#you guys have called it something for thousands of years but science recognizes it

[lilliryth]

Perhaps this is an opinion that will seem controversial to those who like to keep spirit and science in separate containers, but it really just like. gets to me sometimes, just how much of therapy is witchcraft.

A therapist once had me visualize what it would look like if I “pulled” my traumatic feelings out of my body physically. I saw myself gather a heap of terrified ants, and she then told me to ask them what their purpose was, and if they’d be okay converting that nervous energy into enthusiasm for the task at hand instead. The same therapist also had me visualize speaking to myself as a little girl. My patron deity, Loki, once had me do the same.

In my outpatient, I remember how much it struck me that group therapy is like. literally just a coven. We would sit in a circle and enter into the space together via meditation, followed by spending the rest of the time doing Good Work for ourselves and others, with the guidance of someone knowledgeable who’d been through it all.

These things are never separate when I look at them. To heal oneself and others, to care for the world, to craft a better future with shared willpower and kind intention—they are common goals with very common practices.

Magic has always just been the application of old sciences, and the new ones aren’t unfamiliar.

[alpaca-clouds]

So, some theories about Coyote and/or Mephistopheles

Alright, I will throw my proverbial hat into the ring in terms of trying to come up with a theory about this. Because I am not exactly sold on the most popular theory right now that old man Coyote and/or Mephistopheles is a new manifestation of Death. The main reason for that is, that Coyote is a bit too important in regards to indigenous mythologies. So having Coyote be Death, who is a fairly one-note villain, would definitely feel quite a bit disrespectful.

Well, y'all know where you are. So of course we will talk about some history. Duh.

Mephistopheles

I think most of us will know that Mephistopheles originates with the Faustus myth. So let me talk shortly about Johann Georg Faust, who was a real person, who lived in Germany around the change from the 15th to the 16th century. (From all we know, he lived from 1466 to 1540, though the dates are not fully certain, as it often is the case with older dates.) Details about his life are really hard to construct, because he became such a popular character in fiction very shortly after his death, that it is just super hard to differentiate fiction from reality. We know, however, that he was an alchemist, astrologist and magician - whatever the latter is supposed to mean at the time. Later people also claimed he was a con man. From all we know (though again, this is not certain) he died by blowing himself up with an alchemical experiment, which definitely is on brand.

If it was just that, we would probably not really remember the guy. Sure, he might have a Wikipedia article still, but hist name would not be recognized by thousands if not millions of people. No, this happened because in 1587 a book was printed, called "Historia von D. Johann Fausten". We don't know the author, just the publisher (Johann Spies). And this story then caught the attention of the Englishman Christopher Marlowe, who made something of a rewrite and translation of it a few years later as the play "Doctor Faustus", which a long while later would then serve as inspiration for Goethe and his interpretation of the story.

The rough outline however is always the same: Faust is a theologist, who wants to acquire knowledge and finds himself limited by the at the time slow advance of science. A devil Mephistopheles shows up, who serves Lucifer, and offers Faust a lot of knowledge and magic in exchange for his soul. Faust accepts. Depending on which version you read, what follows is either tragedy or a lot of magic hijinks, though the moral of the story is always: "Do not be too greedy with knowledge."

Since we do not have any sources referencing Mephistopheles prior to the printing of the Historia, we are fairly certain that whoever wrote that book made Mephistopheles up. Meaning: This figure was not based in prior myths or historical believes. Or to put it differently: Mephistopheles goes back to 1587. He did not "exist" in the real world - not even as an idea - prior to this date.

After the Faust story got so popular, though, other stories definitely picked up on Mephistopheles and put him into a variety of other stories as a trickster demon, who would often seduce good men into doing back things - often with the goal of gaining power or knowledge or both.

Old Man Coyote

Meanwhile, Coyote is a character who shows up throughout indigenous North American mythology, and - as someone has rightfully pointed out - somewhat also in Nahua mythology (Nahua = Aztec, I am trying to use the endonym rather than the exonym).

See, in Nahua mythology there is a god called Huehuecoyotl, and as you might guess: Coyotl indeed means coyote. To be exact the name translates to "Old Coyote", which indeed is quite close to "Old Man Coyote". ;)

Huehuecoyotl is (according to Wikipedia, because I still have not found a good book on Nahua mythology - please, someone, recommend me something) the Nahua song of song, dance, mischief and also of uninhibited sexuality. Because of this, he was - like so many trickster gods - also technically genderfluid, as he could take whatever form he liked. He would often play tricks on other gods and on humans too, at times even cause wars. But like with other Coyote stories, these often would fall back on him.

Which brings me to all those other versions of Coyote.

While Coyote does not show up in every North American indigenous culture, he certainly shows up in many of them. The most well known Coyote myths are obviously of Navajo origin, bout the Navajo are not the only culture featuring Coyote.

Coyote is pretty much always a trickster, and like many tricksters he is generally a positive figure, but also morally grey. While in many myths he is responsible for some creations of the world, he will usually also often cause misery to others and also himself. He also often dies gruesome deaths, but finds then ways to come back from them.

In some myths he will also take up the role of a culture hero, meaning that he will be responsible for bringing the human certain things, like fire or language. Even as Coyote he does at times appear as a shapeshifter of sorts, though this is not always a given.

Coyote shows up in more than 20 different mythologies that we know off. While his general role as a trickster is often the same, the finer details will definitely differ a lot.

So, the Theory

So, the Spanish conquest of the Nahua happened in 1519. And we also know that in general around the turn of the century the genocide in the Americas was so bad that it possibly created a fucking climate change! (It got colder because so much CO2 got sucked from the atmosphere.)

And so my suspicion here is, that Coyote, the trickster (I am not fully sure if it is specifically Huehuecoyotl, or a generic Coyote), went over to Europe after the indigenous cultures were genocided, to exact revenge. And when he went over to Europe, he took up an identity that worked better with the believes of the people in Europe: Mephistopheles.

He might also have taken some other identities in some other cultures.

The reason I do not really think it is Death (even though timeline wise it could obviously also match up, given that the entire Faust thing mainly happened just after the events of the first four seasons) is really that Death was a very one-note villain. And it just would not feel right to me to make Coyote - who is definitely not one-note - as Death.

[waka-chan-out]

TSUKKI AND 19 SFW PLEASE AND THANK YOU

300 Follower Event

Tsukishima Kei

Prompt 19: “I’m sorry for calling. Can I please come over?” - SFW

this fic was part of my 300 follower event. check out the rest of the submissions here.

non-canonical timeskip.

word count: 1.7k

content warnings: friends to lovers and hurt/comfort, boys. my specialty. (for context you met in college.)

the full body gasp that left me when i got this ask. your mind. i love where it’s at.

It took you a moment to register the vibrations thrumming against your hand. It had started in your dream and continued as you inhaled heavily and rubbed your face. Eyes barely open, you pawed through your comforter and found your ringing phone.

“Hello?”

“Hi.”

Well, that sure woke you up. You sat up in bed and held the phone close to your ear.

“Tsukki? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” His voice was unsteady. You checked the time.

“It’s three in the morning. Are you sure you’re alright?”

There was silence on the other end. You could almost feel his hesitation.

“I’m sorry for calling,” he said. He inhaled a shaky breath. ���Can I please come over?”

“Jesus. Uh, yeah. Do you want me to pick you up? If you aren’t safe I can call you a car or something?” You pushed off your covers and moved quickly through your room, throwing clothes and other random items into their designated areas.

“I can get there myself. Are you sure this is okay?”

“Oh my god, of course. Just be safe getting here.”

“I always am.”

“Okay, well, please be safe. Just knock when you get here.”

You straightened up most of your living space and started boiling water for tea.

It didn’t take him long to get there. It never did. You swung open the door to face a very dejected, very tired looking Tsukishima.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi.” You couldn’t push the look of concern off your face. He stepped inside and you gently shut and locked the door. “Are you hungry? We can talk but I don’t want you to feel—”

Your words died as Tsukishima melted against you. He dipped his face down and buried it against your neck and let out a shaky breath. His arms locked around your shoulders.

You hesitated. Yes, he was softer with you than most, but never this soft. You wrapped one arm around his midsection and brought the other one up to rest in his hair. He didn’t speak, but his breathing was weak and unsteady. If you didn’t know better you would have assumed he was crying.

“Let’s sit down.” You used the most gentle voice you could muster. “Do you want tea?” He shook his head against your shoulder. “Are you sure? I have that one you like.”

“You still aren’t allowed to tell anyone about that.”

You smiled.

“I haven’t and I won’t. Go sit down.”

He continued holding you tightly for a second, then rose to his full height and readjusted his glasses. You followed him to the couch with the tea. It was bright red and smelled strong — passion fruit, though he’d never admit it to anyone but you. He was so funny about letting people know his favorite things.

When you sat down beside him he immediately leaned onto your shoulder. His behavior was making you feel a little sick. Tsukishima was distant, sometimes a bit clingy when you were in a crowd or at a party, but that was never more than a hand on your back or thigh. He was never . . . like this.

“Do you want to tell me why you’re so touchy?” you asked. He huffed.

“Shut up.”

“Don’t be grumpy. You don’t have to tell me, but you also don’t get to take it out on me.”

He was silent for a moment, then took a shaky breath.

“I had a dream.”

He wasn’t going to continue if you kept asking questions, so you kept silent.

“It was weird at first. Normal dream nonsense. I was back on my high school volleyball team but all the upperclassmen had turned into bears.”

You snickered before burying your face into his hair, holding in the rest of your laugh. He turned his face the slightest bit to the side so he was addressing you more head on.

“If you keep laughing I’m going home.”

“I’m done. I promise. Sorry.”

He returned his gaze to the cup in his hands.

“So they were bears but it was like a normal practice. Then practice ended and when I walked out of the gym I was back on campus and you were there.”

“Were we college age again or were we our age now?”

“College. Now shut up.”

His hands were twitching in his lap, thumbs awkwardly padding over the glossy ceramic of his cup. You wanted to grab them and stop the movement, but you had no idea how he’d react.

“You were with this other guy. I don’t know who he was supposed to be. I didn’t recognize him. But he kept touching your lower back and trying to kiss you so apparently he liked you. Sometimes you let him so I guess you must have liked him back. So I started making my way over and I yelled for you and you ignored me,” he said.

“I’d never do that.”

He stayed pointedly silent for a moment, then continued.

“I tried yelling for you again and you didn’t listen. Then you walked into the science building and I tried to run after you but suddenly I was at that coffee shop we always went to.”

“The one that sells bubble tea?”

“Yeah, that one. You were with that guy again and when I walked in he was kissing you and kissing you and couldn’t take his hands off of you. And I tried to walk up and talk to you but you gave me this nasty look, like you hated me.”

His voice sounded strained. It wasn’t like he was about to cry. Tsukishima Kei didn’t do that, even around friends. He just sounded so . . . hurt.

“So, I just left. I didn’t know what to do. I still don’t know what I would do.”

You didn’t either, so you stayed completely silent.

“Time is weird in dreams, so a few years passed and I didn’t see you. I tried to ignore it, so I just blocked you on all social media and didn’t talk about you with my friends. And then —”

He stopped. You craned your neck to look at his face and his jaw was set, a hard line in his normally flexible, sarcastic demeanor.

“Then what?”

He took a long sip of his tea and even then hesitated, like the words would burn his tongue on the way out.

“I was going through my mail one day and there was this picture. But it wasn’t just a picture. It was you and this guy, and you looked so happy. It was an invitation.”

Oh.

“Before I could even react I was waking up.”

“That’s why you’re so upset?”

He stayed silent.

“Tsukki, you know I don’t dislike you. I never will. Nothing will change that.”

“That’s not—” he trailed off but sat up, like your touch now burned him. He set down his mug but was very, very careful not to look at you. “I don’t care about you disliking me.”

“Please tell me what you do care about, then.”

“I just . . . I can’t lose you like that.” He spoke slowly, carefully, like each word weighed thousands of pounds.

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Tsukki, stop. I’m not going anywhere.”

He laughed bitterly.

“You don’t see the problem, do you? I don’t care if you hate me. You could tell me you always have, and I’d be fine. I’d move on. But the second I receive some shit like that in the mail, it’s over.”

“So you’re not upset that I didn’t like you?”

“No.”

“You’re upset because I was getting married?”

He was quiet, still refusing to look at you.

“Tsukki, we need to talk about this. Look at me.”

He finally glanced over, a sardonic smile curling his lips.

“You want me to repeat myself? Because I’ve told you why I was upset, but you seem oblivious.”

“I’m not—” you started, but you knew there were more important things happening than telling him he was wrong. You hesitated before asking what was reeling through your mind. “How long?”

“How long what?”

“How long has that idea upset you?”

He rolled his eyes. “Do you remember that party we went to in college? Where I finally admitted we were friends and you ran around telling everybody?”

Your face was heating up.

“That long?” Your voice came out more strained than you wanted it to.

“You asked,” he snapped. You sat in silence for a moment, letting his unnecessary snark fade, replaced by slumped shoulders and nervous finger tapping. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. This is a lot. I should go.” He started to stand, and your heart lurched. A panic you didn’t know was hiding under the surface began to rise, and you snatched Tsukishima’s wrist.

“I would have felt the same.” The words flew out of your mouth before you could stop them. He turned, a confused expression on his face. “If I had that dream, I mean. I probably would have been a wreck.”

He gently settled back on the couch.

“You’re not messing with me?” he asked.

“Am I the kind of person to do that?”

“Absolutely.”

You huffed a quick laugh. “Yeah. But not like this.”

He stared at you, an unreadable expression on his face as his eye searched every inch of yours. Neither of you moved. He was so hardheaded and you were always determined to match him, to push his buttons until he had to show the slightest bit of vulnerability. Now it felt more like a game of chicken, both of you letting the tension rise, waiting for the other person to snap it. It was as Tsukishima was opening his mouth to speak, and his eyes fell to your lips and stayed there, that you decided you wanted it to be you.

You leaned forward quickly, pressing your lips to his as nerves threatened to boil up out of your body. Tsukishima inhaled hard, burying a hand in your hair as if he was trying to anchor you in his arms. You could feel his anxiety, his frustration, his excitement, all humming against you in the slight shifts of his body as his other hand came up to cup your face. He was gentler than you could have ever imagined, and it was nearly painful when he pulled away.

He kept his eyes closed, breathing quiet but unsteady, and smiled. Neither of you could bring yourself to speak. You just held each other close and let years of hesitation melt away.

———————————————————————

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tag list: @ohno-otome @curapiikt @brittmg13-blog-blog @stationery-store @tanzaniiite @imbearlythere

want to be added? send me an ask!

[ad1thi]

2020 fic recs!! [Part 2]

part 2 of my 2020 fic recs!! as before, ive limited this to five fics per month; and fics are ordered by the month they were published. This spans fandoms and ships, and hopefully you find something you like!! credit for the idea goes to @iam93percentstardust

***

July

this is the start: @capnwinghead

Clark and Bruce continue raising the Wayne children and encounter a number of challenges along the way.

great minds (love alike): @starklysteve

Steve’s eyes flicks down to Tony’s knees on the floor.

“Are you – are you proposing to me with my ring for you?” Steve asks incredulously, eyes wide and confused.

---

Or, Steve finds Tony’s ring for him, Tony finds Steve’s ring for him. Panic happens.

Marvels Unsolved: @iam93percentstardust

Marvels Unsolved was never supposed to be this popular. It started off as a novelty web-series about Tony trying to convince Bucky about the existence of the supernatural—he firmly believed that if science could turn Uncle Steve from an actual shrimp to the god of muscles, then magic had to be out there—and then they’d started talking about an unsolved crime from the early 20th century after filming an episode one day, forgetting that the camera was still rolling, and had ended up with enough footage to make a second episode about real crimes. They had stayed pretty unknown throughout that first season but then true crime podcasts had exploded in popularity and Unsolved along with them.

it’s a small world after all: @maguna-stxrk

“Great speech.”

Smiling at the compliment, Tony turns around. “Thank y—”

And nearly drops his champagne flute.

His world comes to a stop.

They had only spent a night together, but Tony would recognize those baby blues anywhere.

It’s Steve.

Steve from Tony’s London business trip. Or, as Rhodey has become accustomed to calling him—The Soulmate That Got Away.

you’re in my blood, you’re in my veins: @nethandrake

Tony always figured that if they ever were to break up, it would be like a blaze. Scorching and hot and all-too blinding. Intense like the two of them have always been.

Instead, they break up on a Tuesday, with the rain pelting the windowpane and the midnight silence stifling.

August

Five Times Danny said he’d marry Steve (plus one): @five-wow

Danny humphs. “Look, all I’m saying is, I think I’d probably have married you by now.”

“I’d marry you, too,” Steve says.

Or: An experiment in how many times you can say something before you have to put your money where your mouth is.

Family (You’ve Always Had It): @/SunnyQueen

A black Camaro and a scowling blond was not what Junior had been expecting.

“Hi, sir. You didn’t have to pick me up.”

The blond looked up from the screen on his phone and groaned, completely ignoring Junior's statement. “You are right, I didn't have to."

Ode To Yoga Pants: @riotfalling

OR the continued terrible mating dance of Bucky and Tony, AKA when betting on your friends stops being fun

Through The Years: @hawkbucks

Tony brings home Natasha one day, proclaiming her to be his new sister.

Natasha takes this all in stride.

The broken road that led me home to you: @just-fandomthings

A documented list of conversations between Steve and Danny via text and phone call following the events of 10x22 "Aloha." (Where, even thousands of miles apart, Steve and Danny can't go without talking to each other.)

September

someday, we’ll pass it on to you: @starklysteve

Steve smiles.

Reaching up, he flattens his hand against his son’s far smaller one, curling gently around it. “You wanna be like him?”

“Da!” Peter agrees again.

One year old, and you already know who’s the best of us, Steve pauses to reflect, all his fears chased away by a fierce pride. “Your Dad’s coming home real soon,” he promises, “you should tell him that.”

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

Or, five times Peter did the repulsor pose as a toddler

+ one time he used the repulsors as an adult

Classic Sci Fi: @notdoingsohot

Bucky wakes up to Steve telling him he's lost his memory, but not to panic, it'll only last a few days. Easier said than done when the last thing Bucky remembers is fighting Hydra with the Howlies in WWII.

He tries to make the most of it however, and there's this guy... Tony Stark. It's pretty clear the guy hates Bucky's guts, which is unfortunate because god damn is he a sight.

He tries to figure out what he did to wrong Stark, but everyone just tells him he doesn't want to know.

They were right.

Blooms in Frost: @/Diomedes

Tony coughs up his first petal on the sixth of July. He has been married to the love of his life for two years.

Bury a Hanahaki corpse in earth and it will beget the most beautiful garden. All that love, it is said, must go somewhere.

Hanahaki AU: Established relationship

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

A Single Thread of Gold: @lovelyirony

Rhodey doesn't believe in love at first sight or any of that cheesy shit. He just wants someone who is nice, dependable, and safe.

Tony Stark is Housing Service's little problem for the school year, and now he's stuck in Rhodey's room because he's exploded the last two dorm rooms he's been in and won't live off-campus.

high roller, place your bet: @machi-kun

“Would you kiss Stark for a hundred bucks?”

“I would pay a hundred bucks to kiss him.”

October

press my luck: @omg-just-peachy

But... Steve is almost ten years his junior, and he could be with just about anyone, looking and acting like he does. And then there’s the not so small fact of Tony’s name and net worth and the fact that, okay, Tony had paid for Steve’s grad school tuition, and now he’s worried Steve feels obligated to stay. Or something.

Or, Tony is a billionaire, Steve is a grad student, and they learn to let themselves be taken care of.

see it with the lights out: @starklysteve

Tony goes on a business trip, and he does not - not at all - get jealous of Dodger hogging his husband's chest, a territory otherwise known as Tony's pillow.

(or, Steve goes on an Instagram spree and Tony misses home)

adulthood is looking both ways before you cross the street and getting hit by an airplane: @starkslovemail

It was a perfect plan, if Peter did say so himself.

The Buy In: @dracusfyre

For the ImagineTonyandBucky prompt: Mafia AU with Tony as the Boss (except he's a really good one, making the streets safe, keeping drugs away from kids etc) and Bucky as the detective sent to go undercover to catch him out but ends up realizing he's actually doing more good than harm and they end up falling in love

trinkets of your affection: @starklysteve

Kissed him once for every year I loved him, Steve had written.

By that count, Steve owes him five more kisses now.

Tony traces the words, hands trembling, and tips back a shot of Howard's ancient whiskey. None of it burns anymore.

One day, he'll have lived more days without Steve than there are words in the diary.

For the first time since he'd woken with shrapnel in his chest, Tony fears the future.

----------

Or, five things Tony keeps to remember Steve by, and one thing Steve gives him to remember.

November

“Hey Tony”: @riotfalling

Steve points out that Bucky never calls Tony by his actual name. Bucky doesn’t believe him, until he does.

Remembering You is Hard to Do: @lovelyirony

“The future’s crazy, honey-bear.”

Jim looks up.

“Why do you call me that?”

“Call you what?”

“Honey-bear. It’s weird.”

“Inside joke we have,” Tony says, chest tightening. “We thought those couples that have the lovey-dovey nicknames were ridiculous.”

overheard your heartbeat (calling me yours): @starklysteve

"Tony - "

"I wish I could promise to come home this time," he feels the armor crawl back down his arm, continuing unnoticed over Steve's red gloves, then up the blue uniform as Tony fights to keep Steve's gaze firmly fixed on him.

The last eyes Tony might get to see, and he wants to be lost in them.

In the end, his entire life boils down a few simple things: "JARVIS, take care of him for me."

----------

Or, Tony overhears a phonecall where Steve proposes, a battle happens, and a paper ring settles some misunderstandings.

i (really, really, really, really, really, really) like you.: @nethandrake

For as long as Steve can remember, he's been crushing on Tony Stark. The thing is, he's pretty sure Tony doesn't know Steve exists. And how could he? Steve's scrawny and little. He's a nobody compared to Tony who's Mr Popular and the son of a billionaire.

Or at least he thought so until Tony swings by the bakery Steve's mother happens to own to enlist Steve's help in finding the perfect Valentine's Day card.

The perfect Valentine's Day card for someone who isn't Steve.

One Song (My Heart Keeps Singing): @iam93percentstardust

When Thor is old enough to understand what a Heartsong is, he goes to his mother to ask her why he can’t understand the language his is in. He listens as she tells him about the first soulmates who couldn't understand their Heartsong until the day they meet, excited by the thought of a grand adventure, one that will take him across the cosmos in search of his One.

He’ll search all the Nine Realms if he has to.

December

Swiping Right: @s-horne

“Ouch. Definitely a hard pass for that one?”

Steve startled at the sudden comment from the row of chairs behind him and turned around. He’d been passing the time in the airport lounge by swiping through Tinder and had gotten lost in his own world. It was almost jarring to be pulled away from the screen of hot men and back into reality where the PA was screeching and there was noise everywhere.

Adjusting to the difference, Steve frowned. Wait, he knew that face. Oh, shit… he knew that face.

“No, no, it’s fine,” the man said before Steve could get out anything other than an embarrassed sort of yelp. Waving his hand through the air, the stranger smiled ruefully. “I get it. It’s the beard, isn’t it? True be told, it was a weird winter choice that year and I knew it would come back to hurt me.”

Steve didn’t know what to say. He knew it must have shown on his face and could feel himself flushing, panicked and embarrassed all at once. What were the odds of swiping left on someone literally sat behind him?

set your flight path home (to me): @starklysteve 

Tony puts down his welding torch. “I’m building you a plane.”

Stepping carefully over the gears and tools scattered about, Rhodey slowly makes his way to him.

“And when did you become an expert on how to build a plane?”

“Last night,” Tony grins.

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

Tony builds a plane, and Rhodey teaches Tony how to fly it. Or he would be teaching Tony, if Tony didn't distract him so much.

I Want A Man With A Slow Hand: @thefourofswords

“Can I ask you a question?” he asked on their way to a crime scene, because no time like the present, and Danny believed in ripping off band-aids.

“Why not?” Steve replied, eyes on the road. “You’re gonna even if I say no.”

“What do you like in bed?”

*

Danny undertakes a very important mission to get Steve laid. For his health. Ahem.

same time next year: @omg-just-peachy

“I forgot to ask. When’s your flight home?” Steve asks, draping his arm over Tony’s shoulder and settling in against him.

Tony ignores the knot that forms in his chest at the idea of it, leaving Steve again for his own impersonal apartment, his piles of books and projects and the nights without sleep.

“Day after tomorrow.”

Steve huffs a little sigh, then brings his lips to Tony’s neck. “Well, we’ll have to make the most of it, won’t we?”

Or, four (4) Christmases with two (2) idiots who can't admit they're in love.

rearrange my heart (to fit your smile): @starklysteve

"You dare," Howard's chair makes an ugly noise as it scrapes against the stone floors, the chatter of the room shifting into hushed whispers and stolen glances. "I am your father and your King!"

"My King is my husband," Tony tips his chin up, defiant. "And I refuse to hear you suggest that my husband has been anything other than good to me."

Next to him, he feels Steve's shoulders stiffen in surprise.

Howard's fist slams loud on the table. "Your husband does not even love you!"

Tony jerks back, burned. He knows that. Knows that Steve did not marry him for love – does not need any reminder of the cold truth, of what he desperately yearns for and can't even hope to have – but the harshness of Howard's words was scalding, and Tony can't afford for this to go any further.

----------

Or, King Steven marries Prince Tony, Tony is pretty sure he shouldn't panic when he falls in love with his own husband, and Steve tries his very best not to cause diplomatic crises.

Keyword: try

[lonelyghosts-stuff]

Loki x Reader one shot summary idea idk what to call this lol (I will be writing a full one shot story for this eventually)

Warnings: angst, torture, kidnapping, and violence

Imagine you are a part of the avengers with a past unknown to all of them except Natasha Romanoff and Nick Fury. Throughout your time with the avengers you have become friends with them, but you still remained isolated and tended to stick to your own when possible. One person, or alien if you would, despised you. Not because you were human or one of the “good guys (although those things didn’t help) but because he knew nothing about you. He had managed to get most of the information regarding the others in one way or another, but you, your past was seemingly erased from history and you never let your shields down for anyone to get an insight. He also hated that you acted so selflessly and compassionately towards everyone, including him, and he hated that he couldn’t figure out why. What was your motive? I mean, no one is like that out of the goodness of their heart, right? Loki had “joined” (or rather was coerced into) the avengers as means of making amends for his past crimes.

One day on a mission, you and Loki get separated from the rest of the group, forcing some uncomfortable and unresolved tension, mostly on Loki’s side. In between strikes and punches, Loki would pop one question after the other, attempting to pry into your life and your, no doubt, selfish intentions with being nice. Despite his best efforts, you shot down each question and focused on the fight. At one point, you seemingly defeated all of the enemies and took a moment to breathe easily. It was then that, out of the corner of your eye, you noticed something stirring. One of the enemies was still alive and using what strength it had left, it lunged at Loki. Acting without hesitation, you defended Loki and jumped into the way and struck at the enemy, but not before the enemy managed to land a blow on you, impaling you through your gut.

In immense pain, you collapsed to the ground and felt paralyzed in pain. Loki quickly knelt by your side to assess your wound while also scolding you for your recklessness. After a moment of analysis, he determined he would need to heal you at least as much as he could until you could reunite with the others and get you to a proper medical center. He urged you that you needed to remove your shirt so he could see the wound better and heal it, but to his surprise, you bluntly and insistently refused. You seemed to be incredibly guarded and insisted you were fine, saying you should wait for Natasha to come and help. Hearing this, Loki then told you to stand up if you were so fine so you could both find Natasha and the others together. In a bout of stubbornness, despite you knowing that you were beyond well enough to do so, you attempted to stand up. Pain shot throughout your body, as you shrieked in pain, collapsing back onto the ground with deep, strained breaths. Your vision became spotty as the pain coursed through you. You knew that, if you weren’t treated soon, you would die. Thousands of thoughts streamed through your mind as you slowly tuned out all of the sounds and sights around you, trapping yourself in your mind. Suddenly, Loki’s voice shattered your bubble and pulled you back to reality. You could see the concern and determination on his face as he spoke; you could only catch some of the words that came out of his mouth.

Finally, you could hear him clearly again as he once again insisted that you remove your shirt so he could heal you. Defensiveness and panic rushed into your mind for a second, but almost immediately fizzled out once you looked into his eyes. He was sincere. Slowly, you let him help you up into a seated position and you nodded that it was okay for him to remove your shirt. Carefully and precisely, Loki lifted your shirt off of you, above your head, with great care as to not hurt you. You felt the cold hit your body, your bra providing barely any defense from the bitter air. Once the shirt was fully pulled over your head, you inhaled a sharp breath and held it. You could feel Loki’s piercing gaze upon your front, and then back as he made his away around you to check the wound.

Scars. Lots of scars were scattered about your body. Scars from knives, bullet wounds, injection sites from needles, scars from blunt trauma, etc. Loki found himself frozen. How someone as seemingly chipper as you could have suffered so much. Who did this to you and why? How long ago were you inflicted with these? Based purely on observation, he deduced you had received these wounds over the course of many years; some wounds clearly looked fresher than others. He was tempted to brush his hand along your scars, to feel the grooves and indentations, but he restrained himself, sensing your discomfort and insecurity.

Taking a deep breath, he gently placed one of his hands on your stomach, right over the wound. In response to his cold hand on your bare stomach, you inadvertently released the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. You felt so exposed; so vulnerable. It was only a second until you felt a warm sensation on your stomach, forcing you to look down. To your amazement, a green, mist-like substance was pooling out of Loki’s fingers and burrowing itself into your wound. A mix of discomfort and a strange, soothing sensation crept throughout your body. After a while, Loki made his way behind you again and proceeded to lay his hand on your back, where the wound had managed to reach. You closed your eyes, trying to imagine you were far away from everything, sleeping, watching a movie, laughing with your friends, anything. Before you could get too comfortable, however, Loki removed his hand from your back, but didn’t come around to face you again. You felt his heavy breath on your back, not only from the exhaustion of using so much magic to heal you, but clearly he was troubled.

A sudden wave of confidence and something else you couldn’t pinpoint washed over you. Surprising Loki, but more importantly yourself, you opened your mouth and spoke. You told him it was okay, and that he could touch them. Loki paused before asking for reassurance, wanting to make sure you were actually okay with it. Seeing you nod, he hesitantly placed a hand on your back. You once again inhaled a sharp breath as he froze for a second, checking that you were okay. Slowly, he traced a finger across your scars, feeling each detail, groove, and imperfection. He proceeded to do this in complete silence. You loosened up a bit, allowing yourself to breathe out and in at a calmer and consistent pace.

For a second, Loki opened his mouth, internally struggling with whether or not he should ask you what happened. Before he could decide, you spoke out. In a shaky tone, you began to tell him of your past. You were taken at a young age by a secret intel group working on replicating the super soldier serum. You were only 16, but due to your family’s history of joblessness and irresponsibility, you were the perfect mark. Your parents were killed and the news assumed it was suicide and that you ran away. For years you endured countless methods of experimentation as they tried to perfect their serum. Unfortunately for you, the studies and statistics they had managed to get ahold of from the original experiments were incomplete and fragmented. This led to desperate attempts to substitute ingredients and information and steps that were unknown, leading to many painful and destructive effects on your body. You were cut open many times to receive samples and prevent the spread of faulty serums. Eventually, the group had found something. Not quite the same serum as the original super soldier serum, but something different. A mysterious seller by the name of Klaue had provided vibranium, an element that very little was known about. Using the vibranium and finding a way to activate it, the scientists were able to add it into the serum and insert it into your blood stream. The serum fused with your cells, the vibranium increasing your stamina and ability to endure physical trauma and injury. Despite this, you still felt everything; every hit, stab, slice, gunshot, etc. but the serum allowed you to keep moving. Of course you first found this out through a series of vigorous testing as the scientists tested your limits. Each weapon was amped up and the danger increased. You weren’t invulnerable to damage or death, but your ability to endure it without it killing you was dramatically increased. It would take a lot more than a simple stab or gunshot to the chest or brain to kill you, at least immediately. Of course this was just common weaponry, not an enemy piercing a mysterious weapon through your gut. This serum, combined with the other samples of failed serums left in your system, left you highly unstable. The effects of the vibranium were nigh radioactive at times when you were under extreme pressure. News reached the scientists that the newly formed group called the Avengers had gotten wind of their experiments and were on their way to them. The sciences panicked and worked on shutting down the lab and salvaging what they could, ensuring they secured the latest serum. The scientists decided that they had exhausted your use and decided to exterminate you to move onto another subject to further their research on this new serum. This news didn’t reach you well as you lashed out, almost as if you weren’t in control of your own body, and you killed them all. You were left alone, scared, hurting, and dangerous. Fortunately, when the Avengers arrived, they were able to recognize you as not an immediate threat and safely subdue you. Thanks to the genius of Tony stark (and Shuri eventually as years passed) your condition was stabilized, but the effects of the serum were irreversible.

Loki was silent. In awe of how someone could go through so much and still be a good person. He eventually made his way in front of you, facing you with sympathy and an immense compassion in his eyes. You were silently weeping as he made his way around, tears were streaming down your face as you shook. Without saying anything, Loki gently cupped your face in his hands and looked you in the eyes, allowing you to calm down. His eyes moved across your body, beautiful, but damaged. Seeing you shivering, he quickly grabbed your shirt again and helped you put it back on; the gash in the shirt from the attack was still there, but it was better than nothing.

You said nothing. You kept your eyes on the ground. Silence.

To yours and his shock, Loki quickly pulled you into a warm embrace, burying his face into the crook of your neck. You couldn’t move, the shock still affecting you. When it seemed like Loki was loosening his grip, you quickly acted and hugged him back, weeping into shoulder.

He assured you, you were no longer alone. You were safe. As long as he’s able, he will not let harm come to you again.

[annabethy]

percabeth zoom calls!

“Babe! Do you know where my charger is?”

Annabeth rolls her eyes, adjusting her computer screen so that it was facing her. Percy bangs around in the kitchen some more, for what she suspects is his charger, before he starts cursing, and she suspects he stubbed his toe on the corner of the counter like he’s done five times in the last week.

“Are you okay?” she asks after another minute of loud cursing, poking her head out from his bedroom.

“I’m just getting it all out before the students see.”

Annabeth leans against the doorframe, crossing her arms. “I didn’t know they made you that mad.” Percy snorts, coming up in front of her to wrap him in her arms. He kisses her forehead before responding. “They make me livid.”

“Couldn’t possibly be as terrible as my kids,” she argues, smiling when his lips catch hers. “My calc kids can’t even do simple algebra.”

“I can’t do simple algebra,” he says, biting her lower lip. “That’s why I teach marine.”

“Marine is the most boring thing you could’ve possibly chosen to teach, but okay.”

“Says the walking calculator.”

Annabeth pinches his butt and he yelps.

“That was a compliment!”

“Make it sound like it next time,” she says, retreating back to his room. “I know that you finished teaching for the day, but I haven’t, so stay quiet.”

“That’s no fun.”

“You want to know what’s no fun? Having your students find out that you’re hooking up with their math teacher.”

Percy grins. “Is that what this is? And here I thought we were actually dating.”

“We won’t be if they find out because I will kill you,” Annabeth threatens without malice. She takes a step back to retreat into his room and he takes a step to follow her, which sends alarm shooting through her mind. “What are you doing?”

Percy has an amused smile plastered to his face, and she knows she’s about to be fighting whatever he decides to say next.

“I’m coming with you.”

“Uh, no you’re not.”

“It’s my bedroom.”

“You shouldn’t have invited me then,” Annabeth says, eyeing him as he keeps following her. “What are you, my shadow?”

“I can be whatever you want me to be, baby.”

It’s so disgustingly cheesy but it’s also so disgustingly him that she can’t help but give in as he settles down onto the bed. Percy flips onto his stomach, reaching for the pillow she’d been using the previous night as Annabeth sits at his desk. As he turns his head towards her, his eyes trace over her, and she has to pretend not to notice, as though the red flush of her face didn’t give her away.

Percy’s hand reaches out to squeeze her knee to get her attention, and she feels butterflies in her stomach. They had been together for more than a few months now, and they’d been best friends for quite a while longer, but the way he looks at her never ceased to make her feel this way.

“I’m turning the class on,” she mutters, the corners of her lips twitching up. Percy making a motion to zip his lips, making her snicker.

It’s only a minute before someone’s joining the class and Annabeth’s snickering for an entirely different reason.

“Piper,” Annabeth says, laughing. “What are you wearing?”

“I like to think that I am wearing Gucci,” Piper says, posing over the camera. “What do you think?”

Annabeth has to stifle her laughs at her favorite student. “I think it looks… very original.”

“Why do I feel like that means you think it’s trashy, Ms. Chase? Do you think it’s trashy?”

Annabeth shoves Percy’s head out of frame as he tries to sneak a peek at Piper’s outfit. “To be fair, you are wearing a trash bag.”

“I am insulted that you do not know the difference between a trash bag and a plastic tarp,” Piper says.

Percy grunts as Annabeth shoves him backwards onto the bed again in an attempt to keep him out of camera because she is almost one-thousand percent certain that Piper would recognize him, and considering they were in the middle of a pandemic, Piper would also know that they had been staying together for a while. Annabeth loves Piper, but Piper has zero filter and absolutely will make a comment if she knew.

Eventually, a few more students join, and Annabeth spends time talking to them, trying not to burst out laughing at Percy’s mouthed remarks making fun of her students.

(“Your students are dumb as hell, Annabeth.”

“You are so lucky that we are on mute.”

“How do they even mess up ten plus seven?”

“I literally don’t even know.”)

Annabeth just tries to get through the hour without walking to the kitchen, grabbing a knife, and murdering herself with it. She really loves her calculus students, but someone once said that the smartest people lack the most common sense, and boy, that could not have been more true.

She thinks she’s in the clear. She makes it through the entire lesson without blowing her cover of staying with their teacher, and it’s actually much more exhilarating than she would’ve expected. It was like she was hiding some dirty secret from them as she avoided eye contact behind the camera and tried not to awkwardly jerk around when his hand found its way back onto her knee, delicately tracing shapes.

Annabeth is so close, and just as she’s getting ready to say goodbye, Piper just has to open her big mouth.

“Ms. Chase?”

“Yes, Piper?”

“Can I ask you something personal?”

Annabeth blinks, a sense of dread settling in her stomach. She suddenly feels as though something is about to go very, very wrong. “Depending on what it is, I may or may not answer.”

Over the screen, Piper keeps a straight face, but Annabeth has taught her for over three years, and she recognizes the fire in her eyes.

“Earlier today, I had a class with Mr. Jackson. Did you know I’m in marine science?”

“I did not,” Annabeth says, strained.

“I’m in marine science, and, uh, we had class earlier today over zoom. I was talking to Mr. Jackson for a little bit after.”

“Were you? That’s nice.”

“Yeah, Mr. Jackson is a super nice teacher. I think you’d like him.”

“Do you now?”

“Mh-hm. Anyways, we were talking, and I told him that I liked the painting that was hanging behind him.”

Annabeth freezes.

“It’s the same painting that’s hanging behind you.”

Oh god.

“Do you have something to tell us?” Piper asks.

Annabeth’s ears begin to ring as she realizes that she is inevitably screwed. Of course Piper would have no shame in outing her to the entire class of seniors because that was just how Piper was, but Annabeth should’ve been smart enough not to film in the same spot because she knows her students well enough to know that there is a torment of sex jokes about to come her way.

“You’re looking a little bit red there, Ms. Chase.”

“What exactly are you implying, McLean?”

“Why are you in Mr. Jackson’s apartment?”

Annabeth is so mortified that she cannot move, but Percy seems to be just as shameless as Piper because a second later, he’s hopping into frame, smiling widely at her students.

“Hey, Piper!” Percy chirps.

“Mr. Jackson! So nice to see you! Why is Ms. Chase in your apartment?”

Percy clicks his tongue. “Now, that is a good question, but the most simple answer is that we’re quarantining — is that a word? — together.”

Annabeth sees Leo unmute himself and she immediately drops her face into her hands.

“Well, well, well,” Leo tsks. “I didn’t know we were studying chemistry right now.”

“I will make you do integrals,” Annabeth threatens.

“I’d like to see you try,” Leo has the audacity to say.

Another student unmutes themself and Annabeth recognizes the voice as Reyna’s.

“I am disgusted to find out that my teachers are dating,” Reyna says.

Percy lights up. “Reyna! You haven’t been showing up to my classes!”

“Mr. Jackson! That is because I simply do not care! Also, I would’ve preferred to not know that you two are living together.”

“Me too,” Annabeth mutters.

“Are you dating?” Piper asks. “I’ve always wanted you to date.”

Annabeth’s eye twitches. “I— no, Piper.”

“We’re not?” Percy frowns. “I thought we were.”

“They don’t need to know that,” she hisses.

Percy, always a people pleaser, pointedly kisses her on the cheek. He was always able to brush things off with a laugh, and it’s something that made Annabeth fall in love with him, but right now, it was something she thinks he would be better off without.

“They don’t care,” he dismisses, turning towards the camera. “Yes, we’re dating! We’ve been dating for six months now.”

“I hate you.”

“That’s so cute!” Piper exclaims.

“I want to throw up,” Reyna says.

Leo gives an impish grin. “I felt my relationship senses tingling.”

“Shut up, Leo, no one cares,” Piper says, rolling her eyes. “Ms. Chase! I’m so happy for you! You guys should get married.”

“Way to jump the gun, Piper,” Percy says. “Give us another six months at least.”

“Also, now that we know you two are staying together — we aren’t stupid. We know what adults do when they’re alone, so just try to keep that off camera, ‘kay?”

Annabeth is actually going to drop down to the ground and cry in about two seconds. Piper wasn’t particularly wrong in her assumptions, but Annabeth did not need her students to know about her personal life in this much detail!

“Don’t think we don’t know about what you do when you’re alone with Jason,” Percy teases, and Annabeth actually chokes on air.

“But we’re not teachers—”

“Okay!” Annabeth interrupts, ready for this to be over. The can see the rest of her students screaming in chat, and she does not want to be here to witness this any longer. “I’m going to end this call now. Please never speak of this again.”

“I will bring this up tomorrow!” Piper says cheerfully, waving at them. “I—”

Annabeth clicks off the screen immediately, and the room goes silent.

She stays there with her head buried in her hands for a while, Percy’s hand still running up and down her back. His fingers curl as he scratches her skin languidly, waiting for her to get over her initial embarrassment.

“Oh my god,” Annabeth mumbles into her hands. “That was awful.”

“It wasn’t as bad as you think it was,” he assures.

“They’re never going to let us live this down.”

“They didn’t care,” Percy says, holding back a snicker. “At least now we can kiss in front of them.”

“You’re never getting any more kisses from me,” Annabeth says, standing up from the chair to try and walk the humiliation away.

Percy grabs her wrist, tugging until she looks him in the eyes. “We’ll see about that.”

Annabeth is so flushed that she wants to die, and her students now know about her current living status and have their own conclusions as to what they do when they’re alone, but the way he’s looking at her makes her feel incredible.

She tilts her head as she looks at him and he does the same. There’s a fire in his eyes as he challenges her.

“I’m not going to kiss you right now if that’s what you’re looking for.”

Percy bites his lower lip, whole body shaking with laughter. “You so sure?”

Annabeth takes a step back as Percy takes one forwards. She finds herself cornered against the bed with nowhere to go. She turns back to face Percy, and she only has one second to prepare before he’s grabbing her and falling onto the bed beside her.

“Percy,” she says, jerking around when he started tickling her. “This isn’t — funny!”

Percy kisses her neck, fingers moving her shirt up slightly to grip her sides. “I think it’s hilarious. Your students found out you have a boyfriend. So what? You’re human.”

“Stop,” she says, snorting and jerking again as he squeezes and palms her stomach.

“Kiss me.”

Percy’s fingers stop moving along her skin as he hovers over her, looking deeply into her eyes. She feels so warm and loved, laying here with her best friend, and he’s the complete opposite of her, but maybe it’s for the best. Maybe it’s for moments like this, to balance her out.

And as she kisses him, she thinks that she can complain about her invasive students and cursed zoom calls later because the only thing that matters right now is making sure he keeps kissing her like she’s the only thing in the world.

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

Humans are Space Orcs, “An Omen.”

Alright guys, this is the end of this arc. I hope you all like it. Things might go back to being a bit more episodic for a while, so I need to know.. What kind of situations do you want to see them in? What questions do you want answered? what Characters would you like to see again? I am looking for any sort of suggestions. You guys have been a great audience, so I want to make sure you guys get some of what you are looking for. Backstories? Angst? Fluff? if so what kind? I am down for most anything so, comment or send a message or an ask.

“I, Adam Allen Vir having been appointed as a rear admiral in the United Nations Space Corps do solemnly swear that I will support and defend Earth and her aliens against all enemies foreign and domestic that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same that I take this obligation freely and without mental reservation or purpose of evasion and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office which I am about to enter, so I swear.”

“Ladies and Gentlemen Rear Admiral Adam Vir.”

Clapping from the assembled crowd well over 100 strong for a man who would much have preferred this all to be done in a more private setting, but still he stepped forward,the lone silver star glittering with pristine polished on his shoulder as he stepped up to the lectern to speak.

He awkwardly adjusted the microphone for a second well aware of a thousand eyes on him, and a thousand more back on earth where his promotion was being broadcast.

The crowd of the Europa Station, mostl veterine UNSC members looked on with a mix of admiration and boredom.

He wished his family could be here, but, unfortunately the Europa station, where his new ship would be christened, had no use for civilians. Behind him, the viewing window framed, with great majesty, the slowly rotating surface of jupiter in white, cream, and peach shot through with little veins of blue and green in swirling patterns and shapes. 

Backlit against this majestic sight, and lit by the glowing surface of jupiter and vast eternity behind, he took a deep breath.

“Things are changing in the UNSC…. Things are changing much faster than we, and especially I, had ever anticipated. The universe is expanding rapidly, as we know all too well. Recently, I had an experience that the GA and UNSC are allowing me to declassify for the benefit of maintaining an honest and sincere dialogue between civilian and military entities. Nearly five months ago I was pronounced missing in action after the command deck of my ship was consumed by -- what at the time -- seemed to be a black hole. Today I am here to explain myself, and what I saw.” He looked down at his hands, shuffling his notes.

“The generated field was not, in fact, a blackhole, but a wormhole to an entirely different universe. I cannot say where it was as I do not know, and I cannot say how I made it there, but I can say that we are not the only ones. The GA is not the only alien government entity.”

A muttering in the crowd, “I saw creatures there that I have never seen before, sentient creatures that I cannot fathom explaining. My escape was both lucky and prudent, for at this moment our efforts to outreach into the greater vastness of space is expanding. Men, women, humans, Tesraki, Drev, Celzex and all others are being called on more than ever to come to the aid of our cause. Space is an unknown entity, and has long since been deemed the final frontier. We have no idea what is out there, and military operations are experiencing a change in the type of leadership, and the direction of command than it has in over two thousand years Space travel is unorthodox at times, and, in my experience, so are the men and women who best thrive there.”

He looked up his eye seeing nothing but vague shapes, “It takes something special to do what is being done here, and it will take a little bit more from the crew of my ship, to travel to places untouched by the living. I am asking for strength, fortitude, integrity, honesty, turst, and I hope…. A little bit of good humor. Space will take everything from you if it can, and sometimes that means fighting back in unorthodox ways. Today is the day that we take the next step in the road to space exploration, with our allies in the GA. Leaving behind fifteen Fleet Commanders, my ship and crew will be exclusively tasked with the exploration and contact of unknown alien planets, lieforms, and systems.”

A first lieutenant scurried from the side of the room, bringing with him a glass, which he handed to the Rear Admiral with a quick salute.

Adam raised the glass, “It was once an old Naval tradition to break a bottle of champagne over the bow of the ship as it was named, a tradition that was quickly discarded once we realized we could drink the alcohol, and also that it was pretty irresponsable to get in a space suit just to break a bottle.”

There was a slight chuckle around the room.

“So instead, a toast,” He raised his glass, and the others followed suit, “To the UNSC Omen, may your engines never fail, and may your crew demonstrate good judgement.”

He tilted his head back and took a drink.

The thousands before him did the same with their own drinks. This was anywhere from paper to plastic to glass cups, and with anything from beer, to water, to taquilla or milk in one or two cases.

There was clapping as he stepped down from the lectern.

He grimaced internally to himself.

And may your Captain not be a complete idiot when on the job.

Now it was time to see his new ship.

***

The UNSC Omen was rated as a Heavy Battle Cruiser, but she was equipped with more scientific equipment than the CDC. Technically it had ten decks all together, with the bridge at the top followed by the management deck, crew and recreation, then the science decks five and six as well as engineering, cargo, and hangers which took up the rest of seven eight nine and ten. The back of the ship was generally all comprised of fusion, warp and coolant systems, though they weren’t stupid enough to keep all the engine components in one place.

And that wasn't to mention all of the alien technology that had been added to the ship. This thing had everything.

The engine system was of Rundi make, and that included the warp core and the dampening systems. IT made sense that the oldest race in the galaxy was to provide the most important piece of tech. 

They had Vrul Shields 

Celzex weapons 

Drev Soldiers

And even an entire team of Tesraki Auditors in the accounting department.

That being that they actually had an accounting department now instead of just one guy in a room the size of a closet.

They had received the bulk of their crew increase by way of scientists and marines. Their command structure was relatively the same, with the same officers running their old departments. 

Now that the crew was up to 1000 strong that meant 4 full-time doctors each with a different specialty. Surgical, Emergency, Orthopedic and Bacterial. They had extra nurses and support medical staff. Krill had convinced the GA to give them all the latest and greatest alien medical technology to the small creature’s great delight. The psychological support team had ballooned to four including support staff. 

The marines had swelled to three platoons, and their numbers didn’t include the fifty or so extra military med including shock troopers, pilots and artillery officers.

The science crew had been augmented exponentially. And could have staffed a small ship all by themselves if they had the training. Virology, Biology, Chemistry, Geology, Physics etc.etc and on and on.

Engineering had also doubled and included four head engineers, though they answered mostly to Narobi, who had the most experience. 

As far as the command structure went, things remained rather much the same.

The crew waited in one of the main hangers on deck seven whisperingly slightly to each other as they waited. Many of the new crewmen had never been off planet, before, they were young and full of adventure, or they thought they were.

Many of them had Still been in school when the Drev war began and ended.

Some of them had grown up and finished their training on the tail end of Commander Vir’s rise to fame.

He was a legend.

And though the movie had portrayed him as an excitable fun loving man who mostly just stumbled into success on accident and a little bit of bravery, a lot of them still had trouble imagining him as anything other than a gruff older man scarred and stoic from his experience in space.

So when Admiral Vir stepped onto the ship, they recognized him, but had a hard time believing that the man, with a slight bounce in his step, and a nervous smile on his face was really the man they had heard so much about.

He stopped before them, and they had to crane their necks to see him.

He was about to speak before stopping and, frowning, ordered a Drev over to his side, she was short, for a drev, bright blue in color, and when she came over he leavered himself onto her back before wobbling his way to stand on her shoulders, held there, secured by her hands around his ankles.

And in that way, standing on the shoulders of a Drev, he spoke with the crowd.

“Alright Children, let’s see if the crew can remind you of the first and most important rule on my ship.”

“DON’T CHUCK MARSHMALLOWS AT NEUTRON STARS.”

***

The crew turned to look at their Admiral standing at the head of the bridge, everything in the room was pristine and new, silver and chrome shining on all sides with a new polish that it would likely never see again after this day. He stood with his hands behind his back staring out into the space beyond Jupiter and Europa, an unexplored black vastness.

And with the universe reflected in his eyes, he stepped forward hands on the railings.

“Engage fusion core.”

“Engaging fusion core.”

“Charge shields.” 

“Charging shields.”

His commands continued to issue forth, and off in the distance the fusion core roared to life. He could feel it in his feet, like a sort of thrumming. It was almost rhythmic pulsing up through his feet and into his knees. Where the harbinger had kept a beat too, a sort of concussive racket, the Omen seemed to sing.

And his insides sang with it.

He closed his eyes feeling the vibrations through his feet and hands down into his bones.

It was like he could feel her talking to him.

He stroked a hand across the metal, “Almost girl, almost.”

He turned around and back to where the shiny new command chair sat waiting for him. He walked over, turned around and slid into the seat. 

Awesome, gel cooled.

He sunk down into the chair trying to get the feel for her.

Stroking his thumb down the armrest, he was greeted with the crisp snik of the forward hand controls and the lower pedals pushing into place. He slowly wrapped his hands around them pushing forward and feeling the fusion core thrumm to life. Her soft singing turned into a triumphant roar.

A part of him felt guilty for leaving the harbinger behind, but remember that there were still pieces of her living and breathing with the Omen were enough to calm his guilt.

The thought made him smile. Krill would love to hear about his guilt related to an inanimate object, perhaps he would tell him about it later.

He compressed the controls forward and felt the distant clunk as the ship departed from the docking station. He moved them forward, the ship gliding through space like a creature born to the darkness, but perhaps that was a fitting feeling, as per his request, the white dragon symbol embossed on her side, a reminder of an unlikely friend who had saved his life.

The UNSC Omen sang into the darkness, a single bead of collective endeavour on a string of stars, and once they were far enough away from the Europa station, she left off a single, silent flash of light, and then was gone.

***

Sunny stepped into the Captain’s quarters hands clasped behind her back.

She paused, head tilted at the view from the massive one wall viewing window where Admiral Vir now stood hands resting behind his back. She paused, head tilted, with the way the light filtered in from the window, it was only his silhouette she could see. Tall- broad shouldered and very still. He had the bearing of a warrior without having to say it, back straight head hold high.

She continued to watch for a moment until, sensing her presence like all humans can, he turned to face her.

“Everything settled in?” She asked 

He stepped into the light to face her delicate lines of turquoise running in familiar patterns down his face, where his UV stripes could be seen.

“It seems so. The crew is in place, the ship…. She runs like a dream, and all of our new alien recruits seem to be fitting in nicely.”

“Even the Celex?”

He smiled slightly, “As long as none of the crew try to cuddle them, I think we will be fine.”

‘And how about you? Settling in?”

He turned to look towards the viewing window and finally the room, which, situated just above the administration deck, was the largest crew room on the ship, with a massive bed, viewing window, private bathroom, and office. It was much bigger than his old place and seemed surprisingly sparse in comparison to all the room.

He seemed to be thinking the same thing, “I think I am going to need some more posters, or this place is going to feel like an asylum.” 

Sunny walked over to stand next to him.

“Well, I got you something, that might help take up some space.”

He turned to look at her one eyebrow cocked, “Oh?”

“A bit of a promotion present I guess. Hijan, your mother and I made it, while you were working.”

He lit up a bit a look of excitement crossing his face. For an instant as she looked into his single eye, she thought she saw a spark of light appear, like a flicker or sparkle of life in his excitement.

She pulled her hands from behind her back and offered up the object, “Your mother made the design. I worked on the inner mechanics, and Hijan did the metalwork.” 

“Its…. it’s gorgeous.” The weight lightened from her hands as she deposited the helmet in his. He stared with wide eyes and spun it over in his hands.”How did you make it that color?” he wondered, passing his hands over the blued metal.

“Chemical things help keep back the rust.” She said.

He looked up at her, his single eye shining in the dark. His teeth flashed white, “This is gonna make the gift I was going to give you kind of lame now.”

“You were going to give me something? But I didn’t do anything special.”

He shuffled his feet, “Who said you had to do anything special… besides, this is a…. Sorry that I made you think i was dead sort of present.”

“Oh, she wondered, her head tilted in amusement.”

He shrugged, “Yeah uh. Here.” he reached into his pocket, “Kind of a set really.”

When his hands came back up she saw a very beat up K-bar knife and poorly made, crude stone arrowhead on a thick black cord.

He shuffled his feet, “The knife and the arrowhead saved me while I was out. I don’t need them anymore obviously and they are kind of junk…. I… but.” She hugged him, shutting up his nervous stammering, “It is a perfect gift.” She announced, and meant it.

“Put it on.” She directed, and with his arms still around her neck, he reached up and tied the arrowhead around her neck.

The cord was just big enough to allow the arrowhead to dangle down onto her chest.

She turned her head down to look at it quite pleased.

He slid the knife into one of her hands.

He gave a somewhat lopsided smile, “Compared to you my art projects look like shit.”

She frowned and cuffed him across the arm.

“Ouch hey!”

“Don’t talk about my things like that. Someone very important gave that to me.”

They both laughed somewhat, her feeling the comforting weight of the stone spearhead against her chest, him with the helmet tucked under his arm, and together they stared out at the viewing window.

“This isn’t going to be easy is it?” She said softly staring out at the stars which were surely infinite.”

Adam sighed, “Sure seems like it doesn’t it

They stood alone in the silence for a moment. And then something brushed lightly over her hand.

She didn’t look down, didn’t move for fear of scaring him off.

Another hand gently clasped hers tentative and unsure like a wild animal, curious but wary.

She stood still .

She wasn’t going to be the one to scare him off.

The skin of his palms were warm against her cool one, as, together they prepared for the second phase of their impending journey.

And yes it wouldn’t prove to be easy. 

[tlaquetzqui]

What are the problems with Firefly? I've only ever heard people gushing about it.

A long (but not complete) list:

The Confederacy analogue just wanted to be free and the Union analogue just wanted to oppress them for literally zero reason. Nobody even points out that an Independent victory would likely have just resulted in their territories devolving into the petty fiefdoms of the crime-lords who run most of the places the show takes place in.

The Companions are both Orientalist as all fuck (they’re a creepy fetishized version of a middle-schooler’s understanding of geishas), and a creepy libertarian and first-world white feminist fantasy about “sex work” that does not actually resemble anything in the real world that has ever existed, nor can. (The highest ranked o-iran in pre-Meiji Japan were somewhat similar…but they had to spend years as sex-slaves with no right to refuse clients, before they got to that point.)

The Reavers are one-dimensional monsters, which, aside from the troubling implications given they’re the “Space Western” equivalent of “Indians”, is a wasted opportunity to do something interesting.

Why didn’t they just re-terraform Earth That Was? Gotta be easier than schlepping light years to another group of stars and terraforming dozens of planets, never mind how unlikely it is that more than a tiny number of planets would be remotely livable for any length of time, even if terraforming didn’t actually take tens of thousands of years if it’s possible at all.

The Alliance, that’s supposed to be so oppressive, lets Mal have a spaceship, and even name it after a battle he fought against them in. No government would let Mal have a spaceship, the things are WMDs—the spaceship equivalent of 9/11 is an extinction event. Just in general, they forget to be oppressive whenever the plot needs them to allow something.

The Operative in the movie just wants a world without sin, but he sure acts like a Metal Gear villain whose dream is Outer Heaven, the utopia of mercenaries. The Hands of Blue are the most clownishly conspicuous assassins in the history of fiction.

The episode “Out of Gas” only happens because they impose the realistic outcome of a spaceship design (the engine in the pressurized compartment) that nobody would use, precisely because of what happens in that episode. We excuse you putting the engine inside because this is space opera and you don’t have the budget to depict EVAs (or remote-controlled waldos) when they have to work on the engine, but you can’t then have them suffer the realistic consequences of a design they’d never realistically use.

There are no Asians with speaking parts despite the widespread use of East Asian material culture. Whedon’s excuses for this (that Summer Glau “kinda looks Asian” and that no Asian actors who auditioned were “cute enough”) are contemptible and disingenuous.

The “Chinese” in the show is not only so mangled that Chinese bootleg DVDs subtitle it “speaks galactic language”—as in they don’t even recognize it as an attempt at their own language—but Whedon felt that he was permitted to make up his own profanity, like “Mother of God and all her wacky nephews”. Because it’s not like Chinese profanity is actually easily found, particularly in Hollywood, given LA has a gigantic Chinese-American community.

Who gives their slave-telepaths super-soldier training? Who lets someone with a head full of secrets tour a facility full of slave-telepaths?

Whose testing for new drugs consists of the two steps “drawing board” and “full-scale field trial”? If they did one human trial in between, they would have at least found the “99% of subjects go catatonic” result, if not the “1% turn into Reavers”.

The exchange “Psychic? That sounds like something out of science fiction.” “You live on a spaceship, dear.” Which means that spaceships, which are so common even Mal can have one, are still a matter of science fiction in the 26th century—just like tanks and submarines are for us, right? Since they first appeared in Wells and Verne stories over a century ago, I mean. (This is a thing with Whedon: his characters have the audience’s assumptions, not their own. In one of the Buffyverse shows, a guy goes into a clock tower with a rifle…to shoot himself, because that’s totally how you’d do it, if you didn’t want to fake out an audience you aren’t supposed to know you have into thinking you’re going to perpetrate a mass shooting.)

You can, in fact, stop a signal, it’s called jamming. You probably throw up massive ECM whenever engaged in space battle, to disrupt the enemy’s missiles if nothing else. Know who jam their enemy’s comms before attacking? The Trade Federation in Phantom Menace and the Grand Army of the Republic in Attack of the Clones. That’s how Naboo and the Separatists, respectively, know attacks are imminent. The people who made Firefly know less about military science fiction than George “Armies with Blasters Would Totally Use Formations Designed for Musket Volleys” Lucas!

There’s actually more, but I think I’ve made my point.

[tiffdawg]

Curriculum Vitae: Chapter Three

Gif: @javier-pena

curriculum vitae noun cur·ric·u·la vi·tae Latin. the course of one's life.

Pairing: Javier Peña x Reader (fem; no y/n)

Word Count: 3.1k

Rated: M  | Warnings: Intense gazing. Mild language.

Chapter Summary: In this chapter, you start to see a different side to Javier Peña as he struggles to adjust to academia.

A/N: Thank you for your comments and support on the last chapter! I'm so excited that someone is actually enjoying this story and I hope you know that literally every comment takes me out for twenty minutes because they make me so stupidly happy. I love you all!

Read on AO3

CV Masterlist | My Masterlist

… . …

Chapter Three

When you entered your lecture hall on Wednesday morning, once again affording Peña plenty of time to clear out, the scene from Monday repeated itself almost verbatim. He was at the podium, shoulders slightly hunched and hands grasping either side of the cherry wood, surrounded by an excited crowd of students. You’d hoped you would miss him entirely – especially after what had happened in the library – but it seemed luck was not on your side. So, you sipped idly at the lukewarm remnants in your cardboard coffee cup, figuring you might as well watch the show. Speaking sure as hell never seemed to work well for the two of you.

The only difference was that this time, he noticed you right away. You suddenly felt self-conscious in your simple black trousers and modest blouse under his intense scrutiny, and you wondered what he was looking for as he stared at you for just a moment too long. You half-expected him to make some caustic remark. While neither of you had been particularly kind to the other the night before, you probably would’ve deserved it. His words had stung, but it was nothing you hadn’t heard a hundred times before. While you didn’t exactly regret anything you had said, you did wonder if you might’ve struck too deep a nerve. Instead, he turned to his students and told them to talk to him during his office hours.

“When are your office hours, sir?” a young man asked, the same overeager student from Monday.

“I’ll let you know as soon as I know,” he said dismissively, scratching his brow. With that, the students started to wander off and you parted the sea of stragglers to get to the chalkboard. You intended to use it for your lecture and there was a scrawling mess of some Cyrillic language, no doubt not from Peña’s class. However, he beat you to the eraser.

“I’ve got this, doctora.”

You actually felt your head tilt to the side and it strangely reminded you of the way Sunny cocked her head when you spoke to her. Like she recognized your voice, heard your words, but didn’t understand the language. His kindness surprised you and you weren’t sure if he was taunting you with his new diminutive of choice or attempting to apologize in his own strange way. At least doctora was accurate, and it was a hell of a lot better than sweetheart. “Thanks,” you offered hesitantly, “I think.”

When he finished erasing the first panel and moved to the second, you picked up a scrap of chalk and started writing a list of key terms and important names you didn’t want to have to bother with during your lecture. All the while, you hated the way your eyes kept casting to the side, stealing unintentional glances at Peña. Your hand idled as you lost your focus in favor examining the way he moved even as he did something as simple and mundane as clear a chalkboard. But, as ridiculous as it was, you found that you were unable to stop yourself from watching the pull of his light gray suit jacket around his body or the clap of his hands as he attempted to remove the chalk dust.

And in your folly, he caught you.

He smirked at you as he adjusted his boldly pattern tie that should’ve been left in the previous decade and you turned back to your vocabulary list with warm cheeks and added the last few letters to the word you’d abandoned. Then, just as you thought he was about to leave, he took a seat in the last row.

To say you were confused would’ve been an understatement. Bewildered or baffled might’ve been more apt descriptors, but even those words seemed lacking. Deciding not to let Javier Peña distract you from your job any more than he already had that morning, you pulled out your lecture notes and focused on what really mattered: your class and your students. Not the man intently watching your every move.

… . …

Apparently, even visiting lecturers had to attend the weekly Thursday morning faculty meeting.

As Javier sat at the furthest end of the conference room table, only half listening to the department chair drone on about the new graduation requirements for undergraduate sociology majors and minors, he seriously debated the necessity of his presence. Dr. Campbell, as he’d quickly learned the first time that he spoke with the man over the phone a few weeks ago, had a preference for five-dollar words and loved the sound of his own voice. It was amazing he was as long-winded as he was considering the tightness of the obnoxious canary yellow bow tie around his neck. Javier pulled at his own tie, already loose and askew, suddenly feeling constricted by it. Aside from the fact that Campbell’s rundown on the new procedures seemed unnecessary –the regular faculty looked like they’d heard this news a thousand times already – Javier knew he had very little function beyond drawing attention to the school of social sciences. Sure, he technically had to teach a handful of classes this year, which was itself a task proving even more difficult than he’d originally anticipated. But, at the end of the day, he was only there because of his reputation and to lend his name to the university. He only hoped that no one expected much more than that from him.

They’d only be disappointed.

He glanced down the table to where you sat taking occasional notes in between drawing something in the corner of your notebook. He wasn’t sure how, but you’d taken one look at him and figured him out. 

You don’t deserve to be here.

Your words from the other night echoed in his mind. While everyone else seemed intent on showering him with empty flattery and undue praise, you saw him for what he really was. And you were right. He definitely didn’t feel like he deserved to teach classes at a prestigious university, to hold any sort of position of prominence or power at an institution like this. He’d retired from the DEA, given up the only job he knew how to do, without any inclination of what he would do next. Accepting this job was nothing short of an unhappy accident that was the result of some sort of second-career-meets-midlife-crisis impasse. Come to think of it, he might’ve been drinking when he called Dr. Campbell and accepted his offer.

“I’ve but one final announcement before I release you all for the day. As is tradition, the planning this year’s student conference will fall to two of our youngest and brightest professors, so it should be no surprise which of you will assume the responsibility.” Campbell finally caught Javier’s attention when he gestured down the length of the table to you. You smiled brightly at the department chair and the rest of your coworkers. “You, my dear, have done a brilliant job in the past and I expect nothing less this year. And I’m sure our newest appointed professor, Dr. Sheffield, will be more than happy to assist and learn from you.”

“Fucking ecstatic,” the man next to him grumbled under his breath. He followed the man’s gaze back to you and watched your smile vanish. Looking back at Sheffield, he noted that he was younger than Javier, although not by much, and sturdily built but soft around the middle. His belt seemed to be cinched one notch too many. Definitely a beer drinker. There was something inherently boorish about the man and although he hadn’t noticed him until that exact moment, Javier decided that he didn’t like him.

“I’ll have Debra set up a meeting for the three of us sometime next week to discuss the issue further,” Campbell added, “And with that said I think we can consider this meeting adjourned. I do believe the Anthropology department has reserved the room for the upcoming hour, so we best leave them to it.” 

The other faculty and staff started filing out of the conference room, but evidently Sheffield felt Javier’s stare. He turned to him and offered a hand.

“Javier Peña, I presume.” The way he mispronounced his name was almost embarrassing. “Been looking forward to meeting you all week.”

“What an honor,” Javier drawled, shaking the sweaty proffered hand. 

“I’m Andrew Sheffield.” 

“I gathered that.”

Seemingly oblivious to his curt responses, Sheffield continued. “Let me know if you ever need anything, man. And, if you’re into it, a couple of buddies of mine from the other departments golf on Sundays. You’re always welcome.”

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” Javier responded, knowing he’d wouldn’t go golfing if his life depended on it, let alone with this guy.

“Cool, and like I said, happy to help.”

“You didn’t seem so happy to help your other colleague a minute ago.” He couldn’t stop himself. He’d been talking to Sheffield for all of a minute and he was already on his last nerve.

“Well, I, uh– I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sheffield stumbled, clearly flustered, “Besides, that’s different. She’s, well, you’ll see.”

“I’m sure,” Javier said, gathering his things and pushing back his chair. He slapped Sheffield’s shoulder, maybe a little harder than strictly necessary. “See you around, bud.”

… . …

By Friday, your hectic first week of the quarter had caught up to you. You were more than a little tired and couldn’t wait for the weekend. Still, you put on a smile as you prepared to start your lecture. You’d made a vow to yourself years ago that you would never become that jaded, joyless professor that made student’s lives miserable. It was for your own benefit as much as theirs.

You knew Peña didn’t have a class on Fridays – the lecture hall had been empty when you arrived that morning – so you were more than a little surprised when he showed up for your class. Just when you thought you weren’t going to have to deal with him that day, he quietly slipped into the back row.

You couldn’t escape the man.

At the same time, as much as you hated to admit it, you’d been looking for him everywhere you went on campus ever since your Wednesday lecture. His actions confounded you – you were sure he hated you after that night in the library, but yet, here he was attending your class again. For what reason? You had no clue.

Deciding it would be best to simply overlook Javier’s presence in your classroom, you started your lecture. However, you quickly discovered he was impossible to ignore. Especially considering the way his dark eyes trailed you, followed your every movement. It didn’t matter that he was sitting in the back of the room. You could feel him watching you.

It should’ve been annoying. Aggravating, even. 

But it was something else entirely. Something that ignited a slow, steady heat inside of you. Something you steadfastly refused to name.

Once again, he didn’t wait for you after your lecture, and you weren’t sure why that disappointed you.

… . …

“How was your anniversary?”

“It was actually really fun. We got a sitter and Henry took me to this fancy restaurant downtown he’d been to on business lunches. He’d mentioned wanting to take me before, but I was still surprised that he’d actually made a reservation on his own,” Beverly explained, forgetting all about her chicken salad, “I’m sure you can understand why – you’ve met my husband.”

The two of you were sitting at your usual bench near an especially green spot on campus. The shade of a beautifully overgrown Moreton bay fig tree shielded you from the bright sun and your feet rested against a sprawling root creeping under the bench. “That’s so romantic of him,” you gushed. You sighed dreamily, playing it up for her benefit.

“I know! I don’t think we’ve had a night out like that since our youngest was born. So, what? Two years ago!” She made an exaggerated exasperated expression and you snickered at her. “I didn’t know the man had it in him. But it was very swanky, and they had these little chocolate cakes that, like, oozed more chocolate when you cut into them. Apparently, that’s the new thing but I never get out so I’m behind on the times.” 

“Don’t feel bad,” you said as you stabbed at your container of sliced fruit, “I haven’t been on a date in months so I’m right there with you on that one.”

“We gotta fix that.” Bev nudged you playfully.

You made a discouraging face and shook your head. “No, thank you. I’ve got plenty to worry about right now without having to deal with a relationship.”

“Doesn’t have to be a relationship,” she countered in a singsong voice. 

“You really can’t be stopped, can you?” you asked with an amused laugh. She shook her head and took another bite of her lunch. “Relationship or not, dating is just too complicated. It’s too distracting.” 

“Maybe,” Bev conceded, “But there’s more to life than work, sweetie. As much as I complain about Henry, I really do love the man. And he loves me. That’s something special. I can’t help but want something like that for you too.” You loved Beverly, but sometimes you hated how perceptive she was. Without ever having to voice your own thoughts or desires – sometimes without even admitting them to yourself – she always saw the truth to your words. Work always came first for you. Often at the disadvantage of the rest of your life. When you were quiet for longer than she would’ve liked, she lightened the conversation. “Of course, whoever your person is, would have to be someone as equally spectacular as you, so it might take a while to find them. But we’ll work on it.”

You returned her soft smile with one of your own. “We’ll see. But I’m not sure that person is out there, so don’t hold your breath.” You held out your plastic container. “Cantaloupe?”

“You know that’s my favorite,” she laughed as she skewered a few slices for herself.

… . …

After your lecture and lunch with Bev, you walked home to pick up Sunny before returning to your office. Friday afternoons were usually quiet on campus as students and professors alike preferred not to schedule classes that day of the week, for obvious reasons. You still had quite a bit of work to do before you were free to enjoy the weekend and your dog made for good company. Sunny was small and quiet enough that no one ever noticed her when you snuck her into the office. She was a mild-mannered dog, and that day she alternated between sleeping on your lap and watching birds and students alike from the window while you made a decent dent in the pile of work you had to get through. 

She was as well behaved as always, but, unsurprisingly, a couple hours later she started to get restless and you took that as your cue to call it a night.

“Alright, let’s go home, girl,” you said to her as you gathered your things. You piled a few books into your tote, wavering for a moment on one particularly heavy tome you weren’t sure you wanted to haul back to your apartment before you tossed that one in too. You slide your flats back on, having had kicked them off while you worked, and reached for the door. As soon as it was open wide enough for Sunny to fit through, she sprinted out ahead of you.

“Shit!” you hissed taking off after her. She’d never done that before. “Get back here!”

Your eyes practically popped out of your head as she darted into an open office.

You burst into your colleague’s office, intent on dragging her out of there while apologizing profusely. Instead you froze at the sight before you. Sunny was perched on Javier Peña’s lap. To make matters worse, the devious little traitor was excitedly licking his face as he petted her, soothing her fur with a gentle hand. What was even more surprising than her wagging tail, was the goofy grin on his face. It was the kind of unrestrained smile that crinkled his eyes and made him look younger than his years. It was, for lack of a better word, charming.

“I take it this is your dog?” he asked, breaking you from your trance.

“Yeah,” you answered, shaking your head at the scene, “She– She really seems to like you,” you observed, not bothering to hide your confoundment.

“I can tell.” Sunny calmed down, panting happily as Peña scratched behind her perky ears. “At least one of you does,” he said, finally training his brown eyes on you.

“Eh, she likes everyone. Don’t read too much into it,” you said, shrugging off his insinuation. And it was true for the most part. Sunny was a friendly dog, but she did have a strong intuition when it came to people’s sense of character and she always knew who she didn’t like. Even you had to admit she was quite taken with Peña.

“What kind of dog is she?” he asked, turning his attention back to the dog on his lap.

“My best guess is some kind of border collie mix. All I know is Sunny is not a purebred and a bit of a runt, which is probably how she ended up on the street in the first place.”

“Sunny?” he said, cocking his head at you.

You huffed out a small laugh. “I found her on Sunset Boulevard. So, in a moment of sheer genius I called her Sunny as a temporary name before I found her owners or a new family to take her in,” you explained, “Turned out I was her new family and the next thing I knew she was responding to the name. It stuck.”

“She’s sweet. I’ve always liked dogs,” he said, quirking his brow as he looked up at you again, “You can trust their judgement.”

Pursing your lips, you made a noncommittal noise, not wanting to agree despite feeling the same way. With a final wet kiss to his cheek, Sunny hopped down from his lap and trotted over to your side, acting the part of the loyal pet. You glared at her as you quickly attached her lead to her collar, ensuring she wouldn’t cause any more trouble. She’d already provoked the first civil conversation between you and Peña – who knew what else she was capable of. You decided it was best if you took your leave before she caused another miracle. “Have a nice weekend, Peña.”

“You too, doctora,” he said with a smirk and a wink.

 ... . ...

Thank you for reading!

... . ...

Forever Tags: @leo-moon​ @readsalot73​ @frietiemeloen​ @huliabitch​

Curriculum Vitae Tags: @softpedropascal​ @roxypeanut​

[chaoskirin]

Reversed (Reworked) Chapter Two

Chapter Title: Sirensong Word Count: 5764 Rating: PG Genre: Fantasy/Gen

Summary: A little more description of this new setting, and a wild Freddie appears! The quartet is complete!! As always, reblogs and comments are very appreciated. <3

Read Chapter on AO3

---

Throwing open the nearest washroom door, Roger parked himself in front of a mirror and grimaced. "Are they going to do this every night?" he hissed, looking back over his shoulder. His eyes--both the white part and the iris--were inky black and eerily deep, filled with stars. Just like they had been the night John first cursed him. He could see, though, which was why the condition had gone unnoticed for days.

John narrowed his eyes, pressing his lips together in what he hoped was a contrite expression. He wasn't particularly good with friend freakouts, mostly because he hadn't had a friend before Roger and Brian came along.

"What! What's that face?!" Roger demanded. "Is that good or bad?"

Brian ducked into the washroom behind the others. "John's face is permanently unimpressed," he replied.

Roger repeated. "Are my eyes. Going to do this. Every night?!" He gestured at them, as if John hadn't yet noticed. "Because this is not okay. It's creepy." He glanced at the mirror again, fake-startled, and added, "See? I'm scaring myself."

John couldn't find any words to express how sorry he was, or how he'd thought Roger was okay with what happened to him, or how he really just wanted to crawl into a hole and hide.

"Rog, it's okay," Brian said. "It's at night. They'll be fine tomorrow."

"This is a lot more noticeable than purple," Roger said.

"It is a curse," Brian replied, glancing at John. "If it wasn't unpleasant, it'd be called a charm. We can get you sunglasses or something, if it bothers you."

"It's bothering me!"

John still couldn't even squeak another "I'm sorry." Maybe he'd reached his quota for the day. Or maybe the way Brian was staring at him, angrily waiting for him to say something, robbed him of his ability to speak. He couldn't be sure.

Thankfully, someone chose just that particular moment to walk into the bathroom, and John didn't have to think of anything to say. In fact, even Roger shut up, turning away from the newcomer, as Brian tried (and failed) to appear casual, leaning against the row of sinks.

It was a Ghittan student, wearing the earthy amalgamation of colors characteristic of the View, albeit with a bright red collar that drew attention to his rather sharp features. He stared at them for a moment, before snorting a quick chuckle. "Well then," he said, stepping up to the sink and turning it on. "This isn't suspicious at all. A Vexxzus and an Oerris hanging out together in the loo?" After splashing his face, he pulled an elegant laced kerchief out of one pocket and dabbed himself dry. Smirking, he allowed rather large, protruding upper teeth to show for a moment. "And a Kyyra referee? Should I go get a professor? Or popcorn?"

"You could just bugger off," Roger said. He was hyperventilating, almost out of breath, and pale. John put a hand on his shoulder.

"He okay?" The Ghittan asked, entire tone shifting. It sounded genuine enough. "You aren't beating the stuffing out of him, are you? I think that's a Vexxzusian thing to do. eh?"

John looked at the floor. He had a thousand witty things he could say, but unfortunately, they wouldn't pop into his head until after the Ghittan left. Such was his own curse.

"He's..." Brian started. Roger nodded just a little, and Brian finished with, "Fine," and an obviously strained smile.

"He's not," the Ghittan said in a sing-song voice. He sauntered around Brian and John. For a second, Brian looked as if he might reach out to stop him, but the Kyyra seemed to be entirely non-confrontational, from what John knew of him so far. And John, of course, was almost useless in the face of someone new. If he had even a small measure of bravery, he could have hauled this newcomer out by the hood of his robe, given him a kick in the rear, and told him to mind his own business.

John did all that in his head. He was a hero there.

Eventually, the boy stood directly in front of Roger.

And he stared, dumbfounded and horrified. "Oh, your eyes darling! They're hideous!"

Roger whimpered. It was just the tiniest noise, just the whisper of tears, that caused John to snap. Considering he was already feeling guilty and fairly protective of the boy he cursed, he found it quite easy to locate his backbone.

Reaching into his pocket, he expertly flipped the stopper off one tiny vial and crushed the beetle within it in his hand. Power suffused him, a spell instinctively clawing at his throat to escape.

He smeared the crushed beetle against the Ghittan's jumper. The boy said, "ew."

John smiled. He hadn't meant to smile. It didn't seem like a very smile-worthy moment. Then he said, "I can curse you, too, if you like it so much."

Awkwardly, Brian took John's shoulders and turned him away from the intruder. "Ah--how does one stop a Vexxzus from cursing? He has no gem to take. No wand...? Deacon, no more cursing people. Let's deal with one problem at a time."

Regardless, John struggled free, meeting the Ghittan's eyes. They were wide, his hands raised in shock. Fear. John shook his head, rubbing his temples. "Sorry... S-sorry," he said, tangling his fingers in his hair. "Just--He was making it worse. He was making it worse."

Brian took John's shoulders again. "I know. But we gotta work on that temper. You can't just do stuff like that. Okay?"

John nodded.

"Is this a new thing?" The Ghittan asked. "The hideous eyes, that is? I'm sorry, darling. I didn't mean to rub salt in the wound, as it were." He glared at John, suspiciously, then asked Brian, "Did you want me to get a professor?"

"No!" All three of them shouted at once, leaving the poor boy utterly confused.

"It was really an accident," Roger clarified. "I did challenge John to a duel. That's John, by the way." He nodded at the Vexxzus, who raised a hand to wave while still keeping his eyes down. "And I'm Roger. The tall one with the crazy hair is Brian."

"Crazy hair?" Brian asked.

"Freddie," The Ghittan said.

"Anyway, he didn't mean to. Or, I guess he did at the time," Roger said, scratching his chin. "But he feels bad about it, and it'd be really awesome if you didn't tell anyone he did it? We told the Head Matron that I accidentally cursed myself."

"Even though Roger would never be able to pull off a curse that advanced," John said. There! He'd told somebody. He felt much better now. "...Sorry, Roger."

"Oh, no, you're right."

"The staff doesn't know that though," Brian said. "And we'd rather nobody be expelled over this. We're dealing with it."

"Well, I know a thing or two about keeping curses secret," Freddie said. "Maybe this'll make you feel better, eh?" He hopped up on the sink, the old plumbing creaking under his weight. "I am one, you see. A curse, I mean, dears. So what you've got? It's nothing. You'll get used to it, I bet, so don't feel so bad."

"It's not nothing," Roger said. "My eyes are black holes. I've been scaring first-years all week, and someone just now told me I should look in a mirror. I mean, they're only like this at night, so I guess... I guess you're right. It's not so bad." He turned to look in the mirror again, turning his face this way and that. "It'll be amazing on Halloween." He looked at Brian, then John. "Why didn't you guys tell me?"

"We, uh. Meant to?" Brian said. "Anyway, didn't you hear him?" He nodded at the Ghittan.

"Freddie," Freddie said again.

"Right, Freddie. You can't be a curse," Brian said. He rolled his eyes back, thinking. Then he muttered, "Unless you're the one--May I?" He reached for Freddie's hair.

Freddie nodded. "I suppose. I was going to tell you anyway. But don't be surprised if I bite."

Brian tucked Freddie's long, black hair back, revealing both the intricate pattern of scales on the sharp jawline, as well as one severely mutilated ear. The edge was covered with green scar tissue. Brian quickly pulled away, and Freddie's hair fell back, covering the scales again.

As Freddie crossed his legs, John noticed he wasn't wearing shoes. A light smattering of scales sparkled on his pale skin.

"Your ears are--" Roger started.

Freddie interrupted. "Yes! Beautiful, aren't they? Oh, I love telling a good story just as much as you like hearing one, I'm sure. Turned out I possessed the wild magic of humans despite my half-siren lineage. So rare. So special." He paused to smile. "And you know what happens when a human displays magical aptitude."

Everyone groaned. Nobody liked school. Then again, learning magic on top of maths and sciences at least provided a respite to an otherwise boring day.

"Yes, exactly," Freddie continued, pulling a sequins-decorated pouch out of one pocket. He twirled it around his fingers. "Of course I fitted into the Ghittan View. But it turned out, I also suffered from the siren's curse, as well. Dear me... My first week here, I accidentally started humming a jaunty little tune, and before I knew it, there were well over a dozen people following me. Silently. Waiting for me to tell them what to do."

John and Brian glanced at each other. John almost mentioned that they didn't need a life's story, when Brian said, "but the ears...?"

"Oh, yes. Quite mundane. My mum cut them off when I enrolled. Don't worry," he hastily added when Brian gasped. "It was a mutual decision. We thought I'd blend in more if I didn't have fish ears."

"Yeah," Roger said. "You're right, that's worse."

"Excellent," Freddie said. "I do like winning."

"Do you know," Brian asked, his tone almost conversational. And yet John felt the looming storm about to crash down as Brian continued. "...if they intend to admit more creatures to Vale Rest?" John only had time to say, "Oh, Brian, no."

"Creatures," Freddie repeated, his entire demeanor turning icy. It wasn't subtle at all--John definitely recognized the signs of an oncoming anger hurricane, since he was prone to fits himself. Still, he couldn't say anything quickly enough to prevent the inevitable tirade.

Maybe, John wondered, Brian deserved it.

Brian blustered, fumbling for an answer.

"Listen very carefully, darlings," Freddie growled, his brows darkening his eyes.

Then, he began to sing.

It was a beautiful song, in beautiful tenor, with an undertone of something uncomfortable. It was a series of clicks and whistles that Freddie seemed to produce without meaning to, or without realizing it. Almost like whale or dolphin song. And it wasn't long before Roger's and Brian's faces were completely blank, devoid of any expression whatsoever. Freddie hopped off the sink and pointed at all three of them. "Now, you all stay put here until this wears off, then get to your dorms. Got it?"

Roger and Brian nodded obediently, expressions still slack.

"Good," Freddie said. He sighed--sadly, John thought--and headed for the door.

John caught his sleeve, and Freddie whipped around, meeting John's eyes with surprise.

"Are they going to be okay?" John asked.

"Er, yeah. It lasts a few minutes, darling, but they'll be fine. Why aren't you under?"

"Am I supposed to be?"

Freddie looked at the other two. Brian was actually slack-jawed and drooling. "Well, it's not selective. It just affects everyone who hears it. Or, I thought it did. Hm. Lemme try again."

John clapped a hand over Freddie's mouth, and glared. "None of that. You've already got them in a state. You want 'em brain-dead, too?" Still with his hand over Freddie's mouth, he looked past the boy's shoulder and tried, "Brian? Roger?" No answer. Not even a reaction.

Freddie pushed John's hand away. "But why aren't you...?"

"I don't know," John replied, curling his lip. "Why'd you do that to them, anyway? And you were just going to leave them like that? Everyone thinks Vexxzuses are bad. This is just cruel."

"It wears off after a bit, I told you," Freddie said. "I mean, they'll be a bit fuzzy for a while, so that's why I told them to get to their dorms after. It's just hypnotism, you see. They wouldn't do anything against their own self-preservation, or I don't think they'd have let me into Vale Rest. I'm not a full siren." He turned to Brian, getting right up in his face and adding, "And I'm not a creature."

Brian didn't even blink. It was quite disturbing.

"Is that it?" John said. "That's why you--what. Mind-controlled them? With Brian, that's a compliment. I've only known him for a couple weeks, really, and all I know about him is that he loves animals--" John paused and amended as Freddie scowled. "Non-humans, I mean! It's what he's studying here! It's his best subject. He wants to write his thesis on werebats. I think he was kind of happy about maybe getting to know you better."

Freddie blinked, confused. John pushed past him and gave Roger's shoulders a shake. "C'mon, Rog." "They won't listen to you, dear," Freddie said quietly. "Brian studies non-humans?"

"He does. He knows practically everything about them, too."

"Oh." Freddie muttered. "Well. I'm. I'm a being, first of all. But, I'm sorry."

"Maybe tell him when this wears off," John said.

"Oh, he heard me. It's just that he can't do anything at the moment." Freddie turned to them and added, "Besides, I shouldn't be here when they snap out of it. They're probably terrified. It's the whole reason I do this, you see. No one bothers me twice. Nod if you're terrified."

Roger nodded. Brian didn't.

John laughed. "Tell him to nod if he thinks this is the coolest thing in the world."

"Er, okay. Nod if you think this is cool."

Brian nodded.

"I told you," John said. "Non-humans. Beings. Whatever. If you'd given them a chance..."

Freddie didn't say anything. He stared at Brian for a while, then turned his attention to Roger, putting his hand on Roger's cheek. Roger reached for it, and Freddie said, "Don't be scared. It'll wear off, I promise."

Roger nodded.

Freddie tried to remove his hand, but Roger held on, wrapping both his arms around Freddie's.

"Oh, wonderful," Freddie said.

"He's a hugger," John said. "Does this mean it's wearing off?"

"Yeah, if they're acting on their own. But... They won't be very good conversationalists when they snap out of it. Trust me on that."

John waved a hand in front of Brian's face, though the Kyyra didn't even blink. His eyes might have moved, just a bit, but he was still obediently staying put, waiting for the siren's spell to wear off. "They can hear everything we're saying?" John asked.

"That's the horror of Siren Song," Freddie said. "It's why humans don't like them. You're fully conscious as you're made to do things you don't want to do. If I was a full-blood siren, I could make them do anything. They wouldn't even question it. They wouldn't be able to." He turned to Brian and Roger again, stating for their benefit, "But I'm not. Like I said, this is no more than hypnotism. I couldn't make 'em follow me into the ocean and drown, if that's what you're worried about."

"Sounds to me like you're the one that's worried about that," John said. "I mean, they haven't said a word. And apparently I'm immune, so."

"Yes, strange."

"Anyway, you're gonna have Brian following you around like a puppy now, so good job there," John said. He did feel a little bad, making fun of the Kyyra when he couldn't fight back. Still, it was true. Brian could talk for hours about dragons and hippogriffs. Why not sirens? "And it was Roger's idea to lie about who cursed him, so he's already forgiven you, I'm sure."

Freddie hopped up on the sink again, despite Roger's grip on his arm. He brushed the beetle bits off the front of his uniform. "Maybe this is fate, then, me meeting you three."

"Well, I don't believe in fate," John said. "But if you need friends, then I think you got yourself a few." He attempted to hop up on the sink as Freddie had done, but his arms weren't quite up to the task. Giggling, Freddie grabbed the back of his jumper and hauled him up.

"Ugh, why did you have to be a Vexxzus, though?" Freddie asked.

"Look, you're a Ghittan. I feel the same way about you. I mean who uses dirt to do magic? It's weird. The Headmatron used it to heal a broken arm I had a couple weeks ago and it's... It's just..."

"Dirty?" Freddie drawled, smiling.

John grunted. "Trust me here. These two are all right, and these View rivalries are pointless anyway."

"Says the one who cursed a poor, defenseless Oerris."  

"He had it coming."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Roger nod.

"How much longer, you think?" John asked.

"Any second now, probably." Freddie snapped his fingers next to Brian's face, and he actually blinked this time. "They're moving on their own, which is a good indication. It'll be tomorrow before they're themselves again though, I'm afraid. There's a sort of fuzziness that comes along after you break out of Siren's Song."

"Everything is pink and fluffy," Brian mumbled.

"I think I'm gonna get married," Roger said, dreamily.

"Welp. Here we go," Freddie said. "Let's get these two back to their dorms so they can sleep it off."

~*~

The lowest floor of Vale Rest was called the Recreation Well. Most people just called it Rec, or the Well. Located seven floors underground, Rec was a sprawling complex of fields, an enormous hot spring, a gaming compound for those who were Virtuatekk inclined, and a vaulted cave ceiling which held all manner of glowing spell-lights and naturally glowing mosses. It had its own weather patterns overseen by students; understandably, things sometimes went awry in the Recreation Well, but those events were few and far between.

It also featured a well-developed shopping area, ironically called the Weald. Unfortunately for the students, the Weald remained off limits except with special passes, or on certain days. Located behind a magical barrier, a separate entrance admitted the outside public, who found the little underground town quaint and relaxing.

Most new students found it absolutely astounding that someone could fit what amounted to an entire town under Vale Rest's ground, but once they spent the majority of their free time in the Recreation Well, most came to call it home.

"That's just the thing, darling," Freddie said, reaching across their picnic table to take Brian's book away. He scrunched up his face at the picture. "It's not something I can stop. I know you mean well, but  this...?"

"And we're not letting you cut him open," John added. "It's barbaric."

"I wasn't suggesting..." Brian snatched the book back and laid it out on the table. These people had absolutely no imagination whatsoever. Still, he felt bad, after offending Freddie. It wasn't the end of the world, but he hadn't expected the half-siren to be so vocal about his idea. In hind-sight, he should have. "We're mages. If we can find a spell..."

"But I like what I can do," Freddie said, tapping his chest with his fingers. "It's me. I mean, maybe it's a pain sometimes, but it's fantastic defense, isn't it? Against... You know. Vexxzuses."

John elbowed him. "Not against me."

"Which isn't fair," Roger said. With the weather within the Well mirroring the sunny weather outside, his eyes were a bright, golden yellow. Sometimes fluffy clouds would drift across the spell-lights, and his eyes would turn silver. "It's a little frightening. I wish I was inane."

"Immune," Brian said. "You know the right word."

"I do, but it was still funny. Freddie laughed."

"I didn't, dear."

Roger shrugged. "You meant to."

Freddie tapped the picture. It was a mostly humanoid creature, with the tell-tale signs that it was something else entirely. Long, webbed ears, for example, and webbing between each of its fingers and toes. The latter was something Freddie never had to worry about, he'd said. "You know, they probably dissected a siren to get this much detail in the drawing."

Guiltily, Brian pushed the book away. "Well, these illustrations are hundreds of years old. I'm sure it wasn't, er... Related. Look, I'm just trying to help. Sirens are so badly understood..."

The others stared at him. Roger curled his lip a bit and said, "Uh. Freddie is right here."

Brian sighed. "I'm not helping. I'm sorry, it's just that--The creatures I study don't... usually... Talk back--I'm going to stop now before I shove my other foot into my mouth, too." Stifling a groan, he put his head down on the table, curly hair splaying out in all directions.

Freddie patted his shoulder. "Oh, come now, Brian. It just frazzles you so, when you think I'm angry."

"You're not?"

"No! Of course not. I'm the center of attention. It's right where I ought to be."

"Prat," Brian said. He reached for the book, but Roger climbed up onto the table, lifting it from his reach.

"So your ears looked like this?" he asked.

"Smaller, but all sorts of colors." Freddie smiled sadly, and sighed. "They'd sparkle in the sun." "Well, we would have been your friends anyway," Roger said. "Even if you hadn't hacked 'em off."

"I know, that's what makes it so tragic that they're gone." He rested an elbow on the table, and lay his head in his hand. "It would have been too much of a risk, though. I mean, most of the Views get along, but there's always some Kyrra who don't see you as human, then there's the Vexxzuses who're a bit specist. It was better that people got to know me, in all my wonderful glory and humility, before they discovered my deep, dark secret."

John rolled his eyes. Roger turned another few pages in the book. "Green blood, too?"

Freddie nodded. "Oh, that's the coolest part. Look here." He searched around on the table until he found a splinter, and pried it loose with his fingernails. Holding up a thumb, he gave his skin a light stab.

It wasn't exactly green. More like a muddy greenish-brown. Still, very odd, and very cool. "Don't touch, though," Freddie said as he wrapped it in a fresh kerchief. The cloth sizzled. "It'll burn."

"Sirens sound wonderful," John muttered.

"They are," Freddie said, grabbing the book off Roger's knee. "I'm sure I could make some proper edits here and there. Make this chapter much less sensational. This is all fear-mongering stuff."

"So sirens don't lure people to their deaths?" Roger asked.

Brian couldn't help it. He held his breath, while John stared at Roger with surprise. Both of their expressions must have said what words couldn't--how could Roger possibly say something like that, with Freddie sitting right there? And poor Freddie looked distinctly uncomfortable, glancing away. Realizing he was still holding the book, he tossed it on the table, which echoed thunderously through the Well. "Freddie," Roger said.

Freddie held out his hand, stood, and retreated toward the stairwell.

Roger started to stand. Brian reached for his wrist, taking it and shaking his head. "Are you actually an idiot?" Brian asked. "Because sometimes I don't think you actually..."

Freddie appeared directly in front of his face, smiling. Brian squeaked, nearly falling backward off the bench, as Freddie laughed. "You know, it's incredibly difficult to walk off in a proper huff if no one follows and fawns over you. Were you three coming, or...?"

Roger arched his eyebrows. "Are you an idiot?" he asked Brian, who was still trying to slow his pulse. "You did not know he was going to do that!" he called after Roger and John. Standing, he hurried to catch up, too. "You didn't! Dammit, Freddie."

"You should have seen the look on your face," Freddie chuckled.

"I'm laughing," Brian replied, glaring at Roger and John. "They didn't know, either." "We were all in on it," Roger said. Brian elbowed him a little harder than intended. Roger guffawed through a pained "Ouch!" Which just caused John to start chuckling, too.

"They weren't, it just played out so well," Freddie said. "I do love you guys."

"I am sorry about the whole... luring people to their deaths thing," Roger said. "We were just chatting. I wasn't thinking."

"Oh, I'd be offended if it weren't true," Freddie said, his voice growing theatrically dangerous. "Most sirens don't like humans. The ocean is full of trash. Even my father wasn't fond."

"Is this a love story?" John asked. "If this is a romance, I have somewhere else to be."

"Oh, shut it. My dad's a perfect gentleman. Mum was on holiday. He saw her cleaning the beach. I think he was just curious at first, but then he had himself silenced so he could get to know her." Freddie smiled. "It's hard to stop a siren from singing, you know. He had to learn. But he figured it out eventually. It's sad, though. He has such a beautiful voice... I do wish mum could hear it."

"See? It's a romance," John said.

"Right, that's the point I was trying to make. Thank you, John."

John smirked. "You're welcome."

"What I'm saying is that... Maybe it worked for my dad, being silenced. But I don't want to be. I want to be able to talk to you guys. I haven't had friends in years, and, well, I've got a lot to say."

They passed into the central staircase, which stretched all the way through the two aboveground floors. The steps were carved out of the gnarled tree's roots; each one was alive, and often grew offshoots of new staircases, which very often led to nowhere. Some of the stairways were carpeted with moss. Others, ancient beyond understanding, displayed the deeply grooved surfaces of dozens of generations of students. Some were carved or decorated, while others were left to wither away at the tree's whim.

John and Freddie walked ahead, with Roger just behind them. Brian brought up the rear, his head down, hands in his pockets. How could he have even thought that silencing Freddie would be a good idea? Perhaps it would work for an animal... You could silence one of the louder ones and it would barely care. Somehow, he thought Freddie might even appreciate the notion, but now that he really considered it, Brian knew he wouldn't want to lose his voice, either. He was just trying to help. Good intentions. Good intentions often led down the worst roads. But he had another idea. A better one. He hoped.

"Oh, what, are you having a sulk now?" Freddie asked. "Come on, Brian, it's fine. You academics just can't help it. I understand. If you don't constantly invent problems to solve, you languish away."

Brian ignored the insult as Roger had a good chuckle at his expense. "No, it was a stupid thing to suggest. But... I think I can make it up to you. I'm doing really well with non-human healing. We just started, of course, but if I study up a bit, I bet I can figure out how to heal your ears." Unguarded, Freddie brightened. It may have been the first genuine reaction he'd seen from the Ghittan. "You think you could?"

"Yes! I do! I mean, not now..." Freddie's face fell a bit, and Brian hurried to add, "But in a year or two, once I get a good grasp on healing magic. They're some of the hardest spells to master, and regrowing lost ears, with your... physiology. Give me some time. I promise I can do it."

He absolutely could. It was the best consolation he could offer. Freddie, giddy, wiggled a bit. "Yes. Okay! Apology accepted. Let's go to the library and see if we can find some books for you to read. Might as well get a start!"

Brian blinked. "What, now?"

"We've the time!" Freddie said.

It was a fair point, with classes starting later in the morning. They could pop into the library, and with his record, he could likely check out a book more advanced than he'd normally have access to. Shrugging, he followed, as Freddie hummed a happy little tune.

In fact, Brian was so relieved, he almost felt as if he were floating. His mind emptied of all its worries, and soon he could only focus on--oh.

Oh no.

He couldn't say anything. Couldn't deviate from the path set out before him. Couldn't act against Freddie's wishes. Silently, he willed Freddie to stop humming!

They made it up a few more flights before John, quirking a brow, glanced over his shoulder. "You're awfully quiet back there, Rog. Are you sick, or... Ah. Freddie."

Freddie stopped. Brian stopped.

Freddie turned, confused, and realization dawned. He covered his face with his hands, muttering something completely unintelligible. Since his attention was entirely focused on the half-siren, Brian could almost see the conversation playing out in Freddie's mind, even though he said nothing. "This is so frustrating," he finally mumbled. "I didn't mean to do this again, guys."

Brian couldn't do anything. Couldn't say a word of reassurance or even move his eyes. They were locked onto Freddie. Everything the Ghittan did caught Brian's attention. He was stuck.

It was truly amazing how quickly it worked, though. Freddie couldn't have been humming for more than a few seconds before John caught him. But even then, it was too late. Amazing magic, and completely innate, too. No need for a focus.

"There's nothing we can do, either," Freddie went on, pacing back and forth along a step. "I'll--I'll get you guys somewhere safe. Maybe we can talk about that silencing spell after all. Or maybe I'll just command them to stay away? I think I can do that. Yes, it's in their own best interests, so they'd follow the command to the letter, I'm sure. Then again, I'd be down two friends, and I don't want to--"

John shuffled up a couple steps, reached around Freddie's shoulders, and once again covered his mouth.

Freddie swore.

"Freddie, it's hypnotism," John said, removing his hand. "You said it yourself. Right? That's how this works." "Essentially," Freddie replied. His voice was higher, distraught. "I can't keep doing this to them, though. Harmless or not, it can't be comfortable to--Well, look at them!" Brian did feel himself drooling again. That was embarrassing.

"I've always called this the suggestion phase. Right now, I could literally tell them to behave like chickens for the rest of their lives, and they might do it." Freddie quickly amended, "I wouldn't, guys. Promise."

"You said 'might,'" John observed.

"Right. Because eventually it'd go against their sense of self-preservation and they'd stop. At least, I think so. I'd hope so." He paused, rubbing his chin. "Roger, though..."

"Huh," John said. "Hang on."

Setting his bag on the nearest landing, John sat down, shuffling through his things until he found a notebook. Brian would have loved to spy what he was writing, but his attention remained comfortably on Freddie as he waited for that all-important suggestion. He had no choice. Even so, his consciousness remained intact, if not wholly confused by the whole ordeal.

Worried, Freddie chewed on his fingernails as John scratched away at the paper. Eventually, John stood, holding the notebook out. "Tell me this won't work."

Freddie read it over. "Well, you've certainly accounted for everything. I don't know. I can try."

"Go on, then." "Should I just read it?"

"Like I wrote it," John said. "I think I've covered all the loopholes."

"Okay." Freddie nodded, holding the paper in front of him. "Brian May and Roger Taylor. Next time I say 'now', if you hear my song, you're to behave entirely normally, how you would if I wasn't singing at all. From this point forward, my song has no effect on you whatsoever, but you're to remember this suggestion." He paused, then added, "Do you understand?"

Brian felt himself nod.

Freddie looked at Roger, who nodded.

Freddie said, "Now."

And the curse fell away. Not slowly, like before, but immediately. Brian barely had time to reach out as the step jumped up to meet him. Grunting, he seated himself and rubbed his eyes, trying to clear away the last of the lingering fog. "Ooh, that's going to freak me out every time it happens," Roger muttered. "That's bloody scary." "Hopefully it doesn't have to?" Freddie suggested, crouching in front of them. "It's genius, if it works," Brian said. "Go on, then. Sing something." "What? Now? Already? You've just come out of it!" Freddie looked at Roger, who'd grown very still at the suggestion. "Yes," Roger said. "Do it while I’m expecting it. Better if I know it's comin'."

Freddie gave them one last Look, as if they were both daft, and he sang.

It wasn't like the last times. It wasn't beautiful and otherworldly, nor did it melt over him and wrest control of his mind before he realized what was happening. As Freddie sang, Brian felt a certain fuzzy feeling behind his eyes, but when he looked down and checked if he could still move his fingers, he found he wasn't stuck like before. This time, there was something under the song that Brian hadn't heard previously, which was almost grating. It was high-pitched and whiny, borderline unpleasant. Freddie trailed off, and Brian shrugged, glancing over at Roger.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Roger said. "That was terrible, though. What'd you do to your voice?"

Freddie actually cried. His eyes were wide--stunned and almost wild--as a giant grin broke out across his face. He paced a step or two, before throwing his arms around John and sobbing into his shoulder.

"Oh, go on," John said, embarrassed. "It was no more complex then figuring out a puzzle."

Freddie backed away, laughing, then turned and threw himself at Brian and Roger, who somehow managed not to fall face-first down the stairs. John knelt next to them, putting his hand on Freddie's shoulder. No one said anything. Nothing needed to be said.

[thegreatestofheck]

Bare Bones {Theory 1} ⋇ Pope Heyward ⋇

description: Pippa Cantu has always been a little…strange. With a knack for knowing everything there is to know about every conspiracy, every mystery, and every weird happening, she doesn’t have much time (or desire) for friends. But when her chemistry lab partner asks her to join him and his friends on a hunt for the Royal Merchant, she just can’t say no.

Theory 1 summary: Pippa meets Pope and gets a little closer than she would have liked. 

word count - 3.9k

warnings: swearing

a/n: thank you for being here! I am already in love with Pippa and I would die for her, so I hope that you all enjoy this story!! Much love. 

                                                      ***

Pippa flinched when the school bell rang. Keeping her head down, she ducked into her first class and found the seat farthest in the back. She had always hated the public school system in Maine, and even from her first period on her first day of school, she knew she was going to hate Kildare High just as much. 

Who in their right mind makes someone take Chemistry Lab at 8 o’clock in the fucking morning? 

Students started to fill in the seats around her, some glancing at her out of the corner of their eyes and others greeting each other with giggles and hugs and smiles. Pippa scoffed and lowered her head to her arms. All she wanted to do was get through this day and then the next day and then the next. That’s how time passed for her as of late. Nothing else mattered except getting through to the night. 

Someone slid into the chair across from her, but Pippa didn’t take notice of them. She didn’t care. She wasn’t here to make friends. In fact, she was here to do the exact opposite. 

“Hi,” the person said. Pippa still refused to look up. “I’m Pope.” 

Pippa forced a split-second smile, glancing at him. 

The final bell rang and the boy in front of her, who kept his smile despite her coldness, turned toward the teacher. Pippa scoffed again and leaned forward to rest her chin against her arms. The boy, Pope, was glued to the teacher as she spoke in a cheery, overly excited voice. Pippa couldn’t care less what she had to say. Until the dreaded words came out of her mouth. She said those two words that Pippa feared the most when she found out she was taking Chem Lab on Monday, Wednesday, Friday at 8 AM. 

Lab partners. 

“Shit,” Pippa groaned, sitting up but letting her head hang. Pope seemed eager to hear who his partner would be. 

The teacher started rattling off names, none of which Pippa recognized. Of course she wouldn’t. She had spent this entire summer hiding away in her grandma’s second-hand store, avoiding repeated human interaction at all costs. Some people were vocally happy about their assigned lab partners, others were less so. Pippa waited for her name anxiously, dreading the idea of spending an entire year with one single person as her partner. 

“Phillipa Cantu and Pope Heyward at table- Ah, the two of you are already back there.” The teacher, Mrs. Stedfield smiled sweetly but Pippa just closed her eyes and sent a quiet prayer for her nerves. 

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” she whispered under her breath as Pope turned to face her with a wide grin. 

“Phillipa, huh?” He said, leaning against his elbow and raising an eyebrow. Pippa could see this as an attempt to flirt, a poor one. Whoever told him that this was a good idea was a dumbass. 

“Pippa,” she said shortly. “No one calls me Phillipa.” 

“Well, Pippa,” he said her name with a partial grin. “I’m very excited to be your lab partner.” 

She hid a groan behind an attempted smile and clenched teeth. 

This was going to be a long year. 

                                                          ***

Pippa didn’t have much to say about Pope, but there was one thing for certain, he was determined. 

It didn’t take him long to figure out that Pippa wasn’t to keen on small talk, so he always talked about what they were studying in class. She liked him a lot more when he was talking about science because it was something he actually seemed passionate about. But every time she caught herself smiling or even almost laughing at one of his stupid jokes, Pippa would remind herself why she was here. 

Don’t get attached. It’s not worth it. It’s never worth it. 

But he was getting too close. He kept asking questions, kept pushing her harder to break through the walls she had made for herself. And Pippa couldn’t have that. 

“So, what do you do when you’re not working or at school?” Pope asked from behind a titration tube. Pippa glanced up at him, but he was focused on what he was doing. He wasn’t really listening. 

“I heard that the government replaced all of the birds with drones,” Pippa said, testing the waters. She glanced up at Pope but he didn’t say anything, didn’t even look away from what he was currently doing. “One of the origin stories of werewolves was just a really hairy man who stole and ate children in Europe.” 

“Hmm. Really?” 

Pippa could tell Pope wasn’t listening to what she was saying, just responding absently. With a smile, she continued. 

“Up until the 1800s, people in Germany thought drinking fresh blood from executed criminals could cure epilepsy.” 

Still no response. Pippa’s smile grew wider. 

From that moment on, every time Pope asked her a question, she would respond with one of her many random facts or theories. He never listened. Pippa started using it on others too. As soon as she got into a conversation, she somehow turned it into one of her crazy stories. It usually made everyone keep their distance. No one really wanted to talk to the crazy conspiracy theory girl who seemed way too interested in HH Holmes and the death of Princess Diana. 

“I like your outfit,” Pope said one day. Pippa glanced down at what she was wearing; an oversized hoody and a loose pair of pants. Nothing extraordinary, but he hadn’t even looked hard enough to really see what she was wearing. 

“Thanks,” she said, setting her bag down on the ground. “Back to Jack the Ripper, I’m pretty sure Mary Kelly’s boyfriend manipulated James Maybrick, you know, the rich guy with the drug problem?” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“Yeah, so Joseph manipulated Maybrick into thinking he was the Ripper so if the cops came knocking on Joseph’s door, he could pin it on Maybrick. Maybrick got it all muddled up in his druggie head and started to believe he was Ripper, so he wrote the diary. It all fits.” 

“Sure. Did you do the homework last night?” 

“Oh, yeah.” Pippa pulled out her notebook and handed it to Pope. 

“Thanks. My friend tore out a page and used it for a blunt.” 

“Some friend,” Pippa grumbled. 

“He’s great.” Pope’s voice was tight. “I’m sure you’d like him.” 

Pippa rolled her eyes. She had two guesses which friend he was talking about; John Routledge, who everyone insisted calling John B but that was the most annoying shit Pippa had ever heard, or JJ Maybank, who was most likely the homework stealing thief. Both had hit on her once before in a time of desperation, but one mention of Area 51 or the Bermuda Triangle and they were gone. 

It was too easy. A girl opens her mouth and starts talking about the things she’s passionate about and most guys scatter. If Pope had the opportunity, she imagined he would leave to. 

For the briefest of a moment, the idea pained her. 

“Something tells me I really wouldn’t like your friend.” 

It was March and the air was starting to get hot. Pippa hated the heat, not because it was uncomfortable, but because it meant taking off her protective layer. It was rare to see Pippa without her sweatshirt, and for good reason. She didn’t feel safe without it. 

The Bunsen burners didn’t help. Of course they were using them today, the hottest day of the year so far. Pippa could feel the sweat beading down the back of her neck as she stammered her way through a theory about aliens and the Giant Heads of Easter Island and their bodies. 

“Hey, you good?” Pope asked, stopping half-way through writing something down. Pippa struggled to nod. “Why don’t you just take off your sweater?” 

Pippa tightened her jaw. How could she tell a boy that she wasn’t wearing anything underneath? But just from the shift her eyes, Pope seemed to understand. He turned off the Bunsen burner and pulled off his goggles. 

“I have an extra shirt,” Pope said, reaching for his backpack. 

“It’s fine,” Pippa said through her teeth. 

“Pippa, come on.” He pulled the t-shirt out of his backpack and shoved it into her hands before she could protest. “Can’t have my partner fainting on me, now can I?” 

The half-smile on his face was sincere. Pippa narrowed her eyes but left to go to the bathroom anyway. There was an ounce of relief as she pulled her sweatshirt off of her body. It felt like she could finally breathe. She pulled Pope’s t-shirt on over her head and her stomach twisted into knots. She hated seeing her arms. Something about it felt so unsafe. 

But Pope’s shirt was big on her and it was at least baggy in the way she liked, so she thought she was just going to have to put with it. 

There was a blush on her cheeks when she walked into the Chemistry lab. Pope had his goggles on when she returned, having gone right back to the lab they were doing. He didn’t look up at her as she came back and she was grateful for it. 

“Here, can you write this down for me?” He asked, hovering a stick over the fire. The fire burned green. 

“Sweet,” Pippa said with a smile. She scribbled down what she could, not noticing as Pope looked away from the fire to admire how she looked in his shirt. As soon as she looked back up, he turned his face away. “You wanna hear about how Amelia Airheart sent an SOS message after she went missing but it was ignored because they didn’t think she could survive?” 

“Sure.” 

                                                        ***

Pippa was sitting in the library, bobbing her head to the music that blasted through her earbuds. Her computer sat in front of her, a thousand and one tabs open at once. Two notebooks and a few more research books lay out around her. A color-coded selection of pens and highlighters was scattered about. The table where she worked was an absolute mess, but it made sense to her. 

She was so consumed by an article and her music that she didn’t see Pope sit down in front of her. Her foot tapped against the leg of her chair while she chewed on a pen cap, eyes scanning the page. It wasn’t until she tore her gaze from the screen to scribble something in one of her notebooks that she saw Pope sitting there. 

The pen cap fell out of her mouth with a gasp and a jolt of her body. Pippa flicked an earbud out of her ear. 

“Shit, Pope!” she hissed before taking a calming breath. He seemed unphased by her shock, a book of his own resting in his lap. 

“What are you listening to?” He asked, turning the page in his book. Pippa felt a lump form in her throat. 

“Nothing.” 

“I can hear it from here. What is it?” 

“What do you care?” 

Pope smiled at her and gave a quiet laugh. 

“It’s just music, Pippa. Not like I’m asking for your life story or anything.” Pippa rolled her eyes before sliding her phone across the table for him to see. “Hmm.”

Pippa snatched her phone back, her cheeks brushed red and her eyebrows pinched together. 

“Hmm, what?” 

“Never pegged you for the One Direction type.” 

“It’s called versatility, Heyward. Look it up.” Pippa huffed and leaned back in her chair. “Is there a reason you’re gracing me with your presence today?” 

“We gotta work on that final project at some point. Came over to talk to you about it, but I didn’t want to interrupt.” 

Pippa shook off her hostility and gave a shrug of her shoulders. She capped her pen and lowered the screen of her computer. 

“Nothing important.” 

“Aliens?” 

“1500s shipwreck full of gold.”

“Ah.” Pope let the moment wear on for a few silent seconds before he leaned his arms against the table. Pippa crossed her arms. “This is a pretty big project, so I think we should start soon.” 

“Okay.” 

“Maybe we should swap numbers so we can link up.”

“Link up?” Pippa raised an eyebrow. All the coolness fell from around Pope instantly and his eyes widened. 

“I just mean...well, for the sake of the project...shit, no, I just mean….we have to get together at some point-” 

“Relax, Pope.” Pippa let out a quiet laugh and scribbled her number onto the corner of a notebook and tore it out, sliding it across the table to Pope. “For emergencies only. Everything else we do face to face, capiche?” 

“What, are you on witness protection or something?” Pope joked as his eyes scanned the string of numbers on the paper. Her handwriting was shit. God, he hoped he could read it well enough to text the right person. 

The look on Pippa’s face didn’t affirm or deny his question. At this rate, Pope wouldn’t be surprised if she was. 

“Can we meet after school today?” he asked. “I’ve got to help my dad with some stuff tomorrow and Friday.” 

“Sure,” Pippa said, before leaning back and stretching her arms above her head. Diving headfirst into her theories left her back aching, even if it was only for a free period like today. 

She stretched her arms high up enough to reveal a small sliver of her stomach, but something caught Pope’s eyes. 

“Woah, is that a tattoo?” He asked, a grin growing on his face. Pippa dropped her arms and her eyes widened. 

Shit. 

There was no lying her way out of this one. She was just going to have to run with it. Forcing a smile, Pippa lifted the edge of her sweatshirt and showed him the whole thing. The roman numeral ten was etched in black ink into her skin just under her belly button and a little bit to the left. It seemed like odd placement to Pope. 

“What’s it mean?” he asked. 

“X marks the spot,” she said with a half-grin. “Had to get something to represent my obsession, ya know.” 

Pope nodded his head slowly, but a voice in his head told him there was something deeper than that. 

“My best friend Kie, she’s got like three of them,” he said. Pippa lowered her shirt. “A dolphin, a wave, and something else, I don’t remember.” 

Pippa felt her smile turn into something real. She watched the way Pope’s face lit up when he talked about her, Kie. It wasn’t the first time. On the rare occasion that he actually tried to hold a conversation with Pippa, he would often talk about this girl. Pippa didn’t know a whole bunch about her, but whoever she was, she made Pope very happy. 

But that smile on Pippa’s face was starting to feel too comfortable. Talking to Pope as a whole was starting to feel too comfortable. 

Pippa let her smile fall and she started to shut her books. 

“I have History,” she said, slamming her laptop all the way shut. “Can’t be late.” 

She had the books and notebooks packed up in a blink of an eye and before Pope could even say goodbye, she was gone. 

                                                             ***

“A crystal pyramid in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle, can you believe it?” Pippa shook her head slowly. She let herself laugh, looking down at her bowl of cereal. “Anyway, what do you want-”

“Are you going to the school dance?” Pope asked suddenly, turning away from their project and toward Pippa. She sat cross-legged on his counter, a bowl of cereal in her hand. The spoon was halfway to her mouth when she froze, her lips parting ever so slightly. 

“Oh, um, no.” She set the spoon back in the bowl. She struggled to meet Pope’s eyes. She could feel the question burning inside of him but she refused to let him ask it. “I’ve got...shit to do that day.” 

“What kind of shit?” he asked, looking back at the project. “Conspiracy shit? Alien shit? Cult shit? Or wait, let me guess, murder shit?” 

Pippa let out a strained laugh. 

“Unfortunately, no. Just...personal shit.” 

Pope hummed quietly to himself. Pippa cringed. He was disappointed, upset, hurt. Something somewhere in between. 

“So, the project.” 

“Right.” Pippa slid off the counter, setting her bowl down and stepping closer to Pope, but not too close. 

The front door swung open suddenly. Pope spun around and Pippa dropped to the ground, feeling her heart tighten in her chest painfully, her lungs dropping into her stomach. 

“Mom!” Pope smiled as Mrs. Heyward walked in through the door. 

“Hey, Sweetie. Where’s that friend of yours?” 

Pippa was still on the ground, her eyes squeezed shut. Her heart pounded in her ears and her fingers curled against the tile beneath her. She just had to stand up and smile, that was all. It was just Pope’s mom. She was safe. 

Letting out a struggling breath, Pippa pushed herself up onto her feet. 

“Slipped,” she said simply, attempting to smile at Mrs. Heyward. 

“Happens to everyone.” Mrs. Heyward handed a bag of groceries off to her son and approached Pippa, her arms open for a hug. 

“Mom,” Pope said. “She’s not into hugs.” 

Mrs. Heyward stopped in her tracks, but her smile never once faltered. 

“That’s okay. It’s not for everyone. I’m Pope’s mom. We’re glad to have you here.” Pippa could feel her breath growing short, the squeezing her chest never once letting up as she tightened her hands into fists. Adrenaline ran through her. She tried to cover it up with a smile. “Would you like to stay for dinner?” 

Pippa gave a quick shake of her head. 

“No, I should be getting home.” She tried not to run for the door. “Text me, Pope.”

Plucking her purse off the ground and shoving her feet into her shoes, Pippa barely heard Pope or Mrs. Heyward give their goodbyes as she raced outside. 

“That was strange,” Mrs. Heyward said, setting her things on the counter. 

“Yeah.” Pope let out a deep sigh. “She’s strange person.” 

“Pope Heyward.” Mrs. Heyward gave Pope’s shoulder a light pinch. “Don’t ever say that about a girl.” 

“I don’t think she would take it as an insult.” Pope’s gaze shifted toward the door, his eyes lingering. 

Had she known that he wanted to ask her to the dance? Was that why she ran away so fast? Or was it something else? Something about her that he didn’t yet know that made her scurry away? 

Pope wondered if she would ever let him find out. 

                                                               ***

“Well, look at that, Heyward.” Pippa grinned as she slapped their final report onto their lab table. “That’s an A for us.” 

Pope took the paper and admired the big, red letter. A smile broke out across his face. 

“God, you’re such a nerd,” Pippa laughed, sitting on her stool and giving herself a small push so the chair swiveled around in a circle. 

“I’m the nerd?” Pope asked, mock offended as he put the paper back onto the table. 

“You’re on the Mathletics team,” Pippa said. “I’m pretty sure you qualify as a nerd.” 

Pope felt a small laugh shake through him. He watched Pippa look up at the clock and sigh. 

“Last class together,” Pope said. His lips twitched as he rested his arms against the table. Whatever feeling was in Pippa’s eyes faded and she let out a scoff. 

“You sound like we’re dying once that clock strikes 9:30. It’s just summer,” she said. 

“But we don’t know if we’ll have classes together next year or not,” he said. Pippa sighed again, but it was smaller. She tried to hide it as she brushed her hand against her nose. 

“That’s the way the dice fall sometimes.” 

“We could hang during the summer though, right?” He didn’t care if he sounded desperate. 

“Maybe.” But her answer was clear by the way her gaze fell to the floor. She wasn’t interested in hanging out over the summertime. Pope just wished she would tell him why. 

The bell overhead rang. Pippa took her time pulling her backpack onto her shoulders. Pope stayed where he was. She offered something to him. 

“Forgot to give this back,” she said, refusing to look at him. In her hands was his t-shirt, the one he had given her all the way back in March. “That’s my bad.” 

Pope looked at the shirt and pulled it from her hands. 

“Don’t take it personal,” she said and let out a heavy breath. “It’s better this way. Yeah, it’s better.” 

With that, Pippa fell into the stream of kids leaving the classroom, disappearing almost instantly. 

                                                           ***

Pope fiddled with the phone in his hand. His thumb hovered over the call button on her contact. He hadn’t seen her since that last day of school, actively avoiding the secondhand shop where she worked with her grandmother. 

“What are you waiting for?” JJ groaned. “Just call her, dude!” 

Pope glowered at his friend and pressed the button while his irritation was still strong enough to overcome his fear. 

The line rang once, twice, three times. The fear returned. She wasn’t going to pick up. She would see his contact on her phone and ignore him. He was sure of it.

“Hey, Pope, waddup?” Pope smiled at the sound of her voice. She sounded so normal, as if they had just spoken yesterday and not an entire month ago. 

“Hi, Pippa, how are you?” 

“Pretty good. How are you?” 

“I’m doing good.” 

“Cut the shit,” JJ hissed, throwing a pebble at Pope’s head. Pope swatted his arm in JJ’s direction, sneering. 

“I have a question for you.” 

“Clearly.” He could hear her hesitant laugh from the other side. 

“You’re not asking her on a date, man!” John B was impatiently waiting from the side, his hands on his hips. Kie took a step toward him and Pope met her gaze. There was encouragement beneath her eyes, and she gave him a small nod. 

“Pippa, what do you know about the Royal Merchant?” 

He could hear her breath hitch in her throat as she fell silent. 

“I know a shit ton about the Royal Merchant. Why?” 

There was excitement in her voice, her thirst for adventure radiating through the phone. 

“My friends and I need your help. Can you meet us at the Wreck?” 

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.” He could hear her shuffling around her room. 

“See you there. Bye-” 

The line went dead. Pope breathed out through his nose, pulling the phone away from his ear. 

“So?” Kie asked, taking another step closer. 

“She’s meeting us at the Wreck in ten,” Pope said, turning to his friends. John B clapped his hands together and started toward the van. 

“To the Wreck then,” Kie said. She put a hand on Pope’s shoulder and smiled. His stomach flipped. “Good job.” 

“I don’t see why we need this chick anyway,” JJ huffed as they headed toward the van.

“I doubt she’ll even want a cut of the gold at all,” Pope told his friend. 

“Bullshit. No way she’d do this for free.” 

“I’m serious.” 

“You have the weirdest friends, Pope,” JJ said with a roll of his eyes. 

“You’re my friend, dumbass.” 

“His point stands,” John B interrupted, a never faltering smile on his face. “Let’s go get that gold.” 

                                                          ~~~

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0814

Fic Submission for @friendly-neighborhood-exchange: By: @gr-eet​ for @badmcuposts​ Rating: Teen+ Warnings: Hydra!Peter, brief discussion of human experimentation, torture, and kidnapping. Read at your own risk. Words: 19k Characters: Tony Stark, Peter Parker, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanov, Mentioned (Bucky Barnes, Pepper Pots, Norman Osborn, Wanda Maximoff, Curt Connors, Secretary Ross)

Summary: Tony scrolls through all of the documents then, trying to ignore the nagging feeling in the back of his mind that something is really wrong. Each document he skims through only solidifies this feeling in his gut until its crawling up the back of his throat like bile. Osborn and his disgusting ambition somehow found a way to justify human experimentation for his cross-species bullshit. And it all seems centered on this TS 08-14 individual.   

All he feels for that brief, fleeting moment of consciousness is pain. That’s all he knows now: pain. It’s not always the same type of pain. Sometimes it’s sharp and it takes his breath away as needles dig into his skin. Sometimes it’s dull and throbbing, the waves of agony rolling on him in waves, worsening with each breath he takes. Sometimes it’s so bright and blinding that all he sees for hours is white. He can sometimes feel his teeth crack as he bites down on a thick, rough object wedged between his lips. Whenever he’s awake, it’s just pain. He vaguely remembers a time where the pain wasn’t a constant. He remembers warmth in the form of a golden smile and a warm embrace, but each time the faceless men with white coats visit him, he remembers less and less of that warmth. It grows colder with each passing minute. 

“We’ll need another round of Benzos,” a voice says. It’s a voice he recognizes as one of the faceless men. But as he cries out in agony, teeth and jaw clenched, body rigid, he’s not sure which one it is. “We can’t keep working with the Паук squirming.”

He hears a sickening crack, and another sharp wave of agony strikes through his side. It takes his breath away; he’s gasping against the cold, metal slab beneath his bareback. It’s so cold. He’s always been so cold. 

“Boss, the mutation has severely altered… his body burns right through…” The words are lost to him in his pained haze. He tries so hard to latch onto each word. It’s impossible, it’s always been impossible. He feels a prick and an insufferable burning in his arm before a familiar heaviness seeps into his bones. It spreads through his body like water, and with each passing second, the excruciating pain dulls into a constant buzz in the background. In only these moments, he finds rest. 

“So Hydra has another little base doing their lame science experiments,” Tony says as he faces Steve, arms crossed against his chest. “What’s that got to do with us right now, Rogers? I’ve got a gala to attend, and you know, I’ve really got to put more thought into what I’m going to wear. The red satin is really calling my name, but Pepper thinks that sapphire-”

“Tony, focus for one second please?” Steve says with his arms crossed against his chest. He’s staring at Tony with as much disappointment as he is sure Rogers can muster. It’s impressive, really. “We’ve made good progress destroying major Hydra bases. All that is left are the smaller, sister locations. That doesn’t mean that they aren’t equally as dangerous.” 

“Can you even uncross your arms, Rogers? Like, is it even physically possible?” Tony asks, tilting his head as he looks at the Captain. It’s not that he’s totally against the raging excitement of taking down a useless little Hydra base. The suit was itching for a run-in with some bad guys, but he really did need to attend this party. Not for himself, really, but Pepper would have his head on a silver platter if he didn’t at least pull through with one Stark Industries event this year. “Why do you need me? I mean, I’m flattered to know you have such a big crush on me. But I’m sure it’s nothing you and Romanov can’t do yourselves.”

“Usually you’re the one talking us into doing stupid things.” Natasha quips from her place across the room, although her voice is too weary to seem teasing. She stands against the kitchen counter, arms braced against the granite behind her. “C’mon, you’re too lazy to show us up?”

“Not lazy,” Tony insisted. “Just self-concerned. I, for one, don’t see anything wrong with that.” Again, he’s self-concerned because he knows that if he misses this gala that Pepper will have his head. But he thinks that Steve and Natasha don’t need to know anything about that. His fear of his girlfriend should be kept entirely to himself. Otherwise, he’s sure Rogers will use it against him. 

“Tony,” Natasha huffs, stepping forward from her place by the kitchen counter. “You know it’s serious if I’m asking you for help.” The corner of her mouth tilts up in a half-smirk. She kept walking until she stood in front of Tony, arms crossed. She looks up at him, expression shifting into something more jaded. “It’s Oscorp. We think they’re making mutants, like the twins.”

Her words give Tony pause. It’s been a while since he’s heard any wind of the rotten Osborn and his company. It wasn’t long ago that the bastard horrifically failed at his attempts at using cross-species DNA mutation to solve medical crises across the globe. Tony’s fairly certain that that fiasco ended with him imprisoning a very scaly, slimy Dr. Curt Connors in the Raft. However, that was over three years ago, and Norman Osborne managed to cover it all up and the world would be none the wiser to the mad science hidden in Oscorp’s walls. Really, Tony hates the building more than anything. A tall, slate black skyscraper in the middle of Manhattan? It’s tactless and ugly if Tony has anything to say about it. At least Avengers Tower has some character to it. Now they’re involved with Hydra of all people? 

Tony’s sure his luck is just rotten at this point. Hydra and Oscorp in one day? It’s like the universe is screaming for his overinflated ego to get involved and rub their sorry faces into the dirt just one more time. “The last thing we need after Sokovia is more mutants running around,” he says. “I’ll bite. You get in there, free a bunch of mutants? What’s your plan there, Spangled?”

Steve breathes a deep sigh. He moves from where he stands near the doorway towards Natasha and Tony. Tony still thinks he looks a bit constipated. “On our last raid in Oslo, we found… files in their databases. I think they’ve been drawing our attention to these bigger outposts to distract us from something bigger going on.” He pulls a thumb drive from his back pocket, holding it up between two fingers to show Tony. “We think Oscorp is involved in this smaller base, but we need you to look at these and tell us where and who they come from.” 

Natasha stares up at him, face like a stone. “We wouldn’t come if it wasn’t serious, Tony. This is bad.”

Tony presses his mouth into a line. “Gotta admit, Stripes, didn’t think you knew how to work a flash drive.” He extends his hand out as an invitation. “Give it here. If we’re going in, I better know that it’s actually worth it.” 

Steve tosses him the flash drive, and Tony turns it over in his fingers. He doesn’t waste a second spinning his chair around to face his laptop. He pushes his glasses up further on the bridge of his nose as he plugs it into the side. “Got some data coming in, Fri,” he says. Before he can finish the sentence, virtual files unfold themselves on his laptop screen, extending out into holograms across the desk and through his glasses lenses. There are thousands of files, each titled with an encrypted code that Tony can’t decipher at first glance. 

“There are 14,657 files stored on this drive, sir,” FRIDAY speaks across the speakers. Natasha and Steve move in closer, their eyes glued to the broad spread of undecipherable data and folders across the table. “Where would you like to begin?”

“Scan all the files,” Tony says. “See if you can grab anyone’s faces from any of this and run it through the database.” 

“On it, boss.” The display of holographic files starts to turn and flip, each image and document from every folder folding out like a deck of cards. FRIDAY moves quickly, unraveling each folder and zip file until only a few images are pulled up on his screen. The first shows a group of three men standing in a room. To Tony, it seems like nothing more than a slightly glorified solitary confinement cell. Even the cells at the Raft rivaled this tiny space. But what stands out most to him is the three men. They wear large, white medical masks that obscure most of their faces. All he can see are dark, steely eyes staring back at him through the camera. “Play it back for me, FRIDAY.”

White noise fills the room as the video starts. The man in the middle- the tallest of the three- steps forward and looks down at his clipboard before he speaks. “TS 08-14,” he reads. “Day 15 of Prototype testing, beginning now.” The clip ends there, leaving the three of them in a moment of stunned silence. Tony notices a timestamp in the bottom left corner of the video: January 4th. Two weeks ago. 

Without comment, Tony swipes away the previous recording and selects the last photo. It’s a frame from what seems to be a security camera -- a man in a suit stands in an empty hallway with a phone pressed to his ear and a lab coat draped over his arm. Tony grabs the corners of the image, stands, and enlarges it over the whole table. “I’ll be damned. Osborn, the son of a bitch.” 

“His name and Oscrop were all over the files in the base in Oslo,” Natasha says. Her eyes move to Tony’s as they both look away from the projection. 

“And if he’s getting involved with Hydra, it means he’s up to no good,” Tony muses aloud. He knows Norman Osborn, unfortunately, and as hard as it is to admit, he’s not that different from Tony himself. He seems to have a few more screws loose than himself, but Osborn has always been the man to go beyond the limits for his science. Tony knows his limits. He knows when he needs to stop. When his work is no longer used for good. He doesn’t think Norman Osborn has this same capability. The man has proved himself time and time again to be unhinged. “Wouldn’t be surprised if…” Tony pauses for a moment. He’s got an idea as to what Osborn could be up to.

Steve moves to Tony’s right, placing a hand on his shoulder. He tries to catch Tony’s eye, but he’s too deep in thought. “Tony, what is it?”

Tony shakes Steve’s hand off of his shoulder. “FRIDAY, do a deep dive. Search for anything with the words cross-species or hybrid.” If Osborn felt the need to team with Hydra, then that meant he needed help with something. Something he’s failed at before in the past. 

“He’s trying again?” Natasha balks. “After what happened with Connors?”

“Isn’t insanity doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results? Einstein said that, right?” Steve ponders, moving to the opposite side of the table to try to see what FRIDAY is unraveling. Several files pop up across the screen, all with different encrypted labels and dates ranging from August 2014 to three days ago. 

“That’s actually a myth. Einstein never said that,” Tony teases. “As much as I think Osborn is a nutcase, I’d chalk this up to Hydra having the resources that Osborn doesn’t. I just don’t know why.”

Tony opens the most recent document, dated just a few days before the video that he watched. When it opens, it looks like some kind of medical lab report. The top left corner reads TS #08-14, and below it are several charts like electrolyte levels, a complete blood count, cholesterol levels, and pages upon pages of EEG charts. He scrolls through, unsure of how to interpret the overwhelming amount of medical information and jargon. At the very bottom, there’s a handwritten note. 

TS #08-14 exhibits adequate progress in Prototype testing. The patient is alert and disoriented to time and place. The patient is tachycardic and hypertensive but is now easily subdued with enhanced tranquilizers. The patient presents with no memory. Receptive to Electroconvulsive Therapy, plan to continue with this treatment as indicated. The projection for 08-14 deployment on track. Cross-species mutation and enhancement considered successful for the first trial.

“That’s what they did to Bucky,” Steve mutters under his breath, starting at the report with a mixture of horror and confusion. “The therapy-- it’s how they completely wiped his memory.”

Tony scrolls through all of the documents then, trying to ignore the nagging feeling in the back of his mind that something is really wrong. Each document he skims through only solidifies this feeling in his gut until its crawling up the back of his throat like bile. Osborn and his disgusting ambition somehow found a way to justify human experimentation for his cross-species bullshit. And it all seems centered on this TS 08-14 individual. 

“There’s a video attached to this file, boss. Would you like to open it?” FRIDAY asks, breaking the silence. 

Tony goes silent for a moment. He’s not sure he wants to see it. A gross, selfish part of him wants to stuff this in a drawer, eat a nice dinner with Pepper, and go to this stupid gala. But he knows he can’t. He hates to admit, but Natasha and Steve are right. He was sure that they had eradicated whatever human-experimentation whackjobs were left in the fragmented Hydra structure, but he was wrong, and now someone is in danger.

“Open it,” Natasha says. She’s now standing opposite of Tony and Steve, her arms crossed over her chest as she stares at the hologram in anticipation. The video plays without a beat of hesitation. It’s footage from a security camera poised at the top corner of a room. Tony immediately recognizes it as the bland, white solitary room from the first video, but instead of three masked men in white, there’s a figure sitting upright in the bed. Despite the low quality, Tony can immediately tell its a young boy, no older than 16 years old, sitting on the bed with his head hung low and hands tangled in the sheets pooled in his lap. He can only see the side of the kid’s face which is completely covered by a mess of curly, matted brown hair.

As the video carries on, the boy doesn’t move. He sits still in that bed like a statue, so still that Tony thinks for a moment that it’s a freeze-frame rather than a clip. A heavy feeling settles into his gut. He should’ve listened. “A child,” he says, somehow standing angry, confused, and dumbfounded all at once. 

“Yes,” Natasha replies, her face stone-cold and her mouth set in a thin line. There’s no hint of emotion on her face. Her gaze flicks over to meet Tony’s, something determined and stern there, before turning on her heel and walking towards the exit. 

She pauses for a moment as she reaches the door, tilting her head ever so slightly to the side. “We’re leaving tomorrow,” she calls coldly, before walking out of the room.

“What is your name?” 

He forgets his name. It’s somewhere deep inside his head, but it hurts too much that he can’t be bothered to search for it. That’s how they start each day, asking him his name. He used to answer it with his own-- that much he remembers-- but the sound of his own name is foreign to him now and he forgets. They seemed pleased now that he forgets his name, but he also forgets his new name, which makes the faceless men angry. 

He doesn’t respond this time when they ask him. They want him to answer a specific way, and they’ll hurt him if he doesn’t. But something in him tells him that it’s wrong-- that he shouldn’t say what they want them to, because it isn’t true. At least, he thinks it isn’t true. 

“I said, what is your name?”  They seem angrier than before. He doesn’t look at them, his eyes glued to the surface of the shiny table he’s sitting at. He can almost see his reflection in the stainless-steel. They’re going to hurt him. If he doesn’t answer, that means he’s not ready yet and they’ll put the thick, metal band around his head again. They’ll strap him down into that chair and all he will feel is pain. Every hair on his body stands up, and he feels the fear creep under his skin, crawling like an army of insects and screaming for him to get out. Danger, his body cries out, but he can’t answer it, chained down to the table by his wrists and ankles. 

“I… it’s,” he tries. The words are falling flat on his tongue, and despite the desperation nestled in his chest, he cannot say the words. He hears the faceless man’s deep sigh of disappointment. The boy curls his fingers around the arms of the chair and the metal crumples underneath his touch. The sharp edges of the bent alloy slicing into his palm and pads of his fingers. The pain is dull, and he almost welcomes it as a disruption to the dull white noise constantly buzzing in his head. 

“Паук,” the faceless man says. His voice is cold and unforgiving when he speaks. “You’re a Паук designed to obey. Won’t you obey, boy?” 

The boy suffocates in his silence. He’s biting at his tongue, too afraid to speak. They’re going to hurt him again. He’s failed-- he is only meant to obey. He can’t even obey. He hears the man to the left stand, moving around the table to stand at the boy’s side. He snaps his neck around, unable to ignore the scream of terror his senses give as the man draws close. There’s a prick in the side of his neck, and the world turns on its axis. He registers hands grabbing him from all sides, a thick copper ring clasped around his neck as he’s forced into a new chair.

He can’t see or hear. The world passes by in twisted, colorless blurs, but he knows where he is based on the cold plunge of dread barrelling through his stomach. There’s something locked onto his head, and he can feel the whirring of the machine staring vibrate throughout his entire body. “Please, no,” he whispers, though he can’t hear the sound of his own voice over the roaring of blood in his ears and the sharp ringing that’s screaming at him to RUN. 

The haze clears just enough to hear the faceless man’s final request. “I’ll ask you one last time.” His voice is dripping with venom that causes his blood to run cold. “What is your name?”

The only thing he can manage is a pitiful whimper. The fear is so debilitating that he can’t move, he can’t breathe. He can’t do anything but suck in strangled breaths through his trembling lips, strain his wrists against whatever cold restraints, and wait for the pain to come.

When Tony meets with Steve and Natasha that next morning, he is not well-rested. Not that sleeplessness is new-- he’s gone several nights in a row with 30 minutes of sleep and sixteen cups of caffeine-- but it’s been the first time in months that something other than his own trauma and self-destructive behavior kept him awake. He spent the majority of the night standing in his lab, the Hydra files pulled up and organized across the entire room. He managed to make some resemblance of a timeline. There was no evidence of this base even existing before August 2014, when the first documentation of TS #08-14, who he assumes is the kid in the security footage, was created. Since then, there have been weekly reports, updates, and test results for subject TS #08-14 up until a few days ago, January 15, 2016. 

He tried running pieces of the kid’s face through any type of database or scanner that he could to no avail. Nothing from foster care or missing person cases from all over the country. It was as if the kid never went missing, or as if he didn’t even exist to begin with. There was absolutely no paper trail that Tony could find to link this kid in the video to anything or anyone across the globe. It kept him up for hours, as did the files he couldn’t access with the encryption codes embedded into them. Typically, Tony could decrypt codes like these in his sleep. However, he wasn’t sure if its the sleep deprivation or if maybe for once in his sorry life Osborn has actually outsmarted him, he can’t get them to budge. 

His night is also ruined by the very difficult conversation he has with Pepper when he, yet again, has to bail on another Stark Industries gala. He knows that she understands, deep down, but the feeling of disappointing her is one of the worst things he thinks he can feel. Well, other than the knowledge that there’s a kid in an underground hydra base and he almost completely abandoned him for a gala he didn’t want to go to in the first place.

So he prepares to raid the base with heavy, dark bags beneath his eyes and his nerves buzzing. He prepares his newest suit-- the Mark 46-- as Captain Rogers straps his shield to his arm and Natasha waits for them by the car. She seems just as pissed and impatient as she did yesterday. He can’t blame her now. He can be insufferable, he knows, but he’s ready to help them bust down the last of these Hydra bases, and hopefully, that will be the end to both them and the madman Osborn. 

“I trust you’ll get us into Oscorp without an issue,” Natasha says as Rogers walks over to meet her by the car. She prepares to get into the driver seat, securing the gun at her waistband as she watches the rest of the Iron Man suit close around Tony. “We’ll meet you there.” 

Tony watches as the two climb into the car, taking off towards midtown. For now, Tony has a slightly less low-key job he has to do. He should’ve guessed that Osborn was too far up his own ass to base his secret experiments anywhere other than the Oscorp building itself. He wishes that maybe the mission will go just a little bit wrong, that way he could erase that hideous building from New York’s skyline. It’s a wishful thought, but no, the priority is to bust these assholes and make sure that Hydra and Oscorp won’t crawl out from the remains like a cockroach. Best case scenario, they’ll be able to release whatever sorry souls are trapped in there, and then that will be it. He’ll make it up to Pepper, throw a whole fundraiser in her name, end world hunger, and all that shit. He’s just got to take care of this first.

He takes flight, FRIDAY’s HUD directing him towards Midtown. It isn’t long before the towering, black building enters his sight, giant silver letters spelling OSCORP vertically across the side. Tacky. Tony thinks that Osborn really needs to hire a new architecture, but he, unfortunately, won’t have the opportunity once he’s thrown into jail. Hell, maybe he’ll share a cell with his best buddy Dr. Curt Connors, Tony jokes to himself. 

“Arriving at Oscorp Industries at 200 feet,” FRIDAY tells him as he approaches the building. Tony takes a nose dive into the busy streets of Midtown. Taking the front door wasn’t really his style, but Rogers insisted that crashing through the top stories of the lab was gratuitous. He wasn’t wrong, but that doesn’t mean Tony isn’t bitter about it.

He lands on the sidewalk directly in front of Oscorp’s revolving front doors, the pavement beneath his iron-clad boots cracking from the force. He wastes no time peeling the suit from him, the iron and machinery folding down again and again until it sat in his hand in the form of a briefcase. It’s a new addition he managed to whip up last night during his long, sleepless hours in his lab. He holds the briefcase in his left hand, reaching up to fix the collar of his shirt before he steps inside. 

There are people staring as he enters Oscorp’s lobby. A group of what looks like high school students stand to the far right, tucked against the back of the wall beneath a giant screen with the newest Oscorp project statement playing on a loop. They’re no longer paying attention to their teacher, their heads turned around like owls to stare at Tony Stark as he strolls through the front doors of Oscorp Industries. Tony hopes there are no paparazzi or press around. The last thing he wants is for a picture of him standing anywhere near Oscorp to exist. He shudders at the thought of it.

He walks to the desk, the frail-looking woman sitting behind it staring at him with disbelief when he clears his throat to get her attention. “Mr. Stark,” she fumbles, standing up behind her desk and reaching up to push her glasses further up her face. “What are-- How can I help you?”

“I’m here to see Norman,” he says. He leans against the desk, his elbow braced on the marble as he bears forward to look at the elderly receptionist. He glances down at her nametag. “Linda, dear. If I could just slip past you here.”

The woman, Linda, starts clicking at her keyboard, squinting between Tony and her computer screen in confusion. Obviously, he actually has no scheduled meeting with Osborn. He’d rather be caught dead than in that man’s conference room. “I’m sorry but I don’t see any such meeting on Mr. Osborn’s schedule,” she stammers.

“Ah, well you see it was more of a last-minute arrangement,” Tony says, rubbing at his brow with his free hand. Linda reaches a hand towards her earpiece as if moving to make a call, and Tony sucks in a sharp breath. “Best not to call him, I know how precious Norman’s time really is.” 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stark, but I really can’t just let you in without authorization. I’m sure Mr. Osborn wouldn’t mind me calling.” Before Tony can come up with another excuse, her hand is on her ear, and Tony can hear the muffled dial tone through the phone.

He sighs in faux defeat, twisting around to take a glance over the entire lobby. With his back facing Linda, he clears his throat, reaching a hand up to fix the position of his glasses on the bridge of his nose. “Intercept that call would you, FRI?” 

“On it.” He turns back to find Linda speaking to someone on the other side. She can’t seem to get a word in edgewise, and Tony holds his breath. If Norman catches wind that Tony Stark is here to see them, it will bust their plan wide open before it even has a chance to begin. He picks at the cuffs of his shirt as he waits, trying to mask his nerves as Linda speaks a hushed goodbye and taps on her earpiece once more.

All suspicion she seems to hold against Tony falls away. “I just spoke to Mr. Osborn’s assistant,” she says, plastering a large grin across her wrinkled face. Tony smiles back at her, trying not to look as pained as he feels. Linda opens a drawer beneath her desk, pulling out a guest pass and handing it to Tony. He tries not to feel offended. A guest pass? For Iron Man? “You can go ahead, I’m sure you know where Mr. Osborn’s office is. I’m sorry for the trouble, sir.”

“No trouble, dear,” he says with a wink. He tightens his grip around his briefcase, taking the guest pass and clipping it to the front of his shirt with poorly-hidden disgust. He wastes no time headed towards the entrance gate to the left of the receptionist’s desk. He steps up to the large, slate elevators, pressing the down button. He glances over his shoulder; no one seems to be too keyed on his presence now that he’s left the lobby. Now the only people that pass him by are business officials with their heads shoved too far up their Bluetooth headsets to notice him. The elevator arrives in a beat, and he steps in, spamming the close door button. They slide shut. There are three buttons beneath the lobby floor, and Tony presses the last one, but the elevator beeps at him. He furrows his brow and notices the fingerprint scanner beneath the last button. As idiotic as Osborn was, he at least knew how to protect his darkest secrets. 

“FRIDAY. Let’s get into the mainframe, see if we can’t persuade this bad boy to go down.” He rests the suitcase at his feet, turning his head to see the tiny lens of a security camera embedded into the steel ceiling of the elevator. “And let’s knock out that camera while we’re at it.”

Tony watches as code dances across his glasses lenses, and he searches for the override key that he knows Osborn is too idiotic to hide from his mainframe. It’s as easy to hack into the central system as it was back when he put Dr. Curt Connors away, just with some more firewalls. It’s child's play compared to what Tony is dealing with. It makes him wonder even more why Hydra, a top-secret organization that has been working in secret for decades, would work with Norman Osborn, the most moronic genius Tony has ever had the displeasure of meeting.

As the last piece of code flies across his lenses, he instructs FRIDAY to push past this last firewall, implementing his own little invisible virus to disable their algorithms. “And we’re in business,” he says as he presses on the bottom floor button once more. The button lights up, the fingerprint scanner fizzling out until only a black screen remains. 

“Security camera disabled, boss,” FRIDAY informs as the graphics on his HUD disappear as quickly as they came. Tony smiles with satisfaction, picking up his briefcase once more as the elevator starts its descent. 

At the bottom floor, the doors slide open and Tony is met with what looks like a glorified storage room. Thick, metal containers line the walls on all sides with numbered locking panels on the sides. He looks at them warily as he walks through the narrow hallway, approaching the doorway at the end. The next room is just another hallway void of the shipping containers. There are two doors on either side of him with labels in silver plating across their metal surface. They seem mundane enough: a boiler room and crypto-storage. He moves towards crypto-storage first, checking over his shoulder before approaching the door. There’s what appears to be an iris-scan lock on the door, which FRIDAY makes quick work of. Within a second, Tony’s shoving the door open. 

The room is freezing; Tony can instantly see his breath the moment he steps into the room. A soft, emerald glow basks the room, the light illuminating from clear glass containers taking up every inch of the room. In one glass case, there’s what Tony thinks is an ant farm, but the ants are alarmingly large. They’re frozen in place as if time had stopped in the middle of them constructing their home. The sight is unsettling. Tony swallows a lump forming in his throat.

At the back of the room, there’s a large display that takes up the entire back wall. There are multiple subdivisions in the class case-- at least 15 of them-- each filled with a singular branch, and…. spider-webs? He struggles to hold down a shiver of disgust. Spiders aren’t the most loveable creatures, he thinks, biting his lower lip. He approaches the cases and sees a singular spider occupying each box. He first stares at one in the center-- its body is bright blue and about as large as Tony’s palm. Its legs are long, thick, and black as night. It’s frozen as well, stuck in a place where it was sitting perched on the slender branch. Tony notices half-eaten flies and crickets littering the bottom of the case. He steps to the side, looking to the next spider. But the case is empty, to his surprise. In fact, it’s the only case out of all 15 that is empty.

There’s a label on this case. It’s a series of numbers that Tony isn’t sure how to decipher, but he sees a few numbers that strike him as familiar-- 0814-- and beneath the numbers is a singular word: dead. He’s not sure what it means, but despite his curiosity, he knows he can’t stand around and try to figure it out. He can’t waste precious time exploring Osborn’s dirty secrets. Well, he is exploring his dirty secrets, just not these ones. He’s got human experimentation and torture beneath his feet that he needs to figure out first. If he has time before his dinner reservation with Pepper, he’ll come back to solve the mystery of the missing spider. 

“Can’t waste any more time, FRIDAY,” he whispers. “Can you see anything beneath me? Any secret lairs I should know about?” His glasses burst to life and he can see holographic outlines of structured beams and tunnels beneath him. Bingo. 

“There seems to be an extensive structure beneath this boiler room. It extends at least two miles deep,” FRIDAY reports. A red line travels across the holographic floor plan, leading him out of the crypto-storage room and across the hall. “There’s an entrance in this room. I can see what seems to be an elevator shaft leading down into the basement.”

“How convenient for me,” he remarks with a triumphant smirk. He turns his heel, leaving the creepy spider cemetery behind as he leaves the storage room, shoving the door shut behind him. He heads straight for the boiler room, the eye-scanner already short-circuiting before he even has time to reach the door. 

In the boiler room, he finds what appears to be a trap door. It’s hidden behind the large furnace on the left side of the room, practically camouflaged against the ground. If Tony hadn’t asked FRIDAY to scan the room, he would’ve easily missed it. It has an old, snake-like symbol stamped into the metal. He can’t see any retina scanner, fingerprint sensor, or even a simple keypad keeping the hatch locked. It’s odd, he thinks, that Osborn would leave such a secretive entrance without any technological protection. He kneels down, curling his fingers beneath the lip of the door. He pulls on it with all of his strength, but it doesn’t remotely budge. This will likely be a problem best solved with Rogers’ super-strength. Or maybe a blast from his propulsors. He’ll try Rogers first. 

He taps into the comms channel through FRIDAY’s HUD. “Romanov. Rogers. You copy?”

He hears Steve respond through FRIDAY’s specs.  “Loud and clear,” he says. “We’re a minute out. What have you found?” 

“Our golden ticket,” Tony says. “There’s a trap door beneath the building in this boiler room. The structure extends a few miles down. If it’s anywhere, it’s here, but I need some help cracking it open.”

“Copy that,” Natasha responds. “We’re approaching Oscorp on the east side. Find us a way in.” 

After nearly ten minutes of searching, he finally finds a back door emptying out into an abandoned alleyway. Romanov and Rogers announce their presence through his earpiece, and by the time he opens the door into the derelict alleyway, they’re already there waiting for him. Natasha looks restless, her face pressed into a cold, grim expression with her arms held tight at her side, pistol gripped in her hand. “We’ve got a potential mutant factory under our feet and you get lost on a tour of Oscorp?” she says bitterly. She pushes past Tony into the building, her steps careful as she scans the basement they’re in. Steve follows her, and Tony lets the door shut behind them.

“First, never say mutant factory again,” Tony insists, setting his briefcase down at his feet. He kicks against the case, and it completely unravels, the metal uncurling and climbing up his legs like vines. Metal plating and wires cover every inch of him until the Iron Man suit completely reforms around him. He leaves the helmet down, watching Natasha with crossed arms. “Second, it took a shitload of finessing to get down here. That Linda lady was much harder to swoon than I expected.”

“No one asked you to flirt your way in,” Steve says, deadpanned. He takes the lead towards the boiler room, outwardly confused when he enters. Tony points him in the direction of the door hidden behind the furnace, and the three of them crowd into the small space around the hatch.

“This isn’t Hydra’s symbol,” Steve notes as soon as he sees the logo stamped into the metal trapdoor. 

“It looks more like a cheap knock-off,” Tony remarks, shifting his weight to his left side and leaning against the wall. “Poor logo design aside, I can’t hack my way through this one. Think you can muscle it open, Cap?” 

Steve leans over the trap door, curling his fingers around the lip and pulling up. Tony expects him to rip it off the hinges without any resistance, but the door hardly budges. Rogers seems surprised at this too. He readjusts his grip, bends his knees and pulls up again. Slowly, the metal creaks and the door starts to move, the heavy slab of metal tilting up and back on its hinge. Tony steps in to help, bracing his iron-clad arms on the underside of the hatch and using a little extra power to tilt it open. Steve lets out the breath he’s been holding as soon as the door falls against the cement flooring. “Haven’t had that much trouble lifting something since I was 90 pounds.” The corner of Tony’s mouth tilts.

“Was that supposed to be a joke?”

Natasha audibly stifles a groan. “We don’t have time for this,” she says. The assassin is already climbing down into what appears to be the elevator beneath the trap door’s opening. Rogers climbs down, hot on her trail, leaving Tony to stand in his own shock that the ever up-tight Captain America just told a semi-decent joke. 

“I’m being serious, that was kinda funny,” Tony defends, arms spread out at his sides as he looks down at his teammates. “Didn’t know Cap could be funny.” He drops down into the elevator behind them. There’s only one button on the stainless steel, and there’s no key or fingerprint lock to prevent them from pushing it. They’re in. 

When they enter, the first thing Tony notices is quiet. They come out into a long, white hallway that resembles a hospital. Something about it immediately makes him uneasy. It’s not that he’s particularly afraid of hospitals. It’s the quiet that unsettles him. It’s not quiet he’s accustomed to at the Tower. There’s no background humming of machinery, no distant conversation, or far-off footsteps. It’s a completely empty silence. 

The lights in the hallway are bright, and his glasses dim automatically to block out the fluorescence. There are doors on all sides of them, discrete and unlabeled. They look almost as if they are meant to be part of the wall. “You know the plan,” Steve says as he starts walking forward. His shield is raised to his chin as he advances down the hall, ducking his head around the corner where the hallway splits. Natasha isn’t far behind him, her Glock 26 drawn and her Widow’s Bite bracelets sparking to life. 

Tony raises the head plate of his suit, FRIDAY’s HUD coming to life before his eyes. In the immediate area, his AI detects no heat signatures. “Let’s find their terminal,” he whispers to FRIDAY. He can see the flow of wires and electricity pulsing through the walls, stemming from all of the doors along the sides and converging together on the ceiling. Tony follows it through the twisting, labyrinth halls until he finally comes upon a large door at a dead end, the same snake-like symbol stamped on the front. He reaches for the handle on the door, but before he can, a deafening alarm shattered the quiet. 

The hallway is blanketed in red in a second, flashing with each pulsation of the alarm. 

The boy doesn’t know why the alarm starts, just that it jars him from his already restless slumber. His entire body buzzes with fear and anxiety. His senses are overwhelmed with suffocating danger and it’s coming from all different directions. He crawls out from under his thin sheet, pressing his back in the corner, staring at the door with wide eyes. He’s never heard this noise before, but it’s piercing and the pain that ripples through his skull reminds him of the copper headpiece they force on him when he’s been bad. It hurts, it hurts so bad he’s pressing his shaking hands against his ears. There’s danger, but the collar is locked around his neck. He’s trapped. 

The normal, binding fluorescence falls to black before harsh, red light blankets the room. The boy stares at the door. He expects the team of faceless men to burst through the door, torture on their fingertips. There’s a sudden, loud sound behind his door, and he flinches, curling in as close to himself as possible. He feels something wet and sticky on his hands, the warm substance pooling around his ears and dripping down the sides of his face. The pain is unbearable, his skull feeling like it’s splitting in two. 

There’s pounding at his door again, louder and more frantic with each passing second. He covers his eyes with trembling fingers. The terror crawls into his veins, his sense screaming at him to run, to fight, to do anything, but he can’t. He hasn’t been given instruction. He doesn’t know what to do. The thick scrap of metal around his neck prevents him from crawling up the wall into a safe corner like he does when he’s scared. He can do nothing but sit there as the metal of the door caves in and splinters. 

He looks at the last moment, and through the crimson light of the room, he sees a large silhouette with glowing white, empty eyes and a bright circular stamp at the chest. He freezes, breath caught in his throat. His fingers are burning to move, but they’re frozen where they’re locked on either side of his face. He stares unblinking at the figure, and it seems to stop in its tracks when it sees the boy. Suddenly, the figure takes a step forward, and under the dim light, he can see the glistening of metal. Something about this figure triggers something-- he thinks they may be called memories-- but he shakes the thought from his head. Memories will only get him hurt. Memories will hurt him. An iron-clad arm reaches towards him, and the boy’s eyes lock on the circular lights stamped into its palm. Fight, his instincts scream. It crawls beneath his skin and chews at his nerve endings. Get up and fight!

He launches himself from the bed, twisting the arm at the wrist and pushing the figure back. He’s shocked at the cold of metal that meets his hand when he shoves the silhouette back into the darkness of the doorway. The boy trips over his feet, the sheets from the bed tangled around his ankles as he flees to the opposite corner of the room. He stares at the camera that’s perched near the ceiling pleadingly. Usually, that camera brings him fear, but the only thing he can think now is how much he wants the faceless men to come in and save him. At least with them, he knows what to expect. 

“It’s okay,” a voice comes from the metal suit. The voice seems soothing, but it reminds him of when they speak to him through the radio in the ceiling. Cold, calculating, synthetic. He whimpers and clambers further into the corner as if it will swallow him up whole. “Kid, take a breath.” 

He wants to fight, his fingers curled so tightly into fists that he can feel the blood budding in his palm. He waits, the figure in metal standing so still by the doorway with its arms outstretched. He seems cautious, but the eyes of light that stare at him with nothing-- all he can see is the blank stare of the faceless men glaring back at him. The alarm is still blaring, and his senses are exploding and going haywire. He can hardly focus on one thing at a time, and it takes all of his strength to hear what the intruder is saying. The figure lifts an arm slowly to its head. 

“Turn this damn alarm off, FRI,” he whispers, but the boy can still hear it as he holds his breath. He continues to hold his breath until suddenly the alarm stops. He still cowers in the corner, shell-shocked and dumbfounded. He can’t remember a time when he’s seen anyone other than the men in white. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t remember any face or any name. In the few seconds he’s managed to see himself in the reflection of his empty dinner bowl, he doesn’t even recognize the person staring back at him. That’s why he stares in wonder at the intruder when suddenly the metal falls away and someone is staring back at him. His hair is dark and his face is pulled taut. The boy can’t recall the last time he’s seen such a face, but the moment they lock eyes he feels an undeniable amount of recognition spark in his brain. It’s a deep, hidden part of his brain. But it’s there. He recognizes this man, but he’s never seen him before. His headaches. 

The man won’t turn away from him, and he slumps in the corner with defeat. There’s nothing he can do to defend himself when the collar is locked around his neck. He sucks in a shaky breath and holds it there, waiting for whatever pain the familiar man is going to inflict on him. “It’s okay,” the man says again, and now that the metal mask is gone, he sounds so human and kind. The tenderness of his voice is enough for tears to start burning in the boy’s eyes. He quickly wipes the tears away. He knows how much the faceless men hate his tears. He’s not supposed to cry anymore. 

The stranger shifts and the boy thinks he hears a muffled, distant voice before the man is speaking again, but not to him. “I found him” he mutters as if trying to be discrete. “Can you guys hold them off?” There’s a muffled reply from somewhere inside the suit he’s wearing, but he can’t understand the words. His brain is screaming at him, still reeling from the overwhelming amount of input it was trying to process at once. He stares at the stranger with wide eyes as he inches forward, his eyes taking in the entire room before locking on the collar around the boy’s neck. “That’s gotta be uncomfortable, right bud?” the man whispers, kneeling down at the knee and holding his hands out towards the boy like he was approaching a cornered, wild animal.

He gnaws on his lower lip. Bud? No one has called him that before, but the feeling it gives in his gut reminds him of the warmth he has somewhere buried in his brain. It’s distant, and each day it grows colder, but he can still feel it at times when he’s deep in sleep, or right now when he’s staring into a stranger’s eyes. The constant screaming of danger settles into the background, now a dull buzz compared to the excruciating screeching it had been before. He can finally take a breath. He breaks contact with the stranger for one second and glances down at his hands. They’re coated in blood, both from the crescent-shaped cuts in his palms and the blood pouring from his ears and spread down his jaw and neck. He pitifully whines.

“I can take it off,” the man speaks, his arms still frozen in the air where they’re outstretched towards him. There are still a few feet between them, and it takes the boy every fiber in his being to stay still, staring at the man. He has to analyze and calculate his targets, the faceless men tell him. Watch for weaknesses, they whisper in the back of his head. He shudders. But he doesn’t want to hurt the man. At least, not yet. For the first time since he can remember, his overwhelming sense of danger has almost completely subsided. He almost feels… safe. But somehow that frightens him even more. He doesn’t want to fight anymore.

“Let me take it off,” he insists, voice still low. “I can hack into it and get it off. Easy peasy.” 

He nods uncertainty, and the stranger starts to creep towards him, his steps careful and calculated. At a certain point, the boy flinches and presses himself further into the corner of the room, watching the man through the corner of his eye with distrust. What if this was a test? How would the faceless men want him to react? He can’t take off the collar, can he?

“Wait-” he chokes out, his voice hoarse from disuse. He raises his arms, shielding himself from the stranger advancing towards him. 

The man pauses in his movement, eyes staring at the boy in surprise before softening. His face is gentle and, surprisingly, he smiles at him. “It’s okay,” he whispers. “I just need to see. You’re alright.”

Next thing he knows, the man’s hand is on the collar around his neck. His fingers curl beneath the edge of it, the cool metal of his gauntlet brushing up against his neck. He flinches, trying to squirm away but the man has a tight grip on the copper band. He hears a mechanical whirring after the man whispers something beneath his breath. In an instant, the collar falls from his neck in two parts, dumping in his lap. He reaches up, shocked, rubbing at his bare neck. The man retreats a few inches back, his hands held up. “See? Isn’t that better?” 

As soon as the copper falls away, he can feel his strength return to him in surges, dancing at his fingertips. He can hear everything again, and the sound of distant shouting, gunfire, and banging catches his ears. He can hear the heartbeat of the man in front of him-- it’s fluttering and irregular, and he can tell the man in front of him is riddled with nerves. 

“Alright, up and at ‘em, kid. I know you’re probably scared, but there are a lot of bad people here. I’m sure you know that,” the man says. He glances over his shoulder, and the boy can hear the increase in his heart rate. Something’s coming. “You have to trust me.” The man extends a metal hand out towards him. 

There’s a sudden gunshot. The fear returns, crawling all over and burning through him like fire. He jolts upright, kicking aside the broken pieces of copper before launching himself towards the ceiling. He clambers along the top, launching himself out of the room. It’s the first time he’s seen this hallway, he has no idea which is the right direction but regardless he starts to run. He clambers along the walls, away from the sound of gunshots and shouting. He goes wherever his panic leads him, tries to find a corner where the constant feeling of danger will finally go away.

As he rounds a corner, he slams into something hard and solid, and he falls to the ground. The base of his skull cracks against the cold tile; his head surges with a black wave and he sees stars. He lies there, stunned, with his arms cradling his neck as he curls up into himself. He scrambles back, cradling his skull as he stares at the broadness that had blocked his path. It’s another man, his hair blond and eyes bright but troubled as they stare down at him. He looks like some kind of soldier with his tactical gear and helmet, and his circular shield poised on his arm stirred some sort of recognition. He thinks he’s seen this symbol before, but he can’t take another moment to ponder it. He swallows his fear, climbing to his feet in panic before the man secures a hand on his shoulder. “Calm down, son,” he says. “We’re here to help.” 

Instinct takes over, his vision goes black, and he’s flipping the soldier over his shoulder, twisting the man’s wrist with a sickening crack. He can’t hear the man’s strangled cry as his back slams against the tile. The boy pulls up on the man’s arm, planting his foot on his shoulder as he yanks up with as much force as he could possibly muster. There’s a short pop and tear, and the downed soldier cries out for help, hissing out a curse. He’s about to let go and run when a boot sweeps his legs out from under him and he crumples to the ground. Before he can bound to his feet, the base of his skull explodes with MOVE, but he’s sluggish. He’s been slow to understand this extra sense buzzing beneath his skin ever since they started locking that horrific collar around his throat. 

The moment he hesitates is enough for something sharp and burning to hit him in the small of the back. A ripple of blinding, white agony tears through his body, and he completely loses control of his limbs. There’s electricity running through him, seizing his muscles and stopping his breath in his throat as he crumples onto the floor. 

He’s tied to the chair again. They’re wrapping thick straps across his wrists, ankles, middle, and forehead. He can’t move, but his entire body is screaming at him to run. It’s crying out as he lies still in that chair waiting for the pain to come.

When the pain does come, it comes all at once. It’s an insufferable wave of agony that starts in his head, tightening around his skull like an iron band. The electricity dances on his skin, running from his fingers to his toes. His heart skips a beat in his chest, and over the sound of the constant, violent hum of electricity, he can hear his own heartbeat fluttering in his chest and bounding against his ribcage. They’re going to kill him. They’re going to kill him. 

He sees a woman with brown hair and kind eyes framed with emerald green glasses. He hears her whisper sweet nothings into his ears and feels the way she kisses him in his hair. He hears a name-- Peter-- and the gentle murmuring of “I love you” before what he thinks are memories are pushed far back into the darkness.

Natasha stands behind where the boy had been standing seconds prior, yanking Steve’s arm from his socket. Her wrist is still raised with her active Widow’s Bite aimed at the body convulsing on the ground. She watches carefully as he falls, the electricity jerking his muscles into a stop before its effects fade away. She expects him to leap back to his feet and lunge at her-- which is an expectation she feels with horror as she looks at the boy’s scrawny frame-- but the boy remains crumpled on the floor. His body tremors against the floor. 

When the boy is finally unconscious, only then does Tony have a moment to think. Things went south fast. To be fair, he wasn’t sure what he had been expecting when attempting to rescue an enhanced child from an Oscorp-Hydra lab. If someone were to tell Tony that this is what his Thursday night would look like a few days ago, he’d laugh in their face. Now he wishes this was just a dream. He never felt as horrified as he did when he burst into the kid’s room. When the alarms were triggered and the entire facility went into an impenetrable shutdown, he had no other way to enter the room. And after he hears the boy screaming through the metal door, he knows he has no other choice. 

That’s how he finds the boy, curled up in the corner of his bed against the wall with his hands clamped over his ears. Even beneath the red, pulsating light, Tony can see the blood pooling from the kid’s ears as he writhes at the horrific wailing of the sirens. While FRIDAY can’t undo the entire shutdown, the least she can do is disable the sound of the alarms blaring through the room. Almost immediately, he sees the child relax. 

It was one thing to see the boy in a blurry photo on his computer. It almost seems fake that way-- that the reality of this child being a subject of human experimentation is nothing more than what he would read in a Sci-Fi novel. But it’s another monster to see him in person. Tony’s never felt less equipped for a mission in his life, though he’ll never admit that to Natasha or Steve. Children have never been a demographic he has particularly appealed to in the past and thus has very little experience with. The closest he’s ever come to interacting with a damaged super-kid was with Wanda. And he’s not entirely proud of his handling of that situation. 

What haunts him the entire car ride home is the relief in the boy's eyes once he was freed from the collar. When he first saw it, Tony recognized it as a model similar to those power-suppressing collars Secretary Ross uses at the Raft. Based on how much of a fight the kid put up against Steve, Tony isn’t surprised that they would take such measures to keep him contained. If he was at his full power, he could rip those spineless bastards to bits. 

It should bother Tony that the thought of those men dying doesn’t face him. It doesn’t. 

The car ride home is a quiet affair. Natasha and Steve sit in the front, their face pale and taut as Tony sits in the back seat with the kid’s head cushioned on his thighs. The boy’s wrists are bound at the front in vibranium hand-cuffs. It’s the last thing Tony wants to do- to tie the kid up again after just setting him free- but Steve was adamant. It was for their own safety, for the child’s safety as they transported him to the tower.

If Tony says he has any clue what he will do with the little science experiment once he gets to the tower, it would be a total lie. Though he’ll never admit to that. He sits in the back seat of the car, his palm absent-mindedly resting on the kid’s burning forehead as he thinks. If Nick Fury or the rest of whatever was left of S.H.I.E.L.D find out about this, they’ll surely have a field day. It’ll be only a matter of time before Secretary Ross gets involved and throws the kid in the Raft. 

It’s a horrifying thought. Tony can’t even consider Steve Rogers spending cold, hard time in the under-water deathtrap, and Tony really didn’t like that man sometimes. He needs more time to think, more time to stall so that he can have some kind of plan in place before any government office comes raining down on Avengers tower like napalm. However, for the first time in Tony’s life, he draws a blank.

When they arrive at the tower, Steve and Tony settle the boy into a small, metal interrogation room in the basement. It’s not the place Tony would have loved to put a probably traumatized boy, but they didn’t know what they were dealing with. They had just kidnapped a Hydra-Oscorp hybrid experiment, and other than the fact that he could hold his own against Captain America, they had no idea the extent of his capabilities.

It hurts to see him in this tiny room. It’s hardly a step up from whatever hell they had the kid locked in beneath Oscorp. But Steve, ever the cautionary, insisted that the kid was too dangerous to trust yet. He was a product of Hydra, after all, and Tony had seen first hand what Bucky had been able to do. As much as he hated to admit it, Spangles was right. They have to air on the side of caution.

He stands outside of the cell on the opposite side of the one-way glass, pacing holes into the floor as he waits for the boy to wake up, Natasha leaning against the opposite wall across from him, while Steve heads to the infirmary. Inside the small room, the boy is strapped down to a chair with vibranium, his half-shaved head lulled against his chest. “Still want to go to that gala, Tony?” Natasha murmurs, her eyes unwavering from the limp figure on the other side of the glass. 

Tony can see the strain in her lips as she presses them into a thin line. Her eyes are narrowed and cold, as they usually are, but Tony can tell by the way she leans into the wall, her jaw clenched, that she’s worried for the boy. Tony can’t deny that he isn’t worried either, nor can he deny the gnawing guilt that eats away at him for trying to bail on this child. Someone who needed saving.

“First of all, I resent that,” Tony chides, planting his feet firmly into the ground and turning to face Natasha. He can’t bear to look at the kid, not yet anyway. “You don’t think I know I messed up? I get it. But we got the kid, we did what you wanted.”

Natasha shifts, her lips twitching to the side with a grimace. “I guess I just didn’t expect it to be like pulling teeth,” she says, breaking her stare at the boy and finally turning to look at Tony. “When I tell you something’s important, I mean it.”

Tony’s mouth opens before he presses it shut again. He doesn’t have a quirky comeback. He’s messed up, and he can admit it, or at least not verbally deny it. All he can offer her is a curt nod before moving towards the window. He steps up to the class, leaning his forehead against the cool surface.

He’s not sure how long the two of them stand there in a tense silence before the kid finally stirs. Tony thinks he’s hallucinating— just for a moment— before the kid’s head lazily rises from his chest. His eyes are squinted and bleary, and for the first time, Tony notices the thick purple circles beneath the kid’s eyes. His skin is ashen and translucent. The kid just looks sick. 

Tony waits for the boy to realize what happened, to realize he’s in a foreign space. He waits for him to start jerking against his restraints, to try to escape. Except, the kid doesn’t do any of that. As the cloudiness clears from his eyes and is replaced with sobriety, the kid’s shoulders roll back, his posture erect against the chair. His mouth is pressed into a line with his jaw squared off, but he doesn’t struggle. He doesn’t attempt to get free but instead stares ahead as if he can see right through the two-way mirror. Right at Tony.

“Interrogation time,” Natasha chimes, though there is no joy or amusement in her tone. She moves towards the door to the cell, but Tony catches her wrist.

“Nuh-uh.” He steps in front of the door, pressing his back to it to cut off Natasha from entering the room. ”Gentlemen first.” It isn’t that he doesn’t trust Natasha— he would trust her with his life— but something, call it his pride, insists that he has to speak to the kid immediately. Natasha can get to her business later, but Tony needs his own questions answered. 

Natasha stares at him long and hard, her eyes flickering over his face until she relents. She steps back waving Tony away with the wave of her hand. “Suit yourself.” 

Tony nods and turns to the door, fiddling with his silver cufflinks. He can feel Natasha’s presence behind him, a silent expectation in the soft lull. He presses open the heavy metal door, stepping into the barren interrogation room. 

Immediately, the kid’s eyes lock onto his. He watches with calculated silence as Tony walls forward, slowly, towards the single chair at the opposite end of the steel table. It’s nearly six feet long, but Tony is sure it won’t matter. If the kid gets loose, he could be dead in seconds. It didn’t matter if there was a table there as a buffer. But the kid shows no signs of fighting. His white-knuckles fists are baller around the arms of the chair, his honey-brown eyes bearing into Tony’s own as he finally takes his seat.

The metal chair scrapes loudly against the tiled floor, and the boy cringes away at the sound, his head ducking down in a violent flinch with his eyes scrunched shut. Tony recognizes the exact defensive posture from when he first found the boy hunched in the corner of his cell. 

“Don’t worry,” Tony says, and he can’t help but since at his attempt to sound comforting. Nurturing wasn’t his thing; he sure as hell didn’t learn it from Howard, so where else was he supposed to figure out how to talk to teenagers? “Just a loud chair. What, you’ve got super hearing or something? You could hear us coming, couldn’t you?”

The boy doesn’t say anything right away. He blinks his eyes open, squinting at the bright fluorescent light radiating from above the room. His chapped lips part, only for a moment. Then he snaps them shut. His eyes scan Tony up and down, his head tilts, and Tony swears he can see the slightest flicker of recognition in his eyes. 

“You’re Tony Stark.” The boy’s voice is gravelly and rough, probably from disuse, Tony hypothesizes. But it’s nonetheless the voice of a child. He says the name with curiosity, the edges of his lips tugging down as he speaks. Tony expects to hear a product of Hydra to speak of him with disdain and contempt. But this boy simply seems confused.

“The one and only,” Tony sighs. The boy’s faint expression of curiosity doesn’t change. “Though you look like a roughed-up cabbage patch kid, so I guess that’s Mr. Stark to you.” 

“Who’s the other one?” The kid asks. His eyes dart to the one-way mirror poised behind Tony, and a knowing smile tugs at the corner of Tony’s lips. “So you do have super-hearing, huh?” He looks over the kid— his skinny ribs, protruding collar bones, bright wide eyes. “Who are you? How old are you? Where did you come from?” He leans forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the edge of the table and clasping his hands together. “I need answers, kid.”

The boy seems taken aback at the questions— his lips parted in surprise and eyes wide as he stares at Tony. His fists are still tight from where they grasp the arms of the chairs, yet Tony can see the faint tremble in his grip. “Fifteen.”

Tony blinks. “What?”

“I’m fifteen… I think,” the boy whispers, his eyebrows knitted together. “I had a job to do, but I.. wasn’t ready yet. I wasn’t good.”

Tony fights the frown that’s tugging on his lips. He shouldn’t be surprised. This is Hydra’s entire M.O— to destroy these innocent people’s lives and turn them into superweapons. But to kidnap and torture a fifteen-year-old kid to do your dirty work? Tony wants to go back to that base and give them another beat down.

Instead, he maintains his composure and looks the boy in the eye. “That doesn’t do much for me, cabbage patch, but it is a start,” he says. “Let’s try something easy… what’s your name?”

“What is your name?!”

Zap. Pain. Bloodcurdling scream. There are hands all over him, and no matter how hard he tries to buck them off, they never let go.

“Please, don’t do this-“

Agony. It ripples through his skin like a million volts of electricity. It’s burning him from the inside out.

“What is your name?”

“Hey, kid!”

Tony isn’t sure what had happened. Upon asking for the kid’s name, the poor boy’s body went rigid, his eyes immediately springing with tears. He tried to crawl away and curl himself up in the chair, but the vibrating cuffs are keeping him bolted in place. He writhes and cries, head hung low as his breath comes in ragged and uneven pants. 

Tony stands from his chair, completely terrified. He’s sure Romanov is watching him through the mirror with the smuggest look she can muster, but Tony’s not ready to give up just yet. He was never the best at dealing with his own panic attacks, so he doesn’t even comprehend how he will approach the kid. However, with each passing second, the boy is hyperventilating more and more until Tony is sure he’s not inhaling any air at all. He rounds the table, his hands held out in a peaceful gesture. The last thing he needs is to set the boy off, but if he continues to hyperventilate his way into a panic attack, Tony will get nothing out of him. Cautiously, he inches towards the boy from the side, but he flinches from where he’s bound in the chair. The boy whips his head around, wide, tearful eyes staring Tony down with a distrustful look. He pulls his bony wrists against the vibranium cuffs, and if Tony’s eyes don’t deceive him, he’s sure that the metal is slowly bending. 

“Hey, hey.” Tony’s voice is low and quiet, and he keeps his hands out in front of him to show he’s not a threat. Without his suit, he really isn’t any kind of threat compared to this kid. “I won’t hurt you. No one’s going to hurt you anymore.”

Tony intends to keep this promise. He will figure out everything he can to keep this kid safe, even if he has to go through S.H.I.E.L.D, Nick Fury, Secretary Ross, or even Hydra to do so. The tears budding in the kid’s bright, wide eyes is enough to solidify this.

However, Tony’s words calm the kid down one bit. He’s openly crying now, ducking his head down and away from Tony’s outstretched hands. His posture is defensive and tense, his eyes scrunching shut as he tucks his chin to his chest in an attempt to make himself seem as small as possible.

“Kid, relax.” Against his better judgment, Tony rests a hand on the kid’s tense shoulder. He jerks violently at the touch before his eyes lock onto Tony’s. To say he’s unnerved by the horror in the boy’s face would be an understatement. 

“I’m supposed to hurt you.” The boy’s voice surprises Tony, and the man can only stare at the kid as anger, disbelief, and horror cross his face all at once. “That was what I was supposed to do. I had to eliminate Iron Man and Captain America. That was my mission. That… is my mission.”

Tony steps back, just a bit, but manages to keep a grounding hand on the kid’s shoulder. It’s disconcerting that the enhanced teenager had means and motive to literally murder him, but he was trapped in a room of vibranium with Black Widow watching from outside. He has to stand his ground; this is the most amount of information he’s gotten. 

“Do you want to hurt us?” Tony asks. It’s the last question he should be asking. He should be demanding more information about the Hydra-Oscorp laboratory, about why he needed to take out the two heads of the Avengers, about who was in charge. But the forefront thought on Tony’s mind is that this is a child who’s been kidnapped, manipulated, and experimented on. The kid’s face draws blank for a moment before his lips curl into a deep frown and he shakes his head. “No… Please, I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want to hurt anyone--” Tony shakes his head, his brows knitted together. “You don’t have to hurt anybody,” Tony whispers. “No one here is going to hurt you either. We just need some answers. Who… gave you that mission? Who’s in charge under that building, kid?”

The boy, his head lowered so that Tony can only look at the shaved side of his face, shakes his head. “I don’t want to talk anymore.” 

Tony takes in a sharp breath, releasing his hold on the boy’s shoulder and backing away, stowing his hands into his blazer pockets. He doesn’t want to push the kid too far-- after all, he’s basically trapped in a room with an enhanced individual who could kill him in the blink of an eye-- but he’s short on time and has way too many questions to ask.

He figures that he needs to do some of his own digging before he’s ready to talk to the kid again.

“Alright, no more talking,” Tony relents as he heads back towards the door. “Are you hungry? Who am I kidding, of course you’re hungry. I’ll make sure someone brings you some lunch. Got any food allergies I should know about?”

The boy raises his head, exhaustion tugging at each movement he makes, his eyelids drooping as he stares at Tony in mild confusion. He can’t help but think that the kid looks like a lost puppy. A really sad kicked puppy, but a puppy nonetheless. “I’ll take your silence as a no,” Tony mumbles, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. The kid is difficult to figure out, but Tony knows he has to give it time-- as much time as he can buy. “I’ll just avoid anything with nuts then.”

With that, Tony closes the door behind him, fighting the urge to look back through the window. When he enters the observation room, Natasha is long gone. Tony frowns. There goes his one safety net.

“FRI, pull up any missing kid cases in the eastern United States between 2001 and 2015.” He kicks his feet up on the table, narrowing his eyes at the array of computer monitors as FRIDAY pulls up thousands of case files from the public record. Thousands of child’s faces ranging from infants to young teenagers flash across his screen. He runs his hands over his face, humming to himself. There are simply too many cases to sort through each one. 

“Narrow it down to caucasian boys from the New York area,” he says as he watches the files consolidate to a few hundred. “Body never found.” Even fewer files, probably no more than 150 are left. Still too many to choose from. “Any of their faces match the Hydra kid, FRIDAY?” FRIDAY scans through the files in the blink of an eye, countless unfamiliar faces flashing across the screen. Tony has never realized how many children go missing in such a small area in only a few years. He makes a mental note to come back to this for his future general welfare project. Green energy can wait.

“Negative, boss,” FRI chimes, her voice tight in frustration, “But I have found one case file dated from 2007 that appears to be tampered with. It’s completely encrypted.”

Tony’s brow furrows. That definitely seems fishy. “Well, what are you waiting for, dear? Decrypt it for me.”

FRIDAY gets to work immediately, the case file pulling up though its contents are completely scrambled. It’s an intense firewall, similar to the one Tony dismantled back at the Hydra base. It isn’t anything Tony couldn’t crack, and with the help of FRIDAY, it will be a piece of cake.

“File decryption at thirty-seven percent,” she says, a small green progress bar scrolling across the bottom of the center monitor. “The firewalls are incredibly thick and complex. This may take a moment.”

Tony watches the bar scroll by bit by bit, anxiously biting at his nails as he leans far back in his chair. This is a shot in the dark, at best, and Tony might walk away from his research project none-the-wiser. However, this kid was fifteen, and he had to have come from somewhere. There must be someone looking for their son. At least, that’s what Tony hopes. It takes a special type of monster to torture children. He witnessed this first hand with Wanda. She was far too young to enter their world, but a lifetime of suffering was bestowed upon her by that one Stark Missile. Tony will never let go of that guilt, and for some reason, he can’t fully understand, he feels that guilt with this boy as well. 

“Any luck?” Tony jumps and turns in his chair to see Rogers standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed over his broad chest. He’s changed out of his uniform, now wearing a simple gray t-shirt and jeans. The domestic look is something that Tony never gets used to seeing on Steve Rogers. “What have I told you about sneaking up on me?” Tony snaps. Ever since the Battle of New York, he doesn’t particularly take well to being startled. He faces enough of that in his nightmares when he remembers what kinds of creatures live out of their reach. He shakes his head. Aliens are a problem for a different day. He turns to face the computer again, placing his feet back on the floor and leaning over the keyboard with his elbows braced on either side. 

“No luck so far,” Tony says, defeated. “The kid’s face doesn’t match any missing person records. FRIDAY detected one being tampered with back in 2007, but it’s locked behind a pretty hefty firewall.”

Steve steps into the room, standing behind Tony as he looks at the screens-- at all of the missing persons reports still displayed across the monitors. His eyes flicker from screen to screen, his eyebrows knitted together as if trying to make sense of what he is seeing. “What’s your plan, Stark?” Steve tears his gaze away from the computer to look at Tony. He sits with his back still to Rogers, staring at the small progress bar at the bottom of the screen as it inches along, though he can feel Steve’s stare in the back of his head. The bar moves little by little-- forty-six percent, fifty-nine percent, sixty-two percent, and so on. He taps his fingers on the table impatiently. He needs to reconfigure FRIDAY’s hacking mainframe.

“Tony,” Steve insists, stepping up to Tony’s side in an attempt to catch his eye. Tony has no desire to talk with him about his plans because he has no clue what he’s going to do. Caring for mutant teenagers is far out of his genius scope, so he feels like he’s a fish stranded out of water. If he doesn’t think of something quick, Secretary Ross will be on him before he can blink, and the kid will be taken from him. The child may have been kidnapped and experimented on by Hydra and Oscorp, but that doesn’t mean the rest of his life should be doomed in an underwater holding cell. The kid has done nothing wrong.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do, Spangled,” Tony sighs, shaking his head. He finally tilts his head to look at Rogers, whose eyes are narrowed and lips are tugged into a scowl. “Do you have something to add Captain Righteous, because I’m open to suggestions.” 

Steve Rogers doesn’t seem fazed by Tony’s sting, as usual, and he instead moves to face Tony, leaning against the side of the table with his arms crossed. For the love of God, uncross your arms and stop looking at me like I’m a delinquent teenager, Tony thinks. He has to hold himself back from saying it. “I don’t know, Tony,” Steve admits, the crook in his brow finally smoothing over. The man shakes his head and glances over the room. “He’s a product of Hydra, Tony. He’s dangerous.”

Tony scoffs. The nerve of this man-- everything just has to be a threat. “He’s a kid-”

“A dangerous kid,” Rogers retorts, pressing his palm on the table. Tony stares at the blond, not wanting to hear another word he has to say. “It’s hard to admit, but you saw the way he fought, Tony. He’s just like Bucky. They had to have been training him for something. Oscorp was just helping Hydra make their next super soldier.” “You seem like you’re an expert with curing Russian super soldiers, so why don’t you take point on this, then?” Tony is getting tired of hearing Steve’s voice. It’s utterly exhausting, and he can’t bear to think of that fifteen-year-old kid as anything other than a victim. He’s no super-soldier-- he’s absolutely nothing like Barnes. Tony didn’t see a single ounce of fear he saw in that kid’s face in the face of Bucky Barnes.

Steve hesitates. Tony can see the gears turning in his head as he pushes himself off of the table and paces across the room. He pauses by the opposite wall, running a hand across his jawline with thought, “I might want to bring Bucky in. He knows firsthand--”

Tony blanches and leaps to his feet, his chair sliding backward as he whips around to face Rogers. He clenches his jaw. “If you think for a moment that I will allow Barnes to come within one-hundred feet of this building, you are even more delusional than I thought. I barely managed to forgive you, but you’re a fool if you think I will--”

FRIDAY’s cool, calculating voice interrupts his tirade. “I’m sorry to interject, Boss, but I have finished decrypting the file.”

Tony shifts his weight from his right leg to the left, spinning on his heel to turn his back on Rogers and return to his seat in front of the computer. He pulls himself closer to the desk, tapping on the uploaded file in the center of the main screen. The digital document folds out, an old security photo of an alleyway pinned in the top corner as his eyes skim the following police report. “Tell me what I’m looking at, FRI.” “August 11th, 2007. Two parents and their six-year-old son were driving home along Queens Boulevard at 11:00 PM when they were rear-ended by another vehicle. The bodies of both parents-- later confirmed to be May and Richard Parker-- were found deposited in an alleyway adjacent to the crash site. Their son, Peter Parker, who was reportedly in the vehicle, was never found.”

Tony’s brow furrows at that. There was what seemed to be a minor fender bender that ended with two parents disposed of in an alleyway while their son was nowhere to be found? “Any witness reports?” Tony asks, to which FRIDAY denies. The rest of the file is suspiciously blank. There’s nothing that stands out in the report that would justify it being blocked behind mile-wide firewalls. He feels Steve step up behind him, reading over the report himself. Tony gnaws at his lower lip. If this Parker kid was six when he went missing in 2007, then he would definitely be fifteen now. This could be the kid.

Steve is the next one to speak up. “Is there a picture of Peter Parker attached to the report?” he asks. “The original missing person report seems to have a photo attached, but it’s been retroactively removed,” FRIDAY reports. “Attempting to recover now.”

On the screen, the Parker file along with all other missing person reports closes. After a tense minute in which Tony and Steve sit in silence, FRIDAY procures a single image on the screen. Tony feels as if his breath is punched from his chest.

It’s the kid-- with his eyes just as wide, brown, and innocent as they are now. His hair is long and curly in the photo, and the boy smiles. He has his hands on a fork as he stuffs birthday cake in his mouth, a small blue party head secured to the top of his head with a thin elastic band. Tony never thought he liked kids, but the innocent face staring at him through the photo is absolutely adorable. His heart aches for the child. He was stripped of this warm childhood when he was only six? The kid-- Peter, his name is Peter-- has been with Hydra for almost ten years?

“That’s him.” Tony mumbles. It still feels like a dream. He finally has a face to the name. He only has one more unanswered question. “FRIDAY, any surviving family of the Parkers?”

She’s scanning through several different files, all moving too fast for Tony to properly read before she comes across the face of a woman with long brown hair and clear-rimmed glasses. “May Parker, the wife of Richard Parker’s brother Benjamin Parker, is the only living relative in my database. She currently resides in an apartment building in the center of Queens. Would you like me to contact Mrs. Parker?” 

Tony shakes his head. “No, no, that’s enough. Thanks, FRI.” She powers down, the files on the screen disappearing until all of the monitors mounted on the desk are black. Tony scowls at the reflection in the dark screen staring back at him. He’s horrified.

He leans forward, burying his face in his hands. “He has family,” he mumbles to no one in particular. It was one challenge that there was an unnamed, unclaimed kid on his hands, but now he has a name-- Peter Parker-- and he has family that may still be wondering where the hell their baby nephew disappeared to.

“All the more reason to get help,” Steve says. Tony stirs and lifts his head from his hands, casting him a wary glance. The last thing he wants is for Rogers to get his way, but if he has any chance at fixing a boy who's been brainwashed by Hydra for ten years, he’ll need help from someone more experienced, no matter how much it may hurt his pride.

When he comes back to the interrogation room, Natasha is sitting inside. She’s poised across the table from the boy, balancing on the edge of the table. Her body language is relaxed as she speaks to the boy, whose head is hung low, his eyes bleary and exhausted. Through the glass, he can’t hear a word she is saying. Well, he hopes that she won’t mind him crashing their party.

He pushes through the door. Natasha turns to face him as he enters and clicks the door softly shut behind him. He notices a small dinner tray sitting in front of the boy, completely untouched. Peter’s face is twisted into a scowl as he stares down at his lap, eyes flickering between the sandwich and Natasha from the corner of his eyes. Natasha and Tony exchange a brief glance. She gestures to the empty chair on the opposite side of Peter. “Come sit, Tony,” she insists. “I was just trying to get him to eat.” Tony looks at the kid, then down to the plate. Forcing food down his throat obviously wouldn’t be a smart option, but the boy looks so wasted away in that stainless steel chair already that Tony’s sure he’ll be nothing but bone after another day. “No appetite, cabbage patch?”

Peter doesn’t look up at Tony when he speaks, his lips pressed into a line. He can tell by the way his tense shoulders tremble that the boy is terrified. “Don’t want to talk either? You were talking to me lots earlier, kid. Or should I say, Peter?”

The boy goes rigid, his head shooting bolt upright as he stares at Tony, tears filling his eyes. His forehead creased and his eyes started to dart around the room as if solving a complicated equation. Tony watches with unease, and he can feel Natasha staring at him from his side. 

He turns his head to face her. Her eyebrow is raised inquisitively. He nods her way, hoping she understands that she needs to trust him if they want to get anything out of this kid. The boy definitely reacted to his name, which means Tony was on the right track. From his brief conversation with Steve, he learned that making connections with his past life was the best way to clear whatever mind-control Hydra may have on him. It’s not much, but until Steve can find a way to get Bucky here quickly, this is the best Tony’s got.

“How do you-- what?” The boy finally speaks. He trips over his words, averting his gaze and staring a hole into the surface of the stainless steel table. “No, no, that’s not my name--”

“I think that is your name, bambino,” Tony says, folding his hands together and interlocking his fingers. He rests his elbows on the table, never taking his eyes off of the boy. “Peter Parker. That was your name, at least. Before whatever this is.” Peter’s eyebrows scrunch up, his mouth twisting, and his fingers starting to curl and uncurl around the arms of the chair. The cuffs are off of his wrists; Natasha probably let him lose for a moment so he could eat his sandwich, but the skin of his wrists are red and rubbed raw. “No, no,” the boy whispers. “No. You’re just trying to trick me.” Tony tilts his head. He can’t fathom why the boy would think that pointing out his name could possibly be a trick. Unless, Tony wonders, they stripped him of his name. It wouldn’t be too far of a stretch. After all, Bucky Barnes turned into the Winter Soldier upon being kidnapped by Hydra. It is expected that they would strip any of his remaining identity from him in an attempt to gain power over him. But Barnes was a grown man. Peter Parker is-- was-- a child. An unsuspecting child who has done nothing in his life to deserve this much turmoil.

“Okay, I’ll bite. What did they call you? What did they tell you your name was?” Before Peter can tense up just as he had earlier, Tony interjects. “There’s no wrong answer, kid. Just tell me the truth. No one is going to hurt you.” “Tony, what are you doing?” Natasha whispers, but he lifts a hand to her. He’s onto something, and he can’t have Romanov throwing the kid off, not when Tony has him right where he wants him. He needs to get Peter to trust him, to believe that he will do nothing to hurt him. Because it’s nothing but the truth. 

Tony wants nothing more than to take the kid under his own wing and protect him from anyone who may come for him. Realistically, however, Tony knows that he can’t do that. Not without enough information. The boy hesitates, his eyes overflowing with tears that silently roll down his reddened cheeks. Tony wants to wipe them away-- a very overwhelming yet out-of-character urge of tenderness that completely takes him by surprise. Peter looks up at him, squinting through his tears before he croaks a quiet, “No… wrong answers?”

Tony forces a slight smile onto his lips. He nods at the kid. “No wrong answers.” Peter sits for another moment as if contemplating the consequences of answering the question. Tony’s ready to admit that he hadn’t expected to get this far with the kid within one day-- he had expected a completely stoic and abrasive soldier just as Barnes seemed to be. But at the end of the day, it’s just another stark reminder that the soldier in front of him is a fifteen-year-old kid.

“They called me all different names,” the boy admits. “But they didn’t want me to… remember my old name.” 

Tony clears his throat. Patience, he reminds himself. Before he can ask further questions, Natasha beats him to it. She leans forward from where she’s perched on the table, offering the cowering boy a gentle smile. Tony thinks she’s never appeared this warm before. “What other names did they call you then?” she asks, her voice quiet. 

Another quiet tear slips out of the boy’s eyes, and he doesn’t seem to notice it by the way he stares at Natasha without blinking. Tony can see the way his fingers shake. 

“The scientist called me a bunch of numbers,” the boy whispers, shaking his head as he searches his brain for the right words. “Like… zero four… something.” “08-14?” Natasha recites from the initial data collection she and Steve presented to Tony the other day. It’s the subject number associated with the kid, though Tony guessed it was used for confidential record-keeping, not naming a literal child. 

The boy nods at Natasha’s words before licking at his lips and parting them to speak again. “But the faceless men were the ones who made my new name,” he mutters as if the words filled him with deep shame. “Паук.”

Natasha goes rigid beside Tony, though he has no idea what the kid just said. It sounds Slavic-- Russian, maybe. He turns to Natasha, his eyes narrowed as he stares her down. She looks to him, her eyes sparkling with recognition. “What’s that mean, Nat? You’re gonna have to help me out here, I haven’t touched by DuoLingo Russian lessons in a while.” 

She rolls her eyes at him and shakes her head. “I’ll tell you later,” she insists, before turning to Peter, her expression softening. “Thank you for telling us, Peter.” She doesn’t react to the way the boy flinches at the name. Tony thinks she’s smart for using it-- it’s better they start ingraining his actual name into his head now rather than waiting until it’s too late. She stands up, her eyes still locked on Peter as she gestures to the sandwich. “Why don’t you eat? Unless you would like something else.”

The boy eyes the bread, tentatively reaching his hand up to poke at the food, as if he’s never seen it before. He scrunches his eyebrows at it, his hands trembling as he moves to pick it up. “What… is it?” he asks.

Tony has to fight the urge to turn and leave the room that instant. He’s not sure why the kid not knowing what a sandwich is is his final straw but for some reason he is and Tony wants to abort. He knows he’s bitten off more than he can chew, and he can thank his ridiculously large guilt-complex for that. However, he’s come this far, and he cannot abandon this kid now. As much as Tony wants to deny it, Peter needs him.

“It’s a sandwich, cabbage patch,” Tony says with an encouraging smile. “Nothing really but meat, cheese, and bread. Don’t tell me you’re used to something fancier, because while I may be a billionaire, I’m not in the mood to splurge on some filet mignons for a fifteen-year-old.” Natasha elbows him hard in the ribs. 

The joke flies over the kid’s head, but that’s okay. He carefully picks up the sandwich and holds it to his nose, sniffing it tentatively. “It’s food?”

Natasha nods at the boy, urging him on. “It’s food. I promise it’ll be good,” she says. “Just give it a try.”

There’s an unusual amount of trust and vulnerability in the boy’s eyes as he raises the sandwich to his lips with trembling hands. The tears in his eyes are gone, replaced with a cautious yet prevalent look of wonder as he takes a bite into the soft bread. His cheeks are still red and stick, coated with his silently-shed tears, but Tony’s sure they can get him cleaned up and maybe in an actual bedroom soon. Or, he hopes. He has no idea what’s going to happen from here.

The boy silently eats, the first bite devolving into a second, then a third, and a fourth until suddenly the sandwich is gone and the kid’s cheeks are stuffed full of bread. Tony bites back a smirk-- at least the kid has a decent appetite. 

“We’ll bring you more soon, okay?” Tony chimes as he moves to stand up. Natasha moves to the door, and Tony takes note that she isn’t strapping him back down to the chair. The room is made of mostly vibranium, and FRIDAY has close monitoring on the security of the room, so Tony doesn’t see the harm in it. The boy’s wrists are far too raw and bruised anyway. “Sit tight.” Tony follows Natasha out of the door. 

He shuts the door tight behind him, raising his eyes to see Natasha standing in front of him with her arms lax at her sides, her eyes darting across the floor. There’s a deep, unsettling feeling stirring in his gut when thinking of her reaction to the kid speaking Russian, so he assumes the worst when she finally looks him in the eye. “He can hear us,” she says instead, gesturing vaguely towards the one-way mirror. “We should talk somewhere in private.”

That’s how he ends up sitting in the main dining area on the fortieth floor with Natasha and Steve. Tony stares at the bowl of cereal sitting in front of him. When he stepped out of the elevator he had made himself a bowl. It must have been out of pure stress, because now as he stares down at his Cap’n Crunch, which is now soggy from sitting in the milk for too long, he has no appetite. He pushes the bowl away from him with an exaggerated sigh. “Are you going to tell me what the kid said or are you enjoying leaving me in absolute suspense?” Tony quirks with frustration. He doesn’t understand why Natasha is being so secretive about it. After all, the more about Peter they knew, the faster they could figure out how to fix him and how to protect him from prying government eyes. 

He hasn’t discussed it between Natasha and Steve, but he knows neither of them want to turn the kid over to the Feds. Under Secretary Ross, there’s no telling what may happen to the kid. For the first time since the incident went down, Tony thinks he can somewhat understand what Rogers felt when the Accords were first presented. Albeit he literally met this kid today and Barnes was Rogers’ old war buddy, Tony can now understand the need to protect someone from another’s actions. For now, he shakes it off. No time for existential dread today.

“The kid’s file mentioned progress with cross-species experimentation,” Natasha says instead of answering his question, which draws a long, tired sigh from Tony. He’s tired of beating around the bush, but he supposes he’ll humor Romanov for a moment. “The way that kid moved along the walls… I should’ve realized it sooner.”

Tony isn’t sure what she’s hinting at, but he suddenly, with a start, remembers the way the kid launched himself onto the ceiling and started to crawl across it as if it was second nature. In the moment, he had been too shocked and bustling with adrenaline to think much of it, but now that he considers all the information he has gathered, there’s already a formed conclusion. “Паук means spider,” Natasha says, leaning back in her chair and kicking one foot up onto the edge of the table. Tony thinks back to the basement network beneath Oscorp, remembers the boxes of fluorescent spiders frozen in time, with one box in the center missing. #08-14.

“Oscorp helped Hydra make a spider-hybrid super soldier?” Tony wonders aloud. It’s the only plausible option-- the way the kid clung to ceilings, the corresponding serial numbers, the name. 

“They failed with Bucky,” Steve chimes in. He’s not sitting at the table but instead lingers a few feet away with his hands tucked inside his pockets. He’s been watching them from afar, though Tony can always feel the stare of those brooding eyes bearing into the back of his head. “They’re trying something bigger. Something stronger. Oscorp gave them the means to do it.” Tony nods. Oscorp’s infamous work with cross-species genetics was bound to catch the attention of a few bad apples. It’s just his luck that those bad apples happen to be Hydra of all things. God, he’s so tired of dealing with these bastards. 

“So we’re dealing with a spider-super kid,” Tony states, his voice monotone as he struggles to unpackage that sentence. Handling teenagers seems difficult enough, but dealing with a teenager that’s part spider? Tony doesn’t think even all of the worlds’ parenting books can prepare him for that. “Now what?” “Bucky will come,” Steve announces, turning to face Tony. He doesn’t speak with hesitancy as he had before. He’s no longer afraid of what Tony has to think because, in reality, they have no other choice. “He can help us figure out what we’re dealing with, and we go from there.”

“Until then, we should continue interrogations, or whatever the hell it is we’re doing,” Natasha says. She plays with the sleeves of her shirt as she speaks, twisting the loose fabric around her fingers before stretching it back out again. “The more information we can get from the kid the better. By the time S.H.I.E.L.D or Ross get involved, we’ll have more than enough evidence to prove he isn’t a threat.”

Steve, ever the pessimist it seems, has to rain on their parade. “What if he is a threat? Then what? You saw how he attacked me back at the base. Who’s to say he won’t do it again?”

Tony sits upright in his chair, lazily grasping his spoon and shoving a soggy mouthful of Cap’n Crunch into his mouth. If anything, he hopes it’s an insult to Steve Rogers. This is Tony’s captain. He swallows, his throat aching. “That’s not an option, Rogers,” he insists. “We’re bringing Barnes here, endangering everyone in this building to ensure that. Aren’t we, Captain?”

Steve relents, allowing his arms to relax at his sides. “We just have to be prepared for the worst-case scenario.”

“Yeah, and in my plan, there is no worst-case scenario,” Tony snarls. “We prove that he isn’t a threat, we get him assimilated, and we find him a place at the tower. Simple as that.”

Steve turns and blinks at Tony with surprise. “You’re going to take him in? What about that woman, May Parker? She has a right to know where her nephew is.” “As far as Mrs. Parker knows, Peter Parker has been dead for years,” Tony retorts, reaching a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. He feels a massive migraine coming, but he figures any time he talks to Rogers for an extended period of time the headaches come. It was only a matter of time. “He’s not a normal kid anymore. He’s fifteen and has a lot more changes to deal with than puberty. We keep him here and shape him up until he can control his powers.” Neither Natasha or Steve have anything to say in regards to his plan, so Tony takes his small victory. The Cap’n Crunch is bitter in his mouth, so he snags the bowl from the table and dumps it down the garbage disposal. The flip phone in Rogers’ pocket begins to ring, so he pulls it out, presses it to his ear, and excuses himself from the room. Natasha stands from her place at the table and trails over to where Tony aimlessly stands in the kitchen.

“Are you sure you can do this?” she asks, her forehead creased in concern as she leans in close to Tony to ask him in a hushed voice. Tony’s grateful for her-- for so many reasons-- but she’s ever the diplomat, and in such a polarizing time, he can really appreciate that. Even though she did technically turn on him with the Barnes business. Regardless, he puts that behind him. “Taking in this kid will be a lot of trouble. It may not go how you want it to.” “I don’t have another choice,” Tony admits. Because in truth, he doesn’t. Either he takes this kid under his wing and attempts to undo whatever evil Hydra implanted in his little head, or the government gets its grimy hands on him and he rots for the rest of his days in some kind of prison or another research facility. The decision is an easy one in Tony’s book. “It has to work.” “I’m with you,” she assures him, covering his hand with one of her own and brushing the top of his knuckles with the pad of her thumb. 

Tony makes a decision then. If he’s going to start treating the kid as part of the large, dysfunctional family, he needs an upgrade. “I want the kid to move out of that room by tomorrow,” he insists. “There’s plenty of bedrooms. Put him in one and we’ll reinforce the doors to be safe. The kid needs a proper bed.”

Natasha nods. Surely she understands how awful it was to see the kid chained to a stainless steel chair in a bleak interrogation room under harsh fluorescent lighting. “Consider it done,” she says.

Only then can Tony relax, just a tiny bit.

The next several days pass with repetitive motions. Steve moves Peter to a lone room on the eightieth floor of the tower, where two of Tony’s labs reside. He kept that empty bedroom there in case of late nights he spent at the lab in which he got the rare moment of shut-eye, but for now, it will function as a base for the kid where Tony can keep a close eye on him. The boy doesn’t take well to the room at first. It takes several nights for Tony to fully convince him to sleep on the bed instead of under or beside it, but once the boy settles in the sheets, he’s usually out like a light. Each day, he enters the boy’s room, a housing unit for his gauntlet hidden in his watch for emergencies, with a tray of different breakfast foods and an array of different questions. The first few days, he learns very little, though through observation he is able to see how the boy functions. He spends lots of time suctioned onto ceilings, either tucked in the top corners of rooms or hanging by his feet in the center. Tony walked in on more than one occasion to see the boy dangling there, his eyes peacefully closed as he gently swayed back and forth. At first, it had been quite jarring, but Tony supposes now he’s just used to it. 

When Barnes finally does visit, they learn a lot more about the boy. He sheds light on the type of experiments and treatments he underwent to initiate mind control, but upon meeting Peter, the Winter Soldier is optimistic. His tentative diagnosis, if Tony will, is that the kid has not undergone more than a year of soldier training. From there, Tony hypothesizes that Hydra and Oscorp had been working together for the majority of Peter’s time there perfecting the cross-species genetics. After all, that seemed to be the hardest part. Hydra was pretty efficient at making psychotic super soldiers after all. 

Bucky deems it beneficial to spend time with the kid alone, which Tony hates to admit makes him uneasy. He hardly trusts the Winter Soldier to begin with, but Tony was starting to develop a comfortable pattern with the boy and he’s afraid Barnes will ruin their progress. The boy had finally started to let Tony get close to him, even so much so the pair could sit on the couch, at least five feet apart, without the kid fleeing to the ceiling.

Barnes talks to Peter for a long time, and Tony’s left to watch it through a security camera from the comfort of his lab just down the hall from the room. And ever since, Tony starts to see more of Peter shine through instead of the tortured boy that Hydra spit out. It’s small changes-- starting with the spark in the kid’s eyes as Tony sits with him in the room, tinkering with a faulty motherboard as he watches Peter from the corner of the eye.

Peter’s eyes are wide in wonder as he watches Tony tinker, but he doesn’t look at the boy. He knows that the slightest attention may spook the boy away, so he continues to work, whistling under his breath. Peter’s perched on the ceiling as he watches Tony work in wonder, and once the sun sets and it’s time for Tony to retire for the night, he makes sure to leave the broken motherboard on Peter’s table. 

It’s hardly dangerous-- there’s nothing that the kid could possibly make out of the shot piece of technology, but he figures if the boy is so interested in it, there’s no harm in fostering a bit of scientific exploration. Maybe this kid will take after Tony after all. However, when he returns the next morning with breakfast for Peter, the motherboard is sitting by the door. The fried edges are smoothed over and fixed, and the previously shattered North Bridge entirely repaired. He gapes at it, and he has to rub his eyes and look over the board one more time before he realizes that the kid must’ve fixed a typically deemed unfixable motherboard. To say he is impressed is an understatement.

Before Tony knows it, three weeks have passed by. He’s sitting with Peter in his room, just as he usually does after Peter eats his dinner. Tony notices how much healthier Peter looks even after a few short weeks. Extensive research into Peter’s abilities left Tony with the conclusion that the boy probably has a potentially enhanced metabolism, so Tony has made an extensive effort to feed the kid as much as possible. The bruising around his wrists and beneath his eyes are completely faded, and if Tony didn’t know better he would’ve guessed Peter was a normal fifteen-year-old. The only dead giveaway is that Peter hardly speaks, his words carefully chosen as he stumbles over them. He’s painfully awkward in each interaction, but Tony can hardly blame a kid who’s most likely been in isolation since he was a very young child. For now, the boy’s social skills are the least of his pressing concerns.

It’s peaceful as he sits in Peter’s room, mindlessly working on his tablet as Peter sits in the top left corner of the ceiling. It’s become a comfortable routine for the two of them. Peter, unfortunately for him, had imprinted on Tony early on, so the boy found peace in Tony’s presence in the room. The billionaire is happy to oblige. They typically sit in silence, no more than a few words exchanged between them.

Today, however, Peter speaks. “Mr. Stark?” His head snaps up, his eyes roaming the ceiling until he finds where Peter is perched with his back to the wall, his feet and bent knees supporting him upright. Tony smiles at him. “Yeah, cabbage patch?”

The boy carefully climbs down from his hiding spot against the ceiling. Shyly, he walks towards the couch, flinching back with hesitation when Tony shifts to allow him some room to sit beside him. “It’s okay, bambino. Sit.” It’s the closest the kid’s come to him since he found him curled up in the cell beneath Oscorp Industries. So, he sits still and waits for Peter to come to him, however slowly that may be.

Eventually, the boy does sit beside them, a few feet separating them. Peter’s posture is tense and careful, but he cranes his neck to catch a brief glimpse of what Tony is working on with his tablet. Tony turns it in his direction so the kid can see it, but his interest is quickly lost. 

Peter twists his fingers in his lap, his forehead creased and brows knitted together as he seems to build the courage to speak. Tony’s learned that patience is the key to getting anywhere with this kid. So he sits there, scrolling through his newest suit designs on his tablet when finally, the kid spits it out. “My mission was to hurt you and Mr. Rogers,” Peter whispers, and there is so much turmoil and guilt on his face that it controls his features, pulling his lips into a harsh frown, and his forehead creases terribly. An icy, sharp rod stabs Tony in the heart, and he slowly lowers his tablet into his lap, turning his attention to Peter. “I don’t want to do that, but… sometimes at night, these dreams come and… it’s like they’re in my head all over again.” The kid’s fingers snake up the sides of his face and tangle in his curly chocolate hair. He tugs at the thick locks, and it takes all of Tony’s self-control not to intervene. “I want to be good,” the boy whimpers. “I don’t want to do this-- but they’re still there and I’ve been trying so hard, and-”

“It will take time,” Tony assures. “Do me a favor, kid?”

Peter nods, staring at Tony with wide eyes. “What’s your name?” he asks. It’s a simple question, but one that all these weeks later that Peter still seems to struggle with. Tony imagines its more symbolic than anything, that Hydra took every measure necessary to beat the name out of him-- to strip him of whatever humanity and dignity he had left until he was an empty shell for them to mold. But that wasn’t Peter. Tony got him out, so now this kid can be whoever he wants to be, and Tony wants to be around to see it. He wants to watch this kid become Peter Parker. “I…” the boy hesitates, his eyes falling to his lap where he cracks at his knuckles and taps his fingers mindlessly on his thigh. It’s a nervous tick Tony has noticed him picking up, but if it keeps him relatively composed, Tony sees no issue with it.  “My name is… Peter. Peter Parker.” There’s a subtle glint of recognition in the boy’s eyes as he says it, and Tony thinks that this is the first time that the kid says it and actually believes it.

Tony reaches out hesitantly, to ruffle the kid’s hair lovingly. To his surprise, Peter doesn’t flinch when he rakes his fingers through the boy’s thick curls. Tony scratches the top of his head and ruffles his hair before pulling away. “You are Peter Parker,” he affirms. “You always have been and you always will be. For now, that’s enough.” It really is enough. While there are still so many unanswered questions, Tony’s main priority is making sure that the kid is okay. Seeing the fullness of his cheeks and the small sparks of life returning to his eyes, for now, is more than enough. Whatever happens down the road with Ross, S.H.I.E.L.D, Hydra, or Oscorp, Tony can deal with it. Because Peter is Peter again, and that was the first step.

[neriad13]

Favorite Media of 2020!

There was a large swathe of this year during which I was unable to concentrate on reading (as there probably was for a lot of other typically-frequent readers), so, as a result, I ended up listening to way more podcasts and watching way more TV shows. Not a bad thing, but boy did I read way less books than usual. 

However, for the first time in a while, the amount of fiction I read was about equal with the amount of nonfiction I read. Last year’s reading resolution was to read more fiction, so...success??

I did read a lot of phenomenal fiction when I had the energy to do so this year.

Books - Fiction

The Martian - Andy Weir

This book is the hardest of the hard sci fi I think I’ve ever read. Every single aspect of it is minutely researched and calculated. The author literally wrote equations to write this book. The science is insanely impressive and yet...it never loses its sense of humor or humanity in the mix. In fact, they’re the thing that drives the entire story.

Warlock Holmes - G. S. Denning

Way early in the year I was strolling down the fantasy aisle at the library, when this cover caught my eye. I took one look at it, went “oh, this looks silly” and...proceeded to devour the entire series in a matter of weeks. 

It is very silly. Especially when it’s pointing out something that was silly in the original. There’s something so satisfying about Watson immediately answering Holmes with the correct number of steps in their flat when he’s trying to make his point about how most people don’t pay attention to things like that.

World War Z - Max Brooks

Every single scenario in here could easily support an entire book. A park ranger whose job it is to contain the yearly zombie spring thaw? HECK YES. I’d read tens of thousands of words about that. A Chinese admiral who defaults, steals the government’s premier submarine, loads it up with the families of his underlings and takes to the sea for years to live in the maritime economy that has sprung up in a world where everyone is trying to escape the shore? That could be an entire movie on its own. 

Every chapter was more creative than the last and as a huge worldbuilding fan, this book was so, so fun.

An Unkindness of Ghosts - Rivers Solomon

In which a queer, neurodivergent protagonist solves a mystery on a spaceship which is a microcosm of antebellum era politics! This had a beautiful, mysterious, wonder-inducing writing style and it was a joy to peer into the wildly differing minds of every single character.

Books - Nonfiction

Underland - Robert MacFarlane

In every chapter, the author visits a different hole. Basically.

It’s an exploration of caves, catacombs, mines, nuclear waste facilities and the hidden underbelly of every forest. It was fascinating. And fundamentally changed how I look at time.

Rejected Princesses - Jason Porath

After years of having enjoyed the web entries, I finally got my hands on the first book and was not disappointed. 

There are the more entertaining entries, of course and the art is as charming as always, but what struck me the most were the more difficult stories. The deeper you go into this book, the more horrific it gets. The author does not hold back on the indignities suffered by the historical figures he writes about. It’s terrible...but also very, very illuminating.

The Gift of Fear - Gavin De Becker

This book - while maintaining all the essential information in it - could be pared down to one sentence in a sea of blank pages and that sentence would be: trust your instincts. End of story.

But in a world where instincts are either customarily suppressed or going haywire, it’s not quite that easy, which is why I’m glad there is more to the book.

I picked it up thinking “ha ha, betcha can’t help a person with anxiety who fears all the time already” and...what it actually ended up doing was giving me the tools to differentiate between real fear and unfounded fear. And did help with the anxiety quite a bit.

Fanfiction

Watch Over Me - cakeisatruth

A Bioshock fic from the point of view of a little sister who is learning how to trust and be an ordinary child again. Dark and sweet. An excellent combo.

All That is Visible - Ultima_Thule

An exploration of a minor character in a well researched historical context? That’s my jam! How did they know?? A Tron fic about what it’s like to be a female programmer in the 70s.

Graphic Novels

The Adventure Zone - McElroys + Carey Pietsch

Yesssssssss! It was a running-to-the-library type event whenever my library got a new volume in. The jokes are so good, the art is so lively and the ways in which they added the details that the podcast couldn’t necessarily get across is *mwah*

Trail of Blood - Shuuzou Oshimi

Hoooooooly shit, the art style of this one!! It’s beautifully detailed and expressive, sure, but the real draw for me was how it changes with the emotional state of the main character. There’s this sequence in which he’s consumed with anxiety at school and all of his classmates become blurry and unfocused, until they can’t be recognized as humans at all, that particularly sticks with me.

It’s a horror story about a kid who witnesses his loving mother push his cousin off a cliff for seemingly no reason and is then obligated by her to keep the secret, which is eating him from the inside out. It’s so good, guys, please read it.

Level Up - Gene Lien Yang/Thien Pham

A story about a kid who is haunted by his late father’s desire for him to become a gastroenterologist. It’s funny and touching and the ending gave me what I can only describe as a feeling of exhilaration. Y’know that feeling when something unexpected but not out of left field, perfectly in tune with the narrative arc and gut bustingly funny happens, all in the same panel? That one.

Film

Searching

This is a fairly standard thriller about a dad trying to find out what happened to his missing daughter. It’s also found footage...but not in the usual way, which was what made it so compelling to me. It’s told through the dad’s phone calls, google searches, social media interactions, news footage, security cameras and webcams. It was such a cool way to tell a story.

Train to Busan

There’s a lot that’s already been said about this movie and I don’t think there’s much more I can meaningfully add to that. Suffice to say that ya gotta take care of each other if you’re going to survive a zombie apocalypse!!

TV Series

My Brother’s Husband

As close to a perfect adaptation as a person can get (barring the entire conversation in English which was...oof). I was so happy when they took it a step further and showed Kana and Yaichi actually getting to meet Mike’s family.

Zumbo’s Just Desserts

I watched a lot of baking shows this year. Like...a lot. They were my much-needed comfort viewing for the year and this one was my favorite, even over The Great British Baking Show (which I LOVE). Why? Because the pastry chef for whom it’s named makes such bizarre and wonderful desserts and fosters an environment in which the competitors do the same. I’ve never seen anything like a lot of the desserts that make an appearance on this show. Every single episode was an awesome surprise and so help me, this show had better get a third season.

She-ra and the Princesses of Power

There’s also a lot that’s been said about this one, so I won’t say much more. Suffice to say: DAMN. That’s how you do an 80s toy tie-in cartoon remake.

Infinity Train

This show’s premise is probably the most unique I’ve seen in recent years. Its balance of comedy, horror and existential dread is also *mwah* I also love how much it trusts the viewer to figure things out on their own.

Primal

A late entry sliding in before the year ends! I finally got to watch the second half of the first season last weekend and it was EXCELLENT. The pacing, the brutal fight scenes, the adorable dinosaur antics, the animation, the quiet moments - *mwah-mwah-mwah-mwah-mwah*

The most emotional moment for me was the part in which the protagonists watch, with sorrow, as the rabid dinosaur who’s been trying to kill them all night dies an excruciating death.

Also it sets up a fascinating new plotline right before ending in a cliffhanger!! Another one for the ‘had better get a next season’ list.

Games

Night in the Woods

This is one that’s been on my to play list for a few years and I was so glad I finally got my hands on it. It’s like...The Millennial Experience (TM), the game. I felt so seen, playing it. The character writing was fantastic.

Prey

I don’t know why I put off finishing this for so long. I guess I wasn’t in the right alien killing headspace for a while?? Anyway, the setting is gorgeous, the alien biology is weird and cool, the ethics are delightfully murky and the interconnectedness of the station was really cool, especially in the OH SHIT moments at the end. 

Podcasts

The Adventure Zone

I tried to narrow this down to one favorite arc, but found that I couldn’t do it. I love Balance for its comedy and creative energy. I love Amnesty for its drama and acting. I am loving Graduation for the depth of its world and the way in which the real story behind everything that’s happened is slowly unfurling. It’s a good podcast all around.  

The Magnus Archives

Who obsessively listened to every single season while playing Minecraft in about a month? Surely not me, nooooo. Of course not.

There’s also been a lot said on this one, so I’ll keep it brief. I’ve seen things in here that I haven’t really seen elsewhere in horror. My particular favorites were the creepy psychiatric hospital in which the horror comes not from the patients, but from the denial of the doctor to believe them about their mental illnesses and every single thing related to the Anthropocene. The one with the Amazonian village made out of trash - CHILLS.

[ohshitmyship]

Happy Dannypocalypse 2020 – Danny Phantom deserves a dark and gritty rewrite bc it has really good potential so I wrote the first chapter

Danny was used to weird shit in his life.

It came with the territory of professional ghost hunting parents. Danny had grown up moving from place to place, his family following the strongest haunting, always in search of potential for a doorway to the other side. 

Five years ago, the Fentons settled down in a small city named Amity Park, declaring that the ectoenergies surrounding the area were exactly what they needed to finally punch a hole through time and space to reach the Ghost Zone.

Danny and his sister Jazz finally settled into their new school, made new friends. The hauntings, oddly enough, kind of stopped aside from the occasional poltergeist. Their parents came up with some explanation, but neither of them listened. They were used to weird shit.

Enough so, that when their parents finally built their dream portal to the Ghost Zone and it failed, Danny brought his friends over.

It made sense, honestly. He only had the two friends; Tucker, who was a tech genius; and Sam, who was a self-proclaimed gothic witch and loved all things ghost.

“This is so cool,” Sam gushed, snapping pictures with a vintage black polaroid, “There’s so much weird energy here.”

“There’s no energy,” Tucker scoffed, poking carefully at the large round tunnel that sat in the basement, which Danny’s parents had converted to a lab.

“There is too,” Sam shot back, “You just don’t feel it.”

“I don’t feel it because nothing’s here. This thing is broken.”

“It’s still dangerous though,” Danny warned, zipping into an ectosuit his parents made for their ghost adventures.

“You told us it doesn’t work?” Sam asked, moving towards the mouth of the portal.

“Yeah,I don’t know specifics,” Danny admitted, “Apparently they said they did everything right, calculations and all, but it just...didn’t work. They’ve been troubleshooting all week.”

“This is some complicated stuff,” Tucker said, moving to stand beside Sam at the entrance, “Even I don’t know how they did it.”

“Mom said that it was a combination between ectobiology, computer science, and physics.” Danny stood between the two, everything from the neck down covered in a tight white and black ectosuit. 

“Why do you have that in your exact size?” Sam teased.

Tucker scoffed, “You’ve met Danny’s parents, right? They have an ectosuit for each of their kids. Probably have some for us too.”

“We should put them on and go in too!” Sam suggested.

“No,” Danny said, quite firm, “I shouldn’t even really have you guys down here. If we all go in and something happens, my parents are going to kill me.”

“Yeah I don’t really wanna go in all that bad,” Tucker admitted, “I know your parents have like, seven PhDs between them, but this does not look safe at all.”

Danny sighed, tugging on the edges of the gloves nervously, “Okay so I get in there, you take a couple of pictures, and we’re done.”

“Why are you using that thing anyways?” Tucker asked, gesturing to Sam’s polaroid, “It doesn’t even take good photos.”

“Everyone knows that polaroids are better for ghost activity,” Sam replied.

“Yeah, Tuck,” Danny added, “Everyone knows that.”

“Shut up and get in,” Sam said, smacking his arm playfully.

“That’s what she said.”

“Tucker!”

“Sorry.”

Danny sighed and stepped forward, his foot hitting the metal panelling. 

Nothing happened.

He stepped inside fully, turning around to smile at the two as Sam snapped a photo.

“So far so good.”

Danny turned back around and made his way through the tunnel. It was about ten feet long and seven feet in diameter, all shimmery steel and green wires. There were some buttons but Danny didn’t really think about them too much, his parents had already spent countless hours inside the thing.

It was strange, being inside of the tunnel. It felt as though everything was muted, he felt lighter, his strides perhaps a bit longer than they had been before. 

When he finally reached the end, he turned around again. The tunnel seems far longer somehow, Sam and Tucker too small to only be ten feet away. His head was heavy and he heard a light rushing sound in his ears, like someone was playing ocean noises in another room.

“This is so cool!” Sam’s voice called, echoing slightly through the tunnel. Danny could see her camera flash.

Danny stood there for a little, looking around him at the panelled walls. He knew a decent amount about physics, but aside from that he was lost – he was a space sorta guy, not a ghost hunter.

When Danny’s head started to hurt, he decided to make his way back out. His parents didn’t mind them checking out the ghost portal, so long as they didn’t mess around too much. Jack and Maddie Fenton had put them all in ectosuits and walked them through the portal, explaining what each button did. Danny didn’t pay any attention. He rarely did, to be quite honest. 

The tunnel seemed to be playing tricks on his mind, because it seemed to get longer with each step he took. He dragged his right hand along the wall, using it for support as his headache began to worsen. He wondered what the hell was going on, he had never felt like this in the portal before, why now was he suddenly feeling so strange?

Maybe he was coming down with a cold – that might explain it.

And then everything happened at once, but it happened in slow motion.

Danny saw Sam’s camera flash go off, but it lasted far too long. His hand brushed against a button – green, some small part of his brain registered – and pushed it by accident. Sam’s eternal flash was suddenly lost in a wave of green as he felt a shock lace through his body, starting at his hand and travelling throughout his whole body.

It was...strange. 

A memory was brought to Danny’s mind, a rather old memory. He was maybe five or six and they were playing around on their aunt’s farm. One of the farm hands, Danny forgot his name, had jokingly dared him to touch the electric fence. He had, and of course he’d been met with a sharp jolt of pain. 

This sensation was similar to that, but a thousand times stronger, and it didn’t stop. When Danny removed his hand from the fence, the pain had gone away immediately, leaving only a small tingling sensation. 

His whole body felt like that, as if each vein was filled with electricity rather than blood.

He had never been in so much pain in his entire life, which was probably about to end.

Danny could only see green, feel pain, taste metal, smell the scent of something burning, hear a distant scream. Was it him, or his friends? He couldn’t tell.

“It is time.”

The voice seems to be coming from deep inside him, but all around him at once. It is a low voice, a baritone. Through the intense and never ending pain, Danny felt something cold in his gut.

I don’t want to die.

“Few ever do. But you are not going to die just yet, Danny Phantom. This is not the end, but the beginning.”

And then everything went black and the pain finally, finally stopped.

“Danny! Danny! Tuck, I think he’s waking up!”

“Danny, c’mon man, open your eyes!”

As if obeying the command, Danny’s eyes snapped open and he sat bolt upright, gasping for air.

“Danny!”

He looked up to see Sam and Tucker on either side of him, tears staining both of their faces, Sam’s eyeliner has made little trails down her face.

“Wha–what happened?”

His voice cracked and his throat was dry, as if he hadn’t spoken in years.

“We don’t know,” Sam babbled, not bothering to wipe her eyes, “Danny you were just in there and suddenly there was this bright green light and the portal turned on and, and –”

“And then you just stumbled out!” Tucker continued, in no better shape, “You were smoking and glowing.”

“Glowing?” Danny brought a hand to his head, rubbing at his forehead. He noticed that the glove was white, not black like it used to be.

Then the sinking feeling is back and he struggles to his feet.

“Danny, no!” Sam argued, trying to pull him back down.

“You were in there when it was activated!” Tucker grabs his other hand.

His hands tingle for a moment and then his hands are free.

He stumbles his way to the basement bathroom, for the mirror that he knows is above the sink.

Danny doesn’t recognize the person in front of him. 

Well, the face itself was the same, but everything else seemed to be reversed. His hair, which used to be inky black like his dad’s, was now a pure white, even his eyebrows had changed. His skin used to be somewhat tanned, but he was pale enough to look like a corpse.

His ectosuit was reversed too – the body of it used to be white with the boots, gloves, and neck black. Now, it was the opposite. But that wasn’t the weirdest – no, the weirdest was his eyes. They used to be a soft blue, like his mom’s, but now they were bright neon green, they even glowed in the dark light of the bathroom.

“I’m...a ghost.”

Danny felt his knees buckle and he slid down, his back hitting the door as he slumped on the floor.

“Danny….”

He felt a warm hand on his shoulder and looked up to see Sam kneeling next to him, Tucker beside her.

He could tell that they wanted to say something, but he knew that no one had any idea as to what to say. What did you tell your best friend who just died and returned as a ghost before your very eyes?

Instead, Danny began to cry. How could he not? He died.

He died.

Sam and Tucker weren’t far behind him. They both dropped to their knees to hug Danny on the bathroom floor, tears flowing freely from their cheeks. The only sounds to fill the basement were soft sobs and sniffling.

Danny didn’t know how long they were sitting there, sobbing on the bathroom floor. But eventually, Danny began to calm down. Maybe this isn’t so bad, a small part of him tried, Maybe we can work with this. Mom and Dad will have a field day. Jazz will get to learn the psychology of a ghost, that’s kinda cool I guess.

As the tears began to slow and Danny was able to catch his breath, something strange happened. Danny had his eyes closed, but the flash of light turned his eyelids red and he heard Sam and Tucker gasp.

He felt...warmer. Danny suddenly noticed how cold the bathroom floor was, how sore he felt.

When he opened his eyes, Sam and Tucker were staring at him in awe. He looked at his hands. They were no longer pale. He took a breath and felt it fill his longs. He raised a hand to his neck and felt his pulse. Slowly, he stood up to see his reflection back to normal. Maybe a little paler than before, his hair wild, but he looked like his old self. He looked alive.

Sam and Tucker still knelt on the floor, staring up at him silently. He knew they were all thinking the same thing: had they imagined the whole thing?

Danny poked his head out of the bathroom. The entrance of the portal was a bright neon green, shimmering like water in sunlight. He went back into the bathroom, holding his hands out for Sam and Tucker.

They both took them, or at least tried to. Their hands passed right through Danny’s, as if he were a hologram.

“Okay,” Tucker finally spoke, “This is getting weird.”

“Getting?” Danny scoffed, trying for some light humour, “We’re way past weird.”

Sam and Tucker stood up on their own, and Danny unzipped the ectosuit covering his regular clothes.

The three of them walked out of the bathroom, Sam and Tucker sitting on the old couch in the corner while Danny paced in front of them.

“What happened after I… passed out?”

“Well there was a great big flash,” Tucker began, “Then the portal turned on and you stumbled out, then you collapsed.”

“We checked your pulse but we couldn’t find it,” Sam added nervously, “You were so cold.”

“Did you call anyone?”

Sam and Tucker glanced at each other nervously.

“We didn’t know who to call,” Sam finally said, “We thought about calling an ambulance, but it was pretty obvious something ghost-like had happened.”

“We were about to call your parents, but then you woke up.”

“So we’re the only ones that know this happened?”

Sam and Tucker nodded.

“Okay.”

“What….happened?” Tucker asked after a minute.

“Tuck!” Sam hissed.

“What?” Tucker demanded, “We saw it! Why shouldn’t we ask about it?”

“It’s alright,” Danny assured, stopping his pacing and sighing, “It all happened pretty fast. I just remember Sam taking a photo, then pressing a button by accident, I think I was electrocuted, everything went green, I heard a voice then...then everything went black.”

“A voice?” Tucker asked.

“Like, the Grim Reaper?” Sam asked.

“I don’t think so,” Danny said, trying to remember, “I think it was a man’s voice, it was really deep. He said something like ‘you’re not going to die just yet, Danny Phantom. This is just the beginning’.”

“Wait, Danny Phantom?” Tucker asked, “You sure he didn’t say Fenton?”

“No, I’m sure,” Danny said, “He definitely said Phantom.”

“But he said it was the beginning of something?” Sam asked.

Danny nodded, “Yeah, not the end, but the beginning. No idea what he meant though.”

“Maybe it’s like the tarot card, Death,” Sam suggested, “Like, it means a transformation. Something ends so that something else can begin.”

“That’s all well and good,” Tucker said, “But what does it mean?”

“I wish I knew.” Danny sighed again and rubbed his eyes, “I’m sorry guys, I’m really tired.”

“Don’t apologize,” Sam said, standing up to lay a hand on Danny’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” Tucker added, “I mean, you did get electrocuted in a portal to the afterlife, so I think you’re allowed to be a little tired out.”

The three of them laughed, but the laughs were preceded by so many tears that they sounded almost forced.

Danny led his friends out and they promised to call him once they got home. He waved to them as they walked away and sighed when he closed the door.

He was glad no one was home, because he was sure that someone would’ve heard him scream. Danny wandered back downstairs to put everything. 

“Wonder what I’ll tell my parents,” he said to himself as he folded up the ectosuit to put back in the wardrobe, “Maybe I’ll tell them it just...came on.” Danny groaned, “That’s no good. Maybe I’ll say there was an electrical surge and it turned on. Yeah, that makes sense.”

He put the ectosuit away and began to pick up the photos littered across the lab floor. Sam would probably want them so he didn’t throw them out, but he didn’t look too closely at them.

Until he found the last photo that Sam took.

It was the same one that had flashed just as he pressed the button and it was...kind of haunting.

The photo was all kinds of distorted, even the white edges tinged a sickly green. In the centre was Danny, his arm touching the edge, his body looking to be in the middle of a convulsion. It was hard to tell with the distortion, but it looked as though there was a ring of white light around his chest and waist. He looked like he had as a ghost, but in the middle part, in between the two lights, his suit looked like it had before.

Danny was about to put the photo away, slightly disturbed that Sam had managed to catch the exact moment of his not-death, but something else caught his eye.

There were two shadows in the background, blurry and pixelated at the same time. One shadow looked humanoid, while the other looked like a blob with a head and arms holding onto something long. He wondered if the shadows belonged to whatever had spoken to him while he was in the portal.

Danny shook his head. There was nothing he could do at the moment, and he was too exhausted to think properly. The only thing he wanted to think about was his warm bed – he wanted to get in it and sleep for a very, very long time.

Danny gathered all of the photos and took them upstairs. Mechanically, he got ready for bed. He didn’t remember brushing his teeth or putting his pajamas on, but when he climbed into bed, his breath was minty and he was changed.

Danny was worried that sleep wouldn’t take him, but he could already feel the darkness settling in, far calmer than the darkness before.

As he drifted off to sleep, Danny mulled over the words from the mysterious figure. Two words in particular held firm in his mind.

Danny Phantom.

[howwelldoyouknowyourmoon]

Letter from a disenchanted student of the Divine Principle

Many Unification Church members seem to think people who left the organization are like some kind of lapsed Catholics, but most of those people just recognized Moon’s absurd and contradictory rhetoric had absolutely no relationship to reality – I pointed out many of those obvious contradictions in my previous letter to Rev Moon. Even the vaunted Divine Principle was not his own teaching. Much of it came from a woman called Seong-do Kim whose revelations began in 1923. She stated that Jesus did not come to die (not new because other Christians had taught this previously), she also taught that the fall was a sexual sin (again not new because Jewish scholars suggested this long ago and anyone can recognize the association, even sex shops use a bitten apple to advertise their wares). She also taught about the change of blood lineage through the messiah – thus justifying all the deviant sexual activity involved in the pikareum rituals. Another source was a woman called Chong Deuk-eun who dictated a book called the Principle of Life in 1946-47. It was published in 1958.

The history parallels were taken straight from the teachings of Baek-moon Kim’s Israel Monastery – being the reason they finish in 1917, which was Baek-moon’s birth date rather than 1920 when Moon was born. The final Divine Principle book was composed by a committee guided by Hyo-won Eu with input from Young Oon Kim and various professors. So rather than being a direct revelation, the DP is actually an interesting amalgam of Christian theology, nineteenth century science, Oriental philosophy and shamanism – added to the insights and teachings that were taken from various Korean spiritual groups.



This was why I felt free to approach much of the DP as almost allegorical because the main thing to emphasize was personal spiritual maturity – the development of a loving parental heart. (The real meaning of ‘perfection’.) I never believed that absolute Cain/Abel rubbish spouted by Moon and Japanese leaders. I remember one itinerant worker saying, ‘If my central figure tells me this red dress is blue then it’s blue.’ Absolutely insane – but this is exactly the kind of thing that has been propagated by the Moon family and their minions, especially in Japan, and it leads to all kinds of abuses.



In addition to the DP we also have Rev. Moon’s great blessing theory, whereby through downing a glass of holy wine and being engrafted to his lineage we become capable of conceiving pure offspring, free from original sin. These ‘blessed’ children can then form the core of the heavenly kingdom on earth, of course with the ‘True Parents’ and their children at the absolute center. However, the proof of any pudding is in the eating – regardless of how good the recipe might sound. So let us look at the results, the fruits of the messiah and his teaching.

We can start with some of his own blessed children:   Ye Jin – (Divorced.) Hyo Jin – was a drug addict, I saw him give a sermon one time when he was so stoned he had to hold on to the podium in order to stand up. He punched and kicked his wife, Nansook Hong, watched pornography, walked around with a gun in his pocket and beat up church members. (Divorced.) In Jin – was forced to resign her position because it became public knowledge about her affairs with two married members and the illegitimate child she had with one of them. (Divorced.) Un Jin – said clearly on TV that her father was not the messiah, and that the church was just about power and money. (Divorced.)

 Hyun Jin, the kind-hearted business expert who wanted to cut the salaries of our church’s jewelry workers by a third – I saw a video of him calling a church leader an arrogant bastard and kicking him as the man knelt before him. No matter what the guy was guilty of, this was just one more example of the violence perpetrated by the Moon family. Which of course was epitomized by Cleopas, the black Zimbabwean supposedly embodying the spirit of Heung Jin, who went around the world viciously beating up men and women, putting some in hospital. He even threatened church members with a pistol. (All of it approved by Rev Moon who laughed at the beatings and had himself used a baseball bat on members.)



Kook Jin – an arms dealer who said Abel wouldn’t have been killed if he’d had a gun. Divorced his wife and had himself re-blessed with a Korean beauty queen. He now has his own group of armed ‘knights’ willing to do whatever he orders. (Divorced.)

 Hyung Jin, the heir apparent (according to him), lied about getting a BA from Harvard when he actually attained a lower qualification – and if he thinks the parable of the sower is referring to ‘absolute sex’ I think he needs to go back to Divinity School. His Sanctuary Church now promotes the owning of AR-15 semi-automatic assault rifles, and has ceremonies with participants carrying these lethal weapons while wearing bizarre crowns of bullets. According to one of his recent speeches, all the women of the world are ‘Brides of Christ,’ and he of course is now in that Christ position.

Don’t want to go into details about some of the others as I feel sorry for them.



So this so-called true family demonstrates clearly that there is no difference between blessed children and any others. Rev. Moon said as much in Korea when he was talking about Sammy Park, his illegitimate son. He said, ‘The sons from the concubine are better because there is more passion involved in their conception.’ So much for the value of the blessing. 



(Of course Mrs Moon blames the bad behavior of her adult, absolute ruler children on the poor church members, as though they could do anything to control it.)



So now lets look at the practical results of all the members’ sacrifice and offerings:

 This Parc One court case (the conflict that began between Kook Jin and Hyun Jin) resulted in at least 700 million dollars of church money going to lawyers and outside companies. This is at a time when Japanese church members were being bled dry; many could not even afford to go to the dentist. (They were commonly referred to as ‘the toothless ones’ in Japan.)



Cheongpyeong – you couldn’t make it up – they were selling apartments in the spirit world! People have to be completely away with the fairies to buy into that. Mrs Hyo Nam Kim (Dae Mo Nim or Hoon Mo Nim) after being denounced as a fraud, walked away with assets worth more than 230 million dollars (including one of the top golf courses in South Korea), so her spiritual real estate business must have been doing very well. It’s as crazy as charging money so that your ancestors can attend workshops with the spirit of Heung Jin, or paying thirty dollars for two bottles of Danjobi shampoo to get evil spirits out of your hair. (This all of course also being done with the consent of Rev Moon.)

Mrs Kim was supposedly channeling Dae Mo Nim, the mother of Hak Ja Han, which was actually a strange choice because Dae Mo Nim and another woman had spent two years in jail for beating a mentally ill youth to death in one of these frenzied ansu sessions (where they beat bad spirits out of people).

That whole Cheongpyeong providence is merely old Korean shamanism, and just because people have spiritual experiences there doesn’t validate what is going on. Something many members don’t realize is that God works to educate and reach people regardless of what religion they are following.



Rev. Moon often praised Korean culture but Korea was a slave society for most of its history. Although the number of slaves had declined during the nineteenth century the institution was not legally banned until 1894, and the system survived in practice until the 1920s. At least one third of the population were slaves in the past, and the children of slaves automatically belonged to their masters – with most wealthy men keeping concubines. The Koreans always had that tradition of the Yangban, or aristocrats, being served by everybody else, even having a caste of sex slaves for that purpose.



Another tradition was idol worship and shamanism. All this drumming and beating at Cheongpyeong is actually for drawing spirits into people, not driving them out. The disgusting business of putting Moon’s semen and blood into the holy wine is more shamanism. Shamans believe if you can get someone to imbibe your bodily fluids they will come under your control. By the way, Rev Moon’s children used to refer to Mrs Kim and her people as ‘the witches of Cheongpyeong.’ To put this in perspective there are still over 300,000 shamans or ‘mudangs’ plying their trade in Korea. 



Conferences. After working on some of them I was shown very clearly that all those big science, arts and other conferences actually had no purpose other than glorifying Rev Moon. He wasn’t at all interested in any results from those meetings, only in how many famous people attended.



About 500 million dollars is donated each year by the Japanese church, but where does it all go? What great world-changing projects do you see it used for? Of what use are all these glorious palaces? The one at Cheongpyeong cost over a thousand million dollars. Just think what good could have been done in the world with such funds. This particular palace is now adorned with giant statues of Hak Ja Han with Jesus kneeling before her and a much diminished figure of Sun Myung Moon in obedient attendance. She has effectively created a new religion centered on herself by changing the basic teachings and proclaiming herself as the Only Begotten Daughter of God, the wife of God, the mother of God and God himself/herself. (What kind of mental gymnastics the present members are doing to believe this utter nonsense is beyond me.)



I know each national church lives in its own little bubble, in effect creating its own version of the Unification society and cherry picking which headquarters’ directions to implement. Each country also seems to hold onto its own view of the ‘messiah,’ effectively editing out anything that does not conform to this ideal. However, with the advent of the Internet this can thankfully no longer be the case.

It is the very core of the Unification Church that needs to be examined. The whole church has been built on lies. Even Rev Moon’s life story is full of falsehoods. Remember that picture of him carrying the man on his back; he let it be known for years that it was him before finally admitting it wasn’t.

The stories about Heungnam – I heard a testimony from one of those early disciples where she went to visit him and found him drinking tea in a nearby village! Chung-hwa Pak had been an officer in the military and was put in charge of the prisoners. He designated which tasks the prisoners should do. He was able to give Moon time off so they could talk together about his beliefs. Moon was not always being worked to death as he later stated.


He said he graduated in electrical engineering at Waseda University in Tokyo, but he actually only attended night classes at a technical high school.


The Church made out that Moon was arrested in North Korea for preaching against communism, but the charges were really for bigamy and adultery. Chong-hwa Kim, the married woman involved, was also jailed. His anti-communist stance came much later.



The story about him meeting Jesus on the mountainside is also untrue. It was Seong-do Kim who first told people she’d had these Easter revelations, then Baek-moon Kim claimed them as his, and finally Rev Moon – whose lies gave him away as Easter did not fall on the date he gave for that year. In his most recent account of that meeting he calls Jesus a bastard, and originally taught that Jesus should have had sex with his mother to restore the fall. He also claimed to have met and talked with Buddha, but until his first visit to India he thought Buddha was Chinese. 



The Tragedy of the Six Marys. This book described the pikareum, or womb-cleansing, ceremonies conducted during the early years of the Unification Church. For years we were told it was untrue, but before the book came out in Japan they started giving lectures explaining the providential reasons why Moon had to have sex not only with the Six Marys, but also with all the wives of the 36, 72 and even the 124 couples. Some of the members listening to those lectures left the church afterwards so they stopped giving them, but they started them again in Korea from what I heard.

The Israel Monastery was a pikareum church with Baek-moon Kim doing the womb cleansing by having sex with the female members. Another similar one was the Olive Tree Movement started by Tae-Seon Park. This had 300,000 members and the churches had special rooms to practice the pikareum rituals. So there were plenty of examples of this grotesque idea for Rev Moon to draw on.



The holy wine ceremony is a symbolic sexual act, but for the first years of the church Rev Moon actually had sex with the female members. This is the core of the church and it is both vile and ludicrous.



I don’t say these things lightly because I needed plenty of evidence before I believed them, but I know people in both Japan and Korea who attended lectures where this behavior was justified. In America Hyung Jin and Kook Jin have admitted such things happened. It was admitted by Young Oon Kim, Papasan Choi, Chung-Hwa Pak, President Eu’s cousin (Shin-hee Eu), Annie Choi (the mother of Sam Park), Deok-jin Kim and many others. Rev Yong also went around the world giving lectures explaining the dispensational necessity of such sex practices.



God of Day and God of Night. There used to be a shrine to this primitive Korean god to the east of Seoul. (Moon was incorporating any kind of rubbish into his mythology by the end of his life.)

I could report on even worse activities and crimes but I think this is enough for now. The Divine Principle itself is a wonderful construct, (Hyo-won Eu being something of a genius) the only problem being that it isn’t true. So much of the numerology, four position foundations, triple objective purposes and so on, is actually meaningless. There was no sexual fall and inherited original sin and Satan are non-existent. The history parallels are extremely contrived, and although interesting, prove nothing at all. There are many more aspects of the book that don’t make sense. Some parts of course are helpful, Jesus not coming to die and so on, but none of these are original ideas, so the book certainly doesn’t prove that Moon is the Second Advent.

▲ Baek-moon Kim was born in 1917. He devised the parallels of history.



As predicted nothing happened on Foundation Day apart from a few pointless ceremonies. The church leadership knew this would be the case, which is why they were already telling people to prepare for 2020, the 100th anniversary of Moon’s birth. Mrs Moon is emphasizing witnessing now. (Because tithes are an ongoing source of revenue.) She recently told the Japanese wives in Korea that if they don’t do well then their descendants will pay lots of indemnity. She seems to have forgotten what her husband said on October 27, 1999, ‘No more indemnity is needed. The providence of restoration is completed.’



I personally think anyone still teaching the Divine Principle has to examine all of the above, and then ask themselves if they are just helping to propagate a gigantic destructive fraud? Thousands of people have gone through real suffering to enrich Moon and his family. Many of them had their lives ruined by being matched and married to people they could not relate to. It’s hard to believe but Moon’s church even advertised for any Korean men who wanted wives to come to one of those big blessings – just to make the numbers up, although he charged them between two and ten thousand dollars for each purchased bride. He then matched dedicated Japanese sisters to men who weren’t even church members – some of whom were unemployed drunkards or worse. (One of these wives eventually killed her Korean husband after suffering years of abuse.) Again, ask yourself whether these matchings were the action of a loving father, or an evil despot with no concern at all for the happiness and well-being of others?



If members were matched with someone they could love and be happy with, then they were in the minority, as it was mostly a matter of luck. Remember he matched physical brothers and sisters on at least four occasions that I know of, then changed the matching when he was told about it, so it certainly wasn’t God guiding him.



If people want God in their lives all they have to do is invite him in. Knock and the door will be opened. You don’t need to go to God through Moon or anyone else, and heaven is a place for heavenly people, so if you aren’t heavenly then no blessing, white robe or inseminated wine is going to get you in there.

And just to be clear, arrogance and avarice are not heavenly attributes.



I believe anyone who has sincerely tried to serve God and create a better world has certainly not wasted their time, because God will remember their efforts whatever religion they followed, but the Unification Church, FFWPU, or Hak Ja Han’s new name for it ‘Heavenly Parent’s Holy Community,’ is nothing but a despotic money-making, power-seeking, destructive scam that should not be supported in any way.



My apologies people, no jokes this time, I’m too disgusted by the whole sorry mess.



Sloe Gin

______________________________________________

Newsweek on the many Korean messiahs of the 1970s

Hwang Gook-joo and his orgies

The Divine Principle is constructed to control members

Sun Myung Moon’s Theology of the Fall, Tamar, Jesus and Mary

Sun Myung Moon – Restoration through Incest

Shamanism is at the heart of Sun Myung Moon’s church

Japanese member, Ms. K, was forced to marry Korean man she did not like

Sun Myung Moon makes me feel ashamed to be Korean

The Fall of the House of Moon – New Republic

Sun Myung Moon’s secret love child – Mother Jones

Cult Indoctrination – and the Road to Recovery

[route22ny]

I grew up in the Bay Area at the height of AIDS panic, and all of that era’s sex paranoia remains burned into my brain, repurposed for Covid-19 and the act of commingling wet breath. A few weeks into this crisis, I found myself having a ten-foot-distant conversation with my neighbor Patty, both of us incredulous at people who still tried to talk to us in-tight face-to-face, like we weren't all suddenly barebacking reality with everyone they'd chit-chatted with that day and everyone in their lives, etc. Patty allowed that she should be able to strike people she considered a threat. I mentioned Florida's attitude toward this legal principle and firearms. I suggested she become militant. I tell that to a lot of people, but I attenuate the humor of it for the audience. I tell every teacher I know to strike.

There are more sirens now. It's hard to tell, because unlike New York, everything isn't quiet. Cars are out on the road—fewer, but enough that hearing a siren can still be vehicular idiocy and not a more sinister house call. But I still hear more of them.

I don’t know why Luke asked me to write about Coronavirus in Florida. I mostly stopped writing last year when a good friend dropped dead in front of his family. (Subscribe to my Substack—we don't update regularly!) Before that, I felt increasingly overborne by events. Things ground to a halt in 2019, but the machine began to break down long before. I ended the 2016 campaign periodically sitting under my desk, high, feeling secure because I wasn't writing anything stupid and feeling good because I was appropriately afraid of everything, but people thought I was exaggerating when I mentioned it.  

I wish I could say my seriousness about the novel coronavirus stems solely from believing in science and peer review and that I would take it seriously regardless, but my spouse is immunocompromised, and my father, who lives out in the Bay Area, had Covid-19, back in March or early April. He didn't tell us kids until he was out of the woods, but for days he had fevers over 103º. My stepmom, a former emergency room nurse, couldn't get him admitted anywhere, because he wasn't having respiratory problems. He woke up the same every day: It felt like someone had parked a Volkswagen on him.

We're supposed to say he's out of the woods. I'll believe that when he dies of old age, or something more reasonable that kills men in my family, like colon cancer or car accidents. Sometimes I think about him dropping dead like my friend, only from whatever post-Covid-19 effect triggers the brain’s forgetting to tell the lungs to breathe—or from the one that leads to storms of strokes, like a brain's blood vessels recreating the burning energies depicted on a CRISS ANGEL MINDFREAK poster. Then I wonder how I would die, or my wife, or my friend in Atlanta, or my brother. I think about drowning in open air, alone in a hissing world, and being incapable of saying the overdue apologies I ran out of time for.

After a while I realized that basically all Luke wanted was to hear from a coward living in the mismanaged kleptocracy of Florida, and the thing is, I can do that! I’m frightened right now!

I considered opening with, Every day I wake up frightened, to throw a fucking jolt into a piece about facing down a pandemic in a place where they have a paradise just for the cheeseburgers. But the joke is, I'm not wastin' away here in Coronaville. Sometimes I wake up and just have to pee, on the rare days when I don't wake up from the sensation of my son elbow-dropping my head because—how rude of me—it's 6:45 already.

In this respect, I am serene: My son and I exercise outside to burn off his energy, so I'm out in the sun for hours a day. I'm tanner, I've lost weight, and my phlegm feels looser. I grew a lushly indifferent goatee. My haircut looks like something that belongs on the gatefold cover of a concept album about a form of locomotion by a band named after geography. While the term "Lebowski Phase" has been applied to my appearance and to the fact that my leg injury and medical-marijuana prescription have collided with the reality of never having to drive anywhere again, I must insist that in many respects I have come to look like Jesus Christ. I am pro life and take no pleasure in reporting this.

As I have said, I am frequently awakened by my son, whose full name is My Beautiful Five-Year-Old Son Maitland. He is a treasure who spends quarantine within earshot of 24-hour news, regurgitating West Wing Democrat observations of mine with five-year-old precocity to harvest follows for Instagram. Maitland is an influencer already on record as supporting L’Oréal, opposing Medicare For All, and, when I first read him the shaggy start to this piece, he said, "Not a good look." He's a natural.

Waking up is violent but easy. The problem is everything after that. By the time I close my eyes, I'm not sure what I felt most on any given day—anger, sadness, impotence, a resentful churning need for vengeance, despair. Any one can seem like a day's dominant emotional dysfunction and then suddenly be overwhelmed by the dread that suffuses prolonged thought about the world outside.

I am one of the people who is Taking It Seriously. Seriously Taking It Seriously, though—not the people who say they're taking it seriously and then tell you about:

• Going to a recent indoor birthday party.

• Having a multi-course dinner at a fancy restaurant, "But it was okay because it was [extremely not-worth-a-life celebration]!"

• A full-contact playdate their kid had recently with two other children.

I abhor these people. I have an existential loathing of these people, and a granular scientific indictment. I enjoy reading new articles to learn new ways in which they are a danger to me. My apprehension is rich and exquisite. May their friends shun them, and may they be abandoned by their gods.

Sooner or later, every day, I think of the threats arrayed against me and my family. Each day, I see the most recent thing said by my governor, Ronald Fuckface DeSantis, in which he explicitly endorses and declares his intent to pursue actions that all available data say will kill Floridians by the thousands. Each day, I think about how, if I do so much as suggest fostering a free exchange of ideas about the proportional value of using every means to stop him, I will be arrested.

Every day, I bounce the "Evil or Moronic?" debate around my brain. I check in with an alumna buddy in Atlanta to see whose governor has shown more recent determination to murder his citizens. I gotta give Brian Kemp credit, because he's really holding his own. Naturally, this leads to wondering if either of them have a natural or acculturated advantage in terms of idiocy and malevolence. DeSantis' enrollment at Yale and Harvard and service in the military problematizes the idiocy narrative only for as long as it takes to remember all the people you've met who've gone to any of them and were dumber than dogshit. It would seem like fate to be murdered by an oaf, but I don't know that it's not merciful to at least be murdered purposefully rather than contemptuously and indolently.

Eventually, this leads to spending some time thinking about DeSantis as a kind of lethal bro angel. It's hard not to see his shitchyeah, brah, people are dyin', it's classic! expression and recognize that the state's chief executive resembles a lout you don't want to run into walking alone at FSU after a home loss. I prefer my jokes about the governor, but my friend David Roth nailed it when he said that DeSantis seemed like a person who would describe himself as “kind of a DUI guy.”

I know there's supposedly a culture war out there. There's a truck in my neighborhood with a Q sticker, and another with a Three-Percenter sticker, and there are more than a few neighbors of the "easily victimized white dude who owns a $50,000 truck he rarely takes off the pavement and who becomes physically belligerent when you correct him" variety, but there's a reason why you really only see “war” shit on YouTube. Few Americans are hostile to general safety protocols, and even fewer act out against them. I live where hate groups and old fashioned unaffiliated redneck trash drive in from the county to make a show of rebel flags, rolling coal and honking to intimidate protests, but people line up six feet apart at Home Depot, wear masks at Publix and get takeout at the pizza place outside without insisting on barging in. Most wars don’t need one side of them to be this manufactured.

Most of my friends and colleagues from this gig live in New York, so I've already sat through weeks of descriptions of streets silent except for ambulances, and I’ve already woken for weeks to the half-twilight of nightmares where friends died in a spare white hallway. There aren't a lot of surprises in store for Florida, and no images I can describe that would make you want to turn back now. It's like we're waiting for the rolling premiere of a franchise blockbuster. The dead won't really start packing them in for a few more weeks, but all the scariest shit hit YouTube when it opened in New York a thousand years ago. The coronavirus as an image, what it functionally is, as a horror, feels as familiar as the Scream mask, and the context that makes that scary as hell already feels dangerously been-and-gone, like an apprehension that Florida had for too long before the actual scare came.

There's a hope that all this will come to little again. Despite Governor DeSantis' refusal to take the initiative on shutting down the state until the last dollar was wrung from the last snowbird, the original shellacking never came. The Tampa Bay Times sampled smartphone data and concluded that Floridians overwhelmingly took the initiative to stay home, and they were aided in their quarantine process by the fact that Florida is car-dependent and atomized.

The heartbreaking realization, as you gradually run across more people who are Not Taking It Seriously or are Expressing Moronic Skepticism, is that for a month there about 80 percent of America was on board with doing the right thing. We, a people who suck at doing the right thing even for the wrong reasons, stood on the side of doing the harder thing if it helped people who weren't even us.

I really can't tell if I feel more anger than sadness at the fact that those who were meant to encourage us in safety, to serve us by offering difficult guidance, wasted our sacrifice and our trust. They squandered the patience given by a beggared and exhausted people. All they had to do was the right thing, and if they weren't sure what that was, they could have erred on the side of saving people’s lives and hoping it counted, and they failed.  

Instead, more people will die, and we'll be shut down again, and we will realize we are fundamentally unequipped for life with Covid-19. Florida is built on enclosed air-conditioned spaces: It's dependent on divorcing yourself from Florida as a climate and place. Asking Floridians to generate a public life under the unshielded rage of God’s angriest sun and baked from beneath by a sprawling pave-ocalypse requires asking them to rebel against everything their infrastructure has taught them for as long as they can remember. It is a car culture to the flesh and bone, and a restaurant relocating indoor tables to a road patio would park its diners inches away from eternity.

A picnic day like that is months off, again. It's time to go back inside and resume Inside Time. Inside Time melts away. I saw a headline around the Fourth of July, from the New York Times, that read, "In the Covid-19 Economy, You Can Have a Kid or a Job. You Can’t Have Both," and I remember seeing colleagues tweet, mmmm, so true, and, gets at something crucial we aren't talking about, and shit like that, and I was like, "Buddy, let's get in the DeLorean and visit March." I have nowhere to go, anyway, and all life is timeless.

We have no family in the area and have had no break. It's the three of us, like No Exit, but if most of the dialogue was the word "no" and a lot of stuff about poop and butts and farts, good guys and bad guys, and what Lego Star Wars would do, but with a lot of excruciated pleading for silence because Mom and Dad Are Working Right Now and We Love You Very Much but Jesus Christ Please Stop for the Love of God I Will Give You a Dollar If You Go in Your Room and Be Quiet and Play That Kindle App That Teaches You to Read That You Pay Attention to More Than Us Even Though I Would Read You a Fucking Novel If You'd Just Shut Up and Sit Still.

I'm resigned to staying in here until 2022. I’m screaming, but I will do it. I'm lucky in that I have access to a community pool and a neighborhood where my son and I can roam around on bikes and romp and look at water and birds and turtles. When we're lazy, we have a porch where we can feel nature without feeling exposed. We have a dependable (ok!!! haha!!!) income, and I can do irregularly scheduled work that allows me to be Parent rather than Employee. Exercise, meals and stories take up enough hours that I might as well lean into it.

But we’re lucky. We have a house and prescription mood-altering drugs and one thousand years of undersleep, but we are in less immediate danger than most. The state, almost reflexively, reaches out to open more doors even as Covid-19 blows past reopening benchmark after reopening benchmark.

The inexorable march for commerce doesn’t even come from malice in many cases; people in charge just don’t know how to do anything else but extort and scold people into working under any conditions, so long as it devours most of their time. All the exploitive principles are expected to work the same even if the world they built is fraudulent. We feed meat and the virus into the machines, irrespective of what the data says, and pray for rain. Watching Florida government on the state and local level is like watching two parents bring an alcoholic home after he got kicked out of rehab and deciding that the best course of action is leaving him with $5,000 in an apartment up the street from a dive bar and then going to Cancun for the week. It was on the calendar already, there wasn’t any choice, he looked very healthy at the time!

We have friends who are teachers, and we are scared for their spouses and kids. I don't know what Florida's plan for its teachers is other than to murder them. Again, I don't know if DeSantis is an idiot for flirting with giving enormous bipartisan sympathy to arguably the most effective labor group in the state, or a genius for flirting with finally eliminating a lobbying obstacle to conservative governance by simply liquidating its members as a class.

I worry if I start listing all the things I'm scared of, they'll never stop, but every day I see my son reach for something he should be able to reach for, and I either have a low-grade panic response and stifle it, or I have the panic response and yelp at him to get his attention and tell him to stop, startle him, and add another layer of gun-shy haunting to his day. I'm afraid he'll eventually become an animal in a Skinner Box in which all the buttons and levers are electrocuted, and there are no prizes.

I'm afraid that my son will always be emotionally arrested at two years behind the development of people the same age who had siblings in their house, or who, like many kids in my neighborhood, had parents who thought kids were invincible to Covid-19 and let them play with whomever they wanted. I worry that he may pay a price year after year even into adulthood because other kids got to practice socializing as we rode past. They got to hang out with people their own age and run around and do vitally stupid shit and say "butts" a lot, and he got look at me heartbroken and knowing empirically and epidemiologically that he couldn't play with his friends anymore but still needing to know why, and knowing that I couldn't tell him anything more sophisticated and anything less terrifying than, "So we don't get sick."

The other day he started crying and then screaming, "I hate the sickness! I hate the sickness!" repeating it in a higher and higher register, until he was up even past that piercing birdlike screech that prepubescent boys make whenever trying to sound like lasers or dinosaurs or squealing brakes. Every day I worry that I see another little bit of his capacity for happiness is dying—that the same awkward process of terror that took me from happy little kid to profoundly unhappy teen to scarred adult is even more rapidly at work, and each day another sparkling and joyous little light of childhood winks out in him, replaced by fear as a necessity of life.

I know that there is no plan for us. Conservatives don't want to be taxed or have their businesses lose money, so people are being kicked off unemployment and sent back to work with no test and trace protocols, irregular access to PPE, overwhelmed hospitals and often limited access to any care. We're doing all this as Florida blooms scarlet like paint being spilled into a mold shaped like the state. We're sending the men in the gasoline suits right at the heart of the fire.

It's a cruelly lazy little culling genocide of the working class, a Wall Street gamble that the blow to the labor force won't be more than a blip on the Dow and, a little recession aside, the One Percent will come out ten years later owning an even greater percentage of the United States. To the extent that there is a plan, that's the plan, and whether you land on the dead or the living part of any of those exchanges is more of a Your Problem than a Their Problem.

For now, it's enough to be hermits and hope the rest of Florida goes on strike by going inside and staying there and writing letters to representatives threatening to never come out. Cooking the same things, getting the same exercise in the same places, having the same awkward conversations on VOIP delay, and living every moment outside like we're three drinks in so we’re ready to get belligerent with anyone who is getting too close. Living every moment with some low-level neurasthenia that grows spine-deep and for the rest of our lives sends shuddering disequilibrium at the thought of air that never seems to move, hallways that lengthen without exits, and objects that seem both unavoidable and unclean. It’s fine. We’re all fine, here, now. How are you?

I feel a sudden Git Offa Mah Land thing about my son, a resolute commitment to homeschooling for the foreseeable future and to keeping the gummymint away. It sucks so much. I was so happy to send him to the public school just a few blocks away, instead of the shitty little charter schools nearby, but now that it’s Plague or Parents, he’s got his parents. Between us, he'll have access to 1.5 first-class educations. I still have my grandpa's service weapons from WWII, the last time America was in a war with fascism, when we took the opposing side. I'll empty a couple magazines into anyone who comes onto my property and tries to stop me from teaching my son critical race theory, Howard Zinn, and Leonard Levy's Jefferson and Civil Liberties: The Darker Side. I refuse to turn my back on the heritage of my youth, of watching thousands of hours of MASH, by refusing to wear a mask outside or in fact any time I am doing anything other than drinking gin that I made in a tent.

Outside, records fall and progress rolls on. A governor whose go-to pejorative for opponents of all ages and sexes is very likely still “queef” watches as even the president concedes that a Republican National Convention here would be too lethal, as the state repeatedly sets records for daily deaths, beats out all of Europe in terms of new daily cases, leads the nation in cases per day, then tries to set them again. And then, every day, our governor makes his ahegao-but-for-ethnic-cleansing face and psychotically clangs a bell indicating that Florida just became the 15,000 customer at Leadshoe Larry’s Kicked-in-the-Dick, and it’s time for all us lucky winners to line up and drop our pants.

Florida’s lethality is so tacky that it’s almost camp, but there is no satisfaction in being right about how wrong everything is. Nobody gets a prize for correctly guessing the surplus death toll. All you have to do is look someone else in the eye working in life under Covid.

I’m old now, so I have Humiliating Injury Syndrome (HIS), and somehow in the month between the Super Bowl and the pandemic, I tore a rotator cuff, a labrum, or both, by throwing a (mini!!!) football with friends. After four months, I broke down and went to get an MRI. I skulked down corridors and lurked in a corner of a waiting room, like playing spies with an opponent who was the air. Even the clean and modern fixtures felt miasmic and corrupted, like they were a parking garage in an Alan Pakula film.

Eventually a nurse emerged from an office, crinkled her brown eyes, waved and surprised me by asking after my family by name. She lives three blocks away from me and had hosted me at a party once. Later that day, as my car coasted down the approach to my house, I saw a garage door open and my neighbor’s son walk out on his way to his shift at the same grocery store that I treat emotionally like a Superfund site.

I thought about how much I unconsciously held my breath where they work, and how I unconsciously associate those places with poor choices. The danger of the world outside is so massive that I reflexively need to cordon off the threat into areas of blame and blamelessness. In a moment of crisis, years of conservative rhetorical conditioning in the discourse have taught me to reflexively pathologize those in harm’s way. There is less chaos if someone is at least responsible for something. There is less risk to me, if it turns out someone else’s epidemic is someone else’s fault.

But it is someone else’s fault. And it’s not some poor fucker doomed to sit in a box somewhere and accept paper money and hand metal money back and point at where toilets are, because that’s how he keeps the lights on. It’s not the person consigned to some life-sucking task that, on the best of days, is too humiliating and cruelly impoverished of purpose to ever be a reason why someone should die. It’s not the person around whom you hold your breath because you don’t know where they’ve been. It’s the person and people who put us all in position to suddenly feel like we’re suffocating together.

I hate that I sometimes unconsciously hold my breath around strangers, and I hate that they have heard it. I think of my neighbors, and of the workers on whom we’re dependent, and the permanent uncertain shortness of breath I feel, and I want every moment of their anxiety and mine gathered up and then rained on those who shepherded it into being, those who nurtured it and feasted on it, those who profited from it and were indifferent toward it. Those who consider themselves DUI guys and those who pay to elect them and give them sinecures and who are simply too rich to be arrested for boating under the influence anymore.

I think of how I hold my breath near good people and near vulnerable people in places I am wary of and that we all need to share, and I wonder if we will simply hold our breath for the rest of the year, and if we’ve bargained for standing near each other and holding it for all of the next. And I wish so eagerly that all our suspended futures and the air between us might catch at the throats of those who put us here. That justice for a man like Ron DeSantis might be a permanent and sucking terror: stuck always in an involuntary startled gasp at the sight of responsibility, afraid at the approach of every stranger, incapable of drawing a full and restful breath, and never knowing peace again.

Jeb Lund used to write about politics for Rolling Stone, The Guardian and Gawker, and a bunch of other places, and was the Spectacle of Trump Editor at 50 States of Blue. He and David Roth have a podcast about Hallmark original movies that is mostly funny and exasperated and not unkind, and it's not ultimately about the movies anyway. It's fine and people enjoy it. Don't make it weird. He also has a podcast where he watches every Dennis Quaid movie in a row. That is also completely normal.

Ok here’s me again with a couple more things.

You’ll want to read this in the New York Times today about a forthcoming documentary on ICE. After it was completed the filmmakers were apparently threatened with legal action by the agency over the inclusion of parts that made ICE look even worse than they already look doing literally everything else they do.

Some of the contentious scenes include ICE officers lying to immigrants to gain access to their homes and mocking them after taking them into custody. One shows an officer illegally picking the lock to an apartment building during a raid.

At town hall meetings captured on camera, agency spokesmen reassured the public that the organization’s focus was on arresting and deporting immigrants who had committed serious crimes. But the filmmakers observed numerous occasions in which officers expressed satisfaction after being told by supervisors to arrest as many people as possible, even those without criminal records.

“Start taking collaterals, man,” a supervisor in New York said over a speakerphone to an officer who was making street arrests as the filmmakers listened in. “I don’t care what you do, but bring at least two people,” he said.

Here’s one disgusting detail among many.

They followed Border Patrol tactical agents who took pride in rescuing migrants from deadly dehydration even as the agents acknowledged that their tactics were pushing the migrants further into harm’s way. They showed how the government had at times evaluated the success of its border policies based not only on the number of migrants apprehended, but on the number who died while crossing.

***

source:

https://luke.substack.com/p/all-they-had-to-do-was-the-right?utm_source=Brooklyn+Today&utm_campaign=dd6f63665c-EMAIL_CAMPAIGN_2020_07_28_01_15&utm_medium=email&utm_term=0_1ba554d7d5-dd6f63665c-125128182