#the outrage and the uncompromising stare

[backjustforberena]

RHAENYS TARGARYEN - "She's quite headstrong. Smart, [...] intense, because the core of any Targaryen is a dragon."

[k-s-morgan]

What He Grows to Be: Snippet 5

Thank you to everyone who expressed their preference over what they’d prefer to see in the snippet! Tom watching Harry’s memories about the Chamber of Secrets got the most votes, so here is the draft version of it. Though since it’s almost 4K long, maybe calling it a snippet isn’t appropriate :D 

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Talking through a diary was an interesting idea. Tom wasn’t sure what kind of magic this was, but now that he’d seen it, he could figure it out. He and Harry would be able to have immediate conversations instead of relying on letters or Patronuses.

Then again, considering what this diary had led to, perhaps this wasn’t a good idea. The last thing Tom wanted was to add himself into Harry’s collection of negative associations in one more way.

He didn’t see how Harry had managed to get into the Chamber of Secrets. One moment, he was staring at the bloody inscription on the wall; the next one, he was standing in an entirely new vast space. Tom still had no idea where it was located or how to access it.

His heart sank in disappointment, but when the full implications hit him, it stopped entirely.

Harry had excluded this memory on purpose. He didn’t trust Tom with the knowledge of where the Chamber was. He showed him the core events but not the details because his trust and his faith were already gone by that point.

And the ritual made it even worse.  

An uncomfortable itchy heat began to radiate from Tom’s chest. The sensation was entirely unfamiliar, so he pressed his palm against it, confused and hoping to squash it down.

He couldn’t name it, but it felt a little like shame. He’d never experienced it to this extent before, and it was never mixed with this kind of almost desperate hurt.

He’d been trying. For years, he’d been trying to be someone Harry would approve of. The craving, the longing for his acceptance stayed his hand so many times that now Tom couldn’t count them all — he even allowed that scum Morfin to blackmail him, no matter how maddeningly outrageous the whole situation was, simply because he refused to risk Harry finding out.

He’d made mistakes, but they were minimal in comparison to what he would have done if he hadn’t been trying. And yet Harry still didn’t trust him.

The shame began to curl away, giving way to dejection. Loneliness suddenly felt sharp and uncompromising, and Tom wrapped his hands around himself, watching how Harry’s head snapped up.      

“She won’t wake,” a voice said. It was soft but cold, so it took a moment for Tom to recognise it. His eyes quickly moved towards one of the pillars, and something in him shuddered from what he saw.

It was like watching his reflection in someone else’s dream. Something was wrong with the boy he was looking at, and it wasn’t just about the fact that his physical contours were blurred, as if he was being held together by magic alone.

No, he was simply different. He didn’t have the splendour Tom prided himself on. He was thinner and hollow-cheeked; his clothes, while neat, came from some cheap store Tom would have never stepped into. He was but a shadow with empty vicious eyes and greed that swarmed around him in a cloud — greed Tom wasn’t sure he could relate to.

He longed for things. He longed for Harry. But even from here, he could read the shallowness and the arrogance written all over his twin’s face, and he didn’t like it one bit.

This wasn’t him. This was Tom Riddle. Someone he could have been.

“Are you a ghost?” Harry asked. He was staring at Riddle with such earnestness, like he trusted him entirely and couldn’t see what a hollow shell he was. This was the first time Tom would disappoint him — the first in a long line of failures and betrayals.

“No,” Tom murmured to himself, shaking his head briefly. He couldn’t keep blurring himself and Riddle — that way madness lied. Despite some superficial similarities, they were completely different people. He might have let Harry down, too, but their story was different. This abomination was dead and could never touch it.

“A memory,” Riddle replied. His voice was quiet, but its sinister and bitter undertones were as loud as shouting. “Preserved in a diary for fifty years.”

Tom’s brows furrowed. What? A memory? That must have been some ritual. Why would he condemn himself to this kind of existence? To give Voldemort more power? Maybe Voldemort had managed to subdue his will and make him into a brainless soldier somehow. This was more plausible than any version of him feeling such loyalty to some monster that he would follow him blindly and sacrifice his life force for him.

How did one become a memory in the first place? Even Tom with his knowledge about all possible forms of dark arts couldn’t figure it out.

Riddle burst into an animated, mostly one-sided conversation, and several minutes later, Tom had to admit that listening to his own voice was surprisingly challenging. Riddle’s arrogance was distorting his words; his excitement over successfully breaking an 11-year-old girl was embarrassing — Tom had felt less enthusiastic when he killed Charlus, and that happened back when he was a child himself. His first impression had been accurate: Riddle was worlds away from him. He was stupid, and Tom would have never believed it if he wasn’t witnessing it with his own eyes.  

“I have been waiting for you to appear since we arrived here,” Riddle said pleasantly. His eyes were fixed on Harry in an intense, hungry way — and well, they did have something in common, after all. “I knew you’d come. I have many questions for you, Harry Potter.”

“Like what?” Harry spat angrily. He didn’t look intimidated in the slightest — his anger and righteousness made him appear taller, and his blazing eyes were furious enough to stop anyone in their tracks.

“How is it that you, a skinny boy with no extraordinary magical talent, managed to defeat the greatest wizard of all time?” Riddle wondered. The pleasant notes were disappearing again under the piles of bitterness and odd envy. “How did you escape with nothing but a scar while Lord Voldemort’s powers were destroyed?”

By the end of it, a red gleam entered his eyes. It looked unnatural enough for Tom to make an instinctive step towards Harry.

This was unnerving. Magic was one thing, but what would turn his eyes — Riddle’s eyes — red? Humans couldn’t do that, it went against all laws of nature. Unless… Unless Riddle wasn’t human.

If so, what was he?

“Why do you care how I escaped?” Harry asked slowly. His own gaze was narrowed in a dawning realisation that Tom couldn’t decipher. Did Harry have a theory? How could he — he was only twelve. “Voldemort was after your time.”

Riddle smirked at him, looking almost giddy, and Tom had to amend his opinion. This impostor wasn’t simply stupid, he was crazy. He grew excited over irrelevant things and reacted inappropriately to every logical question Harry asked.

“Voldemort,” he uttered, “is my past, present, and future, Harry Potter.”

Pulling a wand out of his pocket, he slashed the air with it, writing three rapid words.

Tom Marvolo Riddle

Tom studied them, his stare lingering on “Marvolo.” Something about it stood out. Something was strangely familiar.

Before he could follow the clues, Riddle waved the wand again, rearranging the letters. The syllables shifted and clung to each other briefly before assuming their designated places.

I Am Lord Voldemort

His mind went utterly blank. Time stopped. The existence of the world lost its meaning. Tom stared at these words, re-reading them again, and again, and again.

I Am Lord Voldemort.

Tom Riddle. Voldemort.

He was Voldemort.

He was Voldemort. All this time, he was watching himself, and he didn’t even realise this.

The bottom dropped out of his stomach. Tom recoiled from the damning words so violently that he lost his balance and collapsed onto the wet floor. His body didn’t feel the impact — it couldn’t, he didn’t even have it here, but it still burned, it still groaned and shuddered, as if the weight of his mind and his feelings was too much for it to bear.

“It can’t be,” he tried to speak. No words reached his ears, so he did it again. “It’s not possible. I’m not him.”

Still nothing.

Acid burned at the back of his throat. His stomach contorted in pained shock, and then the terrible screaming something filled his ears, crawling in them until it was the only sound they could perceive. It was violent and shredding — it echoed in his very bones.

He was Voldemort. All along, he was Voldemort. He’d killed Harry’s parents. He tried to kill Harry. He made so many Horcruxes that he had gone insane, losing his mind along with his powers, losing the respect of his followers, leaving only fear in its place.

He wasn’t the right hand of Harry’s nemesis. He was his nemesis. Harry had spent his entire first life hating and fearing him — he had single-handedly ruined Harry’s existence so thoroughly that Harry was forced to escape into the past. To accept guardianship over someone who tortured and destroyed him.

An icy fist closed around his lungs, clawing and squeezing the remains of air out of them. Tom gasped, his body jerking in odd abrupt movements that he had no control over. The next second, the contours of the Chamber of Secrets faded, melting back into Harry’s bedroom. The phantoms of the past were gone — they stayed trapped in the Pensieve, but their terrible echoes remained with Tom. They latched onto his mind with hungry vengeance, throwing an image after an image of the pictures he had seen when he was first watching Harry’s memories.  

It didn’t matter then. Those pictures were just that — the images of a monster he didn’t know and had no direct relationship with. But recalling them now and putting his own face onto them…

His mind rebelled. Tom pressed his hands to his ears, trying to silence the screaming, but it kept getting louder. It hurled accusations and mockeries, painted every crime he committed, every time he hurt Harry and raised his wand against him.

There was no silencing something like this. The only thing Tom could do was outcry it, so he screamed, too.

He found that he couldn’t stop.

***

That night, he added just one sentence to his letter.

Why would you love me?

*** 

The sleep didn’t come. The desire to tear into his skin and shred it until physical pain remained the only sensation was strong, but every time Tom raised his wand or his hands, he stopped.

He wanted to hurt himself. He didn’t want to hurt Harry.

It was easier before. In Harry’s absence, for a long time, he’d been putting his own hurt above everything, even above Harry himself; he’d marred his skin without care, wanting, needing acknowledgement.

But he couldn’t do it now. The thought of leaving even a small scratch on Harry made him sick.

That cursed ritual.

Tom managed to stay physically intact throughout the night, yet he spent it curled into a tight ball, shaking under the pressure of ache and grief and emotions he couldn’t identify. There were so many of them — they were crowding his chest, interfering with his heart, making him feel like he was about to explode with them.

When the morning came and nothing changed, Tom made himself get up. He cooked breakfast, then stared at it silently, knowing that he could never eat it without vomiting it back.

He needed… something. Something comforting. Harry wouldn’t return; Harry’s blanket and things no longer produced the same soothing effect, so it had to be something new.  

If he could capture Harry’s Patronus into some vial… if he could consume the letters Harry had written him…

The letters. He still had the letters. They were the last thing he’d gotten from Harry — they had his personality, his handwriting; they had a whole part of him because Tom could easily trace the story of their creation. From the pressure Harry had applied to a quill in different instances, it was evident where he hesitated, where he took a break, where he got anxious or passionate. It was the closest thing to him Tom had in his possession now.

Without thinking further, he returned to the bedroom and grabbed the last letter. His eyes immediately zeroed in on three specific half-lines.

…I’m going to keep explaining until you do.

…I’ve promised you’ll always be my priority.

…I might consider returning.

A promise of future communication.

The use of future tense.

Future possibility.

This was evidence. Whatever Tom was, Harry didn’t give up on him. Harry still loved him. He might still return.

Tom closed his eyes, nuzzling into the letter, and finally, for the first time in hours, the ache lessened. The sick feeling grew dimmer, too, and he felt solid and grounded again. When he pulled back, his gaze dropped to another passage.

Watch those memories. Don’t contact me until you do.

Tom pressed his lips to these lines, trying to breathe them in, feeling how their rough surface scratched his mouth.

Permission to contact Harry. He still had it. He was simply supposed to meet Harry’s condition.

That meant that he had to return to the Pensieve. The sooner he was done, the closer to Harry he could feel again.

Carefully, Tom folded the letter and put it in his pocket. If things got bad again, he could always touch it and remind himself of the future.

The memories weren’t a punishment. They were a chance to improve things.

Tom couldn’t really be certain, but he preferred to cling to this notion.

This made things easier at least to a small degree.

*** 

He chose to return to the start of the memory. Silently, he watched his shadow speak with Harry, lingered on how it hissed the words of self-admiration and hung onto its useless pride.

“I fashioned myself a new name,” Riddle boasted breathlessly, “a name I knew wizards everywhere would one day fear to speak, when I had become the greatest sorcerer in the world!”

“You are not,” Harry said quietly. Despite his age, his resolution was steely, and if Tom had to choose whom he admired more at this moment... it wouldn’t even be a competition.

“Not what?” Riddle snapped. Insecurity and rage were twisting his ghostly face — it was a pitiful display. If the words of a 12-year-old boy had the power to affect him, then he had not only failed at greatness, he was also a failure of a sorcerer.  

“Sorry to disappoint you and all that, but the greatest wizard in the world is Albus Dumbledore,” Harry said hotly. “Everyone says so!”

The reasoning was… like that of a child. Even though his stomach was clenched into a tight knot, Tom smiled a little, suddenly overcome with a rush of gentleness and fondness for this particular version of Harry.

He was trusting. He was pure in a way that even his Harry wasn’t — he didn’t see death and destruction yet; he was not betrayed by Dumbledore.

He was not betrayed by Tom.                              

The smile disappeared, leaving Tom hollow.

When Dumbledore’s phoenix burst into the Chamber, carrying the Sorting Hat, Riddle laughed, and Tom laughed with him — only his laughter was hysterical because all pieces in his head suddenly clicked into one clear picture.

Dumbledore. Of course. Of course it was Dumbledore’s plan all along, how did he not see this from the start?

Harry hadn’t sneaked into the Chamber secretly — Dumbledore allowed him to. Dumbledore was likely watching him even now, invisible, waiting for the outcome.

Harry was a Horcrux, and Horcruxes could be destroyed with basilisk’s venom.

This was a test. Dumbledore wanted to see if he could get rid of the Horcrux inside Harry without necessarily killing him. The Hat was here to give Harry the Sword — with his mindless bravery, it was not a surprise that he could pull it out. The phoenix was here to decrease the chances of Harry dying and to heal him after he was stabbed.

Clever. And enraging. Because for Dumbledore, Harry was a game piece. For Tom, he was the world.

He would have let Voldemort live for a thousand of years. He would have allowed him to destroy this universe until nothing was left if it meant he could keep Harry safe. Dumbledore would never prioritise one over a billion, and for that, Tom hated him.

“Kill him,” Riddle hissed. The words sent a jolt of automatic panic through him, and Tom moved between Harry and the basilisk before he could think rationally about it.

The snake was magnificent, there was no denying it. Even the first time, when he’d been distracted to the point of ignorance, he stopped to watch it because it was breath-taking in every way.  

There was only one drawback. It wanted to kill Harry, and it meant that Tom would see it destroyed.

Harry broke into a run with his eyes shut. He managed to half-cross the room when he tripped and crashed down, his chin colliding with the cold stone. The sound of it launched Tom into immediate action again before he could stop his stupid feet.

Feeling this protective for such an extended period of time was exhausting. His heart kept hammering relentlessly and his hands were itching with magic, needing to pour it somewhere to protect Harry and to make sure he never got hurt again. How could anyone live in such a state?

The basilisk roared from pain when Dumbledore’s phoenix attacked it. Its tail whipped across the floor, approaching Harry with deadly speed, and Tom’s heart stopped. It stumbled forwards again only when Harry ducked, crouching, dirty and bloodied but with determination still burning brightly on his face. He was beautiful and desperate, and Tom would have cradled him in his arms if he could touch him.

A gust of wind sent the Hat right in Harry’s face. He grabbed it, put it onto his head, and threw himself to the side when the basilisk’s tail snapped forward again, almost crushing him into nothingness.

This was all strategic. It wasn’t a coincidence that the phoenix appeared immediately after Harry pledged his loyalty to Dumbledore. This was training — training in blind devotion, in recklessness, in self-sacrifice. And Harry had no idea.

At least this Harry didn’t. The adult version knew everything yet he still seemed to hold deep respect for Dumbledore.

Perhaps some training was too ingrained to ever fade from one’s core. This explained… almost everything about Harry. If Tom got another chance to make things right, he would dedicate himself entirely to removing these suicidal ideas from his head once and for all.

Harry pulled out the Sword from the Hat. He spent only a second on contemplating it — the next one, he was already standing and pointing it at the basilisk.  

Nothing about this picture was palatable. The sword was too heavy for a child his size: Harry was struggling with it, and the basilisk kept thrashing, hitting everything in sight. How he survived was a matter of miracle. If he had died… If he’d died, this would be it. Tom would never be the person he was now. He would be limited to a memory in his own diary, to a ruin incapable of human thought. He would never get his second chance, and the life as he knew it would never exist.

Terror that rolled through him could only be rivalled by the sheer horror of witnessing the basilisk’s fang separate itself from its mouth and plunge into Harry’s arm. Static electricity burned somewhere above his elbow in a phantom sensation of pain Harry had to be experiencing. It wasn’t real, but Tom’s breathing still quickened, and his fingers wrapped around his arm convulsively.

He couldn’t tell if the fang fell out because Harry had aimed his Sword there or if it was Dumbledore again. Either way, Harry was dying, and even though Tom knew he’d survive, watching this was no less excruciating.

“Fawkes,” Harry murmured hoarsely. His eyes were fluttering shut in an image that came straight from Tom’s worst nightmares. “You were fantastic, Fawkes.”

Giving praise to an impervious bird when life was bleeding out of him. Harry was insane. He was the Harry — his Harry. It was no wonder that an overwhelming longing for him had been and was going to be Tom’s undoing in every life he lived.

“You’re dead, Harry Potter,” Riddle crowed, and Tom turned to face him with a snarl.

He hated this version of himself. Hated him. It was just a shard of him, dull and shallow, and if this underwhelming thing was ever his future, he would have preferred death.  

Riddle wasn’t a powerful wizard. Even now, when faced with a dying wandless boy, he was too wary of making his own move. He let the basilisk be his weapon; he was watching Harry die and not intervening because he was intimidated.

Though perhaps it made sense. Maybe even Riddle could see Harry’s brilliance despite his narrow-mindedness — maybe, beneath the hatred and the fear, he was fascinated. Tom knew he would be.

Harry might not have much power, and he certainly didn’t at the age of twelve, but he still managed something no other wizard had tried. He’d defeated a giant basilisk with a sword; his agility was almost otherworldly as he twisted, crouched, and ducked from the heavy blows.

This was worthy of admiration. Even Riddle couldn’t be that blind so as to miss it.

When the phoenix healed Harry, Riddle didn’t cry out in alarm or anger like Tom might have expected him to. Instead, his face shifted between different conflicting expressions, and his eyes regained the hungry glint Tom found intimately familiar.

“It makes no difference,” Riddle spoke confidently, with only the tiniest twitch of uncertainty underneath. “In fact, I prefer it this way. Just you and me, Harry Potter... you and me.”

The surprising jealousy raised its ugly head, making Tom tense. He didn’t know in what way his shadow meant these words — he didn’t like to think about it either. It didn’t matter any way because there would never be such thing as Riddle and Harry, not until Harry came back to the past and gave the real Tom a chance at rebirth.

Without answering, Harry stabbed the diary with the fang, his eyes glistening with fevered hatred. Even Riddle’s piercing scream didn’t shake Tom the way this look had. He barely heard a sound through the sudden roaring in his ears, the sudden realisation that this was Harry’s first and last meeting with an actual Tom Riddle. Voldemort was a monstrosity with a face Tom refused to claim, but physically, Riddle was him.

How did Harry feel, watching him grow up? Had he ever looked at him and seen Riddle from the Chamber of Secrets? How could the feeling of love prevail over the feeling of hatred the 12-year-old Harry was currently wearing?

Tom turned away, unable to keep looking. His throat was dry, and as his knees started to shake, threatening to buckle right under him, he thrust his hand into his pocket, gripping the letter there.

In some other world, this moment had been Riddle’s end. But it wouldn’t be his.

He could do better. He would do better.

He’d finish watching these memories, he’d complete his letter to Harry, and then he’d start working. Harry would never look at him like he had at Riddle. In years, the memories of the Chamber of Secrets would fade; Riddle would become a shadow of a shadow, and Tom’s image would outshine him. It would take precedence in Harry’s mind.

This determination washed away the worms of doubts and self-hatred. When the new wave of memories swept him along, Tom felt prepared to face them.  

[evoedbd]

Innocence?

Summery:   How could Zhora let that be destroyed? Worse, how could she prevent it? The more she thought, the more she realised that it was already unavoidable. Zoe was right, curse it. Solis wouldn’t stop with just Zhora, not after Wyst and Zoe had dug their heels in. They’d suffer too, no matter what Solis actually said. Zhora and Zoe have a discussion the night before they go after Solis. ************** Space. It was a word to invoke thought. A distance as much as a destination. So much of nothing it became something. Something became nothing. Infinite became irrelevant within a few strides and grew with time. Outer space was infinite. The void between life. A chasm to suspend reality. Poems sung of hanging the stars in the skies. Compared their gleam to diamonds, whispered their deepest desires on a star falling from the inky blankets of space. Science spoke of the stars as echoes of what had been. To see a star, sometimes, was to see when it had already died. The brightest beauty of something past. Something out of reach. Some viewed space as a negative, as something empty. Others viewed it as something full of possibility. As something to fill until space no longer existed. The space to hang a child’s painting on the wall. Space for flowers to grow. A place for a ship to dock... euphemism intended. The list of the ways space could be filled was immense, especially to someone as creative as Zhora. For Zhora, space simply was. At the moment, it was fucking freezing. Yes, the stars were beautiful. Yes, the distance between her and her target meant she would not die that day. The space between brain and heart would keep her alive. That didn’t eliminate the literal chill just outside the hull. It didn’t dismiss the loneliness embedded in her soul. Literal or emotional, it was cold. Cold. Cold. Cold. As so many did, she used space. With engines, the infinity of space shrunk into insignificant hours between planets. With plants and weapons, she filled her walls. With the shots from her rifle, she filled the distance between herself and the enemy. With contacts in every port, she filled other spaces... at least for a time. Some longer than others. Another euphemism intended. The one space she could never fill was that of loneliness. Of emotional emptiness so stabbing it could threaten to cut. Her mind resisted well. It was of stone. Uncompromising. In control. Ahead of the game. She had to be. If she wasn’t, she would be dead. Both her and her crew would pay. That was where her heart of glass came into play. So fragile was her heart that she protected it fiercely. When it came to heart or head, she chose her head. The death of friends was merely a dent in her business and profits. The angst of her crew would pass with the storm; all she had to do was hold tightly to her beliefs. Cling to that lifeline of logic and rationality. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust her crew. She did. Truly. They were near her while she slept. They technically had unrestricted access to all her weapons, supplies and her quarters. It was very rare she locked her quarters anymore, not when Zoe could hack the security within a minute. Only her word kept them from acting out. Although, truthfully, her word didn’t always bind them. They disobeyed. Went over her head. Between her knees. Around her outstretched fingers. So long as it benefitted Zhora, no angle was too obscure for them to take. They practically lived on the phrase “Better to ask forgiveness than permission.” Something which had only gotten worse since Zoe had taken the role of Engineer. The two other women aboard the ship were trouble together. It was a good thing Zhora was practically addicted to their brand of trouble. Anyone else might have done some serious damage to the Kid or the Cutie. That thought always made Zhora’s brows feel heavier and her teeth ache, even when she didn’t adopt a snarl. The thought of losing either Wyst or Zoe was...it churned more unpleasantly in her gut than any poisoning she had ever suffered. These girls were her crew. Her family. Her loves, aside from her weapons and adrenaline. She was efficient when she showered, providing she was alone. She cleaned quickly, washed her mermaid inspired hair, dried and dressed within the space of ten minutes. As it stood, she had no intention of entertaining guests. With 200,000 credits painted across her back, she wanted to keep herself clothed and ready. Sure, luring some company may be fun, whether it be the pleasure of touch or combat, yet Zhora had more to think about than just her own entertainment. It was dressed in her typical armored pants and crop top that she stepped back into her room, only to be greeted by a familiar sight. In the dim lighting of her quarters the light of her workbench was a supernova, dragging Zhora’s eyes. There, she found herself staring at Zoe Rayner’s shadowed back. The tight body suit she wore was standard Union Colony, yet it did leave very little to the imagination. The way the suits melded to their wearers put everything on display, every curve, muscle and bone. In Zoe’s case, it did wonders for the lithe woman’s back, and her backside. Zhora watched for a few moments, almost hypnotised by the steady undulating of Zoe’s sharp shoulder blades beneath the green fabric. Every time Zoe pulled a pin into alignment or moved to grasp another tool was a shadow dance, something for Zhora to feast her eyes on. Perhaps it could delay the inevitable. Zoe kept herself organised to perfection. On her left was where she had laid out the deconstructed weapon parts apparently by size and importance. Barrels, piping extensions, firing pins. Plasma packs. Electronics. Grips. Everything was so neat that it could only be an Engineer’s layout. To her right was an array of tools. Delicate tools, each laid out on black fabric that emphasised their pristine condition. Beyond Zoe’s instant reach, different components lingered, many pieces fused together in ways Zhora was not completely sure she could ever understand. Zoe’s brain was wired so differently from any engineer Zhora had ever worked with, yet the Colony Girl was an utter genius. Her unique brain and concepts had saved Zhora’s life numerous times, as well as allowed Zoe to bend countless rules. Namely, hacking her way into Zhora’s room when the Captain refused to communicate. “What are you doing, Cutie?” Zhora called as she approached, having to bite back a victorious smirk when Zoe gave a small eeeekkk of alarm. Zoe was an absolute image. One knee raised defensively as her other foot stretched for the ground. Bare toes barely grazed the floor, given the chair was designed for Zhora’s superior height. The Engineer had some form of screwdriver raised across her chest, wielding the tool like a weapon in her alarm. Zhora couldn’t help but let her smirk grow a little at the sight of Zoe’s heaving bosom, once more silently thankful for the Union Body Suits. As usual, no curve was left to imagination, and the way Zoe had twisted her hip in preparation of an attack left more than her breasts on display. The shapely curve of her hip and rump stretched the material, which also clung to her lean stomach. The clear panels gave Zhora a view of skin, nothing indecent. “Zhora! I was just... well. After the Ghost gun, I was seeing if I could make my pistol more reliable. Incase... incase. If anything goes wrong, I want to have a backup.” Zoe hurried to explain, relaxing from her improvised martial arts form to slumping in the chair. Relaxed, Zhora could see the strain in Zoe’s arms. The metaphoric weight on the Engineer’s shoulders which seemed to be affecting her quite literally. “Zoe-“ “Aside from the programming to the Ghost gun, I was thinking of taking similar coding and programming it into the attachable -“ Zoe continued to babble, waving her hands wildly as she spun around to face her components once more. Zhora wanted to follow along, she truly did, yet she was caught up in the perky engineer’s excitement. Zoe was magnetic once she became passionate; her energy was almost like an inferno swallowing all in its path. Somehow, Zoe became infectious when she was like this. The inferno never harmed those whom it consumed. Instead, it filled Zhora with a pleasant warmth; a feeling which radiated from the centre of her chest. This passion was for HER. Zoe was so dedicated to these weapons because the Engineer wanted to save Zhora. The Captain couldn’t fathom how she had earned such loyalty, only that she strove to earn it. That she kept waiting for Zoe to run. To leave. Still, Zoe stayed, striving further and further away from her safe life and into danger. All for Zhora. “You don’t have to do this. We can find another way.” Zhora found herself cutting Zoe off mid explanation. This caused Zoe to pause. The clink of a tool hitting the bench was the only warning Zhora had before she found herself staring straight into the steely face of Zoe Rayner. Deep brown eyes shone. No, shone implied too much softness. Zoe’s eyes blazed. They were the black holes which summoned Zhora’s gaze. The hardest edges of determination stole Zhora’s voice, even as Zoe’s soft brows furrowed in unspoken frustration. There it was. A brief moment where the two halves of Zoe warred. Her kindness and patience softened the blow, yet the fiery determination and outrage was akin to a sledgehammer into Zhora’s gut. Would Zoe offer another tongue lashing, or would her patience prevail? “I know what I have signed up for. I’m not a Little Colony Girl anymore. You’ve shown me how the Galaxy works. The truth of it.” It was a very true statement, Zhora realised. When she stared at Zoe, the Captain could no longer see the meek little colony girl. She saw her Engineer, a woman who could bring the Galaxy to its knees in prayer. Zoe was the stereotype of normal colony kid. Every common aspect of her seemed crafted to perfection, causing what should have been an ordinary looking girl to gleam amidst the stars. Honey and Gold had been mixed to create the perfect shade of blonde for Zoe. Her hair hung from its messy ponytail, always vibrant in its chaos. Zhora briefly wondered how much one would pay for such a treasure. The thought was banished. She didn’t want Zoe to become ruined for something as common as credits. “This isn’t something I can undo, Zoe. So far, everything has been something we could fix if you decided you wanted out. This... I can’t protect you from. If you regret this, I can’t...” Zhora almost hated herself. For the first time, control was completely out of Zhora’s grasp. She had been so careful, introducing the Outlaw life to Zoe in situations that wouldn’t scar the young Engineer. Zhora had executed her iron grip to ensure that Zoe wasn’t hurt. Wasn’t sullied beyond repair. Now, there was nothing to shield Zoe from the darkness. Zhora couldn’t sacrifice her own body to shield the girl, nor could she manipulate the situation so that Zoe wouldn’t suffer. What would happen when Zoe pulled the trigger? Would such an act break her? The very real possibility that this would destroy everything Zoe was weighed on Zhora’s heart. She couldn’t watch those fires in Zoe’s eyes die, nor see Zoe’s gentleness fade. Not the girl who spoke to her pistol and bandaged wounds with the gentlest hands. Zhora was placing her life in Zoe’s callused palms, along with the most dangerous weapon in the known Galaxies. Was Zhora worth it? “I know, Zhora. I tried to be bothered by it, but I’m not. Solis has hurt millions of people, and will continue to do so. She won’t stop trying to hurt you. I can’t let her take away the best thing to ever happen to me, okay? If it’s a choice between taking her life or watching you die, I’ll pull the trigger every time.” “Zoe. You’re taking a life. Not just in the heat of the moment, but premeditated. It’s not just a kill, it’s an assassination. I can’t as-“ “You really don’t get it do you? I love you. Wyst loves you. You’re our friend, and our Captain. We both owe you everything, and we WANT to help you. I can’t let you die. I won’t. The galaxy isn’t always nice, and I can’t always play nice if I want to protect what I love.” Zoe cut Zhora off with her impassioned speech, her eyes appearing to burn even darker. The Engineer trembled with the ferocity of her emotions. Zhora herself froze, reconciling the power Zoe emanated with their first meeting. Oh, how times had changed. “So, yeah. You’re not asking, I am telling you... I‘m ready. I’m doing it. Deal with it.” The Engineer concluded, spinning so that she could resume her work on the parts. For a long time, they remained silent. Zoe’s powerful words echoed in Zhora’s head, leaving the Captain staggering beneath their weight. Without realising it, Zhora found her fingers teasing the bottom of Zoe’s ponytail, taking in the softness of perfectly kept hair. It was another thing that made Zoe stand out. Her hair was natural, compared to the splashes of colour Wyst put through hers and the Blue to Green wash through Zhora’s hair. Zoe didn’t seem phased or distracted by Zhora’s fidgeting. Zoe’s hands remained remarkably steady as she worked. She had magnets dancing in their fields with such ease. A little flick would see those magnets dance; something which always drew a smile from Zoe. It was such an innocent thing to watch, magnets bouncing and Zoe smiling. The little giggles she let forth before licking her lips and settling down. Pink peeped out the corner of Zoe’s mouth, pinched between delicate lips. The tip of her tongue expressed so much. When she was annoyed, it ran across her lower lip; a cat’s tail swishing. When she was on the verge of success, the tip of her tongue peeped a little further out, chasing down victory. When Zoe paused to think, she rolled her tongue over the same place of her top lip for minutes on end. These little gestures were accompanied the adorably dorky scrunch of her nose, and a pursing of her lips to the right. Her left eye closed a little more than her right, yet her work remained unaffected. How could Zhora let that be destroyed? Worse, how could she prevent it? The more she thought, the more she realised that it was already unavoidable. Zoe was right, curse it. Solis wouldn’t stop with just Zhora, not after Wyst and Zoe had dug their heels in. They’d suffer too, no matter what Solis actually said. “I like the gumption, New Girl. Keep it up and I might let you have a look at some new designs.” Zhora eventually stated, breaking from her own dark musings. The surprise she felt at herself was echoed in Zoe’s wide eyes. “I’d like that.” Zoe’s response was level, yet she clearly couldn’t force herself to stop smiling. Zhora was thankful for the casualness of her response. It startled the Captain that she had even made such an offer. It was another breech in her security. Another door Zoe had hacked her way through, seemingly effortlessly. Offering such closeness was not Zhora. It was too hard to let people get this close. It made the inevitable loss too difficult to cast aside. Zhora couldn’t afford this. With Wyst, she had sworn it would be her only exception. Zoe made a liar out of her. That damned determined, fiery little colony girl. Damn Zoe, for being an actually interesting person. Damn Zoe for making Zhora actually care. Zhora may have been putting the most dangerous weapon created in Zoe’s hands, along with her own life, yet Zhora couldn’t help feeling as if she carried the most weight of them all. The weight of Zoe’s future. The weight of Zoe’s innocence.

[bewareofchris]

040/100 | Office Romance | Stony, momentary Tony/Thor | PG-13

The premise of the 100 AUs is incredibly simple.  I love this gif, and I hate Civil War, so I’m just going to keep rewriting the scene as long as I can.  The goal is 100 but lets see how far I make it.

Steve was what the other guys liked to call “a go-getter”.  He’d earned the reputation of being an absolute beast on the ball field.  He’d become the toast of the company’s annual baseball league, he’d dominated at football and despite not being able to work a smart phone or boot up a computer properly he had managed to win the Fantasy Football Challenge for six consecutive years.

Steve was a beloved member of the team.

Steve was vote most valuable employee every month for six months and nobody even felt vaguely angry about it.

Steve was likable to a fault.

He was too likable.

He was excessively likable.

Tony hated him.  Setting aside the fact that Steve was athletic, and handsome, with stamina for days.  Setting aside his achievements and accomplishments and amazing smile.  Setting aside his genuineness and his humility, the man was just--just--

“Have you considered,” Bruce, his long suffering fellow IT expert and recent confidant, “that you only hate him because you’re sexually frustrated and he’s the epitome of masculine alpha perfection?”

Tony had not considered that.  “You’re going to blame the pheromones?”

“I think it would be silly to overlook the obvious.”  

“I’m going to do us both a favor and pretend that I never heard that.”

--

But, Steve was perfect.  If the movie industry was still invested in family values, they would have been cranking out six movies a month all staring men who looked like Steve, and moved like Steve, and behave like Steve.

--

Tony saw the bastard at a company picnic holding someone’s baby, cooing along with an infant who couldn’t have looked more delighted.  The half of the company that pretended like they weren’t omegas had formed a sort of subconscious semi-circle around the available, viable, likable alpha holding someone’s baby.

If Tony hadn’t been so embarrassed by the display he would have been right over there in the thick of it.

--

Nobody was perfect, Steve had his faults.  He was gracious but he was stubborn.  He was righteous but he could be immovable.  He was loyal but he was uncompromising.  

--

And he was single.

Steve was constantly, confusingly, always single.

--

Life could have gone on forever, persisted in a state of unending long-distance hatred (and sometimes lustful daydreams) if not for the sudden addition of transfer from another office.  

His name was Thor, and he was the first alpha to walk through the door that made Steve look small.  Small, and skinny, and less shiny all together.  He was also friendly to a fault.  He was funny.

He was lovable.

He was genuinely interested in all the office gossip.

He was aware of the chatter about how amazingly fit, strong, tall, shiny and attractive he was.  And he had to have been aware that all that was required for him to be worshiped like a god was for him to snap his fingers.  But he didn’t snap.

--

Tony did not always make excellent decisions.  He wasn’t always known to use good judgment.  He was, however, usually careful.  

“What’s gotten in to you?” Bruce asked him on day three of Tony throwing things around the office and raging about the stupidity of the men who ran the company but couldn’t remember where a fucking on switch was.  

“Why is it so hard to accept that you need help?  Why can’t they listen when we tell them not to hit the print button seventeen hundred times!  It’s not my fault that--”

“Tony!” Bruce shouted back.  “They’re stupid, ok.  We already knew that.  What’s wrong with you?”

“I’m probably pregnant,” Tony said.  Because he was, and it was almost a relief to say it.  Except that Bruce’s hand over his mouth and his slapped-quiet silence wasn’t directed at the statement but just over Tony’s shoulder to where Steve, the former Mr. Universe of the office, was standing.

Steve had the gall to look outraged.  He had the balls to stand there with his hand poised to knock on the door frame and his lips pulled into a frown so severe it belonged on Great Aunt Gertie’s face.  “I’ll come back,” was what Steve said, but what he meant was some great steaming pile of judgmental vomit.  

“I didn’t see him,” Bruce said as soon as they were alone.  But also, “what are you going to do?”

--

Thor couldn’t use a projector to save his life.  Tony had taken up the habit of sitting in on any meeting that Thor was heading to save himself the time of having to walk from his office to the conference room.  He had no interest in the information but up until yesterday mid-morning when he found out that Steve Perfection Rogers was secretly a judgmental asshole, he enjoyed the people watching.

“Ah,” Thor said, “I broke it.  I think I broke it.”

“I got you, big guy,” Tony said.  And he did.  No matter how many times Thor broke the remote for the projector (and it was a lot), Tony had always managed to fix it.  It was a brief, professional exchange, but Steve Rogers was giving him the stink eye when his fingers touched Thor’s.

--

In fact, Steve Rogers’ disapproving sour frown had started popping up all over the office.  It followed around Clint who was bad at printing.  It appeared over Natasha’s shoulder when she called for help with the viruses that Clint kept getting on her computer.  

Steve was in the hallways frowning at Tony leaving the big-bosses’ office, eyeing the closing door with great suspicion.

--

Tony had become a plague in a matter of three days, a carrier of disease to be avoided.  Steve had only just stopped frowning noticeably in his direction and simply turned around and left if they ever saw one another.

--

That was fine.

--

Thor invited everyone out for drinks and Tony accepted despite having no confirmation as to whether or not he was pregnant.  He liked the atmosphere, and the distraction, or so he thought.  He had planned to like it, but it ended up with just Thor and him in a booth, with a suspicious lack of other people.  

“Did I miss something?” he asked.

“No,” Thor assured him.  

“Did nobody else want to come?”

“Nobody else was invited.”  And Thor’s smile could have thawed the heart of an ice goblin.  It could have reversed global warming.   It could have fed every hungry mouth on the planet.  It was so overwhelming.

--

The trouble with alphas, the ones with more distinct alpha traits like muscle mass, and speed and excessive likability, was that they also had an amazing sense of smell.

The trouble with Thor was that he understood Tony wanted nothing serious, and he had no expectations, but he was a touching and feeling and affectionate sort of guy.  But also he’d slept over in Tony’s bed last night and the smell of alphas was like a pungent sub-aroma that was hard to wash off.

The second trouble with Thor was that he still couldn’t work a projector.

“I think I broke it,” Thor said with a smile, looking over at Tony with his sunshine smile.

Steve Rogers, resident raincloud, looked over his shoulder too, frowning like his life depended on it.

Tony was all set to duck his head like the plague-carrying rat he was, but fuck Steve Rogers and his high horse and the whole establishment about what an omega could and couldn’t do.  He pulled the second remote out of his pocket and held it out to Thor without getting up.  Thor, the alpha from another country who didn’t particularly care about the power play he was participating in, came over to retrieve it.  He even said: “thank you,” with absolute sincerity.

--

Tony wasn’t pregnant, and he was all set to celebrate his continued freedom when his life was interrupted by a knock on his office door.  There was Steve Rogers, two weeks later, finally getting back around to whatever had brought him by the first time.

“So I like you,” Steve said as if he hadn’t just been the world’s most obnoxious dick ever.  “I usually don’t like anyone, I mean--I’m not usually attracted to anyo--the point is, I don’t know what to do.  Romantically.  I like you.  I thought you liked me.”  He paused, his perfect cheeks were blushing, “I might have been wrong.”

Tony was turning in his office chair, working out how he felt about this development.  “I’m not pregnant,” he said.

“Are you planning anything serious with Thor?”

“No.”

Steve looked at the doorjamb like he’d written the answers on it.  “Do you want to go on a date with me?”

“Are you going to keep being a dick if I don’t?”

Steve smiled, just a little, like he was aware of how atrocious his behavior had been.  “Hopefully not,” he said, “I didn’t realize how I’d taken it for granted that you would like me until I thought you had already committed to someone else and--”  He paused again, looked sheepish, said, “I’m sorry.”

“Fine,” Tony said.  “What’s the worst that could happen?”

[Other AUs here]

[eirian-houpe]

Final Line Friday

Here are the final lines from my writing sessions this week:

From Disparate Pathways:

For perhaps the millionth time, as he always did when he came down to the basement, he let his eyes settle over the spinning wheel he kept in the corner, beside the small loom. Neither were unused. In fact he took a strange kind of pride in spinning his own yarn for the crafts he pursued, and the fabric he made on the loom. Some, he sold in the shop, others he used to augment the furnishings in the properties he owned. It was… and he sighed… a legacy of the time he sought to escape - his only /means/ of escape, then the melancholy took him.

**

“Papa…!” Bae implored.

“It… It’ll be all right, Son,” he said, but Fiona interrupted him again.

“No… no I rather think not. You see, Baethan, your father’s not the man I thought he was, and unfortunately, that means /you/ are the one that has to pay the price.”

**

“After today, I’m afraid I’ll have to impose a ten percent late fee.”

“Ten perc—” she spluttered. “That’s outrageous!”

He spread his hands. “If you’d care to examine the terms of the lease, I think you’ll find it’s quite clear.”

**

“I much prefer the game where you have to work out where all the bombs are hidden.” He wrinkled his nose in a little sneer as he said, “I love the sound they make when they go off.” Then with barely a pause added, “Good day, Miss Swan.”

**

From Breathe:

“I understand your confusion,” Myana said softly.

“No.” Belle shook her head. “No, I don’t think you do. I didn’t even know about /any/ of this until Doctor Rush came to find me at the university. I wasn’t even going to come, and—”

“And yet, you did.” Myana gave her a gentle smile. “Please, come. Sit.” She gestured toward a seat in the middle of the room, one that looked out into the flashing stream of lights outside of the wall of glass. “There is much we must discuss.”

**

Belle settled back a little at that, and though she /knew/ there had been no perceptible change in the rumbling accompaniment to the progress Destiny was making through whatever realm it was they traveled, she /felt/ the shift in course all the same.

**

From What the Actual Fuck!

Anna shook her head. “I knew what you did, not how you /feel/ about it.”

“Maybe I think they’re right,” he murmured.

“Fuck /that/, Robert!” she all but shouted at him, “You handled /everything/ the best you could - the best /anyone/ could.”

“That's the problem,” he said, fixing her with a uncompromising stare. “It wasn’t enough.”

As far as posting goes, the next chapter of The Library Beneath the Clock Tower will post Saturday. The next chapter of Disparate Pathways will post on Sunday, and I plan to post the next chapter of Breathe on Monday.

Also  Also, if anyone would like to see a specific scene for Scene-it-Saturday, drop me an ask and I’ll see what I can do.

[kewltie]

“You may have two,” Hyukjae says. 

Donghae looks up at Hyukjae, eyes widening. “Two?!” he cries out indignantly. 

Hyukjae’s quirks up a brow. “Two,” he affirms, cruelly unmoved by Donghae’s outrage and suffering. 

Donghae winces, chasten. “Two,” he agrees with heavy reluctant. 

He extend his  hands out toward Hyukjae, considering his options before settling on his target. He fiddles with the uppermost top button of Hyukjae’s open dress shirt for a moment, fingers tracing silver lined buttons, before he gives it his devoted attention. 

The flashes of Hyukjae’s bare skin out of the corner of his eyes and the heat of Hyukjae’s body colling around him are normally incredibly distracting factors for Donghae, but none of that enter his head as he focus on his task. His fingers deftly button up the first one easily enough and he moves on to the next. That one also quickly follows suit but his fingers linger at the second button for a second more before he lowers his hand to third one. His thumb pad teases at it as he considers giving into temptation and button it up anyway and that’s when Hyukjae’s grip catches his hand before Donghae commits his effort to it. 

“No,” he says firmly and Donghae lets out a pained sigh as Hyukjae’s release his hold on Donghae. 

Donghae steps back in shame. Lowering his head, he stares at the floor as though it can save him. He’d almost broken the rule that Hyukjae’s had lay down for him because he simply couldn’t control himself. Give Donghae an inch and he’ll take a mile.

He waits quietly for Hyukjae’s to finish buttoning up his dress shirt so he can dole a punishment or, worst, a lecture on restraint and self control which Donghae sorely lacks. 

He hear Hyukjae’s footstep closing in on him but doesn’t dare to look up and meet Hyukjae’s disappointed gaze. He feels a familiar hand cupping his chin and tries to resist it holds on him but it’s futile as Hyukjae’s lift it up and Donghae catches sight of the teasing glint in Hyukjae’s eyes . “I see that even two buttons are too much for you. I should discipline you for that near transgression but I have another idea in mind. Normally, one wouldn’t award someone for their bad behavior but this has never been normal and you always been uniquely you.” The corners of Hyukjae’s lip tug upward. “I have something else for you in mind instead. If you get a ninety percent or higher on your upcoming statistic midterm I might consider letting this offense go and perhaps even let you do the rest of the buttons next time,” he offers kindly and more then a little mean, knowing that Donghae is barely scrapping by a C in that class. 

“Oh,” Donghae says, fully aware that’s he being baited and bribed but he sinks his entire jaw around the hook anyway because Donghae always been equally part dumb and bullheaded, “then I won’t just have your dress shirt. I want your suit jacket and tie too.” It’s haughty and outrageous demand coming from him but Donghae who  has the honor of taking Hyukjae apart every day when he come home tired and weary from work, each layer of clothes on him carefully removed and put aside as Hyukjae let Donghae pawed at him so he can stop being Mister Lee, the fierce and uncompromising head of his organization, and everyone else’s and just be Donghae’s master, lord of his domain, and solely his. 

But it’s another thing to put Hyukjae together, help him get ready, piece by piece, putting his armor on before he goes out and face the entire world—that is a privilege Donghae desperately wants. 

The corner of Hyukjae’s lips rise even more. “Always so greedy, my dear,” he murmurs quietly leaning in and pressing a  kiss to the side of Donghae’s head. “But I expect nothing less from you.”

[ladyspaceradio]

Ink Chapter 3

Ao3 Link

Chapter 3: Giraffe 

The angara found their other halves through dreams.

It was a connection that linked them from birth.

Evfra had heard the tales all his life of the joy and intimacy such a connection brought each pair. But he had never experienced it himself.

Oh it wasn’t obvious that there was anything different about Evfra as a babe. His mothers had simply thought him just another fussy infant that disliked sleep. It had been quite some time before he had been old enough to understand that there was something seriously lacking in him.

Evfra de Tershaav did not dream.

His mothers had been adamant that there had to be some mistake. True, there was the rare tragic tale of lovers never meeting, dying before the mating bond was complete, but nowhere on the Angaran worlds existed any mention of someone simply… alone.

At first his family had decided that his mate simply had not been born yet as not every pairing was close in age, some were as far as seven or even nine years apart. Everyone but Evfra ignored that even in those cases the older angara in question had always dreamt of something, blurred shapes and fog instead of the empty black void that awaited him each night.

The blood blue angaran boy only grew more sullen with every dreamless year, but still he waited. For the one who would love only him, Evfra de Tershaav swore he would wait as long as it took.

By his twenty fifth year, his patience had worn thin in the face of his family’s well meaning but ceaseless pity. His heartache gained a desperate, almost savage edge as he faced the possibility of dreamless nights unending.

Why Why WHY?!

What had he done to be so undeserving? For what possible skkutting reason could the Stars have for denying him the other half of his soul?!

It was a few more years before Evfra found his answer at the hands of the Kett.

Screaming. Gunfire. Splashes of blue, so much blue staining the floors and walls. Smoke. Pain. Then silence.

Evfra awoke in the ruins of his family home with the dead eyes of his youngest niece staring at him.

Sweet Avinii had been excitedly telling him about her dreams just a few hours before.

Her small body was twisted into an unnatural shape and it broke him.

Without a word his hands gently gathered her into his arms and with great care he tucked her into bed with her favorite stuffed toy.

Armed with his true mother’s assault rifle and firaan, Evfra left to find the rest of his family.

But they were long gone.

After his family was taken on Voeld, Evfra felt he finally had the answer for being born an unpaired Angara. He was to be an uncompromising blade striking at the heart of the enemy.

He would fill the void in his soul with the bodies of a thousand dead Kett.

The Resistance had always been there after the kett came, but only as unorganized pockets of scattered fighters. Through the sheer force of his rage Evfra rallied his people, pulled them together across the stars and transformed them into a force that held the Kett back.

And at the time it had worked, till the kett realized what was happening. First is was Eos, lost to the ketts attrition warfare. Elaaden was next, though pockets of Resistance forces stayed hidden with civilians. Kadara was on the cusp of being another loss.

They were fighting a losing battle once more.

Until one day it changed again.

Strangers came, much like the kett. Out of the stars they appeared, scouring various worlds. The kett lost their footholds in some worlds as they fought against the new aliens. This in turned forced them to focus their attention on others. Angara kidnappings increased, and so did the pressure to simply survive.

The resistance was on the verge of failing. He was on the verge of failing.

Reports poured in every day. News on ketts movements. The horrors of what they have done. Attacking supply lines, ambushes on scouts, so many MIA reports. They were targeting comms trying to leave the resistance blind. The worst yet were the reports of civilians. Stories so similar to his own. Families ripped apart.

Evfra had been reading over such a report when it happened. As if someone had stabbed him with a dull firaan, pain erupted in his chest, his lungs spasmed as if to draw in air but there was none available. Stumbling he latched onto the table in front of him, dropping the datapad. His hand pressed to where his heart lay as it ‘thump-thumped painfully beneath the skin and muscles. Tears blurred his vision as the recurring thought of ‘I can’t die here!’ echoed in a voice that was not his own.

As the seconds ticked by the agony reached a peak before it abruptly stopped.

“EVFRA!” Someone was yelling repeatedly. “BY THE STARS! GET OLVEK!!”

He opened his mouth to snap at them that he didn’t need the skkutting doctor. But the fighters were already scrambling, yelling for Olvek who was just a level below.

By the time the old angara made it up the steps, Evfra is back to growling orders at his bewildered men. Getting them settled and focused back on the information pouring in.

It took a full five minutes for Olvek to pull the General away from the resistance feeds and start checking him for signs of sickness. Routine scans are done, medical checks are clear, leaving the medic puzzled over these signs. He glances at the charts, double checking that it states no mate recorded.

Having enough of being treated like an invalid the Resistance leader stands again. “It’s just exhaustion.” He proclaims as there is no other clear cause being presented.

“Evfra,” Olvek frowned. “This isn’t mere exhaustion.” He hesitated which made Evfra’s frown deepen “I-I’ve seen this before, many times when a...when an angara loses their culum mea.”

“Preposterous.” Evfra snarled, his lip curling in aggravation. “I’ve never had a mate.”

Olvek eyes him, as if this was something Evfra would skkutting lie about. The resistance leader glared at him, daring the doctor push him on this. Olvek instead shifted uncomfortably. “I’ll prescribe something to help you sleep, and I recommend you to get more sun Evfra.”

Grunting the resistance leader turns his back, returning to his safe haven.

The phantom pain doesn’t leave him for sometime, like small fingers wrapped around his heart, he can feel a searing squeeze now and then. Sending shocks of pain rocketing down his spine. Lingering behind the pain though was that little feminine voice who had been crying out that she couldn’t die here. He ponders the peculiarity of all that has happened for a few more days before another kett ambush sweeps the incident away.  

It’s children this time, taken from the clutches of their mothers.

Evfra is snarling at the news, barking out orders to skkutting prepare for a counter attack. He will not let the younglings be taken as long as he’s still breathing when it hits.

His arm burned, a delicate flame brushing gently across his arm. As if someone is stroking the bioelectricity down his arm in a lover's caress. Sensual, slow, and seductive.

Hissing with confusion, Evfra throws down the datapad he was holding, scaring the recruit who had been reporting in as he peeled back his sleeve and froze.

Gentle curving traces a picture were being born upon his arm. Stroke by lazy stroke the swirling colors of a sunset bled onto his arm.

“What the skkut is this!” Evfra roared wiping his fingers across the image, smearing the details that were painted upon his skin.

His outrage had gained the attention of all the fighters, those who were curious enough cast peeks at his arm, while others were too fearful to leave their station.

“Perhaps sir,” A pilot who had been reporting in hedged back. There was a tremor in his voice as he spoke to Evfra. “Olvek could look at it and-.”

Evfra chuffed cutting off the angara. “Finish your report with Raviin.” His second in command turned at the sound of her name.

The pilot nodded before scurrying over to her.

Giving his arm a long look, he nodded to Raviin as he stepped out. The light blue angara returned the gesture before frowning at the pilot explaining what was happening.

Olvek is sitting, scrolling through his list. Inventory needed counting, and if there was surplus then it needed to be shipped to those in need. He’s squinting at the screen, crunching numbers when his vision suddenly shifts to something colorful. It takes the old, tired angara a moment to process that there is an arm now in his field of vision.

Following the arm to it’s owner, Olvek came face to face with the scowling leader of the resistance.

“Are you an artist now Evfra?” Olvek inquired in good nature. It was something the blue angara took in stride, sometimes Olvek almost got a smile out of the wary angara. Today would not be one of those days.

“I’m not finding your attempts at humor funny Olvek.” Evfra hissed. “What is this?” he demanded, pointing down at the mark in disgust.

“A picture.” Olvek ventures.

“How did it get there?” Evfra presses, his arm is practically touching the medics nose at this point.

Olvek gives the general a look before examining the smear picture. Lips tipping down in a frown he studies it for a moment. “How exactly did you get it?”

“That is what I am asking you.” Evfra chuffs. “It just appeared.”

“Just….appeared.” Olvek regards the arm one more time before crossing his arms. “Tell me everything.”

Evfra wasted no time explaining how he had this odd feeling burn across his arm, and when he went to check, pulling his shirt back he found this. Wet on his arm like it had just been painted.

Olvek was quiet for a long moment before sighing, which usually meant he was about to say something the pissed Evfra off more. “I only have a theory…..Have you been,”

He hesitates again. “dreaming?”

Like poking a festering wound, the pain flared. The jagged edges of a fractured soul lay bare and empty. It was a shameful mark he would always have.

“No.” He snaps. “I have never had a mate.”

“Evfra.” Olvek stands placing a hand upon his forearm above the marking. “I think this is a soul mark. The new aliens might be-.”

“No.” He couldn’t possibly have a mate with those heathens. The ones who sold their own for money and slaughtered each other at the slightest provocation. No he couldn’t have a mate like that.

There isn’t much else exchanged between the two angara. Olvek attempts again to broach the subject but Evfra shuts it down, with only a sad look he sends the General back to his troops to fight another day.

It was no secret to anyone who serves beneath the detached angara what happened to him. However not all know that the scarred male had never dreamt a day in his life. There was only one other case Olvek knew of, yet he held onto hope that these newcomers would bring about a peaceful future.

Grabbing a rag he wiped the image away. Scrubbing the colors off into the basin, watching them swirl away till only his skin is left.  It wasn’t possible that his mate was an alien.

Wasn’t it?

That night he dreamt in color.  Of a planet he had never seen. On a hill that overlooked the sunset that had been painted upon his arm. The land was a dusty brown while the sky was a brilliant blue. He could feel the wind kicking up dust around his feet while the murmuring sound of life drifted from below.

Souls dream.

Heart in his throat Evfra twisted around. His eyes scanning and searching. For a frantic moment he couldn’t find her. Only the dusty planes of this flat starved world. But he could feel her. Feel the flutterings of her heart, her twisting emotions and confusion. He can feel the thrum of their connection. How it's growing stronger the longer they stay in this connected dream.

She is alive and his.

Around and around he turned till his eyes landed on her, a mere spec standing in white armor, to far to see clearly, but close enough to know she looked….wrong.

She can’t be...

As if the connection sensed his forming rejection, the world at his feet begin to quake. Colors splintered, turning back into a dulling gray color, sucking away all warmth leaving only a starch coldness.

She did then turn, face plate glinting in the sun before everything began to crumble, she started to fade from view, taking the sky and land with her till Evfra was left to suffocate in familiar darkness again.

NO!

Jerking awake, he gasps. Muscles twitching as electric volts shimmer beneath the surface agitated. His fist slams into the wall beside his cot, leaving a dent.

He just ruined their connection.

For the rest of the night he sits in the silence of his rooms. He feels torn in two, yet whole at the same time. Absently his hand rubbed across his chest, above the rapid beats of his heart. Around and around his mind turns.

He wasn’t unworthy.

She was real.

She was his.

Her origin didn’t matter.

After 40 years of waiting, Evfra had a mate and once he found her… he was never letting go.

Before the first rays of the sun could greet the dawn, Evfra had slipped from his bed and walked the silent streets of Aya. Vendors had yet to set up stalls as most would still be dreaming with their loved ones. Some of the veterans of the Resistance called greetings as they went to work, switching out with the other fighters who had been monitoring feeds and reports during the night.

With the morning dusk peaking over the horizon, Evfra made his way to the repository. There was something he needed. Avela was certainly surprised to see the resistance leader, and even more surprised to hear his request.

As silently as he came, he was gone before anyone could really realize that the leader of the Resistance was passing by with a harsh scowl twisting his mouth.

Once in the safety of his base of operations, Evfra pulled out the small thin device to study it. Wondering if he was making a fool of himself.

The small black artisans brush weighted heavily in the palm of his hand. Twisting it to have the tip pointing up. Evfra studied the ink stained felt nib. Red, like the Harval skyline of a waning sun.  

Avela had handed it to him with small inquisitive stares. She had been curious, probed him with timid questions, all he refused to yield an answer to. Now he stood in the headquarters, the few fighters present paid him no heed as the passed in and out of the room, carrying request and sending out orders.

Uncertainty stilled his hand. What was he suppose to do? Would this even work?

Grunting he lay the tip against his skin, and drew a hesitant line. The small red mark stood out against his deep blue skin. Beneath the drying ink he could feel the faintest of tingles dancing across his nerves, just as he felt when the sunset appeared.

Would this bring back the link he’d shattered?

“Evfra,” A voice called from the doorway.

Evfra De Tershaav, Resistance leader, a man always on the alert, flinched at the sudden intrusion. The pen he held dropped to the ground and rolled beneath the table.

“What are you doing?” Jaal stood in the doorway looking perplexed at the General’s behavior. It would seem he had returned from the reconnaissance mission.

Jaal Ama Darav was a good fighter, but far too skkutting nosy for his own good.

“Nothing.” Evfra growled kicking the brush away like it had burned him.

Jaal regarded him with a curious look before moving into the room with purpose. He was ambitious, reckless at moments but a good shot and a better soldier. Most of Evfra’s time was spent on Aya which meant he had to send others to gather information and carry out orders. Jaal was one of the few scouts he sent out and knew he would be returning. He was an Ama Darav after all.

The pen was soon forgotten as Jaal began his reports of Eos and Voeld. Though Evfra’s eyes drifted continuously down to look at his arm, wondering what came next.

Hours he waited. Watching something, but his arm remain persistently blank. Disappointed and no amount of frustrated, Evfra threw the pen away. Tossing it with an angry snarl out the open window.

He came to regret this decision moments later when the first of the lines began appearing. Pen gone, he could only stare in both amazement and frustration at the blocky lines. At night he’d trace the nonsense scribbles and wonder what she looked like. How’d she feel in his arms. It was the only thing that soothed the aching need that the tattered bond had left.

For days there was an endless stream of markings on his arm. Blocky black lines that made no sense to him.

But they were more welcome than the dreams that came at night. Each evening, Evfra made little to no progress building back the link he lost. Constantly she was in the distance, across a cavern of stars staring silently at him. No matter how many steps he progressed forward she always seemed too far to reach, or if he pushed too hard the dream would crumble apart.

She slipped through his fingers again and again.

Most nights he awoke snarling in frustration.

The only hope he had was the small thrumming of the what was left of the connection. He could feel her beating heart, even in the day. The feeling was tucked inside his chest, right next to his own heart. When the Resistance had a particularly bad encounter with the kett, he relied on those small fluttering beats to reassure himself that he was fighting for more. More than just the future of his people, he was fighting for her.

But it was those times during the night, when small pieces of fractured emotions would reach him before the connection failed. These little swirling emotions stabbed at his gut with worry. His mate was a small bundle of fear and confusion, tinged with joy and wavering confidence.

It was at this moment Evfra wished for the Moshae's calm presence the most. He missed her counsel, and needed the advice.

The day the Tempest showed, he probably should have known. That the woman with the all too soft smile, flaming hair, and green eyes was more to him than just the savior of his people

It had been another day at the Resistance, where a collective breath was being held as they were monitoring kett ships that had drifted far too close to Aya. The battle cruiser that had been coasting along the scourge, seemingly with no definite course when the reports of an unknown ship entering Aya’s atmosphere began piling in.

Evfra had been in a meeting. The kett had been up to something since the strangers had come from dark space. There had been high levels of activity at Ja Nihk and a seemingly unrelated report from Harval of angara scientist who went missing.  Evfra had been tasking Jaal with finding more out about the two when the report came to him.

Preparing for the worst, Evfra waited for the the reports to come in, that they were under siege,  when his pilots reported in. The alien ship was defenseless and on fire. An unusual predicament that left Evfra hesitating. Before, when his skin was silent and his dreams were empty, it would have been a quick decision to bring the ship down. They could not afford to lose Aya. Now he was almost torn about taking down an alien ship.

That choice was taken from his hands when Paaran Shie’s voice entered the comms telling them to let the aliens land. His pilots hesitated, they didn’t answer to the governor despite what she thought, when he sent an all-clear for the order.

Snarling, he organized snipers and troops to flood the streets and keep the civilians of aya safe. If this was an assault he was needed here, to coordinate counter attacks. Evfra would not leave his people blind. So he sent Jaal and listened to the sniper comms as the Pathfinder was escorted to his base.

“Sector three reporting….It’s legs are odd.”

“Her, and keep the chatter to a minimum” Raviin snapped as she directed the sniper squad. “Sector two clear she’s heading your way Valik.”

“I see her.”

There was a silence between each report, Evfra could feel the light fluttering of the connection beating rapidly. As he waited his hand pressed to the base of his diaphragm, was his worry bleeding into hers or was she in trouble? The worry about her well being that implanted itself in the back of his mind like a sickness silenced the moment the headquarters doors opened revealing Jaal and the small alien beside him.

The human Pathfinder appeared like the flaming sun of Voeld. Her eyes were a shade of green he had never seen before and tuff as red as the flames flickering in the lonely nights of Harval.

Evfra found himself staring at this creature, trying to piece together the chaos of her body.

Her legs were wrong, bending only once, her voice was wrong, speaking in a slow drawl like his growling and chuffing didn’t affect her. Her face was wrong. Eyes too wide and expressive, spilling out all her secrets, while her lip had the corners upturned at all moments, even when he was towering over her, snarling at her to back off.

“Can’t,” She said with a dainty uplifting of her shoulders.

Skkutt she’s small.

“I have people I need to protect.”

He noticed then the slight sag in her otherwise confident posture, the dark lines beneath her eyes, something burdened this woman. A brief flash of sympathy had him telling her he was sorry, for her people, but that didn’t change anything. She just smiled before saying.

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend.” She tilted her head to the side her wide green eyes sparkling with a secret she wasn’t telling.

Evfra sneered. “That is quite possibly the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Her smile widened then, rows of white teeth revealed.

“You say the nicest things.”

She confused him. Confounded him to the very core. He tried intimidation, she looked amused, he tried reason, she bewildered him with nonsense. He had only force which left a sour taste in his mouth when he looked at her tiny body.

I could snap her in half with one hand.

“Pathfinder-”

“Ryder.” She sniffed, smiling again. “Only elite douchebags have to call me Pathfinder,”

He narrowed his eyes. “Ryder. Why are you here?”

“Oh, well I met this-what did Jaal call him…” She tapped her pursed lips. “Archon, escaping him busted up my ship so we were forced to land. But we were already on our way here, see you got this vault I need to look at-.”

“No.” He cut her off before she could finish the statement. Her face twisted into a frown for the first time before the smile return.

“What if I ask really nice.” Lids lowered as she stared at him with half hidden eyes while her voice had taken a lower, huskier tone.

“No.”

Huffing, she crossed her arms while her pink lips puckered out in a pout he only seen pups do when being denied. “You didn’t like sharing toys when you were younger did you?”

He had no dignified answer for that so he stared at her, hoping that maybe she was smart enough to take the hint.

She was not.

“Look Big Blue, you seemed like a nice...guy,” Someone snorted behind her. “But I’m going to insist that you let me see your vault."

“No.”

She sighed rubbing her face with those little fingers. She had too many segmented joints. “Is that the only word you have in your vocabulary?”

His lip twitched then in amusement before settling back into a frown. Because resistance leaders did find small mouthy invading aliens amusing.

“Evfra,” Jaal stepped forward, tired from watching from the sidelines. “The Moshae could help.” The little Pathfinder behind him started nodding her head excitedly as she crosses her arms.

“The Moshae is lost to us.” He hisses.

The nodding stops abruptly.

“If what she says is true,” Jaal hesitates before moving forward to clasp Evfra’s shoulders. “We have a chance to rescue the Moshae, should we not take it?”

“Let me help.” The human edges in. That constant smile is fainter now as she speaks. “Let me prove to you we aren’t... that I’m not like the kett.” It’s her eyes so wide and honest that it has him hesitating.

“Do what you want.”  He relents as Jaal persistently pokes at his shoulders. Little nudges the angara does when he wants to do something but needs Evfra’s approval.

If he gets himself killed it’s not my fault.

But his eyes continuously track back to the flaming strands curling around a small round face. Her green eyes gleam in the sunlight as she speaks to him. The tips of her pink lips are curling again.

“Next time you see me,” She pointed a finger at Evfra, almost challenging, “I’m going to have your Moshae.”

He hated her.

Something about her gnawed at him, made his skin prickle strangely. But those are worries he tucks away as the Resistance’s rising demands take his attention away from the woman sauntering out his door.

The days to follow are filled with reports. A series of events that Evfra never thought would come at the hands of an alien. Every report flooding in from Voeld was of one woman, and how she was single handedly wiping the ice planet clean of the kett’s grasp.

‘Ja Nihk shields are down, Pathfinder spotted on her way.’

‘Another ambush, Pathfinder showed up got the team out.’

‘Need dispatch of rescued angara. Pathfinder says more are on the way.’

As the Pathfinder repeatedly proved herself to be invaluable, Evfra found himself in awe. She was a force to be reckoned with, even with her small stature. But while the Resistance was seeing better days, Evfra was still fretting over the silence of his skin. Days had gone by and there had been no whispering lines of black drawn there. He had attempted to get another brush from Avela who had turned stubborn on the point. Especially when he informed her that the last pen had been ‘lost.’

“That is part of our history!” Avela gasped. “Our great artists used them to depict the murals of history.”

Evfra merely shrugged, he had no interest in history. He was here to protect the future of their people, not the past. When he demanded another one, the curator clammed up with surprising anger.

“I am not a vendor Evfra.” She tilted her chin, looking perturbed by the prospect of yet another lost artifact.  

No amount of growling would prove to budge the stubborn woman who stood firm in her decision, until he found the ‘lost’ brush he would not be getting another one. Even snooping proved futile as she had taken what was left of the little writing tools and secreted them away.

As helpless in the waking hours as he is asleep, Evfra can do nothing but glower at his unchanging skin. Till one morning, while he lay sprawled across the cot staring unseeingly at the ceiling he feels the slow delicate strokes of another mark appearing on his skin. He shudders at the sensation and tries not to moan.

Upon its completion, the image that now graces his arm is of some strange four legged creature. Yellow with an elongated neck and spindly legs. It looks ridiculous against the blue of his skin.  

Evfra leaves it.

Notes: Welcome back Lovelies to Tuesday’s update! Thanks for all the love you send our way! See you next Tuesday!

Now a note from the Co-creator @lunamkardas:

*Grabs Microphone From LadySpaceRadio* ARE YOU FUCKERS READY TO ROCK?! WELL GET ON THE GODDAMN FEELS TRAIN BECAUSE WE ABOUT TO FUCK SHIT UP! YOU SEE THAT HOT BLUE FUCKER?!

WE'RE GOING TO WRECK HIS ASS!! SO STRAP IN MOTHERFUCKERS CAUSE IT'S ABOUT TO GET BUMPY!!!!!!

[davidastbury]

August 2017

Margaret ...1965 She had a flat in the All Saints district of Manchester, quite near to the big hospital. On summer evenings, with the window open, the noise of the ambulance sirens would have bothered most people, but she didn't mind. Her friends gave up trying to persuade her to join them - she preferred to stay at home during the week, reading or listening to music. The man from downstairs was a problem. She shouldn't have encouraged him by letting him in, but he was obviously lonely, and she had felt sorry for him. But then he started to get his drug kit out and she smoked with him. They would watch television and giggle - but afterwards hated herself. So she stopped answering her door when she knew it was him - she didn't want to see his worried face and his trembling hands; his dirty matchboxes and silver paper. So she would sit reading - any book would do - and look up when an ambulance passed - her face tightening with concern at the poor person being rushed to On the Train For a few miles the train ran parallel to a motorway and we were going a lot faster than the cars. A young couple have moved seats so that they can be together. We are all being quickly carried to our destinations - we have no control, no say in the matter. The young couple are sharing their food, pouring drinks, having a laugh about something and the lights have been dimmed as the future rushes towards them. Summer Nights A mad, hot night. Last year in a mini heatwave our little city was pretending to be New Orleans - music blaring, smoke of fast cooking, half-dressed people toppling over and laughing and the continuous rattle and bang of public pleasures. I was walking through all this, head down but seeing everything, hoping not be confronted with aggressive friendliness. Unexpectedly the people ahead started to split up, skipping unsteadily into the road. A police van was parked and several officers were standing over someone lying on the pavement. I was waved on - I couldn't see who it was or anything - there was a dark stain of some liquid - perhaps urine or alcohol or blood. We all moved on - we were an obstruction - we weren't wanted. And then I saw another policeman alone in a doorway He was just standing and staring. Early twenties I'd say, his shirt dark with sweat, black hair across his forehead and superb eyes - eyes as beautiful as a woman's staring into space - numbed with shock at human stupidity. Who Could Blame Them? They were absolute beginners- everything was new, untested, exciting. They knocked each other about with amorous cruelty; their kisses and betrayals leaving them marked for life. Eventually they returned to safe ground to lick their wounds and through the following decades look back and ask themselves - 'was that really me?' On The Train Fascinating face on platform 4. Woman in her fifties I'd guess. Why is her face fascinating ? Not had enough time to analyse but I suggest this theory:- we are instinctively drawn to a paradox: the regular, although pleasing, does not hold us. And the greatest paradox is when the face offers two different messages - the upper part gives a certain expression to the lower part. In this case, as I can remember it, her eyes are gentle but her mouth is set in a hard, uncompromising forcefulness. This doesn't occur in younger people but is fairly common in middle age and beyond. Mr Robinson I once worked at a firm where the golden rule was 'documentation'. Everything had to be written down - meetings with customers, phone conversations, follow-ups to enquiries, orders and transfers - everything. Not only did it have to be written down but it had to be written in only one type of black ball-point - the Bic Crystal. The firm used to buy dozens of boxes of these and they were stored in locked cabinets behind the desk of Mr Robinson. Whenever your pen ran dry (about twice weekly) you had to go to Mr Robinson and request a new one. He would sigh and look at you with hostility. 'And where is your old one?' - he would ask - because you had to present proof that your pen had expired. He would examine it and then, instead of tossing it into the rubbish bin (where someone might dishonestly retrieve it and return it for replacement) he would snap it in two. This involved some straining and heaving - the yellow bones of his knuckles showing through his skin. I remember how he turned his face away to avoid splinters when the pen fractured. I was sixteen - cocky and humorous - and had the impression that he would have liked to do that to my neck Going back isn't always a good idea - but there he was back to where it had all happened. It would have been nice to feel a connection; a confirmation of how he remembered things, but instead it was as if he had no part in anything. The trees had changed shape - the beach was smaller - the grass held no memory and the place knew him not. Couples I'm thinking of people we've met on holidays . A young couple from Liverpool in Tunisia - he Kurdish, open-faced and friendly; building up an ice-cream business. She as lovely as a film-star, accent like the Beatles, got herself a hairdressing shop and doing-very-well-thank-you. They had left their little boy at home with his grandma but his mum never stopped thinking about him. We got onto the subject of Kurdistan and yes, she had been there twice with her husband - met all his big family. I asked how she got along with them and she replied - 'The men are really nice... but the women were standoffish, they weren't friendly.' I remember the long silence. At first we all nodded, showing deep sympathy and then a unspoken humour appeared until it became a struggle to keep our faces straight. Tenerife - Hotel Restaurant, breakfast. All eyes on her as the waiter fusses her to a table - really, there is no need to walk backwards! She floats on the attention with only the slightest flicker of pleasure - as if born to be served. And then she exchanges a few words with her boyfriend, or husband or whatever he is. Her voice is pitched low so that even those very near won't catch it - she doesn't want to be heard, but she enjoys all the eyes being on her. And then a couple struggle their way through the tables, loaded with a baby and all the necessary equipment. He hollow-eyed and with a ginger beard; she with that slightly crazy look of new mothers. The baby, a girl I think, is installed in a high chair and starts drumming with a spoon - uneven tufts of hair shake about as she gazes at all the smiling strangers. Six Thousand Miles Away A priest called on her without any notice - just a knock on the door. He informed her that her mother had been arrested in California and was being held on drug charges. It was a shock but not a surprise. Apparently she had a lawyer and was getting help, but she wanted to see her daughter - a letter explaining everything was on the way. He gave her a sheet of paper with details of where the penitentiary was situated. When the priest had left she sat and remembered the tensions and troubles of her childhood - the instability and fights - the extravagant promises - the treatments - the start-ups and relapses - the succession of awful men, all greedy, drug ridden and over friendly - it was all hard-edged and unpleasant. California was five/six thousand miles away. She couldn't just drop everything and go. If her mother was ill she'd go to meet her without any hesitation - if she were ill she would rush to be with her - of course she would - what daughter wouldn't? Hotel Pool. Tenerife Hockney blue water and Topkapi tiling. Lovers, enjoying the semi- concealment, laugh and maul each other. Nymphs and brats frolic in the foam. I go deep into the turquoise thunder and see it all slide above me - the white hotel with blue railings - the dancing sun-umbrellas - the melting clouds - an orange triangle of bikini - white, perfect teeth - golden hair and nut-brown legs. The nice thing about being away on holiday is that priorities are reversed - the trivial becomes important. The rescue of a butterfly in a fountain attracts a crowd - a toddler splashing another is high drama - kites that will not fly draw masses of technical advice. I like to join the confusion in many languages - Germans looking at me think that I am German and I say 'Ja wohl ' and do my Friedrich Nietzsche face. Saudi Arabia There was nothing - thousands of miles of emptiness; nothing but sand and the occasional cluster of palm trees. What became known as the capital was given the name Riyadh, which means 'underground water'. The palm tree gives shade - it gives food, dates - it supplies fuel, slow burning wood - for construction purposes it has leaves to mix with clay for bricks and adobe, and hard wood for supports - the leaves can also be dried and woven into floor coverings and screens - even the ash after burning can be used as nourishment for plants. For hundreds of years the palm tree supplied comfort and shade for travellers, poets and storytellers. There was nothing else in Arabia, but from this austere beauty came Islam and then the black gold of crude oil. And that nothingness will surprise us again. Hotel Tenerife Met a woman in the hotel - originally from Germany but lived all over the world. She's at least 80, perfect English, smokes continuously ('and have done all my life'); gave up driving last year and misses it badly, sold her beloved Porsche but says she's going to buy a new one; loves London and is fighting to save Soho and Camden from the developers. She says outrageous things and you know at a glance that she isn't what the English call 'respectable'. She's thin and wears saffron coloured tops and creased linen trousers - which may be a throw back to a hippy past. There is a husband too, although I haven't seen him, and then she told me that he was staying 'Up in the room'. With a dismissive flick of cigarette ash and a wicked smile with half of her mouth, she added - 'Man-flu' A Near Miss Out in the hills in a mini-bus. Driver rolling with the wheel; cheerful music loud at full volume and still managing a shouting chat with his pal in the front seat. Cocky driving - all accelerator and brake. We all hold tight as he swings us on the hair-pin bends and look with dismay at the sheer down to a dried up riverbed far below. And then he gets his timing wrong and we very nearly go through the low wall - which would have been the end of us. But we were lucky - but only just. He resumed his shouting chat and his hairy arms wrestled with the wheel. I felt a rising anger, surely justified, at how our lives were at the whim of his caprice, and yet it was a sort of synthetic anger - not on my own behalf - more for the nice young couple in front of me, who were too busy looking at each other to see anything else. The Ghosts of Oxford Street It was said that if you walked the length of The Strand you would pass at least two murderers and one international spy. Today if you walk Oxford Street, preferably on a hot afternoon, it is likely you will meet the ghost of Dr Stephen Ward. Ward loved Oxford Street for two reasons - it had lots of coffee bars with huge windows and passing along those pavement was a parade of the prettiest young women in the country; perhaps in the world. He was well known in these coffee bars, always in a grey suit and white shirt, chain-smoking Player’s untipped cigarettes, sometimes alone sketching, sometimes talking with a friend, but always, always with an eye on the young women passing outside. And the women adored him. So many shared his flat and talked about his fussing over bathroom arrangements and disapproval at unsuitable boyfriends. The coffee bars closed down long ago. Friends The smiles and waves when leaving friends are insincere. The cheerful - ‘See you soon’ is bogus and everyone knows it is - but we play our parts because we have to. You don't want the music of their voices to fade away. You don't want to return to your own silences. You imagine the conversations continuing - you offer suggestions - you make jokes. But what you will miss most of all is the feeling of easy happiness - of undemanding happiness! And the certainty that nothing bad can happen. Ronnie He disliked me from day one. We shared the same office and I did my best to have as little contact as possible. What got him was probably my 60s cockiness and effete languor. He was double my age and had been through the war - apparently in Lancaster bombers. He viewed me with contempt, and he was much the same with the other people. We knew he was a bit weird - if something went wrong he would explode with rage, sort of hysterical, his voice high. And I would have never have known more about him if I hadn't been seated opposite him at the annual Christmas dinner. He was talking to the man on his left and I could hear what was going on. Ronnie was explaining why he couldn't use the offered ticket for a football match - he was unable to cope with excitement. As the evening drew out I learned a lot about him. Somehow he had managed to survive the war - Lancasters had a bad reputation, they were very difficult to get out of if you were hit - only 16% of airmen successfully made it. The crew would be in a state of terror throughout; drenched in sweat but shivering with the cold. When the war ended he found there was nothing for him. He called at the RAF places in Pall Mall, and he was humiliated. He was mentally ill at a time when it was regarded as shameful. He was offered a place at university but he didn't feel strong enough to study. He lived as a lodger on full board; he had a bedroom and use of facilities. He said it suited him better than having to cook and do things like shopping. I listened to all without looking at him and pictured him hanging up his hat and coat on a hook behind the door - the low ceiling and floral wallpaper - the suitcase under the bed - the wardrobe door that swings open - the light switch on the end of a cord - a neat pile of paperback thrillers - a cheap Timex watch - two pairs of highly polished shoes - and on the bedside table a small framed photograph of Winston Churchill. Mary Notnice… (1966). For Frances Mary was furious and it was best to keep out of her way. Later that day I thought she had calmed down a little and asked what was wrong. Apparently the boss has said to her that she looked like Sonny and Cher. I said that Cher is gorgeous. The boss had told her that she looked like Sonny. We hear about so many people being ill in one way or another. People sometimes say that they will pray that their friends will recover - but they don't know how to put this into words. I know that simple sincerity is the key, but structure is also important. I would like to offer this prayer for healing… ‘May the One who was a source of blessing for our ancestors, bring blessings of healing upon (recite the English/ Hebrew or just English name in full) a healing of body and a healing of spirit. May those in whose care they are entrusted, be gifted with wisdom and skill, and those who surround them, be gifted with love and trust, openness and support in their care. And may they be healed along with all those who are in need. Blessed are You, Source of healing. Amen.’ Mary Notnice ….(1965 and all that) She is the only one I would like to know more about - I am curious of what became of her. The rest of us - thrown together in that office in Cross Street Manchester - were very average and conventional. We posed and squawked, brimming with boasts and shrill ambitions, and the normal torments of pretentious young people - randy and restless, trusting and treacherous. But Mary was never part of our group; she distanced herself and nursed her anger. She would frown through her fringe - her pointed elbows keeping you at your distance. I remember how she wore a fluffy jumper of some sort, incongruously feminine, and commenting that it concealed needles - that got a laugh, and it now makes me ashamed. She disliked us and hardly ever joined in the conversations. I can still see her sitting by herself in the staff-room, her tea-cup empty and her hands out of sight. She sat like a painting, totally still, totally remote, totally self contained. It should have been enough. The sky opened and gave them everything - all their dreams came true, not just their dreams but even things beyond their dreams. It should have been enough. But it wasn't. Are You a Lesbian? She was in her bedroom, not properly dressed, just sprawling and thinking her own private thoughts when her mother came in - she didn't knock, she just came in. You could see she had a determined look, as if resolved to do something and was set on doing it. No preamble - out came the question - ‘Are you a lesbian?’ This was a continuation of an earlier conversation. They had talked about boys and the mother mentioned boys who had shown an interest. The girl hooted with laughter at her mother’s cringy suggestions. She choked with snorting derision. So the mother had been pondering a certain thread of thought. Hence the question - which was asked with that concerned, pained, but creepy expression that mothers use. The girl was shocked - real jaw-sagging incredulity - a mixture of astonishment and annoyance - she looked so alarmed that the mother backed off immediately, mumbling apologies - but at the same time pleased. Alone again, the girl stared at the ceiling and then grabbed her mobile to text her girlfriend. L'éducation Sentimentale Leonardo’s Madonna touched him with icy fingers and he moved away. Once he visited Italy and stood perfectly still in front of Primavera, by Botticelli, as she tossed flowers and smiled at him, romping and randy. Others called to him - Renoir’s sizzling nudes, golden girls in the river, water up to their hips, splashing and laughing. But he remained loyal to his Tess. She haunted him - and although he was never without a copy of the book, he could not read it again… Tess - the love of his life. On the Train Couple sitting at a diagonal to me - mid thirties at a guess. The speak together but don't look at each other; they listen only to the voice. Years ago, when they were getting to know each other they agreed not to have secrets and to tell each other everything. He told of the fears that had tormented him all his life; he also recounted his past - what he had done and what he would have liked to have done. She was shocked - and that was the end of it. And so he never mentions his secret fears but they haven't gone away - they crowd up and show in his face - and they are to be found (in a coded form) in everything he says 
On the Train She must be a dancer! Long rangy limbs with the elasticity of the super fit - reaching and stretching for her cluster of bags and things. Fabulous angular face - beautiful bones that will never change - sharp shoulders - pointed chin - a jaw like a Lautrec - a profile like Buffet’s ‘Annabelle’ - pale grey ‘didn't-get-much-sleep-last-night’ eyes - front teeth showing in a childish sort of way - silver rings through her left nostril, girlish and yet puzzlingly androgynous - she’s like a boy who has decided to be a ballerina! But the train has been stopped and with the sun beating down we are feeling the heat. A man is struggling to open the windows. The dancer takes off her jumper and tosses it onto the opposite seat - in that quick movement, with her arms stretched fully above her head and wearing only a very abbreviated, sleeveless T-shirt, she showed off her thick black armpit hair. !’ Mischief in Patisserie Valerie I shouldn't make such assumptions when I see people, but this is too good to miss! Here is a normal looking young woman - she keeps glancing at the door, as if expecting someone. Her expression shows equanimity and patience, but you feel that her slow-blinking seriousness is actually a mask - her wondering, girlish gaze is a fake. She has a steady stream of boyfriends - few of whom hold her interest beyond a couple of weeks. There is a set routine - she annoys them. She does things that will irritate or embarrass them - when out on a date she might spill her drink down the front of his trousers - or she might borrow his iPad and delete some of his apps. When she sees the anger on his face she becomes contrite and compliant - and he softens - then she does something else to annoy him. It is her game and she plays it to perfection. If the boyfriend is clever he will join in, but mustn't give away that he knows - if he isn't clever, he's finished! Mary Temple (Minny) 1846-1870 Cousin of Henry James. She was intellectually brilliant, headstrong, restless, searingly honest. The photograph was taken at the age of 17 - after she had cropped her hair. As time ran out (she died at 24) she made a single demand:- ‘You must tell me something that you are sure is true.’ More birds than ever this morning. All waiting for me to go out in the rain and feed them. At the back of the garden, in the branches, a line of jackdaws, blinking and cawing - water dripping from their beaks. On the lower branches are pairs of wood-pigeons, but some single ones too - perhaps widows or widowers. I put out bread for them and a mix from a sack - wheat, sunflower, maize, oats, millet, dari, rapeseed oil. That will keep them happy for a while - and if they are happy I am happy. There is something that will make you smile and feel happy every time you come home. In your hall - the first thing you see - a little girl’s pink bicycle! She was in her second year at medical school and had already decided to be an opthalmologist. She used to sit in the library studying a book called ‘The Eye and Orbit’ and other titles dealing with surgery of the eye. She was called Jackie (Jacqueline) and she was the girlfriend of my friend Kevin. Kevin kept her very much to himself - we only saw him when he was alone. I once commented on this and he said that Jackie didn't like being in a crowd; she was shy and very quiet. But around that time there was some sort of incident on Oxford Road; very near to the medical library. A man was on the pavement and people were bunched up around him. Someone had phoned for help, but it wasn't clear what had happened - a woman said that he had fallen over in a fit of some sort. Another said that a man had come up and hit him and then ran off. He wasn't fully conscious. Jackie, apparently untroubled by shyness, announced that she was a medical student and that everyone must stand back and let her through. She knelt beside him and did all the things that doctors do in such situations - but - all the time she was working on the man her face was very close to his - very close - nearly touching. Later Kevin told about this - the incident with unconscious stranger and how Jackie had put her face over his. Of course, it was all about the eyes! But I said nothing, letting him work it out for himself. Rick He didn't want her to go but what could he do? He knew that she had intended going to university right from the start. They agreed to make the best of it - she would come home for the vacations and he would visit from time to time. And that's what they did; and for a while it was okay. But the journey to Cambridge from the North West is difficult - it isn't something you would do every weekend, even if you could afford it. So they saw less of each other. Inevitably, her new life began to fill her needs and her interest in Rick diminished; unfortunately his interest in her increased. And then it was all over. Rick didn't take up with anyone else - he took girls out to clubs and parties but there was never anyone ‘special’. He told someone that he was stuck and could not move on - no one felt right - that was his phrase - ‘No one felt right’. At the Jewellers #3 An unhappy customer! They should have ushered her into a private room and offered soothing words and sympathy - instead she's having a rant and everyone can hear - except me of course. Exiles Even a small kindness to a stranger can be important - it may seem insignificant but that unexpected friendliness will reconnect them to what they may have lost - a much greater kindness with other people - at another place - at another time. The Haunted House There had once been a double murder in the house and it was never again occupied. Gradually it became a ruin, the roof collapsed and tree branches grew through the windows. Naturally, to eight-year-olds it was a place of fear and wonderment and excitement. It stood alone and desolate and although we were told never to go near the place, we used to meet-up there and explore the dark rooms and broken stairway. Two areas were too terrifying to enter - the cellar and a kitchen scullery - it was where the bodies were found and the doors were nailed shut. As it grew dark we would take turns at telling ghost stories - we would creep up behind each other and scream. It was good fun, but we felt real fear too and we would all leave the place together - not quite holding hands, but very nearly. Once, as we came out of the country lane and back to civilisation - street lights and road traffic - I found that I’d left my jacket back at the haunted house. The jacket was important but even more were the items packed in the pockets, back-door key, knife, cash, and a Smiths pocket watch (yes, as a little boy I had pocket-watches) and other treasures. I had to go back and get it. I had to go back, in darkness, alone, down the lanes and across the fields to a place that even grown-ups shunned. I was shaking with fear. I could hear someone coming after me and it was Jack. He wasn't a best friend and he was younger. We didn't speak, and I knew he was as afraid as I was, but having someone next to me - even a seven-year-old - somehow made me stronger.