#strangely enough I was never attacked in a way that required murder as a defense

[andersunmenschlich]

That last sentence is extremely and frighteningly true.

Jesus fuck.

[kitkatopinions]

It feels so out of place how the narrative and the characters have always treated the Atlas military (alternatively suspicious, tyrannical or incompetent), yet when push came to shove that same military fought and died for hours against Salem's invasion to protect the tens of thousands of people trapped in Atlas BECAUSE of Ruby while Ruby sat and drank tea. How long did that battle go for? Four hours? Five? And if that wasn't enough, it only ended because Oscar was only covering the escape. 1/2

No lie, I feel like the world they invented pretty much requires the presence of a militarized force to sustain itself and it's one reason why approaching the Atlas military as 'point blank bad with no gray area' and approaching Hunters with 'point blank good with no gray area' makes no sense to me.

I've seen fans literally say that they knew Atlas, its military, and James were bad from the get go because of the use of the words army and military, and that army = bad, but ffs it's a fantasy world where the rules are one hundred percent different than the real world. The world of Remnant we're presented with is one with dark monsters thriving on negativity and attacking indiscriminately, reproducing at a fast rate, and adapting while showing intelligence and the understanding of consequences. They're known to bring down towns when something goes wrong, like a bandit raid. Single Grimm can take down whole towns. Panic stirs up Grimm activity and enough of it can bring down whole Kingdoms. The Hunter system we've been shown is A. corrupt, and B. a profession that doesn't seem to churn out a good many hunters, and many of the Hunters we see are concerned with big picture things or specific tasks, or retired or dead, due to the inherent danger level of the job. There simply aren't enough Hunters. There aren't enough Hunters to run border control, to protect the cities if they get attacked, to ferry kids back and forth from school while Grimm activity is up, to investigate suspicious activity and handle it when things go wrong, to save civilians when push comes to shove, to be parts of secret organizations while also maintaining their oaths to protect. Hunters seem more like specialists, at least from what I've seen in show. They're trained to be able to take on high level threats and go through a rigorous program, but they can't act as the only line of defense, partially due to their lack of numbers. They aren't actually the driving protective force keeping the Grimm out of the kingdoms on a day to day, hour by hour basis.

We see this over and over again in the show. Hunters get overwhelmed, towns fall, cities fall, they can't do the work of hundreds of people. Teams RWBYJNR and the Happy Huntresses never would've been able to protect Mantle from a direct attack from Salem, for example, when they couldn't even keep all the civilians safe from the Grimm that were occurring naturally due to political upheaval and unrest. In a world where demon monsters from hell will manifest and attack if too many people feel negatively at once and feelings of safety and security are needed to try and prevent the Grimm from coming in droves, an army is the only real solution here. Remnant is not the real world, the way we view armies is not automatically the way the people in Remnant view armies. And in fact, the show in the early seasons does a very strange thing; they have Ozpin express a belief that unrest and nervousness will occur due to James bringing his fleet to Vale (with every sign pointing to him having been asked there by the Vale Council,) and yet the reactions that we do see are actually the opposite, but this is still somehow heralded as foreshadowing by both the fans and seemingly the show itself. From Ruby geeking out about seeing the Atlas robots being displayed, to everyone being relieved and awed when the army showed up to protect everyone in the episode "Breach," where Atlas ships saved Ruby and she gave a grateful smile, salute, and wave, the Atlas military seems well received.

And the Atlas robotic soldiers taking down Grimm as civilians run past during the Fall is another example.

Even Oz, Qrow, and Glynda who were the only three people to express mistrust or anxiousness towards the presence of the army in Vale, are only seen either telling James to use his army (Oz,) or are seen fighting by the army's side, and then being welcoming and taking direct orders from James without being even the slightest bit suspicious of him.

We don't see the supposed anxiousness and mistrust in anyone outside of Oz, Qrow, and Glynda, who all one hundred percent trusted James anyway and were only worried that everyone else would be worried. The fact that Watts (someone everyone thought was dead) managed to hack the Atlas robots, has been the only negative effect we saw in the first three seasons, and that's not due to any corruption or mistake on the part of the Atlas army or James himself (something going horribly wrong in a way no one could expect due to the evil actions of a group of other people is not actually the fault of the person trying and succeeding to do good until the group of other people did bad.)

I could get into more reasons to not think the Atlas army is corrupt, but I don't want this post to get too long, and I want to address your very right statements about the way they portrayed their protagonists versus the army even while they were trying to push the concept that the Atlas army is corrupt and bad.

Ironwood: Desperately doing whatever he can to save lives from Salem, planning ways to bring down the Whale Grimm, trying to protect the Relics and the Maiden from Salem's grasp.

Team RWBY and co: Risking the lives of literally everyone on purpose because they don't want to be in a no win situation, preventing Ironwood from taking life saving actions because it won't save every live, expressing zero concern or grief for the hundreds dying to Salem on the battlefield.

The Ace Ops: Trying to navigate their morals while they do what they can to try and protect the civilians in Atlas who are directly in danger, trying to convince Penny to actually save people, planning to take down the whale grimm even if they have to suffer knowing a kid died in the process of protecting hundreds and likely thousands of other kids directly in danger of dying.

Team RWBY and co: Prioritizing their friends, prioritizing missions that logic says won't help people especially with the fall of Atlas making it impossible to protect everyone who's going to be in danger, picking fights with people who are trying to save others.

Team FNKI: Delving into war and battle while facing their fears, trying to protect people, trying to do the job they chose and stare floods of Grimm down.

Team RWBY and co: Drinking tea in mansions, worrying about their love lives, crying on staircases, laughing with a murderer...

Even while they were having Ironwood shoot down people that stood in his way and express that he wished he'd thought about torture and sending bomb threats, they still didn't have the protagonists actually seem like likable, convincingly good protagonists that I would want to root for. It seems like they had to try hard to make James someone people couldn't root for because they couldn't make Ruby and her team actually right, effective, and good. They really seem so selfish, immature, unprepared, and entitled. Which isn't to say that the protagonists can't have those flaws, but they're not getting treated like flaws, which is the most frustrating thing.

Before the writers needed to push their message that Ironwood is completely evil and everything he's involved with is inherently wrong, we didn't get much sign that the Atlas army was corrupted and bad, because projecting real world standards onto a fantasy world that we know is very different from ours isn't it. That's not to say that I think 'not showing us this system is corrupted early' means that there's no possible corruption, but I think it's clear that the fandom pushed narrative that the Atlas army is inherently bad and worse somehow than being a Hunter which is somehow much better is very biased, especially when we also see corruption in the Hunter profession.

Making James and the Ace Ops do vile thing didn't make the protagonists seem better. They still fell way short of adequate.

[boycottyashahime]

Hello! Anti-Sessrin person here. You said if this couple becomes canon it will ruin Sesshomaru's character development. I would love it If you could elaborate on that because you're always so eloquent and smart. It's ok if you don't feel like it, though. Have a nice day!

I've actually been looking for an excuse to sit down and write out a cohesive post on my thoughts about this. Contrary to what the shippers want to believe, my interpretation of Sesshoumaru and Rin's relationship doesn't have anything to do with my moral objections to child grooming. I happen to think there's plenty of evidence for a filial interpretation in the text.

First, I'd like to preface my little essay here by saying I'm going off the manga alone. I haven't seen the anime in a long time, because I dropped it when I got a little tired of trying to reconcile the inconsistencies between the two mediums. So, if you read this and have an impulse to say, "hey, what about that thing in episode such-and-such...", keep in mind that I probably just don't remember what you're thinking of.

So, let's go back, alllll the way back, to Sesshoumaru's first appearance. Here's a guy who tears off a dude's head for no other reason than to get the attention of his subordinates to demand a boat. Here's a guy who's spent a long time looking just about EVERYWHERE for his father's remains, not to pay respects, but to plunder them. Here's a guy who feels ENTITLED to rob his dad's grave for treasure he deserves simply for being his father's son.

Sesshoumaru begins his journey as a selfish, spoiled, entitled brat. He doesn't fit the usual profile of a kid throwing a tantrum on the street because he wants the expensive toy sitting in the window; he's very posh and very reserved, but fundamentally, his motivation comes down to the simple fact that he wants Tessaiga. It doesn't even really have anything to do with respect and admiration of his father, otherwise he wouldn't have been so eager to rifle through dear old dad's bones to get at a sword when he had another heirloom right there at his hip. Only Tessaiga was representative of the sheer destructive force he wanted to wield, so he ignored the fact that his dad didn't seem to want him to have it.

This is important, because at first, Sesshoumaru doesn't seem to think of his father in terms of the guy's intentions or the steps he takes for the sake of his sons. Like most rich spoiled kids, Sesshoumaru views the Inu no Taishou in terms of his prestige and how that priviledge can be appropriated for selfish ends. Sesshoumaru wants Tessaiga not because he needs it, but because it's a birthright, and reinforces his legitimacy. When it's clear that Tessaiga seals Inuyasha's youkai blood, keeps him from going berserk, Sesshoumaru loses interest in Tessaiga - it's just a crutch for Inuyasha, and there's no prestige in taking it from him or using it for himself.

Sesshoumaru doesn't start to REALLY consider his father's intentions for the swords until later in the manga, when it comes out that Tenseiga was originally part of Tessaiga, and Inuyasha was meant to get the Meidou Zangetsuha attack eventually as well. It's at this point that Sesshoumaru starts to question if daddy actually HATED him, to give him a rather neat power disguised in a lame shell, but only to develop it so Inuyasha can have it instead, even after Inuyasha already got Tessaiga in the first place. It kind of looks to Sesshoumaru that Inuyasha gets all the powerful cool shit their father left behind, and that there might have been some favoritism coming down HARD on Inuyasha's side.

Above, you can see Sesshoumaru has two interlinked but distinct issues that are addressed throughout the story - his lack of compassion and empathy, and how tied his identity is to his father's favor and prestige. These two are somewhat separated in the narrative; there's a kind of pause in Sesshoumaru's development while a bulk of the middle of the story deals more with other characters and their development, but there is a little bit of a thematic connection between the two halves.

We'll start with the development of Sesshoumaru's compassion since, well, that's where the story begins working on his character. Right before Rin shows up, Toutousai let's Inuyasha's group in on the sword Sesshoumaru carries around and what it does, indicating that Tenseiga requires a compassionate heart to function. A bit ham-handed, but RT isn't very subtle most of the time, so we'll allow it. This sets up the next few scenes in which Sesshoumaru is unable to move and must play captive audience to a little girl doing the literal opposite of what he's used to. Sesshoumaru's habit is to show up and kill things, with no thought to the years of history, relationships, thoughts, emotions, etc that he's snuffing out. But while he's reclined injured in the woods, Rin demonstrates actual LIFE and the preservation of it, that part Sesshoumaru never gets to see. It's made all the starker by how BAD Rin is at caring for herself, let alone the strange monster she found in the woods. She does exactly nothing to help Sesshoumaru, despite how hard she tries, and is even injured by others in her attempts. She is the very picture of vulnerability, the opposite of the strong and capable Sesshoumaru.

This is a stark contrast, because anything less wouldn't be enough to create the necessary awareness of Rin's struggles that Sesshoumaru needs in order to use Tenseiga on here. And I know I've said this before, but I really cannot stress enough how obvious I think the symbolism is when Sesshoumaru uses Tenseiga for the first time; a phallic object gives life to a child, and the object's owner looks after that life throughout the rest of the story. He's not very good at looking after it, and it's clear that he's not sure about taking responsibility for Rin at first, because she pleaded for him to come back for her when he and Jaken left her behind to requisition a sword from Gaijinbou. To me, it's reminiscent of a teenager who knocked someone up, and ended up having to learn to give a crap about the result.

But, even if you don't accept that symbolism as particularly significant, Rin being a child, and human, and weak, unable to survive on her own, are important characteristics to how Sesshoumaru's compassion develops. Sesshoumaru is one of the strongest characters in the series, and he rarely has to worry about his own safety. And since he's in the habit of just murdering everyone he comes across if they're in his way, he's never had to worry about the safety of anyone else, either. When Rin comes into the picture, though, Sesshoumaru is faced with the uncomfortable reality of vulnerability in general. Through her earnest and incompetent attempts to foster survival in a world that can and does crush her, she's opened his eyes to how the disadvantaged, those without a powerful youkai lineage to rely on, have to struggle.

Rin herself has nothing to offer Sesshoumaru within this context of supreme vulnerability. She's not a friend, because she can't offer mutual support or use a skill to their benefit as a team. She's not a lover, because, well, she's a child and sexual/romantic attraction are conditions that wouldn't allow Sesshoumaru to extend his compassion beyond just her. As a mostly helpless kid, Rin has to rely upon Sesshoumaru and his power to survive, and Sesshoumaru employs his strength to keep her alive, getting nothing but a sweet smile out of it all. She gets all the benefits, he has all the obligations. This is PURE compassion - using one's advantages to another's benefit because you care about them, and not because you derive something from it as well.

This is why making Rin into Sesshoumaru's lover is a REALLY thoughtless take. It puts conditions on the compassion and muddies the message.

Moving onto Sesshoumaru's continued character development in the latter part of the story, the sword drama starts back up with slow, when Toutousai shows up and offers to reforge Tenseiga into a weapon. Sesshoumaru discovers that because he got angry enough to break his primary weapon in defense of Kagura's honor, he's triggered the next evolution of Tenseiga into something that can murder. Which is what he wanted at the beginning, yay! I want to point out here that Toutousai says Tenseiga noticed a change in Sesshoumaru's heart - anger for the first time for the sake of another. This implies that what Jaken said about Sesshoumaru getting tangled up in the fight against Naraku because Naraku kidnapping and using Rin to manipulate Sesshoumaru hurt Sesshoumaru's pride is actually accurate; he just really hated the thought of Naraku trying to use him, even if it was a failed attempt.

After going through HELL to develop the Meidou into a full circle (literally), Sesshoumaru then learns that the Meidou belongs to Tessaiga and Inuyasha, and that it's supposed to be handed over. Now, part of Sesshoumaru's angst over this idea, I think, is not just "did daddy love Inuyasha more?", but also the assumption that Inuyasha would have to KILL him in order to retake the Meidou Zangetsuha into Tessaiga. Thinking that your father meant for your little brother to kill you at some point to take your stuff is a pretty disturbing thought, to be entirely fair to him. This is why, when Sesshoumaru jumps into the meidou to take back control of the Naraku-possessed Tenseiga and breaks it deliberately, he spends the rest of the time in there moodily resigned to disappear. He genuinely believes that his father meant for him to die at this point, and even after they get out of there, he seems genuinely depressed.

This is Sesshoumaru's lowest point as a character. He's lost something he thought his father had meant for him, at his father's own wish, and he can't help but question why his dad would give him something just to take it away and give it to Inuyasha. It looks for all the world like favoritism, and since the Inu no Taishou is dead, there's no asking him what the hell the meaning of all this is.

This is all leading to one of the most infuriatingly ridiculous scenes I have ever seen in a manga - when Magatsuhi has crushed Sesshoumaru and everyone thinks he's been killed/absorbed, Magatsuhi is blown apart and rendered unable to reform by the shiny new sword clutched in Sesshoumaru's newly regrown arm. I could talk your ear off about how having Sesshoumaru stop being an amputee is erasure of consequences for his actions, or how being given back an arm is kind of a slap in the face for actual amputees, and where the mother f*ck did that sword come from anyway, but that's not what this essay is about, so I'll just keep all that to myself. The point of this is articulated by Toutousai when he says that Sesshoumaru had to let go of Tessaiga and his father's heirloom to stand on his own as a daiyoukai.

We've already gone over how Sesshoumaru is one of the most powerful characters in the series, who rarely has to worry about his well-being. He's just really strong without having to try. Sesshoumaru had already learned that he didn't need Tessaiga ages ago - he knew this when he learned that Inuyasha needed Tessaiga to keep from tearing himself apart eventually. But when he thought he had been passed down something from his father that was truly meant to be his, only to put all this work into it so that Inuyasha could have it, that embittered him again. It's not that he wanted the sword necessarily, but the thoughts and consideration of his father, who seemed to be putting everything he had into Inuyasha.

But his previous experiences protecting and considering someone (in some cases, multiple someones) weaker than him should have tipped him off. During the very battle in which he got his new arm and sword, he was actively helping those around him avoid Magatsuhi and keeping them close because he had a plan and the strength to carry it out. He was willing to take the extra step to protect Inuyasha and friends before trying to take care of Magatsuhi though, and that was the point. He put everyone else's needs ahead of his own, even Inuyasha's, and he did it without even thinking.

Toutousai just articulated what Sesshoumaru should have already intuitively known by that point. He never needed his father's heirlooms, the swords, his dad's power. They were unnecessary for him from the start. Inuyasha needed a leg up, because his own BODY could kill him after a while. But Sesshoumaru always had the capability of being great on his own. He just needed to finally separate his ego from who his father was and become his own person; stand on his own as a great youkai. While I don't agree with the execution, I can get behind the big lesson - don't rely on your daddy's wealth and influence to prop you up, and do the work to build a personality and identity of your own.

Which is ANOTHER reason why making Rin into a lover would be a thoughtless take. It would walk back Sesshoumaru's final lesson about being his own person apart from his father.

So, there you go. A comprehensive post regarding my take on Sesshoumaru's character development. I could add in a bit about Sesshoumaru coming to understand his father's consideration and the lengths he went to for the sake of protecting Inuyasha by having to give similar consideration to Rin, but I think this post is long enough, and that one statement on that aspect pretty much sums it up. Let me know if you would like me to elaborate on any of this, or if you would like to argue any of the points, I'm up for it. Might take me a minute to respond, mind you, but hopefully it won't take as long as it did to draft this behemoth.

Take care.

[sailorgreywolf-legacy]

The Beautiful Game

For @historical-hetalia-week day 6.

Plot: Russia courts a new ally against his American rival. However, he may have underestimated exactly who he is dealing with.

Characters: Russia, Mexico

Content Warning: Mentions of death and abuse

Word Count: 2.4K

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After years of clandestine planning, Russia had finally found a possible ally close to America. There had been hints that this particular ally might soon be within reach. Mexico had broken with America and objected to Cuba’s exclusion.

Russia had heard that there had been fights, though Cuba had declined to say whether he thought the relationship was going to fall apart. He seemed to put a lot of stock in respecting Mexico’s privacy.

But, Russia could see the ripples of the discontent between them, and he intended to take full advantage of it. It was just his luck that Cuba was close enough to Mexico to arrange a meeting.

As he stood in the living room of Mexico’s home he thought about how best to convince the man to abandon America. He thought it best to show how deficient America was as a friend and a lover.

The door opened and Mexico entered. He made a show of closing and locking the door. Russia assumed that it was a kind of assurance that they were alone. Then Mexico turned to him, with a look of expectation. Mexico was handsome as always, and very well dressed.

Russia led since he had been the one to suggest the meeting, “Thank you for agreeing to this. I’ve been eager to talk to you.”

He knew that it would be best to lead with honesty and a bit of flattery. Mexico had to know how important this visit was, especially since Russia had been working for years to find an inroad with him. He was not lying when he said that he had been waiting for this meeting. 

Mexico gave him a small smile that betrayed nothing and said, “I’m sure you have. Good thing that you didn’t propose it by telegram. Those have a nasty habit of being intercepted.”

Russia wasn't sure whether he should laugh at the comment. He understood the reference, but wasn’t sure if Mexico was meaning it to be humorous. Instead he said, “I do suppose I could have called.”

He was trying to make small talk, though he was sure that America was keeping a close eye on who he called. Mexico shook his head and said, “I wouldn’t recommend that either. Alfred has my phones bugged.”

Russia seized on this detail. He had guessed at it, since America was expanding his net of spies. But, he had not been certain if America trusted Mexico enough to spy on him.

He said, “So, he doesn’t trust you?”

Mexico laughed, which caught Russia off guard. He hadn’t expected Mexico to find something so serious quite so funny. Mexico caught his breath and said, “Christ, Ivan, do I not even get a bit of foreplay before you start probing me for information about Alfred?”

Russia noted that he had moved too fast. Mexico was apparently aware of the espionage and was not going to tell Russia whether it bothered him. The rumors about Mexico said that he was reckless and emotional, so he had expected that the realizing that Alfred was suspicious would be an emotional blow. But, that seemed like it was a wrong assumption.

He said, “Forgive me. I do want to talk to you without just talking about Alfred. I think we have more in common than you think.” 

He needed to remind himself that the goal was to sway Mexico’s loyalty, not to get information about his enemy. If he was successful, then the information would come.

Mexico had the slightest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth, but it was difficult to know what it meant. He said, “We might.” Then, after a short, mysterious silence he said, “Would you play a game of chess with me? Carlos tells me that you’re very good.”

Russia was confused by the question, since it did not seem related to the politics of the moment. But, he could indulge the impulse. He was confident in his own ability to win against a reckless young man who didn’t have the foresight that chess required.

Once the game was over he could begin to test the cracks in Mexico’s relationship with America. He replied, “Very well.”

That got an encouraging smile from Mexico. In a few minutes, Mexico had set up the board and he gestured to the chair across from him and said, “Take a seat. I like a challenge.”

Russia couldn’t help but smirk. It was quite cute that Mexico thought that it might be an even game. This was a game that Russia loved dearly and could rival the masters in; he was certain that he could destroy an amateur quickly.

He said as he sat, “You know I did not come here to play games with you.”

Mexico started to pull carved wooden pieces out of a velvet bag and place them on the board. He replied as he worked, “Of course you are. You’re here to play the grandest game of all: Politics. There is no bigger game than that.”

There were light clunks as Mexico placed the pieces on the board. Russia was pleasantly surprising with the wit. He had never heard anyone but Cuba say that Mexico was so sharp.

He glanced down at the board, and remarked, “You’re giving me white?”

It was a strange move, like Mexico wanted to handicap himself. A smarter man would have given himself the advantage of going first. Mexico said, not looking at all perturbed, “Of course. You are my guest and I do want a challenge.”

Russia could not fault the confidence, even if it seemed like it could almost be arrogance. Or perhaps he was just underestimating his opponent. Either way, Russia was happy to start the game by moving out his first pawn.

As Mexico moved, Russia asked, “So what will you tell Alfred if he finds out that I was here?” The other looked up only once he was done moving his pawn, and replied, "I will tell him that we played a game of chess and that was it.”

With what they were doing, that would not technically be a lie. Russia was impressed by the forethought. But he was certain that America would not take the answer lightly.

He asked, moving his knight out to open up the board, “And if he does not accept that answer?”

He wanted to know what was at stake, and what would happen if America turned on his Southern neighbor. But Mexico responded with a quickly glance, “I do not make my decisions based on what Alfred will accept.”

He stated it as plainly as one might remark about the weather, and Russia found himself frustrated that he could not sense bitterness in the words. He wanted something to work with.

The play continued on the board as he responded, “I have seen that. You voted in favor of Cuba. No one else dared to defy Alfred’s wishes.”

Mexico took his knight with a bishop and said, “I have done more for Carlos than that, as I am sure he has already told you.”

In truth, he had already heard some of the stories from Cuba. They were intriguing. Mexico hiding Castro right under the nose of the man who wanted to keep Cuba in thrall. Cuba said that his friend had also orchestrated meetings between Cuba and the communist exiles.

It was a strange thing for a man to do when he was supposedly so loyal to America. It was one of the many stories that gave him reason to believe that Mexico could be influenced.

He replied, “I know that you hosted Castro when he was in exile. I ask myself why you would do that if you weren’t sympathetic to our cause.”

He made his move. He was not paying close attention to the game, because he was certain that Mexico would not hand him anything that he could not deal with.

Instead of  making his move, Mexico stood up and walked over to a sideboard where he poured himself a glass of ice water. As he had his back to Russia, he said, “There is a simple explanation.” He turned back and said, “Carlos is my friend, and I wanted to help him.”

He returned to his seat and contemplated the pieces while sipping water. Russia pushed him, because he felt like the answer had been a dodge, “Are you denying that you have sympathy for Socialism?”

He was certain that Mexico had some ideological convictions that he was refusing to voice. Though he had been embroiled in his own conflict, he had heard rumors that Mexico had been with Zapata and Villa during the Revolution. Cuba had refused to tell him anything about it, and he valued him enough as an ally not to push him for information.

Mexico made his move and then said, “Sympathy is a strange word. I feel sympathy for many things."

Russia took a hard look at the board for the first time. He was surprised to realize that Mexico was pressing an exceptionally solid and aggressive attack. He should not have let it get to this point, because it would take a tight defense to push back.

As he stared at the board, Mexico said, “Can I ask you a question?”

Russia moved one of his rooks into a stronger position to protect his king. He answered, still focused on the game, “Go ahead.”

Mexico moved his queen decisively into a position that could quickly evolve into check, and said, “Do you know how hard it is to find an ice axe in this city?”

Russia’s hand paused over his piece as he understood the question. This was about Trotsky and Stalin’s obsessive quest to destroy him. A quest that had culminated in a murder.

He looked up at Mexico. He couldn’t help but appreciate the build up to this moment. As he looked, he saw a man very different from the rumors. He looked calm and certain of himself, and very aware of what he had just said.

For the first time Russia felt like he understood what Cuba had been telling him. As he looked, he saw a man who was brilliant and looking at him over a winning game of chess.

This was no foolish young man that he was facing. This was a bishop, not a pawn.

The handsome face was set in the most impassive expression, but his eyes hinted at a feeling of triumph. Mexico seemed to see that he understood and added, “Alfred’s conduct may have given you the false sense that I do not value my sovereignty. But I assure you, I do.”

Russia could not believe that Mexico had really valued the life of a single Soviet exile that highly. But, he took the point. It had been an overstep, but one born out of the singular obsession of one man.

He finally replied, “Stalin is dead.” Mexico countered quickly, “And so is Trotsky. One was more natural than the other.”

Russia remembered that it was his turn and moved his king out of a vulnerable position.

Mexico spoke while he was moving, “Make no mistake. I had no attachment to the man. Giving him asylum was a favor to Frida as a friend. But he was my guest and he was under my protection.”

Russia had not agreed to the assassination, but it was not his choice. He focused on a different detail, and said, “Frida Kahlo? Were you friends with her and Diego Rivera?"

He knew those names because they were communists. Mexico seemed to be friends with a suspicious number of communists.

He looked down on the board and saw that Mexico had finally made a mistake. He had left an opening in his defense. It was the kind of glaring error that an experienced player would have seen.

Mexico replied, dodging any political implications, “Yes. I thought you saw the mural on the way in. That’s Diego’s work.”

Russia had, and he had been tempted to pause and admire the work. It was beautifully done. He moved decisively to take advantage of the opening.

He nodded, and then returned to the subject of Trotsky, “I promise you that I do not use Stalin’s methods anymore.”

Mexico took a sip of water and contemplated the game. Then he answered, “I would hope so. But how do I know that your promises are any more sincere than Alfred’s?”

Russia could see that he had a path to winning the game, and he made use of it. If nothing else he had to defend his reputation as a chess player.

He decided it was time to use the weapon he would sure have an impact. He said, “You misunderstand my intentions. I want to free the world from imperialist oppression.”

Russia removed his scarf and rubbed his neck to draw Mexico’s attention to the scars. He added, “I think you know that some scars never fade.”

For the first time in the conversation he saw real uncertainty pass over Mexico’s face. He hoped that Mexico remembered the deep scars that America had left. From the look on the other’s face he guessed that his point had made an impact as he hoped that it would.

But, Mexico did not answer until he looked at the board. Then he said, “Ah, a nasty fork. I concede.”

He knocked over his king, and looked back up at the other man. Russia was glad to have at least won, since the game had been harder fought that he expected.

He said, capitalizing on the moment, “If you were betting on a game, you would put money on the better player.”

He knew his meaning was clear. On the world stage, as on the chess board, he was much stronger than America.

Mexico took a long drink of water before saying, “You assume that I have to gamble at all. I think that I can give my money to my friends when they need it. I do not need to do more than that.”

Russia understood, though this protestation of neutrality frustrated him. He wanted to push Mexico to choose a side because his own ideals seemed to align so strongly with communism.

However, he knew that it would be a tactical error to do so. Mexico had shown himself to be clever and calculating. It would take a much more developed strategy to convince him that neutrality was not the way. Russia conceded for the moment.

He extended his hand and said, “Thank you for the game and the conversation.” Mexico took it in his own firm grip and said, “Thank you for the challenge. If you want to play again, do get in contact. You know how to reach me.”

[colonel-kira-nerys]

More Thoughts on “A Matter of Perspective”

Content Warning: Discussion of Attempted Rape and Domestic Violence

Since my list of episodes with themes of sexual assault and other upsetting content has been making the rounds again, “A Matter of Perspective” has been weighing on my mind. 

Even all these years after watching this episode for the first time, it still upsets me more than almost any other episode in the Star Trek canon, so I just wanted to expand a little bit more on why it’s so distressing, while there are still people possibly interested in hearing my thoughts.

The following is an in-depth look at “A Matter of Perspective,” which may be upsetting to some people, so I’m putting my analysis beneath the cut. Please let me know what you think, because I still feel the need to scream into the void about this 30 years after it aired.

“A Matter of Perspective” (TNG: Season 3, Episode 14), at first glance, has an incredibly intriguing premise. The opener is Data critiquing Picard’s sub-par painting skills (talk about tone problems... Jesus) and then Riker beams back to the Enterprise after spending the night at an alien space station, where he was supposed to be checking up on the progress of a scientist named Dr. Apgar. 

But upon beaming back, the entire space station explodes. Riker acts surprised and clueless as to how this would’ve happened. Whenever he’s asked about what happened on the station, he gets cagey, even before the trial starts.

It’s clear he’s hiding something, so when an alien Inspector beams aboard asking for Riker’s arrest and extradition, the audience is prepared for it, because we know that something must’ve happened.

Then, when he’s accused of murdering the scientist and blowing up the station, there becomes the issue of who has jurisdiction over the crime. Does the Enterprise have the right to hold the trial on board, or should Riker be released into the custody of the Tenugan Investigator, Crag? 

It’s important to note that I’m not coming at this from a place of hatred, in the sense that I wasn’t looking for something wrong. I thoroughly believed this was about to be a BRILLIANT episode, with lots of moral ambiguity and intrigue.

Boy, was I wrong.

The two sides (Starfleet vs. Tenugan) eventually settle on recreating the events of Riker’s time on the station via the Holodeck. THIS WAS SO COOL. I wish all crimes were able to be recreated, down to the tiniest detail, through a simulation. I thoroughly looked forward to seeing the detective work being conducted through simulations, but only because I had no idea that Riker was also going to be accused of attempted rape. I went into this completely blind. 

Riker gets the first word in the trial, which I think was a gross miscarriage of justice, because he is the one being accused of the crime--of course he’s going to deny it!!! Why would you let the Defense make their case first...?! 

It prejudices Captain Picard to see Riker’s story first, because he’s already more likely to be believed and protected by his own captain. It also prejudices Deanna Troi--whose presence/function during the trial, by the way, is never explained. As far as I can tell, she’s there to be a lie-detector, which is hilarious in its absurdity, because she can “sense no deception” from either Will or Dr. Apgar’s wife, Manua.

I guarantee you if the attempted rape had been shown first, this episode would’ve had a completely different tone, and that is part of the problem.

Manua, after all, is the one who requires justice, not only for her husband, but also for herself. Although, at this point in the episode, we don’t even know that she’s accusing him of sexual assault, because the Inspector didn’t charge him with that crime from the beginning.

In a way, this was a great tactic to get Riker to hang himself with his own words---with his own testimony---but because every Starfleet officer in the room is already prejudiced, that’s not how the episode plays out. 

In Riker’s version of events, he is cold, robotic, and professional to a fault (as in, he seems completely uninterested in pleasantries, or, you know, doing his job with any sense of diplomacy). He makes it very clear from the beginning that he’s uninterested in Mrs. Apgar’s hospitality and just wants to get to work. 

Note: why would it be important for Riker to assert with his whole heart from the very beginning that he wasn’t interested in Manua, unless he knew that Manua was going to make a claim that in his view ‘wasn’t true’?! He acts SO SURPRISED that Manua would view his advances as attempted rape, and yet, here’s the thing: we know that Riker is a fan of the ladies, so what some might see as  “innocent” sexual banter could’ve been attributed to his personality, if he’d shown us his usual charm in his version of events. We expect this of him--to be a bit cocky and sensual. We might not like it, but we know that he’s a playboy, in the kindest interpretation of the word. So, as you’re watching his version of events, most people would find it strange that he would refuse hospitality from someone, because Riker has always been “up for anything” as they say. 

Instead of admitting that he might have given Manua the wrong impression by flirting with her, he makes himself out to be cold and unfeeling, in order to preserve an image of cool professionalism that we as the audience know isn’t true to his character.

So, any attempts at hospitality on the part of Manua are immediately spurned by Riker, even those that seem to be genuinely a part of social graces that are indigenous to populations everywhere, not just this alien one. “Can I get you a drink?” isn’t meant to be sexual, in most cultures. This is the bare minimum requirement of a hostess, to ask if anyone needs a refreshment, and yet, Riker makes it clear that this was the start of her sexual overtures... because he needs to cover his tracks. Manua explains later, in her own version of events, that she was worried her husband’s antisocial behavior might negatively impact Riker’s report, and so it was important to make him feel welcome--hence, the drink.

According to Riker, he made hotel arrangements down on the planet for Geordi and himself, but Manua insists that they stay in the guest bedrooms instead. I know Geordi is needed for the science fiction subplot, but why isn’t he in the room to confirm or deny at least this part of Riker’s story? Can’t this specific assertion be easily fact-checked? Even alien hotels presumably have a record of reservations. Like, if Riker was telling the truth, this bit is easily provable, though I would argue that just because he made other arrangements doesn’t mean he didn’t change his mind when he saw the opportunity to have sex. My point is, why is no actual detective work done to confirm the facts of Riker’s story...? 

Anyway, according to Riker, Manua then tries to seduce him once they’re alone in his guest quarters. Mr. Apgar walks in on them in a compromising position, and here’s something I failed to address in my earlier breakdown of the episode: At first, Apgar isn’t angry at Riker; he’s angry at his wife. 

He says: “I knew I’d find you with him. Did you think I didn’t notice how you looked at him? I’m not the fool you take me for.” AND THEN HE BACKHANDS HER, HARD, ACROSS THE FACE.

Her husband attacks her, by Riker’s own admission, and then, only after doing that, does Mr. Apgar try (and fail) to hit Riker, too. But it’s clear his wife was the person he wanted to spend his anger on.

In all versions of this story, Mr. Apgar tries to hit Riker. That’s 100% consistent. But in Riker’s version, Apgar makes a point to “punish” his wife first. Why? This is important, because no matter which of the three versions is true, Manua is either a victim of domestic violence or of sexual assault. 

Now, you can argue that Tayna wouldn’t have included Apgar hitting his wife in her statement, because Mr. Apgar is her boss, and you can also argue that Manua excluded the fact that her husband hit her from her own testimony in order to appear as though their marriage was better than it was, but why on earth would Riker feel the need to add this, if it weren’t true? Why add the assault of a woman by her husband, unless to show that this man was a “bad guy” compared to his much more “honorable” actions...?

Why isn’t this addressed? In all versions of events, Manua is physically assaulted, but only in Riker’s version does her husband slap her hard enough to nearly make her fall. I believe Riker over Tayna (the Assistant) on this specific count, because, frankly, her version is hearsay, told to her by her boss, and it’s very clear that Mr. Apgar was lying to Tayna when he claimed to beat the crap out of Riker. 

So, it’s more than likely that Mr. Apgar did indeed hit his wife, if we look at it from the lens of what it makes sense for Riker to lie about, and what it doesn’t. The “beating” was taken by Manua, and not Riker, in the truest version of this story, which has to be somewhere in the middle of all of the versions, apparently.

Apgar might’ve changed this part of the story when telling it to Tayna to save face with her. Also, I don’t know who, besides her, could possibly believe that Apgar won a fistfight against Riker. 

Regardless, why would he insist his wife and assistant be transported off the space station unless 1) he believed Riker was a sexual predator and/or 2) he wanted no witnesses to what he was about to do next.

[Note: This episode was heavily inspired by Rashomon, a Japanese film which explores the retelling of the same events by multiple characters, in which everyone shows their “ideal self” by lying. In that story, however, the wife is actually raped. Like, there’s no “matter of perspective” claiming she didn’t get raped. The “perspective” change only offers different ways the rape could’ve happened, and how the characters involved all acted after the rape changes from person to person. The murder is treated as the more important issue in that movie, too, because misogyny.]

Why bring up Rashomon? Because the writers should never have changed this part of the story to imply the attempted rape didn’t happen. They shouldn’t have adapted it in such a way that the main goal is to cast doubt on the assault of the woman; they should’ve committed to the assault happening, but three people telling it three different ways, so that at no point is the story trying to tell us that rape is “a matter of perspective,” but rather that the undeniable rape itself was seen by three different people in three different lights.  

I think this episode could’ve been a meaningful exploration of the issue that men often don’t perceive their dogged pursuit of women as predatory, especially when the woman in question eventually “submits.” This could’ve been a story about how Riker didn’t realize he had as much power over Mr. Apgar’s scientific research (and by extension, Manua’s life) as he did. Manua and Apgar were completely dependent on Riker’s glowing report, and it’s made very clear in Manua’s version of events that she felt she couldn’t just excuse herself from the situation entirely, because her husband’s research was at stake.

This episode could’ve shown us how a “good” man, with a somewhat oblivious understanding of his power, could still abuse his power over a woman with regard to her ability to consent... but no. They immediately try to paint Manua as a lying seductress rather than a rape victim.

Here’s the thing: Manua’s version is the only one where her character has a clear motivation to testify against Riker. If this were only about her husband’s death, her testimony would be mostly irrelevant, because she obviously wasn’t there when it happened. And, if she had tried to seduce Riker, she wouldn’t need to “cry rape” to solidify Riker’s motive to kill her husband--he already had motive, which was Apgar’s threat to report his promiscuous conduct to Starfleet. Making a false accusation of rape doesn’t benefit her in any way. Not to mention it clearly traumatized her to recount it. She had to excuse herself by the end of it.

Another reason it doesn’t make sense for Manua to lie about the attempted rape is simply that she didn’t know the true nature of her husband’s research. The show missteps here, too, by making it so clear that she was in the dark about it, because if they hadn’t done that, they could’ve argued that she lied as a red herring to distract the Starfleet officers from discovering that her husband was making a weapon. But no!! Both she and Tayna had no idea that Dr. Apgar was making a weapon, and therefore that had no bearing on the rape accusation. So, the writers make absolutely no effort to explain what possible motivation Manua could’ve had for lying---because there isn’t one!!

Even in the original script, it says that Manua’s version of events characterizes Riker in a much more believable way:

(And it’s important to note that in this take on the story, Riker’s attitude is less aloof and formal. He's relaxed and charming. In fact, in some ways he is more like the Riker we know and love.)

Moreover, Deanna Troi, who canonically is supposed to be able to tell when people are lying, can sense no deception from Manua. Not that you should need an empath in the room to believe a woman when she says that someone tried to rape her. But putting that aside, the fact that there is an empath–who is compromised to begin with because of her relationship with Riker–and she believes Manua’s presentation of the events... that alone is some pretty damning evidence. 

If Manua feels as though Riker tried to harm her–feels it so strongly that Deanna empathically senses that she is telling the truth–it shouldn’t matter what Riker thinks of the accusation. Assuming Riker really does believe his version of events, and Manua believes hers, why are the writers making such an effort to both discredit and support the truth of Manua’s testimony at the same time...?

And, just in case your blood isn’t boiling yet, there’s this: 

Michael Piller recalled that the episode was "probably the hardest story to break. It was a technical nightmare for the director. I was very, very, happy with the script and I thought the show was disappointing. I guess it didn't translate properly. It was very ambitious, but the casting was off. If you had put Lana Turner in the role of the woman in that show, you would have understood it all – but I don't think it played as it was intended. 

Y’all... this FUCKING ASSHOLE claims that the real reason the episode didn’t work was because of the casting of the wife. He believes that people would’ve “understood it all” if Lana Turner, a sex symbol and famous pin-up model, had played the role. 

What he’s saying is: if the wife had been sexier, a walking pin-up, the audience would’ve understood the episode better, but because the actress playing her was... what? too average-looking? too demure? people “didn’t get it?”

This has the terrible implication that he thinks the rape story wasn’t as believable because the actress playing Manua wasn’t hot enough. Think about that for two seconds and tell me you don’t want to shoot this guy in the balls. 

This could’ve been a meaningful exploration of how Riker didn’t realize he took advantage of Manua; in his mind, she was willing, but in hers, she thought she had to have sex with him or else it would negatively effect his report on her husband’s research. It could’ve been a commentary on how a man can abuse his power without meaning to--without even realizing he has it--and that, if the woman then feels violated, it’s still an assault, even if she eventually gave in and appeared to “consent.”

This episode should’ve been about Riker not realizing he’d coerced a woman, and so he truly believes he’s innocent. But no, instead it becomes a situation in which there is no possible way there was a middle ground between the two accounts. Manua’s testimony is so clearly an assault, there could be no way Riker interpreted her begging him to stop as seduction.

In conclusion, this episode goes out of its way to make it seem like rape victims are liars who can’t be trusted. Keeping in mind this was 30 years ago, I just want to end by saying: according to the United States Justice Department, only approximately 2% of all rape complaints are false, while almost three out of every four rapes go unreported. We need to stop perpetuating the lie that women often “cry rape.” Statistically speaking, they don’t. 

If you made it through all of this, I would love to know your thoughts on my analysis, if you have a moment to spare to share them.

[anonymouslyangsty]

Okay so I adore Kazuichi Soda, but GOD do I feel like his character is wasted somewhat in game??? I really wish he had more of an ark

(Warning, I’m going to ramble like a himbo about my Sodapop son below. It’s...way to long and has spoilers)

So, Kaz’s whole character backstory is that he was a nerdy, shy kid who got pushed around by his ‘friends’. He got in trouble for helping a friend cheat on a test, but he wasn’t upset when said friend threw him under the bus. He only got upset when that friend stopped talking to him after, which in turn encouraged him to distrust others and change his behavior and appearance to appear tough.

What I get from this is that Kaz puts on a fragile act to look tough, has a hard time trusting others, and has rather low self esteem. He acts like a punk, but the second someone attacks him, verbally or otherwise, he crumbles and cowers. 

That all being said, I don’t feel that these traits are properly handled or addressed in the game

Firstly, the whole Sonia obsession. I think it makes sense from a few perspectives. In one option, Soda could see Sonia, being a princess, as above ‘normal’ people, thus making her an object of his affections. Option B is that he doesn’t REALLY obsess with Sonia that hard, but because he wants to look cool, he pretends to like her so he can fit in with what he thinks dudes are like. 

Whatever option we go with, it’s clear that Soda has a very shallow ‘love’ for Sonia, only really liking her for her title and appearance. Whenever she expresses the darker sides of her personality (love of the occult and serial killers), Kaz always tries to divert attention from or ignore it. He doesn’t love her as a person, but as a figure. 

The shallowness of his love is coupled with her total devotion to her. Kaz makes the exact same mistake he did with his friend: he trusts Sonia irrationally, incapable of seeing any fault in her whatsoever. So, whenever she’s put into question, he jumps at her aid, trusting her regardless of any evidence. 

This also means that he’s incapable of seeing how uninterested she is in him. She never bluntly says it, but it’s clear that Sonia, at the very least, vaguely dislikes Kaz. She straight up hopes that he’s the killer in chapter 4.

But again, just like with his friend, Kaz brushes it off as nothing. Sonia could do anything to him but, as long as he has her ‘companionship’ (or the illusion of it), he’s fine. This is clearly a terribly unhealthy mentality for a relationship, as Sonia gets idolized to an uncomfortable degree and Soda leaves himself open to any level of abuse as long as he thinks he’s accepted.

Kaz is repeating the same mistake from his backstory, but I don’t think that’s a bad thing. The bad part is the fact that it’s never addressed.

Sonia never tells Soda to stop, nor does anyone ever highlight the fact that Soda doesn’t really love her. He is constantly following her, but probably couldn’t say 10 things about her personality. If that WAS addressed, it could be used to show Soda that he isn’t going to make connections to people by keeping up his “cool, thirsty bro” persona, but instead by being genuine and kind, which is more align with his true personality. Honestly, I was expecting this to happen after chapter 4 but nope.

Another option, darker this time, is that Soda could find himself betrayed again. It would makes sense thematically; Kaz repeats the same mistake of blind trust, and is thus betrayed again. Maybe Sonia tries to kill someone, betraying the ideal pedestal Kaz places her on. Maybe she frames HIM for murder in an attempt to save Gundham.

Slight tangent here, but I really like the idea of a worst case scenario where Soda’s failure to learn from the past gets him killed (TLDR for the tangent, as if this whole thing doesn’t need a TLDR: Sonia and Kaz pull a DR1 first murder, but Kaz legit acts in self defense).

 Let’s say that, instead of the funhouse, chapter 4 gives motivation videos regarding everyone’s home. Of course, Sonia’s is about how her kingdom is falling into shambles. Extremely stressed, she locks herself in her room for several days. She eventually decides that, to save her kingdom, she has to sacrifice everything, even her morality. She decides to kill.

So, Sonia goes after the easiest target: Soda. Because of his blind faith in her, Soda wouldn’t hesitate to do whatever she asked. So Sonia asks him to meet her in some secluded area, perhaps the abandoned warehouse from chapter 1, sometime late at night.

Soda agrees to this blindly because he can’t EVER believe that Miss Sonia would ever do wrong. However, when he arrives, she attacks him, perhaps stabbing him in the shoulder. I know this is probably slightly underestimating Sonia, as she is trained in weaponry and could probably kill Kaz in one blow, but let’s say she’s so distressed that she doesn’t fatally would him.

Of course, there’s a struggle because, as much as Kaz obsesses over her, he’s not going to let Sonia murder him. She eventually backs him into a corner but, before she can kill him, he knocks her out with a wrench or something (he’s already established to carry one around because it comforts him, so it makes sense that he’d have it)

So now Kaz is alone, bleeding in an abandoned building with an unconscious woman at his feet. That would be a good point to wake everyone up and say what happens, but here’s where Kaz’s personality comes to bite him again. He still has faith in Sonia despite everything, unable to see her faults despite her having literally tried to kill him

So, his first priority is covering up HER crime. He hides the evidence of the attack as best as he can (which probably isn’t well given his panic and his wound). Then, he takes Sonia and carries her back to her room. He probably ties her up so she doesn’t her anyone else or herself when she wakes up. 

The next morning, Sonia isn’t at breakfast. Given that she’d locked herself in her room for several days, it wouldn’t be suspicious. Not wanting her to stay tied up, Soda offers to take breakfast to her. Once there, he wants to talk to her and calm her down, before letting her go and never telling anyone what happened.

However, you can’t just knock someone over the head and think they’re fine. That kind of kills people, and Soda soon learns that. When he gets into Sonia’s room, he finds her still tied up, dead.

Kaz is a coward, but is shown to be kind at heard. So, while I don’t think he’d be brave enough to confess, I don’t think he’d be willing to kill everyone else. Perhaps he’d try to kill himself before the trial to spare himself from execution. However, Nagito stops him. Nagito convinces Soda to cling onto the hope that he ISN’T the killer, and instead someone came to Sonia afterwards and killed her. It’s farfetched, but given his mental state, Kaz would buy it.

This all creates something I’ve always wanted in DR: an innocent blackened. Soda acted in self defense and had no intention to kill. In the trial, he wouldn’t be hiding info in an attempt to trick everyone, but in misplaced hope that he ISN’T the killer. 

Not only that, but this outcome really highlights the error of Soda’s mentality. Because he so blindly trusted Sonia, he was easily tricked by her. Because his self esteem is so bad, he doesn’t even get mad when she tries to kill him, instead hiding HER crime. Perhaps, if he’d gotten upset and ratted her out, she could’ve gotten some kind of medical attention and been saved. Instead, Kaz bent over backwards for her, leading to their deaths.

That was a long tangent, but the point is, I want Kaz’s failure to learn from past mistakes to be addressed, either by him growing past it or being punished for it. Nether happens though. The Sonia obsession continues throughout the ENTIRE game, with it never being addressed as a problem. It’s really strange thematically and character wise, as addressing it could’ve given both characters good development.

Moving on from Sonia somewhat, I HATE Kaz’s character ark, as he doesn’t evolve, but devolves. The source of Kaz’s problems is lis low self esteem. If he cared about himself more, he wouldn’t have accepted poor treatment from his friends in exchange for their companionship. He wouldn’t have changed his appearance and personality because he thought he was unlikable and boring.

Despite that however, in the end, the lesson he learns is to trust people again. That’s not a BAD lesson, but it doesn’t solve the problem. His self esteem is still nearly nothing; by once again falling into the idea that he has to trust his friends nonmatter what, he’s setting himself up to be used again (I’m not saying anyone in the DR2 cast WOULD do that, but the possibility remains.)

By trusting again without gaining self esteem, Kaz somewhat goes pack to step one. His ark really shoud have been about trusting and loving HIMSELF before he trusts and loves others. Kaz needs to realize that he doesn’t need to put on a tough act to make friends, as anyone who requires a tough act to like him isn’t his friend at all. He needs to realize that he deserves good treatment, and someone being your friend doesn’t justify cruel behavior towards you. 

But! He never learns that!!! He just goes right back to trusting without considering his self worth. That...really isn’t healthy and I wish it was addressed in his ark.

Another thing: why doesn’t Kaz have any dead friends? The entire surviving DR2 cast has someone who they were close to that died, Akane and Nekomaru, Fuyu and Peko, Hajime and Chiaki, Sonia and Gundham. It’s strange that everyone BUT Kaz has a close relationship with someone who dies in game.

Why not make Kaz friends with Mikan? I feel like they have a bit in canon, with both being anxious and prone to being bullied. I feel like a friendship between those two could be used to show Kaz’s more genuine personality. It’d be a chance to show that he isn’t CONSTANTLY thirsty over girls, that he can talk to Mikan without a hint of lust. Instead, they could just be friends, finding comfort in the fact that there’s someone else who’s just as terrified as they are.

Also, this relationship could be used to both mess with Kaz AND make another parallel to DR1. Make Mikan frame Kaz for the killing, just like Celeste with Hiro. This would not only be super interesting, but also a MASSIVE blow to Kaz’s ability to trust, which is already terrible. Also again, I just feel like Kaz’s anxiety is used for comic relief too often. I want this boy to straight up have a panic attack in trial. Destroy him with fear. 

So uh, yeah. I feel like Kaz’s depth is sacrificed for the sake of comic relief. He could’ve been so much more, but he isn’t and it’s a shame. Also, if you read this whole thing, then you must be just as obsessed with Kaz as I am. So, send me some good Kaz fics! It is SO HARD to find a fic that focuses on Kaz instead of Nagito. Do it.

[demonfox38]

Completed - Zelda II: The Adventure of Link

Oh, my language is going to be vulgar on this one.

So, I'm a crusty millennial who likes old garbage. Most of the media I like is old enough to drink and be a member of the US congress, but probably couldn't be due to the country that produced it. Now, I'd like to think that I've got good reasons to like older media, particularly when it comes to video games. It's a bit hard for my NES to bug me for microtransactions/DLC and emanate the screams of children and man-children alike. But, as much as I like my retro junk, there's one thing I'm very, very happy about regarding modern video games. The variety of game types now-a-days is a blessing. It's rare that someone is stellar at all game types, and I sure have my weaknesses.

It took me a long time to realize that I could be good at video games, and I wholly blame the glut of 1980s platforming games on that.

Look, platforming is not a forgiving genre. Particularly, back in the day where you had characters dying in 1-3 hits before factoring in death pits. It existed then for the reason that fourteen million instakill indie horror games exist now. Instantly killing the player is a lot easier to code than, say, having to track a health bar or their new position as an enemy swats them into a different room. Sometimes, a coder's gotta do what they can to keep themselves sane.

But, from a player's perspective, this style sucks!

Getting good at a platforming game requires practicing the same levels over and over again, developing a sense of your character's inertia and limitations. Without a save state or a warp to narrow in on a particularly troublesome location, it's hard to get learning to stick. You could lose a lot of games and time trying to put it all together. And some poor little character is always suffering because of your ineptitude! Such failure feels like a fork in an electrical socket. Succeeding in these circumstances requires a great deal of emotional resilience and a contrary attitude. And you know what? That's just not something I had as a kid. In fact, one could say I had my aggression and competitive drive scolded out of me. I'm just now getting that back.

So, yeah. I had a little trouble with "Zelda II: The Adventure of Link."

"Zelda II" is part of a trifecta of NES games that get routinely shit on by retro reviewers. Like its peers "Super Mario Bros. 2" and "Castlevania II", this game is generally considered an inferior game due to an extreme change of gameplay and appearance from its predecessors. And you know what? That attitude sucks. I'd rather have a variety of different games with a cast I like than have them pigeon-holed into one genre. In "Zelda II"'s case, however? The game mechanic shift was so extreme that I can easily see the ire it raises. Hell, I felt it. I wouldn't go so far to say that it's the worst Zelda game ever, but man, does it have structural defects.

In "Zelda II", Link's goal is to save an ensorcelled Zelda from eternal slumber by picking up a Triforce chunk that was pitched into a fuck-off palace way at the edge of Hyrule. (No, not the Zelda from the first game. Another Zelda. Same Link, though.) To do that, he's got to slap six gemstones into various temples across the countryside. Naturally, that includes picking up his trusty sword, leaping into battle, and then maybe straight into a death pit.

That's right. This Zelda is actually a Mario.

Further complicating the matter is a sharp switch in battle style and item accruement. While the previous Zelda game was about room management and ranged combat (or at least, as much as that was allowed), this game is all about jamming Link's dinky sword into an enemy's face and running off as fast as he can. Now, Link can learn a few tricks to help with the slash and dash, like directional stab mechanics and spells. But, as far as getting new weapons to help you? Sorry, bud. No bombs or boomerangs here. Well, except for the assholes throwing boomerangs at you, anyway. You just can't steal them.

The game encourages polishing the player's skill with Link through a level system. After acquiring XP through good ol' fashioned monster murdering, Link can cash his points out, improving his life, magic, or attack power. As the player levels him up, stats become more costly to improve. If Link gets a total game over before you use your XP, it is wiped out. Alright, fine. Fair, I guess. But, I wouldn't recommend looking at Japanese footage of this game if you don't want to give yourself a migraine. It turns out that as a part of some rebalancing, the level-up system was stacked to try and keep players from dumping all of their points into a single stat early into the game. Particularly, attack. Considering how painful and annoying enemy logic gets in this game, it's such a drag to learn that Japanese players literally could cut their way right out of that struggle. Thanks for dicking with the game design again, American publishers.

I guess we got better looking sprites and sound effects out of the deal? Hooray for wiggly Barba.

Even with leveling mechanics and a handful of heart and magic containers, this Link feels much frailer than the original Zelda's Link. Like, it's hard to believe he's supposed to be the same guy. Even at max health and defense, you could get Link wiped out with 8-32 hits (as opposed to 16-64 hits from the first game.) Exacerbating that is a life system that can yoink those health bars at any pit's whim and Link's range/health restoration being tied to a limited pool of magic. It feels like you're playing with a ceramic replica of the original character. You can make it work in a fight, sure, but you'd rather have a sword than a shard of a broken teapot.

If you don't have a bushido-level acceptance of death, you're not going to make it very far in this game. I'm not being hyperbolic. You have to accept that you are going to kill Link. You're going to watch that little fairy boy fade to black as the world flashes around him, and you're going to see that a lot. You're going to toss his bitch ass into the river to get a game over and restock your lives because fuck if you're going to wipe out inside a dungeon and have to start your bitch ass back at Zelda's temple again. That little counter on the main menu isn't how many times you have wiped out. It's how many times you've clawed your way out of the abyss with a middle finger raised.

Oh. Minor epilepsy warning on boss and Link deaths, by the way.

Having gone full bleak there for a moment, there are a few pieces of knowledge that can help slow down the cycle of life and death:

There are towns with nice ladies in red dresses and orange robes that will heal your ass for free. You should talk with them a lot.

There are classes of enemies that will drop items after they have been killed six times. Most of the time, this is a magic bottle that restores MP. Sometimes, it's a bag of experience. No monster will drop anything to heal your HP.

Also, some enemies are literal rat bastards that steal your XP. Some also give you no XP on killing them. Yeah. I know. Annoying.

The Life spell is in Saria. The downward stab is in Mido. (I realize these are very strange sentences if you're more familiar with "Ocarina of Time.") Getting these can make a night and day difference in surviving the game. So, keep that in mind.

You do get a spell that will turn you into a fairy. You can use it to game pits and sneak past lock doors. Just don't abuse it too much. It's expensive.

The dungeons have this little statue in front of them that you can whack with your sword. In most locations, it'll drop either a magic bottle or an Iron Knuckle. Game entering and exiting a dungeon as much as possible to restore yourself to full vitality.

You can get into random fights on the overworld (represented either by a little black blob or a more threatening human-sized blob.) Staying on gold roads will mean these encounters produce no enemies.

Also, you can use those random battles to override forced platforming sections. Not that I would recommend cheating in such a fashion. 😉

The game will give you a level up after you plug a gemstone into a dungeon. If you're close to leveling up anyway, turn around and grind up to the top, cash in what you've got, and then go pitch that gem.

Link has a crouch, not a duck. You think pressing down on the D-pad will evade projectiles aimed at your face, but it does not. Crouching is only good for blocking floor-level garbage. It's best not to think of the down button as much as possible, really. Only use it to pick up crap off the ground and cheese the final boss. Otherwise, jump.

I know that I said earlier that "Zelda II" is mechanically like a Mario game, but you know what other perspective might help? Try and play Link as a Metroidvania Castlevania character. There's an attack style in games like "Castlevania: Symphony of the Night" and "Aria of Sorrow" where you walk, jump, and attack in such a way that you never stop moving forward. That's what you've got to do. Walk, jump at an enemy, bonk on forehead. (Depending on how fast you press the attack button, you may need to delay swinging your sword just a teeny bit. At least, I had a bad habit of swinging too early.) With any luck, when you hit the ground, you will be able to keep on moving. You do not want to get stuck playing "poke-the-hole" with your enemies, particularly with how turtle-y some of them can get.

So, the game's a brutal bitch, but I don't want to spend the entire time shitting on it. Let's talk about improvements.

Honestly, I like the sprite style of the side-scrolling sections better than the previous game. Everyone/thing has more room to be rendered, so they look clearer. I can't say the monster or dungeon design here is my favorite, but hey. Easy to see. Yippie. Could have used a map though. Maybe some more tile textures in the dungeons?

NO. STOP. BE NICE.

There are more people around that want to help Link out. Like, whole towns filled with helpful healing ladies and dudes that will teach you magic and the occasional sword strike. Most of their conversation makes sense (although, there's a memetastic fault in translation regarding a character being named Error instead of what I'm assuming should have been Errol.) People good. Want to help people. People help me.

Except for towns where some of the people are monsters, and one of the times they overlapped a healing lady to get text box priority, and then they killed me. Boo.

I'M SORRY. I HAD A HARD TIME.

The music variety is pleasant. Only a few tracks have escaped the game to go into use elsewhere, but there's only one that I'm really iffy on. The NA release did a fine job transposing what they could using a different sound chip, and there are striking uses of the sample channel being used in ominous situations.

But…like…I struggle to see where fighting through this game is worth it. And maybe it comes down to the final boss. Like, the penultimate one? Absolutely cool. A bitch to fight, but I can't knock how massive and intricate its sprite is. But, the final boss? I suppose it comes down to personal tastes, but I find mirror matches/rivals to be exceedingly dull. Like, good for you. You know how I fight. I do too. Come back to me when you know the weaknesses of my style and use a fresh set of skills to throw at me.

Like, it's not the worst ending in the Zelda series. (My vote for that would go to "Link's Awakening.") You do get Zelda saved. But, given that the final boss is some kind of dark clone of yourself…it begs a lot of questions. Was there any concrete plan for the forces of darkness in Hyrule, or were various monster tribes just scuffling around, being dicks without any overarching plan? Were some monsters trying to keep you out of the Great Palace for a good reason? Would there have been any threat of Ganon reviving at all if Link just…sat on his ass behind a castle for the next century or managed his anxiety in a different way? Why does the manual bother to separate Zeldas and the game does not? Oh, wait. The Japanese intro correctly distinguishes this and the American one does not. Why am I not surprised? What's the difference if you don't see the Zelda you saved from the first game, anyway?

This game is a lot of work. I had to psych myself up to play it every time, and by the end, I was rattled enough by my nerves that I literally camped in my bathroom for a few minutes just to make sure I didn't get sick on the couch. Very stressful. And I'm not sure that stress was worth it, frankly. Life's hard enough as it is right now. I literally have a stress rash on my neck from the shit I'm going through in real life. No, you did not need to know about that. But maybe you need to know that I've been having a hard time lately, and this game did nothing to alleviate me from the stresses of reality. And what's the point in checking out from reality if a fantasy world is just going to make me miserable, too?

There are better games to play in this style. Hell, there are better games on the NES in this style. You know what you should go play? "Faxanadu." It's uglier than "Zelda II", sure. An absolute idiot when it comes to basic mathematics. But it's very chill about platforming and death. And maybe I just want to chill the fuck out for a while.

[ask-de-writer]

SEA DRAGON’S GIFT : Part 61 of 83 : World of Sea

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SEA DRAGON’S GIFT

Part 61 of 83

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

140406 words

copyright 2020

written 2007

All rights reserved.

Reproduction in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the express consent of the author.

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Copyright fair use rules for Tumblr users

Users   of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights.  They may   reblog the story provided that all author and copyright information   remains intact.  They may use the characters or original characters in   my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical   compositions.

All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fiction is actively encouraged.

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New to the story?  Read from the beginning.  PART 1 is here

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Aboard the Longin, men and women broke out every boat that could be put under oars and began the long task of dragging their ship out of the calm fog.  It took over two hours to get the Longin to a breeze. They paused only long enough to reload the boats before they set every scrap of sail that could be set and began to hunt south for the Dorton, that was sailing near to them.  Together the two ships sailed north, searching into the Dragon Sea for the Grandalor.

They ran two days north before turning in a wide search sweep of the same sort that they would have used to locate a lost fishing boat.  They saw nothing but an occasional soaring Wide Wing.

When Mord slept at all, he dreamed — — Hag taken by the poisonous tentacles of nightmares that would not stop.  The blood of the fight had stained his hands and would not come off.  Barad, ripped open by a strong Skin’s fin spine was screaming in agony until the huge fish bit him in half.  The Grandalor attackers rowing away in the fog when a Wing Ray, so large that it darkened the sky as it leaped, pancaked down on them reducing the boats to bits of floating wreckage — but they’d taken Kurin with them …

Bleary eyed from his Hag poisoned dreams, Captain Mord said heavily to his mother, the Longin’s Purser, “I hate to admit it, Alor, but we need to go find help for this search.  We can’t do it with only two ships.  Already we have lost days.”

“If we can, Mord,” Alor replied thoughtfully, “we need to get the Dark Dragon and the Soaring Bird.  Both of them are experienced in tracking ships.”

In a far different tone she went on, “I am worried, son.  I need to talk to you as a mother.  There have been some rumors about that boarding.  Did you really silence the fog drum when you knew that they were from the Grandalor?”

Angry, full of self justification, he answered, “What difference does it make, Mother?  Yes, I did.  They were from the Grandalor!  We don’t allow them onto our ship!  We never have.”

Alor looked sadly at her son, of whom she’d been so proud for so long. “What happened to the first one to set foot on our deck?”

“I repulsed her, Mother!” he said defensively.  “What difference does it make?  Stop looking at me that way! … All right!  I stabbed her with my knife!”  He looked puzzled, thinking back to the fight, “I must have.  The knife was mine, in my hand but I don’t really remember doing it.  She was boarding us, for Dragon’s sake!  I was in my rights!”

“The man who tried to pull her back over the rail?”

Suddenly Captain Mord realized that Alor knew far more of the fight than he had realized.  “He got in front of me!  His  throat was cut!  He couldn’t attack us further.”

Her face fell.  Sadly she said, “Now I must talk to you as a representative of the officers and Masters of the Longin.”

She held out a limp fish-leather bag, weighted with scraps of the same. “What was the worst injury that we took?  I’ll tell you the answer, though you already know it.  Old Sorra got three bruises. None of the Grandalor folk struck at any of us, unless we struck at them first.  They only defended themselves.  All that they had were these pitiful coshes.”

“Mother! They were a boarding party!  They attacked us!  They kidnapped Kurin!”

“Are you quite sure of that?” she asked sharply.

“She’s gone!” Mord shouted frantically.  “What more do you need?”

“The note that she left would be a start,” she said quietly.

“There was no note!” he said desperately.

“You have persisted in lying to me about this event.  I have no choice.” Alor put her face in her hands and wept, saying through her tears, “By order of a joint council of the Masters and officers, you are relieved of your Captaincy until we can hold a hearing on your fitness to command.  You will have the right to witnesses on your behalf and to rebut all charges.  You will be notified in writing of all charges in advance, to prepare your defense.”

Three officers entered the room.  They took away the dismayed and unresisting Mord.  He was allowed to stay in the Captain’s cabin on his word to do nothing to interfere with the running of the ship during the investigation.

The Longin continued to run south through the treacherous weather of the storm’s aftermath, seeking aid as swiftly as straining canvas could take her.  

Mord, the once Captain of the Longin, looked in disbelief at the parchment that had been handed to him only a few minutes before.  It bore the familiar signatures of every officer and Master aboard the Longin. They were formally requiring an investigation into his competence to govern the ship that he had commanded for nearly thirty Gatherings.

Seeing the allegations in writing finally brought home to him just how far onto dry land he had run.  For him, the worst of the whole affair was that he could not deny any of the charges.  He could explain what he had done and even why.  He could not excuse it.

He was accused of violating the boarder’s rights under the Fifth Great Law (the right of safe haven to mariners in distress).  There were two counts.  He had silenced the fog beat and he had refused to allow them to come aboard to safety.

There was an accusation of violation of the Second Great Law.  They had the right to a fleet trial, to call witness on their behalf, and to rebut the cases against them.  In repulsing them he had prevented them from obtaining fleet justice.

He was accused of murder in the case of the one man whose throat he had cut.  There was a charge of attempted murder in the case of the woman that he had stabbed, who was still alive when last seen.

He was not accused directly of the death of the Grandalor sailor (tentatively identified as the Bosun named Modanet).  His injuries had occurred in the heat of combat and none remembered who had stabbed him.  The death, however, was put to the Captain’s flawed leadership.

He was accused of leading his crew in the above illegal actions.

He was further charged with destroying Kurin’s note and refusing to examine the tallow-slates brought by the boarders and then lying to officers who questioned him about them.

In addition to all of the above was breach of custom in the burial of the dead.

The parchment also informed him that Kurin’s note had been recovered by careful scraping away of the upper layers of tallow by Master Juris. The recovery process had been witnessed by Alor for the ship’s officers and Mistress Daeron for the Craft Council.  The note verified that Kurin had apparently left the ship voluntarily, her right as a legal adult.

One of the tallow-slates from the Grandalor had been recovered by a sailor and given to an officer.  The note had been in Tanlin’s left-handed writing.  This had been compared to documents relating the cargo survey and security agreement with the Grandalor.  The documents contained material written by both Barad and Tanlin.  It was Alor’s formal opinion that the handwriting was the same as Tanlin’s.  The contents of the note revealed that the twelve boarders were to be hostages for Kurin’s safe return, should she agree to come away.  If she did not, then the twelve would submit to trial under fleet justice.  The note’s signature identified Tanlin as the Grandalor’s Captain.

Appended was a list of witnesses and what each had contributed to the case.

Mord thought long on the problem of what was needed.  It was clear that he needed to be relieved.  As bad as things had got, now that he could see the charges, with time to reflect on them,  their justice was obvious.  He could not fight this.

The stress of nearly losing Kurin, and the rest of the Grandalor business had unhinged him.  Now that it was not hidden by his responsibility for the whole ship, he realized that he felt more for Kurin than just pride in an outstanding member of an outstanding crew.  He felt as if she were the daughter that the Birth Lottery had denied him.  When he thought of all that he had not done, his heart clenched in nearly physical pain.

He opened the port near his bed for fresh air and to see something besides walls of Strong Skin.  The sky was dark with leaden clouds and rain sweeping by on gusts of wind.  It suited his mood.

When Kurin’s mother went mad, after her father’s death, He should have fostered her.  He had let Cat, his foster sister, do it.  He should have hugged her, praised her and disciplined her.  In fear of seeming to favor one above any other, he had never done any of the job of a parent.  He had left it to others to do.

He missed her accomplishments and strange mix of adult wisdom and childhood.  She had stood up to him and tried to prevent the disaster, and he had sent her away.  He could see now how the battle combined with a few persuasive words could have made her go.  The whole mess was his fault … He would have to plead guilty with mitigating circumstances.

TO BE CONTINUED

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[missn11]

And we’re back with chapter one of The Devil’s Advocate and this time I’m not going to unnecessary fill up your dash! 😅 This chapter was pretty short compared to the prologue and not too much happen as from catching with Owain in the modern age and glimpsing at the villains of the book, maybe.

Anyway, we cut from 1093, Wales to the present time (assuming 1997) America, Atlanta, to a Kindred named Grimsdale, whose on the run from his former allies to get to Chicago for safety.

The skyscrapers towered on every side, enormous walls to a cell—or coffin—from which Grimsdale might never emerge. He jerked about, the hundredth glance over his shoulder that hour. Nothing. But they had to be close. He could feel their predatory gazes boring through him like a stake. Grimsdale harbored no illusions. If they caught him there would be no trial, no appeal to the archbishop. There! He whirled around at the sound of a deep, raspy cough just down the street. Street person or assassin? No way to know. Keep moving, Grimsdale told The Devil's Advocate 43 himself. He dashed across the intersection and hurried down the sidestreet. Keep moving. He hadn’t come this far to die now. Downtown Atlanta was mostly deserted this time of night—no crowds for cover, but always plenty of shadows to hide killers. Grimsdale’s hearing was sharp, but would that be enough for him to slip out of the city, to get to Chicago? He had avoided New York, Washington, Detroit, but even here they had found him. How much longer could he elude them? How many hours until his luck ran out?

Then we cut to a courier, Nicholas who has been sent to Owain’s estate to deliver a message.

Evans sat easily upon the edge of his desk, savored a sip from the glass he had poured. “You are from eastern Europe…not the Balkans, to the north…” He took another small sip, concentrated. “Minsk?” A smile crept across Nicholas’ features. He had underestimated this elder of the city. “Kiev.” “Kiev.” Evans nodded. “Of course. Accents are tricky things, and yours is quite faint. You’ve not been home for quite some time, I’d wager.” Nicholas snorted good-naturedly. Four words, and the young-looking vampire had guessed his home within a few hundred miles. Nicholas’ predatory instincts were again as alert as they had been in the forest. He wouldn’t let his guard down again, not around this wily Kindred with his disarming manner and sharp mind. Nicholas didn’t know much about Owain Evans other than that he was a prominent but unobtrusive member of Atlanta’s Kindred community. Obviously he was well-off financially, and he would bear close watching while Nicholas was in town  

Evans chatted on politely about something. Nicholas inwardly cursed his own weakness. He had completed his task. How much longer would this maddening formality go on? Nicholas did not feel he could risk offending this elder by dashing out of his home. “Well, my talkative friend,” Evans continued, “let me ask you one final question.” Final question. That phrase muscled through Nicholas’ distress and grabbed his attention. “I’m curious.” Evans sat behind his desk once again and gestured toward the bone case. “You did not bring this message all the way from Berlin purely out of good will. What was your payment?” The question was like cold water thrown in Nicholas’ face. Even though Evans must have known the message was coming and where it came from, how did the cursed Ventrue know to ask about the one thing Nicholas couldn’t divulge? “A favor from a friend’s friend,” he mumbled. 

He could feel those black eyes watching him, and wasn’t sure if he could meet the probing gaze with- 50 Gherbod Fleming out losing control, without falling into frenzy. Suddenly the urge to shred the expensive drapes, to rake his claws across the perfectly stained hardwood floor was quite strong. The thought of such savagery in this all too proper room was so appealing that Nicholas couldn’t help laughing at the dichotomy. This seemed to catch Evans off guard. For the first time this evening, the Ventrue looked perplexed, and his obvious puzzlement made Nicholas laugh even harder. The violent nature of his thoughts intensified proportionately, which struck him as increasingly hilarious. Soon Evans joined in the laughing, almost nervously at first, then more forcefully, still not comprehending but not caring, for laughter, like hatred, is contagious. “What, exactly,” Evans forced out between mirthful convulsions, “are you laughing at?” “I was thinking…a-hem…of ripping your throat out,” Nicholas explained gleefully. Rather quickly, Evans stopped laughing. Shortly Nicholas, too, had regained his composure, and both men looked about slightly embarrassed, not exactly sure what had just transpired. Nicholas decided prudence called for taking his leave before the room again began to close in on him. “With all due respect, Mr. Evans, I must go.”

After Nicholas, Owain, who had been playing a chess game for years now, rolls open the message to find that he had lost. 

Just as he finished, his distracted gaze fell upon the ivory cylinder on his desk, the message nearly forgotten amidst the strangeness of the visit. He picked up the tube and inspected the intact seal of his long-time opponent. A pity almost to open it. Often times the anticipation was more titillating than the actual revelation, especially when, like this time, Owain felt sure he knew what the message contained. He crossed to the small alcove in the study where he kept his Battle of Hastings chess set. It was carved by a wood worker who had seen with his own eyes both Harold Godwin and William the Bastard on the field that black day in 1066. Owain, as always, played the dark Anglo-Saxon defenders so that he might rework history and spare his homeland the indignity and the horror of Norman overlordship. And this time, the Bastard was getting what he deserved!

 This particular game had been going on for about three centuries now, moves sent by courier every decade or two. The previous game had bogged down a bit, as Owain had spent most of the Re- 52 Gherbod Fleming naissance in torpor, but not so this time. Owain congratulated himself as he surveyed the board. The end-game was nearly played out, his black forces relentlessly pressing the attack. The white king was backed near a corner along with a woefully misplayed bishop. A lone rook, a sorely pressed knight, and a smattering of ineffectual pawns cluttered the center of the board. Owain’s pieces were in a far superior situation, even lacking both of his knights. Otherwise, one bishop and one rook were the only casualties of any significance. Owain’s queen whisked around the board mercilessly crushing every semblance of resistance from the damnable Normans. Perhaps Harold should have taken his wife into battle, Owain mused. Surely the end was near. This correspondence might just as well contain a final concession as a move. Unlikely. Owain’s opponent, he knew, would probably struggle on to the end. Futile. And not particularly graceful. Owain grinned as he conjured the image of driving the Normans, mauled and bloodied, back into the English Channel. It would be a shame, really, to end the game. It was one of the few diversions that held much interest for Owain any more.

He was fairly ensconced within Kindred society, and his financial empire more or less ran itself. Occasionally a bit of blackmail, corporate espionage, or murder was required, The Devil's Advocate 53 but nothing overly taxing. Generally, one night was like the next was like the next. That very fear, of anticipation giving way to boredom, stayed Owain’s hand, kept him from opening the cylinder. Even the messenger, that odd Gangrel, had proved entertaining. When could Owain again expect such an intriguing break from routine? A blackness gnawed at him from within. Blacker than the pieces on the chess board, blacker than the night outside his window. Perhaps it is the call of torpor I hear once again.

The knock at the study door interrupted Owain’s darkening spiral of thought. “Yes, Randal.” Owain’s most trusted ghoul stepped into the room. “Sir, our…ah…guest, as he were, has departed, and Ms. Jackson has brought the car around.” “The car? For…?” Owain was still concentrating on the chess board. “The art exhibit,” Randal finished his master’s sentence. “Oh, yes. That,” Owain said absently, again examining the ivory case in his hand. “Is that tonight? You’re sure?” “Yes, sir.” “Of course you are. I knew it was tonight. I suppose a man is due a lapse of memory every century or two.” “Indeed, sir.” 54 Gherbod Fleming “And our dear Prince Benison wouldn’t take kindly to being ignored, now would he?” Owain sighed and set the tube on the table by the board. 

Now that he was required elsewhere, his curiosity about the message was piqued. “Oh, bloody hell.” He rose in frustration and started across the room. He would need a fresh suit, but first he should shave the stubble that began every night as two day’s growth and never grew longer. Halfway to the door he stopped and turned back to the table. “Wouldn’t do to be unfashionably early, now would it?” It would be a rare day when impatience didn’t win out over duty. Owain settled into the seat by the chess board. “Well, Randal, let’s see what pitiable defense my esteemed adversary has put forward.” A suddenly claw-like fingernail made short work of the seal, and Owain was unrolling the yellowed parchment he slid from the tube. 

As always, there was no preamble or greeting; the black script flowed smoothly limning the five essential words: Rook to King’s Knight five and then a sixth: Check Even close to a millenium of undeath had not prepared Owain for that instant. But he recovered quickly; only for a moment did his mouth drop open before he assumed a more directed response. “There must be a mistake.” The words rasped forth The Devil's Advocate 55 from his suddenly parched mouth and throat, but there was no mistake.

Of course Owain doesn’t take this lost very well...

Owain had pinned White’s pesky remaining knight and within two or three moves would most likely have maneuvered the king into checkmate. But now this! Not only did the rook place Owain’s king into check, the piece’s movement revealed a discovered attack from White’s king’s bishop which also produced check. “But…how?” Owain weakly whispered. There was a pawn blocking that diagonal. A white pawn, but I don’t remember it moving…. 

He lowered his face into his hand. Owain’s opponent had not, in fact, moved that pawn. Harold Godwin’s omnipotent queen had whisked it away to Norman hell. That was several turns back. Probably…1930. The queasiness in Owain’s stomach intensified as he studied the board more closely. Not only was Owain’s king in check from two attackers, he was trapped. He could escape for one turn, but then rook to king’s knight eight, protected by the bishop, every black piece at least two moves away—checkmate. “Ahhhhhh!” Owain’s fangs slipped down and his claws took shape, so incensed was he.

 “Sir?” Randal, who had quietly eased forward to look over his master’s shoulder, jumped backwards, nearly knocking a bust of Oliver Cromwell from its marble pedestal. As Randal watched from a rela- 56 Gherbod Fleming tively safe distance, Owain, his hand quivering with rage, moved the white rook from its former position to king’s knight five with a resounding thump that threatened to upend the other pieces. Randal, an accomplished gamer himself, examined the board for a brief moment. “Oh.” Owain restrained his urge to take each chess piece, one at a time, and rend its head from its body, before grinding its disjointed form into bits too minute to be recognized. With a supreme act of will, he calmly rose from his chair and left the room. “I believe I have somewhere to be,” he muttered through clenched teeth. Randal quietly followed behind. 

We then cut back to Grimsdale, who is caught by I guess some Sabbat and they start eating him before a Lasombra, Francesca finishs him up. 

“Save some for your lover, Dietrich.” Francesca’s words rolled off her tongue, the very sound of her voice enough to drive Dietrich to distraction. He stepped away from his current masterpiece and pushed away Liza as well. The African-American woman hissed, droplets of fresh vitæ spraying from her mouth as Grimsdale collapsed to the ground. “I don’t believe he’ll be going anywhere now,” Francesca observed. Dietrich laughed at her words, unable to contain himself. He began bouncing where he stood. Liza licked her lips and wiped her face with her sleeve, watching begrudgingly as Francesca lifted Grimsdale and drained the rest of his blood. Even Liza had to admit there was a certain style, an innate sensuality, about this Hispanic woman. Watching her lick the mangled body gave Liza The Devil's Advocate 61 goosebumps and set her to fantasizing. “Your shadow it hold him good,” said Dietrich. “Of course it did,” Francesca responded. Dietrich edged closer and guffawed idiotically at her acknowledgement of his complement. Liza had had enough. “I’d love to stay so we could all kiss each others’ asses, but I got places to go.” Francesca nodded in her direction. “Your aid was invaluable. It will not go unnoticed, I assure you.” “Yeah?” It was difficult for Liza to mouth off at this woman. “Okay.” As Liza turned to leave, she noticed Dietrich’s reptillian tongue stretching out and wrapping itself around Francesca’s forearm. Walking away, Liza tried to ignore the maniacal cackling spilling out from behind the building.

[everlarkficexchange]

Unmasked ~ Nineteen

Written by: ~ M ~

Prompt #88

Rating: E (Explicit) This fic will contain consensual sexual content; mild language; discussions of injuries, illness, and amputations in a historical setting; discussions of miscarriage; discussions of minor character suicide; references to non consensual sexual situations.

My thanks to the moderators of @everlarkficexchange for always running an entertaining event, and for playing along with a little fun and mystery. Also my thanks to everyone who offered up their inbox for submissions to give @javistg a break from posting so much from me. Please enjoy the nineteenth chapter of this adventure. Previous installments can be found here. Regards,

~ M ~

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~~ Chapter 19 ~~

After a restless night, I am dreading breakfast. It feels as though I have lived a lifetime since yesterday, an eon since Peeta left Everdeen. Mary frets over me and how pale I am as she helps dress me. I drag my still tired body down the stairs and into the breakfast room. Madge and I will need to visit Johanna to see to her bandages, and that means I will need a hearty meal to fortify me.

My mind still grapples with the matter of hiding Johanna here at Everdeen and all of the details she revealed to me. A brush fire on the battlefield as Peeta tended to her, a drummer — So then it was while he was caring for Johanna that he was scarred. An enemy soldier attacking them and —

My stomach revolts unexpectedly and I pause, reaching a hand out to steady myself on a convenient piece of furniture in the hall.

She said that Peeta cut the man the way you slaughter a pig. It should not surprise me, this knowledge that my husband who served in the infantry was required to kill a man.

Like slaughtering a pig. With no emotion in her voice. I have seen pigs and chickens slaughtered for the table, I have felled deer and other game. It is a cold, emotionless task. It almost need be, otherwise one would starve. With deer, sometimes the arrow or the musket ball is not enough for a kill. I myself have needed to wield a knife to slice a throat. Yet as I attempt to imagine doing so to a man…

I see eyes. Eyes of so many I have called friend, family, love. And I can imagine no further. The one time my father attempted to teach Primrose how to hunt, she cried over the dead animal and begged him to take it home with us, claiming there was still a chance we might save the poor dear. He was still alive, Prim insisted. She could see it in his eyes! My father had closed the rabbit’s eyes and maneuvered my sister away from the sight, holding her and comforting her while I was left to deal with the task of skinning the beast. I can understand her trepidation now.

Then I think of that day in Aunt Effie’s garden, when Peeta drew a knife to withdraw thorns from my palm. The ease with which he wielded it. My head spins and I take a few deep breaths as I remind myself of the rest of what Johanna said. He was tending to a wounded patient and they were attacked. Mayhaps Peeta killed a man, but it would have been done in defense of himself and of her, for surely the other soldier would have killed them both had Peeta not acted swiftly.

Perhaps it is not the irrefutable knowledge that my husband has killed that upsets me, for I too have killed, albeit for utterly different reasons. They are not the same. Not the same at all. No, I wonder now if what troubles me most is the reconciliation of the gentle man I believe him to be with the callous picture Johanna described. I know my husband. He is no murderer and he is certainly not heartless. How then does he face the killing of another person in such proximity. Surely he must have seen the other man’s eyes? But then the other man must have seen Peeta’s as well.

I think then of the drawings, the way he describes the agony and anguish and guilt of war. Of losing someone in his care… How his drawings draw such focus to the eyes. It stands to reason that he feels a similar mix of terrible emotions in regards to those he was forced to kill.

The reminder helps calm the churning in my middle, enough that I am able to continue on to the breakfast room. I wonder though at my husband never telling me of this in all his confessions of the night. If I am honest with myself, I am upset that Johanna knows more of him than I. How much of that is owing to my newfound knowledge of her sex, I cannot be certain. It did not concern me much when I thought her a man. She has known him for years, she said, whereas I have only known him months.

Perhaps he sought to protect me from the horrors he has committed, or perhaps it disturbs him enough that he did not wish to speak of it. Perhaps we are simply not to the point where he feels at ease speaking of those moments with me. I resolve to do as he has done. Have patience and trust that he will tell me when he is prepared to trust me with this part of his past.

I sit at table and force some egg down my throat. The room is wretchedly quiet and unusually hot given that I am rather early, likely the first to rise today… until Primrose wanders in.

She halts in the doorway and runs her hands over the bodice of her dress. She is so lovely. Fresh as morning dew and beautiful as the rose for which she was named. Her words last night, however, taint the air between us.

“Prim—“

“How is Joe?” Our words overlap and I turn my attention to buttering my toast. I am unaccountably famished for the level of queasiness I feel. Food is simple, usually, and so I keep my eyes on that as I speak.

“He will be fine. Madge and I will see to his wounds. He sends his apologies for his harsh words last night.”

“He was in a great deal of pain, no doubt. Sometimes we are more harsh than we intend to be when we are in pain… are we not?” Prim says this softly and I glance over at her as she fills her plate.

“Yes. I suppose sometimes we are.”

“Katniss, I am…I must apologize. My words yesterday—“

“I mean only to protect you. I do not want you to feel that you have settled in your marriage.”

“Have you settled?” She asks, turning to the table with sparks in her eyes.

“At first I thought I did,” I admit to her. “I did not wish to marry at all, I thought. But I was fortunate. It is a great turn of luck that while my hand may have been forced into marriage, I could not have asked for a better husband. I wished for you to be free as I was not to choose your husband.”

She makes a strange noise and flounces to the table, sitting with an uncharacteristic lack of grace. “Then why can you not trust me to know my own heart and the strength of Rory’s character?”

“Perhaps because you speak so little of him.”

“You did not wish to hear.”

“I do now, Little Duck.”

Primrose arranges her skirts suddenly, perfectly delicate and ladylike. I smother a smile as I think of what Johanna might say of my sister this morning.

“I am not certain it matters now,” she says forlornly.

“Is that the only thing he said on the matter of your season? That it was for the best?” She nods and sniffles. I sigh to myself. “It is not much to go on. Is it possible he meant only that were you to have a season, it would strengthen your feelings for him, at least the certainty of them. If you are truly meant to be with Rory, then a few suitors would not change this. You’ve not interacted with a great deal of gentlemen.”

Primrose considers this as she begins to eat. “I suppose it possible. I would need to be careful in my wording when I ask him if that is what he intended.”

“Perhaps consult with Madge on this, as she seems to have a more delicate way with both words and men than I,” I suggest and she nods, seemingly resolved. I ask her again to tell me of him and listen as she speaks. She paints a rather rosy picture of the man, and while I am glad that she seems to have such tender feelings for her suitor, I cannot help but think that he sounds too good to be real. I do not mention that she has drawn most of her conclusions from his letters. Words are fine things and quite important, but it is our deeds and actions that truly make a marriage.

Slowly, the household awakens. Tasks await me, and I leave the breakfast room shortly after Madge and Maysilee enter it. Although, I am pleased when Prim rises to walk out with me. I do not wish strife between us.

A dizziness sweeps over me as we walk and I once more must use the furniture to steady myself.

“Katniss?” Prim asks as I close my eyes to halt the room from spinning. “Katniss are you unwell?”

“Only tired,” I tell her as she touches me. I draw strength from the contact although I still feel faint.

“Are you certain you do not wish me to see to Joe? You never had much stomach for such things.”

“Nay,” I say and she lifts one brow before leaning close to me.

“You know… I am quite good at keeping secrets.” I stare at her and mull over the weight of her words. Truthfully, her care would be much better for Jo. I could manage, but Prim is a budding, brilliant healer in her own right. The more I think of facing bandages and wounds not yet healed, the worse I feel.

Yet…Johanna has only grudgingly trusted me with her secret. “I have promised to see to him, and he is Peeta’s friend. This task falls to me, Little Duck.”

“Oh very well,” Prim says, and huffs but leans close once more. “At least allow me to make some ginger root tea for you. You look positively green.”

“Green?” I ask and she nods. “Yes, that might be just the thing I need.”

She smiles at this and helps me towards the study. I see to a few tasks and sip the tea when Primrose brings it to me. It does soothe the roiling in my middle. Shortly after the nausea dissipates, so does the feeling of being overheated, just in time for Madge to join me. We gather what supplies we will need, and ride out to the cottage where Jo lives.

“Well I think you for not having the esteemable Mr. Crane visit me,” Johanna says as she opens the door before moving stiffly back to the bed.

Her cottage is humble but tidy. A bottle of orange and bergamot scented oil warms by the fire, one of the products of this very farm. Shirts await mending in a basket and a simple breakfast of egg and roll sit half eaten on a platter next to the chair. There are no delicate or personal touches to denote who lives here, save for the wide brimmed hat Johanna usually wears.

“I would not wish his sermons on my worst enemy,” I mutter as Madge directs Johanna to remove her shirt and lay on her stomach.

“I’d wager your ears burn right off when he starts in talking lust and carnal sins. Do those feel aimed at you, Kitten?” I glare at her and Madge hushses her. “S’nothing to be ashamed of. Every man is considered virile for his urges. Why shouldn’t we? How else does one get in the family way?”

“By laying back and just holding on until it’s over,” Madge suggests and Johanna snorts.

“Children are work enough on their own. Making them ought to at least be enjoyable as consolation. I’ve been fortunate in that regard on both ends. Plenty of enjoyment, no children. And you have too, haven’t you, Mrs. Mellark?” I smile at her and saw away at her bandages along the sides. “Hey! Watch it!”

“Oh I am so sorry, Johanna,” I purr and she scowls at me but then starts laughing.

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After we have seen to Johanna and return to Everdeen, the daily post brings happy tidings for both Everdeen sisters.

For Prim, a letter from Mr. Rory Hawthorne, adamantly expressing regrets over his hasty words and clarifying that he only meant that Prim deserves a season and a chance to be certain of whom she wishes to marry.

“A season full of suitors praising you will in no way diminish my affections for you, and I greatly regret that my last may have given the impression of such,” she reads aloud to Madge and I during a quiet moment. “My feelings will hold steady and patient. Although, I confess that I will be among the first in line, begging a dance or calling for tea, lest you forget me in all the attentions sure to be heaped at your toes.”

While I still hold my doubts in regards to Mr. Hawthorne, the letter does much to soothe my fears for my sister.

As for my fears in regards to my own marriage, a letter arrives from Peeta as well to soothe those. I pocket it and save it for a private moment. I barely manage it with the festival still ongoing, the noises of dancing and happy laughter a backdrop as I stand in a quiet spot, beneath a lantern as the day fades to evening, a brilliant sunset painted across the sky in his favourite shade of orange. I drink in the sight and then scan my husband’s words, smiling and blushing at the opening salutation:

My Darling Wife:

He continues, assuring me that he has arrived safely and fortunately timed, as his friend is most in need of Peeta’s assistance and is grateful for the pair of men who chose to accompany him. I smile at his descriptions of his friend, the farm on which they now labor, and even the men of Everdeen bringing songs from home to the new fields. Other words, however, concern me.

Nights are lonely without you, my pearl. The mattress here is too soft and wide without your warmth. The empty space beside me invites terrible visions. I sleep now in a more rough manner, as I did when my life was ruled by drum beats, the rattle of sabers, and musket fire. On the floor if the nights grow cold, outside beneath the stars and moon should they be balmy. Even then, the sight of the heavens keeps you with me, knowing the same stars I stare upon as I seek refuge in sleep watch over your own nights and dreams. It seems to help for now, as though the return to the routine of sleeping thus banishes the lingering effects of that life.

I close my eyes and send my thoughts across the miles to him, hoping he might feel that I am with him, caring for him, loving him, longing for his return. His words do little to soothe my fears for him as they carry such a sadness to them. Save for the final paragraph, which I know I shall read again and again over the coming days.

I can only hope that our parting moments have not tarnished your opinion of me. I acted in such a base manner, taking advantage of the night and our parting, succumbing to the temptation to treat you so. I beg a thousand pardons from you for my roughness. I am indeed the brute you accused me of, as I must confess that as guilty as I feel for my lack of gentility in those moments, I think of them near constantly, with a powerful fever in my blood. The effect you have on me…my wife, my love, precious pearl…Katniss, I cannot even describe it save to say that every ounce of me longs to return to you, to hold you in my arms and feel your breath upon my neck, your hands…well those I would wish wherever you choose to place them. And indeed, I even long to perhaps repeat our parting moments, albeit in a more gentle manner suitable to your comfort. For now, I must work and hope that I have not destroyed what fragile foundations we have so carefully built together. Until I return to you, I remain…

Your ever loving husband,

~Peeta~

He apologizes. He apologizes for a thing I cannot regret. A thing I think of near constantly as well, also with a frightening fever in my blood that I’ve no idea how to quench without him. I do not know how to tell him that I too am filled with longing. For him. For his return.

I feel as though I hold his very soul with this parchment, much as I do when I peruse his sketches. I envy his ability to so easily express himself and curse my own reticence to reciprocate. Even writing out I love you, Peeta angers me. So hollow compared to the picture he paints with the words in his letters. I crumple the thing into a ball and toss it to the flames.

That does no good in quenching the fever taken hold of me either.

I  haven’t his gift for words and can only hope that my scrawled missives might convey my feelings back to him. They seem so paltry compared to his, my letters short scraps of news or remarks on the weather, the festival. I do not know how to convey the depth of my feelings on such thin paper. Not even the ink seems thick enough to carry the right tone, and yet he manages the feat.

The days proceed. Most days bring with them a letter from Peeta. Whenever they arrive, I savor them, drinking in his words, reading them three times or more, until I think perhaps I have an adequate response to send. Adequate but I fear not enough.

Each morning when I wake, I fight fatigue and nauseau. I request the ginger root tea and keep my theories to myself for now. I pass a day waiting for my courses that never arrive, and then another. I begin to hope in the absence – the absence of both Peeta and my monthly cycle – but heeding Madge’s counsel, I hold that knowledge close my heart until I can be certain.

In the meantime, I add his letters to my book, in place of his morning sketches. I dream of that night, and of all the others. That night for which he apologized. Apologized as though I could feel debased or shamed by what we shared. A thing that has led me to a sin most grievous, I fear. My hands now wander in the night as I dream of him and attempt to recreate his touch. He apologizes while I cling to the hope of certainty – the certainty of our happiness should I be correct in my hopes that I am with child. Some days it near destroys me, and then the post arrives.

My mother notes my tea preferences and smiles, soft and content. When my father asks her what has her so pink and lovely, she assures him that it is nothing. Simply the brightness of a fair morning and the pleasure of having two contnent daughters, a bountiful harvest.

After breakfast that day, she requests a moment of my time and embraces me.

“How late?”

“Nearly six days now,” I tell her and she kisses my temple.

“I will have Joe exercise Sagittaria for you.” I blush hotly at that. Johanna will surely know why, but I do not contradict my mother’s bidding. “In a few weeks, we will send for the doctor. Does Peeta know?”

“Not yet,” I tell her and she leans back to caress my cheek.

“Are you pleased?” I manage a nod and then bury my face in her bosom when she embraces me again. Now if only I could summon the courage to tell him how I feel. I should think it would be easier through ink and paper and yet I have had no success with it.

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I huff angrily in the afternoon sunshine one day, tapping the end of my quill on the desk. Only four days remain in our separation and I have yet to write a satisfactory letter to him. Only the short, rather impersonal things one might send to a cousin or mere acquaintance. Worse, his grow more removed every day. It is as though he slips further away from me the longer I am unable to convey my feelings.

Madge walks by the open study door, her laughter clear and beautiful. Maysilee dances along behind her, singing a silly song, twirling and losing her balance, grasping hold of her mother’s skirts to keep from falling.

Such courage they have in acting as their true selves. Maysilee fears no judgement in her imaginings and games. She finds joy with no caution to temper it. And Madge… Even in her secrets and her scandalous affair, my friend found the courage to seize her desires. Such courage Johanna has in leaving everything familiar to her and building a life of her own, free of the shackles but also the security of her parents.

Such courage it must have taken Peeta to open his heart to me every step of our marriage.

I sit straight and gather my own courage. Perhaps I have not been as brave as I could wish, but I shall begin now. I can be brave with Peeta. He will not discard my heart carelessly. I think of all our nights in the kitchens, in front of the fire, beside the lake, and in the arms of their comforting memories, I write.

My Darling Husband,

This letter should have made its way to you a week past, and yet I struggled to find the courage to put my thoughts to words. I beseech you to sleep in peace, or have you forgotten my requirements of you? I would hate for your lack of caring for your own person to dim our pending reunion. Your apologies are unnecessary and rather insulting. I am made of stronger stuff, as you know. A brute in the night, as long as he has your gentle touch in the day, is nothing for me to fear and nothing for you to regret.

I read back over my words and blush. Fan myself as it has grown quite hot in this room. That is quite enough sentiment, I decide and charge onward with one of my more regular litanies of ongoings at home. I manage one more thing I likely should have mentioned in an earlier letter. A subtle hint that I have come to know his companion, Joe, quite well in his absence. I hear shouts in the hall and hurry to finish.

Until you return home to me, I remain

Your loving wife,

Katniss

“Katniss! Horses! In the lane!” Prim shouts, pausing in the doorway as I sign my name. She smiles at me and I stand. It is good to see this side of her again. Smiling and happy, eager to greet visitors. I am glad of it and leave my letter to finish sealing later.

“We are not expecting the Hawthornes yet, are we? Or perhaps Mr. Rory Hawthorne wishes one more chance to woo you before the season begins,” I tease and she shakes her head.

“Perhaps they shall visit in spring.”

I follow her giddy pace down the hall, as quickly as I can manage as I feel a bit ill at the moment. I rest a hand on my middle and will the feeling to abate. Through the window, I catch sight of man still mounted on a horse. His shoulders and back a familiar, broad shape, encased in a dark green coat. He removes his hat and my breath hitches at the blonde curls that gleam in the sunshine.

“Peeta,” I whisper and hasten my footsteps.

He is home! He is home early! My heart races as I grab hold of my skirts and overcome Prim, through the open doors. A chestnut prances nervously as he announces himself to the footman.

It is the wrong horse.

I halt and Prim collides with me. My smile vanishes.

“Ah! There she is! Mrs. Mellark, do tell these chaps that I am your brother now.”

“Sir Robert,” I manage to say and his strained smile smoothes out. It is then that I notice Delly on a mare at his side. I manage a curtsy to the pair of them.

“Indeed! We came ahead of the coach with our things. It should be here shortly. Surely my brother told you of our intent to visit?” he says and manages to steady his horse long enough to dismount, sweeping into a bow directed at me.

“He did not.”

“Oh,” Robert’s smile falters for a moment and then returns brighter than ever. “I did send word.”

I was almost married to this man. The thought leaps up and claims my attention, unbidden and strangely…unpleasant, and I cannot help but wonder if the last time I saw him, was he proposing to me from behind a mask of lies or was he kissing me from behind a mask of plaster and paint and more lies?

“Peeta is not here presently,” I say, the joy I felt only moments ago now cracks across my chest, in an unnameable mixture of emotions. My head spins and I feel slightly faint as I fight against the very real and evident feeling that I might disgrace myself and purge my stomach of its contents right here on the steps. “I have sent his post on to him.”

“Ah, then the news was lost in the time of transfer no doubt.” He turns to help Delly from her horse and then strides up the stairs and straight to my sister, taking her hand and once more bowing, clearly confident that he will not be turned away, despite the lack of notice. “The lovely Miss Primrose Everdeen, I presume. Indeed your sister has not exaggerated your beauty. Such lovely sisters, I feared my memory might have played tricks but lo! You are as radiant as I recall.”

The last is spoken directly to me, with eyes and teeth shining in a flattering smile. A traitorous flutter disrupts my pulse, although I manage to control it quickly. He still holds my sister’s hand. His wife only now joins us.

“Katniss?” Prim asks and I glance at her wide eyed expression.

“Sir Robert Mellark,” I manage to croak. “Peeta’s half brother.”

“Come now, we are family, Katniss! You will not allow me my fun? You must introduce me as his twin brother!”

I ignore his words and incline my head towards the door. “Primrose, please tell Sae that we have guests. Sir Robert Mellark and his wife.” She thankfully does not question, although the current of unease must be plain to her. She extricates her hand from Sir Robert’s and hurries inside.

“Yes! My wife. She claims to have met you before.”

“Indeed we have met. ‘Tis good to see you again, Delly,” I say and find that I mean it.

“We are not causing you trouble?” Delly asks with a lovely, happy smile that I remember quite well.

As much as this churning, confusing feeling inside me makes me wish to turn Sir Robert away, I know that I cannot deny Peeta’s family a visit, and I would not dream of being rude to Delly. She has done me no injury.

“No, of course not. It is only that Peeta will likely be gone another four days.”

“No matter! We will find plenty to amuse us in the meantime. I believe I caught sight of a harvest festival as we rode in?” Sir Robert says. I nod an affirmative and he offers an arm to Delly. “Excellent. I’ve not been to one in an age!”

“Then by all means, make yourselves at home,” I say, hoping that my words ring sincere, as I am not sure I can distinguish up from down as I follow the man I thought to marry and his wife into my home.

I pause in the doorway and turn back, holding one hand over my eyes to shield them from the sun, squinting through the light and the dirt. There is no other rider in the lane.

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To be continued…Chapter 21 will post here on the @everlarkficexchange

[vedinthevanguard]

the sea wolf.

Blimey! Is that (ARVED LESKE)? (HE) is the (VANGUARD) on the Cursed Serpent and has been onboard the ship for (TWELVE YEARS). Legend has it they are (DEVOTED & PERCEPTIVE), but don’t get on their bad side, because I hear they’re (FEROCIOUS & DEFENSIVE). Aye! Stop staring! (VED) has their (SABRES) out! Written by Gray, PST, 28, they. 

Hi hi! I’m Gray, and this is Ved. Looking forward to writing with everyone! My Discord’s having Problems at the moment, so in the meantime, feel free to message me for plotting purposes! Can’t wait to get started!

POCKET EDITION

At his best, Ved is devoted, perceptive, sensible, constructive, and confident. At his worst, he’s frighteningly ferocious, defensive, aloof, merciless, and suspicious. He’s also unambitious, and, generally, reserved until his opinion is asked, then very frank about what he thinks. You asked. He’s more reasonable than most of the vanguard - which isn’t necessarily saying much - but that has limits, and he’s fairly unforgiving.

Ved’s a werewolf, with his even hairier, scarier half kept contained by sorcerous enchantment - a discreet amulet he wears at all times, and a small ritual refreshed on the night of the new moon every month. This ritual requires a single pearl, a twig of hemlock, a handful of soot, and vinegar. Most of that’s not hard to find, and doesn’t look too strange. But he’s secretive about it, all the same. 

Nobody on the crew, currently, knows what Ved is. If you would like your character to have suspicions, let’s chat before anything happens! Just because this is kind of his Biggest Deal, you know?

Captain Bradway took him in and secured that enchantment for him years ago, and Ved’s been on the Cursed Serpent ever since, rising to informally lead the ship’s vanguard. The vanguard is the front line of any attack, by sea or land, meant to intimidate and soften up enemies before the next wave, and to secure key footholds ahead of a charge; basically, your scariest, craziest bastards. It’s an extremely dangerous role, even for a pirate, and they’re generally perceived as at least a little insane and definitely bloodthirsty. 

He’s got a hell of a reputation for violence, one that contributes to the fame and notoriety of the crew; maybe the worst of it’s more story than fact, but Ved’s certainly a fearsome fighter, unnaturally strong, quick, and resilient. 

HISTORIES Captain Bradway wasn’t always a captain, and Arved Leske wasn’t always a name that was known and feared through Port Royal and far beyond. First, they were a sea-hardened sailor with a good heart and a boy with a terrible secret, and little else. Scott literally pulled Ved out of the gutter, despite having witnessed the horror of a young werewolf mauling a few men to bloody pieces. They’d had it coming. That’s how Ved had existed, until then - tooth and claw. He and his mother fled the Luna pack when he was only a child, after his father tried and horribly failed to rise through the ranks. Not long after, she was slain during the full moon. Hunted, like an animal. Alone, Ved slunk and struggled his way through the world, fending off the cruelties of man and nature alike. It made him hard, but not heartless; Scott could see that, and, slowly, earned the trust of the half-wild creature he’d found. If it weren’t for Bradway, Ved wouldn’t be much of a man at all - or, he wouldn’t have lived to be anything. The old man was even able to secure a solution to Ved’s struggles to contain the beast he could be, aided by a sorcerer his researches had led him to. With that locked away, Bradway was confident that Ved would make an exceptional, if unusual, asset to his new crew. Ved wasn’t so certain - about losing that part of himself, terrible as it was, or about staying on with these pirates. It was Scott’s word, Scott’s faith, that got him onto the ship in the first place. Ved quickly strove to be useful around the Serpent, and he was. But, as he grew, it quickly became plain enough that the boy had something fierce in him, something that could be frightfully destructive. Again, it was Bradway who brought him to heel. Not perfectly, perhaps, but. With sword in hand, Scott tried to show Ved what that power could do, when controlled, and what it meant to fight alongside and for your crewmates. Soon, Ved was joining the vanguard as they boarded and raided ships and fortresses. Eventually, he led those same missions, his prowess in close quarters proven over and over. It wasn’t that Ved enjoyed the murder and maiming; Scott would never have tolerated such a soul. He was simply suited to the task, stronger, quicker, sharper than any human, more resilient, sharper of ear and eye… and, from brutal experience, prepared to be merciless. Legends of his violence - some horrors truer than others - soon began to precede him, and the Cursed Serpent. Which suited the captain’s needs, really. These tales added some menace to their flag, made prize ships more likely to give in without a fight and merchants and fences less likely to haggle. Whether or not Ved likes being the subject of rumors and ballads is pretty damn irrelevant, at this point. Not much he can do to stop it all. When it comes to the rest of the crew, Ved’s always kept on the fringes, but not unpleasantly so; he’s just got a great deal to hide, and never wanted to test Bradway’s care and trust by getting too close, slipping up, and doubtlessly creating terrible problems for them both. In all his time on the Cursed Serpent, he’s never told a soul but Bradway what he is, or where he came from. He doesn’t plan to. Even among the vanguard, where his ties are truly battle-tested, Ved doesn’t believe for a second that a soul would stand with him if they knew the truth. And he wouldn’t even entirely hold it against them. At the same time, in some sad way, he’s wound up estranged from half of himself - from the animal that’s been bound and tied away under his skin for so long. It’s supposed to be a piece of him, it used to be; now, it’s a stranger, and the thought of releasing it has become more frightening than anything else. So, really, Ved’s hardly a proper werewolf anymore. But he’ll never be human, and that means he’ll never be free to live as he likes unless he keeps his secrets to himself. The Serpent has been his home for a good while, now. Honestly, he’s not sure where else he’d go, what else he’d do. If keeping most of the crew at arm’s length helps him avoid those questions, he’ll do it. The reputation helps with that. New recruits, certainly, tend to give the master of the vanguard a wide berth. The death of Captain Bradway struck Ved from a few directions, all painful. Scott was more than a leader, more than a parent, more than a mentor and friend to Ved; he was his first real, meaningful experience of anything like kindness. Moreso, as the vanguard, Ved feels personally responsible for Bradway’s demise. Maybe he couldn’t convince the old man not to come along, but… if only he’d been closer, in that raid, there to look out for Scott the way the captain had looked out for him. Ved’s sure the rest of the crew sees some guilt there, some failure, whether or not that’s fair or productive. Maybe he’s right, maybe not. He certainly blames himself, and that’s been weighing heavily on him. Heavier than he’s admitted. MYSTERIES Ved’s secret is nothing less explosive - potentially - than the fact that he’s a werewolf. He’s well aware of how his kind is seen by the world, and with all he’s survived and done, isn’t about to argue that the risk isn’t very, very real. Nor is he going to go around sharing this dangerous truth with just anyone; it’s under control, has been for years, and there’s no need for them to know. Not their problem. Captain Bradway made it his, and in doing so, made it possible for Ved to have a place that finally felt like home - he doesn’t expect anyone to be so understanding, especially given how long he’s been lying to them.

[hgfstreamchats]

Halloween (2018)

Hello! Night human, hello! Are you playing music, or is it coming from somewhere else? It should be coming from my end. If it's not, well... Ah, good Follow the sound of the unexplicable Halloween theme for a magical adventure. I LOVE magical adventures! I like how some of the whipped cream disappeared mysteriously before they put the nutmeg on Very mysterious indeed. I assume the answer involves licking. The answer always involves licking. Is that considered humane? Just keep them standing around in the sun? I... have no idea what the exact setup is supposed to be, but presumably they're not outside all the time Wuh oh So the mask is supposed to be... a magic artifact now? Good old Pumpkin! It's... un-rotting! It's got things to do! Things to watch! Yes.  Things.

The slit between the nose and the mouth kind of weirds me out there. You too? "well, surely they don't mean us" "Not us! We're starting things on a respectful note, comparing her to her almost-killer and a caged animal all within under the space of a minute!" "we've traveled a very long way... we didn't feel like trying to contact you ahead of time or make an appointment or anything, though" unbiased as SHIT "Here's 3000 dollars, now let us make a rubbing of your scar." IKR? "how the fuck should I know" I kinda hope this guy is the first victim. "We did, but we were sort of hoping to snap off a few shots of you crying." Likewise. I have a bad feeling about those mousetraps I hope they go off on Podcast Man's person. Somehow. That sounds like a lie That's Pumpkin's polar opposite, the disgusted one. The one who kinkshames. Kast, I swear to various gods, I will destroy you. Victim #2 Starscream! Hello! I finally beat the blasted thing into working. I did not want to miss the shenanigans. You haven't missed much! And so you didn't! A couple of idiot journalists went to bother the final girl from the first movie I'm glad. Today requires dead teenagers. And upset Michael's fellow patients for no reason. Ah, that is always a good idea. Ah, that is always a good idea. This one is aware she lives in a horror movie universe, isn't she. Yeah. Is *anyone* going to approach her and her very obvious trauma in anything resembling a respectful way? Probably not! Doubtful. wow awww man She clearly is not handling herself well. "It's not like this is a difficult day for you or anything." What kind of person doesn't shrug off a whole lot of her friends getting murdered and nearly getting murdered herself? Shiiiit I mean, we knew it was coming, but "don't get murdered" Who gave that child a rifle? Oh good, the kid has a gun I bet it'll do him a world of good I bet he startles and shoots his own father. cool, cool, investigate by yourself Well, you guessed close, anyway! And who's in the backs....yep That's about right. "And, don't forget, just naked enough for """fanservice"""" Let's see.... known serial killer on the loose on the night he's known for being extra murderous... Yes, maybe you should cancel Halloween. What can possibly go wrong?! Oh, great Lovely! Ugh He's very strong for an older fellow. Maybe should have given him a little less fresh air and healthy food. So, that's four more corpses. Think they will cancel Halloween yet? Says the soon-to-be-corpse Whatever you say, Corpse Number 5. Just think of how squirrelly she will be when her stupid family gets murdered for not listening to her. :( And journalists intrude on her privacy to ask her about it. Does no one in this town lock their door? Apparently not? Ham, never eaten. Oh, jeez He doesn There's no effort needed to get in. Oh, I like this little human. Awww. Yes, leave the door open. Every door in this town must be left open, so murderers can get in. Welp. "If you're cold, they're cold. Bring them in." Wow. What the fuck. I hope he is stabbed nineteen times. Uhh. "a noise like... a murderer?" Oh goody, dry! fuuuuck cue murder ...really, dude So I guess she didn't QUITE check everywhere That kid is going to need so much therapy. Run, sensible child! Run! Again, they know that they have a murderer problem. Why does he have no backup? Backup is for losers I think he wants to be murdered. "Captured" "so in a way, all this is his fault" It is not paranoia, if there really is something out there to get you. If only some shithead hadn't dropped her phone in the punch bowl, or soup, or whatevr that was facepalm . . . . Oh, I've heard that one. oh my god. dude stop Look at that, she managed to not be killed for the moment. ...Well, that took care of that! Double tap. Is it Ben Tramer? .... Well, that's a problem. Damn it. So did he survive that after all?  Are there two of them now? Oh, he's not going to be happy about that. Now his mask has old man stink inside it. I admit I don't quite get how he did that through the grate He kicked the grate out. Ohhh His head was...overripe, apparently? I guess? That was a strange plot cul-de-sac ...I feel like taking the van would've been a better bet It's Pumpkin! Well, damn it Oh. No, no it isn't. Oh, no!  That guy I hated is dead now! Hopefully she didn't like him too much. I don't like that he gets to survive most of the movie and Fun Babysitter didn't. I feel like it's a bad idea to leave that remote up there. I feel like her just leaving the remote on the counter there is a bad thing urgh I hope she brought it down with her, at least Well, that gave you away. But what do I know? It's not my paranoia cellar. I feel like she should have forced him into a chute, for a clean kill. Oh, crap Don't be impatient... For someone planning this for forty years, she's done a poor job of building a trap house. That is a creepy target practice area Why have a scary mannequin room, if you know one day this situation is coming? Right? For that matter, why not install proper indoor lighting, to see who you're trying to shoot? That would spoil the jumpscares! When you're planning on facing off with your supernatural attacker someday and plotting things out to the minute, but you need to keep the atmosphere Spooky. About time. hey Hello and goodbye, Nude Human. Keep shooting him. I feel like this is a kill that should be confirmed before they relax. No more relaxing for any of them ever. But on the plus side, they no longer think Grandmother is crazy. Now they love Grandmother and her room full of non-jamming guns and canned corn! Grandmother who they all call grandmother for some reason. Why *did* she stock rations? Did she think Michael would just pop a seat down on the kitchen floor for a month on end and they'd have to wait him out? Perhaps she was planning for zombies as well, given she knows at least one creature that refuses to stay dead. She likes to cover all bases. Michael, zombies...got a couple of hobgoblin defenses lined up just in case. If one is going to be prepared, might as well cover all bases. Except when it comes to well lit rooms and moving the mannequins out. Who has time for that? Sigh. My computer froze and I missed everything after the spooky mannequin rom. What happened? They eventually got him into the basement, and lit him on fire. Which he'll almost assuredly walk off. Oh, good. Less good. And we hear his spooky breathing at the end of the credits, so... And Allison has a knife. Of course we do. I haven't been able to pull up a light note to end on, so I'm open to suggestions! Goose game! Goose game it is! How about a fun goose game highlight reel? Beautiful! He's enjoying the moment. Sun hat! put it in the pond! What did this old man ever do to anyone? He dared try to get work done. Tried to keep the goose out of the garden! Unforgiveable! Unforgourdable! I'm having this great idea for a game for you to stream sometime! I'm thinking the same thing! I thought he did too! no, no, it's floating back! Somebody do something! Oh this kid gets TERRORIZED What kinda scam is she running here! Clearly she knows how to make the money. oh my gosh I wonder if you could make him buy back his glasses... His evil delight is infectious. He is having too much fun. What kind of person walks right up to a goose to take a ribbon off it I want to play this, but I don't think it's on steam... yet. That's going to be a beautiful day when it is. Right? Well, that wraps it up, I'd say! I am very glad I did not miss out. Your streams are definitely a highlight. Goodnight, and thanks for the stream! Oh, hush! But don't, of course, never hush. Thank you for coming! Good night!

[omgkatsudonplease]

church by fall out boy for victuuri pls

Yuuri is quiet most of the way back to the spaceport.

They’d missed their crew’s hovercraft, so Viktor decides to take them in his own transport. The sleek royal vehicle cuts through traffic like a dream, screens all around the city blaring the news of the Armistice Ball attack and pointing fingers everywhere in a desperate bid to find the perpetrator. 

Viktor clutches the fragments of metal in the bag. He’ll give them to the guards to turn in to law enforcement later, but in the meantime he tries to figure out what he can from the metal. Sometimes, if he concentrates just right, he’s able to garner the emotions of the last person who had held the object. 

It’s not really helpful investigatively, but it makes him feel like he’s doing something, and that’s important, too.

Anger. Panic. Confusion. It could be from a victim, it could be from the perpetrator. Viktor examines the carvings on some of the scraps, tries to discern their make, their style. It’s nothing he’s ever seen before – but then he’s never made it a point in his career as Crown Prince to see a lot of bomb sites and pieces. 

The hovercraft reaches the launchpoint to the spaceport, where clusters of sleek hotels and budget pods lurk at the periphery of the launchpoint buildings. Most hovercraft must deposit their passengers here so they can embark on shuttles that will take them out to the spaceport, but the royal crafts can withstand the pressures of escape velocity just fine. They only have to get in line behind the commercial shuttles, one of which Yuuri’s crew may be on now – if they haven’t stayed behind for the Mandalan.

Would they have? They were separated back in the ballroom. But the other Terran – probably the future murder victim Phichit – had seemed insistent on staying with him. Even the Alpha Allegrian, Christophe, managed to resist Viktor’s emotional prodding for a bit out of some Terran-inspired stubborn loyalty. 

Stubborn loyalty. Viktor looks over at Yuuri, who has emerged from the craft’s onboard refresher. They’re dressed in more modest garments now – a simple blue tunic and slate grey leggings, and Viktor would be lying if he said he didn’t stop to appreciate the way the gauzy material clings to the Terran’s form. Now that they’re away from danger, the urge to touch the Terran resurfaces again. 

“I’m sorry,” he manages after a moment. “I wanted you to be safe.”

Yuuri closes their eyes. Viktor tries to feel the atmosphere around them, but doesn’t get much more than stubborn static. It seems that once they’d realised the true extent of Viktor’s powers, they’d thrown up defenses almost as impenetrable as a Mandalan’s. Viktor’s honestly impressed. 

“I didn’t know a Terran could be so good at resisting… you know.”

“Is that how you do it?” asks Yuuri suddenly. 

“Do what?”

Yuuri’s about to answer, but then a warning chime comes on, telling them to buckle in for liftoff. The harnesses comes down, and Viktor braces himself for escape velocity. 

It’s only when they’ve cleared Neva’s atmosphere when Yuuri speaks up again, looking a little more green than pink. “Convince people to… fraternise with you.”

Viktor raises an eyebrow. “You think I emotionally… make them do it?” he asks.

“You are able to compel people,” Yuuri points out drily. “How do I know you weren’t doing that back out on the balcony?”

Viktor knows that by all means he should be deeply offended at such an accusation, and yet… nothing. The frustration that rolls through the static, though, he soaks in that a little. “I don’t usually project,” he says after a moment. “I’m a lot better at simply absorbing and redirecting. Emotions that run through me I simply rechannel into better ones. Anger into joy, sadness into warmth, things like that. Projection requires you to be able to regularly generate feelings to project, and I haven’t felt anything completely by myself for a long time.”

Yuuri’s gaze falls to their hands, fiddling with the hem of their tunic. “I don’t know if I trust that, no offense,” they say after a moment.

“None taken,” says Viktor. “Again, I’ve never seen a Terran be able to resist the projection so easily.”

Yuuri chuckles darkly. “You’d be surprised. If I could do it, a lot of Terrans could do it.”

“Not necessarily,” Viktor points out. “It takes mental fortitude.”

“I have dealt with enough monsters in my own head,” replies Yuuri. “I don’t need you poking around in there, too.”

“But would you want me on your mind?” Viktor asks, with a wink, because he clearly has no sense of self preservation. That causes Yuuri’s defences to slip a little, beaming over some flustered embarrassment. On Viktor’s behalf. 

“I’d like the record to state that my translator said ‘on your brain’,” Yuuri says, smirking. “Not quite the same.”

“No, I’d imagine not.” Viktor shakes his head. “Translators are so terrible sometimes.”

“But they’re so necessary,” Yuuri says, sighing. “I wish I had the patience to properly learn every language out there, but it’d take me centuries just to master all the Terran ones alone.”

“Does Terra not have a standard tongue?” wonders Viktor.

“Terran Standard,” says Yuuri, though their expression twists a little. “Controversial renaming, though; it used to be something called ‘English’, which took over the entire globe through wars of conquest and economic domination. Basic Terran history, blah blah.”

“And you’re speaking that to me, right now?” Viktor knows that’s how it fundamentally works, but it’s interesting to hear it confirmed anyway. Yuuri nods.

“And you’re speaking Nevan, I know. I’d like to hear it for itself, though, sometime.”

“You could turn your translator off for a moment,” Viktor says. Yuuri considers it, before nodding and tapping at the side of their head. A flesh-coloured earpiece falls off.

“Go ahead,” they say. Viktor swallows. 

“Are you sure?” he asks. Yuuri nods.

“I don’t know what you’re saying right now.”

Viktor takes a breath. “Okay.” He smiles, looking down at the translator in Yuuri’s hands. “The moment I first saw you, the world became still. So quiet. Like we were made to exist in one another’s space. You drowned everything out, and nothing else mattered. Even now, I am strangely at peace, and I finally have the quiet I need to be able to figure out my own heart.”

Yuuri’s eyes are wide, their mouth slightly agape. Viktor turns towards them, earnestness seeping through him in a tide he cannot control. It snaps out of him; Yuuri flinches; Viktor shakes his head.

“I’m so sorry about that,” he pleads, pressing his hands together in what he hopes is a good approximation of apology. Yuuri nods. “I didn’t mean to, I just – you make me feel something, you know, and I’ve never really experienced this before, not at this level. I just wish I knew how to find it in me to tell you in a way you understand, instead of just talking and hoping you don’t.”

A moment passes, quiet, strangely tender. Yuuri’s cheeks are pink; his fingers tremble a little as they reach up and puts their translator back in. “Am I allowed to know what you said?” they ask.

Viktor smiles. “I just told you a story about my old pet, Makkachin. Have you ever met a Bergian?”

“Bergian?” echoes Yuuri.

“They look kind of like… what’s the word… dogs, from Terra. Makkachin is very fluffy and brown.” Viktor presses a hand to the armrest, pulls up a picture of the Bergian. His fluffy brown fur shines even in the holo projection.

Yuuri gasps. “He looks like a poodle!”

“Is that a kind of Terran dog?” asks Viktor. Yuuri nods.

“Yeah, I used to have a small version. I named her Venus, but we all called her Vicchan. She died of old age a while back.” They pause for a moment. “I couldn’t make it back to Earth in time to see her off. I’ve been running from there ever since.”

“Bergians are long-lived,” replies Viktor. “Makkachin has been with me since I was very young. He helped me with my training, actually.”

Yuuri’s expression falls again. “Right.” They look down at their fingers, flexes them against the armrest of the chair. Viktor feels their defenses rising back up again, and mourns at the loss. 

“You know exactly how a projection feels like now,” he says after a moment. “Did you feel anything like that when we were on the balcony?”

Yuuri purses their lips. “No,” they admit. 

“There you have it.” Viktor sighs. “I wish I could say I never use it for frivolous things, but I certainly don’t use it for my… connections. It taints the exchange.”

“The exchange,” echoes Yuuri.

“I don’t usually feel much of anything myself,” replies Viktor. A chime on the screen announces the arrival of the spaceport in less than five minutes. “I know I should, but I just – it’s easier to mimic the feelings of the people around me and pretend those are mine, too.”

“Is that why you end up with all sorts of non-Nevan beings?” asks Yuuri, tilting their head and looking at him curiously. Their topaz eyes shine with that same curiosity from earlier. “You want to ride their emotions for a bit?”

“Basically,” agrees Viktor. “It does do terrible things for my public image, though.” He laughs drily, remembering the latest tabloid gossip surrounding him and an intensely flamboyant Gilletese. “But I’d rather they think that instead of, you know. The idea that there’s a black hole where my heart should be, or something.”

“I doubt that,” Yuuri says immediately. Viktor raises an eyebrow. 

“Doubt what?”

“That your heart is a black hole,” replies Yuuri. “You’re honestly quite Terran, I think.”

Viktor realises then, with a start, that Yuuri had moved a little closer during that, their gaze darting to Viktor’s chest with undeniable curiosity. Viktor reaches out, placing Yuuri’s hand lightly over where his heart currently flutters wildly. 

“You don’t need –” Yuuri begins, and then bows their head, flushing. Viktor raises an eyebrow, before slipping off a glove and pressing his fingers lightly to the back of Yuuri’s hand.

Almost immediately, Yuuri swoons. 

[fletchermarple]

Did Zachary Witman murder his brother?

If you’ve listened to season 1 of Serial, you might remember that in Episode 10 they mention the controversial case of Zachary Witman, currently imprisoned for killing his brother. Here, I’ll attempt to lay down a general view of it.

The Crime

On October 2, 1998, Gregory Witman (13) arrived at his house in New Freedom, Pennsylvania, at around 3:10 pm. He was attacked pretty much as soon as he opened the door, in the entrance foyer, and a scuffle ensued, ending in the house’s laundry room where the worst of the attack happened. Gregory was stabbed over 100 times, at least 65 of those in the area around the neck, to the point he was nearly decapitated. He also had several defensive wounds in his hands. 

That day, Gregory’s older brother Zachary (15 at the time) had stayed home because he was sick. He called 911 at 3:17 pm reporting the finding of his brother. When first responders arrived to the house at 3:25, Zachary was still on the phone with 911 and waiting for them in the open garage. The first officer on the scene, Sean Siggins, described Zachary as “excited” and bouncing up and down, shaking and hysterical. His sweatshirt, hands, pants and socks had bloodstains on them.

8 days later, Zachary was arrested and charged with the murder of his brother. In his trial in 2003, he was found guilty and sentenced to life without parole. In 2007, a judge granted him a new trial, saying Zachary’s lawyer, David McGlaughin had been “ineffective” and shouldn’t have let his bloody socks be entered as evidence. However, after the prosecution appealed, the Pennsylvania Superior Court overturned that ruling and reaffirmed the initial conviction, considering the trial would have come to the same result even if the socks hadn’t been used.

Zachary’s parents have always supported their son and they are convinced that Gregory was killed by an unknown third person. They’ve been fighting to free him, and have been joined by a lot of people claiming the case needs to be revised again.

Zachary’s version

Zachary’s initial statements to police are a little confusing. He says that he left the keys in the lock of the front door for his brother to enter, and that he was sleeping in his parents’ bedroom upstairs when he heard the front door open and close, and assumed his brother had arrived. But at 3:15 pm, a friend of Gregory called the house asking for him, and Zachary told her he wasn’t home yet. Zachary says that shortly after hanging up, he heard noises downstairs that sounded like “roughhousing”. He went down to check, found Gregory dead in the laundry room and called 911. He didn’t see anyone else.

The Phone Call

The friend of Gregory who called was Eryn Jeffery. She knew that Gregory usually arrived home at around 3:07, and she initially called at 3:09. She says someone picked up the phone downstairs (she could tell because it was a flip phone and it made a distinctive sound) and hung up quickly. When she called again, Zachary answered after three rings. She stated he was talking from the phone upstairs (no distinctive sound) and he sounded normal. Eryn noticed the time of this call was at 3:15 pm, but Zachary told police it was before 3 pm. This testimony again is a bit odd, considering he was supposedly sleeping, and Eryn knew Gregory wouldn’t be home before 3. Also, he said he heard the noises downstairs shortly after talking to Eryn, so it’s doubtful his time is right.

The Evidence Against Zachary

According to forensic scientist Deborah Calhoun, the bloodstain pattern in Zachary’s sweatshirt means that he was in close proximity of Gregory when the wounds were inflicted, and that the victim was alive at this point (Zachary’s defense claims he got the blood on him when he rolled over Gregory’s body, as instructed by the 911 operator). You can see a picture of the sweatshirt above. She also testified that in her opinion, the blood spots on Zachary’s socks meant that Gregory was standing when they fell on him. Her expertise was questioned by the defense.

The night of the murder, using luminol traces around the house, police found a mound of dirt near the hot tub area outside. This hadn’t been noticed during the initial search in daylight. Buried there, they found a small penknife with blood on the blade that was determined to be Gregory’s. The blade was of 0.3 inches of width and 1.75 inches of length. Sarah Funkie, the forensic pathologist that did the autopsy, testified it was consistent with the stab wounds on Gregory’s body. With time, some knife experts have cast doubt that the flimsy knife could used to stab someone 100 times without breaking, but considering it had Gregory’s blood on it and had been buried, I don’t see how this is relevant. 

Police also found that Zachary had a knife collection that was awfully similar to the murder weapon, as you can see in the picture above.

Along with the knife, they also found athletic gloves with Gregory’s blood on them, which mean they were used to committ the murder and would help explain why Zachary only had a small laceration in his ring finger.

Investigators say they couldn’t find any evidence pointing to other suspects.

The Defense’s Position

The main problem with the case against Zachary is the lack of motive. His parents say the brothers had a close relationship and, as far as I know, no one testified something different on the trial (Of course, we know that parents not always know what’s really going on with their kids). Only one witness appears in the police reports saying that Gregory was scared because Zachary was smoking pot and selling drugs, and he’d threatened him if he told his parents. However, drug tests performed on Zachary showed no sign of drug use and they couldn’t find any evidence of using or dealing in the house. The prosecution didn’t offer any motive during the trial either. We know it’s not a requirement, but in a case as complex at this, not having one only makes more doubts rise.

According to the prosecution’s timeline, Zachary would have had only 7 minutes to kill his brother and bury the knife and gloves before he called 911. Considering he was in control of the crime scene, why not wait longer?  While I do agree with the 911 call part, I don’t think the “just 7 minutes” defense is very strong. If a third person murdered Gregory, they would have also had that same amount of time to do it. The attack was violent and it must have been fairly loud, since there was even a broken table in the house. Zachary claims he heard noises and went downstairs to find his brother dead, so how did a third person managed to disappear so quickly, without leaving any trace behind? And when did they have time to bury the weapon and gloves?

There’s a whole confusion with the path around the house the prosecution say Zachary took after the murder, which was established through the use of luminol. Some of the supposed stops don’t make sense, and it’s probably because luminol lights up not only with blood and the people doing the analysis weren’t experienced in it. Anyway, they didn’t take any pictures or video that would back their claims so I don’t think that evidence helps either side.

They also said police didn’t properly investigate the sighting of a white van around the area at the time of the murder. A witness said it was being driven by a middle aged man that looked confused as to where to go. But Gregory’s coach says he drove his white van to the Witman’s house when he heard about the murder, so it could have been him. Also, the witness saw the van between 3 and 3:15, so if we are talking about too little time to commit the murder, this certainly doesn’t make it better.

All the blood and DNA found in the items examined belonged to Gregory. There was no traces of Zachary in the knife or the gloves. But there weren’t traces of anyone else’s either so does this really help Zachary? The hairs found on Gregory are consistent with belonging to someone in the Witman family, but that’s not strange in a house they all lived in, especially with the murder happening in the laundry room. 

Nail clippings taken from Gregory were never tested. According to former law enforcement George Matheis Jr, who is on the defense’s side, the knife didn’t have any forensic examination (if this is true, how does the defense know it didn’t have Zachary’s DNA?).

Conclusion

This case reminds me a little of the JonBenet Ramsey case, because while it’s hard to understand why he would have killed his brother, there’s also no evidence that supports an intruder theory.

If it was a third person, why would they target a 13 year old? This is no random murder, the rage of the stabbing points to a personal reason. The way the attack went, it would have to mean that the killer was waiting for Gregory, probably inside the house, so again, a pretty targeted attack. And if they went there with the intention to kill him, why bring such a flimsy knife? Unless they were trying to frame Zachary, it doesn’t make much sense. And it’s a pretty big coincidence that this killer chose to attack Gregory on the one day that Zachary stayed home.

Then again, if it was Zachary, it would have had to mean he’d planned it in advance, there’s just not enough time for the brothers to get into some sort of argument and Zachary attacking him in the heat of the moment. Also it’s hard to believe he would sound so normal and calm during that 3:15 pm call, if he’d just stabbed his brother 100 times. He would have at least been out of breath. His little inconsistencies about what he heard or didn’t bother me, just like it bothers me the mistakes of the physical evidence collection (the judge declared inadmissible a good portion of it) and the fact that crucial pieces of evidence weren’t tested. I’d love it if those nail clippings and that knife could be properly examined.

Overall, though, I don’t see much of a chance of Zachary getting out of prison with what we have now. It should have raised enough reasonable doubt during the trial, but it’s not enough to raise reasonable doubt for an appeal. Unless his defense finds concrete evidence of another person’s involvement, he does seem like the likeliest suspect under these circumstances.

Sources:

- A list of articles from the York Daily Record covering the case and trial.

- A case report from Brandon McCollum for the Forensic Science Program in Penn State.

- This brief documentary about the Witmans.

- This website that supports Zachary’s innocence.

[shiningamongdarkness]

Chapter 33. You have captured my curiosity

Shining among Darkness

By WingzemonX

Chapter 33. You have captured my curiosity 

After two days of resting locked in that strange little room, Lily Sullivan could get out of bed. However, she required crutches to be able to walk, since her wound still hurt too much to support her right leg. Luckily, her kidnapper got them suspiciously fast. Esther got her some new clothes too, plus a short brown wig and ugly thick black-rimmed glasses. Had also bought a blonde wig, somewhat more discreet glasses, and a hat larger than her head for her. They looked ridiculous, at least from her point of view. And on top of that, Lily also needed some makeup to hide the ugly bruise on her face, which had already faded but was still visible enough. Luckily, Esther had plenty of powder for her personal use.

It turned out that they were not in the middle of the forest or in front of a police headquarters, or in any other strange place. In fact, they were in a modest old hotel in an equally modest old town a few miles north of Portland. Lily never knew the name of that place, and she didn't care.

Esther bought them two tickets for a bus to Olympia, which they boarded quite early in the morning. The trip lasted about three hours, and at least two worried people asked them the same questions: "What are two such pretty girls doing traveling alone?" and "What happened to your leg, little one?" The last one came as soon as they noticed Lily's crutches and the thick bandage around her thigh, discreetly noticeable under her outfit's yellow skirt. For both questions, Esther always went ahead to answer with fantastic ease.

"We're going to visit our aunt in Port Townsend. Our dad is already waiting for us in Olympia," she replied to the first, with a wide, friendly, and innocent smile. With her totally fake and made-up face, this made her look like the most adorable girl in the world. And about Lily's leg, she only answered: "A dog attacked her, a very big one... But it was her fault. She annoyed it and misbehaved. But I'm sure you learned your lesson. Right, sis?"

In those moments, Lily preferred to just keep quiet, smile discreetly, and nod. Interestingly, no one questioned them much more after that. She had to give her captor credit. She could be crazy and totally false from head to toe. However, she knew how to manipulate and control people, and she did it even without powers.

They got off at Olympia and disappeared before anyone asked them more questions, including their supposed father, who should be waiting there. They hadn't been lying when they said they were heading to Port Townsend, although that wasn't their final destination.

They had to wait for the next bus to leave in two hours, so they decided to go get something to eat. On the other side of the avenue in front of the station, there was a shopping plaza. It seemed to Lily that it was a bit absurd to go to such a crowded place and risk being recognized by someone. From another point of view, Esther affirmed that it was better to be precisely in a place full of people, where they could be mixed with the crowd. She had said something about how, when more people are around them, the persons looked less. It did not seem coherent to Lily, but she wasn't the professional psychopath, so what could she know?

They entered the plaza without much trouble. There were indeed enough people, but all too busy with their own affairs to care about the two girls who were out there alone. They did not get too complicated about food: they went directly to a McDonalds that was there inside the square. There would be many kids with their parents, so they hoped that two more girls wouldn't attract much attention.

Lily sat at a table, leaving her crutches on this one, while Esther ordered. She had been sitting most of the day, but the little use of the crutches had been enough to tire her. And although she wasn't putting weight in her wounded leg, it still hurt. And yet, she was sure it was not even remotely close to how it would hurt if it had been infected, gangrenous, and dead. She had been taking antibiotics and anti-inflammatories as her deranged nurse had instructed. And adding to the two days of rest that had apparently helped. But she feared all the hustle and bustle of that trip would reopen the wound or complicate her recovery.

She placed her hand on the bandage, squeezing a little and vividly feeling the burning that this contact generated. She didn't understand people's taste for doing that kind of thing, but she was apparently doing it unconsciously. After being in it for a while, she felt a curious tingle on the left side of her head… a familiar itch. She raised her cautious gaze and caught a woman at another table, looking away, hurrying, and pretending not to see her. But, had she done it? Or was it just her imagination?

The woman was accompanied by two small children, as blond and pale as she was, but they were seated so that their backs were turned to Lily. She stared at the woman silently, seeing if she could detect something coming from her head. The only thing she noticed was annoying anxiety but did not identify the cause. Inadvertently, she stared at her for quite a bit longer, long enough to see her subtly trying to turn in her direction again but realizing she was looking at her too. The woman quickly lowered his gaze back to her tray and greasy burger. The anxiety Lily felt coming from her increased relatively.

Esther's abrupt appearance at her side, carrying a tray with her meals in her hands, brought the girl abruptly out of her concentration, startling her a little.

"Here you go, a Big Mac," the blonde-wigged woman murmured in a crafty voice, placing the tray on the table in front of her. "Are you sure you wouldn't prefer a Happy Meal?"

"No," replied the girl with the brown wig, as she took the small box that contained her hamburger. "And you?"

Esther just smiled and took her respective food herself, including the fries and the soda.

Lily glanced at the woman at the other table, who at that moment seemed to be concerned about cleaning the dirty faces of one of her children while saying something slowly. Should she tell Esther about it? She considered it but decided better to see where it all went first.

"How is your leg?" Her captor questioned.

"Do you really care?" Lily answered right after with a sharp tone.

Esther shrugged.

"As I have to give you alive, yes."

Lily watched her for a while in silence, noticing how she began to remove the bread from the little hamburger, and strangely began to separate its parts. Using the two parts of the box, she put the meat and cheese on one side, and the few vegetables on the other. Also, using a plastic knife, she tried to remove as much of the dressing as possible from the bread and meat. Lily just wondering who the hell ate a hamburger like that.

"My leg's better," she answered her question after a while. "Or at least as good as it can be after getting a shot."

"Why don't you say it louder?" Esther murmured with apparent calm, as she continued in her task of removing the dressing from her food. "I think they didn't hear you at the cashboxes."

Lily snorted slowly, and then she took her burger and took a big bite, like a "normal" person. In doing so, however, she ended up staining the large glasses she brought with him, so she had to quickly remove and place them on the table.

"It's uncomfortable enough having to carry these crutches. Are these stupid costumes really necessary?"

Esther had already started eating, or something like that. Using a fork and a plastic knife, she began to cut the hamburger's meat into small pieces and put one by one in her mouth, also chewing them carefully.

After swallowing the bite, she commented:

"Do you think the police would forget so quickly about a strange child-looking murderer who killed one of them and escaped with an innocent and harmless ten-year-old girl?" She ended her comment with a small wry giggle. "If they knew what you really are, they would care more about me."

"Don't be smug. You don't even know what I really am."

Esther continued to eat, though she regarded her with an amused expression that even Lily found conceited as she did so.

"I know better than you think. In fact, you and I are quite similar, or not?"

"Not at all."

"Seriously? Well, how we both came to this world is indeed different. Still, despite everything, we ended up traveling quite similar paths, even crossing right here and now. We both apparently murdered our parents and a few others along the way, for example."

"I've never killed anyone," Lily stated sharply.

Indeed, she had never directly shot or stabbed someone. She had only played with their minds and fears, making them do it themselves: even her father and even Emily.

However, her response caused Esther to laugh, low-key but still quite noticeable.

"Yeah, of course not. You're the type of person who would push someone off the ledge of a building and claim they were killed by the pavement, right?"

"It wouldn't be a lie. People are so… fragile."

"Is that why you do it?" The woman asked, looking at her with fervent curiosity. "Is that why… you pushed all those people off the ledge of the building? Because their weakness bothers you? Because do you find it funny? Or because do you enjoy it?"

Lily was silent, in a small reflective silence.

Did she enjoy it? Yes, there was probably a bit of it.

Since she was little, she had had that fascination, almost morbid some would say, to the tragedy, the pain, and the suffering, as if it caused her some satisfaction. In his image of her as a demon from hell, her father said that she fed on it. Was it like that? She didn't really know, and… she didn't really care.

"Do you enjoy it, do you?" Lily murmured a bit defensively, eating some of her potatoes. "Did you enjoy killing all those men fantasizing that they were your father? What did you like the most? Sleep with them or kill them?"

The smile faded from Esther's lips quickly, and that did bring joy to the ten-year-old girl. Her captor turned back to her food and continued tasting the pieces of meat one by one.

"You'd better eat your hamburger in silence," she answered in a dry voice.

"You started."

After that, they ate in silence for a while. Out of curiosity, Lily tried to capture a little of what her companion was thinking at the time but did not perceive much beyond a cold and dark sensation. During those days that she had spent with her after waking up, it had seemed difficult to inquire into her head. She wondered if the medicines she had to take had something to do with it, or perhaps a part of her was reluctant to enter Esther's thoughts further after hearing the long story of her deplorable, but still interesting life.

Suddenly, Lily noticed that Esther was looking ahead surreptitiously while continuing to eat her meat. Lily turned in the same direction. The woman who had surprised looking at her was no longer at the table, and neither were her children. In fact, she was right outside the McDonalds now, talking to… a policeman. Or so it appeared to be, from her dark blue uniform. He was a tall and somewhat thin man with reddish hair. Both conversed quietly, while the lady held the two children against her legs. And at a certain point, she turned in their direction, and the alleged officer did the same. At that very moment, Lily managed to catch a clear thought coming from the woman. Thoughts fueled by fear were always much easier for her to grasp: "I think it's the girl from the news, the one who was kidnapped in Portland."

Lily glanced at Esther; this one might not read minds, but it was pretty evident that she didn't need to figure out what was going on.

"Grab your crutches and let's go," Esther pointed out sharply, quickly setting the plastic cutlery on the table.

"I'm not done yet," the little girl said calmly, although she was only teasing her, in fact. She even took one more small bite of his burger at that point.

"Let's go, I said," the killer snapped, getting to her feet and shifting her large suitcase back to her shoulder.

Lily took another bite, again mostly to annoy her, and then took her time picking up her crutches and following her as they allowed it.

The place had two exits, so they quickly left through one, while the officer entered through the other. He apparently moved cautiously as he followed them; most likely, he was not entirely sure of his actions. For one thing, if they weren't who he thought they were, he would be chasing two innocent girls for no reason. On the other hand, if indeed they were, they would have warned him that this mad murderer was dangerous. She had already killed one officer in Portland and wounded another. Plus, they were in a public place; he couldn't just scare people if he didn't have an apparent reason for that. Esther hoped she could use that to her advantage and lose it in the crowd.

Both began to move among the people who walked through the corridors or entered and left the stores. Esther frequently looked over her shoulder to make sure they were still being followed, and indeed there it was, each time a step back, but still trying not to lose sight of them.

At that moment, Lily caught a word in Russian, or something like it, echoing in her captor's mind. That she had clearly perceived, so her powers weren't atrophying so much. It was not precisely fear what she perceived of her, but it was very similar. But not by being trapped in itself, but rather by being… locked up?

Esther then pulled her in the direction of a hallway, which led to the bathrooms according to the signs. This corridor looked lonely at those times. And when they entered the women's restroom, there was no one in the washbasins, and all the cubicles looked empty. In fact, as soon as the automatic return door was closed, there was a rather profound silence, in contrast to the hustle and bustle outside.

"Looks like your costumes didn't quite work out," Lily commented wryly.

"Silence," Esther replied with marked stress in her voice. Then she opened that huge bag that she brought with her, where in addition to clothes and several cash bills, she carried some firearms. She did pull out a pistol, checked the cartridge to see how many rounds it had, and then put it back in the gun, all in just a couple of seconds. "Go to the cubicle, now."

She pointed the gun at the first of the cubicles. If her idea was to hide there, it sounded pretty desperate. Still, Lily did what she said and entered it. Esther followed her and closed the door behind them. However, Lily noticed that she didn't lock it, which struck her curiously.

The girl sat on the closed toilet bowl and put her crutches to one side. On the other hand, Esther stood right in front of her, turned toward the door with her weapon held in both hands, and pointed straight up.

"Are you planning to shoot him right here?" Lily murmured skeptically. "What a professional killer you are. Why don't you yell at the top of your lungs, so everyone knows you're here? How long do you think it will take before they block all exits and surround the building with patrols? And after that happens, what? Are you planning to take all the people as your hostages? Yes, that will surely end very well..."

"Shut up!" The foreigner snapped, turning to see her annoyed over her shoulder. "Do you have a better idea?"

"Actually, yes," Lily replied seriously, then reached out with a hand and placed it just on Esther's right shoulder. "Don't do anything... leave it to me."

Esther glanced at her with a confused face. Then she heard how the bathroom door opened abruptly. That put her entirely on alert, and she gripped her weapon tighter between her fingers.

"Don't do anything, I told you," the girl whispered to her slowly, and then she stared at the door.

Cautious footsteps were heard from the one who entered the bathroom and approached the cubicle. It was him, Esther was sure of that. Regardless of what that brat said, she was tense. Her finger ready to pull as soon as she got her sights on. However, the closer she heard his footsteps, the more Lily's fingers tightened around her shoulder.

The cubicle door swung open, and there she saw him standing: the tall, red-haired officer, holding his gun out front with one hand, while with the other he pulled on the door. Esther was about to shoot unashamedly as soon as she saw the weapon, but Lily pulled her back with a bit of force so that her ear was level with her lips.

"Don't do that," he whispered very slowly.

Esther looked at her over her shoulder for only an instant, and then she turned back to the front. At that moment, she noticed it: the policeman was looking into the cubicle, but he was not exactly looking at them. He looked from side to side, up and down, but said nothing, nor did make any gesture indicating that he was even aware of their presence. He didn't look at them...

Esther looked at Lily again, somewhat confused. She was looking at the man seriously. Was she doing it? Was she making him not see them? Could she do such a thing?

After a while, the officer withdrew and went to the next cubicle, apparently opening it similarly and inspecting it. Esther just stayed still in her place, somewhat tense as she listened as the policeman moved around the bathroom. When he reached the last cubicle, the man backed away in confusion, scratching his head. He put his weapon back in its holster, and at that moment, the radio he carried on his shoulder sounded.

"Owlman, are you there?" A woman's voice questioned, her tone somewhat annoyed. "Where did you go?"

The officer took the small radio and activated it so he could speak.

"Here is Owlman. I was following two suspicious girls, but I lost sight of them. I'll keep walking around here for a while to see if I see them."

"Roger. Do you need support?"

Officer Owlman seemed hesitant about how to answer that question. He was not really sure at all that those he was following were indeed who he thought. And even if they were, those stories about a murderer and kidnapper who looked like a kid... That seemed like something out of a movie; how could that be true? But there was still an alert about it. What was the right thing to do? Alert his teammates or wait to be sure? In the end, he was more inclined to the second option.

"No, don't worry. Maybe it's nothing."

"Ok. We wait for you outside."

Owlman went to the sinks and wet his hands a little, then moistened his face. He had missed for a moment that he was in the ladies' room, but he hoped there was no problem; he was an officer, after all. After washing his face, he leaned against the sink and looked carefully at his face, still with drops of water, in the mirror.

Then he heard a hiss, a peculiar sound that did not identify its origin at first but became more and more noticeable. He lowered his gaze; it seemed to come from the sink drain he was leaning on. He stared at that round, dark hole for perhaps several minutes. The hiss became more noticeable as if something was climbing through it. After a while, the head of a long, completely black snake with big yellow eyes peeked out of the hole and crawled across the white porcelain towards the sink's edge. Owlman reacted in horror, jumping back and then backing further, almost touching the cubicles with his back. He could no longer see the drain from his perspective, but he could see how the black snake peeked over the shore and then dropped to the ground. But it was not the only one; it was followed later by two, five, ten more alike, all falling to the floor from the sink like a waterfall.

The snakes crawled across the ground, right in his direction. Owlman was petrified at the horrible scene, and by the time he reacted and tried to head for the door, it was too late. The snakes began to climb up his legs, both outside his pants and inside. The policeman started to scream in despair, waving his legs and hands, trying to shake them off, but it just seemed to be impossible to achieve. The animals climbed his torso, even reaching his neck. The man's screams getting louder, and his movements more erratic.

But snakes didn't really exist. There was no reptile of any kind crawling up his body. It was all on his mind, caused by the same girl he thought was helping… But this one, as well as her captor, were quite real.

Esther approached him cautiously from behind as the man screamed in despair. Quickly, she kicked the back of her left knee with great force, causing it to buckle and cause him great pain. The officer fell to his knees to the ground, and just a second later, the murderer behind him wrapped the laces of her own shoes around his neck, both tied tightly to his hands. He squeezed them around the officer's neck, while he made his whole small body back, applying all his weight and thus beginning to suffocate him.

The officer was unable to continue yelling. The feel of the stiffness on his neck only made his desperation worse. He instinctively brought his fingers to her neck, trying to shake them off, but it was impossible. Esther had placed her feet against him back and dropped her body entirely back. That, added to his kneeling position, made it difficult for him to get up. And then there were the snakes, hundreds of them crawling all over his body. In his mind, he was actually thinking that the thing that was gripping his neck was, in fact, one of them, pinning and squeezing him.

Esther's face had turned totally red from all the effort she was putting in. Her hands were also burning, and it seemed they were even starting to bleed.

Owlman made an attempt to get up, but he still could not fully maintain his balance. Esther jumped, pulling his body down even harder, causing the policeman to fall back to the floor. The officer's heavy body fell on Esther, hurting her, but she didn't care. Her wig also flew off and fell away from her, but she didn't mind that either. She crossed his arms to completely encircle the officer's neck with the laces, tightening him with all his might. The man moaned weakly out of the air, and his body writhed uncontrollably.

At that moment, Lily quietly left the cubicle, stopping for a second right to one side of such a shocking scene. However, she remained gentle.

"Always so noisy," she sighed seriously, and then she walked calmly to the bathroom door on her crutches and locked it. Then she returned with the same calm, but this time towards the sinks. She looked at herself in the mirror and tried to adjust her wig. She also took off her glasses and checked to see if her horrible bruise was still hidden; it still looked good, but maybe it would require a makeup touch-up. All of this while a man was being killed on the ground a few inches from her.

Esther kept squeezing without giving a bit until Officer Owlman's body began to let go and shake. The growls stopped coming out of his mouth, his hands stopped trying to push away the huge imaginary snake that imprisoned him, and then everything went quiet... The red-haired officer remained totally still, with his eyes wide and almost wide, with some blood injected, her mouth open in a hideous grin. All the suffering, and all the fear and confusion, were carved into his face like a grotesque work of art.

Even after he was still, Esther kept the pressure on her hands almost a minute more before releasing the laces and laying flat on the ground. She was breathing hard, staring at the ceiling. Her body was shaking a little, similar to as if she had just had an intense orgasm, and really the sensation was not so different.

"You finished?" Lily questioned calmly from the sink, and only then did she force herself to react.

She barely managed to lift the officer's body high enough to get out from under him. Owlman's neck was bruised, with the mark of the laces around it. Sitting on the floor beside him, she silently contemplated her own hands for a few moments. The flesh of her palms had been split open by the force with which she grasped the laces. However, little by little, these wounds began to close again. While they did, Esther felt the energy return to her body; in fact, she was starting to feel better, even stronger than before.

When her hands were completely closed, she stood up quickly, grabbed Owlman's body by the armpits, and began to pull him towards the cubicle they had hidden in upon entering. The body was heavy, and it took a lot of effort to pull it off, but she still did it.

"Why did you do that?" She questioned Lily in a low voice as she went about her business.

"To prevent someone from coming in and surprise you, obviously," the girl replied from the sink, referring to the fact that she had locked the door.

Esther managed to carry Owlman to the cubicle and exert even more force to seat him on the bowl with his head falling back. She arranged it as best she could so that she would interpret it only as a person using the toilet from the perspective of someone who saw from the outside. She locked the door from the inside, and then crawled underneath it to get out.

"I mean, why you helped me," Esther explained, as she got to her feet and fixed her clothes. "You could have pretended I had you kidnapped, got me killed, and come back as an innocent victim to all of this."

From the mirror's reflection, Lily looked at her and smiled, amused by her question.

"Do you really think that if I wanted to leave, I wouldn't have done it as soon as I got out of the bed?" She replied slyly, and then turned to her, already in full disguise. "For better or for worse, you have captured my curiosity. I want to know who sent you after me and what they want with me. Until then, I'll put up with you. After that, we will see..."

Esther looked at her carefully in silence, perhaps a little suspicious. Maybe she was lying, maybe not. But anyway, everything was better if she had already decided to cooperate with her. They had accomplished together at the time, using their strange powers as assistance, was something to keep in mind, and could be of great benefit to her from then on. But she still wouldn't take his eyes off her.

"Sounds good to me," Esther murmured in a neutral voice, and immediately set about picking up her wig and fixing her own costume. Finally, she took the suitcase of money and headed for the door. "We have only a few minutes before his teammates miss him. Let's hurry and go back to the bus station."

"I'm going after you," Lily replied simply, following her as she leaned on her crutches.

— — — —

Surprisingly, the next stretch of their journey was much calmer. By the time they got on the bus, Officer Owlman's body had not yet been discovered; or at least, no movement seemed to have been made yet in the plaza.

The trip to Port Townsend took another four and a half hours. They had to make about three stops, but everything worked out for them. While riding the buses, Lily spent most of her time sleeping; Esther couldn't do it one bit. Maybe it was the adrenaline that still hadn't subsided, but she felt relatively tense and alert.

In Port Townsend, the next thing on their itinerary was to take the ferry to Moesko Island. They had to wait half an hour before getting on, dealing with questions similar to those of earlier about why they were traveling alone, what had happened to Lily's leg, etc. Esther fully maintained their pantomime and attitude, as if what had happened hours before had never happened. Anyway, that helped them get through it all.

By the time they landed at Moesko, the day had gotten really cloudy and wet, but not a drop of water fell. Asking the good people of the place for some directions, they came across the Morgan Horse Farm. From the hill on which they both positioned themselves to survey the site, it was wide. They even managed to see a corral where some horses were walking from one side to the other. A cliff could be seen behind the farm, and after this, the immense sea. Esther thought that there must be where horses jumped, according to the news.

"It seems to be there," Esther pointed out confidently. "A horse farm. As a child, I would have liked to live in a place like that."

"Did they exist a hundred years ago?" Lily commented sarcastically, causing the woman beside her to glance at her in annoyance. However, this did not matter much to her. "And what is your plan? Knock on the door and convince them to let you in just because of your cute little face, and then gag and torture them all?"

"You'd be surprised how many times that was enough," Esther answered normally. "But no, I thought instead that you would use that magic of yours again."

Lily looked at her somewhat confused, although Esther did not take long to explain what she meant.

— — — —

That afternoon, Richard Morgan and two of his employees were mending a fence on the east side of the house, while the rest took care of the horses and some repairs in the stable. He was in the middle of a negotiation to buy five purebred foals, raise them, and somehow replace those who had been lost in that tragic… "accident." He hoped that when his wife returned, it might keep her distracted. But for this, it was necessary to make some adjustments, but mainly to repair the damage that those horses had done when fleeing and see how it would not happen again.

Mr. Morgan and his employees were nailing the fence boards, each on his own side. The farm owner could then see out of the corner of his eye that someone was approaching him from his right. He thought it was one of his workers, whom he had commissioned to bring more nails. Instead, however, he saw two little girls approaching from the property's main gate with broad playful smiles on their faces; one had a cherry-red lollypop in her hand, which apparently had almost wholly painted her lips red. The other approached her from behind, leaning on crutches, which made it somewhat difficult for her to advance in the dirt and undergrowth.

"Hi," the girl with the lollipop greeted once she was close enough, grinning at him. Her face was adorable and delicate, adorned with pretty freckles and beautiful dark eyes. The other also had a charming look, although she did not smile as much as the other.

"Hey, hi, little girls," Richard said, somewhat surprised. "Where did you come from?"

"We are here to visit our aunt, and we went out for a walk," pointed out the girl with the lollipop, accompanied by a couple of giggles. By mere reflex, Mr. Morgan laughed too, though he didn't quite know why. His attention then turned to the girl with the crutches and the bandage on her leg.

"And what happened to you, sweetie?" He asked curiously. The little girl hesitated a bit, but then she replied in a slightly shy tone:

"I was attacked by a… huge dog."

"I get it…"

"The sign outside says you have horses here," the girl with the red lips intervened at that moment, actually holding the lollypop inside her mouth. "Can we see them?"

"Sorry, we're all very busy right now. Come back early tomorrow if you want."

That said, Richard thought the talk was over and took up his hammer again to continue his work. However, the same girl asked her one more question, which made it impossible for him to do that so easily:

"Are there any other children here we can play with?" She muttered suddenly, somewhat incautious. Richard slowly lowered his hammer and turned back to them. "My aunt mentioned that a girl lived here."

The man looked at both of them with a serious, almost stern expression, as if he were facing two unexpected debt collectors.

"Who did you say your aunt was?" He inquired, trying not to sound defensive.

Both girls were silent for a few moments, but suddenly the one with the crutches blurted out the answer.

"Her name is Marie," she muttered quickly. "She lives across the hill."

"Ah, yes... Well, your aunt is wrong. There is no girl here."

"Where is she?" The girl with the lollipop muttered, some disappointment in her tone.

"She's with her mother, they both went on a trip."

"Will they be back tomorrow?"

Richard took a deep breath. That conversation was making him uncomfortable. And even though they were two girls, the truth was that he had no desire to continue talking with them much longer. He especially didn't want to talk about Samara, or where she was at the moment.

"No, I don't think so," he replied dryly. "I need to get back to work. Come back tomorrow, and I'll saddle up a couple of horses for you to ride, ok? In the meantime, don't hang around here alone; it can be unsafe."

"Ok, thank you very much, sir," the little girl said goodbye, making a curious curtsy, taking the folds of the lack of her old-fashioned dress and leaning her body down a little. That act was a bit strange to him, although nice.

For a moment, the thought crossed his mind that he would have liked his daughter to be just as cute and polite as that girl... and not the monster that ended up being Samara. He thought he must feel guilty for thinking such a thing, but he didn't really feel like that.

The two girls walked away, side-by-side towards the exit. The one with the candy apparently walked to the other's rhythm to not leave her behind on her crutches. Once Richard saw them near the door, he went back to his work as if nothing had happened.

— — — —

"And so?" Esther questioned sternly, but slowly, as they walked away. "Did you catch something?"

Lily took her time answering as if afraid someone was going to hear her. When they were far enough away, she spoke at last, though her gaze fixed straight ahead.

"It is much easier for me to perceive what people are afraid of," Lily whispered slowly. "And that man was terrified of this girl named Samara, not to say that he also hates her."

"A father who hates his daughter? Where have I heard that before?" Esther ironed but also loaded with some irritation.

They passed through the open gate in the fence surrounding the farm and onto the main street that ran directly ahead. They crossed that street, and they advanced down the side of it while they talked.

Lily continued with what she had grasped from the man's mind while talking to Esther.

"Apparently she's not in the house or on the island."

"And where she is? Did she really go on a trip with her mother?"

"I don't know if that's what it is, but I caught a place: a hospital called Eola. That was the first name that came to his mind when you asked where she was, and it seems she's there right now. It is all that I managed to perceive about it."

"Eola?" Esther muttered, somewhat lost.

They both kept moving for a few more minutes until they reached a hollow tree where they had hidden their bag. Lily took advantage of the fact that they were there to rest. She sat very carefully on the grass and spread her injured leg as far as the pain allowed. It was time to take her meds, so she took advantage of that little break to do it too.

Meanwhile, Esther extracted the suitcase from the tree, and from inside, she took out a Smartphone. She quickly searched the internet for a nearby hospital called Eola. The closest, and fitting the description, was the Eola Psychiatric Hospital, located in a community of the same name… in Oregon. It was apparently a few miles from Salem; that is to say, it was located totally in the opposite direction to which they had been going all that day. Worse still, it was in precisely the direction she had hoped to avoid at all costs after that noisy incident in Portland that they were lucky to get out of without being discovered.

Esther then turned to face the tree, pressing her forehead against its bark with some force as a sign of frustration.

"You must be kidding…" she murmured slowly as a thought aloud.

Lily looked at her, confused by that reaction. Her arm with the phone was hanging off her side, so she reached out and took it to see what it was about; it didn't take long to realize.

"Wow, so we have to go back to Oregon," she muttered mockingly, quite mocking. "And half the state police for sure must be looking for you. It's good to know that I still have the option to pretend I'm the victim like you said before. But you…" She gave a little wry laugh. "How much will they give you for each corpse? Do you think they will extradite you to Russia?"

"Shut up, will you?" Esther snapped in annoyance, turning to see her sideways. Then she turned and sat down on the grass as well.

Be that as it may, she had already come far enough to go back at that moment. They would have to travel there without being discovered, enter that place and get Samara out of there, and she had a feeling that it would be much more complicated than Portland. And everything had to be done as quickly as possible...

Esther closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead a little with her fingers, perhaps with more force than required.

"I hate psychiatric hospitals…" she whispered slowly to herself.

— — — —

Neither Esther nor Lily were aware that at that moment, a man parked in a somewhat old truck further down the road, was watching them in the distance with a pair of binoculars. In fact, he had arrived on the ferry with them; he and his truck. He was also observing them all the time they were waiting for the ferry to arrive. He had managed to keep his distance, not attract attention, and blend in with people. It was something he was really good at, as it was necessary on many occasions for the kind of life he had been leading for a long, long time, even when it came to hiding from people like those two.

With his hairstyle tied back in several braids, the African-American man had to lower the binoculars for a few moments to cough twice with moderate force. He took a deep breath to calm himself before fully regaining his composure.

The boy had told him to keep an eye on them and not intervene unless he deemed it necessary; he only noticed that one did her job. He hated having to fulfill those kinds of assignments, especially for… that guy. But here he was, following two rubes brats at a distance, hoping neither of them would notice his presence. He didn't know where else those two's journey would take them, but inevitably he would have to go as well.

END OF CHAPTER 33

Author's Notes:

—Official Owlman was an original character, without any relation to any other of the characters or the movies or series involved in this story.

[safestsephiroth]

Another assassin, come for vengeance. He saw the girl recoil in fear. Beg not to have to fight. Try, clumsily, to defend herself. She was overmatched and out of her league.

She was going to die in front of his eyes.

He thought of a red-swaddled infant, screaming next to a mother’s corpse.

No.

The brush began to ignite, a product of the strange magicks that he knew surrounded the girl. He saw the other assassin’s muscles tense, the barest flicker of blades being drawn. This wasn’t a clean kill. She was here to gloat. She was here to torment. She was here to murder.

No.

In an instant, he was next to the girl. The would-be murderer was dead. He had heard her shout for vengeance, cry for blood. There would have been no talk. No matter what he had tried to do.

“Are you hurt?” He asked the girl.

“Oh god, another one?!” She asked. Eyes wild. Terrified. Overwrought. Crying. Unstable. He needed to defuse this.

“Your life is in danger,” he said. “I choose to protect you. If you wish to live, we must leave. Now.”

The girl already had her staff off the ground. Her hands were shaking so much she could barely hold it. He watched the wheels turn in her head. It wasn’t long before she nodded, tears evaporating from the heat.

“This way.”

He hadn’t felt so awake since everything that mattered to him died. His heart was racing. There could be more nearby. If anyone had known the girl’s identity, there should be more nearby. As they passed the fresh corpse, the girl gave it a slight bow.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“This way.” He wanted to disappear, to watch from the shadows, to do anything but be out in the open with a target on his back. He thought of a man being torn apart by bullets he never saw coming. He thought of running away, bleeding, broken, hunted.

But he didn’t flee. He guided her to cover, hiding behind a nearby ruin. She got low to the ground. He stood there, listening. Looking.

And what he heard was the girl shaking. Panicking. Traumatized. It dawned on him that for all her magical prowess, she might not have ever killed anyone. He recalled that the Tachibana patriarch hated magic.

It all made sense.

“Do I...” He counted her breaths. Far too rapid. “Hmm, I...what do I...”

He recalled his teacher.

“Take a deep breath. Hold it. Count to three. Release.”

She did so, immediately, and he concluded she must have been used to having to calm herself down. A few breaths later she was no longer a maelstrom of twisting aether, at the least.

“We will wait here one hour”, he said. Mor Dhona wasn’t far, and there was a watch. But they couldn’t stay long, he realized. The other assassin was also Doman. Staying amidst others was dangerous for the girl. But she wouldn’t be able to travel far. Not like this, not without a mount, and being caught in the open at night was far more dangerous. “Then we will return to the camp. You live in the desert?”

“I don’t have a home... I mean, a friend lets me use her apartment, sometimes.”

So she didn’t have a proper home, either. That explained the wandering. There hadn’t been a pattern, after all - she was merely going from place to place with her whims.

“...I see.”

“Who...are you? I was going to introduce myself, but... I don’t think I need to.”

“Call me what you wish.” He realized this wouldn’t be enough for her - he could see the confusion on her face. “The last person I spoke with called me ‘Shadow’.”

“Shadow...” she repeated. “Were you... looking for me, as well?”

He said nothing, choosing instead to keep a silent vigil. When he had judged the hour to have passed, he bade the girl follow him and made for the camp. The corpse lay exactly where it had been, and the girl gagged when she saw it. He tried to comfort her.

“If I did not kill her, she would have returned. She would keep returning until one of you was dead.” After a few seconds, he added: “Sitting and eating will help.”

They reached Mor Dhona without any further incident, though he was ready every step of the way. He said nothing beyond the bare minimum required, exchanging nods with the guard at the gate. At the inn, he paid for the girl’s food. She took a seat with a plate, and seemed confused when he instead stood to the side of the fireplace, almost melting entirely into the darkness.

“I will stand,” he explained. “If we are attacked, I will be ready.”

The girl picked up her fork, and he could see it tremble in her hand. “Is it true?” She asked. “Did my family cause all of this?”

He hadn’t expected the question. He wasn’t prepared to answer it. He said nothing.

“I’ve...had a feeling,” she continued. “After the refugees arrived. I was afraid to find out the details of what happened. I avoided all the Domans I found...”

She didn’t know.

But she needed to.

“The Tachibana clan’s treachery is known of by all. As are their deaths.”

The fire in the hearth flickered a moment, then burst, the crackling sound of logs burning giving way to what was practically a roar. The girl dropped her utensils, burying her face in her hands. She tried in vain to muffle the sobbing. The other patrons in the building became conspicuously more fascinated with their food and paying attention to themselves.

He said nothing. There was nothing to say. Not yet. Not while she was still sobbing. Not while the grief was so great it was all that could fit in her thoughts. Interceptor crawled under the table to sit at her feet. 

The dog was better at reading emotions than he was.

It took time, but eventually the flames died down once more, and the girl was wiping her face with the sleeves of her dress. This, then, was the time to be plain with her.

“You will need to consider your next move.”

Realization dawned on her. “You think there are others?”

“So long as you are reviled for your name, more will come.”

“By the gods... what can I even do? Change my name and dress? Hide? My father kicked me out of our house when I wasn’t even ten, and only because I carried magic in my blood. And now shinobi hunt me down for the sins he committed?!”

“They think revenge will lessen their burden.” He didn’t add that he spoke from experience. He hoped she hadn’t realized.

“Then... I guess I’d better be ready to die?” She looked up at him, tears in her eyes. She knew it wasn’t fair. He knew it wasn’t fair. She was lashing out, wounded, hurt terribly by everything. He did not challenge her. She came to the realization on her own: “I should not make hasty decisions,” she said. A deep breath. The wheels turning again. She wasn’t a helpless girl, just one who didn’t want to hurt anyone. He saw the difference. 

She nodded softly to herself. “First, I need to find a safe place to stay.”

“I’ll help you,” he said, before he’d even realized it. He’d made the decision days ago, he realized. But was it one to stay with? “But know that I might leave at any time, if I so desire. Death follows wherever I go. I may not be suited to serving you.”

“Serve me?” She asked. There was bitterness in her voice, he recognized. “That takes me back...” A few seconds lost. It was likely she was recalling her youth. Recalling something painful.

When she came back to the here and now, she looked up at him. “I would appreciate your help, and your company. And... I understand if you decide to leave.”

“Then the first step,” he said, “Is to secure a place to sleep tonight.”

“We can teleport to the Mist and use Enea’s apartment,” she said.

“No.” he replied, a bit too quickly. “To use teleportation magic is to tread upon the realm of the dead. It disturbs their rest.”

“Oh,” she said. “It does?”

“Yes.”

“I guess we could walk there,” she concluded. “But it will be a few nights before we make it there. A room would be more defensible than camping in the open.”

“I will secure transport”, he caught himself saying before he realized it.

“Thanks,” she said.

“We will leave in the morning.”

She gestured to the dog at her feet. “Is he yours?”

“His name is Interceptor. Be careful. He eats strangers.”

“Interceptor...” For the first time he’d seen that day, she smiled. “Did you name him? He alerted me back there...”

“I know.”

“Should we find somewhere to stay the night then?”

“This tavern has rooms. If you would prefer, there are other buildings in town. You risk encountering other Domans the longer you travel here.”

“Let’s stay here, then.”

“Very well.”

It was a long night, one in which she barely slept. He set up his small altar in the corner of the room, gave thanks for the guidance, put the altar away again and sat in the corner the rest of the night.

He wasn’t sure where this would end, but he knew he had done the right thing.

@red-dlai