#the only logical conclusion is that it closes crossed over itself sort of like a mandarin shirt

[lingerxng]

You don’t have to do both BUT “Mai finds Rhys holding something that does not belong to him” is also v fun

"what is that?"

oh, hell.

rhys can hear the amusement in mai's voice before he even sees them. he makes his way down the last three steps of the inn stairs, scrubbing a hand over his tired face. "mai, it's too early for this," he said, though there was no real malice in his voice. he sidled up to the bar, looking for someone to get coffee from.

"your shirt." the amusement had not lessened.

"it's a shirt. what, have you not noticed it before?"

"ha ha, asshole. have you actually looked in a mirror this morning?"

"oh, for–" the witch finally turned around to look at them. "what are you talking about?"

rhys didn't know how a bird could look so smug, but mai pulled it off exceedingly well. rather than reaponding, they just pointed at his chest, prompting him to look down at himself.

oh, hell.

"that's kieran's shirt, bud."

"and what about it?" he turned back to the bar, paying the keep who had set a blissfully steaming mug in front of him. he was very good at acting calm, but he got the feeling that mai sensed the line of tension that had drawn up his shoulders.

somehow, their tone had gotten more smug. "you like him, don't you?"

rhys snorted into his coffee. "i've been sharing his bed for the better part of three months," he said by way of answer.

"yeah, but you liiiike him." they drew out the word in an almost sing-songy tone. "you don't just wanna sleep with him. you wanna kiss him. maybe even–" they gasped for dramatic effect– "hold his hand."

rhys shot a glare over his shoulder. "i could hurt you."

"been there, done that, got the t-shirt. what else ya got?"

"i'm leaving." he stood from his chair, finding a second mug of coffee and nicking it as he made his way back to the stairs.

"aw, see! you're bringing him breakfast in bed! you're only proving my point, doubleday!"

though his hands were full, rhys managed to bring up a spectral hand in order to properly give mai the finger as he went upstairs, back to the bed that was still occupied.

[delimeful]

the shapes in the silence (13)

warning: illness, mild emetophobia, arguing, panic attack, dissociation, altered mental state, guilt 

-

They had very little time to process, after Puff-- Anxiety-- their rescuer collapsed limply to the ground.

Roman and Patton each burst into their own hysterics, but Logan was utterly silent. He was frozen, mind racing and connecting a thousand little dots, like realizing a constellation had been right in front of you, you’d just somehow missed the brightest star.

The form of Anxiety was sprawled out undeniably in front of them, struck down by the attack that had been levied against Puff, because he was Puff. He’d wondered why Anxiety wasn’t prone to their shrinking dilemma, but he’d been dealing with it the longest. Anxiety’s withdrawal and Puff’s strange behavior were causation and correlation.

Anxiety lay before them, but whatever he had done to change his form, to protect them against attack, it had changed him. Small purple scales curled over his cheekbones, two curved, deer-like ears lay limp on the sides of his head, and even a tail where there had been none before.

If there had ever been any way to refute his connection to Puff, his appearance now countered it single-handedly.

In the end, it was the doubts that snapped them all out of it.

Sinuous, shifting forms that changed with every blink, they crawled up from their blind spots, appearing in the corners of their vision.

Roman snapped his sword hand back up reflexively, frowning, but Logan could easily read the confusion scrawled across his posture. He’d complained at length about the creatures, their persistent aggression and the way that they always heralded Anxiety’s appearance in this realm, like the world’s creepiest minions.

But Anxiety lay prone at their feet, in no state to control anything, and furthermore, the glittering eyes of the doubts seemed almost… locked on him, glinting with malice.

More questions, and the only one who could answer them was unconscious and quickly gaining a sickly tint to his skin. The doubts were creatures of despair, and if they reached Patton or Anxiety-- the more emotion-driven pair out of the four of them-- the results could be disastrous. They needed out, now.

Logan firmed his shoulders, moving to cut through the panicked back-and-forth his companions were doing.

“Roman,” he called, taking reference from every instructor that Thomas had ever respected to insert authority into his tone, “pick Anxiety up.”

The creative side jerked, his eyes drawn down to Anxiety for a second before flickering away. “And give up my stalwart defense? We’ll be overcome before we reach anything resembling an exit!”

“You need to pick up Anxiety,” Logan repeated, and took a deep breath, shedding all the dirt and gore that he had accumulated while trekking through the Imagination. “I’m bringing the exit to us.”

Applying his function to a space that wasn’t real tended to... destabilize it. It was a last resort, the sort of thing that they’d figured out early on should be avoided. Roman demonstrably put his heart and soul into his work, after all, and fracturing it hurt Creativity as much as the realm itself. Even something as small as Logan breaking his own immersion made Roman twitch, let alone what he was about to pull.

Roman’s eyes went wide with understanding, and then grim determination. He sheathed his sword back into nothing and knelt down at the fallen Side’s side, only hesitating for the barest moment before sliding his arms under his shoulders and knees and lifting him into the air.

The motion seemed to jar Anxiety, and he let out a pained whine that wouldn’t have sounded out of place coming from Puff. Lifted up like this, they could see the singed gouge that tore through the back of his hoodie, the smoking, rotting injury lined up on his spine in the exact same place it had hit Puff.

“It looks bad,” Patton whispered, his eyes wet and his hands half-pressed over his mouth. The doubts were closer now, circling like wolves. They couldn’t be allowed to worsen Anxiety’s condition.

“We will handle it,” Logan said, not allowing even the slightest tremor in his voice as he held his hands out. He met Roman’s eyes, one last warning, before closing his own and focusing all his attention on dismantling the environment around him.

It was all illusory, from the faint scent of ozone lingering in the air to the cold stone around them. None of it was real, not the magic or the monsters, not when one thought about them logically. The Imagination was a limitless space, shaped and crafted by Creativity, and so any distance between them and the placement of an ‘exit’ was simply imaginary.

There was no logical reason to traverse an imaginary path, and so with one yank, Logan pulled and then folded the space between them and the exit, like crumpling a piece of paper to make two ends meet.

The landscape crinkled around them, bricks shattering and environments crashing together with discordant scraping. Roman would be feeling the effects of the hole in his work for a while, but there was a doorway ahead of them and the doubts were scattered and caught in the folds and tears Logic had created.

“Move,” Logan said through gritted teeth, and Roman staggered through the exit, Patton hot on his tail. He stepped through as well, the door slamming shut on its own behind him. His presence wouldn’t be tolerated in the realm for a good long while after this.

He beckoned Roman over, shoving away the guilt he felt at the other Side’s pained grimace. If his power had just held long enough for the Imagination’s effects to be wiped from Anxiety as well--

The wound pulsed once, as though to announce its stubborn survival. It was glowing a painful violet, the injury resembling nothing more than a slowly expanding Lichtenburg figure.

Logan’s knuckles went white as he looked down at it. He hadn’t even managed to make the injury into something real, something more manageable to treat.

He reached out, grasping again for that sense of unreality, of rejection, and Roman pulled away, backing up.

“No more,” he said firmly, his voice a sharp contrast to the shaking of his arms. Logan felt that familiar guilt threaten to flood for a moment, before-- “Specs, you’re about to pass out. You used too much.”

He blinked, glancing down at his hand. It was shaking, too. He’d overtaxed himself, been too involved in the previous daydream to shut it down without any backlash.

Logic shouldn’t have been too involved in anything. He clenched his fist, abruptly furious with himself.

“Whatever that witch’s calamitous curse caused, it’s spreading slowly for now,” Roman announced, still seeming almost skittish with Anxiety in his arms. “We have yet time to uncover the truth.”

Patton pressed the back of his hand against Anxiety’s forehead, hissing sympathetically. “He’s burning up. I don’t know about curing curses, but-- we can at least help with this.”

They all had memories of Thomas’s parents coaxing him through fevers and flus, but Patton was the best at actually following that example. He directed Roman to the couch, flitted back and forth between the kitchen and the living room with all the classic illness aids.

“This is a spell-based sickness. There’s no reason to believe that this illness will function similarly to Thomas’s past experiences,” Logan started, and then was promptly cut off by Anxiety jerking halfway up off the couch, twisting, and vomiting into the small trash can Patton had just brought out. “... I stand corrected.”

His voice seemed to drag Anxiety’s attention from his retching, his head bobbing up to look around.

He stared out at them with bleary eyes for a heartbeat, all of them quiet and frozen and waiting, and then he slumped back down into both the couch cushions and unconsciousness. A mutual breath of relief went around the room.

“So, are we… going to talk about it?” Patton asked, as though half-dreading the answer.

“Talk about what?” Roman snapped sarcastically, crossing his arms. “The fact that apparently our dear draconic companion has been none other than Anxiety, the scourge on our home, the blight on our fields, the bane of Thomas’s existence, this entire time?”

“We don’t own any fields,” Logan interjected.

“Well, if we did, the guy would probably blight them! He’s a-- a blighter!” Roman replied, increasingly higher in pitch. “This is probably some kind of trick, a foul villainous plot for some greater purpose we don’t understand yet. Anxiety can’t possibly be— have been—!”

“Talking shit?” A familiar drawl rang out, a dark figure appearing on the stairs between one blink and the next and making them all jump. “I thought I heard someone say-- Anxiety?”

There was a moment of stunned silence as everyone looked between the two identical figures in the room.

“Well,” the Anxiety that was clearly actually Deceit said, glancing over the three of them, “I don’t suppose I could convince you that he’s the fake one? … No? What a shame.”

He lifted his shoulders from Virgil’s perpetual slouch easily, shedding his disguise in favor of his usual attire. Several more puzzle pieces clicked into place.

“You were the one who appeared when we introduced Puff to Thomas,” Logan said, cutting off the startled exclamations from the others. “And just now-- you returned from appearing to Thomas, didn’t you? As Anxiety, not yourself.”

Deceit rolled his eyes, adjusting his cufflinks absently. “Yes, well, someone had to do his job while he was… preoccupied. Or were you all so remiss as to not notice the decline that comes with a complete absence of Anxiety?”

They all bristled in unison. “All we’ve been doing as of late is trying to figure out why Thomas has been struggling recently,” Logan replied stiffly. “We cannot jump to conclusions based on the seemingly random reticence of one Side.”

“Oh, but now you know it’s not random at all, don’t you?” Deceit purred, stepping down the stairs one by one. “After all, Occam’s Razor has never proved to be true before.”

“You’re the one who’s slithering around impersonating other Sides!” Roman cut in with a sharp accusation. “How do we know you’re not the reason dear Thomas has been acting off?”

Deceit’s lip curled, displaying a curved fang. “I haven’t been the only reason Thomas hasn’t fallen apart entirely! But if you’d really like to cast blame, I’m happy to inform all three of you that this is your fault.”

“Our fault?” Roman and Patton’s voices overlapped, one outraged and the other alarmed. Logan frowned, smoothing down his tie absently.

“Are you speaking under false pretenses again? Only moments ago, you were claiming that Anxiety’s… disappearance was the source of Thomas’s recent struggle.”

Deceit’s gloves crinkled with the force of his grip on the banister. “You three are the ones who drove Anxiety to believe that he was superfluous, to the point that he decided somehow trapping himself in the form of a— a pet was better than spending another moment as himself in your presence,” he spat, each word furious and bitter.

There was a tense pause, and Deceit visibly reeled in his anger with a deep breath. “I refuse to spend any longer debating sins with you. If you’ll hand over Anxiety—,”

“No!” Logan startled himself with the sharp response, but Roman and Patton alike had echoed it. They exchanged looks, all of them struggling for a moment to put it to words.

Finally, Patton turned to where Deceit was staring at them with narrowed eyes.

“I don’t know why Anxiety chose to— chose this, but I do know that he got hurt trying to protect us. And if it really is our fault-- ...Well, it wouldn’t be right either way, making you or him deal with this alone.”

“And that’s assuming you even have the tools to deal with it,” Logan added, earning himself an irritated glare from the Dark Side. “That was not a slight against you. To elaborate on my meaning, Roman’s experience with the realm and the perpetrator behind the injury could be invaluable in treating it. It would be remiss for us to not offer aid.”

There was a beat, and Roman looked up belatedly from Anxiety, his face pale and eyes distant. “Right,” he said, and then stronger, “Right. We’ll help Anxiety overcome this curse, and then speak with him ourselves on the matter of blame.”

Deceit looked between the three of them assessingly, gaze occasionally flickering down to where Anxiety lay. “I could handle this perfectly well,” he snapped, “but fine. However. If you worsen his condition and force me to continue this ridiculous charade… you will all certainly enjoy the consequences.”

He let the threat sit in the air ominously. Logan thought his forced disdain was a rather strange way to express protectiveness over Anxiety’s well-being, but to be frank, Deceit’s motives could be difficult for him to parse on a good day.

“Deceit,” Patton called before the other Side could sink out. “You’re welcome to come check on Anxiety whenever you’d like. I… I just wanted you to know.”

Deceit cast a glance back at Anxiety, unreadable, and sank out without another word.

—-

Half an hour after Deceit’s revelations, Anxiety woke up.

They hadn’t noticed at first. Patton had been in the kitchen, making enough soup to feed a small army, and Logan and Roman had been preoccupied with bickering, trying to piece together a timeline.

“—can’t be certain that any of the appearances prior to Puff’s introduction to Thomas were Deceit. Anxiety did not withdraw entirely until after that event,” Logan was saying, sharpening his tone to keep Roman from interrupting for the sixth time.

“But the things he said, it has to have been Deceit,” Roman retorted again. “Perhaps this has been going on for months, all part of a plot to replace Anxiety!”

“And do what? Thomas actively ignores Anxiety as often as possible,” Logan stated, the fact making something in his stomach twist oddly. “It would be pointless for Deceit to replace someone with little to no influence.”

“Who knows how the minds of Dark Sides work?” Roman scoffed, and then glanced over Logan’s shoulder and stood. Logan turned to watch him adjust the blankets that had shuffled part ways off of Anxiety.

Roman paused, and then leaned in slightly. “The curse mark—,” he started, and then was cut off by two and a half blankets being tossed directly at his face.

Anxiety scrambled off of the couch with surprising speed for someone who clearly could barely feel any of their limbs. His eyes were wide with unmistakable terror, pupils slit, and Logan lifted his hands non-aggressively.

“Anxiety, calm down,” he started, and Anxiety shot off towards the stairs with frantic and unsteady steps. From this angle, Logan could see the way the wound left from the curse was pulsing and expanding, and felt his own jolt of fear.

Patton rushed out of the kitchen just in time to see Anxiety overshoot and slam into the wall beside the stairs, bouncing off without a sound and struggling to regain his momentum like an animal mindlessly fleeing for its life.

“Patton, grab him before he hurts himself even further!” Logan called, and Patton hurriedly half-tackled the Side, pinning his arms and lifting him up.

Anxiety keened, voice warping into that double tone, and then kicked out against the wall, nearly toppling the both of them. By now, Roman had freed himself, and he jumped to Patton’s side to lend a steadying arm.

Logan hurried forward, careful to stay out of range of Anxiety’s still-kicking legs.

“Anxiety. Anxiety, can you hear me? You need to breathe deeply now, please follow this pattern,” he tried to count steadily, even as Anxiety stared right through him and made awful, gut-wrenching whimpers. His eyeshadow was streaked down the sides of his face like inky tear tracks. “3, 4, 5– Please, Anxiety, we’re not trying to hurt you.”

“It feels like it’s growing,” Patton whispered, Anxiety’s back still pressed to him. Roman pushed the neckline of the other Side’s hoodie aside, and swore at the dark, angular tendrils that were creeping up to his shoulder blades.

“We need him to calm down,” Logan said, but there wasn’t a single soothing method that would work if the person was too far gone to even sense him. “I don’t—,”

“Okay. Okay, I’m— I’m going to calm him down,” Patton said firmly, and then stepped back from the other two and maneuvered Anxiety so he was facing Patton. Logan recognized what Patton was attempting only a moment before Anxiety was pulled into a firm, encircling hug.

Patton’s ability to share positive emotions through physical contact— once jokingly dubbed a ‘drug hug’ by Roman— hadn’t been used frequently since they were all significantly younger. Nowadays, with Logic clearly not needing emotions and Creativity too prideful to ask for one, Patton mostly only used the ability accidentally— slipping up when he was hugging someone while too excited or happy.

Since switching over to this half of the Mindscape, Anxiety had never been exposed to this particular ability. The other Side twitched in Patton’s grasp for a moment, tail thrashing, holding out far longer than Logan expected before slowly melting into the embrace. When Patton finally pulled away, Anxiety was blinking dazedly but seemed considerably more aware of his surroundings.

“His back,” Logan started, and then stopped short.

The wound’s unnatural spread had stopped, the previous panicked pulsing of it reduced to a slow, muted metronome.

“His— Is it based on his heart rate?” Logan asked, bewildered and hating it. “It can’t be consciousness, he’s conscious now and the growth has stopped entirely, but it hadn’t receded at all earlier—,”

“Fear,” Roman said, his mouth set grimly. “A curse for Anxiety that feeds on fear. That’s exactly the kind of cruel irony that the Dragonwitch loves.”

Patton tightened his grip on Anxiety’s hand, his face wrinkled with worry. After a moment, Anxiety squeezed his hand back, still seeming a little distant from the actual conversation.

Logan knew from experience that getting one of those hugs at full power could feel like the emotional equivalent of being dropped into cold water unexpectedly-- it was a shock to the system, one that took a while to adjust to. He wouldn’t be surprised if Anxiety’s nonverbal state lingered for a while longer.

“Then… how do we fix it?” Patton asked. “Do we need him to… stop being afraid for real? Can we do that?”

Logan was quiet, thinking about how fearful Anxiety had looked for the brief moments he was fully aware around them. Roman looked away, and then shook his head.

“I need to return to the Imagination to check on something,” he announced, gaze distant. “I should… probably begin restructuring it, as well.”

Logan hid a wince. “I apologize for being so rough on the realm,” he said, remembering the way Roman had shaken with strain.

Roman waved it off. “You did what you had to, to get us all out. More useful than… well, consider yourself magnanimously forgiven.”

With a smile that seemed a pale facsimile of his normal one, he departed.

Logan turned to Patton, who looked a little wobbly at the knees. “We will be able to help him eventually, we just need more time to investigate,” he said as gently as he could, leading them both back to the couch. “Until then, we can take shifts to look after him.”

Patton curled his free hand around Logan’s, searching his gaze as though seeking some kind of solution. “We’ll figure this out together, right?”

“Right.”

[jekunitrash]

A very short one-shot for Jeje and Mikuni's birthdays

I know I'm late for Mikuni, please just consider the story is taking place on October 1st.

Mikuni wasn't fond of parties. Not anymore, at least. There used to be a time when the manor got pretty lively on this particular day. But now, even though he wasn't there to witness it, he could imagine it was but a plain and normal day at the Alicein mansion. Of course, he'd be lying if he said he didn't enjoy all the attention, the presents, the praises, and everything that came along with celebrating his birthday. It was just... something he could live without. Compared to the other, more considerable losses, this one was irrelevant. Laughable, even. And yet, it was at this very moment, that Mikuni felt the loneliest. It wasn't the celebration in itself he missed, but the people who were there to take part in it. People he loved and couldn't see anymore, people who had loved him in return and couldn't anymore. For quite various reasons, but the conclusion was the same. His deceased mother could never wish him happiness again, and neither would Misono nor his father.

Today could have been a delightful day, but all joy had died that night, as well. Celebrating had become meaningless, worse, it would be painful more than anything. From now on, Mikuni's birthday would be a regular day. That was what he wanted.

So why did his chest hurt so much? He had come to terms with his past decisions, since then. He'd known about the consequences. He preferred it being like this, a hundred times more than what could have been. But it still hurt. Maybe because this date was special, maybe because he only truly realized now all that he'd lost. Perhaps it was because he knew no one could make today the same as before, too. For all of those reasons, Mikuni felt empty like he hadn't felt in a while.

Then, he remembered a conversation he once had with Tsurugi. About being jealous of him. Obviously, the blond had denied it. What could he possibly envy about the raven? His situation was just as bad, if not worse than his. But as of now, it did feel like jealousy. Tsurugi may not have the best life here at C3, but he at least had Touma and a few friends to think about his birthday. Mikuni didn't even have that. It was such a pathetic thought, but it was true nonetheless. Tsurugi had something Mikuni didn't. And he sometimes hated him for it.

Jeje turned around upon hearing someone sneeze, and sighed when he saw it was only Tsurugi.

"Tissues... on the table...you should... dress warmer. Fall... is already here."

"Sure, thanks, Jeje-chan!" The man said, hopping on a chair. "This mission was so boring, I couldn't wait to come back. Where is Kuni?"

Jeje swayed from one foot to another, visibly uneasy.

"He is still... working. He said... he wanted calm and... silence."

Tsurugi downright pouted, a childish mannerism to express his disappointment. "Heeeeh, is he for real? Today is his birthday, though. Where is the fun in filling out paperwork?"

The vampire fumbled with his sleeves. "I don't think... he is... looking forward to his... birthday." He muttered, and Tsurugi noticed the hint of guilt in his voice.

"Well, for starters, did you wish him an happy birthday? That could help." He said, a brow raised.

"He... probably... doesn't want to hear it from me..."

The raven leaned forward, his elbows on the table and his chin resting on his hands. He looked irritated somehow and that sure was something new.

"Jeje-chan, that is, how should I put it? Yeah, you're being stupid."

The taller man was about to get irritated as well, but Tsurugi went on.

"Look, what I'm saying is, you can't know how he feels nor what he wants if you don't ask or try. Kuni-chan has no one besides you to remember - well, I happen to know because it's written on his registration - but anyway, of course it would make him happy to hear it. That's only natural. Even if he denies or try to hide it behind a facade, he has a heart. And he's too sensitive for his own liking."

Jeje bit on his lower lip, pondering on what the raven had just said. He knew his eve had been moody since this morning, just as he knew his family's absence, today of all days, was weighing on him. He just felt like it wasn't his part to play.

"Even so..." he began eventually, "I can't replace... his family. It will never... be the same, for him."

Tsurugi was quiet for a moment, as for once, he was thinking of the best way to say things. It was soon obvious what he should tell Jeje.

"Okay, you may be right. It will indeed never be the same. But it doesn't have to be such a bad thing. What I mean is, from now on, what you have to do is to make it as good as you can. And then, little by little, you will both get new habits and find a way of your own to celebrate it. Kuni-chan... he's stubborn, and I'm sure he can be resentful, but he has a sense of what's right and what's not. So it's unlikely that he hates you to begin with. Therefore, being wished a happy birthday, even if you're not best friends, would still make him a little joyful."

Silence followed his statement. Jeje couldn't argue against that, as his analysis of Mikuni was so sharp. He was admittedly impressed, since Tsurugi always acted like an idiot. He hadn't thought he could have such a good understanding of people. After being stared at insistently for a solid thirty seconds, Jeje resigned himself.

"Alright... I will... talk to him."

The raven smiled like a contented child, his arms proudly crossed on his chest.

"Good, good!"

The afternoon was near it's end when Mikuni got it over with, not that it mattered. All he wanted was for this day to finish quickly, so maybe the one after he would forget about it already. It was so frustrating. He knew there was nothing he could do to change anything now, but it was bugging him nonetheless. It was as though a little, pestering voice kept reminding him, 'hey, you're all alone for your birthday. You ruined everything, so this is entirely your fault, tough'. And at this point he was tempted to go to sleep if it meant it would shut up. It would most likely have to wait, if the knock on the door was anything to go by.

He'd be lying again if he said he wasn't a tad bit surprised to see Jeje.

" What? I said I needed calm, didn't I?"

While it was far from an engaging start, his tone wasn't as spiteful as he had meant it to be. He had mostly sounded tired.

"I know... but you've been here all afternoon and... I thought you should... take a break." Jeje mumbled, which made Mikuni look at him quizzically. He had never acted out of his own initiative before. Rather, he had never gone against his eve's indications.

"Oh." Mikuni said, "Well, there is no need anyway. I'm done."

"That's... good."

Well, now it was awkward. Mikuni wasn't too sure, be it because of the fatigue or the unrealistic side of the situation, but was Jeje acting shy?

"Yeah, I guess." He spoke, "If that was all-"

But, unexpectedly enough, Jeje wasn't done, and Mikuni stopped midway after hearing a distant voice.

"Ha..."

The blond eve frowned, Jeje was being so weird and he had no idea why. Plus, he wasn't in the mood and it was beginning to annoy him.

"What?" He asked, and this time the vampire straightened his posture a little more.

"... happy birthday."

Mikuni legit blinked, his mouth slightly open in disbelief. "Huh?" He genuinely thought he had misheard, that he was imagining things. But his servamp surprised him even more by repeating that sentence. Louder, and firmer.

"Happy birthday, Mikuni."

The eve closed his mouth, opened it again, and in the end closed it. His troath felt dry for some reason, and his chest stinged in a manner that was oddly familiar. It was a strange warmth that spread and that he used to identify as joy.

Jeje was standing here, perfectly still, apparently waiting for an answer of sort. The way his mouth formed a line indicated that he wasn't too sure of what to do next, and Mikuni himself would have liked a notice.

At last, the only logical thing he could do was to thank him, and even then, he had trouble to process it. The embarrassed mess who spoke was totally not him, either.

"Oh, yeah. Right. Thank you."

Jeje seemed to relax afterwards, but it was still strangely tense. Mostly because Mikuni had a hard time believing it had happened. The vampire tried to think of a normal thing to do in this situation, or remember something the Alicein used to do on their birthdays. But then he recalled that Tsurugi had adviced to do something new, and decided he should just ask his eve at this point.

"So... Is there something... you want to do? Or eat?"

Truthfully, Mikuni's face was priceless, and perhaps someday he could even laugh about it, but not now. Right now Jeje was relieved, above all things.

"Some good tea would be nice, I suppose." Mikuni said eventually. "Also, a midnight stroll in the park. And why not cake, but I'm not going to eat it by myself, so... "

It was Jeje's turn to be started, and despite not being fond of sweet things, he couldn't turn down the offer.

"I... see. Then... I'll... have some. If that's... okay."

And then, Mikuni smiled for the first time in months.

"That would be alright."

Jeje poured a second cup of Ceylan tea for his eve, while the latter cut the small cake they had just bought. Tsurugi's present had been to negotiate a night out of C3 base without surveillance, and it was admittedly the best. Mikuni had cringed upon having the raven pester him about his birthday, of course, but his soft expression later on had told Jeje that he was thankful. The servamp could feel himself smiling, ever so slightly, as he put the cup on the table, and he was glad for the way it had all played out in the end. Mikuni was indeed loving his birthday, in a way, despite everything, and it was all the vampire could ask for.

It was when they were coming back from their walk, couple hours later, that Mikuni asked him out of the blue.

"By the way, Jeje. When is your birthday?"

Then again, it startled him. For one thing, no one had asked him that in a long, very long time. And for another one, he had stopped caring since he had become an immortal monster and had incidentally forgotten about it.

"I... don't know." He replied simply.

Mikuni hummed, and when the clocks indicated one minute past midnight, arbitrarily declared,

"In that case, your birthday should be today".

[tundrainafrica]

Title: En Prise (2/18)

Summary:  

Hange already had the innate analysis skills and the quick wittedness to excel in the classroom. Chess should have come easy for her. As she processed her fifth loss to the man in front of her, she started to understand that there was more to the game than meets the eye.

College AU! Levi is a little too good at chess and Hange gets roped into studying the game further.

Link to cross-postings: AO3

Link to other chapters: 1

Notes: Netflix has this new show out called “Queen’s Gambit” which makes chess look like I pretty good driver for a story. Attack on Titan has its fair amount of chess motifs as well and that’s when I knew a Chess AU has to exist somewhere in the fandom. With that, Levihan AU came into existence.

Hange found herself going on walks at the same time everyday when the air was a little cooler, the sunlight a little dimmer. She followed the same route she made on her first day. She never did enter the bar though, slightly conscious of the fact that she would be obligated to buy something if she did and at that point, she had no money to spare.

She settled for looking through the window as she walked, disappointed every time to find the same disappointing scene of empty chairs and an empty table on that one corner.

The first few days, she had attributed it to life. Maybe his day job just gets busy. No one can earn just playing chess.

A few days went by though, then the weekend, and he never did come back. Maybe he wasn’t a regular hustler? Maybe he was a dream?  Hange quickly abandoned that last thought, her empty wallet attested to the existence of that boy.

She decided that the night before classes would be her deadline. That late afternoon, she allowed herself one long look at the window, long enough at least for the owner to come out.

"May I help you?"

"The chess player who sat at the table on the corner…" Hange did not have to say too much else.

"Ahh you’re talking about Levi. Sadly I can't say when he'd be back. He usually only comes back at the most once a month to play."

"So he's been doing this for a while?"

"Since he was much younger.” The man answered. He turned to Hange and sighed. “Look,  He's a good kid. He pays for food and compensates any damages."

But he hustled me. Hange sensed the contempt she kept in her tone, as she asked the first few questions. He must have noticed it as well. It was apparent in the man's tone that he at least had some emotional attachment to the young boy.

"So this Levi guy… Would you know where I can find him?"

The owner shrugged. "Never told me. The kid doesn’t talk much."

He talks enough to hustle at least. Hange thought to herself. She could not help but remember that he had talked a fair amount for her to at least have been surprised at the bar owner’s comment. It was a particularly glaring fact since chess was a game which is supposed to be played in silence.

"Thank you. Will check back again next time then." Hänge was quick to turn around as she felt a wave of disappointment. She had no idea what type of face she was making at that moment but she bent her head down just in case.

"Do you really need the money?”

Hange looked back at the owner, the loss of her money once again painful.. “Excuse me?”

“The money he hustled from you, I mean.”

“Yes. I do.”

“Will you starve without the money?”

“No.”

“Then give the boy a break. That boy has gone to my bar long enough, something tells me that the games are all he has.”

                               En Prise      

School was a good distraction.

The fact that chess was a part of her curriculum was the only thing that made it difficult for her to completely forget the man who had welcomed her her first night. One relieving yet somehow disappointing thing to note was her professor in PE seemed more interested in making them read up on openings and present them on screen.

Zoe, you'll be assigned the Pirc Modern.

She had expected at first to be playing and maybe reliving the frustration of losing again and again in blatantly winning positions. Studying opening theory turned out to be a respite for Hange and she found herself treating the game like any other subject.

Every night, she prepared for her lectures in chemistry, then biology, then statistics, always ending her days by opening an online chess database and replaying games on the modern opening.

Her days in her chess class would start with quizzes to identify common formations. Hange was surprised to find that most of them had names.

Every time they called out the openings and presented them on the board, Hange was brought back to the large shelf in the bookstore, with what could have been a hundred books about chess. As the students read out of index cards explaining the theories behind the first opening moves, Hange was made aware of the thousands of possibilities just by the first five moves.

Of course they would have books about these.

The first pawn moves. Where they place the knight. Where they place their bishops. Where they castle.

Every decision, every move mattered. Somehow, chess was starting to make her as excited as biology and chemistry did for so long.

The Pirc Modern opening is an opening for black as a reply to the king's pawn opening for white. It is characterized by an opening reply where black plays the pawn in front of their own queen one step forward, with plans of casting king's side with a fianchettoed bishop for added protection.

When she researched her own opening and saw it played out on the board, she could not help but think that that was one of the openings Levi had played against her that night. The thirst for some sort of conclusion at having lost so miserably to that particular opening she had to study came over her and she approached it like an opponent.

It was a relatively straight forward opening. All the first ten moves were booklines and even if white did change the move order, the game usually ended up with the same position. When Hange had played it herself, she had gone through what she had deemed most logical and had gone for the center early on.  Her research introduced the possibility of  something more aggressive, an idea to close the center, castle queenside with an idea of a pawn storm towards the king.

That was the idea she introduced during her own presentation.

"That's a great idea Zoe. May I remind you though that you only needed to discuss the first ten moves and the resulting position."

Hange looked up at the board she flashed on the screen, only to realize then that she had presented thirty moves all leading up to the rook exchange sacrifice on the h file and the inevitable mate.

"Oh really?" Hänge looked back at her classmates to see that most, if not everyone were all focused elsewhere, the most attentive being those staring blankly at the screen. "Thank you for listening then."

Hange packed up her laptop and made her way to her place at the side of the room.

"It looks like everyone has already presented their openings. Since we don't have much time anymore, just prepare for next week. We'll be playing actual games then."

"Nice one Zoe. At least we don't have to actually play yet."

Hange was packing her bag when she felt a tap on her shoulder. She looked back to see that the student had already passed her through the crowd of students. It was nothing new. Most students were usually in a hurry to get out since the physical education department where they had classes was a good ten minute walk away from most other classrooms.

Other students with no classes right after, probably just preferred not to be there and it was obvious. It was one of the easier classes which did not require much physical work nor did it require the difficult choice of whether to take a shower after class or be sweaty and stinky the whole day.

The opening presentations proved to be a pleasant surprise for most people as it turned out that most students did not have to actually think beyond making a presentation and reading off index cards to actually pass the class. It had been at least a month since the start of classes and even she had forgotten for a second that chess was mainly a game of war and not just a subject for research and analysis.

Hange guessed that most of the students at the most would play the openings they had to present about. Just in case, she prepared.

On the nights leading up to her next class, she had started to memorize the most common replies to each possible opening.

Those nights, she actually dreamt of the characteristic checkered board.

                                       En Prise

"Zoe. I want to introduce you to someone."

In the midst of the bustle as students were assigned partners to play with, Hange was surprised and utterly confused to find that her name had not been on the list passed around. She had not completely processed the unexpected turn of events when her professor approached her about it. "Yes sir?"

"This is Moblit Berner. He'll be playing you today."

Hange looked up to see her professor and behind him, someone who looked to be a fellow student. Oddly enough, he was not among the faces Hange had gotten used to the past month she had been attending chess classes.

Chess is chess. Hange did not think too much of it. The pit in her stomach that made itself when she could not find her name on the list, disappeared soon after she lead her to the nearest board and placed a white pawn in front of her.

"You'll be playing white.” He looked up at her.” You can call me Moblit by the way. Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you too."

Moblit started to tinker with the clock. "You've used a chess clock before I imagine."

“Actually… No.” Hange had played enough games online to know chess games were timed. That was the first time though she would be playing a timed one with someone right in front of her.

For a moment Moblit’s expression changed to that of utter surprise. “Let me set it up in front of you then.”  

“We’ll be playing a rapid game. Twenty minutes with a five second increment for every move.” He positioned the clock to Hange’s left, angling it so she could watch as he scrolled through different options. “Meaning when you move, you get an extra five seconds.”

“You ready?” Moblit held out his hand for Hange to shake. That was only the second time she has ever played a live game. The last time Hange had played one was with Levi. Back then, there was no clock. Her opponent hadn’t even bothered to shake her hand. Hange found herself a little more pissed off at Levi’s audacity.

“Ready.”

Hange opened up with the king’s pawn. Moblit responded by moving his own king’s pawn one step forward.

The French Opening.

Hange had read a fair amount about it to know it was not played by aggressive players. Another familiar one opening Levi had played against her. He had quickly sacrificed a piece for a pawn though and that opening that generally transitions to peaceful middle game, quickly transitioned to an aggressive attack for Levi.

Moblit played by the book lines of the Tarrasch opening. Hange was aware of the quick mating attacks that could follow his more mild approach towards the position.

He castled kingside and Hange only had to look at her five miserable loses to Levi to see the potential for a mating attack. A few moves into the start of the middle when Moblit played his flank pawn forward, Hange saw an opening for a mating sacrifice.  

It was like something possessed her for a split second. Hange took the pawn sticking out from the formation with her bishop. Hange only came to terms with the gravity of the sacrifice when she made eye contact with Moblit who did not look at all like he was taken by surprise at it. He took the bishop with his pawn.

Hange froze. Was it the wrong move?

It was like all the variations which Hange had thought up just a few seconds ago disappeared from her head. She was blank. She tried to push herself to think beyond that. She desperately looked up at her opponent, for inspiration, something random, unexpected to break the block that materialized in her thinking space.

Moblit’s face was unreadable. His movements were slow, careful. Although Hange recalled a slight tremble in his hands when took her bishop, with the way he looked at the board, Hange could not help but even doubt her own memory.

She looked back down at the board, trying instead to focus on what her next plan would be. Too taken aback and frustrated by her own impulsive decision though, Hange was frozen on the spot.

Her mind had become a blank slate. And that blank slate was what led to a losing end game. When the smoke had cleared, Hange was a clear two pieces down with little to no compensation.

Hange raised one out her hand in surrender. “Thank you for the game.” Hange said.  

Moblit’s eyes were wide in surprise as he took Hange’s hand. “You’re resiging?”

“There’s no way I could win now.”

“The attack was amazing. To be honest, I was a few moves until mate. It looked like you just held back at that last part. If you just brought your knight into the attack. I would have had no way to defend it.”

By the time Moblit had mentioned that last part, the pieces were close to fixed and Hange could not imagine their last position for the life of her. The embarrassment and frustration at having frozen on the spot and having lost so miserably, had her wanting to forget it at that moment. In truth, she knew would have wanted to analyze it in time. The researcher inside her was scolding her for having given up a good opportunity to learn and discover.

That only left Hange more frustrated at the recent developments. Hange pushed aside her chair and grabbed her bag more roughly than she had intended. She actually felt bad for Moblit who had jumped at her movements.

She peeked at her phone. Ten minutes before class is over. “Just tell coach what happened.” Hange said as she walked out.

She had already exited the building and was already strategizing the fastest way to the library where she could prepare for her next class. She felt a hand on her shoulder and looked back to see Moblit.

“What do you want?” Hange asked.

“Do you know why your professor made us play?”

“Are you his friend or something?” Hange gave Moblit a onceover. She did not recognize him as a classmate at all.

“I’m part of the chess team actually and we need to recruit an extra player so I asked your professor for help. He said you’d be the best one there. And you play pretty well, so you might be interested.”

“I’ve never played competitively in my life. You’re better off finding someone else.”

“I  think you’re good.” Moblit paused for a moment. “Okay not good good, but good enough to hold your own against seasoned players at least. Just give the team a chance.”

“And how many times a week do you train?” Hange asked, an attempt at proving her inability to commit more than anything else.

“Four times a week.”

Hange thought back to the amount of classes she had, the research she wanted to undertake. “Would I even have time for this.”

“Athletes don’t have to take PE classes so that’s one class off your plate.” Moblit suggested weakly.

That proposition was far from weak in Hange’s eyes though.

                                      En Prise

The chessroom was a small room hidden along the hallways that snaked through the sides of their basketball courts which connected the locker rooms to the stadium. For prestigious universities, with famous basketball teams that expected hoards of fans every season, the gyms were large enough to at least house those confusing mazes of hallways. In fact, Hange soon realized as she followed Moblit through the hallways that she would have never found it through directions alone. Someone really had to guide her through the first time.  

From the entrance of the basketball court, the only way to get there was the narrow hallway that opened up from a doorway she could have mistaken for a janitor's closet.

To her surprise though, the narrow and dark hallways came with echoes of clicks and clacks. As she walked through, the clicks only got louder. Moblit did not look at all bothered by that sound. As Hange followed him into the room at the end of the hallway, she was quick to understand why.

The room was notably spacy when compared to the narrow hallway she had just gone through a while ago. To the corner of the room were four players, three boys and one girl, playing what looked like speed cheese. The source of the clicks, from their quick taps on the clock. The source of the clacks, the sound of pieces hitting the mat spread out on the table.

One particularly large clack rang out as one of the boys in the closer boards slammed his king on the board. "We're playing again!"

"You lost three games in a row already. Just stop trying to sacrifice pieces so recklessly. You're not Levi."

Levi…  

"So this is our chessroom." Moblit said as he guided her in. "And this is our team."

That name was pushed to the back of her mind as Moblit brought her to the table to introduce her to every one of them. Their names went into one ear and out the other though, that one mention of Levi was fighting for control in her mind.

"You mentioned a Levi?"

"Why? You wanna play him?"  The blonde answered, looking particularly annoyed at the mention of that name. "Why don’t you play one of us first?."

"Actually, I have no plans of playing---."

"In fact, I've been practicing Levi's opening lines---" The blonde ended up biting his tongue as the girl next to him pushed him away.

"Sorry for the rude introduction from Oluo over here. My name is Petra. " The girl said.

"She's our new recruit." Moblit answered.

"So you finally found a replacement." The blond man on the other side stood up and walked toward Hange.  "Nice to meet you. Name's Eld."

"Wait what… replacement?"

"Gunther here can't play the season because of grades so we had Moblit try to find us a quick replacement. You have experience playing competitive chess?"

"Online?" Hange suggested.

"You got someone here with no experience playing competitive chess and her first day you bring her is when we have a simulation match with Levi. You might end up having to look for a new recruit after today." The man who had bitten his tongue a while ago looked like he had quickly recovered enough to at least laugh at Hange without wincing.  "Have you at least prepared mentally to get your ass beaten by him?"

Levi… "I feel like I've gotten my ass beaten by this person you're talking about already." Hange replied. There were only so many Levis in the vicinity who play good chess right?

                                        En Prise

Levi had a disinterested look about him which made Hange wonder what went through his head half the time. She could not help but note that that was probably why he played chess so well.

She could never tell if he was taken by surprise. When Levi entered the chess room and made eye contact with her, Hange had to focus most if not all her energy into placating that flash of recognition and softening that boiling feeling inside her. Was it anger? Or was it excitement?

Either way, it manifested as frustration at seeing the Levi's poker face. Did he recognize her?  

“This is Hange Zoe. She’ll be joining our team from today.”

"You owe me money!" Hänge said, louder than she had intended. From her peripherals, she could see Petra jumping in surprise.

"I don't remember owing anyone any money." Levi replied, his tone as disinterested as his face.

"You hustled me." Hange accused.

"I don't hustle people." Levi said calmly.

"This guy is your teammate? This guy plays competitive chess? He hangs out in bars and hustles random people over chess games.” Hange challenged. “And you get this dirty guy to represent our school?

Petra looked uncomfortable. As Hange scanned their faces, she could see they all were looking for something else to focus on.

“Erwin asked me to play all of you today since he can’t make it to training.” Levi turned to Hange. “ WIll you be joining us today?” He had said it so politely and calmly yet  had completely ignored her accusation only a second ago. That was enough to get Hange’s blood boiling.

“She’s our new recruit. I think it would be a good experience if she plays too.” It was Moblit who had answered for her.”

“Wait, play with this dirty man? He might steal my money again.” Hange protested.

Levi sighed. “Zoe, let’s make a deal then, if you beat me here, I’ll give you back the money you bet. How does 500 dollars sound?” So he did recognize her.

500 dollars. That was more than what she had lost for sure. “There must be some catch to this.”

Levi shrugged. “Just stop with these accusations so we don’t waste anymore time. Erwin’s gonna get angry if we don’t finish the game today.”

Hange could only watch as Levi and the other players pulled out a long table from the side and set up chess boards and placed the chess clocks on the table.

Hange sat next to Petra. The latter grabbed the chess clock from Hange’s left side and set it up. “55 minutes with a 10 second increment”

“Everyone has to play their best opening for white. Erwin’s orders.”

“It’s not like you’re actually gonna play a bookline anyway so what’s the point.” Oluo commented.

Everyone ignored him.

Hange watched from her seat as Levi walked through all the tables. From her place she could see that Eld had moved already. What move he was playing, she could not tell. Levi quickly replied to Eld’s first move.

Beside her, Hange could see Petra had played her queen’s pawn forward.

“You have more than enough of an advantage to beat me Zoe. I’m playing five people and you have nothing to lose.” Levi said as he arrived in front of Hange’s board. “Make your move.”

Hange pushed her king’s pawn forward.

Levi stared for a second and raised one eyebrow. A disinterested and judgemental look plastered on his face. Hange could not help but doubt her opening. Is there something wrong with e4?  

Levi replied with b5, the pawn in front of his knight. Hange had never seen that in her life but what she managed to a see a few seconds later was the clear line from bishop to pawn.

She could take it and develop her bishop at the same time. She had read it before. Focus on developing pieces at the opening stages.

Was the pawn free though?   One thing Hange had learned from losing to Levi multiple times though was that Levi could easily turn a piece down position into an attack for himself.

“Hurry up and move Zoe. You’re the only one still in the opening.” Hange jumped to see Levi standing in front of her.

Hange looked to her clock.  30 minutes. She’d been thinking for at least 30 minutes. Or at least trying to think. Her mind was still blank.

“Do you still want your money back?”

That was the provocation Hange needed. She took the pawn with her bishop.

Levi quickly replied by placing his bishop on the square where the pawn was only a second ago.

The clock was ticking for Hange again. Develop your pieces. Hange played Nc3, a normal developing move to defend the pawn. Levi quickly played f5. The past few moves Levi had not left her board and as Hange looked to the others, she could see they were all deep into middlegame positions.

She looked back at the position in front of her. Another free pawn.

“Don’t you have other boards to play?”

“One less board to play if I finish one now.”

Hange took the pawn on f5.

“I’ll teach you how to win a game a rook up.” It took Hange a few minutes to notice it. After Levi had moved his bishop to the take the pawn on her right wing, at the same time threatening to take the rook,  he walked away, leaving Hange with the problem of how to save a trapped rook and the futile loss that came with it. It also gave Hange enough time to reflect, to ponder on the fact that Levi had alluded to one of their games only a week ago. Levi had been down a rook for most of one game yet managed to win.

Hange developed her knight in front of the king, having completely given up on defending the rook. From then on, she had focused on simple development. That was what Levi had done after all, when he was a rook down.

“You gave up pretty fast.” Levi commented only a few moves later.

“I’m still playing.” Hange said. The pieces were all set up but Levi was a clear rook up. From then on, Levi had not left her table in the simulation match. Levi’s material advantage only increasing from that point. The same pattern, it was definitely not as slow as it had been back in the bar when Hange was always a piece up. The advancement of Levi’s forces on the board were rapid

She found herself spending a few seconds looking at the board of Petra to see the material advantage was equal.

She couldn’t even do that much. Hange found herself playing faster and faster. It could have been from frustration or from the desire to have that humiliation end. Levi only entertained that in her as he matched her speed.

“It’s good manners to resign when you’re losing Zoe.”

Hange did not even have time to organize her forces. A black knight had planted itself in the middle of the board and the black queen was staring down at her uncastled white king.

Hange did not need to look up to feel it. Everyone’s eyes were on her and Hange chose to wait. Eventually, Levi walked away from the board and she could hear the clack and the click as he moved the pieces and pressed the clock. Then more footsteps then the clack and the click again.

Levi never did go back to her board. He didn’t need too. Hange only had to look at the clock next to her to know the game would be over soon.

“Resign.” It was Petra who resigned soon after her clock hit zero. Oluo resigned a few minutes after.

When Hange finally looked up, she could see Moblit, Oluo and Petra gathered around the board between Eld and Levi. Eld had his hands to his head while Levi just stood waiting, looking as disinterested and uninvested as he always did.

From her angle, she could not see what had happened on the board, but as she heard the sound of a piece slamming into the board, soon followed by Eld standing up, she knew it was over. Levi had beaten all of them in a sweep.  

“It’s getting late.”

Petra and Oluo had gathered up their pieces into the middle of the chess mats while Moblit and Eld

“Just keep a record of your games. Erwin will look through them.”

“Record?” Hange only noticed then, that there papers on top of the board as well.

“I forgot to tell you... I’m sure Erwin won’t mind if you didn’t have one, it’s your first day after all.” Moblit said, his tone apologetic.

“I’ll help her replay the game. You three can go ahead.”

Soon, it was just the two of them in the room.  

“Do you even know how to record games?”

“I learned in PE class but it gets confusing.”

“I’ll write it down for you to save you time.” Levi said as he set up a board in front of her. He soon replayed the game one by one, pausing to write on the board every few moves, not even bothering to ask her if he had recalled it correctly.

He had set up on the board the moment his bishop took her rook. He replayed her next move when she had developed the knight in front of her king, making sure to tap the piece multiple times on the board before writing it down. The face he made as he did that, only clued Hange in to the fact that it was probably the wrong move. “You gave up too easily.” Levi commented

“I was a rook down.”

“If we switched boards I could have won this position.” Levi said as he continued to play quickly through it.  He stopped at one familiar position, having opened a clear path for the knight to plant itself on the middle of the board. “The game is already lost at this point. There’s no need to analyze it.” Levi explained. He wrote out the last few moves on the paper, not bothering to play them out.

“You didn’t need to point it out.” Hange said as she watched Levi push the pieces towards the middle of the board. “Thank you for doing it though.” The words were difficult to say. Hange only found the strength to say it as Levi returned the board to the box on the side of the room.  

“It just bothers me. For someone who is so willing to play ten games in a row, you give up too easily on the board.” Levi shrugged.  “At least, I got some money out of it.”

“So you admit you were hustling me.”  

“You were winning in all your games. You just managed to fuck up in the middle and lost some money, that’s all there is to it.”

[dragonrajafanfiction]

Shipwreck

@hectab

Heaving clouds poured an unrelenting sheet rain down on the deck of the pitching and rolling Aido-Hwedo. The horrifying waves tossed the ship back and forth. This aircraft carrier, weighing hundreds of tons, was at its limit of integrity and the people on top of it were like nothing in comparison to the raw power of the ocean. Men and women were locked in battle with fierce beasts that crawled over the ship, swarming like fire ants. They held them off but their circle of safety was growing smaller and smaller and the casualties mounted higher and higher. 

Even if they could maintain some semblance of a frontline, the crashing waves sweeping over the deck made a mockery of any attempt at strategy. The battle had turned into a mad scramble to kill whatever was standing in front of them.

Brian opened his eyes to this wet and cold mayhem. He felt sore all over and sighed with the pain burning through him. 

Voices were shouting. “He’s up, he’s up!” As he was pulled  to his feet.  The last thing he remembered was being struck by a bolt of lightning that shot out from the weapon of a deadpool and passing out. His training made him grasp the nearest arm and ask, “How long was I out?”

“About 15 minutes.”

Brian gritted his teeth. That was an eternity in a battle especially with dragons. 

Strong arms ushered him towards the aircraft that was supposed to be used to kill this monster that hid itself in the sky. Its long swordlike muzzle gleamed in the flash of lightning, dripping with constant running water. It was shaped like a cross between a rocket and fighter jet, built for both speed and firepower. It’s needle-like nose was also a weapon. If all the weapon systems failed, the plane itself could be a knife to stab through the dragon’s armor.

Ru’Yi wasn’t aware of this contingency. It wasn’t written in any of the documents. But it had come into Brian’s mind as a logical conclusion to the fight. 

“Is anyone else with me?” He asked. “No, the co-pilot was killed.” 

Brian stopped. “Aaron… Aaron’s dead?” For a moment, his breath was taken away but then he recovered and nodded. “Okay… Okay… It’s okay…” He told himself as he was hauled up the ladder that would take him to the cockpit. His heart quivered with sorrow. He was sorry. Aaron had always been by his side and now he was sleeping while Aaron died. Probably protecting him.

He sat in front of the controls forcing his mind to remember his training. Despite the war raging outside, he put on the helmet and started to check the equipment systems one by one.

From within the ship’s captain’s quarters, Lieutenant Summer Hart saw the communication device come online. 

“Running system diagnostics…”

“We don’t have time for that.” Summer Hart said. “The ship is rapidly taking on water…”

“Make time.” Brian said hoarsely. “We only have one chance at this.��

Summer looked down at her screen. Every one of the people in the ship could be tracked by infrared. The people who had gathered at the order of the Captain were still fighting below decks.

“All personnel, report to the decks. Protect Cassell’s plane!” She ordered. 

She ran her hand over the Aido-Hwedo’s console, silently saying goodbye to the ship.

Brian numbly followed the checklist, one by one, flipping switches, checking wind speed and direction. As soon as he was in the air, he would be blown sideways by the gale. He would need to pull a sharp hair pin turn and fire all thrusters as soon as he got off the aircraft carrier. 

He looked out the window. Reinforcements had arrived and were pushing the monsters back. In the light of the intense lightning strikes, the waves were perilously close.

Aido-Hwedo was sitting disastrously low in the water.

Brian started the ship’s engines, his heart racing. “Ready to push.”

He looked up through the cockpit and his heart stilled. He couldn’t see the horizon any more. All that was in front of him was a solid wall of water.

Below decks, Captain Foli and Tom Allman fought against the hordes of monsters that were now entering the ship from the bottom. Foli’s aim was precise as they waded through the flooded hull, downing the beasts with single shots. Tom was a monster, a snarling predator that held Ru’Yi aloft with his soul skill while using his sharp wingtips like a scythe.

“We’re not going to make it up to the decks.” Foli said, “I have another way. Follow me.”

“Where are we going?” Tom asked, 

“To Ra’s chambers. The ship is lost. We have to kill the dragon and escape.” He came to a sealed door and pushed hard. It was stuck fast. No matter how Foli strained against it, it wouldn’t budge.

“Allow me.” Tom folded his wing arms, the scythe-like bones resting on his shoulders and lifted one claw. The metal screeched and sparked as he ran his claws through the thick vault door, all around the frame. Then the door collapsed with the force of the water behind it.

Ra’s chapter was completely sealed, so it was still dry. The dragon was awake, its flaming eyes lighting the place like twin suns. At the sight of the two men it strained against its shackle, letting out a muffled roar.

“You have a dragon down here?” Tom’s eyes widened in horror.

Foli pulled what appeared to be a golden crown from his vest and pressed it against his head. The dragon’s struggles became even more frantic. “He’s captive.  Under my control.” Foli said. 

“Are you sure?” Tom whispered.

Foli reached for the medallion that Grant Baldwin had returned to him. He kissed it gently and then leaped on the dragon's muzzle.

The dragon’s nostrils flared and hot breath sucked in and out. The Dragon was clearly panicking. Its armored scales rattled, slamming shut in a reaction Tom understood as fear.

But Foli was fearless. He placed the medallion against the dragon’s head.

Immediately the Dragon’s shackles burned with blue script, ancient words that lit up the space like water. The blue script heated the shackles and they started to change form and expand outward. The dragon rose to its feet and the shackles started to spin, like some sort of engine. 

There were rings on every joint of the dragon, and they were held there by a blue energy, like electricity. That blue energy now colored the Dragon’s eyes. Foli was like an ant on the back of a crocodile as he walked up to sit behind the dragon’s massive head. When he looked at Tom, his eyes burned blue and blue veins crawled up his neck.

The ring around the muzzle of the dragon finally expanded to free it completely and the dragon let out a long scream of intense agony.

Ru’Yi opened her eyes and gasped. “Tom!”

Tom let her down. “You’re alright.”

“What’s happening?” Ru’Yi looked in terror at the massive beast that was howling in pain.

“I think he’s controlling it and he doesn't like it.”

She looked into his eyes in confusion, but there was simply no time to do or say anything.

The Dragon’s claws had pierced the hull of the ship and torn a great gap in it.

“Fill your lungs with air! Ru’Yi! Get on my back! We’re going to have to ride it out from the bottom of the ship!”

Ru’Yi complied, wrapping her skinny arms around Tom’s thick neck. Tom leaped forward, snapping open his wings and landing like a fly on the dragon’s back, gripping hard with his toe claws. “Lie flat! Lie flat!”

The dragon had carved a hole deep enough to swim through. Hordes of beasts swam up from below and turned Ra’s Chamber into an aquarium of horrors.

The Aido-Hwedo Aircraft carrier began to sink rapidly now that that final chamber was breached. The bow tipped upward.

Brian was out of time. He kicked the thrusters into full gear and the airship took off with the speed and force of a space shuttle. There was no way to dodge that wave. The only solution was to rise above it!

Brian tilted the airship’s nose up and the rocket thrusters scorched the surface of the runaway as well as a few unlucky ones who had gotten caught in that obliterating fire. The wave suddenly approached at speed. The rocket’s nose pierced the crest of the wave and bounced pointed straight at the clouds. He looked down as that wave swallowed the Aido-Hwedo. 

Tears ran down his face. All his friends. Mr. Baldwin. “Ru’Yi…” he sobbed. He turned back to the cockpit. An eye had appeared in the storm and despite the darkness below, the bright light of day was seen above, like he entered heaven from hell. There in this sea of torment, was a human shaped figure, with four feathered wings. Like an angel.

Brian’s chest heaved with pain. “I’m going to kill you!”

His roar of rage was swallowed by another roar hundreds of times more powerful than his own A dragon, three times the length of his own plane, burst like a bullet from the water, its wings beating mightily, its eyes flaming blue. 

Riding the head, exposed to the wind, was Captain Foli. The Dragon’s mouth opened and a voice like a thunderclap came from it.

“You will pay… for my brother.”

[pollenat]

“Ambers and embers” | hk.

➛ Night time with TXT’s Huening Kai. Been on my mind a lot lately.

➛ Word count: 857.

A blaring bonfire. Though it’s lost the power it once possessed, the flames are still strong enough to keep your feet warm. The smoke, overwhelming before, now just another smell that has seeped through the material of your denim jacket. You’ll hate it when you’re home. But for now? You ignore the small inconvenience. Staring at the fire, you fight both the tiredness and tears. Not because you’re sad. The smoke is just so insufferable, it has your eyes glossed. But maybe there’s also something melancholic to watching the fire as it’s slowly dying.

Silhouettes of your friends sit in the distance. They’re talking in small voices, also exhausted. The flames won’t be the only thing to die. No, the gathering is coming to its conclusion, and people are torn between the excitement of being together as well as the calling memories of soft mattresses. Someone spills a beer over their trousers causing a small disturbance. Others laugh.

A sniffle comes from your side. Without thinking, you glance at its cause - Kai. He’s sitting in the same manner as you, with legs folded and forearms resting on knees. A plastic bag works as your joint seat, small enough to have your elbows touching. Though the fire is keeping you content, you don’t mind that he’s another source of warmth. There’s a fluttering feeling lurking in the depths of your organs. It has your body itching, as if ants have made themselves at home underneath your skin.

Kai doesn’t register your staring, he’s too taken by the flames. Their shadows dance on his face, light changing his eye color to amber. A small wrinkle crosses his features. Another sniffle comes out of his nostrils. Kai wipes them with fingers, eyes finally letting go of the fire to glance at someone laughing. Not wanting to get caught staring, you follow his line of vision. The disturbance’s context is never cleared up, but the giggles resurface.

Your ears pick up another sniffle. Automatically, you gaze back at Kai. The boy wipes his nose, then looks at the side of his hand. Your eyes follow. Dark snot rests on the edge - an effect of sitting close to the smoke. Kai looks genuinely surprised, and you can clearly pick the moment he realizes why the liquid is black. Amused, you laugh. Kai’s eyes meet yours and he smiles as well. His dirt hand waves in the air, as another is looking for a tissue of sorts. But there’s none in his pockets. His face turns towards you. It’s like the moon, divided into two - dark and light. One of his eyes is colored black, another is an amber stone. You’re so busy taking notes, his incoming hand makes itself notable only when its centimetres away.

Surprised, you jump back, straight into the sand you were trying to avoid the entire night.

“Kai, no!” He laughs, but is quick to stand up and charge again.

“Kai, yes!”

Few people turn to check what the two of you are about. Though you do take a note of the stares, you’re more concerned with the danger of Kai’s dirty hand. He follows as you pick up the speed to escape.

“You can’t run forever!”

“Don’t you dare come anywhere near me with your snot! It’s disgusting!”

Next to a laughing group of people, around the bonfire, over a log. You’re running, though you’re also wasting breath on laughter. Small rocks penetrate your socks to cause discomfort to your feet. They hurt, but you keep on moving. The plastic bag you were seated on earlier flies away. Forgetting all about the pursuit, you hurry to catch the object.

“Now, I’ve got you!” Just as you reach for the bag’s handle, arms close around your waist. Kai snickers into the side of your neck. “Better luck next time, loser.”

“The bag-” You motion at the trash, flying away into the night like a small cloud.

“Just admit you’re slower than me.”

Lips opened in surprise - the effect of Kai’s embrace - you turn to look at him. That’s when you realize. Your eyes drop to one of the hands that is being furiously wiped against your jacket. The noise that comes out of your throat is a broken yelp, followed by laughter. Though you struggle against his grip, Kai is proven stronger.

“Eww, you’re disgusting!” Frowning, you stare at where the dirt is. “Kai!”

His giggle is an evil one.

“If you like me, then you should like my snot as well.”

“What type of logic is that? You should’ve just asked someone for a tissue.”

“Now, that would be less fun, wouldn’t it?”

Kai doesn’t answer. His nose is rubbing against your neck, and though you can’t see it, you imagine him with eyes closed. The hand, wiped, is now gripping your forearm to hold you in place. The full moon is high on the sky, casting its light on the large field. Somewhere in the distance the small cloud flies above dancing ears of grains. The background noises disappear. Your fingers close around Kai’s limbs.

“Besides,” He whispers. “you’re my tissue.”

➛ pollenat’s list of headcanons

➛ pollenat’s list of shorts

➛ pollenat’s list of scenarios

[violet-knox]

Returning Home

Part 2 of Conflict of Interest

Pairing: Severus Snape x Reader

Summary: You head back to Hogwarts to fight for the Order during the battle and find Severus to get answers to your questions.

Warnings: Angst... with a capital A 👉👈👉👈 Death, Blood, Voldemort and more angst

Word Count: 8386

A/N: This takes place a few months after part 1 in the middle of the war. I’ve pasted a few quotes from the book which I’ll mention at the bottom to avoid spoilers and obviously the credit for that goes to JKR.

Obviously I've been writing too much fluff lately soooooo...... I'M NOT SORRY!

Part 1

~

Everything was in ruins. The castle in a worse state than the night you’d left, abandoning your home, the responsibility you had to the students that now lay dead on the floors of the one place they were supposed to be safe, the place their parents had put their faith in when they agreed to send them back in September. You’d abandoned your love, your life, everything you’d held dear. A job that gave you everything yet left you feeling so unfulfilled. But what choice did you have? Severus Snape, Headmaster of Hogwarts, your partner and thought to be soulmate had done exactly what you’d feared and led the once great school into war. And where was he now? Hiding away somewhere to save his skin? Or perhaps he truly was the Death Eater everyone but you believed him to be, gone to stand by his Master’s side. Oh how the great have fallen, crashing and burning to the ground with nothing to show for but betrayal and loss. What would he say to you now that your nightmares had all come true? All that hope you’d carried for him gone. How could he possibly explain this chaos and exonerate himself from the horror he’d caused?

Every corner you turned you were greeted by more bloodshed. Innocents dead, Death Eaters throwing every type of Dark Magic left and right. Not a single stone in Hogwarts walls was left undamaged; some chipped or torn out from its place and most others displaying the blood of students, staff members, Aurors… your friends, ex-colleagues and peers. The sight made you wish you’d both arrived sooner and never shown up at the same time. It made you wish you’d done more than the petty hunting you’d taken part in these last few months. What good were a few caught Death Eaters now that they’d all gathered and attacked the school, destroying the place you’d left to protect?

Heading down to the end of the corridor, you turned towards the loudest of the three halls the castle offered you, filled with nothing but chaos and found a few Aurors, some you recognized, others you thought were too young to enter such a racking fight, defending themselves against a bundle of Death Eaters. You quickly joined them, throwing curse after curse, standing by their side, holding your own against the Dark Magic thrown your way. 

You’d barely begun defending the school when suddenly, the wall behind the Death Eaters you fought exploded outwards, sending rockets of stone their way. You quickly shielded yourself, casting protego and watched as the school defended itself. Every Death Eater was thrown off their feet, some greeting death as soon as they hit the ground and others finding themselves not so lucky, facing wounds that would defeat even the best Healer in the world before facing down the end of an Auror’s wand. 

Holding your wand up stead, you made your way towards the rubble, casting the killing curse towards a Death Eater the second you saw them twitch and stepped over the broken wall to a sight even worse than that you’d previously been greeted with. Groups of students lay dead as others ran down the corridor only to fall at the hand of another Death Eater. You couldn’t stand the sight and your anger grew the more you thought about how insignificant your helping hand really was these last few months. You were only one person, what could you possibly do to truly help these poor kids?

Making your way down the hall, you did what you could, saving as many students as possible until you heard the familiar sound of a voice you could have sworn could only belong to man of the hour himself, the Chosen One; Harry Potter. But it was him, it had to be, who else would be so bold as to use the name of you-know-who so openly, especially at a time like this?

"You need to find out where Voldemort is, because he'll have the snake with him, won't he? Do it, Harry- look inside him!" You couldn’t recognize the girl's voice at first, the fear hidden in her tone masking her usual confidence, but of course it had to be Miss. Granger. 

Silence fell a while and you edged closer towards them, still hiding behind the broken wall, keeping your presence scarce. 

"He's in the Shrieking Shack,” Harry finally spoke. “The snake's with him, it's got some sort of magical protection around it. He's just sent Lucius Malfoy to find Snape."

Your heart nearly stopped at the mere mention of Severus. So, it was true. It was all true and you’d been too blinded by love, convincing yourself his words were enough to believe when they were nothing more than lies. Your vision blurred as you placed a hand over your mouth, trying to keep from falling apart, tears running down your cheeks. You slumped to the ground and all the noise, all the chaos around you disappeared as you spiraled down the rabbit hole of grief. There was no need for a spy now, no need to pretend during this wad and if Harry’s words were true, that left you with one obvious conclusion; Severus Snape was a Death Eater. 

"He's not-he's not even FIGHTING?" Hermione had never sounded so outraged before, her risen voice snapping your mind back to reality. Your head pounded, fighting your heart which begged to find another explanation for Severus, anything to prove what you had with him wasn’t a lie. You wanted so badly to believe you’d hallucinated this conversation, that Harry had made up what he said was true but the more they spoke, the more your hope faded along with your dreams of a pleasant reunion. 

"He doesn't think he needs to fight," said Harry. "He thinks I'm going to go to him."

You closed your eyes, unable to hear anymore. Your head felt like it was about to implode from rejecting the fact that Severus had lied to you, telling you he was fighting, spying for Dumbledore when he’d double crossed the Order, he’d double crossed you. Placing your face in your hands, you brought your knees up to your chest, taking deep breaths as you tried to clear your mind. Now was not the time to panic. Now wasn’t the time to feel resentful. A war had broken out and you were in the midst of it. The important thing right now was to fight and win this battle before all was lost to the darkness that had enveloped your love. 

But if Severus had been truthful to you, the one person in his life you knew he trusted more than anyone, then perhaps there was something going on greater than these attacks. Something you were unaware of. Why was Harry Potter looking for that snake and why was it so heavily protected? If anyone knew, it would be Severus, and if Potter and his friends were planning to make their way to the Shrieking Shack then it was only logical for you to go with them. Even if Severus had betrayed you, even if there was no deeper plot, you could still do your part and protect the boy who lived. He was supposed to be the key to winning this war after all, so the best thing you could do for the sake of the Wizarding World was find the truth and protect him. 

Just when you’d finally made a decision and jumped back up to your feet, you heard two Death Eaters shouting for Potter, approaching him with their drawn wands. But Miss. Granger had beaten you to the punch, attacking them before making a break for it. With the sudden chaos that ensued, you could no longer spot them. You honestly weren’t sure if they’d decided on their next move, but you knew at least one of them would head to the Shrieking Shack which meant they would all do what they could to assist. 

You quickly sprinted towards the Entrance Hall, encountering Death Eater after Death Eater on your way, but finally you’d found yourself outside the castle doors, spotting Potter and his friends running out of range of a giant screaming ‘Hagger’. You couldn’t even stop to question the giant and his eagerness. Time was of the essence. You watched them sprint towards the Whomping Willow and remembered the story Severus had told you about the time he’d caught Sirius Black. 

He’d told you about how he’d found him in the Shrieking Shack by following Potter into a secret tunnel under the Whomping Willow. He’d never told you how he knew about the tunnel, but at the time, you hadn’t thought to question it, enticed by Severus’ bravery and ambition instead. Whatever the case may be, his story clearly had some truth to it and could help you find your own way to the Shrieking Shack after those kids who suddenly seemed to have disappeared.

No matter, you knew exactly where they were heading, and they couldn’t be too far ahead of you. Soon enough, you’d managed to make your way to the tree that had begun aggressively swinging its branches in every direction. You quickly found a nearby branch and made your way to the knot under its trunk, immobilizing it as soon as you hit it, just as Severus had described. Ducking into the opening under the tree, you found yourself completely in the dark with nothing but silence accompanying you. Taking out your wand, you cast lumos and began making your way down the seemingly endless tunnel. 

Eventually, the end came near and you felt your heart pound aggressively against your chest, your adrenaline beginning to wear as the fear of what you might encounter on the other side of this trap door ensued. You’d come all this way, there was no going back now, no backing down. This is what you’d come for, what you’d left Severus for; the chance to help end this war. 

You summoned up every last ounce of bravery you had to spare and pushed aside your doubt along with the trap door, climbing into the Shrieking Shack and immediately found yourself met with an agonizing scream coming from the room next door. You slowly edged your way to the exit, staying with your back pressed against the wall, wand at the ready and found Potter, Granger and Weasley all crouched down, listening in on whatever was happening in the next room. When the commotion settled and you heard he-who-must-not-be-named leave the room, you watched the trio walk in with a lack of defensive precaution.

To say you were baffled by their motions would be an understatement. Clearly there was still someone in there and to head in acting as if they’d been called for dinner without their wands at the ready was completely absurd. You quickly moved forward gripping your own wand tightly, ready for whatever it was you were about to walk into as you followed them into the unknown room. But no amount of precaution or training could have prepared you for the sight you saw as soon as you turned that corner. 

“Severus,” you whispered in complete and utter shock. He was lying there with his throat cut out, his hands desperately grasping at Potter as the floor was painted red with his blood. You felt your heart collapse, your head spin in agony as you rushed forward, pushing past Granger and Weasley, throwing yourself on the ground beside Severus. You’d never felt so helpless, so useless before in your life. You wanted to help, you wanted to save him, but you didn’t know how. 

A terrible rasping, gurgling noise suddenly issued from Severus’ throat and your attention was brought up to watch his eyes desperately begging Potter for something you could never begin to even imagine. 

"Take...it...Take...it..."

Memories oozed out of his mouth, eyes and ears but you couldn’t be bothered to wonder what he was doing, you couldn’t accept this. He can’t die, he can’t. He hasn’t explained himself to you yet. He hasn’t told you how wrong everyone was to call him a Death Eater, how he truly was fighting for the light, how he was simply doing as he was told standing by the side of you-know-who as Dumbledore had asked. He hasn’t told you how much he loved you. 

You looked down at your wand and blinked away your tears. This can’t be it, it simply can’t. This is not the end, it just can’t be. Hovering your wand over his neck, you began muttering every healing charm you could think of, holding on to the hope that one of them would work despite the fact that you knew deep down those marks on his neck indicated snake venom was running through his veins, poisoning him and ripping out any smidge of life he had left to give. 

You didn’t stop, you couldn’t stop until you felt those familiar slim fingers graze your hand. Severus had motioned for you to halt your motions, but you couldn’t accept that, shaking your head as your eyes filled with tears, looking into his. His hand felt so weak, so cold, colder than usual and his face was so pale. He was dying and you couldn’t do anything but beg and plead for him to stay. 

“Please… please don’t leave me,” you whispered, leaning as close to him as you could, placing your hand above him as you dropped your wand. 

Severus kept his eyes glued to yours, a few more memories escaping his lips as he focused on your touch, the delicate features of your face, your hair. He’d missed you so much these last few months; they were torture without you and he knew he’d only made it as far as he did with this mission because you’d been by his side. Even when you’d left, it was the thought of seeing your face once this was all over that kept him going. How poetic must it be for your face to be the last he’d see now. 

"Look...at....me..." he whispered, bringing your attention from the second flask Granger had used to capture the last set of memories he’d given up and back to him. Your eyes met one last time before that twinkle behind his black orbs vanished, his hand slipping between yours and thudded to the ground.

“No.” The word stumbled out of your mouth as you desperately went to reach for his hand, grasping it tightly with your own and bringing it up to your chest. Your swallowed screams came out as incoherent whines as you tried searching his eyes, finding nothing but emptiness. He was gone.   

You’d barely had two seconds to process what just happened when suddenly, the voice of he-who-must-not-be-named echoed through your ears, filling your mind with vile thoughts of anger and fear atop the grief you’d felt for your lost love. 

"You have fought," said the high, cold voice, "valiantly. Lord Voldemort knows how to value bravery."

You closed your eyes, somehow hoping that would shut him out, that it would shut out the world to leave you be or wake you from this hellish nightmare you were living. But you were given no such luck as he continued to speak, his voice resonating the agony and despair you felt. 

"Yet you have sustained heavy losses. If you continue to resist me, you will all die, one by one. I do not wish this to happen. Every drop of magical blood spilled is a loss and a waste. Lord Voldemort is merciful. I command my forces to retreat immediately. You have one hour. Dispose of your dead with dignity. Treat your injured."

Dispose of your dead. He spoke as if the lives lost during this war were nothing more than trash to him and why would he care? He who never learned to love, never cared for someone as you had Severus. You couldn’t bear looking at his eyes anymore knowing they’d never look back at you. His hand lifeless in yours, never to hold you again. Placing two fingers over his eyelids, you closed them and placed his hand over his chest before reaching into his robes where you knew he stashed his wand to retrieve it.

"I speak now, Harry Potter, directly to you.” His voice still rang in your ears and you finally remembered you weren’t alone. There was still a battle to be won, a war to end, lives to save. “You have permitted your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself. I shall wait for one hour in the Forbidden Forest. If, at the end of that hour, you have not come to me, have not given yourself up, then battle recommences. This time, I shall enter the fray myself, Harry Potter, and I shall find you, and I shall punish every last man, woman, and child who has tried to conceal you from me. One hour."

"Don't listen to him," said Weasley. 

"It'll be all right." Granger’s sudden wild tone threw you back and you felt yourself go stiff under all the stress and grief this war had brought. "Let's-- let's get back to the castle, if he's gone to the forest we'll need to think of a new plan--"

The trio all stood to make their way out, but you couldn’t move a muscle. Eyes closed, you hung your head and planted your palms on the ground. You had to wake up, this couldn’t be real. These last few months, they must have been a dream. You’d dreamt it all and you were back in bed with Severus in his chambers at Hogwarts sleeping next to him after making up. It was the only reasonable scenario because this simply can’t be real, it can’t.

“Professor.” But Granger’s voice had just proved you wrong. This was your reality and it was too much for you to withstand. You wanted to stay with Severus no matter what it may bring, yet you knew you couldn’t. You had to protect the children, the students and help the Order fight against that monster. 

You took in a deep breath and shoved your grief into a cupboard in the depths of your mind, locking it shut before jumping to your feet, griping hold of your wand along with Severus’ and the flask of memories Granger had left for you. You followed Potter and his friends back through the tunnel from which you came, nothing but silence passed between the four of you as you tried to wrap your head around the events that just occurred. 

You couldn’t think straight. It was all just too much. You wanted answers, you wanted to help and that was supposed to be the point in your trip to the Shrieking Shack but instead of having your questions answered, you’d been shown nothing but what you’d lost and could never regain. 

The darkness accompanied you out of the tunnel as you exited out of the Whomping Willow and dragged yourself to the Great Hall, following the others. You felt unhinged, like this reality wasn’t your own and perhaps it wasn’t. It was the cruel reality of fate, rejected by those who’d stood over their love’s empty vessels. 

You somehow felt yourself envious of those mourning the ones they lost in the Great Hall because at least they could mourn knowing they were loved, hugging those still present in the land of the living. Walking down the room, you gazed upon the students, Aurors and staff members lost in the war, the survivors huddled in groups where the house tables used to stand. Nothing more than hardship and devastation passed from one person to the next. 

Fresh tears streamed down your face at the thought of Severus lying there alone in the shack where you’d left him. He should be here. You should both be huddled in the corner alongside the others thanking Merlin you’d survived this long instead of this loneliness you felt accompanying you as you found your way to the nearest wall, throwing your back up against it and sinking down to the ground. 

You brought your knees up to your chest and wrapped your arms around them, instantly rocking back and forth in an attempt to comfort yourself. You’d never felt such a cascading rush of emotions before, thoughts of anger and resentment replaced by agony and remorse the second you saw Severus on the ground. In that moment, it didn’t matter to you what side he was on. He was your heart, your soul, your everything and he was gone. 

You could never speak to him again, never see him or touch him. It wasn’t fair. You’d never gotten the closure you needed after you’d left and now you felt like you never would. You’d hoped the end of this war would give you the means to find the closure you needed, whether that be accepting Severus as the Death Eater he was or the brilliant and brave man you’d come to know him as. You’d never thought of the possibility you’d be faced with his death instead because he’d always seemed so invincible to you. He was an amazing Wizard with skills you were sure would have rivaled Dumbledore at his best. The possibility of his death seemed laughable back then. Even now as you sat there, playing back what you’d seen, what you’d heard, you weren’t sure what had happened, why he-who-must-not-be-named would kill him when he’d gained his favour last year, becoming his most trusted follower after killing Dumbledore. 

Questions upon questions piled up in your mind and suddenly it became clear to you what you had to do next. The war no longer mattered to you, the battle felt like it had taken place eons ago. You needed answers and the flask Granger had handed you may very well be the only thing you had to provide you with what you needed most. 

Quickly standing to your feet, you began making your way to the Headmaster’s office, your pace fastening the second that gargoyle came into your line of sight. You were about to mutter ‘Dumbledore’, hoping Severus hadn’t changed the password since you’d left when the gargoyle spun open with none other than Harry Potter stepping out of it. Your eyes met and you both froze in place, each one aware why the other was there. It was you who’d moved first, taking a step toward the open door before you heard him speak.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice small and shriveled. “I didn’t know.”

You looked back at him and watched as he handed you his flask, unsure of what he meant. You took it regardless and gave him one last look before making your way into the office. You’d spent many nights here, speaking with Severus, watching him take orders from Dumbledore’s portrait. You’d resented the place honestly, feeling it too crowded, too grand. You much preferred his old office next to the potions classroom, but with the way he looked when he first entered the room, clearly ecstatic about it all had you keeping your opinion to yourself, letting him enjoy the bit of luxury he’d been given. 

Your eyes finally met with the pensieve, unsurprisingly pulled out of its place. Slowly, you made your way towards it and looked down at the two flasks in your hand. Without a second thought, you put away the one Harry had given you, opening the second one and poured its contents into the pensieve. The blue and silver looked beautiful swirling around in the water and you only hoped the memories you’d see as you dunked your head in would be just as alluring a sight. 

The room spun and you felt yourself falling into darkness until a clear image of Diagon Alley rolled into view. You looked around and noticed the lack of people roaming the streets. It didn’t take long for you to spot Severus in his oversized robes, making headway towards Flourish and Blotts. I remember this night, you thought, smiling to yourself as you quickly followed him into the shop. 

Severus made his way straight for the academic section of the shop knowing exactly where to look as you let your eyes roam around the store searching for… 

“Hello.” Ah, there you were. “Do you need any help?” Your cheeks burned red, feeling awkward at how innocently young you looked back then. You were so clueless back then and it almost hurt to watch you interact with Severus. Though despite the clear lack of love between you both, at least your past self had the pleasure of speaking to him at all. It was more than you could ever hope to do now. 

“You’re new, aren’t you?” Severus looked you up and down, seemingly unimpressed with you but looking at him now, you realized he’d hidden a small smirk behind his ‘better than life’ attitude.

“That obvious?” You’d cracked a smile at him, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. Yes, you could remember this day very clearly now; he was the first customer to have actually struck up a conversation with you while working here and it made you nervous. 

“No,” he replied, looking down at the book he had in his hands. Leaning in closer, you realized he’d done that thing he always did when he was nervous and let his hair fall in his face to hide his growing smirk before composing himself and looking back at you. “I shop here every few months and this is the first I’m seeing you.”

“Ah, a regular. Perhaps I should get to know your name then,” you said, pushing yourself to do as you’d been told and show the customers nothing but a willingness to help as you offered him your hand. Severus looked down at your open palm, hesitating before firmly grasping it. 

“Severus Snape,” he said, looking into your eyes and shaking your hand. You could almost feel his slim, dry fingers grazing the inside of your palm just looking at the figures you knew were just memories. But you couldn’t help the tears that gathered in your eyes, it was so good to see him so full of life again.

“Well, Severus Snape, do you always shop in the boring section or do you ever explore the rest of the store?”

You chuckled at your own joke, whipping away your tears and immediately looked at Severus, watching him scuff in response before the memory washed away, snatched from you just when you felt yourself reconnecting to him. 

“No!” You shouted into the nothingness surrounding you, turning in your place as colour began to settle into place revealing the empty streets of Hogsmeade with Severus standing in the middle of the road, looking as though he was contemplating doing something regrettable.  

You ran up to him, standing before him and examined the look on his face. All you wanted to do was cup his cheeks, wait until his eyes met yours and ask him what was wrong, but it was just a memory. You knew if you reached out, you wouldn’t feel a thing. He’d pass right through you and you just couldn’t handle that disappointment. So you held back, waiting for him to make a move instead. 

After taking a few more moments, he finally began to walk down the street, stopping right in front of The Three Broomsticks as if he was afraid he’d run into someone undesirable the second he walked in. He paused once more as soon as he’d stepped inside, looking around before making his way to the bar. You followed his lead and walked with him as you searched the practically empty pub; the few people who were present all seemed to be minding their own business, nothing out of the ordinary really. 

You watched him slump into a seat, clearly nervous about being here for reasons you didn’t understand. You’d come to this pub with him multiple times and he’d never acted this way. Unless, perhaps, this was the first time he’d stepped foot in Hogsmeade since the night he was thrown out The Hogshead, that would definitely explain his nerves. 

Severus suddenly went completely stiff and as you followed his line of sight, you realized why.

“What can I get you Severus.” Your younger self had immersed once again, this time as a bartender. The shocked look on Severus’ face amused you. He’d never looked so confundled before he’d met you for the second time. 

“Are you following me?” He shamelessly let out. 

“Me?! I’d do nothing of the sort,” You placed a hand on your chest adding a bit of sarcasm to your tone, acting as though he’d offended you to the highest degree while offering him a small smile. Severus eyed you a moment and you laughed at the interaction, realizing now how silly it looked from an outsider's perspective. 

“Firewhiskey,” he finally said, adjusting himself in his seat to get comfortable. “Double.”

You looked over to the bar and watched as you reached for a clean glass and a bottle of Firewhiskey. “So, what brings you to Hogsmeade?”

This was the second time fate had brought you together and you remembered thinking it had to be some sort of sign, that coincidence couldn’t possibly explain this encounter when you’d done nothing but think about finding him again after you left your old job. You were nervous that night when you saw him again, wondering if you should go as far as to get to know him a little.

“I work at Hogwarts,” he said, watching you pour his drink before pulling out a second glass and doing the same for yourself. “What are you doing in Hogsmeade?” 

You tore your eyes away from the drinks your past self was pouring and looked at Severus to find an oddly curious look on his face. He seemed intrigued rather than skeptical as the tone in his voice perceived. 

“Fate,” you said, smiling to yourself, keeping your gaze on the bottle you had in your hand as you sealed it and went to put it back on the shelf behind you. “I got let go at Flourish and Blotts. Said they didn’t need me after the school rush anymore, so here I am.”

You picked up both glasses and offered him one. Watching the interaction had you suddenly feeling the aftertaste of the Firewhiskey on your tongue as your own image take a sip. At this point, you remembered wanting to know more about Severus. He was intriguing to you, different than those you’d met in England thus far. He seemed to have lived a long life despite looking to be in his late twenties. Looking back at Severus, you began to wonder what he thought of you the first time you’d met.  

“So, what do you do at that mysterious school?”

“I’m the school’s Potion’s Master,” he replied before taking a large sip of his own. “Have you never been to Hogwarts?”

He rose a brow at you and you could see his curiosity peek. You’d never noticed it before, but knowing Severus now, he must have thought of you as something special if he’d shown you any sort of interest.

“Nope,” you replied with a little too much enthusiasm. “I was sent to Beauxbatons because my parents thought it was more conservative.” 

You shook your head, blushing at the sight of yourself speaking of your upbringing. Keeping your eyes on Severus instead, you began examining his expression, trying to memorize every detail of his face. But once again, the image before you began to vanish, and you found yourself in the darkness once again. It seemed as though fate also had a cruel sense of humour, taking away the thing you love just when you felt yourself ready to grab hold of it again.

Spinning around, you tried searching for the new image that should have formed around you by now, but you could only make out a few lights to your left and you’d begun to think something had gone wrong until you realized you were in the dungeons of Hogwarts. You were standing in Severus’ old chambers, before he’d become Headmaster. All you could make out was the pale tone of his face reflecting the yellow candlelight and his hands which were held up close to his neck.  

Walking closer to him, you realized he was standing in front of his mirror, tying his ascot, looking nervous once again. You smiled and simply admired him as he looked his reflection up and down, obviously unhappy with what he saw, but you couldn’t say you felt the same. He looked perfect to you, even his hair which he couldn’t seem to stop fiddling with. 

You’d never seen him like this before, so worried about his appearance, unable to stand in place. Finally, he walked away from the mirror, whisking away into the sitting room where he began pacing, debating something you could see he was on edge about. You bit your tongue, wanting to ask what was wrong until you realized how stupid that was. He wasn’t really here, this wasn’t really him and you’d clearly been shifting through these memories long enough to forget that. 

You frowned, just standing there waiting in anticipation for him to make his next move. Eventually, he composed himself enough to open the door to his chambers and make his way out towards the Entrance Hall where you finally remembered what night this was; your first date. 

This was the first time you’d seen him out of his teaching robes, all dressed up in his navy-blue formal attire. You’d been waiting on the other side of the doors he’d opened, probably more nervous than him. He’d visited you many times at the Three Broomsticks after your first encounter there, finally offering you a tour of Hogwarts months later when the students had all left for the holidays. 

You watched yourself step inside from the cold, shivering with your arms wrapped around yourself. You let out a giggle as you realized how nervous his first date with you had made him. It was adorable, though you knew what Severus would say if he’d caught you using that word to describe him. ‘Kittens are adorable (Y/N), I am not.’ Though you would respectfully disagree of course. 

“I trust you weren’t waiting too long?” He said as he closed the doors. Your younger self was busy brushing snow off your jacket, but you could see the concern in his eyes. You knew that look and it saddened you to see him wear it so early in your relationship. How had you not noticed before his worry over disappointing you had started before you’d even officially began to date?

“Not at all. You’re just on time,” you replied, meeting his gaze with a warm smile. “This school is huge! Will we have time to see it all today?”

“No, but I thought I’d show you the more grand parts of the castle before dinner,” he said, accompanying you down the hall.

“So, does that include your classroom?” 

You followed the figures, watching Severus closely, his eyes beginning to soft as he grew comfortable with you. It was an amazing first date and you were happy to relive it. 

“If you wish.”

The figures suddenly disappeared as they walked down the hall and you found yourself standing in the dungeons again, this time outside of the Potions classroom where Severus was hesitantly leading you. You remembered this part of the tour; the best part of the castle, unable to help yourself from imagining him teaching a classroom full of students, but it was clear Severus didn’t feel the same way. His nerves were back and he looked unsettled as he opened the door to let you into the room.

“Wow,” your younger self said under your breath and you just couldn’t help but roll your eyes. You were exaggerating your interest and it made you wish the next memory would appear already to relieve you of this embarrassment. But you held out and kept watching if only to remember the lust you knew would blossom between the two figures in the memory. 

Ignoring your weak attempt at flirting, you instead resumed your admiration for Severus, trying to read his thoughts through his expression, but all you could see was the unsettlement he’d shown back in his chambers when he was preparing for your date. His eyes darted back and forth from one table to the next, analyzing it as if he was searching for a reason to punish some non-existent students. Was he nervous about the state of the room? Is that why he’d hesitated when you begged to see his classroom earlier that evening?

“So, is this where you work? This is your desk?” You spun around at the sound of your own voice, following Severus’ line of sight to watch you run your fingers over his desk at the head of the class. 

“Indeed, it is,” he said cautiously walking up to you. You followed along and watched him approach you as you leaned on the edge of the desk, smiling as if you were about to do something devious. A moment of silence passed, both figures exchanging looks before you spoke again. 

“Thank you for today Severus. I enjoyed the tour,” you bit your bottom lip and pushed yourself up so you were standing but a small grasp away from him. There it is.

You sighed out of sheer joy when you saw Severus’ breath hitch as your figure leaned in, placing both hands on his shoulder and pressed your lips to his. He went stiff and you could feel his lips press against yours as you watched, your fingers instinctively hovering over your mouth at the loss of contact you felt. 

Your smile grew and tears formed under your eyes when he began kissing back, wrapping his own arms around you, pulling you in tightly before your image quickly pulled them both back a step, enough so that you could jump onto the desk without ever parting from him. The kiss quickly became heated as you wrapped your legs around him, his hands slowly making their way up the desk as he leaned forward, your back pressing against the wood of the desk. Your first kiss looked so normal from here, but at the time, you felt it to be the most magical moment you’d ever experienced. He was amazing the first few months you’d spent together, you could relive every second of it and you only wished you could. It was nice to see this moment again, but you wanted more. You wanted to feel him, to feel the emotions you felt when you were with him back then, not just observe the faint memories of you both falling in love with one another. 

“No,” you whispered as the classroom behind the two on the desk began to fade. “Not again, please!” 

You begged the nothingness that gobbled up one of your happiest memories, but it was too late. They were gone and you found yourself in yet another memory, a more recent one by the looks of it. You were in your shared chamber; the Headmaster’s chambers. You heard the door slam shut and began looking around, trying to find your figure along with Severus.

“No,” you said when you spotted him, realizing what memory this was. “No, Severus please. Why would you show me this night?”

You spoke to the figure as if he could hear you but of course, he ignored you and slumped into his armchair, the light from the dying fireplace illuminating his outline enough for you to kneel right before him, looking desperately into his heavy eyes, tears forming, threatening to fall down your cheeks as they did his. This was the night you’d left, the night you regretted full heartedly and it hurt to see the aftermath of your fight; the broken man that sat before you. 

“I’m sorry Sev, please, I shouldn’t have left, I’m sorry,” you said desperately before giving into the one urge you’d been fighting during this trip down memory lane and tried to place your hand over his only to have it pass right through. You couldn’t bear the pain anymore and felt yourself break down as the memory kept playing. You placed your face in your hands and let your heartbreak escape through the tears you shed. 

You’d do anything to take it all back if you were given the chance. If you had a time turner to spare, you’d sit there spinning it until you went back to the right moment to fix things, no matter how long it took. If you’d stayed with him, you could have helped save him, you should have stayed to convince him to fight for the Order. It wasn’t supposed to end this way. This wasn’t supposed to happen. You never should have left! 

Was this your punishment? To be reminded of what you could have had with him? What you’d lost after making the biggest mistake of your life? You kept your head in your hands until you heard Severus shifting in his spot and you opened your eyes just in time to watch him pull out a box from his robes. You looked down at it, focusing your vision to watch him fiddle with the box, the same nervous and disappointed look you saw from your first date, the first time you met now scribbled all over his face once again. 

“Oh Sev,” you whispered as you peered inside the box he was slowly opening, revealing a small, but elegant engagement ring. Your vision blurred again as fresh tears formed at the realization of what you’d done. You wanted to scream, to cry until time reversed itself and gave you the chance to rewrite history. He loved you. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with you and you’d slammed the door in his face, rejecting him before he could even ask, all because you let this battle, this damn war cloud your judgment of him. 

Severus suddenly stood and you instantly rose, staying as close to him as you could while he walked over to the fireplace, picking up the clock you’d given him for Christmas the same year you’d begun dating and popping out its bottom. He slid the ring inside the clock and reassembled it.

“Oh Sev, I wish you’d asked,” you said through tears despite the fact that you likely wouldn’t have given the same answer back then as you would now. It was true what they said; you really didn’t know what you had until you lost it, and it took losing Severus to know that what you had with him was real and true. It took losing him, knowing you could never speak again to realize how much he meant to you, no matter which side of the war he stood.

Looking back at the clock, you watched it disappear along with the fireplace. 

“No, no not another one, please I can’t take anymore,” you pleaded, but it was no use, Severus was gone and once again the scene around you changed and you were back in the Headmaster’s office. For a second, you thought it to be over, that you’d been freedom from your ward, but when you looked to the side of the room, you saw the pensieve was put away and all the figures in the portrait present, which meant this was yet another memory. You let out a defeated sigh, feeling as though this truly was a punishment you weren’t sure you could bear any longer. 

“Severus, you made a promise.” You spun around when you heard Dumbledore’s voice, trying to search for his figure, but it was Severus you’d found instead, standing in front of a portrait, looking as broken as he did in the last memory. “You must stay by Lord Voldemort’s side until the time is right. You’re the only one that can do it.”

“You should have picked someone else,” he said looking as miserable as ever. You’d in fact never seen him like this in all the years you’d known him; broken, hollow, left with no ambition, nothing left to live for. “(Y/N) left yesterday. I’ve lost everything to this war.”

You walked closer to him, realizing what he was saying, what he was asking to do. He wanted to come after you, to abandon his post, the position he’d worked too hard to gain, killing Dumbledore, betraying everyone he cared for, all to become he-who-must-not-be-named most trusted follower. He was ready to throw it all away for you. 

“You said-”

“I know what I said! I was wrong!” He spat at the portrait. You took another step towards him, ready to make the same mistake you’d made earlier and attempt to hug the memory only for it all to disappear before you. This time, instead of a new memory replacing the darkness, you felt yourself being grasped and pulled out into the real world. 

You feel back onto the floor, losing your balance when you came out of the pensieve. All those memories, everything you’d just learned was all too much. Severus hadn’t betrayed you after all, he wasn’t a Death Eater, he was a hero and he’d died just that. You should have gotten up, returned to the battle that was sure to resume any moment now, but you couldn’t. Your body couldn’t handle any more. You couldn’t do anything but lay there on the floor, crying until you had no tears left to shed. 

It all felt so meaningless now; winning the war, defending the school. What was the point when you felt like you’d already lost? The hour was up but the chaos had yet to resume. You barely had the energy to drag yourself up and recollect all of Severus’ memories let alone join the others and see what would become of Hogwarts. 

Closing your eyes, you took in a trembling breath, trying not to think about the breakdown you felt was on the verge of exploding out of you and gathered yourself enough to leave the office. Standing there as the gargoyle closed, you looked down the hall that led to his chambers. You weren’t ready to revisit the place where it all fell apart yet that’s where your feet were taking you. 

Everything was right where you’d remembered it, nothing had changed, not even the picture you'd taken together at the Yule Ball, still propped up on the coffee table beside the armchair. It still smelled just like him, the closet in the bedroom still full of clothes; yours on the left, his on the right. He hadn’t bothered to throw a single thing away, your comb, your toothbrush, your journal still sitting exactly where you left them, nothing had changed. 

Waking over to the bed, you picked up his pillow and pressed it to your nose as you closed your eyes and slumped down onto the mattress. Hugging his pillow with the upper half of your body pressed against the black silk covering the bed was the closest thing you felt you’d ever get to feeling his touch, smelling his hair or finding comfort in his arms. Still it wasn’t enough, it would never be enough. 

You missed him so much, more so now than you had the last few months you’d been apart. Your body shock but you had no more tears left to shed. Your mind searched for memories of Severus, but you couldn’t find any more left to mourn over except the last moments you had with him. His eyes slowly glazing over with darkness as his soul escaped your world, leaving you behind. 

He’d spent his last breath sharing all of himself with you and you had to honour that. He died so that the Wizarding World may prevail, and you couldn’t let that go in vain. You composed yourself the best you could, thinking of the victory you had to win for him and dragged yourself back to the sitting room.

You looked over the bleak outlines of the furniture you’d spent hours sitting in with Severus before making your way to the fireplace. Picking up the clock, remembering that Christmas morning you shared together, you turned it over, popping out the bottom to find the ring he’d hidden still sitting there, waiting to be worn. You removed it and placed the clock back in its place, shifting the ring around between your fingers to reveal text engraved on the inside of the band: ‘Always and forever yours’.

It was a beautiful ring, small, but you were never one for theatrics and he knew that. The diamond in the middle was crystal clear, pure as he’d once described you to be. Beside it, two small emerald stones were placed on either side, signifying his promise to you; that he will always be with you no matter what the future held. Looking at it now, the memory of him holding it in this exact spot where you stood, you could almost feel his presence around you, as if he’d just proposed and you’d abruptly accepted like you so desperately wanted. 

You quickly whipped away the single tear running down your cheek and slowly slid the ring on the ring finger of your right hand, symbolizing what should have been but never was. He was gone yes but his legacy would live on, you would make sure of that. 

Before heading out, you searched your pockets and removed the flasks carrying the last memories of your lost love and placed it next to the clock on the fireplace, removing his wand from your person as well, carefully laying it before the clock. 

“You can rest now Severus,” you whispered, hoping that by some miracle, he’d hear you from the afterlife. “I love you so much, I hope you knew that.”

And with that, you slowly backed away from the fireplace and withdrew your wand, ready to fight for the good of the Wizarding World, for Hogwarts, for love, for Severus Snape and everything he stood for. 

~

A/N: Ok, I'm sorry 😭😭😭😭

Scenes taken (and edited) from the books: Harry looking into Voldemort’s find to find his location and the heartbreaking shrieking shack scene.

~

@marvelschriss @bush-viper-cutie @moonie-writes

[doomedandstoned]

10,000 Years Take Us Into The "Gargantuan Forest"

~Doomed & Stoned Debuts~

Review by Billy Goate

Album Art by Francesco Bauso

Leaving the world For salvation yonder Quest for eternity To suns beyond

Gazing upon our past Out into forever To a future obscured What glory awaits?

To begin another week of awesome original content at Doomed & Stoned, we're getting you better acquainted with the Swedish juggernaut 10,000 YEARS.

Last summer, the band dropped their eponymous debut to welcome ears and in just a few short weeks 10,000 Years come roaring back with a follow-up. Y'all know I'm a sucker for a good concept album. The eight-track full-length record 'II' (2021) picks up the trail of the Albatross research vessel, which has been galavanting 'cross the nether reaches of the galaxy on a potent rocket fuel made of sludgy stoner rock and doom metal.

If that sounds epic, wait'll you get a load of what's next for our interstellar crew. It helps if you picture the following text as a Star Wars-style screen crawl, slowly working its way up the page against the backdrop of a starry night.

After narrowly escaping the confines of the strange planet and its surrounding dimension, the Albatross and its crew finally return home to Earth. The re-entry is rough and the ship crashlands in a forest. The earth that greets them is vastly different from the one that they left.

When the ship travelled back to earth through the wormhole, it created a rift in the space-time continuum which propelled them far into the future, as well as allowing the Green King and other ancient gods from the other dimension to cross over to our dimension. They have since taken control of not only the earth, but the entire solar system.

After various harrowing experiences and encounters, the truth finally dawns on the surviving members of the crew. They are indeed back on earth, but ten thousand years in the future from when they started their journey. And to make matters worse, they find evidence that the Green King has been known and worshipped by secret cults and societies on earth for millenia, since before humankind even existed.

The surviving members of the crew come to the conclusion that the only way to set things right again is to repair the Albatross and take it back through the rift again in order to close it.

Now that's a saga I'm ready to get invested in. George Lucas, eat your heart out!

The record revs to a start with "Descent," a track that can best be described as terrific panic. It had me thinking of KOOK's "Escape Velocity" from their recent second album, though that's an eight-and-a-half minute slow burn and this is a quick twenty-six second fall from the sky. I wish this little notion had a chance to develop into something longer, but regardless what a thrilling way to open an album!

With rapt attention, I'm waiting to hear what comes next. The ship seems to have crash landed deep inside a "Gargantuan Forest." As an aside, it would be a blast to smoke a bowl o' something (anything, really) with Erik Palm (guitar), Alex Risberg (bass, vox), and Espen Karlsen (drums) just to gab it up a bit about sci-fi lit and horror flicks. I mean, check out the trove of B-movie greats referenced in their preface to the new single (which Doomed & Stoned is debuting today):

In this ABSURD (1981) video, 10,000 Years enter a FOREST OF FEAR (1980) as they access THE BEYOND (1981) and enter a BLOODBATH (1971) with THE BOOGEY MAN (1980), otherwise known as the Espbeast. The Espbeast stalks and haunts the bodies and minds of the characters in this C-grade homage to the horror movies of yesteryear.

The characters FIGHT FOR YOUR LIFE (1976) through insane NIGHTMARES IN A DAMAGED BRAIN (1981). If they survive the AXE (1974) they may still end up in an INFERNO (1980) and risk being EATEN ALIVE (1976). All the same risks face the viewer, so don’t watch with the lights out, don’t watch by yourself and DON’T GO IN THE WOODS ALONE (1981). Because after all, isn’t there an Espbeast in all of us?

10,000 Years have picked the ideal setting for the music video. The forests of Sweden stand tall and dark, the ground packed with snow. Screw you, Blair Witch Project -- this is where I want the next found footage flick filmed!

The song opens with a mysterious theme on solitary electric strings, surrounded by hazy reverberation. Drums and bass accent the motif as it's repeated several times over. Dazed by their graceless fall to earth, the crew wander about, checking one another for injuries, seeing if the faithful Albatross has even hope of another journey. As the shock begins to wear off, their hopeless plight reveals itself.

Screaming from the sky Blasting through the atmosphere

Come to rest On the forest floor Still alive What fresh new hell is this?

Surrounded by swamps A strange bleeding from the earth

Giant trees A dense horror taking root Same old sun Unfamiliar rays shine down

Is there something lurking about in the Gargantuan Forest? I'm sure no one wants to wait until nightfall to find out! The so-called "Espbeast" (which the band may actually have been first to name) is more than likely some strange amalgamation of guitar and creature, ripping through foes like a berserker of sound with scraps of High on Fire's "10,000 Years" echoing perversely through the treetops as it stalks and ultimately slays you. Nobody wants to be around when the Espbeast is on the prowl.

Now see, I'm letting my imagination get carried away! Then again, maybe that's what the band had planned all along -- for listeners to join in the fantastic adventures of these cosmonauts, to see through their eyes and feel through their body as they touch foot to strange soil. What will our adventurers find next?

The answer comes all too soon: "Spinosaurus!" This gruff beast charges angrily through the woods knocking things about, displacing rocks, snapping branches, royally pissed and ready to make somebody pay for the noise that snatched him away from a damned good nap. The repeated note riff, with its odd strumming pattern, does a nifty job of representing the crude movements of the Spinosaurus as it lumbers about the forest. Eric is a virtuosic mess of frantic tremeloes and wiry noodling against Espen's stampeding drums, as Alex narrates the scene with a terrifying shout:

Is this our earth? No time to dwell Dorsal sail cutting air Cretaceous ghost made flesh

Staring into Dead end eyes No place to hide Theropodic annihilation

Teeth into flesh!

What the crew is experiencing on their homeworld thus far seems foreign, almost ancient. Through some curse of Einstenian logic have we zipped through a wormhole only to return to the distant past? "The Mooseriders" are about to challenge our assumptions about what's possible on this Rock.

Thundering hooves crack the sky Dark robed wizards appear in the light Travellers in ether descending Protectors of the realm

These are the oath-bound eternals -- interdimensional templars, if you will -- who have arrived at this precise moment in time to take on the Green King. Complex rhythmic drumming with precisely stricken odd beats, is accompanied by a hyperactive bass and progressive metal riffmaking. Together, the band conjures the trot and hustle of the approaching entourage. A wilding guitar heralds a message from the great protectors:

The hour draws near The endgame is nigh Divine prophecy Even death may die

The mood now turns stately. A brave theme is introduced and developed with dashing prowess. This track would fit perfectly into a playlist with Mastodon, Ape Cave, and Zirakzigil. I found Alex's vocal approach especially appropriate for the frantic depiction of "antlers clashing with steel" in this battle to the finish. "Even death...may...DIE!"

"Angel Eyes" greet us on the B-side, and it's not a cover of the Jerry Cantrell song (though that would have been unexpectedly awesome). No, the hard-charging mood and raspy vocals are pointing to something far more apocalyptic.

Hooves of burning coal Let loose upon the world

Return of the warlord Eternal fire scorches the earth

Heavenly gaze Order through chaos

At times Alex seems exasperated, practically out of breath, as he gives these dire words his all. It's a style the 10,000 Years frontman owns as well as his counterpart, Simon Ohlsson of Vokonis, who has a comparable vocal attack. A bass-fortified guitar establishes a second theme that adds a Wagnarian touch of high drama, and this ushers in the song's curtain fall.

If 10,000 Years is to be compared with High On Fire at all, the rumbling riffstorm "March Of The Ancient Queen" surely merits it (to say nothing of their mutual love of alternative histories).

Her royal blood Once ruled these lands Generations Buried by time Dynasty of dust Rise from the sands Rise from the dead The Green King's servant

March!

March Of The Ancient Queen - Single by 10,000 Years

That last lyric is uttered with the most blood-curdling all-caps conviction that I was immediately drawn into its sentiment, miming "Maaaaarrrrrch!" with my ugliest war face on every time it came up in the song. The NWOBHM-style finish is so deftly executed that it comes across as orchestral. 10,000 Years paint with big, bold strokes here.

"Prehuman Walls" is a welcome shift down, with its chugging "Bury Me In Smoke" tempo. You sludge fiends will find moments of Zen here, with riffs that bend and twist and saw 'neath the summer sun. The crew have chanced upon a temple of sorts, though not one made with human hands. Nothing seems to make sense here at all. It's like Area X from the film Annihilation (2017), where everything is a contortion of reality. Then the "truth settles in." This alien monstrosity, we find, bears the mark of the sinister Green King. We thought we'd escaped him, only to find that he both followed us and was here millenia before.

Unholy worship Feed the Green King Eyes pried open Sanity stripped away

At last, we reach the final track in our journey: "Dark Side Of The Earth". So many revelations have been made in this second chapter, so many loose ends that need to be tied off. Naturally, a third chapter must be written. "We must go back, set it right," deliberates an exasperated Albatross crew. "We must go back, whence we came."

Dimension walls broken down The fabric ripped and torn apart Thread the needle once again A journey of ten thousand years

We must go back, set it right We must go back, through the tears

Insanity the only way The dark side of the earth

Following these words, the song develops instrumentally and the mood gets quite emotional. I found myself drawing parallels between this "bastard version of earth" and our own, wondering if we ever can go back and make it right. For us, perhaps it should be about moving forward, for there is no golden age or better time to which we can return. We make this world a heaven or hell tomorrow by the choices made today.

The album was recorded by Tomas Skogsberg at Studio Sunlight. Totally diggin the awesomely swamp landscape that Francesco Bauso of Negative Crypt Artwork created. It reminds the five-year old me of Luke's sopping wet landing on Dagobah, though guitarist Alex Risberg says the band's more inspired by Planet of the Apes than by Star Wars.

The album will be released on June 25th as a special vinyl "Green King Edition" by Interstellar Smoke Records pre-order here), a cassette tape "Forest Edition" from Ogo Rekords (pre-order here) and "Swamp Edition" from Olde Magick Records pre-order here), with the digital and compact disc formats handled by Death Valley Records (pre-order here).

10,0000 Years have in II their most accomplished album to date, with powerful moments that will stay with you long after the record's stopped spinning. Fans of High On Fire, Black Tusk, and The Sword listen up! You might just discover your next favorite band.

Give ear...

10,000 Years - Gargantuan Forest (Music Video)

Some Buzz

Having previously played together in the original lineup of Swedish underground heavyweights Pike, Erik Palm (Guitars) and Alex Risberg (Bass/vocals) found their way back to each other, musically, in early 2020. The creative fire reignited and stoked to a burning inferno and through a mutual love of heavy riffs and thundering stoner rock, doom, and sludge metal, 10,000 Years was born. Finding a drummer would prove to be an easy task and with Espen Karlsen the final piece lay firmly in place. The groove they fell into during the first rehearsal hasn’t stopped rumbling since.

After spending the first-half of 2020 writing and rehearsing, 10,000 Years recorded their self-titled debut EP during one weekend in June in the legendary Studio Sunlight with equally legendary producer Tomas Skogsberg. The self-titled EP was released on July 10th and immediately struck a chord with the heavy underground worldwide, and 10,000 Years garnered rave reviews and accolades.

10,000 Years by 10,000 Years

10,000 Years' musical and lyrical world revolves around the tale of the terran class III exploration vessel Albatross and its mission to explore the Milky Way and nearby galaxies in search for a possible new home for humanity. The EP tells the tale of its first foray into space and what happens when the crew accidentally travel through a wormhole and end up in an adjacent dimension populated by ancient gods and giant beings, ruled by the Green King. The EP ends with “From Suns Beyond,” where the crew make it off from the strange planet, back out into space in search of a way back home. The new album picks up the story as the Albatross blasts through the atmosphere of a seemingly unknown planet and crashlands headfirst into strange new adventures.

II by 10,000 Years

Now, less than a year after their first release, 10,000 Years are back with their first full-length effort, aptly titled 'II' (2021). Picking up right where the EP left off, II continues the story of the ill-fated Albatross mission and its exploration of time and space through a skull-crushing mixture of stoner rock, doom, and sludge metal. The album will no doubt continue to build on 10,000 Years' already golden reputation and prove to be an even bigger hit with the heavy masses.

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[hungryhungryhippo3]

I’ve seen a lot of comparisons between Peeta and Sejanus but I raise you this: 

Peeta and Jessup.

(under the cut because it got longer than expected)

Jessup is probably my favourite character in the book that isn’t in the main cast. When we were first introduced to him, I kinda guessed that he wouldn’t be playing a big role because of how much attention (both from and within the narrative) Lucy Gray was given. Besides, like many people have pointed out, there’s already plenty of parallels between LG and Katniss, and I don’t think Suzanne Collins would’ve wanted to bombard us even further by having Jessup be a Peeta-resque figure. But from what little we know about him, there are definitely subtle similarities to Peeta.

Right off the bat, he has a natural chemistry with Lucy Gray. Whilst Peeta and Katniss’s dynamic was more of an equal partnership, Jessup sort of lets Lucy Gray take the lead.

As he neared the mayor, Lucy Gray stepped forward and extended her hand. The boy hesitated, then reached out and shook. Lucy Gray crossed in front of him, switched her right hand for her left, and they were standing side by side, holding hands, when she made a deep curtsy, pulling the boy into a bow. (p. 38)

Lucy Gray Baird stepped into the light, her cuffed hands half covering her eyes as they adjusted. Jessup reached up his arms, his wrists spread as wide as the chain on his restraints would allow, and she fell forward, letting him catch her by the waist and swing her to the ground in a surprisingly graceful move. She patted the boy’s sleeve in thanks and tilted her head back to drink in the sunlight streaming into the station. (pp. 41-42)

“Go on, Jessup!”

Emboldened, her hulking district partner slowly approached Sejanus and took the sandwich from his hand. He waited until a plum followed and then walked off without a word. Suddenly, the other tributes rushed the fence, hands thrusting through the bars. (pp. 65-66)

Jessup and Lucy Gray trust each other from the beginning. That last passage is also interesting to me because they’re the only two district tributes at this stage that seem to have that trust in each other. And it’s Jessup’s trust in Lucy Gray (and the fact that she cares about him to get him to eat, too) that pushes the other tributes to eat as well. This suggests to me that, at least in that moment, the other tributes are looking to LG and Jessup as to how to react/behave in these unfamiliar and hostile surroundings, because of how they trust each other.

There’s also quite a few parallels between Katniss/Peeta and LG/Jessup once they’re in the arena: Jessup is the one that braves the Cornucopia and the stronger tributes for weapons (although it’s not anywhere near the bloodbath it was in the 74th Games), LG and Jessup stay mostly out of sight in those cave-like tunnels, there’s a passing mention from Snow about them cuddling together for warmth at night, LG was probably looking after him as best as she could whilst he was sick, etc. That trust carries through right into the arena.

And then there’s his descent into rabidness.

Jessup made his way across the arena and seemed confused by Lucy Gray’s rejection. He began to climb after her into the stands, but he had trouble keeping his balance. As he entered the field of debris, his coordination diminished further, and twice he fell with great force, opening gashes on his knee and temple. After the second wound, which generated a fair amount of blood, he sat, somewhat stunned, on a step, reaching out to her. His mouth moved while the foam began dripping from his chin.

Lucy Gray remained motionless, watching Jessup with a pained expression. They created a strange tableau: rapid boy, trapped girl, bombed-out building. It suggested a tale that could only end in tragedy. Star-crossed lovers meeting their fate. A revenge story turned in on itself. A war saga that took no prisoners. (p. 257)

(There’s so much to unpack here but I don’t think I can untangle this all on my own, so I’d love to hear other people’s thoughts!)

Obviously the connection to Katniss/Peeta could not be clearer with the star-crossed lovers reference, but strangely enough, beyond that reference, I don’t find this parallel as compelling as the others. And the reason for that is because I don’t think Peeta would run after Katniss like that unless he had completely lost his mind (i.e, hijacked!Peeta). Jessup in this scene is still enough of himself feel confused and stunned (he isn’t attacking her), but he most certainly isn’t thinking straight. Instead, he’s acting on the one impulse he’s got left, this instinct that (in my opinion) has become his whole life and identity since he was reaped: stay with Lucy Gray. From a logical standpoint, he would keep himself holed up in a tunnel to die where he wouldn’t be a risk to LG, because there can only be one winner at the end of the day (and I fully believe this is what Peeta would do). But this desire to stay with her, even if it puts her in danger, comes from a baser instinct. And not necessarily in an animalistic, he-can’t-think-straight-because-rabies sort of way (which is the vibe I got from Snow’s observations of the scene), but more in the sense that this instinct is coming from this deep, unreachable and visceral part of him. He follows after her because that’s what he’s been doing since they were thrown into the Games together, and when he can’t he reaches out to her. Even when the rabies and the starvation and the abuse have stripped away everything else about him, it cannot erase the fact that Lucy Gray is important to him.

Then there’s that second bit, which is laden with symbols. If I might digress a little, I’m interested in the narrative imagery (tale, revenge story, war saga). I mean, the images are bleak, but there’s also this deformed personification to them (??); a revenge story that ‘turns in on itself’, a war saga that comes alive and ruthlessly ‘takes no prisoners’. To me, it (maybe?) suggests an intermingling and gruesome transformation from a passive fiction to an active and terrible reality. I cannot for the life of me think of a way to link this Jessup, but I would be so interested to hear what other people make of this.

I also wanna talk about the moment of his death as well:

She approached him with caution and knelt just out of reach of his long arms. Trying to smile, she said, “You go to sleep now, you hear, Jessup? You go on, it’s my turn to stand guard.” Something seemed to register, her voice or perhaps the repetition of words she’d spoken to him over the past two weeks. The rigidity eased in his face, and his eyelids fluttered. “That’s right. Let yourself go. How are you going to dream if you don’t go to sleep?” Lucy Gray scooted forward and laid a hand on his head. “It’s okay. I’ll watch over you. I’m right here. I’m staying right here.” Jessup stared at her fixedly as the life slowly ebbed out of his body and his chest became still. (p. 260)

(UGH Sometimes I forget just how impactful some of the deaths in the series can be)

I think I’ve said all that I can about the importance of LG in Jessup’s last few moments, and the effect she has on him in laying him to rest, but I am interested in LG’s reaction to his death. Specifically, to what extent does she mourn him when he’s gone? It’s clear that she cares a lot about him and she still trusts him to be able to get that close to him; she cleans his face and lays him to rest properly. But (unless she mourned him whilst she was hidden away) she doesn’t seem to be as bothered by his death as he might’ve been by hers. And certainly not as Katniss would’ve been if that was Peeta. I mean, I get it; she’s ultimately determined to survive and go home, she’s a lot smarter about her position in the Games (whereas Jessup had focused on her), she has Snow in her head. But (and this has no relevance to this analysis as a whole) as a Jessup stan, I’m a little bitter about it.

Finally, Jessup is a protector through and through. I couldn’t have said it better than Lysistrata so I’ll just put the reference in:

“What I’d like people to know about Jessup is that he was a good person. He threw his body over mine to protect me when the bombs started going off in the arena. It wasn’t even conscious. He did it reflexively. That’s who he was at heart. A protector. I don’t think he would’ve ever won the Games, because he’d have died trying to protect Lucy Gray.” (p. 262)

If that doesn’t scream Peeta Mellark, I don’t know what?? Does??? I was lowkey stanning him from the beginning when he helped LG off the train, but this moment really cemented that for me.

In conclusion, Jessup Diggs deserved better.

[longformautie]

Addressing sexism of autistic men

CW: gender-based violence, including murder and rape

I. Introduction

This post has been coming for a long time. And I mean a LONG time. My thoughts on this topic have been evolving constantly. They will probably evolve even after I post this. I am still learning and welcome feedback.

I was prompted to write this post during the pre-coronavirus Before Times, when I saw that the popular Facebook page Humans Of New York had profiled an autistic man who had become a pickup artist. For context, pickup artists are a group of straight men who will cynically do whatever it takes to get them laid, which of course means blatantly ignoring the needs of the women they interact with, and who share strategies with one another. The autistic man in the photo post talked about how before he was a pickup artist he was hopeless with women, and now he was getting girls - getting laid, even. He said he knew it was manipulative, but that it was only fair - after all, it’s not like anyone had ever sympathized with him for his social difficulties. I was curious about what people had to say in the comments section; turns out, I wasn’t satisfied by any of the takes I found.

The takes I didn’t like can be broken down into two categories. Category number one were formulations like “poor him, he just wants to be accepted.” I’m not even a little bit sympathetic to this take and will only be spending a moment on it. Suffice it to say, it’s hard to take these people at their word that they care about the autism struggle when they don’t show up in droves to the banners of the neurodiversity movement with this level of enthusiasm. Rather, we are part of a culture that likes to sympathize with toxic men. If the man wasn’t autistic, they’d find some other excuse, but since he is, in defending him they can also activate the ableist notion that autistic people are incapable of respecting boundaries. I choose the word “incapable” because if your position is that autistic people sometimes don’t know better than to violate a boundary, the logical conclusion is simply that someone should teach them. To sincerely and enthusiastically take up this kind of “poor autistic guy doesn’t know any better” rhetoric, you have to presume complete incompetence of autistic people and that we’ll never learn, so that when a straight autistic man does a violating thing to a woman, they can shrug their shoulders and say, “well, I guess nothing can be done about this.” This attitude is sexism and ableism couched in a delusion of sympathy.

Category number two of takes, I like lots better but still am not quite satisfied with, and can be roughly summarized: “This isn’t caused by autism, it’s caused by being an asshole.” While I agree that being an asshole is the main ingredient in this cocktail, I don’t think the autism should be dismissed as an irrelevant detail. I think there is a sexism problem specific to autistic men that needs to be separately talked about and addressed. I intend to do so in this post, without assigning blame either to the autism or to the women being abused.

I want to note in advance that this post will be cishet-centric, not because I think straight experiences are universal, partly because the behavior of cishet men is what’s at task here, but mostly because I have no idea how these issues affect LGBTQIA communities. If anyone is able and willing offer insight or resources on that topic, I’d love to hear from you.

I. Autistic men

Having experienced it firsthand, I can say for sure that autistic loneliness is a vicious cycle. By loneliness, I mean a lack of any social connection, not just a lack of romantic or sexual partners. Autism makes social interaction more difficult, which makes it harder to find friends, but, crucially, not having friends also makes social interaction more difficult. More people to interact with means more practice with social interaction; it also means more assistance from comparatively clued-in people who care about us. This vicious cycle can also manifest with respect to a subset of people. For example, an autistic child who only socially interacts with adults may have trouble forming connections with peers. For the purpose of this discussion, I want to focus on the problems this presents for autistic boys who want to interact with girls in their age group.

The scarcity of cross-gender social interaction during childhood need not be framed as a uniquely autistic experience. Societal forces sort us by gender from an incredibly early age, so the vast majority of our social connections in childhood are with people of the same gender. Furthermore, especially during and after adolescence, boys and men are discouraged from being emotionally close with one another. Thus, the norms of masculinity isolate us almost totally from peers of all genders. Our social connections with men must be superficial; our social connections with women must be non-platonic. For those of us who crave the emotional intimacy that our same-gender friendships lack, a romantic relationship is the only socially acceptable opportunity to forming a deep, loving bond with someone close to our own age.

Enter autism (again). Dating, when we hit adolescence, is wholly new to us, and we have been given no opportunity to adjust ourselves to its social norms. Autism makes this a particular challenge, as do gender roles in dating. Since men are supposed to initiate and women are supposed to merely give subtle hints (if not be straight-out “hard to get”), straight autistic men face both the pressure of leaping into an arena that intimidates us, and the bewilderment of not knowing whether it’s working. If I had a crush on you in high school, I probably kept it a secret; if you had a crush on me, I probably didn’t notice.

Worth noting here that none of the things I’ve listed are evidence against autistic men’s actual attractiveness or appeal to women. We are facing access barriers that accumulate over the course of our lives until we finally figure out how to start ripping them down, and when we do, we quite often do get to have romantic and sexual relationships. But the prevailing narrative about autism and other disabilities is that they’re unsexy, and a lot of autistic men buy into that. I myself thought I was one of those autistic men who’d never date or have sex until experience taught me otherwise.

Knowing all this, we can see why a lot of autistic men might feel both that they need a relationship to be happy, and that they cannot possibly have one. This makes us prime targets for recruitment, because the sense of personal injury at being deprived of sexual experiences for reasons beyond one’s control is as indispensable an ingredient in the various movements of the “manosphere” as the sexism itself. It’s not that autistic men are any more or any less sexist than regular men, but that the sexists among us already feel exactly the way these communities require them to feel: deeply aggrieved, and deeply desperate. Pickup artistry both validates this sense of personal injury, and sells itself as the solution: a set of simple, logical rules that, when followed, will grant success. But it misses the uncomfortable truth that while everyone deserves to receive love, no particular person is obliged to give it. This is a deeply frustrating contradiction with no easy solution, but the solution certainly is not to cynically manipulate women into doing the thing you want.

III. Allistic women

I never was a pickup artist, but that doesn’t mean I never harbored a grievance against women for my loneliness. After all, I thought, wouldn’t my perpetual singleness end if women were more direct and assertive? As such, I worry that other people who read this may end up pinning the responsibility for autistic loneliness onto individual women too. The previous section hints at why that’s wrong, but I also want to take the time to explain why it’s deeply unfair.

My autism and masculinity were first brought into conjunction (or was it conflict?) in my mind in my freshman year of college. One of my new Facebook friends shared a Tumblr blog called “Straight White Boys Texting” which was a collection of screenshots of unwanted straight white boy texts, running the gamut from simple inability to take a hint to bona fide “what color is your thong” garbage. I felt pretty attacked, partly because I wasn’t yet used to seeing myself as part of a “straight white boys” collective that people didn’t like, and partly because what I saw was a bunch of guys missing social cues and taking things literally, just as a younger me would have done. I felt like I needed to say something - and boy, was that a bad decision. I said something about how the women in the screenshots needed to be more direct, and got instant (and deserved) backlash both for focusing on the least important problem in the interactions and for placing responsibility for a male behavior problem squarely back onto women.

At the time, I didn’t have a coherent framework for understanding sexism. Since then, I’ve learned that giving a direct no can occasionally get women killed, and most often at least gets them yelled at and insulted. Giving a yes also comes with its own risks - the risk of rape, in (unfortunately-not-actually-so-)extreme cases where that inch of “yes” results in guys taking a mile, but also the more pervasive risk of being socially stigmatized as slutty or promiscuous. It’s often the most women can get away with to be subtle (rather than completely silent) about all of their wants and needs, so that a discerning man who actually cares will know what those wants and needs are and respect them.

This puts those of us who have trouble with reading subtle signals in a difficult position if we inadvertently cross a boundary, but that’s not a problem women can reasonably be expected to solve. If a man crosses a woman’s boundaries because he simply doesn’t respect them, he wants to make it look like it’s an accident so that he will be forgiven. “But Aaron,” you might say, “didn’t you just say that the right thing to do in those situations is to teach people the right behavior, not ignore it?” Yes, that’s true. But that assumes the continuation of a conversation that a woman might feel safer just skipping; if a man is making her feel uncomfortable, she’s probably not inclined to continue to converse with him in order to establish whether his intentions were good or bad. When we impose the burden of freeing males from loneliness onto women, we are asking them to continue to interact with frightening men at their own peril.

Ironically enough, some of these frightening men are the autistic pickup artists from part 1. This means that pickup artists, far from “solving” the problems with dating they feel aggrieved by, are actually making it more difficult for everyone except themselves by giving women one more reason to be scared and cynical, and men who slip up one more type of monster to be mistaken for.

IV. Autistic women

At first glance, it seems like there’s a choice to be made here, between supporting autistic men who want to be valued as potential romantic and sexual partners and supporting allistic women who just want to be safe. But what I’m realizing more and more is that when there seems to be a conflict between the needs of two marginalized groups, the right choice is generally to avoid picking a side and instead find ways to support both groups. This works well, not only because both groups get what they want, but because if a side must be chosen, the people at the intersection of the two groups will lose both ways.

Autistic women bear the brunt of every part of this mess, as described in detail by Kassiane Asasumasu on her blog, Radical Neurodivergence Speaking (see  the links later in this paragraph). Because autistic men fear ableism from neurotypical women, we tend to believe that autistic women are the only partners who will accept us for who we are. As a result, autistic women report being swarmed at autism meetup groups by men looking for a girlfriend, and those men who struggle with independent living are more than willing to escape that by leaning on the patriarchal expectation that the woman does all the chores, even when she is an autistic woman who struggles with the exact same tasks. This means autistic women actually interact with sexist autistic men the most, and not only are they subject to the same toxic shit that allistic women have to deal with, but they’re also expected to “understand” these men and thus endlessly tolerate their (supposedly inevitable) shitty behavior.

V. Solutions

Fortunately, the choice between female safety and autistic desirability is not a choice we have to make, but the solutions are not as simple as members of one or the other group simply choosing to behave differently. Rather, they require the collective participation of all kinds of people.

Addressing autistic male sexism necessarily means addressing sexism. It means respecting when women say no, rather than making it an unpleasant experience they might fear to repeat. It means teaching consent in special education classrooms, so that no one can claim in good faith that an autistic boy who crosses a boundary simply doesn’t know better. It means teaching girls, as they grow into women, that they are under no obligation to tolerate sexist behavior out of sympathy for the sexist man.

But addressing sexism also means supporting boys and men as they escape the confines of conventional masculinity. It means enabling and encouraging them to have close friends of all genders. It means reminding them that they don’t need a woman, any more than a woman needs a man.

In addition to addressing sexism, we need to address the ableism that prevents autistic people from accessing not just dating but emotional closeness of all kinds. We need to stimulate autistic people’s peer relationships at all stages of life. We cannot do this if special ed teachers continue to view us as broken allistic people rather than whole autistic people, nor can we do it if they view us as incomplete adults rather than entire children. If an autistic boy is unable to learn about condoms because it offends the sensibilities of the teacher, or if he is unable to learn how to talk like a teenager because his parents would like him to learn to speak like an adult, then that autistic boy is being deprived both of autonomy and of the opportunity to learn.

Furthermore, we need to teach allistic children how to interact with their autistic peers. Autistic people need no additional incentive to learn how to interact with the societal majority who control their access to jobs, housing, healthcare, education, political representation, and much more. Allistic people can, however, choose not to bother learning how to support and include us and face almost no social consequences beyond not getting to see my cool maps. Rather than alleviating this unequal distribution of incentives, adults generally exacerbate it by focusing only on the social development of autistic children with respect to interactions with allistic people, but not on the social development of allistic children towards being able to interact with autistic people. This is because the prevailing view regarding autism is still that our modes of moving through the world are incorrect and defective, whereas allistic modes of social interaction are viewed as normal and valid even when they exclude others.

The problem of autistic male sexism is hairy and complicated, but if we take the above steps, we can solve it without further stigmatizing autism, and without victim-blaming women. We don’t have to leave anyone behind in this conversation. Rather, by fighting both for autism acceptance and consent culture, we can produce a more just world where everyone gets the love and respect that they deserve.

[mexcine]

Jungle Street (1960) review: as an adolescent in the Sixties, I was a fan of the "Man from U.N.C.L.E." television series, and was firmly in the "Team Illya Kuryakin" camp, preferring the cool, accented, black-turtleneck wearing Russian agent to the Brylcreemed Napoleon Solo.  This didn't translate to a life-long David McCallum fandom, but I'll admit McCallum's presence in Jungle Street was one reason I decided to watch this admittedly minor film. 

     Working-class Terry (McCallum) supplements his income as a garage mechanic by committing crimes; however, when a senior citizen robbed by Terry subsequently dies of his injuries, Terry decides to leave the country.  He'd like to take Susan (Jill Ireland, McCallum's wife at the time)--an "exotic dancer" at the Adam & Eve club he frequents--with him, but she rejects his advances: she's the girlfriend of Johnny, currently serving time for a robbery he and Terry committed.  

      Johnny is released from prison: he reunites with Susan and demands his share of the previous robbery's proceeds from Terry.  Terry has spent it all, but suggests he and Johnny rob the strip club's safe.  They do so, but Terry double-crosses Johnny, knocking him out and fleeing with all the cash.  Terry confronts Susan at Johnny's apartment and tries to force her to accompany him, but the police arrive, tipped off by Johnny.  A neighbour is accidentally shot to death during the hostage situation.  A screaming Terry is dragged off by the police to pay the price (presumably hanging) for the two deaths he caused. 

      What could have been a routine crime film with a fairly simple plot is spiced up with a bit of "kitchen sink" drama, some police procedural footage, and several interesting performances.  Jungle Street also contains a number of strip-tease performances-- while quite tame, the dancers are generally attractive, seem to actually know how to dance (except Jill Ireland, but she was an actress, not a professional dancer, as the others apparently were--even in the context of the film she’s not supposed to be an expert stripper), and the shots of the middle-aged men in the audience are subtly ironic.

     The influence of the "kitchen sink" dramas of the era is evident in several sequences of Terry's home life. These scenes are extended and effective. His surly father does manual labour in the market (”lifting sacks of potatoes”), spends his free time in the pub, and makes no secret of his disdain for his "soft" son.  Terry's mum plays peace-maker between the two.  In one interesting scene, Johnny visits Terry's home in search of his former partner in crime; he introduces himself only as an old friend of Terry (who isn't home), and chats up Terry's mother over a cup of tea.  Although she tells Johnny that Terry is "artistic" and deserves a better life, the viewer sees no evidence of this in the film itself.  Aside from mooning over Susan, Terry seems entirely self-absorbed, weak, and has no particular goal in life.  The script gives him no scenes of introspection that would help the viewer understand why he is the way he is.  He's not a sympathetic character at all and goes to pieces at the conclusion, struggling and protesting in a juvenile manner, highlighting his lack of maturity. 

     Not that other characters in the film are especially sympathetic.  Johnny doesn't appear until the plot is well-advanced; he's shocked to learn Susan has become a stripper, and hits her, but they reconcile.  Susan is not especially pleasant--to be fair, until Johnny returns we see her mostly fending off her lecherous boss Jacko and avoiding Terry's (very) slightly more well-intentioned advances. 

      Perhaps the most entertaining character has little or nothing to do with the main plot: Joe Lucas (Brian Weske), a smarmy, hypochondriac spiv who hangs around the Adam & Eve club.  21st century viewers might find him reminiscent of some of Eric Idle's later sleazy, pencil-thin moustachioed characters from "Monty Python's Flying Circus."  Joe is a shady character who behaves insouciantly regardless of what happens to him, including enduring repeated police interrogations; he threatens to blackmail Terry and gets a punch in the face for his trouble, but shrugs it off and says the blow just confirmed his suspicions (that Terry was the mugger who killed the old man early in the film).  

     Jungle Street spends a fair amount of time on Inspector Bowen and the police, depicted as competent and professional. They discover the murdered man's wallet, complete with fingerprints of the presumed killer, and resolve to fingerprint everyone in the area to solve the crime--and "pay close attention to anyone who refuses to be fingerprinted," Bowen adds. 

      While one wouldn't want to claim Jungle Street as an unsung feminist film, it is interesting that a fair amount of film is constructed around the exploitation and objectification of women by men.  Obviously, the concept of a strip club, where (mostly) middle-aged (and older) men stare fixedly at the performers as they disrobe, is a large part of this.  The women have some agency, but it's chiefly exposed as a fiction: Jacko uses (or tries to use) his dancers as his personal harem (late in the film he's hiring a new performer and makes it clear her salary is based on how "friendly" she is to him).  Susan says she hates working at the club and despises Jacko, but he has "long arms" and would pursue her if she quit (this doesn't seem entirely logical, but she believes it).  Both Johnny and Terry have "honest" intentions towards Susan, but they also both view her as a possession and both threaten her violently.  Terry's father doesn't abuse his wife openly, but he seems to treat her in a dismissive manner and apparently spends most of his evenings in the local pub (although there is a reference to Terry's parents attending the cinema together on a sort of “date night,” so he's not completely oblivious to her).  Even Joe, having an affair with dancer Dimples, brusquely bursts into her dressing room and orders her to get out so he can have a private conversation with Terry.

     Jungle Street was clearly made on a low budget but this doesn't seriously affect the film's impact.  Shot at the Twickenham studios, it also includes some actual location footage; the sets are adequate, the direction (Charles Saunders), cinematography and editing are all fine, albeit without a great deal of style.  

      The performances are satisfactory.  McCallum--who rather shockingly reminds one a bit of Macaulay Culkin in some shots!--is stuck with playing an unsympathetic character but does his best; Jill Ireland (who somehow looks...different than she did later) is adequate.  The aforementioned Brian Weske turns in the most entertaining performance, although Martin Sterndale (Inspector Bowen), and Thomas Gallagher and Edna Doré (as Terry's parents) are also fine.  Special mention should be made of  Meier Tzelniker as the ill-fated tailor Mr. Rose: Tzelniker, a Romanian-born Yiddish theatre veteran, had a substantial career in the UK, chiefly playing (as he does in Jungle Street) somewhat stereotyped Jewish characters.  Mr. Rose stands up to Terry at the climax, encouraging him to hand over his pistol and surrender to the police, only to be accidentally shot when the police burst into the room.  It's a tribute to Tzelniker's acting--in a two-scene role-- that his character's death has considerable emotional impact on the audience.  

     Not a classic or even deserving of cult status, Jungle Street is nonetheless interesting, well-paced and entertaining.

     [Trivia note: This film was also known as Jungle Street Girls (the U.S. release, billed as in “Sin-O-Rama”), Criminal-Sexy, and (translated) Murder in the Strip Club [Morderen fra Strip-Tease Klubben]--the latter title is rather misleading, since neither of the two deaths that occur in the movie take place in the "Adam and Eve" club.]

[seeaddywrite]

bitch, i’m a monster [part II]

(read Part I first or you’ll be very confused!)

a/n: this is the second part of the AU that will not end. One more after this, & i’ve got a definitive end in mind so i SWEAR it’s only one more. & i resisted the urge to end this on a cliffhanger, so you can probably pretend it’s finished already if you want. :) once again, this fic wouldn’t exist without @soberqueerinthewild & her A++ cheerleading. also, title suggestions are welcome, because i think i might be stuck with this one if left to my own devices haha. 

The pain in his leg becomes harder and harder to ignore the longer they walk, and Alex knows he’s got a limited amount of time before Michael gives up on pretending he hasn’t noticed out of respect for Alex’s pride and starts asking questions. They’ve been trudging through the red dirt for hours in almost total silence, both too tired and too uncertain of where they stand with each other for much chatter, but Alex is observant. He’s caught the quick, worried glances Michael’s been tossing in his direction every so often, usually after he slips on an unsteady patch of rock or sand and can’t subdue a grunt of pain. Frustration mounts as he continues to struggle over the uneven terrain; one of the few benefits of vampirism is that he’s not supposed to have to deal with this shit.

So, naturally, he’s distracted enough by that misery that Alex barely notices when the itch in his gums starts. In comparison to the throb in his leg, it’s such a minor irritation that it shouldn’t matter -- but it does. That itch signals the appearance of fangs, which are difficult to hide at the best of times. It also signals an alarming loss of control, one that’s rather unprecedented, at least for Alex. He’s rarely allowed himself to get this far past a scheduled meal without drinking blood. Not when he knows what happens next. The transformation will force itself, with or without his permission, and there will be no more pretending at humanity in front of Michael. He could maybe keep the teeth hidden if he was careful not to speak, but red irises and the awful, sprawling black veins that mar his otherwise cadaverously pale skin aren’t subtle. He’s glimpsed them in the mirror before, after nightmares have robbed him of his impeccable control, or on the rare occasion that he’s been unable to drink regularly, and the sight makes him uncomfortable. He can only imagine how Michael would feel.

“Stop.” Michael’s in front of him, half-turned and gaze focused on Alex’s bad leg critically. It makes him squirm a little, to be the subject of such intense scrutiny, especially since he knows how good Michael is at solving problems. He’s going to arrive at the wrong conclusions, though, since he doesn’t have all of the facts, and Alex feels sick to his stomach at the thought. He doesn’t want to tell Michael the truth. He’s spent the last year in Roswell doing his best to stay away from him, to keep him safe and sheltered from the dangerous truth of Alex’s existence, and now, Jesse Manes has put them both in an untenable position.

“What is it?” Alex asks shortly, rather than dwell on the helpless fury starting to rage in his chest at the thought of his father. The question turns out to be pointless a moment later,  when he turns to face in the same direction and finds a small copse of bedraggled trees and browned grass beneath an outcropping of rock. It puts the small bit of foliage and greenery in the shade, which Alex supposes is how it’s been able to thrive - but he’s not a naturalist, and doesn’t much care how it’s possible as long as he’s not hallucinating from hunger.

Which, unfortunately, is a very real possibility at this point. His skin is stretched too-tight over his bones, and his head throbs in the sunlight. Usually, direct sun doesn’t cause him a problem, but he’s never spent hours beneath it with no blood, no shade, and no escape, either. Alex imagines he can feel what little blood is left in his system boiling away, leaving nothing behind but starving tissue and the feral, animal instinct to tear into the nearest living thing with his teeth in order to feed himself.

“Look.” Michael gestures at the shady area with a jab of his thumb, and Alex does his best to ignore that he’s stopped with less than a foot separating them by focusing on the little oasis. “We can rest there for a while. It’s not perfect, but at least we won’t fry in the sun if we take a nap.”

Logically, Alex knows that stopping is a bad idea. They’re still miles from town, at least, and if they’re going to get back before he loses his mind entirely, they need to keep moving. But he’s worn out and in pain, and Michael doesn’t look like he’s much enjoying their trek through the desert, either. He’s probably starting to dehydrate, considering his higher body temperature, and rest is quickly going to become a necessity, rather than choice.

So Alex nods, and trails Michael to the shadier area. He sits with his back to the largest tree-like shrub; it bends slightly beneath his weight, but not enough to convince him to move. Michael joins him, sitting a bit more gracefully on the ground a few feet away. That distance between them has become the new normal, at some point, but Alex is intensely aware of it today, when he’d appreciate the physical comfort that Michael’s always doled out so easily.

“Are you going to be able to keep going?”

The question catches Alex off-guard, and he turns to look at Michael, one eyebrow raised in surprise. “What?”

There’s a moment of uncomfortable silence, like Michael’s trying to figure out how to best broach the subject without being condescending or offensive, and Alex isn’t sure the odds are in his favor. So, rather than wasting any time with bickering, he answers the question before Michael can formulate it. “I’ll be fine. It sucks, and it’ll hurt, but I’ll be fine.”

The words ring true, and Alex hopes desperately that it’s some sort of prescience, because in reality, he’s not entirely sure he’s being honest. His leg isn’t going to be what stops him from making it back to town, though, so he lets himself enjoy the fact that for once, he doesn’t have to lie to Michael. It seems like that’s all he’s done since he got back -- lie about what he is, about how he feels, about why he can’t give into those feelings. It’s a miracle that Alex can even recognize himself in the mirror anymore, and doesn’t believe his own bullshit, because he’s been telling those lies for so long that he doesn’t even have to think about it, anymore.

Michael nods slowly, willing to accept the answer but obviously doubting whether or not he should believe it. Eventually, his intense gaze turns from Alex to their surroundings, the analytical gleam in his eyes making it clear, at least to Alex, that he’s trying to think their way out of this mess.

Alex watches him, rather than empty space; Michael in problem-solving mode is a thing of beauty. Watching him put his intellect to work has always been a turn-on for Alex. So few people get to see it, the genius that shines through Michael’s eyes when he’s got a puzzle to put together, but it’s always been unfairly distracting for Alex. It’s worse now, with his focus already drifting, and he can’t stop himself from watching as Michael tries to reason their way back to town.

There’s a voice in the back of his mind that warns him his besotted staring is impossible to miss, that Michael’s going to notice and call him on it, and Alex will have to push him away again, but he can’t stop. He wants to reach out, to press his palms against the planes of Michael’s back, obvious through the sweat-soaked cotton of his shirt, and pull him in close. He wants the overheated feel of their skin pressing together, wants to drag that impossible warmth into his own frozen form, wants to lick the blood from the cut at Michael’s temple and score new marks with his own teeth so that no one will be able to look at that beautiful body without knowing that it belongs to Alex --

Fucking hell. No. That line of thinking isn’t Alex, isn’t normal, and he refuses to let himself fall into it. Eventually, he suspects there won’t be a choice, but he’s still enough in control of his faculties  to stop it, now. And thinking of Michael that way, as if he’s Alex’s fucking territory, like he has exclusive rights to his body and his blood, is disgusting. Inhuman. Already, after a just a few hours in the sun without sustenance, he’s sunk to that level.

He should be making a plan, or thinking about the fact that Michael is going to dehydrate if they don’t find water soon. He’s spent nearly half of his adult life in deserts a lot harsher than this one and knows how to handle himself, especially after dozens of SEREs with the Air Force. Alex should be more useful than this. But he’s stupid with hunger, distracted and aching with it, and he has serious doubts about his ability to be anything but a liability.  

“Maybe we should rest here until the sun goes down,” Michael says, interrupting Alex’s internal meltdown. He thinks he’s done a pretty job of keeping his thoughts from showing on his face, but there’s a concerned glint in Michael’s appraising look that tells him he let something slip into his expression. “Walking will be less exertion while it’s cooler, and the less we sweat, the more we conserve water.”

“No!” Alex says immediately, shaking his head vehemently before common sense can catch up with his instincts. “We have to get back to town as soon as possible. We can’t stop for hours!”

The outburst is bordering on hysteria, and Alex wants to take it back as soon as he’s done speaking. He’s got Michael’s full attention again; dark eyes narrow on his face, bewilderment and annoyance melding in their depths. He raises both hands in a mockery of surrender, but crosses them over his chest immediately after, clearly gearing up for a fight. “Alex. Come on. This is Survival 101, and I didn’t think I’d have to tell you that. If we don’t get out of the desert in a few days, we’re going to be in trouble, yeah, but we’ve gotta make sure we don’t die in the meantime. This is smart, and we need to be smart right now.”

He pauses, tipping his head back against the thin trunk of the tree, and asks, “Is this still about Valenti? Because I seriously doubt your dad’s going after him, yet. People will notice if the only decent doctor in Roswell disappears under mysterious circumstances. Plus, Max owes Kyle, and he knows it. He’s been keeping an eye on him, and Max’d love the chance to kick your dad’s ass.”

Alex shakes his head, trying to organize his swimming thoughts into a reasonable explanation. He doesn’t know if it’s just the passage of time or the rapid increase of stress at the idea of being forced to wait longer for blood, but the hunger is roaring in the back of his head now, making it hard to think straight, let alone speak coherently.

Warmth seeps into him from a single point of contact at his elbow — Michael’s hand on his skin. Alex turns toward him blindly, blinking in surprise when he realizes that the distance from earlier is gone, and Michael’s only a few inches away and touching him willingly, now. “You’re sure you’re okay?” he asks, skepticism dripping from the question. “You’re really pale, considering we’ve been in the direct sun for hours. Are you dizzy? Headache?”

If Alex wasn’t too busy fighting against his own mind, he would’ve appreciated the concern in Michael’s voice and the careful, gentle touch to his arm. He’s always so damn sweet with Alex, gentle physically even when he’s yelling and furious. It’s one of the first things Alex remembers falling in love with him for, that beautiful kindness. After years of rough treatment at the hands of people who claimed to love him, it was jarring in all the best ways, and Alex had internalized every little touch, every crumb of affection he was granted. And even though that sweetness has been buried inside of Michael over the years, hidden by a rough exterior, Alex sees it almost every time they’re together and craves that gentleness for himself.

It’s not a surprise that thinking of all the ways Alex wants Michael makes the hunger worse. The irritation in his gums grows until he wants to dig his fingernails into them to stop the itching, and his stomach cramps painfully, making him shift restlessly on the ground. Some part of Alex is cognizant enough to realize that Michael’s still checking for concussion symptoms, and he almost wants to laugh. A head injury would’ve been so much easier to deal with than the truth.

“Alex!” Alarm colors Michael’s exhalation of his name, but Alex slumps to the side just the same, curling his knees into his stomach and wrapping his arms around them tightly until he’s made himself as small as possible. Fuck, this hurts. The sharp, cramping ache spreads from his leg and stomach to his entire body too quickly to track, and Alex loses time as he battles with the hissing, desperate voice deep in his subconscious that bellows for him to stop this. It would be so, so easy, to get up and push Michael to the ground, to score marks in his throat and drink his fill. Michael could barely fight back without his powers, and surely, if he loves Alex as much as he claims to, he wouldn’t deny him vital nutrients.

“Alex, you’ve gotta talk to me,” Michael’s saying urgently, and there’s a hand on his back, branding his skin with that impossible warmth. Alex groans and tries to slide away, the touch fraying his tenuous control, but Michael moves with him, leaning in close enough that Alex wouldn’t even have to sit up to bite him. “What hurts? Is it your leg? What can I do?”

Alex shakes his head, heedless of the loose dirt that flies everywhere when he does. “You’ve got to go,” he manages to say, pushing the words through a clenched jaw. He’s afraid that if he opens his mouth the whole way, there’s nothing that will stop his fangs from sliding forward and rendering everything he’s ever done to keep Michael safe useless.

“Go?” Michael repeats incredulously. “Are you fucking kidding me? I’m not going anywhere without you!”

The entire situation is eerily reminiscent of the afternoon at Caulfield, and Alex utterly refuses to have this fight. There’s no time, not when every second sends him careening closer and closer to the limits of his self control. His muscles are screaming at him now, begging for relief as the starved tissue contracts and contorts beneath his skin, and Alex doesn’t know how much longer he can do this.  “Guerin — Michael. Michael, please.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, wishing he could bring himself to care about the fact that he’s got no pride left. Worst of all, he barely knows what he’s begging for; he wants Michael to run nearly as much as he wants him to stay, and that’s fucking terrifying.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Michael says again, his voice hard even as his fingers find Alex’s clamped around his legs and try to pry them loose. He ends up winning because Alex doesn’t have the willpower to fight — their digits tangle together against his good leg, and Michael squeezes reassuringly. “C’mon, Alex. We’re in the middle of the fucking desert and there’s too much we can’t control already. You’ve got to tell me what’s going on with you. We can’t afford any more surprises.”

Alex drags in a long breath through his nose and, embarrassingly enough, has to bite down hard on his lower lip to keep it from wobbling. He’s not a crier; growing up with Jesse Manes taught him to hide his tears early. But the knowledge that he’s out of options, that he’s either going to have to come clean to Michael or risk his life, hurts more than any punch or kick ever could. Helplessness isn’t an emotion Alex has allowed himself to feel in a long time, and it makes him burn with shame and impotence.

But if Guerin won’t go, Alex knows he’s going to have to tell him something before he ends up flashing fang or lifting burning, red eyes to meet his gaze. There’s no chance of that ending well, not without some sort of warning — he knows Michael, knows that he doesn’t react well when he’s backed into a corner. But a long, drawn-out explanation isn’t going to happen, either, not now.

“I don’t know how to tell you,” he mumbles into his knees, focusing on keeping his breath steady and the way that Guerin’s fingers feel in his own, rather than the fact that he can hear every beat of Michael’s heart, every pump as it pushes blood through his veins. “I  don’t want to tell you! I kept you safe for three years, and he fucking ruined it.” Alex has to stop and swallow against a sudden swell of pain or risk crying out, which he won’t do, damn it. He won’t.

Michael’s obviously not following. He shifts in the dirt, dragging himself closer to Alex’s curled form. Would he do that if he knew the truth? Would he dare get so close if he knew that at any second, Alex’s control might snap, and leave him fang-deep in Michael’s carotid? Alex doubts it. God knows he wouldn’t do it, were their positions reversed.

“Alex, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Guerin tries, and for the first time, he sounds hesitant. “But if you’ve been keeping me safe for that long, then I’m pretty sure it’s time for me to return the favor.” Heat caresses his spine, starting low on Alex’s neck and sweeping down in slow, broad strokes that remind him of summer nights spent in the bed of Michael’s truck, sweat-sticky and sated while they stare up at the stars. Michael had stroked his back like this then, too, usually after a particularly bad night with Jesse, when words just didn’t cut it.

Strangely enough, it’s that memory that gives Alex the strength to consider telling the truth. Michael has been his safe place for well over a decade, whether Alex could physically be in his embrace or had to content himself with the mere memory of Michael’s arms around him, and if Alex allows himself to hope — maybe his revelation won’t be the end of that. Maybe it’ll be the start of something different, something new.

Another cramp tears through his body, and Alex’s arms give out, releasing his legs as his entire body arches with the electric jolt. His mouth falls open on a silent moan, and the decision of whether or not to explain is ripped from him as his fangs tear free of his gums. The transformation takes less than a second; Alex’s visage shifts from his usual, human appearance to something demonic in the space of a blink. His vision shifts, going from basic 20/20 to good enough that he can see each individual grain of sand beneath him, and an ant crawling up the trunk of a tree twenty feet distant. His head throbs with the sudden influx of new information, and Alex squeezes his eyes shut, trying to ignore the scent of Michael’s skin and the blood beneath.

“What —” Guerin’s soft, shocked question is aborted before it even really begins, and Alex swallows convulsively against the fear rising in his throat. He doesn’t need to look over to know that Michael is afraid, not when he can hear his heart thundering in his chest, can feel the tension in his frame even from a foot away, and Alex doesn’t think he can bear to open his eyes and see the rejection in Michael’s expression. So he presses a hand over his face, hiding the blood red of his eyes and the black veins that spiderweb around them as best he can and tries to focus on steadying his own breathing.

“Vampire,” Alex whispers, in answer to the unvoiced question. The word is clear, despite the awkwardness of speaking around his fangs, and it hangs in the stagnant air between them. “I’m a vampire, and I’m fucking hungry, okay? That’s what’s wrong!” His throat is raw around the words, his voice hoarse from everything he’s not saying. “Now will you just go? I can’t —” He swallows again, breath turning ragged as he struggles against tears and that same, all-consuming hunger that’s been plaguing him for what feels like days. “I can’t control it. It hurts, Michael. It hurts, and I can’t control it.”

He’s ready for the sound of Michael getting to his feet, but his heart still breaks a little when it comes. Alex squeezes his eyelids that much tighter and ignores the tremors starting in his fingers, bracing himself for the moment that he can no longer hear Michael at all— until there are suddenly warm, calloused hands covering his and pulling them carefully away from his face. Panic surges, and Alex tries to jerk away from Michael’s careful grip. It doesn’t work; instead, he ends up staring up into Michael’s frighteningly inscrutable expression as his shaking hands are enveloped in Michael’s.

“I told you,” comes the soft reply. “I’m not going anywhere without you.”

[soveryanon]

Reviewing time for MAG138! /o/

- ………………… It’s Holy Shit Smirke What The Fuck time, and I feel obligated to mention in preamble that: yes, I do get one of the points of his statement – that he lacked… flexibility and that it impacted his understanding of the Fears; that he associated them with a neat categorisation, with places, with stone and concrete and stable, fixed monumentality (“And if, as I came to believe, the Dread Powers were themselves places of a sort, then surely with the right space, the right architecture, they could be contained. Channelled. Harnessed.”) when they’re actually mutable, can express themselves in an infinity of ways, and that Smirke’s ~taxonomy~ was far from perfect, probably too tainted by his preconceptions and associations with tangible places to work for long after a few decades of illusion; that, in the end, Robert Smirke died as an old man unable to admit the flaws in his work (“Would you have me separate The Corruption between insects, dirt and disease? To, to divide the fungal bloom from the maggot? No. No, I… stand by my work.”), ready to blame others than him or his own community for their sufferings (“No; I feel certain they were bought into existence by some ancient civilisation, some… foolish tribe from pre-history.”). Leitner (!) (yes, “!”: Leitner, being right about something, I know. Incredible.) and Gerry had actually warned about describing the Fears with such neat separations:

(MAG080) LEITNER: I told you it was an unhelpful analogy. Let’s try another one. Um… Imagine, you are an ant, and you have never before seen a human. Then one day, into your colony, a huge fingernail is thrust, scraping and digging. You flee to another entrance, only to be confronted by a staring eye gazing at you. You climb to the top, trying to find escape and, above you, can see the vast dark shadow of a boot falling upon you. Would that ant be able to construct these things into the form of a single human being? Or would it believe itself to be under attack by three different, equally terrible, but very distinct assailants?

(MAG111) GERRY: […] And when our fears change, so do these things. But it’s not quick. Gertrude reckons they’ve basically been the same since the Industrial Revolution. She and my mum both liked to follow Smirke’s list of fourteen. ARCHIVIST: [DISBELIEVINGLY] Th– I mean, there are a lot more than fourteen things to be afraid of in the world. Where do you draw the line? GERRY: Hmmm. I always think it helps to imagine them like colours. The edges bleed together, and you can talk about little differences: “oh, that’s indigo, that’s more lilac”, but they’re both purple. I mean, I guess there are technically infinite colours, but you group them together into a few big ones. A lot of it’s kind of arbitrary. […] And like colours, some of these powers, they feed into or balance each other. Some really clash, and you just can’t put them together. I mean, you could see them all as just one thing, I guess, but it would be pretty much meaningless, y’know, like… like trying to describe a… shirt by talking about the concept of colour. O–Of course, with these things it’s not a simple spectrum, y’know, it’s more like– ARCHIVIST: An infinite amorphous blob of terror bleeding out in every direction at once. GERRY: Now you’re getting it. ARCHIVIST: Like colours, but if colours hated me.

Sounds like the Fears are… part of a whole, and that “infinite amorphous blob of terror bleeding out in every direction at once” might still be the most Accurate Description for… whatever they are.

But I’m also an utter fool who likes neat categorisations for these concepts so YES, I acknowledge that Jonny is calling us out on trying to put labels on everything that happens in the series and on trying to make occurrences fit into the list we were given in MAG111, but suddenly I can’t read / HOW ABOUT I DO IT ~ANYWAY~. :w

- Obligatory tears because: Tim, disillusioned at the end of season 3, had reached the conclusions about Smirke’s work that Smirke himself half-admitted here (back-and-forth between admitting that he had been wrong and ~standing by his work~):

(MAG117) TIM: […] You know, for the longest time I thought the secret was in balance…! In some… dusty old architect’s work on symmetry. [SCOFF] But he failed, didn’t he? What was he even trying to achieve? He’d lived like anyone else, he… died like anyone else. Whatever he was looking for, in his “Balance and Fear”? I don’t think he found it.

(MAG138, Robert Smirke) “I have been blessed with a long life, something few who crossed paths with the Dread Powers can boast, but now… at the end of it, my true fear is that I have wasted it, chasing an impossible dream. To speak plain, I have begun to lose faith in the possibility of Balance. Of any sort of equilibrium among them.”

And look, yes, I know, I should be terrorised that Smirke’s shiny system wasn’t so great and functioning after all… but I’m mostly SAD, because Tim had spent the last three-to-four years of his life trying to understand Smirke’s work, and had concluded that it wasn’t working. And he was right. (And then he died, too.)

- So we’re getting a new designation for the Fears: the “Dread Powers”, which, yeah, what it says on the tin, neat!

- Smirke’s words and his influence on current characters localised in London puts me to mind again that… how come that some people apparently knew what the rituals would do to our world? How can they know of the result, since no ritual has succeeded so far?

(MAG092) ELIAS: These things that touch us, they… don’t have a form of the sort that could exist in physical reality. So the Stranger wishes to remake that physical reality into something closer to itself. It wants to make this world its own.

(MAG111) ARCHIVIST: No, I don’t have time. Tell me about the rituals. GERRY: Well, they all have one. Most of them, anyway. Takes centuries to build up to a level of power where they can try it, and if they fail, it’s back to square one. ARCHIVIST: Okay, but what do the rituals do? GERRY : They… kind of “shift” the world, just enough for the Power to come through. Merge with reality. Some say, or well, they guess, that it could bring other entities through with them. I mean, I doubt The Buried would be bringing through The Vast, but you know. ARCHIVIST : But what does that actually mean. F–for the world? “Merging with reality”? GERRY: […] right now all the entities have to act like a hunter, they pick off the weak ones around the edges, the ones that wander to close, and the rest of the time they have to just graze on whatever fear we all passively give away. ARCHIVIST : And if one of the rituals succeeds? GERRY : The world becomes a factory farm.

So this might be what Smirke theorised himself, notably on the idea that Powers had allies and opposites:

(MAG138, Robert Smirke) “Fourteen Powers, with their opposites and their allies, each with an aim no more no less than manifestation. Apocalypse. Apotheosis. I wonder: did my work bring about these Dreadful things, or… did I simply develop the means by which they can be known…?”

And we saw through The Hunt (or… the essence of the hunt) that its goal is not to manifest, since it revels in the chase and the pursuit – not in getting the prey. Though Smirke might have given inspiration to humans touched by the powers, to organise their activities around circumstantial allies (or allies by nature) and enemies? There might still have been a bit of truth to it, since Gertrude did manage to neutralise The Buried’s ritual with the body of Vast-touched Jan Kilbride… So, to what extent was Smirke, in the end, spot-on, and to what extent did he over-systemise something that was filled with irregularities and particularities?

(- I wonder if the ideas of what the world WOULD look like if one of the rituals succeeded weren’t due to… the Fears-touched dreams? There is definitely something too suspicious about “dreams” overall in this series – I assumed for long that it was a case of “well, of course, if you experience a terrifying thing, your subconscious with get plagued with it and you’ll have nightmares related to this” for a lot of them, independently from Jon’s Archivist-induced dreams. But Smirke revealed that he had initially begun his work influenced by the dreams he had:

(MAG138, Robert Smirke) “Did I ever tell you about the dreams? I’m sure I must have. I would dream about them, you see, as a young man, long before I devised my taxonomy. I would find myself in nightmares of strange, far-off places: a field of graves; a grasping tunnel; an abattoir, knee-deep in pigs’ blood. I believed then, as I still believe now, that these places I saw were the Powers themselves, expressed in their truest form, far more entirely than any “secret book” can claim.”

And we’ve had various cases of dreams being more spooky than “regular” ones: Oliver began to see the veins in his dreams (MAG011, MAG121), Robert E. Geiger was only able to hear Stefan Brotchen’s last words in his dreams (MAG099), Annabelle had started to get dreams involving spiders despite being unaware of the nature of the experiments (MAG069), Carter Chilcott had been dreaming of “floating through ancient graveyards or the open, empty sea” while on the Daedalus (MAG057), Joshua Gillespie dreamed of asphyxiating despite the coffin itself not giving him any such experience while he was awake (MAG002)… Is it possible that people are more sensitive to the Fears in their dreams, since dreams are a bit more in the Fears’ territory (Jonny mentioned, iirc, that they behave on “dream-logic”)? Is that how Garland Hillier saw The Extinction coming, too: due to his dreams?)

- Alright: sudden information that Smirke APPARENTLY HELPED THEORISE THE RITUALS??? HOLY MEW????

(MAG138, Robert Smirke) “So many have abandoned us, casting about for rituals that I helped design. In my excited discussions with Mr. Rayner, I… perhaps extrapolated too much from his talk of a “Grand Ritual” of darkness. The Dark, I thought, was simply one of the Powers so, it stands to reason that each of them should have its own ritual. Perhaps they already did, even before I put pen to paper. They certainly do now, and I shudder to think how Lukas, Scott and the others may use this conception.”

So, to break this down: it seems like Maxwell Rayner agreed to discuss with Smirke about what he identified as The Dark’s ritual, and Smirke guessed from there that the other Fears that he had isolated probably had (or should have) their own rituals, and worked on theorising them? Basira herself had noticed that Natalie Ennis’s words reported in MAG025’s statement (“She said that they were all going, that 300 years was a long time to wait, but she was lucky to have found it so close to the end.”) matched with two solar eclipses happening in Ny-Ålesund (MAG108: “And when Natalie Ennis talked about it being 300 years ago, well. How much do you know about the relationship between Edmond Halley and John Flamsteed?” “What, Halley like the comet?” “Exactly.”); Basira might have been spot-on on the idea that The Dark is quite… regular and organized around these eclipses? Or at the very least, that The Dark was aware of its opportunities to reshape the world.

And Smirke hypothesises that a few other people might have taken inspiration from it, some of them also part of Jonah Magnus’s own circle (so they were probably all mutual acquaintances, at the very least, as people that Smirke had “brought into [his] confidence”?):

* “Mr. Rayner” (The Dark): unless twist, Maxwell Rayner himself, and Smirke had abundantly talked with him, apparently. No mention on whether Jonah knew him too (except if the Elias-is-Jonah theory turns out to be an actual thing, since Maxwell was revealed to have been a ~friend~ of the Head of the Institute in MAG135), but Dr. Algernon Moss, in a statement given May 14th 1864, had reported on his encounter with Maxwell Rayner who was already well-known at the time (MAG098).

* “Scott” (The Buried): likely referring to George Gilbert Scott (MAG050), who had been under Henry Roberts’s tutelage, who had himself been one of Smirke’s disciples. Sampson Kempthorne, the author of the letter to Jonah, briefly employed Scott in 1834 (historical fact) and noted that he tended to design claustrophobic places. Scott had been said to have “also received certain architectural tutelages from Sir Robert himself”, and during a reception, Smirke had explained to Kempthorne that Scott hadn’t really understood his lessons about “balance” and that Kempthorne had dodged a bullet getting rid of him. Sampson Kempthorne wrote his letter on June 12th 1841, was in good terms with Jonah Magnus but not really an intimate of Smirke himself (he wasn’t into ~the confidence~).

* “Lukas” (The Lonely): we know from Barnabas Bennett’s letter to Jonah Magnus, dated April 9th 1824, that Jonah had warned him to avoid Mordechai Lukas and was himself on “good terms” with him according to Elias (MAG092). Smirke could be referring to Mordechai or another from the family – since, at least, it seems like the ties between the Lukases and the Magnus Institute remained strong over time, with the Lukases being current sugar daddies patrons of the Institute (MAG017, MAG033) and Elias knowing ~Peter~ personally.

So that’s indeed quite a peculiar society of people in the know about the ~Dread Powers~. Given that Maxwell Rayner gave information to Smirke about The Dark’s “Grand Ritual”, and that Mordechai Lukas was already… powerful enough by himself to punish Barnabas in 1824, it doesn’t look like Robert Smirke “converted” all of the people surrounding him, but that he got acquainted with a few people who already had their own knowledge? Not sure about George Gilbert Scott, though – it seems like this one learned Smirke’s principles and ran away with them, serving The Buried.

In the same way, it really feels like Smirke might have exaggerated his role in organising the rituals? The Dark has its own already; we know that the previous attempt to bring The Stranger through took place in the Court Theatre of Buda in October 1787 (statement given by Abraham Janssen in MAG116), when Smirke was… a young kid. There was also some suspicion about the ~Archives~ under Alexandria, which were attacked by what looked like a Dark faction in AD 391, perhaps to stop an attempt by the Beholding (MAG053). According to Peter Lukas, The End and The Web have never been interested in setting up their ritual (MAG134), and Daisy&Jon guessed that The Hunt doesn’t want to reach its culmination (MAG133), even though some Hunters were seeking it. It doesn’t seem like Smirke created the principles that guide rituals, more that he himself didn’t have any information about attempts by other factions than The Dark? But he apparently wrote… guidelines (/wild-mass guessing essays) about others, and feared, towards the end of his life, how they could be misused.

Smirke, why the FUCK did you do that in the first place, OF COURSE IT WOULD GET MISUSED………….. (Though, it’s easy to see how something meant to protect could serve nefarious purpose. Explain in details how fire works, in order to save lives during a housefire, and one pyromaniac could still twist the principles to achieve more damage…)

Smirke specifically said that he “put pen to paper” so, unless it was an exaggeration… there might be a Robert Smirke essay somewhere about his ideas of the Fears’ rituals, whether they’re concrete guidelines or more general principles. The question is: where, and is it actually “worth” something, either to construct the rituals or to stop them? Did Gertrude have access to it? … is it in Elias’s safe? (Or is it… absolutely useless and off-the-mark, and Smirke feared for nothing because he thought his work a bigger deal than it actually was for the Fears themselves?)

- Amongst the list of people into ~Robert Smirke’s confidence~, what about Henry Roberts? He had trained George Gilbert Scott:

(MAG050, Sampson Kempthorne) “Henry [Roberts] was very effusive about the talents and prospects of young Mr Scott and was at great pains to inform me that his young protégé had also received certain architectural tutelages from Sir Robert himself. He said this with the oddest of looks, as though there was some jolly secret between us. I rather just nodded, as if to say I took his meaning, and he left well enough alone. […] At the mention of the name George Gilbert Scott, Sir Robert’s face flushed suddenly, in a manner not entirely unlike that of his protégé. He asked me what my interest was in Mr Scott, and I told him that he had, until recently, been engaged as my assistant. At this, Sir Robert gave a small laugh of satisfaction and told me I did not realise exactly how lucky an escape I may have had. I asked again what his training had entailed, and Sir Robert stared at me for a silent minute, before he finally nodded his head. “Balance,” he told me. “Equilibrium. […]” Without prompting, his tirade continued, and he talked about George, about shortcuts in symmetry and a patron that the young fool did not understand. I could follow very little of it, and it seems to be decidedly removed from anything that I would consider architecture, but whatever it was that Sir Robert had been teaching George, it appeared the lessons had been put to less noble use than he had intended.”

Both George Gilbert Scott and Henry Roberts historically survived Smirke (dying respectively in 1878 and 1876) – but it seemed that at the time, Henry Roberts knew about the true nature of Smirke’s work, and yet didn’t apparently dedicate himself to one power like Scott apparently did with The Buried…? Did it happen later, or did Henry Roberts totally manage to remain neutral…?

(And I’m HOWLING overall that… I hadn’t noticed, back in MAG050, that. Henry Roberts’s behaviour implied that Robert Smirke was indeed sharing what he knew of the Fears with his private club of acquaintances. I thought he was only training people in his “Balance and Fear” and that they independently happened to discover the powers by themselves. But nope, it’s REALLY all because of Robert Smirke; good job, Bob.)

- A curious detail: Robert Smirke’s death as given in MAG138 does not match the official version in our ~world~: the historical figure died on April 18th, 1867 while Martin reported that the letter he wrote to Jonah was dated February 13th, 1867, and that he died of ~apoplexy~ mid-writing it. That’s two months before his historical death!

(MAG138) MARTIN: Statement of Robert Smirke, taken from a letter to Jonah Magnus, dated 13th of February, 1867. […] Uh… [INHALE] The, hum… The letter ends there. Uh… Ap–apparently Robert Smirke was found collapsed in his study that evening, dead of, uh… [FLIPPING PAPER] Apoplexy.

Buuuut that year (1867) curiously has one matching point of data with the statement previously read by Martin, in MAG134 – it’s the same year Garland Hillier disappeared.

(MAG134, Adelard Dekker) “Garland Hillier’s final essay, published in 1867 and simply titled “L’Avenir”, “The Future”, was supposedly a rambling and meandering speculation on the end of the human race, influenced by Darwin’s recent publication of The Origin of the Species and his own shattered faith. He posited a future where, far from any glorious or holy revelation or reckoning, a decadent and corrupt humanity was violently and utterly supplanted, and wiped out by a new category of being. One he referred to as “les Héritiers”. “The Inheritors”. He gave no details on how he believed they might look like, or how they might behave, but his predictions for the final days of humanity were unpleasant, and visceral. […] Anyway, the point is that sometime after that essay was published, Garland Hillier disappeared. Exactly when this happened, no one is really sure, but the last records of his existence can be found near the end of 1867.”

I don’t know if the “change” regarding Robert Smirke’s death is simply a matter of authorial self-protection (Magnus Archives is ~an AU~ of our reality, this Robert Smirke is not the same one as the historical figure) or if it is potentially tied to something more tightly knitted (a shift, a rupture between the Magnusverse and our own world? etc.)

At the very least, I *squint* hard at 1867. Were Jonah’s activities tied (from afar or more closely) to Garland Hillier’s own activities? Did Beholding start feeling threatened by the ~prophecy~ announcing the new emergence?

- You, too, get Marked by Beholding and get A Big Giant Eyeball haunting the sky in your dreams, the got-in-contact-with-Magnus trademark:

(MAG120) ELIAS: The Archivist wanders. He is searching, though, for what he does not know. […] All through it, the shadow is above him; the shape that gazes down upon him, bloodshot and unblinking. […] It opens, and he walks slowly down the steps into the earth; but even as it closes above him, the great shadow still Sees him. There is nowhere in this universe that it would not blot out the sky. […] So he watches her, trying in his single-minded focus to ignore the attention of that impossible thing that covers the sky and fixes its gaze on him with such force it would choke him – were he breathing. […] And at last, the Archivist looks up. [STATIC INTENSIFIES] At last, he looks into The Eye that sees all, and knows all, and clutches at the secret terrors of your heart. The Ceaseless Watcher of all that is, and all that was; the voracious, infinite hunger that tears at his soul, invoking him to discover, to observe, to experience all and everything and forever.

(MAG138, Robert Smirke) “I have been dreaming again, Jonah. The same every night for months, now. I imagine myself a boy again at Aspley. I awake, cold and alone in the dormitory. The sky outside is dark and I see no stars. I light a candle to better see my way, and step down the silent corridor. The masters’ rooms are empty; the fire in the kitchen is dead. Eventually, my steps lead out into the courtyard. It is so quiet that the sound of my feet upon the grass is painful to my ears. I stop, and look up at the sky, that empty black nothing, and I see the edges of the horizon becoming a dull white. I cannot understand what I am looking at. And then the sky… blinks. And I awake.”

(Bob didn’t have it so bad, after all? I mean. At least, his Big Eyeball blinked.)

- Third named mention of “The Watcher’s Crown” in the series! … almost directly answering Jon’s plea to know more about it from last episode:

(MAG111) GERARD: She worked out they’d all be happening quite close together. She’d already been doing it a while, and the Unknowing was the next on her list. That and The Watcher’s Crown. ARCHIVIST: The, the what? GERARD: Uh, the Rite of The Watcher’s Crown. It’s what she called the ritual for the Eye. She didn’t tell me much about that one, just that she knew how to take care of it.

(MAG137) ARCHIVIST: […] What the hell is The Watcher’s Crown? So far the only mention of it I’ve had is from Gerry, and he didn’t seem to know much about what it actually meant. [PAUSE] And he’s gone now. But if it is the grand ritual of Beholding, then I– … I mean… I need to know about it. Right…?

(MAG138, Robert Smirke) “I am not a fool; I know well enough what this dream is likely to mean, and I warn you again that if you have any remaining ambitions to use our work, to try and wear The Watcher’s Crown, you must abandon them! Not simply for the sake of your own soul, but for that of the world! I have always had the utmost respect for you as a man of dignity, and learning. Do not allow yourself to fall to this madness.”

Interestingly, Smirke presented it like a literal crown that could be worn…? (What is in Elias’s safe.) (Is the crown Fashionable.)

- Take your pick of your Failed-Because-Of-Hubris representative:

(MAG080) LEITNER: And so I branded them with my seal. I told myself that if any should escape such a mark could help me retrieve them. But I think, in my heart, I dreamed of my work becoming known. That “The Library of Jurgen Leitner” would stand as a symbol of courage and protection. Hubris. I suppose it is fitting punishment that my name has become a watchword for evil, spoken by those who only know it as marking the darkest, most terrible of secrets. My name has become a curse.

(MAG111) GERRY: Eventually, I grew old enough and wise enough to see [my mother’s] obsession for what it really was: hubris. She lived her just carefully enough not to be destroyed by things she studied, but that was it. The things out there weren’t like taming fire, they couldn’t be contained or used for light or warmth. The best you could hope for from them, would be that they don’t spot you, and instead my mum chased after them, obsessed with others who had tried to stare at them without being blinded: y’know, Flamsteed, Smirke, Leitner. Idiots who destroyed themselves chasing a secret that wasn’t worth knowing.

(MAG138, Robert Smirke) “You see, Jonah, I feel the hour of my death approaching and, though you have always been reluctant to pay due heed to my warnings or counsel, I continue to see in you the reflection of my own past hubris. […] So yes. Hubris. Not simply in that, I suppose, but in believing that those I brought into my confidence shared my lofty goals. “

I wonder if we’ll hear about John Flamsteed at some point, since Basira had done a bit of research on him by MAG108, too… (Though he lived waaaay before Smirke and Jonah.)

- I’m still not sold on the Jonah Magnus=Elias theory. On the one hand, there are many things indeed reinforcing that possibility: Smirke thought that Jonah had sunken into Beholding and that he planned to launch the Watcher’s Crown. MAG138 casually revealed that Smirke knew “Rayner” and the way he described him implied that Jonah knew him too (there was nothing in MAG098 to confirm or deny that Jonah knew the guy; the statement was even given to the Institute, not to Jonah himself, and we didn’t know if he was still alive at the time (1864) until MAG138). This is coming shortly after MAG135 which… revealed that Elias PERSONALLY knew Maxwell Rayner and was acquainted (?) with him at some point. Robert Smirke was guessing that Jonah was trying to escape death, and there is obviously the question: and if he had succeeded, who and where would he be? There is even the mention that:

(MAG138, Robert Smirke) “I am choosing to assume that these manifestations are unintentional, Jonah, and you have not… simply decided to implore a Dark Patron to end the life of an old man.”

… which (except for the fact that Beholding Never Does Shit) obviously puts Elias to mind because uh, who is well-known for murdering old people? Would Robert Smirke have been voiced by someone from Jonny’s family, too?

BUT ON THE OTHER HAND, every time Elias opens his mouth, I… can’t “read” him as 220+ years old. He’s too shitty? Too petty? Too… not exactly impulsive, but there is always an undercurrent of impatience in him, I feel? I don’t really know how to explain, but I feel like someone much older than “middle-aged” wouldn’t… revel as he does in petty jabs and punchlines, wouldn’t be so intent on getting the last word and on being Verbally Right at every turn?

(But then, that’s one of the main question in this series: what the HECK is Elias, what is his backstory, what are his goals, what even is his ROLE, and what does he know about the Spiders in his Institute.)

- HOWEVER, nervous laughter re: the fear of dying, because hum. Hum. Who does that remind me of.

(MAG080) ELIAS: Well, he was always going to need to fly the nest at some point. Go out and see the world for himself. LEITNER: He might die. ELIAS: It’s always a danger. Almost always.

(MAG121) OLIVER: The thing is, Jon, right now, you have a choice. You’ve put it off for a long time; but it’s trapping you here. You’re not quite human enough to die, but – still too human to survive. You’re… balanced on an edge, where The End can’t touch you, but you can’t escape Him. I made a choice. We all made choices.

(MAG136) ARCHIVIST: My– [PAUSE] [INHALE] [SIGH] My memories of the coma are not clear. But I know I made a choice; I made a choice to become… something else. Because I was afraid to die.

(MAG138, Robert Smirke) “I beg you, do not pursue this goal; if only a single lesson may be gleaned from my life of long study, and longer hardship, it is that the fear of Death is natural, and to flee from it will only bring greater misery. Repent of your sins, Jonah. Seek forgiveness. I am certain the Dread Powers cannot take a soul that keeps faith in the Resurrection.”

Elias had already installed Jonah Magnus as a Role Model for Jon in MAG092 (“Because he had to know, to watch and see it all. That’s what this place is, John, never forget it. You may believe yourself to have friends, to have confidantes, but in the end, all they are, is something for you to watch, to know, and ultimately to discard. This, at least, Gertrude understood.”) and ;; I. Am. Getting the feeling that Jon might be, totally unknowingly, walking in Jonah’s footsteps a bit…? Except for the part where he’d agree to sacrifice people close to him, because Jon’s conscious decisions have been the absolute opposite so far.

- Something heartbreaking to me: the way… information is not being shared, between Martin and Jon – though Martin is apparently planning to let Jon hear Robert Smirke’s statement eventually. Because MAG138 brings another light on Jonathan Fanshawe’s letter and Jon’s own conclusions about Jonah Magnus:

(MAG127) ARCHIVIST: Hm. “Jonah Magnus”. I’ve never really given much thought to him. Not nearly as much as I should have. I suppose I had always hoped there was a chance he was… innocent, in all this. I know, I know! But I had… [EXHALE] I had just… hoped that maybe the founding of the Institute was in earnest. And not simply the foundation stone for all the terrible things that have happened here. … But no. Whatever is happening now… has its origins two hundred years ago. In the work of an evil man.

(MAG138, Robert Smirke) “It is telling that of those I have brought into my confidence, it is only you and I who have continued this far without falling to one Power or another, despite all my instruction and work. This is, of course, assuming you have not taken the path of The Eye that I know has called you – called us both – for so long, even since before we began our work on Millbank. […] I am choosing to assume that these manifestations are unintentional, Jonah, and you have not… simply decided to implore a Dark Patron to end the life of an old man. I further find myself supposing that they may emanate from your own intrigues and preparations to culminate those plans which we agreed to abandon so many decades ago! […] The Eye has marked me for something, of this I have no doubt. My… humble hope is that it may be a swift death, an accidental effect of your own researches, which I once again implore you to abandon.”

Jonathan Fanshawe sent his letter to Jonah in November 21st, 1831: the fair assumption was that Jonah had probably funded the Institute in 1818 as a temple to Beholding? But it seems like it wasn’t the initial goal of the Institute, since Smirke was under the impression that Jonah hadn’t followed the path of Beholding until rather recently (unless Jonah had managed to deceive him all this time?). It could explain the wording used by Breekon to refer to the Institute:

(MAG128, “Breekon”) “That was the first time we saw what would become this place, The Eye’s Pedestal.”

“what WOULD BECOME this place”: not what it WAS already, even though Breekon is talking about their time serving on the Robert Small, around 1853, years after the foundation of the Institute. (Though the concept of the Institute, of Jonah asking all his acquaintances to send him spooky stories, amassing knowledge, threading his map of relationships around spooky people, of trying to know and learn more about it… indeed sounded extremely Beholding in the first place. But it seems like Beholding taking a hold of the Institute was a consequence, and not the initial goal of it – like the Institute wasn’t initially created to serve it?)

In the same way, I had wondered in MAG127 if Jon mightn’t have been wrong to conclude right away, like Jonathan Fanshawe, that Jonah’s goal had been to get rid of Albrecht without any concern for him – there could have been other reasons to take the actual books away from him, especially since they were the ones affecting Albrecht? But hum, alright: even without being a (conscious?) Beholding agent in the 1810s to 1830s, there are many ways to indeed be an “evil man” – Millbank says hi:

(MAG127, Jonathan Fanshawe) “Jonah; I must first and foremost decline your generous offer of a medical position servicing Millbank Penitentiary. While the terms you’ve laid out are no doubt more than adequate, I have, over these last months, come to the unfortunate conclusion that our intimacy and friendship must cease immediately. I do not know what interest you have in the poor condemned souls within those walls, nor do I care to guess. In the light of what I have so recently witnessed, I can no longer in good conscience associate with any of your endeavours.”

(MAG128, “Breekon”) “Poor wretches who emerged from Millbank, with tales of Australia and its cruelty on their lips, bundled into the cramped and creaking ship that would drag them away from everything they loved – and towards everything they feared.”

(MAG138, Robert Smirke) “What we built at Millbank should be left well enough alone, resigned to the nightmares of the reprobates and brigands contained within its walls. […] This is, of course, assuming you have not taken the path of The Eye that I know has called you – called us both – for so long, even since before we began our work on Millbank.”

For Breekon to mention that it was an awful place, it must have been REALLY bad, indeed.

And it saddens me to agree with Martin that he… probably wasn’t the right person to read this statement:

(MAG138) MARTIN: I don’t know what he’s talking about when he mentions Millbank. The old prison, I guess? Tim said the tunnels under the Institute were all that was left of it, but… Jon said he’d checked them pretty thoroughly. [SILENCE] [SIGH] I’m not the one who knows all about this stuff…!

It’s not even just Jon who was specialising in navigating the tunnels – he was finding his way, but Tim was able to use them pretty efficiently too (MAG114, Jon: “I know there are some exits to the tunnels outside the Institute, so I guessed you were using them to get in and out, avoiding any… tape recorders.”). And there is something that Martin didn’t appear to remember about them, but that he had read himself:

(MAG088, Enrique MacMillan) “so here I came. To tell my story, of course, but another thing as well; cold, empty and calling. There’s something here, you see. Something to be dug up, rooted out, buried within. A hollow space that all eyes point towards. And I intend to reach it, if my fingers don’t give out first. I know where to dig.”

[…] MARTIN: Based on a few scattered notes and accounts from some of the older staff, it sounds like Mr. Macmillan got in a bit of a fight, which led to his arrest, and the replacement of quite a bit of the floor in Jon’s office. There are still a couple of boards with marks on them that I’d always hoped weren’t fingernail scratches, but I guess…

(+ Daisy’s mention to Jon in MAG114 that she didn’t like the tunnels because they felt “empty”, and the fact that… the “DIG” leaked into Jon’s dreams for reasons still unknown, despite Martin having been the one to read that statement.)

Is it the same structure as the tunnels under the Reform Club (MAG035) and St Paul’s Church (MAG063), or are they all separate installations? The ones under the Reform Club were long but looked clearly organised and structured; the one under St-Paul’s Church ended with a wall; and the ones under the Institute had been mentioned to be a veritable maze and… cover a very large area:

(MAG080) LEITNER: Over the years I have found that [this unexpurgated copy of Ruskin’s The Seven Lamps of Architecture] interacts with Smirke’s architecture, and those tunnels specifically, in a more predictable way. By carefully reading specific passages in certain locations I am able to exercise… a degree of control over the substance of the tunnels. […] I’ve been in hiding for over twenty years now, ever since my library was destroyed. Obviously I have not spent all that time below your Institute. The old Millbank prison tunnels stretch out a very long way, and there are other entrances than the one below the Archives.

(Leitner even telling Jon that he had made them simpler for him.)

- YOU KNOW WHAT OTHER LINES SHARE THE SAME ENERGY?!

(MAG123) ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] I wish I could talk it through with Martin. … Or Tim. [SHORT SAD CHUCKLE] Or Sasha. But we never really did that, did we…? … Everything’s changed. … [SIGH] Two days out of a coma, and I’m already tired.

(MAG138) MARTIN: Tim said the tunnels under the Institute were all that was left of it, but… Jon said he’d checked them pretty thoroughly. [SILENCE] [SIGH] I’m not the one who knows all about this stuff…! I wish– … No. No, it’s fine, I’m… fine, I… [EXHALE] I can do this.

It’s open to interpretation but I’m really hearing Martin’s “I wish–” as a “I wish Tim was still alive and with us” and AOUCH orz

(I’m… still hoping that we’ll get something from Martin about his own mourning of Tim orz Because that one must have been… so harsh… he was so worried about Sasha’s disappearance in the beginning of season 3, his small voice broke my heart in MAG092 when Elias confirmed that she had died a LONG time ago, and the fact that he had been buddy-buddy with her murderer while Elias was doing nothing about it had been one of the points he threw to Elias’s face in MAG118. And Tim was around even longer, and he experienced so many bad things alongside Tim, and even at his worst, Tim was often mellowing down / a bit more protective of Martin than… anyone else, really, be it in Michael’s corridors or when Tim had explained to Martin that he didn’t think that reading the statements were a good thing? And this despite Tim telling Jon in MAG114 that he didn’t know Martin as well as he knew Sasha, hence the fact he was avoiding him like the others – what does it say about Martin’s relationships with other people… ;;)

- But the “Good luck, Jon, I– … [HUFF] Stay safe.” coming after was absolute Gay Energy, and MARTIN!!!

It feels like the episode was the Perfect Recipe for how to get an episode popular/trending/making people scream: it has MARTIN throughout it, and we’re all thirsty to hear from him! It has Martin being snappy and cunning! Martin’s loyalty towards Jon! A Robert Smirke statement! The relationship between Smirke and Jonah Magnus! New questions about Jonah! More lore with Smirke’s taxonomy from the inside! Beholding statement, with eyes horror! A small mention of Tim! Elias! Elias in prison! Elias FINALLY ACKNOWLEDGING PETER’S EXISTENCE! MORE CHAINS RATTLING AT EVERY TURN! Elias calling Martin out for his manipulative tendencies! Martin using the tape recorders instead of being used by them!

I still feel floored.

- Special bonus for another occurrence of Martin’s “Mm-hMM” when people are telling him something he doesn’t want to hear, and I LOVE HIS CASUAL SNAPPINESS IN SEASON 4…

(MAG129) ARCHIVIST: I just… I’m sorry. Basira is off doing… God-knows-what, and I can’t talk to Melanie. MARTIN : Mm-hmm.

(MAG134) PETER: […] And as far as the coffin goes, there’s not much I can do about a bull-headed Archivist who seems hellbent on self-destruction. My powers only extend so far. MARTIN : Mm-hmm.

(MAG138) ELIAS: I am so very pleased to see you. MARTIN: Mm-hmm.

Martin “Mm-hMMm.” Blackwood, ilu.

- The difference between how Elias constantly reminded Jon how he belongs to The Eye, versus Elias’s… apparent uninterest? in Martin’s own alliance to the Lonely is quite… jarring. As for Jon:

(MAG092) ELIAS: [SIGH] What are you? ARCHIVIST: I… The Archivist. ELIAS: Precisely. It is your job to chronicle these things, to experience them, whether first-hand or through the eyes of others. To simply be told, well… ARCHIVIST: It doesn’t please your master? ELIAS: Our master, Jon. […] We thrive on ceaseless watching, on knowing too much. What we face is the hidden, the uncanny, and the unknown. If you are to stop them, you need to get better at seeing.

(MAG116) ELIAS: I have been doing my best to prepare you, Jon, to See. You should hopefully have it a bit easier than the others. ARCHIVIST: Another of my… powers? ELIAS: More… an aspect of your becoming. DAISY: You don’t say. ARCHIVIST: Er… right.

(MAG120) ELIAS: [The Eye] stares into him, and it stares out of him, and he is falling into the devouring eternity of its pupil. He wants to cry out in horror, but he cannot. He. is. whole.

(MAG135) ELIAS: Fine. Consider it a test – things are… coming, things that will need Jon to be far stronger and more willing to use his connection to our patron. […] If Gertrude had a plan for this one, I haven’t found it, which is why Jon needs to be closer to The Eye. If anyone can stop what’s happening, he can. See through the darkness, etcetera.

With Jon, it’s always been a casually possessive “us”. While Martin…

(MAG138) MARTIN: I think he wants me to join The Lonely. ELIAS: Then it sounds like you have a decision to make. [SILENCE] MARTIN : … What? [HUFF] That’s it? No, no monologue, no mindgames? You love manipulating people! ELIAS : That makes two of us. MARTIN: [HUFF] ELIAS : But no. This is too important for me to jeopardise with cheap “mindgames”. I simply have to trust that when the time comes, you’ll make the right choice. [SILENCE] MARTIN: Great. Great, great. So, what you’re [NERVOUS LAUGHTER] actually saying is that you’re gonna be… no help whatsoever!

… is clearly not getting that.

It’s terrible yet makes so much sense that of all people, Martin would talk to Elias about Peter’s offer, and implicitly seek out… whatever Elias might have to say about it? Elias had been the one to hire Martin in the Institute:

(MAG056) MARTIN: I don’t have a Master’s in parapsychology, I don’t even have a degree. When I was 17, my mom, she… had… she had some problems, and I ended up dropping out of school, t–trying to support us. I tried everything, but no one was hiring. So I… I just kinda started to lie on my applications, sending them out to just about anywhere. For some reason, my lie about parapsychology got me an interview with Elias and, and then a job here. M–most of my employment details are made up, I’m only 29!

… for reasons still unknown – was Elias actually fooled But Would Never Ever Admit It (as of MAG084, at the very least, he knew about Martin’s fake CV (“I mean, that doesn’t actually, er, make her qualified.” “[POINTEDLY] Formal qualifications aren’t everything, Martin.”) but that was long after MAG056 and he could have eavesdropped on that conversation)? Did Elias hire him because Martin was vulnerable and either prone to become canon-fodder or Beholding food, being Full Of Secrets and fearing that they might get discovered? Was there… something else? And in the same way, we’re not sure how Martin ended up working in the Archives – when Tim, in MAG098, pointed out that Jon had asked him to go with him, Martin was curiously silent as if… he couldn’t really say the same. Why is Martin at the Institute? Doesn’t working there for at least nine years mean anything?

I feel like the episode both began with a question (Martin asking where he should stand between The Lonely and The Eye) and ended up with his implicit answer, maybe… after all guided by Elias, when he made a jab at Martin for being into manipulation games too, and for not sharing his information about The Extinction with Jon:

(MAG138) MARTIN: So… so what? What does it mean? Am I supposed to be reassured that new Entities can be born? That there’s some, some kind of… precedent for The Extinction? … Peter? [SILENCE] Huh. Maybe he has gone to a party. […] I don’t know what Peter’s planning, but my–my guess is that it might involve something below the Institute. Hopefully, by the time you get these tapes, I’ll have something more concrete for you. [PAUSE] Good luck, Jon, I– … [HUFF] Stay safe. [CLICK.]

At the end of the episode, Martin’s answer feels twofold: to manipulate, and to choose “Jon”.

Manipulate, because he checked whether Peter was around before revealing that he wasn’t just using the tape recorders because it’s what the archive team does with the statements (MAG134: “I can’t help but notice you’re recording right now?” “It… was a statement, right, that’s what we do.”), but because he’s planning to send information to Jon, through the tape recorders that have always been associated with him (MAG126: “… It’s because he’s back, isn’t it. [SIGH] He’s back, so now you’re going to be… around, again. Listening in. Mff. You missed him, didn’t you. … Yeah. … [VERY SHARP SQUEAL OF DISTORTION] Yeah, me too.”).

I don’t know if it’s enough to go full Web-aligned, but… it feels like between Eye and Lonely, Martin is actually heading towards a third option? Or maybe a neutral ground, since his loyalty for Jon is bypassing the rest as of now? Elias’s arrest had always been presented as Martin’s plan, it’s logical that Elias would remind Martin of it with such insistence (since he’s still stuck there), but it’s still… stricking:

(MAG113) ARCHIVIST: Martin’s plan is solid. I think. MARTIN: I mean, they might just kill him. MELANIE: Good. ARCHIVIST: I mean, maybe. But… I think they’re still our best chance. Even if we did manage to blindside him, I–I don’t know how long we could… hold him. MARTIN: And, in fairness, he’s happy enough to use the police against us. ARCHIVIST: Quite. And I’d rather not be staring down a kidnapping charge on top of everything–

(MAG114) ARCHIVIST: And Martin… he’s okay with it? DAISY: It was his idea. ARCHIVIST: Yeah. You think it’ll work?

(MAG117) MARTIN: These last couple of years, I’ve always been... running, always hiding, caught in someone else’s trap, but… but now it’s my trap. And, well. I think it will work. I know, I know it’s not exactly intricate, but… it felt good, weaving my own little web. […] I guess I’m just… sick of sitting on my hands, drinking tea and hoping everyone’s okay. This way I finally get to do something. It’s gonna hurt, but… I’m ready.

(MAG120) ELIAS: I must admit I’m impressed, Martin. I knew you were all planning something, of course, but I didn’t believe you specifically would have the… er, capacity for boldness that you displayed. It took me quite by surprise. MARTIN: You didn’t just see it in me? ELIAS: Honestly, I didn’t look. For all my power, I will admit I am not immune to making the occasional lazy assumption. I presumed that I knew you thoroughly, but by the time you demonstrated otherwise… well. There was simply too much to keep watching over. I only have two eyes, after all.

(MAG138) ELIAS: Besides which, don’t forget I am still living At Her Majesty’s Pleasure, due in no small part to your actions. […] MARTIN: … What? [HUFF] That’s it? No, no monologue, no mindgames? You love manipulating people! ELIAS: That makes two of us.

(And once again, it is VERY interesting that Elias likened Martin’s depiction of him to Martin himself on the subject of manipulation. Once again: what do you know about the spiders in the Institute and about Jon’s ties with the Web, Elias…)

- It really feels like Martin was Our Protagonist, during this episode? From Jon barely catching him in MAG124, to Martin’s own work alongside Peter at the end of MAG126, to Martin reading a statement in MAG134 to… Martin being the character we follow in different locations in MAG138, getting his point of view (going to see Elias, reading a statement, doing his own follow-up, revealing a bit more of his own agenda).

;;;; I’m still so “!!!” over Elias and Martin being in the same room. Elias was absolutely shitty with him, but at the same time, there is an undercurrent of… honesty? behind their exchanges? Because Martin knows that Elias knows about his relation to Jon and:

(MAG118) ELIAS: [EXASPERATED BREATHING] … Did Jon put you up to this? MARTIN: You think I’m doing this for him? ELIAS: No. It’s just the sort of half-baked scheme he’d come up with. And I’m well aware that you’ll do just about anything for him–   MARTIN: I– ELIAS: –and I don’t need to read your mind for that one. […] MARTIN: Well, I hope you've got something better than that pathetic dig at my feelings for Jon. ELIAS: It’s baffling, really. Such loyalty to someone who really treats you very badly. MARTIN: Oh, is that supposed to be, what, a revelation? ELIAS: [CHUCKLE] You know, I really should have gone for that. Find something that would finally manage to shatter that precious image you have of him.

(MAG138) MARTIN: […] Why am I only hearing about this now, and why doesn’t Jon know?! ELIAS: […] as for our… dear Archivist, I’m afraid I no longer have any real control over what he does or does not know. Unlike yourself! [PAUSE] I notice you haven’t told him either. MARTIN: Yeah. Well. I’m still not sure I really believe it. [EXHALE] A–and, I don’t… I–… I’m, h… ELIAS: Worried he might charge off into another coffin. [SILENCE] … Quite.

… I feel like we always get a glimpse of what Martin isn’t saying, when he speaks to Elias? It’s not the whole picture, it’s not Everything about Martin’s feelings, but there are some bits, some weaknesses that are getting exposed. (And I don’t know if these were Gratuitous Jabs at Martin or if they were meant to get Martin to do exactly the reverse of what Elias was denouncing ;; Because the episode did end with Martin making sure that Jon would know, though indirectly…)

- I’M ABSOLUTELY DDDD: OVER THE FACT THAT

Ahahaha, “This is too important for me to jeopardise with cheap ‘mindgames’” says the guy who sent Basira (and potentially Jon) to focus on The Dark and DIDN’T SAY ANYTHING ABOUT THE EXTINCTION TO THEM, and, in the meantime, discusses The Extinction with Martin when he brought it on the table and DOESN’T MENTION THE DARK’S ACTIVITIES AT ALL WITH HIM. Guess who is back to manipulating through information: THIS GUY. So, there is definitely an agenda behind it; he’s not seriously concerned by The Dark, isn’t he. It’s just a matter of throwing a bone to Basira and making sure that Jon gets to Experience The Dark, isn’t it.

- On the Relationship Between Elias And The Apocalypse:

(MAG080) LEITNER: The Unknowing. ELIAS: [CHUCKLE] Creativity never was their forte. LEITNER: You of all people should want to stop them. ELIAS: And we will. But I don’t think we’ll need your help.

(MAG092) ELIAS: The Unknowing. I need you to stop it. ARCHIVIST: Again with– What is “The Unknowing”? Exactly. ELIAS: A ritual. The Stranger and its kin attempting to gather power enough to bring it closer.

(MAG102) ELIAS: I should have thought preventing the horrific transformation of our world is not solely my concern!

(MAG126) MARTIN: Yeah. You said. … But if things are really so urgent, then why didn’t Elias say anything? PETER: [LAUGH] Because, behind all his bluster, Elias’s just like all the rest. He’s so preoccupied playing the game he doesn’t pay attention to the big picture. He managed to convince himself that he could get his ritual off first, which would have made all of this a… bit moot, but that’s not really an option anymore.

(MAG135) ELIAS: I have been observing a recent increase in people and supplies being moved to the small town of Ny-Ålesund, in Svalbard. An increase which I believe may be linked to a rather desperate attempt, by the People’s Church of the Divine Host, to perform a crude ritual of their own. To bring their… “Mr. Pitch”… into the world. […] You thought the final death of Maxwell Rayner might have sufficiently derailed them? Yes, that was my hope too, but alas it would seem not. […] I rather feel the real shame would be letting the entire world fall into Darkness because of a single person’s wounded pride. Detective. The stakes are far too high for that kind of… indulgence.

(MAG138) MARTIN: So why haven’t you helped him?! ELIAS: My relationship to the apocalypse is more… complicated. MARTIN: [UTTER DISBELIEF] Oh, seriously? ELIAS: Seriously.

TECHNICALLY, we only have Peter’s word that Elias wanted to launch ~his ritual~ because Elias was obviously Very Silent on the issue, but. What is your “relationship to the apocalypse”, Elias – is it just a matter of getting it the way you want it, or not at all…?

(In the way he answered Martin, it sounds almost as if he wouldn’t have been against The Extinction wrecking the world, hence his inaction but? He was probably implying that he had other plans to stop it which involved Beholding’s ritual?)

- Regarding Elias’s agenda:

(MAG122) BASIRA: Elias is locked up. […] A bunch of Section’d officers took him in. He made some sort of deal, I think. But… he’s not getting out anytime soon.

(MAG127) ELIAS: Our… arrangement with the Inspector notwithstanding, I… rather feel that right now all the distrust is very much your own. […] I’ve made it clear my cooperation’s contingent on his not seeing me, and my terms have been accepted thus far.

(MAG138) ELIAS: As for why I’ve done so little about such a looming existential threat… to be blunt, I have been rather busy. MARTIN: [BARELY CONTAINED SNORTING CHORTLE]

Was Elias talking about his activities while still running the Institute, or what he’s currently doing in prison? But oh yes:

(MAG138) MARTIN: Great. Great, great. So, what you’re [NERVOUS LAUGHTER] actually saying is that you’re gonna be… no help whatsoever! ELIAS: … Just like old times~ MARTIN: I don’t know what I expected. [INHALE] Right. Right, we’re done here.

Elias has always been a Very Busy Person.

- … And Peter Has A Very Busy Social Life apparently, too:

(MAG134) PETER: Right! Then, if you’ll excuse me, I have a family thing to get to. […] Okay! Now, I really am running late, so if you don’t mind?

(MAG138) MARTIN: … Peter? [SILENCE] Huh. Maybe he has gone to a party.

Technically, maybe he’s trying to make Martin feel Very Alone by showing off that he has a lot of things to attend, but still. Does anyone even realise he’s there.

- Have I mentioned that ELIAS FINALLY ACKNOWLEDGED PETER’S EXISTENCE? Incredible, I can’t believe, etc.

And he did it in the BEST POSSIBLE WAY:

(MAG138) ELIAS: Come on, Martin. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you. Let’s not start with lies. MARTIN: [LOUD SIGH] Fine. ELIAS: I am so very pleased to see you. MARTIN: Mm-hmm. [SILENCE] ELIAS: No time for pleasantries? Very well, then. To business. What can I do for you? Tired of running budgets for Peter? I know I would be.

Absolutely unprompted and to gratuitously complain about Peter – ALSO, L-O-L ELIAS, “let’s not start with lies” but WHO is lying here. We ALL KNOW that you’re dying to do these budgets, that you’re probably doing them in your head a millisecond before Martin by watching him, seething that he’s doing YOUR precious scheduling and budgeting.

And

(MAG138) ELIAS: [INHALE] Everything Peter has told you is true. MARTIN: Oh… ELIAS: For all his… many faults, Peter is legitimately trying to stop the end of the world as we know it.

…………………. Listen. It’s getting harder and harder to keep in minde that they might NOT be marrying/divorcing for the sixth or seventh time. It sounds so much like bitter exes/nagging spouses………………………. And I mean………………… they deserve each other………….?

(Though, if season 4 is any indication: Elias’s true OTP is with hand gestures. He’s getting WORSE and WORSE with the chain rattling sound.)

Title for MAG139 is out and HHHHHHHHHHHHH once again. Immediate thoughts are for AGNES? AGNES? AGNES? PLEASEPLEASEPLEASE? (Reminder that The Desolation still hasn’t gotten a statement in season 4 so far~). Agnes statement from Gertrude’s stash…? (Is there a tape with Agnes’s voice, somewhere?) Or maybe about The Dark’s victims, to keep with the theme; Julia? Julia’s mother?

And second meaning could as well be about Martin, or more likely… Jon, very obviously. I guess ;;

[allondonboy]

Medicine for the Soul (Ch 9)

Chapter 9 - Andante: tutti  (Ch 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8)

very much tutti. 

bind responsibly folks. if you need information my tumblr is open or please contact your binding person of choice

thanks for your patience with this little fic, feedback is always welcomed

thanks as always to @jjeanmorreau

J’onn gives them a list of accompanists to work through. It’s long, with maybe twenty names, and Alex lets the list sit on top of their pile of music for a full week before having a closer look. The issue, they realise as their stomach twists, is that they have to be open with whoever they choose. They have to make themselves completely vulnerable with whoever is playing the concerto with them.

And that involves coming out.

They haven’t bothered with declaring their pronouns to the rest of their academic year. It doesn’t affect how well they work in the lab because they never hang around long enough to have a conversation. They’re polite to the staff and the staff are polite back and somehow they’ve avoided any situation in which they hear themselves referred to in the third person. It’s a complete non-issue.

One-on-one, for an hour, maybe hours on end, is a different story.

Their accompanist will be the first time they’ve opened their social circle – even if it’s for the purely perfunctory purpose of entering a competition – since Maggie, and Maggie was definitely a special case of at-least-she’s-heard-the-terminology.

Before they know it, they’ve spiralled, and they crush up the list of names in a tight fist.

Lucy doesn’t really do affection and that’s probably one of the reasons they’re such good friends. There’s no time wasted with feelings when you can blurt what you’re thinking and know the other person will roll with it.

This is the one time Alex hesitates about talking to Lucy. The memory of Lucy coming out to them as bi plays itself on loop. It helps, knowing that Lucy was nervous about that. It makes it okay to be nervous about this.

Because they’ve done the reading and the research, and they have the back of a notebook full of evidence and analysis of their thought process, and they have a conclusion, underlined twice.

Non-binary.

It makes sense.

Lucy feels like the natural person to tell first. Secrets are part of her life, partly because so many people keep secrets from her, and if there’s one person Alex knows they can trust with this next jigsaw piece of their life, it’s her.

They’re still nervous, though.

What if Lucy is one of those people who can comprehend sexuality but not gender identity?

What if gay is okay, bi is fine, but this is a step too far?

What if their pronouns are where she draws the line in this friendship of over a decade?

Logically, there’s nothing in Lucy’s character that would result in the What Ifs becoming real. Alex has listened to enough of Lucy’s rants about how justice should be for all corners of the community to know that the chance of Lucy completely accepting them is greater than 95 %.

It’s then that Lucy pops up next to their shoulder with her bag on her back, waving a spare water bottle under Alex’s nose until they take it.

“Race ya,” is all she says in greeting before she takes off up the path with the grace of a mountain goat. Alex sighs and trudges after her.

It’s pure chance that Alex is walking past the practice room when its occupant stretches. Around their wrist is a woven bracelet in rainbow colours and another in what Alex knows with heart-stopping familiarity is the non-binary flag.

Alex pauses outside the ajar door. The person reveals themselves to be a pianist when they crack their knuckles and launch into a set of whirling scales. Alex stays outside for another half hour until the pianist stands, shovels their music into their bag and abruptly stops when they see Alex watching them.

“I need an accompanist,” says Alex bluntly. “How much do you charge?”

“Depends who it is,” the pianist says. They cross their arms and look Alex up and down. “What’s it for?”

“Concerto competition.” Alex doesn’t budge from the doorway.

The pianist nods. “Instrument?”

“Violin.”

“I’m Vasquez.” They hold out their hand and Alex shakes it firmly, and they can’t stop their eyes flicking down to Vasquez’s wrist.

“Alex. Danvers.”

“My card, Danvers. Now, I have class, if you don’t mind?”

Alex makes a mental note to get something to put their growing collection of business cards in as they take it and sidestep out of the way to let Vasquez past.

They don’t choose their moment. It just sort of happens as they near the top of the hill and pause for a snack.

“I want to start using they/them pronouns,” Alex says abruptly and Lucy keeps her eyes trained carefully on their face.

“Sure,” she says, an air of nonchalance about the word though it’s loaded with an invitation to expand.

“I’m non-binary,” offers Alex by way of explanation and Lucy’s gaze still doesn’t waver.

“That’s really cool, Al.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’m glad you figured out whatever was on your mind.”

“Wait – you knew?”

The corner of Lucy’s mouth twitches in a part-smirk, part-smile. “Crinkle.”

Alex repeats it under their breath with a scowl.

“Yeah, like that,” Lucy points. “I knew something was bothering you. I didn’t know it was gender-related.”

“And you’re okay with it?”

Lucy smiles properly now, eyes soft and Alex feels like they’ve just been hugged. “I’m fine with it. You know, we’ve been through some tough shit together. It’ll take more than an identity crisis to get rid of me.”

Alex exhales loudly. “Thanks.”

“Thanks yourself.” Lucy digs into her bag and chucks Alex a bag of trail mix. “Who else knows?”

“Just you.” Alex watches her out of the corner of their eye. A flicker of confusion, then pride, passes over Lucy’s face.

“Did you want to have a play through now?” Vasquez waves them into their apartment and shuts the door, leading them through to a room at the back of the house which, Alex sees now, houses a gleaming upright piano, music stacked in piles all around the room. Alex fidgets with the strap over their shoulder.

“I only really came to give you this.” They hold out the accompaniment. Vasquez takes it and sits on the piano stool, kicking their feet out as they open it up. “Markings are inside.”

“Finally, a musician who knows what they’re doing,” Vasquez mutters and spins to lift up the lid and fold the music out in front of them. They wiggle their fingers and quickly play the first couple of measures with their right hand. Making a pleased noise in the back of their throat, they turn back to Alex who has their eyes closed, and coughs quietly. Alex’s eyes fly open.

“I’ve got a couple of hours free just now. You can put your case there.” Vasquez points to their rather large windowsill. “I’ll get a stand.”

Free of having to make the decision themselves, Alex does as instructed and takes a series of deep breaths as they apply resin to their bow, trying desperately to calm the panic that did its best to overcome them every time they even thought of playing in front of someone new.

“Have you thought about telling Kara? And your parents?”

“Kara yes, Mom and Dad no.” Alex sighs.

“From what I know about Kara, I don’t think she’ll have an issue with it,” says Lucy carefully.

“Is it fair to her for me to tell her, though?”

“Is it fair to you to not?”

“But can I ask her to keep it a secret? I mean, you know what she’s like with secrets, Lucy.”

“She’s okay with important stuff. You want to tell her at some point, right?”

“Yeah.” Alex sighs again and rubs their forehead. “I don’t like keeping things from her. But I don’t want to spook her.”

“Spook her?”

“I don’t want her to think that I’m not me anymore. I am still me.”

“She’ll know that, Alex.”

“How will she? She still has nightmares about the family she’s already lost. I can’t go to her and say ‘hey, the sister you thought you knew, the one who promised to protect you and love you no matter what? Well, she’s not who you thought she was.’”

“You said it yourself. You’re the same person.”

“Yes, but she doesn’t know that.” Frustration leaks into Alex’s voice and they hunch further into themselves. “She doesn’t know that I’ll still protect her and love her. She doesn’t know that I’m not abandoning her.”

“Give Kara some credit,” says Lucy. “She’s not going to think you’re abandoning her.”

“No? Lucy, she thinks I know everything. Not – not school stuff, not smart stuff, but she thinks I know everything about how this world works. So how can I confess that I am just as baffled by it, by my own mind as any other human being?”

“Alex,” breathes Lucy. Alex knows then that she’s seen straight through them. “None of this makes you weak.”

“I know, but…” Alex struggles for a moment. “The one thing I’ve always been able to rely on is my mind, and now I’m doubting everything I’ve ever known about myself and that is fucking scary.”

“But it’s also okay. Kara will get it. Doubting yourself is part of being human.”

“Oh yeah, Kara will get that,” snorts Alex. Lucy sticks her tongue out and some of the tension seeps out of Alex’s shoulders.

“Not my fault you have an alien for a sister. Some of us have flawed humans instead, thank God.”

Alex is silent for a moment. When they speak again, they can’t stop the panic clinging to their words.

“Lucy, how do I tell her I don’t want to be called her sister?”

They don’t hear Lucy’s reply the first time she gives it. They force their eyes to refocus on Lucy whose hand is squeezing their shoulder tight.

“You don’t have to stop being her sister. Gender neutral language is there if you want to use it, but you don’t have to.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been her sister,” says Alex. They stare at Lucy, who is still watching them with more patience than they’ve ever seen her exhibit. Their heart continues to pound. “Ever since she arrived, we’ve always been the Danvers sisters. People have taken us as a package deal. The Danvers Sisters, who should come with a warning. Y’know. All that stuff. A unit. But I don’t think I’ve ever felt like a sister, exactly. It’s not a wrong description, just not the best fit. So maybe sibling is.”

Being around Vasquez is comfortable. There’s no personal information exchanged at any of their meetings. They interact for the music only, and it’s freeing.

Alex doesn’t bring up gender, and neither does Vasquez, though Alex suspects they have an inkling. Alex runs into Vasquez’s girlfriend as they’re leaving a rehearsal one evening and they shake her hand with a tight smile.

They know for sure that Vasquez knows after their first attempt at playing while binding. It’s only then that Alex realises how long their break from the violin had been. By the time they’d found both the courage and the funds to buy their first binder, their violin had to have been collecting dust for a matter of years, so they hadn’t thought twice about scheduling a two-hour practice with Vasquez on a binding day.

Alex plays for half an hour before their side twinges and their bow stutters on the strings. Vasquez waits patiently for them to stretch and they continue, fingers hammering away, barely making it to the end of the movement before they have to stretch again. They think nothing of it until they enter a fast passage and the number of breaths they’re taking isn’t getting them the amount of air they need and they stop abruptly.

Their heart is pounding and their head starting to swim a little, and Alex takes three stumbling steps to the side to put down their violin and lean against the wall, breathing as deeply as possible and feeling more claustrophobic than they’ve ever felt in their life.

“Bathroom?” they manage to squeeze out, and Vasquez points them to it without a word. They fumble with their shirt buttons and grip the hem of their binder as tightly as they can, peeling it up until they can take an unrestricted breath in. They begin to relax, binder still tangled around their shoulders, arms around their head, and give two hefty coughs.

“You have to learn to breathe with the music.”

Alex frowns as they take in these new instructions. “Why?”

“Think of this piece, any piece, as a series of musical sentences. It makes no sense if you play it without phrasing those sentences, just as it makes no sense to perform a play in a monotonous voice.”

Alex doesn’t look convinced.

Eventually, Alex pulls their binder off. They stay in the bathroom, sat on the closed lid of the toilet, running the material through their fingers as they work out an escape plan.

Vasquez comes to the rescue when they knock, and Alex realises how long they’ve been in there.

“Danvers, all okay?”

“Yeah,” they reply shortly. Embarrassment runs up their neck, red.

“Do you want to borrow a baggy hoodie?”

Alex sits up a bit. “Please.” They listen as footsteps retreat and then return, and they pop the lock on the door to crack it open. Vasquez’s hand dangles a deep blue, almost unfairly soft-looking hoodie where they think Alex’s hands are and Alex takes it, gratefully.

As they pull it on and fold their binder into a small enough wad to stuff in their back pocket, Alex concedes to themselves that Maggie’s point, made as she set up in another bar, about meeting other people in the community being useful and nice might have been a good one.

“Have you ever watched a really, really good orchestra play? Have you noticed that before they start, everyone takes a deep breath, together? String players, percussionists, the conductor, as well as the musicians who need to actually blow into their instruments. That’s because it’s part of the music.”

Alex did the research before they bought the binder. They know the risks, the safety concerns, and as much as they hate it, they take a week’s break from binding while their ribs recover and they get their confidence in their playing back. It’s okay for the days when they don’t mind their chest not being so flat. It’s okay for lab days, where they’ve long made their peace with the fact that an eight-hour lab session followed by another five in the library is several hours’ binding too many – and anyway, their lab coat covers most of what they want to hide. The other days?

They’re hell.

There’s no reason, absolutely no reason at all why they should feel like this.

But they do.

It’s unsettling.

Both in how it just appears and how it feels, the sensation of something being not quite right and yet they can’t put their finger on what.

The dysphoria sets in early one morning before they’ve even properly woken up, and for the first time, Alex seriously contemplates skipping classes to hide under their duvet. Instead, they bundle up in far too many layers for the weather with their favourite beanie and jeans and brave the unsuspecting lecture theatre.

They barely last the day. As soon as their last lecture finishes, they’re rushing back to change into their baggy shorts and two-sizes-too-big hoodie. It’s the wrong size by accident, but when they wear it and slouch a little, it’s almost as good as their binder, and brings with it a sense of relief that nearly makes Alex cry.

Rao.

It’s

dysphoria.

And

and suddenly that makes so much sense because if there is one feeling that characterises discomfort or distress at the mismatch between what Eliza says and what their heart feels then this is it, this is it,

it’s dysphoria.

But having the label for this godawful feeling that they’ve had before doesn’t help and if anything, it makes it worse because there is nothing they can do.

Nothing.

So they go for a run.

They bind.

They contemplate, just for a moment, pulling out their violin but no, no, bad, bad idea.

They bind and they wear their favourite jeans that hide their hips and their favourite beanie that makes their jaw look sharper and their favourite shirt that hugs their shoulders and their hoodie, their faithful hoodie.

Their mind is fogged up and numb. It lingers for days, and they know Lucy has noticed now because Alex is not quite as sharp with their comebacks as they usually are, they’re not as bothered about the mud on the floor or the noise Lucy makes coming in early in the morning.

Maggie notices, and Alex fights the instinct to push her away and hide.

Instead, they try to do their best to explain. Maggie tries to understand. They’re sure they botch the explanation of what’s wrong amid disgusted mumbles about silhouettes and reflections and clothes that don’t hang the way they should.

It’s just one of those things, they suppose, that’s hard to understand if you’ve never experienced it.

Nevertheless, the discomfort sits on the back of their tongue and they curl up on their bed with the latest edition of Nature – the one piece of post Eliza is never late at sending on – and retreat behind the familiar shield of science. It helps, the tiniest bit.

Gone is the unease they’d felt at the idea of grieving in the room they shared with Lucy. In its place is the terror at being anywhere outside the room where they could be seen, and it completely slips their mind that they’re meant to be meeting Maggie at the library.

“Danvers?”

No.

No no no no Maggie can’t see them like this, no. Telling her about it and seeing her react to them as this wreck are two completely different things.

“Al, you in there?”

There’s scraping of keys in the lock and Alex wonders just for a second when they gave Maggie a key (and how they had a key to give her) but then two of their three favourite people are pouring through the door and the concern isn’t just on Lucy’s face but on Maggie’s too.

Concern, and not disgust.

Alex’s initial reaction is to dart off their bed and stand awkwardly by their desk, hand in their hair as though everything is fine.

They ignore the exchanged look that means Maggie and Lucy have seen right through them.

“Hey, guys,” they say. “Good day? How’re you both doing? Everything’s good here.”

“Cut it out, Alex.” They can tell Maggie means business in that take-no-shit way of hers. She folds her arms and shifts her weight onto one leg and eyeballs them, hard. “What can I do? To help you?”

Alex shrugs and folds their own arms.

“What do you usually do?”

“None of that’s working,” Alex grits out. “I – it – usually I can work my way through this but it’s not working, and I don’t know why.”

They slowly slip back onto their bed. Lucy and Maggie settle either side of them. The three sit in silence until Maggie gives a deep sigh, squeezing Alex’s knee.

“I have a friend – from my own support group, you really should give them a try – who’s dating someone non-binary. I can see if they’d be willing to meet you, or we could meet up the four of us, or something. It’s got to be better than this, right?”

She has a point. And even though they can think of very few things worse than having to talk about feelings with a stranger - even a stranger vetted by Maggie – the prospect of someone understanding what this feels like is quite attractive.

***

It turns out to be the thing that helps most in perhaps the most surprising way, because this non-binary acquaintance is actually Vasquez.

They didn’t know Maggie and Vasquez’s girlfriend knew each other.

Vasquez didn’t know that Maggie and Alex knew each other either, apparently.

Maggie goes to introduce Alex to Vasquez and Erin and sees the nods of recognition the three of them share.

Somehow Vasquez knows them well enough to let them take the lead and Alex stumbles through an explanation because gender and music in the same space? Unchartered, unsettling territory. Maggie, thankfully, doesn’t press it, but with the furrow in her brow, Alex can see her marking it as a conversation for later.

Maggie and Erin head for the pool table while Vasquez settles opposite Alex at the booth. Alex can sense it coming – and it’s hard to not bolt, but they trust Maggie and they trust Vasquez to a point and if Maggie thinks this could help them, then, well. It’s worth a try, they reckon. In their head, they nod decisively, and they sit a little taller.

“Alright, Danvers?” says Vasquez casually and Alex nods again, leaning back and taking a sip of lukewarm beer. Vasquez leans closer, clearly not one to beat around the bush. “Erin said that Maggie said you wanted to meet more people like us.”

Alex stiffens despite themselves.

“I’m part of a group who do game nights and trips to the movies, stuff like that. It’s a group where none of us are cis.”

Impossibly, Alex stiffens more.

“You don’t have to make any proper commitment,” continues Vasquez as they study the collection of beer mats on the table, avoiding eye contact that Alex doesn’t want to make. “I can let you know when we’re meeting and you can decide on a case by case basis, if you’d like.”

Alex gives a shrug. They want it to be dismissive, but it ends up more curious.

“And listen. This kind of chat isn’t my forte either, but I know what it’s like to feel alone with…stuff like this, and I want you to know that I’m here for you as much or as little as you want me to be. It doesn’t change anything that happens musically between us. And we never have to speak about this again.”

“Sounds great,” manages Alex. Vasquez’s eyes twinkle at them in a relieved smirk.

“What do you say we go and show them how to really play pool?”

Alex gratefully follows them to where their girlfriends are setting up a new game. Alex leans into Maggie’s side and wraps an arm around her waist, leaning down to whispers a ‘thank you’ in her ear. Maggie squeezes their hand briefly and hip checks them as she hands them her cue.

***

“Why do you not talk about your music?”

It comes out of the blue as they walk hand-in-hand to Maggie’s room. Alex sighs.

“It’s not a criticism,” clarifies Maggie. “You’re intensely private about it, even with me. Even with Lucy.”

“Are you not?”

“How could I? I play in public more than anything else. I guess, I don’t have the luxury of privacy when it comes to music.”

Alex chews their lip. “Kara…and my mom. They’ve been the priority since Dad died, y’know? It never ends well if I express any sort of opinion at home and I think,” they say slowly, “that part of me still feels ashamed that I’m doing something that lets me be angry at the universe for taking Dad.”

Maggie hms beside them. “I’m sorry, Alex.”

“Oh, it’s, eh,” dismisses Alex.

“No.” Maggie spins them so she can look up seriously into Alex’s eyes. “The days of you pushing down your feelings are officially over, Alex.”

Alex doesn’t know what to do with that, so they just kiss her.

[detectivesplotslies]

People & Plans

Description: They’ve seen the truth of the outside world, and Maki’s gathered them together in the dining hall. But someone’s not coming, and there’s no changing that, but Tsumugi can’t let it go.

Word Count: 2286 

Read it here on AO3

Note: This is a pretty dark scene, just a what-if I had rattling around, Tsumugi’s POV, major character death, Chapter 5 for the game canon, divergent for this scene specifically. But I haven’t written anything in ages so I’m proud to have finished it! ---

When did plans and people start falling apart, in different directions so quickly ?

The three of them stood in the dining hall, waiting for Maki to return. So few of them, and without the louder participants, the silence was oppressive. No one tried to break it. Each of them was exhausted, bags under their eyes, and there was nothing left to say. Himiko’s hat was askew. Even Kiibo’s eyes seemed dimmer.

Tsumugi’s downcast gaze flickered up to his face briefly, and then to Himiko’s. Her own hands fidgeted with each other. It had been a little while after the morning announcement when Maki had come to get them all, escorting them here one at a time. When they arrived at the dining hall, she noticed it was gone. Clearly, Maki had found it, as planned, though hadn’t mentioned it yet. The others seemed to think they were here to end things, once and for all. Tsumugi supposed they were right, in a sense. Things were going to be set right again.

Maki was taking a while to come back. Perhaps she was talking to him before they came over. They were closer to each other than the rest of them.

After all, they were the sidekicks. They needed to make up, probably, after the sour note things left off on. Even the hopeless might be heartwarming ?

However, when the door to the dining hall swung open, and they looked up only the long haired assassin strode in. Her shoulders were tense, her fists balled up, and jaw set. She glared around the measly congregation.

“I gathered you all here because I found something.”

“...”

“This morning when I-”

“W-wait, hold on,” Tsumugi stammered, the others just listening in their heavy silence still, seeming to not even notice the absence. She looked around as though to punctuate her next question, trying to go back to disinterest in her voice that should be there, but something anxious creeps into it. “Weren’t you getting Shuichi?” “He’s not coming.” There’s an edge to Maki’s voice, and her eyes narrowed on the stammering cosplayer. “But, before… we talk about that, I found a flashback light here in the dining hall. I wanted to gather everyone to see it, but that’s no longer possible. So we have some decisions to make.” “Not coming? But if it’s a flashback light he has to be here, it only works once-” “Tsumugi-”

“I have to agree with Tsumugi, we can’t be making decisions without everyone that we can reach. It’s not logical.” “Did you tell him why? I can go try if-” “Tsumugi, he’s not coming. He can’t .” There’s some finality to that. A touch of strain, something held back. That didn’t sound like a simple refusal. Even the others looked up at her questioningly.

“Why not?” Himiko was the first to ask. Maki’s sharp glare fell to her shoes. The pause stretched between them, and she opened her right fist and smoothed out a folded paper in it. A note.

“I guess we’ll do this first then...” She was very calm about it all. Collected. That would be reassuring to most people.

Tsumugi knew better. She was not calm. She was in character. In the face of death an assassin is professional, calm. In the face of death…

“No that’s wrong,” Tsumugi blurted out, not even considering the irony. Without waiting for confirmation, she started out the door into the hallway, striding quickly towards the dorms, lethargy gone in a burst. Maki didn’t move. Someone called out behind her, maybe Kiibo. No one made a move to stop her.

She stepped out of the school, only briefly wary for Exisals. Kokichi did still have that remote. But the courtyard was deserted, so cosplayer made her way to the dorms and towards Shuichi’s door, which was ajar. It didn’t look forced, perhaps he hadn’t locked it at all, and Maki had just tried the knob and walked in. So much for a closed room case...

“Shuichi..?” She called out, as she stepped in. She didn’t knock, but calling out just seemed right. No one walks up expecting to find this, even when they’ve been told. It’s plain natural to disbelieve it, right?

She stared into the detective’s dorm room, adjusting her glasses. Had she discovered any bodies herself yet? She supposed the magic show counts. After a moment of blank faced of scrutiny, she remembered she should react. Her hand went to her mouth for a gasp. It was an empty gesture, but so many of hers were now.

He was there, and it almost felt like she was watching someone else find him. She could almost hear the music cue. Her stomach dropped. It was strange, almost like a conditioned response.

Shuichi was on the bed, curled up on his side. If you weren’t looking for it, he might be asleep. His rumpled clothes were the same uniform as when she last saw him, torn and marked from their trip through the tunnel, but intact. His hair was a disheveled bedhead mess. But his eyes were half-open, out of focus. If he hadn’t been facing the doorway it’d have been a true surprise. A small bottle was held in a rigid grip of his left hand. There was no sign of a struggle, no blood, no scratches. Serene. Everything about it was wrong for where they were. But it was too soon. This shouldn’t have happened, that’s what Kaito had been for. Ah wait …

And something none of them had seen in awhile, his hat, was placed very tidily and deliberately on the bedside table, next to one more little bottle.

She should wait for the others. She can’t disturb the crime scene. She needs them to investigate. She… She wonders if they’ll even come ?

Tsumugi glanced back out into the quiet dorms. Maki had pulled out a note. Did Shuichi leave it…? What did it say? An apology? An explanation? A proper dying message may be too much to hope for, even if he was a detective. It might have been prudent to stick around for it… but she'd come too far to just turn back.

Had anyone even seen him since they came back from the tunnel? In her moments out of her own room the night previous, Tsumugi had seen no one, but knew of Maki and Kokichi’s movements. All eyes had been on the hangar, hers included. And of course no one had seen plain old her. As for Kiibo and Himiko... The dorms were just a silent wasteland for the despairing.

The girl paused a moment, took a breath and braced herself as she crossed the threshold into the room. The detective was gone. Someone needed to investigate. Even if the conclusions were obvious, surely there was something to this case. Something to give him the send off he deserved. There had to be, they were so close.

She crossed the room, stepping carefully over some discarded laundry, and his shoes at the side of the bed, haphazardly unlaced. Carefully, Tsumugi pulled back her long hair, tucking it behind her shoulder so it didn’t fall on the body and leaned over to see the bottle in Shuichi’s hand. The poison. The murder weapon.

The bottle itself was mostly empty, a few stray drops clung to the lip of it. Some of the label showed through his pale fingers. It was the sort that had a built in anesthetic put you to sleep, and then minutes later stopped your heart. She remembered it from a game she played once. In the end everyone had avoided the.poison in that, but not here, huh . The cap wasn’t anywhere nearby. Under the bed? It had to be from Shuichi’s lab, but… That couldn’t be right…

Shuichi disliked his lab, and didn’t spend time there. She really doubted he left his room and went all the the way to the 4th floor for this. Someone would have noticed. Wouldn’t they?

A moment came to mind from when they first went there. Kokichi running out of the lab with little bottles in his arms laughing. Maybe that’s where they came from. Maybe rather early for a Chekhov gun but it could work , but if she needed convincing the others definitely wouldn't take it for granted if played that way.

Had Shuichi ever caught up with him? Had he returned them? Had someone else returned them to Shuichi? She would have to check but there was likely no proof. And of course he could just have it. Reasons weren't always as tidy as a plot made them.

She moved over to the bedside table, and idly picked up his hat while looking around. Her hands found the detailing at the back, the three white stripes, fingers running over the seams thoughtfully as she searched. Comforting, familiar. Like an old friend. A friend who was gone.

The unopened bottle next to it she could read the label of, and unlike the one clenched in the cold hand it was an antidote. The antidote paired to the poison he took? Murder was looking less promising, but it could be a setup! All someone had to do was poison him in his sleep, forge a note and create a crime scene. A certain someone could even lockpick his way in, if someone argued Shuichi wouldn’t recklessly leave his door unlocked. They’d just leave it open to make it less suspicious on the way out. If the antidote was in plain sight surely the trial would lead them to him having chosen not to have it and then- The trial.

Shuichi was always the one leading the charge towards the trial. For the sake of their friends. For the fallen. But since Gonta… he’d looked to regret that stance. Himiko’s positive energy had washed up since Kokichi’s declaration. Sure, she could rely on Kiibo’s inner voice to bring up their duty but he was outnumbered. And she couldn’t sway the group. She always was the one to fall to plain peer pressure. ...would they even be able to force a trial? Kokichi had the Exisals. Unless he and Kaito came out to see what was happening and he relinquished his control, this was going to come to an impasse.

Was it all over because of one weak detective? His last words from the tunnel played over in her mind.

“...Coward.” Maki had said.

.”..I know. I just… don’t have the strength. I can’t fight back… I can’t do it. …”

Tsumugi’s hands gripped tighter on the bill of the black cap.

Had it been too much? She thought he could handle it, even with the detour the plot was taking. She believed that he was the one who would finish it...

Tsumugi’s drifting thoughts came back to the dorm room. Maki had been in here before her, but how closely had she looked at everything? Had the note been obvious or hidden in a pocket? Surely she had checked the body vitals but…

Had she read the bottles? The one in Shuichi’s hand remained so maybe not. Tsumugi’s fingers twitched on the hat’s brim.

She’d hidden evidence before. No one ever thought to frisk anyone on the way to the trials. Accusations like that happened in the courtroom. She could change some things, remove some things. Make it more interesting. Fix it. She could fix it.

Wasn’t that already what she was trying to do? Her planned fix, her hope for everyone, was in the dining hall with the others, unused. She was up all night working on it, tying it all together. She should have been watching the pieces on the board not the ones to come. Hard to see the board when you’re on it too...

It was too late for that hope, but justice and despair could always have another hurrah.

Kiibo would ask what was right to do, and wouldn’t feel right without following through. He’d been getting closer with Shuichi, as far as she could tell.

Maki who found him, who spoke to him last, who has been watching the hangar since they came back, can’t help but feel some responsibility. Right? Even if the responsibility was completely misplaced.

Himiko who’s only closure to her other friends’ deaths came from this sad detective wouldn’t abandon the truth. She had wanted Tenko to matter, why couldn’t Shuichi?

Kaito would want to fight it, if he was still around by the end of the investigation. A sidekick he never made up with? Think of the guilt if he let it go.

.... and Kokichi with his plan to end the game, wouldn’t stand by and let something like this force him into silence. That might not help her, but it was something.

Surely… Surely she could find a way to help them find a better ending. It was the least she could do. Because plainly it wouldn’t end like this. Right, right ?

The hat shook in her hand.

She couldn’t let this weakness be the reason it was over. She couldn’t let this vulnerability she made be her slipshod ending. She couldn’t leave it like this. So close.

Tsumugi reached for the antidote, and opened her jacket looking for a nice safe pocket to tuck it in.

“Wait Himiko-” “I said let go of me-!”

Tsumugi’s eyes shot up, peering over the rim of her glasses at the blurry figures bursting into the room, red-faced, stopping and staring at her, standing over the body and tucking the tiny bottle into her pocket and holding Shuichi’s hat in the other. Ding dong, bing bong . “A body has been discovered!”

Pulled between people and plans, When did I begin falling apart ?

[spootiliousrps]

Repost for a follower

@alien-space-loser

You’re now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!

You both like Sabriel.

Stranger: ((Reverse!Verse - Gabriel and Castiel are hunters, Sam and Dean are angels)) So, this was not how Gabriel had expected his day to go. But, when it came to angels, all bets were off anyway. After what had to be half a dozen apocalypses he’d fought together with his brother - certainly enough to make him exasperated that he actually had cause to ponder he plural of ‘apocalypse’ - perhaps it would have been a logical assumption that he’d learned from his mistakes. But, apparently not. Dean had been with them since the beginning; nothing was about to deter the guy from mooning over Castiel like some sort of lovesick winged puppy. Which Gabriel had finally come to terms with, after much bitching. But Sam? Sam was… difficult. Sam was in the ‘not-quite-an-ally’ category; an untested variable who could just as easily screw them over as help them. So, naturally, as was his way, Gabriel had thrown himself full-force at the problem, and summoned the angel to a ring of holy fire. Which, he was beginning to realise, had probably been a bad idea. Who knew?

You: [reading

You: ]

Stranger: ((Thanks!))

You: [[Fair warning… My Angel!Sam is both a little rusty and kind of an ass at time but here it goes…]]

Stranger: ((Ahh, don’t worry about it at all! :D))

You: Sam Winchester, Angel of the Lord and Protector of Earth… was trapped. It was pretty embarrassing, actually. He had been there when God created the heavens and yet here he was surrounded by flaming oil as he stared down the human before him. Granted, it was a Novak but it still stung. He had kept an eye on the brothers long enough to had thought he knew all of their tricks. It wasn’t that he was concerned about them but about his brother’s fascination with the younger one. Angels who fell in love with human were doomed to a torture that even Hell couldn’t recreate. He had made his disapproval known but Dean was stubborn. Still, when the human’s turned on them he had expected it to be Castiel… not the fun loving elder brother. Lightening struck outside the window of the warehouse they stood in, his anger flaring. His power might be contained by the trap he had found himself but he still had some effect on the world around them… especially when he was in a bit of a temper. “Release me, now; or I won’t hesitate to slaughter both you and your brother.” He warned flatly, pinning the man, who was small even for a human, with a look that obviously meant business.

Stranger: Gabriel had an excellent pokerface. It was one of his best assets, honestly - in actual poker, and in situations such as this one. To his credit, he only flinched a tiny amount when the crack of lightning striking far too close for comfort sounded outside. He shifted his weight a little, folded his arms over his chest, and gave his best sardonically raised eyebrow in response to the outburst of temper. “I mean, I will. Eventually.” He assured the angel, tilting his head a little to the side for a brief second. “I mean, assuming I’m going to avoid the whole ‘slaughter’ thing, because that’s really not much of an incentive for-“ He cut himself off. Maybe running his mouth wasn’t wise, here.

You: “For a Novak.” Sam finished for him, his gaze following ever movement the man made. “Oh, but it will be.” He explained as if talking to a child. “You and your brother may have found numerous ways to break out of hell but neither of you have stepped foot into heaven.” Sam explained, his honey gaze turning to a gold glow, his power itching to get out. “Of course, you won’t be joining the other souls… I’ll make sure of that.” He stepped forward, the circle just large enough for him to walk along the edge without being burned. “I don’t like being trapped Gabriel… And I tend to hold a grudge.” He added, gaze following his foot falls. “Tell me what you want and make it quick.”

Stranger: Gabriel had to admit to himself that the ethereal glow of Sam’s eyes set something twisting in his gut. Trepidation, possibly, because he was under no illusions just how powerful this guy was. And pissing him off? Yeah, probably not the most effective way to convince him to join the cause. Why had he thought this was a good idea, again? He watched the angel prowl around the trap, eyes fixed on him, and licked his lips fleetingly before speaking again. “Look, I’m not trying to invoke your holy wrath, or anything. And as sweet as a stairway to heaven sounds, I’m planning on going a few more rounds before I do finally check out, so…” He cleared his throat. “I just wanted to ask you a few questions, that’s all. I figured this was probably the best way to make sure you wouldn’t immediately leave. Or smite me.”

You: Sam’s harsh gaze shot up almost instantly at the mention of questions, his eyes almost piercing into Gabriel’s souls. Had Dean hinted to the human what Sam’s weaknesses were? Had his brother betrayed him? No. He couldn’t have. Still… Sam’s curiosity always won. He tilted his head to one side as if considering his options. Despite the fact that he practically hated the Novaks… they had knowledge he wanted. He was one of the most successful scholars in all of heaven, if Gabriel had discovered that fact then it wouldn’t be a surprise that he was using it against him. The question was, was Sam willing to risk it? “Very well.” He stated after a moment, turning to face him completely. “I will answer a few of your questions but my answers will be conditional and you must accept the answers I provide.” He warned, the lightening that had struck once more only moments before had begun to fade, along with the storm that had been raging.

Stranger: Now that was an interesting reaction. Not scorn or derision or outrage. Which was… progress. Probably. Gabriel’s eyes flickered to the window, noting the storm beginning to wane beyond the glass. Okay. Good signs. He soon turned his attention back to Sam, though, brows drawing together as he worked to decipher that response. “Fair enough.” He said slowly. And, damn, he hadn’t exactly planned this far ahead. Where to start? Well, there was Dean. That was a safe beginning point, he could springboard from there. “Um. What do you really think about your brother working with us?”

You: Sam grimaced at the question, an answer in itself, still he spoke. “It is his assigned duty. Which is why I have not interfered.” Sam provided, giving a half answer. It wasn’t that Dean was working with the human’s that made his grace crawl, it was the angel’s feelings towards them that bothered him. “Now, it is my turn. An answer for an answer.” He explained. “Is your brother some sort of witch?” He asked simply. He was almost certain that the man was not but could not fathom any other way Dean could have fallen for a human beyond sorcery.

Stranger: Gabriel refrained from pointing out that Sam hadn’t actually answered his question about how he /felt/ - but his tactful rewording of the question was derailed entirely by the angel’s response. He stared at him for a moment, dumbfounded as to how he’d even come to that conclusion. “I… what? No, obviously not.” He scoffed. His brows drew together in incredulity as he stared at the angel. “Why would you think so? That’s a stretch, man, even for you.”

You: Sam gave a hum at the other man’s answer, as if considering it before accepting Gaberial’s second question. “I have me reasons. Many of which are sound.” He replied with another half-answer. “My turn.” He pointed out. “Has Castiel given Dean anything that you are aware of? Anything; even something as mundane as food.” He asked, moving back to the center of the circle and sitting down, cross legged on the concrete floor; signaling that this might take a while.

Stranger: Gabriel was starting to think he’d never get a straight answer out of this guy. The disbelief remained in his gaze when the angel settled himself in the middle of the circle, apparently content to remain there for some time. Which was an improvement on the impromptu lightning storm, so he wasn’t about to complain. Still, standing over him felt weird, so he turned to drag a crate from one edge of the room in front of the flames, perching himself on top of it. The angel’s next question was as baffling as the last, and he blinked before shaking his head. “I don’t know, maybe?” He guessed. “I mean, I guess we’ve introduced him to the joys of human food and crappy beer. He likes pie.” He added helpfully with a shrug. “So yes, I guess so.”

You: Sam pursed his lips but nodded, deep in thought over the answer. Silence fell for a moment before he glanced up at the human and arched a brow. “You’re next question.” He pointed out. He had a very long list of his own and though he knew getting through all of them would take some time he was not prepared to wait on the other man if at all possible. He did study him in that moment however, taking note of the sandy hair that was so different from his brothers and the deep gaze that signaled a life far longer than his own.

Stranger: Gabriel watched the angel for a handful of seconds more before he huffed and dragged a hand through his hair. Well, at least he wasn’t exactly giving away state secrets, here. But he wasn’t getting much in return, either. Maybe it was time for a more direct approach. “What do you think about us? Me and Cas?” He held up his hand quickly, adding; “And I know what Heaven in general thinks, thanks very much. I’m talking about you specifically.”

Stranger: ((Just in case I pass out, my email is ************@gmail.com if you wanna continue. It’s nearly 2am here, but I’m on night shift tomorrow so I’m trying to make myself stay awake!))

You: Sam arched a brow but gave a small shrug. “I do not see how that is relevant but I’ll play along.” He admitted softly. “Besides currently wanting you dead for entrapping me; I do not trust either of you. Your brother is the more level headed out of the two of you but he is too soft hearted for the tasks you face. You are immature and unreliable but necessary. You are… curious.” He added after a moment. “While his motive are… worrisome.” His brows furrowed in thought but he brushed it aside before offering his own question. “Is your brother talented with potions or the like?”

You: [[10-4. I can understand that. Mine is *********@gmail.com. Just so you know as well.]]

Stranger: ((Awesome)) The sardonic eyebrow was back. Sam was one to talk about irrelevant questions. But this time, he at least got a more satisfactory answer. That was… blunt, but refreshingly honest. And okay, he could work with that. There were some trust issues to work on, but he had a lifetime of practice with those. “I really don’t know where you’ve got the idea that Cas is some sort of Hogwarts prodigy.” He deadpanned. “For the record, he sucks at potions. If ever we have to do spell stuff for a hunt - which is are, by the way - that’s my job. He’s too practical.” Which didn’t exactly translate, he was aware, but he didn’t much care. “Why are you so suspicious of him, anyway?”

Stranger: ((*which is rare))

You: Sam’s glare returned. He wasn’t prepared to answer that question. Still, if Castiel was as Gabriel said then he wasn’t what Sam should be concerned with. Perhaps, Gabriel was the one poisoning his brother’s mind? But what could he gain from their brothers’ relationship? “I am no longer suspicious of Dean.” He answered honestly to the question, narrowly avoiding giving to much information to the man. “What is your intentions with my brother?” He asked plainly.

Stranger: Gabriel had honestly never wanted to facepalm so hard in his life. He had a feeling the gesture would have been lost on the angel, though - or at least the comedic value would have been seriously wasted - so he refrained. Just. “You know what I meant.” He huffed. The next question drew him back in, and he couldn’t help a laugh. “I don’t know about me, but I’m pretty sure Castiel wants to be him so hard that coins come out. If they can ever stop mooning over each other long enough to actually let that happen, that is.” A smirk - and then he realised very quickly that what he’d said was probably blasphemy, and Sam would probably not take kindly to any sort of graphic imagery of what their brothers might be getting up to. He grinned sheepishly. “Uh, that is to say…” He began - then stopped. Grinned wider. Turned delighted eyes on Sam. “Wait. Is that why you were asking all those questions about Cas? Because he seduced your brother?” Another bark of laughter, and he tilted his head back, chuckling honest, open mirth.

Stranger: ((*to bang him so hard coins come out))

Stranger: ((Of all the words to miss))

You: [[XD]]

You: The image of coins escaping Dean was both confusing and humorous to him but he refrained from showing it as his focus returned to Gabriel as he began to laugh, the sound hearty and full. It was actually… kind of nice. The sound seemed to wash over him, smoothing down his ruffled feathers despite him wanting the opposite. His confusion only grew as he regarded the human. “I would not call it seduction but yes. I do not understand how such a creature has such an effect on Dean.” He answered. “Is Hogwarts some sort of training or school that you were apart of?” He was obviously serious as the words left him, gaze still suspicious.

Stranger: The question about Hogwarts had Gabriel laughing again just as it was beginning to subside. God, he hadn’t laughed like this in ages. It was freeing. He caught his breath, wiped tears of mirth from his eyes, and coughed another chuckle before continuing. “Hogwarts is-“ He began, then thought better of it and shook his head. “You know what, yeah, sure. Let’s go with that.” He grinned. He canted his head to the side as he regarded the angel, eyes bright and curious. “Cas didn’t put any sort of spell on Dean. Not like that, anyway.” He huffed. “In all your years watching humans, how often have you… you know, actually come down and interacted with us?”

You: Sam sensed the lie and his frown deepened, the shiver that ran up his spine at Gabriel’s joy making him turn sour once more. Regardless he accepted the answer, an unspoken rule of their agreement. He would have to accept the other man’s answers just as he expected the other man to do the same. “I have visited Earth, or communed with humans a total of forty two times, not including our current meeting.” He answered matter-of-factly. “Why have you lied to me?” He asked, not seeming angry about the matter.

Stranger: Forty two. It sounded like a lot, but exactly how old was Sam? Was that really enough to get the flavour of what humans were all about? Not enough to read Harry Potter, apparently. The next question gave him pause, made him wonder if maybe he’d angered the angel somehow - but he didn’t seem it. He frowned. “I didn’t-“ He said, then stopped. “Oh, you mean just now. That wasn’t… not a lie, exactly. Just a joke. It’s… Hogwarts is a fictional school, from a book. About wizards. And so help me, if I end up explaining the plot of Harry Potter to an angel, we’re gonna be here a long time.” He quirked another smile. “Maybe I’ll show you the movies sometime. We could have a film night. And popcorn.” The idea made him grin. Cas would hate it.

You: [[I can’t tell you how much I’m loving this! ROFL T.T]]

Stranger: ((I’m giggling, omg))

Stranger: ((I love your Sam))

You: [[AW!!! Thank you! This is my first reverse!verse and only my second time rping sabriel… So that means a lot <3]]

Stranger: ((Really? Colour me impressed!))

You: It was Sam’s turn to arch a brow. He didn’t really understand what a fictional school had to do with there conversation or why Gabriel had felt the need to bring it up in the first place. It only cemented the fact that he didn’t think he’d ever understand humans. He sighed, hoping the human gesture would signal his lack of amusement… that was how it worked… wasn’t it? “I don’t understand your fascination with moving pictures. Especially the ones you keep under your bed.” He commented. “The human expression of love may be complex but I can not understand an attraction to someone who ‘spanks’ you.” He shook his head slowly. “If what I experience is to believed that is some form of punishment and yet your collection of Casa Erotica makes me think otherwise.” He added, making sure not to pose any of the words as a question. “I also don’t understand why you watch them so often. Surely your memory is not so terrible.”

You: [[:3 Why thank you again.]]

You: *If what I have experienced is to believed

Stranger: Gabriel opened his mouth, one hand raised with a finger pointed ready to gesture - then closed it again. Considered. and okay, he could think of plenty of hilarious and suggestive ways to respond to that - and it wasn’t as if he hadn’t thought about practical lessons of that genre before, involving the angel, but he reserved those very much for the shower and the company of his own hand - but he eventually came to the depressingly sensible conclusion that it was a bad idea. At least while the other was trapped in a ring of fire. “I… am reserving my right not to elaborate on that.” He decided. “If only because Cassie would be very disappointed in me if I corrupted you like that, and I’d have to endure the puppy eyes.” He swallowed, cast his eyes over Sam for a second longer, and lamented lost opportunities. “Maybe some other time.”

You: Sam watched him closely, hoping he would take the bait and provide him with some form of information he could understand but none came. He shrugged gently. “It was not a question, therefore I will accept that.” He nodded. “Now, if we can continue; I may be immortal but I rather not be trapped here for eternity. I have better things to do with my time. Name your next question.” He instructed. The man had given such an odd reaction to his words regarding film. It was interesting. If what he had observed of other humans was to be applied, Gabriel’s reaction was akin to humor but it was unlike him to refrain from speaking when humor was involved. What stopped him now?

Stranger: Demanding, but Gabriel could live with that. Preferable to dodging around the topic of porn. He shifted where he sat on the crate; shuffling backwards to allow him to sit cross-legged atop it, resting his hands on his knees. “Who are you fighting for?” He asked, after too short a pause. May as well go all in. “When the big showdown starts, when the world starts ending, whose side are you batting for? You can’t want that. Any of that.”

You: Sam’s jaw set at the question but he immediately saw the loop hole. “That was two different questions. I will only answer the first.” He pointed out, his voice a bit harsher than he had meant it to be. “I fight for myself. I always have and I always will.” He replied simply. “Now it is my turn.” He reminded, avoiding the question of the coming battle with nothing by a passing glance. “What have you done to force my brother to grow so fond of Dean?” He demanded flatly, his tone dripping with malice once more. “No lies.” He added after a moment.

Stranger: Gabriel winced when he realised his mistake. Angels. So literal, all the damn time. Still, he could ask it again. And the answer he did get was promising. It wasn’t an outright insistence that he’d fight for Heaven, or God’s grand plan. That was something, right? He exhaled a rough sigh, pushing his hand back through his hair again. “This again?” He asked. “I’m serious. I didn’t do anything. Cas didn’t do anything. No witchcraft or spells or potions or shit. Scout’s honour.” He held up three fingers in a mocking salute. “Is it really that hard to believe that they just like each other? I mean, yes, okay, I get that it’s hard to believe - I wasn’t exactly happy about it at first - but they’re not hurting anyone.”

You: Sam didn’t like the truth he sensed at Gabriel’s words but it /was/ the truth so he allowed his worry for witch craft dropped. “That was another two questions.” He pointed out simply. “However I am feeling generous and will provide you with an answer to both inquiries and in return you will answer two in return.” There was obviously no room to argue as he quickly moved on. “Yes, 'this again’. I must be thorough in my investigation, to eliminate all possibilities. As for your second question, Angels do not have anything remotely similar to human emotions. We feel but not nearly as intensely as you do. Therefore, yes. It is very difficult to believe that Dean has simply 'fallen in love’ with a human, beyond supernatural means.” He explained. “Now, to my questions. "How do you plan to use my brother in your quest against Lucifer and Michael? What is your plans for the battle to come?” He fell silent as he waited for an answer, regarding the man evenly.

You: [[*is hoping you don’t get annoyed with all of Sam’s loop holes… He was technically a law student after all*]]

Stranger: ((Heck no, I love it! Reminds me of fairy deals and stuff <3))

You: [[XD I hadn’t thought about that. lol]]

Stranger: Gabriel purses his lips. That felt cheap, but it was at least technically true. He had to mind his words more carefully, apparently, with this particular angel. He had a feeling he wouldn’t be able to trick him, but he could at least play by the rules of his game. Though the next questions, when they came, were heavier topics. Realer, more dangerous. He considered carefully before responding; “Your brother is an ally. We’ll use whatever help he’s willing to offer.” And that was the truth. It wasn’t as though they were going to make Dean do anything he didn’t want to. They might not see eye to eye on all topics, but Gabriel was not that much of an asshole. This was his choice. “As for our plan… we’re still working on that. The current idea is to put Lucifer back in the box. Don’t know, but like I said. We’re working on it.” He frowned a little. There were a number of different routes he could take with his next question. This could make or break what happened next. “Do you want the world to be destroyed?”

You: Sam’s eyes narrowed as Gabriel continued to speak, each word just seemed to rub him the wrong way. The man implied that he wouldn’t force Dean to do anything he didn’t want to do but when push came to shove, human’s were unpredictable. It didn’t help that it was obvious neither of the Novak’s had any idea what they were doing. They didn’t even have a plan to put Lucifer back in the box! The question made his narrow gaze twitched slightly as if considering it before his brows bounced once and he shrugged. “The world is not the only thing at stake. If Lucifer wins then the Earth and Heaven will be enslaved. If Michael is victorious then Hell will perish and Earth will become a wasteland; while heaven slowly falls from the angel’s destruction at the hands of rebellious humans. What I want does not matter. What I want is to be left alone in peace. The Earth will change after the battle, that is inevitable. Destruction is but only one outcome. Either way it is not my concern. I will survive.” He pointed out with another backwards answer. He was gambling when it came to who would win and his money was on the Novaks… Always the Novaks, despite his distaste for them. “Will you watch my brother die?” He asked as if it were the same as asking about the weather or who would play in the world series.

Stranger: Gabriel struggled to keep his expression passive as Sam explained the potential outcomes for Earth. None of them pretty, nothing appealing. It made him wonder why any of the angels supported it - why any of the demons did. Earth had its flaws, sure, but that didn’t mean it deserved destruction. They couldn’t believe that, could they? And Sam. Did he seriously not care, as long as it saved his own skin? Gabriel didn’t believe that for a second. He set his jaw. “No.” He answered the question with firm certainty. “Not if I have anything to say about it. I don’t sit back and watch my friends die.” Because Dean was a friend, by now. An irritating friend, the kind of friend that showed up at your house, ate the contents of your fridge, and left again - but still a friend. And he dreaded to think what Castiel would do without him, even before any of that.

You: “And yet you are leading him to his destruction.” Sam pointed out simply. “If Dean takes a side, he will die; and even I won’t be able to pull him back. Dean will be lost and you and your brother will be to blame.” He stated simple. “That is what is written and that is how it will be. Unless, you and your brother stop this now. Leave Dean out of this and say yes to Lucifer and Michael. Let the battle wage and be done with it all.” He paused about to pose another question but quickly realized that it was not his turn. “It would me more simple.” He pointed out, rewording his question to a statement. “It would be easiest. My brother’s affection for Dean would wane in time. It would be painful for him but all wounds heal.” He paused, his words still even, simple, with out any real show of emotion. “You claim to care for my brother and yet you are leading him to his death just as you are doomed to lead humanity.”

Stranger: This time, Gabriel did not keep his mask in place. There was only so much a guy could take, after all, and he was reaching his limit with this goddamn apocalypse. He swung his legs off of the crate and rose to his feet. “I am so sick of people telling me what I’m doomed to do.” He snapped. “I’ll do what the hell I want to, okay? Look, your brother made a choice, and that was his decision. His, not ours. He was fighting with us before he fell for Cas, because he’s a good guy who knows bullshit when he sees it.” He was pacing, now; a line up and down opposite the fire. “This planet is fucking ridiculous and incredible and humans are amazing and insane and you wouldn’t possibly know any of that because you’ve been here forty two times in your entire damn existence-“ He had to stop to breathe, and god, he was working himself up to desperation. He had to grit his teeth, had to calm himself. “I’m not forcing Dean to do anything. Nor is Cas. And honestly, I think you know that.”

Stranger: ((Hey, I think I’m gonna get to sleep, because I’m struggling to keep my eyes open! Are you okay to continue this via email?))

You: [[Absolutely. Want me to send the log and my reply?]]

Stranger: ((Yes please! Thank you xx))

You: [[np ;3]]

Stranger: ((I’ll let you dc so we don’t do it at the same time, haha!))

You: [[lol kk. g'night]]

You have disconnected.

Sam watched him evenly as he stood, his emotions finally getting the best of him. He was impressed to say the least, as he watched the man begin to pace angrily. Most of the beings that spoke with Sam lost their temper far before this and that wasn’t even including humans. Still… the way the man’s nostrils flared and his hands seemed to fly about like he was shooing away a horde of bees was almost… adorable. The angel was careful to keep his features schooled as his hazel gaze moved with the human, letting him have his moment.

He shifted to lean back on his hands, stretch out to take up the entirety of the circle as he waited for an opening. Gabriel of course went on and on as he had expected to before finally he stopped. “I agree completely.” Sam said evenly as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He gave no more and no less than that at Gabriel’s rant. “It is also still your turn to ask a question.” He pointed out with a tilt of his head, amusement flashing behind the honey of his gaze. He was careful with his features but there were always tells and Gabriel was so fun to play with at the moment.