#this is also me forcing myself to put out imperfect art

[fabled-art]

Inktober except I just randomly generate a ghost Pokémon every day, Day 3: Drifblim.

[yuri-is-online]

Hi Yuri! I hope you are doing well<333 I really enjoy reading your writing and I am always more fond of reading the little octatrio fish gang! I dont really know how this usually works because I never send in any asks at all nor do I see your rules list or anything but if you dont mind I would like to make a request<3

A mc who finds an out of tune and old piano and fondly remembers that they used to play piano back in their world. And perhaps Azul hears in on this and despite the piano being old and out of tune, it is rather beautiful how you play it because of how imperfect the notes are being played out. (SORRY I WAS LISTENING TO FALLEN DOWN AND THE FEELINGS WERE JUST SURGING AND THE BRAINROT WAS TOO MUCH)

You dont have to force yourself or anything! Please take care and dont feel too pressured! <3

The Most Romantic of All Arts (Azul Ashengrotto x Yuu)

Hello dear friend and I am doing quite well thank you! I'm pleased you like my writing; the octotrio is what finally cracked my resolve to check out Twisted Wonderland and put FGO on the back burner so I suppose I shouldn't beat myself up too much for writing about them so much. I am sorry I caused you stress with my lack of rules, I don't usually send requests or asks myself, so I felt really bad to have frightened you. Not too sure if this will end up being what you had in mind, it got away from me a bit.

Also when you say Fallen Down, you do mean the Undertale soundtrack piece right? It's a soothing song I listened to it while I was plotting this to try and get into a similar headspace.

notes: they/them used for Yuu, header taken from the painting Spirit by George Roux (1885) which I found on this wordpres blog article I took the title from, it's a neat painting, Azul learning to find beauty and love in imperfections is important to me ok? Other works can be found on my masterlist here.

Sometimes you wonder if Ramshakle is sentient. The old building has more rooms than you know what to do with, and lovely as the ghosts are they don't fully remember what they were used for, if they remembered in the first place. But still there was something about those rooms that seemed to love you; he guest room almost built itself up around you, the kitchen had only needed some basic repairs before it was ready to help play host again, and no matter where a fire place was found it was always eager to burst to life and warm you and Grim.

It does not have the same love for Azul, he'd complained as much when you talked about just what it was he wanted with the building after the events of his overblot had cooled between you.

"It's got a graveyard in front of it, though?" That really had been the crux of your whole argument. It was hard to be annoyed with his laugh when it sounded so nice, the genuine amusement a refreshing difference to his previous performitive indifference.

"Yes," he muses, sipping at his real before he continues, "I'm not bothered by that much, ghosts and grave ships aren't uncommon sights under the sea, but I always forget how unusual humans think they are."

"There's a lot of superstitions about places where people are buried." You mean it as an explanation, but it brings an odd look to Azul's face, like there's an emotion bubbling beneath his surface he doesn't want to acknowledge but is too strong to suppress. It settles over you both, as you try to focus on drinking your tea while your host seems content to let his grow cold.

"Well, I suppose it's a good thing that ruin isn't really sentient." He sounds almost bitter, disappointed in how long he has let his drink cool you decide as he reaches for the pot and warms it with some fresh tea. "Otherwise, I'd accuse it of trying to keep you."

It's a silly thought, but the sight of this latest discovery really does have you wondering. You are supposed to be in that wonderfully accommodating kitchen making snacks for when Azul decides to "coincidentally drop by" later this evening to "go over the Lounge's expenses" in your guest room. On a Tuesday. When it was almost guaranteed business would be slow enough to keep anyone from wondering too hard about where he'd gone or the twins from being too upset about running things. But instead of "just wanting to try" a new recipe, you are here, tucked in a room just a bit further down the hall from the guest room watching Grim give his best impression of Ace after completing a magic trick. Because stars know he has never seen any other magicians.

"TA-DA!" He puts both of his paws out to really sell the piano at the window. "See, I told you I had a great surprise!"

"I'm sorry for not believing you." You say and try not to laugh with just how much more proud that seems to make him. "But where did you find this? Or how I guess, unless you moved it?"

"Nah." He shakes his head before remembering he's supposed to be the "great" Grim. "I mean I could have! But I'm just so cool I managed to find a piano here already, so all I had to do was clean it up instead! You're welcome henchuman." You scratch just behind his ears and politely ignore his purrs as you examine the piano and its bench. They're old, likely just as ancient as everything else in the dormitory and likely extremely, achingly out of tune. But the mere sight of it makes your fingers itch, and Grim barely has to whine "Well ain't you gonna play somethin'?" Before you're at the bench, experimentally pressing the keys to try and sound out something.

Twinkle twinkle little star, how I wonder what you are-

You hum it rather than sing, irrationally worried Grim will somehow figure out it's a lullaby and complain that you're babying him instead of cutely dancing along with the music like it's one of the cassettes Deuce let you borrow. He cheers for another, and you oblige, letting your muscle memory carry you as far as it can as you try searching your brain for just what it was you wanted most to hear from yourself after all this time being unable to play.

And missing the click of a heavy door down the hall in the effort.

Azul hears nothing at first, and though it does disappoint, it does not bother him. He's had a long day, one about to be made longer still by the grey zone already draping itself around his thoughts as he shrugs his blazer off to his shoulders while en route to the Ramshackle guest room. He pauses, for what he tells himself is only going to be second, at the kitchen door and is left unrewarded for his detour.

You aren't there: and that does bother him somewhat, even if it should not if his pretext is to be believed. These visits were too commonplace to be random, but maybe you'd made plans, deciding not to look past his excuses for the evening. Maybe you were asleep, tired of the day or just plain tired of him. But there is a kettle sat on it's base, mercifully not on just yet, but two mugs and the pour over cone set next to as if it was expecting company. The nerves remain knotted in his stomach, though the cause shifts towards something more welcome.

So you do have a mug purposefully set aside and designated just for him, and is that a little recpie card with notes on coffee taped to that tin? These things should worry him, the picture he snaps and immediately hides in a folder should be for a purpose. But it's separate from those ones, labeled something inane and barely full with how careful he is to have his longing remain unseen. He wonders, briefly if it would be an intrusion to make the drinks himself. If it would reveal to much to show outright he knows the way you take yours instead of just saying it in time with your order, but knows that would not be the exact issue here. He is a guest, and guests limit themselves to the halls and that room he forces himself, with haste that would be noticeable if you were there to see it, back down the hall and back towards the guest room. Azul has work to do, he can content himself with the warmth the mental image the cups on the counter produces until something forces him to pause at a door once more. The piano is old, droning out a tune that is unpolished and rusty from the player's lack of practice but filled with such a specific sort of joy it has him actually running towards it.

You sit at the bench, a serious look of determination on your face so unlike the usual Yuu it can't help but be cute. Grim sleeps contentedly on your lap as you continue searching for the threads of melody still trapped inside your head from years of only occasionally reluctant practice. It's an unfamiliar tune in composition, but not in feel. There's words to this song, maybe not in the form of lyrics, but there all the same for him to stumble even closer to as he comes to a halting stop just behind you and the music ends in a surprised crash as you whip your head around to see him.

"Azul!"

"Very sorry to interrupt." He holds up both hands in surrender, composure only just maintained as you check to see Grim still asleep and laugh nervously. "I didn't know you could play."

"Can't really." You say somewhat bitterly and more confidence comes to Azul as a slight plan froms in his mind. "I'm really out of practice ugh. I know it shouldn't annoy me! But with how everything's been since I showed up, it's just not been on my mi- Oh hello?"

Azul fully removes his jacket and sets it on a side table close to where he had been satanding, moving to sit on the bench next to you. He has enough mercy not to loosen his tie or do anything else scandalous, but the close examination he gives to the keys could have fooled you. "Pity it's so out of tune, this is a nice piano."

"I know right! I'm really happy Grim found it." You resist the urge to poke his cheeks some and Azul lightly, trying not to too openly relish in your surprise reaches one arm around your back to place his hands into a similar position as you had been earlier, tucking you close to his side.

"May I?" He's smug. Too smug it's robbing you of sanity.

"What's it going to cost?" You try too hard not to sound like you're flailing as you look to see your question hasn't even phased him at all.

"Oh normally I wouldn't dream of charging for a performance," he clearly lies "but it's been such a long day I wouldn't say no to a cup of coffee." And he's off, music only marred by the off key of the piano in a clearly purposeful display of talent meant to sear itself into your mind enough that you don't think about his request too long. You and he are from two different worlds, but he knows that music has a way of gapping that if the stories of the mermaid princess told him anything at all. So when he purposefully slows the song at its end, he knows you know, that tricky smile he swore once he'd always hate kicking his heartbeat up again as you lean fully against his shoulder.

"Beautiful." You say, not bothering to give the compliment direction as he can't help but agree. "We should play together next time."

"I-" You pick yourself up and what he wants to say slows when you pick up his jacket for him and hold out a hand. Later, he all to easily decides. Later, without Grim and with specific time set purposefully aside so you know just how much it matters. "I would like that. You'll have to show me the songs that you can remember from your world." And he takes your hand just to soothe some of the ache, trying and failing not to show just how happy he is when you keep it.

[hospitalterrorizer]

diary21

9/25-26/2023

i took a walk today.

i saw this guy. i took a picture with him too.

i can scarcely imagine what people are supposed to use this guy for i guess you just throw balls at him and practice aim or something. encountering him felt really crazy. just disused shadows of men posed and waiting to play ball with you.

anyways, i also cleaned the apartment a bunch while listening to the locust and electrosleep int'l, the floors of the bathroom, and then the studio zone i guess, kitchen and everything, under my gf's desk, and i also super cleaned off our kettle, i'd like to go at it again but it's in a decent enough state now. this is gross but oil splatters onto it and i just didn't really bother. don't think badly of me please. it's not like it's for anything but hot water, and like, it's not fancy. but seeing it cleaner, to the point i could really actually see myself in it, was crazy, it's this old thing from my grandma, i never saw the thing approaching bright.

tomorrow we're going to see a movie, and then after is errand day again. everything is super busy suddenly, i guess.

not really actually. but you know. or you don't. i dunno what i'm saying honestlyyy.

i took a walk today, and cleaned so much today, because i need to take a break from music so i can go back to these songs and with a clear head actually listen and decide on changes and things, see what is actually good, or closer to actually good, and what isn't. i've driven myself slightly crazy. i think the most i can let myself do each day, is work on guitar tones, just little stuff at this point, figure out cool ways to distort things and whatever else. to help with guitars, i acquired (lololol) a plugin that simulates pickups on a guitar. really really useful actually. i honestly expected it to sssuck, but it didn't/doesn't, and that plugin came with another thing that can do distortion, and it's a good sounding distortion/bunch of good sounding distortions.

so now that i have all these amp sims, a pickup sim, some physical modeling, impulse responses to simulate cabs, i'm excited about putting imperfect guitar simulations through these things to reach fucked up and weird tones. so far though, i'm really fond of all the ring modulation options i have. they can help me get some locust-y sounds. i can already do that on my own too though honestly.

i should do the last bits of working out i need to do today and wash my face after this song.

today i've also been looking for more images of grubs/larvae/whatever, for the cover art.

and now the movie tomorrow is a maybe. that's mostly okay i guess. i could go either way i was just excited for it because it'd be a welcome distraction so i wouldn't keep obsessing. we'd have to go to a part of town that honestly i am not super crazy about. downtown is just super, i dunno, grody in a way. mega gentrified, supra-millennial, hot, sad. it's the los angeles las vegas crossroads, really. it's better than the strip which is just a soulsucking hell every time i'm there for even a little bit. but the movie would probably be really good, it'd be a wkw movie i'm pretty sure, i've never seen any of his movies.

on my walk i didn't see much else that was really memorable i guess, i walked around where i normally walk around, a lot of other people out today which makes me feel nervous a little i guess, some people stare. i guess at the end of the day i just hope they stare in the more positive way and not because they think i'm way disgusting or something but the positive way is also not actually positive. it's just unfortunately somewhat gratifying to be seen like that i guess.

anyways i'm really sleepy now, so maybe i should just go lay down earlier than usual. it might be really good for me. i can't wait to see if i feel good tomorrow and then not ruin that with forcing myself to sit and listen to these songs over and over and instead maybe just working on a guitar sound or something. that would be kind of a nice day, and then maybe going and seeing a movie, and if i don't i dunno.

oh, tonight i tried something new, breaded chicken and gochujang butter instead of miso butter (still kind of miso butter because i put miso in there too). it was really good. it's kind of like, the best of both worlds.

anyways, byebye!!

[kilgorefish]

Week 14

As a writer, I need to write more. I think one of the most beneficial aspects of this class for me was that it kept me writing consistently so I could prove to myself that my ability to write wasn’t atrophied beyond repair. I wanted to “be a writer” for as long as I can remember but I unconsciously always put qualifications on it that came into conflict with other things I wanted to do. I was convinced that I needed an English degree to be a writer, but I wasn’t pursuing an English degree, so therefor I wasn’t going to be a writer. I liked the short story and zine format because it forced me to write a draft, edit, print, and move on to the next project. I fixate on perceived imperfections and end up mired in my own creative process instead of moving on and improving. The pace of this class encouraged me to be more accepting of doing the best that I can at the time and taking the learning opportunities at face value, instead of treating it as a defining failure. I don’t know what I am going to do to continue writing after this class, but journaling more would be a start.

I want to integrate writing into my work by joining the objective and subjective into a coherent and palatable combination. I am interested in psilocybin research and there is a lot of interest in that niche currently. I would like to review research and communicate the ideas in books, making the information accessible to the general population. It would be interesting to weave the studies and outcomes into a cohesive flowing narrative, to make the things that people find too boring or complicated to pay attention to, into something that they can use to improve their own lives. In my opinion the creative arts and STEM fields are too segregated and there would be a benefit to merging them more often. For instance, researching psilocybin can be an objective pursuit but it also has inherently subjective portions especially when it’s something that produces psychedelic effects that are necessary for some of its therapeutic effects. In these contexts, scientific language can only go so far in its description and communication of subjective experiences. I would like to write an actual book someday, but I never know what I would want to write about, and I still don’t. I don’t think I have lived enough life yet. The process of writing a book sounds like the ultimate challenge for me because of the way I think and operate currently. Self-paced, self-motivated, and a long-term projects are all kryptonite for me. I want to write a book, but the execution seems like it will require a level of discipline and dedication that I simply don’t have yet; although, the solution is probably just to start writing and figure it out as I go.

[bramblewolfbooks]

“Critically acclaimed” game designer Sahoni’s mostly stream of consciousness list of top 5 2022 games I actually got to play this year

Not to be that guy, but this was a weird year for me in that I actually got a chance to play games this year. Some bizarre alchemy of stability, financial independence, and learning to set better boundaries has allowed me, nominally a game designer, to actually play games. It even let me play enough games to have a top 5. Not that this has ever stopped me in previous years from having an opinion.

But being able to have a game in my hand and have that experiential and tactile experience first-hand instead of having to rely on watching along with friends or watch a let’s play has left me with some unexpected opinions. I found myself willing to put myself out there for the imperfect or a game that doesn’t meet the platonic gamer ideal. Not that this has ever stopped me in previous years from having an opinion.

But I’m certainly more secure in them.

The following list is a series of games I came away from still thinking about them. There is no real order to it all, just that I have thoughts and I want others to share with others the experiences they brought me in the hopes you can make your own, or tell me about games that made you feel the same way.

Scarlet Hollow

Scarlet Hollow is the game that finally cracked through my shell and got me to like visual novels. It’s not like I haven’t played any before. I love games Like AI: Somnium files and Ace Attorney. But for some reason, there has always been a giant mental disconnect for me on a gameplay level. Something about needing just that little bit of game just to let myself surrender into the sort of stories this medium can tell.

But I never felt that need with Scarlet Hollow. Scarlet Hollow, by Black Tabby Games, is a horror visual novel set in Western North Carolina. And as a North Carolinian I clocked that from the get. That’s my home. It might have been that familiarity which helped me make that connection, but the game has two major strengths that really kept me engaged.

The first is the strength of Abby Howard’s (of Junior Science Power Hour and The Last Halloween) heavy inky arts, making up the hand-drawn and tenuously detailed backgrounds and expressive character-first portraits of the game. I constantly found myself stopping to just soak in a character’s expression or at the reveal of a new horror. If comics are a narrative-visual medium, where the parts come together and blend to tell a greater whole, Abby Howard took that same lessons to heart about pacing and presentation into this visual novel, elevating it to something greater. This is a very comic book sense of each scene transition being treated like a page turn or new panel.

But I think the aspect I enjoyed the most was the dialog. This game has two big systems going for it. The first is, at the beginning of the game, you choose basically two powers for your character out of 7, including options like “strong”, “booksmart”, and “talks to animals”.   But soon after that the game springs on you it’s second hidden system. Certain dialog choices you make will reveal and inform your character in the future.

Very early on there is a forced and awkward conversation with a guy on a bus who offers you a bag of boiled peanuts (one of those North Carolina touches) and you have the option to say “no thanks, I’m allergic to peanuts.” from that moment on, if you chose this, you are indeed, allergic to peanuts. Maybe it’s my infamiliarity with visual novels, but I found both of these systems novel. This is a game where I never felt like there was a bad dialog choice. All of these possibilities had potential to lead me somewhere interesting, scary, or emotionally revealing.

I was drawn deep into the world or a dying North Carolina mining town that understood how a small town actually works. With southerners that reflected the sort of people that make up my world and not some country music construct or white liberal nightmare. People of color, queer folk, the blue collared and deep rooted. It also acknowledges native folk exist unlike most Appalachian narratives I see where we tend to be an afterthought at best.

Only 4 parts of the planned 7 are out so far but if you end up craving more as I did you should also check out Slay The Princess, the studio’s other visual novel, which features the voice talents of Jonathan Sims of the Magnus Archives as a self-aware narrator urging you to kill a chained princess in a remote cabin and in order save the world.

Marvel’s Midnight Suns 

Marvel’s Midnight Suns is a hot mess. There is no other ways to describe it. It’s constant crashes, weird graphical bugs, and seasickingly uneven writing leaves a lot to be desired. But I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t some of the most fun I’ve had in a game in years.

Marvel’s Midnight Suns is a tactics game from Firaxis, the same folks behind the x-com games and you can certainly feel that. There is that technical grit that you should expect, especially on higher difficulties you can feel yourself gritting your teeth as you solve the puzzles they present you with, trying to maximize your economy of card plays and movements.

I really found satisfaction in how they expressed the various superheroes of their cast through the card based deckbuilding mechanics that make up your movement options. The best example I can think of is how Iron Man is a sort of high damage jack of all trades, but he’s expensive and likes to be the center of attention so he wants to clog up your hand with more Iron Man cards. Peak Tony Stark.

But everyone seems to have their niche, although some people don’t seem to feel that way until you unlock their passives. Spider-man is a low damage character that excels at bouncing around the screen pecking off minions and using environmental damages. Captain America is a tank character that specializes on building a resources called shield and the group shared heroism. Magik (from New Mutants, a personal fave) reposition and teleports enemies and allies both. Blade messes around with bleed. It’s satisfying and made to feel more empowering and accessible than x-come with things like your attacks always hitting (this, of course, applies to your enemies too). It feels good. I’m going to keep coming back to replay this.

The other half of the game is that you’re in this explorable campus, a haunted abbey transplanted from Europe in a pocket dimension outside Salem. (The game unwittingly makes a lot of assumptions that you’re white.) Your marvel OC, a very predefined in a commander shepherd sorta guy, explores this space for resources, costumes, and more between all the standard x-com prep stuff. There is also the social links which is probably the meat of the experience.

The social links are your time to spend one-on-one time with each character. I remember notably when they first announced the game, they spent a not insignificant amount of time telling video game outlets “No. You can’t romance any of these characters. No. you can’t kiss them. You can just be...really good friends.” Par for the course for marvel’s weirdly defensive sexlessness outside of comphet. (something that feels reflected in the fashion of the game to be honest).

Marvel has always been weird about OC’s, even outside of the normal comic book company “lalalala, please don’t show us your oc’s we don’t want a plagerism suit.”

I genuinely think this is the first time they’ve allowed them in any form outside of a lego game since the 90’s. I certainly remember the surprising lack of character creation in their official Tabletop games. Or that one time they tried to make an official marvel fanfic site with the rules “no oc’s” and “no shipping”. I remember how long it took for them to embrace the concept of “spider-sonas”.

But despite this, all these hang-outs feel strangely intimate. Not always romantic, but definitely intimate. I’m talking about someone’s deep personal trauma deep in the woods and then gifting them a music box of a song that’s from their favorite album. I have no doubt in my mind my Hunter and Blade are dicking down hard in the woods. Despite some anne-riceian views on fandom, Marvel can not stop the fanfic. My half-demon is kissing the half-vampire right now.

The writing, while uneven, never doesn’t feel at least comfortably saturday morning cartoon at it’s worst. Which, honestly, is something I’m perfectly okay with for a supehero affair. Same with the quippy nature that seems to be grating some folk with this game. I don’t understand why we’ve suddenly decided to start blaming Joss Whedon for something that’s been a staple part of American theater and film since vaudeville. It’s not like quips and banter aren’t an established and recognized part of superhero fiction and there are plenty of very real things we can blame him for instead. It’s pulp y’all.

I will say when the writing is good, it’s excellent. It knocks it out of the damn park and the out of combat stuff and tiny little exchanges are some of my favorite things. Whether it’s the story about your immortal lesbian aunt that raised you to be a weapon, her wife (now a ghost that is hiding in the abbey), and the scarlet witch. Or Tony Stark having to learn humility and to give other members of a club space instead of running them over in an attempt to be the big boss guy. Or introducing other folks to Magik’s whole deal. It all just feels good and earned.

I came away from this just desperately wanting Firaxas to make a New Mutants game in this style now. Please. I’ll buy about 12 copies just by myself.

I’m a firm believer that about 90% of non-comic related super media doesn’t earnestly engage with the concept of superhero comics as a medium, either out of embarrassment or apathy. Superhero media is big, strange, and often high-concept weird. None of which I would use to describe most things post Iron Man. It’s a big reason why I think people have this big bland aftertastes after the past 15 years of so of being hosed down with the greatest afterswill of DC and Marvel.

A have a heuristic just for batman shit of “how easily can you see this man throw a batarang?”. Because if you can’t be willing to buy into the conceits and fantastical that much, how much can I trust you with anything else? How can I trust you to understand the underlying nature of the stories being told?

Midnight Sun’s understands a couple of things about superhero fiction better than most. One, that the strange and fantastical are vital to both the color of the world and greater humanity of these characters. Two, that a world of superheroics are very much build upon a conceit of duty and responsibility for others. You don’t see a lot of superheroes in movies and tv ever really doing anything superheroic. And while not all superheroes define themselves by some form of duty, it still defines their greater world. Superman in the Christopher Reeves movies takes the time to show him rescuing civilians. Into the Spiderverse shows Miles struggling to live up to this idea of doing right, even going to far to state the message of “anyone can wear the mask” directly to the audience.

Midnight Suns takes great care to tell you who all these characters are fighting for. It shows them stressed out and frustrated about not being able to respond to every situation, even the ones that are personal, after being stretched thin. Agreeing to help others do what they can when faced with tragedy. Even just being there for a friend when they need it. If you ask me, that’s marvel midnight sun’s greatest strength. I can deal with tony stark and bugs if it’s a story about that.

Signalis

I probably don’t have much to say on this that hasn’t already been said, but it’s so nice to see a game that wears it’s inspiration on it’s sleeves, but still is not afraid to be it’s own thing. I’ve been watching this game for a long time. Just the right amounts of alien, RE, silent hill, and anime. I was so pleased to see other pick it up with the enthusiasm I’ve been rooting for it with. It deserves it.

Signalis is quiet.

Yes, it has it’s share of space-y white noise and grinding Akira Yamaoka industrial, but it’s not afraid to just be quiet. It’s honestly refreshing in a world of games who can never shut up.

But Signalis wants you to feel that gripping sense of being isolated and alone. It’s precedented on being lonely and the only times you’re not alone are when you are in danger. Limited inventory leaves you with no room for something sentimental. No favorite weapons here. Not lockets you keep with you. It’s illegal to even be alone with yourself. Even when you do find someone to talk to there is an emotional separation that acts as a brick wall between you and them.

You are lonely.

It’s retro scifi style is made to evoke things like alien, but also the building genres and expecations of vhs horrors and our own nostalgia. VHS is a lonely technology. It’s use of ps1 aesthetics are made to push the feeling of playing a game by yourself late at night while a crt tv hums and scans.

I think the thing I like most is when the game stops to show you this, cutting from it’s gods eye third person view as you stomp about a metallic brutalist hellscape and pulls you into first person, made to experience this cold isolation first person as you explore a diorama or a dark snowy gap between buildings. It’s taking you, essentially, the main character’s only companion, and making that as non-existent as possible.

Soul Hackers 2

It’s the best game Atlus has written since the ps2 and I will not be taking any notes on that. It’s pure objective fact. It’s a game about adults in a capitalist hellscape, dealing with adult problems and relationships in a very anime way. I once heard some youtuber describe this Atlus budget title as “the best vita game you’ve never played” and that still feels apt.

You can see this game struggling to make thew most out of what it’s be given with static backgrounds, bland repeating dungeons, and a combat system that just kinda feels like it needed to bake for about 20 more minutes. But what it made it’s choices to include put in so much work.

As a sequel to a ps1 game about detectives (and humanity as a whole) of a sort summoning demons on their cellphones/weapons in a cyberpunk dystopia experiencing the emergence of new life in the form of AI, Soul Hackers 2 decided to take a different approach. It’s a game about emerging AI experiencing humanity, while being detectives of sorts who can summon demons on their cellphone/weapons in a cyberpunk dystopia. Very different.

I found myself delighted to spend time with it’s characters in all the various ways the narrative designers found ways to inject scenes and story into the normal dungeon crawling loop. All fully voice acted of course. I got drinks with them. I listen to them bitch or praise food we got together. I listened to little skits every time I unlocked a new passive ability for them that revealed some new wrinkle in their personality. This limited cast felt like it had the chance to be colorful and fully realized characters. There was an emotional maturity there I have otherwise felt lacking in other Atlus titles.

People were allowed to have complicated and maybe even unhealthy relationships and not only does the story acknowledge that, but the characters too. But that doesn’t mean that relationship is solved. People are messy and that’s something our little ai fragment is gonna learn again and again. Party members had tension and buck against each other, but it always felt like it would be something understandable on either end. It trusted you to understand things, make inferences, and read it in good faith. Probably lessons I could learn myself when it comes to writing.

Tinykin

Tinykin is cute. It knows it’s cute (maybe to it’s detriment at times).

In tinykin, you play a starfaring anthropologist looking for the ancestral home of humanity, only to end up in a house, frozen in time in the 90’s and you the size of a bug. You travel from room to room, collecting things to satisying chirps and navigating cities set up by various bug civilizations trying to get an answer to why...and to build yourself a new spaceship.

But it was a perfect bedtime game. Chill. Very little tension. You mess up and miss with a jump, you “died” with a little pop and reset to your place before the jump immediately. It’s a collect-a-thon that didn’t really track or gate things based on how much you collected. It’s the wort of game you could just set up and let a little cousin go to town without worry they’ll get frustrated or lost, because getting lost is half the point.

I wasn’t really biting any of the very high school atheist commentary on the nature of religion the game was throwing out there. Luckily the times it popped up were brief and inconsequential. What was much more appealing was all the ways you can move. You get a bubble to float off a double jump, a soap bar to slide and grind, and a collection of pikmin like critter to command and allow you to get to new places in an assortment of ways.

It felt good to move from one end of the room to the other like an off-roading borrower and you could feel just how much time the devs spent to make it so. Mid my playthrough they added challenge races which adds a whole new layer to how those tools can be used. This is a game I’m dying to see speedrun. Games I didn’t get to play but wanted to... -Live-a-Live

remake of a rpg classic, finally in English. I'd play this for music alone.

-Kowloon High-School Chronicles

remake of a ps1 cult game, finally in english. I want to be a high school indiana jones dungeon crawling to solve the mysetry of why a bizarre omnitemple is underneath my high school filled with occult-y weirdos. Interesting dialog system

.-Inscryption

card game cool. genre-bending card game things by a guy whose previous weird expectation subverting games I found neat.

-AI: Somnium Files- Nirvana Initiate

I loved the first one and it just looks like more of the same

-Ghostwire: Tokyo

I don't want to play this out of an expectation of this being some horror or action experience that would be fulfilling in any meaningful way, but rather pure vibes. Like a VR chat world with actual shit to do.

-Norco

A cyberpunk game about the invisible south. I'm in.

-Citizen Sleeper

Cool cyberpunk game about a robot finally earning freedom for their indentured servitude, only to find out their warranty has expired and their body is failing...takes a lot of cues form solo journaling games.

[actualmermaid]

What exactly makes Christianity different from a typical personality cult? There have been plenty of people who have been deified by a group of fanatical followers. What makes Jesus so special?

All I can tell you is the story as I see it. All you have are my biases, and what "really" happened might be completely different. So this is what makes Jesus special to me. I only hope I can tell a "true story," whether or not all the details are correct.

Jesus' environment is a place where money, religious establishment, and government are all working together to oppress people. The Judean kings, the Roman Empire, and the Temple priests and scribes were all vying for influence over the people and over each other, at the expense of the common people, because there was not a distinct separation between religious and secular law. When people fulfilled their religious obligations via animal sacrifice, they also had to pay a tax to the Romans. "Normal people" in this environment were doing their best, but they were poor, and they knew that their rulers were taking advantage of them.

Jesus was a child of this environment. His mother was unwed, and she was potentially at risk of being stoned to death for adultery, but his father was a kind and just man, and refused to expose her to public scrutiny. Jesus' family was poor: Joseph was a craftsman and/or a manual laborer. Mary and Joseph offered turtledoves as a sacrifice when Jesus was born--this was a cheap offering, and probably the best they could afford. Jesus was a smart kid. He noticed all of these things, and he asked smart-alec questions about them. He grew up watching rich people offer lavish sacrifices and monetary offerings in the Temple. He wonders whether God views them more favorably just because they can afford to offer goats and lambs instead of pigeons and sparrows.

Eventually, Jesus grows up. He becomes a disciple of an ascetic sect for a time--possibly the Essenes, or possibly another of the diverse Jewish sects that existed in the Second Temple period, some of which rejected animal sacrifice altogether. He begins his ministry at age 30, and reaches out to people who had fallen through the cracks: poor people, people with skin diseases, people with mental illnesses, and people who had been forced to take on degrading, low-status jobs in order to survive. The Gospels tell a story about society, not about Judaism or Christianity as "belief systems," which is how we think of them.

His message is this: take care of each other, be reconciled with your neighbor, and God will provide. He made the lilies of the field and the birds of the air, and they have nothing to offer him but their beauty. And people, who are made in his image, are much more precious to God than any number of sparrows.

For three years, Jesus travels around Judea, preaching and healing and making both friends and enemies. It all comes to a head in Jerusalem during Passover. Jesus takes the time to braid a whip, and then he walks into the Temple, upending the tables of the money-changers and driving out the merchants who were ripping people off when they came to buy animals for their ritual obligations.

Jesus knew who his enemies were. He knew what he was disrupting. And he knew what the consequences would be. The Roman governor, with the collaboration of the Judean religious authorities, has Jesus put to death.

For the last 2000 years, people have tried to understand what this means. There are several explanations: Jesus accepted his humiliating execution so that his followers wouldn't have to. Jesus willingly became the Passover lamb for those who had none of their own. Jesus went to his death in order to put his enemies to shame. Jesus died because he was too great a threat to the established order.

Christianity as we know it is not a static, unchanging set of dogmas that burst into existence right after Jesus' death. It's a puzzle. It's a challenge. It's an invitation to understand the story, to become a disciple of Jesus, and to consume everything he was. We are meant to be changed by his flesh and blood, which we receive in the form of bread and wine, generation after generation. One life alone is not enough to understand the full message. We constantly add our own gifts to the "heavenly treasury" of Christianity: all our wisdom, knowledge, tradition, experience, language, art, science, gold, silver, labor, and love. We are all imperfect. We are all sinners. We are all part of the story, in some way, and it's up to us to understand what part we play in this story's unfolding.

I always try to understand myself and my place in the world. I'm the daughter of an imperial military officer. I was born into privilege. That doesn't make me a "bad person," but it does demand a certain responsibility. When I place myself at the scene of the Crucifixion, I'm perhaps a daughter of a centurion, watching the scene and thinking this isn't right.

I was also forced out of full participation in my family's religion for being a sexual minority (and, on some level, for being a girl who asked too many inconvenient questions). In this, I feel a sense of kinship with the early Christians--Hellenistic Jews and Gentile God-fearers who were not quite at home in the traditions of their fathers. With them, I see in Jesus an eternal kingdom of love, justice, and mercy.

So that's what makes Jesus, and the discipline of Christianity, special to me.

[thexfridax]

Wynonna Earp Boss Hopes Syfy Finale Made You Feel 'All the Things' — Plus, Scoop on One Happy Wedding Accident

By Matt Webb Mitovich, tvline.com / April 9 2021, 8:02 PM PDT

The following contains spoilers from the Syfy finale of Wynonna Earp.

After four years of protecting Purgatory with her Peacemaker, Wynonna Earp got to quite literally ride off into the sunset. And she did so while straddling a motorcycle, with Doc Holliday seated behind her.

Mind you, the two almost didn’t wind up together. Following the simply beautiful “WayHaught” wedding, Doc (played by Tim Rozon) was determined to put Purgatory in Charlene’s rear view mirror and get to living life as “just a man,” and Wynonna (Melanie Scrofano) felt compelled to stay put as Purgatory’s protector. But with an empowering nudge from li’l sis Waverly (Dominique Provost-Chalkley), Wynonna caught up to her man and professed her love, after which they decided to travel light, for the first time in a long time, and pay their daughter Alice a visit in MIracles, Montana.

TVLine spoke with series creator Emily Andras about crafting this very fine finale, at least one “happy accident” that wound up stirring many emotions, and more.

TVLINE | The finale has just aired…. What emotions do you hope the fans are feeling at this moment?

Just head-to-toe body warmth, and love, and affection, and wistfulness…. And a little bit of bittersweetness. I feel like joy has to be paired with nostalgia, so I hope they’re feeling all the things. But hopefully not hungover!

TVLINE | At what point over the years did you ever envision Wynonna and Doc riding off into the sunset?

Ahhh! I almost never even let myself envision it, you know? It’s so funny — when you start doing a show, you have all sorts of ideas about what pairings are going to rise to the top, who’s going to end up with whom, and one of the joys of Earp is that so many different things have happened. But those two characters have certainly earned the chance to try to be happy, whatever that means to them. I never knew that I would be allowed to end such a romantic pairing with the woman driving the motorcycle and the guy on the back.

TVLINE | I’m watching that final sequence and it almost feels alien, seeing the two of them head off into what I think of as “the real world.” But I also found that viscerally exciting, to see so much ahead for them.

That’s so lovely, thank you for saying that. I feel like having the world ahead of them and being such an unusual couple, I would love to see what happens next for them. I’m sure there will be lots of crazy sex and crazy arguments and crazy laughter. So, godspeed! Godspeed.

TVLINE | When throwing a season-ending wedding, what is Emily Andras’ marching order? “Above all else, this wedding has to be…”?

It has to honor to all of the characters — and by that, I mean it has to try to find a moment for every special pairing on the show, not just WayHaught. I think it’s important to pay due respect to how far Waverly and Doc have come; she never gave up on him, she always saw a better man in him — and now he gets to be the best man! Nedley (Greg Lawson) and Nicole’s (Kat Barrell) relationship, that paternal/daughter bond is so special, so honoring that was very important.

And at the end of the day, I still think the real love affair of the show is the Earp sisters, so I ended to make sure that that was honored. I really love the parallel with the pilot, where Wynonna came into town against her will and was so hungry to leave but was forced to stay. And now you have Waverly secure enough in how their relationship has evolved, that she knows Wynonna deserves to leave again — because she’ll come back.

More than anything, it was about giving every character a moment of happiness. Even Jeremy (Varun Saranga) becoming deputy chief of Black Badge and maybe finding a new date…. It was all about finding everyone a moment of potential joy, after they’ve gone through so much after four seasons.

TVLINE | Talk about the decision to have empty guest chairs laid out with the names of those who are no longer with us or didn’t make it to the wedding.

That was such a happy accident. We were on-set, it was very much in the middle of the pandemic, and we knew we were going to have a limited number of people for the wedding. But then we put out chairs so you could understand where the aisle was, and they looked really empty. So my incredible director, Paolo Barzman, who also did the pilot, and my art director Trevor Smith, pitched this idea to me. I had sort of joked about, “Wouldn’t it be cool if you had the ghosts of characters past?” In the moment, they said, “What if we hung names on the chairs?” and it was just one of those goosebump moments, like, “That’s brilliant.” So then we have people writing up these cards, rushing them out, and it’s honestly one of my favorite things. Whenever I see that Dolls chair, I just can’t help but feel things.

TVLINE | But Mercedes (Dani Kind), to be clear, is still with us.

She’s just out, like, being her best vampire self. She’s out being an amazing vampire, yeah. I still have that spinoff if you want to help me sell that!

TVLINE | If anything caught me a bit off-guard, it was us getting a song from Rachel (played by Martina Ortiz-Luis).

The thing about Martina is that she is a phenomenal singer. She is the anthem singer for the Toronto Maple Leafs — so she’s quite a star here! — and she was on Pilipinas Got Talent back in the day…. It seemed like a waste to not have someone with such an exceptional voice perform! And what better song to lay over the necessary wedding montage than a WayHaught classic (Fleurie’s “Wildwood”), the song that was playing the first time WayHaught kissed. It’s a bit of an Easter egg for those hardcore WayHaughters!

TVLINE | I don’t think anyone would have ever felt like a “Dark Angel Waverly” detour was missing, if you hadn’t spent time on it the episode prior. Why did you feel it was important to go there during one of the final hours?

The truth of it is that honestly we’ve been balancing the spectre of whether we were going to have a Season 5 or not. When we started breaking Season 4 two years ago, we were looking down the barrel of about 24 episodes, so [when you get half that] you’re like, “What are we going to keep, and what are we going to pitch overboard? What can we live without learning about?” I would argue that this idea of Waverly having a darkness inside of her did have to be highlighted after four seasons. I completely agree that in a perfect world I could have done eight episodes of Dark Angel Waverly, exploring that and seeing it come to pass. But if we ever get more story, I don’t know if Waverly has complete control over that part of herself. I dont think it’s “gone.” If Nicole puts mayo instead of mustard on her sandwich, who knows what’s going to sprout out!

TVLINE | I mean, if only to see what other outfits Dark Waverly has.

As long as she keeps her thigh holster, she’s ready to go.

TVLINE | Looking back at these last few episodes, what are you most proud of?

‘m so proud of this cast. It’s so boring, but God, just to see them grow and thrive and shine…. performing comedy and emotion, seeing their commitment to the show, and the feelings…. It’s just been such a joy to see such an amazing group of people get their due. They really are that wonderful, off-screen as well.

I’m also pretty happy — in this day and age, and despite all the fights the show has been through — that if this is the end, I feel like that’s a pretty nice finale, a pretty good topper on the cake. I feel like the fans will feel like they went on a journey, and they left the characters in an interesting, good place. And look, that’s really rare in TV, to end your story the way you want. How can I be anything but grateful, at the end of the day?

TVLINE | When I was writing my tweet the other morning, I wanted to call it a “very fine finale,” but I worried you’d think I was saying it was only “fine.” But it was a very fine finale!

No, you have to keep me hungry! You get to challenge me, Matt. Listen, I just didn’t want to risk…. I’m the queen of 75 cliffhangers, but I feel like the fans have worked so hard for us, for so many years, that it was more important that they got closure, just in case. But there’s always another demon, there’s always another thing to trigger Dark Angel Waverly. There’s always more story, but at least you have this, no matter what.

TVLINE | And if some network or streamer does ride to the rescue, would there be something that brings Wynonna and Doc back to Purgatory? Or might a Season 5 be without the two of them?

Look, the show is called Wynonna Earp, so you need Wynonna Earp. She’s still the champion, she’s still got the magic gun and the best hair on the show — sorry, everyone else!

There are a couple of unresolved issues. We still have Eve, who we kicked out the the Garden very early in the season, and who can kind of shapeshift; she could take on the appearance of any one of our characters! That would certainly throw a wrench in the works in Purgatory. There are a million different reasons to bring Wynonna back, to help out her sister.

TVLINE | And lastly, was there anything you had to cut or just didn’t have room for, or any returning cast you couldn’t fit in?

Oh, tons. But look, you kind of hit the nail on the head earlier. I’m always striving to be better, and some stuff at the end felt a little rushed, with Dark Angel Waverly. I think if it hadn’t been a pandemic, there would have been more people at that wedding. I would have loved four more episodes to round the bend there. But look, that’s Wynonna Earp, man — perfectly imperfect! So that’s what we did, and what a ride it’s been. The ride of a lifetime for me.

[five-rivers]

Goals

Hey!  @puns-are-great-and-so-is-danny!  Here is your gift fic!  It got a little out of hand, and it doesn’t have a super solid ending, but I hope you like it.  :)  

.

.

.

Dear Albus,

I hope this letter finds you well.  I know these are trying and troubling times, both here and in Britain, and part of me hesitates to ask this of you for exactly that reason. But, as ever, circumstances leave us with few viable options.

News of what happened to Amity Park this Spring has spread far and wide at this point, so I won’t waste your time repeating what you already know.  What is not common knowledge, however, is that after the dust settled, the Aurors assigned to the case encountered several irregularities, not the least of which was a disturbingly high number of completely untrained young witches and wizards.  

Once news of them gets out, I have no doubt the official line will be that they simply fell through the cracks, that, unfortunately, our spells for finding young magically-gifted persons are imperfect, that the nature of Amity Park obscured them from view.  This, I fear, is a lie.  

I have no proof, but I believe they were deliberately removed from MACUSA files on account of their heritage.  Albus, they are descended from Scourers.  

Perhaps that should be obvious, perhaps you had already guessed, considering the so-called reasoning behind the attack on Amity Park, the ideals those murderers professed, but I want to make myself and my own reasoning clear.  Though it shames me deeply to say it, those children will not be safe at Ilvermorny, nor, I believe, will they be at any other school on this continent.  For all the time that has passed, the Barebones Incident and its repercussions are too fresh in the minds of the people.  

There are seven of them.  Well, seven that are of concern to me.  The others have found or are seeking alternate arrangements.  They have been staying at the school, for the time being.  My colleagues and I have been attempting to give them a good grounding in magical basics. They would not come to you without foundations.

Albus, I am begging you, accept these students into Hogwarts.  I know this is a poor time.  I have heard rumors, horrible, horrible rumors, about what is happening in Britain, about what happened at Hogwarts last year, but I fear for these children’s future, for their spirits, should they be forced into a place where they will be hated simply because of who their ancestors were.  

I know that even in Hogwarts they would be unable to escape that, but it would be less.  Britain does not have the same history with Scourers that we do.  More, for some of them, they would not be forced to walk in the same halls as the kin of their parents’ murderers.

I will understand if you refuse, but I am relying on your compassion.  

Eagerly awaiting your reply,

Agilbert Fontaine

Headmaster of the Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

.

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore looked down at the letter from his old friend and colleague and sighed, his heart heavy. Agilbert was not a member of the Order of the Phoenix.  Albus knew more about the situation in Amity Park than Agilbert assumed and likely was aware of things that Agilbert himself was not.  

For example, while the bulk of the group that had devastated and decimated Amity Park were indeed Magical Separatists and those looking for generations-late revenge on Scourers, their core leadership included American Death Eaters.  

He was also aware of the children Agilbert had mentioned.  Most of the truly astonishing number of magically inclined children and adults in Amity Park had chosen to find private tutors, go through correspondence or summer courses, or attend one of several small schools in North America that had quickly shuffled to make accommodations for them, on the condition that they hide their origins.  

The seven mentioned…  Well.  They didn’t really have those options.  Either their names were too infamous, or they had no one to stay with while they puzzled through correspondence courses.  Or both.

And the names.  Even here, some of them were well known.

Albus could understand why Agilbert had asked for his help.

But was it responsible to drag these children here while Voldemort was lurking in the shadows, building up his power base once again? To offer them safety he could not give?

For those students already attending Hogwarts, it was one thing, they were already involved, simply by virtue of where they were born and where they lived.  But those seven, in America, they would be—

Well.  Not safe, perhaps, not with their parents killed and their home ravaged by hostile magic. But… farther away from the direct line of fire.  

But would they be?  Beyond simply spreading fear and hate, was there another reason for the attack on Amity Park?

Albus heaved another sigh.  

At times he enjoyed making decisions like this.  Enjoyed power, knowledge, experience, those things people tended to mistake for wisdom, even though he had made more mistakes than anyone else he knew, and all the privileges and responsibilities that came with it, all the control over other peoples’ lives.  This was a failing, a flaw, he knew, and time and time again it had come back to bite him.  Karmic vengeance for being an old man who kept too many secrets.  

But times like these…  In times like these, he despised the choices he was forced to make.  

“What troubles you, Albus?  I can hear you sighing from the other room.”

Albus did not flinch or startle at the ghost’s approach and gently chiding tone.  He looked up and smiled thinly at his former and present colleague.  It seemed Cuthbert was having a good day.  It was a pity so few students saw him at his best, and regarded his lessons as utterly boring, but Albus could never find the heart to replace him.  Nor, sadly, the budget.  Damn the board of directors.

In answer, Albus turned the letter to face him.  Cuthbert Binns was not a member of the Order, either, but he, like every other member of the Hogwarts staff, had been informed of what had transpired at the end of the Tri-Wizard Tournament.  He would understand Albus’s dilemma.  

“Amity Park?” murmured Cuthbert, tapping the second paragraph.  “That sounds… familiar.  That—” Cuthbert broke off.  

If Albus had not spent significant portions of his life surrounded by ghosts, he would not have caught the subtle change in Cuthbert’s silvery complexion.  

“Perhaps you heard about the tragedy that happened there recently.”  Which would be a first, even alive, Cuthbert had never really cared about anything that happened more recently than a hundred years ago, but not impossible.

“Tragedy?  No.” Cuthbert shook his head.  “Amity Park it’s—It is…”  He trailed off, looking down at the letter, disturbed.  “Albus, I have known you for many years.  You have been here for many years, with all us ghosts, and…  You know there are things the dead do not speak of to the living.”

Albus did know.  “Are you saying Amity Park is related to one of those things?”  Could this be another attempt on Voldemort’s part to defeat death? His suspicion regarding horcruxes was bad enough, what that could mean for Harry…  But if that man had yet another way to stave off death…

Cuthbert dithered, and Albus wished fiercely that he could trust him enough to tell him about the Order, about Voldemort’s plans, to impress upon him how important this was, how vital that Albus know.  

But he couldn’t.  It would just take one bad day, and one misplaced question from a student related to someone unfortunate, and everything would come tumbling down.  

No.  Albus could not push him.  

“I—I must go,” said Cuthbert, halfway through the wall. “I have to look into something. I’ll be back before you know it.”

He was not.

.

Albus had still not made a decision on Agilbert’s letter the next night.  He had consulted Minerva, Severus, and the other teachers who were also in the Order on the matter, and had distracted himself with other, arguably more important, matters.  

(The eyes on Number Four Privet Drive, the movements in and out of the Malfoy residence, the horribly dangerous games Severus was playing, the master schedule for the next school year, the still-empty Defense Against the Dark Arts post, extra protections on Hogwarts’ boundaries, how to keep the Order safe…)

But he shouldn’t put something like this off for much longer.

It would be much easier to deny Agilbert’s request.  As tragic as the seven students’ circumstances were, they weren’t his responsibility, and he had so many.  

Would you feel the same if the attackers had been Gellert’s people?

They’re children.  Like your students.  Like Adri—

Albus closed his eyes and forced the tiny and vicious voice away, out of his mind.

“Sir Nicholas wants to speak to you,” said one of the portraits.  

Surprised, Albus turned his head to face the image of his predecessor.  “Of course. Could you tell him he can come in?”

A few minutes later, the Gryffindor ghost floated through the wall.  “Hello, Albus,” he said, the outlines of his figure crisper than they usually were, and continued before Albus could greet him, “I am sorry to interrupt you like this, but is it true?  Seven students from Amity Park?”

“Cuthbert told you?”

“He told all of us,” said Sir Nicholas, shrugging in a way that made his head roll unsettlingly.  “You should accept them.”

Albus raised his eyebrows.  

“There is a certain element of risk involved,” the ghost’s voice was careful, “but if they come to Hogwarts, there is a possibility that you may gain a powerful ally, and that…”  Here, Sir Nicholas hesitated.  “Certain ancient wrongs might be righted.”

“I suppose it is that second the ghosts are interested in?” asked Albus, both curious and, despite himself, amused.  

Sir Nicholas gave him a gentle smile.  “Do not imagine that we are careless of your struggles, Albus, but many of us were long dead before you were born.  We care, but… sometimes the picture in front of our eyes is not the same as the one before yours.”

That was reasonable.  

However.

“Can you give me any more detail?” asked Albus, hopefully.

“I’m afraid not,” said the ghost, drifting backwards.

.

The next letter from Agilbert was much thicker and contained the records of seven new Hogwarts students.  

.

The wand turning in his fingers was made of pear wood.  Not that Danny could tell, just by looking, but the wandmaker, who had accompanied her wares to Ilvermorny, had been very talkative, even when Danny had… not.  

Pear wood, cut from a tree that had grown up through a chain-link fence on the wandmaker’s property.  She had meant to cut it out, she said, but by the time she had gotten around to doing so, there had been bowtruckles in it, and she wasn’t about to cut down a good wand wood tree.

Danny still wasn’t entirely sure what bowtruckles were to be honest.  

The wood of the wand was normal.  The core, apparently, was not.  It was hair from a magical creature, which most wand cores were, but the wandmaker had cheerfully admitted to having no idea what the hair was from. It had shown up in her workshop one day, in a little box, black and white, in neat little bundles.  

Danny had suspicions about where it had come from.  

Suspicions that had been exacerbated by the fact that both Sam and Tucker had been ‘chosen’ by wands with the same core.  

Anyway, Danny had liked the wandmaker, even if he thought she was a bit weird, for using components that just showed up out of nowhere in her work.  

(She reminded him a bit of Mom.)

Danny wasn’t sure why he was thinking of her.  It had been months since then.  But he was feeling lonely, even though his friends were just in the next room, and Jazz was here, and maybe she was the closest he would let his mind get to…

To…

“If you keep doing that,” said Jazz, “you’re going to put your eye out.”  

Danny glanced over at her.  There was an east-facing window behind her, and the sun was shining through her shoulder, lighting her up like stained glass.  

“If they catch you in color, they’re going to have questions.”

Jazz rolled her golden eyes, but the color drained out of her, leaving her ‘properly’ silver and gray.  “If they actually listened, instead of dismissing everything weird in Amity as untrained magic acting up, then they wouldn’t need to have questions.”

“Yeah, but they didn’t, and I don’t think they’re going to. So, considering what we have to do…”

“We need all our advantages.  You don’t have to tell me again,” said Jazz.  She pulled a face.  “Well, you did, actually, I guess.  I’m sorry about that.”

“It’s fine,” muttered Danny.  “You only died a couple months ago.  It takes time to recalibrate.”

“Mm,” said Jazz, sticking her head through the windowpanes and looking down.  She pulled back.  “Your escort’s coming up.”

“Oh?  Yeah?”

“Or at least someone.  It’s hard to tell who, what with the hats and all…”

It was time to go, then.  Danny gathered his things and joined the others in the common area.

.

Hours later, as the sun was setting, nine Americans stepped out of a fireplace in the Ministry of Magic.  Seven were students.  One was a very haggard chaperon.  The last was a ghost whom aurors and representatives from the Department of Spectral Affairs hadn’t quite been able to dissuade from haunting her brother.  

Such was life.  Such was death.  

“Alright, kids,” said the chaperon, chivying them towards a central area.  “We just have to go through customs, and then we can find a place to relax until the representatives from Hogwarts get here.”

“I thought we already went through customs,” protested Dash.

“Yeah,” said Paulina.  “The American side.  To make sure we weren’t smuggling anything out.  Now we have to go through the British side, to make sure we aren’t smuggling anything in.”

“Smuggling isn’t really the main issue,” said the chaperon, “but, yes.  MACUSA knows you aren’t in the states anymore, and we have to make sure the Ministry over here knows you are, so you can comply with their laws and such.  Oh, and so you can get the Trace, but that isn’t important.”

“The Trace?” asked Sam, doubling her word count for the day. Ever since the attack, she had been rather taciturn.  

“It’s how they keep track of underage magic over here,” explained the chaperon.  “MACUSA phased it out a few years ago.  It isn’t very reliable, and besides, recent studies show that magical persons of any age can use magic accidentally, and there’s no good way to tell if there is a magical adult nearby, so…”  She gave herself a little shake.  “But it’s the law here, and it doesn’t matter.  You’ll be at Hogwarts the whole time, anyway.”

“You mean they’ll be tracking us?” asked Danny, trying to keep the alarm from his voice.  That could be… problematic.  Considering what he was really here for, and all.  

“Not you in particular,” said the chaperon, snagging Tucker by the back of his shirt before he could make a detour to investigate a guarded cart of ominously sparking electronics.  She pulled him back.  “It’s my understanding that every child with the trace on them shows up as a dot on a map, and the dot changes color if magic is performed near them.  Some of the more sophisticated versions can determine what kind of magic, but, well… it isn’t like they ever know which dot belongs to which person, so unless you’re living with all no-maj family members—They call them muggles, here, I think—in a particular house, it is very difficult for them to determine who did what.  I’d tell you more, but this isn’t my area of expertise.  Perhaps the customs agents will know more?  You should ask when we go through…”

Danny began to tune her out.  He caught Sam’s eye, then Tucker’s, and they all nodded at each other a little bit.  Not that they had a plan or anything, but sometimes it helped to know that other people also found a situation to be sucky.  

Where would the Minister of Magic be in all this mess, anyway? Danny let his eyes rove over the hall. There was no guarantee that he was even here today, and Danny wasn’t to the point where he wanted to reveal himself. He had been given lots of instructions, but one of them had been to keep himself safe.  Clockwork had even said it was a priority.  

Best to stick to letters, for now.  Even if none of them had been answered, yet.

They reached the long, winding line that was customs, had their luggage gone through yet again.  Tucker lost another PDA, and Danny had to wonder how many more he had hidden.  The American side of customs had done a pretty good job of finding them.  Sam got taken aside for questioning, because some of her goth paraphernalia had a passing resemblance to ‘Dark’ objects.  Star had to explain her medications.  Valerie set off some sort of magical metal detector, and the customs agents started arguing about what had caused it.  No one had found out about her suit yet.

Meanwhile, Danny was sent to another table, to fill out forms for Jazz.  Again. Because, for reasons Danny didn’t fully understand, even with everything Clockwork and the other Ancients told him, wizards thought they could control and regulate what ghosts did and where they went.  

Danny did not particularly care for wizards, as a group. The paperwork—The stupid, pointless paperwork, because Jazz was going to do what she wanted and no one would stop her, he’d make sure of it—made him angry.  A lot of things made him angry, lately, when they didn’t just make him depressed or sullen.  

“Breathe, Danny,” said Jazz, leaning down, next to his ear. “The language in this is stupid, but I don’t mind being called names.  We both know they’re wrong, and what they think isn’t important anyway, yeah?”

“Yeah,” said Danny, forcing his muscles to relax.  He finished the paperwork.  

They passed through the last customs barrier together, and soon found themselves in a large atrium with a large, extremely gaudy, gold fountain in the center.  

Now, Danny had to admit, he had only the briefest of encounters with house elves and goblins, and none at all with centaurs, but he couldn’t imagine that the look of adoration on their faces was at all accurate. At least not for the species as a whole.

He tried to imagine the statue with a ghost in it, with a half-ghost in it, and he just—

Yeah.  No.

Wizards.  

Or, at least, these wizards.  Whatever.  

They found a bench off to one side, to wait for the Hogwarts representatives.  Danny had to wonder how they’d find them.  Would they hold signs?  Seemed probable.  Everything in the ‘wizarding world’ seemed to be stuck fifty years back in time, if not more.

Or, maybe, the chaperon knew who they were meeting and would wave at them.  Like she was doing now.  

Okay, so, Danny had to check himself to make sure he wasn’t coming up with random prejudices.  Ancients.  If his first encounter with the supernatural had been those people in cloaks showing up out of thin air and starting to kill people, he’d probably never be able to pull himself out of that mindset.  

Not all wizards were terrible.  Like the wandmaker.  She was okay.

He took the time to assess the two witches who had come to pick them up.  They were opposites of each other, at least in appearance.  One was tall, thin, and severe, almost sharp.  The other was short and round and sort of soft around the edges.  The only areas in which they demonstrated similarity were their age and apparent gender.

“Alright, kids.  This is Professor McGonagall,” she gestured to the taller woman, “and this is Professor Sprout.  They’re the heads of Gryffindor and Hufflepuff, respectively.  Minerva, Pomona, these are Dash Baxter, Daniel Fenton, Tucker Foley, Valerie Grey, Samantha Manson, Paulina Sanchez, and Star Thunder.”

“And Jazz,” said Danny, annoyed that his sister had, once again, been left out.

“Hey,” said Jazz.  “Nice to meet you.”

Professor McGonagall nodded.  “We will be taking you to Diagon Alley to pick up school supplies for the year before we go to Hogwarts.”

“Yeah,” said Star, eyes tracking a flock of apparently animate paper airplanes, “we know.”

McGonagall raised an eyebrow but otherwise didn’t comment. “Do you want to come with us, Cerise?”

“No, I have a few other things to do on this side of the Atlantic.  That’s why they sent me.  Have a good time in Diagon Alley, kids, it’s a historic place!”

.

Danny had to wonder about goblins.  Did they just… really like banks, or were they forbidden from holding jobs elsewhere?  Or effectively forbidden by prejudice?  Because, thus far, he had only seen goblins when changing currency.  ‘No-maj’ money to the denominations used by American wizards, and now from that to the infinitely more confusing British ‘galleons.’

It would probably be rude to ask.  

Maybe he could find a book…

But were these people self-aware enough to write about stuff like that?  He shook his head.  Prejudice, prejudice…  He barely knew anything about any of these people, he shouldn’t jump to conclusions prematurely.  

Not that he didn’t already know several unsavory things about their system of governance, thanks to the Ancients.  And their not-so-little terrorist problem.  And the fact that they thought erasing people’s memories with a spell that could cause long-term brain damage was A-Okay.

Yeah.  But that didn’t mean all of them were bad.  Just that their government sucked.  Which was true for almost all governments, so it didn’t mean anything.

McGonagall and Sprout were very efficient as they went through the shops, giving the impression that they had done this, or something like this, many times before.  They did not allow detours, despite the many, many distracting things on display on the street and in the windows.  Professor Sprout, however, kept up a running commentary on what things were, so it wasn’t too frustrating.  

About halfway through the shopping trip, they stopped at the place that sold uniforms.  Sprout stayed with them, while McGonagall left to go get other supplies.  It was an experience.  Other than his jumpsuit, Danny had never had any clothing fitted specifically for him before.  

The fitting made him… nervous.  

The tape measures and needles flew close to his skin.  The seamstress who had been assigned to him also kept touching him, which was part of her job, and it wasn’t invasive or anything, but still.  Also, there were a lot of other teens, and even some preteen kids, in the store, getting their uniforms, and they were all staring.

What they were staring at wasn’t the same from person to person, Paulina and Jazz seemed to be the biggest targets for whatever reason, but it was still staring.  The parents waiting with their kids were staring as well, and Danny started to fidget. Which meant that he got stabbed by the needle a few times.  Which wasn’t fun.  

But eventually that was over, and they were on their way to Hogwarts.  

.

Considering that Agilbert had tried to compress years’ worth of magical education into the space of a few months for these students, the results were remarkable.  True, with one notable exception, none of them were on a fifth-year level in Transfiguration, but Minerva didn’t feel the need to put them all in first-year or remedial classes, either.  

She could only hope they did as well in their assessments in other subjects.  They would have a hard enough time figuring out schedules for these seven, without having to account for them bouncing across year levels.  

She picked up the written assessment from the one student she would be accepting into fifth-year Transfiguration.  His penmanship was shaky, none of them had quite mastered writing with quills, and his grasp of the theory behind the spells was incomplete, but it was better than some.  She tried not to roll her eyes as she thought of Crabbe and Goyle.  

As a teacher, she should be above that.  Alas.  

Mr. Fenton did have some insights in his essay questions that were truly extraordinary for a person who didn’t even know magic existed at the beginning of the year.  Perhaps they had another Hermione on their hands, although he didn’t give off the same air as she did.  Or he had spent the summer focusing only on Transfiguration.  Or Mr. Fenton had a singular talent in Transfiguration. Regardless, gifted and motivated students were always a pleasure to teach.  

Minerva gathered her papers and left to meet Filius, who had tested the students before her.  She was tempted to go look in on them now and see how the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was handling her first teaching experience but suppressed the urge.  She would see them, and, sadly, Delores Umbridge, at lunch in only an hour.

Which was why she was so surprised to find the children in a hall so far away from Delores’ room.  

Then she reminded herself that, appearances aside, these were not fifth-year students.  They had no experience navigating the castle.  

“Are you lost?” she asked.

The students exchanged glances.  “Uh, sort of?” said Miss Sanchez, twirling a curl of hair around her fingers.  “We weren’t sure if we should try to find Mr. Snape, or if we should go to the lunch hall.”

“Professor Snape,” corrected Minerva, mildly.  “Did you already finish Professor Umbridge’s assessment?”

“She didn’t give us an assessment,” said Miss Manson, angrily.  

Minerva’s eyebrows went up.  “Excuse me?”

“Yeah,” said Mr. Fenton.  “She basically said that she was doing the same curriculum for everyone, so she didn’t need to.  So, we were wondering if we should move on to, um, potions?  Potions.  Or if we should go to lunch, or just hang out, or what.”  

“Professor Snape is unlikely to be expecting you at this point,” said Minerva, feeling a headache growing behind her eyes.  What was Delores thinking?  The same curriculum for all years?  For eleven-year-olds and eighteen-year-olds?  There would be riots.  Or at least hexes.  “I can take you to the Great Hall.”

“Thanks, Ms. McGonagall,” said Mr. Foley.  And what was that he was hiding in his robes?  How many cursed muggle machines had he smuggled in?

Minerva sighed.  Honestly, it was probably harmless, though she possibly should speak to Charity about it.  “Professor McGonagall.”

“Sorry,” said Mr. Fenton.  “It’s just… hard to adjust.”  He rubbed the back of his neck.  

“I suppose it is,” she said.  “This way, children.”

.

Jazz floated through a wall, carefully avoiding the paintings.  Their inhabitants weren’t quite ghosts, from what she and Danny could tell, but they also weren’t not ghosts.  

It hadn’t taken her long last night to find the actual wizarding ghosts.  They’d been expecting her, in more ways than one.  But they had been weird.  Empty. They didn’t have any ectoplasm in them, and the intensity that was a part of every other ghost Jazz had ever met, Danny included, was absent.  

Clockwork and the Lady had warned them about that, before sending Danny, and by extension Jazz, Sam, and Tucker, off on his mission. Jazz just hadn’t quite believed it.  

Wizarding ghosts weren’t made of passion, need, want, duty, or even stubbornness.  They were made of fear.  Fear, by itself, didn’t hold ectoplasm well, especially not fear of death.  Wizarding ghosts might as well be mere imprints for all the power they had.

From the beginning, Jazz had been less than enthusiastic about pretending to be one of them.  Now, she was even less so.

It wasn’t their fault, though.  At least, it wasn’t entirely their fault.  None of the ghosts here were around back when the Ancients and the wizards of the day came together and put their names to the Tenebris Carta, and they were trying to make amends.  It sounded like they hoped the old treaty could be renegotiated, or that they hoped Danny and Jazz could get them an exception.  

Jazz didn’t hate them.  Didn’t dislike them or anything, and Danny would probably try to help them, so long as they didn’t turn evil or anything.  That was just the kind of person Danny was.  

She just needed more time to… adjust to them.  And the paintings.  Because wow.  

“Ah, Miss Fenton!”  

Jazz twisted herself over, mid-air.  “You can call me Jazz, if you want, Sir Nicholas.”

The silvery ghost smiled.  “If you insist.  We’re going down to the Great Hall, to introduce ourselves to your companions over lunch.  I was wondering if you would like to join us.”

“Sure,” said Jazz, descending to float by the other ghost. “But who do you mean by ‘we?’”

“All the castle ghosts,” said Sir Nicholas, “and possibly Peeves, though he won’t be invited.”

“Peeves?”

“The poltergeist.  He isn’t really a ghost.  At least…  he’s not a ghost like us.”

“Mhm,” said Jazz.  “Should I look forward to meeting him, or should I be very afraid?”

“Ah, neither, I suppose?  He tends to play pranks, but he never does anything terribly dangerous, and he couldn’t hurt you if he tried.”

“Well,” said Jazz, “as long as he doesn’t mess with my brother, we’ll probably get along just fine.”  She flexed her hands to disperse the pale green flames that had started to creep up her fingers.  “If he does, I’ll tear him apart.”

“Speaking of your brother, do you have any guesses as to which house he will be joining?”

“I wasn’t under the impression it was a choice,” said Jazz.

“It isn’t, exactly.  Students are sorted into the houses with, well, I don’t want to spoil the surprise, but houses are selected based on a student’s personality, aptitudes, and values.  Normally, if they came in as first-years, they would be sorted on the first, but given the circumstances, they’ll be sorted tonight.  I’m rather hoping to have a few new students for my house.”

Jazz grinned, detecting a note of competition.  “And what does your house look for?  Gryffindor, right?”

“Bravery,” said Sir Nicholas, proudly.  “Considering your brother’s accomplishments, I’m looking forward to seeing him join.”

“He is the bravest person I know,” said Jazz.  

.

Several dozen ghosts phasing through the walls didn’t just set off Danny’s fight-or-flight response.  Sam readied her wrist-lasers, while Tucker grabbed Danny’s wrist and started hunting for a place to hide Danny so his transformation wouldn’t be noticeable.  Dash and Star took cover under one of the tables.  Paulina pulled out her wand.  Valerie materialized a hand blaster.  

It wasn’t entirely clear what weapon went off first, but it didn’t really matter.  The end result was chaos.

“Oops,” said Jazz.  

.

“I am so, so, sorry,” said Jazz, hovering over Danny. Literally.  

“It’s fine,” said Danny.  “Really.”

“No, it isn’t.  I should have realized how everyone would react.  I should have told them to stop it, or something.”

“They were already on their way through the walls when you got there, weren’t you?” asked Tucker, swinging his legs back and forth as he sat on the end of the hospital bed.  

No one had been seriously injured, but a few tables had been exploded before the teachers had calmed everyone down and confiscated the ‘bizarre muggle weapons.’  On the other hand, everyone had a number of inconvenient scrapes and bruises that Madam Pomfrey insisted on taking a look at.

“Still,” said Jazz.  “I know all of you have PTSD from repeated ghost attacks and those people, I should have known what that would look like to you.”

“Er,” said Dash.  “It really is fine.”

“Yeah,” grunted Valerie, which was surprising.  

Outside of ‘Team Phantom,’ none of the others interacted with Jazz very much.  They didn’t seem to know how.  Valerie, however, outright avoided Jazz most of the time.  

Which, well.  Danny wasn’t about to call her behavior reasonable, but it was definitely in-character. This seemed like a good sign, though.

“Yes, dear,” agreed Madam Pomfrey.  “It isn’t your fault.  We adults should have said something before things got out of hand like that.”  She waved her wand back and forth over Star’s prominent black eye, and the bruise just… vanished.  Like Star had never been hurt.  

Danny inhaled slowly.  It wasn’t the first time he had seen magical healing—The aurors who had arrived a few hours after the attack on Amity Park had done a great deal—but if there was anything of magic that Danny wanted to learn, it was that.  And anything protective.  

“Is there a class for that?” he asked.  

“For what?”

“Healing.”

“Yes, it’s an elective,” said Madam Pomfrey.  “Though it does have a few required courses. Perhaps you will be able to take it next year?”

Danny swallowed down envy and nodded.  “Yeah, I guess we aren’t going to have time for electives, for the most part.”

“You may be surprised.  Now, I think you’re all set, unless you’re hiding something from me?”

The students shook their heads.  

“Good.  I believe Professor Snape is expecting you?”

.

“Did that seem… weirdly easy to you?” asked Sam.  

Danny thought about it for a second.  “Not the ‘what does this plant or animal part do’ questions,” he said, finally, “but the practical part of it?  Yeah.  It was just… cooking.  Really fiddly cooking, but still cooking.”

“Speaking of,” said Tucker, “how did you get by the parts where you had to use animal body parts.”

“Oh, I didn’t,” said Sam.  “I just skipped those.  I’m pretty sure I failed, judging by the look on Professor Snape’s face.  My end result was pretty nasty-looking.  It smelled bad, too.”

“You’re the reason we were stuck in an unventilated basement breathing in burnt hair fumes?” asked Paulina.

“Yeah.  I mean, it didn’t smell like burnt hair to me, but probably.”

Paulina sighed.  “I have to hand it to you, girl, you stand by your convictions.”

“I don’t think it’s unventilated,” said Star, contemplatively. “I wasn’t really paying attention, but there was definitely movement in all the, uh, vapors, or whatever. Professor Snape totally needs a better teacher face, though.  Like, does he just have the one expression, or what?”

“No, no,” said Sam.  “The look he gave me when I turned in my disaster was way more pronounced.”

“Still needs more than disdain and mega-disdain,” said Tucker. “Even Lancer had a wider range.”

“Come on, guys,” said Danny, “he can’t be much more than, what, thirty?  He has time to develop more emotions.”

“Yeah,” said Valerie, flatly.  “Give it a couple more years, and maybe he’ll nail down hyper-disdain.”

This surprised a snicker out of everyone.  Almost everyone.

“Uh, guys?” said Dash.  “I think I might have been the one who made it smell like burnt hair.  What was it supposed to smell like?”

“I’m so glad I don’t need to breathe,” said Jazz.  

“Oh my gosh, Jazz, that’s way too soon.”

.

“What do you think?” asked the hat.  

The hat.  

Danny could understand the paintings.  He could almost understand how the paintings worked, even.  They had the shapes of people who had once lived, their image, their likeness, and had by virtue of magic snagged a piece of their soul as they left this world.

But a hat.  Who would try to give a hat sentience?  And how?  Was the thing possessed by an extraordinarily unfortunate ghost?

“Um,” said Danny, shaking off the shock.  “I liked it!”

“Sorry,” said Star, “I’m just a little surprised.   Are you really a… a hat?”

“Yes, I am the Sorting Hat!  It is my job to divine which of our four houses each of you should belong to.  Weren’t you listening?”

“We were,” assured Star, “it’s just…”

“You’re a hat,” finished Tucker.  “Did you used to be a wizard or something?”

“Goodness, no, I was Godric Gryffindor’s hat!  He enchanted me.”

“So, are you like a computer program?” continued Tucker. “Are you an AI?”

“No Skynet,” muttered Sam.  

“Why do you guys keep thinking I’m going to make Skynet?”

Professor McGonagall cleared her throat.  The other teachers were all present, except for the headmaster and Professor Umbridge.  Their absences had not been explained.  

“When you hear your name,” said McGonagall, “please come up and put the Sorting Hat on.  It also usually helps if you sit down on the stool.  Once the hat has determined your house, take it off, and put it down for the next person to use.”

Alright.  That sounded easy enough.  Danny wasn’t quite sure why such a big production was being made of this.  A few comments from the teachers and the ghosts—not that Danny had talked to them very much, this was the first full day they’d been at the school—suggested there was some kind of rivalry between the houses, but it couldn’t be that bad.  It was school.  

Except Casper High had its nasty cliques, too, and he could just imagine how school-sanctioned cliques would work out. Especially if they were backed up by centuries of history and a magic personality test.  

Fun.  

Not.

He hoped he, Sam, and Tucker would all be in the same house. And that Dash wouldn’t revert to being a bully as soon as other students were added to the mix.  And that…  Oh, he hoped a lot of things, but he would be thankful if the ‘school’ part of this whole ordeal was as easy and drama-free as possible.

After all, he had other things to worry about.

“Baxter, Dash,” said McGonagall, evenly.  

“Good luck, man,” said Tucker, holding up his thumbs. Everyone mirrored him.  

Dash looked very strange, sitting on that small stool, but he wasn’t on it for more than a second before the hat shouted, “GRYFFINDOR!”

The hat was very loud.  Dash returned to the bench with a confused expression on his face.

“Fenton, Daniel.”

Danny stood up slowly.  He had expected something more like a conversation.  Was this a mind reading hat?  Was the ‘take a peek inside your head’ bit literal?  

Ugh, this was going to be a pain.  Good thing he had a lot of practice in compartmentalizing.  

“Ah, a burgeoning occlumens!” said the hat in its warm voice. “How unusual.”

“I have no idea what that means,” said Danny, mildly.  

“Oh, I’m sure your teachers will explain it to you.  I won’t take the pleasure from them.”  

The voice was, Danny decided, more than half in his head, which was…  Unsettling. Voices in his head usually either meant mind control, some jerk with telepathy, or someone trying to overshadow him. He didn’t like this.  He really didn’t like this.  

“No need to be so nervous,” said the hat.  “I keep everything strictly confidential.”

“Forgive me if I’m not reassured,” said Danny.  

“Hmf.  In any case, you have traits that would do you well in any of the houses.  Perhaps not Ravenclaw, though.  As clever as you are, you are behind academically.  You need a more nurturing environment, I imagine. As for the others… You are brave. You love your friends.  You’d do anything for them?”

“Yeah,” said Danny.  

“And there’s… something else you need to do?”

Danny was silent.  

“I can’t see it very clearly, but it is an important task?”

Danny shrugged.  

“A goal.”

“Sure.”

“I think, then, the choice is between the badger and the snake,” said the hat.  “But I believe the decisive phrase here is ‘do anything.’  Therefore, you will be SLYTHERIN!”

Wow.  Even bracing himself, that had been loud.

Danny stood up and carefully deposited the hat back on the stool.  He noticed on his way back to the bench that more than one teacher looked flabbergasted, and several spectating ghosts looked disappointed.  Almost crushed.  He resisted the urge to roll his eyes.  Yes, he was a celebrity among the undead, no he couldn’t be in two houses at once. They should have prepared themselves.

Not to mention that, as important as education was, it was somewhat secondary to his true goals here.  Which the ghosts partially knew about.  

“Foley, Tucker.”

.

“I can’t believe it,” said Filius later that evening when all the teachers (sans Umbridge) gathered for a drink.  

“I did say you would find the results surprising,” said Sybill, smugly.  

“Two muggle-born American transfer students in Slytherin,” said Filius, wonderingly.  “I didn’t expect to get any of them for Ravenclaw, but Slytherin?”

“I would appreciate it if you didn’t denigrate my house, Filius,” said Severus.  

The diminutive teacher waved his hand.  “Oh, that’s not my intention.  But you have to admit, it seems like a strange choice.”

“They aren’t really muggle-born, though, are they?” asked Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank, opting for tea instead of wine.  “I’m not sure about the Sanchezes, but the Fentons were quite prominent, back in the day, weren’t they?  At least, one of their ancestors wrote the first English book on new world magical creatures.”

“Muggle-borns and half-bloods are chosen for Slytherin all the time,” said Severus, annoyance clearly increasing.  “Not, perhaps, as often as for the other houses, but it does happen regularly.  You don’t have to be so shocked.”

“It’s nothing against Slytherin,” assured Pomona.  “We were just expecting them to get split between Hufflepuff and Gryffindor.  American stereotypes in play, I suppose.”

“Mm,” said Septima, who was doodling equations on the back of her wrist.  “On my end, my thought process was more that they wouldn’t do well trying to play catchup in Ravenclaw, and they wouldn’t have the ambition and drive to hold their own in Slytherin.  The Sorting Hat disagreed.”

“Evidently,” said Severus.  He didn’t look especially pleased, but then he never did.  

“Better you than me,” said Filius, after a few minutes.  “I can’t imagine it will be easy integrating them.”

Minerva, who had three of the students, laughed, “You aren’t getting out of it that easy, Filius.  They still have charms.  How did they do, by the way?  We never really got around to discussing it.”

“None of them were brilliant,” said Filius.  “But they have promise.  I was wondering what you all thought about doing an accelerated class for some of them, to get them to a higher year-level.”

.

Being on the Hogwarts Express without Ron at his side felt wrong.  Sure, he wasn’t entirely alone, Ginny was with him, and Hegwig, but it felt different. He felt exposed.  

Although, that might have had something to do with all the people staring and pointing at him.  

The Daily Prophet had spent most of the summer convincing everyone he was a lying show-off.  The only things that had really competed with the ‘Harry Potter is delusional’ articles were the ‘haha, America is going to hell in a handbasket, aren’t we glad we aren’t them?’ articles.  

(Harry wouldn’t have even cast a glance at the second, except that he and the others had overheard some of the Order members mention Death Eaters had been behind the attack on the muggle town.  Even so, reading them made him feel grimy.)

They had to go all the way to the end of the train to get away from the unfriendly eyes, and that’s where they found Neville.  

“Hi, Harry,” he said, out of breath.  “Hi, Ginny…  Everywhere’s full… I can’t find a seat…”

Ginny squeezed past him to look at the compartments behind him.  “What are you talking about?  There’s room in this one, there’s only Loony Lovegood in here—”

“I don’t want to disturb her—”

“Don’t be silly, she’s alright.”  She slid the door open and pulled her trunk in.  “Hi, Luna.  Is it okay if we take these seats?”

It took a couple minutes to get situated in the compartment, during which time Harry tried not to stare at Luna Lovegood very much.  The blonde girl was surrounded by an aura of almost impenetrable oddness.  

“Have a good summer, Luna?” asked Ginny.  

Luna opened her mouth to answer, then closed it, frowning. “No, actually.  My father had some friends in Amity Park.  The town in America, you know.”  She turned her head slightly.  “You’re Harry Potter.”

“I know I am,” said Harry.  

The four of them then proceeded to have a fairly enjoyable conversation, right up until Neville’s mimbulus mimbletonia sprayed them all with rancid sap and Cho Chang opened the compartment door.  

Cho Chang who he had a crush on.

Yeah.

Harry had a strong desire to curl up and die.  

Ron and Hermione did not turn up for over an hour, by which time the food trolley had come and gone, and most of the bounty acquired from it had been eaten.  

“Oh, you have food.  Brilliant,” said Ron, taking a Chocolate frog from Harry and throwing himself into the seat next to him.  “You won’t believe what happened.”

“Malfoy’s Slytherin prefect?” asked Harry.  The fear had been buzzing in the back of his head ever since Ron and Hermione had gotten their badges.  

“Well, yeah,” said Ron.  

“And that complete cow Pansy Parkinson,” said Hermione.  

“But that’s not the real surprise,” said Ron, oddly dismissive. “You remember all those articles in the Prophet?  Not the ones about you.  About that town, in America?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, some of kids who survived were wizards.”

“And witches,” added Hermione.  She pulled Crookshanks into her lap.  

“Well, apparently their ministry didn’t think they’d be safe over there, so they sent them here.  Seven of ‘em.”

“What?  They think it’s safe here?” In Hogwarts, maybe it was, except Harry had been snatched away even with all eyes on him, in the middle of a heavily attended competition.  “With Voldemort on the loose?”

Everyone flinched.  

“Well, that isn’t exactly being publicized,” said Hermione. “Not—Not in the right way.  Besides, none of them knew about magic before this summer.  They’re all our age, though.  It must have been a shock.  Especially after losing their families like that.”  She shuddered.  “We’ve been asked to help them acclimate.  That’s why the meeting ran so long.”  

“Are they in Gryffindor, then?” asked Luna.  

“They’re sort of spread out,” said Hermione.  “They’re in all the houses but Ravenclaw.”

“And I’m still not sure how they got put into Slytherin if they’re muggleborn,” said Ron, who had tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling.  “It doesn’t make sense,” he complained.

“Merlin was muggleborn,” said Luna.  “He was a Slytherin.  I’m sure there were others.”

Ron pulled a face.  

(Harry thought about Voldemort—About Tom Riddle and his muggle father.)

“Anyway,” said Hermione.  “We have three of them.  Hufflepuff and Slytherin each have two.”

First Death Eaters in America, and now Slytherins from there?  Harry shook himself internally.  No, it probably didn’t mean anything.  

“We probably won’t see much of them,” said Ron.  “They’re taking mostly remedial classes.  First and second year stuff.”

“Say,” said Luna, “do you know who the prefects are for the other houses?”

“Anthony Goldstein and Padma Patil for Ravenclaw,” said Hermione.  

“And Ernie Macmillian and Hannah Abbot for Hufflepuff,” added Ron.  “You know, other than helping keep track of the younger kids and patrolling corridors every so often, there’s not really much we’re supposed to do as prefects.  From how Percy talked about it, I always sort of thought there’d be more.”  Then he grinned.  “We can give punishments out if people are misbehaving.  I can’t wait to get Crabbe and Goyle for something…”

Predictably, this set off Hermione.

.

“There’s nothing else about the Americans?” asked Draco, frowning. “I’m not sure how we’re expected to ‘help them acclimate’ with so little information.”

The Head Girl rolled her eyes.  “You’re expected to talk to them,” she said.  “Considering that they’re real human beings and all. They’ve been through a lot, apparently, and I can appreciate them not wanting to have it spread around.”

Unspoken was the ‘do you?’ at the end of her sentence.  Draco let his lip curl.  People from other houses were always so eager to think the worst of Slytherin when all they were trying to be was logical.  

“I’ll do that, then,” said Draco, stepping out of the prefects’ carriage.  He needed to find Crabbe and Goyle.  Annoying. As much as he was their leader, and he watched them, they were also there to watch him and—

(Draco chose not to think of the people who had arrived at Malfoy Manor over the Summer, of the things he’d seen.)

(When he was quite young, he’d read a book about muggle Germany during the time of Grindelwald, and how Grindelwald had subtly influenced things in that country.  He’d always been struck by the use of informants, of how everyone had been convinced to watch one another and report those who stepped out of line.  He found he could appreciate it even more now that he was inside a similar trap.)

But the Americans.  It was so odd.  They couldn’t have any lineage to speak of.  Not if they were living like muggles in some backwater town.  

… some backwater town the Dark Lord had seen fit to destroy.

… ‘Fenton’ sounded vaguely familiar.  

… Perhaps ‘Sanchez’ was from a Spanish pureblood line.

Draco would have to do research.  He was good at that.  But whatever he found, he’d have to keep an eye on the Americans.  

If nothing else, it would be good to have friends overseas.

.

“We’ll be in different dorms after this,” said Danny, vaguely depressed.  “Different classes, too, most of the time.”

“We can still see each other during the day,” said Sam.  “I think the only meal that’s segregated by house is dinner, anyway.  We should be able to hang out at all the other times.”

Danny sighed.  He had yet to have much success in his missions.  

He’d felt something wrong on the seventh floor, but he hadn’t been able to pinpoint it.  He’d found a giant inaccessible dungeon full of snake statues, a snake skeleton, and a number of other somewhat questionable things underneath the school. There had been an echo of something there, but whatever it was had been long gone by the time Danny got there. He also had the faint sense of a ghost—a real ghost—beginning to form there, and he hoped he hadn’t messed it up by spreading his ectoplasm around.  

On the second front, he hadn’t heard anything from any of the leaders of the wizarding world.  Unless he counted a reply from a secretary who thought he was disturbed.  

But there was one bright spot.  They’d met the Headmaster yesterday, and Danny was certain the man’s wand was one of the two subjects of his third quest.  Which was hilarious.  Out of everything, he’d thought the Hallows would be the hardest to find.  

Not that he could just take it.  Not now.  Not yet. Not with everything else still so uncertain and Clockwork’s quiet assurance that he would find most of what he needed to at Hogwarts.  

(Clockwork and the Lady had made a deal with him, bound in old magic and ghost law.  Three tasks. Three nearly impossible quests, but at the end of them, the one who had destroyed half of his world, who had harmed his people, would be gone, and in the meantime Amity Park would be protected. Danny knew he had gotten the better half of the deal, with Clockwork practically on his side.  Even with the… other requirements.  Still, he couldn’t help but feel discouraged.)

So, he’d stay, and wait, and keep a careful eye on the Headmaster, and try to find the thing on the seventh floor, and figure out what spells worked on ghosts and if he could circumvent them, and figure out how to intercept at least one magical head of state, and, and, and…

Ugh.  

“If we aren’t too busy,” said Danny.  

“You know we’re here to help,” said Tucker, prodding Danny’s side.  “And even if the rest of them don’t know about, you know, I think they’d be willing to help, too.”

“Within reason,” said Sam.  

It was true.  Surviving near-death experiences together tended to make people—well.  Not necessarily friends, but something more than mere acquaintances.  Allies, at the very least.

(Especially if a lot of other people had died at the same time, and the survivors were holding on to the relationships they still had with all their strength.)

“I know,” said Danny.  He bit his lip.  “There’s something on the seventh floor, I think.  Need more time to figure out what, though.”

“We’ll keep an eye out,” promised Sam.  

“And an ear, too,” said Tucker, tapping his.  “I’m sure there’ll be lots of rumors and legends in a place like this.”

“Me too.  Jazz has been interrogating the paintings, you know.”  He frowned.  “They’re so weird.”

“Everything about this is weird,” said Sam.  “Can’t believe we thought ghosts were the whole extent of the supernatural.  It seems so dumb, now.”

“Not really,” said Danny.  “I mean, ghosts were all that we saw, and they didn’t really mention anything else.”  He sighed. “Guess we should get ready for the feast or whatever?”

“Yeah,” said Sam, standing.  “Good luck meeting your classmates.  Housemates?  How are we even supposed to say that?”

“I don’t know,” said Danny.  He sighed.  “At least we each have at least one person from Casper with us.”

“That’s true,” said Tucker.  “Can’t say I feel like I have much in common with Star, though. Other than,” he gestured, vaguely, “all the Amity Park stuff.”

Sam raised an eyebrow.  “And you think I have a lot in common with Dash?”

“You have a lot in common with Valerie,” offered Tucker.

Sam shrugged.  “We do both fight ghosts.”

Tucker’s grin turned slightly wicked.  “And have a crush on the same guy.”

“Take a walk off a

Danny let himself smile.  It had been a while since the three of them had gotten some good banter in. It was hard to verbally spar when you were depressed.  

.

Sitting next to Paulina at an otherwise empty table felt strange.  But it would feel even stranger to sit not next to Paulina at the very large empty table.  Danny let his eyes drift over to the other three house tables.  It seemed that the others were of the same opinion, sitting together in little, painfully awkward clusters.  

All the close friend groups had been pulled apart, after all.

“Danny,” said Paulina.  Her voice wavered at the end.

“Yeah?”

“The wizard kids will have cliques.”

“I mean, yeah, they’re still human, right?”  And even ghosts formed groups.  

Paulina nodded and clenched her jaw.  “We’re going to get into one,” she said, firmly.  “We’ll have to find the best one, and fast, otherwise we’ll wind up at the bottom of the pecking order.  You know how much that sucks.”

“Yeah,” said Danny, his eyebrows raised.  He was a little surprised to be included.  

“The wizards we’ve met so far are pretty weird.  You know how to deal with weird.”

“Uh,” said Danny.  “Is this a strategy thing?  Isn’t it a bit too late for that?”

“It’s never too late to salvage social standing, and we haven’t even started,” said Paulina.  “Anyway, you’re the backup plan, in case they’re aliens who don’t fall for my charm.”  She put a hand to her heart and fluttered her eyelashes.

“Should we even use charm like that here?  I mean, since it’s a class, now.”

“Hmf.  I’m good at that, too.”  She examined her fingernails.  “We’ll probably attract a bunch of people, just because we’re here and visible and new.  We just need to make sure that people stay interested in us.”

“I’m not sure I want attention, Paulina.”

“Then pay attention and follow my lead.  If you’re in the right clique, you can fade into the background.  Like Star. No one notices the stuff she gets up to. They’re all too focused on yours truly. As they should be.”

This was true, actually.  People didn’t really pay any attention to Star, except in her person as Paulina’s satellite.  Even Danny, before becoming Phantom and gaining a new perspective on life and the people in it, hadn’t.  

“Besides,” continued Paulina, “now that we, well.” She didn’t quite blush.  “You guys don’t suck as much as I thought you did.”

“Uh, thanks.  You, too?”

Wow.  That was quite possibly the worst response he could have had.  

Paulina sighed heavily.  

However, she was distracted from whatever she might have said to him by the first of the Hogwarts students coming in.  Paulina turned her attention away, her eyes flicking from one set of green and silver highlights to the next.  Whenever a student looked their way she smiled and waved, pouring on the charm.  

Danny didn’t know how she did it.  Social engineering was never going to be his strong point.

(Perhaps he could set Paulina and Star on the Minister of Magic’s trail.  They might have more luck.)

Before he could follow the train of thought, they were surrounded.  In a simply physical sense.  There was no malice and very little aggression from the students that sat near them, more than one of whom had prefects badges.  Still, Danny did have to fight down a knee-jerk reaction.  He saw Paulina shift uncomfortably as well, and he gave her robe what he hoped was a steadying tug.  

She returned it with a tight smile.  

There wasn’t much time to talk before Professor McGonagall stood up with the hat and started calling names.  Everyone went very quiet during the sorting, except for the cheer that rose with the hat’s every shout.  

Then there was food.  A lot of food.  Most of it was recognizable, but some of it was sort of weird.  Many things were pumpkin flavored.  There was even something Danny was fairly certain was pumpkin juice.

He didn’t know how to feel about that.

Paulina took the time to engage in social engineering. Danny took the time to watch.  They were both watched back, of course, but Paulina naturally drew more attention.  

However, there was one boy who kept staring at Danny. He was about their age and had pale blonde hair.  Really pale blonde hair.  

(Danny had thought Star and Dash were blonde.)

“You’re Daniel Fenton, correct?” asked the boy.  

“Um.  Yes. And you are?”

“Draco Malfoy.  I’m the fifth-year prefect.”

“Oh, Draco like the constellation?”

Draco blinked.  “Yes.”

“Did your parents like astronomy a lot, then?”

“Astrology,” corrected Draco.  “Astronomy is what muggles do.”

Danny carefully forced down the white-hot rage he felt at that statement.  Yeah, he had more than a normal admiration for astronomy, and, therefore, a more intense than normal reaction to astronomy and astrology being confused, but magic was real, apparently, so maybe astrology wasn’t useless.  Right.  Yeah.  And they were both about stars, planets, and space. Nothing to get mad at.

“It’s been a tradition in my mother’s family for generations,” Draco was saying, “although we occasionally make some allowances for other traditions.  My mother’s name is Narcissa, for example.  Is there anything similar in your family?”

“Dad’s side does ‘J’ names for the first born.  Jazz got stuck with that.”

The boy’s eyebrows went up.  “You have a sister?  She isn’t magical?”

“Magical enough to haunt me,” said Danny.  

“Pardon?”

“She died.  She’s around here somewhere, though.”  He gestured vaguely.  “Didn’t want to be around big crowds.  I think she said she was going to hang out with Myrtle?”

“Myrtle?  Do you mean Moaning Myrtle?  Who haunts the bathrooms?”

This time, the reaction Danny suppressed was a cringe, the emotion embarrassment on behalf of the young witch ghost.  “She just introduced herself as Myrtle.  Well, Myrtle Warren, but…  Yeah.  It’s kind of rude to describe someone as moaning, isn’t it?”

The boy puffed up, slightly, clearly offended.  

Oh, dear.  

.

The Americans were… interesting, Harry thought.  

Ron and Hermione had sat near them as part of their ‘prefect duties,’ with Harry and therefore Ginny and Neville following after.  

Well.  That may have had more to do with curiosity than anything else.  

They introduced themselves by their first names only. Dash, Valerie, and Sam.  Dash was… well.  Harry had encountered people like him both before and after coming to Hogwarts.  For example, McClaggen.  Harry hadn’t ever interacted much with McClaggen, even if they were in the same house, but Dash definitely gave off the same feeling.  Meanwhile, Valerie just sort of glared at everyone, resisting all attempts at conversation while tearing at her food with extreme aggression.  Sam had managed to engage Hermione and Katie Bell in a conversation about dark magic that was getting Hermione progressively more flustered.  

Harry couldn’t tell if it was because of the misconceptions Sam had about magic in general, or because Sam seemed to think some kinds of dark magic should be legal.  

He was starting to get a very bad feeling about these Americans.

.

“Hey,” whispered Tucker, while the students around them were distracted by something a rather round ghost was saying.  

“What?” whispered Star.

“Is it just me, or is everyone here sort of depressed? Like, I can understand us being depressed, but…”

“No, no it’s not just you.  Wasn’t there something about a student death?  Some kind of freak accident.”

“Oh,” said the student sitting across from them.  “You heard about Cedric.”

.

Danny wondered if he could get to the Minister of Magic through Dolores Umbridge.  He hadn’t gotten a good read on her during their very brief encounters the previous week, but now...  She gave off the impression of having some kind of political power.  His understanding was that the headmaster had a lot of influence among the wizards and witches of this country, so for her to be interrupting him like that…

Or maybe he was like Danny and weak against social awkwardness.

Also, her speech seemed to have a deeper meaning he couldn’t decode.  He didn’t understand wizarding culture or their political climate enough, despite his research.

Eh.  He’d have to get a better grasp of her personality and position.  Hopefully, that wouldn’t be too hard.  He did have a class with her.  

.

“The events of last spring have left a mark on the whole school,” said Severus Snape into the muffled quiet of the Slytherin common room, his voice just barely more emotive than during the placement test he had given the Casper High students, “and no doubt on many of your home lives as well. I want you to know that if you have any… concerns… regarding the behaviors of fellow students or… more sensitive topics, you can come to me.”

The man blinked slowly at them.  

“That is all,” he said, finally, and with an overly dramatic swish of his cloak he departed.  

The room quickly filled with light chatter, students breaking off into little cliques, some of them slipping away down shadowy corridors.

Paulina tugged him towards one of those groups.  

“Hi, Pansy,” she said, giving the girl a little wave, “hi, Draco.  We were wondering if you guys could show us around?  We were told our stuff would be moved here, but…”  She trailed off, shrugging elegantly.  

Danny tried to echo the movement.  

He most likely did not succeed.

(It wasn’t like he could tell.  His superpowers did not include seeing himself from the outside—Or maybe they did.  There could be a spell for that, he supposed.)

He had to admit, as the prefects made a (just slightly supercilious) show of presenting the Slytherin dormitories to them, that he rather liked the space.  It was surprisingly well-ventilated and warm, but there was still a general air of closeness, of security of bone-deep chill that spoke so well to his ghost half.  

Of course, a lot of that would probably evaporate once Danny tried to sleep in a room with half a dozen strangers, but, well, he’d deal with that when he got there.

.

Magic was great and all, but Tucker would trade it all away in a second if only to get his PDA to work properly.  

In the tent formed by his bedsheet and his body, Tucker hissed and rapped on the staticky screen, hoping an impact adjustment would do… something.  He didn’t know what.  The last three hadn’t done anything.  

The way the metal casing was heating up under his hand was disturbing.  Quickly, he thumbed the power button.  He didn’t have a lot of these left, and he wanted to be able to use them to communicate with Danny and Sam.  He missed their late-night Doom sessions.  

(Along with everything else about his life in Amity Park. He at least had the power to make talking to his friends possible.  The rest? Not so much.)

He groaned into his pillow.  He’d been working on this off and on all week.  Another night wouldn’t matter in the long run.  

Maybe one of his classes would help him understand what he was doing wrong.

.

Sam had sort of enjoyed needling Hermione (the girl reminded her a lot of Jazz), even if she knew she shouldn’t, but the nasty fight between some of the fifth year boys in the common room had really ruined the mood. Hermione’s friend, Harry, was apparently some sort of celebrity.  Like, in the same way Phantom had been a celebrity following Walker’s invasion.  

So.  Not really a great thing for him.  

Ugh.  Sympathy. Feelings.  She sighed and stared up at the red and gold ceiling.  If the color scheme didn’t do her in…

.

Danny met Jazz in the air over the school.  

“I didn’t see you much today,” he said, twisting hands that he is keeping carefully transparent.

“Yeah,” said Jazz.  “I’m just…  I’m still adjusting.  I think you’ll like Myrtle, by the way.  She’s lonely, but fun.  I think there might actually be a bit of ectoplasm in her, believe it or not.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.  She can flood the toilets, apparently.  Although… I’m not sure if she meant the toilets themselves, or just the room in general.”  She frowned. “Because she said something about sinks…”  She shook her head.  “Not important.  Want to hear what she told me about the secret underground room and the giant snake skeleton?  Not to mention all the other ridiculous stuff that’s happened here.  If this is ‘safer,’ I don’t want to know what the rest of the wizarding world is like.”

“Like what happened in Amity, I guess,” said Danny. “But!  Yes.  Please tell me what you found out.”

.

Breakfast was nice.  Especially when Sam, Danny, and Tucker compared schedules and realized that they had more classes together than they expected.  Not with all three of them at once, but even just two of them together was better than nothing.  

Yes, they got a lot of strange looks, especially when Jazz joined them.  Evidently, eating breakfast with people from other houses just wasn’t done.  Which was stupid, in Sam’s opinion.  Actually, the whole house system felt increasingly stupid to Sam.  She just didn’t understand the point.  Was it for sports?

It was probably for sports.  Sports were the root of all evil.  Just look at Dash.  He hadn’t had any sports for a whole Summer, and now he was acting like an actual decent human being.  

Okay.  That reasoning was suspect.  Sam would have to come back to this when she was more awake.  Early mornings were the worst.  

Anyway.  She had an acceptable breakfast with her friends and the people she’d grown to tolerate, then she set out to find History.  

Which is how she overheard the conversation between Hermione and her friends.  

“What’s S.P.E.W.?” she asked.

Hermione’s two friends glared at Sam.  Probably for the sin of eating with people from another house. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

“Well,” said Hermione, just slightly hesitant.  “It’s the Society for the Promotion of Elvish Welfare…”

(Sam found a new cause to get incandescently angry about. Wizard society sucked.)

.

Harry was surprised to see five of the Americans, the three Gryffindors and the two Slytherins, standing by the door to Defense Against the Dark Arts, quietly talking to each other.  

“What’re they doing, then?” asked Ron, scowling. “Consorting with the enemy?”

“Honestly, Ron,” said Hermione, rolling her eyes.  “They aren’t the enemy.  And they’re from the same place.  It must be difficult, being so far away from home.”

Ron grunted and shrugged.  “What d’you think Umbridge’ll be like, anyway?” he asked, changing the subject.  

They filed into the classroom, the remainder of the class, including the Slytherins, their green looking horribly out of place amongst all the red trim, following shortly after.  No one knew what Umbridge would be like, regarding punishment, so they didn’t want to immediately get on her bad side.  

“Well,” she said, in a sickly-sweet tone, “good afternoon!”

There was a mumbled response.  

Umbridge said “Tut, tut.”  She actually said tut tut.  Out loud.  “That won’t do, now, will it?  I should like you, please, to reply ‘Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge.’  One more time, please.  Good afternoon, class!”

“Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge,” said the class, in something approaching unison and the least enthusiastic tone Harry had heard since Ron had tried to convince Hermione to help him with his Divination homework last year.

“There, now,” said Professor Umbridge.  “That wasn’t too difficult, was it?  Wands away and quills out, please.”

Many of the students exchanged gloomy or exasperated looks. Lessons without wands tended to be uninteresting, with very few exceptions.  

(Instead of quills, the Americans produced pencils and pens from their bookbags.)

Umbridge opened her handbag and pulled out her own wand, which was as stubby as she was, and tapped the blackboard.  Words appeared on the board at once:  Defense Against the Dark Arts, A Return to Basic Principles.

Harry couldn’t quite repress a groan.  Luckily, he wasn’t the only one.  

“Well now, your teaching in this subject had been rather disrupted, hasn’t it?” stated Professor Umbridge.  She turned to face the class, her eyes briefly lingering on Harry, and then the Americans.  “Or completely nonexistent.  The constant changing of teachers, many of whom do not seem to have followed any Ministry-approved curriculum, has unfortunately resulted in your being far below the standard we would expect to see in your O.W.L. year.

“You will be pleased to know, however,” she continued, still acting like she was talking to kindergarteners, “that these problems are now to be rectified. We will be following a carefully structured, theory-centered, Ministry-approved course of defensive magic this year.”

Each word Umbridge spoke made Harry’s heart drop farther. How could Dumbledore let this woman teach them?  This year?  When knowing how to fight dark magic was more important than ever?

Umbridge rapped the board again, and new words appeared. Course aims:  1. Understanding the principles underlying defensive magic. 2. Learning to recognize situations in which defensive magic can legally be used.  3. Placing the use of defensive magic in a context for practical use.  

Oh.  This year was going to be bad.  As for the day, it got worse when Umbridge assigned a reading from what had to be the dullest book Harry had ever read.  Including that one time—No.  Focus.

He massaged his temples and wondered if he needed to get a new prescription for his glasses.  The words on the page refused to stay sharp.  

Harry looked up when the Americans started to whisper among themselves and caught sight of one of the most shocking things he had ever witnessed: Hermione not reading.  

Soon, everyone was staring either at Hermione or the Americans, who had left off whispering after some pointed glaring from Umbridge but had replaced the whispers with passionate gesturing at something in the back of the book.  Those, too, died down after a while, in favor of looking at Hermione.  

Eventually, Umbridge could no longer ignore the situation.  

“Did you want to ask something about the chapter, dear?”

“Not about the chapter, no.”

“Well, we’re reading just now.”  Umbridge smiled.  It wasn’t pleasant.  “If you have other queries, we can deal with them at the end of class.”

“I’ve got a query about your course aims,” said Hermione, undeterred.  

“And your name is—?”

“Hermione Granger.”

“Well, Miss Granger, I think the course aims are perfectly clear if you read them through carefully.”  

“Well, I don’t.  There’s nothing written up there about using defensive spells.”

“There’s nothing in the book about using spells, either!” said the Slytherin boy, waving his copy angrily.  “There aren’t even any of the, um.”  He paused and looked at Sam for a second.  

“Incantations,” said Sam.  “I mean, that’s what I’d call them?  I don’t know the official term.”

Umbridge inhaled through her teeth.  

“Using defensive spells?” she asked, voice pitched unnaturally high.  “Why, I can’t imagine any situation arising in my classroom that would require you to use a defensive spell, Miss—”

“And what about outside of the classroom?” interrupted the Slytherin boy.  

“Like, this is supposed to teach us how to not die, right?” asked the girl next to him, examining her fingernails.  

“You have to practice self-defense to actually get good at it,” agreed Valerie, crossing her arms.  “What’s the point of this class if we’re not going to actually learn how to do stuff?”

“Yes,” agreed Hermione, “surely the whole point of Defense Against the Dark Arts is to practice defensive spells?”

“Students,” gritted Umbridge, “will raise their hands when they wish to speak in my class.”

At once, a dozen hands went up.

“Miss Granger?” Umbridge asked, voice dangerous.  

“Isn’t the whole point of Defense Against the Dark Arts to practice defensive spells?”

“Miss Granger,” said Umbridge.  “As you are not a Ministry-trained educational expert, you are not qualified to decide what the ‘whole point’ of this, or any, class is. Wizards much older and cleverer than you have—”

“I really doubt that,” interjected Ron.  

Umbridge took another deep breath.  “You will be learning about defensive spells in a secure, risk-free way—”

“What’s the use of that?” demanded Harry, loudly.  “If we’re going to be attacked, it won’t be in a—”

“Hand, Mr. Potter!”

Predictably, Umbridge turned her back on him as soon as he thrust his fist into the air.  Instead, she called on Dean Thomas.  

(The part of Harry’s brain that wasn’t vibrating in frustration noted that the Americans were passing notes between each other.)

“Well, it’s like Harry said, isn’t it?” he asked, once she had gotten done with interrogating him about his name.  “If we’re going to be attacked, it won’t be risk-free—”

“Do you expect to be attacked in class?”

Harry was very tempted to say yes, considering that three of his four previous DADA teachers had wound up attacking him.  

… Did Professor Lupin’s werewolf form having a go at him bring the count up to four?

Umbridge talked over Dean.  “I do not wish to criticize the way things have been run in this school,” she said, with the air of someone who was about to do just that, “but you have been exposed to some very irresponsible wizards in this class, very irresponsible indeed—not to mention,” she gave a nasty little laugh, “extremely dangerous half-breeds.”

The Slytherin boy stood up, chair scraping across the floor. Sam, next to him, had gone pale. Her fingers were wrapped tightly around her wand.  

“Sit down, Mr.-?”

“I’m leaving,” said the boy, not deigning to give Umbridge his name.  He picked up his bag.  “Maybe I can sit in on an actually useful lesson.  I mean, if I can figure out how to make a pineapple tap dance, I can get it to fly into someone’s face.  At least that’s something.”

“Sit down,” repeated Umbridge.  “I do not know what your classmates have told you, but you, all of you,” she said to the class, “have been frightened into believe that you are likely to meet Dark attacks every other day—”

“We haven’t been frightened into believing anything!” exclaimed Dash, also rising from his seat.  “Our entire city was attacked!  We need—"

“Which was a tragedy.  One that is unlikely to be repeated!  Now, sit down.”

The other Americans stood up.  

“We heard about Cedric Diggory, you know,” said the Slytherin girl, coldly.  “And a lot of the people who attacked us were never caught.”

“We also know about the giant murder snake that apparently lived here,” said the boy.  

“I, for one, can’t believe that wizards are less likely to be murders than any other human,” said Valerie.  “If normal people need to take self-defense classes, I don’t see why we shouldn’t be able to.”

“The government preventing people from learning how to defend themselves is historically a bad sign,” said Sam.  “Of course, slavery is also a bad sign, and you all have been ignoring that for God only knows how long.  There are actual slaves in this school.”

“Wait,” said the Slytherin boy, horrified.  “Are you serious?  Is that what you were talking about before?  Oh my God—"

“Children!” exclaimed Umbridge.  “Your hands are not up.”  

The looks Umbridge got after that outburst were filled with incredulity, not

Parvati Patil raised her hand.  

“Yes?” asked Umbridge.

Harry was beginning to wonder if she was looking for punishment.  

“Isn’t there supposed to be a practical bit in our Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L.?”

“As long as you have studied the theory hard enough, there’s no reason you shouldn’t be able to—”

The room exploded into a flurry of objections, spurred on by the Americans.  

“Who exactly do you think is going to attack you?” shouted Umbridge over the ruckus.  

“I don’t know!” shouted Harry back, even though part of him knew this was a bad idea.  “How about Lord Voldemort?”

Silence.  

“Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr. Potter?”

“Points?” whispered Dash.  No one else spoke.  

The Slytherin boy was looking at Harry with something like hunger in his eyes.  

“Now, let me make a few quite plain.  You have been told that a certain Dark wizard had returned from the dead—”

“He wasn’t dead,” said Harry, “but yeah, he’s returned!”

“Do not make matters worse for yourself, Mr. Potter!” exclaimed Umbridge shrilly.  “As I was saying, you have been informed that a certain Dark wizard is at large once again. This is a lie.”

“It is NOT a lie!  I saw him! I fought him!”

Glee spread across Umbridge’s toad-like face. “Detention, Mr. Potter.  Tomorrow evening.  Five—  What do you think you’re doing?”

“Um,” said the Slytherin boy, who like the rest of the Americans was halfway to the door.  “Leaving. Like we said?”  He hadn’t stopped walking.

“You will do no such thing!  All five of you will be joining Mr. Potter for detention.”

“Pass.”  His eyes flicked towards Harry again.

“Excuse me?”

“We have better things to do than humor someone who’s refusing to do their job,” said Sam.  

The classroom doors slammed shut right in front of the Slytherin boy’s nose, and he took half a step back.  

“Tomorrow evening, at five o’clock, all six of you will join me for detention in my office.  Now.  The rumors of that Dark wizard’s return are lies.  The Ministry guarantees that you are not in danger from any Dark wizard.  If you are still worried, if someone is alarming you with fibs about reborn Dark wizards, come see me outside of class hours, I would like to hear about it.  I am here to help.  I am your friend.  Now, kindly, continue your reading.  Page five, ‘Basics for Beginners.’”

The Americans slunk back to their seats but pulled a variety of colorful transfiguration textbooks from their bags instead of Defensive Magical Theory.

With an air of triumph, Umbridge sat down behind her desk.

Harry stood up.  

“Harry, no!” whispered Hermione, tugging at his sleeve.

Harry ignored her.  (Which was, in all honesty, a stupid move.  Ignoring Hermione rarely had positive consequences.)

(In his defense, the preceding several minutes had been… stressful.)

“So, according to you, Cedric Diggory dropped dead of his own accord, did he?”

“Cedric Diggory’s death was a tragic accid—”

“Just like Amity Park, huh?”

“A tragic accident,” continued Umbridge, voice full of ice.  

“It was murder.”  Harry was shaking.  He felt like he was under a spotlight, and he wanted to be anywhere but here, talking about this.  “Voldemort killed him, and you know it.”

For a second, Harry thought Umbridge would start screaming, but instead her lips curled up into a parody of a smile.  “Come here, Mr. Potter, dear.”

As Harry walked forward, Umbridge started scribbling on a small, pink, piece of paper, angled so that Harry couldn’t see what she was writing.  Something moved out of the corner of his eye, and Harry flinched.  

The…  What were they even doing?  Why were they sitting like that?

“Take this to Professor McGonagall, dear,” said Umbridge, holding out a roll of pink paper.  

Harry took it from her without a word, turned on his heel, threw open the door, and—

Was almost trampled by the Americans all escaping the room at once.  

Dash grabbed him by the upper arm, and soon all six of them were running down the hallway.  It took several seconds for Umbridge to start shrieking, and, by that point, the Slytherin boy had pulled them all into a secret passage that someone who hadn’t been at Hogwarts for even a month shouldn’t know about.  

“Wow,” said Sam.  “You work fast, Danny.”

“Thanks,” said Danny, giving her a thumbs up.  “Got to thank the Bloody Baron, though.”  He paused.  “Still can’t believe that’s his actual name…”

“Sorry about dragging you with us, by the way,” said the Slytherin girl.  “I’m Paulina. This is Danny.  You already know these three, I think?”

“Er,” said Harry, not at all sure how to deal with this situation.  Part of him just wanted to shout.  He was still vibrating with suppressed rage.  

“I didn’t really catch your name in all that, though,” she continued, gesturing behind them.  

“It’s Harry.  Potter.”

It was… interesting, how his name didn’t spark any recognition in them.  At least not at first.  Then Danny stiffened and—

“The poltergeist is coming this way,” he said, mildly.  

“You can tell?” asked Paulina.

“I could always tell.  Why do you think I was always in the bathroom when ghosts were around?”

Valerie scowled, and shot a truly venomous glare at her watch.

“Do you think we can convince him to bug Umbridge?” asked Sam.

Danny shot a look of surprise at her.  Then he smiled.  “Maybe,” he said.  He turned back to Harry.  “It was nice meeting you.  I hope we can talk again sometime.  It sounds like you’ve been through a lot, and, well…”  He shrugged.

Harry suddenly remembered that the Americans were here, for the most part, because their families were dead.

“But you should probably track down Professor McGonagall sooner than later.  I’d bet that Umbridge put a timer on that.  If that’s possible.  Is that possible?”

“I don’t know,” said Harry, suddenly a hundred times more anxious about the paper clenched in his hand.  

“Gosh, imagine if Lancer could do that,” said Dash.

“I’d take Lancer any day,” said Danny.  “He actually tried to teach stuff.  Anyway, I’m going to go head off Peeves.  You might want to go around.  I hear he can be kind of a jerk?”

“Right,” said Harry, walking further down the secret passage, because he had been here for a proper length of time and had learned about it properly.  

… Although he supposed that asking the ghosts was a proper way to go about learning the secret passages.  

No, he had to focus on how to explain getting kicked out of class to Professor McGonagall, not on the weirdest interaction with Slytherins he’d had to date.

[dollsonmain]

Forever ago when cell phones started having cameras and the selfie craze was just taking off, of course since it was mostly girls a lot of people were ragging on the fad.

It seemed self centered and narcissistic on the surface. I don’t remember who, but someone came along and said that the “real problem” wasn’t that girls were being vain, but that they were taking control of how the world saw them and that was bothering people.

Girls suddenly had a lot more agency in how they were perceived, and it didn’t necessarily coincide with how everyone expected them to be.

Granted, now there’s that hardcore makeup culture going on and somehow someone decided selfies weren’t good enough if they weren’t ~*PERFECT*~ anymore and took some of that agency away, again, by convincing younger, more malleable girls that that’s what they wanted.

There are very few photos of me. I’ve always hated having my picture taken. I hated being told to smile on que, hated how I looked in the results, hated that no matter how much I begged my family to not take photos they’d force me and then yell at me for taking a “bad” one. (My aunt asked me to email her a picture of SonBoy and I said no because he doesn’t like his picture taken. It’s not hard.)

Friends might remember that I took a series of really goofy photos of myself a few years back and ran them through “art” filters on the phone to make them even sillier, and I LIKED that! That was fun! I was in full control of how I presented myself to others for once and I chose to be silly which is much more true to myself than a pasted on smile. Though I didn’t keep them because I still don’t much care for photos of myself.

And That Guy was like “Why would you EVER put a photo of yourself LIKE THAT out into the world?????” Well...... Because those were photos of me? Not my body or my face, not my meat suit, ME.

Right?

I’m full of stupid dad-jokes and have a rubber face that I can pull around in silly ways to show ME. I’m NOT some primped, polished, pouting debutante and photos of myself like that have always made me uncomfortable because that’s someone else.

Anyway I was thinking about that, about how we’re expected to look perfect all of the time, and also about how your Morning Look is something that’s considered intimate or taboo for people to see because that’s not your Outside Look. That’s not the mask you put on explicitly for others to look at.

But we can choose now, can’t we? We can choose to be imperfect and show people that imperfection. We can be human, now.

I wake up looking like I’ve been on a bender because I don’t sleep. I mean, once That Guy got what he wanted out of me and settled down I was able to sleep a bit but then he gets up at 4 am and makes so much noise that I’m awake, too.

I have a crooked face and a broken nose and my hair comes half undone in the night and I’m pale and pimply and covered in moles and tired and feel old and have an eating disorder and am terribly sad in general.

I’m all those things everyone says isn’t ok to be let alone let anyone see.

But that’s me, looking at myself in the mirror, being in full control of whether or not I let people see that, and being ok with it.

Good morning!

[monotonouslead]

AS CLANDESTINE FRAMED HER EYES

SHORT MEMOIR : Write down one of the most memorable events that happened to you.

Within me was an eternal battle of self-loathing. As I struggled to rebuild my sculpture, this battle blinded me shaped and wrapped my whole being.

I tried to find you but I failed. Your shadows had already been painted on their walls, but mine was empty, screaming for a smidgeon of glee and a glimpse of Mangata. You're the source of my euphoria, the driving force behind my insanity, and the chasm between my seas. I like you; your shadow completes the work of art. The curves in the wall indicate that you are more than a perfect sculpture of Medusa, whereas I am a Cupid's disciple.

As you tried to leave footprints on the safe path I carved out for you. I watched as your shadow vanished in front of my eyes. I could tell you were eager to get out of this room. I can smell the tenderness of your yearning to be the person you were ten years ago.

I was on the brink of drowning in tears when I saw you, the vivid eyes howling with agony. I smiled painfully, as if I were in the middle of a maze, wondering if I should continue playing or just bury myself in this game. I was befuddled. I was standing in an unknown path, crying and pondering what was causing my anguish, when I noticed you. I saw you standing in a cracked mirror, holding that same smile but in a different curve, as you immerse yourself in a blazing flame. You cut the ropes on your wrist, I saw how you fell, along with the clock's arm moved for the final time, I saw your fainted smile.

If you don't have something good to do, then it’s better for you to die. And so I did.

Why is that? It still hurts, as the wind slowly picks up my shattered pieces, and I still feel the pain. I'm lying here with a white cloth wrapped around my eyes as I was walking through the pale golden sands and swirling winds. It was wriggly, gripping my feet. It's large heaps of little cubes caressing and comforting my bruised soul, and wounded sculpture. I felt the sting and nothing else. I'm befuddled and in agony, and I don't know why, but it seems so painful. They said it was a perfect joy, a ideal rest, a comfort that we should lean on, and the right destination.

I carved my sculpture only to have it destroyed again. A tear fell from my left eye. The girl was in front of me,  she was also wearing the white cloth over her eyes. She is a new sculpture, sleek and devoid of imperfections, new and well-liked by all. A state of life in which everyone wants to see her, begging for her presence. A level where she has no expectations to carry, no grief to bear, and no other emotion to hold but joy. People haven't damaged that little girl yet, but she has damaged herself. 

I let them destroy me. I let myself drown in tears as darkness engulfed me as a thick blanket covered me while the pillow waves its presence as the broken mirror opened her arm. This is the very first time I felt like I was accepted for who I really am. The white cloth over my eyes blinded me to how I really felt; it was a mask that only I was destined to wear. This mask was already stained with blood as I was carving my wrist. I sank, vanished, and will never be seen again. I was once begging for help, but maybe this is my final destination. I raised my white flag. Thinking that I will never find myself.  I continue to wear the tattered white cloth as my broken life line peeks out at me.

“I wish I served you the perfect joy…”

You muttered in between the whispers of the wind, as sirens fought to burst through. When I opened my eyes, there was nothing but a plain white ceiling. It was like a blank canvas; plain, empty, and unknown. I felt a sense of peace as my fingers crawled into my cheeks. Now I'll begin to paint my canvas, curve its frame, and put on an unbreakable glass as I showered it with the rage I've earned, the sadness that we're harbored, and the joy that I've been seeking.

I yearned for nirvana as I was swindled into the heart of this maze. While striving to bring that young kid back into her menagerie. Back into her cradle as she was seeking for love, I will provide her with the solace she craves as she grows into the sculpture she never expected to become. 

I was in love perhaps that's what I'm trying to believe; that I truly love the person standing above the black swamp, as the stained white cloth embraces the unfinished masterpiece standing like a barrier protecting me from being shattered once again.

[moved-to-void-kissed]

Of Rubies and Sapphires

Document link: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1MXlNYYIQPVEeOXwsWuA4WIQ6E-LPJ-Z1BYljZbqlfuM/edit?usp=sharing

Trapped by the shadow brought to life by a magical mirror as she wanders the realm of darkness, Aria is forced to finally reconcile with the other aspect of “herself”, once assumed to have been devoured by the dark. (1656 words) My piece written for Our Canon Now! 2020, a self-insert zine created by ginari and shirorabu.

Tag list (joinable via this link!): @softskiesahead | @dragonsmooch | @thatslikesometaldude | @lilacslovers | @lux-has-too-many-fos | @beeon | @insomniaships | @setzale​ | @candyforthebrain​ | @rixbar | @elf-and-a-heart

This was my contribution to the self-insert zine created at the end of last year! I was really happy to be able to take part in such a great project, especially since it let me write out this scene between Aria and Ves. I also created an MMD render to portray a specific part, so.. I’ll have to see if I can find that, too!

Reblogs are appreciated but not by any means required - I also highly recommend going and checking out all the other wonderful art and writing in the zine!! As always, there’s a transcript of the doc under the readmore, too~ 

 I spoke aloud to myself as I stood before a tall oval mirror, coldly ornate with a rim of decorative gold. Dotted about the design were a series of red and blue gemstones, well-crafted in spite of their current neglect. The glass itself was smooth and clear, but obscured by a film of dust and dirt, so that the details reflected were hazy. A shame, really - for the backdrop it faced was a sea of glittering fragments, suspended in the air for as far as the eye could see. This was the shadow of a sky, and I appeared to have found my way to an open-air gallery. Here and there, sparkling shards shone a thousand colours in the flickering lights of the torch fires, subtly shimmering as flames flickered and glowed. Behind all of these lay the purest black of darkness - the fabric which held this entire realm together, ripped raw to expose itself wholly.

 I was no stranger to this endless abyss; in fact, it made a welcome change to have something so bright and yet piercingly empty stand before it. A useless curtain, if it were meant for obscuring - but the glittering glass still reminded me of the stars I had not seen for so long. Now though, afraid of where my mind would take me if I dwelled on such matters for too long - and wanting to discern what was actually happening - I turned back again to face the wall where the mirror hung.

..Now that I thought about it, something was missing from its reflection - myself. 

And then, like a fool, I stepped closer.

 I expected to see the familiar sights of my wings, my eyes, my ears - the parts of me that turn others away. Instead I was faced with something a lot more human, which appeared out of nowhere in the mirror. She had the same face that I wore, but her eyes were wrong - instead of hard amber, her eyes were a brilliant green. And staring directly into mine with piercing anger. I was startled and tried to step backwards, but the girl reached out of the mirror and grabbed my right arm’s sleeve. Caught off-guard, I slipped on the cold stone under me and awkwardly fell forwards. The reflection was undaunted, though, and wrenched herself backwards with a shout to pull me straight through the mirror glass. 

 I instinctively tensed up and closed my eyes, expecting a shower of shards in my face, but instead was sent tumbling into a curious space inside the mirror itself. The ground was solid, but my entrance sent some kind of ripple through the floor, as if I had landed in shallow water. There was no real difference between the walls and the floor - both were made of a strange dark blue material, like some kind of clouded silk. However, as I had found out firsthand by crashing into it, this material was hard and solid to the touch. What was this world within..?

 That was anything but my main concern, though, as I quickly came to my senses and tried to get back to my feet. The imperfect reflection was doing the same, having managed to launch herself backwards by pulling me through the mirror. Now I could see her in perfect clarity, no longer obscured by the dust time had left on the glass - and she was in quite a state. She wore the same clothes that I did, but where mine were comfortable and deliberate, hers looked forced-on and ill-fitting. Her hair hung limply on either side of her face, with no sign of my cat’s ears, and my pitch-black wings were nowhere to be seen either. It was like she was someone human, someone normal, trying to dress up as me. There was anger pulsing through her body, but it seemed somehow hesitant, and her face was soaked with a thousand tears. I could work with that.

“Why have you brought me here?” I asked her. No use fighting when you can reason with someone, after all. Especially given that I could not summon my Keyblade, and if this entity had tried to reflect my appearance then there was every chance it could mirror my power.

“You know why!” she cried, in a voice like a child’s. “Look at what you’ve done to me!”

Oh.

That wasn’t what I was expecting to hear. “So you’re saying that you’re-”

“Look at me!” She yelled to drown me out and pointed at herself with a sob. “I never wanted to be like this. You’re the one who did this to me!”

In the face of her anguish, I refused to let my rising emotions show. “You say it like you think I don’t know that, Ves.”

“Don’t call me that!-” 

 All of a sudden she lunged out towards me - I tried to leap out of her way, but there was nowhere to go and I was too close to the edge of the “room” to try and fly. There was a flash of ice as Ves tried to summon a blade of her own - but like mine, it faltered into nothing. It seemed we were linked in that aspect. In retaliation, I sent forth a blast of dark fire to get her away from me so that I could regain the upper hand. I was tired from my previous exploring, but my magic was always at its height in this realm, thanks to all the darkness to augment it. Luckily, that held true in the mirror too, and she was flung backwards again.

 If nothing else, her reaction to her name confirmed my suspicions. This was not a reflection at all. Instead, she was what remained of the vessel I had taken so long ago, what I had used to live on and be complete again. I had assumed whatever was left of her had faded away with time; perhaps that was the reason for her having almost the same appearance as me. Given a choice, she would certainly not have done so, but it may well have been the only way the mirror could give her a form.

 To try and show that most human of aspects - mercy - I kept low and attempted to look as non-threatening as possible. This was not something I could do easily, but I tried anyway, lowering my wings and removing the mask over my mouth. Ves’ eyes widened at this, and she retained her anger, but sadness was building up behind it. It was clear that despite her outburst, she was not seeking to destroy me - perhaps she realised that doing so would lead to her demise as well, or perhaps it was merely that she was not a fighter.

“Fine, then.” I paused, and used the name I took from her. “Aria. That’s you, isn’t it?”

“I’m me.” she started coldly, then I think she realised what I had actually said. “You- you stole my name. Like everything else about me.”

No way of getting around that, unfortunately. “I suppose that’s true. So, what, have you come to take it back?”

“I- yes! I have to get rid of you!!”

 She was clearly caught off-guard, however defiantly she stated her intentions. The fact she had no weapon was likely the main factor, although there was still every chance she could use the same magic as me. It was then that I realised the mirror had appeared behind her - and through it, I caught a glance of the real world I had come from. A chance to escape! The ceiling of this strange space looked too low, but there was still a way of getting around her. I slowly crouched lower, let my wings unfurl, darted to the side as Ves flinched from the sudden movement- and my hand brushed against hers when I passed her.

 A cascade of emotions brought me to the floor. All her anguish, all her pain, from all those years - I felt every aspect of it in a single moment. She was what I had used to live on, the reason I could be as I am now; but how I had repaid the favour? In the most Heartless way I could have - by twisting her form, taking her name, and leaving her dormant. She was a shell trapped in slumber, with her light consumed and overshadowed. No more than a soul left to fade away in place of all it could have been. How could I have done that to her? To anyone?

I turned and looked up at her, now understanding what I had put her through, but unable to speak through the emotions. Ves seemed to notice that, too, and her expression had shifted - perhaps our connection had reunited her with the memories I had that she never experienced.

Then she spoke, with what felt like a much more characteristic quietness. “Can you.. let me be myself again?”

I rose to my feet, and gave only an honest answer. “I can’t let go of you entirely. I don’t remember how to. But.. if you have the strength to show up, I won’t fight it. I’ve kept you down long enough.”

“..I understand.” She smiled, even if it was not all she was hoping to hear. “Thank you, Aria.”

“You’re welcome.. Aria.”

A more amused smile from her this time. “That’s going to be confusing, isn’t it?”

We both managed to laugh at that one, despite ourselves, and as I stepped through the mirror, the sound of her laughter shifted from outside to inside me as my reflection became nothing more than that. I felt different now, but as the cold and empty realm sprawled itself before me again, I knew for sure that I had done something right for once. And I had a new goal in sight - to find a way for us both to survive.

[moonnhare]

i know how to read you. no side note justification needed— sometimes lists are just lists and other times they are something more. a list of scars, for example, is a particular and oftentimes sensitive subject. there is something beneath every word, whether we know it or not.

return to the guidebook. why write a guidebook? i have a map from a visit to the botanical gardens. the receptionist gave it to me as a way of saying here, use this to know the route, to know each plant. you are handing me this silver-bound volume to say hey, i’d like to be known. scars are a culmination of the past and present. they are often the last thing people share with one another. i am grasping your guidebook between secure hands. it does not hold secrets but it holds sentiment. if you remember a story it has meaning. if you write a story it has meaning.

touch me here and here. i have scars enough to where i can’t remember them one by one. on my shoulder, raw and pink: a dive from a skateboard. tan and circular on my wrist: crashed my bike. a fingertip to match yours, but mine met with a car door. come closer in spring. touch anything and i will empty my memories against you.

there is a dagger sliding out from between my lips. i am sharper. i am more direct. you saw it in my eyes. your words bled out, and i blinked— i never knew you to be silent. my heart rate picked up and i felt the thrill of pushing past comfort; i thought: i want to make you nervous. i want to make you flush. i am hungry. does that scare you?

i inhale something green and burning and slump against a couch. rigidity dissolves. teeth come easier; love sloshes over my sides, splattering freely over the floor. the leash slackens. i didn’t know it was that tight in the first place, but it’s nice to be enveloped this way: art jumps out of the screen, your name dances off my tongue, your words spin in my head. i grow warmer. i grow softer. i wish for you beside me. i doze and i dream of spring. of the mark on your jaw and the hollows of your throat. of you apart from your poetry [the person inside the poems instead of the poems inside the person]. i wish for tangibility. i wish for tangibility.

be hungry be hungry be hungry. god knows i am. i am offering my thumbs, my neck; this flesh is yours for the tearing. that mark on your jaw: i want my lips atop it. there is the dagger, there is my hard-edged desire, flashing moonlight in patterns over your body. i am sharp and i am soft. [mostly soft.] i am soft when i say show me how to sleep in. what i really mean is pull me back to bed, back into the crook of your hips. what i really mean is spend the mornings with me. what i really mean is i want to see you. i can’t wait to see you.

there will be a moment when your palpability hits me full force and every nerve will become electric. i will flush and i will stumble over words and it will be twice as awful because you’ll do the same. [awful, adorable, perfectly imperfect.] there will be a moment when i’ll want to draw your face close and then remember that it is your face, rather than the poetic idea of a face, and i will feel a fluttering collapse in my chest as i try to dredge up the courage to look you in the eye. my gaze will dart away and i’ll curse myself for it, so i’ll hold it carefully steady, but if all my concentration goes into meeting your eyes then i will run out of words and you will see all this in my face. put simply: you make me nervous [in the best way]. words of a fox, eyes of a hare.

skip past that. plunge tender words into reality. poetry is a performance, yes, but it is also as honest as i can be. [dichotomy!] i love your words but i miss your corporeality. i miss the slant of your grin and that bashful tone you adopt sometimes. i miss all your terrible dorky interests [even though i tease you for them]. i miss your presence [grounding but also, somehow, elevating] and the way you brighten any room. [fucking cheesy, i know; i just can’t put it any other way].

i am exhausted and i miss you. you’re right even though i won’t say it. i need rest. you need rest, too. i cannot wait to see you in spring.

[chiliiscereal]

There are so many different lives I’d like to live.

I’d like a family.

A husband, who’s my best friend in the whole world, who stays by my side now matter what. A husband that loves my imperfections and helps me smooth them out. A husband to wrap my arms around in the morning as we sleepily cook breakfast. A husband to build pillow forts with. A husband to cook foods with, only to burn it and cave for a pizza delivery. A husband to explore the world with.

And a child who we made together. A child that makes me laugh every day and learn new things. A child that makes me want to pull my hair out when they run about the house and yard. A child to chase after with my husband as we make sure they don’t somehow manage to kill themselves. A child that runs into my arms after their school day, desperately waving about their art piece they made just for me. A child to hold... knowing that they’re innocence won’t be preserved for much longer in a world that lives to destroy such things. A child who I can watch grow up to become the perfect mixture of my husband and I.

But I also want a single life.

I want my family to be just me and my dog, maybe even a pet snake. I want my own house that’s organized the way that I like. I want to decorate it with frogs made of tin cans and random things I found while shopping. I want to blast music as loud as I can, not caring who can hear me sing along with it. I want to travel and see the world. I want to do it for just myself.

I want long walks outside without anyone waiting on me to come back. I want to sleep on the floor without anyone asking if there’s a reason. I want to have the choice to string up lanterns inside because why not? I want garden decorations on my desk and by my bedside. I want to walk around MY house the way I feel comfortable dressing!

And maybe I want either one of those lives in New York! Maybe I want to fall asleep listening to the honkintg cars and constant noise. Maybe I want to observe the interesting people from my window. Maybe I want to have easy access to foreign foods and new musicals. Maybe I want to become lost amongst the people as they weave about their busy days. Maybe I want to wake up at night and I’m not the only one still not sleeping. Maybe it would make me feel less alone and out of place.

Maybe I’d also like a life staying in no one place at all! Maybe I want to sail on a boat in the Caribbean’s, only to climb a mountain in new zeland later that week. I want to see the world I was, without a choice, brought into and forced to watch those with a loud voice and money destroy. I want late night car rides and early morning sunset gazing. I want to meet new people and hear their stories and legends. I want a life so full of energy that I forget my body is dying as I breathe.

But I also want a peaceful life in a cottage out in the woods.

I want to be surrounded by the earth we live in and breath it’s air. I want to feel the life and nature that i live in; that I’m a part of. I want to roam large open fields with my friend as we clutch our hats, racing for the river to put our feet in. I want horse back riding, wild flowers, butterflies, and vines growing up the side of my house. I want bird feeders and wild animals. I want the chirping of crickets and the chittering of raccoons to lull me to sleep, only for the sound of twittering birds to bring me back in the morning. I want star gazing in that same field late in the night as we confess our largest dreams and darkest secrets. I want to ponder on life in the field, grateful for what I’ve been given.

But I also long for a life of luxury.

I want the life of a princess, running down the halls, laughing as my betrothed chases me. I want extravagant dances filled with beautiful dresses and tall strangers. I want to waltz with someone who makes me feel like I myself am the mystery that needs to be unfolded. I want to walk through a beautiful flower garden as I hold the hand of my prince. I want slippery hallways and ceilings tall enough to bang a giraffes head on. I want shiny chandelier lights to illuminate the palace.

And while the life of luxury is nice, I want a life of adventure. I want to navigate the seas with my crew. The large waves and the gentle waves alike. I want to find uncharted islands and walk amongst the townsfolk on rare visits, knowing they haven’t seen half the things I’ve seen. I want to tell stories in a tavern, laughing as my crew mates jump in with commentary. I want dark nights filled with bright lights in the sky that are our map of the earth. I want to find treasure. I want to find things no living man has found before. And I want that all with my crew, whom I would give my life for.

But I also want a life under water. I want to live amongst sea creatures. I want to dive through the waves with dolphins and lounge about with blue whales. I want to chase after swordfish and enchant men with my voice. I want to float with ease in the depths of the ocean. I want illuminating plankton and a vast world out in front of me. I want sea shanty’s and legends made in both warning and awe of what I can do with just my voice.

There are many lives I’d like to live.

But I was given this one for a reason.

[phantomofthepairofdice]

George A. Romero’s “The Amusement Park”

George A. Romero might be the man who most directly served as my gateway to critical movie watching. Unlike a lot of the filmmakers who helped me mature my understanding of film as a medium of art rather than a disposable experience, my love for his work has only deepened as opposed to having a twinge of cringe at the pretense with which I embraced some movies and directors that I’ve grown cold on or outright pivoted into disliking. Where, for the latter, they served a valuable purpose but were perhaps able to do so as a result of being digestible or, in retrospect, lamentably simple, Romero’s movies have not a single thread of posturing to something “important” woven in. Romero was always handy in using the backdoor of theme and metaphor to deliver ideas, as opposed to a direct scolding or information session.

At their very best, his movies achieve a balance that few films can when it comes to being experienced as being equally enjoyable and intellectual - while never sacrificing one for the other. There’s almost an elegance to the inelegance that comes from working so far outside of the studio system. The low budgets of his independent fare give a scrappy, tactile quality to locations and do little to glamorize and gussy up things like frequent collaborator Tom Savini’s chunky, visceral makeup effects. His run in the 70s is especially potent as a result of the low-budget aesthetic. The Crazies, Martin, and Knightriders would lose a certain verisimilitude to their outsider art mission statements if they had a glossy studio packaging. 

I’ve been hesitant to write up my love for the late, great Romero since it feels like a daunting task to distill the endless rivers that flow from the massive glacial totem that is George A. Romero. The same thing can be said for a lot of people whose work I have deeply seeded respect and love for like Jonathan Demme or Robert Altman. I know that art and movies are reduced when treated like rites of passage or items on a checklist for credibility, but I have this overwhelming feeling that I want to come correct when it comes to folks like these. It feels like a responsibility to be comprehensive, eloquent, and effective in describing them, their work, or their massive impact on myself.

Well, I finally got enough reason to put down some words when I found out that a bizarre, long-thought-lost missing puzzle piece of this titanic personal hero was going to be released. Not only that, but I could see it in a relatively safe way in a theater. What I was lucky enough to see projected on a bright wall in a dark room was something that filled me with equal parts pleasure and stomach-churning uneasiness. One of the greatest compliments I can give to the film is that felt like it would make a terrific pairing with Carnival of Souls.

The Amusement Park is a film that Romero was commissioned to make by The Lutheran Society about senior citizens being disregarded by society. After having seen what Romero concocted up with screenwriter Wally Cook, it’s no surprise that the film was shelved, and thought destroyed. Like all of Romero’s great films, The Amusement Park operates with a keen but unpretentious metaphor and allegory at its heart. What makes this project immediately different is that it’s bookended with a direct address to the camera from its star, a charming and hammy Lincoln Maazel, breaking down the mission statement and intent of the symbolism within it. What follows is an experiential concept piece that disorients the viewer in an attempt to have them empathize with their elders’ terror and loneliness at the hands of ageism, elder abuse, and death. It’s an effective plea for human decency and a disquieting, haunted trip to hell outside of heaven’s waiting room.

The runtime is under an hour and plot takes a back seat to sensation, so I won’t go into too much detail for the sake of preserving the set pieces’ potency. What I will do is highlight a few moments and stylistic choices.

The Amusement Park is very angry and very sad. The camera is mostly handheld and takes on a documentary texture when it focuses on the faces of other elderly park goers. There’s a lament for the life that these poor folks are trapped within cut between a venomous glare at the ancillary characters who disregard or assault the senior park guests. Romero’s usual distaste for the wealthy resurfaces most notably in a scene where Maazel’s man sees a rich and “proper” man dine on lobster and smoke a comically large cigar before looking back at the old man in absolute disgust. He’s served a slop of beans and bread on a paper plate. Like a lot of the film’s ideas, the dichotomy of circumstances trades subtlety for effectiveness. What makes this scene unique is that when the old man offers to share his meager rations with the other hungry guests, they show no restraint – it’s a nasty collage of shots with bread being torn and people shoved.

The real standout sequence comes as our unnamed protagonist follows a young couple into a fortune teller’s tent while they ask to see their future. The spritely lovebirds want to know if they’ll be still be together in their old age, but the fortune teller offers warning that in order to see their future, they’ll need to see it in its entirety. The couple’s youthful ignorance shows a general feeling of invincibility that many of the young characters have throughout the film, but once they see what the soothsayer has to offer, they are forced to reckon with the ominous vicissitudes that appear before them.

The editing of the sequence is jarring, cutting between the disparate time periods – flash cuts between the crystal ball and the eyes of the woman behind it are slammed into what looks like a documentary or news interview with a building manager who laments the raise in taxes and how it keeps him from fixing the dangerous, dilapidated, low-rent housing behind him. This is an institutional crisis. The film cuts to narrative footage of that same young couple, now old and desperate for emergency medical attention. Outside, a high school marching band blares and trots forward with a brash, spry pace. It’s as if the band is flippantly taunting the old women, life trampling on without her and her bedridden husband. The wife’s attempts to reach their doctor are moot. Chaos overwhelms a quiet passing. Upon seeing his own mortality, the young man targets the protagonist and attacks him in a flurry of confused anger.

The movie has an episodic structure, and some of these interludes work better than others. While I do think that the movie is quite good and a must-see for any curious fans of the director’s career (he even has a great cameo), I certainly wouldn’t hail it as a masterpiece. Working for hire within the specific constraints of an educational film and off of a script that he didn’t write (a rarity within his career), there’s some serious clumsiness to the some of the story beats and how underlined the symbolism is. I also greatly missed the seamless integration gallows humor that spices up even the bleakest of Romero’s other projects. What’s here in terms of levity occasionally undercuts the horror. That being said, its mission to imbue experiential empathy for old folks was undeniably successful in this viewer - the packaging may be a bit busted, but the product is fresh and satisfying. Like The Crazies or his Dead films, the ever-approaching specter of death is the driving force behind the melancholic terrors of the piece. Romero’s knack for satisfying but somber endings is present here as well. Images from this - like the holy men closing up shop - stack up alongside some of the other hauntingly effective moments from Romero’s movies that are emblazoned in my brain like the closing montage of Night of the Living Dead, the opening sequence of Martin, the roaches in Creepshow, and the wall of hands from Day of the Dead.

While it feels weird to offer praise to a man alongside a short review for a movie he was, by all accounts, not terribly impressed with, this is what I’ve chosen to do. *shrugs* I’ll never write the perfect tribute or quite distill the gratitude I have for certain people and the gifts they gave me (along with countless others). I can selfishly make that a burden and never actually put it out there for fear of imperfection, or I can be grateful and embrace the luck that I’ve been able to see another work from one of those people. Especially after watching this, I’ll choose the latter.

The Amusement Park is now available to stream on Shudder.

[beenwaytoolongatsea]

🕺💃💕🎶🤘😎🎶💕

Wise words from Dave Grohl of Nirvana and Foo Fighters:

"Where were you planning to be on the Fourth of July this year? Backyard barbecue with your crankiest relatives, fighting over who gets to light the illegal fireworks that your derelict cousin smuggled in from South Carolina? Or maybe out on the Chesapeake Bay, arguing about the amount of mayonnaise in the crab cakes while drinking warm National Bohemian beer? Better yet, tubing down the Shenandoah with a soggy hot dog while blasting Grand Funk Railroad’s “We’re an American Band”?

I know exactly where I was supposed to be: FedExField, outside Washington, D.C., with my band Foo Fighters and roughly 80,000 of our closest friends. We were going to be celebrating the 25th anniversary of our debut album. A red, white, and blue keg party for the ages, it was primed to be an explosive affair shared by throngs of my sunburned hometown brothers and sisters, singing along to more than a quarter century of Foo.

Well, things have changed.

Unfortunately, the coronavirus pandemic has reduced today’s live music to unflattering little windows that look like doorbell security footage and sound like Neil Armstrong’s distorted transmissions from the moon, so stuttered and compressed. It’s enough to make Max Headroom seem lifelike. Don’t get me wrong, I can deal with the monotony and limited cuisine of quarantine (my lasagna game is on point!), and I know that those of us who don’t have to work in hospitals or deliver packages are the lucky ones, but still, I’m hungry for a big old plate of sweaty, ear-shredding, live rock and roll, ASAP. The kind that makes your heart race, your body move, and your soul stir with passion.

There is nothing like the energy and atmosphere of live music. It is the most life-affirming experience, to see your favorite performer onstage, in the flesh, rather than as a one-dimensional image glowing in your lap as you spiral down a midnight YouTube wormhole. Even our most beloved superheroes become human in person. Imagine being at Wembley Stadium in 1985 as Freddie Mercury walked onstage for the Live Aid benefit concert. Forever regarded as one of the most triumphant live performances of all time (clocking in at a mere 22 minutes) Freddie and Queen somehow managed to remind us that behind every rock god is someone who puts on their studded arm bracelet, absurdly tight white tank, and stonewashed jeans one pant leg at a time just like the rest of us. But, it wasn’t necessarily Queen’s musical magic that made history that day. It was Freddie's connection with the audience that transformed that dilapidated soccer stadium into a sonic cathedral. In broad daylight, he majestically made 72,000 people his instrument, joining them in harmonious unison.

As a lifelong concertgoer, I know this feeling well. I myself have been pressed against the cold front rail of an arena rock show. I have air-drummed along to my favorite songs in the rafters, and been crushed in the crowd, dancing to dangerous decibel levels while lost in the rhythm. I’ve been lifted and carried to the stage by total strangers for a glorious swan dive back into their sweaty embrace. Arm in arm, I have sung at the top of my lungs with people I may never see again. All to celebrate and share the tangible, communal power of music.

When you take away the pyrotechnics and confetti of an arena rock concert, what are you left with? Just … people? I will never forget the night I witnessed U2 perform at what used to be called the MCI Center in D.C. This was their 2001 Elevation Tour, a massive production. I waited for the lights to go out so that I could lose myself in a magnificent, state-of-the-art rock show. To my surprise, the band walked onstage without any introduction, house lights fully illuminated, and kicked into the first song beneath their harsh, fluorescent glow, without the usual barrage of lasers and LED screens we’ve all become accustomed to. The brilliant move stunned the audience and began an unforgettable concert on a very raw, personal note. This was no accident, mind you. It was a lesson in intimacy. Without all the strobes and lasers, the room shrank to the size of a dirty nightclub at last call, every blemish in plain view. And with that simple gesture, we were reminded that we are all indeed just people. People that need to connect with one another.

One night, before a Foo Fighters show in Vancouver, my tour manager alerted me that the “Boss” himself, Bruce Springsteen, was in attendance (cue paralyzing nerves). Frozen with fear, I wondered how I could possibly perform in front of this legendary showman, famous for his epic concerts that span four hours. I surely could never live up to his lofty expectations! It turns out he was there to see the opening band (cue devastating humiliation), so I was off the hook. But we chatted briefly before the gig, and I was again reminded of not only the human being behind every superhero, but also the reason millions of people identify with him: He is real. Three hours later, as I sat on a locker-room bench recovering from the show, drenched in my own sweat, there was a knock at the door. Bruce wanted to say hello. Having actually stayed for our set (cue jaw crashing to the floor), he very generously thanked us and commented on our performance, specifically the rapport we seem to have with our audience. Something he obviously understood very well. When asked where he watched the show from, he said that he’d stood in the crowd, just like everyone else. Of course he did. He was searching for that connection too.

A few days later, I received a letter from Bruce, handwritten on hotel stationery, that explained this very clearly. “When you look out at the audience,” he wrote, “you should see yourself in them, just as they should see themselves in you.”

Not to brag, but I think I’ve had the best seat in the house for 25 years. Because I do see you. I see you pressed against the cold front rails. I see you air-drumming along to your favorite songs in the distant rafters. I see you lifted above the crowd and carried to the stage for a glorious swan dive back into its sweaty embrace. I see your homemade signs and your vintage T-shirts. I hear your laughter and your screams and I see your tears. I have seen you yawn (yeah, you), and I’ve watched you pass out drunk in your seat. I've seen you in hurricane-force winds, in 100-degree heat, in subzero temperatures. I have even seen some of you grow older and become parents, now with your children's Day-Glo protective headphones bouncing on your shoulders. And each night when I tell our lighting engineer to “Light ’em up!,” I do so because I need that room to shrink, and to join with you as one under the harsh, fluorescent glow.

In today’s world of fear and unease and social distancing, it's hard to imagine sharing experiences like these ever again. I don’t know when it will be safe to return to singing arm in arm at the top of our lungs, hearts racing, bodies moving, souls bursting with life. But I do know that we will do it again, because we have to. It’s not a choice. We’re human. We need moments that reassure us that we are not alone. That we are understood. That we are imperfect. And, most important, that we need each other. I have shared my music, my words, my life with the people who come to our shows. And they have shared their voices with me. Without that audience—that screaming, sweating audience—my songs would only be sound. But together, we are instruments in a sonic cathedral, one that we build together night after night. And one that we will surely build again."

[lovingxreader]

Is It Because I’m A Woman

Chapter One: Woman

Rated M

Word Count: 1.8k

WARNING!!!! This chapter includes strong language, mentions of sexual encounters, and abuse

You can read this without having to watch the show!~

A/N: hello everybody! This is my first time writing for the show, I hope everyone enjoys it! Also sorry if it’s a bit rusty It’s been a while since I’ve written something so hopefully it isn’t too cringy. Anyway like and comment and tell me what you think and ENJOY!!!!

Suddenly I was thrusted out of my bed and onto the cold wooden floor. Sitting up I whipped my head around to see who had disturbed my sleep. My foster father stood over me before wrapping his fat fingers around my forearm. He yanked me to my feet before using his free hand to grab a hold of my curly tresses. I yelp as I the familiar sharp pain as he pulled my hair forcing me to look him in the eyes. “What the fuck are you doing sleeping? You ungrateful bitch, there is work to do and you dare to sleep!” He yelled before throwing me to the floor as I landed with a clatter. “Get up and stop being Pitiful and get to work. I’m not housing and feeding you, just for you to be a lazy cow!” He snarled as he left the room slamming the door shut behind him. This was how it’s always been, day after day, morning after morning ever since I was a little girl. As soon as I could walk I was taught how to cook and clean because as my father would say ‘it’s what women should do.’ I became a slave to a man I was suppose to call father. We lived in a fairly large house out on the outskirts of the city within one of the greatest kingdoms on the continent. He owned a store front in the market and a small workshop behind our house where he would work at his forge. When I was but a baby, my foster father found me swaddled down by a river when he was traveling. He took me in, fed me, and treated me as if I had come from his own loins. That was...until my elven ears started to take shape. From then on he treated me as if I was nothing more than some beast. I was taught the art of blacksmithing by the same man that when he realized I could make him coin instead of burnt venison. He made a living from my hard work and burnt hands.

Over time he went from being barely able to forge a spoon to suddenly being one of the best smiths on the continent. He was taking fame from my work and plagiarizing it as his own. Travelers, peasants, and royalty alike would come to the store to buy forged items from my father. When the coin should go to me and the supplies I use, instead it goes to gorging himself with ale and whores in the brothels. Despite the abuse and him using me as his personal cash cow, he would allow small grace moments where he would let me sit outside during the day and let me soak in the warm rays of the sun. The rest of the time I spent inside the lantern lit shop where I forged my creations by the blazing flames.

The workspace where I worked wasn’t drastically messy but definitely could have been cleaner. But even with the clutter, it was organized to a system that allowed me to work swiftly as I could. Once I was in the workshop my father wouldn’t interrupt me as he could hear the pounding of the mallet hitting the hot metal on the anvil. The only window (if you could even call it such) was in the roof which I had caused by accidentally catching it on fire while I was still learning. That same night when I made that mistake he ripped down my blouse, held me down and branded my shoulder with his family crest. Forever I will bear the scar of his family as if I was some cattle. At that point as I laid there in agony with tears streaming from my eyes, I truly lost hope of ever being free.

It was one of the small moments when father was still busy being pleasured down at the whore house early in the morning, that was when I was able to sneak out and explore the city. During the day when it would be buzzing with life, he kept me secret and locked in the workshop. I was walking through the empty streets, the morning mist still hanging low in the air. This particular morning had been a bit chilled so I adorned my dark woolen cloak. With each step I took it brushed against my ankles where the length of my skirt had gotten too short to keep them covered. From under the hood my platinum blonde curls cascaded out like a golden waterfall, it ending at my waist. In the dim rays of the sun slowly rising, the light passing through the mist illuminating my pale skin. With each step I enjoyed the sound of my boots on the cobblestone as I listen to the sound of the quiet city. I stopped for a moment to listen as I hear the sound of horses hooves and what seems like the endless chatter of a man swiftly approaching. Glancing around attempting to find a spot to conceal myself, I dart into a nearby alley between two buildings waiting for the rider to passby. “Can’t we stay for a bit longer Geralt; I’ve heard many ballads of the women from here being Exceptionally beautiful.” the man in colorful clothing with a lute on his back spoke as he walked beside a chestnut colored horse and it’s dark cloaked rider. My eyes widen as I saw him. From his broad shoulders to his enchanting golden eyes, it shook me to my core. His ghostly white hair peeking out from underneath the hood framing his sharp jawline and strong bone structure. I was in awe of him. Suddenly the rider halted his horse and glanced around as if somehow, he could feel me watching him from my hiding spot in the alley. “Do you see something?” The colorful clothed man asked as he looks up at the rider before glancing around himself in a more nervous manner. Then it happened, I caught his gaze. His amber eyes staring into my own crimson ones. I felt so naked as if I was a frightened deer standing before a hungry predator. Breaking from the trance of the rider’s gaze I moved from my hiding spot and bolted away from the two, my feet kicking up dust as I make my way back to the shop and the safety of my forge. As soon as I got to the door of the workshop I try to control my rapid breathing as I wait to hear the sound of horse hooves and footsteps following after me, but there was nothing but my heavy breath. Stepping back into the sanctuary of the shop, I removed my cloak and adorned my smock as I knelt down to start the fire just in time for father to come barging in for his morning degrading.

I was standing by the fire tossing in more enchanted fire salts when father bursts through the door holding a fairly damaged sword. “This one comes first. The ugly bastard of a witcher is paying a pretty coin for your work.” He spoke before he struggled to carry it to my workbench before turning and slamming the door shut behind him. Sighing deeply I wiped my dirty hands onto my apron as I approached the table. The blade indeed was heavily damaged, not only was the tip broken off, there was body damage on the blade and it was stained with what looked like dark blood. The leather straps on the blade’s handle were also worn down from how the owner held their hands on the handle. Picking up the sword I used both hands to lift the heavy weapon placing my hands where this ‘Witcher’ would put theirs. I marveled at the large size of the owners hands were from just the parts that were worn down on the leather. The weight of the sword itself was quite hefty as I held the sword in one hand. Turning on my heels I made a stance before taking a deep breath and attacked the air with a fluid motion as if fighting with a blade was easy. Rolling my shoulders back to stretch them, I set the blade back down and removed the leather straps before separating the blade from the hilt and sitting it within the white embers of the fire.

My arms were heavy and my feet in pain, my father had come into the shop after closing the store to bring me my meal for the day before leaving for his nightly visit to the brothel. This time it was a somewhat moldy loaf of bread. I sat on my stool picking off the pieces of untainted bread to consume. I watched the flames dance as they continued to burn brightly. Looking up I could see the stars through the opening in the roof as I rested my aching feet on a shorter stool. Grabbing a nearby cloth I used it to wipe the black coal and ash from my face. I desperately craved a hot bath as I could feel the gritty texture or dirt on my skin. Standing once again I went over to the fire, using tongs to grab the blade. Once removing it from the fire I brought it over to the anvil. Every time I pulled a piece of metal from the fire, I think of the branding on my shoulder as I try to stay focused to ignore the dull pain of the scar. Grabbing my hammer I began to pound on the searing hot metal, shaping it back to its original form ridding it of its imperfections. Between my constant rhythmic pounding and the roar of the fire I didn’t hear the sound of someone approaching till suddenly the door opened and in walked two men. There I was hammer still raised in the air as I stared at the same colorful man with the lute and the cloaked black rider from the morning. The man with the lute gawked at me with wide eyes and a shocked expression while the other stared plainly at me. I stood frozen in my spot as the one in colorful clothing spoke. “You’re a woman?!”