#so people have lost trust in the institutions supposed to aid them

[zenathezee]

My insurance isn't great but one time someone found out their unborn baby had a 0% chance of living after birth without severe intervention and my insurance funded the extremely careful C-section and the highly experimental surgery on the newborn that was whisked away as soon as he hit air. That child would have died, or the parents would have been in literal millions of debt, except there was someone on the other end of the claim that said yes, this baby deserves a chance to grow up, we will pay for this 2% chance at life. Now he's a toddler and perfectly healthy and every time I think about the UHC CEO I remember how an algorithm he endorsed sentenced sick people to death because of profits and how his company would have denied this claim and every appeal in a heartbeat. Our premiums went up a couple dollars the next year, but a child wasn't left to die because the parents couldn't afford to pour millions into a 2% chance at life

How many people died because they/their loved ones couldn't afford to ruin themselves financially on a 2% chance? How many died or lived with easily negatable suffering because their insurance wouldn't pay out for the things they have insurance for? How much blood did Brian Thompson have on his hands? Why are people surprised when the populace rejoices over the death of someone who spent their time making people's lives worse?

[danses-with-dogmeat]

Fallout 4 characters (who've been to the capitol or at least heard about what happened there) react to sole survivor finding a tunnel snakes jacket and/or meeting butch and the lone wanderer who came to the commonwealth to meet sole survivor and co. after the railroad ending

Sorry if I made it too complicated

Thanks so much for the ask! This was a super interesting prompt! I only did a few companions (including Danse despite this being a railroad ending because I just couldn't help myself) but if there's someone I didn't include that you still want to see, just let me know! I hope you enjoy :)

Danse:

Danse stopped in his tracks, forcing Sole to halt in place a few paces back. They peeked their head out from behind his tall, power-armored frame, looking for signs of danger. In the distance, two figures made their way towards them, and Sole raised their sniper rifle in preparation, curious as to why Danse made no sudden moves to ready his own weapon. Sole held the scope of their gun to their eye, trying to find a good shot in case the pair turned out to be hostile. Noticing their action, Danse turned his head, bringing a large hand up to push the barrel of the gun roughly downwards.

“Hey!”

“There’s no need to have them in your sights, soldier. These civilians are no threat to us.”

“How do you know? What about exercising caution?” Sole adjusted the grip on their rifle, still not completely convinced that they weren’t in danger.

“I know because I’ve met these people before."

“You can tell who they are all the way from here?” They squinted their eyes at the figures in the distance once again, trying to make out any discernible features, but failing to do so.

“Yes, look at their vault suits.”

“Okay,” Sole started, “I know it all turned out fine with me, but not everyone wearing a vault suit is automatically a good person.” Danse closed his eyes for a moment, a bout of air escaping his nose in an expression of his annoyance.

“I know that. But look closely,” His voice lowered a bit as the two strangers in vault suits grew nearer. Now, Sole could almost make out the general features of their faces.

“Their suits say ‘vault 101’ on them.” Danse said the words with a weight that left Sole feeling as though they should know what he was talking about. He turned to look at them expectantly, almost confirming their theory, before noticing their distinct lack of recognition at his words.

“Vault 101 is in the Capital Wasteland," he explained, "only three people I know of have ever left that particular vault; I know one to be dead, and the other two travel the wastes together, performing selfless acts to aid the settlers in the Capital. One of them is called Lone, and they were once a great ally to the Brotherhood of Steel; they walked beside Liberty Prime in our war against the Enclave ten years ago.”

Sole furrowed their eyebrows, their gaze still trained on the blue-clad pair as they drew ever closer.

“And you’re sure this is them?” Danse nodded his head as he looked towards them, Sole continued, lowering their voice even more as their gaze rested on the approaching vault-dwellers, “And they’re no threat? If they’re still allied with the Brotherhood, that could be an issue, Danse.” They said the last bit rather softly, hinting at the ex-paladin's now severed relationship with the faction he was once so devoted to.

“I suppose we shall see.” Danse said, and Sole looked on as one of the pair acknowledged them with a wave of their hand, their partner behind them keeping his pistol lowered reassuringly.

“Greetings, civilians.” Danse said, effectively outing himself as a (former) member of the Brotherhood, as if the power armor hadn’t already helped with that a bit. This is why I do the talking. Sole thought as they let out a breath, trying to release some of the anxiety they felt building up in response to this strange situation.

“Hello.” One of them said, their eyes slightly narrowed in suspicion of the soldier and his companion. “Nice outfit,” they nodded towards Sole’s own vault suit, but before Sole could respond, Danse took another step forward.

“Do you still go by ‘Lone’?” he asked, and the one in front snapped their gaze up to look him in the eye, their bewilderment plainly written on their face.

“Hey!” said the man in the leather jacket behind them, “how do you know Lone’s name?”

“So, I suppose that’s a ‘yes,’ then.” Sole interjected. Lone looked back, flashing a perturbed look at the man behind them, and Sole’s gaze went up to Danse, hoping he would explain more. For both their sake, and for Lone’s.

“We haven’t met, but I was at the Citadel when you arrived after the Enclave took over your father’s water purifier.”

Lone's eyebrows seemed to raise slightly at that, as they nodded in remembrance.

"So, are you still with the Brotherhood, then?" The air seemed to sizzle and crack around Danse at the pressure Lone’s question exuded on him. Should he lie and say that he is? Or has Lone since cut ties with the faction as well? There was certainly no physical indication that they were still allied with the Brotherhood, but…

"Not currently." Sole answered for the ex-paladin, "I don't know if you've heard, but the chapter of the Brotherhood that was stationed here was wiped out." They felt Danse tense at their words. Now Sole was taking the risk, mentioning an event that had nearly demolished their relationship with the former Brotherhood soldier, but they had to say something. And this way, they weren’t giving away their position in relation to the Brotherhood.

"So I'd heard. It's a shame, really."

"I’ll tell you what’s a shame,” Lone’s companion spoke up, “that they lost their sweet ass ride. That's what I think. Never seen anything like it, now the whole damn thing’s been blown to smithereens."

Danse’s eyes seemed to glaze over at the mention of the destruction of the ship he once called home, and Sole knew he wouldn’t be much help to them now.

“So, you’re from the Capital? What is it that’s brought you out here?” They asked in an attempt to veer away from this troubling subject. Lone narrowed their eyes slightly, and Sole could practically see the gears turning in their head as they thought through what sort of information they wanted to divulge to the strangers in front of them.

“Wait, slow your roll there. We might kinda-sorta know this guy," Lone's companion gestured to Danse, "but who are you supposed to be, huh?” Sole noticed the man’s hand remained firmly grasped around the 10mm pistol he carried, and they wondered if perhaps Danse had been wrong about these two. It has been 10 years, these people could have changed. They could be anyone by now.

“My name is Sole.” They said simply, unsure how they should further embellish their title, given their uncertainty surrounding the pair in front of them. But, as it happens, it seemed they didn’t have to, for as soon as their name left their lips, Lone turned abruptly to their companion with wide eyes.

“You’re Sole?” Lone asked, their gaze turning to fall heavily on Sole, their eyes round in recognition.

“No way we just bumped into them like this. No way.” Lone’s partner shook his head in disbelief, and Sole looked up to see Danse’s stare break from the nothingness he’d been focused on to rest upon Lone’s perplexed face.

“I-- well, yes, I am. How do you…?” Sole trailed off, not sure what exactly they were trying to ask.

“Well, you asked why we came here.” Sole nodded to them, “It was to find you.” At that, Danse raised his laser rifle from the restful position it had held throughout the entire exchange thus far, as the possibly threatening words left Lone’s mouth.

“Easy there, sergeant major. We’re just gabbin’, no need for a defensive position.”

“And that’s exactly why I’m taking one. Always best to be prepared, civilian.” Danse looked down at Lone’s companion with furrowed brows, hands holding steady in their poised position on his rifle.

“Alright, everyone, let’s calm down. We just want to talk to you, Sole.” Lone said, hands slightly raised in an inoffensive gesture.

“Why?” Danse said, utterly unconvinced that the pair meant no harm. My, how the tables have turned so abruptly. Sole thought, I’d like to tell him I told him so, but something tells me now’s not the time for that.

Lone just smiled as Danse glowered down at them,

“If all I’ve heard is true, Sole is a hero." They said, "my aim is to find out what really happened with you and the Institute, and maybe, if I like what I hear, we’ll have a few favors to ask of you.”

“Favors?” Sole spoke up, “What did you have in mind?”

“We’ll go into more detail later, but let’s just say that the Capital Wasteland hasn’t exactly benefited from the Brotherhood’s… change in management. For now though, I’ll leave it at that. And we should get moving if we’re going to find shelter before sundown. I hear it can get pretty chilly up here at night.” Sole nodded as they considered all that Lone had said, and as their eyes found Danse’s, the pair silently decided to trust the Lone wanderer and their partner. For now, at least.

“Sole,” Danse said, “why don’t you take point.”

“Good idea.” Sole moved to step ahead of the others, heading north along the dirt road they had been following, before glancing back at the sound of Lone’s voice.

“Butch, why don’t you take up the rear.”

“Don’t have to ask me twice,” Butch turned to Sole and winked before doing as Lone had suggested, and the group set off to find shelter for the fast-approaching evening.

MacCready:

“Holy crap, where the heck did you get this?!” MacCready held up the leather jacket in front of him, eyes widening in awe. Sole looked over from where they stood outside their house in Sanctuary, squinting their eyes at the seemingly inconsequential jacket.

“That’s not mine.” They told him, turning back to unloading the scrap they’d acquired from the mission they and MacCready had just returned from.

“Do you even know what this is?” You looked back at him with a cocked brow,

“Does it look like I do?”

“This is a Tunnel Snakes jacket!” MacCready held the jacket with one hand, the other gesturing animatedly to the artwork on the back of it, Sole’s expression remained devoid of recognition, so MacCready felt the need to continue, “The Tunnel Snakes! It’s a gang. They’re from the Capital Wasteland. I’ve only ever seen one of these jackets once, and--”

“Oh, and what have we here?” A man in a vault suit with slicked back hair stepped out from the side of the house, flicking a cigarette butt to the ground, “hey, come check this out! Told you the Tunnel Snakes’ name got around.” The man gazed proudly at the jacket, a smug expression formed on his face as another stranger rounded the corner of the house. They also donned a vault suit, an amused smile playing at their lips as they rolled their eyes at their companion. The new stranger was odd, despite their age, they had an air of knowing about them. They were young, but their eyes seemed old, light lines shown on their face, telling the story of a life fraught with loss and tough decisions.

“Butch, we’ve been over this.” They said, “There’s like three people in the gang, and two of them live underground. The guy probably just thinks it’s a cool jacket.”

“Then how did he know the name, huh?”

“It’s on the jacket, Butch.”

“No!” MacCready interjected, “I do know you guys! We’ve met before, remember? Little Lamplight?”

Sole was now to the point of utter bewilderment as their head darted back between Mac and the two strangers. What the hell is going on here? Who are these people? Has MacCready ever mentioned a ‘Butch’ before? The stranger looked hard at MacCready, taking a few steps towards him, before recognition sparked in their eyes. Sole took a few steps forward in response, uncomfortable with the strangers’ proximity to their companion.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” They whispered, just loud enough for Sole to hear from where they stood beside the group. “I wouldn’t forget those wide, blue eyes. Look at you, little mayor MacCready, how’s it feel to be a mungo now, huh?”

“Holy shit!” Butch exclaimed, moving closer to MacCready to get a better look, “It’s the little mayoral punk from the kid cave!”

MacCready just laughed, his hand still clasped firmly around the leather jacket, as Sole stepped towards them.

“The hat’s changed a bit, but I see you’re still fond of sniper rifles.” The stranger nodded to MacCready’s rifle that lay on the ground next to where he stood. “Tell me,” they continued, “you still an asshole?”

Sole opened their mouth, only to be shut down by a glare from MacCready.

“You’re not allowed to answer that.” He pointed at them as he said it, and Sole rolled their eyes at him. MacCready then looked to the strangers, as if to answer their question, but before he could utter a word, Sole stepped forward.

“Okay, hold on, before anybody else says anything, I need to know what’s going on here. So, you going to introduce me to your friends, or what?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, of course!” MacCready seemed to jitter with excitement as he bounced over to them, and Sole wondered who it was they saw energetically bobbing around in front of them, this certainly wasn’t the MacCready they knew. And judging by their befuddled expressions, Butch and the stranger thought the same.

“Sole, this is Lone, the one I told you about, who helped with the mutants at Little Lamplight? And purified all that water for the people in the capitol? Yeah, that’s them, and this is their partner, Butch, he was from the same vault and was an OG Tunnel Snake.”

“Yeah, the OG Tunnel Snake.” Butch said, bringing his hands up to flick his collar up, before realizing he wasn’t wearing his jacket. He smoothed his hands over his chest awkwardly instead as Lone looked on, a mix of disappointment and amusement playing on their face, before they turned their attention to Sole.

“So, Sole, you’re the one everyone’s been talking about.”

“I-- I am?”

“Yeah, you’re the reason we came all the way up here. The vault dweller from before the war, the legendary railroad agent, and the one who brought down the Institute. You're a hero, even down in the CW. But it's strange, you’re younger than I thought.” Sole blinked, and smiled a little bashfully, unsure how to respond to such praise coming from Lone, who certainly was a legend in their own right. Instead of speaking to them directly, Sole turned to MacCready,

“You told me that Lone was dead.”

“What? No, I--”

“No, MacCready, you said they gave their life for the people of the capitol, in that water purifier thing.”

Lone chucked from beside Sole, shaking their head.

“It’s okay. You’d be surprised by how many people think that's true. Anyway, you’ve clearly heard my story, but we’re here for yours, Sole. What do you say we go inside and talk?”

Sole nodded, gesturing for them to head inside the house. They glanced over to MacCready, who made an attempt at handing the leather jacket back to its owner. But Butch just slapped him on the back,

“Tell you what, daddy-o, you keep it. I’m always happy to meet a fan. Plus, I got plenty of those back home.”

Deacon:

The pair entered the memory den and Sole nodded to Irma as they made their way towards the stairs leading to the basement. As they headed down, Sole heard Deacon’s footsteps behind them falter. They turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised,

What is it? They asked him silently, the words written in their expression. He took a few steps closer to them, keeping his voice low as he answered.

“Do you hear that?” He asked, and Sole held their breath as they listened for whatever it was that had their companion concerned.

“Voices?” they whispered back, and he nodded.

“I don’t recognise them. Better let me do the talking.” Sole nodded to him, and stepped aside, allowing Deacon to take the lead. They were coming to escort a recently mind-wiped synth to their new home in the Jamaica Plain settlement. The only ones meant to be present were Dr. Amari and the synth, Charlie. Deacon and Sole had helped the synth, designation C1-44, all the way from Mercer safehouse to Goodneighbor, so they knew his voice well enough at this point. Sole had hoped that, with the Institute effectively gone, processes like this would become much less common, and the existing synths could live their lives in peace, with their memories intact. But C1 had specifically asked for a mind-wipe, the Institute’s depreciating thoughts and acts towards him had left him with an abhorrent self-image that he felt he needed to escape from. Deacon had been right, it seemed, even without the Institute, the Railroad’s work was never done.

Sole might’ve waited to peek around the corner before entering the room, but Deacon sauntered right in while they held back in the hallway. They had always admired the spy’s confidence, but how many times had he warned them about waltzing into a situation without preparation? They seemed to recall a number of instances…

“Bullseye, you comin’?” They rounded the corner at the sound of their Railroad codename, a little alarmed, only to find the room devoid of both Charlie and Dr. Amari. Instead, two strangers stood beside the memory pod in the room. One stood in front of the other, at the ready, while the man behind them leaned against the back of the memory pod.

“Where..?” Sole started, turning to Deacon, but he was looking back at the stranger in combat armor,

“See, Lone? Told you I knew them. I don’t always lie, despite what you seem to think.”

The one named Lone rolled their eyes at him,

“You may not have lied about bringing them here, but I seem to remember you describing them as much more… well, not quite as they are. Say, Bullseye, how tall are you?”

Sole opened their mouth to respond, but Deacon cut them off before they could voice a thing.

“Is that really what matters? So, I may have exaggerated a few details about their appearance, but everything else is true. They really took down the Institute after working undercover for months without detection, and they've saved well over a hundred synth lives.”

“Deacon.” Sole said, their uncertainty keeping them frozen in place by the entrance to the basement, “who are these people? Where is the-- ah, where is our client?”

“Oh, where are my manners?” Deacon brought a hand up to his chest dramatically before approaching Sole, throwing his arm around their shoulders, and urging them forward before gesturing to the people in front of them.

“This is Lone, the famed Railroad ally from the Capital wasteland. And you two have quite a bit in common, cuz, you see, Lone has also managed to take down a potentially world-destroying organization that happened to be bigoted, and inappropriately sanctimonious and self-obsessed. So I thought it’d be cute for you two to spend some time together, you know, swap war stories and pre-war recipes, stuff like that. You had pre-war food in vault 101, right?”

“It’s good to finally meet you,” Lone said, ignoring Deacon's attempt at humor, “I’ve heard so much.” Sole went to properly introduce themself, but was once again interrupted, this time by the man in the leather jacket behind Lone, who cleared his throat loudly.

“Oh,” Lone moved slightly out of the way so that Sole and Deacon could better see their companion, “This is my partner, Butch, he’s also from the vault.” Butch cleared his throat again, frowning at Lone.

“And? C’mon partner, you’re not telling me that’s all I am to you?”

Lone frowned slightly, appearing unphased, as though this were a common occurrence for them, “Butch also helped me take down the Enclave, and he assists me with the Railroad missions I’m involved with in the Capital.”

“Butch, pleased to make your acquaintance.” He said, walking forward and extending a hand towards Sole, who shook it tentatively.

“There, now we’re all on a first-name basis, why don’t we get moving? If we’re going to reach HQ before sundown, we’d better go now.” Deacon withdrew his arm from Sole’s shoulder, and started towards the door. “Hold on a moment, Deacon. What about our mission? You never answered me,” they continued, lowering their voice at their next question, “and now we’re taking these people to HQ? Does Des know?” Deacon looked at them with a disappointed expression,

“You’re killing me here, where’s the mystery if I explain everything? Where's the fun in that?” Sole flared their nostrils at him and heard Lone snicker from behind them.

“Really, we’ll talk when we get to HQ.” He said, turning back towards the stairs, “And of course Des knows.” He called over his shoulder, “I would never presume to waltz right into HQ with a couple of perfect strangers without her permission. Who do you think I am? Who do you think I think I am?” Sole caught the smug grin that spread across his face as he turned to take the first step up the stairs to the ground floor.

“Don’t worry,” Lone said, walking up from behind Sole, “We know Des. I’ve worked with her more times than I care to count, though I never have actually met her. That’s why we’re here, actually. To meet her, and the others I’ve heard about. And to meet you. Believe it or not, I’ve heard the most about you.”

“I suppose that means I’m not a very good agent.” Sole said, a little laugh escaping them as Lone’s words gave them some peace of mind regarding this odd situation they found themselves in.

“Eh, who cares about that. The Institute’s gone, so I don’t know why we’ve gotta still be all secret-y now anyway.” Butch’s voice came from a few steps down the stairs, and Lone shook their head at him, their exasperated expression seemed to mirror the one Sole usually had upon their face when Deacon opened his mouth. Maybe Deacon was right, they thought, as they reached the top of the stairs and the group made their way to the exit. Maybe Lone and I do have some things in common.

[bidnezz]

Revenant [2/5]

Pairings: Magnus/Alec, background Clary/Izzy, mentions of past Magnus/Camille

Rating: Mature

Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Blood and Violence, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Clave Politics (Shadowhunter Chronicles), Downworlder Politics, Betrayal, Revenge, Background Clary Fray/Isabelle Lightwood, Angry Magnus Bane, Light Romance, Mystery, Prophecy, Minor Character Death, lots of death

Summary:

Alec has heard the legends of Magnus Bane. He knows all the tales and he’s read all the records of his downfall. The High Warlock of Brooklyn who became so hungry for power that he began to mistreat the very warlocks who sought his help. It’s been a hundred years since then, and when a sudden rift opening between realms brings an onslaught of lesser demons, so too does it bring Magnus Bane, insatiable and vengeful for the power and people that locked him away in Edom. As newly appointed Head of the New York Institute, it’s Alec’s job to protect the residents of New York from one of the greatest Demons he’s ever faced. Only, he has no idea how, and maybe things aren't what they seem.

Art by the talented: @abby0007

Beta’d by the wonderful: @squiggly-lines-on-a-page

Read on ao3

Chapter Two

A myriad of colors flood Alec’s vision; a blur of purples, blacks, and yellows. The thrum of the portal around him and the pull of it against his core, all-encompassing and loud until finally, finally, it stops.

He stumbles forward gracelessly, all attempts at being nimble lost with the sudden foreign jerk of motion as the portal closes behind him. Behind them.

Magnus Bane, the Greater Demon gone mad, causing all of the destruction and chaos tonight, standing right before him. Because Alec followed him through a portal.

A hundred and one words flood his mind, questions and concerns and the hopeful glimmer of diplomacy all lodged in his throat with no way out. Not because Alec is afraid to speak, not because he’s stunned at the horror Magnus Bane has shown himself to be. His silence is forced. He is prevented from uttering a single word by the rope of magic that clings to his throat and holds him captive.

His fingers clutch at nothing, digging at the tender flesh of his neck where he knows there should be something solid and obtrusive. He finds nothing there, nothing but the bones of his collar and the rapid beat of his pulse, his heavy heart pounding against his ribs in a cry for salvation. A gasp escapes him then just as a noise catches his attention off to the side, barely distinguishable through the rush of blood that infiltrates his hearing, but when his eyes search before him where Magnus Bane once stood, he finds no one.

Has Magnus Bane inflicted him with the slow torturous death of strangulation to suffer all alone?

“To think you could simply follow me into a portal and assassinate me all on your own is the stupidest thing I could have imagined from a pathetic Shadowhunter,” comes the low, grisly voice against the back of his neck, close enough to cause a chill but not close enough for Alec’s hands to wildly reach around to.

No, he wants to say. I’m just here to talk. 

All he manages is the dry wheeze as the magic tightens around his throat and the corners of his eyes prickle as tears form.

“I told your kind to stay out of this,” the voice begins again, now to Alec’s right. He’s being circled like prey, watched aptly as he sinks to his knees and the oxygen deprivation pales his face, taking his life in the slow seconds. By the Angel, what a sorry way to go. “If this counts as Shadowhunters starting a war with Edom, so be it.”

Stars dance across the scene before him, a modest apartment decorated in silver and deep colored fabrics, slender legs filtering in and out his sight that leads higher to the Demon above him. Magnus Bane, staring down at him with a look of contempt, disgust curling his lip and the color of his jacket blending perfectly with the droop of Alec’s eyelids as he slips further under and his vision begins to fade.

Another scratch against his throat that meets nothing but raw skin, blunt nails that fruitlessly seek what they will never find, blood that begins to sink into the grooves and ridges of his fingerprints. And one last attempt as his eyelids hang heavy and he catches golden salvation high above. One word, mouthed pleadingly, that he can only pray to the Angels will save him.

Jace. Isabelle. Max. 

The faces of his family take over his consciousness, playing before him in slow motion as the last thing he sees before he goes. A life he let pass him by, a life he took a sideline to as he let the ambitions of his family’s reputation take over. Too soon, and too late, and no chance at remedying any of it. Not now, at the mercy of a mad demon and his thirst for revenge.

---

The next time Alec opens his eyes, it’s to the pale light of the setting moon and burgeoning sun that filters through the windows of the same unknown apartment as before. He hasn’t been moved. There’s a hammering in his skull, a steady throb of pain that threads all the way down to the open wound the ravener demon gifted him with, that begets a wince and a groan when he sits up too quickly. Dizziness follows immediately, too much too soon, and suddenly the memories of his last interaction fill his mind. 

Magnus Bane.

“Your request for mercy has been granted, but I must warn you that there is a limit on just how long my graciousness will last in the presence of a Shadowhunter.”

The voice, not the low rough voice Alec remembers from before, comes from a lavish chair to his right that houses exactly the person he hopes for.

Fear spikes through him first involuntarily, the instinct to pull out his seraph blade enticing enough, but a recipe for disaster should he actually attempt it. No, that’s not what he’s here for. He’s here to have a conversation with Magnus Bane, to find out his true goal and what that means for the rest of them. Alec curls his fists where he sits, balled against the soft material of the couch he woke up on, and clears his throat.

It’s sore, uncomfortably so, but he bears through the pain and begins to speak.

“I’ve just come to talk,” he offers, his voice foreign to himself, more along the lines of white noise than anything resembling actual words. “I’m not here to harm you, or get in your way.”

If he suspected it would aid his cause, Alec would raise his arms in a show of surrender, too, but Magnus’ sharp gaze keeps him locked in place. No sudden movements for fear of his life.

“As if you could harm me,” Magnus scoffs to himself, though loud enough to be heard. 

Alec doesn’t comment on it, or the way Magnus keeps a watchful eye on him despite the casual demeanor he feigns. It makes him itch underneath his skin to be scrutinized like this, to be seen as beneath the person across from you. Magnus doesn’t watch him for his own safety, or because he trusts Alec. He watches him with distaste coating his tongue and lips, as though the thought of Alec dirtying his sofa is a great travesty. He supposes he should expect as much from a Greater Demon.

“For someone who has come to talk, you have awful little to say.”

He’d feel foolish, for sure, if the oxygen deprivation hadn’t clearly left residual effects on his brain. “It’s a bit hard to get my thoughts in order when I’m still recovering from near-death,” he snaps.

Maybe it’s not such a great idea to anger the demon who just spared your life, though Magnus seems unbothered by the remark. “I did what I had to.”

“Is that what happened last night, too?”

The golden eyes that watch him reduce themselves to barely visible slats, and Magnus’ lip curls in anger. “You would be wise to remove the judgement from your tone, young Shadowhunter. You know nothing of my goals in this wasted realm.” 

Alec swallows carefully, the metal of his seraph blade burning against the holster that houses it, begging to be used in the presence of danger. 

“Then tell me.”

Magnus’ brows knit closer together and Alec feels magnified under his piercing gaze. Uncomfortable. “You want me to divulge all of my plans to some measly little Shadowhunter who’s going to run off and recite it all to the Clave as one more reason to help banish me again? I think not. You’re in no position to make demands.”

“I’m Head of the Institute,” Alec announces emphatically, hoping that his status will garner him at the very minimum an ounce of respect. “A bit higher on the chain than just some ‘measly little Shadowhunter,’ I’d say.” Then again, who would respect someone equivalent to a bug they almost squashed with a fraction of their power?

Magnus doesn’t respond in any timely manner, choosing instead to look Alec up from the sole of his combat boots, to the wayward strands of hair haphazardly resting on the crown of his head. He’s sure he looks a sorry sight with his dirty, bloodied clothes and roughed up features, but there’s no helping it. Pulling out his stele would undoubtedly cause more harm than it would be worth to heal and stabilize himself properly.

After more than a moment’s observation, Magnus summons himself a drink and stands from his chair.

For the first time since he regained consciousness, Magnus looks away from him to watch the city skyline from the window. It’s a poor view, Alec notices. Nothing attention-grabbing or worthwhile to see from his seat, and he’s sure Magnus’ can’t be much different. A Greater Demon with all the power in Edom and the expensive tastes Alec remembers connoting with Magnus Bane could surely set up a base in a better location than this. The top floor, perhaps. With lots of gaudy accessories to spruce it up, not the muted reds and blues and metallics that sparsely decorate it now.

For all this mental evaluation of Magnus Bane’s base of operation, Alec doesn’t miss the solemn sip he takes from his martini glass, or the way he seems to let it sit on his tongue before swallowing. Contemplating.

“Last night was… Necessary.”

Alec waits for more, expects it. But a hesitant silence fills the space between words instead. He stands carefully, unsure if this will have an unexpected reaction from Magnus, and when it doesn’t, Alec takes a step closer to the window. “Why?” He asks, to the point.

Another swig of liquor leaves the glass, this one bigger than the last and going down with a near audible gulp. “Camille needed to be the first, or she would have been the last, and I’m not sure I would have had the will to go through with it by the end.”

It’s a moment of raw honesty that Alec isn’t expecting. He knew Greater Demons had the capacity for human emotions, but he didn’t suspect to this extent.

“Camille was close to you, I gather?”

The way Magnus’ eyes shoot to him with disbelief makes Alec visibly step back. “Have you not done your research, Shadowhunter? Do the Nephilim take pride in going into battle headfirst and unprepared?”

Stubborn anger begins to bubble inside of Alec, but he pushes it away as he always does, and tries to remain as professional as possible in this situation. “I admit, I do not know a great deal about you. Only what I’ve gathered from Clave documents, although there’s hardly anything of substance written in them.”

Those eyes, cat-like and sharp, shift in their intention from anger to curiosity, something more appealing than talking about the revenge Magnus is here to carry out, piquing his interest. Alec makes a mental reminder to circle back to Camille later. “Do tell me more.”

“Alec,” he offers on instinct. The corner of Magnus’ lips twitch. 

“Alec,” Magnus corrects with a nod. “Go on.” 

With the spotlight on him now, the room feels a bit hotter, and the unhealed wound on his shoulder flares with the need for attention. He ignores it, if only for a little longer, and dredges up what he can remember from this evening’s research of Magnus Bane.

Has it really been less than 24 hours? Time feels stretched, as if it’s been days since everything started, since Magnus Bane became an actual figure in Alec’s life and no longer just a cautionary tale to ward off greed for power. That’s all his legacy had been reduced to, really. A fable. 

“Your existence according to Clave records goes back centuries, but there’s not actually much information on you. Just what the Clave perceived of you: dangerous, sly, hedonistic. You partied constantly through the 1800’s before you rose to power and became High Warlock of Brooklyn. Despite what the Clave thought of you, the Downworlders must have respected you enough to give you that power.” Alec’s thinking out loud at this point, he realizes. So he lets one more thought escape. “Why did you do it?”

He’ll never know when in all of his talking Magnus turned to face him, or when his features softened to the point he looked more human, but he’ll never forget the way Magnus’ small smile slips and the reminiscent memories floating behind those golden eyes plummet back down into stoic indifference.

“What exactly is it that you think I did, Alec?” Magnus’ voice floats quietly between them.

“You sought more than you had, you became hungry for more power than you had,” Alec states, matter-of-fact, forcing down the uncertainty behind his words. “You began to abuse that power and summoned what you could from Edom. You gallivanted around as a Warlock, hiding what you really are the whole time.”

“What am I?” Magnus questions solemnly, as though he doesn’t already know.

“A Greater Demon.”

The stiff tilt of a head, and another sip of martini, and then Magnus is turning back to the window with pursed lips. “Is that what Clave history says about me? The terrifying wonder of Magnus Bane and his downfall, consumed by greed and lust for more power, a Greater Demon in hiding.” Magnus inhales deeply, holds it for three precious beats Alec can’t help but count, and then releases it with a defeated slump. “What a story to tell.”

Alec takes a timid step closer. “Are you saying it’s not true?”

At that, Magnus strikes him in place yet again with a sharp look. “Did the Nephilim become so stupid in the hundred years I was away? Did no one think to question the lunacy of the assumptions wrapped up in Clave history with a neat little bow? Should I summon my father to show you what a Greater Demon truly looks like?”

The words are hissed with such spite that Alec begins to question them himself, to re-evaluate his own upbringing and knowledge of the past learned through years of training. Who is he to question the past? The Clave wouldn’t change the passages of history intentionally, that would surely go against the Accords and everything Alec knows to be true.

There must be a mistake.

“You summoned power from Edom, you-” Alec falters, just for a moment. “You pretended to be a Warlock to gain power among the Downworld. You were banished to preserve the Accords, and because you couldn’t be stopped unless drastic measures were taken. The Downworlders banded together to stop you, Bane.”

Magnus downs the remainder of his drink and rolls it around his tongue, letting the words sit and marinate in the spirit. 

“I was there when everything happened, Alec,” Magnus scoffs, “obviously.” In a flash of grandeur, Magnus turns from the window, away from the pinkening sky of the city. “History has a tendency to change over the years. Word of mouth, tales of skepticism, those in power feeding their lies to those who don’t know any better. And you lot,” Magnus shakes his head, “you gobble it up like the little birds you are, waiting to be fed by your mother. What would the Angels think of their Accords now, I wonder?”

The topic at hand is territory that begins to feel unsettling. The words Magnus speaks of imply known lies from the people Alec trusts the most, the people who guide and direct their entire lives. What would Isabelle and Jace say if they were to hear the same words? It would incite anger, surely, outrage and disbelief. It would start a war with Edom, at the very least, and go against the shreds of diplomacy Alec has worked towards. 

So why doesn’t Alec feel the way he knows he should? Why are the words of this Greater Demon in front of him sowing seeds of doubt into his mind where none have ever taken root? Is it having a face to the name that makes it all the more real for him? Is it being able to see the way those words are uttered, the nuance and enunciation of each and every one?

“So you’re not a Greater Demon?” Alec questions, hesitant. Not to ask, but to hear the answer he knows will follow.

Magnus catches his eyes and stares between both pupils, seemingly taking in all of the emotions hidden deep down inside of Alec, buried so far below where not even he chooses to acknowledge. Magnus searches and searches but for what, Alec’s not sure. He delves and prods with those eyes that Alec can’t tear his own gaze away from, Magnus resolute in his endeavor until whatever he finds is enough, must be enough, because soon that swirling golden gaze is pulling away from him.

“Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not the Greater Demon you were hoping for.”

Something sinks low in the pit of his stomach, acidic and bubbling and causing so much discomfort Alec takes a step back to catch his breath with his body tucked into the cushions of the sofa. He’ll ask his mother, he’ll get clarity back at the Institute, and he’s sure it will make sense. It has to.

Until then, he needs more answers. Different ones that won’t affect everything he thought he knew.

“Camille?” He tosses out, and Magnus catches without missing a beat.

“My former lover.” 

Former… lover? “Then why did you kill her?”

Magnus’ back straightens from his spot in front of the window, and his shoulders sit rigid. “As I said before, it was necessary. Camille is - was - a master of the fine arts, and manipulation was the medium she chose to wield most proficiently. If I let her live any longer, she’d have found a way to send me back to Edom, or get me to do it myself.”

“I gather she was the one who rallied the other Downworlders against you, then?”

A hum flits between them, and Magnus lifts a hand to his chin where idle fingers rub against the silver that decorates them as he sits in thought. “Not entirely, I believe. Although with her soul gone I suppose I’ll never truly know.” It rolls out so nonchalant, Alec can’t help the chills that run up his spine. “I’ve had nothing but time in Edom to try and make sense of that day. It was Warlocks, friends and foes alike that banded their powers together to silence me. They weakened my defenses, abused the trust I blindly allowed them, and when my back was turned, they took a knife to it.”

“Everyone betrayed you? Why would they have done that?”

“Not everyone,” Magnus sighs with a genuine soft smile. “My two dearest friends of course would never betray me. They tried to warn me numerous times and I regret every time I did not listen to them. Every instance I shrugged their worries off was bathed in my overconfidence of my own prowess. I was foolish and naive. I believed I was untouchable to most, that I was respected and loved by my own kin enough that these worries were fruitless.”

Pain mars Magnus’ face and the kneading of his fingers stops. “Nothing is guaranteed in this world, Alec. There is always something darker lurking in the shadows, something more sinister than any Downworlder or demon you can imagine. Greed and jealousy can change a person, can make them capable of horrifying realities. The only guarantee we have is that there will always be someone else who wants what you have.” At that, he motions towards Alec with a wave of his hand. “You’re in a position of power, Alec. You should know just as well as I the dangers that lie below.”

It’s a chilling thought, to think of the faces of Shadowhunters he’s grown to know over the years, Shadowhunters he’s met along the way here and there, and wonder if anyone might one day try to take him down the way the Downworlders took down Magnus.

“There must have been a reason,” Alec inquires.

“I’m sure there is,” Magnus sighs, lifting his other hand to twist the silver band across his wrist. “Camille, for how easy she was to read when she was begging for her life, gave me very little to go off.”

The way he casually throws out Camille’s death unsettles him again, and this time Magnus takes notice. 

“It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, Alec,” Magnus states, a forlorn expression cast across the shadows of his face as the sun lightens the room. “I loved Camille for hundreds of years, and I don’t doubt I’d have loved her for many more if she hadn’t betrayed me. Locked away in Edom I had no choice but to quell the ache in my heart that she caused, and truly see the wickedness she commanded. For all her beauty and charisma, she was not a good person and I hate that it took me this long to see.”

Alec swallows the lump in his throat and nods. It hasn’t been an easy path for him, but Magnus must have prepared himself for the grief he would feel afterwards. For that, Alec feels a hint of guilt that he’s holding hostage this time of mourning Magnus likely needed.

But it had to be done. Alec needed these answers, he needed to hear what Magnus had to say tonight, and he’s only surprised the words came so willingly, with very little cost to himself.

Well, not entirely free. His neck still feels scratched, bloodied and bruised, and the slow leak of the Ravener demon’s wound continues to spread blood against his clothes. For the information he’s gathered, and under the flag of diplomacy, it was well worth the trade.

“I seem to be doing most of the talking this morning,” Magnus mentions lightly as he adjusts his position in his seat. “For someone who is very much at my mercy, I’ve heard little of your plight.”

What is his plight? With everything he’s learned, everything Magnus has trusted him with, he’s not even sure where he stands anymore. His world has been spun on its side, and until he can take a step back and properly think, get an actual unbiased look at things… he has no idea.

“In my mind, there were only three options. One, I could sit back and watch as you destroy Downworlders, the Shadowhunters left out of it to observe. Two, I could intervene, try to gather whatever defenses I could and prepare the Institute for the war with you that would be inevitable once I made my decision known. Or three, I could try to,” Alec pauses, searching for the right word, “reason with you, be as civil as I possibly could with a Greater Demon.” 

At Magnus’ pointed stare, Alec corrects himself. 

“Alleged Greater Demon.”

“Hmm,” Magnus exhales into his steepled fingers. “The first one would have been the safest option. I would have stayed true to my word, assuming no Shadowhunters tried anything funny. The second one would have been the total destruction of the New York Institute, no doubt about it, clearly.” Magnus offers a faint smile that Alec almost feels himself returning, but forces himself not to. “The third brings about a whole round of further questioning. What does being reasonable entail?”

Alec’s furrowed brows and the way he rests his balled fists in his lap must give way to the overwhelming uncertainty he feels in this moment. He doesn’t know what it entails, if he’s being honest. He knows what it did entail, which was an attempt to get Magnus Bane to back down and return to Edom. A chance for him to see the error of his way, and correct it.

But then Clary had stepped in, altered it and put ideas in Alec’s mind of helping Magnus, before he even knew for sure all of the minuscule details of the situation. She suggested they help him, that they find out why he’s here and fight this battle with him, unsanctioned by the Clave.

A truly terrible, horrible idea. 

Yet, now, the most compelling.

In a reciprocated moment of honesty, Alec reveals this to Magnus. “At first, I wanted to guide you into returning to Edom, to try and find a way to avoid all of this death and destruction. But then it changed. The Clave didn’t want me to concern myself with you, they wanted me to stay as far away as possible, to be less of a threat to the rest of the Shadowhunters, I suppose. So if I couldn’t reason with you, if I couldn’t get you to go back to Edom without the damage… Maybe I could help you.”

Alec releases an anxious breath and allows himself the chance to peer over and meet Magnus’ wide golden eyes. It’s just a second, maybe two, or perhaps three that they keep contact, searching and afraid and so deeply confused by each other. Eventually, Alec turns away and focuses down at the scuff that covers his boots.

The sun is rising higher with each minute that passes, and time seems to drag on forever, but Alec sits patiently and waits. He’s always been good at that.

“I could kill you with the snap of my fingers,” Magnus whispers, after what feels like hours. 

There’s a creeping feeling along Alec’s neck, the slithering tendrils of magic that he unmistakably catches. They’re not quick to whip around his neck this time, rather, so gentle and curious that it almost feels taboo to let them continue. A prickle of heat remains where the magic brushes by, growing warmer and hotter with each pass until the remnants of pain subside and the self-inflicted wounds close up and heal. “You could,” Alec responds with a low voice that he isn’t sure he can equate to the tenderness of his throat anymore. “But I’m trusting you not to, Magnus.”

Perhaps it’s the fact that Alec is using his name for the first time, or the fact that he’s putting the power so willingly in his hands that Magnus winces at the words, and the recession of warm magic around him leaves Alec feeling suddenly hollow. 

“Trust is not something you give so blindly, Shadowhunter.”

“I don’t give it blindly,” Alec corrects. “You’ve told me your truth, and I want to help you. After everything you’ve been through, isn’t that the right thing?”

A flash of anger crosses Magnus’ face, and he offers a dark, crooked smile to Alec. “What do Shadowhunters know of the right thing?”

“Magnus - “

“I appreciate the sentiment, truly, but I did warn you that my graciousness would only last so long. You’ve overstayed your welcome.”

With that, a portal is summoned beside where Alec now stands in front of the couch, a movement he doesn’t recall even making. The static of the portal is loud in his ears, and his jacket flaps viciously in time with the wind. 

“Magnus,” he tries again, but Magnus raises a finger and shakes his head.

“It’s kind of you to feel I’m owed the satisfaction of my revenge, but for your safety, and the safety of keeping the Accords in tact, I must refuse your offer. Be well, Shadowhunter,” Magnus articulates through the rush of the portal, completely unfazed. 

A flick of his wrist, and fiery red magic shoots towards Alec, propels him forward and through the portal that he knows will take him back to the Institute.

Bright sunlight burns his eyes when the portal dissipates behind him, and he stumbles forward yet again, catching himself just in time to not fall onto the concrete sidewalk. People walk by him, blissfully unaware as they meander along the paths that pass by the Institute, oblivious to the death the previous night brought upon the Downworld. Ignorant to all of the inner machinations that go on inside the Institute, free to live the life they choose, as they see fit without having to answer to a higher authority in what’s the right thing to do.

For just a moment, Alec feels a sting of jealousy towards the Mundanes that walk around him. 

Jealousy and greed, he remembers Magnus’ words.

The next step is unclear to him, he realizes as he heads towards the tall wooden doors that greet him, the same doors he knows so well. Everything feels the same, standing here in front of the Institute, but at the same time looks so foreign to his eyes that feel awakened by the conversation that just transpired.

He thinks of Magnus, drink in hand, staring at the high-rise of absolutely nothing important in the humble apartment he temporarily resides in. Magnus, with all the power in Edom, and all the clarity of a spurned Warlock cast out by his own people for reasons still unknown to Alec. Magnus, opening a world Alec never knew in front of him, a world hidden in shadows and secrecy. Hidden by the Clave.

But now, standing on the steps of the Institute, Alec begins to doubt again. The Clave wouldn’t hide the fact that Magnus was a Warlock this entire time, would they? To knowingly transcribe fallacies into their proud history, to crown an innocent man as a monster that should be feared… 

With the shake of his head, Alec places one hand on the door of the Institute and pushes it open. Whatever questions he has, he’s going to figure out the truth. Even if it means disappointing his mother and seeking out an uncooperative Magnus Bane.

[ashes-in-a-jar]

Tma relisten Episodes 11-15

So this round already has two other posts out of it about Oliver because he Bae.

These have alot of ideas regarding entities changing around reality, controlling non victims to set the stage, and turning around what people love most to their worst fear. Also insane abilities of the crew to obtain hard to access info and evidence! And some more Jon sass. Enjoy!

11 dreamer

Wow this episode had alot. I made a separate post with a theory about Oliver's statement here and a realization regarding him and Jane Prentiss here. They are alot to unpack

Oliver is so. Freaking. Relatable! Learned economics and hated it. Nearly had a breakdown like him because of it. "going to stay with some of the few friends that had survived my year of stress-fuelled outbursts and constantly cancelled plans." yep. That.

Boyfriend Graham ey? You notebook eating Graham?? Wow that guy is full of surprises.

I love the dream sequences and their descriptions it's a really beautiful thing to try and picture.

Its interesting how he went from passive to desparate to passive again about death. He tries but can't help. I wonder when the dreams started to bother him so much he sought after the silence of point Nemo. Was it when they became so full of red because of the apocalypse coming closer? Hmmm

Another person named John. I guess that makes sense it's a common name. But I forgot how many people are fully named in this podcast. Hundreds of names to come up with! Jonny I'm quite impressed!

He worked with Jane Prentiss in the magic shop! I can't believe I forgot about that! Wow small avatar world indeed.

"It led me to a room, the label of which was still visible, and read “Archive”. I entered to see walls covered with shelves and cabinets stretching off into the distance. These shelves were coated in a sticky black tar, which I knew at that moment was the thickened, pulpy blood that pumped through each and every one of those veins." everything that has to do with the Fears I bet. Full of death and destruction and stolen from the veins to be out on display for the Eye's pleasure.

Yo Jon is scared of this he's seriously considering going to Elias for advice

" I had Tim look into it, as I don’t entirely trust the others not to have written it as a practical joke" wait. He trusts TIM? Not to do a practical joke? How. Why. Eh?

"died in the line of duty" fuck you Jonah.

Now Jon will get every new statement immediately when it's made. Perhaps this was Elias' intention all along. To scare him into making sure he does not miss any paranormal activity recorded by the institute.

12 first aid

I'm not immune to more Gerry badassery, hell yeah

And we get polish Martin which hell yeah! Even if Jon doesn't believe it. I'm sure he's repressing the fact that he's thoroughly impressed.

I think it's really interesting the effect entities have on people who are decidedly not their victims. Everyone leaving no questions so the entity can set the scene for the scare. Like with Gillespie how no one lived in the apartment building he was in etc. Alot of work into a handful of people being genuinely scared.

Gerry's burns stopped at the neck? How did he manage that. Also it's hilarious to imagine that he's like "yes burn all of me but please. not my goth makeup"

Zippo lighter with eye design!! And Jon has web design! They are brothers (joke but still really interesting)

Liquids were boiling around her and she didn't feel the heat. Also an interesting effect just for the scare.

Gerry got eye superpowers like Jon if he can function while injure and filled with painkillers.

“Yes. For you, better beholding than the lightless flame.” Gerry knew she'd be haunted by a Fear from that day on and realised that perhaps being watched would be easier for her specifically to deal with than the Desolation. I guess that's a way of assessing people. Which fear would least bother you.

Jon is already enamoured with Gerry you can tell. He can't wait to hear more from him. Just you wait Jon.

They really can access alot of information huh. CCTV Interviews files. Pretty impressive for a non-research team. They're so good at it they'd rather do that than actual archiving.

13 alone

The sound editing in this episode is not that great it was a bit to get used to.

We get a glimpse at the Lukases which is... Ugh

Jon is actually trying to be nice. Granted it's not working and she is a bit of a standoffish person herself who just went through a bad time but alot of her reactions are not his fault. He was trying to be considerate giving her space to record but he did stay when she asked.

She had already leaned into the Lonely before the incident it's interesting to see how some of these statements start with a person actually liking the aspect that later turns to fear. Same happens in lost johns' cave.

Evan Lukas sounds like an avatar of the exact opposite of the Lonely. At least to her. That's a really interesting effect from someone, especially a Lukas.

But maybe dying wasn't his family killing him but him not feeding his patron which he tried to leave. Really tragic.

She was in Martin's domain eyyy!

It's got a bit of buried aspects to it with the grave stuff and all.

"My fingers dug into the soft cemetery dirt as I looked around desperately for anything I could use to save myself, and my hand closed upon that heavy piece of headstone. It took all my self-control to keep a grip on that anchor, as I slowly dragged myself away from the edge of my lonely grave." The headstone was her anchor? But it said forgotten. I wonder how it helped her pull away. It probably had to go together with Evan's voice. Like the rib and the tape recorders having to work together! I just wonder what meaning the stone had for her.

"I’d be tempted to chalk this one up to a hallucination from stress and trauma, if it wasn’t for the fact... " God he does believe her heavens. He's not a skeptic!

This is when Jon's dreams start which... Good luck Jon.

14 piecemeal

Rentoul is terrifying sonofabitch and I would never want to meet him irl

I remembered them talking about how he was supposed to be a person who cursed alot and they couldn't do it because of sensor and I have to agree this could have been much better for the story. I tried imagining curses in some places.

LOL Jon reading this is funny. Trying to voice act the bad boy. Doesn't sound right on his voice.

With these kinds of statements happening alot where the person does something bad, the institute has to be in touch with police over them. The nda has to include that.

Hello Angela! I really wonder what her deal is. She scared the bid bully so she gotta have creepy vibes to the extreme.

Another lighter! Hmm do I have to start following the lighter motiff in this podcast. This one has a topless woman on it. Flesh lighter?

Salesa's also appearing that's cool! Noriega was probably looking for an artifact to reverse the curse. Didn't work tho since they left with the crate. The buried crate perhaps?

I'm wondering. Was this written? Because the statement sounds like he's talking. If so, Where's the recording?

Oh Jon your attitude towards Martin is so bad. He works so hard and it's not even in what he's good at, sorting and filing like he knows how to do from the library. God.

What's the deal with all the furniture gone? Did he think it'll help not get injured? He's not that smart if he thought that would help him.

15 lost Johns' cave

Ack a bad statement she was not a good person all around

Another example of the entities setting the stage by controlling others not to interfere with the victim's experience.

Also another example of the person liking the subject (cave exploration in this case. And the dark for that matter) only for it to turn against them.

Not much to say about this one other than its one of the scarier ones for sure. And her recording in the end is really the cherry on top. There is alot of discrepancy between what she believed happened and what actually did which shows how much the fear plays with and changes around reality. That's also how she manages to lie in a statement to Beholding. It wasn't a lie. It was her version of reality and she did not remember saying those awful words.

Taught me alot about cave diving and how much I will never do it in my life.

The Dark was mixed into this as well so it wasn't purely Buried.

Btw Where did she get the candles she was found with?

It feels like she made a choice. Didn't want to spend her last moments with her sister and then didn't want to die. She chose her sister to be taken over her. Her sister called for help and the candle coming closer might have been her! But she just shut her eyes.

How did Tim gain access to the recording?? Wow that's some prime evidence.

Martin is claustrophobic amongst other things huh? Live how Jon just dismisses this as an excuse not to work. At least he didn't push it.

[darkshrimpemotions]

Okay but listen. I love all the layers to Knives Out more than I can fully articulate. I love the surface text with all its blatant social commentary. I love the slightly more subtextual commentary about class and privilege as well.

Things like the rich, educated New England WASPs being absolutely horrible, racist people who look down on Marta and use her to validate their own self-image, while the people in the film with working class jobs and “common” accents--Benoit, Fran--are basically good, if flawed, people. Even the Thrombeys’ supposed allyship (exemplified in Joni and Meg) is performative white savior bullshit that ends the moment it requires real work or sacrifice from them.

Every member of the family is like a different archetype of white supremacist crap: the openly hostile Neo-Nazis Donna and Jacob, the guy who thinks of himself as a moderate but is still just propping up the status quo (Richard), the person who claims to see Marta as "one of them" but doesn't really bother to know her and throw her overboard in a heartbeat (Linda), the one who actively threatens her and uses racist institutions against her to get what they want (Walt), the one who pays lipservice to social justice but is only really concerned with feeling good about herself (Joni), and the one who actually befriended Marta and had her trust, then betrayed her the moment her racist family exuded any pressure (Meg). And oh don't worry...we'll get to Ransom.

Even Harlan, for all that he was arguably a much better person in some ways than the rest of his family, still died because he refused to listen to Marta. Although she was the nurse and had the training, he was an old white guy with a plan who thought he knew better. His arrogance and underestimation of Marta lead to his death, which could have been avoided completely if he had only been a little less sure he was the smartest person in the room.

I also love the subtext of Marta's character in particular, the woman who wins by being kind but also by being smart and not being self-sacrificing or capitulating in the face of threats or adversity. Marta is a beautiful example of how kindness can be real and true without being weak or self-sacrificing, and she shows this throughout the film.

She's willing to risk herself when she thinks there is still a chance to save Harlan's life, but as soon as that becomes impossible she follows through with his plan. Conversely, she is willing to hide things from the police and destroy evidence (primarily to save her mother's immigration status from falling under scrutiny), but when Fran's life is in the balance she throws all her efforts away in favor of trying to save Fran. She is quiet and kind and endlessly patient with the Thrombeys, but the second Walt threatens her mother she stands up to him and shows that she is not as easily manipulated as he thinks.

She’s also quite clever in her attempts to elude the police. She subtlely makes it seem like she's unfamiliar with VHS technology, and then not only breaks the VCR but destroys the tape with a magnet. She destroys evidence while seeming to be aiding the police, which is not an easy thing to do. She nevertheless accomplishes it beautifully.

For all that Benoit claims her attempts to cover the crime were amateurish (and for all that she calls him a lousy detective), the fact is that he's actually an excellent detective and she still almost outsmarted him. In fact, her only real mistake (aside from missing a blood drop so small that multiple other police officers and detectives failed to notice it) was in trusting Ransom. But then, that's not counted against her intelligence at all, because Ransom is a shrewd bastard who's willfully manipulating her and who has vital information she doesn't have.

And that's another layer, one that I'm sad to say will probably be somewhat lost with time. Because at the point of Knives Out's official release, the thing Chris Evans was known most for was being Steve fucking Rogers. Yes, Steve has his detractors in internet fandom, but the majority of the U.S. audience, at least, had been conditioned to trust that face for a solid decade. So when you watch Knives out you want to believe in Ransom, just for having Chris Evans's face.

Even though Ransom is clearly an asshole from the start and all the clues you need are already there, the movie carefully enforces your desire to trust him from the moment he shows up at the mansion. His first real, front-and-center scene positions him as squarely at odds with the rest of his awful family, and openly contemptuous of their money-grubbing. Ransom's reaction to the will seems to be that he doesn't care about being cut out as much as he enjoys his shitty, self-righteous family's meltdown at also being cut out. That alone is enough to plant the seed that there’s more to him than meets the eye.

Then there's the fact that Harlan--a man willing to die for Marta and her family's safety--describes Ransom as so much like himself. It’s not until much later that you realize the similarities are not kindness or compassion, but stubbornness and the ability to plan one hell of a murder.

And then, of course, the costuming department put him in all those fucking soft, worn, cuddly-looking sweaters. Even as we see him manipulating Marta and clearly only helping her for selfish reasons, there's an element of no-bullshit honesty about him that's frankly refreshing after all of the two-faced shittiness of the other Thrombeys.

So despite the background evidence that Ransom is an asshole, there's a lot of stuff in the foreground pushing us to trust him. I'd be very interested to see, in ten or twenty years, whether the Steve Rogers effect's fading changes how an audience seeing the film for the first time reacts to Ransom.

But even without that effect, the film puts its audience in a position where it's impossible for any reasonable person to judge Marta, because her mistake is so understandable. It's not that she has bad judgement or even that she (or we) was wrong to believe Harlan's assessment. It's just that we misunderstood.

And that is the final piece of Knives Out that I love so much. Like only the best murder mysteries, it gives you every single clue you need to solve the case ahead of the big reveal at the very end. Then it gives you just enough doubt and red herrings to trip over, and lets you choose which way to go. It’s so cleverly done, and makes rewatching the film almost as fun as watching it the first time.

[thanksjro]

More Than Meets the Eye #11- Soak the Matrix in Lemon Juice and Break Out the Hairdryers

So, small problem.

Prowl realized he was in the wrong comic run and had to split.

But not before yelling at Orion about how stupid he thinks this National Treasure bullshit he’s trying to pull is, and makes a request that Chromedome be left out of this whole mess.

Why the fuck wouldn’t you tell him that?

Bye, Prowl. See you later, I guess.

Chromedome and Roller have brought in some help for the heist from the local college. These students were super gung-ho about stealing the Matrix, not because they’re agents of political chaos, but because the Senator has his name attached to this little project. They feel a certain debt to the Senator, since he’s been doing his best to protect them from the Functionist Council.

Gee, wonder who that truck is.

We get a little rundown of our new friends, while Chromedome has a minor temper tantrum in the background.

Skids is also a member of this group, labelled as a super-learner, enough so that it may not even be a voluntary thing on his part.

In the present day, Swerve’s returned from stealing things from Trailcutter’s room, apparently totally unaware of what’s happened to his roommate. You’d think someone would have gotten in contact with him about that.

I mean, maybe? You did say you liked purple.

Swerve lets it slip that this isn’t the only story time circle Rewind’s hosted in an attempt to get Rung’s brain back up to speed… which makes me wonder just how often the medical staff on board the Lost Light actually check on their patients, if Ratchet had been surprised that this event was happening today.

Swerve makes fun of Tailgate for needing to open up the wiki so he can keep track of what’s going on, then goes over to call Rung the wrong name. Swerve is very lucky Rung is essentially in a coma right now, because that’s probably the only thing keeping him from trying to strangle our resident barkeep.

Whirl helps Rung express himself by playing with his eyebrows, a trait which, now that I think about it, probably only exists for expressive purposes, considering that his eyes are covered by his glasses and we can’t see their shape.

Rewind saves Rung from being played with, perhaps solely because he’s a historical constant.

So you’re saying Rung gets around. Nifty.

Rewind decides that they’ve taken enough of a break and it’s time to get back to the juicy stuff, completely blowing off Ratchet’s professional opinion about what to do with Rung.

Nothing gets in the way of story time.

Nothing.

In the past, Orion Pax is poking Skids in the face, specifically in his mini Matrix tattoo, which is giving him ideas. Skids is a little weirded out, but this isn’t about Skids, now is it? Chromedome goes to pay a visit to a coworker to get things set for the madness that’s about to unfold.

My boy! My beautiful boy!

Yes, Ironfist, before shooting himself in the head and having his spirit broken by the horrors of direct combat, used to be a cop. Everyone’s a cop in IDW, at least for a little while. He’s also missing his faceplate, and isn’t nearly as cute in Milne’s style, but we can’t have it all all the time, now can we?

Chromedome’s feeding into Ironfist’s fanboy nature, pretending to be just as much as a nerd as he is to call in a favor. In exchange for getting Ironfist’s Delta Magnus body pillow back from their boss, Chromedome needs to borrow Ironfist’s one-to-one replica of the Matrix.

I mean, you practically are already, but the sentiment is appreciated. We haven’t gotten to the point where we’re comfortable with thank you kisses yet, and it’ll be a while still.

While the Senator and company gush over Chromedome’s good job, Roller pulls Ratchet and Orion over to the side for a little chat.

Roller doesn’t trust the Senator. He’s done his research, weighed their options, and he really isn’t sure about this guy. Turns out that Orion isn’t the only guy who’s been modified to fit a Matrix without his consent. Honestly, I’m with Roller on this one; that’s mad creepy to be loading the bases like that.

Orion doesn’t really see it that way, though.

Only one of these things was ever a secret, my guy. You worked with Whirl, he was in your precinct for crying out loud! At least he admits to his ignorance.

Back in the present, we check in on Rodimus’ investigation. Looks like we’ve got our answer on who tried to kill Red Alert.

It was Red Alert.

First Aid explains.

Fascinating.

Rodimus fails to see why exactly Red Alert would choose to go this route, because A) he doesn’t know that Red Alert knows about the dirty little secret in the basement, and B) despite probably having depression, may not be the type to have suicidal ideation. It’s true, those types of people exist!

Oh, this is a savior’s complex thing. Nyon really fucked you up, huh Rodimus?

After Ultra Magnus gets Rodimus to stop accosting the doctor, they’re faced with a sort of moral quandary.

IDW’s More Than Meets the Eye! Come for the space adventure, stay for the rumination on whether it’s ethical to allow a mentally ill person the right to self-termination!

After consulting with Drift, because it’s always important to get a second opinion, Rodimus agrees to put Red Alert in cold storage, to remain until their quest is finished and they’re in a place that’s better for his mental health.

Anyway, back to the heist plotline.

Orion breaks down the plan for everybody: the basilica is nearly impossible to break into, but they’re going to do it anyway, because this is the past, and we as the reader already know that things go alright because Chromedome, Ratchet and Skids are still here and Optimus Prime came into being.

Roller will hack the sky spies, make things look all hunky dory, while the rest of the boys magic carpet up to the top of the building.

Looking mighty relaxed there, Glitch.

Glitch is probably sitting down to conserve as much energy as possible, because his job sucks some major chrome- he’s got to keep the detector beams off, using his outlier ability, but it really friggin’ hurts for him to do it. He’s going to have to do it for an extended period of time.

Glitch really got the short end of the stick in all this, didn’t he?

Okay, so I was wrong, Skids uses his grappling hook a fucking shit-ton in MTMTE. Today, he’s going to use it to lower Orion down into the basilica so he can crack open a cold one and steal the Matrix.

Things can never just be simple, can they?

Over on Roller’s end of the workflow, Chromedome’s irritated that he’s got to babysit the Senator. Chromedome spends a good portion of this story arc irritated at stuff, in case you couldn’t tell.

In this case, the Senator agrees that having Chromedome stay back was probably unnecessary. Or at least, he did, until he noticed that the Academy of Advanced Technology is burning to the ground on live TV.

Then the wall explodes.

Things can never just be simple, can they?

Back on the front lines, Orion tags out and Ratchet tags in, because the locks on the Matrix are mad crazy hard to undo and they just don’t have time for pussyfooting around with all that. Ratchet is apparently a master lock pick. Must be those magic medic hands.

Even the Matrix being full of Fiji water is no match for our CMO, as he makes quick work of the bomb and removes it. Hooray! Now we just need to pull him back up and we’ll be all set to leave.

Or at least, we would be, if Glitch wasn’t the dumbest bitch alive.

Ratchet braces for an explosion.

And braces.

And braces.

But it never comes, because Windcharger has magic arms and zero patience for facing his own mortality.

The boys haul up Ratchet and the bomb, fly on out of there, then Orion jumps off the slab they’re floating on because Roller was supposed to call and he hasn’t. I’m going to hazard a guess and say that Roller might be a bit preoccupied at the moment, and it isn’t by the television.

That is a BIG BOY.

“Cleanse and control” was what Trepan’s idiotic tattoo said, so there’s a good chance that our buddy the Senator is about to go the way of Pious Maximus in a minute. Or at least, he would if Orion Pax didn’t embrace is inner monster truck and punch a hole in the big boy holding the Senator like Lennie does a rabbit.

Kroma isn’t one to let the opposite side have all the cards though, as he holds a gun to Roller’s head and suggests that the Senator be given to him, lest we be down a cop in this story that’s simply awash with them. The Senator, being the nice guy that he is, goes willingly to his doom.

Be a lot easier if we knew your name, bud.

The Senator is taken away, but Kroma leaves Orion with the other big boy, and he’s not playing nicely. Orion helps himself by way of domestic terrorism.

But that’s not the end of the story! Oh dear no!

After the explosion, Orion unearths Chromedome, and they make tracks for the Institute. Small issue with that though:

Well, dang.

Thus ends the tale of the Matrix heist, the mysterious Senator, and Chromedome’s awkward relationship with Prowl. Our storytelling session ends with the sound of the alarm, and everyone runs off to see just what the hell’s gone wrong now. Only Skids hangs back to take Rung to the medibay, but not before trying one last thing to help his partner in vent-crawling out.

Man, all they had to do was annoy him and everything would have been fine? Rewind’s going to feel so silly for all that work he put into this.

Back in the past, Orion’s digging through the remains of the Rodion police station, when a robot comes up to him, saying that they have a mutual friend who asked him to find Orion if he ever went missing.

The mutual friend was the Senator.

And the robot is Zeta, who would become Zeta Prima.

The Senator was really playing the field with all these Matrix reformattings.

Speaking of the Senator, he’s just arrived at a The Institute, where they’ve decided to not only shadowplay him, but also empurata his whole deal just to be assholes. He just wanted to be beautiful, on top of conniving, but I guess we won’t be having any of that anymore. Not that it’ll matter.

Because vanity is illogical.

No wonder Whirl’s so goddamn angry all the time.

[snowbreeze64]

i call this one: proof i’m going insane

anyways here’s a list of all times webs/and or spiders have been mentioned in 167 episodes of the magnus archives bc i haven’t listened to 168 yet.

spoilers through tma episode 167 because, yeah

UP TO DATE THROUGH EPISODE 167

CONFIRMED WEBISODES (Rusty Quill Youtube Playlist)

#8 Burned Out *

#16 Arachnophobia

#56 Children of the Night

#59 Recluse *

#67 Burning Desire *

#69 (nice) Thought for the Day

#81 A Guest For Mr. Spider

#100 I Guess You Had To Be There

#110 Creature Feature

#114 Cracked Foundation *

#123 Web Development

#136 The Puppeteer

#147 The Weaver

#167 Curiosity

* = Hill Top Road Related

And now, to channel my S2 Jon energy, which is also just BDG

ALL MENTIONS OF SPIDERS AND/OR WEBS IN NON-WEBISODES

#3 Across the Street - the Table is introduced

#9 A Father’s Love - “As far as I was concerned, the sturdy wooden structure was just the home of spiders’ nests and the rusted garden tools my parents would use once a year to attack the overgrown wilderness that was our back garden.” (Julia Montauk about their shed)

#11 Dreamer - “Looking down I could see a web of dark tendrils criss-crossing the streets and crawling up the buildings.” (Oliver Banks about the death tendril things)

#12 First Aid - Hill Top Road relation (Diego Molina)

#19 Confession/#20 Desecrated Host - Hill Top Road related

#22 Colony - Martin investigates Carlos Vittery’s house, finds lots of spiderwebs.

#32 Hive - “Was it the spiders? There were webs in the corners, around the entryway into the attic. I would watch them scurry and disappear in between the wooden boards. ‘Where are you going, little spiders?’ I would think. ‘What are you seeing in the dark? Is it food? Prey? Predators?’ I wondered if it was the spiders that made the gentle buzzing song. It was not. Webs have a song as well, of course, but it is not the song of the hive.” (Jane Prentiss)

#35 Old Passages - “I have the vaguest memories: flashes of a pile of paper, completely covered in cobweb…” (Harold Silvana about the tunnels)

#36 Taken Ill - “Just a sort of spider web design on the front.” (Jon about his lighter)

#37 Burnt Offering - Hill Top Road related

#38 Lost and Found - Jon attacks a spider and somehow makes a hole in the wall, and now there are worms

#39 Infestation - “No, no… it’s just that whatever web these statements have caught you in, well, I’m there too. We all are, I think.” (Martin)

#40 Human Remains - “Yes. She was sat in a wooden chair in the middle of the room. No worms. No cobwebs. Just… an old corpse.” (Martin about Gertrude’s corpse) (Does the sudden absence of spiders count as spiders?)

#43 Section 31 - “The most I could get out of her was that she was originally sectioned for something she referred to as “spider husks”.” (Basira about Daisy getting sectioned)

#44 Tightrope - “Why did she begin recording them? And why stop? If she’d been doing so right up until her death, she would’ve likely gotten through much of the archive, and… moreover I wouldn’t have had to find this tape player tucked away in the storage room, covered in dust and cobwebs.” (Jon about the tape player) (it’s covered in cobwebs! Suspicious! What do you mean old things get covered in cobwebs naturally?)

#46 Literary Heights - “I did go down there to see if I could find anything, but it seems much as it did last time. The only difference now is… all the spiderwebs. They seem to have spread down there. I think I saw some of the larger specimens actually eating the remains of the worms.” (Jon about the tunnels under the archives)

#51 High Pressure - “No… No, it isn’t. I’ve always seen it more like a web?” (Not!Sasha about the Table)

#63 The End of the Tunnel - “We’ve had something of a spectrum from him and his ilk: cobwebs entombing, difficulty in navigation, and now a violent, murderous dark.” (Jon about Robert Smirke)

#65 Binary - “Statement of Tessa Winters, regarding a strange computer program she downloaded from the Deep Web three months ago.” (What? It’s a web!)

#67 Burning Desire - “I looked up and noticed within the corner of the room, where there had been a spider’s web this morning, there was just a faint wisp of smoke.” and “Another held a bag that seemed to be full of candles, while a third had a clear plastic container filled with hundreds of tiny spiders.” (Jack Barnabas about his date with Agnes and the people in front of her flat) (this was already listed in webisodes but i just thought it was interesting)

#68 The Tale of a Field Hospital - “There were a couple of spiders, so I changed routes and found, I think it’s a gas main.” (Jon about exploring the tunnels) (also that gas main *eyes eyes eyes*)

#78 Distant Cousin - “Wrapped around it were thick strands of what I think was spider’s web, stretching back into the table, which I now saw pulsed along its carved channels with a sickly light.” (Laurence Moore about Adelard Dekker trapping the Not!Them in the table) and “Hollow. Just cobwebs and dust.” (Jon, breaking the table)

#79 Hide and Seek - “Of course the table was binding it. The table is webs and spiders. Spiders are something else. They don’t help each other, they oppose, they… they weaken. It was caught in a web, and I…” (Jon about the table...and perhaps Beholding something about the entities?)

#87 The Uncanny Valley - Jude Perry working with the Stranger, so Hill Top Road related?

#89 Twice as Bright - Statement of Jude Perry, Hill Top Road related

#90 Body Builder - “As you’d expect, most of the listings just pointed me towards the their websites, but I spotted a small, square ad box in the lower left corner.” (Ross Davenport, about finding his new gym) (yes i KNOW this is a stretch but the word website has the word web in it so…)

#91 The Coming Storm - “One lighter, gold, spiderweb design.” (Daisy going through Jon’s stuff)

#111 Family Business - Jon and Gerry discuss the entities, including the Web

#112 Thrill of the Chase - “We all met through one of those meetup websites, I-I forget which one.” (Lisa Carmel, about Murder Club) (listen it’s a WEBSITE so it has the word WEB in it and besides THE SPIDERS CONTROL THE WORLD WIDE WEB)

#114 Cracked Foundation - “It was warmer down there, warmer every step, and I found myself brushing cobwebs from my face as I got further down, until at last there I was - stood in the cellar of Hill Top Road.” (Anya Villette about Hill Top Road)

#117 Testament - “I know, I know it’s not exactly intricate, but it felt good leaving my own little web. Oh, oh, Christ, I hope John doesn’t actually listen to these. “Good lord, is Martin becoming some sort of spider person?” No, John, it’s an expression, chill out!” (Martin about his plan.) (also, I’ve been called out by Martin.)

#118 The Masquerade - “DAISY: Shut. Up. It’s just cobwebs. ARCHIVIST: There’s no such thing as just cobwebs.” (Jon walking into some cobwebs while planting C4) (also he’s RIGHT, DAISY)

#121 Far Away - “Just a second of them webbed over the face of a drunk old man stumbling into his car.” (Oliver about seeing the death tendrils in the waking world) and “Honestly, I’m still not exactly sure why I’m here. But you know better than anyone how the spiders can get into your head. Easier to just do what she asks.” (Oliver about why he’s visiting Jon)

#135 Civilian Casualties - “In the last week I’ve seen two different people wearing symbols for the People’s Church of the Divine Host, and it’s rare I go anywhere without cobwebs, anymore.” (Jon about the Institute being watched)

#128 Heavy Goods - “We had some luggage, once, a thrumming silk-wrapped thing of the spider, hiding away in an old steamer trunk.” and “The Spider’s always an easy job, no fuss, no complications, everything planned and prepared. It knows too much to truly be a stranger, but hides its knowing well enough to endure.” (Breekon about his and Hope’s deliveries)

#130 Meat - “I found this tape tucked in a corner of my desk drawer (sigh) covered in cobwebs. I suppose subtlety has gone out the window a bit, and the question is now simply… how much I trust the Spider to have my best interests at heart.” (Jon about the statement he just played. Also the Spider giving him the idea to use a flesh-anchor???)

#134 Time of Revelation - “There are two powers that, to my knowledge, have never attempted to fully manifest. Never had followers set them up for a ritual. Mother of Puppets, and Terminus. The Web and the End. The Web, I’ve never really been sure about. If I were to guess, I would say it actually prefers the world as is: playing everyone against each other. And so on.” (Peter Lukas about the entities)

#137 Nemesis - “Still, the anticlimax is fascinating. I can only assume they were supposed to be bombed at the height of the ritual - maybe by Japanese aircraft, maybe Allied, maybe both. I wonder what stopped it. A Japanese radar filled with spiderwebs, a US destroyer finding itself suddenly alone in the open ocean? Heh. We’ll probably never know.” (Gertrude about the Slaughter’s failed dance party)

#139 Chosen - Statement about Agnes, Hill Top Road related

#145 Infectious Doubts - “Ah. That’s a fair enough question. It was the Web. I didn’t know it at the time, of course, and I would call it an accident, but it never is, with them. It’s only after the fact that you can see all the subtle manipulations.” (Gertrude about the ritual binding her and Agnes)

#146 Threshold - “There is something wrong with Hill Top Road. You know it as well as I do. Some strange scar on reality at the center of - whatever it is that the Spider is spinning.” (Helen about Hill Top Road) and “What a delightful thought. (short pause) I don’t believe so, no. But the Spider’s strings are subtle, so I suppose it’s not impossible. Why?” (Helen about being controlled by the web to eat Marcus McKenzie (door guy)) Also throughout this episode Jon is wondering whether Annabelle is controlling him

#148 Extended Surveillance - “Or that we were being stalked by some freaky spider woman? Don’t tell me you didn’t know about that.” (Basira while beating up Elias) “Look, look - I’ve been doing this a long time now, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned about the Web, it’s that it plays its own game. All you can really do is hope it doesn’t get in the way of whatever your plan is. Because the Spider usually wins.” (Elias about the Web)

#150 Cul-de-Sac - “The Lonely is possibly the most insidious of the powers, I believe. Certainly it is the one that most delights and having you do its work for it, even the spiders seem to have a hard time matching it for sheer seductiveness.” (Jon about the Lonely). Also during this episode he and Melanie argue about whether her therapist is Web.

#157 Rotten Core - “Or Annabelle Cane is trying to manipulate me into thinking it’s one of the other scenarios. Previously, the spiders have made their presence clear when they’ve sent me… hints… but I can’t take that for granted.” (Jon about the Adelard statement left on his desk) (hey wait a minute if the statements refuse to record digitally how did Adelard send his on an e-mail-)

#160 The Eye Opens - “I’ll admit, my options were somewhat limited, but My God, when you came to me already marked by the Web, I knew it had to be you. I even held out some small hope you had been sent by the Spider as some sort of implicit blessing on the whole project, and, do you know what, I think it was.” (Douchard about Jon)

#163 In the Trenches - Annabelle calls Martin, Martin doesn’t pick up

#164 The Sick Village - “That’s - weird; I - I know the Web was wrapped around that phone, but, but I can’t - see her. A, At all.” (Jon about Annabelle)

#166 The Worms - Annabelle calls Martin to neg him over the phone.

Why did I spend over an hour doing this? Hell if I know. Am I any closer to finding out what the spiders want? Nope. So they’ve been helping Jon figure stuff out and got him appointed to the Institute in the first place, presumably so Elias would carry out his ritual, but why if they’ve never attempted a ritual before? They can’t be happy being ruled over by the Eye. What does Annabelle want with Martin? What the hell is going on at Hill Top Road?? WHAT IS UP WITH JON’S LIGHTER?????

[bellatrixobsessed1]

The Art Of Remembrance (Part 35)

They don’t make a move until a week or so comes to pass, when the rencorcements finally arrive. The invasion of the compounds is rather swift and quick, sheer number alone would have done well enough. But in reporting just how terribly they were ravaging and savagely harvesting from the spirit vines earned them aid from the Foggy Swamp Tribe. As it were, the Vine Research Facility had already been treading stagnant but very dangerous waters with vengeful spirits showing their teeth.

The element of surprise had been lost when Ting-Lao had pieced it together that he hadn’t been talking to Aikara and the new recruit. No less, the man was easy to apprehend. In way of entrances and excites, there was only one. A poor design choice, undoubtedly, but a fortunate one for them.

The only loose end left is Long-Feng. No doubt, the man will be elusive now that his compounds have all been compromised. But they have yet to figure out what the man’s exact goal is. Though Ting-Lao swears up and down that he personally is only in on it for the research. “Call it a crazed craving for knowledge.” He squeaks. “A morbid curiosity, I want to see exactly how chi works and how it flows from within. I want to know just what we can do...how far we can push things.” He rambles. “It is fascinating to see a born waterbender wield a flame or raise a boulder. I want to know the long term effects…”

Sokka has heard quite enough, next to him he gathers that Azula has too. She stands with her arms folded, looking as cold and cross as she ever had in her war days.

“I can’t say that research and fact hoarding is a bad thing.” She agrees. “But really, if you had any real love for knowledge, you’d be aware that it is unwise to provoke the spirits...and in their own territory too.” She mutters.

“It’s not natural!” Sokka speaks up. “Only the Avatar can bend multiple elements.” And that isn’t even factoring how truly invasive it is to tamper with and alter one's chi and spirit energy. Aang has mentioned time and time again how wrong and how appalling it had felt to reap Ozai’s chi away.

Something in Sokka’s stomach heaves. What if Ozai is in league with Long-Feng? What if he is trying to get his bending back. Sokka glances over at Azula again. And by taking it from his own daughter…

“What is Long-Feng’s goal?” Azula asks.

“It is simple really.” Offers Ting-Lao. “Vengeance. He doesn’t like you, princess.” The man sneers. “And he doesn’t like the Avatar much more. Power as well, the Earth Kingdom should have been under his rule. His goal was to bend three of the four elements, create a new Dai Li of dual bending masters, and reclaim what should have been his before you stole that from him.” He spits. “We didn’t have to wipe your memories, but he was insistant. He wanted the powerful princess to know what it is to be under someone’s control.”

For once Azula doesn’t seem to go tense at the mention of a grittier time in her past. Instead she stares on at him with a degree of indifference. “If it was rightfully his, he’d be on the throne. And if he was fool enough to fail a power play the first time around then he is undeniably unsuitable.” She shrugs.

Sokka still finds himself wishing that she wouldn’t speak like that, it still sends chills down his spine each time. But he had already told her that he would love her in spite of it. That he wouldn’t look at her differently…

“Long Feng is a great leader.” Ting-Lao declares. “Infinitely better than you were. You stole his Dai Li and then you banished them in a fit of psychotic rage. There’s something wrong with you. We knew it right when we took you.”

Now her posture seems to change some. It is so subtle that he only knows it because he has come to know her. She steps, seemingly nonchalantly, closer to Sokka.

.oOo.

“Is that right?” Azula replies dryly. “Do tell me how you’d take to being captured.” She pauses, looking around. “I do recall a lot of screeching and kicking.”

The man’s face colors.

“Really, I don’t think that anyone sensible would go down without a fight.”

He scowls, “a fight is one thing. What you did...well I’ve never seen something so feral and unhinged. It was like we hadn’t even captured a human. Made it much easier to slice you open and listen to you weep about it.”

She doesn’t think that a monster would feel as queasy as she does at the thought of it. Her fingers absently graze over the scars on her arms.

“We watched you for weeks before that, you shouted at things we shouldn't see. Threw fire at them too. You were talking about how everyone was coming to get you. Your delusions made it harder for us too…”

“Delusions.” Azula mutters. “Are they really delusions if they are true?”

The man laughs. “Perhaps if your mind had picked up on a real threat. You kept rambling about your mother and brother. And that look in your eyes. We knew that we were about to cage a beast.”

Though it weaves a very heavy amount of unease into her belly, Azula doesn’t take the bait. She waves the comment off. “Clearly I am perfectly civilized.”

“For now.” He shrugs. “Really we did you a favor, cleansing that evil, broken mind of yours. You think that it won’t unravel again if you manage to get your memories back?”

This time her stomach sinks completely. It is one thing to prepare herself to be vindictive and spiteful again and another matter entirely to consider once again dealing with the things that had sent her to Fire Lake Institute.

Sokka vowed that he could love her despite her past, but she thinks that she might be pushing her luck to ask him to accept her with a head full of delusions and visions.

.oOo.

Azula holds up a dismissive hand. “Regardless, Long Feng isn’t fit to run anything and it isn’t for him to play with spirit energies.” She comes to stand directly before Ting-Lao. “It is a fool’s errand just like his first grab.” She turns away from him and to one of her imperial firebenders. “We are done for the day, lock him back up aboard the ship.”

“Wait!” Sokka speaks up.

She peers over at him and nods her head.

“Are you guys working with Ozai too?”

“He offered us information and inside intelligence in exchange for the possibility of getting his bending back.” Ting-Lao replies. “Long Feng saw humor in delivering it to him with the knowledge that we’d harvested it from his precious golden child.” He glares at Azula.

Sokka wonders if Azula shares the relief he feels in knowing that her father, for once, hadn’t deliberately tried to sacrifice her. Though a good lot of his relief comes in know that they won’t have to deal with the former Fire Lord on top of everything else.

He wanders over to Azula and rubs her shoulders as the imperial firebenders carry the doctor off.

“You alright?” He asks.

“You ask me that a lot.” She mumbles. “I’m not delicate. I…”

“You are a powerful fire breathing dragon. Got it. But I’m not, I am a sensitive guy and I like to make sure the people I care about are okay. I can’t lose another person.”

“Sensitive…” she rolls her eyes. But her expression softens. “What do you mean by, another person?”

He has to laugh. Even in the middle of everything, she still has many questions. As he walks with her out of their makeshift interrogation tent, he tells her about his fleeting romance with Yue.

Frankly he is glad that she had brought it up, her sympathetic stares are reassuring. It helps him to decide that she has much more compassion than everyone else seems to account for. More than she seems to account for.

“I’m glad to have run into the both of you.” Dr. Yu-Kang greets.

Sokka had nearly forgotten that she, Dr. Phan, and his team of healers and surgeons were aboard one of the several ships.

“I am pleased to say that Yion’s family has been reunited with her and that she is on her way to recovery. The Fire Lord is going to have her on trial when she does.” She pauses. “Though right now I think that you might be more interested in other matters.” Her stare wavers between the two of them.

“Go on.” Azula prompts.

“Dr. Phang and his team have been going over the research notes. We believe that they are going to be able to safely recover your memories. We will give them until we reach the homelands to study the notes and thoroughly plan out how to proceed. You should have your memories some time next week if you so choose.”

“That’s...wonderful news.” Azula replies.

He can hear the apprehension in her tone and he squeezes her hand.

Evidently Dr. Yu-Kang is as perspective as ever. “You two have grown quite close, I think that, that will be very helpful for after her memories are retrieved.” She pauses and addresses Azula. “I’ve worked with you for around three years, princess. Having someone who you trust and someone who loves you is going to make a very big difference.”

Azula seems to swallow and Sokka offers her a reassuring smile.

“You were never a bad person, princess. But you always had yourself closed off.”

“You aren’t worried that she’ll…” Sokka ponders his word choice. “Revert once she gets her memories back?”

“I’m not terribly concerned, no.” Dr. Yu-Kang replies. “If nothing else, the princess is an intelligent young woman; I’m sure that she’ll realize that there is no sense in tarnishing salvaged relationships so that she can cling onto old resentments.”

He wishes that he could tell what she is thinking.

“Yes, I suppose that there is no sense in that…” she trails off.

He thinks that it is the reassurance that she needs.

“I will let Dr. Phang know that you will be ready for the procedure. Have a good evening.”

“Yes, thank you.” Azula replies. “Good night.”

Sokka grins, she hadn’t hesitated to take the offer this time. Though he is certain that she still retains some level of anxiety. He can’t say that he blames her. They are going to be playing with her mind, quite literally.

“What if I lose my memories again?” She vocalizes her final, unaddressed fear.

“Then I’ll tell you your life story the first time you ask for it this time around.” He laughs.

[ionizedyeast]

Title: 0180304 - Workplace Relationship Part 1/2 “Statement of Nelson Briar, Head of Folklore and Legend Research of the Magnus Institute, and his relationship and events surrounding Michael Shelley prior to becoming the Distortion. Statement given --.”

“That’s enough, let’s get right to it, Jon. You know, I’m the reason Elias had to start being more lax about employee relationships within the Institute. It’s not like we had been keeping anything secret, though. Gertrude knew before anyone else and then Diane did. And as far as I know, we were close to being the primary reason for gossip. But you’re not here to listen to me talk about the watercooler chatter of the Magnus Institute. You want to know what happened with me and Michael before well. . . Before I lost him.

I came here from the States back in late 2006. I had just started a Master’s program and had been working in the Usher Foundation back in DC since I was an undergrad. My area of study was well received by the Foundation and thankfully the Institute was more than willing to have me as a grad student in residence. I would have the chance to utilize any of their resources for my studies. Well, not any. It’s funny, knowing what I know now about the Institute, I’ve got to say there were loads of red flags about me coming out here. Probably starting with the fact the Lukas family funded my transfer and were going to cover my education. But I didn’t know anything about the Lukases back then. We have our own cryptic families back in Washington and as far as we were concerned, the Institute had a keen grasp on whatever the Lukases were doing, and weren’t our problem.

You had just started around that time too, hadn’t you, Jon? Wasn’t I your immediate superior for a while? I forget, I still can’t quite figure out the hierarchy here. You’re Head Archivist. I’m Head of Folklore -- are we equals in the Institute or are were on completely different levels. Ah, nevermind, we can talk about that outside of the recording. Reminiscing can wait.

I was, I think I was the third in residence student-employee the Institute had taken in. My predecessors had long since finished their studies and moved on elsewhere. South Africa and Russia, if I recall. I never had the chance to meet them, but as far as what Elias had told me in during my orientation, that’s what I had gathered about them. Wonder what they’re up to. . . But I digress. I was the third, but I was the first that was actively using the archive statements as fodder for my research. See, my focus area was in covering unifying themes throughout world cultures through the means of folklore. Obviously we’ve got the standards -- creation myths, the afterlife, explanations of nature, harvest -- the usual. But my studies were taking me elsewhere. To concepts that overlapped and had uncanny similarities, even when the cultures were worlds away. Some could be explained as just the natural need for humans to find comfort in what they didn’t understand. Death and the dark were most common. I could always figure out ways to connect these points, even if the cultures were wildly different. What was the geography like? The weather during this time period. How were their relations with nearby enemy and ally communities? I could usually pinpoint what needed to be explained and tied together. But some things I never could quite get a grasp on.

You see, Jon, in my decade plus at the Institute, I’ve probably dug too deep for just a simple scholar. I don’t study to know things for a sense of omniscience. I study to satisfy my own curiosity. While it’s always a thrill to share my academic findings with anyone who will listen, it’s always been primarily a personal gain. So I suppose that was one reason why Elias ended up granting me permission to study the archives. With limitations of course. Gertrude wasn’t the most thrilled about it. But I was not prying through with the intentions of exposing the secrets I uncovered to the world. No, it was for myself. And somewhere down the line, well, I wouldn’t call myself an expert by any means. But I did find myself very familiar with some common trends. Of course this wouldn’t all come in to play until some time after Michael, er, vanished.

Michael and I met sometime in early 2007. I had been here for a few months and I was bouncing between working as a shelver in the library and a research assistant -- we briefly were colleagues at this time, though back then we never really spoke to one another. What a shame. Imagine how close we’d be now if we had. 

It wasn’t exactly what I would call a remarkable meeting. Gertrude had sent him to the library to have access to our private records for some sort of report but we didn’t have anyone to accompany him at the time so we just talked. I called him enormous or something to that extent -- I’m a small guy, Jon. I’m easily astounded at tall people -- he found my reaction funny. Somehow or another he mentioned the kind of research he was conducting for Gertrude and it was actually something I had quite a bit of experience in. I’d just had an article get published about the topic, so I talked his ear off for a bit before Diane came to take him to the back. Michael came back to the library at the end of the day and asked I’d like to get a coffee with him sometime. Didn’t realize it was a date until the third time we’d gone out for coffee and he started buying. It was casual dating, you know what I mean? The kind where you spend the first few dates just getting to know one another. Talking about what you had in common. What hobbies you had. Your friends. Family. Rather commonplace stuff just to test the waters. And while we had a few disagreements in interests, we kept coming back to the things we did have in common. You’ll have to forgive me, but when it comes to other people’s perceptions of me, I am very dense. Beyond the surface level of ‘this person likes me’, ‘this person tolerates me’ and ‘this person dislikes me’ I have an incredibly difficult time reading people. Even when Michael was holding my hand on our forth date, I still kept telling myself, “Oh Nel, he’s one of those people that uses physical contact to show he’s engaged in conversation.” And frankly it wasn’t until I started sleeping with him -- oh, christ, too much? Sorry, not really the right sort of content to be sharing. But you see my point. I didn’t realize Michael and I had been legitimately dating for nearly eight months. Sometimes I wonder if perhaps I’d realized sooner, he wouldn’t have -- you know what, nevermind. There’s no use dwelling on it. Michael is dead. He gave himself up to stop the Spiral’s ritual and that’s all that matters. He did us a service but well, it put me into a bind. Kind of literally. I’ll fast forward through our relationship -- we were all but short of living together. My apartment was too small. Would you believe it was Lukas housing? And he was living too far for me to comfortably be able to commute after my longer days. He was something of a rock for me on my rough days where I’d be at the Institute well into the night. I didn’t like being there late. Always felt like someone was watching me. Heh, well, it wasn’t paranoia. And present me is glad to reassure past Nelson that no, he was not being an anxious mess. He really was being watched. Some nights Michael would stay with me until I finished what I had been working on. Other nights he’d make a point of coming back later in the evening to check on me only to have to wake me up and send me home. Sometimes I wonder if he had ever actually gone home those days. He’d become wrapped up in his own studies under Gertrude. It wasn’t my business so I never asked unless he chose to share.

That’s a lie, and you know it, don’t you? I was a snoop. I would hear Michael mentioning things some nights when I stayed at his place. Whatever it was Gertrude was having him do, it was eating at him. He talked about always being afraid he was taking the wrong door when he was going places. He’d started taking photographs of the doors he used most often. Told me to make sure it was so he wouldn’t get lost. He didn’t want to go somewhere he couldn’t leave. I suggested he put something on the doors he used most so he wouldn’t get confused. But it didn’t seem to reassure him. Some nights he didn’t sleep at all. He’d either just lay in bed with me until the sun came up. Some mornings I’d wake up to find him facing a wall, hand outstretched as if he were taking a doorknob. He would always be so relieved when I called out to him. He’d always settle into bed next to me and he wouldn’t speak. He would just hang tight on to me and just remain still and silent. Now, trust me, Michael was not mentally ill. I mean, your standard depression and anxiety like nearly everyone our age, but he wasn’t unmedicated, nor was he struggling with anything else. Or maybe he was and he just didn’t know. But I genuinely believe -- no, I know -- that how he was acting was not a sign of mental illness. Something had him. I can only say now that I know something had him, because I know what happened now. He only started acting himself again in the days before he and Gertrude left. He was excited. Talked about how thrilled he was to be needed for something so important. He loved his work and he was very dedicated to aiding Gertrude in her work as well. And he was himself again for a short while. We’d been together I think a little over two years at this point. Longest I’ve ever been with a man. Most men get turned off by me being trans so early in the relationship, but Michael didn’t mind. He just liked me and I have to say, hiccups in his health aside, I think we were very happy together. He was so optimistic that week before -- said that he thought that it was time that we moved in together properly. He said he’d seen some places for rent a bit closer to the Institute that on our combined income would be a walk in the park. He wanted to know if my parents were ever going to be visiting London again because he felt he was ready to meet them. After two years together of us being content in our stations, suddenly he was ready to make more of these commitments with me and honestly. . .I couldn’t have been happier. I was half expecting him to mention marriage at some point, but it still seemed a bit soon for that. But I wouldn’t have said no. We were happy. And when he woke me up before leaving for his flight, kissed me and told me he loved me -- I was sure I had such a bright future to look forward to. I was absolutely in love with Michael Shelley, and. . .

You know how the Spiral is the concept of the fear of lies and deception? You know how it alters your perception of reality? You know how it twists and writhes and fills you with doubt and frustration? With how it makes you question anything and everything in your life? Imagine all of that culminating at once. Imagine suddenly being stricken by the anger and betrayal of whether or not this man you absolutely adored was lying to you. Betrayal of ones feelings I think might be the absolute worst thing you could ever experience.

I had eagerly counted down the days of Michael’s return. It was all I could hope for. I had found a few places I wanted to look at with him. I’d even called my parents back in Massachusetts to tell them the good news. And when Gertrude came back alone? She pulled me aside and told me at the very least she owed me some sort of answer. I had thought Michael maybe had just gone straight home and gone to bed. He probably had some sort of jetlag and needed to rest. But all she told me was that Michael would not be coming back. And she wouldn’t say anything more.

I found out what happened on my own. Though I think Elias may have had something to do with it. Who am I kidding, I know he had something, maybe everything to do with it. My access to the archives was cut off after Michael left. I wasn’t allowed in unless Gertrude saw it absolutely necessary and I was under strict supervision. In the past she’d noticed that I’d swipe the occasional statement for a few days before returning it and she wasn’t...too fond of that. Or me in general. I think her general dislike of me is half the reason, if not all the reason I never joined the archives team, despite being a perfect fit for the position. No, it wasn’t just Elias. Michael I think left me hints too. I had gone to his apartment after a week thinking maybe he might have actually needed some space before we moved in together and that’s why Gertrude was being cryptic because she didn’t know herself. But when I got there, the apartment had been untouched since I’d left for work the morning of Michael’s departure. Everything was in its place. I spoke to his landlord, mentioned that he had disappeared and that the place needed to be cleaned out. But as it were, before he left he’d put my name on the lease somehow. It had seemed he might have actually prepared for this. I mean, I know now that he had. But back then I was so angry. But I couldn’t just express it. I felt like nothing made sense. I felt like he had abandoned me, but in such a way where he wanted me to be taken care of in his absence. I didn’t understand any of it. Rent had been paid up for the next few months and I was able to use this time to take care of my own affairs. I moved in to Michael’s apartment. I kept his name on the least just in case. I decided I’d rather have a longer nightly commute home than live in that lonely apartment of mine. I’d like some sort of company even if it was in the form of Michael’s belongings. The unfortunate side was that the apartment now had twice as much stuff and I had to do some cleaning. It was while I was cleaning, I found some of Michael’s hints. Statements that I had never laid my eyes on. Photocopies of ones that were likely still in the archive. In truth, Michael had been lying to me. More than he let on. But now I realize it had been a lie to protect me. He could only do so much for me while he was around though, ‘cause before you knew it, I was absorbing as much information as I possibly could about what he’d left behind for me to read. It was astounding. What he’d left for me perfectly summed up so many of the connections in the study I’d been finishing for my grad studies. Who would have guessed that my own boyfriends disappearance would have led to me completing my degree! I say this happily, but it’s breaking my heart to do so. I really loved Michael, you know. I couldn’t really bear the idea of being without him. Maybe that’s what pushed me to start breaking into the archives late at night. Maybe that’s how and why Elias started watching me. I don’t know if it was because he disapproved of what I was doing, or if he was just curious. I, uh, I don’t know if you’ve caught on. But Elias doesn’t watch all of us. Just those he thinks have some sort of weight. It probably had to do with how much I buried myself in what Michael left behind for me. After I obtained my degree all I could do was start researching. In hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have signed the proper employment contract. 20/20 as they say. I was obsessed, Jon. The moment I found out Sannikov Land wasn’t real, I lost myself. I tore apart the myths and legends I’d been studying my entire life to find some sort of hint or connections between what Michael left for me and the truth of it all. You’ll um, have to forgive me a bit if the rest sounds a little disjointed. Between Michael’s disappearance and Gertrude’s death, my grasp on reality started to. Slip? None of my memories connect smoothly. There’s patches. Blanks in time. I can only take a guess that these were from periods where I was lost in my own mania.

I wouldn’t say the Spiral had me yet. But it was definitely effecting my daily life. Like Michael, I started to see the doors. I started to find myself caught in lies and deception and doing whatever I could to find answers. I was living to deceive as long as it benefited me and my search. And like it had always been. They were selfish pursuits. It was knowledge I had to know for myself. It was knowledge I needed to obtain because I needed to find out what happened to Michael. Elias never intervened. He never tried to stop me. I have a couple memories of him pulling me aside and supplying me with some information that might help steer me on the right path. Or maybe the wrong one. I don’t know. Like I said. Those years were hazy. But he always seemed so pleased by my progress. He knew then. He had to know. This is Elias we’re talking about. He had to have known where I was headed. Jackass... I don’t have much clarify until shortly after Gertrude died. I had been in the halls. I was staring at something on the wall -- probably a door. I passed Elias. He didn’t look right. He looked like he was staring through me. Said something about how someone should lock the archives. Gertrude had passed away and he needed to make sure the room was locked up until someone new was hired. He handed me a key and sent me on my way. I think he was telling me to take what I needed if it would help me in my search for Michael. Whatever it is I had found, that was when I think I had finally succumbed to the Spiral’s influence over me. 

You know the funny part about this. . .We didn’t hear that Gertrude passed away for another three days. I suppose that’s the funny thing about being touched by the Spiral. You just accept the falsehoods, even when you know they’re falsehoods. And in the end? It benefited me. Just as I always wanted.

Since I’m being honest here. Being in that labyrinth was the first time in years I actually didn’t feel like I was losing my mind. I wasn’t scared. In fact it felt like taking a walk in the park. I held a large armful of folders of statements in my arms. And all I did was walk. I passed countless doors and passages and turned through winding corners and corridors and nothing about it filled me with any dread or unease. It felt like I belonged there. I say this knowing full well that my comfort likely had something to do with being in the domain of what had been driving me those past few years. I don’t think the Distortion liked my reaction, though. At one point, I found a dead end. There was only one door, and when I opened it, I was back in my office.  I didn’t imagine it, of course. That wouldn’t be the first time I ventured there. I usually went in of my own volition. I don’t know if the Distortion found me to be a nuisance or not. But whenever I saw a new door, I simply would knock first and announce I was coming in. And whenever I went in, it was just the same. An odd comfort like I belonged there. I felt like a visitor in someone’s home. It was like when I first started to spend the night at Michael’s. It was as if the halls were no harm to me, even though it was not my dwelling. I was allowed to be there. Perhaps I was even being invited. But if the Spiral disliked my presence, it never did so in such a way that caused me any fear or harm.

 It was my third time within the Spiral that I started calling out.

I had done enough research by now and learned enough to know what the Spiral was. What it could do. Where it was leading me. And to know all about Michael’s connection to it. And I started to call his name, hoping I might hear him respond. I didn’t want to believe he was dead yet. I wanted to believe he was somewhere within these halls and he needed to be found. Even at the cost of myself, I wasn’t going to leave him. And then, it hit me. The more I called for him, the more welcoming the halls became. The more I began to find that I wasn’t just comfortable. I was welcome. I was able to spend more and more time in the Spiral each time. I knew quite well that I was likely losing more and more of myself with each trip. I would talk to no one, or perhaps someone, whenever I was there. I would have conversations with whatever was residing in the halls. Like I was spending my time with a friend. Like I was talking to Michael. Maybe it was something I did to keep myself grounded the deeper I ventured. When I came out, I often could not sleep. I wouldn’t show up to work for days at a time, either due to the passage of time itself in the Spiral, or just because I couldn’t find the strength. My visits only began to slow when I started to notice the door in Michael’s apartment. It had stopped appearing anywhere else. Just Michael’s place. There had been something etched into the door. The method I had given Michael about how to be sure the doors he used in his regular life were the right ones. There had been a slight carving around the doorknob. I had etched it into the door of Michael’s apartment back when he first started to show signs of concern. It was his door. But he was not here to open it. It sat across from our bed, like it was waiting for me. It wanted me to open it. But this time, I was not invited to come inside. So I did something else. I just opened it. I opened the door and I left it open wide. And I said that whatever was in there that wanted to see me so badly could come out. This was a new behavior. And I welcomed it, just as it had welcomed me. That was when I met the Distortion.

It didn’t look like Michael when I first met with it. It looked like a young woman, maybe late teens. Dark skin and hair but her shoulders were unnaturally hunched up and her hands. They were so long and spindly. She was dressed in gym wear, a loose, cut up t-shirt and yoga pants. And she sat on the bed in front of me. I left the door open. Day in, day out. I had left an invitation for the Spiral to come in to my residence and it took a week or so before it took form and visited me. I had managed to be sleeping that night, but something stirred in me and caused me to wake up. And I found it sitting cross legged on the bed. Just staring at me. I don’t think the Spiral had decided to use Michael’s form yet when it came to mingling with people yet. Maybe I was the reason it started to, but I wasn’t sure. Still not.

It asked me a question. It’s voice unnerved me and it smiled at me as it spoke and there was something so wholly unsettling about that smile. Like my head was aching from just looking at it. And it asked what was so important that I was always coming in its doors. It told me it was quite bothered by my coming in and making no means of trying to escape, or find its center. It didn’t like that I was searching for someone rather than something. I told it that I was looking for my boyfriend. He was inside there somewhere and I was going to bring him out. I’m not sure if it liked that response but it left after that. Not for good, because a few nights later the same thing happened. But this time, it sat in the form of a man. He was about forty or so, olive skin, light hair with a stern, crooked nose and a scruffy beard. It asked if this was the person I had been looking for. And I said no. And it was gone again. This went on every few nights for, god, close to a year. Each time I would give it another bit about how Michael looked. I tried to show it a photograph before but when it looked at my phone, the screen just went fuzzy and I had to restarted it in order for it to work right again.

Until one night it got it right. It spoke in the same voice, although there was a different, almost feedback like twang to the way it spoke to me. And when I awoke, the Spiral had gotten it right. I saw my Michael sitting on the bed in front of me and the sight of him was enough to get me to throw off my covers and kneel in front of him, hands upon his face. I must have been crying or maybe it was looking straight at the Spiral, but I couldn’t get a clear look at him. I told it that it was right and this was the person I was looking for. And I needed him back.

And you know what it said?

‘No, I don’t think so.’

I don’t think I had ever been so scared to see Michael’s smile. It just smiled at me and it ran the tip of one of those long, spindly fingers under my chin and I hadn’t even registered that it had made me bleed. And it just said ‘No, I think I shall keep this one a little more. See how far you’re willing to go to get him back.’

And it went into the door again. This time it smiled the whole way. And when the door closed. I was immediately on my feet to run at it to chase it down. But the door was gone. 

I took something equivalent to a sabbatical a few weeks later, Jon -- it was around the time you started as archivist. Tim had been working beneath me before my sabbatical and I think that’s part of what drove him to join your team. I was going to be gone for a few months and I wouldn’t have the chance to give him any work to do. Elias was more than happy to give me the time off, but he did something to me. I think as assurance I wouldn’t go running away forever. I think I had started to become a threat to him in some way. Not sure how. Still not. Part of me is somewhat convinced that Elias was planning on using me to get the Spiral to touch you, but I don’t things went exactly as he expected. Especially considering the Spiral had plans of its own.

I was on leave for about three months. I took a few weeks to fly back to the States to visit my parents and check in with the Foundation. I checked in with the archive staff there to see if I could scour some of their resources for what I had been experiencing. But we were never as well equipped with statements as the Magnus Institute. I found a lot of my efforts there weren’t really worth my time. Although I did learn a little about a few groups in North America that had their eye -- Jon, keep an eye out on the Codley family of New York. They’re a cult family, but I wasn’t able to pinpoint of what exactly. If I find out more, I’ll let you know.  I only met one person back at the Usher Foundation that knew anything that might help me. In fact, it was their own archivist, man by the name of Warren Chase. I’m actually still in touch with him, if you ever want to meet him. He seems to be following your accounts pretty intensely. Said that he’s been having duplicates of your statements and recordings sent to him. We know who’s to blame for that, obviously. Truth be told, he’d asked me to come back to the Foundation. He wanted me to join his team, but I had to decline. Work here is far too time consuming. But, you see, Warren hadn’t been touched by the Spiral, but he’d been touched by the Stranger. Stranger apparently is very tied in with the Foundation. Something to do with the number of secret organization and secret government activities happening back in the States that there are people within our own organizations that are not what they seem to be.  Now, Warren seemed to be far more optimistic about my situation than I was. Told me that if one can keep their head when dealing with these entities, you can retrieve someone lost to them. I mean...you were able to bring back Daisy. I’ve had no such luck.

Jon, I know Michael’s gone now. The Spiral swaps its forms whenever it so chooses and I know it discarded Michael’s form when I. . .When I took too long. I’ve met it as it is now. Helen is the name of the woman it appears as. It’s told me that I knows me, but it has no attachment for me now like it had when it was Michael. It knows Michael had loved me. 

But it was the time that the Distortion was Michael that was what ultimately brought me to where I am. I’m just one foray or so away from becoming its next avatar at this point and I mean it when I say that I am absolutely fine with that.  I spent the time of my leave looking for those doors. Looking for how to get into the Spiral from other entrance ways and other methods to get myself lost in those halls again. This time from a new vantage point, from a new perspective. I was going to find Michael and I was going to bring him home! And I like to think that I nearly succeeded. It might sound absurd to you but, I think I had become something like friends with the Spiral by the time I had figured some things out. It probably started when I had encountered it behind a bar during my last few days in the States before returning to London. It was preying on this young woman who was trying to tell her friends about this store she’d kept passing each day on her home from work, and each time she would try to take someone there it was always an old butcher’s shop, long since closed down. I had noticed the Spiral lurking around and when I found myself in the men’s room looking at what appeared to be a door to the outside, I stepped out of the room and found the actual entrance to the back of the bar.  The Spiral had been waiting for me, wearing Michael’s face as it had grown fond of doing. And I told it that I had figured one thing out. I knew that just because it looked like Michael, it was not Michael. And I think that curried my favor with it a bit. It liked that I was playing its game and calling its bluff. And it became just that with me and the Distortion. A game between the two of us. The Spiral in its own way was entertained by my dedication. And somewhere down the line, I think we became, well, I like to think we had become friends. Or as close to friends as you can be wit the entity of Deceit.” And Nelson stops, and he stands up and smiles at Jon. “I think this is where you say ‘Statement ends’ isn’t it?” The recording does not stop, but Jon looks up at the researcher who has now raised to his feet and offered a smirk to the archivist. “You’d be surprised how many of us can be touched by our host without losing our wits. Maybe I’ll indulge you with the rest sometime. Take care, Jon.”

[formerly-rosaline]

About Axe

Full name: Axelle Rose Nelson (named after Axl Rose of Guns n Roses)

Date of birth: November 28, 1989

Place of birth: NYC

Hometown: Jericho, NY, a suburb of NYC

Signs: Sagittarius (fire), Earth Snake, Owl

Parents: Estrella Mariam Nelson (born 1972, died 2001, née García) and Leonard Earl Nelson (born 1971)

Siblings: Kailene Renae Nelson (born 1993) and Kalise Rae Nelson (born 1998)

Ethnicity: Spanish, English, Welsh, Indigenous American

Height: 5'7

Species: vampire and human from her father's side, werewolf from her mother's

Personality: Axe has a dark side. It's hard to peel back her layers and get passed it. Manipulative and a liar to boot. Some would call her evil. Loyal to a fault to those who have earned her trust - which is a slow, arduous process. Axe tends to trust the wrong people though, and has fallen into plenty of abusive relationships - platonic and otherwise. She herself is very toxic and conniving. Macabre sense of humor. Kinky. Loves to dance.

Backstory: Axe grew up relatively normally, the oldest of three daughters. Her parents were loving enough to each other and the girls, although her father was emotionally abusive to all four of them and physically abusive occasionally to their mother. He blamed it on being in a house full of women and having nowhere to escape to, but really it was the alcoholism combined with generally being a jackass. If asked, Axe would insist it didn't shape who she was at all.

A couple months before Axe's 12th birthday, a tragedy that shook America hit particularly close to home for the Nelson family. Estrella was a custodian in the Twin Towers. At 9:03 am, They were supposed to be watching a DARE video in health class, but instead, Axe watched live as the South Tower was hit, killing her mother though she didn't know it at the time. There was stunned silence from the 8th grade class - Axe was bright, and had tested out of 6th grade - of Jericho Middle School, and the teacher promptly shut off the TV.

Axe had no idea this moment would change not just her family's lives, but the lives of all Americans. School was let out at about 11 am that day, and Axe walked home. Her father had picked up Kailene from elementary school, and Kalise was only a toddler at the time. They couldn't possibly understand what was happening - or what it meant. Mom is gone. Axe couldn't break it to them though, as her father kept attempting frantically to make phone calls. All lines were jammed.

They were huddled in the living room of a neighbor's home, the neighbors praying and crying, and Kalise began to fuss as well. Dissociating, Axe held the child and tried to soothe her. That was the day it all changed forever. That was the day Axe took on a role she shouldn't have ever had to, the day the alcoholism spiraled, the day that destroyed the Nelson family's already cracking foundation. She couldn't hear the news over the sounds of bodies thudding live in the background.

Since that loss, Axe turned to unhealthy coping mechanisms. She was never really one to overindulge in drugs and alcohol, though she did partake; instead, she let bloodlust consume her. She manipulated plenty a man into feeding the monster that consumed her... the monster she had become. Axe raised her sisters, as her father continually let them down, though he never did raise a hand to them outside of spanking.

When she was 17, Axe was ready to move on. She applied for the Biomedical Engineering program at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore, and she got in. Kailene was just starting high school, and Kalise was doing well in elementary. It was time for her to move on. Besides, Baltimore was less than 200 miles away. Tinged with guilt, Axe still took the chance to improve her life. She couldn't play mommy forever.

No child should be forced to go through what Axelle did; no child should have to raise their siblings, however common it is. Axelle never got the chance to be a teenager. She never even partied until Johns Hopkins. Unfortunately, she spent so much time finally getting to be a teen that she failed two classes her first semester and lost her scholarships. Axe decided to continue moving on with her life, though.

Without telling her father, Axe moved to Detroit and worked three jobs until she had enough for an online semester at Wayne State University as a biology student. Living paycheck to paycheck, Axe put herself through a year of college there before she was able to apply for financial aid once again. When she did, her father found out where she was. She didn't let his anger shake her, though.

Eventually, she was able to quit two of her jobs and rack up a lot of student debt to attend in-person classes. She dreamed of being able to get back into Johns, but they rejected her every time she reapplied. Instead, she attended Wayne State's School of Medicine. By the end of her college career and residency, she was in over 300,000 dollars of student debt. She also developed alcoholism during her stint in med school.

Graduating in 2019 with a Ph.D. in immunology and microbiology, Axe finally felt like she'd made something of herself. She refused to change her name for her degree, despite plenty telling her she should. Besides, now she was Dr. Nelson, and that sounded plenty professional to her. She returned to the Big Apple to find a job as an immunologist. Doctors had access to plenty of blood, after all.

Kailene had already graduated from the Fashion Institute of Technology with a Bachelor's in Accessories Design and Kalise was partying it up in her third year at LaGuardia Community College where she had changed her major from Social Science and Humanities to Business Administration. She had no idea what she wanted to do with her life, and who could blame her. She never knew their mother, and it had led to her being really stunted in life. Axe felt partially to blame; she had left when Kalise was so young, after all, and stayed gone for eleven years. Now that she was back, she wanted to spend time with her family - even their father. She had forgiven him a long time ago. Besides, he'd had to have done something right since all three of them had attended college.

Kinks: shibari, daddy doms, footplay, bloodplay, asphyxiation, breath play, choking, knifeplay, barebacking, CBT, exhibitionism, anal. Switch, primarily sub. Loves being yanked by the hair, slapped around, and generally manhandled. If it's BDSM, she'd definitely try it twice before deciding if she's into it or not.

Turn-offs: pet play, collaring, hard degradation, age play - regression, diapers, begging, CNC.

Sexuality: pansexual (open to threesomes/orgies), polyamorous

Relationship status: single and not looking for serious commitment; prefers fwb. You won't hear her dropping the L bomb any time soon.

Current age: nearing 30

[littlewritingrabbit]

Finally!! I got to the second request from this great anon, which was von Steuben/North with prompt 67. Thanks to everyone for being patient (this was... during summer vacation? I think?) and thanks especially to @thalassicwatercolors for helping me edit! I hope you like charades...

67 - Master wedding feasts

What is there for a man to do on the last night before he sets out from one side of a war in Philadelphia to the other in South Carolina? Some would say the best course of action would be to purchase some good wine and get well and truly merry. Others would say it would be best to have a dinner with his dearest friends, to enjoy their last night together. When we asked him his opinion on the matter, Pierre du Ponceau said it ought to be a game of charades.

Given that Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens was in precisely this position, with his ride to South Carolina rapidly approaching the next day and one last night to spend among friends, he heeded all this advice, and attended the Baron von Steuben’s house for dinner, wine, and the promise of games afterwards. It was one of those gatherings I had come to enjoy as an aide of the Baron’s, a chance for a bit of lighthearted chatter amid the canon-fire and paperwork (equally terrifying and dull in turns) which comprised this war we fought. For one of the greatest evils men can conceive of, war has a truly remarkable, near terrifying ability to bring people together. The old adage that strength lies in numbers seemed to me to ring true - as long as the numbers are made of those you trust with your life and your secrets.

I liked to think my life and secrets were in capable hands. We pooled our rations and the Baron von Steuben procured a bottle of wine. After dinner we retired to the parlor to amuse ourselves with cards. As Laurens insisted that gentlemen do not gamble, we resorted to playing for handkerchiefs after dinner… with the addition of a cravat from me, having lost to both Hamilton and Fairlie, and having only one handkerchief to give up.

“Scandalous,” said Laurens, a hand over his heart as if in indignation as I unraveled the fabric from around my collar. Hamilton laughed and added my cravat to the pile of handkerchiefs he had won.

“We must all gang up to win your cards, William,” Benjamin Walker told me with a grin, “And see what other parts of your clothes we may win from you.”

“Though I cannot object,” said von Steuben, making everyone laugh, “Perhaps you gentleman would like to play a different game?”

“How about Limericks?” asked Laurens.

“Questions and Commands?” suggested Hamilton.

“Charades!” said du Ponceau.

“How does one play charades?” asked James Fairlie, “Forgive me, I’ve never tried.”

“Truly?” du Ponceau looked amazed. “Then you have missed quite a lot sir! It is only the most ridiculous, amusing game one could play on a holiday or at a party. The version I prefer is played in this manner: one team is given a word to act out - silently, mind you - while the other team must guess what this word was.”

“And who provides the words?” asked Fairlie.

“I could,” said du Ponceau, “I do enjoy making it a struggle for the actors.”

“Was he always this contrary?” Walker asked von Steuben.

“He’s gotten better actually,” said the Baron, taking a sip of wine.

“Hey!” protested du Ponceau.

“If we are to play charades,” said Fairlie, “I should like to commandeer Hamilton for my team. I think he will be dramatic enough to help us win.”

Hamilton shrugged cheerfully. “How could I refuse such flattery?” he said. “Would anyone else like to join our team?”

“I would,” said Walker, probably thinking along the lines of anyone who had seen Hamilton’s eloquence as a public speaker and commanding attitude on the battlefield. He was likely a fine actor.

“That leaves us,” I said, counting up Laurens and the Baron for my own team.

“You three shall have the first word then,” said du Ponceau. He gestured for me to come closer, cupping a hand to his mouth. “Revenge,” he whispered.

“How am I supposed to-?”

“Your decision!” he said, the picture of eighteen-year-old mock-aloofness. I sighed, and followed the rest of my team into the study to rehearse in private.

In the end, we demonstrated the word in terms of the Classics. Von Steuben, tall, commanding, and therefore perfect for the part, acted out Hector, pretending to stab Laurens through the chest with a spear as if he were Patroclus. Laurens gasped in silent agony, clutched at his chest, and fell to the floor, unmoving. I, as Achilles, put on my most monstrous snarl and chased down von Steuben, but before I could vanquish him properly, Hamilton had called out “Revenge!” and we sat back down.

The second word was ours to guess. After debating in the study, Hamilton and Fairlie walked in bearing two chairs, and sat in them quietly.

“Sitting?” asked Laurens.

“Spectators?” I suggested.

Walker entered last, striding purposely in front of Hamilton and Fairlie with his back to us.

“Ignoring,” I said.

“Teacher,” said Laurens.

“Derrière!” said von Steuben, with absolute confidence.

“No!” said du Ponceau, with more confidence.

At the signal of Walker raising his hands, Hamilton and Fairlie mimed picking up objects, possibly instruments. The invisible article tucked under Hamilton’s chin could have been a fiddle, while Fairlie’s hands rested on what might have been an invisible pianoforte. Walker waved his arms, a little haphazardly, and they imitated playing a tune.

“Music!”

“Concerto!”

“Opera!”

“Conductor!”

“Orchestra!” said Laurens, “Though… a miniature one perhaps.”

“Correct,” said du Ponceau, “Well done!” The Baron stepped up to receive our team’s second word. He bent down to hear du Ponceau’s whisper. He frowned. Then he stood and led us to the study.

“What are we to imitate this time?” asked Laurens, clearly getting into the spirit of the game.

“The appointed word was Marriage,” said von Steuben.

“That ought to be fun to act,” said Laurens.

“How so?” asked von Steuben, still wrinkling his nose. “It’s a bothersome institution to be sure. All that fuss and ceremony. In-laws and the like.”

“You can’t really mean that,” I said. Certainly I had my doubts about marriage, but people had been marrying each other for thousands of years without much complaint. Even if I myself had difficulty imagining being happy with a wife and children, I didn’t doubt it as a concept that others would appreciate.

“I do indeed,” said the Baron stubbornly. He folded his arms across his chest.

“Would you still object to marriage if you were to wed, say, a rather dashing William North?” asked Laurens with a smile.

Von Steuben smiled as if he couldn’t help it, but shook his head. “You know better than to tease an old officer,” he said, suddenly sounding weary. “Offer him the promise of safety, of intimacy and camaraderie amongst friends, even when we all know it will never last. If you’re not careful, you’ll end up like me.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. He had said it with such resignation, I was almost afraid. “You’ve never promised anything you could not-”

“Will,” he said sadly, taking my hand. “My dear Will, how have I done anything but? I’m a king of false hopes, you know.” He looked over my hand as if trying to read the future from the lines on my palm. I doubt he saw anything concrete. Prophecies are never that straightforward anyways. “I let us all believe that it can be like this forever, that we will always be surrounded by the friends we love and never obliged to put on a show of marriage if we cannot love those we marry. But the usual tale is already written: the soldiers grow up and settle down with a wife and a family and a civilian profession. If I survive this one, there are no more wars left for me to run to - the world is settling down, and I cannot.”

“The future is always uncertain,” said Laurens softly. “We cannot read what it has in store for us by any method of divination, and we cannot expect anything with certainty, be it our worst fears, or our dearest hopes.”

“Are you fellows ready?” du Ponceau called from the parlor.

“Very nearly!” the Baron called back. He turned to address me. “Do you think I’m selfish, to give you false hopes?”

“I think you are judging yourself unjustly,” I replied, “And I also think we’re meant to be in the parlor, so this is no time for-”

“Ready yet?” Hamilton called.

“Almost!” Laurens yelped, turning quickly back to us. “I hate to interrupt, I really do, but we haven’t practiced a thing.”

“Just… act out a wedding,” I said. It seemed a simple enough direction. “Look, you two go stand in the parlor and I’ll walk in like the bride. We can improvise from there.” Placing a hand on the back of each woolen uniform, I steered Laurens and von Steuben out of the office and then waited a moment while they arranged themselves in front of their audience.

“Stationary,” suggested Fairlie.

“Give them a moment,” Hamilton snickered.

I straightened up, smoothed my coattails, and marched into the parlor. It was a rather military, solitary wedding procession, but my dear friend the Baron was waiting with his back to me at the other end of the room, so I made my way over and stood facing him, Laurens between us.

“Meeting?” Walker suggested.

The Baron von Steuben offered his hands, as if for a dance. We held hands while Laurens spoke wordlessly about dearly beloveds and holy matrimony and the other pleasantries they say at weddings. I got the impression that he actually knew what to say, which was impressive.

“Swearing an oath?” said Hamilton, shooting Walker a sideways look. Perhaps he, like Laurens, was trying to say something wordlessly.

“Court?” said Walker.

“Ceremony?” said Fairlie.

Smiling benevolently, Laurens looked me in the eye and gestured to the Baron, his lips moving silently in what I suppose must have been a phrase like as long as you both shall live. This is a war, I thought. We’ve no idea how long that might be. Nonetheless, I nodded. He turned to the Baron, who nodded as well.

“Conversation?” prompted Walker.

Laurens mimed lifting a veil from my face, and I couldn’t help but smile shyly. What had gotten into me? Laurens stepped back. That was when I realized my mistake.

Distracted by the Baron’s confession in the study, I hadn’t let my fellow actors know just how long we would be keeping up our pantomime. Thus we would just have to act the entire marriage ceremony all the way through until one of our companions guessed the word. But according to that ancient matrimonial tradition-

-this was the part where he was supposed to kiss me.

“Friendship?” suggested Fairlie.

Von Steuben leaned forwards and kissed me, friendly and quick. He raised an eyebrow, as if to ask should I continue? I nodded slightly.

“Kiss?” said Hamilton, stating the obvious.

Look, Steuben wasn’t half bad, as kissing goes.

“Affection?” said Walker, muffling a laugh.

And it wasn’t messy, or overly impolite either. Just a wedding-sort-of-kiss, if that makes a whit of sense.

“Love?” Walker said. Hamilton whistled like a sailor.

I stepped back. Laurens was blushing profusely. Perhaps I was as well. I couldn’t fathom how our audience had failed to grasp the word we were portraying. We sat down and mimed eating a dinner of some sort.

“Banquet?” suggested Fairlie.

“Dinner?” proposed Hamilton.

“Eating?”

“Food?”

“Party?”

Laurens pulled myself and the Baron to our feet, before raising an invisible object under his chin, much like Hamilton had done in the last round. He began to play the imaginary fiddle, so I took the cue and raised my hands for a waltz. To my surprise, however, the Baron stepped forwards - the gentleman’s step - and so did I, so he stepped on my foot rather painfully.

“Waltzing!” said Hamilton.

“Waltzing badly,” corrected Fairlie.

After the waltz Laurens put down his invisible fiddle, bowed to both of us, and left the room for the study.

“Parting?” asked Walker.

“Party??” Fairlie repeated, as if the answer might be different with repetition.

It was just dawning on me what I had gotten myself into when the Baron sat down on the floor, miming pulling a blanket up over his legs. I had sort of forgotten what happens on wedding nights - it simply wasn’t an event I preferred to think about! - but the others had failed to guess the word, and von Steuben was bundling himself into an invisible marriage-bed on the floor, and now my face was burning red. Conscious that in any other company, this whole pantomime would be completely improper, I settled down on the floor and pretended to pull a blanket over my shoulder.

“Sleeping?” suggested Walker.

“Bed?” said Hamilton.

Von Steuben, brown eyes glittering in mirth, gave a wicked grin, and then threw one leg up over mine.

The audience burst into laughter.

“Enough!” I shouted, scrambling out from under the offending leg, my face burning. My fellow aides only laughed harder. Even von Steuben, still on the floor with his wig askew, was chuckling. “How could you completely miss the word!” I demanded in exasperation. “We acted it out, plain as day! The word was-”

“Marriage,” said Hamilton calmly. I stared at him, a little flabbergasted.

“Will,” said Walker gently, “We’re not dunces. We knew the word all along.”

“I just wanted to see how far you were actually going to pantomime the… ceremony,” said Hamilton with a rakish grin that had almost become his signature.

“Rascals and scallywags, the lot of you,” I scoffed. It is, however, quite easy for a scoff to turn into a laugh, which I muffled in the back of my sleeve as the Baron stood and brushed off his uniform.

“Oh yes,” he said, “Whatever you do, don’t laugh. It might make you seem less of a composed bride.” This, of course, only made me laugh harder.

“I am such a fool for my friends,” I muttered, taking my seat once more as Hamilton stood to receive the next word from du Ponceau.

“I’m certainly glad I have such friends to be fools with,” said Benjamin, leaning over the arm of his chair and onto mine. I couldn’t have agreed more. Von Steuben might claim to be selfish in allowing us the camaraderie of this flirtatious circle of friends, but I couldn’t help but see it as generous. You have to carve a space for yourself in the world when you can, even if it can’t last.

“Benjamin, come on!” called Fairlie from the study. “Du Ponceau has given us quite a challenging word.”

“And I’ve an idea already!” Hamilton added. I caught a glimpse of the admiring smile on Laurens’s face before he settled back into his chair. God, I wished him well in the fighting in South Carolina.

[jared-hirsch]

Diaries, Greece

I. Hydra, 2019

It was so unlike her. She kept comparing her hand to the Iranian of our group and would burst out of restaurants with pride when the waiter or waitress asked if they were siblings. He was too short to be her boyfriend but their chemistry wasn’t that far off; so I suppose sibling was the default between this six-foot blonde thing and this five-foot-and-some-negligible-inches boy. I must admit that she was quite dark. 

So I sat there and I stared at her and thought how unlike her this whole thing is. We would roast for hours and hours, drifting in and out of sleep but never drifting out of the brutality of the sun upon on our skin. My mother was always terribly afraid that I would do this. I still can’t spend a day in Montauk without thinking of that shiver that would run up my spine as the aerosol hit my back. And the smell. I screamed like a child – I suppose I was a child – and cursed her. Yet here I am; staring at someone who reminds me so much of my mother and wondering why she, or any of us, really, would do this. She took calculated risks. She had a trust fund, I’m sure, but had already started contributing to her retirement the second that she could. I remember the shock with which she broached the fact that I had yet to begin planning for my own and, after convincing me that she must know my social security number – “the last secret between us” – it became quite the open secret between herself, her mother, her mother’s financial institution that creates IRAs and other things of that nature, and myself. I forgot it, actually, and I have the feeling that she knows it by heart like she knows so many things. She’s a genius, really, not necessarily because of some innate ability but rather because of her strive to perfection. Men, her career, backgammon or some novel thing, the coyness with which she asked for that number – it was all perfected. 

Yes, so, I’m sitting there and wondering why on Earth she would torch her skin the way she has and considered whether she, or any of us, would do such a thing with age. I supposed we all wouldn’t. I supposed that it was itself a calculated risk, with the vein boost that comes with white clothing upon tanned skin as the ultimate reward. It really was lovely to look around and see everyone in the color of innocence and the long, flowing curtains that adorned our bodies as we sipped the horrible Grecian wine and smoked cigarettes until our throats bothered us. We are to turn dark now, I thought, not later when there’s the children, husbands, wives, mortgages, and all of the inevitable arrangements that will dissolve whatever bonds exist between us. Although sometimes I doubt that I will ever have that sort of life. Our host – Sergei – is an unhappy man that I see so much of myself in. He was a man of New York, of Gstaad, of here, there, and now Rome who graciously lends us his home each year hoping that the aura of youth that inherently accompanies the conversations we share over a joint as the sun rises, or the naked swimming and cliff diving, or the stumbling to the night’s conquest, will remain. 

It doesn’t, of course, for Sergei is an unhappy man. You wouldn’t expect it yet the fact remains. He lost his lover to AIDS, succumbing to the disease himself, and spends many frivolous hours reminiscing about it on the Internet to the nameless, and small, mass of people that watch him pour his wealthy heart upon the screen. I feel for him. He loves me, apparently. Keeps asking Isabel’s mother to set us up; a request I would probably entertain if he were a few, or many, years younger. I’m an activist, of sorts, planning to work with gay men and women in the courtroom, a selfish sort-of-thing that I am nonetheless passionate about. Sergei was the first openly gay therapist in Paris, having worked in San Francisco during the epidemic, and translating that experience into the realities of the French. In a certain way, he carved the way. I think that as I sit on his terrace, too; a terrace I have thought of jumping from a number of times. I haven’t and I won’t. Although I do sit here sometimes and think of how lovely it would be to disappear; not to die, but rather to climb that mountain beside me and leave this world behind. I would miss my mother, and Montauk, and all of these people, though. The toilets also don’t flush here and the showers are rather terrible. Third-world, my friends say, as a Jeff Koons designed superyacht docks in the port. Youth. 

Katie does not torch her skin, or rather her skin is untorchable. Blonde and blue-eyed, she was a shape-shifter. In a white dress she was youthfully innocent – curtsying it across the dancefloor as she learned to do at debutante balls and Chapin Hall. Black, though, was her true form. She was a New Yorker and she wore the color as a badge of honor – at the opera, at the beach, anything was the appropriate occasion. As we piled off the ferry, we agreed that we wouldn’t smoke this trip. Then we smoked, so we agreed that we wouldn’t smoke during the day. Then we smoked during the day, and we realized that our promises to ourselves and all others didn’t matter much on this sparsely populated island. There were no cars, and something about that meant that there were no worries or responsibilities. Only this. Only all of us staring nervously at one another around a table quite densely populated with aperitifs and ouzo, making predictions about our impending foray into adulthood that we tentively accept as fact. 

There’s Campbell – who woke me from my drunken dreams to tell me that Riley was threatening suicide by way of that same terrace from which I considered jumping – and then there’s Riley – who wasn’t threatening suicide but was indeed crying over a bottle of wine that she stole from the fridge of the creperie we found ourselves in after the bar and who wished that Campbell – the boy who woke me up – would treat her better. I sympathized with Riley and made my allegiances clear. She will move to Chicago in a month to trade energy at British Petroleum, after climbing Kilimanjaro, and they will break up, I’m sure. He is moving to Los Angeles to both pursue a graduate degree in some type of engineering and “escape” his perceived shallowness of New York… in Los Angeles. There is Sina, from Boston, the Iranian boy whom Isabel uses as a color-swatch. We had spent time together in Barcelona, though not much, and the only thing I had surmounted by that point was that he was both gay and quiet. I have come to learn that he was quiet because he was slow to accept the first fact that I had come to know and that he was, in fact, quite loud, quite brilliant, and quite funny. He told Isabel of his sordid secret approximately two months ago with the announcement that he was dating someone and that someone’s name was Robbie. I don’t know much about Robbie except that Robbie was enough to allow Sina to accept himself for who he is so I do believe that I would quite like Robbie as well. Sina holds not one, but two degrees from Wharton, graduating Phi Beta Kappa with a perfect GPA in each. 

And then there’s me. My defining characteristics are my height, my sense of humor, and my knack for the dramatic. I hold a degree in Financial Economics from an Ivy League university – as does everyone I have just described – yet I will shortly be working for a non-profit focused on child welfare. I don’t particularly care for children but I decided that if I truly felt that I couldn’t escape the sin of homosexuality then I could at least adorn my life’s work in morality instead of money. Dramatic, as I said, I’ve managed to become afraid of everything in the past six-or-so-years and have spent the last of those six years overcoming each and every thing one-by-one. That’s what brought me to this small island merely eight months ago and unbeknownst to my friends, it’s what brought me here now. At some point, I decided it would be better to jump from some exotic terrace than to never step foot on one and thus I’ve made it a mission of mine to stray further and further away from home, from comfort, and from the familiar. 

We arrived nine days ago. We spent time with Alex, a local fisherman that we have referred to as “Odysseus” since our arrival last year. “Penelope” is a more fitting name given that the gentleman awaits Isabel’s arrival eleven-of-twelve months per year as she, who I have referred to as “Circe”, turns men to swine across the world. Or perhaps they’re already swine. The allusions have become a bit tangled but we perpetuate them to remind everyone that we have read the Odyssey and literary references come natural to people like us. Alex would find us line-dancing and smoking in bars, sharing shots of ouzo or a strange beer-and-liquor concoction with the bartenders, or flirting up something that wasn’t him or Dinos or one of the tens of other island men that knew both us and each other but remained quite anonymous by way of names we could neither remember nor pronounce and steal Circe from her nymphs. We would stumble up our two-hundred-and-thirty stairs cursing his thievery only to wake up, share a freddo cappuccino, and do it all again. The sex, Isabel said, was some of the best. Hours, she would say, hours, and we would all agree that hours feels a bit long and perhaps the mechanics of the whole affair contributed less to her ranking system than did the context within which it occurred. She concurred. He, of course, wasn’t the only man that infiltrated our circle but he did figure the most prominently. Alex would take her spearfishing, intermittently pausing to admire her newly carved figure and seduce her into yet another romp in the moonlight, in some cave or open water, or beach on the mainland that would be distant to the prying eyes of the people of Hydra. Privacy, Alex lamented, was hard to come by on the island. That became clear when people began greeting us. We heard you’re back! they would say, and for whatever reason they rejoiced. Parting gifts in the form of shots or lunch or Prosecco or jewelry – courtesy of Alex’s father – were offered and, of course, taken. Bon voyages! were given and one or two people waved as our ferry pulled away from the port. 

Last year was much the same, except it came with the four-day power outage that would see us without phones or plumbing before flying off to Mykonos. 

[vrsventures]

Mistakes to avoid while buying residential projects in Mohali

So, you have worked hard for years and years now to be able to purchase your dream home in Mohali or are looking for flats in Chandigarh. But you deign and end up living with desolation in your home as it did not turn out as you expected it to be. If you are in this state, disarrayed with a year of ending up like this then this blog is to ameliorate your far. There are just a few aspects that you should never miss your notice. Luckily, one might as well get just the right location for living considering the relative closeness to the office or workplace, ease of availability of transportation in that area, amenities such as food palaces, educational institutions, medical care centers and others keeping in mind your as well as your family’s needs in hope of having an ideal, perfect home. But most of the times, in pursuit of perfection and sheer excitement of getting the keys of your dream home in your hands can make you commit quite a number of such an irreparable mistakes which you might regret later.

So, we present before you some of the most common blunders that you can and should avoid to experience a blissful, happy life.

·      Miscalculation of the finances

              If you are looking for residential projects in Mohali and have planned to take a home loan then making a fair assumption or calculation of the monthly income would be the smartest choice for a well prepared buyer. This marks as the most vital step in purchasing a residential apartment.  Often interested buyers commit the mistake of purchasing such a place which makes them burden with a lifetime of heavy monthly EMIs, adding an extra dent in the pocket with the additional costs of insurance and taxes. One can easily avoid this by getting a clear idea of what you want with careful panning and calculation. Check if what you are seeking to invest in is even worth the price point or if that is what you are looking for. Avoid being in this situation by carefully planning a budget, fixing it and then sticking to it.

·      Overlooking documentation of all sorts viz paperwork, legal verification of land paper, approvals and so on

             Authenticity and documentation is also undeniably one of the most chief factor that comes to play while purchasing a property. If this is overlooked one might end up losing everything, both their hard earned money and the property itself. So needless to say, make sure to check if the documents of the property are even legal, authentic and up to date. If you are opting for home loan the bank itself upon approval from the bank, the bank checks all the parameters, documents, certificates. It is even better if the approval is from a nation Nationalized Bank. You might as well consider handing it over to your legal consultant for a thorough verification check just to be sure and to be in the safe side.

·      Lack of research about the realty developer and the background of the builder i.e. Builder’s Reputation

              In this modern era of tech and advancement, even though you can do a quick “Google Search” about the company, inside out finding about its whereabouts, it is always advisable to do an in person field check.  As we have all heard seeing is believing, see for yourself by visiting the area of the development to get an idea if you are really paying for what you truly desire. Talk to the residents who have purchased the older projects, asking about the whereabouts of the projects is always a good idea. It would not hurt doing some field research, after all it is the matter of your dream home, make no mistakes. It is always natural and safe to purchase to purchase from a reputed, skillful builder with experience and a good track record of the previous projects. You must also preferably buy properties from RERA Certified companies. As per the RERA (Real Estate Regulatory Authority) Certification, a builder is expected to register the project under the board. This ensures customers protection against fraud throughout the period of development of the project. So, a company certified under RERA leads to formulation of a system wherein projects delays, costs, quality and other such related aspects are dealt with transparency.  Also be sure to check whether the developer is over leveraged or not. Builders who are financially strong and able ensure timely completion of the project within the given time frame. For other details about the company, you should directly contact the concerned office for more transparency and other details.

·      Ignoring and overlooking other norms of RERA

             RERA binds all the commercial and residential real estate projects with land over 500 square meters or projects with eight apartments to register with the Real Estate Regulatory Authority for even launching that project. The agent or the builder’s registration is mandatory as well which ensures that there be no unfair trade means, aiding you in identifying frauds.  As mentioned earlier there are many benefits of RERA Certified projects. Suppose if you are looking or are prospecting to invest in an upcoming project in Mohali and if the promoter fails to produce the possession on time then that company is liable to pay you the entire amount back if you wish to leave and cut the deal of agreement. If you wish to stay then the builder has to pay you interest for every month of delay till the possession is fully furbished and produced to you.  

·      Blindly relying on the Promoter/ Real estate agent/ Broker

While prospecting for a RERA Certified project does save you from some risks, for things to work completely for your advantage NEVER blindly trust the agent. Rather do your own research. It is likely and obvious that the agent is direly seeking cessation of the deal, being persuasive, confounding you with the glittering facilities and perks.  Most often the broker can themselves be an agent of the company who is developing the plot, looking for ways to close the deal.

So, while taking the suggestion/ advice of the real estate broker do not be completely dependent or be lured away by what they are selling.

·      Dearth of research and study about the market itself

The real estate market’s dynamics keeps on varying.  Before investing all of your hard earned money over the years onto a property that you have been eyeing for so long now, see if it is even the right time for making the investment or not. Research not only about the dynamics but also about the various aspects of the project from previous ownership, type to the background of the developer. A thorough research about these aspects of our dream home would surely turn out to be worth the effort.  

·      Overlooking associated hidden costs

Check if the given price lost by the builder marks the additional hidden costs which might be levied while handing over the apartment. It is probable that the builder will throw in some extra charges where you might be running on a fixed tight budget. The extra charges can be imposed on the given things:

» Plumbing Cost

» Wiring Cost

» Maintenance Fees

» Transformer

» Funds for Association

»Property Tax

»Club House Charges

»Water and Electricity utility supply charges

»Other legal charges

 A prospective buyer will always diligently study all the factors before making an investment. But the real estate market is prone to risks and people make mistakes. It is also certain that these mistakes will cost you a lot of money. However these mistakes can be avoided by keeping in mind the above explained aspects to avoid a bad investment and to embrace a luxurious life in your dream home.

If you are looking for real estate projects in Mohali integrated with dynamic lifestyle but are still confused then the projects from the VRS Group are the best for you. Every project crafted so far has been made keeping in mind the needs and aspirations of the customers ensuring utmost satisfaction, bringing dream homes into reality since its inception. VRS is a trusted RERA Certified company who has brought many dreams into reality giving their customers the dream home they wished for. VRS is also one of the leading real estate company in Chandigarh with years of expertise in the real estate market.

For more details about your dream home visit vrsventures.com.

[juleswriites]

starter for @justjaderp:

The last nearly five years had been a brutal time for Shane Nox, and the entire wizarding world at large.  What had once been only a promise of war had come to full fruition, egged on by ignorance and misunderstanding on both sides.  The fireworks had begun within the walls of Hogwarts itself after some of the elder students and the more foolhardy teachers had decided that the majority of the Slytherin students shouldn’t be allowed to go home because their families were pulling for the other side, if not outright aiding it.

Shane, for all her beliefs that the Purebloods were wrong in their desire to keep new blood from the magic pool, could not stand idly by and watch while several of her classmates were held against their will.  It took her combined house’s knowledge of the passageways in and out of the castle to hatch a plan, but eventually, with the help of Octavia Nott, they had launched an evacuation.  It was hard working alongside her former lover’s sister, as she was reminded of Roman’s absence and rejection each and every time Octavia’s eyes met her own.  Her heart cracked a little more with each instance that she had to resist the urge to ask about the other girl’s older brother, whether he’d asked after her, whether he missed her.

Unfortunately, the night that a few fellow students that Shane trusted from a variety of the houses volunteered to lead the Slytherins out of the prison of Hogwarts to Hogsmeade where they could be reunited with their families was the very night that the Pureblood families had lost their patience with their children and families being imprisoned within an institution that was supposed to be a safe space for all.  They stormed the castle as the Slytherins were led to safety, and by the time Shane made it back, the battle was in full gear.  No one was watching out for the younger students, making sure they stayed out of the battle where no one was particularly thinking about the age of their enemy, and Shane had reluctantly stepped onto the field with the sole purpose of leading the younger, headstrong students that had no place in battle to safety.

She had been hiding her swelling belly beneath oversized jumpers by that point, and was lucky that it was hardly noticeable among her normal wardrobe.  She knew that if she wasn’t careful and Octavia noticed, there would be an entire other problem that Shane didn’t even begin to know how to deal with.  She and Roman had always been so meticulous, but the last time they came together had been a frenzied, emotional goodbye, passion overtaking where logic usually resided and leaving them careless.  Which was why Shane had entered the Battle of Hogwarts six months pregnant with Roman Nott’s child.

She’d seen him across the battlefield, and had taken a moment to appreciate how her former lover seemed to go out of his way to stun the children rather than cause them direct harm.  Shane herself had been disarming Purebloods left and right, avoiding casting curses and only sometimes resorting to hexes that were aggravating but altogether harmless.  It didn’t matter that she saw flashes of green light flying past her; she wasn’t there to fight, she was there to save those who had no business being in the fight in the first place.

She’d been struck by a knockback jinx just in time to save her from a killing curse, but apparently, there had been some confusion on the field.  When she’s woken, in a panic about the health of her baby, the battle had long since been over, and after being briefed by James Potter and Charlie Weasley of all people, Shane learned that she was presumed dead, and they’d prefer her stay that way.  Her Sight would be invaluable in the battles to come and, more than that, the fact that they had a Seer on their side could be invaluable especially if the enemy remained ignorant of the fact.  So they’d given her a new name, and assigned James Potter to her side, her husband as far as the outside world was concerned.

It was Amity Potter, one of the most prolific leaders of the resistance that her captors thought they held, and they were only half wrong.  What they couldn’t possibly know was her real name, or that the boy she’d been captured protecting was the heir of one of their own.  Tobias was all of four years old, but he was as bright as they came, with a sharp wit and intelligence that was the perfect blend of his parents.  He knew himself as Toby Potter, because once she’d heard of the atrocities committed by his father, she hadn’t had the heart to tell him the name he truly belonged to.  No child should know that he had come from a monster, even if his mother had loved that monster with all of her heart.

She’d been held for weeks with little in the way of food or water, as they tried to tell her that they’d kill her son if she didn’t cooperate.  She knew that to be false.  As the presumed son of yet another resistance leader, Toby was entirely too valuable while James was still at large.  Now, she was being taken to higher command, with a hood over her face as she heard Toby whimpering nearby.  She tried to console him quietly, telling him to be strong like his father, though she herself was terrified at what would happen to him now that she’d been found.  Would someone figure it out?

As she was shoved unceremoniously onto a plush carpet, her knees smacking down painfully, she processed something a moment before the hood was yanked off to reveal her dirty, bruised face.  The rich, spicy scent of a familiar cologne that would forever be branded into her nostrils.  She would recognize that scent anywhere, and once the hood was removed and she blinked against the sudden light, Shane fought the urge to run to her son to shield him from prying eyes.

“Sir, I have something here that I thought might interest you.”  Roman Nott’s trusted friend had no idea how true those words would probably prove to be.  “She goes by Amity Potter now, but isn’t this the Seer we thought perished at Hogwarts?  We’ve got hers and James Potter’s whelp here.”

[swan2swan]

A Ramble on Religion

Over the years, I’ve come to see a different side of the “separation of church and state”. In my high school years, I was more or less taught from a number of influences that the separation of church and state was a great threat to religion. It was mostly being exploited as a way for our country to become “less religious” and that it was a “threat” to religion (which I’ve come to realize lately is laughable, because I highly doubt that God would be so sloppy in laying out the framework of his religious orders as to make it so that everyone would just stop believing, and honestly, when you realize that a lot of Christianity’s worst parts came out because people lost their faith and decided that they needed to protect Christianity because somehow God needed their protection, a lot of things make sense, but that’s another conversation), and thus I was always leery of that one.

But lately, I’ve come to see that the “separation of church and state” is actually a safeguard for the church itself. The more the lines between a religion and a government blur, the more beholden a religion becomes to the government. When your president spouts that “we need to protect God’s children”, a Christian cannot immediately say “this is the wrong thing to do”, because yes, we do need to protect God’s children...and even if this Christian realizes in another second that “protecting God’s children” means murdering another human being, it’s too late, and a moral dilemma has already begun. If a man (or woman) of faith sits upon a seat of worldly power and wishes to do what is just in the eyes of the Lord, they should not have to invoke God’s name in order to do so: what they do should be done simply because they know it is righteous. 

But any nonbeliever can stand before a crowd and scream “God Bless America!” Then the faithful, who truly wish for God to bless America as well, will cheer and shout their assent--even if what preceded these words was anathema to every view they had. Thus, they become deceived, and the deceiver who stands before them has twisted them to follow a will that is not God’s, but his own.

Much of this epiphany was aided by Hillary Clinton’s book, What Happened. In its pages, Hillary talks about how prayer helped to get her through the times after the election, and about the times she prayed during the election, and about all that she did in working with churches and her local pastors. She exhibits insight that demonstrates a clear faith and calm...and she has nothing to gain for this. If her faith and statements of “God Bless America” were simply political posturing, such introspection would be nonexistent or unconvincing. There would be no need for pretense anymoe, since she no longer intends to run for office.

But I remember how Donald Trump never said “God Bless America” on the night of his victory. He never thanked God, or gave any deference to a higher power. It was all him, and to some extent, his voters. On that night, more than any other time, I saw through him. And I know that if he had ghostwritten a book called What Happened (he wouldn’t), he would have made no mention of his prayer or humility. If he did, it would have been just as false and transparent as everything else he does.

And yet he is the one who claims to protect religion. He is the one who claims to be doing all that he does in the name of God, that we are one nation united under one God, and that he is the one who can protect our faithful and their institutions. Perhaps he believes it, in his own Ozymandian way...but it’s not true. Christianity will survive with or without him. God does not need bathroom bills or federal funding to churches in order to protect His children. I’ve had my faith secured far more by the sight of Steven Colbert proudly announcing that he is donating one million dollars to Puerto Rico after a two-week long fundaiser than anything Sarah Sanders has said from her podium. And it’s not because I trust in money or human nature, but because Colbert makes no attempt to hide his Catholic faith. Most importantly, his Catholic faith shone through most when he was sitting in shock and horror last November, struggling to find the words to describe a situation he had never conceived possible...and he spoke quietly about how he still believed in everyone, and about how he would do his best to help in the future. “The Devil cannot abide mockery”, he said. And in that moment, as I watched a man close to breaking call upon his faith, I knew I could trust him. He wasn’t using Catholicism as a way of showcasing his quality and his righteousness, but as a source of strength and hope...how it’s supposed to be done. And when he threw his hands in the air and proclaimed that he was going to donate a million dollars to hurricane victims, he never invoked God or praised Jesus or tied it into his faith or religion...he simply did it.

That is a man who has been given many talents by his Lord, and he is using them to help others. He does not bury them, he does not hide them for himself, but he shares them, plants them, talks about them, confesses his faith and then moves on to shine light in the world simply because he knows it is the right thing to do. He could stand up there and try to use his faith as a mouthpiece to those in the Conservative party, stretching out and saying, “Hey, I’m a Christian, and I think this, so you should, too!”...but he doesn’t, because that’s a cheap tool that politicians use to manipulate people.

Governments have, and will, always use religion to achieve their own ends. It’s their easiest tool, because it allows them to reach straight to a person’s soul. By asking citizens to use faith in their reasoning, they bypass facts and logic (because that’s how faith works), and can easily sway them to their side. “Having guns is our God-given right!” people cry, because a politician doesn’t say otherwise. “The people of this country have turned their back on God!” a speaker cries from the podium, and because the faithful know that they have not turned their backs on God and the speaker is not addressing them with that statement, they know that it’s everyone else who has turned their back.

It breaks my heart.

Because they’re my people, my family, my friends, people I aspire to be--confident enough to thank God every day for their blessings, never too shy or timid to say “I believe in Jesus”, and always eager to go to church...and yet I see so much wrong with their practice. I see hatred, and bigotry, and intolerance, and an unwillingness to forgive, and it festers and manifests into political ideology. Swastikas and angled crosses filled with stars, hurtful words and pitiless faces, haughty smiles and backhanded mockery...all performed by the faithful, because men and women who claim to be of the same faith have deceived them. Men like Trump, Huckabee, and Bannon don’t want to be faithful servants of the Lord...they want power, and wealth, and everything this world has to offer. They want fire, they want authority, they want gold, they want the masses who writhe beneath them to turn upon each other while they feast at the top. And all they have to do to achieve this is to step in front of a microphone once a day, clear their throat and say three words. Three words devoid of meaning, hollow, words that creep inside the ears of the vain and stoke their pride while twisting into the faces of the doubter and the nonbeliever and sowing hatred. 

Because they have married the church and the state, and as long as the state lets the church believe that it is in control, the state can lead the church down any path it choose. Nuclear strikes against millions of innocent people, distrust of refugees fleeing a war-torn nation, protections for men who rape and murder, disdain for islands impoverished by greed, fear of people whose bodies are different, outrage against people who only want to feel safe...what the state says, the church will believe. 

Especially if those words are “the greatest threat to the church is those who call for the separation of church and state”.

[bellatrixobsessed1]

The Art Of Remembrance (Part 5)

A bitter wind whips at her face bringing with it a bitingly cold sting. Azula has come to find that the only thing worse than the poles is the poles at sea. She curls her fingers around the rails and looks out at the rolling waves. Their captain carefully navigates the water, weaving between large blocks of ice. On the odd occasion they come to a block that they can’t avoid, and so the few firebenders on board melt it away. 

Having nothing better to do as well as no desire to float in the icy ocean, she takes to helping them clear some of the ice. 

She folds her arms over her chest, wondering just what the hell is taking Sokka so long. She lets a few more minutes pass before wandering below deck to seek the man out. As far as she is concerned, she has waited more than long enough to learn a thing or two about her past, especially with the way people look at her. 

It isn’t lost on her that they seem to slink back as she passes. That they exchange glances and hushed words and take special care to avoid meeting her gaze. 

Finally she succumbs to boredom enough to try to make conversation. She doesn’t quite know where to begin so she simply finds a spot next to girl and mutters, “it’s aggravatingly cold on deck.”

The girl seems to go tense and gives a nervous laugh, “yeah, cold.”

“I suppose that you’re used to it?” Azula asks.

“Just because I’m from the tribes doesn’t mean that I like the cold…” She pauses. “That’s like assuming all firebenders can’t swim.”

“We can’t.” Azula confirms. But the girl doesn’t laugh. Perhaps her delivery had been too deadpan. She is certain that she hasn't said anything particularly unsettling, but the girl seems absurdly uneasy. And so she retreats, finding herself rather isolated and without knowing why. 

Yes. It is definitely time to pry answers from Sokka. 

.oOo.

The waters roll and rock the boat, but they aren’t the reason for his nervous jitters. He sits in the corner of his quarters and waits for Katara to arrive. She will either be compassionate and sympathetic or completely off-put and angry. There is seldom an in between during the initial discussion.

“Hi, Sokka.” She greets with a cheerful smile. She holds out a steaming cup of tea. 

Sokka accepts it but isn’t quite ready for a drink. 

“What did you want to talk to me about.” 

“ I wanted to talk to you about the woman I saved…”

Katara nods, “what’s her name, anyways?” And then she seems to recall something. “Oh, that’s right, she doesn’t remember it. What have you been calling her?” 

Sokka takes a deep breath. “I lied, Katara. She does remember her name. But…” he pauses. “That’s the only thing she remembers.”

Katara crinkles her brows, “why would you lie about something so stupid?”

He supposes that it is better to rip the band-aid. “It isn’t stupid, trust me.” And yet he still finds himself stalling, even if it is only for a single sentence. Katara tilts her head and he knows that, he hasn’t even bought himself that much. “It’s Azula. She’s Azula.”

Katara opens her mouth in a silent sputter. 

“I didn’t know that when I saved her and even if I did, we couldn’t have just let her die.” 

Katara sighs. “Of course we couldn’t have let her die. But we don’t need to keep her around either. We need to get her back to the institution.” 

Sokka reflexively cringes, before logic settles; she was only speaking of sending the princess back to the Fire Nation hospital. His nerves don’t subside, if anything his paranoia hightents. “What if that institution is linked to the one she escaped in the poles?” In which case, he notes, she would have had to have been taken back to the Fire Nation one somehow and then transferred to the location in the poles. Katara leaves him no time to reflect on that theory.

“What if it is?” She may as well have added a ‘so’ at the sentence’s front with that tone. 

“She ran away from it…” 

“Why are you assuming that they mistreated her and that she didn’t escape to go after Zuko again?” 

“She can’t remember a thing.” Sokka replies.

“We last saw her in the Forgetful Valley, Sokka. You don’t think that she might have done this to herself?” Katara asks. “She wasn’t exactly stable when we saw her last.”

“I don’t know. Something isn’t right. I don’t know what it is but I think that it’s more than than. She wasn’t all there,” he gestures at his head, “but she’s not dumb enough to go around pissing off spirits.” 

Katara quirks a brow. 

“Look, I just think that there’s more to it. She was in the Fire Nation and then I find her, almost dead, in a snowstorm.” 

“Here’s what I think happened.” Katara pauses. “I think that she wandered back into that jungle, angered a few spirits, wandered out of the jungle, and was found and re-committed.”

“Then how’d she end up in the poles, Katara?”

“She’s dangerous. TyLee couldn’t be there all the time to block her chi so they sent her to a facility that could...contain her. Like the coolers in the boiling rock.”

“We can’t just send her back there. Not until we know what happened.”

“Nothing happened, Sokka. Nothing that she didn’t do to herself.” Katara insists. 

“She has nightmares.” He counters. “I think that she’s afraid.” 

This gives Katara pause. A halt that he takes advantage of. “How can we punish her for things that she doesn’t remember doing?”

“She’s still dangerous.”

“I don’t think that she is.” Sokka says. “How can she remember that she wants to hurt us or overthrow Zuko if she doesn’t even remember us at all? Her fire is orange now, I think that she can only bend by instinct.” 

Katara hesitates again. “Her being able to bend without remembering any forms...that’s scary. That’s a sign that she is dangerous. We’re going to bring her home and then she’s going back to the institution.” 

“We’re at least going to talk to Zuko--you know, her brother--about this, right?”

“She tried to kill him and then me while I tried to save him; he’s going to say the same thing.” Katara replied. “But, yeah, of course we’re going to talk to him.” 

The unease in his stomach only intensifies. He truly hopes that he’ll have better luck convincing Zuko. The butterflies double twice over at the realization that he might have just made Katara angry. “I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you sooner.” He calls to the empty doorway. He flops down onto the bed with a resigned groan. He wonders just why he cares so much, it isn’t as though she had treated him any better in the past. 

“There you are.” Azula remarks. 

Sokka bolts upright. “Spirits! Don’t do that.”

Azula gives a little laugh. “Priceless.” 

“That’s not funny.” He grumbles. 

“Well you’re pleasant company.” She frowns. 

“Says the one who can’t appreciate the southern water lights!” 

Azula shrugs and makes herself comfortable at the foot of his bed. “You said that you would tell me about my past.” She pauses. “Do it.”

“You were always this commanding.” Sokka shrugs. 

“So you have a sense of humor afterall.” 

“I am the funniest guy on team Avatar!” He declares. 

“Team avatar?”

Sokka sighs, “I’ll tell you about that later.” He tries to pick his brain for a pleasant memory. Anything that doesn’t paint her as someone evil. He rubs his head, having trouble doing so. Maybe he ought to just cave in and tell her that she’d been stark raving mad the last time that’d met. But is that really any better than telling her that she was out to conquer or destroy the world in the name of her father?  

He observes her drumming her fingers upon the mattress. 

He recalls her chasing them down, tracking them and keeping them up all night. He remembers how she’d taunted him about Suki, the way she used her as bait. He remembers Katara recounting how she didn’t think that she’d make it out of that final battle alive. 

And he begins to resent the woman sitting on his bed, twirling her bangs around her finger. Maybe he should just throw her back into the institution and let her solve things herself.

“I’m a bad person, aren’t I?”

Sokka flinches. “Why would you think that.”

She gestures around the ship, presumably to people that aren’t present. “Why wouldn’t I?” The question hangs for a moment. “No one will talk to me. You don’t want to tell me anything about me…” 

Briefly his mind wanders to how the crew would recognize her when Katara did not. Perhaps she was simply trying not to see the truth. Having let the silence drag for too long already he starts, “Azula…” 

Her deadpan expression unsettles him as she cuts in, “I’d rather know that I’m dreadful than know nothing at all.” 

.oOo.

Sokka’s expression softens. Whatever resentment that had built up inside of him--no doubt the same breed that is harbored by everyone else on the ship--seems to ebb away. His face softens. “You’re not a bad person.” 

“Don’t lie to me!” She snaps. He winces. 

“You don’t have to be a bad person…” 

“Don’t patronize me either.” She warns, her voice taking on a sinister sort of low. 

He lifts his hands, “I’m not trying to.” 

His expression, the fear and retreat. She is only confirming what she now knows to be true. “Alright. Fine. I’m sure that there are plenty of people around who will have no problem telling me exactly who I am.” It is probably better this way, she’d find more truth from someone who would disregard her feelings completely. 

He catches her hands, “your mom was banished and your brother wanted to find her.” Sokka starts. “We went on this whole journey and there was this thing that happened.” 

Azula rolls her eyes. “A thing?”

“We were attacked by some kind of spirit wolf that threw up spirit moth-wasps. It was about to ruin everything and then you made this big ball of lightning and all of the moth-wasps flew into it. The wolf and the rest of the swarm retreated.” He says. “You saved us.” 

Sokka’s grip on her wrist loosens and she finds herself sitting back down. 

“You told me that I smelled like a wet possum-pidgeon.” 

She succeeds in not laughing but can’t suppress a faintly humored smile. She supposes that, that does sound like her. “Why?”

“Because we were trying to sneak around and we needed disguises. I made a beard out of fur. I had too, it’s a classic! But you didn’t like it.” He declares. “On that same quest, we were attacked by...nature.”

“By nature?” 

“Long story. The point is, I was about to get strangled...or something...by a bunch of vines. You saved me from that too…and then you said that you only did it so that you’d have more peasants around to keep you safe.”

“If I help people, then why do they look at me the way they do.” 

Sokka bites his cheek. “You...uh...you went a little…” he holds his finger up to his head and twirls his finger. 

She stares at her palms, “oh.” 

“Yeeeah…” 

He isn’t making her feel any less awkward. 

But she had asked for...demanded answers. “That’s how I ended up in that institution, isn’t it?” At least she can piece together some of the how’s.

“That’s the thing that doesn’t make any sense.” Sokka replies, practically throwing his hands up. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while...you escaped…” he reconsiders his words. “You made a deal with your brother and he let you leave and then you ran away. You were still in the Fire Nation when that happened.”

“Exactly where did I run to?”

“Right into the Forgetful Valley.” 

Azula’s belly tickles unpleasantly. She rubs her hands over her face, “so I did this to myself?” She feels a disorientation to match that which she felt in the tundra. Had she taken her own memories? Had they, those people, taken her for her own protection? Perhaps she has simply filled the holes in her mind with visions as ominous as they are untrue.

“I. I don’t think so.” Sokka puts a sudden halt on her self-doubt. 

Azula cocks her head. “Why?” 

“Mostly because of your nightmares. But I guess it’s also because why would you run away if they didn’t hurt you?” 

Azula shrugs, “because I’m crazy.” 

She ought to start keeping a tally on how much she makes him flinch.

“You said that they did something to you.”

“I thought that they did…” now she is beginning to doubt. “Maybe I did something to me, Sokka.” What if they were just trying to save her from herself? She rubs her hands over her face again and lets them rest there. It could be that they were trying to save her from herself. That she is a cocktail of mental affliction; simply a mess of amnesia accompanied by paranoid delusions. 

A hand presses itself, comfortingly, between her shoulder blades. “You didn’t do this to yourself.” 

“I did.” She persists. “You said it yourself, I lost my mind. And then I lost it again...”