#this also goes for six as well because the amount of people i see being rude about the aragon tour queens on the OFFICAL SIX TIKTOK

[montygatorguy]

theatre fans that hate on any cast of a show that isn’t the original are the bane of my existence. literally just shut the fuck up do you hate joy magic and fun and seeing different interpretations of characters.

[knavesflames]

hi!!! consider wandering into a gym and acting all weak so that pretty ladies will come up and offer to help you

i'm talking pretty ladies with ABS!!! dehya, clorinde, arlecchino, beidou, rosaria (take your pick, pookers)

i'm the weakest mf, i'd ask for a spotter to lift 5 lbs 😇 just to see the pretty women fr

Hi pookie!! I know you’re feeling down lately so I thought I’d try to prioritise this one for now😮 first post ever that isn’t Arlecchino based!! How crazy:0 time to give Dehya some well deserved love, I think..

Word count: 1181

Content: silly reader does not know the gym, dehya is a sweetie but also horny for reader, grinding on abs

Nsft utc!

When you walk into the gym, it’s more than obvious you are NOT a regular. Your appearance isn’t what gives it away (though it doesn’t help), it’s the fact you’re utterly adorable clueless with all the equipment. Even though you’re desperately trying to figure it out, nothing about what you’re doing is correct. From the way you struggle to lift a 4kg weight, to the way you aren’t even tall enough to reach the equipment that isn't the height of your waist or lower. You’re tiny. She feels bad for you in the beginning, and she does what no other woman in the gym does. She goes up to you, reaching to take down whatever equipment you need, spotting you even when you lift the smallest amount of weight possible. She sets the machines up correctly for you too, quietly letting you know that you’re doing it wrong. She doesn’t make it obvious, no, she knows how it could be embarrassing for you. You’re just so inexperienced.

She adores it. She’s been watching you since the day you started coming to this specific gym. Your tight clothes she knows you’re wearing to look more toned than you are. The way you struggle with every machine, the way you look around to copy other people’s motions. The way you stare at her when she’s training her muscles. Dehya is no idiot, not in the slightest, and you’re not subtle in the slightest. If anything, she enjoys the attention she’s getting from you, and she plays up to it. Lifting more than she needs to just to watch the rise and fall of your chest, grunting louder than she usually does to relish in the way your eyes glaze as you think of her grunting as she fucks you. She’s teasing you, and she loves every second of it.

So, she decides, after six long months, does she interact with you directly. Dehya, being Dehya, is just a little bored of watching you react so far away from her. She wants to hear your breathing, hear your muttered responses to her as she makes your mind go blank. You’re shy, though, she’s gathered that much, so she’ll be kind, she thinks. She’ll do it in a way that’s just as good for you both. Before she can think of what she’s doing, she’s tying her locks into a ponytail at the back of her head, careful not to put too much strain on the strands by her ears, and she’s calling out to you from across the gym.

“Hey, pretty girl,” she drawls, loud enough that your head whips around, your eyes wide at the idea of finally being noticed by the girl you’ve been pining over, the whole reason you’re going to the gym. “Come here and help me, yeah? Thanks, doll.”

You drop the weight you’re holding immediately (one you had strained to even pick up), almost scrambling over. You wait, bouncing your foot as you glance at her. You watch as Dehya moves into an exercise you’ve seen her do often, one you’ve always secretly (not so secretly, she knows) admired her doing. She lowers herself down to the floor before her eyes, blue as sapphires, focus on you again. “Sit here,” she pats the area around her hips softly, looking up at you expectantly.

“What?” You manage to splutter out words, looking at her with widened eyes almost in horror at the prospect. Only because you know immediately what’ll happen, and you already feel the coil in your stomach tighten at the idea. Somehow, though, you can’t resist from gingerly perching yourself on the side of her hip, only for Dehya to tut and shake her head with a grin.

“No, straddle me. I can’t exercise if I’m worried you’re gonna fall off, can I, doll?” She raises an eyebrow, just waiting, and eventually, you obey her, moving until your entire weight rests on her. She hums in approval, her hands finding your waist, her thumbs stroking the skin a little too intimately. “Good girl, see? God, you’re tiny.”

The words she says are breathless as she eyes you. She’s not ashamed either, the smirk on her face tells you that much, but a few seconds later, she’s using your body weight to do hip thrusts, grunting with every rep, enjoying your ever flushing face.

After a while, Dehya is past her usual rep count, and you know it, too, but she’s not stopping. She’s barely counting, and she’s more concentrated on the way her hands are squeezing ever so gently around your waist, and the way one of her hands is sliding towards your hip.

She knows it’s late at night, there isn’t anybody else here now. Everyone left a while ago, so she takes the chance. A risky move, and she does it anyway, faking innocence, like she has no idea what she’s doing. Her abs are already slick from the sweat continuously gathering, and despite you being clothed, she moves you gently towards her stomach. Her hip thrusts have slowed to a halt now, though, just to keep up the innocence she’s been feigning, she does another, but only to hide the way she ever so gently glides your clothed core against her abs.

She loves the way you gasp at the feeling of it, the way your lips part ever so slightly. So, she does the same thing. Three times, until her hip thrusts have stopped once again. No longer is she exercising, opting instead to make the pretty girl at the gym gasp and sigh in pleasure. Dehya eventually becomes more bold, one thumb tracing the band of your leggings, whispering sweet nothings about how wants to see you without them. Each word of hers, whispered with so much affection brings you closer and closer to whatever sort of cliff you’re approaching. Your hips? They don’t even need guidance from her anymore, they’re moving by themselves thanks to encouragement and praise from the woman below you.

“Good girl, just like that. Aw, you’re so tiny. So tiny you can move right across them, can’t you? You should come to the gym late at night more often.” She chuckles, moving you faster as you moan into the air. They’re stifled moans, but moans nonetheless, and her eyes light up the second she feels you trembling as your orgasm crashes over you in powerful waves. You grip her hand hard, and the hand that isn’t being crushed by your own comes to stroke your hair, her voice talking you through it.

“Yeah, that’s it. Come on, let it happen, yeah? It’s good, right? My favourite form of exercise.”

You cannot resist the abrupt, hoarse laughter that spills from your lips at her final comment. What an odd way of breaking the ice, you think, though the ice melted the second she gave you that first glance. Maybe you can employ her to be your personal trainer, or something. Maybe you can admit you only come to the gym for her, and invite her to your place.

[literary-illuminati]

2024 Book Review #57 – Ministry for the Future by Kim Stanley Robinson

Introduction

Kim Stanley Robinson is one of those names I’ve been meaning to around to since approximately forever ago, one of the real Canonical science fiction writers I’ve always felt slightly ashamed I’ve never read (see also: Gene Wolfe). Ministry for the Future in particular is a book I remember getting an immense amount of buzz and downright hagiographic reviews when it came out, even well beyond the usual science fiction circuit. So I went into this with vague impressions and high expectations – which, as it always does, turned out to be a rather dire mistake.

I do not regret having read this book, but that’s on its merits as a cultural artifact rather than a work of literature. Which is to say, I think this is interesting more than it’s good. It’s more or less equal parts a (rather experimental) novel, a work of futurism, and a political manifesto – and despite being incredibly sympathetic to the latter project, I’m not sure it really succeeds at any of them. Which might just be because I’m reading it now instead of when it came out – it is incredibly of its time, in a way that’s genuinely impressively dated even just a few years latter, and which continuously took me out of it.

It was, at least, very formally interesting. The tiny chapters and constant bouncing between different areas of interest kept it from ever becoming too much of a grind, too.

Synopsis

The book is, roughly, a history of the struggle against climate change and to restore the biosphere to equilibrium, beginning with the signing of the Paris Agreement in 2015 and continuing over the next half-century so until the world has been nigh-unrecognizably transformed and victory in that struggle seems more or less assured.

It is, nominally, focused on its only explicit divergence from our own world before the book was written (so, somewhere in 2017-2019) – the titular Ministry, a subsidiary body created by the Paris Accords to pursue and safeguard the interests of future generations – at first this is basically conceived of as a meaningless goodwill gesture by most of the really powerful people agreeing to it. But after a monstrously deadly heat wave across South Asia kills tens of millions of people in a matter of days, more and more people around the world start to wake up to the necessity of drastic action.

Over the next generation the Ministry plays a major (though less so than you might imagine) role in the transition of the world to a sustainable and just future, and the book follows both their efforts and the changing conditions around them that make any of it possible.

The story is told through a dizzying variety of perspectives – there a couple of what you might call protagonists (the minister for the future herself, a Scottish aid worker caught in the heat wave who barely survives and spends the rest of his life failing to cope with PTSD), but they occupy what has to be much less than half of the book. The rest is short persuasive essays, meeting minutes, anonymous vignettes from everyone from an Antarctic research scientist-turned-geoengineer to a de facto enslaved miner in Namibia, and odd little prose poems from the perspective of ‘the market’ or ‘photons’ or similar. It’s all mixed together quite thoroughly – few chapters are more than six or seven pages, many much less, and each new chapter marks a perspective jump. It’s a fascinating reading experience, if nothing else.

Taken As A Novel

...The Ministry for the Future is just not a very good one.

Partial blame goes to I think the very admirable instinct to avoid making some select group of technocrats and activists the Protagonists of History and instead try to maintain something like a global perspective. But the unfortunate reality of it is that the world is very big, and even at 500 pages the book is comparatively quite small. The result is that this is a story where the overwhelming majority of the plot is told in the passive voice, exposition relaying how trends never before mentioned and institutions not yet introduced are conveniently doing this or that to help fix the world, and then rarely if ever mentioned again. One wonders why the titalur Minister was chosen as a protagonist at all, given how the vast majority of her narrative could just as easily been filled by another other ‘life-on-the-ground’ level perspective (her great contribution is convincing the assembled centrall bankers of the world to do something about two thirds of the way into the book).

Also – while the instinct to avoid making ones main characters the perfectly agentic and hypercompetent engine of history is certainly admirable, it’s rather undercut by then still having one of those, but just giving us no real insight or perspective into it.

The mystique of the shadowy, untouchable terrorist syndicate has a powerful hold in the minds of action and science-fiction authors, and Robinson is apparently no exception. The energy transition in the book is greatly sped up by a near-omnipotent ecoterrorist movement that, through everything from sabotage and assassination to drone strikes and missile barrages, (literally) decapitates the entire fossil fuel industry and destroys so many planes and cargo ships so as to cripple the global airline and shipping industries. I’ll leave aside plausibility (for now) – but it just seems so self-evidently obvious that these are the main characters of the story. But with the exception of a single anonymous vignette, the story refuses to ever give the people involved names, faces, or personalities, nor dive into the whys and hows of specific operations. It’s quite frustrating, all the moreso because it feels like the author just saving himself the work of figuring any of that out.

Our two ostensible main characters themselves also just feel like – not a wasted opportunity, but definitely one more could have been made of? The world changes dramatically, almost unrecognizably, through the course of the novel, but their lives really don’t. Here and there sure, there’s not nothing, but the overwhelming majority of their pagecount is spent living what could very easily have been somewhat atypical lives in contemporary Switzerland. Despite all the talk of a ‘super-depression’ and the crippling of global trade, no shortages ever particularly affect them, no natural disasters touch ther homes. A lot of Mary’s chapters really just kind of read like tourism ads for the country Robinson clearly fell in love with at some point.

Taken as Futurism

Which is to say, taken as an exploration of how the world might actually develop, and a plausible prediction of the future based on current trends. Which, given the sheer amount modern frontier technologies, economic and political theories, and just general social trends are all discussed (not to mention a great deal of the breathless marketing and reception it received) the book is clearly trying to be. And which – woof, it does not work out.

The book is full of generational political upheavals occurring mostly because it’s a dramatically convenient time for them to. Most glaringly, the cataclysmic heat wave that sets off the book’s plot also conveniently utterly discredits the BJP and leads the landslide election of an entirely fictitious political movement across all of India, who then spend the next decades dramatically transforming the nation’s politics and economy with unbroken success and to a reception of thunderous applause. There’s no characters with names or faces actually involved in this, no more than a couple paragraphs of encyclopedia-like exposition devoted to it, but it’s the example and engine the whole rest of the book hangs on. The transition of the African Union to a powerful and legitimate supernational entity and the granting of permanent autonomy to Hong Kong (and much of southern mainland China why not) are even less dwelt on.

Now, this all could be excused as just the inevitable causalities of trying to write a book with a global scope – and I am sympathetic to that. But to begin with, I know just barely enough about the politics and the economics of a lot of several of the places touched on or used as dramatic examples to see how surface level and implausible the predicted changes are, and I can’t help but think it’s probably a similar story with all the other lightly touched on placed I don’t know much about (I remain agnostic on the accuracy of the geoengineering and carbon-clearing technologies projected, except that a lot of them suspiciously amenable to a single coherent aesthetic of the future).

More damning, to me at least, is the matter of agency – only the ‘good’ people seem to possess any of it. The conservative opposition exists as this vague, undifferentiated mass – standing athwart history and slowing things down in vague ways, but never really vital or active, never a danger to the political movements that have won or the progress that has been made. There are references to xenophobia and anti-refugee sentiment, but despite a refugee crisis that makes that of the 2010s look like a rounding error, it never leads to any really dangerous political backlash. Given how the world’s actually trending, the book’s vision of politics goes beyond optimism and into outright delusion.

This is especially true for how the book conceives of violence. Political violence is, in the book’s telling, near-universally the province of the ecological Left (with the exception of two events that provide excuses for dramatic set-pieces but fail to actually achieve anything at all). As mentioned above, seemingly omnipotent and untouchable eco-terrorists assassinate dozens of hundreds of the global elite for their crimes against the planet, destroy so many jet liners and cargo ships to force the adoption of new transportation methods, and sabotage so many coal- and oil-powered plants they help force the abandonment of the as fuels. They do this with no real blowback or reverses, no ruthless campaigns of state violence breaking apart the networks or destroying the infrastructure, no loss of public support from the disruptions in food and fuel their attacks would cause – it is not a realistic vision of what ecoterrorism might look like in the coming decades, it’s a plot device in the form of Robert Ludlum villains with no action movie secret agents around to stop them.

As a Political Manifesto

Which is, after all, clearly the real motivation behind the book, and the reason it received as many accolades as it did. It’s also where the book is easily at its most interesting – if, tragically, rather incoherent. Which might be me holding it to a higher standard than is fair but look, there’s only so many essays extolling the failure of the market or the coming obsolescence of war or whatever you can put in your book before I start holding it to the standard of actual rigour.

Mostly it feels like the book is undercut by its commitment to relentless optimism and need to jump around – a great deal of the book is spent giving the most positive possible gloss on particular phenomena or institutions from across the world in a paragraph or two, then say it needs to be scaled up on a national or global scale with no further thought or consideration of costs. Even when it’s not wrong it just feels unserious.

The subject the book spends the plurality of its time on – the main thrust of its program, if anything is – is economics and monetary policy. The great project of the Ministry is convincing the assembled central bankers of the world to create a new currency – a ‘carbon coin’ minted as a reward for sequestering or preventing the removal of a single ton of carbon for at least a century, with a guaranteed minimum value and appreciation over the same period – which would in time replace the us dollar as a global reserve currency and medium of exchange. The arguments around which are frustrating, because they go from plausible and compelling to wildly optimistic to the social science equivalent of star trek technobabble and back again without warning or any detectable pattern. It’s an interesting idea, at least, though one you get the sense is being imperfectly relayed – and the arguments for why the uncrowned monarchs of the global financial system would actually agree to it just aren’t convincing in the least.

Given the amount of times the book uses standard progressive language about how vital empowering minorities, women, the traditionally excluded and so on is to the fight to save the planet, it’s honestly kind of amusing the degree to which the big dramatic set pieces involve appealing to the conscience and principles of the most embedded representatives of The System imaginable. Running through the book are both a disdain and dismissal of economics as a field and a strongly felt technocratic sensibility and desire to have seasoned experts at the helm managing their areas of expertise – it can never quite decide whether bringing the world’s central banks under increased political control is something to be fought for, or a threat to hold over the bankers heads to get them in line and focused on the important task of creating a de facto world state (the quasi-utopia envisioned at the end of the book could just as easily be the globalist dystopia from any conspiracy theorist’s screen with no changes but the valence of the adjectives used to describe it).

It’s more peripheral, but Robinson’s clear affection for the nation of Switzerland and continuous praise of its many virtues in both politics and society does clash a bit with, well, reality. It’s weird to go from a chapter about needing to abolish tax havens to talking about how enlightened self-interest has left the Swiss government entirely behind the mission of fighting climate change.

A Product of it’s Time

Is a weird thing to call a book written barely more than five years ago, I’m aware. But it’s honestly kind of shocking just how aged and dated the book feels, reading it in 2024. Despite just everything I’ve written above, I’m trying not to judge it as harshly as I might, because I feel like I’d have been much more generous if various things didn’t keep taking me out of it.

Some of them are things that can’t really be held against it – the passages about Russia and it’s relationship with Europe reads as almost comical now, to be sure, but so does every sci fi book in the ‘80s talking about the USSR – but that doesn’t mean they don’t hurt the feeling of reading the history of the future. The book was published in October 2020, so the complete non-mention of not even COVID specifically but just any pandemic or major disease outbreaks feel positively unreal.

Other things are less the book already being falsified by history and more just seeing what turned out to be pretty transient intellectual fashions immortalized in print. Seeing a serious, celebrated book talk about the revolutionary potential of the blockchain to create a democratic new economy is enough to turn a hair grey. And on a less extreme level, talking up Modern Monetary Theory as this revolutionary hack of solve economics just feels so very incredibly pre-pandemic.

Too Long; Didn’t Read

Not angry I read it, but more because writing this review was fun and engaging than for its merits as a work of art. Can’t judge it too harshly, given that the task it set for itself is basically impossible – but Robinson’s written enough books that he probably should have known that before he started it.

The set piece at the beginning of someone living through the dead heat wave was incredibly compelling drama, at least.

[midnightemy35]

Walkis Six Headcannons Part2

THE BRAINROT IS TOO MUCH

Link to part 1

warnings!: slight manga spoilers! Fluff and crack

Malcom is the designated bug catcher

It's really funny to watch the group freak out when an insect flies into the room. Galuf had passed out when the insect flew in through the window that was right next to his face. The insect had flown right in front of his face and he could see its beady little eyes staring right back him

Lévis is using Galuf's unconscious body as a shield and Domina is hiding behind him. Kenny (who is also freaking out even with his lack of facial expressions) is trying to freeze the insect but Charles is yelling at him to not kill it because his mom taught him that all life is precious (Charles himself is hiding under a table)

Then Malcom walks in and gently cups the insect between his two hands and releases it outside (quite anti-climatic really) while the whole group hails him as their saviour (except Galuf who is still unconscious)

The group has sleepovers every Friday night so that they can goof off the whole night. The dorm room used is rotated every week and currently it is Charles' room and everyone is slightly unnerved by the number of painting he has of his mom

They usually play card games and gossip during these sleepovers but some card games have been banned due to previous incidents

One of these card games is UNO. Domina almost went on a rampage after being hit with a stack of four +4 cards. Charles had to teleport him somewhere else before he flooded the room all the while Lévis and Galuf were laughing their heads off

Domina and Levis are scarily good at old maid. The both of them are experts in reading people and manipulating them into taking the old maid card

Kenny is that one quiet kid that hangs at the back of the class and mostly goes unnoticed, so he has a front row seat to most of the drama within Walkis.

Lévis has a shit ton of connections within the school (chief of magic bureau’s son) so he’s got eyes and ears all around the school and the amount of tea he gets from this is astounding

Have you ever seen a group of six teenage boys sitting around in a circle shit talking almost everyone in the school? It’s so entertaining. There’s so much going on, everything is happening all at once and somehow all this drama is connected in someway.(god i want to join them so bad. I love listening to drama going on at my school but i don’t have the social skills to find people who are willing to spill the tea)

The gang like to play with Lévis’ hair(he surprisingly lets them). Domina usually just combs it out. Galuf is trying all sorts of weird ass hair styles and getting knots in Lévis’ hair (Lévis absolutely beats the shit out of him for that). Charles can do some basic hair styles like braids and ponytails but nothing really special but he likes to tend to Levis’ hair anyways (reminds him of when he used to play with his mom’s hair) Kenny and Malcom are surprisingly good at hair styling and often braid his hair and put it in really elaborate and pretty hair styles (where they attained this knowledge? We might never know)

One time, for April fools, the gang snuck into Kenny’s room and replaced his beanies with beanies with weird designs. One had bunny ears on it, another had one of their teacher’s face just printed on it, and another was neon green and looked like it was radioactive.

Kenny found it funny and kept all of them. He wears them to go out sometimes just to throw people off

The gang has once used Kenny’s magic to recreate Elsa’s frozen castle (does Elsa exist in this world? It does now). Charles’ then recreated the whole ‘let it go’ song and he looked majestic in the dress. He’s a surprisingly good singer as well

Once when they were walking around in the woods (searching for ingredients for potions class probably) they came across a lake and Malcom accidentally bumped into Domina and he fell into the lake. Everyone was laughing at Domina until he decided to retaliate by using his magic to drench them all as well. (Galuf ended up catching a cold)

Lovie isn’t as angelic as the gang mostly believes he is. Lovie is actually a really good manipulator. You know how Lévis did the whole thing of tricking Galuf? Yeah well he learnt his manipulating skills from someone and it’s his brother. Lovie doesn’t really manipulate others all that much but he will do it to secure his own interests but he probably won’t manipulate his or Lévis’ friends

[monosanimegenericzone]

Hunter x Hunter: Specialist Scarlet Eyes idea 1.

@masakuterarr <- what have you done to me

long post ahead and a lot of copium.

so back on my kurta shal bullshit in the hypothetical that he does have full scarlet eyes. what does that mean? well ill tell you.

according to togashi the scarlet eyes give the user a massive boost in aura and kurapika created a condition called emperor time to make himself a specialist and give him control over all 6 categories of nen.

and guess who (in this scenario) has scarlet eyes and knows how kurapika works.

shalnark.

now this is assuming two things: one, pakunoda scanned killua and has the memory of kurapika's hatsu explanation in full detail, meaning she transferred it to shalnark and the other five founding members before she died. two, the scarlet eyes grant an equal amount of power to every kurtan who had them.

ok so. scarlet eyed kurta shalnark right.

he has never used his scarlet eyes for nen related purposes because he has conditioned himself to hide them by containing his emotions to such a degree its scary. he probably doesn't even know about the power boost until pakunoda memory bombs him.

that being said, before greed island is introduced, he begins to entertain the idea that he could possibly use the specialist's power. what for you might ask?

to bring back the dead :)

there are a lot of things shalnark can use this power for, but he's just come off of mourning uvo and then witnessing paku drop dead in front of him. and now chrollo is suspended by a nen curse.

so on one hand, he could move forward and develop an ability that could remove nen curses. become an exorcist type and use his power to outright crush the curse.

but on the other hand. he can go backwards and undo the mistakes of the yorknew and make things right by starting where they first went wrong.

and so he decides to be selfish.

first its a struggle to remember how to make his eyes go scarlet and then the practice of harnessing that excess aura to replicate kurapika's specialist typing.

the first step goes easily because despair is the best catalyst for powerful emotions and as i said above. he's fuckin depressed as hell. so for the first time in a long time, shalnark lets himself cry.

and it works, his eyes turn red and he's got a massive boost of aura and efficiency in all six nen categories. (he doesn't name it like kurapika because he puts more effort into the following hatsu)

life and death are very much within the specialist category (see 2nd prince Camilla) so he'd be tapping mostly into specialist abilities. however, he also borrows from conjuror, emitter and a little touch of transmutation. to bring someone back youd need a lot of things so he needs access to almost all at once.

now comes the conditions. he has three modifiers that could help make this process more efficient. Emotion and Time. and then the necessary Life. Life for life is the rule of nen, especially when working backwards.

so his first two conditions are:

The dead must have died six months ago. (exactly 180 days) the further away from the exact time and date the more aura he spends.

the dead has to have been mourned by 10 people or more. as in the living have to make a gesture to express the loss of said deceased. and all 10 have to still be alive.

these are weak conditions but they're a good start. the time gap is to make up for lost time. by the time he starts making this hatsu it's been a month since the two spiders died and by his estimate he will need at least three more to perfect this to maximum efficiency. that being said, making the time sink universal is good for simple consistency.

the mourning part is using external emotions and ensuring that the deceased is worthy of coming back to life. since life wouldn't be returning to him, he would require more people than just himself.

third and fourth conditions quickly follow:

3. the dead has to have an appearance detailed enough to reconstruct with conjuration.

4. the last person who saw the dead has to say their name within two hours of the resurrection.

the third condition is simply applying conjuration techniques. and since shalnark is a nerd he probably has a good knowledge of human anatomy stored somewhere and paired with nostalgia he can ensure he can visualize his targets.

the fourth has a double function. one, it sets a time limit and two it implies that the killer has to remember who they had killed. this one is the really powerful condition that grants him a hell of a lot of power from if he can pull it off.

however, it's not enough and he still has to address the last modifier: life

5. however long it takes to complete steps 2-4, shalnark sacrifices 1 hour from his lifespan for every minute it takes. therefore, he can sacrifice a maximum of 120 hours or 4 and a half days of his life every time he does this.

6. two people that meet requirement 2 must be killed by shalnark and the resulting residual aura will be channeled through black voice and into the target.

by sacrificing two lives and a part of his own, he now has the Life required to return life.

the reason he has all of these clumped together is so that he can simply pull one trigger when all requirements are met. its a lot of setup but it could work.

he bundles it all up nicely under a fully realized hatsu five and a half months after working on it: Bleeding Heart - the Six Amendments of Death.

and of course he gets mad eepy after using all this bcs even with all those restrictions he is not fit for this.

this is one idea of many. the possibilities are endless. this is a certified nen nerd post

[misc-obeyme]

unchained - chapter two

masterpost read the chapter on ao3

recommended music: Seven Devils by Florence + The Machine word count: 2526

GN!MC x Arsenios [demon OC] a/n: The brothers all make an appearance in this chapter. And then there's a TIME SKIP lol. Because I just wanted to skip ahead to season four, so that's what that's about. Things get more interesting after this chapter, but the real action doesn't start until chapter six. Warnings: Lucifer being a little threatening, but that's about it lol.

You were sitting at the dinner table with the brothers, not really listening to the argument of the night, when you interrupted them.

"Hey, do you guys know a demon named Arsenios?" you asked.

Everyone stopped talking.

"Who doesn't know him?" Mammon asked. He had a genuinely perplexed look on his face, as though this was a strange question.

"I mean I don't know him personally," Belphie said. "That's what you mean, right, MC?"

"Well, I guess just anything you know would help," you said. "Is he famous or something?"

"Not exactly," Mammon said.

Asmo leaned forward across the table. "He's in a band, MC," he said. "That's how most people know him! They're called Angel's Temptation."

"Like the flower," Satan added.

"Right!" Asmo said. "They play at The Fall sometimes. Arsenios is the lead singer and guitarist. He's amazing, of course, it's kind of his thing. I can take you to see them sometime if you want!"

"He also plays the piano at Cafe Lament," Satan said. "I've seen him there a few times."

"It's more like background music, though," Levi added. "But he is really good. He must have amazing hand eye coordination. I bet he's really good at playing video games."

You blinked. "Okay, so none of you actually know him personally," you said. "You've just seen him around."

Asmo looked offended. "Please, MC! Arrie is one of my fans! And as such, I have made the effort to let him meet me personally!"

"Wow, how nice of you," you said, smiling.

"I've met him, too," Mammon said with a shrug. "He goes to RAD so it ain't like we haven't all had classes with him at some point. Me and Asmo have hung out with him a couple times."

"Let me guess," Levi said flatly. "You owe him money, too?"

Mammon sat up straight. "No! 'Course I don't!"

There were a lot of general sounds of disbelief from the table at large.

"I've met him," Beel said.

Everybody looked at him in surprise.

Beel shrugged. "He's friends with Barbatos. I've seen him at the castle a few times when Luke invites me over to try out his baking."

"I have met him as well," Lucifer added. "In a similar situation."

"You don't like him," you said to Lucifer, picking up on the disdain in his words.

"I don't know him well enough to say," Lucifer said. "He only attends RAD because Barbatos asked him to. My understanding is that he doesn't care much for school."

"I get that," Mammon muttered.

"Maybe I'll go to Cafe Lament sometime," you said. "I'm curious about him."

"Hang on, MC," Asmo said. "I saw you with him at the dance! You obviously know him, too!"

"I don't know him very well," you said. "I was curious, that's why I asked."

"You were at the dance with him?" Satan asked.

"He saw me there and asked me to dance," you said with a shrug.

Mammon suddenly gripped your arm. "Did ya dance with him?"

You tried to shake him off, but found yourself unsuccessful. "Maybe I did, so what?"

"You ought to be careful, MC," Lucifer said.

His voice was serious and his tone caused everyone at the table to fall silent. Even Mammon let go of you and quieted.

"Why?" you asked.

"I don't know Arsenios's entire story," Lucifer said. "But he is dangerous. From what I've heard, he spent a considerable amount of time in the human world, making pacts. He seems to be retired now, but ancient demons like him see humans as prey, not friends."

This made you shudder a little. You hadn't considered what kinds of things Arsenios may have done in his past. He was nice to you, but what did that really mean?

"I'll be careful," you assured Lucifer. He seemed content enough with this response.

You questioned Asmo further after dinner. While it seemed he and Arsenios were friends and had spent some time together, he didn't know anything more than what Lucifer had said. Apparently, Arsenios wasn't exactly forthcoming with information about his past. You didn't really hold that against him, but it was something you would keep in mind.

-

After the dance, you had so much going on, you weren't able to focus on anything else. With Lucifer losing his memory and the chaos of your magic and the ring, you were simply trying to make it through each day.

Soon enough, you found yourself preparing to return to the human world. You had only days left now that you had the Ring of Light to control your magic.

In a moment where you had a little time to yourself, you found yourself in the House of Lamentation's garden. You were simply sitting, thinking about everything that had happened.

Your mind wandered back to the dance, remembering the way Arsenios had kissed the back of your hand. You wondered what he was doing. You had ducked into the darkened dance hall when you had a chance, but it wasn't often. You hadn't seen him at all recently.

Your thoughts might as well have been broadcasting a signal of some kind because the demon in question made an appearance on the path to the House of Lamentation's front door, right where it connected with the cobblestone street outside the gate.

He stopped when he saw you, surprise in his eyes. And then he smiled, slipping into the garden by opening the gate as little as possible.

"Hey, MC," he said.

It was exactly what he had said when he first found you at the dance.

"What are you doing here?" you asked, which was exactly the first thing you said to him when you ran into him at the Demon Lord's Castle back in your first year in the Devildom.

Arsenios sat beside you on the bench. "Looking for you."

You were surprised to hear this, but you waited for him to elaborate.

Arsenios leaned back against the bench. "You know you're the talk of the Devildom? Again?"

You frowned. "I didn't know, but I'm not exactly surprised."

"They're saying you wear Lucifer's Ring of Light now," Arsenios said.

You lifted your hand so he could see the ring, snug around your finger. It glinted slightly in the Devildom starlight.

"Do you feel like the ring that connects the worlds?" Arsenios asked. His voice was quiet, but you could hear an underlying pain in it.

You put your hand down and twisted the ring slightly. "I don't know. But I'll do my best to help with uniting them."

Arsenios chuckled softly. "You and Lord Diavolo. He's eternally optimistic about it. I'm not so sure."

"You don't think it will work?" you asked.

Arsenios shrugged. "I think there's a lot of pain and prejudice to get through first. Anyway, I came by because I wanted to see how you were holding up. You look like you're doing all right, though."

"You were worried about me?" you asked.

Arsenios stood up and turned to face you. "Sure," he said easily. "Can't I worry about the human that always listens to my music?"

You shook your head a little. "Don't underestimate me."

Arsenios grinned. "You're right," he said. "It won't happen again. Take care, MC."

You watched him leave the garden, losing sight of him the moment he passed through the main gate. He was only there for a brief moment, but somehow the garden felt empty without him. There was a lingering tension in the air, like the string of a harp wound too tightly and left unplucked. It left you wondering why such an ancient demon would take the time to check in on you.

-

Arsenios made his way down the street from the House of Lamentation. He was glad to see that you seemed to be doing okay. He had heard a lot of rumors swirling around RAD. He could have asked Barbatos about you, of course. He knew that the butler would have told him the truth of things. But he somehow admitted to himself that he wanted to see you with his own eyes.

Arsenios was highly aware of you these days. Every time you stopped in the dance hall to listen to him play, he noticed. He felt your eyes on him, knew you were listening to every note. He had played in front of large audiences, allowing himself to step into a performance persona so he could entertain the masses. But when it was just you, he was always still himself.

An audience of one, something he never thought he would want or need. But now that he'd experienced those moments - the ones where he was playing for himself, creating songs on the fly, letting his heart and his fingers find the right keys, all the while having you as witness to everything he inevitably put into that music - he found himself missing you when you weren't there.

And you weren't always there. In fact, most of the time you weren't. He would never admit to anyone - not even himself - that he perhaps played that piano at RAD more than he would have otherwise. Waiting for you to hear him. Waiting for you to slip inside, to linger in the shadows.

Arsenios wasn't a fool. He knew that even if he didn't go inside the House of Lamentation, Lucifer would know he had been there.

And sure enough, the next day, Arsenios found himself confronted by Lucifer in a hallway at RAD.

"Stay away from MC," Lucifer said to him, not even bothering to pretend at politeness.

Arsenios smirked. He couldn't help himself. "Feeling threatened?"

"By you?" Lucifer let out a little laugh. "I'm unconcerned. But MC has a tendency to think all demons are their friends."

"And you think I'm not MC's friend?" Arsenios asked.

Lucifer frowned. "I am aware of your history, Arsenios. I don't trust you near them."

Arsenios found he was actually offended. He folded his arms and cocked his head. "You know perfectly well that I don't mess with humans anymore. You also know that Barbatos trusts me. Are you saying you know better than he does?"

Lucifer narrowed his eyes at this, as though he was displeased with having been confronted with this fact. "What are your intentions, then?"

Arsenios snorted. "You're dodging the question. But I don't have any intentions."

"Then why ask MC to dance?" Lucifer asked. "Why show up at the House of Lamentation?"

Arsenios paused. Memories flitted through his mind - the first time you listened to him in the dark hall, your serious face whenever you were concentrating in class, your cautious acceptance of his invitation to dance, the way you held up your hand to show him the Ring of Light. He couldn't exactly tell Lucifer that he found you compelling - that there was something about you. He tried to feign nonchalance, shrugging slightly.

"I like MC," he said easily. "That's it. Do I need to have an ulterior motive?"

"If I find out that you do," Lucifer said, his voice low and ominous. "You will regret ever coming near them."

Arsenios laughed. He knew that wasn't a smart response, but it came out anyway. Lucifer's glare deepened. Arsenios put his hands up in a placating gesture.

"I'm sorry," he said. "But I promise you there's nothing else going on here. You really don't need to go out of your way to threaten me."

"That human is under my protection," Lucifer said. "And I still don't trust you."

Arsenios was about to say something else, but Lucifer had already left, stalking down the hall and disappearing into a classroom.

Arsenios made his way to his next class, deliberately sitting down next to Asmo who happened to have that class with him. Asmo was busy checking his reflection in a little compact.

"Hey, Asmo," Arsenios said.

Asmo snapped his compact shut and looked at him, then smiled brightly when he recognized Arsenios. "Arrie! I haven't seen you around in a while! You're always skipping class, but I suppose you missed me, didn't you?"

Asmo leaned in toward Arsenios and ran his fingers up Arsenios's arm.

Arsenios laughed and caught Asmo's wrist gently. "You got me," he said. "I woke up today and went you know what I miss? Asmo's constant flirting."

Asmo nodded. "I knew it. Don't worry, hon, I'll flirt with you relentlessly for the rest of class."

"Really? You'd do that for me?" Arsenios asked. "And here your brother was just threatening me. Are you sure it's okay for you to be so chummy with me?"

Asmo gasped. "My brother? Let me guess. Lucifer?"

Arsenios let go of Asmo's wrist, leaned back in his seat, and frowned. "Is he really that worried about me? He seems to think I'm likely to eat your human."

Asmo huffed a little. "Don't worry about him," he said. "He's just protective of the exchange student. I know you would never eat MC."

Arsenios smiled. "Thanks, Asmo."

True to his word, Asmo flirted relentlessly with Arsenios for the rest of class. Arsenios didn't mind, but his thoughts kept wandering to you, sitting there in the House of Lamentation's garden, wearing the Ring of Light.

Lucifer was right, in a way. Arsenios should stay away from you. But it wasn't for the reasons Lucifer was concerned about.

There were other things Arsenios had to consider. But for now, letting you listen in when he was playing only for himself didn't cause anyone any harm. And checking in on you from time to time was also safe. He knew to be careful. He knew not to let you get too close.

-

You never did get the chance to go to Cafe Lament when Arsenios was playing there. In fact, you always seemed to miss him any time you found yourself there for other reasons.

And then it was already time for you to return to the human world. You didn't know it yet, but you would be spending quite a bit of time there. The brothers would come to visit you as you went through the tasks to become a sorcerer.

You thought of Arsenios every once in awhile, but as that time passed, he mostly faded from your mind. There was too much going on elsewhere in your life and there simply wasn't space for someone you no longer saw on a regular basis.

And then you were finally back in the Devildom, ready to start another year at RAD. You had forgotten about the way you used to hover in the darkness of the dance hall, listening to a demon play the piano. It had been so long since you had seen him, he simply slipped from your mind.

You didn't notice. You had so much to do. There were the brothers needing you, your studies with Solomon, your regular RAD classes, and now you were working to be able to join the student council, too. Every once in a while, you might remember those quieter times you spent listening to the piano. But for the most part, it was forgotten.

Until you couldn't help but remember.

masterpost | chapter one | chapter three

taglist: @avalordream @lonely-north-star @expressionless-fr comment to be added or removed!

masterlist | Thank you for reading!

[utilitycaster]

I’ve always been very interested in what you think about Caleb and Veth’s relationship. They’re not romantic, but not platonic, but not familial, but at the same time they are, but it’s different? I’m rambling. I find their relationship very interesting and I wanted to see what your take was on them :)

Also have a good day if you’re not having one already and if you are, have an even greater day

Hi anon, thanks! I assume you are asking specifically for my take but I follow a lot of people who have like, 20 times more thoughts on them than I do so I feel a little ill-equipped.

With that said: I personally did not seriously ship it romantically, but that was purely a matter of what I'm specifically into. I do think that a romantic reading of their relationship is an extremely valid one and there was, undeniably, a romantic element, which is why it's not clearly platonic. It reads as familial but in my opinion it is genuinely a relationship that only makes sense within a found family framework, ie, while early on Veth attempts to frame it as a mother and child, it really isn't that, either; that's just how she can best put what they are to each other into words because more apt ones don't exist. They care about each other and they care for each other and they did so at a time when each of them thought they had no future, even before they could admit that's what they were doing. I think that's the best way to describe it.

Something that has struck me - and that is one of the things I want to keep an eye out for when I finally one day have time to rewatch Campaign 2 - is how despite their relationship being one of convenience and coincidence (ended up in jail together, broke out, found it easier to travel together) and some degree of self-interest (Caleb benefited from having someone who could steal and who would remind him to take care of himself; Veth benefited from someone who wouldn't be chased out of shops and was interested in what a wizard could do for her; both did better with a partner for scams) it still lasted for months with no plans of separating. It didn't matter that Caleb wasn't telling Veth most of his past nor Veth telling him hers - or even her real name. They were lonely and it was better to travel with someone else, and they felt better for doing so, even if they told themselves (not even incorrectly) that it was purely a pragmatic matter.

My favorite early scenes between them are first, Caleb asking Veth if she'll leave with him should his reveal of his past to Beau go badly; and secondly and more importantly Veth saying she loves the rest of the party and that this isn't just pragmatism that's leading them to rescue the others. She's talking about the kidnapped party members; but again, because Veth and Caleb have never really defined what they have as anything but a partnership of convenience it feels like she is obliquely telling him how she feels as well.

I also of course love their scene in Felderwin - when Sam goes fully serious it's nearly always going to be a great time, and Veth's anger and drunken accusation and Caleb's intense guilt is a highlight, as is the way they are both able to move past it soon after due to the strength of their relationship.

I also think Liam and Sam did a fantastic job of laying the groundwork. Everyone did so beautifully for their Mighty Nein characters but I think Veth and Caleb's uneasy six months together feels incredibly vivid and real and are a standout among the pre-existing relationships. That might just be because Fjord and Jester had only been traveling together for a very brief amount of time, and because between Molly's death and Yasha not being around much we couldn't see as much of their friendship, but I still think about the list of grifts Caleb and Nott had together and how they were still running them mid-campaign. It was a level of work I think all players should aspire to when playing characters who knew each other in advance. There need to be inside jokes and a history and plans they've made together to breathe life into a pre-existing relationship that's more than a month long (give or take), otherwise it will fall flat and feel forced.

I think this focuses pretty heavily on their earlier relationship and that's because as time goes on they build stronger relationships with the rest of the party and develop a bit more distance. I think this is healthy! Again, a lot of their relationship - particularly on Caleb's side - came from a belief that this was the best they could hope for, and so it necessarily evolves, particularly once Veth and Yeza are reunited. I think Xhorhas/Angel of Irons arc Caleb isn't sure how to approach the relationship for a while until he finds a means of giving Veth her body back; Caleb is always someone who shows affection more through action than words. But I think that even as they build separate lives, Veth returning to a renewed version of the one she thought she lost and Caleb making something entirely different, they still mean a lot to each other and later in the campaign they are able to adjust and adapt their relationship with each other as well.

[tgmsunmontue]

More than movie magic... 10/24

Hangster AU. Explicit (eventually). Jake is a Hollywood actor and Bradley is a stunt coordinator. Jake's about to make a few self-discoveries. So is Bradley.

ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN EIGHT NINE

PART TEN

                Jake knows being annoyed with his mom is unreasonable, but a part of him also just can’t help it, she’s an annoying person hell-bent on making him do something he’s been putting off. God, he can never tell her that he’s had Bradley’s phone number for over a year, she’ll never let him live it down. It’s Wednesday morning now, so he has three days, assuming she doesn’t change her mind on the timeline. Now that he’s had two proper full-night’s sleep his brain feels less like it’s been put through a grinder and sat in pickle juice for days on end. He’s also feeling like he’s adjusting back to the right time after a couple of weeks skipping through time zones and continents for the promotional tour.

                He’d spent a fair amount of time last night lying in bed mulling over the fact that Bradley has been here for over two weeks, has met both his parents and cousin Freddie and Uncle Andy. Not all of the cowhands have watched him grow up, but a few did. He’s definitely met all of the current ones more than once. His other aunts and uncle all live in surrounding farms and ranches, his parents ranch the main central point geographicalluy, which is why they had based so many of the key building developments here. So the chance of Bradley having met several more members of his extended family are alarmingly high. He has no idea what he was thinking when he suggested this ranch as a potential location.

                He goes down to the kitchen, only to find it empty and he guesses the welcome wagon is well and clearly gone, now that he’s been home a whole twenty-four hours. Then his not-tired brain kicks in and he realizes that if his mom isn’t here then she’s likely in the mess hall, talking to people. He scrambles through getting dressed and then dithers over riding Blitzen or taking a car, but seeing his dad pottering around in the family stable decides it for him and by the time he steps into the stable his dad has already got Blitzen saddled up, is looking amused and no doubt his mom has talked his ear off.

                “Good luck today,” his dad says, slapping his shoulder.

                “Did mom tell you?” Jake asks, double checking the tightness and running his hands over Blitzen, stroking her nose so she can smell him and he smiles when she snorts and licks him.

                “I meant with the first day of filming. But yes, the other thing too I guess.”

                “Right. Okay. Yeah,” he says, sucks in a breath. “Thanks dad.”

                It’s still early, not even seven, although he’s got makeup at eight, so he doesn’t have a heap of time, and now that he thinks more, he’s got work, which means his time to actually talk to Bradley before his mom’s ridiculous ultimatum isn’t actually three days, but more like a few hours of spare time, which isn’t very much all, because he doubts his free time and Bradley’s free time are going to overlap. The ride between his parents house and the main buildings isn’t even ten minutes at a walk, and he does take it at a walk, despite the urge to suddenly just ride away at speed. He’s not a teenager anymore, although no doubt his mother would argue differently.

                Of course, when he leads Blitzen into the stable Bradley is there, brushing down Buttercup and talking to her under his breath and he doesn’t know whether to feel blessed or cursed. There is going to be the ghost of Bradley Bradshaw on his family ranch for years regardless of whether anything happens between them or not. He’s not prepared to see him, hasn’t thought about what he wants to say, what he can say. Fuck.

                “You’re up early. Already gone for a ride huh?” Bradley asks, gesturing toward Blitzen with his head and Jake reaches for her and begins taking off the saddle and bridle, hanging it in one of the empty stalls.

                “Just a short one. I miss it when I’m in Hollywood,” he admits.

                “You seem pretty at home here…” Jake gives him a sharp look, wonders if he knows. It’s not exactly a secret, it’s even meant to be part of the promotional PR for the film, the whole city boy returned to his roots and finds romance while saving his family ranch. “I figure you grew up near here, everyone seems to know you.”

                Jake blinks.

                Somehow, despite being here for over two weeks, Bradley hasn’t made the connection that this is Jake’s home. He feels a little inkling of amusement and wonders if this is how his mom feels when she’s telling him that he’s smart and yet somehow a dumbass at the same time.

                “What do you think of it?”

                “The ranch?”

                “Yeah,” Jake says, because that’ll do as a nice safe starting point.

                “It’s like a well-oiled machine. I can’t begin to imagine what work needs to happen, but everyone seems to know what needs to be done and just gets on and does it. I didn’t realize we’d be filming on such a large working ranch, it’s pretty amazing to see.”

                “And the land?”

                “Well, I’m a city boy, grew up thinking nothing could beat the lights of Hollywood. But got to say the night sky out here is beautiful.”

                “Hmm,” Jake hums, because he agrees, still enjoys going out camping just to get away from as much light pollution as possible and spend the time staring up at the night sky and a part of him wants to extend an invitation to Bradley to do that, wants to do that with him.

                “I’ll let you get to breakfast, I’m heading out for my own early morning ride. I’ll see you later.”

                “Yeah, sure. Enjoy your ride.”

                He watches Bradley leave, is still watching him when Bradley turns his head to look back at him and instead of looking away Jake just raises his hand in a wave of acknowledgement.

                Baby steps.

PART ELEVEN

[sapphire-weapon]

Have you noticed Leon always says you owe me one to Ada and Luis and they respond the same, I think the only one that doesn't respond like that to him is Ashley like actually she tells him they're a team and working together as partners, there's nothing to owe.

So this is a REALLY super interesting ask, actually. I don't think that it's as simple as "he keeps score with them but not her." There's a lot of different layers and moving parts to this. All of these scenarios are very different from each other, and they all come from different places. It's not just about how he views the people in question, but also how he views himself, especially within the context of their dynamic.

We'll start with Ada.

If you notice, he only says that to her in RE2make and at absolutely no other time in canon. There's a reason for that. In RE2make, Leon is kind of a bumbling dipshit. He's fresh out of police academy and has no real, practical experience to speak of. He's basically just making it up as he goes along and hoping for the best.

And then there's Ada, who's more skilled, knowledgeable, and competent than he is by basically every conceivable metric. And not only that, but in RE2make specifically, he thinks she's fucking FBI. So, in his mind, she outranks him in every sense of the word. He spends a not insignificant amount of time chasing after her and asking her for help and answers, because he trusts her as an authority.

So, when Leon tells Ada that she owes him in RE2make, that's his way of seeking her approval. It's his way of going "hey Ms. Big Shot FBI, I can stand on equal footing with you, too. See? Please tell me I did a good job oh god."

And then when RE4make comes along, the only person between them who says "you owe me" is actually her to him -- and not only does he not acknowledge that comment from her at all, but he also never tries to even the score. And that's because, in his mind, she still owes him way, way, WAY fucking more than just a simple information tip. She took advantage of him on the worst night of his life, lied to him, used him, led him on (at least, as far as he can tell; he has no way of knowing she actually caught feels), and then abandoned him for six years. And upon their reunion? Holds him at gunpoint without so much as a "hello."

So, when he calls her for help at the start of chapter 14, he's not asking for a favor. He asks her a question, and he expects her to answer it -- because she still owes him, and he feels he deserves it.

The difference in his confidence levels in his interactions with her between RE2make and RE4make are really striking, and this is actually a really great example of it.

Luis is a different story.

Leon actually never keeps score with Luis; it's Luis who tries to pull it on him, and Leon immediately pays him back out of a desperate desire to not be indebted to him in any way, shape, or form. In his mind, Luis is also someone who's already taken too much from him, as an Umbrella researcher.

Of course, it's also much harder for him to make that case, because Luis wasn't actually there in Raccoon City and had nothing to do with the actual outbreak. Leon is actually very hypocritical when it comes to Luis in a lot of ways. OG Leon tells OG Luis that he was in Raccoon City, but remake Leon doesn't do the same.

So, remake Leon demands that Luis be straight with him about his motivations while hypocritically hiding his own. In fact, one of the biggest tragedies surrounding their relationship is that Luis dies without ever having known that Leon wasn't just being affected by his Las Plagas research -- but that he's also suffered from Luis's contributions to Umbrella's research, as well.

For the vast majority of their relationship, Leon feels like there's absolutely nothing that Luis can do to pay him back for his direct contributions towards ruining his life. So, keeping score is pointless.

And yet when it comes to Ashley?

Leon has nothing to prove to Ashley like he did with Ada back in RE2. And she's never hurt, betrayed, or taken advantage of him like both Luis and Ada have done. So, for him, despite him having basically all of the power in their relationship, he sees himself and Ashley as being on completely equal, neutral ground with one another.

But here's what's interesting. He does actually keep score with her, to a certain extent. When Ashley goes over walls to unlock doors from the inside, Leon will occasionally thank her with an "I owe you one."

From Leon's perspective, Ashley is going out of her way to help him. She's not obligated to assist in her own rescue -- and, if she chose not to help, he would eventually find another way to navigate through shit, regardless. It'd just be a way bigger pain in the ass. So, when she helps him out, he feels that he owes her.

Saving her life and bringing her home isn't a favor; it isn't something he ever expects or wants her to repay. He has his role, and she has hers, and when she steps out of her role to help him, he's grateful.

And, even though he pays her back again and again and again, he never sees it that way. If, on the plane ride back to the US, Ashley asked him for something and pulled out a "hey, you owe me" -- Leon would very likely just shrug and say "I guess I do."

[kindoffruity]

Smitten - Chapter Two - Aonung's POV

Summary: Aonung is Neteyam's biggest fan and no matter how strong he is, Neteyam is baby.

Mild warning: This chapter has a teensy bit of violence, not much though. Also, this is my Avatar universe so what I say goes. It's not cannon-compliant at all.

Smitten - Chapter Two - Protect - Aonung's POV

Most people knew not to mess with Aonung, being the chief’s son usually gave him enough stature to not be bothered with. Though that logic didn’t apply to other eldest sons of chiefs. To elaborate more on the situation at hand, Aonung had to think back to what he could have possibly done wrong to end up here. 

It had been a few hours earlier at the center of the reef when a few ilus had rode in with them a select few young adults from the neighboring Ta’uni clan.

It wasn’t determined as a threat, the clans were more like cousins if anything, so it didn’t gather the attention of many people besides Aonung and Tsireya. 

“Welcome,” Tsireya greeted happily, she was usually too welcoming for Aonung’s liking. He felt a bit uneasy as they all chatted, Aonung recognized one of the males in the group had received their Iknimaya and had their first tattoo. He had just recently completed his coming of age ceremony. 

Aonung completely missed the name of pretty much everyone in the group, he knew they were here for something. 

“Enough with the small talk, what is it you want?” Aonung spat, he was usually the one to speak his mind freely regardless. 

“Excuse my eldest brother, he usually isn’t this rude.” Tsireya apologized for him, smacking his arm. Aonung looked unamused as he stared at the outsiders. 

“I have come to seek the sea princess, I am a man worthy of being her mate.” 

Finally, Aonung thought to himself. He knew they wouldn’t have rode from another reef to their home just to sit in a circle and be friends. 

“No,” The siblings spoke in unison, “How dare you insult my sister by thinking because you completed your Iknimaya you could come here and ask for her hand.” Aonung knew he had no right to his sister, and as much as he hated Lo’ak this would easily be a downgrade. 

Some more words were exchanged, Aonung could admit, most of those words weren’t nice. He couldn’t remember specifics but he did know the altercation had gathered some attention and at some point, someone had swung first, not him though, he learned his lesson last time with the Sully’s. 

Next thing he knew, he had tackled the unknown Ta’uni member and a full on fight had broken out. He could hear Tsireya practically weeping in the back and only really pulled out once he heard Tonowari, his father, shout. 

He pulled off, knuckles bruised, a busted lip but surely he looked a lot better than the other who scrambled to his feet and retreated with his friends. 

Perhaps that was Aonung’s mistake, he had chosen to walk away like his father had asked rather than to finish the fight. 

—-------

Aonung had been looking for a cave that would remind Neteyam of home, it had a large pool of water, near the ocean with a good amount of sand, and a mix of trees. It almost seemed like a small rainforest only a few minutes away from the reef. 

Not far behind him were the Ta’uni boys from earlier, this time they had brought a few more men with them.

“Take the ropes off and fight me like a man.” Aonung called out, his voice echoing in the cave walls. He had been ambushed, even though he was clearly stronger than most of them they had the element of surprise and he had only been one to their group of six. 

“There isn’t even a need to fight, look at you, we could just leave your pathetic self here and no one would come for you.” 

Aonung glared, wriggling in the ropes that had bound his wrists and ankles together, he had gotten pretty beat up in the midst of everything. A multitude of bruises adorning his stomach and legs where he had been kicked and punched, his hair had been ripped out of his bun letting his curls out in a messy frame around his face. 

“Take these ropes off and see just how well I can fight. You needed six men to take me down, I can handle you like nothing.” Aonung licked the blood from his lips, his body flexing as he tried to break out of the burning rope. 

A knife was pulled out and Aonung finally thought the other was going to release him so they could have a real fight except the unsharpened part knife was pressed against his neck, “You talk too much.” Aonung quieted his mouth trying to think of how he could get out of the situation. He was outnumbered, tired, and frankly his whole body ached from the group having attacked him. 

“That's good, be quiet.” 

In the midst of the silence, there was a loud screech from an unknown animal, the group all looked up and around nervous with the unfamiliar screech. 

“Is that.. An Ikran..?” The knife was dropped and the leader turned to process what the large Ikran had been doing, it had been circling the cave from above with loud screeching and then it suddenly dropped down and flew right past the group knocking a few of the Ta’unui clan members off their feet. 

“Why would an Ikran be near the reef- Where is your rider?” 

There was very visible panic as they tried to stand guard from the large creature.

Aonung snorted, behind the bruised lips and jaw was a smirk, “Not even Ewya will help you out of this one..” 

As if Aonung predicted the future, Neteyam had leaped out of hiding with his bow and arrow- and the cute waist belt Aonung loved so much. 

Neteyam had smacked the leader directly in the face with the bow, clearly taking him by surprise as fell back. Neteyam landed on his feet directly in front of Aonung, dropping down in a stance over Aonung’s legs, his blade out and ears pointed back as he hissed in a threat to the group. 

“What is a forest na’vi doing here- how barbaric-” A few hushed whispers and insults that stirred Aonung up but his focus was immediately brought to Neteyam.

Everything else happened too fast, Aonung didn’t even get a good look at Neteyam but he looked at his posture and immediately knew Neteyam was angry. Neteyam was fast, the bow had been placed by Aonung’s feet and Neteyam had taken off. 

Aonung could only sit helplessly and watch as his boyfriend had dragged every single member of the Ta’uni’s. Aonung winced as he watched Neteyam grab the smallest member and practically toss him like he was nothing, knocking him into the wall and unconscious. 

Neteyam was strong.

 Aonung could let out a dreamy sigh as Neteyam had defended him, even as Neteyam drop kicked and slammed his bow at the back of someone’s head- Aonung could only think about how his body made every move look graceful. 

“I think I am in love..” Aonung muttered quietly as he stood there tied up, he knew Neteyam could handle it himself otherwise he would have freed him. 

Neteyam was bouncing around, barely breaking a sweat when Aonung noticed someone about to sucker punch Neteyam from behind, Aonung’s feet were moving on their own and he pushed his shoulder and head into the unnamed attacker, his hands may have been tied up but he wasn’t going to just let Neteyam take that hit for him. Aonung rolled off with a grunt, his hair sprawled out around him as he tried to push himself up with only his feet. 

“Ma’Aonung!” 

Aonung hadn’t been expecting that, nor did he expect for Neteyam to break his bow across the back of the last member of the group. 

Aonung grunted and finally was able to push himself up to his feet, panting a bit with strain as he was finally able to take a look around. Neteyam had single-handedly taken out six guys by himself and was literally unscathed. 

Despite the fact that Neteyam had no injuries he looked like he was about to start crying, “I thought I lost you..” Neteyam spoke but it was in english and Aonung couldn’t understand him at all. 

“Are you okay? Did you get hurt- Why are you crying?” Aonung tried to wriggle out the rope on his wrists, finally they were cut off revealing deep dark bruises. Aonung was more concerned with inspecting Neteyam who had ripped through the group like they were nothing. 

“I am fine! Look at you! I should have been there sooner!” Neteyam cried out and Aonung sighed softly, grabbing him and pulling him for a tight hug. “Look at me, I am fine. You came just in time, I knew you would come.” Aonung said softly, being extremely gentle with Neteyam. 

The group had gathered themselves and limped out, absolutely baffled that such a monster like that would need consoling after nearly killing them.

From the top of the cave Lo’ak and Tsireya watched, they had arrived mere minutes before, “Neteyam is scary when he’s angry.. He walks around like the perfect child but his temper- Awful.” Lo’ak had only been there long enough to see his brother bash his bow into someone’s back but that told him everything he needed to know. 

“I think they are very cute together, Lo’ak don’t you think?” Tsireya said softly, her arm wrapped around his, she looked up at him with large eyes and Lo’ak felt inclined to agree with her.

“Nope, did you see my brother? He single handedly took down all those guys. Where was yours? Tied up like a princess- Hold on! FISH LIPS WATCH THOSE HANDS!” Lo’ak shouted. 

Aonung had only been hugging Neteyam, sure his hand had ended up on his lower back, it was a given. Aonung looked up, tensed, hearing the shouting, “Why are they here…” He grumbled.

Tsireya gasped, ducking out of sight and smacking Lo’ak’s arm. “Hush they saw us! We must go!” She pulled Lo’ak away fast. 

.

.

.

.

[kierreras]

so, i think that there is one major flaw that made this season less enjoyable than others (except big john cause we all agree that his whole storyline is a disaster). the lack of pogues interactions was so noticeable. i absolutely adore each and every couple and i’m really glad that the writers gave them time to bond and develop romantic connections, but this show is first and foremost about friendship. we have pogues separated for the most part of the season. the first time we have john b/jj interaction past poguelandia is episode six. six!!! they are supposed to be best friends, but john b is preoccupied with his father’s gold obsession for the most part to even acknowledge that his best friend could be homeless. the same goes for his girlfriend. he didn’t show any interest in where sarah is staying, whether she has food, etc.  how many times the pogues were at the chateau this season? i can count two - when they reunited with big john in episode six and after john b was released from the police department in episode eight. i always considered twinkie and chateau as characters, honestly. however, this season the only pogue beside jb that was in twinkie is jj. it feels like the whole group dynamic was somehow sidelined. and i don’t think that it has something to do with couples getting some focus, because we also kind of had relationships storylines which were mixed with group dynamics without any problems in previous seasons. this season we havr a huge treasure hunt which kind of ruins the whole vibe. those local gold/cross treasure hunts were cringey in some ways, but they have one element that el dorado doesn’t have - we have a connection with them throughout one of the pogues. el dorado is big john’s focus, so it explains why we as viewers don’t feel some sort of investment into that storyline. i think that the lack of friendship moments is also to be blamed on limited screentime (the huge amount of which was wasted on el dorado). we literally had some scenes cut - like sarah talking to pope and cleo about rafe coming back (there was a bts of cline, jd and laci in their episode four outfits outside of heywards). also, in episode seven we could have had sarah and kie talk heart to heart, but that time sarah somehow decided to ignore kiara’s worry for jj. it was such a good moment for girls to bond through boys troubles, but i guess adding another singh “you know” line was more important. also, i really think that we were robbed on pogues interactions in general. like are pope and john b even aware that jj is basically homeless? if pope knows, why didn’t he invite jj to heywards as well? i’m sure jj doesn’t need the whole room to himself, but a simple place to sleep and eat would be nice. 

moving to sarah and jj. just imagine if jj was home when sarah came after being rejected by carreras? i would give everything to see them co-living for at least one episode! by the way, about carreras, kie simply lets sarah go after her parents acted like jerks and threw away a homeless sixteen years old girl. kind of unbelievable for me, but i understand that this whole thing happened so that sarah could accidentally meet topper. there was an opportunity to show the girls bond. was there at least one friendship moment with any of the girls with cleo? it’s such a waste. also, kie saw something between pope and cleo and she could have teased them about it. and do not even get me started on jiara interrupting cleope’s kiss and not saying anything. jj keeping his mouth shut? never heard of it. again, the whole group not having any reaction about kitty hawk? guys, your best friend was sent away and you are just acting like it’s not a big deal? by the way, i understand why many people like episode five. it has this chaotic vibe from earlier seasons. pogues (minus john b) are finally on the mission together and it is pure cinematography. we got their chaotic energy again, a bunch of friendly fights, comedic moments. and these things were exactly what attracted so many viewers in the first place. also, personally i was interested in this mission because pogues were there to get the cross, an artifact that really mattered to one of the characters. so once again viewers are emotionally invested in the mission. whereas there are no emotional investment in el dorado plot. i think in general friendship vibe was present in the first episode and somewhat in the end of episode eight. lack of pogues in the finale is very palpable and it sucks because we have so many wasted opportunities here. i will forever mourn that we didn’t have surfing scenes, hammock scenes, legendary obx parties like boneyard or kegger. still, let’s hope that in next season we will get back our pogues friendship moments. we were absolutely robbed this season, guys.

[korcariiwitch]

oc(s) meme. ✨

Tagged by: @laezels! Tysm for the tag! <3

(So uhhhh I decided to fill this out for both my OCs, since I haven't really posted much for Skora and needed to flesh both of them out more, so umm don't mind me 🖤)

name: velwyn melarn name: skora aldisian

nickname(s): vel, v, wynnie (hates the last one though) nickname(s): kora, sko, allie

pronouns: she/her pronouns: she/her

star sign: scorpio star sign: virgo

height: 5' 4" / 162.5cm height: 5' 9" / 175.2cm

orientation: pansexual orientation: pansexual

race: drow (bhaalspawn) race: half-elf (sun elf/human)

romancing: astarion romancing: shadowheart (might be karlach depending on how her playthrough goes 👀)

fave fruit: cherries. fave fruit: dates.

fave season: less so a favorite season and more so she likes whenever there's a storm going on. something about the feeling of the rain/snow on her skin feels invigorating and the catharsis of everything being washed away. fave season: winter, preferably indoors and cooped up next to a hearth.

fave flower: orchids (ones that grow in the dark especially). fave flower: irises and hyacinths.

fave scent: iron, mint, and eucalyptus. fave scent: sea salt and cedar wood.

coffee, tea, or hot chocolate: coffee to compensate for the lack of rest most days. prefers it black with a minimal amount of sugar. coffee, tea or hot chocolate: many various types of teas. she's a bit of a snob about it actually (affectionate).

average sleep hours: it would be the standard 4 hours of trance, if not interrupted nightmares or the debilitating migraines brought on by suppressing her bloodthirsty urges. average sleep hours: skora is adept at quieting her mind and can reliably/consistently get six hours of sleep even under the most dire of circumstances.

dogs or cats: quasits, owlbears, intellect devourers. pre-events of the game it wasn't sustainable for durge to have pets, and she finds herself drawn to the more unconventional ones. dogs or cats: skora has a fondness for dogs, having grown up with many hunting dogs in her youth.

dream trip: pre-tadpole there was no point in dreaming of travel for pleasure, outside of her father's vision of a world covered in corpses. post the events of the game i think she'd just like to see more of the world beyond what the underdark/bhaal's temple has to offer her. dream trip: i think she'd like to return home to the isle she is from, she hasn't been there since childhood due to ~certain events~ and i think having a partner/friends in tow might help make that journey palatable.

amount of blankets: it doesn't matter how many you put on her because there's a 98.7% chance she's going to end up kicking them off at some point. secretly, velwyn prefers the compression of her partner acting as weighted blanket. amount of blankets: one, no more than two. barely moves in her sleep and wakes up in the morning with the blankets exactly where she left them the night before.

random fact(s): velwyn ❤️

velwyn is quite the sketch artist, and she keeps a journal (almost like a book of shadows) in the game chronicling her journey. some of the sketches can be a bit disturbing, though, especially if she's a fondness for the subject. (e.g. a rather gruesome sketch of astarion because she didn't know what to do with her feelings towards him)

fluent in common, undercommon, elvish, deep speech and knows some abyssal and infernal as study for a certain heist.

likes to collect weird shit for study and experimentation later. has led to some 'accidents' around camp during the squad's downtime.

knows how to stitch wounds together exceptionally well, will stubbornly insist upon patching herself up half the time until she becomes more comfortable with the concept of other people taking care of her.

enjoys being challenged and called out on her own shit by others, even if she'd never admit that.

random fact(s): skora 💙

fluent in common, gnomish, celestial, primordial, elvish, draconic and also knows common sign language.

knows how to sail from her family's business, but actually gets incredibly sea sick.

while in school, she double majored in abjuration and divination with minors in illusion and necromancy magics.

has an astigmatism but refuses to 'correct it' with magic, so she'll pull out glasses while reading.

she has a natural calming presence and a quiet confidence, she doesn't feel the need to gloat but will put someone in their place if pushed.

No pressure/obligation tagging: @anderwelt, @malewife-mansplain-magus, @topaz-carbuncle, @phasebun, @starryjuicebox, @elminsters, @vspin, @tavsboots @asharaks, @bhaalbaaby and anyone else who sees/wants to do this!

[dreadfutures]

I hold in two hands:

everything is going pretty well. I am slowly making friends and deepening friendships IRL in my dream town. relationship w my family is the best it may have ever been in my life. my job is easy and satisfying and eases my conscience and I enjoy it. i am getting back into physical art. I call my best friend from grad school every week. I play DND with my best friends from college every week. I play Pathfinder with a group I've been with for six years every week. I have every cuisine imaginable available to me, there is every kind of hang out spot nearby, transit is cheap, and I'm under very little pressure in life. I have improved my digital art over the years and have the honor of being commissioned to draw people's OCs! I have a story I've been writing for four years that I am still passionate about and invested in with a dedicated readership of 100 or so people every update. I get to participate in exchanges of art and writing about fandoms I love, with people who love them. I have been able to introduce good people looking for communities to good communities full of good people. I have been able to run a (so far!) successful large fan event to celebrate all of that. I have so much I'm looking forward to, games and music and movies and books, travel, visits, museums...

and

I am tired. Depression is coming back for me like the tide and with it comes this irrational unsteadiness. Where things have been certain, solid, steady, and where I've been unconcerned and happy, I'm finding myself insecure, jealous, shy, uncertain, self deprecating, self conscious, unconfident, unhappy. everything I make I question. I can't help but feel the weight of all the things I usually brush off as meaningless. There's no amount of rationalization, reassurance, or interactions that can turn that around.

It just is. Both. All at once. For now.

I am very grateful for what I have. I really am. but I will never not be depressed, you know? Like, if I'm being pulled under by a rip current every few months, at least the water is warm now. And it'll let me out eventually I guess, as it always does, and I'll find my footing again. It's easier to find footing again and not drown than it was 5, 7, 10 years and many prescriptions ago. but right now I just wish I could find a therapist to have an outlet to express, process, experience those feelings safely with another human being who won't be affected by it all. It has been a long time since I've been the kind of childish person who goes crying and wailing about my insecurities to people in search of validation and praise that I would then reject. But watching other people do it makes me wish I wasn't so far along on the self awareness journey and could be so freely pathetic again. Because that behavior does receive so much validation, pretty intensely, lots of preening comments that feel morbidly good and bad simultaneously, you know? But it feels better than silence, even if it comes with the shame of publicly begging for attention and validation lmao. But better than silence is also just having a place to express stupid feelings and cry a river about petty things and then be able to sigh or laugh it off and put those feelings in broader contexts and move on without ruining my life and relationships.

I just fucking wish they didn't all set their appointments by telehealth only, and in the middle of my goddamn work day.

I don't want a room mate again but I wish I didn't live alone. I wish I just had someone who got me, who sees me and loved me, in the same room, day and night. I miss the person who inspired DPDF a lot these days. they weren't the first person I had that connection with and they don't have to be the last. and our connection isn't the same anymore but it's still precious and it's hard being apart but that's how it has to be. There will be others. it'll be fine. someday maybe. in the meantime it's cooling down from this heat wave and there are lunches to attend and weird driveway artisan shows to sniff out and cafes to write in and cute outfits to wear and things to learn and I'll play more good games and I'll get my hair done special and at some point the positive feelings will catch up again and maybe I'll be able to enjoy them fully like a normal human being. at some point I'll blink awake in the middle of a conversation and realize I'm feeling happy and clear again. that's how it always happens and in the meantime I hold both of these feelings in separate hands at once. Tangible. If I say out loud that they're both real then they both can be, again.

[madlad-sadgal]

Goldenheart AU

Should I really start thinking up a whole other AU when I'm still trying to plan out one? No. Am I gonna do it anyways? Yes.

Quick note #1, this is a mix of Band AU and "Separated Childhood friends who meet again as adults (except one doesn't know it's their childhood friend)" AU.

Also a note at the end.

Nimona Spoilers (Maybe? Not sure, but I'll out a cut here just in case)

In this AU, there's no kingdom surrounded by big ass walls with canons, although I'm not sure if there are shapeshifters or not (Nimona's still there, I'm just not sure if they can shapeshift or not or if they're just this weird energetic teenager). What is there though is social classes.

The Queen, aka Valerin, is Ambrosius' mother and she runs a very successful company. Ambrosius is therefor part of the richer class which basically has access to anything.

Ballister Boldheart, on the other hand, although he isn't living on the streets, his family isn't doing the best when it comes to money and he does some easy jobs to try and gather money to help his parents.

The boys meet at the park one day. Ambrosius was out playing with some friends from school (Todd maybe with a few random OCs) when he saw the scrawny boy picking up trash, so he decided to approach him. Turns out the scrawny boy (Ballister) was picking up trash to help the park keeper who'd then pay him depending on the amount of trash he picked up

Ambrosius felt bad for him so he decided to help him and didn't leave until his mom's secretary and his nanny (The Director, who else) came to pick him up

The Director obviously saw the two interact and didn't think much of it, until Ambrosius starts asking for money from his mom to help his new friend, which she actively gives him and praises him for helping people in need, and then Ballister's coming to visit and now the two are inseparable

Now she obviously doesn't like that, but she brushes it off thinking that this'll pass when Ambrosius grows up and realizes that he's much better than that

But then something happens (you choose what, can be a death, something good with the company) and Ambrosius has to move away, so the two boys who have been friends for like six-seven are now separated and heart broken, and since Bal can't afford a phone they won't be able to keep in touch, and he outright refuses to let Ambrosius give him one, so now they're separated

Fast forward a few years, it is now Ambrosius' 21st birthday, and to celebrate, he's allowed to choose one band that Valerin will pay to show up, and he chooses the Shifters/The Shapeshifters/whatever else references the movie or comic

The Shifters are a small band that's pretty recent, but Ambrosius loves their songs, and he thinks the lead singer, who goes by Bal, is cute

The band shows up and Ambrosius is having the time of his life, even more so when two members of the band, Bal and Nimona, come to personally wish him a happy birthday

Obviously, he's just talked to his celebrity crush, so he fails to notice just how familiar Bal is, and he doesn't think he'll ever meet the man again

Bal, on the other hand, is well set on seeing Ambrosius again, because holy fuck that's his childhood friend, and he had to practically beg Nimona and the rest of the band (some OCs maybe) to come here just so he could see him

Ballister started this band in hopes that it would take off and he could make a living out of it to help his parents (for plot convenience, it works out or not, depends what direction you wanna go)

So, when Ballister sees Ambrosius again in a cafe, he strikes up a conversation and they end up talking for a long while and end up exchanging numbers

What isn't planned in the plan is for the Director to recognize Ballister and know how much of a crush Ambrosius has on him (despite him not knowing who he really is) and she doesn't like that because someone from higher class dating someone lower class like Ballister hell no

Then starts her plans to foil everything, Nimona being slightly annoyed at Ballister desperately trying to get back in contact with his friend, Ambrosius having a celebrity crush that surprisingly actually works out and Valerin being oblivious to all of this

Ambrosius looks pretty much just like he does in the movie when he's wearing his civilian clothes, except he has long hair with the under part shaved (Is there a name for that haircut?)

Valerin and the Director dress like business women instead of royals

Nimona has basically the same style, except add a bunch of colour: pins, dyed streaks of hair, bright bracelets, etc.

Ballister has a similar style to Nimona, and he dyed a streak of his hair pink (because I can)

That's all I got for now. If this catches anyone's eye, I'll make another part exploring why the Director dislikes the mix of classes so much and how she frames Ballister this time, or the next part can also be about how Bal and Ambrosius get closer.

Quick note #2, this doesn't have anything to do with this, but I'm starting to realize most of my ideas come when I'm doing the dishes, and as dumb as it is, it gives me motivation to do them, so I'm not complaining

Quick note #3, I'm thinking of doing and angsty one shot of that one scene where Ambrosius gets stabbed and it's actually him, except Ballister sings "You Are My Sunshine" to him as he dies because Ambrosius used to sing it to him before everything. Would anyone read it if I posted it?

[apparitionism]

Tabled 7

And with this at-long-last final part, Tabled (my lengthy @b-and-w-holiday-gift-exchange offering for @barbarawar ) comes to an end. Does that end justify the tortuous (and torturous) trip? Probably not, but something something journey destination... it all began with “Myka sits at tables and tells lies,” and part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, and part 6 gave what I hope was a reasonable explanation for how Myka might have so fallen, as well as how she could have begun to scramble up (spoiler: with a lot of help). Anyway, she’s just got back to South Dakota—having come to a tentative understanding with Helena—only to find Mrs. Frederic waiting for her at the airport (!!).

Tabled 7

Myka has spent an evening, a night, and the entire subsequent day on her trek back to South Dakota, so her trip as a whole has now stretched to over thirty-six hours, during which she’s had emotional nadirs, shocks, and acmes; adrenaline overloads, ebbs, and re-overloads; minimal amounts of minimally palatable airport food; and far too much coffee, both interior and exterior. She desperately needs a shower, clean clothes, and, above absolutely all, some sleep lying down in a bed. Some sleep that way.

So she’s having trouble processing what she sees. Has Mrs. Frederic divined her ultimate intention and thus appeared here to prevent her from burning it all down? This possibility should strengthen her resolve; instead, it makes her want to turn and run away.

Unfortunately, she’s now through security, and she can’t turn around. Thanks a lot, DHS.

But please, she goes on to pray, not another table. And: Extra-please, not another lecture about children.

Can the people around her in the airport see Mrs. Frederic? They seem to be moving more slowly, less noisily, than reality usually offers. Or are they? It’s hard to know, here in this quiet, draggy little transit-place...

Mrs. Frederic puts a bow on the weird by pronouncing, “I have spoken with several people today. Yet you are my determinative interlocutor.”

That sounds like Myka might be a very few words away from being sent to a penal colony. Or, no: bronzed. The ultimate irony. Utterly Warehousian.

“I have for you the following salient information,” Mrs. Frederic continues, and Myka doesn’t even bother bracing herself, because she’ll have to take it, regardless. She might as well be rattled by the full impact. “I am prepared to have words with Agent Lattimer.”

She should have braced. “You are?” she asks, wishing she could sound indifferent about the prospect, wishing the idea of such words didn’t add fuel to her gut’s terror that Mrs. Frederic knows all about Myka’s meeting with Helena, a terror now compounded by the prospect of her telling Pete of it, and the further prospect that his having been told will be an additional, far higher bar over which Myka must clamber.

“Should those words occur,” Mrs. Frederic says, and now Myka does brace, “your brief liaison will seem but a dream to him.”

What... what? No bar, no clamber? Instead, deliverance? Myka, whiplash-befuddled, is struck dumb.

Mrs. Frederic waits. Her patience, as long as it lasts, is admirable, if surprising. Then she quirks an eyebrow.

It makes Myka think of Helena—and that allows her to breathe. To soften.

Mrs. Frederic softens too: she lowers the eyebrow. “Is that truly what you wish?” she asks, carefully, as if she’s prepared also to withdraw credit from the source who conveyed to her the substance of Myka’s wants. As if Myka, given one last beneficent chance, can surely be gentled into exercising her better judgment and choosing the certain path.

The sliver of solicitude allows Myka to consider Mrs. Frederic’s motives with a new charity: she may have been driven not by stereotype, as Myka has suspected, nor malice, as she has feared, but rather by a thoughtful assessment of availability—i.e., here are the Warehouse’s extant resources, and here is how they may best be deployed to ensure an acceptable balance of efficacy and safety.

Myka has spent a great many hours on airplanes and in airports preparing herself for the burn-it-down possibility, but the fact of the matter is that she, too, cares about efficacy.

She cares even more about safety.

The additional fact of the matter, however, is that she wants a future untethered from such calculations—except as reckoned by, and between, her and Helena.

So if Mrs. Frederic is willing to help fix what she had a heavy hand in breaking? There’s probably a downside, but Myka will suffer it for this unexpected upside.

“Yes. It is. Thank you,” she says.

“No,” Mrs. Frederic says, now differently severe. “Agent Jinks.”

“Steve? What about him?”

“Thank him.”

****

Myka finds the B&B dark and silent, lacking even a video-game glow and hum from Claudia’s room. Sadly, the quietude doesn’t yield sleep; rather than knitting up her exceptionally raveled sleeve of care, she tries and fails to keep “here’s how this might go” scenarios from playing in her head until she can reasonably go downstairs and begin making morning noises.

As the others appear, she tries to act as if nothing has changed.

Claudia enthuses, “Storms no match for you!” which is flattering but of course entirely untrue.

Pete is in his too-early-to-do-more-than-grunt mode, but he seems to care more about his bowl of Lucky Charms than he does about anything to do with Myka, which tells her that Mrs. Frederic has almost certainly had the promised words with him. The way that buoys her—her shoulders move down and away from her ears, where she hadn’t even realized they’d taken up residence—is probably unseemly, but she doesn’t care.

Then Abigail walks in, and her eye-flick between Pete and Myka suggests she knows everything, which she probably does, but even if she all she might have had were suspicions, they’ve probably been confirmed by Myka’s radical change in posture.

A twinge of guilt at having allowed her body to reveal her relief visits Myka... but she quashes it. That guilt is about parts of the past she’s supposed to be ignoring. Practice. Practice.

When Steve emerges, he busies himself with the first steps of making scrambled eggs. Myka reads this as a tactic, for on workdays Steve generally eats two unheated Pop-Tarts at speed. On lazier mornings, he might undertake toast, but eggs are the rarest of production numbers... and indeed, no one but Myka waits through his meticulous preparation.

“You want some?” he asks, but he’s already sliding his results onto two plates. “Airports,” he says, handing her one.

“So hard to find something normal,” she agrees, “and even when you think you might have, you’re still in a place that isn’t.”

“Sounds like you’re talking about every day here.”

His affect effortlessly encompasses both “perpetually surprised new guy” and “perpetually resigned old hand.” Myka loves him for that facility. “Not about these eggs, though,” she says around mouthfuls, “so thanks.” She pushes her empty plate away. “And, also, thanks.”

“I’ve never seen anyone eat food that fast, so thanks back for the demonstration. But also thanks why?”

“You’re welcome, and also you know why: I have you to thank. Or so I hear from someone who miraculously shifted her thinking about what’s best for me,” and she concludes, “you miracle.”

He gives a little smile and head-shake. “You said to protect you, so that’s what I did. Differently. Once I figured out you were telling me things had changed.”

His figuring? Correct, regardless of anything Myka might have intended to be saying. “Things did change,” she acknowledges, “like you said they would. But listen, what you did. The risk. You shouldn’t have taken that risk for me. In fact people in general should stop taking risks on my behalf.”

His smile grows wider. “We will when you will. Reciprocally.”

“No, no,” Myka says, “I need to take more. On my behalf and everybody else’s.”

“All the more reason you should have the right backup.”

“Well, so should you,” Myka says, fully aware, and fully remorseful, that she hasn’t provided any such thing.

Steve���s smile shifts in a way she doesn’t understand. “I think I’m going to. Maybe in not too long? You know Claud’s doing a lot more Caretakering now.” The doorbell rings. “Oooh, if that’s who I think it is, somebody’s timing is something.”

“Is it?” Myka asks. She trails, a confused duckling, behind Steve as he heads to the door.

“I think you’re about to meet my new partner,” he says.

Myka doesn’t bother asking “Am I?” as he swings the door open, because questions are not being answered sensically.

Her exhaustion is comprehensive, so it’s no surprise she’s hallucinating. She says it aloud, directing a slack-jawed “I’m hallucinating” at both Steve and the doorway-framed Helena as they stand before her, their smiles bizarrely rhyming blends of sheepishness and pride.

They don’t respond. This supports the hallucination conclusion.

Myka moves her right hand, minimally; in this way, she touches Steve, a little backhand to his torso. The purple cotton of his shirt is softer than her knuckles expect.

With her left hand, she reaches out, reaches through the doorway, and pushes, probably harder than she should, against Helena’s right shoulder. Nothing there is soft. The shoulder resists.

Fine. Not a hallucination. Not even a hologram. Everyone’s physically here, breathing and taking up space.

“Her timing,” Myka says to Steve. She’s not quite ready to speak directly to Helena. “It’s definitely something.”

Helena says, “Ssh. Let me reveal my shortcomings to my new partner in my own time.” She’s surpassingly beautiful, here in this moment: glowing with mischief and morning sun.

It’s too much. Myka squints and looks away, back to the comfort of Steve. “Your new partner?” she asks him. “Really?”

“Seems so,” Steve says, right as Helena offers, “As I understand it,” and Myka hears a harmony as their voices overlap. She hadn’t seen this coming, but she might have heard it, if she had thought to listen close enough.

But how could she have thought to, before today? “You both make the world turn a little faster than I’m comfortable with,” she tells Steve.

His smile persists. “Call me on that, no problem. But you really want to argue with H.G. Wells, who by the way is standing right here”—and he gives her a little “you really are, right?” look, which she answers with a minimalist palms-up “I suppose” shrug; more harmony—“about how time moves?”

“If history is any guide,” Helena says to him, “that and many other elements of the oeuvre.”

“I just didn’t think I’d be doing it this morning, is all,” Myka says. She’s trying to bring herself to speak to both of them, but Steve remains her direction of safety.

His brow wrinkles. “If this isn’t okay...”

It would be nice to be able to reassure him, but. “No idea if it’s okay.”

His face clears. “I appreciate your telling the truth. And I guess your voice is less agitated than it could be.”

This garners a snort from Helena. “My dear new partner. Your understatement is a balm.”

“We’ll see if I can keep that up,” he says, visibly nervous.

Myka is, now, able to address Helena. About Steve. “He can. Not always understatement, but the balm part.”

“I’m glad to know it,” Helena says, directing at Steve a formal incline of head.

That incline. Its sweet propriety. Glad. Glad. “I’m glad you’re here,” Myka tells her.

“Thank you,” Helena says. She doesn’t need to add “for saying.” Her hair is shining, here—here!—in this morning sun that illuminates the entryway. Such light visits this space every morning, but Myka has never before seen it ignite Helena’s hair.

This day: new.

“I have something in the car for you,” Helena goes on. “Wait.” She exits the doorway, moving out of the sunbeam’s path. A bright loss.

Myka turns back to Steve. “Wait,” she echoes, shrugging. “There’s not enough time in the world for me to explain to you why that’s ironic.”

“Your own private irony.”

“But you did spare me some waiting. Some not-knowing waiting. And way more than that,” she says, because it needs saying, “you spared me the hard part.”

“I don’t know her very well yet, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t.”

“Oh,” Myka says, because of course she’d meant detaching herself from Pete, but Steve is (also of course) wise and right: each day, however few or many she and Helena manage, will no doubt have its hard parts. Each day of those few or many might itself be the hard part. “But how did you... I mean, did you have this plan all along? Partner and all, and Mrs. Frederic started nodding along as you said it all out loud?”

“Oh god no. I was just trying to ease her away from the you-and-Pete thing, as gently as possible. Turns out she wanted H.G. back ages ago.”

No. No. “She what.”

Steve nods, looking sick. “But—and I hate to be the one telling you this—she thought you didn’t want H.G. back.”

Myka feels sick. The non-sense of this day... no: of these days. “She what,” she says again.

“Because you left her in Boone, she said.”

“Helena was forced to stay in Boone!” she protests, or tries to.

“But you didn’t fight anybody on it. So she thought you were okay with it.”

Of course. Here’s Myka’s inaction again, kicking her legs out from under her. “But if she wanted to bring Helena back, why didn’t she just... do that? Once she decided it was safe to let her out of Boone?”

“Like I said, she thought you didn’t want H.G. to come back. So she was trying to make sure it wouldn’t matter so much to you. If it happened. If you had something else to focus on.”

“Pete,” Myka says, the very idea a heaviness. “Kids?”

“I’m not saying I can read her mind, but yeah, I think that’s how that went. I can tell you she was really surprised to hear you were meeting with H.G. yesterday.”

“In a hotel room in an airport in Chicago,” Myka says. The base fact of it. “Do I want to know how you explained that?”

“All I explained was the airport in Chicago,” Steve says. “I didn’t know about the hotel room part.”

Right. Myka hadn’t said that part out loud. “It’s not what it sounds like.”

“Interesting utterance,” he says, cocking his head, like he’s waiting for more. “Not an immediate lie, But the eventual truth-value, plus my possible eventual headache, depend on what you think I think it sounds like.”

It’s a privilege, this glimpse into the complications of his gift; nevertheless, Myka winces. “I think you think it sounds like what I think it sounds like,” she says. “Like I wish it didn’t. Because I swear to you, it’s not that.”

She prepares herself to dig in and hash out the truth-values, but Steve says, “I get it. No dirty work in those words.”

No dirty work: it’s a diploma. In reverse. Disqualification.

“Anyway I don’t think I made a lot of sense explaining any of it to Mrs. Frederic,” he finishes.

“Enough to save me,” Myka says.

“Yes. Because if you could be happy.”

“You said that before.”

“I did. But now I mean, if you could be happy.”

“If... then?” she asks, logic being what it is.

“Then maybe I could too,” he says.

Myka wants to put an immediate stop to the idea that he would look to her, for that can’t help but end in abject failure. But she gets out only a weak “Don’t” before he continues, “Because I was thinking of a saying: ‘Happy wife, happy life.’”

“I’m not your wife.”

“Better for both of us. I’m just saying it’s a saying. About a person and somebody else. There might be a better word for where you and somebody else are—or, I guess, where you might be headed?—but it wouldn’t rhyme with life. And it’s probably important to rhyme with life.”

Myka’s heart hears him, but she shies away, scoffing, “That’s a leap. Not the rhyming. The saying.”

“Isn’t it always?”

“I don’t want to give you false hope.”

“But if we could both acknowledge that there is hope.”

She’s not sure. She’ll probably never be sure, but in the face of doubt and fear (and “endless wonder,” that misleading canard), she determines to acknowledge it. For Steve’s sake. “Okay,” she says. “In the full knowledge that you’re the one who made the hope possible.”

“No,” Steve says. Serious. Simple. Unfraught. “That’s not what I did.”

Myka has no counterargument. All she can do is say “thank you” yet again, quick and quiet, for suddenly Helena is appearing in the doorway, taking over the space. Myka suspects she’s been waiting for their conversation to end—speaking of timing, this reminds her of the hotel lobby—and she doesn’t know whether to hope Helena was eavesdropping their words or simply their tones.

She’s holding two cardboard coffee cups. Myka gestures for her to hand one over, but Helena shakes her head. “You haven’t texted me.”

So Myka dashes to grab her phone, and “Gh” says the message, the first purchase her fumbling fingers could find, sent as fast as she could remind those fingers how to do that.

Helena sets the cups down on the hall table when her own phone noises (and now Myka doesn’t know whether to be pleased or distressed that a text from her yields a generic ding). She extracts it from the interior of her jacket and smiles. “I bought these, in hope, in the Sioux Falls airport,” she says, “but they’re now cold. No doubt terrible.”

“‘Worth every penny,’ I once heard someone say about coffee,” Myka says.

“Fewer pennies here. In any event, worth to be determined.” Helena is jaunty; it’s very her, but on the edge of too her, hinting that she’s less certain than her initial doorway presentation implied. As Myka now meets Helena’s gaze, she imagines—but hopes she isn’t only imagining—that their vulnerabilities might for once be commensurate.

Helena doesn’t look away.

Steve says, “You know, ‘I was making eggs’ buys you only so much late-for-work in this job.” It’s a transparent attempt to excuse himself, but he does add, “I’m really looking forward to getting to know you, partner.”

“I hope to impress you,” Helena says.

He snort-giggles, then composes himself. Minimally. “H.G. Wells—who isn’t lying!—hopes to impress me. Okay.”

Myka can’t begrudge him his surprised delight, even if it does delay his departure. “Welcome to a world of endless... surprise. She kind of wrote the book.”

“A lot of books,” Steve augments.

Helena waves a hand. “That was Charles. So wordy.”

Steve’s brow furrows—which Myka reads as a bit of confusion over how to negotiate the Helena/Charles disjunction. He says, “Okay. I’m going to the Warehouse,” clearly (smartly) choosing not to start now.

This time he does leave, though Myka is tempted to stop him, to cling to the surer footing afforded by his buffering.

Coward.

But. Then.

Alone, precariously so, Myka and Helena situate themselves across from each other at the dining room table, their promised-coffee cups before them.

Myka supposes she should have foreseen this arrangement—table, coffee—and she should at the very least have queried the book as to what would ensue. Not that she’s had any time for that, which probably means she should now do that, should go and do that, before she finds a way to undercut its foreseen future and make blunders that will prove unsatisfactory.

“Surprise,” Helena says.

“Yes,” Myka concurs, trying for Steve-ish understatement. It doesn’t work; she knows she sounds distressed.

“May I explain?”

“I wish you would.” That comes out better, but Myka realizes that she is literally on the edge of her seat. She sinks backward, trying to make the movement look like relaxation. That probably doesn’t work either.

“The invitation from Steve,” Helena begins, but upon saying his name, she stops. “Before I continue: ‘H.G. Wells who isn’t lying’?”

“He can tell if you are,” Myka says, and she’s gratified to see in Helena’s ensuing eyebrow contortions that she’s conducting the “what exactly have I said to Steve” inventory everyone does when introduced to that fact.

Its result: “Well. Then it’s fortunate I haven’t. To him.” She seems inclined to reflect on the revelation’s full compass.

Myka does love (love!) to watch Helena think. But right now... “Explanation?” she prompts.

“It isn’t complicated,” Helena says.

“That’s unusual.”

Helena bows her head; she smiles, from that bow, up at Myka. It’s flirty. It’s beautiful. “It is,” she says, and she seems to be affirming Myka’s words and her thoughts. “Steve and I had a conversation during which I explained how you and I had left our... situation. And then, a bit later, came his invitation, which I understand was extended at the behest of Mrs. Frederic. The opportunity—the freedom—to be myself again? It was too enticing to refuse. Of course I never would have accepted in the absence of our rapprochement, but given that? Steve was so convinced, and convincing, that all would be well.” She raises her head fully now. “And it cut short the waiting.”

“I said I would hurry,” Myka says, resentful, unsure of why she’s jumped to that.

“Your return required so many flights. Any number of delays might have ensued.”

“Due to the flights?” Myka asks, but she can’t unhear the clear disjunction between those sentences.

“And everything else,” Helena acknowledges, with a head-duck.

Myka knows that duck; it’s worry. “You didn’t trust me?” she asks, but in the question she finds the reason behind her resentment: offense at the idea that Helena had such worries to begin with.

“Can you blame me?” Helena asks this with a little flinch, as if Myka’s judgment must be harsh.

“Yes I can,” Myka says, but soft. “You were supposed to be ignoring all that.”

Her answer causes Helena to raise her head again and smirk—or, no, this isn’t her smirk; rather, it’s a lip-twist that’s more... conspiratorial. She says, “And yet the foundation of trust is past experience. If I ignore the past, on what basis could I trust you?”

Playful, but a jab. Myka retreats into sarcasm, acknowledging it hit the mark: “There’s a flaw in my big idea? Shocking.”

Helena nods, slow with a sigh, as if in sadness at Myka’s imperfection. But she turns serious to say, “In any case, after all that’s happened, I certainly didn’t trust fate either.”

Fate. How they’ve been subject to it... but are they now trying to chivvy it, in a way that will backfire? Myka pushes her fear into words: “What if it’s too soon?”

“Then regret will haunt us to the end of our days,” Helena says, and Myka has to nod to the truth of it. “But consider this: rather than wasting precious time on such questions, shouldn’t we rather be grateful that, after such complications, there is even a whisper of a chance that it may not be too late?”

Too late, too late, too late. Those words have truly haunted Myka. Miraculous that they might not apply. “I don’t want coffee,” she says. Truly.

“What do you want?” Helena asks, like she might really not know.

Well, maybe she doesn’t anymore, given the vast conceptual distance between Myka’s initial saying and now. “I did tell you. I don’t know how many hours ago; I haven’t counted. I’d have to use my hands.”

“Save your hands, but tell me again. I challenge you, however: change the vocabulary.”

Myka can do that. Only a little, here and now, but she can do that. “To save the world. Our world.”

They are breathing at each other and the table is in the way; Myka ideates the drama of grasping its edge, flinging it sideways, clearing her path—but that’s not who she is. Now, more than ever, she needs to be herself.

She stands up and steps decorously to the side and around, slow, savory, even as her body threatens to effervesce.

“Can we do this?” she asks, but she knows, through her inexorable movement, with all its effervescent potential, that they will. Regardless now of consequences.

“I have no idea,” Helena answers.

These could be words of delay, but not here and not now, because regardless, regardless, they will—and at once they’re both moving, as if pressure from a familiarly heartless authority will relegate Helena yet again to disembodiment if they don’t make this fast, and thank god, god, god this once they’re fast enough; they meet and hands are at waists but they’ve touched with hands before... even so, the infinitesimal pause they both take before those hands pull and define is understandable but then over, and their at-last kiss begins as an action but swiftly transforms into a state of being: pressure, presence, soft, sharp, warmth, weight, low, lasting...

After some time—how much time? is this kind of time measurable?—they break apart into staring silence, in the stunned after of the prospect they have spent so long before.

“I can die now,” Myka is moved to murmur, even as she feels its banality as a response to this experience, this knowledge. Because she has at last truly gained the knowledge: she had hoped to gain it, and yet she now understands she had never fully believed she would, if only because fundamental questions—e.g., “what would it feel like to kiss Helena?”—aren’t often answered.

“You most certainly cannot,” Helena ripostes, bracingly practical. “One kiss is no culmination.”

Myka might object to the description of what just happened as “one kiss,” but she’s too busy being unable to process how an actual culmination might feel.

In fact she’s unable to process anything. “I have to sit down,” she says. Of all things, lightheadedness had not been among her expectations. It should have been: because of course her blood is nowhere near her brain.

Passing out will help nothing. Probably. So she backs awkwardly around the table, her logic, such as it is, being: I have to sit, and that is my chair; if I reach it, then I can sit. Fortunately, her reasoning bears out. She breathes into the relief, as she sits, of still being conscious.

Helena says, “If you can’t stand, then I’ll sit beside you.” More logic, here spoken as indulgence.

She situates herself in the closest chair and scoots it nearer, inch by accommodatingly sweet inch, and then she’s in fact sitting beside Myka, like they’re on a carnival ride together, and now they’re both turning sideways—with Myka devoutly grateful for her continued (seated) consciousness—as they steal (back) these kisses, these presses and exultations, that should so long before this have belonged to them.

“This is not enough,” Helena breathes, sultry against Myka’s mouth.

Myka makes a noise of agreement, and she moves for more, to start the movement to more.

Her hands have made their way to Helena’s shoulders, and are anticipating her hair, when she and her hands are startled by a crash-clatter from across the room.

Myka wishes she could simply ignore whatever such noise signifies... but that wish is unrealistic. She removes her hands and opens her eyes.

Claudia is standing in front of the sideboard. Much of the china that had previously adorned it lies around her in ruins. “I swear to god, this is not what it looks like,” she says. She glances down, then shakes her booted foot. A teacup handle falls from it, producing a tiny clink of pain as it hits the floor.

“It looks like you were trying to blink in but got the coordinates wrong,” Myka says. “That’s happened before. But this time you got tangled with the plateware?”

That yields an eyebrow-raise and a finger-point, then: “What I should’ve said was, ‘This is not what it looks like even to someone who knows all the words to my extensive back catalog of Caretakery mistakes.’ The thing is, I blinked in, saw something I was in no way supposed to be seeing, turned my back on that—faster than fast, and I swear I would’ve tried to blink back out but I can’t reset that quick—and I guess I did Wonder Woman arms, because...” She waves down at the china. “This stuff. Or ex–stuff. Unless you’ve got a lot of glue? Which you might. You were pretty stuck to H.G just now, like in a way I’ve never seen before and like I said was in no way supposed to be seeing, but it’s the most spectacular news of this century or any other because all the feels I can’t even!” She clasps her hands up high and squeezes her eyes shut, as if the scene Myka and Helena are presenting is too glorious to behold.

Myka turns from this emotional show to look at Helena. A half-beat later, Helena turns to Myka. Lacking any ready response, they both turn back to Claudia, who opens her eyes, drops her hands, and says, “Your faces are telling me all those words happened out loud.”

“Unfortunately,” Helena says.

“Hi?” Claudia offers, with an apology face.

Helena smiles. “Hello, darling,” she says, warmly.

Their interaction is lovely to witness, but: Warm, Myka thinks, because that’s how Helena’s body is, next to hers. Why, why, why has Claudia appeared now?

“I’d run over and hug you,” Claudia says, “but I see that seat’s taken. Instead I’ll just say I missed you.”

Myka can’t help herself; she accuses, “Not enough, you spy.”

“She called me. Was I supposed to be like ‘oh, it’s H.G., I better not pick up’?”

Myka’s immediate thought is YES. She says in its place an umbrage-laden, “You could have told me.”

“Maybe you don’t understand what you looked like every time you came back from seeing her,” Claudia says. “You think I wanted to make you look like that?”

Helena shifts position beside Myka, legible as a “you are failing to ignore the past” caution; Myka adds to it a self-admonitory on this day of all days. “Fine,” she says. “Not fine at all, but fine.”

“Anyway Artie’s already shouting about how you’re both late for work,” Claudia says.

Myka sighs. “Artie. Shouting. So everyone knows?”

“Well not about this. Which I double-pinky-swear I never meant to know about, even though it was always something to hope about. All Artie knows about, and probably even hopes about, is who works here. There. At that place. And is late. For it? So I guess we should get going?”

Myka can easily imagine agreeing that yes, yes they should get going: result being that she and Helena would proceed to the Warehouse. That place. Additional result, as history has shown, being that something would happen to once again put the promise of this day out of reach.

She sees, now, that she has to act against such results. Act against them. Act.

And she sees something else, something both sickening and enlivening: all her lies, those interventions against truth? They were acts. Sinful ones, but her agency in telling them has fortified her with the necessary heft for this moment.

Her lies were practice.

Morally inexcusable practice, but: she was a feral little fabulist. Now she must put ends before means. Use the muscle; ignore the exercise by which it developed.

So. “No,” she says.

Her refusal disturbs the space, shaping it into a new kind of silence.

In its wake, Claudia offers appraisal: eyes narrowed, jaw tilted. Eventually, she says. “Not entirely sure who I’m talking to now.” She squints tighter, sly-red-fox. “By the way,” she says, calculatedly casual, “your book buddy says hi.”

If anything could knock Myka out of her certainty... certainly, it’s guilt. “Oh god,” she says.

Claudia’s narrow tension relaxes. “Steve and I figured out you were the one doing ‘unauthorized use.’  And it took us a while, but we also figured out what you were unauthorized using.”

“Thanks for not telling on me,” Myka says.

“I literally would never. And neither would Steve.”

Silence again, until Helena breaks it with, “Myka used an artifact? Was this for personal gain?” She doesn’t look at Myka.

Myka wants to say Could we ignore that too. Instead she confesses, “For personal... desperation.”

Now Helena looks. “So at last you understand,” she says. It’s a softer condemnation than Myka might have expected, not that she had expected anything, because until this moment she hadn’t made the connection. Not through the clean line of “so at last.”

But then a new connection, or rather consequence, strikes her: “What’s its downside?” she asks Claudia.

“You don’t know?”

“I didn’t care.” At that, Helena grasps Myka’s hand, tight, and Myka knows she’s going to have to think very hard at some point about this newly realized kinship between them. Right now, though, she’d rather think about the fact that Helena is holding her hand. But for that niggling consequence. “Do I need to care?” she asks.

“It’s a downside, so yeah? But with this guy, it’s a downside-with-a-twist.” She pauses, as if waiting for... guesses? Applause? When neither Myka nor Helena responds, she says an aggrieved, “Anyway, it’s the same as the upside.”

This baffles Myka. “Seeing the future? How is that a downside? I mean maybe in the Cassandra sense, if nobody believes you, but—”

Claudia interrupts, “OOC of you to get that wrong. But I guess OOC is your new IC thing, Ms. ‘No’? Anyway I don’t think you grokked what the artifact is.”

“A book,” Myka says, because... it is? “A future-seeing book.”

“Book, schmook. And future-seeing... schmuture-seeing? It’s an oracle. It doesn’t see the future; it predicts it. Literally, it says in advance: you ask it a question about the future, and it answers. It says it. In advance of that future.”

Helena chuckles. “Etymology strikes again.”

To which Claudia nods. “Right?”

“I still don’t get it,” Myka says. “Saying versus seeing? In my defense, I’m very tired.” She is sorely tempted to put her head down, heedless, here on the table, but she feels Helena tighten her handhold again, a press intelligible as Stay with me. She breathes deep and refocuses.

“Its answer is a decision,” Claudia says. “About the future.”

Helena looks at Myka, then at Claudia. “Now that is power.”

“Also right,” Claudia says. “But it can’t make that decision if nobody asks it to. Myka.”

“I did ask it,” Myka concedes, “but now my head hurts. Are you saying that if I hadn’t asked, then none of this would have happened? Would be happening?” She can’t argue with the outcome, but: upside, downside? Her head does hurt.

Claudia’s face empties. She says, “Asking questions has consequences, Agent Bering.”

Has Claudia been taken over by... something? Myka can’t help it now: “What?” she asks. The word rings a little less desperate, here at home, as a thing she tends to say. But she’s no less lost.

“Sorry,” Claudia says, turning back into herself. “I was trying on my spooky-Mrs.-F suit. Bad fit so far.”

“The art of the gnomic utterance,” Helena intones. Her own utterance doesn’t quite rise to gnomic, but Myka can see more clearly than ever the helios toward which Helena-as-Caretaker might have troped. Losses. Gains. How can Myka place herself in relation to so many competing ledger columns?

“Did you just insult Mrs. F?” Claudia asks, her obvious confusion breaking into Myka’s reckoning. She might as well have said her own Myka-esque “What?”

“What?” Helena then asks, thus squaring that circle.

“The red hat?” Claudia says, gesturing at her own head. “And doing magic or whatever in your garden?”

Sense at last. Myka doesn’t quite suppress a laugh. “Gnomic,” she says. “Means terse. Mysterious. Not gnome-related... or actually, it is, but not those gnomes. Different derivation.”

“Etymology strikes yet again,” Helena says. She suppresses her own laugh—Myka hears it behind that overly serious observation—but not her smile.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” Myka tells her. The fact and experience—correct, appropriate—of their speaking together. “Claudia,” she says (and Claudia is looking at them like they’ve both lost their minds, which they probably have, but not about this), “go to the Warehouse. Keep everybody there. All day. Please.”

Claudia brings her hands together once again in a dramatically audible clap. “I get it. I mean I’d say something about a booty call, but I know that’s not it. You need your day.”

Our day? Our days. Our days, our weeks our months our years.

“Yes,” Myka says.

Helena follows up with, “We do.”

“Hey, but I’m no oracle,” Claudia says. “No predictions here.”

Myka and Helena give her incomprehension again.

“Not ruling out booty call,” she clarifies, laughing, but she backs away as she speaks, now blessedly making her exit—unlike her entrance, through the B&B’s front door.

That means Myka and Helena can—must—make their move. And they do, rising from the table, stepping toward the stairs—but not yet up them, for Myka can’t wait; her hands are at last finding Helena’s hair, and as they do, as she touches and feels, she says, in wonder, “It’s just us. It’s never been like this.”

“Why would you comment on it?” Helena demands, as if Myka taking even an instant to reflect threatens to make the entire situation evaporate. Her hands are busy too, running along Myka’s arms, not quite grasping, but then grasping, and then Myka can’t comment on anything, because her lips are busied, back in that new state of being.

The journey to her bedroom: she had in the past allowed herself to imagine such travel, but carefully, the fantasy within strictures. Policed possibility. The walk, but not its end... not, in fact, the culmination, the sense of which had increasingly eluded her, a frustratingly constant receding of possibility, as if her body were teaching itself over time to echo Helena’s incorporeality, her sensation waning, from body to limbs to fingertips alone, until all vocabularies of touch became words not near enough the tongue.

But now everything is nearing, nearing and blurring, boundaries dissolving, everything her body, her body everything, the stairs the hallway the room the clothes the hands the lips the skin the stumble the fall...

****

Myka slow-motions into consciousness, unable to discern where she is, knowing at first only that wherever it is, she was exhausted before she got there. Got here.

That’s mostly because she can’t remember the preceding events, and experience has established that extreme fatigue is one of the few states that interferes with her otherwise reliable recall.

So she begins to sort it out, blinking sleep-weighted eyes. Her initial perception is that she’s lying in a bed—a bed blessedly recognizable as hers—yet she also seems to be perceiving something else, something absurd: that Helena, of all people, is speaking to her. Speaking unclear words, near to her, while she is in this bed that is hers.

I’m dreaming.

The words resolve: “Are you all right?” Helena asks, and Myka snaps to.

Not dreaming.

She is in her bed, and Helena is here. Their skin is... together. Helena, propped on an elbow, is regarding Myka in full recline.

Myka wants to answer Helena’s question with a strong “yes.” But she isn’t at a table and she doesn’t want Helena to be reminded of her feral fabulisms, not here not now, so instead she dares to ask, “What happened?”

“I believe you fell asleep,” Helena says. “In the middle of things.”

Myka’s first thought is that she can’t imagine a worse blunder. Her second is that of course she can. Her third, which she formulates second by second and piece on piece as her memory returns, is the one she says out loud. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Helena shakes her head. “I brought you coffee. That was all.”

It’s a damning pronouncement. “You’re saying I could have caffeinated, but instead I ruined everything.” Myka raises her left hand to cover her face. She’d use her right one too, but Helena’s body is trapping that arm. Move, she wants to say. I need both hands. To cover her shame.

Helena uses her free, unpropping hand to remove Myka’s, revealing her face. She interlaces their fingers. “Your sleep has addled you. I’m saying that I brought you a small gift, but in return you’ve given me a far greater one.”

New bafflement. “I have?”

“Witnessing your fulfillment of a bodily need.”

What could possibly be sufficient penance here? “Not the right one.”

Helena offers a considering head movement, a cerebral back-and-forth. “Isn’t it? Proof that you trust me enough to lose consciousness—in this way—so near. Differently meaningful, but meaningful all the same. Particularly to someone who, as you know, occasionally forgets to ‘ignore it.’”

Her words have such depth, in sound and meaning, that Myka can barely process any of it. Particularly given that they are lying down in privacy... and far more.

“What am I supposed to do now?” she asks. Blunder some more, the book would no doubt reiterate... but she’d rather get her guidance, here in this moment, from Helena.

“Enjoy it.” Helena says, and she laughs—this sound not deep but high, high and so happy.

Myka has never heard this laugh from her. It’s as much a directive as her words are. “Enjoy it—I didn’t know,” she says. That comes out more terse than she intends... because she can barely speak. The joy in the room—occasioned by everything, but especially by that new, new laugh—is so thick, interior and exterior to bodies and souls, that forcing words through it takes great effort.

“Know what?”

Myka would worry about her answer sounding too intellectual, if this were anyone else. In her bed. But it’s Helena. Thank god, it’s Helena. So she feels safe to say, “It’s a corollary. Follows from ‘ignore it’? I think?”

“Yes,” Helena says, gratifying Myka immensely, “yes, ignore it, about the past; enjoy it, about the present; and thus one additional corollary, this one about the future.”

“Ask an oracle about it?” Myka tries.

Helena frowns—exaggerated, comic. “That doesn’t follow, either poetically or epistrophically.”

“It does follow epistrophically.”

“Minimally so,” Helena sniffs. The acknowledgment, itself minimal, further pleases Myka, even as Helena goes on, “But it should scan as well. My proposal does.” She pauses, doubtless for effect. Myka tries to think out what the teased proposal might entail, but she doesn’t get far before Helena pronounces, “Absolve it.”

“That does scan,” Myka acknowledges.

“Thank you. This next doesn’t, but I know you’ll want to take on blame for how our future unfolds, so I add: absolve yourself as well.”

Ignore it; enjoy it; absolve it. These strategies—despite Myka’s having insisted on the first—are all antithetical to her way of being in the world.

But she’s been unhappy, being in the world. Unsatisfied.

Now she is being satisfied, a new state that only this skin-to-skin with Helena could possibly have brought about.

She deliriously doesn’t care whether Claudia has kept, did keep, is keeping everyone else away.

This is hers and she can and will enjoy it.

This is hers and Helena’s and she can and will see to it—she can and will ensure—that they both enjoy it.

She has never before ideated such power—could never have, but here it is, in her hands, in her body, in giving and taking: power. And if she’s still too tired to remember, on next waking, that she had it, it’s all right. She’ll have another occasion to exert it. More anothers.

“Did you just say ‘more anothers’?” Helena asks, speaking and breathing with exertion.

Apparently there’s still room, in and amongst the joy and the power, for embarrassment. “Out loud? Are you sure?”

Helena calms enough to say, with indignation, “My hearing is quite good.”

“Evasive answer,” Myka says, recovering a little. “I’ll take it as a no.”

“Evasive?” More indignation.

“It wasn’t a yes,” Myka points out.

Helena runs a hand through her hair, as if in preparation for more argument. “I propose we table this debate,” she says instead.

“Good idea,” Myka says. “Because instead of talking, or asking about talking, you should be kissing me.”

“So should you. Vice versa. Me. Kissing.”

Transportingly charming near-incoherence... “You’re right,” Myka says, her heart overflowing. “So be quiet.”

“You first,” Helena ripostes, with what sounds suspiciously like a giggle.

Myka wants to keep that sound active, so she doesn’t comply. And they continue to speak together. Through it all.

This time, Myka stays awake. That’s probably a blunder too—but it’s most satisfactory.

****

In the weeks and months that follow, Myka takes time, as she finds it, to visit the book. Often, its pages ruffle and sigh, their invitation clear: Don’t you want to know? To know more?

The temptation is real, compounded by what she feels as an exertion of pressure from the volume: Did I not gift you this future? it seems to whisper. Surely you could gift me the opportunity to exercise. To provide still greater definition.

Then again, that could simply be her guilt—her ongoing struggle to absolve it—talking.

On one such occasion (though not the only one), she hears footsteps. The rhythm, the particular ring of heel-strikes: she knows the confidence of those strides. The knowing is calming, if not itself absolving.

“Back already?” she asks without turning around.

“Absurdly simple retrieval,” Helena says. “Steve found the entire exercise an insult to the considerable intelligence he and I bring to bear on any mission we undertake.”

Helena’s interpretations of Steve’s thoughts are often baroque—often, seemingly, more suitable to her own thoughts. But when she offers such interpretations in Steve’s presence, he doesn’t wince. “Really?” Myka says, just to make sure.

“He said aloud that he was bored.”

“That’s something,” Myka concedes.

“And you?” Helena asks. “Have you contrived to place new parameters on the future?”

“I keep telling you I won’t.”

“And yet I continue to find you here,” Helena says. More seriously, she offers words that have become customary: “If you could be happy.” Steve’s utterance, shared among the three of them, has become a mantra.

“You know that’s a work in progress,” Myka says, and although that’s customary too, it’s also true: while she knows she can be, and while at certain times she genuinely is, she is by no means consistent in that achievement.

Nevertheless she has to admit, now as always, that the book has been right. The blunders—the many, many blunders, even as she’s perpetrated them, even as she’s dealt with their aftermath—have been satisfactory. Such are the components of that work. Of its progress.

Helena nods. She lays her hand upon the book, as it lies there on the shelf, as if swearing an oath. “Everything is,” she says.

****

Myka sits at tables. She tells lies. But the sitting and the lying, as activities, are now uncoupled.

Coffee, too, has shed its significance; it’s a beverage, not an event.

However: she keeps a stained shirt in her closet as a reminder of earlier, pained, connected times—of, also, the work that was even then in progress, even as she was failing, spectacularly, to recognize it as such.

She needs the reminder, because with regard to the past, “ignore it” doesn’t always work. Nor does “absolve it,” as the future unfolds.

But on the best of present days, ignoring and absolving intersect. And on those best days, Myka does, in fact and in practice, enjoy it.

END

Instead of shoehorning thoughts into tags, here’s what I’ve got:

Did both Myka and Helena get let off the hook too easily? Your call... but I’m inclined to embrace the idea that instances of grace might manifest as the reward for hard work, and acknowledging culpability may be the hardest work of all. I mean, Elton John wrote a song about it, so put that on whichever side of the ledger works for you. Also, I like it when people help Myka in ways she doesn’t know how to ask for. She seems (to me) to be very bad at asking for help. Or maybe I mean that she seems disinclined to ask for help even (or especially) when she should.

Generally the only way to come out the other side of the hard stuff is to go through. But sometimes you do have to set some things aside if you want to move forward... and that’s what this story, at base, has been about. I hope. I offer all gratitude to @barbarawar for giving me the impetus to think it through in this particular way, at my snail-in-a-school-zone pace.  Finally, if there’s a timeline in which Helena becomes an agent again and she and Steve don’t become partners, I don’t want to know about it. The potential perfection of their pairing thrills the bejesus out of me.

[cryptidsurveys]

Saturday, December 7th, 2024.

Do you ever wonder what other people think of your survey answers? Yeah. I often wonder what people think of me in general.

Are there any survey-takers that you simply do not like because of their answers? No one currently. I basically "like" everyone I follow. It kind of reminds me of a work setting - we might not have anything in common, our personalities might not mesh well, and we might never be friends or interact outside of work hours, but we can still get along and get the job done. The "job" being to churn out surveys until the end of time, apparently.

Has anyone ever said anything in response to a survey question that offended you? Sure.

Which of the following sounds more appealing at the present moment : a bag of chips, a handful of cookies, a slice of pie / cake, or some crackers? Any particular kind? My stomach has been an absolute mess since Tuesday. What's weird is that it hasn't really killed my appetite, but it has gotten to the point where I'm afraid to eat pretty much anything lest it bring on The Sours. I'm eating an oatmeal bowl atm because I know I have to eat something and I am hungry, but…ugh. We'll see how this goes. I know that doesn't answer the question, though, so let's go with a bag of chips. Preferably the baked bbq chips I have in the cupboard.

How many pets have you had in your household at one time? Not even gonna try to count the fish we had when I was a child, but we've had six cats at one time.

Do you know anyone that works for a cable company? I don't.

What was the last thing you heard / read / saw that made you want to face-palm? Probably some political thing my dad was telling me about this morning. Not his opinion of it, but the situation in general.

Have you ever watched the show Raising Hope? If yes, what did you think of it? I've never even heard of it before.

Name one person on Xanga that you would be interested to be friends with. Or, if you are uncomfortable doing so, is there even anyone on Xanga that you find interesting & that you think you could be friends with? Xanga, Myspace, Bzoink... RIP. :'(

Is it cold enough to comfortably wear pants where you are, without getting too warm? I wear pants all year-round regardless of the temperature, but yes, it is cool enough to be comfortable.

What do you / does your family pay for rent? Do you think that your home is worth that amount? The house is paid off. I think we just have to pay property taxes, but I'm not sure how much that is.

Are your walls pretty sound-proof or is it easy to hear other people talking even if they’re several rooms away from you? I can't make out the words, but I can hear my dad when he's all the way downstairs.

Have you ever had family portraits done? Is this something you are fond of doing, or do you dread it? I think so. I was too little to care. It's not something we do anymore.

When was the last time you had oatmeal, if ever? Do you use milk or water in it? Just finished a bowl. I use water.

Do you have anything on your bedroom door? Have you ever? There are some glow-in-the-dark stars. And I covered my childhood bedroom door in random stickers.

Have you ever worked hard on something, only to have someone ruin it [whether literally or figuratively]? Reconnecting with my mom. We're still okay, but my sibling popped up in September and said some shit and now my parents won't even speak to one another. We used to be able to go out to eat or go see a film together and it was starting to feel like a little (albeit somewhat dysfunctional) family again, so it's just a huge bummer.

Does taking medication make you nervous? Is it something you avoid as much as possible? I don't mind taking things like OTC migraine meds and Tums, but anything beyond that I tend to avoid. I've had some bad experiences with mental health meds in the past. I also don't feel as though they helped me very much, if at all.

Do you ever learn new words [or even “remember” old words] that you become addicted to saying & repeat them in almost every sentence? That can happen with certain slang words / expressions.

Who do you know that suffers from bad dandruff, if anyone? I don't think I know anyone. My scalp is somewhat dry, but it's not horrendous.

Do you think that after the age of 90 you should stop caring so much about what you intake & just eat / drink whatever you want because you might as well since you’d be on the verge of death anyhow? I mean…I guess that would depend on my mindset once I reached that age. If I was still in reasonably good health and was enjoying my life, then I would probably do my best to take decent care of myself. If I was ready to die, then…welp.

Are the bottoms of your feet dirty? Not really? I mean, they're feet, so I wouldn't consider them clean even though I just had a shower and am now wearing socks and slippers, but they aren't covered in filth or whatever.

What do you do with your gum after you are done chewing it? Throw it in the trash.

Do you know someone that [unintentionally] types in caps a lot & then afterward apologizes for it? Do you watch what you are typing to ensure that you don’t make mistakes like that, or do you tend to stare down at the keyboard as you type? I don't know anyone like that, nor do I tend to make that kind of mistake. I typically look at the screen and not my keyboard.

Are you at all interested in the lives of celebrities? Why do you think people care so much about the lives of people that they don’t even know? Lol do people like Amberlynn and Eugenia count as celebrities? I honestly can't explain the appeal. At least in Eugenia's case (as with several other sufferers), I can chock it up to a form of morbid curiosity due to my own struggles. But when it comes to Amber…I have no excuse. Tbh, I no longer even recall how I ended up in the Amberverse, but now I don't know how to leave.

What is a site that you go to when you need a good laugh? If I'm looking for laughs, then I'd probably scroll through my Instagram feed.