#sorry these are probably quite banal thoughts. BUT I HAVE MANY.

[adhd-merlin]

#least fave is 4x09 arthur physically threatening gwen #just horrendously ooc

sorry @freylins I just!! have feelings about this scene in particular. and, unfortunately, thoughts. in my tag for episode 4x09 (I rarely use episode tags btw) you can see me going "I love this scene. what a great scene. why are there no gifs of this scene" multiple times lol. I might reformulate some of my previous tags into a more coherent (?) post.

I can see why many people wouldn't love this moment; chances are you're either someone who doesn't care about arthur/gwen that much, in which case you'd be sitting there thinking "can we go back to arthur & merlin please", or you DO care about arthur and gwen, and it's an uncomfortable scene to watch if you do.

but! I love drama and angst and emotional suffering (IN FICTION)

personally I don't find it ooc for arthur (or if it is, it's justified — I'll get into this later). it's true, in normal circumstances he would never. but these are hardly normal circumstances, and him shaking gwen like that really underlines how besides himself he was feeling.

it's true that arthur often loses his patience with merlin (shouting, throwing objects) but it's usually over petty stuff. he's actually remarkably calm under pressure when the situation calls for it.

so it's not often that we seem him COMPLETELY lose his cool in such a way — the only comparable scene, in my opinion, is the one in which he challenges uther to a duel in ep 2x08, after learning from morgause that his mother died because of uther, and uther has been lying to him about it all his life.

and both that moment and gwen's cheating are betrayals of MASSIVE proportions. literally world-shaking revelations, and it's about two people arthur loves more than anything.

I don't think it's strange for him not to be thinking straight when he confronts uther (2x08) and gwen (4x09) — he's only human.

in gwen's case — he found her kissing lancelot, her former love and his former most loyal knight, literally the night before they were to be married. this is the woman of which arthur famously* said "if I lose her, I lose everything" (!!)

which of course would make him question everything. up to that point he had been so sure of gwen's love for him, but what if he was just deluding himself.

and he had to fight to make gwen queen, remember — against the opinion of the court, and probably his own prejudice. I find it interesting how he remarks "do you know what they're saying?" when facing gwen, pointing at the door, because arthur has grown up under the eyes of the court, and he's not stupid.

here he's telling gwen that in his father's day she'd be put to death, but one can imagine that is not all the councilmen have been saying. agravaine was lecturing him about the appropriateness of his love match only a few episodes prior; surely someone told arthur (or heavily implied it) that gwen might not love him after all. that she might just be in it for the wealth and the power, and not because she holds any real affection for him.

which adds another layer of hurt — it's not just about having his heart broken, he's also been made to look like a fool in front of everyone. and although it might not be arthur's most pressing concern here, he is sensitive about losing face (in front of his father, when uther was still alive; in front of agravaine and his councilmen now). he has to be, in his position, how could he not?

arthur has been defending his choice of gwen as a consort the whole time based on the fact that they loved one another, and now he's just witnessed her kiss lancelot. his whole world is crumbling.

you can see how hard he's trying to keep himself together when he faces gwen again. he's had a night to think things over and he's still so badly shaken.

and even so, I think (I'm sure plenty will disagree, given he does banish gwen in the end, but anyway) I think you can still tell how much arthur loves gwen, even now, even underneath his fury. because the first thing he asks her — when he can find in himself the strength to actually look at her — is "what happened, guinevere?"

and in that moment there is no anger in his tone — he's sad, defeated, confused, but he's genuinely just trying to understand what happened to them. what he might have done wrong, what he might have missed. and to me that's such an arthur thing to do.

and yes, it's true that he loses his temper and ends up shaking gwen and shouting in her face, which is unlike him. but characters acting uncharacteristically for a reason isn't bad writing. real people do it too. a character behaving in a way he normally wouldn't can be significant, and I think it is here.

because arthur has just lost everything. he's trying to understand why and the only person who could answer him has no answer to give :(

(he also apologises immediately and tries to get himself under control again. even banishing gwen is more about needing her as far away from him as possible than about making her suffer. it's not done out of viciousness. I mean, yes, it's also a punishment, but only because one was required. but he tells gwen he's sorry about it and he seems to mean it.)

sorry, I just think it's a very well written emotional scene (even counting that "I don't want to see you dead... but I don't want to see you", a line so predictable I literally finished it with bradley the first time I watched the episode), and it's so well acted, and it deserves more love. but I understand why it doesn't get much.

(btw I'm not trying to convince anyone to like this scene nor I expect everyone to agree with all I wrote here, I'm just saying why I personally like it.)

______________

*to me

Question for everyone: what is your favourite and least favourite moment in Merlin?

[lingeronyourhazeleyes]

thanks for your tags on that nowhere boy post! I'm so curious what your thoughts are on the movie. When did you first see it? Are you a John girl? What are your thoughts on Mimi and Julia?

aww thank you for this ask 🥰🥰 (and i'm terribly sorry, i'm gonna leave a wall of text here, cuz I just can't resist the opportunity to yap about my Beatles-related experiences and opinions xd)

first of all, i don't really get why this movie tends to get so much hate (aside from the part where John hits Paui, and i really liked your insight that it was necessary to make the subsequent hugging and crying on each other's shoulders less gay - god i hate you late 2000's), because tbh this is my favourite Beatles biopic. Aaron Taylor-Johnson captures John's whimsical spirit quite well imo and even though Thomas Brodie-Sangster wouldn't have been my first choice for Paul, he's really good at being a charming motherfucker and a lil shit at the same time :D

i think i saw it for the first time in my late teens/early 20s with my mom and her husband, but i didn't pay much attention to the details then (given that i only had a very surface level of Betales-knowledge back then). I rewatched it last November though (in the midst of a full-blown Beatles brainrot).

Am i a John girl? Huh, i guess i'm something that people around here would call a John-coded Paul girlie xd nevertheless I aspire to be a Ringo in the lives of my loved ones

And omg your last question led me very far, but I'll try to be brief (edit: i failed lol) :D so, as i read your notes, i was very surprised that it's considered an anti-Julia and pro-Mimi film (and seeing the points you have raised, now i can totally understand why). For me (even on my first viewing) it was never a Julia vs. Mimi thing. I've read it as a John vs John conflict (and this is the point where i start talking bullshit and/or total banalities. Feel free to correct me or argue with my points :D i always fancy a good argument). I've always seen him as a man with two conflicting sides: one is the whimsical, creative, free but overly emotional (consequently kinda unintegrable (i'm not sure if it's a real word lmao i hope it is :D) into modern western society) side (enabled by Julia), and the other one is the abandoned little boy who only wants to be loved, and is therefore ready (or even needs) to be controlled and steered in "the right direction" by others, hoping that they would not abandon him this way (and this side of him is fed by Mimi in a way in my opinion).

In my reading, both mother figures embodied and enabled one side of John, while actively trying to suppress or outright hurt the other side -- as, I think, John did in his own mind, constantly berating and hurting himself in the process. I thought Julia was so antagonistic (and i guess i was waaay more forgiving of her than i think an average person would be, because unfortunately in many ways her behaviour reminded me of myself), because imo society tends to frown upon overly emotional, somewhat detached and destructive, but free-spirited and creativity-enhancing behaviour, while supporting Mimi's "behave according to unspoken social rules and expectation, don't change the status quo, and suppress your emotions"-mindset, that she represented in the movie and tried to instil in John. (Seeing Mimi handle (and making John handle!!) Uncle George's death with coldness and complete suppression of emotions was just as painful and infuriating for me as the scene where Julia sent John away after all the (sometimes creepily inappropriate) lovebombing.) I have a theory that Paul was so important to John because he not only accepted but straight-up embraced (dare i say served) both sides of him. But probably i just see too much into all this xd

Sorry for the long, messy (and probably borderline meaningless) reply 🫣 i happened to have waaaaaay too many thoughts 😭😭

[kjack89]

Conversation Starter

Just a little modern AU E/R fluff for your Saturday evening enjoyment.

It was like every single cliché had come to life: Enjolras’s palms were sweating, his knees were wobbling slightly, and it felt like his stomach had vacated his abdomen and taken refuge somewhere around his ankles. And all because he was walking down the street towards Grantaire so that they could go on their first date.

Honestly, it was hard to gauge whether it was the Grantaire part or the date part that had Enjolras feeling like a middle schooler again, and his mouth went dry as he finally reached Grantaire, who turned and looked expectantly at him with that little smile on his face. “Hey,” Enjolras managed, and Grantaire’s eyebrows rose.

“That’s really what you’re going with?” he said in lieu of a greeting, and Enjolras stared at him.

“Excuse me?”

Grantaire shook his head with something like disapproval. “Just...hey,” he repeated, slightly incredulous.

Enjolras’s brow furrowed. “If you’re about to make a ‘hey’s for horses’ joke…”

Grantaire barked a laugh and shook his head. “I promise you, I am not.” He squinted slightly at Enjolras as if just seeing him for the first time. Which was patently absurd, since they’d been friends for years and sleeping together for, well, awhile, and besides— “Just trying to figure out why you sound like every a-hole who’s ever slid into my DMs.”

Enjolras gaped at him. “I—what?” he managed, his voice sounding mangled to his own ears.

“I mean, here you are, this great orator, and the best you can muster for the opening line of our first official date is hey.” Grantaire shrugged. “I guess I just expected more, that’s all.”

The nerves that Enjolras had been feeling earlier had long since disappeared, replaced almost entirely by something like pure rage. “Well, I’m sorry,” he said frostily, “how do you like to start a conversation, since you’re clearly such an expert?”

Grantaire grinned, and the sight took Enjolras aback almost as much as the entire conversation to that point had. “Oh, I don’t,” he assured Enjolras, who just stared at him. “I let other people start the conversation so that I can mock them for their opening, thus establishing the tone for the rest of the evening.”

He sounded abominably smug, and Enjolras’s had to work to wrench his mouth open to splutter a response. “And has that ever worked for you?”

“Well, you haven’t left yet, so.” Grantaire had the gall to actually wink at Enjolras. “Ask me again at the end of the evening.” He paused, his smile softening, just slightly. “Besides, you’re not nervous anymore, right?”

Enjolras blinked. “Who told you that I was nervous?” he asked defensively, and when Grantaire just gave him a look, he managed a light laugh. “Ok, fine, I was.”

“And?” Grantaire prompted.

“And what?”

“And are you still nervous?”

Of course he wasn’t. Which had probably been the whole entire point, and Enjolras just shook his head slowly. “You really are an asshole,” he said, with no small amount of affection. “You know that, right?”

Grantaire grinned before leaning in and pressing a swift kiss to the corner of Enjolras’s mouth. “Maybe,” he said. “But like I noted before, you haven’t left yet. So I must be doing something right.”

Enjolras shook his head again, but when he took Grantaire’s hand, his palm wasn’t sweaty anymore. “So it would seem.”

----------

“We need to talk.”

Enjolras had to raise his voice slightly be heard over the general hubbub of the back room of the Musain, which ended up being a mistake, since as soon as he said it, almost all conversation ceased. Or at least, that’s what it felt like, which made his attempt to get Grantaire’s attention so that they could talk seem kind of pathetic.

Or something.

Grantaire’s expression was unreadable as he stood and jerked his head towards the door, walking out without waiting to see if Enjolras was following him. Enjolras, of course, did, and not just because everyone seemed to be staring at him.

He followed Grantaire outside to the alley and watched as Grantaire stopped and crossed his arms in front of his chest, looking at Enjolras with that same unreadable smile. “Well?” he said impatiently, and Enjolras blinked.

“Well, what?”

Grantaire arched an eyebrow. “You said we need to talk, so...talk.”

Enjolras eyed him warily, trying to figure out why Grantaire’s tone was suddenly so cold, certain he was stepping on to a landmine. “Now I’m not sure I want to.”

“Why not?”

Enjolras gave him a look. “Because you’re looking at me like you’re about to start swinging.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “I would never use physical violence against you,” he said dismissively, which Enjolras almost would’ve taken as sweet if it weren’t for the fact that, in that moment, he wasn’t entirely sure he meant it.

But whether Grantaire meant it or not, Enjolras figured he might as well try to use it to lighten the mood. “The scratches on my back would say otherwise.”

For one brief moment, it almost looked like Grantaire was smiling.

Almost.

“I would never use physical violence against you without your repeated and extremely enthusiastic consent,” Grantaire amended, a little impatiently. “But that’s not really the point.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No, the point is, if you’re going to break up with me, I’d really appreciate it if you just got it over with.”

Grantaire said the words flatly, so much so that it took Enjolras a moment to even realize what he’d said. “If I’m going to...what?”

“Break up with me,” Grantaire repeated slowly, as if Enjolras was dumb, or hard of hearing.

Which rankled Enjolras more than a little, seeing as how he was neither, and yet still had absolutely no idea what Grantaire was talking about. “Why in the hell do you think that I’m about to break up with you?”

Now Grantaire was looking at him as if he was dumb. “Because you said we need to talk,” he said, as if that was any kind of an answer.

Enjolras stared blankly at him. “Yeah, because we do,” he said. “I wanted to see if you’d mind if we pushed our flights for Thanksgiving until later in the evening.”

Grantaire’s eyes fluttered closed. “Are you serious?” he asked, and Enjolras nodded, even though Grantaire’s eyes were still closed. “And you chose to broach that topic with, we need to talk?”

“I’m genuinely not seeing what I did wrong here,” Enjolras said.

Grantaire opened his eyes. “Is it possible that you were dropped on your head as a child?”

“Grantaire—”

“No I’m serious, it would explain a helluva lot.”

Enjolras cleared his throat. “Grantaire, there’s no need for ableist jokes.”

“Fine,” Grantaire said. “But do you honestly think that changing our Thanksgiving flights merit that kind of an introduction?”

“Actually, yeah, I do,” Enjolras said sharply, and Grantaire looked taken aback. “We’re flying to your parents’ house for me to meet them as your boyfriend. It’s kind of a big deal, and I wanted to talk about it because I didn’t want you to think that I was trying to get out of it. “

He said all of this in one breath, and Grantaire looked even more taken aback than before. “Oh,” he managed, his voice small.

“Because, for the record, I’m not,” Enjolras added helpfully. “I just have a meeting that got pushed to that afternoon.”

“Ok.”

Enjolras looked at him and took a deep breath before telling him, “I know that I don’t always go about things the right way. I don’t say the right thing, I don’t act the way I’m supposed to, I’ve never been very good at this. But I’m trying, because I...:” He trailed off, blushing slightly. “Well, because I love you. And I’m in this. And I just thought you should know that.”

Grantaire was staring up at him as if he had never quite seen him before. Then he sighed heavily. “Well God fucking damn it.”

Enjolras frowned. “What?”

“You were right.”

“About…?” Enjolras prompted.

Grantaire smiled at him, all his anger from before seemingly vanished. “We actually did need to talk,” he said, and he took a step forward to lace his fingers with Enjolras’s. “And I’m really fucking glad we did, because I love you, too.”

Enjolras grinned. “Good,” he said, bending down to kiss him.

Grantaire kissed him for a moment before pulling back. “But you’ve really got to work on your conversation starters.”

Enjolras just laughed. “I will certainly try.”

----------

“Are you mad at me?” Enjolras asked, the first words either had said in each other in several hours, which probably explained why the words seemed to hang between them as Grantaire studiously avoided looking at him.

“I’m sure I have no idea what would give you that impression,” Grantaire said frostily.

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Mostly the fact that you’ve been giving me the silent treatment and keep glaring at me,” he said sourly.

Grantaire gave him one of those selfsame glares. “That was a rhetorical question.”

“Well, are you going to tell me why you’re mad at me, or would you prefer that I play twenty questions to guess the answer?” Enjolras asked, as pleasantly as he could manage considering that he was considering throttling his boyfriend, whom he loved, with his bare hands.

“I don’t know, you were doing so well with charades,” Grantaire shot back.

Enjolras sighed and counted to ten in his head before asking, “Can you be serious for, like, thirty seconds?”

“I am being serious,” Grantaire snapped. “And I’m not the moron who started this conversation with ‘are you mad at me’ when the answer was an obvious fucking yes.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes so hard he instantly gave himself a headache. Though that could possibly also be attributed to the banality of this entire conversation. “So now you’re mad at me for how I chose to broach this conversation?”

Grantaire just shrugged. “It’s one of many reasons, yes.”

“And again, am I going to have to guess the other ones?” Grantaire shrugged again and Enjolras sighed. “Look, I’m sorry, and I’m not just saying that because I want this fight or argument or whatever to be over, because you know as well as I do that I love to fight.” Grantaire nodded in agreement, which Enjolras took as a slightly optimistic sign. “But I also love you, and this doesn’t seem like it’s going to be a fun fight for either of us.”

Almost as if against his own will, Grantaire looked over at him, a small smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. “And what does a fun fight look like?”

Enjolras smiled slightly, turning to face Grantaire, reaching out to hook his fingers through the belt loops of Grantaire’s jeans to tug him closer. “Well, it usually ends with one or both of us naked.”

“Ah,” Grantaire said, reaching up to rest his hands lightly against Enjolras’s chest and tilting his head up slightly. “Yeah, I like those fights.”

“I had a hunch,” Enjolras murmured, bending his head so that his lips just brushed against Grantaire’s. Then he took a step back, and Grantaire let out a small noise that sounded suspiciously like a whimper. “But this seems like it’s something serious, so if you’d rather we discuss whatever’s going on…”

“I never said that,” Grantaire said breathlessly. “You were the one who brought it up.”

“Did I?” Enjolras murmured, pulling Grantaire close again. “Well that was stupid of me.”

Grantaire kissed him lightly. “So stupid.” He reached up to brush a blond curl out of Enjolras’s eyes. “I really do like these kinds of fights.”

Enjolras laughed. “So do I,” he said, bending down to kiss Grantaire once more. “In no small part because it’s like we get to fight and make up all at the same time.” Grantaire murmured his agreement and Enjolras added, “I mean, do you even remember why you were mad at me?”

Grantaire’s expression soured and he gave Enjolras a look before kissing him again, a little more forcefully this time. “Maybe not so much with the conversation right now.”

Enjolras’s answering laugh was captured by Grantaire’s mouth. “Fair enough.”

----------

“You know that I love you, right?”

Enjolras said it casually, almost offhandedly, and it took him a moment to realize that Grantaire had stopped walking. “What did you do?” Grantaire asked, and Enjolras looked blankly at him.

“What did I do about what?” he asked.

Grantaire gave him a look. “To make you say that,” he said impatiently. “You had to have done something.”

Enjolras stared at him. “I genuinely have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Grantaire let out a weary sigh before telling Enjolras slowly, “You chose to start the conversation—”

“Oh my God,” Enjolras groaned. “Not this again.”

Grantaire refused to be deterred. “You chose to start the conversation with ‘you know that I love you, right’.”

“Yes, I did,’ Enjolras said, because there was really no use in denying it.

“Which therefore implies that there is some kind of reason I should have for doubting that you love me,” Grantaire told him.

Enjolras stared at him. “That is one helluva leap in logic.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes, clearly unamused. “If it is, then once again, you and I need to have a conversation about your word choices.”

“Maybe so, but do you think it can wait?”

Grantaire threw his hands up in the air. “Sure, we’ll just table it and let me have a heart attack everytime you start a damn conversation!” he half-shouted, and he stalked a few paces away. “I mean, you really think this is something we should wait on?”

“Actually, yes,” Enjolras said, pulling a small, gray box from his pocket. “Because I kind of have something else that I wanted to talk about.”

Grantaire huffed a sigh. “Like—”

Enjolras got down on one knee just as Grantaire turned around. “Like this.”

Grantaire stared at him. “Oh my God,” he whispered.

“Grantaire, I love you, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” Enjolras said simply, unable to stop his stupid, lovesick grin. “Will you marry me?”

Grantaire was still staring at him. “Are you...are you fucking kidding me right now?”

Enjolras arched an eyebrow, though his grin didn’t once waver. “Is that a no?”

Grantaire spluttered incoherently. “Is that a – you fucking – is that a – get up here and kiss me, you asshole.” He grabbed the front of Enjolras’s shirt and pulled him up to kiss him, cradling Enjolras’s face in his hands. “Yes, of course I will marry you, but for fuck’s sake, that is not how you start a proposal!”

Enjolras laughed breathlessly. “I’ll keep that in mind for the next time I propose.”

“Don’t even joke about that,” Grantaire told him, beaming as Enjolras slid the ring on to his finger. “You’re stuck with me now.”

Enjolras kissed him again. “And you’re stuck with me and my many failures at being a conversationalist, apparently.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire said happily. “You bet your ass I am.” He kissed Enjolras once more before looping his arms around Enjolras’s neck. “Just promise me something, ok?”

“Anything,” Enjolras said instantly.

“For the love of fucking God, please do not start your vows with ‘you know I love you, right’.”

Enjolras laughed. “I promise.”

“Good,” Grantaire said, before telling him, “and for the record, I do know, and I love you, too.”

Enjolras’s expression softened, and he kissed him once again. “I know.”

----------

“Hey,” Grantaire said tiredly, pausing to lean down and kiss the top of Enjolras’s head before plopping down next to him on the couch.

Enjolras shifted automatically so that Grantaire could lean against his shoulder. “You know, once upon a time, you told me not to start a conversation with ‘hey’.”

Grantaire yawned widely. “And I stand by that statement.”

“But now it’s ok when you do it?”

Enjolras couldn’t see him, but he could feel the movement of Grantaire rolling his eyes at him. “There’s a difference.”

Enjolras set his phone down. “Ok, so then explain the difference to me.”

Grantaire sat upright and turned to face him, his expression suddenly earnest. “The difference is that I’m not starting a conversation.”

Enjolras’s eyes narrowed. “Well seeing as how we weren’t talking just a few minutes ago, and now we are, I’m not sure how else you would qualify that.”

Grantaire smiled slightly. “You’re forgetting one important thing.”

“And what’s that?” Enjolras asked.

“We’re married.”

As this was not a recent development, Enjolras just stared at him. “Ok...and?”

“And this is it,” Grantaire said simply. “This is the rest of our lives. Just one big conversation that may pause every now and then, but it’s not gonna be over until the end, which means there’s never a need to start it up again.”

Enjolras couldn’t stop himself as he leaned in to kiss Grantaire, though he pulled back just enough to inform him, “You just don’t want to admit that you were an ass about saying hey to start a conversation.”

Grantaire laughed lightly. “Maybe.” He kissed Enjolras once more. “But, uh, you know I love you, right?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Hilarious,” he said dryly.

“I know,” Grantaire said, his smile soft. “Thank God you’re stuck with me.”

“Yeah,” Enjolras said, kissing his forehead. “Thank God for that.”

[octopus-reactivated]

Title me Miss

You remember Decima? If not, here she is.

Tw/cw: Pet whump. legal slavery, stress position, maybe? low self-esteem, dehumanisation, unreliable narrator, derogatory language

__________

The cage was small, much smaller than cages usually used in stores. He had to bend while kneeling. His back hurt and he wanted to lay down, curl up on cold floor, but then he wouldn't be able to get at kneeling position fast, and if someone would look at him, and see he isn't even kneeling, then he won't be bought and taken to new home and new Master and it’s not like his chances were high to begin with.

He had to stay in this uncomfortable position. Of course stupid Pet like him deserved anything better, anyway.

__________

That's bad - thought Paparazzi realising the celebrity saw her taking a photo of him. Except that she wasn't a paparazzi, and he wasn't a celebrity.

Caretaker quickly turned around trying to walk away without getting into a confrontation. It was most likely that she would be able to get away, and even if man would demand to delete photos, she already switched memory cards, so the evidence was safe.

She took a glance into a reflective surface. Yep. Mr. Politician was following her, and even pointed at her. Rude. She hid behind the nearest corner, taking her jacket off. Then she hopped into the closest shop and got wig off - good thing she actually decided to start using them. She walked into the furthest part of the shop, hiding clothing, wig and camera in a bag and done! Caretaker can be a different person now! It took her 15 seconds no more. Still far away from a perfect time of 7 seconds, but most likely 15 seconds would be enough.

Caretaker calmed herself down, and crunched behind a cage

And then she saw where she was. A “Pet” shop. She realised There was a human in a cage, and he looked at her with hopeful eyes. Oh no. She suddenly felt guilty. She never was brave enough to go after a big company. Did this combination of events happen to show her what happens to people because she refuses to take action... Even if this action is just spying on corrupted politicians?

She will have to pull herself together and inform Justin she's ready to hunt down big fish.

Caretaker stayed a little longer, until she decided it was safe to go. She stood up and at that moment a man in a cage whimpered. She looked at the boy. He had teary eyes. Was it because she didn't want to buy him? Why would anyone be sad for not getting bought? Maybe Pets were punished when someone decided to leave them? It made no sense, but common sense probably got beaten out of them. Whatever it was, the boy was authentically sad.

"I'm just... looking at the description, don't worry" she sent him a reassuring smile. What the what was she doing? She's not here to buy anything? Maybe she would be able to steal him? No, she's a simple photographer playing spy, not a thief. And THAT would be illegal, and she can't have a criminal record. Caretaker looked at papers glued to the board over the cage. Age, physical attributes, placing of scars, training facility, 'one previous owner' note, price - cheaper than she would expect for a human being- what he was trained to, blablabla...

"Interested in-" without thinking, she turned around and punched the owner of a voice in the stomach. He bent in half. Only then she realised it was one of the employees.

"I'm so sorry i didn't mean to hurt you, you terrified me" she apologised quickly, and she meant it. She really was sorry for punching an innocent person. Oh wait, this guy works at Pet store. Nevermind, she's not sorry. Unless that would make a fuss and affect her reputation. Then maybe a little.

Employee straighten up

"You're stronger than you look like" He said, quite impressed.

"Thank you. I didn't meant to use that strength on you"

"No problem, it was my fault anyway. I tend to walk quiet" He said, but to be honest it sounded a little forced. Later on he will trash talk about her to his friends for sure. "Anyway i was meant to ask if you're interested in this Pet"

"Well, I am considering... "

"We also have many others here, or you can visit our website and..."

"No thank you... I think… I think I will talk to my friend, he's like 78% of my impulse control. I will be back in a few minutes."

"Of course if you want to discuss it with someone..." Employee looked disappointed, but he also didn't want to come out as pushy, so he didn't stop her.

When she was walking away Pet sniffed, and an employee kicked cage saying something angrily. He switched from servile to cruel in seconds. Disgusting, absolutely disgusting. She will stop this. But first she had to make a call.

__________

Pet was waiting, hoping for the impossible, and then- then someone walked in and looked at him! Mistress with exotic blue hair! She was looking at him! Maybe she will pet him and decide he looks adorable and take him? He tried so hard to look cute!

Of course it wasn't enough. Mistress stood up. Why would she want a disgusting, horrible Pet like him? He whimpered and shut up immediately. He didn't get permission to make a sound. Bad, untrained Pet.

"I'm just looking at the description, don't worry," Lady said. Of course, you stupid mutt. Humans won't just decide by looking at face, they would want to know... all those important stuff written in his document, that he was to stupid to understeand.

One of the Masters came and talked to Lady... but she just punched him! And the Master was in pain, but still didn't get mad... Did it mean that Lady was so cruel she wanted to hurt even other humans and powerful enough to get away with this? Pet trembled.

Master tried to convince her to purchase one of Pets, him or some other, that was less useless, bu the Lady apparently didn't liked anything, so she used banal excuse even dumb Pet was able to look through and left.

He tried not to cry.

Master kicked his cage.

"Can't you even try to be less hopeless?" he said angry

__________

"Justin, my beloved, my light, my braincell and my source of income i need your advice"

Sigh.

"What is this time?"

"So I was doing as you said, and you were right, they really met and there was a third man with them, and I got photos, but he saw me and..."

"Did you lose evidence?"

"Nah, don't worry it's safe like a baby in your mother's arms. The thing is I had to flee and I went into the first open store and there was Pet and he looked so sad, and I have to take him now, but..."

"I see, do you want me to gently sway you from making decisions you already know it's bad, or do you look for my genuine opinion about your capability of taking care of a pet with your job?"

"No no no no no. You misunderstood me. It was A Pet. And I want to take him, because I'm afraid they will beat him to death if i don't but I also don't want to give them my money. I don't want to contribute to the system, but stealing is bad and I don't know what to do anymore."

"Okay. Okay, wait a moment i need to think about it for second"

"Okay"

"Alright, I have an idea: big companies like that always have some dirt. So do like this: go to this store and buy him casually, but look for old ventilation, unsafely placed things or anything. Note that and take photos if you can, and we will later snitch on them for WHS violation or something"

"Okay. Thank you i knew i could count on you"

__________

Pet was kneeling in the cage. He could have a new home by now if only he wouldn't be so disgusting. The last customer was really scary, and cruel and even she didn't want such an awful Pet. He tried not to cry. Crying wasn't cute and he had to look cute even if it was pointless.

Then he heard quick angry footsteps. The blue-haired lady was back. What did it mean?

"I'M TAKING HIM!" She shouted. She had fire in her eyes. It took all of Pet's strength not to move away to the back of the cage.

She will buy him, and she was angry, maybe because the pet was scared of her, or maybe her Friend failed to control her impulse, or maybe it was something different, but the Pet will pay for that.

He was scared, but he will take all the pain if she would want him, please he wants to be wanted, even if it doesn't matter what he wants, take him away, he will be good...

Master rushed and took Lady to the back, where the documents were signed. Pet glued eyes to the doors. She still can change her mind when she will look deeper and realise how bad and ill-trained animal he is.

Or maybe she would like to have a broken animal to train up to herself? Was it about it?

__________

"Here are all his files. We have to make sure you had read them, especially the last page"

"Sure, give me some time"

"Also if you have any questions, i'm here to help"

"I don't have any..." she said, but then the idea hit her "actually, do you have any more detailed record of his training?"

"We do have records for all our pets, but we can show them only to the owner. We can email them right after purchase. They're quite large"

"Works for me" She said. Maybe the records will say more about his conditioning, and help with recovery. Anyway it won't do harm if she will have them.

Now onto reading stuff she will sign. Make sure the company won’t hide anything in small print.

It took longer than she would like to admit and hopefully she understood all the words just right… There was one page left.

There was something about being "ready to handle" and "responsiblebleble..." and

oh

Employee must have seen that she got to that part.

That part... changed the light she looked at the boy.

And she hesitated for a moment.

“May… may i know the circumstances of an incident?” she asked

__________

Master- no, the former Master now opened a cage and threw him on the ground. Pet felt his shoulder hit the hard floor and he holded cry in .

"Looks like you got purchased after all. Unbelievable. Ayway, how long do you think it will take for you to mess up and get returned?" former Master said. Pet was stupid, yes, and he had trouble learning rules but he knew that he can't break them now, and he wasn't allowed to speak

"Answer me you dumb Pet"

now that was an order

"A- a month maybe?"

"Ha! you aim high. I doubt you will be able to last two weeks"

Pet didn't want to go back at all, but if the former Master says he won't be able to enjoy new home for longer than two weeks then it was true. He had to bear Mutt for so long!

He took off one collar and put on another. It was so soft, softer than a pet ever had. Finally he grabbed him by the shoulder he felt on and took to the new owner.

"See you soon," former Master whispered to Pet.

And there she was. New owner. The scary Lady. Pet trembled.She didn’t clipped a leash or grab him by hair, instead she put her arm around him. Didn't she want him to have even this piece of freedom? Or was she afraid he would try to run away? He won't, he will be good and Pet hoped he would be allowed to speak to tell he will be good. But he wasn't allowed so he just quietly walked by her side. He couldn't crawl with her holding him, will he be punished for walking on legs like a human?

They walked outside. The sun was so nice, and the air was fresh. But he knew it was not to enjoy, he wasn't allowed to enjoy those things.

"We will have to wait here for a while. My friend - the one I mentioned before - will give us a ride. Anyway, what's your name?"

Was he tested already? He knew how to follow rules, he could follow them...

Owner looked at him in scary silence

"Oh. I forgot. You can speak. I wouldn't ask if i didn't expected any answer"

Oh no. Oh no no, they didn't even get home, and he disappointed Owner already.

"I don't have any name, Mast- Mistress"

“Hmm well then how did the.. shop employees call you then?”

“Disgusting, Mutt, Dirty…”

"That won’t work. We have to give you a real name. And you can call me by mine. I'm Decima. 'Mistress' sounds like some annoying character from a historical drama. But if you feel uncomfortable without honorifics then you can title me 'Miss'. But I prefer to be referred to by name, okay?"

"Yes, Miss Decima"

[astromechs]

keep whatever it is (that's compelling you on)

HERE IT IS, my matrix resurrections spec fic, completed and in under the wire before the trailer! i think i'm ready to quit fussing over this, and i'm really excited to get it out into the world!

also here on ao3!

01.

Every single morning, Thomas A. Anderson is jolted awake at approximately 8:15 AM by the shrill of the same alarm, shovels in the same shitty cereal before stumbling into one of the same five shitty suits that he has to remember to get dry-cleaned, takes the same seat on the subway on the way to work — where he sits in the same chair for eight hours straight with minimal breaks, staring at his computer screen (or, more often, out into nothing) until it’s time to take the same subway back to his shitty apartment, order from the same rotation of shitty takeout, and find some mindless, banal distraction while he ignores texts that don’t even matter anyway before he falls asleep to eventually wake up and do it all over again.

It’s nothing special — just the average life of an average mid-grade programmer at the average tech conglomerate. Comfortable, sure, and a dream many would kill to achieve; he knows this, knows this every time he passes the poor old woman who’s feeding pigeons in her ratty coat from the battered metal bench on the sidewalk in front of his apartment building. He slips her whatever spare change he has on him — a $20 bill, on the days he’s lucky, but often less than that — and, without fail, she always accepts, with a warm smile and kind eyes that seem to stare right into his soul, seeing the deepest parts of it.

Like she knows him. And that’s what’s weird.

He tries not to put too much thought into it, because, honestly, he tries not to put too much thought into anything at all; he’s found that to be the most effective way to navigate the machine that systematically runs his rhythmic, mundane life.

But even so, there are things that he knows he can’t shake.

One afternoon in late February, when the cut of the wind had not remotely suggested that spring would just be a month away, he’d passed the woman on the bench as always, but he could’ve sworn that the whole flock of pigeons scattered on the sidewalk at her feet had frozen for a split second. Like they’d been… glitching. In a blink, everything had returned to normal, and he’d spent about three days (and three sleepless nights) trying to convince himself he’d been seeing things, that he’d just been spending too much time actually working on his assigned program for once and that maybe he should take some of his accumulated vacation days? And the following week, he had, but….

No time off to try to clear his head would ever change the fact that this hadn’t been an isolated incident.

Because sometimes — he swears he sees pieces of code fall through his field of vision; a blink and then they’re gone, but it happens too often not to be a pattern, and no matter how much he might want to for the sake of his own sanity, he can’t just brush that aside. Sometimes, flashes come to his mind like barely-remembered dreams, in idle moments and just on the edge of the line that separates sleep from waking consciousness, so real that he knows they’re memories. Dark tunnels that haven’t seen the sun for centuries. Cold, so cold that no amount of warmth, human or otherwise, can really combat. Running, desperately bounding up the fire escape to the third floor of a rundown motel, three men in sunglasses and perfectly-tailored suits in close pursuit, his heart pounding in his ears so loudly he can barely hear the phone ring from Room 303, the place he has to get to, because everything depends on it. A barrage of bullets in his chest, one right after the other, back slumping against the wall as his heart gives out, vision fading to grey and then to black, but a voice, reaching through it all to call him, tether him….

Neo.

There are things that he knows he can’t shake, and sometimes, he thinks he had another life. Another name.

Another purpose.

He’s haunted by the ghost of it.

It’s the second of April — at least, that’s what the screen of his phone tells him, because otherwise he wouldn’t know, or care to know. A Friday, and all the faceless commuters are packed like sardines into this subway car, headed home for weekends that are sure to be as inconsequential as his own. Today, he has to stand holding the rail for the ride home; a woman trying to juggle both a baby and two bags of groceries had just barely managed to stumble onto the train before the doors had closed, and he’d sprung up, more than glad to give up his seat to someone in greater need.

She tries to thank him, profusely and repeatedly, but with where he’s standing, he would have to twist to keep facing her, so, with a nod and the barest hint of a smile, he turns away to spend the trip the way he always does: in solitude.

The route back to the station just down the block from his apartment building is never smooth, by any stretch of the imagination, but today, it’s bumpier than usual; the train car jerks and jostles, until, eventually, it sends him colliding into back of the passenger standing next to him.

He’s just about to stammer out some automatic, awkward apology, but then —

Blue eyes meet his, clear, crisp blue, and a jolt strikes him right to the core.

He thinks — no, he knows, he knows — he’s seen these eyes.

Neo. In the darkest corners of his mind, the voice whispers again.

Time freezes, glitches, around him, around him and this stranger with familiar blue eyes. He sees the light leave them, and then come right back. He sees warmth, what something is telling him had once been the only thing able to keep the cold of the real away; that warmth spreads through now, to the tips of him, and he has a sense, one he doesn’t entirely understand, that something has just clicked into place.

Behind sunglasses, another pair of eyes watches them from across the car.

“You all right?” Neo.

He sees brows knit in concern, and for the first time, he pays attention to the face that the eyes belong to. Probably the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen in… more than one life, he’d have to guess, is now in front of him; he isn’t so detached and disconnected that he doesn’t notice that. Her short dark hair is cut into a severe bob, and she’s dressed in black from head to toe — from her coat and gloves, to her boots. It suits her, somehow.

After a beat, he finally remembers to speak. “Yeah. I — sorry.” The subway jerks to a halt; he glances up, and adds quickly, after clearing his throat, “This is… my stop. Excuse me. Sorry.”

Pushing past her, pushing past everyone in his way, he disembarks to the station, and when his feet touch solid pavement, he takes off at a sprint. Up the stairs (third floor… Room 303….), down the sidewalk (agents, just behind… he can beat them, if he just runs faster than he ever has…), not stopping until the mundane certainty of his shitty apartment building is within his sights.

Just before he makes it safely inside, he catches a glimpse of the old woman on the bench watching him, her smile wider than he’s ever seen it. Maybe, even, almost inhumanly wide.

10.

Her name is Natalie.

That’s what he learns about a week later, when he bumps into her again in front of the grocery store on the corner down from the subway station, the one he always chooses out of convenience. Quite literally; he’s distracted, disconnected, and before he even knows what’s happening, he’s collided with another body, contents of the two bags under his arms spilling out onto the sidewalk. His apologies are hurried and stammered, but her hands are gentle as she moves to help, brushing his more than once. Her smile is soft when their eyes meet.

Over the next several months, he learns a lot of other things, too.

He learns that she takes her coffee with cream and no sugar, and that she always leaves the barista a generous tip. He learns that she’s a genius with tech, better than him and his two computer science degrees and half-cushy corporate job could ever hope to be, and has his whole apartment practically rewired in an hour one day. He learns that if he’s quiet and still, her black cat has no qualms with being his friend. He learns that her lips curve up in just a certain way and her eyes crinkle when she’s just about to laugh.

And he learns that kissing her feels like coming home, as familiar and peaceful as it is new and strange. He learns that with her, coming together, becoming one with another person, is like nothing else.

For the first time in what he can remember, he knows what it feels like to be alive.

(Only it isn’t… is it? The first time. Somehow, just like he knows that he sees the same person walk past him twice, like he knows that those glitches start happening on a near-daily basis, like he knows that the old woman on the bench is smiling at him more broadly than ever….

Their lives have collided, and given each other meaning, purpose, before.)

11.

In his dreams, he sees a city entirely built from light. Spires touch the sky like fireworks, blindingly bright, and with every step, flames ripple out from his feet, making the next one all too clear.

Inevitable.

This is where his path had always led.

In his dreams, he can’t see her face. He can only hear struggling gasps for breath, and a voice that only grows shakier. He can only feel the metal that pierces her stomach, the blood that pools on her shirt. The faint heartbeat he can do nothing to restart.

Inevitable.

(You were right, Smith. You are always right.)

He wakes with a start, drenched in a cold sweat (as cold as their last kiss), gasping for breath. Next to him on the bed, Natalie stirs and shifts closer; when he reaches out a tentative hand, lets his fingers graze over her stomach, she’s warm.

His eyes scrunch tightly shut. Code falls behind his lids like the rain that patters against the windows outside.

100.

There’s nothing out of the ordinary on this day in early fall. A breeze rustles the trees as they walk hand in hand through the park, and provides the first hint that cooler weather is on the way. Children’s laughter from the nearby playground fills the air. Dogs chase each other on the grass. Natalie sips her coffee, cream with no sugar; they enjoy the contented silence that falls between them, only punctuated by her soft smile.

There’s nothing out of the ordinary — except for everything that is.

They meet each other’s eyes, her blue to his brown, and in an instant, everything changes.

It’s hard to tell who sees it first, but — the flash of recognition envelops both of them. Vague memories, the ones that have floated over him like a constant cloud, just out of reach, are in his hands, in his brain, in his heart. He’d had another life once, another name. And it’d been —

“Neo.”

She whispers it on an awed breath, tears forming in her eyes. The coffee cup slips from her grasp, long since forgotten; she lifts that hand to his face, fingers tracing the rise of his cheekbone.

Tears swim in his vision, too, tears and strands of code, falling. Falling. Nothing makes sense and yet everything makes sense, no more so than when the name falls out of his mouth, the last piece of a particularly jumbled puzzle: “Trinity.”

But a thousand words he doesn’t know how to say don’t even begin to get a chance to form. He feels the eyes watching them more than he sees them; both hands drop to his sides, and he tenses, ready to fight.

He’s barely aware that the old woman who’s usually on the bench near his apartment building approaches on the sidewalk. She looks between them, nods, and:

“They’re coming, kiddo,” she tells him, voice severe, with none of her usual warmth, as she grips his arm. “You need to run.”

101.

At sunset, a man in a white suit, tall and imposing, joins the old woman on a park bench near the playground, but says nothing; from all appearances, it looks as though he barely acknowledges her at all. They remain, just like this, as people filter out one by one under the steadily darkening sky, returning to their lives.

They always remain through every iteration, the Mother and Father of the Matrix.

Preoccupied with purpose and the inefficiency of wasting time, as is his programming, the Father is the first to break the silence.

"I informed you it was a dangerous game.”

The Oracle says nothing in response.

She merely smiles.

[bubonickitten]

Fic summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Chapter summary: An examination of endings and how to realize them.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Full chapter text & content warnings below the cut.

Content warnings for Chapter 24: brief claustrophobia; some RSD/fear of abandonment stuff; extensive discussion of death (this chapter’s all about Terminus, babey); allusions to past suicidal ideation on Jon’s part; mentions of eye gouging/blinding (not graphic); some internalized victim blaming; anxiety symptoms; spider mentions; swears. Let me know if I missed anything!

Chronic fear has been Jon’s baseline for so long, it’s difficult for him to conceptualize what he would be were it to abandon him. In some ways, he’s become acclimated to it. On the other hand, fear is a volatile, prolific thing, its many shades relentlessly coalescing and mutating to form new strains. It all but guarantees that the Eye will never truly be sated: there will always be some heretofore unknown species of terror to discover, experience, and add to its collection.

Sprinkled in amongst the more noteworthy moments of abject terror and the constant background pressure of existential dread, there are smaller fears: everyday anxieties; pervasive insecurities; acute spikes of panic and adrenaline. Each discrete instance may pale in comparison to life-threatening peril, but muddled together and given time to ferment, they compound. They feed into one another. Sometimes, they come to attract the attention of larger, far more forbidding monsters.

In this way, Jon is no different from the average person – and one of the oldest, most deep-rooted of those comparatively banal fears is his fear of rejection, of disappointing, of being seen and found lacking. It guided his path long before his first supernatural encounter, and in many ways, it still does. His self-awareness of that fact does little to dampen its influence.

So it’s vexing, but not surprising, that the foremost concern vying for his attention right now is whether this might be that final straw that chases Georgie away for good. She sits with her hands clasped in front of her mouth, eyes closed and brow furrowed as she gathers her thoughts. The longer she remains silent, the more time Jon has to run through all the worst-case scenarios.

It’s already difficult for him to capture a full breath under the crushing weight of anticipation. It doesn’t help that his intermittent claustrophobia has decided that right now is the perfect time to manifest. A tunnel collapse would probably damage the Archives above it, though, and there’s no way Jon would be so lucky. He isn’t sure whether to consider that a consolation or not.

Finally, Georgie takes a breath, opens her eyes, and leans forward.

“Okay.” She tilts her folded hands towards him in an indicative gesture. “Explain, please.”

“Right,” Jon says, rubbing one arm nervously. “S-so, Oliver –”

“I knew his name wasn’t Antonio,” Georgie mutters.

“No. That was an alias he used when he first came to the Institute to give a statement, back in 2015.”

“The prediction about Gertrude’s death?” Martin asks.

“The same.”

“And what was a harbinger of death doing looming over you while you were in a coma?” Georgie presses.

“I don’t know that I’d call him a harbinger –” Jon’s mouth snaps shut immediately when Georgie shoots him an impatient glare. “He wasn’t – he wasn’t trying to – to reap my soul or anything like that, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Then why was he there?”

“He was called there,” Jon says. “By the Web, according to him.”

“Oh, and you don’t think that makes him dangerous?” Martin says, throwing one arm out in a surge of exasperation.

“He isn’t allied with the Web,” Jon replies, fiddling with the hem of his jumper. “It just… got into his head, and it was easier for him to go along with it, rather than fight it indefinitely. Oliver tends to have a fatalistic outlook. If he sees something as inevitable, he’s not inclined to try to stop it.”

“So, what – he’s serving an evil power not because he’s sadistic but because he’s just apathetic?” Georgie couldn’t sound any more unimpressed if she tried. “How is that any better?”

“It’s, ah… it’s really not that simplistic,” Jon says, adopting a delicate tone. “And I don’t think I’d call it apathy so much as…”

“Acceptance,” Georgie says stiffly. “Everything has an ending.”

“Yes. Oliver is an Avatar of the End, and the End is characterized by its certainty–” Jon pauses when he catches a glimpse of Georgie’s hands, fastened to her knees and trembling with tension. “We don’t have to talk about this.”

“No, I –” Georgie sighs, relaxes her grip, and flexes her fingers. “Just – tell me why you invited him here.”

“It’s like I said upstairs – there were things I couldn’t tell him about outside of here.”

“Why do you feel the need to tell him anything?” Martin asks.

“I just thought… he might be able to help us.”

“Why would he,” Georgie asks, “if he’s so fatalistic?”

“Because, he…” Jon hesitates, biting his lip. “I suppose I thought that maybe – maybe he’s like me.”

“He’s nothing like you,” Martin says vehemently.

A flicker of a smile crosses Jon’s face. “You don’t even know him.”

“What, and you do?”

“Not well,” Jon admits. “But I do think I understand him.”

Martin crosses his arms, transparently miffed. In an attempt to suppress his amusement, Jon presses his lips tightly together. It doesn’t work, evidently.

“What?” There’s a flat, defensive edge to the demand, highlighted by a suspicious scowl. “What’s with the smirk?”

Jon already knows the answer to the question he wants to ask, but he can’t help himself: “Are you jealous?”

“No!” Martin yelps. “Why would I be jealous?”

Jon shakes his head, chuckling softly. “Well, you don’t need to be.”

“I’m not!”

“If you say so,” Jon says with a shrug and a sly grin.

“I am not jealous,” Martin insists – and now Georgie is snickering, one hand clamped over her mouth to (unsuccessfully) stifle the sound. Martin glowers at her, betrayed.

“Sorry, sorry,” she says. “Just – didn’t realize you were quite so jealous.”

“I’m not,” Martin says for a third time. “But – but even if I was, I would be completely justified.”

“Because he woke me up,” Jon says, toning down the smugness now.

There is an uneasy boundary between affectionate teasing and perceived mockery, and here in the past, he hasn’t quite mapped the shape of that line. Between seeing one another in the Lonely and anchoring each other through the apocalypse, he and Martin had been forced to confront long-held insecurities about themselves, both as individuals and as a unit. That shared history no longer applies. While Jon has no desire to repeat that chain of events – there are happier, healthier pathways to a relationship than bonding via trauma, or so he’s heard – it does mean that this version of Martin hasn’t yet had the same epiphanies.

Much like Jon, Martin struggles to take a declaration of love at its word. People lie; they mislead; they say what they think others want to hear – whether out of self-interest, sympathy, or simple social ineptitude, the results are the same. Sometimes they start out sincere, but little by little, their tolerance dwindles and they recognize their mistake: what they thought was genuine affection was at best a passing fancy for someone who turned out to be far more trouble than they were ever worth. Or worse: a caring façade born of pity or guilt or obligation, only to turn rotten and toxic when the burden grows too tiresome.

Add all of those deep-seated convictions to the lasting influence of the Lonely, and Martin needed proof before he could entertain the possibility of being loved. Following him into and then leading him out of the Lonely was a fairly convincing statement. Absent another life-or-death gesture to act as a catalyst, Jon suspects that this time around, building that confidence will come down to time, practice, and repetition.

“Okay, yeah, about that – what does that – what does that mean, he woke you up?” Before Jon can get a word out, Martin barrels on: “I mean, what makes him so special? I spent weeks – weeks – begging you to come back, and nothing. He visits you once and suddenly you’re fine?”

“I really did try to come back on my own,” Jon says – not accusing, not pleading, not even self-flagellating. Just plain, sincere assuredness. “I heard you calling me. Not at first, but – the last time you visited. It was the first time I’d heard your voice in… in so long, I – I never thought I’d hear it again, and then you were there, and I was – I was so relieved, so… so elated.”

Martin sulks quietly, glaring at the floor, but there’s a noticeable flush staining his cheeks now.

“And then – and then I heard you on the phone with Peter, and…” Jon swallows hard, the despair he felt in that moment still stark in his mind. “I tried to call out to you, but you couldn’t hear me. The Lonely was drawing you in, just like before, and there was nothing I could do. I wanted to wake up more than anything, but I just… couldn’t figure out how. I still don’t know why – I don’t know the exact mechanics of it all – but for whatever reason, I wasn’t able to wake up until Oliver’s visit. Same as the first time.”

At that, Martin seems to deflate somewhat, finally looking up to meet Jon’s eyes.

“If I could have come back sooner,” Jon continues, smiling sadly, “I would have. In a heartbeat.”

Martin pouts for a moment longer before surrendering, his rigid posture slackening as the rancor drains out of him.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Yeah, I know.”

“So you think you owe him,” Georgie guesses. “For waking you up.”

“Partially,” Jon admits. “But that’s not why I invited him, really. He just seems… I don’t know. Lonely, I guess?” Georgie rolls her eyes. “He never – he never asked to be a death prophet. No more than I wanted to be a – a trauma leech. And arguably – arguably he was even less to blame for what happened to him than I am for what I’ve become –”

“Jon,” Martin says warningly.

“No, just – just listen.” Jon takes a measured breath as he puts his thoughts in order. “Oliver started having prophetic dreams several years ago. Just – out of the blue. As far as I know, he did nothing to tempt fate. Eventually, those dreams carried over into the waking world. Everywhere he went, every single day, he could see the evidence of imminent death. There was no escaping it.

“In the beginning, he tried to help people. But it never worked. When he was unable to save his own father, he stopped trying to change fate, for the most part. I think the last time he tried was when he dreamed of Gertrude. He saw how far-reaching her death would ultimately be, and he tried to warn her, even though he didn’t have much hope that it would make a difference. And he was right, in the end. He couldn’t save her, and he couldn’t prevent what came after.”

“So he just… gave up,” Martin says flatly.

“When you fail over and over again to do good in the world, when you witness horror after horror with no recourse to stop it, when you try again and again and again to escape and never even come close… at some point, you burn out,” Jon murmurs. “Lose all hope. It becomes your new normal. Exist like that long enough and you start to become numb to it all.”

“You lived through an apocalypse and you didn’t give up,” Martin counters.

“I did, though,” Jon says quietly.

Martin frowns. “What?”

“After I lost you.” Jon averts his eyes and folds his arms tight against his middle, holding his elbows. “I was lost. I couldn’t save anyone, I couldn’t change anything, I couldn’t even look away. I wasn’t allowed to sleep. I wasn’t allowed to die. So I just… survived, even though I wanted anything but.” When he glances up, he sees that Martin’s expression has softened. “You were my reason. Then you were gone, and I was alone.”

Jon hadn’t known that the world could end a second time, but there it was. With Martin gone, what little that remained of Jon’s own microcosm shattered. Yet the Ceaseless Watcher’s world dared to continue turning, to go on churning out horror after horror as if nothing at all had changed. And Jon was just another cog in that machine, going through the motions and fulfilling the purpose for which he was cultivated.

It wasn’t truly ceaseless, of course. Everything has an ending. But it felt like an eternity – and for Jon, indefinite waiting has always been a special kind of torture.

“So what changed?” Georgie asks, her tone gentler than before.

“For a while, nothing,” Jon says. “I sort of… drifted. Wandered aimlessly through the domains for… I don’t really know. When nothing ever changes, keeping track of time becomes pointless. The Panopticon kept trying to draw me in, of course, but I – I suppose there was still enough spite left in me to make a show of ignoring it.

“At some point, I got lost in a Lonely domain. Which was fine, really. Or – it would have been fine, had I been allowed to succumb to it. I wanted to just – fade into it, let it in, but” – Jon breathes a bitter laugh – “it wouldn’t take me. Wouldn’t let me go numb, wouldn’t let me forget – didn’t have the decency to let me disappear, no matter how long I stayed.”

No one got what they deserved in that future, but this was a rare exception to that rule: to be allowed to simply forget his role in creating that nightmare world, to sink into blissful ignorance, would have been a miscarriage of justice. Not that the Eye cared about what was just or fair, of course. No, it simply would not – perhaps could not – deign to relinquish its hold on its Archive.

“But the longer I stayed,” he continues, looking at Martin now, “the more I thought about you. In retrospect, maybe that’s why I didn’t want to leave. And maybe that’s part of why it wouldn’t have me – I couldn’t let you go. But being there, it kept reminding me of the first Lonely domain we came across after the change. We were separated, and I was – I was so afraid you wouldn’t come back to me. But you did.” Jon smiles to himself, remembering the relief and gratitude and awe he felt in that moment. “You rejected the Lonely all on your own. Found your own way out – found me, and… every time I thought about that, I imagined your voice in my head. Telling me off for wallowing. For giving up.”

“Sounds like I would have been justified,” Martin says delicately.

“You would have,” Jon confesses with a contrite half-smile. “I was in peak brooding condition. Eventually I wore myself out wallowing there, though, so I left to go wallow somewhere else. I needed a change of scenery, and – well, I got one. Stumbled into a Spiral domain. Ran into Helen, and… funny enough, that was the last straw.”

Jon can still recall the encounter down to the smallest detail.

‘Still drifting aimless, are we?’ Helen bared an unsettling number of teeth as her grin stretched – literally – from ear to ear. ‘Exactly how long do you plan on moping about, Archivist?’

Jon did not answer; did not even meet her eyes, instead staring vacantly over her shoulder. The incessant reel of horror scenes playing in the back of his mind made it difficult to focus on any one thing at a time, and there was nothing he cared to see so much that it was worth the effort it would take to grant it his undivided attention.

‘You know,’ Helen said, tapping an elongated, crooked finger against her lips, ‘I wonder what he would say, if he could see you now.’

It didn’t matter. Martin was gone. Those parts of the world that hadn’t already been thoroughly razed were slowly but surely withering. There was nothing left to salvage.

‘Disappointed, I imagine,’ Helen continued, distant and muffled by the din of a splintering world. (Somewhere deep below their feet, a man was screaming himself hoarse in a labyrinth made of mirrors and fog.) ‘But not surprised. It’s not the first time you’ve let him down, is it?’

Jon gave a listless shrug. Her words stung, certainly, but they were a far cry from some of her more artful jabs. A pointed insinuation to send him spiraling into his own self-destructive conclusions would always be more corrosive than outright disparagement.

(The man in the maze gazed into mirror after mirror, hoping to find himself within. In every one, his reflection had no face.)

That said, Helen wasn’t wrong. Even as a child, Jon had always been a burden. He never did manage to prove himself worthy of all the many unwilling sacrifices made on his behalf. Never measured up; never put nearly enough good into the world to balance out the cost of having him in it.

(The man in the maze had misplaced his name. Did he drop it somewhere? He checked his pockets only to find holes. Yet another eyeless reflection stared back at him from beneath his feet.)

‘You were always headed here, weren’t you?’

Yes.

(The man in the maze tried to retrace his steps, but everything looked the same: an endless, recursive corridor of mirror images. He asked one of the doppelgängers for directions, only to realize that the man in the mirror had no mouth with which to answer.)

‘To think – all that time he spent coaxing you along, and you crumble the moment you don’t have a prop to coddle you.’ Helen cackles, high and cruel. ‘What a waste.’

She wasn’t telling him anything that he didn’t already know.

(The man in the maze was scouring the mirrored ground, searching for… something he’d lost; he couldn’t quite remember, but he knew that it was important. He checked his pockets, only to discover that he had no pockets.)

‘Although, I guess the blame doesn’t fall squarely on your shoulders. He was naïve. It isn’t your fault he was foolish enough to hope for–’

The words jolted Jon back to the present like an electric shock. Whatever else Helen had to say, he’d never know. He tuned her out, and he started walking.

“She was having a go at me – nothing new there – but then she brought you into it, and…” Jon shrugs. “I don’t think it was her intention, but it nudged me back on track. You and I had a plan, before, and… honestly, I didn’t have much hope that it would work, but you had. That made it worth trying.”

It wasn’t like Jon could break the world more by parleying with the Eye. At worst, it made no difference, but at least Jon did something to honor Martin’s memory; at best, it put Jon out of his misery, one way or another.

“I’m glad I did, because… well, it changed things, obviously. You were right.”

“Sorry,” Martin says with unmistakable self-satisfaction, “could you say that again?”

“You were right, Martin.” Jon rolls his eyes, but the effect is undercut by an indulgent smile he can’t quite repress. “You often are. All of this is to say – I’m only here because you gave me a reason to be. If not for that, then… well, I meant what I’ve said before, about needing a lifeline in order to stand any chance against the Fears. I was – I am lucky enough to have one.”

More than one, he thinks with a sense of wonder. The support he has now is such a far cry from the ostracism he experienced the first time he was here. It still gives him pause every time he dwells on the contrast. Sometimes, it almost seems too good to be true.

“Oliver didn’t,” Jon continues. “It’s hard to begrudge him for resigning himself to fate, especially considering how the power that claimed him is defined by fatalism. He never asked to be chosen, he was given no hope of escape, and he had no one to reach out to, let alone anyone to reach back. It’s unsurprising that he would come to accept the inescapable when the only anchor he had was the certainty of oblivion.”

“‘The moment that you die will feel exactly the same as this one,’” Georgie says quietly.

Jon nods. “And without a dependable reason to see the moments in between as significant, it’s… well, it’s hard to see the point in anything. I’ve been there.”

As has Georgie, Jon knows. She exhales heavily, massaging her temples, visibly conflicted.

“I still don’t think you should trust him,” Martin says.

“I’m not suggesting we trust him wholesale,” Jon says, “but I’m certain that he isn’t an enemy. He might not resist the End, but he doesn’t work to end the world in its name, either. He’s… thoroughly neutral.”

“Then what makes you think he’ll lift a finger to help?” Martin asks.

“I doubt he’ll go out of his way to help,” Jon admits. “He might be willing to trade information, though. I just thought… Avatar of the End – he would have more insight into the limits of Jonah’s supposed ‘immortality’ than I do.”

“You think he can tell you something about the dead man’s switch,” Georgie guesses, rubbing at her forehead.

“That’s my hope, yes. He can see the route that a person will take to their end. Or, he can when their death is imminent, at least – I’m not sure how far into the future his foresight stretches these days.”

In the hospital, Oliver implied that he could see something in Jon’s vicinity. Whether that suggests Jon’s own end is near enough for Oliver to foresee it, Jon does not Know. Given his proven resilience, he suspects it’s just as likely to be a quirk of his strange existence. There’s no shortage of idiosyncrasies that may mark Jon as an outlier: he’s the Archivist; he’s traveled through a rift in time; he’s the primed and practiced focal point of the Watcher’s Crown, and the fate of the world hinges on his ability to keep that potential in check.

And if his situation is an exception to the rule, perhaps Jonah’s is as well.

“Maybe he’ll be able to see whether our routes flow into Jonah’s, so to speak,” Jon says. “When Oliver dreamed of Gertrude’s impending death, he saw how much of the world’s fate was intertwined with hers –”

“– the veins, whose domination of the dreamscape had only ever been partial before, had thickened and now seemed to cover almost the whole space of every street – the destination – into which all the veins flowed – The Magnus Institute – choked with that shadowed flesh – following that red light that would now pulse so bright that I knew were I to see it awake it would have blinded me – and every one of those veins – where they ended – a person sitting at that desk and it was them that all of this scarlet light was flowing into.”

“Gertrude,” Martin says.

Jon nods, then holds up one finger: Wait. The Archive has more to say; Jon can practically feel the words bubbling up his throat and crowding behind his teeth. As discomfiting as it is to have it hijack his voice, sometimes it’s easier to ride out that compulsion than to tamp it down.

“I have no responsibility to try and prevent whatever fate is coming for you – such a thing is likely impossible – but after what I saw I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t at least try – there is something coming for you and I don’t know what it is, but it is so much worse than anything I can imagine. At the very least, you should look into appointing a successor.”

Statement ends, Jon thinks, working his jaw to soothe the unnatural tension that has taken root there. Happy now? Anything else to add?

As expected, it doesn’t answer. He’s well aware that addressing the Archive essentially amounts to talking to himself, but carrying on an internal dialogue with the more frustrating aspects of himself was a habit long before he took on the mantle of Archivist.

After a few seconds, he feels the Archive’s imposing presence start to recede, releasing him from the compulsion. It’s still there, of course – it’s always there, looming over him like a vulture, as impossible to ignore as a knife to the throat – but for now it seems content to fall back and observe once more.

Georgie sighs. “That’s why you’re sympathetic to him.”

“He tried.” Jon shrugs. “He didn’t have to, but he did.”

“That still doesn’t mean he’s going to help this time,” Martin says.

“No, but he has no incentive to hurt us, either. There’s no harm in asking him questions. He’s not going to run to Jonah to inform on us. The worst that happens is he says ‘no’ and goes back to minding his own business. But if he agrees to talk… well, it might be our best chance to determine how much of what Jonah says is true.”

Georgie chews on her thumbnail for a few seconds before looking back up at Jon, a pensive frown on her face. “Why’d he go out of his way to come here at all, if he has no motivation one way or the other?”

“Honestly? Curiosity, I think. But… I suppose I’m also hoping that there’s a part of him that might sympathize.”

“Do you really think there is?” Martin asks.

“I don’t know. In my future, probably not. He wasn’t enjoying himself like some of the other Avatars – I mean, he was feeding on the fear produced by his domain, but even then, he didn’t strike me as cruel. It was just… acceptance in the face of a conclusion at ultimately stayed the same regardless of the path leading up to it, and…”

And maybe it speaks to Jon’s mental state at the time, but there were a few points in Oliver’s statement that struck him as almost merciful. After all, in the face of seemingly endless torment, death was a covetable escape.

“I have no power to stop it,” the Archive recites, “and even if I did, I would not do so. For to rob a soul of death is as torturous as its inevitable coming – I fear the annihilation you would gift me as little as I desire it – perhaps once it might have horrified me, or given me some sense of pursuing the ultimate release of the world that you have damned – I am now, as the thing I feed, a fixed point, that has neither the longing nor ability to change its state of existence – even you, with all your power, cannot keep the world alive forever. All things end, and every step you take, whatever direction you may choose, only brings you closer to it.”

“That Oliver again?” Martin mutters tetchily. “Doesn’t sound to me like he’ll be particularly inclined to help.”

“Well–” The word comes out as a rasp, and Jon has to pause to clear his throat before continuing. “That was – that was the Oliver of the future. After the change, he was too much of the End not to live its truth, just as I was too much of the Eye not to walk its path and archive its world. We were both conduits, inseparable from the powers that laid claim to us. Here and now, though, I’m hoping he might still be…”

“What, benevolent?” Martin says incredulously.

Jon is quiet for a long moment, trying to find the right words to explain.

“At my most hopeless,” he says slowly, “I still cared, even though there was no meaningful way for me to put it into practice. I don’t think I ever managed to reach the level of acceptance that Oliver did – and sometimes I envied him for that. But embracing the End as a foregone conclusion doesn’t necessarily mean he’s completely unmoved by what happens in the interim. Not yet, anyway. And as of right now, whether it’s out of curiosity or compassion, obviously he still interacts with the world from time to time, even if he prefers to exist in the background for the most part.”

Martin and Georgie both look unconvinced.

“I’m not asking him to help us change fate,” Jon goes on. “In his view, there is no obstructing fate – not in any way that genuinely matters to his patron. Oliver isn’t particularly concerned about when the End will come – he’s just secure in the knowledge that it will happen eventually, with or without the interference of any mortal actor. Passive or active, nothing he does or doesn’t do will change that. But I’m thinking it’s been a long time since someone has asked him for help that he actually has the power to provide, and… I know what that’s like.”

Despite the immense power that Jon could exercise after the culmination of the Watcher’s Crown, he was ultimately powerless to change things for the better. It’s why he leapt at the chance to help Naomi in her nightmare: even a small, low-effort act of kindness after so long without the opportunity was overwhelmingly liberating.

It was insignificant against the vast backdrop of the universe, perhaps, but it still left a mark. It prompted a cascade of little changes that completely rewrote their dynamic; it curtailed some of the suffering in which Jon had previously been so unwillingly complicit; it's even acted as an inoculation against the loneliness that had permeated both of their lives during this stretch of time when Jon was last here. Those little changes mattered to him, and they mattered to Naomi – not only in that first moment, but in all the time since.

All of that had to count for something, right? It took fourteen ill-fated marks to end the world, after all. With any one of them missing, the Ritual wouldn’t have worked and the world at large would never have noticed. But that didn’t make any one of those marks wholly insignificant on its own. They scarred him and the people around him; every encounter changed him, whittled away at his sense of self, left him progressively vulnerable and set him up for successive marks.

The repercussions still linger. They probably always will.

In his sporadic moments of cautious optimism, Jon cannot help but wonder: If a series of little cruelties can create such a perfect and terrible storm, is it really inconceivable that a pattern of little rebellions could keep it at bay? And Jon has long since come to the conclusion that compassion in the face of unimaginable cruelty is its own form of rebellion.

“As much as Oliver talks about fate and inevitability,” Jon says, “he still seems to believe in free will to an extent. That we all make choices. When he last spoke to me, he offered me a choice. Now I’m offering one to him.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but…” Georgie releases a weary exhale and tosses her head back to stare at the ceiling. “You’re sure this won’t come back to bite you?”

“We have nothing to lose by asking,” Jon says. “And he has nothing to lose regardless of what choice he makes, but… it feels right to at least give him the option. Whatever he decides, I won’t begrudge him for it.”

“Fine,” she says tersely. “Do what you want.”

Jon just barely suppresses a wince. “Georgie?”

“Sorry, that came off as –” Georgie heaves another sigh. “I’m not angry with you. I get it. It makes sense. I just don’t like it.”

“I know.”

“Just�� be mindful, alright? You don’t owe him any answers you don’t want to give. And he doesn’t deserve the benefit of the doubt just because you relate to him.”

“I know,” Jon says again.

“I mean it, Jon,” she says sharply. She takes a steadying breath before continuing, more diplomatically this time. “It’s… sweet, I guess, that you want to empathize with him, but you have a tendency to…” Georgie pauses, weighing her words. “I mean, I’ve seen you compare yourself to Helen, too. And Jonah.”

“Well, I don’t think anyone would deny that there are certain… similarities,” Jon says, not quite under his breath.

“Yeah, you’re always going to have something in common with other people if you look hard enough. But sometimes you see the worst in people and you fold it into how you see yourself. Like you’re looking into a funhouse mirror, but you can’t see how the reflection is distorted.” Jon avoids meeting her eyes, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Look, I know you don’t want to hear it, but you have a history of comparing yourself to your abusers. Sorry,” she adds when he flinches, “but it’s the truth, and you need to hear it. Just… think about it, okay? Ask yourself whether this is compassion or if it’s just another way to dehumanize yourself.”

“I –” Jon swallows around the lump in his throat, his mouth gone dry. “Okay, I – I get your point, but – I swear that’s not what this is. With Helen, and – and – and Jonah, it’s – they’ve actually gone out of their way to – to manipulate, to cause real harm. Oliver is different.”

“You were marked by the End,” Georgie says pointedly.

“Yes, but that wasn’t Oliver’s fault. He didn’t hurt me, never tried to trap me or trick me – never pressured me into making one choice over another, even at the end of the world. I really don’t think he’s evil, or sadistic, or – or scheming, weaving some grand web. He’s just watching things unfold, because he had a crash course in the stages of grief forced onto him and the end result was… well, acceptance. He doesn’t fear the End, but he doesn’t worship it, either. He just embodies it, openly and authentically.”

Georgie is silent for nearly a full minute, scrutinizing Jon intently, before she capitulates.

“Alright. I’ll… trust your judgment, I guess,” she says, but she shares a knowing glance with Martin – who looks just as leery as she does – when she says it. “Still, be careful.”

“I, uh… I imagine you don’t want to be here when I talk to him?” Jon ventures, though he’s certain he already knows the answer.

“No,” Georgie says summarily.

Jon releases a breathless chuckle. “Fair enough.”

���I really should be getting home to Melanie, anyway. It’s stay-home date night. Pizza and a movie.” Georgie offers a tentative grin, her shoulders relaxing minutely. “She hasn’t seen the new Ghostbusters yet, somehow – something about having been preoccupied with real paranormal bullshit for the last few years – but I checked and the DVD version has audio description, so I bought a copy. She’d be cross with me if I stood her up for the grim reaper.”

“I imagine so.” Jon tilts his head. “Although, Oliver isn’t actually the–”

“Jon,” Georgie sighs, “I was being facetious.”

When the three of them leave the tunnels, they find Oliver still waiting awkwardly at the bottom of the stairs out of the Archives, Basira standing sentinel nearby. Daisy leans against a far wall, eyeing him from a distance.

Georgie gives a long, doubtful look at Oliver before turning to Jon and offering a hug that he gladly accepts.

“Text me later tonight?” Georgie says. “And keep me updated on your travel plans.”

“Will do. Tell Melanie I said hello. And tell the Admiral he’s a national treasure.”

Georgie snorts at that, shaking her head in amusement before turning towards the stairs. Oliver nearly jumps out of the way as she strides in his direction, but she doesn’t stop to confront him beyond a glare as she passes. A prolonged, awkward minute of silence passes after she leaves, charged with suspicion and tension.

“Tunnels,” Basira says eventually, her tone and expression giving nothing away. She doesn’t wait for a response before stalking off down the hall, Daisy falling in line behind her.

Basira barely waits for the others to take their seats before she launches into her interrogation. Although her eyes remain fixed on Oliver, her first question isn’t directed at him.

“Why is he here, Jon?”

“Like I said, I invited him.” Jon glances at Oliver, apologetic. It feels odd to talk about him as if he isn’t present.

“Why?”

“Mutual curiosity, I expect,” Oliver cuts in, inclining his head towards Jon. “You have questions for me.”

Jon returns a nod. He has ulterior motives, and Oliver knows it. To pretend otherwise would be pointless, not to mention insulting.

“Oliver is an Avatar of the End,” Jon tells the others. “There might be a chance he could tell us how much of what Elias says is true.”

“And what’s the price tag?” Basira asks.

“He has questions of his own. He could tell in the hospital that there’s something… wrong about me. Obviously, I couldn’t talk about it where Elias could hear.”

“You shouldn’t disclose it at all,” Basira says. “If any of it gets back to him –”

“Oliver has no reason to betray our confidence.” Jon’s gaze flicks to Oliver. “Right?”

“Consider me a neutral party,” Oliver replies.

“You’re going to just… take him at his word,” Basira scoffs.

“The End has no Ritual,” Jon says, “and it has no reason to prevent any of the other Entities from successfully pulling off their own Rituals. No matter what happens to this world, the End will claim everything eventually. The when and how are irrelevant to it. In the meantime, the world as-is suits it just fine. It has no desire to postpone or hasten the end of all things.”

“Terminus is what it is,” Oliver agrees. “I have neither the power nor the desire to contradict it.”

“Then why would you help us?” Basira asks.

“I never said that I would.”

“I’m not asking you to actively intervene,” Jon says before Basira can offer a retort. “I just want to talk. That… is why you came here, isn’t it?”

Oliver hesitates for a moment before answering. “Your curiosity must have rubbed off on me.”

Unbidden, Oliver’s statement rushes to the forefront of Jon’s mind: I still remember the first time I tried to touch one…. I don’t know why I did it; I knew it was a stupid thing to do. But I just… maybe I wanted it this way.

“Don’t know about that,” Jon says quietly. “Curiosity is only human.”

And the worst part was that, somewhere in me, I – I liked it, the statement plays on. Underneath all that awful fear, it felt like… home.

“Perhaps,” Oliver says, noncommittal.

“So you’ll tell us what we want to know,” Daisy finally speaks up. Despite her veneer of calm – leaning back in her chair, arms crossed – her bouncing leg belies her agitation.

“It makes no difference to me.” Oliver shrugs. “Though I can’t promise my answers will be satisfying.”

“I still don’t like this,” Basira says, glaring askance at Oliver.

“Look,” Jon says, “this is the only way I can think of to figure out what stakes we’re working with. Jonah has been cheating death for centuries–”

“Jon!” Basira hisses.

“It’s important context,” Jon argues back. “And anyway, it’s going to come up when I tell him my story. It’s not exactly a detail I can gloss over; it’s central to the plot.” He sighs and looks at Oliver. “Elias is Jonah Magnus, the original founder of the Institute.”

Basira throws her hands up with a frustrated snarl. She turns to Daisy for support, but Daisy only offers a sympathetic grimace and a half-shrug.

“I thought there was something odd about him,” Oliver says blandly. “He’s long past his expiration date.”

Daisy snorts at that. Judging from the bemused, almost startled expression on Oliver’s face, he hadn’t expected to garner anything other than aggression from her.

“Whenever one of his vessels is… compromised,” Jon elaborates, “or nearing the end of its usefulness, he takes a new one.”

Recovering from his fleeting bewilderment, Oliver turns his attention back to Jon. “He wouldn’t be the first.”

“Maxwell Rayner and Simon Fairchild,” Basira says.

Oliver nods. “Among others.”

“Does that… I don’t know – offend the End?” Martin asks.

“No,” Oliver says. “They can’t outrun it forever, as so many have discovered firsthand.”

“Like Rayner,” Daisy says.

Once again, Oliver looks thrown off-kilter by Daisy’s diminishing hostility, but he does offer a wary nod in response to her contribution to the conversation. “And in the meantime, their fear of their own mortality ages like a fine wine.”

“Is an unnaturally long life somehow tastier for the End, then?” Martin asks. “I think most of the statements I’ve read about it involved somehow cheating death.”

“Perhaps. If my patron has a conscious mind, it has never spoken to me directly. Everything I know to be true is just… feeling.”

“So it’s as cagey as the other Powers, then,” Daisy says with a derisive chuckle. “Good to know.”

Oliver smooths his hands across his coat, draped across his lap, before glancing at Jon for guidance.

“I gave you a story,” he says reticently. “I would like to hear yours. Then I will answer your questions.”

“Fair enough,” Jon says – and abruptly realizes that he has no idea where to start. “You, uh… you don’t need to hear my whole life story, do you?”

“I did give you an outline of mine,” Oliver says with just a hint of amusement. “I admit I’m curious as to what led you here, but I imagine if you went into detail, we would be here for hours.”

“Much of it doesn’t bear repeating, anyway,” Jon says. “Just the highlights, then?”

“If you please.”

“Right,” Jon mumbles. He takes a deep breath. “Had my first supernatural encounter when I was eight, never got over it, and a combination of lifelong obsession and unchecked curiosity brought me to the Institute. After Gertrude died, Jonah chose me as her replacement because he knew I would be easily molded into the catalyst for his Ritual, and I was.” He looks up. “Is that enough?”

“Which of the Powers marked you first? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“The Web.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you seemed… entangled.”

There’s something… off about you, Oliver had told him when they last spoke. The roots, they look… sick. Wrong. And the threads are – tangled.

It’s possible that Oliver was speaking in metaphor – alluding to the threads of fate, so to speak – but the question has been simmering in the back of Jon’s mind for months…

“When you visited me before,” he blurts out. “You said the Web sent you.”

“Yes,” Oliver says candidly. “Not an explicit command, of course. It was more a… well, a feeling. A tug. The Web usually prefers subtlety, but there are times when it wants its marks to know the hand that moves them.”

“S-so, when you said the threads around me were tangled, was that figurative, or could you… see the Web’s influence?”

“The Spider might make its presence known sometimes, but Terminus doesn’t give me the ability to see the shape of its web any more than the Eye does you.”

“Not unless the Web allows itself to be Seen,” Jon says absently.

Despite how much he could See in his future, the Web always remained something of an enigma. It wasn’t until after his standoff with the Eye that he was able to follow the Spider’s threads.

But then, the Eye hadn’t been the only watcher lurking in the Panopticon. The Web had woven itself into the foundation of that place from its conception, and the Spider made no effort to hide. More than once, it stationed itself where he was sure to notice it. The more he thinks on it, the more he suspects that the ensuing ability to See its threads, to Know where they converged, was as much an allowance by the Web as it was due to his communion with the Ceaseless Watcher.

“When I spoke of threads, I meant more…” Oliver opens and closes his mouth a few times as he struggles with his phrasing. “Well, I’ve not yet found a perfect description for it. Think of a life and fate as… a jumble of intersections. Some people feel like thread-and-nail art. Others feel like a snarled ball of yarn. You,” he adds, looking at Jon appraisingly, “are something of a Gordian knot.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Martin demands, a protective edge in his voice.

“It’s not a compliment or an insult,” Oliver says mildly. “Only an observation. Come to think of it, Gertrude was much the same way. The fates of many hinged on the routes she took. Less of a butterfly effect and more of a hurricane.”

“So you can see fate?” Basira asks. A genuine question, but the flat skepticism in her tone makes it sound rhetorical.

“To a limited extent,” Oliver says haltingly. “I see the near-future as it relates to death specifically. When people near the ends of their routes, I can make out the details of their–”

“Seeing those awful veins crawling into them, into wounds not yet open, or skulls not yet split – they sneak up and into throats about to choke on blood, or lurch into hearts about to convulse – webbed over the face of a drunk old man stumbling into his car – one snaking along the road, over towards the railing – I’ll never forget seeing a field of cows the week before they were sent to the abattoir…”

Jon trails off with a tired groan, rubbing his eyes furiously.

“You have a good memory,” Oliver says.

“Sorry,” Jon mumbles. “Archivist thing. Can’t always control it.”

“S-so,” Martin redirects, “if any of us were about to die, you would be able to see it, right?”

“Yes. But I don’t make a habit of telling fortunes,” Oliver clarifies before Martin can ask. “Knowing your end is coming does nothing to prevent it. It only ensures that you will live your final days in fear.”

“Wouldn’t your patron like that?” Daisy asks.

Basira immediately latches onto that thought. “We have a statement here about a book that tells you how and when you’ll die.”

“Case number 0030912,” Jon cites. “Statement of Masato Murray, regarding his inheritance of an untitled book with supernatural properties. Each time the reader rereads their entry, they’ll find that the recorded date of their future death draws closer and the cause more gruesome.”

“Thanks, spooky Google,” Basira says sardonically. “Who needs an indexing system when we have a walking, talking card catalogue on staff?”

“One of my predecessors in ancient times once filed a complaint with the Eye, aggrieved by all the terrible powers it foisted upon him,” Jon says matter-of-factly, not missing a beat. “Being a benevolent patron, it granted him and all future generations of Archivists a convenience feature as compensation.”

“Smartass,” Basira says, but it sounds almost amiable, and Jon allows himself a tentative smile.

His tolerance for making light of this part of himself tends to be variable. Unpredictable, even. On good days, shared gallows humor is a balm, bringing with it a sense of solidarity and camaraderie; on bad days, even the gentlest dig feels like a barb.

He also tends to be selective about whose teasing he can weather. Martin and Georgie are safe more often than not. Daisy can usually get away with it; she’s prompt to let him in on the joke whenever he doesn’t pick up on her sarcasm. Given how blunt Melanie can be, it at least tends to be obvious when her pointed comments are meant in jest or in umbrage; and anyway, he hasn’t yet spoken to her directly since she quit.

Basira, though – she’s always been difficult to read. They have a similar sense of humor, but part of his brain is still living in a time when she saw the worst in him. No matter how many times he tells himself that things are different now, he can’t quite shake that feeling of being on indefinite probation. Hostile attribution bias, he recognizes, but having a label for it doesn’t make it any easier to silence those perennial fears. It’s only recently that he’s been able to take such joking from her in stride. Not always, but sometimes.

“Anyway,” Basira says, looking back to Oliver, “I take it that book is affiliated with the End. It feeds on the reader’s fear of knowing the details of their death.”

“Almost everyone has some degree of fear regarding mortality – their own or that of others,” Oliver says. “For some, that primal fear permeates their entire lives. Others only spare it any thought when it closes in on them. Terminus feeds on all of it equally. I suspect that active encounters with it are more about…”

“Flavor?” Basira suggests.

“So to speak,” Oliver says. “Welcome variety in its diet, but not necessary to sate it.”

“Which is why its Avatars have such wildly different methodologies,” Jon says, nodding to himself. “Justin Gough was allowed to survive a near-death experience, but acquired a debt that had to be paid in the lives of others, killing them in their dreams. Tova McHugh was granted the ability to prolong her own life by passing each of her intended deaths onto others, adding their remaining lifespans to her own. Nathaniel Thorpe was cursed with immortality after trying to cheat his way out of death. He was only one of many gamblers who played such games of chance–”

“Jon,” Basira sighs, “you don’t have to go through the whole roster of personified death omens.”

“Sorry.”

“So what kind of Avatar are you?” Basira asks, looking Oliver up and down. “How do you feed your patron?”

“For me, Terminus has not been particularly demanding. I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s because I never attempted to cheat my way out of death. It simply… chose me – or I wandered across its path – and it never left. Thus far, it seems content to have me play the observer.” He glances at Jon. “You can probably understand that.”

“The Beholding isn’t satisfied to have its Archivist simply observe. It wants its knowledge actively harvested, recorded, curated.” Jon huffs, not bothering to contain his disgust. “Processed.”

The conversation lapses into a tense silence for several seconds before Basira changes tack.

“About Gertrude,” she says. “You tried to warn her about her death.”

“Yes,” Oliver replies.

“Why?”

“The evidence of her death snaked its roots all across London – as far as I could see, and perhaps further. At the time, I’d never seen anything like it. Such a sprawling web of repercussions stemming from a single death – I felt like I had to say something. As I expected, it made no difference in the end.”

Jon worries his lower lip between his teeth. “You said the roots surrounding me seemed sick.”

“You saw roots around Jon?” Martin says urgently, jolting up ramrod-straight in his seat.

“They’re… different from the ones I’ve grown accustomed to,” Oliver says slowly. “There’s no light pulsing within them, no life flowing to or from them. And looking at them, it’s almost like…” He frowns, squinting down at the floor as if it might offer up the words he needs. “It’s like they’re there and not there simultaneously. Faded, like an afterimage – one that can only be seen from a certain angle.”

“Okay, and what does that – what does that mean?” Martin asks.

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I was hoping Jon could shed some light on it,” Oliver says, raising his head to meet Jon’s eyes. “I may not have the same drive to know that you and yours do, but I find myself returning to the question frequently over the past few months.”

“R-right,” Jon says. “Let me just, uh… where to start…”

Jon rubs at this throat with one hand, the other clenching into a fist where it rests on his knee.

“Jon,” Daisy says, “are you sure about this?”

“Yes, I just, uh –” Jon breathes a nervous laugh. “This never gets any easier.”

“Do you want me to say it?” Martin offers, schooling his tone into something approaching calm. His posture remains rigid, though, hands balled into white-knuckled fists in his lap.

“No, it’s fine.” Jon takes a few deep breaths and then looks Oliver in the eye. “In the future, I ended the world.”

Oliver raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t think the Beholding gave you any precognitive abilities.”

“It, uh – it doesn’t. I didn’t foresee the future, I lived it. For… for a long time, actually, so I –” Jon exhales a humorless chuckle. “I probably meet your definition of past my expiration date.”

Oliver tilts his head, considering.

“Hard to say,” he settles on. “You’re… a bit of a paradox. Feels as if you exist in multiple states at once, and it’s difficult for me to tell which one is true.”

“Maybe all of them are,” Jon says distractedly. “But, I, uh – I eventually found a way to come back to before the change – or, to send my consciousness back, anyway. But only as far back as the coma. I… I wish it had taken me back further – back to the very beginning, though I” – Jon huffs – “I suppose it’s hard to say what counts as the beginning.”

“It depends on how you want to define a beginning,” Oliver says. “In a way, the advent of existence marked the beginning of the end. Everything since then has been just another domino.”

“Well,” Jon begins, but Daisy cuts him off.

“Nope,” she says bluntly. “You go down that semantic rabbit hole and we’ll be here forever.”

“Fine,” Jon says with a petulant sigh. “Anyway, I couldn’t figure out how to wake up on my own, so just like the first time I was here, I had to wait for you to come along and help.”

“I still don’t understand why,” Oliver says.

“Neither do I, I’m afraid.”

“Not to encroach on your sphere of influence, but I think in this case, not knowing the answer might bother me even more than it does you.” Oliver releases a quiet sigh. “So you came back to stop yourself from starting the apocalypse.”

“It’s not like he chose to end the world,” Martin says, immediately leaping to Jon’s defense once more.

“Apologies,” Oliver says with an earnest nod in Martin’s direction. “I didn’t intend to imply otherwise.” He glances at Jon. “I’ve known of many who seek to bring on the end in the hopes that they will be able to choose what shape it takes. You don’t strike me as the sort.”

“No. But Jonah is.” Jon ducks his head as he speaks, fingers twisting in his jumper. “He wanted – wants to rule over a world reshaped in the Beholding’s image. He needed an Archivist with particular qualities to serve as the linchpin of his Ritual. So he created one. By the time he showed his hand, it was too late. I was the key, and Jonah didn’t need my consent in order to open the door.”

“I imagine it didn’t go as he planned,” Oliver says.

“No,” Jon says with a grim laugh. “No, it didn’t. He suffered as much as anyone else did in that reality. It all started because he was afraid of his own mortality, and yet – in the end, he met a fate worse than death.”

“Whatever it was, he deserved it,” Martin mutters.

“Maybe so,” Jon says. “But it was never about deserving. There was some poetic justice there, seeing him brought down by his own hubris, but… at the end of the day, he got the same treatment as anyone else. Just – pointless suffering, utterly divorced from the concept of consequences. Had a way of… diluting the schadenfreude, honestly.”

Martin’s spark of vindication appears to fizzle out as Jon speaks, his shoulders slumping and his eyes softening.

“Regardless,” Jon continues, “Jonah wanted to be a god, but at his core, he was no different from any other human. Fodder for the Fears. And the one he feared the most – it was in no hurry to finish the meal. I imagine by the time Terminus finally came for him in earnest, he would have welcomed it.”

“Those who seek immortality always come to see it as a curse in time,” Oliver says sagely. “When they come to terms with the fact that there is no such thing as a truly immortal existence, it comes as a relief.”

“I walked through your domain once,” Jon says after a pause. “You gave me a statement about the End’s place in that world. The domains were reluctant to let their victims die – they’d bring them to the brink, then revive them and repeat the process – but the Fears are greedy. Eventually, they would suck their victims dry –”

“– bones – every one of them – picked clean and cracked open – desperately gnawing – trying to reach whatever scant marrow might have remained inside – sucked from them to leave nothing but dry, white fragments – the hunger he saw in their eyes–”

Jon bites down on his tongue. That’s quite enough of that.

“You alright?” Martin says, leaning over and putting a hand on Jon’s knee.

“Sorry,” Jon says gruffly. “That one was…”

“Grisly?” Daisy says.

“Yeah,” Jon huffs. “But – not necessarily inapt? That reality was a closed economy. No new people were being born. The ones who already existed were destined to die, no matter how unwilling the other Fears were to grant that release.”

“As has always been the order of things,” Oliver says.

“You predicted that eventually the Fears would start poaching victims from one another’s domains – and they did. There were…” Jon grimaces. “There were a lot of territorial disputes, towards the end there. Domains encroaching on one another, monsters fighting over scraps. The Eye got its fill Watching it all play out, of course, but given enough time, it would have starved, same as all the rest.”

“And once the world was rendered barren,” Oliver says, understanding, “Terminus itself would die.”

Jon nods. “And until that happened, both you and your patron were content to let things play out.”

“Terminus is patient.”

Too patient, Jon thought at the time.

“I don’t think it was your intention,” he says, “but your statement did come as a relief. I already expected as much – that eventually it would all end – but having it corroborated by an authority on the matter was… very welcome.”

“People may fear death,” Oliver says, “but anyone who outruns it long enough finds that there is a much deeper fear hiding underneath – that of having the release of death withheld from them.”

“We have a lot of statements to that tune,” Basira says.

“I imagine so.”

“So,” Daisy says brusquely, “is that enough of a story for you?”

“I suppose,” Oliver says. “Although it raises more questions than it grants answers.”

“Our turn for questions, then?” Basira asks. She doesn’t wait for an answer. “The… veins, or… roots you saw around Gertrude. You’re saying they didn’t just foretell her death, but showed how it would impact everything else. So, what about the ones you saw around Jon?”

“It’s difficult to observe them for any length of time, but they do seem… more sprawling.” Oliver studies Jon for a moment, considering. “Like you are the heart of a watershed moment destined to happen.”

“So that’s it, then,” Jon says dully. “I’m still the spark for it all.”

Pandora’s box with a ‘use by’ date, he thinks to himself, somewhat hysterically.

He already knew it to be true, but that doesn’t make the confirmation any less harrowing. Everything hinges on his ability to keep his head above water, but the fate of the world weighs ever more heavily on his shoulders, pressing down, down, down –

“Does that mean…” Jon hugs his middle, slowly curling in on himself. “Does that mean it’s going to happen again?”

“I cannot say.” If Jon’s not mistaken, Oliver sounds… almost sympathetic. “This is unprecedented. I can only theorize. It’s possible that you’re like Gertrude, and what I see is a premonition. Or maybe the reality you came from still exists, parallel to this one, and it still clings to you. Perhaps it’s a Schrödinger’s cat, and it both does and does not exist, right up until the point where you do or do not bring it into being. Or maybe it doesn't exist, and the roots I see are only… imprints, so to speak. Echoes of a time and place that this world will never overlap.”

“Like trace fossils,” Jon murmurs. “Ghosts.”

“If you like.”

“Could you – could you follow them?” Jon can feel his pulse quicken, his heart thrumming in his throat. “See where they originate?”

“They originate from you.”

“O-oh.” Jon’s gaze darts uncertainly around the area before fixing on Oliver again. “Then, uh – can you see where they end?”

“You have a suspicion,” Basira says, watching Jon carefully.

Jon swallows around the breath caught in his throat. “What if they go back to Hill Top Road?”

“As far as I can tell, they reach out in all directions,” Oliver says. “There may not be a single end point. Regardless, I have no desire to visit Hill Top Road.”

“Oh,” Jon says despondently. It’s not like he expected Oliver to go out of his way to help, but…

“Would it really tell you anything of value anyway?” Martin asks.

“I don’t know,” Jon says, running a hand through his hair, one finger getting caught in a knot and pulling hard at his scalp. “But – but it feels like something I should at least check –”

“To what end?” Daisy asks. Jon looks at her blankly. “No offense, Sims, but the most likely outcome is you get no real answers, you lose yourself obsessing over theories, each more catastrophic than the last, and you spend the next few weeks compulsively checking yourself for spiders. Some things aren’t worth chasing after.”

“I just – I feel like I should know one way or the other –”

“Is that you or the Eye talking?” Martin asks.

“What’s the difference?” Jon says flatly. He immediately regrets it when he glimpses the expression on Martin’s face – a very familiar mixture of concern and frustration. “I’m sorry. Just… I don’t know. I don’t Know.”

Jon tugs on his hair once more, focusing on the dull ache it produces. He’s always had trouble letting things go. Letting questions go unanswered; letting mysteries go unsolved. The Beholding just nurtured that obsessiveness, encouraged that impulse to proliferate in his head like a weed and choke out his inhibitions.

“You’re here now,” Martin says firmly. “You can’t go back, so you may as well go forward.”

“Yeah,” Jon says, guilt heavy and searing in his chest.

“Like I said,” Oliver says, rubbing the back of his neck, “my knowledge of the future is narrow. I can’t tell you anything about parallel universes, or branching timelines, or the ability to alter history. The only certainty is that anything that begins will have an end, one way or another. All the rest is just… details.”

Martin folds his arms across his chest, examining Oliver with narrowed eyes. “You say that like the details are irrelevant.”

“I wonder about that,” Oliver says softly.

“Well, I think our experiences matter,” Martin says. “The fact that we were here at all, it’s… it’s not nothing.”

“Even those who make the greatest impact are forgotten in time.”

“So what? It will always have happened, even if no one is alive to remember it. And – and you never know when something little will have an impact on someone, which contributes to them doing something that makes a greater impact – that changes history.”

“Even time itself will end eventually. History will be forgotten, and nothing will remain to register its loss.”

“And?” Martin persists. “We won’t be around to see it. In the meantime, we’re here. We’re alive. If we’re going to end no matter what, why not make it worthwhile? Sure, there are no equivalent powers of hope and love to counter the Fears, but – but who cares? That just means that we have to make up for that absence.” Jon smiles to himself as Martin builds momentum – shoulders pushed back, chest thrust out, head held higher, speech growing more impassioned as he argues his point. “If a few mistakes and some asshole with a god complex can end the world, who’s to say a few deliberate kindnesses can’t save it?”

“Am I the asshole with the god complex?” Jon says drily. Judging from Martin’s disapproving scowl, he is not in the mood for self-deprecating humor. “Sorry, sorry. But, uh – in all seriousness, I think it was more than a few mistakes on my part–”

“You know what I meant, Jon,” Martin snaps. “And – and fine, maybe a few kindnesses can’t save the whole world, but – but they can save someone’s world. They can save a person. Doesn’t that mean something?”

“Yes,” Jon says with a small smile. “Yes, it does.”

“R-right.” Martin blinks several times, momentarily stunned by the lack of resistance. “It doesn’t change the world – except for how it does. Just – the universe might not care, but we can, and that’s exactly why we should. It’s… it’s what we owe to each other. That’s what I think, at least.”

Martin goes quiet then, arms still folded with a mixture of self-consciousness and sullen defiance.

“How long have you had that rant queued up?” Daisy teases.

“A while,” Martin says, rubbing his arm sheepishly.

“You’re quite the romantic,” Oliver says. He says it like a compliment, albeit somewhat wistful.

“Yeah, well.” Martin blushes at the praise in spite of himself. “Someone has to counter the fatalism around here.”

If you ask Jon, there are many reasons to love Martin Blackwood. This is doubtless one of them.

“Besides,” Martin recovers, apparently on a roll now, “it seems to me there’s as much evidence for fate being changeable as not. Yeah, sure, eventually everything dies, but who’s to say that the details are set in stone? Like – like that book, the one where the details of a person’s death change every time they read it.”

“But does their fate actually change, or is it just the book messing with their heads?” Basira says, tapping her fingers against her lips and looking down at the floor pensively. “If the End has foreknowledge of a person’s death, maybe the last entry a person reads before dying was always their fate, and all the previous accounts were just lies intended to seed fear.”

When Jon opens his mouth to chime in, the Archive seizes the initiative, unceremonious as ever.

"When did it change?” comes the cadence of Masato Murray. “Was it when I turned back to read it again? Or perhaps when I had made the decision to never visit Lancashire? If the book knew the future, then how much did it know me? My decisions and choices were my own, so was it responding to them or simply to the fact that I opened the book again? Perhaps it changed every time I opened it, even if I didn’t read the page, every interaction changing my fate…. When I close the book I wonder: are those same words still there, squatting and biding their time, or have they already changed into some new unknown terror that I can neither know nor avoid, waiting to spring on me.”

Jon holds his breath in anticipation. After a few seconds of suspense, the pressure recedes, the Archive having spoken its peace.

“Archive’s talkative today,” Basira observes.

“Apparently,” Jon grumbles. “What I originally meant to say was that I’ve wondered the same thing – whether the book was really telling the future or simply playing on the fears of the reader.”

“Maybe offering textual support is another convenience feature?” Daisy keeps her tone carefully neutral, gauging his mood.

“The Beholding is known for being exceedingly generous,” he retorts.

Basira ignores the banter and speaks directly to Oliver. “Do you know?”

“I’m unfamiliar with the book in question,” he replies. “All the deaths I’ve personally foreseen have come to pass so far. That says nothing about whether or not the End always reveals the truth to all who cross its path.”

“Right.” Basira shakes her head. “Not sure why I expected a straightforward answer.”

“Maybe there isn’t one,” Martin says. For a fraction of a second, Basira tenses. Jon suspects she’s just as repulsed by such a prospect as he is.

“Whatever,” she says curtly. “It isn’t important right now. What I want to know is how to deal with Jonah Magnus. So” – she pins Oliver in place with sharp, unblinking eyes – “what can you tell us about his mortality?”

“In short? He won’t live forever, regardless of how much he wants to deny that reality.”

“Yeah, you’ve said,” Daisy says, tossing her head back with an impatient groan. “Him dying eventually doesn’t help us now.”

“I’m not a mind-reader,” Oliver says. “If there’s more to your question, you’ll need to elaborate. What are you actually asking? How to kill him? For me to tell you whether his death is on the horizon?”

“Jonah claims that he’s the ‘beating heart of the Institute,’” Jon explains. “He says that if he dies, everyone else who works here dies as well. You were able to see the ripples created by Gertrude’s death. I suppose I thought – maybe you could tell us if there’s something similar with Jonah.”

“If his death was imminent, perhaps.” Oliver averts his eyes as he twists a ring around his finger, growing increasingly tense under such concentrated scrutiny. “But as I said before, I don’t make a habit of telling fortunes.”

“So you won’t tell us,” Martin says.

“To be frank, this place is rife with potential.” Oliver casts his gaze around the area, as if seeing something the others cannot. “It would be… difficult to untangle it all.”

“Fine,” Basira says tartly. “Then can you tell us whether it’s possible for him to set up a dead man’s switch in the first place? Seems to me something like that would be the End’s domain, wouldn’t it?”

“It would.”

“Then would he be able to exercise any real power over it?” Basira persists. “There’s nothing inherent to the Eye that suggests its Avatars should be able to bind others’ lives to them. Even the Archivist doesn’t work like that – we’re linked to Jon as far as being unable to quit goes, but we won’t die if he does. I think it’s more likely that Jonah did something extra to bind the Institute to himself.”

“Assuming he’s even telling the truth,” Daisy says.

“So, is there an artefact that could let him do it?” Basira asks, still staring Oliver down. “A ritual? A favor from an affiliate of the End, maybe?”

“Terminus has a variety of ways in which it operates,” Oliver says cagily, “same as all the other Powers. I don’t seek out instances of those manifestations. Given the sheer number of statements collected here, it's likely you’re all more familiar with the breadth of its influence than I am.”

“You’re very helpful,” Daisy scoffs.

Oliver hunches his shoulders, chastised. It’s an odd sight – Jon wouldn’t have expected him to be particularly affected by such an accusation. Oliver never promised to be helpful; does not owe them his cooperation. Before Jon can pursue that thought any further, though, Oliver continues.

“I will say that Terminus is its own master. Those who believe they have tamed it are only fooling themselves. Orchestrating their own misery. The moment in which they finally realize that fact – that they have never had the upper hand, that the entire time they have never strayed from the route to which Terminus binds them…” Oliver chews the inside of his cheek, considering. “The existential terror that moment creates – I wonder sometimes whether it’s a delicacy to my patron.”

“Sounds a lot like the Web,” Basira says. The suggestion must pique his interest, because Oliver sits up straighter and leans forward ever so slightly.

“Except the Web reviles its extinction as much as the other powers, and as much as any mortal mind,” he says – not quite excited, but more engaged than before. “Terminus, on the other hand – its eventual oblivion is part and parcel of its existence. It does not fear the conclusion of its story. The Web will never surrender to such a fate. It will always seek an escape route, some way to appoint itself the weaver of its own ends. Its threads can never stray from the confines of the routes dictated by Terminus, but the concept that it may itself be under the guidance of another… such a thing is incompatible with its definition. Still, the shape of the Spider’s web will always mirror the blueprints of a greater architect.”

“And you think the same is true for Jonah,” Jon says.

“I know it is.”

“Okay, but – but Jon changed fate,” Martin protests. “In a million little ways – some we probably don’t even know about – and some big ones, too. So who’s to say that every step of the route is part of the End’s blueprints? What if – hold on.”

Martin stands and moves to Jon’s makeshift desk, rummaging around for a few seconds before coming up with a pen. He snatches one of Melanie’s therapy worksheets from the top of the pile and turns it over to the blank side.

“What if the only things set in stone are – are certain points along the route,” he says, scribbling a scattering of dots across the page, “but all that matters is that the route eventually intersects with those points?” Martin connects two points with a wavy, sine-like line. “Maybe it doesn’t even matter how convoluted” – he draws another line, this time with several loop-de-loops – “or long” – yet another line, this one traveling all the way up to the top of the page and making several winding turns before plunging back down to connect with the next dot – “the path is.” He holds up the finished product for everyone to see. “As long as the dots connect, the rest is free reign.”

“I like to think that choice plays a role,” Oliver says. “That fate is less of a track and more of a guideline. But honestly, there’s no way to know for certain. I only know the end point. The rest is speculation.”

“It’s also possible that the rift brought me to an alternate reality,” Jon says, eyes downcast. “If the reality of my original timeline still exists, I haven’t changed fate at all. I’ve just jumped to a different track.”

“Okay, and if that’s the case, and this is a different dimension,” Martin says heatedly, “then that means it has its own timeline and its own future, and whatever happened in your future has no bearing on ours.” Martin glares, daring Jon to argue. He doesn’t. “So it’s a moot point. If we can’t know one way or the other whether the future is already written, then let’s just act as if it isn’t. Prepare for the worst and hope for the best. At least then it will feel meaningful.”

“The worst isn’t something you can prepare for,” Jon says darkly. “Trust me, I know.”

“If I want ominous proverbs, I’ll let you know,” Martin immediately counters – and Jon loves him for it. Daisy chokes on a startled laugh; Martin ignores her, instead pivoting to face Oliver. “We want to kill Jonah Magnus. Or, at least make it so he can’t perform his Ritual. But preferably kill.”

“Never realized you were so bloodthirsty, Blackwood,” Daisy says approvingly.

“The world will be a better place without him in it,” Martin says without a hint of indecision, not looking away from Oliver. “Jonah’s original body is in the center of the Panopticon. Except his eyes, because apparently transplanting them into innocent people is how he cheats death, because of course it is, why wouldn’t it be some messed up–”

“Martin,” Basira sighs.

“Okay, fine, moving on,” Martin sasses back. “It makes me wonder, would destroying his original body hurt him, or do we need to destroy his original eyes as well, or would destroying just his eyes be enough? And – and would it kill him, or just – blind him, disconnect him from the Beholding? Or – or would that kill him, because the Beholding is what’s keeping him alive?”

“Your guesses are as good as mine,” Oliver says. “Much of this really does come down to speculation and thought experiment, and it seems you’ve done plenty of that amongst yourselves already. I’m afraid that the only certainty I can offer is the certainty of an ending, and I don’t think that’s as much of a consolation to you as it is to me.”

“No, it’s not,” Martin says.

“But, uh – thank you for your honesty,” Jon jumps in. “For trying.”

“I really do wish I had better answers for you,” Oliver says, not quite meeting his eyes. “The End is… somewhat of an echo chamber at times. When you’re already on the inside looking out, it can be… difficult, to shift perspective.”

“I wouldn’t be able to offer many straightforward answers about my patron, either,” Jon admits.

“Wait,” Martin says. “Could you… could you at least tell us whether you can see anything about our deaths?”

Oliver draws in a deep breath and releases it slowly. “In my experience, there’s nothing to be gained from such knowledge.”

“Tell us anyway,” Basira says.

“Why?” Oliver says tiredly, his hands curling into loose fists. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because if you can see something, it could help us narrow down possibilities,” Basira replies. “If you see all of us dying in the same way, maybe it means we all die when Magnus does.”

“Or it just means you all die in the same freak accident.”

“Wait, do we?” Martin asks, his voice pitching higher in alarm.

“It was just an example,” Oliver says, scrubbing one hand down his face. “I’m just saying that this kind of knowledge doesn’t tend to give people the answers that they want.” Met with nothing but four determined stares, his shoulders sag in defeat. “Are you all certain you want to know?”

Everyone nods. Oliver equivocates for a full minute, rubbing at his forehead in complete silence. Eventually, he releases a long, low sigh.

“Right now,” he says, “I don’t see death closing in on any one of you.”

“Shit,” Martin says on a heavy exhale. “The way you were putting it off, I was sure you were going to predict a massacre.”

“Honestly,” Daisy mutters. “Bury the lead much?”

Jon ignores them, preoccupied with the implications of Oliver's revelation. If they were planning on killing Jonah tomorrow, it would say nothing about whether they were to succeed, but it would suggest they don’t die in the process, which would at least offer some reassurance going in. But Jon has no idea when they’ll be able to execute any sort of plan. This only confirms that none of them are likely to die in the next few weeks – and that’s assuming that Oliver’s premonition is accurate. Up until now, his predictions have come true, but there’s a first time for everything.

Judging from the contemplative frown on Basira’s face, she’s running through the same calculations.

“How far out can you see?” she asks.

“It varies,” Oliver says. “Weeks, usually. Sometimes months.”

“And it could change in a few weeks,” Daisy says.

“It could change tomorrow. It could change an hour from now.” Oliver looks between the four of them with a faint, melancholy smile. “I did warn you that it wouldn’t offer much sense of security. It only makes you want to know more.”

“Look where you are,” Basira scoffs.

“Point taken,” Oliver says with a startled laugh. “But honestly, ask yourself whether it’s all that different from Masato Murray and his book. If it’s worth living your life around the question of when and how – especially when the answer, should you receive one, will never put your mind at ease.”

“Just to be clear, ah – was I included in that prophecy? Or do you still see the veins around me?” Jon asks. Oliver raises his eyebrows. “I know, I know – the answer won’t satisfy me. Just – humor me?”

“Yes,” Oliver sighs, “I can still see them, if I look for them, but as we covered quite exhaustively, they look atypical and wrong and I don’t know what to make of them.” A tinge of indignation breaks through Oliver's characterisic mild manner – and then the moment passes. “I don’t think they indicate an imminent demise, but much about you is an enigma.”

“And there’s nothing else you can tell us about Jonah Magnus?” Basira asks.

“It isn’t a matter of if he can be killed, but how. Unfortunately, you’ll have to figure that part out for yourselves. As for whether or to what extent he could bind his fate to the rest of the Institute… there are any number of strange phenomena and improbable feats in this world. I would never claim to be an authority on the scope of it all.” Oliver offers another wistful ghost of a smile. “I’m afraid you might just have to take a leap of faith.”

Again, Jon thinks with an inward sigh.

But at least he can say he’s had practice.

End Notes:

Citations for Jon’s Archive-speak are as follows: MAG 011; 011; 168; 121; 156; 070. The “I still remember the first time…” & “And the worst part was that…” Oliver quotes are from MAG 121.  

Yes, “what we owe to each other” is a nod to The Good Place.  

So. This… was a beast of a chapter, and the last half of it really kicked my ass, which is why it’s taken so long to finally finish it. Still not sure how I feel about it – it’s a bit of a digression, but I’m hoping it still fits in thematically. Either way, next chapter we’re moving on to Ny-Ålesund.

Hopefully it won’t take me an entire month this time to write the next chapter, but… we’re down to two episodes left, folks. Chances are, next time I update, we’ll have heard the series finale. Are you all ready? Because I categorically am NOT. aaaaaaaaa

(That said, I already have a handful of epilogue standalone fics planned for this AU once the main story is done. Because hurt/comfort and recovery fics are going to be at the top of my hierarchy of needs once Jonny Sims destroys me in two weeks, I s2g.)

Thanks for reading!

[ladyeliot]

Prologue [B.B / S.R.] 40s

Series:  Portraits of our last summer 

Pairing: Bucky Barnes / Steve Rogers x Fem!Reader

Summary: It was the summer of 1942 when your life changed forever. Before you left for college, you wanted to enjoy your last summer of freedom. The United States had entered the war in December 1941, no one knew what was going to happen, so everyone wanted to enjoy any moment of peace.

Warnings: None.

Word Count: 2034

A/N:  Inspired by the novels of Nicholas Sparks. Sorry for my spelling and grammatical mistakes, English is not my native language, I am learning.

When was the moment when you stopped looking at life with those eyes of innocence and became a woman? During the summer of 1942 many events took place in your life, creating a before and after in your free spirit, but it was not until much later, when you read those words in that letter that you realised that you had changed and were never going to meet again that laughing young girl who saw the world bathed in colour.

But to understand your story, the story of Emily Lawton, you have to understand the way your childhood years were. You were born on October 16, 1924 into a wealthy family in the town of Greenville, your father, Mr. Lawton, owned one of the largest tobacco companies in the region, and was extremely popular with the crowds, regardless of their social status, as his business generated a great demand for employment, which was a welcome development in these times. On the other hand, your mother was more socially aware, she liked decorating and was a much-loved member of the Greenville ladies’ club, which used to do a lot of charity work for the underprivileged. However, all this didn’t capture your attention at all, perhaps because you had grown up in both circles, and therefore your curiosity was lessened.

Your parents had taken it upon themselves to provide you with the best education possible, and thus had faith that you would be able to enter one of the best universities in the county and possibly the country at the age of 18, a fact that on the one hand pleased you, because it would mean leaving their side and starting to see the world through your own eyes, but at the same time irritated you, because your mother still intended to plan your whole life. For you, life was not meant to be planned, things came at the right time, without waiting for them, but it was clear that such an imaginative vision did not belong to a woman, as your mother used to remind you, but to a girl, something you would learn in time.

You used to spend long evenings attending social events hand in hand with your parents, which at times could seem a bit presumptuous, especially when in 1939 the war began on the European continent, but you could hardly notice it because of the bubble in which that society lived, but as the years went by and the attack on Pearl Harbor on 7 December 1941, the lives of all Americans were cut short, on several levels. Your 17-year-old mind still held the innocence and naivety, which you tried to hide with your chatter, your mischievous smiles and your laughter, but all you did was to show it even more. A young man, a William Craig, from a family of bankers, asked for your hand in marriage in the spring of ‘42, just before he was due to join the army and leave for the Primary Training Centre where he was to be trained as a private, but although it almost broke your heart to refuse him, for your future plans were far removed from any romance, you did.

It’s not that you weren’t romantic, nor had you flirted with the occasional young man - on the contrary, you loved it, you used to - but you had love so idealised that the distance between flirting and loving someone were complete opposites. Although that used to confuse young people, because your candid facade attracted them to the point of believing that you were madly in love with them and that you wanted to marry them, a confusion that became more extreme when you quickly lost interest in them.

Now, let’s talk about that summer of 1942. There was a moment in your life when you thought you were the luckiest person in the universe. You held the window down on that Willys Americar Sedan, sticking your face out of it, causing the summer wind to blow subtly against your eyelids and the curly locks of your brown hair to flutter freely. Your eyes watched as the setting sun broke through the treetops, letting in the last rays of sunlight of that first Sunday in June. The drive was shared with several flocks of sparrows that began their flight as the car’s engine invaded their quiet, while on the horizon, the Kiawah River showed its presence, informing you how close the end of the drive was.

You found that you enjoyed breathing in the peace of Wadmalaw Island, quite contrary to the effusiveness of Greenville, where you and your parents used to reside for the rest of the year. The last time you set foot on that land you were only 13 years old and your youth was just beginning to blossom, but now you had returned at the age of 17. Before leaving a residence you had thought about how you wanted that summer to be, your last summer before going to university, your imagination had recreated numerous scenes and events that could happen, but what was clear to you was that you wanted to enjoy it, the world was going down the drain and before yours went too you needed to live it.

You barely remembered how comforting it was to look out over the landscape, for it had been five years since your family, the Lawtons, had summered on the coast. In the old days it was traditional for you to set out for the southeastern part of South Carolina in June, arriving in the vicinity of the small town of Rockville, established in 1784 and only a few miles from Charleston. Its scenery was magnificent, you used to describe it as “a canvas of the natural landscape of Southern life”, which you would contemplate for the rest of your life.

But owing to the outbreak of the war and some setbacks in your father’s business, your presence was required during all the summers, yet things turned out most favourably, as your father used to report at dinner parties, for tobacco, it seemed, was the greatest leisure that soldiers could be offered at the front. Unlike your father, or your father, you had no interest in the family business, you thought it was devoid of art and colour, too banal for your taste, in short, dull, and you used to shy away from anything dull, you used to keep looking at life from a romantic perspective, still with a girl’s eyes, even if you thought you were a woman.

The journey took shape, the green landscapes gave way to a set of paved streets and an unusual urban movement, a few meters ago a sign provided at the side of the road had informed you of the beginning of the town of Rockville, but you hardly remembered that this town of a little more than a hundred inhabitants had so much movement.

“Why,” you said, peering curiously through the window, “you didn’t know that Rockville was now the new Charleston.”

“Looks like it,” whispered your mother, looking out her window. “Oh, I think it’s the county fair.”

“Looks like everyone’s having a good time,” you commented, resting your chin on your hands as you watched small groups of young people laughing. “Connie’s probably around here somewhere, if the Dawsons are here yet.”

“I spoke to Mr Dawson just yesterday,” your father looked at you through the rear-view mirror.

“Well?” you were genuinely interested in his answer.

“They arrived Saturday night,” he reported, “apparently his wife wanted to visit Charleston and so they moved up the trip.”

You nodded, Connie was one of your childhood friends, back in the day the Dawsons bought a property near yours in Rockville to enjoy summers together, unlike you, the Dawson family hadn’t missed a single summer. Connie was an incentive to enjoy those three months, she knew how to have fun, she offered that rebellious imaginative edge that you both shared within your allowed limits, so you looked forward to meeting her again to begin your new adventures.

You continued looking through your rolled down window, leaning your head on your arms that were supported by the car door, on the left side there was a sort of enclosure lined with wooden fences, in which numerous booths offered the best pastimes for those people who were there to forget everything that was happening around them. Your gaze was distracted, analysing the fairground, watching how people entered and left with ice creams and sweets in their hands, perhaps you expected to spot someone you knew, but it was not like that, evidently you did not know anyone there, however blue eyes rested on your face. A young man, of an age correlative to yours, was watching you leaning on one of the wooden fences, the car had stopped at a pedestrian crossing and the boy was delighting in the view he had of you.

On several occasions you had been the centre of attention at the social events you used to attend in Greenville, many boys had laid their eyes on you, but never in such a daring way as that young man was doing. If it had happened any other way you would have offered him a smile, and if you had liked the young man you would have moved with the wind to find out in the most subtle way who he was, but when you saw that he was being so brazen you turned your face away and rolled up the window.

The drive continued and the town of Rockville was left behind to take you back into the beauty of the countryside. White picket fences opened the way to a wide road backed by magnificent oak trees on either side. At the end of it was Lawton Plantation waiting to welcome its owners. The surroundings had not changed at all, but a sense of longing came over you. You were about to venture into your last summer before your departure for university and you felt that things were about to take a new turn. However, as you gazed at the porch surrounding the colonial-style house in the distance, your thoughts returned to their usual bliss. The house had known its heyday during the 19th century, being one of the highest-yielding cotton plantations in South Carolina. It had been built in 1790, sitting on over four thousand acres of riverfront land, but over the years its history had been left to memories, especially yours, for you wondered if the previous owners of the house had also marvelled at its surroundings.

The instant the car stopped, the back door opened, letting your excitement run free. It took you barely a minute to reach the inside of the property, offering a quick greeting to Mr. and Mrs. Fulton, the keepers of the house in your absence, and discovering that your belongings were still in place, surrounded by that peculiar scent of wood. You used to have two favourite places in that house. The first was a small room dedicated to painting, located on the main floor and which had a private exit to the porch through a glass door. That corner was equipped with all the necessary material to be able to escape from your thoughts and express every feeling and emotion inside. It was your father, with whom in some respects you shared similar tastes, who, on discovering at the age of 11 your interest in art, decided to encourage your fascination by creating that room for you. On the other hand, the second favourite place was the stables, or horse stables, which were the gateway to a new universe for you, which would allow you to enjoy those places hand in hand with your beloved Savannah, your mare, who had arrived a week before you.

That first day was not much more than rediscovering every corner of that property, rediscovering your old self from five years ago, reminiscing about remote times and preparing yourself for what was to come and what you would begin to experience the next day.

Taglist Open (DM)

MAIN MASTERLIST

[thedreadvampy]

Hope all is well! To clarify-if you’re not ace, how is it your place to speak on the way people interpret Jon’s aceness?

Um, I'm trying to put this in a way that reflects my feelings and doesn't come across as argumentative, but I'm not sure I've ever bought into the idea that textual analysis rests on you sharing traits? like I very specifically am not saying that I think people are wrong for interpreting Jon's relationship to his asexuality in a certain way, I'm saying I find it interesting because it wasn't an obvious interpretation for me.

to expand on that, I don't tend to think it produces a healthy relationship to text to only speak on shared traits, like as a bi person I don't have a problem with non-bi people discussing how they interpret a character's bisexuality (which they do. a lot. and often also about how other people interpret it gestures at the Bi Jon Event Furore), like I often disagree but if I disagree I'm gonna speak to why I disagree not the speaker's identity. and I kind of apply that out to other aspects. I do think there's a big difference between responding to the text vs saying People Interpreting This Via Their Own Experience Are Wrong, and I have stumbled into that a couple of times but I don't. think that is what I said here. it certainly wasn't what I meant.

so short answer: I think it's my place to speak on My Ideas About Jon's Asexuality by reference to other people's, because I listened to the podcast and have my own opinions and interpretations.

Also one other note, not really in response to this ask but to the several in my inbox - I recognise that I made the choice to respond to an ask that wasn't for me, bc the thoughts someone had put in the tags that that ask was responding to got me thinking. Like that was indeed my choice. However. I don't really have...a big investment in this conversation? Like Jon is not a character I love to discuss and unpick and I don't. Have deep and strong feelings about interpreting his asexuality or anything else, I was just musing. and I'm quite concerned that this conversation that I Don't Particularly Care About doesn't overshadow the conversation I Do Particularly Care About, which was the original post about coercion, consent and the impact of the have-sex-for-your-partner's-benefit expectation. like that, to me, is something I don't want to get overshadowed by off the cuff fandom bullshit, not that I think that's what you're doing but I'm very worried that the way I've responded to an ask not meant for me may lead people to think that that post is about...TMA...whereas the only reason I said anything about TMA was because people mentioned it in response to the post. this worry is probably unfounded but 🤷‍♀️

(also I'm sorry if this comes across as aggro, it's The AM and I'm tired and overwhelmed and don't want to go to work but: no all isn't super well, which is why any part of this conversation happened - I am really struggling this week with PTSD and trauma processing which I thought...was fairly clear given how many posts on the topic I've made. I know this is reading a bit deep into a pretty banal greeting but it does. affect my willingness to engage without snappiness so if I am snapping I'm sorry.)

[eirikrjs]

im sorry if you've been asked something like this before or if this is an obvious question (it's been quite a few years since i've visited your blog regularly actually) but do you view the smt series as an endless cycle of doom and gloom or come out with a more positive viewpoint. i've seen the former quite a bit in the western sphere and i've always felt like a bit of a weirdo for taking a much more hopeful approach with the lore, just curious on your thoughts and if others feel the same way

Hello again!

When I skimmed this I thought you were talking about the negativity of the community rather than the games’ narratives. I was ready to say, “well, when you really look at the visual products and think about the logic of certain choices...” but I’m glad I can talk about something else.

So the reason why you see “doom and gloom” in the Western fanbase is almost entirely because we got the Maniacs version of Nocturne as our introduction to SMT, with the banal power-creep, death-battle, try hard fantasy of the True Demon ending--one that had never been seen in an SMT narrative before (I emphasize its central, contrarian destructive aspects). Like a lot of Atlus rerelease content, It is completely grafted onto and also opposed to the main narrative (quite intentionally... to a point!) yet has always completely overshadowed the actually positive Freedom ending, probably because of all of its exclusive content like dungeons, new demons, skills, new bosses and especially Lucifer as a new final boss make it the fullest experience--and it technically is! Many people who’ve beaten Nocturne have probably only ever done it once, giving even further incentive to settle for TDE (can’t blame ‘em) and thus the discourse builds around that ending and its tone as a standard. I, too, once thought so.

Nocturne also lacks traditional Law/Chaos endings which is to the game’s benefit creatively but their dichotomy would have been a much better introduction for newcomers to teach about the series’ extremes (both Law and Chaos are usually bad for humans); this is why I wince when so many new SMT players ask for the best place to start the series and the most appropriate introduction, SMT1, is completely unavailable to them in a modern format. On the other hand, Nocturne’s normal Reason endings are seen as insubstantial and, while yes, they are short, they are the natural capstones for the creation of worlds you’ve already seen and can imagine via the various conversations with Hikawa, Chiaki, and Isamu; the ending was already inherent through the journey. These endings can also be viewed positively since their new creations are what you chose and fought for, as opposed to TDE which is merely destruction. The regular Demon ending? Neutral-Apathy.

TDE has made a significant impact on the Western SMT culture at the very least. Its influence is peppered in general SMT comment sections everywhere, nonsensical “another god rejected” memes (for a series where you recruit far more gods than you defeat), and Atlus’ own canonization of TDE with the Demi-fiend’s various spin-off appearances. It’s also earning pale imitations of itself:

Its brand of hollow darkness is here to stay but hasn’t been the only choice lately. SMT4′s positive Neutral path is its own standard (again, it has the most content and effort put into it, from a certain perspective). SJR’s new Law and Chaos endings are actually somewhat positive for once and even 4A’s Bonds route is... well, it suits its narrative better than TDE! Shin Megami Tensei V could very well have a good Neutral ending but also something akin to TDE and, should they design the scenario right, positive and negative will be a matter of choice rather than an overwhelming consensus for one over the other.

[professorbcampbell]

Seeds of Change || Solo

Timing: March 28th, 2021

Location: The Common

Tagging: @professorbcampbell

Description: Ben decides to see what the Spring Festival has to offer beyond the garden variety flowers and hedges. He finds something rather unique.

When Ben had first caught sight of the spring festival during his run-in—he smirked to himself at that little joke—with Irene, he had initially brushed it off as nothing more than something his mother would probably enjoy. Prize rose judging, people attempting to chop down bushes and call it art, that sort of silly thing. But, he’d chosen to venture deeper into the depths of the festival on the weekend. He couldn’t remember the last time they had a spring festival of this… botanical in nature. And he had an impeccable memory. Ben had always made a point of being involved in the periphery of as many social gatherings and events as he could, keeping an eye out for whatever wandering soul might happen upon him.

Hands stuck in the pockets of his neatly pressed trousers, Ben meandered through the stalls. Tulips, gardenias, orchids—there was no rhyme or reason to the types of flowers that were sprouting up from the stalls. But, he wasn’t looking for flowers.

No, he was interested in something… worthy of his Lord. His monthly ritual was fast approaching and it had been quite some time since he’d gifted his Lord with something beyond the usual offerings of blood and bone. Strolling along the grass, Ben spotted a man smoking away at a pipe—a disgusting habit—at a stand with some rather… unusual wares. The stall was shrouded in dark cloth hangings, with chests tucked away in the back. Meanwhile, the front of the stand was lined with sturdy, barred wooden boxes that held… watermelons? Normally, such a stand wouldn’t have interested him at all, but there was something drawing him in, something seemed to be pulling him towards it.

As he made his way towards the stall, he stared first at the strange fruit on display. All of them seemed to be rustling with an energy Ben was most familiar with. Intent. Dark intent. Looking down at the boxes, Ben noticed there was a strange gap in the watermelon rind, as though they’d already been sliced into. But, as he peered closer, he could see the ruby red flesh was darkened with a glossy sheen that Ben had seen so many times before. Blood.

“Interesting product you have there.” He said to the man, offering a smile. “Do you sell other items?”

The man regarded him for a moment, puffs of smoke coming from his mouth as he stared at Ben from behind bored, dark eyes. “Nothing you’d be interested in.” The man said gruffly. “I don’t think you’d even want one of these. They’re a bit more trouble than they’re worth. Well. They are for some.”

Irritation bubbled in Ben at the implication, but he let out a laugh, “Ah, appearances can be deceiving. I’m more than familiar with things like this.”

“You’re in over your head. Go look at some tulips, pretty boy. Get some flowers for your lady.” The man said, grasping the end of his pipe to point the stem dismissively at Ben. As he did so, Ben could see a hint of silver flashing between his teeth—oh, how very interesting. He was familiar with the stories, had spent so many hours listening to his parents and his grandparents, passing along the stories that their parents and grandparents had told about the creatures that lived in this town. He had heard about the men with silver tongues, with smoke billowing from their noses. Never seen one, not as far as he could tell. But here was one, right in front of him.

Ben knew he had to make the right impression.

With a rueful shake of his head, Ben glanced down at the strange watermelons again. “I’d really love to get a better look at these.” He said and his fingers went for the wooden clasps of the box. The man behind the stand let out a strangled swear and reached out to slap his hands away. Immediately, Ben grasped the man’s hand tightly in his own. The man tried to squirm away, but the moment he did, Ben could feel the ancient signet ring he wore on his left-hand press against the vendor’s flesh. It was an old heirloom, passed from father to son for generations, and he had always worn it with pride. The dark, heavy metal was worn and looked distinctly shabby in comparison to the well-kept suits he favored, but it was a piece of Campbell tradition. A piece of history and ancient power. A gift, granted to them directly by an acolyte of their Lord, hundreds of years ago.

And that power, it was with him today. The smell of charring flesh filled the air between them as the man tried to wrench his hand free, but Ben’s hands were a vice grip around him. He could feel the man’s skin sizzling against him, knew that a deep, burning “C” was being branded into his palm. Leaning forward, Ben held the man’s gaze and said in a pleasant, warm voice. “Now. Vampiric watermelons are a bit banal, don’t you think? I’m looking for something unique,” a worthy offering to his Lord, something that he could gift him at the coming ritual, “Something worthy of a higher power. What can you offer me?”

The man let out a halting, stuttering, “L-Lots. Lots to offer. Just—just let me go.” He pleaded. Ben tilted his head with a growing smile, not releasing the man’s hand.

“Oh? But I thought I was in over my head,” He squeezed tighter, driving the ring deeper into the burning flesh. Blood was beginning to drip through their interlocked hands, sizzling as it made contact with the metal around his finger. “I thought I was just a pretty boy. You’d really give something like that to me?”

“Yes.” The man choked out as Ben gripped his hand. He could feel the center of the ring begin to burn and sear its way towards the bone of his hand. “Yes, anything, anything you want. Just let me go, let me go!”

Triumphant, Ben released the man’s hand and pulled back to look at the stand with a thoughtful expression. Meanwhile, the vendor was swearing, tears running down his face as he wrapped his charred and bleeding hand in the hem of his shirt. Ben paid no mind, eyes too busy greedily taking in the items before him. Boxes filled with unknown contents, bottles with strange, glowing liquids, bones strung up into mysterious charms, feathers with a luster he’d never seen before—so much to choose from. So much, too much.

“You know,” Ben said, voice light and conversational, “I’d hardly call myself an expert on things of this nature. I’m sure you’d agree. No, you sir, are far wiser than I.” He said with a toothy smile before leaning forward, the blood slicked surface of his ring glinting in the light. The man recoiled visibly, backing away into one of the stacked boxes kept behind him.

“I want your most valuable item.” Ben said. The vendor’s face paled and, for a moment, he looked as though he wanted to protest. But, even as the thought crossed his face, Ben watched with interest as the man doubled over, as though stricken by a wave of pain. Was it because of the power of the ring? Was it compelling him to obedience? Or was it something else? Ben didn’t know, but he watched with growing fascination as the man jerkily turned around.

His movements were stiff and halting as he pulled a strange, curving key that seemed to be made of… woven twigs? No, Ben realized as the man fumbled to push it into the latch of a dark, oaken chest. It was a single piece of wood that had been grown into the shape of a skeleton key, dark green leaves sprouting from the handle.

With some difficulty, the man extricated a small velvet pouch from the box and tossed it across the stand at Ben. He caught it easily, undoing the draw strings with growing curiosity. What could be in it? Some kind of magical elixir? An ancient treasure, with incredible power? He emptied the contents into the palm of his hand and blinked. Seeds. Three plain, dusty looking seeds sat in his hand.

“This? This is the best you have?” He said in disbelief, shaking his head as he dropped the seeds back into the bag. He tucked the little pouch into the pocket of his jacket, resting above his heart. The man stared at him with spiteful eyes.

“Get away from me and away from my stall.” The man spat, “I’ve done as I said, and you’ll not get another word out of me.”

With a self-satisfied shrug, Ben wiped his bloody hand clean on the cloth banner of the stand before backing away. He wasn’t sure what he’d been given, but if that… creature considered it his most valuable possession, it would be more than satisfactory to gift to Lord Hrvsht’ooooor. Ben could see it now—he could see himself dressed in his robes, the scent of fresh blood in the crisp midnight air, surrounded by the others of his order. He could picture himself, drinking deeply from the dark chalice that sat at their altar, presenting his humble offerings to his Lord. And his Lord, He would be pleased. He would know of the power of these seeds, know that his servant had proved himself.

He would reward him, finally grant Ben everything he’d ever wanted—

A stumbling man careened into Ben, wrenching him from his pleasant daydream. The man—at least a foot shorter than him—did his best to right himself, grasping onto Ben’s suit with a filthy, dirt covered hand.

“Sorry, sorry.” The man giggled, steadying himself before offering an almost drunken head bobble.

“Get off me,” Ben said with disgust, yanking his arm away from the man’s grasp. He’d already lost his suits to horned rats, he was not interested in having another one ruined by filth. “Get out of here.”

“Already gone!” The man sang as he darted away, stumbling into the crowd of people.

With an irritated frown, Ben made his way through the Common towards the parking lot. He’d had rather enough of this little festival. It was high time he returned home and prepare for the coming ritual. He had an offering to prepare, invitations to send out, he needed to get wine—probably a cheese platter for the celebration after. As he mulled over these details, his hands went to the pocket of his jacket for his car keys. His fingers closed around his key ring but…

Swearing, Ben patted his jacket furiously. It was all in vain, the pouch had disappeared. It was nowhere to be found. The seeds, that were rightfully his, they had been stolen. It must have been that disgusting little man, the one who’d fallen into him. How had he not noticed? How had he not felt it? How could he have just let them be taken like that?

As Ben continued to search his pockets with increasing desperation, a sinking feeling of realization filled the pit of his stomach. Of course. Of course.

The man had stolen his wallet, too.

[thetypedwriter]

Rule of Wolves Book Review

Rule of Wolves Book Review by Leigh Bardugo 

I love Leigh Bardugo. 

I love her Grisha Series. 

I love her characters. 

Essentially, there’s just a lot of love. 

This kind of love towards books can be a double edged sword, though. I have such pure unadulterated adoration for the Six of Crows duology that any other installments in the Grisha verse from Bardugo has never quite lived up. 

That might be a super unfair statement to make and I recognize that. However, Kaz Brekker and his team of criminal misfits was the first foray into Bardugo’s world that I undertook and it has a special place in my heart (yes, I read it before the original Shadow and Bone trilogy and yes, I was an idiot and had no idea what was going on). 

For several reasons, I thought King of Scars was...okay. You can read my review on it here. Largely, I just had a hard time getting invested in the characters and the overall political plot of the world following the heist plot of the previous series. 

Fortunately, this trepidation I had going into the Rule of Wolves was largely expelled. Picking up almost directly from its predecessor, Rule of Wolves follows Nikolai in his desperate goal to claim the broken and bitter throne of Ravka despite machinations of other countries and the ever-looming threat of war from Fjerda, Zoya’s struggle to understand the dragon inside of her as well as her own threat of emotions and vulnerability, Nina’s quest to aid her country while in disguise in a foreign land and her growing feelings for Hanne amidst suitors and Jarl Brum, and Mayu coming to terms with herself and the treacheries of Queen Makhi. 

Basically, there’s a lot going on. 

While I found the four of these characters somewhat banal in King of Scars, I found myself much more tolerable of their characters and their motivations this time around. I think this is largely due to the overall plot being more interesting than the last with Ravka on the brink of war and the immeasurable struggles that come with it. 

Add in the Darkling being resurrected, the Apparat doing shady things as always, the resurgence of not only Alina and Mal, but also of Kaz, Jesper, and Wylan and you’ve got me hooked immediately. 

I did think the cameo’s of Kaz and the boys was a bit of a stretch (truly, I think Bardugo knows how beloved they are and was searching for any reason to fit them into the book) and while my literary brain can recognize this and scoffs, my heart is happy because my loves have returned, however briefly it was. 

I could delve more into the thickness of the plot, the twists and turns that arise, the small surprises that pop up, how Bardugo ends almost every chapter on a cliff-hanger (that is truly a lot of skill), but really, this is book is best left to the Grisha fans out there. 

The plot is complicated. This book came across more like a war book than anything else, and while normally this isn’t my cup of tea, I did enjoy the complexities of all the nations and the delve into more strategic and emotional conflicts. 

I would also be bereft to mention that while I was reading Rule of Wolves the TV show Shadow and Bone started airing on Netflix. I didn’t actually plan to be reading and watching simultaneously, but that’s how it worked out and I couldn’t have asked for anything more beautiful. 

It was so neat to be watching what was the past in the TV show while also reading the current going ons of the Grisha world in the novel. I don’t think I’ve ever quite had that experience before and I would be foolish to think that it didn’t increase my overall favorable opinion of both the show and the book. 

Regardless, I fell in love with both. If you want to jump onto the hype train and watch Shadow and Bone with the rest of the world, I say go for it. 

And then I say you should follow it up by diving into the whole of the Grisha series (although unlike me, you should probably start with the original trilogy), and then work your way up to the Six of Crows duology and then the King of Scars duology. 

You won’t regret it. 

It’s a fascinating series with amazing characters that’ll both pull at your heart strings and make you laugh out loud. The complexity of the world, the creativity and detail, the engaging plot, the surprising endings-all of it is worth your time and your interest. 

Recommendation: Consume everything Bardugo has produced. Watch the show and then read the books, or read the books and then watch the show. I don’t care, just go out and do it. You won’t be sorry. Instead, you’ll find yourself falling for the Grisha verse and all that entails, just like me and so many others have. 

Score: 8/10

[badger-writes]

Star Wars OC Ship Week 2021 - for light and love

2 - Fluff/Humor

“...And then I told him my name was ‘Kolto’,” Kelto despaired to Jora Malli later, in the Temple Refectory.

Jora pursed her lips sympathetically, nodding. For the better part of the lunch hour, she had endured her fellow Jedi Knight’s attempt to process the encounter which had transpired between himself and Knight Sskeer in the medical bay earlier that morning. To say he was taking it rather poorly was, well - not exactly correct.

“You did well to come to a friend for support,” she said neutrally, cutting into her shaak steak - a staple of Togruta cuisine. “In my experience, attempting to bottle your emotions concerning these experiences never ends well. Instead of deferring a resolution for later, you seek closure now, so you might move on. ‘There is no emotion - ‘”

“‘There is peace’, yeah, I know, I know.” Kelto groaned and sank his face into his palms, propping his elbows on either side of his platter of Rodian foodstuffs. “Not a whole lot of peace going on here right now, though…”

“Okay - then walk me through what you’re feeling. How would you describe your emotions?”

“Uhhh… Frazzled? Flustered? Deeply conflicted and anxious? I mean, you know, with me that’s not so much a him thing as an in general thing, but, you know - ”

“Kelto,” she said, a touch sternly.

“Sorry, sorry.” 

He sighed, picked out a cranker root from the corner of his plate, and broke into it with his teeth. As he chewed, Jora looked over his right shoulder as surreptitiously as he could; sitting at another table, head bowed over his own meal, was Sskeer himself. How he’d managed to occupy the table behind them without Kelto noticing, she had no clue, but presumed he’d been too wound up in venting his emotions to notice.

From the way Sskeer had oriented his chair and met her gaze in furtive glances, she could tell he was listening. Knowing what she knew of her mutual friends, she was willing to hazard a guess that he was harboring similar conflict, though he would never say so aloud.

Perhaps the Force was providing her an opportunity to resolve both sides of this spiritual conflict at once.

“Start from the beginning,” she said, after a sip of water. “When you first saw him. What was your reaction?”

“At first? Um, well…” Kelto gulped. “Well, the first thing I noticed is that he was huge, right? Not like Dowutin huge, of course, but this guy could take an airbus going 50 over the speed regulations straight to the chest and not even feel it. A-and buff, too. Burly, even. The kind of physique a sentient like me can only dream of. The kind you chisel out of marble and put in the Galactic Museum a couple hundred years later. It was - he was very handsome, is all I’ll say.”

Sskeer, leaning over his dish, perked up. A bemused smirk plied its way onto his face. 

“I’m fairly certain he’s not that physically impressive,” Jora cut in, speaking to them both.

“I mean, yeah, probably not. But that’s just how I felt! I couldn’t help it, I jumped straight into awkwardly crushing on him and I’d only seen him for like two seconds.”

“And then you saw his many scorch marks. From his errant training session.”

“Right,” Kelto said, as Sskeer snorted behind him. “Which - should probably be the first thing I pick up on, as a healer. But what do you want me to say? This morning was almost as much of a disaster as I am.”

“Kelto,” she said warningly.

“I-I can’t help it, Jora. I make jokes when I feel nervous or awkward. Which is almost all the time.”

“But they don’t all need to have you as the butt,” she said, jabbing at him through the air with her fork. “Be kinder to yourself, please. Make it a habit. For me?”

“R-right. Sorry.”

“Keep going. What did you think when you first started talking?”

The Rodian took a slice of galma fruit and popped it into his mouth, chewing and swallowing quickly. “To be honest, I thought he was a nut,” he said with a shrug.

This time when Sskeer glanced over, he looked just a touch offended.

“A nut,” Jora repeated. The surprise in her voice was largely an affectation; she knew Sskeer had adopted odd, borderline overzealous habits in the pursuit of becoming a Jedi Guardian. She teased him for it occasionally, a reaction to which he’d become accustomed. Here, though, she sensed an opportunity for someone else to do her dragging for her - apparently quite candidly.

“Oh, sure. I mean, who else do you know sets the training droids a couple notches above safety standards so he can really feel it when he gets spanked with a training saber, huh?”

She sputtered into her cup, lifting a hand to hide a smile. She really wouldn’t have taken that drink if she knew that sentence was coming.

“Right?!” Kelto gestured animatedly, oblivious to Sskeer glaring daggers over his shoulder. “How is that supposed to make you a better Jedi?”

“I’m sure he has good reasons,” she coughed, thumping her chest. “Being a protector - it requires a certain discipline.”

“I wouldn’t call that discipline. I’d call that masochism. But only because I’m a coward,” he confessed.

“Be kind.”

“It’s a joke!”

“You say it too easily. Like you believe it’s the truth.”

“It kind of is. That’s what makes it funny.”

She gave him a look. Sskeer did, too. His was less pointed, though.

“Assuming that’s true,” Jora continued, “Allow me to pull from your earlier statements two points: one, you find him physically attractive. Two, his habits confuse you. Would you say that’s accurate?”

“Yes and yes.”

“Very well. Is there anything else that you’d like to joke about, since that’s apparently the only way of pulling a straight answer out of you?”

“I can give straight answers!”

“Feel free anytime, for Force’s sake.”

Sskeer was smirking again, she noticed, poking around on his plate. Apparently, he found the way her scheme to annoy him with secondhand ridicule had imploded on her amusing, the bastard.

Kelto sighed, deflating slightly. “I - look, I’m sure he’s not as strange as I’m making him out to be. Just, you know… really serious. But I didn’t really get much else out of him while he was there.”

“You used Force healing on him, as I recall. That didn’t merit any kind of response?”

“O-oh yeah, I did do that! He seemed… pretty impressed, I guess. I - wasn’t really expecting that, to be honest.”

“And he caught you before you passed out. That’s something, isn’t it?”

“True, true. And then he held me up til I recov - “ Suddenly, Kelto’s cheeks went a deep shade of green. “A-actually, let’s not get back into that part.”

“Why?” Jora cocked her head, montrals shifting. “I wasn’t aware there was anything wrong with catching feelings unexpectedly.”

“I mean - mmmaybe not, no. I - I just don’t think I, you know, kept control of them very well there.”

“We’re only mortal, Kelto. You’re in your right to forgive an occasional emotion.”

“I--” The Rodian checked over his shoulder - the wrong one - and leaned in close, framing his huge, panicky eyes with both hands. “Jora, I was full-on touching his chest.”

Behind him, Sskeer’s eyes went wide, and he too wound up coughing water back into his glass. It served him right, Jora thought.

“He was holding you in his arms,” she said evenly. “You were disoriented. Worse things have happened.”

“Y-yeah, but - but I don’t want to end up like that horndog Elzar Mann!”

No sooner had Sskeer finished clearing his lungs than he had to duck and press his face into the crook of his elbow to stifle a laugh, so as to avoid being discovered.

“Really, have you seen that guy make eyes at Avar Kriss lately?” Kelto continued conspiratorially. “They hide it so poorly! It’s a wonder the Council hasn’t stepped in yet.”

“I doubt it’s much of a priority for either Master Lahru, Veter, or Yoda to be poking their noses into what two consenting adults do in the privacy of their bedchambers.”

“I mean - if word ever really gets out, it technically will be!”

“Only technically,” she retorted.

Kelto blinked. “Oh no,” he murmured. “This isn’t going to be another one of your lectures, is it?”

Jora hesitated for only half a second. “All I’m saying is if you really look at the Code--”

“If you start talking about the difference between celibacy and purity again--”

“‘Attachment’ is not the same thing as connection, to suggest otherwise is such a literalist misinterpretation--”

Gesticulating, Jora caught the eye of Sskeer again. He was grinning like a nexu, the scaly skink.

“What I mean to say is,” she said, waving her hands in some vague effort to get them both back on-track, “There’s nothing wrong with what you’re feeling right now, Kelto. Nothing whatsoever. It’s only a natural part of life, just like joy and sorrow.”

“Yeah, duh,” he replied, peeling a hardboiled vakiir egg. “Not my first day out of the creche. It just - I don’t know, it feels weird not being able to act on it.”

“Why?”

“Well, the big one is the Code, but let’s not get into that again. The other half is - well, Jora, I barely know him. I don’t even know if he likes me as a person, let alone romantically, or… you know, like that. But I can’t imagine he would.”

Jora risked a peek, raising an eyebrow. Sskeer shrugged, nonplussed, in a manner that communicated either that he could take or leave him - or just the general sentiment of ‘what do you want from me?’. Possibly both at once. In return, she flattened the eyebrow and pursed her lips to sardonically ‘thank’ him for his ‘help’.

“Why do you presuppose the inevitability of rejection, in either case?”

“I just - I don’t know, I’m a pessimist. What else do you want me to say, Jora? We live in totally different worlds.”

“Not that different. You are both Jedi. And remember what he called you before he left - a credit to the Order, I believe were his words?”

“That’s what everyone says after getting Force healed,” Kelto grumbled, rubbing the back of his head under his pom.

She shook her head doubtfully, skewering another bite of steak. “You’re focused too much on the banality of your own excellence,” she said, chewing. “Think back to his reaction. How he spoke to you. The way he looked at you. What did he think of you while you were together?”

He shrugged helplessly. Then his brow furrowed in thought. “Well, I guess… there were times when he seemed to pick up on - you know, everything I was going through. Granted, I wasn’t being very subtle, but…

“I guess I’d say he was being… patient? Like he understood I was a little… distracted by him. Well, he was a little touchy about the ‘masochist’ comment, but… he didn’t, like, tell me to settle down or anything. And then there were some weird moments where he - I don’t know, was trying to joke with me?”

“How so?”

“Like... being sort-of flirty, but not really? Like when he leaned back on the table, he had this little smile, and then when he left he sort of whispered right into my ear? Little things like that.”

“Oh yes. ‘Little things’. Like whispering in your ear.”

Kelto blinked owlishly. “... I mean. Do people not… do that?”

“Generally, in polite company? No.”

“Oh.” Kelto’s flush deepened. “Oh.”

“You really should leave the healing halls and try talking to people every once in a while, Kelto.”

“You don’t think he was…? F-for me? And I missed it??”

“I don’t know,” Jora hummed. “Without him here to speak for himself, I can’t say. I suppose you’ll have to ask him yourself.”

Kelto whined, sinking his face into his hands. “But that means I have to talk to him,” he protested.

“Yes,” she replied bluntly. “That’s how having a dialogue is supposed to work.”

“I-I can’t talk to him! I mean-- I made such a fool of myself earlier! You really think I can just… speak to him, normally?”

“Well, if you don’t, what’s your backup plan?”

“Useless gay pining, mostly. Or leaving the Order, maybe?”

“Kelto.”

“Look at me, Jora. I’m not built to carry a torch for anybody. I-I can barely make eye contact with people I’m not crushing on. My best chance at this point is just going back to the healing halls and hoping he doesn’t come back in too often. Maybe I’ll move rooms, now that he knows where my ward is. I’ll ask about it.”

“You can’t just hide from your problems in the medical bay, Kelto.”

“Why not? I--” Kelto bit the inside of his cheek and sighed. “Dammit, Jora, what else am I supposed to do?”

She dropped her fork on her plate and framed the sides of her face with her hands, as he had done earlier. “Literally just talk to him.”

“H-how? I’m not - I’m not brave enough, okay? What am I supposed to do?”

She groaned, folding her palms over her eyes. Through her fingers, she could see Sskeer raising his brow, lifting out of his chair slightly; not yet, she thought, shaking her head just slightly. He sat back down, but still seemed concerned.

“Indulge me,” Jora said finally, leaning her elbows on the table and holding out her hands towards Kelto, as if she were trying to physically channel the confidence to hold a single conversation into him through the Force. “Take a moment, don’t think about how you think you did, or what you thought he was thinking, in those moments. Don’t think about possible futures where you’re together or just friends or outright rejected. Just-- think about what you felt. How he made you feel. Don’t focus on yourself. Just find your center, search your feelings... and tell me what you find.”

Kelto opened his mouth - closed it - looked down at the tabletop, drumming his fingers. “I…”

From behind, Sskeer watched him think. Anticipation glimmered in his eyes.

“...I like him,” Kelto decided. “Really, I do. He’s… patient and serious, and respectful, once you earn it. A little intense, obviously, but… strong, and driven. I’d… I want to know him better. However that happens.”

“And your other feelings?”

He took a slow, deep breath. “I… can move past them, if I really have to. It’s what we’re trained for. It’s just… powerful, I guess is the word. I didn’t see it coming. It… knocked me off my feet.”

“I’m told that’s often how it feels,” Jora said kindly.

He nodded shyly.

“Do you plan to ask him?”

“Not - not right away, I don’t think. I-- that’s not the right foot for any relationship to get off on, I don’t think. Like putting the hovercart before the roth, you know? It’d define the whole-- no, no. I want to start as friends. And if he turns me down, then… then we’ll stay friends, and I’ll be okay. I- I want to do it right. … For both of us. For him, mostly, but… yeah.”

Kelto shrugged as he finished, going back to picking at his plate. Behind him, Sskeer’s face had shifted just enough that Jora knew he’d been affected.

“Well said,” she said simply, as Sskeer took his plate and stood.

“You think so?”

“Well, it was better put than the lust-flavored word vomit you began with.”

“Look, when I say the man’s thighs are like wroshyr trunks and his chest is like a set of Weequay thunder drums, I’m only half-joking. He’s genuinely an impressive specimen. It’s a compliment.”

“You get to say all of that, but I’m the one bending the Code?”

He snorted. “Jora, please. We may be technically sworn to celibacy, sure, but we’re not dead, either.”

“Pardon me,” a deep voice said from behind him.

Kelto bit down on a yelp. Every joint in his body seemed to lock up so he sat straight upright. His eyes went as wide as the Temple’s dinner platters.

“Jedi Sskeer,” Jora Malli said, conversationally. “What a lovely surprise.”

“I couldn’t help but overhear someone talking rather loudly about myself,” he replied easily, “so I thought I’d stop by. Is this seat taken?”

“Not at all. Please, join us.”

He sat down right next to Kelto. The Rodian seemed to shrink, quailing.

“How much did you overhear, incidentally?” Jora asked, returning to finish off the last of her steak.

“Enough to know better than to take offense,” Sskeer replied, tucking into his karkan ribene. “Life is too ssshort to worry about the occasional social faux pas, isn’t it, little healer?”

Kelto’s throat bobbled. He looked to Jora to throw him a lifeline; in response, she only raised her eyebrows.

His eyes rolled back to the plate before him - then narrowed. He set his jaw and took a long, gulping swallow of his Rodian ale, an action that left his snout twisting for a moment afterward. Then he turned in his seat towards the Trandoshan.

“We should probably start over,” he said, putting out his hand. “I’m Kelto. Kelto Lem. It’s - great to meet you, Sskeer.”

Sskeer sent Jora a sidelong glance. She nodded.

“Likewise,” he returned, clasping the Rodian’s hand in his own.

“Um - no hard feelings about… anything from earlier, right?”

“Consider the slate wiped clean.”

“Oh. … Good.” That was easy, his eyes seemed to say, as he disengaged from the handshake.

Jora Malli sensed her work here was done. “I have a velocities demonstration with the younglings coming up,” she said, gathering her utensils and standing up. “I suppose I’ll leave you to it.”

“Of course,” Sskeer said graciously. He turned back to Kelto. “Would you prefer to move to the other side of the table, that we may face each other?”

Kelto blinked. “Uh - sure! You, you won’t mind, will you, Jora?”

“Don’t look at me,” she said, shrugging. “I won’t even be here.” She turned, deposited her empty plate and glass at an appropriate refuse station, and departed without further fanfare.

Gingerly, Kelto repositioned himself and his lunch to the other side of the table, sitting right before Sskeer. When he pushed in his chair, he seemed to be sitting a little taller.

“So, uh. Hello again.”

Sskeer smiled, shook his head, and took a bite of ribene.

[everdino]

Probably this is my last art and I can return to drawing again only after a month, when i'll ger new pen, or, at least, after I get used to the old semi-live pen from the tablet. Because, even an ordinary sketch with a very "cheap" color was very difficult to draw and my hands hurt, because old pen the old pen is just disgustingly uncomfortable.

Whining is end, now about art.

Lately, I thought about au, where a megaop found themselves on an unknown planet and survived there for a while. I decided to create my vision for this au, with Blitzbee and, yes, Bumblebee is triplechanger, I'm sorry, i regret everything.

This idea is not new, I saw several posts on this au, but I would like to show it exactly, as I see it. I cant write slowburn fanfiction (especially in English), and there is some problems with drawing, so I’ll just write the whole idea here. I own nothing, so if one of you wants, he can take this idea, you do not need my permission.

The first branches from the canon in this au occur at the very beginning, when Lugnut and Blitzwing arrive on Earth. A closer acquaintance with Bumblebee begins even before Megatron returns. At first it’s just a banal desire to take a break from the hostilities and annoying teammates, then friendship, quite strong friendship, then something more. Something reaally more. Blitz and Bee successfully hide their relationship by inventing a scheme, by which they can meet, without getting caught. (Note, Blitzwing invented this, and then for a very long time taught a stupid bug to stick to a plan). This continues until the moment Blitzwing captures by Elite Guard. (I note, that Wasp was partly to blame, because using the Bumblebee form, he drowned the vigilance of the triplechanger.) Another offshoot from the canon, Blackarachnia captures both Bumblebee and Wasp, for experimentation. She turns one into a triplechanger, and another into predacon, to figure out, how to solve her techno-organic problem. Sentinel tries to get rid of both, but Optimus prevents him. Bumblebee begins the rehabilitation course, trying to get used to the new body, but the hatred from the elite guard and the prisoner sparkmate strongly affect his mental state, not to mention the fact, that being a triplechager already means being unstable.

In this au, Blitzwing retreats with Lugnut, during the battle between Decepticons and the Elite guard, so only Starscream clones are brought to Cybertron Prison. The Final Battle is coming, Bumblebee is participating in it, which has more or less recovered from the operation. He fights against Blitzwing, however, right during the fight, Bee swears, that he don't allow anyone to put his sparkmate in prison ever again. He actually had many plans, and all of them were somehow related to leaving Autobots. Megatron defeated, prisoners of the Decepticons transported to Cybertron. Bumblebee prepares to escape from the ship with Blitzwing. Only Sparkmate becomes his meaning of life, since he is sure that Autobots betrayed him, treating his upgrade as a disabled person. Accidentally, being under the affect, he frees Megatron, along with Blitzwing. A new fight begins, during which Megatron and Optimus find themselves in a rescue capsule, which was prepared by Bumblebee, and crash on an unknown planet. The Elite Guard is trying to help, but during the battle some mechanisms of the ship’s engines are damaged and it’s much harder to get to Cybertron, especially with dangerous Decepticons on board, although without Megatron. Bee realizes, that all this happened through his fault, therefore, goes for the last signal of Optimus, which they managed to detect. Despite his grudge against the Autobots, he didn't want any of them to suffer. Blitzwing follows him, trying to protect him from reckless decisions. These two also have to endure a crash on the planet, where Optimus was supposedly. Bumblebee injures his leg and they have to hide in a cave, until Blitz comes up with some kind of plan.

Meanwhile, Optimus and Megatron are trying to continue the battle after landing on the planet, but soon realize, that they are too wounded and tired to fight. They disperse to find shelter until their factions find them. Time passes and both leaders come to the conclusion that surviving alone on a semi-organic planet is very difficult. Therefore, they unite and roam around, in search of an energon or communication devices. Instead, they find creatures that live on the planet and almost die, but at the last moment they are saved. This case forces both to appreciate the fighting qualities of a temporary teammate. Some time passes again, they both begin to starve, but still don't give up. Along the way, they both learn more about each other and the opposing faction, and their enmity slowly fades, giving way to respect. Optimus no longer experiences internal fear at the sight of a warlord, and Megatron allows the Autobot to stay closer. But as before, they did not find anything that resembled an energon. They find a poor mine later, but, with the mine, they find their triplechangers. Both Optimus and Megatron are shocked, seeing how these two, not so much as hostile, but, on the contrary, treat each other with such tenderness, like they have been married for several centuries. Megatron is furious at this betrayal and, despite Optimus’s protest, is attacking. Triplechagers obviously did not expect this, but it only made Blitzwing angrier. Both Decepticons start to fight violently, but battle is interrupted by Optimus. Leader of the Autobots is trying to convince others, that all of them are in a very critical situation, without communication, energy and medical assistance, so the war is the last thing they need. Although, Optimus also admitted that he didn't approve of such behavior on the part of Bumblebee. After long enough persuasions, Optimus manages to convince the others and the four stick together to survive, until someone finds them.

At first, Blitzwing very violently defended Bumblebee from leaders, given that Bee had damaged leg and mind, but soon all four have to trust each other, as survival is becoming harder and harder. While Optimus and Bumblebee sort things out, trying to understand, why Bumblebee wants to leave the fraction, Megatron becomes curious why, of all the Autobots, Blitzwing chose Bumblebee. He still cannot accept the fact, that Blitz betrayed him, but has already stopped being angry about this. He just becomes interested. Because with each new day, Megatron notices, that he is beginning to understand his soldier. Dark Lord more and more respects Optimus, who, despite his fairly young age and lack of experience (regarding Megatron himself, of course) is incredibly brave and strong. Respect slowly flows into a warmer but unknown feeling for Megatron. However, it was obvious that Optimus shared his feelings.

Bumblebee, meanwhile, is undergoing panic attacks, so, against the background of the rest of the team, he looks very weak. Old love of life is no longer observed in the optics of yellow Autobot. But, still, he holds on, for the sake of Blitzwing, who does not, not even for moment, leave his precious sparkmate alone. The moral damage was too strong, but Blitzwing is not thinking of retreating.

The four continues to roam the planet in search of the mines of the energon, fighting off the creatures and hiding from the weather, simultaneously solving their relationship with each other. Bumblebee, over time, thanks to Blitzwing, will cope with his mental problems, and Megatron and Optimus will become much much closer to each other.

[terreisa]

Love Down the Line: Chapter 4

The last thing Indie musician Emma Swan needs is a gigantic wrench thrown in the workings of her biggest tour to date weeks before its launch.  When her backing guitarist that caused the problem says she has the perfect solution Emma is skeptical but left with little choice but to accept.  Unfortunately she isn’t really prepared for said solution to be former Rock Star and leading man of Emma’s teenage fantasies, Killian Jones.  With no other options and a month of performing across the country ahead of her Emma just hopes she doesn’t come to regret letting Killian onto her stage and into her life.

Ch 1, Ch 2, Ch 3, AO3

~*CS*~

On the road between Boston and New York, May 9th

Emma knew she should be trying to wind down from the night’s show. When they arrived at their hotel she wanted to be able to head straight to her room and get some sleep.  She just couldn’t seem to get the adrenaline to leave her system, even hours after the fact.  It didn’t help that once they’d finished the encore they’d been ushered straight onto the bus and hit the road without a come down from the rush of performing again.  Celebrating the successful start of the tour with Will, Tink and a few drinks probably hadn’t done much good either.

She was sitting at the small table in the little kitchenette of the bus with an open notebook, a leather bound one that was much nicer than the ones she used for her lyrics and bits of melody fragments, absently tapping her pen on the blank page.  Will and Tink had gone to their own bunks to do whatever other post show rituals they had, leaving her to hers.  Once the damn adrenaline wore off she knew she’d be able to concentrate on writing down her thoughts and feelings on the show but for the moment she was content to dwell in the electric buzz both the show and the alcohol had given her.

The first performance was always the one that made Emma worry the most.  To her it set the bar for the rest of the tour.  With the internet and social media the reviews were out in the world before the first song was finished.  According to Regina one false move could have her right back at the small town bars within a hundred miles of Storybrooke for good.  So the first show was always the most stressful up until the moment she began playing.  Then it was the most rewarding.

Thankfully, it had been better than just a good show, it had been great.  The last minute adjustment she’d made to the set list had worked out far better than she’d anticipated.  Up to that point the crowd had sung along with every song, even the ones off the new album, but when she’d played the first few notes of Bite of Iron they’d gone nuts.  Their surprising and enthusiastic response had given her the strength she’d needed to play the song without a hitch and gave her a burst of energy that she could still feel in her fingertips hours after the last note had been played.

She smiled at the memory of that initial jolt of excitement.  It felt a lot like the burst of shock she’d had at seeing Killian Jones in her rehearsal space for the first time.  Her enthusiasm faded a bit as she began to realize exactly what that could be confused for and she wanted nothing to do with anything that could possibly resemble butterflies in her stomach.

“Mind if I join you, Swan?”

Emma jumped in surprise, caught off guard even though Killian had practically whispered his request.  She spun to face him with a scowl.

“Don’t do that again.”

He smirked, “Apologies, love.  I shall endeavor to announce my presence with a blaring fanfare next time.”

“Or you could wear a bell,” she suggested, “I could even order a little plaid collar to match your many flannels.”

“It’s those flannels that are keeping me from being recognized if I’m not mistaken,” he said smugly as he sat down across from her, a notebook of his own in hand.

She gave him a reluctant nod of agreement.  When he’d shown up for the show wearing the same flannel, t-shirt, jeans combo he’d worn to the sound check she’d nearly kicked him off the tour right then and there.  While there wasn’t any specific aesthetic that her and the others adhered to it was a little more put together than something that looked like it belonged at a backyard barbeque.  It turned out the banality of Killian’s outfit was probably the key to his going unnoticed throughout the whole show.  As far as she knew, and Will would have definitely told her, there hadn’t been a single post about Killian being on stage again.

When he had been with Realm of Jewels he had favored tight, black leather pants and dark colored shirts with the buttons undone to the top of the various vests he wore.  Instead of well worn Converse he’d had pointy toed boots that reached halfway up his calf and he’d worn more silver jewelry on his fingers and around his neck than she’d ever owned in the entirety of her life.  His hair had been longer too, constantly falling over his brow as he played until it was plastered to his forehead with sweat by the end of their shows.  It had been a good look, one she’d had fantasies about, but there was something about the flannel and jeans that had a gentle warmth spreading through her veins.

“Yeah, well, whatever,” she grumbled. He smiled widely at her and she rolled her eyes right back, “I still think you should get a bell.  Though you wouldn’t need it if you had been sociable instead of sneaking off to your bunk as soon as we got on the bus.”

Killian’s smile dimmed, “It has been quite a while since I’ve played a show, love, and I can no longer indulge in my former habit of having a drink or five to celebrate and relax.  It was easier to remove myself from the temptation entirely, rather than testing the strength of my will.  Especially when the show was worth celebrating.”

Emma felt as if her stomach had been filled with lead.  She had somehow completely forgotten that Killian was a former alcoholic.  They had never really talked about it and he’d gone out to the bars with her, Will and Tink after particularly gruelling rehearsals or even some of the more mediocre ones.  It just wasn’t something that jumped to the forefront of her mind when she thought of him.  Even if she refused to acknowledge exactly how much he actually popped up in her thoughts.

“Shit, Killian- do you or do we- shit-” she looked frantically around the little kitchenette at the empty beer bottles and open bottle of rum on the counter.  She scrambled from her seat, “Let me just get rid of this crap and then I’ll let Will and Tink-”

“Swan-”

He sounded amused but she wasn’t sure over the clinking of the bottles she was trying to wrestle into the small trash can under the sink.

“I’ll talk to Regina and have her adjust the grocery delivery-”

“Emma, take a breath, love.”

She did as he instructed but only because he had stood and grabbed her by the shoulders, crouching down to stare into her eyes.  He was grinning as he held her in place and she scowled at his amusement.

“I’m glad you think that us being disrespectful about your addiction is funny.”

“I believe you running around this cramped space trying to atone for something I never blamed you for would suggest otherwise-” he let her go only to pull the trash can out of her hands, setting it back under the sink before leaning against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest, “I’ve been sober for nearly ten years, I know what my triggers are and how far I can push myself.  Tonight was just a new set of parameters that I had to consider and adjust accordingly to.  No need for you to drastically alter everything for the whole tour when I’m only a temporary guest.”

“Well, it’s not fair for us to just fling booze around in front of you like it’s nothing either,” she said hotly, twisting out of his grasp to nab the rum bottle and its cap.  She wrestled with closing it as she spoke, “Just because you won’t be here for the whole thing doesn’t mean you should be treated like you don’t matter.�� You’re in the band, you get a- OW!  Fuck!”

She sucked in a breath at the searing pain in her palm.  Somehow her hand had slipped and caught on the jagged edge of the cap.  The pain was nothing compared to the panic that flared at possibly having injured herself enough to affect her playing.  Her vision started going spotty and she could feel her knees starting to buckle.

“Swan?  Emma?!”  She felt his hands on her shoulders again and his concerned face filled her darkening vision. “Breathe.  Deep breath for me.  That’s it.  Another one.  Good.”

Following his gentle instructions she felt steadier and her vision stopped tunneling.  With a healthy dose of trepidation she looked down at her hand and was relieved to see the cut wasn’t deep but it was very bloody.  Looking around she couldn’t find a single thing to mop up the blood or staunch the slow but steady flow.  Then she felt a burning sting as liquid was splashed over her palm followed by warm pressure.  She turned to see that Killian was holding a handkerchief in place as he wrapped it around her palm.

“That hurt! What was that?” She hissed, indignant.

“Rum and a perfectly good use of it in my opinion-” he winked before turning back to his makeshift bandage, “It shouldn’t give you too much grief at tomorrow’s- er, I guess tonight’s show.  A little super glue will seal it right up.  It might be uncomfortable during sound check but by showtime you won’t even notice it.”

He punctuated his assessment by tying off the handkerchief and gently squeezing her fingers.

“That’s a relief,” she said softly, pulling her hand from his.  She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, still a little rattled from her injury and disconcerted from the conversation that had preceded it, “Look, I’m sorry if I was out of line or made you feel uncomfortable or something.  I just don’t want you to feel- I don’t know, like you have to hide away or something.”

“Thank you, Swan, but as I’ve said you’ve no need to alter how things have always been done just for my sake-” he picked up the rum bottle and twisted the cap on with an ease that had her scowling, “My sobriety isn’t something that you should burden yourself with.  That’s what I pay my therapist for.”

She laughed in spite of herself, finally feeling the tension leave her shoulders.  He smiled with her as he set the rum back on the counter and pointedly pushed it away from them.  Shaking her head she turned and opened the cabinet that was above their heads.

“I’m going to make some cocoa,” she said as she shifted boxes and bags around, “You want some?”

“Sure, I might as well indulge in something to celebrate the start of the tour,” he said jovially, sitting back down at the table. “Though, I’m not quite sure a packet of cocoa mix can be considered an indulgence.  Is it the kind with the little marshmallow pebbles?”

“I’m playing to crowds of thousands and you think I wouldn’t pull the diva card to get the good stuff?” She asked with mock haughtiness, still digging through the cabinet for the little tin she was looking for. “I’ll have you know that I’m deadly serious about two things: my music and my hot cocoa- aha!”

Emma held a little tin up triumphantly.  It was a ridiculously expensive imported sipping chocolate, the first frivolous thing she’d bought with her first check from her label.  It was part of her post show ritual, drinking her expensive hot chocolate and writing about the night until she was falling asleep at the table or they arrived in their next city.  She tried not to dwell on the fact that she’d always partook in that particular ritual alone, she’d never even asked Ruby to join her, but she had no reservations about Killian doing so.

“Who knew you sported such a refined palate,” Killian said with feigned shock. “Seeing as I have been privy to what you consider food.”

She glared at him, “Don’t knock the grilled cheese or you’re not getting a cocoa.”

“Are the onion rings fair game?  How about the milk dud popcorn?  Pop-Tarts?”

She threw the lid of the cocoa tin at him but he caught it neatly, fanning himself with it.  Rolling her eyes she turned her back on him to concentrate on making the cocoa and not fixating on how attractive he was when he was being playful.  Unfortunately she’d perfected whipping up the drink while on a moving bus years earlier, so she had plenty of brain power left to dwell on exactly how much more unfairly attractive the man became the more she got to know him.

“So, are you writing songs again?” She asked over her shoulder as she stirred the milk that was heating on the little hot plate they had for solely for her cocoa habit.

“Hmm?” He hummed distractedly.  When she looked back his eyes snapped to hers almost guiltily before dropping to the notebook in front of him, “Oh, er, not as much now, no.  Journaling was a requirement at rehab and despite some initial, shall we say, reluctance it became a habit.  A better one for me to have, for the most part.”

“Get the feelings and stuff down on paper instead of shoving it deep down inside and hoping for the best?  I get it-” She let her gaze drift to her own journal before looking back at him. “But seriously, no lyrics or chords or anything? I have a whole shelf in my bookcase that’s stuffed with notebooks filled with potential hits.”

He ducked his head and rubbed at the back of his neck, “I haven’t written anything since… well, since before.  Haven’t felt the desire to.”

“Oh, right, yeah,” she said lamely, quickly focusing back on the task at hand.

As she divided the milk between two mugs she was hit by the terrible realization that Killian had co-written all of the Realm of Jewels songs and that both of his writing partners were dead.  She’d gone and poked at a second vulnerable spot in his armor in less than thirty minutes.  At the rate she was going she wouldn’t be surprised if he got off the bus in New York and took the first train back to Boston.  Stirring in the chocolate she grabbed onto a shard of that thought like a lifeline.

“You live in Boston right?”

If he was surprised by her abrupt change of topic he didn’t let on.

“I do.  I always enjoyed the city when we played there and it oddly reminded me of home.  Figured I could do worse when finding a place to settle after everything.”

“Why not L.A. or New York?” She asked genuinely curious as she sprinkled cinnamon over the mugs, grabbing them and returning to the table. “They’re probably way better for recording and what not.”

“True-” he shrugged, accepting his drink with a nod of thanks, “but L.A. felt like a golden facade, even though I do own a house in Malibu, and New York felt like a concrete abyss.  I was still a bit lost at the time and both of those cities would have swallowed me whole.  Still, I craved the bustle of an urban landscape and Boston was the right fit”

“So, you did a three bears situation.  Did you at least get some quality porridge out of the deal, Goldilocks?” She teased.

He had taken a sip as she asked and glared at her over the rim of the mug.  Then his eyes widened in surprise, looking down at the cocoa, “Ooh, this is good, Swan, and no, there was no porridge to be had or golden locks to be seen.  I’ve dyed my hair a fair share of colors but blonde was never one of them.  I’ll leave that shade to those that can pull it off.”

With a flirtatious wink from him and a responding eye roll from her Emma felt that some kind of balance had been restored.  She had never particularly cared what others thought of her, if she had she would have been reduced to a shell of a person by middle school, but for some reason with Killian it was different.  There was something a bit broken about him that she recognized from the mirror and she definitely didn’t want to be the one to add to it.

She lifted her mug towards him, “Since you didn’t get to do this earlier: cheers to the start of a new tour.”

“And endeavoring to make every show as successful as this one,” Killian clinked his mug gently with hers, a soft smile on his face, “Cheers, love.”

Emma took a large sip, glad that her large mug hid the blush she knew was in her cheeks.  As much as she’d hated the endearment when they’d first met it no longer irked her.  She was discovering that there were a lot of things about Killian that no longer irked her and it made her more resolute to keep him at arm’s length.  Only it seemed the harder she tried the easier it became for him to slip past her defenses.

Flustered she set her mug down a little too forcefully and pulled her notebook towards her, “I’m just gonna… until we get to the hotel.  I mean, if it’s okay.”

“By all means,” he said, bemused.  He tapped on his journal, “I have a bit of writing to do myself.”

“Oh, yeah.  Good.”

With that less than eloquent response she forced herself to start what she’d intended to do before Killian had joined her.  After nearly twenty minutes of alternately writing down some words and stealing glances at the man across from her she chastised herself and focused on the task at hand.  It didn’t help that she could feel his eyes on her whenever the scratching of his pen took a pause.  However, by the time the bus pulled into the hotel’s parking lot she found that she’d not only written a good chunk of what she’d wanted but that she really didn’t mind Killian’s presence in the least and that maybe the world wouldn’t exactly end if she admitted it.

[realactualfancontent]

Whateley Family Fluff

Wilbur and Lavinia discuss travel plans and girls.

Wilbur Whateley kicked the door open, holding some kind of squirming screaming sack, he was covered in feathers, and blood, and one or two scrapes which oozed something yellow and fetid.  

He looked panicked and triumphant all at once.   

His mother jumped, already on edge because her son was nowhere to be found, his entrance didn't help.

"Wilbur? Wha-Where- What're yew doin'...with that."  Lavinia gestured to the squirming bag.  Trying to take her questions one at a time.  

Wilbur froze, he hadn't been expecting his ma awake.  This was supposed to be a secret mission.  Though he'd been planning to show off to Twin right away.  

"Killin' et!"  His face split into one of those smiles that was slightly too wide, although accompanied by an uncharacteristic level of enthusiasm.

"Robbed the Bishop's chicken coop!"  

She wasn't quite sure what to do with that.  Not the petty crime, or animal murder.  Boys would be boys after all, but the excitement, well that was a puzzle.  She couldn't remember seeing him this genuinely pleased in years.  She returned his grin with a hesitant smile of her own.  

"Well, I'm glad yer havin fu- Wait, are yew bleedin'?"  

It had taken her a moment to notice, between her poor eyes and the poor lighting it was more the smell then anything, more overwhelmingly the outside then usual.

Wilbur deflated with a sigh and an eyeroll.  "Et's nuthin' a scratch es all."  She was going to fuss now.  "I'm finnneeeeee."  It was a rather unconvincing whine and he watched her wring her hands shoulders sagging.   The bagged rooster kept screaming.  

Wilbur thunked it on the table with a sudden burst of violence that shut it up.  He hoped not permanently.  Lavinia started and tried to collect herself before speaking up.

"Et's not nuthin' let me take a look,'' Lavinia responded, moving to light the lamps, the attempt to sound like an authority was weak, and they both knew it.  But still Wilbur dropped his twitching bag on the table and slumped into a chair two sizes too small for him to watch his mother root around in cabinets for some bandages or a clean washcloth.

Wilbur had never paid much attention to chickens before, and as he idly poked at one of the puncture wounds he was still surprised by how sharp those spurs were.

"I can dew et myself."  It was protest for protests sake, although Wilbur really would rather handle things himself, he knew his mother would fret if he didn't play along, so he obligingly rolled up his sleeves, revealing the slow transition to yellowish scales.  

"S'pose yew culd patch the shirt up tew, ef yew'd lak."  He said, looking around the cluttered kitchen for something else to focus on and offering his mother something to do that didn't involve her getting in his way.

"Might be time fer a new 'un.  Yer sleeves are gettin' a bit on the short side.  Looks lak yew've had another growth spurt."

Wilbur made a noncommittal noise.  They both knew what the other was thinking, that if Wilbur was growing, so was The Twin.  That time was marching slowly onwards, that soon, all of this, Lavinia included, would be blasted away to make way for greater things.  

Wasn't the sort of thing you made small talk about.  Wilbur winced as his mother applied a damp cloth to one of the numerous scratches, feeling this whole thing was pointless as anything in the house was probably as filthy as a chicken's foot.  

After a moment's awkward silence Lavinia ventured to pick up conversation again.  "What 're yew killin' the chicken for?"  The bag was still twitching periodically.  

"Jus' need et's blud fer sumthin es all." Wilbur shrugged.  

"Are you wurkin' on a ritual or curse or... uh, summin' sumthin'?"  Lavinia ventured when it came to Wilbur's magical practice's he was getting increasingly less likely to share the details.  

Maybe that was because when he did she couldn't really follow him and just tried to nod at all the significant points.  She'd never really understood.  She’d picked up disjointed scraps from her father, a string of odd words here, a rough idea there, but Lavinia Whateley, despite what folk about here would have you believe was no witch.  All the things that came so easily to Wilbur and her father just left her feeling confused and scattered and usually in possession of a headache.

"Ain't yer business,"  Wilbur said, jerking his arm away, rolling down and rebuttoning his sleeve.  

Lavinia’s shoulder’s sagged and she looked away, picking at a moth hole in the table cloth.  “Sorry, jus seems yew’re excited, wanted t’ know whut et were about es all.”  

If Wilbur was the type of person who had any compassion for dogs he might have compared Lavinia’s countenance to a kicked puppy.

Same guilt inducing effect.  

And the irritation at it was plain on his oddly proportioned face.  “I’m makin’ a whistle.  Thought one of ‘em space ponies might make travellin’ easier.”   There he’d told her.  She could stop with the sad eyes.

Lavinia’s eyes widened again, surprise, a little panic.  FUCK HE COULD NOT WIN.  

“Travellin’? Yew’re plannin’ on another trip.”  

The London trip had been unprecedented.  Wilbur had never expressed much interest in the human world at all.  And he’d come home with such a dismal outlook on the whole experience she didn’t think he’d leave again.

She’d hoped he wouldn’t leave again.  

Leave her alone.  With that upstairs.  

She loved her sons.  She told herself that daily.  But when it was just her and the nameless twin she had a much harder time believing it.  Wilbur could walk and talk and act almost like any other surly teenager.  But the thing upstairs just stomped about and made hungry noises.  And although she had no proof there was a lurking fear that one day the cows and vermin they brought it wouldn’t be enough and it would find its way down stairs for her.

 “Wuldn’t be so long.  Cuple days et most, since I’d have the Byhakee t’ travel on.”  Wilbur cut in, noticing his mother’s distress, and making some token effort to calm her.  Stumbling over what he hoped was the correct pronunciation of Byhakee.  

“Oh,”  that helped a little, although she hadn’t the foggiest what a Byhakee was.  Probably a space pony. “Where’d yew be off tew this time?  Still lookin’ fer the book?”  

Wilbur shrugged.  “Among other things, one ‘ve my correspondents wanted t’ meet.  Were real irked I didn’t see her last time I were in London.”  

“Her?”   There were so many things to pick out of the sentence but the pronoun stood out more then anything else.  Wilbur, ordinarily speaking, was barely interested in people, let alone girls.   But then he was growing up, it wasn’t really that surprising, well, no more surprising then anything about Wilbur.  Still, Lavinia couldn’t help but smile a bit.  

Wilbur picked up on the shift in mood and shrank as much as his nearly seven feet would allow.  “Ain’t lak- she’s just a friend, sorta, real keen t’ see sumthin’ alien’s all…”  He trailed off into a mumble, face flushing a sickly yellow.  It was his turn to pick at moth holes in the table cloth, giant fingers doing so far less deftly then his mother had.  

Lavinia’s smile widened, her pink eyes glimmering with delight in the low lighting.  She’d been a romantic in her youth, maybe some of that was still left and it was what had her so excited despite Wilbur’s protests.  Or maybe it was because this was a sign that Wilbur was more human than he’d care to admit.  

This was the sort of conversation you expected to have with your child at some point.  The kind of, dare she think it, normal moment she’d all but given up on these days.

“What’s her name?”  Lavinia asked. 

“Emmaline,” Wilbur answered, sagging as he prepared for an interrogation. 

One that came promptly.  

A barrage of banal things, like how did you meet, what’s she like, is she a witch?  

Wilbur answered in as few words as possible.  Trying to stress the very platonic nature of the relationship.  Not that his ma was picking up on how uncomfortable he was.  Or that he was flushing the shade of an egg yolk.  

“Is she pretty?”  

“Dun know, and et dun matter anyways.”  He snapped, “I ain’t interested in romance and ain’t no one’s goin’ t’ be interested in one wit’ me.  Stop badgerin!”  

Lavinia flinched at the outburst while Wilbur retreated into a sulky silence.

He’d have felt worse about spooking her if she didn’t absolutely have it coming.  Hassling him like that.   

After a moment Lavinia gave him a tentative pat on the shoulder and offered her son an attempt at a smile.  “Don’t be so down on yerself Wilbur, just ‘cus folks round here are-”

“The wurst.”  Wilbur cut in.  Not sure what she was getting at but never one to miss a chance to insult the people of Dunwich.  

Lavinia nodded.  

“Well just cus’ they’re the wurst don’t mean everyone es, an’ I’m sure there’s plenty ‘ve girls who won’t be put off by yer unique features.”  

Wilbur’s dark eyes widened as he stared at his mother completely boggled.  He opened his mouth to try and form a response and took a moment to do it, mouth hanging open.  

“Yew need t’ get yer eyes checked.  Since yew clearly dun know just how bad I look.”  Lavinia might try to dress it up, but Wilbur didn’t feel any such compulsions.  

“I’m a ganglin’ mess ‘ve spare parts an’ I smell wurse ‘en most morgues.”  

Lavinia’s pale brows furrowed and her scrunched up into a frown.  She’d been hoping to give a pep talk there, but really couldn’t think of anything to refute Wilbur’s statements.  

She gave him another awkward pat on the shoulder.  “Well, we can dew sumthin’ ‘bout sum ‘ve that at least.  Spruce yew up a bit afore yew go callin’ I’ll make yew some clothes that fit proper and an’ yew’ll have a good scrub t’ get as much ‘ve the Dunnich stink off yew as can.”  

“No.”  Wilbur’s abnormally deep voice reverberated with extra gravitas.  Even if there was an underscore of horror to it.  

He hated baths.  He hated being wet to start with, hated that the tubs were too small for second and then there was the ordeal of actually scrubbing his leg fur and getting soap in his stupid useless hip eyes.  

What was the point of being able to see into the fourth, fifth and sixth dimensions when he couldn’t see through the pants he had to wear.  

Lavinia looked disappointed in him.  A trick that was losing it’s potency over time but still held some sway.  

“She already knows I stink like a pig, she’s expecktin’ et, I dun need t’ take a bath.”  

“Wilbur, yew only get so many chances t’ make furst impressions, dun yew want et t’ be a gud ‘un?” 

“Not that much.”  Wilbur scowled at her patronizing, considering hexing her tongue to shrivel right there.

Not that Lavinia wasn’t, technically, to his everlasting vexation, right.  

“Guess I’ll consider et.”  He conceded after a moment.

The rooster bag twitched and made a pitiable noise.  

“I’ve got t’ take care ‘ve that afore it croaks.”  He said, standing up and swiping the bag in one motion.  Glad for an excuse to end the conversation he shuffled off with an unusual speed to his awkward gait.  

[xspankinggoodkeeper]

tish & calcifer || parties & advice

@thebestfallenstar

Morticia hummed in disappointment as she surveyed the meager decorations at a local shop. They were throwing a party for Sally's birthday at Addams manor, but she couldn't very well have it looking all bright and happy. "Doesn't it come in black?" she mused aloud.

Calcifer scanned the store, frowning at some of the items that were definitely not what they were searching for. But then again they suppose that there isn’t a ‘Sorry magic got you pregnant with a kid that never meant to be yours’ section considering that not too many people dealt with that. Or so they hoped. They were about to give up when they heard the comment, glancing over at the woman. “… What” They asked, flatly.

"Hm?" She looked over, not aware there was anyone around to overhear her talking to herself, but not minding it very much either. "Oh. There's nothing fit for a party here. Everything is so cheerful."

“… What kind of party is this?” Calcifer asked, silently agreeing with the woman. Everything was much too cheerful for what they need. And they certainly didn’t want to show up at Elsa’s house, unannounced, without Howl’s knowledge, and have nothing to compensate for it. Maybe another child? No… That seems like something an evil witch would do, stealing children. Besides… Morgan, and Michael when he was younger, is enough to deter them from interacting with kids for too long. “They should have a section that isn’t so bright.”

"A birthday party, of course." She surveyed the section a final time with mingled disappointment and distaste. "I quite agree. I suppose I could make some things myself." It was short notice for shopping online, and she didn't have any ideas of other places to look. Fortunately, Sally was worth the effort.

“Right. Of course” Calcifer is trying to guess whether that is a normal world custom here or not. They are leaning towards the sight of not judging by all the more colorful decorations. “I mean, there probably is a condolences section somewhere here too” They scratching their head, “Would at least mostly white do?” And now they were somehow helping with this. Awesome.

Morticia didn't have the slightest interest in what was normal in this world or anywhere else. She did things her own way and always had. She hummed her approval, nodding faintly. "That may have possibilities." Condolences was a rather inspired idea, but she looked rather scandalized at the notion of white. "Oh no. White is so... pure. That wouldn’t do at all." She made the word sound distasteful.

… This wasn’t what they thought was how their day was going to go but hey. That is almost the norm for them since Sophie came into their life. Shrugging, they looked around the area, “Okay… White is out. None of that. Then what other color if you can’t do black here?” Their eyes fell on the blue balloons. Sorry for making you blue. They aren’t sure if Elsa would appreciate that.

She cringed faintly at the balloons. The color wasn't bad, but the cliche on them was dreadful. "Perhaps purple would work," she hummed, drifting forward in search of something that didn't have unicorns on it. "What is it that you're here for?"

“Purple, huh?” Calcifer mused, “I personally prefer red but hey. Each to their own.” They grimaced, not sure how to proceed, or even explain the absolute bizarre situation that they were in. “I… am trying to apologize” They stated slowly, “To a friend.” Not really, Calcifer doesn’t really apologize to anyone. But they figured it was the closest to what they were doing there.

"I find red more enjoyable, myself. But purple is more Sally." She arched a slender eyebrow. "A friend, or a woman?" Apologizing to significant others happened to be one of her specialties. Not that she and Gomez ever had disagreements worth apologizing over.

“Sally is the birthday girl, I am assuming.” Calcifer frowned at the next question, “Uh, both? She is a woman. And a friend, I guess.” They weren’t sure what she talking about. Did she mean like Sophie in terms of Howl seeing her as a woman? Cause while Elsa was attractive, there was a lot of awkwardness there.

"Mm, yes. A lovely girl," she agreed. She counted Sally among her closest friends, and it was a pleasure to make sure her birthday was a special occasion. At least, it would be when she got out of this store. "Well, apologizing to a woman is quite a different thing, isn't it?"

Calcifer paused, almost certain that there was a correct answer to that question. And they really wanted to get it right. “I mean, of course” They mumbled, “I just… She has been through stuff so I wanted to get something… Meaningful?”

"Of course you do." She gave a small smile of approval. "Women aren’t swayed by cheap banalities. They want to be heard and understood."

“Heard and understood” Calcifer repeated, frowning, not sure how to explain the situation to a complete stranger. “So this woman has gone through something very life changing” They said slowly, “And I want to show them that I care. How do I go about it?” They emphasized on care, hoping they were getting the emotion of that right.

Oh dear. She could see that this one was badly in need of her help. She hummed thoughtfully. "I think the best gestures show how much you know about her and what she's going through. They're personal to her and her situation. If it's an apology, it shows you know where you went wrong and that you won't repeat the mistake."

“Okay. So apologize” Calcifer hummed in thought, “Should I be getting her something then? As a way to… I don’t know, show I want to sympathize with her?” Was even what they were doing? All of this was starting to confuse them. Maybe they should ask this woman about black decorations again. That seemed a lot easier than whatever this was.

"It's difficult to go wrong with gifts, particularly if you can choose one that shows how well you know her." She nodded. "What is important to this woman? Or, perhaps, what would make this experience easier for her?"

Calcifer paused, not sure what was important to Elsa. She seemed to care for the baby when she was pregnant though… “Family?” They hesitated, “I think something to remind her of that might work…” Or so they hope.

"Family is very important." She nodded. "She sounds like one you should hold onto."

“… I’m sorry, what?” Calcifer blinked, not sure what the two of them were even talking about now. “I think there was a bit of a lost in translation going on here now.”

"Oh? What was lost?" She tipped her head.

Calcifer paused before shrugging, “You know what? You’re right. I will keep a hold onto this woman.” They aren’t sure exactly where this conversation went but it helped them a little bit.

"Very good." She nodded her approval. "I hope you'll come to the party and tell me how it went. Saturday, Addams' Manor, 8 o'clock."

“Uh, yeah. Alright” Calcifer shrugged, “I’ll get right on that. I hope you can find the decorations that you were looking for.” They looked around for things to get Elsa, keeping the woman’s suggestions in mind now.