#where the rest of us are puppets in the background as though we are merely incidental

[handweavers]

i've been reading somerset maugham's short stories about british colonial rule in malaya and borneo based on his travels there in the 1920s because my mom owns a lot of books like these (white british accounts of colonialism in malaya written pre-ww2) and there is something about them that is so familiar that they're almost comforting even while deeply annoying me

[cerastes]

May I request a review of general coolness and awesome of the horses we saw during the event?

Right, Maria Nearl event!

I liked the event quite a lot, though I do feel like it dropped the ball at the end. That aside, I had a lot of fun the entire time!

First of all, the cast was wonderful. Maria is explicitly not a powerful or skilled fighter to any degree that matters in the frame of strength the story takes place in, being definitely more skilled than the average person and even the average nameless knight, but being woefully outclassed by practically anyone that has a name in the Major. A humble mechanic with a heart drenched in justice, Maria doesn’t even like to fight, and adheres to a knightly ideal and a duty she must fulfill instead to justify her participation in these commercialized bloodsports, which carries the narrative. She is joined by a lovable cast of rambunctious family and family friends, who serve as her mentors and support: Her aunt, who is more akin to an older sister-slash-maternal figure, Zofia, who we are immediately shown is so close to Maria that the moment Maria made a big decision (the participation in the Major) without confirming with Zofia first, she immediately chastised her, wondering why she did not consult with her beforehand. Aunt Zofia is her aunt only due to technicality, as she’s a lady-in-waiting (or, in other words, belongs to a branch family of the Nearl clan, and is actually only 5 years older than Maria) and, more importantly, a decorated, retired competition knight who earned enough in her career that she can live comfortably for the rest of her life, ironically far outstripping the main Nearl house in terms of wealth. There’s also Kowal, an old Ursus mechanic, engineer and smith who mentors Maria in the ways of the wrench, willing to pass his workshop to Maria with her as his successor any day of the week, who himself also used to be a squire to V, an old, retired knight of old who served as Grandpa Nearl’s peerless sharpshooter and who trained Zofia back in the day. Finally, we have Old Marcin, owner of the cast’s favorite hangout, a little bar where he and Maria mediate the infinite squabbles, fights, and arguments that Kowal, V, and occasionally Zofia spark between one another. The event does a great work of introducing the dynamic between these five characters as something extremely domestic and comfortable: You can tell these five are tight and that they have spent a long time together. It’s just another day in their low profile lives when, suddenly, Maria dons Margaret’s old armor and decides to take arms for the main Nearl house, which is currently on the brink of ruin and about to lose its knighthood and nobility titles.

And this decision, and everything this decision means, informs everything that happens afterwards: Zofia tells Maria that if she’s worried about being left homeless, then that’s just foolishness, since Zofia is absolutely 100% ok with Maria moving in with her. She’s loaded. They can live comfortably for the rest of their lives without a concern. Kowal, likewise, insists that Maria is a good enough mechanic that she can earn a living by doing that. But, see, it’s not about a livelihood for Maria, it’s about preserving that for which Margaret and Grandpa Nearl fought and stood for, it’s never about the wealth, it’s about the name, the principle, not the glory, the weight of ideals that blood was shed to nourish and maintain. Maria is not even sure if she’s doing the right thing, but she’s got to do something. Why? Look no further than Uncle Mlynar. A bitter man, a corporate slave, spitting bile at her niece and apologies at his bosses. And the fact that it is very clear that this guy can kick some serious ass -- we never see him without his trusty blade hanging on his hip and, at the end, tells Margaret to square the hell up -- makes it all the sadder: In any other context, Mlynar might be a knight’s knight, hell, Margaret herself says she respects him still, but the Mlynar we see now is an unimportant cog in the capitalist system, just another grunt apologizing to his phone every time his lips part, who gets in hot water just by making small talk because, whoops, your workload accumulated again, better get chop chopping. Mlynar is a very telling character, because he represents everything Maria resents about the current state of the Nearl family: Disgraced, meaningless, existing as an extension of other bigger conglomerates. He is what she wishes to never become, and what the Nearl house cannot be any longer, if she has any saying on the matter.

Maria is not a good fighter. This is important and delightful, because she wins not due to aptitude, strength, or experience, she instead uses her knowledge as a mechanic, her “pegasian sight” (what Grandpa uses to refer to Maria’s incredibly powerful investigative faculties, being able to analyze situations and catch even the smallest details quickly) and the sheer heft of her brass pair of metaphorical horse balls to pull through with clutch victory after clutch victory. Zofia trying to cram as much fundamentals as she can on Maria in as little time as possible so she can survive also helps a lot.

Maria’s victories earn her the possibility of sponsorships, which would, superficially, fix her problems: The main Nearl house would retain status, she’d get a Title, and she would not have to fight anymore. But, see, this is not the point of Maria’s fight. One might say “Maria should’ve just taken the sponsorships”, but that’s not the point of Maria’s fight. She is pushing back against this highly commercialized view on “knighthood”, just like Margaret before her did. Margaret had a clear intent and her passions made her act mostly in anger, as she makes no secret: She hates Kazimierz for what it has become. Maria’s intent is less clear, even to herself, but she’s very much aiming for the same thing, but instead of Margaret’s anger, Maria has her determination. To have taken any sponsorship would have superficially kept the Nearl house afloat, but Maria is not looking to keep the house alone afloat, she’s looking to keep the house and the ideals in which it was built afloat. It goes beyond mere status.

In a world as bleak as Arknights’ and specially Kazimierz, Maria is no doubt naive to the point of frustration... But it is that which we call naive that makes a knight’s knight: Chivalry forged from ideals, sacrifice’s blunt borne from beliefs. The easy way out would’ve ultimately doomed her story, hence why she did not just move in with Zofia, hence why she did not just succeed Kowal and accept his workshop, hence why did not accept a sponsorship: It never was about that.

The very first event of the game, Grani’s Treasure, takes place in Kazimierz as well, but in the isolated outskirts, and we see hard-working, honest people, inhabitants of a nice little scenic hamlet. Now, we see what Kazimierz really looks like: A sprawling megalopolis of neon and concrete where the system shamelessly feeds on whoever sticks out their neck. The contrast couldn’t be harsher, and any hell is upheld by its demons: Czarny was a fascinating character, in that he very clearly held a lot of influence and power... And was extremely replaceable. The moment he messed up badly enough, he was instantly replaced by just whoever the hell picked up the phone next. It’s chilling. One puppet performed poorly? Irrelevant, there’s an endless supply who’ll take his place, provided enough fear and funds. Fear and money. The two currencies of Kazimierz. When a shadow council can just appoint you as the next Spokesman just on basis of you having picked up a phone without any real background check beyond “the previous Spokesman likely intended for this next sack of meat to pick up his phone in case he messed up”, well, congratulations, you’ve crafted a terrifying capitalist hellscape. No wonder Margaret hates Kazimierz so much, given the rot brewing in its underbelly and upper echelons.

And to all this, I have to say: It’s lovely. I loved the world building, implicit and explicit, I loved the cast, I love the themes explored and how characters were used to juxtapose these.

I feel it kinda drops the ball at the end by just... Not having a conclusion? It just sort of ends, which is very weird because events tend to be good at concluding themselves. I assumed we’d get some post-Challenge stages cutscenes to tie everything up like in the past but... No, not really, it didn’t happen. Margaret swoops in, the sisters perform the Ultimate Kamehameha on the Sarkazian Knights, and then it sort of ends one brief talk later. It needed a bigger epilogue, for sure. But this doesn’t ruin the event or anything, just a bit of a weak ending, everything else is still delightful and I loved it very much.

So yeah! The horses sure were wonderful!

[missinghan]

caged in this lullaby ⤖ lee felix

❖ genre : assassin au; cop au; action; fluff; angst

❖ word count : 7,2k.

❖ warning : explicit language, mentions of blood, arson & violence 

❖ summary : felix ultimately lets go of all and allows himself to drown in the ashes of bitter tragedy to see what stays. the last thing he’d expect is a stranger with his greatest secret. 

❖ dedicated to @blueprint-han​ : a continuation of aria of an assassin. song used — the lullaby by sophism, all credits to the owner. 

prologue.

Fire cares not for the time it vanishes, only that it gives the world heat and light.

The entire building burns deeply in red, orange, and yellow. The cries of the neighborhood echoes into the night with sirens blaring in the background. Your frozen figure can only watch in terror as glowing embers dance and twirl, searing through the ground, ripping through the roof in despair. Tendrils of smoke are reaching into the sky desperately as if attempting to escape the blazing inferno below.

“Kid, I wanna have Chinese for dinner today.”

“Okay, and I should care because…?”

“Because I’m housing your ungrateful ass.”

No. No!

You drop the plastic bags in your hand, your muscles move before your mind can register what’s happening. The next thing you know, you’re racing to the heart of danger, utterly unfazed about the fact that fire is the most beautiful weapon of them all. Powerful. Destructive. Heartless. In mere moments, everything you love can be reduced into nothing but sheer ashes.

“But we always have Chinese!”

“Who’s paying again? Was it you? No, I don’t think so.”

Tears blur your vision and you elect to ignore every white noise buzzing at the back of your head. Each step you take is rather a negotiation than an order. Your limbs move like they never belonged to you. This agony has an unpleasant warmth to it, eating at your stomach and searing inside your rib cage. Your body concedes to the torment, unable to bring a single thought into consideration. The entirety of your existence yearns to curl into something fetal, something primeval, and all while the pain burns and radiates.

“Officer! Stop her! She’s running into the fire!”

“Child! What are you doing?! It’s dangerous!”

But what you’re going through is nothing compared to his torment. He’s in there. Writhing and suffering alone. It must be so painful, so cold despite the enraged flames around him. 

When a strong pair of arms slip around your body and every motion comes to a stop, there is a scream of the mouth and lungs, the sound of his name lingers on the tip of your tongue. Because a response is impossible, there comes a scream of the eyes and soul, the kind that bypasses the ears and speaks right to the heart. 

You forget how to scream from that day on because you are either left with dead silence or punished with cruelty. 

Because you couldn’t save him.

one.

The housekeeper wakes with a tight knot in her stomach. Her body topples the sheets over to reach for her nightstand, flickering on some source of light. Only silence accompanies the hard throbbing inside her chest until a loud thud comes from the hallway. Her body jolts up instantly, a hand over her chest as a soft string of melody saunters into the emptiness of the night.

“When the night is falling, and you have lost your way.”

Her quivering figure quickly exits her room with a flashlight. Her right hand clutches at her other one as an attempt to stop the shaking as adrenaline sears through her vessels. With dreaded steps, the housekeeper manages to reach the staircase, approaches the end of it, and proceeds toward the living room.

“When the rain is storming, and your world’s turned to gray.” 

The voice smoothly slips through the chilling nightfall like an allure yet there’s nothing musical about it. The lullaby sometimes goes off-tune or comes out in broken waves as though whoever’s singing genuinely doesn’t care. They sound more dead than angry, more tired than irate, making her innards shift uneasily. 

“When the wolves await outside, and you feel like you’ve nowhere to hide.”

“Oh, don’t you worry, just remember. Remember when I said.”

And they stop. The housekeeper musters up every bit of courage left. A breath in. A breath out. 

In the darkroom, even the ticking clock has a relaxed feeling, as if it’s merely a heart-beat at rest. She feels as though the air moves like cool water and the aroma of the house owner’s scented candles infuse her far more deeply than it did in the light of day. The hollow space is etched with charcoal, the fabrics are muted hues as if they too await dawn to ignite their colors for all to see. The moment she heaves a sigh of relief, her eyes make the mistake of averting to the ceiling, unveiling a scene of unimaginable terror.

Fear floods her system, it pumps and beats like it’s trying to escape. Her heart might as well explode right now because even her jaw is shaking non-stop. Her body urges her to either run fast, away from the horror laid out flat in front of her eyes, or to stay quiet and do the right thing, calling the police. But instead, she remains where she’s standing. 

There is Mr. Yuuki, the house owner she’s been working for over three years, hung upon the crystal chandelier. His limp body lets its limbs stick out awkwardly, white eyes rolled to the back of his head as blood drips to the floor, forming a dark pool. The flashlight drops to the floor, and so does her trembling gaze. She gasps sharply when a thick smear of crimson is splattered across the wooden tiles, sinking into the cracks like poison. 

Her adrenaline surges so fast she almost vomits, she can taste saliva thickening in her throat and beads of sweat trickling down on her forehead. At some point, she’ll have to move and risk the chance of getting herself killed.

Just then, a shadow comes into view and her legs go weak, letting her body collapse to the ground like a crooked puppet. Incoherent pleas pour from her lips as she screws her eyes shut, bracing herself for whatever comes next. “Please! I’ll do anything! I won’t call the police! Just don’t kill me, please! Please!”

Footsteps are advancing toward her, getting louder by the tick of the clock. They echo listlessly until the sound slowly fades away, only a soft response comes afterward.

“Greetings to his boss for me.”

two.

The mansion has been his home for decade upon decade, embraced by nature on the outskirts of the city, away from all the noises, the buzzing flow of time people have signed their souls up for. It is all concrete and tall glass windows that give overlooking views of the clear horizon, a chance to relax and take in the changing of the seasons from the comfort of an easy chair.

Yet coming from the hollow building is a strange sound, a melodic voice of pain and sorrow, of heartache and loss. The tune is soft, like grass on a summer day, or the tenderness in the air in which only spring possesses. It can fill one with warmth while weaving a sad tale of indescribable, rather forgotten memories.

“Darling, close your weary eyes. Everything will be fine.”

“Let the breeze wipe away your tears. There is no need to cry.” 

He’s seated at the edge with his back straight, he no longer feels dwarfed by the grand piano as he used to as a kid. His fingers are limber as they glide on ivory first and ebony after, his neck slightly bent down, tousling his hair to the front while his eyes flutter shut in serene. 

“You can lay down. No one will hurt you.”

The music stand lies empty, has been so for years. He only ever reads the notes within his mind because he goes as far as playing the instrument to this day for this peculiar lullaby. Slowly, the music seems to fill the room to the brim, then spills out through doors and windows and the cracks in the walls, while at the source trembling fingers dance sweetly on.

He knows that he needs to calm down. 

“Let your fears be carried by the streams. The twilight gleam watches over you.”

In his head, he reads through the music scrupulously as though he’s practicing during the old, innocent days, beat by beat, bar by bar, note by note. His fingers know precisely where to go and how each key reacts when he applies the same, adequate amount of pressure. It’s as though he can make the hammer hit each string in a way to resonate with the most beautiful of sounds. 

The thought of playing as a kid eases the spike in his heartbeat and clears his mind. He can still vividly remember the first time he got lifted onto the bench on his sixth birthday, his tiny legs dangled over the edge and his figure completely overwhelmed by the mammoth-sized instrument. His arms could barely span the length of the keyboard, his feet could only do so much as graze the pedal below.

“And when the morning arises…”

He recalls the mounts of sheets cluttering his father’s old bookshelves in such ways that he himself can’t remember their initial color. He recalls the tall figure seating beside him each time, guiding his hands across the keys, ones that were unfamiliar to music and the swell it can bring to one’s chest. He recalls those starry eyes staring down at him, the outburst of laughter, and the cat-like smile that brings love and harmony to his fragile soul. 

“I shall be by your side…”

Yet he never recalls a proper goodbye, only tears.

“Minho.”

The melody pauses sharply, his body stiffens at the name. Minho isn’t here.

“Minho, is that you?” Minho isn’t here, a voice inside him snaps.

A deep breath. He elects to ignore the strings that are bound to break inside his chest before pushing himself off the wooden bench. With a swift turn, he sees Mrs. Lee standing by the door with her hair in her face, her soulless eyes lighting up once they graze the sight of him. “Minho, my sweet child. You’ve come home. You’ve finally come home!” Her voice echoes in joy, a hand clamped over her mouth as her eyes brim with tears.

Minho isn’t here! His heart yells aloud, yet his mind can’t comply.

He doesn’t know what’s urging him to approach her, to let her lean on him. Perhaps, it’s guilt. Or the yearning for the warmth of a mother who abandoned him long ago. “Yes, mother, I’m home,” he sighs softly when she clutches at his shirt. “I’m never going to leave you again.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I’ll always be here.”

Hurried footsteps flood the hallway rapidly until the housekeeper barges through the door, simply breaking the agonizing silence. “Good gracious, Mrs. Lee! Goodness, she must have forgotten about her sleeping pills again.” She then hastily rushes to his side, supporting Mrs. Lee by her waist while bowing continuously. “Young Master, please, allow me.”

“It’s alright, you’ve done enough,” he waves his hands with a small smile. “I’ll tuck her back to bed, today is my day off anyway. You may go home and rest now.”

He can’t forget how much lighter Mrs. Lee has gotten, how paler her face has been. He’s afraid that one wrong movement and he might send her frail body flying to the floor. Only when she’s fully covered by her blanket, the stars come out to play and the evening takes on the aroma of a breezy night. He likes this, the softness, the quietness of the sense of resting. Moonlight is streaming through the windows yet his mind, clouded with grey, throbs uncontrollably when he realizes the sudden pang inside his chest. 

It’s been fifteen years…

His phone rings. “Sergeant Lee Felix, Seoul P.D,” he keeps his voice from shaking. Suddenly, his eyes grow wide. “I’ll be there.”

And I still couldn’t do anything for you.

three.

Light fog seeps into the depthless night when Felix exits his car, throwing on his blazer in a hurry as he staggers toward a water fountain. There’s barely any vehicles operating at this hour, leaving the streets chilling and empty. He quickly checks his watch one last time. One AM on the dot. Another sleepless night.

“Lix! Over here!”

His blank expression breaks into a grin when two familiar faces come into view. “Changbin? Hyunjin? You both got called in too?”

“Yeah, can’t believe the Chief had the audacity to interrupt my beauty sleep for a simple homicide,” the taller officer, Hyunjin, has his face contorted in faint annoyance, brushing through his long locks of hair with his gloved hand.

“The night duty squad is handling another case on the other side of the city. We know the neighborhood like the back of our hands,” Changbin gives him a hard smack on the chest, only to wince quietly later to himself. Ugh, I’m so out of shape. “If anything, we have the best chance to catch up to the culprit.”

Hyunjin protests with a forced smile, “Shut up, Lieutenant, I know that.”

“Alright, let’s review,” Felix hops into the conversation, clasping his hands together in feigned excitement. “Someone dialed 911 with a murder case on the line. The culprit, escaped or not, we’re still uncertain of. But they did leave behind a witness.”

His coworkers nod simultaneously as he recaps what Seungmin told him on the phone earlier and the three of them find themselves standing right before the provided address.  The house seems oddly quiet for someone getting murdered. “Right, chances are they’re still in there. We’d better-”

The front door comes flying open. A woman dressed in her nightgown collapses to the ground instantly, fear echoing through the rumble of her voice. “Help! P-Please! Mr. Yuuki! He-He’s dying! Please, I beg you! Save him!” With her face buried in her hands, a wave of laughter bubbles up her windpipe, shaking her core tremendously. “They did it again! They’ve claimed another victim!”

Changbin is the first one to step up, helping the housekeeper to her feet. “Miss, please try your best to stay calm. Everything is alright now, we’re here because you did the right thing of calling us. You’re safe with us,” he gently supports her by the shoulders, his voice soft but serious. “If it’s okay for me to ask, what exactly happened to Mr. Yuuki? Is there anyone else inside?”

The housekeeper seems to still be shaken. Tears are threatening to fall but she bites them back, shaking her head to answer the second question first. “N-No, Mr. Yuuki has a son but he’s currently studying in Europe so I’m the only one other than…” 

Her voice trails off, the pools of tears in her eyes are clouded with those moments of horror she wishes she could erase forever. “It was horrible! I-I was having trouble sleeping before a strange sound woke me up completely. Someone was singing. Th-The culprit was singing. And there was s-so much blood. Mr. Yuuki was hung upon the chandelier when I went downstairs! So-So much blood. I didn’t know how- or why- I- I don’t know! I don’t know! I don’t know!”

“Miss, please try to stay calm. I won’t ask you any more questions, I am not here to interrogate you,” Changbin exhales deeply, looking over at his underlings. “Hyunjin, go check up on Mr. Yuuki. Felix, look for the culprit. I’ll call Seungmin for more back-ups.”

The two officers comply, “Roger that.”

Entering the house, Felix is bathed in a whirlwind of chilling silence and utter darkness. The smell of blood makes something inside him twitch, prompting him to look over at his friend. “I’ll go upstairs, you stay down here and handle the body until Jisung or Seungmin comes.” 

The Sergeant advances up the long flight of stairs with his gun clutched between his hands. Almost immediately, he takes notice in the stream of moonlight illuminating the end of the hallway and rushes toward the wide-opened door. His figure barges into the room with caution and is met with the night breeze kissing his face and white curtains fluttering gently. 

Just then, a loud bang is heard in the distance. 

Felix feels himself tense up, eyes darting from one place to another in hopes of finding- there! On the rooftop from across the streets. 

In a heartbeat, he picks up his transceiver and speaks, “I have eyes on the suspect. Pursuing on foot.” With his feet on the window frame and his arms on the tiles of the roof, he manages to lift himself while his muscles contract in pain. Facing forward, Felix begins to sprint. 

The wind screams into his ears, his feet flying over steel and leaves. His shoes pound heavily across the hard surface, causing what’s remaining of the downpour this morning to slash up his legs. From one rooftop to another, his calves burn tremendously yet he keeps darting past houses, buildings, and trees with his eyes glued onto the shadow before his eyes. 

Adrenaline courses throughout his system; he can feel his whole body working, his leg muscles running warm, a thin layer of sweat covers his nape. The cold air keeps biting at his blood and lungs but he keeps his breaths as steady as he can, pushing harder and going faster. For a split moment, his foot slips when his mind is frantic with cloudy thoughts. How is it possible for one to move this fast?

The hooded figure a few feet ahead of him speaks volumes in the silence; they’re running. They’re running like the devil himself is in pursuit. Only it’s worse because the felon is flesh and blood and means to send people straight to hell just the same way. His breathing quickens at the thought process, trying to appease his need for oxygen. 

Several thuds of footfalls later, he finally decreases the proximity although fresh air now shocks his lungs, making him want to spurt and pass out in exhaustion. His body trembles from the consistent pace he’s forced himself into, yet his hands lift the firearm swiftly, his gaze shaking with the pounding inside his chest. 

It only takes so much strength to pull the trigger. He shouldn’t be hesitating like this. Felix stops himself completely, regains his composure, and raises his gun once again. He elects to ignore the blood roaring in his ears, the throbbing of his anxious heart, and squeezes the trigger. 

The bullet cuts through air and comes flying toward the wanted figure, missing them by a strand of hair. His face contorts in anger as he mumbles out a curse word. He missed. He shouldn’t have. He can’t miss. Missing isn’t an option. 

Felix pumps his legs, gaining momentum with each push. But it feels gut-wrenching all of a sudden after a few thrusts forward—his body is giving in. He watches the culprit quicken their pace until their steps turn into leaps. Just a few more feet and they’ll jump the other side of the neighborhood. 

He won’t make it in time. 

Three. Two. One. The figure gathers enough strength and takes one final leap into the night. His heart immediately drops to the pit of his stomach, every movement comes to a full stop like the sudden stretch of silence within his rib cage. 

“Shit!” He perks up at the scream and glass shattering. “Ow! Ah! Ouch! Ugh…” And...dogs barking?

“Oh come on!”

four.

His feet slip outwards on the wet autumn leaves as he rounds the corner, his breaths coming out in spurts, hot and nervous as he inhales deeper, faster. With each footfall, a jarring pain shoots ankle to knee, ankle to knee. Perhaps jumping off someone’s rooftop in a time crunch wasn’t the smartest decision. 

“Give me a break. Do you have any idea how much time it took me to outrun those dogs?”

“I won’t let you slip away. It’s best for either party if you cooperate. Don’t do anything foolish and mercy might be an option,” Felix clicks a bullet into the chamber, gaze falling onto the hooded figure.

In the dim light that oozes through a narrow gap lies the alleyway. It's the underworld of any town: gloomy and unpleasant. Darkness is lurking in every corner inside the labyrinth of narrow passages and dead ends. Litter is dumped on the street and birds nest amongst the sprawling rot. Moonlight lights up the pathway for him, making it easier to back the felon up into the corner. 

“One more step, officer, I dare you.” A warning like poison pours into his ears.

Although something seems different this time. They sound more frantic. Is there something that’s bothering them? “You just committed murder, you filthy scumbag. One more step, I dare you.”

“Oh, you’re so unoriginal,” they clutch their right arm and chuckle lightly. Felix squints his eyes with the limited source of light; inevitably, they go wide upon seeing crimson dripping to the ground. But as the second ticks by, less and less blood pour from the wound as though the muscles and skin are simultaneously closing up the seams. 

What the hell am I looking at?

A smirk. “Don’t mind if I do.”

What are they... Wait, shit-

At the kind of speed he never thought humans could acquire, the hooded figure approaches him in what seems like seconds. The sudden whiplash blows the hood back and allows them to bathe in the moonlight raw.

 “Say, what are you going to do with a filthy scumbag like me again?” Something sharp and shiny comes into contact with the warmth of his flesh but he can’t bring himself to register or counter it.

Your features flash before his eyes, glowing from within, leaving him in complete awe. Although you’re talking nothing but venom, pain is evident in the crease of your lovely brows and the way your lips are pressed into a straight line. Your eyes are deep pools of restless gold, an ocean of hopeless grief. There’s something so damn familiar about you. Felix almost finds himself resonating within your agony. He almost gasps.

In this growing light, your dark silhouette becomes full colors. 

But why aren’t you moving? He’s completely open like this.

“You!” Your voice suddenly trembles and so do your pupils. “You-You’re-”

Snapping back to his senses, Felix leaves no time for you to finish your sentence and grabs your armed limb with one hand while striking a harsh blow at your stomach with the other. You let out a hushed wince at the impact, falling to the cement ground along with the blade in your palm. He swiftly flips you over, cuffs your hands, and puts his gun at the back of your head. 

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of law.”

“Oh, spare me, Robin,” you involuntarily snort. “I’ll be gone before you can finish reading my rights.”

He nearly sneers, “Move an inch and I’ll put a bullet through your head. Your hands are cuffed, don’t you try to make your face worse than it already is.”

“I’m an Ace, darling. It’d be insulting if a pair of handcuffs and your scrawny little ass could stop me.”

His grip on the gun grows a fraction tighter, his heart starts beating faster at the name. “You work for the House of Cards?” The name rolls off his tongue bitterly, leaving a lick of fury consuming the rational side of his brain.

House of Cards—thieves, terrorists, assassins, dealers—the largest criminal organization that has been the dread of the country for decades. Just like the playing cards, the organization consists of four main groups: Diamonds, Clubs, Hearts, and Spades. The Kings and Queens lead these groups for they’re either new or incompetent for the higher ranks. The Jacks come second in commanding and are often advisors while the Jokers remain anonymous to all as messengers. The four Aces are the most trusted by the chairman and only take orders from him themselves.

“I do,” you reply flatly, a sigh going unnoticed. “Shouldn’t you be fleeing by now upon receiving this information?”

“A murder. A gunshot right across the street. A living witness,” he grits with a timid smile. “All that and you call yourself an Ace? We’ve encountered worse than amateurs like you. You’ll be rotting behind the bars before you know it.”

“I like your optimism, officer. Genuinely, it's a blessing for you to bring us light in this time of darkness,” you turn sideways, smirk, and make sure that he sees it. “Ignorance is truly bliss sometimes.”

Something inside him snaps, water overflows the cup and he instantly grabs you by your head, burying it further into dust and cement. “I don’t know who you think you are. But you clearly don’t know what I’m capable of and the fact that I will stop at nothing to bring your boss down. I will make him face justice as you’re hearing it from the news in prison. I’ve promised. I’ve sworn.”

“Oh?” You dare to glance at him again. “I never knew cops detested my boss so much. Or is it just you? Is your hatred personal? You’ve broken a protocol from the get-go, haven’t you? Is it the reason why you even became an officer in the first place?”

Shit, Felix curses inwardly as your words stab him in the chest, twisting the tip of the blade deeper and deeper as though you’re not allowing him to breathe properly. His hands start shaking; the vibration against your nape makes you exhale, drawing yet another grin on your lips. “Tell me, who did they kill?”

To hell would he ever tell you.

“A family member?” Focus. 

“Your loved one?” Cover your ears. 

“Or a close friend, perhaps?” One wrong move. 

His shaking freezes midway, his voice comes out monotonous. “Shut up.” And you’ll die. 

“Bingo,” you feign excitement before clearing your throat. “Also, I wouldn’t pull the trigger if I were you. Because I am your best asset to get to my boss. You and I aren’t so different, trust me. After all, we both want his head.”

He yelps in surprise when you twist your back slightly, swinging your arm and elbowing his jaw while disarming him simultaneously. With a swing of your leg, he loses his balance on the knees and lands harshly on his back. 

With your knife pointed at his neck, your orbs bore onto his like you’re about to set him on fire. He gulps nervously, “What? How did you?”

“Listen up, I have a deal for you.” 

You were injured, how could you risk tearing your wound up like that? His chest rises then falls inconsistently, eyes darting to your forearm. It’s no longer bleeding. There’s no way! 

“...what are you?”

“Call me what you want. Murderer. Killer. An assassin. A monster.”

Felix squirms under your grip, spatting in aggression, “If so, you’re daydreaming if you have the audacity to believe that I will get my hands bloodied with you.”

“I’m not telling you to pick a side, officer. I’m just trying to say that I know something you don’t and you know something I don’t. If we pool our information we might actually have a good shot at capturing the bastard. If you brought me back to headquarters now, I’d escape either way and you’d get nothing from me. But if you pretend like our encounter never happens, you’ve got yourself a new partner.”

“What feud do you have with your boss so bad that you’re willing to work with a police officer like me?”

“I never considered him as my boss. I never considered the organization as a place that I belonged to. No one knows who the leader is. I’ve been tracking him down for years already.”

“...what? That’s-“

“They killed someone very important to me, too.”

five.

Chan murmurs tiredly at the knock on his door, “Who’s there?”

“Sergeant Lee’s present to report on the assassin from last night, Chief.”

“Come in.”

Chan fixes his collar as Felix closes the door shut, strides straight into his office, and collapses on the nearest armchair. Usually, he’d be complaining about the lack of sunlight in the Chief’s working space. Because like any other civil office, there are enough windows for one not to choke to death but Chan has made a habit of keeping them close. Now, he decides to open the blinds and lets the light in completely, prompting Felix to throw an arm over his eyes dramatically. 

“Shut it. The lights are killing me,” he groans aloud, forehead creasing in frustration. Focus. 

Chan says pointedly, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms, “But you look like shit.”

“Of course I look like shit. You should try chasing down an Ace yourself some time. Really, it’s been a pleasant distraction from my unfinished paperwork and impotent stress,” the junior officer mumbles, dropping his arm and staring blankly at the space ahead. 

“Yeah, I’ve heard,” Chan sighs, sitting back. “It just makes sense, you know. Yuuki and his neighbor were moles the Yakuza planted in that filthy organization. No wonder their leader had to send one of the four Aces to finish him off.”

Felix closes his eyes for a moment, resting his arms on his knees, the muscles are still aching from last night’s incident. His fingers unconsciously reach for his bare neck, tracing the shallow cut as goosebumps bubble upon his skin. Focus. “Enough being mopey,” Chan grins and slaps something cold against his cheek, causing his friend to jolt up in surprise. “Aren’t you here to report?”

He flashes Felix a cheeky smile when the younger clenches the cold towel on his face in annoyance. Nonetheless, there’s a twinge of faint nostalgia and affection lighting up inside his stomach—the kind that comes from long-time friends. “Alright, I gotta come back to my desk before Changbin goes off about my productivity anyway.”

“Good, elaborate,” Chan whips out a pen with his crusty notebook, eyes narrowing and turning serious. 

“The Ace escaped,” Felix starts, “After checking in with Yuuki’s housekeeper, Hyunjin and I went inside the house. He handled the body while I was heading upstairs. I pursued them as soon as I heard the gunshot from across the streets. I only managed to wound them from afar, but it’s not enough to slow them down. They were too fast so I was outpaced at the end.”

The Chief raises a dark brow, eyeing the cut on his throat, “I can see that you’re injured, too. Did they shoot you? Seungmin only found a semi-auto pistol next to the second victim.”

“No… I did this to myself during the chase,” Felix touches his wound again, gulping, “They only carried a knife, of all the things.” Don’t be obvious. You can’t risk getting them to suspect you. 

“You couldn’t get close enough to see if we’re dealing with a man or a woman, right?” Chan then casts a meaningful look at the mountain of unfiled paperwork upon his desk, feigning interest in the light reading that awaits him for the rest of the day. 

“Unfortunately, no. They have a good physique, clearly well-trained and more skilled than the little fries we’d managed to throw behind the bars,” Felix shakes his head, eventually pushing himself off the black armchair. “What about the housekeeper? According to what I’m able to recall, she did, in fact, see the Ace.”

Chan wants to scream at the mention, fingers massaging his temples. “That woman is far too traumatized to even speak a word right now. She’s been giving Seungmin headaches all morning.”

“Yeah, about that...sorry, I couldn’t be more helpful,” Felix bites his lips as he can feel his own lies suffocating the space around him, filling his lungs with water and squeezing at his windpipe. He needs to get the fuck out of here. 

The Chief chuckles lightly and waves his hands, “No, no, we’re all kinda impressed, actually. No one has ever been able to propose a mere chase with them before. It’s already a miracle that you came back alive.”

His heart instantly sinks, his fists curl up unconsciously. Felix could have died. He should have died last night. But you hesitated. Why? Why would you spare him? And why were you looking at him like that? “Hey.” A hand on his shoulder snaps him out of it. “Don’t worry about it. You should take a day off today. You look unwell.”

“But-”

A figure lands soundlessly on Chan’s balcony, swiftly turning around to face Felix.

His brain stutters for a moment and his eyes take in more light than they should, still, they widen when shock riddles his senses. Every part of his body tries to catch up and his thoughts go on a dreadfully long pause. It’s you. Standing in broad daylight without anything to cover up. Distanced a few feet from his grasp. 

One shout and you’ll be cuffed in mere moments. It’d be insulting if a pair of handcuffs and your scrawny little ass could stop me. His precinct has been desperate, ramming into one dead-end after another for a single lead to House of Cards. 

Felix can turn you in right here. Right now. If you brought me back to headquarters now, I’d escape either way and you’d get nothing from me.

“That is an order, Sergeant,” Chan grins, not noticing how pale his friend has gotten in such mere moments. “You’ll collapse the moment you head out for patrol, trust me.”

“No, Chan! You don’t understand, I-”

“Do it,” you mouth, sealing his lips instantly. 

“I just didn’t get enough sleep last night. I’ll take a nap in the infirmary.” You slap on a devilish smile at his words, wiggling your phone high enough for him to see.

As soon as Felix closes the door behind him, the spike in his heartbeat finally falls with the stiff smile on his face, his breaths short and uneven. The urge to punch something is cut short when his phone vibrates timely. A message from an unknown number: “Ten PM. The waterfall in Yellow Woods. You’ve got one chance.”

six.

Felix has underestimated the cold since nightfall. His muscles ache and shiver all at the same time, momentarily yelling at him to turn around to head back to the comfort of his family’s mansion. Yet the dark Yellow Woods seems to silence time and space, only leaving him with the urge to march forward. 

He lied to Chan about your encounter, lied to Changbin so he wouldn’t have to go on his night shift, lied to Hyunjin that he’d go home and rest like his friend always told him to. Humans have been taught not to lie but deception still exists and one cannot escape its grasp. Even Felix never knew there would be a day where he’d become this desperate. Just thinking about it makes him want to vomit, utterly disgusted. 

Clutching his gun tightly, he begins walking faster into the light fog. 

“My my, look who it is.” His frantic steps come to a halt, his head snapping back immediately. “Someone was so hellbent on giving me a headshot the last time we met. What changed?”

Felix raises a brow in confusion. “What the- Didn’t you ask me to meet up at the waterfall?”

“The waterfall is the other way, you fool,” you jerk your head back, clearly unimpressed. 

“Cut me some slack, my phone was dead! Wait, how did you- were you stalking me?!”

You can’t help but stifle a chuckle; his face is priceless. “Tracking sounds more appropriate, don’t you think?”

“You-”

“You’d better pick up the pace if you want to survive this little partnership of ours, officer.”

Eventually, he complies and stumbles through the woods with you, his feet feeling like they’re being dragged across cement. During the day, Yellow Woods is alight with the serenity one yearns for at their lowest, birds chirping and leaves rustling to one united song of Mother Nature. In contrast, it is now hollow, colorless, almost empty to a sense with all this darkness around him. 

“I never said that we had a deal,” Felix says while trailing after you, cautious not to trip over any branches. 

You turn around for a meager moment, giving him that sly grin of yours. “Suppose that you do, we need a contract. Some simple protocols between comrades. What do you expect from me? Keep it simple. Excessive details bore the shit out of me.”

“First, no with-holding information. If you know something, I need to know it and vice versa. Second, no personal questions. I don’t want you in my life nor do I want me getting my hands dirty with you.”

You hum in response, “Hmm, short and sweet. But I have my own as well.”

He gulps, “Go on.”

“I don’t work with dogs. I don’t care if it’s licensed as emotional support. I won’t hesitate to shoot if you even let one do so much as breathe in the same room as me.”

“...that makes way too much sense.” So that explains why-

“What about you? Afraid of the dark?”

“I wasn’t born this morning.”

To the East lies the waterfall you’ve mentioned this morning, which you lead him down a dirt road and right behind it, straight into a small cave. There are two paths diverged that catch him by surprise but there’s nothing he can do other than taking the left side, hastily following the source of light from your phone. Your final destination unveils before his eyes as a small, underground lair.

Felix suddenly feels cold for no reason. “How do you even sleep?” He scrunches his nose while rubbing his hands together. 

“I don’t,” you say without looking at him, exhaling and shrugging off your coat. “Make yourself at home. I’ll go heat up some tea before you freeze to death.”

Not knowing what to do with himself, his eyes roll around the seemingly confined but commodious space in curiosity. Your working desk is as big as the one in the conference back at headquarters, mounted with an overwhelming amount of files. To the right, the wall is lined with weapons, target boards, and rag dolls; you seem to prefer blades over firearms. The whole place is lighted up with candles all around, giving it that eerie feeling like something straight out of an old movie. 

Still, not bad.

His careless feet drag him across the concrete, subconsciously reaching out for the files on your desk. He can’t fight the urge, he can’t resist it. Before his mind can register and his conscience can yell at him, the plastic binder is already yanked open. Experiment #180108–Y/N, it reads. “What the hell… Enhanced strength and agility… Instant self-healing… Metamorphosis? Is this what they’ve been doing under our noses all this time?”

“No, only my parents.” Your voice snaps him out of it, prompting him to drop the files. “Your office was giving me anxiety, by the way. Thank god for home sweet home.”

“What the hell were you doing in my-“ A dagger flies past his head, missing him by a strand of hair and ending up embedding itself on the bull’s eye of a nearby target. “Daughter of a bastard,” he breathes out in disbelief, eyes boring holes on you. “What kind of tea was that?!”

“Lee Felix. Only son of the Prime Minister. Ranked Sergeant at the eighth precinct, Seoul P.D. The precious heir to one of the five great families.” Words leave you. You only stare into those bright, brown eyes burning with anger, his heart almost falling silent. “Gosh, you’ve got quite the profile. Shouldn’t you be worried about the image of your family instead of shaking hands with the devil like this?”

Felix clenches his jaw, everything is slow and warbled as he looks down, shaking violently. “And yet you still thought I’d be crazy enough to make a deal with an Ace?”

“You’re not crazy,” you sigh, grinning internally. “Just extremely desperate-“

“I am not desperate!” A lie spats out, leaving him with a bitter aftertaste. “I have no reason to be.” Focus.

A mocking shrug. “Right, you’re not desperate. You just followed me all the way here without taking out your gun or rambling on with your boring death threats. Like a little, perfect pet. Exactly what I needed.” 

“Death threats don’t work on monsters,” he croaks, fists balled and eyes wide. Even so, the way you gaze darken still goes unnoticed. “I’ve seen your kind kill anyone without hesitation. Getting blood on your hands without even blinking. You, all of you, aren’t humans anymore. You’re all a complete write-off of a species.”

Felix lifts his head, pupils trembling at the sight in front of him. For a moment there, you look sad and broken. Raw, naked, and vulnerable like the rest of humanity. It makes him ponder, how can humans be so weak yet so cruel at the same time?

“...why? Why are you doing this?” he inquires shakily, head racing with a thousand thoughts. “I don’t understand. Actually, there’s a lot that I don’t understand about you.” No! Focus, you idiot!

“You don’t have to.” Finally, you speak after the long dread of silence, combing a hand through your hair tiredly. “You know. It’s funny how the same thing happened to us. And now look at where we ended up individually.”

His brain pauses and chokes up. “What are you saying?” Cover your ears. Do not be misled!

You look away, simply knowing that you won’t be able to hold it in if you’re making eye contact. “I know you’re not the rightful heir of the Lees. You weren’t part of the bloodline in the first place. You’re simply a replacement. A second option. Nothing but an afterthought-“ 

“No! Shut up! Just shut u-“ Cover your ears. Do not trust anyone!

“—the real heir supposedly went missing during the Eiji Station tragedy where my organization ordered a bombing fifteen years ago. It’s been over a decade and they’ve already concluded his death even though a body was never found. Am I right, officer?”

Choose the wrong path. 

Felix buries his face into the palms of his hands as streaks of silvery tears burn his cheek. His exhausted shoulders shake in each rake of emotion through his frame, the fire of anger and despair boils past the seams he can no longer hold together. With his knees weak, he can only sob and drops down on his knees, screaming with all his might. 

And you’ll die. 

But even you, the devil itself, can’t save the man who’s drowning himself in his own tears of hell. 

“Welcome to the team. The name is Y/N,” you offer him a hand, blankly eyeing his quivering figure. He finally picks himself up with difficulties, eyes glowing with tears and fury. After a split moment of hesitation, his hand reaches for yours, firmly clasped and sealing your deal. 

Because he’s falling down the same bottomless abyss with you. 

Because you both couldn’t save him. You couldn’t save Minho. 

epilogue.

__ fifteen years ago

“Hey, Minho, you’re really good at playing the piano. Are you gonna be a musician?”

“Hmm, I do like music. But I’d rather become a police officer. 

“Why? Didn’t you say that you like music?”

“I’ll become anything for my mother.” 

“Then, I’ll be a doctor when I grow up! And we can save people together.”

“Okay. It’s a promise, Lix.” 

[jadoue1999]

The X-Men and the member they lost - Chapter 3

Summary: What do you get when you mix Hayward and the Xmen? A pissed off Erik that's seriously trying to not murder the man!

Previous parts: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, 

Chapter 3: The Maximoff Anomaly

They had settled in fast. The older man that had intercepted them was called Hayward. He seemed very distraught at their arrival and made them go into an unused building. The director hadn’t listened to their protesting, he preferred having them out of the way. For what ever reason, Erik wasn’t sure. They soon realized that time worked differently in this universe. While they had already seen the episode and moved on, it had just ended as they arrived. Charles had told him with amusement that Hank would go crazy over the possibilities. Thankfully, the bunker contained televisions that monitored the town and the broadcast. Hayward had deemed necessary to make sure only people close to him knew of their arrival. They were all sitting around a table when he demanded their story. Charles spoke up. “We’re not from your Earth,” he started.

The director had looked at Kurt with a raised eyebrow, “I had that much figured.”

The professor continued, “two weeks back, one of our members went missing and the broadcast was all we could find. Our universe seems to be ahead of you with the episodes, but we are behind in years.”

“How so?” Questioned the woman sitting next to Erik.

“To us, it’s the eighties.” Charles waited a few moments, letting the people around some time to understand. “We come from a world where people are born with mutations, Kurt here can teleport.” The teenager looked at the professor, silently asking for permission to show his powers. Charles nodded and the blue mutant teleported from one side of the room to another. Hayward seemed shocked as the rest of the people gasped. Charles continued, “this is Raven, she can shapeshift.” Erik smirked as Mystique changed into a perfect copy of the director, making him jump out of his chair in surprise. She turned back into her human form and watched with amusement as Hayward slowly sat back down, eyeing her with caution. Probably seeing how unsettled the agents were, Charles decided to end this quickly. “I can personally read mind and Erik can control metal.”

Erik rolled his eyes as the military people looked at them with wide eyes. He wasn’t going to demonstrate his powers; he had done enough of that with Shaw. The team seemed to get the message that there would be no more demonstrations and moved on.

“So,” said the lady next to the director, “why are you here? Other than the broadcast.”

“Oh well, like I’ve mentioned before, we had a member of our team go missing.” The professor wheeled himself close to a screen and rewound the episode to when Peter appeared. “You see this young man? This is Peter, we had no clue where he went. We watched the broadcast in hopes for answers and we finally found him. Though in a tighter spot than we’d expected, but he does have a knack for trouble.”

Erik smirked at the joke; the speedster had always found himself in the strangest place at the wrong time. He was basically a magnet for trouble.

The director broke the silence. “So, this is not Pietro Maximoff?”

Erik shook his head, deciding to speak up at last, “no, he is not your Pietro, this is Peter Maximoff; my son.”

Hayward seemed surprised that someone other than Charles had spoken. “Is he like you all, enhanced?”

“Yes, he is a mutant,” answered Raven, clearly uncomfortable about the man’s tone. “He has superspeed.”

The director closed his eyes and sighed before turning to his colleague. “Bring the files concerning the Maximoff anomaly, they need to know.” The woman nodded and left the compound. He turned to the other members that hadn’t done much but gape at them and ordered them out. Apparently, he didn’t want people to witness what was about to happen. That left the man alone with the X-men. “Look, I get what you people can do, you barge in and act on an impulse; fix what you think is a threat and leave the rest of us to deal with the mess you leave behind. You might think you’re right, but this is my base.” Erik tensed up at the man’s words, this speech being all too familiar. “I don’t want you meddling in my stuff, Wanda Maximoff is a threat that needs to be dealt with no matter the price. You can go get your friend after.”

It was now official; he hated this man.

Though, before he could show him just how much he despised him, his colleague came back. She didn’t react to the lack of personnel, perhaps she had been expecting it. She was holding a significant number of files and what seemed to be a tv remote. Hayward thanked her and opened a file labeled ‘confidential’. It showed a picture of Wanda. Only she seemed younger, and her hair were a dark brown; there was also a man with bleached blonde hair at her side. They were in a crowd of people, their faces twisted in rage as they seemed to yell to something the picture didn’t show.

“This is Wanda Maximoff, back when she joined a Nazi base and accepted to be experimented on. This is how she got her powers.”

“Director, with all due respect, I believe your thoughts betray you,” interrupted Charles, to the man’s frustration. “I think it’s important to complete your statement and precise that she didn’t know what she was getting herself into.”

Erik secretly praised his friend and his telepathy; Hayward was obviously trying to antagonize the woman. It was obvious they now had to take his version of events with a grain of salt.

“Yes...” grunted the director, obviously upset about being caught in a lie. He pointed to the other man in the picture, “this is Pietro Maximoff, Wanda’s twin, the real one. He too had superspeed.”

He switched on a screen that was flatter than any television Erik had ever seen. It showed Wanda and Pietro in what appeared to be a lab. There was a sort of casket all plugged in with tubes. The pair seemed to be arguing with two older men. There was no audio, so their discussion didn’t make much sense. Suddenly, a blue blur raced through the lab, removing all the tubes in mere seconds. The blonde man stopped next to the casket looking thing and threw the last tube on the floor. It was strange, seeing another version of his son. Their powers were very similar yet very different. While Peter’s trail was silver, Pietro’s was blue, he also left some blue energy lingering in the air. It lasted a few seconds as he stopped before it disappeared. From the few dates in the documents and video, this Quicksilver seemed to have developed his powers only for a few months. It was probably why he seemed to be a little slower than his son. Hayward spoke again.

“The twins were working against the Avengers, those in charge of defending our planet. There was an army of robots threatening to destroy the world, they had sided with the robot in charge.” He glanced quickly at Charles. “They eventually changed sides, but Pietro didn’t survive.”

The footage changed to show a man and a child trying to take cover as a trail of bullets grew nearer. Suddenly, they were out of harm’s way and the speedster was in their place. His shirt was riddled with holes that quickly soaked with blood and he fell to the ground, dead. Fear seized Erik as he watched the man fall to the ground; momentarily seeing Peter in his place. Would a similar thing have happened had Mystique not disguised herself as one of the horsemen?

Hayward continued, showing footage of Wanda fighting in a group against other people, explaining how this event had led to the Sokovia accords, which was nothing more than a differently named mutant registration act. Except this one was actually approved. She had refused to sign and went into hiding, only to resurface when a titan had attacked the Earth. He apparently needed something called infinity stones, one of which was in Vision’s head. From the next chain of event Hayward told them, the titan had apparently succeeded in retrieving the stone. The real mystery was how the Vision was back to life; the director insisted that it was Wanda who resurrected him. She had been blipped, like half of the universe, and had came back grief stricken and ready to do anything to have a perfect family life. She had taken an entire town hostage and made them into her puppets. There was no telling what she might do to achieve her goal. Apparently kidnapping an alternate universe version of her brother wasn’t out of her reach. As Hayward continued telling them about Wanda’s life and what she had done, Erik had only one pressing thought: just how powerful was Wanda?

“How many people are in this town?” Wondered Charles.

“A little more than three thousand. They’re not all casted as roles, most are simply background characters.”

The wheelchair bound man nodded in comprehension. “Have you identified them all? Warned their families?”

He shook his head. “I believe it’s in everyone’s interest if we keep this low, we don’t want to alarm anyone. Especially when the world just came back.”

“You idiot,” raged Raven, “if they can’t reach their loved ones, they will ask questions. They will panic. Your logic is awfully flawed.”

“This is not your dimension, you don’t get to tell me what to do,” argued Hayward, clearly annoyed with them. “I will try to urge the identification process, but you people stay here. I don’t want more superpowered people and their associates getting in my way.”

With that, the man just left the place, followed by his colleague. Whether it was intentional or not, they left their documentation behind. Erik took one of the many files from the pile and opened it. This one described Vision’s origin and whereabouts until he had been destroyed in-

“Charles,” he said, not taking his eyes off the numbers. “This here says that the android died in 2018, five years ago.”

“We traveled 40 years in the future?” Said Kurt, understandably a little overwhelmed by the situation.

Raven put a comforting hand on the teleporter’s shoulder before looking at her friend. Her eyes showed how the situation affected her just as much as it did them. He didn’t blame her; Erik wasn’t sure if he truly grasped the gravity of the implications yet. For now, he preferred to focus on Wanda and her past; the more he knew about her, the better of a chance they’d have to retrieve his son safely and unharmed. The later wasn’t looking too hopeful. From his own experience with mind control and the co-worker’s reaction to being awoken, Peter would likely have a long and painful recovery once he would be back to himself. He just hoped that the differences between their timelines meant that he hadn’t been controlled since he had gone missing. Perhaps, by some luck, he would have arrived a little before he appeared on screen. He didn’t let himself think of what the speedster could have endured before being put under the woman’s spell. Especially if he had been her puppet for the entire two weeks he had disappeared.

“Erik,” interrupted Charles, “I can hear your concerns and I can assure you; your son is a fighter. His mutation is a natural telepath repellent, he’ll be just fine.”

The man smiled at his friend’s words, momentarily comforted. But then, a terrible thought creeped into his head. “Then tell me, old friend, if he is so immune; what horrible torture would he have to go under, so that his mental shield would be lowered enough for him to be vulnerable?”

The silence that followed his statement seemed to confirm that no one had even considered how Peter could be controlled in the first place. They had been too panicked at seeing the young man on the screen and then focused on getting to him to even think of the logic of his newly casted role.

“B-but he’ll be alright,” stammered Kurt, his tail anxiously twitching behind him, swinging, and curling unto itself. “He’s Peter, he always comes out alright.”

Charles smiles weakly at his student, “of course he will, Kurt,” he reassured him, “but we will have to give him time to heal and let him do the first steps when he’ll be ready.”

Erik shared a worried look with Raven, the professor seemed hopeful that the speedster would turn out fine, but he didn’t seem to realize how ahead he was thinking. They were on a military base that had studied for nine days this seemingly all powerful being that didn’t let you in without her consent and a rewrite of your life. And they hadn’t gotten far. From what they had learned, Peter would not be free of Wanda’s control unless she herself brought down the dome. But how could a grief-stricken mutant with powers never seen before just give up what she perceived as the perfect life she deserved?

...

They had stayed up late, learning about Wanda’s past and being horrified at what she had to go through. Erik wasn’t sure how he felt about the woman. She had gone through awful events, a struggle similar to his own. He did feel pity towards her, but he couldn’t look past the fact that she had his son playing her twisted game. The group had eventually settled down for the night, sleeping as good as they could without beds or blankets. They were suddenly awoken by some agitation on the base. Charles stared off into the distance before turning to his team, “Hayward has kicked off people from the base that were being disrespectful to him, now he’s coming our way.”

Indeed, barely fifteen seconds after he had spoken, the director opened the door. He seemed annoyed. “I’m just here to tell you that a new episode should air in the next twenty minutes.”

The blue teen looked at the man, “what happened outside just now?”

His question apparently wasn’t a welcome one since Hayward clenched his jaw in frustration. He answered nonetheless, “I got rid of nuisances. Nothing that concerns you or your team.”

That shut the boy up, but Raven stepped in front of him protectively. “You don’t get to talk to him like that, or to any of us.”

The director narrowed his eyes at her. “You should be thankful,” he snarked, “I could have you all arrested and locked up for the rest of your days, along with your little friend. Yet I haven’t even told anyone about your presence. I’ve been more than benevolent. So, I suggest you watch your mouth.”

Rage built up in Erik, he had heard these words so many times from government figures that disguised their hatred by saying what they could have done but didn’t. The metal bender was well aware that men like him wouldn’t hesitate to sell them out for a raise. What he didn’t appreciate was the way he threatened to imprison Peter as soon as they would get him free from Wanda’s control. Erik felt the metal in the man’s outfit and forced him closer, bringing him at his level. A sliver of fear was seen for a split second in Hayward’s eyes and a feeling of satisfaction crept into his chest. That man was a coward. “You listen to me,” he growled, “we can take out this base in seconds if we feel like it. I’ve seen your kind before, you crush others to rise in rank, but deep down you’re scared. You’re terrified because you’re aware that you are nothing. And if you drop your facade even for a second, they will see you for what you truly are. So, you take out the competition before it even has a chance to realize its potential. But guess what? You’ve met your match because I see you for what you truly are.” He paused as he stared into the man’s eyes. It was a competition of stares that lasted for a few seconds. Erik’s unwavering gaze pierced through the man’s pitiful attempt at intimidation without much effort. Finally, he let his grip go and kept his ground as Hayward took a few steps back. “Here’s a deal, little man, stay out of our way and we’ll stay out of yours.”

The director glared at him and then switched to the other people in the room, probably wondering if the threats he had said had a chance of becoming reality. Whatever he concluded, Erik didn’t know, but the man left the room fuming. The room was silent for a few seconds before Charles wheeled himself closer. He was about to speak but the metal bender beat him to it. “Don’t try to reason with me, old friend, that man had it coming. I only spoke the truth.”

The bald man shook his head. “Yes, you are right, and I don’t blame you for this, but perhaps threatening the director of the base we’re staying in wasn’t the greatest idea?”

Before he could argue, Raven intervened, “I think you did good. It’s been a while since I had seen one of your Magneto speeches; that Stryker knock off deserved it.”

He snorted at her comparison; Hayward was very similar to their own impersonation of the anti-mutant feeling back home. Kurt seemed a little unsettled by Erik’s speech. But he didn’t have time to make sure the teen was alright. Suddenly, the television in their little bunker flickered on; a new episode was starting. They all scrambled to sit down as the screen showed one of the twins running around with a camera in his hands. The upbeat intro song was echoing through the room.

‘Wanda!

WandaVision!

Don’t try to fight the chaos

Don’t question what you’ve done

The game can try to play us

Don’t let it stop the fun’

He opened the bathroom door, showing Wanda brushing her teeth; she also had rollers in her hair. She closed the door with her magic and Tommy ran downstairs to Vision who was reading the newspaper.

‘Some days, it’s all confusion

Easy come and easy go’

Erik watched the screen anxiously as the family members were shown, what would she make her son do?

‘But if it’s all illusion

Sit back, enjoy the show!’

The twin went in the kitchen, their neighbor was looking in the fridge. After a distasteful close up of the woman’s behind, Tommy was now headed for outside.

‘Let’s keep it going

Through each distorted day

Let’s keep it going

Though there may be no way of knowing

Who’s coming by to play’

A blur came out from the house and Erik’s stomach twisted as his son appeared on screen. He was wearing a grey and black shirt and jeans shorts. He briefly stopped in front of the camera and pulled his tongue out like some sort of rock star. He ran out of the shot and came back holding the long-haired twin under one arm. The screen froze to simulate a family picture being taken. The logo ‘WandaVision’ in red and yellow hues.

“Pietro Maximoff as himself?” remarked Raven unimpressed. “Really?”

Erik didn’t react to her voice; he was all too focused on his son. While he didn’t seem that different than usual, he couldn’t help but notice his hair. His usual silver mess of hair were now a bleached blonde. He stared at the screen in disbelief.

This woman had taken away one of Peter’s most unique traits, a part of his personality, to fit her narrative.

He continued looking at the screen with a mix of rage and anxiety. If she had changed him so easily to fulfill her illusion; there was no telling what else she could do if she found out he wasn’t truly her brother.

***

Notes: Next chapter: the halloween special! (and something else)

[naivesilver]

Top five ‘August is an idiot’ moments please :)

Do you mean his entire life, freenklin my dear? The boy had a hold of the braincell for about half an hour, and that was when he was seven. I don't know if I can't restrict the list to only five entries.

(Jk jk I love him and you both.)

Ask me my top 5 anything

Let's call this "I bully August for half an hour out of sheer unadulterated love".

1) "I know you're Baelfire."

It doesn't get any cringier than this - what the fuck does it MEAN, August? You could have pulled off a huge reveal with ease, drama queen in exile that you are. You could have produced a relic of the land you'd both once called home. You could have done literally anything, because ANYTHING would have been better than a fucking typewriter with a piece of paper consisting of a single line stuck in it.

Just... *sigh*. I love him to bits, but sometimes I really want to bang his head against a wall and hope some sense trickles into it.

2) What happens in Hong Kong doesn't fucking stay in Hong Kong

Yes, it's tragic. Yes, we get a clear view of the new lows August has reached. Yes, he's literally scraping the bottom of human decency and desperation here. But come on: it IS a little funny.

This guy finds out he's turning back into wood and has an existential crisis in an ER waiting room (boy, can I relate to that) complete with the most hilarious faces he's ever pulled in his career. Then, when this magical dragon guy tells him there might be a cure, he steals money from Tamara and BOLTS away - you can almost hear the Benny Hill theme music playing faintly in the background, because the viewer already knows he's doomed and that this is a fool's hope. Finally, he's wearing the most godawful clothes ever known to man, which is a damn shame, given that the rest of his wardrobe is amazing and that I'd steal his Wish Realm outfit in a heartbeat.

Sad puppet hours, right there.

3) Rumpelstiltskin's knife

August, my love, reason why I survived the first lockdown, did you REALLY think it would work? That you would get the Dark One under your control and then...and then what? The tough guy act is a ruse from start to finish. You can barely order a pizza by yourself. What was the plan exactly?

Ngl I spent this scene with my head in my hands because by then I'd thrown my lot in with this fucker but I was already regretting it. Why? Why does he ALWAYS set out on journeys that will most certainly ruin his chances of survival? I know it's very in character for any sort of Pinocchio, but I'd really like for him to just have a nap, please. Or a cat. Or a nap with a cat curled on his feet. Is it too much to ask?

4) "Broken."

I am positive August must have visited Italy and gotten so scared by local post offices to vow to never use one again. Why did he use a pigeon? WHERE did he get the pigeon? These are the questions I wanted to have answered in season 7, not Henry's unfortunate love life.

Also, it's hysterical that this man can't communicate in a normal way with Neal to save his life. Just send him a damn text message. Or a phonecall. Who am I kidding, I hate phonecalls, August was right about that.

Though now I'm a bit sad Neal didn't get to interact with August at all after he returned to Storybrooke. The two of them and Emma all in the same room would have been awkward to say the least, but the comedy potential would have been off the charts. Snow got to slap Marco, Emma should have been granted the opportunity to slap someone as well. As a treat.

5) Let's get kidnapped and forcibly returned to a respectable age

They were threatening him with death, torture and ridicule and he was about to laugh in their faces. I'd say iconic if he hadn't been risking it all with his mere existence at that point. Rumple was right to curb his enthusiasm, actually, I slapped a hand on my face the second I saw him at it.

Anyway, literally five minutes later they try to break him out and the second he spots Ursula (it was Ursula, right? God I need to rewatch his episodes so bad) he sits back down like "A'ight, it was fun while it lasted, remind Blue she's promised me a casket for my untimely death", because he just can't be normal for a single second. That plot was wild as shit - not that I'm mad that it got August back, but I want to know who approved it in the writing room, and what words where spoken there, specifically, to convince everyone else of its sanity.

Honorable mentions: getting hit by Snow White's bolt out of fucking nowhere, but also going to find BLUE of all people to get rid of the wood problem. Bro, that's literally the last person I'd look for. It's like asking a fish to pilot a velocipede, except in this case the fish is also a nasty piece of shit who'd run you over as soon as it got a hold on how to use pedals. There's a shepherd mob boss who works as a butcher in Storybrooke and I'd STILL go to her before I went to the Blue Fairy. Smh.

[codedredalert]

abandoned lawsan fantasy magic royalty arranged marriage fic excerpt

(Earlier this year, I made a deal with @yukino-ks that I'd trade x words of my abandoned lawsan bigbang attempt depending on their exam results. They got 2.6k off me and I've been terribly slow in getting an excerpt I can actually show people. (There's a reason I abandoned over 20k and several editing passes.) It's unbetad and WIP and just an excerpt of a longfic so it has some notes mixed in, but I finally have something I'm willing to let see light of day. Sorry I took so long, and congrats on doing well!)

Warnings: forced marriage, dark themes, magic coercion (I mean, Doffy exists), general background awfulness, but hey cute heart pirates interaction 

.

The engagement ring sat heavy on Sanji's finger, warm with his own body heat and with the faint power of Law's magic. A pale blue stone on a white-gold band, the crisp blank sky of winter finally breaking, the white-blue of lightning, of a glacier cracking as it falls into the sea. 

Law on the marble floor collapsed when the King Donquixote no longer deigned to puppet his broken body with the betrothal ceremony finished. 

Absently, Sanji played with the ring, conscious of the feel of it against his skin, how it changed how he moved his hand. He wondered if Law was awake and about, or if he was still in the deep healing sleep that prompted his servants to close ranks and politely ask Sanji to leave. He wondered if he could ask, or if that would destroy the tentative sort-of friendship they'd started to form before the cruel proceedings of the day before. Sanji had followed his first instinct was to help, to kneel beside Law and help him bear up his weight on fractured bones, to help him back to his tower— it might have done more harm than good. Law was a proud man, and Sanji had inadvertently wounded his pride. 

A knock on the door dragged Sanji from his thoughts.

"Yes?" he asked, dropping his hand to his side and standing. The person at the door merely knocked again, so Sanji opened the door. 

It's Law, his hair messy and in simple sleeping clothes, dark, soft, and formless. His symbol is emblazoned across his chest in yellow. A hint of bruising and the peek of a bandage shows where the fabric drapes off Law's prominent collarbones. 

A stab of pity and empathy and solidarity goes through Sanji, and the hand he has on the handle of the door goes numb as it grips harder, where Law cannot see.

"Come with me," said Law. He started moving away, giving Sanji space to enter the corridor. 

Sanji raised a brow and the oddly visceral feelings evaporated instantly. 

"Good morning to you too," replied Sanji, even as he followed and closed the door behind him. It melded back to the stone wall, perfectly hidden. "Go with you where?" 

"Kitchens." Law's walking gait was slower and shorter than usual, and uneven though he still stood tall. It was almost like yesterday hadn't happened, except for the glimpse of pale metal and yellow stone on his hand. 

"Oh, you're wearing it," came out of Sanji's mouth before he realised how stupid that sounded. He couldn't let his guard down just because his bleeding heart had gone out to Law when it turned out that the Crown Prince was very human behind all the rumours. 

Law blinked at him in surprise, lifting his hand to look at the ring, as if he'd forgot it was there, like it'd always been there and he had only just noticed. 

"Yeah," he said, looking away a bit too quickly. "This way." 

===/\===

A set of heavy wooden doors opened to a cosy kitchen, packed to full with people seated at a long wooden table, laden with plates and bowls of sweet oat porridge, flatbreads, steamed buns, eggs and bacon and beans, with savoury rice porridge, with noodles— cuisines from all over. Sanji barely had a moment to take it all in as everyone at the table jumped up, cheering and clapping. 

"Welcome to His Highness' lover!" someone hooted and loud laughter ensued, whistles and cheering resounded. Someone shoved a champagne flute into his hand and another someone all but dragged him to the bench where somehow the rest of the table squeezed to make space for him. 

"Congrats on being a bad influence on His Highness," the redhead who dragged him to the table said cheerily as he squeezed his chair in to reach the table. "Bread roll?" 

Sanji took one and it was good bread, a crust which crunched lightly under his fingers, soft fluffy insides when he broke it open and placed it on his plate. 

"Bad influence?" asked Sanji, bewildered by the ruckus. He looked round for Law, and found him standing just behind his left shoulder. Law nodded, sipping from a bright yellow mug which he hadn't been holding a moment before.

"You defied Doflamingo," Law explained.

Oh, they had to be referring to the sarcastic backtalk Sanji had made when the giant pink-feather fashion disaster tried to get him to report on Law's comings and goings. So Law had been conscious for that. Sanji was suddenly very glad he'd decided to mouth off instead of try to pretend to play along. Besides, it had been a clever comeback.

"Anything that pisses off the King Asshole, or any of the assholes over in the Toybox, makes you alright with us," the redhead elaborated, dumping half a plate of greasy bacon on Sanji's plate.  

"And if you can get our prince to eat, everyone will love you," the person seated on the redhead's other side said. It was the man with the white and black hat, who had taken a half-unconscious Law from Sanji and barked out orders to the other servants before politely asking Sanji to leave. He frowned as the redhead took the rest of the bacon, stacking the empty plate beneath his own. "And dammit Shachi, I wanted some." 

"Not my fault your food scramble game is weak, Peng. Ask Ikkaku to pass some, there's another plate on the other end of the table," Shachi said unapologetically. The man in the hat rolled his eyes, but turned and yelled down the other end of the table for the bacon. 

Sanji took a moment to process all this and looked back to Law. 

"You don't eat?" asked Sanji, incredulous. 

"I do."

"Coffee isn't food," Peng recited almost like a proverb as he put some bacon on his plate. He did not offer it to Shachi. 

For a moment, Law didn't answer, and then pointedly, he sipped his coffee. It was so bratty and childlike that Sanji nearly choked trying not to laugh. 

Peng rolled his eyes and looked to Sanji. 

"You see what we have to work with?" he said, as if Law couldn't hear them. "The list of what he eats could be written on your palm." 

Now if that weren't a challenge Sanji couldn't refuse— 

"Write it down for me and give me free reign of a kitchen," Sanji replied. "And I'll see what I can do." 

"You don't have to," Law started to say, just as Peng grinned and said "Done!", reaching over Shachi's plate to shake Sanji's hand. 

Sanji shook on it, excited for the chance to cook again for the first time since coming to Dressrosa. Law rolled his eyes, but fondly. If he'd really wanted to, he could order otherwise. It was… nice, that he let this go. 

"Do you think I could try some?" asked the huge polar bear toy seated on Law's other side. Sanji startled, still not quite used to toys talking, but Law's hand just went up to pat the toy bear on his nose.

"You can't eat, Bepo. Otherwise I have to operate on you again and wash out your stuffing." Law paused. "I don't know why you like it anyway. It's not like you can taste it."

"It looks pretty and everyone else gets to eat. I feel lonely."

Law patted Bepo on the nose again comfortingly. 

"It's not that great," said Law. He finished his coffee.

Sanji resolved then and there to make Law eat those words with dinner. 

===/\===

[More conversation, Shachi and Bepo are escorting Sanji back to his room. Originally, I had fun worldbuilding stuff about how much Law hates the tower and Bepo's origin story but it's not relevant in the excerpt.]

"What's that?" asked Sanji. In a short joining corridor between this homey servant's kitchen and the lonely tower and its rooms which lock from the outside, there was a space where he could see a sliver of sky, and a splash of colour below. 

"What's what?" asked Shachi. Sanji gestured over the side of the open down to a sort of courtyard garden, with flowering plants grown in elaborate patterns so from the top down, they formed complicated motifs and images of a strange ship breaking the waves, a treasure chest and a heart. 

"It's pretty, right?" said Bepo cheerfully. "His Highness does it himself, he moves the flowers around when he's had a bad dream. He says it makes him feel better." 

There was space, paths amongst the flowers, a couple of benches and a small pavilion, along with the little pond and irrigation system and lights. 

"It's Law's garden, then," said Sanji, an idea coming to mind. "Say, is there a table in that pavillion?" 

===/\===

[Sanji cooks dinner for Law and they have a nice romantic dinner in the pavillion but Law Does Not Care about food and that is honestly kind of upsetting for Sanji. I had to cut my favourite part of the entire fic out and that hurtie just a bit.]

"If you've had enough of forcing me to eat—" Law said, and Sanji wanted to snap at that, but Law managed to finish his sentence first. "Do you want to take a walk?" 

"I thought you had work to do?" replied Sanji, a little coldly, but Law didn't seem to notice. He shrugged.

"It can wait, I'll be up late tonight anyway."

They walk. The air is cold, and clouds roll through the courtyard sometimes, wisp and damp and cold. The courtyard meets the side wall of the castle, and on the other side is the steep drop into a distant dark fog. 

It didn't take long to walk the entirety of the courtyard, small as it was. They sat on the lone bench, it was dewy with the condensation of the clouds and the rapidly cooling night. 

"So, with all this, I take it you want to try and act like lovers," commented Law. 

It was more a judgment than a question. Sanji stiffened, was Law going to make fun of him? 

"Not with that attitude," Sanji retorted. His hand went to his pocket for his cigarettes. He lit one, agitated and feeling like the effort he'd put into making the evening nice was, all in all, a nett waste. 

Law considered Sanji without taking any offence. 

"I'm not interested anyway. Don't get me wrong," Law added quickly, a hand outstretched as Sanji sat straighter, half-way to standing and walking away. "You're plenty attractive, and if it's sex you want, I could show you a good time." 

"You know the meaning of the word?" 

Law ignored his interjection. 

"It's the… other things," he continued calmly. "The holding hands and fancy dinners and being sentimental. I'm not good at that. I'm not going to stab you if you look at another man, and I'd prefer the same vice versa." 

Sanji looked at him flatly. 

"What." 

"It's common enough around here that there's a proverb that... never mind, the explanation is too long. The point is, if romance is what you're hoping to get out of this marriage, I'm going to disappoint. I can put up with it a little bit but not for long."

"Why the marriage, then?"

Law's head snapped to him sharply. His expression made him look more angry than confused, though his tone when he spoke was confused. 

"I told you, after the ceremony," Law said, as if he expected Sanji to remember every detail said when Law had been crumpled on the floor and bleeding through his engagement suit. "We both got signed away without having any say in it. I thought we had an understanding, and I'm surprised you want something more. I mean, it's…" He couldn't seem to find an adjective for it. "Well. it's something. That you want to try. I'm flattered." 

"You couldn't refuse this marriage?" asked Sanji, processing this new information. If it were true, that made Law more a fellow prisoner than a bored and slightly sympathetic jailor. That changed everything, it meant Sanji had more allies than he thought. Still— "But you tried. That time before the betrothal ceremony. You told the King you're not marrying anyone."

"And that clearly worked," Law retorted snidely. His glowing yellow eyes were less friendly now. "So, is that what you thought of me? And all this— the aid, the kindness, the food— was this you bending backwards to keep me happy? So I don't call off the engagement and leave you to face your family's wrath for losing a valuable alliance?"

He was angry, and right. Some of it had been a little calculated, so what? Sanji had nothing here, no rights of magic to stand on, no support, and people who would die if he stepped one toe out of line. That didn't mean he couldn't want something, anything, to make the days more bearable. That maybe, though married to a man he'd never met before, he might have something which passed for love.

"Not… exactly. You already know my situation, and besides, I'm meant to be an insult," explained Sanji, grim. He hadn't expected to speak of this, and it was harder than he thought. "You're the Crown Prince, you should have married my sister, or at the very least the eldest son. Not—" the third son who has no magic to speak of. "Not me. So, you're right. I'm at your mercy. But you've been decent. So I thought. Well. We could be friends at least." 

It took a moment but Law's glare softened, pacified. 

"Don't worry about that part so much. The insult bit— we know. Doflamingo thought it was hilarious. He wants to parade you around until you're the very symbol of the Germa and your father will be associated with you."

A pause. 

"Not liking that much either, " Sanji said, voice flat. 

"He has a shit sense of humour," agreed Law. "Your being fair-haired and a smoker is partly why he agreed, I'm sure. Or he wouldn't have forced me to give you that cloak." 

Speaking of the cloak, Sanji remembered the package he'd put in his bag. He fished it out, and offered it to Law. 

"You can have this back,'' said Sanji. 

"You don't like your betrothal gift?" asked Law, but Sanji noticed he was quick to take the offered cloak in hand. 

"It seems important to you."

… No answer, but Law draped the cloak around his own shoulders. It dwarfed him much like it had dwarfed Sanji. It seemed to be made for someone closer to the King's stature. 

"I was under the impression you're not that fond of the King," Sanji commented.

For a second, it seemed like Law would not respond. Head bowed and eyes closed, with the great cloak around him, he looked small and lost in memory.  

"His brother." said Law without opening his eyes, and he drew the coat tighter around himself with his hands. "My benefactor." 

He brought the sleeve up against the white light of the garden lamp. 

"See?" said Law, and his expression was so gentle that for a moment Sanji felt like he shouldn't have seen it, like it was some secret thing he had no right to. "The deep purple, almost black. It's hard to see, but it's there." 

Sanji tore his eyes from Law's face to look at the shadows of the cloak. Sure enough, there were purple sparks, almost lost in the brighter pink. 

"I see it."

"It's not a powerful type of magic," said Law, voice wistful. "I used to disdain it myself, when I was a child. This particular one is Silent Night— it blocks out noise to give the wearer a— a peaceful sleep."

Law's voice tripped over his words and he lowered the coat, curled over it, for a second he was so overcome with emotion he couldn't speak. Sanji averted his eyes, looking out over the gardens. The pale shapes of the white and yellow flowers in the white garden lights, and the distant moon. The flat blades of the leaves and the washed out mosaic tiles. 

"This—" Law's hands tightened on the cloak in Sanji's peripheral vision. "Means a lot. More than you could know. ...Thanks." 

It was awkward, but then, Law seemed the type unaccustomed to thanking others. 

"You're welcome," Sanji said simply, and they sat together in silence late into the night. 

[sepublic]

What constitutes a ‘Demon’?

There’s been some discussion amongst this fanbase about what exactly a ‘demon’ is. We know they come in a wide variety of shapes and forms, and we know that demons are evidently capable of full sapience (but not all of them are).

From what we know thanks to King, our not very preeminent scholar on the matter, demons are “grim tricksters of the twilight, creatures of sulfur and bone,” that they “live only to create chaos and misery”, and all have a weakness to purified water (and passive-aggressive comments).

What purified water exactly is in the context of this show, I’m not sure and it might not even be elaborated upon, but it’s fun to think about! So perhaps ‘demon’ refers to any creatures with a weakness to purified water. While King’s account should admittedly be taken with a grain of salt, considering how inaccurate he was with the Snaggleback (or not, since according to @anistarrose we may have simply encountered a juvenile and not a full adult), what his words seem to imply is that demons are nocturnal, are said to cause chaos, and are made of sulfur and bone. That last bit intrigues me the most- Humans already have sulfur in our body, so that implies that demons have a particularly high ratio. That, or witches simply have little to no sulfur in their bodies, seeing as how humans aren’t from the Demon Realm and wouldn’t be included in that context.

But what about magic? I’m of the assumption that demons can’t do magic, and perhaps that’s what differentiates them from witches. However, in Covention, two witches from the Bakers Coven try to invite King, which seems useless since we know he doesn’t have a magic bile sac.

And how do we know? In Episode 8, Eda is in King’s body and attempts to cast magic while trapped at the Kitty Cafe. Eda is an incredibly skilled and experienced witch, so she’s never had an issue with the skill of casting magic, and even if King had an incredibly diminutive sac that hasn’t fully developed, it should’ve yielded at least some kind of spell. Eda states that she’s “no longer a witch” indicating she knows King isn’t, and Roselle and Dottie agree.

However, if one considers the theories about King having once been the King of Demons, and even the Boiling Isles Titan, then... he could be a one-of-a-kind person. Meaning, there’s no one like him, so no one actually knows his true capabilities and nature. However, King is certain that he was the King of Demons, so for now, let’s just say he is one.

So why would those two Baker Witches be interested in King joining, if he can’t do magic? Perhaps they don’t realize he’s not a Witch because they’ve never seen anyone else like him. Maybe it’s just a throwaway gag/joke that I’m taking too seriously. Perhaps non-witches have some value to covens as testers and voluntary subjects. Amity says the Covention is only for witches, did those two bakers just assume King was a witch because he was there? We see this guy at the Covention;

And he looks a lot like this demon;

But it’s highly likely he’s just there as a placeholder background character.

Could a demon perform magic if you transplanted a magic bile sac to their heart? If so, would ‘demon’ more specifically refer to beings who are born without magic, but still capable of it later on down the line? Eda seems to be under the impression that Luz can’t ever gain a bile sac, so presumably neither can demons, but maybe there’s a difference between human and demon anatomy to be considered.

The line blurs when we acknowledge Adegast, AKA that one-off minor villain who died in his debut. Eda calls him a puppeteer, specifically a “demon who specializes in scamming and manipulating people.” Adegast is a demon, but he can also conjure powerful illusions. Do these illusions count as magic- Specifically, illusion magic? When we first meet ‘him’ in his wizard illusion, he briefly summons two spell circles, but is that actual magic or just an illusion that looks like magic (versus actual magic that creates an illusion)? Perhaps Adegast’s illusions technically aren’t magic, at least not magic as the Boiling Isles defines it (presumably something to deal with a bile sac). If he were an Illusion Witch, why is he in the Potions business? Is it like Willow, where she was placed into a track she wasn’t good at?

We see Adegast create an illusion by spraying Luz with a cloud of smoke, and when his puppets are destroyed, they dissipate into smoke, so perhaps that’s what they all are; Just smoke and mirrors, minus the mirrors. So because Adegast’s illusions don’t come from bile, it’s not magic, ergo he’s not a witch and this lends further credence to the ‘Demons are those who can’t do magic’ theory. On another note, we see Adegast revert to a smaller ‘true’ form after being wounded by Luz... is this form the result of magic, or just an illusion or the effects of a potion?

(If his illusions don’t come from magic and he can’t perform it, then Adegast probably shouldn’t have entered the Potions business when Potion magic is such a big deal that there’s a designated major coven for it. Even if he got Eda out of the way, he’s competing with literally every other Potion Witch in the Boiling Isles, and they have the advantage of magic! Maybe he uses his illusions to make his potions seem more potent than they are, who knows? This lends to the unpleasant image of him spiking potions with his illusionary gas, but this show has always been pretty horrifying, so.)

Hooty is referred to by the Demon Hunters as a ‘house demon’. There’s the possibility that Hooty was made by Eda, since her owl constructs resemble him so much, and Hooty mentions Eda teaching him everything he knows. However, the Demon Hunters also mention removing Hooty from the house, when he IS the house... Perhaps this is a case of characters not fully understanding who they’re interacting with? We do see living alarm bells at Hexside and the Covention center, and a doorknob that tries to eat Luz in Episode 2. Could the term demon also apply to living fixtures who are made for a purpose?

If demons also refers to living beings who are made, I assume Abominations don’t count as demons because they don’t eat and thus aren’t living, which would explain that distinction.

Is that why Eda calls the Bat Queen a demon, since palismans are living beings who are made? However, we don’t know if Eda is aware of the Bat Queen’s palisman nature or not, so her being a demon could just be an assumption on Eda’s part. Palismans also presumably have magical abilities (and we see the Bat Queen appear to use a spell to bind Willow and Gus). So, CAN Demons perform magic, or is there a misconception here?

There’s also the possibility that ‘demon’ is just a catch-all term. An othering term, meant to describe anything that isn’t a witch. Only... witches come in a wide variety of appearances, some more inhuman than the rest. Are witches all the same species, and thus able to procreate with one another (and thus a demon is a being a witch couldn’t reproduce with)? Do all witches, amongst their bile sacs, share a common DNA or ancestry? Are they all the same species, merely different in appearance because that’s just the way they work, or because of magic causing changes? Or does it just refer to non-humanoids?

Maybe ‘demon’ is just a societal definition, and a loose one at that. Maybe it DOES refer to animals and beasts, but because of social biases, some characters are called demons when they’re not? Beast-keeping is a term, but Demon-keeping isn’t, as far as we know. Getting into further speculation, could ‘demon’ refer to the original inhabitants of the Boiling Isles? Could witches have come from another land beyond the bones of the titan? Are demons the creatures born directly of the titan’s flesh, or perhaps the parasites that inhabited its body? The descendants of its equivalent to gut bacteria and white blood cells? The Boiling Isles is located within the Demon Realm, which could imply they’re progenitors of some sorts. Of course, maybe demon also has multiple definitions as well.

Overall, here are my proposed ideas for what defines a ‘demon’ in the Boiling Isles;

-Not capable of magic due to lacking a bile sac

-The indigenous population of the Boiling Isles

-Wildlife in general, as well as those linked to beasts or like them

-A social term for those perceived as more animalistic, regardless of such an observation has actual scientific accuracy or not. Perhaps the social aspect of the term is also for beings who aren’t immediately identifiable, don’t belong to a specific species, are one-of-a-kind, etc. AKA it’s the Boiling Isles equivalent to the term ‘cryptid’

-Non-humanoids

-Those vulnerable to purified water, with a presumably high concentration of sulfur making up their anatomy

-Anything living that isn’t a ‘witch’, specifically the species (this applies to living constructs as well, presumably, though if it extends to Palismans is unknown)

-An unknown, perhaps yet-to-be introduced factor

-A term with various definitions and meanings depending on the context

-Some combination of the above-mentioned ideas

What do you guys think? It is worth noting that King refers to demons as “creatures like me,” which implies perhaps some shared genealogy/something objective and physical, not just societal, but who knows? Perhaps the most important question to ask is;

Am I overthinking things?

[haberdashing]

No Puppet Strings Can Hold Me Down (11/?)

The Magnus Archives fanfic. An AU that diverges from canon between episodes 159 and 160, in which Peter Lukas’ statement that “he got you” takes on a different meaning.

on AO3

Distant alarm bells rang in Jon’s head as the strange, inexplicable smile upon his face only grew wider.

“Did you know, Jon-”

And his voice was different, now, still recognizably his voice but not quite the same, Jonah not adopting Jon’s own speech patterns to play pretend anymore, and yet Jon could hear his voice echoing through his own head even as the tone was clearly that of a man he hated-

“-that today happens to be the two-hundredth anniversary of the Magnus Institute being founded?”

Jon had not known that.

For one thing, Jon couldn’t recall ever coming across the exact date of the Institute’s founding, just that it had happened back in 1818 (and he had recognized that that made it two hundred years ago, had known enough to be suspicious of that fact, and now he felt strangely vindicated by that).

For another thing, Jon didn’t actually know what day it was now. It had been the 25th, he was pretty sure, when everything went to hell back at the Institute, but beyond that... well, the days were starting to blend together. (Was it October already? It wasn’t, was it?)

“I could draw things out further, I suppose, but it feels right to have the same date on which I founded the Institute so long ago be the one on which my plans for the Institute and the power it serves should reach their culmination. Two centuries of work, and it all comes down to this.”

There was so much Jon wanted to ask, wanted to know, wanted to Know, but he knew that asking Jonah Magnus for further details would be fruitless at best and actively misleading at worst. What mattered was that whatever his plan was, apparently it was being put into action today, and there was very likely nothing that Jon in his current state could do to prevent it.

“I’ll explain the details later; I don’t know how long we have now, but afterwards there will be plenty of time for explanation. There will be nothing but time.”

The grin on Jon’s face widened, even though Jon could swear he felt his heart sinking to the floor.

“You- no, we are prepared, we are ready, we are marked. The power of the Ceaseless Watcher flows through us, and the time of our victory is here.”

The Eye’s ritual, then? It had to be. The Watcher’s Crown, somebody had called it before, though Jon couldn’t remember who now, couldn’t even remember if he’d come across the name in a statement or in files or in an actual conversation.

None of the other rituals had worked, though, not even the one attempted by the People’s Church, the one that Gertrude had known about yet did nothing to prevent. Perhaps this would be the same, just another failed ritual, a footnote in the annals of history.

Jon suspected, however, that he wouldn’t be that lucky.

“You who watch and know and understand none. You who listen and hear and will not comprehend. You who wait and wait and drink in all that is not yours by right.”

Jon’s voice sounded different again, the phrasing and articulation of his speech seeming neither quite like himself speaking aloud, nor truly like that of Jonah Magnus himself. The words flowed out rhythmically, regularly, less like regular speech and more like... a chant? An incantation of some sort?

The words had to have been planned in advance, they flowed too well to be made up on the spot, but Jonah never stumbled, never hesitated in his speech. If it was memorized, it was memorized perfectly.

Jon thought he heard some kind of background noise start up--soft and high pitched, like his ears were ringing--but he might have been imagining it. (He certainly hoped that he was merely imagining it.)

“Come to us in your wholeness. Come to us in your perfection.”

Not words Jon himself would use to describe the Eye, not from what he knew of it (and he knew too much, Knew too much), but perhaps from Jonah Magnus’ twisted point of view it would seem more accurate...

“Bring all that is fear and all that is terror and all that is the awful dread that crawls and chokes and blinds and falls and twists and leaves and hides and weaves and burns and hunts and rips and leads and dies!”

The upside to not being in control here, not being the one actually speaking the words (even as they echoed through his head, came out of his mouth in his voice), was that Jon was free to sit back and analyze what it was he was actually saying.

His thoughts that this was simply the Watcher’s Crown, the Eye ritual incarnate, seemed well and truly disproven by midway through that particular sentence. All the fears, then? The connections between some of the wording and some of the fears seemed clear enough, though he wasn’t able to do a 1-to-1 match-up on the fly. Or a combination of the two, a ritual guided by the Eye but including all the other fears as well?

Jon’s suspicions that this ritual had been planned a bit more carefully than all the rest, that it might well work where the others had universally failed, grew.

“Come to us.”

It was, perhaps, a minor miracle that Jon wasn’t out of breath yet. He’d done chants and speeches and the like before, in his band in uni if nothing else, but he wouldn’t have guessed that his lung capacity was still up to the task all these years later. Apparently, he could still do an invocation...

“I... OPEN... THE DOOR!”

Jon’s mind went back instinctively to his first ever experience with the supernatural, to another door which was opened whether he wanted it or not. Here, too, that choice was denied to him. He hadn’t bothered struggling during this long speech, though perhaps if things were different he might have; Jon had already given up on that end of things, had begun to accept that he wasn’t regaining control of his own body that easily.

There was some sort of static, a strange hiss, and then... nothing.

Jon wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but it wasn’t the eerie silence that followed, the only sign that anything had changed being a slight pins-and-needles sensation in his hands.

He ran over to the window, which showed the idyllic scenery of the Scottish Highlands, undisturbed by whatever Jonah Magnus had just tried to pull inside. It was, Jon noted distantly, a beautiful day out.

Was that supposed to do something?

Jon’s body started pacing back and forth, but Jonah didn’t say anything, either out loud or in his head.

This wasn’t how this was supposed to go, was it?

Still no response, but as he walked aimlessly around the room, that wide grin on his face quickly fading, Jon grew more and more certain that whatever Jonah had planned to accomplish with that grand speech, it hadn’t happened and wasn’t going to happen. Something had gone wrong. Just like all the rituals before it, something had gone wrong somewhere along the line.

Though Jonah kept pacing, the speed slowly increasing as he ran his hands through his hair and massaged his temple, his evident aggravation was matched in turn by Jon’s amusement at how his plot had evidently gone very much wrong--or, perhaps, depending on one’s perspective, it had gone very much right.

[theangriestpea]

In the Shadows : Seven

Summary: Jughead Jones, resident werewolf, just wants to protect his family and his pack from the incoming doom of The Red Circle. Sweet Pea and Lily join him to help keep the Southside safe from human tyranny. Meanwhile a demon princess named Myra and succubus named Lavender had a plan to bring on the apocalypse. <ao3> <masterlist> <playlist>

Rating: Mature // Explicit

Pairings: Jughead Jones x OC, Sweet Pea x OC, Kurtz x OC

Warnings: Depictions of violence, (very) minor character death

Word Count: 5k+

A/N:  This chapter felt a bit forced on my end and I apologize for that. Some much needed plot things had to happen and they were, quite frankly, a bore to write except the last scene. That I did have fun with. This chapter has a few warnings, please be mindful of them. Check out my release schedule for upcoming works!

Part Seven: Protection 

Lavender awoke to a new series of hot pain. Her eyes snapped open abruptly and she let out a startled cry only to find Sweet Pea hanging over her. He had been putting the burn salve onto her hand print shaped wound. He said nothing as she struggled to sit up in the bed, tired of laying down. “A little warning would have been nice.” She hissed at him angrily.

Sweet Pea resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Instead his gaze bared down on her. “Do you want her?”

Confusion washed over the demon’s face, “what are you talking about? Do I want who?”

“Our daughter.” He said, voice devoid of any emotion. She really had no idea what brought this on because he himself showed no interest in the unborn child within her womb.

Lav’s hand went to her stomach, her palm placed flat against it. She was looking down and visualizing the aura of the spell that continued to protect her. Somehow she had forgotten all about the pain in her shoulder with this new oncoming conversation. Did she want her?

“I do.” The succubus finally said in a small and defeated voice. “You have no idea what it’s doing to me knowing that she will be ripped from my arms as soon as she is born.” A single clear tear slipped down her cheeks that were stained from the blacks ones she had produced earlier. It looked as if she had cried off an entire tube of mascara. “I’m not all demon, you know. I’ve got half of a human heart still in me.”

Sweet Pea sat down on the edge of the bed, his back to her as he ran a hand through his hair. He let out a tired sigh, having not gotten much sleep that night….or any night since his soul departed his corporal form. Being reminded that she was a hybrid was a bit sobering to him. He supposed she did have human feelings after all.

“Why does she want the child?” Sweet Pea asked, having a feeling that he wasn’t going to get a direct answer. He was right.

Lav tensed at his question. “I am not at liberty to stay.” She stammered, not wanting to anger him when she was really too weak to fend for herself. This wasn’t like back in the storeroom of the Wyrm when she had the necessary power to flip the dynamics if she needed to. She was at a clear disadvantage.

He scoffed at her reply, figuring she would say something of the sort. “Would you fight to keep her? Or do you want to be a slut slave forever?”

She frowned at the back of his head, feeling the urge to push him off the bed with her last remaining willpower. Instead she gripped the sheets tightly in her hands. “I was tricked into slavery, you asshole of a human. I didn’t choose this. Of course I would fight to keep her but Myra...Myra could bind me to hell and make me the sex slave of any demon that wanted to purchase me at the snap of her fingers. Where I’d be starved until I was driven mad. Used in whatever way they wished. Despite what you think, my consent does matter in what I let you do to me. It doesn’t to other demons. I’m strong compared to anyone on Earth but not in hell.”

Lav struggled to get out of bed, having to hold onto the wall. She was so hungry that it hurt. “You think what happened at that shitty bar between us was some kind of revenge fuck against me? It was me having a bit of fun, Sweet Pea. I can make you do all kinds of things because at the end of the day you’re still nothing but a human.”

Sweet Pea stood, an angry breath huffing out through his flared nostrils. “You’re incredibly naive if you think that other demon will take any kind of care of our child. Demons don’t raise children. Your mother didn’t raise you. She abandoned you. Myra, whoever the fuck that is, will do the same. She’ll use her and then toss her into the trash. And where will you be? Still grovelling at her feet? You’re fucking pathetic. You say you have power but you have no power at all. You’re just a puppet.”

Her knees shook under her weight as her own rage surged at his words. She was just a puppet for Myra’s bidding, but that wasn’t at all what she wanted to be. Before she had wanted her freedom more than anything in the entire world. Now...now all she wanted was to raise her baby in peace. “What do you suggest I do then?” She asked, her voice no longer harsh and rigid. It was frail under the complexity of the situation, threatening to crumble with her mind at any moment.

“After I get my soul back, we will find a way to free you from your demon.” Sweet Pea said, moving closer to her, “and we’ll co parent like Lily and I do with Daisy. I’m not going to just throw my child away, even if someone like you is the mother.”

Someone like me, Lav pondered the ache in her heart at the sentiment. Was she really that bad? She figured to someone like Sweet Pea, she was. He grabbed her by the upper arms, pulling her up straight and baring her weight within his grip so she could finally stand properly. “If you’re right, if that dumb ass wolf is her soulmate, then Lily is going to be the most powerful witch in this shitty town. No one will be able to stop her, not even a demon. She can free you from whatever contract you’re bound under. She can protect us all.”

The succubus stared at him, exhaustion evident in her hazel eyes. “Would she do that? For me?”

“No.” Sweet Pea corrected, “She’ll do it for me.”

+++

It was mere hours before the full moon would rise and Jughead was anxiously pacing outside of the small cottage in Fox Forest. His pack was already within the woods, seeking shelter as they knew the threat would come closer and closer with the falling sun.

Lily, Sweet Pea, and Lavender were inside, sitting around a sigil painted onto the floor with various crystals and herbs placed strategically inside their circle of bodies. They were holding hands, their magical energies meshing together.

“Your wolf is ruining my concentration.” Sweet Pea grumbled angrily as they could all three hear him ranting his worries to himself just outside the door. He didn’t want them to see him change. It was not a pleasant sight and it was something he wished to keep to himself. But, the boxer clad werewolf was making way too much noise.

The white witch let out a small sigh as she broke their circle to go to him. She opened the door, closing it behind her as she approached him, “Juggie. Come here.”

“Lils, you should be getting ready for the spell, what are you-” She pulled him down for a kiss before he could continue. Jughead immediately stopped and kissed her back with great care.

Lily pulled away, “Calm down. We can’t concentrate with you out here cursing at all the Archie Andrews’ in the world. It will be fine. We have enough power between the three of us to protect everyone easily.”

He sighed, “I’m sorry. I’ll just...take a seat and wait. I didn’t realize I was being that loud.”

She smiled at him softly, fingers brushing the hair from in front of his eyes. “I know. It’s okay, just relax. We’ll take care of this. Everyone will be okay come sunrise, I promise. I should warn you though, it’s going to rain. Hard.”

“That’s fine as long as you don’t mind wet dog smell.” Jughead said. Although it came off sounding like a joke he was being totally serious. Lily chuckled at him before releasing him and going back inside.

Sweet Pea had a disgusted look on his face while Lavender was smiling brightly. Lily pretended not to notice either of them as she sat back down and held out her hands for them to grab.

Once their energies were well in sync again, Lily began to chant. They would have to hold this spell for several hours for it to be strong enough to last all night. It would also take an enormous amount of energy from all of them but Lavender had brought some kind of powder with her to take once they were done. She wouldn’t say what it was, but Lily had an inkling of what it could be.

Time passed and an unseen aura filled the forest through the veins of the trees. Only those with magical abilities could see the faint green glow on the thriving plants. The dense foliage was alight with a protective magic so strong that it was unprecedented in the history of Riverdale. Light and dark create such a bond that it cannot be broken.

While they were performing the spell, Jughead and the rest of the Southside wolves had turned into their truest form and were doing their monthly run of the woods. All but one ran in large groups for added protection. All but Jughead Jones, heir to the Jones pack, and the dark to Lily’s light. She had sent him on a special quest of his own. One that was important for him to complete if it was at all possible.

The rain came down so hard that the canopy of the trees provided minimal cover. The downpour came in waves, gentle thunder rolling in the background. On the edge of the forest, in the torrential rains were a band of humans led by one with fiery red hair. The Red Circle had arrived and the group were more on edge than ever as howl after howl joined the melodious sounds of the storm.

They attempted to pour the accelerant, but the rain washed it all away. The wind put out their flames as soon as they ignited. They tried for hours, waiting for the storm to subside but alas it only grew stronger with each passing minute. It was no use. The wolves would not perish on this night and the growling amongst the brush had them afraid for their lives. Sure they had their silver bullets but were any of them that great of a shot? Silver bullets were weighted differently, they shot differently, and there wasn’t enough ammo to practice with for anyone to become accurate in firing it. And no one wanted to put themselves at point blank with a werewolf. Not even the fearless Archie Andrews himself.

When the moon reached its zenith, the two and a half witches finally broke the circle. Lily’s energy was low but she was perhaps in the best shape of the three of them. Sweet Pea nearly passed out where he sat on the floor, barely able to keep his eyes open.

“Lily, may I trouble you for some hot water?” Lav asked as she picked up the vile of white powder from the floor. “I can’t even begin to describe how fucking hungry I am after that. If I could go out there then I’d take every last soul from that idiotic Circle of humans and still need more.”

Lily smiled as she stood. “Sure. I think we could all use some tea.” She gave Sweet Pea a sideways glance that he couldn’t quite decipher other than smugness at her remaining strength.

Lavender yawned. She was finally starting to feel the telltale signs of human pregnancy. Mornings were the worst in terms of sickness. All she wanted to do was sleep but she had to eat. She had to feed or Myra would force her to feed. The concoction she had created that was currently in Lav’s hand would do in a pinch, however it was incredibly difficult to make. It required...sacrifice. One that did not sit well with the demon.

She managed to stand and make her way to the couch, sitting down with a loud plop as she waited. Lily brought her the steaming mug and Lav carefully added about half the vile of powder. Tendrils of purple steam rose up from the water, curling with the air before disappearing forever. Lav drank and she drank hungrily.

Both witches watched her, wondering what kind of potion she had just consumed. Sweet Pea was a tad more interested as he was the acclaimed potions expert of the two. He always loved to learn more about new brews, especially unearthly ones. “What is it?” He asked, his curiosity beating his general distaste for her. Well, what he thought was distaste. It was actually just resistance to the fact that they were tied by fate.

“Souls.” Lav said, decided to be honest. “Concentrated souls. Tastes terrible and is most certainly not ethically sourced. I prefer not to resort to it but when I get too hungry Myra likes to pop in and see what exactly it is I’m doing. Obviously we do not want her here, especially after she forbade me from being in the presences of either of you.”

Sweet Pea looked at Lily who was attempting to hide her frown behind her cup of tea. He saw it but the succubus did not. “What do you mean, not ethically sourced. What soul is?”

“I don’t feed on innocent souls.” Lavender said, waving her hand in the air as if she was batting away the accusation that she did. “Full blooded succubae enjoy that, sure. But they were never human. I was a human for nineteen years. That’s why I don’t feed on children, or virgins, or people who have simply lived their lives without doing anything wrong. The list is far smaller than you’d think.”

“So the souls used to make that were from innocent people?” Lily asked, her displeasure showing.

Lav sighed, “which is exactly why I don’t like taking it but it can’t be helped. Myra can’t kill Lily but she can kill every other mortal in this house. Obviously that is worse than me consuming innocence this one time….”

Sweet Pea immediately went on the defensive, “It’s fine, Lily. She’s just keeping Daisy safe.” He didn’t care about himself dying. His soul was already in hell. All he cared about now was his daughter and her safety. Even without a soul he could not forsake her. Which is why a part of him could not forsake the demon in front of him either, as much as he wanted to.

The shorter witch relaxed, if only but a fraction. “Why use an innocent soul? Why not a soul from hell already?” She asked, her voice soft now.

“Because they’re not as strong. One innocent soul is more filling than a handful of damned ones. Myra wants me to feed on the innocent but I refuse. So far she has not forced me to drop my normal feeding habits, but I fear she will the farther along I get.” Lav paused, about to continue when Sweet Pea interrupted her.

“That is why we are freeing you after I get my soul back.” He said sharply. “So you can stop being some demon’s personal incubator.”

Lily nodded her head in agreement, “I should have enough power to break whatever bond you two have. It won’t be easy but it’s not impossible.”

Lav stared at her, wondering if she was truly powerful enough. “If you fail. She will kill everyone you’ve ever loved. Including Jughead. For some reason she can’t kill you but she’ll do something much worse.”

“That is the risk I’m willing to take.” Lily replied stubbornly. She was not about to lose in a battle of wills to some demon princess.

Deep in the forest, Jughead was trying to follow a quickly fading scent trail. The rain was making it incredibly difficult as it would wash away within moments. Luckily he was close enough that time was on his side. He crept through a cluster of bushes, listening to the sounds of teeth gnawing on flesh and bone.

He broke through the thicket and saw the large white wolf with matted fur feasting on a dead deer. The buck’s black eyes seemed to be staring right at the Jones wolf, daring him to make his presence known.

The vargulf was getting sicker. He smelled much worse than he had before, like a wolf knocking on death’s door. While he wasn’t necessarily weaker, his wits wouldn’t be about him as they once had been. Fighting him could easily be a fight to the death and currently Jughead was unsure if that was one he could win.

Despite the clear disadvantage, he knew what he had to do. The vargulf had attacked Lily twice now and it was prowling the trailer park more and more, probably due to Lily spending more time at his trailer. The wolf didn’t seem to recognize her when she was in her feline form. This had been her saving grace thus far.

Jug crept further from the safety of the brush. Once he was completely in the clearing, he put his weight back on his haunches before leaping forward with his mouth open to hopefully clamp down on a vital spot.

Before he could land the blow, the white wolf turned. His muzzle and chest were dyed red from the blood of the deer. He swiftly avoided the attack, quickly turning to launch his own.

Teeth and fangs clashed, claws ripped at weak folds of skin that gave way to blood. They were both strong but in the end only one was stronger...Jughead stood, the throat of the vargulf in his jaws. His grip was vice but it was not deadly. He did not want to kill despite how this wolf’s death would solve so many of their problems. No, in the end Jughead Jones just wasn’t going to be reborn a killer on this night. Instead he chose mercy.

There was a way they could save him, and that thought alone is what kept Jughead from snapping his jowls shut and thrashing his head to tear out the innards of the white wolf’s throat. The deepest, darkest part of him wanted this creature to perish. That part of him did not win on this full moon. Despite being so incredibly far from humanity at this moment, he did something that was perhaps more human than anything. He dropped the flesh from his mouth and watched as the vargulf scrambled to his feet before running away.

Lightning crackled above and the rain washed away most of the blood. He bent down and observed a long gash on his right foreleg. The taste of blood was thick on his tongue, however none of it was his own. He needed it for Lily so she could track the vargulf with magic.

As the moon began to set, Jughead limped back to the cottage. Once he was a few paces away, Lily threw open the door and ran to him, throwing her arms around him in a tight hug, uncaring if she got drenched in the process. “I was so worried,” She murmured to him as her residual magic began to heal his wounds through touch alone. “I could feel every bite, every scratch. I knew you’d win but it still hurt.”

Let’s go inside. Jughead coaxed using their touch to push his thoughts into her. It’s still not safe to be out here.

Lily smiled, unafraid of the impending dangers of inside the forest. She stood and took him inside. “Come to my room so I can collect the blood. And when you change back in a few hours, I’m going to need a recharge.”

Sweet Pea elected to drive Lavender home as he did not want to listen to Lily “recharge”. He himself could use a boost but he found that the demon that usually had no qualms in tempting him into her embrace had been giving him the iciest cold shoulder he had ever received. He knew he had done plenty wrong but he still wasn’t sure why she changed seemingly overnight. After all, she did enjoy sex with him before so why wouldn’t she now?

Lavender was clicking her stiletto nails on the armrest. She could sense his desire and while she did crave the kind of pleasure that only he could give her, she knew she had to resist. Myra would know and the punishment would be greater than just the burning of hellfire on her skin.

“When are we going to tell Lily the truth?” She asked, breaking the silence between them. “Or does she already know?”

Sweet Pea’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. “Later. It can wait.”

Lav turned her head to look at him, “why not just confess? Are you worried she won’t help if she knows that you knocked up another woman during a one night stand?”

He grit his teeth. In fact, that had been the exact reason why he had chosen to omit the detail that he was actually the father of the hybrid growing within the demon. He honestly was not sure how Lily would take the news. If she would finally throw him out for good or not.

“Because she doesn’t need to know right now.” He said, “She needs to concentrate on getting my soul back.”

She rolled her eyes as he stopped outside of her house. After exiting she poked her head back in, “even when you get your soul back, will you be able to handle the weight of the guilt of what you’ve done? Think about it, troll brain, you won’t be able to escape those emotions you feel when you sleep at night. She will not be able to heal the damage done to your soul.”

Lav slammed the car door before going inside, hoping she could change before a very early morning meal.

On the edge of Fox Forest, a heap of mangled fur lay only moving with the flow of labored breaths. The demon princess Myra appeared, falling to her knees and cradling the head of the white vargulf of her own creation in her arms. “My love,” She whispered sadly, “I did this to you. I am so sorry.”

The wolf whined and tried to stand, however his weakness did not allow him to. He simply laid limp in her lap, bleeding out from the wounds Jughead had given him mere hours before. She could heal his flesh wounds but that was about it. His mind and the disease that plagued him...that she could not fix. Not with all the black magic in the world. What she needed was white. Pure white magic. Her tainted love was simply not enough.

After muttering an incantation, Myra was able to reduce his size enough for her to pick him up comfortably, cradling him in her arms as she took him to the closest place she knew. Sunnyside trailer park. The sun was rising but he would not change until she allowed him to. This form she could carry much easier than his human one.

She transported the both of them to the master bathroom as it had a garden tub that would be better suited for soaking him. Lavender had been in her room, adjusting her appearance so that she was blonde. Using makeup and magic to make fake wounds on her as if she’d been attacked. She planned on going after one of those idiot men in The Red Circle. Killing them off one by one would save them a lot of trouble in the future.

She smelled them before she saw them. Kurtz had begun to smell like rotting flesh long before now, but the rain had made it much much worse. Now his scent was worse than roadkill and she had no idea how Myra was going to fix him. She could sense her master’s distress, and was unsure if it was wise for her to check in on them.

“Myra?” Lav called out, appearing in the doorway. Kurtz was in the tub, human and naked now. He was covered in deep wounds that were slowly closing thanks to Myra’s magic. His lips were moving but no sound was coming out as his head lulled to the side.

“Go eat,” Myra hissed at her, hiding her despair with anger, “I don’t have time to deal with you right now.”

The succubus held in a sigh as she put on a pair of Jimmy Choo heels and walked out to find her next victim. Whatever soul she chose, she knew it would never compare to the one she took from her warlock on that night. She was beginning to feel the startings of her morning sickness but ignored it as she set out for breakfast. She realized how much she missed Charlie’s company, but had to tell the wolf to keep her distance for the time being. She didn’t want Myra to kill the one person in all the world who might actually be her friend.

“Kurtz,” Myra whispered as she gently cleaned his face with a washcloth. “Kurtz, please wake up. I need you to wake up now. It’s over. The sun is rising.” Black tears streamed down her pale face.

The man who was once nothing more than a human, opened his light brown eyes to gaze at her. Black rings of exhaustion circled them, making him look more like a raccoon than anything. The holes around his neck caused by teeth were healing, the bruised tissues returning to a more natural color. “What is happening to me?” He said in a struggling exhale. Speaking took more energy than he had at the moment.

She tried to smile, did her damnedest to, but it faltered and fell. “You are sick, my love.” She murmured to him. He had no idea what he was. All he knew was that time would pass and he’d have no memory of it. He’d wake covered in blood, unaware of the death and destruction he had brought. As the weeks went by he lost more and more time. Soon, he feared, there would be nothing but darkness.

“I will get you help, Kurtz.” She murmured, kissing his forehead, “I promise you will be whole once again and no more harm will ever come to you.

+++

“Help!” Lav cried out as she stumbled towards the group, holding one bloodied arm in her hand. “Please, someone help me!”

A tall, buff human man ran to her first as others gasped in shock. “You’re safe now, come on, we’ll protect you.” He would have taken his letterman jacket off and given it to her but it was soaking wet. The blonde wept in his arms, large crocodile tears rolling down her face as he had to carry her to get her to keep up.

“What happened?” Archie asked as his right hand man, Reggie Mantle, came closer with the crying girl in his arms. “Miss, did a wolf attack you?”

“It was a crazy white one, I thought it was going to kill me!” She wailed dramatically as she clung to Reggie, “please, I don’t want to be alone.” With her touch she traced the base of his neck where the collar of his shirt started, forcing her will into him. He wouldn’t be able to resist taking her home.

“You want to stay with me for a bit? You look like you could use some sleep.” He said, body tensing with desire. “I’ll keep you safe.”

“Thank you, thank you so much.” Lav cried, hugging him close and hiding the wicked grin that was spreading across her pink lips.

Once at his apartment, one thing very quickly turned into another. They were kissing passionately on his couch after he made her a cup of coffee that was quickly forgotten. His moves were sloppy and she felt like he was slobbering all of her instead of making out with her. Normally she found fun in the hunt but tonight the guilt of knowing she was hiding a dark secret from Lily was plaguing her.

Clothes were ripped off one another, their naked forms bumping and grinding until he hit his release fairly quickly after entering her. Since having sex with Sweet Pea, all of her little rendezvous with others seemed to fall so very...short. She took very little pleasure in any of this.

As he came she drank in his soul and shifted into her demonic form. Before Reggie could even scream, she was digging into his chest with her claws and ripping his heart out. She remained straddling his corpse as she took a large bite from the organ, savoring the taste of all the misdeeds he had done. At least it was one less idiotic brute to have to worry about.

Lav got off of him, standing and stretching as she found her phone tucked away inside the dress that had been so carelessly taken off her form. She dialed a number, sure that he and Lily would be done for the time being.

“Lavie?” He looked at the time and she heard him groan, “what is it?”

“Do you remember our deal, Jughead?” She asked, putting on a voice full of false innocence.

“You need me to do that now?” He asked, and she could tell how tired he was. It almost made her feel bad. Almost.

Lav was smiling as she made her way into the bathroom of the apartment. “Send some dogs over, it’ll be fine. Just make sure no one sees them. This one was….how do you say it...a VIP?”

The line went silent for a moment. “Who did you kill, Lavender?” Jughead asked, his voice suddenly serious.

She cut on the water, putting it on the hottest setting. “Some meathead named Reggie Mantle. You know, The Red Circle was so willing to help a girl in need. I just simply couldn’t help myself.”

“Lavender…” Jughead said, breathing out an angry sigh, “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

The demon hung up the phone, placed it on the sink basin and stepped into the shower having never been more pleased with herself in her entire life as she was in this exact moment.

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Beyond this Existence: Atonement, chapter 9

Ansem always had a penchant for strays, so it's not at all surprising when he takes in the orphaned child Ienzo. The boy's presence changes everything, far more than Even is willing to admit. Ienzo's brilliance seems promising, but the arrival of a young Xehanort pushes the apprentices onto a dark, cruel, inhumane path which will affect the future of the World. And even once it's all over with--once Xehanort is dead--they still must pick up the pieces, forgive one another, find a way to atone for their atrocities, and struggle to accept the humanity which has been thrust upon them.

Or: Even's journey from BBS through post-KH3

Chapter summary:  The revelation of Ienzo's relationship with Demyx throws Even badly, forcing him to confront his humanity and the past.

Read it on FF.net/ on AO3

---

Uselessly, Even sits, trying to come to terms with… all that. He’s feeling dizzy himself, and he honestly cannot tell if it’s his actual physical condition or not.

The boy’s health matters above all. Ansem must be given a stern talking-to, though doubtless he’s so used to overworking himself that he wouldn’t have noticed anything undue in Ienzo.

Ienzo. Oh, child, what are you getting yourself into? Of course, now that he’s no longer a Nobody, odds were he would have come to these feelings sooner or later--it’s only natural--but he’s so emotionally immature that something like this would only end poorly. And is Demyx even capable of giving the boy what he needs--an understanding of his mind and how it works? Intellectual stimulation?

Have they actually been working on a project, or have they instead--

Do not dwell on that.

Ienzo can’t handle heartbreak. Likely at the moment, neither of them can see the consequences facing them.

Even feels sick. It must’ve taken him hours to figure out why--time where he gives said troublemaker more fluids, more glucose, Demyx stubbornly refusing to meet his eyes all the while--but eventually… he does.

Ienzo is not a child. He’s grown now, and will surely have adult wants and needs (as much as it reviles him to think about). But so like a child, he’s not yet capable of understanding those needs. He’s probably never had to feel anything like this, doubling the trauma if things go south.

Even’s own son never got to grow up. He would be perpetually five, a ghost whispering in the background, fading more day by day.

This is uncharted territory. He does not know how to be of use.

Ansem needs to know--if anyone can convince that boy of anything, it’s him.

It feels odd, after all these years, to approach him first. Worse still, to find him at the computer at the hearth of their old lab. Knowing the genesis of all this is so close only makes him feel sicker. “Master. A word.”

His head snaps up, likely at Even’s odd tone. “Is something the matter?” Then, immediately. “Where’s Ienzo?”

“I have to talk to you about that.”

Ansem stands; and stumbles. Without thinking, Even grasps him to keep him upright.

“You need rest,” he says.

“I… am aware. And I shall. But first you must tell me what’s going on. I’m not fond of this new flair for the dramatic you have, Even.”

“I’m only as dramatic as the lot of you,” he spits. “Come. I’ll take you back to your quarters.”

He knows he’s been here recently, but only with the others; seeing it on his own gives him a new perspective. He’s spent so many hours here, over the years--arguing, brainstorming, simply conversing with someone at his level. He feels something like… nostalgia? Bittersweetness? He plies Ansem with water, sinks onto one of the chintz chairs. To Ansem’s tired eyes he explains, “Ienzo’s very unwell.”

“I know you’re concerned about his mental state, as am I--”

He scowls. “I mean the boy collapsed, Ansem.”

Perhaps it’s the use of his first name, but Ansem just blinks. “Is he--”

Even stands and begins pacing. “Where to even begin? Dehydrated as a desert--blood pressure of the dead. Had such a bad nosebleed it looked like something out of a tawdry horror novel. His heart was starting to palpitate--likely if this continued for any longer, he might’ve--” He stops cold, his anger cooling. “It’s lucky he was not alone when it happened.”

“But is he--”

“Stable. Asleep. I gave him a very mild tranquilizer to calm him down, and his body will take care of the rest.” He crosses his arms tightly. “This has to stop. I know you desperately want to be close with him again, but simply indulging the boy won’t do any good. It’s going to take--more work.”

Ansem has turned very pale. He holds his glass of water tightly.

He takes a deep breath. “There’s something else you have to know.”

“...Which is?”

“Demyx and Ienzo’s liaison--”

“ You’re going to fault them for finding friends in one another?”

“--it’s more than just that. They’re…” He can’t bring himself to say the word.

Ansem gets it. “...Oh. Well.”

“There’s no way this can end well. The boy’s gone through so much--both of them, actually--can he really take much more?”

“I’m afraid you know them both better than I do.” He sighs heavily, swills the water around in his glass. “I know you want to protect him, Even.”

He feels weak, tired now.

“I am not happy about it either. But he also… has to be given the space to make his own decisions.”

“They both have trauma they haven’t come to terms with--Ienzo doesn’t--he’s never had to feel such things. I’m afraid--”

“I know, Even. And it’s touching you care so much--for a moment I almost saw the old you.”

He can’t stop himself from admitting, “I feel as if I never have enough time--and yet I’m also doing nothing more useful than waffling. Which I suppose… is all I ever did.” The realization saps the strength from him. “Hiding behind my research… foolish, prideful, passive. I… All I’ve ever done is hurt people--especially those I considered the most dear.”

Slowly Ansem says, “I wonder why it is you feel this now.”

He rests his face against his palm for a moment. He feels overwhelmed, on the verge of dissolving. Remorse closes a fist around his heart, making it almost impossible to breathe. He stands, feeling the ground pitch a little--a sear of pain cuts through his chest. Before he loses consciousness he realizes this is exactly how the boy felt.

---

It hurts to breathe. “Easy. Steady, now.” He’s eased carefully into a sitting position. He wonders if he hit his head on the way down; a splitting ache makes the light hurt. He gasps a little, pressing a hand against his brow. “Are you alright?” Ansem asks.

“Clearly not,” he spits. “All along I thought…”

“What?”

“That the boy was being dramatic…”

“Ienzo?”

“Demyx.” He takes his weight back from Ansem. He’s on the study floor. “It is exquisitely painful.”

“What is?”

One pinch of pain and all of a sudden he’s revealing things he shouldn’t. “You know very well our hearts are not yet whole,” he says. “All these fainting spells on his part… I guess I’m not an outlier.”

“So you were feeling.”

“As if one can make it stop.” He takes his own pulse. Surely enough, it’s racing. “Damnit…”

“You’re not well either, are you?” Ansem asks gently. Even can’t read his expression either. “I thought you were self-aware enough to understand hypocrisy.”

The surge of anger he feels brings the pain back, but he stays conscious. “The only thing that is certain is that I truly understand nothing. ” He tries to stand, stumbles.

“...You should not go anywhere in this state.”

“I’ll be fine.” He sounds breathy, and can’t fight Ansem when the man sits him gently on the loveseat.

Even can feel it coming; he shivers. And the last thing he needs is Ansem to witness him like this.

“Are you cold?”

If anything, he’s sweating. But he admits in a pathetic voice, “Yes.”

Ansem drapes a blanket around his shoulders, one that smells vaguely musty. Even keeps his eyes on the floor, fighting the rising tide inside of him. It’s going to happen whether you want it to or not. “You struggle,” Ansem says quietly.

Even can feel the cutting retort on his tongue, but it’s like flash paper, gone in an instant. “Don’t you?” Then the words are spilling out of him like he truly is some kind of puppet. “How do you do it? Just--go back to the way things were? How can you bear to look at me? At us ? Why are you letting us stay here? Aren’t you angry?”

His expression is curiously neutral, diplomatic. He may be king no longer, but he’s dusted off the mask. “The situation is rather complicated. I’m horrified at what you’ve done. But Even, you’ve been my friend for thirty-five years. As though I can forget that at all. Nor does it make it easier to see you like this.”

“Some friend I was, to let this happen.”

“You cannot ignore the truth of Xehanort’s manipulation. Of the darkness.”

“...The darkness merely brought out the truest parts of myself.”

Ansem flinches. “It… does.”

They hold eye contact for a long, long time. Ansem breaks the silence first.

“I believed Heartless… Nobodies… all of your discoveries were abominations. That they needed elimination. Even those with sentience were just… tools I used in my vain attempt at revenge.” His hands are both outstretched. “Much like you… I gave myself a new name… covered myself in a new garb… and hid behind my so-called work, claiming good intentions.” He looks back at Even. “We’re not different, Even. Had I been in your shoes, on the ground with Xehanort… who knows what I have done? And were you in mine… would you have been able to stop me?”

The tide threatens to choke him now.

“Maybe we can’t find forgiveness in each other. Maybe we’re not meant to. But to… forsake one another is not much better.”

He gasps out one sob, clapping a hand over his mouth.

“If you don’t allow yourself to feel, Even, you can never hope to be any better.”

How truly odd a mental breakdown is, he thinks. He feels almost as if he is watching himself, a shaking, weeping wreck. Simultaneously numb and in agony at the same time. This must be how Ienzo felt, while Even was recovering from his wounds; overwhelmed, uncontrollable, utterly weak.

“Don’t fight it,” Ansem says. “Just let it be.”

More painful yet, to be consoled by him. “I betrayed you--and all you stood for. I betrayed… Ienzo . He said he wouldn’t touch the boy. Why did I ever--”

Ansem frowns. “Xehanort?”

He’s said too  much. Even feels how tightly he’s curled up, face parallel with the ground. “Who else? But he… he felt no… anxiety, no overstimulation. Now I’m afraid--” Afraid of what?

Perhaps, simply, afraid.

He sits up. Ansem offers him a clean handkerchief, a glass of water. “I should like to go see Ienzo myself,” he says softly. “You stay here as long as you need.”

Of course Even leaves as soon as Ansem’s out of earshot. He’s beyond humiliated.The fever, brief as it was, has left an unpleasant film along his skin, and so he bathes, winching as he brushes scars, the strange numbness and hypersensitivity.

The towel he’s draped over the mirror has fallen; he sees himself. His skin is a patchwork. From his collarbones all the way to his feet, brittle scars cover him.

It’s no less than what you deserve.

He dresses and falls into a restless sleep.

---

For a while he feels numb. Even sleeps a lot; it seems like his strings have snapped, and he can’t move. He can’t tell if he’s merely just exhausted, or if this is his depression worsening. He considers pharmaceuticals; but when he checks his stock, he finds everything expired. Figures.

He decides he must go to the marketplace, to get some supplies. See what he can find.

“Where have you been?” Dilan asks. “Feel like I haven’t seen your mug in some time.”

“I’m afraid I was feeling rather ill,” Even tells him. It’s the truth, at least partially. “I fear I wasn’t taking adequate care of myself, and needed rest. Ienzo’s collapse was something of a wakeup call.” Despite his sweater, and coat, he’s shivering, and he isn’t even outside. Is this because his BMI is too low? Or is he merely unused to feeling the cold anymore, after being Vexen?

“Yes.” Dilan sneers. “I’ve heard about that.”

“Oh?”

“Impossible not to. They’ve been practically joined at the hip since last week.”

“...Have they.” He feels that swell of anger, of concern.

“It’s not all that surprising. This is just a flash in the pan; nothing more. Warm bodies, you know? That’s all I care to think on the matter.”

He feels another swell of disgust. “...I feel similarly.”

“Where are you going?”

“My supply of medication is expired. I need to seek out more--considering it seems I’m the one for such things now.”

“That woman Aerith is a healer. Perhaps you might get what you need from her.”

Even chuckles. “I’ll feel better with what��s proven.”

Dilan shrugs. “Would you mind particularly if I joined you?”

Why? Even nearly asks. “...If you must.”

It’s colder outside; more jarring. Even winces, adjusting the scarf at his throat. “I forgot about these winters,” Dilan says. “Say what you want about that godforsaken castle--at least it was well-insulated.”

“Those coats were rather warm, weren’t they,” Even mutters. But the thought of putting one on repulses him.

He chuckles. “No, I do not wish to be young,” he adds, shaking his head. “These things are… difficult enough as it is. I don’t know how either of them are sane.”

“Clearly, they aren’t.” I don’t feel much better off. “But if Ienzo wants to get hurt… well, I’m to let him make his own decisions, aren’t I?”

“He is twenty,” Dilan points out. “It was bound to happen sometime.”

“I’m not sure if you agree, but I… feel so very odd, being here.”

His expression darkens. “Yes,” he says. “But where else would we go? And--what else would we do?”

"I can't tell you. I feel as though…" He trails off.

"You've no idea where to begin?" Dilan offers.

"...Indeed."

"I can… tell. Even, my old friend. Please do not take offense. But whenever I've seen you recently… you seem so besides yourself."

"I… am not offended." He smiles wryly. "I'm merely realizing the all-too-human costs of what we did."

Town is approaching. For their own protection, soon they will have to lower their voices.

"I've been rereading our Organization reports," Dilan says. "I didn't realize you had so many."

"I'm afraid with my… unseemly departure, close to a year is missing--arguably the most cataclysmic year."

"Isa left a relatively detailed record. You needn't worry too much." The frozen ground crunches a little under his feet. "All those Heartless that were made--that I made--the people who were killed because of it--"

Even touches his arm. "Peace," he says softly. "You and I… are much in the same boat." Streets begin blooming around them. "You have to forgive me, Dilan."

He raises his brows. "Oh?"

"That day in the cemetery… I've known you over twenty years, and yet I could not recall who you lost."

The memory softens his face. "I'm afraid I'm--frightfully sentimental," he murmurs. "I had a twin, once. I used to… visit her on our birthdays. She was quite young. The thought of having missed so many… put things into a sort of perspective. A human pain."

Even furrows his brows. "Oddly… it was my worry for another that helped me decide to atone. The bonds." He shakes his head.

"Ienzo." Not a question. "You always had a soft spot for the boy."

"I wonder often if he's the by-product of some parental instinct of mine."

"...A replacement for your son?" He thinks, fussing with his jacket cuffs.

"Perhaps."

"A heart has room to love more than one." He shrugs. "Though--essentially the boy is your son . "

"I'm sure if he heard that he'd disagree." Even stops cold.

Dilan frowns. "Even?"

"We've… betrayed him, the three of us. We…"

Dilan puts his hands on Even's shoulders. "I… know."

He swallows. "Let's finish this errand."

---

"Errant" is the right word for it.

Even sits at the desk in his quarters, a frightful numbness overtaking him in waves. He had no luck finding antidepressants; not that it could've cured him anyway. He's never felt quite this woeful. But every time he thinks he's understood it, he realizes more ugly truth.

I am irredeemable.

A gentle knock at his door. "Enter," he says tiredly.

It's Aeleus--Even breaths a small sigh of relief. "We've been invited to dinner," he says. "Up with Ansem. Ienzo's cooking."

His heart aches. "Oh… I… see."

"I can tell them if you're in the middle of something."

"I'll go. Better than subsisting off of toast."

Aeleus nods, but remains there. Even turns towards him in the chair.

"You've more to say."

"Why do you think the three of us grew apart?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Who? Myself, you, Dilan?"

"You, me… and the boy." He drops his eyes. "I was… reflecting on my time in Castle Oblivion. The three of us… all we basically did was argue with one another.”

“Until we all started dropping like flies, you mean?” Even asks. He sighs.

“I’m afraid to say I did not feel much for either of you.” He drops his eyes.

Even nods slowly. “I experienced much the same,” he admits. “The moment I became Vexen--the first time--I could feel that I had been ostracized from all I ever cared for. And in the moment, it was… liberating.”

“To not have to care?”

“...Yes.”

“It was,” he says softly. “Wasn’t it? But then again… to have those feelings back… it seems only right. Natural.”

Even can’t help but agree, despite the pain it’s causing him; his concern for the others is the only thing keeping him here. (In the castle? Or--)

Do not dwell on that.

“Shall we walk together, Even?” Aeleus asks.

“Of course. I admit.” He sneers a little. “I am curious to witness this trainwreck in motion.”

They set off. After a moment, Aeleus says, “I know you are worried for Ienzo’s heart,” Aeleus says. “I am too. But at the same time… if something makes him happy, however brief, are we justified in trying to take that from him?”

“He’s already so mentally fragile, I fear--”

“Aren’t you? Aren’t we all? Aren’t bonds supposed to help with all that?”

Even scowls, irritation rising in him. “Who knows,” he mutters. “I surely don’t, apparently.”

Aeleus, either stung or out of tact, lapses into silence.

It’s odd. The table has been set, neatly; he can see Ienzo conscious for the first time  since he’s collapsed, in civilian clothing, his skin a normal color again, bustling around the kitchen. Demyx hands him a serving platter. Even observes them warily, notes that Ansem and Dilan are doing the same; but neither boy seems to notice. Ienzo laughs at something Demyx says, a sound Even hasn’t heard in a long time (if ever?). Demyx looks at the boy with… something, something that isn’t quite lust, it’s much too soft.

Oh dear. It’s worse than he could’ve thought.

They settle in for dinner; Demyx sits in the spot that normally Even gravitates towards, unaware of the decorum. Nobody mentions this. Nobody talks about much of anything, actually, and for a while the only sounds come from the gentle scrapes of spoons against bowls. Demyx and Ienzo both keep their eyes on their plates.

Even can’t help himself. “I see you’re feeling well, Ienzo. What is it you’ve both done to keep yourselves busy?” He tries to keep his tone affable, but he sees the dangerous look in Ienzo’s eye and Demyx’s blush, only further confirming-- you’ll just torture yourself.

“Not much you’d find of interest, I’m afraid,” the boy explains. “Resting, mostly. We both were lacking winter things, so we’ve spent some time in town. That’s about all.”

“I am sure we’re all glad to see you back in good health,” Even says to him. “I just hope that this new development does not cloud your judgement going forward. To be young and… caught up in such matters, can no doubt impede your critical thinking. However natural it is.”

Ienzo sets down his teacup. He’s blushing, but the frustration in his voice is undeniable. “Clearly you have thought on the subject, and I appreciate your concern. But I feel as though I am just as able to take on my research as I ever were. Not that I have asked for your advice. Should you have more to say on the matter, please let us discuss it in private.” After a moment, “You needn’t worry about me anymore,” Ienzo says, a bit more gently. “I… I’m not the little boy I was.”

He shakes his head. “I will always worry about you,” he says. “After all, I’ve so much time to make up for.” It’s the most personal thing he’s said to him in some time.

He softens a little, but says no more. After a rather awkward silence, Demyx speaks. “Anyone want seconds?”

The boys remain around long enough to be polite; they do the dishes and take their leave ( do not think about what it is they’re going to do). Revulsion makes his stomach sour.

But Even finds it’s actually more awkward with them gone; without the drama of the relationship as a buffer, it’s the four of them together alone in a room for the first time since…

No, can’t be. Is it?

Since the last time they were all together in the basement.

Even considers excusing himself as well, but Ansem breaks the silence. “I believe we all are… concerned in our own ways,” he says slowly. He poured himself a glass of wine at the beginning of the dinner, one that is still untouched. “But it’s only right to allow the boys to be human. You’ve been rather defensive, Even.”

Dilan smirks. Even isn’t sure how much wine he’s had, if he’s drunk. “What was it you said? “I’ve so much time to make up for?” Rather softhearted now, aren’t you?”

“It’s what I have to hold onto,” Even admits, startled by his own candor. “Almost all else is lost.”

“We can’t pretend things didn’t happen,” Aeleus says. “Master, I…” He bows his head. “No apology I offer can ever be enough.”

What little humor Dilan’s found fades; he drops his eyes, twisting the ends of one of his braids. “Some code we were supposed to uphold,” he mutters.

“You’ve all separately come to me, in your own way. But truly… I am not an innocent victim, as you may suspect.” He chuckles. “You remember the man who called himself DiZ?”

“That thorn in our side?” Dilan asks, incredulous. “That was you ?”

Even knows this was what Ansem was alluding to, but still feels somewhat surprised. Despite himself, he laughs, too. “Never pictured you as a vigilante.”

“Anger was all I had keeping me going. This shouldn’t be a surprise--we’ve all spent too much time with darkness.”

“Was it revenge you desired?” Aeleus asks.

“Revenge… death… who knows?” He shrugs.

“We needed to be taken down,” Even says, to the floor. “Though sadly for you--all of us save Dilan were already gone before you put your plan in action.”

“I was after Xehanort-- Xemnas .” He sneers. “The fool. I sure felt something about him when I found him. I thought it was something good. I should’ve known what was going on the moment he arrived with darkness.”

“What’s the saying--“hindsight’s 20/20”?” Dilan shifts his weight a little.

“And I’m king no longer. I have no authority, no title… I’m merely a foolish old man, weighed down by memories of the past. Are we not all wretches?”

He’s right, but Even can still feel something like fury. “So what, are we to not even try?” he spits. “Are we just to--waste away here in this castle, sealing ourselves up and getting nothing done? Avoiding one another like the plague--and ourselves more?”

“What do you propose we do, then, Even, since you know so much more?” Dilan hisses. “Try to assist the townsfolk we’ve terrorized? How will that be of any use?”

“Retraumatizing,” Aeleus whispers, his eyes on his knees.

“You both have a valid point,” Ansem says. He seems unnervingly calm, but Even can see the tension in his jaw; the mask is back on. “To merely sit on our hands and do nothing would in and of itself be another atrocity. Yet… the landscape of this city has already been so scarred by what we’ve put in motion.”

“We?” Even asks, incredulous.

Ansem meets his eyes. Behind the cool diplomacy, Even can see something like fire. “You think I did not realize what could happen?” he asks. “Once you began studying the darkness, I’d heard by then it could change you, morph you into something… less. But I’ve known you all for years, handpicked you for your various specializations… I figured… no, they’re friends of mine, they should simply be better. I could’ve stopped it--instead I chose to sit behind my title, my supposed… power, over you. In every single aspect, I’ve failed.” He hasn’t raised his voice, in fact was quite soft spoken. But when he stops speaking, the silence is especially notable. “In a way we suit one another, do we not?” He’s addressing them all, but it’s Even’s gaze he holds. “Four grown men--intelligent, educated--and all we can wreak is havoc.”

He’s had enough. “I refuse to believe this is all we’re capable of.”

“How can you help anyone if you can’t even help yourself?” Ansem levels, and for the first time, despite the very calm cadence of his voice, can Even feel the depths of the anger the man has for him.

Very well.

Without another word, Even gets up and leaves.

Let them suffer together. They deserve it.

[eirian-houpe]

What the Actual Fuck! - Chapter 4

Fandom: Cobra (TV 2019), Once Upon a Time (TV)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Relationships: Belle (Once Upon a Time)/Robert Sutherland (Cobra)

Characters: Robert Sutherland (Cobra), Belle (Once Upon a Time), Neville (OC) Anna Marshall (Cobra)

Additional Tags: Angst, Betrayal, Extramarital Affairs, Politics, Drama, Eventual Smut, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Violence, Explicit Language, UST, Adding to this list when necessary

Summary: Prime Minister Robert Sutherland is feeling pressured, and isn't prepared to acquiesce to the repeated challenges from within his cabinet nor the wider circle of those around him.  He resorts to drastic measures to ascertain who can be trusted, turning to an 'old friend' to help him separate the wheat from the chaff. Said friend promises to send in his best operative to assist the PM, the trouble is the operative finds out more than Robert necessarily wants to know, and all this just as all hell is breaking loose around him; people hurt, Britain in chao and multiple deaths push him into making some hard hitting decisions in order to safeguard himself, the country, and the people he cares about.

Read more on AO3

[Chapter 1]  [Chapter 2]  [Chapter 3]

Chapter 4 - Press Call

Prime Minister Sutherland watched as his Chief of Staff sat on the other side of his desk taking notes. He didn’t say anything just yet… only watched, but there were some things he had on his mind, and he was damned if he was going to let her leave before he had satisfactory answers. Not that he was angry with her, just that he had… questions, and he didn’t like it.

She was dressed for the afternoon press conference; power dressing. It was form fitting, and v-necked but revealed little, cinched by a belt at her waist, and when she’d walked in he noticed her shoes were also black and shone as though recently polished; a medium heel so as not to overshadow him - not that he cared. It took more than physical height in excess of his own to make him look small. The only splash of color she wore was a blue silk scarf tied carefully around her neck, its ends tucked in on itself. He wondered.

“What?” she asked without looking up.

“Hmm?” he made a sound of query as he snapped back to his office, to the piece of paper he had in front of him of which he hadn’t read a word, and the realization that he had been staring.

“You’ve been looking at me like fucking judge, jury and executioner for the past ten minutes, Robert,” she said. “If you’ve got something to say,” she finally looked up at him, “come on, out with it.”

He sat back in his chair, tapping his pen on the papers on his desk before he set it down and then asked bluntly, “Why wasn’t I informed of the change in staffing?”

“Staffing?” she echoed.

“My aide,” he said. “I heard that Dennis took emergency family leave, and I clearly have a new aide, so,” he spread his arms, “why wasn’t I informed; consulted, even.”

“Christ, Robert,” Anna said, “If we informed you on every single staff change in Number 10, you’d have to employ someone to run the country.”

“I’m not talking about every staff change, Anna. I’m talking about my aide. My aide, who is in and out of this office, sees to my needs, picks up the domestic slack - don’t you think that’s one staff change about which I should be consulted?”

“Is there a problem?” Anna asked. “Don’t you like her work. I assure you, she was fully vetted.”

“It’s not about security,” he said. “It’s about who might accidentally walk in on me with my freshly dry-cleaned suit when I’m—”

Anna laughed dryly. “Seriously?” she asked, “All of a sudden you’ve gone… shy and prudish?” He didn’t answer. Merely gave her a look that was twice as dry as her laughter had been. “It was my call, and she came highly recommended.”

“She’s very competent, actually,” he said.

“Well then,” Anna tipped her head to the side slightly, “just… make sure to tell her to knock.” She sighed. “Do you think we can get down to some real business now.”

“The psychological comfort of the Prime Minister is real business,” he said, not exactly serious in his complaint - he’d said his piece and he would move on, but he wanted to give Anna a hard time, so he made it sound as though he were, eliciting a ‘what-the…’ face from her before he went on, “but if you’re referring to this afternoon’s press conference ahead of the arrival of the European Minister for Public Health and Safety, I’d be happy to.”

“Oh, so you remembered then,” Anna remarked, sarcasm clear in her voice.

“Of course I remembered,” he quipped, “Not quite senile yet, despite what some in the cabinet might think.”

She gave him a tight smile, and asked, “What is it now?”

“What do we know about Eleanor James?” he asked. He made it sound off hand, absent, but he might have known that Anna wouldn’t fall for it in the slightest.

“Still on the war path, Robert?” she asked, frowning. Then she shook her head and said, “She’s solid.”

“Are you saying that because you know,” he asked, “Or because she had your back over the whole, Tosumbegovic… thing?”

“Well thank you for that ringing endorsement,” Anna snapped. “It wasn’t a thing.

“Poor choice of words,” Sutherland answered, though without a hint of apology, “but you know what I mean.”

“I have no reason to doubt her,” she said, “either before or after I went to her about Edin.”

Robert shrugged, and murmured, “Fair enough.” He wasn’t sure he was convinced.

“What brought this on?” she asked, but he shook his head.

“Maybe I really am still on the war path,” he said. Then, sitting forward again, said, “So… press conference?”

Anna evidently recognized that she wasn’t going to get anything else out of him on the subject, so she followed his change in subject.

“All right,” she began. “Well, we thought we might take advantage of the good weather, and hold it out front… Number 10 in the background, that kind of thing. It’ll be good for the public to see you ‘out of doors’ as it were.”

“Or are you trying to—” he broke off, as the irritating tickle in his nose suddenly became a full on irresistible urge, and he reached over, only just in time to grab a tissue from the box on the corner of his desk, before he sneezed violently. “Fuck!” he hissed.

“Trying to?” Anna prompted.

“Well I was going to say ‘rub the noses of the remaining dissenters in it.’” He answered, “but under the circumstance…” He shook his head, and leaving the sentence hanging, tossed the tissue into the trash, and then reached out to squirt some hand sanitizer into his palm, carefully applying it to the rest of his hands, before he got up, and went to close the cracked open window. “I’m really fucking starting to hate this time of year,” he said as he returned to his seat.

Before Anna could answer, there was a soft knock at the door, which didn’t open until his invitation allowed it, and his new aide - though he supposed not new any more - came in carrying a tray.

“See,” Anna remarked, and he couldn’t tell whether she was teasing or not, “already well trained.”

He frowned, his jaw tightening slightly as he said, “So, you want to hold this press conference outside, on a day like today.”

“Yes,” Anna said. “It will be good for morale.”

As they spoke, Miss French came to the side of his desk, and carefully unloaded the tray of its contents, being obviously careful not to set anything down on his papers as she brought him lunch. He glanced up at her, but she seemed to be concentrating so hard on her task that she didn’t meet his eyes; didn’t or wouldn’t and he wasn’t sure which.

“Whose, exactly?” he snapped, looking back at Anna, until, from the corner of his eye, after Belle unloaded the last of the items from the tray, he saw her slip her hand into the pocket of her dress, and pull out a small packet, which she set beside his lunch. He turned his head to look over, and noted, not without a good deal of relief, that she had set a packet of antihistamine tablets onto his desk and said a quiet, “Thank you, Miss French.”

She gave him a barely there smile and a nod, before beginning to withdraw, and turning his attention back to Anna, he said brusquely, “At least someone in this fucking building is paying attention.”

Belle French took her job very seriously. She always had, and believed that was what made the difference between a good operative, and the best operative. After the incident with the vase of flowers the previous day, she’d made it her business to learn why the Prime Minister wanted to avoid having cut flowers at the formal dinner, and it wasn’t hard to guess, but guesswork wasn’t part of her her purview, and so she made a point of making sure, and after that, to do something about it.

Neville had told her to have the PM’s back, to find out just where loyalties lay in the way she had perfected in her few short years of service. To her, that went deeper than just snooping around in people’s offices for evidence as to whether they were for or against Sutherland. She’s been told to take it, ‘all the way,’ not just to people that made up his cabinet and members of his party, but everyone: his estranged wife, his daughter… all of them, and she had her doubts about the wife… his daughter had been a puppet, a pawn. Beyond that, she had her doubts about Anna Marshall.

Not that she believed his Chief of Staff would ever betray him. As far as it went, Marshall was one hundred percent for Sutherland; loyal and on his side. She was, however, sometimes so self-involved that she was clueless and blind to the little things, no matter how sharp she was about the big picture. It was the little things she overlooked.

After delivering lunch, Belle went upstairs to begin the process of setting out the suits and other items of clothing that the PM would need on his upcoming trip, ready for his approval - and by approval, she’d learned, it meant that he would pack them into the suitcase, or not, as the case might be - hanging the suits near their respective suit bags, and laying out the shirts, ties and other clothing on the top of his bed.

As she worked she let her mind back and forth over what she knew, like the shuttle on a weaving loom, slowly slotting the newly acquired pieces back into place and weaving the tapestry as it should be woven, the complete picture. She was so engrossed that she didn’t hear the door open behind her, or register the presence until his voice made her start and bring her back to the moment.

“Miss French,” he said quietly. “I hoped I might find you here.”

She turned slowly, composing herself from her slightly startled state, and the thought that, at the sound of his voice, her body had begun to hum with the memory of her dream, and the reality of standing alone with the man, in his bedroom… and the words he’d spoken.

“Prime Minister?” she queried, then at his expectant expression, added, “Did you need something?”

“I wanted to ask if you’d mind coming with us when we go north,” he said, and she could tell by the lingering expression that asking directly if he needed something was not what he had been waiting for.

“Is that usual?” she asked.

Sutherland shrugged. “I don’t know that there is a precedent for these things,” he said, “It’s… entirely up to you, of course, but… I would appreciate knowing that there’s someone around that I can count on to bring me a decent cup of tea when I’m up too late at night.”

She raised an eyebrow, suspecting he was teasing, and answered, “Well, in that case, I’ll make sure to pack the Yorkshire.”

He laughed, a deep, throaty laugh that went right through her, and sent the lingering hum in her belly into a tingling overdrive.

“Yorkshire it is then,” he said. “I um… I have to run, damned press conference, otherwise I’d stay and give you a hand.”

“I’ll be fine,” she assured him. “Almost done, anyway,” she added, indicating the few small piles on the bedspread.

He nodded once, and then turned as though he were about to leave, but instead stopped and said, “One more thing.”

“Robert?” she asked, forgetting herself and the attempt she’d made to maintain formality as a defense against her quickly growing, inappropriate desires for the man in front of her.

He turned back to her with a warm smile on his face, and a sharp, almost wicked twinkle in his eyes, and asked, “Could you make sure we pack the pinstripe?”

[mokutonprince]

Going Home

This is something I had literally dreamt of and needed to type. This is only the first chapter and is posted on my Archive. So where we are.

"This is insane, Kakashi! It's not going to work!" Yamato shouted, the sound of combat gradually fading into the background the faster he and Kakashi ran, their dirtied sandals clacking hard against the tree branches with the more force they used. Desperate to complete their task.

"It has to. I need you to trust in me, Tenzou." It was the way his voice wavered that made the Captain pause, coming to a stop on a thick branch that held both their weight. When they stopped, hearts beating from effort, dark brown eyes met one black and one red.

"Kakashi.."

"This is going to work. I know it is, but I need your faith in me too."

Yamato didn't waste a second to nod, looking to his Senpai with all the adoration and trust he always had for the man, the same man to saved him all those years ago. "I will always believe in you, Senpai..but," the man paused, pointing to the ancient scroll that he knew was being held in the others vest, "Must we really use this? We don't know what it does."

When he saw the noticeable movement in Kakashi's jaw, Yamato quickly met his eyes again, "You won't tell me." It wasn't a question, they both knew it. "She told you not to." he sighed, stepping back to lean against the trunk of the tree they stood upon.

"I made an oath. I want to tell you, Tenzou-" Kakashi quickly lifted a hand, stopping his Kohai from speaking when he saw those lips move, "Ah. But I can't. Which is why she suggested an oath because I would have told you the second we were alone." When he was met with silence, he stepped closer to take Yamato's hands in his own, "We have to win the war, you know that, and this is the only way we can. This is how we guarantee our victory, come hell or high water."

"But how can I be of any help when you can't even tell me what it does?" Yamato argued, eyes narrowed at his Senpai in hopes he would tell but he knew well that with an oath with the Hokage, it was impossible.

Kakashi just smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling in mild amusement, "Because she and I both know that you will try to stop it."

There was a slim moment of silence before it was interrupted with a far too close explosion, the force of the blast knocking down not only the surrounding trees but the tree they stood on. Hands still clasped, they both jumped and tried to run away as fast as they could to avoid getting trapped with the timber and with the ground beneath their feet quaking hard enough to knock someone over. They barely made it to an opening to a cave when another blast sounded, this one just as close to them as the last one. Yamato immediately went to the center, clapping his hands firmly together to bring six thick pillars of wood to reinforce the roof to keep it from collapsing, while Kakashi kept an eye out, his Sharingan spinning rapidly to see past the disturbed debris and dirt.

Yamato let out a breath with the destruction settled eyes darting to his partner as he slowly made his way to the opening. But of course..nothing is easy for the Mokuton user and the Copy Ninja.

"My my..I didn't think I would be so lucky to trap the two of you. With nowhere to run."

"You fuck-" Kakashi hissed, barely getting the first sign from his fingers when Yamato held out an arm across his chest, stopping him.

"Wait."

The voice cackled, putting them both on edge, "Yes, listen to the experiment. Wait."

Yamato tensed, eyes narrowing as he slowly dropped his arm from across Kakashi's chest. Straightening their backs, a lone figure slowly walked his way from between two fallen trees. His eyes were covered in gauze, a disturbing grin on his face as he tilted his head, listening or something. Their question was answered when the man took a deep and long sniff of the air, letting it out like a pleased sigh.

"I know you're there, you know. I can smell the ozone on you, Copy Cat." his grin widened then, "And wood. Something floral, sweet. It's disgusting."

When neither Kakashi or Yamato spoke, merely breathing as quiet as possible and hoping to hide their chakra, the man scowled, "Give me the scroll! I know that old harlot gave it to you. One of you. So let's skip the theatrics and just hand it over like good children." a long-fingered hand peaked out from under his dark cloak, palm up, expectant.

"You're a fool to make demands all on your own. Try an take it and we'll cut you down." Kakashi grit out, hands already on a pair of kunai as Yamato did the same, except his left hand was held in front of his chest with two fingers held up, ready.

The man scoffed at that, lips pulled in an ugly scowl, "Fine!"

"Keep him busy." Kakashi managed to whisper before jumping out of the fight and to the side of the cave opening, away from sight but still able to see and hear what was going on while he took out the scroll and set to activate it, starting with the first step.

When Kakashi moved away, Yamato kept his eyes on the enemy, taking a breath in surprise when he took out a long scroll and unraveled it with a flick of his wrist. He barely had time to recognize it before twenty life-sized puppets popped into existence, and whether or not they were made from people or not remained unnecessary when ten of them were sent for him at once and he had to react.

His chakra was already low, combined with their previous fight from the main battle and the cave, Yamato was forced to resort to Taijutsu and kunai lest he becomes too weak to defend Kakashi or even himself, but he did manage two wood-clones in aid as he faced those ten puppets.

Kakashi laid the scroll open on the ground, both eyes darting across the text as he quickly opened a smaller scroll to gather what he needed for the ritual to work, trying to ignore how his hands began to shake as he remembered what Lady Tsunade had told him just that morning.

"This is our only chance, Kakashi. You must know this."

Tsunade stood from her desk, watching the silent silver-haired ninja, her gaze soft and kind though firm. "I hate this just as much as you do, but he is the only one who can," dropping her gaze she swallowed the lump in her throat, "Because of the Mokuton-"

"His entire life is revolved around the Mokuton! He didn't ask for this! He didn't ask to be taken and used by Orochimaru as some fucking experiment! Just to be taken again by Danzo and used as a damn puppet! I can't do this to him!" Kakashi lashed out, voice hard and probably far too loud to not be heard by the Anbu stationed nearby.

"He deserves more than this. He deserves to live life like the rest of us!"

Tsunade was quiet, having sat back down in her chair as she let him finish, face solemn, "You love him."

Kakashi stared at her, fingers twitching to glare at her with the Sharingan but he held still, "I refuse to let him be used as some sort of bait."

She sighed then, "It's not baiting. It's the only chance we have to hope of ending this unnecessary bloodshed and he's our best chance. This scroll was written long before my Grandfather was even Hokage, it tells of another land full of people who can aid in only the most desperate need. And that's where we are, Kakashi, we need to win this war or we will all be dead and all of the Villages will be wiped. This is an enemy we can't take any bets on." When her top soldier remained silent, she continued, "Yamato is the only one who can cross this, barrier, it's called. Because of his nature, he is the most likely to survive and possibly return with the aid this scroll promises."

"Possibly!? You are willing to risk the life of one man to go to this 'other world' and come back with new friends who will fight this war? That's your plan?"

"I am putting everything on this, Hatake. And you will be the one to activate it to send him through because your Sharingan is the last missing piece for this to work."

Kakashi stared at the ancient rolled paper on the Hokages desk, glaring at the damn thing, "I can't tell him...I can't let him know that-"

"It's okay..just tell him you made an oath. I don't even want the rest of the team aware of this, it's too delicate."

The copy ninja went to take the scroll, shrinking it safely in another scroll before packing it in one of his vest pockets. When he moved to leave the office, Tsunade caught his hand, "Don't wait before it's too late, Kakashi...It will eat you alive."

With a mute nod, Kakashi poofed from the office with a whirl of smoke.

He could hear the metal of kunai and the clunk of wood, combined with the familiar grunts of his partner as he fought, giving everything he had and he knew he didn't have much time as he mixed the oil, blood and rare herbs in the small bowl. "Almost done.."

Yamato was down to himself, both of his clones gone from existence by lucky blows and diminishing chakra, but he didn't count himself out just yet when only five puppets from the twenty were left. "C'mon then," he grunted, wiping the blood from his cheek and ignoring the sharp sting of the cut that wept, continuing to bleed. Both his biceps were also cut, the fabric ripped and painted with fresh blood and quickly drying the older blood from the beginning of their fight. He was a mess by now, lips parted with heavy breaths as he stared down the enemy, trying to hold back a smirk of pride in himself. He knew he was close.

All five of them came at him at once and he held his well-used kunai in front of his chest as he swung his free right arm around, not even watching as it extended into a thick and blocky cut of wood, knocking down all five of the weak-stringed puppets to the ground. Well, as weak as their master was, who was fuming with heavy breath and hunched over with low chakra. So Yamato took the chance like he had been trained, flinging his wrist in a steady throw and watched as half of the blade pierced and buried itself in the bastard's chest. Yuuya, he remembered, glared at the weapon in distaste before sending his heated stare to him as he finally sank to his knees and his body dropped to the upturned forest floor, unmoving.

"Heh..'m not getting as old as you thought, eh, Senpai?" Turning around, he moved a hand to his side, wincing at the intensely sharp pain that throbbed from the deep cut clean through his hip. The high of the fight left him tired and ultimately weary, but he forced himself to move, stepping slow and with a limp as he made his way back to the side of the cave where he found Kakashi knelt on the ground, painting a series of symbols and runes on the flat side of the rock.

"Is this it?" Yamato asked softly, leaning his side against the solid rock to rest, eyes following each new word and symbol, confused yet in awe.

"Yes. It should do exactly as it says." Kakashi replied easily, finishing the very last rune with a flourish of his wrist before sitting back, overlooking his work to make sure it was perfect for what needed to be done.

"Which is?"

A black and red eye just looked at him, seemingly amused, "Now now, don't ruin the surprise my sweet little kohai." Kakashi purred, earning a fond smile and an eye roll from said Kohai.

"Well, at least explain to me why I am needed for this?" Yamato asked, calm as could be with him trying to stitch up his deepest wound along his hip, forgoing to use his chakra just in case and opting for the old stitch and needle. Nothing he hadn't done before.

And just like that, the air grew more serious. "Listen, I know you don't like it when it comes to your chakra, but..in order for this to work, it specifically requires Yin and Mokuton because of it's nature."

There was a tense beat of silence before Yamato responded, having put all of his focus of sealing his wound before he even offered a reply, sighing and looking at his bloodied hands. "What does it do, Kakashi? If it's asking for my chakra, I have a right to know what it's being used for."

Kakashi winced at the tone, Yamato was calm and seemingly unaffected, but Kakashi knew better, he could see the hurt in those dark eyes and it pained him so much to keep it from him.

"It.." he sighed, "It's to save the villages from this war, the people...the entire world if it isn't stopped in time. Ten- Yamato-" Kakashi wanted to comfort him, to give the entire story but he was stopped by a sudden yell from too close by and he jerked around.

"We don't have any more time. If you don't want to, then i'll-"

"Shut up and let me do this." Yamato cut him off, voice steady and more firm than before. Kakashi just stared at him and Yamato could see the way his masked moved that he was smiling, albeit forced. But another and much closer shout stopped the moment.

Kicking away the used and now unneeded items, Kakashi helped his Kohai stand and step closer until his back was pressed against the painted wall, "Close your eyes and focus your chakra into the rock behind you. Don't open them for any reason, okay?"

Yamato hesitated but he nodded, watching his Senpai with weary eyes before he closed his own and forced himself to focus his chakra to his back, but the new sound of a scuffle made it difficult to do so without opening his eyes. Slowly, he could feel the cool rock behind him starting to heat up, as if a fire had been lit under it and it was spreading, but he endured.

He could hear Kakashi yell, the sound of kunai colliding and the smell of mud and another fire, but he remained impassive, eyes squeezing shut to remove the temptation to see what was happening. The wall behind him was quickly getting hotter, sure that his skin was going to blister and scar and him to burn, yet he remained still and continued to send his chakra.

Kakashi kicked the idiot to the ground, angry and tense as he shouted, "CHIDORI!" ready to impale the fucker, let himself take out his anger on the enemy who disrupted their ritual. They were running out of time.

Out of the corner of his spinning Sharingan, he could see the circle of runes he painted start to glow brightly, steadily getting brighter until the rock vanished into a swirl of white and a new crackling sound. "Fuck!"

Taking a kunai to pin the enemy to the root underneath him by his shirt, Kakashi leaped up and ran back to his Kohai, heart in his throat with how fast it beat.

"Tenzo.."

"Kakashi! What is happening? I feel like I am on fire." Yamato panicked, arms immediately reaching out to latch onto the Copy Nin, clutching onto his arms, unsure and almost frightened. Kakashi simply held his hands.

"I need you to trust me."

"I do! Always."

The sound from the swirl of white grew louder, the wind around them picking up enough to distort their hearing, but they both caught the sound of a battle cry. Despite himself, Yamato's eyes shot open, wide and in terror as he saw a new enemy that Kakashi should have dealt with, run up behind him with a sword, far too close.

"KAKASHI!"

But the White haired ninja didn't move, not even when the blade of the sword pierced its way through his side, yet he didn't let go of Yamato's hands. Somewhere in the background, he could hear the familiar cry of their most boisterous blond student and the lighter yet still just as loud shout from their medical student, but all of his focus was on his Senpai, vision blurry with rare tears as they simply stared at each other.

"You have to go," Kakashi whispered, coughing into his mask

"NO! I'm not leaving you!"

The wind was getting too strong and the heat behind him was starting to diminish, they were out of time and Kakashi saw it. Taking his Kohai's hands in both of his own, he lifted them to place a faint kiss to each palm, eye contact never wavering even as he was about to drop when the enemy from behind them was taken out and his blood was pouring from his wound.

Yamato was shaking his head, unwilling to let go but Kakashi new better.

With a final squeeze, Kakashi put all his weight into pushing his precious Tenzou through the swirling light, breath catching and eyes burning as the sight of pure terror and fresh tears on his face, thankful for the wind that hid the cry that ripped from his throat, rather it was from himself or Yamato, he didn't want to know.

The last thing he saw before he met the wet ground, was a flash of pink and yellow as the portal closed and his Kohai was gone.

Probably for good.

_________________________________

Thor's eyes lit up at the sight of all the weapons, so many different styles and make of everything under the sun, even though he missed his hammer, this was still pretty glorious for a warrior such as he.

Korg broke him out of his thoughts, "This is where he choose our weapons before each match. So please, pick at your leisure."

Thor hummed with a nod, fingers dancing along the side of different swords before he simply picked one up, weighing it in his hand before twirling it in his palm, testing it.

"I really wish I had my hammer. Quite unique, it was made from this special metal from the heart of a dying star, and when I spun it really, really fast, it gave me the ability to fly," Thor enthuses, eyes lost in memory.

"You rode a hammer? The hammer rode you on your back," Korg replies, curious as he watches the God.

"What? No, no. I would spin it really fast and it would pull me off the ground." Thor corrects, amused.

Korg thinks about it for a second before he gasps, scandalised, "Oh my god. The hammer pulled you off? Sounds like you had a pretty special and intimate relationship with this hammer and that losing it was almost comparable to losing a loved one."

Thor chuckles, looking to the too light weapon in his hands, "That's a very nice way of putting it."

The God turns then, facing one of the many walls of weaponry in an attempt to find something that could possibly work when he didn't have his beloved Mjolner. He damn near gasps in excitement when he spies a set of twin swords hanging on a far wall, the glint of their metal practically calling to him. When he turns to make his way to get them, a head of long dark brown hair grabs his attention.

He pauses to watch, curious about this new person, their energy...different and quite light. Something very different to the others around him.

"Hey Korg?" he asks, blue eyes remaining on the back of the person as they seemed to be having a conversation with a darker skinned woman.

Thor's new buddy hums, coming to stand beside him.

"Who is that?" Thor asks, gesturing to the two over by the wall, but Korg seems to know just who he was referring to.

"Oh. That's Ten. He arrived here a few weeks ago."

"Ten?"

"Yup. He doesn't talk much, or at all really..haven't heard him speak, but I don't think anyone has. But he is a very good fighter. Made it to the top in just a few days of being here, hangs around the big guy a lot."

Thor looked up at him, confused out of his mind of deeply curious about this Ten. He was going to ask another question, but he suddenly felt an eerie gaze at his person. Turning back forward, he saw that the person he was curious about was staring at him, well...that mask was. It was white and almost clean, it had two slits for eyes with black paint around them that looked like animal eyes. The mouth was painted with red in a soft curve, feline-like with matching red and green markings on the side and a black mark for the nose which where he assumed he was able to breathe through. The man wore a very dark blue sleeveless top, it's neck high enough to where it was under the chin of the mask as if trying to hide everything about his chest and face. His arms were exposed from the shoulder to bicep, where he wore long black claw-like gloves with silver armor on his forearms. His pants were Midgard like black and down to where they were stuffed into high shin black boots, something he remembers Captain saying were Army.

The only things he found interesting besides the mask was the wrapping he had around his upper right thigh and the red tattoo on his left shoulder. The way he stood was intimidating but Thor was unwavering and offered his bright friendly smile and a small wave. What was curious though, was the way Ten stiffened and immediately turned to leave, almost vanishing like it was magic.

"Huh.."

"Told you."

Thor was quiet for a bit, just thinking over what just happened before he spoke, "So why is his name, Ten?"

Korg shrugged, "No one knows."

[mustdang-100]

Inevitable

BNHA Fanfiction Based on this incredible art and AU by @keiid. Idea credit is theirs. 

“They always insinuate that it’s a quirk fit for a villain. But I’m used to it now. It’s inevitable, society being the way it is.” It was really only a matter of time before Shinsou Hitoshi changed sides. (Minor manga spoilers)

A layer of haze hung suspended in the room of the abandoned factory. Dirt swirled through the air, displaced from cracked floor tiles and decaying furniture by the four people who entered and spaced themselves evenly throughout. A coating of filth clung to the lightbulbs, rendering their light weak and nearly useless. Motes shifted in the blue-white glare of a television propped in the corner, the brightest source of illumination in the room. The very air tasted of dust.

It wasn’t the cleanest place the Villain Alliance could have claimed as a meeting place, Shigaraki reflected, scratching at his neck. But it was convenient. And he wasn’t stupid enough to bring an untested recruit to their main hideout. They were too low on members to risk any of them needlessly.

But then, that’s what made a new recruit so valuable. And this one in particular…

Shigaraki gazed at the purple-haired teen in satisfaction.

Oh yes. This one could could be exactly the kind of asset they needed. It was just a pity his joining their side had coincided with such commotion.

Shinsou was staring wordlessly at the news channel displayed on the TV, his arms crossed over his chest. A banner scrolled along the bottom of the screen, screaming in bold white letters on a brilliant red background:

YUUEI HIGH STUDENT SHINSOU HITOSHI SPOTTED FLEEING SCENE WITH VILLAIN ALLIANCE

Above the banner, a trio of reporters gleefully engaged in furious discussion of Shinsou’s character. They dug up the measliest bones of his past, pulling them apart, gnawing at the marrow.

“A Yuuei High student with a brainwashing quirk…”

“…witnessed today approaching known Villain Alliance members during an operation of unknown purpose…”

“…rejected from the Heroics Course after failing the entrance exam…”

“…nevertheless, he had quite a strong showing in the Yuuei Sports Festival…”

“…but mind-manipulation just really isn’t a very heroic quirk…”

“…a quirk like that…”

“It was only a matter of time…”

Shigaraki pushed a button on the remote in his hand, muting the TV. He watched Shinsou closely, trying to gauge his reactions, but Shinsou had not moved from the casual pose. He was holding his expression steady, trying to stay as stoic as possible. Yet, Shigaraki caught the barest curl of a lip into a sneer.

There it was. There was the anger Shigaraki wanted to see. The contempt for the trash currently passing for their society.

Behind the hand that clutched his face in an ever-present comfort, Shigaraki smiled.

“You see how quickly they turn on you?” he said, trying to sound soothing, calming. Trustworthy. “This society, with such a limited view on what it means to be a ‘hero,’ and on what kind of people and quirks are allowed to be heroic, would never accept you. You’ve made the right decision, in joining us. This is your chance to…”

“I don’t trust him,” Dabi said from across the room, rudely interrupting. “He just showed up today out of the blue, and we’re just gonna let him in? Just like that?” Dabi shifted himself off a dusty desk and stood upright, reptilian eyes cold as he turned to look directly at Shinsou.

“You hear me? I don’t trust you as far as I could -”

Dabi stopped talking.

His face went completely blank, as though wiped clean. His jaw went slack, his wide eyes clouded. Shinsou turned towards him, very slowly. A baleful smile crept across his face, so bereft of mercy that even Shigaraki felt a little chilled.

“You know the best part of leaving behind my aspirations of heroism?” Shinsou asked softly.

Nobody answered. Dabi stood, motionless, reduced to a mere puppet.

“I can use my quirk as freely as I want. You should be careful what you say to me.”

Shinsou’s crooked smile widened. The very room seemed to hold its breath.

“But I’ll let you off easy this time. Now, go stand in the corner and think about what you’ve done wrong.”

Dabi walked slowly to a corner of the room and planted himself firmly into it, back facing the rest of them. Just like a toddler in a time-out.

Toga laughed from her perch on a table on the other side of the room, manic joy gleaming in her eyes.

“Oh, well I do like him.”

Shigaraki couldn’t help but agree, despite himself. Where the Alliance’s persuasions had failed with the loud, raucous, violent Bakugou Katsuki, they had apparently succeeded with Shinsou Hitoshi. Of course, it made sense that the overlooked one, the stealthy one, the one constantly pushed to second-class by their hero-worshipping society, that he would be the one to take up their cause. He should have seen this before.

Although, Shigaraki almost laughed to himself, Shinsou hadn’t been so quiet in the arena.

“Your comments to Midoriya during the sports festival were quite… illuminating.” Shigaraki paused for effect, as if in remorse, and then continued. “I did consider reaching out to you then, and I now regret my conclusion that Bakugou would be the student most likely to understand our cause. That was my mistake, and one I am glad to be able to correct.”

Toga spoke up again. “Unmute! Eraser’s on the TV!”

Shigaraki hit the button on the remote as Eraserhead’s face filled the screen. Clearly cornered by the media at the gates of Yuuei High, his eyes were hard, his jaw set. He looked like he wanted nothing more than to hit the reporter currently shoving a microphone into his face.

The audio cut in, filling the room with noise.

“ – have anything to say about one of Yuuei’s students joining the villains that our country’s top heroes have been hunting for months?”

The young reporter’s smile displayed every gleaming tooth. She bared them at Eraserhead, the hero who’d been a thorn in Shigaraki’s side since their very first encounter at the USJ.

On screen, Eraserhead scowled.

“No comment.”

The reporter was not daunted.

“The Villain Alliance? The group responsible for the recent downfall of former Number One Hero All Might?”

“No comment.”

The camera managed to zoom in even closer on Eraserhead’s face.

“There’s an inside source reporting that Shinsou might have been working towards re-qualifying for entry into the Hero Course. The word is that he’d been training with you, specifically, possibly as part of a specialized mentorship. Does that make you feel partially responsible for this betrayal-”

Rage flashed, wild in a face normally so bland. There was an edge of despair and pain in that expression that gratified Shigaraki. That anguish convinced him more than anything else Shinsou had done or said in the past few hours.

The reporter took a startled step back from her target, moving out of frame.

“No. Comment,” Eraserhead gritted through clenched teeth. He then turned and slammed the Yuuei gates behind him.

Shigaraki turned to look again at Shinsou, whose face had taken on an expression closer to that of a wounded puppy than a hardened criminal.

“Second thoughts?”

Shinsou shook his head, seeming to shake himself out of whatever Eraserhead’s words – or lack of them – had provoked.

“No. I realized I wasn’t going to get anywhere, despite… despite Sensei’s help.” He shuddered. “I’m done trying.”

Shigaraki awkwardly placed a hand on Shinsou shoulder.

“Here, you won’t have to try. You can just be one of us; a crusader, fighting for the same cause we are. You can simply… belong.”

A glimmer of hope gleamed in Shinsou’s face, in tired purple eyes. Shigaraki smiled again behind his mask.

There was a lot of power in the word ‘belong.’

***

As soon as Shinsou clicked the lock in the dilapidated bathroom door’s handle, he ripped his phone from his pocket. He typed furiously on the small screen, logging in to an email address composed of random numbers and letters that he had memorized by heart.

The browser window loaded slowly, so slowly. His pulse pounded in his ears. He didn’t have much time before some kind of transportation arrived, to take them to the Alliance’s main hideout.

He had done it. He was in. Now he just had to keep from fucking it all up.

The page finally loaded.

One message sat unopened in the inbox. Its sender was a second familiar string of anonymous numbers and letters. The bolded lettering of a new message was somehow both a shot of adrenaline and a balm to his soul.

The message was short. The message was everything.

Good job. Keep in touch as you can, I will do the same. Stay safe.

                                                                                              -AS

Shinsou logged out of the account, and wiped the browser history. Inexplicably, he suddenly felt the urge to cry. That wouldn’t do.

He collapsed onto the closed toilet seat and pressed his hands into his face, as though he could push his emotions back, back down to where they must stay hidden deep in his hero’s heart. He could not give away the scheme. He and the USJ teachers had prepared for this undercover mission too long for him to let them down. He had trained his quirk, his body, and his emotions too hard for him to make a mistake now.

And puffy eyes would be a dead giveaway – he would fail his school. Fail Aizawa, his sensei. Fail himself.

Shinsou took a deep, barely-shaky breath, and stood up. He needed to rejoin the villains.

Shinsou showed no sign of tears as he shoved the phone back into his pocket, leaving the bathroom door creaking closed behind him.

Part 2: Impossible

[eternaleve]

Watching Through Construction Time Again

I am back with the rewatch project that no one asked for and which only seems to amuse me! I am here to make terrible jokes and regurgitate history laced with reminisces from eighteen years (?!???) being on the sidelines of the DIY punk music scene.

Broken Frame vids are here

Speak & Spell vids are here

And here i go!

Well, the first one is not technically on Construction Time Again!

Get The Balance Right! (Jan 1983, 13 on the UK charts)

Get the Balance Right! was the first single with Alan Wilder as an official band member and was released in the break between A Broken Frame and Construction Time Again. I guess it’s a good way to really be clear to the public that there’s a clear break between the last iteration of the band and the new band member. And a single doesn’t necessarily have to be linked to an album - The Cure were literally doing the same thing at the exact same time with the singles ‘The Walk’, ‘Let’s Go To Bed’ and ‘The Love Cats’, which were all non-album singles and were released to show a break from Pornography and Faith to the more psychadelic stuff that came with The Top. 

I like the single art. I like how simple the iconography is, the primary colours, the way the artist actually probably listened to the song before creating it.

First things first, this bit of trivia. ‘In the music video, Wilder lip-syncs the first lines of the song, even though Dave Gahan is the lead singer. The director Kevin Hewitt made the assumption that Wilder was the singer and they were too embarrassed to point out his mistake.’ It’s also apparently the band’s least favourite single, according to the hot gossip from… 1985. 

Good evening, child. There is no need to panic, we are mere observers.

There are a lot of early 80s videos that are set in labs. Is it because the backgrounds are cheap? Labcoats readily available? Some sort of wider cultural idea about the perils of science and how it might go too far? Answers on the back of a postcard please.

At midnight, you will be visited by four spirits - the Past, the Present, Yet To Come, and Party City.

So, Dave Gahan is a magician, making a portal to a fairground, but why is Martin Gore dressed like the long lost spirit of a poor starving Victorian orphan boy?

The union mandated ‘Space Invaders’ break was tightly controlled and monitored.

Corporate greed is bad, cool, okay, that’s a fine theme, but I’m not sure how that ties into a theme park run by milkmen. Because they’re upsetting the balance of fun by being corporate and greedy I suppose? I guess it’d be too edgy to show bankers and stuff being cruel.

And now, the chairwoman of the board, this random fortune teller we found on Blackpool pier.

I mean, having an excuse to play on bumper cars is all well and good, but it is a little strange in a music video.

The funfair is all being controlled from a head office - like consumers are all being controlled in a capitalist society! It all makes sense now!

And then the video just… ends. On a control room. What did the child have to do anything? Why was Dave a magician? Or was it all just more ‘avant garde’ 80s bollocks?

The album was released in August 1983 - again, that’s a very tight time to turnaround an entire new album’s worth of material, especially when accounting for stuff like touring, rehearsals, and trying to do other things outside of the music industry like, i dunno, having a life. Construction Time Again definitely marked a real change in the tonal direction of the band - so, leaving behind the more poppy fare of the first two albums to being about poverty, nuclear war, and the destruction of the green belt.

Yup, that’s a huge swing there and i! am! here! for! it!

The album art is phenomenal, too. I’ve always really loved the soviet overtones of Depeche Mode’s official artwork and this is pretty fantastic. The colours are great, and the contrast between the makings of nature and the makings of man really ties into the themes of the album. Especially when the first single is…

Everything Counts (July 83, UK charts 6)

Such a fucking tune. What a classic tune, what a fantastic pivot to a new sound. Also it’s about capitalism being terrible, so of course I love it. Everything Counts features a lot of found sounds and lots of different musical instruments this is all a lead in for me talking about the melodica. I love melodicas. The head of london plays one and i think they are such inherently silly instruments that i love them and want them on every single song ever for the rest of time

There are not enough words in this world for how much i love melodicas

The video for Everything Counts was shot in West Berlin by Clive Richardson, who last worked with the band for ‘Just Can’t Get Enough’ after they were burnt out with the weird shitshow that was the Julien Temple videos. According to Alan Wilder, ‘It was felt that after the Julien Temple years, we needed to harden up not only our sound but also our image. Clive had lots of new ideas which didn't involve stupid storyboards where we were required to act.’

BOOOOO BAD MUSICIAN ACTING IS THE BEST PART OF MUSIC VIDEOS STEP UP YOU COWARDS

‘In this video, frontman Dave Gahan for the first time appeared blonde-haired, losing his natural black colour of hair’. Who is editing the Depeche Mode singles on Wikipedia to track Dave Gahan’s changing hair styles?? I understand that everyone needs a hobby but this is certainly a strange one

Ahhh, I see someone discovered how to overlay video images on top of each other! Well done, it will now be used to absolute death in this video

I appreciate not wanting to do bad music video acting and actually letting Dave perform - because when there’s a charismatic front man, yeah, just let him do his thing, especially as his stage presence has only been improving - but it has been replaced with just overlaid images of the band on top of images of berlin which looks less awkward but is just more boring? It’s all so serious and image focused. Let the fun out! On this song about corporate greed where it would absolutely not match this is why i do not direct music videos

The shot is nicely composed but it comes in for a super close close up and also there are knife throwers in the background for …. Reasons?

Images of the Berlin Wall are deeply fascinating to me because it was torn down only a few years before I was born and, yet, because it comes from the nebulous before time, it feels as if it were taken down decades before simply because it happened *right* before I came into existence. I also have a small chunk of it stuck to my fridge. Not sure how genuine it is, given that tourist shops in Berlin could sell any remnants of wall, but, well, that’s my connection to it. Plus i taught cold war history for a while lol

10/10 WOULD MELODICA AGAIN

Everyone can tell who’s a brit on holiday

I like that they went out and found an actual giant grabbing hand. I like a good visual metaphor. 

Cracking tune, alright video. Needed more bad acting. Next!

Love, in Itself (September 83, UK chart 21)

I like the art, it works as a companion piece to the album artwork - and the album was released not long after, so good to keep it present in people’s minds.

I think this video takes place mostly in plaster caves.

The video opens with a very loud electronic noise and a big handprint so I am coming into this annoyed at whoever did the soundmixing for this

That… is certainly a choice, and that’s the last I’ll speak of it.

True facts, this is what happens every time I walk into a room. Greeted by helpful trumpeters so everyone may notice and worship my presence.

You can tell it’s serious, they’re showing the means of construction.

I like how Alan and Andy are dressed entirely normally and then there’s Martin on the end in a slave harness and bullet belt as if there is nothing at all strange about this scenario.

I used to borrow my stepdad’s bullet belts from time to time to wear to gigs and they are supremely not worth the effort. They’re heavy and scratchy and they catch on every single slight hair on your body, so every time you, say, move your arms near them, it’s a constant pain of armhair being yanked out by tiny catches. I do not recommend, they look cooler than they are actually worth.

When will my reflection show who I am insiiiiideeeee

Why is this in a cave? What does that have to do with ‘love’ or constructing things? It seems like a strange choice

Do you like… jazz?

The video could have been set in a construction yard, or something, so you could have the images of industrialised workings and stuff. The cave setting does not match. There are no witches or monsters or other cave dwelling beings featured, nil points.

These videos were something, I can say that. They do show a conscious image change from being Smash Hits pop idol fodder towards being serious industrial electronic musicians and a definite improvement in lyrics and music in terms (for me at least). But the videos are not getting better. The ‘serious image’ stuff sort of takes a lot of the weirder, funner elements out, although I am glad for the lack of puppets and pie heads.

Same time, same place next week for Some Great Reward which is one of my favourite Depeche Mode albums and, again, more development in sound and image.

[clonerightsagenda]

Your commentary is so interesting, I love your AU and how much thought you put into it! Could you talk about Vriska's first scene (with Aranea and Meenah) or her arc in general, and/or about Play the Rain? Thank you!

Oh sweet, more opportunities to talk about myself. I am enjoying these more than I should.

This is another set that I can already tell will get long, so I’ll break ‘em up. Vriska’s arc in TLC is kind of a Big Thing, so let’s start out with her first scene with Aranea and Meenah, and I’ll work my way through the rest as I have time.

On this blog, I refer to GO!Vriska as the superior one, but in canon she still has a long ways to go. She has figured out that her other self is an asshole, and she’s got an inkling that her earlier behavior was not 100% excellent, but she stalls out there, possibly a victim of dreambubble inertia, possibly a victim of bad writing. I don’t really consider a character going ‘huh, maybe my past behavior was somewhat unsavory’ sufficient as a ‘redemption arc’. You need to do something about it. So a big focus when it came to TLC!Vriska was making sure she actually took action, and part of that involved lighting a fire under her ass. Unfortunately for Meenah and Aranea, they were the kindling.

The scene starts with Vriska and Meenah hanging out in the bubbles, watched over by Andrew Hussie, who is quickly replaced by our author self-inserts as part of the running gag and also because a grown man spying on two teenage girls dating has become increasingly creepy to me as I get older. I disapprove of Gill's overly aggressive tactics though, as you can tell from my tiny avatar. This was in early days, when I was convinced we were going to get a cease and desist letter at any moment. Now I figure no one cares.

In the conversation, I tried to highlight GO!Vriska's insecurities. Throughout the comic, Vriska adopts different personas as a survival tactic. I'll talk shit on her because she does terrible things that I feel the narrative never properly addresses, but it's not that I don't get why. She tries to play up the Mindfang thing to survive Alternia and her lusus. Later, she emulates Meenah to gain her approval, especially when her confidence is lowered by her pir8 expedition falling through and her one human ally dissing her. The fact that there's a significant age gap in this relationship doesn't help. I also find that creepy. Dancestors are like 19 right? 19/13 is Too Much, kids. I don't care how long both of them have been in the afterlife; brain chemistry remains a factor. Anyway, in their scene together, they're both falling victim to the tendency for dreambubbles to sap dreamers' energy, and Vriska's getting increasingly anxious because she feels Meenah's losing interest in her.

Then, Aranea shows up. Now, I detest her, but again, I can at least attempt to empathize. She's been dead for a long time, and rather like alt!Calliope, has had her perceptions of people skewed so she views them more as characters. (With her plans of healing the timeline, she kinda was trying to be a Muse of Space, anyway.) She hated being sidelined, and so she tried to do something about it. Allegedly her intent was good, but it quickly warped into a self-interested attempt to have her way no matter what the cost, doubling down on cruelties like mind control and murder whenever people put up a fight. Approaching the kids and offering her assistance with an explanation of her plan might've worked out fine, especially as they were scattered and looking for leadership. Instead, she went in guns a-blazing and paid the price.

On page 381, we get the hell out of there because we know what's coming, and that's pretty much the end of the self-insert gag. For the best.

As in canon, we use Aranea as a way for Vriska to see her behavior reflected back. It's less dramatic than seeing an alternate version of herself, of course, but it still prompts her to think about some of the mistakes she's made. It's less threatening when you're criticizing someone else. Still, she immediately backtracks and says they can come up with a new plan, eager to remain part of this crowd and maintain the most recent identity she has constructed.

ARANEA: Dancestor, consider this your next and most important lesson in 8eing a Serket.

We just had to lay the irony on thick here. 

In canon, as I mentioned earlier, Lord English remains a sort of shadowy, not wildly intimidating enemy. He shows up with a bang in Caliborn:Enter, but after that you mostly get the vibe that he has to be defeated because he's the narrative's assigned big bad rather than because anyone has personal stakes. After all that buildup, most of the cast doesn't even confront him, and his demise is never clearly shown. Sort of anticlimactic. We wanted to re-establish him as a threat, which is difficult in a comic where it's almost impossible to kill someone properly. This scene, and the one with the puppet strings earlier, are our attempts to add a semi-horrorish vibe to the comic and go hey, this guy? He's a big deal. Plus, it's a fitting reference to the f8 Mindfang doomed Redglare to. Panel 391 is a direct reference. Aranea considers everyone else merely background characters, and the background characters kill her.

She does have one last... I hesitate to say "redemption" spot, but she does help free Meenah and Vriska when it's clear she's fucked. Whether that is out of genuine good nature or a desire to have one last impact on the story, you decide.

Then, Meenah saves Vriska, only to run out of time to escape the bubble herself. It's not an intentional heroic sacrifice (she would've followed if she could) but the Thief of Life does "give" life one time before getting doublekilled herself. This led to concerned musing on my part in the google doc that we ended up heroic sacrificing both Thieves. What sort of message were we sending about the class? That still bothers me a little, because I don't want to suggest the only way to balance out initial selfishness is to give yourself entirely. You should never be called upon to destroy yourself to prove your worth. Perhaps there was a better way to handle that, I don't know. To be fair, canon was laying the implications on pretty thick that Meenah was seeking a fight to the death against English, and so that's sort of a subversion of that (putting prudence before glory), but again. YMMV.

Despite me being the one to plan both sections, I wasn't thrilled about wiping out Meenah and Aranea not long after wiping out alt Calliope and doomed Roxy. I felt like we were really burning through the girl characters and I didn't want to give a bad impression. (We killed loads of dudes in Cherubquest, but then most of them come back.) Part of it is that we wanted to clear the dancestors off the board bc we didn't have the time or inclination to work with them properly, and Aranea and Meenah were the only ones with enough story weight that we felt they needed a bigger exit. It also seemed like a suitable ending for Aranea - she tried to take over the story, and instead she gets wiped out of it entirely. Though, to be fair, her influence did make an impact, so I guess she sort of got what she wanted after all. Also, there were in-universe reasons for most of those deaths. Doomed Roxy had to die as per the deal with Nix. Lord English was looking for Calliope(s) to kill. And there's no way he'd let Aranea's attempt to defy his alpha timeline slide. Meenah was more a casualty of us trying to get rid of dancestors/freeing Vriska's piece up on the board. Still, like I said, not wild about it, but I can’t see any other route I would have taken plotting-wise. 

Ok, that's what I've got for this scene. I'll do more on the rest of Vriska's arc and Play the Rain later, I have to pace myself and also I have meetings.

[likeshipsonthesea]

So I’m bored and asked for prompts and beesetc suggested a trip to Ikea so I’m writing in a universe where this long rambling au is a thing so here. Have a youtuber au trip to Ikea.

*

“We’re going to Ikea today!” Holster and Ransom’s faces are pressed together at the cheek, even though the scope of the camera is wide enough to get them both in frame whilst keeping a normal distance apart.

“The Dex-meister has challenged us to another Ikea-Off, which, if you don’t know, is a timed challenge to see who can put together a piece of Ikea’s fine furniture correctly the fastest.” Holster explains this all with wide hand gestures and a rising and pitching tone to make it seem as interesting as possible. In the background, Dex’s flat face comes into frame. He’s holding a piece of paper with something written on it. It says “Help”.

“Since there’s no practice and it’s a weekend, we’re bringing along some other friends to help us in our furniture selection!” Ransom cheers in his announcer voice. “First up, we have The Shit, The Stain, everybody’s favorite ranter, shittyrant!”

Shitty comes into frame, stroking his mustache and quieting the pretend-crowds with petting motions in the air. “Thank you, thank you, it’s an honor just to be asked.”

“Next we have the coolest artist/vlogger you have ever seen, Ms. Larissa Duan,” Holster says, panning the camera over to Lardo, who is lying on the couch, staring at her phone. She glances up and raises a perfectly sculpted unimpressed eyebrow at them.

“I need cheap curtains for my next project,” she says, and then continues scrolling on her phone.

“And last but not least, we have with us today the poetry-slammin’, make-up mannin’, all ‘round chillest dude on YouTube, the one and only Nursey.” Ransom turns the camera on Nursey, who grins in response.

“I’m just here to watch Dex explode.”

“Fuck you, Nurse-”

There’s a cut and they’re all suddenly in a parking lot.

“Okay, guys, so like most stores, we’re not entirely sure if we’re allowed to film in Ikea or not, so if that’s a not, we’ll have to be super-secret-stealthy,” Holster explains to the camera, Ransom nodding seriously behind him. Dex comes up in his other side, still wearing that flat, resigned look on his face.

“Meaning they’ll unnecessarily somersault between storing containers and get kicked out for being disruptive,” he says.

“Hey-”

Another cut and they’re inside the store. Dex has acquired a shopping cart for whatever furniture piece they pick to reside in. Now Nursey is holding the camera. Holster and Ransom are on either side of the cart pulling random things from various bins in the made-up part of the store on their way to the warehouse. Dex keeps having to stop and put back the items- so far there’s been a wicker vase, an egg-shaped whisk, and an apron with an elephant on it.

“So, update so far. We got past the front door and the children’s play area. We already lost Shitty, who’s using his lawyer skills to try and convince the lady running the daycare that he’s young enough to indulge in the ball pit. Lardo left for curtains, so we’ll either see her again in a few minutes or she’ll leave without us and take a bus back to the Haus. Place your bets now on which it is.”

“And what about you, Nurse?” Dex calls, distracting him from the green loofah shaped like a dog that Ransom is sneaking in the cart.

Nursey coughs. “I fell into a box of towels.”

Dex laughs, and then it cuts to another scene.

Holster is holding the camera, presumably, as the only people in-frame are Nursey, Dex, and Ransom. Nursey and Dex are arguing about something, their voices background noise to Ransom, who is rolling his eyes and whispering, “This has been going on for ten minutes.”

The next cut scene is obviously from an iPhone, of Lardo sitting at a metal table with a bag filled with patterned fabric on top of it. She’s eating an ice cream cone and looking flatly at the camera.

Back to the boys, who seemed to have reacquired Shitty, who is sullenly pouting for a minute or two before lighting up when they get to the show rooms. Holster and Ransom run off to inspect an apartment set-up with a fake view of New York City in a fake window and Shitty mimes taking a shower, scaring the shit out of a suburban family looking around the show-bathroom when they pull back the curtain.

The camera pans to Dex, who is face palming hard. Nursey, who is holding the camera so he is also in the shot, is laughing.

Finally, after many more clips of Dex sighing and the rest of them going off to play with things, they make it to the warehouse. Lardo has found them, finishing her cone with a satisfied bite while Holster looks on, obviously jealous.

“We’ll get you your fucking meatballs, just let’s find the table,” Dex grumbles, pushing the cart with purpose towards one of the aisles.

“Today we’re purchasing two VEJMON coffee tables for the Ikea Race, courtesy of Shitty’s father,” Nursey explains to the camera he is holding.

“Thanks for something, Dad!” Shitty cheers from the background. Nursey turns the camera around to show Ransom, who is sitting in the cart, surrounded by stuffed animals, pillows, and that same green loofah dog from earlier. He grins, obviously pleased.

“Once we get this, we can head back to the Haus for the race! Which me and Holtzy are totes gonna win.” Holster sticks his head in frame, nodding seriously. Dex’s distinctive groan is heard in the background.

After the next cut, they’re finally at the check out, Dex attempting to persuade Shitty to put back a rubber oven mitt he’s been using as a puppet named Alexander Pop, who is sexually attracted to Dex and also really into saying furniture names in alluring ways. Nursey’s grin is so wide it must hurt.

The last scene of the video is them in the parking lot, Nursey at the front of the group. Holster and Ransom are playing with the loofah and Lardo is stealing licks of Shitty’s ice cream. A bag no-doubt filled with meatballs is clutched in Holster’s hand.

“I can’t go anywhere with any of you,” Dex says, disgruntled and grumpy as he pushes the cart.

Nursey rolls his eyes. “Whatever, you’re totally worse whenever we go to Home Depot.” Dex’s eyes light up at the mere mention of the store. Nursey smiles, a bit more fond than he’d probably like, and shakes his head. “Weirdo.”

Dex sighs, visibly exhausted, and manages a smile. “Whatever,” he says.

The video ends.