#<- there is equal amounts of proof of her death and proof of her living

[frogatz]

in general it’s good to save mysteries even for yourself . i will never know what happened there . all i know is that the stain that this question left bled through the pages

[princesssarisa]

As I've read different people's views on Little Women, I've realized that for different readers, it's a fundamentally different book.

When I see someone describe the "universal" experiences of identifying with Jo, wanting her to marry Laurie, and disliking Amy, I remember all the proof I've seen that these are far from universal. The latter two weren't even my experiences: identifying with Jo, yes, but shipping her with Laurie and disliking Amy, no!

Even people with equal amounts of knowledge of the historical context and of Louisa May Alcott's life seem to come away with vastly different feelings about the story and characters.

I suppose there are a wide variety of reasons for this. First and foremost, which of the four March sisters you personally admire or relate to the most. Then there are other factors like your gender, your age when you first read the book, your relationship (good or bad) with traditional femininity, whether you read Parts I and II as a single novel or as Little Women and Good Wives, your relationships with your own family members, your religion and ethical values...

The list goes on.

That post from @theevilanonblog that I reblogged recently about the different interpretations of Frankenstein makes me want to write out a similar list of ten different views I've read of Little Women. Here it is:

Little Women is about the March sisters learning to be proper virtuous women of their time and place. With Marmee as their role model (a role later shared by Beth as she becomes increasingly angelic in her illness), they learn to conquer their flaws, give up their wild ambitions, and settle down as good wives and mothers. This is especially true for Jo, whose character arc is a slow taming from a rough tomboy to a gentle nurturer. It's a conformist and anti-feminist message, which Alcott probably disliked, but she wrote it to cater to public tastes. (This reading seems mainly to come from critics who dislike the book.)

Little Women is about Jo's struggle to stay true to herself in a world that wants to change her. She struggles with whether to stay a tomboy or become a proper lady, whether or not to marry Laurie despite not loving him romantically, and as an author, whether to write what she wants, write what earns the most money, or give up her writing altogether. In the end, she changes only in ways that make her happy, e.g. by learning to control her temper, and later by embracing romantic love. But in more important ways, she stays true to herself: always remaining slightly rugged, clumsy and "masculine," finding success as a writer, and marrying Friedrich, a man just as plain and "unromantic" as herself, but whom she loves and who respects her as an equal.

Little Women is about learning to "live for others." That phrase is used often and could well be the arc words. Beth is the only March sister to whom a selfless life comes naturally, but the other three master it by the end of the story (as does Laurie). They learn to conquer their moments of pettiness and selfishness, to live in better harmony with each other and with their friends and love interests, and to give up their self-centered dreams of fame and wealth, building lives that focus on service instead.

Little Women is about growing up. The first half is mainly about the March girls' maturing by surviving hard times and learning to be better people, while the second half is about reaching adulthood and bittersweetly parting ways to start new lives. At the beginning, Jo is a girl who doesn't want to grow up: she wants to always be a wild young tomboy with her family (and Laurie) by her side forever. But of course, she can't stop time or womanhood, and is eventually forced to accept the loss of Meg, Amy, and Laurie to marriage and Beth to death. After grieving for a while, she lets go of her old life and willingly builds a new one with Friedrich.

Little Women is about family bonds and the fear of losing them. We meet and become attached to the wonderfully close, cozy March family, which gradually expands through friendships, marriage, and new babies. But throughout the story, the family is in danger of breaking apart, whether due to conflict (Jo and Amy's sibling rivalry, Meg and John's marital problems), or separation by distance (Father going away to war, Amy going to Europe, Jo to New York), or death (the danger of losing Father and Beth in Part I, and the ultimate loss of Beth in Part II). But in the end – unlike in reading #4 above – the family doesn't break apart and never will. Conflicts are resolved, travelers eventually come home, the surviving family members always live near each other and stay as close as ever, and even Beth isn't really gone, because her memory and influence live on.

Little Women is about femininity and each March sister's relationship with it. Meg and Amy happily conform in different ways: Meg to "domestic femininity" as a housewife, Amy to "ornamental femininity" as a society lady. Beth pressures herself to conform to self-effacing domestic femininity, until sadly, it kills her – either because she's too selfless and nurturing when she cares for the fever-infected Hummels, or because she has anorexia, as Lizzie Alcott might have had. But Jo strikes a successful balance in the end, conforming just enough to fit into society, but only on her own terms, and otherwise living a happily unconventional life as a writer and schoolmistress.

Little Women is about Jo's unlearning of internalized misogyny. At the beginning, she's a "Not Like Other Girls" tomboy, who wishes she were male, disdains feminine girls (especially her sister Amy), doesn't care enough when "her boy" Laurie behaves badly toward women, and is afraid to be vulnerable. But gradually, and without losing her strength of character, she learns to embrace the sweeter and more tender aspects of herself, sees that Amy's ladylike manners have practical benefits, and learns to say "no" to Laurie when he turns his childish, unhealthy romantic attentions to her. Then after Beth dies, she realizes how precious Beth's utterly domestic, feminine life was, and embraces a more domestic life herself. Yet by doing so, she becomes a true feminist, as she enters an egalitarian marriage and devotes her life to teaching boys to be good, respectful men.

Little Women is only what US Americans know as the first half. It's just about the March sisters getting by and learning moral lessons over the course of the year their father is away at war. Nobody gets married and nobody dies. Everything else is in Good Wives, which is a sequel with different character arcs and different themes, and which should be published separately, as it originally was and still is outside the US. Trying to tie them together into one narrative never feels quite right.

Little Women is Alcott's idealized version of her own life and family, where no one suffers quite as much as they did in real life, everyone is slightly less flawed, and Jo ends up happily married to a man very much like Alcott's lost love Henry David Thoreau. She wrote the life she wished she had.

Little Women is just a semi-autobiographical slice-of-life that Alcott wrote quickly for money.

Which is the truest to Alcott's intent? I don't know. But while some of these readings I like better than others – and some of them I despise – I'd say they're all understandable and reasonably valid. Some aren't even mutually exclusive, but can be used together... although of course, other readings are mutually exclusive, like whether the story is feminist or anti-feminist, or whether the March family ultimately breaks apart or holds together. And they're all worth using as springboards for discussion.

Alcott wrote more books than she ever realized she did, because Little Women can be many different books to different people.

@littlewomenpodcast, @joandfriedrich, @thatscarletflycatcher, @fictionadventurer, @fandomsarefamily1966

[evilminji]

You know, i just had the mental image of a sith in star wars finding a ritual or something to summon a ghost and end up summoning danny, while in space. The sith is struggling to try and convince this otherworldly being to help them do evil and their just staring out the nearest viewport in awe about the amount of new space things to discover.

How does it feel? To have such a big and wrinkly brain? So full of smartness?? :O

That? Is Brilliant~☆

It could be a Krell situation. Stress of the war got to be too much. Or a Dooku situation, discontent fed and fed until it burst. Like a silently festering wound, left unseen and untreated.

Regardless of HOW it happened?

The lil shit steals from Madame Nu. Like a CRAZY PERSON.

Rightfully terrified that she will Kick Their Ass into the stratosphere for touching HER archives, they head straight for the "Sith Stuff". What does it DO? What RESEARCH did they do? HA! You ask too much of them! There is no PLAN here!

Their brain has gone to SOUP with the Dark Side. It's all wild mood swings and impulse decisions! Research and careful precautions takes PATIENCE. Planning. The calm and rationality they just THREW OUT AN AIR LOCK.

They are high on the initial high of the Dark Side that few, if any, Dark Siders ever SURVIVE. That TEST of their character and control, as they stand in the storm they have unleashed upon themselves.

You want POWER?

Okay.

HAVE IT.

Like trying to swallow a waterfall. Drink the ocean, one cup at a time. Endless, yes, but equally so? It is BRINE. Not the life giving waters of the Light. The more you drink... the deeper your thirst. The faster you die. Can you control yourself? Suffer it? For that's all that's left... suffering. Thirst. Endless, Endless Thirst.

Water water everywhere, and it shall grind your bones to DUST when next you drink.

Welcome to the Dark Side! Was it WORTH it?

But, ah, our Fallen's brain is muddled soup. They think so. They are not themselves. May never be again. That's why it's a tragedy. Because it both IS and ISN'T their hands that takes that Sith artifact. Because who they WERE would be appalled.

They don't even know what they are grabbing, do they? No one does. Seized from the ruins of a laboratory. Long dead horrors, painted upon the walls. A Sith's obsession with the afterlife of his people. Ghosts. Beings that were, supposedly, DIFFERENT then Force Ghosts.

The notes speak of "green". A vision or experience in his youth. Brief. The world tearing open. A gate to somewhere "green". The Sith believed it was the afterlife. Felt death inside the gate. Described as "peaceful, joyful, driven, and eternal", he was ultimately unable to full articulate the full scope of what he believed he saw.

Now his last device is in the hands of a fallen jedi.

Who is going to USE it.

P A N I C

Obviously, the Temple gaurds chase the crazy mofo as hard as they can. Without a DOUBT, every master on hand and available, is roped in by Madame Nu to FOLLOW that psychopath, before he unleashs FORCE KNOWS WHAT, directly over CORUSCANT AIRSPACE!!! The SENATE. THE TEMPLE?! HUNDREDS OF MILLIONS OF LIVES!?

Fallen McFuckface? Clearly did not think this through (nooooo, REALLY? Everyone is SHOCKED! Shocked, they tell you!), panics. Which is, unfortunately, the LAST thing they wanted them to do. FUCK™.

Masters and Knights are LITERALLY cutting through the hull, kicking down the door, they can survive limited Space exposure and honestly? We're not THAT high yet! Let's see you jump to hyperspace with HOLES in your ship! (Fucking, DONT GIVE THEM IDEAS! They're insane, remember?!) (Shit. You're right.)

When?

.......Green...~¤~

Hilariously? The Sith can plan all they want. But you can NEVER plan for stupid. Make a plan idiot proof, as they say, and the Universe will just build a better idiot. All that carefully curated misery, hatred, and suffering? That DISPAIR. The webs upon webs of Darkness carefully spread across the Senate district? Choking the Temple?

Mmmmm, tasty kindling. Good fuel! Sith Artifact LIKEY~!

It RIPS and TEARS. A screaming MAW IN THE SKY. A black hole for Dark Side energy that takes and takes and TAKES. Dropping people all across the district below. KILLING the particularly irredeemably monstrous. After all~!

The Force? Is in all things.

You DON'T have to be Force Sensitive, to Fall. Just a BASTARD. Just cruel and selfish, hateful and needlessly petty. All the things that would sour and turn a Jedi? Can sour and turn YOU too. Just slower, quiter, and with less explosions. But! It still wraps the Dark around your bones. Feeds it into your blood.

Kills you, when it all gets ripped away.

One must wonder.... how many Senators die instantly? And how many die in the days to come? Slowly, painfully, bed-bound as they reflect on who they had become? The fall out will be SPECTACULAR.

The Jedi's fault? How? How is their being stretched so thin they could not mount a proper response THEIR fault? How is YOUR corruption, THEIR fault? Please note all the individuals who were FINE! Baffled, but FINE!

But perhaps you are correct.

Perhaps, for the safety of ALL, we should MOVE our main Temple.

We've done it before. We can do it again. Or do you not want to HAVE that conversation? Hmmm? No, no, we wouldn't want to be a THREAT to you FINE people! You HONORABLE senators! Please, continue to yell and make demands! SEE HOW FAR IT GETS YOU!

Would they normally send someone more diplomatic? Yes. But STRANGELY all of THEM had weird SITH Darkness on them that got violently ripped off! They are in the halls of healing. Unconscious. Because getting Sith shit, that was hooked into your brain, violently ripped out? Not GREAT! 0 out of 10 healers recommend!

Fuuuuck you! Yes, I bite! And be warned, my Race is VENOMOUS! *aggravated Jedi Senior Padawan noises, hissing*

Danny? Got pulled out in FULL regalia. Just FULL on Ice and Stars. Full "I am the Cosmos beholding itself, I am the dead child you could not save.", beyond vanta-black armor and cape like a window to ever shifting stars, crown of aurora borealis playing off the eternal ice, all upon a youngling that seems forever floating... frozen in time. By death.

Was it sacrifice? Natural? Is it just a shape the spirit takes? IS he a youngling?

They both can and can not feel him.

Both can and can not SEE him.

He is so young....

A child king, hsmiles with such shared grief, when they look upon that too large crown, upon a head that should never have been forced to wear it. Like a child, forced to wear his father's mantle too soon. Is that what happened? Was it something worse? They can not bring themselves to ask.

Not when he is so... so DELIGHTED?

Playing with the younglings. In AWE of each and everyone of them. The things they learned each day. "Who wants to go flying?" "Try to float me!" "I believe in you." Oh, he BASKS in their Light like a desperate thing. Showers them with praise and attention, gentle corrections and undivided attention.

He is empathic. Alive and dead. Fascinated by the stars.

And of course... King™.

No, no, he's not interested in your Senate. Doesn't like um, Doesn't trust um. The vibes are RANCID. But I mean... if you REALLY need an army so bad? Since it seems you guys are pushing yourself WAY outside of your normal duties? Like, he doesn't know, uhhh farmers burning crops to prevent starvation? Something like that.

Just? Since you hate it? But are worried people will die? Or those Clone guys (Sweet! Clones! Ellie is gonna be HYPED.) Are gonna die? He could, you know... fix that for you?

JUST you.

We're gonna have to get it in writing. And they won't do anything BUT stop the robots and help people. They don't actually answer to you. Soooo.....?

.......are you offering us an army? (Yeah. An endless skeleton army. Lead by the greatest Generals to have ever died.).....(they get bored.)

And SUDDENLY? Oh look! The Galactic suffering levels? Just fucking DROPPED. All those SENTIENT Clone soldiers! Dying in vain, in agony, ALONE? Not happening! Skeletons can get blasted apart, fade, reassemble, and march RIGHT BACK OUT! This is GREAT fun!

And even better? Unlike with Pariah? THIS time they march? King PHANTOM is sending them to HELP people! Woooooo! Destroy metal crunchy things! Help clean up rubble! Build a house! Rescue trapped people from rubble! Tireless effort! Honor and service! Thanks for the FREE METAL! *rips apart your robots*

There are no anti-ecto technologies here! The BEST they have is Force users! Which? Ha ha ha! GOOD LUCK. That's what? One? TWO? Of you?? To HOW MANY of us??? *cackles in bone army*

And! If they happen upon OTHER things they don't like? Whoop! Should'a thought of that! Before being a DICK! King Phantom says slavery is ILLEGAL. And we, the FORMER slave army of King Pariah, have Millennium Long ISSUES with that! (Easy to remove that chip, when you can reach THROUGH a person. Here you Slaver FUCK. YOU have it! In fact! Have ALL of them. From each and every slave.)

Anikin LOVES his new Bone friends. They are WONDERFUL. Him n them? Bonded. He's made them all speech boards. They're plotting the gruesome end of the Hutt cartel together. He's showing them the holo of his wedding. They're making Super Advanced Chip scan-.....

W....Why is his scanner going off? There should be nothing near by for it to recognize. The only thing HERE is him, his Bone Buddies, and Rex for supervision.... *mounting horror as he slowly waves the device around* *beep*

R-Rex?

...

......

The Clones? De-chipped in like... two days. There are too many skeletons to NOT have them be able to just? *reach in, feel for the Non-Clone bit, grab it, pull out* didn't even need surgery! But boy, oh, boy! Is Anikin upset. That sure is a Slave chip! Hey, Kamino! Have a Chosen One and his Bones Bros! Some Clones in orbit with Real Big Guns.

And Palatine? Is? PISSED.

His whole ass Empire is dissolving in his hands. The Sith Master Plan! Going up in smoke! Walls are closing in! All because of ONE(1) glowing BRAT.

Wanna bet he goes after him... with LIGHTNING? In human form, of course. Danny. Who DIED to electricity. Who has, throughout ALL of this? Been chilling in the Jedi temple, finally... FINALLY! Unwinding. Putting down the stress on his shoulders. Healing from his childhood. Cuddling cute babies and laying on the grass to nap, listen to the waterfall. Be at PEACE, surrounded by the Light of the Jedi.

Danny, who has been making friends. Enjoying the archives. For once in his stressful, STRESSFUL life? Letting OTHER PEOPLE deal with it. Playing with alien puppies and weird not-cats. Trying new foods! Seeing about adopting some droids that Tucker might get on with. Sorry "buying" some droids. (As though those Restraining Bolts aren't coming off the SECOND they droids are in his hands.)

It's been cool. Relaxing. Great for his mental health.

They have folks LITERALLY called Mind Healers here! Jazz would love it!

So obviously Sith face ruins it. Hurts his friends and blasts him with LIGHTNING. The kids are crying and terrified. This was supposed to be some sort of "learn about how the Republic works" day trip to the Senate! He was helping chaperone. They are being so, SO brave. Staying together. Trying to get their teacher out of harms ways.

He? Is? PISSED.

How DARE you. How FUCKING DARE YOU?! A fight between adults? Not his Reality, not his business. Clockwork drilled that into his head. He CAN'T keep the Multiverse together. Fight every fight for everyone, save everything. People have free will. Have to decide for THEMSELVES. Choose to do the right thing.

It doesn't mean SHIT if they don't save themselves. Wont last, in the end, because they won't have LEARNED a damn thing. He GETS that! But KIDS?! Ooooh ho ho! He DRAWS THE LINE AT KIDS! At shocking the SHIT out of him with LIGHTNING!

You want to poke the sleeping titan 'til it wakes up?

Well congrats!

YOU HAVE HIS ATTENTION NOW!

*inhale*

*Wail*

Palpatine goes through the HOLE where about fifteen walls USED to be. Half of Coruscant physically hears it and EVERYONE with even a TOUCH of Force sensitivity FEELS it. Across the entire planet and up into orbit.

Dying screams and the crackle of electricity. Regret. Fear. The desperate need to protect, in your final moment. Pain and pressure, the cool slide of Death come to take it all away. You were just fourteen. You were just fourteen! You died screaming, you came back screaming, in the place between... will you ever stop screaming?

You are the Galaxy, the Cosmos, the INFINITE. You are just a child.

How many souls died screaming?

Can't you hear ALL OF THEM?

Pissed or not, kids come first. Fuuuuuck that guy. Danny picks up the teacher, the kids, and back to the Temple they go. Teacher survives. Kids cling. Senate gets itself into a snit over the "unprovoked attack". But the thing is? A whole CLASS of Baby Jedi say the Chancellor is the Sith Lord. Look too spooked to be lying. Their teacher, too WOUNDED for this to be a prank.

The Jedi close rank.

Palpatine tries to use the Clones.

You know... the De-chipped by their Bone Bros Clones.

Commander Fox? Gets to finally, FINALLY(!!!) live out his long time fantasy... of shooting the fucker. Slug thrower. Tragically, fails to kill him. But the attempt WAS enthusiastic! We applaud his attempt. Commander Fox gets to join Danny in the Gardens, under a Crechelings pile, staring at the stain glass ceiling and Not Thinking Or Having Responsibilities.

Huh.... kid's right. This IS nice.

Fox enjoys being a climb-able lump for the Crechelings. Welcome to the club, my dude.

The other Jedi? THEY can figure it out. The Temple is literally unassailable. If needs be, his army can PICK IT UP AND MOVE IT. Danny is Vibin. Have a fruit. You hear about Skywalker? Making pretty good ground on his whole "one man and massive bone army campaign against Slavery" thing. Missed the whole.... his buddy was an asshole reveal. Apparently reception is spotty. *shrugs*

His wife's nice though! *various married Jedi agree, Obi-Wan continues to sulk because: "REALLY?! You didn't even INVITE ME!? My own Padawan! To his WEDDING! Anikin how COULD YO-!?"*

[mazamba]

Sponsored By

Ironically, the most eventful day in the careers of Mr. and Mrs. Fenton had nothing to do with ghosts. The two had just returned from the supermarket and were carrying in the groceries, when the shadow in the corner began to speak.

"We need to talk."

"GHOST!"

The couple were on their back before they could draw their weapons.

"You are the foremost experts in the field of ecto-biology," said Batman as if he hadn't just brought down a three hundred pound man and a ninth-degree black-belt before either of them could realize he'd moved, "I have questions regarding your sponsor."

"Sweetie, is the Batman in our living room?" asked Jack.

"I do believe he is," replied Maddie as she stood up and patted the dust off her clothes, "you know, you could have called for an appointment. We'd have made time."

"In the 80's, the two of you had your doctorate studies rescinded due to your studies in what you called "ecto-science"," he stated, ignoring their indignation, "yet you now live in an upper-middle class neighborhood and spend thousands of dollars a year on technology that didn't have a proper proof-of-concept until recently."

"What's your point?" asked Jack.

"Where is the money coming from?"

"If you must know, we have a sponsor," replied Maddie, "after our dean proved to be too small-minded for our research, we were approached by a man who was more open to the possibility of inter-dimensional research."

"He wanted us to study ghosts!" cut in Jack, "He even gave us our very first sample of ectoplasm!"

"That one sample was the backbone of our research for years, until we got our portal running."

"You never asked where he got that sample from?"

"He seemed like a trust-worthy fellow," dismissed Maddie, "all he asks is for copies of our experiments and for ectoplasm from our portal."

"What sort of experiments?"

"Well, at first we needed to verify the psycho-active behavior of the sample," recalled Maddie, "if you give me a second, I have my research around here somewhere."

"You took the sample to several morgues," Batman told them, "the sample's most drastic and extreme behavior occurred when it was placed close to bodies who had a history of violent and anti-social behavior in life."

"Maddie, the League's reading our papers!" Jack giggled excitedly, "But yes, it's how we know that all ghosts are evil ectoplasmic scum!"

"You never questioned the origin of the sample?"

"It was the only sample we had," pointed out Maddie, "but it's properties matched all of our theories."

"The man you spoke with was Ra's al Ghul," he informed them, dropping a folder full of pictures and documents for them to peruse, "thousands of years ago, Ra's found a well of green water that is now known as a Lazarus Pit. Using its power, he has rejuvenated himself time and again to maintain his position as the head of the League of Assassins. After some experimentation, he found the same pits could keep his forces alive, even in death.

"Over time, the League came across a problem that threatened their continued existence. They were consuming the Pit's water faster than it was replenishing itself. After much experimentation, they found a solution. At the moment of death, when the human soul passes over to the Infinite Realms, what you call the Ghost Zone, a small amount of ectoplasm leaks over to our side."

"Wait, you don't mean...?" Maddie trailed off, horror settling in.

"Ra's killed people en masse to replenish his pool," affirmed Batman, "further experimentation revealed that people who died in a state of extreme fear or pain provided more ferocious soldiers. That is where your sample came from.

"In it's neutral state, ectoplasm reacts equally to all emotional ranges. Repeated exposure to emotional extremes will imprint the ectoplasm, causing it to react more strongly to a specific emotional range than to others. The negative emotions of Ra's victims imprinted on the ectoplasm, resulting in your skewed results."

"Wait, how would you know that?" demanded Maddie, "We're the foremost experts on ecto-science and we didn't know that!"

He pulled out a thick folder and slammed it onto the table.

"I had my research peer-reviewed."

"By who?" asked Jack, "We looked all over and couldn't find anyone in the scientific community!"

"You weren't looking in the right place. There is a branch of the Justice League that specializes in the supernatural, ghosts and demons chief among them. They want me to bring you in."

"Really!? Did you hear that Mads! We're being recruited by the Justice League!"

"They want me to arrest you," Batman corrected them, "for illegal poaching of innocent and neutral spirits, particularly after last week's attack on their newest member, Danny Phantom."

"The Ghost Boy!?" roared Jack, "That no-good ectoscum made the League before we did!?"

"I have watched his fights. He takes care to avoid collateral damage and only appears when other ghosts attack, sometimes at great personal cost."

"Look, Mr. Batman," sighed Maddie in a condescending tone, "we've fought the ghost boy for years. He has a history of crime and violence. If you look far enough, you'll find-."

Batman had no time for nonsense.

"The League has already looked into the incidents. All show indications of either coercion or mind control."

"Ghosts are deceitful and conniving-!"

"We have already established that your initial sample skewed your results," he cut Jack off, "this would imply that all of your research and experiments need to be reassessed, including your opinions towards ghosts in general.

"Regarding Ra's al Ghul, you will need to continue working with him. Cutting contact suddenly may put you and your family in danger."

That caught their attention.

"What do we need to do?" asked Jack, all jokes and outrage immediately tossed out the window.

"Keep doing your research with this new information in mind. Your experiments have been applied to the Lazarus Pits, resulting in unstable results. Recent subjects have come out in a mindless rage, while others have shown no effect on their mind, and yet others have had no effect. Ra's is already skeptical of your continued collaboration. If you provide him with research based off this new information, he may decide you are not worth his time or money. When it comes to Ra's, your best option is dismissal to irrelevance. You do not want to make an enemy out of him."

"It's not just that," admitted Maddie, "if we were the only ones being affected, we'd simply let him know we're exploring new horizons outside of ecto-science. The thing is, we have two children, one in college and one near graduation."

He gave them a card. "Call that number. All of their college expenses will be taken care of."

"I... Bruce Wayne?" read out Jack.

"We've collaborated before, he is trustworthy," he reassured them, "the next part is up to you. Will you be scientists, or poachers?"

Their lights flickered, and he was gone.

[room-surprise]

Addendum to Dungeon Meshi Age Calculations, and Thistle's age estimate...

This is sort of a sequel to two posts of mine, How to Calculate Comparative Ages of DM Characters and How Old Is Thistle?

I've seen some people claim that the age scale between elves and tall-men where elves age 5 times slower than tall-men can't be used accurately for elves that are very young or very old. I've also seen people claim that the half-foot age modifier is wrong.

I'm not a mathematician, but so far I have not seen any actual evidence that the 5:1 scale doesn't work, and a good amount of proof that it does, and I think the confusion about half-foot aging is a translation issue.

Please keep in mind, information about Marcille's age does not apply to any of this, because [SPOILERS].

WHAT ABOUT VERY YOUNG ELVES?

Here's something we know about the babies from the different races, which comes from Ryoko Kui's blog:

1 year old elven, dwarven and gnomish babies can only lay on their backs. Tall-man and half-foot 1 year olds can both stand, though the tall-man is not as good at it as the half-foot.

This lines up with real-world development milestones, human children can usually stand on their own somewhere between 9 to 12 months. Half-foots age faster than tall-men, so it makes sense that the half-foot would look more balanced and steady while standing.

A 2 year old elven baby has just gained the ability to sit up, while the babies of other races are walking or running. Normal human babies can sit up with help at around 5 months.

2 divided by 5 equals 0.4, that's 40%, and 40% of one year equals 4.8666666 months. That's 5 months.

I think it's very likely Kui herself is using the 5:1 ratio in order to calculate her elven ages in order to get this very specific 5 month developmental milestone to line up this way. So we can confirm that any elf over the age of 2 years old should have an age that is calculable with the 5:1 ratio. I also think it's not crazy to assume Kui may be using the numbers I calculated in my age post to work out other character's ages as well, since she's clearly doing it for the elves.

LET'S TEST IT WITH HALF-FOOTS

Human children learn to run between 18 and 24 months, so around 2 years old, like the chart shows us. 2 years divided by the half-foot age ratio (1.1428571429) equals 175% because they grow faster than tall-men.

175% of 2 years is 1277.5 days... Which is 3.5 years. So a 2 year old half-foot has the maturity of a 3.5 years old human child. 3 years old is when human children are expected to run and jump easily, and climb stairs without help.

That sounds about right to me, since the half-foot child in the drawing looks like they can confidently run around without balance issues. One foot is off the ground, and their arms are pulled in closer to the body than the tall-man child's arms.

Meanwhile the tall-man child is more unsteady, both feet firmly planted, standing with their arms held out as far as they can go to help with balance.

DOESN'T 29=50 FOR HALF-FOOTS?

Kui says that Chilchuck would be about 50 if he were a modern day human (which he isn't, he's a medieval half-foot), and then she says that half-foots in the time of Dungeon Meshi only live to be about 50 years old on average.

I'm pretty sure she's telling us that if Chilchuck were a human in our world, he'd be past middle-aged, and then for contrast, she tells us that most half-foots in Chilchuck's world die by age 50. Not that Chilchuck's 29 years is equivalent to a 50 year old modern human.

Chilchuck is 29 years old, and he had his first child at age 13. The average age of death for half-foots is 50, then that means middle-aged for a half-foot is 25.

Chilchuck is 4 years older than that, which makes Chilchuck past middle-aged. It does not make him developmentally the same as a 50 year old modern human though.

Using the numbers I've worked out, a half-foot would be developmentally 50 years old when they're 44.

Kui says that although Chilchuck wants to retire from going into the dungeons, if he did, it would be premature... Just like it would be premature for a 33 year old to retire.

In the real world retirement ages are connected to the average age of death. As that number goes up, so does retirement age. Because modern humans live until around 72, as a global average, retirement age is somewhere in their 60s.

So since half-foots average lifespan is 50, a normal age for Chilchuck to retire would be in his 40s.

WHAT ABOUT OLD ELVES?

The average age of death for tall-men is 60, however we know that tall-men can live into their 80s because Marcille's father did.

The average age of death for elves is 400, but they can live up to 500 years.

There's no reason to think that DM tall-men aren't like real world humans, and can't live into their 100's if they are lucky and wealthy enough. Even in the real medieval period, some people lived into their early 100's.

The thing that makes average death ages low in real life is usually issues like high infant mortality, starvation, war, lack of medical care, and lack of sanitation.

In the real medieval period, the average age of death was 30 not because people dropped dead at 30, but because SO MANY children died young that it pulled down the average. In medieval times, if you managed to live to 25, you had an average of 23 more years of life ahead of you, which is 48 years old.

I think Kui raised the average death age to 60 for tall-men to account for the fact that even tall-men have access to more advanced medicine and healing magic in DM, so infant mortality isn't as high and the adults live more than a decade longer.

The elves naturally have a longer lifespan since they live 5 times slower than tall-men. However they also probably have a far more advanced society than any of the other races in Dungeon Meshi. Fleki calls the Eastern Continent a "primitive land", and it's mostly populated by dwarves, gnomes and tall-men.

If elven culture was developmentally the same as tall-man culture, I bet elves would only live to about 300, which would be 60 for them, maturity wise.

WHAT DOES THIS MEAN?

80x5 is 400. That seems correct to me, a 400 year old elf would be considered elderly and getting close to the end of their life. An 80 year old tall-man would be considered VERY old, having lived past average expectations... But those expectations, as I said before, are based on poor living conditions, not biological certainty. 100x5 is 500, so the two maximum ages (100 and 500) also line up when you use the 5:1 ratio.

POSSIBLE MAXIMUM AGES FOR OTHER RACES

Using the same math, if gnomes and dwarves had the same culture as tall-men, they'd only live to be 150-ish instead of 240/200...

This is only a theory, but dwarvish and gnomish maximum possible ages should probably be around 250, if you multiply their age modifier (2.5) x100 like I did with the elves.

The current difference between their average age of death is probably attributable to lifestyle and cultural differences (gnomes use a lot more magic, and so they live longer).

Then, just to do the rest of the races:

Half-foots and orcs theoretical maximum age is 88. Ogres theoretical maximum age is 94. Kobold theoretical maximum age is 81.

Keep in mind, these numbers are based on the idea that "around 100 years old" is the oldest a human being can get. The oldest human to ever live survived until they were 122 years old... But obviously that is rare, and happened in the modern era.

Point is, there's wiggle room at the top end of the age limit, for some of the races that may be a matter of extra days or months, for others it could be an extra decade or two. But I'm using 100 for simplicity's sake.

Sorry for the long post! I hope this answers people's questions, and if I messed something up let me know!

[lightningant]

in the books do you think severus ever truly cared for harry? I know a lot of people say he did but in my head they never crossed that threshold in canon. like yes harry respects him but I think that has a lot to do with the fact that with his death severus became more of a symbol to harry than a person. and severus was too grief and guilt ridden and hate stricken to truly reckon w harry as his own person.

Oh Harry was for sure a symbol. He was symbols on symbols. Harry was only important because he was a living memorium of Lily, proof positive that the muggleborn girl he grew up with and knew to be brilliant, and every waking second Harry resembles James is him tarnishing her memory. The guilt and grief would have driven him off if not for the anger.

But I don't think Harry viewed Snape as a symbol in return! I think he was really validated by being given complete understanding over what guided Snape's decisions, and being trusted with information you couldn't have waterboarded out of him. I've talked about it before, but there is a huge amount of character in which memories Snape chose and how he cut those memories up, and Harry is smart enough to notice this. It's factual, it's clinical, it excises context that might justify his choices, it does not linger on what he loved about Lily, it introduces Sirius and James but not their bullying. It was an intensely humanizing perspective.

It's a strong narrative conclusion that he died and I'm satisfied with that, but I do think this opened up a huge pathway between them. If Snape survived he would know this for a fact and stop at nothing to get away from Harry which I think is pretty funny.

Part of why I think Snarry has the sauce even if I could never read it is that I think that the post-war would lead to them facing each other as equals and peers in a way that was impossible as a stratified teacher & student relationship, allowing Harry to represent himself clearly. It is a premise so innately compelling and flexible that I struggle to think of ways one could get it wrong.

I'm fully dedicated to mentor Snape specifically because it places Snape in a position where resolving whatever issue Harry has made his personal problem requires unpacking this symbolic framing wayyyy earlier than he wants to, and providing Harry with the reliable male authority figure he spends the entire series itching for. A premise that is invoking tropes that don't map to these characters at all and thus is constantly done wrong but I persevere because I love it so much

[fefe658]

Hang in there! [ 1 ]

Decided to start a new story! This story will contain the 'tinies as pets' trope, don't like don't read. Though I suggest you at least give it a try, it gets better for our poor kitty.

Next

Cw: pet trope, mentions of death

Felix rested on his tiny bed made of scraps of fabric, enjoying what little peace he had before the store opened.

It's been two weeks since he was brought back here- or was it three? Time tends to blend together while you're sitting on a shelf all day. You just try not to think about it and wait for the shop to close for the night.

His last home was... normal. Nothing remarkable about it, but nothing great either. He was given as a gift to a young girl for her birthday. He hated kids, they'd always try to get their dirty, grubby little hands on him. Lifting him up, ruffling his hair, pulling on his tail.

On his third day, Felix couldn't take it anymore and decided to snap back. When the girl tried to reach for him, he scratched her hand. She immediately started crying and called out to her dad, who promptly slammed him back in his cage and brought him to the girl's mother. While the dad angrily screamed about how much of a waste of time and money Felix was, he simply looked down and tried to tune out the screaming, covering his sensitive ears.

The parents both decided to return him to the pet store.

He didn't know how to feel about it, he's been returned so many times that he should be used to it by now. Yet, every time he gets put back in his box on the store shelf, he feels...

Wrong. Bad. An ungrateful brat. Hopeless. A waste of time. Don't you know how lucky you are? How many like you live on the streets, wishing to have a home? Nobody wants a kitty that doesn't like being touched. Nobody will want to love you. You should just be put down.

Felix's ears twitched as he heard the bell chimes coming from the front door, meaning that Sandra was about to open the store.

Sandra was good, as good as a human working in a pet store could be anyway. She respected his personal space when she could, she listened to his needs, and she always looked heartbroken whenever he was returned.

Felix shielded his eyes as light streamed in from the windows, clearly annoyed by the sudden brightness. He turned around and buried himself in his makeshift blanket, not yet ready to face the day.

Soon, Felix heard the sound of fingers gently tapping against the front of his plastic enclosure, followed by a sigh and the sound of his water and food bowls getting refilled. He was grateful that he lived inside one of the more high end pet stores, which could afford to feed its pets clean water and pieces of fruit, instead of the usual hard, brown pieces of what could be barely classified as food.

After he heard the box close, he slowly got up from his bed. No point in delaying the inevitable, he knows that Sandra wants to talk to him every time he's sent back to the store.

Holding the oversized bell strapped to his neck as to not make any sound, he made his way over to his food, eating it as he looked outward towards the rest of the store. His box was placed on a higher shelf, so he had a good view of the various aisles. It was a pretty small store, so there wasn't much to see, really. There were some posters and advertisements on the opposite wall: One of them was listing some offers on animal centric products, another was promoting the adoption of pets, showing a happy kid holding an equally happy looking tiny with bright orange fur, a pair of tufty ears and a fluffy tail.

Felix let out a sigh. He knew that some pets just wanted to be adopted, he knew they would find a home and a family who loved them. He also knew that just wasn't gonna happen to him. The sheer amount of times he'd been rejected was enough proof of that.

But that poster wasn't what bothered him. No. The picture on the wall that he hated with every fiber of his being was the one right in front of his shelf. Perfectly framed by the edges of his prison, was a small image of a tiny holding onto a piece of string, with the words 'Hang in there' written above it.

Felix didn't know what was worse. That the tiny in the picture resembled him so much, short lavander-gray hair with matching ears and tail; or the phrasing above it. 'Hang in there', a phrase so innocent, yet such a mockery of his situation. It kept reminding him that whatever happens, no matter what he did, how many times he was returned, how many times he cried and screamed and begged, He was doomed to stay here.

He stopped trying about two years ago, after he finally understood that he wasn't worth the time. When he gave up on trying to please others just to be loved. He won't even touch the toys I bought for him, he's nothing but a waste of money.

Eventually, Felix heard footsteps approaching the shelf, so he knew his time was up. Sandra's face appeared in front of his box, a bit too low to be at eye level. She was pretty short for a human, though still a dozen times taller than him. The slight elevation always gave him a sense of reassurance, he hates having to look up to speak to a human.

"So... how was it?"

Felix put his food down, taking a deep breath before opening his mouth, "Really? Is this what you settled for?"

Sandra sighed, "Felix, I know you don't like to talk, I just wanna make sure you're alright."

The quicker you tell her what she wants, the sooner she'll leave. "It was a kid, really young. She kept touching me so I scratched her."

Sandra's calm smile faltered "Felix, I know-"

"You should've seen the dad, he looked just about ready to fling me off the table when she started crying."

"Felix-"

"And then he brought me to the kid's mom, and she said I should've been put down, and then-"

"Felix."

Felix stopped talking and turned towards Sandra. She was looking at him, her expression seemed angry, but her teary eyes said otherwise. "You know I don't like it when you talk like this."

"I'm just telling you what happened, you're the one who asked for it."

Sandra pinched her nose with a sigh. Good, now leave me be. We both have better things to do.

"I'm sure you noticed that while you were away, Oliver got adopted."

Oliver, right. The other tiny that lived in the box with him. Felix noticed he wasn't in the box last night, but he knew he'd get to know why the next morning.

Oliver was young, with large eyes, a stubby tail and bright orange fur. He was sweet, cuddly and joyful, everything a happy family would want to adopt. Felix was just waiting for him to be taken so he could be alone in the box again.

"Good for him, now I'll finally be able to sleep without hearing him snore. Can I be alone now? You're gonna attract the first customers of the day here and I do not want eyes on me first thing in the morning."

Sandra gave Felix a desperate look, "Come on, at least try to open up. I'm sure you'll eventually find someone you'll enjoy being with."

Felix just ignored her and turned back, wrapping himself in his makeshift bed. Sandra decided not to press him further and just left, ready to open the store for the day.

Felix was left alone with his thoughts, staying under the covers as to not draw any attenion to himself. That's how he spent most of his days, avoiding unwanted aknowledgement from customers. The last thing he wanted was humans seeing him and try to talk to him, much less touch him.

Sandra's words burned in his head like a forest fire. Try to open up, you'll find someone who will love you. She repeats that every time someone returns him, as if saying it the fiftieth time will finally make it happen. He hated being bought, he hated being returned. He hated being owned, being played with, being touched and prodded and thrown around. He hated being treated like a child, like he can't decide for himself, he hated Sandra, and everyone who bought him, and he knew that they all hated him. He hated this place, he'd rather just stay under these covers forever and die alone than being someone's plaything again-

There was a gentle knock on the front of his box.

Fuming, he tried to ignore it. He's not in the mood to talk with Sandra. He knows he'd say something he might regret.

Another knock, slightly stronger this time.

That's it. Felix threw the covers off himself and towards the front of the box. She had it coming. Felix stood up, moving towards the clear plastic wall that separated him from the human on the other side.

"Can't you leave me alone for one second?! Why is it that out of all the other tinies in this forsaken store you just have to come and annoy me?! The fact that you 'care for people like me' doesn't give you the right to-"

Felix stopped in his tracks. The human in front of him was, in fact, not Sandra. His brain short circuted, unsure of what to do. His mind screamed at him to hide back under the covers, but said covers were right in front of the human. To get them, he'd have to get closer to the front of his cage and, by extent, closer to the human.

Felix was frozen in place, feeling the unwanted gaze of the giant in front of him. He wanted to run, to hide, curl up and disappear. He gazed into those large blue eyes waiting for that door to open and for fingers to start grabbing him, because customers never read the lable saying to not touch the pets-

But then, the human left.

Felix's knees suddenly felt like jelly, and he fell to the ground with a distressed sigh. He carefully made his way over to the front and grabbed his blanket, when something caught his eye.

The human was at the counter, talking to Sandra. And Sandra was looking at him.

Oh, no. No no nonono. Not now, not so soon. I just came back-

Felix watched as Sandra started walking towards the shelf. His shelf.

Felix hurried quickly towards the darkest corner of his enclosure, burying himself in his own bed. Closing his eyes, he braced himself for what was about to happen.

Felix heard the door to his enclosure open. "Felix here has been with us for some time, he was brought here when he was a young kid."

There was a moment of silence, and Felix knew exactly what was expected of him. Like hell I'm going out there.

"Today he's a little grumpier than usual, you see. He was adopted last week but didn't realy fit in, so..."

Yes, I'm a lost cause. Don't bother with me and just take someone else, I'm sure there's plenty better choices.

"He really likes his personal space, he tends to get a bit overwhelmed by too much noise."

You're really outing me right away, huh? Felix didn't know if he should be mad or grateful for that.

"He's a bit of a handful... Are you sure you want him?"

No.

"Yes."

Fuck.

That voice sounded so calm, so sweet. Felix wanted to throw up.

Felix immediately felt the box being removed from the shelf, in a procedure that he's already been subjected to dozens of times over.

Sandra brought him to the back room, gently laying down the plastic enclosure on a table. After what felt like hours of silence, she finally spoke up.

"Felix, please come out."

Silence.

"Felix, you know you can't stay there. I don't wanna force you to come out."

No answer.

"Felix, how many times do we have to do this?"

Felix sighed. He knew making a fuss wouldn't delay the inevitable. He also knew that he was being childish, but he didn't care. "I don't know, how many times do we have to do this?"

Felix got up, straining his neck to look into Sandra's eyes. "Do you think I enjoy this? Do you think I like jumping between homes, having to deal with everything that happens to me? Do you think I like the idea of having an owner?"

"Felix, you know how I feel about this. These are the cards you've been dealt, you should try and make the best of what's been given to you."

"Why do you want me to get adopted so bad? Can't you just let me be?"

"Felix, you know what happens when a pet spends too much time here without being adopted. You've been in the shop for six years, I don't want you to-"

"Well, maybe I do deserve to go to the pound. Maybe they'll finally put me down, then I won't be such a nuisance anymore!"

Warm tears pricked Felix's eyes, his throat was sore and his lungs were burning. He refused to look at Sandra's eyes, afraid to see the guilt? Pity? Disappointment?

He didn't say a word as he was washed, dried and brushed. He was soon set into a cage with a matted floor.

I've done it countless times, I can do it again. I just hope it'll be quick this time.

The cage was brought out of the back room and deposited on the front counter, along with some paperwork. His paperwork.

Sandra's voice spoke from above. "Is this everything? Or do you need anything else?"

The other human was silent for a moment, before bending down to be at eye level with Felix. "Do you need anything else?"

Oh, great. so you're one of those.

Felix scrambled towards the back of the cage when those giant blue eyes fell on him, shaking his head. The human shrugged, once again moving out of Felix's line of view.

"No thank you, I'll just take him and this toy."

"Perfect! Now you just need to sign the adoption papers, Mr..."

"Luke. Call me Luke."

Luke. Felix didn't bother memorising it. It's not like he'll need it anyway.

Felix heard the sound of paper being shuffled around. This was his least favourite part of the adoption process: The deafening silence, the suspance, the fact that those documents meant that this human owned Felix, without asking any opinion from his part.

Felix's thoughts were interrupted as the cage was lifted up, and he was brought to the soft ground with a quiet 'oof'. Sandra gave her best smile as she bid farewell to felix, but he didn't bother to turn around to look at her. I'll be back in a week, so why even bother.

The cage was set onto the front seat of the human's car and secured with a seatbelt. The human sat in the driver's seat, and immediately turned to face Felix with a smile.

"So, what's your name, little guy?"

You already know it.

"Not a talker, eh? Me neither."

Then stop talking.

"My name is Luke."

I'm not stupid, I heard you the first time.

The human gave Felix a weird look, turning the car on and messing with the radio knob. "Do you like music?"

Please don't choose anything pop.

The radio eventually settled onto some smooth jazz, and the car started moving. Felix tried to tune out the noise, wanting to get as much sleep as he could.

I just hope he doesn't have kids.

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

Phew! That was the longest chapter I've written as of now.

I really enjoyed writing this story, and I have a lot of ideas for its future. I know the pet trope is a bit of a risque subject in the G/t community, but then I remembered that morality is relative and fiction is fiction.

I want this story to be a bit more serialised, less centered on romance and more on the characters and setting. That being said, I thank everyone for reading, I encourage you to send me asks and suggestions, to like / reblog (which would really help out), and to check out my other stories.

[nobodyssoldier]

i. a web weaving

There is no freedom as sweet as knowing you are terrible and accepting it.

ii. digging deeper

name: lucy weasley

age: 24

former house: slytherin

blood status: pureblood

face claim: jessica alexander

allegiance: the knights of the round table

gender & pronouns: cis woman, she/her

oh, soft girl with starlight running through your veins instead of ichor, you were forged from stories of war and wrapped in a thin blanket of temporary peace, but you never minded the grit. the dirt underneath your fingernails meant you were alive. you were living proof that life after war could exist — it could be nurtured and developed. and yet you fell short on the expectations of family, but you pretend not to notice the disappointment and smile until your cheeks are raw. no one notices the smile is not real, and that is how your childhood goes — a silent begging to be noticed, without having to explain yourself, without having the weight of being bothersome. because as soft and gentle as you seem to be, you will not beg for attention from a family that boasts equality and loyalty. 

you have always been too much or not enough, wild one day and quiet the next. it became a game of which lucy would come out to play because not even you knew yourself. the war was over, but it didn’t stop the fight inside your mind. the anger churning in the depths of your bones was turning biblical, despite the pink glitter pen filled parchment papers and the latest fashion trends draping over your shoulders, but in a family filled with lionhearted bravery you became a hidden snake in the grass. the speck of green and silver in the waves of red and gold, and it felt like your rebirth was destined to come — finding comfort in the thin barrier between good and bad while blurring the lines of right and wrong in the same breath. 

but things never turn out how you want; and in no time death and war are crashing around yourself, the walls built around yourself crumbling down. your knees are buckling under the weight of the world on your shoulders. i am just a girl, you scream out for the gods to hear, fingers digging into the dirt until they’re bloodied and raw from clawing yourself out of the depths of your tormented mind. but when have gods ever listened to the wishes of young girls? you pledge yourself to your family as it was written in your destiny, finding solace in not being alone for the first time. you think you like it, this fracturing. it gives you an excuse to let go and be your worst self in the name of war, because this is how it was now – magic and secrets and shame and you think this will fill the void in you. the unsatiable void that’s haunted you since childhood; a feeling you’ve tried to ignore and feed simultaneously. and you weren’t innocent anymore but no amount of pleading to a silent force could bring that back, so you learn to live with the guilt taking another’s life with the promise to never hurt again, even if you’re not so sure you can keep that promise.

for the first time you crave something soft and tender, much like how you used to be, to remind yourself that there is good in the world. you want to be seen and loved, but the thought of opening yourself up again is terrifying and it creates an ache in your soul. because you’re not even sure you deserve it, after all this is over. war makes monsters out of the best of us, don’t they?

iii. connection

one. MOLLY WEASLEY II , sister — we loved each other with potent, fervent fur. and fury. monstrous fury. my sister. my blood. my skin. what a gruesome bond we shared (krystal sutherland).

two. WANTED CONNECTION , an ex something, a haunted love — you are going to break your promise. i understand. and i hold my hands over the ears of my heart, so i will not hate you (catherynne m. valente). 

three. WANTED CONNECTION , rivals — if you kick me when i’m down, you better pray i don’t get back up.

four. PERCY WEASLEY & AUDREY WEASLEY NEÉ MULCIBER, parents — forgive me father for i have sinned. and as i kneel here now; hands red with blood, i know deep down i’ll do it again (x). 

[ncfan-1]

While outlining/rough drafting (that is effectively what I’m doing) Neither Living Nor Dead, am having an interesting time considering a way Mae and Osha’s situations paralleled while they were being mentored by Qimir and Sol: the two survivors of a marginalized sect of Force-wielders coming under the influence of Force-wielders belonging to the dominant paradigms in the galaxy. Sol, whom I think it’s pretty clear from his behavior in Episode 7 definitely regards the Brendok coven as backwards and dangerous, and who would definitely not want Osha to go on using the Force in a way not sanctioned by the Jedi. Qimir, who has a background as a Jedi who left the Order under murky circumstances, who I think probably still cleaves much closer to some of the Jedi’s ideals than he would care to admit, even if he’s approaching those ideals from the standpoint of embracing all that is forbidden to the Jedi, and was probably in his way just as unwelcoming of a different paradigm of Force-wielding as Sol was.

So you’ve got Sol listening to Mae detailing what she’s willing to divulge (which isn’t much, but enough to paint a picture to him) of the way she and Qimir clashed over her unwillingness to forget her family’s ways and teachings, her unwillingness to assimilate even an inch further than what was necessary to ensure her own survival, and finds himself reevaluating the way he treated Osha over the way she was taught to use the Force and relate to the Force as a little girl, seeing it all in a much less flattering light now that he has Qimir’s treatment of Mae held up to him and Osha like a mirror. Because on the one hand, it was necessary if Osha wanted to stay with the Jedi, it was necessary that she abandon completely the witches’ teachings and never look back.

But on the other hand, he’s also looking back on the way the way she viewed her family started to… change. And Sol hadn’t thought much of it at the time—he had been, in a thoroughly self-serving kind of way, been relieved that she hadn’t wanted to talk about them as much—but is now forced to look back on it and consider why it might have been that Osha didn’t want to talk about her family as much, and eventually only ever brought them up in connection with their deaths, and never spoke about their lives. Beginning to grasp that he was doing a far greater amount of harm than good in convincing Osha that her family’s teachings were wrong-headed and dangerous, and that it was safer for her to just forget about them all together. That it wasn’t a very loving thing to do.

And Osha and Qimir are very much Mrs. and Mr. Not Appearing in this Fic, but basically the same thing is going on wherever they’ve run off to.

For Osha, it was blunted by the reality she had been living in for sixteen years, that the Jedi were her saviors who rescued her from the machinations of her monstrous, demon child twin sister. It was for her equal parts hero worship of Sol and Indara and coming on some level to see Mae’s “murders” as proof that their family’s teachings really were corrupting. She was surrounded on all sides for ten years by people who said that their way was the only right way, and while only the Brendok team knew that Osha’s family were witches, Osha probably did absorb the prevailing attitude, that any way other than the Jedi’s way of relating to the Force was inherently suspect and corrupting. And of course, Sol was every step of the way encouraging her to unlearn what she had learned, encouraging Osha to forget the things her family taught her and only look at and interact with the Force the way a Jedi would.

But now, Osha’s had the scales torn from her eyes, and she’s seeing things a bit differently. Because the Jedi weren’t her saviors, after all, were they? Her sister wasn’t a monstrous demon child who was at least in part corrupted by their family’s backwards, heretical teachings. Her sister was just as much of a victim as she was, and she, Mae, and the rest of their family were all victims—of the Jedi.

So Osha starts to unpack some stuff, and the moment she starts to unpack it all is the moment she starts raging, and she basically does not stop. I can just see her venting to Qimir about how she spent sixteen years feeling ashamed not just of Mae, but on some level ashamed of her entire family because they were “dark” and “corrupted,” because they didn’t use the Force “the right way.” Raging about how her mother’s own murderer behaved in such a way, spoke to her in such a way, as encouraged her to think of her mother as a backwards savage, encouraged her to forsake everything her mother ever taught her as corrupting and unworthy. Raging against herself to a certain extent, because now Osha feels as though she’s betrayed her family by forsaking their teachings in favor of the teachings of their murderers, and the worst part of if it is that she did forsake their teachings, so thoroughly that she can’t perform Force magic consciously anymore, that she can’t remember hardly any of what she was taught as a little girl anymore.

And Qimir’s sitting there and listening to her, and he’s doing pretty much the same thing as Sol is doing on Coruscant. He’s looking back to the time he spent with Mae, and reevaluating it. Considering everything he said and did to Mae when she wouldn’t forsake her family’s teachings, and imagining doing all of that to someone he actually gives a rat’s ass about as a person, and suddenly, Qimir’s seeing himself in a much less flattering light in his capacity as Mae’s former teacher.

[yellowocaballero]

Jon's Trapped in Temporal Time-Out: A TMA Time Travelling Tale

Sasha was tipping some whiskey from her secret flask into her tea when Tim poked his head into the breakroom and announced that he had found a corpse.

Sasha and Martin, hunched over their paltry lunches and pathetic lives situated upon a rickety metal breakroom table and equally rickety metal chairs, stared at him. 

“Like,” Sasha said finally, “a human one?”

Tim shrugged. “Humanoid? I didn’t want to poke it and see if it was fleshy, so I guess the jury’s out.”

Hm. Sasha put her flask away. The day was no longer boring, so it was unnecessary. 

The most relevant questions ought to be asked first. “Should we tell Jon?”

“He might throw a bitch fit about how corpses are unhygienic, so no?”

Martin drained his tea and stood up from the rickety metal chair, resigned. “I’ll get the broom.”

I kept on bitching about how much I dislike the beginning scenes of TMA time travelling AUs so my friend @lazuliquetzal​ (who wrote the best TMA time travelling fic in the fandom) told me to put my money where my mouth is. It’s nowhere near her level, but in my defense it’s probably even stupider than Reflection. 10K of stupid under the cut. 

Sasha was tipping some whiskey from her secret flask into her tea when Tim poked his head into the breakroom and announced that he had found a corpse.

Sasha and Martin, hunched over their paltry lunches and pathetic lives situated upon a rickety metal breakroom table and equally rickety metal chairs, stared at him. 

“Like,” Sasha said finally, “a human one?”

Tim shrugged. “Humanoid? I didn’t want to poke it and see if it was fleshy, so I guess the jury’s out.”

Hm. Sasha put her flask away. The day was no longer boring, so it was unnecessary. 

The most relevant questions ought to be asked first. “Should we tell Jon?”

“He might throw a bitch fit about how corpses are unhygienic, so no?”

Martin drained his tea and stood up from the rickety metal chair, resigned. “I’ll get the broom.”

****

There was, indeed, a corpse in the Archives.

More specifically, in the stacks. The worst place to die, or least be dumped. Sasha had to admit the logic of it: it was the darkest depths of the library that Martin had informed her was ‘somewhat creepy’ and ‘kind of ominous’ so ‘please stop sleeping there you’re going to give me a heart attack’. After Martin flipped on a few lights that were never flipped on (apparently Elias was a cheapskate, which explained the breakroom) they could all gawk at the corpse to their heart’s content. 

Very kindly and thoughtfully, Tim asked Martin if he wanted to stay out of the library and maybe to ‘tell someone’ or something. Both Sasha and Tim had mutually and silently agreed that Martin seemed the type to have a delicate constitution. Granted, he hadn’t seemed the type to win Magnus Anarchist every month by breaking into abandoned buildings with absolutely no shame, so maybe he was the kind that surprised you. 

But Martin had just looked a little unimpressed. “Do you seriously think this is my first corpse? I went to university.”

That somewhat intimidated Sasha, who abruptly worried that she had missed out on an essential university experience again. “Is that a typical university experience?”

Martin paused a beat. 

“Uh,” he said, “yeah, sure, of course. Hazing, you know.”

“Is that what hazing…?”

“Fraternities.”

Tim, from where he had been standing at the entrance to the stacks snapping on the sterile gloves he had liberated from the cleaning supply closet, looked delighted. “You were in a frat too, Martin? What kind of hardcore frat had corpse hazings? Was it the Sigma Gammas? My frat always thought they were way too crazy, but we were a business one -”

“You know what,” Martin said, “let’s just worry about the corpse.”

After Sasha tied her hair in a ponytail and Martin snapped on his own gloves, they awkwardly approached the aisle where Tim had been trying to find a reference book for Jon. Sasha was worried that they would have to hunt for it a little, or that there would be a bad jump scare, but when they found it she saw that it wasn’t subtle at all.

It was sprawled on the ground, face mashed into the cheap and somewhat gross carpet. Sasha approached it with absolutely no hesitation, which Tim and Martin gladly let her do, and squatted down to get a better look at the figure. 

She definitely needed to make a coroner’s report. She was the objective expert in coroner’s reports. 

 “Tim, can you run back and get one of Jon’s silly little tape recorders for my coroner’s report?”

“Did you just see that on the telly?” Tim asked skeptically. “Because if you did -”

“Oh, here one is. That’s really convenient!” Martin grabbed one off the shelf and pressed play, letting the tape roll. “Good idea, Sasha. We need proof to Jon that we were researching.”

Probably...not what Jon meant for them to be researching, but Sasha liked to believe that it was the intent that mattered. She pulled a pencil out of her pencil skirt pocket, poking the figure thoughtfully. “Report by Sasha James, Archival Assistant.” There, now it was work. “At 1:30pm today, Tim Stoker discovered a corpse in the Archives, thereby referred to as John Doe -”

“Do we have to call it John Doe?” Tim complained, standing next ot her and crossing his arms. “Then we have too many Johns, it’ll get confusing.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sasha said dismissively. “Ours is Jon, this guy’s John. Completely different.”

“Sasha, I’m not sure that’s how words work.”

“What are you, an English major?”

“Yes! I was an editor for a living!”

“Sorry if I don’t listen to guys who were fired from book editing school -”

“Uh,” Martin said, “have we checked to see if he’s actually dead?”

Sasha and Tim fell silent. Sasha looked at Tim. Tim shook his head. 

“Seriously, mate?” Sasha asked, unimpressed. 

“I didn’t want to touch the corpse!” Tim cried. “So sue me! It’s not as if he’s moving!”

Pussy. Sasha gently reached out and pushed aside a little of the corpse’s very long and pretty curly hair. What was that, 3C? Jesus, that had to be work. Sasha was 3A and the amount of hair care products she owned was insane.

She waved her hand at the boys for silence and put her thumb against his pulse, concentrating hard. Martin quietly walked over and crouched down too, eyeing his chest. 

“I don’t feel a pulse,” Sasha said finally. 

“Also, uh, I’m not a doctor,” Martin said, “but he’s definitely not breathing.”

“I told you,” Tim said defensively. “You just look at the thing, and you go - yep, that’s a corpse!”

“Corpse appears to be an ethnically ambiguous adult man with very nice hair,” Sasha said loudly. Martin helpfully held out the recorder to catch her voice better. “Maybe 190cm. Incredibly skinny - potential cause of death. He’s dressed in...some very ratty clothing. Potentially homeless.”

“It definitely smells,” Tim said, pinching his nose. Sasha didn’t blame him - the clothing was an overlarge green hoodie, ratty and threadbare, and his jeans weren’t any better. His boots were worn and soft leather. “Maybe he’s a homeless guy who snuck in and died?”

“That’s so sad,” Martin said softly. “Also a little gross.”

“Have some respect for the dead, guys,” Sasha said, as she poked the dead guy with a pencil. “Tim, go flip him over.”

Tim held his hands up, stepping away. “I couldn’t possibly. Martin loves flipping people over.”

“This again?” Martin asked, frustrated. “This is just like when you made me handle the Rawlings case because you’re scared of the suburbs!”

“They have too many eyes, Martin!”

“I am surrounded by cowards,” Sasha noted for the recorder. Nothing for it, then. Sasha carefully straightened, wobbling on her heels, before solidly wiggling her hands underneath the corpse’s chest. He was cold - dead a while. 

It was surprisingly difficult to flip over a limp adult man. Sasha was strong, but the corpse’s flesh was weak, and he was all floppy. Eventually Tim got over himself long enough to help her, making a very disgusted face the entire time, and they were able to finally get a good look at the man’s face.

Abruptly, upon seeing it, they all quieted. 

There was something about seeing a man splayed out on the ground that was a little funny, if you worked for the Magnus Institute and had probably encountered a Leitener two years ago and lost all empathy. No more impediments in the search for science. But there was something very different about looking at a person, who had a nose and lips and a very ratty hoodie, and knowing that it was no longer a person. Just a lot of cloth and meat and blood and organs and nice hair that once was a person, back when things were easier and the world was a little less harsh.

But maybe Sasha was caught by sentimentality: after all, the corpse looked a little like Jon.

Judging from the stunned faces of her compatriots as they all bent around the figure, they all thought the same thing. Tim’s jaw was open, and Martin’s hand was covering his mouth in shock. 

“Man,” Tim said. “This sucks. And it’s really creepy.”

“He must have been really gorgeous,” Martin said. “That’s so sad.” 

Actually, Sasha tilted her head and took another look. He had sharp and severe features, elegant and striking. A large and thin, sharp nose, and equally sharp lips. His face was just as sharp and gaunt, as emancipated as the rest of him. He had strange scars trailing up his neck and curving around his jaw, but it just kind of accentuated the intense atmosphere. 

It was probably a pretty stupid thing to focus on, but in her defense it wasn’t really the face of a homeless guy. Well, maybe. Hot homeless people existed.

Sasha frowned. She’s only met one other person this hot. 

“Hey,” she said, “doesn’t he look like Jon?”

Both the men titled their heads. 

Finally, Tim said, “Nah, he’s hotter.”

“Agreed,” Sasha said. “I think the scars really do it.” 

“Uh, guys,” Martin said. 

Sasha grabbed her tape recorder out of Martin’s hands, resuming her coroner’s report. “Subject appears to be in his thirties. Weirdly attractive, but that’s probably not as important as we feel it is.” She looked down at his hands, carefully using her pencil to push up the sleeve. “What looks like an aged and badly healed burn scar on his right hand. Supports homeless guy evidence.”

“Knife scar over his throat,” Tim quietly observed. “Someone tried to kill this guy.”

“Guys,” Martin said. 

“Well, I guess this is the point where we worry about body disposal,” Sasha said, straightening. “I think Elias could handle this discreetly and professionally, but that might involve letting Jon know. And I don’t think any of us want that kind of stress in our lives.”

“So, are we not even pretending to want to call the cops, or…?”

“Listen to me!”

Both Tim and Sasha shut up, somewhat guiltily. Martin had straightened too, fists balled, looking firm and determined and resolute - everything that Martin wasn’t, really. Martin lived unsure of himself, never expressing his own feelings or ending every opinion with an “I don’t know, maybe, that’s just my thoughts, what do you think?”. 

So Tim and Sasha paid attention, and when Sasha nodded encouragingly at him he seemed to find further courage. Solemnly, with the air of a wise man by the side of the road, Martin said, “This guy isn’t hotter than Jon.”

Christ. Sasha takes it all back.

 Tim propped a hand on his hip supportively as Sasha rolled her eyes. “Look, mate,” Tim said, “I know that you think Jon’s the hottest person in existence, and maybe objectively he’s fine as hell, but once you know him for longer than three months he loses all attractiveness. It would be like being into the DMV clerk. The really pretentious cousin at all of your family reunions who tries to explain your own job to you. The dude in your English class who thinks he invented feminism.”

“That was you,” Sasha said. 

“I am the objective expert in Jon,” Martin said firmly, shutting down the dissent. “He’s, like, my muse, okay? And can I say, as I have spent so many long hours memorizing the curve of his jaw - that’s the same jaw.”

If Sasha had a retort to that, or if Tim wanted to judge Martin for his taste in men further, neither of them had a chance. There wasn't an opportunity to say anything more, because the corpse opened its eyes. 

Sasha’s first thought was this: wow, what green eyes. 

Sasha’s second thought was: the fuck?

His eyes didn’t focus on her, or snap anywhere. They drifted a little lazily, fixed on the right, but the man was undoubtedly aware. His fingers twitched, he tilted his head from left to right, and his left hand - doubtlessly the hand that still felt texture - clenched the thin and cheap rug. The man’s jaw slackened a little, as if in surprise. 

For their part, the Assistants frantically looked at each other, all conveying the exact same thought - you said he was dead!

Sasha froze to her spot, petrified. She could handle corpses, or coroner’s reports, or mysteries. Sasha was intelligent, unkind, firm, socially incompetent, and a Libra. She could handle the dead, but the living? Sasha had no idea what to do with alive people.

But Tim did. He hesitated two moments, reeling back in shock, before he abruptly composed himself. He crouched down to the guy, and modulated his voice to sound calming and firm. “Hey, don’t strain yourself. Are you alright? Do you hurt anywhere?”

The man turned his head in Tim's direction, hiding his expression from Sasha, but she saw Tim’s eyes widen. Martin, standing closer to his feet, wrung his hands - clearly torn on what to do, uncertain how to help. Martin always hated being uncertain how to help the most. Which was pretty unfortunate, because Martin always wanted to help, and Martin was always uncertain. 

“Can you speak?” Tim asked gently. “If you can’t speak, go ahead and knock on the floor for me, okay?”

“If we pack him into your car, we can say that we found him on the street,” Sasha piped up. As much as she distrusted NHS, and as much as the NHS refused to touch anybody who had ever stepped foot inside the Institute, they could hardly refuse somebody if they just lied their ass off about it. “They’ll have to treat him then, right?”

“We could make it so much worse if we move him,” Martin said quickly, just as strangely firm. “We need to take our chances with 999.”

“We don’t even know if he’s injured,” Sasha pointed out, somewhat optimistically. “Maybe this whole thing can just, like, not be a problem.”

Yeah, Sasha definitely preferred corpses. 

The man was opening and closing his mouth, before he coughed wetly. Sasha clinically noted that it was the first time she had seen his chest move. As Tim reached forward, murmuring gently, and helped the man sit up, she saw that his chest didn’t move at all.

“Alright, let’s try to get you up.” Tim helped the man shift so he was leaning against the bookcase - uncomfortable, but a better position if he started coughing up blood. “We should fetch you some water - Martin, I don’t think he has any injury like that, he just seems out of it. His eyes aren’t focusing on me at all.”

Strangely, the man scoffed at that. The sound made him cough again, but the derision was unmistakable.

The derision was extremely familiar. 

When Sasha looked at Martin his eyes were wide behind his glasses, and she knew that he had heard the same thing that she did. 

Finally, with a raspy and hoarse voice, the man said, “Well, isn’t this fucking fun.”

Everybody stared at him. His voice...different, definitely, with a less posh accent and strained vocal cords scratching his tones. But when Sasha glanced at Tim, she just knew that he was remembering when Jon had insisted on coming into work with a terrible cold and Martin had to bully him home. He had sounded eerily like…

“Is this your idea of a joke?” the man said. 

Tim, from where he was crouched next to the guy, turned his attention back to him. “I’m a funny guy, but last time I checked head injuries aren’t a joke.” He tracked his finger across the man’s eyes, frowning when they didn’t follow. “You definitely have a concussion, mate. If you can walk, we need to -”

“Lord, alright, I get it.” The man raised his burned hand and clumsily rubbed his eyes. “You’re mad at me, I’m sleeping on the couch, whatever. Is all of this really necessary?”

“Uh,” Tim said intelligently. “Mate, I’m not your boyfriend.”

The man waved his other hand in Tim’s direction as he pressed his fingers into his eyes in exhaustion. “I’m hardly speaking to you.” Tim’s jaw dropped in shock as the man angled his face upwards, the crown of his head jamming uncomfortably against the metal shelving. “In my defense, I was doing the best I could with the resources you gave me. It’s water under the bridge. I’ve forgotten about it already! So let’s just get back to our eldritch hellscape.”

Everybody stared at each other. 

“We should move this into the break room,” Martin said. “There’s tea there.”

“Oh, don’t be rude,” Jon said, “making Martin into a caricature of himself. You like Martin, you told me so.”

“Counterpoint,” Sasha said weakly, “the bullpen has Jon. And I really don’t want to explain this to Jon.”

“I don’t even know who this one is,” the man said. “What? Not going to tell me?”

“Okay, like, fucking rude, but whatever.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking to,” Tim said firmly, reaching out and putting a firm hand on the man’s arm. The man didn’t recoil or jerk away, just looking down in vague surprise. “But they aren’t here right now. You’re in the basement of the Magnus Institute, alright? I’m Tim Stoker, at your service, and these are my coworkers. I think you have a brain injury. If you can walk, we need to get you -”

“I can’t eat here,” the man said, but he made no effort to remove Tim’s arm. He moved his other hand, pressing it against Tim’s own, as if they were friends. “Cutting me off from my Knowledge -” it was capitalized, Sasha could hear it “ - chaining me to my desk, for - what? You’re not even answering me? Come on!” The man’s voice raised, and for the first time Sasha could hear something ragged in it. “Don’t give me the silent treatment!”

“Jon.”

It was Martin, standing at a distance from the man - from all of them. He was wringing his hands again, shoulders hunched and tense, but his expression was caught in that same mysterious firmness. 

The man didn't react. Not in surprise, not in shock, not in unrecognition. He just scowled a little, ignoring all of them. 

“Jon,” Martin said, louder. “This isn’t solving anything. Don’t be stubborn.”

“I’m not the one being stubborn, Martin,” Jon - Jon?! - muttered, folding his arms. Like an infant. Like, hypothetically, something Jon would do. “I just don’t think omniscient fear gods should be petty.”

Everybody looked at each other. 

“This needs tea,” Martin proclaimed finally, and everybody nodded in silent agreement.

Every nodded in agreement - even, strangely enough, Jonathan Sims himself. 

****

This plan had a few complexities. 

The first complexity was dealing with Jon - their Boss - himself. In an act of cunning psychological warfare, Martin had gone ahead of them and used his endless and infinite subtle acts of manipulation to guarantee that Jon wouldn’t interrupt them. This situation was already Quite A Bit, nobody wanted to babysit their boss. 

Who Sasha frequently felt as if she babysat a bit. Having the youngest person in the office be the very rigid and authoritarian boss was objectively a little funny. But you know what’s not funny? Transphobia. 

Eventually Martin came back and waved them forward, and Tim gently yet firmly dragged the man upwards and put a hand on his back. 

“Do you mind if I touch you?” Tim asked. He sounded resigned about it - barely expecting Jon to respond. “Let me know how you want me to guide you.”

“Oh, it’s whatever. If you’re going to play it this way.” Jon easily looped his arm through Tim’s, who didn’t bother to mask his shock. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Sasha went ahead of them, watching Tim walk Jon down the aisle - hah! - with his arm looped through his elbow and a hand on his back. It was exactly the kind of care and meticulousness that Sasha always saw in him when it came to others. He literally walked grannies across the street. It was horrendous. She got second-hand embarrassed whenever she saw it.

Tim was loudly, extremely, messily kind. He was a person who adopted lost causes, like young men too grumpy to make real friends and women who only knew academia and never people. Sasha told him that once he got his teeth into something he never let go. It would get him into trouble one day. Maybe it already had. 

Sure enough, when Sasha opened the library door for them and peeked her head into the hallway, she saw that Jon’s office door was very firmly shut and locked. Even more incriminatingly, she heard his cute little theater drama monologues starting. Tim had found Jon’s theater aspirations very adorable and he had tried recording them to put on his Snapchat and maybe get him discovered by an agent, but unfortunately the videos made Tim’s phone bleed. They had given Martin ten pounds to taste the blood. Man would do anything for ten pounds, but seeing as they all worked this job that probably applied to all them. 

A workplace made out of people who always picked ‘dare’ in truth or dare. It was kind of a miracle they were still alive. Sasha was a little uncertain how she had survived to thirty five, actually. 

Once Sasha gave the all clear, Tim was able to bring Jon (Neo-Jon? Nega-Jon? Dark Jon? Mean Jon? No, that was just Jon) into the bullpen. Softly narrating what he was doing, he pulled out a chair and lowered Jon into it. 

Homeless Jon hasn’t been blind for very long, Sasha noted clinically. Long enough that he seemed more mildly irritated by it than anything else, but instead of orienting himself or testing out where he was he just kind of slumped in his chair. 

“Jon - uh, the Boss is taken care of?” Tim asked Martin, who was rapidly bustling into the bullpen with four cups of tea that he seemed to be under the impression would help. Tim had sat Homeless Jon in Martin’s chair, which seemed to fluster Martin a bit. 

“Uh, yeah. Gave him a normal statement to get his guard down, then five of the - you know, weird - statements and said that he has to go through all of them today. He’ll be in there for an hour at least.” 

Sasha frowned. “After two he gets a headache and gets bitchy.”

“Three o’clock exactly,” Tim said solemnly.

“Oh, leave off,” Homeless Jon said, “it wasn’t that bad.”

Everybody double taked and looked at each other significantly - which was quickly becoming their predominant mode of communication in a ruthless act of ableism. But Martin just held out a cup of tea, faltering as he clearly stopped to wonder the easiest way to give it to him. 

“Can you hold out your hands, Jon? I have some tea for you. It’s hot, so be careful, okay?”

“If the tea’s spiders I’m going to take it out on Annabelle,” Weird Jon said, but he held out his hands anyway and let Martin put the mug in them. He sniffed it cautiously, checking for spiders, before taking a cautious sip. 

To Sasha and Tim, Martin said, “I know, he’s going to fall asleep after two. I mean, it might be because I drugged his tea a little -”

Weird Jon spat out his tea back into the mug. 

“ - so we shouldn’t be interrupted,” Martin said brightly, clapping his hands. “Now! I think it’s time for explanations, don’t you?” He turned his mighty gaze upon Thankfully Blind Jon, who was occupied carefully holding the tea away from himself. “Drink your tea, Jon.”

Jon drank his tea. His expression twisted. “It tastes just like his.”

Everybody looked at each other. Tim mouthed the word ‘time traveller’ very clearly. Both Sasha and Martin nodded. It was the obvious explanation. 

“An explanation now, please,” Martin said pleasantly. “If you’re a time traveller, you can tell us. This is a safe space.”

Jon-from-the-future’s expression harshened in creases. He hadn’t once relaxed, expression permanently tightened in annoyance and disgruntlement. It was ridiculously Jon. 

Definitely a time traveller. You didn’t work at the Magnus Institute without secretly spending your life deeply hoping you run into a time traveller. Every researcher upstairs secretly prayed to discover the majesty. Everyone in Artifact Storage eagerly gathered around mysterious clocks and dared each other to touch them. Sasha, Queen of Truth-or-Dare, was the undisputed expert in making other people touch weird clocks and recording their reactions.

“Fine,” Super Time Traveller Jon said. “I know this is what you want. Statement of a stupid punishment by the pettiest little color in the evil crayon box. Recorded by the Archivist, in situ. Statement begins.”

Wow, Jon still had his job in the future? That’s a surprise. 

Martin was mouthing the word ‘evil crayon box’ to himself, looking increasingly concerned. The forgotten tape recorder, clenched in Sasha’s fist without her even realizing it, clicked and whirred. 

Then the Archivist began to speak. 

***

In the hazy amber of a memory, there exists an office.

You can see it clearly in your mind’s Eye, even now. You could likely navigate all of it blindfolded - which you now see that your god has the intention to test. Every corner of it is known to you, in the most subtle and mundane of ways. There’s a dust bunny in that corner, never tidied. A mysterious stain on the far right ceiling. The faint smell of blood, just under the vents. The hot waft of tea; your hands wrapped around a mug. 

Through these lonely offices, ghosts roam. They cling to desks and chairs; lingering in favorite mugs or in forgotten hair ties. A metal file cabinet holding neat rows of clothing, blood-stained jackets abandoned. A whiteboard with stubborn flakes of dried marker, forgotten handwriting clinging to life. These imprints no longer evoke terror or grief or pain. They are as familiar as the bloodstains and tea. Even death, eventually, is familiar. After long enough in a nightmare, it becomes indistinguishable from reality. 

There is nothing unfamiliar in the Magnus Institute.

Nothing save these voices, emerging from nothing. Every one of your six million senses have been cut off - your hundred eyes reduced to none. You are cognizant only of two familiar voices, and one unfamiliar one. A firm hand, with calloused fingers from leafing through aged paper. A creaky desk chair - Martin’s, undoubtedly, always squeaking as he fidgeted in distraction. The air tastes the same as it used to back then, before the AC broke and no repairman would step inside to repair it. Daisy did, eventually. Three familiar voices, rendered unfamiliar by the harsh tides of wind and cruel plastic hands. 

You are afraid of very little, these days. In this world that you’ve built, there is nothing that can harm you. The twisted little puppet strung up in his tower has been long since been disposed of, and the awful and terrifying future has settled into a gentle present. The apocalypse grows tedious after a while, and the buffet of fears start tasting a little samey.

But if anything could frighten you, this would. If anything would petrify you, it would be Tim’s kind smile, which died a year before Tim did. If anything could freeze you to your chair, it would be the sight of Sasha with red-rimmed eyes asking why you never even noticed that she was gone. 

The sanctuary of memory corrupted. A mental place of safety infiltrated. A mind turned inside out, exposing its vulnerable flesh to the world. 

There is nothing else this could be but your own personal hell. 

Your loyal servant crouches on bended knee, giving this final prayer to you. He asks, humbly and with great reverence, one simple question:

Why couldn’t this have waited until after I got my milk?

***

The spell ruptured.

It was almost tangible, like a change in air pressure making your ears pop. Sasha blinked harshly, rubbing at her ears and trying to soothe strange ringing. Tim exhaled heavily and Martin screwed his eyes open and shut harshly, as if he was seeing spots. 

The only person unaffected was Weirdly Christian Jon, who was slumped in Martin’s chair with his arms folded over his chest. He was still looking at the ceiling - speaking to whoever he had been addressing this entire time. 

“Just one day,” Jon was saying. “Just one day! It was going to be a nice day! We had decided to take a day trip to the Flesh garden and have a picnic! My darling and beautiful husband was going to make us a cake! ‘Walk down to the Hell corner store’, my husband says. ‘Pick us up some Eldritch milk’, he says. ‘Why do I have to do it’, I says, ‘I’m in the middle of something’. ‘We need cake for bridge night with the girls and I’ll divorce you if you don’t do it’, he says. I didn’t even change out of my nightmare pyjamas! What did I ever do to you? How are you still upset about the eye thing?”

Sasha and the Assistants, still digesting the extremely disturbing monologue, let him talk. Sasha was caught up in how it felt exactly like Jon’s little drama monologues. Granted, he had obviously gotten a lot more practice - guy could go to Broadway - but the weird lilting and falling sing-songyness was just the same. And he only ever did that for the very weird ones. The ones that they were pretty certain were actually true. 

So that probably meant at one point in the future, if Jon was speaking about the Archives as if they had worked there for years. Probably during the apocalypse. Which was happening. Which Jon had...built? Like, as a personal thing, or in a metaphor for capitalism and the human race? Definitely the capitalism thing - Jon was prone to flights of filing-induced passion that sometimes accidentally resulted in a stapler flying and punching a hole through the wall, but she couldn’t even imagine him even purposefully punching someone, much less being the Antichrist. Unless it was one of those things that just happened to you, like a rare genetic defect. 

“Seriously. What was the alternative here? Endless horrorterrors, everybody screaming all the time? It was boring. You eat one Statement about somebody standing in line at a slaughterhouse conveyor belt and you’ve eaten them all. I didn’t do it because I didn’t like you, although for the record I don’t. But you have to admit that having Eldritch Lidls are much more practical than just having a bunch of people lying around screaming all the time. It’s not as if I don’t have other eyes, I hardly miss them. There’s no chocolate cakes in the swirling vortex of mankind’s worst nightmares!”

Okay. They had to find a way to engage with this guy. He was completely ignoring them, probably because he thought that they were mean ghosts. Sasha was only one of those things, and it was hurting her feelings. Judging from the expression on Tim’s face he was thinking the same thing. 

Or - wait, Sasha knew that eyebrow. That was the ‘please please please tell the apocalypse has zombies’ eyebrow. Great. 

But Martin was just looking thoughtful again. Sasha was pretty proud of him - it was probably very difficult for the poor man to remain coherent in the face of the crazy time-traveller who was definitely hotter than their already objectively unfairly hot boss. 

“Jon,” Martin said, cutting Jon’s tired rant about how eggs benedict were much better these days, “Uh, I have an idea? Maybe you can’t get out of the - nightmare by bargaining with it. Do you know how to normally escape these things?”

Jon angled his head down and frowned in Martin’s direction. So far Martin seemed to be the only person who could shut Jon up, which was a hilarious turnaround from normal life. Sasha hadn’t heard anything about Martin being a sad little ghost, but it was hard to believe that Martin was a survivor in the zombie apocalypse. 

“You go through the statement and you walk through it,” Jon said, in a very ‘duh’ kind of way. “Give the statement, highfive corpses, whatever.”

“Right, right.” Martin wrung his hands, biting at his lip. “So maybe it’s like that. Maybe instead of asking to be let out - you just have to walk through it. Like - like it’s a maze. Does that make sense? I’m not sure, it’s just an idea.”

Jon pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. “Right as always, Martin.” Everybody’s jaw dropped, and Martin squeaked. “Fine, fine. Let’s...interact with the evil ghosts.” Jon gestured out with his arms, in a very ‘come at me bro’ gesture. “Go ahead and shoot. Hit me with how much you hate me and how disappointed you are that I never amounted to anything and started the apocalypse.”

Finally! Interrogation time! 

But before Sasha could finally find out if global warming had killed the world, Tim jumped in. “Are there zombies in the apocalypse?!” Tim cried, way too excited. “Is it like the Walking Dead? Or is it more Last of Us?”

Jon squinted in Tim’s direction. “Define zombie.”

“...hunger for human flesh, shambling, gross looking?” Tim rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me you still haven’t seen any zombie movies.”

“I’m omniscient, I’ve seen every zombie movie,” Jon lied blatantly. “I just think that you’re - you know, stereotyping. Sometimes people are the undead and eat humans and they’re - they’re very normal people.”

“Yeah, Tim, be sensitive,” Sasha said gleefully. She put the tape recorder on Martin’s desk, deciding that she would definitely need a transcript of this interview later. Also maybe ask more questions about that omniscient thing, but she was sure Jon was just exaggerating. If you asked Jon today if he was the smartest person on Earth he’d probably say yes. Jon wasn’t even the smartest person in the room.

For good measure, she drew out her little notebook from her pencil skirt pocket, flipping through it looking for a clean page. “The Archives have never gotten a time traveller before. This is unprecedented in its history.” Well, she really didn’t know what Gertrude had gotten up to, but she dearly hoped it wasn’t this. “Do you have any warnings? Desperate messages from a ruined world, that kind of thing?”

“I’m not a time traveller,” Jon said flatly, “so no.”

Everybody stared at him in abject pity.

“Mate,” Tim said sympathetically, “it’s 2015. You’re a time traveller.”

“No, I’m in a pocket hell dimension in a period beyond time and space,” Jon corrected arrogantly. “Time travel doesn’t exist.”

“The apocalypse exists but time travel doesn’t exist?” Martin cried. “That’s so unfair! Like, give us something, you know?”

“Your life is very hard,” the extratemporal reject said. 

Typical Jon. A classic case of time travel and here he was denying it. Sasha crossed her arms, upset that they were wasting time debating temporal physics when they could be talking about zombies. She was a historian and had priorities. “Your denial ain’t cute, mate. You’re just wasting all of our time.” Jon opened his mouth, but Sasha steamrolled over him. “You want evidence, right? Do you need to, like, touch my face? Make sure that I’m not a sexy ghost?”

“That’s a stereotype that nobody actually does,” Jon said. 

“Insensitive as always, Sasha,” Martin condemned. 

“How else are we going to prove it to him?” Sasha said, somewhat defensively. “It’s not as if we have any evidence that we’re not sexy ghosts.”

With utmost care and incredible gentleness, Tim reached out an open hand and gently smooshed it into Jon’s face.

Jon slumped in his seat, arms folded, unimpressed. 

“No mortal who is not my darling husband has dared to touch me since I became the Antichrist,” Jon said.

“I don’t know,” Tim said, withdrawing his hand and looking at Sasha. “What’s more unbelievable: Jon as the Antichrist or Jon with a husband?”

“Jon’s gay?” Martin cried, face beet red. “Gay Jon? Gay Jon real?”

“So, like, how do you get the Antichrist gig?” Sasha asked as she silently passed Tim a fiver. Her queerdar had never been so wrong. “Is it like an adventurer quest you can do or would you call it more of a rare genetic disorder thing?”

“Definitely rare genetic disorder.”

“Then does that mean that our Jon also has the Antichrist gene?” Tim asked, alarmed. “You’d never think so just looking at him! It’s always the quiet ones.”

“No, this makes sense,” Martin said.

Tim stared at him. “So, is that, like, a negative for you, or a positive…?”

Martin’s silence was incriminating. 

“It’s a positive,” Jon said helpfully, startling everyone. They had conveniently forgotten not to talk about one very horny man’s very horny crush in front of sad grumpy time travelling crush. “He’s into it.”

“Wow, Jon,” Tim said, “what would your husband say?”

In a completely pointless show of sass, Jon rolled his eyes. “My useless husband is likely much more concerned with how I managed to get trapped in a nightmare dimension on my way back from the Hell corner store.” He waved a hand absently. “So, if we can hurry this up? Get started on the whole torturing me thing? Right now you’re just on track to annoying me to death.”

“We annoy you to death now!” Tim exclaimed, as Martin’s eyes boggled. “Isn’t that more proof for the time traveller theory?”

“It wasn’t annoying,” Jon said curtly. “I secretly enjoyed it. I always felt a little bad that I wasn’t included. Or wouldn’t let myself be included.”

That, abruptly, made everyone feel a little bad. Not guilty, seeing as Jon neither wanted nor deserved their affection, but just kind of bad. Future Jon didn’t seem any happier than regular Jon. Sasha liked to imagine that if she was trapped in an indeterminate period in time and space in a post-apoc hellscape, she’d at least be having fun.

Everybody looked at each other, equally a little uncomfortable. Tim was the one who finally took control of the situation, as the self-appointed Jon & Everyone Else mediator. He had taken up the mantle years ago and worse it with pride, and occasional exhaustion. 

“Look,” Tim said, as reasonably as possible. “Let’s just say, hypothetically, this was super cool and awesome time travel. Let’s also say maybe this was completely baller and you’re from a post apoc future where everyone wears leather.”

“That’s just Melanie.”

“Put it down as one person who wears leather in the future!” Tim cried, and Sasha obediently jotted it down.”But let’s just put all of this in a hypothetical situation where you aren’t...uh, in a bad dream? So would there, hypothetically, be a way to stop the apocalypse or something?”

Jesus christ. What a try-hard. 

Sasha crossed her arms, glaring at Tim. From next to her, Martin looked just as peeved. “Seriously, dude? Like we can just up and stop capitalism?”

“I don’t want responsibility for stopping the apocalypse,” Martin protested. “I can barely navigate the bus system. What if the Terminator comes after my mother or something?”

“You’ll be a bit better off, frankly,” Jon said. Martin nodded, conceding the point, before looking faintly disturbed. 

“But he said that he caused it,” Tim protested. “Maybe the power of friendship can fix this? I mean, the apocalypse is cool, but I feel like this is the part where we’re all badasses and we fight evil or something.” Tim’s eyes widened. “That’s what the Magnus Institute is for. To stop the apocalypse!”

“Every day I feel a slight sense of emptiness due to my internalized guilt about your death, but you are usually wrong about things,” Jon said flatly, which seemed to both perk Tim up and depress him slightly. “And no. There’s nothing you can do. There’s no one event that precipitated the apocalypse; no rules of engagement. You are puppets on strings, indulging in the fantasy of free will. Yes, Sasha, the apocalypse is capitalism.”

Everybody stood in slightly depressed silence over this. Sasha, personally, was a little relieved. She really didn’t have to deal with the whole ‘preventing the apocalypse’ thing. She’d rather spend the finals days of the world in hedonism, frankly. 

Really, the unique providence of the millennial was to live your entire life half-way convinced you were in the twilight years of the world. This hedonism and apathy was second nature. Or maybe the apathy was a Leitner - Sasha had lost track of that too. 

“Aw, man,” Martin said, summarizing the abstract and complex feelings deftly and succinctly. “This sucks.”

“Yeah, this blows,” Tim agreed. “So should I buy my muscle car now, or later, or what?”

Then Martin and Tim started arguing over fuel efficiency in the apocalypse, and Jon royally checked out of the conversation. Sasha imagined that he was internally having a bit of a Saving Private Ryan moment where flashbacks of bombshells exploded behind his eyelids or whatever the fuck. The important thing is that everyone was distracted, and Sasha could finally check up on their most important gambit of the day: making sure Jon wasn’t bothering them. 

Sasha listened carefully for the sounds of Jon’s little theater monologues, and caught only faint hints of sound. She slipped past everyone into the hallway and approached Jon’s office door, pressing her ear against the cheap wood. But she didn’t need to worry: he was still reciting away, oblivious to the actual interesting shit that was happening outside his door. Jon was a delicate plant, you couldn’t stress him out too much or he would die. Hopefully Martin’s drugged tea would kick in soon -

But Antichrist Jon’s head jerked towards her, directly behind him, and Sasha saw his unfocused green eyes fixate directly on her. No, not on her - on the door, or something beyond it. For just a second, his eyes flared a sharp and toxic green. 

“There you are,” Creepy Jon hissed. 

Well, sorry for leaving rooms without telling him, but she hadn’t thought that he even noticed, much less got resentful about it. But Weird Jon was standing up with no hesitation, and effortlessly swerved around Martin’s desk and stalked into the hallway. For the first time, his expression looked a little dangerous. It was bizarre and off putting, like seeing a ragged yet murderous two meter kitten. 

He reached out an arm and let it trail across the wall, stopping short when he felt it hit wood instead of plaster. Tim and Martin surged forward to stop him, yelling warnings, but Sasha quickly stepped back. She never impeded the timeless march of science and progress. Sasha had done far worse in Artifact Storage for knowledge. 

Jon brushed his hand down the door until it hit the doorknob and angrily twisted it, heaving the door open with unnecessary force. Tim and Martin spilled into the hallway as Angry Jon stalked inside, and Sasha eagerly hung in the door frame for a front row seat into the drama. 

“This is your fault,” Jon intoned dangerously, directly in the face of a deathly affronted Jon. 

In the spirit of the First Directive, Sasha heroically stretched out an arm and prevented Tim and Martin from spilling into the office. It was the right call. Jon stalked forward into the office, hair whipping in a nonexistent wind, expression obscured but undoubtedly thunderous, advancing on the terrified Archivist, as -

He tripped over a chair left carelessly in the center of the office, rocketing forward to land flatly on his face. 

Beside her, Martin went white as a sheet. “Oh no.”

Simultaneously, in complete and total unison, Jon and the Archivist yelled, “Martin!”

****

Jon and the Archivist sat across from each other, exuding waves of pure mutual hatred.

Tim had quickly helped the Archivist up, moving the chair forward and getting him situated there. The Archivist’s mood was not improved by any of this. Which was difficult enough to handle by itself, if manageable. Sasha knew how to manage grumpy time travelling blind Antichrists who had gotten lost on their way to the corner store.

She even knew how to handle their boss, who was extremely grumpy about being harassed by a random homeless person with nice hair. Jon hated statement givers at the best of times, much less seemingly homeless ex-corpses. Or, well, Sasha didn’t know if he was an ex-corpse, but he was certainly an animate one. 

They were both being so annoying about it Sasha was trying to determine if she should change their nicknames to something more derogatory. Thing 1 and Thing 2? Too long. 

Both of them were very grumpy about the fact that Martin had pushed aside the chair for guests in front of Jon’s desks when he deposited the drugged tea, accidentally moving it close to the center of the office. Jon had known this because he saw it happen. The Archivist had known this because he, apparently, knew Martin very well. 

Today had really been a bonding experience with Sasha, Martin, and Tim. Their skill at silent communication had reached borderline telepathy. They all looked at each other significantly as the Jons were caught in their mutual dyad of hatred, silently commiserating over the fact that their one goal had been spoiled by the greatest wildcard of all. Sasha privately liked to consider herself somewhat of a wildcard, but she was depressingly aware that the entire Archive team was composed of wildcards. Maybe that’s why half of them didn’t survive the apocalypse. 

It was a little unlikely that Jon was a survivor/instigator in the zombie apocalypse, actually. Dude definitely would have bit it if he wasn’t cheating with Antichrist powers. Now, if Sasha had Antichrist powers, this whole game would be looking very different -

“Boss, this is a statement giver,” Tim hinted desperately, hands clenched so hard on the back of the Archivist’s chair that his knuckles were turning white. “Remember what Elias said about statement givers? About how we can’t harass them?”

“I was in the middle of a recording and this man was unnecessarily confrontational,” Jon said crisply. Sasha caught her eye jumping frantically back and forth between the two, trying to reconcile them. Honestly, if it wasn’t for Martin’s horny surety, she wouldn’t have realized that they were the same person at all. The Archivist’s most defining attribute was his big and fluffy hair, and Jon was sadly lacking in the nice hair department. That fade and twists were the shackle around his ankle. So was the sweater vest, baggy tweed jacket, and ill-fitting.“He’s lucky I’m not throwing him out.”

Martin, who looked as if he was having his tenth gay crisis of the morning, didn’t seem to hold the same opinion, but he was king of bad taste anyway. 

“Remember what Elias said about harassing confused, blind statement givers? Remember that? Boss?”

Jon looked confused. “He didn’t specify the community of people with disabilities.”

“It was implied? Jon?”

“The optics would be terrible,” Sasha said, before snickering. Martin stomped on her foot. She stomped on his back, which definitely hurt a lot more. “Look, Jon, sorry about all of this. He was just - uh - really insistent that he talk to you -”

“I think if our visitor hassles Jon then maybe, objectively, you can say that Jon brought it on himself,” Martin said, in a daring show of anti-Jon sentiment.

This act of subtle rebellion was the first thing that broke the Archivist out of his cycle of hatred. He threw out a hand, bowling over Jon’s desktop cup of pens and sending them tumbling over the desk. Sasha saw him specifically orient his hand to do so. “Thank you, Martin! Your understanding of paraphysics is always immaculate.”

“Wow, really?”

“Stop complimenting my assistants,” Jon hissed, frantically diving to save his pens. “And stop - gesticulating over my desk! You did that on purpose!”

“Harassing the blind, Jon!”

“You don’t even need to tearfully blame me for how I ruined your life,” the Archivist said flatly. “You existing in my vicinity is torment enough.”

“That’s what I keep saying,” Sasha said, before pausing a beat. “I meant the first part, ha ha ha, obviously -”

“This man is a very normal statement giver who will be leaving any minute now,” Martin jumped in, “so there’s really no reason for us all to fight, when you think about it -”

“If you all don’t get out of my office, you are all fired -”

“You are listening.”

Everybody stopped talking at once, staring at the Archivist. He was still staring intently ahead, straight into his counterpart. Jon was hiding it, quite badly, but he was unsettled. He hadn’t even acknowledged that he and the man looked alike - the thought undoubtedly running through his brain and soundly dismissed - but it was clearly rattling him. But there was something else that was scaring him too - maybe the Archivist’s green eyes, so foreign from his own brown? His intense and furious expression, like cut glass? The particularly strange and heavy feeling in the air, prickling down the back of Sasha’s neck?

He hadn’t even stopped the recorder. 

“You are here,” the Archivist continued calmly. “You were listening in. Why you were listening in on him, and his regurgitated aftertaste of Statements, I do not know. I felt you, and I came to you. We cannot forsake each other. Do not hide yourself from me.”

The effect was immediate. 

The Archivist’s neck snapped forward, so harshly he cracked his head on Jon’s desk. Strangely enough, Jon screamed too, holding a hand to his temple as if he was suddenly pierced by a blinding headache. Tim immediately bent down to check on Archivist, making sure that he hadn’t hurt himself, as Martin bustled around the desk to check on Jon. Jon batted his hands away, scowling, so he was just fine. But the Archivist didn’t groan, or stir, or moan. He just lay there, still and limp, and when Tim shook him he didn’t even tense. 

The air was heavy, a tang of metal in her mouth like the crackle before a storm, and Sasha couldn’t fight a shiver. But she couldn’t take her eyes off Jon, either: the way he stared at the Archivist, hand on his forehead, eyes wide and growing wider. 

“Dad…?”

When the Archivist stirred, the spell was broken, and Jon’s mouth snapped shut so quickly it was as if he had never spoken at all. He turned his head and moaned, eyes opening uselessly. They were back to their usual toxic green, no flaring or flashing. 

“Mar’in? Where…”

“I’m here,” Martin said quickly, and ducked around the desk to grab the Archivist’s hand and squeeze. For just a second, Jon looked a little jealous. Sasha had the sense that Jon had never been mothered than anyone other than Martin and Tim, and the prospect confused and frightened him so much he reacted aggressively to it. “Everything alright? You hit your head.”

“How many eyes?” the Archivist asked weakly. 

“...physically, or functionally?”

But the Archivist just ran his burned hand over his smooth hand, kneading it and feeling the skin. “Still gone. Damn it.” He straightened, grimacing and spitting out a stray tendril of hair out of his mouth. “So it’s true…”

“So what’s true?” Tim asked urgently. “Do you finally believe us about the time travel thing? Because man, I have so many questions -”

He didn’t get the opportunity to say anything. The Archivist reached out a hand, fingers brushing against his shirt, and the Archivist’s hand abruptly clenched on the fabric. Tightly, roughly, the Archivist pulled him down and extended his other arm, and caught Tim in an awkward and lopsided hug. 

Tim carefully straightened him and returned the hug, gracing the Archivist with the patented Perfect Stoker Hug, and the Archivist buried his face in Tim’s shoulder. His chest didn’t heave, and his breath didn’t catch, but the element of desperation was pungent and unmistakable. 

“You were right,” Jon whispered. “We messed it all up.”

“Sure, yeah, totally!” Tim said, clapping the Archivist on the back in a masculine, yet sensitive way. “So, does this mean the zombie apocalypse is totally a-go, or…”

“Sasha,” the Archivist said, and Sasha chose to ignore her own personal distaste for hugs and being touched so she could step forward and hug him too. 

He clutched onto her just as tightly as he had Tim, which surprised her a little. Jon and Tim had probably been best friends in the future, and Sasha couldn’t imagine her and Jon ever truly being close. He respected her as a colleague, but that was probably because Sasha purposefully left her manuscripts around the office and aggressively used as many big words in front of him as possible. Jon had always been an obstacle to her - innocently stupid at best, malicious at worst. To think that he would grip her so tightly…

With meticulous care, the Archivist separated from her. His expression was crumpled, and for the first time Sasha saw something over than aggravation or impatience in Jon’s face. Relaxed and soft, he looked like a different man. No - he was a different man, it was just apparent. The change softened his sharp lines into something a little friendlier; his striking exterior melting into something pretty instead of imposing. 

Slowly, he raised his hand a little to tangle it in her hair. He frowned a little, gently tugging at it and feeling it spring back into place. “So it was curly…like mine…”

A lot of little hints snowballed into one strange and foreign realization. “Do you not remember me?”

“Dolls stole your identity,” the Archivist said apologetically. 

“Like credit card fraud, or -”

“Metaphysically.” He paused guiltily. “I mourned you as an abstract concept?”

“Like I’m every woman in Hollywood?” Sasha screeched, outraged. This was not trans rights. “Alright, royally fuck that. Feel my hair, mister. Full permission to touch it. Feel that? You call that abstract?” The Archivist shook his head, eyes wide, and Sasha gently moved his hand to rest on the top of her head. “Taller than you in eight cm heels, remember? You asked me how I walked in them, and I said -”

“ - Barbie’s Princess Charm School,” the Archivist said automatically, eyes widening. “I do remember.”

Martin clearly waited around to be tenderly embraced, and was disappointed. 

The Archivist stepped away from Sasha, expression creased in furious thought. “So it’s real. So far as anything’s real, I suppose. But I don’t understand how -” the Archivist’s eyes widened, and he snapped his fingers in realization. “The manhole!”

Everybody stared at him. 

“I’m sorry,” Jon said pleasantly, “what is going on -”

“I was walking down the street, and I remember hearing city work!” the Archivist said brightly. “They were doing their monthly ‘clearing the gators out of the sewer pipes’ maintenance! And the Beholding told me that there was an open manhole, and I said oh it’ll be fine, I’m a demigod on Earth, I don’t fall down manholes - and then -”

The door to Jon’s office dramatically crashed open, and everybody jumped straight in the air. Jon, whose office had seen two more incredibly theatrical entrances than usual today, immediately bristled and opened his mouth to earn them all another harassment complaint, before he abruptly shut his mouth. 

It was Elias, their miniature and unspeakably boring boss extraordinaire. He stood in the doorway, one hand clutching the doorframe, suit jacket askew and chest heaving. Had he ran down here?

“Is someone here?” the Archivist asked. 

“Uh, yeah,” Tim said, stepping forward cautiously. “It’s our boss, Mr. Bouchard. Elias, we’re taking a statement, can we help - ?”

“How did that get here?” Elias asked, voice strangely tense and coiled. “How did you - not even I could -”

“That makes sense!” Martin cried, thumping a fist on his open palm. “Elias wants to time travel just as much as everyone else in the Institute!”

“I’m sorry,” Jon said, pathetically behind, “time travel -”

“Did the time traveller sensor alarms in the basement go off?” Sasha asked, surprised. “I thought only Artifact Storage had those.”

“Uh, Mr. Statement Giver, are you okay?” Tim asked, but it was already too late.

The Archivist had turned to face Elias, expression unreadable. Sasha felt that crackle again, weighing down the air, and she saw the Archivist’s hair puff and frizz slightly with a green crackle. His neon green pupils shone again and spun, like an infernal wheel. 

“What’s wrong, Elias?” the Archivist mocked, as energy coursed through him. “Upset that Mama has a new favorite?”

And Sasha saw in that moment that the Archivist, who possessed the most inhuman green eyes she had ever seen, had eyes the same shade as Elias. 

“Oh, man,” Sasha said, “is Elias a time traveller too?”

“Only in the most mundane way. Can’t even get a little bit of special attention, Elias? Sad!” It was second-hand thrilling to watch someone mock their boss, living the dreams of everyone in the room. Even if it was a little weird how much Jon seemed to hate this guy - nobody hated Elias, just like nobody liked him, and nobody had any strong feelings at all besides unpromoted women.

 At the door, Elias’ expression was slack in - amazement? Was amazement the right word? He was staring at Jon as if...words didn’t even describe it. At least in any way that Sasha wanted to think about. 

“Mr. Bouchard, I swear I can explain,” Sasha, who could not explain, said hurriedly. “We found this corpse and we were going to tell you, but -”

But the Archivist cut her off, as if nothing was less important than explaining himself to Elias. “Did you want to know how to stop the apocalypse, Sasha?”

Sasha froze. Martin and Tim did too. Jon, who nobody had actually bothered to brief since he was kind of the fifth most important person in the room, dropped his pen. “Uh,” Sasha said, sweating. For the first time she understood the possible upsides of not knowing something. “I mean, if I have to, but you said that it was inevitable -”

“Oh, yes. But, just once every one or two centuries, a man comes along who fancies himself fate.” The Archivist raised a hand, eyes spinning and spinning, as Elias stood frozen in the doorframe. “I’ll be honest, Jonah. This isn’t to save the world. That’s so last year. I just really fucking hate you.” Something cracked in the air. “Ceaseless watcher, smite this -”

The door slammed shut. Sasha heard Elias lock it behind him. They all stood around as footsteps quickly echoed through the Archives, and another door slammed. Which was probably being locked too. 

They stood in silence, the Archivist having clearly heard the slams. He let his hand fall, but the energy didn’t cease crackling around him. He didn’t look resentful or disappointed - just thoughtful. 

“Everything in due time, I suppose. I guess it is pretty unfair to get to smite that man twice,” the Archivist said thoughtfully. “I’ll give someone else a turn.” His mouth twitched wryly. “You know, Sasha, there’s one other way to prevent the apocalypse.”

“Is it work?” Sasha asked tiredly. 

“You may kill the man who arranged the dominos,” the Archivist intoned, before hanging his head towards a petrified Jon. “Or you may kill the man who toppled them over.”

Sasha stared at Jon. Jon stared back, frozen like a deer in headlights.

Martin silently passed Sasha a penknife from Jon’s desk. 

“I’m very qualified for this job,” Jon protested weakly.

“Queen of feminism, I very much support you,” Tim said quickly, putting himself in between Sasha and Jon in a heroic display of stupidity, “but, maybe, killing your boss to take his job, is perhaps, maybe not that much of a great idea, just a thought?”

“The job’s being the Antichrist,” the Archivist pointed out, crossing his arms. 

“The direct action against sexism, xenophobia, and transphobia is very admirable,” Tim said, eyes held up as if he was placating a tiger, “but think of it this way - if you kill the Antichrist, then you become the Antichrist, like in - uh -”

“Pokemon,” Martin volunteered. 

Tim snapped his fingers. “Pokemon! So you shouldn’t -” He halted, turning back to Martin. “Pokemon? Seriously? That’s becoming champion -”

“A - alright, alright! Everybody stop!” Jon shakily stood up, brushing aside the empty tea mug right next to him. “That’s enough of all of this! I may not know what’s going on, or who this man is, or why he looks like me -”

“Hm,” Martin said, eyeing the empty tea mug. 

“ - why he looks like a homeless person, why he barged into my office and insulted me, why you are all defending this atrocious behavior, why you are calling it the work of time travel, which does not exist and you have no proof for it anyway -”

“Jon,” Martin said, watching Jon’s arm tremble, “maybe you should -”

“Shut up, Martin!”

“Don’t be rude to him!” the Archivist snapped. 

“You’ve been rude to him twice today!”

“I’m allowed to be rude to him! He’s even ruder to me! I’m the nice one!”

“ - and you were glowing in my office, which is just frankly rude,” Jon continued viciously, steamrolling over the Archivist. “You gave me a terrible headache, you hugged my assistants very inappropriately for the workplace, you made my boss walk in before trying to smite him, you encourage violence against my own person in revenge for a job that I definitely deserve -”

Both of Jon’s arms were shaking, and Tim’s eyebrows were slowly raising. “Boss, you should sit down, I think -”

“ - I want an explanation!” Jon yelled, slamming the desk. “And I’m not going to stop until you tell me what’s going on!”

Then Jon passed out. 

Everybody watched it happen. Everybody, save perhaps the Archivist, had noticed that it was about to happen: at first a tremor, then a shake, and then a final collapse. Like a marionette with his strings cut, Jon slumped over and crumpled solidly on the floor. 

Everybody stood in disaffected silence. Martin carefully stepped over and prodded Jon with his foot. “Out cold.” He shot a considering gaze at the empty tea mug. “Sorry, guys. Looks like I accidentally used the delayed action sedative.”

"It’s alright,” Tim said magnanimously. “At least that problem is solved now. Maybe we can convince him this was a bad dream when he wakes up.”

“If he insists it was real, we’ll just ask him for evidence and refuse to believe him without it,” Sasha suggested. 

“Isn’t that kinda gaslighting?” Martin asked. “Isn’t that, you know, a little morally dubious -”

“You did drug him,” Tim pointed out.

“I mean, hardly the first time?”

“Maybe Martin should be the Antichrist,” Sasha said thoughtfully.

The Archivist’s face was doing something extremely interesting, yet inscrutable.

“I really don’t want to be Antichrist, though,” Martin said apologetically. “Does it even pay?”

“Jon did say it was a job…” Sasha said, already considering herself in the role. “Do you guys think I’d be sexier as the Antichrist? Be honest.”

“Yes and completely,” Tim said immediately, before realizing that he said that too quickly. “I mean. I’d never objectify you. I respect women. But -”

“Oh, I see how it is,” Martin said, throwing up his hands. “When you think being the Antichrist is kind of hot it’s normal and M/F of you. But when I do it, then it’s ‘gross’ and ‘get that away from me’. Great double standards, guys.”

“It’s not the fact that it’s a guy,” Tim protested, “it’s the fact that it’s Jon -”

“Oh, when you think being the Antichrist is kind of hot then it’s normal and cis of you,” Sasha said heatedly, “but when Tim respects trans women, then it’s ‘gross’ and -”

“I respect all women,” Tim said, equally heatedly, “but I do want to acknowledge the systematic marginalization of trans women within the community, especially trans women of color like yourself -”

A hoarse wheeze echoed through the office.

Everyone froze, terrified by the haunted sound, but after a second Sasha realized it was the Archivist - Jon - who was laughing. 

They had never heard him laugh before. He was practically wheezing with it, bent over with his hands on his knees, with a strained cackle that fizzed with static around the corners. He was smiling broadly, his grin splitting his cheeks, for the first time that Sasha had ever seen. 

He straightened and threw his head back and laughed too, a greater belly-laugh that was so hysterical and fragile and free that it struck something strange and raw in Sasha’s heart. He rubbed his face with his hand, still laughing, and eventually broke into coughs. 

“I understand now,” Jon said, when he stopped coughing. “I thought that you had deposited me here in revenge. You had sensed that I was happy - that the green skies were beautiful, that your large eye seemed kind that day - and that you found it a waste of emotion. But that wasn’t true, was it? It must have been an accident. I’ve never been happier to hear these idiots arguing, and you’ve lost me like a toy behind a bookshelf. The strange stupidity of it! I’m enchanted.” He sombered a little, expression falling from hysterical glee into a soft and resigned happiness. He held up his hand, feeling the crackle of electricity run across his palms. “But you See me now. The foolish man brought you down upon us, and I intercepted your lightning bolt. His eyes, mundane and paltry, are closed, and you feel my consciousness in replacement of him. I can feel you already - my Eyes opening, the Reality that we built together calling me back. When your infinite grace re-aligns with every one of my atoms, forming the fabric of my world, I’ll snap back.”

Just like that?

Sasha had thought that there would be an...adventure, or quest, or something. At least a research binge. Some kind of heroic group effort. But the Archivist was a stretched rubber band, held tightly and out of position, and after long enough straining against its center it had to snap back. A telly flickering in and out, blaring the song of a dead channel. 

“Do we have time to group hug or something?” Tim offered weakly, undoubtedly thinking the same thing as she was. “Last goodbyes? Anything?”

“Howl’s Moving Castle moment?” Martin asked urgently. “I’ll find you in the future, right? We’re still together there, right?”

“Martin,” Jon said, strangely fond, “we were never apart.”

Martin turned a unique shade of red. 

But it was Sasha who Jon turned to, face angled to the sound of her voice. His expression was still distantly fond, but there was something strange in it too - a wry recognition, a subtle knowledge, a faint recollection of a joke that only he knew. 

“Sasha,” Jon said, “so long as you’re brave, and buy ten fire extinguishers and hide them around the office, things will be just fine. Buy twelve fire extinguishers, just to be safe. And don’t ever go inside Artifact Storage again. Not even for Alicia’s birthday party. If it’s a choice between worms and Artifact Storage then choose worms, the scars add a certain appeal. I cannot stress enough, not even if you lose your jacket in Artifact Storage -”

“Are you sure you don’t have anything to say to me?” Martin asked desperately, almost crying. Sasha, personally, wanted to circle back around to the worm thing. “Sad goodbyes? Waving a handkerchief? I thought you said I was alive? Don’t you have anything?”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Goodness, Martin, if you insist. There is something I’ve been meaning to tell you. In fact, I do believe it’s about time.” 

Martin’s mind clearly projected very loudly ‘I’ve been in love with you this entire time’ in blatant wish-fulfillment. Everybody held their breaths. 

Jon drew himself up to his full, imposing height, and sternly looked at all of them. “I’m tired of holding my tongue about this, Martin,” Jon said finally, and Martin qualified. “For the last time, I don’t load the dishwasher wrong. I load the dishwasher correctly. It’s you who’s always insisting that the cups go on the bottom. It’s a freakish way to live your life, and I’ll never forgive you for -”

Static blared in Sasha’s ears and overwrote her mind, and she screamed. The sensation was a pickaxe driven into her ears, an unforgivable rip and tear, and she heard her screams echoed in concert. 

Then the pain abated, and was gone. 

Sasha, Tim, and Martin were left standing in an empty office, accompanied only by the unconscious figure of their boss. There was nothing left of the Archivist, nor any suggestion that he had ever been here - just a drained mug, some scattered pens, and a lingering sense of malaise and confusion. 

Everybody looked at each other, feeling strangely and uniquely connected. It was hardly Sasha’s strangest Magnus Institute experience, but maybe it was the funnest. 

“Well,” Tim said finally, “at least one day this week wasn’t boring.”

“Yeah, I didn’t even have to get drunk today.” Sasha sighed. “We definitely have to gaslight Jon about this.”

Martin was already carefully lugging Jon onto his chair, arranging him so his arms were folded on the desk with his cheek resting on his forearm. “We’ll pretend it was just a weird dream.” He propped his hands on his hips, satisfied. “Hopefully this convinces him he needs more sleep.” Martin gasped in sudden realization. “Maybe he becomes the Antichrist because he needs more sleep! Guys, I have a great twenty step plan for saving the world.”

“Oh, come on, we said that was too much work.” Tim shrugged and opened the office door, holding it open and gesturing for them all to come out. “I think if we just friendship Jon to death, all of our problems will be solved.”

Martin just shrugged, following him out. They really did have paperwork that they needed to get back to. “Both are vital components. But...hey, it’s not weird to put the mugs on the bottom rack, is it? There’s not really that much of a difference, right?”

“Mate, you’re a fucking freak.” Tim looked backwards at Sasha, who was still standing in the office, dazed. “Sash, you coming? Let’s go day-drinking.”

“Yeah,” Sasha said, “in a sec.”

He shrugged and left the door propped open, and Sasha heard their bickering fade slowly as they walked down the hallway. 

But she couldn’t help staring at Jon sleeping at his desk, chest falling in and out, inhaling and exhaling slowly through his nose. His short, carefully maintained hair and meticulous fade. His baggy tweed and ill-fitting slacks. The subtle and shameful kind of earnestness, the desire mixed with fear mixed with hope mixed with genuine desire for a better future. He just wanted to be happy, to not be afraid anymore. He seemed weirdly human, when compared with his inhuman self. Or maybe it was the other way around. 

The tape recorder on Jon’s desk was still running. Sasha squinted at it, taking a second to listen to the staticy hiss. It was familiar, in the strangest possible way. It felt familiar -

Sasha reached out and grabbed the tape recorder, stuffing it in her pencil skirt pocket. “Just remember,” Sasha whispered, “I’d make a great candidate for Antichrist.”

She ran to go catch up with her coworkers, shutting the door behind them and leaving Jon sleeping contentedly in his office, head pillowed on his arms, dreaming strange and comforting dreams.

[thefirstknife]

SIGH

Myelin released a video today arguing that Osiris is already dead. I disagree with most of his arguments and also am not a fan of some of them in particular and I want to address this in case people watch and are confused. And I assume people will ask questions about it. I think Myelin himself is also confused about certain things he mentioned and isn't interpreting them properly.

Disclaimer: obviously I am biased when it comes to this. I want Osiris to not die. This isn't an attempt to entirely disprove the theory that he may be dead already. Ultimately I don't know if he's dead. I'll do my best to look at it objectively and also address Myelin's points objectively.

I'll try to summarise Myelin's points and address them but you can always watch his video yourself to make sure I didn't interpret him wrong.

Now, Myelin's main point is that Osiris was possessed by Savathun instead of Savathun making a meat puppet/clone in his image or simply shapeshifting into him. His first proof is the Wolftone Draw bow lore. We've all read the lore and Myelin also reads the lore.

First, he wonders how Osiris is seeing what Savathun is doing. Obviously, we have no answer for this yet. Myelin's position is that this is proof of him being possessed and him trying to break through the possession. He also says that some of it seems like "Osiris views his own body in a third perspective." Which I agree with!

What I disagree with is Myelin saying this could mean Osiris' "physical body was destroyed" and that he may be floating around in some form similar to Toland. I'm not sure why complicate the matter in this way when the most obvious answer to this is simply that Savathun has created a clone or shapeshifted into a form of Osiris and the real Osiris is trapped somewhere. The lore seems to indicate this pretty clearly to me:

I cannot speak, cannot breathe, I reach for Sagira but then I remember… I form a fist but feel nothing, I am bound, and as I thrash the images cut fissures through my mind—

And:

She has stolen my form, my voice, but someone will see my failure and cast her out… they MUST—

These seem to me like he is somewhere and he is seeing through his clone's eyes at certain points. It would fit Savathun's MO to torture him in this way. She assumed his form and the real him is bound elsewhere, somewhere safe. I've said so before, and it turned out to be true: Savathun is using Osiris as a bargaining chip so possessing him would be much riskier to her plan than simply keeping him imprisoned somewhere where we can't get to him and where he can't break free from possession. It would make no sense for her to kill him.

As for how he's seeing things if he's not possessed: Savathun is THE Witch Queen. She has exhibited a wide array of magical and paracausal abilities, including the ability to shapeshift and watch others through objects and living beings. Osiris specifically says that he is "bound" and that the images of what she's doing "cut fissures through his mind" and that he's "thrashing," as well as asserting that Savathun "has stolen his form." If he's bound somewhere in her throne world, she may very well be using some sort of Hive magic to inflict images she wants him to see upon him. Just enough to allow him to know that he is a prisoner.

I'm not sure why Myelin only makes two positions: either he's in third perspective without a body like Toland OR he's possessed. The third option is right there: Savathun assumed his likeness.

That brings both Myelin and me to his next point which he positions as the "real turning point" for him. It's from the Chrysura Melo autorifle:

Savathûn, physical form a twisting instar, emerges from the shadows and crawls over the shattered pieces of the Ghost. She reaches toward the ruined man.

Myelin focuses on the bold part, a specific word: "instar." This is a nice catch btw, something I haven't noticed before. He describes what an "instar" is. Tw bugs for that link, but an instar is "a developmental stage of arthropods, such as insects, between each moult (ecdysis), until sexual maturity is reached." Savathun's physical form is described as a twisting instar at this point and Myelin says that she is in the stage of changing herself into a new form. He also says that in this form she "needs a new skin" and therefore steals the skin of Osiris aka possesses him.

But from all the googling and research I've done, I can't seem to find any examples of insect instars needing to acquire a new outside source to change their forms. They simply exist in one larval form (instar) and then change into another as they outgrow the previous one. They don't have to find another body or a host to inhabit.

Seeing as Myelin bases most of his theory on this specific word, I have to challenge that because this is simply not what that word means. Savathun, in the process of changing from one instar to another, doesn't have to possess Osiris. She simply has to change her form from one instar into another. It's still her and it's more likely that she looks to the real Osiris to use him as a model for what new form she will take.

This is why the Chrysura Melo lore page is describing "Osiris" as being uncertain on his legs and confused by human behaviours and slowly falling apart over months and months of existence: this is Savathun's instar in the shape of Osiris which is reaching the end of its lifespan and at the end of that lifespan, Savathun has to shed that instar and turn into another. Generally, moths have a few instar forms before turning into a cocoon and then later emerging out as moths. This is a nice page with pictures, but again, tw for bugs. She has clearly reached the end of her Osiris-instar and shed it away when Mara trapped her in a chrysalis cocoon where Savathun is continuing to grow, like a moth, to eventually assume the form we see in The Witch Queen. Some examples that, to me, allude to Savathun existing in a Osiris-instar and how that shape is unfamiliar to her:

Osiris takes a shaky step forward.

...

He passes the bottle, and Osiris, hands numb, puzzles at it. His mouth hangs in a half-smile before he takes a long drink, slaking a bone-deep thirst.

...

When Saint places a hand on his forearm, Osiris holds impossibly still just to see what the other man will do.

...

Osiris stumbles as he walks through the Last City.

Savathun is describing her life as Osiris and it's clear, from this and other huge amount of lore, that she was very unfamiliar with the human form and that, at the end, it started falling apart on its own. Which is what would happen to a instar of an insect, forcing it to switch into a new stage. In Ripe, she also specifically states "I am ready earlier than anticipated." In the same lore page, she also mentions a lot of really weird descriptions of how her "form" is dissolving essentially and "I clench the gangling black mass that threatens to unspool recklessly from within this shell of flesh. My new arms are too thin, too weak. My new shell still bound with thick mucus." She's barely holding it together. I'm not sure why Osiris' real human body would've been doing this.

There's another aspect from Ripe and that is that she mentions her worm inside of her:

I feel this form splitting beneath its wrappings, held together weakly by wet strands of sinew. And from deep inside, stirred by that latest scrap of deception, I hear the oily growl of the Worm.

This is how we know that her Osiris-form is her. Otherwise, Osiris' real body would've been possessed by Savathun who also holds her worm and that's more than convoluted. What we're looking at, presumably, is Savathun's instar which always has a worm at the center and evolves into other forms around the worm itself.

I'm sorry if this is rambly, but I just really can't see how possession would be possible, especially when based on insect morphology. As a last addition to the whole "instar" business which seems to be the center of Myelin's theory, I want to take a look at the word itself. It's a Latin word, and well... :

īnstar n sg (indeclinable, no genitive)

image, likeness, resemblance

counterpart

worth, value

an equal form (of)

of equal weight/size/form (to)

By the Traveler this can't be happening. Once again I am caught in the euphoria of analysing Latin words being used in Destiny. By all definitions, except maybe number 3, this alludes to a clone. An image of something. Resembling something. A likeness. Counterpart. An equal form of...

Savathun's insect-instar form fashioned in the likeness of Osiris. Not Savathun infecting Osiris: Savathun morphing herself into a counterpart of his form.

With that whole thing done, Myelin focuses on the infamous sidearm Spoiler Alert. It has a description which is just: "Someone is going to die." Myelin uses this as proof that, well, someone is going to die because the last time this gun was issued, Cayde died.

The problem here, even if we're taking this as a serious lore hint, is the timeline. Originally, Spoiler Alert was issued in Warmind. Cayde-6 died in the expansion after Warmind.

Spoiler Alert being issued in Season of the Lost would then be an equivalent of telling us someone is going to die in The Witch Queen expansion.

What does that have to do with Osiris? The position Myelin takes in this whole video is that Osiris is already dead. Not that he will die in The Witch Queen: that he has already died, perhaps at the start of this season when Savathun transformed off-screen OR even further back, at the end of Immolant, when she possessed him. This makes no sense with his other position, that Osiris is observing what Savathun is doing: how, if he's dead and why would we even get this lore if he's dead?

Most of all, Spoiler Alert, if it's alluding to a future death of a major character, cannot allude to Osiris having died before the gun was re-issued OR to him dying literally on the day the gun was re-issued. What kind of a warning is that? If they really wanted to allude to Osiris dying with this gun, the gun would've had to have been re-issued in Season of the Splicer as the final possible season to "warn us."

If Spoiler Alert is telling us some important character will really die, it's telling us this will happen in The Witch Queen. I can't imagine a situation where we save Osiris in this season and then he dies in the next expansion. Kinda pointless plotline. And it also does not fit with the rest of the video which is telling us that Osiris is already dead and Savathun is bluffing about having him as a bargaining chip. I am also not in favour of the theory that we will not find the real Osiris this season and that this plotline will stretch into The Witch Queen because that would be almost a year of grappling with the same plot of "we have to find Osiris." So whatever happens to Osiris, we will know this season. Which means the Spoiler Alert gun is of no relevance to the outcome of the Osiris plot.

The next point Myelin makes is the cutscene from week 1 of Savathun talking to us. He focuses on the image of Osiris looking kinda dead, with moths flying around him and one moth coming out of his mouth. This image is a better argument than any of the above because the imagery here is very clear. No room to misinterpret this really, we literally see Osiris being half-skeletal with a moth coming from his mouth.

However, if we take the position that Savathun made a clone, then the "dead" Osiris in this image is just that clone being dead after it fell apart and Savathun had to transform. The moth coming out of his mouth is probably what this is supposed to symbolise: Savathun outgrowing her Osiris-instar and assuming a new form, currently cocooned in Mara's chambers.

Not to mention that she literally says she "assumed his shape." Not "took his body." She "assumed his shape" to be "more pleasing to our eyes" so she could "guide our victory" against Xivu Arath. Obviously she couldn't guide us if she looked like the Hive. Instead, she morphed into a shape that looks like Osiris and kept him to herself, possibly for information as well as a bargaining chip.

The next part is something I heavily dislike as a point from Myelin.

He starts by saying how there's a trope in movies where you get attached to a character and you just have a feeling that something bad is going to happen to them because the narrative is making you form a bond with that character. And at first I thought he'll say that the narrative has been doing this with Osiris, which is WEIRD, due to how generally disliked he is in the fandom, mostly due to people misunderstanding him, but also due to other reasons which have resurfaced ever since he's been officially confirmed as a gay man in a relationship with Saint.

And of course, Myelin is not talking about Osiris at all. He's talking about Saint. He's saying that the narrative made us attached to Saint and that "they are setting up Saint-14 to lose Osiris." This is aggravating in several ways.

One, that trope about being attached to a character is generally about the character that is going to die. Bungie didn't make us get attached to Cayde so they can kill off Ikora. They made us attached to Cayde and then killed off Cayde. Making us attached to Saint-14 to kill off Osiris is completely disregarding Osiris as a character in his own right and Osiris is by far THE most powerful and important Guardian that has ever lived. To boil him down to an accessory of Saint's story is not just disrespectful to Osiris, it's just utterly wrong.

And second, essentially fridging Osiris for Saint's manpain is just homophobia. As far as I know, Myelin is not a gay man so him making this point is simply homophobic. We do not need Osiris to die to see Saint's pain and drive for vengeance against Savathun. Bungie has made that clear. It's actually never been clearer just how much Saint suffers right now, in how much pain he is and how angry he is.

It's been shown in the voice lines in the main quest, in the cutscene at the start of the season, in the week 2 radio transmission, in voice lines during various activities, in voice lines from other people talking about him (most notably Ikora saying he's "tearing up the system to find real Osiris") and in various lore tabs. We truly do NOT need more affirmation to how much Saint is suffering. We surely don't need to ramp up the angst by killing Osiris off in order to send Saint into a more of a frenzy. His frenzy is already known and already underway. The man has tried breaking into Savathun's chamber to kick her ass already. He is "tearing the system apart." He is broadcasting live. He went on a mission with Mithrax to find Sagira's remains and the most likely place where Osiris went missing. The man is already on a crusade.

I don't think he needs to learn that Osiris has died somewhere, alone, months ago in order for us to see his pain. Or to cause more pain to us, the players. It's simply a completely insensitive way of looking at a story of two gay men who have been through enough suffering already.

I know people dislike and misunderstand Osiris. I know people absolutely adore Saint. I know people would get a kick out of seeing Saint going feral instead of him behaving in a very trope-shattering way by plugging holes in the Wall and feeding pigeons and singing songs to the children of the City.

I think those people don't understand Saint nor do they appreciate him as he is. They certainly have no respect for the man he loves or for their relationship that transcends time, space and reality. And if Saint knew that, he would definitely go feral on their ass first and foremost.

I'd like to think that Season of the Lost is a direct mirror of Season of Dawn. Two very important turning points in Destiny's story that are led by an undying love between Osiris and Saint-14. Just as Osiris risked it all and we all supported him in getting Saint back, right now we are all supporting Saint and risking it all to get Osiris back.

And as an important note, the story so far has been very clear to explain to us that we're looking for "the real Osiris." This is what this whole season is based on. We want real Osiris back. This alone disproves the theory of possession, but it also highlights that this season is about saving someone we've lost. Ending the season that's based on trying to find Osiris by telling us "oh he's dead" seems to be very much narratively senseless.

Speaking of narratively senseless, Osiris' death would not make sense yet. His arc isn't over. His questions and plotlines aren't over (and he has raised many of them in Immolant, which hasn't been followed up on because he got kidnapped). And speaking of Immolant, there is the following, from Sagira:

"Shut up! Listen to my words!" Her iris is bright with Light. "There are great things still left for you; don't lose hope in the darkness." She is luminant.

Osiris breathes the word, as if he could hold it back: "No." He would understand in time. She had seen it.

This seems like a pretty strong implication that his story is far from over. It would be quite a bummer if this was completely ignored and we're delivered Osiris' dead body at some point during this season.

Of course, I'm not discouting the possibility that Osiris will never be the same after this. It's likely that there will be lasting consequences if he's alive.

I am also not discounting the possibility that Osiris may as well be dead. I want to make that clear. It's possible. But I did my best to make a somewhat coherent analysis of why that is probably not the case and why Myelin's position in particular is flawed. And as I said at the start, I definitely am biased in a way that makes me hope that Osiris is not dead. I fully understand that and would not be opposed to people pointing out flaws in my argument if there are any. I am, genuinely, trying to be as objective as possible with this though, but as always, I could end up being wrong in the end.

And that is my TED talk.

[drinkyourfuckingmilk]

Do you have an opinion on the whole Johnny Depp and AH situation? Would you be willing to share it? I think it's a shame that despite all evidence he has against her, he's still being torn down. People really don't think men can be victims.

yeah I do but Im always hesitant to express it because the narrative in the mainstream media is so negligent and still very much supportive of her despite actual evidence, and we absolutely live in a world where abuse against men isn’t taken seriously. that’s not just me repeating hot takes from online sources, I chose to do research topics in criminology at uni on abuse against men and the fact is, is that the way we raise and perceive masculinity means its very rarely taken seriously when a man comes forward and says he’s been sexually, physically or emotionally abused - particularly by women. 

there is also something to be said - and I have NEVER been a conspiracy theorist - but AH dated elon musk who has incredible wealth and influence over the media, and that the judge who decided the recent libel case between the two actually had personal and professional connections to AH’s own lawyer and LITERALLY said “it is not relevant whether AH assaulted JD” in his fucking ruling - this all means JD has not received unbiased judgement or justice in this case. 

I think that there is a fuckton of evidence against AH (actual recorded audio evidence), and corroborated and unbiased evidence against her that shows she is a consistent liar, abuser and toxic person including evidence that shows she is physically abusive towards her own sister and a previous romantic partner - she also blatantly stole the story of her former personal assistants rape experience to use for her own benefit. 

while there is a history with johnny depp of him losing his temper, its always been at inanimate objects (trashing a hotel room, slamming cabinet doors) or any actual physical assault alleged against him has been disproved by countless eyewitnesses. and every single character references for him shows he’s never been abusive towards another romantic partner. and I think that’s key. typically, in criminology and in statistics easily accessible by the public, a man doesn't just become suddenly physically violent against romantic partners at the age of like, what was it? in his 50s-60s? 

there’s ALWAYS a history of that abusive behaviour because its a chronic, behavioral pattern. JD has none of that. AH does. and I’ve had people message me and use a harshly worded text JD sent about AH to a friend where he uses vulgar language and violent ideas about her as proof he’s abusive. a shitty text written about an abusive ex isn't abuse. I’ve sent plenty of horrifically worded texts about fuckwit exes in the heat of anger. who hasn't? it doesn't make you abusive to the person themselves. who hasn't, in anger, wished horrible death and violence internally or in conversation with friends about exes who have profoundly hurt them? you can express these feelings as a means of venting anger in a safe place with friends - that’s entirely different from acting out those thoughts on the person themselves. 

basically; I completely believe JD is innocent of being an abusive person. because I didn't just take the media at face value, I have been actively reading all of the court transcripts. JD and his witnesses are consistent and supported by audio and video evidence. AH consistently changes her stories, her witnesses are much fewer, inconsistent, and are now no longer her friends. it speaks volumes. 

I still very much support the idea of believing victims at face value when they speak up. but I think, like anything in the world, its never black and white, and that grey area is that we need to be more thoughtful and considerate of men when they say they have been abused. because almost fucking nobody takes them seriously. 

because thus far, in light of INSANE amounts of evidence against AH, people will either deny it completely, or they’ll say “okay well then they were equally abusive to each other”. no, they weren’t. even in the audio tapes you have AH admitting to being violent and refusing to promise she wont become violent again, while NEVER saying to JD that he was ever violent towards her which you’d expect in a mediated conversation - and JD frequently says he insists on leaving situations where she becomes physically violent. he actively and repeatedly says in audio convos with her that she is violent towards him, and he HAS to leave the situation because its not appropriate. I’ve known physically abusive people - they dont leave a physically violent situation, they escalate it with their own violence. crim stats show the same. this is not mutual abuse to me. 

so yeah. I support JD in this, not because I’m a JD stan because I’m really by practice not a die hard JD fan, but because the evidence shows he is innocent, and having experienced forms of abuse myself, I know how important it is for victims to get justice or at least be heard. honestly fuck AH, she is a toxic horrible person from all accounts. 

if anyone would like to actually investigate this case beyond mainstream media, here are links to the court transcripts of both sides and of the audio evidence. 

court transcripts: https://www.nickwallis.com/depp-trial

audio evidence: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCg0C-N_MPYYOXyF4T3jMxNQ/videos

EDIT: another key thing from the audio tapes is that AH is CLEARLY not afraid of JD. A person who has been physically or emotionally abused is meek, reassuring and placating to their abuser. She is not. At all. He is the one who seems to submissive and mediating in the conversation. Accusatory but still willing to smooth it out which in my experience is characteristic of an abuse victim who is sick of the bullshit but just wants the bullshit to stop.

[crossdressingdeath]

Seeing your post about how JYL has a 'ranking system' in her head when it comes to WWX and JC hits so hard, but honestly, the more I read into the Jiang family dynamics, the more I agree. JYL obviously loves WWX, but I don't know if she's capable of putting him above JC. And we see her defending him, and she obviously gives her life for him, but she was also reacting in the moment. Not to speak lightly of her sacrifice of course, but I just feel like there are certain limits to how 1/7

far she's actually willing to go for him. I was initially one of JYL's staunch defenders, and always said that, unlike JC, she didn't have the same amount of political power as him, wasn't in a position to do anything about the Wens, ect. But...I'm starting to question if that's really true. JYL may not have had much direct political power herself, but she was the sister of a sect leader, and even if JC was unwilling to help, JYL had just married into the richest and most powerful sect 2/7

at the time. It was a love marriage, JZX adored her and would've done anything for her if she'd just bothered to ask him for it. Madam Jin also cared for her and respected her, and between her and JZX, had JYL actually bothered to tell them anything, I'm sure they would have been able to sort something out. Or she could have had it as a condition of her marriage - I'm not marrying into the sect that's trying to kill my brother unless you tell your father to stop. Had it been reversed and 3/7

The Lans were calling for JYL and JC’s deaths, no way in hell WWX would’ve just married into the sect, regardless of LWJ’s involvement. Instead she just doesn’t really do anything. We see no proof that she ever tried to see WWX after the wedding dress incident, which — god I instantly saw it as a sweet gesture, but now it just bothers me, because your brother is living in squalor, and you decide to show if the expensive dress that you’ll be 4/7

wearing when marrying into the sect that's trying to kill him, you bring along one bowl of soup for him, and don't even try to explain WHY you're marrying into said sect. Beyond that, we don't see a single moment up until her death where JYL actually seems concerned about WWX, puts in effort to try to see him - she doesn't even ask him how he's doing the one time she does come to see him. When we compare that to how WQ treats WN, yeah, she's outwardly not as loving or sweet, but she 5/7

goes to the ends of the earth for her brother, even going as far as to betray her sect and risk WRH's wrath because he asks her to. And now we come back to that ranking system you mentioned before - yeah, it really does seem like JYL places her blood family first, which definitely hurts, but in comparison, despite only knowing him for a shorter amount of time, WQ truly grows to think of WWX as a second brother. And she treats him as such, at an equal level with WN - after JZX dies 6/7

WQ doesn't attack WWX for what happened. She doesn't try to come up with a way to sacrifice WWX instead and let WN survive in his stead. She and WN, two people who have become WWX's family, both give their lives to protect both him and the rest of their remaining family members. And it's just frustrating to think that the one member of WWX's adopted family who we all thought treated him like an actual brother, might not have really been on his side after all. 7/7

Yes! To start with the wedding dress thing, because it drives me nuts when people treat that like some super sweet act of love: JYL shows up in the Burial Mounds with no money, no sign of having tried to talk the sects around, no news outside of her own, no food beyond a couple bowls of soup (one of which she gives to the guy who can’t eat), and doesn’t so much as ask WWX if he’s okay. She literally came all that way to have a family meal, ask WWX to name the future nephew it’s becoming increasingly clear he’ll never meet, and tell him about her impending marriage into the family that’s currently doing everything in its power to destroy WWX’s life. Like, if you think about it that entire visit is such a slap in the face; “Here’s a bowl of soup while the people under your protection are starving, oh by the way I’m going to marry the son of the guy actively trying to get you killed, okay bye”. All you can say in regards to her helping WWX is that she does potentially manage to persuade JZX to invite him to JL’s one month celebration, but if memory serves the novel never actually specifies whose idea that was and it was JZX who decided to go get WWX after JGY told him about seeing JZXun heading in the direction of the Burial Mounds. And even then JZX does the same thing JYL does; sees WWX outnumbered and surrounded and tells him to stand down. At least in JZX’s case you could argue that the actual fighting hadn’t broken out and JZX probably trusted in his authority to be able to sort the situation out so long as WWX wasn’t actually acting aggressive (or defensive, rather), and he’s also physically strong enough that he may well have been able to intervene if the cultivators had attacked. JYL, when she does the same thing, has no authority and no physical power to defend WWX with. And yeah, both JZX and Madam Jin adore JYL, and neither of them seem super fond of JGS (JZX respects his father, but I don’t get the sense he loves him); if JYL had asked them for help it’s entirely possible they would’ve started at least circulating her version of events and demanding a proper investigation into what happened. But there’s no mention of her so much as trying, and she doesn’t offer to ask them when she visits WWX.

And yeah, compare WQ to JYL and it’s... well. WQ is so quick to offer WWX her love and care? She’s harsh, but she loves him and views him and WN on such equal footing that she and WN willingly hand themselves over to the Jins for WWX’s sake without her so much as bringing up the possibility of saving WN instead. There’s no ranking for WQ; WWX and WN are her brothers, and she loves them, and she’d do anything to protect them. When it becomes clear she can’t save WN (like hell the sects would let him live, and by this point it’s pretty clear that WWX won’t be able to protect them forever) she throws her whole weight behind defending the brother she thinks she might still be able to save, even if it means bringing WN with her to die. WQ knows WWX for... a year or two? Maybe? The timeline is a little hazy. Not long compared to JYL, anyway. And yet she’s willing to walk all the way to Lanling to die in the hope of saving him. It’s for her whole family, yes, but she makes a point of including him. Basically, I think this fandom needs more stuff wherein the Jiangs and Wens survive and the Wens are fully like “Our brother now, you don’t deserve him”.

The thing with JYL is... she loves WWX, she genuinely does, but he is never going to be first for her. To the point where she outright enables JC’s abuse, in places; she always expects WWX to be the one to grin and bear it. Hell, one of their first conversations involves JYL cheerily allowing WWX to cover up JC locking him out of his bedroom and scaring him out into the woods by threatening to set dogs on him! Let me rephrase that: she allows a traumatized nine-year-old to hide the fact that the kid her dad expects him to share a room with locked him out of said room on his FIRST NIGHT and threatened him with his LITERALLY WORST FEAR, and as far as we know makes no attempt to tell JFM herself. To keep JC out of trouble. That is such a thing! WWX was scared to the point of running away and JFM expects him to share a room with the person responsible for that and JYL goes along with him promising not to tell JFM so that JC won’t get in trouble! And from that day forwards everything is just “Boys will be boys” to her. Like, let me put it this way. Before LWJ (and arguably the Wens before that, although WWX saw himself more as protector than protected there) JYL was the person WWX trusted to protect and care for and comfort him above all others, yeah? She’s the one he thinks of as having his back? He doesn’t tell her about JC trying to kill him. JC tries to kill WWX three times before JYL’s death, and WWX doesn’t say a word to her about any of them. You could argue that he doesn’t want to involve her, but... JYL pretty clearly takes JC’s side every time JC starts having a go at WWX. When he chases him out of their room, when he starts snapping about how annoying WWX is, when he stabs WWX... She never outright says it, but there really does come a point where by staying neutral you’re siding with the aggressor, and she reaches that point a lot. Hell, the stabbing is one of those aforementioned near-murders! JC stabbed him! According to WWX (who downplays serious injuries, he never exaggerates them) he had to hold his guts in! WWX is talking about a pretty fucking serious injury (and JYL grew up in a cultivation sect, I don’t believe for a second she doesn’t at least know what constitutes a serious injury) while JC whines about a broken arm like it’s worse than having to physically hold your guts in until you can reach a doctor and JYL acts like those are equal! JC could easily have killed WWX and has enough training with the sword to know better than to go for a blow like that in a staged fight and JYL doesn’t even suggest he should apologise.

Honestly? The more I think about JYL the more it pisses me off that she’s treated like WWX’s best sister more than WQ is. Imagine WQ seeing one brother stab the other in the gut and take the former’s side because the latter broke the former’s arm. Imagine WQ so much as considering allowing a child to cover up the kid he’s supposed to share a room with locking him out and scaring him into running away. She wouldn’t! Because WQ sees her brothers as equals. She won’t pick WN over WWX just because they’re blood siblings; she loves them both, and will choose based on who she thinks is in the right. And she wouldn’t just stay neutral to avoid rocking the boat, oh no. If WQ heard WWX say that WN stabbed him and did enough damage that he had to hold his guts in... oh boy would WN have a bad day. The thing with JYL is that she seems like a good sister in comparison to the rest of the Jiangs; stick canon JYL into a family that genuinely loves WWX and sees him as equal to their other children, and she would not look anywhere near as good.

[beepbeepbobop]

Back again.

I was telling my friend (who isn’t a Baccano! fan, but listens to me ramble) about my take on immortals and Czeslaw, and I don’t know where to put it, so!  It goes here.  As a warning, this is mostly me rambling and probably treads ground that has been talked about a lot in the past, but I hope it’s interesting anyway.

(This and the Infinity Train post is not a sign that I’m going to be more active in the future.  Social media and the prospect of interacting with other people’s posts still make me anxious.  Maybe one day.)

So!  The first thing to keep in mind is that change is a major theme in Baccano!.  No one is incapable of changing, but people have different relationships with it depending on who they are.  Czes can't believe that he has changed seventy years after Isaac & Miria stealing him despite clear evidence that he has.  Meanwhile, Nile actively resists change:  His greatest fear after becoming immortal was that he would become desensitized to the loss of human life and begin to devalue it, so he spent decades fighting in active war zones so that he'd never forget the reality of death.  This backfired, and instead left him inured to loss of life...but it's clear that he doesn't want to be this way?  Realizing that he's gotten to the point where his expression doesn't even change if someone dies is devastating for him.  Chane is the opposite:  While it's absolutely for the best that she stops being a hitwoman and killing machine for her father, softening up is terrifying to her because then she can't serve her father the way she wants to.   Czes is on the opposite end of the spectrum, because he wants to be better because he thinks he's a bad person (later on, he decides that he's the only bad person left in the world.  Sir.), but can't recognize it because he doesn't feel different.

And...this is pertinent to the older immortals in particular - I'd argue even moreso than with the younger ones.  Aside from the fact that the Elixir literally stops you from changing in the sense of age or injury...it also has to place inhibitors on your brain.  Your brain is, after all, a physical part of your body!  There are some....weird aspects about immortality that no one is able to figure out (for example, immortals can give birth; someone also pointed out that there are no examples of crying in reverse even though that's also a part of your body), but it's still safe to say that the brain doesn't age either because then...then a lot of the cast would be catatonic from Alzheimer's.  Even without that, the human body can only retain so many memories.  If an immortal's brain had the ability to deteriorate over time or overload based off of the amount of memories it contains....well, I don't think any of the older immortals would be able to function.  Szilard definitely wouldn't be able to function (and neither would Firo after he devours Szilard) because Szilard has the memories of over a dozen people running around in his brain.  Which brings me to my next point:  If an immortal's brain functioned like a human's, devouring would not work as a concept.  One of the hallmarks of being immortal is gaining other people's memories.  Imagine the strain that would cause.  And yet, it doesn't seem to be a problem!  The chief worry of those who have devoured other immortals is worrying that having the memories of the other person might change you consciously or subconsciously.  This is Firo's concern over devouring Szilard.

So...the fact that the brain doesn't physically grow older or change (with some leniency given because real world science sure is iffy here)...feels relevant because, mn...

Many of the older immortals feel stagnant, or stuck in time.  Firstly, if the immortals changed at the same pace as a human being, I don't think most of them would be recognizable from one era to the other.  And yet, they are!  The Victor Talbot of the 1700s is clearly the same person as the Victor Talbot of the 1930s, albeit with alterations (because what kind of person would stay exactly the same after centuries?).  The answer to that question is Elmer, by the way.  Everyone comments on how he acts just like the Elmer they remember back in the day.  But Elmer is a special case, seeing as he's our local empty shell and probable sociopath (not that he has ASPD!  ASPD, sociopathy and psychopathy all present and function entirely differently from each other, which makes it....strange that they're lumped under the same umbrella - but that's another matter).  Secondly, immortals...Uhm, they all handle grief horribly, and seem to feel stuck in the past?  Maiza, for instance, acts starkly different from his past as a rebellious noble-boy gang member, but he's never forgiven himself for giving Gretto the information that led to his death.  (Gretto being his brother.)  Huey's overarching goal is to bring his dead girlfriend back to life, and he's been working towards this goal for centuries.  Sylvie, who admittedly was not an immortal when Gretto died, held off on drinking the Elixir until she was all grown up, then set out to finding Szilard to take revenge on him for killing the boy she had run away with.  This lasted for, you guessed it, centuries.

This isn't to say that immortals don't change, or even that they don't change drastically.  I mentioned Nile, who became inured to death after fighting in war for decades.  Czes went from a trusting, innocent child to someone paranoid and self-centered enough to try and get an entire train car's worth of people killed for his own safety to someone who wants to be a good person, but thinks he never will be and that there's something fundamentally wrong with him.  But changing appears to be very, very difficult, and happens over an extended period of time in response to extreme situations.

And...this is particularly relevant to Czes (who keeps coming up as an example because he's the main person I'm thinking about with this tangent) because....it arguably hits him harder than any of the others due to being a child.  Only the best decisions were made aboard the Advenna Avis, which includes letting the eight year old drink the immortality elixir.  But...mn.  It's one thing to be perpetually in your thirties, or twenties, or sixties, and another altogether to perpetually be eight years old.  Czes can't truly 'grow up' even though he has more life experience than most adults combined, and it shows in his extreme emotional reactions, his self-centeredness, ect.  There's a certain misconception about anime-only fans that he's an adult in a child's body, but I think it's easier to tell in the light novels that that's not the case, especially since you see what he's like back before the Advenna Avis.  (He is shy.  Very shy.  Did nothing wrong ever.)  Also, the fact that SAMPLE goes, "Yes!  The perfect sacrifice!" when they specifically take a child to target emphasizes this.  It's not proof - I'm pretty sure that SAMPLE would focus on his physical age as an 'eternal child', and may or may not have the resources to analyze him and go, "This boy is still eight years old in his head," - , but it hammers the point home.

Then...mn.  One thing that's stuck out to me ever since the start is how long Czes was with Fermet.  There's such a thing as learned helplessness, and it's not like Czes had anywhere to go, so that's not what is odd to me...especially when Fermet is known for manipulating people, and could definitely seed the idea that Czes can't go anywhere.  More than physical proximity, I think about how long Czes believed in Fermet.  It's explicitly stated that Czes absorbing Fermet's memories is what made him realize that - oh, Fermet was just sadistic and everything he said was an excuse.  And...I think this is both an example of being controlled in many respects, and....another example of an immortal being stuck in the past - but in a very, very different way.

First off, learning that the people you look up to want to harm you is...difficult at best, especially when you're younger?  But being mentally 'stuck' at a certain age would make things worse, because Czes is perpetually an age where it's natural to depend on a parental figure, and at an age where the brain isn't equipped to make those kinds of calls or realizations.  There's also the matter of cognitive dissonance!  Cognitive dissonance means a lot of things, but essentially, it's the idea that you have two conflicting beliefs, but the actions you take can retroactively alter your beliefs/place emphasis on one more than the other, as the mind is predisposed to reduce dissonance.  I...take issue with how cognitive dissonance is interpreted because many examples don't account for the beliefs or opinions not being equal in the first place, but that's not the point.  The point is that, as a child, the impulse to reduce dissonance is present while also being played against difficulty reading intentions, perceiving the world outside of yourself, and thinking critically.  (For what it's worth, abusers also tend to discourage critical thinking because it damages their narrative, which would also play a part.)   So, for example...

Say that, theoretically, Czes was yelled at every time he questions the idea that Fermet's intentions are right, or that maybe Fermet doesn't have his best interests in mind.  (Czes is insightful, and they lived with each other for a long time, so this probably happened at least once unless the text directly contradicts me.)  This is tame compared to the things we know about his time with Fermet, but ignore that.  The desire to not be yelled at would lead him to hurriedly agree later on, and cognitive dissonance means that you're inclined to try to make your beliefs agree with your actions.  In other words, the more he plays along, the more his brain tells him that he definitely believes this, and it makes perfect sense to!  Fermet has shown that he cares about him, and took him in after his grandfather died, so of course.  It only makes sense.  And it's even harder for him to bridge the gap to a different conclusion because of how difficult it seems to be for immortals to change.  It's only when Czes devours Fermet (or...or at least gets his memories) that everything snaps into place, because he can't reconcile that no matter how hard he tries (coincidentally, this also happens when he gets memories of being an adult, and while I seriously doubt that Czes went through Fermet's memories willingly, it kind of hammers my point about how difficult being eternally young would make things).  So of course he snaps as hard as he does.  It'd be kind of amazing if he didn't, honestly.

TLDR:  Being immortal made it even harder for him to recognize or comprehend his trauma.  Sorry for that.

[nettles-bo-bettles]

Two Plus Two Equals Five

Third Person POV: It had been three years since Marinette had moved to Gotham City to study design at Gotham Academy. As usual she went to one of her favorite coffee shops in Gotham so she could get some energy after pulling all nighters for the past month and just living off of coffee. After walking 6 blocks from her apartment she got to the coffee shop, Loca Mocha (Ty Sabs). She went inside and ordered her usual, a six shot latte with cream, whipped cream on top and salted caramel sauce drizzled across the top (idk if that would actually taste good but I don’t drink coffee so don’t mind me). She went to find a seat and was unsuccessful until she found a free table in the far back of the coffee shop, however, someone else was looking at the same table at the same time as her and they ended up bumping into each other while not paying attention and heading towards the same table.

“Sorry sorry, I’m insanely clumsy.”

“No it’s alright, I wasn’t looking where I was going.” “That makes two of us, I should’ve paid more attention. I’m Marinette by the way.”

“I should’ve paid more attention too. I’m Tim, it’s nice to meet you Marinette.”

“So I guess we both just had our eyes on the table huh?” “Yeah.”

“Should we just sit together then? There’s no other empty tables or seats.”

“That’d probably be easiest.”

“I have an order for a Marinette, six shot latte, with cream, whipped cream on top and salted caramel sauce drizzled on the top,” one of the baristas yelled. “I should go get that, I’ll be right back.”

‘She seems like an interesting person, I kind of want to get to know her’ Tim thought. Marinette came back to the table and sat down, Tim already had his coffee since he had ordered before Marinette came into the shop. Marinette was about to pull out her laptop to start working when Tim stopped her. She looked at him confused,

“I- I wanted to get to know you better before the both of us have to leave,” he said nervously.

“Oh, I supposed I understand that,” she said and put her laptop away.

“So, what are your hobbies?” Tim asked her.

“Well, I love designing. It's my passion and dream to be a designer and I’ve been doing it my whole life so I guess I could count that as a hobby. I also bake a lot, my parents are bakers so I’ve been taught by the pros,” she said, the last part with a joking tone.

“Those are a lot more interesting than my hobbies, all I do with my life is work and then work some more, get some coffee and sleep once a month,” Tim said jokingly.

“I’m sure you have more hobbies than that but okay.”

They continued to learn more about each other and got more and more interested in the other every second. Customers came and went and eventually it was 1pm. The tables were full again and another customer walked in, this time, however, Marinette and Tim watched them order. Marinette just happened to recognize the customer as Lê Chiến Kim. Kim ordered his drink and went to look for a table when someone caught his eye, Marinette Dupain-Cheng.

“Long time no see Mari-bitch.” Kim said to her, clearly trying to offend her though it didn’t work.

“Nice to see you too, Kim.” Marinette replied calmly.

“Still sending death threats to Lila?” Kim asked snottily.

“Still a sheep following around a liar with no evidence?” Marinette said smoothly.

“You still don’t believe Lila huh? You know she’s friends with the Waynes right? Plus she’s dating the youngest Wayne son and she could get 15 lawsuits put on you with a few words. All she’d have to do is tell her boyfriend that you sent her death threats and bullied her in highschool.” Kim said stupidly in front of the second youngest Wayne son.

“Hi, Kim right?” Tim said stepping in.

“Yeah? And what’s it to ya?” Kim replied in a rude tone.

“I’m Tim Drake, and I sure as hell think I’d know if my younger brother was dating a lying bitch. Damian is smart enough to avoid people like that and this ‘Lila’ person seems like a golddigger, my brother also isn’t the type to cheat on his boyfriend.” Tim said, glaring at Kim.

“What do you mean? You just said your last name is Drake, that’s not Wayne you dumbass.” Kim said, thinking he knows everything.

“The thing is Bruce Wayne, my adoptive father, has adopted all of his kids except for Damian and we all kept our last names. Damian is the only biological child of Bruce that we know of and he most definitely is not dating anyone named Lila, he’s dating Jonathan Kent. I would, however, like to know the last name of this Lila.” Tim said.

“Oh Lila’s name is Lila Rossi, I’m sure you’d love to meet her, you see she knows tons of celebrities and she even taught MDC how to design, though, MDC did steal some of Lila’s designs.” Kim said, completely oblivious to the fact that he just landed Liar Grossi- oops, I meant Lila Rossi about seventeen lawsuits.

“Thank you for the name, now if you don’t mind I’d prefer if you just leave.” Tim said.

Kim left and forgot about the coffee he ordered.

“So...what was that about?” Tim asked.

“Well, it’s kind of a long story…” Marinette responded.

“I’m willing to listen to any story coming from you no matter how long it is,” Tim said without thinking. (The amount of cheesiness in that sentence is the reason why it pained my soul to write that)

Marinette laughed, “Whatever you say.”

And so we start from the beginning of Sophomore year at Francois Dupont Highschool. (Idgaf if it’s a middle school)

“Well when I was in my freshman year of high school I had a pretty good year, I was class president, I was friends with everyone, had a crush on a guy I thought was nice, and thought that nobody would ever believe someone they just met over myself. Then, Sophomore year came around and there was an exchange student, Lila Rossi. She claimed to be best friends with one of Paris’s heroes, Ladybug, and my best friend was obsessed with Ladybug so she automatically became friends with Lila. I, however, knew that Lila wasn’t friends with Ladybug because I myself was friends with her and knew that she would never become friends with someone that easily. I confronted Lila about her Lies about Ladybug and a few other famous people but she ended up threatening me. She told me that she would take all my friends and make everyone hate me, she almost succeeded completely but I still have my friends Chloe, Nino, Kagami and Luka. She told everyone that I had bullied her and that I had sent her death threats, though, she had no proof and everyone believed her because she said she knew celebrities which meant she would always tell the truth to them, they didn’t need proof. They ended up bullying me to teach me a lesson in their words, one time I almost died, they beat me up and stabbed me in the stomach multiple times resulting in me going into a coma for months. Lila also told my biological parents these lies and sadly they believed all of them, when I tried to explain it to them they just ignored me and became distant with me, they ended up disowning me and my honorary uncle adopted me with his wife, I applied for a few colleges after I graduated and even though I was accepted to harvard something just called me to go to gotham academy instead so I did, I don’t regret it to this day, I’ve learned a lot more about design and myself than I would have learned at harvard or any other school. Plus, I found Loca Mocha and like- this place has amazing coffee, I could never say no to it.”

“Wow, you weren’t lying, that is a really long story. But it was an interesting one and one that made me want to murder whoever this Lila person is.”

They talked for a while more just talking about ways to murder Lila for just being a bitch. The one they decided on was to torture her and make her wish she were dead and then give her a very slow and painful death and then chop up her limbs, throw them into a volcano, collect her ashes from said volcano and place them in a separate galaxy. Eventually it was 7pm and they didn’t even realize the amount of time that had passed until one of the baristas asked them to leave as the coffee shop was closing.

“Um Ma’am? Sir? We’re closing up soon, I hate that I have to interrupt but it would probably be easiest if you guys left before we start closing up.” The barista said.

“Oh, sorry I guess we didn’t realize what time it is, we’ll get going now.” Marinette and Tim said at the same time.

The two collected their belongings and walked out of the coffee shop hand-in-hand. Eventually they got to a crossing point between Wayne Manor and Marinette’s apartment so they had to part ways, not before exchanging phone numbers of course. Tim told her to text him immediately once she got home so he knew that she got home safe.

Marinette got home about five minutes later and texted Tim once she unlocked her apartment door. She made herself some ramen for dinner and binge-watched Haikyuu. She was in the middle of watching Tadashi yell at Tsukishima about being more excited about winning when Tim texted her saying that he was home and asking if she wanted to meet at Loca Mocha again the next day. She, of course, said yes and told him she’d see him the next day. A few hours later, while Marinette was working on one of her projects at two in the morning, Tim texted her asking if she was awake. She texted him back once she saw it and asked him why he was awake.

Coffee Addict: I could say the same to you -_-

Workaholic: Well I have a reason to be awake, I’m working on design projects. What’s your excuse?

Coffee Addict: Insomnia. Work. Patrol. Coffee.

Coffee Addict: Ignore the patrol part.

Workaholic: You’re a coffee addicted insomniac obsessed with getting their work done and you’re a hero?

Coffee Addict: ...you just met me yesterday you shouldn’t be able to know me that well.

Workaholic: I’m good at reading people.

Coffee Addict: Damn

Workaholic: You should be asleep, go to sleep

Coffee Addict: I have patrol tonight though. Workaholic: Ask someone to cover for you because someone you met at a coffee shop who also happens to be a sleep deprived insomniac is telling you to sleep.

Coffee Addict: Fine but only if you agree to go to sleep too.

Workaholic: Okay :)

Coffee Addict: I got my sister to cover for patrol for me.

Workaholic: Now sleep then

Coffee Addict: Fineeeeeeeee

After a few minutes of back and forth telling each other to sleep they both said goodnight and went to bed.

~Time skip brought to you by who gives a shit~

Marinette woke up at 8am as usual and got ready to meet Tim. She wore her hair down and wavy, put on some light makeup, some black doc marten combat boots, light wash ripped jean shorts and a black crop top. Once she was ready she left to go to Loca Mocha. Time woke up at 7:30 am, a little later than usual. He got up and styled his hair, put on some jeans, a plain t-shirt tucked into his jeans, and white converse hightops. He went downstairs to get some breakfast from Alfred when everyone looked at him weirdly.

“Are you guys okay... “ Tim asked.

“Tim- what are you wearing? Why are you dressed up casually instead of your usual work suit? WHAT IS GOING ON?!?! WHY DON’T YOU HAVE COFFEE? WHY DO YOU LOOK AWAKE AND SANE?!?!” Jason asked, starting to think that he was drugged.

“Oh well yesterday I met this girl at Loca Mocha and I spent the entire day getting to know her and last night at two in the morning I asked if she was awake and she made me go to sleep after I asked Cass to cover for me on patrol. I’m meeting with her again today.” Tim explained in a hurry to get to the coffee shop.

“You landed a girl who can get you to sleep- how the hell did that happen?” Jason asked.

“I’m still not completely sure myself. But I’m glad I met her.” Tim replied with a smile.

Everyone else in the room just stared at Tim expectantly.

“What?”

“When do we get to meet her???”

“UM- NEVER THANK YOU VERY MUCH!!!”

“YOU CAN’T DO THAT!!”

“Oh yes I can and I will.” Tim said and walked out of the manor.

When Tim got to the coffee shop he waited for Marinette, at 8:15 she texted him and told him she was on her way, Tim realized he might have gotten there a little earlier than he had to. He waited for a while knowing she would probably get there around 8:30. By the time it was 8:40 he started to get worried but stayed put just in case, once it was 9:00 he couldn’t help it, he got up and started walking towards her apartment, once he got there he looked for her and asked people if they saw anyone who looked like her until he turned his head to an alleyway and was horrified at what he saw…

Hehehehehehe I’ve always wanted to do that. I swear I never knew how fun it could be. Anyways that’s it for the first chapter, I hope you enjoyed it.

Page count: I’m too lazy to check.

Day Posted: 04/23/21

Word Count: 2380

[neellok]

Title: The Price of Revenge

Pairing: Ichimaru Gin/Kurosaki Ichigo

Ichimaru Gin wondered how annoyed the Captain-Commander would be if he murdered the Gatekeeper of the West, Ikkanzaka Jidanbo. Surely, Gin would only receive a slap on the wrist or a lecture. His ever present smile widened at the thought of dispatching the useless Shinigami. Ikkanzaka had served as a gatekeeper for over three hundred years. In that time his skills had declined and so had his mind.

“Who’s that?” the leader of the Ryoka demanded.

“Captain of the Third Division, Ichimaru Gin.”

Gin’s gaze shot to the black cat near the woman’s feet. Hm. Shihoin Yoruichi had returned to Soul Society. That meant Urahara Kisuke was involved. Did Kurosaki Isshin know that Urahara was making a move?

“Oh, this isn’t good,” Gin said dismissing them. They weren’t important right now. Shinigami that could not follow orders were useless to his cause. His expert gaze noticed the wounds that were not present on the gatekeeper. He had received reports from the underground that the Ryoka attacked Ikkanzaka and yet he wasn’t injured. Not a drop had been spilled on either side.

Unacceptable. A gatekeeper that failed in his duty deserved death. Gin immediately retaliated. Gin’s smile remained present as copious amount of blood burst from the gaping wound on Ikkanzaka’s arm. The Shinigami fell to his knees in a parody of surrender and allegiance as the heavy gate dropped onto his shoulders.

“Jidanbo!”

Gin cocked his head at the response. The Ryoka still hadn’t done anything. interesting. He’d expected her to attack him. She hadn’t moved. He mentally sneered. She couldn’t even break into Soul Society properly. What had Urahara taught her?

“A guardian of gates isn’t supposed to open those gates,” Gin lectured. The Ryoka had been able to cause some distraction from his encroaching plans, but not enough. They were still too weak to catch the attention of Aizen and the rest of the Gotei 13. Gin would not let them pass.

“I lost,” Ikkanzaka muttered. “I have to open the gate when I lose.”

Gin almost frowned. The Captain-Commander had made a very poor decision in placing Ikkanzaka in charge of guarding the gate. Only a coward would live with that mentality. Every day in Rukongai was a fight to the death. Those strong enough to seize power and wield it survived. Those too weak to guard their precious possessions deserved to die.

“What’re ya sayin’?” Gin walked until he was three feet from his target. He wanted the Shinigami to feel the pressure of his failure and the result of his cowardice. “When a gatekeeper loses… it means death,” Gin said with a wicked smirk.

He loved the terror that followed.

The woman Ryoka finally attacked. Their swords clashed in harmony. Gin stared into her enraged brown eyes. She didn’t protect herself. She attacked to defend someone else. Her action was predictable though the strength of her Reiatsu surprised him. It felt like drowning in a waterfall. Gin easily shoved her away after the first few seconds of surprise vanished.

“I-Ichigo!” Shihoin yelled.

Ichigo. Kurosaki Ichigo. Hoh. So this was Isshin’s daughter. He cocked his head at the spitfire in front of him. She’d finally become interesting.

-

Gin dispatched two hollows with ease as he waited for Kurosaki Isshin, formerly Shiba Isshin, to show. He should have known the annoying former captain would be late. He flung off the dark blood and sheathed Shinso.

“Ichimaru,” Kurosaki acknowledged when he slipped through the shadows of the trees. He leaned against a tree trunk in his old uniform. He must have left his gigai at home.

He looked exhausted, Gin noted. Shiba Isshin used to smile as much as he did. It was strange to see the man without it.

“Ya said ya wanted ta talk,” Gin prompted when he remained silent. He was here on an unofficial mission. He wasn’t worried that Aizen or anyone else would find out he took an unsanctioned trip to the human world. No one paid attention to something like that anymore. Not since Shiba Isshin died.

“Masaki’s dead,” Kurosaki muttered. Sharp brown eyes cut into him as Kurosaki watched his reaction. “Aizen killed her.”

Gin froze. No one in Soul Society suspected Aizen. Aizen was considered the golden child. “Tha’s an interestin’ theory.” He wouldn’t give up his shields. There was a reason why he was still playing this dangerous game.

“It’s not a theory!” Kurosaki bellowed. “I know. I-I knew there was something wrong with him in Soul Society. Why do you think I got out of there?”

“Thought ya found yer soulmate,” Gin replied with a nonchalant shrug.

Kurosaki stared at him with disbelief. “Kaien. Kaien knew. He’d been working for centuries to find proof.”

Gin felt his Zanpakuto sing for Aizen’s blood. “Did he find it?”

“I-I don’t know. I think so. Maybe.” Kurosaki rubbed the back of his neck as his grief seemed to multiply. “Either way, I know that Aizen sent Grand Fischer after Ichigo,” Kurosaki visibly panicked at the slip. “My wife.”

His wife’s name was Masaki. Who was Ichigo? “What do ya want me ta do ‘bout it?”

“You were his lieutenant. You know him.”

He wanted revenge. Gin forced the thought away when he realized that Kurosaki was trying to form a rapport with him. Anger flared as he looked at the former Shinigami. Kurosaki was nothing like him. Gin sought to destroy Aizen, Kurosaki ran. Coward.

Gin wasn’t in love with Rangiku; Rangiku belonged to him. He protected everything that was his.

“So…”

“Destroy him,” Kurosaki ordered. His returning Reiatsu flared to life as his anger grew. “Destroy everything that he ever touched.”

“Ya offerin’ ta help, cuz I don’t take orders.”

He sighed in relief and leaned more heavily against the tree as if it was the only thing keeping him standing. “Yes.”

Gin smile turned lethal. Kurosaki thought they were equals. It was time to rid him of that notion. “I’m not gonna do it fer free, ya understand. Ya see, this plan puts me in danger, while ya get ta live the easy life.”

Kurosaki’s expression never changed. As if he expected the response. Che. Kurosaki had always been more observant that he gave him credit for. “Anything.”

"Accepted."

-

“What the hell are you doing?” Ichigo demanded, pointing her Zanpakuto at him.

Gin gritted his teeth at the familiar words. Aizen tried to murder his soulmate. The annoyance he’d felt a few moments earlier vanished as cold, calculating rage took over. Gin’s plan crumbled to ashes. Aizen would not survive the day.

“Hah! You’re a funny kid,” Gin flippantly said, effectively keeping his murderous intentions out of his voice.

“You?” Ichigo asked after a few seconds of dumbfounded silence.

Gin placed a finger over his smiling lips. Their meeting had already exposed too much. Gin would not allow Aizen to discover that he found his soulmate. Not after everything Aizen had taken from him.

“Forget it Ichigo! We’ll retreat for now,” Shihoin ordered.

Gin didn’t trust her to protect his soulmate. However, he refused to allow Ichigo entrance into Seireitei. The Captain-Commander would order the other captains and lieutenants to stop her. Gin would be too busy killing Aizen to protect her.

“Wait! Where are you going?”

Gin walked away. He ignored the desperate pleas of his soulmate even though he wanted to claim her and never leave her side. Kurosaki Ichigo eldest daughter of Kurosaki Isshin. Gin knew exactly what he would order Kurosaki to give him once Aizen was dead. His daughter.

Gin whirled around and drew his Zanpakuto. Her confused and hurt expression pierced him. He ignored the pain and concentrated on protecting her the only way he could—keeping her away from him. He thrust his Zanpakuto toward Ikkanzaka. “Shoot to kill, Shinso.”

The blast of wind threw Ichigo and Ikkanzaka through the open gate and into the street of Rukongai. The gate slammed shut. Gin’s smile slipped as he discarded his old plans and constructed new ones. His blue gaze locked onto the gate that separated him from Ichigo.

Never again. Ichigo would never leave his side again. He would make sure of it.