#something to be said about my own research on tragedy. how important it is to the psyche to to sit in tragedy. full range of human emotion.

[trans-elrond]

the craziest thing about me, a noted tragedy defender, wrote my thesis on antigone, self-described no. 1 crais girl, is that i... never actually finished farscape seasons 3/4 and i never watched the last five episodes of bbc merlin and i never watched the end of bbc robin hood and i've found it impossible to pick up the silmarillion again. not because i don't want to, because i am also most of the time a dogged completionist. but because i would be an inconsolable wreck watching my favorite characters actually irrevocably die. i'm barely psychologically stable enough to think about their canon deaths let alone watch their canon deaths.

[guiltycorp]

I feel like when ppl discuss the influence of trauma on Geto’s downfall, how Gojo managed to move on by immediately overcoming his weakness & dealing with their assailant and then proceeding to hone his technique instead of stagnating...  They often miss that it wasn’t just the trauma for Geto.  The most important thing for him was always looking for meaning, his anxious and righteous nature forcing him to come up with an explanation for their world and his own purpose in life. His simplistic views of ‘there are strong people (sorcerers) and weak people (non-sorcerers), and the strong must protect the weak’ as well as trust in their system were challenged time and time again throughout the backstory arc. But it wasn’t only Geto being depressed and reactive, it was also about fixing his previous assumptions. Unlike Gojo, he overthought things to a fault, eventually coming to the wrong conclusions (even when Yuki offered him her solution on a plate, that being the research into making non-sorcerers into sorcerers), likely out of prolonged misguided fixation on the dichotomy of weak vs strong, but nonetheless it was a product of a thought experiment and deliberation, even discussion with Haibara and Yuki.  Still, my point is that... Gojo simply never cared enough about things like ideology. The light novel made it seem like he only realised that maybe there is something wrong with the system when Geto left, not when Riko or Haibara died! He simply didn’t think about those tragedies as anything other than random sad occurrences that he could prevent in the future by being better at being the strongest (spoiler: he couldn't). He tried to internalize Geto’s original values of protecting the weak since he could sense some merit to them, finding joy in entertaining Riko and later his students, but he completely missed the reasoning behind those values. This is why he spouted all those things about not saving/reaching Geto (without having attempted it in the first place) and about becoming a teacher to prevent young sorcerers from missing out on their youth (immediately going to indoctrinate young Megumi into their messed up system as a pretext of saving him from the Zenins, exploiting Maki’s childish ambitions of getting back at her family, later risking students’ lives to progress Yuta’s potential, letting Itadori run around without much oversight, ignoring the situation with Megumi’s sister, ignoring the more ‘uninteresting’ students, the list goes on)... He has only a vague idea of what his perfect world would be like (still kind of ridiculous and reliant on Being Strong a-la Sukuna), but he makes no effort to properly explain it to his students who are supposedly meant to change their society in the future.

The only way he can empathize with them is by remembering what he himself enjoyed in his youth, that being companionship with his bff and his growing power. And when some of them don’t show interest in that (like poor fucking Megumi) Gojo is simply not interested in exploring alternatives.  To him, it’s not a question of ‘why’, it never was. ...All that said, this could all be eaaaasily author’s bias who leans towards Gojo’s way of thinking irl, in which case it’s unlikely to get a resolution of some kind :^) Personally, I hope it will bite Gojo in the ass more than it already has. I do have some hope since the current fight vs Sukuna is underlining how similar they are to each other. 

[fromevertonow]

Oppenheimer and the Chain Reaction of Violence

My take on the Oppenheimer issue regarding the omission of the Japan bombings (even though no one asked):

For those who don’t know, the movie does not include an actual visual of the bombings in Japan, to the surprise and even disappointment of some.

On the one hand, I get the critique. It’s a huge tragedy in history and a key element of the story. Maybe some people were expecting more action from Nolan. But on the other hand, the story is not about the bombings specifically. It is about Oppenheimer and his legacy.

Albert, when I came to you with those calculations, we thought we might start a chain reaction that would destroy the world.

I remember it well. What of it?

I believe we did.

The final scene of Oppenheimer, a conversation between Einstein and Oppenheimer

At the end of the movie, we finally find out what was said during the conversation between Oppenheimer and Einstein. It was a huge question mark throughout the movie because of Strauss’ schemes, but it turned out the two scientists were discussing their biggest fear—their scientific research leading to evil. Multiple characters mention the “chain reaction” and often it was in the context of chemicals and what their reaction to each other would be. But in the end, the chain reaction was something bigger—the continuation of scientific research and it leading to nuclear war.

The movie is not about the bombings in Japan. Yes, it is a huge “plot point” and the movie does build up to it, but it is just one link in that chain. Oppenheimer feels incredibly guilty for having created the atomic bomb and wasn’t at all convinced for the government to use his creation against innocent civilians. His guilt is what is most important here because it is the result of that chain reaction.

This isn’t a historical movie in the sense that we are simply given a life story of Oppenheimer. This is a historical movie that reminds us history is still influencing the present. Scientists and governments are currently working side by side to create even bigger weapons of mass destruction and it is a heavy realization that the world might one day be actually set on fire because of them. We don’t know where this current ‘Los Alamos’ is, we don’t know how big the new weapons are, but we do know they don’t lead to anything good. This is the chain reaction.

Oppenheimer was a theorist. That alone should tell you that actually creating the bomb was insane to him. He wanted to rely on theory to prove that it was possible to build one, but people around him pressed him into actually creating it and, most importantly, testing it. The Trinity test scene is prove of how horrified Oppenheimer was by his own creation. The visuals are chilling. In that scene, Oppenheimer grasped the true scale of the destruction the atomic bomb can cause. It sealed the link to that chain, and the reaction was the bombings in Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

Aside from story’s message and the relevance of showing the bombings, there is also a technical argument against including the bombings. The story is mostly told from Oppenheimer’s perspective, he is almost in every scene. But he wasn’t there when the bombings happened, so it wouldn’t have made much sense to show them. Oppenheimer asked Groves to inform him about when the bombings would happen exactly, but he heard about it like the rest of the world—through Truman’s radio announcement. Oppenheimer was incredibly anxious about the bombings, as can be seen in the scene where he is waiting by the phone the day before it happened. His guilt was eating him up from the inside while everyone celebrated either a military victory or a scientific break. Oppenheimer only saw the destruction of the world and the deaths of innocents. With his research he sealed the fates of millions of people. Because that is the chain reaction—the accumulation of historical events.

[mybookof-you]

I found the above article to say some important things worth consideration. It is a serious matter, and, while it is fun to post memes, there are some somber issues to think about.

I have hesitated to point out the dangerous plans laid out by Project 2025. There is no direct way to prove Former President Donald Trump is in favor of the plan. The plan has inconsistencies, direct contradictions, and seems like something out of a fictional novel. Surely, it can't be. It is plausible for someone to frame me as a doomsday prophet drudging up fear where it isn't warranted should I make the claim that this is indeed the direction former President Donald Trump plans to carry out.

Yet, we have seen the results of the majority in the Supreme Court, a majority created by the appointments of the Trump Administration, which dismantled freedoms we took for granted. Those freedoms have been defended by Donald Trump as state's rights from what I understand. What it looks like to me is the states have been granted the freedom to trample the rights of its citizens. You know, those rights we so highly value which allow individuals to live as they believe. As has been reported, the rights given to citizens has been so egregiously crippled as to cause people to lose the ability to have control over their own lives. The outcomes, set in play by the former Trump Administration, have taken us backward and seem to support Project 2025 goals.

There are other examples which are worthy of consideration. I don't know the heart of Donald Trump. I don't know why he will state one thing in very clear terms to one audience and, then, turn around and contradict that statement to another audience. He has a bit of explaining to do. Meanwhile, I am permitted not to trust what he says. I need more transparency and more clarity. What does he really stand for? I value the rights of all people, and I do not wish to see any of us hurt by an administration which would seek to diminish those rights.

I appreciate what has echoed through social media recently in that we really need to do our research. No one can tell you how to vote or what to think. How will you know what to think if you do not research, check out opposing opinions, and weigh the facts? We can only do what we are able to do. What a tragedy it would be if I voted for someone without examining information available to me, and that person turned out to oppose everything I believe in. If the President of the United States is allowed to have so much power as to turn the F.B.I. into fodder, restrict anyone or any agency from balancing his power, grant pardons to those who violate laws designed to protect its citizens, etc., I have basically shot myself in my own foot.

Terry Pratchett wrote something to that effect. You know, if you seek to restrict or oppress certain peoples and rights, what makes you think you won't be next? Something more brilliantly said, but you get the idea.

Ask yourself what you really want. Do the research. Vote.

What I say in private is my own business. I don't always mean what I say. Sometimes, I blurt things out in anger or sorrow or pain. Feelings are your own, and they do not define your character. Your actions define who you are, and you always have the opportunity to change if you do not like who you are. That is your business. The first thing I thought when Trump was an "apparent" victim of a second assassination attempt was, "Geez, they keep missing." I don't really want to see him assassinated. That is not a true reflection of how much I value human life. Though, I am sure some of you get the feels.

Sure, you can wonder what people say in private if they are willing to say certain things in public (like Project 2025's website). I don't really care what Donald Trump says in private. I can't speculate about who he really is in his private life or in his heart. I do care about what he says in public, however. What he does in public demonstrates who he is. Maybe he means what he says. Maybe he doesn't. His actions while he was in office show that he means it when he says he believes he can be friends with Putin and Orbán. He may think he can prevent World War III. I don't know, but I am pretty sure I don't want to find out how he plans to ensure that, given his affiliation with authoritarian governments. I don't know about you, but I think that doesn't look good for us, peoples.

I am willing to bet that if you currently support Donald Trump for President, you want certain things to happen that you believe in. Consider the whole picture beyond those hopes. Consider what that means for others and what that might mean in action. It just might not be what you bargained for. Only you can decide. So, I won't preach the end of the world. The world always seems to go on, but, please, I urge you to consider the kind of world you want to live in and how that can be accomplished.

SRS 2024.09.18

#personal #opinion

[thelikesoffinn]

Hey hiya hi Hi, I stumbled across your Blog because of your Billy post and then I saw that you had this rly detailed and indepth dissection of that other character and I have no cleu who that is but I've still read the whole thing and it was awesome and now I wanted to ask you if you could make something like that about Billy maybe? You seem to like Billy and that would be so great 👀😫🥰

Well hello there, love!

Honestly, I would love to. Because you're absolutely right, I do like Billy a lot and I'm a slut for tragic characters and I really enjoy writing these analyses.

Thing is, however: I don't have much to work with, when it comes to Billy.

With Astarion - the chap from my obnoxiously long post - you get a lot of input, both actively and passively. There's a ton of conversations to be had with a ton of different options to pick, mostly each leading to its own answer and reactions.

But that's not it. You get to see where he grew up, you get a lot of backstory and you get to see his very passive reactions. You know, Astarion is from Baldur's Gate 3, a crpg where you make the choices. But you get to see his reaction to your choices, get to see what he approves and disapproves which tells you a fuck ton about his character and grants me a good basis to build my observations on.

With Billy however? Not so much. If I had to guess, I'd say the fella has maybe 50 minutes of screening spread out over four seasons, 15 of which he is actually himself. The other 35 minutes are either spent under the influence of the mind flayer or impersonated by vecna. So we don't get to see the true Billy all too much, so most of the things I'd write would probably be at least half bases on headcanons, which would probably still be fine but I personally like to stick to the things I can actually provide evidence for if you know what I mean. (At this point, it might as well be lasting uni trauma, haha.)

On top of that, there's another thing that makes Astarion somewhat of a special case and that is, quite plainly, how well he is written. You can tell that there was a lot of attention to detail and that the authors put both research and love into his character. (In my personal opinion, his writing even far excels that of other origin characters in the game, which is pure art because they're all amazingly written.)

Combine that with Neil Newbon's - Astarions VA - performance and you have a proverbial feast for people like me.

We don't get that with Billy. A lot of Billy - both his charme and his tragedy - rides on Dacre Montgomery's shoulders. His performance and his very obvious love for the character make up a lot of the Billy we've seen but, in the end, I don't think he is that well written as a character. There were a lot of moments where I felt they wasted his potential by letting him fall flat because he was nothing but this throwaway character, throwaway "villain" they build.

(Which matches up with what Dacre Montgomery said, how he asked them to give him a story because that boy wouldn't be evil for no reason, which just once again proves that all Billy we got to see was entirely carried by Dacre Montgomery and Dacre Montgomery alone.)

This a problem the stranger writers all seem to have, somehow. Characters they don't deem that important can be rendered a bit flat, which makes them pretty two dimensional between the otherwise colourful cast of stranger things and, as someone who holds side characters and minor characters in extremely high regard, this annoys me to no end. A story without side characters is lifeless and empty, so the least they deserve is to be paid attention to. But they don't, which is why I personally find it extremely easy to guess which character is going to stay and which one isn't.

So far, the only character that surprised me was Steve. I was 100% convinced he'd be gone by the end of season 1, because season 1 Steve also felt like a caricature of himself. "Main good girl's popular boyfriend that gets knocked down a peg by the "looser" character and falls from grace". So when he came back around in season 2 - and with that much added charme - I was like damn? Pretty boy is still around! And he has a proper personality this time!

Anyway, sorry love this turned a bit ranty towards the end there - to make it short: I would really truly love to write an analysis on Billy Hargrove, but I don't think I actually can do so properly, I'm sorry! 😭

[keyboardandquill]

It’s a tragedy when a library closes its doors. The community loses a beloved space, and more often than not, it happens because nobody who cares is important enough to do anything about it.

More tragic still, shelves of books are left to rot; only the “valuable” ones are given homes in other libraries or on collectors’ shelves.

But the biggest tragedy of all? It’s the ones who care about the library who wind up being the ones to find a way inside after fruitless months or years of haranguing the city to let them in.

They mean well. I know they do. But every ounce of enthusiasm comes with an ample supply of “Acting Without Thinking.” And because the powers that be would rather pretend their library problem doesn’t exist, there are few (if any) public service announcements about the dangers of entering neglected libraries. It’s simply not common knowledge.

Sure, everyone knows to stay away from the big, sprawling ones going on decades or even a century old. But a library without a remediation budget can start showing signs of starvation damage after a closure as short as one or two weeks, and librarians have to bring in something new for the catalogue just to make up for the neglect. Any longer, and the city has to pay an agency to handle re-opening procedures. Remediation, as it’s known in the biz.

Do you see where I’m going with this?

A neglected library should only be handled by an expert or team of experts. The general book-loving public should stay far away. But they don’t know that, so well-meaning Friends Of the Library activist groups go in. I assume they get confused because the interior no longer looks like it used to, and that’s all they have time to think before The Library itself gets involved.

The results are messy. Too often, librarial neglect continues because now there’s nobody left to care.

~~~

There are two kinds of groups to whom I offer my services pro bono: Friends of the Library-type clubs who actually do enough research to find me in the first place, and universities facing funding cuts of their own. I have been known to take a nominal fee from small towns, the grieving children of eccentric collectors, and, in one case, a library itself.

The last instance came in the form of a book being spat through a returns slot, a twenty tucked into its pages like a bookmark. It landed at my feet as I was walking by—I was off work due to an injury at the time, and hadn’t even realized the old library had grown so much from its home building at the other end of the block.

By the time I emerged the next morning, sneezing and dusty and only a little worse for wear, the library was a library no more.

Okay, people who think the physical book itself is some kind of sacred relic, there’s no need to clutch your pearls. My work is entirely humane: I take the “essence” of the library and disperse it. Salvageable books, if there are any, are taken to my agency’s redistribution centre. The records, preserved in our database. We even archive the ephemera, like flyers for readings and such, if such ephemera exists. Once there is no longer a library, there is also nothing to starve, and nothing to pose a danger to intrepid bibliophiles.

You see? Preservation and eradication all at once. Simple.

~~~

Small agencies, like mine was when I started it, usually limit themselves to small jobs. Certain situations call for a well-coordinated team of specialists, while others, a solo agent can handle in an afternoon.

I’m probably giving you the impression that my colleagues and I are like spies or something. A more accurate picture would be “exterminator meets flood remediation technician meets librarian.” If you wanna toss in some Ghostbusters imagery too, I won’t stop you.

(And, yes, many of us are former librarians and all of us have degrees in library science. You would not believe how handy the Dewey Decimal system is in this line of work.)

That said, our clients usually have no idea what kind of agency they need. I’ve sent my fair share of potential clients to the big guys, and they’ve sent small-time clients to me. I’m normally pretty good at sussing out what kind of job it’ll be even before I get to the site, and anything that sneaks past my questionnaire or client interview typically gets caught during pre-inspection.

Notice my use of words like ‘usually’ and ‘normally’ and ‘typically.’ I can’t afford to deal in absolutes. Learned that one the hard way.

It was my first big-girl job after my internship. I’d landed a—frankly—pretty sweet position at a medium–large agency as a junior agent, and I was eager to impress. The agency had a rule: no matter an agent’s experience level, if a job’s scope reached a certain size, everyone working solo had to call in backup.

After a few partnered expeditions into mostly tame libraries, the agency sent me on my first real solo job. They paid for my flight, gave me meal vouchers, and set me up in a nice hotel on their dime—room service included.

I was excited. I was nervous. I panicked a little, then a lot, and then looped back to being excited again. My rideshare took me straight to the old library from the airport, passing the new public library on the way.

The old library building looked fairly nondescript: boarded-up windows just like many other businesses on that street (side note: the uniformity of it all should have been my first indicator something was up); a warning sign on the door saying the building wasn’t safe to enter, which was to avoid lawsuits in case someone thought it was prime squatting real estate; and graffiti on its brick facade. The street, on the other hand, looked like a bomb went off: It was little better than rubble. I’d been on smoother logging roads.

“A gas main blew,” the rideshare driver said. I guess he’d noticed my slack-jawed expression. “Thankfully, the street was already pretty empty and no one got hurt. You said you’re a building inspector?”

I nodded. It was sort of true, and much easier to explain than my actual job.

“Anyone with eyes can see they should just tear it all down. But I guess they gotta keep things official for the paperwork, eh? About time—it’s been sitting like this for years.”

That should have been my second indication that was something up. But, I was brimming with youthful naivete and running on two hours of sleep, so if any alarm bells rang in my head, I staunchly ignored them and charged ahead full speed. (Some free advice for you: Don’t do that. Always go into a dangerous situation well-rested.)

“Years?” I remember saying. Where a seasoned, safety-conscious agent would have seen the need to call for backup right then, I saw an adventure. A chance to test out all these newly acquired skills I’d gone into debt for. The driver helped cart all my gear to the front door. He probably made a comment about needing so much stuff for a simple inspection, and I probably made a joke about being prepared for anything.

He drove off after I insisted he didn’t need to wait for me, and I entered the building alone. I didn’t even pause at the doorstep. (That would be mistake number three, for those keeping track at home.)

Have you ever felt like you were being watched? The hairs on the back of your neck stand up, maybe you get goosebumps, a sense of dread like a rock in your gut. I’ve become well-acquainted with the sensation in all my years as an agent, but I wasn’t too familiar with it at this stage of my career. I chalked it up to nerves and pressed onward.

Leaving most of my kit at the door, all I had with me as I entered the lobby was my flashlight, my toolbag, and a cheap e-reader filled with titles that had all come out after the library closed. I stopped in front of the checkout desk. It was at this point I realized I had messed up royally.

Many pet owners will know what I mean when I say there’s a big difference between innocuous silence—like when a dog or cat is asleep—and suspicious silence. It’s intuition. Our brains pick up on so many details sub-consciously.

As I swept the beam of light across the abandoned shelves, the building was dead quiet. No groans or creaks. No hum of electricity. No sounds from outside. I couldn’t even hear myself breathe.

The beam wavered as my hand began to shake, and I tried to turn around. My feet wouldn’t budge. I lifted my eyes—and only my eyes, since my head wouldn’t move either—and the air rushed from my lungs.

There was no ceiling. I don’t mean the roof was missing, I mean there was nothing.

Before I was a remediation tech, I was actually pursuing a degree in marine ecology. I know, hell of a career change, right? But one summer, I went on a month-long research trip to the Mariana Trench. They took us over the Challenger Deep, where eleven thousand metres of dark water separated us from the ocean floor, and sent an ROV through those fathoms upon fathoms of darkness all the way to the bottom.

I imagined a sapient species living down there and wondered if they would fear the gloomy distance between them and the surface like we do the depths. I got my answer and then some in that library: How can you worry about something as trivial as distance when you’re staring into the yawning abyss?

And yet some people are drawn to the infinite. I’m one of them—I wanted to be at the bottom of the ocean right alongside that ROV. And maybe that’s why I survived the library.

You’ve heard that Nietzsche quote about staring at the abyss long enough that it stares back? It’s truer than you can imagine. I don’t know what that library saw in me, why I’m still here to tell my story first-hand. A starving library will consume any information it can reach, and what is a human brain but a complex repository of knowledge?

Whatever it found, I’m grateful it did. It let me go. I returned with backup. We did our jobs. The library was—is—no more. Every once in a while, I’ll come across a book that once lived there, as if it’s saying ‘Remember me?’ and I take a moment to be thankful I’m alive.

Especially considering all of the precarious situations I’ve found myself in since then.

Deep Water Prompt #3064

When libraries are not maintained they expand, swallowing cities block by block. If you run into a building too big to comprehend, that city has starved its library, and you should not go in. 

[literenture]

I added a bunch to this the other night. Exploring Gheriun & Rie’s relationship leading up to Sho’s birth. Still poking at it

That day he was led by the Founder into a part of the lab he’d not yet seen. As the other man passed a keycard and allowed the Mask Seller in, he was struck by the size of the place. He did not think the underground space extended so far, but before him were tens of stasis chambers glowing a faint blue or green. There were all manner of aberration within, even pieces of some gods he knew. He braced himself, cursing for leaving his club with security.

“Oh do calm down,” the Founder drawled. “I did this all for your sake.”

“My..?”

The Mask Seller had no idea what the other man was talking about. The Founder merely nodded before calling out to the rows of creatures.

“Rie! Your subject has arrived.”

There was a clatter of objects getting knocked to the ground and the scuttle of feet on the tile floor. From among the rows came a woman dressed in laboratory whites, hair up in a practical bun although it seemed to be intent on escaping, and some of the most impressive eyebrows the Mask Seller had seen. Her freckled face had an inquisitive look on it. He coughed and turned his masked face toward the Founder.

“This is your researcher? The one you told me about?”

“Don’t dismiss her just yet. Ah, Rie, how good of you to join us.”

“Yes, father,” she said, out of breath. Her eyes had not left the Mask Seller once and he felt incredibly exposed in that stare.

“You’re so much…bigger…than I expected. I thought a masksmith would be more of a wiry kinda guy.”

“It takes a lot more muscle than people realize,” Gheriun said, a bit defensively.

Rie just smiled. She had the sort of smile that lit up a room, and the Mask Seller looked again to the Founder.

“She knows what the…research entails, right?”

“Hello! I’m right here!” Rie stepped between the two men. “Of course I do, I'm not stupid. But um, I also know that I have the perfect mutation for this to work. If my calculations are correct at least. If not…”

She shrugged.

“I die, and you start over.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. The woman beamed up at him, certain of herself. The founder had no particular interest written upon his face. This had probably been partly his doing. But they needed this first step done if they were to move forward. A vessel capable of destroying the curse of immortality. A vital step in preventing the tragedy should mankind overreach itself once again and spread like a curse amongst the stars.

“But I’m quite confident in my ability,” she said, interrupting the masksmith’s thoughts. “Even father has commended me, and he commends nobody.”

The Founder inclined his head, much to Gheriun’s surprise.

“She’s the real deal. You asked who broke the entropy matrix—-well, she’s standing before you.”

“So as you can see,” Rie gestured with both hands, “I may not be gifted your many centuries, but I know my way around the a-un processes and I’m quite prepared for the physical rejection if it comes to it, and—“

“You’re ready to die, I get it,” the Mask Seller said, raising his large hands placatingly. “But surely with your talent you could have a long, storied career. There’s no need to risk your life just for this…”

“‘Just’ for this?” She seemed baffled. “I might solve the mystery behind one of the most important phenomena in our world. Besides, my life might only be the blink of an eye, but if we truly have the process down I’d have first hand access to the subject.”

“The subject,” the masksmith objected, “would be your own flesh and blood. You’d have to raise a child with a clinical hand. It’s not something—“

“I’ll die either way,” she interrupted with a snap. “This way I have some control over my death—and my contribution to this world.”

The Mask Seller was stunned, and he tilted his head toward the Founder, who nodded.

“It’s a disease you might be familiar with. First your sight goes, then your mind, until all that’s left..”

“The Ophelia factor…”

“Yes, hello, can we not talk like I’m invisible?” Rie piped up. “It makes me the perfect fit, right? We caught it before it started deteriorating the visual cortex so it’s still dormant, making the physical aspect no issue, and if we can get this just right you’ll have your subject. I only have another fifteen, twenty years left at most anyway, the risk of complications is of no matter to me.”

There was something so unsettling about seeing someone mortal seem so set in their death. Here was none of the usual flailing and fighting against fate, just a hungry desire for knowledge. He could not exactly fault her for it, but the look in her eyes disturbed him. She had accepted the burden of this project in full, he saw that now, so the nagging doubt came from somewhere within himself. But there was no time to question it, he knew. If they were to commit to this project, it would have to be soon. The balance was on the verge of collapse, and when it did there would be no more chances to prevent it.

So he hesitantly extended one hand out toward Rie, who blinked in surprise before accepting it.

“I’ll be in your care,” the Mask Seller muttered.

“And I yours,” beamed Rie with an impossibly bright smile.

They spent time getting to know one another over the coming weeks. Gheriun found Rie to be a fascinating mystery, so brilliant and yet at times a cloud hung over her so heavy it seemed immutable.

She had been born after the Founder had already passed to her father, and the Mask Seller had been sternly warned not to reveal his identity. He wondered just what the other man had done as he raised Rie.

She had an older sister as well, whom Gheriun soon became well acquainted with. Mei was more than ten year’s Rie’s senior and, as the masksmith discovered, well aware of the Founder’s aims. She worked closely with the other man, sometimes acting as a go-between for the Founder.

Her attitude was severe and curt, a stark contrast to Rie’s warm and friendly nature. However, it was obvious to Gheriun that she cared deeply for her younger sister. Although Rie had agreed to this on her own, Mei continued to treat the Mask Seller with suspicion. He couldn’t blame her; their arrangement was not exactly the standard, and although he and Rie had yet to progress to the next stage it was an inevitable part of their relationship.

The closer he got to Rie, the stormier his thoughts. The inkblot pulsed in his left eye socket, sending shockwaves through his brain as he made his way through the power plant.

Was this really okay? He was still uncertain as to what the Founder planned. That man had always woven plot after plot, even as a mortal.

And yet, Gheriun had accepted his hand.

He had been in disbelief when the Founder first came to him. For nearly 150 years, he had believed the man he knew as Shinya had died.

So when he learned that not only had he survived, but he’d managed to accomplish so much in pursuit of his goal, the Mask Seller had been filled with conflicting emotions.

Their time together had been brief, but Gheriun still recalled it with fondness. Perhaps they had simply been using one another, but the two had found a safe haven in the other all those years ago. Shinya’s death had hit the Mask Seller worse than he’d expected, and he had once again withdrawn from the world.

And then, after receiving a curse, they were reunited.

The Founder, as he was known now, had prepared everything. The dream they once shared now seemed a surety, if Gheriun could simply fulfill his task without his emotions getting the better of him.

So, as he now made his way through the crisscrossing corridors of the labyrinthine power plant, his thoughts were filled with stormy premonitions of what would come. After all, it was no simple matter of his life alone; to see his task through, he had to be willing to shackle this as-yet unborn child with an immense destiny. Perhaps it would be more apt to call it a curse. The longer time went on, the less sure he was of which.

He pressed a hand to his simple, white mask, head throbbing. The mushrooms seemed to feed on his uncertainty and doubt, tormenting him further as he approached his destination.

He took a deep breath, hand to his chest as he tried to calm his beating heart.

Why, after so, so many centuries, did his emotions choose now to resurface? He had lived so long in a sort of numb haze, detached from the world at large as he passed countless decades. It was as though he were a teenager again, volatile and self critical, full of uncertainty even as he committed to his role.

The Founder had prepared a space for them in one of the many attached buildings encircling the heart tree. He had not minced words as to what he expected of Gheriun, yet the Mask Seller had only grown more anxious about what he was to accomplish. He knew his past made him the best candidate for the task—whereas the vast majority of immortals were impotent, he had come to discover such was not the case for himself. It had not ended well, and although the Founder had assured him the same tragedy would not come to pass with Rie’s unique circumstances, Gheriun could not help but fret over what might happen to her if he was wrong. Memories of blood and the horror that he had born witness to flashed through his head, and he swallowed. Surely Shinya—surely the Founder would not allow his own daughter, his own grandson, to suffer such a fate. He had to be certain.

The inkblot spasmed in his face, and he clenched his jaw. Shoulders squared, he rapped the door lightly with his knuckles.

“Come in,” a bright voice said from within. “It’s unlocked.”

The Mask Seller carefully turned the handle and entered.

Inside sat Rie, perched on the corner of a bed. Her hands were folded on her lap, and rather than her usual researcher’s garb she was dressed in a simply cut yet elegant navy robe adorned with carefully stitched butterflies in shades of blue and purple along the sleeves and hem, with accents of gold. It was not overstated, and it added a level of regality about her appearance.

She smiled shyly, glancing down.

“I thought this might be better.”

Gheriun stood awkwardly by the door, unsure of just what he should do. Or rather, the knowledge of what he was supposed to do was tearing him apart inside.

Rie got to her feet in a fluid motion, pushing a lock of hazel hair from her face. Her soft features were lined with a hint of anxiety, brows furrowed slightly as she approached.

She held her hands out, hovering over Gheriun’s chest as she stood less than an arm’s length away. He could smell the floral scent of the gardens she tended to wafting from her hair.

Finally, carefully, she set her palms upon his broad chest. As she did so, her eyes widened.

“Are you nervous?”

“Ah,” the Mask Seller fumbled, “it’s not, that…”

He struggled to organize his thoughts as she leaned her head against him. Her hair was done up in a styled bun, wisps of it tickling his chin. Even on her tiptoes, Rie barely came up to his chin, stretching her arms out to wrap them around him. She was so slender beside him, so small. So fragile.

Before she could go any further, the masksmith grabbed her wrists gently.

“Why don’t we sit down, first?”

Her light features turned a deep shade of red as Rie took a step back. He had never seen her so flustered before, and she quickly turned around.

“Then, is here fine?”

The room was almost bare but for the bed, a table, and a small house shrine up on a shelf. The combination was unsettling to Gheriun, and he took a seat beside Rie on the thin mattress.

They sat in awkward silence for what felt like an eternity, close but not touching. The Mask Seller sat ramrod straight, hands on his knees as he stared out into space. Sweat beaded under his mask, and the inkblot ached.

“I guess it isn’t as simple as it seems,” Rie said finally. “I didn’t think I’d be so nervous.”

The masksmith gulped down an anxious breath before nodding stiffly.

“It’s not something I’m used to either,” he mumbled. “At least, not like… this.”

To his surprise, Rie laughed. She covered her mouth with one hand, freckled fingers crooked over her pink lips. Gheriun relaxed slightly, a smile spreading over his own face.

Rie leaned back on her hands, staring up at him. Unable to bear the scrutiny, the Mask Seller finally asked,

“What is it?”

Rie shifted towards him.

“Would you show me your face?”

Her question made him jolt, and he gaped at her, though his plain mask revealed nothing. At his silence, Rie quickly sat up, waving her hands apologetically.

“Oh, unless that’s something sensitive. I’m sorry, sometimes I speak without thinking, and—“

“It’s okay,” Gheriun said gently. “It’s just… rather unsightly.”

He shifted uncomfortably.

Rie had a complicated expression on her face, thick brows furrowed.

“It’s all right if you’d rather not. I understand.”

“It’s not that.”

Gheriun scratched the back of his head as he sought the words. He turned towards Rie.

“Just… I’m sorry, if it’s unpleasant.”

Without another word, he reached up and removed the mask over his face. Rie watched with an expression he was unable to read.

As the mask fell away from his curse-scarred face, Rie did not even flinch. Instead, she leaned closer, eyes on the odd growths sprouting from the left side of his face. She reached one slender hand up to his cheek and Gheriun flinched.

“Ah, sorry,” she said hurriedly, drawing back.

Gheriun placed a hand over his face and sighed.

“No, it’s just… isn’t it disgusting?”

A questioning look came over Rie’s freckled features and she shook her head.

“I assure you, I see far worse working the Plant. Some mushrooms don’t really faze me.”

She flashed him a brilliant smile, the mole beneath her right eye crinkling.

“May I?”

She held her hand up questioningly, and Gheriun nodded.

With a steady hand, she placed her warm palm against his cheek. Although overgrown with the inkblot, he felt her touch against what patches of skin remained. Somehow, the roaring in his head settled down, and his shoulders slumped. He leaned into her touch, her fingers brushing against his stubbly cheek.

“I think short hair would suit you,” she announced suddenly.

The Mask Seller stared at her, confused. He ran a hand along his hair, pulled back and tied out of the way.

“Is it so bad?” he asked defensively.

Rie burst out into that sunny laughter, waving her other hand.

“No, no, that’s not what I meant. I was just—it was just a passing thought.”

Gheriun cracked a small smile.

“Maybe next time I’ll have you cut it for me, then.”

His comment seemed to catch her off guard, and Rie glanced up at him. Her light brown eyes sparkled in the greenish overhead light, lashes shining as they moved.

Without thinking, Gheriun reached out and placed a hand on Rie’s cheek. Her eyes widened before softening, mouth spreading into a smile. He brushed aside a lock of warm brown hair, tracing a line of freckles along her cheek. She leaned towards him, eyes closing, and Gheriun met her lips with his own.

He kissed her gently, her arms sliding up his shoulders as she held him.

They parted, faces red.

Wordlessly, Rie sat back on the bed, her mouth set and determined. However, Gheriun hesitated once more.

“Are you sure—“

“Gher.”

Her voice was soft yet stern.

“If this project goes forward, I’d rather…”

She fumbled with her words, hands gesturing until finally she sighed and leaned her head back.

“I’m glad it’s you, and not somebody else. I know it’s not… I’m not…”

She threw her hands up.

“But this was what we agreed to. I agreed to. I know Father organized all of this, and I know I’m nothing more than a piece of this.”

One thin wrist fell across her face, obscuring it.

“I know it’s not exactly romantic or anything. But I guess, I’m just trying to say, I’m glad that you’re the one I…”

Her voice trailed off. Gheriun reached one hand out, not sure what to do.

Rie’s fingers wrapped around his and she pulled him down next to her. The Mask Seller froze, but she didn’t do anything further, just stared over at him. He felt trapped in that tender gaze, unable to escape.

“I was surprised when I met you.”

The masksmith jerked his head up, eyebrow cocked. At his expression, Rie smiled.

“Father had always told stories, but meeting a real immortal? One of those fabled wise hermits, someone beyond this world. But you’ve turned out to be more human than I expected.”

Gheriun settled back down on his side, propping himself up on an elbow.

“Would you prefer I was some wrinkled old geezer with a head the size of a distended dew melon?”

Rie laughed, slapping him lightly on the chest with the back of her hand.

“That would certainly have been more alarming. Though, yeah, I guess that’s more what I had pictured…”

“And you still agreed to this?”

She shifted, looking over at him with a devilish smile.

“Well, how could I say no? Even if you were, I’ve no other chance to meet someone like you. And who knows,” she said, her voice taking on a sad edge. “Maybe this way I’ll have left my mark on the world.”

Gheriun lowered his eyes, fumbling for what to say.

“Surely there are other ways.”

Rie’s face twitched, eyes slowly widening as she stared at the masksmith.

“You sound as though you’ve changed your mind.”

Gheriun shook his head.

“No, your father’s plan is… I don’t mind. But for you, to ask this much is…”

He felt a soft palm against his cheek and opened his eye to see Rie on her side looking into his face.

“Then, we’re in agreement.”

He searched her face for any sign of doubt, but found only a strong determination.

Just how had he ended up here? He had been so sure that he could go through with this without issue, yet at this crucial moment he was hesitating.

He slowly sat back up, face in his hands.

“Let’s… call it a day here.”

Rie bolted upright, alarm writ large across her face.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” the Mask Seller responded hurriedly. “I just… We don’t need to rush, your father’s still getting everything together, so it’s…”

He fumbled about for the right words.

“I just, right now is… Give me some time.”

Her soft palm lay flat against his hand, and he turned to see her looking at him with a gentle smile.

“Mm, maybe you’re right,” she said in a quiet voice. “Honestly, Father was the one who… But it’s like you said, there’s no reason to hurry. Yeah, no worries.”

She slapped her face lightly, her cheeks reddening under the touch, before balling her hands into fists.

“I was a bit nervous,” she admitted. “It’s not like I’ve never… But still. I thought it would be easier, somehow.”

Gheriun smiled as he nodded.

“I think I know what you mean.”

Rie scooted to the edge of the bed and reached over to grab his mask off the table. She rotated it in her hands with a curious expression.

“Does it do anything special?”

Taken off guard by the sudden change of subject, Gheriun scratched his chin.

“What do you mean?”

Rie turned to him, eyes shining with interest.

“Well, you’re the Mask Seller; you make these, right? Father mentioned you could enchant them, so I was wondering what this one does.”

“Ah,” Gheriun said. “Well, no, it’s not like I cast a spell on them or anything. Rather… it’s sort of like, when I’m really connecting with the piece, it’s like those feelings get imbued with them…? I can’t say I have any fine control over the matter, they just sort of end up that way. The material and the shape I carve it into do seem to have some effect over it, but I can’t say there’s any interesting process. It looks much the same as any other masksmith’s work. At the most, I’ll add talismans to them, but even then, I don’t make those myself. As for that, that one is just to help me blend into the crowd. Nothing so fantastic as a glamor, it’s more of a… suggestion?”

As he spoke, Rie leaned forward, fists on her knees. Her nostrils flared as she listened, fascination written plainly on her freckled face. It was so intense that Gheriun felt self conscious.

“Sorry, sometimes I go on about these things.”

“Oh, no, not at all,” Rie said in a rush. “Honestly, it’s fascinating to me. I wonder just how it works… Say, maybe I could come to your workshop sometime to observe? I promise I’ll stay out of your way.”

Her excitement was evident in her rapid-fire speech, and Gheriun found himself flattered that she would think so highly of it all.

“We’d have to ask your father, but sure, if he says—“

“Excellent! Then,” Rie said with a clap, “we have to do it before the summer is out. What do you say?”

Unable to say no, Gheriun’s mouth turned up into a lopsided grin.

“Before summer’s out, then.”

“Deal.”

They shook hands before parting ways.

Despite the situation, despite the responsibilities looming over them, despite his own doubts, Gheriun could not help but look forward to when that day would come.

They met up like that numerous times over the coming weeks, then months. Summer was in its midst and they had yet to take that trip to the seaside—and they had avoided certain other things as well.

Every time they ended up simply chatting, or even taking a nap together, just enjoying each other’s company. The initial awkwardness had worn off, but they found themselves still putting things off.

The Founder had begun to grow weary of the wait, however. By the end of the third month, he was doing little to hide his frustration with Gheriun. However, the Mask Seller pointed out that in terms of getting pregnant, that was really very little time at all, and somehow had managed to convince the other man that he was performing his duties as expected.

Still, both he and Rie knew it was only time before her father began pushing harder.

That day, as a thunderstorm made its way through Mineshi’s hot and humid summer streets, Gheriun arrived at the usual room soaked through. He had been caught in the sudden downpour as he made his way between buildings, and in that short time alone had ended up drenched. His long hair clung to his scalp and back, and he lamented not letting Rie cut it for him sooner. With how hot the summer had been, perhaps it was about time.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said as he opened the door. “The trains were a mess, and I… Rie?”

The room was dark, lit only by the dim emergency lights, and he squinted to see. As his eyes adjusted, he saw Rie sat on the side of the bed, perfectly still. Her head was bowed and her hands sat folded in her lap, hair done up in a loose bun. Loose strands fell over her face. Gheriun turned to switch on the light when she jumped.

“Don’t!”

He flinched, turning towards her. In the red glow of the backup lighting it was difficult to make out exact features, but her thick eyebrows were furrowed and her mouth strained. The shadows cast over her face left one side in darkness, a sharp contrast like the faces of a moon. He noticed that her robes were slightly askew and picked up his step as he walked towards her, hand held out.

“Hey, what’s wrong? Did something happen?”

She turned away from him, one hand cradling her face.

“I’ve just… my head hurts. The lights in this place are so bright, it’s awful. Was my father trying to torment everyone who comes in here?”

She laughed quietly, but there was an edge to it. Gheriun hesitated before placing his hand on her shoulder. At his touch, her head snapped back around, eyes wide through the dangling locks. She reached up and grabbed his arm.

“Gods, Gher, you’re soaked through. Here, there’s a spare summer robe in the closet, let’s get you out of these before you catch cold.”

Caught off guard by her sudden tonal shift, Gheriun spluttered and flailed his hands.

“No, it’s fine, I—“

“Nonsense. Come on, get undressed while I fetch it.”

She stood and headed towards the small closet, opening it to reveal shelves with a few assorted linens. The Mask Seller watched in growing panic, frozen, as she grabbed some towels.

Even in the dim light, he could see her face contort in exasperation as she turned.

“Here, don’t stand around like a drowned rat all day.”

She thrust the towels towards him, which Gheriun accepted meekly. He shuffled to the farthest corner of the room, drawing the drape that hung over the bed to obscure himself. As he was hastily wrapping one of the towels around his waist and lamenting his large body and the fabric’s inadequate coverage, a soft voice called out from behind him.

“Here’s your…”

He whipped around to see Rie wide-eyed. Before he could say anything, she stepped closer, fingers stretched out to trace the edges of the large burn scar which covered his back.

“Oh Gheriun…”

At the sorrow in her voice he lowered his head, not wishing to turn and face her.

“That was a long time ago, now,” he murmured.

There was silence, and then the gentle pressure of Rie’s weight against his back. He felt her lean her cheek against his shoulder, her hands wrapping around the masksmith’s waist. He started to pull away when he heard the soft, painful sound of muffled sobs. Startled, he froze, standing there in only a towel and unsure what to do.

“Can we just stay like this for a minute,” Rie whispered. “Please.”

“I—of course.” Gheriun lowered his hands sheepishly. “If that’s what you need.”

They stood there as Rie cried, choked, muted sobs that barely left her lips. The Mask Seller felt paralyzed, barely even able to breathe. He couldn’t even muster the courage to ask her what exactly had happened, but a part of him suspected the Founder had played some part.

“Rie,” he said, breaking his silence as he placed his hands on hers. “Is there anything I can do?”

“It’s not… I’m just being foolish. As Father always says, it’s like I walk around with my head in the clouds, never giving any thought to my actions.”

Her hands twitched.

“I need to act like an adult already. I’ve been so spoiled.”

“Rie…”

Gheriun struggled with how to respond, and as he tried to come up with some comforting words, Rie shifted.

Her hands slid up to his face as she turned his head to kiss him. There was a desperation in the way she clung to him, and Gheriun froze.

As she parted from him, hair askew, her eyes were burning with some deep emotion he couldn’t place.

Before he knew it, they had ended up on the bed.

When everything was over, Rie lay atop Gheriun’s chest, her face obscured by her loose hair. She reached over and trapped his fingers in her own.

“It’ll all work out,” she said, almost as if to convince herself. “I just worry…”

“What is it?”

She let out a small sigh, slumping her head.

“Is it right,” she began, “morally? To bring a child into this world purely as a conduit…”

Gheriun shifted slightly.

“Though it might be unusual, doesn’t every parent wish for great things for their child, to some degree?”

His words sounded hollow even to his own ears, but Rie glanced up at him with a shaky smile.

“Mm, no, you’re right,” she murmured. “Father said something similar. I just… It does feel a bit strange.”

A pang of guilt shot through Gheriun like a bullet.

It wasn’t just a bit strange; it was terribly unusual. However, she had been raised within these confined walls, her own father none other than the Founder. It was not the first time that the Mask Seller was forced to face his own complicity in the matter. He coughed, trying to clear his thoughts.

“Say,” he said slowly. “Why don’t we plan that trip out to the sea?”

Rie perked up at his suggestion before wilting.

“But Father, he,” she stammered. “He’s worried I’m not taking this seriously. I understand, and maybe he has a point, but…”

Her round shoulders rose as she took a deep breath.

“I need this to work out.”

Gheriun thought for a moment.

“Then, I’ll speak to him. Maybe I can work something out. I owe your father a great deal.”

Rie looked like she wanted to ask a question, but instead she bit her lip.

“Is something wrong?” Gheriun asked.

Rie shook her head quickly.

“Mm-mm,” she muttered. “That’s a good idea. I’ll leave it to you, then.”

When it was time to go, the Mask Seller slumped into his still-damp clothing despite Rie’s protests. They lingered before parting, not saying anything for a long while before Gheriun finally nodded and donned his mask.

“Well then,” he said. “And Rie…”

He fumbled as he tried to find the right words.

“If there’s ever anything bothering you—“

“I’ll be fine. You just worry about yourself.”

Her voice was even but cool, and Gheriun immediately shut his mouth. Rie’s face relaxed into a smile.

“I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah,” Gheriun managed. “Later, then.”

Gheriun haircut

They continued to see each other, and within what felt like no time at all, it was discovered that Rie was pregnant.

The news should have elicited some sort of elation in Gheriun; after all, it meant that they had succeeded in Phase One of the project. However, he was instead filled with turbulent and difficult emotions.

Memories flashed through his head as the inkblot seemed to gnaw away at his brain. He grit his teeth as he made his way to the designated room.

It was not the usual place off in the distant side-halls of Power Plant No 1, but instead a larger meeting room located in the Administrative Wing. As he stepped through the finely lacquered double doors he was greeted with the sight of a long table set with many chairs. The far wall was itself the glass of a fish tank, with parts of the ceiling and floor also revealing an enclosure filled with brilliant red and gold arowana. There were elegantly inscribed scrolls and a few minimalist pedestals along the wall topped with fine works of pottery and jade.

The many seats were empty save two; Rie sat near the foot of the table, dressed in simple, grey-blue robes. It seemed that the Founder had stalled her lab work, and Gheriun had not seen her in the overcoats and turtlenecks she once fancied in a long while.

Meanwhile, at the head of the table sat the Founder himself. His black hair was streaked with grey from the temples, a trimmed, short salt-and-pepper beard along his sharp jawline. Age had sunken his cheeks, giving him an imposing and gaunt look.

As the Mask Seller stepped inside, the Founder snapped his head up and gave him a chilly smile.

“I’m sure you’ve heard the news,” he cooed. “Our precious Rie has successfully fallen pregnant. My congratulations to you both.”

He clapped drily a few times before lowering his hands.

“The upcoming months will be crucial. I understand the two of you have been wishing to take a trip to the seaside, and while I do so wish that were possible, unfortunately…”

He gestured toward Rie, thick brows furrowed.

“You understand, don’t you, dear?”

Rie bowed her head.

“Yes, Father.”

“Well then, Gheriun.”

The Founder turned his hawklike gaze on the Mask Seller. His black and gold eyes seemed to bore right into him as he shifted uncomfortably.

(This is a little bit after Sho is born)

“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.”

“Shh. It’s okay, Gher. I needed some time to recover anyway.”

Gheriun stood gazing in awe upon the tiny bundle in Rie’s arms. She gave him an exhausted smile as she lifted the blanket towards him.

“He’s just perfect, look.”

The masksmith accepted the bundle with extreme care, gently cradling it against himself. He stared down in disbelief as he peeled back one corner.

Therein lay a tiny, rosy cheeked infant. He already had locks of curly, dark hair clinging to his scalp, and Gheriun gaped as he watched him sleep.

“His name,” he said quietly. “Did you decide on one?”

“Mm.” Rie nodded. “I want his life to be full of joy. I know that a lot lays before him, but…”

She sighed, eyes relaxing into a warm look as she gazed upon the boy.

“Sho,” she said finally. “His name is Sho. Or, well, what do you think?”

“Me?” Gheriun asked, startled. “I-I think it’s lovely. Sho, huh…”

He stared down at the infant, caressing one of his plump cheeks with a calloused finger. As he did so, the boy’s round eyes snapped open. The Mask Seller was surprised to see familiar dark eyes ringed in lines of gold so much like his own. One small hand peaked through the blanket, grabbing onto Gheriun’s finger. The masksmith stood stunned as the tiny digits wrapped around his own.

“We really did it,” he said in amazement.

Rie laughed.

“He really takes after you.”

“Ah, Gheriun said, embarrassed. “Hopefully not…”

As he looked down, he noticed three moles arranged more or less at the corner of either eye and mouth. He smiled.

“He has the exact mole under his right eye that you do.”

“And one like my father, funnily enough!”

Her comment made him think of Shinya. It was true; his current body also had that characteristic mole at the left corner of his mouth. A small shiver ran down his spine, but he shook his head to clear it.

“How are you feeling, though?” he asked suddenly. “Has it continued to spread?”

Rie’s smile faltered for a moment as she shook her head.

“Mm-mm, don’t worry too much. I think that was just an episode. It’s been pretty okay…”

She trailed off in an unconvincing tone. Gheriun faltered as Sho started to babble, smiling as he squeezed the masksmith’s finger with all his tiny might. Both parents looked at him with warm smiles.

“What did your father say?” asked the masksmith.

Rie’s eyes flashed for a moment before she placed a hand to her cheek, glancing at Sho.

“He’s doing well. All the tests came back indicating everything’s in the clear.”

“That’s good,” Gheriun said with not-inconsiderable relief.

“He is rather small though,” Rie went on. “I worry about the burden it might all have on his body.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine. He’s going to be strong like his mother. Aren’t you, pal?”

Gheriun tickled the child’s cheek as the boy laughed. Rie’s expression relaxed into a smile as she watched the pair.

(They go to the sea when Sho is a few months old, it’s Rie’s first time out of Mineshi)

“Look, Gher!” Rie said in breathless wonder. “You can see it from here.”

The masksmith smiled, breath misting in the cold winter air as they created a small hill. On the horizon spread a vast, endless expanse of grey water under slate skies, slivers of white speckled across speaking of turbulent waters. They had been able to smell the salt in the air since they’d departed the rail car, but now the ocean lay before them in all its bleak majesty.

Rie’s face lit up with excitement as she turned to Gheriun. Her nostrils flared as she grinned.

“It’s huge!”

He relaxed his shoulders, returning her smile from behind his mask.

“Don’t go too fast now. Are you sure you’re warm enough?”

She laughed at his concern, pulling the corner of the thick blanket they’d wrapped Sho in up over his tiny mittened hand. The infant was bundled in numerous layers, adorned with earmuffs and hat and swaddled in a fleece wrap. His face was a bit red, but the boy was sleeping peacefully despite his mother’s excitement. It had been surprising to see how well-behaved the boy was, although he had a tendency to sob when his mother was out of sight for too long.

Still, every time Gheriun came to see them, he found himself lost in amazement at the small life they had created. It was something he had long since been convinced would be impossible for him, and yet here they were. He watched Rie adjust Sho’s hat fondly before they continued on towards the sea.

As they neared the shore, Rie’s pace picked up despite Gheriun’s numerous warnings. He hurried to catch up to her as she rushed towards the crashing waves.

“Don’t trip while you’re holding him—“

“It’s fine, Gher. Look, he’s awake.”

The masksmith glanced down to see the infant’s dark eyes open wide, locked on the sight before him. Fine black hairs were already filling in on his brow ridge, and Gheriun wondered if the boy would have the same thick brows as his mother.

He stood behind the pair, hand hovering above Rie’s back before dropping limply to his side. Her brown eyes watched the waves with wonder, and a small sigh escaped her lips. Her breath misted in the air before being snatched away by the wind.

“It’s so much larger than I expected. I thought the lake north of the heart tree was huge, but this is on a whole other level.”

She braced herself against the wind, arms cradling Sho close to her chest. The little boy was giggling happily as he looked at the ocean. Together they made for a picturesque scene, and the Mask Seller felt at peace despite all that was to come.

“You’ve never been out of Mineshi, have you?”

Rie’s face reddened further at his question and she shook her head sheepishly.

“Mm, unfortunately, I never had the opportunity, though I did go to Xiu Tao when I was a little girl. It was so long ago I can’t really recall.”

She had a sad smile on her face, one he had grown used to seeing now and again, her eyes roaming the stormy seas as though an answer might be elucidated from them.

“I suppose Father didn’t really approve of me doing anything outside of his control,” she said, so quietly her words were nearly lost in the crash of the waves.

Gheriun followed her gaze out to the horizon.

[shiningstages]

Repost from a disc rambling from this morning BUT BASIC ATLAS LORE RIGHT HERE HEHE under a readmore since it's long

Finally posting here because my awake brain needed to spout stuff about an OC:

Atlas - Primal of Communication Guidance (GBF)

Was made before the Astral War as basically a communication device between the astrals in the sky realm, and the ones between the stars, usually through Cosmos (gotta let everyone who wasn't researching and didn't go to war know how the sky realm was doing). He was always kept at HQ, and made many messages to and fro in peace, not truly understanding everything that was said but relying each message to a T without hesitation.

It wasn't until the Astral War that Atlas then started getting mass produced, sent out into battlefields both in the sky realm and in space (the moon dangerous, and there's lore to suggest that they fought the moon dwellers as well, I just don't have it on me). The original Atlas stayed at the main HQ, being both a vital communications source, but also being further experimented on to become stronger and withstand any attack coming his way (as The First and seen as the most important version of himself, he had to somehow defend himself, even though he was never made to be a fighter). Eventually, the astrals were defeated, and the survivors fled the sky realm, but not before sending out Atlas to fight, letting him truly see all the tragedy caused and start to understand more so what all those messages were about.

He perishes in battle, yet his core is kept intact (unlike most of his brethren, who were destroyed in order to cut off communications of the astrals between each other), awakened by the first descent of moon dwellers on the sky realm. He wasn't hostile once he was awakened - rather, he was the exact opposite, wanting to speak on all that has changed. Especially as he could no longer communicate with the astrals, nor even Cosmos, which baffled him and, somehow, made him fearful. Once the moon dwellers learned of his purpose, they began their own experiments on him with his permissions, but with not knowing what exactly to look for in a primal body, a head researcher there simply decided a different tactic - communication and rehabilitation, something that the moon dwellers were already doing into sky dweller society. A note on Atlas' appearance that slightly hindered this - he's blue.

Hair like a stardust night scape, skin deep blueish purple, cape like constellations - he had a lot that said "otherworldly". Yet, when the researcher finally introduced him as their friend, reactions weren't hostile, so much as they were mixed. But, through slow progression of understanding, he began to live just a normal life. Well, upon saying what was once his purpose, the sky dwellers interpreted it as Divination rather than communication. Then, through the teachings of local wizards and the researchers finding books for him on the topic, he started his normal life as a local psychic. As normal as a life could be, he enjoyed using his new skills of communication, until his untimely disappearance back into his core (don't know the lore here yet hehe)

When he's finally awakened again, he finds himself in a familiar researcher's house, facing a group of sky farers, and especially close to one very confused yet awed man. Looking in the mirror, it seemed like this man touching his core gave him a new face, as it had been so long that he forgot his own (unless he always looked like Issac's twin, in which case LMAO). So, now awakened, he continues to learn about the now much more modern sky realm, all while learning new forms of communication and divination. All to feel close to his original purpose, but all to relay messages of ones he cared about, rather than as a simple "purpose" to be used.

[itstimetowritecl]

Writing Advice: Borrowing Another Culture’s Aspects is Not Pokemon - You Do NOT Get to Catch Them All

A lot has happened since I last logged into this website, and hopefully so has my writing quality.

What hasn’t changed sadly, is the continued trend of cultural appropriation within literary publications, particularly borrowing a culture’s important customs by a majority group outside of said culture. When juxtaposed against the fact those from said culture face greater difficulties in getting published and allowing their own voices to tell the story, this bodes an alarming trend that further marginalizes them.

I deem this the Catch-Them-All Effect (please don’t sue me Pokemon! I’ve got a lot of student loan debt to pay off still), the habit where writers borrow from another culture they are not a part of, but fail to execute its usage appropriately. It is akin to grabbing a new shiny item off the shelf, or rather, collecting that Pokemon, disregarding whether it is yours to grab or not.

The Catch-Them-All Effect is notable within Sarah J Maas’ most recent publication, House of Sky and Breath, the second book in her Crescent City series. While I certainly do not believe Maas had malicious intent when constructing this novel, a few worldbuilding aspects and characterizations fall into the Catch-Them due to the execution and portrayal of cultural elements within the text.

Thus, below is a case study of how the Catch-Them-All Effect applies to this novel and suggestions for how it can be revised to avoid these pitfalls.

Borrowing a Sacred Object and Making it Non-Sacred: Using the Pokeball (Thunderbird) to Capture an Oppressed Group

Example: During the prologue, we are introduced to Sofie, a member of the Thunderbird, an oppressed race that is being hunted for their magical gifts by the Vanir, the non-human majority group. Sofie ends the prologue by being cast under the sea for her inevitable death.

Why is this Problematic:

The Thunderbird is a sacred, respected mythological creature within NA indigenous people’s culture, especially the Navajo. It is a supernatural being that protects, and provides as a spiritual guide, and should retain a high importance when being used in literature.

Treating an important creature such as a Thunderbird and making it ‘non-sacred’ demonstrates a lack of research on the culture and can impart negative reactions by your readers. Always think about how someone from that culture would react by reading your work.

By using the Thunderbird as the name of a group facing genocide, it makes light of real-world oppression given that indigenous people faced for centuries and treats something of great value within their culture as a disposable entity.

How to Rework:

Change the name - this can easily rectify the issue given this is a fantasy world and there is no need to use the Thunderbird as an oppressed race’s name. Instead, create a new name that links directly to the powers these people have (it also is an easy way to further build your world). Why not have regular humans once harbor magic but was stolen by the Vanir? This can tie into the Drop plotline and further the narrative.

Pay homage through a more respectable manner that doesn’t change the Thunderbird’s meaning, such as a naming a in-universe bird after it and emphasizing some known characteristics, but not for the character’s usage. Remember, when in doubt, if its not your story to tell, don’t tell it.

Allow the oppressed character to have their own voice outside of tragedy porn. By introducing a character to meet an unfortunate fate immediately, it further establishes the inability of an oppressed group to have their ‘own voice’- an established major/minor character would better serve as the voice for this group.

Characters and/or Universe Profiteering from the Culture: Treating the Pokeball (Cultural Icon) as a Collectible on the Shelf

Example: The main protagonist, Bryce Quinlan, laments that she was not able to get a Starlight Fancy, a [blue-and-white-unicorn-pegasus who could wield all types of energy] that was based upon the Thunderbird’s powers. She hadn’t been able to [get her hands on one, though she’d yearned to].

Why is this Problematic:

Having toys that are readily available for consumer purchase promotes the notion it is okay to profit off of a marginalized group without their consent. We see this in the real-world, where wearing headdresses are seen as ‘cute,’ which is rather offensive to indigenous peoples’ culture that was decimated by imperialistic actions of others.

It also treats the culture as it is a cute or fun thing to have. Just because you want something doesn’t make you entitled to it, nor should it be treated as a collectable especially given their in-universe plight. Bryce’s focus on the toy instead of the implications demonstrates this attitude. Culture is not something that can be bought off a shelf.

Gives the impression your protagonist is utterly clueless and frankly unlikable - Bryce in this case, comes across as materialistic and insensitive. She shows no concern about the Thunderbird being exploited in such a manner. There is no questioning of why the plushie was allowed to be created in the first place.

How to Rework:

Instead of allowing your characters to be passive, challenge the system by calling out the exploitation of the Thunderbirds’ culture while they remain oppressed. This can be a segway into showing the damages that capitalism can have on marginalized groups and how those in power benefit from it.

Adding on to this, who are making the toys, and where are the profits going? This can be a good motif to move the plot forward by contrasting it against the death camps and violence that these groups are being inflicted upon - oppression does not end with violence; it is deeply entrenched in all facets of society.

Reshift the tone to have characters be more critical of this. By showing concern and opposition to this behavior, it shows another layer in your character’s development for challenging the systemic oppression. The more ingrained your characters are in challenging all facets of oppression, the more powerful their narratives come across.

Using Your Oppressed Group as Collateral: The Pokeballs (Thunderbirds) Only Matter to Their Owner If They are ‘Useful’

Example: During the course of the novel, Bryce and her group are searching for Emile, a Thunderbird who is the younger brother of Sofie. They run across a group of fire sprites, one named Ariadne. She is too expensive to ‘purchase for freedom,’ but since her dragon fire is valuable, Bryce wants to free Ariadne for their own purposes against the princes of Hel.

Why this is Problematic

This further highlights the systemic issue we often see in society which is that ‘unless they are helpful, I won’t be helpful.’ One again, someone of a marginalized group is only being helped because the privileged stand to gain something from this. It only perpetuates the cycle of oppression.

Bryce shows the ability to understand children should not be weaponized, however, never comments on the Thunderbirds’ plight nor trying to aid the sprite’s situation. By bringing up the opportunity to ‘buy freedom’ undermines the difficulties in oppressed groups having freedom (e.g. having to live in fear, struggle to find jobs, travel, etc)

This falls into the unfortunate category of classism - that humans/beings are bound by their monetary ‘worth,’ and only those with a value can be purchased from freedom. Oppression should not be gate-kept by money, however, the characters do not take action to challenge this at any point and instead allow the systemic issues to continue.

How to Rework:

Make the characters challenge the system by taking more interest in the Thunderbirds/humans as a whole group and not just Emile, and extend this to the Sprites. The characters should at some point express concern for the death camps and targeted oppression earlier in the novel.

Allow for the narrative to give them opportunities to speak up, and criticize the characters who choose to not speak up and/or have a narrower, selfish focus. This will allow your characters to grow but highlight the importance of addressing the injustices head on.

The usefulness of a character should not be the impetus to free them, nor should they be expected to agree to help the protagonists. The Sprites should be freed because they are oppressed, without any expectation of helping them - if anything, their decision to help should be based upon their own virtues being in-line with the protagonists.

Using Reality’s Pain to Establish Artificial, Inconclusive Drama: Throwing Out Pokeballs (Real-Life Allegories) Without a Clear Plan

Example: The Thunderbird alongside regular humans face violent oppression from the Vanir, such as genocide, cannibalism, death camps, etc. However, this is the backdrop of the story and while the heroes beat the ‘big bad,’ the oppression isn’t solved. No mention is made to address this larger issue.

Why this is Problematic:

Makes your protagonists seem very ignorant and doing the bare minimum to fight against the real issue. I killed the bad guy, what more do you want? This is a common sentiment we find in the real world by the majority groups and only fosters to allow oppression to further exist because the root causes are never addressed.

Comes across as artificial given there was no attempt to address the oppression but rather there for ‘shock effect.’ Oppression is a real and insidious, and should be treated with care. Thus, your characters, unless the intent is to subvert passiveness, must demonstrate that same attitude.

Makes light of real-world issues and further propagates a ‘well it doesn’t really affect me’ mindset. It takes away from the story’s narrative and makes it considerably weaker given the main roots of oppression are never resolved. What will be done to address the death camps, the slavery of humans, cannibalism, etc?

How to Rework:

The introduction of Thunderbirds comes across as a bit jarring since no mention was made of their existence in the first novel. The prologue should either be moved to the first book or the final few chapters of book one be revised. This will help offset the jarring nature of this worldbuilding piece and set the tone to connect into book two.

Add dynamicism to your characters by tackling the systemic issues head on. Have them show concern for the death camps, actively discuss how to liberate the people, etc. While these issues do not have to be resolved in this novel, lay the ground work for how real systemic change can happen.

Revise the work to become more personal - none of the characters have personal attachment to this issue, weakening the effectiveness. While Bryce certainly does have influence from her deceased friend Danika Fendyr to take action, not once has she established the link between her human heritage and oppression - make her show concern for humans that are being oppressed.

[ganymedesclock]

These are questions I've had for some while and it's hard to find someone who'll answer with grace. This mostly relates to disabilities (mental or physical) in fiction.

1) What makes a portrayal of a disability that's harming the character in question ableist?

2) Is there a way to write a disabled villain in a way that isn't ableist?

In the circles I've been in, the common conceptions are you can't use a character's disability as a plot point or showcase it being a hindrance in some manner. heaven forbid you make your villain disabled in some capacity, that's a freaking death sentence to a creative's image. I understand historically villains were the only characters given disabilities, but (and this is my personal experience) I've not seen as many disabled villains nowadays, heck, I see more disabled heroes in media nowadays.

Sorry if this comes off as abrasive, I'd really like to be informed for future media consumption and my own creative endeavors.

Okay so the first thing I'm going to say is that while it IS a good idea to talk to disabled people and get their feedback, disabled people are not a monolith and they aren't going to all have the same take on how this goes.

My personal take is biased in favor that I'm a neurodivergent person (ADHD and autism) who has no real experience with physical disabilities, so I won't speak for physically disabled people- heck, I won't even speak for every neurotype. Like I say, people aren't a monolith.

For myself and my own writing of disabled characters, here's a couple of concepts I stick by:

Research is your friend

Think about broad conventions of ableism

Be mindful of cast composition

1. Research is your friend

Yeah this is the thing everybody says, so here's the main bases I try to cover:

What's the story on this character's disability?

Less in terms of 'tragic angst' and more, what kind of condition this is- because a congenital amputee (that is to say, someone who was born without a limb) will have a different relationship to said limb absence than someone who lost their limb years ago to someone who lost their limb yesterday. How did people in their life respond to it, and how did they respond to it? These responses are not "natural" and will not be the same to every person with every worldview. This can also be a great environment to do worldbuilding in! Think about the movie (and the tv series) How To Train Your Dragon. The vikings in that setting don't have access to modern medicine, and they're, well, literally fighting dragons and other vikings. The instance of disability is high, and the medical terminology to talk about said disabilities is fairly lackluster- but in a context where you need every man you possibly can to avoid the winter, the mindset is going to be not necessarily very correct, but egalitarian. You live in a village of twenty people and know a guy who took a nasty blow to the head and hasn't quite been the same ever since? "Traumatic Brain Injury" is probably not going to be on your lips, but you're also probably going to just make whatever peace you need to and figure out how to accommodate Old Byron for his occasional inability to find the right word, stammers and trembles. In this example, there are several relevant pieces of information- what the character's disability is (aphasia), how they got it (brain injury), and the culture and climate around it (every man has to work, and we can't make more men or throw them away very easily, so, how can we make sure this person can work even if we don't know what's wrong with them)

And that dovetails into:

What's the real history, and modern understandings, of this?

This is where "knowing the story" helps a lot. To keep positing our hypothetical viking with a brain injury, I can look into brain injuries, what affects their extent and prognosis, and maybe even beliefs about this from the time period and setting I'm thinking of (because people have had brains, and brain injuries, the entire time!) Sure, if the setting is fantastical, I have wiggle room, but looking at inspirations might give me a guide post.

Having a name for your disorder also lets you look for posts made by specific people who live with the condition talking about their lives. This is super, super important for conditions stereotyped as really scary, like schizophrenia or narcissistic personality disorder. Even if you already know "schizophrenic people are real and normal" it's still a good thing to wake yourself up and connect with others.

2. Think about broad conventions of ableism

It CAN seem very daunting or intimidating to stay ahead of every single possible condition that could affect someone's body and mind and the specific stereotypes to avoid- there's a lot under the vast umbrella of human experience and we're learning more all the time! A good hallmark is, ableism has a few broad tendencies, and when you see those tendencies rear their head, in your own thinking or in accounts you read by others, it's good to put your skeptical glasses on and look closer. Here's a few that I tend to watch out for:

Failing the “heartwarming dog” test

This was a piece of sage wisdom that passed my eyeballs, became accepted as sage wisdom, and my brain magnificently failed to recall where I saw it. Basically, if you could replace your disabled character with a lovable pet who might need a procedure to save them, and it wouldn’t change the plot, that’s something to look into.

Disability activists speak often about infantilization, and this is a big thing of what they mean- a lot of casual ableism considers disabled people as basically belonging to, or being a burden onto, the able-bodied and neurotypical. This doesn’t necessarily even need to have an able neurotypical in the picture- a personal experience I had that was extremely hurtful was at a point in high school, I decided to do some research on autism for a school project. As an autistic teenager looking up resources online, I was very upset to realize that every single resource I accessed at the time presumed it was talking to a neurotypical parent about their helpless autistic child. I was looking for resources to myself, yet made to feel like I was the subject in a conversation.

Likewise, many wheelchair users have relayed the experience of, when they, in their chair, are in an environment accompanied by someone else who isn’t using a chair, strangers would speak to the standing person exclusively, avoiding addressing the chair user. 

It’s important to always remind yourself that at no point do disabled people stop being people. Yes, even people who have facial deformities; yes, even people who need help using the bathroom; yes, even people who drool; yes, even people whose conditions impact their ability to communicate, yes, even people with cognitive disabilities. They are people, they deserve dignity, and they are not “a child trapped in a 27-year-old body”- a disabled adult is still an adult. All of the “trying to learn the right rules” in the world won’t save you if you keep an underlying fear of non-normative bodies and minds.

This also has a modest overlap between disability and sexuality in particular. I am an autistic grayromantic ace. Absolutely none of my choices or inclinations about sex are because I’m too naive or innocent or childlike to comprehend the notion- disabled people have as diverse a relationship with sexuality as any other. That underlying fear- as mentioned before- can prevent many people from imagining that, say, a wheelchair user might enjoy sex and have experience with it. Make sure all of your disabled characters have full internal worlds.

Poor sickly little Tiffany and the Red Right Hand

A big part of fictional ableism is that it separates the disabled into two categories. Anybody who’s used TVTropes would recognize the latter term I used here. But to keep it brief:

Poor, sickly little Tiffany is cute. Vulnerable. How her disability affects her life is that it constantly creates a pall of suffering that she lives beneath. After all, having a non-normative mind or body must be an endless cavalcade of suffering and tragedy, right? People who are disabled clearly spend their every waking moment affected by, and upset, that they aren’t normal!

The answer is... No, actually. Cut the sad violin; even people who have chronic pain who are literally experiencing pain a lot more than the rest of us are still fully capable of living complex lives and being happy. If nothing else, it would be literally boring to feel nothing but awful, and people with major depression or other problems still, also, have complicated experiences. And yes, some of it’s not great. You don’t have to present every disability as disingenuously a joy to have. But make a point that they own these things. It is a very different feeling to have a concerned father looking through the window at his angel-faced daughter rocking sadly in her wheelchair while she stares longingly out the window, compared to a character waking up at midnight because they have to go do something and frustratedly hauling their body out of their bed into their chair to get going.

Poor Sickly Little Tiffany (PSLT, if you will) virtually always are young, and they virtually always are bound to the problems listed under ‘failing the heartwarming dog’ test. Yes, disabled kids exist, but the point I’m making here is that in the duality of the most widely accepted disabled characters, PSLT embodies the nadir of the Victim, who is so pure, so saintly, so gracious, that it can only be a cruel quirk of fate that she’s suffering. After all, it’s not as if disabled people have the same dignity that any neurotypical and able-bodied person has, where they can be an asshole and still expect other people to not seriously attack their quality of life- it’s a “service” for the neurotypical and able-bodied to “humor” them.

(this is a bad way to think. Either human lives matter or they don’t. There is no “wretched half-experience” here- if you wouldn’t bodily grab and yank around a person standing on their own feet, you have no business grabbing another person’s wheelchair)

On the opposite end- and relevant to your question- is the Red Right Hand. The Red Right Hand does not have PSLT’s innocence or “purity”- is the opposite extreme. The Red Right Hand is virtually always visually deformed, and framed as threatening for their visual deformity. To pick on a movie I like a fair amount, think about how in Captain America: The Winter Soldier, the title character is described- “Strong. Fast. Had a metal arm.” That’s a subtle example, but, think about how that metal arm is menacing. Sure, it’s a high tech weapon in a superhero genre- but who has the metal arm? The Winter Soldier, who is, while a tormented figure that ultimately becomes more heroic- scary. Aggressive. Out for blood.

The man who walks at midnight with a Red Right Hand is a signal to us that his character is foul because of the twisting of his body. A good person, we are led to believe, would not be so- or a good person would be ashamed of their deformity and work to hide it. The Red Right Hand is not merely “an evil disabled person”- they are a disabled person whose disability is depicted as symptomatic of their evil, twisted nature, and when you pair this trope with PSLT, it sends a message: “stay in your place, disabled people. Be sad, be consumable, and let us push you around and decide what to do with you. If you get uppity, if you have ideas, if you stand up to us, then the thing that made you a helpless little victim will suddenly make you a horrible monster, and justify us handling you with inhumanity.”

As someone who is a BIG fan of eldritch horror and many forms of unsettling “wrongness” it is extremely important to watch out for the Red Right Hand. Be careful how you talk about Villainous Disability- there is no connection between disability and morality. People will be good, bad, or simply just people entirely separate from their status of ability or disability. It’s just as ableist to depict every disabled person as an innocent good soul as it is to exclusively deal in grim and ghastly monsters.

Don’t justify disabilities and don’t destroy them.

Superpowers are cool. Characters can and IMO should have superpowers, as long as you’re writing a genre when they’re there.

BUT.

It’s important to remember that there is no justification for disabilities, because they don’t need one. Disability is simply a feature characters have. You do not need to go “they’re blind, BUT they can see the future”

This is admittedly shaky, and people can argue either way; the Blind Seer is a very pronounced mythological figure and an interesting philosophical point about what truly matters in the world. There’s a reason it exists as a conceit. But if every blind character is blind in a way that completely negates that disability or makes it meaningless- this sucks. People have been blind since the dawn of time. And people will always accommodate their disabilities in different ways. Even if the technology exists to fix some forms of blindness, there are people who will have “fixable” blindness and refuse to treat it. There will be individuals born blind who have no meaningful desire to modify this. And there are some people whose condition will be inoperable even if it “shouldn’t” be.

You don’t need to make your disabled characters excessively cool, or give them a means by which the audience can totally forget they’re disabled. Again, this is a place where strong worldbuilding is your buddy- a handwave of “x technology fixed all disabilities”, in my opinion, will never come off good. If, instead, however, you throw out a careless detail that the cool girl the main character is chatting up in a cyberpunk bar has an obvious spinal modification, and feature other characters with prosthetics and without- I will like your work a lot, actually. Even if you’re handing out a fictional “cure”- show the seams. Make it have drawbacks and pros and cons. A great example of this is in the series Full Metal Alchemist- the main character has two prosthetic limbs, and not only do these limbs come with problems, some mundane (he has phantom limb pains, and has to deal with outgrowing his prostheses or damaging them in combat) some more fantastical (these artificial limbs are connected to his nerves to function fluidly- which means that they get surgically installed with no anesthesia and hurt like fuck plugging in- and they require master engineering to stay in shape). We explicitly see a scene of the experts responsible for said limbs talking to a man who uses an ordinary prosthetic leg, despite the advantages of an automail limb, because these drawbacks are daunting to him and he is happier with a simple prosthetic leg.

Even in mundane accommodations you didn’t make up- no two wheelchair users use their chair the exact same way, and there’s a huge diversity of chairs. Someone might be legally blind but still navigate confidently on their own; they might use a guide dog, or they might use a cane. They might even change their needs from situation to situation!

Disability accommodations are part of life

This ties in heavily to the previous point, but seriously! Don’t just look up one model of cane and superimpose it with no modifications onto your character- think about what their lifestyle is, and what kind of person they are!

Also medication is not the devil. Yes, medical abuse is real and tragic and the medication is not magic fairy dust that solves all problems either. But also, it’s straight ableism to act like anybody needing pills for any reason is a scary edgy plot twist. 

(and addiction is a disease. Please be careful, and moreover be compassionate, if you’re writing a character who’s an addict)

3. Be mindful of cast composition

This, to me, is a big tip about disability writing and it’s also super easy to implement!

Just make sure your cast has a lot of meaningful disabled characters in it!

Have you done all the work you can to try and dodge the Red Right Hand but you’re still worried your disabled villain is a bad look? They sure won’t look like a commentary on disability if three other people in the cast are disabled and don’t have the same outlook or role! Worried that you’re PSLT-ing your main character’s disabled child? Maybe the disability is hereditary and they got it from the main character!

The more disabled characters you have, the more it will challenge you to think about what their individual relationship is with the world and the less you’ll rely on hackneyed tropes. At least, ideally.

-

Ultimately, there’s no perfect silver bullet of diversity writing that will prevent a work from EVER being ableist, but I hope this helped, at least!

[katcadecascade]

Pressed thin like your favorite page (Silco X Reader) Chapter 6

Ao3

Chapter One: Oh Teacher my Teacher

Chapter Two: Song of Iliad

Chapter Three: Tale of Two Cities

Chapter Four: I Write Sins not Tragedies

Chapter Five: Yesterday Upon the Stair

Chapter Six: In Perfect Light

Additional Tags: references of (canon) death(s); discussions of grief; I didn’t research canon lore of a League character so I glossed over any specific backstory; I lowkey accidently wrote Reader with a drinking problem but it isn’t an overarching thing

Word Count: 7750

“I have not seen you in months and the first thing you do is tell Jayce I need a doctor?”

Like every time you let yourself in Viktor’s house, not including the previous take, Viktor was nonchalant with your comings and goings. He was always busy with his own work and you with your own.

Sure you turn to him for some assistance in your writing blocks but after Patroclus’ Heart and Achilles’ Arrow you both decided to end your collaboration. It was all due to the amount of lack of sleep you two share over spending the late nights to early noon just staring at blank papers and scribbled notes. Your handwriting has never been so terrible. 

So after that, any of your visits was treated as unremarkable since you and Viktor hadn't had many days of absence. So your good friendship returns with proximity. 

That is until today apparently. 

You blame Jayce Talis. 

Too bad he isn’t here right now for you to glare at. It’s just Viktor in his parlor, apparently too engrossed with lecturing you instead of the notebook in his lap. Another day and another book, never a dull image for you to see Viktor still studious as ever. 

Except for when he wants to complain about you interfering with his well being. 

“It was a suggestion,” You said in your defense, you hold your hands up in surrender and use a foot to close the door behind you. 

“I was not heavily ill the other day,” Viktor said. 

You frown unimpressed at him and wander over to his seat on the couch. Upon further inspection, there are more books on the coffee table joined with scattered pages and colorful pens. It’s like your desk back home. 

Pointedly glancing at the mess, you stated, “You’re doing this here and not your fancy lab because you’re avoiding Heimerdinger, aren’t you?”

“A baseless conjecture.”

“Is Jayce covering for you?”

“No, he’s with his sponsors at the moment.”

“Okay, you’re hiding out here so that Heimerdinger won’t bother you.”

Seeing that you’re not letting go of your theory, Viktor rolls his eyes and settles with this. “I’m not in the mood for the Headmaster’s advice nor his opinion on my research.”

The way his shoulders sag, how Viktor clutches at his notebook makes you sigh. You’ll never truly understand the yordle that has given so much to Viktor yet when it matters most, Heimerdinger’s prestige does not uphold.

You sit besides your friend, “What project did he deny?”

“A water purifier.”

“What?” You shouted in outrage. “No! Why would anyone reject something as important as-”

Viktor pushes a blueprint schematic map to your face. You stare at it and then at the scientist, and back to the paper. “Why is it so massive?”

“I’m trying to solve the river toxins, Reader.” He says it as if it is obvious, “You know, a major problem of the fissures?”

“The construction of this purifier takes over the entire southern docks.”

He taps at the measurement scribbled at the one corner, “No, merely half, a one-third at best.”

“Can’t you make it smaller?” You take the paper from him, holding it like it’s a foreign puzzle. “Like the size of a water mill.” 

“I thought that,” Viktor confessed sadly, dragging a hand over his face, “but it won’t be enough to make real progress with the toxins.”

This is a ‘go big or go home’ way of thinking that normally does not stop Viktor. He wants to create something that will help the Lanes, inventing projects with an all or nothing approach that is admirable. 

Headmaster Heimerdinger was one of those who were impressed and gave Viktor the chance to get more resources and finances. You understand Viktor’s wonderment and pride at gaining this level of support. The day you signed your stories to Rebekka Manette was a dream, an overload of endorphins at the chance presented to you.

A chance to actually bring the Lanes out of the darkness and into the light.

Viktor would one day invent machines that construct new foundations of the Lanes, a long overdue detox of the land. Meanwhile you would teach and share knowledge of the strife, stories that persuade people to want to be in this new light. 

Yet here you two are, sitting on a Piltover couch far away from home with no real progress to help the Lanes.

Piltover, the City of Progress. 

You stare at Viktor’s notes of his rejected water purifier. 

One of your hands grip at the stupid tassels of the couch, with the other, you force the blueprint down before it could be crushed in your anger. 

You know nothing of Heimerdinger to reason why he aides to forsaking the undercity. 

It’s like the professor fails to realize that the Lanes need bigger projects to uproot the problems you and Viktor breathed though. 

“I still check on your old toxicity monitors,” You tell him, your hold on the couch tassels still strong. 

“They still work?” Viktor leans in, curious and excited at the knowledge that an early invention is still functioning. “They stopped sending data to my chart weeks ago.”

“I took my students to see them.” You smiled, recalling how Tyson had to hug Franny before they could run into the waters. “Upstream is still swimmable but downstream?” You shake your head, “I couldn’t see that monitor under all the oils and runoffs.”

Viktor doesn’t hold back a sigh, a heavy toll on his body that you almost regret causing. 

You know Viktor, he isn’t a man to mope for too long. He sets a hand on your shoulder.

“Thank you for telling me.” He faces away from you, not out of shame but just to look around his parlor. “I haven’t been home in quite some time.”

“And it’ll still be there when your next project is ready.” You finally relax your hands, placing one on top of Viktor’s resting hand. “Viktor, you’re doing great up here.”

He nods at you, grateful, “Yes, all the Hextech engines have been a success.” His hands return to the water purifier plans, “I just wished these will come into fruition as well.”

You don’t have the optimism to tell him to have hope. After all, Viktor has been up here for a long time without any big funded project to help the Lanes. Yet you rather not bring it up. There’s a chance that Viktor would criticize or empathize with your own failings. You hadn’t taught more than three students this week. 

“Work with what you have, Viktor,” You advise as if you know anything, as if you’re capable of wisdom for your tired friend. “This Hextech has been popular, stick with that.”

A small laugh from him surprises you, but it’s out of good faith as Viktor pats your back, “You haven’t used your teaching voice on me in forever. Almost missed it.”

“I don’t have a teaching voice.”

“You have one,” he insists, pointing at you teasingly. “Your students might not notice it but I do.” You merely roll your eyes at him. “How are your students by the way?”

“Franny believes they’re ready for bigger words.” You grin, “I’m trying to find them a word of the day calendar. As for Tyson, well…” Lips pressed thin, you sadly explain, “He’s been busy with his dad’s shop so his lessons have been stretched out basically.”

“What about your brightest students?” Viktor sets his work down in favor of you. “The mechanic boy and the inventor girl.”

“The boy hasn’t been to class in months.” 

If it wasn’t for Franny, you would have thought Ekko was gone too. He was close to his mentor, Benzo. His death was a heavy toll on the kid. 

“I talked with his parents a while back,” You recalled. “They’re convincing him about taking up an apprenticeship topside.”

“He’s still young, correct?” Viktor asks and you nod. “If he continues progressing his practice he should be more than ready for any application interviews.”

Your heart thumps nervously at the thought. Ekko has a brilliant mind for mechanics, no doubt, but it’s still a Piltover apprenticeship. He may not be your first student who can outwit and outmatch a Piltover student but Ekko is the first to show an interest to apply. You gave Ekko’s parents all the mechanic books you own to increase his chances. 

Viktor continues on, “And then the girl, the one with a sister complex. How is she?”

You take a deep breath through your nose. With your elbows on your thighs, you sink your face into your hands, hunched over and welcoming waves of gloom. 

“...It has gotten worse considering the sister is now gone.” You quickly tacked in to clarify, “Not dead, but it’s enough for her to be a mess.”

“Oh. Was it-”

“It was a bad, bad argument. I didn’t pry anymore. I didn’t want to know more.”

What a cowardly mantra you developed over the years, watching your students flee from your life. You will never know what hurts more, seeing your students carry on with their survival in the Lanes, discarding the little education you’ve provided, or stumbling upon their corpses. 

“I’m sorry, Viktor,” You tell him, your head still buried in your hands, “I swear I didn’t come here just to be depressing.”

“I will always enjoy your company, Reader.” You feel his arm draped over your shoulders. “You are my friend.”

“Thank you, Viktor.”

“You must vent this out. Clearly your life is messier than mine as of late.” At his jovial tone, you elbow him in the ribs. “What? It’s true. On top of all this mourning, apparently there is this attractive parent of your student.”

Slowly, you lean back and properly face your friend, lying with a straight face. “It’s nothing.”

“Liar.” 

Immediately you broke your charade and grinned hopelessly, unwillingly meeting Viktor’s own amused expression. 

“Okay, fine I like him but now’s not a good time.”

“You think you’re good with excuses, even better with cover stories, but they never work on me, Reader.”

“Ugh,” You dip your head back, complaining, “You’ve never been interested in my love life.”

“Because for the longest time it was Rebekka and I did not like her.”

As far as you could tell, you only casually mentioned dating your publisher for a few months. Then later again to casually mention that you broke things off. Those two instances cannot be enough for his judgment and yet you now wonder…

“Did I do something… to make you dislike her?”

Viktor shakes his head, looking at you with both worry and disappointment. “No, no, she did something to you that made me dislike her. You have a light in you, for your students, for your writings, and for the Lanes.” He takes your hand and cups it to the center of your collarbone. “She shrouds you.” Viktor sighs, “I hope this new crush does not do the same.” 

“He won’t.” You find those words effortlessly, even with the sudden definition of your past relationship with Rebekka. 

With her, there were so many conversations that felt like an unsanctioned surgery. Her praises and advice and cherishment were all scalpels to remove your organs. You don’t feel like remembering the day you ran from her operating table. 

Viktor lets go of your hands, appearing assured by your faith in this new person in your mind and heart. “What’s he like?”

Silco. 

A man of great power and influence, precision and passion all for his plans. That type of person with such determination for a revolutionary plan builds up fear in many men. 

While you acknowledge that fear, it gets pushed to the corner of your consciousness in favor of other emotions. 

“Has an eye on the bigger picture,” You smile, enjoying your inside joke. “He really cares about the Lanes to the point where he knows its limits and how to push it. His old fiery determination is still there, but it's in better control now, everlasting and patient for the endgame.”

“I’m not quite seeing how this is an attractive trait.”

You shrug, “I don’t know how else to describe him. It’s obvious that he’s been through a lot of pain and suffering but he still endures this world we’re given, all for the sake of gifting a new one to his daughter.”

Viktor rolls his eyes, making you glare at him. “He’s good with kids, of course you like him.”

“Hey!”

“But yes,” He shrugs back, “I could see the potential.”

You cross your arms and mockingly imitate Viktor’s accent, “Hmm, Jayce is good with tools, of course you like him.”

“He has impressive back muscles,” Viktor shares, unfazed. 

Annoyed, you muttered, “I knew it.”

“And my theory is that your beau has a frame such as I,” Viktor gestures to himself with a smile so sickeningly charming you gag. He elbows your rib, luckily not too harsh. “He has scars, doesn’t he?”

“...Yes.”

Viktor laughs at you, “You’re gonna write poems about him.”

“No, no!” You shake your head fiercely, denying the existence of your poem journal, “I haven’t sunken that deep!”

You have though. 

He clapped once and the dreaded fate was sealed. “It’s only a matter of time, Reader.”

You reach around and grab the couch’s throw pillow, hitting his arm, “Poetry is hard.”

“So you have tried,” Viktor needlessly reads you like an open book. He smirks at you, “An esteemed novelist who fails in the art of poetry.”

“Have you tried to write it?”

“No.”

“Then. Shut. Up.” You beat him with each syllable. 

Viktor merely raises one arm up to guard, not at all bothered that his furniture is used against him. 

“If it makes you feel better, I’m missing a certain Patroclus book from my collection. You have gained another fan.” 

He gestures to his bookshelf over by his bedroom door. You know that Viktor has all of your novels, even the ones not under the Reed Eros name. A bubble of laughter rises from within you when you do see a gap between the books. 

“I’ll be sure to ask for two early copies of Escaping Ogygia,” You tell your friend. “I’m sure Jayce would appreciate it.”

“Oh I want to see the look on his face,” Viktor grinned. “But before that,” he gets up, his cane assisting him to the bookshelf. He grabs one of the bulky science books and hefts it over to you. “Trade?”

“Trade,” You snort, exchanging your cushion weapon for his book. “What’s this for?”

Viktor takes his seat again, fluffing up the pillow for his back, “Oh for your inventor student. You see her brilliance, I believe this would help.”

“Thank you Viktor,” Your voice is soft but utterly grateful.

“Yes, yes, you're welcome. Maybe this will impress her father as well? Your crush and her father are one and the same, yes? I think you mentioned him before.” His usual smile trails off, lost in thought and looking away. He does not notice your rapidly paling face. “Was it Van?” 

Vander. 

A clamminess grows in your throat and a hollowness builds in your gut. You hug the science book tightly to your chest, a corner jabs uncomfortably in your stomach but you allow it. It has been so long since you thought about Vander, another dead friend you push away to the caverns of your mind. Yet the way Viktor couldn’t even grasp Vander’s being, it unsettles you more than the ghosts. 

“No, um, no it’s not him. She got a new dad cause…” You stumble over your words, avoiding his worried gaze now upon you. “Vander’s dead.”

“Oh,” his voice is distant and small. “Reader…”

A big part of you wants to make your exit as fast as possible, damning Viktor’s concern but you know better. He would chase after you because he is your friend. You don’t want to be followed. 

“Reader, I’m sorry for bringing up bad thoughts.”

“You didn’t know,” You remind yourself more than him. “His death, he didn’t go quietly into the night. Everyone in the Lanes still mourns him.”

“This includes you?”

You nod because it is easier than admitting what is truly distressing you. 

“I’m so sorry, Reader,” Viktor gives his condolences that you hastily accept. 

“Thank you Viktor,” You gesture to the book and then stand up, “I’m gonna head down.”

He stands up too, cane back under his arm, “Will I expect more visits?”

“Of course,” You answer before departing his apartment.

You make it out without causing him more to worry, or at least you manage to plug up most of his concerns, enough to make him believe you’re in a healthy and stable state of mind. 

Right now, you don’t have control of your thoughts as you march your way through Piltover. His sentiments ring in your head and it worsens the maddening rage and appalment at Viktor’s reaction. Viktor consoled you like an outsider. 

You know that Viktor will always care about the Lanes, you know his efforts and beliefs for a better world for the Lanes. That doesn’t erase the fact that he hasn’t lived there for years now.

Vander’s name didn’t ring a bell in his memory because Viktor wasn’t there for Vander’s era. He wasn’t there during the raids, the bombings, the food shortage. 

Life in yours and Viktor’s youth hasn’t been pleasant, it frustrates you both that the children are still experiencing those same unpleasantries.

Yet this certain upsetting anger is directed at your friend all because he has been stuck at Headmaster Heimerdinger’s side doing absolutely nothing. 

Meanwhile you were there at the edge of the battlefield. Not as a warrior though, no that was never your role during the raids. 

Someone had to stay behind to watch over the children. 

Those bitter memories fade in and out of your vision. The smoke and gasses rising from the fires. The odor of blood and puss from bullet wounds and infections. Sometimes the ground would shake and everyone would get scared because was that one of our bombs or the enemy’s? 

It worsens when you reach the end of the road. You barely hear the waters under the bridge over the storm in your head. 

There are multiple bridges that connect Piltover to the upper crust of the Lanes. You avoid the ones with the most funeral memorabilia at the end. There are other people crossing the bridge, their destination either the rich air or the acidic dirt. 

A few people aren’t moving, peering over the bridge to watch the lapping waves, rocking the traveling boats. You don’t partake in the sightseeing, eyes glued to the stone tiles that lay out the bridgeway. 

They are all intact, the only wear and use from footfalls and carriages. It makes sense that Piltover would do reconstruction on the bridges. No one from the topside would want to walk across bloodstained rubble. 

You cross the bridge in a daze, still clutching the book. The sky is blue and clear, birds perch on the tall railings, and you and others continue to walk. 

Like you thought, there are small picture frames gathered at the end of the bridge. Some photos are weighted down by trinkets and candles. You scan the faded faces and a breath you didn’t know you were holding releases. 

It’s silly isn’t it? You know exactly what you won’t find. Her picture is two bridges over. 

You don’t know if it’s getting easier or not to avoid the bridge your best friend died on. 

Yet onwards you walk. After all, you want this book with Jinx today. 

Maybe you could wait a day, take some time to collect your thoughts. All reasonable ideas that fail to manifest in your logic. 

You always brace down your storming thoughts each time you cross the bridges. You are reminded of what the Lanes lack every time you breathe the air in the topside. They have purity in both the air and water, clean clothes and fresh fruit, and most importantly, they have books like the one you are carrying.

It’s important, it’s for Jinx. She’ll be able to learn more than anything else you could provide from your limited understanding of geometrics or chemistry. You are no mage or mathematician. 

You’re a reader with a weakness for fantasies. 

Jinx deserves a reality, one that she can thrive in without ghosts or enforcers hurting her. 

So you whisk yourself down to The Last Drop with tired legs, rubbed at eyes, and a dry throat. 

You just want to give this book to Jinx, hope that she won’t ask for more of your time, and then head over to the bar. Everything about that plan makes it sound like you’re a bad teacher but honestly you are doing your best. 

There are hardly any more books in the Lanes for you to understand physics or how to write in other languages. Hands on experience and diving in is the way of the Lanes, books are not a prioritized tool and you acknowledge that. 

Ekko needed a place to actually tinker, otherwise he’d continue to scavenge the toxic junkyards. You talked to Vander about it and he roped Benzo to hire the young boy. Whenever you popped into Benzo’s shop, Ekko always had something to show off. Some little gadget or his favorite pocket watch. 

Tyson learned various dialects from his father, a desired skill in the marketplace. Yet both failed in writing in any language they know. It’s the only reason Tyson is allowed to spend afternoons with you. To teach Tyson how to write in another language, you have to know it too. 

Franny… They love learning things as much as you do, maybe even more. They seek it out to the point the child would wait at your doorstep because they failed at picking the lock. 

For Franny and all your other students, you make the trips over to Piltover for the books you could never find in the undercity. 

You cross the bridges your people died on, hoping to teach their children something. Because once you teach them everything you know or when they decide to stop learning, you fear if they will die trying on these bridges just like your best friend. 

So with no real professional background or even proper paper and pencils, you teach as best as you can. 

And at the same time, you crave a drink. 

It’s only the afternoon and it is barren inside the bar. Silco’s men are the only drinkers here, playing cards and by the looks of it, one guy has a terrible hand. Meanwhile at the bar counter, Therium is wasting time by polishing up a glass. 

“Hi Reader,” Therium gives you a nod and places the glass down, “You want a drink?”

“Later,” You hold up the book. “Gonna give this to Jinx, first.”

“Oh she’s not here.”

You blink. “What?”

“Yeah, bossman gave the kid the all clear to go outside and she cartwheeled away,” Therium summarized casually. 

“Huh,” You said, caught off guard by the news. A smile blooms on your face. “I didn’t think he’d actually listen to me. I guess Silco isn’t as much of a control freak as I remember.”

“You make me sound unreasonably stubborn, Reader.”

The smile on your face freezes uncomfortably at being caught. It doesn’t help that Therium is also wide eyed and scared of your wellbeing, his hands shaking as he pretends to be busy polishing up another glass. 

Silco is at the top of the staircase, adjusting his cuff sleeves to fold up to his elbows. The man is, as always, dressed in this waistcoat fashion but in a more simple gray coloring with no fancy patterns. Even for remote work, he still wears clothes that elude power. 

“Well, I um I mean,” You fumble with your words. “You’re too stubborn to die, am I right?” You weakly attempt at a joking smile but you just look pained, seeking help from Therium. 

He’s no help as he dutifully inspects a smudge on the glass he’s still polishing. 

In that small moment of you glaring and gritting your teeth at the bartender, he’s sweating bullets you must add, Silco reaches ground level and joins you at the bar. 

You can’t help but tap your nails on the book, nervously watching how his path ends with him standing right in front of you. 

“Perhaps you’re right about that,” Silco said, his tone light and dare you describe it as humorous. “What brings you here?”

“I have a book for Jinx, I think she would benefit from learning more about the inner mechanisms of motors and batteries.”

You hand over the book and notice how Silco holds it carefully. He traces a finger over the title, the words carved into the bookface for a tactile feeling. 

“I doubt you found this at a regular bookstore, Reader.” He stops studying the quality of the book to gaze at you. 

“It’s from a friend,” You shrug. 

“I see. You aren’t dressed for any meetings.”

His head tilts a bit at you, appraising your outfit.

Considering he saw the expensive side of your wardrobe, your current turtleneck is a bit of a downgrade for Piltover terms. Yet it’s still cleaner than your usual jackets and coats. 

“Then we’re both off the clock,” You conclude. “At least if you truly do take breaks.”

“I do,” he answers and takes a step to the bar, “Why don’t you join me for lunch?”

“Huh? No, I shouldn’t intrude,” You wave your hands in a dismissive manner, the opposite of your plan of getting a drink. “I only came here for the book.” 

“It’s not intrusion if I want your company, Reader,” Silco said and you believe the genuineness in his voice, his hand on the back of the chair. The book is set to the table corner but he still stands. He’ll only sit if you do. He then adds, looking thoughtfully, “I believe Calcifer has baklavas prepared.”

You’re immediately in the next chair, “...Baklavas you say?”

“Patience, dear Reader,” Silco eases himself in his own seat. “You’ll have to wait for your dessert.” He turns to Therium, boss tone back on, “Go get Calcifer to prepare lunch for us.”

The bartender says a “Yessir” and makes a break for the kitchen. At least he left two cups of water. Maybe Therium ain’t a bad bartender after all. 

“So what’s this about Jinx spending the day out?” You asked before taking a sip. 

“I considered what you said. Jinx and I made a compromise. She can go out as long as someone supervises.”

“...don’t tell me,” You mulled it over for only two seconds. “Sevika?” 

He nods. 

You snort.

“Compromise is a mind game,” Silco lectured, the corner of his lips twitching up. 

“I’m just glad you’re giving her freedom.” You raise your glass up, “A world cannot be a room.”

“True,” Silco copies you, clicking his glass with yours. “I can sympathize with that.” At your raised eyebrow, he continues, “My supposed death needed to remain so, without any doubts. I laid low in the lowest parts of Zaun until the time came to resurface.”

You squint at his wording, there’s likely an inside joke for his own musing. 

“Well,” You brush off the crypticness of the man, “Jinx should readjust to her world, testing her borders and be comfortable in her own space.”

“Without a doubt.” Silco chuckles and shares, “Jinx has become fond of having the high ground, setting up her own space in my office ceiling.”

“Sounds like welcome company,” You smile. “Not too distracting though, right?”

“Jinx has her moments but nothing I can’t handle.”

It’s kind of impressive. How close he’s letting Jinx be in his life.

“You’re really trusting her a lot. That’s more than I expected.”

A tension rises in Silco’s shoulders, catching you off guard as he frowns, “You told me before, I needed to be there for her when she’s happy or bored, and not simply there to console her meltdowns.” 

You recall that day, sitting with him with the maps of the world. Of course you were wary of him regarding Jinx’s safety. If she only drew close to Silco during her episodes, she might develop some sort of association of trauma with Silco. Jinx needs to normalize Silco’s presence in her life without the ghosts, she deserves that. 

“She needs you,” You tell him. “All of you and she needed to learn how to be around you too. For that to happen, you need to learn how to be around her, even when nothing serious is happening.”

Silco interprets something else from you, concluding his suspicions, “From the start, you didn’t have any faith in me as her caregiver.”

You dare yourself with a bold move and place a hand on his arm. 

“Silco, that’s because you’re not on the path of a caregiver or guardian. You’re becoming her father. Do you understand that?”

He’s quiet for a moment, his eyes falling to the touch of your hand. His gaze lands on your wrist and ever so slowly travels up your arm. You feel heat when you believe he’s staring at your turtleneck collar until finally his eyes meet yours. 

One eye is the color of the meadow, an image of grass under sunlight. Something you’ve never personally seen outside of paintings. 

The other eye, the Eye of Zaun, a sun you once described, casted in a dark void. A darkness that not only enrapts but consumes everything into its own orbit of a dying star. 

“I do.”

His voice wakes you from your thoughts. There’s a visible startle as you look away from him, embarrassed at all the staring you’ve done. Viktor was right, once you start writing poetry, you are done.

Fortunately Therium comes in with two hot plates of grilled filets with vegetables. The veggies actually look fresh, Silco must have accumulated a lot of money. 

The warm fish slices easily under your fork and you take a bite. It’s the most elegant thing you’ve tasted in a long time. 

“Is it to your liking?” Silco asks, accepting a wine glass from their bartender. 

“So good,” You mumble around your fork, lost in the taste. Therium offers another glass in front of you, gesturing to the wine bottle in question. “Yeah, it’s later now.”

He tops off your glass and you take a long sip. 

It’s what you've been needing every time you cross the bridge. Something older than you taking away your heartache. 

“Leave the bottle, Therium,” Silco dismisses the bartender. 

The Last Drop is a quiet scene, even with only Silco’s men here but as you watch Therium walk off, you realize that the other men from earlier are also taking their leave. Well they take their cards with them so they ain’t coming back any time soon. 

You’re alone with Silco. To cool your nerves, you take another long gulp of wine. 

There’s not a doubt in your mind that he’s gonna kill you. He doesn’t seem like the type to wine and dine you just to murder you. No you vaguely recall Silco’s war strategies, he is a man of calculations and planning. Silco is not one for improvisation. Well, maybe if it’s for Jinx though. 

“Alone at last?” You joke with a little shake in your voice, “Is this when you’re gonna threaten me, Silco?”

“Hardly,” he said. “I just wish to thank you for being Jinx’s teacher.”

“Oh,” You blink, surprised and touched. “I’m happy to continue teaching her.” 

“She enjoys your lessons. There was a good chance she wouldn't like my teaching methods.”

You squint at him. He’s ever poised as ever when slicing apart his dish. 

Doubt drips from you as you ask, “Do you even have a teaching method?”

He pauses, mid chew, “No I do not.” 

Silco glares at you when you laugh. 

“Sorry, sorry.” You hide your smile in a sip of wine. “If it makes you feel better, I’m happy that you chose to be her father rather than her teacher.”

“Yes my wounded pride is healed,” Silco says very deadpanned. You chuckle at that and his tone returns to his usual gravel, “It’s good to hear that you do approve of me as her father.”

“You don’t need my approval, Silco.” 

“True but it would be ignorant of me to ignore the advice of the teacher of the Lanes.”

“You’re a smart man,” You praised. “You’re giving her opportunities that show your trust in her. She’ll probably like the responsibility, not just to feel capable but to know she’s earning your trust. In doing so, you end up earning her trust.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

He places his cutlery down and reaches for something in his jacket’s inner pocket. Some sort of cylinder thing with a needle inside. There’s purple fluid bottled up on one side. 

A chill of fear stabs into your spine. The memory of its scent is in your nose. 

“What… is that for?”

“One simply does not drown in toxins and come out fine.” 

He studies the instrument, likely reflecting on his trauma and the needs for recovery, as best as it could be considering the circumstances. 

“So it, um, goes…” You close your right eye and point at your left eye. Silco nods. “That sounds very extreme.”

“A necessary extreme,” he said. “Shimmer is versatile, medicine is merely one purpose.” 

You look at the syringe curiously. 

It’s so easy for you to dismiss Shimmer as just another drug. After all you mostly know the ecstasy of it, that dazed out bliss people chase in a good smoke. 

Yet you’ve heard the rumors, seen the aftermath of addicts with purple warts and bloodied hands lurking in the dead ends of alleyways. 

Shimmer is power, a curse and blessing for wrath. Yet in its tiniest of drops you never get to witness it as something else. 

“Medicine, huh?”

“Yes. So far Jinx isn’t appalled at all by this,” He holds the syringe up and points it at his eye. “She has precision with her inventions and toy guns. I believe I can trust her with this.” 

Out of any context, the idea of giving a child the responsibility to administer medicine is scary and risky. But it’s Jinx, she has an innately high accuracy. 

You examine Silco’s left eye. At that point you realized that the man always showed his right side to you. You never really got a proper look at the scars running down his face. It is grotesque at first, something you may have unintentionally avoided for the longest time. 

Why, though?

It doesn’t remind you of his tragedy, of his near death and Vander’s brutality. 

It doesn’t remove the picture of humanity from Silco. You’re already aware of the hellfire he started in the old days. 

The scars and the unblinking eye. It has been Silco’s image since the moment he came back to the world. You don’t recall any close moments with him during the raids, back when he wore simpler attire, but you kind of remember his messy hair. 

You’ve gotten to know this version of Silco, the one with an eye represents all of his suffering and rebirth. 

“What’s it made of?” You wonder aloud, “It can’t be just glass. Is there a tiny dot for your Shimmer dose?”

His eyes are pretty, both the natural one and the unnatural one. 

“Reader,” his tone is low, a warning and that’s when you realize you’re leaning very close to him.

You reel back, one hand pressed against your flushed cheek and the other reaches for the glass. 

“Sorry,” You sheepishly grin, “I must have drank too much.” 

Despite your words, you take a sip. You shouldn’t be acting so carelessly. A few glasses of wine is only enough to relax you, not become this clingy mess. Maybe it’s just a Silco thing, you have enough self-awareness to realize your attraction to the man is a slow build up from all these small moments with him. 

You just don’t have any belief that he would ever develop the same feelings. 

“And yet you keep drinking.” Silco notes, thankfully there is no condescending judgment from him. It’s merely an observation as he offers to refill your cups. You accept it.  “Something upset you today. What is it?”

You debate the topic in your head, tipping it back as you gulp down the fine wine. Its sweet bitterness almost matches the frustration in your heart regarding your friend. 

“I, ah, was catching up with a friend uptop. He was from here too but…” 

Both the wine and your frazzled emotions interfere with your words. It’s been quite some time since you’ve let yourself be vulnerable to another. Rebekka was always the wrong person to open up to. She made you feel stupid to get sentimental over something she doesn’t understand. She’ll never understand what it's like to breathe in the dust of a failing day. 

So explaining your thoughts became a torturous hurdle. It became easier to simply never open up about it to her and in doing so, you belatedly realize how you distanced yourself from your friends. 

Lost in your work, picking out new materials for your students, and reading every book you could get your hands on rather than visiting Viktor or Adora and Eden. 

A warm hand is on your shoulder, a thumb brushing this way and that. Its pace is peaceful, slowly taking you out of your thoughts. 

You don’t dare look at Silco’s face, otherwise you might never get out of your own head and instead hype fixate on him just to avoid opening up about your feelings.

This time, you actually want to talk about the things in your head because if anyone would understand you, it would be Silco. 

He understands betrayal and while Viktor’s inaction was not out of malice, you can’t help but be utterly pained by his absence and blissful ignorance. 

“We were talking about my students, how they’re all doing. He knows Jinx as one of the smartest kids I ever taught. He’s where I got the book from.”

“You’re stalling.”

“I am laying down the events.” You chided, as if he wasn’t accurately calling you out. You raise your head up, meeting his gaze. “It’s all about the delivery.”

Silco smirks at you, “Then deliver.”

You roll your eyes, feeling too fond of him always returning your own words. 

“Anyway, he sort of remembers… or he doesn’t remember… He doesn’t know Vander.” You frown, recalling the innocent unawareness of Viktor. “He doesn’t know who was a part of the raids, who was important here. He’ll never know the people we all lost.” 

And maybe it’s not just Viktor who doesn’t know the suffering you’ve seen. Rebekka and the rest of Piltover choose to stick their heads up high and never look down. Yet when they do glare down, it’s to make you feel small. 

“You mentioned someone who helped in our raids.” Silco asks, “Who was she?”

It’s a small thing to endear but you’re grateful and surprised that he remembers your conversations. 

“Her name was Kore.”

Silco removes his hand from your shoulder. You try not to miss it.

He reaches over to hold his wine, “I vaguely recall her.”

“It’s fine if you don’t remember her. She’s just one of the many people who wanted to be in the front lines. She was really inspired by Vander. A lot of people were.”

Vander the fists and Silco the eyes of the operations. These two men lead the floodgates of hope and anger for a taste of victory. That’s how every revolution starts, someone with rising power. 

Even you were swept up in the chaos, enamored with not just the idea of your home getting proper recognition and clean air but the bliss of seeing Piltover getting punished for their injustice upon your people. 

At the time, nearly everyone was willing to die for the cause. 

Kore was one of the many people who did die. She wanted a better future for her family and you. There were two reasons why you never joined her at the forefront of battle. One, you are no warrior, you’re decent in a brawl with a knife against someone of your same stature but against an army of Enforcers, no you don’t believe you’ll make a dent. 

The second reason is the most important reason that you dedicated your time and every waking thought to. 

Kore trusted you to take care of her toddler.

She really believed in a bright future for her son and you but look at where you ended up. The raids failed and her kid is no longer in your care. You have no idea where he is. Everything was falling apart when Vander returned home without Silco. 

Now though, it is Silco without Vander. 

You needed to look Silco in the eyes when you asked, “Do you think we actually had a chance to cross the bridge back then?” 

True insanity is from repeating the same thing and expecting a different outcome. Silco may be too stubborn to give up on his dream of Zaun but if he does anything like before, those suicidal plans to take over the bridges, your world will once again fall apart. 

Everything about Piltover and the Lanes conflict at the bridges, the midway point and the barrier between two worlds. It took so many lives for Vander’s diplomacy to finally get things settled down for everyone to walk that bridge. 

Yet only one side has a memorial. Only one side sees the stone tiles as a deathbed. It’s always the undercity who has to cross the bridge and know who they lost. You mourn your oldest friend with each step you take over the bridges she died for. 

You can’t bear to think of more dead bodies on the bridges. 

“Yes, we always have a chance.” Silco answers with his stubborn confidence, “Back then and now, we can make Zaun a sovereign nation. I swear it, Reader,” he places a hand over yours, “It’s possible and it will be perfect.”

He swears this and yet says none of his plans. You know of the monsters this man has control over, both the drug and his own wellbeing. Silco will always be a scary and powerful man, driven by his ideals and this concept of perfection. 

He doesn’t share any details of his plans nor will you dare ask. You take in his platitudes and accept it as it is. 

A promise. 

“I believe you,” You tell him honestly, “but I’m still going to worry and doubt, Silco.”

He frowns at you but takes his time mulling over his thoughts by drinking more wine. You copy him. Your throat is dry and you want your emotions to dull under the bitterness of the drink. 

“It makes sense that you wouldn't fully trust me,” He said. “Afterall, you thought the same for Vander, yes? He’s responsible for Kore’s death and more.” 

“Are you including yourself on that list?” You raise an eyebrow at him.

He huffs at you and you’re sure that counts as a chuckle. “Yes I am.” 

“Hmm, well I can’t blame you,” You said and set your glass aside. “Silco, considering what’s ahead of us, I don’t want to mourn another bridge worth of people.”

Silco stares at you, the frown remaining as he takes another sip of wine. “It’s alright to mourn someone.”

“I know but it hurts to constantly grieve her and the rest.” You admit, knowing how this repetition is the main source of your desentization of the death around you. 

Your hand reaches for the glass again, swirling the red around. 

Silco sighs, “I understand. I mourn for Vander. Even when we killed each other for our ideals, he is still my brother.” A glint of determination shines in his eyes. It flashes over onto you. “He got his dues for his Lanes and I will do anything for the day when the sun shines on our nation of Zaun.”

You have this small desperate hope for this holy plan of his. The nation of Zaun. It could work, it has potential to actually save the Lanes from its own decay. 

More importantly, it could provide for so many children. It’s what you always wanted for them. 

Because even though a part of your heart is gone from finding Kore’s body, from learning too late that her boyfriend had left the country with their son, the one you swore to protect, you used the remainder of your heart to give to your students. 

But you desire more than just salvation for your people. 

“You sound like your old self Silco but you’re missing something.” You cast a crooked smile at him, “Where’s your hellfire, Silco?”

The corner of his lips from a smirk, very amused and his eyelid lowers halfway at you, “Oh I always have a dream to burn down Piltover, you know that.” His eyes never leave you as he reaches over for the wine bottle, sets it between the forgotten dishes. “Tell me what you really want, Reader.”

With the bottle within your reach, you take it and fill your glass up full once more. 

You take a slow slip, enjoying it and the image in your mind. You close your eyes. 

“I want Piltover to kneel, to acknowledge us and our power. I want them all to realize how with one wrong step, they are fated to the fissures. Once they’re in, they’ll realize that it’s destitution is only a speck of what we’ve endured. I want them to suffer and know that they are not special.”

Opening your eyes, Silco has leaned closer to you. A giddy feeling rises from your chest, warmed by the wine, as you lift your wine glass under his nose. You swirl the wine a little, letting the scent roam against Silco.

There’s the barest hint of a grin from him as he accepts the glass. You note that he spins it. He takes a sip from the rim, perfectly on the spot where your lips once were. 

His eyes consume you like how you two consumed the wine bottle. 

“That sounds perfect.”

-

Chapter Seven: Godlike and Helpless all at Once

Taglist (happy valentines yall): 

@sana-within-you @masteracewindu @shameshomalo @dovahdokren @ancientbeing10 @totallylostinfeelings @cyborgjules @shadow-pancake9 @potato-dragons @subbing-for-clones @faraige @testsubject24601 @accordionplayingrat @idiotic-canadian @accordionplayingrat

[emerald-chaos]

Already Gone

**gif not mine, credit to the owner below!!**

Oh hohohohoho besties. You are in for it on this one. The other night I had an idea that popped into my head and to say I got carried away with it would be a gross understatement. This is the first time I've written smut in forever so bear with me as I get back in to it. I hope you guys enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. As always, please feel free to send feedback!

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 5.3k (oops)

Warnings: Smut, 18+ (MINORS DNI), language, ANGST (holy shit is there angst), fingering, unprotected sex (please be smarter than these two), infidelity, and I think that's about it? Please let me know if I left something off.

A/N: Thanks to my sweet, sweet friend who read through this for me and helped me fix a few things. Also I take the, MINORS DNI, warning very seriously, so please only interact if you are of age. Please have your age in your bio so I can confirm. By clicking "read more" you agree to this. I really don't want to have to block people.

The cacophonous trill of shattering glass erupted through the space. Raised voices, thick with rage, echoed off the walls. It was difficult to tell which words were coming from which mouth, the both of you overlapping as you spewed out hatred toward one another.

“What in God’s name is going on here?!” Steve shouted as he entered the room, coming back from a late night run at the most inopportune time.

“Stay the fuck out of it!” Your two voices shrilled together as you both pointed toward Steve.

You could feel your chest heaving and it almost felt as though you were foaming at the mouth. Rage was completely consuming every crevice of your body and spilling out into your actions and your words. You turned back to the object of your aggression and watched as he ran a hand through his hair and turned to walk away from you.

“You’re nothing but a coward, James Barnes. A goddamn selfish, son-of-a-bitch, coward!” You screamed with every ounce of energy you had left in your body.

The two of you had some knock-down drag-outs in your past, but it was nothing compared to this. Months of pent up feelings, insecurities, jealousies, and secrets were all coming to a head at this very moment. The last few months the two of you had been incredibly short with one another - a stark contrast from your usual loving tone. Passionate kisses became brief pecks to the cheek, midnight roaming hands became backs set to one another, and ‘i love you’s’ felt more like a habit than a genuine feeling. In your heart you feared it would come to this one day. No matter how hard you tried, how much you wanted to, you were never going to be able to fix what had been done to the man you loved. There was no amount of love in the world that could reverse the tragedy of the Winter Soldier - at least that’s what you were convinced of now.

The man in front of you turned and strode across the room, minimizing the space between the two of you. His metal hand in a fist as he brought it up to jab a finger into the middle of your chest. Pupils were blown wide, what was once a lustful look was now filled with only pure anger. As he opened his mouth to speak, spit flew into your face.

“And you are a self-righteous, ignorant, self-important bitch!”

As your eyes raked over the contorted facial features of the man standing in front of you, you realized you couldn’t recognize them. The man standing in front of you was not Bucky. It was not the man who twirled a strand of your hair when he sat with his arm behind your chair, not the man who pulled over the car to help a turtle cross the road, and definitely not the man who held you in his arms as he cried after a nightmare. The man standing in front of you was a frightening enigma of hatred and rage. This was not your Bucky. In fact, you were almost certain you lost your Bucky months ago.

* * *

You hadn’t noticed the bouncing of your knee until the man who sat beside you gently cupped it with his hand, stilling your nervous movements. It was enough to break you from your thoughts as you turned your head to meet his kind eyes.

“We don’t have to do this, you know. I’ll have them turn the car around and we’ll go back to the airport. We catch the next flight back home.” He whispered in reassurance. Even though your mind was anxiously racing, you couldn’t help but smile at the compassionate gesture.

“Of course we do,” you started, cupping his cheek with your hand as the sunlight glinted off your pristine wedding ring, “Tony was one of the most important people in my life. Plus, I’m pretty sure he would haunt me if I didn’t go to his funeral.”

8 years ago you promised yourself in the taxi ride to the airport that you would never step foot in this place again. That all changed when you got the news of Tony’s death. Your time working with the Avengers was a life-changing experience and it was all thanks to Tony. The memory of him seeking you out to work alongside Dr. Banner in the research lab was one that you could never forget. Tony was an arrogant, pompous asshole but he was undeniably a good man. You would curse yourself for the rest of your days if you let your own baggage get in the way of that.

“Alright,” your husband responded with a sigh as he squeezed your knee, “But please, promise you’ll tell me if there’s anything I can do for you.”

“Promise.” An agreement that you sealed with a kiss.

Mike was a good man, he was someone who cared for you deeply and who made you feel safe. After your transfer to the DC Shield Office, you had sworn off any more office romances. Those never ended well. That was until your path crossed with Mike. From the beginning of the relationship, you were upfront about your past issues with relationships and how you weren’t ready to dive into anything and he simply stated that he was okay with that, that he would wait.

The marriage was a happy one, Mike always playing the role of doting, caring husband. No matter how much you pushed back against him, he was always willing to give you space and to let you feel what you were experiencing. Mike was a good man. But he wasn’t him.

Your gaze left his as your eyes returned to the skyline, the familiar pressure clawing its way back to your chest. It’d been 8 years since you saw him. 8 years since you packed your bags and left the only home you’d ever truly known. Sure, you had this new life - a new husband, new friends, new job with similar duties, but there was still a piece of you that was missing. A piece you knew could never possibly be filled again. You had come to terms with that, slowly, but it had happened eventually. Now that you were back, you knew you were going to have to see him again - see all of them again. While a lot of good memories resided within this area, there was a hell of a lot of pain that went along with it. All you could do in that moment was remind yourself that you were here for Tony - to honor his memory and pay your respects. You didn’t owe anything else to anyone else. Something in your chest, however, told you that wouldn’t be the way things played out.

* * *

The service was beautifully executed. It was obvious that Pepper had poured her heart and soul into ensuring that Tony Stark was remembered as he should have been. The walls of your heart tightened as you saw Pepper clutching their young daughter to her side. Although Tony had made a lot of mistakes in his life, he spent his last years making sure to do good and to make things right. While it felt like a hot knife had been stabbed into your chest as you said goodbye to a once dear friend, you took solace in knowing that Tony was so loved by so many. That his legacy would live on in so many different ways. And that Pepper was there to say goodbye.

It had been your plan to attend the service and then leave immediately after it had ended. Of course, life has a funny way of never doing quite what we want it to.

It was Sam who stopped you first, pulling you into a tight hug against his form as your fingers gripped his jacket. Sam, being the angel he was, never once mentioned anything from the past and instead expressed his happiness with seeing you again and learning that you were doing well. The one thing Sam was not good at however, was keeping his mouth shut. Word quickly traveled through the crowd of your attendance and one by one old friends began to find you. Wanda didn’t have much to say but kept you in a grateful embrace while you expressed your condolences for Vision. In a shocking turn of events, It was actually Peter who was the most difficult to see. The once bright, happy-go-lucky, smiling boy was visibly devastated - heavy dark bags lingered under his eyes and his glow had been severely dimmed by the loss of his mentor. You couldn’t help but cry as you held him in your arms, expressing to him how proud of him Tony was and how he’d told you just that on several occasions.

After the hellos, the hugs, and the reminiscing you had told yourself that was it, that you were going to leave. It was then that Pepper stopped you with a soft hand on your shoulder, a kind smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, and a warm embrace. After a pause of silence, she pulled away and invited you and Mike to stay for the gathering that had been planned following the service. Your mind screamed at you, begging you to politely decline - tell her you had to get back to DC, that you had a flight already booked that you couldn’t miss, that you had important business to get back to.

“Of course, Pepper. We’d love to.”

* * *

The gathering was exactly what Tony would have wanted. It was family and friends gathered around eating and drinking, but most of all - it was a bunch of people talking about Tony Stark.

You told Mike before the two of you arrived that you would stay for 20 minutes tops. That it simply would be out of respect for Pepper and once you felt your presence had been noted that the two of you would slip out unnoticed in the sea of people.

That was 2 hours ago.

Laughs came easy, tears flowed frequently, and stories were shared amongst friends. Surprising to you, it felt good to be around these people again. A familiar pang of home would hit you every now and again as you reconnected with those who you hadn’t seen in years. You introduced Mike to your old friends, who welcomed him warmly and with open arms. What you had thought would be a stressful, gut-wrenching day had actually turned out to be a joyful celebration of life. The day had been progressing smoothly and you wanted to chastise yourself for being so pessimistic.

That was, until you saw him.

Hands stuffed into the pockets of a black bomber jacket, long chestnut hair falling onto his shoulders, and a familiar collection of facial hair decorating the lower half of his face. He looked as terrible as you felt at the beginning of the day. Dark circles had only grown more prominent beneath his beautiful blue eyes and the corners of his lips were drawn down in a permanent frown. You couldn’t help but notice that he’d lost a considerable amount of weight. The once broad, thick man was now far more lean and toned than you ever remember him being.

A breath caught in your throat as the cerulean eyes met yours. Unable to stop yourself, you shoved your drink into Mike’s chest and hurried off to the nearest bathroom. Barely making it in time, you emptied your day’s stomach contents into the toilet. Breathing heavily, you fought back sobs as they threatened to leave your throat. To anyone else, it may seem you were simply grieving the loss of your friend, perhaps taking it harder than most. Oh how you wish that were the case.

You knew it would be difficult to see him again, but you didn’t expect it to feel as though someone had set your entire body ablaze. The heavy feeling of grief, anxiety, and stress from the beginning of the day was crushing your lungs, your stomach still trying to lurch although it had nothing left to give up, and tears burned the rims of your eyes. As you cleaned yourself up and flushed the toilet, you exited the stall to wash your hands and rinse your mouth. You tried to convince yourself it was the entire day's worth of emotions that had led you to this moment. That man no longer had this kind of hold on you - you had moved on. Or, so you thought.

Slowly, your gaze met your reflection in the mirror. The woman there looked worn and tired, like she had been fighting a raging war that she had been losing miserably. Mascara had begun to run down the apples of her cheeks and lipstick was smeared across her mouth. A heavy sigh left your lips as you did your best to make yourself more presentable. A shaky hand entered your clutch as you retrieved your lipstick and applied another layer. You gave yourself a final once-over and decided that your current appearance was as good as it was going to get. Just as you were going to turn around and return to the party there was movement in the mirror that caught your eye. The door was being pushed open from the outside. You turned to protest, to let the intruder know that the bathroom was occupied.

“Excuse me, sorry, there’s someone--”

It felt as though all the air had been taken from your lungs and your heart threatened to beat out of your chest as you came face to face with the man you had tried so hard, for so long, to forget. It was as though you were frozen in time, as if he were Medusa - turning you instantly to stone. Logically, the thing to do would be to tell him to get out or for you to leave the bathroom so that he could occupy the space alone. However, all you could do was stand and watch as he closed the bathroom door behind him, as his fingers closed around the lock and clicked it into place.

Then it was just the two of you. Bodies unmoving, aside from the rapid rise and fall of your chests in tandem. The air felt 100 degrees warmer than it had when you were alone. The silence, paired with the thump of your heartbeat, was deafening to your ears. You were hyper-aware of his gaze as he studied you the way you had him not minutes before. His eyes finally met yours once more and there was a poignant silence before he finally spoke.

“Can’t believe you still have that dress.”

Your eyes blinked a few times, brain trying to process his words and the situation you had currently found yourself to be in. You looked down to the front of your dress and smoothed your hands down it. How could you have gone the whole day without realizing that the dress you were wearing had been a gift from Bucky on your first anniversary? You were positive you had rid yourself of anything even remotely related to him. In fact, you distinctly recall dumping a box of momentos into a barrel and tossing a lit match inside. You don’t remember making the conscious decision to keep the dress, or why you would have made the decision. Now here you were - mere feet away from the man who had put it on and so delicately took it off of you many times.

“S’perfectly good dress. Shouldn’t go to waste.” Was all you could muster as a response in that moment.

The man before you took a step forward and you took a step back, hips coming into contact with the cold marble counter of the sink.

“Thought I’d never see you again. Y’look...different.” His gaze roaming its way down your body once more.

As his eyes landed on the diamond ring nestled onto the 4th finger of your left hand, you felt a lump begin to form in your throat.

“Congratulations.” His words were cold. Inauthentic. “He’s a lucky guy.”

“What the fuck are you doing in here, James?” The words were supposed to be sharp, but instead came out shaky and insecure.

“Saw you out there, starin’ at me. Guess I just wanted a closer look at you.”

By the end of the sentence he had closed the gap between the two of you even more, chests threatening to bump one another. His metal hand slowly reached forward and brushed a piece of hair off your shoulder. The cool appendage felt like fire against your skin and you know he heard the way you sharply inhaled, but you just couldn’t help it. You swallowed hard, head reeling and knees trying to buckle beneath you when you felt his cool palm cup your fiery cheek. It took everything in your body to avert your eyes from him, especially when you felt him even closer than before - warm breath fanning the expanse of your face. Why was he doing this? What was he going to accomplish? The fight or flight response in your body was screaming at you to push him away and run, but you didn’t.

“I’ve thought about you every day since you left, sweets. There’s not a moment that passes by where you’re not on my mind.”

Your eyes closed tightly, tears now welling up and spilling over.

“Everything you said about me that night was true. I am a coward. A coward who lost the best fuckin’ thing that ever happened to his sorry, broken ass.”

A small sob escaped your chest as your hand flew to your mouth, failing to keep it from tumbling out. Bucky found a loose thread and was slowly unraveling everything you’d worked toward in the last 8 years, every step toward progress and peace that you had worked so hard to find.

“I’m so fuckin’ sorry, doll” Bucky was now fully cupping your face with his large, calloused hands, “I’m so sorry that you fell in love with someone like me - a broken son of a bitch who never got put back together. I’m sorry that I hurt you so badly. I’m sorry I didn’t protect you the way I promised I would. I’m sorry that -”

In a moment of weakness, before he could finish his sentence, you were crashing your lips to his. There was nothing else that existed in your world - there was only you and there was only Bucky. Seemingly moving on their own accord, your hands found their way into his hair, grasping wildly for something to hold on to. As your fingers tugged on his roots, Bucky let out a deep moan into the kiss, sending a shiver down your spine.

The kiss was sloppy and desperate, all tongue and teeth. It was a balance of dominance between the two of you - although you were the one who initiated the kiss, Bucky was the first one to gain access to the inside of your mouth, and you were the first to tug his lower lip between your teeth. A pathetic mewl left your lips as Bucky’s mouth began trailing wet kisses across your jaw and down the column of your throat. The heartbeat in your ears from earlier was much worse now, making your head throb in pain. Every nerve ending in your body felt as though it was on fire and a small voice in the back of your head kept pleading with you to stop. For a moment you entertained the idea of shoving him off and telling him to fuck off, but that was before he started sucking that spot on your neck that he knew drove you mad. It was your turn to moan this time as you involuntarily arched your back, pressing yourself up against his firm torso.

You knew the way that you were tugging on the strands of his hair had to be incredibly painful but it only seemed to urge Bucky to continue. A soft gasp tumbled past your lips as you felt Bucky’s thigh push against your aching core. The sensation had you digging your fingernails into the back of his jacket as you finally released your grip on his hair. Before you could stop yourself, you could feel your hips grinding yourself down against his clothed thigh. Your dress had been pushed up around your waist, now only a small piece of cloth covering you as you desperately chased a high.

“I shoulda never let you go. Shoulda been at the airport to stop you before you got on that plane.”

His teeth sunk into your pulse point once more, earning himself another moan from your lips. The sting was soon replaced with the cool sensation of his tongue tracing the marks he had left.

“I love you, doll. I haven’t ever stopped lovin’ you.”

“Show me,” you whimpered pathetically against his shoulder, “show me you love me, Bucky. Please.”

An audible breath caught in his throat as he pulled himself back to look at you. Your chest was heaving, make-up smeared once more, and your pupils were blown wide with lust. You obviously weren’t able to see the look you gave him, but judging by the way he looked back at you it was fair to say you looked broken, pathetic, and desperate for him. The eyes looking back at you had the softness to them that you remember, the strokes of his hands against your body contained the passion that you’d so been longing for, and the tone in his voice told you that he was desperate for you too.

Within seconds your feet were lifted from the ground and your ass made contact with the cold, wet countertop. There wasn’t a lot of room, objects were scattered onto the floor and others were left to push into your hips with aggressive force, but you just didn’t care. It was impossible to care when Bucky moved your knees apart and dragged a finger along your clothed pussy. The sensation made your head fall back against the mirror with a hard thud but you couldn’t feel any of the pain from it at all. The only thing you felt was the way electricity rippled through your body when he used his thumb to apply pressure to your aching clit. Bucky groaned and rested his forehead against yours, lips slightly parted as he felt your need for him growing.

“So wet for me, just like I remember. Lemme make you feel good, sweets, hmm?” He had leaned forward to whisper softly in your ear as his teeth grazed your lobe.

It was you who reached down and shoved your panties down your thighs, meeting a surprised look from Bucky as he helped you drag them down to hang around your ankle. Bucky’s tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip as he hooked his hands underneath your knees to spread your legs open for him. Another groan came from him, this time more guttural than the last. You felt small underneath his gaze and the cool air in the bathroom brushing across your soaking core made you shiver.

Your hand flew to your mouth to suppress the noises you made as his finger slipped through your folds, running up and down to collect your wetness.

“More. God. Please, Buck. Need more.” You whined, attempting to roll your hips against his hand to find any form of friction that you could.

“Anything for you, baby.” He whispered as he gently inserted a finger inside of you. The two of you moaned in tandem.

There was a brief moment of embarrassment with the way your walls immediately clenched around his finger and the way his finger immediately found that soft spot. It was shortly replaced with a feeling of ecstasy. Bucky captured your lips with his to swallow your moans as he added another finger. The way his fingers were curling and pumping inside of you already had you close to the edge. Bucky pulled back and held your gaze as he added pressure to your clit with his thumb, circling the area as his fingers continued to repeatedly hit that spot inside of you.

“Please, please don’t stop.” You begged as you felt the pressure building within the lower part of your body.

“S’okay. I’m right here.” Bucky’s other hand was cradling the back of your head as he whispered to you. “I know you’re close. Can feel you squeezin’ me. You can let go for me, I got you.”

As your eyes met his, foreheads pressed together, you finally came apart. The white hot sensation tears through you as your legs quake. You squeeze your eyes shut and allow Bucky to help you ride through your orgasm as he peppers light kisses along your neck.

“I almost forgot how pretty you look when you cum.”

You whine at the emptiness and loss of contact when Bucky removes his fingers from your center. As your eyes flutter open you see him push the fingers into his mouth and suck them clean. The look on his face was euphoric.

“God. Almost forgot how fuckin’ sweet you taste too.”

Mustering up all the strength you had, you sat up and pulled him closer by his belt. The two of you worked together to rid him of his pants and boxers. Your hand wrapped around him, thumb swiping the red tip and using the pre-cum to help lubricate as you pumped your hand down his length. Bucky’s jaw clenched as he moaned at the sensation. Just as you were going to leave the counter, you felt his hands grabbing your shoulders and halting your movements.

“Maybe a different time, sweets. But right now I gotta be inside you.”

You caught your bottom lip as you nodded and released your hold on him. Bucky’s hands wrapped around your thighs as he pulled your hips to the edge of the sink. The metal hand left your thigh as he grabbed himself at the base and pushed his length through your folds. The two of you once more shared a moan at the sensation. As he lined himself up with your entrance, your hands wrapped around his neck to pull him in for another kiss. The next thing you felt was the familiar sting of his cock stretching your walls as he slid into you. Your lips left his and your forehead found itself pressed against his once more. Both of you panting heavily as neither of you dared to speak a word.

Following a moment of silence, allowing your body time to stretch to accommodate him, you nodded slowly as to signal to him that it would be okay for him to move. His thrusts were slow and calculated at first, as if he was attempting to regain his memory of your body - one that he once knew so well. You couldn’t help but dig your fingernails into his shoulder as you held on to him for dear life, subconsciously afraid that if you were to let go of him he’d be gone again forever.

“Faster, Bucky. Please.” You whimpered into his ear as you took his earlobe between your teeth and nibbled softly.

A low growl left his chest as he grabbed your hips and lifted you off the counter, moving slightly so that he could cage your body against the wall. You wrapped your legs firmly around his waist, locking them at the ankle. His thrusts became faster, deeper, and it was apparent he had gained his confidence back.

“You feel so fuckin’ good, baby. Just the way I remember.” He grunted as he dug his fingers harder into your hips.

His lips were on yours again, this time tears were starting to decorate the corners of your eyes. The pleasure, the regret, the passion, the guilt - every feeling was building up along with your orgasm. Bucky pulled away from the kiss to tap on your bottom lip with two of his fingers, which you greedily accepted into your mouth. Your tongue swirled around his digits until he pulled them out and used them to circle your clit. The added pleasure was almost too much to handle.

“C’mon, baby. Wanna cum with you. Can you do that for me, huh?” Bucky whimpered, his thrusts beginning to falter from the calculated snaps he was giving you before.

All you could do was nod your head quickly as the pressure steadily increased, bringing you to the brink of your second orgasm.

“I love you. I love you. I love you so fuckin’ much, oh my god.” Bucky grunted as the two of you reached your peak together.

You leaned forward to bite down on his shoulder and suppress the scream that left your mouth as pleasure erupted through your body. The two of you assisted each other through the high of your release and you felt your ass make contact with the cool countertop once more.

The only noise present in the space was your heavy breathing and a small dripping noise that came from the sink. Bucky’s final words before he came replayed in your head over and over again as you attempted to slow your breathing and bring yourself back down to earth. Your body shuttered slightly as Bucky slipped himself out of you. As you sat up, you noticed he was looking around the bathroom.

“Shit, sweets. I don’t think there’s anything I can use to help clean you up.” He sighed and turned to meet your gaze that was locked upon him.

“It’s fine, Buck. Not a big deal.”

Bucky bent over and helped you pull your panties back on before he redressed himself. Neither of you spoke for what felt like eternity.

“I-...” You muttered finally, “I love you too, Buck. I thought I was over you, I thought I moved on but...I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stop loving you no matter how hard I try.”

Bucky reached out to stroke your cheek with the back of his hand as he listened to you lament to him. His eyes were soft and caring and you could almost swear he was looking into the depths of your soul.

“I think —“

Your conversation was cut short by the sound of knocking at the bathroom door.

“Hey, are you okay in there? Do you need anything?” Mike’s voice had your entire body flooded with the shame of your infidelity. In one swift movement, you were on the floor and turning the sink on to make it appear you were just washing your hands.

“Y-yeah I’m fine! Just finishing up! I’ll find you out there in a minute!” You squeaked.

Mike seemed to pause for a moment before you heard his footsteps retreat from the bathroom door. A wave of relief washed over you, but it was only temporary. As soon as you were relaxed the gravity of the situation you were in was clouding you once more.

“I have to go. I can’t give him any reason to think he needs to come in here.” Bucky nodded, eyes not leaving yours as you spoke while collecting yourself, “but we need to..we should..we have to address this. Later.”

“I agree.”

“Our flight leaves tomorrow night. I’ll...see what I can come up with as far as an excuse. Then we can put this to bed for good.”

“Absolutely, sweets.”

The nickname made your knees buckle once more as you sighed.

“Goodbye, James.”

You finally tore your eyes from his as you unlocked the door and slipped out of the bathroom. In reality, however, you knew this really wasn’t goodbye. Not even close.

[blysse-and-blunder]

in lieu of a commonplace book is an april fool

monday (surprise!), april 4, 8:30pm

it is april, and i am content to be a bit of a fool

reading i don't intentionally theme these posts but this one sort of did work out so that it has a strong regency era flavor. weeks ago now i finished the gentleman's guide to vice and virtue, by mackenzie lee. in general, enjoyed this one a bit more than rwrb, though both have a bit of the problem of characters-that-are-assemblages-of-traits-instead-of-fully-realized-- here, though, the balance of the protagonist's flaws and charms were more smoothly done? or something? i had the problem i have with fluffy historical romance a lot, which is that i spend half of it questioning the accuracy and depictions of things, but aside from the inexplicable thief lord-esque turn for the fantastic at the 11th hour, most of the rest of it (including that there would be folks interested in and obsessed with the fantastic) didn't bother me that much. (well. a bit. and for the same reasons.)

listening so thanks to this fantasy music for inspiration video by blue turtle i've discovered a new...composer? project by a composer? whatever you call it when a composer releases albums under a particular moniker-- in this case, it's Johannes Bornlöf's Adriel Fair label/project, which makes like instrumental/symphonic soundscapes that all sound like they belong in fantasy movies or video games but-- and this is important-- aren't actually tied to any memories of particular media for me, and so were really good, mainly distraction-free background music for my most recent descent into writing hell. honorable mentions to 'never turn back' and 'the expedition', which delight me in equal but different directions.

watching so two of my housemates and i are grad students in the run up to the end of term, and the two of them have been incredibly stressed with teaching things-- so naturally we rewatched the 1995 pride and prejudice miniseries with colin firth and jennifer ehle. while it is not my comfort keira knightley period-piece, it's such a good time-- jennifer ehle is so good. the things i noticed for the first time, or noted differently this time, include: what a golden retriever puppy bingley is, how weird it is that he and caroline are apparently related (and the version of caroline here. fascinating); the tragedy of charlotte lucas, the special hell that is everything going on with lydia, and how not-titillating wet t-shirt contest darcy is. also dude, that pond was full of like leaves and shit and then you walked passed a way nicer lake on your way home? pick your tantrum bodies of water better.

playing fallow week. skipped dnd to work on Final Project-mageddon.

making mended a tear in my penguin pajama bottoms while watching p&p, which made me feel like the most accomplished young lady until i tangled my thread multiple times. no pictures because it is a very quick and dirty mend; we'll say it's 'visible mending' of the intentional, ethical variety.

working on through a series of accidents, miscommunications, me briefly having dropped out of my program without anyone noticing, me getting re-enrolled in my program as soon as i could make this happen, and general pandemic buffoonery, i have now had the past semester as the actual final countdown for my manuscript project i proposed in 2020. this'll be fine, i thought, it's only about one manuscript! that'll be plenty of time! but the thing they don't tell you about empirical research like that (ish, i mean, i was working on my own observations) is that you repeat and repeat the same examinations of your images, and you can see different things each time so it's worth it, but also it can take a lot of time! so i put 30+ hours into just this one project this past week, which could have been avoided if i'd just begun drafting earlier in the term when i said i would....... i yeeted the final draft to my professor about an hour and a half past the latest possible interpretation of the deadline we'd set, in truly a hail mary / pretty rough shape, only to find out earlier today that she probably hasn't read it for plague reasons. what a comedy of errors.

[demonxlove]

【character analysis ― douma】

✎ just wanna start this by saying this is sort of both an analysis but also my own personal portrayal on douma’s character based on what we see from canon, so it definitely has a lot of my own opinions on it. & and it also sort of shows how i plan to write him if/when i get requests for him. you don’t have to agree with any of my thoughts but ya know i wanted to share them since douma is my fave character!

✘ warnings before you read: cults, mental illnesses, mentions of death and trauma, especially childhood trauma (that partially stems from neglect) - also not so much a warning but this is very long and obviously contains manga spoilers.

⇢ let’s be completely honest here, douma is an extremely complex character. and while we know a lot about him, at the same time, it’s almost like we know barely anything. we don’t really know an extreme amount of what goes through his head, but it’s kind of just assumed he’s a completely emotionless character, usually stated to be a psychopath because of this.

⇢ i really, really urge anyone labeling a character with a mental illness to do research on it before even considering to use the term, i should mention. and it’s very important to mention mental illnesses are very different to how they effect each person. but from what i understand, both psychopaths and sociopaths (just in case that term gets thrown around too) feel emotions, just very differently to how someone not suffering from the mental illness does. now since i don’t have either illness i’m not gonna say douma is either one, as i personally don’t feel comfortable diagnosing characters with mental illnesses i don’t have or haven’t very clearly been stated they have in canon, but it’s very important to have a very clear understanding of those illnesses if you’re gonna say douma is one.

⇢ but regardless of how you see douma mental illness wise, i personally think he does have emotions, they’re just obviously not as clear as others due to his upbringing. and we do see he has emotions as a kid, shown very clearly by him crying due to everything these grown adults were piling on to him.

⇢ he’s very obviously upset. and why wouldn’t he be? to hear such things from adults day in and day out as a child, being expected to be the one to solve their problems? it’s stressful. it eventually leads up to what we see of his parents death. he’s not upset. he doesn’t really feel any sadness for the two. but that can be explained.

⇢ his parents never acted as parents to him. from the moment of his birth douma was just an object for them to create this cult. i don’t really know what they wanted from it: money? fame? who knows. but it doesn’t really matter. douma was just something for them to use in order to gain what they wanted. even if they did genuinely believe he was a special child, their actions sure didn’t show that. and while douma said that he felt sad they believed he was special, douma was a child. his parents had no reason to show their genuine intentions to him, so we’ll never really know what they thought. but as i said, they didn’t seem to care much how messed up he became as long their cult was in place. douma never had a chance to live a normal childhood, he was placed on a high pedestal from birth and never got to be child. never got to really understand things he should understand. he couldn’t understand actual genuine love from his parents or if he actually loved him. sure, he could feel things such as happiness and love and all of that, but if he did feel it, how could you ever expect him to know? he was in such a constant horrible state, how would he ever know how positive emotions even felt?

⇢ to go back to his parents deaths for a second, even if he didn’t feel anything, it didn’t mean it didn’t cause him any suffering. he was a child, that sort of thing you don’t come out from without trauma. especially since he saw it happened with own eyes. and that probably significantly worsened his already poor mental state. but that also means he was raised from that moment by the cult, and his chance of every coming out okay was straight up zero. let’s be real, the only reason douma has any sort of hold over the cult is because he is their object of worship. they didn’t treat him like a child or even a human being. he was nothing more than someone for them to worship and believe in that they would be blessed. of course, it’s a cult, so most of these people are victims much like douma himself, but the fact there had to be people at the top that were raising him and used him to accomplish their own goals. to use his influence as they saw fit.

⇢ and it was never ending cycle, he never got out of it. all he did was learn to keep the cycle going since he couldn’t simply just leave. and maybe there were moments where he thought himself to be happy due to having so many people worship him, but it wasn’t true happiness. 

⇢ maybe the first bit of happiness he got was from being a demon and getting to interact with other demons? unclear since it’s not like we really saw it. but it was different. it was a small crack in the cycle. but those demons all ended up hating him due to his attitude, that despite no one liking he still kept up. why? why didn’t he just act in a way to make others like him?

⇢ maybe it’s a reach, but to me personally, it’s a mixture of how he desired to be - carefree without any troubles - mixed with how he imagined a child to act. like i said, he had basically no childhood, and it’s not uncommon for those who never get to experience a proper childhood to act more childlike later on to my understanding. he even uses terms like “bully” to describe people much like a child would.

⇢ however, this brings me to what i truly believe was one of the few happy times in douma’s life: kotoha.

⇢ i don’t think he realized it himself, because why would he? but he cared for a lot more than one would believe capable for him. i’m not sure if i would call it romantic or purely platonic, but kotoha was genuinely important to him. i mean, what purpose would he ever have to say he didn’t plan to hurt her?  he wanted to keep that small bit of happiness in his life, maybe in somewhere deep in his heart he even believed they could be their own happy little family to break this never ending tragic cycle he went through.

⇢ but he lost that happiness. she grew scared of him and basically hated him in his eyes upon finding out the truth. and the cycle of tragedy continued once again.

⇢ and to really come to my last point: we’ve seen douma mad.

⇢ and i suppose some could write this scene off as him continuing to be emotionless, but it doesn’t explain the way it’s drawn. the shading on his face that is usually used to show anger. or why he would ever really care about what kanao said in the first place if it was actually true and it didn’t hurt him in some way. the reality is douma does many things that can’t be explained for someone who supposedly has no emotions. and a lot of these details about his character are more subtle, so maybe they mean nothing at all at the end of the day, but in my personal opinion this is how i interpret them.

✎  but that’s really how i see douma, another demon with an extremely tragic story, but one that doesn’t come to light just how tragic until you think more on it. and that is how i do plan to portray him when writing for him personally! maybe i’ll do this more for other characters at some point, but he was the one i wanted to talk about the most since i just have so many thoughts on douma.

[interact-if]

I’m sending this in because it seems like I could get good opinions from not only you but also the people who follow you. I have an idea for an IF, and I’m very excited for the story. My question is, would people be offended if I made the playable MC physically female that identifies as female and all the ROs physically male that identify as male? I have seen some out there that are strictly M/M or F/F, and I’m so happy they exist because I feel that population is underserved. I just feel, not having the experience, I could bring justice to writing LGBTQ+ (and I don’t want to offend anyone in that community by writing something incorrect), mostly when it comes to sex (which I plan on including in my game). I support games that have those relationships in them and admire them, even play those games, and I don’t care who plays my game. The more the merrier! I still want the characters to be diverse. One of them will be of a descent that is based on Japanese culture and many others, based on Persian culture. I also want the playable MC to have any skin tone/features the player wants. I just want to know if this…will have people coming after me? I want to tell my story, but I don’t want to be attacked for it, if that makes sense?

I really don’t mean to offend anyone. I just don’t want to cause trouble, and I just want to respectfully ask for people’s opinions on this.

Hello! So, before diving into our response, we’d like to emphasize that we are but five individuals running a blog devoted to interactive fiction. We are neither the end-all-be-all voice on this matter nor necessarily a representative mouthpiece for the community.

First off, you can write whatever you would like to write; as the author, you have absolute control over what you produce, so nobody is going to stop you from writing what you want to write. It’s also important to write what you enjoy.

That said, the community is, in our experience, very inclusive, and largely devoted to providing a space for the queer community. We can understand the desire to have an appropriately inclusive and diverse game, and why you particularly want to turn to characters of color to bridge the gap; however, substituting characters of color for queer characters to claim diversity in a project is possibly something that will receive the wrong kind of attention. Furthermore, assuming that writing characters of color well is any less complex than writing queer characters potentially suggests that said characters could end up underdeveloped or tokenized. (See Nines' and Roast’s response below for more context)

All of that doesn’t mean you can’t make a game that’s genderlocked and restricted to M/F romance, and I don’t think anyone will be offended by such a game, but it might limit your audience. At the same time, there are (many) other visual novels that have this format, so it’s not something unheard of. As far as CoGs and text-based games go, as far as we’ve seen, they are rarely genderlocked unless for plot reasons, etc.

There is also a chance that you may receive feedback requesting that the MC be un-gender locked, or for additional ROs to be added of different gender, or for the ROs to be made gender selectable. These requests may be gentle, insistent, kind, or aggressive, and they may only occur at the beginning of your work, or may occur throughout your game development. Maybe they’ll never happen at all. It’s impossible to predict the future, but in our experience, we have often seen this occur to games in the past with RO gender imbalances, locks, etc.

As for searching for feedback, if you’re looking for feedback but you’re not pursuing the CoG format, may we suggest the Reddit subforum? It’s a little difficult for you to get the feedback/dialogue going here that you’d likely like to get, so Reddit’s format may be more conducive to your needs.

In the meanwhile, those who would like to provide their thoughts are encouraged to respond in the comments of this post. Please remember to be polite with your discussion!

— — —

The above is our general mod response; a few of us wanted to offer some individual thoughts as well, and those can be found below. These are personal opinions and reflect each individual mod’s thoughts, rather than a collective response.

While it can be a little daunting to write about something you’re not familiar with, writing often broaches topics with which we don’t personally have first-hand experience. Additionally, queer relationships are ultimately still relationships between people—they’re not all that different from heterosexual relationships. If you’re worried about the way you’re portraying your content, that’s something well-curated beta readers/testers (from the population you’re trying to represent) can help test for, and give feedback on. And on top of all of the above, that’s not to mention the potential issues associated with substituting in POC to replace queer people, which is perhaps not what your intention is, but is what it feels like your intention is (see Roast and Nines for all the ins and outs on why this is an issue). Ultimately, I stand by the opinion that on the most basic level, most will not be offended by a game that’s about a straight, cisgender female MC—yet some, or even many, may be off-put by such a game. I know I, personally, am. (P. S. Also consider that the MC has to interact with the other ROs that she isn’t romancing, as friends, enemies, acquaintances, what have you—having selectable ROs, for example, also allows the player to “diversify” their acquaintance group, if they so wish.) — Dani

I understand that this ask is coming from well-meaning intent but I would just like to state that writing characters of color is not easier than writing queer characters. One of them isn't a substitute for the other. Writing characters of color and writing queer characters are separate matters entirely, and both come with its own difficulties. Wanting your characters to be diverse, while admittedly lacking the perspective to back such identities, is still a murky water to navigate.

Personally speaking, and I really do have to be transparent about this, the way certain sentences were phrased in this ask rubbed me the wrong way. Still, I understand that this isn't malicious, just someone who is asking for guidance, which is something I can't fault. We all have to start somewhere, you know? That being said, if you really want to write diverse characters, my general advice is to do research. Lots and lots and lots of research. No author is exempt from that, honestly.

Find helpful articles, journals, studies, video essays, etc. to aid you in writing your characters. If you still feel like that's lacking in some way, which is a valid concern, being open to feedback from the appropriate people is also a good way to improve. The integrity of a project is important, but so is reasonable criticism against, for, or about it. Keep an open mind, educate yourself, and don't be afraid to ask for help or clarification should it be needed. — Nines

Nines says it well that queer people and poc are not interchangeable nor any 'easier' than the other. The fact that you're willing to do research and include characters of color yet not include queer characters tells me that you're afraid yet misconstruing how much effort actually gets put into cultural research.

There is a 'purity culture' that goes around tumblr that claims that diverse characters have to be perfect, have to have no flaws, cannot die, cannot have trauma, cannot face adversity, they must be perfect and good and happy.

I think this is bullshit.

I also think the backlash from this 'purity culture' community is what is creating so much fear in authors (including queer authors!!) in making characters with different backgrounds and identities than their own. In making queer characters with flaws and tragedy and negative characteristics.

If we only ever wrote what we knew, what we've personally experienced, fiction would be a very boring world.

Being afraid of representing a community wrong is a valid fear, but it shouldn't stop you from trying. You can write what you want to write, but it shouldn't be limited by fear.

Do your research. Get sensitivity readers. Be open to feedback. Be willing to be afraid, but do it anyway.

If, in the end, you decide to gender lock, make it an informed decision at the very least, and if you are including characters of color, know that that is a heavy amount of research too, and should be handled with the same care as what we've said on queer characters.

And like we've said before, we are not the voice of the community, we cannot give you permission or our blessing or flawless feedback, we are just five people running a blog. — Roast

Alright this was already mentioned a bit before but I wish to add my two cents: M/F relationships are the norm anywhere else in real life, and if you feel like there's no space for you and your relationships in a mostly-queer community then you might want to recheck if this is the community you wish to have as your target audience.

No one's going to be offended if your story is cishet, as we said, but you are extremely reducing your audience by doing such. The appeal of interactive fiction is that a good bunch of us have played female-mc-straight-love-interest visual novels in the past, having to endure being misgendered or romancing people we might not be attracted to.

The current interactive fiction community we're trying to promote has opened a million doors for everyone to explore themselves, so don't be surprised if your story, no matter how good, is ignored due to this aspect. Most of us have no interest in being forced to play as something we're not.

Again, we cannot tell you what you can or cannot do. We don't speak for the community, we speak for ourselves and for this blog. Maybe every comment we've made was incorrect and your game turns out to be successful, really, but it's what we believe you should keep in mind. — Cruz

Honestly, I don’t have much to add since everyone here mentioned and discussed important facets of this ask! At the end of the day, we are not a group who can or will ever dictate what you can or cannot write. That is not the purpose of the blog or the reason why we’re working as hard as we are. 

There have always been games with this specific set of characteristics: gender locked MCs and/or ROs. Some people may enjoy it, others may not, for whatever reason. 

Unfortunately, we cannot guarantee anything in terms of how people will respond to a game, because people will react to content differently. All we can do is offer our perspective and the potential things that may happen in the future based on the experience the lovely devs above have had. (fellow interact-if mods, my beloved ❤️)

It’s always admirable for people to reach out when they’re unsure, and I’m sure there are infinitely more opinions that vary or are similar to the ones in this response. But there you have it, some of our thoughts! 

Goodluck with your project! — Mars

[fanmoose12]

the devil you know

Сharacters: Hange Zoe, Levi, Moblit Berner, Zeke Yeagar, Armin Arlert

Genres: Action / Drama

Summary: Can you still miss a person, if everything you knew about them was a lie?

Сhapter 7/?

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Сhapter 6

Life had never been particularly kind to Hange Zoe. Tragedies and heartbreaks followed her ever since the day she was born – kicking, screaming and nearly killing her own mother. Her mother never recovered from that blow, her health diminishing while vexation with her own child grew.

That day gave a start to Hange’s life – and to the endless stream of misfortunes she had to face.

Those misfortunes frequented, the amount of bad days increased as Hange was becoming older. But even as a child, driven solely by curiosity and fascination for the world, uncaring of the workings and the rules of the society around her, she had her fair share of frustrations. They usually appeared when her father was around – luckily, due to the nature of his work, he very rarely was. Hange didn’t know her father well, he was always absent, always somewhere else, doing something incredibly important, shaping the future of their country. He was many things - a leader, soldier, hero. But he was not a father. Hange had but a few memories of him, and after all these years she had forgotten the sound of his voice, couldn’t for the life of her remember if his hair was as brown as her own, or had she inherited that vivid color from her mother. But what Hange could never forget, what was etched into her memory for all eternity was the look in his eyes – full of incomprehension, bewilder, disappointment – that he always aimed at her. No matter what she did – excitedly gushed about her studies, showed him a shiny rock she found or urged to go and see the frog she caught, her father had the same reaction, always told her the same thing,

“I expected better from you, Hange.”

Those words were the first dagger that was buried in her chest. But it was far from being the only one.

Her father died before she reached her eleventh birthday. And despite the mourning clothes mother had forced her to wear, despite the endless eulogies she had to sit through, Hange didn’t feel the same sadness that everyone around her did, she didn’t – couldn’t – share their pain or understand their grief. Her father meant something for all those people, but to her he was just a stranger, an unpleasant one at that. When he died, a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. Without him, it was so much easier to breathe.

But her sorrows, her frustrations— sadly, they didn’t end with her father’s death.

Once Hange finished her studies, completed her training, she was sent to the outside world, far away from Marley. And for a moment, for one fleeting moment, she was happy, excited to do what she always wanted – learn and explore. But she was not meant to busy herself with research, to familiarize herself with different cultures, she was sent to these distant lands as a soldier, a weapon of great Marleyan Empire. Instead of books and quills, she held a rifle and a knife. And the only thing she learnt was how much blood her motherland was spilling on the foreign soils.

Sleep was coming harder to her after that, her dreams were haunted by visions of red, by screams of pain and anguish. She had become a soldier, her hands made for creation were now covered in blood. Her brilliant mind was now broken by the horrors she had faced.

And so Hange decided to cover herself in thick armor, to hide behind a smile and false happiness. The bad days persisted, losses following after her like a shadow, chasing like an infatuated lover, but she didn’t let it break her, continued moving forward with her chin raised high and her lips curled up.

However, despite the positive attitude she had adopted, there were lots of days Hange considered bad, awful even – the day when she learned just how Titans were created, what price Eldians had to pay for that; the day when she realized that her teacher, brilliant Tom Ksaver was one of those so called shifters, that his days in this world would end abruptly; the day when she received her first wound and spent the night in infirmary, wallowing in pain; the day when she killed another human for the first time and saw the light fading from someone else’s eyes; the day when Wall Maria fell and she witnessed just how much destruction and devastation she helped to bring to this little island; the day when Mike and Nanaba died; the day when her squad perished; the day when she had to leave Paradis behind; the day when she was brought back.

There were lots of days Hange considered to be bad. But nothing – absolutely nothing – could compare to the fucking shit show that was waiting for her next.

___

This fateful day was off to a good, if only slightly weird, start. As always she was woken up by a knock on the door. However, this one was very different from Moblit’s – less rhythmic, and much louder. In fact, it didn’t sound like a knock at all, more like someone was kicking the door repeatedly.

Confused and still sleepy, Hange rolled from the bed and went to greet her guest, not bothering to put her glasses on. Behind the now opened door she found… a shape that could or could not belong to a human. She raised her hand, mumbled a quick ‘sorry’ and darted back inside the room, blindly searching for her glasses.

Once the specs took their rightful place on the bridge of her nose, Hange returned back to the shape that now took the form of a young, blonde man. She trailed her gaze down, to the tray he was holding. There were plates with pastries, omelet, sandwiches, sausages and a cup with brown liquid that had steam coming out of it.

“I’m sorry,” she spoke through her confusion, “But do I know you?”

“Not… yet?”

Hange couldn’t understand if his words were meant to be an affirmation or a question. Nevertheless, she took a step back, letting him in.

He went straight to setting up the table, humming under his breath as he did so. Hange watched him work, not knowing how to feel – puzzled or amused. She tried to catch the boy’s gaze and ask for his name, but, considering the amount of food he brought and how exquisitely delicious it looked, Hange already had a pretty solid guess about the persona of her visitor.

“Be my guest,” he gestured to the table after he finished setting it. Then, as an afterthought, he added, “My name is Niccolo.”

“I guessed it already,” Hange smiled, taking a seat. Her stomach growled, as the delicious smell of homemade food entered her nostrils, her mouth filling with saliva even before she took a fork in her hands. She forced herself to look away from the food, however, directing her eyes at the man who had prepared it all. “Thank you for the food, but may I ask what is the occasion?”

Niccolo didn’t answer right away. He took his time, dragging the chair to sit on the other side of the table, then absentmindedly fixing the napkin and pushing the plate closer to Hange.

She didn’t urge him, patiently waiting for him to start talking. She had a feeling that whatever he came here to tell her was going to be extremely interesting.

And Niccolo didn’t disappoint.

“I’ve spent most of my life hating Eldians. Like every good, conscious Marleyan, I believed them to be devils and abominations. When these people captured me I thought it’d be better to die than live among them. But then I’ve got to know them better, I cooked for them, I’ve talked with them, I… grew to like some of them.”

He took a pause, and Hange used this moment to push some food into her mouth. Just as she expected – it was finger-liking good. And it tasted even better, because she also had an intriguing story she could listen to while eating.

“And there is one person that I like most of all, more than anyone I had ever met. I’ve realized my feelings long ago - perhaps, they were born the moment that I set my eyes on her, perhaps, it was destiny that brought both of us together. And to think of it – a Marleyan and an Eldian. If someone had told me years ago that I’d fall for a devil from Paradis, I’d probably punch that person in the face, but look at me now…”

A Marleyan and an Eldian? Hange had heard that story before. Hopefully, Niccolo’s would have a happier ending.

“I wanted to confess to Sasha for a while now, but the time was never right, and I kept stalling… You know, I thought there was no reason to be hasty. but then Jean told me what happened during the attack on Liberio, how I almost lost Sasha and my chance to tell her how I truly feel, so…” Niccolo looked Hange in the eyes, his gaze shining with the love he had for Sasha. “I came to say thank you. For giving me another chance.”

Oh, what a sweetheart. Hange felt her chest warm at the sight of such devotion. She always was a sucker for a young, tender love.

“And?” she leaned over the table, eyes alight with curiosity. “What did Sasha say? She returned your feelings, right?”

“Um.” Niccolo brought a hand to his neck, rubbing the back of it. “I didn’t do it, didn’t, eh, confess. Yet.”

“And when—”

“Today,” he said, confidence returning to his voice. “I planned a dinner for Sasha, invited her family and friends. Actually… I wanted to invite you as well.”

Despite regret that spread through her, Hange curled her lips in a comforting, gentle smile. “Not the best idea, but I appreciate the thought. And,” she added, her smile turning into a cheeky grin. “I’ll be expecting another visit from you, where you’ll share all the details.”

Hange wished she could see it for herself – Niccolo standing before Sasha red in the face, stuttering his undoubtedly sweet confession, Sasha gasping, with her mouth opening in shock, their audience watching it all with a mix of mortification and amusement. Hange wished she could have the privilege of being the part of that audience, alongside a certain Captain, who would cringe horribly at the scene, unfolding before their eyes.

Hange wished— for many things. Alas…

“I’m sure your plan will work out perfectly, but just in case,” Hange winked, snickering, when she saw red spread through Niccolo’s cheeks. “Good luck.”

“Knowing Sasha’s friends… I’ll need all the luck I can get. But for now, I also need to get going, the dinner won’t prepare itself. So thank you once again.” Niccolo stood up, bowing his head. “For everything.”

“Make Sasha happy, that’s all the thanks I need.”

Niccolo nodded, showing her a smile. He headed to the door, and just before he left the room, Hange gave him thumbs up, wishing him luck once more.

As the door behind him closed, she slumped back in the chair and continued munching on her breakfast, a blissful expression appearing on her face.

So… not only a great cook, but also a romantic? Sasha was such a lucky girl.

___

Her next visitors were just as unexpected, and their conversation - a lot less pleasant. It was in that moment that Hange started to suspect that this day would take its rightful place in the collection of her awful ones. But she was far from knowing just how horrible it had the potential to become.

The moment that Armin tumbled inside the room without knocking, throwing the door open in his haste, and Mikasa trailed after him, her pace much slower but just as unsure, dread settled in Hange's stomach.

"Hange-san!" Armin was speaking in a quiet, but barely controlled voice. His chest moved rapidly, as he struggled to keep his breathing slow and even. Hange swallowed her worry, her thoughts running at a lighting speed. What could possibly have happened to make him so panicked? She chanced a look at Mikasa - the young girl wore the same guarded expression she always did, but her eyes kept shifting from side to side, hands clasped together tight enough to make her knuckles white. "We need to talk."

Hange gave them a cautious nod and stood up from the bed, the book she was reading moments ago all but forgotten now. Pieck's warning was loud in her mind, as her fear grew. Marley... they couldn't have attacked so swiftly, right?

Hange gestured for her guests to take their seats at the table that stood near the window. Absentmindedly, she wondered where Moblit was. He didn't show his face to her even once this day. What could he be so busy with?

"Your guard told us that you had a visitor today," Armin stiffly began. "Mind telling us who that was?"

Hange frowned, cocking her head to the side. If the guard told Armin about the visitor, didn't she also mention that it was Niccolo? The cooking boy had to be known around the barracks, if he was that close to Sasha.

"Niccolo came by, he wanted—"

"You mean, Marleyan came by." Armin corrected.

"Sasha's and your friend, if I understood properly," Hange protested.

"But he's Marleyan. Just like you."

So, Armin was accusing her. And not only her, but Niccolo too. Accusing them of conspiring, but for what purpose? By which means? Against who? Hange was so confused. Hange didn't understand. Armin was always so rational, so coolheaded. What could possibly make him so frantic? What drove him to such desperation, to such wild guesses?

"Armin..." any other time, with any other person who trusted her just a fraction more, Hange would have taken their hand in hers. She'd caress it gently, try to calm them down, but in Armin's state... Hange worried that it'd make matters even worse. "Armin," she repeated, lowering her voice ever so slightly, making it sound more trustworthy. "What happened?"

Armin didn't answer, lowering his eyes - in shame or indecisiveness, Hange couldn't guess. And so Mikasa took the word.

"Chief Zacklay is dead," she said. And if that wasn't mind-blowing enough, she added, "Eren escaped from the prison."

"Fuck."

What else was there to say? Everything was turned on its head - Paradis' biggest defender seemingly had gone completely off the rails. Hange wondered if the threat of Marley invasion was still the scariest crisis the island would have to face. The absence of the clear answer was… unnerving.

“We don’t know what to do, or where to look for Eren. That’s why… Armin hopes that you’ll shed some light on that.”

Armin hopes – an interesting choice of words. He didn’t think, didn’t speculate, didn’t hypothesize. He hoped – exhibited a desperate, illogical kind of feeling. So… it was that bad, huh?

“I know nothing about it.” Hange said truthfully. “As you’re aware I’m not even allowed to leave this room.”

“We know.” Mikasa agreed softly, pressing her hand to Armin’s. “But it’s hard to come to terms with it.”

“He is your friend.”

Hange didn’t understand what they were going through, she never had someone that close to her destroy the trust between them, but she knew it wasn’t easy. Eren had changed, Eren had already lied to them once, but he was their friend, they’ve spent years, believing him and in him. They couldn’t change their opinion of him in just one night, they couldn’t let a few mistakes kill what they had created over the course of their lives.

She couldn’t help but wonder if that’s how her friends felt. Was it just as hard to believe in her betrayal? Did Moblit and Levi feel just as lost and unsure? Were they just as desperate to come up with a reason for her behavior? Whatever they did, whatever they felt, Hange hoped she would never have to learn about it. She was miserable enough as it was.

But Eren knew what his friends were going through, had to be aware of the consequences of his actions, of what he was doing to his friends, how much he was hurting them. What drove him to his decision then? What happened to the boy with bright eyes and big heart?

“Do you have any idea what Eren is going to do?”

“I don’t think it’s Eren’s doing, Zeke is probably lying to him, but…” his eyes were still cast down, his finger weakly tracing some vague shapes, when Armin muttered, “Hange-san… do you by any chance know what rumbling is?”

Hange froze. Her throat constricted acutely, creating a quiet, choking sound. For one second, one terrifying second her heart stopped, ceasing its usual rhythm.

Rumbling? Did she hear correctly? Was Armin speaking the truth, did he mean what Hange was worried he meant?

Rumbling.

A short, but scary word. One that was mentioned in but a few frowned upon books. One that was only whispered amongst the members of Titan Society, too horrifying to speak it loud and clear. The word that meant death, the end of everything they knew about their world.

“We were meant to experiment with it,” Armin explained, wriggling his hands. “Nothing too serious, nothing too… devastating. Just a showcase of the power we yield, to keep the other nations on their toes. To keep them away from us. But ever since Zeke had appeared, Eren became so…”

Even since Zeke had appeared, Eren had decided to act on his own, distanced himself from his comrades and friends, joined forces with his brother. Hange would have believed, would have been convinced that the boy she once knew was incapable of such cruelty…

But Liberio, the heart of her homeland was standing in ruins. And it was Eren’s doing.

She narrowed her eyes, gave a scrutinizing look first to Armin, then to Mikasa. Hange really, really hoped that she was wrong. Against all sense, she hoped that they would drive away her doubts, that Eren’s closest friends knew him much more intimately than she ever could, that their opinion of him was right and just.

“Do you think he is capable of proceeding with it?”

“No,” Armin answered.

And the same time Mikasa said, “Yes.”

Yes, said the girl, who was in love with Eren, who was devoted to him above anything or anyone else. She said yes, spoke it quietly, in pained voice. But without a shadow of a doubt.

Hange shuddered.

She— they had to stop this. Somehow. Anyhow. Before it was too late.

"Eren can't activate the rumbling on his own," Hange mused out loud, biting at her thumb.

"Right," Armin confirmed. "He needs the bearer of the royal blood."

And that was good, that meant not all hope was lost. To go through with the rumbling, Eren had to find Zeke, and Zeke was out in the woods with Levi. He would never get away from Levi, and so the world was safe, but—

Zeke wasn't the only one with special blood. There was also—

Fuck.

"Historia, where is she?"

Armin's eyes widened, a gasp escaping him as he came to the same conclusion as Hange. "She arrived in the town... This morning."

And that was the morning Eren decided to make his escape. Hardly a coincidence.

"You don't think..." Armin began tentatively, his eyes pleading Hange to say that it was a joke, that she was wrong in her assumptions. She wished she could give him that reassurance.

"I don't know."

She didn't know what Eren's plan was, what was his goal, what was Zeke’s role in all of this. She didn't know what means Eren would use to ensure his success.

Would he go to his brother, would he trust him enough? Or would he go to Historia and risk hurting his friend?

And how Eren would get to them? Both Zeke and Historia were heavily guarded - Zeke as the hostage, Historia as a Queen and a future mother. But who was the easiest target?

With Levi being in charge of Zeke, Historia was an obvious choice, unless—

Hange swallowed heavily.

Unless Zeke was planning something too - some rouse, or a play, something that would fool Levi, make him lose his focus.

Make him lose Zeke.

And if that worked—

"Where is Historia?" Hange repeated that question. Hidden in the forest, theoretically, Levi was safe. He could hold his own in a fight against Zeke, Hange has seen him do just that in Liberio, even if some part of it was a spectacle. She also had seen Zeke after Shiganshina, personally tended to his wounds that refused to heal properly because of the amount of his injuries. Back then, every hiss of his was like a melody to Hange, a miniscule payback for the carnage he had born.

Zeke was far away from Eren, guarded by Levi. Hange had to trust him with that task. She had to hold onto hope that Levi would be safe. But Historia... Historia was another matter. She was here, close, and as good as her security was, they were not on par with humanity's strongest. They had to protect the Queen first.

"Historia chose this day to arrive because of Niccolo's invitation. She's probably in his restaurant, along with the others." Mikasa said.

So she wasn't alone, surrounded by soldiers and friends. Would that be enough to hold off Eren? Possibly, although, Hange wasn't sure.

But Eren was not alone, he had followers, the ones Moblit was so worried about. Would they be just as amicable? Would they not hurt the ones Eren cared so much about?

"Historia is our main priority. We have to go to the restaurant and make sure that—"

"We?" Armin interrupted.

Hange deflated. Of course, how could she forget? She wasn't their superior, their commander, their friend. There was no we. She was an outsider. She always were.

"I didn't mean to—"

"No." Mikasa curtly said. "We need you, Hange-san. We do," she repeated to Armin, who was already opening his mouth with a protest on his tongue. "We need all the help that we can get."

Armin studied Mikasa for a moment, then turned to face Hange, regarding her pensively. The intense look of his big blue eyes was unnerving, almost impossible to hold without flinching. There was a man Hange once knew with the same intent gaze. Oh, how she wished to see him again. He'd know what to do in a shitty ordeal they were facing right now.

"You're right," Armin sighed at last. "We might not have same goals or even enemies... but our concerns align. With you on our side, our chances are much higher. So, Hange Zoe," Armin offered his hand for a handshake. "Will you help us?"

An unlikely alliance then, huh? Hange could work with that.

She shook his hand with a smile.

___

Something was turning, twisting inside Hange on the way to the restaurant. Even the air seemed stiff, the landscape outside of the carriage bright, pretty but ominous all the same. Liberio - her city - looked just as lively before it got crushed.

And today, right now, she couldn't get that image out of her mind. The streets she walked through hundreds, thousands of times; bakeries she visited day after day; parks and playgrounds she admired from afar - everything was now gone, turned into debris, into nothing but broken stone and crushed glass.

And all of it - all the destruction, pain and blood and death - all of it was a courtesy of one Eren Yeager, the boy with bright eyes and passionate soul.

Would the same thing happen to another city? To all the cities in the world? To hundreds and millions of—

Hange took a deep breath, stopping herself before she screamed in fury, ripped something apart, overturned the carriage, or worse - started crying.

No. Nothing of the sort would happen to the other countries or their people. They would stop this— this catastrophe and Eren, and Zeke, and whoever else was involved. They would not allow another tragedy.

In the meanwhile, Hange did her damnest to focus on small, trivial things - the inside of the carriage, the bumps on the road, the subtle similarities between Mikasa and Levi, the sunbeam playing across Armin's face - anything to keep her mind from other, much scarier things. It didn’t really work.

"We are here," Armin announced, cutting through her morbid thoughts. He put a hand on her elbow - a tentative, but heartfelt gesture. Hange wondered just how disturbed she must have seemed to earn it.

"Let's go," she shook off all the worries, all of her fears. They weren't needed. They would slow her down, serve as a distraction, nuisance. And today, she had to be on her best. "We have no time to spare."

Mikasa and Armin seemed to be of the same opinion, and so the three of them left the carriage and started moving towards restaurant's entrance.

The place was much bigger than Hange had imagined it to be. She expected to see something small, but snug, something homely. But Niccolo's restaurant was grander than most buildings on Paradis. It didn't quite reach the luxurious and exquisite nature of restaurants in Marley, but— clearly, that was Niccolo's inspiration.

The restaurant - as big as it was - was packed, the merry sounds of laughter were heard even from the courtyard. People were celebrating, people came here to have some fun. Hange knew just how rare those instances were. And she hated being the one to put a stop to it. But she'd rather ruin someone's day and be wrong about her assumption or ruin someone's say and be right, than— Than not ruin someone's day, be right and waste precious time.

The three of them walked through the dark brown door, and instantly Niccolo stood in front of them, appearing seemingly out of thin air.

"Armin, Mikasa! I didn't think you'd make it! And you brought Hange with you!”

The happiness on his face was so endearing, so genuine. Hange was wrecked with sympathy for him. Niccolo was just a boy, who loved a girl, and decided that today of all days he'd make his feelings known. Unfortunately, the day he had picked turned out to be one of Hange's bad ones.

"Congratulations once again," Hange made sure to put on an extra gentle smile, in vain hope that it would soothe the effect of her next words. "But that's not why we are here."

"No?" the happiness was gone from Niccolo's face, suspicion overtaking it, but only for a second. Next came anger. "I thought we were over this," he leveled, glaring at Armin. "I thought we've already discussed everything you wanted. And I'm not going to deal with this bullshit again. Not today."

Niccolo whirled around, his leg raised to, no doubt, dramatically storm out. Mikasa's gravelly voice and a tight grip on his wrist stopped him. "If you don't want to ruin this day for Sasha, then take us to Queen Historia. Right now."

Oh. Even Hange felt shivers at that tone of voice, and the threat wasn't even directed at her. Was Levi teaching her his tricks? Or was every Ackerman just naturally good at being so scary?

Niccolo yanked his hand out of Mikasa's grasp, massaging it with a wounded expression. He didn't try to argue once again, though. And soon Hange, Armin and Mikasa were following after him to the banquet hall.

He took them through the lengthy hallway, past kitchen and washing room. At the edge of it, Hange could see two familiar figures - one tall, another short. They were standing next to a wooden cupboard, snickering quietly to each other. As they came closer, Hange realized that Jean and Connie were holding several bottles of wine, clearly having trouble choosing which one to open.

"Niccolo!" Connie yelled out, waving the bottles over his head. "Which one is better?"

"That's not for you, you idiots!" Niccolo snatched the bottles from their hands, his retort vicious— and more shaken than the situation truly called for. Any other day, Hange would have found it weird, would have paid more attention to it. Any day, but not during her bad day.

So she shrugged it off and after giving Jean and Connie a painfully awkward wave, continued following after Niccolo.

Once they were inside, Hange couldn't help but marvel at the amount of people gathered. There were lots of civilians, none of which Hange could recognize. And among them, there was a sea of green, representing the members of Survey Corps. Most of these faces were known to her. One of those faces in particular swiftly left the conversation he was having, gluing himself to her side.

"Hange-san? Armin? What is going on?"

Moblit had his mouth open, his eyes shifting between the three of them. Hange didn't know what he had seen there, what face she was making, but Moblit didn't ask another question, silently falling in step with them.

Sensing the change in the room, Jean and Connie hurried to do the same.

They all stopped in front of the table in the corner - one near the window and with a nice bouquet standing on it. The table was occupied by two - giggling Sasha, who was retelling some story in a rather animated fashion, and Historia, who listened to her friend with a joyful smile.

Looking at her, Hange couldn't help but be amazed. Last time she saw the girl, she had just become a Queen, still doubtful and unsure in her position. And, although, the woman before her eyes didn't look exactly royally – what, with her simple dress and long, loose hair - but Historia had certainly grown, become tougher, more confident in her abilities. However, she was still as pretty as a picture, and the motherhood had enhanced her beauty even further.

"Your Majesty," Hange was the first to take the word, but after that she faltered, not sure how to proceed further. Should she bow? Kneel before the Queen?

She was spared from making that decision. Because right in that moment, right when she was meaning to open her mouth and explain everything to Historia as curtly as was possible— her day turned from simply bad to straight up shitty.

"You!"

Familiar voice. The anger in it wasn't unusual too. Never before it was directed at her but—

Hange recognized the pride of Marley, the future Warrior right away. It was all she was allowed to do before getting promptly tackled to the ground.

"Traitor! Liar! How could you do that to us! How could you side with the devils?"

Gabi kicked and punched anything she could reach, accentuating her every word and accusation, but the blows were barely registered by Hange. She felt no pain, only huge amount of relief.

Gabi was furious, Gabi was loud. Gabi was alive and well.

A month, a whole month she spent worrying about these kids, only to have fate throw them back together in the most ludicrous way possible.

“Gabi,” despite her kicks, despite her loud shrieks, Hange smiled happily. She pulled the girl closer, wrapping one arm around her, while her other went to softly brush the girl’s hair. “Gabi, are you alright? You’re not hurt?”

“And why would you care?” Gabi suddenly sniffled, voice muffled by Hange’s shirt. “You never cared about us, did you? Only about those devils!”

“Gabi…” Hange sighed, finding herself at a loss of words. How could she explain something so complicated? Something she couldn’t understand herself?

Luckily, an unexpected help arrived.

"Don’t judge too harshly, child. You may not understand it yet, but humans' hearts are tricky things. No rules apply to them, they never listen to reason. They don't act like we want them to. They create emotions, make our lives brighter, and at the same time... So much more confusing. And accusing someone of caring for the wrong person… it’s just not right."

Hange looked up, surprised to see a middle-aged man standing before her. She was fairly sure that she had never met him before, but his eyes, his manner of speaking... Somehow, they were familiar.

Before she could connect the dots, however, her attention was ripped away once more, this time by Niccolo's deep voice.

"Eldians, Marleyans," he scoffed. "All of us are vile, devil is in each and every one of us. We're all imperfect, but all of us yearn to find the place where we belong, where we're loved. We don't choose who these people would be, we love others for what they are, not what they represent, or what side of the conflict they come from. And if loving my enemy is treason, I’ll gladly go down as a traitor."

Niccolo glanced back, meeting the eyes of the one he had dedicated this speech to. Hange caught Sasha’s bewildered, loving look and smiled, feeling her eyes go misty.

So, Marleyan and Eldian? Was a union like that even possible? Four years ago, on the dawn of the day when she left the one she loved the most behind, she'd say that it would never work out. But... times were changing, right? For the better, or so, at least, Hange hoped.

"Hange-san..." Moblit crouched beside her, painfully awkward. "Erm..."

Oh right. Only now, Hange realized that she was still lying on the floor. And that in on itself wasn't so unusual, but most of the times... she didn't have a ten or so pairs of eyes watching her.

Hange cleared her throat. Then, as absurdity of the situation caught up with her, snickered quietly.

"Hey, Gab," she stroked the girl's side. "Would you mind letting me get up?"

Gabi rose on her elbows, considering Hange. The frown on her face didn't vanish, but— her eyes weren't so full of rage anymore - clearly, the speeches had left an impression on her.

"I'm still mad at you," she said, lip stuck out petulantly. "But... I'm glad that you're here. Because it means they're coming for us, right? Commander Magath and Reiner— Reiner will save us, right? We just need to wait for a little longer, until they arrive."

They're already here, Hange wanted to say. If Pieck came, there was no way that Reiner would want to sit that one out— or be allowed to, anyway. Marley was coming, their guns blazing. But in the room full of members of the Survey Corps and Queen herself, Hange couldn’t say that, wasn’t yet ready to betray her country like that. She could only kiss Gabi's brow and promise, "You will be alright."

Reassured, Gabi nodded and let Hange get up. As soon as her feet had touched the ground, Hange found herself with someone once again wrapped around her. This time, however, the embrace was that much warmer and a lot less violent.

"Falco," she carded her fingers through his sandy blonde hair. "I take it you've missed me too?"

"You can't imagine," he spoke, his face pressed to her stomach. "Going on missions with Gabi is a torture! I could barely keep up with her!"

"You'll learn with time," Hange looked back, exchanging a look with Moblit. "It's not that hard to deal with annoying shits like us, right, Mob?"

He tugged at his collar, strategically evading her curious eyes. "Perhaps, after a very long while..." he reached out, patting Falco's shoulder. "And with the help of a good alcohol stash."

"Oi!" Hange slapped his arm. "He's only a kid!"

Moblit shrugged. "He has to know what is waiting for him."

"Don't listen to him," she gently consoled Falco. "He's joking."

Although... Hange had to agree with Moblit on that. If Falco continues running after Gabi like that, he'd have his first grey hair by the age of fifteen.

With the boy still clinging to her, Hange surveyed the room, swiping her gaze across Sasha and Niccolo, who stood side by side, wearing identical, enamored expressions, to Connie and Jean, who were whispering something to one another, and finally to Mikasa and Armin, who hid Historia behind their backs.

Right. She didn't come here for a cheerful reunion. The fate of the world was at stake. Hange pulled herself together and— pulled Falco away from her.

"Sorry, dear," she fondly ruffled his hair once again. "I need to go now, but I'll get back to you."

Could she do, though? Could she return to these kids, ask them to be placed under her care? Should she do it, considering that she didn't even know what was going to happen to her, where would she be one hour from now? Was it wise then to drag kids along with her? They were sharp and strong, more than capable, and they did survive on their own for so long— wait.

How did they manage to survive on a foreign soil, all by themselves? And why they were here today, in Niccolo's restaurant of all places?

"I guess these ducklings are yours?"

Oh. The familiar man that Hange had never seen was back, now standing in front of Hange, showing her a kind smile.

"We haven't been introduced, but it's hard to mistake you for someone else. Hange Zoe, right?"

"Right," Hange shook his warm, calloused hand. "It's nice to meet you, Mr. Braus."

"The accent was a dead giveaway, huh?" he laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He had a nice laugh, Hange decided, deep, heartfelt and genuine. She liked Mr. Braus, just as much as she liked his daughter.

"I understand that you're the one who had taken care of my ducklings," Hange giggled, catching Gabi's very much unamused look. "Thank you for that."

"And thank you for saving my daughter's life. For that deed I could never repay you."

"That was... that was nothing. I did nothing, just happened to be in the right place, in the right time."

"It's only because of you that we're here, celebrating, instead of mourning. So," he gripped her shoulder tightly, his brown eyes staring into hers intently. "Let me express my gratitude, for that is the smallest thing that I can do."

"I think," Connie inserted himself between them, his mischievous smile lighting up the room. "This calls for a toast!"

No more than a second later, Jean had produced a bottle of wine, opening it swiftly and skillfully. Once the bottle was dealt with, he filled a glass with wine, thrusting it to the person standing closest to him. Which— happened to be Gabi.

She took all but a tentative sniff from the glass, before it was roughly yanked out of her hands. The drink splashed everywhere as Falco hurried to finish it, before Gabi caught up and took it away from him.

There was just as a couple of droplets left, everyone watched the scene in amusement, until—

Until Niccolo screamed.

He pounced from his place, wrestling the bottle out of Jean’s hands. “It’s not for you, morons! I told you not to touch it!”

Ice spread through Hange’s veins, as she heard the desperation in his voice. If her first thought was the right one… she had to make sure of it immediately.

“Who that wine was meant for?” she seethed, grabbing Niccolo by lapels of his shirt, suffocating him in her white-knuckled grip and currently not caring about it. Everyone in the room tensed, Sasha jumping closer to them, but Hange didn’t care, ignored all of them completely. “Who that wine was meant for?” she shouted, shaking the boy like a ragdoll.

“F-for the military officials! It’s the good stuff, expensive, it was meant only for them!”

The good stuff, the best one they got, Hange reasoned. The next question was pointless, she knew the answer already, was the one who came up with this idea in the first place, but— Niccolo was a good guy, a sweet boy in love with a kind girl. Hange wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“What’s wrong with the wine?”

And that was it. That’s all she had to do to get to the bottom of it. One short, simple question, and Niccolo crumbled. He didn’t try to fight her, made no attempts to protect himself. He hanged his head in shame, avoiding the dozen pairs of eyes that now were boring into him.

“They made me do it,” he whispered, his hands, his lips— his whole body shaking. “I had no choice, you wouldn’t understand—”

Oh, but Hange did understand. Better than Niccolo knew. She knew how it felt to be forced to follow the current, accept every cruel tide. She knew just how frustrating, how painful it was to lose control.

So yeah, Hange understood. But she could not excuse.

However, she had no place to judge as well, she herself was a reason for so many tragedies and disasters. She couldn’t judge, and she didn’t have the time for it. The deed was already done, now they had to try and undo it.

“Who gave you the orders?”

The spine fluid, injected into wine, came from Zeke, that Hange had no doubt about, but Zeke was far away, deep in the forest, under Levi’s watchful eyes. So who had redistributed the wine? Who was the betrayer, the real culprit?

“It’s—”

He didn’t get to finish. For only now Hange had realized what had happened moments prior. Falco drank the wine. Falco. Drank. The. Wine.

Her heart thumping, Hange pushed Niccolo away, grabbing Falco’s hand instead. Armin, Mikasa, the Queen, let someone else deal with that shit, for now she had to try and delay the inevitable. She looked around, her eyes wild, mind racing. “Where— where is the bathroom or— or a—”

“I’ll show you.”

It was Moblit’s quiet, reassuring voice. He gripped her elbow gently, taking her away. Hange let herself be led, rubbing soothing circles into Falco’s palm all the while. She didn’t know what do, wasn’t even sure that spinal fluid can be taken out of someone’s system, but she’d be damned if she wouldn’t at least try. Falco, sweet, smart Falco, he didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve to be turned into a Titan, a mindless creature with no loyalties and feelings. Hange wouldn’t allow it, she was ready to do the impossible and then more to save the little boy.

Once they reached the bathroom, Hange set out to work - took off her coat, rolled the sleeves of her shirt, sat Falco down on a stool, pushed his head under the faucet, instructed him to try and rinse all the wine out.

It was possibly entirely pointless, Hange was pretty sure of it— but. What else could she do? Sit tightly and wait for the young life to vanish?

"That thing in the wine..." Moblit spoke up - calmly, but defeated, as though he had already surrendered to whatever tragedy that would befall him. "It's bad, isn't it?"

Hange tensed. Hange jumped to her feet, fisting her hand into Moblit's shirt so desperately, the fabric creaked in protest.

"Moblit," she croaked, her voice shaking, broken, eyes begging him to say that he was joking, that his inquiry was simple curiosity. "Moblit, did you drink that wine?"

"It was served at every government meeting. I couldn't refuse."

No. No. Hange couldn't believe, didn't want to believe it, Moblit— not Moblit, she didn't want him to fall victim to this, become another casualty in her long, extremely bloody career. Anyone else, but not— not him.

"It's the same tactic we used in Ragako village," she explained numbly. "Back then it was gas, this time the fluid that turns people into Titans was added into wine. It activates after Zeke screams."

"Ah," Moblit shook his head, a faint smile on his lips. "If - when - I turn, you could experiment on me. Just— don't give me a stupid name like Sawney or Bean, I'd like, I think, I'd like to be called Moblit. If I'd still have some semblance of consciousness by that time, if not - you can call me whatever you—"

"Shut up." Hange choked, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. She ignored them, glaring fiercely at him. "Shut the fuck up, Moblit, you will not turn into a Titan, I will not allow it, I'll do whatever I can—"

"Hange-san," he smiled, and it broke her heart. "It will be okay."

It won't. Because it was her damn creation, made to defeat faceless, unknown enemies. And now it was used against people she cared about.

She had to do something about it. With a start Hange realized that the solution was... fairly easy.

"Avoid Zeke at all costs." She told Moblit, urgency turning her speech more frantic. "Don't go near him, try— try to get away if he gets into city—"

But Zeke couldn't get into the city. Zeke couldn't get out of the forest at all, couldn't make a single move without Levi knowing it.

Levi was the solution. He would keep Zeke under his guard, he would keep Moblit, and the rest of them, safe. Hange finally could take a breath.

But the calm didn't last for long.

As soon as she returned to Falco's side to check on the boy's condition, a loud crash came from somewhere deep within the restaurant. Hange heard the sound of hurried footsteps, then a concerning scream.

She exchanged a look with Moblit. Both of them started running at the same moment.

When they tumbled inside the main room, they froze in shock.

Sasha's family, members of Survey Corps and among them— soldiers with rifles. Hange scanned the room once more, her eyes travelling further, to the table by the window. She breathed out in relief - Historia was guarded by Connie and Jean. At least, the Queen was safe.

But not the rest of them.

"Squad Leader Moblit," the ginger head took a step towards them, a too wide smile plastered on his face. Hange didn't like that man and his smile. And the gun in his hands. The gun that was now aimed at the ceiling but could be very well aimed at Moblit, or anyone else in that room. “You’re the one I need.”

Moblit inched closer too, his chin held high and eyes defiant. Hange didn’t miss the fact that his movement hid her behind his broad shoulders. Oh, loyal, caring Moblit. How could she leave him to his fate?

“I’m here,” he leveled to the redhead. “What do you need me for, Floch?”

If it wasn’t for the gun in his hands, or the smile on his face, the way Moblit spelled his name – the obvious aversion, unhidden contempt was enough for Hange to understand that this Floch guy wasn’t very nice. And, despite the Wings of Freedom on his back, he certainly wasn’t Moblit’s friend.

So. That was one of the famed Yeagerists? And the rest of them, the ones that held civilians on gunpoint were the part of the same group? Hange was so not impressed.

“You’re buddies with Captain Levi,” Floch continued. “That means you know exactly where he is hiding.”

“Perhaps.” Moblit nodded. “But what makes you think that I will tell you?”

Floch’s smile grew, and the gun that was held lazily in his hand, pointing at the empty air, moved. It was lowered down, its barrel now staring right at Moblit. But the gun didn’t stop there, it moved again, shifting just a little to the side. To where Hange was standing.

“Hange Zoe, right?” Floch tilted his head, so he could look straight at her. “I didn’t have the pleasure to make your acquaintance before, but I’m glad that life threw us all together. Especially now, for you see…” he lifted a hand, and a soldier took his place, his rifle raised, while Floch paced from side to side. “I’m not allowed to hurt them,” first he pointed at Jean and Connie. “Or her,” now at Historia. “I’m, however, allowed to do with the others whatever I want. And since hurting our dear Squad Leader Moblit wouldn’t bear the needed results…” he spread his arms, shrugging helplessly. “No one would miss a traitor, right?”

“Don’t you dare!” Moblit surged forward, shoulders shaking from the unbridled fury. But he made no more than a few steps, before he was immobilized, two soldiers coming from behind to grab his arms and twist them painfully. Moblit didn’t back up even then, continuing his fierce resistance. “Leave her out of this!”

“Ah, yes,” Floch chuckled to himself, observing Moblit’s struggling with morbid fascination. “The luck is surely on our side today. You will be useful after all, Hange Zoe. We will take you with us.”

No sooner than these words left his mouth, Hange felt a pair of hands around her, subduing and enabling to make a single move. She thrashed, she kicked, but to no avail.

“Floch—” Moblit grounded, pulling on his restraints.

“Don’t you worry,” Floch squeezed Moblit’s shoulder, showing him a look of feigned affection. “No one is going to get hurt, if you cooperate.”

No. They couldn’t cooperate. Cooperating meant leading Floch and his bunch to Zeke, and that meant leading them to Levi.

“Mob! Don’t listen to him! We can’t–” instinctively, momentarily forgetting about the arms that held her down, Hange reached out to him, trying to catch his eyes.

But Moblit turned his face to the other side, avoiding her gaze. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I can’t let you get hurt.”

Ah. Hange’s heart sunk, while Floch clasped his hands in delight.

“I’m glad you’ve made the right choice! And now,” he raised a finger, and Hange with Moblit were forced to move forward. “Let’s get going!”

___

Outside, the weather changed. The sun hid behind the heavy, grey clouds, the rain was now steadily falling down, creating puddles under their feet.

The gloomy weather further enhanced the trepidation inside Hange. The feeling, the certainty that something was going to get very wrong and very fast persisted, forcing her to grab the reins of the horse tighter, in vain hope of providing some miniscule outlet to her ever growing anxiety.

Despite the fear, Hange spurred her horse forward, doing her best to ignore the rifles pointed at her back. It was proving to be quite a vexing task, when the said rifles kept pushing her to move even faster but— it wasn’t the worst situation Hange had found herself in. That time when she and Zeke were captured by the enemy forces and put inside a fortified prison was so much worse. The prison had anti-Titan artillery surround the perimeter, they were alone and cut off from their allies. And still they managed to escape. Compared to that, a few Yeagerists were nothing.

Although, Hange had to admit – the stories did them no justice. In reality they were a lot more vile and disgusting.

But, apparently, Levi still trained some of them. And, boy, did he teach them well. One soldier behind Hange kept huffing, cursing the weather under his breath. Hange waited, and when he once again got distracted by the mud that splashed on his boot, she thanked Levi for his absurd obsession with cleanliness and acted, stealing that little moment for herself.

“Hey,” she leaned closer to Moblit who was riding right beside her, and whispered to him in a voice just slightly louder than the sound of the rain. “Remember that thing we did during Erwin’s coup-d'etat?”

Moblit winced, anxiety reflecting in his eyes. “When we punched people that were armed with rifles?”

Hange grinned. Atta boy, of course, he remembered. “I’ll give you a signal,” she nodded discreetly and returned to her previous position, now directing all of her attention on their fearless, redheaded leader.

“So Zeke is your main goal, right? You don’t actually need Historia?”

Floch scoffed, rising his nose up in distain. “The Queen is a back-up plan.” Wow, getting information out of them was that easy? Some devoted followers they were. Hange continued listening, eager to know what else Floch would reveal. “We’re not sure what exactly is going to happen, and Eren… doesn’t like hurting his friends.”

They weren’t sure what was going to happen. Only for these words Hange was ready to throttle each and one of them. What was going to happen? Mass destruction and death, a lot of unnecessary deaths.

But did these children care? Of course, they didn’t.

And would Zeke care about it? Hange wasn’t sure. Zeke was many things – cruel, violent, heartless, he never cared that much about other people. However, he was his father’s son, and, as much as he had loathed Grisha Yeager, Zeke still carried around the hero complex that his father fought so hard to plant inside him. Was it possible then that Zeke would be against the rumbling? Was it possible that he didn’t know of Eren’s true intention, that he blindly trusted his little brother?

Was it possible that their goals didn’t align? If so… then Zeke was a key player in this game of chess. He was a powerful figure they had to get on their side. If Hange could talk to him—

A loud sound, a crashing bang interrupted the flow of her thoughts, making her jump in the saddle.

That noise, it was similar to a thunder, but not quite. Hange knew that sound all too well, was the one who created the devise that was activated with the very same sound.

It couldn’t be— that noise couldn’t come from a thunder spear explosion. But… what other explanation was there?

“Let’s head there!” Floch commanded. “Something must have happened.”

Hange’s heart raced as they inched closer and closer to the place where the sound had come from. It wasn’t hard to find, the gory sight of the poor, wounded horse and the blasted cart was easy to spot.

They approached it slowly, and suddenly Hange froze, her eyes landing on something near the riverbank. Something that looked a lot like a body – a short one with strong stature and black hair—

“Moblit,” she whispered, begging him to clear her suspicions, to reassure her that she was mistaken.

But Moblit pursed his lips, and shook his head – brief, but resolute.

For a second, Hange froze, overcome with desperation and fear. Her heart stopped too, if just for a moment.

Levi, he couldn’t— but what if he did?

Ignoring the insistent shouts and strict orders to come back, Hange jumped off the horse, scrambling to get closer to the riverbank and to him.

She fell into the mud, uncaring of her clothes, of the mud she was splashing around. She felt nothing, the rain, the river, her captors, it all faded into background. She cared for nothing else, except the limp body in her hands.

Oh, please, please, please.

Her hands trembled as she turned the body to face her, careful as she could be. A bloody mess, her personal nightmare stared right back to her.

And in that moment— Hange felt her heart break, ripping, shuttering into thousands pieces. She thought she knew loss before, she thought she knew what pain was.

She was so wrong.