#you get two mad scientist birds in a row

[niseag-arts]

pain: What's the worst pain your OC has ever felt? Do they have a high pain tolerance?

Garrag has been in a lab accident or two, and is no stranger to pain. The worst pain he ever felt, however, was the event that ignited his planeswalker spark, as it was both physically and mentally traumatic. While he is a kenku, he used to have rudimental wings still, which he had usually folded up on his back like a backpack. Garrag was working on a project with his best friend and lab partner, Mel, when something went horribly wrong. The project exploded in a blast of scrapnel and searing light, Mel was vaporised, and as garrag instinctively shielded himself with his wings the blast tore them clean off. He only survived that because he managed to planeswalk away before the blast pulverised everything in the lab.

[lovelylogans]

my eyes are wide to all your lies (’cause you’re not that discreet)

ao3 | read my other fics | coffee?

warnings: food mentions, mentions of getting rid/lessening anxiety, human experimentation (not as dark as it sounds, but still figured a warning would be good), fusion, deceit

pairings: royality

words: 6,269

notes: april fools, i got you! and now i present the idea that warranted my first block in four years of internet friendship and had me cackling in unholy, childish glee the whole time i was plotting and writing it: it’s a phineas and ferb au! yeah, you read that right. title from “busted” from phineas and ferb.

There was one hundred and four days of summer vacation before school came along just to end it.

So the annual problem that the Sanders-Prince brothers had was finding a new way to spend it. They’d built rockets, fought mummies, climbed up the Eiffel tower, discovered things that didn’t exist, given monkeys showers. They’d surfed tidal wives, created nanobots, located Frankenstein’s brain. They’d found a dodo bird, painted a continent, and driven their brother insane. 

The question that was posed every day over toast-with-heaps-of-jam then had to be posed:

“Logan, what are we gonna do today?”

Logan Sanders nudged his glasses up his nose with a thoughtful expression. Logan had the expression of the teacher’s pet, the nerd that never got in trouble beyond perhaps reading during class, or correcting a teacher, but behind that calm, know-it-all expression and dorky glasses laid a mad scientist who had not yet graduated high school. 

“We could recreate Tesla’s death ray again,” he suggested mildly.

“Logan, we did that three weeks ago.” Roman groaned. “No doing things again! It has to be bigger, better, bolder, newer.”

Roman Prince, on the other hand, had the exact look of a troublemaker that tended to have teachers hollering “Put that away!” and “Prince, principal’s office!” and got him parked in the front row of the room before he could scoot off to the back (usually next to his stepbrother, which compounded the problems, not that Logan would ever let himself get caught.) He gladly lived up to the reputation and strove for each spectacle to be bigger and grander than the last.

“Mom!” Virgil exclaimed, eyes huge, made to seem even wider by the dark eyeshadow smeared beneath them.

Their older brother (or stepbrother, to Roman) Virgil Sanders, had the exact face of a punk-rock emo kid, the sort of boy who skipped school and missed curfew and never cared. In actuality, he was kind of a tattletale, or perhaps more like the boy in back who muttered “I don’t know about this guys” while the other kids were doing things like experimenting with fireworks that they’d stolen from their older brother’s stash. Virgil’s ongoing pursuit of the summer was to catch Roman and Logan in the middle of one of their dangerous plots, which would surely end in their serious injuries and or deaths I know I look like the bad guy but you two have to be safe okay you could get seriously hurt or seriously DEAD do you understand me Roman and Logan D-E-A-D dead!

“That’s nice, dear,” Caroline Sanders-Prince said absently from where she was at the stove. Virgil groaned and put his head down on the table, floppy bangs narrowly missing the butter dish.

“Why do I even bother,” Virgil grumbled.

Roman batted his eyelashes at his stepbrother. “Because you love us?”

“Gross,” Logan muttered, from behind a thick tome entitled Understanding Chinese Engineering Doctoral Students in U.S. Institutions: A Personal Epistemology Perspective that he’d pulled from nowhere, because he was a boy genius who read books with very long titles like that. “Emotions.”

“Gross,” Virgil snapped. “Mom, Roman has the platypus on the table!”

“That’s nice, dear.”

“Aw, Deceit wouldn’t do anything, would he?” Roman crooned to their pet platypus, inexplicably named Deceit, who knickered at Virgil dutifully. Virgil pulled a face at him, because he did not trust that platypus.

“He just wants some bacon!” Roman exclaimed.

“Can platypuses have bacon?”

“Platypi,” the book corrected from where Logan’s face had been. “They’re technically carnivorous, so—yes. He’d probably prefer larvae or freshwater shrimp, though.”

“Gross,” Roman said, as he ensured Deceit had all the bacon he wanted and lowered him back onto the floor. “And so not the point! Logan! We have to figure out what to do today!”

The brothers continued to bicker, not noticing as Deceit the platypus crept outside, looked around, and pulled on his hat before entering into the secret chute that would catapult him to his day job: an animal agent for the OWCA, protecting the tri-state area from one inator-enamored mad scientist at a time.

“More Tesla?”

“Logan. We spent all of that week. On Tesla. We have to do something fresh! Something bold! Something we invent!”

“I still can’t believe you invented a death ray and you thought that was a good idea,” Virgil said, ready to work himself up into an anxiety-induced tizzy. “It’s a DEATH ray, death is right there in the name!”

Logan frowned at him over the pages of his book, which he was somehow halfway through already. “We wouldn’t have killed people,” he said. “Flies, probably. Or mosquitoes. Most likely.”

“Oh, that makes me feel so much better,” Virgil said. “Thanks, a death ray for flies or mosquitoes, most likely! What could have possibly gone wrong?!”

“How is it possible for you to worry so much?” Roman said, from where he was constructing an elaborate toast-tower with the remaining slices they hadn’t eaten, yet. He was currently sealing together the walls with jam and carefully carving out the windows for the tiny toast-people to survey their kitchen table kingdom. ���I never worry so much.”

“Yeah, I worry enough for you, and Logan, and your little scout friend,” Virgil grumbled. “I have all the anxiety of this neighborhood combined into one person.”

Roman perked up, nearly sending a tiny toast-family sprawling. “Hang on, what did you just say?”

“Oh,” Virgil said, because he knew his stepbrother well enough to see his “new idea! new idea!” face, and he also knew him well enough to fear it. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes,” Roman said gleefully. “Logan! I know what we’re gonna do today!”

“Run me through it again.”

Roman sighed loudly from where he was stationed in a treetop, twisting a screw carefully into place. Half of Logan’s body was underneath their latest monstrous machine.

“Okay. So. The basic plan is, we’re going to see if we can put you in this machine to ease out some of your worries, your fears—enough so that it doesn’t overwhelm you constantly, not too much to change who you are as a person,” Roman began. “And if you hate it, we can reverse it, no problem.”

“When you say basic plan,” Virgil said apprehensively, and Logan rolled partially out from under the machine, lifting the welding mask off his face so that he could squint at Virgil, looking strange without his glasses.

“Without the scientific explanations that would inevitably confuse those of lesser intelligence.”

“Oh, thanks.”

“You know what he means,” Roman said, and then, “Oh, God, here he comes, quick, I—“

Roman made a half-aborted gesture as if to climb down the tree, and then hastily redirected his energy toward straightening his shirt, patting his hair into place, and setting up the most swaggeringly handsome pose he could manage in a tree. Virgil, looking down the street, tried his best to hide his smirk.

Patton Hart had lived down the street since they’d moved in after their parents got married, and his crush on Roman had ignited not long after the first box was taken off the truck. Patton Hart had the exact face that had teachers picking him for messenger duty, to guide a new kid around the school, or to provide a good face for the school—if he hadn’t volunteered for it already. He had quite the sprawl of extracurriculars under his belt, including, amongst others, Knitting Club, Baking Club, Pun Appreciation Club, and, most notably, leader of the Fireside Scouts—as noted by his constant orange sash that clashed horribly with his usual blue polo and gray hoodie.

The mutual crushes were a subject of constant private heckling between Logan and Virgil at Roman, and it would have been proven to further public mocking if Patton wasn’t so deeply, genuinely nice.

Patton bounced into the yard, beaming. “Hi, Virgil!”

“Hey, Patton,” Virgil said gruffly. (Patton had even charmed Virgil, a feat which back in the feuding-stepsibling days had stunned Roman to no end.)

“Hi, Roman,” he said, grinning up the tree at Roman, batting his eyelashes. “Whatcha dooo-in’?”

“Hey, Patton,” Roman said. “We’re trying to see if we can make Virgil less scared all the time without erasing who he is as a person.”

Patton flopped out on the sun-soaked grass that was trying valiantly to live in the drought of summer. “Sounds hard, but if anyone can do it, it’s you two. Hi, Logan,” he added to Logan’s knees.

Logan grunted and extended a hand out from under the machine. “Round-nose pliers.”

Patton cheerfully plucked the necessary tool from the expansive kit (tool-fetcher for the Sanders-Prince brothers was an unofficial but important extracurricular of his, one that he’d considered making a badge for) but held it in his hands, not yet handing it over. “What’s the magic word?”

“There’s no such thing as magic.”

“Logan.”

Logan let out a long-suffering sigh that he was probably extending, to compensate for the lack of eye contact, which meant no eyeroll. “Please pass the round-nose pliers.”

“Sure thing!” Patton said, carefully placing them in his hand, only to watch his arm disappear back under the machine. 

Roman had managed to get down from the tree, and hastily straightened out his shirt before he leaned against the machine in a way that could not, in any universe, pass as casual. Virgil rolled his eyes and instead resorted to picking at the latest rip in his jeans rather than focus on any of the big and admittedly very scary-looking machine that would somehow help his anxiety.

Shouldn’t it be, like, painted with sunshine and daisies or something, not just some kind of metallic alloy? If it was about taking away fear?

“I’m telling Mom,” Virgil said, mostly out of routine at this point.

“Aren’t you involved today?” Roman said. “And therefore, you’d get in trouble too, so—”

“It’s not about trouble,” Virgil said irritably. “It’s about—it’s about danger. You can’t just keep ramping up experiments without safety measures and without making detailed plans or prototypes or something that you run through any potential side effects or faults that would happen, you could get hurt badly, you could hurt someone else, you could—”

Logan had wheeled himself out from under the machine, removing the mask, and his stare was so knowing that Virgil clamped his mouth shut, looking at a patch of brown grass that wasn’t quite in the reach of the sprinkler.

“We aren’t Dad, Virgil.”

Logan’s voice was pitched low, almost kind, and Virgil screwed his eyes shut.

“Hey,” Roman said, blessedly oblivious as always, “where’s Deceit?”

Deceit was currently parachuting his way onto the balcony of his nemesis’ secret evil lair/tower. As a platypus without opposable thumbs, this was more difficult than most would think.

Especially when a platypus without opposable thumbs was dodging a series of dodgy traps, only to stumble into a table where his nemesis had set up tea.

“Oh. Deceit the platypus, there you are,” Dr. Doofenshmirtz said. “You’re late, and as such, I have revoked your access to cucumber sandwiches!”

Deceit stared at him blankly.

“Oh, I just can’t resist that face,” Dr. Doofenshmirtz said. “Fine, catch!”

Dr. Doofenshmirtz hurled a cucumber sandwich directly at Deceit’s beak like the world’s tiniest, most confusing projectile, which hit his beak, and then expanded outward into a series of wires and cables, snaring Deceit against the wall.

“And now that you are trapped, I shall explain my evil plan!” He said gleefully. 

Deceit let out the platypus equivalent of a sigh, tipping his head back to the ceiling.

“Okay, that should be the last of it,” Roman said, stepping back and wiping his brow free of sweat. Virgil, who had long since retreated to the shade of underneath a tree, grimaced at the machine, and began picking at his freshly-painted black fingernails with a renewed sense of fervor. There were already tiny chips of black littered around him in the dirt.

Patton proffered a little tray of lemonade, and Roman perked up. 

“Oh, hey, thanks, Patton!” He said happily, picking up the ice-cold glass and pressing it against his forehead for a moment, before taking a healthy gulp from the red-and-white striped straw.

“Logan, Virgil?” Patton offered, lifting the tray. “I have cookies too.”

There was a brief break as everything went snack-crazed for a bit, the boys bumping into each other and elbowing each other aside as they took their cookies of preference.

“So,” Patton said, taking his own sip of his lemonade (blue-and-white striped straw) “Virgil goes in there, you press that switch, and he’ll just... he’ll be less worried about things?”

“Well—” Logan began, but Roman broke in, smiling winningly at Patton.

“Essentially, yep!”

“Well,” Logan repeated, “Actually, Patton, I was surveying the mechanics, and it could potentially be aided if someone who produced... less worry and had a... how should we say, sunnier outlook on life stepped into the machine, too.”

Patton blinked at him, and Virgil was already surging toward the machine, spreading his arms, as if to bar anyone from approaching it.

“No. No way,” Virgil declared immediately. “It’s bad enough that you looped me into this plan, but there’s no way that you’re bringing Patton into it too!”

“Patton joins our plans daily,” Roman pointed out. “Honestly, it’s really more of a shock that you joined in, Fret-a-lot-saw.”

Virgil squinted at him. “Are you calling me a tool?”

“Shucks, kiddo, if it’ll help, I’m helping,” Patton said, setting aside his lemonade.

Virgil was already shaking his head again, eyes wild, like a spooked horse. 

“Why did I even let you get this far?” He asked himself. “Forget it! I’m going to tell Mom, and she’ll—”

“—say that’s nice dear without looking up from whatever else is taking her attention?” Logan asked archly.

“Fine,” Virgil said, undeterred. “Roman’s Dad, then.”

“It’s baseball season, no chance,” Roman said with a shrug.

“The police, then! The FBI! Anything!” Virgil said. “You two need a wake-up call, okay?! And apparently I’m the only one who’s gonna give it to you!”

“This is why you need the machine,” Roman said, and spread his hands. “Look around! You are literally the only one who is so freaked out about this.”

“Because no one else has common sense!”

“Because everyone else knows we can do it and doesn’t treat us like we can’t!” Roman snapped, and immediately shut his mouth, going bright red. “Um, I mean—I mean, obviously, more like haha, of course we can do it! Because we’re so smart and handsome and—”

Virgil hesitated, and lowered his arms to cross them over his chest. “I didn’t say you couldn’t do it,” he admitted grudgingly. 

“Yeah, well, you act like anything we make will inevitably blow up a lot more than someone who thinks we can,” Roman grumbled, scuffing a sneaker over the grass. 

“Because that happens, Roman! Even to really, really experienced inventors. Besides, aren’t you a little young to be making crazy inventions in the backyard every day?”

“Yes,” Roman said, jutting his chin up proudly. “Yes I am.”

Logan sighed. “We’ve run tests, we’ve made prototypes, will you please just step into the machine? This whole—” Logan gestured broadly with his hand, nose wrinkling, “emotional outburst thing is part of the whole reason we made it.”

Virgil hesitated even more. 

“It can’t hurt to just try, can it?” Patton said, and proffered his hand. “Look, I’ll step in with you. It looks kinda scary.”

Virgil hesitated, licked his lips, and said, “You’re sure about this?”

“Positive,” Logan said, shoving Patton toward him, and hissing in his ear, “Quick, before he changes his mind.”

Patton shot him a fondly exasperated look, before taking Virgil’s hand. Roman glowered at their joined hands for a moment.

Virgil let out a slow breath, and his knuckles went white from how tightly he was squeezing Patton’s hand. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

“On it,” Patton said, and ducked through first, Virgil shooting a last look that seemed to say help to Logan, before following.

“All right!” Roman whooped, racing over to the machine. “Okay, power on, levels stable... you two ready?”

“I guess,” Virgil grumbled, as Patton chirped, “Yep!”

“Less worry, here we come!” Roman trilled, and flipped the switch.

A veritable lightshow ensued and the machine flared, and smoked, and sparked, as Roman and Logan hastily stepped back.

Roman leaned into his ear, shouting to be heard over the machine. “We are sure about this, right?”

“About 85% sure, yes. Perhaps 80%. 65% sure, at lowest. Probably.”

“Good enough for me,” Roman said, and returned his gaze to the machine just in time for the light and noise to die down.

“All right, Virgil, how are we feeling?” Roman called out. “Less inclined to bust us all the time? Maybe relaxed enough to, like, let us keep experimenting with death rays?”

There was no response.

Roman and Logan both frowned. 

“Patton?” Roman called, a little more desperate. “Hey, sweet-Hart, you okay in there?”

“Um,” a voice floated out from the machine that neither of them had ever heard before, and yet was inherently familiar, “you guys?”

Deceit tuned back in, perfectly timed to excise the Tragic Backstory but to get the full effect of the eventual evil plan of the day.

It had taken years of practice.

“—to make everyone as fearful as I was that day in the checkout line!”

Deceit stared at the massive device cloaked by a sheet.

“Yes, that’s right, Deceit the platypus,” he said gleefully, and whipped off the sheet. “Behold! The Frighteninator!”

Deceit began to work against the bonds, wondering idly if he would break his record of forty-one seconds—very impressive, for a platypus without opposable thumbs, if you asked him.

“Yes, soon the whole tri-state area shall tremble in fear, and therefore, I will be able to easily subjugate them and become emperor of the tri-state area!”

Roman was still waving the smoke out of his face when a silhouette stepped free from the machine, seeming close to stumbling before holding out its arms to keep its balance.

Well. That wasn’t right.

“What,” the voice asked, in that same foreign-familiar tone, “just happened?”

“Oh, excellent,” Logan said, peering closer at the silhouette.

“No, not excellent!” The silhouette wailed and at last the smoke cleared, revealing—

Well, at first Roman wasn’t really sure.

It looked sort of like a person, if not for the extra set of arms protruding at the waist. Their eyes had a huge pair of round glasses set in front of it, but the bags underneath them were pronounced and darker than Roman had ever seen on an actual person. Their polo was stitched in an odd amalgamation of blue, gray, purple, and black, mixing plaid with solid color, and there was an odd sash that—

Oh. 

Oh, wow.

“I dunno,” the stranger said cheerfully, “I think it’s kinda neat! Imagine all the cool stuff we can do with four arms!”

“Virgil?” Logan said, at the same time Roman said, “Patton?”

“Yes,” the voice answered—and that was why it sounded so strange, so familiar—

It was both of their voices at once.

“You,” the creature glowered. “are gonna get so—!”

“—famous, from all that nifty inventing you guys do!” the creature finished.

No, not a creature. It was Virgil and Patton. Patton and Virgil? Patton-and-Virgil, Virgil-and-Patton? God, his stepbrother had fused with his crush, he was so used to weird days (most of them he was responsible for) but this was so weird.

“You’ve fused!” Logan said gleefully. 

“This was not in your plan!” Virgil—or at least, the part of him that was Virgil—cried out.

“Well, we thought it might be a side effect,” Roman admitted. “But hey! Take a few steps, swing your arms around, tell us how you feel, this was definitely on the to-do list, and now I don’t have to deal with any of Logan’s nerdiness infecting me.”

Logan threw a wrench at him half-heartedly and Roman ducked—a well-practiced maneuver.

“Why’ve I got four arms?” the creature said, taking a hobbling step forward, flexing its two right hands. “I mean, all the more stuff I could do with it, probably—Virgil, you’re left-handed, aren’t you?”

The two left arms stretched, almost sulkily. Roman hadn’t known that an arm could stretch sulkily, but leave it to Virgil.

“Fascinating,” Logan breathed, digging hastily and coming up with a legal pad and a pen. “How do you feel? Do you still feel essentially separate, or do you find yourself more as a cohesive, singular unit?”

“I,” the creature said, and then it frowned. “I dunno, I guess? I’m—we’re?—feeling a bit more like one unit the longer we stick together, I think. We think?”

“Singular pronouns, I think,” Logan said, taking notes hastily. “Male ones. As to the four arms question—”

“Forget that,” Roman said. “What do we even call you?”

“Hm,” The creature said, one of its right hands coming up to frame under its chin. “I dunno. Pattil? Virgin?”

Roman snorted a laugh, and the creature slanted a look at him that was distinctly Patton.

“Why’s that funny?”

“It—uh—it isn’t,” Roman admitted sheepishly. “Sorry. Um... how about Moxie? Like, you got moxie, kid, Moxie.”

“Moxie,” they—he—said. “Okay! Sure, sounds cool.”

“How’s it going, though?” Roman said. “Less worried? More worried? Still freaking out about having double the amount of arms as usual?”

Moxie frowned for a second, and then his eyes went far away.

“Oh,” he said, tone equally far away, splitting into two—distinctly Virgil and Patton speaking in unison. “Oh. I can feel what you’re feeling.”

“Is that... good?” Roman asked, but then Moxie wrapped all four arms around himself, as if giving himself a hug.

“Do I want a cookie?” Moxie mumbled to himself, and snorted as if he had made a joke.

“Perhaps that would be good, I’d imagine transfusing into a new form would burn calories,” Logan said. “Plus, I’d like to see your finer motor control.”

Roman picked up the tray, offering it, and Moxie took a few shambling steps closer, eyes squinted in focus, a set of arms spread to keep his balance. 

“Hmm,” Moxie said, and then the right hand lunged forward, nearly knocking the tray over, before squeaking, “Sorry!”

“That’s okay,” Roman said. “New body. Also, can I tell you how weird it is that my friend and my stepbrother are combined into one person now?”

“It’s feeling less and less weird,” Moxie mused, before more carefully reaching and taking a cookie. “Thanks.”

Roman smiled at Moxie. Inexplicably, Moxie blushed, and then Moxie scowled, and then Moxie shoved the cookie into his mouth whole.

“Was that on purpose?” Logan asked mildly, who had not stopped scribbling.

“Mmmhmmm,” he said, trying his hardest not to spew crumbs. “Hungfwy.”

Logan nodded, marking something specifically. “Patton, what did you eat for breakfast? I’m curious as to how many calories this burns.”

“He didn’t,” Moxie blurted out, and then a right hand clapped over his mouth.

“Patton-cakes!” Roman scolded. “For all the times you talk to me about balanced eating!”

“That would explain it,” Logan said. “Take another cookie. Left hand, this time.”

Moxie reached forward with his left hand, taking another cookie, not even knocking over the tray this time.

“Oh, yeah,” Moxie added, “I feel less worried, but I... feel. A lot. So.”

He took another big bite of a cookie.

“So,” Roman said. “Um. Now that we have a fusion machine... what now?”

Roman and Logan exchanged a grin, and Moxie looked nervous for a second, before he grinned, too.

“—what?! Deceit the platypus?!?! How could you have possibly freed yourself from that cucumber sandwich?!”

Deceit held up his OWCA-issue pocketknife in answer.

“Curse you, Deceit the platypus!”

Deceit leapt, and smacked Dr. Doofenshmirtz across the face with his beaver tail.

Virgil had gone inside with the excuse of fixing Patton a plate of some leftover breakfast, but also mostly to avoid the light-and-smokeshow of the machine as Roman and Patton sequestered themselves in the machine.

It hadn’t quite died down by the time Virgil came out, awkwardly holding a plate.

“So,” Logan said, making a table on the notepad, “how long into the fusion do you think it’ll be before one of them gives themself away?”

Virgil snorted. “Five seconds.”

Logan sighed in relief. “I’ve been very tired of hearing about how Patton’s hair shines in the sun. Or about how his eyes sparkle when he laughs. Or—”

Virgil laughed. “That bad?”

“You don’t share a room with him,” Logan said darkly.

“Yeah, well, you didn’t get randomly hit with butterflies because Roman smiled at you while you were fused with Patton. Let me tell you, that felt very gross.”

Logan tilted his head. “Point,” he said, and stole a triangle of toast already spread with jelly. 

“Aftereffects of the fusion?” He said, before jamming the toast triangle into his mouth whole and readying his pen.

Virgil paused, analyzing that, and said, “...weirdly calm.”

Logan nodded, writing this down, and at last the machine died down.

“Okay, Roman, Patton, how are you doing?” Virgil called out. “I’ve got breakfast for you here, if you want it.”

There’s a pause, and then, “I think we want to be Paman?”

“Paman,” Virgil amended, and the fusion stumbled out. He looked almost normal, really—blue and white and red seemed like a much more fitting combination, though the orange sash really was quite hideous, still—except for the four pairs of eyes, the bottom, normally-placed set wearing glasses, the top set clearly Roman’s.

“Ooh, jelly,” Paman said happily, and lumbered toward Virgil, taking the plate with a sunny smile that was obviously Patton. “Thanks!”

He flopped out on the grass, and tucked tidily into his breakfast, eating neatly and swiftly. Virgil and Logan sat, both staring at Paman—Paman seemed to stare back, even as he kept one set of eyes on the breakfast he was eating. 

“I love jelly,” Paman said, and then, 

“I know,” Paman said, “You always—“

A pause. Paman’s cheeks went a bright shade of red, and they put down the toast. Virgil offered a fist, and Logan reached out and tapped it with his own (a gesture that had taken some explanation for Logan to do on command, now.)

“You really...?”

“Is... are you...?”

Paman trailed off, smiled to himself, and went back to his breakfast, still blushing.

Crack! Pow! Bam!

“Not the nose, not the nose!” Dr. Doofenshmirtz wailed.

Paman was absently holding hands with himself when Logan finished his questionnaire, and nodded, flipping through the legal pad, which he’d mostly filled.

“I suppose the next question is, does a fusion more or less maintain its stability when another person is introduced to the fusion?”

Paman blinked. “You can add more than two people to a fusion?” He asked, and he answered himself in his next breath: “A fusion’s made up of all its parts—it can be anyone, as long as they’re comfortable with each other.” Paman then nodded, as if this made sense to him, and looked at Logan.

“Aren’t you curious?” He said, in his more unified voice, and Logan’s eyes gleamed for a moment, before—

“I suppose,” he said, attempting at casual.

“You sure about this?” Virgil asked.

Paman and Logan spoke as one: “Positive.”

Virgil sighed, but got to his feet. “Guess I’ll flip the switch, then.”

Slam! Pow! Ka-CLANK!

“NOT THE FRIGHTENINATOR!”

“Weird, right?” Virgil said, leaning against the machine, as the unnamed fusion (two sets of arms, two sets of eyes) staggered from the machine.

“Fascinating,” he said. “It seems that adding a person aggregates the unusual physical additions—Virgil, hand me my notepad!”

Virgil rolled his eyes, but fetched it for him, handing it to the left set of arms, which immediately uncapped the pen and began to scrawl.

“Will you two keep your emotions away from me,” the fusion complained, and in the next breath he snickered, “Sorry!”

The fusion scrawled away at length, before he offered a professional nod, and one of his hands.

“All four of us,” he said, and Virgil hesitated.

“It’ll be fine,” he promised, and Virgil sighed, before accepting the hand, and walking back into the machine.

With one last well-placed kick, Dr. Doofenshmirtz went down and stayed down. Deceit, after waiting a few moments, rushed over to the Frighteninator, intent on shutting it down, tiny platypus paws roaming the machine, before—

Deceit let out a knicker that would have had his platypus mother scrubbing out his bill with platypus soap.

He walked out, spreading his arms—one set. And one set of eyes.

“We must look like a normal person,” he said.

He wasn’t sure where the thought originated, and if he focused, he could sense the divide—Logan’s intense curiosity, Roman’s inherent passion, Patton’s ambitions of kindness, Virgil’s worry—but he was...

He was...

He reached in his pocket and dug out a phone, turning it to the front-facing camera to squint at himself.

The outfit had actually normalized into something a normal person would wear—a red shirt, a tan jacket, jeans. His face was...

He squinted at himself. He looked so much like—

my eyes—

—my nose—

—my ears—

—my cheekbones—

—and yet so utterly, completely himself. He was... he was....

The name came from somewhere deep inside of him.

“Thomas.”

He lowered the phone, and took a shaky, wobbling step forward, almost like a baby deer, arms pinwheeling to keep his balance. Then another, and another. They got easier all the time.

It’s like we’re a whole new person, one of them, or maybe all of them, marveled, it’s like we’re a real, actual person.

But he was missing something. He was missing...

Oh, but he was so here now, all together now, even if it was imperfect it was wonderful. The laugh that bubbled up from inside him was truly, wholly felt, until—

What’s that, a thought, sharp, that could only be Virgil, and he looked up in time to see the arc of green light split and head for him and for the machine.

“Uh-oh.”

There was no time for this newly-formed body to hurl itself aside, and so the green light caught him full in the chest, and he doubled over, hitting his knees.

What’s happening, what’s happening—

—green light, could have been gamma-based—

—it’s hurting him, it’s hurting usme, we have to—

—knew something bad would happen knew it knew it knew it knew it—

Distantly, an explosion could be heard—but he was on his hands and knees, vision narrowing in, and he tried to suck in a breath. He can hardly breathe. There’s something pounding in him, deep and strong, overwhelming all his other senses, and his vision doubles, and—

whatshappeningwhatshappeningwhatshappening

—their vision goes black around the edges, and the green-brown grass looms large in his vision, and what’s that noise, what’s that noise—

—heart rate increase, sweat increase, this is epinepherine, this is fear, as if you don’t know anything about it shut up shut up shut up they’ll hear they’ll—

There’s the scent of burning, but it’s so far away that he can’t focus on that right now, and their body feels like it’s splitting, like it’s—

—hurts why does it hurt I don’t want to hurt I want my friends I want to go don’t hurt my friends don’t hurt my friends don’t hurt my—

—but he feels molten, like lava, like he’s about to melt and spill everywhere, and he can’t hold, but he needs to hold, he needs—

—no, no, don’t do this to them, they’re just kids, I can take it, let me take it, I have to take it, I have to be the one who takes it, don’t do this to them, dontdontDON’T—

He tears down the middle, and there’s a pain for a moment, so sharp and unbearable that none of them can breathe, and—

Patton blinked up at the sky. For a moment, silence—streaky white clouds on the edges of the horizon not daring to intrude on the clear blue of the sky; a bird soared directly overhead as if to flout the clouds’ cowardice.

The silence broke with a horrible, rasping breath, and Patton pushed himself up onto his side to see Virgil, rolling onto his side, coated in a green glow. Patton hastened toward him, heart in his throat.

“Virgil—”

“Don’t touch him,” Logan said, already at his other side. “We don’t know if the gamma ray will spread back to us if we touch him—”

Patton’s eyes stung, and he swiped at them in irritation—he hated that he cried when he got frustrated, or angry, or scared. “Can’t we do something?!”

“M’fine,” Virgil choked out, eyes screwed shut. “M’fine, it’s getting better already—”

“Virgil, don’t you dare lie,” Roman said, pale and ashen and—and how is Patton almost fluttery at a time like this, can’t his emotions settle instead of seesawing wildly inappropriately from one end of the spectrum from another?!

Virgil took in a purposefully deep breath, let it out, and offered a weak, crooked smile to them. “I’m fine, see? I’m fine.”

The green glow had lessened, at least. He now just looked like he was bathed in the light of a green spotlight, instead of encased in some green, glowing Jell-O. He pushed himself up onto the elbows, and drew a hand over his eyes, before he squinted. 

“Okay, how the fu—I mean heck—do you guys do that everyday?”

“Do what?” Roman said cluelessly, and Patton’s eyes are drawn toward the fusion machine. Or, where the fusion machine was. Now there was just black soot.

Roman shrugged. “Deus ex machina?”

Logan let out a regretful sigh. “Well, at least I have my notes,” he said thoughtfully. “And the blueprints.”

“Boys, I’m home!”

“Hi, Mom,” Roman, Virgil, and Logan called without looking up, Virgil getting a bit more color in his face by the second, green fading and fading until it was just about gone.

“Patton, I’m really okay,” he said, and Patton let out a shaky breath, remembering Moxie, remembering all the fear and worry he felt, but all the care, too—the soft side that he kept almost hidden.

“You better be, mister,” he said. “Or I’ll—I’ll steal all your cookies!”

Virgil’s lips twitched. He looked like a normal person now. “All of them, huh?”

“All of them,” Patton said, nodding judiciously. “For the rest of your life.”

“Sounds serious,” he said, well, seriously.

Logan nudged his glasses up his nose, clearing his throat. “Any lingering effects?”

Virgil held up a shaking hand in answer.

“Let’s get you inside,” Logan said. “And horizontal.”

“Probably a good idea,” Virgil said, and all three of them hastened to help him up—Logan and Virgil grabbing his hands, Roman pushing his back—and Virgil slung an arm around Logan’s shoulders.

“Help me in, would you?” He said loudly, and proceeded to “accidentally” kick Roman in the shin.

“Hey!” Roman said, but his response died when Virgil jerked his head.

And Patton and Roman were left alone in the backyard.

Patton scuffed his shoe over the yard. “That was pretty crazy, today,” he offered timidly.

Roman smiled at him and shoved a hand through his hair—Patton felt his cheeks going red, reminded at this, the most inopportune moment, that Roman knew how attractive he found that, now.

“Good crazy?”

Patton felt his face split into a grin. “You kidding?” He declared. “That was awesome! Well, until the random gamma ray of despair, I guess. But other than that!”

Roman laughed, too, and he said, “He’ll be okay. Gamma rays like that tend to be really temporary.”

Patton sucked in a breath, looked into the living room window, where he could see Logan already pestering Virgil, waving around his notepad before beginning to scrawl with a single-minded fervor. He smiled again.

“I trust you,” he said. 

“Yeah, I know,” Roman said, soft, and Patton inched closer.

“So,” Roman said. “Seeing jelly all over your face was what really sold you on me, huh?”

Patton smiled wider. “I think it was a cute look. But I think all of your looks are cute, so, you know.”

Roman smiled, and he offered, “So, um. Do you wanna... do you wanna get ice cream sometime?”

“I’d love that,” Patton said. His cheeks hurt from smiling so big.

“Because you don’t have to you if you don’t want to,” Roman added hastily. “I mean, I get it if you don’t—”

Patton put a finger on Roman’s lip, remembering too much of Paman’s self-criticism, his loneliness, his doubt.

“Roman,” he said. “Dearest. I’d. Love. That.”

Roman’s face broke out into his own relieved smile. Patton hoped he was remembering Paman, too—the butterflies in his stomach, the way he’d felt when Roman had smiled at Moxie, when their hands had first brushed together.

“Pick you up at seven tomorrow?” Patton offered.

“Yeah,” Roman said breathlessly, and he cleared his throat. “Um, yeah. Okay.”

Patton beamed, and leaned forward to press a kiss against Roman’s cheek, watching in delight as Roman’s face went red, too. Patton took his hand.

“C’mon,” he said. “We gotta go make sure Virgil feels better by giving him lots of hugs and sugar.”

“Okay,” Roman repeated, and Patton tugged him inside, where Virgil and Logan were already bickering, and curled up in a corner was—

“Oh! There you are, Deceit!”

[yamagache]

Black Cat on an Enchanted Coffin at Midnight.

Ok! Finally had the time to answer this ask! 😁

Black Cat: Favorite Urban Legend.

Hmm. I’ll have to agree with you on this one Jykell. The way the internet (mostly tumblr) treats the Moth Man in such a wholesome good boy™️, And the way Griffin Mcelroy describes his take on him. I’m very partial to the cuteness that is Moth Man.

Who wouldn’t want a fuzzy creature of the night complimenting your outdoor light fixtures while he clumsily bumps into them. Transfixed to the point you might find it to be perhaps a sexual urge that drives him? Maybe? Anyways he’s not hurting anyone and isn’t too much of a handful when he does visit. So I say let the man love his lights. ☺️

Enchanted - What fictional character scares you most?

The. Bear. From. The. Movie. Annihilation.

My mom and I decided to watch this movie on a Friday night after watching 30 seconds of the trailer. (We don’t like watching more than we need to to get hooked so we don’t spoil ourselves of the whole movie)

The plot was innocent enough. A comet hits the earth and the radiation from it creates a sort of field around a large portion of the earth changing the chemistry of all living life inside the “dome”. Our main character is a female scientist that decides to go in when her husband comes back from his military trip inside, half dead. Believing if she got inside, she could understand what’s happening and save her significant other. Good plot. Interesting premise. We decide to watch it.

First it’s not to bad. The trees and plants have grown expenentially and the flowers have all changed and started to grow in wierd patterns. The most danger so far is an alligator the size of a small boat with more rows of theeth than it should have almost killing her and her party. And finding the missing team her husband was apart of all dead and a video camera documenting there decent into madness and turning on each other.

But then there’s this bear.

They hear a noise of what sounds to be a fellow human in distress and some of her party go to look for them only to find out it’s a mutated bear that mimics the speech of a person in distress to lure its prey to it. The voice is of a female and it’s so chilling. It’s got no flesh in its face part and I’m pretty sure the girl it ate merged with it’s body cause it has another face on the side of its own face.

This scary as shit monster came the fuck out of knowhere and torments them not once but on multiple occasions with each visit being more horrifying than the last.

I’m genuinely freightened of this thing. And I’m pretty sure it because it uses the sound of a woman in distress to lure other humans into its maw. Plus it’s a smart and hungry bear that eats people.

Coffin - Have you ever had a paranormal experience?

Yes. And to this day I still can’t explain it.

So I don’t know if everyone had to do this when in school, but we had those stupid catalogs with the stuff you had to sell and a tier list of prizes for how much you ended up selling.

My sister and I decided to go around our neighborhood and that’s it cause we didn’t really like knocking on people’s doors and bothering people to buy our wares.

There’s a street close to ours that’s no different than any other street. We make our way door to door doing our thing until we get to this white duplex with one apartment on the bottom and one on top.

We decide to just do the bottom cause it’s getting late.

My sitter knocks on the door while I peek through the window and it’s a standard old people living room with a bunch of Jesus statues. The old lady opens the door and is happy for the company letting us inside so she can better look through the catalog.

That when I get a better view of just how many crucifiction statues of Jesus there are in the house. It’s absolutely littered with them. Hanging on the walls, the shelves and on the table and nightstands next to the couch. I clearly remember seeing one of those dollar store lava lamp plug in the socket lights because of how far removed it was from all the religious decor. Even her tv was playing some sorta sermon.

It was all very wierd. But the lady was very kind and offered us water which we declined cause (she’s a stranger and walking into her house was already a no no) she decided to purchase a humming bird decoration for those old ceiling lamps with the pull chains. Which coincidently she had that type of ceiling lamp in the very living room we were standing in. She paid. We thanked her. And left.

Weeks later when we got all the products and were making our way around the neighborhood once agin, giving people what they bought. We finally made our way back to the duplex.

We knocked on the door. Nobody came. We knocked again. Still nothing. We double checked the adress to make sure we were at the right place. We were.

We decided to knock one more time a little harder thinking the old lady might of been asleep. Only for the tenant who lived upstairs come out on the balcony looking at us in confusion. Asking what we were doing. We explained the situation. And her reply still haunts me.

She told us that know one had lived down there for years. I had the humming bird in our house for a few years but at some point my mother threw it away. I’ll never forget this experience cause I can’t explain it.

Midnight - Last horror movie I watched.

That would be IT Chapter Two.

Fantastic movie. They did such a great job finding actors to play the counterparts to their younger selves! Everyone was spot on!! I think I might like the second more than the first! It’s a fun movie.

I didn’t go into this movie having read the book. Nor was I expecting anything. So it probably why I liked it more than others.

I think my only gripe was the gay couple in the beginning getting beaten by the homophobic ass holes only to then get eaten by the clown. I felt it was a little too much. They could have just been eaten but no. First they had to be beaten cause they’re gay and then eaten by the clown. And I think I feel this way cause I like the couple so much I hated seeing them go through not one violence but two!

Other than that I loved everything else. The guy who plays the stuttering kid was my fave next to the closeted gay.

Thanks for the asks as always Jykel! 💚 ☺️

[crimson25]

You need to relax

By pamcake21

squeeling santa

Merry Christmas @themakebelievediaries I’m your secret Santa. I’m so glad I got you. Love you lots and I hope you like it.  :D

Prompts: -"Bucky x Reader fic where they are traveling but the reader has fear of flying so he helps the reader calm her nerves."

  “Alright your all set. Enjoy your flight.” Said the lady at the front counter. You took your boarding pass as you made your way down the narrow hallway to the plain. Your anxiety starting to creep over your body. You stop. For some reason you couldn’t move any further.

“Hey, you ok?” Bucky said as he put his arm around your waist. Suddenly your body could move again.

“Yeah I’m fine. Just a little nervous, that’s all.” You made it to your seats. Bucky put both of your bags on the overhead compartment ad sat down. Luckily it was two seats to a row so it was just the two of you. He looked over at you and could see you still weren’t happy.

 “Oh come on, you can’t still be mad at me?” He said turning his body towards you.

“I just don’t understand why we couldn’t have taken a train.”

“I’ll give you two reasons, one it would have taken way longer, you know Tony needs you back as soon as possible, you’re the smartest scientist he’s got.”

“He would have given me the time off.”

“you and I both know that’s a lie.” You knew he was right. Tony didn’t want you to leave in the first place. You were so close to a breakthrough but you needed the time off.

Bucky sat back in his seat.  “and two the last time I was on a train I got thrown off.”

“and whose fault is that.” Bucky looked at you slightly annoyed.

“Now you’re just being ridiculous.” You sighed

“I know I know but you know I don’t like flying.”

“Well this hasn’t exactly been a first class experience for me either. I can’t believe we had to wait an hour for security to call Stark just for him to clarify that I wasn’t a threat to America. Plus, the lady running the metal detector wasn’t any help.” You looked over at him.

“I’m sorry I’m just nervous.”

“So am I, I don’t think your parents are going to be happy that your boyfriend used to be a Russian spy. Not to mention the age difference.” You let out a small laugh.

“I don’t think they’ll be able to tell.”

Bucky looked at you with a small smile. His long hair framing his face. He leaned over and kissed your forehead.

“I promise we’ll get through this together.” He said as he took your hand.

2 hours later

    The flight was about half over. Bucky had his eyes closed. He was lost in his music. You were reading a book you brought to keep your mind off things, and it was working……... till the plain started to rattle. You froze. Bucky’s eyes opened.

“You ok?” He said as you started to grip your armrests. As the plain continued to rattle from turbulence, all the plain disaster movies started to flood your mind.

“I don’t like this” You said franticly. “What if the plane crashes, what if we hit a bird, what if there are snakes on the plain.” Bucky started to laugh.

“I can assure you there aren’t any mother fucking snakes on this mother fucking plain.” He said mimicking Samuel L Jacksons voice.

“Ha.” Laughed the guy sitting in front of you. Him and Bucky high fived.

“Oh well I’m glad my fear can bring bring you joy.” You said annoyed and still scared

“Ok I’m sorry, you just need to relax.”

“How?” Bucky thought for a moment. A memory came to his mind.

“Hey do you remember when we were going to that party, and I was so nervous because I didn’t like being around people and you found a way to calm me down?” You thought for a moment, then your eyes got really wide.

“Buck please don’t.” you sad with a smile growing on your face.

“Don’t what?” He said as his fingers started to scribble on your side. You jerked to the side as you tried to hold in your laughter “Come on, tell me what you don’t want me to do.” He said teasing you. He turned more towards you and started to use his other hand, squeezing your sides and making you wiggle around in your seat.

“Bucky stohohohohohop.” You said trying not to draw attention to yourself. You tried to push his arms away, but he was to strong.

“stop what, and what’s so funny?” Now he was just being mean. His fingers slowly made their way up to your armpits. You knew if he started tickling you their people would start to look. You were having a hard enough time holding in your laughter as it is. You finally pushed him away and wrapped your arms around your body to protect yourself.

“ok I’m sorry ill stop.” He said as he leaned in to kiss you but instead if your cheek, he went for your neck, which made the giggles come back. You tried to get away but he wrapped you in a hug. The scruff of his beard made it worse. Your neck was so ticklish and he knew it. He continued to make you giggle for a few more seconds, then he finally slowed to a stop but he didn’t let go. He rubbed your arm with his metal hand.  “Feel better.” He asked as he kissed the top of your head. You did. All your fears started to melt away as you snuggled in closer to his body.

“Thanks.” You said. You didn’t even notice the plain had stopped rattling.

“I love you.”

 ‘I love you too.” He said as he rested his head on yours. For the first time, you finally felt safe.

The end

Notes: I really enjoyed writing this. Bucky is my all-time favorite superhero. Hope you liked it.

@themakebelievediaries

[everlark-your-own-adventure]

Mockingjay Manor - Ch 5

Chapter One /// Chapter Two /// Chapter Three /// Chapter Four

Last week found our foursome exploring a creepy attic filled with sinister birds. Thankfully, common sense prevailed in the vote, keeping Katniss and her sweet cinnamon bun Peeta from being separated.

The always incredible @norbertsmom steps away from her posts of adorable puppies and cuddly kittens this week to amp up the spooky for chapter 5. A word of warning, while we’re still comfortably in T territory, this chapter could be a little scary for the sensitive among us. Reader discretion is advised.

As always, you have 48 hours to vote (in the comments or reblogs, NOT in the tags!), until Noon EDT on Thursday, September 28th.

I turn back to Jo, but I can already see that she knows my answer.

Before I can even open my mouth, Jo smirks. “Don’t worry about it, Brainless. You go with Loverboy. I doubt his muscles are as good against an intruder as my switchblade, though.” She stomps over to Finnick and grabs his arm. “Come on, handsome,” she demands as she starts to drag him off into the darkness.

“Hold up, Jo,” Peeta says as he grabs her wrist. She turns and glares at him, but before she can let loose a vulgar response, Peeta continues, “I think we should all stick together as we walk toward the other end of the attic. I just feel better if I have Katniss next to me where I can see her.” He gives Jo that endearing smile that always works on me, the shit.

Jo raises her eyebrows and mumbles, “Good idea.” She releases her hold on Finnick, who rubs his wrist and shakes his head with a smile.

I have to hide my chuckle as we work out our plan of attack. We decide to form a chain with Jo on the end closest to the outer wall, Finnick next to her. He may be good to take on anything or anyone we come across, but without his flashlight app, he’s not much use right now. I’m between Finnick and Peeta, who is closest to the interior wall.

We walk toward the other end of the attic, sweeping our lights back and forth in front of us so we don’t trip on anything. None of us speak; I for one am holding my breath, listening for a clue as to what else may be hiding in this attic.

The sounds of the birds behind us are fading, but the knocking is getting louder the closer we get, and the stench of dirt and stagnant water morphs into the musky stink of wet animal fur. Some other creature besides birds must have taken up refuge in this attic from the storm.

In the distance, my light picks up a shiny rectangular object. I stop and point my phone light directly on it. “Guys,” I whisper. “Do you see that?”

“Looks like a stainless steel work bench,” Peeta replies.

“Yeah, something out of a science class, maybe,” Finnick adds, and he’s right. The closer we get the more we can see. On top of the bench is a microscope surrounded by various other pieces of equipment I have no name for, along with a few large syringes. Above the table is a row of lights with wires hanging limply down the side.

Peeta picks up the wires and shines his light down to the floor. “Looks like someone was using a generator up here,” he says as he points to the square that is a shade darker than the rest of the floor.

We each shine our light around what appears to be a makeshift laboratory complete with a filing cabinet and shelves of glass beakers and test tubes.

“Whoever owns this stuff this is getting evicted right along with their creepy birds,” I say and I realize that it’s finally quiet. “Hey, I don’t hear them anymore.”

“And the knocking has stopped, too,” Peeta adds.

“Thank fuck,” Jo says and I can’t agree more.

Jo starts rifling through the filing cabinet, while Peeta and Finnick go through the drawers under the workbench.

I wander around, not really focusing on anything. My mind is stuck on the question of why would anyone set up a lab in the attic of an abandoned home? Surely not Uncle Haymitch. In his letter he said he closed up the manor and walked away after his first wife died. Someone else then, definitely not Aunt Effie.  The thought of Effie, with her long manicured fingernails and designer dresses wearing a lab coat and working a Bunsen burner makes me chuckle. Certainly her wig would catch fire.

My light catches on a row of what appears to be boxes along the interior wall. Each one is covered by a white sheet. I reach out to pull one back when Jo calls out, “Guys, come have a look at what I found.”

We gather around the filing cabinet as Jo reads from one of the files. “Subject M has been successfully modified. After several avian variations,” Jo looks up from her reading, “I guess we now know where those creepy flying things with hair and teeth came from.” She laughs, then continues, “This is the first genetic modification of a mammal that has survived the gene modification process.”

“What kind of weird shit was your uncle into, Everdeen?” Jo asks.

“This isn’t my uncle’s stuff,” I sputter. “He was a technology guru, not some mad scientist. He didn’t even like birds. He always complained about the geese when we went to the park.”

I turn to Peeta, pleading with my eyes for him to believe me. I don’t care what Jo thinks, but I don’t want him to think I come from a family who would do such things.

Peeta just smiles down at me and hugs me close.

“Don’t worry, Brainless. I’m just messing with you,” Jo says with a laugh. “These reports are signed by a Dr. Coriolanus Snow. Ring any bells?”

“Nope,” I reply, but Finnick cuts me off.

“Coriolanus? His name is Coriol-anus, ha ha. What kind of name is that?” Finnick jokes.

“Very funny, Finnick,” I reply as we all chuckle. Leave it to Finnick to lighten the mood.

“If he was experimenting on animals, I think I know where he keeps his subjects,” I add as I point my light back over to what must be cages under those sheets by the interior wall.

“Holy shit, brainless,” Jo says as we approach the cages. “You think there are some freaky altered animals in these cages?”

“No way to know without pulling the sheets back,” I point out.

I reach out toward the first cage, but Peeta pulls my hand back. “Do you really think that’s a good idea, Katniss?” he asks. “We don’t know what’s under there. Maybe we should wait and call animal control.”

“I don’t hear any noises, so I bet they’re empty,” Finnick adds. “Hey Jo, shine your light this way, will ya?” he asks as he walks past me to pull the first sheet back with a flourish.

We all look inside, and Finnick points out the obvious, “See empty. What’d I tell ya?” He proceeds to pull back the sheets off the next few cages, all of which are also empty.

“Well, something made that loud knocking sound,” Peeta reminds us.

“Must have been a branch on the roof,” Finnick suggests as he pulls off another sheet. He moves onto the next cage but Peeta stops him.

“Finnick, I would move away from the cages. Look,” he says as he points his light into the cage. The door is bent inward, hanging precariously on only one hinge. “Something very big made that kind of damage. What’s that at the bottom of the cage?” He shines the light down on some kind of red substance.

“It looks like a patch of fur that was ripped out of something,” Finnick adds with a slight tremble to his voice.

“Probably one of the mad doctor’s failed experiments,” Jo suggests. “Let’s see what else is in here.”

Finnick slowly reaches for the next sheet, but he pulls his hand back and turns back to face us. “Do you guys hear that?” he asks, his eyes wide.

“What?” Jo snaps. “You whining?” she asks as she points her light in his face.

“Hey,” Finnick complains as he raises his hand to block the light.

That’s when I hear it, a low rumble coming from the last cage left to be uncovered.

“Shhh, I hear something,” I tell them as I take Peeta’s hand. “It sounds like a growl.”

“Maybe we should get out of here,” Peeta suggests. I’m about ready to agree when Jo speaks up.

“Pull the cover off, Finnick. Let’s see what’s making that sound.”

Finnick looks to both Peeta and I, but then leans forward to pull the sheet off the cage before jumping back.

Inside the cage is a snarling wolf-like creature with silky waves of blond fur and glowering green eyes are unmistakably human. Dangling from its collar is a tag with the letter W inlaid with jewels.

“This must be his successful experiment,” Jo suggests as we all start to back away.

As we do, my eyes never leave the wolf-like creatures as it snarls and snaps at us, shaking its cage as it tries to get at us.

“Didn’t that report say it was subject M?” I ask. “That’s subject W, probably for wolf.”

“What do you think the M stands for then?” Jo wonders aloud. We hear an answering knock from just beyond the makeshift laboratory.

Peeta, Jo and I turn our lights in that direction and I feel my blood run cold. There, banging the open door of its cage is a large monkey with orange fur. Its fangs are bared and hackles raised. Its claws are as big as Johanna’s switchblade. It bangs the door of its cage making the same knocking sound we heard earlier.

“I think we somehow stumbled onto the island of Doctor Moreau,” Finnick tries to joke, but it falls flat as we back away from the mutts.

Jo already has her switchblade, but the rest of us each grab something from the laboratory to use as a weapon. Finnick grabs a pronged pole that must have been used to control the animals. He twirls it around like a baton, pointing it menacingly at the monkey creature who hisses back at him. Peeta grabs the microscope. It looks pretty heavy, so it could come in handy if the mutt gets too close. I wish I had thought to bring my bow with me, but I settle on one of the large syringes.

We continue to back away, afraid to take our eyes off the monkey mutt, but we can’t keep going back without looking where we are going. “I’m going to turn around to lead the way back,” I tell the others just as my phone light begins to dim. “Damn, my phone is dead too.”

“Great, now we’re down to two lights,” Jo grumbles.

“Katniss and I will face the way back to the stairs,” Peeta offers.

“Jo and I will keep an eye on Rafiki back there,” Finnick adds.

“Sounds good,” Peeta and I both agree as we lead the way. The toys scattered across the floor come into view, so we are getting close to the birds and the way out. I start to breathe a sigh of relief when a loud bang comes from below. I jump and Peeta tenses beside me as the birds start shrieking and squawking and flapping their wings.

“What was that,” I whisper. Louds steps and the flicker of a flashlight tells us that someone is coming up the stairs.

“Someone’s coming,” Peeta whispers back. “They’ll know we’re up here. I left the door propped open with a chair.”

What should we do, confront the intruder or hide?

[lesiasmadness]

I turned your kindness into poison

The nights in summer don’t give the world much time to breathe. Overwhelmed by the sunlight the Earth holds it’s breath waiting for the twilight. Than it can finally breathe the sigh of relief, filling the aire with the leftover heat, along with the singing of birds and smells of herbs. This suffocating heat stays until only a few hours are left before the sunrise, than fades away and lets the world breathe the fresh cold breeze. It was at this time of night Cuphead found the Inkwell forest to be at it’s best. The atmosphere finally matched the colour palette the moonlight graced the world with: cold and yet soft, calming and pleasant to the tired eye of a sleepless loner. Cuphead opened the window of his room, finally letting out the heat that tormented him throughout this night of tossing and turning in his bed with no hope of falling asleep. Now the chilling flow of aire wrapped around him in a gentle embrace, and the forest lullaby filled the room. The singing of crickets, rustling of the leaves and the songs of toads replaced the never ending static noises and whistling in Cupheads ears, and the sound of waves brushing gently against the shore completely washed away the aching of a body struggling to fall asleep. 

And yet, it was not the sweet sensation of his body finally shutting down Cuphead waited for that filled him. Instead, he felt a fresh wave of energy. Refreshed, as if he slept through all night, he stood by the window, more awake than ever. A spark of adventurous mischief lit up in Cupheads mind and he decided to go for a walk in hope of tiring his body to sleep. Cups sat on the windowsill and turned to face outside, his legs already touching one of the bushes in Elder Kattles garden, but than stopped to take one last look at his room before wandering off. Now that the walls of this room weren’t leaning over him the room itself seemed peaceful. The moonlight gave a silver-blue outline to everything it touched. While in the shade, where the lines were blurred, the memories of the past came to life as Cupheads mind let the imagination do it’s work where eyes couldn’t. Every corner of this room once had more than one tiny world created by the imagination of the cup brothers when they were younger. Now, in the dim lighting of the night, the silhouettes of dragoons, knights, vampires, brave plane pilots, evil scientists came to life once more, but much less bright, almost invisible, much like ghosts. The imaginary figurines danced their grotesque moves, but never left the shadows, as that’s where reality sharpend the smooth lines of perception and only let one see what’s really there. But the real picture was just as whimsical as the make-believe one. This room never changed much, so every tiny detail was a reminder of good ol’ times. Two beds by two sides on the room were surrounded by all sorts of sports equipment, toys or the remains of whatever hobby the cup brothers picked up and eventually dropped. On the walls hung white sheets of paper with childish paintings on them, though it was impossible to make out what was drawn. Cuphead could picture them from memory anyway. Even though the bedroom was a mess in general, Cupheads bed seemed to be on a higher levels of chaos. Clothes lied here and there, pens and torn pages were scattered on and under the bed, quite a few books were hidden under the pillow. The pillow itself was half way out of the pillowcase, the blanket was stuffed into the space between the bed and the wall. A far more organized sight lied on the opposite side of the room. Near Mugmans bed books were stocked into neatly arranged rows. There were 10, maybe 15 books of all sizes. Mugman could be reading 3 of them in one day, switching between geology studies, romance novels and history books without giving it much thought. The other books he just forgot to bring back to the library or left near his bed to reread later. Beside books there were boxes of board games, laying just as organized. Between them notebooks and photo albums were shuffled in. All Cupheads friends envied him for having a brother who would keep the room tidy. But in reality, sometimes Mugmans belongings were much more of a bother than Cupheads were. Mugs was found of collecting all sorts of trinkets. He had a collection of old keys, lockets, sea shells, all of which he would forget about in few month. And that knick-knackery would get scattered all across the room over time. When tidying the room, those things were the biggest bother. Even now as Cuphead looked around he saw few marbles glistening from under Mugmans bed. Cuphead shook his head and got ready to jump out into the garden when his eyes locked one something in the room and he froze. He looked at his brother sleeping soundly in bed. If it was anyone but Cuphead looking, the sight wouldn’t be an eyecatcher. Mugs slept like any other person: lied almost still safe for the motions of breathing. Yet for Cuphead it was unusual to see his brother sleeping so calmly. Cups stepped back into the room and leaned on the windowsill. “Mugs, are you asleep?” - Cuphead whispered, afraid that the answer will be “I was before you asked me”. But the answer never came, so Cuphead allowed himself to speak up. “I’ll take it as a "yes”. That means you don’t mind me babbling over here. After all out of all the people I know you’re the hardest one to wake up. A whole jazz band playing it’s loudest wouldn’t be able to make you wake up.“ - Cuphead didn’t whisper anymore, but spoke as softly as he could. A part of him wished that his brother only pretended to sleep and was actually listening, but that wasn’t possible since in that case Mugman would have stopped him from trying to sneak out. "You’ve been crying in your sleep a lot lately though. I’m not even sure you remember all those times when I woke you up to calm you down. And far, far too many times when I didn’t wake you up and just listened to you sobbing. I said ” lately", but really I don’t know how long ago it started. It’s possible you always cried in your sleep and I just didn’t know. After all not so long ago, I used to sleep just as tight as you do. But look at me now: I hardly get any sleep. No wander: basically killing so many people and being through literal hell does wanders to your ability to stay up. Or rather inability to stay asleep. It doesn’t help that almost every night you call the names of the ones we fought and cry for their forgiveness. You know as well as I do that they are alive and well. Or at least most of them are. And we basically did them a favour by freeing them from their debts. But you still blame yourself even more than I do myself. And what scares me the most is that it’s impossible to tell that your consciousness is eating you from inside. It’s impossible to tell because you always stay as cheerful as you’ve been… Impossible to tell if you’re anyone but me. Because I hear you cry every night. And it scares me to no extend. I’m not scared of you blaming yourself for hurting all of those people. You’ll get over it, I know you will. Not completely, but at least partially the guilt will be gone. That’s not what concerns me. What does terrify me is that you’re so good at hiding it. How can I know if you carry any other guilt on your consciousness? In fact… A thought came to my mind not so long ago. It chills me down to my bones. I remembered that I did hear you cry in your sleep one time when we were younger. Do you recall that day before Christmas eve? When we… I mean when I decided to find our Christmas presents and peek inside? We were too young to wrap the presents back up properly, so surely later that day Elder Kettle found out. He scolded us bad. I was used to such things, besides,I knew that the next day was Christmas eve, so he wouldn’t stay mad at us then. So I didn’t give it much thought. But you were always a crybaby. You cried every time Elder Kettle got mad… Even when you weren’t the one being scolded. I also always dragged you along into trouble so you had plenty reasons to brake in tears. That time, however… That time we both stood there, in frond of Elder Kettle who was boiling with anger… And you just took the scolding silently. You didn’t even shed a tear. It confused me so much. We got sent to our room, and I asked you to forgive me. It was my second time asking you for forgiveness. Just few days before that I got us in trouble and when you started crying, I said I was sorry for getting you into trouble. I don’t know what made me realize I it was my fault, but I did say sorry. So I decided that I should apologize that time as well. I asked for forgiveness, but you said I was okay. For some reason, you didn’t cry, you weren’t even looking upset. You smiled at me. We went to bed that night. And just before falling asleep, on the edge of my hearing ringed a quiet noise of sobbing. I shrugged it of as just being a dream. I’m still not sure if I heard that for real. The next day though I woke up and saw you sleeping of the couch in the living room. Elder Kettle always let us sleep there and stayed there, if we had a nightmare and came crying to him. Which means maybe you did cry. I always found it strange: why would you cry in the night? You were always a crybaby, why would you be shy of tears that one time? For the longest time I thought that you were just afraid to cry in front of me. I did tease you for that sometimes. I felt a bit guilty about that. You still did cry whenever there was a reason, even the most significant one. Remember how you spilled paint on pretty leaves you gathered in the forest? That got you in tears, he he. But… You stopped crying at times when I got us in trouble. You were never clearly mad or upset. To be honest, I let myself be even more mischievous because of that. I started taking your kindness for granted. Until that one thought struck my mind. One single thought made me fear your calmness. I thought: I apologized to you when we wwere kids for getting us in trouble because you started crying. The next time you didn’t cry at all. What if… What if you didn’t want me to apologize? What if you didn’t want me to feel bad? You always tried to make me happy, so seeing that I get upset over you crying made you stop crying? Well stop crying when I can see that is. What if that was the first time you started blaming yourself for making me apologize, not me for making you cry? What if that was the start of your habit of taking all the blame for yourself? Many years passed since then until the next time I saw you cry in the night. Many years passed, and one day I got us into the biggest mischief of our lives. I dragged you into the devils casino and bet our souls. We ran home. We told Elder Kettle. I fell on my knees. I cried like never before. I begged you to forgive me. And than I saw the biggest wander of my life: you took me by the shoulder, made my stand on my feet, looked me in the eyes and smiled. You smiled! You said it was all right! I just stood there, tears dripping down my face, mouth hanging open, completely frozen by what I just saw. How was it possible? I literally dragged you into hell! I ruined your life, I did it out of my own greed! And yet ��it’s alright”, you said. Impossible… But now I realize that that moment of science I wasted on being amazed was my last chance to fix what I’ve broken. Well, not fix, but at least prevent from breaking completely. I should have told you, I should have shouted, I should have begged for you to hate me! I should have made you blame me, I should have convinced you that I was the only one responsible. I know you wouldn’t be able to stay mad… So at least I should have made you accept my apology. But I didn’t. I stood there, silent, stared at you smiling, I let you hug me, I let you waste your kindness on me… And by that I turned your kindness into poison which burns you from the inside till this day. That night we settled down in the forest to get some sleep and patch ourselves up after our first few contracts collected. We decided to take shifts at keeping the fire we set up. You said you’d take the first turn watching the fire. I tried to fall asleep. Off course, I couldn’t. Not after what I’ve done. When some time passed you thought I fell asleep… That’s when I heard to cry. Quiet weeping at first, than chocked moans, than straight up crying, than hysterical sobbing, than violent coughing… It seemed to go on forever, and yet I didn’t get up to comfort you. I knew you’d rather think that I didn’t see you cry than be comforted. So I gave you the pleasure of thinking that you were unheard. Hearing you cry was unbearable. It wasn’t a cry of someone who has to deal with their soul taken away. It was a cry of someone who despises themselves for what they have done. I heard the disgust you bear for yourself for pointing your fingergun at someone. You’d gladly go straight to hell and not bother with gathering contracts if it was only your soul on the line. But it was my soul as well, so you pushed through. You fought. And for every fight you hated yourself even more. And yet somehow once the sun was up and I came up to yoy you smiled at me again. “How did you sleep, brother?” you asked, your voice still hoarse after a night of endless crying. I lied… I said I slept horribly… While really I didn’t sleep at all, I heard your every last sob. I was destroyed. And yet you smiled. You always kept smiling. You greeted each new person with a smile, you moved with energy, you cheered me up my every step… I turned you into an expert liar, haven’t I? This habit of yours… Never letting me hate myself, was it my fault you got it? (I wish you could hear me right now, brother.) Was it because of me always making you share my punishment? Or was it because you grew up way faster than me and started taking responsibility when I couldn’t? Or was it because you’re just too kind? Now that the hatred you bare is spilling out through your tears in your sleep I can finally see what has been going on this whole time. Since we were little you decided that every trouble I caused was your fault. Your fault for not stopping me. So you decided to not let me worry about you crying. Because you thought I didn’t have to worry about something that was your fault. So you kept the cheerful mask on for me. This went on our whole lives. You mastered the art of deception, your disguise is perfect. You chime with love for life while really all you feel is anguish because of everything you think you’ve done. You’re just too much of a loving brother to let yourself blame me. But after our little adventure to hell and back this hatred became just too much. So in your sleep, when you can’t keep your guard up, you finally let go of your cheerful facade and cry. If I didn’t let you take responsibility for my every mistake, if I wasn’t such a pain all the time, if I could be more caring and noticed your suffering, if back then, when you said it was okay I sold your soul, I made you think otherwise, if only I was a better brother, you’d be okay. But now, because of me, you’re broken. Because of me, you’re poisoning yourself with your own kindness. I want to change that. I want to make you love yourself again. I’ll try my best to be the brother you deserve, even though nobody can be that good of a brother. I want to say that I will fix you. But that’s impossible. A person can’t be fixed. You won’t just “become okay”. Even if you glue together the pieces of a broken cup, once the tea inside becomes to be to much to bare, it will sip through the cracks. Just like tears. No matter how much I try, I can’t undo all the damage you’ve caused yourself because of me. And even so, I won’t be able to even try that hard. I’m a bad brother, and my best try will be miserable compared to your attempts to shield me from guilt. But the fact that I can’t fix you, doesn’t mean I won’t try. Just… Just know that I’m trying. It may not be apparent. After all, how much can an idiot who couldn’t see his brother fade his whole life do? I know that you won’t accept my attempts at first. But if you’ll refuse to get better, I’ll tell you that you being hurt makes me hurt. That shall make you care for yourself, right?“ For some reason, Cuphead expected an answer to his last question. But only silence followed. Was it selfish of him to hope that his brother was listening? Cuphead came to the conclusion that it was once he looked at his brother again. Sleeping so soundly. He has the right for at lest that much, at least a night of rest to escape the endless self destruction. Cuphead stepped away from his brothers bed, inched as quietly as he could until hitting the side of his bed with the back of his legs. Exhausted from all the emotion he unleashed and had to restrain to mere whispering, he collapsed on his bed. Finally, he could rest. He fell asleep at last. Now nothing but the lullaby of the forest ringed in the silence of the room. Just in few hours the sun will come and wake the restless cups of their slumber to chock them with summer heat and their own thoughts for the day once more. But for now, fresh aire filled the room. And in the dim lights of the moon lied hidden something Cuphead couldn’t see in his rush of confessions: his brother smiled in his sleep. 

Have you ever been afraid of how you impact people around you? Okay, okay, I'm sorry. I was going to make a cute fanfic but it turned into angst really quickly and I couldn't stop it т_т Hope you enjoyed reading anyway!

[skymoonandstardust]

Secret Abilities

an: Here you go anon-- I hope you enjoy :)

“Hey Doctor Banner”

The white lab coated figure of the scientist straightened from the beakers he’d been hunched over in examination as the door closed behind Peter.

“Hi Peter.” Bruce shot him a smile “How was school today?”

“Fine.” The teenager said shrugging as he made his way over to a counter filled with whirring machines--- all calculating, analyzing, recoding--- and who knew what else. Peter continued to answer as he slowly walked along, studying each one “It was pretty boring to be honest.”  Bruce chuckled as he bent over the beakers again “I know the feeling. Just wait a few more years till college---that’ll be a lot more fun, I promise.”

“I hope so.” Peter laughed.

Opening his mouth to ask something else Peter was turning to face Banner but paused when he noticed The row of computers showing security camera footage. Curious, he froze and watched for a minute till someone in particular, a familiar figure, caught his eye and made him speak up. “Isn’t that Mr. Stark’s daughter.”

Interested now Bruce stepped away from his experiment and walked over to stand by Peter. After a glance at the screen Peter indicated the scientist nodded “Yeah.”

Peter had never met you, but being the Daughter of the famous Tony Stark He’d heard a lot about you and seen you on the news. Not to mention the many photos of you both online and in magazines, like the kind his Aunt May got. Naturally you didn’t go to the same school as him and despite his frequent visits to avenger’s compound ever since he found out about it (and he came nearly everyday) He’d never seen you there or run into you.

Peter was disappointed about that. He’d had a fascination with Ironman, which naturally extended to the superhero’s daughter and so Peter had developed a kind of celebrity crush on you—something that would be incredible if it ever happened but was unlikely ever to be considering the chances of meeting the celebrity were near 0, and they had been until recently.

Once he’d found out about the avengers compound his hopes of meeting you rose, and that chance was partly what made him rush to the building as soon as school was out. It seemed like Peter’s luck was going to change

“What’s she doing here?” Bruce wondered aloud breaking Peter out of his train of thought

“What? Is she not supposed to be here?”

“No, She’s usually in school now.”

From there they both watched in silence as you made your way around outside of the building. They tracked your progress as you reached the back and took a little dirt road---- right to the moment you disappeared from the camera’s field of view.

Only then did Peter speak “What’s back there?”

“Nothing, just a storage shed and some woods. Tony never thought to put any cameras back there--- it didn’t seem important to guard since there wasn’t anything there.”

“Then why is she going back there?”

It was a second before Bruce responded “I don’t know. . . but it’s probably nothing.”

“Yeah.” Peter agreed--- although he didn’t really believe that and based on the quick backward glance Dr. Banner sent at the computer screen he didn’t either.   

  From then on Peter paid more attention to the video footage every time he visited Dr. Banner’s lab---- and he discovered that you came there just as often as he did. Once he pointed it out to Banner and mentioned that you always went in the same direction—out of the camera’s view and toward the woods, almost never into the building itself  they both agreed that something had to be done to find out where you were going and what you were doing. 

Neither of them dared to tell your dad just yet though so they came up with a solution.

  It was Bruce who brought up the subject of more cameras to Tony.

“You want more security cameras?” Tony deadpanned “I’ve got every inch of that compound under surveillance.”

“Not towards the back-- there’s that whole section of woods we can’t see. Anybody could stroll in from that direction and we wouldn’t know till they were knocking on our front door.”

“Ok, I’ll think about it.” Tony answered, patting Bruce on the shoulder before he walked off.

  Tony took his sweet time thinking about it and when four weeks had gone by and nothing happened the two figured the answer was no and decided to take matters into their own hands.

That weekend Peter was at the compound even earlier than usual, and after a quick stop at the lab he got into position, placing himself in the dense foliage of the trees by the side of the road.

After that it was a long hour of waiting, his only visitor’s birds and the occasional startled squirrel.

Finally, the com he’d picked up from Bruce crackled to life and Banner said “She’s on her way.”

“Is she at the side of the building yet?”

Almost—ok, now she’s at the back and headed your way.”

“Got it.”

Peter kept his eyes fixed on the road so it was a surprise when he saw the figure pass by below him. Not hesitating a second he set out a web and was on the move after her, swinging and jumping from tree to tree—careful to stay back but keep her in sight.

He was on edge and all his senses were on high alert by the time she stopped in the middle of a clearing and  sat down.  Peter, perched in a tree and watching closely was prepared for a lot of things, but not for the pack of five wolves that appeared out of the brush two minutes later.

His blood ran cold and he was bout to swing to your rescue when in his fear induced haze he noticed you were completely calm, still in the middle of the open space. Peter relaxed a bit when he saw that and hesitated, to see what would happen.

What happened was the wolves slowly coming closer and closer until they stopped a foot away from you, forming a small ring around your figure.

Suddenly one padded forward, breaking away from the others.

Peter tensed again till he saw you hold your hand out and the wolf lick it like it was as tame as a puppy. A minute later and all the wolves were huddled around you, licking you, circling and yapping at you in a tone that couldn’t be mistaken for anything other then happy and playful.

The weirdest part was that you seemed  to understand the yapping.

From his position in the tree Peter could just hear you as the wolf you were petting let out a yip and you said “Really? again? What he do this time?” He almost laughed as both you and the wolf sent a dirty look at one of the other grey forms --- and did It actually look guilty? No--- it had to be his imagination.

Everything stopped when the lead wolf suddenly tensed and let out a warning bark then a long low growl.

You weren’t fased though.

“Yeah, I know about him. The birds were screeching about a stranger as soon as I got here. You don’t have to worry, I’ll deal with him-- he’s not going to hurt you or your pack anyway, right.” The last word was shouted as you turned to look directly at Peter “You may as well come out, I know you’ve been there the whole time.”

Figuring there wasn’t any use in hiding, Peter dropped out of his tree. 

As soon as he appeared all the wolves were on their feet, growling at him with teeth bared as they formed a line between him and you. Before they did anything, you spoke up—clearly talking to the wolves when you said “It’s ok. He’s not going to hurt me. You can leave—but if it makes you feel any better you can stay close in case I need you.” 

Slowly and reluctantly the wolves left, each of them stopping and looking back at least twice as they left.

Once they were gone you turned to him “Peter huh, you must be that new recruit my dad told me about.”

“How do you---.”

“Animals have very good ears and are very chatty, especially birds.”

“And you can talk to them—understand them?”

“Yeah, and before you ask I’ve been able to do this forever.”

“Does your dad know know?” Peter asked surprised

   “Oh he knows alight” You chuckled “My dad got me this puppy and I used to make it bring me things all the time when I was too lazy to go get them myself. Dad was suspicious but about that but just figured it was a really smart dog until I accidentally made these birds dive bomb him  one time when I was mad.”

“And no one else knows about this?” he questioned

“No. I’ve learned to control it, to hide it and dad wanted it a secret—for my own good, so no one but us three knows now.”

“Not even the other avengers?”

“No, and I’d appreciate it of you didn’t say anything. Dad’s waiting for the right moment to tell them—and the world, when I become an avenger too.”

“No—of course. I won’t tell anyone.” Peter assured you

There was a moment of quit before he spoke up again “Can I ask you something--- why do you come here?”

“Cause it’s the one place that no one will think twice if I go, so. It’s safe and I can be myself—plus I love listening to all the animals, hearing their stories and playing with them.”

“That does sound pretty cool.” Peter agreed

“Thanks.” You said smiling “Anyway I should get back. Walk with me?”

“Definitely.”

“So tell me about those wolves—how did you find them?” Peter asked falling into step beside you.   

As you told him the story, eyes bright and face shining he had to hold back the goofy smile threatening to escape--- and as corny and cliché as it sounded Peter couldn’t help thinking that this was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

The forevers: @a-sea-of-fandoms​ @casownsmyass @imadeangirl-butimsamcurious​ @scarlettsoldier​ @thatbasicnerd4life @docharleythegeekqueen

Marvel girls:

@a-girl-who-loves-disney

@kenziecole-green

Spiderman:

@lets-imagine-fanfics

@tomxhotland

[bookishmatt]

Cage Match 2013 Round Two: IT vs. The Thing

(Originally posted on the since-retired Suvudu.com on March 13, 2013)

The Contestants

IT

A Wrinkle in Time, by Madeleine L’Engle

Age: Unknown

Race: Unknown

Weapons / Artifacts: All the defenses of the planet Camazotz; intrusive telepathic powers

Special Attack: Erosion of the will and dominance of the spirit.

Advantages

Heavily guarded fortress

Vast intelligence

Disadvantages

Physically vulnerable

Mental powers can be overcome by emotions like love

Not used to being challenged

Kills

The Harpy Celaeno

The Thing

Who Goes There? by John W. Campbell

Age: At least 20,000 years

Race: Shapeshifting, body-infiltrating extraterrestrial

Weapons / Artifacts: Transforms its appendages into any weapon of its choosing

Special Attack: Renders men insane with future dream vision

Advantages

Telepathic

Can completely become any living organic form that it enters

Scientific knowledge beyond human comprehension

Disadvantages

Won’t attack in the open for fear of outing itself

Self-preserving tissue can reveal true nature by reflexively recoiling from danger

Appears to be incapable of becoming any form from memory for more than an instant

Kills

Griffin, The Invisible Man

Port Burdock was no stranger to the peculiar behaviors of scientists, especially given the incident of one unspeakably corrupt individual who had terrorized the town many years ago. So although Doctor Kemp had once barely shown signs of the eccentricities that one might expect from someone of his profession, the once unassuming scientist had begun to work in isolation and to develop the disposition of a desperate, impatient man, giving the townsfolk the vague inkling of an impression that perhaps his former house servant had known something of his true nature after all.But ultimately, the townspeople of Port Burdock could reasonably attribute any change in his behavior to the traumatic invisible man incident, being that he was closer to it than almost anyone else. That is, it’s not as if Thomas Marvel were the model for sanity after his direct involvement with the mad invisible man. It’s not as if one could be too suspicious of Kemp’s isolation and increasingly exotic taste in rare materials imported from all over the world. It’s not as if anyone would ever suspect that Kemp was working to unlock the secrets of time and space so that he could tesser far, far away from this galaxy. Such a suspicion would be insane, grounds for being committed as once his servant had.

And yet.

Kemp was not entirely Kemp. Kemp possessed impossible scientific knowledge, the blueprints to the universe, and had, finally, after years of searching, gathered the pieces necessary to create a permanent tesser device, a portal to another world. Kemp would have been the most brilliant man alive. If he were merely a man.

With the final rare metals welded in place and the portal device humming to life, Kemp could finally, after 20,000 years, leave this planet — and return with an army. Absolutely certain of his coordinates, Kemp stepped through the whirling blue vortex of the portal, jubilant to have finally found a way back home.

Before the transfer of his molecules was complete in the passage through the wormhole, Kemp could already feel that something had gone wrong. A possible miscalculation? Highly unlikely, but there was no explaining the bitterly cold sensation that raced through his every atom. There was nothing comforting that occurred to Kemp, no matter how logical the thought process in that lightning flash of a moment, to explain away that dreadful feeling that he had felt only once before when he had first crash-landed on Earth, frozen near-instantly when he stepped out of his ship.

Such wild agitation replaced his prior cheeriness; it was almost a discomfort to emerge through the cold folds of time, arriving on his home planet. Almost. The hilly landscape was immediately recognizable, the climate familiarly tepid, and the star of his world so welcoming that he couldn’t help but feel, for a moment, satisfied to have returned home to his planet Camazotz.

But this is where familiarity and comfort ended, because instead of the metallic spires and domes that once marked the capital of his once great civilization, he saw rows of identical, drab dwellings that reminded him of primitive Earth homes. He saw, in uncannily synchronized unity, samey human females reaching out of their open doorways to pick up their newspapers on their stoops. Throughout the entire length of the block, everyone stopped and stared at him, curious but fearful, for Kemp was out of place and stood silhouetted by a swirling blue portal.

Catching themselves, the people slammed their doors shut, some even dropping their newspapers, and many scurried quickly to their windows to stare at Kemp through the blinds. This was entirely wrong, Kemp knew. He could tell from the sun and the air and from his impeccably calculated coordinates that this was indeed his home world. But what Kemp didn’t know was that 20,000 years had passed since his crash landing on Earth, for in his frozen state he was not aware of the passage of time, and certainly unaware of the fate of his race. For him, he had only been away from home for a handful of years.

But it only took him a moment to understand. His telepathic capacity could read the minds of all living creatures around him, even behind closed doors. He reached out far and wide with his mind. It only took a moment for him to understand that his species no longer ruled this planet, and that the people here answered to a higher power, a power that immediately greeted him inside his own head. Hello, friend. You’re different from the others. The voice had a sing-song rhythmic quality, a quality that was immediately recognizable to a fellow telepath who could influence more primitive lifeforms. The voice quickly sensed this. You’ve worn the disguise of Doctor Kemp for many years, but I can see right through you. I can see you for what you truly are.

One building stood out in the skyline, distinct among these primitive earthlike dwellings, tall and metal, almost pulsating with significance. Kemp knew that this was the source of the voice, the source for the change of his home world. Not yet certain of his next move, he probed and answered, And I can see what you truly are. They could keep nothing from each other. A puppet master. Kemp understood how much time had passed since he crashed on Earth, and the war that waged here on Camazotz and across the galaxy. A genocidist. Kemp’s thoughts became furious. You exterminated my people. Kemp’s thoughts became resigned. You will do the same to me.

Kemp knew that he had to get back to the portal immediately, but suddenly became surrounded by rounded, wheeled vehicles. The moment he turned to escape, the portal dissipated. Older gentlemen in identical suits, all with glowing red eyes fixed on him like lasers, stepped out of the three vehicles that formed a barricade around him.

IT, the voice of his species’ conqueror, spoke ever calmly in Kemp’s head. I know that you will not submit. You will never accept the peace that I could offer you, just as your kind rejected peace so long ago. I know that you will fight. And you and I both know that you will lose.

For the first time since leaving Antarctica years ago, Kemp showed his true self. The Thing that had fled Antarctica as a severely injured bird and taken over the defenseless scientist Kemp revealed itself with limbs that morphed into giant blades and sprouted extra appendages that became wings, lifting the Thing off the ground.

But it was for nothing. The stoic red-eyed pawns of IT raised their hands and flicked their fingers in such a way that they distorted the Thing’s very molecules, crushing its wings against its body and grounding it immediately. With exasperation, IT said, I offer you one more chance to submit and embrace peace. There is no use in fighting us.

And there’s no use in lying, answered the Thing, for it knew that anything that could not submit to IT would be exterminated. The Thing thrashed suddenly, growing and swinging its giant scythe-like blade down into the necks of one of the three pawns, killing him instantly, but the remaining two managed to maneuver their hands in a way that instantly crushed every molecule of The Thing into the size of the tip of a pen, and for all its attempts to reconfigure its molecules back into fighting form, it could not gain control over its shapeshifting capabilities again.

Kept perfectly compact. the Thing was transported to a crematorium to be finally wiped from existence, the last of its kind.

Predicted Winner: IT

NOTE: THIS MATCH ENDS ON Friday, March 15th, 2013, AT 5 PM, EST

Check out all the Cage Match 2013 posts!

Check out the round 1 recap and Cage Match 2013 Bracket!

IT is a character from Madeleine L’Engle’s A Wrinkle in Time ; The Thing is a character from Who Goes There? by John W. Campbell.

IT image courtesy of ShutterStock. The Thing image is from the original book art.

Cage Match fans: We are looking forward to hearing your responses! If possible, please abstain from including potential spoilers about the books in your comments (and if you need spoilers to make your case, start your comments with: “SPOILER ALERT!”

Thanks!

[performingwomen-blog]

Sex Sells - curation, Alex Haddad

After viewing “Official Welcome,” I became very interested in the idea of the self, as separate from the sexual self, as separate from the performed versions of these (separate or not) identities.

As you review the curation, keep that idea in mind. What defines the identity of the self? Is the sexual self a separate identity? Is the expression of that self / those selves a separate identity?

In addition, does the performance of the self implicate a commercialization of that identity? Is the self no longer being expressed with integrity when it has been commercialized?

(This curation contains two written pieces, placed below, and a playlist of videos, the link to which can be found underneath the text pieces. Please click “Keep Reading” to see the curation.)

Helen of Troy Does Countertop Dancing

Margaret Atwood, 1939

The world is full of women

who’d tell me I should be ashamed of myself

if they had the chance. Quit dancing.

Get some self-respect

and a day job.

Right. And minimum wage,

and varicose veins, just standing

in one place for eight hours

behind a glass counter

bundled up to the neck, instead of

naked as a meat sandwich.

Selling gloves, or something.

Instead of what I do sell.

You have to have talent

to peddle a thing so nebulous

and without material form.

Exploited, they’d say. Yes, any way

you cut it, but I’ve a choice

of how, and I’ll take the money.

 I do give value.

Like preachers, I sell vision,

like perfume ads, desire

or its facsimile. Like jokes

or war, it’s all in the timing.

I sell men back their worse suspicions:

that everything’s for sale,

and piecemeal. They gaze at me and see

a chain-saw murder just before it happens,

when thigh, ass, inkblot, crevice, tit, and nipple

are still connected.

Such hatred leaps in them,

my beery worshippers! That, or a bleary

hopeless love. Seeing the rows of heads

and upturned eyes, imploring

but ready to snap at my ankles,

I understand floods and earthquakes, and the urge

to step on ants. I keep the beat,

and dance for them because

they can’t. The music smells like foxes,

crisp as heated metal

searing the nostrils

or humid as August, hazy and languorous

as a looted city the day after,

when all the rape’s been done

already, and the killing,

and the survivors wander around

looking for garbage

to eat, and there’s only a bleak exhaustion.

Speaking of which, it’s the smiling

tires me out the most.

This, and the pretence

that I can’t hear them.

And I can’t, because I’m after all

a foreigner to them.

The speech here is all warty gutturals,

obvious as a slab of ham,

but I come from the province of the gods

where meanings are lilting and oblique.

I don’t let on to everyone,

but lean close, and I’ll whisper:

My mother was raped by a holy swan.

You believe that? You can take me out to dinner.

That’s what we tell all the husbands.

There sure are a lot of dangerous birds around.

 Not that anyone here

but you would understand.

The rest of them would like to watch me

and feel nothing. Reduce me to components

as in a clock factory or abattoir.

Crush out the mystery.

Wall me up alive

in my own body.

They’d like to see through me,

but nothing is more opaque

than absolute transparency.

Look--my feet don’t hit the marble!

Like breath or a balloon, I’m rising,

I hover six inches in the air

in my blazing swan-egg of light.

You think I’m not a goddess?

Try me.

This is a torch song.

Touch me and you’ll burn.

Brave New World

Aldous Huxley, 1932 (chapter 3, pages 31-34, Coradella Collegiate Bookshelf Editions)

OUTSIDE, in the garden, it was playtime. Naked in the warm June sunshine, six or seven hundred little boys and girls were running with shrill yells over the lawns, or playing ball games, or squatting silently in twos and threes among the flowering shrubs. The roses were in bloom, two nightingales soliloquized in the boskage, a cuckoo was just going out of tune among the lime trees. The air was drowsy with the murmur of bees and helicopters.

The Director and his students stood for a short time watching a game of Centrifugal Bumble-puppy. Twenty children were grouped in a circle round a chrome steel tower. A ball thrown up so as to land on the platform at the top of the tower rolled down into the interior, fell on a rapidly revolving disk, was hurled through one or other of the numerous apertures pierced in the cylindrical casing, and had to be caught.

“Strange,” mused the Director, as they turned away, “strange to think that even in Our Ford’s day most games were played without more apparatus than a ball or two and a few sticks and perhaps a bit of netting. imagine the folly of allowing people to play elaborate games which do nothing whatever to increase consumption. It’s madness. Nowadays the Controllers won’t approve of any new game unless it can be shown that it requires at least as much apparatus as the most complicated of existing games.” He interrupted himself.

“That’s a charming little group,” he said, pointing.

In a little grassy bay between tall clumps of Mediterranean heather, two children, a little boy of about seven and a little girl who might have been a year older, were playing, very gravely and with all the focussed attention of scientists intent on a labour of discovery, a rudimentary sexual game.

“Charming, charming!” the D.H.C. repeated sentimentally.

“Charming,” the boys politely agreed. But their smile was rather patronizing. They had put aside similar childish amusements too recently to be able to watch them now without a touch of contempt. Charming? but it was just a pair of kids fooling about; that was all. Just kids.

“I always think,” the Director was continuing in the same rather maudlin tone, when he was interrupted by a loud boohooing.

From a neighbouring shrubbery emerged a nurse, leading by the hand a small boy, who howled as he went. An anxiouslooking little girl trotted at her heels.

“What’s the matter?” asked the Director.

The nurse shrugged her shoulders. “Nothing much,” she answered. “It’s just that this little boy seems rather reluctant to join in the ordinary erotic play. I’d noticed it once or twice before. And now again to-day. He started yelling just now …”

“Honestly,” put in the anxious-looking little girl, “I didn’t mean to hurt him or anything. Honestly.”

“Of course you didn’t, dear,” said the nurse reassuringly. “And so,” she went on, turning back to the Director, “I’m taking him in to see the Assistant Superintendent of Psychology. Just to see if anything’s at all abnormal.”

“Quite right,” said the Director. “Take him in. You stay here, little girl,” he added, as the nurse moved away with her still howling charge. “What’s your name?”

“Polly Trotsky.”

“And a very good name too,” said the Director. “Run away now and see if you can find some other little boy to play with.”

The child scampered off into the bushes and was lost to sight.

“Exquisite little creature!” said the Director, looking after her. Then, turning to his students, “What I’m going to tell you now,” he said, “may sound incredible. But then, when you’re not accustomed to history, most facts about the past do sound incredible.”

He let out the amazing truth. For a very long period before the time of Our Ford, and even for some generations afterwards, erotic play between children had been regarded as abnormal (there was a roar of laughter); and not only abnormal, actually immoral (no!): and had therefore been rigorously suppressed.

A look of astonished incredulity appeared on the faces of his listeners. Poor little kids not allowed to amuse themselves? They could not believe it.

“Even adolescents,” the D.H.C. was saying, “even adolescents like yourselves …”

“Not possible!”

“Barring a little surreptitious auto-erotism and homosexuality–absolutely nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“In most cases, till they were over twenty years old.”

“Twenty years old?” echoed the students in a chorus of loud disbelief.

“Twenty,” the Director repeated. “I told you that you’d find it incredible.”

“But what happened?” they asked. “What were the results?”

“The results were terrible.”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dPI-mRFEIH0&list=PLUoZtuOPUUJ82La2YayTBLdT20g32XTUR

[nofomoartworld]

The Seed Journey to preserve plant genetic diversity. An interview with Amy Franceschini

Seed varieties have declined significantly since the beginning of time. First, with plant domestication and now, increasingly, through homogenization, industrialisation, privatization and commodification of our seed stock. Independent groups are currently working as private protectors of genetic diversity by cultivating endangered varieties in their home gardens, sharing seeds with other seed savers, but also lobbying the EU to make sure that a new proposal for seed marketing regulation will promote agricultural biodiversity, small-farmers’ rights, global food security and consumer choices.

Flatbread Society Soil Procession, 2016. Photo by Monica Loevdahl

Futurefarmers Seed Journey, 2016. Photo: Nina Sahrauoi

The need for a robust and vibrant culture of seed diversity was one of the motivations that led Amy Franceschini and Futurefarmers to establish the Flatbread Society – a collective of farmers, artists, activists, scientists and other people involved in urban food production and preservation of the commons. Since 2012, the group have been working in a permanent “common” area on the waterfront development of Bjørvika in Olso, Norway. They built an urban farm, an allotment community, an ancient grain field and a bakehouse.

Last year, however, a delegation of the Flatbread Society embarked on a year-long sailing expedition that will take them from Oslo to Istanbul. On board is a rotating crew of artists, sailors, anthropologists, activists, writers, ecologists, etc. As for the cargo, it consists mostly of grain seeds that had been lost or forgotten.

Along their journey to the Middle East, where the cultivated grains originated, the members of the crew stop in harbours to meet artisan bakers and farmers, make flatbread, collect and exchange seeds but also document and retrace the journey that the seeds made thousands of years ago.

Artes Mundi 7: Amy Franceschini, founder of Futurefarmers explains the Seed Journey. Video Artes Mundi

I talked with Amy Franceschini a few weeks ago about the Flatbread Society’s extraordinary sailing adventure and about their efforts to raise awareness around the need for the development of plant genetic diversity.

Flatbread Society, 2016. Photo by Monica Loevdahl

Flatbread Society, 2016. Photo by Monica Loevdahl

Hi Amy! First of all, I’m quite curious about the seeds you’ve decided to take on this ‘reverse journey’ to Turkey. Which varieties of grains did you select exactly?

We started with a Finnish Rye. We came to this rye when searching for someone farming “ancient” grains in Oslo. We have been working on a public artwork in the former port of Oslo for the last 5 years. The center piece of this work is a grain field featuring ancient grains that have been rescued from interesting places. 

For example, this Finnish Rye was found between two boards in an old sauna used by the Forest Finns in the early 1900’s to dry their grains. 

This grain was thought to be lost, but an amateur archaeologist rediscovered it.

Our project in Oslo is located on a “commons” – a piece of land set aside within this waterfront development that should be accessible to all. We took the tradition of Norwegian commons to heart in this project and wanted these ancient grains to symbolize the biological commons which is currently at risk due to the privatization and commodification of our seed stock. 

“The return of ancient seeds is like reverse engineering, taking apart this long history fold-by-fold. This voyage is an allegory, one forever open to chance. Our participation from afar breathes wind into the sails of the future” – Michael Taussig, Seed Journey on-board ethnographer.

Flatbread Society Seed Collection, 2014. Photo: Futurefarmers

And why did you chose to travel with these particular seeds? 

Each of these seeds have a particular story of rescue associated with them. And through the planting and exchanging of them comes an awakening. For example, a variety of barley that we have with us came by way of St. Petersburg. Nikolai Vavilov collected more seeds from around the world than any other person in history. He was one of the first scientists to really listen to traditional farmers, peasant farmers — and ask why they felt seed diversity was important in their fields. During the siege of Leningrad in 1941, Vavilov was imprisoned by Stalin where he starved to death. He became the main opponent of Stalin’s favored scientist Trofim Lysenko for his defense of Mendelian theory. Just a few blocks away in the Vavilov Research Institute of Plant Industry, Vavilov’s staff scientists locked themselves in the seed bank to diligently protect his seeds. Over half a million people starved to death during the 28 month siege while these twelve scientists filled their pockets with grains so that future generations would be able to grow food. When the allied troops arrived at the seed bank they found the emaciated bodies of the botanists lying next to untouched sacks of wheat and other edible seeds -a genetic legacy for which they paid with their lives.

Futurefarmers Seed Ceremony, 2017. Photo: Mads Hårstad Pålsrud

Futurefarmers Seed Ceremony, 2017. Photo: Mads Hårstad Pålsrud

Futurefarmers Seed Ceremony, 2017. Photo: Mads Hårstad Pålsrud

Another wheat we have is called Brueghel. During an archaeological dig in a church in Pajottenland, Belgium, charred rye and wheat seeds were found. The archaeologists and a group of local farmers call these found seeds Bruegelseeds because they date from the time of Bruegel, the old Belgian painter known for landscapes and peasant scenes.

A group of young farmers want to make a “BruegelBread”, a bread made in the landscape of Bruegel. For the moment all of the grain for human consumption in this region comes from abroad and they would like to reinstall a local chain from the ‘Bruegelseed’ to the ‘Bruegelbread’.

This April 1st, we summon this ancient Brueghel grain and imagine what Bruegel would paint or make in 2017. Futurefarmers will host a Seed Ceremony at the Heetveldemolen – Heetveld Windmill. On this day many farmers will gather to share their unique and local cultivated grains. A handful of Brueghel grain will be launched onto the Futurefarmers Canoe Oven and rowed from canal, river and into the Schelde to Christiania.

Flatbread Society, Futurefarmers’ Canoe Oven, 2013. Photo: Max McClure

This journey to the Middle East can be seen as an awakening of the memory—the long journey the grain itself has taken—through the hands of time. 
— Michael Taussig, Now Let Us Praise Famous Seeds

Will you be collecting other seeds along the way?

Yes. Collect, share, collect. We collect and share at each stop. We carry a small wooden boat that holds all of the seeds we collect.

Our mothership RS10 Christiania carries an ingeniously crafted mini-boat “like a chalice.” Containing small amounts of old wheat and rye seeds collected along the journey.

These seeds are like jewels. The disproportion in size between the small chalice and the mother vessel carrying it symbolizes preciousness as does the very idea of a prolonged voyage using wind and sail as the means of propulsion. – Michael Taussig, Let Us Now Praise Famous Seeds

The mini boat of RS10 Christiania. Image courtesy of Futurefarmers

The mini boat of RS10 Christiania. Image courtesy of Futurefarmers

What do you mean when you say that the seeds have been ‘rescued’? Rescued from what or whom? And how? To what purpose?

The latin root of the word “rescue” is to return.

The seeds we choose to carry with us are seeds that were either lost or fell out of production and then found again, like the stories I referred to earlier, or they are seeds that farmers have gotten out of gene banks that have not been grown for 30-80 years. These farmers are working to return these seeds to the ground and into production rather than sitting dormant in gene banks.

The seeds they are growing fell out of production before the green revolution, so they have not been homogenized. But if they are not grown each year as a landrace, they do not have the opportunity to adapt to their local growing environment; soil, weather and social desire – taste.

Our collaborator in Norway is very busy collecting grains out of gene banks and getting them into the ground. He says,

“We don’t need a museum to conserve varieties, what we want is to grow them. “ -Johan Swärd, Norwegian farmer, Brandbu

It is truly our only hope for shifting from the dominant agricultural framework to a smaller, more local scale production of food.

Flatbread Society, 2016. Photo by Monica Loevdahl

Flatbread Society, 2016. Photo by Monica Loevdahl

Flatbread Society (Baking workshop), 2016. Photo by Monica Loevdahl

Why is this important to use heritage grains?

Agribusiness supplanted locally adapted seeds with fewer varieties of seeds: until the late 19th century, most plants existed as highly heterogeneous landraces. Over the past century of modern breeding, attempts to produce cultivars that meet the advanced agriculture demands of an increasing population has resulted in the landraces being almost wholly displaced by genetically uniform cultivars. The result has been a narrowing genetic base that puts these plants and the future of food at serious risk.

And aren’t they threatened with being patented like other grains?

It is said that wheat and rye were domesticated in Kurdistan and through gift and trade not to mention wind, birds, and animals, made their way north to Europe to become the “staff of life.” These “old” seeds come loaded with an underground history at once social and biological. The domestication of plants involved a long march through trial and error, not to mention chance, whereby certain varieties became reliable foodstuff. It was a revolution in world history, ushering in what is called the Neolithic period with tremendous consequences, one of which, of course, was deforestation. Another was the birth of the state and private property. We sail along the cusp of many contradictions.

Cultivators in each and every micro-climate developed their own varieties of seed stock from their harvests to the present time when, all of a sudden, such practices have been declared illegal. Another revolution is afoot. Farmers who continue with old stocks are at risk of arrest. They too are now an endangered species. In referring to themselves as such they cement an alliance — biological and political — with the plant world, which is what Flatbread Society is doing as well.


At the moment, they are such a small market and the farmers who are bringing them back into production are not interested in profit as such, but sustainability. The ideal scenario for these seeds would be to stay small in scale in terms of production and very local, so that they are adapted to a local biotope, ecology, taste and weather. This would enable a very local, durable and resilient economy, but not one based on surplus or growth per se.

But yes, these seeds can be in danger of being collected by large companies, patented and homogenized.

For example, Tanzanian farmers are facing heavy prison sentences if they continue their traditional seed exchange.

Amy Franceschini / Futurefarmers, Flatbread Society, Seed Journey, 2016 -17. Prints, charcoal drawings, video, benches, sail, canary cage and performance. Artes Mundi 7 installation view, National Museum Cardiff, 2016

Amy Franceschini / Futurefarmers, Flatbread Society, Seed Journey, 2016 -17. Prints, charcoal drawings, video, benches, sail, canary cage and performance. Artes Mundi 7 installation view, National Museum Cardiff, 2016

Ever since I’ve followed your work, I’ve been amazed by the way you connect with audiences outside of the traditional art venues. So how do you communicate this project and the issues behind it (politics of food production, role of grains in the economy, environmental challenges, knowledge sharing, etc.) to the people you encounter along the way?

We still depend on the arts institution as our main support. They are a very important amplifier of our work. They have a much wider media reach than we do. Through them, we have the capacity to bring farmers onto a cultural stage, which in some cases validates their work as seminally cultural. For example, when we exhibited at the National Museum in Cardiff for the Artes Mundi Shortlist exhibition, we were able to host a Seed Ceremony / Exchange with the Welsh Grain forum. We hosted this in the National Library inside the National Museum. Since we had access to this space our project became more legitimate and we were able to extend this legitimization to the farmers work by inviting them. The farmers work became legitimatized as a cultural practice and was documented by the BBC which gives their work a voice.

As Seed Journey moves along its route, word gets out and when we arrive in small or large harbors we are often welcomed by a small group of hosts, a town mayor, the local newspaper and passersby. We try to announce our arrival when we know the time/day of our arrival- to the mayor of small towns, align with harvest, sowing festivals, align with maritime Community. Our boat has an allure in itself, so a few times when we arrive at a marina, the harbor master is quite proud to have us and calls the local media.

For us, the message must move beyond the art venue, but the art venue is a valuable collaborator.

RS-10 Christiania, 2010. Photo: Martin Hoy

RS-10 Christiania. Photo courtesy of Futurefarmers

And then there’s the RS-10 Christiania boat! It is stunning! How did you end up with that boat?

Be careful what you wish for. The whole idea of the Seed Journey was really a very seed of an idea provoked by a day out on the Oslo fjord with Lars Hektoen, a Norwegian alternative banker. We were discussing the idea that seeds were once the first currency in many places. I proposed the idea of sailing the seeds we had been growing in Oslo back to the middle east as a way to unravel this history and theories of how these seeds migrated and how surplus seed stock availed so many aspects of “civilization”.

He immediately said, “fantastic!” If you do such a journey, you must take a Colin Archer rescue sailboat. They are safe, steady and still are a few in Norway.

Through our commissioner in Oslo, a meeting was set up with the Petersen brothers, the owners of RS 10 Christiania (Rescue Sailboat Christiania). A mutual excitement about the project emerged and an agreement was made to sail her and our seeds to Istanbul.

The boat is a beautiful thread of our story. She is a slow and steady craft. You can feel her line of duty as she sails us towards the unknown.

She is also the most expensive part of our journey, which has proven to be a challenge and might force us to abandon ship in Leg 2 and transfer to another vessel. But we will be launching a Kickstarter campaign in mid-May to try to keep her and the Petersen’s with us. But if you already would like to donate, our homepage is accepting donations.

A side note, Christiania sunk in the north sea in 1995 – also a point of reference to rescue.

Flatbread Society Bakehouse, Oslo, Norway, 2016. Photo: Monica Loevdahl

Is there anything in its story or design that particularly connects with the Flatbread Society/Seed Journey project?

Flatbread Society is a durational public art project in Oslo Norway which includes a Grain field, a Bakehouse and 10 years + of artistic programing. The grainfield connects Norway’s agricultural heritage to the present, extending the metaphor of cultivation to larger ideas of self-determination and the foregrounding of organic processes in the development of land use, social relations, and cultural forms. The presence of this grainfield against the backdrop of the city of Oslo and the Barcode — its openness and fluidity — stand in stark contrast, culturally and physically, to the rational and rigid development in the surrounding areas of Oslo.

In 2015 a group of 75 people, swarms of bees and a colony of airborne and soil-based microorganisms gathered in a geo-location now called Losæter — a museum without walls where an expanding inventory of ancient grains are growing.

Since then, a selection of seven grains have been planted upon this new common area in Oslo. Each variety has been “rescued” from various locations in the Northern Hemisphere — from the very formal (seeds saved during the Siege of Leningrad from the Vavilov Institute seed bank) to the informal (experimental archaeologists discovering Finnish Rye between two wooden boards in an abandoned sauna in Hamar, Norway). Together with local farmers Johan Swård and Anders Naes, these seeds and the knowledge of how to grow, harvest, mill and bake them have become embedded in the project.

Horse plough in Losæter

Could you tell us a few words about the people who accompany you on this journey? What is their role and how did you select them?

The project inherited an imaginary early on. Each time we speak of this journey, it fills ones mind with joy, hope, and wonder as well as being viewed as a critical project that needs to be happening right now. There is an absurdity and persistence to the project that captures people.

Many people enlisted themselves and soon enough we had an incredible crew of artists, anthropologists, ecologists, farmers and sailors. The core crew was born out of a conversation in Gent, Belgium over two years ago whereby, we asked each other, “If you had to be on a boat with this mission, who would need to be on this journey?” At this point it was more of a fantasy, but we wrote down many names, and most of them are now formal crew members.

The idea is that a rotating crew of artists, scientists, writers and farmers research interests influence the journey, but the grains ultimately guide the route. Seed Journey maps not only space, but also time and phylogeny: while the more familiar space yields a cartographic map, time yields history and phylogeny yields a picture of networks of relationships between and among living beings —relationships between cultural groups, but also between human and non-human living forms such as seeds, sea-life and the terrestrial species from the various places and times we will traverse.

You have travelled (or will have travelled? I don’t know where you are at the moment) from Oslo to Cardiff with the project. What will happen (or did happen) during the Cardiff stop? What did you find in Wales?

September 17, Oslo we departed with a Send Off procession from the FBS grainfield to a fleet of Colin Archer rescue boats and other smaller boats to send us off.

We headed to Cardiff via Denmark and London where we met farmers, bakers and brewers and eventually shared all of the seeds gathered with the Welsh grain forum (as described above).

On April 1, we will have a pre-send off gathering in Belgium in collaboration with Muhka and Middleheimmuseum and a host of farmers and millers from Pajottenland.

On April 18, we will formally send off from Antwerp en route to Istanbul via Jersey Island (Morning Boat residency), San Sebastian/ Tabakalera and Santander/ Botin Foundation.

Seed Journey Broadside

What do you hope will be the impact of this reverse journey?

We try not to think in terms of “impact”. This is a work in progress and it still has a lot to tell us and to discover. We hope to protect this space without the terms of impact, outcomes etc. But of course a basic drive for the project is to raise the status of the small farmer’s work, validate this work, connect farmers in various locations so as to strengthen the network that is working to protect farmers rights and most importantly to keep the seeds in the hands of many rather than a few.

Thanks Amy!

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