#with each passing day I love and hate him equally more. what a conundrum

[abovesn4kes]

and the truth will set you free

[robininthelabyrinth]

Curse-breaker (Chapter 3/4)

- ao3 -

There were more guards than usual around the Unclean Realm, undoubtedly as a result of Wen Ruohan’s refusal to move from their gate, but that wasn’t a problem for them.

They knew all the ways in and out.

New ways, like the hole in the wall their little brother had teamed up with his best friend to carve out so that the two of them could leave little gifts and pass messages to them, and old ways, ancient ways, the ways of the dead that they’d learned from the still-lingering saber spirits that burned in rage and hate forever like an endless longevity candle.

Rage, and hated – but also love.

The saber spirits didn’t have to keep burning, keep fighting, but that was what their masters had wanted, and so they did. They fought against evil, time and time again, forever and always, and through their endless battle, in their hearts, their masters were never truly lost.

It was that simple.

It was that complicated.

It was time, they thought, to straighten things out. The saber spirits meant it as a gift, but the masters saw it as a burden; that wasn’t how it was meant to be at all – they just didn’t understand each other, steel and flesh speaking different tongues, meaning different things. The gaping chasm of understanding between life and not-life, which no one could bridge.

Well.

No one until them, anyway.

If a fish and a bird fell in love, where would they live?

On the shore, they thought. Right in the middle.

All they needed was someone to tell them that was an option.

It was time.

They passed like a formless spirit themselves through the many walls and guards in their path, heading to the sect leader’s study, as familiar to them as their own palms. Inside they found what was familiar, too: the heat-rage-pride pulse of Jiwei, resting in pride of place by her master’s side, and beside her was her master, their father, standing with his hands folded behind his back and looking out the window into the distance as if it would give him answers to questions that had eaten away at him his whole life.

They approached.

They were detected, of course.

“I already said that I didn’t want to be disturbed,” their father said, and although they had snuck close many times to hear him speaking, that beloved voice more familiar to them than their own, not daring to talk to him as they did to Huaisang who had always promised to keep their secret, there was still something different about hearing it so near, without walls between them.

They sighed happily.

“Didn’t you hear me? I said…Jiwei? What’s gotten you so excited –”

Their father turned.

His jaw dropped, eyes going wide and round as saucers, an absurd and silly look that suited him so much better than did the grim scowl and sad listlessness, interspersed with increasingly frequent bouts of uncontrollable rage, that he wore on his face more often than not these days.

What they had in mind would hurt, they knew, and equally they knew that they would not be able to act if they did not act fast – they were loathe to hurt people, much less people that they loved, and those that they loved would be equally unable to bear to see them hurt, yet both were necessary now, if they were to do what they had decided to do.

They did not allow themselves time to doubt.

They moved forward as quickly as a saber strike, sure and true, and their hands connected with their father’s chest and belly, heart and dantian both, with enough power to knock the breath out of him, taking advantage of his shock to strike when he would not even think of dodging.

In that moment of breathlessness, they latched on – latched on, and pulled.

What-are-you-doing-stop-that, Jiwei said, but even her ceaseless rage was blunted by the joy of seeing them once more.

You are hurting him.

I-am-not-I-am-refining-him-I-am-strengthening-him-as-he-strengthens-me-He-is-my-master-and-I-love-him.

You are hurting him, they insisted. Flesh is different. Flesh is brittle. Too much strength, and he will break.

Let me show you.

It hurt, of course, just as they’d expected. Not as much as when they’d shattered, though, and it was that – and perhaps only that – that allowed them to persist, using themselves as a cauldron, forcing their qi that was neither wholly spiritual nor resentful, neither fully alive or un-alive, through their father’s meridians, reshaping them as they went to be something capable of accepting the harsh, resentful, corrosive love of a saber spirit.

When they were done, their father stared at Jiwei, hearing her sing in his soul with an unprecedented clarity, feeling her love for him the way she meant for it to be felt, feeding his own love back to her in equal measure, giving everything of himself without holding back to the only thing on earth that he had ever loved without restraint.

His eyes were clear.

“A-Jue,” he whispered. “A-Jue…what is this?”

“A gift,” they said, their voice raspy with disuse. “Of many years making. I’m sorry that it took so long.”

Their father, unbreakable, burst into tears.

-

Later, when their father, his eyes still wet (though now from laughter rather than relief), told them about the ‘curse’, about his promise, about the rumors, and even about Wen Ruohan waiting for the chance to repent of his regrets, they thought about it for a while and said: “Let me see him.”

-

Wen Ruohan had done many things worthy of condemnation in his long life.

He had schemed and plotted, playing the hero and the villain both in their turn; he had fought in wars of such brutality that the current generation could not even begin to comprehend them, and he had also murdered in vile and underhanded ways, abandoning all integrity and righteousness, to ensure that such wars did not happen again. He had sought to strengthen himself by means both fair and foul, betrayed who he had to betray and stepped on who he had to step on; he had followed his ancestor’s path with his head held high until he had very nearly become a god.

He was not accustomed to regret.

Not accustomed did not mean immune: there were things he regretted, of course. The loss of his first family, the two sons and a daughter that he had failed so thoroughly that he still could not stand to hear the sound of their names, each one declared utterly taboo within the Nightless City – the wife he had married for power and then divorced in a fit of temper, driving her and her not-so-secret lover to the end of their rope in unspeakable desperation – the faithful servants he had sacrificed as pawns in his power plays and only afterwards realized how much he had relied upon them –

His brother.

His curse.

If by some miracle of fate he could choose to change a single thing in the ancient life that he had so far lived, it would unquestionably be the death of his brother.

Wen Ruohan had had quite a few brothers, in fact – his father, much like the usual style of leaders of the Wen sect, had fancied himself both empire-builder and emperor, and had had children accordingly, both his own and those he’d adopted, with all the headache-induing and often life-threatening dramatics associated with that – but to Wen Ruohan, there had only really ever been one that mattered.

Only one.

Wen Ruohan didn’t even remember any longer whether Wen Ruoyu had been his blood-related brother, sharing a father and maybe a mother, or if he’d been some child seized from another sect and given the Wen surname to help grow their power. It hadn’t mattered to him back then and it didn’t matter to him still, for all that he now prized his personal bloodline even above merit.

All that mattered was that Wen Ruohan had loved Wen Ruoyu more than he’d ever loved anything in his life, more than his sect, more than cultivation, more than power, and that Wen Ruoyu had died not knowing it. Had died cursing his name, spitting blood onto his face, fingers scrabbling at his neck in a futile attempt to choke him, wishing with his final breath that Wen Ruohan would never again know a single moment of peace.

Well, he hadn’t.

Ever the dutiful brother, he closed his eyes to nightmares, and woke to dreariness. He madly sought power enough to ensure that such a thing would never happen to him again, only for his obsessive quest to drive his few remaining loved ones into the grave; he had very nearly succeeded in becoming a god, and lost all interest in life in the process. The only joys remaining to him were his ever-growing power, his ever-expanding sect, and, sometimes, the blood and pain of other people, which he used as a reminder that he was not truly alone in this world.

And Lao Nie, of course.

Wen Ruohan had almost entirely succeeding in sealing off all of his emotions by the time Lao Nie showed up, smiling and carefree and reckless, half in love with the death he knew awaited him – showed up and battered down all of Wen Ruohan’s defenses. Wen Ruohan wished, now more than ever, that he had carried on in his attempts to make himself a true god, above all humanity, and not yielded to the siren call of friendship. Perhaps if he had been a god, he wouldn’t have been so hurt when Lao Nie barreled onwards with his life, leaving him behind not once but thrice – perhaps he wouldn’t have tried to kill him.

Perhaps he wouldn’t have nearly murdered the little boy that Lao Nie had on occasion shoved into his arms during a visit, no matter how many times Wen Ruohan reminded him that it was inappropriate – the little serious one who looked so bewildered by it all but who still called him Sect Leader Wen the way Wen Ruohan instructed rather than listening to his father’s not-quite-joking suggestions of ‘Uncle Wen’, the little crybaby that had all unknowingly once tricked Lan Qiren into a logical conundrum that had made the man’s mind splutter out like a machine falling all to bits while Wen Ruohan and Lao Nie had roared with laughter…the one that had been charming enough to make him change his mind and opt to keep little Wen Xu around instead of sending him out to be adopted into the branch families the way he had with the other children he’d refused to acknowledge, mourning as he still did his first family.

He hadn’t meant to hurt Nie Mingjue.

Not like that, anyway.

It’d taken some time for the regret to creep in – his initial bout of horror had been more shock and irritation at having hit the wrong target, the shame of making such an elementary error to hit a boy he hadn’t seen in years rather than the man standing right in front of him, and then he’d shrugged it off, thinking to himself that the loss of a son would be as good a way to punish Lao Nie as the loss of his life. It wasn’t until his spies in the Unclean Realm came back and described to him what he had wrought…

Nie Mingjue didn’t look anything like Wen Ruoyu, not really, but in Wen Ruohan’s dreams he wept tears of blood in just the same way, spitting up foam as his eyes rolled in his head, dying – dying – dead.

Not dead.

It wasn’t a curse, Wen Ruohan knew, but if there was something he could do – anything he could do – he would do it.

He had to.

“You have to let him go,” someone said, and Wen Ruohan looked up in surprise: he’d been waiting for half a day already and god or no god, his legs were numb with sitting.

He didn’t recognize the too-tall young man who stared down at him, one eyeball eerily colored red and steel grey – the young man’s clothing was non-descript and ill-fitting, mismatched as if he’d picked it off some laundry pile without thought of coordination. There was something of the Nie in his face, the breadth of his shoulders, but his features were finer and sharper, his waist more slender, his fingers lacking in the familiar calluses of the saber; he looked like he’d be a fierce war god when he’d grown into his body but that he hadn’t quite gotten there yet.

His golden core shone.

Wen Ruohan stared. His lust for power had long ago become an essential part of him, and in front of him was power, power at such a young age – if he could claim that cultivation for his own, maybe he could stop describing himself as nearly a god, could actually call down a heavenly tribulation and leap up to join the heavens in a single bound.

And then, maybe then, at last, he could have peace.

“You have to let him go,” the young man said a second time, and Wen Ruohan was distracted by wondering what he meant, not sure he understood and not entirely sure he cared. “That’s the only way. You have to let him go.”

He shifted forward, and something inside Wen Ruohan warned that he would strike.

It seemed ridiculous, though. Wen Ruohan, the finest living master of arrays, was not afraid of anything this young man might try to do – only a spiritual sword could pierce his armor, and even that, only one that took him utterly by surprise. No one would dare try to strike him.

Especially not this young man, who carried neither sword or saber.

Perhaps that was why Wen Ruohan never saw it coming – the young man’s hand moved in a jabbing motion, the way a sword would swing, and suddenly, impossibly, there was sword intent given physical form through spiritual energy, piecing through his defenses, slashing down at him and aiming right at his neck.

-

“Let me get this straight,” Lan Qiren said, rubbing his forehead. “Nie Mingjue reappeared after something like ten years out alone in the wild, and when he did he brought some sort of technique that just…fixed the Nie sect cultivation issue. The one that was killing you, and has been killing your ancestors for – generations.”

Lao Nie nodded.

“And then you allowed him to see Sect Leader Wen, who he attacked…in a way that happened to mimic some old tragedy that has apparently haunted him for years, thereby allowing him to resolve some long-held heart demon. And now Sect Leader Wen has retreated into seclusion in order to explore this moment of enlightenment further, and doesn’t intend to bother the rest of us for a while. Certainly not by continuing his schemes to take over the cultivation world.”

“That’s right,” Lao Nie said. “Though I don’t expect he’ll be in seclusion all that long; the Wen sect doesn’t practice –”

Lan Qiren held up a hand, indicating he wasn’t done and didn’t appreciate being interrupted.

Lao Nie obediently fell silent.

“And then,” and by now Lan Qiren was speaking through somewhat gritted teeth, “when Sect Leader Jin rushed over because he wanted to get in on what he perceived to be Wen Ruohan’s attempted takeover of the Qinghe Nie, your son attacked him, too – except in this case, he crippled him.”

“I did say anyone who trespassed would be killed on sight,” Lao Nie said, entirely unbothered. Because of course he wasn’t – why would anyone think that suddenly being freed of a lifetime’s death sentence would make him less reckless and shameless? If anything, his overwhelming joy had just made him even more arrogant and inclined to insist on getting his own way. “It’s been known for years, and no exceptions have ever been made, not even for sect leaders. Why should Jin Guangshan think himself different?”

“That’s a terrible excuse,” Lan Qiren scolded. “And besides the point.”

“What is the point?”

Lan Qiren opened his mouth, then stopped, thought it over, and sighed. “The point is, I suppose – are you going to the Jiang sect next?”

Lao Nie blinked. “The – Jiang sect? Why?”

“Because instead of the cultivation world breaking the ‘curse’ on your son, your son has apparently taken to breaking the curses of the cultivation world,” Lan Qiren said dryly. “And he’s already gotten four out of the five Great Sects, so why not complete the set?”

Lao Nie’s lips quirked. “Four? I can see the others: my Nie sect’s qi deviations, Wen Ruohan’s madness for power, the Jin sect’s terrible luck in getting that scheming old lecher selected as their next sect leader…but what did he do for the Lan sect?”

“It was in his name that you forced my brother out of seclusion all those years ago,” Lan Qiren pointed out. “And now I spend half of every year traveling wherever I wish, and the other half teaching; it is everything I would have wanted. Meanwhile, my brother has finally through his children learned what it means to care for others instead of rotting to death in a self-imposed grave built from ill-fated love…if that’s not curse-breaking, what is?”

[augustmoon259]

For I shall already have forgotten you PROLOGUE

Canada was lonely.

It was another day for a world meeting and another day where he was ignored. At least this time no one had sat on him (was he really such a comfortable cushion?).

He didn’t know what was worse: the blatant disregard for his presence or (when the other countries actually noticed him) being mistaken for America. Maybe both options were equally distasteful. Not much was accomplished at these world meetings anyway but he kept going to them, fueled in part by his duty as a representative of his country, and a smaller and more hopeful part that perhaps that day could be the day he was finally noticed. It never happened.

Canada couldn’t wrap his head around why the other countries mistook him for America so often. Sure, they were the same height, and they both had blonde-ish hair, and they both wore glasses and military uniforms, and...Okay, so he and America looked alike, but Canada’s hair was more orange and wavy! He has a winter coat, not that bomber jacket America likes! His eyes are violet, not blue! The most glaring difference between the two of them though is obviously Kumajirou. Kumajirou is Canada’s polar bear companion who he always carries around with him in his arms. The only thing America carries around are his burgers. How exactly the other countries were dense enough not to see Kumajirou was beyond Canada.

Canada sighed and decided that today he had had enough. He stood up from his chair and left the meeting room (not that anyone tried to stop him).

It was the first time in a while that Canada simply just gave up. Usually he’d attempt to at least stay longer at the meetings, but today his mood was even worse than normal. Every bad thought compounded in his mind. Yesterday, Cuba thought he was America again and yelled at him. The day before that, England, who wanted to punish America for being an idiot, forced Canada to eat his awful cooking. The day before that one, America forgot to meet with Canada for one of their usual hangouts (America would just drag him to some fast food place anyway).

Upon his arrival at the hotel he was staying at, Canada collapsed in his bed. He was angry, but now he was exhausted. Canada felt like there was a heavy pressure in his head. His old intrusive thoughts came to him unbidden. Why was he here? Why did he keep trying? No one appreciated him anymore. No one needed him anymore. There was a time when he was a colony, when he was something new, something valued, treasured, and fought for. Canada was nothing now.

He gave so much of himself to others. Still a young country, he had fought and bled through wars both big and small. Wasn’t he a nation too? Didn’t he deserve to be acknowledged by others? Why should he be forgotten?

Canada hated himself. He hated his timidness. He hated his aggression. He hated speaking up. He hated not speaking up. Most of all, he hated being in America’s shadow.

Young Canada was overshadowed by America: bright, charismatic, and special America. England took Canada in, but it was clear much of his attention was on America. Even when America left England, brashly fighting and declaring his independence, Canada stayed by England’s side. It hurt Canada not to be acknowledged by England, who he fought for. It hurt Canada that France, his first guardian, forgot about him too. It hurt Canada when America ignored him in favor of boasting because he was “the hero”. Does Canada matter to America, France, and England? Did he ever?

Hot, salty tears came out of Canada’s eyes, dripping down to his chin. He curled up into a ball, holding Kumajirou close to him. I wish I could just disappear entirely. This world doesn’t need me. No one needs me. No one.

Canada closed his eyes.

America stretched his arms after coming out of the meeting room.

Ugh, these meetings are always so boring. That’s why he always tried his best to make them more interesting! He was the hero after all! The strongest and most powerful country! If it annoyed the other nations, America didn’t really care. Besides, he knew that in their minds, they were secretly hoping for the meeting to be over with. They’d probably rather be back home than having to be stuck in a room with other countries for hours on end.

If he was being honest with himself, there was another reason he was glad to be out of there. Sometime during the meeting, maybe halfway through or later, America felt that something was wrong. No, it wasn’t his stomach acting up after eating too many burgers again or drinking too much coke. It wasn’t anything concerning his country, thank goodness. Rather, America felt like something (or someone) was missing. He had checked the room for missing occupants. There were empty chairs for the countries that never made it, clustered together, but one chair in particular caught his attention, between England’s and France’s. Hm, was that chair always there? Strange how America never noticed it before.

Outwardly he was his normal goofy self, but this conundrum stuck with America for the rest of the meeting.

He called out to France and England, who were bickering with each other (typical).

“Dudes, did you notice that totally empty chair between the two of you? Does someone sit there?”

“What are you on about now, you bloody idiot? No one sits there! It’s probably just there to keep some distance between me and the frog. Not that it helps,” England grumbled.

“Oui, I have seen no one in that chair today.”

America frowned briefly before putting on his regular smile. “Well, whatever dudes. There’s a triple cheeseburger calling my name so I’m out of here!”

He gives them a two finger salute and runs away, ignoring England’s look of disgust.

Once he’s out of the door, America slows down. He racked his brain for all the countries he knows attended the world conferences. Okay, so there’s China, Russia….Germany, Japan, Italy….Spain, Switzerland….Damn it, who am I missing? Wait, wasn’t there a country to the north of me? Who is it…? Oh yeah! Canada!

America snaps his fingers after his realization. Canada! How could he forget? He’d been meaning to call Mattie after the meeting and hang out with him, to apologize for being a no show a couple of days ago.

What’s his room again? Uh, 35? 82? 49! That’s it!

As quick as he could, America rushed to the hotel where he and the other countries were staying. When he made it to the hotel, he hurried to the elevator and pressed the button for the fourth floor. As the elevator rose higher and higher, America’s anxiety climbed. Why did he feel like he needed to urgently find Canada? The nagging feeling in his gut would not go away.

America breathed a sigh of relief when the elevator stopped and opened its doors on the fourth floor. Finally! He ran past eight rooms before making it to Canada’s. He pounded on the door but no response came. Weird. Mattie gets annoyed after just the first knock. America continued his assault before deciding to throw caution to the wind. He broke down the door and rushed inside.

There was no one present. Not Canada, not his weird bear Kumajirou, nothing. America checked the bathroom; Canada wasn’t there. If Canada wasn’t in the hotel room, then maybe he could search for some clue as to where Canada went. America rifled through the drawers and cabinets only to come up empty. He finally checked the bed. He noticed something that he hadn’t before in his panic. Lying on the pillows were Canada’s glasses. What? Mattie’s glasses? But he never forgets them! He’s way too careful for that. America checked the bed again and saw a lump underneath the blankets. He lifted the blankets, only to find Canada’s smartphone.

Pressing the power button, nothing happened, so America waited longer as the phone booted up. After a few seconds, the phone’s screen shifted to a blank white, devoid of anything except a simple note taking app. America’s fingers trembled as he opened the app. One word glared back at him.

Goodbye.

The title of the story is a line taken from Pablo Neruda’s poem, “If You Forget Me”.

Well, now

If little by little you stop loving me

I shall stop loving you

Little by little

If suddenly you forget me

Do not look for me

For I shall already have forgotten you

If you think it long and mad the wind of banners that passes through my life

And you decide to leave me at the shore of the heart where I have roots

Remember

That on that day, at that hour, I shall lift my arms

And my roots will set off to seek another land

[xxkellsvixen19xx]

You are Michael's partner/one & only/second-in-charge. You & Outpost Michael have gotten into an argument regarding the selections & you've had enough of him having the last word. While he's away from your chamber, you pack up & secretly leave the bunker towards the next Outpost without a word of where you're going. Michael immediately senses your absence and ... how will he react to this? 🤔

Breach Michael x Reader

Word Count 1,895

A/N: absolutely loved this concept enjoyed working with it!

Requested by @master-langdon

It was a cold grey day in late November. The weather had changed overnight, when a backing wind brought a granite sky and the nuclear winter with it. It has officially been eighteen months since the bombs fell beginning the apocalypse.

Y/N stepped out of the carriage that had pulled up outside of Outpost 3. Looking around it could best be described as a scene out of a low budget horror movie, there was rarely much left that would pass as suitable much less look like an even remote possibility of surviving. To you it looked like ground zero and to be completely honest it left you with a rather superstitious feeling, hell it actual creeped you out.

Y/N and Michael arrived at outpost 3 it was the fourth one they have visited that actually had even.an inkling of any survivors. The first three outposts they has been either abandoned, destroyed or in the case of the output they visited in Syracuse New York the survivors had been massacred.

Y/N stood inside the main commons area a little later on. Michael glided across the floor im stealth like movement. The nervous faces of the survivors watched in anticipation

Michael spoke up piercing the dead silence that had fallen across the room. “My name is Langdon and I represent the Cooperative, I won't sugar coat the situation humanity is on the brink. My arrival here is critical to the future of your survival.”

When leadership from the Cooperative arrive it was a moment that caught everyone by surprise. Michael is Venable's superior within the Cooperative, she was unaware that a representative had any intentions of course unexpectedly, Michael stood in front of the fire in the commons area. He says the other outposts had been overrun — by what, he didn't specify — and that Outpost 3 is the only surviving beacon besides another mysterious "facility" that he now wants to whisk some of the survivors to.

The questions started firing out one after the other, where was this 'sanctuary. Was there enough food supplies tp last, ect.. ect. Michael turned his head cocking it to the side, he looked stoic showing no sign of commotion. “Classified!” He responded sharply. A few more questions were asked, each receiving that same answer.. “It should take a few days at the most to conduct my interviews and can inform everyone of the results shortly after.

Michael and Y/N had been involved in a relationship for years on both a professional level as well as personal. You served as a second in command to Michael as your role in the Cooperative. They both held in their possession ID cards that contain their signatures. Michael's saying"President" and yours "Chancellor" of the Cooperative, as well as having ID numbers, ranking numbers, and other coding. Your role being that it is second in command means that in the event that Michael that was unable to or not present to carry out the work of the Cooperative then you would act in his place.

There were times that you both equally worked together, but when Y/N and Michael started to pay visits to the outposts to conduct the interviews you noticed that Michael was adamant about doing these interviews himself. You tried on multiple occasions to offer your help because honestly you felt like why should one person be bogged down with all that work it's stressful. Michael often spent late hours either conducting interviews or he was going over files or emails in his laptop.

It wasn't uncommon for you to loiter around the passageways or close to his office door to hear that was discussed between him and the survivor being questioned at that time. Y/N paid attention and absorbed info that she retained to be able to formulate your own observation/opinion as well. Normally you two were able to talk to each other when it came to any matters pertaining to the Cooperative. Y/N and Michael had that dynamic where they could talk to one another, discuss options, offer insight and work together for results. You couldn't understand why Michael seemed to be keeping you 'in the dark’ when it came to the interviews and the information revolving around it. At first you didn't confront him about anything. You stayed pretty closed lipped, knowing that given time you would bring it up. Timing was everything when it came to approaching Michael with something Y/N know was viewed as controversial and or possibly sensitive.

Y/N at various points of time had the opportunity to gain enough info on each of the survivors of Outpost 3. You weren't certain who Michael in his opinion deemed as worthy to join you both at the sanctuary. Ultimately when it came to making choices you were known to think practically and logically. You took into consideration with each person their strengths, weaknesses, the positive and the negative.

Y/N approached Michael carefully, you happen to catch him in a halfway decent mood so you hoped that maybe that since you were discussing this that maybe it would be done so in a civilized manner. “I take it the interview process must be completed.” You observed. “Just about, got a few more to take place tomorrow evening. I may some in mind though but waiting to see after I complete the final ones though.” He responded not looking up from his laptop. You had paid careful attention to who he had already interviewed, you knew exactly when and who as most of the interviews took place when everyone was gathered in the commons area. You would watch as Mrs. Mead approached each party saying “Mr. Langdon wishes to speak with you.” The only two people left yet to be interviewed was Mallory (the grey) and Andre Dinah Stevens son.

You were vaguely curious as to who Michael had in mind or thought to be worthy. “Oh really… who are the possible viable candidates if you don't mind me asking.” You asked carefully silently hoping that he would answer. Michael paused momentarily to briefly look up at you, “Mrs St Pierre Vanderbilt and Gallant.” Your jaw dropped slightly and your eyes held a shocked expression. You just as quickly regained your composer praying that Michael hadn't witnessed your initial reaction of absolute shock. “I have been paying attention to the inhabitants here, just from witnessing actions, overhearing conversations ect it seems to me that Mr Campbell and Emily seem to be viable.” Out of those you have had the opportunity to observe as well as overhear conversations about that those two seemed pretty decent. They seemed level headed and out of those that were currently residing there they had the most common sense.

Michael let out an amused chuckle “When we begin our journey through the new world I would rather have people with experience. Not deal with two fairly wet behind the ear young adults.” You felt your anger rise, normally you and Michael could talk to each other, or at least discuss things maturely. You took a deep breath before you spoke again…”Michael..you might want to consider this. Others may have not acted with the best of intentions—and that you might not know the whole story.” Michael's eyes flushed red, he was definitely angry. Despite the fact that you appreciated this as tactfully as possible it was clear you still somehow managed to strike a nerve with you. There was clearly some difference of opinion, which is heartening, you did your best to hide your emotions from Michael.

You made a final attempt to try and discuss this with him. “I understand it can be a slight oversight..” Pausing for a moment you tried to approach this professionally. “Maybe you haven’t finished thinking this through, the whole selection process a surprise to you, or you want to get a clearer sense of what is going on,” Michael's eyes held yours in a stare that read quite defensive, “I know what I am doing Y/N just drop it!” You could see that your difference of opinion is based partly on the differing understandings of the purpose of the purpose at hand. You didn't say anything more, it seemed clear that Michael wasn't open minded enough to listen to your point of view on this.

The next day while Michael conducted the final two interviews you remained back in the suite packing your things. Michael seemed determined to handle the selection process in his own way here, you took it upon yourself to leave before him to the next outpost. You wanted to handle things professionally and fairly, Michael however seemed to make it personal. Later on that night Michael returned back to the suite, it had been a long day. He didn't completely notice it at first, at one point he caught sight of a dresser drawer that was open ajar. Michael immediately got the sense that something was off, he opened the drawer all the way it was completely empty. Michael looked through the rest of the drawers and your side of the armoire..bare empty everything of yours no longer there. You were gone. Michael had never been so confused in his whole entire life. He didn't understand, why, why had he allowed this to get to this point?

Michael needed to see Y/N again, to speak to her but he was faced with a simple conundrum: what should I do next? Email her? Would the Cooperative or anyone know of your where abouts? Michael could only blame himself, he had let a personal vendetta get in the way of not only a professional relationship but his feelings for Y/N.

Michael POV…

‘My beloved Y/N, you are the greatest thing in my life and it breaks my heart to see that I have hurt you. I hate knowing that I have upset you. The last thing I want to do is hurt your feelings and make you feel insuperior. To make you think that your opinions hold no value. You mean the world to me. You deserve so much better than this and I promise I will make this right, Please Y/N forgive me and I hope that I can prove that I mean it when I say that I am sorry.’

An encrypted email came through from Jeff Pfister, Y/N had left heading to outpost 8 in Phoenix Arizona. Michael wasted no time on packing up his things and heading that way. He was going to make this right with you no matter what it took, you were far to important to him professionally and personally to let it end this way.

Neither Michael nor Y/N depend on the other for their feelings of self worth- they know in their heart that they are just as valuable to the world as the other. Good looking, optimistic, and they spark a light in the world that people recognize that goes beyond a normal relationship.

They are the perfect power couple...one of them is flawed, the other makes up for their weaknesses in their strength. Together they are the epitome of what anyone would desire in a relationship. They encourage goodness in the world and make it a better place by being together.

[ancientbooshartifacts]

Ask Naboo

Author: Nonexistantpup

Year: 2010

Rating: PG

Characters/Pairings: Naboo, Bollo, Spider Dijon, Rudi Van DiSarzio, The Braincell, Howince, Moss/Roy

Bollo slid his glasses up to his forehead and rubbed his hairy temples with two fingers. “It no good,” he said with a frown. Naboo looked up, annoyed. He was busy relaxing and smoking and hated to be interrupted. “What’s no good?” “Books no add up,” Bollo said. He sigh. “Bollo warn Naboo that monkeys not make good book keeper.” “What are you saying?” asked Naboo, with an impending feeling of doom. He’d have said he had a bad feeling, but didn’t want to steal Bollo's favourite phrase. “Need money,” Bollo explained. “Stop paying the losers workin’ downstairs then,” said Naboo. “Done that. Sold beach house too. No more money. What else can Naboo spare?” Naboo frowned. There was his submarine, but he never felt comfortable without one of them in the house. His Rudi & Spider memorabilia couldn't go either, of course, and his rug collection was pretty vital. “We better fix this,” he said unhelpfully. “Otherwise I’ll have to sell you, Bollo.” Bollo paled. Or - well, he didn't really pale. His fur remained the same colour. He seemed unnerved, however. “But - Naboo need familiar!” “I know,” said Naboo. He tapped his chin. “We need make money.” Naboo clicked his tongue and took another drag from his hookah. “I suppose I can go back into pop psychiatry,” he said thoughtfully. “I do sort of miss it. Hearing about peoples’ problems. Imparting wisdom. The regular income...” “What about Bollo?” asked Bollo. Naboo shrugged. “You could be my editor.” Bollo seemed appeased by this idea, and put his glasses back down onto the table. “Now,” said Naboo, “Call up the newspapers and tell them I'm willing to reinstate my relationships column." Dear Naboo, I can’t fulfill my partner’s sexual needs anymore; I'm exhausted! If it was just a good, hard romp four or five times a day, it would be no problem, but he’s practically insatiable! He has eight cocks, you see, which means every time we make love, we do it eight times in a row, each time lasting at least a month and a half. Now, I'm not great at mathematics, but I contacted a local mathematician, who informs me that 4 x 8 x 1.5 equals 48. Which means that every day, I have sex for over forty-eight months - in other words, more than four years! I'm exhausted! What should I do? - A Worn-Out Woman ‘Worn-Out Woman’, As I see it, your options are threefold. 1. Dump the freak and get some sleep. 2. Let me tell you the story of the broken flute. Once upon a time, there was a flute. One day, he tripped over one of his shoelaces and fell onto the footpath, breaking to pieces instantly. All the little shards of flute were scattered all over the place, causing passing bare-footed pedestrians to cut their feet. One of these pedestrians happened to be a passing eccentric billionare, who limped home, not realising the shard was still in his foot. The shard of flute had never been in a mansion before, and hopped off gleefully to look around, and liked the place so much that, that night, it cut the millionaire's throat while he slept and inherited his entire fortune. See what I'm sayin’? 3. Get over it. Sure, it may be hard to deal with at times. I get that. But think about it, yeah? You’ve got a man who alters the very laws of physics, the axioms of reality, just in order to have enough time to spend in the sack with you every day. There’s not many men who would do that. Love, Naboo

= =   

To Naboo, How can I make my boyfriend take our relationship more seriously? I mean, we have so much fun together and I know he cares about me, and yet whenever people ask him about me, he lies as if he’s ashamed, saying he is merely changing one of my strings. I love him, but if this doesn’t change, I don’t think I can go on seeing him. Please save our relationship? - Irritated Instrument Irritated Instrument, I had a similar conundrum in the forties, as it happens, when my girlfriend at the time wouldn't admit to being deeply in love with our cutlery drawer. They got together eventually, and are still together today, I believe, and expecting their second child. There are two options I can reccommend: 1. Don’t give up! If he cares for you, he will come through. Speak to him openly and honestly and tell him how you feel. 2. Give up! He’s a loser who seems to enjoy getting off with inanimate objects anyway. Find somebody more your type - a cello or perhaps a ukulele if you’re strung that way. Love, Naboo = = Deer Naboo, It’s got to the point where I just don’t no what to do anymore. I am married with children, yet I can’t seem to think of anything except the other people I’d like to shag and how much the drudgery of an unhappy marriage is marring my carefully pampered image. It would be alright, you know, but the person I’d really ideally like to fool around with just sees me as her boss. I’ve tried everything! I invited her to work late, and she worked late. I told her she was cute and she said ‘thank you’. I even custom-designed a sparkly soot, just to get her attention, but she still doesn't notice me. I'm starting to doubt my dead sexiness and although I know I have quite an important job, my work ethic is crumbling like a fresh piece of shortbread. What can I do?! - Suffering Cell Suffering Cell, I have some words of wisdom for you, although I can’t be sure they will be anything new. You have not been specific about many of your problems, but my crystal ball has kindly filled in most of the blanks. What you must consider very seriously is this tale - the tale of the ant and the grasshopper. Once upon a time, there was an ant and a grasshopper. They were experiencing a fruitful summer. For the whole season, the ant worked hard, storing up food for the winter while the grasshopper just hung around smoking joints and watching the telly, not collecting any food except for what he wanted to eat that day. The ant warned him that laziness came with consequences, but the grasshopper didn't care. When winter came, the ant had a huge stockpile of food - enough to keep it and its family nourished all the way through until spring, while the grasshopper was left outside, cold and hungry. He had run out of weed and the electric company disconnected his telly. Desperate, he knocked on the ant’s front door to beg for food, but frustrated with the grasshopper’s lack of responsibility, the ant said he would only share his family’s food if the grasshopper sold his body, prostituting himself off to the ant in exchange for food. The grasshopper, who wasn’t into that kind of thing (in fact, he was a bit of a prude) turned away in disgust, and the very next day he hopped aboard a plane, smuggling himself in the luggage of a slightly inebriated badger. He found himself on the other side of the world, where it was summer and food was plentiful, paid his way out of debt quickly and hired a lawyer so he could sue the ant for sexual harassment. I hope this has cleared some things up for you. Love, Naboo.

= = Alright, Naboo? Probably are. You seem to be pretty on top of things, being a shaman and that. Anyway, I live with a friend of mine who drives me nuts. He has no taste in clothes or music (ie. wears tweed and listens to jazz), is finicky (ie. Control Freak!) and I just fancy the pants off him. Well - not literally. Do you think it would be possible for me to actually do that though? But that’s not my question. See, he's taken to walking around the place wearing nothing. Well, nothing except this monocle of his - something to do with ‘going au naturale with class’. Whatever the reason behind it, it’s making me mental. I can’t even fancy the pants off him from afar, because a whole lot of the time he ain’t wearing them to begin with! So, what do you reckon? - A Very Randy Socialite Very Randy Socialite, You batty crease. Can't you tell? He's trying to seduce you. Just don't do anything unless you're sure there’s nobody else in the house, yeah? Love, Naboo P.S. I mean it. If I hear you two humping away in the next room, I'm throwing you out on your naked arses. I don't need that shit.

= =

Dear Naboo, I'm having the most awful trouble getting girls. See, I'm not bad to look at and I'm a clever, sensitive man, but none of them will look past my career. I am a homocidal maniac (hoping to climb the ladder and become an official genocidal maniac). I can't give that up! How can I get girls to accept me? - Bloody Lonely Bloody Lonely, I had a friend with the same problem. He worked in Dickson’s and girls could never come to terms with it, judging him and all that. Here's some wisdom that helped him and will hopefully do the same for you. This is the story of the green crow. Once upon a time, there was a crow. He was a normal crow, except for the fact that he was green and looked like a big, feathered, mouldy potato. In fact, one day Marilyn Manson saw him and was so disgusted that he kicked the poor crow into the recycling bin at a local primary school. The green crow was very upset, especially since he was such a huge Marilyn Manson fan he had a milky lens in one eye and hadn't drunk any water since 1997. Depressed, he sat in the recycling bin for days, ‘caw’ing miserably. On the fourth day, however, a whole lot of colourful craft paper cuttings rained down on him. The green crow was newly inspired. He found some old chewing gum and made himself a turban and cloak out of the colourful paper. From that day on, everybody treated him with respect because they thought he was a mouldy, green, feathered shaman and Marilyn Manson issued a public apology. That should clear up your problems. Love, Naboo.

= =

To Sir/Madam (I'm sorry, your name is quite androgynous), I must admit I am quite distressed. My best friend and I are always doing things together. We should be seeing girls but instead we’re always in each other’s company like an old married couple. I'm at the end of my tether. Thank you in advance, - In A Flippin’ Rut In A Flippin’ Rut, The answer to your problem is so simple, I'm frankly staggered that you’ve even found the need to ask my advice. Obviously, you and your best friend are meant to be together. The real problem is just that you have all the elements of a successful marriage except for a healthy sex life. So, you know. Get it on. Duh! Love, Naboo P.S. I do have more specific advice regarding what you should do, but it is inappropriate material to have published here. Send me a private email and I shall tell you the story of the phallus-shaped coral.

= =

Dear Naboo, Just what kind of an advice columnist are you? My friend wrote to you, complaining that we can't meet anyone because we're "like an old married couple" and you send him some story about coral willies and tell him to seduce me in the most disgusting way imaginable. You are obviously a pervert and shouldn't be allowed to give advice to anyone. -Thoroughly Repulsed P.S. Just to clear things up, we are NOT like a married couple in any way. 

= =

Thoroughly Repulsed, That’s gratitude for you. From your indignation, it’s pretty clear to me that the seduction worked. If you wanted it to happen in another way - one that perhaps didn't involve an aquarium, smelling salts or three feet of chicken wire - you should have stepped up and made the first move on your ‘friend’ long ago. What are you, some kind of selfish, absent-minded, narcissistic slacker? You pompous bloody wanker. Love, Naboo P.S. Whatever. P.P.S. Bite me. P.P.P.S. Prick. P.P.P.P.S. Watch your step, yeah? Or I will turn my back on you.

= =

Naboo, I'll have you know that the seduction did NOT work. What I saw when I got into work this morning made me want to vomit. It's pretty clear to me that you're a wanker with nothing better to do than corrupt perfectly nice people with your kinky fantasies. My friend and I haven't spoken to each other all day and it's been very awkward for the both of us. I hope you're happy. -Repulsed P.S. You're the prick. And how dare you call me narcissistic.