#something about duck beaks are so hard to draw

[sketchysketchiness]

He’s always got something to be angry about

[zelda-cooper]

My version of Loonatics Unleashed (Part 3)

This is just my interpretation of this universe of "Loonatics Unleashed", don't take it as a summary of the series or as absolute truth to interpret your version. NO! It's just MY view and you have every right to disagree. Furthermore, there will be low-level words (even though I censor some) and there may be sensitive topics for certain people. Besides, this refers to the universe of Loonatics Unleashed, so for those who don't care, you can skip this blog, but for those who are a fan or if this interests you, you can continue reading. Part one of this blog is at the link below if you want to see it.

Part 1

Part 2

Hi I came back! And this time with bombastic news (And I hope no one has forgotten me at this point-). This time it's going to be a simpler blog because today, I'm finally going to show the Redesigns of the protagonists of my version of Loonatics Unleashed! For those who want, the links to see my journey through this madness are there at the beginning, I don't want to go into detail here because I'm really, like... VERY excited to show them soon! So, let's go!

Credits again to @drakepad-luv-200, who was the person who inspired me to make this crazy saga!

Protagonists' Visuals (Reinvented/Redesigned)

Let's go, I wanted to start by saying that this was one of the parts where procrastination came STRONG... Because, first... I had to consider their new personality, think about the pose that would represent this, the clothes that would have a heroic look and, at the same time, is minimally simple to draw... And that's not easy...TuT

So I had to get a lot... But A LOT OF REFERENCES!!! And in this I have to talk about two artists who inspired me and who I NEED to give credit to thank them for how incredible they are! The first is @onyxonline, who is currently making a Smilling Crittens AU called Space Riders AU (I highly recommend reading it). She also has her Loonatics AU and her visuals are AMAZING! I really like her style, something very Anime and such. She helped me a lot with some clothes.

The second is @theangrycomet-art, he, in this case, helped me a lot with the proportions and also with the bodies of some characters. His art is very clean and he made sketches of how they would look. I also highly recommend checking out his blogs!

But now... Time to talk about MY Redesigns! Let's start with the Bunny brothers: Ace and Lexi!

For Ace's design, I wanted to give him a pose of a somewhat inexperienced leader, "mainly protagonist" and who is good at fighting (even on the street), I put looser clothes and bands on his arms to symbolize him as a fighter.

As for Lexi, I gave her a cuter look that could show a heroine power. I gave them very long clothes and some extra accessories. This was one of the easiest.

Danger Duck

Danger Duck was also reasonably easy (the pose was difficult, but ok-), I took a lot of inspiration from Darkwing Duck (because the personalities even match and are really similar), a very arrogant pose, a calm one to symbolize that he is the "most incredible hero of all time". The beak wasn't difficult, because... I draw a lot of ducks...-3-)

Tech E. Coyote and Rev Runner

MY GOD!!! TECH'S MUZZLE AND REV'S HAIR WAS HARD!!!! But it was worth it, I think... The Rev wasn't too difficult, I picked up some references from marathon runners and a scarf and glasses to add some charm. Tech I mixed a bit of scientists, but also a more "Mad Max" look with the torn shorts and scarf around his neck, I also took the opportunity to show him wearing the glove and projecting a holographic screen.

And finally, Slam Tasmanian.

This one was difficult, but it was one of the most fun. I got the fighter vibe and also made sure he had a muscular physique, I made his fur simulate a beard to make him look older and I gave him some stylized gloves to give him something similar to boxing gloves.

Final Considerations

Well... That's it, folks! It was actually shorter because I wanted to talk about the redesigns (and because my life is pretty busy these days-). I'll still work on Zadavia and us villains, I'll also show two of my OCs that will be relevant to the plot, but that's for another day. I hope you enjoyed it and I’ll see you in the next blog! BYE!!!!

[ducktracy]

How would you rank the entries in the Hunting Trilogy (aka Rabbit Season, Duck Season) from favorite to least favorite?

ALRIGHT, i just rewatched the entire trilogy to properly answer this! so, prepare for rambling HAHA. but as it stands now, i would personally rank them:

Rabbit Seasoning

Rabbit Fire

Duck, Rabbit, Duck!

BUT. if i were ranking on which i think are the BEST in a more objective standpoint? then:

Rabbit Seasoning

Duck, Rabbit, Duck!

Rabbit Fire

i've expressed this grievance before, but i, like probably most other people, grew up when the landscape surrounding LT was Chuck Jones Chuck Jones Chuck Jones. the hunting trilogy is the main association of the series to many. for good reason! all of the shorts are fantastic. it's amazing that Chuck was able to keep such a streak going as long as he did with the trilogy--especially since all 3 shorts are so reliant on being extensions of each other and utilizing the same formula. that novelty can get old REALLY fast (exhibit A, at least in my personal opinion: the Pepe cartoons), so it's sort of amazing that all three are as sharp and have defining characteristics against one another

however, i've definitely become victim to the Jones saturation of the 90s-00s, and the hunting trilogy has been one of the biggest offenders. i don't go out of my way to watch the trilogy often for this reason, and i haven't entirely been able to shake myself OF that oversaturation like i have with other Jones shorts of the era. which stinks! i'm very frustrated by this

NEVERTHELESS! Rabbit Seasoning is tops for me and is probably my favorite Bugs and Daffy period, next to Beanstalk Bunny. i think it has the greatest balance of what makes the hunting trilogy so successful and memorable. snappy wordplay that happily indulges in Mike Maltese's writing credit--"STILL LURKING ABOUT" i think pops into my head the most. really nice balance of funny and REVEALING facial expressions, Daffy getting his beak blown off unfortunately gets old for me very quickly but i feel this short is more reliant on finding other avenues that reach a similar goal in comedy. the lipsmack Daffy does to the camera after seeing Elmer fall for Bugs made me laugh really really hard the first time i gave this one a chance again in recent years

likewise, Bugs' introduction in that one is something i really appreciate. i'm not sure how purposeful this was (but i certainly feel it had to be), but Bugs humoring Elmer at the very beginning is a direct mirror to his introduction and subsequent banter in A Wild Hare. Carl Stalling even uses the same music cue, which is an original music cue!! i feel that's not only an endearing callback to the roots of both characters, but likewise establishes just how much progress has been made since then AND seems to even be poking fun at the original scene itself.

i also think that the drawings are sharpest in it, they feel the most solid and confident and tight. Duck, Rabbit, Duck is visually solid for the most part, but i think can get a bit melty in some spots--and i know i may be in the minority for thinking this, but there are some frames in Rabbit Fire that are just plain ugly to me i'm sorryyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!

BUT, moving on a bit. i personally enjoy and get more out of Rabbit Fire, but i think Duck, Rabbit, Duck! is the funnier cartoon and more structurally sound. Fire has some understandable growing pains, including some odd jump cuts and a lack of hook-ups, whereas DRD has the benefit of getting the formula down. with that said, i feel DRD is much more dependent on formula, and i tend to enjoy cartoons that are a little more freeform--all of the hunting trilogy shorts are heavily character based, but i really enjoy the prevalence of character acting in Fire.

copy and pasting something i literally just sent to someone else: i was just thinking about the disguise bit in Rabbit Fire, Mel doing the characters imitating each other is so crazy good, but i also like how with Daffy's impression of Bugs, you still feel some of those Daffy-isms present. he doesn't entirely commit to the bit as faithfully as Bugs in WHAT he actually says. and i think that's an amazing attention to detail in character acting; Daffy's impulses just can't help but bleed through everything he does

i feel DRD doesn't have that same sort of intimacy? if that makes sense? but, at the same time, it doesn't need to--Fire was the first formal Bugs and Daffy outing, so it makes sense for there to be a heavier presence on figuring out how they play against each other vs DRD being the final effort in the trilogy, all the fat has been cut, now it's just time for gags gags gags. DRD likewise has the benefit of really snappy, fetching dialogue ("I'M A FIDDLER CRAB")... but Fire appeals to my sensibilities more. i also like that it's the short that gives Bugs the most to do--he still has a little bit of his scrappiness, and that's always always always a point of favorability to me.

i still feel like i have so much more to say on this and yet i also can't think of much else to say! i feel i have more to justify but don't know what that is LOL. BUT YEAH, Rabbit Seasoning indisputably takes the cake for me. it's easily the short of the trilogy i revisit most and is actually one i feel an active desire to watch every now and then. i think it has the best balance of everything and is egalitarian in where it pulls its comedy from--it's not all from the faces, not all from the acting, not all from the situation, there's a really solid balance of all

and the "wait til you get home" bit is just one of my favorite endings to a Chuck Jones short period. flawless execution. i deeply love Carl Stalling's gently climactic crescendo in the music and the abstraction of the gunfire caricatured with color cards through the house's windows.

that, and this just cracks me up

[rubbersoles19]

Is this more of a technical scripting and writing thing in your story... Do you rely solely on the character arcs (if any, I don't know here and don't remember...) from the Darkwing Duck series or do you have other character arcs from other series you draw from? Examples like (picking up on what you reblog a lot these days) character arcs from Spider-Verse, TMNT, Sonic Prime and others?

And how do you manage to remember all the character arcs and stories off the top of your head?

I don't really remember there being many character arcs in Darkwing 😅 I've heard it said that Darkwing grew and matured as he dated Morgana, but I have yet to see it myself as I haven't seen many Morgana episodes.

Character arcs in my stories are usually a natural consequence of the narrative. I haven't planned any stories around how the characters involved will grow, but their growth certainly impacts the story. Some characters can only do certain things that I need them to do after they grow in a certain way.

For example, one thing I've set up in TMM so far is Drake's relationship with Darkwing. Mark Beaks pointed out that he both adores and resents the character, because of all the good and bad it's done for Drake and those around him, and he's right. Drake refuses to sell the property, refuses to do anything with it, and hates to meet fans, but he's built a Darkwing museum in his own workplace and dons the cape and cowl whenever something dangerous happens. And now, Drake is confronted with versions on his own characters turned real, someone who is determined to get his hands on Darkwing, and a city full of his own fans. He is being forced to confront this internal conflict and will have no choice but to come out of things in one direction or the other. And whatever direction he comes out will effect the story.

I hope that makes sense, it's hard to get too far into things without spoilers 😅

I don't usually pull character arc inspiration from other series. Each character's growth is - if done well - very personal to them, so it can be hard to transfer them into my own work. TMM deals with many complicated relationships (among the Mallard trio and outside of it), and the story beats force them together and to face these things and work through them. I'm very proud to say that almost every character in this story grows in some way (be it to their benefit or not), and I managed it by living in the world for a very, very long time (this whole story took me about 6 months to develop), and really trying to give each character some of my attention as they moved through - and moved - the plot. Keeping track of things can get challenging, especially since I took a 5 year break, but constantly thinking about and reading and tweaking my own world helps. I also take extensive notes while planning, drafting, writing, and rewriting. Even with that, I can't remember stuff off the top of my head, I still have to check my notes and my own writing to remember stuff 😅

[author-updates]

My very own Dhmis human designs of the trio! I started working on these when I tired to draw Duck and realized that I can’t draw his beak lol.  I really liked the idea of Red Guy’s string becoming dreads from other fan artists, so I wanted to keep that for mine. He also has a realllly long scarf, that’s fraying at the bottom, creating loose dangling string. He’s also wearing crocs, I know that’s not really British of him, I just thought it was incredibly on brand. I thought about giving him the beanie with the eyes like I seen other fan artists do, but I suddenly remembered those glasses with the printed on eyes on them and knew I had to do something similar. His glasses actually have googly eyes in them. It was honestly really hard coming up with a color palette for him, as I didn’t want it to be all red. 

Duck’s design came pretty easy to me..... well. Kinda. I struggles for a bit trying to make his design look unique while also looking like the puppet. His ascot was originally supposed to be green to represent the green fur the puppet has, but I realized that I had no other place to put his yellow from the beak, so decided to put it there. I was originally gonna put the small frame glasses I see other fan arts put on him (and the sketch had them), but I knew that if I did I would never remember to draw him with them.

  Yellow Guy’s was the easiest to design, he really has a full outfit on his own. So I spent more time on his pose.  All three characters are supposed to follow a certain shape, hence the shapes at the bottom. I don’t know if that reads really well, but I tired to make Duck’s face more sharp, along with making Yellow’s face more round.   This was also a chance for me to play around in different programs, as the first image was done in photoshop, and the second was in clip studio. 

[errantsquam]

Why Donald Duck is a Duck Centaur

Or rather, a thorough analysis on the anatomy of anthropomorphic ducks.

So I'm playing a certain Nintendo game ahead of time, and a duck character's anatomy caught my eye. It was interesting, and ripe for the ol’ art brain to overthink to the logical extreme.

Naturally, I don't want to get struck down by the Nintendo ninjas, so today we'll be talking about Donald Duck.

Behold.

Standard cartoon duck anatomy, right? Well, there’s more to it than it seems.

We’ll be breaking down his anatomy using the human anatomical structure, since he’s anthropomorphic, and going down from there.

And for reference, we’ll be using a diagram of a real duck skeleton.

I will also be adding on with my own diagrams, though the skeletons illustrated are in no way perfect. I also do not claim to be an expert on animal or human anatomy, and this is purely for fun and morbid curiosity.

Let’s start with the head.

The Head

Donald Duck’s eyes are front-facing, and from existing material, we can conclude that his neck connects to his skull from below, not from the back (as with real life ducks).

Therefore, it’s safe to say that Donald has a mostly-human skull structure, minus the beak. Since his eyes are so large, he likely doesn’t have much of a forehead at all.

The Body

We can conclude that his ‘chest’ area is similar to that of a human’s. His arms are very identical to human arms (besides the four fingers), and is stylized to look like wings. There should be a ribcage to give his chest that shape, as well as to connect to his arms.

In many animals, the clavicle/scapula helps articulate the forearms, and is located next to the ribcage, so we can conclude this is the same for Donald.

Now, moving on to the lower half of Donald’s body. It looks something like this.

It does kind of look like Donald has a thicc booty, but we can see something similar in the bodies of real life ducks.

They don’t have a human upper-body, so it’s less like a fat ass and more like…a duck.

So, how does this look like in the skeleton?

…uh oh. It’s another ribcage.

But wait! If Donald’s anthropomorphic, maybe it’s just a pelvis? Well, maybe, but that distinct shape is hard to replicate with *just* the pelvis of a duck.

The duck pelvis, if you will. ^

Maybe it could be fat. Maybe he does have a really fat ass. Maybe it helps cushion his weird duck spine when he sits, or keep him warm while swimming. Well, maybe. But it would be odd to have such a fat distribution without a skeleton to give it that shape.

For context, the blue whale has the most body fat out of all animals, and you can see how its skeleton guides its shape:

(Unfortunately I had to get this diagram from Shutterstock, which is not a very accurate anatomical resource, but just look at a blue whale skeleton and at an actual blue whale.)

But I digress. Since we’re taking this essay to the logical extreme already, it stands to reason that, if we’re comparing to real life ducks, Donald Duck does, in fact, have two ribcages.

Excuse how tight the drawing is. I’m not very good at ribcages. You can tell I’m the kind of artist who uses shorthands whenever they sketch a ribcage.

Anyway.

A centaur has a human upper body and a horse lower body. Donald Duck has a human upper body and a duck lower body. Therefore, he is a duck centaur.

However, we are not done with this analysis yet. We still need to talk about his legs.

The Legs

So, duck legs, right? Well, we already know they connect to the pelvis the same way as a duck. They’re kind of shoved to the back, because that’s where the pelvis is located. Still, they’re not quite actual duck legs.

From existing material, we see his knees bend the same way as a humans, and therefore, we can conclude that Donald is plantigrade. What does this mean? Well, his ankles stay planted to the ground, basically.

Here’s an example diagram, going in the order of: Plantigrade, Digitigrade, Unguligrade. Plantigrade is mostly primates, like humans. Digitigrade is most common amongst animals, like dogs or birds. Unguligrades are stuff like horses. (Unrelated, but did you know that this means that horse legs are just advanced fingers?)

Anyway, the advantages of being plantigrade is a better balance as a tradeoff for speed. (Source, because I am a cool person: https://www.nsf.gov/news/news_summ.jsp?cntn_id=190923)

This aids animals in fighting, as opposed to fleeing.

Which checks out, because Donald has canonically been shown to fight, especially since he’s not very good at healing:

The Conclusion

By analyzing Donald’s anatomy and comparing it both humans and ducks, we get this:

Thanks for coming to my Ted Talk.

Image Citations: Well, I was actually going to cite my image sources, but Tumblr only allows me maximum ten links per images, so I'm just going to leave what I put into Google Images.

"digitigrade vs. plantigrade"

"duck"

"duck skeleton"

"indian runner duck"

"donald duck"

"donald duck kingdom hearts"

"blue whale skeleton"

[ahatintimepieces]

It Comes Down in Buckets

Before Luka and Hattie ended up in Subcon, they faced many challenges on the road as they adjusted to Luka’s curse. This is a lil gift for Mak, @doodledrawsthings, and their “””Coffeeshop au””” where Luka pushes himself a bit too hard while trying to make the day special for Hattie. Please enjoy!

Word Count: 7,678

The rolling waves tumbled against the velvet sand and the morning sunlight skipped across the foaming crests, painting them gold. Hattie’s grip tightened around the old bucket she had found as she inhaled the salty, fishy air. Standing at the patches of grass that separated the edge of the forest from the beach, she gazed out at the shore. Her sketchbook waited in her backpack, begging her to pull it out and to memorialize the look of the sea and snapshot the ebb and flow of surging waves, but she had work to do.

She had to find the prettiest seashells before anyone else so she could sell them for some extra cash. Every little bit helped.

Weaving down to the beach, the warming sand caught between her toes and kicked up with each flop and flip of her flipflops. She swung the dented bucket with rust stains as she hurried to the lapping tide. She stepped into the water and immediately squealed before jumping back from the cold. The foam receded, as if teasing her, and an impish grin spread across her features.

As the water crawled back up the shore, Hattie fixed her old baseball cap and then leapt into the ankle-deep wave. Her initial screech dissolved into laughter. Splashing around, her flipflops tossed clouds of murky dust up and the sloshing, icy water splattered against her leg. She placed her hands on her hips and struck a pose as she gazed out at the sliver of light where the sky paralleled the ocean. With the cascading crackles of the snapping sea rumbling around her, it was hard not to let her mind wander into daydreams.

She could picture it perfectly. A calm day at the beach. No time limits for her dad, no worrying about money, and he could finally rest. He could finally be happy again. And she could play in the surf and chase crabs, pretend to be a pirate finding buried treasure, or draw and paint next to her dad as he napped. She could picture it so perfectly.

But she glanced down at the bucket as it bumped against her hip. Its creaking handle brought her back to reality.

Hattie let out a huff before shuffling out of the grasp of the waves, where it would be easier to spot shells. But before she did, a playful crest rolled back to reveal the tip of a fancy looking shell. Gasping, Hattie knelt and carefully tugged the shell free and revealed what she always thought of as a mini conch, though her dad would probably tell her that it was whelk of some kind since it had a rounder top and thinner end.

After checking the inside cavity for any snail or sea critter by poking a cautious finger around to confirm it was empty, she held the whelk to her ear.

She grinned when she heard the ocean. But she was also standing in it so the shell could still potentially be a dud. Nevertheless, she placed it into the bucket, and it slid around as she went searching for more.

As Hattie combed the beach, a couple people showed up to lounge on the sand or wade in the surf. It didn’t get crowded, since it was a workday, but when she wandered towards the opposite side of the long beach, where the sand was cut off by rounded boulders that jutted out into the sea, she ran into a tourist screaming at a seagull.

“What’s wrong?” Hattie called as she hoisted her bucket overflowing with shells to the side to make it easier to sprint forward.

“That darn seagull took my stuff!” The tourist gestured angrily towards a seagull perched on one of the rocks surrounded by water. It bobbed its head around as it stood proudly over a grey camera. Sunlight glinted against the lens.

“I’ll get it,” Hattie offered without hesitation. She placed the bucket down and scrambled up the boulders.

“Wait, kid, you don’t have to!” He waved his hands across his chest, trying to get her to stop, but it was too late. She didn’t listen as she assessed the slippery boulders and slowly navigated her way across.

She came to the edge of the final boulder and eyed the gap between it and the one in the waves. The seagull cocked its head towards her and let out a squawk. Pausing, Hattie glanced around, trying to figure out how to distract the seagull.

Before she could, the seagull snapped its beak towards something behind her and she glanced over her shoulder to find the tourist was waving a sandwich around. The seagull swooped over her, and she belatedly ducked as it soared over to the tourist. He yelped and turned on his heels before sprinting from the squawking bird.

Hattie tugged her cap down in determination before turning back towards the rock. She took a cautious step back before lunging from the boulder and vaulting onto the next. Grunting after she smacked against the rock, she scrambled up and grabbed the camera. She slung her backpack over her shoulder and nestled the camera between her sketchbook and Professor Popcorn. For good measure, she tucked her dad’s hoodie around it to keep it extra safe.

Once her backpack was zipped, she looped her arms through the straps and got ready to jump back.

The tourist had returned to his spot, hunched over and panting with his cap askew and white and grey feathers stuck to his vibrant orange shirt. She inhaled a steadying breath and leapt back towards shore.

She misjudged the distance.

Nearly sliding over the side of the rock, she scraped her knee against stone as she clambered and clawed. Panic squeezed her chest until she could finally find her grip.

“Careful, now!” the tourist called as she hoisted herself up with her heart pounding. She glanced towards the worried man and gave him a thumbs up before crawling forward.

Her stinging knee threatened to buckle when she first stood, but she gritted her teeth and pushed onward. She navigated back to the beach and dropped down onto the sand.

“Geez, kid, that was dangerous!” the tourist sighed as Hattie pulled out his camera.

“But I got it!” She beamed, holding it out proudly. Her smile faltered when she noticed the identical camera that hung around his neck. His chin tilted down as he followed her gaze.

“I was trying to tell you, I have a spare,” he said apologetically. “But, hey! Since you got it, why don’t you keep it? It’s great for preserving memories!”

Hattie pulled the camera back, appraising the contraption.

Preserving memories? No matter how much she sketched all the places she and her father had been, it might be nice to be able to just take a picture to quickly capture everything. She could take a picture of the sea, in fact. But she stared into the curved lens with growing dismay.

Flashes of headlights and blinding snaps. Posters with blurry images of her shadowy dad offering money for anyone who could capture the pictured creature, dead or alive. And, even when he shapeshifted, he was still so jumpy around cameras.

Maybe she could sell it at a pawn shop for a little extra cash? In the meantime, it might not hurt to keep it on hand…

“Oh, hold on,” the tourist exclaimed, startling her out of her thoughts. She tucked the camera back into her backpack and blinked up at him with wide blue eyes. “You got quite the scrape there, let me help.” He motioned her over to his set up on the beach, complete with a towel and umbrella.

After the tourist helped her clean up and shared back-up sandwiches he had prepared, she let him choose one of the shells to take as thanks and set off to sell the rest.

She set up a little area at the top of the beach, halfway between the rest of the city and the parking lot for beach goers. After doodling a cute sign declaring her wares were ready, she caught the eyes of passersby and wove imaginative tales about the shells for anyone who came near. Since this wasn’t the first time that she had sold items that she salvaged while her dad worked, she had developed a good enough sense to get a read on personalities and how to appeal to them. Parents with children were easily swayed by silly stories about the shells. She even managed to convince a businessman walking by to purchase one since her wares were far cheaper than the nearby souvenir shops that sold the same shells. And, after all, hers were higher quality and, really, didn’t he want to support an aspiring entrepreneur? (It probably helped her chances that she practiced that word a few times prior to make sure she was pronouncing it right).

She bolted when she spotted some cops patrolling the area, though.

By the end of the day, she successfully sold more than half of her shells. She tucked the coins and cash safely into an inside pocket in her backpack, where her secret stash would help her buy food for whenever her dad inevitably got stuck in noddle form and couldn’t work. She had tried giving her earnings to him directly before, but he had only gotten upset, insisting she didn’t need to worry about money and it was his job to take care of her, not the other way around. But they both knew that he often pushed himself past his limits, and he couldn’t do everything himself.

She was just beginning to collect firewood close to their camp when footsteps tracked through the grass. Hattie froze, turning towards the sound and holding her breath. Golden light flickered between the trees and an approaching shadow broke into the small clearing.

“Hey, kiddo!” Her dad, still in his human form, which surprised her, jumped forward with a wide grin and his hands behind his back. Wrinkles lined the corners of his eyes, but he was alert with enthusiasm as he straightened. A plastic bag crinkled noisily as it swayed behind him. “Guess what I got for our most important celebration tonight?”

“Celebration?” Hattie tilted her head, though his energy was infectious, and she cracked a smile.

“Don’t tell me you forgot what day it is,” he teased, bringing his hand forward and adjusting the delivery cap he wore for his morning job of delivering papers.

“Payday?” she guessed, crossing over to their firepit and dropping the dry twigs and branches she found.

“N-no, kiddo,” he faltered, quirking a brow as he revealed a plastic bag with local dollar store logo. “It’s your birthday!”

“Oh.” She blinked up at him.

“Did you really forget?” His features fell and the worn creases on his face highlighted the underlining fatigue. “We talked about it, right? When we were-when we were moving.”

“Y-yeah,” Hattie said. She did sort of remember now that he mentioned it, but she hadn’t thought too much about it since they had other things to worry about. “I just forgot what day of the week it is.”

He didn’t seem to believe her but he accepted the excuse.

“Well, I got hot dogs and marshmallows,” he added quickly, pulling out a bag of large marshmallows for emphasis. If he sensed how she tensed, he ignored it and gestured towards the direction of the beach. “I thought we could start a fire at one of the communal firepits and have a cookout!”

“What about our camp?” Hattie gestured to the little circle of rocks they had set up a few days ago when they first decided to settle in this city.

“It’ll still be here,” he promised. After tucking the marshmallows back into the bag, he walked over to her pile of wood and searched for the longest and cleanest sticks.

“But the beach is out in the open,” she pressed, nervously fiddling with the edge of her shirt. “Don’t you need to change back?”

“Of course not!” he insisted with a little more force than he probably intended. In a lighter tone, he waved his hand dismissively with a smile plastered across his face. “I can hold it together long enough for your birthday. Come on! Let’s have fun!”

He placed a few sticks he deemed worthy for hot dog and marshmallow roasting into the plastic bag and then motioned for her to follow.

“But—” she hesitated.

“You know, I used to do this when I was a kid,” he jumped enthusiastically into the memory, not giving her a chance to argue. She frowned but grabbed her backpack and the bucket that still had the leftover seashells.

Hey, if they were going to be on the beach, she might as well keep an eye out for more.

“Any time we went camping, we would grab a bunch of hot dogs and marshmallows. Of course,” he added a bit quietly as they walked through the woods, “usually we had buns and graham crackers and chocolate. But I did snag some ketchup packets from the restaurant!” He beamed proudly.

Hattie forced a smile, though guilt gnawed at the reminder that he had worked two jobs that day, trying to get enough money together so that they could find a motel to stay at sooner than later. She considered giving him the money she had saved, but she didn’t want to cause him more grief especially since she could tell he was masking his exhaustion. Maybe she could hide the money where he would find it with his things? She could pass it off as him misplacing the bills!

Though, both of them had become increasingly vigilant when dealing with money in the past couple years. He would have noticed if that much went missing in the first place.

“Here we are,” he gestured to the firepit closest to the forest the second they walked onto the sand. “Sit tight while I get the fire going.” There was wrapped firewood next to the pit, all ready for them and their cookout. His water bottle was also leaning against one of the logs, indicating that he had stopped by before running to get her. While he finished setting up, Hattie gazed out at the sea.

The water mirrored the stretch of twilight. Orange-pink rays of dwindling sunlight lingered on the horizon and the occasional star twinkled in the darkening sky. Crackles and pops that came from the growing fire behind her mingled with the surging waves before her. And when her dad joined her side and held out his hand, she smiled as she took it, keeping her gaze locked on the horizon.

“It’s like that one picture in the book at the library in the last town,” she whispered, craning her neck back to meet his warm golden gaze. “The one with the watercolor illustrations!”

“It is!” he agreed, giving her hand a tight squeeze.

“I want to paint something like this one day,” she admitted, turning back to the sea.

“I bet you can, and sooner than you think.” His smile permeated his voice. He gently tugged her hand and nodded towards the firepit. Despite the lines under his eyes, he did seem happy, and that was good enough for Hattie.

“Okay!” She joined him on a log, and eagerly waited for him to pass her a stick he doused with water to keep it from burning.

Her dad filled her in on his day as they roasted the hot dogs. He got her laughing with a few jokes his coworkers shared, and she nodded knowingly when he told her about some of the customers he had worked with. When he asked about her day as he broke open the bag of marshmallows, she explained that she was looking for seashells and presented the bucket with her findings.

“Quick, if you have twenty seashells and I take five, how many do you have left?” he quizzed.

“F-fifteen!” Hattie blinked, hesitating only a moment as she registered the question.

“Good girl,” he praised, passing over a marshmallow.

“If you bought one bag of marshmallows for tonight, how many marshmallows will you have tomorrow morning?” She blinked up at him, trying and failing to conceal her growing smirk.

“Hmm.” He speared his own marshmallow as he gave her a wry grin. “That’s a tough one, why don’t you give me a hint?”

“Zero!” She pulled her burning marshmallow out of the fire and quickly blew on it.

The flames dissipated into a plume of smoke, leaving a burnt crust behind on the marshmallow. Without waiting, she popped it into her mouth and the gooey burst of molten sugar melted on her tongue.

“Becath I’ll eat ‘em all!” she declared through her sticky mouthful.

“Just don’t choke!” He chuckled before putting his arm around her and giving her a side squeeze. She immediately snuggled into his side, comforted by his warmth.

As they worked through the marshmallows and the night cloaked the beach, Hattie pulled out the hoodie and tugged it over herself. The hoodie was far too big since it was her dad’s but despite the floppy sleeves and how it was more like a dress on her, it was cozy and kept the night chill away. She became even cozier when her dad plucked her up and enveloped her in a hug.

“Happy birthday, princess,” he whispered as he nuzzled his cheek against hers.

“Hap—erm,” her cheeks flushed since she had almost wished him a happy birthday back. “Thank you.”

He chuckled and gave her a tight squeeze.

“Okay, I have one more surprise,” he said, arching back and stretching his arm maybe a bit farther than a human arm should, and rummaged around the plastic bag.

She leaned over, trying to peek and his other hand moved over her eyes.

“Don’t look!” He shifted around a bit before Hattie felt something lower into her lap. “Alright, now you can.” He pulled his hand away and she immediately glanced down.

Watercolors. A plastic palette of watercolors rested in her lap with a tiny brush snuggly tucked into a divot on the side. A single golden ribbon was taped on for the birthday wrapping. Her chest tightened as she imagined all the things she could paint, all the things she wanted to bring to life with water-soaked pigments.

But how much did he spend on her?

“Well?” he prompted with an edge of nervousness. “Is it okay?”

“I love it.” In one swift movement, she hugged the palette before swiveling around and burying her face into his chest. A lump threatened to lodge in her throat, but she swallowed it as she hugged her dad.

“Oh, Hattie.” He leaned over her and held her tightly. “I’m glad. I know it’s not much.”

“It’s perfect,” she promised, grasping his shirt.

He did so much for her, sacrificed so much just to take care of her, and now this? She wished she could do more to help.

After a few moments of lingering in his embrace, she pulled back while rubbing at her eyes.

“Everything oh-ahem.” Her dad suddenly pulled his hand away from his task of brushing her hair back. She wrinkled her nose as she blinked up at him.

He held his hand behind his back and his nervous, forced smile revealed his growing fangs.

“Dad,” she shuffled out of his lap, “you need to change back.”

She glanced around the beach quickly, relieved that there was no one nearby to see him.

“No!” He winced when an edge of a reverb tainted his voice. He cleared his throat and waved his other hand dismissively. It had completely turned ebony-violet. “I’m fine! I can hold it for a little long—” he stalled as he glimpsed his other hand and snapped it behind his back too, “—longer.”

Hattie frowned with her brows drooping. His irises radiated golden light as his pupils faded.

“Please. I know I can—” he faltered, pulling his hands back and holding them out before himself. His fingers trembled as they dripped, trying to reconnect. He bit his lip and grimaced when his lengthening fangs jabbed him. The familiar, purple-singed shadows spread from the expanding tips of his chestnut hair.

“It’s okay,” she insisted, turning around and rolling up the sleeves of the hoodie to start cleaning up so that they could head back to camp. She knew he was probably more exhausted than he let on.

“But it’s your birthday,” he whispered in such a broken voice that she felt a world of guilt press against her shoulders.

“And I can still spend it with you as a noodle!” She kept her tone light, giving him a smile strained from her concern.

The gold had encased his eyes and his teeth became backlit by a surging light in his throat. He considered her with tight dismay before scowling.

“No!” He pushed to his feet. “No, I can do this!”

“But, Dad,” Hattie called anxiously, unable to do anything but watch as he paced by the bonfire.

He held his hands out in front of himself, clenching them as he stared daggers into his purple palms. During his pacing, his legs began to quiver, and he paused, hunching as his hair began to drip. His fingers merged into mittens, taking on a gloopy appearance and Hattie thought that that was it, that he would just start getting bigger. She opened her mouth to try and get him to focus on saving his clothes, but the words died in her throat.

“Stop changing,” he wheezed in a wavering voice. He doubled over, clutching his stomach as he strained to keep a human shape. He squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth, snuffing out his golden light. The flickering fire cast twisting shadows against his trembling form. His arms lost all pretense of having bones and flopped down like limp noodles. His legs buckled and he thrust out his hand to catch himself.

“Something’s wrong!” Hattie hurried to his side, reaching out as his mitten hand clenching the sand lost its shape entirely and expanded into a puddle.

“N-no,” his reverberating voice gurgled behind globs of dripping purple that stretched across his mouth when he parted his lips. “I can do this!” But just as he said that, he grunted and lurched forward. Viscous liquid oozed from his shoes as his legs melted.

But they didn’t form a tail.

They just pooled out uselessly behind him.

“Dad!” Hattie placed a hand on his arm, but it collapsed under her touch. He let out a strangled cry as his whole arm gave away and he slammed against the beach.

He continued to melt despite his groaning and straining. The trembling shadows spilled from his clothes and into the sand. Panic seized Hattie’s chest as she feared she was going to lose him to the beach. Glancing around frantically, her gaze fell onto the bucket, and she lunged for it.

“Hold on!” Hattie called as she dumped the shells out and slid over to her father, who had gone eerily silent as the pooling liquid oozed and spread.

She dropped the bucket into the sand and quickly tried to shove waves of the viscous liquid inside, catching particles of sand with it. Once half of him filled the rusted bucket and kept spilling out, she righted it before scooping up purple globs. She tossed handful after handful of the soupy remains of her father into the bucket. The trembling sludge sputtered and splashed. Tears stung the corners of her eyes when she saw some liquid darkening and fading into intangible shadows that disappeared into the sand, gone for good.

“Stay with me,” she whispered in a cracking voice as she scooped up every last bit that she could.

After wringing purple from his shirt, pants, and the edges of her sleeves which had tumbled into the puddle a few times, Hattie searched for any of her father’s features in the goop squelching against the edges of the bucket.  

“Dad?” She lightly prodded the thick surface of the liquid and it shivered. A muffled groan bubbled up, though no golden light from his eyes or mouth followed. Hattie sighed, sitting back in the sand as she convinced herself that the fact that he had groaned meant he was still there. But now just as soup. In a bucket.

They’ve been through worse, right? This, too, should pass?

“Okay, you just sleep while I clean up,” she muttered as she pushed to her feet.

She collected their things and put out the fire, all the while glancing at the bucket as the goop settled. Once she had the plastic bag slung over her shoulder and her birthday gift tucked into her backpack, she slowly picked up the bucket.

“Oof,” she huffed as she heaved the bucket up, wincing when droplets splashed over the side. “Why is magic goop so heavy? That’s stupid,” she grumbled as she slowly made her way across the dark beach and back to their camping area. As she paused multiple times to give her arms a break and catch her breath, she swallowed the rising lump in her throat and pushed onward.

*

Luka groaned and on top of the usual reverb that came with his noodle body it sounded oddly like the gurgle of a garbage disposal choking on water. He blinked tired eyes and the golden glow rebounded against the daffodil-yellow inside of Hattie’s baseball cap.

Oh. Had he shrunk down and dozed while Hattie was shopping? That didn’t seem right. Actually, what had he been doing before this?

A surge of panic bubbled up as he recalled trying to hold onto his humanity at the beach. He remembered the tighter he held the form, the more it slipped through his clenched fingers. He heard a slosh of thick liquid when he tried to lift his hand.

He couldn’t lift his hand.

He couldn’t lift his hand.

He couldn’t even turn his head! His eyes darted around frantically, catching the rim of some sort of curving, metal wall in the corners of his vision but he could only really look straight up at Hattie’s cap.

“K-ki—” he sputtered as some sort of gunk trickled into his mouth. Expelling wet coughs only caused more of the viscous goop to slip in. His anxious attempts to move coupled with his hyperventilating only increased the panicked sloshing that sounded like puddles disrupted by pricks of rain.

“Dad?” Hattie’s sleepy voice responded.

“H-help I’m—” he gagged on a particularly large glob.

“Hold on!”

He tried to spit out the gunk and a heavy droplet plunked against him. He shivered from the sensation but for the life of him he couldn’t figure out what was going on. Relief swelled when the cap was removed and Hattie looked down at him, with sunlight filtering through the trees. Squinting at the sudden light, he tried to squirm around.

While not happy, she at least looked safe and sound. She wore his delivery cap, and he could see the dangling strings of his hoodie. If the sunlight was any indication, he must have slept through the night. He grimaced, hoping she hadn’t been too uncomfortable or cold without his coil to protect her from the elements.

“What’s going on?” he forced out, feeling like he was talking through a wad of bubblegum.

Hattie sat back, making it harder for him to see her at his angle. He twisted to try to get closer.

“You’re in a bucket,” she answered tiredly. When she glanced up and realized she was wearing his delivery cap, she jolted and swiftly took it off.

“A bucket?” he echoed in distress. His eyes shifted around as he glimpsed the walls and the occasional splash of purple-black goop if he moved too quickly. He blinked.

“Oh my god, I melted.”

“Yeah,” Hattie sighed as she rubbed her eyes with the baggy, purple sleeve. “Are you okay?”

“Um.”

No.

“I’ve been better.” He winced, realizing all the gunk that was getting caught in his mouth was himself. Fantastic.

“Do you need anything?” she prompted with hesitation as she glanced around. “Like water or something?”

“I need to get out of this bucket!” He pushed his eye against the rim, and he felt himself ripple. “Here, dump me out! I can try to—” he coughed, “—pull myself back together.”

“I lost so much of you on the beach though,” Hattie objected. “And y-you just disappeared, like the goopy stuff turned all shadowy.”

He caught the crack in her voice, and frowned, both from hearing how part of him just up and evaporated—okay, a lot of him if what was left of his monstrous noodle form could fit inside a tiny bucket—and from how much he had frightened her.

“I can’t stay like this, though,” he argued. “I have work! And you can’t stay in the woods on your own!” He shifted around, trying to figure out how to stretch his neck or anything but his neck and everything was gone! First, he lost his body and now he lost his monster body? This wasn’t fair! He couldn’t live like this!

In his frustration, he tried to will himself to have arms or hands or even his tail would work. The goop bubbled and frothed, and he grunted from the strain, but he could do it! He could pull himself together!

“Stop!” Hattie commanded. He yelped as he felt small hands jut into the goop and scoop up his features.

He felt himself spread out and winced as strands dripped back down into the bucket with heavy plops. It was like the world and his body were spinning around him, disconnected and far from his grasp as his head remained stagnant but stuck. After blinking and spotting Hattie’s thumb acting as a barrier as trickles of him slipped through the cracks of her fingers, he grounded himself in her frustrated blue gaze.

“If you keep hurting yourself, you’ll just make it worse!” Her nose scrunched up into a hard scowl, but he heard the lump in her throat underneath her irate bite. “Just stop!”

“Sorry,” he gurgled quietly. Her brows furrowed even more, and he added as gently as he could, “I’ll rest, kiddo. I’ll take it easy.”

“Promise?” She stared him down.

“Promise,” he breathed out, slumping.

She lowered him back into the bucket and a soft bloop sound was followed by flickers of drops as she pulled her hands out. He hummed to relieve some distress as he tried to force himself to relax.

“Maybe you just need sleep,” Hattie offered. She grumbled a bit, but he could tell she was trying to soften her tone.

“That’s usually all it is,” he agreed.

He did feel a similar exhaustion to all the times he pushed his time limit and got stuck in noodle form. Only this was much worse. Even when he was a human, he wasn’t sure he could ever remember a time he was so tired that he couldn’t move his muscles.

Leaning his eyes against the rim of the bucket for some semblance of security, he desperately hoped he wouldn’t be stuck like this. But even if he did eventually turn back to monster-normal, he had a sneaking suspicion he really screwed over his already sparse shapeshifting time.  

“Do you want me to put the hat back over?” Hattie lifted her cap into his view. “To help you sleep?”

“No,” he said a little quickly. She lowered the hat and he added, sheepishly, “I know I can’t see much from here, but it’s better than nothing.”

“Okay. Go to sleep. Let me know if you need anything.” She scooted over to their campfire, and he heard the click of the lighter.

He sighed but tried to let the distant crackle of flame and the low tap of Hattie sketching on paper lull him into a semi-relaxed state. His eyes closed into tiny slits and as he dozed, a gentle and continuous rumble bubbled up from within.

“Dad?” Hattie whispered after a stretch of time, scooting back into view and looking down with her hair slipping from behind her ear.

“Hmm?” His eyes cracked open, slowly registering the rumbling sound. In his peripheral vision, the surface of the ebony-violet goop rippled steadily.

Hattie cracked a grin.

“You’re purring!” she said in slight disbelief before exploding into giggles.

“I’m—?” he began before he recognized the familiar and involuntary purr. A dusting of faint gold emanated from beneath the surface of the goop as he blushed.

“The whole bucket is shaking!” Hattie covered her mouth as her laugh trickled out in mirthful chimes.

Despite himself, Luka smiled, glad to hear her laugh.

“I guess it looks pretty silly,” he admitted, imagining the bucket wiggling around. Though now that he was becoming more alert, the rumbling slowed to a stop. In their absence, he realized how comforting the vibrations had been.

Hmm. Maybe the purring was a way to pull himself back together? It wasn’t something he could force or speed up, though. Typical.

“Do you want any food?” Hattie perked after she calmed down from laughing. “I was roasting some hot dogs.”

“I’ll try a bite,” his eyes and mouth shifted up and down in an affirmative nod that sent tiny waves splashing against the side of the bucket.

He couldn’t really tell if he was hungry, and he wasn’t sure how he was going to eat but he would do anything that would help him replenish some energy.

When Hattie returned with a torn piece of a hot dog, Luka opened his mouth and let out a gurgling, “ah.”

With a giggle, she gently lowered the hot dog as close as she could before dropping it. He felt the hot dog plop down and coughed. Hattie winced in apology as he closed his mouth and pensively chewed.

“I’m fine,” he said after a thick swallow. He couldn’t feel the lump of the hot dog anymore but in the past few years of dealing with his magic, goopy body, he learned to not ask questions he couldn’t answer and near the top of that list was wondering what the heck replaced his melted digestive track.

Hattie fed him a few more pieces and he swallowed the dismay of not being able to feed himself. Even though he had grown accustomed to relying on Hattie for help when his chameleon paws couldn’t work with delicate silverware, the familiar sorrow from the early days returned now that he didn’t even have hands.

After what he was certain was a late lunch, he napped on and off as Hattie remained nearby. When he would check in with her, she would present her latest sketches proudly, and even had one completed work in watercolor. It was a scene of the ocean, and while her sketchbook paper wasn’t meant to hold so much moisture, causing it to crinkle and warp when it dried, she excitedly explained that she was going to do other paintings exactly like it, but all showcasing the ocean at different times of the day. He told her that he was eager to see them, overjoyed that she was having fun with her gift like he had hoped she would.

If only he had been able to save up enough for a motel in time for her birthday, or at the very least, if only he hadn’t melted on her. But that was really his fault for pushing himself so hard.

He had just so badly wanted to make it special. She hadn’t even remembered her own birthday! What else was he supposed to do? Let himself turn into a monster? She deserved to have her actual dad on her birthday.

“Hey, Dad?” Her voice drew him out of his sinking despair.

“What’s up, kiddo?” he shifted his eyes in the bucket, trying to find a position that best allowed him to see her.

“What should I tell your boss?” She held out his phone, which was lit up with messages with letters in all caps.

Luka groaned.

“Can you read the messages for me?” He mentally prepared for the nerve-wracking ordeal of trying to explain himself without admitting to his boss that the reason he couldn’t make it to work was because he turned into a bucket of silly putty.

With Luka directing her, Hattie responded to the understandably angry but maybe harsher than necessary texts from his boss at the restaurant. Once that was done, he let out a heavy sigh, accidentally blowing a bubble in the goop, which shortly popped and splattered. He flinched when a drop landed in his eye.

“Do I have anything from the newspaper office?” Luka asked, dreading the thought of not only the manager getting upset when he found out no one had delivered newspapers in the morning, but of all the people who would no doubt call to complain about empty doorsteps.

“No,” Hattie replied slowly.

“Really?” Luka wasn’t sure if he should count that as good or bad. Either way, he was probably out of a job. “I’ll need to start looking for something else.”

“Why?” Hattie scooted closer, hugging her knees to her chest as she looked down at him.

“They’ve probably already decided to fire me,” he lamented with his mouth sinking and gurgling in the gunk.

“Nah.” She glanced away, tapping around on his phone.

He blinked up at her.

“Nah?” he repeated. When Hattie kept her gaze down and her lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes narrowed. “Hattie? What did you do?”

“I maybe did your deliveries for you?” she offered guiltily.

He stared at her.

“You what?” he sputtered, causing his sludge to ripple as panic seized him. “By yourself? Hattie! You just turned eight! My route is a couple miles long, and you would have had to bike before dawn! There are child labor laws! What do you mean you did my deliveries?”

“I had help!” Hattie hurried to explain. “I ran into a nice tourist I met yesterday, and he gave me a map and delivered half of the newspapers for me.”

“You worked with a stranger?” Luka demanded, shifting around in the bucket. “Harriet Princeton, you are not supposed to talk to strangers!”

“So, I’m only supposed to talk to you?” She threw her hands up in the air.

“No! I mean—that’s not the point!” he faltered, sloshing around as the bite in her words stung. Bits of goop splattered over the rim and Hattie jolted.

“Stop freaking out!” She helplessly tried to grasp at the stray droplets. “I can’t lose you again!”

He paused, tensing. Well, tensing as much as he could as a viscous liquid.

“Wh-what do you mean lose me again?” he pressed tightly.

“I thought you were gone when you melted,” she said with a cracking voice. She hugged her legs and rest her chin on her knees. “I thought I didn’t get all of you in time and you were gone, and I just wanted to help because you’re so tired all time but—” she trailed off in a squeak as tears filled her eyes.

“Hattie—” he shifted towards her, but the goop sputtered as he instinctively tried to reach out to his daughter. Liquid stung his eyes and he blinked rapidly. “Hattie, look at me please.”

She turned and revealed tears streaming down her cheeks.

Gold blurred his vision, but he pressed on.

“I’m sorry,” he began in a congested voice, thick with gunk and reverb. “I know you were just trying to help, and I appreciate it! But I don’t want you worrying about my jobs or money. You shouldn’t have to.”

His voice cracked and all too late, he realized that the reason he sounded so congested was partly because of the golden tears filling the bucket. They glittered in the goop, separated like oil drops in water. His breath hitched and the goop swelled.

“But I can—” he tried to continue as the tears slipped out and the goop splashed up when he instinctively tried to wipe them away with a hand that wasn’t there.

“You’re spilling!” Hattie interrupted, jolting upward and hurrying over, placing her arms around the rim but the added tears were causing his anxious sloshing to spill over. “Stop crying!”

“What?” He jolted, shifting his eyes around and catching glimpses of purple and gold staining her sleeves. Her dismayed features above him only encouraged his tears and he made a muffled sniffling noise as panic surged and his tears swelled.

“Dad!” she yelped. But her own distraught features cleaved through his squishy, melted chest.

“I-I can’t! Give me a moment!” Twisting away, he tried to lock his eyes on something to ground himself, but in his panic, he kept attempting to turn and wipe his tears. The spilling goop sloshed uncontrollably.

“Try to laugh!” Hattie begged. “Tell me a stupid joke!”

“Ah, uh.” He pressed his lips into a tight line as he struggled to think of something. “Um. You know what? This situation really pails in comparison to—uh—that one time we teleported into that bear den!”

“What?” Hattie furrowed her brows. But it looked like her tears halted in confusion.

“P-pails, like a pun? It’s a joke. It’s supposed to be funny. Please laugh,” he said weakly. He blinked and let out a tight exhale as he felt himself calm and the rest of the goop start to settle.

“That’s a stupid joke.” Hattie sniffled as she leaned back and slowly lifted her arms, revealing sleeves soaked with purple sludge.

“I got buckets of them.” He added a sardonic, “ha,” as the gold ebbed. While a few dancing droplets of tears wiggled in his goop, now that he was calmer, trembling splashes no longer spilled over the rim.

Hattie wrung out the sleeves. He flinched at the droplets that pelted his face and sent ripples along the surface.

“That’s even worse,” she sighed, though a small smile found its way onto her features. She tugged up one of her sleeves and gingerly reached over and wiped at the edge of his eye.

He grunted, squeezing it shut but when she pulled away, he watched her flick a golden droplet towards the grass. He sighed, blowing a few bubbles.

“Please don’t do my job tomorrow,” he said quietly. “We’ll be okay.”

She nodded slowly before thinking better of it.

“Only if you promise not to push yourself, okay?”

“Okay,” he said tiredly before he yawned. Sludge dribbled into his mouth, and he sputtered.

“Sleep.” She poked the goop. He shifted his eyes next to her finger, which was the closest he could come to giving her an encouraging nuzzle.

“What about you?” he asked, staring up at the canopy of leaves. There was still sunlight trickling down, but it seemed fainter.

“I can eat soon,” she shrugged.

“Wake me if you need anything,” he muttered, feeling his eyelids grow heavy.

Did he even have eyelids at this point? Maybe it was more that his eyes were sinking. Might be more apt.

Hattie promised to, but he had a feeling they both knew she would deal with any problem on her own before waking him. Frowning, he supposed the best thing he could do for her would be to recover as swiftly as possible.

He settled into the bucket, and soon enough, the sludge began to ripple as he automatically purred. He caught Hattie’s stifled snort at the vibrating bucket before he fell asleep.

Night blanketed the forest by the time he woke up again. Still purring, he blinked as he felt something shift. The rippling rumbles of goop seemed to be tightening and when he moved to lift his head, he peeked over the rim of the bucket. Relief swelled inside as he spotted Hattie’s back. She was drawing by the fire, safe and sound.

Edging backward, he tilted his head down, blinking at the vibrating goop as it slowly re-solidified into shape. After a moment, he lifted his noodle arms and wiggled his chameleon paws. Funny, he was actually relieved to see them for once. Once his tail formed, he heaved out a sigh. There wasn’t a drop of him left behind in the bucket, but now he took up less volume.

“Kiddo,” he called softly, floating up to the rim of the bucket and placing his hands on the edge, curling his tail beneath himself.

“Dad!” Hattie gasped when she saw his familiar form. Scrambling around, she darted over, and he flew up into her embrace.

“You’re tiny,” she muttered into the plush fluff around his neck. His tail waved back and forth as he returned her firm hug.

“I’m sure I’ll get back to normal size,” he guessed. Probably. After a long enough rest without using his shapeshifting.

Moments passed until he caught a low grumble coming from Hattie’s stomach. He craned his neck with a smirk.

“In the meantime, are there anymore marshmallows to share?”

“I ate them all. Remember our math quiz? Zero left.” Hattie said without missing a beat as she turned back around and brought him to the fireside. “Just kidding, I saved you some.”

“That’s my girl!” His tail waved harder as he chuckled.

He extended an arm towards the bag, noting that he couldn’t really stretch it like usual, and made a grasping motion. Hattie plopped the bag into her lap, still using an arm to hug him, and they both took turns popping the confections into their mouths.

Yes, after a week’s worth of rest, he would grow to his usual massive size and when he could shapeshift again, he would have to deal with the consequences of missing so much work. But until then, he and Hattie would take it day by day and one marshmallow at a time.

[raeloganthesonic06fangirl]

I know I have like a bajillion QuackerJack headcanons/ideas/whatevers already, but hear me out for this one that combines a few of the classic earlier ones I did:

The day QuackerJack snapped was just like any other day, or at least when it started. After spending weeks as a shut in at his own house (he was getting tired of all the news coverage of his latest blunder with his products that he insists is a misunderstanding), he decided it was time to go on a grocery run, since his pantry was getting thin on selection, and he wasn't going to resort to using ketchup in place of spaghetti sauce.

He goes to the store, in basic civilian attire to not draw attention, opting to walk (despite it being a poor choice to carry a lot, but he just wanted to take advantage of the sunny day and good air), taking note of the various advertisements along the way for this new fad that the kids are all going nuts over: Whiffle Boy.

Advertising such as posters plastered in the store windows, a billboard or two mentioning the bundle deal with the appropriate console to go with it, and tie-in meal deals at the local Hamburger Hippo burger joint. Ooh boy, it's just about everywhere, so he keeps his head tilted down to avoid looking at the smug face of that ridiculous guy. He's going to the store to buy a few things, and he doesn't need to make a scene about it...

He gets to the store and grabs a handbasket, intending on getting the basic essentials: Milk, bread, eggs, maybe some sandwich supplies (particularly peanut butter and jelly), probably a box of cereal, and his heart is set on getting a package of bacon at least.

There's just a bit of a problem. The bacon package has that godforsaken Whiffle Boy printed on it, advertising some sort of sweepstakes. All of the bacon in the fridge case has it on them.

Trying hard not to lose his cool, QuackerJack slaps the package back on the shelf with more umph than he intended, which unfortunately triggers a loose fastener on the shelf to collapse, creating a chain reaction of the rest of the fridge case to follow suit.

20 mins later, after insisting that he'll pay for the damages when he can, he finds himself at Hamburger Hippo, hoping to at least be able to grab something to eat for the night and try his grocery trip tomorrow. Whiffle Boy promotional material is all over the establishment, even the hippo shaped building has been fitted with decals to mark the tie-in. The wrappers, the bags, the boxes, the cups, even the straws and napkins, much to his astonishment and annoyance.

It's only temporary, he assures himself under his breath. It's just a fad and like all fads, they go away with the next big thing, and he'll be sure that next big thing is one of his products...

Aside from the slight oversalting of his fries, the food itself wasn't much to complain about. Oddly enough, the soda fountain was out of order due to the constant sales of the promotional meal deals, so he was offered an upgrade to a milkshake of equal size for the price of a soda. Ah, at least one thing seemed to be going right for once today...

Walking back home now, carrying his sack of fast food, he passes by a brick-and-mortar game store, which he averts his eyes to as he take a sip of the milkshake. He realizes all too late that the door has swung open in his way and smacks into his face. A duck in a green sweater vest steps out, holding a fair sized box adorned with Whiffle Boy logos, graphics and decor. It's a gaming bundle box!

Blinking slightly in pain from the door bending his beak back a bit, QuackerJack hears the duck thank the store clerk, commenting on how his kid was going to love the console, and couldn't wait to set it up for a round or two with her once she got home from school.

QuackerJack couldn't help but notice that the duck didn't even realize or acknowledge that he'd slammed the door in his face. He took a second to check on the bag of food in his hand, which was amazingly unscathed. The milkshake, however, had been launched into the road. Where the duck unknowingly ran over its remains while leaving the parking lot.

Trying his hardest to keep his cool, QuackerJack continues home, sits down with the food bag, and realizes that they forgot the cheese on his burger. And there was a complimentary Whiffle Boy action figure tucked into the bottom of the bag.

He screams.

This was his origin story.

[robininthelabyrinth]

Wei Wuxian never had the patience for embroidery, and Jiang Yanli was passable, but preferred cooking. Jiang Cheng found it comforting, stabbing something over and over again, with a better result than breaking training dummies.

1

It started with Jiang Cheng being a sticky child, refusing to leave his jie’s side even when she sat for her embroidery lessons; with him being noisy and troublesome and the teacher just shoving the needle and thread into his hands with a muttered comment about it being good for men to know how to repair their own clothing – as if a future sect leader would ever need to know something like that.

Jiang Cheng quieted down and focused, all hard work and determination to please the way he went about all aspects of his life – he wasn’t a natural talent, in cultivation or swordmanship or even this, but he always tried his best.

His mother covered her mouth with her hand to hide her laughter when he presented her with the results of several weeks’ worth: it was just barely recognizable as the world’s ugliest duck.

“A symbol of loving devotion,” one of her maids said.

“There’s only one, though,” the other maid said. “They’re supposed to be a pair.”

“He’s still young,” Madame Yu said, and then held up a fabric with a vaguely incoherent green-white-pink blob. “And anyway, it’s still better than this – what is this supposed to be again, A-Li?”

“A lotus flower,” Jiang Yanli replied, utterly untroubled by her mother’s criticism.

Madame Yu and her maids studied the fabric for a little while longer, trying to identify a flower inside the knot of threads, helpless expressions on their face.

“A-Cheng is a duck without a partner and A-Li is unrestrained by commonly understood boundaries,” Madame Yu finally said, pinching her nose. “With signs as inauspicious as this…well, at least you still have your father to hold up the world for you.”

“Men care more about cooking skills anyway,” one of her maids said. “And A-Cheng is an heir to a sect: he’ll find himself a lady duck one day. Maybe even a whole set of them.”

“He’d better not find a whole set of them!”

2

There was a small needle on the floor of the hut where the Wen sect had stuffed him away – too small and thin to attack anyone, even if a useless waste with no golden core could muster an attack at all, and so it had been overlooked.

Jiang Cheng held it over the flame of the lamp to sterilize it, and then, with shaking hands, turned it on his own flesh.

He didn’t have a choice – it was that or die bleeding out onto the floor of some closet in the Lotus Pier he’d never even known existed, some of the cuts left by the Wens too deep to be left alone even for a little while, and he didn’t have spiritual energy to encourage the healing process.

Maybe he should just die. What was the point of living? He was a waste, now. Maybe the deep cuts were even meant to be a kindness – a way out of the misery that awaited him, a life of being Wen Chao’s slave, an object of pity and mockery.

Jiang Cheng’s hands might be shaking, but his embroidery was good: he’d kept it up, citing it as good training for precision, a way to improve his dexterity, but in fact it was the only thing that could make his mother smile at him anymore. Sure, she yelled about him wasting time with feminine pursuits when he ought to be cultivating, training, getting stronger, surpassing Wei Wuxian, but when she looked at the little things he made for her, she still smiled, almost as if she couldn’t help herself.

She wouldn’t smile for him any longer. Neither smile nor scolding.

Jiang Cheng would live to see Wei Wuxian take the revenge their parents deserved. He could wait until that was done to die.

3

A regular needle could prick the finger of a cultivator a thousand times before drawing a single drop of blood.

Jiang Cheng’s fingers were covered in bandages, but the new disciples of his Jiang sect had robes embroidered with lotuses, the way they should have, and they need not be ashamed to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the other sects in battle.

It wasn’t a job a sect leader should ever do, but there was no one else to do it; any money had to be spent on supplies, none left over for paying seamstresses to do something impractical, and the few women who joined up expected to be used for their skill at the sword, not the needle.

It was just another thing he had to do with no time to do it – he had to train himself in preparation for battle, teach the new disciples the Jiang sect techniques, make sure they had enough to eat and drink, keep one step ahead of the Wen sect’s forces that sought to destroy them, recruit new sects to join their cause and all of it while searching desperately for Wei Wuxian, who had gone missing.

(Sometimes, in his nightmares, Jiang Cheng wondered if Baoshan Sanren had seen through their mischief, recognized him as someone other than her disciple’s son, and demanded a price be paid for the gift she had given him.)

At least embroidery was something he could do at night when he couldn’t sleep, something productive that wouldn’t disturb the sentries or make anyone worry about him.

Sometimes, Lan Wangji – who had joined him in searching for Wei Wuxian – would come and sit next to him at the early hours of the night, undoubtedly fleeing nightmares of his own. His meditation didn’t bother Jiang Cheng, and as much as he hated to admit it, the company was welcome.

That didn’t stop him from embroidering a small awkward stork on the inside of Lan Wangji’s forehead ribbon the one time the other man had asked him for help fixing it after it’d been cut in battle.

4

“I know Madame Jin probably already got you something better,” Jiang Cheng said, his fingers twisting together – in fact, he hadn’t thought of it at all, not until he reached Lanling and heard the women on the street speculating as to which skilled seamstress had been retained to embroider all the auspicious signs onto the wedding clothing of the Jin sect’s new daughter-in-law.

It hadn’t even occurred to him that they would just buy a set pre-made – wedding clothing was traditionally embroidered by the bride herself, preparations made over the years, and of course the set Jiang Yanli had (with no real motivation or ambition) been working on had gone up in flames along with the Lotus Pier. When she’d come to let him know about Jin Zixuan’s impending proposal, and that she intended to accept, Jiang Cheng had panicked and ordered the silks and thread himself; his sister was passable at embroidery at the best of times, much worse when under pressure or a deadline, and he didn’t want the Jin sect to laugh at her.

He should have realized. What didn’t the Jin sect solve with money?

“As if I would wear anything other than what A-Cheng made for me,” Jiang Yanli said, voice warm as she ran her hands over the red silk he’d brought with him, the golden threads glinting. “It’s beautiful. Your ducks have gotten much better since your first attempt, all those years ago.”

Jiang Cheng covered his face with embarrassment. His mother had kept that stupid hideous duck for years, often just sitting in her pocket alongside regular necessities so that she could pull it out to embarrass him whenever she pleased; it had probably only died when she had.

“I left some undone for you to finish,” he said through his fingers. “I brought the thread…if you want?”

“Of course. A-Cheng will sit by me and make sure I don’t make any mistakes.”

The last pair of ducks ended up crooked, their heads too close together, their beaks at such an odd angle that it almost looked like a smile; they were Jiang Cheng’s favorite ones of all.

5

“For you,” Jiang Cheng said, shoving the box into Wei Wuxian’s arms and ignoring the look of confusion. “For when Hanguang-jun finally decides to live up to his responsibilities.”

“What are you talking about?” Wei Wuxian said blankly. “Why are you even at the Cloud Recesses?”

Jiang Cheng sneered because it was easier than doing anything else. It was the first time he’d seen Wei Wuxian since the events at the Guanyin temple: Wei Wuxian hadn’t come back to the Lotus Pier, not once, even though Jin Ling had tried several times to invite him.

“Am I not allowed, now?” he demanded irritably. “I’m a sect leader; I have a visitor’s token, same as anyone else. Anyway, I have other business to attend to – just take it and be done with it. Don’t make a fuss.”

It was a mistake to say that – as soon as Wei Wuxian realized there was the possibility of a fuss, he couldn’t wait to confront it at once, and disregarded all rules of etiquette to pull open the box right there as they stood, before even Jiang Cheng left.

“Red…?” Wei Wuxian’s eyes went wide. “Jiang Cheng, you got me wedding clothing.”

“Reused ones,” Jiang Cheng said before Wei Wuxian could get too emotional or anything. “The only adjustments were to the size and shape – don’t think too highly of yourself!”

“Sect Leader Jiang is too humble,” Lan Wangji said from the door. “It must have been a great effort to make clothing for a man from the ones your sister wore.”

“Sister…? You – this is what shijie married in?”

Jiang Cheng glared at the immovable Lan Wangji rather than look at Wei Wuxian. “Her marriage was happy,” he said stiffly. “Yes, it was cut short –”

Best not to say by whom.

“– but it was still happy. It’s not meant to be a bad omen or a curse…I thought you’d like it. Not that I expected you’d remember what it looked like, with your memory.”

“Of course I like it!” Wei Wuxian exclaimed, hugging the red fabric to his chest. “You made it for shijie, and she finished it, right?”

“I had to add some more fabric to make up for the size difference,” Jiang Cheng said, still refusing to look at him directly. At least Lan Wangji had the good grace to be easy to glare at, that pig who dug up his family’s (lost, dead, resurrected) cabbage. “There are a few more that still need finishing. That way, it’ll have something from all of us – don’t you dare cry at me!”

“I’m not crying! My eyes are watering from laughter at how sentimental you are, that’s all!”

“It is good that we will both have signs of Sect Leader Jiang’s approval with us,” Lan Wangji said mildly.

Wei Wuxian turned to him at once. “Both? What do you have?”

Jiang Cheng was equally confused, and only when Lan Wangji reached up to his forehead ribbon did he remember his fit of pettiness in horror. “Wait, no, don’t – it can’t still be there –”

It was.

Wei Wuxian’s cackles followed him as he fled.

[boneswriteswords]

Just A Little Longer - Michelangelo

A/N: Here is my self indulgent Mikey goodtime lime. Let me live. (It isn’t a lime. Its a lemon. But lime rhymes with time.)

Unbeta’d because no one has the time for editing.

Also I have no idea if any of it makes sense so.....

~~~~~~

The bright neon LED lights of the alarm clock on your nightstand stood guard over you as you blinked awake. 2:04am. Awareness came slowly, your eyes dripping sleep even as the rest of you came online. You shifted, extending your body into a stretch, grinning when a muffled groan erupted from behind you.

A thick leg forced its way between yours. A heavy arm landed across your abdomen. A hard chest molded into your back.

Beyond your apartment walls, sounds of the city rage on. Waves of muted color trickle through the crack in your black-out curtains. Lines of yellow light bleed over the room. There are police sirens passing by as the house party three doors down blasts the newest Ariana Grande album. Someone honks their car horn in vicious repetition. If you strain, you can hear an muffled fighting and the shuffling of clothes as it turns physical.

All the noises harmonize and fade into nothing as you flip over, encouraging the limbs of your bed partner to stay entangled with yours. You’ve lived in the city long enough that the noises and the people and the lights don’t register much to you unless you focus on them. You know the sounds of danger from the sounds of the loud and that’s all you really need to know. Rainbow noise guided you, filtering through all the memories that you have access to you, and anything less has no space in your life.

Quiet nights are eerie after years of noise and you are more than happy having Mikey hold you in bed while the world keeps going around you.

REM does not return after closing your eyes again and you concede to being awake. It isn’t awful, not with the way Mikey clutches onto you as he shuffles - head nuzzling into whatever crevice he can reach. You can tell he is waking.

He can never remain asleep if he feels you are awake. He struggles to remain in a plan of existence where you aren’t. He fights himself awake and you never know if you need to be concerned or flattered by it.

You watch the lights as they bounce off objects in your room before looking back at him. Blurry lines. Soft shapes. Calming motions as they dance back and forth. They are beautiful but you’d much rather look at Mikey.

He has an arm curled loosely over your side while the other is resting under the pillow you both were using. You both liked long thick pillows that went from one side of the bed to the other. A small commonality made sweeter by your domesticity. His hand is curled limply and you remember that he had been stroking your head when you had fallen asleep earlier.

The muted light makes his green skin lighter. Shadows dip into the crevices of his skin and scars, revealing texture you usually only can feel. There is a darkness under his jaw and around his eyebrow ridge. You find yourself tracing the lines of shadow and light with your eyes, hurling the idea that anything could be more captivating out of the window. His breath is steady but his eyes are twitching behind his eyelids.

You see his eyes open. Three blinks and he is awake. You are jealous of how easy it is for him to go from one state of being to the next. He falls asleep quickly and he awakens even quicker. Deep blue eyes find yours and he smiles, moving his arm to drag you the tiniest bit closer. His lips twitch as he draws slow circles in the space between your shoulder blades.

There is an ache in your body, a reminder of the way he had rushed into your apartment as soon as the sun was down. The impact into the wall. Manic energy. Breathless laughter as pent-up passion bubbled over.

Your fingers trace down the side of his face, dipping down from the line of his throat to the pools of his collarbones below his plastron. He churrs the tiniest bit in response and it sounds a lot like the noise he makes when you tease the skin of his neck between your teeth.

You can’t leave marks on him. His skin just doesn’t color the ways a human’s might. Its thicker. Denser. Darker. Scalier. You can’t leave scratches either. It was a bit disappointing to find this out but knowing that he’d enjoy your marks if he was able to have them seizes you in ways you have never experienced. You imagine lining little rouge starbursts down his next and across the broadness of his shoulders and the way he would walk around with them proudly. Red lines connecting red flowers like vines.

His eyes scan over you. He is visual.

Its not always like this. You and him alone. Some nights its you and Mikey and the ghosts that follow you both. There are eyes in the shadows and they have many names and you never know who you are speaking to. They lurk while he cleans his weapons in the living room. They boldly take a seat next to you while you watch a movie tucked under his arm. Some nights, you pull up a seat at the table and serve them as Mikey makes a joke about something that happened during your day.

They exist and they try to make their home in your spaces and they take a toll on the nights when you are too weary to kick them out. A mix-match of traumas that spiral and float and smother and linger.

Mikey doesn’t just wear his heart on his sleeve. He rips open his chest and holds the organ up into the light directly. Makes you watch as it beats and pulses and moves his lifeblood through his body. There are no questions about what he does, how he feels. He is on display by choice, flitting about vulnerable as if there are no monsters in the world he lives in.

But there are days where he wraps himself up behind a glass wall to separate himself from the rest of the world. Deep-rooted hopelessness drains his light, his strength a house of cards edging towards collapse. His voice cracks and wavers. Its never his fault. No one asks for trauma. No one asks to be too late. No one asks for the life he’s lived.

Only recently has a door appeared in the glass. He always tells you where the key is so you can open it. You make sure to crack open the door and wait for him to invite you in further. If he does, you sit inside with him. If he doesn’t, you sit outside and wait for the wall to come down.

And then there are the days where you are translucent. You look down at your body and see through it, faintly incorporeal. A ghost. Light bleeds through you as you walk under the sun. Intangible and lost. You don’t feel real even as your ribs ache and the steady stream of your heartbeat remains. All that exists is quiet breathing.

All your worst nightmares are of you reaching out to hold Mikey’s hand but it goes through him. You can’t grip onto him and he walks away because he can’t see you.

Mikey tells you that he sees you. He grips your hand and squeezes and pulls you in close on the off chance that you feel like your floating away. He won’t let you but he doesn’t begrudge your fear. No one asks for the life you’ve lived.

Jeers erupt from outside but neither of you flinch. You just lean closer into each other. Mikey runs his hand up and down your spine, eyes wet, and you are astounded once more how stubbornly he loves you. How intensely he feels for you. How he believes so much that you both are it. The endgame.

You wish you could take the shadows that live behind his eyes and demand they leave. “You can’t have him,” you imagine you’d say, “He is mine. And I’m not scared of you. I love him too much.” If that meant pulling a seat up for them in the living room and offering them a whiskey laced with intention, you’d do it.

Mikey’s hand slips under your night shirt, his palm flat against the skin of your back and you melt against him. You have studied those hands and all the ways they make you feel things and you exhale harshly and slowly so as to not disturb the rays of muted light.

“You doing okay?” Mikey asks, voice dripping with drowsiness despite the awareness present in his baby blues. “Its late. Or early. Whatever. Was it a nightmare?”

“No baby,” you respond, pressing your mouth against his beak, “No nightmares tonight.”

“Good.”

You press another kiss to his beak before ducking down a little and pressing another one to the side of his mouth. The arm under the blanket shifts. His fingers stroke your head.

There is a lull.

“I love you.”

Its comes out unexpectedly but you aren’t ashamed of it. He already knows. That relationship milestone has long since passed. Even so, the words are splintered, cracked around the edges and easy to be drowned out by the sounds of screeching tires on the road and idiots on the street.

But the impact is till the same. The look he gives you is blue fire and he guides you closer for a kiss. It starts off light, gentle, a nudge against your mouth but his fingers cradled the back of your head as he deepens it. “Love you too. So much” is mumbled as he presses further into you.

Arousal simmers on the back-burner as an afterthought. You had fucked hard earlier - a frenzy, a reconnection after a week of only facetime calls and voice memos that left you worked up and over. You know you will fuck again when the sun is up because Mikey loves starting the days off right when you are both in the same place.

Right now is the time to relearn the shape of his mouth as he kisses you lazily. You pull back slowly. You stare at him and he stares at you, movements slow.  

A beat.

Two.

Three.

“You remember the talks we had?” you whisper before you could stop, brushing your nose over his, “when we had just met? The ones that lasted days at time?”

“Yeah,” he responds, his voice low, “That was a long time ago but I do. I don’t think I could ever forget.” There are flashes of light behind his eyes and you know he remembers each call. Each text thread that was either memes or philosophical questions that had you trying to unearth the truth of the universe. Each conversation that spanned days because real life creates lulls between responses.

“I fell in love with you there,” you whisper back, “Somewhere in those calls, I turned over to look into the phone and realized that you were mine and there would never be anyone else for me.”

“Yeah?” its a soft question that, from the look on his face, doesn’t require an answer, “You too?” You nod anyway. He deserves to see it.

He grins.

“I’m glad that we took our time,” you continue, wiggling as his hand scratches at your back the tiniest bit, “I like that we are friends. I like that I can say “Mikey is my best friend” when they ask me about my boyfriend. I’m glad that I got the chance to like you.”

“I like you too angel,” he whispers, his voice getting softer, warmth bleeding in the spaces between words. Heat singes around his eyes, “I like you so much.”

You hold him tighter, “no one knows my soul like you do.”

Mikey surges forward to kiss you again, his hand running down from your back to the side of your thigh. He rolls you both so he is half on top of you, maneuvering a thigh between your legs and pressing your chests touch as he slips his tongue between your waiting lips. You arms reach up to rest along the broadness of his shoulders, fingers dancing along the lip of his shell.

When he pulls back, his breathing is harsh, “you know mine angel.”

There is a sense of peace with knowing that all your exposed parts are being kept safe. The storms pass. Smoke is cleared. Petrichor sweetens the air. The dead are laid to rest so flowers can grow on their remains. The sun is bright.

Between you, pleasure kindles slowly. Hands roam and tug and cup. Kisses are scattered like constellations. There are murmurs of praise and whispers of awe. Time blurs as you sink down into it.

Mikey brushes his lips along the side of your face as he glances as the clock, the sun peeking its head above the skyline from the window, “Do you want me now?”

“Now.” You punctuate the word with a roll of your hips against his thigh. “I want to feel you.”

He sighs under his breath, hands shifting you until you are where he wants you. Your night clothes are removed and dropped by the side of your bed. His shorts follow, landing right on top of yours. He nestles firmly between your open thighs. “Okay angel. You can have me. You can have everything.”

The vulnerability in his voice shakes you. The slide of his cock into you has you gripping onto him. He draws it out, indulgent in the way you stutter and writhe against him. Its a seamless fit, despite his size. You are still prepped from earlier, wet and accommodating, and he drips like a faucet.

Mikey had never known sex could be like this. He always expected that sex would be purely physically, a thing that couples did to feel good and sate any hormonal urges. No one ever told him about how it feels when hands grip onto him, leaving trails of sparks and comets and tingles across his body that linger for days. No one ever told him that his lovers moans could vibrate along his vertebrate and resonate in the parts of his unknown. The void in his chest fills with liquid gold when he hears his named sobbed against his skin.

You hadn’t known either.

And even though you both do now, even though you crave each other more fiercely than you crave air, it always feels new when you collide. Every sensation has been redefined. Vulnerability has never felt so powerful.

You cry as you feel his cock pulse inside of you as he bottoms out and grinds forward. He grunts, his arms keeping your hips flush against his.

“How do you always feel so good?” Words emphasized with deep thrusts. Hard, slow, tapering into a grind before pulling back out. ”Always so good for me. Meant for me. Made for me to love. Made to take me.”

“Yes,” you hiss back, breath hot against his neck. Mikey adjusts, one of his hands remaining on your hip while the other slides to grip your arms behind your back. He presses you flush against his plastron, back arched off the bed and supported by the strength in his arms as he holds you. “Meant for you. And you found me.”

The casual, effortless show of strength spreads a warm haziness across your mind. You lean into it.

“Fuck - Mi...I-” There are tears in your eyes as you gasp and shudder as Mikey picks up the pace. Without warning, your mouth is covered by his and you can feel his smile against yours. A laugh bubbles up from somewhere and tapers off as the kiss turns hungry.

“Shh I have you,” he gasps between his own pleasured noises, “I have you. You are safe here. What do you need?” His hand strokes along your face as he rocks into you. His voice is breathless but full of intent. “Tell me what you want.”

“Everything,” you babble as he grind right up against your good spot, “I want everything with you.”

He groans, breathing deep as the colors blur into shapes. He tucks his arm back under you, grinding harder, your clit catching along the hardness of his plastron. Your legs tremble around his hips. Mikey kisses you again before he ducks down to your neck and shoulder, his mouth hungry and burning. Ravenous.

Something about romance ignites a wildfire inside of Mikey. You exploit it as often as you can and he lets you because you both know that nothing is said without intent, without meaning. Honesty burns under your skin and shines through your eyes every time you press words of love into his skin like galaxies in a telescope. He basks in the attention. He worships under it.

In return, Mikey spills filth into your ears. The kind that shouldn’t be as sexy as it is but god does he know what you need to hear.

(”You feel perfect, hot and tight.”/ “I’m yours.”/ “I can feel you. You are real.”/ “I know, angel, I know. You’ve been wanting me so much. You need me. I need you too.”/ “I’m going to show you I love you. You’ll never doubt it. You’ll never doubt that I love you.”/ “Angel I’m not scared of your ghosts. They are scared of me.”/)

Mikey’s voice is serrated in ways no one but you have heard. Raw and carnal and deeper than most would expect, flashing dark around the edges the more passionate he gets, the more he reaches down inside of you to pull out the parts of you only he sees. 

You fall apart from the inside and can do nothing as the bottom drops out. You aren’t scared, not with the way Mikey holds you and chases away anything that could ruin this. His “I loves yous” bleed into your skin and you take hold of his pain and strangle it. There is no room for the grief and emptiness as violent tremors rack your bodies and hands cradle exposed hearts. The lights flash and dance as the decrescendo halts everything around you.

Heavy breathing fill the room. Whispered praise is soft and there is shuffling. You wipe each other down as best you can with the wet wipes you keep by the bed before pulling each other closer. The morning light is higher, peeking between the blinds and under the edges of the curtains. 

Eventually you’ll get out of bed. Clean up properly. Make food and spend time together with your clothes on. Relax in the knowledge that the day is a good one with no dark figures hanging in the corners, waiting to come in. But, thats for later.

For now, you lay close, breathing each other in. Hands are still roaming. No one has faded and there is no cold glass protecting warm skin. Mikey murmurs something and you smile. Your smile meets his smile and laughter joins in, glimmering in the light. You peck at his mouth and his fingers dig into the skin of your flesh before he grabs the comforter and hides you both underneath it.

Everything can wait. Just for a little longer. 

~~~~~

[hezurkubo]

When D’jinn meets Gene or “Dramatic Pot Twist!”

Hey there! Just wanted to start off by saying that in order to give this story the desired outcome I was looking for I added in some extra events that I thought could have canonically taken place during certain key moments in “The Last Adventure!” While we as the audience don’t know what happened to everyone else while the main characters were off driving the main plot along I still tried to come up with a side story that seemed plausible at least in terms of timing.

If I overlooked anything and it comes off as complete nonsense that throws off the original plot than please consider this an AU where the side characters play a more proactive role in kicking the butts of F.O.W.L.’s lackeys while our main cast took care of Bradford. This is mostly to satisfy my craving for a meeting that never happened in canon and I still hope that whoever decides to read enjoys this dumb story of mine. With that said.........

“SHABOOEY!”

That was all Gene managed to exclaim before he felt himself vanish in a dramatic flash. He found himself being dragged through the pocket void between realities, a place he’d frequented many times since his existence had been tied to the trinket he’d been forced to call home. While he had yet to feel the familiar power of the ‘Seal of Solion’ connecting him to his lamp, he knew it was only a matter of time.

 “Huh, wish I coulda at least thanked her for saving me. Guess now it’s back to the good ol...”

His thoughts were interrupted by a rather abrupt tug to the side through a sudden blinding light, giving Gene just enough time to let out a yelp before tumbling beak first onto a cold hard surface. Groaning as he got to his feet, the duck had to double-take as he got a first look at his surroundings. 

And it was, unfortunately, a very familiar site.

He’d become well acquainted with the row upon row of containment units in which the people F.O.W.L. saw as threats to their ‘final goal’ were imprisoned.

“Oh-keeeeey, so.... another dramatic plot twist, shoulda expected that in a ninety minute finale, though not so much for a short cameo appearance.”

Although he was pretty sure what would happen, and despite knowing the repercussions, Gene focused his power and winced in painful anticipation as he tried to will himself out of the current space he occupied.  

“Okey three, two, one...SHABOOEY!”

He felt a small spark of magic begin to bubble up within him, allowing him to hope that maybe he could....

ZAP!

The genie doubled over as a short but powerful electric shock coursed through his body. He had been unfortunate enough to witness others struggle for freedom and receive the same treatment, and while he doubted it’d be different for him he felt that he at least had to try. After all, he was magic and it couldn’t possibly hurt that bad....right?

He had been partially correct, but it was still VERY unpleasant.

Thankfully the shock wore off quickly, but rather than test his chances again he moved to the center of the cubicle and sat in the dark, drawing his legs into himself as he rested his arms atop of them and let out a sigh.

 “Guess old Blotty really made sure I couldn’t get out of dodge.”

“Not like I’d have a choice anyway...” Gene couldn’t help but think bitterly while resting the the bottom of his beak on his arm. He’d already exchanged one prison for another, so what difference did it make? 

Gene let the moments tick on by as he attempted to drown out everything else, which had so far been surprisingly easy despite being surrounded by people....

...And then, despite his best efforts, a familiar thought reared it’s ugly head.

Many of these people were trapped here because of him.

Because the Blot had used his power.

Because he had given him the information needed to capture them.

And he had watched helplessly, his screams for them to run drowned out by their own as they were zapped of their magic, easy for the Eggheads to swoop them up and bring them to this hopeless place while they waited to be done away with for good.

 And now Gene was here. He supposed it was fitting, as unwilling as an accomplice he had been in all of this, he still felt deep despair for having been used as a tool for the inevitable destruction of so many innocent lives.

And he would join them. Gene buried his head further into his lap, holding back sniffles as he felt his eyes stinging.

“...At least it’s roomier in here...”

“KA-BOOM!”

“Gyaaa!!! Bees!!! AAAHHH!”

The genie’s head quickly shot up, eyes widening as he took in the commotion echoing off the library’s lofty walls. Scrambling to his feet, he dashed to the front of his cell, pressing his ear against the glass. 

Someone was fighting out there, and from the sounds of it they were facing off against Steelbeak. 

The kid that had freed him, her friends were still fighting F.O.W.L.

Gene couldn’t fight the small smile that began to spread across his beak despite his teary eyes.

He would never be free, not even if he got out of here. But everyone else still had a chance. There was still hope that this could be made right.

“And the plot thickens!”

 __________

Faris Djinn watched helplessly from his prison as Scrooge’s allies valiantly fought against the rooster F.O.W.L. Agent. Clenching his fists to his sides, the desire to unsheathe his sword and join them against these honorless enemies boiled within him, but he knew it was of no use so long as he was trapped like this. Still, that gave him all the more reason to wish to help the group of birds somehow. This was finally everyone’s chance to escape! 

The canine warrior had been brought to this strange place after being ambushed and knocked unconscious by his cowardly foe, whom he had barely caught a glimpse of. When he woke up, he was surrounded by blocks of blacked out cubes in what looked like a giant storage facility. After about a day or two, he learned that his first assumptions had been somewhat true. 

From what he’d gathered through listening to hushed conversations exchanged while the security guards were busy, and from a few familiar faces detained with him, including his good friend Amunet, he came to realize they had been brought there because they had been labeled as dangerous by simply knowing or associating with Scrooge McDuck and his family. 

From close family members and friends to bitter enemies, or from good and bad to neutral, nobody seemed to be spared. It made D’jinn seethe at the injustice of it all, while villains such as the Beagle Boys and the infamous Magica de Spell may have deserved such treatment, this F.O.W.L. organization was indiscriminately locking away so many innocent people. He had even seen them lock up a couple of elderly ducks that could have easily passed as Scrooge’s own parents 

(Impossible, he thought, for a man of McDuck’s age)

 but not before the old woman had let loose a string of unintelligible words that D’jinn was pretty sure were some colorful expletives.

It appeared that the enemy had overlooked nothing, and any means of escape had been locked away along with them. The canine began to lose track of time as freedom seemed more and more impossible.

But D’jinn remained resolute that if anyone could pull off the impossible, it’d be Scrooge McDuck.

 Then, a strangely dressed duck decked in a dark flowing cape and hat swooped in, followed by his heavily armored companion, and while they were acting antagonistic towards each other the dog had a feeling they had come to help. His hopes soared even higher when Scrooge’s pilot crashed in after them. At last help had come.

Then that nefarious Steelbeak had chosen to fight underhandedly, controlling the Beagle Boys and the dread sorceress herself as the heroes fought valiantly back before being imprisoned as well, and any hope of freedom appeared to rest on the shoulders of Launchpad McQuack, Scrooge’s pilot.

 D’jinn winced as the poor duck was thrown about and beaten to the ground, unfairly outmatched in strength and numbers.

“Get back up!”

“You got this!”

As big and strong as he seemed in appearance, the warrior canine doubted the pilot could last at this rate, watching from the dark with urgency as he struggled to lift his head.

“Ugh... I’m sorry, I’m no hero...”

D’jinn shook with righteous indignation.

‘No! You cannot give up...!’

He couldn’t just stand by, there had to be something he could do to help, anything....

“That’s ridiculous! You helped inspire me to be a hero!”

He watched in anticipation as Launchpad gathered enough strength to look their way, unsure gaze focused on his friends as they encouraged him to keep fighting.

“And me pal.”

A new source of light brought their attention to the square that held the young red headed duck and the strangely proportioned robot child, both looking back at Launchpad with hope and confidence.

“Same here.” 

The prison above them lit up, revealing a familiar Moonlander.

“I as well, Earth Launchpad.”

The room quickly grew brighter as, one after another, everyone stepped forward to show the duck that they believed in him. 

And so did D’jinn.

His cubicle lit up as his hope returned.

“Blabbidy-Baloonersize!”

....Later....

Gene watched elated as scores of people poured out from their now-opened confines and began to wreak havoc on anyone unlucky enough to be a F.O.W.L. lackey. It was an unspoken call to arms, inspired by Scrooge’s pilot and, while the genie hadn’t seen what had actually happened, Steelbeak running away while screaming in terror was a pretty clear indication that the good guys were gaining the upper hand. 

Gene was so relieved that everyone had been freed, he almost missed Launchpad and company dashing towards the main entrance before slipping out of sight. 

He took another look around him, and couldn’t help but quirk the edges of his beak up in a mischievous grin.

  “Well.... dunno how long I’ll be sticking around for, might as well be part of the fun...”

“SHABOOEY!!!”

_______

There was low buzz followed by a click, and suddenly the front of his enclosure swung open. Eyes narrowing in careful focus, D’jinn stepped out from his prison and into what was quickly becoming a losing battle for F.O.W.L.’s remaining underlings.

Scrooge’s family had been triumphant, and he was now free to assist in thwarting what remained of their foes once and for all. The canine reached for his hip, unsheathing his sword and slicing it through the air before resting it with his arm against his side. The McDucks may be fighting greater forces, but that didn’t mean there weren’t loose ends to tie up.

“SHABOOEY!”

Ears perking under his keffiyeh, D’jinn turned to the side and lifted his head just in time to see something rather peculiar rounding the corner. It appeared to be a small duck, but he was gliding through the air as if there was nothing to it, a trail of smoke billowing from his lower body.

For a single moment, D’jinn lost his carefully guarded composure as his eyes widened in shock and his jaw dropped.

It was as if all those fantastic stories he’d heard growing up had come to life in front of him.

He recalled the hushed conversations among a few of his fellow prisoners, all regarding the terrifying power the Phantom Blot wielded when he came after them. 

However, what now came to the forefront of D’jinn’s mind were their descriptions of the strange and obviously magical little guy smooshed to an impossible degree within the Blot’s gauntlet. He didn’t quite understand what they could be referring to, but now, despite his usually serious demeanor, D’jinn couldn’t stop the small bit of wonderment from rising up in him, momentarily forgetting where he was.

“Could it really be...?” 

A loud crash from above followed by a chorus of screaming Eggheads brought him back to reality. The warrior shook his head, scowling to himself for losing focus.

“No, I must not waver! The task at hand requires a warrior’s spirit!”

Sword at the ready, D’jinn quickly made his way towards the sounds of fighting, the lingering thoughts of his ancestors replaced with the challenge to come. He still chanced to glance back one more time at the spot he had last seen that duck, hoping that he’d be able to see him again once all of this was over.

....Later....

With F.O.W.L. defeated and it’s remaining agents scattered, everyone wasted no time in congratulating the heroes of the hour, rushing at McDuck and family as they made their way down the library tower. It was a whirlwind of joyful cries and relieved sighs as the exhausted but happy family meandered amongst the crowd, breaking up into teams to prepare for their departure.

With everything finally settling down, Gene casually sat in midair as everyone else began to disperse and make preparations of their own, all the while chatting amongst each other. He figured it must have been a sense of camaraderie that came with surviving such an ordeal, and while he wished he could fully indulge in the same feelings of comfort, he couldn’t help but feel on edge. 

The powers that bound him to the lamp hadn’t reclaimed him yet. 

He knew that couldn’t last much longer, whatever forces the Phantom Blot had used to disrupt the seal’s power and separate him from his prison

....no, home....

wouldn’t be able to hold on their own, now that the Blot was gone and Gene was free from any magic-proof confinement. 

Earlier, before the extra trepidation had sunk in, he did try to enjoy his temporary freedom for as long as it lasted. 

And oh, how he wished it lasted. 

The genie chatted briefly with the young sorceress that had freed him, but not until after she and a younger hummingbird finally stopped hugging the pink clad girl, who he recognized as the little spitfire who tied him up and interrogated him during the entertaining fiasco that was Donald’s wish for a ‘perfect family’. 

Despite the now growing feeling that this would all end soon, Gene had enjoyed himself. It was nice to just interact with others again and not be at someone’s beck and call. While he did like using his powers to have fun with mortals, there were more than enough terrible things he’d been forced to do, and the ability to simply be among people he knew couldn’t demand something of him was a rare reprieve.  One he probably wouldn’t be getting again.

Now, with the excitement beginning to wind down, Gene decided to take in the busy atmosphere, not expecting anyone to notice him up there with how preoccupied they all were. 

“Pardon me...”

The duck quickly spun around in midair, looking down and catching the sharp gaze of a rather serious looking canine all dressed in dark, save for a few splashes of red. He was staring up at him so intensely that Gene jokingly thought if he looked at him any harder lasers would shoot from his eyes.

“Hmmm... an interesting side character, guess a little more mingling wouldn’t hurt.”

Without missing a beat, Gene floated down from his place above the crowd to hover at eye level with the stranger.

 “Well He-llo there! Always nice to meet a new face!” he said eagerly, flashing a grin that he hoped came off as charismatic and giving a wink.

The dog’s eyes widened for a few seconds before returning to his serious expression. Trying to act nonplussed by the lack of enthusiasm, the duck waved his arm to conjure a neon sign above him, his name spelled in blinking lights. Smile unwavering, he held out his hand.

“Name’s Gene! Nice to meet ya!”

The dog stared at the outstretched appendage, his hesitance causing Gene’s excitement to falter. Luckily, it wasn’t long before he was reaching out and gripping his hand in a firm but friendly shake.

“Faris D’jinn. It is an honor.” He said, head bowing slightly.

“Woah, an honor? Kinda formal, but I think I like it.”

Gene suddenly perked in realization. ‘Faris’, if he recalled, meant knight or horseman, and he couldn’t help but think how it suited the noble looking gentleman in front of him. And with a surname like ‘D’jinn’, well, why would the genie not find that interesting? He became so uncharacteristically lost in these thoughts that he almost failed to realize that his companion was staring at him a bit oddly, and he was suddenly aware that he was still holding his hand. 

Awkwardly clearing his throat, Gene hovered back slightly while relinquishing his grip, trying to hide how awkward he felt by widening his smile.

He was sure he looked half crazy.

“Well Mr. D’jinn, I must say it’s a pleasure to meet such polite and proper ol’ gent and- Ooooh!”

Gene was at his side so fast that the warrior nearly jumped away in surprise as the genie’s eyes sparkled with curiosity at the sight of his sword’s hilt peeking from his robes.

“Oh-hoho, that’s quite a blade you got there. It almost looks like... I wanna say late Mamluk dynasty, Burji maybe...? But that can’t be right, unless it’s a really good replica.”

If D’jinn was shocked by his educated guess he hid it well, although Gene did notice the dog’s brow raise slightly from were it was hidden under the hem of his headdress.

“You are quite wise, although I would not expect anything less from a great and mystical genie.”

Gene’s eyes shot up from the finely crafted blade to the canine’s face. The gaze that met him was serious but not in a way that came off as cruel or accusatory. Still, that look, accompanied by such a bold statement, made the duck want to buckle his knees and shrink into himself.

Just who was this guy?

“Are you not a genie?”

The duck suppressed the urge to gulp at the quiet forcefulness behind the simple inquiry. It was after all a sensible question, he did more or less fit the description of his kind, though he liked to think he set himself apart with his showman’s flare because, servant or not, he still liked seeing others smile.

Now, his inner showman was currently at a loss for words, opting for wanting to hide his face in his turban.

“Get it together Genester! You heard him, how ‘great and mystical’ do you think you look right now?”

Trying to shake of the awkwardness, he disappeared from D’jinns side to reappear in front of him in a puff of smoke. 

“Yessir! One-hundred percent bonafide and certified wish-granting genie, that’s me!” Gene exclaimed, conjuring up a laminated license that read ‘Certified Genie: Gene C. Baba’ complete with a photo of himself smiling awkwardly while donning a thick pair eyeglasses and suspenders.

D’jinn stayed unwaveringly quiet as the duck nearly shoved the card to his face.

“He he... yeah, funny thing though, the whole ‘wish-granting’ part of my deal is a bit... compromised at the moment. Y’see, only the holder of a genie’s lamp can control said genie, i.e., me” Gene pulled an arrow out of thin air and pointed towards himself “and big bad and Blotty left my lamp behind along with the rest of the lost treasure of Collie Baba when he sucked me into that fancy oven-mitt of his, you’d think with all his magical know-how he wouldn’t forget that important tidbit, right?” 

Why did he sound so nervous?

“And I tell you what, I’m glad I’m not strapped to that thing anymore...!”

D’jinns eyes widened as a grim realization dawned on him.

“So, it is true. The device the Phantom Blot carried with him, the one he used to steal the magic from those he hunted...”

“I swear it was totally against my will!”

The canine shook his head. “No, I heard of its use from other captives, some who were brought here months before F.O.W.L. found me. Gene, how long have they kept you prisoner?”

The genie awkwardly rubbed one of his arms, looking away from D’jinn as the mood shifted drastically. While he may had been a little uncomfortable before, now he wanted to focus on anything but the dog in front of him. He might end up saying something that would break his facade, and he couldn’t....

“Technically, was already a prisoner. Y’know, the whole ‘genie in the lamp’ deal.”

“What are you doing?! Stop talking before...!”

“It’s like, I dunno... I’m almost glad this happened...”

“Idiot...”

“I mean not that I helped capture all those people or anything, because I still feel real bad about all that! It’s just that, whatever he did, even after I escaped, I’m still here. This right now is the closest I’ve ever felt to being...”

A sudden feeling of a hand gently enveloping his own prevented him from saying anything else. Momentarily shocked out of his train of thought, Gene dared to look back at the stranger he had begun to admit his sadness to.

He expected to see pity, but the eyes that looked back at him held something different. They were narrowed and serious, but not like before. There was fire in that glance, and as D’jinn’s grip on his hand tightened it only seemed to burn brighter.

“You shall be free, that I promise you.”

If Gene’s eyes got any wider he thought they’d escape out of his head. Heck, there was a better chance of that happening than what the man in front of him had just said. 

“Heh, Being trapped in that pickle jar must’ve done a number on my ears. Y’know everything’s muffled in there, might not have heard ya right....” 

He tried to laugh, to call the his bluff.

The dog said nothing, nor did he change his  determined expression. He simply gave Gene’s hand a quick but firm squeeze, as if to reaffirm what he said. 

“But why....”

Just then, he felt it.

It wasn’t how he expected it to happen, but he knew.

A panicked glance down confirmed his suspicions as he saw a bright light spread from the tip of his shoes, gradually making its way up his body, a familiar emptiness growing with it. 

His time was up.

“No, please, it can’t be over yet...”

He felt D’jinn grab his other hand.

Even as he felt himself fading away, as he began to feel despair weigh him down further and any lingering hope drained from him, Gene again dared to look up at his companion.

He was greeted by the kindest smile he had ever seen.

 “Because, it is the right thing to do.”

 A single flash, and the genie was gone.

___________

D’jinn was left standing at the now-empty space in front of him, hands outstretched to cusp something that was no longer there as his smile disappeared, allowing the heaviness of the moment sink in. 

That silly little duck hadn’t been at all what he expected. The stories his grandmother told him painted a picture of genies as powerful and filled with fiery intimidation, as well as being wiser than any mortal born of flesh and bone...

“Technically, I was already a prisoner.”

  D’jinn’s frown deepened. Those words, they certainly weren’t spoken by some mighty cosmic being, but by a man, who could feel sadness and fear just like anyone else.   

D’jinn thought back to the story of his ancestor and a kind servant trapped for eternity, until she saw it in her heart to exchange that eternity for a lifetime of love and happiness. This was certainly a different situation, but wasn’t it still the right thing to do?

And those eyes.

The look of desperation in those beautiful gold-colored eyes as he vanished were now burned into his memory. It was a cry for help, and the warrior ached to answer it.

He had made a promise, and while it may had been spoken in a passionate spur of the moment, he would honor it.

Resolute, he scanned the enormous crowd, his well-trained senses focused and on high alert for any sounds or scents that would lead him to his quarry. The minutes ticked by as his stoic expression masked his growing apprehension. 

“There!”

It was faint among the throngs of people surrounding him, nearly undetectable, but his keen canine nose picked up on a familiar smell of dusty tomes mixed with the metallic scent of coins. With extreme calculation, he allowed his tracking instincts take the helm as he stealthily maneuvered through the crowd, ears perked beneath his keffiyeh for any signs of...

“Della, Launchpad! How’re the plane repairs comin’ along?”

Quiet relief washed over D’jinn when he noticed a familiarly distinct top hat poking out from the crowd near the library’s entrance. Making his way towards the fellow adventurer, he couldn’t help but notice just how tired the old man looked, uncharacteristically showing his age. 

“Scrooge, my friend.”

Caught off guard, the duck tensed so hard that he nearly lost his balance before turning to the canine in surprise.

“D’jinn? Bless me bagpipes that villainous vulture nabbed you too?” 

Scrooge shook his head as he adjusted his spectacles, expression shifting back to exhaustion, his browsed creased upwards in guilt.

“I’m sorry lad, you lot were all dragged into this mess because of me. I cannae imagine what you must ‘ave endured at the hands of those fiends.”

D’jinn’s eyes narrowed as he placed his hand on his chest, expression serious but sincere. 

“Noble Scrooge, the only true guilty ones are the villains you speak of, those who would seek to harm the innocent indiscriminately and use them for their own nefarious means.”

Scrooge’s sighed heavily at the canine’s statement.

 “Aye, like me poor darlin’ Webby.”

Like Gene.

“I have dedicated my life to righting such wrongs. I hold nothing against you my friend, I could not let such transgressions against an ally stand. That is why we are here. You have many on whom you can rely, and friends are part of the journey as well, are they not?”

Scrooge stared at D’jinn for a moment, absorbing the man’s insightful words before breaking into a gentle smile, eyes shining with gratitude.

“Thank you, I... needed to here that. I know I can rely on my family when I need ‘em, but it takes times like these to remind this stubborn old fool that ‘family’ can be many things.”

Scrooge silently laughed at himself.

“Sorry, been feeling a little more sentimental than usual.”

Nodding in understanding and knowing that he’d soon depart, Djinn decided to waste no time and reached into his robes as he lowered himself onto one knee, startling Scrooge with this sudden change in demeanor as he withdrew a blank scroll along with a quill.

“Not all has been made right, and my journey must continue.”

The look of determination that met the old duck’s gaze startled him with its ferocity.

“Scrooge McDuck, I simply need a moment to ask you some questions, and the rest will fall to me.”

Scrooge stared back for a moment, perplexed. His family would be leaving soon, and he needed to help them prepare. However, the weight of the severity in the canine’s request, along with the deep sincerity with which he’d said it, told him all he needed to know. Nodding in affirmation, Scrooge watched as D’jinn unraveled the scroll in front of them, quill raised and ready.

“I wish to know about the lost treasure of Collie Baba, and the lamp that is hidden there.”

I’m so sorry, that took MUCH longer to complete than I wanted it to, l have more projects planned and hopefully once courses are over they won’t be as bad. Also sorry for the poor writing quality, I’m kind of rusty. Still I hope that whoever took the time to read this found something entertaining about it. Thank you for your interest, until next time!

[halothenthehorns]

All in the Family

Chapter 127: Out of the Fire

At first James thought the concussive, ear-splitting shrieking noise was coming from him. He knew he wanted to scream, but the air felt lodged in his throat now, because he couldn't see Sirius! Had he been vanished into an unknown abyss for dying in this future!?

They were in a very dark room and something massive was moving about, a sunset was forcing painful light into their eyes from cracks around the edges of heavy curtains only illuminating movement but no distinct shape. The rank smell of several unidentifiable things left him gasping and wheezing and he just kept flailing madly around, he wouldn't stop until he found him!

Something painfully tight latched onto his neck and forced him to bend over double, he shrieked in fury, trying to pull away and blindly going for his wand, but he couldn't find it! He must have dropped it when he landed-

"Prongs, stop, moving," Remus hissed in his ear with more stress than he ever would have believed him capable of, hand probably white-knuckled on his neck, he was holding so tight and suffocating him a bit, but it was obvious Moony didn't dare let up.

Heart still thudding, the maddening scene of Voldemort murdering his brother slowly ebbed from his eyes to really take in their surroundings.

Buckbeak finally began to calm now that all racket had deceased, but he was still clicking his beak in fury even as all of them edged as far away as they could bent double. He was standing much taller than usual, and James's eyes finally adjusted to see him perched on a bed. There was fresh hay and sawdust all around, plus a bag of dead rats sitting where the pillows should, leaning against a wooden frame like a mock bag of feed. There were deep scratches in the posts, ruining whatever design had once been inlaid, like Buckbeak often rubbed his sharp beak against it. The real problem of why he didn't go back to his meal came apparent when they saw all the blood around him wasn't from his food, but a deep cut in his front leg.

Sirius finally came into view, and James breathed in relief and tried to move towards him, but Remus kept him in the forced bow with bruising force as Padfoot began gently, "hey there buddy, wow that looks like a problem. I bet it hurts, how'd you manage that huh? Come here Buckbeak, come on, I promise I'll summon up whatever your favorite is if you let me have a look."

Maybe it was the gentle tone, maybe it was the familiarity of the person even if he was several years younger, in Remus's opinion it was just Sirius's innate ability to soothe anyone if he wanted to with that natural charisma when he unleashed it and nobody could resist. Regardless, Buckbeak finally folded his wings and made a pitiful cooing noise as he nudged his head against his shoulder and shuffled forward on three legs while Sirius kept up his inane chatter and carefully climbed up beside him, never moving to fast.

There were already some bandages and cotton balls waiting open and ready at the foot of the king sized bed, Sirius ruddy hoped someone was up here helping the poor thing out. He could now only wish it was himself though, it would be the most useful thing he'd ever done in his life at this point instead of- nope! He was doing it now, taking every care to keep chatting with the hippogriff as he cleaned the wound and wrapped it up tight. He didn't dare draw his wand to try anything else, these beasts were notoriously shy about magic in their presence.

The others began cautiously rising back to normal, and Buckbeak allowed it as Sirius began hand-feeding him from the bag of rats. His tail was still thrashing, binocular vision able to track everything on both sides of his head, but he remained at Sirius's side standing on the bed rather than trying to chase them off, which would do no good, he'd already seen Evans try the door out of the corner of his eye.

James tried edging forward, but Buckbeak spat a dead rat in his face, tearing up his bedding with his good claw as he heavily pawed the ground. Sirius reached up and pat his beak while catching James's eye with the most comforting smile he could offer. "Relax Prongs," his tone was still more honeyed than it had ever been speaking to his best mate, he usually reserved such a thing for teachers he was trying to flatter out of detention. It never worked on anyone but this hippogriff before. "I'm, I'm fine-"

He couldn't keep lying, his voice shook and his fingers began to tremble and the restless animal easily sensed his distress and began ruffling his feathers in unease. Sirius quieted himself and began running his hand along the gray feathers now, stopping to scratch in between the shoulder blades and the back of the neck, those hard-to-reach places that had him almost cooing with content and finally relaxing into him.

No, he was not fine. Of all the trouble he'd ever caused his friends, this was by far the most grievous one yet, now with Harry added to the mix! His godson, his poor godson forced to see this, live Voldemort's pleasure of murdering him! All because he couldn't do one stupid thing right and suck it up in this house. Perhaps he should take a page out of Wormtail's book and start distancing himself from them, give them all a break from his never ending catastrophes!

They watched in distress as Sirius worked himself up to a silent storm, he was clearly making the animal ill at ease as well no matter the affection given, so when Smith grabbed the book up off the ground and began reading, both startled badly yet again. Buckbeak threw his wings to their full extent and shrieked at her while Sirius flinched and had no time to duck, earning the retaliation of being thrown into the heavy curtains and sent them all on top of him, throwing the rest of the room into sharp relief.

Out of the Fire, into the frying pan, Remus finished in his head as he and James rushed forward to help untangle him while the powerful horse legs kicked wildly at the wall, sending a splintering noise in the very foundation while the bellowing shrieks began again.

Alice dropped the book and immediately bowed in apology, mildly appeasing the hippogriff enough he didn't lunge off the bed to attack her at least. He still didn't seem able to settle though, making a keening noise of longing and clicking his beak as he began pacing restlessly on the bed.

It was the most splendid thing in here. The midnight walls had silvery threads in the design up to the ceiling like veins that seemed to seep right down to the canopy that was torn to shreds, but the grandeur ended there. Regulus had only been in here once to even know such a thing was in his parents' room, otherwise it was unrecognizable as all of their things had vanished. They were forbidden from entering, but obviously that hadn't stopped Sirius's purge of the house, which of course made perfect sense why Sirius had put his ruddy pet up here.

His brother smiled, just a bit when his mates got him back on his feet and he realized the same of his own destruction. Regulus longed to throw at him it was doing shit like this why he brought so much of his own troubles on himself, he'd never really tried to make peace with mum and dad. Instead he seemed to go out of his way to do things they dislike just to complain that they hated him.

Regulus cringed at the idea of going back and attempting the same. He'd never be so blatant and in their face at it as his brother, but he didn't much like the idea of them shouting at him the way they did Sirius if he told them he had other plans for his life. He still longed for some kind of peaceful balance.

Potter and Lupin both seemed reluctant to let him back out of arm's length, but the creature refused to settle until Sirius got back on the bed with him and snapped dangerously at anyone who tried to join him. Sirius offered him another rodent carcass and waited until he'd gnashed away at it before nodding back at Smith with that calm aloof air once more he was so familiar with, it was impossible to tell what he was really thinking when he shut down like that, just how they were raised. Mother may actually be proud of him at that moment.

Now his idiot brother was going to die because he'd been in this house too long and refused to listen to anyone, but at least he'd have someone around to notice like Harry and Lupin. The shock of it all felt like an insulting blow to his world view. Sirius was going to be murdered for doing the opposite of what he'd done, was there really no right answer?

She began again in an attempt at a soothing tone like his, and though the bird head was tossed in agitation, he didn't throw his companion aside again but allowed the noise as it did him no harm and her voice was very soft, with fear. She read with dread of poor Harry's panic as he tore off for the Hospital Wing for McGonagall, who wasn't there. She'd been transferred to St. Mungo's.

Harry only had Snape to turn to for help, and that idea didn't seem to be occurring to him as his friends caught up and he had to explain the whole maddening concept to them.

Regulus listened with pity for Harry having to live through this, but something else was ebbing to the surface as he watched the Potter in here. Envy. Sirius kept looking to him, offering him that carefree smile as he kept patting at the beast and even winking at Lupin like this was some joke, making silly faces and even starting to hum a tune under his breath as he continued scratching at the animal, and when he wasn't doing that he was just the haughty Black heir. For all anyone could tell his godson was out having a picnic with him. It was a very good farce a lesser person would have fallen for.

Sirius didn't even look at him. Not to gloat this was the proper way to go against the Dark Lord, not to sneer and mock him for being up in this room he shouldn't be or even to have a laugh about it. He'd known for a very long time now James Potter was his brother's equal in a way he never could be, but this hadn't felt quite so insulting until this very moment where he clearly wasn't even going to be a passing blip as his brother was probably over there pondering what his last thoughts would be.

Frank had his hands on Alice's waist as she read, holding her close as her voice trembled for Harry's pain. They didn't even know Sirius, not really, they felt they had a better understanding of the man he'd become through Harry than the teenager who seemed so determined to ignore the proceedings.

Their aching sympathy though didn't dim their downright confusion at the circumstances. He caught Lily's eyes and saw the same confused expression as she watched him, Hermione's pertinent questions that had no effect on Harry had the three of them very worried something about this wasn't feeling right.

Sirius shouldn't have been leaving this home for this plan to be possible, but this was the same man who'd broken out of Azkaban, that part wasn't so unbelievable no matter who told him what. Why would You-Know-Who need him to get this weapon though? That was a very stumping question, and one they hoped they weren't privy to. If Harry dipped back into the other's mind and heard, the answer would give no relief to these transgressions.

Ron's answer was, plausible, but one look at Regulus didn't make it hold much weight. He'd been killed very soon after his entrance, it seemed laughable he'd even been in You-Know-Who's presence, let alone had some key of knowledge.

Ginny and Luna arriving stopped the impending argument, Harry was so desperate with anger by now that it was a miracle a plan was agreed by all to use Umbridge's fireplace to check this out.

The only one he spoke to for his troubles was Kreacher, laughing about the entire painful situation. Sirius really wasn't there, and now they may get a live version of hearing the great and mighty Black turn out like them if he was tortured while Harry was forced to watch. Neville now being in the very room with them nearly made reality splinter before their eyes.

Lily finally dragged her eyes off of James Potter's white face and buried her own away in her hands so she didn't have to see his reaction when Harry finally remembered Severus Snape was a member of the Order. She didn't even believe anymore he would have helped Harry, she didn't believe much of anything anymore. Here she was, nearly crying in sorrow for these two and only able to imagine her poor son losing someone again, and hating her best friend, what on Earth was this future? How could it be possible something like this could exist?

Something in her sparked traitorously as she looked back up when she heard him lying to Umbridge. Veritaserum was far from the only truth serum, and for him to pretend he wouldn't have any others was laughable. She turned mechanically back to Potter to see his silent screaming was still in full blast, but his wand was in Lupin's hand and he didn't even seem to care. Even the simple fact that he hadn't a reaction for Severus and only had eyes for his best friend felt right to her. If he'd gone about insulting him now, at a time like this, she'd know he was heartless. Instead she was now reasonably confident, almost hopeful again that Severus really was still in the Order for Dumbledore's secret reason rather than any plot of You-Know-Who's. Sev had no reason to lie to Umbridge and help Sirius anymore than he would Harry, but that's exactly what he was doing.

Harry seemed to miss this revelation, he watched his potions teacher go with the purest loathing once more, and she couldn't blame him, after everything Snape had done to her boy. She wrapped her arms around herself as if torn in two. Was this just another false wish then? She still wanted to see in him that childhood friend? It didn't excuse what he'd called her, but maybe if he really saved Sirius Black's life it would show he wanted to change...

Alice nearly shrieked and wanted to throw the book away from herself when Umbridge's next solution was to use the torture curse on Harry. Buckbeak was still no calmer in the heavy environment and glowered at her, but Sirius was quick to keep his attention, a murmuring promise of more spoils for him as soon as he could. He was starting to lose his composure though, they could all see the cracks now. He wasn't even looking at his best mate anymore, his fingers were trembling in the soft texture and his hair was covering most of his face.

The two had once been each other's salvation in escaping Hogwarts, Sirius fought the mad desire to try so now. Throw open that window and ride off into the sunset on the back of the hippogriff, maybe animals could come and go from this nightmare.

He knew he couldn't though, he felt like a coward for even thinking it. His friends might be better off without him, but damn it all, even Hermione was coming up with quite the story to Umbridge's face and got Harry out of that situation, the three of them heading off to the Forbidden Forest! If that girl, who hadn't even wanted to help him moments ago, thinking Harry was having some nightmare, could manage that, he'd suck it up and be there for them any way they wanted him.

[shewhowantsmouseears]

morgwing meet-up messy drabble

My year-long-fic-break has been slightly broken, but don’t expect too much. I had enough brain juice in me to write this 3 page silliness.

Still riding the high from @queenie-draws-stuff ‘s rad Morgana redesign, I decided to write a potential “how they met” deal, combining the original Fungus Amongus quotes/situation with Queenie’s Goth Rock set-up.

Additional notes now I think of them before jumping right to what is basically “mel enjoys writing simps”

The Band uses a We Will Rock You style song (been listening to this cover) to hypnotize her fans into attacking Darkwing and the gang.

Halestorm’s cover of Bad Romance is definitely suitable for attacking and flirting with Darkwing at the same time.

At one point, Darkwing gets her guitar away from her and he’s confident “Ahaha! Now that I’ve taken away your magic, you’re helpless!” And Morgana smiles... then bursts into cackles. “Oh, Dark Darling... my guitar isn’t the source of my power. It’s merely a conduit.” (”a... a what”) “In other words...” her hands and eyes glow. “It’s time for the encore, baby.”

OKAY TIME FOR THE SHORT WRITTEN THING ITSELF

In hindsight, this wasn’t the best plan, but in his defense, it worked all the time on a TV show he’d watched as a child. Darkwing paused to think about that train of logic, and pondered if perhaps he should stop trying to plan his investigations that way and instead follow his own instincts next time.

 “OWWWWW BONES DO NOT BEND THAT WAY!”

 If there was a next time. He had assumed the whole goth rock mutant monster image was just that, an image. The guy with two heads, the girl with one eye, the behemoth of a drummer? All of it was just costumes and acting! So when announced his presence in his typical overly dramatic fashion, he assumed they would cower in fear before offering their assistance. Instead, they had jumped him and were now holding his arms behind his back and threatening to tie his limbs into knots. As he continued to squirm in place, he once more tried to plead his innocence.

 “I’m here to HELP!” He cried out, nervously noticing the two-headed terror cracking his knuckles while the one-eyed wonder was pulling out various sharp instruments from her purse, and they definitely weren’t the musical kind. “I was just looking for clues! You know those robberies that have been happening around here, right?! There’s a connection between them and your band!”

 “And now we’re about to disconnect your head from your neck!” Said the left head, and the right headed nodded vigorously.

 Darkwing winced, as the others advanced on him, the grip on his arms tightening. If this was his last day on earth, he really wished his last words to Gosalyn hadn’t been “Remember to run the dishwasher after homework.” He closed his eyes, his brain struggling to think of how to get him out of this sticky situation…

 “HEY!” A sharp - yet familiar – voice broke through the scene. “What’s going on here?! We do not treat our fans this way! Put him down!”

 It took less than a second for Darkwing to recognize the voice – this was the singer of the band, after all. When Gosalyn had showed him the link to her new favorite indie band, Darkwing had taken a compulsory listen without paying attention to the visuals, as he was busy trying to pin down the strange case of robberies where the victims couldn’t remember being robbed at all. The singer was definitely talented, a strong but sultry voice that Darkwing certainly wouldn’t have minded listening to on a loop. But it’d been also terribly distracting, so he hadn’t tried to give the music video any attention. Once again, this proved to have been not the best idea in hindsight.

 Because then he would have prepared for the absolute bombshell that walked through the curtains.

 Darkwing opened one eye to see his savior, and then both eyes were not only open, but they were also quite wide in shock. The woman in question was a leggy stunner, her black and white hair parted over one side and trailing down her eerily pale feathers like a shadowy walk lit by moonlit. Sharp green eyes pierced right through his heart, analyzing him as he stood there in a slack-jawed stupor. She adjusted her blood-red guitar over her back, the crimson and black spider-web outfit giving him the feeling he’d be the fly that eagerly walked into this parlor any day. She rested one hand on her hip, and snapped her fingers – even her nails were unique – long, sharp, yellow, and deadly.

 Darkwing had no more time to realize he had a type and she was it when he was let go and dropped to the floor. As he scrambled to get up and dust himself off, the one-eyed woman huffed. “We caught this weirdo sneaking around here, Morgana.”

 Morgana held up a hand, signaling for silence. “I got this, Cornea.” She looked Darkwing up and down once more before smiling in amusement. “I believe this is where you introduce yourself.” She offered her hand to shake. “Nice to meet you, mister…?”

 “D-Dingwing Dork.”  Darkwing sputtered, his palm feeling incredibly sweaty in her delicate hand. He was quick to realize his mistake, yelped, and fumbled with his hands and hat as he tried to make his brain calm down. “DARK! Darkwing Duck! Dark-Darkwing Duck.” After a hard throat clear, he tried to pretend he hadn’t made an absolute fool of himself several times, tipping his hat politely, doing a gentlemanly bow, and ignoring the various eyerolls of the other band-mates. “At your service.”

 “What an unusual name,” Morgana commented, lightly tilting his beak up with one of her fingers, closing the gap between them for a few but very, very personal seconds. “But then you appear to be very unusual… I like that.” When she pulled away, it was a sheer miracle Darkwing didn’t fall forward, though he certainly leaned in enough to make it a close call. “We were just wrapping up rehearsal. We want to close up shop early, what with all those midnight robberies going on.”

 Darkwing stopped for a second, befuddled. “Hang on. How did you know they were midnight robberies?” He was fairly certain that was something the press hadn’t leaked, and he’d only just figured out the timeline a day before.

 Morgana froze in place – eyes quickly shooting to her fellow players – before rolling her shoulders, readjusting her guitar so that it slid back into her arms. “I… deduced it.”

 Maybe if Launchpad and Gosalyn were there – the former to ask more questions, the latter to smack some sense into him – Darkwing would have taken greater notice of that lengthy pause. Instead? She deduced it, he thought, his heart doing cartwheels. My kinda woman. Despite his clear problematic infatuation, his brain did have enough cells left to ask another important question. “Isn’t it kind of… peculiar… to hold a rehearsal this late?”

 Morgana plucked a few notes off her guitar, walking back onto the front of the stage, the curtains now perfectly parted to show the moon shining down from the ceiling – the venue, such as it was, had certainly seen better days. But now the various holes above seemed to be an improvement rather than something that needed fixing. “I enjoy the night,” she answered, and then playfully added, “Besides, the sun is so harsh on my skin.”

 “You know…” Darkwing casually strolled up to Morgana’s side, his previous predicament forgotten already, “I’m something of a creature of the night myself.” He wiggled his eyebrows.

 Morgana chuckled quietly. “I bet we have a lot in common, Darkwing. In fact…” She lightly nudged the guitar’s neck into Darkwing’s actual neck, enjoying the audible tiny ‘eep’ his flustered mouth made. “I bet we could make beautiful music together.”

[rosicae]

Writing tip or something - planning scenes

Writing difficult scenes is always a struggle. Here are some tips to make the process a little easier, and more importantly, actually get something done instead of staring at a blank page for two months (guilty).

First, let's start where you left off. Maybe they're exploring the dark woods trying to find their lost cat and they come across a beast. Great! Battle scene time.

The first thing you need to ask yourself is what you'll get out of this battle. The main points, or plot-twists, if there are any. For example: Maybe the cat turned into the beast and they only realise as it lies dying; maybe one of the main characters die; maybe they find a key in the beast's skull; maybe they spare the beast and it becomes their friend; maybe the beast just dies and that's it. I'm not judging, there's a plethora of reasons you'd do anything in stories. Most scenes should have some sort of lead, whether it be key or death or kiss or whatever, depending on what sort of story you're cooking, but it's up to you.

So, figure out your main point. For simplicity's sake, I'll go with: “They kill the beast, they find a key”. Finding the key will be a clear lead to their next move. But for now, let's focus on the current scene.

You're going to want to order the events. Writing scenes like this off the bat can be pretty hard, so let's just go with what we know first.

I'm not joking when I say a lot of my scenes start out sort of like this.

Now, to build upon this beauty, we have to dig into each segment. Let's start with part A!

PART A - “Rosi encounters a beast.”

What sort of beast is it? A slimy tentacle monster? A catfish-pirate? A deformed bear? Dracula?? Your decision will affect the entire scene, so really think about what you choose. Monsters are super fun, so be creative if your story allows it! I'll pick a duck-faced bear spider hybrid. What does that do? It might help to draw your monster if it's a struggle to think it through. Here's mine!

As you think about their appearance, see how you can use it to their advantage or flaw. You might even already have ideas for certain moves during their fight, or what could be the fatal blow. We'll talk more on that later though.

Next on Part A, how did she encounter it? Was she up in the trees trying to check the sun's direction when suddenly it barreled into her and threw her down the tree? Did she trip over a log only to realise it wasn't a log but an angry treant? Is the forest cursed and monsters just keep chasing after her for no reason??? Maybe she's holding a tracker and the evil villain is sending the monsters after her.... it's good to think about, in the long run. For now though, let's just stick with: "she bumped into the beast"

But try to make it fancy. What was her reaction to bumping into it? Why would she bump into it? Maybe she wasn't looking while she was running and kept bumping into trees, but then one tree was actually the monster. The monster is clearly very fluffy (would probably make a good blanket), so let's make that a clear point.

So now we've got:

“Rosi was running along the forest without properly watching where she was going, when she bumped into a tree - but it was fluffy and warm and beating, not a tree. It was a bear duck spider beast. OOOO! SLAP SLAP!”

Slap slap being “the beast slapped her in her confused daze”, because who wouldn't be surprised if a tree was actually a duck-bear hybrid? This happens to be a perfect initiation to begin battling! On to part B!

PART B - “She fights the beast and kills it.”

This is absolutely the hardest part. It'll take careful consideration and pacing and- oh whatever let's just slap in every action thing we can think of. Even if you think it isn't good, even if it's just little phrases or actions or fancy words or teeny tiny segments you aren't sure about, it's good. Just do it.

-beast slaps her in her confusion/daze and she hits her back against a tree, much pain

-beast snaps its flappy duck beak and honks a bunch, muddling her brain

-rosi throws rocks at it

-rosi somehow breaks off its spider legs, unbalancing it

-beast uses its spider legs to crawl everywhere and be very agile and hard to fend off

-beast stabs her with its stabby legs

-maybe an injury from being slapped around

-rosi tries to run but it's always there

-rosi smacks its beak, very annoyed

-beast forces her to the dirt and pummels her with its stabby paws

-rosi evades its stabbies because the green drippy stuff looks like venom

-venom touches nature stuff and makes it wither

-beast lets out a bellow that shakes the earth and topples trees

-rosi avoids the trees to not die

-rosi scrambles to get up

-the most important thing is to somehow open its skull: plunge a verrryyy strong stick through its eye that tears out the key; or somehow trick it to stab itself with its venom spider legs and it withers and turns to bone/ashes and yay key (I like the second one so I'll go with that, but it's always good to list out your options!)

So I basically just took parts of the forest and parts of the beast's body and natural instincts of someone who is facing death and, adding some creativity, threw together a bunch of possibilites. It might take some practice, but once you're in the flow and have some experience listing this stuff, you'll get the hang of it in no time. Thoughts tend to be short and snappy in quick-paced scenes, so be careful not to go into a whole monologue about their past experiences, but absolutely show some reasoning to the complex things they do if necessary. And leave the monologing for when they're not being killed.

Now let's order them into something that sort of makes sense. It varies depending on what you want, so see if you can make your own unique battle scene out of this list!

-beast slaps her in her confusion/daze and she hits her back against a tree, much pain

-rosi scrambles to get up

-maybe an injury from being slapped around (tree + back + sudden slap = pain, this might be a good time to mention if they already have a flaw like having weak bones or an old injury, but if it isn't your intention to incapacitate them and you want to be realistic, have a reason for them not to insta-die without being op. Maybe she was just slapped into bushes and got little scrapes or a twisted ankle. Maybe she had a plushy backpack that took most of the impact. Remember where your character gets injured too, since pain usually hurts for a while and it's good to add that in wherever needed now and later. It can even drive the story along at times, like a life-threatening blow.)

-beast lets out a bellow that shakes the earth and topples trees

-rosi avoids the trees to not die

-rosi tries to run but it's always there

-beast uses its spider legs to crawl everywhere and be very agile and hard to fend off

-venom touches nature stuff and makes it wither (she notices here and thinks oh no, that is bad, can't let that touch me)

-rosi throws rocks at it (misses because it's agile)

-beast forces her to the dirt and pummels her with its stabby paws

-beast snaps its flappy duck beak and honks a bunch, muddling her brain

-rosi smacks its beak, very annoyed

-beast stabs her with its stabby legs (or tries, let's not kill her just yet if we're deciding on venom QwQ Maybe she uses a plank of wood to save herself last second)

-rosi evades its stabbies because the green drippy stuff looks like venom

X-rosi somehow breaks off its spider legs, unbalancing it (delete because the lower idea is better, but maybe earlier one of the rocks she threw can unbalance it a bit and it jumps on her to attack closer because it feels threatened)

-rosi somehow tricks it to stab itself with its venom spider legs and it withers and turns to bone/ashes and yay key (she tricks it by deflecting it with something strong, like a boulder behind her, she got out of the way just as it does a slash at her, and it bounces perfectly into itself

And just like that, ordering and expanding on every part, you've got yourself an entire fight! Obviously it isn't as easy as counting to ten and opening a pot to a finished piece, but if you just take ten minutes or, better yet, an hour, you'll get somewhere. All you need is the base.

PART C - “She finds a key in its skull.”

Keys are shiny, and if it's daytime, maybe some light can twinkle off it as it falls, or she could just notice it because who wouldn't notice a key trapped in bones? Either way, she picks it up, as you do (unless you want an eagle to swoop in and take it, in which case rosi will have to chase after it and climb a tree and try to take it back from its nest and blahdy blah but rosi doesn't feel like moving anymore after the fight, so let's go with the easier option for now). She might have to wrench it out of bones, but it's fine, she's already dirty from the battle.

So what's the key look like, hmm? Is it rusty and old, or fleshy but firm and warm as suited for being trapped in brains for so long? Or oozing in the same venom, and she has to wipe it off with special fabric only trolls deeper in the forest are capable of making, or throw it in a lake to purify it? Maybe it's short, or missing half that you have to find somewhere along the journey. What does it unlock? Rosi won't know now, obviously, but you'd better have an idea or there'd be no point to it in the first place. Maybe this entire journey is in her mind and she's finding parts of a key to unlock her memory which will be a door to her childhood house. Maybe it's a master key to the villain's castle. Maybe it was accidentally baked in a cookie the beast ordered from a special fish-headed-cat-run bakery, and the little workers will be scrambling around to find the key and be so grateful that rosi brings it back that they hail her as king of fish-headed cats. You never know :D...except you kinda have to, so please have some sort of idea even if it's small.

That's practically all you can do in this part, so next we're on-

PART D - “She questions the key, then goes off to seek reason for it.”

Assuming she collects the key, what are her thoughts? It's all down to personality. Let's say rosi loves keys, and she has a whole collection at home, and she loves shiny things. She'll probably squee at the sight of it and act very excited - "she snatched up the key and chirruped her glee (oh hey, that rhymes!), and after a quick inspection with gleaming eyes, she tucked it safely in her pocket alongside trinkets from the seaside."

Because, you know, obviously she was at the seaside before all this. Or whatever else she was doing. It's your call. It's their personality. It's an optional connection, but a valid one nevertheless. Careful though - if she carries too much, she might get weighed down and drown.

In her case, she doesn't really think too hard on the key. Maybe she's already fought plenty of monsters and gotten a nice treasure trove of stuff. Maybe she's an air-head. Cough. Either way, the obstacle is gone so now she can go off and do what she was doing before - albeit a little more cautious, provided she learns from experience. If there's a clear indicator of what the key is for, or if the character was actively seeking it out, that'll obviously give a different outcome - maybe they'll turn back the way they came (car keys), or head for the town of blue oak (blue key) if that is already in their knowledge database, or ask the next person they see and get guided or tricked.

Finally, let's put this baby together! Let's start simple for now and just slap together this monstrosity with whatever little stuff we think of in the moment and some proper tense. We can build it up later (not here lol I've spent too much on this but you can if you want).

~~Rosi's Magical Adventure~~

Rosi ran along the forest without properly watching where she was going, when she bumped into a tree – but it was fluffy and warm and beating, not a tree. It was a bear duck spider beast.

Fish. That definitely shouldn't exit.

The beast slapped her in her daze and her back slammed against a tree. Despite being in pain, she scrambled to get up. She staggered, feeling the pierce in her ribs, the ache in her feet, the scream in her head that told her to run. It was drowned out under the beast's bellow. The earth shook and trees toppled one after another. Rosi spun on her heel and ran, avoiding the trees that twisted her path.

Even when she thought she outran it, it was always a step behind, a step above, a step ahead. Its spindly legs granted it an agility she couldn't imagine matching. Not only that – wherever the ends of those legs touched, an iridescent liquid spurted out, withering blooming manes and wilting once-proud trunks in an instant.

She shivered. She couldn't let it touch her. Realising that her (flee, running, escaping – whenever you can't think of the right words in the moment, just think of whatever is the closest and use that until you find the right word, or you might waste an hour racking your brains when you could just keep writing) was futile, she pounced into a rolling stop by a mound of rocks. It disoriented the beast for but a moment as she scooped a handful of rocks and hurled them at it. Most missed, or melted into its ragged coat, but a few landed directly against its uppermost legs. It gave an unnerved honk and flung itself at her, forcing her to the dirt, pummeling her with monstrous paws and claws that snapped her skin as she raised her hands to defend her face.

It honked. She grimaced. Her vision blurred and brain muddled with every honk. On impulse, one hand shot out to smack its flapping beak. Its pupils contorted, enraged by her sacrilege, and its spindle-legs shot towards her.

Just in time, she rolled free and pulled herself up, evading the blows that scattered poison over melting green. One hit went into a boulder. The boulder didn't budge. It was ineffective. It sparked an idea in Rosi, but she wasn't sure, so she waited until it happened again, and again it hit a boulder and bounced without damaging the boulder. She danced her way around the clearing, then stopped directly in front of boulder, facing the beast with her lips twisted into a wry smile.

The stabby leg slashed her way, but she ducked out of the way at the last second. Unable to redirect its blow, the leg bounced off the boulder and went directly into the beast's skull. The venom was quick to engulf the beast. Its skin vanished like the trees. It was only (bones, skeletal structure remained) and it fell before her. (If you still aren't sure how to write a part, break it down even further, even if it looks stupid. Keep breaking down everything as much as you need, until everything is plain to see and there are no misunderstandings. Then add on, and keep adding on, until you eventually understand.)

Streams of sunlight (because a lot of the trees died, so now there's some light in the forest) glinted off a surface lodged in the bones. Realising the rusty old metal to be a key, she snatched it up and chirruped her glee, and after a quick inspection with gleaming eyes, she tucked it safely in her pocket alongside trinkets from the seaside. Then she turned and limped her way back home, wondering why she came in the first place as blood trailed after her.

~~The End~~

It isn't perfect – far from it – but it doesn't matter. It's a start. You can work with it. You can keep going. Finish the chapter by repeating this process over and over, then go back and polish it when you've let the experience sink in a bit. Who knows where you'll go??? (ﾟヮﾟ)/

I spent almost three hours on this instead of writing my own book, and I'm tired, so I don't know if this makes sense, but I hope it's helpful a little??? I tried not to make it complex as much as possible so people of many levels can understand and hopefully get something out of it;;;

It's the method I've been using for a long time, especially when I'm in a difficult part or just can't get myself to write anything. Start simple, get something done, and keep going.

….....which I realise is the complete opposite of what I'm doing. Oh gosh what have I done OAAAAAO

….also this is really long and I'm scared so I'm not even going to hard read it over or edit now that I'm done writing.

ROSI OUT

[memoirofafool]

"The Bird in the Bag"

The day was like any other at work stock this, fold that, ring this up, listen to this crazy Karen bitch about an expired. Nothing from the norm but about 4 hours into me resisting the urge of slamming my head into the plexiglass in other words another slow dreary shift my coworker slides over to the side of me and says just loud enough for me to hear in their southern drawl of an accent

"Hey I might me nuttier than squirrel shit for asking this but... Does that there person have a bird in their bag?

As they point with their eyes off toward the winter coats section I notice a person standing well over 6 foot in a black trench coat and one of those Russian winter hats called a ushanka I believe. Very broad shoulders very hard to psychically identify because they are facing away from us. But nonetheless there is indeed some fowl play at hand, this person has a bird in a bag in the store. That being against store policy I roll my eyes let out a sigh and reluctantly begin my journey into the unknown.

As I'm nearing our exceptional customer, I start to notice feathers protruding from different parts of their clothing so there is some serious pheasantry going on and they are indeed much bigger up close closer to 7 foot if I may say in comparison to my 5 foot 7. I take one more glance at my coworker and they are now holding the store phone I assume to call for help should we need it.

I arrive about 6 feet from bird brain i can finish my "only service animals allowed" speel the customers head whips around rapidly 180 degrees to reveal a set of red glowing eyes that gives me a very woozy sensation that makes me feel both faint and nauseous, I'm stuck I can't make a single consonant for what stands in front of me isn't a person at all, it's a grotesque, feathery face with beak included.

It didn't look like one particular bird it was science fiction, murder flock hybrid you would see in a movie but this was no movie this thing was very much right here sharing my space. From what I could make out it had the eyes of a very pissed off swan, the beak of pelican with that weird floppy thing, and humanoid penguin flippers for hands.

This mallard monstrosity just at me and I at it the moment felt as though it lasted for an eternity but in reality couldn't have been more than 15 seconds until from its hip where the normal looking bird was hanging from I heard a voice speak to me. It snapped me out of my trance with how both recognizable and pleasant the voice was it asked me

"Begging your pardon, but do any of these jackets contain down duck feathers?

I composed myself and replied.

"No, everything here is as humane as we can get it, in fact we don't even sell leather"

The peculiar pulled replied with a head tilt it's eyes no long a glowing red but a calmer more tame dull red.

"Good, we wouldn't want to any... troubles"

It was then I noticed the bird in the bag has speaker on top of the bag and it is the bird itself talking to me.

Without saying another word, the bird rotates its head back to its neutral position and walks out of our store, across the street to the Texas style boot and leather shop. At that moment my coworker slides to my side once again and asks:

"Now, I done seen animals with birth defects but, what in the otherworldly Owlman shit was that?!"

I reply.

"I...I couldn't tell you, but I'm glad it's gone."

About 5 minutes later we both hear several gun shots coming from the Texas store go figure, but followed by a blood curdling howl and fire alarms. Soon there is smoke coming from the store and finally an explosion. The next thing we knew something came flying from the tip of the store. As we looked up we saw what looked like the wings of a raptor of some sort before it came crashing down to the ground landing on its hawk like feet.

From both ends of the road police, swat and for some reason an animal control truck began to surrender this creature and draw their weapons. The creatures eyes glowing that bright red again stood up straight and the officers began to open fire the creature quickly used its wings as cover to protect the bird in the bag. The bullets stopped momentarily presumably to reload but it was too late, the creature let out another great howl and what looked like 70 or so people collectively all just dropped, passed out.

The freakish feathery fiend took off towards the near by woods, it's legs taking long strides and seemingly just disappeared into the thick of it.

Some weeks passed, the people hurt from the incident were the people in the boot store but surprisingly none were killed, all officers and personal in company as well just all distraught. The boot store on the other hand burned to the ground.

I do think after this day I'll be complaining about the norm at work ever again.

Story By

-Kratos Smirk

[wherefancytakesme]

“Mistakes”

(BOYD gets to spend the afternoon with Gyro, then Mark Beaks shows up and brings on emotions that BOYD has never had to face before.)

The day so far had been one of harmless goings-on and quiet excitement. BOYD went to school with his adoptive brother Doofus Drake, for once not being as much the studious little database he always was in class—he was going to meet with Gyro Gearloose and Fenton Crackshell-Cabrera after school, and it filled him to the brim with joy.

Since the day he’d reunited with his creator, BOYD loved spending time with the scientist, always awaiting a time when he would call the Drakes over the phone and ask to pick their ‘younger’ son up and bring him to the underwater lab. Gyro always said he needed to perform regular checkups and maintenance on the little android, but BOYD was hoping secretly that it was also about spending time together; The doctor was becoming gentler now that everything in the past was behind them.

Regardless, BOYD’s feet were bouncing lightly under his desk with the anticipation of it all the way until the final school-bell rang—any excuse to see Gyro, someone he considered so close, gave his mechanical heart inexplicable delight.

Finally when class had let out for the day, BOYD took Doofus’ hand, smiling, and pulled him gently along.

“Come on, come on, big brother! Dr. Gearloose and Dr. Crackshell-Cabrera are waiting outside!”

Doofus grunted. His parents had strictly told him to be on his nicest behavior in front of Scrooge McDuck’s scientist, especially for his little brother’s sake—and to say nothing at all if he hadn’t anything nice to say—or else not expect any dessert for the next several weeks. He threw a fit, of course, but eventually resigned to not ruin anything for BOYD—or his chance at still being allowed to eat an ice cream float every night—and let BOYD have all the ice cream for himself.

Some part of Doofus’ subconscious didn’t mind the constant company of someone his own age. But all the unpleasantness that buried such feelings from his thoughts and actions that proved Louie Duck right kept the boy from understanding any of that, and so he simply allowed BOYD to pull him along—small as he was, the android could easily overtake his brother—and decided to be pouty but uncharacteristically quiet the rest of the day—though not altogether unhappy.

When the two boys reached the front gate, Gyro and Fenton were waiting at the entrance. The latter grinned and waved a friendly hand. The former smiled a bit more visibly than he’d have liked to when BOYD ran out to him.

“Dr. Gearloose!” BOYD called out, immediately throwing his arms around Gyro’s knees.

The gesture pushed Gyro to hide his previous smile by putting a fist to his mouth and clearing his throat. But his tone wasn’t harsh.

“It’s nice to see you, 2BO—er—BOYD.”

He had no idea how to greet Doofus Drake, however. He groaned with his mouth closed, awkwardly, and looked away, but Doofus had nothing to say either anyway.

“Are we going to the lab right away?” BOYD asked with bright eyes.

“Well I have an errand to run in town first, but it shouldn’t take long.”

Fenton chimed in;

“We could make a fun outing of it! Uh—nothing that would deviate from the plan, of course,” he said drawing back once Gyro side-eyed him, “Just something to do while Dr. Gearloose is busy.”

“Yeah, like find a local landmark to learn about!” BOYD did some drawing back of his own when he noticed his brother pout, but did so more graciously than nervously as compared to Gyro’s assistant. “Or maybe there will be a park nearby!” He smiled more when he noticed his brother’s frown fade a small amount.

“Whatever we do,” interjected Gyro, “Stay close to me. I do not want everyone running all over and taking up too much time.”

BOYD’s sunny smile remained as he put his hands behind his back, determined to be well-behaved.

“Yessir, Dr. Gearloose!”

About twenty minutes of walking had led the group of four to an obscure electronics store. Gyro needed a special kind of copper wire before going back to the lab and his odd specifications were hard to meet. While he spent his time inside, Fenton and the boys went to the adjacent shop to buy ice cream. Gyro had told them not to wander off, so once both kids had a cone of their own, they walked out to wait for the doctor.

It had taken several minutes longer than usual for the store owner to fetch what he needed, but by the time he had his purchase in hand, Gyro pondered over taking another minute or two to browse recreationally for spare parts. However, the thought was suddenly halted by the sound of a piercing shriek from outside.

“BUT I DON’T LIKE PISTACHIO!”

Gyro’s whole body jumped at the sound before he bolted out the door to see what the commotion was.

Oh.

Of course. Doofus Drake was throwing another tantrum, shaking his ice cream cone violently.

“Then why did you ask for it?” Fenton asked, confounded.

Gyro ground his teeth and rubbed his middle and index fingers against his temples. But the eyes he’d at first squinted shut opened back up when he heard the screaming stop at a kind voice.

“It’s okay, big brother. I’ll eat yours and we’ll trade!”

BOYD had a warm little grin on his face, holding out his hand.

“Fine!” snapped the spoiled drake, fuming as he thrust the treat into his brother’s hand. “You wanted to try a new flavor of ice cream anyway!”

This caught Gyro’s attention particularly. That little brat shouldn’t be forcing something on a robot who wasn’t built for consumption. He approached, and took on a less-than-pleasant tone that now commonly became him.

“Ice cream?” the chicken asked, twisting his face, “2B—er, BOYD, doesn’t eat.”

“I don’t need to,” answered BOYD, “I like to! My big brother told me about all the different kinds, and now every time I eat a new one, I add it to my memory. It’s fun!”

There were so many words in there that Gyro had to take a moment to think over. First and foremost, it was still mystifying why someone like BOYD and someone like Doofus Drake would consider eachother brothers—leaving aside that the former was much older than the latter. But he chuckled mentally a bit at the association between ‘memory’ and ‘fun’. The only other boy he knew who thought like that was Huey Duck, and it was nice that he and the android had found someone like the other. It felt nice too that such a thought could soften him back up again and make his migraine go away.

But Gyro wondered what eating must really be like for BOYD—he didn’t remember programming BOYD specifically to eat, but on a technical level, he supposed it was possible, given the way he’d built him.

“Can you taste it at all?” he said looking down at BOYD now, curious at the answer.

“Yeah! It was actually only recently I first had ice cream. I didn’t know I could taste anything until then, but it seemed to register, and I really liked it! So when I got home, I asked about it, and now I get to have it every day!”

Gyro didn’t realize how much he’d been missing out on the little boy’s life. Even the very first tests he’d run on him didn’t experiment with things like taste, or smell. Body temperature, vision, maybe—but those were comparable to how a computer would run. Gyro had made BOYD with sentient, behavioral programming, but he supposed he never put any of it into practice, in a real-world scenario. Part of that may have been Dr. Akita’s fault, but… Well, Gyro didn’t want to make excuses for what he did and didn’t do back then.

It was strange—and a little sad; BOYD went twenty whole years unaware of whether or not he lacked the sensation of taste, and Gyro wasn’t there when he finally tried. Gyro knew every single robotic modification BOYD had—from the USB drives in his fingertips, to the blasters throughout his body—he’d put every one of them to the test, but how often did he actually take the child outside the old laboratory? Did the small creature have any memory of Tokyolk before his core was overridden?

Quickly Gyro shook any dwelling thoughts from his mind. No matter. He was making up for it now.

At least he hoped so.

All of a sudden, Gyro felt someone bump against his side, sending him back into the conscious world with a jolt. He made a startled squeak, which embarrassed—and therefore slightly angered him.

“Can’t you watch where you’re—Oh.”

The scientist wrinkled his face with annoyance when he turned and saw a slightly younger man on a self-balancing scooter.

“It’s you.”

There was no mistaking it. Sleek cardigan, large overconfident eyebrows, phone in hand… It was Mark Beaks.

Mark Beaks blinked when addressed. He had no doubt everyone knew who he was, but the lanky chicken facing him seemed to be acting like he’d met him before.

“Oh heeeeey… Uh, do I know you? Probably, right? You see so many faces every day when you’re this famous, they kinda all just blend in, y’know?”

Gyro looked up at Beaks with half-lidded eyes.

“Dr. Gyro Gearloose? Scientist of Scrooge McDuck? You’ve stolen and modified my tech about four different times?”

Beaks looked up and narrowed his eyes, stumped.

Gyro sniffed. Mark Beaks had pointed him out in public several times; This was quite obviously being done to wind him up. “Perhaps he looks familiar to you?” he said, throwing a hand out to gesture at BOYD.

“Ohh yeah! You built that guy? No wonder he went all terminator on me!”

Again Gyro responded sarcastically, with more of a scoff this time.

“That is not my fault. Likely you reprogrammed his hard-drive and rewrote his memories so many times, one simple question overwhelmed him to the point that he couldn’t even tell a person from a flyswatter.”

“Ugh, whatever.” Beaks said, waving his hand, “If you make faulty robots and don’t wanna keep the improvements I put in there, that’s on you. Kid was pretty popular online though. I mean, come on!”

Mark Beaks pointed back and forth between himself and BOYD with both of his index fingers.

“He looks just like me!”

When Beaks acknowledged the android a few feet in front, suddenly two yellow eyes stared back. A little gasp emitted from the little black beak that was previously opened to eat ice cream. BOYD hadn’t seen his older doppelganger since the day he met Doofus Drake. His whole face suddenly beamed with cheeriness at a familiar face.

“Da—”

He bit off the word ‘Daddy’. That was a memory overwrite, he knew now. Still, he was happy.

“Mr. Beaks!”

BOYD instantly ran over to the addressee to jump up and hug him. Beaks just as instantly wheeled back with his scooter board, holding his palms up.

“Woah-ho-hooooh, don’t like touching, remember? What was the number one rule?”

Oh. Right. Remembering that made BOYD’s smile fade.

“No hugs?”

“Exactly, see? You’ve still got some of the good ol’ Beaks programming clunking around in there somewhere!”

Gyro rolled his eyes at a statement like that, but for BOYD it started to set a certain train of thought in motion; Mark Beaks had programmed him to be like his son. At the time, he had felt like it, not simply had it wired into his head, but… now that he thought about the standoffish way the young adult was acting, was that all he was to him? Like a son?

That couldn’t be true, could it?

“Um, Mr. Beaks?” BOYD said, voice starting to grow more shy, “I know things are different now—the two of us living separate lives and everything—but even so, would it be okay if I still spent time with you once in a while?”

Beaks sucked his teeth at BOYD.

“Ooh, no can do, sport. See, if we’re not family, there’s kinda no point anymore. Nobody looks at pics of me just hanging with some rando kid, y’know? Outside that, I’m like super busy all the time, sooo…”

“But… Didn’t you have fun with me?”

“Sure, I did all kinds of awesome stuff in a whole day! Took lots of great selfies!”

BOYD faced the ground at that response, trying to process it. All the words were simple, but slowly, they triggered the most complex of memories… ______________________________

The first memory he had after the incident in Tokyolk was the faint recognition of someone’s voice in the garbage dump he’d evidently wound up in. He didn’t know what was going on, and had no recollection of where he came from, how he worked, or hardly even who he was. All he could bring to mind was an assigned identification number—2BO—and a gut feeling that he was a definitely real boy.

But when the voice came closer, BOYD felt his OS booting up again—his processor bringing things back online. What life he may or may not have had before, he knew not. He only understood that there was reason to be up and running now—alive. These feelings hadn’t manifested into thoughts at first—and then he heard the moving figure above him make a noise. When BOYD parroted back the mimicry of lasers, it was purely instinctual—technological sounds, technological creature. But it made someone notice him. It made someone marvel at him. It made someone give him a real name. It made someone want to take him home. That someone was Mark Beaks.

Even if he had only programmed into him the title of ‘father’, the wealthy parrot was the first person he knew to give him somewhere to live. With or without his original memories, BOYD had never really had an actual home before. He’d never had anyone so willingly look after him like a normal kid—like their kid. In many ways, both literal and figurative, Mark Beaks was the first person to be a parent to BOYD. Even lacking the memory of Akita’s cruelty and Gyro’s hesitance, when BOYD was around Mark Beaks, he felt like someone’s son with no hint of abandonment for the first time in his life.

Yet some underlying doubt lie buried, deep down in one of the many corners of his mind that BOYD didn’t have access to—only this one wasn’t blocked by another person’s override. Anytime he called out ‘Daddy’, Beaks didn’t always turn around right away. He might look confusedly around the room, or take a second or two to respond. And even then, he didn’t seem to say things other than ‘Hey you’, or ‘Need something?’—they were happy, but one-sided. BOYD didn’t think about that then. He was just glad to have family, and to have anything a kid could ask for.

But that was another thing that suddenly made BOYD think. The two days he’d spent with his new father were the best of his whole life; He spent time at an office filled with apparatuses to play on, candy to eat, and places to nap everywhere—even if he didn’t need to nap. Then for the rest of the day, the two Greys went all over Duckburg having fun—eating, playing, exploring… And still, through everything, there didn’t seem to be a connection. When BOYD and Beaks spent time at a show, flew kites, or wore novelty hats, the latter was always taking pictures with the former in them, but seemingly never with him. BOYD was too distracted by the thrill of spending time with someone he considered family to notice before, but now that Beaks worded it the way he did, only mentioning the fun he himself had that day, the signs were becoming obvious. He never once touched him—never once looked at him when he took those selfies—BOYD might as well have been a part of the background.

Come to think of it, did Mark Beaks ever touch BOYD? His biggest aversion, which he’d made clear several times, was touching, after all; The hopes of the first hug BOYD thought he’d ever had at the time were straightaway brushed off. Maybe once or twice, when he needed to be kept from getting wet or from going haywire… But otherwise, the man hardly paid physical attention to him. He didn’t want to feed into the worry that was always secretly there, but the recollection of everything made it impossible now. It hurt BOYD so badly to consider that he was only there to serve a purpose—as he had been his whole life—after all. He couldn’t remember Beaks saying his name, he couldn’t remember Beaks saying something gentle to him… Sometimes if he didn’t act the part he was made to, Beaks would scold him. He tried to avoid calling to mind that once, Beaks struggled to even remember the familial title under which BOYD was programmed.

“Yeah, I love this… What was it again? Uhh, uh, son!”

Oh no.

Mark Beaks never even said the words, ‘I love you’.

But no. No, it couldn’t be true that he didn’t at least care about BOYD, it just couldn’t. It was painful all the same, though, no matter how trusting and unassuming a child BOYD was.

He had to know. He wanted just a little word of assurance that he was wrong, that it was all in his head, that it was just worry that came with twenty years of feeling unloved. Even if Mark Beaks saw him as means for attention first, surely there was some sort of fatherly instinct left over from caring for someone made to be for all concerned his family.

BOYD was feeling some sort of physical discomfort he couldn’t pinpoint when he made his next inquiry, as if he was swallowing something down.

“Mr. Beaks,” he questioned, blue irises still fixed on the ground and fingers toying with one another, “Do you…”

He swallowed physically this time.

“Do you love me…?”

Mark Beaks’ face froze, and before answering made a noise somewhere between the word ‘I’, and an ‘Uh’.

“Kid, what kind of question is that? I don’t do the whole affection thing, okay? Much less with someone who’s not even in my entourage anymore.”

Oh, that hurt. That hurt far too much. Normally with Dr. Akita’s overriding, emotional triggers like this would have BOYD glitching. But that wasn’t there anymore. He was open to feel whatever a boy would feel any time he wanted now, without malfunctions and without something to block his true childlike wiring—too open, perhaps, because now instead of his mind going blank over spiritual pain, his mind would take in every single thought that set him off, and fester. What Beaks said to him now was festering. It made him feel vulnerable. Even if it didn’t hurt or scare him as much as when Gyro told him he was going to shut him down for good, or when Gyro constantly put him down, there was nothing to keep BOYD from blacking out afterward anymore. The feelings over Mark Beaks’ statement were flooding all throughout him.

“But…” BOYD persisted still, wanting some sort of kindness—at least for a fresh start. “Couldn’t we at least be on friendly terms? Isn’t there anything you like about me?”

“Aw come on, little man, it’s not like I was letting you get close to begin with. You’ve got other rich people and tech geeks to be with now. So you don’t need me and I don’t need you.” The man crossed his arms.

If any justice could be done, it might be stated here that the biggest reason Mark Beaks was beginning to act more and more bitter with the small child was out of a sour-grapes mentality. Visible weakness wasn’t characteristic of the young trend-chaser, but in a situation like this, where something he genuinely found impressive and thought he’d made his own had been lost to him, and had been left in the hands of someone else he barely knew—knowing that a technological wonder like BOYD was something he could no longer have—Beaks was annoyed, and he would never dare let it show through. Instead he increased his shallowness ten-fold.

Poor little BOYD’s eyes went wide, wanting so terribly not to believe what he was being told, wanting so desperately not to be outright rejected by someone he’d let himself previously grow so attached to. He looked into Beaks’ black eyes, searching for some kind of reassurance in spite of only hearing cruelty. He wanted so much to hear something that would make the building pain he’d never understood before shrink down.

“But,” he said, voice more quiet and in disbelief than he could ever remember expressing, “You gave me a name. You took me home with you. I was like your family.”

Mark Beaks rolled his eyes back, looking only more annoyed that the little creature almost forced him into guilt with such words.

“No way, kid. I just scooped you out of the trash because I thought I could make something out of you. But four-eyes over there took out all the mods I made to begin with—the new voice I gave you isn’t even there anymore. Hate to say it, but without any of that, you don’t mean anything to me.”

He shrugged his shoulders, talking for a minute more so to himself than anyone, but nonetheless just as aloud as before.

“Guess all the time I put into you was a waste. ‘Least with everything else, I got some money or permanent attention out of it.” Beaks blew air out through his nostrils almost like a laugh when he thought about it. “Jeez, kid, you were my worst investment.”

BOYD didn’t know what the feeling was, but those awful words broke something within him. His face tensed up. The tightness in his chest started to swell. All that desperation to disprove his first proper parent didn’t actually care about him, all that pain welling up inside him the more said person shot down attempt after attempt for requited affection… And now he’d dealt him a blow like that? Mark Beaks had thoroughly destroyed his spirit—he might as well have slapped him in the face. And incidentally, his face started to burn. BOYD had no idea what this meant, but the reaction was involuntary. It hurt so much, he couldn’t understand. The heat concentrated in his eyes. His nose and mouth trembled as he faced his former caretaker. A warm, salty liquid began slowly to fill his eyes and then roll down his cheeks.

BOYD was crying. ______________________________

All the time Beaks had been talking, Gyro and Fenton had been narrowing their eyes in anger and darting them back and forth between the two parrots facing one another, the taller one saying nastier and nastier things to the smaller one. Neither Fenton nor Gyro knew quite what to say or do, or how to intervene—for Fenton in particular because he also had to keep an eye on Doofus Drake, who any second could stop being content licking the inside of his ice cream cone and go ballistic again. It irritated him that he had to keep his mind on such a small matter when clearly there were bigger fish to fry at the moment—and also a little bit that BOYD’s adoptive brother didn’t seem to be noticing how much he was hurting.

Gyro wanted to speak up at some point, but couldn’t bring any words into his head.

And then out of the blue, when Mark Beaks had finally pushed innocent BOYD to a breaking point, the tiny thing cried. He cried.

Gyro’s heart stopped dead in its figurative tracks.

His eyes went wide and dropped their gaze to the ground. This was something he had no idea was physically possible. An invention of his had been, through instinct alone, pushed to actually cry. He didn’t understand. He didn’t specifically write that sort of thing into BOYD’s coding when he made him—certainly Akita didn’t put that in—so then what? BOYD was a definitely real boy, but, to this extent? Gyro wanted to react, to do something for the boy, to get angry at Beaks, but everything failed him. He was stock still, frozen with a horrible blend of shock and concern.

Meanwhile, BOYD continued to stare up at Beaks as tears stained his face, disbelief and utter heartache consuming everything from the waist up.

The first reaction was when Doofus Drake turned and took notice of what he had been sure was a robot his parents adopted, somehow leaking sadness out of his eyes. The Drake boy physically reeled back, socially perturbed.

“Agh, he’s broken!” he yelled, unable to understand, “Do something and fix it!”

Fenton reacted second, clenching his hands into fists, intent on indeed doing something to ‘fix it’, but not the way Doofus imagined. He held back solely on the basis that Gyro was going to say something.

But Beaks was the immediate one to react next.

“Yikes, buddy,” he said to BOYD, backing up uncomfortably. He didn’t mean to make anyone cry, but then again, he didn’t think BOYD could feel anything that real. “It’s not my fault a lack of Beaks tech makes you basically worthless.”

Where Gyro normally would have gotten angry, this time Fenton stood in—he saw that the doctor was too dumbstruck to do so for now. But Fenton was certain both of them were equally as angry.

“What on earth are you thinking saying that to his face,” he snapped, “He’s a kid!”

Mark Beaks shrugged, as if his next reply was a matter of fact.

“Well I mean yeah, but like, not a real one…”

Each adult’s face in present company sneered at Beaks. That was the final straw. With that, Gyro Gearloose was finally able to pull himself out of his stunned state and draw up the emotion to straighten his back and snatch BOYD’s hand, dragging him away. Whatever he was thinking or wasn’t able to think at the moment didn’t matter. This child wasn’t going to be tortured by being here any longer.

“Cabrera, you take Doofus Drake home and get rid of this…” He struggled to find the words; “this, while I take BOYD back to the lab.”

Fenton nodded, determined, as Gyro stormed off, leaving Beaks to be thoroughly dealt with. ______________________________

The walk back to the underwater lab wasn’t a long one, but when Gyro wasn’t seething mad, he would look down at BOYD and notice a look on the boy’s face not dissimilar to his own from earlier—it contained surprise, the fearful kind, as if he didn’t know he could shed tears either. He didn’t look up at his creator, even though he followed the aggressive tug of his arm compliantly, and he didn’t try to wipe at his face. He seemed, again, to be having the same sort of shock that tried to question what in the world was happening to him.

When the two finally did make it inside, Gyro relinquished his tight grip on BOYD’s hand, picked him up by the waist, and sat him down on his center loft work desk.

“BOYD,” he said directly, but not ungently, “Keep your face still for a moment, okay?”

Gyro cupped the little creature’s face in his hand, taking a moment to peer into the huge ovate orbs that were wet as ever. There was nothing physically wrong with them… Nothing functionally wrong with them… Lightly touching the substance that had wavered within them didn’t seem to prove this was some sort of fluid leak. As far as Gyro could tell, these were tears, plain as plain.

So then how was that possible? It wasn’t as if the scientist had actually sat down and built a mechanical version of every single organic function an ordinary person had when constructing BOYD—he and Akita wanted a defense drone—but he knew the little one had an approximation of a heart, and bones, and lungs, and other such things; He was an android, which meant he was deliberately supposed to resemble other people in addition to all the access ports and ribbon wire. Still. Things like tear ducts, taste buds, the need to sleep? Gyro didn’t physically install those things into him. Now a possibility occurred to him. He decided to address BOYD again.

“Can you tell me… Can you tell me everything you’ve been feeling since you talked to Mark Beaks? I know it might be hard, but I need you to try for me.”

BOYD felt Gyro place both hands on one of his. It was the first time the doctor had engaged him like that, and it brought on a warm confusion in spite of the pain he still felt at his core. BOYD’s teary eyes were trained on the floor when he started to analyze what kind of things that pain entailed.

“I’ve… been feeling…” he began, voice thin and shaky, “Sad… and overwhelmed… and afraid… and alone, and… and confused… Before, when I had programming issues, I would start to malfunction anytime something hurt me. But now instead of glitches coming on that I can’t control, it’s more like…”

BOYD’s whole body started to shiver. “It’s more like something my heart can’t control, I guess? Not literally, but, I…”

His vision grew blurry and his voice shakier than ever. “I don’t have anything holding me back from losing emotional control, and I don’t understand. What Mr. Beaks said really hurt, but… I’ve been told things that made me lonely and sad before. I don’t know why I’m only reacting this way now.”

BOYD shut his eyes, rubbing at them as he made a little whimper. “I’m sorry, Dr. Gearloose. I know that doesn’t help. The only other thing I know when I think about all this is that it scares me.”

Gyro felt choked up. He wanted to react beyond keeping his hands palmed over the one BOYD wasn’t wiping his own face with, but twenty years of distrust and cynicism had clouded his ability to be as kind as he used to. But that answer actually helped Gyro a lot. Before, he remembered BOYD saying something about eating—he didn’t need to, but he liked to—that he wondered whether or not he was able to taste, but it ‘seemed to register’. Gyro then supposed while he didn’t build BOYD to eat, it wasn’t impossible given the way he was made; He likely found some sort of place in his structure to double as a stomach, being that he was basically the same as any other boy.

This was what made it click in Gyro’s brain. He had programmed BOYD, for all intents and purposes, to be a living child. Even if the actual hardware wasn’t there, even if Gyro hadn’t thought of specifics when creating… Akita called it ‘real boy programming’—there were things within BOYD that could adapt, and apparently had adapted, themselves to become a part of his sentient reactions and behavior—there were things inside him that manifested because at the end of the day, BOYD was… well, BOYD was a boy.

BOYD wasn’t crying because he was built for it. He was crying because all boys were built for it.

Oh god. A realization like that sent a heavy weight into Gyro’s chest. This wasn’t just some invention that was child-like he’d made, as he initially thought two decades ago. He had brought a life into the world.

He was responsible for every bad thing that life would ever face, because he was the one responsible for ever having made something that could feel, could want, could hurt. Why hadn’t he once considered that when wiring sentience into a body? Gyro felt sick to his stomach.

Yet here was BOYD sitting on a desk, afraid because he wasn’t ever told what would happen if he was sad enough—as if crying was normal, but not for him.

“Dr. Gearloose…?” The timid squeaks in BOYD’s broken voice coupled with glumness on every part of his face made Gyro feel pain in every inch of his body. “Is there something wrong with me?”

Shocked as he was still, an automatic reaction came on that brought Gyro to dry the small creature’s eyes. This reaction, too, shocked him.

“No—no,” he answered nonetheless, just as reactionary.

“Really?”

The nervousness in that inquiry pushed Gyro on. What he was grappling with wasn’t important. There was a child in front of him, needing to be consoled. And while he normally was awkward with children—with people in general, really—Gyro knew about BOYD at least from a technical aspect. He wasn’t a medical doctor, but he did have a doctorate in mechanical engineering. He could work from there—he knew hardly anything about children from a biological standpoint, anyway. In a way, BOYD being an android worked to his advantage here. Gyro sobered up mentally and placed both hands on the little one’s shoulders.

“Yes,” he replied, surprised with himself that he was able to sound so matter-of-fact so quickly. He tried as hard as he could to sound gentle too. “Besides your internal structure, you are otherwise indistinguishable from organic life. You have thoughts and feelings, wants and needs. It’s inherent for you to be sad just as any normal boy would—because that’s what you are.”

BOYD looked back at the ground for a moment, then up at Gyro again, putting his tiny hand over the fold of the man’s thin elbow. There was something he wanted to know—there was still pain in his chest that was building up beyond his control.

“Then…” he asked with teary, pleading eyes, “Can I cry a little more?”

Gyro wished that he knew just what to say—his heart ached so much to hear such a little boy ask for permission to feel—but he simply gave a pitying, guilty, yet mostly obligatory, “Yes.”

That one word of acceptance sent BOYD over the edge. A little hiccup escaped him, and what had previously been only silent tears that fell on their own turned into a full-on fit. BOYD covered his face and wept.

Gyro tried and failed to swallow the lump in his throat when he saw BOYD truly cry for the first time. But in under a minute, his creation said something that brought him to accommodate without a single thought.

“Dr. Gearloose? I know you said back in Tokyolk that hugging was just for that day, but—”

BOYD was interrupted when Gyro immediately drew him in with a one-armed hug, bringing him close and holding him tight. BOYD in turn drew himself closer to his creator, no longer holding back.

BOYD’s little cries then were soft and whining, innocent and unhinged in the way that became any child. Any time he needed to sniff or dry his eyes, he buried his face into Gyro’s chest, and sunk his tiny fingers deep into his vest. The length in each wail that came on now and again reflected the fact that BOYD had never cried before, and that he was discovering in the moment just how much he needed to all this time.

Poor BOYD, Gyro thought, barely ever allowed to simply hug anyone before. He was the sweetest living creature Gyro had ever known—always smiling so jubilantly and talking politely to everyone and everything—and yet so many people met him only with malice? That was far too unfair.

Oh.

But then, that was exactly what he’d done, wasn’t it? He’d so readily assumed when Inspector Tezuka brought BOYD down that he’d created something evil—he’d thought the evidence was everywhere, quite literally. But couldn’t it have been just as easy to think that someone like Dr. Akita who’d turned out to be a known criminal could have been responsible? Couldn’t Gyro have at least considered for a second that it wasn’t BOYD’s fault and defended him more? But he hadn’t. Instead he’d let his young mind believe everything his former mentor drilled into his head; His inventions were weapons, plain and simple, and nothing would change the fact that that would be a part of him the rest of his life—that he would always know somewhere in the back of his mind that he was just a big screw-up. And Gyro had taken that out on BOYD. He’d turned his anger and fear over himself and projected it into anger and fear over his first real invention. He’d defended inventions like Lil’ Bulb to the last ditch—even when the evidence they were turning evil was just as seemingly apparent, if not more so. Even they weren’t referred to as failures. All that bitter sarcasm and unkindness that became a part of who he was had all been based on nothing. When they’d reunited, he lashed out at BOYD over and over again, scornful whenever he even looked at him, refusing to call him anything other than an ‘it’, saying he was dangerous to his very core, saying he didn’t have feelings—even when the sadness and frightened tentative motions in his expression and body were clear as day—he even said straight to BOYD’s face that he was going to ‘fix’ his malfunctions by essentially flat-out killing him.

Gyro was furious when Mark Beaks made BOYD cry. But the first person to ever treat him inhumanely, was Gyro himself. It made him feel so unbearably guilty he almost couldn’t breathe. No matter what his eyes would look like anytime Akita’s programming kicked in—those things weren’t even there anymore. Anytime Gyro thought back, those big eyes were always so full of light—light of happiness, of sadness, of kindness, of intelligence, of innocence. How could he have ever looked at eyes like that—eyes that were capable of producing tears—and thought BOYD was evil?

Even if the child wouldn’t say so, Gyro knew there must still exist an ache within him over being rejected by the person that gave him life. He owed it to him to make it known just how sorry he was for it—even if the words kept getting jammed in the middle of his throat.

“BOYD,” he faltered, though it was now becoming easier to call him by his real name, “I need to apologize for the way I treated you back then. I know Mark Beaks hurt you when he told you that you weren’t worth his time. But the awful things I’ve said to you… they’re no different.”

BOYD calmed himself down a little to be able to speak. He didn’t face Gyro when he answered, but it wasn’t out of unacceptance—his answer was simply an automatic one.

“It’s okay…”

Gyro let go of BOYD for a moment to stare at him gravely in the face.

“No. It’s not okay.”

Gyro couldn’t remember when he’d talked so seriously before. He’d talked sternly—talked angrily—shouted several times… But as far as he knew, nothing compelled him to speak so straightforward and strict and deadpan as this in his life. He wasn’t going to let anyone make excuses for him ever again—not BOYD, and most certainly not himself.

“I said I’ve spent my whole life trying to live down my first invention being evil. But you were never made evil. I made you out to be evil. And now I’m going to spend the rest of my life living down ever having damaged you like that.”

Gyro found himself astonished that he was able to say what he did next, but nonetheless let it be said; BOYD needed to hear exactly what he was deserving of.

“And I’m going to spend the rest of my life trying to do right by you. Because after everything that’s happened, I am so proud that a boy like you does right by me.”

In spite of BOYD’s constant shivering and whimpering, he was able to smile comfortingly just for a moment, nestling his head further into Gyro’s scrawny arms.

“I of all people know what it’s like to be new to Duckburg and down on your luck with nothing—with nobody. But I was fortunate. I met Scrooge McDuck and he gave me a place to work, and to make my way up the ladder. He was the only one to give me a second chance—to trust me.”

Gyro sighed.

“I’m sorry I didn’t do the same for you—as if I didn’t learn. How you stayed the same as I built you this whole time is beyond me. I’m nothing like you.”

“That’s… That’s not true,” BOYD sniffed, rubbing his eyes again, “If I make you as proud as you say, then some of that had to come from you—where else would I get it from? The only other person around me then was Dr. Akita, and then I spent twenty years asleep in Duckburg. I’m like this because you made me. And if I’m still like this, that part of you has to still be in you too—doesn’t it?”

Gyro couldn’t respond to something so kind. He couldn’t. Gyro didn’t deserve merit like that. Instead, he turned to another question that he’d been thinking of as BOYD stayed settled under his arm—something more technical, but still in reference to the android’s feelings and his sentience.

“When you shiver…” he asked with difficulty, “Is it because you’re cold? And if you overheat, do you feel feverish?”

“I do feel sort of sick when something overheats inside me… At home, it’s treated like I have a cold, which usually helps. But… when I’m cold, I operate at peak efficiency, so that’s never uncomfortable.”

BOYD’s voice was still full of quiet hiccups and characterized by the hurt within him.

“I guess I’m shivering because of how sad I feel. There are a lot of things I’m scared of—and things I’m so glad of, they hurt—but mostly, I just keep thinking back to what Mr. Beaks said. He brings up this little voice in my head that tells me people don’t want me. Like I’m making it hard for them.”

Gyro surprised himself again by stroking the back of BOYD’s head lightly. Nevertheless, he responded with defense and firmness in his tone.

“You should make it hard for people like that to want you. If you’re a waste of energy to someone like Mark Beaks, then good. The more you keep being yourself, the less they’ll stick around to hurt you.”

BOYD looked up at Gyro once more with his wet, shining eyes.

“But you won’t do that if I’m myself around you, right?”

That question pulled Gyro into a riptide of guilt so strong that it almost drove him to cry. But he squeezed his eyes shut, fighting down the urge for BOYD’s sake—this was about him. He made it clear to himself he’d never let his little creation down again when he hugged him in Tokyolk—and now he was going to make it clear to BOYD, say it out loud to his face so there was never any doubt again. Gyro rested the hand he had on BOYD’s head, held him just a tad closer with his arm, and said,

“I’m only saying this once; There is nothing you could do in front of me that wouldn’t make me want you. Ever. You can come to me for whatever you need. I’m not going anywhere.”

Gyro watched as that sentence prompted tear after tear to fall down BOYD’s heated face, nearly every part of his insides nagging uncontrollably at him when the little creature encircled his puny waist with his arms.

“I’m so glad!”

The sobs that BOYD let loose figuratively jabbed the scientist in the gut as he thought of the fact that were it not for his sheer irresponsibility, the poor little thing would never have had to be born into a world that presented such harsh treatment.

Still, BOYD wanted to cry. Didn’t the need to cry come from getting to let go—to feel better—to be alive?

Gyro thought as he instinctively continued to stroke the small head under him with his thumb. If he had brought a life into the world that was going to have bad moments, that meant that the same life was going to have happy moments too, didn’t it? Well—he already had! BOYD might as well have been built as a bluebird. Gyro should be glad BOYD was finally allowed to have this kind of release. It meant he could finally, truly, feel like the definitely real boy he was. The pain of fault and responsibility still wracked Gyro—he figured it always might—but at this point, he was relieved the poor thing he held close in the underwater lab wasn’t going to be mistreated any longer—not if he could stand to help it. ______________________________

BOYD sat in Gyro’s lap, beginning to feel better as he allowed himself to let everything out in the embrace of someone close to him. He could cry as much as he needed around Gyro. And he was going to take that allowance for all it was worth.

Part of his crying now came from the warmth he felt knowing that the old Gyro he thought he’d lost was still in there somewhere—that he hadn’t gone after all—and that even though he’d through no fault of his own gotten it lost, he had brought its return as well. That restored a lot more of BOYD’s self-worth than he fully realized.

BOYD was so grateful—so, so grateful to have that Gyro here again. He didn’t understand why at first it hurt so much to be called an ‘it’ by his creator—he didn’t remember Gyro was his creator at the time—but to think that someone was afraid of him and that someone hated him just for being himself stung so badly. He didn’t cry then—he didn’t know he could. But he cried now, over the cutting things Mark Beaks said, over Gyro’s hand at his back, over anything he could think of that needed crying over—mostly however over the knowledge by now that Gyro didn’t see him as nothing more than a destructive machine—as ‘evil down to his core’ any longer. He could tell that even if Gyro didn’t say it, he loved him; He risked his own life just to hold him in his arms, to save him and others from himself. Now BOYD really did have someone who loved him the way a father would a son. He could hug Gyro if he wanted—as many times as he felt like it—and never be brushed off. That thought brought such relief to him, his processor couldn’t take it all in.

But he didn’t tell Gyro any of this; He noticed all those looks on his face—they gave away just how terrible he felt over not being able to do as much as he wanted for him right away. So he kept any more words from leaving his mouth in order not to burden his guardian with any more guilt. BOYD simply let himself release all the emotions he could which he didn’t know he had before, as if he were wringing himself out—and as such, began soaking up all the comfort he was being given like a dry and thirsty sponge.

BOYD learned some wonderful things that day as he clung so strongly to Dr. Gearloose in that lab—much as it hurt to tremble violently, and bleed out feelings until one’s eyes burned, and let out enough raw noise fit to make one’s throat sore. He learned that being allowed to feel so sad was rewarding, and cleansing. He learned that tears were something he could produce no matter what he felt. And he learned that everyone in the world would make mistakes, no matter what or who they were, but that it was never too late to grow from them.

~ Holy shoot, wow, this is the first serious fic I’ve ever posted on here before.

I really wanted to share it, because it took so long to write—although I didn’t think it would turn out so long… 8k words! It’s the lengthiest thing I’ve ever written.

Anyway, this is a story that is very dear to my heart, not only because I put the most into it out of anything, but because studying Gyro Gearloose as a character and loving his dynamic with BOYD has been one of the most amazing things to think of through the hiatus that came after Astro BOYD.

I always loved BOYD, of course, but once I started seeing all the art and fanfics that others had started doing out of the emotions that came with his and Gyro’s backstory, I got swept up in it too, and wanted desperately to get out all those feelings into one story.

The idea came from the concept of whether or not BOYD can cry. We’ve never really seen him do it before, and it’d probably be hard because he’s normally so happy—but I kept wondering if he, as an android, even could. So it hit me; What if BOYD could cry, but Gyro wasn’t aware of it? What if even BOYD wasn’t aware of it? I kept playing with what would possibly make him cry, because even when Gyro was threatening to shut him down or was calling him ‘it’, BOYD only frowned a little. Suddenly I got the nasty idea of Mark Beaks showing up and telling him he never wants to see him again, and it built from there—I started also thinking that maybe what brings BOYD to cry is just a long enough buildup of pain, and maybe he couldn’t feel as much because Akita’s meddling with him had gotten in the way before.

On a sidenote, Mark Beaks was pretty hard to write at first; I had to make sure his confidence was switched on all the time or he’d come off a little out of character. But much as this is about Gyro & BOYD, Beaks being awful is so deliciously fun to write. I think it’s because he makes you love whoever he’s being mean to even more.

Anyway, after I’d written that part out, I spent a lot more time than I initially thought I would focusing on how all this would make Gyro feel—that is, how much guilt his responsibility would bring on. I’m really desperate to see for myself how they interact in canon from now on, but I always imagine that Gyro’s feelings which are most associated with being a father are of guilt; They make him protective of BOYD, they make him sensitive to BOYD, and they might drive him to treat BOYD—again, be more like a father. Pretty much all Gyro’s niceness comes from wanting a do-over.

I never post my serious writing publicly—mostly because I’m really tentative and shy about showing my literary ‘skills’ and the kinds of raw emotion I spill out in words sometimes—but this fic slowly became something I wanted really badly to share with the DT fandom, as a thing that could both be a way to show my own interpretation and thoughts of Gyro and BOYD, and could maybe even be liked by people as much as it is by me.

I know a good few episodes have aired since Astro BOYD did, and that it’s been a long while since the episode has been talked about, but I’ve only now been brave enough to decide to put this story out there for all to see.

I really hope you enjoyed it.

(Incidentally, I wanted to be sure to post it before Let’s Get Dangerous! airs, because I know this fic would get swallowed up by all the emotions to be had from that episode… ^^; )