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pretchatta · 3 years ago

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swoon june day 30: reunion/finding each other

the last one! swoon june is now over but I have had so much fun doing these prompts, a huge thank you to @chaos-company for hosting this event!

I've saved the best 'til last. from the moment I read the prompt list I knew I would be finishing on this one - the prompt was too perfect not to. this is my take on how rebels should have ended!

rating: general; kanan jarrus/hera syndulla; 2.4k words

---

“You don’t understand what you’re asking me to do.” Ezra’s eyes were fixed on Kanan through the doorway, his mind working furiously.

“Yes, I do,” Ahsoka said calmly. “You can’t save–”

“We just have to hold back the flames long enough to pull him through the door!” Ezra interrupted. “I’ve been thinking about this for days – replaying this moment in my head – there is time!”

“Ezra–”

“I can do this!”

He stopped listening to Ahsoka. Closing his eyes, Ezra reached forwards with the Force, through the doorway to where Kanan stood. Both of his master’s arms were outstretched, one holding back the flames that were licking their way up the cracked fuel pod and the other holding back a desperate, frantic Hera. Ezra could feel the fire’s energy, the intensity of it, and was struck with the same awe he had been when he’d lived this night for the first time. Kanan was holding this inferno back one-handed. He, Ezra, would only be able to do that for a few seconds.

He got ready to pull.

Kanan turned to face away from the blaze and used all his strength to push Hera and the patrol transport out of harm’s way. That was Ezra’s moment. He braced himself to hold the flames back and pulled on Kanan, stumbling as the sudden intensity of the explosion his master had been restraining hit him. He felt Kanan come flying towards the doorway with more speed and less effort than he expected – Ahsoka was helping him.

A split second later Kanan’s body struck him and Ezra crumpled under the impact. He lost his focus, feeling the fireball expand unrestrained. Flames filled the doorway’s line of sight, but none came through.

“Kanan!” Hera’s broken cry still came through over the roar of the inferno, as well as another sound – was that a howling wolf? Then it all faded; the door had closed.

“Kanan?” Ezra groaned, winded.

He shoved Kanan off with a grunt and rolled over. Ahsoka came to stand beside him.

“Kanan?”

He hadn’t moved. Ezra grabbed his shoulders and shook, but the scarred eyes remained closed.

“Kanan! Wake up!”

Ezra felt Ahsoka’s hand on his shoulder.

“I don’t think we were supposed to do that,” she said. Her voice was the same calm, even tone it had been before, but there was a slight shakiness to it now.

“What do you mean? We saved him!”

“Use your senses, Ezra. What do you feel?”

For the first time, doubt spiked Ezra’s heart. He sat back on his heels and closed his eyes, reaching out through the Force to his master. He ignored the way the Force seemed closer in this place, and how strangely devoid of life it felt; he focused only on Kanan, and on the bright beacon that was his presence.

Except… It wasn’t as bright as it had been before. It wasn’t darker, exactly, but it was somehow… Less. Like it was missing something.

“What – what happened?” Ezra asked, starting to feel afraid. “What’s wrong with him?”

Ahsoka looked uncertain. “I don’t know.”

They were interrupted from saying anything further by a distant rumbling sound.

Ahsoka was immediately alert. “We can’t stay here. You opened the door to this world. Do you know how to close it?”

“Sabine will know,” Ezra replied. “We can do it together. They’ll be so happy to see you and Kanan.” He started moving around Kanan, getting his arms under his shoulders to lift him.

Ahsoka made no move to help. “I can’t go with you, and I don’t think Kanan should either.”

“What?” Ezra froze in surprise. “No, I can’t leave him. I can’t leave either of you after I just–”

“You’ll see us both again. But I have a feeling we should all return to the real world through the doorway we came through.” She bent to help him with Kanan. “I’ll help you put Kanan back into the wreckage of that explosion, and then I must return to Malachor.”

“Alright. I trust your feelings.” They picked up Kanan’s unconscious form between them and moved back towards the doorway. It started to open as they approached, onto the rubble that gleamed in the light of the two moons. “When I’m back, I’ll go straight to the factory to get him back. It’s only been a few days, and we didn’t see any stormtroopers checking the ruins. How will I find you?”

“Perhaps I can…”

They both turned to see a strange blue light coming from a distant doorway. In unison, they turned to each other and reached an unspoken understanding. Quickly yet gently Kanan was lowered to the ground beyond the doorway and to relative safety.

Then, Ezra and Ahsoka ran.

---

Hera was working on maintenance. That’s what she was telling herself. It didn’t matter that there hadn’t been anything wrong with the caf machine before she’d started; it was always playing up, there was bound to be some part of it that needed fixing. That it was a useful distraction from the grief that clawed at her insides and threatened to drown her from within was only a bonus. She wouldn’t take apart a perfectly functioning piece of machinery just to avoid being left alone with her thoughts. That was ridiculous.

She heard the sound of the Phantom’s engines outside and put down her tools. That would be Ezra and Zeb returning, and she was curious what they had been doing. As soon as they’d all returned to the Ghost from the incident at the Jedi Temple (or the area where the Temple had formerly stood) Ezra had been acting strange. He’d insisted on going on some mission that was vitally important but he’d refused to give anyone any details, including the only person he would allow to come with him.

As Hera stood up to leave the galley she realised she could hear the shuttle landing outside. That was strange – why wouldn’t Ezra dock with the Ghost? She gladly let the mystery of Ezra’s behaviour consume her thoughts as she walked down the ramp.

Outside, Ezra was emerging from the back hatch of the Phantom. He had a slightly dazed expression on his face, like he couldn’t quite believe what was happening. Behind him Zeb was following, holding something in his arms. That would explain the landing – it was often awkward to get cargo down the ladder.

Actually, was that cargo? It looked like–

Ezra stood aside to give her full view of what – or who – Zeb was holding. Hera gasped.

“Is that – is he –”

“He’s alive,” Ezra said.

Hera let out a strangled sob and ran forward. His name caught at the back of her throat, unable to come out. She reached Zeb but her hands hovered over the body in his arms, unsure of where to go – there were no visible injuries, not even burns. Half of her wanted to touch all of him at once, and the other half was scared that if she did, her hands would pass right through and he wouldn’t be real. Eventually they settled on his face, and a soft cry escaped her lips as her fingers brushed warm skin. Kanan was alive.

“He won’t wake up,” Ezra continued, and Hera could hear traces of a scared little boy in his voice. “And I don’t know why.”

“He’ll wake up.” She swallowed. “He has to wake up.” If she said it confidently enough; if they all believed it hard enough...

“What do we do with him?” Zeb asked.

Hera could feel the maelstrom of emotions building inside of her, but there was no time for that now. Her crew needed her. Kanan needed her.

“Take him to his bunk. There’s not much we can do for him right now – we can’t even get off Lothal. But he’ll be safe there.”

Zeb started walking, but Hera was unwilling to let go of Kanan. She ended up walking backwards, the three of them awkwardly manoeuvering through the Ghost until they reached Kanan’s bunk. As they passed Sabine’s room she heard the faint sound of music and the hiss of spray paints. She couldn’t wait to tell Sabine.

Hera only needed a little nudging from Zeb to move out of the way so that he could put Kanan down. She desperately wanted to go back to him, to lay down next to him and physically feel his body next to hers, warm and alive and here. But she held herself back, and when Ezra called to her from the corridor she went out to speak to him.

“Hera – about Lothal…” he began. “I have a plan.”

He gave her a serious look.

“I know how we can get rid of the Empire for good.”

---

Kanan woke up.

It took a few moments for him to register that there was anything wrong with that. He was lying in his own bunk, with the Ghost’s engines a quiet background hum and the distant sounds of other people coming from elsewhere in the ship. Then he moved his head slightly and felt the short stubble on his head and the air moving against the bare skin of his chin.

He was awake.

The last thing he remembered was the heat. The intense, searing heat of the burning fuel, and the light… it had been so bright. And he had seen it. For a few moments, he had seen. He could remember Ezra and Hera’s faces, the sight of them blissful and yet heart-wrenching at the same time. Ezra’s eyes had been wide with horror, and Hera’s beautiful face had been twisted in agony.

When the wolves had told him that he was going to die, he’d known it would hit his family hard. But he also knew how strong they were, Hera most of all, and how they would help each other through it. At least they would be alive to get through it, he had told himself. That was all that mattered to him.

So how was he alive too?

He sat up. He was still blind, that much was obvious. Whatever had allowed him to have those few moments of vision just before he’d let go of the flames had apparently been temporary. He ran a hand over his face; no burns, just the old scar over his eyes. Physically he felt fine. He felt around the bunk, feeling how the blanket over him was rumpled and folded back beside him, as though someone else had at one point been sleeping next to him. He swung his legs out to stand on the floor, and that was then he realised what was missing.

The Force was gone.

The vast web that connected him to the universe, the energy that constantly flowed around and through him, the extra senses that helped him to see without his eyes – it was all gone. How could that happen? Was it somehow related to his miraculous survival? Had he somehow given up his Force abilities in order to return to his family?

He wouldn’t find the answers by staying here. Carefully, he made his way to the door. He didn’t need the Force for this; the interior of the Ghost was as familiar to him as his own body. Out in the corridor he could tell that the sounds of people were coming from the cockpit, so that was where he directed himself.

He reached the end of the corridor through the crew quarters and stood before the door to the cockpit. Through it he could hear Ezra’s voice, though it sounded strange – tinny, as though coming from a hologram. He hit the door controls.

“I couldn’t have wished for a better family. I can’t wait to come home.”

He recognised the sound of static cutting out, as though a recording had been switched off, and Kanan remembered the other things the wolves had shown him. What would happen to his family after he was gone. What his sacrifice would allow to happen. They must have done it – Lothal was free, and Ezra was gone.

No-one seemed to have noticed his entrance; he assumed they were still recovering from Ezra’s message.

“Did I go a bit too hard on the self-sacrifice stuff?”

He heard the rustle of five heads turning towards him.

“Kanan!” Sabine’s overjoyed shout came from the co-pilot’s side of the cockpit, but he didn’t hear her move. Instead, he heard the familiar creak of the pilot’s chair and braced himself a moment before someone was throwing herself bodily into his arms.

He held her as tightly as she gripped him, her face pressed against his, their tears mingling on their cheeks. After a few moments, Kanan drew back enough to stroke a hand reverently over her cheek.

“You’re alive,” Hera whispered, her voice breaking as more tears began to flow.

“I’m alive,” he murmured back, doing his best to wipe them away with his thumb.

“And you’re okay!”

He could feel her cheeks forming a smile under his palm. “Well, I can’t see you any more.”

“What have I told you, love,” she said, but didn’t give him a chance to answer. Her hand cupped his face as she pulled him down for a kiss.

Their moment on the fuel pod didn't seem that long ago, yet the kiss was the sweetest Kanan could remember. He could have spent forever in that moment with Hera.

“Okay, that’s enough of that!” Sabine called, and Kanan heard the others finally moving towards him.

He felt Hera let go reluctantly, though she kept one hand on the small of his back as the rest of his family moved in for their reunions. Sabine wrapped her arms tightly around his waist, Zeb almost cracked his ribs with his crushing embrace, Rex gave him several slaps on the back with his and even Mart Mattin came in for a hug. Everyone was talking excitedly over each other, exclamations and questions filling the air, none of which Kanan knew how to answer.

One voice that caught his ear, however.

“At the end of his message, what Ezra said…” he heard Sabine say. “‘I’m counting on you’. Do you think he means to go after him?”

Kanan didn’t know who she was talking to, but he answered anyway.

“I think he does. And I think I know where you should start looking.”

#kanera #swoonjune2021 #kanan jarrus #hera syndulla #star wars rebels #star wars: rebels #kanan x hera #sw rebels #jedi night #fix it #kanan lives #sw fic #star wars fic #fic #pretchwritta #swoon june

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grailfinders · 3 years ago

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Fate and Phantasms #199

Today on Fate and Phantasms we're making the Jotaro Kujo of FGO, Semiramis! (Seriously, how does that cape/hair... thing work? It's wild.) The queen of poisons is a Graviturgy Wizard to make building a floating castle slightly less difficult to make and cooler to live in, plus a Witherbloom Druid for some dove friends and extra poisons. If you've seen our builds for Waver and Edison, you might know already that building things with magic is costly and time-consuming, and for once that is 100% accurate to the character. Get ready, this is gonna be a weird one.

Check out her build breakdown below the cut, or her character sheet over here!

Next up: I'm 40% appendicitis!

Race and Background

Semiramis is technically an aasimar, but she doesn't fly around or heal people, so we can just focus on her human side. .... Oooor we can focus on those ears, because we need to nick some stuff from being an Elf. Specifically, we're going with the Vahadar Elf from Plane Shift Kaladesh, since they've got the ears, the proficiencies we'll need later, and their backstory's still about living in general society, unlike wood elves and other Kaladeshian elves. Thanks to Tasha's Cauldron of Everything, this gives her +2 Intelligence and +1 Wisdom, as well as Darkvision, Fey Ancestry against being charmed, a Trance instead of sleep so she can't be put to sleep, Keen Senses for proficiency in Perception, the Mending cantrip to piece together the castle later, and most importantly Elf Weapon Training. Normally this would give her proficiency with four weapons, but thanks to Tasha's we can swap this out with four tools instead. Carpenter's, Glassblower's, Mason's, and Smith's Tools proficiency should give us everything we need to build a castle later- we'll go into the why when we get there.

Semiramis is also a Noble- grab History, but swap out Persuasion for Deception. Yeah, not even her background can escape how weird this build is.

Ability Scores

Poisoning skills come from Intelligence (I think. WotC are really nonspecific about how to actually fucking make poison), and it's also your main casting modifier: put that first. Second should be your Charisma, nobody drinks poison on purpose, so you'd better get good at lying. After that is Wisdom. If your poisons aren't made with Intelligence it'll definitely be wisdom. That means your Dexterity isn't great- yeah, you fight in a dress, but if you're fighting and not your lackeys, something's gone wrong. We're not dumping Constitution because we're not stupid, so dump Strength instead. You've got minions to carry rocks around for you.

Class Levels

Wizard 1: Starting as a wizard nets you the weakest hit die in the game, but it also gets you proficiency in Intelligence and Wisdom saves, plus the Arcana and Medicine skills. You're half caster, and if you want to ruin someone's bodily functions you have to know what those are first. Starting as a wizard also gets you Spells that you can cast and prepare using your Intelligence. You get six at first level and two each level after. That's a lot, so we're just going to over spells that are important for the build here, though there's a full list of what we'd get in the character sheet. For cantrips, grab Infestation and Poison Spray for poison damage. For once infestation is completely kosher as is, since Semiramis can summon any creature as long as its poisonous. Also, grab Message. Castle halls are big and echo-y, and it's probably not a good idea to shout at people to find out which glass they put the poison in. Aside from that, grab Mage Armor so you die less, Magic Missile for Assassin balls, and Tenser's Floating Disk to carry all the raw materials you'll be using later. Finally, you get an Arcane Recovery once per long rest, letting you recover a couple spell slots on a short rest. The total level you recover is equal to half your wizard level, rounded up.

Wizard 2: Going into second level of wizard gives you a school of magic, and it's hard to lift several tons of stone into the air if you're not into Graviturgy. When you take the subclass, you can Adjust Density as an action, doubling or halving a large or smaller creature/object's weight for up to a minute with concentration. If you reduce a creature's weight it'll increase their speed by 10', double their jump distance, and have disadvantage on strength saves and checks, and vice versa if you increase it. I checked, and stone is roughly 1,000 times denser than air, not 2, so we'll have to do some brewing later to make this work out. Make your strong minions stronger, your fast minions faster, or do the opposite for your enemies.

Wizard 3: Third level wizards get second level spells. You won't get any dragons in this build, sad to say, but you can use Dragon's Breath to turn just about anything into a dragon. They can even spit poison breath, which is really good with the poisoner's feat. Speaking of..

Wizard 4: First Ability Score Improvement of the build, so grab the Poisoner's Feat for more poisony goodness. All poison-based damage rolls you make ignore resistance, you can coat weapons as a bonus action, and you get proficiency in the poisoner's kit. You also learn a special poison that'll force a dc 14 constitution save on the creature you use it on, dealing 2d8 poison damage and poisoning them for a round.

Wizard 5: Fifth level wizards get third level spells. Animate Dead will help you make dragontooth warriors, a.k.a. skeletons. You can make one per casting right now, but you can recast the spell to retain control over up to three skeletons at once. Otherwise they'll be uncontrollable monsters, which is probably less of a goal.

Druid 1: Semiramis might be known for her poisons, but she's really a multifaceted person. Well, not really, but if you want poisons, you're going to get them from animals. If you want animals, you're going to get them from druids. First level druids learn Druidic- it's a language! They also get another set of Spellcasting using their Wisdom to cast and prepare spells. Check the multiclassing table to figure out your spell slots. Grab Guidance and Resistance to be a bit better than everyone else. For first level spells, look for Entangle and Snare to summon chains to slow down enemies, and Speak with Animals to make sure your dovey-woveys know their work is appreciated. We haven't gotten dovey-woveys yet? Don't worry, they're coming.

Druid 2: Second level druids join their circle, and you're so goddamn smart you just joined another school. At the college of Witherbloom, you'll learn how to turn the vitality of nature into deadly poisons. Right off the bat you get circle spells, which are always prepared for you and don't count against how many spells you can prepare. Right now you get the Spare the Dying cantrip as well as Cure and Inflict Wounds. Now you don't literally have to summon a whip every time you want to hit someone. You can also tap in creatures' essences with your Essence Tap. As a bonus action, you empower yourself for 1 minute, gaining one of two options. Overgrowth lets you heal yourself with a hit die each turn as a bonus action, adding your wisdom modifier to the amount healed. Withering Strike lets you change your damage to necrotic when you hit someone with any sort of damage, ignoring resistances to make your poisons even deadlier. You can use this proficiency times per long rest. Most importantly, you gain a Wild Shape / Wild Companion. Both features use the same two charges per short rest. You're limited to what you can turn into based on its CR and movement options, but those limits and how long you can transform/summon a creature for grows as you level up. Currently I'd stick with Wild Companion for dove familiars, but some versions of Semiramis' story include her turning into a dove herself at the end, so Wild Shape isn't out of the question. As long as we sink eight levels into druid, at least.

Druid 3: Third level druids get second level spells, like your freebies Lesser Restoration and Ray of Enfeeblement. Look, if you're going to make poisons it only makes sense that you'd have antidotes on hand. You can also grab spells like Animal Messenger to send your doves out for ingredients, and Locate Animals or Plants to find them yourself.

Wizard 6: Sixth level graviturgists can make a Gravity Well when you cast a spell, moving the target 5 feet in any direction if it is willing or you successfully hit it with the spell. Speaking of spells that push people, Pulse Wave does just that, stepping in for the big stompy dragon animation. Creatures in a 30' cone make a constitution save, and if they fail they'll take force damage and get pushed back 15', or 20' with Gravity Well. You can also pull them, but that's not really stompy at that point. You can also Summon Undead to create a stronger skeleton to lead the others.

Druid 4: At fourth level, druids can transform into swimming creatures, and you also get another ASI. Bump up your Intelligence for stronger spells. Also, grab the Control Fire cantrip, it'll be cold in your castle without it.

Druid 5: Fifth level druids get third level spells, like Revivify and Vampiric Touch. Neither of those are in character, but you can also Conjure Animals (as long as they're poisonous) and Dispel Magic to keep your throne room free of nonsense.

Wizard 7: Seventh level wizard get fourth level spells, including the one we've been working our way up to, Fabricate! As long as you have the raw materials, you can turn them into products of the same material. Since you're working with stone, you're limited to creating Medium objects this way. Just line the outside of the medium objects you make with halves of smaller objects, then mend them together, and eventually you'll have a castle. This will take a while. For a decent-sized castle of 300'x400', you'll be looking at roughly 480 medium-sized blocks per floor. At level 20 you'll have 12 spell slots of fourth level or higher, so you can knock out a floor in roughly 40 days, not including things like doors or other furniture. Also worth noting, you can't make fancy things like glass without proficiency in the tools required to make them normally, hence all the tool proficiencies from your racial bonuses.

Wizard 8: Use your next ASI to bump up your Wisdom for better healing and stronger druid spells. You also learn Mordenkainen's Private Sanctum, so you can prevent creatures from spying into your hanging gardens. Especially useful is the ability to block creatures from teleporting or plane shifting onto your grounds, as that's probably the only way to approach your gardens safely. Or at least it is after you learn Ice Storm, a long range spell that pelts enemies with ice and turns the area into difficult terrain. Of note, it doesn't say the ground, so the entire cylinder will be difficult to fly through. If you want to build giant arcane cannons instead for authenticity, I salute you. Just remember that'll have to come out of your budget.

Wizard 9: Ninth level wizards get fifth level spells, and Wall of Stone will help you speed up construction by making ten 10'x10' panels or ten 10'x20' panels. You can also use this spell to create bridges or the like, and if you hold concentration for 10 minutes the stone remains permanently. If you want to skimp on materials so you can just get this fucking thing in the air already, this'll help with that. You're also learning Geas. If you can't summon a dragon, forcibly controlling a dragon is the next best thing.

Druid 6: Did you think we were done with druid? I said we were stuck here for 8 levels, didn't I? Sixth level witherbloom druids can make a Witherbloom Brew thanks to their new proficiency with Herbalism kits. At the end of a long rest, you can use that kit to make Proficiency brews, which last for 24 hours. A Fortifying brew gives a creature resistance to a damage type chosen at brewing (cold, fire, necrotic, poison, or radiant) for an hour. A Quickening brew heals its drinker, and ends one disease or an effect of charming, frightening, paralyzation, poisoning, or stunning. Again, antidotes might be useful to have on hand, but the real reason we're here is for the Toxifying brew. You can apply the brew to a weapon, and the next time within an hour that weapon hits a creature, they take 2d6 poison damage and have to make a constituiton saving throw (DC 8 + your wisdom modifier + proficiency) or be poisoned for a minute. This is literally so much better than the poisoner feat what the hell.

Druid 7: Seventh level druids get fourth level spells, like Blight and Greater Restoration for stronger poisons and antidotes respectively. You can also Dominate Beast to hold any poisonous critters still while you milk them, or summon Giant Insects instead. They obey you and stay giant until they drop to 0 HP, dismiss the effect, the spell ends.

Druid 8: Our last level of druid finally lets you turn into a dove with a second Wild Shape Improvement. You also get another ASI, so bump up that Wisdom for stronger spells and poisons.

Wizard 10: Tenth level graviturgists can create a Violent Attraction between a creature's face and a weapon, causing a nearby weapon attack to deal an extra 1d10 damage. Alternatively, you can increase the attraction between a creature and the ground, adding 2d10. I doubt your hanging gardens need help making the fall more deadly, but now you can help out of need be. You can do this Intelligence modifier per long rest.

Wizard 11: Eleventh level wizards get sixth level spells, like Guards and Wards. This will make it so much harder for enemies to breach your castle it isn't even funny, if the "hanging out in the stratosphere" thing didn't tip them off already.

Wizard 12: By twentieth level you should have a castle set up, so grab the Lucky feat. Basically, everything that can go right for you does while you're in your castle, so now you get 3 luck points per long rest to make sure that happens, letting you re-roll your attacks, saves, and checks, as well as attacks aimed at you.

So how the fuck do I get a flying castle?

So, admittedly this is up to DM fiat, but let's be real, a flying castle sounds sick as hell and gathering resources is a great reason to go adventuring. If I was your DM, it'd go something like this; After x months of research, you find a way to prepare materials so Adjust Density is permanent on them if you concentrate for the duration. Then you make and fuse together castle chunks as described in level twelve, and eventually you lighten the load on the special rocks so much they're lighter than air. Boom, liftoff, you're fucking awesome now. If you want to go down, just make the float rocks heavier again.

Pros and Cons

Pros:

Even if you don't build a giant floating castle in your adventure, that doesn't mean all this prepwork went to waste. You are a master at protecting areas from invasion, so no matter where you lay your head you know it's going to be safe. Not as safe as a floating castle, but still, safe.

By mixing together all your tool proficiencies with Fabricate, you can make pretty much whatever you need from raw materials. No more paying a smithy for fancier armor!

If you do get your castle in the air or you're near a cliff, you are incredibly deadly, with plenty of ways to shove opponents around or otherwise control movement. Slow them down, trip them up, or shove them off a cliff it's so good. Pulse people off the edge of your garden and laugh at them as they fall.

Cons:

There's literally no rules about building your own castles & poisons, so most of this build is entirely dependent on your DM. If you get a cool one, cool! If you don't, this build is pretty much a writeoff.

You need to hide away in your castle and send out minions because you're kind of pathetic in person. With only 14 AC and less than 100 HP, you'll go down faster than Medb if you don't use your Wild Shapes well.

A lot of that can be chalked up to mixing caster classes, meaning we have to spend more ASIs to make both spell modifiers good, and we miss out on higher level spells. Also, spending 8 levels in druid just to turn into a dove isn't that great unless you really want the flavor. I highly recommend skipping out after 6, the last graviturgy effect is great both to knock people out of the sky and make them bow if they get to your throne room.

But, getting to your throne room is 90% of the fight. This build is one that emphasizes patience, and that's what puts you above the common folk. Hang out in the stratosphere, attend social events in style, and let your poisons and skeleton warriors do the fighting for you. Just be glad there aren't any wacky knights riding hippogryphs around.

#fgo #fate grand order #D&D 5e #DND #Semiramis #Wizard #Druid

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heliads · 4 years ago

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Can’t Leave

Y/N is a HYDRA scientist. Pietro Maximoff is her latest patient. Will Y/N be able to keep Pietro safe in the HYDRA base, even when her own life is in danger?

masterlist

You stare at the ceiling, exhaling softly. Machines beep and whir behind you, and you try to remember everything you were supposed to do before the soldiers arrived. Have needles ready for blood transfusions, check. Make sure the x-ray scanners are functioning, check. Have all the necessary documents and paperwork that are scattered about your desk, check. This is the life of a HYDRA scientist- procedure after procedure.

You weren’t always like this, someone wishing fervently that the end of the day would come so they could block out everything that had just happened from their mind. When things had gotten bad all those years ago, HYDRA had come knocking and you had, unfortunately, answered them. It wasn’t entirely your fault- you needed a way to support your family and HYDRA needed a new scientist. The deal could practically sell itself. It doesn’t matter that you were forced to take part in procedures that weren’t exactly up to the proper ethical standards, or that although the job was advertised as ordinary you knew you would be killed the second you put up your two weeks’ notice. HYDRA was your life now, and you would do well to stand by it.

A knock at the door distracts you from your gloomy thoughts. “Come in.” You call, and the soldiers you’ve been expecting march in, dragging with them one unconscious man. He appears to be about your age, and he’s clearly been drugged so he would be easier to transport. The soldiers strap the man into a hospital bed and then march out just as quickly, leaving behind a few men as guards in case this particular patient tried anything too risky.

You prepare a few sensors and apply them along the man’s arms and legs, then turn to a nearby screen. As the man begins to stir and wake, you study his vital signs. All seems well, except for the fact that his heart is beating far faster than any normal human man. This is to be expected- Pietro Maximoff has been given superhuman abilities, and so he will behave as superhumans do.

The man is fully awake now, and watches you with furtive eyes as you ignore him in favor of studying the readouts in front of you. You prepare a needle, then turn to him. “This is a penicillin shot. It will help with your recovery.” The man looks at you in confusion. “You know, for a HYDRA doctor you seem less crazy than the others. Are you actually a doctor or have they brought in a nurse to placate me and make it seem like HYDRA’s doing the right thing?”

One of the guards struts over to Pietro and glares down at him. “I would advise you to hold your tongue, Maximoff. Remember that you signed up for this.” Pietro returns the glare. “I remember that I was a little forced for a volunteer. Tell me, are all your human test subjects kidnapped or are you just low on new victims.” The guard draws his fist back to strike Pietro, but you fling out a hand to stop him.

“Corporal! The goal is to check on his vitals, not try to damage him. Please return to your post by the door.” The guard looks at you with blank eyes. “He insulted you as well as HYDRA. He deserves punishment.” You shake your head calmly. “The procedures you’ve asked me to run do not involve the protection of my ego. They should not involve yours either.” The guard gives Pietro one last icy look, then storms off to stand beside the other guard on the far side of the room.

Pietro looks up at you in bewilderment, then speaks softly. “Why did you do that?” You glance over at him bemusedly. “Do what?” Pietro looks back at the guard, making sure he can’t be heard. “Why did you stop him? No other doctors would have intervened, no matter how healthy they were supposed to be keeping me.” You laugh softly. “I may work for HYDRA, but I’m not completely a monster. I didn’t want to see you get beaten when you were literally tied down.”

Over the next few days, you continue to check in on Pietro. You run his vitals, you give him necessary injections to make sure the newly given powers won’t kill him, and you find time to have conversations with him. You’re not quite sure why you’re so drawn to this metahuman, but the look in his eyes when he sees you is enough to make you realize that he depends on you not only for physical strength, but to make sure he has one bright light in his otherwise dark existence.

A few weeks after the final procedures have taken place, it’s time to start testing what he can do. Pietro refuses to work with any doctors other than you, saying that it’s because the others were more interested in their own gain than actually trying to help him. The HYDRA higher-ups bought it, but you know that in reality, Pietro wants to make sure he uses his powers in front of someone who won’t torture him if he doesn’t do exactly what is wanted of him.

One day, though, he comes into your training session with a wretched look on his face. You walk over to him quickly. “What’s wrong?” Pietro just sighs disgustedly. “All these chemicals they’re forcing into me- they’re not just affecting my mind, now they’re affecting my body, too.” You look at him closer, and realize that he does not look well. He has dark circles under his eyes, his skin looks pale and waxy, and his hair is turning a bleached white.

You frown at him sadly. “I’m sorry about that. I’ll see if there’s any way I can reduce the medications or something to stop that from happening.” You look back at him, a smile starting to form across your lips. “I do like the new look, though. Blond suits you.” He laughs at that. “Good to know.”

Sooner than you’d like, you get a tip-off from a commander that the Maximoff twins will be pulled to take part in some mission, and they won’t be back for a while. You do your best to finish Pietro’s training, making sure that he’ll be able to defend himself if necessary. You hope against hope that he won’t see danger, that he’ll come back to you unharmed.

You shake your head confusedly. Why are you so worried about Pietro? He’s certainly not the first patient you’ve had, nor the first one you’ve been so deeply involved with. What is it about the light-haired man that makes you so captivated by him?

Pietro finds you the second he hears about his upcoming assignment. He says it’s just to make sure that everything is in order and there’s no worry of his organs shutting down or something, but you know why he’s there the second the doors close behind him.

“There’s no chance that I’m ever coming back. You know that- you have to request to be transferred to that base! If you find a way to make it there, at least I know you won’t be gone forever. You know what happens to metahumans on the missions as well as I do- if they ever come back, it’ll be after years. I need you to come.”

You sigh sadly. “Me transferring to that Sokovian base? Pietro, that’s out of the question. I can’t even request what floor of this complex to work in, let alone what base or what country. I appreciate your concern, but I’m afraid you’ll have to go by yourself. At least you’ll have Wanda there, right?” Pietro looks frustrated. “If you stay here by yourself, I won’t be able to protect you, from invasion or HYDRA soldiers alike. If you come with me, I know you’ll be safe.”

You can’t help but laugh at that. “You protecting me? Pietro, are you listening to yourself? When they say you and your sister are the first of the metahuman soldiers, they mean the first to survive the procedures, not the first attempts. I have been saving your life since day one, even if you didn’t realize it. If I go with you, I endanger you because HYDRA will realize that you’re important to me and they’ll find some way to punish you for it.”

Pietro scoffs. “That’s right- don’t want to upset HYDRA. Will your job be on the line?” You look at him with an icy glare. “You think I wanted any of this- that I could just walk out at any time? When I first ‘joined’, my family was on the brink of starvation. If I wanted to save their lives, I had to take HYDRA up. Also, it wasn’t exactly my choice- you tell me whether threats at gunpoint sounds like a comfortable interview to you. I can’t leave this life, no matter what.”

Your tone takes a softer tone. “But you can. When you’re out there, in the base, you’ll probably have fewer guards. Promise me that you’ll try to find a way out. Whatever they’re going to ask you to do, you don’t want to do it. I can guarantee you that.” Pietro takes your hands and pulls you close to him. “I can’t leave you, Y/N.” You look at him, enjoying your last few moments with the man you’ve grown to love. “You have to. Promise me you’ll try to escape?” Pietro sighs, then presses a kiss to the top of your forehead. “I promise.”

After the Maximoff twins are shipped off to the HYDRA research base in Sokovia, you don’t hear anything about them for weeks. You’re given a new project, but somehow you can’t find the energy to be as involved with it as before. When you finally hear that the twins won’t be coming back, you’re not sure whether to be relieved or nervous. Are they safe, or were they discovered? Have they escaped HYDRA’s chains, or were they caught in the act and killed?

Every now and then, you find yourself trapped in a dream. It’s not quite a nightmare, just scraps of memories plucked from your mind and dragged in front of you. You can see yourself working with Pietro, laughing excitedly over his new powers. When you wake up, you can still feel the smile on your lips from that day all that time ago.

You push the thoughts from your head, forcing yourself to get up and get on with the day. Those times are over, and they won’t be coming back. Just as you’re about to head out to the HYDRA labs, you hear a knock on the door. Confused, you go to answer it, and are stunned when you see the blond man waiting for you. “Pietro?”

He casually saunters in. “Miss me?” You laugh and throw your arms around him. “Are you really here?” He looks at you with a smirk. “I got some good advice that I should try and find new job opportunities outside of HYDRA. I’ve come to offer you something like that.” You meet Pietro’s eyes, surprised. “What are you talking about?” His grin could outshine the sun. “There’s a little place I found in the outskirts of Sokovia, somewhere HYDRA won’t be able to find us. I think it’ll work perfectly. All I have to do is one more job for this robot guy, and we’ll be able to live our lives just as we want to.” You beam at him. “Sounds perfect.”

#pietro maximoff #pietro maximoff imagine #pietro maximoff x reader #pietro maximoff imagines #quicksilver #quicksilver imagine #quicksilver x reader #quicksilver imagines #avengers #avengers imagine #avengers x reader #avengers imagines #age of ultron

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yellowocaballero · 4 years ago

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The Crocodile's Dilemma: In Which Helen exploits Michael's Labor, Michael suffers an un-identity crisis, and unpaid internships should be illegal

It’s tough being a teenage embodiment of the Spiral. Your boss/wine aunt figure Helen’s a Tory, your inattentive cousin figure Mike Crew keeps attending philosophy classes and day drinking, and you’re pretty sure that this internship doesn’t have any dental. At least it’s good job experience for your future career in...being evil? But do you even want to be evil?

This small story is technically part of my Roleswap AU, but I specifically wrote it so that no knowledge is required. Still, if you’re wondering why Michael’s an eighteen(ish) year old, Mike Crew’s an Avatar of the Spiral, and everybody is obsessed with Melanie King, check it out. Still, no need. Rest under the cut.

Maybe Helen was right.

Not that Helen was ever strictly right, much as Helen was never wrong, but Michael just had to be doing this whole fear demon thing incorrectly. If someone had explained the whole fear demon thing to them two years ago (“Okay, so it’s like you’re the semi-sentient appendage of an extradimensional force of evil that has to consume trauma relentlessly in order to propagate its own debatable existence, also you’re nonbinary now, no those things are not strictly related, probably”), then they would have called them crazy. Which, of course, they were, but that wasn’t the point. So long as the point existed. So long as anything -

An essential theorem within quantum physics was the quantum Zeno effect.

Simply put, it was the fact that a quantum state would decay if left alone, but does not decay under continuous observation. Even observing the results after the photon is produced leads to collapsing the wave function and loading a back-history as shown by delayed choice quantum eraser. If something was seen, it no longer existed; if something persisted unperceived, it would exist as long as it liked.

So it was explained to Michael by the physics professor he was torturing that day. Michael had trapped the man in the physics building of his university, lured in by one too many late nights in his office and the persistent sense that his life was going nowhere meaningful. After a few classes spent sitting in on his Physics 101 class, maintaining constant and forever eye contact, Michael had eventually tricked the man into giving a persistent and ongoing physics lecture to an empty classroom, desperately trying to explain the inexplicable to a college freshman who did not care. Truly miserable, yet ultimately harmless - Michael’s favorite kind of trick.

But, despite themself, Michael grew interested. They didn’t understand any of what the man was talking about, but that was all of the fun. Understanding ruined the magic of things; broke down the beauty of the universe into cogs and gears. No thanks. They could tell that it bothered the professor, that he said so much and yet knew nothing. That there was so much he would never know, and that he wasn’t so smart after all. How would any of his colleagues respect him?

“So photons degrade if they’re observed?” Michael asked one day, after...some period of time. They had raised their hand and everything, they were so proud of themself. Uni was just like secondary school after all. “Is that true of people too?”

The professor had sweated, deeply uncomfortable with Michael as a person and as a non-euclidean concept. “No - no, not at all. Humans are much more than photons -”

Michael grinned. It wasn’t quite right. “Are you sure?”

The professor sweated harder. “I - no, I’m not. But humans are constantly observed by - by the universe, or something.”

Michael grinned sharper. “Are you sure? Are you being observed right now? Are you sure?”

And the professor was not sure, not anymore, and the fragment of this man’s reality collapsed.

Well, Michael thought to themself, slipping out of an improbable yellow door, that’s another Statement for the Magnus Institute. Not that they would read it.

****

“Now, remember this - the first step to being a successful Avatar is presentation!”

Michael squinted at Helen dubiously. “I thought we were fear demons?”

Helen sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose with two sharp knife fingers. It looked as if it hurt quite a bit, but Michael reasoned that they had probably gone through the fifth dimension. “This is the stupidest dimension - fine, fine! Fear demons, then. It is absolutely vital that we conduct our business with style, grace, and the slightest sprinkling of pizazz!”

Just for the flourish, Helen twirled her fingers, and a faint shower of confetti came raining down from the ceiling. Michael sneezed.

“I thought it was vital that we harvest fear and trauma from people to propagate our cursed existence,” Michael said.

Helen’s eyebrow twitched. “More than two things can be vital, Michael. Please pay attention. Now, as a demonstration, I’d like you to take a gander at that man over there.”

Obediently, Michael looked across the bar. They were sitting on barstools in a high-class pub, because Helen knew her worth and never settled for anything less, with glass counters and lots of private booths. But all pubs had their sad men drinking alone, and this one was no exception.

This man wasn’t sullen and slow like a lot of them. He was wearing a nice suit and thin tie, looking straight out of Canary Wharf. Michael silently agreed with Helen’s choice - they took eat the rich very seriously, and also literally. He also seemed a little jumped up on something, with shaking hands and erratic eyes.

“He looks happy,” Michael observed. “Think it’s his birthday?”

“He’s on cocaine, Michael,” Helen said flatly. “Cocaine. We are at a posh bar, and he is currently doing a line off his watch.”

Oh! Michael suddenly felt very uncool. They had never been one of those people in secondary school who did cocaine. They hadn’t been cool. “I knew that,” Michael bluffed. “What are we going to do to him?”

“Take the teenager as your intern, they said,” Helen groused, “it’s investing in the future, they said, it’ll stop them from eating you when they grow up, they said.” She sighed, jabbing a finger at the now very obviously coked up man who was staring at the bottles behind the bartender as if they were whispering secrets of the universe into his ear. Helen liked that one. “Use your intuition. Find a good angle to squeeze. What are his weaknesses to exploit?”

Oh, Michael knew how to do this. They shifted vibrations just a bit, dropping out of what Michael liked to call the ‘mild’ spectrum into the ‘spicy’ spectrum. They were distantly aware of a patron’s glass shattering.

They squinted at the man, picking out his little fears and insecurities like Dionysus picking grapes. Maybe. Michael had gotten a C in English, but they were somewhat cognizant of the Spiral munching heavily on Bacchanalia. Sometimes they felt like some of those children who spoke in tongues and claimed to be from a past life. That had also been the Spiral.

“He owns a Nintendo NES,” Michael said confidently, absolutely sure that this was important. Helen groaned. “His house is painted white, and his girlfriend does tax fraud.”

“Something relevant?” Helen hinted desperately.

Michael just squinted at her. “Relevant to what?”

“...good point. But something useful, please.”

Picky. Michael scowled, but gave the man another good gander. “He only remembers faint details of his father’s face, and he worries that his recollections aren’t accurate,” Michael proclaimed finally.

Helen clapped, delighted, as Michael took a careful sip of their water, turning it into fizzy water. She took a sip of her own wine, turning it into champagne. Or maybe just sparkling unreality? “Wonderful. Now, how should we play this? Insert a false father into his life, completely separate from his recollections, or is that a bit too Stranger? I suppose we could do some good old-fashioned gaslighting, but sometimes that’s just a bit too Melanie, if you catch my drift -”

“Are you jealous that the Archive girls are better at gaslighting than you are?”

“Shut it, kid,” Helen hissed, before taking a long drag of her champagne. “My vote is that we convince him to top off his coke bender with some LSD. Then he hallucinates - oh, he hallucinates that he’s in a mental institution, that’s a good one -”

“Why don’t we shift everything thirty cm to the right?” Michael asked brightly.

Helen squinted at them. They beamed back.

“You are so bad at this,” Helen said.

Michael would have felt crushed if Helen didn’t express this sentiment roughly once per lunar cycle, contrariwise. As it was, they bore the criticism with a stiff upper lip. Helen had her way of harvesting fear from unsuspecting humans, and Michael had theirs. “Look, Helen, you’re being uncreative! We don’t have to traumatize people every single time.”

Helen squinted further. “We’re personifications of deceit. We eat trauma.”

“No, we eat confusion,” Michael pointed out patiently. “Look at it this way. If you give someone one really terrible experience, then they repress it for the rest of their lives and consider it a brush with Hell. One and done, see? But if you minorly inconvenience them for a really long time, then they’ll never be able to break out of it. They’ll feel as if something’s wrong, but they’ll never know it. You can keep the game going for years that way!”

The idea was very good. Michael had been working on it for a while. Truth be told, Michael felt bad traumatizing people outright and making them scream and cry and everything. They always felt as if they were doing something wrong by making other people’s existences a living nightmare. Michael much preferred rigging a corn maze so you were stuck in it for days inside the maze but only an hour outside. It was funner, and much more confusing.

But Helen just pursed her lips and stared Michael up and down, making them squirm awkwardly on their barstool. Finally, as if she was delivering a life sentence, she imperiously said, “Well, we all have our different styles, I suppose! It would be quite boring if we were both exactly the same.” Michael nodded vigorously at this, and Helen held up a scaly claw. “But! You’re my intern, which means that you’re learning from the master here. So shut up and let me teach you how to ruin lives.”

“Yes, boss,” Michael said miserably.

Helen tsked, but she patted them on the head anyway. It tasted like batteries. “Honestly, kid. A literal bleeding heart’s fun for the whole family, but a metaphorical bleeding heart will get you nowhere in life. You can’t exist as you are and feel bad for them. It ruins the point. It’s a paradox.”

“I thought we liked paradoxes, though?”

Helen shrugged, downing the rest of her wine. “Rules for thee but not for me, honey. But I’m a good boss and drunken aunt figure, so I’ll appease you today. Now come on, let’s convince this bar to vote for Brexit.”

They did. It was quite fun after all, tricking a roomful of people into doing something actively against their own interests. But something about the whole thing left a strange taste in Michael’s mouth: not the good kind of strange, or the bad kind of strange that was also good. Just strange, and undeniable, and something that couldn’t be exploited at all.

****

Maybe Helen was right.

Michael was a bad fear demon of the Spiral and Infinite Twisting and That Is Not What It Is and The Twisted Door, etc, etc, All Fear Its Name, etc etc all Hail, because they didn’t always like how their internal monologue could no longer be described through common language. Words and images and understandings were nothing but approximations for Michael now, and sometimes it was frustrating existing outside the boundaries of understanding. Which, of course, was the point, so long as the point existed, so long as anything existed -

It wasn’t always easy. Still, nobody ever got what they wanted if they weren’t willing to put the effort in. The adult world and labouring under capitalism wasn’t easy for anybody. That was what Mum had always said. Who was Michael to complain about their 9-5? Or 24/24? Or infinite/infinite? Or nothing/nothing? Or -

Was it too much to ask to have a linear thought once in a while?

Helen wouldn’t understand. There were only two other approximations of concepts that Michael knew, and Helen would hardly be any help. The other “person” would probably be a better sounding board, but there was the fact that he was kind of pretentious. Still, it was better than nothing. Well, it was nothing, but only in the sense that everything was - argh!

A yellow door appeared in a nondescript basement, and Michael appeared with it. They melted out of the “wood”, taking a second to check their outfit for this apparition - a nice vintage 50s dress with a painstaking stitch that reminded one of the oppressive nature of housewifery, nice. They elongated their curly blonde hair from a roguish mop into a nice little shag and melted into the crowd.

It must have been a passing period, because Michael was buffeted to and fro by tall white men wearing backpacks and shorter white girls hoisting strangely identical water bottles. Somewhere Northern, Michael decided, likely private and small. Not that it strictly mattered, but it helped to solidify their grip in reality a bit if they had some idea. They already knew geography was purposeless and a distraction from the real issues, like shrimp, but occasionally it could be useful. Helen had been careful to impart the central tenet of existence as a non-euclidean concept in undefinable space in the twenty seventh dimension: location, location, location!

It was obviously the Philosophy Department, because all philosophy classes were held in old basements built in the ‘60s in identical hallways. For kicks, Michael turned all of the school hallways inwards and sent them in a mobius strip, and changed all of the door numbers into a headache. The key to enjoying your job was to take initiative in the workplace environment and to just have fun with it!

Michael found themselves in front of a door identical to all of the others, with fake laminated wood, and they decided to go in. The universe had guided them to this door for a reason, and who were they to reject its call?

The small classroom was like most other small, private colleges in unpopular departments that nobody cared about. Lots of single person desks - Michael snapped their fingers and turned them all into left-handed desks - complete with a smartboard and a teacher’s podium. It was already half-full, so Michael carefully slid into a chair in the back and pretended that they had been there all along. A student wandered close, convinced that this was her seat, but Michael successfully convinced her that a different seat near the front was hers, prompting an impromptu game of musical chairs that sent ripples through the otherwise sedate classroom.

There was a blond student already sitting in the front, flipping through a spiral notebook and clicking a pen in no particular pattern. He was wearing a pea coat, jeans, and his hair was weirdly perfect. Michael wished they had a notebook. Was this what you did in university? They had never had the opportunity to go.

Actually, they had never quite graduated secondary - three months away from graduation, actually. It probably wasn’t all that important. You didn’t really need a diploma to become a trauma eating fear demon. Was there a university of eating fear? That would be funny. What would the classes be in, ‘Enforcing the Powerlessness of Capitalism 101’? What was the difference between that and a Business major?

Maybe Business majors were the real fear demons, Michael thought grandly. It was a good thought, they would have to remember to tell it to Melanie later. Melanie would approve. Hadn’t Tim been a business major? Yeah, in that case she would definitely approve.

The student sitting in the front seemed to have finally noticed the game of musical chairs, and as the professor started clearing their throat and announcing something unimportant to the class, he turned around to find Michael sitting in the back of the class. They waved cheerfully. The student scowled.

‘What are you doing here!’, the guy mouthed angrily.

‘Hi Mike!’ Michael mouthed back.

‘Go away!’ Mike mouthed back.

‘But I’m going to eat your teacher :(‘ Michael mouthed back. They didn’t actually frown.

‘ >:(!’, Mike Crew mouthed back, also without changing his facial expression.

This was probably why Mike wasn’t Michael’s biggest fan. Which was a pity, because Michael thought Mike was really cool. He had the coolest name, for one. But shorter, and snappier. Mike was the kind of name girls would call you at clubs. Michael was what, like, your Mum would say as she yelled at you to clean up your room before her book club girls came over. Why were they girls? They were, like, fifty.

Mike Crew was an Avatar of the Spiral completely unwillingly. Chosen as a child and chased throughout his life by an improbably long lasting Lichtenberg scar, he had eventually succumbed to the inevitable and transformed into an even more improbable man. Personally, Michael found it strange that ‘inevitable’ and ‘Spiral’ was in the same sentence, but - well, it had to be everything at one point. Even a melting clock was right once an endless twilight.

Strangest of all, Mike Crew was a philosophy major. The class, of course, was a high level philosophy course. Mike Crew had been in uni - well, a while - and he tended not to waste his time with the boring shit anymore. Michael listened with interest as the professor dived into the lecture.

Two minutes in, Mike subtly gathered his things and slipped into the conveniently empty chair next to Michael. He was still glaring at them, as Michael tried their best to look innocent and cute. The effect was a little ruined by the inherent maliciousness of Michael’s pores, but they liked to think it was the thought that counted.

“To continue our conversation on the topic of paradoxes,” the professor began, “I’d like to introduce a few thought experiments for your consideration as a class. I’ll mention the concept, and then allow you to break into pairs to discuss them.”

Mike leaned into Michael’s ear. “We were discussing Descartes!”

“But isn’t this more interesting?” Michael asked.

“If you give my professor a mental breakdown we’re going to fall behind on the syllabus!”

“The first paradox I’d like to bring to your attention is the Crocodile’s Dilemma.” The professor flipped to a new slide, which helpfully had a big crocodile on it. Michael admired it. They had seen a crocodile at the zoo once. “Similar to the liar’s paradox, the premise states that a crocodile, who has stolen a child, promises the parent that his or her child will be returned if and only if he or she correctly predicts what the crocodile will do next. The outcome is fairly obvious if the parent states that the crocodile will return the child, but the crocodile faces a dilemma if the parent states that the crocodile will not return the child. No matter the outcome, the crocodile is made a liar: if the crocodile decides to not give back the child then the statement proves to be true, and he ought to return the child, thereby making it false. Whatever the outcome, he still violates his terms.”

Michael raised their hand. Mike forcibly lowered their hand.

“If I give your professor a mental breakdown then you’ll have extra time for the test,” Michael whispered back. Mike seriously considered this notion.

“The next paradox is slightly related,” the professor continued. “The Infinite Hotel Paradox.” Michael’s face stretched into a grin as Mike Crew groaned. “It is demonstrated that a fully occupied hotel with infinitely many rooms may still accommodate additional guests, even infinitely many of them, and this process may be repeated infinitely often. This is what we call a veridical paradox: it leads to a counter-intuitive result that is provably true. Therefore -”

“Okay, yeah,” Mike Crew said, slumping in his seat. “You can eat him, this guy is just begging for it.”

“Yay!” Michael went in for the hug, before Mike pushed them away. Michael’s quest for a cool big brother failed yet again. “Do you want to call the -”

“They’re your hallways,” Mike said, persnickety as always. Maybe he was just jealous that he wasn’t a hallway?

Michael raised their hand, patiently waiting for the professor to call on them. He stumbled in the middle of his lecture, adjusting his thick glasses.

“Uh, yes, Miss -”

“You no longer understand gender,” Michael said pleasantly, as they always did whenever they were misgendered. It was an understandable mistake, so they didn’t do it maliciously. Frankly, they just thought it was healthy. Everyone should not understand false things. “Professor, I have a question about the Crocodile’s Dilemma.” They waited for the professor to nod, somewhat confused. “How do you know that didn’t really happen?”

The professor blinked lethargically at them. “It’s a thought experiment. It’s not real, it’s just an idea proposed by philosophers to represent -”

“What makes you so sure?” Michael asked cheerfully. “Crocodiles eat babies. Or dingoes. I think I read a story about this happening in Australia, didn’t you?”

“I - I suppose I did, yes -”

“We wouldn’t talk about it if it didn’t really happen.” Michael felt their voice fall into a rising lilt, like an attractive song that was played to a concert hall but heard only by you. They were distantly aware of Mike lulling the rest of the students into their own hazy daze: aware enough to be confused, but trapped in their seats and the fog of misunderstandings. “Fiction isn’t real. Reality is real. But a thought experiment is in between, isn’t it? Something that strains the boundaries of reality, that proves the fundamental concepts of life, told through a framework of an intrinsic lie. A paradox is a lie telling the truth. You are a truth speaker telling only lies. What you know isn’t so much as anything at all, is it? What do you really know, anyway?”

“One of us tells only the truth and the other tells only lies,” Mike Crew called out, bored. But his eyes were shining in endless refraction, infinite rooms holding infinite guests. “But is it really a lie if you had mistaken it for the truth? What lies are you living, Dr. Young?”

Dr. Young was stammering, eyes swimming, and Michael didn’t dare to break eye contact. It was a delicate spell they wove, but Michael wasn’t so bad at bringing this simmer to a boil. Cooking was about improvisation, and Michael had always been great at that.

“If your life is a lie,” Michael breathed, “then are you really alive?”

It was clear, when it happened: the professor started inhaling deep, deeper breaths, chest wracking with heaves. His eyes rolled up in his head, he clutched at his chest, and he finally slumped down on the floor. He twitched, jerking slightly, and he would continue jerking. At which point the students would become aware, and they’d call an ambulance for him, and he would be perfectly alright in the end. If a little mentally scarred.

“Damn,” Mike Crew said, almost impressed, as both he and Michael stood up. He shoved his pens in a backpack, glad to be free of his examination for another week. “What’d you do to him?”

“Made him think he was dead,” Michael said serenely. “He thought his heart had stopped beating so he had a panic attack. He’s going to have to make an appointment with a psychiatrist but he probably should anyway, work’s very stressful for him.”

“Guess I have the rest of the hour off,” Mike sighed, as he held the door open for Michael so they could slip out of the back of the classroom. It was yellow, and a little strange. “Want to grab a pint with me at the campus pub?” He paused a beat. “Wait, are you even old enough to drink?”

“I’m as old as eternity and reborn every second.” Michael paused a beat. “But I was eighteen last time I checked, and I’ll probably be eighteen for a while, so yes?”

“Great, let’s roll. I need a drink.”

****

Mike’s uni’s pub (Michael had asked the name of the uni but the information had, unfortunately, been lost in next Tuesday, so they’ll know then) was the exact opposite of the high class pub Helen had taken them to. Instead of glassy, shiny, and chromey, Mike’s pub looked strongly as if very many people had puked in it and the staff had tackled the problem somewhat half-heartedly. Michael enjoyed the sight of the puke existing in all points in time simultaneously, giving it a sort of weird yellow-ish shine. Actually, maybe all puke had that yellowish sheen?

When they asked Mike about it as they hopped up on the bar, he just sighed. He flagged the bartender down for a pint, and when the bartender squinted dubiously at Michael they revelled into the micro-confusion of ambiguous ages. Micro-feeding? Like mini muffins?

“Helen made a mistake hiring you. She’s stuck us with a perpetual teenager.”

“I’m as much a teenager as you are a uni student,” Michael said pointedly.

“I’m not an embodiment of the It Is What It Isn’t Is,” Mike said, oddly aggressively. “I’m just a normal Avatar.”

“Fear demon.”

“Melanie King isn’t always right and I don’t know why everyone thinks she is.” Big words from an honored Special Guest on her show. There were many in the fear demon community who would kill for the honor. It was a good thing she hated intruders in her Archives - otherwise they’d never leave. “But I’m no different from - that douche Peter Lukas or that stoner Elias Bouchard or that btich Annabelle, okay? I’m just a guy. Who eats trauma. Plenty of guys do that.”

“Very good denial of reality!” Michael approved. “Normally Helen tells me to go further into denying reality as a concept, though.”

“God, you hallway people are impossible to have a normal conversation with.” Mike huffed, clearly not as irritated as his words would imply. Michael also approved of the incongruity. “I’m assuming that you’re here for absolutely no reason and that you have no idea why or how you ended up at my uni.”

Michael shifted uncomfortably. “Actually, I am here for a reason.” At Mike’s extreme surprise, they hurriedly clarified, “Not with any goal, meaning, or intention in mind! But I just wanted to talk about something to someone who wasn’t technically another facet of my meaningless whole. Helen and I are as index and ring fingers on the same hand, but we don’t really get each other sometimes, you know?”

“Does that make you the pinky finger?”

“I actually had a hypothetical for you.” At Mike’s nod, Michael snagged a napkin from the stack on the sticky bar and began creasing it, somewhat anxiously. “Let’s say, hypothetically, you were a teenagerish nongendered sentient hallway intern who happens to eat trauma.”

“This isn’t much of a hypothetical,” Mike said flatly.

“I’m a hypothetical person. And I’m only a person hypothetically.” Michael started making little folds in the napkin, twisting it up into a strange origami. “So, let’s say, hypothetically, that this person - their name is Michael - enjoyed being them. It wasn’t always fun, and sometimes they kind of missed the world making sense, or at least not making sense in a familiar way. And sometimes Michael got tired of being a sentient hallway and wanted to finish secondary. And maybe even sometimes Michael grows sad that both their parents were eaten by their new boss, who is kind of a Tory! But that’s all fine. Michael’s probably happier like this than they ever were even when they did have parents.”

Mike Crew stared at them a little, slowly sipping his pint.

Michael hunched their shoulders, and folded up the napkin further and further. They had read somewhere that any piece of paper can only be folded seven times. They folded the napkin seven times, then eight, then nine, then ten. That was something nice about the way things were now, they supposed: no rules, absolute freedom. Only rules, no freedom. That was what Dr. Yung would call a paradox. “But maybe the worst part about this new job is that Michael doesn’t really like hurting people. Sometimes it’s fun to randomly make people very upset, and you always kind of end up doing it anyway, but after a while Michael feels kind of bad about it. Michael likes doing other things better, like making terrible roundabouts and rearranging the pages of books. Maybe they even like reading books. They like reading comic books backwards, from the last page to the first, so every panel is a surprise.”

“There’s lots of ways to be a fear demon,” Mike pointed out, almost gently. Maybe only because he could relate. “Look at me. I’m not feeding off anyone. Just myself.”

“But I like the way I do it,” Michael said, frustrated. “Helen keeps trying to get me to do it the way she does it, but the point is that we aren’t the same. What’s the point in having two of us if both our viewpoints are the same? We’re different in every way, but we’re the same being. I just want to be the Spiral the way I want. Not the way Helen wants.” Their voice lowered, almost unwilling to say what they were about to say. “Not the way the Spiral wants.”

Mike stared at them for a long time, slowly sipping his beer, and Michael focused their efforts on forcing this improbable napkin into something that could be beautiful. A lotus flower? A mobius strip? Or should they just let it happen as it happens, and see what form it decided to take?

Finally, Mike said, “You are the Spiral.”

“Then why am I always disagreeing with it?” Michael asked miserably.

“Why are you, Helen, and the Spiral always disagreeing?” Mike pointed out. “Maybe that’s the point. So much as anything’s a point. Isn’t it the most perfect paradox of all, to split yourself into portions that are always disagreeing and bickering? Maybe everything you’re feeling is on purpose. I mean, it’s kind of improbable that you’re feeling at all, right?”

“I retained a lot of humanity,” Michael said. “Maybe a bit too much, actually?”

“Right.” Mike nodded decisively. “Then that’s the appeal. A human mind will always strain against its confines. It will always want different, want the same, want the old and the new and the perpetual and the fleeting and the eternity and the moment. What’s more nonsensical than a human? What’s more contradictory than human nature?” A dark shadow passed over his face, just for a second. “The Spiral kidnaps us and turns us into it. One part of our minds is entrenched in its eternity, and another part is always screaming in agony. But predominantly we are the unholy mixture of human and Entity, oil forced into water. It’s so intrinsically horrifying and wrong that we just get used to it. We are both demon and human, and so we’re neither, and so we’re both. Isn’t it weird, Michael, that unlike so many other Avatars, none of us want to be here?”

“You’re a very philosophical person,” Michael said diplomatically.

“Thanks, I think too much about my lot in life.” Mike Crew sighed, slumping on his barstool and knocking back more of his pint. “I wish you and Helen would stop showing up in my life so often. When you aren’t around, I can almost pretend I’m a person.”

“That’s why we show up,” Michael felt obligated to point out.

“Yeah, I know,” Mike said glumly. “I always know. I can’t stop knowing.”

There was nothing Michael could say or do that fixed this, or that could make Mike feel better. They understood, just a little - that nostalgia for a kinder time. But maybe it was more that Mike never had those halcyon, innocent days. He had lived life since childhood in aching knowledge that his days were numbered. Maybe that’s why Mike was allowed to live life as a human even now: his human life was just as confusing and isolated as his afterlife, and that when fear stained every second of his life there was no point in ceasing it.

Maybe Michael couldn’t keep their human life because they had been happy. At the very least, they had been ignorant. That was one thing the Spiral could not abide: ignorance.

These days, Michael knew everything. They knew everything so, so much.

So, in lieu of comforting falsehoods, Michael offered Mike Crew a slightest sliver of truth. They passed Mike the little piece of origami that they had made, and let Mike cradle it in his large and smooth hands.

The origami had no shape. It wasn’t folded into anything. It was just a meaningless amalgamation of points, corners, and creased paper. It didn’t look like anything at all.

“See?” Michael pointed out. “It’s a bear.”

Mike Crew smiled weakly. “Looks like a sea goat to me.”

There was something beautiful in ambiguity. When something was nothing, it could be everything at once. That was rather Michael’s favorite thing about it.

“I think it’s a self-portrait,” Michael decided.

And that, at least, was as true as anything else.

***

Michael wandered their hallways.

On some level, they were pretty much perpetually doing that. Even as one facet of them talked with Michael in a campus pub, even as another helped Helen convince a high class pub into voting Brexit, even as they traumatized a physics professor, they wandered these hallways.

Make no mistake: everything in this story has/will/is happened/happening simultaneously.

Of course, on another level Michael was literally their hallways, and thus they were not so much wandering as existing. Pulsating, one could say. Even twisting, if one would be so bold.

There was a mirror, in the hallway. Not a funhouse mirror - although Michael did enjoy popping out from those and scaring Nikola - but just a mirror. Gilded around the edges, ornate with swirling curlicues. You could see yourself in it. You could see a lot of yourself in it. It wasn’t what you had always looked like, not really, but you just had the sense that this was what you really looked like. Maybe you had always looked like this, and everybody was just too polite to tell you. Were you really a brunette? This mirror had to be right. You had been a blonde all along. Nobody had told you. They were laughing at you. They were laughing -

But this was Michael, and Michael’s, and nothing in here could harm them. It was even comforting. They looked at themselves in the mirror, and saw themselves same as ever. Or not same as ever. They were still Michael, so far as Michael was Michael.

Shortish. Blondey. Raggedy hair. Curled as much as anything’s curled. Fun clothing that they really enjoyed. Tall shoes, because they liked feeling tall. Similar dimensions to the golden number. Non linear, but who’s counting? It was what they typically looked like.

But, just for a second, Michael even fooled themselves. They saw someone in the mirror that they were not, someone who they had never been, someone who they never will be. Someone different.

Michael, just like everyone else, couldn’t stop themselves from reaching out. Come back. Come back! Let me touch you, let me be you! Michael’s fingers brushed the shiny glass, and the world tilted sideways, and Michael fell into where the sidewalk ended.

They emerged, or maybe they had always been, inside a bedroom. It was a nice little suburban bedroom. It had a peaked ceiling and a window seat. The walls were a soft, navy blue. There was a young person, lying on the shag carpet, leafing through a book. Big headphones were over their ears, and they were bopping along to music. Disco.

Michael stood, an intruder into a familiar space, and watched the stranger. Their throat felt oddly tight, and their eyes felt strangely hot. The stranger was smiling faintly, flipping the pages of their book somewhat mindlessly. They were reading it for school. Flatland. It was just an assignment, but it was really fucking them up. It was making them think about all of these things that they didn’t normally, in new dimensions. It was really cool. All of their friends were just reading the Sparknotes, but they really wanted to talk about it with someone.

This, of course, had happened. It will happen in the future. It was happening now, as Michael watched the scene with an electric sadness. It would never happen, because the Spiral had never been here, and never would be, and always was.

A knock echoed on the door, several sharp raps. Michael didn’t notice, legs swinging to the music.

The knock on the door hit louder. “Michael!” A voice echoed from behind it. “Michael, are you ready to go?”

Michael reached up and slid off their headphones, without looking up from their book. “Coming!” They called back. “Be right there!”

The Spiral watched Michael, who hummed absentmindedly as the door knocked again. Dad was downstairs, making sure the gas was off and shutting off the lights. Mum was knocking, knocking, knocking, on a door that was and will always be wood.

“Have you packed yet?” Mum called.

“Sure I have!” Michael yelled back, glancing at the empty suitcase on the bed and the messy pile of clothes right next to it. They pushed themselves up, flipping the book shut and rising to their feet. “Be right out!”

“Hurry up,” Mum called, as the Spiral mouthed the words along with her. “We’re going to be late!”

The Bermudas aren’t going anywhere, Michael thought spitefully. They stuffed their clothes haphazardly in a suitcase, took far more care to pack their laptop and DS, and shoved Flatland in a side pocket of their backpack.

When Michael slung on his backpack, unfolded the handle from their suitcase, they were not even looking at the door they left through. They were entirely focused on managing the unruly suitcase, and walked straight through the crazed yellow door.

Of course, Michael walked out. Slightly stranger, a little better, a lot worse. Exactly the same. They were back in their hallways again, fresh from their little suburban bedroom and the child exiting one world and entering one quite different. Maybe one part of that child would always be in that bedroom, another part in these hallways, and another part always caught in that doorway and the transition.

Simultaneously, in all points in time, Mum knocked on that wood door, and Michael never let her inside. Simultaneously, at all points in time, Michael watched it all happen.

They hadn’t expected it to be so comforting. At all moments in time, in a little corner of their heart, Mum knocked on their door. If the Spiral lived in your soul and beat your heart, it was easy to find the beauty in it - the magnificence of eternity, and the joy in the moment. Mum was with them - literally, as he was pretty sure Helen was still digesting her. Maybe nothing was ever truly over - just over there.

Michael stuck their hands in their pockets, whistling a jaunty tune that highly resembled the Shepherd’s Tone. Their hallways pulsated comfortingly, and Michael carefully toed off their platform shoes and eyed down the infinite hallways. No rugs for a while.

Maybe Michael, Mike Crew, and Helen should get together more often. Just the three of them. They would drive each other batty. It would be a lot of fun.

Michael set off running down the hallway, and skidded on their socks down the hardwood floor, whooping in joy as they skidded endlessly towards eternity.

#my writing #the magnus archives #tma #the magnus archives fanfic #tma fanfic #michael the distortion #helen the distortion #michael #helen #michael shelley #helen richardson #mike crew #the distortion #the spiral #Michael views their life as an embodiment of terror and unreality as roughly equivelant to capitalism #Helen is kind of regretting hiring this kid but it's probably the only thing stopping them from eating her #Mike Crew really really really hates his fear cousins #i had to open a lot of wikipedia pages for this so you're welcome

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snapeaddict · 4 years ago

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I was fairly certain Remus did regret his actions though. He literally tells Harry that he often stood aside and watched it happen without saying anything, and that he wishes he had. In the Prisoner of Azkaban, whenever Snape gives a dig at Lupin or insult him and Harry tries to stand up for Lupin, he repeatedly excuses Snape's actions. Hell, even when Snape tries to reveal Lupin is a werewolf and eventually causes his loss of job, Lupin never hits back, or even tries to defend himself.

I’ll divide my answer into three parts.

1 - Repentance vs Regret

So, you are right. I do think Lupin regrets some of his past actions - but the thing is, it seems to make you think he understood the seriousness of his actions/has grown up/is now a better person. And I strongly believe it is not the case regarding the subject of bullying.

“In repentance, there is a retrospection of the past mistake and a search for a better way so as to not commit the mistake if such a situation arises in the future. In repentance, there is a commitment towards change. Thus, repentance is an act that intends to make one a better person. If you are repenting, it means you are learning from your mistakes and willing to change to become a better person.”

This, does not apply to Remus. We know from the books he never understands and/or refuses to acknowledge what he and his friends did wasn’t justified or deserved; he doesn’t address it as bullying as I explain in this post. Lupin’s behaviour pattern is quite clear throughout the saga: he never or only partially acknowledges his faults and they are always someone else’s doing for the most part.

“Regret is a feeling of remorse that is a negative emotion as it leads one to think continuously about his past action or behaviour and causes more shame, guilt, anger, disappointment etc.

On the other hand, repentance is a positive emotion as it makes one learn about his mistake, and he vows not to repeat it in the future.”

Lupin gives the image of a kind, understanding and mature person who knows how to put into question is own behaviour when necessary when he tells Harry and Sirius he knows he should have prevented them from tormenting Snape (Chapter 29 of OOTP). But then, as the conversation continues, if you closely analyses his thoughts - he keeps indulging into self-beating and talking about his own behaviour. He is completely self-centred and cares more about the image he gives than about the consequences of his actions and this clearly is the way he functions:

- He is willing to risk Harry’s life by not telling Dumbledore Sirius is an animagus rather than confess he betrayed his trust as a teenager: he cares more about what the headmaster thinks of him than about the consequences of his actions.

- He finds the time to acknowledge he should have behaved better - what a mature reaction - but never acknowledges Snape’s trauma or the seriousness of what was done to him. He thinks of it as a “rivalry”.

- He puts a lot of effort into burnishing his and his friends’ image by justifying bullying with “rivalry”, “jealousy”, and agreeing with the fact “it was a mutual hate and those are things that happen” rather than admitting they behaved terribly.

So yes, Remus regrets his actions. But it is clear to me he firstly regrets them because it gives him a bad image in front of Harry and Dumbledore, and to himself; he never learns from his mistakes nor can make sure to not repeat them in the future, because he simply refuses to acknowledge them and put his energy into minimising them or making them, for the most part, Snape’s own fault. I find Remus to be a self-centred and cowardly person, and this behaviour goes along with it.

However, I am not saying this makes him a bad man and understand this is directly linked to the fact he is a werewolf and giving a positive image of himself is nearly vital for him. But clearly, the fact he regrets his actions means nothing besides what I just explained, in my opinion, because Remus refuses to acknowledge what they did. He never repents and we must not mistake regrets for repentance. Remember that being critical of a character doesn’t make him less interesting or likable and has nothing to do with your personal liking of him. Snape isn’t a saint either, it’s actually interesting to have characters with layers. However, Remus was written kindly and “loved” by the books’ narrative and POV; Snape was not.

2 - He still behaves, in his thirties, like a bully

...which shows he does not repent or feel sorry for what was done to Snape and their other victims. I had the chance to discuss this with @ottogatto and she was very helpful and gave me a very interesting insight on Remus’ behaviour as we see it through Harry’s eyes in the books.

As she explained, nearly every time the subject of Snape is brought up, Remus will subtlely put the fault on him. “He was jealous”, “Your father was more popular than he was and he hated it”, “He was jealous of James’ talent for Quidditch”, “Sirius and James were good at everything and everyone loved them, unlike Snape” are embedded quotes from HP5. Why was Snape furious against him at the end of HP3? “Because he wanted the Order of Merlin”; not because Remus had nearly killed him again as well as three students, just as he had done when Snape was younger. He keeps dismissing the consequences of his actions and justifies (to both Harry and the readers), the abuse Snape went through at the hands of the Marauders. He uses a florilegium of excuses commonly used by bullies that are both very vicious and even pervert in their aims (pervert = lead someone away from what is considered acceptable. Distort or corrupt the original meaning or state of things. Exactly what he does repeatedly). This is still the behaviour of an abuser. If @ottogatto finds the post she made about it, you may like to read it as well. Remus refuses to acknowledge Snape is right to act in the way he does regarding the bullying he went through and thus deepens the hate that already exists between Harry and Snape.

From the (wonderful) @ottogatto: You see, when you tell people how your target is jealous of you, it demonizes them in a shameful way. It tells how they are a pathetic person attacking you wrongfully, oh poor innocent human that did nothing wrong. Jealousy, after all, is a fault that remains completely on the jealous one. It gives your listeners the image that your prey is a mistrustful person while putting you in the position of someone who can be envied -- supposedly for your goodness. Because that prey is framed as mistrustful and ill-intentioned, it allows people to doubt whatever accusation your target might have: either "they're lying", or "exaggerating", or "making things up". Only those who are versed in the mechanisms of bullying -- the easy or the hard way -- will spot the problem. Otherwise, people will find a pretext, a rightful excuse, or an innocent, well-intentioned goal, to keep your prey alone, weak, and "punished".

3 - It is absolutely normal Lupin doesn’t defend himself or hits back when Snape reveals he is a werewolf

...because he is in the wrong. Snape doesn’t even cause his loss of job and you may want to reread the books while not taking Harry’s perspective for the unbiased truth. Dumbledore is obviously the one who asks Remus to resign. Remus just nearly killed three students and a professor, and roamed freely onto both Hogwarts grounds and Hogsmeade as a werewolf, risking many deaths and infections because he forgot the potion Snape had been brewing for him (he depended on Snape, another reason not to fight with him). Dumbledore just learns it isn’t the first time he betrayed his trust and he did the same for two years as a teenager, risking Hogwarts’s closure and reputation and his position as headmaster, breaking the promise he made to him when he was accepted as school. The worst thing is, it is Sirius who tells Dumbledore. Not Remus. Remus clearly demonstrates he is dangerous in spite of himself - Dumbledore learns as well he hid a very important information from him (Sirius being an animagus) during the year, supposedly risking Harry’s life. Dumbledore doesn’t apologize for Snape’s behaviour when he tells him goodbye and it is reasonable to suppose it is because he is fine with Lupin’s identity not being a secret anymore.

I understand Snape’s decision (and certainly Dumbledore’s as well, as read in Snape: A Definitive Reading and various clever posts on Tumblr) may seem cruel and negatively impacted Remus in a society full of prejudices; but I understand Snape’s decision as well. Lupin was a walking danger and had proved it countless of times, nearly killing him: I’ll always argue his decision wasn’t a bad one but you may disagree. I’m sorry for Lupin and what happened to him- but I also am lucid and acknowledge the fact he continuously risked people’s lives and was a danger to society at this point (because said society didn’t help him in any way, don’t get me wrong). But to come back to your main point, Lupin was the only one who caused his loss of job, and he had no legitimacy to call out Snape for revealing his true nature to the public, because clearly only this knowledge would prevent him from doing harm in the future. It’s a complicated situation that goes deeper than Remus and Snape’s relationship.

Lupin could also be deemed as dangerous on another level: he spreads around pro bullying rhetorics and makes it look okay if it was "deserved". He makes bullying less serious if the victim isn't likable. He makes bullying less serious because he is likable. And this is very wrong both in and outside the books.

#Snape meta #Severus snape meta #Marauders meta #Remus Lupin #anti remus lupin #Sirius black #James Potter #anti james potter #Anti Sirius Black #Pro snape #Bullying #Snapedom #Snape community #Severus snape #Harry Potter #Hogwarts #marauders era #Ask #Snape ask

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rpmemesbyarat · 3 years ago

Conversation

RP meme from Werewolf: The Apocalypse "Kinfolk: Unsung Heroes" Introduction & Ch.1

"I have normal human fears and frailties, despite my faith."

"I’m terrified I won’t be there when they need me, that I won’t be able to give fully of myself to save them when the time comes. And the price of my failure, for them, would be too high."

"It was like nothing else mattered, nothing else could fill my eyes like the sight of him."

"Now, of course, I realize I was in shock at the time clammy skin, disorientation, that sort of thing."

"That night misted over my senses; even now, it seems more like a vivid dream than anything else."

"I had to watch. I couldn’t turn away."

"That night, I saw I had to protect him. He needed me, and it’s just as simple as that."

"Let’s just say what I know has come in handy."

"The best folks give the most of whatever they can."

"Think about it — would you like to go through childbirth every nine months from age 14 to 50?"

"We’re human beings, dammit!"

"I’ll always do anything I can to help, even if I’m royally pissed; I don’t expect thanks or money, either. But it would be nice to get some respect."

"I'm not alone in saying that I hate being patronized."

"Give an inch, they’ll take a mile" is what some of them think about us."

"The rhetoric a lot of them use sounds like the same crap bigots give when trying to “justify” why women and minorities shouldn’t have equal rights."

"Just once, I’d like to feel like an equal, a partner in all this."

"Ever think about how hard things would be without us?"

"I see by your scowl that doesn’t satisfy you."

"Think of it as normal family responsibilities, magnified a thousand times."

"It’s practically medieval!"

"I mean, it looks like such fun to turn into a wolf."

"There are connections like you wouldn’t believe. Completely outside the law, these people can get dirt on the opposition, perform b&e without leaving a trace and provide muscle no other boss can beat. All they ask is some capital, some boltholes and a little legal cover. Sweetest deal in the world!"

"What do I think about it? Imagine what it’d be like for someone to call you and say you’d missed out on a million dollars because you got one wrong number on the lottery ticket."

"Some are too caught up in the things of humans —chasing after money to have what advertisers insist they can’t do without, living their soap-opera lives and not seeing what the world is really all about. I pity them."

"There is sweeter revenge than death."

"I laugh with joy thinking how your heart will burst should you ever have to face him in battle."

"It’s a great honor to be who I am, who we are. But it’s scary, too."

"Families can quarrel, snarl and cut one another to the quick, but in times of trouble, they’ll stick together."

"God, Allah, Gaia, the Great Spirit or whoever gave us this job, so we have to do the best we can with it."

"Blood also fetters our lives in hatred as well as love, I’m afraid to say."

"I’m not saying this is a fact, but if she was abused, it might explain some things."

"I’m sorry, I can’t quite imagine a moment of sensual passion with someone I don’t love, much less hardly know!"

"In other words, it’s the connections that’re vital, not the money or the mileage."

"Many have wealth, but not all; lineage, not money, is most important."

"That’s a heavy price to pay in a harsh world."

"Self-sacrifice is also important."

"Sacrifice comes in terms of emotional costs, too."

"It’d be pretty stupid for me to become a gun-toting mercenary, for example."

"To put a positive spin on all this, I guess I’d say it’s nice to be needed."

"I admit I don’t really understand what it is or when it’ll be, but many’s the Irish tale where a small oversight wreaked terrible disaster."

"So I got online and made a few phone calls and tried to get the “truth” in as many forms as I could."

"The word “family” has come to mean a lot more things than the 1950s concept of mommy, daddy and two perfect children."

"Raising children is no bed of roses, either."

"Kids love to test their parents and see just how far they can push and still get away with it."

"There’s no way this could be easy."

"Some days, I have to bite my tongue, and that does get old."

"I was just too stupid and blind to see it."

"I always felt like I was split, alone, part of something I couldn’t name."

"Listen, you have no idea what it’s like to watch someone you love slowly lose her mind."

"There are some, well, bimbos."

"You know, the ones that like to control CEOs and topple careers."

"Here, try a piece of this chicken gizzard. I get ’em real cheap down at the butcher shop. No one else seems to want these extra parts. I grill ’em with a little barbecue sauce and honey mustard. Delicious! Thanksgiving’s always the best time, though. Then there’s turkey necks for the takin’!"

"Our families are pretty big, and we figure even the most distant cousin or friend of a friend’s part of the group."

"I’m sure you know, working with people all the time, how far thanks and a friendly smile go when you’re dead on your feet. It’s like the sun’s come out on a cloudy day."

"I mean, some of that stuff is long outdated!"

"It’s more a matter of belief and pureness of spirit, if you ask me."

"The Network also has a lot of splinter groups that organize among youth, educators, environmentalists and so on."

"We’re steadfast and steady, yet vibrant and alive, warriors, artists, writers, musicians beyond compare."

"I don’t know if we can save them, but we won’t give up."

"To be tested and accepted by the greatest warriors in the world — no greater honor can we ask for."

"Think of us as the tiny little parts that hold a machine together. Maybe it could function without us, but not without a lot of wear and tear on the system. You get my drift."

"If leader seems weak, I test him. He shows strength, I stop."

"They’re the ones who are causing all the problems by rebelling against the people in charge. They need to settle down and just be content with what they’ve got, if you want my opinion."

"Why should I worry? It’s a clear day. Traffic’s light, but walking’s fine. You get to see where you’re going. I’ll hit a little town ’fore dark and trade a song or story for some food and a piece of floor."

"Revolutions are intolerable and inexcusable."

"The aristocracy attained their positions for a reason, for only the most worthy were chosen to lead, after all. If the

lower classes overthrow the aristocrats, anarchy is the sure result. One need only look at history; Can the Russians truly say their lot improved after they murdered the Romanovs?"

"History has always been a beloved subject to me."

"I pity those souls, displaced by fortune, who are ignorant of their heritage. How can one know who he is without knowing where he comes from? A man — or woman — is the sum of all who came before."

"Money is not the issue; many great families lost their fortunes, yet retain their nobility."

"It’s a poor teacher who doesn’t learn from her student; in this way, the knowledge of both increases."

"Dreams, of course, are the pathways of our souls; here rest our secret desires, fears and hopes."

"You doubt me. You don’t speak against me, but I can see your heart is dubious."

"There’s no greater glory than to serve the destiny of the universe."

"The lacerations looked exactly like the work of sharp teeth, deep into his flesh."

"I won’t go s’far as to say there’s undying loyalty, but we do have a lot of respect for each other."

"Were I as capable as my ancestors, I’d kill you now and never spare a second thought."

"No atonement can replace those lost children."

"Thus far, we have been lucky, but it’s just a matter of time before someone we don’t want sneaks in. It’s not that I want to close ranks by any means; I just wish we paid a little closer attention to who came in from the cold."

"Yeah, yeah, I know you think we’re a dime a dozen. I’d like to believe we’re a little more special than most."

"We’ve built too much for a rotten apple to spoil it all."

"I don’t believe this guy; it seems almost too perfect to be true!"

#rp meme #rp memes #rp starters #roleplay meme #roleplay starters #roleplay memes #Werewolf the Apocalypse #wta #World Of Darkness #owod #kinfolk

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bubonickitten · 4 years ago

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Fic summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Chapter summary: The process(es) of resigning from a terrible, no good, very bad assistant position.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Full chapter text & content warnings below the cut.

Content warnings for Chapter 22: discussions of eye-gouging/eye horror (not graphic); brief mentions of spiders/arachnophobia; anxiety/panic symptoms; lots of dissociation/dpdr; Peter Lukas being a manipulative shit; Lonely-typical content (including fear of abandonment & some abysmal self-esteem on Martin’s part); allusions to police violence & Hunt-related themes (re: Daisy’s past actions); swears. SPOILERS through Season 5.

Chapter 22: Resignation

Georgie paces in a slow circle, alternating between biting her nails and picking at her bottom lip – entirely immersed in her own thoughts, judging from the faraway look in her eyes. Jon hasn’t seen her this overwrought since the last depressive episode he witnessed. Just watching her is enough to make his chest tighten with vicarious unrest.

Wary of contributing to a vicious feedback loop between the two of them with his own customary pacing and handwringing, he forces himself to keep his knees locked and hands at his sides. Still, he can’t help rubbing his fingertips together and rocking minutely on the balls of his feet.

“Why don’t we sit?” Jon finally interjects, wincing when it comes out more curtly than he intended – more like a command than a suggestion, but luckily without any accompanying static.

Be mindful, he silently chides himself: being on edge like this only makes him more susceptible to accidental compulsion.

“What if something goes wrong?” Georgie whispers. Jon doubts she even heard him beneath her nervous refrain. “What if –”

“Georgie?” Jon tries again. No response. He steps into her path and places a hand on her shoulder. “Georgie.”

“What?” Georgie raises her head, but she isn’t looking at him so much as she’s looking through him.

“I think you should sit down?”

“What?” Georgie says again, sounding utterly lost. Her eyes are darting around the room now, as if she doesn’t recognize her surroundings.

How the tables have turned, Jon thinks grimly.

“Come on,” he says, taking her hand and guiding her to the nearest chair. She offers no resistance, trailing behind him like a flagging balloon. When he presses on her shoulder to coax her into a sitting position, she goes easily. Keeping hold of her hand, he drags another chair closer to her and takes a seat.

Okay. Now what?

Jon jiggles his leg as he wracks his brain for the right thing to say. She deserves more than handholding and awkward silence, but soothing words have never come naturally to him.

“Do you, ah… do you want to talk about it?” Jon cringes at his faltering delivery. “I’m sorry, I’m – I’m still not very good at this,” he adds with a self-deprecating laugh – then immediately shuts his eyes, kicking himself. Why are his attempts to relate to others always so clumsy and – and weirdly self-centered? “I mean –”

“I’m scared,” Georgie blurts out.

“You… what?” Jon tilts his head. “But I thought – you don’t feel –”

“Fear?” Her clipped, brittle laugh dies in her throat. “No, I don’t. And that’s exactly the problem, isn’t it?”

Jon strokes the back of her hand with one thumb, but remains silent. She always elaborates on her own time, given some space to order her thoughts.

“I don’t feel… terror,” she says slowly. “After I had my… encounter, I did a lot of research on how the brain works. Trying to understand what was happening to me, you know?”

Jon nods. He’s intimately familiar with that urge. As a child, he went through a spider phase, as his grandmother called it, obsessively seeking out any information he could on them, hoping even then that he could conquer his fear if only he could see the world through a detached, academic lens. There were plenty of academic odes to the spider to be found; no shortage of enamored arachnologists waxing poetic about the wonders of evolution and the vital role that arachnids play in their particular ecological niches.

Unfortunately, a phobia – especially one arising from acute trauma – tends to be resistant to reason and reality. His obsession only ever yielded heart palpitations and lucid nightmares. Despite that failure, he never stopped clinging to that idea that if only he could know everything there was to know about a thing, he could finally scrape together some semblance of control over his fear.

In many ways, that fixation is exactly what drew him to the Magnus Institute.

Unless the Spider really was pulling the strings all along, he thinks, and then: No, we are not going there.

“As far as I can tell,” Georgie continues, “my sympathetic nervous system still functions. I can still experience all the physiological aspects of sympathetic arousal – and fear is only one possible trigger for those sorts of responses. What’s missing is my capacity to interpret those responses through the lens of fear. To emotionally process or identify them as fear.

“I can still experience anxiety, to an extent – or something close to it. But mostly in the context of worrying about others, being scared for them. I mean, I can feel apprehensive about the possibility of experiencing pain or loss or failure myself, I have a stake in my continued existence, I can recognize danger, but sometimes it feels… I don’t know – mechanical, almost? There’s just always the feeling of something missing. Something important. And there are times when I feel that void more acutely.”

“Like now.”

“Yeah.” Georgie looks away, chewing her lip in silence.

“I’m listening,” Jon coaxes, sensing that there’s more she’s holding back.

“It’s just… hard to feel like a full person sometimes, you know?” Georgie says helplessly. “I worry sometimes that it – I don’t know, does a disservice, I guess, to the people I care about? Like no matter how much I love someone, it isn’t… complete? Or – genuine, in the right way? It’s – hard to find words that actually describe it. There are times when it feels like I’ve lost something vital that made me human, that made me me, and it’s… difficult to reconcile who I was – who I could have been – with who I am now.”

“That I understand,” Jon says softly.

“I know.” Jon wishes he was less familiar with the sad smile she gives him just then. “It’s just… I remember a time when I would have been terrified of all this. Not just worried, or upset about someone I care about being hurt, or devastated by the prospect of losing someone I love. Terrified. And knowing what I should be feeling – what I would have felt at some point – is… it’s unnerving. There’s a void there that shouldn’t be there. It’s like… having part of you gouged out and left hollow. An absence that’s so present it’s almost visceral.” She frowns. “Does that make any sense?”

“In my future I had a Flesh Avatar reach into my chest and wrench out two of my ribs, so… yes, actually.”

Georgie blinks several times, then laughs breathlessly. “Do I even want to know?”

“Probably not.” Jon returns a cautious smile, but the levity evaporates after a few seconds. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think that you don’t have to have access to the full spectrum of human emotion in order to count as human. And I don’t think any of this makes your concern for others any less heartfelt, or – or comforting. You might not be the same person you were before you were marked, but that doesn’t make you any lesser as a person.”

“You should try applying that metric to yourself sometime,” she replies, not unkindly.

“It’s –”

“Don’t say it’s different,” she cuts in. “Just… keep it in mind, okay?”

“I’ll, uh… I’ll try.” Georgie nods, but says nothing. Jon grips her hand a little tighter. “Listen, I – I know you’re worried for Melanie, but I think it’s going to be alright? I can’t predict the future –well, I have knowledge of one possible future, but that’s because I lived it. I don’t have any precognitive abilities, or anything like that. But… it turned out okay last time.”

Until I jump-started an apocalypse –

Jon reins in the thought before it can gain momentum. Georgie doesn’t need his brooding right now.

“Melanie is a fighter,” he says instead, offering a tentative smile. “And she has you.”

Georgie shakes her head. “I can’t believe you came out of the apocalypse sappier than you were when you went in.”

“Side effect of traversing a post-apocalyptic wasteland with a hopeless romantic, I think.” That gets another little chuckle out of Georgie. “I mean it, though. I think Melanie will be okay, especially with you looking out for her. Not to mention, the Admiral is a perpetual serotonin generator.”

“You really miss him, huh?”

“Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve pet a cat, Georgie?” Jon practically whines, playfully dramatic. It manages to keep the amused smile on Georgie’s face, he’s pleased to note.

“Maybe I should bring him by sometime.”

“Absolutely not. This place doesn’t deserve him.” Georgie snorts. Although Jon is reluctant to ruin the temporary shift in mood, this is as good a time as any to broach a subject he’s been dreading. “Also, I, ah… I don’t want you to feel obligated to continue visiting here.”

“What?” Georgie says, eyes narrowed.

“If you have to take a step back,” Jon says carefully, “I’ll understand.”

“I mean, I might not be able to come by as often as I have been, especially while Melanie is still recovering, but that doesn’t mean I won’t be around at all.” Georgie’s frown deepens. “I’m not about to cut you out of my life, Jon.”

“I know. And I don’t want you to. But – no, listen,” Jon insists, seeing Georgie about to protest. “What I’m trying to say is – I know Melanie wants to put as much distance between herself and the Institute as possible. If it turns out that you staying involved in all of this is too close to home, then… well, I don’t want her to feel like she’s still trapped in the Institute’s orbit, is all.”

Or mine, he doesn’t say. He doesn’t want to be a reason for Melanie to feel unsafe. In the past, he has been – and that’s not who he wants to be.

These days, Melanie has come to view him more as a fellow captive than a complicit enemy. Lingering resentment still sparks to life from time to time; she still struggles with her anger, and once or twice, she’s had to leave a room for fear of that rage boiling over. Overall, though, she no longer directs the majority of her ire towards him. When they do butt heads, it hasn’t gone much further than bickering – and even that feels comforting in its familiarity and mundanity. Almost companionable, in its own way.

Most significantly, ever since their talk, Melanie hasn’t once likened him to Jonah Magnus. Jon doesn’t know if that’s because it’s no longer an automatic association at the forefront of her mind, or because she’s consciously watching her words around him, actively taking care to avoid tripping that perpetual trigger. Either way, Jon is grateful.

But Jon also knows that he’s inseparable from the Institute. Despite his intentions, and regardless of whether or to what degree the others hold him personally responsible, the fact remains: he’s embroiled in something unspeakably evil, and that poses a danger to anyone who stands too close to him.

Georgie doesn’t immediately respond, instead taking the time to seriously consider his words. He’s always appreciated that about her, as uneasy as these moments of silent suspense can make him.

“I’ll talk to her about it,” she says eventually, “once she’s recovered enough to have that discussion. I don’t know how she’ll feel about staying in direct contact herself, especially at first, but… I doubt she expects me to cut you off. And I imagine she’ll still want to know how everyone is doing, even if she doesn’t want the details.” She glances up to meet his eyes. “Anyway, regardless of how often I visit in person, I’m still going to be checking in with you, so answer your damn phone, will you?”

“I do answer my phone,” he says defensively. “I just… forget to answer texts sometimes. And I don’t get service in the tunnels –”

“Well, come up for air and cell service from time to time.” She wrinkles her nose. “Honestly, I don’t know how you can tolerate being down here for hours on end –”

Jon startles slightly as the trapdoor creaks open above their heads. Georgie stands as Melanie makes her way down the ladder, hurrying over to fold her into her arms. Basira follows behind, closing the trapdoor behind her as she goes.

“Mission successful, I take it?” Jon says quietly as Basira approaches him, giving Georgie and Melanie a moment to themselves.

“Uneventful,” Basira says with a shrug. “A few sidelong glances, but otherwise, none of the library staff even acknowledged us. Definitely didn’t seem keen on asking why we were rummaging in the repair supplies.”

“They probably didn’t want to know.”

“Yeah.” A small, rueful smile crosses her face. “Some of them used to talk to me, you know. Nothing personal – we weren’t close – but… when I returned a book, they’d ask what I thought of it, give me recommendations, that sort of thing. Now, though…”

These days she prefers to wait until everyone has gone home for the day before visiting the library, Jon Knows. He also Knows that the library staff are well aware that she’s the one pilfering research materials in the dead of night – and that they have no plans on confronting her about it. She never leaves a mess, after all, and always returns items to their proper places once she’s finished with them, which is more than can be said for many of the students who make use of the library’s resources.

“You know, I don’t think any of them have looked me in the eye for months.” There’s a distinct note of regret in Basira’s voice. “They just watch me out of the corners of their eyes when they think I’m not looking. I don’t know if that’s because they’re afraid of Lukas disappearing them for fraternizing, or because everyone is leery of the Archives these days, or because I’ve just become less approachable. Maybe all three. Suppose it doesn’t really matter.”

Jon knows the feeling well. Before he can answer, though, Melanie clears her throat. Jon looks over to see her facing his direction, one hand clasping Georgie’s tight enough to blanch her knuckles.

“This is it, then,” Basira says solemnly.

“Yeah.” Melanie closes her eyes and breathes a long, shaky exhale. “It’s time.”

“You’re sure you don’t want me there?” Georgie asks.

Melanie shakes her head. “I don’t want you to see that.”

“But –”

“She won’t be alone,” Basira says. “I’ll be right outside the room.”

Melanie faces Georgie fully, taking her other hand as well. “The plan hasn’t changed. Basira will call 999. I’ll make it quick, and – once it’s done, Basira will come in and sit with me until the ambulance gets here.”

“I have a general idea of what the response time should be like,” Basira adds, looking at Georgie. “If we time it right, Melanie will have medical assistance within minutes. I can come get you when the paramedics get here, if you want to ride in the ambulance.”

Georgie nods and tightens her grip on Melanie’s hands. “Is that okay?”

“Only if you want,” Melanie says haltingly. “But – maybe try to avoid looking too close, if my eyes are uncovered? It’s just – it probably won’t be pretty.” A stressed laugh claws its way out of her throat. “Potential trauma fodder, you know? I don’t want to worry about you remembering me like that every time you see me, even after I’ve healed.”

“Okay,” Georgie replies softly.

“It shouldn’t take long. Just – wait here with Jon until then, okay?” Georgie nods again, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “Speaking of which –” Melanie glances at Jon, as if just now remembering his presence. Startled by the sudden direct eye contact, he reflexively straightens his spine and stands at attention. “I guess this is goodbye, huh? For a while, anyway.”

“I, uh. I suppose it is.”

“Right. So, um… good luck, I guess?”

No disclaimers or ill will tacked on this time, Jon notes privately.

“You too.” He forces a smile, but he suspects that it comes off as awkward rather than reassuring.

“Try not to die.”

“Yes, ‘not dying’ is relatively close to the top of my to-do list.”

“If I come to find out that you’ve gotten yourself killed and broken the eldritch employment contract binding us all to this place after I’ve gone and gouged my eyes out, I’m going to be livid.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” Jon says wryly.

“Seriously, though.” Melanie’s smirk melts away, taken over by a somber, quiet sort of intensity. “Either beat Elias at his own game, or get the fuck away from this place the instant you find an out. Whichever comes first. Preferably without any of the self-sacrificial bullshit.”

Fractious as its delivery is, the demand is oddly touching, coming from Melanie.

“I, uh… I’ll do my best?”

“You’d better.” Melanie nods – a curt but cordial dismissal – and turns her attention back to Georgie. “Hey,” she says, her voice going measurably softer, releasing one of Georgie’s hands to reach up and cup her face. Her watery smile belies her mental state: resolve warring with trepidation. “Look at me?”

For a long minute, she studies Georgie’s face, clearly enraptured. Jon forcefully tears his gaze away from the intimacy of the moment.

“Okay.” Melanie takes a deep breath in and releases it slowly. “I’m ready. I’ll see you soon, okay? Or – well, I won’t see you, but – you’ll see me, and I’ll…” She huffs, rolling her eyes. “Oh, whatever – you know what I mean.”

Georgie lets out a tearful chuckle, and Melanie relaxes marginally.

“I’m sure about this,” she says. “I promise. This is what I want – a life with you, away from all of this. And if this is the price I have to pay, then… I’m okay with that. Really, I am.” She stands on tiptoe to give Georgie a peck on the cheek. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” Georgie says, leaning down for a return kiss, smiling weakly against Melanie’s lips. “See you soon.”

When Martin first heard the bustle outside his door – coworkers venturing outside their solitary offices to trade whispered questions and eager gossip as word of paramedics in the archives made its way upstairs – his stomach gave a little lurch: a combination of horror and wonder. He hadn’t expected Melanie to change her mind – he knows how determined she can be once she’s settled on a course of action; how desperate she was to extricate herself from Elias’ – Jonah’s – schemes. Still, though, faced with the reality of it, he found himself in awe of her nerve.

That was yesterday. Martin didn’t get much work done, preoccupied as he was. He isn’t having an easier time of it today: his attention keeps slipping away to linger in remembrances of sterile hospital rooms and muted hallways, thoughts drowned out by the ghosts of sirens and beeping machinery.

“Well, this is an unexpected turn of events.”

Martin jolts in his seat, heart leaping into his throat. It only takes an instant longer for his alarm to mutate into aggravation.

“Peter!” Martin spins around to glower at the man. “How many times do I have to–”

Peter flaps a dismissive hand. “To be honest, Martin, the drop in temperature tends to tip most people off. The only reason you continue to be surprised by my arrival is because you’ve become acclimated to the Forsaken.”

The revelation is slow to sink in, a stark chill blooming in Martin’s chest and snaking its roots outwards. Only now that it’s been brought to his attention can he feel the nip in the air.

“Here I was certain you were becoming estranged from our patron, but it seems I needn’t have worried.” Peter’s smile is laced with malice. “Or should I?”

Martin says nothing, eyes wide and stinging from the now-conspicuous cold. Peter sighs, folds his hands behind his back, and begins a meandering back-and-forth pace.

“Our success is dependent on your voluntary isolation, Martin.”

“Yeah.” The word turns to fog as it touches the air, and Martin finds himself transfixed by the sight. “You’ve said.”

“It seems you need a reminder.”

The condescension dripping from the words is enough to drag Martin back into the present moment. Heat rises in his cheeks, contrasting with the temperature in the room and making the chill that much more noticeable.

“You still haven’t told me your plan,” he snaps. “You keep expecting me to just – go along with whatever you’re scheming, no questions asked.”

“You ask many questions, Martin –”

“Yeah, and you never answer them! You’re so – so bloody cryptic about all of this.”

“Martin, Martin,” Peter says, placating in the most patronizing way possible. Martin bristles: he hates the way Peter says his name. “There’s no need to get so worked up –”

“If you want me to be a partner in – in whatever it is you’re planning, you can’t expect me to go on blind trust!”

“I’m still conducting my own research,” Peter says mildly. “I would rather not confuse you with extraneous details before I have all the kinks worked out.”

“I’m not an idiot –”

“Rest assured,” Peter interrupts, “if I was capable of stopping the Extinction alone, I would. Unfortunately, it will require someone touched by the Beholding.”

“Why?”

“Because it requires this place, and this place” – Peter’s lip curls in distaste – “is the Eye’s seat of power. The One Alone has no dominion here.” Martin crosses his arms, unimpressed. “You are the only one who can do this, Martin.”

“Why?” Martin repeats.

Judging from the muscle ticking in Peter’s jaw, his limited supply of patience for conversation is precipitously depleting.

“No, really,” Martin presses, “why me? I mean” – he spreads his arms out with a scornful chuckle – “look at me. I’m not exactly hero material, am I?”

“That really depends on you. I can’t force you to cooperate. It won’t even work unless you’re a willing participant.”

“And what makes you think that your plan is the only way? You – you keep going on about how it’s my choice. Well – what if I choose to work with the others? It can’t hurt to have more eyes on the problem –” Martin rolls his eyes at Peter’s unconcealed revulsion. “Yeah, I know. No one would ever accuse you of being a team player, obviously. But I can be the liaison; you don’t have to interact with anyone at all.” Would prefer you don’t interact with anyone at all, Martin thinks. “I mean, that’s already my role, isn’t it? Dealing with people so you don’t have to?”

“Martin,” Peter says, low and dangerous.

“I’ll do it off the clock, even. I’ll isolate myself in my office during the workday, or whatever” – Martin gives a flippant wave of his hand – “and continue researching the Extinction.” And practically running the whole damn place on an assistant’s salary, he grouses silently. “After hours I’ll pursue my own research with the others.”

“Part-time isolation will not suffice to equip you with the power you’ll need.” Peter presses his lips into a pale, rigid line. “Be reasonable. Are you really willing to risk an apocalypse, just because you can’t appreciate solitude?”

“If it starts to look like there’s no other option, I’ll reconsider.”

“And if the Extinction emerges while you’re wasting time searching for an alternative that doesn’t exist?”

“Based on the limited information you’ve given me, I don’t think the Extinction is going to just… emerge overnight. I’m still not even convinced it’s going to be worse than any other Fear. I mean, the Flesh is relatively new, isn’t it? And it didn’t… leave the fear economy in shambles, or whatever.”

“It isn’t about competition, Martin.” Peter releases a slow plume of fog through his nose before continuing, voice cool but simmering with pique just under the surface. “The Extinction is different from the other Powers. It is defined by widescale eradication. The other Powers may seek to change the world, but none of them strive for a world without us.”

“But what makes you so sure the Extinction would?”

Peter’s eyes narrow. Ignoring him, Martin runs his thumb along his bottom lip as he replays Jon’s impassioned conjectures on the matter: It thrives on the potentiality of a mass extinction event, not the fulfillment of one.

“What’s to say it wouldn’t be just fine with the world as it is, like the End?” Martin says, more confidently now. “People have been prophesying about the end of the world for – all of human history, probably. I doubt we’ll stop anytime soon. Maybe at its core the Extinction is just… the fear of an uncertain future. And a particular future doesn’t have to be realized in order to inspire fear, as long as the potential is always there. It’s about the suspense – the ‘what ifs’, the unknown, the – the lack of control in it all.” Martin laughs. “In a way, that’s… that’s what most fears boil down to, isn’t it?”

“The stakes are rather high to gamble on a thought experiment, don’t you think?” The temperature plunges a few more degrees as Peter speaks. “I think that the most important ‘what if’ you should concern yourself with is what if you’re wrong?”

“And what if I’m not?” Martin counters. “You act so authoritative, but aren’t you also just speculating? When I agreed to work with you, you told me you would provide me with evidence to support your theory. So far, I’m not convinced. You’re going to have to give me more to go on than just ‘trust me.’ I mean – if it’s between trusting you and – and trusting Jon, and the others? You can’t really be surprised if I choose them over you.”

“Oh, Martin,” Peter tuts, shaking his head with derisive, disingenuous pity. “Since when has the trust you’ve placed in others ever been reciprocated?”

“I trust him,” Martin says defiantly.

“But does he trust you?” Peter pauses for effect. “Of all the times you’ve allowed yourself to form attachments, has anyone even once genuinely returned those affections?”

Jon did.

Whatever expression Martin is wearing brings a sneer to Peter’s face. Martin clenches his teeth and ignores him.

Jon does, he corrects. Present tense. He said as much.

Martin still can’t fathom what Jon could possibly see in him, but Jon wouldn’t lie about something like that, right? He wouldn’t.

…would he?

No, he wouldn’t, Martin chides. You know he wouldn’t. Trust him.

“Sure,” Peter persists, “you may open yourself up to the potential for something more, but you know as well as I do that it won’t last. Is the inevitable loss really worth the risk?”

“I don’t know,” Martin says. He tries to ignore the slight quaver that insinuates itself into the declaration. “But if I never take the risk, I’ll never know, will I?”

“I think you already know the answer.” Peter’s pale eyes glitter with spite. “Remember what it felt like, languishing at the Archivist’s deathbed. Recall the state you were in when you first came to me.”

The words are incisive, sliding under Martin’s skin and lodging there like shrapnel. He can feel his confidence waver, the conviction he stood fast on only seconds ago splintering underneath him like thin ice.

“How many times do you think he can court death and survive? He all but died stopping the last apocalypse; he was willing to bury himself alive for a woman who tried to kill him. How do you think he’ll react if you tell him about any of this? You think he’ll listen to reason? Trust in your judgment?” Peter fixes Martin with a smug, hungry look. “Or will he throw himself in front of the first bullet he sees?”

He already knows about all of this, Martin reminds himself. Jon isn’t about to sacrifice himself on account of the Extinction. Moreover, he seems to be genuinely committed to working as a team rather than striking out on his own.

But he also sees himself as a cataclysm waiting to happen, says the nagging doubt skulking in the far corners of Martin’s mind. As much as Jon insists that he doesn’t want to die, he’s already lived through one apocalypse. Martin has no doubt that Jon would sacrifice himself to prevent another, if it came down to it.

Jon is a powder keg of fear and guilt, and there is no shortage of potential ignition sources waiting in the wings. It only takes one untimely spark to set an archive ablaze.

“I trust him,” Martin repeats to himself, but the statement is rendered feeble by the leaden, frozen knot unfurling in his chest.

“Can you really weather another round of grief?” Peter continues, triumphant. He knows he’s found a gap in Martin’s defenses; all he needs to do now is twist the knife. “You’ve already done your mourning, cut the infection off at the source. Let him back in, and you only open yourself up to more pain. Better a numbed scar than a wound that never heals, don’t you think?”

“No.” There’s something off about Martin’s voice – as if it doesn’t belong to him; as if it’s originating from outside of himself, faint and frail and faraway, smothered by the cold, empty fog clogging his lungs. “N-no, I…”

“Connection is a fleeting, fickle thing,” Peter persists. “It’s a lie people tell themselves. The truth is that we are all alone. In the end, all we have is ourselves. Think about it.”

Unthinkingly, Martin shrinks away as Peter steps closer.

“You asked for more evidence.” Peter slides a few statement folders onto the desk. “Take some time to yourself. Consider whether you’re willing to wager on the fate of the world.”

When Martin looks up, he is alone.

“It’s so loud,” Daisy mutters heatedly, stalking to and fro like a panther in a cage. She scratches furiously at her forearms as she goes, blunt fingernails leaving faint red stripes on pale skin.

“Daisy,” Jon says evenly, “I think maybe you should –”

“Itch I can’t scratch.” She pivots on her heel, retracing her short path in the opposite direction. “Feels like fire under my skin.”

“I don’t think clawing your skin off is going to help.”

Daisy barks a laugh. “With what claws?” She stops short and brandishes the backs of her trembling hands, fingers splayed to highlight nails gnawed to the quick, ragged cuticles stained rust-brown with dried blood. “Dull now.” Her eyes go unfocused, staring vaguely at her hands as if she doesn’t recognize them. “Too dull.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says, and he means it.

It never gets easier to witness her like this, frenetic and fraying in the throes of the Hunt’s compulsion. These spells have a way of making her features look sharper, her mannerisms more animalistic. She’s all protruding bones and sallow skin, but that seeming frailty does nothing to tame the violence thrumming in her veins. If anything, that all-consuming hunger only makes her more fearsome.

Jon’s strict rations have given him an underfed, pinched look as well, but at least he has something. Not enough to put meat on his bones, so to speak, but enough to stave off starvation. Daisy, though…

When Jon takes a step forward, she rounds on him with teeth bared and a snarl in her throat. Jon flinches at the sudden movement.

“You’re afraid of me.” Daisy exhales an exhausted rattle of a laugh, as if vindicated. “Good. You should be.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Jon says. “I have an overactive startle reflex. Always have, really.”

“You’re lying.” Daisy breathes heavily through her nose, fists clenched at her sides now. “Admit it.”

Jon knows what she’s trying to do. She wants him to lash out, to bite back, to make her bleed. He’s uncomfortably familiar with that craving. It’s like looking into a mirror.

“I’m not afraid of you,” he reiterates.

“Liar,” Daisy hisses, fixing him with a baleful glare.

He’s seen her like this many times before, hunger-ravaged and swamped by bloodlust. She’ll doggedly bash herself against the nearest witness to her shame like a ship crashed against a jetty, driven forward again and again by cresting waves of guilt and self-loathing until she’s free-floating wreckage. Every time, it gets more and more difficult to gather up all the debris and repair the damage. Jon fears that one of these days, the storm will pass and there won’t be enough pieces left to put her back together.

“I’m not a knife you can cut yourself on, Daisy,” he says patiently.

Daisy looks positively mutinous, mouth opening and closing several times before erupting: “Why wouldn’t you be afraid of me?”

“I used to be,” Jon admits, leaning back against the tunnel wall to take some of the weight off his bad leg. “Before the Buried. I was terrified of you. Dreaded every moment I had to be alone with you. Thought it was only a matter of time before you finished the job.”

“It was,” she rasps out – and with that, her shoulders slump and her fists relax to hang limply at her sides, fingers jumping and twitching with the last dregs of her agitation.

“I know. But then you changed. You were different, after the Buried. As afraid of yourself as I used to be of you. As afraid of yourself as I was of myself.” He looks her in the eye as he speaks. “I looked at you and saw my own fear reflected back at me. There are so many things to be afraid of. You were – you are trying very hard not to be one of them.”

“If I’m afraid of me, you should be, too.”

“Are you afraid of me?” Jon asks, shaping each word carefully to keep the compulsion at bay.

She pauses, considering the question.

“No,” she says eventually. “Afraid for you, sometimes.”

“As I am for you.” Jon’s tentative smile fades after a moment. “I’ll admit, I do have… reflexive reactions, sometimes. There were a few incidents where I walked into the breakroom and you were holding a knife, and my fight-or-flight response kicked in before my conscious brain could catch up with reality.”

Daisy squeezes her eyes shut, wrapping her arms around her middle.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. When she opens her eyes, the look on her face isn’t pleading so much as it is resigned. She isn’t asking for forgiveness. Jon doubts she ever will.

It’s just one more thing they have in common.

“I know,” he says quietly. “To be clear, I don’t feel unsafe with you, as you are now. It’s just… flashbacks. They can be – unpredictable. And if I’m already feeling on edge, or – or not quite present, it doesn’t take much to set me off. But,” he adds, giving her a serious look, “I don’t want you walking on eggshells around me. That only puts me more on edge.”

“Fine. But will you tell me if I do something to scare you?”

“Yes.” She made the same request last time. “But I’ve never had to. You could always feel when I was afraid. From a few rooms away, even.”

“Yeah,” Daisy says with a choked laugh. “Your blood is – very loud sometimes.”

“And now?”

These episodes tend to be capricious. Sometimes, what seems to be the calm after the storm proves to be only a lull before a second wind. If the way she’s wobbling on her feet and favoring one leg is any indication, Jon suspects that the worst of the flare-up has passed for now, taking her adrenaline surge with it. Still, he waits for her confirmation. Daisy takes a minute to mull over the question, head cocked slightly to the side as if listening.

“Quieter,” she says.

With that, Jon lowers himself to the ground and sits with his back against the wall, beckoning her over to take a seat. She hesitates for a moment longer before following his lead, slumping down next to him with a labored sigh.

“Sorry for growling at you,” she says sheepishly, rubbing the back of her neck.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Daisy tilts her head back to stare at the ceiling. “You said I ended up going back to the Hunt last time.”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“September. But – but that doesn’t mean it has to happen again,” he adds hurriedly when he sees her face fall in a mixture of anguish and resignation. “It was – sort of a perfect storm of extenuating circumstances. Like I said before, if you didn’t let the Hunt back in, you and Basira would likely have been killed. But I think you knew you wouldn’t be coming back from it. Before you changed, you made Basira promise to hunt you down and kill you.”

“And did she?”

“She lost track of you in the chaos. You gave chase after one of the Hunters. Once you killed her, the other Hunter started hunting you. For revenge.” Jon’s voice drops to a low murmur. “A few weeks later, the world ended.”

Which makes it sound far more passive than it actually was, but Jon isn’t in the mood for a scolding should he opt for an ‘I’ statement.

“And then what?”

“You were a full-fledged Hunter in a – a perpetual fear generator of a world,” Jon says grimly. “Do you really need to hear the details?”

“Tell me,” Daisy says. “Please.”

Jon understands the need, but recounting the apocalypse never gets any easier. He closes his eyes, breathes deeply, and takes a moment to gather his thoughts.

“When I opened the door and let all the Fears into this reality,” he begins, “the world was divvied up into thousands of different domains, each belonging to a different shade of terror. With few exceptions, most people were confined to one domain – usually whatever aligned with their deepest fears. Avatars and monsters were subject to the Ceaseless Watcher, but otherwise able to exercise control over the humans in the domains of their patrons. Most seemed to stake out territory and settle in one place – customizing their own little spheres of influence, creating playgrounds of their own making. But some got around. You were one of the ones that traveled.”

“What was –” Daisy grimaces. “Who was I hunting?”

“Well… in that place, no one got what they deserved, only what would hurt the most. And people are rarely afraid of just one thing. Most were magnets for multiple fears. The more nomadic Avatars and monsters would gravitate towards whatever individuals were most susceptible to their power, so to speak.” He bites his lip. There’s really no tactful way to phrase this next part. “In your case, you had a roster of specific targets that you were tracking. Former prey. Whether you were drawn to them because of their own fear of you, or because some part of you judged them to have ‘gotten away,’ so to speak… I’m not entirely certain. It may have been a bit of both.”

“I see,” Daisy murmurs. “Guess it makes sense that I would rank high among some people’s greatest fears.”

“Basira was tracking you when we ran into her. We were with her when we found you.”

“And was I… still me?”

“Yes and no,” Jon says hesitantly. “You were you, in a way, but only a small part of you. The Hunter. Everything else was buried too deep. Drowned. Even if I could have brought you back, it would have killed you. You – you didn’t even recognize me, or Martin. You recognized Basira – saw her as pack, wanted her to join you in the Hunt – but…”

“You were prey,” Daisy says quietly.

“Yeah.”

“You never did manage to grow a self-preservation instinct, did you?” Daisy squints at him. “I went full monster on you, and you still want me to sit next to you now.”

“You had sharper teeth then,” Jon says drily. Daisy scoffs and nudges his shoulder with hers. She doesn’t draw back after making contact, and when Jon doesn’t pull away either, she leans into him.

“Basira kept her promise?” Daisy asks after a minute.

“Yes. She didn’t want to, but…” Jon swallows thickly, the memory of Basira’s heartbreak bringing to mind his own. “It wasn’t an easy decision.”

Daisy rubs at her chest with one hand, as if to soothe an ache. “It wasn’t fair for me to ask that of her, was it?”

“Maybe not,” Jon sighs. “It seems fair choices are hard to come by, for most of us.”

“I… I don’t want her to have to make that choice this time.”

“Neither do I.”

“It’s never going to stop, is it?” Daisy glances at him, allowing her head to rest lightly on his shoulder. “It’s only going to get worse.”

“I’m sorry.” What else is there to say?

“Melanie got away,” Daisy says, a tinge of bargaining in her tone. “She managed to purge the Slaughter. And break away from the Eye.”

“Her situation was… different from ours. She wasn’t as far gone as we are. The Slaughter hadn’t fully claimed her, and the Eye never took her as an Avatar. But you’ve been living with the Hunt for most of your life; I signed myself over to the Beholding the moment I became the Archivist. We’ve become… attached to our patrons, dependent on them for survival. Symbiotic, in a twisted sort of way.”

“You really don’t think there’s a way back, then.”

“I don’t know for sure. I’ve seen it before, in my future, but – the world was different then. During the apocalypse, I was able to, uh… shift a person’s status from Watched to Watcher. I – I mean, technically everyone was Watched – the Eye had dominion over everything – but I could give someone control over one of the smaller domains. Create new Avatars, for lack of a better term.

“But turn a Watcher into solely the Watched, and they would typically unravel. I don’t know if that’s because the full focus of the Ceaseless Watcher’s gaze just happens to be lethal – particularly for Avatars aligned with other Powers – or if an Avatar is simply unable to survive being cut off from their patron regardless of the means of separation. I do Know that I wouldn’t have been able to survive being cut off from the Eye unscathed. I was… too much a part of the Eye in that reality. Not sure about now. For either of us.”

“That’s a roundabout way of saying ‘no.’”

“I’m not saying no, I’m saying that I don’t know. Supposedly escaping the Buried was impossible, and here we are.”

“Apples and oranges,” Daisy says sullenly.

“Maybe. I think it’s all too complex for clear-cut categories. Even the hard-and-fast ‘rules’ are only as strong as our collective belief in them. Almost like our expectations shore them up. I’ve witnessed all of reality being rewritten – all physical laws and supposed universal constants reshaped to center the Eye.” He reaches one hand up to tug on the hair at the back of his neck. “After all I’ve Seen, it’s difficult to conceive of anything being categorically impossible. Between all the dream logic and reality bending, there’s plenty of space for firsts and exceptions to the rules.”

‘I don’t knows’ are where the hope lives, Martin said once. At the time, Jon teased him for being a hopeless romantic, but truthfully, Jon was just as hopelessly endeared by Martin’s belief in such things.

“Have you talked to Georgie yet today?” Daisy asks, apparently ready to change the subject.

“Oh, uh – yes. This morning.”

“And?”

“Melanie was out of surgery and stable, but she wasn’t awake yet. Georgie promised to call tonight with an update.” Assuming nothing major comes up before then, a worried voice in Jon’s head supplies. He shakes his head to jog the thought loose. “Speaking of Georgie… have you given any thought to her suggestion?”

“What,” Daisy says, drolly skeptical, “playing a video game?”

“I realize it’s… somewhat out of the box, but it might be worth a try. Like Georgie said, there are multiplayer games where you can, uh… hunt down other players.”

Daisy plucks absently at her collar, glowering at the opposite wall as if the bricks there committed a personal offense. “It’s not the same.”

“A simulation might not come close to a real hunt, no, but – you might still get something out of it? Maybe?” Daisy directs her scowl up at the ceiling. Jon only digs his heels in, undeterred. “There are even some that have a survival horror theme. An aesthetic that already puts players in the mindset to be frightened, you know?”

“People play those games for fun, Sims.” She finally looks at him, eyes narrowed. “It’s about thrills, not mortal fear.”

“Sometimes genuine fear can sneak through. Haven’t you ever been so creeped out by a horror story that it stayed with you after nightfall?”

“Not really?”

“O-oh. Well, some people have that experience.” Jon gives an awkward little cough. “Anyway, under the right circumstances, a game can get the adrenaline pumping as well as a chase can. A fight-or-flight response doesn’t necessarily require a real physical threat.”

Daisy raises her eyebrows, transparently cynical. “Do you really think the Hunt is going to be satisfied with jump scares and – and low-stakes adrenaline rushes filtered through a screen?”

“No,” Jon admits. “But it might take the edge off. Sort of like reading old statements does for me. Not enough to stop you starving, but maybe enough to distract from the hunger pangs. At least temporarily. If nothing else, you did say you need a new hobby, and it’s not like this place is overflowing with viable entertainment options.”

“I guess,” Daisy sighs. “I mean, it’s not like I’m paying rent. May as well squander my paycheck.”

“If that’s the case, you should see if that eBay listing for that vintage The Archers board game is still up,” Jon says drily. “Last I checked, it was £2 with no bidders.”

“Yeah, and £30 shipping.”

“Sounds like £32 well spent, if you ask me.”

Daisy snorts and bumps her shoulder against his. “You, Jonathan Sims, are an absolute menace.”

Adrift and thoroughly divorced from the concept of time, end of the workday passes Martin by without his notice. Once again, he wonders whether Peter deliberately assigned him an office with no external window, not only to put another wall between him and the rest of the world, but to make it easier for him to lose track of time.

For an interminable stretch of time he sits catatonic, mind peppered with sporadic sensory input: Dead-weight limbs, listless and foreign-feeling. The brush of fabric resting against bare skin, every point of weightless contact a violation. The distant ticking of clockwork, rote and irrevocable.

Stand up, comes the thought, detached and intrusive: an instruction he cannot parse; empty phonemes wafted into a vacant mind, abandoned there to echo and disperse until they lose all meaning. A fragment of a signal from brain to nerves to fingers presses numb fingertips to thumbs, a cautious test yielding no sensation but for the vague, spongey give of flesh.

Then the body ostensibly belonging to him is on its feet, the connection between floor and soles disturbingly incongruent with unreality. Walking now, every footfall jarring in its impact; every step stretched and blurred like a botched time-lapse photograph; every molasses-sluggish forward motion met with invisible resistance, like swimming against a sludgy current.

He does not remember how or when or under whose direction he arrives in the Archives, swaying at the threshold of the Head Archivist’s office. Empty and still. Silence so pervasive it’s almost tangible. Viscous and inexorable. Trapping him like a fly in honey. Drowning.

When next he becomes aware of his surroundings, he’s wavering at the bottom of a ladder. Walls curving up and over his head, a brickwork warren stretching on and out into the murk.

Standing in place. Hovering like an afterimage. Rootless and incorporeal. Searching for… staring at… calling to…

There: something real.

“Martin?” Jon’s breath fogs the air as he speaks, but the way he says the name… his voice seems to cradle the word, shielding it against the cold. He sits up straighter, keen gaze sweeping the area like a lighthouse beacon. “Martin, is that you?”

That’s me, Martin thinks, and then, wonderingly: He says your name like it’s something precious.

At that thought, Jon’s eyes land on him like a searchlight.

“There you are.” His soft smile immediately falters, brow furrowing in concern. “Are you alright?”

He’s sat on the floor with his back against the wall, one knee drawn up to his chest, and Daisy pressed up against his side in a mirrored position, sharing a pair of corded earphones. Daisy is already thumbing at the screen of her phone, presumably pausing whatever it is they’re listening to, as Jon removes his earbud.

Martin opens his mouth to speak, but the air in his lungs has turned to viscid fog and the confused tangle of half-formed thoughts in his mind refuse to coalesce into actual words. Jon exchanges a glance with Daisy, who is already moving to stand. Martin wants to object – she doesn’t have to leave on his account; he can see that they’re busy; he’s fine; he’s just overreacting – but before he can cobble together a protest, she’s halfway to her feet, gripping the wall for support.

“I’m alright now,” Martin can hear her say.

“You’re sure?” Jon asks in a low murmur.

“Yeah.” She winces as she straightens her spine. “Knowing Basira, she’s still pouring over the same statements as she was this morning. She could do with an interruption.”

“Can you manage the ladder?”

Daisy stretches her leg out, testing her mobility. “Think so.”

They give each other another long look, a shared nod, and without another word, Daisy staggers her way to the exit and mounts the ladder.

As it does every time he witnesses these displays of unspoken understanding between them, an ugly pang of jealousy burns in Martin’s chest – some combination of envy, inadequacy, longing, and loneliness. Possessiveness, almost – and an instant later, the shame sets in.

But then the trapdoor closes, Jon looks Martin in the eye again, and the sincere, tender warmth sheltering there is enough to leave Martin reeling. It’s hard to comprehend anyone – let alone Jonathan Sims – looking at him like that; difficult to reconcile requited affection with a lifetime of fruitless want. Martin can’t shake the feeling that it will always be this way – and that his inability to trust in unconditional love is precisely what makes him so unlovable in the first place.

Jon clears his throat and pats the floor beside him. He’s seated on a blanket, Martin just now notices, folded over several times to cushion the hard ground.

He’d better not be napping down here, Martin thinks to himself.

“Martin,” Jon says, in that impossibly soft tone he’s taken to using around Martin these days, “I’d like you to come sit, if you’re amenable.”

It’s such a Jon way of phrasing the invitation, and the familiarity it engenders has Martin accepting without a conscious thought. He settles himself beside Jon, close but not touching. Those few inches of distance manage to be simultaneously loathsome and assuring. Martin lets his hand rest in that vacant space, fingers clenching around a fistful of blanket.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Jon’s hand twitch, as if fighting back the urge to reach out and touch. Instead, he starts to rub the fabric of his trouser leg between his thumb and forefinger.

“What do you need right now?” Jon asks.

“I…” Martin pauses, unsettled by the sound of his own voice, grating and almost unfamiliar to his ears.

“Take your time.”

It takes a minute for Martin to wrap his mouth around more than one syllable.

“Nothing,” he says, the weight of the word nearly pinning his tongue in place.

“It doesn’t sound like nothing.”

Several more minutes pass before Martin is able to construct a full sentence.

“I’m just being stupid.” The words seem to echo faintly in the tunnel, despite how quietly he says them.

“What do you need?” Jon asks again.

“Nothing,” Martin repeats dully. He doesn’t need anything.

Jon doesn’t immediately respond. Martin can feel himself go rigid, anticipating… what – aggravation, impatience, disengagement? But Jon only runs a thumb along his jawline, a thoughtful frown on his face.

“Okay,” he says eventually, “what do you want, then? What would – what would help you feel better right now?”

“I… I don’t know,” Martin says in a voice so feeble it’s nearly inaudible. He flexes his fingers uncertainly, chasing after any physical sensation at all, only to find them numb and deathlike. The helpless sigh that shudders out of him wants to be a whimper. “I just – didn’t – don’t – feel real. Feels like I’m not really here.”

“Hmm.” Jon looks at him – really looks at him, taking his time to study Martin’s face. “Well, I can confirm that you are here.”

“You… you can see me?” Martin asks meekly, pleadingly, dreading the answer.

“Yes.” Jon pauses. “And if you’re agonizing over being a bother, don’t, because you aren’t. I always like seeing you.”

He should trust Jon – he does trust Jon – but it’s still a constant struggle to drown out that Lonely part of him that insists that isolation is safer, more dependable, and far more habitable. Unthinkingly, Martin reaches over, hand trembling in the air above Jon’s, fingertips just barely ghosting across scarred skin.

“Would you like me to hold your hand…?” Jon ventures.

Martin’s fingers curve inward as he pulls back slightly. “I, um.”

“You can say no,” Jon reminds him.

“I… I want it, but I – I – I don’t know if I can handle it right now, and I –” Martin draws back entirely, flapping both hands in frustration, trying to relieve the pins-and-needles sensation prickling through his veins. “I hate this. I hate being like this.”

Martin grimaces at the outburst, but Jon doesn’t seem to be judging him. Instead, he’s looking off to the side, a crease between his eyebrows now, as if he’s working through a problem.

“No skin-to-skin contact,” he says to himself, and then he looks to Martin. “Pressure helps me sometimes, when I feel like I’m not real. You could… lean against me? If you want.”

“I…”

“You don’t have to,” Jon rushes to reassure him.

“It’s – not that I don’t want to. I guess I’m just…” Martin can feel himself flush with embarrassment. “It’s daft, but I’m worried that I’ll be – I don’t know, incorporeal, or something.”

“I distinctly recall you telling me that you’re not a ghost.”

It takes a few seconds for Jon’s deadpan humor to sink in. When it does, Martin nearly chokes on a surprised laugh.

“I still can’t believe you thought I was a ghost,” he says, cracking a smile. The tight, bitter-cold knot in his chest yields just a little, like ice disintegrating under a spring thaw.

“In my defense, I was quite distraught at the time.” Jon’s eyes wrinkle at the corners and Martin is struck by overwhelming fondness. He doesn’t pull away when Jon reaches out, open palm hovering just above his shoulder. “May I?”

Cautiously, Martin nods.

“Hmm.” Jon applies the lightest touch at first, watching Martin’s face carefully. He waits until Martin nods for him to continue before he presses down more firmly. Before long, Martin can feel the warmth of Jon’s hand through his jumper. That warmth carries over into Jon’s smile. “Feels solid to me.”

The confirmation comes as a relief, as foolish as that makes Martin feel. He braces himself and leans against Jon’s side, releasing his held breath when his body meets with tangible resistance. At first he worries that Jon, scrawny as he is, won’t be able to support the weight, but he doesn’t budge when Martin melts against him. After that, it’s a struggle for Martin to keep his eyes open.

Jon must notice, because he whispers, “You can rest. I’ll be here.”

Martin doesn’t even have the strength to nod, let alone the energy to argue. He allows the steady rise and fall of Jon’s chest to lull him into an almost meditative state, his mind still floating somewhere outside of himself, but now tethered to the ground.

Then the silence starts nipping at his heels.

“Too quiet,” he mumbles. “Talk to me?”

“What about?”

“Anything.”

“Did you know that highland cattle have a double coat?” Jon says after a minute of consideration. “It insulates them against the cold. The outer layer is long – the longest hair of any cattle breed, in fact – and oily, which helps ward off the rain. Underneath is softer, almost woolly hair.”

Once Jon gets started, those little scraps of trivia soon progress to a nearly encyclopedic lecture. It doesn’t take long for Martin to lose himself in the rich timbre of Jon’s voice as he goes on about various Scottish breeds of cattle. Although he doesn’t fall fully asleep, Martin manages to drift in and out of consciousness enough that he loses track of time once more. This time, though, it’s a comfortable daze: there’s someone to keep him from straying too far.

At some point, he unthinkingly seeks out Jon’s hand. Jon presses his thumb into the center of Martin’s palm, rubbing small circles there, coaxing Martin further into peaceful relaxation.

“Sorry for interrupting you and Daisy earlier,” Martin murmurs groggily into Jon’s shoulder.

“Oh, we were just listening to The Archers.”

“Are you taking the piss?” Martin asks, opening one eye to scrutinize Jon’s expression.

“Unfortunately not.”

“You like The Archers.”

“Good lord, no. Blame Daisy.”

“Daisy likes The Archers,” Martin says, even more dubiously, sitting up now to squint at Jon.

“There are stranger things.”

Martin snorts and nestles into Jon’s side again. “If you say so.”

“Feeling better now?” Martin reflexively snuggles closer. Jon laughs softly, a little puff of a breath that rustles Martin’s hair. “I’m not going to deny you cuddles if the answer is ‘yes,’ you know.”

“Cuddles,” Martin whispers, the word dissolving into a clipped giggle.

“What?” Jon tilts his head. There’s a puzzled scowl on his face, as if he’s trying to decide whether or not he should take offense. It’s impossibly endearing.

“Cuddles,” Martin repeats, in a poor approximation of Jon’s voice this time. “Not a word I ever expected to hear from you.”

“Quiet, you,” Jon huffs, but he can’t disguise the way his indignant pout cracks into a smile under the weight of his own amusement. He almost seems to preen, as if pulling a laugh from Martin is a victory on which to pride himself. He reaches up with his free hand, pausing just above the top of Martin’s head. “May I?”

At Martin’s affirmative, Jon begins to comb his fingers through Martin’s hair, fingernails lightly scratching against his scalp. For the briefest of moments, some primal fragment of him recoils from the contact, instinctively unnerved by the vulnerability inherent to such closeness. Martin spurns that voice, breathes through its fit of angst and panic, and leans into the touch.

Little by little, step by step, he’s acclimating. He just wishes that it wasn’t such a process each and every time he lets his guard down like this.

“Bad day?” Jon asks once Martin settles.

“Something like that.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” Martin groans. “But I should.”

“Only if you want to.”

“No, you should know, I just…” Martin heaves a wearied sigh. “Peter’s back.”

Jon gasps like he’s had the wind knocked out of him. The hand stroking Martin’s hair abruptly stills; the other, still clasped in Martin’s, constricts like a death-grip.

“Did he hurt you?” The question is steeped in an artificial, fragile sort of calm, but Jon can’t quite mask the intensity buzzing just under the surface: fear, protectiveness, and desperation all intermingled and reinforced by that ominous inkling of power that, despite his intentions, lurks behind every word.

“He didn’t do anything out of the ordinary. Just… trying to get me to recommit to the Lonely.” Martin scoffs. “And of course he was trying to do it in a way that would make me feel like it was my idea. Get me to convince myself that it was what I wanted, rather than something he was pressuring me into.”

“Of all the Powers, the Lonely is one of the most insidious, I think,” Jon says quietly. “It seeks out victims who already have one foot in the Lonely, reinforces those fears, promises kinship – a paradoxical form of it, anyway – and then it just… waits. Spend enough time disconnected from the rest of the world, and it doesn’t take long to start telling yourself the lie that it’s for the best. That it’s what you are; that it’s all you’re meant to be.”

“And I fell for it,” Martin mutters.

“Anyone would, subjected to the right conditions.” Jon waits until he catches Martin’s eye before he continues. “It isn’t your fault. This is what the Fears do. It’s what they are. They find an opening, they sink their hooks in, and they pull you under. They don’t let go until either you drown or you learn to breathe fear. The only way out is for someone to throw you a lifeline, and even then, the odds aren’t great. And the Lonely in particular – one of the first things it does is make it difficult to even conceive of a lifeline. It’s hard to catch hold of one if you never think to look for it.”

“I thought you hated convoluted metaphors.”

“Yes, well, unfortunately the Powers That Be tend to elude any sort of straightforward, concrete discussion,” Jon grouses. “Just one more reason to begrudge them, really. My point is, the Lonely is an insufferable liar and so is Peter.”

“What do you know, they’re perfect for each other.” The remark succeeds in putting a lopsided smirk on Jon’s face, much to Martin’s delight. “Anyway, Peter said his plan won’t work unless I’m voluntarily Lonely.”

“He’s right, although his plan has nothing to do with the Extinction. He needs you to choose the Lonely because those were the terms of his bet with Jonah. He poaches you out from under the Eye – gets you to pledge yourself to the Forsaken – and he wins, with the Institute as a prize. He fails to convert you, he loses, and he does what Jonah wants, which is for me to be marked by the Lonely.”

Jon says that last part so nonchalantly. As if it’s a foregone conclusion; as if he’s become so accustomed to dehumanization that it doesn’t even give him pause. Martin grits his teeth, biting back a surge of anger on Jon’s behalf.

“Yeah, well,” he says tightly, “Peter bet on the wrong horse.”

A sharp intake of breath leaves Jon sounding strangled when he says, eyes wide and lips parted, “Oh?”

“I mean, he can’t just sic the Lonely on me like he would any other victim, right? That wouldn’t count as a win. He needs me to choose it. And I’m not going to do that.”

“Yeah?” The expression of unguarded, cautious hope dawning on Jon’s face makes him look years younger.

“Yeah,” Martin says, feeling increasingly emboldened. “The funny thing is, I don’t – I don’t think I ever chose loneliness. I never wanted it – that was just a lie I told myself, and the Lonely just – echoed it back to me. S-so Peter’s out of luck, because if there are other options, then the Lonely will always be involuntary. Because it’s not what I want.”

“You – you mean it?” Jon brightens, leaning forward.

Martin’s heart skips a beat and flutters hummingbird-quick against his ribs. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Jon smile – not like this, that is, beaming and uninhibited and altogether breathtaking. Immediately, Martin decides that he wants more. It seems wrong for something so exhilarating to be so rare.

He doesn’t know which of them moves first, and it doesn’t matter, because Jon is in his lap, and Jon is nuzzling into his shoulder, and Jon is here and solid and so, so alive in Martin’s arms, breathing warm and steady into his neck, smiling against his skin, hands scrabbling at his back to cling to his jumper. Martin’s fingers seek purchase of their own, and then something clicks.

“Jon,” he says, leaning back just far enough to confirm his suspicion, “is this mine?”

“Are you just now noticing?” Jon asks, devastatingly fond. “Martin, I’ve been wearing this jumper off and on for the last several weeks.”

“You have?” Martin all but squeaks, heat creeping up his neck and to the tips of his ears. “No. No, you –” Jon’s grin is widening, leaving Martin increasingly flustered. “I – I mean, yes, you have, obviously, I know that, but I – I – I –” Martin gulps, mortified, as Jon finally fails to contain his suppressed laughter. “Look, I didn’t recognize it until just now, alright?”

“Well,” Jon says, ducking his head to chuckle softly against Martin’s throat, “it’s mine now, and you can’t have it back.”

Which is fine with Martin, really, because he would be lying to himself if he said he wasn’t helplessly charmed by the newfound knowledge that not only is Jon an unrepentant clothes-thief, but apparently also an insatiable cuddler.

End Notes:

To address Martin’s concern: Jon does, in fact, nap in the tunnels sometimes. Listen, with Jurgen Leitner (derogatory) in absentia, there was an opening for the position of Beleaguered Tunnel-Haunting Hermit and Jon has all the necessary qualifications.

So anyways, who else thinks Peter’s bio on a dating app would probably just be that “every living creature on this earth dies alone” quote from Donnie Darko? I bet he thinks 'survival of the fittest' means 'every man for himself'. What an insufferable clown.

No Archive-speak in this chapter to cite.

I wanted to make a joke about a The Archers-themed Monopoly, so I asked duckduckgo if it was a thing. Sadly, it is not. There IS, however, a 1960s The Archers board game, and yes, there ARE eBay listings for it.

The first section of this chapter was written before eps 190-192 dropped. I think it still lines up well enough with what we saw of Melanie & Georgie’s characterization in these most recent episodes, with the qualifier that things have gone very differently in this AU compared with canon. (Also, I took some liberties wrt Georgie’s not-feeling-fear thing, obvi. Some of it matches with the most recent episodes, some of it not so much, but I decided to keep it anyways.)

Oh and I think I might have given myself cavities with the last section of this chapter. (I’m aro-spec; it’s hard to tell when I’m going over the top, but hopefully it’s fluffy without being overly cloying.)

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #tma spoilers #long post

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deadmomjokes · 4 years ago

Text

First time Stormlight Archives Read-thru: The Way of Kings Part One

Since I actually somehow made it through the library’s waitlist to get my Icarusian hands on a copy of this thing, and because I am a completionist who cannot leave character arcs unfinished, I’m dragging y’all with me on this adventure that I guarantee you doesn’t need to be this long.

Yes I’m salty about it and it’s gonna take some serious literary magic to make me NOT salty about it because trying to hold this book at a decent angle activated my carpal tunnel issues and now I can’t feel my pinky finger and my thumb is tingling. So yeah. It better be worth it.

Anyway, we just finished Part One. Wait, “we” you ask? Oh yeah, my husband loves worldbuilding and hard magic systems, so we’re taking turns reading chapters aloud so that we don’t have to hold onto the book twice as long so we can both read it, and we can keep reminding each other of what’s what.

ANYWAY, we just finished Part One, so have my thoughts, positives, negatives, and overall impressions. Then get your road trip snacks because like I said, I don’t do things halfway and I already started this journey so here we mcfreakin go I guess.

The Good Stuff

There’s some pretty good lines so far.

B. Sandy actually appears to know what he’s talking about with drawing and sewing? Wild.

I’m digging how the currency system is, like, also functional. The pieces of currency act as lights and power sources and stuff. Neat.

The two main characters from this section are: depressed mom friend and his Conscience, and a snarky nerd with delusions of criminal grandeur, and between them they have exactly 0.84 brain cells. These all belong to Jiminy Cricket the literal airhead the Conscience.

Depressed softboy who just wants to be a good big brother? Well darn it, you found my weakness. I’ll pull up my “adoption papers” folder.

Each chapter from a new POV has a unique voice. Rather hard to pull off in writing, but very clearly and expertly done here.

I have some questions moving forward, which is always a plus. However...

The Bad Stuff

I really, REALLY don’t like feeling like I’m the dumbest person in the room. While he did manage to avoid infodumping, Mr. Sanderson also managed to make me feel like I’m missing vital information at basically every turn. And not in the “ooh, what a mystery” kind of way-- in the “what the freak am looking at, I have zero idea what you’re describing because you’re using in-universe jargon.” This piecemeal revelation thing works for the characters’ stories and plots; I’m all for that! I’m intrigued at what’s up with Ms. Davar, and exactly how Kal ended up where he is, what’s up with the war, etc. The problem is with handling the worldbuilding this way when you’re trying to situate these mystery plots in said world. It is not immersive for me; it is distracting, frustrating, and makes it hard for me to focus on the story. A few points handled this way would have been fine, but I lost track of how many times I had to stop and groan because yet another new term was getting lobbed at me and my comprehension of the situation depended on having an understanding of the world which he just hadn’t given us yet. I’m really over it.

I get that we were trying to establish her character, but I could have done without these lead-up chapters with Shallan. I wasn’t at all as interested in her as I was with Kaladin. We could have learned all that we needed-- her family situation, her big plan, her big mouth, her skills, her mysterious past and the weird stuff about her father that we still haven’t learned fully yet-- in media res when she’s already Jasnah’s ward. It felt kind of tire-spinny, though I admit it was fun at times.

The sentences and wording get sticky at times. Especially with reading it out loud, there are quite a few places that make my brain stumble because the words sound wrong next to each other, or the same word appears in the sentence too many times, and so on.

There’s a lot going on that just isn’t important. This ties back in to the first point, but we’re getting so much information about this world that it becomes tiring and tiresome to keep track of all the different things we’re learning about-- cultural rules around slaves, ‘safehands’, eye color, and so on; ‘fabrials’; the currency denominations; a whole religious system, some of which appears to be important but also has a bunch of tiddly little details that don’t; a caste system; a military structure; however the freak the ecosystem works and all the different animals and plants; the weather systems; etc ad nauseum. How much of this is important to know? I don’t know! That’s what’s frustrating about it! So much of it seems like by-the-way kind of stuff, but some of it could end up being important, so here I am wondering what’s gonna be on the quiz and what’s just for fun.

Impressions and Thoughts

Why must carcinization haunt me even in escapist fantasy?

Am not a fan of the phrase “skyeels” and “poisonous skyeels.” Don’t like that one bit.

Dudes are religiously required to be himbos, and girls are religiously expected to be scholars and nerds. Am love.

I’m getting increasingly concerned by the death-blood-collection ominous mystery quotes at the beginning of each chapter.

I’ve only known Sylphrena for a day and a half but if anything happens to her I would.... Not.... Not harm anyone or myself because she would be sad. 😭

I was warned about “suicidal ideation” being a thing, but I’m going to put a little brighter of a warning label on that and say that if anyone is about to read this and gets upset or triggered by suicidal ideation, plans, and attempts, be very careful and know that’s kind of all a thing. Not sure how much a thing it’ll be moving forward, I’m hoping “not”, but, yeah. That was an attempt, not just ideation, tho I’m grateful for the person who warned me because if it had come out of nowhere instead of just being a step further than what I expected, I’d be really, really not okay.

Yalb is the real MVP.

Verdict Thus Far

On a scale of 1 to 10 where 1 is “I will actually find strength to abandon this book because I’m so done” and 10 is “I’m willing to give up sleep to read more,” I’m sitting at a 6.5 right now. Good, and I’m looking forward to continuing, but I have a little ways to go before I’m hooked. But thumbs up, thanks for convincing me! (from everyone except my tingling numb fingers, I should have tried the ebook instead -_-)

#stormlight archives #stormlight #way of kings #brandon sanderson #writing #long post

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fluffybluekitten · 4 years ago

Note

Akkakaka hypothermia with Bruce being the one getting it because pain.

@badthingshappenbingo

Here it is, fill for hypothermia

I really like this one

Read it at https://archiveofourown.org/works/31843678/chapters/79634398

or here

The headache hits first, an all too familiar throbbing filling his head and radiating out through his body. Then cold, biting in his hands and feet. When he attempts to draw them closer, blankets above him shifting, even that small movement is enough to make him want to keep his eyes closed and drift off again to wherever he was.

But he can smell something, a scent his mind registers as both pleasant and dangerous. He opens his eyes to a thankfully dim room. Shadows flicker across the wooden ceiling, crackling and spitting above a distant hum. He remembers being very small, winter nights with his parents, watching flames dance while falling asleep in front of the fireplace, and then floating in space. He forces his eyes open again, and gathers all his strength to roll towards where the light is coming from.

Coarse fabric brushes against his bare cheek as he comes to rest on his side. But nowhere else. He’s still wearing his suit. Gloves too, he sees as his hand moves into his field of vision. Water flaked with snow drips from between his fingers, but the skin’s dry underneath. Suit still intact, though the heating has clearly failed. Moving, even thinking, is exhausting. He stares into the fire like it’s a puzzle, and it dawns on him that in this state he’s unlikely to be the one who lit it.

Adrenaline jolts through him, and it’s certainly needed. He raises his head enough to glance around the room. He hasn’t been making an effort to move silently until now, but he supposes it’s second nature. The Riddler sits just a foot away, on the same rug he’s laid out upon, blanket wrapped around his shoulders and gazing into the fire. Bruce stares. His brain raises questions he can’t process fully right now. He settles for assessing his surroundings. They’re in a room. The windows are bright. Snow. Edward looks different when he’s still. Tired, almost as much as Bruce feels.

He needs to cough. He tries to supress it, but a shiver runs through him and Edward looks over.

Cover blown, he struggles to sit up. Edward uncurls from his seated position and shifts towards him, and Bruce pushes the last of his strength into moving, and leans forward and coughs, hard. A lot.

When he’s able to look up Edward is leaning over him, cheeks red from the fire.

Bruce plants his hands on the floor, takes a deep shuddering breath and looks around for a handy piece of furniture to pull himself up on.

Edward stands. “You’re in no condition to move.” He walks past, and Bruce tenses, turning to keep him in view. But he only grabs a couple of large cushions from a fireside armchair.

“I-”Bruce attempts to get up anyway, of course, but the connection between brain and body isn’t working well enough yet. He just needs a little time, but he can’t afford that now.

Edward drops the couch cushions behind his back and disappears further into the cabin. Bruce watches after him, but the light in the room Edward walks into is too bright, almost blinding him. He blinks, he can hear that hum more clearly now, quiet voices from another room.

When Edward returns Bruce is leaning back against the cushions, gathering his strength. He still wants to sleep very badly, his head still thrums, and every moment has the blurred distance of a waking dream. He forces himself to keep his eyes open.

Edward carries two mugs, and hands him one. Their fingers brush as Bruce takes it, Edward’s are pale, and Bruce watches him sit and wrap his hands around his own mug, moving closer to the fire. Something’s gone wrong, and Edward needs his help. That explains why he’s still alive. Edward can be sensible when it comes to his own survival. But if there’s other people here… that means… He shivers. No, he doesn’t know what that means.

Edward is watching him, and Bruce braces for a riddle, but instead Edward sips his drink. Bruce looks at his own cup. Looks at his shaking hands struggling to hold it upright. He breathes through the next shudder and focuses on the steam rising from the mug, the smell of herb and lemon. It stands out against the musty smell of the layers upon layers of blankets covering him. He supposes he might as well drink. It seems unlikely that the Riddler would poison him now. Redundant.

The tea tastes bitter and then sweet, and it replaces the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. The liquid’s warmth flows through him. He watches Edward drink too, and sees him shiver for the first time, is he trying to suppress it too? He looks back at that white window, the inside of the cabin dim compared to it even with the fire. He remembers snow, filling his vision, blinding and covering.

“What happened?” His voice comes out only a little croaky.

“You fell. Considering the time you spent in the snow, and the time it took to drag you back here, it doesn’t take a medic to diagnose hypothermia. And you must have received a severe concussion to knock you out for the best part of an hour.”

That’s worrying. He attempts to use the sensors on his suit to check his body temperature, but all higher functions are out. Then he realises what Edward is saying. “You saved me. Why?” He glances round as he speaks, checking the cabin a second time now he can look at it without his eyes watering, and realises the voices from the next room are the radio. Edward is likely correct about the concussion.

“What else could I do? What an anti-climax for my greatest rival to die from his own clumsiness.” Edward stands up quickly. “Now your vital signs were normal last I checked, except for a ridiculously low pulse, but then I expect your baseline must be low. I suspect your GCS score will have improved at least.”

When Edward steps toward him, Bruce puts out a hand to stop him.

Edward glares at him, but sits back down. “Fine. Have it your way. I’ll test your brainpower in a different way. Riddle me this - How do you warm up in a cold room?”

Bruce’s hand has gone from firm to shaking already. He raises it to his face. “My mask, it’s still on.”

Edward’s glare intensifies. “Of course. Now Batman, my riddle.”

Bruce finds he’s already forgotten it.

“As I suspected.” Edward sounds resigned. “Well, you’re no use to me for now.” He leans back on his elbows and closes his eyes.

“You’re tired,” Bruce says. He’s not sure if it’s countering anything, but it’s a fact he can clearly identify. He’s not the only one not at his best here.

“Yes, dragging your mass around will do that. But don’t get any ideas, I’m doing far better than you.”

“What are you listening to?”

“Hmm? Talk radio. Useful to keep up with the news up here.”

“It’s quiet.”

“Do you want me to turn it up?”

“No.” He can’t think why he pointed it out. Why he’s even making conversation with the Riddler. Only that his instincts are screaming at him that this is an opportunity he can’t ignore.

“It’s useful to have some background noise. Solitude is valuable, a relief. But even short periods of absolute silence can induce auditory hallucinations. It says nothing about my sanity.”

“I’m aware. It seems a sensible precaution.”

“It is.” Edward sounds defensive, which is usual for him, and the way he’s looking at him is searching, evaluating, also usual, but there’s something else too, a caution Bruce isn’t used to seeing on his face. It is strange talking to Edward like this. Even this short conversation must be the longest they’ve had without riddles or threats. “Good to hear your mind’s at least partially intact,” Edward adds.

“I suppose I have you to thank for that.” It sounds like a question. But he doesn’t have time to find out the answer now. The fog keeping his mind in this cabin is clearing a little. He needs to get back to Gotham.

“Don’t get any ideas, I still intend to destroy you when you’re well, speaking of which, will you at least consent to me checking your temperature.” Edward holds up an ear thermometer. Bruce raises his hand once again to check that his mask is in place. “Not the type recommended for hypothermic patients, but I suppose we’ll have to make do.”

“No.” Bruce presses forward, gathering himself under him. He needs to get up, keep moving, that’s what will finally get him warm, get him back home. Once upright, he’s able to stand without swaying after only a few seconds. Edward watches from the floor. “Get up. You’re coming with me.”

“You have no chance of taking me anywhere at the moment.”

Bruce grabs Edward by the arm and tries to lift him, but Edward seems stuck to the floor, all Bruce’s pulling just putting himself off balance. Maybe he should leave him here for now and come back later. The important thing is that he gets back to Gotham now. But Edward’s grin looks about to turn into a laugh, so he puts all his strength into one final heave, and succeeds in pulling the other man to his feet. For a moment they balance there together, and then the world tilts. He’s falling forward, crashing into Edward, feeling arms around him in the moment before everything disappears.

#batman #riddler #riddlebat #hypothermia #bad things happen bingo

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scullydubois · 4 years ago

Text

Only the Light: Ch. 15

After shooting Mulder to prevent him from implicating himself in his father's murder, Scully takes Mulder & Melissa on a road trip to Albert Hosteen's Navajo reservation in New Mexico.

TW for mentions of guns/shooting, death, funerals

----------------------------------------------

His eyes flutter open to some place like Heaven, which pisses him off cause that’s not supposed to exist, and if it does, then how in the hell did he make it here? A fiery-haired angel lays a gilded hand upon his chest, her touch made out of air. Tendrils of hair fall against her face, and Mulder wonders where one gets haircuts in Heaven.

He must be floating on a cloud, so close to the sun that it is stained an earthly golden-yellow. His sky accommodation is not as comfortable as all those Renaissance painters made it look, and for that he feels deceived. Is the soul so solid that it is weighed down, even in Heaven? And if it is, well, doesn’t that defeat the purpose of a soul?

He is fatigued, and it’s bullshit, in his opinion, that he could be dead and still feel anything but blissful numbness. He’s about to voice this particular grievance when he realizes where he is, and sure English is turning into a lingua franca of sorts, but something tells him that God isn’t spending his spare time teaching the angels the difference between too and to. So he keeps his mouth shut, unnerved by not knowing whether he’ll ever be able to speak his mind again.

“Hey,” a soft voice breathes, and he’s surprised to understand it, but not altogether upset. He tries to respond, but his tongue has tethered itself to the base of his mouth.

“Mulder…” the voice says, and it registers in his mind that it’s not an angel--not technically--but Dana Katherine Scully, and my god, what atrocity has dared to send her to Heaven so damn soon?

He coughs, then grumbles from deep in his throat. He’s got to be the most undignified person in this joint, and he can only hope his welcome dinner with God isn’t anytime soon. The angel’s hand that is actually his partner’s drifts over his forelock, her fingers guiding his hair back into its part.

“Mulder, can you hear me?”

He nods, hungry for some sense of things.

“You were shot, Mulder. By me. Because you were acting very stupid.”

She killed him?!? Maybe he shouldn’t be so shocked by this, but he can’t help himself. And she’s here too, so how did that happen? Murder-suicide?

Her hand sweeps his shoulder, and he looks down to see the space where her bullet must have pierced him. Patched up right above his heart. He didn’t expect to carry wounds into the afterlife.

Her eyes meet his, blue as ever. “I’ve been taking care of you, and you’ll be just fine.”

His lips form an O, but no sound follows.

“Let me get you some water.” Scully disappears from his line of sight, and he realizes that his cloud has a roof and an open door. You can’t see those from the ground.

Scully returns with a plastic water bottle. Deer Park, to be exact--another thing he didn’t expect to find in Heaven. She holds it to his lips, tilting the liquid gently into his mouth. He revels in it, vitality slowly being returned to him.

At last, his tongue functions as it should. “Where are we, Scully?” he asks, his voice creaky. He’s beginning to think it’s not Heaven after all, but the back of his partner’s Chevy. Which feels about as equally likely, if he’s honest.

“At a gas station In Texas, about two miles off I-40,” she answers, twisting the cap back on the bottle. “We’re headed to a Navajo reservation in New Mexico.”

Met with the realization that his life is not, in fact, over, Mulder tries to piece together the last moments he can remember. He squints, the sun outside the vehicle colliding with the darkness in his brain. He remembers a fever and a bed that was not his.

“Did I sleep in your bed?” he asks, fairly confident that more important things before and after have slipped his mind.

“You did indeed,” Scully replies. And before he can get to it--”Melissa and I shared.”

“Ah.” He pushes himself up, every muscle in his arms rebelling.

Scully pats his shoulder. “You should stay reclined.”

“I’m like a whale in a fish bowl back here,” he protests. And he’s not wrong, Scully knows this. To fit him in, she leaned his head against the driver’s side windowsill and let his bare feet push against the passenger side door, then said a silent prayer that there would be no potholes.

“Why can’t I come up front?” he whines. “I’ll lean the seat back.”

“Because Missy’s sitting there.”

Mulder glances into the front, his expectations of privacy shattered. Still, an empty passenger’s seat meets his gaze. “Well, where is she then?” he pesters, more pointed than intended.

Scully chuckles. You can put a hole in the man’s chest, but you can’t take the restlessness out of him. “She’s inside getting snacks.” Scully smiles at her partner, fondness flowing out in a way she rarely lets it. He’s been out for a couple days now--and while she was closely monitoring him and knew he was okay--she’s so glad that he has come back to her. “Do you want sunflower seeds?” she asks with a sparkle in her eyes.

He nods. “Sp--”

“Spitz.” The moments that have gotten them there, that have indebted her with that knowledge, flash through her mind. “I know.”

And it feels almost prophetic, to Mulder, that she does.

--------------------

The plains of North Texas roll past them, headlights and moonlight meeting in a demure embrace. The two-lane road bears a great resemblance to many they’ve gone down in days past. There’s no one else in sight.

Mulder has been relieved of his back seat duties, taking Melissa’s place at the passenger side so she could get some sleep. He’s slipped on the shirt Scully swiped from his apartment, a Knicks 1990 tee that she must have found in the corner of the living room where he throws his dirty clothes. He wonders if she even packed anything for herself before she hightailed it out of the city.

He couldn’t have imagined that punching Skinner would lead to his father dead, him shot by his partner, and them on the run across the country. And yet, there’s no place he’d rather be. The desert gifting them with a stunningly clear night, he’s opened the car’s sunroof and kicked back to stare up at the stars. The radio having long turned to static, quiet permeates the car.

“I’d gladly live in the middle of nowhere if I got this view every night,” Mulder remarks, drinking in the night sky.

Scully glances at him. There’s a rogue part of her brain that hoped he’d be looking back at her. Alas, the sky is his mistress.

They continue barreling down the highway, about seven hours out from their destination. The speedometer reads 87 mph...Scully is prone to speeding when she can get away with it.

“Keep it up and we’ll beat the sunrise,” Mulder jests.

“That’s the plan.”

Mulder pulls his seat back into place, popping suddenly into Scully’s peripheral vision. “Hey Scully, can I ask you a question?”

“If I said no, would that stop you?”

“Negative.”

“Go on, then.”

“Setting aside the why--though I’d be interested in that, too--how exactly did you decide that shooting me near the heart would be the safest bet?...Unless you wanted to kill me.”

“Well, I was pretty certain I’d be able to remove the bullet with what you had in your apartment, since the wound isn’t near a bone. That also makes it easier to prevent infection.”

“So you either have an insane amount of confidence in your shot, or you don’t value me very much,” he quips.

Scully smirks. “Lucky for you, I consider target practice a great stress reliever.”

“Does the Bureau psychologist know that?”

She bats his arm playfully, the car swerving as she does.

“Hey, that’s no way to treat a patient. Now I know why you’re not practicing.”

“Oh, did I forget to mention…? I’ve decided that I prefer Dr. Scully to Special Agent Scully, so this is the last you’ll be hearing from me.”

Mulder chuckles, though the very idea that there could be any truth to that gives him a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. “There are millions of doctors out there,” he says, “and some of them aren’t even the cool type. Special Agent? That’s way sexier.”

“Oh, is that the metric we’re measuring at now?”

“That’s the metric I’m always measuring at,” he deadpans.

“Mmm.” Scully looks at the rearview mirror, her sister’s steady-breathed sleep reflecting back at her. Good. She’d never hear the end of it if Missy overheard this conversation.

Mulder rubs his eyes, the events prior to his blackout having flowed back to him through the waking hours. “I’m sure I’ll regret asking this,” he begins, “but am I a fugitive?”

Scully glances out the driver’s window, as if she were going to change lanes though there is nowhere to go and no one else around. “I took your weapon to ballistics and proved it wasn’t the one used in the murder.” She says it so casually, Mulder notices, distancing them from the fact that the victim was his father. “But you’re still the only one placed at the scene, and it doesn’t look good that you called the police then ran. Still, the evidence implies that it wasn’t you. Of course, there’ll be suspicion…”

“Especially since we’ve both disappeared…”

“Hey, we’re on FBI business,” Scully declares. “We didn’t go through the official channels, but this is related to the X-Files.”

“Maybe Skinner will believe that if he hears it from you.”

“That’s what I’m banking on.”

Mulder smiles. She’s using her reputation to pull off a ruse. And damn, does that turn him on.

He breathes in the scents of the car--the McDonalds fries they bought with Melissa’s credit card (just to be safe), his own eau de cologne from three days without a shower, but, above all, Scully’s sweetness. Her, just...her. A hint of strawberry, a swipe of gardenia perfume, and her honey-suckle skin. Smoke was never a fitting scent for her, and he is glad she has given it up.

“I’m guessing it’s safe to say you never caught up to Krycek,” Mulder mutters, balling up the fast-food straw paper and tossing it in the air. “Unless you’ve got him in the trunk.”

Scully shakes her head. “No stowaways besides you. He ran off after I shot and catching him wasn’t exactly my top priority.”

“So you do value my life…”

Scully flashes a brilliant but bashful smile. “You caught me.”

What a relationship they have. They are each other’s slayer and savior; a cut of the knife stitched by a meticulous hand. Hurt then healed on the other’s command.

“Fox…”

Mulder glances at the backseat. He finds Melissa sound asleep, snoring softly, and his gaze snaps back to the other Scully in the car. What glitch in the universe has led her to address him by his dreaded name?

He has never been so sure as in this moment---his partner is an otherworldly being, something supernatural. Not an alien, nothing so sinister...but perhaps the angel he imagined, or a fairy who has guided mankind for millennia, or a genie granting his wishes in freeze-frames. She looks through him...not in a way which makes him invisible, but one that takes the physical aspect out of it entirely. She sees his soul. He knows this.

“Fox,” she continues, layering on the vulnerability, “I’m sorry about your father. I know you loved him, above it all.”

Mulder pinches the bridge of his nose. “Something like that...I don’t know, honestly, that he ever loved me.” He looks at his lap. “He spent his last breath asking for forgiveness. You have to wonder what he’s done with his life to end up there.”

“It all becomes clear at the end,” Scully responds, not so much a hypothesis as a statement of fact, drawn from experience. “His regrets caught up to him, and he loathed some things he did while cursing himself for the things he left undone...And in that moment, an apology was all he could do to right some wrongs.”

Mulder looks at her through the corner of his eye, somewhat disturbed by the oracle she has become. “He asked me to forgive him,” Mulder replies. “That’s not the same as an apology.”

“Isn’t it, though?’

Mulder crosses his arms over his chest, the lumpy gauze of his wound rubbing him through his shirt. “Well, first of all, he didn’t even specify what I was supposed to forgive him for, so I don’t see how that can yield any sort of apology. And the very fact that was saying it at the end of his life means that it wasn’t actually about soothing my feelings, but lessening his guilt. Really, it didn’t have a damn thing to do with me.”

“So you’re saying it was a selfish apology, and that doesn’t count.”

“Exactly.”

“So do apologies only work if the recipient accepts them?” Scully interjects. “Is there no value in the attempt?”

Mulder bites his lip.

“I’m not trying to play devil’s advocate,” she clarifies. “I’m genuinely curious about what you think.”

He sighs. “I think...what matters is not necessarily if the apology is accepted, but the intent of it. Like in this case, it was ill-timed, and so I don’t accept it. Maybe if he had said it to me ten years ago, it would have mattered, even if I were too stubborn to accept it at the time.”

“So if your father had apologized to you ten years ago, you would accept it now that he’s dead…?”

Mulder shrugs. “I think I��d realize that he actually meant it, and so I should cut him some slack.”

“Interesting.” Scully says nothing else, keeping her attention straight ahead.

Mulder smirks. “You don’t agree with me, do you?”

She pulls her lips into a tightly-knitted line. “No, no, that makes sense. I just think there are instances when a poorly-timed apology is accepted, and what then? Is the inevitable misunderstanding that will result the recipient’s fault for being so naive? Or do they get to place all the blame on the dishonest person?”

“How about a little bit of both, ey? Spread the blame out nice and evenly. A sprinkle there, a pinch here...”

Scully cracks a smile. Of course he’d make this conversation dirty. “You know, you scare me sometimes, Mulder.”

And just like that, they’re back to his preferred name. He lets out a sideways smile. “Yeah? Why?”

“Because I think that maybe you’re truly crazy, you’re not just faking it.”

He laughs, deep and sudden. Pulled from the trenches of his being. “Glad to hear it,” he snickers. “Glad to hear it.”

-------------------------

As the motorcycle rumbles over the desert dust, Scully wonders how she could be so stupid. Barely out of psychosis and she sends Mulder to a burial ground. She didn’t intend for it to be his final resting place.

Eric had tried to warn him before the helicopter men, as he called them when describing the scene to Scully and Melissa, burned the place. But Mulder couldn’t hear him over the whirl of the blades--that’s what Eric suspected. As he recounted to the girls, the smoking man had threatened him, had laid a grotesque hand on him and forced him to show the way back to his house. They interrogated his father Albert and bruised and bloodied him. The conclusion, all around, was that nobody knew where Mulder was. Regardless of whether he had burned in that boxcar or somehow disappeared into the desert beforehand, he was gone.

Scully has a pretty clear idea of who’s responsible, and she wishes she had a helicopter she could ram into their dumb black helicopter to wipe them off the face of the Earth... and prevent them from wiping anyone else off the face of the Earth. Thwarting their ambitions will have to be enough.

But how? Desert heat mixes with smoldering ash as she stands over what’s left of the boxcar, making the moment unbearable. It is obvious to her that if Mulder was still in the boxcar when the ignitor went off, he is now dead. No human can survive that magnitude of burning--he would, in fact, be incinerated. Not a piece of him left behind, identifiable even to Scully’s trained eye.

And if he wasn’t in the boxcar, if he heard the helicopter and gave himself over to the desert? What then? Surely he would have found his way back to where she was standing by now. Surely she’d be able to see him, hear him, touch him. There’d be proof he was something more than ashes. Maybe even, he might have made it back to the motel. But Melissa is keeping watch, and she hasn’t said a word. Missy would not play games about this.

Logic prevailing, as it often does with her, Scully lets Eric drive her back to the motel. If he’s not here, then he’s there. And if he’s not there then--well, she knows. And isn’t it just like Mulder to leave her enough evidence to point one way without giving her the proof she needs to conclude? She imagines a funeral sans a body and shutters.

When they get back to the motel and Missy opens the door and she is alone in the room, Scully is not surprised. She is shattered. It’s like learning the day you’ll die, then waking up on that day and recoiling at the calendar. What will be cannot be stopped. Not by any power of persuasion. Any.

She wants to scream, cry, file a personal complaint with God. Instead, she walks through the door, thanks Eric for his help, then asks her sister what she wants for dinner. Scully’s not hungry--she rarely is these days, and how could she be at a time like this?--but Melissa, she’s human, and she’s been waiting around all day, and all they have in the room is a quarter-full bag of gummy worms, so yeah, Scully decides, Missy probably is hungry. And that’s something she can take care of.

Missy looks at her sister like--well, like she said she just saw an alien. “Dana, you’re not well.” Then, after getting no reaction--”It’s okay to be upset.”

Scully throws her blazer over a chair. ”I didn’t say I wasn’t upset.”

Missy sits down on the bed and pats the space next to her. “Come on, let’s talk about it.”

Scully throws her hands in the air. “He’s gone, Melissa, what else can I say?” She paces through the room. “If he was in the box car, he burned to death. And if he wasn’t, then shouldn’t we have found him by now?”

“Not necessarily,” Missy counters. “Albert told me about the Anasazi, a tribe that lived here hundreds of years ago.”

“I know, I know. They disappeared, historians have no explanation for it.”

‘“That’s what they say. But, honestly, Dana--nothing disappears without a trace. Mulder included.”

Scully shoots her a look. “So what is your explanation? That he was abducted, despite there being multiple witnesses who didn’t see a thing?”

“He called you, he said he saw something in the boxcar.”

Scully nods. “Bodies...lots of them. He said they didn’t look human. And they all had smallpox vaccination scars.”

“What do you make of that?”

Scully shrugs. “I don’t know, but I don’t think it has anything to do with the Anasazi.”

“So why did the men burn the boxcar?”

“It could have been because Mulder was in there, and they wanted to kill him. Or because what’s in there was damning to them.”

Missy bites her lip. “Did the boxcar blow up?”

“No, but it’s still smoldering.”

“Could you go in tomorrow and take a look? See what you can find?”

“Missy, I doubt there’s anything left. And besides, I’ve already ignored about thirty calls from Director Skinner. I need to get back to DC...I’m lucky if I’ll still have a job.”

“Fuck the job. Think of Mulder.”

“I need to consider both if I’m actually to uncover any of the conspiracies that Mulder--and his father and so many others--died as a result of.”

Melissa frowns. Dana’s already counting her partner out...that’s hard to come back from, being christened as a corpse. She sighs. ”Alright, I’m going to preface this by saying that I truly don’t believe that Mulder’s dead, and I know you will find him.”

Scully’s eyes narrow, intrigued by her sister’s shift in tone. “Okay…”

“There’s a technique that I learned from my therapist friend,” Missy begins, already setting off alarm bells in Scully’s head, “that is meant to help process complicated feelings about a person.”

Scully purses her lips as Missy continues--”It’s used to find clarity and--if it’s someone you’ve lost, literally or metaphorically--to give closure. I think it would help you establish a clear motivation to keep up your work on the X-Files.”

Scully’s forehead creases right between the eyebrows. “I just told you, I have one.”

“Yes, but if you go back to Washington, bureaucracy’s gonna get in the way of all of that. That’s why you drove out here in the first place, isn’t it? To avoid bureaucracy and push forward with the case?”

“I suppose,” Scully mumbles.

“And that’s exactly what Mulder would have done, and that’s what he would want you to do now.”

“This is beginning to sound like one of those ‘if x jumped off a bridge, would you?’ scenarios,” Scully retorts.

“But with the opposite sentiment,” Melissa clarifies. “You and Mulder have never been closer to finding the truth. Now do you want to hear my suggestion or not?”

Hands on her hips, Scully’s silence commands Missy to continue.

“Let me remind you that Mulder is not dead, and this is just an exercise.”

Scully nods, more to keep her moving than in agreement.

“I want you to write a eulogy for him.”

Scully’s mouth drops open in protest. “And this is going to advance the investigation how?”

“By giving you emotional clarity. Essentially, you’ll realize how much he means to you, and it will push you to do whatever you can to complete the investigation.”

Scully scoffs. “You act like I don’t even like him or something.”

“You like him, but you’re afraid of imitating him. There’s a lack of...respect for his methods. And they’re the only way this case is gonna get solved.”

Scully crosses her arms. “Gee, apparently you should have gone to Quantico in my place.” It’s not that she’s afraid, per say, but that she doesn’t think Mulder’s unconventional approach will work. Two plus years in and she still believes herself more than him. She wishes she didn’t.

“You don’t have to read the eulogy out loud,” Missy coos, knowing full well that she’ll be sneaking around during the night to get her hands on it when her sister refuses to share.

“Wow, thanks. That makes me feel a lot better,” Scully groans.

Melissa squeezes her sister’s shoulders. “It’s gonna be okay. You’ll find him, and this will help you know what to say when you do.”

Scully leans into the hug. “For the record, I think this is insane, alright? I’m only doing it because it’s getting too late to search the desert.”

“Understood.” Missy stands up. “Oh, and to answer your question, Albert invited us over for a traditional tribal feast at his house.”

“What?”

“You asked what I wanted for dinner. Those are our plans.”

“Oh.” Scully looks at her lap. It seems unfair to have to face the world at a time like this. Especially when her head is plagued with thoughts about what she would--will?--say at her partner’s funeral. And still, she continues.

--------------------

Crowding around Albert’s dining table, the party finishes the last bites left on their plates. It has been a long day--or days, more accurately--and the desolate black sky outside makes Scully feel like it’s 4am, though the clock only reads 7. She blinks toward her company, trying to remain present.

“I am thankful we could share this meal,” Albert says, nodding to Scully and her sister. “It is not often we get outsiders here, and even less often that we’re able to indulge in the foods of our ancestors.”

Missy reaches for the final piece of fry bread, biting into it daintily.

“There’s not a lot here,” Albert tells them, eyes downcast. “Nowadays, we take what we can get, and that means eating to survive...your processed foods and non-perishables have become the staples of our diets.”

Scully tries not to frown. “Well, we’re very glad that you prepared this for us. It was delicious,” she says, trying to inject enthusiasm into her downtrodden heart.

“Yes, thank you very much,” Missy affirms.

Albert casts his eyes in Scully’s direction. A shadow falls over her. From where, she is not certain.

“You are hurting, but you do not need to be. What is yours will find you. There is no such thing as disappearance.”

Scully pulls her lips into a solemn smile. “That’s kind of you to say.”

“It is the truth. The desert acts in its own way, and it is never wrong.”

Scully nods, trying to believe him. Trying to have faith. “Thank you, Albert.”

From across the table, he extends his palms toward her. “Pray with me.”

She clasps his hands and closes her eyes. Prayer is not normally something she engages in with others around, but neither is grief.

Albert begins speaking in the language written on the Defense Department files. She doesn’t understand the words, but his sincerity transcends semantics. The spirit of faith--the spirit of God--is there.

She has been thinking lately of faith. The faith she has been feeling is not that of Sunday mornings and ‘forgive me Father for I have sinned.’ It’s something else entirely, something that has compelled her to do things she would never do... until she looked down at her hands and she was doing them.

So many transgressions to count, and yet she hesitates to even call them that. Injured her partner--a suspected fugitive--to keep him from implicating himself, tapped her sister as her sidekick to take him halfway across the country, and deserted her duties at the FBI, all in favor of the truth.

Maybe truth is faith that good will prevail.

--------------------------

When Scully sits down that night with the motel notepad and a pen, she becomes a conduit for everything she couldn’t say out loud. She copies the entire Mulder file from her brain, and it still doesn’t feel like enough. It doesn’t capture any of his essence, the unique flavor of humanity that he bravely faced the world with which made him so...him.

It is then that Scully realizes you can know all the details of someone’s life without ever really knowing them, and that scares her because she gets the inkling that she has never truly let Mulder in--though he has opened up to her--and what if he dies feeling like he never got further than the young woman whose physics thesis he read? That’s not fair, not when she knows him so well.

She takes a breath and puts the pen down. She can’t compose Mulder to life. Resurrection doesn’t work that way. What she can do--and what she realizes is what every person does in this situation, and there must be something wrong with her because it wasn’t her first instinct--is write about how the man she knows (knew?) made her feel. About the impact his life had on her life.

Her vision blurs as she works to consolidate her unauthorized biography of Fox William Mulder into a passage that suggests the joy their partnership brought into her life. Though Missy said she wouldn’t have to share, Scully can’t shake the feeling that she will need this at some point in time, that having a eulogy on call might not be such a bad idea. It’s a terrible thought, but a truth every agent knows. After all, she and Mulder witnessed each other writing their wills, and that was considered a customary work duty. Nothing is out of reach.

And so she wrote as if she’ll have to read it one day, letting her emotions flow within the confines of her finely tuned self-awareness. The end product turns out somewhat more sentimental than she envisioned, but she caps her pen and walks away, giving herself permission to take up space.

--Fox William Mulder--

As he despised being called by his first name, I must take the liberty of referring to my partner as Mulder one last time. I was lucky to know him. Not as Spooky or the alien-obsessed man in the basement, but for who he truly was. Nothing was more important to Mulder than the truth. And the truest truth I know about him is that he loved his sister, and he wanted justice for her. It’s what he spent his life on, and ultimately, what he sacrificed it for. I am honored to have played any role in his mission, and I hope to continue it in his memory.

If there’s one piece of Mulder that I hope to carry with me for the rest of my life, it’s his tenacity. Mulder never, never let any obstacle get in his way. I can’t tell you how many times I wasn’t sure where he was, only to learn that he had flown to the ends of the Earth to investigate whatever lead he found promising that day. I doubt that I’ll ever encounter anyone who lives up to the passion and determination he contained within him. And it’s a shame because the world needs that...The world needed him.

I needed him too. He challenged me in ways I never dreamed of. Sometimes I wanted to pull my hair out, but mostly, I just kept thinking about how boring my life would be if I never met him. And now...I don’t know what’s next. There were so many possible futures ahead for us and the X-Files. This isn’t just a eulogy for Mulder, it’s a eulogy for all that could have been. He was my best friend. There’s nothing more I can say.

When she reads it back the next morning, she falls to her knees in conversation with God, pleading for a miracle to bring the man she has finally realized she loves back into her life.

#this got tender as hell #truly a labor of love <3 #thank you for reading as always #only the light fic #missy and scully fic #the x-files #txf fanfic #txf #dana scully #fox mulder #melissa scully #mine

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mythicalcanary-literature · 3 years ago

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FanFiction - Crossing the Stars

Hetalia (c) Hidekaz Himaruya

FTL: Faster Than Light (c) Subset Games

[CHAPTER LIST]

Author’s Note: This FanFiction is a crossover between the sci-fi strategy game ‘FTL: Faster Than Light’ by Subset Games and the manga/anime called ‘Hetalia’ by Hidekaz Himaruya. The story will follow closely to the events of the rougue-like gameplay in FTL and the human characters will be replaced with the human versions of the national personifications in ‘Hetalia’. This is a fun personal project and it requires no knowledge of either fandom to enjoy this story. I’d encourage checking the original sources out though! Use of screenshots in this FanFiction are to supplement the storytelling to help plot the course of our heroes’ journey in the universe. Whatever the outcome of the gameplay I base this story on (as each playthrough is very unique) will be translated into the plot of this story. i.e. If the spaceship gets damaged, it gets damaged in the story. If a character dies in the game, they’re dead in this fiction. (Please note that I find this kind of storytelling entertaining to play/write and I plan to do more in the future if time allows!)

Chapter 1

The Federation was struggling with the advancing Rebel fleet. One lone ship carried some vital information that could turn the tides of the war and the Federation allied Star Ship APH was going to be their champion.

At the helm was Captain Alfred Jones, a spry young American whom fit the Golden Boy persona to a tee. Sure, he wore square-rimmed glasses but he was still awesome. Don’t let his cute blue-eyed, blond haired, ripped body mislead you! He had the courage to lead his crew to the very end. He was the youngest of his crew and had a Hero Complex but his heart helped him to make some decent moral choices. His friends might disagree and say that his Hero Complex leads to some very immoral choices, but how could he be wrong? He’s great!

Stationed at weapons was his best friend from the academy called Arthur Kirkland. He was an officer from England and was keen to aid in an international project. Arthur was rather lean in build with messy blond hair that matched his sassy personality. His piercing emerald eyes held a wisdom beyond his years. He was tasked with weaponry because of his strategic skills and fearless judgement. Unfortunately his friends and colleagues often made fun of him for his bushy eyebrows, apparent inability to cook, and his obsession with the occult.

Last but not least was the Frenchman Francis Bonnefoy, a flamboyant friend of Arthur’s and on-and-off enemy of his. Much like Alfred, don’t let his looks fool you! Francis’ long, golden hair, sea blue eyes and wispy blond beard could charm many but he was a calculated thinker. He graduated with flying colours in engineering, which is why he was manning the FTL (Faster Than Light) Drive in the engine room.

The blond trio were in their twenties, young and wise together. If they could avoid their normal bickering maybe they would survive this after all!

“This is the awesome Captain Jones speakin’! Get your butts over to the Bridge, we need to figure out where we’re goin’,” the voice on the PA system called in a chirpy American accent.

“We’re already here, dipshit,” Arthur countered as he and Francis joined him on deck. “We’ve best be quick about this, the Rebel fleet is gaining speed.” He pulled up the Beacon Map on screen and surveyed their options. “Unfortunately we have no data on the properties of each beacon towards the exit into the next sector, but hopefully we can acquire that as we go along. The faster we get to the exit the better, our mission is too important to mess around.”

Alfred was sipping some coffee. “Psh, who’s messin’? I won’t lead you dudes astray! Hero’s promise!”

Francis sighed. “Let’s avoid battles if we can, ze stress gives me wrinkles.”

“We’re in a civilian sector! How bad could it be?”

Arthur glared at him. “You’ve best be joking. This area will be littered with Rebel scouts. We need to get a move on.”

Alfred dumped his coffee cup in the rubbish bin and winked. “Fine. Back to your stations! Off to our first stop! Warp us there, Francis!”

“Aye, sir,” Francis responded as they all returned to their posts.

The S.S. APH warped to the next beacon. If they were expecting a calming tour of space they were greatly mistaken. Alfred’s voice carried over the announcement system. “Hey, y’all! We have a hostile Rebel Scout attacking a small refuelling outpost here. That’s totes uncool so we’re gonna kick their asses! Kirkland, fire up the weapons! Try out our Burst Laser II on their weapons!”

“Aye, Captain! Locked on and charging.”

The small ship was quick with a laser drone circling the S.S. APH. An alert blared. “Shields took a hit!” Alfred informed them quickly. “Just an ion blast, it’ll be back online soon, stay at your posts!”

Francis’ voice joined him on the announcement channel. “The drone knocked out our door controls!”

“That’s alright, I destroyed their weapons room,” Arthur chipped in confidently.

“Good work, Artie!” Alfred cheered. “Lock on the drones now.”

“Roger that!”

The ship shook and Alfred’s voice called out in concern. “Yo, Francis? Are you okay? The shields are back online but it says the engines got hit.”

“I’m fine, mon ami! Minor damage to ze FTL Drive, I’m working on a fix. I’m not hurt.”

Arthur switched focus from the enemy drones to the helm. He cursed as he saw that the interior scan of the enemy vessel had repaired their weapons in the time his lasers charged. Luckily, his final few attacks took out the scout and they could safely proceed. He sighed with relief. “Danger has passed, let’s pull in the loot.”

Alfred congratulated them over the announcement system. “Well done, dudes! Artie, join me in the door room. We’re not moving on until that system is running again.”

“On my way!”

Francis kept an eye on the FTL charge as his friends repaired the door functions.

Arthur hummed as he replaced some fried wires and Alfred ran the diagnostics. Oddly enough, they didn’t chat the entire time. It was nice working together. “Alright, let’s get back to our posts. Who knows how many of these automated ships are lurking?”

“Just don’t lead us into a black hole or something.”

“Hahahaha! Noted.”

Back on the Bridge, Alfred pulled up his upgrades panel. They had enough scrap to give them a new edge. He grinned as he added an extra unit of power to their reactor and instructed the Frenchman to monitor the upgrade. He also treated himself to a more slick piloting upgrade. Having auto pilot help him to dodge attacks with a fifty percent advantage was too amazing to pass up! “I’m gonna jump to the next beacon. Hold on to your asses!”

The crew warped into the aftermath of a battle. The battlefield was littered with debris from Federation ships and Rebels alike. Their allies had been sadly outnumbered but it was clear they fought valiantly and Captain Jones respected that. He began performing a more detailed scan of the wreckage when his sensors picked up an enemy ship. He gasped and switched on the comms. “To battle stations! We have a Rebel Disrupter in our vicinity!”

The orange spaceship faced the S.S. APH head-on and momentarily knocked out the shields, just in time for the orbiting drone to shoot their door systems.

“Why do they always target our doors?” Francis complained over the communications system. “It’s hardly a vital system.”

“I think it was potluck,” Arthur answered as his return fire knocked out the enemy weapons. “Got the weapons room! I’m going to knock out that drone and then alternate. I wouldn’t put it past them to begin repairs.”

“As you are, Kirkland!” Alfred chimed in as he kept an eye on the enemy movements from the helm. They made quick work of this battle and reaped the rewards. “Good job. You know the drill, Artie. Gotta get those door systems online again. Meet me there.”

“Aye, sir!”

The next beacon jump was nothing special. Beautiful, but nothing interesting. Francis stared out of his nearby airlock windows to view the dancing binary star before they warped to the next point.

“I’m gonna do a triangular-shaped loop here, dudes. I detect a merchant nearby and I wanna see what they have,” Captain Jones announced to his crew.

“Don’t let us get caught by the Rebels, Alfred!” Arthur’s voice warned him.

“They’re not close enough yet. We’ll be fine. We can’t risk running low on supplies and if we can get this hull fixed that would be great.”

“Good point. Carry on.”

The next jump led them to a destroyed space station. Alfred had reservations about this as life signs could be detected onboard. He bit his lip and weighed up the options of investigating. On the one hand, if he could recruit a new member that would be useful! Although he was well aware that doing these kind of investigations could risk damage to his current crew’s lives. After a moment of hesitation he decided not to risk his friends. They collected miscellaneous debris to repurpose for their own mission and jumped them to the next beacon.

The crew assembled on the Bridge to witness the hails of a Rock Scout. The Rockmen were a powerful race but these aliens seemed to be relatively friendly. “Hey, this is Captain Alfred F. Jones of the Federation Star Ship APH. How can we be of service today, my dudes?”

Arthur stared at his friend unhappily. “You could use proper English, idiot. Did you learn nothing from etiquette lessons when dealing with foreign entities?”

“There was nothin’ wrong with my lingo, Artie! Don’t make me pull rank.”

“Insufferable git.”

The Rockman Captain simply stared at these weird humans before gaining their attention. “We could really use some help.”

Alfred saluted. “How can we help?”

“Our FTL navigation system is shot. Can you help us to a nearby station for them to patch us up?”

“Sure thing, rock friend! I’m receiving your fuel down payment right now and I’ll key in the co-ordinates you sent.”

“Thank you. We will be one step behind you, following your jump signatures.”

Francis beamed at his Captain as their communications shut off with their neutral acquaintance. “That was very kind of you, Alfred!”

The American beamed. “If we can help anyone in distress on the way we damn well will! We’re still gonna do our planned route unless we’re forced to change direction, but those Rebel scumbags ain’t gonna take all of us down.”

Francis patted him on the back and returned to his post. Arthur shook his head. “I wish you’d let me deal with the foreign comms once in a while, Alfred, but you did well. I’m heading back to weapons. Try to get our hull fixed at the shop.”

The next jump led them to an outpost that certainly had merchants selling some wares! Arthur and Francis volunteered to be the away party as Alfred kept an eye on the advancing enemy fleet from the Bridge. Their tailing Rockmen friends also spent a bit of time gathering resources for the journey ahead.

Aware of the encroaching danger and their limited supply of scrap to trade for goods, the European representatives agreed that they should spend all of it on an Advanced FTL Navigation Augmentation that would allow them to leap to any previously visited beacon in one hop no matter the distance and the rest of the scrap was allocated to hull repairs. They promptly beamed back on deck and installed their new augment and checked with the Rockmen to make sure that they were ready to follow.

The S.S. APH jumped back the way they came and immediately leapt to the subsequent beacon. It was a tough decision because they had to completely ignore a distress call. The Rebel fleet was advancing far too quickly, they had to put as much distance between them as possible. Alfred felt terrible but his crew and the Rockmen following them depended on forward thinking. There was no helping those in distress right now.

“Rebel transport ship detected!” Captain Jones announced on the communications system. “It doesn’t seem to wanna fight but we can’t take risks. Plus we need the scrap, we’re kinda poor right now.”

“Engaging weapons, Captain!” Arthur replied, powering up the Burst Laser II to lock onto their weapons room. He was going to target the drones next as those little bastards were a pain to deal with.

“CANCEL THAT INTERACTION, KIRKLAND! ATTACK THEIR ENGINES, THEY’RE GONNA JUMP AND WARN THE FLEET!”

“Fuck, really?! Alright, locking both the lasers and missiles onto their FTL Drive!”

It was a tense moment as their weapons warmed up and as they celebrated decimating the enemy FTL Drive, a missile hit their own engines.

“ENGINES, DAMAGE REPORT!” Captain Jones cried.

“Ze bastards damaged ze FTL Drive. I’m working on a fix but my head…”

“Focus, Bonnefoy. You can heal after we destroy these idiots!” Arthur chipped in urgently. He switched the lasers to focus on the Rebel weapons room whilst keeping their Artemis missile locked on the enemy engines.

An explosion rocked the Bridge and Alfred coughed through the smoke. “Dammit, they’re breaking my controls. Kirkland, finish this now.” He gritted his teeth as he repaired the system damage. His wrist was pretty sore but nothing too dire.

“Aye, Captain!”

Fortunately, the battle was over with soon after and repairs could be finished to both the engines and the piloting systems. Jones and Bonnefoy met up in the medbay to heal their injuries before moving on. It was becoming clear how dangerous this mission was.

Back on the Bridge, Alfred instructed his crew that to get to the quest marker they needed to enter a nebula. Nebula zones were always risky as they knocked out sensors but they could also be beneficial in slowing down the enemy fleet. “We’re heading to the nebula. Be prepared for anything! Warp ahead, Bonnefoy!”

This felt like a mistake. Nebulas can be rather peaceful but today was not their day! A plasma storm was active so not only were their sensors dead but their reactor was crippled to half-capacity. The crew was in a mild panic trying to figure out what systems were down as a Rebel automated scout swooped in to cause them hell.

“GUYS, WE HAVE A PROBLEM. SEVERAL PROBLEMS,” Alfred yelled through the communications system.

“No shit!” Arthur shot back as he examined the diagnostics from his post. “Our oxygen isn’t powered, we’ll suffocate!”

“Heat up the weapons, Artie, we have company! I’ll divert power from the medbay to the oxygen room!”

“SHIELDS ARE DOWN AND THEY HAVE A DRONE!” Francis cried from the engine room. “We’re sitting ducks!”

“Divert ALL power from engines to the shields NOW!”

“Aye!”

“I’m locked on their weapons, Captain!” Arthur informed them. “The shield is holding off the drone, thank God.”

“Fire on that and then the drone. Destroy it as quickly as possible.”

“Thanks, Captain Obvious.”

Thankfully the battle was over swiftly. Shaken and worried, Alfred gave the order to drop the shields and restore power to the FTL Drive. They would drop off their Rockmen friends at the next beacon and make their way to the exit.

“Approaching the quest marker,” Captain Jones announced keeping the ship steady, ready for a break. “I’ll inform our little convoy back there.”

“Can one ship in addition to ours really be considered a convoy?” Francis responded contemplatively.

He didn’t receive an answer as the Rockmen’s ship zoomed away without warning and Alfred flipped the Red Alert siren. “AGH! IT’S A TRAP! How could they? We trusted them!” He turned on the power to all systems after they were clear of the plasma storm and glared at the Rebel Disrupter ship. How dare they! HOW. DARE. THEY.

Ignoring the possible melodrama his best friend was stewing in, Arthur had already locked their weapons on the Rebel weapons and drones with their Burst Laser II and the Artemis missile. DIRECT HIT! That’s getting business taken care of. He disabled the Artemis and focused the laser onto enemy shields. He needed no consultation on this strategy, they would not be made fools of! With the shields down and the enemies focused on repairing the damage he dealt to the drones, he fired once again at the weapons room. The Rebel scum would not get a say in this!

VICTORY! The crew celebrated briefly as they collected the remains of their enemy vessel.

“Let’s get the hell outta here,” Alfred urged, turning them towards the next beacon. “I don’t want to try my luck with another one of these guys.”

“We can make it to ze Exit Beacon in two jumps, Captain!” Francis informed him over the comms. “With ze Rebels gaining ground we shouldn’t take anymore detours.”

“Agreed, buddy! Full speed ahead!”

The Rebels were determined to control this star system! The subsequent beacon greeted them with another Rebel Rigger patrol. It stood between them and the exit. This could not be tolerated.

“I’m way ahead of you, Captain!” Arthur called over the communications. “I’ve locked on their weapons and drone rooms. I’ll target their FTL Drive afterwards, we can’t let them get away to inform the Rebel fleet of our location.”

“Show no mercy, Kirkland!”

“Aye, sir!”

Direct hits!

“The enemy is powering up it’s FTL Drive!” Alfred informed them urgently. “This could be bad!”

The landed hits on the enemy vessel weren’t enough to destroy the hull and the Rebels were an inch from jumping out of reach. Fortune dealt them an unexpected hand, though.

Alfred opened up the screen to receive a hail from the Rebel Rigger Captain. “Captain Jones speaking. Stop right there!”

The enemy Captain scowled but offered a metaphorical white flag. “The day is yours! Show us your honour by allowing us to leave with our lives.”

This was a very fragile situation. The enemy hull was weak but their FTL Drive was primed to jump any second. There would be no time to stop them unless they agreed to a truce. Alfred growled in frustration but knew there was no choice. “Kirkland, cease fire! We’re entering a truce.”

“What? Um, okay?” came Arthur’s puzzled response. There was probably a good reason to cease fire so he complied. He would demand answers later.

Captain Jones accepted the supplies from the Rebel Rigger and the enemy did not warp away. Phew, that was a close one. The advancing enemy fleet would not gain speed on them.

Tense, Alfred called a meeting on the Bridge. He turned to his crewmates gravely. “We’re getting real lucky with these battles, our damage has been minimal. With Rebels so close to our Exit Beacon we need to be ready for a possible interception between us and the warp point. Don’t let your guard down and we’ll decide which sector to head to next once the coast is clear.”

Arthur nodded and returned to the weapons room without any answers, but he didn’t need them. It was clear they were in trouble and Alfred made a solid judgement call. He would be ready to defend.

Francis remained by Alfred’s side as they made the final jump to the Exit Beacon.

There was an asteroid field not far from their destination. They decided to risk navigating it for some materials that would help them in the next sector. Luck truly was not on their side as asteroids violently knocked down their shields and damaged their hull!

“Fire in ze portside airlocks, Captain!” Francis cried.

“I’ll open the airlocks to extinguish it. Everyone meet me in shields! We’ll repair and move on!”

Once that crisis was averted, the crew met up to decide where to go next.

Would they jump to the Engi Controlled area, or the Zoltan Controlled area? Both were civilian sectors but carried their own unique risks.

TO BE CONTINUED IN THE NEXT SECTOR...

Chapter 1 - END

[CHAPTER LIST]

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[Cover Art] This image was drawn in HB pencil and painted in watercolour paints on the 8th August 2021. It was digitally enhanced in GIMP Image Editor on the 9th August 2021. Paper type = 130 gsm

This chapter was written on the 8th August 2021.

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Please do not repost, modify, resell or claim this work as your own.

(Reblogging is fine, though!)

[Mythical Canary Info]

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