln’…”

Rigby and the closest of the GDF fighters joined in the advance as Fuse backed towards the Basher. He jumped as he bumped it to it, and scurried inside, looking back out as Havoc jumped up onto its roof.

“I’m sorry.” It was almost a whimper, and Penelope went to respond but Havoc chose that instant to strike, one of her reinforced lines flashed out, and snagged the briefcase, tugging it out of Scott’s unresisting grip, and whipping it into Havoc’s hands.

Scott gave a wordless yell of shock, as Havoc saluted sardonically and jumped onto the running board before launching herself into the vehicle yelling, “Get moving!” at Fuse.

A moment’s hesitation and the engine of the Basher revved violently, before careening back towards its entrance hole, sending several people jumping for their lives before it.

Kayo and Rigby didn’t hesitate, running at full tilt after the departing vehicle; Kayo already summoning Thunderbird Shadow via her wrist controller, and Rigby barking rapidfire orders for GDF flyers and road blocks stationed discreetly around the area.

It was later that day when Colonel Casey, with Captain Rigby – newly showered and in a fresh uniform – in tow, paid a visit to Creighton-Ward Manor.

“Eyes front, Captain,” she ordered, trying to keep hide her amusement at her subordinate’s open mouthed gawking at the combination of ultra-chic and traditional furnishings. “You wouldn’t want to be mistaken as casing this house, believe me.”

Rigby flushed, embarrassed, as Parker snorted his disdain, and didn’t quite keep his muttered “HI’d like ta see ‘im try pull hoff a caper,” from being heard.

“Colonel Casey, h’and Captain Rigby, M’Lady,” Parker announced at the door to the sitting room, before hurrying off to the kitchen for a fresh pot of tea, newly brewed coffee and appropriate cake and biscuits for the visitors. It was all well and good for some to sit around all day, he reflected, but a good butler was never idle when there were guests in the house!

Lady Penelope was much calmer than when Rigby had seen her at the ersatz auction-house. She sat in the centre of the main sofa, Gordon Tracy sitting as close as he dared to her on the left, and Sherbert, his left forepaw so solidly wrapped it looked like he was wearing a boxing glove lay on a large squashy velvet cushion to her right, submitting to Virgil Tracy’s petting from where he stood reaching over from behind the lounge. Occasionally, as Virgil’s hand paused, Sherbert whimpered pathetically, prompting the pilot to keep moving.

Scott was standing by the large picture window, half-watching the scene outside as he nodded his acknowledgement of the newcomers.

“Colonel, Captain, please do come in. We’re expecting Kayo shortly.”

Colonel Casey nodded regally and took a seat on the low backed sofa opposite Lady Penelope, as Rigby continued to stand awkwardly at the side.

“Do sit down, Captain,” Penelope’s voice was amused. Rigby flushed again, and perched awkwardly on the far edge of the sofa.

“Kayo’s here.” Scott’s voice came a heartbeat before the distinctive whining roar of Thunderbird Shadow’s engines passed over head.

It was only a couple of minutes more before Kayo strode into the room, unaccompanied. “Parker’s just on the way,” she reported, taking a seat on the small upholstered ottoman close to the door. Penelope nodded, as Scott, apparently having been waiting for Kayo to arrive, moved into the room from the picture window. He sat down in time to gingerly accept a delicate-looking cup with steaming coffee from Parker.

Once everyone was suitably fed and watered, and with Parker standing ‘guard’ at the door, Penelope spoke. “Colonel Casey, was our little trap successful?”

“Signs are positive, Lady Penelope,” Casey replied. “It was disappointing that The Hood didn’t show up himself, but we were prepared for that possibility. Thanks to the tracker in the briefcase, we were able to follow the Chaos Crew to what appears to be one of the Hood’s centres of operation. Maybe even his main one for the London area. The Hood didn’t appear to be ‘in residence’, as it were; but every resource we deny him is another brick removed from the wall of secrecy he has erected around himself.”

Penelope nodded as Scott moved in. “And the Chaos Crew?”

“Likewise evaded capture, I’m afraid. But Fuse’s suit appears to be damaged, and Havoc injured, so that will, thankfully, slow down their rate of operation, maybe even stop them for a time.”

Kayo frowned. “That just means that they’ll have time to better plan their next attack,” she cautioned.

Casey nodded. “We are hoping we’ll have leads on what they’re planning on doing next,” she responded. “There was a computer system in place in the Hood’s hideout, I’ve got techs going over it now. Hopefully we’ll be able to tap into his files, see what he has planned in the future. Maybe even work out how to tap into his communications so we can monitor him remotely.”

Penelope nodded. “So all in all a successful operation,” she mused.

“I wouldn’t say an unqualified success,” the Colonel frowned. “I don’t like casualties during my operations. How is Sherbet, Lady Penelope?”

Penelope reached out to stroke the pug. “There are a couple of bones broken in his foot, but the vet is confident they will heal properly provided he leaves his bandages intact,” she said softly. “He’ll have to rest, of course. No public appearances for the forseeable future, which is a great pity. Wimbledon is on soon, and Bertie does so enjoy it.”

“Runs h’off every year h’and chases the balls, y’mean.” Rigby was starting to think Parker actually intended everyone to hear his muttered commentary.

Penelope shot him a look that from anyone else would be called ‘dirty’. “He is, of course, an honorary ballboy. But I’m afraid this year they will have to do without his services.”

“Of course,” Colonel Casey said gravely. “I know our original plan called for someone to feign injury if the Chaos Crew couldn’t manage to get the briefcase away, but I am most upset that an actual injury was sustained.”

Her demeanour hadn’t changed in the slightest, and Rigby couldn’t help but agree with Parker’s, “Whouldn’t ‘urt you ta h’act like hit, h’even hif it is for th’ mutt.”

The Colonel continued as if she hadn’t heard. “Unfortunately, there is no avenue for me to recommend Sherbet for recognition of his injury in the line of duty. Please accept this as a substitute. Captain?”

Rigby stood and presented Lady Penelope with the large gaudily wrapped basket he had been holding awkwardly.

“Thank you, Captain, Colonel. It is very kind of you.” She set the package down on the coffee table and began to unwrap it, pulling out each item and offering them to Sherbet for his inspection.

Rigby wasn’t much fussed on dogs, to be honest, but he knew Lady Penelope loved hers, and that Penelope was a good friend of Kayos, one whose opinion Kayo valued. He had hoped to win points with Kayo by offering a gift to the ‘sick’ dog. He’d been quickly trying to shop online while waiting for Colonel Casey to take his report, when she had appeared at his elbow, demanded an explanation for what he was doing, and nodded at her explanation before disappearing into her office.

A moment later his email pinged, and he found a list of recommended products, along with authorisation to charge expenses to the mission. As Rigby deleted his hastily cobbled together cart, and went of in search of the recommended products, he was soon grateful for the authorisation. In the end, the ‘gift box’ for Sherbet was almost two months of his wages. And all for a dog!

Once all the items had been removed from the box, and thoroughly sniffed by the pug, her Ladyship lifted the dog off it’s cushion. “And what do we say to Colonel Casey and Captain Rigby, Sherbet?”

The animal wiggled impatiently in her arms, and she set him down on the ground to trot limping over to the Colonel, he put his front paws up on her knees, and barked once, tail wagging madly. The Colonel lifted him up to her lap, Sherbet once again stood on his hind legs and the Colonel only just managed to turn her head in time to avoid a doggy ‘kiss’ direct on her lips. Sherbet barked again, and leapt off her lap, to trot across the sofa to Rigby. He received the same treatment, but wasn’t quick enough to avoid a ‘kiss’ on the lips.

To Rigby’s surprise, instead of opting to return to his cushion, Sherbet lay down on his lap, and nudged at his hand until he started stroking the animal down the back. Rigby looked up at Lady Penelope when the little animal promptly began to snore.

“Well, Captain, I can see Sherbet has correctly deduced who was truly responsible for his present,” Penelope said. “Although I am not quite certain of the paygrade for a captain of the GDF, I trust Sherbet’s favourite treats were not too much of a financial burden?”

Rigby flushed again. “As the Colonel said, Ma’am, it was a gift from the GDF. I can, uh, assure you I endured no financial burden.”

Penelope smiled benignly. “Then I am touched by the GDF’s consideration.”

Kayo spoke up, “And, of course, by yours. Don’t think we didn’t notice you didn’t deny that you were responsible for coming up with the idea.”

That prompted a general chorus of agreement from the room, and Rigby flushed again, both in embarrassment and pleasure. He was embarrassed now to remember how he had original dismissed International Rescue as a bunch of rich kids playing hero and getting in the way of the ‘real’ heroes.

He had been proven comprehensibly wrong and was now proud to work with them.

Even the dog.

Notes:

Well, this went on a winding roadtrip to nowhere. What started out as ‘Fuse steps on Sherbet – whoops’, ended up with Rigby being a soppy bugger. Did not see that one coming.

The standard disclaimers, I do not own Thunderbirds, either the Original Series, the Movies (both Supermarionation and Live Action), or the Thunderbirds Are Go Series. (Although I do own copies on DVD.)

I do not do this for money, but for my own (in)sanity and entertainment.

[searchingforserendipity25]

Plentiful as Sand is Plentiful. LoTR. on ao3.

There was for many years an hourglass upon Elrond’s desk, a tall ivory-and-glass thing from sunken Númenor. 

As a little child Estel liked to turn it and turn it, and would sit for hours upon his foster father’s lap following the mother-of-pearl etchings on the handle with his fingertips and watching the sand shift softly. 

For a time it was too heavy for his small wrists to turn; but Elrond with his keen hearing would know when the last grains came with an end, and knew when to turn it without lifting his eyes from his papers.

 Elrond had given it for him to hold, when he told him the truth of his name: Aragon, son of Arathorn, heir to Isildur’s line and Isildur’s grim failure. 

“Yet also to the courage of his people, and their skill,” Elrond told him. “Your forefather it was who made this time piece as a gift to me. From the glass-rooms of Armenelos it came, the last of Isildur’s works of beauty. It has been of good use to me, and good memory; I give it to you, that you should remember him with gratitude, as well as bitterness.”

“Yet bitter is it what you say to me,” said Estel, who was Aragorn. He was startled still, and yet not surprised entirely; for the blood of kings ran in him, and had at times left an uneasy premonition upon him. 

Still he would have remained been Estel, and no lost kingdom’s wayward heir; least of all in this century, this Age of the world, with an evil reckoning brewing in the distance. 

He turned the hourglass in his hands; a Mannish means of counting time, not to be found in other elvish kingdoms, but common enough in the house of Elrond Peredhel. “Keep it, Master Elrond. I cannot have it as my own, ere I am Isildur’s heir truly. These hurrying moments that are my lifetime shall be a heavy load to carry, I judge, and my course too rough for such a delicate thing.”

“Then keep it I shall, until you wish to reclaim it, or your score of years are run to their course,” said Elrond; and laid upon Estel’s shoulder the heavy comfort of his healer’s hands, which he felt for a time like a yoke as well as a kindness. 

It rested between a tall orchid Celebrían had found once in her expeditions in the wilds of Ennor, a narrow and tall and very orange creature, the last of its kind on these shore - and on the other side was his pile of used quills, which he tended to keep until they were worn through into stumps, too blunt to be sharpened.

He used it little, after that day; but at times Arwen his daughter came, and stood by the chair where Aragorn had sat with bent shoulders to her his name. 

Her fingers, long broideress fingers, touched the waves and leviathans Isildur had carved, with careful deliberation, in the last days of his youth, the dying of his empire. Her eyes grew clouded, then; not with the memory of the past, but her own designs, a future seen with the force of her want. Her own lord of man, his dear face not like any other’s; her own cities crowded with the smell of stone dust and salt.

She left it there, warmed by her skin, and went away from it but for rare and secret visits; but Elrond at times looked heavily upon it, as once he had not. 

That was another Age of the world. There is now an hourglass amidst Tar-Elessar’s instruments - behind the inkwell of Gondorin silver, besides the whittling of an eagle in flight his eldest daughter has wrought him. 

Many gifts have been to him, the king well-returned; but none quite as ancient. Elessar turns it in his hands, when a heavy ruling keeps him at work long into the night; Isildur’s hourglass, grown light with the strength of his manhood, feels always a little terrible to hold.

[leiawritesstories]

PART TEN: OCTOBER (PART II)

Masterlist

Read on AO3

Word count: 11k (i'm so sorry lol)

Warnings: legal jargon, courtroom drama, references to bad past, mentions of torture, mentions of death, references to prison, scheming, language, and possibly angst

enjoy...?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“The prosecution calls Borte Eridun to the stand.” The medical examiner, a woman with bronzed skin and neatly braided dark hair, a pair of wire-framed glasses situated on her nose, came up to the witness stand and was sworn in. Darrow clicked through the images of the victims. “Ms. Eridun, what is your job?” 

“I work as the chief medical examiner for Orynth city proper.” 

“Do you recognize these bodies?” 

“Yes.” 

“Did you examine these bodies?” 

“Yes, all of them.”

“Please give the court a brief summary of your findings.” 

Borte nodded. “As an employee of the Orynth Police Department, I examined twenty-three homicide victims over the course of several months. In my reports, I noted that each body presented in a near-identical state, with numerous minor wounds, bruises, cuts, and lacerations. I also noted that each body presented an identical fatal wound—severed jugular and carotid arteries—except for one. I believe it was Exhibit A12.” Darrow clicked to the image of Tern’s body. “Yes, that one.” 

“What was different about this one?” 

“Rather than a severed throat, this victim’s fatal wound was a gunshot delivered at close proximity to the head, as evidenced by the bullet hole in the forehead. Other than that, the body presented an identical state as regards other physical wounds.” 

“Were there any other abnormalities among the bodies’ conditions?” 

“One victim was missing several fingernails. Multiple victims had broken fingers, but only the one had fingernails removed. I was unable to determine why, but the nails had been torn out from the root, likely with surgical pliers.” 

“Why was this done?” 

“Objection,” Ansel called. “The question clearly calls for speculation.” 

“Sustained. Next question.” Malakai tapped impatiently on the bench. 

Darrow bit back a scowl. “So to summarize—the bodies bore a near-identical state of physical injury and almost all identical fatal wounds?” 

“Correct.” 

“No further questions.” Darrow returned to his seat in some degree of irritation. 

Ansel got up and picked up her clipboard. She turned over a page. “Ms. Eridun, in your analysis of these bodies, what kind of instruments caused the injuries?” 

“A wide variety, actually. Most of the bruising was caused by blunt-force trauma, either bare fists or some kind of object thrown into the body. The majority of the cuts and lacerations were caused by knives of widely varying sizes. In my observations, I hypothesized that the tools were surgical quality due to the precise edges of the wounds. Aside from the bullet wounds on the one victim, the throats appear to have been severed with a short, wide-bladed, straight-edged knife.” 

“Did you ever see any of these instruments?” 

“I did not.” 

“Were you able to determine, in your analysis, what kind of person may have delivered the injuries?” 

“Objection!” Darrow interjected. “Speculation.” 

“Overruled.” Malakai rapped on the bench. “The question is relevant, and Ms. Eridun’s area of expertise allows her to answer.” He nodded at Borte. “You may answer the question.” 

“I was.” Borte folded her hands. “According to my notes, the vast majority of the traumatic but not fatal injuries caused to the bodies were delivered by a man. This was evident from the force, impact, and depth of the wounds, all of which were beyond the bounds known to be possible for a female to achieve. The wounds were simply too forceful for female hands, in other words.” 

“What about the fatal wounds? What person delivered those?” 

“Definitely a female, and given the identical nature of the wounds, I noted that it was most likely the same person.” 

Ansel nodded. “Thank you, Ms. Eridun.” She turned to the jury. “As you see, the medical examiner’s testimony aligns with Ms. Galathynius’s plea. If anything, she is guilty of the fatal wounds, the murders.” She returned to her seat. 

Darrow rose to redirect. “Ms. Eridun, according to your analysis, could any of the minor wounds on the victims’ bodies have been caused by a woman?” 

Borte canted her head. “According to my analysis, only a few of the very minor, insignificant cuts were shallow enough to fit within the female range. The vast majority of the wounds were too far outside that range to be even potentially female.” 

“So you are convinced that the majority of the torture wounds were inflicted by a man?” 

“Yes.” 

“I…have no further questions, Your Honor.” Anger sparked through Darrow’s eyes as he walked back to his seat, flipped through his notes, and conferred briefly with Rowan. Borte returned to her seat, and Malakai motioned to Darrow. 

“We have time for at least one more witness. Prosecution, whom do you call?” 

Darrow leaned into his microphone with a brief flicker of a triumphant smirk, and ice bolted down Aelin’s spine as Dr. Nehemia Ytger, chief engineer and head of research and development at Gal Inc. took the witness stand. 

Sworn in, Nehemia regarded Darrow with cool detachment, and Aelin could tell that it unnerved the attorney. Good. 

“Ms. Ytger,” Darrow began. “What is your role at Ms. Galathynius’s company?” 

“Dr. Ytger is fine,” Nehemia said neutrally, “and I work as the chief engineer. I am in charge of research and development.” 

“Dr. Ytger, do you recognize either of these images?” Visibly irritated at having been corrected, Darrow clicked between the images of the fabric scrap and the SecondSkin. 

“I recognize the second one, the synthetic.” 

“What do you know about the SecondSkin?” 

“Aelin brought me the idea just over a year ago, and it took months to even get a workable sample developed. The stuff is finicky and requires exact handling.” Nehemia shot a brief glance towards Aelin. “During the process, I have found that it could become a workable type of synthetic skin, useful for medical purposes such as repair of damaged skin. However, we are not yet at a point where we could carry out clinical trials.” 

“How much—in quantity—of this substance exists?” Darrow pressed. 

Nehemia shrugged. “Perhaps one square foot, but it exists in much smaller sample quantities, so it is difficult to estimate precisely how much there is in total.” 

“What will happen to SecondSkin once you have a fully developed product?” 

“I do not know.” Nehemia spoke like a true scientist—detached, perfectly calm. “That was a conversation that Aelin and I have not yet had.” 

“But what would she intend for its purpose to be?” 

“Objection, Your Honor,” Ansel interrupted. “Speculation.” 

“Sustained.” Malakai didn’t wait for Darrow to protest. “Please refrain from speculative questions, Mr. Darrow. Next question.” 

Darrow scowled. “So as far as you are aware, Dr. Ytger, SecondSkin is being developed with medical use in mind?” 

“Yes.” 

“No further questions.” He sat down, his posture stiff with frustration. 

Aelin noted, with some degree of hidden satisfaction, that neither the prosecution’s questions nor Nehemia’s answers had touched on the more sinister uses of SecondSkin—uses which Nehemia most definitely knew about. And she was grateful for that tiny bit of protection. 

Ansel approached the witness stand. “Dr. Ytger, how long has this project been active?” 

“Fourteen months,” Nehemia said. 

“And how long does it typically take to develop, test, and release a new product?” 

“Depends on the kind of product. Some take six months, and some can take years.” 

“Which timeline does this SecondSkin fall on?” 

“As of now, years.” Nehemia’s answers were simple and blunt. “It’s still in development.” 

“What is SecondSkin made of?” 

“Polymers, mostly. It somewhat resembles plastic wrap in texture.” 

“How is it applied?” 

“A pre-measured section is carefully laid atop the desired area and smoothed against the surface of the skin until the synthetic is flush with the skin surface.” Nehemia demonstrated using her forearm. “For example, if I had a burn here that required a skin graft, the synthetic would be measured and cut into shape, then laid flush with the skin atop the area.” 

“How large of an area can the existing SecondSkin cover?” Ansel asked, meeting Nehemia’s gaze as she posed the question. 

Nehemia shrugged again. “That remains to be determined, as the synthetic currently exists in small quantities.” 

“Thank you. No further questions.” Ansel returned to her seat. Darrow declined to redirect, and Nehemia left the witness stand and returned to her seat among the handful of witnesses in the courtroom. 

Darrow leaned into his microphone. “In order to explain Exhibit F, the unidentified scrap of material, we need the testimony of an expert witness. Therefore, I call to the stand Dr. Aedion Ashryver, an expert in bioengineering and its analysis.” 

Aedion strode up to the witness stand, swore to tell the truth, and sat down. He deliberately kept his gaze away from Aelin, and her heart thudded heavily at the weight of his avoidance. She knew it was so he could remain neutral, but that knowledge didn’t counteract the sting of it. 

“Do you recognize this?” Darrow clicked to the image of the fabric scrap. 

“Yes.” Fuck, hearing Aedion’s voice testify at her trial hurt. 

“What is it?” 

Aedion cleared his throat. “What you see here is a very small scrap of some kind of heavily modified fabric. From what I know, it is closer to fiberglass than fabric in chemical and structural composition, but it remains flexible enough to qualify as a fabric material.” 

“When did you discover this fabric?” 

“I did not. It was brought to me.” 

“By whom?” 

“Lieutenant Whitethorn.” 

“When?” 

“He brought it to me as crime scene evidence at the end of January. He said it had come from a scene he was investigating, and he asked for my analysis.” 

“Please provide the court with a summary of your findings from this analysis.” 

“Upon receiving the sample, I analyzed it under a microscope to discover its structure, material composition, and chemical makeup. The shortest possible summary of my findings is that they were baffling. The material does not appear identical to any single known substance, but rather to multiple substances all at once, as if coexistent within the material itself. Its structure most closely resembles many layers of very fine mesh stacked atop each other, crisscrossing to form an extremely closely interlocked grid. This scrap appears to be part of a larger piece of material of indeterminate size, as it is not possible to tell what fraction the scrap is without knowing the size of the larger piece. However, the edges of the scrap are clean rather than jagged, which implies that it was either cut—not torn—from the larger piece, or that it is a self-contained sample .” 

“You said the fabric seems like multiple substances all at once. What substances are those?” 

Aedion blew out a breath. “I noted resemblances to para-aramid, neoprene, Teflon, Kevlar, and fiberglass, but…simultaneously, as if they were all occurring together yet not combined into a new substance. Again, it is baffling.” 

“What conclusion did you reach before you returned the evidence to Lieutenant Whitethorn?” 

“I concluded that the fabric had to be some kind of foreign or alien substance, as I was unable to determine any specifics beyond that.” 

“I see.” Darrow clicked to the next image. “Do you recognize this?” 

“Yes.” 

“What is it?” 

“These are flakes of a synthetic skin substance that the accused is developing.” 

“How do you know that?” 

Aedion’s voice remained even. “Because I analyzed it at my lab, and because Dr. Ytger explained what it was.” 

Darrow nodded. “Did Dr. Ytger’s explanation line up with your findings?” 

“Yes.” 

“Where did you obtain this sample?”

For the first time since he’d come to the witness stand, Aedion glanced towards Aelin. “These flakes were given to me at the same time as the aforementioned fabric.” 

“So Lieutenant Whitethorn gave you both samples at once?” 

“Yes.” 

“Very good.” Darrow sat down. “Dr. Ashryver’s findings demonstrate just one example of what the criminal Celaena Sardothien did in her labs—she develops dangerous items for dangerous people. Surely the good people of the jury cannot let that go unnoticed.” He flicked a tiny, smug smirk in Aelin’s direction. “No further questions.” 

Ansel stood and approached the witness stand. “Dr. Ashryver,” she began, “You say Lieutenant Whitethorn gave you the samples to analyze?” 

“Yes.” 

“Are you an official contractor with the police department, then?” 

“I am.” Aedion nodded. 

“How often do you work with them?” 

“Occasionally, if they have a piece of evidence that needs to be analyzed in less time than their forensics team can do it, or if there’s something urgent, or if they need the equipment that my lab has.” 

“How long did it take to come to your conclusions about this fabric?” 

“Around four months.” 

“How long does it typically take you to analyze a specimen of police evidence?” 

Aedion steepled his fingers. “Usually two to four weeks.” 

“Why did this analysis take so much longer?” 

“Because of the sample’s complexity. I studied the specimen as intensively as possible and kept discovering more problems that I needed to solve.”

“How did you then reach your conclusion?”  

“Eventually, I hit a dead end that forced me to conclude the specimen must be a foreign substance.” 

“And you then returned the sample to Lieutenant Whitethorn, correct?”

Aedion exhaled sharply. “Yes. We scientists hate to leave others with that kind of conclusion, but it was the only possible one according to my research.”

“I see. As for the synthetic, how long did that analysis take?” 

“Three weeks, a much more standard time frame.” 

“When did you discover that it was a synthetic skin substance?” 

“Around a week and a half into analysis. The structure and properties lined up with other known skin synthetics.” 

“Do you have any research assistants?” 

“Yes.” 

“Did any of them assist you in this research?” 

“No. My contract with the police department specifically forbids me from having research assistants during specimen analysis.” 

“Very well. No further questions, Your Honor.” Ansel returned to her seat. Once again, Darrow declined to redirect, and Aedion quietly left the witness stand, not sparing Aelin another glance. 

Darrow rose from his seat once Aedion had returned to his place. “That concludes the lineup of the prosecution’s witnesses, Your Honor.” 

Malakai rapped on the bench. “Very well. Court is adjourned. We will reconvene at nine o’clock on Monday morning for the examination of the defense’s witnesses. Dismissed.” He rose, and the courtroom rose with him as he exited. Accompanied by Ansel, Aelin walked out of the courtroom, her head held high and her face a controlled blank, and her two TSF guards fell into step behind her as she walked through the courthouse building. 

She returned to her apartment in silence, shutting off the part of her mind that wanted to replay every second of the trial in close detail to scrutinize all the places where the prosecution’s testimony had been damning. Ansel had reassured her that when the court reconvened, Aelin would be given her chance to speak. She and Ansel had run over the question lineup many times, and Ansel was confident that even if she couldn’t save Aelin from everything, she could at least provide the court with a full picture of the Shadow Assassin’s motives. 

~

Monday morning dawned excessively bright and cheerful, with the sun shining in the clear blue sky and a hint of a crisp autumn breeze curling through the air. Aelin only had a few minutes to appreciate the lingering sunshine before Gav knocked on her door and came into the apartment. 

“Ready?” 

“Is there really any way to be ready?” Wryness twisted her words. 

Unexpectedly, Gav crossed the kitchen and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into a hug that stabilized and comforted her more than anything else had in the last month. “You’ll be okay, Fireheart.” 

Tears clogged her throat. “Thank you,” she whispered, leaning into his embrace. 

He nodded, and as he let her go, he squeezed her shoulder. “I mean it. Whatever happens, wherever you go, I’m still gonna protect you.” 

She chuckled. “You of all people should know that I don’t need any protection, Gav.” 

Gavriel led her down to the waiting vehicle, shielding her as best as he could from the horde of hungry cameras camped outside her building, and drove to the courthouse in silence. He pulled around to the side entrance and stopped, and he walked with her to the pretrial room. Ansel was waiting, and she nodded to Gav as he dropped Aelin off and left the room. 

“It’s good of him to take care of you like that,” she said. 

Aelin nodded. “Yeah. Uncle Gav has been like another father figure to me, even when my parents were still alive.” A smile flickered across her lips. “I guess it helped with Aedion being away.” 

“Could be.” Ansel snapped back into attorney mode. “I know you’ve probably heard this about a million times, but are you ready?” 

“I am.” Aelin pressed her heels against the ground to keep her legs from shaking. “Do you think the court is ready for me?” 

That brought a chuckle out of her fearless attorney. “Oh, Ae, nobody is ever ready for you.” She grinned. “Shall we?” 

One of the TSF guards opened the door, and the pair fell into step behind Aelin as she walked down to the courtroom, head held high despite knowing that she was about to face probably the most crucial days of her life. She strode into the courtroom as if she owned the place, and the three journalists noticed, hands flying and cameras clicking rapidly as they noted down the details of her arrival. 

Good. Let them watch. 

Malakai entered and called the court into session. Situating himself on the bench, he motioned for Ansel to call her first witness. 

She leaned into her microphone, half-grinning, and said calmly, “The defense calls Lieutenant Rowan Whitethorn, Terrasen Special Forces.” 

Rowan looked as if he’d been punched in the stomach. A bit reluctantly, he rose and went to the witness stand, swore himself in, and sat down. Ansel came to stand in front of him, passing a long look over him, waiting until he broke eye contact before she began. 

“Lieutenant Whitethorn, when were you assigned to this investigation?” 

He swallowed. “On the fourth of January.” 

“Who signed the orders giving you clearance?” 

“My unit commander, Gavriel Ashryver.” 

“While you worked with the Orynth Police Department, who was your superior officer?” 

Rowan’s jaw clenched at the words superior officer. “Captain Chaol Westfall of Orynth PD.” 

“Indeed.” Ansel clasped her hands behind her back. “Where is this Captain Westfall?” 

“Dead.” 

Stunned silence fell over the courtroom. Ansel let it drag out, then turned back to Rowan. “Who killed him?” 

“I believe Captain Westfall’s death was the work of a criminal known as the Queen of the Night. Her legal name is Maeve.” 

“Was she your first suspicion?” 

Rowan drew in and released a controlled breath. “No.” 

“Who did you initially suspect?” 

“I…initially suspected Celaena Sardothien,” he admitted, his voice tight. “Then I took a proper look at the facts of the scene and discovered that it didn’t add up.” 

“I see.” Ansel crossed the length of the courtroom and returned to the witness stand. “Why was Celaena your first guess?” 

He paused for a moment. “Sadrothien was the prime suspect in the homicide cases at the time, and I suppose I was paranoid. When a member of the police force dies in the middle of a major investigative effort, it’s natural to suspect that his death is linked to the larger case.” 

“You said the details didn’t add up. Why?” 

“Well, for one thing, Maeve left a note.” Shock rippled around the courtroom again. 

Ansel nodded. “This is true.” She clicked the pointer in her hand, bringing up an image of the note left on Chaol’s corpse. “Is this what informed you it was Maeve?” 

“Yes.” 

“After you confirmed it was a murder, I suppose you had the man’s body examined?” 

“Of course. It’s procedure.” 

“Naturally.” Ansel pivoted to face Malakai. “Your Honor, I request to call Borte Eridun to the stand to corroborate Lieutenant Whitethorn’s testimony.” 

“Granted.” Malakai gestured at Borte. “Please approach the witness stand, Ms. Eridun.” 

Calmly, Borte came to the witness stand and sat down, facing Ansel. 

“Ms. Eridun, did you examine the body of Police Captain Chaol Westfall after his death?”

“Yes.” 

“What did you find regarding the state of the body and the fatal wound?” 

“There are some images available.” Ansel clicked to those slides, and Borte continued. “The back of the skull had clearly been dealt severe blunt-force trauma, most likely causing catastrophic brain hemorrhage that led to death. However, there was also a bullet wound in the left temple, and examination of the impact led me to conclude it was fired at point-blank range. Therefore, I concluded that both the blunt-force trauma and the bullet caused the man’s death.” 

“Were there any other notable wounds?” 

“Yes. Both hands had been stabbed clean through. Lieutenant Whitethorn informed me that he discovered the body at a desk, with its hands pinned to the desk surface. Additionally, the note he found was nailed to the victim’s forehead.” 

“From the state of the wounds, was Captain Westfall killed by a man or a woman?” 

“Clearly a man, given the force of the blow and the clean slices of the knife wounds in the victim’s hands.” 

“Thank you. No further questions for Ms. Eridun, Your Honor.” 

Malakai nodded. “Would the prosecution like to pose any questions for Ms. Eridun?” 

“Yes.” Darrow remained in his seat, but spoke directly to Borte. “Were you able to examine the site of Captain Westfall’s death, or was the body brought to you?” 

“The body was brought to me.” Borte’s brows furrowed. “I am confused, though, why you call him Chaol Westfall.” 

“Why are you confused, Ms. Eridun?” Darrow honed in on that statement.”

Borte blinked. “Because I ran DNA analysis, and that isn’t who the results said he was.” 

“Whose DNA was it, then?” 

“A man of nearly identical physical features named Ren Allsbrook.” 

Deafening silence descended over the courtroom, and then a wave of incredulity broke the air, gasps and exclamations rippling through the space. Even the jury reacted, conferring among themselves with expressions of shock. Aelin tucked her face downwards to hide her smirk. 

“She smirked!” Darrow slapped his hands down on top of his table. “Your Honor, I saw it clear as day! The accused smirked! Clearly, that proves her guilt!” 

Malakai just raised a gray eyebrow. “A singular facial expression is hardly proof of anything, Mr. Darrow. You’ll have your opportunity to question Ms. Galathynius in due time.” 

Chastened, Darrow quieted down. “Thank you, Ms. Eridun. No further questions.” 

Malakai nodded at Ansel. “The floor is yours, Ms. Briarcliff.” 

“Thank you.” She folded her hands behind her back. “I have a couple of further questions for Ms. Eridun. First, did you discover any foreign substance on his body?” 

“No. Only tinted contact lenses, fully intact.” 

Internally, Aelin released a massive sigh of relief. Borte hadn’t found any trace of SecondSkin on Ren’s body—her mission had been successful to that extent, at least. 

Ansel dipped her head. “You mentioned that Ren Allsbrook is nearly identical to Chaol Westfall. In what respect?” 

“According to my analysis, the body I examined matched Chaol Westfall’s physical record in height, weight, build, hair color, foot size, ring size, and almost matched the photos of his face.” 

“Were there any notable differences?” 

“Yes, their eye color is different, and Allsbrook is about a year older.” 

“Thank you. I have no further questions for you, Ms. Eridun.” Ansel allowed Borte to return to her seat, and she redirected her attention to Rowan. “Lieutenant, who is Ren Allsbrook?” 

Rowan’s eyes narrowed, and his jaw flexed, but his words stayed even. “Ren Allsbrook is an internationally wanted spy. According to the public record, he was arrested in Eyllwe last October, convicted of numerous counts of fraudulent impersonation and espionage, and sent to Endovier Prison.” 

“How long was his sentence?” 

“Life, with the possibility of parole after fifty years.” 

Ansel hummed softly. “To your awareness, when did Allsbrook leave Endovier Prison?” 

Bright, fierce anger sparked in Rowan’s eyes. “This past January. There were headlines about the incident across most major news outlets.” 

“Were you aware that Allsbrook had replaced Captain Westfall?” 

“Not until I received the coroner’s report detailing what I believed to be Westfall’s death,” Rowan admitted. “I was…caught off guard.” A half-truth—he’d been fucking seething. 

“Hmm. Lieutenant, where is Captain Chaol Westfall?” 

Rowan blinked. “I…have no idea. As far as I was aware, Ren Allsbrook was Chaol Westfall.” 

From the back of the courtroom, the journalists eagerly recorded the details, and Kaltain hid her chuckle behind her notepad and camera. She hadn’t been expecting Rowan’s discomfiture, but she didn’t miss the way his gaze slid to Aelin as he fought to retain his composure. 

Nor did she expect Aelin to refuse to meet Rowan’s gaze.

“I see.” Ansel turned sharply and went back to her seat. “No further questions.” 

“Prosecution may cross-examine.”

Darrow got up and crossed in front of the witness stand. “Lieutenant, when did Captain Westfall’s death occur?” 

“At the very end of June. The autopsy was conducted throughout the first couple weeks of July, and I received the report on the 14th.” 

“When you learned it was Allsbrook, did that affect your list of suspects for the homicide cases?” 

“No.” 

“Did you, or do you, suspect any connection between Allsbrook and Celaena Sardothien?” 

Rowan pressed his lips together and flicked Aelin a glance. Her face remained still and calm, her gaze steered away from his, revealing nothing. “I…I wanted to, yes, but there is no evidence.” 

“Why did you want to suspect that?” 

“It would have provided a clear piece of evidence that Sardothien was attempting to sabotage the investigation. However, because Westfall was killed by an entirely different party, I knew there could not be any connection between Sardothien and the police department. If anything, I suspected foul play against Sardothien, which is why I asked Fenrys to go undercover at Maeve’s headquarters.” 

“What did Fenrys discover?” 

“Only that Maeve was—is—in fact conspiring against Celaena Sardothien. Before he could learn anything more detailed, he…he died.” Rowan suppressed the faint shudder in his voice. 

“No further questions.” Darrow sat back down. 

Ansel returned to face the witness stand. “Lieutenant, where was Fenrys found dead?” 

“In the laboratory complex of Galathynius, Incorporated.” 

“Why was he there?” 

“Objection!” Darrow practically yelled. “Speculation.” 

“Sustained.” Malakai tapped on the bench. “The question is revoked. Next question, Ms. Briarcliff.” 

Ansel nodded. “Did you find Fenrys yourself?” 

“Yes.” 

“According to your observation of the scene, what was the cause of death?” 

Rowan swallowed thickly. “I observed severe burns on Fen’s face, neck, and upper chest. He had fallen backwards, away from a portion of one wall that had apparently exploded, but the explosion was contained, as if meant to be directed outwards.” 

“Do you have a suspicion of who planted the alleged explosive?” 

“Yes.” Rowan paused, taking a moment to clear his throat. “Initially, I wondered if Galathynius’s team had placed it, but there was absolutely nothing else in the whole laboratory complex to indicate that kind of foul play. Therefore, I suspect it was planted by Maeve herself. My hypothesis is that she began to suspect that Fenrys was a spy, so she devised a trap for him.” 

“Did you question Ms. Galathynius about the incident?” 

“Yes, I did. She informed me that she had a passing acquaintance with Fenrys, and she grieved his death when she found out.” 

Ansel nodded. “During your first testimony, you said that you called Celaena Sardothien from Fenrys’s phone. Please remind the court of the details of this incident.” 

Rowan sighed, a short huff of breath. “I collected Fen’s personal items, one of which was a prepaid cell phone. The phone had a handful of contacts, one of which had Maeve’s name and one of which was called ‘Boss.’ I had asked Fenrys to infiltrate the Boss’s outfit in May, and he had managed to gain contact with Sardothien but not much else. I decided to try and contact Sardothien via Fenrys’s phone in the hopes that she would answer the call of someone she knew. She did.” 

“You submitted that phone call recording as evidence, yes?” 

“Yes.” 

“Here it is, then.” Ansel clicked her pointer, and the brief recording played through the speakers. It had already gone through the voice filter reversal, so it was distinctively Aelin’s voice speaking, and the entire court gasped when Rowan asked who had killed Fenrys and she responded with one word. 

Maeve. 

“Did that convince you, Lieutenant?” 

“It did.” 

“Very good. Thank you, Lieutenant Whitethorn. No further questions, Your Honor.” 

Almost unsteadily, Rowan exited the witness stand and returned to his place next to Darrow, his posture stiff with tension. Once again, he slid a covert look over at Aelin, who kept her face firmly turned forwards, not giving him any indication that she noticed his glance. 

But she felt his eyes on her. She had ever since the day she met him. 

Her buzzard’s gaze was a touch, and he would never be able to change that. 

Ansel cleared her throat. “I call Ms. Aelin Ashryver Galathynius to the stand.” 

Calmly, Aelin rose and walked to the witness stand, her strides measured, the click of her stiletto heels commanding the hushed courtroom. She sat down, swore to tell the truth, and waited for Ansel to pose her first question. 

“What are your aliases, Ms. Galathynius?” 

Aelin folded her hands atop the small table in the witness stand. “I am known as Celaena Sardothien, the Shadow Assassin, the Boss, Galathynius, Aelin, and occasionally as Fireheart.” As she spoke that last name, she stared directly at Rowan, searing her gaze into his soul as she gave the court the name that he called her when they were alone. A small part of her reveled in the stricken look that crossed his face, the glimpse of his pain hidden behind the layers of his soldier’s mask. 

“When did you begin to be called Celaena Sardothien?” Ansel clasped her hands behind her back, a signal for Aelin. 

“I first took that name when I was twelve years old.” 

A tsunami of shock crested through the room. Kaltain’s camera clicked furiously, capturing all the details, visualizing the news story in her head. 

“Please elaborate.” 

Aelin tipped her head slightly to the right. “When I was twelve years old, I was kidnapped by a man named Arobynn Hamel. I believed him to be my godfather, so I did not question it when he told me that my parents wanted me to stay with him for a while because of their workload. I lived on his property for nearly four years, during which time he gave me the name Celaena Sardothien and taught me how to kill. He told me that my parents needed me to learn these things, even though they scared me, and he told me that he wanted to make me strong.” She paused briefly. “He said that to me mere seconds before he slammed a door on my right hand, breaking all of my fingers and forcing me to exclusively train on my left side while I healed.” She stopped to take a sip of water. “The first time I committed a murder as Celaena Sardothien, I was fourteen years old.” 

Ansel hummed. “You said that you lived on his property for four years. When did you leave?” 

“I returned home when I was almost sixteen, but Arobynn had made it clear as I left that if he ever called me, I was under orders to listen. He called me about six months later with a kill order, and when I didn’t carry out the murder in the time frame he commanded, he took me down to his warehouse by the river and forced me to watch as he tortured the victim to death.” Aelin took a deep breath. “That was the day that I made myself a promise to kill Arobynn Hamel. And every other filthy, vile criminal who supported him.” 

“How many murders did you commit for Arobynn?” 

“Eight. He couldn’t risk giving me any more targets, because people would get suspicious when I wasn’t seen with my parents.” 

“What excuse did they give when you were living on Arobynn’s property, then?” 

Aelin twisted the ring around her right middle finger. “My parents told everyone that I had gone away to private school in Wendlyn, and they even had very sophisticated edited photos as proof.” 

“I see.” Ansel paced a slow track back and forth. “So, you killed Arobynn?” 

“Yes.” 

“And his supporters?” 

Aelin let the silence drag out before she answered. “Maeve is the only one still alive.” 

“Maeve?!” Ansel’s surprise was so credible Aelin almost believed it wasn’t rehearsed. 

“Yes.” She laid her hands flat on the small tabletop. “Arobynn and Maeve had been romantically involved, and after Arobynn’s rather untimely demise, she promised retribution.” 

“How do you know that?” 

Aelin lifted her gaze and once again pinned it on Rowan, driving its steel into his heart as she laid bare the first stage of her unspoken plan. “Because Fenrys was spying on Maeve for me.” 

Raw, stunned horror bled across his face, a shockwave of recognition cresting for a drawn-out stretch of silence until he wrenched control back across the ruin gaping in his eyes.

The explosion of shock that burst through the room was only broken by Malakai banging his gavel on the bench. “Court is adjourned until tomorrow!” he called over the ruckus. “Ms. Galathynius, you will return to the stand. Dismissed!” 

Her exit from the courtroom was nothing short of chaotic. 

As she headed out the side door, the three cameras flashed rapidly, and all three reporters called out questions. She kept her head down and stayed silent, following the TSF guards out to the car, and she returned to her apartment with a faint sense of satisfaction humming in her veins. For the first time in weeks, she only took a single dose of her sleeping meds before she went to bed, not needing more than that to get to sleep. 

And when she woke up in the morning and scrolled through the news on her phone, a smirk curled her lips. She scanned the list of headlines, amused to no end at the way the tone had changed from casting her in serious suspicion to revealing the shocking story of her past. 

Public opinion could be swayed any way the press wanted, indeed. 

~

“Ms. Galathynius,” Ansel began, opening the second day of Aelin’s testimony. “When did you take over your family’s company?” 

Aelin took a deep breath and willed her spine to remain upright. “Four years ago, at the age of twenty-three. I became CEO upon my parents’ passing, as stated in their will.” 

“How did your parents pass?” Sympathy gleamed in Ansel’s gaze. She’d known she would have to ask, and she’d avoided it as much as possible during preparations. 

“A car accident.” Aelin kept the description as short as possible. 

“Were the weather conditions poor?” 

“Yes. There had been heavy rain and high winds, but they thought it had calmed down enough to make the drive from the mountains back into the city. They…were wrong.” She stifled the tightness that clogged the back of her throat. 

Ansel nodded slowly. “Ms. Galathynius, did you ever suspect foul play?”

“I did, yes.” 

“Why?” 

Another deep breath. “It had been over a year since I carried out a kill order from Arobynn, and when I carried out that eighth order, I had told him I would never do it again. He was furious.” She paused and flicked a covert glance at the jury. “He went suspiciously quiet for the duration of that year, and when the scene of my parents’ death was examined, it was discovered that their driver was missing.” 

“They had a driver?” Ansel prompted. 

“Yes. It was their usual practice when traveling for work. The reports indicated that the scene of the crash should have left every person in the car dead, but the driver was simply not there, as if he had magically vanished from the vehicle. Naturally, I suspected Arobynn’s involvement.” 

“Was he capable of doing such a thing?” 

Aelin scoffed caustically. “Of course. Hamel had the connections and the closeness to my parents, and he had the sheer lack of a soul that it takes to plan something so horrific.” 

“I see.” Ansel flipped a page in her notes. “When you assumed the CEO role, how did Arobynn Hamel react?”

“On the surface, he was as polite and respectful as everyone else, but I hadn’t been in that role for more than a week before he waltzed into my office and threatened me.” 

“What kind of threats did he make?” 

“He told me that if I didn’t ‘cooperate’ with him like a good girl, he would tear my company to the ground and burn me over its coals. He threatened me, my employees, and my friends with death, since that was his go-to.” 

“How did you respond?” 

Aelin squared her shoulders. “I pretended to cower, pretended to acquiesce to his threats. After work, I went down to my company’s oldest warehouse in the industrial district, and I called a few of my contacts from Arobynn’s little criminal ring. You see, I had made a few friends while I was forced to kill at Hamel’s orders, and they were all too happy to accept a higher bidder’s offer and start to work for me.” She paused, took a sip of water. “However, they all knew me only as Celaena Sardothien, and I decided to keep it that way. I gave them bare-bones details: my goal, my plans, my targets. It was all fairly simple. All we had to do was kill Arobynn Hamel and dismantle his underground kingdom.” 

“So these people did not know you are Aelin Galathynius?” 

“Correct. They called me Sardothien, and as the outfit grew, they began to call me Boss.” 

“Was Arobynn your only target?” 

“No.” 

“Who else was a target?” 

“Initially, it was only Arobynn and his closest cronies. As we got further into their circles, though, I discovered just how far-reaching his claws were, so I began to track a list of the most important heads of the levels of his outfit. Each one of them became a target.”

“How many targets did you have in total?” 

“Twenty-four.” 

Over at his desk, Darrow scribbled furiously in his notes, his eyes narrowed in suspicion and concentration, most likely plotting out his cross-examination questions. 

“And each one was clearly linked to Arobynn Hamel?” 

“Yes. My goal has always been to wipe out his outfit entirely.” 

Ansel folded her hands behind her back. “Did you achieve that goal?” 

Aelin let the pause drag out, tracking the eagerness of the reporters and the jury. “Almost.” 

“Please elaborate.” 

“Maeve remains alive, at large, and overall a vengeful bitch.” She let her bitterness bleed into those last few words, let the court pick up on the violence lurking behind her tone. “Killing Maeve was the last stage of Celaena Sardothien’s plan.” She chuckled softly, darkly. “I was planning to kill her quietly, to send her off to meet Arobynn in the darkest circle of hell.” 

“But she is still alive?” 

“Yes.” Aelin pressed her lips together. “And she had Fenrys killed.” 

“Yes, you testified that Fenrys had been your spy. Were you aware that he was spying on you for Lieutenant Whitethorn?” 

“No. I was not.” 

“Did Fenrys know you as Aelin, or as Celaena?” 

“As far as I’m aware, he only knew me as Celaena Sardothien. He called me Boss.” 

“Did you ask him to infiltrate Maeve’s outfit?”

“Yes.” 

“Were you aware that he might risk death if he did this?” 

“Yes,” Aelin admitted. “I know Maeve’s bloody reputation quite well.” 

“Why did you choose Fenrys for this task? Why not anyone else?” 

Aelin pressed her lips together. “Maeve knew nearly all of my trusted spies by face or by name. Since he was new to my acquaintance, Fenrys would be unfamiliar to her as well, so he had the best chance of getting real information to me.” 

“I see.” Ansel flipped through her notes again. “Regarding the murder of Arobynn Hamel: why did it take place so recently, if you had been planning it since you were twenty-three?” 

“I needed him to suffer first.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“Before I killed Arobynn, he needed to watch his slimy underworld empire crumble before his eyes. I laid the collapse in place, diverted his shipments to me, turned his dealers against him, watched as he struggled and scrambled against the crumbling foundations of his outfit before I had him abducted. When he died, mine was the last face he ever saw, and I would be lying if I said I wasn’t satisfied.” 

“So you killed Arobynn Hamel?” 

“Yes.” 

“At your arraignment, you entered a guilty plea to the charge of twenty-three counts of murder in the first degree. Arobynn aside, why were there so many counts?” 

Aelin smirked. “There were twenty-four names on my list—yes, Attorney Darrow, I see you scribbling over there, and you are correct. Twenty-three of those vile, evil criminals are dead now. They can never harm anyone again.” 

“And that was your work?” 

“I killed them, yes.” 

Ansel nodded. “No further questions, Your Honor.” She returned to her seat. 

Malakai leaned slightly forward. “The prosecution may approach for cross-examination.” 

Darrow stood, crossed the floor, and positioned himself directly in front of the witness stand. He gave Aelin a slow, assessing stare, glanced at his notes, and began. “Ms. Galathynius, who is the twenty-fourth name on your list?” 

“Maeve,” she said calmly. 

“You said Maeve was Arobynn’s romantic partner?” 

“Yes.” 

“How did you learn this?” 

“Fenrys gave me the information.” 

“And you were never aware that he was also reporting to Lieutenant Whitethorn?” 

“Never.” 

“I see.” Darrow turned a page. “What do you know about the material that Dr. Aedion Ashryver explained?” 

“As I said earlier,” Aelin drawled, “it was a fragment of an abandoned experiment. I was trying to create an indestructible material. I continued to fail, so I gave up the project.” 

“What substances did you use in this experiment?” 

“Several assorted polymers in various combinations. Part of the project was an attempt to determine how different kinds of polymers interacted with each other and with materials such as Teflon.” 

“How much of the fabric would you say that you produced?” 

“Of what fabric? I told you that I abandoned the project.” 

Darrow’s face reddened, and he held up the bag with the tiny sample of material. “How much of this form of the fabric did your experiment produce?”

“Not much—enough to wrap once around my wrist, so somewhere around six inches in length and perhaps one inch wide.” She was telling the truth. Her bodysuit was made from a different variation on the material, an earlier version that she’d created before she started trying to make it completely indestructible. 

“Very well.” Darrow set down that evidence bag and picked up the one with the SecondSkin flakes. “What is this substance, and how much of it exists?” 

“As Dr. Ytger explained, that is a synthetic that we call SecondSkin, and it is still in testing and development phases.” 

“How much SecondSkin exists?” 

“As Dr. Ytger said, perhaps one square foot, primarily in smaller-sized pieces.”

“What is the purpose of SecondSkin?” Triumph glittered in Darrow’s eyes. 

Aelin let the silence linger. “I had hoped that this experiment would yield a workable skin synthetic that is relatively cheap and easy to produce for medical use.” 

“You intend for this substance to be used in hospitals, then?” 

“Hospitals and perhaps dermatologist offices, yes. If the company can produce a medical-grade skin synthetic, my intention was to provide hospitals with this new resource.” 

“I see.” Darrow said tightly, controlling his temper admirably. “We shall move on, then. Do you feel responsible for Fenrys’s death?” 

Regret slammed into Aelin like an oncoming tidal wave, and she forced herself to stay calm. “I regret not warning him that Maeve sees everyone as disposable.” She paused briefly. “I wonder if I could have done anything to prevent his death. Fenrys and I were friends, and I grieve his death.” 

“But do you feel responsible?” Darrow pressed. 

Aelin fixed the attorney with a flat stare. “If I had any knowledge of Maeve’s actions leading up to Fenrys’s death, I would have stopped him.”

“His death occurred on your property, Ms. Galathynius. Surely you knew about any traps placed in your buildings?” 

“I knew about every security measure that I had placed. If someone else had somehow planted a trap, I might not have known.” 

“How often do you check your security measures?” 

“When I was still CEO, I checked them every other week.” 

“So it is possible that Maeve could have taken advantage of that schedule?” 

“Yes.” 

“You told Lieutenant Whitethorn that Maeve killed Fenrys. Did you confirm that she had, in fact, placed a trap on your property?” 

Aelin raised a brow. “The event that killed Fenrys did not resemble my security measures at all; it was much more in Maeve’s style. She tends to prefer loud, violent, typically fatal destruction, while my security is more geared towards stunning, shocking, or temporarily incapacitating any intruders so that they can be arrested and properly dealt with.” 

“I see.” Darrow flipped through his notes, his lips twitching into a grim smirk. “You informed the court earlier that your criminal outfit employed many people. Do you employ both men and women?” 

“Primarily men, but there are a few women as well, I believe. I do not personally know each person who works for me as the Boss.” 

“Who do you work most closely with, men or women?” 

“Men.” 

“Why?” 

Aelin shrugged. “They are more numerous in my outfit and they tend to be more willing to resort to violence if needed.” 

“Are your men physically capable of torture such as viewed in Exhibits A1 through A23?” 

“Yes.” 

“Have you ever ordered your men to torture anyone?” 

“Yes.” 

Triumph returned to Darrow’s expression. “Did you order your men to torture the victims on your list before you killed them?” 

“I ordered my men to bring the targets to certain locations, and I gave them free rein over the physical condition of each target. My only specification was that each target must be alive and coherent.”

“So your men tortured the victims?” 

“That would certainly fit the victims’ physical condition.” 

Darrow practically hissed. “Did your men torture the victims?” 

“I cannot attest to something I have not seen, Mr. Darrow,” Aelin said coolly. 

He scowled. “Fine. But would you accept that possibility?” 

“I would.” 

“Very well. No further questions.” He turned on his heel and stalked back to his desk. 

“The defense may return for redirection,” Malakai said. 

Ansel approached the witness stand once again. “Ms. Galathynius, how long did Fenrys work for you?” 

“From May through the end of July.” 

“And for how long was he observing Maeve and her outfit?” 

“I asked him to infiltrate Maeve’s headquarters in early June. He was my eyes there for about two months, I’d say.” 

“Did you meet in person?” 

“Yes.” 

“Did you disguise yourself?” 

“Yes. I wore dark clothing, a mask, and a hood like any good criminal. I also used a voice filter to disguise my voice, in case he might recognize it.” 

“Very good. As regards the SecondSkin, do you intend to release it for medical use?” 

Aelin nodded. “Yes. Not at the moment, since it is still in development, but if Dr. Ytger and her team can create the appropriate product, it was always my intention to release it for medical use.” 

“Where would you send it?”

“I had intended to first give a donation to Orynth General Hospital, and after receiving their feedback, to consider distributing it to hospitals more widely. Again, this all depends on the product actually being developed, and that is no longer in my hands.” 

“Of course. Would you swear, under oath, to make this the outcome of SecondSkin?” 

“I so swear.” 

“Very well.” Ansel glanced at her notes. “Did you intend to kill Maeve?” 

“Yes.” 

“After her death, would you have stopped?” 

Aelin tilted her head, pretending to consider her answer as if she hadn’t rehearsed it. “If Arobynn and Maeve’s unholy empires remained in ruins, then yes. If not, I swore a promise to rid the world of that kind of horrific villainy, and I would need to fulfill that promise.”

“Would you commit more murders to reach that goal?” 

“Perhaps.” 

“I see.” Ansel turned to address Malakai. “No further questions, Your Honor. The defense rests.” 

Malakai tapped on the bench. “Very well. The prosecution may approach for closing statements.” 

Smooth as a snake, Darrow rose from his chair and crossed the floor, this time going to face the jury. “Honored jurors,” he began, “you have seen and heard the evidence. The verdict is as clear now as it was when this case began. Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, alias Celaena Sardothien, is clearly guilty of committing murder. In conjunction with these murders, she has spun a web of further crimes that not only resulted in the death of a member of the Terrasen Special Forces, but also in the utter loss of our city’s sense of safety. The Shadow Assassin became a figurehead of underground crime. She is guilty of every charge laid against her, and declaring it thus will once again restore order to Orynth. Thank you.” 

He returned smugly to his seat, and Malakai gestured at Ansel. 

“The defense may approach for closing statements.” 

Ansel rose, nodded to Malakai, and strolled up to the jury. “Honored jurors, Aelin Galathynius pled guilty to the crime of murder in the first degree during her arraignment. The fact that she committed these murders is already established. You have heard the reasoning behind this crime, the forces that shaped her actions. While we do not excuse the serious crime of murder, we do understand that there are reasons why she became Celaena Sardothien. Her intent, her sole motive, was to take down a criminal empire that was responsible for truly horrific offenses against humanity, and it was necessary for her to remove the villains who perpetrated these horrors. You have indeed seen and heard the evidence laid out before you. It is your duty, honored jurors, to consider the facts as they are and to conclude that Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, alias Celaena Sardothien, is only guilty of that which she admitted. Thank you.” 

She returned to her seat. Malakai rapped his gavel on the bench. “I hereby dismiss the jury to deliberate. Court is adjourned until they have reached a verdict, at which time all parties will be notified and required to return. Dismissed!” 

The jurors rose first and filed tidily out of the courtroom through their designated side door. Malakai was next to depart, and then the rest of the people. Aelin ducked her head as she passed the journalists, sliding her gaze sideways exactly once.

Elide met that gaze and gave a brief, barely noticeable nod. The contingency plan would progress. 

Satisfied, Aelin followed Ansel out of the courtroom and outside, escorted once again by the familiar pair of TSF guards back to her vehicle. The jury was not expected to reach a verdict until the next day, so she was allowed to return to her apartment for the night. At home, she collapsed into her bed, drained from the effort of holding herself together. 

She was Aelin Ashryver Galathynius. And she would not be afraid. 

~ 

The faint whoosh of the hydraulic doors sliding open drew Nehemia’s attention across the room, over towards the glass doors that separated her private lab from the prep room. Her gloved hands paused, frozen over her careful work, as she directed a sharp look at the open doors. 

Elide snapped her second glove onto her left hand. “Sorry I’m running late,” she apologized as she walked through the doors, fixing the sleeve of her lab coat. “I took the long way in so they wouldn’t suspect anything.” A pair of TSF guards had been posted outside the doors of Gal Inc.’s lab complex since the day of Aelin’s arraignment; they were there to keep an eye on things and make sure nobody tried to slip into the labs to potentially destroy any incriminating evidence. 

So far, they had seen absolutely nothing. Elide and Nehemia had made sure of it. 

“No worries.” Nehemia waved Elide over to the table, and the petite woman took a seat across the stainless steel table, shivering slightly in the crisp air of the lab. “I’ve laid out the first few pieces. Do you want to do this part or roll them up?” 

“You set them out, I’ll roll them up.” Elide tugged the short stack of sterile blue tissue over towards her. “Are we just keeping them in planned packaging for now?” 

“Yeah.” Nehemia lifted another nearly transparent sheet of SecondSkin with the tweezers in her hands and raised it up to the light, carefully scanning it to make sure there was no damage. “We’ll talk about delivery when we have a verdict.” 

“Right.” With a crisp nod, Elide lifted the first prepared piece of SecondSkin from the table, laid it atop a sheet of blue paper, laid another paper on top of that, and folded the whole thing into a flat, compact square. She and Nehemia worked mostly in silence and perfectly in tandem, two sets of skilled hands marking and folding up the filmlike synthetic. Before her arraignment, Aelin had met privately with both Nehemia and Elide, and she had given them a simple set of instructions. A contingency plan that Elide still hoped wouldn’t have to be executed. 

If Aelin were to end up in prison, Nehemia and Elide would smuggle a fixed quantity of SecondSkin to her so that she could set an escape plan into motion. 

Elide didn’t know what the hell Aelin’s escape plan would entail, because Aelin hadn’t shared anything other than that she had a plan, but she had a sneaking suspicion that it would culminate in Maeve’s grisly death. She also had a sneaking suspicion that Rowan Whitethorn would try to get Maeve regardless of whether Aelin was in prison, and to be perfectly honest, she was almost willing to make a bet on who would kill Maeve first. 

“I think this is the last one.” Nehemia’s quiet words interrupted Elide’s thoughts, and she snapped her attention back to the work she’d been doing mechanically. “It was just face, neck, forearms, hands, feet, and ankles, and we’ve got all of that.” 

“Look at us go,” Elide half-joked as she finished folding up the last packet. 

Nehemia chuckled. “I hope…Fuck. I hope we don’t have to deliver it.” Her voice went hollow by the last few words. 

A soft, drawn-out sigh blew past Elide’s lips. “Me too.” She pushed back her stool and swept a gaze over the tidy row of flat blue packets. “If it’s any consolation, Nehemia, there’s nobody I’d rather smuggle secret tech with than you.” 

“Likewise, Lochan.” Nehemia flashed her a grin as she stood and collected the packets. “I’ll get these all wrapped up and ready if we do have to make a delivery.” She waved to Elide as the other woman left, the doors closing behind her retreating form with a mechanical hiss. 

She, too, clung to the faint hope that they wouldn’t have to carry out the contingency plan. 

~

Aelin was halfway through her current novel, reading rapidly while also keeping an eye on her email in case something else from her company came through, when her phone started buzzing with an incoming call from Ansel. She reluctantly set aside her book and picked up the call. “Hey, Briarcliff.” 

“Aelin.” Ansel’s voice was crisp, and Aelin heard her lawyer’s heels clicking in the background. “The jury has returned. We’re being summoned back to court.” 

“Heard.” Shit. The jury had been out for nearly five days—most criminal trials took anywhere from twenty-four hours to a week for the jury to reach a verdict. “I’ll call Gav.” 

“Already did. He should be at your place in twenty or so with the car.” 

“This is why I love you, Ansel.” 

Ansel chuckled. “Five days is a good sign, Ae. I’d be more worried if it had only been two days or less, since that usually means they reached a guilty verdict quickly. Five days, though…that’s more of an indication that they deliberated for a long time. That’s a fairly good sign.” 

Aelin blew out a tense breath. “Okay. I trust you, Ansel.” 

“Damn right.” Ansel paused, her muffled voice probably a sign that she was speaking to one of the clerks. “I have to go. See you soon, Aelin.” 

“Thanks, Briarcliff.” Aelin ended the call and pushed herself up off the couch. She was wearing an oversized t-shirt that she’d stolen from Rowan months ago, the old cotton soft against her skin, but she had trousers, a blazer, and a blouse hanging on her closet door, ready to go whenever she got the call that the jury had returned. It took her only a few minutes to change, and by the time Gav knocked on her door and let himself in, she was painting the last strokes of crimson onto her lips. 

“Ready, Ae?” Her uncle poked his head into her open bathroom door. 

She nodded, lips held apart while her lipstick dried. “Just a minute.” She stepped into her heels, picked up her bag, and held out her left arm. Gav glanced perfunctorily at the Wyrd cuff on her wrist, nodded, and led her out of her apartment and down to the garage. Since her trial was so high-profile but so limited in press coverage, all sorts of reporters, photographers, and sleazy people with cameras had been camping out outside the courthouse and by her apartment building for weeks, and Gav had begun leaving his car in the private parking garage to avoid the frenzy of cameras that hounded Aelin anytime she left her apartment. 

She didn’t have the words to express her thanks for the small kindness. 

The drive back to the courthouse was over in a hazy blur, Aelin lost in her thoughts in the back seat of the TSF-logoed car. She gave her uncle a half-smile as he led her out of the car and through the side doors, squeezing his hand once as they arrived at her pretrial room. He squeezed her hand back, sympathy buried deep in his golden gaze. 

“Whatever happens, I’m on your side,” he said, quietly. 

Her throat tightened. “Write to me every once in a while, yeah?” As she walked into the room, she flashed him a grin. “Love you, Uncle.” 

“Love you too, kiddo.” 

Ansel was waiting on the other side of the table. “We’re supposed to be in the courtroom as soon as we can, so I’ll make this brief. You’ll for sure be found guilty of murder, since you entered that plea during arraignment, but we don’t know what else the jury has decided. So, just a couple of things.” She paused, drilling Aelin with the fierceness of her lawyer stare. “Do not, and I cannot stress this enough, do not make any speech until after the trial is over. We’re good to go with your plan for talking to the press, but you only get that one appearance.” 

Aelin resisted the urge to salute. “Good. I only need one chance.” 

“That’s my CEO.” Ansel flicked a glance at the door and lowered her voice. “Ells and Nemi confirmed that everything is set up on their end. Whatever happens, we’re ready.” 

“That’s my team,” Aelin murmured, her voice thick. “You’re too damn good to me.” 

Ansel rolled her eyes. “Pull yourself together, Galathynius. Can’t let the damn press see you with human emotions.” 

Aelin chuckled. “That’s right.” 

The TSF guard knocked and stuck his head into the room. “We’re ready, Ms. Galathynius.” 

“Lead the way.” Aelin rose, tucked her bag over her shoulder, and followed the pair of guards down the now-familiar path to the courtroom. With Ansel at her side, she strode in, her heels rapping sharply on the polished hardwood floor, and took her seat, firmly refusing to meet the emerald gaze that she felt burning into her skin. 

There would be plenty of time to meet those eyes later. 

Malakai entered, and everyone stood. He waved them down, took his seat, and cleared his throat. “Honored jurors, have you reached a verdict?” 

The foreman of the jury, a man about Darrow’s age wearing a suit jacket that was slightly too short for his arms, rose. “We have, Your Honor.”

“Is it a unanimous verdict?” 

“Yes, Your Honor.” Malakai nodded, and the foreman paused to clear his throat. “On the charge of breaking Terrasen’s import and export laws, we find the accused, Ms. Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, guilty as charged. 

“On the charge of aiding and abetting a federal prison break, we find the accused not guilty. 

“On the charges of trespassing, breaking and entering, and kidnapping, we find the accused guilty as charged. 

“On the charge of torture, we find the accused not guilty.

“On the charge of premeditated murder in the first degree, we find the accused guilty as charged, as stated in her plea. This is the unanimous verdict of the jury.” 

The foreman sat back down, and Malakai nodded. “Ms. Galathynius, you have been found guilty of the crimes of breaking Terrasen’s import and export laws, illegal trespassing, breaking and entering, kidnapping, and twenty-three counts of premeditated murder in the first degree. By the authority vested in me by the state of Terrasen, I sentence you to the following: you will pay the appropriate fine for violating import and export laws, and you are hereby sentenced to twenty-three consecutive life sentences without possibility of parole at Endovier Prison.” 

Malakai brought the gavel down on the bench, and its single thump echoed through the silent courtroom like a clap of thunder. “The case of the State of Terrasen versus Ms. Aelin Ashryver Galathynius is closed.”

He exited the courtroom in a sweep of black judicial robes, and for a moment, the only sound in the room was the rapid shutter clicks of the two cameras near the back of the room. And then the people assembled burst into ripples of shock and judgment, their comments and reactions to Aelin’s sentence rushing through the room like waves. 

Ansel shared a look with Aelin and beckoned to the pair of TSF guards stationed at the back wall, who came forward to escort Aelin out of the courtroom. As she followed them, she let her gaze slide over the empty judge’s bench and witness stand, all the way across to the prosecution’s desk, dragging it up to crash into Rowan’s equally expressionless stare. 

And as she departed, she gave him a slow, sultry wink. 

~

Her heart had finally remembered that it could beat normally. She’d kept her game face on for the whole walk to the pretrial room, but when she arrived and seated herself gracefully, Aelin brushed detachment across her features. “I’m listening,” she said to her attorney and her uncle, who had come with her. Gav and Ansel exchanged a look. 

“We need to talk about the timeline for the next few days.” Gav eased himself into a seat opposite Aelin, and she masked her surprise at the fact that he was sitting down. 

Ansel nodded. “Aelin, I know we talked about a press appearance. That’s ready to go when we leave the courthouse, but the thing is, it’s set on the front steps.” She almost looked apologetic. “We tried to organize some kind of press area away from the building, but they’re ravenous.” 

“I get it.” Aelin tapped her fingers on the table. “Honestly, I think the courthouse steps will work. I’ve just been sentenced; what better place to answer all of their intrusive questions than moments after my sentencing at the very place where it happened?” Sarcasm soaked her tone. 

“And you only have an hour,” Ansel added. “I don’t think it would be prudent to set aside any more time than that. Too many opportunities for things to go wrong if we don’t set a time limit.” 

“True.” Gav nodded in agreement. “I’ll be off to the side with the pair of guards who are stationed at your place, so we’ll be there if you need anything from us.” He huffed out a sigh. “I don’t want to break professionalism or anything, Ae, but…” Breaking off, he shoved a hand through his hair in a gesture that was so like Aedion that it made Aelin blink. “This doesn’t change that I love you, Ae.” 

Thickness clogged her throat. “Thank you, Gav,” she rasped. 

He gave her a tight smile, forcibly holding back tears of his own. “I’ll visit you regularly. God knows I can’t force the Endovier guards to let one of my guys guard you, but the people that work there are good, and I can bully them if I have to.” 

Aelin sniffled. “You’d probably get chucked right into my cell with me if you tried to pull any authority crap, and you know it.” 

Her uncle chuckled. “Fair enough.” 

There was a short rap on the door. 

Ansel stood and slung her bag over her shoulder. “Are you ready?” 

Allowing herself exactly one deep breath, Aelin pushed back her chair. “I am.” She tucked her bag over her arm, pushed up the sleeves of her blazer so the Wyrd cuff on her left wrist was clearly visible, and followed Gav and her guards down the hallways and out to the main doors. She paused for a moment, then nodded, and her guards propped open the doors as she swept out. 

The crowd of reporters, photographers, and journalists exploded into a clamoring storm of flashes, clicking buttons on recording devices, microphones thrust out, and frantically yelled questions from all angles. Elbows fluttered through the crowd as the reporters jostled for the best possible spots, the ones closest to the podium set at the top of the courthouse steps. 

Aelin strode coolly up to the podium, faced the crowd of near-feral journalists, leaned into the microphone, and smirked. “So. What do you want to know?”

~~~

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[itsameeruza]

what are ur fav nobishizu moments in canon? :)

OHHHH thank you for this ask

Man I could rant for hours.

It's been a while since I read the manga, so I'm just gonna mention some moments from the anime(mainly 2005, since it's so hard finding 1979 episodes)/movies :

(These are in no particular order)

(Movie) - Nobita's New Dinosaur

We all know what's the moment I'm talking about. I'll never shut up on how much I love this scene.

When I watched this movie (just a month ago, a few days after Sky Utopia brought back my doraemon obsession), I was NOT expecting to be given nbsz crumbs. I wasn't even as big of a shipper as I am now LMAO. This moment hit me so hard that I became a shipper.

(Movie) - Three Visionary Swordsman

I rewatched this movie just yesterday. It was so funny when disguised Shizuka met Nobita as the silver swordsman and said :

Blunt Shizuka is funny.

(The subtitles are a little off, but it's the only one I could find)

But well, then she saw him being doubtful on killing the dragon.

"You're so kind"

Let's all remember that one of the things Shizuka wanted in her romantic partner is that they're kind:

Source : 2005 anime episode 128 - Shizuka's present is Nobita

Source : Shizuka's character song "the princess next door"

So....

😁😁😁

The ending scene was also really cute

(Movie) - Stand By Me 2

Alright, confession time : I have a love-hate relationship with the Stand by Me movies. Younger me loved Stand by Me 1, so much. Mostly because of the Doraemon-Nobita bond. Adult me(as in, now) definitely has more opinions about it though.

As for Stand by Me 2, I kinda hated it on first watch. But now, well, not so much.

But this post is not about criticising Stand by Me! Sooooo...pushing aside everything, I loved the scene with adult Nobita and adult Shizuka at the end of Stand By Me 2.

Shizuka looked so happy here...

(2005 anime) episode 128 - Shizuka-chan's Present is Nobita

Shizuka treasuring the handkerchief that Nobita made for her...

I looped the ending scene over and over because it's just too cute...(especially with the instrumental of the song "the princess next door" playing as background music)

(2005 anime) episode 249- I don't like Shizuka-chan being like this!

Another one of the 2 Shizuka birthday special (that I saw) with a common theme : Nobita making a present for Shizuka and it kind of sucks but since he made it himself, she loves it anyway.

(Everyone else had mistakenly called it a jar, and she's the only one that correctly refers to it as a vase, Shizuka is truly a gem 😭)

(2005 anime) episode 373 - Nobita's bride

Since there's two versions of Nobita's Bride in the 2005 anime, I'm referring to the 2014 one here.

One of the things that's lacking about nobishizu is definitely Shizuka's perspective. So, it's nice to see what she thought of Nobita.

(2005 anime) episode 245 - Nobita's night before wedding

Although I love the 1999 version of Night Before Wedding so much more, this version has this cute (and a little corny) moment :

Also, the way Nobita didn't even think twice to cover for Shizuka, even though he had to embarass himself?

(2005 anime) episode 124 - Goodbye to you

I love it when there's scenes that remind us how Nobita is one of Shizuka's closest friend and vice versa. Shizuka is not just Nobita's 'future wife', she's his friend. For me, they're best friends first, lovers second. With Nobita thinking that the what-if telepon booth was actually broken, their emotions are genuine here. Nobita must have really regretted ever messing with the booth...

(this ep gave me an AU idea where Nobita actually did move to America lmao, it's being written somewhere in my notes app)

I love the 1979 anime's version too, especially since the animation is so much better. However, I couldn't find the episode with english (or indonesian) sub anywhere 😭

(2005 anime) episode 71 - Conclusion Yarn

I know the way Nobita is using the Conclusion Yarn to basically force Shizuka to be pulled to him is kinda...hmm. But well, he got a lot of consequences (dragged everywhere by the gadget, getting beaten by Gian)

So, it's kinda poetic how, in the end, Nobita doesn't even need the Conclusion Yarn to make up with Shizuka.

(They don't need gadgets to connect them since they're already connected guys🥲)

Every moments in the 1999 Nobita's Night Before Wedding

How did they make adult Nobita so cool in this special?!?!!?!?!? modern writers pls take notes

ALSO, as I said in my nbsz fic, it's so cute how everytime Nobita found something fun to do, his first thought is to call Shizuka and invite her to have fun with him. His love language is probably quality time.

(I only have clips from the movies, but there's a lot of example in the show/manga too)

I'll have to end it here because if not, you guys will never hear the end of it. I love the both of them so much I literally procrastinated my math assignment to write this askdnjofcjsoij (even though Nobita does annoy me a lot sometimes, but well, he's ten)

These are just some of my favorites, I still have 28 movies and hundreds of episodes left to rewatch so I'll definitely found more moments that I love.

[blackjackkent]

Heading back out into the area outside the Bhaalist temple, and just remembered I never posted @rhysintherain's other contribution to Rakha's story!

(See here for his drabble about Rakha and Minsc discussing her Bhaalspawn heritage.)

Quite a while back, when Rakha was still in Act 2, I formulated the headcanon that Rakha and Z'rell were in fact twin Bhaalspawn (since they have the same face model and look generally quite similar). Rhys ran with this idea and came up with a sixth one of Orin's effigies, specifically referencing Z'rell and how she came to also be tadpoled and memoryless.

Spoilers - she wasn't attacked by Orin. ;)

(This is set during Rakha's initial approach to the temple but I didn't post it at the time. D: Still kind of works now on the way out though tbh.)

-----

The Effigy of Z'rell by @rhysintherain

Another step closer to the Bhaalist temple, another gruesome display of mutilated bodies. This one is not in a dim, claustrophobic basement, but in a cavern off the undercity paths that lead ever downward.

Another note, signed in blood by Orin.

Jaheira draws a steadying breath and surveys the carnage. Two halflings, a duergar, a drow, several humans. All dressed in dark robes, the mark of the Absolute carved into their faces. An ogre, sprawled near the stairs that lead down to the cavern. Scorch marks cover the floor. At the back of the cavern, crumpled against the wall, lies a half-orc woman, a knife wound through her jaw.

Like Orin's other bloody displays, Jaheira recognises the scene immediately. She was there, after all. Unlike the others, her companions also recognise this one.

“Search the bodies,” Rakha says tersely. 

As the others begin with the ones near the door, Rakha beelines for the half-orc. 

Jaheira watches in silence as Rakha pulls two pieces of parchment from the dead woman's pockets.

She reads it, stone-faced, then growls, low and angry, crumples the page up, and throws it across the room. Then she turns on her heel and stomps out of the cavern, not waiting for the others to react.

Wyll picks up the crumpled page, once she's out of sight, flattens it between his fingers, and reads it aloud.

“‘The effigy of Z'rell, who lost herself. What use, her zeal? Her sister's mercy spoiled even her death' signed Orin the Red,” he reads. “Gods. It's true, then. Rakha and Z'rell were sisters…”

“Go,” Jaheira nods towards the stairs. “We can handle this.”

Now more than ever, I think I see the undercurrent of your plan clearly, Father. You could not have been contented with Rakha as your Chosen child, could you? She was always a blunt instrument, even at her finest. No volume of blood and singed flesh could make up for her weakness, in the end. Take her treatment of her twin and first rival. Any worthy child of Bhaal would have slain Z'rell, but not Rakha. Instead she robbed her lesser sister of her mind and memories, leaving her breathing and bumbling as a tool of the “Absolute”, rather than a pool of blood and guts, as you would have wished. She showed violence in that, but not strength, not the oblivion of your inevitable plan. Was it not twisted, divine artistry then, that I turned her own method against her? Was it not the embodiment of your will when I rose up to do the same as she had done first, sending her to the slaughter as a vacant shell of her former self? She is not spent yet, Father. The echo of her past purpose lives on, slaughtering her way to me and my highest victory. She is the puppet, and I her strings. Your “favorite” daughter will be my most profane offering yet. I will spill her blood on the floor of your temple, as she spilled so much in your name. She will die, alone and forgotten, in the halls she once ruled as your high priest. And when she falls to feed your ultimate design, viscera and bones to decorate your most holy place, none will stand between us and the end this world so richly deserves. All will be meat and bones in her image. All will be your domain: no more wretched to serve the Tyrant, no more necromancers to revere the Lord of Bones. Only you, Father Bhaal, will preside over what remains. Orin the Red 

[sisterdivinium]

Liking or disliking fictional characters is wholly dependent on subjectivity, but as there will be those baffled by others' attachments, I thought it might be interesting to delve into an unforgettable, uncomfortable scene featuring Ava and Mother Superion to see if the latter's so-called cruelty "should" soil our opinion of her as some apparently believe it must despite later developments.

Let us begin with a quick recapitulation and a summary of what we see when we arrive at this scene: we are at the Cat's Cradle soon after Ava's coercitive conduction there (rather than autonomous arrival), hostile ground very reminiscent of the orphanage where she was mistreated by another group of nuns for years on end. On the other hand, the convent is familiar territory for Mother Superion, her turf, her natural habitat, even, something she would protect at any cost. She is the active enactor of "cruelty" while Ava is its (not-so-passive) recipient -- a woman facing a girl, the representative of an institution facing a lonely individual with no such backing, a believer facing a sceptic, a master and a rookie, someone who once held a certain position and lost it to someone else who holds it now.

There are a number of opposing values embodied by these two characters in this moment, but perhaps, most of all, what thickens the atmosphere around them is their own relationship to the halo: the object which brought Ava back to life, thrusting this outsider into a secret, hermetic order, is the same coveted object that ambiguously rules the OCS, the cause of both grief and anticipation, essential to a beloved sister warrior's death as well as to the aborted ascension of another to the simultaneously prized and feared status of halo bearer.

Here is a dead girl reborn and hungering for some new kind of life, set against a living woman so well-used to and prepared for death as only an experienced, battle-worn soldier can be.

The clash is inevitable.

Even their positions in the scene itself announce it: the vertical aspect of it, with Ava on the floor, her foot stuck in the wall (the same extremity which first twitches and denounces her resurrection after her being unable to use it for so long) while Superion towers darkly over her, symbolically supported by the dogma of centuries with which she is all but blended while Ava pops out in contrast with the empty, colourful wall. The hierarchy is more than clear and, as the one more advanced in said hierarchy, Superion is bound to be the one wielding the metaphorical whip for which her cane is an apt replacement as an instrument of visible, chastising power.

Here is a superior ready to admonish an unruly subordinate, heartless rules and expectations ready to punish someone who did not even choose to be placed under their majesty to begin with.

Of course we side with Ava, how could we not?

She is the weaker link, an innocent being condemned of a crime she did not commit, moved to tears by vile accusations and conduct -- she is the protagonist whose point of view we have followed from the start of the show two episodes ago, whose inner thoughts we are privy to through voice-over comments the likes of which we do not receive for any other characters for the duration of the story.

Superion, however, is introduced only now, a few running minutes prior to this conflict. We don't know her, we don't trust her, we are not allowed any intimacy with her and so the only impression we can rely on is the one provided by Ava's perspective.

Boss bitch, wicked stepmother... Those words are not neutral.

Our opinion, then, is smartly "manipulated" thanks to the lack of independent information we can gather at this point. We have no choice but to condemn Mother Superion, her bluntness, her harshness by the end of this tense dialogue with Ava.

Interestingly, as vicious as her words about Ava are in the following confrontation with Vincent -- callous, hurtful words that stick with us and reinforce our negative impression of her ("a sinner" who "killed herself", an "aberration", a "cancer") --, those terrible words Superion uses were never directed at Ava, not to her face. Calling someone a coward, as she does within the study, might be offensive, but poor Ava's tears might have flowed more abundantly had she heard these other terms being used about her.

Turns out Mother Superion was honest when talking to Vincent earlier.

She didn't go easy indeed, but she also never revealed to Ava the full extent of her contempt. There was some amount of self-restraint and regard for the newcomer despite appearances.

When speaking of Superion's "cruelty" towards Ava, it's "sinner", "aberration" and "cancer" that come to mind... But she never spoke those words to Ava, just to Vincent.

We hear them, we may judge her sternly, but what did Ava actually get from her? Is it really that much of a stretch to understand Ava's forgiveness, to the point where she demonstrates she cares about the nun's view even before their encounter at the Vatican in 1x09 is over, when she attempts to sway Mother Superion's opinion of her by telling her how she is fighting and protecting her friends even if it looks like she's running from trouble yet again?

In reality, what Suzanne speaks of within the red room is Ava's accident, of her death caused by overdose, of how it must have been a nightmare... There are bits of false or biased information given her source, but there are bits of truth in there as well, if tactlessly delivered. The accusation of suicide is heavy, that of coward is perhaps a tad too strong... But nothing of the words exchanged in that moment, however heightened they are by Sylvia de Fanti and Alba Baptista's shining talent, can come close to the rawness displayed in the conversation she has with Vincent -- a conversation Ava is not present for. "Coward" is a speck of dust compared to "aberration".

Of course there's a reason for this mixture we, as an audience, are likely to make between points of view. This was a practical, clever way to nudge us towards sympathy for Vincent and antipathy for Superion, as a means to enhance the later effect of the former's betrayal and the latter's change of heart at the end of s1. Without this scene, both of those events lose their lustre -- but with its inclusion, it seems there are those who are distracted by it and who will still point an accusing finger at the nun, insisting on seeing her in a much more negative light than Ava herself could, oblivious to the character's evolution as the story unfolds.

If at first we rely on Ava's impressions, this scene provides us with Vincent's perspective, which flattens our view of the situation and might lead us to ignore the surprisingly emotionally charged reaction on Superion's part -- which should vehemently suggest to us that there is much more happening underneath her mask of severity.

Moreover, taking Vincent's "side" seems reasonable enough in this episode, but the revelation of his shaky moral grounds further on should at the very least cause a viewer still full of antipathy for Suzanne, even in spite of her redeeming actions, to question whether they truly wish to maintain their ideas when this fallible man who is cruel in his own way has helped cement them.

We could make a case for these two scenes, the one between Ava and Suzanne as well as the one between Suzanne and Vincent, as being only one. Looking at them together is the best method of ascertaining their effects to the fullest extent.

As a result of their confrontation, Ava is left crying... And, at the end of the debate between the priest and the nun, Suzanne leaves the scene in tears as well, if more contained ones. There's a strange sort of equivalence for both women, as the consequences are the same, their emotional reactions are essentially the same and both are left feeling deeply hurt.

That correspondence is perfectly understandable, if shocking at first to those who haven't yet regarded these events with a wider consideration. For, despite all the evidence pointing to the contrary, despite their myriad differences, their power imbalance, the way they are shown on-screen, visually antithetical to one another, the truth is that Ava Silva and Mother Superion here are precisely the same.

The environment, the camera cuts, the authority... It's all a decoy.

If we look at the relationship between speaker and listener, between two individuals who are supposedly participating in the same process of communication together, both Ava and Suzanne choose the same approach: one which negates the very possibility of dialogue, of exchange, of alternating turns between speaking and listening. They are as two negative magnets, irrevocably repulsed by one another's identical charge -- hence the also identical result of both women being moved to tears in the outcome to their meeting.

Mother Superion is, as we know well, strongly prejudiced against Ava when first they are brought together... But so has Ava formed an opinion on her and on the Order of the Cruciform Sword. Both of them have judged the other based on sources of knowledge they see no reason to suspect: Suzanne takes the word of a fellow nun for granted, keeping to class loyalty, while Ava trusts her empirical learning in the direct contact she had with other nuns. Opening an interesting epistemological debate, illustrating how serious the failures of understanding the world through only one fixed method are, ignoring that a complex, multiple existence requires multiple points of view in order to better perceive its truths, neither Suzanne's faith nor Ava's direct experience can fully qualify them in dealing with the other. Both fail to see through the image they have construed of one another, trusting in the surface, in stereotype all the while closing themselves off to genuine connection with one another.

They have both made up their minds about the other party prior to any real dialogue, so their interactions simply cannot be done in good faith -- not by an Ava who doesn't take the nuns or their vocation (or their grief) seriously, not by a Mother Superion plagued by issues of self-esteem and envy.

Another element determines their proposed equality. It is possible that some degree of recognition regarding Ava and their common status, on Suzanne's part, takes place fairly early on, feeding the animosity.

I've been asked before whether Suzanne might not have seen her younger, foolish self in Lilith's arrogance, but it would be just as feasible to assume she might see herself reflected in Ava as well, in her impulsiveness.

If Suzanne might be linked to Lilith through a shared instinct of aggression, then she might as well see a connection to Ava through her indiscipline, her refusal to conform during that initial stay at the Cat's Cradle.

The horror of seeing oneself in "the other" should not be underestimated. It is a moment of realisation wherein this "other" is revealed as not-so-other to begin with as it carries a portion of ourselves in it -- or vice-versa, which only serves to denounce how artificial the obstacles we erect between one another truly are. We can't separate life into neat little boxes of "us vs. them", we can't build hierarchies, rigid orders based on how alien someone else is when we see through the lies and accept that either we, too, are monstrous or that those "monsters" out there are just the same as we.

And if Superion does see something of herself in Ava early on, it's no surprise that she would reject it as well as Ava just as she rejects herself and the echoes of her own actions, her own brashness on that fateful night where her Mother Superion was indirectly slain by her own hand, as a result of her own indiscipline.

That preoccupation with her girls and their safety which Suzanne demonstrates, despite Vincent's inference of her having other intentions when she pushes Ava away, is highly unlikely to be insincere.

Moreover, Ava is an outsider... And, in some capacity, so is Suzanne.

Imprisoned within her own guilt and sentiments of inadequacy, she distances herself from others to such a degree that she might well be on the outside looking in.

Just as Mary can pinpoint this fault with unerring precision and play a central part to Mother Superion's turning the tides at last, so does Mary fulfil the same function in regards to Ava, opening her eyes as she does Suzanne and strengthening the parallel between the two women.

Mary identifies and helps correct both women's conduct as Ava and Suzanne both pushed others away in their own fashion and for their own reasons; the problem is much the same, as is the catalyst that ultimately drives them towards a solution.

That solution, of course, is building bridges instead of burning them down; it's coming to terms with the fact that there is something shared between even those who seem most inimical. Ava and Suzanne are the same, like an estranged pair of mother and daughter who finally set aside their generational differences or incompatibilities, who finally reject the power of fabricated opposition to embrace a much more authentic, honest way of seeing the other as well as themselves and meet in the middle. They accept the fact that what sets them apart is not as important as what brings them together; they overcome the easy, lazy, automatic barrier of antagonism (not without a struggle) with the end of mutual benefit where once there was only mutual injury, lifting the veil or banishing the shame or fear of seeing underneath it only the most familiar of faces.

It's no surprise, then, that their ultimate reconciliation comes through a literal scene of recognition as that in 1x09. Whatever horror there might have existed in Suzanne's facing her reflection in Ava fades as Ava gets the opportunity to be the one staring into the mirror for once.

This scene, once again masterfully played out by Sylvia and Alba, wouldn't even be possible without the previous negativity surrounding their relationship. Now it is defined by what renders them equal; now that equality is not denied and so there is no further miscommunication between them.

This is all reinforced, of course, in s2, when Suzanne opens up to Ava about her time as the halo bearer (thus, as someone who has been in Ava's position, someone just like her) as well as when Ava tells her she will do what she must alone, for the sake of the others -- and Suzanne understands and supports her despite the lessons learned during her own tenure as the warrior nun.

In a world so large and complex, where we are more and more prone to defining ourselves against others as we attempt to reduce some of that maddening complexity, the definitions that really allow us to approach and coexist with our fellows are those that provide healing, that pull them towards us rather than not. Only they can reopen the routes for clean, generous communication, unhindered by problems of malicious (mis)interpretation, and, therefore, facilitate the genuine human connection we all so crave.

So, once more, it would seem that a negative occurrence in Warrior Nun begets positive outcomes.

What we think of as a vicious, savage, unforgivable attack is, first of all, bad but not as vicious or savage as we might initially feel it is -- just enough to affect the very person responsible for it as much as her target, which should be enough of a hint as to how truly merciless this character is(n't). Moreover, it is the first, shaky step both characters take in the sinuous, parallel journey with a common destination that betters them both.

Funny how all of that "cruelty" amounts to a fairly (or deceptively) simple question.

One which, like it or not, prompts Ava to ponder and act, to move, faithful to herself. Her more immediate answer is what we see at the end of 1x03, of course. But the following events in the narrative, in Ava's life, force her to consider what it might actually mean to live -- and we know how that progresses, where that takes her.

And so might we reconsider alongside Ava: our sympathies, our understanding of characters' motivations, whether any of them can be fully right or wrong... If we're paying attention, we shall see that all of them triumph and commit blunders regardless of whatever moral standing they possess, of how central or marginal they are to the show, of how much we might individually like or dislike them. They're built as human as can be, themselves a reflection of our own sprawling, complex world, where most things are relative rather than absolute.

Prejudice is blinding. Identifying and not shying away from our commonality is infinitely more conducive to social life, however difficult it might be to act so. We all of us are susceptible to judging others incorrectly. Even difficult experiences can make us grow us as people in the end -- if only we're willing to find out how.

Now, I cannot speak for all self-avowed fans of Mother Superion, but I find that her presence and importance in the story and in Ava's path is abundantly clear.

There are other reasons to love her, but the next time someone claims it strange to be so keen on a character who was so "mean", perhaps it will be a jolly good opportunity to help them realise how, as Ava and Superion themselves, this person might just be a little too caught up in their own premature conclusions. They are, by choosing to ignore the very well-wrought development of both characters, thanks to one another, adopting the very posture they claim to abhor in Suzanne by denying her complexity and groundlessly seeing her as nothing more but caricature.

And to do so is to fall for the very trap this wonderful show is so earnestly trying to warn us against.