#why do i have to bend over backwards and do limbo to make it clear to someone they shouldnt call me names??

[doctor-says-im-alright]

Im having this issue, but Ive come back full circle into seeming aggressive. It works better and great for about 3/4 of the population, and the other 1/4 absolutely disastrous, but that quarter is loud and really freaking mean and cruel.

But there is relics of trying to be gentle/indirect with speech and not get bullied in how I talk and somehow that STILL results in it, because they dont know what Im saying or something so walk right over me.

My vote is remain direct/blunt/concise I think it works best for the most amount of people, and cant be argued that what you said doesnt make sense because its as direct (re: aggressive to some people) as possible. I think theres more respect to be had in it, or more chance. Ive also learned the MORE you say, the more info you offer, the worse it can be for you

This is also an issue in person, which is mainly what Im referring to. The best I have for typing is seeming like you dont care at all about the people in the argument or the argument itself. i dont know how to explain it and im not good at it myself but when i see people do it it seems very effective. Maybe like having no passion in the argument, not caring for really what happens further, doesnt even matter who youre talking with. Not directing any statement at anyone or anything

Theres a ryan reynolds quote or something that was him talking about how he didnt care to argue anymore and if someone says 2+2=5 then good for them have a good day.

The song and dance of being autistic is pretty much:

Your default typing tone is too aggro.

So you tone it down a lot out of fear of being misconstrued! You put a lot of exclamation points! And smiley faces :) To show you mean no harm. And you also :( Apologize and use frowny faces :( a lot when people inevitably misunderstand you!

But then you're being manipulative by apologizing too much. Well, fuck. Okay so you start typing a little more casual, bc that shows you are just sort of saying your thoughts, you know, nbd-

Oh, you're getting misunderstood more. People don't know what you're saying. Okay. So, I am going to really overexplain every single word I type, because I want there to be no doubt as to whether I mean (X) when I say (X)! Yeah, so, when I said "I ate waffles for breakfast this morning," what I meant is that I had waffles for breakfast this morning, okay? I'm not sure if you know but I like waffles, so-

Fuck! Now I'm "condescending." Okay. "Okay, so, new friend? I have to admit, I get misunderstood by people a lot, so I want to know how I can talk best to you. Like, should I use tone indicators or something?"

And now I'm making things too complicated, calm down, it's not that serious, I would NEVER misunderstand, promise. "Oh, okay, thanks friend! That really means a lot to me, you know, I appreciate that we can just talk about things straightforwardly. So, I'll tell you what I mean, okay? So I wanted to tell you that I REALLY liked this art you made, it was incredible, I really liked the colors!"

Annnd now I sound "insincere" and at this point I just realize there is no winning sometimes

[blushing-starker]

Insanity brings me truth and you

can you guess what Peter's doing to not be understood by the guards?

It's not easy, being crazy. There are expectations to run away from, a bar to limbo under, a specific number of people one has to betray and scar. The unknowable becomes knowable, so you have to skirt the edge of that Venn diagram very carefully. Or very recklessly. Either way, it's a complex thing except for when it's not. Jesus, how infuriating to think about. The point is, the paradox that crazies carry on their shoulders? It's a fucking hassle, a tricky one and Peter is tired of it.

He sighs, lets gravity bend him backward, legs slipping dangerously off the blanket he's hung as a hammock inside his cell. Act like a psycho and you're predictable, don't act like an ax wielding murderer and whoops! Predictable. It's the downside of being insane; you leave the weary capitalist consumer mask out in the world, probably set that shit on fire and make yourself sick with the fumes. But you just replace it with the one labelled 'danger to society' and get forced to play along with that. He did what he did to avoid the world and its predetermined fate, its standards.

Peter closes his eyes, thinks of the nauseating smell on his left. Rupert, the guard that dared graze him while he came back from the shower naked, has a broken nose thanks to Ned and his loyalty to him. The idiot barely cleans the open wound and the whole cell reeks of pus because of it. He does the math of how long it's been going on for and shudders in disgust. His bare calves slip a little more.

An inhale near the front of his cage. Slow, but controlled. Not the usual. Thank God for a circus family and heightened senses.

The doctor is paying attention to him.

"Doctor Stark. Gnittor gnihtemos llems ouy nac?" Rupert grumbles from his perch on the second floor, curses a hare brained psycho that's incomprehensible. Peter hums, pleased to know that after ten months, nine days, twelve hours, and...

Breathe in. Breathe out. Focus on sinking deeper into nothing, into a yawning void. The blanket shakes and his thighs are starting to tremble. Blood is rushing to his head, veins most likely beginning to protrude. Irrelevant.

His favorite guard Stan wears a Swiss watch his wife got for him on their fortieth anniversary. It sings to him now, smooth and cool like a river. A skipping stone is thrown, tic, a fish heads towards the sound, toc. Above all the other stimuli in the room, the watch announces itself. Ten fifteen.

Ten months, nine days, twelve hours and twenty minutes into a game, his tiny gnat still hasn't caught on. Not like the charming doctor. He sees him then, behind closed eyelids, as clearly as a sweet nightmare. Tall, taller than Peter, but less strong. Wide shoulders that morph into a slim waist and a delectable ass he aches to sink his teeth into. Shapely calves from running, curiously delicate looking ankles.

Down and back again. A full head of dark hair with a dusting of silver. Dangerously clever mouth, what his aunt would call a noble nose. Agreeable cheekbones. Piercing eyes that tear his walls down, rip apart the bricks and mortar until he's scrambling on the other side, desperately, clumsily attempting to reinforce them for the millionth time. Those eyes saw the trick, the mirror reflection on his second day here, Peter offhandedly talking in reverse with Ned when they passed the new doctor. A dark gaze had pinned him in place, a spider fixed in place with its own silk against the cold dissection table.

Ned had rambled on, Peter had met a worthy playmate and the doctor had seen all he needed in that eternally prolonged glance. That very afternoon, a psychiatrist signed on as his very own voyeur.

Doctor Stark seems to be as interested in cutting him open to peek inside as Peter is in taking a dagger and comparing their hearts. He does this a lot; wonders how fate and the absence of lucky fate led them here. On opposite sides of a prison when perhaps it should be the other way around. Or perhaps there should only be Peter and Doctor Stark.

He feels himself falling, plummeting ever downward into fantasies and hazy dreams. It's not until the good doctor sharply calls out his name that he realizes he's also plummeting towards the floor. Now, MJ had warned him; had specifically said that the hammock being ten feet off the concrete ground was a bad idea. Ned had said he'd be fine and Peter loves the guy, ok? He has to do everything he can so that his best friend wins a bet over his other best friend.

Peter slightly regrets that when he's forced to arch his body backward, flip right side up in order to hit the floor on his feet instead of his face. The impact chokes the air right out of him, shakes his bones, but he doesn't react. Cracks his neck and that's all. Most of the guards were kind, some shade of understanding. They weren't harmless, though. He knows what he looks like, knows how many hours these men are cooped up with the scum of the earth.

"To answer your question," Peter leaps onto the bars of his cell, slithers higher than any sane person would and somersaults off the vertical slits, sinks into his trustworthy hammock with its trustworthy knots (MJ and Ned had tied them, one each), "yes, I do. It's less potent this time."

He stills, frowns. "How? There haven't been any changes. External or internal." No need to act like the Mad Hatter when the conversation could be had normally. Quicker and more reliable with meanings. But the doctor pauses, enunciates his next words slowly.

"Ti koot uoy erom emit yadot." God, he loved hearing Doctor Stark talk that carefully and smoothly. It was as comforting as it was uncomfortable. (He and sex don't particularly get along. It's like a headache that comes and goes; with the right medicine it can dissipate and evolve into something soothing, pleasant. With the majority of medicine, it blossoms into pain and soreness, a dry throat clogged by a thick syrup that won't leave him be no matter how much water MJ and Ned encourage him to drink. Peter isn't yet completely certain which side of his scale the doctor falls on, but he's guessing it's likely the first.)

(The man seemed to live in the grey areas; fitting that with this, too, he'd reside in the in between.)

The reverse effect is in play and he grins, genuine and wide, when he catches it. "Monsters are visiting more frequently, taking up space in the light." His nightmares had intensified recently, and they're starting to accompany him even in moments Peter knows are real; shapes drifting by the corner of his eye. As a coping tactic, he rips parts of his nails off. Not entirely, just the corners. His mind could concoct lots of things, but in his dreams his hands are always pristine.

(He hasn't caught up with it, hasn't noticed that although his nightmares have a clearness to them, a bright intensity, Peter can't shift enough focus to realize his hands aren't his own. They never are. But he usually has more pressing bodies to deal with than the good doctor's.)

Another pause, this one being done by Tony Stark, doctor and healer of men, instead of Doctor Stark, curious keeper of deranged souls. "I'm sorry to hear that. Maybe this will help." Peter peers over the edge of the grey hammock, watches with interest as the doctor approaches his cell with a glass bottle of clear liquid sloshing inside. The other man stops an inch away from the bars, looks up at Peter.

There's a slow tension simmering between them, something as thick and addictive as honey. There's scientific curiosity, a desire to seek out and maybe comprehend the unknown lurking inside their mirror image, as other and as alike as oneself. But there is also a gleam of something he's afraid of acknowledging in Doctor Stark's eyes. A madness once tucked away steadily unraveling itself with each glance they share.

Peter returns the look, unblinking and thinking. " 'If you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.' " A lesson Nietzsche offered to those wise enough, sane enough to live blind.

The doctor raises an eyebrow, is otherwise still. Sometimes, if Peter considers their current predicament for too long, his grasp on his masks loosens, and the Spider begins to spin its deadly thread round and round its very own body. He sees a guard exchange money with a partner; the crazy quota has, he guesses, been filled for the week. And they had such a nice streak going on, too. Oh, well. This web is unavoidable anyways.

He pitches himself forward, is the one who controls the descent instead of gravity this time. Letting the air rush up to meet him, he inhales, tastes a distinct sharpness around him. Crouching, Peter takes it all in, every last detail. Looks, really looks, at the doctor and suspects.

As if he were none the wiser, he calmly heads to the front of the cell. Meets the doctor at the divide and wonders what it'll be. Wonders if he'll rise higher than ash and flame, an acrobat testing the fates by flying just seconds ahead of death. Doctor Stark hands him the bottle and he can see now, tiny pieces of lavender. A distraction for the guards. "That should keep the monsters in the dark. Use it before you got to sleep and tuck away your hair."

Like a schoolgirl with a crush, he self consciously brings a hand to his curls. They're getting a bit long, but the warden only allows haircuts once a month or two. "I don't have anything to use." Digging into his lab coat, the other man retrieves a single black stick.

Well, to everyone else it's a hair pin. Peter knows the truth though, can see it and smell it and very nearly touch it. As it is, he gently plucks the items out of elegant hands and refuses to look at them. Looking draws attention. Doctor Stark gazes at his face, eyes flickering in a rehearsed way around his own, but not into them. That's alright, he understands.

"The lack of movement around your face should also help." The question of why is out before he can reel it in and act as a sane, normal person. Christ, he could handle crazy, not rude. He would have to practice being in control so as not to slip up when the doctor is around. Said doctor cocks his head, doesn't have to do anything more for Peter to get the message: go on, ask the devil why he made the deal.

Peter B Parker does not back down when intrigued. "Why are you helping me sleep better?"

Why help me escape?

"It's my duty." Three words. Not the explicit declaration of affection typical, normal, dull people receive from an admirer or partner. Not a grand proclamation of wanting what the heart wants, or a sonnet regarding the connection between star crossed paramours. Simple, short, concise; enough to turn to religion, to sanctity and salvation if it means hearing it again. He'd do anything, including putting on a discarded mask from his past if it gets him what he desires. Peter would suffer through sanity for this man. He would if it means hearing what sounds silent to those around them.

You're my duty. Whatever happens tonight, Doctor Stark believes it's his duty to see it through. To see him through, in a way.

"Why would you accept?" Ah, silly doc thinking any of his principles have changed since the first time they met, since the first time he brought fire to life and gave death in return. Peter smiles, brings forth the prisoner that had not seen the light of day in almost a decade.

(His uncle often said Peter's greatest gift to the world was his smile, his true smile. His aunt said it was the final move needed to capture a king and make him his pawn.)

"Why, doc, you know I hate to be bored." Call him a psycho, a freak, a sick, pitiful creature. Call him anything and everything and maybe those words would ring true. But Peter will never allow himself to be bored, not when there's so much fun to be had. Especially with a doctor as crazy as he is. "This looks...promising."

" 'He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster.' " The first part of Nietzsche's warning.

"Nietzsche didn't understand; those who fought monsters were already fated to become what they struggled to defeat. They believed salvation could be found by killing the monsters outside, but all they did was feed the ones inside."

Anthony Stark, the truest version, grins at him, all glinting eyes, sharp teeth and a crooked smile. Peter Parker, armed with a match, gasoline and soon to be glass shards, grins right back. In this instant, being crazy isn't such a hassle. After all, he has someone to share the crazy with now.

[alstanfordart]

Bob’s Nightmare. Scene below.

@queenoftheclownsme

@theblackrosegoddess

It awoke. Not particularly rested. Its mind had drifted. Drifted back to the Todash, leaving Its material presence hidden beneath the ground, safely stashed away in a dark crevice of the cave. As Its conscious was violently ripped back into Its avatar of Robert Gray, It could feel the wound. No healing. Something had awakened It.

Not healed. Not healed but awake prematurely.

Confused, It staggers up, focusing Its one eye, seeing only black. Hearing creaking sounds and door slamming. Unable to see a few feet in front of It with just a subtle hint of weak light from an unknown source. It begins to walk and as It does, It hears, at the edge of the darkness, children singing;

'Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St. Clement's, you owe me five farthings, say the bells of St. Martin's.'

It pauses in Its steps as It sees a flash of yellow accompanied by giggling.

A boy.

The voice of the child causes unease as another blur of yellow dashes past, before the child appears before It, partially obscured by the shadows save for emerald rain boots stark against the midnight and a speck of light in each iris.

What the Hell is this?

Little Georgie Denbrough in his slick rain coat, skin flaps dangling from his bloody stump as he slowly reveals himself as a gentle sound of thunder and rain drift out from behind him.

The boy approaches, neutral expression, standing before It.

"Why did you kill me?" Georgie asks, his round face pale, his eyes rimmed with dark circles as he gazes up. "I didn't do anything. I just wanted my boat."

Georgie holds out his hand, the paper boat sitting on his tiny fingers, blood starting to seep through and engulf the faded paper.

"It wasn't anything personal kid, I was hungry." Robert growls, lip curling up in disgust and taking a step back from this unwelcome mirage.

Like It needs to justify Itself to this brat. He is what led to Its confrontation with the hated ones. Perhaps had It targeted another child...

But maybe that would have lead to an entirely different group of children targeting It.

Maybe the Final Other intended it that way.

And that boat. That fucking boat is what started the whole mess.

It doesn't pursue this train of thought further, as it enrages It.

There's a shift in Georgie's melancholy demeanor and a creepy grin breaks out as he bends down to place his boat on a thin river of blood that has manifested, suspended a few feet above the ground.

Georgie then steps back, his form breaking apart as it evaporates upwards into the darkness as the now crimson-soaked boat starts to glide along as the singing starts up again;

'When will you pay me? Say the bells at Old Bailey. When I grow rich, say the bells at Shoreditch.'

Robert stares down at the boat as it starts to move, the blood river carrying it along. The boat's route becomes altered as the river begins to flow out, a small wave lifting it through the air. Robert's gaze follows as a red-haired woman appears amid the swirling ruby.

Beverly Marsh.

"Well, aren't you a sight," she smirks, hands perched upon her hips. "Just as bad as the time I stabbed you in the head. Couldn't sleep that one off, huh?"

The little bitch.

Snarling, quill teeth now jetting out his mouth, Robert lunges, only to have her vaporize as he goes to tear at her throat. Her disembodied laugh echoing around him. The blood river drifts off, taking the small boat along as it disappears into the gloom as a cream-colored wooden door appears. It steadily swings open, revealing a bathroom. Robert refrains from coming closer, but the room appears to envelope him, moving on its own.

The steam cloud blanketing the area barely conceals a dark-haired man slouched in a bathtub.

Stanley Uris, head lolling against his shoulder.

Spotting Robert, he sits up as he holds out his wrists, thin slashes appearing and dripping, inking the bath water red and dotting the white porcelain.

"I got to grow up at least." he says.

Robert gives a contemptuous scoff. "You did that to yourself."

"After you came to me." Stan retorts, lowering his arms slowly, staring blankly at Robert, a little half-smile just barely showing. Robert quickly retreats, slamming the door as it dissolves in a puff of thin smoke.

It is growing increasingly uncomfortable. Anxious. It must get out of here, whatever this is.

A dream. A nightmare.

Limbo? Had It been killed while slumbering?

Robert's head darts around as he searches the area, strange clanking sounds and echos vibrate in the distance coupled with a growing forest of giggling children's voices and the baaing of sheep.

'When will that be? Say the bells of Stepney. I do not know, says the great bell at Bow.'

Mike Hanlon comes forth, holding up a photo album. Opening it, there are various photographs of black birds.

"We're all afraid of something-even you." he says as the birds come to life and begin to flap their wings and squawk, emerging from the album's pages in droves, growing larger in size as they fly at Robert, pecking at him, their beady eyes glowing yellow. He ducks down and swats at them, growling as Mike fades into the dark.

As the birds swoop away, another familiar male voice appears.

"What's up clown man!" Richie Tozier jumps out, bat in hands as Robert, startled, stumbles backwards.

Ugh, of all the Losers, It had hated this one the most. The insulting little shit.

Richie continues to swing the bat, the wood making audible swooshing sounds that cut through the air.

Roaring, Robert grabs at the weapon, only to have his hands pass through it, tumbling forward as Richie cackles.

"Hey, no! Sorry no cigar! You know this place is worse than that crack house." he says, as he pauses to adjust his glasses.

Another final voice, immediately recognizable.

"He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts, he thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts."

Bill Denbrough steps forth from the tenebrosity, the boat pinched between his fingers.

"You're not real. None of you are. Old age took you back to the weeds long ago." Robert says glaring at him, his one iris starting to spark as Bill approaches.

Save for Mike. All are gone.

Bill smirks. "We're not real enough for you?" he replies, chuckling as an inhaler rolls out beside his feet. Eddie Kaspbrak reaches down to pluck it up, standing alongside Bill.

Raising it to his lips, he halts. "I actually don't need this anymore." Eddie says as he chucks it casually over his shoulder.

Richie moves to stand by them along with Mike and Beverly, with Georgie close behind, followed by Ben Hanscom, who holds up a piece of a large eggshell, black and shiny. Robert's expression drops at the sight, an angry grimace exposing his razor incisors.

Stanley Uris suddenly joins them, that same barely-smile still there. Almost mocking.

Robert glances around at his former adversaries.

"You should have stayed out of it. All of you, had you just kept to your business, let me have what I wanted, Stan and Eds would have lived longer, happier lives. I would have been nothing more than fragments of a forgotten dream. Amnesia is a kindness."

"We forgot, but you haven't forgotten us," Mike offers. "Have you?"

"We're still here," Bill adds, tapping the tip of the paper boat against his temple. "Can't escape that."

The eight are now bordering around him, with more emerging from behind: Candice Swain, Veronica Dell, the drunk Samuel, Colin and Hank Dobson, Esther, Noah Brady, the Muncy family, Julie, the hateful redhead Heather Taggart, Brandon Wilkes, Emily and her mother and the rest of the newest souls he'd claimed on this planet as well as his victims from Derry; the boys from the tunnel, Derek Stuart and James, Henry Bowers, Patrick Hockstetter decked out in his cartoon cat shirt, features chewed, the other two punks from the Bower's gang whose names he couldn't be bothered to remember, their necks bloodied, ripped open. Betty Ripsom, little Victoria, Adrian Mellon and the faces of endless Derry children and adults, some recognizable, some barely a hint of familiarity, many just a passing blip on his existence like pretty Martha and naive Alison. Many he'd used and killed like Tom Rogan, some that survived his Deadlights like Audra Denbrough.

As well as the unfortunate wife of the true Robert Gray, Agnes and their daughter Emma. Scowling and hateful.

Decades upon decades of victims. Many missing limbs, their eyeballs gouged out, blood bubbling from their mouths.

"Why'd you kill me?"

"You ripped my legs off and left my body in a ditch."

"You ate my baby. My only son."

"My father died from a broken heart after I went missing."

"They only found my head with no eyes."

Whispering, talking, with some laughing menacingly, all tinted in dull green-blue as the numbers begin to grow as more appear behind them.

Then a few clear a path, allowing another achingly familiar figure to step into the bleak light.

Mirasal.

She moves to stand before him, bringing her arms up to scissor them across her chest, she gives him a somber scowl.

Robert lowers himself to his knees, keeping his gaze locked with hers as resentment and hatred glimmer within her cerulean disks.

"What was that you told me? That I could trust you?" she says, giving a repulsed head shake.

No. This is not her. Remember that. None of this is real.

Just a dream. It's not real.

Robert hangs his head in his hands. "I don't want to hurt you." he mutters into his palms, his face shooting up at the sound of her chuckling derisively.

"Like I would believe you, you even thought about killing me," she replies. "Or perhaps give me a little scare."

With that, she leaps forward, her mouth unhinging, the blue eyes switching to ebony as she comes at him with her claws out. Robert winces back, covering his face, ducking his head down, only to feel nothing. He gingerly peeks out from beneath his fingers.

She's vanished. But the others, their irises blacking out to mimic that same appearance, still remain. All begin to draw closer, the Loser's Club at the forefront, their hands growing paler, some stained with blood splatter, grabbing at him as they close in, swaying back and forth, becoming more zombie-like.

"Get away from me," Robert rapidly stands, whirling around, panic gripping him as he growls, his one intact pupil now burning bright. "Get away."

"We all float down here, Robert. Float with us. Float with us. " they all cantillate in unison. "Float with us."

"No, no. Leave me alone." Robert drops back down to the ground, cowering, shielding himself from their increasingly grotesque faces, their features shriveling up and dropping to the ground. Their cackles resounding through his skull, magnified.

"You'll float too! You'll float too! You'll float too!"

"No!" Robert shouts, covering his ears as the area begins to spin, the faces around him now blending together. "No! No! No! Please! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

Their laughing abruptly ceases, their fingers no longer grabbing and prodding at him, and all is quiet save for the angelic crooning beginning to rise again;

'Here comes a candle to light you to bed.'

Robert follows the source, coming into view of a tall lithe figure, its slouching back facing him, standing in the center of a circle of light. The air above has red balloons hovering, completely still as Robert approaches, pausing every other step as the being becomes more visible, its ruffled off-white costume beginning to twitch as it turns to face him, bells jingling.

Robert stands facing his favorite form as it gives an empty grin.

What?

"Here comes a candle to light you to bed." Pennywise says as he reaches his elongated gloved fingers to grip the nape of Robert's neck. His eyes are two empty sockets, devoid of any color, his teeth yellowed needles as he brings his ghostly features closer, smooth, almost as if they were set in porcelain. Without warning he slams Robert to the ground, the strings of the balloons suspended above gently blow in response as he straddles him.

"Time to pay the piper, ol' Bob Gray," Pennywise intones as he lowers his teeth, only an inch from Robert's visage of both fear and confusion, the dripping saliva strings cold against his skin. Pennywise traces a bony finger along Robert's nose. "And here comes a chopper to chop off your head! Chip chop chip chop, the last man is dead!" he starts to maniacally cackle.

Squeezing his lids, Robert lets out a roar, fighting to free himself, thrashing beneath his double.

And just like that, the clown and the balloons are gone.

[angelofthequeers]

Ladybug and Reine Nuit: Chapter 15

The Evillustrator II

Disclaimer: I don’t own ML.

No, Lukanette won’t be a thing in this fic, but I’ve always loved their first meeting and some meetings do have instant chemistry that goes nowhere. And I thought @cobraonthecob would get a kick out of it.

@miraculousl4dybug @livinthebilife tagged as requested :)

Chapter 14 | Chapter 16

When she doesn’t find Evillustrator before lunch is over, Reine Nuit is forced to admit defeat and turn back into Alya to return to class. Thankfully, Adrien’s got her best friend’s back and explains to Ms Bustier that Marinette had been kidnapped by an akuma and could she please not penalise Marinette for being absent this time. Ms Bustier had just sighed deeply and mumbled something about “not another one” before beginning the lesson.

After school, Alya agrees to stick around in the library with Adrien and Nino to work on their project, if only to take her mind off her simmering worry for her best friend. There’s no guarantee that Evillustrator won’t hurt Marinette. He’s an akuma! One wrong move on Marinette’s part and she could be toast. It’s all she can think about even as they pack up and head their separate ways, agreeing to meet up again tomorrow.

Finally, as the sun sets, Alya pushes herself off her bed and heads over to her window.

“You really care about Marinette,” Plagg comments. “Blech. It’s sickening.”

“She’s my best friend, Plagg,” Alya says quietly. “It makes me feel – so – helpless that I couldn’t do a thing.”

Plagg’s uncharacteristically silent at that. “Then I say you should get a move on,” he says. “The quicker you go and save your friend, the quicker I can get back to my heavenly Camembert.” But he’s not fooling either of them.

“You’re right,” Alya says with a small smile at him. “Plagg, claws out!”

Once transformed, Reine Nuit leaps through the darkening city to the Seine. Although Adrien hadn’t given her a specific spot, it’s a simple matter to find a long boat with a park bench and a mini Eiffel Tower that has a large glowing orb on the tip. Seated on the bench are Marinette, wearing a beautiful white dress, and Evillustrator, who’s sketching something as Marinette sways to the music that’s playing from his sketchpad. Marinette’s eyes, however, are wide open and darting around, and she gives the barest of nods when she notices Reine Nuit leaping onto the boat without detection.

“I…actually draw a little too,” Marinette says, leaning in to Evillustrator. “I’m not as good as you are, of course.”

“I’m sure you’re a wonderful artist,” Evillustrator says warmly.

“Well, can I draw you something special for your birthday?” Marinette reaches for the pencil, but Evillustrator pulls it away from her.

“Sorry,” he says. “But I don’t feel comfortable giving you my pencil. Even though it’s you.”

“Oh…” The disappointment in Marinette’s voice is clear. “That’s okay…”

“Please don’t be upset!” Evillustrator hastens to say. “How about I draw you something special? Any requests?”

Okay, so Marinette’s plan had failed. Time for Reine Nuit to save her, because there’s no way the hero can get to the pencil before Evillustrator can draw something, and Reine Nuit will be damned if she keeps a civilian in harm’s way. Plus, she can’t exactly destroy the pencil without Ladybug around to purify it; not unless she wants the akuma to multiply and create a whole swarm of Evillustrators. An army of Stonehearts had been bad enough, thank you very much.

“Cataclysm!” she whispers. She takes a breath, then slams her palm down on the deck of the boat, and it immediately starts to crumble to dust. Evillustrator shouts when he realises what’s going on, but it’s too late; Reine Nuit swoops in and scoops Marinette up before he can react, then leaps to the river bank and away into the sea of city lights.

“You could’ve gotten his pencil!” Marinette huffs when Reine Nuit finally puts her down near the Notre Dame.

“You think I could’ve even gotten near that thing without him noticing?” Reine Nuit says, hands on her hips. “And I can’t destroy it unless Ladybug’s around, otherwise we’ll end up with a whole bunch of them. You’re welcome for saving you by the way.”

Marinette deflates before the hero’s eyes. “Oh. Right. Good point. Well…that plan’s busted, so I’ll just head home –”

“Uh, no you won’t,” Reine Nuit says. “I just snatched you right out from underneath him. That’s the first place he’s gonna look.”

“You’re full of good ideas tonight, aren’t you?” Marinette says with a raised eyebrow. Reine Nuit smirks.

“I’m full of surprises, cookie,” she winks. “Want me to take you somewhere safe?”

“I think I can manage now that I don’t have a supervillain watching me,” Marinette says. “Where’s Ladybug?”

“I dunno. And if she was here, we’d totally have taken Evillustrator down by now ‘cause she could’ve purified the akuma.”

Marinette rolls her eyes. “Thanks for saving me, Reine Nuit. You should go after him while he’s still looking for me, before he hides away again.”

Reine Nuit salutes and springs off in the direction of her best friend’s house. There’s nowhere else that Evillustrator could be right now, undoubtedly caught up in fury over losing Marinette. A few streets away, with her ring beeping furiously, she stops to detransform and feed a whining Plagg, then transforms again and heads off.

When she gets to Marinette’s rooftop, she hesitates only for a moment before opening the trapdoor and sliding down into the bedroom below. Marinette would forgive her. It’s not like she’s snooping, after all.

“You!” snarls a voice. Reine Nuit jumps and spins around, her staff out in front of her, to find a furious Evillustrator in front of the window, which has been erased from existence. “Where did you take Marinette?”

“That’s need-to-know, tomato head,” Reine Nuit drawls. Evillustrator growls and dives at her, but she smoothly dodges.

“Give me your Miraculous, you mangy cat!”

“Um…no.”

Back and forth they go, trading blows, knocking over the chaise lounge and the desk chair and everything in their way as they punch and kick and draw things into existence and try to secure the upper hand over their opponent. When Evillustrator knocks over a lamp and plunges a corner of the room into darkness, Reine Nuit’s eyes narrow at his muttered cursing and haste to return to the light.

Hmm. So, he needs light to draw. She can work with that.

“Focus, kitty!” A yo-yo hisses past her and knocks away the manacles that Evillustrator had drawn over Reine Nuit’s wrist. She jumps and gives Ladybug a grateful nod.

“Glad you could make it,” she says. “Any idea how to get his pencil? He can’t draw –”

“– in the dark,” Ladybug finishes. “I know. Uh…Marinette told me.”

“Ah, that’s how you knew we’d be here.” Reine Nuit hurls herself to the ground to avoid the swarm of punching gloves that hurtle at her. “Whenever you’re ready, angel bug!”

“Lucky Charm!” A ladybug-patterned roll of duct tape falls into Ladybug’s hands. “Huh? What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Figure it out!” Reine Nuit bends backwards like she’s playing limbo to avoid the buzz saw that Evillustrator sends after her, then kicks Ladybug’s legs out from underneath her to save her partner from a spiked whip.

“Got it!” Ladybug declares, beginning to unpeel the roll of tape. “Get him over near the bed and get ready to hit his drawing pad!”

“Not the pencil?” Reine Nuit says.

“Trust me, I’ll take care of that.” Ladybug pokes her tongue out at Evillustrator and throws the overturned chaise lounge at him. Edging behind the fight, Reine Nuit winces when it misses and instead knocks Marinette’s computer over, shattering the monitor screen into pieces. Yikes. Thank god for Miraculous Ladybug. Poor Marinette.

When she ends up behind Evillustrator, Reine Nuit extends her baton and sends Evillustrator flying towards Marinette’s bed. Ladybug acts quickly, taping his pencil hand to the bed’s ladder. But with his pad hand free, he can still easily draw, unless…

“Cataclysm!” Reine Nuit leaps over and swipes her sparking hand across the pad, turning it to dust.

“No!” Evillustrator howls as Ladybug pries the pencil from his immobilised hand to release and purify the akuma.

“Bye, bye, little butterfly!” Ladybug waves after the escaping white butterfly. She throws her roll of duct tape into the air and announces, “Miraculous Ladybug!” to repair all the damage done during Evillustrator’s reign of terror.

“Pound it!” the heroes declare as Evillustrator turns back into Nathaniel.

“Um – why am I –” The redhead blushes furiously. “Why am I in M-Marinette’s bedroom?”

“Long story,” Reine Nuit says. “You wanna take him back, Ladybug, or should I?”

“You do it,” Ladybug says. “I should go and bring Marinette back home before her parents flip out at her being out alone at night.”

Reine Nuit clicks and shoots Ladybug finger guns, then scoops Nathaniel up. “Okay, lover boy, let’s get you home.”

.

“Are you sure your mother and brother won’t mind a group of kids crowding the place?” Marinette says as they board Juleka’s houseboat after school the next day.

“Oh, not at all!” Rose chirps. “Ms Couffaine loves crowds!”

“That’s Anarka to ya, lassie,” says a thickly Scottish-accented voice. The owner of the voice – a woman with a long, steel grey plait down her back, pale skin, and electric blue eyes behind bright red glasses – approaches them from the control hub of the houseboat. “You should know that by now!”

“Sorry, Ms – uh, Anarka!” Rose says with a sheepish wave. Juleka laughs and takes Rose’s hand, interlacing their fingers.

“You’re cute when you’re flustered,” Juleka says. Rose giggles and flushes bright red. “Is Luka home, Mum?”

“Aye. He’s down in ya room.”

“Okay, so we’ll stay in the living room. Or we can work out here, if you guys want?”

Ivan shrugs.

“I don’t mind,” Marinette says.

“Don’t be silly!” Anarka says. “Luka wouldn’t be me son if he wasn’t used to a bit o’ ruckus! I’ll bring ya some snacks to tide ya over.”

“Thanks, Mum.” Juleka hugs Anarka, then leads her groupmates down into the living room of the houseboat. There’s a closed door on the other side of the room, with the soft sound of guitar notes behind it, but Marinette’s more focused on not breaking her neck in the chaotic living room with paint-splattered floorboards and instruments everywhere. But it’s not messy in an untidy way; rather, in an inviting, lived-in way. Comforting chaos.

“Okay!” Rose plops herself down on the couch with Juleka and pulls her laptop out of her frilly pink bag. Marinette and Ivan sit cross-legged on the rainbow floor. In the background, Anarka is tipping cookies onto a plate while singing a rock song that Marinette can’t quite name. “Marinette, since you weren’t here, we divided up the research and assigned you a portion!”

“She couldn’t exactly help not being here,” Ivan says. Rose gasps.

“Oh! I’m sorry, Marinette! I didn’t even think!”

“It’s fine,” Marinette laughs. “Really. What do you want me to research?”

They tuck into cookies and glasses of lemonade as they work, taking copious notes to whittle down later into an acceptable presentation. Marinette’s so deep into her research that she doesn’t even notice the person behind her until they say, “Particle physics, huh?”

“Wah!” Marinette shrieks and jumps away, yelping and diving for her glass of lemonade before it can tip over after she kicks it.

“Luka!” Juleka complains. “I’ve told you to stop scaring my friends like that.”

“It’s okay, Marinette!” Rose says as Marinette tries to calm her racing heart. “He did that to me too! You get used to it after the first few times.”

“I remember doing this project for Ms M.” The person sits down between Ivan and Marinette. Marinette turns to ask what the hell they’re doing, only to be rendered utterly speechless when she catches sight of them…him. Whoa. “Science was never really my biggest interest. I tried to write a song about particle physics for my bit of the research and Ms M scolded me for it.”

“How about you do our research, then, Luka?” Juleka says with a half-smirk. “Since you’ve already done this.”

“Sorry, little sis,” Luka says, returning her half-smirk as he pulls his guitar around to rest on his lap. His eyes are the same shade of blue as his mother’s, also matching the teal tips of his black hair, and he’s wearing ripped black jeans and a short-sleeved blue jacket over a white Jagged Stone shirt. He likes Jagged Stone! “Ms M said to me once that she hopes my little sister “takes science just a little more seriously than you, Mr Couffaine!” She’d totally know I helped you with it.”

“True,” Juleka says. Luka smiles at Marinette and strums a few chords that are both sharply clean and a total musical mess, hitting Marinette deep in the chest like a physical punch.

“I’m getting this from you,” he says. “It’s one of the clearest yet most chaotic songs I’ve heard. What’s your name? I’ve met Rose and Ivan, but I’ve never met you before.”

“Oh my god, Luka,” Juleka mutters. Meanwhile, Marinette’s heart is going haywire because…holy crap, this boy is gorgeous. And his music somehow exactly matches the utter chaos of Marinette’s soul!

“My name’s Mama – Ma-Ma-Marinette!” Marinette blurts out. Oh god, why is she stammering? Why is this her life? She’s very hyperaware of Juleka, Rose, and Ivan concealing grins, and she’d totally hit them if she could get away with it.

“Hello, Ma-Ma-Marinette,” Luka says, then snickers behind his hand. Marinette’s heart drops. Great. He’s gorgeous, but he’s also a jerk. This is really Juleka’s brother? Her feelings must be painted across her face, because Luka’s smile vanishes, and he adds, “Sorry. I tend to speak better with music than words. There’s just something so…pure and simple about it.”

“Aye, right y’are,” Anarka says as she takes away the empty plate and glasses. “But ya better not be distracting yer sister and her friends, Luka.”

Luka holds his hands up. “I just came out to say hi. And to get a cookie before they all vanished. Looks like I was too late.”

“Marinette’s parents own a bakery!” Rose says. “She should totally bring you some cookies next time! They make the best cookies!”

“And macarons,” Ivan adds.

“And everything,” Juleka says dreamily. Luka smiles.

“I’ll have to taste a Marinette creation one day,” he says. Blood rushes to Marinette’s cheeks.

“I – um –” She fumbles for something to talk about. “You play guitar?”

Luka snickers. “Yeah. And Juleka plays bass. But neither of us can really sing.”

“I hate singing,” Juleka says. “But Rose has the voice of an angel.”

“Aww!” Rose throws her arms around Juleka and kisses her. “You’re so sweet!”

“I play drums,” Ivan adds.

“What is this, make-a-band?” Marinette jokes. But rather than laugh, the others frown around at each other.

“That’s…not a bad idea,” Juleka says. “Luka and I’ve always wanted to start a band.”

“Ooh!” Rose bounces in her seat. “Yes! Let’s start a band!”

“What about our project?” Ivan says.

“Project now,” Marinette says. “Band talk tomorrow. That is, if we’re coming back here tomorrow?”

Luka shares a look with Juleka, who rolls her eyes. “Yeah, we’ll meet back here after school,” she says. “Back to particle physics, guys.”

Marinette, Rose, and Ivan groan but pull their books and laptop back towards them.

“I’ll leave you guys to it,” Luka says, gracefully climbing to his feet. He smiles down at Marinette and says, “Nice to meet you, Ma-Ma-Marinette,” before heading back to his room.

“Marinette, no,” Juleka says when Marinette stares blankly after Luka. “He’s my brother.”

“Marinette, yes!” Rose squeals. “That was so adorable!”

“Marinette, can we work on the stupid project?” Ivan says. That last comment snaps Marinette out of her trance.

“Wha – oh, yeah!” she babbles. “Project! Right! Let’s do it!”

[prying-pandora666]

The departure of the head writer mid-season (who had been the one to design both the fire sibs’ arcs to boot), the mandated rewrites by Nickelodeon because they wanted more stand alone episodes for syndication, the scrapping of Book 4 because Bryke wanted to pursue a theatrical film about the search for Ursa (which is why the storyboards they made for those scenes were also scrapped), and more production troubles are the reason Book 3 has so many cracks despite some high highs.

Azula is the biggest one. The elephant in the room. Ehasz said she was always meant to be redeemed - which explains why she originally had an entire arc planned (it was cut for time and all that remained of it was recycled into “The Beach”). Bryke, however, have never seemed to give Azula much thought outside of her being an obstacle for Zuko to over come. A “crazy” foil that exists just to take the fall at the end so Zuko can rise.

It’s as if Bryke saw Zhao 2.0 but other writers were working towards Zuko+ instead.

We see the results. Her arc is rushed and we are suddenly bombarded with reveals about who the real Azula behind the mask of perfection really is. Little details start to fall into place - like why is she so good at lying and repressing her feelings? How is she so good at having a clear and calm head to lightningbend with even when there’s so much emotional turmoil inside of her? Oh, she has mastered the art of emotional repression and disassociation? Because she herself is traumatized by how she’s been exploited and the things she’s been forced to do?

It’s a tragedy that so much of the fandom insists on perpetuating ableist stereotypes about “born evil” children rather than see Azula for the far more fascinating and complicated character she is.

And it’s really strange and a bit concerning to realize how susceptible to narrative framing we all are as human beings. Azula does nothing worse than Zuko does throughout the show. Even her killing Aang in mutual combat is not as unethical as Zuko hiring an assassin in secret to protect his own selfish interests. And yet narrative framing will have you believe Zuko is just a desperate lost boy and Azula is a monster who enjoys what she does.

Despite the fact that this isn’t so.

Iroh, too, is an interesting comparison. In his prime he was the Dragon of the West and sieged the largest civilian city in the world for nearly 2 years! We even see him laugh and joke about burning their homes to the ground. But fans bend over backwards to justify this uncomfortable reality, to make excuses, to insist Iroh was always good deep inside.

In truth, nothing Azula ever does even at her worst compares to the pain and death Iroh brought to the world before he changed his ways. Even Azula’s conquest of Ba Sing Se was virtually bloodless and no civilians were harmed in the process. And yet… Iroh is the wise uncle everyone loves and Azula is the monster.

I think it’s something the creators recognized in retrospect, which is why they haven’t known how to handle the character since. It’s clear they know she SHOULD be redeemed otherwise they’re accidentally saying something hypocritical and downright cynical for the series that doesn’t fit with its original messages. And yet they don’t seem ready to sacrifice the most interesting and compelling villain they’ve ever managed to write.

I think there’s something to be said for stories written for the sake of telling a story vs stories written to continue a franchise.

Until decisions start getting made for the purposes of completing the story rather than dragging out and milking a franchise with endless spin-offs, remakes, games, and sequels, then Azula will continue to live in this bizarre limbo with half the fandom painfully invested in seeing her suffer and the other half pleading for the writers to let the girl come to the conclusion she was always written for.

Let the girl find peace!

It would say nothing good about the heroes—especially Zuko—if they choose to use Azula as a scapegoat rather than reach out a hand to help her just as they’ve done to everyone else.

Even to Ozai.

Why did they end Azula's story on a disturbing breakdown, crying and screaming, chained to the ground like an animal, while our main characters stand there and watch passively?

They could have shown us a scene during the celebrations where she was drinking tea and observing the crowd, to reassure the audience she was okay at least. Her last scene was traumatizing, and i hate how the show tried to make it seem like it was a satisfying close to her story.

Having a light-hearted ending where everyone is happy and smiling EXCEPT her, because she is straight up snubbed by the narrative, just seems mean-spirited to me.

"There was supposed to be a fourth season focusing on Azula." Okay, but it didn't come out. It would have been so easy to show Azula at the end of season 3, just having calmed down, just her being calm. Just take ten seconds to show her awful breakdown had passed and she was somewhere safe and somewhat at peace. That's it.

The more i think about it the angrier i get.

[azveille]

At last, a Brexit dividend – shame it’s for the pedlars of fake medicine

Some crimes are just worse than others. When I tell people I research the market for fake and substandard medicines, their most common reaction is: “Fake cancer medicines? That’s horrible. Why would anyone do that?”

The World Health Organization reported earlier this month that fake leukaemia medicine, packaged for the UK market to look like the genuine drug Iclusig, was circulating in Europe and the Americas. The short answer to why anyone would do something as morally awful as this, is of course: to make money. The fake leukaemia drug, containing mostly paracetamol, is being sold for $13,500 a pack – $450 a pill – in the US, or £5,000 a pack in the UK. There is now a far larger market for legal medicines than there is for illegal drugs, such as heroin or cocaine, and there’s a much smaller chance of getting caught. The (genuine) pills are for seriously sick people, so if a patient doesn’t blossom back to health after taking (fake) treatments, doctors generally blame the tumour, not the pill.

Drug dealers are apparently figuring this out – researchers have found traces of ecstasy and Viagra ingredients in pills posing as antimalarial medicine. Falsifiers monitor worried posts on patient forums, clock shortages of specific drugs, weigh up what the most anxious might pay for an online sale, how distracted the national regulator might be, and move in opportunistically to fill the gap.

On all counts, people in the UK are vulnerable right now. The criminals’ business model depends on patients taking risks. And desperate patients will buy medicines from dodgy sources for lots of reasons, our research shows. If the medicine you need isn’t covered by your insurance or health service, you turn to the internet (think of the HIV-prevention pill PrEP in England and Wales, for example). If you’re embarrassed to ask for a prescription, or you don’t have time to go and queue at the surgery, or you distrust the generic medicine on offer at the hospital and would rather buy a well-known brand, or you were redirected to an online pharmacy while self-diagnosing a nasty rash – all these are reasons to step away from the really very safe supply chains that the NHS and most bricks-and-mortar pharmacies in the UK provide.

Recently patients in the UK have mentioned yet another reason for drifting away from safe sources for their medicines: the threat of a no-deal Brexit. Patients are reported to be buying essential medicines wherever they can, stockpiling because they fear shortages after Brexit. It’s a very legitimate fear.

At the moment,EU governments work together through the European Medicines Agency (EMA) to license medicines for use throughout the 28 nations. But there’s no clear legal provision for the circulation in the UK of products authorised by the EMA after 29 March. The UK’s Medicines and Healthcare products Regulatory Agency (MHRA) is doing its best to re-establish itself as an independent regulator; it has cobbled together a 188-page draft amendment to current medicines regulations to stave off the worst effects of crashing out of Europe’s effective regulatory structures. That, together with a diplomatically apocalyptic “explanatory memorandum” is sitting in parliament’s inbox, along with a zillion other pieces of urgent legislation, itching to be reviewed and signed before exit from the EU.

If it doesn’t get signed in time, the fallout may be dire. In 2018, the UK imported close to 15m kg of medicine a month from other EU countries on average, according to HMRC customs figures, some 5m more than it exported to them. That’s an awful lot of products to be in sudden limbo, leaving an awful lot of patients in potential need.

Even if an orderly exit deal is done, delays related to paperwork and border checks will threaten smooth supply, possibly leading to gaps on pharmacy shelves. Though there is every indication that the MHRA is bending over backwards to minimise disruption to companies, shelves will grow even emptier if the regulator is pressured to “take back control” by requiring UK-specific product registration. Some companies will decide the number of patients in the UK doesn’t justify the cost of registering products for rare conditions here; they’ll forgo UK sales, and UK patients may forgo longer or healthier lives. Expensive product registration also pushes up prices, increasing pressure on the NHS and perhaps restricting wide access to expensive new medicines for all Britons.

All of these things would mean even more patients turning to the internet for an affordable version of something they want or need and can’t easily get from their local pharmacy through the NHS. And that, in turn, will make the UK a more lucrative market for criminals flogging fake cures over the internet.

[grimm-daire-blog]

I Can Feel The Fires Of Hell

During The Circle Is Anew

There was strong, irrational adrenaline flowing through Grimm’s veins as the Rebellion stampeded towards the Castle of Athoria. Having previously told Usai and the other phantoms that this wasn’t their fight, the thought and grand speech now seemed lost to The First Phantom. The Bersker state was to blame. Grimm’s eyes flickered with fire, a chaotic brew of reds and gray, and among his brethren he was the master, the teacher, the King of Purgatory. The chilling ghostly children of Athoria followed Grimm with hoots and hollers, using their telekinesis to bend trees and throw rocks, to raise the dirt into tornadoes around them as they flew through the air like maniacs, riding along the gravel as if it were an ocean of waves. Some brought along more humans to join in the traveling party, continuing to suck at them like vampires, enhance their beserker to unfathomable extremes that would otherwise be means for death by the hands of The Headmaster. Grimm had always taught his phantoms control, moderation, and rational expectations.

Tonight was not a dire exception, but the only exception.

A clergy of near a hundred ghost children swept through the large stone and brick gates hiding the castle from any typical entrance. The Knights that had remained to protect the palace attempted in quick rages to stop the flickering invisible students from ambushing first. But it was in vain. The phantoms swept through the first round of knights with dazzling and unfair advantages, picking the knights up by their armors and shooting them straight up into the atmosphere, then dropping them mercilessly to the ground. They landed in heaps of metal and exploded bloodied body parts. Then with sticks of matches they were set on fire. 

The blood from these knights was only consumed further, fueling the drug inside their bodies into monstrous commotion. The phantom children circled their leader in dance and adrenaline, bodies shaking and throats growling at what was to come. The opposing rebellion lead by Delaina Bloodruler would make their move next, as promised and agreed. The children of limbo took out their bloodthirsty and beserker state by setting more fires, destroying everything and anything in sight on the castle grounds. The barracks exploded in fiery reds and orange and the phantoms tossed their weapons and armor into the air for target practice. 

Grimm Daire, though affected by the thirst of the human blood, took pride in this outcome. Still, while his students played and the Bloodruler lead her people into the castle directly, Grimm could not help but think of what was to come, and who they now served.

Lucifer had not betrayed them. It was the Mad Queen, he understood that well. With Beelzebub missing, with Leeds and Seryth destroyed from Mahalath’s sickness, and the country of Athoria falling to its knees after a thousand years of it being his home, Grimm was unsure where his new loyalties would lie. Killing the Queen and going to England or to Oblitius Inferno seemed...misplaced. Belial would ever bow to another demon, even the King of Falsehoods who did all he could to keep the peace in England. 

He thought of England, wondered how the war was going...and what would be of the grand country once him and his students set foot on its soil. Would they even be welcomed and greeted by Jezebeth? Or would the country be consumed in fire...

Doubtful.

Grimm Daire’s thoughts were cut short by the rumble, the explosion, and the giant crack in the earth that erupted through the castle grounds. 

In mere seconds the fissure consumed several of his students who dropped deep into the land and were unable to gather their concentration to levitate back up. Grimm ran to the edge of the growing incision inside the ground and heard their screams from far below. Others began to panic as the earthquake shook the country with unbelievable strength. Smaller and unstable buildings began to collapse, the stone burying the phantoms and crushing them to death. 

“No...no!” Grimm heard a growing chaos not only from his phantoms but from the Rebellion nearby. Collecting who he could, he sprang to the air carrying two of them by their collars and assisted in levitating others, hoping to save who he could. But the blood of the beserker created delusions in his mind, awakening unreal connections and thoughts when it came to what was happening, and why. Ghost children from Limbo moaned to him, reaching for Grimm as he tried to swim through their outstretched arms. Don’t leave us! Come back! And their ethereal bodies swarmed the First Phantom in confusion. The students in his grasp were ripped from his connection. As Grimm searched for them through the chaos of the magic, Limbo consumed his conscious and vision. The magic from the spell weakened him greatly, causing Grimm to drop easily from the air. As Grimm collided with the ground his shoulder blade shattered into thousands of unfixable pieces and the pain trickled down his spine in temporary paralysis.

What’s happening! Run! Run! 

Through a haze of grey and twisted metaphors of Limbo, Grimm blinked through the stars of his fall. Blood escaped his ear with a ringing sensation that he thought would never go away. He felt hands on his body and when they grabbed at his shoulder Grimm screamed in pain, being brought back to the reality of the situation. Another blink cleared his mind from the fog and dismay of Limbo and back to the Earthen plane of existence. Fire. Destruction. The Castle of Athoria crumbled before his eyes.

We have to go!

Whatever phantoms had survived lost their energy and abilities, the blood from the humans proved to be, as always, too much for them to handle under pressure. It was taboo. They would be their own demise. Grimm allowed himself to be dragged from the ground and lead by whoever remained. They stumbled and crawled through the rubble and away from the castle and the giant fissure that Grimm assumed now stretched throughout the entire country. Several minutes later, they looked back at the Castle of Athoria on its glorious hilltop as it sat in demolition. “Let’s go,”

But where? What was safe anymore? Grimm lead those who remained towards the mountains of Night Haven. Perhaps the once city of the dead would be uninhabited now and a place of safety for the time being...Grimm was unsure. Together the small group tended to their human wounds and carried each other through the density of the forest. At a nearby stream, they drank to replenish their bodies,did what they could to cover their cuts and bruises. The downfall of the immortal phantom body. Grimm did not heal immediately like his opposing specie friends; instead, he cringed at the pain of his shoulder, or what was left of it, unable to move his arm or twist his back in certain ways. He was placed against a rock and water poured on his head to cool him of fever. 

Around them, the echoes of the continued earthquakes hit them in waves. The aftershocks shook the ground and the mountains moaned in response. Do we keep going? Grimm glanced around at those who had escaped the castle...they were weakened and broken, and their spirits had slipped as their Headmaster sat worthless and damaged. Another shake to the ground caused the first set of rocks to displace themselves from the side of the mountain. Together they watched as it rolled to the ground, gaining momentum, snagging other pieces of the loosened rock and taking it with them. Night Haven was not far; if they could make it up the mountain to the village where it had survived for so long the maybe they would be safe. 

They did not get the chance.

As if thinking the same thing at once, the phantoms of Crossing Over began to move as quickly as they could. Two carried Grimm through his pain, locking their arms across his shattered shoulder even though it tore at the open wound, ripped at his skin to expose the flesh and bone. Move, move! One giant rock propelled itself and landed on one of the phantoms, splattering them into the earth at their feet. They screamed, panicked, and hobbled away. Where to go? The aftershocks caused them to slip and fall, and even when a phantom gained some sort of strength to levitate, they quickly succumbed to the lack of concentration and the weakened state of their bodies.

The rock slide came too quickly. The mountain in which they ran from broke in several pieces and down the side of the mountain the rocks rolled, tumbled and gathered in massive heaps. Like an avalanche, it consumed the phantoms one by one, trapping them under its massive weights.

The phantom carrying Grimm dropped the headmaster and turned towards the rock slide. With whatever strength they had left, it used telekinesis to toss the rocks to the side even as they flew through the air in their direction, allowing for a small window and path to continue to run. Go! They yelled backwards at their master. Grimm stumbled several more steps before collapsing once more. 

“I cannot...” Grimm collapsed on his back staring up at the darkened skies. “Oh Lucifer, you await me I hope. Forgive this fool,” Blood poured from his mouth as the booming sound of the rocks landed around him and the screams of his people faded into the mixture of noise. Grimm gurgled on the blood, allowing a strange and misplaced series of laughs to escape his throat. “The fires of hell...I feel them...” A rock escaped the clutches of his friends attempted telekinesis and crushed Grimm’s lower half. As if he had felt nothing, the First Phantom only continued to laugh in misplaced confusion. Death crept at him and licked at his vision. “Lucifer...”

Blackness consumed Grimm Daire. The mountains cried and crumbled into heaping piles of debris. 

And the Children of Athoria eternally slept.