#when i remember which ones i wrote! and recognize the snippets at the beginning that are all you see in the thumbnail! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

panharmonium · 4 years ago

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@captain-jaybird @solo-by-choice - i love you guys XD

So, the fic in question was originally a collection of ten location-based vignettes following the development of Obi-Wan and Padme’s friendship from AotC to RotS. I wrote it seven years ago and only ever showed it to my sister and @dyingsighs, so unless I fall hard back into Star Wars at some point, I probably won’t ever post it in its entirety, because I don’t think I have quite enough energy to do the kind of rewriting it would need in order for me to feel like it meets my current standards. HOWEVER - given your replies, I pulled the only two vignettes from it that I do actually still like, because I know it has been literal years since I made any Star Wars-related work for you, and I feel like this is the least I can do to thank you for your many years of fandom friendship! 😊

@all my old Star Wars peeps: Ancient fic snippets under the cut! Consider this an affectionate “hello there” from me - I hope you guys are all doing well out there! <3

-naboo-

Anakin is insistent.

“Come on, Padmé,” he cajoles her. “Just a little walk. I get to be here without breaking any rules for once and you want to just sit inside?” He flings open the embassy’s balcony doors and gestures out over the city. “Look at this day!”

Sunny skies or not, Padmé can’t quite wrench her gaze away from the festival itinerary in her hands. However many times she’s been over it, she can’t help but feel they must have missed some small detail, and in a situation as precarious as this one, the slightest slip could be deadly. “I can’t, Anakin.”

Anakin’s carefree expression starts its rapid but familiar descent into a scowl. “Why not? No one’s going to bust a Senator for showing one of her Jedi guests around. We can just walk the perimeter of the Festival platform – ”

“Anakin – ”

“You can pretend to show me the security arrangements or something – ”

“Anakin! You’re supposed to be here to prevent an assassination attempt on the Chancellor. This isn’t a social call.”

Anakin lets out his breath in a huge gust, waving a hand dismissively. “That? We’ve got that under control, Padmé. Don’t even worry about it.”

“I am worried about it.” Anakin opens his mouth as if to make another placating remark, but Padmé cuts him off. “This is serious. I can’t leave the embassy right now. I’m not going out for a stroll. I’m not doing anything until the Festival is over and done with tonight.” When Anakin’s scowl does not subside, she sighs and makes a passing attempt at smoothing things over. “I’m sorry, but the Festival of Light is enough of a headache without adding assassination threats into the mix. I’m just a little tense right now.”

Anakin comes extraordinarily close to signing his own death warrant by rolling his eyes at her, but he stops just short of an irrevocable mistake. “Yeah, you and everyone else,” he says instead, a very particular brand of irritation edging into his voice. “But whatever. Go ahead and read that thing again. I’ll just come back when everyone’s got their bad feelings under control.” He sweeps out of the room with the type of stormy bluster only he can manage.

Wrestling down a surge of irritation of her own, Padmé tosses the itinerary onto the desk. Anakin, for all his moodiness, is partially right – she has the elegant program memorized back to front, and poring over it further is only going to make her feel worse. And, come to think of it, there are a few other security measures she needs to double check with the rest of the Jedi task force.

Pushing back her chair, she sets off in search of Anakin’s derisively referenced “everyone else.”

Most of the embassy’s guests, including the recently arrived contingent of Jedi knights, appear to have vacated the premises – emulating Anakin’s shining example and enjoying the day, perhaps, or, in the case of the Jedi, probably walking the security perimeter in preparation for tonight’s festivities. After making inquiries, Padme finds a staff member who directs her to the rear of the ornately decorated building, where she discovers Everyone Else in the courtyard, boots and cloak discarded against the wall, dappled sun playing over his inner tunics.

She hesitates on the steps. It’s bad form to interrupt a Jedi in meditation, not that she has much opportunity to commit such faux pas. Anakin rarely meditates, resorting to the ancient art only when he has failed in his attempts to outrace or outright beat his troubled thoughts into submission.

But this doesn’t seem like meditation, exactly, not the kind she recognizes. Obi-Wan is performing what looks like some kind of kata with a ritual slowness, pivoting and stretching with unhurried grace, flowing smoothly out of one stance and into the next, like liquid filling a clear vessel. He holds himself suspended for an interminable count between each position, bare feet rooted on the sun-warmed flagstones, the only thing moving around him dust motes drifting through heavy beams of sunlight.

She doesn’t really mean to stay and watch, but there’s an almost hypnotic quality to the rhythmic motion – exertion of the body, sun and warmth and muscle and bone intertwined with stillness of the mind, an empty calm space, peace in the eye of the storm.

He sinks into a low stance with his back to her, head bowed, upward-facing hands loosely fisted, elbows bent and tucked in at his sides. Then, after a long, still stretch of time, the calm murmur of his voice, rippling with something like amusement. “Good morning.”

She blinks. “Oh! I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“That’s quite all right.” He seems to come back from some far place, and straightens, turning to address her. Holding her gaze for a moment, searchingly, he draws some private conclusion. “You are disturbed.”

She presses her lips together by way of response, grudgingly impressed yet cursing Jedi perception to the lowest pit of Chaos. “It’s not important,” she says. “Just the festival.” She changes the subject. “What’s that you were doing?”

Obi-Wan paces over to the courtyard wall to retrieve his footwear. “One of the alchaka forms,” he says, pulling on the soft nerfhide boots. At her blank look, he adds, “It’s...a type of moving meditation. One of the oldest known to the Order.”

“It looks relaxing,” Padmé says. Would that she could expunge her own anxieties with such artfulness.

He shrugs slightly. “In theory.” He bends down and scoops up his cloak with an easy physicality. “The intended goal is to clear one’s mind. To...release troubled thoughts.”

Something about the crease in his brow seems to belie this statement. Thinking back, she remembers suddenly what Anakin had said earlier, and, surprised, frowns. “Are you worried about the festival tonight? About the assassination attempt?”

He blinks at her for a moment, as if she had only just reminded him about the possible catastrophe. “No. No, I don’t think so. Even if the intelligence we’ve gathered is accurate, I doubt the Separatist forces will be able to achieve much when they must first go through six Jedi. And Naboo’s finest,” he adds, glancing up at the overhead balconies, where far-away security personnel stand sentinel, their uniforms smears of dark red across the golden walls.

“But you are worried about something.”

A beat. Then, “No. Merely practicing good habits.”

She laughs humorlessly and sinks down onto the steps. “Tonight could be a disaster.”

Obi-Wan thinks for a moment before responding. “If so,” he reminds her carefully, “it is one which all your worries will be completely unable to prevent.”

“I know. But when it’s my people concerned...and the Chancellor, obviously...” She ticks things off on her fingers. “Public support for Queen Neeyutnee...the well-being of the Republic...”

“Fate of the galaxy.”

“Little things.”

They exchange almost shy grins, private smiles. Padmé feels one tiny knot of tension uncoil inside her, and she breathes out an exasperated sigh, ineffectually commanding the rest of her anxieties to untangle and be gone. “I need some of that alcha-whatsit business, clearly,” she says ruefully. “I’m a mess.”

Obi-Wan takes a step back and looks her up and down. “I agree,” he says.

Excuse me? Padmé suppresses a surge of indignation.

“You will forgive me for saying so, but a senator is no good to her people preoccupied. She must keep a cool head about her at all times.”

“I beg your pardon –

“Therefore,” Obi-Wan plunges ahead, and Padmé suddenly sees the glint of humor starting in his eyes, “I feel it is my duty in this case to help you attain such calm.”

She narrows her eyes at him in mock severity, but inside, she feels her mood beginning to lighten. “By insulting my competence?”

“By exposing you to some of that alcha-whatsit business,” he says. “If you like.”

Padmé hesitates. This is Jedi business for sure, far outside her arena. But Obi-Wan just smiles reassuringly at her and extends a hand.

“Not to worry, Senator. I have it on good authority that I am a reasonably competent teacher.”

Padmé eyes his hand for another moment, then slaps her own lightly into his open palm. “Very well then,” she says. “I submit myself to your reasonably competent tutelage.”

“Obi-Wan, I don’t think this is for me.”

Padmé looks down at her bare feet, torn between luxuriating in the warmth of the sun-soaked stones and fretting over the ever-widening stance Obi-Wan is asking her to assume.

“Patience.” He sticks his own soft-booted foot against the inside of her ankle and slides one of her feet out to the left.

“Obi-Wan – ”

Still applying a gentle pressure against one foot, he pushes the other further away.

“I don’t know how to do a split, Obi-Wan,” she warns him, tamping down on a little flare of alarm.

“That’s far enough.”

Thank goodness she’d worn a relatively uncomplicated dress today. Senatorial garb was nowhere near so flexible as the Jedi’s simple tunics.

She looks up at Obi-Wan, who, by virtue of her lowered, bent-kneed stance, is now slightly above her. “What now?”

“Now,” he says placidly, sinking into the same low stance beside her, albeit with considerably more familiarity and ease, “you do as I do.”

All right, then. She waits for him to begin, but the only thing he does is close his eyes, and she can’t close hers if she’s going to follow him, so she waits, doing nothing. Her legs begin to protest the prolonged exertion in this unfamiliar position, but the trace of fire starting to bloom in her muscles doesn’t bother her. It’s...ferocious. It burns the way she does inside, sometimes.

Obi-Wan cracks an eye open and looks at her. Padmé doesn’t flinch. “What?” she challenges. “You aren’t doing anything yet.”

He raises an eyebrow at her. “I am breathing,” he says.

“So am I.”

“Not yet, you aren’t,” he says, and in the span of a moment, he seems to grow in authority before her. His voice shifts into the calm certainty of a millennia of tradition, the well-worn tracks of an ancient, unbroken line of instruction. “Attend.”

He closes his eyes again, and this time she watches the slow rise and fall of his chest, the slight shift of tunic as his ribs expand. “All meditation begins with the breath. You breathe in life, I breathe in the Force; without either of those things both of us are nothing.”

What a strange thing to say. “I’m not Force-sensitive, Obi-Wan.”

“It does not matter. You are not Force sensitive, but the Force is in you nonetheless. We are all of us full of it. Your people are full of it. Your planet is full of it.” He breathes in, slow, and she attempts to follow him. In. Full. “Your breath must fill more than your lungs. Without breath, the body starves. Without the Force, life starves. Therefore you must let it suffuse you. Breath; the Force. Everywhere. Small, forgotten places. Empty places. You must allow yourself to be full. A gas expands to fill a container – your breath will expand to fill you, if you allow it.”

She does not answer. She is breathing. He falls into silence beside her, joining her rhythm. Inhale, beat, exhale, beat. She does not count the minutes. They slip by into nothing.

“Now,” he says. “With me.”

She trains her eyes on him and follows as he moves, one bright light and its smaller, slighter reflection, moving in a bumpy sort of unison. The fire in her leg muscles climbs higher, but it doesn’t faze her. She breathes it out, from everywhere, the small, forgotten places. She exults in it.

“Balance,” he says, maneuvering her hands to the proper places, the knuckles of one fist pressed flat against a vertical open palm, two hands meeting just in front of her lower abdomen. “Two opposing forces.” He sticks his foot back against the inside of her ankle, and she slides her feet apart without needing to be told, dropping back to the correct position. “Close your eyes. Breathe.”

In. Full. Small, forgotten places.

“Now,” he says, stepping back from her. “You will count.”

“How high?” she asks. Her legs are screaming with a pleasant sort of exhaustion, but she’s wobbly, and this position isn’t easy to maintain.

“One hundred,” he replies. Then – “Three times.”

Her eyes fly open. “Obi-Wan, that’s – ”

His eyes are glowing with suppressed mirth. “Three times, apprentice.”

If she starts laughing, she’s going to fall. “Obi-Wan, three times is too many – ”

“Protest again and it shall be six.”

“You know,” she grunts, wriggling down in an attempt to find a slightly more comfortable position, “I’m beginning to think I’ve done Anakin a disservice.”

He raises an eyebrow archly. “Because...?”

“All this time, he was telling the truth about you.”

Obi-Wan snorts. “Impudence. I’d have been running circuits around the Temple for that kind of insolence.”

“Somehow I doubt that ever stopped you.”

And there’s the smile – trademark Kenobi, dimples and all, subtle and half-hidden behind the close-trimmed beard. “No,” he agrees. “You are quite correct. I became an accomplished marathon runner.” Dropping down to the same low, planted stance she is struggling to maintain, he returns to the matter at hand. “Let us begin.”

“Obi-Wan.”

“Mm.” He has already closed his eyes. She wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already made it to twenty while she’s still dithering around trying to get her breathing in order.

“This is the silliest thing I’ve ever done with anybody.”

He doesn’t open his eyes, but the corners his mouth curl up.

“But,” she says, never one to skimp on gratitude, “I like it.” Her legs are shaking and she can’t count the number of joints she’s heard crack since they started this ridiculous exercise, but the anxious tangle in her chest is now tiny threads blowing in the wind, unwound and strewn about by breath and motion. “And I do feel better about tonight. So thank you.”

“I come to serve, Senator.”

Formal response, for someone who just moments ago had been shoving her into positions more suited to a gymnast than a senator. She smiles to herself in private amusement and closes her eyes. Reminds herself to breathe, full, everywhere.

And begins to count.

-chandrila-

Padmé has to give Obi-Wan credit. By now, she has watched him extricate himself from Senator Se’lab’s clutches three times, and while a moonlit cocktail party in a garden of this size provides the Jedi with plenty of spaces to hide, the shadow cast by a group of hulking Ithorian senators is a more creative choice than she had expected, even from him. Observing him from her position on the other side of the lush garden, she bites her lip in an attempt not to laugh at the deadly seriousness with which Obi-Wan keeps the Ithorian delegation between himself and the beverage table towards which the Bothan senator had stumbled.

She cannot pass up such a rare opportunity to tease him. Excusing herself from her group of colleagues, she sidles across the garden towards him, ensconcing herself in the shadows behind the wide backs of Ithorian senators Stonk and Bendon. “Master Kenobi,” she greets him, smoothly.

Obi-Wan’s cool voice betrays nothing. “Senator.”

Padmé fights to keep a straight face. “I see you’ve made Senator Se’lab’s acquaintance.”

“I have made his acquaintance several times,” Obi-Wan replies. “He had little memory of our first meeting at our second, and no memory of our second at our third. Forgive me, but if I can avoid a fourth such performance, I will. I grow tired of introducing myself.”

Padmé stifles a smile. It isn’t fair, that one so skilled in diplomacy to earn himself a galactic-wide nickname should hate it so much. “And did the Honorable Senator from Bothawui tire of your company?”

“Sadly, no.”

“Then how – ” She narrows her eyes at him suspiciously. “You didn’t – ”

Obi-Wan gives her an affronted look. “Senator Amidala, what sort of nefarious rogue do you take me for?” He chances a harried glance past the Ithorians, checking for any signs of his unwanted companion’s return. “Along with the memories of our previous two meetings, the good Senator appeared to have forgotten how exactly it was that he’d been able to achieve such an impressively amnesiac and befuddled state. I merely reminded him about the open bar.”

“Formidably underhanded,” she says, approvingly. “But then, that’s why they call you the Negotiator.”

Obi-Wan makes a face at the nickname. “Yes,” he says. “And if I could only negotiate myself out of this whole affair, I would perhaps believe the title to have been aptly bestowed.”

“Obi-Wan,” she chides him. “The best negotiators know when to call for assistance.”

He raises an eyebrow, just slightly, in what might be a faint feather-brush of amusement, then follows her gaze over his shoulder, to where the clearly intoxicated Bothan senator is making his weaving way through the festive crowd back towards them. Obi-Wan’s eyes widen very slightly, in definite alarm. “Indeed. Very well said. In that case, my lady, consider my distress signal activated.”

She extends an arm to him formally. “Walk with me.”

Thanks to the friendship she and Bail share with Mon Mothma, Padmé knows the Chandrilan Diplomatic Gardens better than most in attendance. She knows Obi-Wan, too, better than most, not because he opens himself to her, exactly, but – well, being in her position, one hears things, and Padmé is well-practiced at extracting trivia and truth from Anakin’s well-worn litany of complaints, worries, and fears.

She guides them serenely down a lesser-used path, the raucous festivities behind them fading into a murmur. “Here,” she points. They turn through a simple, cream-colored arch into a wider space, far-away party sounds now faint, distant enough not to grate on the nerves. All about them, only the cheerful babble of water, tumbling from multiple small falls into a network of mossy pools and rock-bordered streams.

Obi-Wan turns his head from side to side to take in the shimmering falls and eddying pools, chin rising as if in response to some sound only he can hear, features lightening. “We’ve a place very like this, in the Temple,” he says. “The Room of a Thousand Fountains.”

Padmé knows this. Knows too that it is a favorite haunt of his, though she will not tell him so. Better he think her fortuitous choice a welcome coincidence, for she knows what she knows about him from Anakin, and, strictly speaking, should not have access to such confidences.

“I’ve heard of it,” she says instead. “It’s much larger than this, though, I think.” She waves a hand at the small garden.

“Size matters not,” Obi-Wan intones, as though reciting an oft-repeated adage, and extends a hand gracefully under one of the falls’ streams. To Padmé’s surprise, the water curves around his upturned palm, bending as if repelled by an invisible barrier before continuing its swan dive into the clear pool below.

“Just a game,” Obi-Wan says, in answer to her unasked question. “And an exercise in control. One practiced by Temple younglings.”

Not any game Padmé knows. She and her sister – then later, her handmaidens – were more apt to occupy themselves with jumping straight into the water, shrieking with glee, than with avoiding its flow. “What’s the objective?”

“Just this,” he says. “Stay dry.” He curls his fingers up to his palm and then flat again in a gentle wave, the water above his hand twisting in a delighted dance before resuming its tumble around an untouched sleeve. “Even the youngest initiates, when exhibiting proper control, can easily redirect a flow of water around their forms. One stands under the falls, keeping dry, while their agemates or teachers attempt to break their focus.” He quirks a smile, one laced with equal parts memory and mischief. “One gets distracted, one gets wet.”

She smiles at him. “I take it you were good at this game?”

“I was passable,” he says with a diffident shrug. “But I did not win every time. My own clan members’ antics were at times difficult to ignore.”

“And Anakin?” she asks. She can’t help herself.

Obi-Wan pull his arm out from the falls, hand disappearing back into the long sleeve of his robe. “Terrible,” he says bluntly. “Without a doubt the worst in his class.”

Padmé refrains from making an unbecoming snort. So she will have something amusing to hold over Anakin’s head when she returns to Coruscant.

“You mustn’t misunderstand me, of course; Anakin is highly capable and could easily manipulate the water were he left to his own devices, but I’m afraid his mental discipline left much to be desired.” Obi-Wan sighs and shakes his head. “Anakin is so easily distracted – he reserved his limited ability to focus for very singular pursuits.”

“Such as...?”

Obi-Wan looks to be almost on the verge of rolling his eyes, but that would be un-Jedi, and he settles for a narrowing of them and crooking his fingers sardonically into the universal sign for quotes. “‘Fixing stuff,’ I believe he said.”

Padmé can’t help but laugh at that, and Obi-Wan indulges her merriment graciously. Looking re-energized, far more hale and hearty than he had in the reception area proper, he stretches out a hand. Ribbons of water arc away from the falls all around them, streaming through the air and coalescing into a shining globe above his palm, a miniature model of Mon Cala. The sphere’s globular surface ripples and turns slowly, casting small refractions of moonlight over the courtyard. Small-scale beauty, to be sure, but Padmé only has eyes for Obi-Wan’s face, lit with reflected light from below, a study in simple happiness.

A Jedi at play, she realizes. Most people didn’t believe there really was such a thing.

“That’s lovely,” she says, peering into the globe’s transparent yet distorted depths. Something about it...she is suddenly reminded of Anakin, in another time and place, levitating a muja fruit in much the same way, and with the same burst of simple enjoyment. “But I thought frivolous uses of the Force were discouraged.”

Obi-Wan raises his eyebrows at her, accepting the friendly challenge. “Frivolous?” He turns his hand so that the palm now faces outward. Rippling with light, the globe coasts several feet away and comes to rest over a pathetically drooping momus bush, its leaves yellowed and cracked, balmgrass spiky and dry around its exposed roots. Obi-Wan twitches his fingers downward, and the globe disintegrates, water sluicing down in a joyful shower onto the parched earth, transforming the yellow dust to a rich, wet brown. He gives her a significant look. “The preservation of life is never frivolous, Senator.”

Her smile climbs its way out of her with ease. Of course. An answer for everything. “I stand corrected.”

In the distance, a chorus of laughter rises above the sound of burbling water, followed by what sounds like someone calling for a toast. Obi-Wan casts a lingering glance at the falls, then back at the arched entrance to the grotto. “We should return,” he says, and if that is reluctance in his voice she will not comment on it.

She nods in agreement. “You’re right. Typho will start to worry.”

Taking her outstretched arm, Obi-Wan frowns. “I am quite certain I gave Captain Typho my word that no harm would come to you whilst I am your escort. He must learn to trust me.”

“He does trust you. But he’s a worry-woolamander. It’s his job.” It was, after all, why she had personally selected him to replace his retired uncle as her new head of security. But, at the same time, she had grown weary of the constant trail of guards orbiting her at all times, rings of human satellites, so many she can hardly blink without catching a glimpse of security burgundy in her peripheral vision. Far preferable to have an escort of one Jedi, especially this Jedi, than that wall of armed guards.

And besides, Obi-Wan had promised. While Captain Typho may not appreciate the import of such a gesture, Padmé does – Obi-Wan Kenobi’s word is worth his weight in solid aurodium bars and more. He has nothing left to prove to anybody, on that count.

At the threshold to the main garden, wide flowering pathways thronging with diplomats and officials and lackeys alike, Obi-Wan takes in a resigned breath. “Once more into the breach,” he proclaims, with tragicomic stoicism.

She cocks her head at him in sympathy. “Straight to the dance floor,” she advises, and they set off, she steering him in the proper direction. “I doubt even a Bothan will try to cut in on a Jedi.”

Obi-Wan snorts under his breath. “Her Highness is grown very devious, in her slippery Senatorial position,” he murmurs.

“And Master Kenobi very witty, in his old age,” she shoots back.

Obi-Wan favors her with a grin, a real grin, full and shining with rarely displayed pleasure. He bows to her, ushering her onto the formal dance floor with a graceful sweep of his hand. “You had better hope your earlier supposition is correct,” he says, eyes glinting with the same clever playfulness she’d seen in him earlier. “The Bothan senators have hooves, you know.”

#pan sharing star wars fic in 2021 - no one could have predicted #anyway as i said these are seven years old #please forgive them #XD #star wars #fic

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bimboamyrose · 4 years ago

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Unfamiliar - A Metamy Fanfic (Ch.4 )

First two chapters

Previous (Ch. 3)

Ch. 4: Stubborn

The evening was spent organizing Amy’s closets. She’d tasked Metal with handing her clothes hangers from across the room as she straightened up her wardrobe and later did the same for him as he stacked her tools back up on the high shelf of her storage space. At least his telescopic arm was coming in useful, even if he could do little more than stand still to avoid losing his balance.

The dreary day gave way to a clear, chilly evening. Amy invited her house guest to sit on the porch with her for her nightly routine of sipping hot chocolate and stargazing. Glistening snow contradicted the beachy atmosphere, thick white blankets draping over palm trees and obscuring sandy ground. It was perfectly tranquil, silent but for the gentle mechanical whirring of Metal’s body.

Amy sat on a lawn chair wrapped tightly in a velvety blanket, knees to her chest. “If Tails isn’t available to fix you tomorrow, maybe we can at least try to repair your foot so you can stand upright.”

Metal had planted himself on the seat next to hers. The contrast between his disturbing, sharp figure and her endearing and petite frame was as striking as the scenery. He crossed his busted leg over his good one, assessing the damage to his foot. He was not confident a self-repair would be successful, but it was always a possibility. He turned to her and nodded. Amy’s gentle eyes mirrored the starry sky. The calmness in Metal turned to a moderate excitement at the charming sight and it seemed almost to remind him of something.

“So, Metal, do you remember anything? Like, at all?”

He ripped himself out of his enchantment to process her question. Searching through his fragmented memory turned up thousands of inaccessible files. What little was left held mostly primary data with snippets of information. He found pictures and short bios of people he didn’t recognize and the name “EGGMAN” plastered across a repair protocol. Searching for that name just brought up several more corrupt files.

Metal reached for the tablet-sized whiteboard that was sitting on the garden table in front of them. He wrote down “VERY LITTLE” in his neat, mechanical handwriting and showed it to Amy.

She gazed directly into his eyes now, hoping to find some indication of whether Metal Sonic was being truthful in his unchanging eyes. “Do you remember me?”

Amy had asked him earlier if he recognized her and he denied it in his haste. But spending a few hours with the girl teased his memory like a word at the tip of one’s tongue; Metal was sure he knew her somehow. “FAMILIAR,” he wrote finally.

“Familiar, huh?” Amy finished her warm drink, setting the mug down in front of her. Not surprising, all things considered. But what does he really know? She noticed that Metal was quickly erasing his tablet and writing something new. Amy couldn’t keep herself from gasping when she caught sight of it again.

“WHO IS EGGMAN?”

She jerked the other way, hiding her shock. Does he remember that he works for Eggman? It must be part of his programming or something. I need to tell Tails. She decided to bluff. “Let’s, uh, see if we can find out. I think it’s time for bed.” She shot out of her cozy seat and back into the house before the cold could nip her.

Metal Sonic sat unmoving for a moment, perplexed at her sudden gesture. He propped himself up, tablet still in hand, as he drug his feet through the threshold of the backdoor and slid the door closed as gently as he could manage. He watched Amy toss her blanket over the back of the couch, then adjust and smooth it so it looked only partially like it was thrown there haphazardly. A strange maneuver.

“So, uh, you can go into sleep mode I guess?” She didn’t have the slightest idea what robots did at night or if he even needed to recharge. She was met once again with Metal’s unwavering stare; though it didn’t seem so spooky after the day they’d spent together. “Do you sleep?”

Metal simply nodded. He didn’t exactly sleep, but his instinct was to sit idle for a few hours to conserve energy. He was beginning to find that a close-enough answer would be satisfactory.

Amy was surprised but also relieved that she wouldn’t have to worry about him all night. “Oh- Well, is the couch okay?”

He came over and lowered himself onto the sofa, sitting upright and nodding.

“Okay, well- goodni-” Before she could finish, Metal’s eyes had gone dark. I guess that solves that. There was nothing more to do but turn in for the night.

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

The following morning, Amy was startled out of her usual groggy walk into the kitchen when she noticed Metal Sonic’s sharp form sitting at the kitchen table, staring solidly out the back door. She’d expected to have to wake him up or something but it looked like he had been there for some time. He turned to face her abruptly and her heart jumped once again.

“Oh, you’re awake- good morning.” Amy chuckled awkwardly. “Have you… been up long?”

Metal nodded. The morning sunrise activated his sensors. It was closer to 8 AM now and he’d been doing little more than sitting since dawn.

“Sorry, must have been boring.” Amy made her way past him and into the kitchen to make her quick breakfast of toast and coffee. Metal seemed to stare at her the entire time, which made her self-conscious. “I... don’t eat much in the morning,” she explained anxiously . Not sure why he’d care…

Metal Sonic had been analyzing Amy’s every move for the past several minutes. He spent his time awake pondering on the wistful feelings he’d experienced as they sat on the veranda late last night. The exploration of his memory was in vain and he instead tried to force himself to remember, but it was no use. Why was she so familiar? Perhaps observing her would jog his memory.

She took a seat across from him, eating uncomfortably as he looked through her. Amy tried her best to smile. “So, is there anything you’d like to do this morning?”

The robot finally broke his fierce concentration to respond by pointing at his left arm socket.

“Ah…” Amy answered hesitantly. “Tails hasn’t gotten back to me yet.”

He pointed down toward his foot instead.

Amy inhaled deeply, nervous about the prospect of trying to make repairs herself. But she had said they could try, so she agreed dubiously. “Let’s give it a shot.”

Metal turned his attention from her to the glass door where some movement caught his eye. Amy followed his gaze, spotting a small bluebird landing on one of her lawn chairs.

“Wow, it’s rare to see them out in the cold. I guess spring is around the corner.” Amy smiled warmly at the sight. It had been an unusually long winter and the small snowstorm that passed the night before wasn’t exactly indicative of the cold subsiding. Yet the evening frost now began puddling over the otherwise tropical scenery. It was always the coldest just before seasons changed. She turned back to her guest enthusiastically. “Let’s fix that leg of yours!”

Optimism soon turned to frustration, however, as the tangle of wires and bent hinges that held the robot’s foot in place confounded her. The neat little workstation she’d set up on her kitchen table was now a messy array of tools and bolts. She’d managed to worsen the damage in the process, but any time Metal would make a sound or reach toward something Amy would huff and snatch tools out of his hand. Getting annoyed himself, Metal finally resolved to pull his entire leg away to keep her from making it any worse. Amy refused to let go of his foot, however, and the last of the wires that were holding the appendage in place finally snapped, severing his foot off his body completely.

“Ugh- look what you made me do!”

Metal let out a series of high and low beeps that were meant to offend. She returned that with a sour look.

“I told you to sit still! Ugh!” Amy shoved the severed foot into his grasp and stomped into her bedroom. Metal could hear crashing as she grumbled and pushed things around her storage closet roughly. The girl stormed back into the room with an enormous roll of duct tape and knelt back beside Metal. “Give me your foot, I’m fixing this for good,” she demanded.

Metal emitted a low grumble. He held his foot above his head, out of her reach.

“You think I can’t reach up there?” Amy stared for a moment, challenging Metal. Then she suddenly shot back up and lunged for his hand. “Quit being stubborn and let me fix it!”

He was the stubborn one? Enraged, he extended his arm up towards the ceiling, playing keep away. She tugged fruitlessly on the telescopic cable.

“You wanna lose another arm?!”

Before he could make a response, Amy’s communicator rang from the other room. They both turned their attention in the direction of the jingle. Amy let out a frustrated sigh and tossed the roll of duct tape aside to answer the call as Metal watched her disappear wordlessly past the door. While she lingered there for a few minutes, he pulled his arm back and sat silently once more. He looked from his dismembered foot to the shiny duct tape and back again. He supposed it would be better than nothing.

Amy sauntered back into the living room area with her nose up. “That was Tails. Lucky for you, he’s an actual engineer and he can actually fix you.” She crossed her arms defensively.

Metal Sonic rolled his eyes but reluctantly offered his foot back to her.

“Did you just- You’ve been sitting here expressionless for a whole day and the first emotion you show is that?” She snatched his foot out of his grasp. “Unbelievable.” Amy continued muttering under her breath while she taped his leg and foot back together. “There! Not that it matters, Tails is about to fix it anyway,” she scoffed. “At least it won’t fall off on the way there…”

He looked down at his “repaired” foot. It did seem to at least be attached to him, which was marginal improvement. Metal stood up slowly, attempting to disperse his weight evenly. It was a bit shaky and he couldn’t exactly bend his ankle, but he managed to limp around rather than drag his foot behind him.

“Well?” Amy looked at him inquisitively.

Metal reached for the little whiteboard that he’d left on the kitchen counter. He set it in front of him and scribbled something down quickly, holding it up for Amy to see. He turned away as he did, seemingly embarrassed. “THANK YOU” it read in slightly less neat handwriting than usual.

Amy’s cheeks puffed when she saw it. Her face flushed and she, too, avoided eye contact. “You’re welcome.” She pouted, her cheeks growing ever warmer as she realized what an outburst she’d had. “And, you know… sorry,” she finally added.

Stubborn, Metal Sonic added to his description of Amy Rose in his memory bank. Temperamental. He looked back down at his foot, noticing how neatly she had wrapped the tape around him- smooth, with no folds or creases. Well-meaning, he appended. The fix wasn’t perfect but it was certainly more comfortable than the alternative. Thoughtful.

Amy composed herself, releasing a deep sigh. “Grab your jacket and your arm. Let’s head to Tails’ place so he can get you fixed up for real,” she smirked. She knew her solution was janky, but genuinely hoped it would at least help keep him together.

Metal Sonic complied with this. He found his arm strewn into the corner of the storeroom and gave Amy a bit of a side eye, knowing she’d knocked it there in her earlier rage. She pretended not to notice this. He was about to head out the front door when Amy stopped him. “You’re not going to wear your jacket? I know you don’t get cold, but…”

He looked to the coat rack where he’d placed it the evening before. It didn’t agree with his telescopic arm when it was extended so he opted to remove it before helping Amy clean up her closet.

“I’ll help you get it on if you want.”

He nodded back, dropping his other arm momentarily as she slid it over him and zipped the front. Amy smiled at him then with unexpected warmth.

She was musing silently about his change in character. Overnight, Metal went from a nightmarish enemy to a placid houseguest. Amy thought he could be reprogrammed into becoming her ally, but was now realizing that this robot with all his hinges and bolts was a bona fide person. She’d always thought he was angry by default, encountering him only in battle or other tense situations; but seeing how Metal could become elated and annoyed and show gratitude gave her hope that he wasn’t just an emotionless machine to be modified. Instead, he was a potential new friend.

#thanks to yall who are reading! please feel free to leave comments i love reading them #or message me if that's more comfortable for u #metamy #metal sonic x amy rose #metal sonic #amy rose #sonic fanfiction #sth #unfamiliar #ch 4

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thisonesatellite · 4 years ago

Text

The Sword and The Heart -- CH 6

SUMMARY: It started because love was a weapon.

Wait–this is how it started: Emma opened her mouth to scream, and the world went dark.

There was danger and Darkness, and words spoken into the void as she surrendered herself.

It started because Emma did not want to see anyone else she loved die. (He’d promised her he wouldn’t.)

Love was a weapon, and it was always used against her, to separate her from the people she loved. (From the person she loved.)

That’s how it started.

But now Emma Swan, Dark One, has to answer a question: How does it all end?

(Season 5 Canon Divergence - for @cssns )

| CH1 | CH2 | CH3 | CH4 | CH5 | AO3 |

A/N: Hello everyone! You survived 5A! Are you ready for 5B?

You may or may not recognize small bits of this chapter as a story I wrote called “All the Darkness in the World” for the @csrolereversal last October. It was actually that snippet of a story that started @ohmightydevviepuu and me down this epic road, because Devra said she could kind of picture season 5 looking like that (i am paraphrasing), and i was not averse to shamelessly stealing from myself. 🤣

All thanks as always to my co-conspirator @ohmightydevviepuu, and @profdanglaisstuff and @katie-dub for the neverending support and beta-ing. When this is done they each deserve a medal.

And most of all -- again and still -- here’s to all of you wonderful, amazing people reading this story. You are awesome. 💕💕💕

If you want on or off the tag list, let me know! (And seriously - if it’s ‘off’ - please don’t worry. Absolutely no hard feelings.)

@mariakov81 @stahlop @thejollyroger-writer @snowbellewells @captainsjedi @toomanyfandomstochoosefrom @xarandomdreamx @tiganasummertree @mayquita @ohmightydevviepuu @sals86 @karenfrommisthaven @kmomof4 @kday426 @superchocovian @jennjenn615 @facesiousbutton82 @suwya @spartanguard @capnjay21 @shardminds @carpedzem @girl-in-a-tiny-box @ilovemesomekillianjones @lfh1226-linda @artistic-writer @teamhook @katie-dub @shireness-says @qualitycoffeethings @cluttermind @fragilebeautifulchaos @optomisticgirl @klynn-stormz @winterbaby89 @ethereal-madnesss @scientificapricot

CHAPTER 6: Salvation Comes Only In Dreams

Her ears pop and her eyelids flutter as Emma opens her eyes and looks around.

She’s in the driver’s seat of her Beetle.

Inside a decrepit, run-down amusement park.

Alone.

“Well.”

Emma flinches, half-expecting a hooded figure to pop up in the backseat--but the voice is coming through the open window and says, as the passenger door is yanked open, “That didn’t exactly go as planned.”

A man plunks down next to her--a hooded man, wearing ripped jeans and biker boots and as he slowly pushes the hood back from his forehead, Emma gasps.

It’s Merlin.

It’s Merlin .

“But I--” Emma starts and stops and has to force herself to try again. “But you--”

He smiles, and it’s open and genuine and relaxed and carefree and he looks younger , somehow.

“You look different,” is all she says, which seems a bit--well. It’s not like there’s a greeting card for when you’ve run into the man you’ve killed.

In the--afterlife?

“So do you,” he says, and Emma has to take a breath, to steel herself, before she looks down at her hands.

Her normal hands that don’t sparkle.

She aglances into the rearview mirror and sees her own reflection staring back at her. She’s back in her jeans and her boots and her red leather jacket, there’s the chain around her neck and she feels like--

Like she is remembering herself. Remembering Emma , stretching a muscle that is stiff and protesting from its disuse and she realizes she has no idea how long she has been here.

Or, more immediately, where here is.

She wants to giggle and cry at the same time as something inside of her begins to hurt , like a punch to the gut, and suddenly she is certain of one thing: The Darkness is gone.

Wait.

“What didn’t go as planned?” Emma asks, suddenly suspicious, and it’s not the dark, icky, crawling paranoia kind of suspicious, it’s the ordinary, baseline, “my superpower is acting up” kind of suspicious. Which is--good, right?

She destroyed the Darkness.

And its human vessel.

She’s dead, isn’t she? That was the plan.

“Where are we?”

Merlin’s eyes narrow as he looks her up and down. “Just another crossroads,” he says, and Emma hears the note of disdain there. “Apparently you just keep getting choices no matter how often you fuck them up.” Anger flares hot inside of her--how dare he? He didn’t just sacrifice himself instead of letting someone he loved die .

Then again.

She did kill him .

“Tell me, what is this place?” She asks instead. “Am I--is this hell?”

Tarps flap in a gusting wind, hinges that haven’t been oiled in years creak mournfully. A broken Ferris wheel carriage swings by one last tether.

Merlin laughs out loud. At her . He’s laughing at her and he says, “Not even close.” Then he bends forward. “Now you tell me, Emma--” and there’s a hint of an edge in his tone “--what exactly do you remember?”

Clang .

A swordfight by the lake.

Clang.

A choice--to defeat the Darkness. To become the Savior, after all.

Clang .

The right choice, this time.

Clang.

The eyes of her son--of her mother.

The blue of his eyes and the sword in her hands as she kissed him, as they fell together, and a burst of rainbow light.

A burst of rainbow light .

She’d freed Killian from the Darkness.

She’d freed both of them.

She’d fixed it, she can feel it, she can feel the person she used to be, and it’s--

“Wrong,” Merlin says. He raises a withering eyebrow. “Very interesting, but very wrong.”

Emma shifts in her seat and fucking hell she’s in that movie theater chair all over again, caught out by someone who knows more than he should, but she is not a child anymore.

She’s also not the Dark One.

“Look, I’m sorry I took your sword, okay? But you were cryptic as hell and I was obviously not in my right mind and what the fuck did you think was gonna happen, anyway, you with all of your ‘I foresaw this’ crap?”

“I thought you would do the right thing, Savior . But you wouldn’t be you if you didn’t try to bend the world to your will.” There’s more than a hint of an edge now. There’s an entire freaking knife. “I thought you would let him go.”

“Like you did?” she snarls. “Do you have any idea what Nimue did to me? What it felt like to have her in my head, watching me, watching Killian--”

It flashes before her eyes again, just like at the stone circle--the sword slicing through his abdomen, again, and again, and again. Emotions are pounding down on her, barbarians at the gates of hell, and for a brief moment she yearns for the numbness, because all she can think of is Killian.

Of this look in his eyes as they fell.

Of his lips on hers and a bright, blinding light.

“There’s no more Darkness,” she says, softly. “And I did let him go.”

“So you did,” Merlin nods. “In a manner of speaking.”

“Stop with your goddamn riddles,” Emma says, and she’s crying now, though it takes her a minute to notice, to register the feeling of the tears streaming down her face. She’s tired and frustrated and confused and she just--

She misses him.

So much.

And it hits her, suddenly, that she is never going to see him again, and she wishes again for the numbness.

Merlin sighs. “Emma, you have to choose between what is good, and what is right. That’s what you can’t seem to understand. You won’t survive this journey if you don’t do the right thing.”

“I don’t understand.” It’s a whisper. Her voice is not working.

“You never do,” he says. “It’s really annoying.”

Then he meets her gaze and his tone becomes earnest.

“You have to do what’s right . For once in your life, Savior--listen to me.”

“You sound like my kid,” Emma says, and if she closes her eyes she can hear Henry’s voice echoing the words.

He opens the car door and gets out, gesturing for her to follow him.

“Please,” he says, and it’s the ‘please’ that gets her, gets her to move when Merlin points toward a swinging door. It’s part of the weathered facade of a mock saloon called THE PIGS & THE WOLF. The paint is chipped and the words are faded; it is the opposite of welcoming.

“Right through there,” Merlin says.

“What’s through there?”

Merlin smiles. It’s once again open and genuine. “The rest of your story. Go on.”

But--her story is over.

That’s what happens when you die.

But there’s nothing else to do, so Emma opens her own door and climbs out. She pulls her shoulders back and straightens herself to her full height as she starts walking toward the unknown, and then Merlin calls her back.

“Emma!”

She turns, and he’s leaning against the bright yellow car, young and happy and without a care in the world. “About New York--”

She shudders.

“Don’t blame yourself too much,” he says, pulling up his hoodie. “I really did see it coming. You just changed the ending a bit.”

He disappears, and Emma stands there, watching the space where he used to be, for a long time before she finally gathers up enough courage to turn and walk past the saloon doors into the darkness beyond.

[[SB]]

He is not the person he remembers.

When he wakes up next to her in the middle of the night, shaking and filled with both rage and fear, he is different. When he walks down the street and people turn to avoid him, he is different. When he hears the whispers around him, words like darkness and sealed fate, he is different.

She is not.

She cups his cheek when he gets lost in his fury, and he finds himself again in the calm of her eyes. She makes them recede, the madness and the anger that have both come back to plague him now that he walks in space and time again. She says his name like it means something to her.

It means nothing to him.

But in a corner of his heart of darkness, a corner he protects with everything he has, he loves that she says his name like that. Or he would, if he still knew how to love.

[[UW]]

It was a tunnel--a familiar tunnel, and if everything wasn’t already so weird that would probably be at the top of her mind, the way the saloon doors had led to this tunnel that looked just like the ones the dwarves had carved out below Storybrooke. Everything was bathed in a strange red glow, and there was complete and utter silence.

No, not silence.

Absence of sound.

It was cold, cold enough she could see her breath--which, that was weird, because dead people didn’t breathe.

She followed the track as it twisted to her left and changed direction, rounded the bend that would take her farther under Storybrooke, if this was Storybrooke, and there stood a man. He was blonde with an impeccably tailored black suit and there was something vaguely manic about him, in the way that his expression was both wickedly joyous, like he was happy to see her, but also bored.

Then he smiled the kind of supercilious grin that would make Regina look friendly.

“Ah,” he said, his voice a mellifluous blend of sarcasm and fake sincerity. “Emma Swan. I’ve been waiting for you.”

For fuck’s sake.

If she never had to hear that phrase again--ever--it would be too soon.

But the man was still talking.

Of course he was.

“Now let’s see what kind of welcome we can offer a Dark One who stumbles into my land of lost souls but--” his mouth quirked “--never paid the price?”

“The price?” Emma almost didn’t recognize her own voice and the way it was laced with fear.

Real fear.

“Charon,” the man said. “You owe him some gold.”

The image enveloped her before she could stop it: Killian guiding her hand as they traced the stars, telling her the myths that named the constellations, and the stories of the gods and goddesses above and below.

He spoke Greek, because of course he did .

And thinking that, of the way his hand felt wrapped around hers as they lay on the deck of the Jolly Roger --it hurt .

“I didn’t come by way of the ferryman,” she said. “I--there was an amusement park. And an old, well--” she paused, shaking her head, because the word ‘friend’ just wouldn’t come out and didn’t really apply.

“Ah,” the man sighed. “Well.”

He was silent for a long while, just looking at Emma until her eyes watered from trying to look at him without blinking too much. Her fingertips fizzed, as if a current was running through them, but there was no sense of magic behind it.

Just unease.

Finally he said, “I suppose it doesn’t matter.” His voice was light and noncommittal and his smile was truly terrifying--all the more so because it seemed genuine. “You’re here now, Dark One. So we’d better get on with it.”

For a moment courage sparked inside of her. “I think your information is a bit out of date,” she said. “I’m not the Dark One anymore.”

“Forgive me.” He made a mocking bow. “ Savior .” It sounded as though he was tasting the syllables and it rolled through her body like something slimy and gross; the hope fizzled out just like the magic had.

“You’re Hades, aren’t you?” He was in the stories, too--though none of them had prepared her for this. Emma could feel the danger underneath the impeccable appearance of the man--of the place--danger and violence and evil at a simmer just below the surface and knew instinctively that this creature could crush her bones or blow her mind or invite her to a ridiculously proper high tea and they would all be the same thing to him.

“I am,” he said, and it was just like his smile, and his affect, laced with something manic and terrible as he suddenly growled, “You’re in my realm now.”

And with a wave of his hand--

There was a cemetery.

The sky was blood red, an ominous twilight that was bright and flat at the same time and she’d seen this before. She’d seen it in her dreams, but was unprepared for the tombstones, endless and stretching from horizon to horizon. Some of them were knocked over, some of them had no inscription, some were splintered apart. The grass was manicured, strangely well-kept, almost unnaturally perfect as though it was merely an extension of the god himself and, like him, it had a feeling of something terrible underneath its impeccable appearance.

He was still smiling at her when he said, “I have something to show you,” and stepped aside, and there was a tombstone.

Emma Swan , it said.

“Welcome to the Underworld, Savior.”

She blinked and the vision flickered--

“And I’m sorry to inform you that it’s your information that’s a bit out of date.”

The name on the tombstone was Killian Jones .

“No.” It wasn’t even a whisper, it was a breath of despair.

“Yes,” whispered Hades, a sound that was more like a hiss--like a giggle. She looked up at him and he rolled his eyes. “Your face,” he said, as if that was an explanation. “Your face, it’s just--it’s priceless . I couldn’t resist.”

Emma shook her head and squared her shoulders and turned to look back at the stone, at the letters that were jumbled, that were out of focus and fucking dancing before her eyes, because it couldn’t be,

it couldn’t be

She had not sacrificed herself for nothing.

She had not sacrificed herself for nothing .

“Oh,” Hades said, as though he had forgotten. He said it and smiled, brutality in a bespoke suit, and the way he was smiling was a claxon against her superpower, sirens for a five-alarm fire. “Before I forget--I think you might want this.”

He leaned forward and placed something on top of the tombstone--

A dulled, dirty metal hook.

Dripping blood.

[[SB]]

Sometimes the rage comes on like a tidal wave and swallows him whole. It explodes outward, seeping from every pore, and he finds himself walking the streets in retracing the footsteps of his own darkness, wayward spells shooting from his ravaged hand and doing damage.

Real damage.

Damage she has to fix.

“I can fix it,” she whispers, as though it is meant to soothe--and she does, but it doesn’t .

She finds him every time; no matter how lost he gets, she finds that corner of his heart where he is still human, and she brings him back. She kisses him gently and tells him that she loves him like that should mean something.

He wishes he could say it back.

(Wishes he could feel it back.)

[[UW]]

It was a trick, it was obviously a trick; it had to be a trick.

Killian wasn’t here.

Killian couldn’t be here.

She was crying as Hades again twisted his hand and disappeared into a cloud of smoke, sobbing , great heaving painful sounds that were ripped from her body as she sank down in front of the headstone and she just felt--

She felt .

It was as if the weight of everything she’d done was bearing down on her, squeezing her, wringing her out until she had nothing left inside of her, just the hook in her shaking hands that she sat and rubbed with her jacket, trying to get it clean, for what felt like hours.

But what was time in a place like this?

Eternity is a very long time .

In the end Emma got up simply because it was something to do, and because she could no longer sit and stare at the letters that spelled his name.

She picked a direction and started walking, her breath making little puffs in the cold, dry air as she followed the line of the cemetery toward--

Storybrooke.

It was broken, twisted, red-hued; the remains of the clock tower were splintered across Main Street and people shuffled along under hunched shoulders and bent backs as they watched her, shooting furtive glances in her direction. It was so very fitting somehow--that and the sense of hopelessness that pushed against her nerve endings like a dull ache--but where there was Storybrooke, there was a diner.

And where there was a diner, there was going to be coffee. Maybe even hot chocolate with fucking cinnamon and Emma was going to go and have some. She tucked the hook carefully into the waistband of her jeans so that it pressed against the small of her back just like his hand had done , and choked back a sob.

[[SB]]

He doesn’t remember her, not really.

But he misses her, somehow. Misses feeling her.

Misses feeling.

[[UW]]

“Would you like gingerbread or children?”

The blind woman behind the counter looked absolutely deranged as she asked it, and then looked almost affronted when Emma asked for coffee instead.

“I was just kidding,” she said. “But the gingerbread’s actually not bad.”

Emma opened her mouth to respond but was cut off when a voice from behind her rang out like a cracked bell.

“Savior!” There was rage and devious pleasure rolling off of it in waves. “Could it be? Is it really you? I’ve been waiting--”

No. Emma was done with that.

She turned and found herself face-to-face with Cruella deVil.

“You can’t have been waiting that long,” Emma said. “Your roots aren’t even showing yet.”

And she turned back to her coffee.

The blind witch behind the counter cackled.

“Is this the one who shafted you? The Savior?” She licked her lips and pointed her sightless eyes toward Cruella. Her voice became a stage whisper. “Isn’t she the one who killed you?”

Every person in the diner stopped speaking and perked up, and Emma felt the mood shift from merely sullen to outright antagonistic.

Emma’s fingers twitched and before she could stop herself there was the flick of her wrist and--nothing.

Which was, in its way, a relief; a reminder that the Darkness and its magic was gone. So she exhaled and breathed a little deeper and reached and felt--nothing.

Nothing came and nothing conjured, like the place inside of her where the magic was, it was empty.

And cold.

And--dead.

Which. Okay, so was she, but there was nothing , not even the echoing buzz in her fingertips she’d felt in the tunnel. It was like turning over a key in an ignition and hearing nothing but a click. Panic struck hard as she looked at her hands, her plain, calloused, human hands, and felt nothing--not the bottomless well of the Darkness and not the warm golden stream of Light--and looked up into Cruella’s grinning face.

“Ooops,” she said, her perfectly plucked eyebrows raised in mock consternation, “having a bit of trouble harnessing your power, Savior? Finding the Underworld not all it’s cracked up to be, are we?”

Emma couldn’t breathe for a moment, poised for fight or flight, but there was, again, nothing.

No fight.

Just the useless, empty core where the magic used to be inside of her.

“Yeah, it’s a nuisance ,” said the Blind Witch. “The way Light magic will get you nowhere down here.” She cackled again and Emma was already tired of the sound. “Should have brought someone a little more, well--”

“Evil.” Cruella smacked her lips. “Oh, what the Queen could have accomplished in your stead.”

Regina . Reflexively Emma clenched her hands into fists, that anger she remembered from the world Above still perilously close to the surface, and then it hit her.

Regina, her parents, her kid--she was never going to see them again.

It hit her, a fucking freight train of emotion, of regret.

Because she was alone. Again.

There was the metal pressed against her back but she was more alone than she had ever been in her life and--

Except she wasn’t. Alive. She’d given that up, done the right thing, even if she couldn’t seem to figure out why she was here, and--

“Laugh all you want, Doolittle.” Cruella’s mouth turned down as if she was tasting something extremely unpleasant and Emma smiled. “Do your worst.” She’d been run through the heart by the sword she should have left alone. What could they do to her?

Cruella’s eyes narrowed down to slits as she leaned forward, uncomfortably close. “I sense confusion,” she hissed. “Like you don’t think you belong here. When you put me here. That should be enough reason.”

“Oh, that should be reason for worse, kitten.” Emma had not noticed the witch come up behind her and she flinched at her closeness, at the timbre of the words in her ear, but there was no heat, no feeling of breath against her neck. The witch, when she wasn’t speaking or moving, stood completely--almost unnaturally--still.

“Oooooh,” she whispered. “I sense misapprehension .” The witch circled to face Emma. “ Do your worst, you said. Didn’t she, kitten?”

Cruella gave her a distracted nod, still staring down Emma, when the witch smiled. “But I hear a heartbeat ,” she said, and she trembled like this fact pleasured her from the inside out and smiled her deranged smile. “Yes, lovelies,” she said, ignoring the way Emma’s and Cruella’s eyes both snapped to hers as she addressed the entire diner, “there is a heartbeat in the Underworld.”

And Emma, disbelieving, pressed her hand to her chest.

ThumpThump ThumpThump ThumpThump

There it was.

Emma couldn’t tell if it was hours or days later.

It could have been years, for all she knew, years spent running from the diner has if the hounds of hell had been after her--and there was a story about that, too, a story that he had told her--and it wasn’t impossible, not in the Underworld, and it was freaking Cruella --so she’d taken refuge in the only place she knew, the only place where she could be with him.

She’d run across the manicured grass and the broken tombstones, run until she’d found the one she was looking for and curled up at its base, and now she was on the grass, horizontal, the hook in her left hand and her right on her neck, index finger pressed into the pulse points, counting the beats as she stared at the sky.

She counted them and then counted again, over and over and over.

She was out of tears.

There was only silence and the beating of her own heart.

The clouds overhead didn’t even move here. Nothing did, that’s why the witch had felt so still, that’s why everything was so quiet--everything except her, with her heartbeat and her pulse and her warmth and her breath .

The blood-red twilight made telling time impossible.

Maybe time didn’t pass down here.

Maybe there was no time.

Emma turned her head and stared at the letters carved into the stone. Killian Jones .

She had no idea how long it had been since she’d seen him, since she’d touched him, since she’d kissed him and felt the press of him against her and the warmth that was him and the way that he loved her, unconditionally.

She shifted her right hand to the chain around her neck.

To the ring.

She remembered the feeling of him against her and the comfort of his presence, as it said without words everything that mattered. I am here. With you.

Always.

She was enough for him, and she had taken it for granted; the only thing he had ever asked of her was to let him go and instead she had bound them more tightly together.

“ We’ve already had more time together than we ever should have ,” he’d said.

This wasn’t right.

“You have to do what is right,” Merlin had said, only she had a heartbeat and something was terribly, terribly wrong.

A shadow stood over her and said, “Look at what we have here. A lost savior.”

There was a man standing above her, tall with close-cropped brown hair and a grim expression.

“Word travels fast down here,” he said. “And you can’t always believe what you hear, but then again, here you are.”

His voice was unmistakably angry.

“So tell me, Emma Swan. What is it you think you’re after? What more can you possibly want to do to him?”

Emma jumped to her feet, ignoring the protesting muscles of her back, clutching the hook like a talisman.

“Who are you?” she demanded. “How do you know who I am?”

“The witches at the diner, for one,” he said with a sneer. “Cruella has--quite a bone to pick with you, to coin a phrase. It seems she knew you, topside. In any case, she had a lot to say on the subject of one Emma Swan.” Liam looked at her for a beat and then his eyes flashed briefly. It could have been anger. It could have been sorrow. “And then there is the small matter of my brother.”

Everything inside Emma contracted into a pinpoint of pain at the center of her heart.

Her beating heart.

“Who is your brother?” she whispered, her fingers pulling at the chain she wore because she knew .

“Oh,” said the man. He spoke like he was indulging the whims of a small, spoiled child; his eyes followed the hand along her neck and locked on the ring. “Have you not yet guessed who I am? My name is Liam. Liam Jones.”

The hook in her had suddenly felt infinitely heavier as she looked up at Liam with his burning eyes, his mouth in a thin line, and said, “Is he here? Killian? Is he here?”

She was tired of this place and its goddamn riddles.

She needed a fucking answer .

Liam seemed determined not to give her one but his eyes narrowed a fraction and his tells were easier than his brother’s.

“Why is he here?” She couldn’t get her voice to work above a rasping whisper, but there was no ambient sound here, no birdsong or insect chirp; she should have noticed the silence before.

The stillness.

Liam shook his head. “You’re asking all of the wrong questions, Savior .” The way he said it made it sound like a curse. He put his hand briefly on the tombstone and nodded to himself. When he spoke, he did not look at her. “You have never been the hero of this story. Not for yourself, not for your family. And for my brother?”

He turned and fixed her with a withering glare.

“You’re nothing but a villain. And villains don’t get happy endings, do they?”

Emma closed her eyes, blinking back tears, and--

She saw him .

He looked at her, one eye swollen shut, blood dripping from fresh wounds. He his hand was tethered to the wall and she could taste iron in the air and despair on her tongue and for a second she was certain that he could see her, too; his lips moved, mouthing her name, cutting across time and space and life and death as Emma resonated deep within her chest.

The vision flickered out and Emma screamed.

She felt it echo, hanging in the air before it dissipated, absorbed into the stillness, and the air around her felt even quieter than it had before.

Liam stared at her, unimpressed. “Go home, Savior. Go home and let him go and move on. You are not welcome here.”

He pushed past her and before she could turn to follow him he was gone, vanished between the rows of stone monuments to lost souls. She was alone again.

She lifted the hook--her one small measure of connection--and held it against her cheek, imagined him and the way he used to pull her hair back with it.

I am here with you .

“I will find you,” she whispered into the steel. “I will find you and I will make this right.”

A stray streak of the blood-red twilight caught the curve of the hook and reflected a rainbow.

[[SB]]

Time has no meaning here.

It runs through his scarred fingers, racing along, endlessly stretching; it leaves nothing to hold on to but madness and anger. There is nothing to do in this grey without time, without purpose--it is a space without meaning, a pocket of empty.

It may have been centuries ago that he was trapped here.

It may have been hours.

There is no way to know.

[[UW]]

It was a small cottage, crooked and bowed, with peeling paint and a sagging wood frame that groaned under her weight when Emma walked up and pounded on the door hard enough to wake the dead.

Literally.

When Liam came to the door and opened it Emma said nothing. She just punched him squarely in the chin and watched him fold in half before she sidestepped him and entered the cottage’s single room with its makeshift kitchen that had never been used and its sofa that looked well-worn and mostly comfortable. Emma sat down at the table and waited for Liam to catch his breath.

“I suppose it’s too much to hope for coffee in this purgatory?”

He shook his head and wheezed as he sat down across from her, glaring.

“It’s interesting, don’t you think? How pain is still a thing--even though you’re all as dead as I should be.” She leaned forward. “I have no magic here, but I used to be very good at getting information out of people. And the tools of my trade do work down here.”

She left off the part about how it had felt wrong, the show of force, how it had felt too much like being the Dark One without actually being the Dark One. She left out how desperate it made her feel, and how twisted everything was.

She left out the part about how Liam was probably her best bet for finding Killian, even if she wasn’t above asking Cruella a pertinent question or two.

Or four.

She leaned back into the chair, affecting comfort and confidence she did not feel after their meeting in the cemetery--after the vision that still lingered--and waited for his breathing to even out. He straightened up, his own show of confidence that she ignored. “I am done with the riddles. Everyone here talks like a fucking oracle and I am not playing this game. Give me a few straight answers or I will make you very uncomfortable.”

And in that moment Emma felt the pressure of Merlin’s weight underneath her, his wrist in her hand, twisted--his face contorted in pain. She remembered the way that it felt to have him in her power, “ Trust me when I say that I take no pleasure in this .”

Emma shivered.

“Think you can get the drop on me twice?” His condescending sneer rode his anger like the surf of a hurricane.

“I know I can,” Emma snapped--and that, at least, was true. “I also know that something went horribly wrong, and that Killian should not be here. If this is all some horrible mistake, I have to fix it . No matter what.”

Her voice rang out into the silence while Liam looked at her. Just--stared, for a long time while her own words and her own hypocrisy echoed inside of her head.

“I can see why he likes you,” he said. “Gods know I despise what you have done to him, but I can see why he likes you. He’s always had a soft spot for strays, especially the ones who can give as good as they get.”

Emma stared back.

She was not a stray.

She was not nothing.

She was someone’s daughter, someone’s mother, someone’s friend, and the woman who loved his brother.

Home, warmth, family .

“He thinks you hung the moon,” she said, “but don’t kid yourself--you’re not the hero of this story, either. Be as angry at me as you want to be, but you bent him to your will so tightly that not even your death cut him free.”

Liam opened his mouth to reply but she held up her hand. “Save it,” she said. “Neither of us is going to win this fight. And I have more important things to do.”

Liam sank back into his chair, deflated, his shoulders hunched and his eyes hooded.

“Isn’t that what gets you into trouble, Savior?” he finally said. “Fixing things no matter what?”

His tells were easier than his brother’s but it seemed that both of the brothers Jones had a knack for reading people.

“I did the right thing,” Emma said. Her hand went automatically to her neck and the chain there as he watched her.

“Did you now?” Liam’s voice was quiet, and that, finally, broke her.

“YES!” Emma slammed her hand into the table, hard, but Liam didn’t flinch. “I fucked it all up before that, I took the sword and chose the Darkness, but the sacrifice, that I did right!” With her other hand, she pulled the hook from her waistband and held it up. “Why is he here? I saw him, he is being fucking tortured by the fucking God of Death and I need to know why.”

Emma watched Liam as he watched her, unmoving.

And then he slowly got up.

“I don’t have the answers you’re looking for, Savior,” he said. “But I do know this: He’s here. And he’s in a place I cannot go.” He sighed, and it sounded resigned, and no longer angry. “So if I were you, Savior, I would start looking in places the dead cannot enter.”

Emma’s voice was a whisper. “And where is that?”

“Ask the witch at the diner. She refused to tell me, but I get the feeling you can be--persuasive.”

He almost smiled.

Emma stood, tucked the hook back into her waistband, and walked out the door.

. .

#cs fic #cs fic rec #cssns20 #ohmightydevviepuu #thisonesatellite #the sword and the heart #5B canon divergence #here we go #Hades is waiting #and way down we go

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fipindustries · 4 years ago

Text

list of comics i made so far

i already shared the list of all the novels i tried to write throughout my llife so i see no reason why not to do the same with the comics i tried to work on. no i should clarify, with my lists of novels there was a clear cut distinction between what was a novel and a short story so to parse one from the other was an easy task. it should be known that i wrote hundreds of shorts stories that i havent shared with anyone. now a similar situation occurs with my comics, i have done hundreds upon hundreds of little comics, short jokes, little skits and short lived strips through my life, so in order to give this list some weight and not make it longer than the bible the criteria i used was that it had to be something i did on a regular basis or that tells a self contained story with a beggining middle and end.

now without further ado, lets begin!

spike Vanderville (age 7)

you can tell i was way more into comics than i was into novels from a young age. done with pen and folded paper, it was the story about a young kid called spike, whose design was heavily inspired by bradley from sticking around, who had magical powers which allowed him to manipulate reality. it was a mix of harry potter and a series of illustrates short stories that came in a magazine in argentina. his best friend was a scarecrow with a pumpkin head that he had brought to life, his archnemesis was a fat bully.

curiously enough i was so passionate about this project even though i had no idea what i was doing and no talent that i actually did like three full colored issues of it. my family was really proud of me. sadly those comics are completly lost to time

andrew and the monkey (age 10)

this was the classical story about a boy and his best friend the talking animal. one page comedy strips done in pen and paper. nothing too clever, just a way for me to try lame jokes mostly stolen from spongebob squarepants. not much else to it. i tried to do like a revamp in 2014 but it was short lived, as you can see the jokes didnt get any less lame

FIP industries (age 17)

mostly done in digital. yes as you can see fip is something that has followed me my whole life in quite the variety of mediums. there were as a matter of fact multiple attempts to make this comic a real thing but time and again they would peter off as i saw that my skill was just not up to the task. i think i have talked more than enough about fip industries on this blog, one interesting thing is that if you follow the link you will come across a lot of proto ideas that i had before they cemented and took their definite shape in the novel (and even after the novel i kept retconning and retooling things over and over again, fip industries is an ongoing thing that will probably last my entire lifetime)

Disregarding Reality I (age 20)

the first iteration of disregarding reality, a humorous strip done in pencil and paper, a fairly short lived affair, lasting no more than 3 months. the entire premise of the comic was an MRA activist and a feminist live together, they are friends, they argue a lot. remember 2013 guys? back when this whole politics bullshit truly kicked off online? this was before gamer gate, mind you. but by that point i had seen more than enough of it on tumblr and i was like “someone should do some scathing commentary with wit and penache” and that someone had to be me. mainly inspired by commics like f@nboys and el goonish hive and a thousand billion others that were so popular back in those halcyon days.

i got bored of it pretty quickly and it wouldnt be until three years later than i would finally decide to re-start the project but until then...

Strangers in the forest (age 21)

here comes a rather productive era in my ouvre, ink and paper, based on a short story i wrote, its about an eldritch monster pretending to be human and a ghost girl, killed by her father. they have a dispute because the monster wants to eat the corpse of the girl but the ghost doesnt want to give up her bones because its the one thing that tethers her to the mortal plane. they eventually resolve their dispute. by this point i was actually, unironically trying my best to do comics which i felt looked professional.

Song of a nightmare (age 21)

another one based on a short story i wrote. ink and paper, a private detective wakes up in the middle of the night and sees a mermaid lying in bed next to him. he spends most of the comic trying to figure out how the hell is this possible. still one of my favourite ones and certainly one of my family’s and friends favourites as well. a rather poetic tale, strongly inspired by argentinian fiction and their propensity towards magical realism, i was reading a lot of cortazar back then.

Aika (age 21)

as you can tell i was on a fucking roll that year. ink and paper, this was a story based upon a simple and basic idea that i had in my mind for years and years. i always liked the concept behind the movie “the kid” where bruce willis mysteriously comes across himself as a kid. so of course one day i came up with the idea, what if you recieved a visit from your future self... but she was a woman?

this is probably the most aggresively trans story i ever wrote in my life, it is literally about a guy realizing they are trans and breaking down over it. here is the giant kicker, i did not realize at all what i was doing. i was completly unaware of what was going on here, i was still deep deep in the closet and not even realizing i was there. it really is astounding the honesty and the rawness with which i wrote this comic and it went all over my head. a perfect example of “im such a great ally lol”

oh also there is time travel i guess. my main impetus (beyond whatever my subconcious was forcing me to do) was my desire to make a complete clusterfuck of a story, i was a huge fan of homestuck, i had read fleek and demon, i wanted to do my own take on a hypercomplicated time travel puzzle plot. other things came out on top of it but i didnt noticed them. fucking hilarious

Hello Agatha (age 21)

a comedic strip about a wacky pixie dream girl having wacky adventures with her wacky friends, one of which is a man with a toilet for a head. what a gut buster, what a knee slapper!

there is not much to say about this one, wacky surreal comedy was always my favourite and so time and again i would try my hand at it but it is surprisingly hard to do!

The /co/ ventures! (age 20 - age25)

an ongoing project done in multiple mediums. i think i said more than enough about this in here and here. it was me practiscing comics, practiscing my humor and adding my tiny grain of sand to the 4chan culture. i am proud to say these comics were actually very well liked there and that i would be recognized without a name or signature of any kind, just on the strength of my style.

the vest kind of madness (age 22)

probably one of the projects in which i put the biggest amount of effort to make it look professional. traditional inks and digital colors. a crossover that i cant believe never happened in comics considering how obvious it is. Rac Shade, the changing man and delirium of the endless, the two flagship vertigo characters associated with madness. clearly a match made in heaven.

to this day im flabbergasted i seem to be the only one to think of this.

Disregarding Reality II (age 23)

another work where i have already spilled rivers of bytes explaining my thought process behind it. after having a no good, terrible, very bad day, finding my self aimless and without purpose, deep in denial and depression, i decided to give my self a big project to have something to get me out of bed every day. these three guys came from the depths of my mind to save me.

this time leaning a lot more on silly humor and surrealism than political commentary, still insanely proud of how much i managed to make this last, almost three years, well over 200 pages! and in here i found the inspiration and the creative energy to tackle all sorts of diverse projects of which we are about to see all about.

Mama Bird (age 24)

my masterpiece.

by far the best comic i ever did. a kid with a bird for a mom. hilarious, touching, heartbreaking. it was a concept that i had come up with when i was 21. back then it was supposed to be exclusively a humorous comic strip but then i found a dramatic angle for the story and that was when everything clicked into place. that was when i realized this was a comic i had to do. and i did it. it took me five months but it was well worth it. still insanely proud of this one

Soft boys (age 25)

a weird experimental little story where i decided to sit down and deconstruct one of the most popular superpowers. super elasticity. more akin to me just mashing my toys against each other than me trying to tell a serious story. i am actually really happy with some of the art here and some of the sequences presented. particularly the final one where a brick joke twenty pages in the making finally pays off.

Hexen Snatch (age 25)

a semi spinoff to my novel FIP industries, we focus on a side character that managed to survive after the events of the novel and how they’ll manage to survive further beyond that. insanely soaked by the magical world of pact by widbow i wanted desperatly to share my own take on magic, every page is accompanied by a little text where i expand upon the lore and the way magic is supposed to work on this world. i really like the prose on those snippets and the ideas they work almost more that the comic itself with which i was not happy at all when i was working on it. i didnt like the character design, i didnt like how the art in general was coming out, i didnt like the pacing of the story or how superficially we were getting to expore this world in the comic proper. i had to take a very long hiatus just to accumulate the will to finish the comic and once i did i feel it really petered off without much of a satisfying payoff.

on some level i blame the exhaustion and frustration that i came out of this comic with for the fact that i ended up quitting disregarding reality soon afterwards.

Maxplosive (age 26)

another project that has followed me across multiple mediums. came up with an idea for a videogame back in 2015. saved it on the back pocket for a while, used it as a story within a story on my novel fan.tastic, practisced a couple of animations with the characters and eventually decided that, if my skills at videogame making were not enough, i had at least more than poven myself as a comic artist so maybe that was the definitive medium in which this idea would have to exist.

the original idea was to tell the story in two parts, the first half would introduce the character and the videogame as if the comic was a playthrough of the game. all fun and childlike and innocent. then the second half was meant to explore the life of the main character as an adult, how being “a videogame protagonist” had ruined her body, her mental health and her life. i tried all sorts of weird stuff with the format here, using reciclable assets, static camera angles and generally presenting the whole thing as if it was a videogame.

sadly the project got too big for my breaches, i was fucking exhausted back then, swamped with a bunch of other projects, my job, other responsabilities, unsatisfied with the story and with no idea where to take it. eventually i got tired, decided to skip a day, then the day became a week and then the week became a month and by then i had to face the facts, i was just no longer able to continue the comic. and so i quit not only maxplosive but disregarding reality all together.

i still did the occasional comic here and then but it wouldnt be until the very end of 20-fucking-20 that i was finally inspired to tackle a new project, my newest one, my last one....

Lapsarian (age 27)

an interesting experiment, i decided to do the whole comic in one sit and then post it chapter by chapter on a weekly basis. a surprising result of this was that i managed to do in one month the same amoung of pages that would have taken me 5 months back when i started disregarding reality, is good to see that after al this time i still got it.

took me a while to get the hang of it again and find my own style once more but once i armed up it was smooth sailing for 40 pages all the way to the end. but what is this comic even about?

its... weird, with full disclosure and no shame, it is mostly a fetish story about big lizard creatures commiting vore. the milkman had already shown me that i could do those types of stories and no lighting would come from the heavens to strike me down so i said, why not as a comic? i like to think that beyond the fetish content it is still a decent story in its own right, an interesting feedback that i got from this is that people are suprised how earnest it is, one saying something like “this is the best pitch for a fetish that i was never interested in”

Conclussion:

looking back on this im surprised, turns out i was a lot more prolific and working a lot more regularly than i expected, in here are documented ten years of creative output that never seems to wane. it was fun to do the roundabout trip and see how my style, my technice and generally my work ethic evolved through the years. another nice thing to see is the multiple formats, the multiple tools and mediums i experimented with, i find myself constantly trying new things, new methods, new angles, new interesting ideas for how to make a comic (without even getting into what to make a comic about).

something i always knew about myself was that drawing is a fundamental part of who i am, it is something that just cant be taken away from me and that will always be a part of my life one way or the other, is good to see it so plainly, in black and white, on this list. here goes for what i might be able to do in the future

#art #writing #fip living life

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ghostbustermelanieking · 5 years ago

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snippets from an msr historical au

cleaning out my 2019 fic closet lol. this is excerpts of a historical au i did, based on a short au prompt i wrote in june here. it takes place in 1850s new york where scully and emily are irish immigrants who befriend mulder when he offers to tutor emily. i wrote these snippets months ago and it'll probably go unfinished, but i liked it too much to not share. so here is my scattered sense of world building.

---

Melissa had been the one to suggest the name. She had been there in the birthing room, the only one left after her mother had traveled to America with Bill and her father was gone and Charlie was in England. Daniel had been elsewhere, of course, it wasn't proper for husbands to be in the birthing room, and he upheld tradition stronger than she did, so it was Melissa and her friend the midwife, Melissa holding her hand, Melissa handing her the squalling babe. She had passed out from the pain and felt a rush of relief when she woke up again; she had feared she wouldn't wake up again after it was all over. She knew many women who had never met their children. Melissa had brought the baby back, the tiny child with their mother's eyes and a patch of bright hair, and Dana had filled with relief. If she had no one else in this marriage, which had long grown sour, she would have her daughter.

Melissa had suggested Emily because she loved Wuthering Heights, recently republished under the true name of its author. "It's a beautiful name, Dana, and perhaps, if she's lucky, she'll receive even an ounce of the creativity that comes with it," she had said, clutching the tiny hand in hers. "What a wonderful thing that would be."

That had been enough to convince her. Emily Margaret, she'd said, for her mother, far away in the heartlands of a country she would never see, and for her stepdaughter, who hated her fiercely, though she didn't live with them anymore. The girl hated her, for taking the place of her mother, but Dana saw it as a chance to make peace with the both of them. It did not work, though; Maggie had not had any interest in her sister, or in her stepmother, and Dana had long given up trying. Given up on the whole family, her husband included: he took little interest in her or his daughter, and when he did, it was in a possessive sort of manner that made her skin crawl. The medical lessons she'd received as a young woman were long gone, and he saw her only as the keeper of the house and of his child. He wanted more, but she refused.

When he'd died on the voyage over, a small, shameful part of her had been relieved. She would not have to pretend to love him anymore, to feel the same way as she had all those years before. But she had feared so greatly for her daughter, that the illness would take one of them, too. She knew life would be hard without a husband, as was the cruel and unfair way of the world (her mother had told her as a little girl as she braided her hair), but it would be impossible for Emily without her. She would end up alone in some horrible orphanage, neglected and abandoned. And Dana could not imagine life without her daughter now, imagine being alone in the city she'd heard so much about. She could not go out west alone, and she could not survive alone. She remembered lying in her small, cold, hard bunk, holding Emily's small figure close, her lips to her hot forehead and murmuring a prayer. And God had heard her prayers. Her daughter had lived, and she looked more and more like Melissa every day.

Emily often has questions about this, the family she will never know. When the two of them are lying in their bed, behind the makeshifts wall John had built to separate their tiny space from the rest of the equally tiny apartment (he and Barbara sleep in a bed on the other side, adjacent to the stove, and their boy Luke sleeps in a pallet on the floor), she will whisper questions about her father, her half sister, her aunt and her uncles and her grandparents. But it is often Daniel and Maggie, the family she will never know. "Did they love me?" she whispers. "Was Papa kind? Was Maggie beautiful?"

Dana offers some truths and some falsehoods, knowing she will never see either of them again, and therefore her stories will never be contradicted. Yes, Maggie was beautiful, although she mostly remembers a girl not ten years younger than her calling her a whore and a witch and a false mother. Yes, they loved her. No, Emily will never know her sister, because though she did love Emily (although Dana does not know if this is true), she did not feel the same for Dana. There is a picture that Daniel had made before they went, of Maggie, her hair combed nearly and gathered up, wearing her best dress, her cheeks thin, and Emily sitting on her lap, her face twisted with displeasure at having to sit still for quite so long. Emily loves to look at it, and of the faded portrait of the two of them on their wedding day, though Dana does not feel the same. But she allows Emily these frivolities. She cannot give her much more than that.

---

She meets him by accident one Sunday, her one and only day off from the factory. She and Emily go to Mass every Sunday, of course, and then she spends much of the day helping Barbara to clean, cook, do the laundry (she always does hers and Emily's, at least; though Barbara has the time in the day to do it, she will not accept the favor). She takes a rest, sometimes, or she spends time with Emily, playing jacks or cards (Luke Doggett taught her to gamble, and she cannot shake the habit), or with the worn rag doll she and Melissa had made for her in Ireland, or reading to her. Her favorite is a newer one by a man named Melville. Dana relishes the time alone with her daughter, as she is often too tired to do anything like this after work. She has meant to teach Emily to read and write herself, considering that she's too young to start school yet, and John claims that most children already know a bit before they begin school, but she's barely had the time to teach her more than a few words. Sometimes on Sundays, they have a brief lesson, but there is so little time in the week.

One Sunday, after Dana has hung the laundry, and scrubbed the floor, and washed the dishes, she decides to go and find Emily, thinking they can read another chapter of Melville, perhaps. (She likes the book, she will admit; it reminds her of her father and his stories of the sea.) She expects to find Emily on the tail of Luke and his friends—they are much older than her, but her lonely girl still follows her around like he is the brother she'll never have—but Luke claims he has not seen her. She finds her, finally, on the steps of the building, an old reader Luke had kept open on her lap, squinting furiously at the page. A man is sitting beside her, pointing out the words on the page, speaking in a calm and patient voice. Dana recognizes the man immediately as their neighbor, Mr. Mulder, a schoolteacher who she has spoken to in the hall before. She's seen him occasionally playing with the young boys in the building, or talking with the men and women about books, plays, politics, scientific discoveries. She'd had a particular long discussion with him once on the effects of anesthesia in medicine, which Daniel had commented on several times.

"Emily," she says, and Emily scrambles to her feet and runs to her side, beaming with excitement. "Mama, this is Mr. Mulder, the schoolteacher," she says in a rush, tugging at her skirt. "He saw me trying to read and he offered to help!"

"He did?" She strokes the top of her daughter's head, messy from where she's taken it out of her braids, stealing a look at the man.

"My apologies, Miss Scully," Mr. Mulder offers, getting to his feet. "I didn't mean to intrude… I only wanted to help, if I could."

"It's not an intrusion," Dana says, but she is still wary. "I have been trying to teach her, but I often cannot find the time, and she's so desperate to learn. She's still too young for school yet." And privately, Dana worries about what Emily will go through when she enters school, considering the anger New Yorkers have for immigrants. There is a Catholic school she's looking at, simply because it seems like the best option, but it still is too easy to worry.

"Mama," Emily whispers, tugging her skirt again as if she finds her embarrassing.

Mr. Mulder smiles a bit. "Your daughter is very intelligent. She should have no trouble catching up."

"I'm six years old," Emily informs Mr. Mulder, her back automatically straightening as if to look older. "In a year's time, Mama says she can put me in school."

"I'm sure you're very excited," Mr. Mulder says, without even a hint of indulgence in his voice. Emily nods, a little shyly. Mr. Mulder seems to be thinking a bit on the subject, but he speaks soon after. "Perhaps if your mother permits it," he says, speaking as much to Dana as to Emily, "I could tutor you in my spare time. Teach you your letters and give you a head start on reading."

Emily's eyes light up, shyness forgotten, and she tugs pleadingly on Dana's skirt. "That would be wonderful!" she breathes. "Please, Mama, can't I do it?"

"I don't know, Em… I wouldn't want to impose on Mr. Mulder's time." The man certainly seems smart enough to educate her daughter, but it seems too large a favor to ask of a complete stranger. It is also worth noting that she doesn't know the man very well outside of polite conversations in the hallway. She offers Mr. Mulder an apologetic smile.

"It's not an imposition at all," he says. "I would be glad to do it."

Dana bites her lower lip, her hand on her daughter's boney shoulder. "I-I could not afford to pay you anything," she says softly, although that may be obvious. None of them are wealthy—that is why they live here. But she may be a step down from the rest, staying in the corner of a friend's apartment with a screen instead of a wall, using her meager earnings to buy unsubstantial meals and pay a portion of the rent. If she had the money, she would get Emily and herself their own place, but she's got something of a disadvantage in that area. There isn't much she can do to rectify it.

Mr. Mulder shakes his head immediately. "No money is required," he says, his voice full of sincerity. "I would be glad to do it as a favor."

"I could not ask that of you…" she tries, but he halts her protests quickly. "Do not worry about it," he says. "When I was younger, my little sister was not allowed to go to school as I was, and she wanted to learn as badly as Emily. I tried to teach her, but I wasn't very good at it." He offers a rueful little smile. "I would be glad to be able to give someone else the opportunity where I couldn't give it to her."

Emily tugs at her skirt again and whispers, "Please."

Dana chews her lower lip again and sighs. "If you are absolutely sure it would not be a problem, Mr. Mulder," she says. "I know Emily would appreciate that very much."

Overjoyed, Emily bounces up and down on her toes with excitement. Mr. Mulder smiles at the both of them widely. "I can assure you it won't be a problem, Miss Scully," he tells her. "It will be my pleasure."

---

They practice reading each night, at least for a little while. Even when Dana is so tired she can scarcely keep her eyes open, they spend a few minutes going over Mr. Mulder's lessons, if nothing else. Emily has always been a fast learner, and within a couple of months, she is able to stumble through a page or two of Moby-Dick. Dana is incredibly proud. She can remember her own lessons in reading and other forms of education: her father had taught her often when she was younger, alongside Billy and Melissa, but the lessons had more or less stopped at a certain point. Past that, she had more or less taught herself with books of her father's, watching Bill and her father as they worked, more books still from Daniel's vast library. She never wanted that lapse in education for her daughter; it may be inevitable at some point, but she'll do what she can to prevent it.

Emily seems to adore Mr. Mulder as much as she does the lessons. "He is funny, Mama," she tells her in the second week, after she's retrieved her and thanked Mr. Mulder profusely. "And kind, just like John is. Much kinder than the other men in the building. Luke says he's the best schoolteacher he's ever had, and he's very smart and fair to the other children."

"He sounds very nice," says Dana, swinging their hands between them.

"He is." She looks up at her with Missy's eyes. "Was Papa like that?" she asks.

Her voice is so high and innocent, it makes Dana want to cry. No, she thinks, biting her lower lip. She says out loud, "I-I could not say, Em. I don't know Mr. Mulder well enough to make a comparison between him and your father."

Emily nods, her face serious. She looks down at her shoes, almost self-consciously. "I would like to believe that Papa was like Mr. Mulder," she says softly, and Dana squeezes her daughter's hand tightly. "I-I imagine him reading to me some nights, and helping me read. Y-you could take turns. And he could buy me pretty things, perhaps, and teach me all that he knows, like John does for Luke. Do you think he would have, Mama?"

"I know he would have," says Dana. It may be a bit of a lie, but that hardly seems to matter as much as her daughter's happiness.

---

Mulder had done it, originally, because Emily Scully reminded her of his sister. He'd seen her as often as the other children in the apartment building, sometimes hovering after Luke Doggett the way that Samantha had followed him. But more often, he'd seen her by herself, playing alone on the front steps with a ragged doll in hand, or trying desperately to read, hunched over a ragged old reader and struggling out loud to sound out words, dress muddy, pigtails unraveling. And he had thought of Samantha, sneaking reading lessons in the back of their immaculate library, trying to climb up a tree and ripping a hole in her stockings. It had been enough to cause him to offer up free tutoring, on an impulse, remembering his sister and how frustrated she used to get whenever he would leave for school and she would have to stay home. He hadn't been lying about that.

But a part of it was because of his admiration for her mother, Miss Dana Scully, who he'd seen in the halls often beforehand. She is beautiful, and intelligent, and there is something about her that simply draws Mulder to her, in a way he cannot explain. He is sure it won't go anywhere past friendship—Emily has reported that her father died only a few years before, on their trip over from Ireland, and Mulder himself has never particularly expected to be married—but he still enjoys any opportunity to spend time in her company. Particularly the talks they have when she drops by to retrieve Emily after shifts at the factory; they often last long, while they discuss books or plays or scientific theories, anything of the sort. Sometimes, he will ask Emily and Miss Scully to stay and share in his supper, sparse as it is; other times, Miss Scully will invite him to share leftovers of John Doggett's, or whatever cooking she has done herself. Sometimes, he fears he is bothering her, but other times, it seems as if she might like him a bit, too. He cannot tell for sure.

He tells himself it does not matter. He is here mostly to save money, so that he can travel. He hears there is opportunity in the west, but he would be fooling himself if he cited that as the reason. It does not matter to him where he ends up; all that matters is that he finds his sister and brings her home, after all of these years.

But still, he enjoys tutoring Emily. She's a bright young girl, a quick learner, and sweet. He does not know anything of her father aside from his death, but she still undeniably resembles her mother in every way he can see. He teaches her a bit of mathematics after she's gained some talent in reading and writing, and she enjoys that immensely. She has a load of questions for him every time she sees him: about stars, about history, about how things work and why they happen and where places are. Sometimes, Miss Scully will answer her before he can even open his mouth, blushing a little after and looking at him as if to see if he minds. He never does.

---

She shows up at his door after midnight, her face white, shaking. Emily at her side, curled into her with a blanket wrapped around her shoulder, her face hidden in Miss Scully's skirt, crying softly. For a second, Mulder doesn't know what to do, what to say. "Miss Scully, is… is everything okay?" he stammers, clutching his door in one hand. He sees a sudden splotch of red on her dress, alarming and bright. "Are you hurt?" he stammers.

She's shaking her head. "No, no, Mr. Mulder, it's not that, it's just…" She swallows hard, her eyes wide and helpless. "I-I need you to take care of Emily. I need to leave her here. Please."

Emily seems to clutch Miss Scully's skirt harder at that, shaking her head and crying more frantically. She mumbles something that sounds a bit like, "Don't leave me, Mama, don't leave me."

Mulder takes a sharp breath and opens the door wider. "Come in, come in," he says, and Miss Scully does, stroking Emily's mussed hair with quivering fingers. "W-what has happened, Miss Scully? Perhaps I can help."

Miss Scully clenches her chin and shakes her head, her face turned down towards her daughter. "I-I cannot… I do not have time for this, Mr. Mulder. I… Please. Please, Mr. Mulder, I have to leave, they will be coming for me."

"Who?" On an impulse, he reaches out and takes her free hand. It is cold and soft, and as he draws it closer, he sees the same glimpses of red, red crescents under her fingernails. "Who is it, Miss Scully? Who is coming for you?"

Emily's sobs are heart wrenching, even muffled by Miss Scully's skirt. Miss Scully looks to be on the verge of tears herself. She does not pull her hand away. "The… the police," she whispers.

"The police?" Mulder's mind tightens in fear as he remembers something suddenly, something he has often forgotten: the Irish are not well liked here. He wonders if these prejudices have somehow found the Scullys. "What has happened?"

Miss Scully bites her lower lip before lifting her chin so that her clear, blue eyes meet his. "There… there was a fight at a bar," she says tentatively. "John's son was involved, and so he intervened, and was injured. They followed him home. I… intervened, and I… harmed a man in an attempt to protect the Doggetts and my daughter." Her chin quivers once, steadies. She presses a hand over her daughter's head, spreading her fingers over her scalp. "He's dead," she whispers. "And he… he was police. So they'll be coming for me, to arrest me, and I… I will not find mercy here. I have learned that much."

His mind racing, he stammers, "But that… that is not murder, Miss Scully… that is self defense. A-any jury would see that."

She laughs bitterly. "But who can prove it? Emily did not see, and Barbara and John had already slipped down the fire escape. The only witnesses are the men who would have me arrested. And I will be convicted. Americans do not have any sympathy for women of my background." She swallows again, her pale white throat, a bruise blooming underneath her jaw. The sight of it makes Mulder furious. He is still clutching her limp hand. "S-so I am begging you, please take my daughter," she whispers. "She adores you. Take her, a-and take the money I have saved, and you can send her west, to my brother's house… I have to go. If they catch me, I can't let them get her. And if I escape…"

"Please, Mama, please don't go," Emily whimpers, drawing back, her cheeks smeared her tears. "Don't leave me alone, Mama, please."

"I have to, sweetheart." Miss Scully leans down to kiss her daughter's hair. Mulder can see her tears falling, glistening in the candlelight. "I must. But you will be safe here…"

"I cannot do this," says Mulder, speaking abruptly, almost without thinking.

Miss Scully's eyes widen with horror, and she pulls back her hand as she looks up at him. "You… you will not help me?" she whispers furiously. "After everything, I-I thought you cared for my daughter… cared for me, as a friend…"

"N-no, Miss Scully, y-you misunderstand," he stammers, his eyes wide. "I will protect Emily, of course I will protect Emily, but I… I will not leave you to be arrested."

Her eyes widen in surprise. "You are foolish to offer this," she whispers. "If they catch me… you cannot hide me here, Mr. Mulder."

"I cannot," he agrees. "But I can get you out of the city. You and your daughter both." His mind is racing, full of ideas. "I-I have friends I trust, a house I could take you to tonight. And tomorrow, we-we could go to my mother's house, in Massachusetts, for the time being. The two of you could stay there until… until we figure out a way to get you to your brother's."

Miss Scully is quiet, her eyes wide. Emily, leaning into her mother, is looking between the two of them curiously, like she is hopeful that this will happen. "You will be safe," Mulder adds. "Both of you. I promise you that."

"I could not ask that of you, Mr. Mulder," Miss Scully whispers. "It is too much."

"It's not." Mulder thinks of the money, put aside to search for Samantha. Enough for three train tickets north at least, if not a little left over after to fund a trip to wherever Miss Scully's brother is. A part of him is reluctant to spend the money he has been saving for so long—part of him feels like he is abandoning his sister, his family—but the rest of him is remembering Samantha at seven, at eight, more caring and compassionate than anyone in his family. She rescued animals (kittens, baby birds, piglets from the barn), knitted things with their mother to send to the local orphanage, shared her food with the servants on occasion and stole food from the pantry for the family down the road who never had enough food. She would want him to help them; he can still picture her wide, teary eyes, her weepy voice prodding him to help them, help them, Fox. And he wants to. He looks at Dana Scully and her daughter, the best companions he's found in the past few months, and he knows immediately that he must help them. He has no choice.

"I have money," he says out loud. "I can get you out of the city. I can help you. Both of you."

"Please, Mama, you must come with us. We can't leave you all alone." Emily hugs her mother hard around the waist, sniffling loudly. "I need you, Mama, please."

Miss Scully looks to her daughter, and then back to Mulder. Her eyes are still wide with fear. She sighs a little, tensely, and whispers, "I'll need to pack some things. My savings…"

"If you tell me what you need, I'll go and get it. You should not have to go back there."

Miss Scully rattles off a list in a quivering voice: clothes for the both of them, a knife that her father gave her, her bundle of coins underneath the bed. Emily tugs on his sleeve and adds softly, "And my dolly, please. And the picture of my sister Maggie, and of Mama's family. There's two of them."

Mulder slips out of his apartment and into theirs and finds it all, bundling it into a ragged carpet bag. He grabs their coats, too, and the family Bible under the bed, and a pistol he finds in John Doggett's part of the apartment. He tucks the pistol into his waistband and goes back to his apartment, where he finds the girls sitting on his bed, Emily curled up asleep in her mother's lap. "There is no need to wake her," he says when he sees Miss Scully moving to do just that. "I can carry her. It may be easier if she is asleep."

She nods, taking the carpet bag from his hands. "I… I cannot begin to thank you, Mr. Mulder," she whispers, shifting Emily off of her lap and standing.

He's begun to gather his own things, shoving his feet into his boots, retrieving his own savings. He puts a few books he cannot bear to part with into his bag, and a drawing he's held onto for years now, a portrait his father commissioned of Samantha. Photography was not in fashion when he and his sister were growing up, and so this drawing is the only memory he has as to what she looked like. "There is no need for thanks."

"You've done too much for us," Miss Scully whispers. She's put on her coat, and Emily's coat, and now she is tying a piece of cloth over her head—he assumes, to hide her bright hair. Her voice, soft as it's been all night, sounds a little different, as if she's trying to sand off the edges of the accent, attempting to sound different. "I… will find a way someday to repay you."

"It is not at all necessary." He shoulders his bag, grabs his hat and pulls it onto his head, before leaning down and scooping up Emily. She is a bit tall to be carried, but much lighter than he expected, barely weighing anything in his arms. She stays asleep, her coat and the blanket hanging off of her lightly. He shifts her in his arms and turns back to Miss Scully. "Shall we go?"

Miss Scully nods, her fingers rushing to button her coat. She grabs her carpet bag, clutching it to her chest, and trails out of the apartment after him.

---

She was twenty-one the first time she was married, at the end of the famine that had plagued her teenage years. She remembered being frightened, if only a little bit. She'd met Daniel a few times beforehand, and though at the time he'd seemed kind and honorable, she found it bizarre that his young daughter was only seven years younger than her. Practically the right age enough to court her younger brother. She hadn't wanted it for herself, it was the last thing she'd wanted in a way, and yet she could not protest. She could feel her mother watching Melissa as she helped her to get ready, and knew she was thinking about the disappointment Melissa had given her by refusing to marry, even driving away potential suitors. Her sister was going to have the life she wanted, and Dana was going to take her place as the honorable daughter, the one who did what she was supposed to do and did not argue. She wasn't marrying Daniel Waterston for herself, but for her father, because it was what he wanted, and she could not stand to let him or her mother down. Her father walked her down the aisle, and she wore the veil her mother had worn when she'd gotten married, and she'd wished to be somewhere else.

Now here she is again, in front of an altar with a man, but her father is dead, and she hasn't seen her mother or sister in years, and her daughter sleeps in the room upstairs, and she is twenty-eight and grimy and dressed in a dress that is too large for her because her own dress has bloodstains on it. She does not feel like a bride. The only good difference, she thinks, is that she knows her husband-to-be better than she perhaps ever knew Daniel. She knows he is intelligent and kind, and willing to protect herself and her daughter. And no matter the reason for this impromptu, inconvenient marriage, she is glad for at least that.

Mr. Mulder is holding her hands, so gently in his, and he's not quite meeting her eyes, but she can still see kindness in his face. She doesn't quite have the courage to look at him, either, and so she looks down at her boots. Mr. Frohike, their witness, stands in the corner. The preacher, a friend of Mr. Frohike, stands before them without asking questions. He simply opens the Bible and says the words, all the right ones. Dana and Mr. Mulder say what they are meant to, too, and then it is done. They do not kiss, not even chastely. There is no music or flowers or white dresses. Dana could not care less.

Just before the ceremony, Mr. Mulder leaned down to whisper in her ear, saying, "I promise you I will be a gentleman, Miss Scully. This marriage is for the safety of you and your daughter. It doesn’t have to mean a thing."

She blushed immediately, heat rising on her cheeks, and looked to the ground. "I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Mulder," she had said softly. "And you need not worry. I trust you."

When she looked back at him, he was smiling. "Perhaps we should do away with the formalities, Miss Scully."

"Perhaps," she had agreed, a bit amused. "I won't be a Miss anymore, after all." She offered him a small smile back, still unbelieving that he was helping her so much, that he was willing to hide and marry a murderess. A man she barely knew. "Shall I call you Fox?" she asks.

Mr. Mulder had flinched, just a bit, and shook his head. "Perhaps… just Mulder, if you do not mind. I have never liked my first name, and most people I know call me Mulder."

It's unusual, but it's no more unusual than the rest of this situation. Dana smiles and nods. "Well, you may call me Dana or Scully, I suppose," she said lightly, unsure of why except that he has always called her Miss Scully, like she has always called him Mr. Mulder. "Whichever appeals to you."

"Which appeals to you more, Miss Scully?" he'd asked, teasing, and then the preacher had been ready, and now here they are.

Once, she had believed she would never get married again. Now, she is married, and she has no idea whether or not it counts.

Mr. Mulder—Mulder—keeps hold of her hand as they go back upstairs to Emily. It's the first time anyone has held her hand in years, and she is surprised by how nice it feels, his warm and callused fingers wrapped around hers. Daniel's hands had been cool, his touch unyielding, his voice the same faux-polite sound it always was as he talked to everyone but her. Mulder's hands are gentle, holding her hand carefully—not as if it is fragile and may break, but as if it is something precious, something he cares for. She knows this is not quite the case, it cannot be, but it is nice to pretend, for just a moment, that this is a true marriage, that she and Mulder love each other as a husband and wife should.

#i miss writing for this fandom sometimes... it and asoiaf are fun but this is so comfy #xf fanfic #i wrote this

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fialleril · 5 years ago

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replies to the DAV Mara snippet

Instead of reblogging that post endlessly, thought I’d collect my replies here.

@bookwyrmie said: I remember the ask about including Mara in the DAV AU, looks like that turned into yet another thing that was not going to be written and then happened anyway.

Is there anyone that Anakin hasn’t adopted yet? There is the Free Droid Network with Kaydee and friends, the nicer imperial officers and the OBV-Squad, Leia once she becomes a senator, and he is probably keeping an eye on Pooja as well. Now here is a young force-sensitive child, who desperately needs someone to help her learn how to be a person without alerting the Inquisitors. Guess it’s about time he adopted an actual child as well.

Ha ha yeah, I was just waiting for someone to comment about that lol. It’s true I once said I wasn’t going to write Mara in DAV, but three things happened to change that:

1. I promised @astudyinimagination a pick-me-up fic and I knew Sky really wanted a fic about Mara. So I was damn well gonna write one! (The moral here is that you should always make friends with your writers, because then we will happily write you things by request!)

2. I’d been thinking for a while that I needed to somehow address the question of what happened to a Force sensitive kid who was picked up by the Inquisitors before Anakin became a double agent.

3. I’ve said a couple of times that I’ve always liked the concept of Mara, but I’ve always hesitated to write her because I dislike and discard the vast majority of Expanded Universe material and I didn’t particularly want to deal with the inevitable hate I’d get if I wrote my own version of Mara, since she’d essentially be an OC. But eventually I just decided that I get enough hate for not using EU canon anyway, so I might as well just fully embrace my multiverse theory of Star Wars canon and do what I want.

So there you have it! :)

@aeneasoftroy said:# DAV Anakin is a mix of mysterious old wizard and troll dad humor # and it suits him so well

This is one of my favorite things about writing OT Anakin. Not that he can’t be a troll in PT AUs, too, but just...there’s a kind of settledness to his character in the OT, partly a result of everything he’s lived through but also partly just because of the fact that he’s older now. Though there’s also a bit of tragedy to the fact that he can and absolutely does carry off the Mysterious Old Wizard trope in a fic in which he is (although Mara doesn’t know it) only 32 years old.

@hyratel said: #I am Nobody is CLASSIC #and delivered perfectly

It is indeed classical. ;)

@elf-kid2 said: This is beautiful and excellent and fantastic, and I love it. Thank You for writing this.

Thank you! I’m glad you enjoyed it.

@katharkness said: I like this very much, and would love to see it added to the Double Agent Vader series. I also wouldn’t worry too much about your Mara not fitting with the Legends Mara, because everything the rebooted EU has added, the Inquisitors and such, doesn’t really fit with the original Legends Mara. I suppose this is more like a rebooted Mara.

Thanks! I’m not so much worried about Legends canon, though, since I never am lol. I’m more worried about people who do like and care about Legends being unhappy with the ways I’m...basically beating up the EU in a back alley and rifling through its pockets for loose change. But you make a good point about this take actually kind of working as a rebooted Mara!

I mean, tbqh I actually don’t think the Inquisitors fit in with film canon at all. But I’m working on the multiverse theory here, and they do work really well with the story I’m telling in DAV, so I’ve basically borrowed them from Filoni ‘verse and created my own canon. So I suppose borrowing Mara isn’t a step much further.

@shadaras said: I always forget how much I love Mara as a character she's the best EU character and so much of that is because her arc is just 'I was brainwashed and then Luke's refusal to believe I wasn't a person made me able to be a person and I chose good once I could' this AU version is delightful because it stays true to all the essential aspects of her character it just places them in some new-EU elements (because yes that's what the shows are tbh) and also within a great AU context that is already all about what Mara's arc always was it just changes the Skywalker who saves her from the Emperor's brainwashing and that isn't a big change at all really anyway the intro implies there will be more of this eventually and that delights me because that last line is FANTASTIC and so true to the kind of story this is excellent job perfect story

Yeah, that bare bones essential aspect of her character arc is why I’ve always really liked the idea of Mara Jade - she basically hits all of my trope buttons. And the themes of her story when distilled like that are a perfect fit with the themes of DAV.

Also I’m delighted that you recognize Filoni ‘verse as EU because it absolutely is!

@figmentera said: I love this fiercely and cannot wait to see the rest! Mara is such a cool character and I love any permutation of her relationship with Vader. I feel like it's barely ever explored but it's such fertile ground. Plus there's some great glimpses at the rest of this universe, I always love that!

Thank you! I’m having fun exploring their relationship, though because it’s me and this story seems to keep growing, it may be a while before I have it finished. I’m kind of envisioning it as a side story to the main DAV storyline. It’s going to span pretty much the entire timeline, almost from the beginning of Anakin’s double agent career all the way to the death of the Emperor, but Mara’s story line is really running in parallel with the rest, rather than intertwining.

@frostbit-sky said: I still have to catch up, or really I should start again and binge read DAV, but I love 💗 the inclusion of Mara and encourage you to add this to actual fic.

At this point I’m pretty sure I’ve talked myself into including it, so you will likely get your wish. :)

@clockworktea said: people who care Very Much except they have no idea how to express this even to themselves! finding allies and immediately adopting them as Family! kadee the ex-torture droid turned fiercely overprotective aunt gives me LIFE and ''yes master' she whispered' just OUCH mates the levels of mindscrew (is he her slaveowner or is she his padawan or apprentice) (haha jokes on anakin the answer is up to you as long as it's painful) anyway yes good fia is back MORE ANGSTY GENFIC FOR ME MORE PLATONIC DEEPLY MEANINGFUL RELATIONSHIPS TO ENJOY MORE CHARACTERS WHO ARE TRYING THEIR BEST TO GET HEARTBROKEN OVER ...... hang on a second this was all a trap wasn't it

*Megamind goattee stroking face* You’ve fallen right into my trap!

In all seriousness, though, I’m delighted to see people getting excited about genfic! I still remember the days in fandom when writing genfic was like releasing words into the void.

Damaged people trapped in horrible circumstances and being insistently human to one another in spite of that is kind of my brand at this point, so I’m glad that’s holding up I guess.

I think basically everything Palpatine does in relation to Vader is a mindscrew on at least one level, but calling him the “Master of the Inquisitors” is definitely a master stroke on his part (if you’ll pardon the pun).

#replies #bookwyrmie #aeneasoftroy #hyratel #elf-kid2 #katharkness #shadaras #figmentera #frostbit-sky #clockworktea #nice things people say to me #double agent anakin #mara skywalker #anakin skywalker #star wars #references to #brainwashing #harm to children #long post

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aritany · 6 years ago

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11-11-11 tag game

hello friends! i was tagged by @spilledinkpot to do this challenge. thanks for thinking of me!

the rules are: answer 11 questions, write 11 questions, then tag 11 people.

here are her questions:

1) are any (or all) of your ocs inspired by real people or other characters?

i had to think about this one for a hot minute because when a character turns out like somebody i know, it’s usually a subconscious effort. however, in where the trees whisper, i definitely channeled a lot of my frustrations into james, who turned out to be a whole lot like me. i’d say most other characters are pretty fictional.

2) what is/was your inspiration for your current WIP?

first i read if we were villains by m.l.rio, which i loved. then i read the secret history by donna tartt, and i thought, hot damn these are beautiful books. we need something like this but about music. and then i looked around and nobody has done that so i thought alright, time to write it myself.

3) do you prefer to plan your characters out, or develop them as the story progresses?

hmmm. i plan my characters out pretty fully before i start writing them, but i know that especially secondary characters tend to run off and develop themselves while i’m asleep and present themselves in very surprising ways as the plot unfolds.

4) how do you deal with writers block?

i have a list of 150 words, and when i don’t want to write (which rarely happens. i am blessed in that i adore what i’m working on most of the time. shout out to my parents for beating the procrastinator out of me) i will take one of those words and fill a journal page. that usually 1) reminds me that I can write, and 2) gets me on a roll to start putting words on the page.

5) what/who first encouraged you to begin writing?

my dad inspired me to be a reader, and books inspired me to be a writer. i love reading stories and i learned very quickly that i have a lot of them in my head that want out.

6) are you able to write everyday, or need a couple of days intermediate?

i write nearly every day, at least in snippets, when i have a project on the go. if i’m between projects sometimes i go several weeks without writing any fiction at all. i don’t like those weeks.

7) how long have you been writing for?

i started writing just a little while after i started reading. the two are rarely seperate concepts for me. one inspires the other. so i started writing probably in grade one, and then i just kept doing it. i wrote a book when i was 13 and a short story when i was 14, and then i got sad. i wrote my second book this fall (2018) which is currently being read by betas, and i’m going into 2019 working on a third.

8) what inspired your first WIP?

i was really into space and also the zombie virus was the big hype at the time. i’m counting this as my first wip because it was the first thing i wrote more than a few chapters of. i thought it was the BOMB at the time. it was not. you know it’s not good because it was inspired by zombies.

9) who are the authors that you looked up to, to develop your writing?

my main gal is @maggie-stiefvater , because i recognize myself in a lot of her earlier writing. i just hope that if i stick to it, i’ll be able to craft stories like she does. i also love @neil-gaiman for his creativity and the simplicity for which he tells tales.

10) is there a book that inspired you to write your own story?

mmmmmm referring back to question 2, definitely the secret history for my current wip. it’s so full of intrigue and mystery and i really enjoyed it.

11) do you include moral points in your writing, or prefer just the entertainment?

usually morals kind of come if they are relevant. it’s like themes. in a lot of my writing i know generally what i want to say, but then a lot of smaller themes come in while i work. same with morals.

this was super fun! here are my questions:

1) how in depth do you plan before you start writing?

2) is it difficult for you to create characters or do they just come to you?

3) what piece of your writing makes you cringe the hardest?

4) how would you describe the mood of your current wip?

5) do you have a favourite oc?

6) what book by somebody else took you on the biggest emotional journey?

7) what do you hope your writing will say to readers?

8) what environment is the best for you to write?

9) what was the first story you remember coming up with?

10) do you wish your writing journey had gone differently, and if so, what would you change?

11) what scene are you the most proud of having written?

i tag @delphwrites, @maramahan, @cogwrites, @writingcircus, @she-who-fights-and-writes, @aureliobooks, @brynwrites, @elaynab-writing, @hazeywrites, @kiramartinauthor, @novelistcore, if you guys want to take a whack at it!

#tag game #writing tag game #writing #write #about me #abi talks

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greybat · 7 years ago

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Fire & Leeches - Ch 8

Chapter 8: Bound To Come Up

Summary: Modern!AU (with magic.) Xixa is… well, not really enjoying but not hating a night out with Asra at one of Vesuvia’s famed clubs. However, her curiosity and interest become piqued when a particular band takes the stage.

Chapter Summary: Julian and Xixa have their conversation, touching on topics that were bound to come up.

Ao3 Link

A sudden uncertainty sliced through Julian’s thoughts. Turning his gaze toward her, slowly, he narrowed his eye. There was a wary electricity buzzing in the air. Xixa noticed the change and looked up in time to be faced with an almost accusatory question, “Are you two lovers?”

“No! But…” A flush scrabbled across Xixa’s face, memories of her own fawning over the magician teasing at her thoughts. Under Julian’s piercing gaze, she struggled to find the right words. “You spend enough time with someone and feelings can get complicated.”

“So, you love him.” Julian averted his gaze again. He wasn’t sure if he could keep Xixa from seeing the look of betrayal and bitterness on his face. Of course, she’d have feelings for Asra. Julian couldn’t blame her; the magician had a certain allure that still made Julian's own heart flutter. That’s probably why she approached him to begin with. That painful realization brought him no pleasure.

“I didn’t say that,” she bit out, angry with the words being put into her mouth. She had never explicitly stated her feelings about her roommate and didn't appreciate it when others did it for her. Though, she had a feeling that plenty of the other shop owner’s on her block suspected her feelings. “I am fond of Asra, but I’m not sure if it’s love. He’s been there for me and he’s taught me a lot, but he’s also constantly gone.”

Emotions warred inside Julian as he watched Xixa. She had just admitted to having feelings for his ex and, still, a fuzzy warmth coiled around his heart when he watched her. At the same time, he recognized that pinched look of struggle on her face. She truly didn’t know if she loved Asra. Maybe she didn’t even know what love was. Or maybe he was projecting onto a woman who didn’t need his issues.

“Julian,” Xixa shortened the distance between them, her hands brushing against his arms. “I’m fond of you, too. Like, ridiculously fond of you. You’re just… just going too fast for me.”

For a moment, a flare of delight shot down Julian’s back. She was ridiculously fond of him. That sounded promising. Then those four words chilled his warm joy: You’re going too fast. That had been a complaint from Asra, as well. The muscles in Julian’s arms tensed at the memory. His mind hitched on something Xixa had said, though. “He’s your only friend?”

The witch shirked back a little, discontent settling in her stomach. Her only friend. It made her sound so pathetic. “I don’t get out much.”

Julian narrowed his eye. Something was wrong here. “Surely you know other people? What about your family?”

“I… It’s complicated.” Xixa ran a hand through her hair, looking away from Julian’s penetrating gaze. Whenever she talked about this, a headache plunged through her head. Asra never prodded and the other shop owners on her street knew better, probably vetted by the magician. “A large chunk of my memories are gone.”

“What?”

Xixa swallowed, closing her eyes. She didn't want to go through this with Julian. Let alone in an alley. But, if Julian wanted anything to do with her, he had a right to know. Didn't he? There were too many sticky questions, strange situations, where this would come up. It was just better to get it off her chest. The witch opened her eyes, biting her bottom lip under Julian's steely gaze, as she answered, “I just remember waking up a few years ago, in the alleyway behind the shoppe.”

Shock slapped across Julian's face, but Xixa ignored it. She could still see the alleyway – dingy, dirty, heaps of trash – and Asra’s concerned face hovering over her. His purple eyes brimmed with tears and his white hair a glowing beacon in the dark alley.

“Asra was huddled over me, asking if I was all right. I didn’t know who he was, at first. He explained he was my roommate, we ran the shoppe together. I had passed out or something. Hit my head.” Xixa rubbed at her temple again, trying to ignore the sickly feeling of incompetence as tears pricked at her eyes. “When we went to the doctors, they said I had amnesia. I was at the hospital for a week of observation.”

Saying it out loud, Xixa knew it was too strange for anyone to readily accept. Maybe that’s why she hesitated to go out, to make friends. Having to explain that part of her life, it would have been met with skepticism and inquiries all the time. She didn’t know what had happened to her, who had been the source of her state in the alleyway. The doctors had checked her over for signs of violation, but they assured her she was fine.

She let go of a breath she was holding. Xixa knew she wasn’t fine. Especially under his intense stare. She wanted to melt into the pavement, forget all this ever happened.

Julian’s eyebrows furrowed, face set in a serious expression of deep thought. This felt like a sucker punch. His gut twinged, painfully. When he spoke, his voice was soft, as if he were afraid speaking too loud would fracture Xixa. “You have no memories of your prior life?

“There’s snippets. Growing up, playing in a field, some animals, sitting at a desk, people looking after me…” She made a motion with her hand, before lifting her palm to her temple. A little throb kicked at her head, a warning to a greater headache brewing if she continued, “But, every time I concentrate on the memories, my head hurts. So, I don’t think about it.”

Quiet sunk between them. From the Rowdy Raven, as if to make up for Julian and Xixa’s silence, people stumbled and sang bawdy songs or told obnoxious jokes at the top of their lungs. Cars raced by along the front street. Somewhere, a garbage can clanged, followed by the squeak of rats, down a back alleyway. Yet, between them, a bubble of silence had ballooned, impermeable. Xixa chewed on her lip, uncertain of what to do. Was he angry she kept this from him? Was he stunned? Disgusted? Her heart raced, hoping he’d say something and end this curious torture.

Julian didn’t say a word, though. He kept turning over her confession in his head. There had to be proof, another answer, something to make sense of this sudden upheaval. No memory beyond a few years ago, Asra found her in the alley behind the shop, observation at the hospital. The hospital. Abruptly, Julian turned, taking two steps down the alley.

Xixa’s confused shout caused him to stop. “Where are you going, Julian?!”

“I need more information.” He paused, swallowing hard. Synapses were racing, buzzing with ideas and thoughts and plans. “I’m going to the hospital. I’ll pull up your records and-”

“Can you do that?”

Julian paused, lips pressed together tightly. With his back to Xixa, he had no idea what sort of expression she wore. Astounded? Appalled? Outraged? “I can manage it. That’s what matters.”

“How do you have access to patient records?” Xixa moved toward him, stopping behind him. Her eyebrows furrowed with curiosity. “I thought you only worked in the morgue.”

Julian closed his eye and took a deep breath. This was bound to come up, at some point. Just as her memory loss would have come up, at some point. This conversation was inevitable since he wrote a song for – inspired – by her. Especially since he wanted… more. “I’m a doctor.”

“A doctor in a band,” she replied, with a mixture of disbelief and incredulity. Xixa didn't remember Asra mentioning this tidbit. Then again, weren't doctors highly sought after from single people?

His shoulders lowered from their tensed state. Morosely, he added, “Well, I was a doctor.”

“Which means you aren’t any longer,” she pressed, her mind spinning with the implications. What happened? What changed? What had he done?

“My credentials haven’t changed!” He spun on his heel, facing Xixa again. His fists were clenched with frustration. All the work he had put toward his doctorate – all that knowledge and experience – was still there. Just because they had taken his license didn’t mean he had lost the ability to help. “I can just… can just get my old doctor’s coat and my old ID. The people in the records office won’t know.”

Xixa’s lips pressed together, trying to keep from grinning. The level of absurdity in this man knew no bounds. “That sounds illegal.”

“It is. Patient privacy and what not.” Julian waved his hand almost dismissively, but averted his gaze, realizing how foolhardy he was being. Stampeding into the hospital for private records? Impinging the privacy of all for information about one? Still, there was an urge in him, a drive, to go forward with the plan.

“So, let me get this straight: you want to charge in there, grab my private information, and pry into my medical life?” Xixa crossed her arms, shifting her stance slightly. She cocked an eyebrow at him, still fighting against a smile. She really shouldn’t encourage this plan, after all. “You’re willing to go to jail for an answer.”

Julian opened his mouth to retort, then promptly shut it. He realized he didn’t have a good enough reply for Xixa. “I guess.”

“Julian.” Despite her stern tone, the corners of Xixa’s lips continued to twitched.

“I won’t do it if you tell me not to."

Xixa stared up at him. Maybe it was the cool air finally sinking in, but relaxation eased into her bones. Now that her mind wasn’t abuzz with chaos, Xixa had a chance to analyze the situation. This man was quick to act on his feelings. Surprised by your ex’s roommate sitting on your lap? Shove them off and leave the room. Enamored and enjoying time with someone? Write and perform a song inspired by them. Find out someone you care about has severe memory loss? Go to the fucking hospital, break in, and take a peek at their medical records.

“You’re so… outlandish and dramatic, Julian.” Xixa laughed, but a part of her wanted to know, too. Asra had been her self-proclaimed guardian, at the time. She wasn't even sure how he pulled that one off, without documentation. He handled the details while Xixa sat in the hospital, fretting over what happened to her. To say she had never been curious about her records would have been a lie. However, another part of her held her back; did she really want to know what printed down?

Julian hung his head, suddenly feeling like a child. A foolish child. This intent drive had gotten him in trouble more than once, and, on one occasion, he got in trouble with the law. “I’m sorry.”

“I understand wanting to find that information.” Xixa admitted, moving closer until she could feel Julian’s body heat. “Though, I’d rather you not get in trouble by violating privacy acts.”

“Right.”

Xixa fell silent. She hadn’t been to a doctor in a long time. The week in the hospital soured her on the thought and Asra never seemed to push the aversion. Though, there was much to be said for ironic humor. ‘So, you’re not going to see a doctor on you own? Here, get romantically entangled with one who happens to be Asra’s ex. Hahaha.’ Oh, universe, you jerk.

“Maybe… maybe we shouldn’t do this.” Julian said abruptly, staring at his feet. He writhed in discomfort as Xixa’s silence progressed. She had to be angry with him, right? They weren't even together and he was 'breaking up' with her. That’s why she was so silent.

The witch’s wide eye shock latched to his face. “What?”

“This.” He willed himself to look at her, his expression twinged with bitterness. Julian motioned back and forth between them. They’d never officially started dating, so Julian didn’t even have a word to associate to their relationship. All he could think of, now, was rushing to the hospital to get the records or seeing Xixa’s hurt expression from earlier. One way or the other, he was going to hurt her. His heart sunk deep in his chest, into a quagmire of self-degradation. “I rush into things, make huge mistakes, give my all even when it’s not wanted. I push and people get hurt. I… I don’t think you want any of that, Xixa.”

More silence. It pierced him and brought a clamp of woe around his throat. He blinked back tears, biting his bottom lip.

“I’m perfectly fine with most of it.” Xixa said softly. “Just proclaiming love after so short an acquaintance is… excessive for me.”

Julian drooped, even more sullen than before. “See? You consider us acquaintances.”

“Oh my spirits, Julian,” Xixa huffed, reaching up and grabbing him by the sides of his face. She could see where Asra would have gotten tired of this. The magician didn’t have patience for emotional drama. Julian stared down at her with a sullen expression. Around him, the air seemed to drop a couple degrees from depression. “Seriously?”

She didn’t give Julian a chance to respond. She pressed forward, irritation evident in her voice. “You and the others are, literally, the only other people – beside Asra – I’ve felt comfortable being around, been able to drop my guard around. Do you think – do you seriously think – I’d prefer loneliness to this?”

He averted his gaze, ashamed to look Xixa in the eye. “You have Asra.”

“And he’s constantly gone. Won’t even text me back, even in emergencies!” She sighed, exasperated and frustrated. Both with Julian’s current state and reliving Asra’s hands off approach to friendship. “I can text you and get a reply back within an hour, no matter what you’re doing. Work, practicing, sleeping.” She grinned, her heart warming as she thought of the gibberish replies she had gotten the times she texted him while he slept.

“But-”

“Okay, sure, you’re a bit much. Just listen to what I’m saying, though: I don’t want to end this,” Xixa mimicked his motion earlier, her hand signaling to his chest and hers. “I don’t want you to stop being you, but talk to me before you put me on the spot, publicly. Please?”

Another bubble of silence. Julian shifted, a flush creeping over his face as Xixa stared at him. He ached to give in to her. But something stopped him from simply agreeing.

He looked down at his feet, reliving another time his quick lovestricken self had also gotten him in trouble. That crush hadn’t ended well. He mumbled, while still looking at his feet, “To be fair, the song wasn’t necessarily about love.”

“Yeeeaaah,” Xixa bit her bottom lip, realizing she couldn’t recall most of the lyrics. Her mind swirled with confusion and fright, at the time, the witch hadn’t paid attention. Just knowing Julian’s motivation, though, had been enough. Now, the witch wondered if she had overreacted… just a little. “I didn’t really listen to it, since I was mentally freaking out after the ‘you’re jealous of our love’ joke.”

His wide-eyed gaze snapped to her face. Her face burned with embarrassment. He opened his mouth once, snapped it closed. Finally, his eyebrows furrowed, a shit-eating grin twisting at his lips. “So, you dragged me out into an alleyway to berate me about a song that you didn’t even listen to?”

Julian bit his tongue to keep from adding ‘and people call me dramatic.’

“I am not berating you,” Xixa gasped. She crossed her arms, shoulders crammed up to her ears. “I heard some lyrics about dancing and pain. And we both know how you feel about pain.”

A flush tickled over his cheeks, but Julian still squawked, “Still, you didn’t even listen to it!”

Cold awfulness sifted through Xixa’s thoughts. There was a string of rebelliousness in her synapses. Her reaction may have been a little… much, herself. However, her feelings on the matter were justified! Her lips twisted into an apologetic smile, but there was a challenging glint in her eye. “Then sing it to me now, Julian.”

#the arcana game #thearcanagame #julian devorak #julian devorak x mc #julian devorak x apprentice #xixa #fire & leeches #my writing

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nevermordor · 7 years ago

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i wrote this ages ago as a gift fic for @noriakiofficial and then lost it to the void after my old blog was deleted. but! enjoy a jotakak transistor au snippet. inspiration for the idea/concept all go noriakiofficial.

“I never thought much of Highrise,” the Transistor mumbles, flickering in a manner that strikes Kakyoin as agitated. The Transistor often mumbles, as if he is uncertain of his own voice and what it means that he now speaks for them both.

All around them the city is quiet—quieter than Kakyoin ever thought possible. The once teeming streets of Cloudbank are utterly deserted, aside from the occasional swarm of Jerks and Creeps. Highrise, his own neighborhood, the place where he lived and sang and fell in love once upon a time, is empty. There is only the thrum of the generators, the fizzling terminal screens. And nothing more.

Under normal circumstances, he would say something. Try to comfort. Try to sing. Anything to fill the void. Kakyoin pulls aside the collar of his dark blue jacket, the chain on it clinking quietly and presses his fingertips to the hollow of his throat.

Nothing.

His pace slows as they enter one of Highrise’s plazas. There should be children playing here. Couples walking hand in hand. In the twilight, in the wake of the Camerata’s destruction, it is unrecognizable. Kakyoin wanders past the broken street lamps, the cracked park benches. He pauses beside one of the many pools of water scattered throughout the plaza.

“Never thought much of Highrise at all. Apart from the water,” the Transistor continues, and then hesitates. The silence stretches between them. There was always some element of silence in their relationship Before, but never like this. “Then I…I found out that you lived here.”

Kakyoin smiles faintly. He bends low at the edge of a pool, sinking beneath the weight of the Transistor on his back. On summer evenings they used to come here. He remembers an arm around his shoulders, his legs dangling in the water, a low voice murmuring in his ear about the tiny fish that darted between their toes (“They’re called minnows. You mostly find them in freshwater.”)

He remembers. It feels so long ago. Before.

Now the water is like the city itself: Still. Kakyoin slips his hand beneath the surface and watches ripples unfold. He studies his own distorted reflection. At the bottom of the pool, the seaweed waves up at him.

“You wanna go swimming.” It’s not a question. Kakyoin shrugs. The Transistor trembles against him. “But you can’t.” An edge in his voice, as sharp as the blade that he’s become. “Because you’re stuck with me.”

Another rumble of electricity through the city. Overhead, the lights in another skyscraper go dark. They should keep moving.

“Red,” the Transistor whispers harshly.

Kakyoin begins to hum.

It’s a secret song. Not one of the pretty tunes which he would sing late at night in practice rooms. Not one of the ballads that he used to perform night after night on stage to the applause of hundreds. A different sort of song: one that he wrote just for himself. Inspired by a lover’s hands in his hair; a night when the two of them lay curled together in his bed and watched the sky go dark and then light again. A song closer to him than skin.

The Transistor trembles harder. “Red.”

They should keep moving.

Kakyoin straightens up and turns away from the pool. He turns back the way they came, heading down the old city streets he’s memorized, in the opposite direction of the Spine.

“Red,” the Transistor says again and now there’s a hint of confusion in his voice. “Where are we going?”

They slip down a side street. The Camerata will be watching for them. The city is continuing to crumble. They really should keep moving.

Kakyoin finds the door he was looking for, down a narrow alleyway. He found this place once before, on a midnight walk through the city. As they approach, he recognizes the faint green glow that slips around the edges of the door.

“Red.” The Transistor, urgent. “What are you—?”

Kakyoin pushes the door open and they step into the light.

It takes a second for his eyes to adjust. The smell of sea breeze hits him first. He hears the Transistor’s small gasp of surprise. Kakyoin reaches back and takes hold of the Transistor’s hilt; he’s abuzz, crackling with energy. “Is this—?”

Kakyoin smiles faintly and lets the door fall shut behind them. They stand together and drink in the sight of the ocean. Sand shifts beneath his boots. Waves roll along the shore. Somewhere in the distance, Kakyoin can swear he hears gulls calling to one another.

“The ocean,” the Transistor murmurs and the longing in his voice cuts right through Kakyoin. “But how did you…?” He stops talking and they take it in together: the quiet rush of the water; the giant tree that looms over them, casting cool, dark shadows across the beach; the pale gold moon on the horizon.

Kakyoin approaches the water’s edge. He removes the Transistor from his back and plants him in the ground. He wonders if the Transistor can still feel it: the sand, its familiar coarseness.

For you, and he tries to say it in the way that he sinks down beside the Transistor, his hand tracing gently along the edge of the blade.

For you, and he tries to say it in the way that his humming gets louder, even as the sound gets lost in the rush of the surf.

“For you.” The words swell in his throat and die there. His lips move and there is silence.

Somehow, the Transistor still understands. “Thank you, Red,” he says softly.

Kakyoin nods.

This isn’t real: the ocean, the beach, any of it. It’s just another illusion. They both know that. One glance at the night sky tells them as much: the faint hum of electricity, the darting lines of code where there should be stars. Somewhere in the distance, he can feel Cloudbank shifting again as the Camerata and their schemes tear it apart.

They should keep moving.

Instead, Kakyoin dips his hand into the cool water; he runs his fingertips against the Transistor’s blade once again, beads of water trickling down along the vibrant metal. Kakyoin prays that he can feel it.

They sit together and watch as the tide comes in and the moon sinks in the sky and they wait for a morning that isn’t coming. Just for this moment, Kakyoin thinks, it is almost like Before.

#my fic #jotakak #finally reposting after i lost it from my old blog!#this should be a full story maybe but i'm lazy and i'm fond of this snippet as it stands SO

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wordsturnintostories · 7 years ago

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F g h i? Luv u

my sweet anon. i luv you back. :)

F: Share a snippet from one of your favorite dialogue scenes you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

I already answered that on in another ask, back then I chose a snippet of dialogue from Nothing in the Mirror, which I thought was great.But, since I am such a wonderful person (just kidding), I will grace you, dear anon, with another snippet of great dialogue! Woop. Today is your lucky day!

Okay, so this snippet is from Remnants of Time, where it is a littler harder to pick out any detail or phrase, because in Remnants of Time, almost all dialogue is directly tied to action and you mostly need the context to understand the weight of the words and the meaning behind them, but I found this little piece from Chapter 6, which I remember I loved writing (and which I think is kinda okay to understand without the context). (I internally squealed the entire time because in my head it was so cute. Please tell me it’s cute.)

[Natasha stayed at the table with the Russian soldier. He didn’t move much, he had looked at her a few times, with a short but confused gaze. The bowl of salad was empty now, he had eaten.“Take off your shirt”, she said. “I know you’re bleeding under that.”Sam sent her a look, but Natasha moved towards the assassin.He was more than hesitant, but when she stood right before him, he looked up. In her hands, a bowl of water, lukewarm, and a towel. He allowed it, to be washed, but he always made sure to keep Steve in his line of sight. Natasha frowned. Barnes didn’t respond in any way to anything that happened to him, how the towel wiped over open wounds and scars. It should’ve stung, his breathing should’ve hitched a few times, there should’ve been a wince. It was human to hurt. This was like cleaning a gun. An object. Her hands moved through the brunette’s hair, shampooing them thoroughly, scraping the dirt and the blood off his scalp with great care. Steve and Sam were pulling out a map in the background and started to talk about it. She hoped they found a new angle to work from. To get Hydra. Get revenge.

Suddenly, something cold touched her belly and she sent a look downwards. A metal finger softly slid over the scar on her abdomen. The scar the Winter Soldier had created. Barnes’ eyes were completely fixated on the old wound. Natasha continued her cleaning process while watching the man sitting before her. She stood in between his legs now, to get to his neck without having to pull him out of his moment. It was precious, she couldn’t risk ruining this. Then, two hands were carefully placed on her hips. It was a subtle touch, too gentle to be the Winter Soldier’s. Metal caressed skin. James searched her eyes.“Natalia?“She couldn’t help but smile at the man who’d held her this way a hundred times before, but had forgotten every part the affections he’d confessed to her, back then, in the rooms behind the big dance hall, after her ballet performances. In Russian, back then, just like now, but his tongue still made the same sounds, the same soft pronunciation. Sounded familiar like nothing else.“Yasha.”“Where are we?”“In a safe place, for now.”“Good.”Natasha would’ve liked to laugh out loud, but her heart’s joy belonged to her alone, if she shared it with the men in the room, none of them would understand the meaning of what had just happened. She continued to wash his head. Natalia couldn’t help but put more tenderness into her movements. She could tell he enjoyed it, too, because the corners of his mouth were pulled upwards and his eyes almost closed. He trusts me. He’d never close his eyes as the Winter Soldier.“Do you still dance?”“We have more important things to deal with.”This look on his face was different; she saw sympathy on his features. He saw her. Her.He remembered. It wasn’t possible, not with all the wipings, but James had surprised her plenty times before. Natasha held onto all the hope she could reach right now; what else could she do? James whispered, there was a particular gentleness in his words.“You left yourself behind.”“We all did.”]

That was my favorite dialogue from Remnants of Time, I think. Maybe just because it’s the first real interaction that Bucky and Nat have in the story, maybe because it’s a little deeper than the other dialogue, hinting at their past. It’s emotional, it’s sweet. It’s a moment of peace. And it is only theirs, because Steve and Sam do not understand it (Russian), but even if it was in English, their words, their stories, are something unique that only Bucky and Natasha understand. I find dialogue hard to write because you need to know your characters so well that you can anticipate their thoughts. It’s easier on paper than in real life, but still. Especially when you take characters from films and there are incredible actors at work, portraying characters and actually lifiting them into a three-dimensional place. You don’t know what the actors thought or what instructions and background knowledge they got from the directors (and that, my dear friends, is why the directors comments are jewels to me). (Also, I haven’t read the comics, so... yeah.)

But in this scene, I think I did a good job. I love the gentle kindness, the mutual respect, the recognizing on Bucky’s side. I just love this scene.

G: Do you write your story from start to finish, or do you write the scenes out of order?

Oh, definitely the latter. With Nothing in the Mirror, I almost wrote the whole thing in one setting, but that’s very unusual for me. Remnants of Time started with one scene, and that was definitely not the beginning. I feel good with plot building and usually, I look at films and dissect their structure (in my head) to just find how scenes can change the direction of the plot or what effect they have on characters and audience. But usually, I collect scenes (on my phone, on paper, in my head, on my wardrobe, everywhere, sometimes even the same scene double and triple) and then build everything around them.At the moment, I am planning another fic and I dedicated an entire notebook for just the planning of the fic and there is one page that says "Scenes I need to be in there" and i just collect ideas and scenes that I really want to be in there.It’s such a magical process to at one point discover how well some scenes click and some other don’t. When they don’t, you usually have to rearrange or turn a whole setting. But I generally decide on a theme and over time, collect my favorite scenes that I turn into a fic.

H: How would you describe your style?

Crap. That was the question I was most afraid of. Well, maybe not really afraid, but definitely wary. I have no idea if there is a word for my style. (Probably, but I just don’t know it. See, categorizations are not really my thing. I can categorize things/like, scenes and characters, but the categorizations of this world - nuh uh. I just don't get it. Like, for example politics. Took me a looong time to understand the basics.)

Okay, I’ll give it a try. I am very descriptive, I tend to go into detail and describe the scenery or the characters, just everything I can. I have to restrain myself sometimes (now just imagine me coming home from school every day from like, sixth to eleventh grade and my Mom asks the magical question "How was school?” haha. I could tell her almost every snippet of dialogue and all the scenes and sitautions and I’d ruin every joke because of those details, because I just wanted her to understand, not just hear.).

Sometimes, I feel like I am telling you a film. Like, I am writing a film (oh, how I wish to one day sit with Marvel’s filmmakers and just watch them develop the plot for a film. sigh.). And I love it. This is my writing style, I guess.Sometimes, when I am in the flow, I manage to write the perfect balance of action and details. Other times, I just want to show the character’s thoughts and emotions as exactly as possible to bring the reader as close to them as I can.

I: Do you have a guilty pleasure in fic (reading or writing)?

Guilty pleasure, huh?

1) Oxford Dictionary: "Something, such as a film, television programme, or piece of music, that one enjoys despite feeling that it is not generally held in high regard.”

2) Merriam-Webster: "Something pleasurable that induces a usually minor feeling of guilt.”

Which fics are generally not highly regarded? Smut? I don’t read that, I just don’t like it.

I don’t know. You gotta tell me which fics are making you feel guilty when you read them.I really like (and I know, that might sound weird) fics around Bucky, when he loses control in a usually safe situation and it’s nerveracking because you’re constantly on edge. "Will they make it? Will he kill someone? Oh my goodness, what will happen!?" (I like that kind of writing where I get all involved.)I love the fics where there is witty banter, or just banter, lots of banter. I love those, but they gotta go somewhere.Also, I kinda like supernatural fics, but they gotta be well-written (the others too, of course). So, gimme all the shifter and mermaid and monster fics you recommend! ;)

Send me more :) FanFic Ask Game!

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what-is-sibling-test · 6 years ago

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from 'RittenhouseTL' for all things Timeless http://bit.ly/2U2gnvY via Istudy world

Parallel Lines - Chapter 6

Summary:

Amy Preston’s sister went missing in 2016. Two years later, down on her luck and having a miserable day, she meets a handsome stranger who proves to be a lifesaver in more ways than one, who tells her an impossible story - and offers her a choice that changes her whole life.

Jiya Marri has never fully understood her visions, and when given the chance to save the life of the man she loves, she failed. So when visitors from another timeline show up, battered journal in hand, and tell her there’s a way she (and only she) can still save Rufus…well, what has she got to lose?

Lucy Preston has lost everything. When she’s finally given back one of the most important things in her life, she’s determined to keep that safe. But this new journal is recounting events that never happened, things not yet come to pass, and as keepers of the journal, she and Flynn know something is very, very wrong…they just aren’t sure what.

A story of past, present, and future intertwined, of infinite universes, of choices to go left instead of right - and all the consequences that go along with that choice.

Fandom: Timeless

Pairing(s): Garcia Flynn/Lucy Preston, Rufus Carlin/Jiya Marri, Wyatt Logan/Jessica Logan

Read from the start here

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True to his word, they ride until nightfall, at which point Joaquin calls for them to make camp. They can see distant flickering lights a few miles in the distance, no doubt the campfires of those already at the mill. It’s still not very many, not as many as Lucy knows come later, which bodes well for Joaquin, something he’s apparently well aware of as his mood improves considerably after he’s seen it. His men cook up the pheasants they’d managed to hunt down earlier in the day, and Joaquin offers some to their group as well. It isn’t much, but not having planned for an overnight trip, they’re all grateful for any sort of food they can get their hands on.

Flynn lights a fire a short distance from Joaquin’s camp before he tasks himself with watering each of the horses, and the rest of them stretch out on their saddle blankets, the saddles themselves doing double duty as the world’s shittiest pillows. Each of them is silent and staring into the flames, with the exception of Jiya, who is sitting cross-legged with the journal in her lap, reading by the light of the fire.

“Find anything?” Lucy asks her softly, her eyes starting to grow heavy. Jiya shakes her head without looking up from the book. When it becomes clear Lucy won’t get any more response than that, she rolls over to face Amy instead. Her sister is sitting upright, wincing as she massages her sore legs.

“I don’t know how people do this,” she mutters, hissing in pain as she massages a particularly tender spot.

“Do what?”

“Ride horses for hours on end. My legs went numb two hours in.” Amy looks her over. “How are you not in pain?”

Lucy smiles. “I’m used to it by now. Of course, the first time I got on a horse I fell off the other side.”

Amy bursts out laughing. “Now that definitely sounds like the Lucy I remember.”

“I’m not that bad,” Lucy scoffs, giving her arm a playful shove.

Amy grins. “You’re a walking disaster.” She settles back against her saddle finally and rolls on her side toward Lucy. “But that always was one of my favorite things about you. I missed it.”

Lucy is quiet as she once more scans her sister’s face, her eyes tracing the lines of freckles dotted along Amy’s forehead, the sandy brown hair that is an utter mess and hanging haphazardly around her face, and the dimples that appear as Amy gives her that familiar toothy grin. “What?”

I never thought I’d see you again. I’d just started to mourn you. I’d forgotten how your voice sounded. How could she even begin to tell her how hard it had been? “I’m just…” She reaches out to take her sister’s hand and squeezes it tightly. “I’m really glad I have you back.”

“Same,” Amy replies, squeezing Lucy’s hand in return. “It’s been a lonely few years.”

“Speaking of which, you’ve heard my ‘story so far’, but I haven’t heard yours. What happened after I left?”

Something passes over Amy’s face, something that Lucy doesn’t know how to read. “A lot, actually. It was a rough six months trying to take care of mom and track you down at the same time.”

“Six months?” Lucy knows the answer, but she asks the question anyway. “Is that when she…?”

“Yeah.” Amy takes a shaky breath. “Yeah, she…after your birthday came and went without any news of where you were, she just seemed to…shrink. She was a ghost of herself. You wouldn’t even have recognized her toward the end. She was so light I could carry her.”

Lucy can feel the tears burning behind her eyes and blinks them away. “Was it peaceful?” she asks quietly as unbidden images flood her mind of her mother’s desperate face as she bled out on the floor next to Nicholas’s immobile form, as she gripped Lucy’s hand tightly while her own hands shook, as she choked back the blood flooding her throat-

“Yeah. Yeah, it was,” Amy says, her voice quavering. “She asked me to crawl onto the bed next to her. She held me, ran her fingers through my hair and hummed that song from when I was little, the record she’d play that always helped me sleep.” Amy quickly wipes tears away with her sleeve. “I fell asleep listening to her hum while she rocked me. When I woke up, she was gone.”

“It sounds exactly like what she’d have wanted,” Lucy says softly, her voice strained. “She always said we were her whole world.”

And she lied. She lied and she lied, over and over again.

After a beat of silence, Amy sits up again and looks over at her. “Luce, there’s one thing you never talked about when you explained everything that’s happened to you, and it’s been bugging me.”

Lucy sits up as well. “What is it?”

“You said that every new ‘timeline’ has a version of whoever stays behind when something changes in the past. But in this timeline that you’ve been living in, I’m not here. Why?”

Oh god, where did she even begin? Thankfully, Lucy is saved at the last second by Flynn returning to their camp from wherever he’d been hiding. He steps between them to reach his own blanket, opposite Lucy with the fire between them, and seats himself with a quiet groan.

“Doing okay, old man?” Lucy asks him, her lips curling in a half smile.

He snorts softly as he takes off his hat and sets it to the side, then rubs both palms over his tired face. “I’m just exhausted. It’s been a long 24 hours.” He turns his attention to Jiya. “Come across anything interesting?”

It takes Jiya a moment to realize he speaking to her and she looks up from the journal finally. “Oh, uh…sort of. Lucy never wrote anything explicitly about my visions, or at least I haven’t found it yet, so all I have to go on are little snippets, offhanded comments, allusions to them. Mostly theoretical conversations that they had.”

“They being…?”

“Their Lucy and Jiya.”

“What sorts of theories?”

“Ideas for how to get Rufus back. None of them seemed to pan out. The most promising was the autopilot system that apparently I designed, but according to the journal I had only just finished it before I lapsed into a coma-” They can just barely hear the unsteady breath she takes between words. “-and that’s where the entries end. It must be when they decided to bring the book to us instead.” She closes the book and sets it on the ground next to her. “There has to be a reason she gave the journal to me and not to you or Flynn. I feel like she was trying to tell me something, I just have no idea what it is.”

“I have one suggestion,” Flynn says quietly, not looking up from the fire as they all turn to him. “The linchpin in everything that happened was one individual. It all traces back to her.”

It takes Lucy a second. “What, you mean Jessica?”

Flynn nods. “It stands to reason that if she was removed from the equation, nothing that came after her reappearance would have happened.

“You’re not suggesting what I think you are, are you?” Jiya asks, eyebrow raised.

Flynn shrugs. “It’s just one possible solution. Take her out of the timeline and it would solve a lot of problems.”

Lucy shakes her head. “She’s pregnant. We can’t.”

“Now, maybe. But the night she died, back in 2012, she wasn’t.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence as they all digest his words. Lucy can see his face through the fire, grim and exhausted. Though he’s offering the solution, he clearly has no desire to see it through. But she knows he would do it if it was asked of him. And she has no intention of asking.

“I mean, it is a reasonable idea,” Jiya says, shrugging. “Take her out in 2012 and it would change everything that came after.”

“And erase Wyatt’s child in the process.” Lucy shakes her head again. “It’s an easy way out at the expense of other people, and tantamount to murder. We’re no better than Rittenhouse if we do that.”

“Lucy,” Flynn asks softly, “has it occurred to you that Jessica may have been lying about the baby?”

She sighs. “Of course it’s occurred to me. Despite what people may think, I’m not naive. But is that a gamble you’re willing to take? Maybe she isn’t pregnant, but if she is…that’s the last piece of Wyatt we have left, that we’ll just be…erasing. And if we took her away, again, after he went through so much pain in getting her back, he’d never forgive us. I won’t spit on his grave like that.”

They fall silent once more. Lucy stares into the fire, the sound of crackling wood soothing her, until she notices her sister snoring softly next to her, and she finally lies down as well. “We should all get some sleep. We have no idea what we’ll find at the mill come morning.” She rests her hat over her face to block out the light, and before long falls into an uneasy sleep.

A few hours later she snaps abruptly awake, hearing the sound of snapping twigs somewhere nearby. She pulls the hat off her face and sits up quickly. The fire has long since burned down to embers, and both Amy and Jiya are still curled up on their sides, looking equally as uncomfortable as they attempt to sleep on the cold, hard ground.