#the admission that his face felt really hot after that interaction is information that could not even be waterboarded out of him

[heich0e]

vash wears his signature round-framed glasses every day, and has for all the years you've known him. he's not particularly shy about anything, but he freely admits to having terrible eyesight and an absolutely insane lens prescription to anyone who asks.

nai on the other hand outrightly lies about it.

his eyesight is every bit as bad as his twin's—worse, sometimes, because he gets tension headaches that affect his vision that vash has never suffered. but in contrast to his brother, he wears contact lenses at all times to keep that secret hidden. he doesn't reveal much personal information in the first place, and his frosty demeanour is enough to put anyone off from prying, but you really would swear that someone as perfect as nai has the 20/20 vision that he claims.

except one day, during midterms, you show up unexpectedly at the twins' apartment to drop off a textbook that vash had forgotten at the library the night before in his exhaustion-induced stupor. you have to pass his place on your way to campus anyway, so you stop by to return it to him bright and early—knowing he'll need it in last minute preparation for his test that day.

but it's not vash who answers the door when you come knocking, it's nai. he's more dishevelled than you've ever seen him; in a pair of track pants whose elasticated legs are lopsided—stuck at different points on either side, one resting at his left ankle and the right about a quarter of the way up his calf—and a rumpled t-shirt, his bright blonde hair sticking up on one side. he must have just woken, you realize quickly. it's early in the morning, after all, and he's in the throes of midterms too. premed midterms at that. but you just never quite expected someone like nai to even be capable of being dishevelled, much less succumbing to any sort of academic pressure, seeing as he's always so frighteningly well put-together.

"you're wearing glasses."

any lingering softness of fatigue in nai's expression is immediately replaced by a much more familiar look of ire.

"what do you want?" he snaps, crossing his arms over his chest.

he doesn't take the glasses off, you notice. part of you wonders if it's only because that would be like admitting defeat.

"vash left this at the library yesterday,"—you lift the textbook in your hands, holding it before you like a peace-offering—"i know he needs it for-"

nai snatches the hardcover from your grip before you can even finish your explanation.

"is that all?" he asks you coldly. you know he only bothers to do it—only grits his teeth and bears it—because if there was something else you'd come there for, and he kicked you out before you'd gotten the chance to do or say it, vash would be upset with him later.

you purse your lips in thought as he stares you down from behind the lenses of his glasses—cold blue piercing though the clear glass. after a moment's consideration, you laugh lightly.

"they really suit you," you remark with a smile.

nai slams the door in your face before you can say anything else.

[sahbibabe]

Inferno

Soulmate AU

Sephiroth/Fem! Reader

You visit Seventh Heaven, catch up with Jessie, Biggs, and Wedge, and meet Barrett and Marlene.

You learn a little bit more about Sephiroth from the man himself, but not in a way you can understand.

WHEN YOU COULD SPARE the time, you visited Seventh Heaven for once, and not the other way around. While you were very aware of avalanche and who that entailed, it didn't stop you from frequenting the bar from time to time, and it most certainly didn't stop you from delivering tea to Wedge whenever you could just to visit his cats.

      You were surprised, upon entering, to find the place crowded and not at all deserted like you had expected. Tifa was pouring up drinks by the dozen and had no end in sight as people kept coming up for more; you even saw Cloud in the back with her, almost frenzied as he tried to keep the orders correct and going to the right people.

       "[Name]!" Jessie's voice was like the crack of a whip over the throng of noise. You turned to face her table, where she sat with Biggs, Wedge, a man who appeared more muscle than bone, and a little girl in a cute pink dress who was talking animatedly to said man. "Over here!"

       It was better than braving the crowd around the bar, you decided, after taking a glance at the riot of alcohol being tossed around.

        You approached cautiously, wary of drunkards who stumbled and laughed near you, and Jessie finally got impatient enough to jump up and yank you to the table, plopping you down in a seat across from the little girl in pink.

        "[Name]!" Wedge cheered, giving you a tiny wave with a surprised look when you looked him dead in the eye. "It's nice to see you! Want some chips?"

         "Oh, no thank you." You held your hands up and waved his offer off. Chips didn't sound like a very good appetizer to you, and you had only come for a Cosmo Canyon to unwind a bit. You would probably be getting neither. "I appreciate the offer, Wedge."

        Biggs, a grin on his face, reached around Jessie and patted your shoulder. "Barrett, Marlene, this is [Name]. She's the local tea supplier up near the station."

         You smiled politely at them, only jostling when Jessie managed to shove a glass of beer in your hand. You never did favor beer, or any alcohol in particular, though Tifa had somewhat succeeded in getting you to like the Cosmo Canyon as long as it had a wedge of lime in it.

         "It's nice to meet you both," you said, unflinching underneath Barrett's hard stare. You had a feeling that he did that to all the new people he met. "I'm [Name], like he said, but I only run the tea shop. I'm not much of a supplier."

        Barrett grunted at you, keen on going back to speaking to Marlene, but the little girl's eyes were fixed on you, her mouth open wide. She was absolutely adorable and you were having a hard time not snatching her up and cooing over her like a grandmother.

        "Hello," you greeted her again, waving your hand at her with a smile. "You're Marlene, aren't you?"

         As you interacted with the girl, you found it difficult not to ignore the holes that Barrett was burning in your skull. The little girl was obviously someone important to him, but no one seemed to want to tell you just how.

        "Hi," she responded shyly. You held out your hand to shake, just to appease Barrett, and she shook it slowly. "I'm Marlene."

        "That's a pretty name," you said, and it was--you had never heard much like it. "I love your dress."

        "Thank you! Daddy bought it for me. I really like your feathers."

        You had almost forgotten Sephiroth's feathers at your hip--touching them mindlessly, you smiled at her, and plucked one of the smaller ones from your bundle. It was one of the prettier ones and shone like oil slick, and under Barrett's approving stare and nod, you handed it to Marlene.

        "Here you go. You can have one, since you like it," you said. She took it from you gently, watching the different colors bounce off under the lights. "Take good care of it, okay? That feather is rare."

       "I will!" Marlene promised, clutching it to her chest--very gently, you noticed. Then, she held it up in front of her father's face, chortling,"Look! Look! Miss [Name] gave me a feather!"

        "I see that," he began,"but what do you say?"

        "Huh?"

 

        You watched, amused, eyes crinkled, at the interaction. Parent dynamics always fascinated you to no end, especially since you had a hard time remembering how your parents were with you as a child. Time seemed to take those away from you the older you got; you were only twenty-three, but your memory was as hazy as an old bat's.

         "You say thank you," Barrett was chiding her.

        "Oh!" She said, as if struck. She turned to you, her eyes bright. "Thank you!"

         "You're welcome, Marlene," you laughed, patiently, and took a sip of the beer Jessie had given you with a grimace. "Jessie, I don't even like beer."

        "You're not getting a Cosmo Canyon anytime soon, so drink it up," she said, nudging your shoulder playfully.  "And then we can help Tifa clean up after."

       "Fine. But I better get one before the night's over."

      As the hours went by and the crowd slowly thinned out, leaving crumbs of chips and open beer bottles scattered across the various tables left open, you were entertained by Marlene, who was putting the feather in different parts of her hair and grinning at you, and Jessie, who went along with you and praised Marlene's fashion choices. Barrett seemed to have no issue with you the longer you played with Marlene, choosing to speak with Biggs and Wedge about something far more serious than a feather's fashion season.

        Soon, it was Marlene's bed time and you were saying goodbye, drowsy and only a little buzzed. Barrett had offered to take you home after he tucked Marlene away, probably to thank you for occupying his daughter while he spoke about serious things, but you waved him off.

        "It's okay," you said gently, fighting through the buzz in your head. "It's only a little ways away. Bring Marlene to visit one day; tea's on the house."

        "I'm sure she'd have fun," he laughed when the girl in question nodded her head eagerly. "Come on, little lady, let's get you into bed!"

        With a farewell hug to Jessie, Biggs, and Wedge, and a wave to Tifa and Cloud, who still seemed to be busy, you stepped outside and inhaled the smell of Shinra chemicals and metal. It was a far better cry than the musty heat that had become Seventh Heaven.

        As you walked down the street to your tea shop, avoiding cats that wove through your legs, you became aware that you were being followed. The vibrating strings on your fingers told you who it was, though, so you continued walking, only stopping well out of view of Seventh Heaven and other people.

       You paused just under one of the working street lights, the others under disrepair or age, turning to face Sephiroth. He had kept his distance so far, skirting the edge of pathways and staying in the dark, but approached when you stopped to look at him.

       "Stalking isn't nice," you said by way of greeting. His eyes squinted in slight amusement, but not much. "Walk with me."

        "I intended to. Just not so close up."

        With a roll of your eyes you began walking, linking your arm with his to keep up with his longer strides. To the unwise observer, you would appear like a couple walking down the street, oblivious to onlookers, when you were anything but.

        It didn't trouble you too much that you would never have a normal relationship with him. Did it bother you that any attempt at happiness would have to be with someone else? Of course; it hurt when someone who was supposed to be your soul mate couldn't be that for you. Was unable to be that for you.

        You had decided, during one of those long showers where you wasted more water than you should have, that you would be happy with whatever moments you got with him. You would cherish them, no matter how distant he was from you, because he had lingered and watched over you; he could have left that first night and never come back.

        Instead, he had lent you his sight, given you little tokens, and even now, made sure you were safe as you walked down the road to your shop.

        It wasn't love. It was… appreciation. It was nearly a platonic acquaintanceship. You could have tacked many labels onto what you were, but one stood out the most: reluctant friends.

       "What do you do when you aren't with me?" You asked suddenly. You could feel his eyes darting to look at your face at the question, an eyebrow raised. You felt your face go hot at having to repeat yourself, flustered. "What I meant was, how do you spend your time? You never sleep, really, and I only see you at night, so…"

       "I take care of my important matters." It was so infuriatingly cryptic when you only wanted honesty. Which, he was, to a degree, but he wasn't elaborating. "Don't look so irritated. If it weren't dangerous for you to know, I would have told you."

        Dangerous. That was a word you were slowly coming to terms with when it came to him. You knew dangerous; Cloud was dangerous in a different way from Tifa, just like Tifa was dangerous in a different way from Cloud. Sephiroth was his own brand of danger, but in a more powerful way than your stressed out brain could understand.

        "Everything seems dangerous for me to know," you sighed. Then you narrowed your eyes, thankful you could see the slight twinge of a grin on his face. "Fine then. What's your favorite color?"

        "Starting with the basics, are we?"

       "I quite literally know nothing about you, except for your name and former job. This seems like a better compromise."

        "... Fair enough." You swore he was laughing at you in his head. "Green."

         "Why green?"

         "The lifestream. Your turn."

        You almost nearly stopped in your tracks at that admission, nearly pulling him with you, but you fixed yourself and continued walking, tucking that tidbit of information away for later.

        "Blue. Favorite book?"

        "Dante's Inferno."

        You had no idea how much that answer would hold significance when it came to him. Later, you would understand that every word that came out of his mouth had a meaning; not a breath was wasted.

        Later, you would realize that he was descending into his own hell, and was, in his own way, telling you about it.

        Later, you would look back and lament on all the reasons why you should have caught it, but truly?

      Truly, you knew nothing about him in the first place until it was too late.

[andersunmenschlich]

Episode 18: The Man Upstairs

All right—let’s see how long this one takes me. Listening, writing, listening, writing....

[August 8, 2020: begin!]

This statement was given in December 2008 by someone named Kristoff Rudenko, and has to do with (as the episode title might suggest) a man who lived in the apartment above the one our statement-giver moved into sometime in 2002, later in the year. Apparently the place was called Welbeck House.

I have some experience with people living above me. The apartments I choose as a photosensitive tend to have people upstairs of them. What can I say? Basements are nice when light hates you.

Kristoff saw the man for the first time the day he moved in.

According to our statement-giver, the man was leaning out of his window, smoking... while wearing a hooded jacket pulled up so tight it obscured most of his face. Now, I don’t smoke, but that seems like a rather odd way of doing it to me. Surely it can’t be that convenient to stick something into your mouth while you’ve got your face all wrapped up? At least I’ve never seen anyone doing it that way. Even in quite cold weather people seem to prefer to leave their faces mostly exposed while smoking.

The weather on this particular day, Kristoff says, was gray and overcast with the possibility of rain later. Hmm. Is this the type of weather in which one would wear a coat while still technically indoors? This is a genuine question: I’m a cold person in many ways, and often wear jackets when others wouldn’t.

Well, perhaps it is that cold, or perhaps the man upstairs also possesses an unnaturally low body temperature.

He certainly possesses an unusual odor. Our statement-giver describes it as “halfway between the smell of a pavement after rain on a hot day and chicken that’s starting to turn,” which is difficult for me to imagine.

The man, leaning out his upstairs window, watches Kristoff move in for a while. Then, between one trip and another, he vanishes. Presumably he finished whatever the heck it was that he was smoking. One wonders: did the smell come from him, or from his unhealthy little treat? Our statement-giver doesn’t tell us what it was the man was smoking, forcing us to make do with the vague conclusion that it must have been something common for the time and location.

Wandsworth near London, later in the year 2002... a cigarette?

It could, of course, have been a cigar, a pipe, a marijuana roll-up, a hookah, or almost anything else, since we’re not told—but I assign higher probability to a cigarette than to any other possibility.

...Ha. Why, yes: I do have a certain fondness for precise and detailed information. However could you tell.

Speaking of precise and detailed information, Kristoff admits he had no idea whether the man upstairs was a man, he just decided to assume—which is an admission I like, because frankly I think admitting you’re making an assumption is a step up from making the assumption and apparently never even noticing that it is an assumption, and might be incorrect.

Kristoff also gives us more information about his own internal workings by letting us know that, despite not knowing why, he was “slightly spooked” by the encounter. Something in this other tenant’s manner, he says, shook him.

Well, being stared at by someone for the better part of half an hour might be a bit unsettling, don’t you think? Smell or no smell.

The man upstairs is apparently reclusive and stays quietly in his own place most of the time, with only his smell wandering around bothering people. Kristoff has another go at describing it and comes up with “rotten and earthy,” but also notes that it stays out of his place—which I think is interesting, don’t you? In my experience living downstairs from people, scents come right on down, floors and ceilings no obstacle to their passage.

Despite this, Kristoff gets in the habit of burning scented candles. Of course, all candles have a scent. I have a habit of using candles and lamps for lighting, and I’m familiar with the various odors—but specially scented candles are, I think, nice when you’re in the mood for them.

Returning to Kristoff Rudenko: Things were pretty all right for the first two years.

In 2004, however, the banging started.

It’s the day before our statement-giver’s 37th birthday, and he’s clearly planning one of the many sorts of party that I don’t enjoy, since he’s unpacking a whole crate of beer when the noise begins.

Ten minutes of banging, which seems to start on one of the walls in the apartment above, but then moves to the floor, and is vigorous enough to make our story-teller’s light sway with the force of it. This hammering carries on (presumably moving the whole time) for nearly a full hour. Kristoff, despite being the social, party-throwing type, apparently has enough normalcy in him that he does not want to interact with the tenant in the flat above him, and so he simply puts up with the noise until it stops.

This reminds me, for no particular reason, of the time Walmart was selling coconuts for fifty cents.

I bought one. I brought it home. And then I spent far too long trying to get the confounded thing open. Really I should have given up the instant I tasted the milk after holing and draining it—that liquid did not taste right—but I’ve never liked coconut milk and so I thought perhaps that was the problem.

When, after what felt like a small eternity of increasingly vigorous abuse, the coconut finally cracked open, I was delighted. The people upstairs from me were probably also pleased, though I really couldn’t say for certain.

In any case, the coconut was exactly what I should have expected for 50¢.

Kristoff Rudenko has his party, and manages to annoy the family across the hall so much that they actually come and ask him to turn his music down. He, meanwhile, is pleased that the man upstairs is apparently back to being a thoughtful neighbor. I wonder how many people are actually aware of their own hypocrisy? “Boy, I’m sure glad that one neighbor isn’t annoying me! This way I can focus on annoying my other neighbors. Whew. Big relief.”

The man upstairs is quiet for another two weeks—then, apparently, it’s hammer time again. Walls first, then floor, and after about an hour, silence again.

Every two weeks.

Must say, that would aggravate me, too... and I’ve been putting up with random banging and unannounced water shut-offs since I moved into this new place at the very end of May. Sharing space with other living things? Not, in my experience, an excellent idea.

Furthermore, buying an apartment in Welbeck House is essentially the same as buying a very small house built right up against your neighbors’ houses, so....

No landlord. No housing association, even.

Kristoff Rudenko carries on not talking to his upstairs neighbor about this regular percussive behavior, and simply stews for about six months, at which point the mail service accidentally delivers a package meant for his neighbor to him instead. It’s not a box package, mind you. It’s one of those shipping envelopes for smaller packages, and is apparently simply stuffed with padding (not a bad idea when sending anything even slightly breakable through the mail).

Finally, Kristoff goes upstairs and knocks on the door of the flat above his own, taking along the package addressed to that flat—a package meant for someone named Mr. Toby Carlisle. It’s an excuse, you see. Now he’s not just there to complain, he’s making a delivery and incidentally mentioning that Mr. Carlisle’s banging and thumping is bothering him.

It’s interesting, isn’t it, how difficult people sometimes find it to complain about perfectly complainable things? And yet at other times they’ll throw a completely unwarranted tantrum over something as silly as a store being out of pennies.

Truly, humans are fascinating.

[August 9, 2020: continuing]

Mr. Toby Carlisle seems to have had an effect on the place where he lives. The wooden door looks older and more beat up than any of the other apartment doors in Welbeck House (which, according to Kristoff Rudenko, all seem to have been replaced fairly recently), and the carpet directly in front of the door is a bit stained, like something’s leaked out from Mr. Carlisle’s flat. Also, there’s no apartment number, no nameplate, nothing to identify the place or show who lives there.

I suppose that might explain the misdelivery. Bit difficult to get packages to a place with no address or name on it, isn’t it?

Kristoff knocks on the door.

No one answers.

He knocks again.

This time he can hear someone coming towards the door—but the possibly carpet-muffled footsteps stop on the other side of the door and then there’s just nothing for a while. Total silence. Our statement-giver is about to knock again when, unexpectedly, the door opens.

It doesn’t open much. Just a crack. But it’s enough for Kristoff to A) see that there don’t seem to be any lights on in the place, B) get hit by a whole lot of horrible smell, and C) tell that there’s someone standing there.

“What do you want?” apparently-Toby-Carlisle asks.

Kristoff Rudenko does the package thing. You know: “Uh, I got a package for—are you—?” and so on.

Silence again. Then, suddenly, a thin and pale hand with long and dirty yellow fingernails and a dark red mark that might be an injury of some kind on the back of it shoots out and snatches the package. The door slams.

Well, it’s not a terribly polite way of receiving packages, is it?

Adding lack of proper cleanliness to the other charges, this Toby Carlisle left a disgusting smear of some sort of thick, off-white liquid on Kristoff Rudenko’s jacket sleeve when he so rudely grabbed the package from him, and the stuff smells terrible. In fact our statement-giver says he had to throw the jacket away because the unbearable smell would not come out.

Really now. Is it so difficult to maintain a level of hygiene such that you don’t leave rotting goop on everything you touch?

Kristoff Rudenko, it seems, decided not to knock on the door again and broach the subject of the fortnightly banging. Frankly I can understand his desire to go away and not come back, but it seems to me that he’s unlikely to get a better opportunity.

“Yes, one more thing,” he could say. “That hammering you do every two weeks; what on earth are you doing? And is there no way to do it a little more quietly?”

He’s right there at the door, after all. It’s a very convenient location.

Instead, Kristoff goes away and doesn’t try again. “That was it for a long time,” he says. “The man upstairs was named Toby and he was a disgusting shut-in who smelled rancid and occasionally made hammering noises. It wasn’t ideal, but it was something I could understand and live with. Two years passed like this, and I had almost forgotten about him, to be honest. He had become just another part of my life, and could be lived around.”

I find that remarkable. How does one forget about continual eruptions of horrible noise? Even “almost”? It seems like the kind of thing which would drive me absolutely bonkers.

And I speak from current as well as past experience, because the “temporary maintenance issue” that’s still, after more than two months, waking me up in the middle of the day and shutting my water off at inconvenient moments... this isn’t a thing I’m likely to forget about, nor even almost forget about.

It’s very annoying.

But Kristoff Rudenko, it would seem, has managed this apparently impossible thing, and so he didn’t really think about Toby Carlisle until late 2007.

[August 13, 2020: back from work]

At this point, our statement-giver has decided to move to Sheffield to be closer to his ailing mother, and so he’s trying to sell his place. This is difficult, because eventually every prospective buyer asks the looming question: “What’s that smell?” The third set of viewers even points out a stain on the living room ceiling, which they assume is the result of a leaky pipe.

I’m pretty sure it’s not a leaky pipe.

Kristoff tries to get hold of a plumber, but for some reason they can’t get to him before next week. So he has to wait, and in the meantime the smell gets worse and the stain gets... stainier.

“As it grew, it started to turn a dark yellow in color, and glistened ever so slightly when the light hit it.”

Doesn’t sound much like anything you’d expect to come out of domestic piping. I’m reminded of blood plasma, or melted fat—both of which I’d expect to smell rather worse than simply “rotten and earthy,” though I suppose the second one might smell a bit like “chicken that’s starting to turn.” Hmm.

In any case, Toby Carlisle isn’t answering his door anymore.

When the male plumber turns up, he touches the ceiling and it just... collapses. Kristoff Rudenko describes it as “buckling and tearing like wet cardboard.”

Disgusting gunk comes out of it, too. Sickly yellow fluid with viscous white lumps, you say? No, that doesn’t sound like anything I’d expect to find in a ceiling (nor in a floor, come to that).

Kristoff Rudenko throws up.

The plumber, presumably due to lots of experience with gross things, only looks like he’s about to throw up, and excuses himself.

[August 15, 2020: continuing]

Once he finishes vomiting, Kristoff Rudenko is furious with the man upstairs. Understandably. What sort of horrible neighbor does a thing like that to someone else’s ceiling? Come to that, what kind of person would do something so repulsive to their own floor? Whatever type of individual this is, they’re clearly one in need of punishment.

You see, it’s not a good idea to let people do things which inconvenience others too greatly. Even if they’re not harming you at the moment, they may in future—or others, following their example, may. Deviation from standard social behavior is only acceptable to a point.

Storming upstairs to pound on your neighbor’s door, you may say, seems like a bit of a deviation from standard social behavior.

This is true.

When punishing someone for deviant behavior, it’s acceptable to deviate a bit yourself. This is part of what makes it so satisfying, I think: when punishing someone else for hurting you, you’re allowed to hurt them. Allowed, you understand? So long as you don’t seem to harm the person in question more than those around believe they harmed you, you have a free pass.

Since this Toby Carlisle has actually damaged a place in which multiple people live, Kristoff Rudenko is free to tell him off considerably. Maybe even hit him, if he seems belligerent or particularly unrepentant.

It’s a very good situation for Kristoff.

When he begins to bang on the door and shout for the man upstairs to come out or he’ll call the police to fetch him out, the door swings open slightly.

It isn’t locked. I wonder how long it hasn’t been locked? I wonder how heavy the door is, that normal knocking wouldn’t push it open (and pounding only moves it slightly). Maybe the carpet’s especially thick, because Kristoff Rudenko has trouble opening it. He manages to get it open enough to allow passage, but for some reason can’t open it all the way.

He fumbles for a light switch, and finds one. There’s something on the wall beside the switch, though: something soft and wet.

The light comes on.

Someone’s been redecorating. Now, personally, I don’t understand the urge. I only started putting things on my walls after a visitor commented on their utter blankness—something about how it didn’t look like a human lived there.

I am, of course, human. Human, human, human. Just look at my neck!

That said, it seemed to me that it might be a good idea to decorate a bit more, and so I put up a few reproductions of classic paintings.

...I was later informed that this, too, was somehow suspicious. Really, I don’t know what anyone expects from a normal apartment. Mine has floors. It has walls. It has ceilings. I’ve put towels and washcloths in the bathroom and kitchen, a jacket in the closet by the door, clothing in the closet in the bedroom; I’ve got a toothbrush, toothpaste, a sleeping bag, and even some food in the fridge—and perhaps most importantly, I have not plastered any of the surfaces in my apartment with meat, either raw or cooked. What could be more normal?

At the very least, I think it’s fair to say that Toby Carlisle’s apartment is considerably more abnormal than mine.

“The light that came on was weak and tinged with red, but it was enough to see by. I looked around, and saw that every surface, the walls, the floor, the tables, everything except the curtained windows, was covered in meat.

“Steaks, chunks of chicken, even a whole leg of what I assume was once lamb, had been nailed everywhere. There were layers of it, the newest additions simply stuck on top of the old, and a putrid yellow-white rot could be seen where the oldest pieces had long since turned to liquid. Flies buzzed thick in the air, and maggots carpeted the place. Looking up, I saw the light too, had been smeared with meat, causing the place to be bathed in that dull red light.”

Now, I have no objection to red light, particularly when it’s not especially bright. In fact I prefer it. But this method of obtaining it doesn’t seem sanitary.

Our statement-giver doesn’t tell us whether the meat in question is cooked or uncooked. Perhaps he can’t tell. Once piece of it, however, is probably uncooked: the body of Toby Carlisle, lying in the hallway. The face is no longer hidden, and apparently it’s so riddled with holes that Kristoff can’t tell where the eyes used to be.

This seems unlikely, since eyes tend to be in roughly the same place on every human body, and usually they’re fairly symmetrical. So are there a lot of “puckered, septic lesions and holes” in the same places on the right and left of Toby’s face above the nose?

If so... well, I do appreciate symmetry.

Moving apparently on instinct, Kristoff Rudenko calls the police.

And then, with the phone in his hand, his eyes fall on the thing in the kitchen. Toby Carlisle’s been doing a craft project!

“There, in the center of the floor, was a pile of discarded meat and bone, stacked almost as high as a person. It seemed less decayed than the rest of it, though that foul yellow fluid oozed from it, and ... when I looked at that heaped pile of meat, it moved. I don’t know how—I don’t know quite how to explain it, other than to tell you that it opened its eyes. It opened all its eyes.”

Now, that’s interesting.

A thing built out of meat and bone from... where? The supermarket, probably, given the location. So—dead things from which the life’s long since departed. But there’s life in it, isn’t there? And what, I wonder, has happened to the life of Toby Carlisle?

Personally, if I were going to give a craft project life, I wouldn’t give it my own.

Do you think Toby Carlisle meant to sacrifice himself to this? Or was it an accident? And where did the other eyes come from? I don’t know how things are in your supermarkets, but where I shop most meat doesn’t come with eyes. Surely the only available eyes would be the ones Toby Carlisle once had? Also, what is it with The Magnus Archives and eyes? I’m certain I’m not imagining it now: there are eyes everywhere in this show.

“The next thing I remember,” our statement-giver says, “is the police’s arrival, and a lot of questions from officers trying to hide the fact that they had just finished vomiting. The pile of meat was gone, though the bits that had been nailed to the walls and floors remained.”

So... Frankenstein’s monster left.

But let’s pause and have a think about this. In late 2002, Toby Carlisle already smelled funny—yet he was quiet and the smell wasn’t overly intrusive: just a few whiffs here and there. In July 2004, he starts banging.

I think we can assume this is when the carnal redecoration began. Walls first, then floors, yes? Kristoff Rudenko never mentions the ceiling of Toby’s apartment aside from a note regarding a light fixture. Is rotting flesh nailed there too? Did our crazed meat-painter smear the ceiling with blood and fat? Or did he leave the ceiling itself untouched? These are the kinds of details I’d like to know, and Kristoff Rudenko is not being particularly helpful!

Six months of an apartment papered and carpeted in beef and chicken and lamb and so on and then, in early 2005, Toby Carlisle receives a package.

...A “thick and soft” envelope.

Now, you can have meat shipped to you through the mail, but that is not the right way to do it. There are regulations for the shipping of meat in, I think, every country on Earth. You can’t simply pack meat into an envelope and send it off, that’s a biological hazard!

And yet it’s only in late 2007, after three years of rotting meat, that Kristoff Rudenko says “the smell had begun to pervade my whole flat.”

I would have expected the odor to become a problem long before that! Perhaps our statement-giver has an unusually poor nose... or maybe Welbeck House was built to a truly enviable standard of insulation.

In any case, a hazmat team has to be called in to clean the place up.

Kristoff Rudenko does not mention how the police responded to the dead body. He says nothing about an investigation into either murder or suicide. Does this mean Carlisle’s monster took his old body with it? Does it mean that the police went with either “suicide” or “natural causes” as an explanation for death? Or does it mean that they simply didn’t do anything with it at all, officially—cleaned everything up and pretended it never happened?

Information! Why are we missing so much information? Ahh, well... I suppose these episodes would never end if everything was gone into in as much detail as I’d like. All things considered, this is fine.

Kristoff Rudenko moves in with some friends in Clapham:

“People who are very clean, and don’t mind the fact that I have recently become a vegetarian.”

As someone who has occasionally felt tempted to partake when passing roadkill, I can’t say I understand this reaction. It’s true that I like my meat closer to living than to decomposing, but that is the natural progression—for all living things, vegetables included. First they live and grow. Then they die. Then they rot. We all know this, yes? So why should seeing things at the end of that process put you off eating them at an earlier point?

Well.

Jonathan Sims says, “Looking into this one has proven a bit tricky, as police, hospital and even fire department records give wildly conflicting reports.”

So! I take this to mean that each department wrote up reports it thought worked as plausible explanations—without consulting with one another. In short: they cleaned everything up and pretended the event itself never happened. It’s the gas leak by the Mion River, handled by a bunch of people who aren’t with a single organization (like the Holy Church).

We’ve got a date for the discovery, though: October 22, 2007.

Ah, and Carlisle’s monster didn’t take the body. “The cause of death was listed as gangrene,” which doesn’t seem terribly believable to me. Who dies of gangrene these days? With antibiotics available everywhere?

But then Toby Carlisle, even aside from rituals involving bringing unnatural life to monsters of flesh and bone, wasn’t exactly usual.

Who knows? Maybe he did cut himself on something, and elected to leave the infection entirely untreated. It isn’t as though he’d have to visit the hospital for a little cut—recluse that I am, I’ve treated enough of my own injuries to know what can and can’t be handled at home. A little soap and water, hydrogen peroxide or rubbing alcohol, a tube of triple antibiotic ointment, a sterile bandage... unless you’ve actually cut your arm open and gotten something unusually nasty in the wound... and even then! gauze and a packet of sutures should take care of the worst you’re likely to get at home.

Was Toby Carlisle the type to simply let his injuries, small or large, fester? I suppose he might have been. He certainly doesn’t seem to have cared about keeping his living space clean and healthful.

Kristoff Rudenko hasn’t died yet.

And Incredibly-Competent-Assistant Sasha has turned up Toby Carlisle’s financial records, which seem to suggest that he was making money somehow, but it was all going to pay for his place—and where was he getting the meat? There are no records of purchases made in person or online.

Assistant Tim, despite asking everywhere, hasn’t been able to figure it out.

Assistant Martin is still having stomach problems, it seems.

[August 16, 2020: concluding]

And Head Archivist Jon, like me, is bothered by not knowing where the meat was coming from. Given that it obviously wasn’t coming from any of the more conventional sources, though... well, maybe some of those cold cuts came with eyeballs after all.

Still, I’d very much like to know whether any of the eyes that thing opened were (or had been) human.

[delos-mio]

Golden Hour - Part 2

A/N: part two is here!! please let me know how you’re feeling about this fic! your feedback is always greatly appreciated c:

-----

When you woke up the next morning, Steve was still fresh on your mind. The way he smiled, the way he smelled…everything about him haunted your dreams. Truthfully, you felt kind of dumb for having such a big crush on a guy you didn’t get a number from. But you couldn’t help yourself—Steve had worked his way into your head. After freshening up and pulling a sweatshirt on, you wandered out into the living room of your apartment with Wanda where she was eagerly chatting with Sam over a cup of coffee.

“Fancy seeing you here, ditcher,” you teased Sam as you grabbed a mug for yourself.

“Hey now! I couldn’t find you when we left. So, who really did the ditching?” he asked with a raise of his eyebrow.

“You did. You left the second we got beer, asshole.” You sat across from them and stuck your tongue out at him.

“Where’d you end up anyways? I didn’t hear you get in until almost 7,” Wanda said with a tiny smirk. This information amused Sam and he whooped a bit before you flipped him off.

“It wasn’t like that. I um, I ended up on the roof of the house with Steve,” you said while you shot daggers at Sam.

“Rogers?”

“He said literally the same thing when I mentioned you last night.” You paused to take a sip of the too-hot drink before continuing. “Where have you been hiding Steve Rogers anyways?”

“He ain’t hiding! I met him during freshman orientation. Clint and I lived in the dorm room next to him and Bucky,” he said as a matter of fact. “He plays baseball, so he’s always at that house. Real good guy.”

“I know.”

“Oh, so you’re the Steve biographer now?” he asked with a shit eating grin, making you flip him off yet again. Then you watched as realization came across his face. “You like him! Oh man, I’m sorry, I didn’t even think about him being totally your type. You and your pretty boys. Mhmm, I bet he liked you too,” He shook his head and smiled again.

“Oh, fuck you!” you laughed. “I am mad at you for not introducing us, though,” you said with a fake pout.

“How’d you guys meet then without your charming and well connected best friend?” He was loving every minute of making you squirm.

“I um, well, I saw Billy over pretty close to me. So, of course I freaked out. And I kind of grabbed him since he was the closest to me and asked if he’d pretend to be my date.” Once it came out of your mouth, you realized just how melodramatic you’d been the night before. It was a wonder Steve didn’t run the minute you asked him for such an odd favor.

“You what?!” Wanda laughed, unable to contain her giggles. Sam just stared at you with his dark eyes and raised eyebrows.

“It got worse.” They both stared at you, urging you to continue with your story. “I kind of…I may have kissed him when he said Billy was walking in our direction.” With that admission and the ensuring roar of disbelief and laughter, you grabbed the nearest pillow and buried your face in it. “I know! I know, ok?”

“I don’t even know what to say. Must have been a good kiss to make him stay with your crazy ass all night,” Sam quipped and you launched the pillow over at his smug face. “Did you give him your number or anything?”

“He said to come by the studio sometime. Not really sure what that means in guy speak. Any insight?” you asked Sam.

“Well, he’s pretty closed off, especially about his art. So, I think the boy’s got it bad. I can ask him if you want.”

“No!” you yelled abruptly. “I mean, no.”

“If you say so.” He finished the rest of his drink and brought his mug to the sink before shrugging into his jacket. “Well, ladies. It’s been lovely as always, but I have to get ready for my date.”

“Econ girl?” you asked excitedly.

“Econ girl.” He opened the door before leaning back a bit. “We should all probably start calling her Gabby, by the way.” With that, he gave you a wink and slipped out the door.

----

Steve quietly tried to sneak back into the apartment he shared with Bucky. Generally, he was a pretty heavy sleeper, so he figured it’d be no problem. As the front door clicked shut behind him, another door clicked open inside the apartment. A girl clad in only one of Bucky’s shirts exited his room and immediately jumped upon seeing Steve. He quickly averted his eyes and turned his attention to the ceiling, trying to look anywhere but at the half-naked girl before him.

“Sorry,” he murmured as she quickly padded down the hall to the bathroom.

Steve pushed his hair back from his face and shook his head. Of course Bucky had company. He’d been at the same party last night, and it wasn’t often he couldn’t find companionship if he so decided. He made his way to his room which doubled as a secondary studio and let the back of his knees hit the mattress, flopping onto his back. His eyes fluttered shut as he mulled over the events of the evening. He had walked into a party with Bucky, who almost immediately ditched him, only to be asked by a pretty girl to pretend to be here date. She was very pretty, wasn’t she? Two souls, abandoned by their friends, finding each other in a packed party. He let out a small sigh as he thought about her smile and how unapologetically herself she’d been from the moment she spoke to him. As he was getting lost in his own thoughts, he was interrupted by his door being flung open and Bucky leaning in his door frame.

“Do you mind? I’m really tired,” Steve grumbled, still not opening his eyes.

“You dog! You got home later than me. Don’t think that’s ever happened before,” he said with a smile evident in his voice.

“It’s not like that. You’ll notice, Buck, that unlike you, I didn’t bring anyone home with me.” Steve was starting to get irritated by his roommate’s presence and hoped he’d leave him in peace and quiet sooner rather than later.

“Alright, alright. I’ll let you sleep. But you’re gonna tell me about her when you wake up.” With that, Steve heard his door shut again, leaving him in the stillness of his room. He fell asleep half hanging off the bed where he landed with the girl who kissed him without reservation on his mind.

----

The weekend passed with a lot of idle time thinking about when you could possibly see Steve again. You were really regretting not scrawling your number somewhere for him. It was torture not knowing how to find him again outside of going to the studio, hoping dumb luck would make you run into him. Yes, there was the option to ask Sam for his number, but you already came off strange enough during your first interaction—you didn’t need to scare the boy away with a creepy text out of the clear blue sky.

You made it to Monday morning and somehow managed to make it to your 8:30 am class on time; a rare feat for you. Thankfully, the class was all engaged in a lively discussion of why Susan didn’t make it to Narnia at the end of the The Last Battle, so it was easy to stay alert and engaged. Before you knew it, your professor was dismissing you and reminding you all about the paper that was due on Thursday. You shuffled down the stairs of the academic building, AB as it was affectionately called, and paused once you got to the quad. Normally, you’d head home for a few hours before your afternoon class, maybe to the coffee shop if you were drowning in homework. But you had Steve’s invitation ringing in your head. Was it weird to go see him so soon? But he wouldn’t have offered if he didn’t want to see you, right?

The art building was only a quarter mile from your building, so you made quick work of the walk and tried to hype yourself up, telling yourself that there’s nowhere to go but up after what you put him through on Friday. When you got inside, you realized you had no idea where you were going. You had yet to take an art class while at school and though you knew he’d either be printmaking or drawing, you didn’t know where to begin looking for those studios. After wandering aimlessly for a minute, you saw a tall girl stalking out of a room to your left. You quickly caught up with her and called out from behind.

“Hey! Really sorry to bother you, but do you know where I could find a printmaking room?” you asked with a smile. The girl turned around and shot you a look, removing one earbud from her ear.

“What?”

“Printmaking…where could I find that room?” you asked again, this time less sure of yourself.

“Down that hall to the left,” she said unceremoniously and popped the earbud back in, turning back to the direction she was originally heading and left. You widened your eyes to yourself but took her directions. At the end of the hall, the was a set of double doors propped open and a few tables in a large workspace. There were only a couple students in there, hovering intently over their work. You poked your head in the room and gave in a quick scan, wondering if you’d have any luck finding Steve.

Immediately, your eye was drawn to him. You were thankful he didn’t notice your presence because you were definitely staring. All weekend, you were sure you had a picture-perfect vision of him in your head, but you were abruptly reminded that he was much more handsome than you could dream up. He had traded in his plaid shirt from the other night for a paint-stained grey tee that was about a size and a half too small. You remembered from hitting your chest on his head that he felt muscular, but seeing him in this shirt showed off just how built he really was. His biceps strained under the short sleeves as he delicately carved back layers of his work with an Exacto Knife. There was a backwards snapback holding his grown out hair back out of his face, his beard speckled with a bit of stray ink. You allowed yourself one more moment to admire him from afar before you approached. You thought it’d be fun to get his attention the same way you did the night you met and gently tugged on the back of his tight shirt.

“I was wondering when you’d come around.” You could hear his smile before you saw it. He set down the blade and turned to face you, letting his palms rest on the edge of the table behind him. He looked completely in his element and relaxed, his blue eyes squinting slightly as he looked you over.

“I wasn’t sure if it was really an open invitation,” you smirked before taking a seat in the chair next to him. He joined you and maneuvered his chair slightly so he could have his body turned toward you.

“I promise you, I only say things that I mean.” He lifted hit hat and pushed his hair back before securing it again. You couldn’t stop the heat that started to rise in your cheeks.

“So, what are you working on?” you asked, peeking over his shoulder.

“Well,” he turned to move the board between you two, “it’s a print I’m working on for midterms. It’s part of a series based on deconstructed mixed with hyper-realistic anatomy.” You looked it over and saw the allusion to a ribcage and beating heart. He had meticulously hand carved out every vein, artery, and muscle. It was gorgeous. You sat for a moment and just marveled, not only at what he had created it, but the man who created it. Steve was soft where someone else in his situation would have been hard. He was a gentle jock and you were completely taken by his almost impossible juxtaposition.

“Steve, it’s beautiful. I love it,” you said sincerely, letting your hand rest on his bicep. Holy shit, he was solid.

“Thank you, I appreciate it.” He flashed you that wide smile that made your knees weak the night you met. He let his legs slide out a little and leaned back casually in his chair. “You know, I talked to Sam yesterday,” he said nonchalantly. You immediately felt your stomach turn and looked at him with wide eyes.

“That motherfucker. I hope he didn’t tell you all the greatest hits of my blunders,” you groaned.

“No, no, nothing like that,” Steve chuckled. “He just said he heard we’d finally met and asked if we would like to go with him and Gabby to the football game Friday.” He looked at you expectantly and ran his hand idly over his beard.

“W-we? Sam never asked me to go,” you half asked with confusion.

“Yeah. I think he was kind of hoping I’d ask you to go with me,” he said with a smirk. Relief and realization washed over you. “What do you say? Can you make it through a whole football game with me and Sam?”

“Sam? I don’t know, the jury’s still out on him.” You both laughed a little nervous laugh. “But I could watch a game with you, yes.”

“I can pick you up around 6 if that works for you,” he offered nervously, seemingly surprised him and Sam’s plan worked out.

“You’re not going to make me sit in barf, right?” you asked and bit on your bottom lip, unable to resist picking on Steve just a bit.

“Very funny,” he drawled sarcastically. “Could I—would I be able to get your number? So you can tell me where you live and all that,” he added quickly; you were really starting to love seeing him get flustered. You reached for a scrap paper and pencil and scribbled down your number, sliding it across the table to his large hands. His fingers just barely brushed yours as he took the paper before stowing it away in the front pocket of his jeans.

“You can always use that number before Friday too, if you want,” you said with a sly smile and stood up from your seat, leaving another small kiss on Steve’s bearded cheek. His laugh carried a bit as you walked out of the studio, your feet feeling like they were being carried by tiny, pink fluffy clouds.

You had a date with Steve Rogers.

[avelera]

snapdragonroar

replied to your post

“snapdragonroar replied to your post “So after Voltron season 5:...”

I thought you’d be all over ‘character is trapped inside their own mind, screaming, as they watch themselves used against their own.’

Oh, I super, SUPER AM. It’s just that with regards to Shiro, there just isn’t a lot of proof there yet beyond conjecture based on past genre tropes? 

The case for mind control at this point is 1) assumes this is Shiro and Shiro’s body, and it has been the whole time 2) that he fell into Haggar’s custody at the end of season 2 and was released again in order to 3) presumably sabotage Voltron from within until some critical moment where he could see them destroyed or otherwise manipulated but which 3) was eventually turned instead to supporting Lotor which couldn’t have been pre-planned because Haggar didn’t yet know Lotor was her son.

The sense I’m getting from mind control, whether it’s Shiro or Kuron, is that it’s at odds with stealth. So far, Shiro’s “off” moments that lead to sabotage could just be chalked up to bad luck or stress. Normal Shiro has snapped at team members before, or insisted they follow his orders, or required pain and sacrifice from the team, or isolated himself, but before those had a more positive slant and he was quick to apologize if he sensed he’d hurt someone. He actively looked out for team members and sought them out to support them, something we really haven’t seen Shiro/Kuron do since the end of Season 2.  Right now he feels like a parody of Shiro at his worst. 

(I also can’t help but notice that he avoided interaction with Sam Holt, someone who would have known Shiro on the Kerberos mission very well as a colleague and might have smelled something fishy, whether it was cloning or mind control.) 

But the more Haggar turns up the heat on Kuron/Shiro’s loyalty programming, the more at odds he behaves with Shiro’s true personality. Shiro, or a clone that thinks it’s Shiro, has a loyalty first to Voltron and his loved ones. You can almost pinpoint moments where the programming flexes its muscle and forces him to go against that loyalty in favor of Lotor or the Galra Empire. 

The thing is, I think Haggar did a little too much, a little too fast, because now Shiro (or Kuron-who-thinks-he’s-Shiro) is now questioning his own behavior. I think, ideally, such mind control is designed for use only in a sleeper agent situation, where the agent would not be influenced too much in order to keep their normal personality intact and unquestioned so they can do subtle sabotage, or be used in a pivotal moment where victory for Haggar’s side is assured and where being stealthy and hiding the programming is no longer required compared to a quick and easy major victory (like flying Voltron into the side of a shield that will certainly kill them all?). 

To go back to “screaming on the inside”, which I am SO IN FAVOR OF as a genre trope, I really think we’ve only got about 2 pieces of proof (though forgive me if I miss something, I haven’t seen the season enough times to have encyclopedic knowledge yet):

1) Shiro’s confession to Lance that he doesn’t “feel like himself.” (A line which felt eerily like an admission that he knows he’s a clone in its literal wording, to be fair) Which, like I said is because I think the loyalty program got pushed too hard so now he’s questioning, because Haggar acted clumsily. However, as far as we know this is the first time he’s questioned his own actions verbally and consciously, like because of being bumped up to Stage 4 Loyalty behavior. So if he’s screaming on the inside, it hasn’t been showing on his face or in his words until now.

2) Lance and Shiro’s “conversation” on the Astral Plain. The thing is, we have no idea how that worked. We know Paladin telepathic communication is disrupted by distance, Zarkon needed a ton of quintessence to track the Black Lion the way he did across space. So this could mean that 

A) Shiro is physically far away (perhaps still imprisoned or unconscious somewhere else entirely??), 

B) Shiro is on the Astral Plain physically and isn’t yet adept at communicating unless he’s reached out to first or 

C) he is inside his own head, as discussed, screaming. 

BUT he says he blacked out at that point. Which implies that there’s two personalities in his head and one gains consciousness when the other loses it? Certainly a genre possibility, but we simply lack proof. 

I think we really are just at a point where lots of possibilities are still on the table, but the Voltron show itself hasn’t given us enough information to solve the mystery on our own, because it involves magic/technology that hasn’t been explicitly shown to us yet. We just don’t have the tools. 

That said, if Shiro IS screaming on the inside trying to warn the others about his behavior, or in a slightly less dramatic example if he’s been subtly nudged to commit sabotage and is only just beginning to behave oddly enough that he notices the strange behavior in himself, hot DAMN is he going to be messed up when he comes out of it. He was already enslaved by the Galra Empire once, this would make for a SECOND TIME and this time with much higher stakes. He’s not just looking out for himself and Matt anymore, his actions could have put the entire GALAXY at risk. 

[adriennescomingbacktolife]

(III)

The uninitiated would be enamored with Danny’s life. The centerpiece of the tales would be this ironically named Clearwater’s Best Championship. Danny’s first title belt acquisition. He would never clarify that it was his only one. Never let the facts get in the way of a good story, he’d say. Adrienne stared at her reflection in the large curved circular bronze plate. The metal was engraved with the raised letters Clearwater’s Best around the circumference of the medallion. Finally, a looming ferocious mountain lion. Or a Florida panther. It was a solid ten pounds with a gaudy bright red leather strap. This was the belt, he’d claim. All of the talk about former championship glory had made her think about Danny’s early career more often. Matt Knox and Jonathon Willis’ parallel runs helped conjure the thoughts even more. He could hear Danny’s voice in her head as she softly recited the tale. After all, nobody was paying attention. “Let me tell you about the night that I became Clearwater’s Best. It all started when I overcame thirty nine other men.” The truth is that Danny was an unannounced entrant in this huge battle royale. Someone else won, she couldn’t remember, and Magnificent Danny Levi came out from under the ring and tossed him over the top rope. “And then in the same night, I vanquished a champion who had been to that point unconquerable.” A twenty year veteran if she recalled correctly and he’d been a hometown hero. An upstanding citizen. He had short blonde hair, a clean shaven face, and rock solid square chin. An all American boy. He went to church every Sunday and he told the children watching to always believe in their dreams. Maybe he was sincere, who knows. “But when I looked in his eyes, I saw him for what he was. Weak. Naive. Gullible.” Via Danny’s instructions, she had made sure to get on the apron at the right time. The gallant knight smashed into her and Adrienne fell backwards. She had legitimately twisted her ankle that evening - failing the last instruction to feign injury. Unbeknownst to the referee, the previous step was for the purse she had carried to be slid into the ring. Angie’s first exposure to the business was indeed this match. “And through seemingly insurmountable odds, I did it.” He sure did, he had taken a brick and broke the champion’s face. Fractured his orbital socket, actually. The referee turned around as Danny screamed for him, dove into the ring, and counted one, two, three. “It was the night I became magnificent.” Depending on the setting, the telling would vary in length. The story was however always about him. “...you lied.” This admission was to no one. After all, once more, no one was paying attention. Another admission is that she hated this belt. Danny’s lies weren’t just about what transpired that night. This title was a lie. Danny had commissioned a leatherworker to remake the belt. He spent nearly two grand and he descretated the original image by putting his face on the side plates. That wasn’t really an issue. The title was company property. No wrestler owned it. The champion just carried it to represent the company. To his credit, Danny didn’t lie about his reign. He just didn’t talk about it. Six days later, the former champion’s brother had cashed in a rematch clause. She had been banned from the building. Considering that she couldn’t stand in the heels that she would normally wear, that was a blessing. The night wasn’t about Danny. It was about a brother’s love and at the same time, stepping out of his shadow for an opportunity he had never had. Danny lost. Over the years, he would never become Clearwater’s Best again. Danny’s lies weren’t just about what transpired that night. That battle royale was invitation only and each one of those men involved had some modicum of success as their ticket. Danny had yet to win a match so it was awfully strange that he ended up in the spot. The promoter had stated that Danny Levi’s surprise inclusion was in effort to shake things up. He had proclaimed that the new champion was the future. James Fairman was a portly, balding, pale businessman in his fifties. Mr. Fairman also owned Clearwater’s Best Wrestling in addition to a car wash, a couple of laundromats, and a Shoney’s. Adrienne’s pink nails reflexively dug into the leather. The Levis, married for just a year at the time, had met Jimmy at that restaurant the night before. That was the thing about Danny. He was always a self-starter. He was planning and plotting on how to get to that next level despite limited means and ability. Maybe that is why Adrienne fell for him. He just never gave up. He didn’t take no for an answer. But it surprised him when Fairman invited him out of the blue. Well, both of them. Jimmy insisted. “Wear the blue dress, high heels, the works, A. Doll up. This is big for me. Big for us.” “To a Shoney’s?” Yeah, at a Shoney’s. So there she was, out of place, eating a country fried steak dripping in gravy and trying not to dribble all over the shimmery wholly uncomfortable attire. Not only that, she was crunched into one of those high wooden booths in a corner. Danny was across from her. Fairman, next to her. Next to her. Downing his second vodka infused tea, Jimmy laughed at one of her husband’s jokes. His voice was very raspy as if he was always exasperated at someone. “That’s a good one…” The conversation drifted to Jimmy’s real purpose. “Alright, enough of that.” Jimmy steepled his hands on the table. He stared down Danny with his bifocals on the edge of his nose. On close inspection, the blood vessels were burst throughout. “Daniel. Let’s be real honest here. You’ve been in my company for half a year now. I only know that because I sign your checks. You know why?” “Sir?” “You’re a bum, Daniel.” Adrienne involuntarily dropped her fork on the plate. It rattled about but was lost quickly in the noisy din of the restaurant. “But you show up on time and do your job. That’s okay, I suppose.” Business paused as a waitress came by and refilled all of their drinks. Danny’s slack jawed expression showed that the assessment started to sink in for him. Adrienne burrowed into the corner, clutching a glass of water with both hands and sipping at it. “Just a little constructive criticism. But you intrigue me. Helps that you got some good gash following you about.” He said that without even acknowledging her presence. In fact, Fairman’s only interaction was to kiss her hand when they had all first met in the parking lot. “What are you doing tomorrow night?” “Uh, you’ve got me scheduled for a preliminary bout.” “Good spot for you. You’re facing some guy who’s coming in from Texas. Big cowboy looking dork but the locals eat that sort of shit up.” “Yeah.” “What if you weren’t doing that? I got that battle royale. Big hot shot sort of deal. Got guys coming in from all over the world and we’re going to draw a nice house. Later that night, winner’s gonna fight Stan. Clearwater’s Best.” Danny was tight lipped. All of that bravado was sapped dry in front of someone with some real power. “You aren’t in that. Invitation only like I said, Daniel,” he paused, “But maybe you could be.” “What? Really? You serious?” Fairman chuckled at Danny’s sudden burst of exuberance. “Sure. But I need something from you. Well, actually the both of you.” Adrienne sat up, timidly offering a reply. “Me?” “That’s right.” He dug into his pants pocket, retrieving a keycard, then tossing it on the table. “I got a room at the Hyatt. Nice view of the ocean. Come up and we can talk further.” Adrienne discretely shoved the belt off of the table. This wasn’t something she felt like dwelling on. After all, why should it matter? Things got so much better after that. Danny may have been inconsequential as a champion but suddenly he had a guaranteed contract. His pockets were flush with cash and despite the results being a contradiction, Magnificent Danny Levi was a megastar. And Adrienne? She was a nobody. Part of her wanted to take all of the compliments at face value. After all, it was rare to get that sort of notice. Part of her found it infuriating. After all, she knew this business. Easy to patronize a rookie who had been branded this company’s newest loser. Also discounted her ability. Her mind. Her drive. Infantilized her when she had been in the industry her whole adult life. Not that it mattered. There she was, after the show, by herself. Not by choice, too. At a gimmick table. She’d blown her last paycheck from Kaplan to get shirts made that showcased her big debut dive. She’d hastily signed a stack of photos with a bright pink paint marker with a big looping signature. And for some reason, she brought Danny’s stupid title. But alas, no one wanted to see her. After all, there were returning legends, current and past champions, and larger than life personalities. The show seemed to be a crowd pleaser. Every champion had retained. And through some precautionary measures and like every good regional show, some of the talent stayed afterwards to maybe make someone’s night. The idle time had her dwelling on her effort. Adrienne was sure that she had made an impression. Her abdomen was sore from the impact of leaping off a ring post onto three other human beings. But in the end, Jon Willis had reversed her momentum and had ended the match with his hand raised in victory. Backstage, Adrienne had been informed that she’d be the opponent for a new acquisition that was reportedly monstrously huge at the next event. She’d cross that bridge later. Casting a glance to the side, she checked the time on her phone. Only five more minutes and she could pack this junk up and disappear. In the bustle of the crowd, she heard a quiet murmur. Sounded something like … “Hello.” It was a meek soft voice but also clearly one of a child. Looking forward, she saw a little girl place a crisp ten dollar bill on her table. She couldn’t be more than seven years old. She had brown mousy hair, dark almond eyes, and a slight overbite. Her show branded shirt reached below her knees and she already had a stack of autographs tucked under her arm. Adrienne finally realizing that she was on - smiled in reply. “...hello to you.” Adrienne slid over the photo across the table. Just behind her, she could see what she concluded to be her mother watching with a slight smile on her face. “...I’m sorry you didn’t win.” Adrienne’s smile didn’t flinch. “I am, too. Did you still have fun?” The kid nodded while staring down at Adrienne’s picture. “Neat. Well, so did I.” “...thank you.” “You’re certainly welcome. Do … do you want a free shirt?” Levi snatched the top one off the stack, this one would actually fit her. Graciously, the shy child took the shirt and photo. Waving goodbye, she turned back towards her minder and into the next actual line. She looked down at the Founding Father’s face. Danny had once promised to get her tickets to Hamilton. He had connections after all. Adrienne pocketed the tenner, mumbling to herself. “You were full of shit.” It wasn’t until a few days later that she decided to crack open the tale of the Lab Rat King. The internet provided just speculation and rumors. A tale too depressing to be true. Adrienne considered that this Zane King was just putting on a show. Danny tried that. Usually failed. But the ones that succeeded? Their tall tales melded seamlessly with their real lives. Was he new? Or has he done this before? No one seemed to really know. Her mother’s words echoed in her head. You drew the short straw again. Scouting reports indicated that he was a terror in the ring but at the same time a controlled frenzy, so to speak. Either he was a learned veteran or a natural blue chipper. You don’t have a chance in Hell. That was Danny, he always had something smart to say these days. Mister “Too Busy to Call His Wife” was still living it up big in Japan. Time for a change of scenery, she decided. It was a nice day for Florida Woman to maybe get arrested for something decidedly Florida. Or maybe lay about on the beach, watching the waves lap at the sand. She could say something about this Zane person there. Interacting with him was fruitless. He seemed unhinged. Although, the thought of such a huge man hunched over a small phone, tapping his fingers away on a virtual keyboard was kinda funny. When the smartphone camera finally switched on, there was Adrienne Levi in a modest dark blue one piece. Her eyes were protected by a pair of knockoff Italian designer shades. The rest by a slathering of suntan lotion and a Tampa Bay Lightning ball cap. “No offense to Baltimore but the weather there is pretty dreary.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Oh, sorry. Adrienne here. You guys haven’t got rid of me yet. So the first time around, Starburst got me good. And just this past week: different faces, same result. I’m not going to lie. Losing is not optimal. But you won’t catch me moping about. There’s always next time.” Adrienne thought about next time. “And oh, boy. Next time happens to be the Lab Rat King. Facing former world champions was a daunting task but how do you prepare for someone that doesn’t seem to care about all of that? That wasn’t rhetorical, she’d been wondering that for days. “...and well, I don’t know.” There was a pungent pause. The ambience of the setting took over briefly. The water, the kids playing in the background, and the gulls overhead. “Mister King has already written me off as his next meal. I’m used to that.” And so she addressed him directly, in a more deliberate tone. The shades hid the apprehension in her eyes as best they could. “Well, you sure made an impression. You’re scary and I haven’t even seen you in person yet. I don’t know what you really think of me and at this point, I’m not sure I care to hear. You don’t seem like a good person. But after looking around, there seems to be a lot of bad people here. So maybe you’ll fit right in. Your mask is a little public so maybe work on that.” She paused, the dumbest thought crossed her mind and before she could stop herself, Adrienne blurted it out. “Imagine the smell.” She snickered despite her own sensibilities. “I’m guessing you’re just trying to be socially mindful these days but probably no one was brave enough to tell you that leather isn’t very breathable.” Adrienne shook her head, stifling more laughter. “Sorry, sorry, I’m being mean. Look, Zane, whatever you’re going to do to me?” Almost on a dime, she kinda trailed off. “...it won’t be what you expect. I’ve fought bigger monsters than you and I’m still here. Perception is that Lab Rat King is a sure bet. I’m not going to spout off some biblical cliches today about having a slingshot in hand. It’s too nice of a day for that bunk. I am however going to make sure you know that Adrienne Levi kneels to no king.” The feed cut abruptly. Totally not because Adrienne dropped her phone in the sand.

[trylonandperisphere]

Hi again from your new Silent Retreat fan! Random Cophine q for you: when do you think Delphine fell in love with Cosima? I have seen people say (including Ebro) that it was first sight, but I think something more complicated happened. Like, was it after they slept together? When she decided to go back after the first kiss? I always wonder when she started pursuing Cosima only bc she wanted to and not bc Leekie/DYAD told her to.

Interesting question!  Personally, I don’t really believe in love at first sight. Attraction at first site?  Intrigue at first site?  Fascintion at first site?  All possible.  I do think there can be a deep connection felt at first meeting that has potential to grow into love. But, as someone who’s been in a relationship for almost 17 years, to call that love feels like quite a misunderstanding, if not an insult.  

(Although if you go with semantics, love is a broad term, indeed, and could be almost anything from being willing to give your life up for someone to feeling a deep affection for a favourite hat, so that sense of gravitas I feel should be connected is my own take on the matter.)

Me, I would imagine that Delphine was charmed and surprised by Cosima at first, and quickly won over by her personality and physical quirks: her intellect, her integrity, her humour, as Delphine says in the “defy them” flashback scene.  I think Cosima calling bullshit on Leekie was probably a big factor in Delphine beginning to develop an interest in her, for example.

The thing is, Delphine’s backstory is nearly nonexistent in canon.  Evelyne Brochu certainly filled in an admirable amount with her acting and her head canons, such as the idea that Delphine never thought she’d be in love.  How do we determine how Delphine fell in love with Cosima with so little information?  It’s going to be wildly subjective for every viewer.  There are scenes wherein I still can’t decide on Delphine’s motivations and what she’s thinking, like the scene in the car where she tells Leekie that Cosima made a pass at her and he urges her to dig deeper.  I still go back and forth on how much her decision to sleep with Cosima was attraction towards and liking her and how much was something she had to do out of concern or doing her job.  Of course, it could be a mixture of all these things, which keeps it interesting.

The development of their love is very sketchy in terms of actual footage, too.  Is Delphine falling for Cosima during/after their first night together? Probably.  But the way they appear afterwards apart from each other on the bed and still in their underwear doesn’t make it feel very intimate, especially when you compare it to the various shades of naked Sarah and even Donnie ass we got. Frankly, I will always resent the show makers never giving us a more involved Cophine love scene, either pre or post coital, not just because I wanted to see naked Cophine for the sake of hotness alone, though it would be pretty, but because their intimacy always had a relative remove that felt unreal due to the lack of ever seeing them doing anything other than kissing while clothed, lovely though those kisses may have been. 

I digress, but part of that point was that we saw almost nothing between the first night they slept together, the brief visit at the lab, and then the reveal that Cosima found out Delphine was lying.  We know they were falling for each other in there somewhere, and they must have had interactions, but what were they?  It’s all speculation, and there’s been a lot of fic written trying to fill those gaps in their story.  Certainly, when we get to Delphine’s near admission that she loves Cosima when she follows her to Felix’s apartment it’s a touching scene, but I always felt like – you love her?  Are you very naive, or what did we miss?

Of course, this is not a romantic answer on my part.  I think part of what motivates some people to write fan fic is to try to figure out these missing pieces in canon, or create complete characters that feel right to them when the characters they are presented with are far from whole and fully realised.  The romance comes in completing those characters for oneself, in a way, whether you are a writer, a reader, or a viewer just thinking about it on your own.  I will say that the characters filled out somewhat over the course of the series, and I would credit a lot of that to EBro and Tatiana Maslany, who each could give reciting the alphabet enough emotional heft to make one laugh or cry.

Me, I feel it dawned on Delphine over time, with being asked to manipulate Cosima and sleep with her, actually sleeping with her, and seeing how Cosima acted as a human being with nobility and integrity in the face of everything being big parts of it, as well as their intellectual, emotional and physical/physiological draw to one another.  They both knew things were off but they tried to be kind to and respect one another, anyway.  They both fell for each other’s humanity despite the circumstances pointing toward one being an experiment and the other being a cold observer, both hoping and feeling that the other would see their humanity, too, and care, and do the right thing.  So, I think Delphine’s emotions probably swamped her before she could fully understand them and make a judgement about what she was feeling. I imagine Delphine probably would not have said anything about falling for Cosima, maybe wouldn’t even have admitted it to herself, for a while, if the pressure of Cosima finding out and leaving hadn’t had come to bear.  I think nearly losing Cosima, realising they’d both been played and it wasn’t something they could get by via acting “normal” for weeks on end may have made her see what she might lose.  As the saying goes, you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.  So, maybe Delphine was falling for Cosima and it was sneaking up on her that she loved her, but to put it in those terms in her head?  I’d imagine the fear of losing Cosima and realising she needed to go after her brought the developing love Delphine felt home enough for her to nearly tell Cosima when she got to Toronto.  I also would posit that that feeling of love she had for Cosima then would only develop and coalesce more over the course of the series.

Of course, everyone’s got their own opinion.  Some people will insist that Cophine fell for each other instantly, while others continued to see Delphine as a shady bitch most of the way through, lol.  What do you think?