#or a “I refuse to examine this and its implications further kind of thing?

[adiarose]

I feel like Dean really just “forgot” Cas was this divine celestial being at some point in the series and he really was then just Cas, completely removed from everything else.

The question is, do we think Cas just sort of crept into that position in Deans mind and so he never thought twice about it? Or when he started thinking of Cas as one of the group did Dean just decide to stick his divineness in one corner of his brain and think “nope. Not looking over there again unless I have to.”

[probably-haven]

Hello!! After seeing what you wrote about xiaoven fics I went to see what things you usually write and omg, your archon Venti headcanons????? I am absolutely in love. So if it isn't annoying, could you talk about xiaoven or Venti or Xiao or whatever ship or character you like? I don't care what you are going to say, I just want to know more about your thoughts ^^

I- is this... bestie, this is essentially a free ramble pass- kerujsgheskdfug. Trust me when I say that in no way is this, and in no way will it ever be annoying in the slightest- i literally- lets just say rambling off thoughts is kind of my specialty, especially when provided a topic to branch off of because otherwise I'm just- really indecisive about it so- iujskdh yeah- 100% definitely down to talk about Venti, Xiao, and/or Xiaoven XD. Also, yes- it may have been awhile since i last posted one(cuz again, indecisive about which direction to take part 5), but the Archon War Era Venti headcanons are still without a doubt my favorite posts I've made. It's just such an interesting topic with such endless potential that so few people actually think about or consider or even realize is there, so i always just get really psyched whenever i see someone interact with them lol.

.... this ended up being a bit of a mess: warning in advance

Anyway! onto the actual content!

- You see the thing about Xiaoven is that there's a lot of different ways that it could end up working out, and just personally my favorite way of portraying Xiaoven in my mind is as an unlabeled relationship because if anyone in genshin would give off that vibe its these two. And a number of other reasons.

- Firstly, I heavily headcanon Venti as being an aroace polyplatonic or perhaps heavily demiromantic. However, regardless of this I just don't think that Venti is really the kind of person to worry about how he should label his feelings, thinking it's silly to try to put them in one box or the other, especially with feelings and emotions being as fluid as they are in general. Plus it fits his whole God of Freedom vibe. I just- dont think he's the biggest fan of labels or social categorization in general.

- And secondly on the hand of Xiao... his defense mechanisms are very much ingrained in his personality. It's probably hard enough for him to not go into fight or flight(the answer is fight) at the slightest affection at first, at the slightest feeling of vulnerability. Even further down the line, with his fierce dedication to Liyue, I cant help but get the vibe that the moment he recognized that he was falling for Venti he would begin avoiding him, not only to avoid distraction from his duty, but to avoid corrupting him or losing him in general like he has with like basically every other person he gets close with(even believing that the cycle had repeated once more when he first heard of Morax's death)... now imagine Venti tryna slap a label on their relationship and tell me Xiao would have a positive reaction.

- The thing with Xiaoven.... honestly, i feel like theres more ways that it can go wrong than it can go right, but if they do manage to make their relationship work out, it's just simply beautiful in all terms of the word.

- Lets talk about killing. - During the Archon War, both were forced to kill a large number of people and gods alike- Venti out of a need to remain alive to protect Mondstadt, it's freedom, and the nameless bard's legacy by extent- and Xiao out of servitude to the god that was once his master

..... actually- break here- ive talked a lot about Venti on this blog but I havent actually spoken about Xiao all that much- so i should probably do that a bit first... do note though that my characterization of Xiao is pretty flexible actually- this is just- the possible characterization of him that i tend to favor as being the most- uh- "realistically complex"

-

Theres a line I saw this one time in a certain story: "He is a trained weapon. That's what he is, was, and always will be. You cannot change that so stop trying." And i just- think its a really interesting concept- that applies pretty well to Xiao now that i actually think about it. - the concept behind it is this: After spending more than a vast majority of his life killing or otherwise in battle, it's become a part of who he is, a normalcy that after centuries and centuries would be near impossible to get rid of or reverse, and even if it was possible, with his karmic debt constantly eating away at him its unlikely he has enough time left for that to happen. - it sounds like a cruel thing to say about him- but in context it's actually pretty layered and i think about it a lot. It's not as much a "he's a killer lol, that his whole personality" its more of a "The centuries of trauma he experienced have conditioned him into a constantly alert and battle ready mindset while also shaping his dehumanizing inferior-in-worth-but-superior-in-capability view of himself that would have likely been necessary to get through those time, and at this point he's been under that conditioning for long enough that it's essentially ingrained itself in his personality."

- the main idea is- it's a part of who he is, that needs to be accepted as who he is because its not something that he can just up and change. It's not all he is of course but his constant battle mode, as though always waiting to be ambushed or to be granted a new target to eradicate.

a couple character story quotes:

-"His past of service under the evil god had rid Xiao of his innocence and gentleness. All that remained within him was the means to kill and the weight of his sins. The only way he could be of service to mortals was in combat." -"Xiao does not feel any hatred. Having lived for over two thousand years, no single karmic debt constitutes anything more than a fleeting memory. No grudge can last a thousand years; nor is any debt so great that it cannot be paid off in this time. Xiao has spent many long years alone. But his battles have never been in vain." -"where did Xiao have to return to? He was merely leaving the battlefield." -"since Xiao wages a constant war against dark forces powerful enough to devour Liyue in its entirety, any bystanders who witness him in the heat of battle are likely to end up as collateral damage." -"The war he fights can never be won, and will never come to an end." -"Because ultimately, the one with whom Xiao wrestles is himself."

i feel like at some point this very nearly did consume his whole personality, almost turning him into nothing more than a being of slaughter under Morax's control, devoid of any "humanity" at all, consumed and corrupted by his karmic debt like his fellow yakshas before him. - until he experienced a moment of clarity- a song in the wind, the peaceful melody of a dihua flute. - and pulled back from the border of something he wouldnt have been able to return from, there a was a shift in his mind- a concept grown unfamiliar enough with time that it took him a great time to identify what it was; a curiosity. Something that there was no place for on the battlefield, something that by all means should have been completely useless to Xiao, and yet he held onto that curiosity, slowly regaining over time, a sense of who he was and who he could choose to be with each song that the wind chose to carry towards him every once in a blue moon.

and eventually that curiousity turned to longing. Longing "for a day to come when he will wear the mask and dance — not to conquer demons, but to the tune of that flute amid a sea of flowers"

...... uh- heh- if you couldn’t tell already i have a tendency to make my characterizations/analyses of characters more serious that i probably should. 

to summarize: Xiao is constantly toeing the line between his ingrained nature and his humanity- almost as though still trying to decide how much of that humanity he deserves to have, how much he is allowed to have, and how much is safe to have.

^looking back after writing this, i think the best way to explain it is that this is the view that i keep in mind/the lense that i tend to most enjoy looking through and refering back to while examining and/or analyzing his character, actions, story, lines, and overall personality.

idk- i kinda got off track but i just think its a really interesting interpretation to think about because it has some really interesting implications ig- it’s not the full extent of how i view him of course, but i kinda got ahead of myself and its long enough as is so ill just elaborate as i go- Lol i actually have in progress playlists for both him and venti and just- vibes- i could ramble about the playlists alone for hours explaining everything... It’s probably a problem- uh- ill keep going now lol.

anyways! stepping off the angst path for a brief break! Brought to you by their lines in the snow: both waiting for it to get thick enough, Venti for the purpose of a snowball fight and Xiao for the purpose of a tasty and nutritious breakfast.

but its actually something of note that Xiao doesnt actually need to eat so anything he does eat is usually out of obligation or enjoyment- so like.... snow.... like i dont blame him, but of all things- an adeptus who refuses to eat basically anything but almond tofu looks at the freezing-cold-floor-water that yeeted itself from above and decided at some point- damn- that seems more edible than basically ever single actually edible thing ever.... im gonna eat it- like- im glad if eating snow makes him happy but- at the same time...

He probably convinces Venti to eat snow too though and Venti wouldnt even resist I mean he’s wind and has probably consumed worse things in his time so- 2 anemo cryptids with glowing tattoos sitting in Dragonspine monching snow in the dead of night is an amusing thought to me.

- kay, now back to more serious-toned thoughts

One of the things about the ship that i really like is the different contradicting parallels between them:

A lot of how i view Xiao’s character is someone formed largely by the things he cant control and who was forced to accept that accepted that and learned to thrive in it as much as he can.  Venti on the other hand is surrounded by things he cant control and is ever adapting to control as much as he can while embracing whatever he cant as being part of the unpredictability of the world, seeing beauty in it. 

both of them have lost people and do what they do to honor their memory: Xiao continues to do what the Yakshas once did And Venti chooses to do what his friend couldn’t

Xiao’s power coming from himself  and Venti’s from others And both seem to appear to use their power for their own gain while truly helping others behind the scenes

both have killed a lot of people during the archon war Xiao views it as another necessary event out of his control and Venti would likely view it as a tragedy he chose to enact himself

and this is where we meet out balance

Xiao- contrary to how i think a lot of people view him as thinking of himself as a monster- seems canonically to have accepted this as part of his duty, as long as those he killed are not mortals. I dont think he enjoys it no- but someone has to do it and he’s just accepted that its a part of his duty Venti on the other hand-

See the beauty of the ship- as someone with an angst-centric mind- is this- these are two of the most traumatized mfers in the game 

Xiao is by far the one who needs the most help and who can serve to benefit most from the ship- but he is nowhere near self aware enough to recognize that there’s anything wrong or unhealthy about his mindset in the slightest-

whereas you have the contrast with Venti who sorted through most of his trauma with the nameless bard alone during the archon war and while the result appears more healthy- is still really not- but he’s not self aware of that either because i mean- who’s going to tell him? nobody even knows. 

however- venti is aware enough to notice flaws in Xiao’s mindset and “Venti” enough to want to help them through it-

Xiao- while not aware enough to recognize the flaws in Venti’s mindset, can recognize where it contrasts with his own, and is blunt enough to point it out- and then it’s out there to be mulled over- 

they’re so similar and yet so different and a feel just conversing between the two of them, being in each others precense, just being exposed to two mindsets that are so very different could do both of them a whole lot of good.

GEEE THAT BIT OF RAMBLING HAD LITTLE TO NO DIRECTION AT ALL- LET ME-- LET ME MAKE THIS START MAKING SENSE- WITH... DYNAMICS OR SOMETHING

I don’t think Xiao needs to sleep really- and i dont think that sleeping would do anything except make him uneasy at first- he’d probably just get nightmares after all he’s been through- but with Venti he would soon learn that it doesn’t have to be that way, lulled into the first peaceful sleep he’s had in... as long as he can remember.

anywho back to not making sense cuz im fickle and i think most questions about ships are best displayed through character interactions so like- a possible exchange thats cliche but cliches exist for a reason

Xiao: Why do you try so hard to help me, it isn’t easy. I know that much Venti, with the most adoring expression: Because you’re worth it, obviously Xiao: But surely there are others more deserving of- Venti: No Xiao, everyone is just as deserving as the next person, you included Xiao: Then why me above others? Venti: ehe, cuz ur my warrior of course [O//////O oh shit, hes right] Xiao: My contract is with Morax alone [gay panic but in broody yaksha]

it’s kinda difficult cuz neither of them really address their feelings.  I mean Venti does but he does it very indirectly and its rare that he ever does it with like- genuine directness- even spilling his backstory was in the form of a song- and told in the third person- so a lot of their interactions would often have some deeper meaning, especially with Venti being the bard he is. 

I come up with a lot of- errant thoughts about Xiaoven- but this is making me realize that a true analysis of their ship is rather difficult because it just encompasses so many dynamics so its hard to settle on just one and not go rambling about who knows what bouncing from one end of the ship to the other-  Because you truly can and thats the beauty of it

within one moment you can be having a heartfelt conversation about the archon war the impact of lost friends and times past, and the next moment Venti is trying to forcefeed Xiao an apple while Xiao screams about disrespecting the adepti and its just- so lovely

so while they have picnics with nothing but apples, dandelion wine, and almond tofu they can sit down and talk about the dreams Xiao once devoured, and the dandelion wine and apple cider that the first Ragnvindir invented from the plants that never could have grown in Old Mond. The foods that tasted of familiarity, or of the grilled ticker fish Pervases always used to eat, foods that tasted of friends and frankly family that had since passed, glaze lilies and cecilias and qingxin flowers scattered in the surroundings and woven into Xiao’s neat braids and Venti’s now messy ones, rebraided by the steady and inexperienced hands of one unused to gentle action. 

and then of course Venti steals Xiao’s tofu once the mood becomes too grim and replaces it with a bottle of wine that Xiao refers to as “vile poison,” a remark that fatally wounds Venti as he collapses on the floor, proclaiming how he can only be healed by a Yaksha’s kiss. Xiao ignores this of course and simply takes back his tofu with a slight smile on his face, but as Venti persists he soundlessly places a kiss on his own palm before intertwining their fingers and pulling him back up from where he was dramatically sprawled on the floor, grumbling about how such action was “unbecoming of an archon.” A sign of affection only Xiao would ever know about. But Venti is literally wind and I hc his senses work differently anyways so he definitely knows- plus Xiao’s face is red as the blood of his enemies and the way he is pointedly not looking at Venti at all really speaks volumes anyways. 

 -Venti playing epic battle music whenever Xiao goes into fights in what looks like a ridiculously extra performance to anyone else but is actually doing wonders to keep Xiao’s karma at bay

-Venti preaches the practice of “kissing wounds better” and Xiao is unfamiliar with this medical treatment but views it as unnecessary regardless because adepti have accelerated healing, doesn’t mean he’s going to stop him though. 

-Messages whispered on the wind

-Venti’s 1000 year sleep- an accident, not a fun time for the yaksha, and not a fun time for Venti once he woke up. Venti is actually more afraid of restful sleep than Xiao is, hence the sleeping in trees thing, but when Xiao is there, he can sleep restfully with faith that Xiao wont let another millennia slip through his fingertips. 

- Xiao tends to make excuses when doing things that aren’t necessary to his duty, like in his birthday voice line “Have this, it’s a butterfly i made from leaves... Okay. Take it. It’s an adepti amulet -- it staves off evil” because at the current point in his progress it helps him to feel like he’s allowed to do these things. Not wanting to put him off from progress, Venti never comments on his excuse but never fails to whisper a quick reminder of how proud he is of how far Xiao had come.

- Xiao’s karma saddens Venti greatly- not only because of how it effects Xiao but also because its a reminder that as much as Venti tries to honor the memory of those he’s killed, there will always be those who resent him for it, and when he took the option of living away from them, he truly can’t blame them. - And when he gets too wrapped up in thoughts, whether around this topic or similar ones or otherwise, eventually, he’ll hear the sound of a flute on the wind. It’s not divine by any means, but as his own wind connects him to the source, he gets the sentiment all the same. “What impact does one individual’s remaining wrath have on the present. You have done much to help the living in the present” the unspoken idea that Xiao has included himself in that statement, because now, with Venti’s help he’s beginning to learn just how to experience living for himself. 

- Venti’s form and Xiao’s mask are off limit topics though because if either mentions it the other will counter with the opposite and the mood will turn immediately bitter at the idea that both know that what they’re doing is destructive but neither are willing to change

- Venti who has different tells for negative feelings than most people because as much as he likes to pretend it is- this form isnt his, and Xiao who is able to identify those

- many fanfics and headcanons have Venti recognizing when Xiao is uncomfortable and getting him out of those situations. I see that and I love it but i raise you: - Venti taking Xiao to Mondstadt, careful that he doesn’t get to the point that he’s uncomfortable. And nothing goes wrong exactly, but Xiao notices the the way Venti’s cape is blowing in the wind, the way he’s holding his weight, barely on his feet so much as floating on the wind, connected with the ground only for the sake of appearance, all the while he looks just as happy go lucky as ever. And without a word, he grabs his hand and teleports them both out of Mondstadt.  - turns out it was just a slight thing that reminded him of the archon war (cuz i will die on the hill of him having more tragic backstory than just Decarabian), and he of course gives a sincere if not flustered thanks to Xiao, because he’s really not used to people noticing. 

- Venti trying to vent sneakily through fictional stories and Xiao is just like “Didn’t that basically happen to you” and Venti is just like “<_< shit”

- Venti once said affectionally that he wished he had met Xiao sooner and Xiao immediately and seriously shot it down by saying “If you had, I would have been forced to kill you” and both of them now stay up at night wondering who would have won that fight, not sure which result would have hurt more. (because honestly I have no idea who would win in that fight and that terrifies me- I like to think it would have been one of those legends that end with “and the fight persists to this day” or something along those lines)

- “How long have you been together?” “Adepti have no need for-” “1000+ years T^T how dare you deny our love” “O///O our...? ...useless”

- its disney- let me explain- i have this- i have this headcanon inspired by watching too many animatics- - so venti has a human form that isnt his- which he would have had to get used to moving in- and he’s a bard- - uh- anyway- as a third degree black belt in mixed martial arts, i can speak as an authority on this(not really an authority since i havent gone since quarantine but lets pretend). We have a thing referred to as the big three(most things do), and those things are martial arts, gymnastics, and dance. The idea is that they reflect really well off of each other and the best in any one category are good in all three. Timing, balance, form, discipline, technique, hand-eye coordination, grace, ease of motion, they all play a part- anyway-

- Venti taking Xiao’s prowess in martial arts and acrobatics and teaching him how to dance, and as someone who’s extremely skilled in the first two, the third comes easy to him, almost naturally. And it’s delicate and beautiful and lovely and it isn’t hurting anyone. And Venti points all these things out and more and despite how much Xiao insists that he feels ridiculous he truly does enjoy it and it goes a long way towards helping him form more healthy views of himself and his worth.  - Verr Goldett walked in on him once and made a joke about performing at the inn. unfortunately Venti was there and agreed on Xiao’s behalf before he could protest and- and it wasn’t as bad as Xiao thought it would be... he still wouldn’t do it again though without reason, but with good enough reasoning he could probably be convinced. 

- anyways point is he likes dancing to Venti’s songs and i just think that’s really cute - just picture the idea that all the animatics you see actually have the potential to be canon- ugh

- venti tries holding something out of Xiao’s reach since he’s taller and Xiao just fucking teleports 

- both need their space but when they dont, all they have to do is speak the other’s name and they’ll be there.

- and because i just had to.... love languages

- lets start with Xiao- i don’t think he’d view acts of service or quailty time as a love language tbh, and he blunt but really bad with words so affirmation is out, leaving gift giving and physical touch. However, he seems to view most material things as meaningless so- - Xiao who’s love language is in his fleeting touches, something he’s only recently grown comfortable with because of Venti, and now is giving back, which he knows he doesn’t have to do, but that he want’s to, though he’ll still continue to make excuses for each one. “you were shivering” “The inn is high up, you could have fallen..... I said what I said, you’d question an adeptus?”

- and as easy as it is to say words of affirmation for Venti- he does that for everyone- i want to say his is actually acts of service - its the acts of service that let him see just how much Xiao has progressed afterall, from teaching him to dance, to playing another song on the flute, to supplying him with the almond tofu he seems to enjoy so much. Every little thing he does helps Xiao to grow and he couldn’t be happier about that. 

-

- of course most of my headcanons for the ship do take place latter into the relationship because- y’know the less serious unhealthy vibes allow for greater range of thought, but i do still love to think about the serious implications so i kinda hopped back and forth. So sorry about how messy it is btw, i kinda- got carried away- it kinda got some kind of structure near the end tho so- maybe it’s okay. anyway- back to... lol something, we’ll see where thought forests lead. 

[hiddendreamer67]

Chasing the Captain

Here’s a piece set in the mer au au (or reverse mer au) made by the talented @voidsides. Roman is a merman prince who has fallen desperately in love with pirate captain Virgil, who he follows around constantly trying to woo his grumpy human crush. 

Read more of my work at @hiddendreamerwriting!

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Captain Virgil stood aboard his ship, gazing out at the waves as the vessel continued to cross the sea. Such a vast, unforgiving landscape, the ocean- Virgil could stare into its depths for ages, knowing that a single storm could bring him plummeting into its unforgiving murky secrets. It gave him a strange sort of chill, bringing his life up to the edge and spitting in destiny’s face instead, riding along the waves like a tamed wild steed. Sometimes it felt as though he could speak to the sea itself, whispering for him to jump in and the horrible consequences that would befall him below…

And sometimes, the sea did more than whisper.

“Cap’n, it’s back.” A crew member jutted his thumb towards the hull of the ship. Virgil groaned, already hearing that melodious voice as he approached.

“Oh Captain my captain, your ship may be steady in her course but I am more so!” 

Virgil huffed, rolling his eyes as he stepped up to peer over the rail. There, following the ship diligently was that same dreaded mer folk. Ruby red scales sparkling in the setting sun, the creature looked almost out of breath but was attempting to hide this with a dazzling smile.

“I thought we lost you in the storm.” Virgil drawled, sounding almost disappointed. It had been a blessed few days of silence. 

“Captain, a pleasure it is to see you as well!” The mer lit up at the sight of Virgil, completely ignoring the captain’s statement. “Don’t you look ravishing this fine evening, care for a dip?”

Virgil flipped him off.

“Ah, I see your manners are as lovely as ever.” The creature appeared a bit peeved, but a simple hand gesture wouldn’t deter him. If it would, Virgil would have seen the beast off a hundred times over. “Perhaps a song will lighten your spirits~”

“Fuck off, siren.” Virgil called out to him. Once upon a time, Virgil believed this creature to truly be a siren, a being of the sea that enchanted sailors to sink to their doom. Now Virgil wasn’t so sure, as to be around a siren for this long should’ve meant the death of his entire crew; either this was a very incompetent siren, or a very stubborn and foolish mer folk. 

And given Virgil has had the pleasure of hearing the creature sing, he knew it was the latter.

Just as promised, the mer began to hum, easily picking a tune out of the air. Virgil grimaced, turning away from the rail and heading towards his quarters before the song could lure him into a false sense of security. 

“Oh, ‘tis the pearl one.” One deckhand commented. “That’s me favorite, tha’ is.” 

“Bet he’d love if you told it so.” The other teased. 

Virgil groaned, turning to the pair with a scowl. “Don’t encourage it. I forbid you.”

“Oh Cap’n, wouldn’t matter if we said nothin’.” The first assured him. “Tha’ creature has eyes only for yourself.”

Virgil flushed, steadfastly ignoring how the man’s implications made him feel a strange hum in his chest. “Ridiculous.” He scoffed, slamming his door shut before he could be hackled further.

Unfortunately, there was some truth to his men’s words. For whatever reason, this beast had chosen Virgil and would accept no other. Virgil had tried every trick in the book to avoid the mer, short of retiring to land. He boarded a new ship. He sailed new waters. He holed up in his quarters. No matter what maneuvers Virgil tried, within a matter of time the mer would always, always return, and not leave until Virgil had interacted with it. 

In the beginning, the very idea of such a curse terrified Virgil. What could the siren possibly want? How long until Virgil was inevitably drowned like all the countless tales? Why was Virgil singled out above all others? But as time passed… for whatever reason, Virgil’s fears morphed into a more quiet curiosity. For whatever reason, the creature seemed to mean him no harm.

So what did it want with him?

Virgil sighed, once again looking out his porthole window at the dark frothy waves. The sun had set some time ago, giving the waters an even more ominous ambience. The singing, now that Virgil was focusing on it, had ended some time ago. Virgil paused, surprised to see the mer was not pressed up against the glass as he was wont to do. Perhaps the last time Virgil had scolded him about “freaking PRIVACY-” had finally gotten through his thick skull. 

(It had been rather alarming to find eyes peering in from the murky depths when he was changing. At least the creature had the decency to be sheepish as well.)

Virgil hummed for a moment, drumming his fingers on the desk. Begrudgingly realizing he wouldn’t be able to sleep without knowing if the mer was truly gone, Virgil grabbed a tankard and headed up to the deck. 

The captain headed back to the hull of the ship, peering into the path they carved in the ocean. No eyes peered back at him. He took a swig of his rum, slowly circling the length of the ship and examining the waves. No sign of his mer anywhere.

Why was he disappointed?

Virgil sighed, nursing his drink as he attempted to sort out his thoughts. What did he care if the sea serpent wanted to leave? He didn’t care.

Virgil winced, knowing his words were both harsh and pathetic. It wasn’t right to call him a serpent, not when he had done nothing but try to earn Virgil’s trust. Not when he had a name. 

Virgil sighed again, placing his head in his hand. “Oh, Roman…”

“You remembered!”

The captain jolted, so lost in his thoughts (and his drink) that he had failed to notice the mer slinking up in the waves. And now Roman was properly grinning, his teeth on full display as he was clearly delighted both at Virgil’s statement and catching the captain unawares.

Virgil huffed, immediately sinking back into his grouchy demeanor and pushing the warm feeling from Roman’s arrival deep down. Deeper than all the oceans combined. “How could I forget? You won’t stop singing your own praises.” 

“Well, I would sing yours.” Roman assured him, leaning his arms on the rail a few paces away. He had learned at sword point to give Virgil personal space. “But you’ve refused to give me your name.”

“Hmm.” Virgil just shrugged, taking another sip of his drink.

Roman rolled his eyes, pushing his dripping locks out of his face. “So mysterious. Dark and brooding only keeps a man’s interest for so long, you know. However I am becoming increasingly interested in why you chose to call out to me- does the heart grow fonder, I sense?”

“In your dreams, princey.” Virgil chuckled. Despite his thoughts dwindling on the mer beside him, his gaze was fixed solely on the sea in an almost unfocused trance. 

“A sand dollar for your thoughts?” Roman tilted his head.

Virgil paused, debating whether he should tell Roman what was truly on his mind. It was a dangerous game, one that would admit to Roman’s slow siren games working.

“What would…” Virgil paused, refusing to meet Roman’s gaze. He almost didn’t want to know the answer if the darker truths were correct. What would happen if I joined you? Virgil shuddered, watching the waters churn a bit more dangerously. The sea, dangerous mistress she was, would not be so kind to a landlubber like himself. 

“What do you want with me?” Virgil murmured. “You’re always going on about how you’re so enamored with me, and you keep trying to get me to jump overboard but- but why?! What could you hope to gain? Stringing me along for the ride, playing your twisted games-”

“What?!” Out of the corner of his eye, Virgil saw Roman’s eyes go wide as saucers. “My captain, my tempter, my beautiful anxious two-legged fool… do you really think so lowly of me? Are my affections all some ploy to you?”

Virgil winced, turning to face Roman fully. He expected the mer to look outraged, insulted even. What he didn’t expect was the pained pleading expression he got in return. 

“It’s not so difficult a notion.” Virgil shrugged, hiding his shame behind the lip of his mug. “You have been hunting me for ages.”

Roman let out an offended gasp. “Hunting- how barbaric a notion! Courting, I’ve been courting you, my insufferable flame.”

Virgil all but choked on his drink. 

“Or trying, at the very least.” Despite his bold words, Roman had gone rather red in the face as well. “A-and you should count yourself lucky that I continue to try! You haven’t exactly made yourself easy to woo.”

Virgil coughed down some more liquor, needing the liquid courage to get through this conversation. He coughed again, trying to regain his composure. “So- I ask again, why? Why keep ‘courting’ me-” Virgil found a sour taste on his tongue at such an outdated phrase- “if all I do is push you away? Why don’t you leave me alone?”

Roman’s tail agitated the water, a sign Virgil had learned meant the mer was feeling uncertain. It was a more common sight than the mer would ever admit. “I… surely you don’t mean that, do you?”

Virgil just raised an eyebrow, challenging him.

“I think of this as a game, I suppose, it’s true.” Roman admitted, his fingers trailing down into the water with an outstretched hand. “But I thought you were playing along. I guess a part of me always suspected that was just my wild fantasies, though.”

“Oh?” Virgil frowned.

“Why, you must think me terribly annoying.” Roman’s ear flaps flattened to his head as the mer sunk further down. “Perhaps I was the only one who… I wanted to be wanted. Is that so terrible? To imagine a smirk upon your features every time I surfaced? I know you slow the boat down when I’ve been missing, giving me the chance to catch up.”

“I do no such thing.” Virgil lied through his teeth. 

Roman sunk further, clearly too stuck in his own gloomy thoughts to catch wind of Virgil’s terrible lie. He met the captain’s gaze, looking pitifully pathetic.

“If you truly want me to go, I’ll go.” Roman spoke softly. Virgil sucked in a breath. “I won’t chase you down any longer. You’ll be free of me. Is that what you wish?”

Virgil stared at him for a very long time, gazing deep into those beautiful brown eyes. He only found sincerity in their depths. Now was his chance to get rid of this mer once and for all; if he told Roman to go, he would never see the mer again.

“...no.” Virgil sighed. “That’s not what I want.”

It was quiet for a moment, only the rippling of the waves to be heard. And then, Roman leaned over and punched Virgil in the arm.

“Ow!” Virgil looked at him aghast, surprised by Roman’s strength. “What’s that about?”

“You jerk!” Roman hissed. “You rotten fiend-”

“What happened to oh captain, my captain-?”

“How dare you play with my heart like that!” Roman’s lip went out in the most adorable pout. “You made me actually doubt for a moment, thinking I had been nothing more than a burden to you all this time, wasting my best years on someone who didn’t care.”

Virgil had been teasing at first, wanting to rile up the fish to see what happened; he never meant to make Roman truly upset. “You’re right, that was cruel of me.”

“Hmph.” Roman turned away from him. 

Virgil smirked, feeling more than a little emboldened by his booze. “Can I make it up to you with a gift?”

Roman’s ear flaps twitched, the mer sending him a glance. He gave Virgil a coy smile, poorly hiding his genuine excitement. “For moi?”

“Yup.” Virgil leaned closer, dropping his voice to a near whisper. “Virgil.” He leaned back, letting out a loud laugh at Roman’s befuddled expression. He took another swig of his drink, turning to head in for the night. “Wha- what does ‘Virgil’ mean?” Roman desperately asked.

“It’s my name, dumbass!” Virgil laughed over his shoulder. He turned back just long enough to drink in the look on Roman’s face, giving the shocked mer a hearty salute before closing his door.

The next morning, Virgil awoke with a pounding headache. He groaned, trying to stave off his hangover with some water as he headed to the deck. It didn’t help that every crew member he passed kept giving him a knowing smirk.

“Have a pleasant eve, Cap’n?” The deckhand asked, Virgil’s head tilted to take in the melody rising from the ocean. He groaned when he heard the words. 

~ Arise my sweet Virgil,the pearl of the sea~ 

~Oh Virgil, my Virgil, forever we’ll be~

All variations of his usual songs, inserting Virgil’s name in as many places as possible. Clearly Roman had enjoyed his gift, no matter how much Virgil was beginning to regret it.

“And this is why you don’t talk to sirens, lads.” Virgil shook his head, muttering under his breath and refusing to head to that side of the ship as his cheeks turned scarlet. “Feed scraps to a hound and it will follow you to the end of your days.”

“Aye, and what a pup you’ve fed.” The lookout chuckled, gazing through an eyeglass back at the mer.

[flyinghome-againstthewind]

the best by far is you: chapter 18

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Previous Chapter

For all the things my hands have held, the best by far is you -  Cecilia and the satellite

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Summary: An exploration of Claire & Jamie’s story if their firstborn had lived and they had the chance to be parents together of wee Faith Fraser before the Battle of Culloden.

Chapter 18

It was half a day’s journey from the port in Le Havre to the Abbey of Ste. Anne de Beaupré. They stayed one night in a tavern before arranging a coach to take them to the abbey. Though the impulse to head straight for Paris to Jared’s home was strong, the abbey was another consideration they couldn’t rule out ‒ and the closest location upon arriving in France.

The carriage rolled to a stop in front of the abbey and the three of them stepped out into the bright sunshine. They approached the abbey with only the faintest flicker of hope. Months on this trail had left them anxious enough not to get their hopes up too soon.

The exterior and grounds of the abbey were lovely ‒ a 12th century Romanesque structure with a large garden that was carefully tended to. Claire’s gaze was inexorably drawn to it as they walked up the path leading to the abbey.

And then she glimpsed a flash of red-gold hair in the sunshine from up ahead in the gardens.

Her breath caught in her throat as her feet refused to move any further. Absently, she registered that Murtagh and Fergus had stilled beside her, puzzled.

Ahead of them, a small red-headed toddler registered the presence of three new visitors and boldly went out to greet them.

Claire’s vision burned with tears. She won’t remember, she reminded herself. And just the same, it didn’t matter. After all those months, Faith was right there in front of her, and she didn’t care if she had her work cut out for her still in winning her child’s heart back.

Her feet moved then of their own volition, unsteady at first and then picking up the pace to close the distance. Claire dropped to her knees as gracefully as she could in her condition and pulled Faith abruptly into her arms as soon as she was within reach.

“Oh, my baby. Oh God. I’m so sorry.” The words spilled out of her in a rush and then it was like a dam breaking open. She clung to Faith and wept.

Claire had her. At last. Faith was alive and real and heavy in Claire’s lap.

She felt the girl squirming in her grasp, her little hands pushing against Claire’s chest, and reluctantly, she let her go. Fergus was at her side, she realized, and he gripped her by the elbow to try and help her to her feet. They managed, a bit awkwardly.

It was only then that she noticed who Faith was with ‒ and who Murtagh was helping ease onto a stone bench after she looked about ready to faint.

“Y-y-y-you’re dead…”

Claire’s gaze flicked over to Murtagh briefly. In all their time searching, they hadn’t given much thought to how they would explain this to Mary ‒ or anyone else who wasn’t Jamie for that matter.

“Whoa, lass!”

The sight of Mary beginning to hyperventilate snapped Claire out of her thoughts. “Easy now. You’re alright.”

She was aware of Faith trying to burrow behind Mary’s skirts, but couldn’t give that her full attention just then. Murtagh stepped aside to let Claire in next to her. “Easy now. Cup your hands together over your mouth and nose and breathe into them. There you go. Try and breathe slowly.”

Faith moved to lean against Mary’s knees, watching anxiously. Claire stifled the impulse to reach for her. God, this was all going so poorly…

“I d-don’t… understand,” Mary said between labored breaths. But she was calming down and a little color was returning to her cheeks, Claire noted.

“I can imagine it’s quite a shock, and I’m sorry for that.” She rubbed Mary’s back lightly. It helped her own nervous state to be able to focus on helping someone else. “It’s a long story, but we’ll tell you it all later. Where’s Jamie? Is he inside?”

“Oh God,” Mary uttered suddenly and she looked as though she might be sick. “Oh I wish you had been here even a day earlier.”

She felt her stomach lurch at Mary’s words and wondered if she would be sick. “What do you mean? Where is Jamie?”

Mary began to tremble. “Th-th-there was an a-accident…”

They had started towards the abbey with Mary leading them, but in their panicked haste, Claire and Murtagh quickly overtook her. Mary shouted directions at them, but it didn’t matter. Once inside, it only took one frantic request to the first monk they ran into before they were brought to Jamie’s room.

Seeing her husband bruised and bandaged, unconscious, Claire didn’t realize at first that she was physically leaning on Murtagh for support, holding tightly to his arm. It was a different time, a different abbey, and yet her mind made the connection to just after Wentworth, when she almost lost him. She felt dizzy and weak.

“What‒” Her gaze took in the leg wrapped in splints and soaked through with dried blood. Whatever had happened, his leg seemed to bear the brunt of it, though the rest of him was covered in scrapes and bruises as well.

One of the brothers had followed them in and was explaining softly in French what had happened and how Jamie was faring. In all the commotion, they attracted a few more residents of the abbey, who filtered into the small room.

She caught enough to understand Jamie had developed an infection, most likely from his leg. Her stomach roiled and her hand came to press high on her pregnant belly out of habit, though it did nothing to help.

It was then her eyes fell to a cut on the inside of his forearm, too perfectly placed and neatly cut to be a coincidence. Still, her mind rebelled against the idea. No, they couldn’t have…

“You bled him!”

Stillness descended on the room following her outburst. She finally tore her gaze away from Jamie to look at the monks for explanation, to Mary who was trembling in the back.

“ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL HIM?”

Just as quickly as the room had fallen silent, it roared back to life with voices raised and overlapping ‒ each person trying to explain or justify or placate. Above them all was Claire, unable to contain her horror. “--already weakened from the accident and trying to fight off an infection and you bled him!”

She was vaguely aware of Murtagh’s tug on her arm, but it wasn’t until he screamed for the rest of them to be quiet that she paid him any attention. Her gaze flew to him, but he wasn’t watching her. And that’s when she heard the hushed, gravely voice of her husband, straining to be heard above the noise.

She caught his fevered gaze and felt her heart tumble in her chest.

“Sassenach?”

Murtagh quietly cleared the room, though in the moment, Claire hardly noticed this kind act.

Claire’s words clogged in her throat but she moved closer to the bed and sat carefully on the edge, taking Jamie’s hand carefully in her own. His skin felt hot to the touch.

“Am I‒ I…” He struggled between labored breaths and his eyes fluttered shut but he seemed to muster the energy to force them open again and find her. “Am I dying then?”

The implication of his words hit her hard, and she shook her head vehemently, feeling silent tears spill down her cheeks. “This isn’t a hallucination. I’m real. I’m here.”

He smiled weakly, his eyes drifting shut again.

God, to find him after all this time and to find him like this…

Murtagh cleared his throat as he re-entered the room. “Ye can save him, Claire.”

It wasn’t a question, but she heard the need for reassurance.

“I’m damn well going to try,” she said as much for her own benefit as for Murtagh’s, but her voice wobbled even as she tried to sound confident. She squeezed Jamie’s hand and brought it to her lips. “I can make a poultice for his infection,” she said with a bit more authority. “And maybe a tea.”

She brushed the hair back from his forehead ‒ faded dark locks with his natural red coming in at the roots. They’d caught on that he had dyed his hair through some of the descriptions they’d heard of him along the way. He must’ve stopped worrying about it once they reached France. He looked ridiculous and she wanted to be able to tease him about it, to see the way his ears turned pink when she did and hear his laugh. Later, she told herself. Get him well.

She pushed herself to her feet and went to examine his leg. Whoever had tended to it had done well ‒ the gash across his thigh had been stitched by a steady hand, and though the wound had become infected, that might not have been avoided even under Claire’s care.

But the bloodletting…

Indignation still fizzled in her veins. He’d already lost some blood from the accident, from the looks of it. And of all the things they could’ve tried to help him once infection set in, this was the worst.

“Where are the children?” she asked suddenly.

“Mary has them.”

“Did Faith see me‒”

Scream like a lunatic at everyone within earshot?

“Nay,” Murtagh said quickly. “She wasna in the room.”

Claire nodded at that. She knew the ground she was on with Faith was shaky at best. And the last thing she wanted was to give Faith any reason to fear her.

“Madame?”

She followed the sound to its source ‒ a frail, kindly-looking monk in the doorway that Claire got the distinct impression was sent in as an intermediary. But behind him stood a stocky figure with black hair and familiar slanted eyes. Jamie’s uncle, Alexander Fraser. Though she’d heard about him, they’d never met even during her time in France two years ago.

“You must be Claire,” he said. His voice had a strange dialect that Claire knew at once to be the result of a born and bred Highlander living so many of his adult years in France. “I must admit it is a shock to meet you at last, given that Jamie told us you were dead.”

“A misunderstanding,” she supplied lamely.

“Un miracle,” said the quiet monk with a kind smile, and Claire decided that she liked him very much, even if he was sent in to placate her.

Abbot Alexander nodded to the man. “This is Brother Thomas. He can assist you with Jamie and bring you anything you need.” His eyes darkened as he added, “It was a terrible shock, what happened. We all want Jamie to be well again.”

She knew this was as close to an apology for the bloodletting as she would get. And that whoever’s call it had been would never be revealed to her. “Thank you, Abbot. I shall be very happy to have Brother Thomas’s assistance.”

  Jamie heard her voice again, and felt his whole body orient toward the sound. Softer this time. Hushed. Bleary-eyed, he looked about and found her right there within reach, though he dared not try to touch her in case doing so would somehow banish the vision of her. No matter ‒ he hardly felt strong enough to turn his head let alone lift his hand.

“Am I dying?” he asked again.

“Not if I have anything to say about that,” she shot back at him, eyes snapping up at his in challenge. He smirked at this, weakly. Even as he neared the end, this part of his soul that Claire occupied and materialized before him was just as fierce and unrelenting as the real woman.

“Do you hear me, James Fraser?” she spoke again, gripping him by the chin as he fought to stay awake. “You do not have my permission to die.”

“Aye, lass…” He couldn’t manage more than that before darkness crept in once more.

  Some time in the evening, Brother Thomas came around with supper for Claire and made her sit and eat. When he tried to encourage her to leave the room for a break and go see the others though, she resisted the idea.

After how she’d found Jamie, she sure as hell wasn’t leaving him unattended.

But at the moment, he was resting and there was nothing immediate that she could do for him ‒ and Brother Thomas swore he wouldn’t leave Jamie until she came back.

With enough prodding and reassurance, Claire left Jamie’s bedside in search of the rest of her family.

She found them in a small library and stood in the doorway watching them. Mary was sitting with them, one hand resting on her rounded belly. She still looked pale and drawn with worry, the poor thing.

And Murtagh had Faith on his knee, bouncing her slightly and talking in a low voice to her. Claire felt her throat clog with emotion, watching the two of them. She knew what that moment meant for Murtagh, having been the one to bring Faith to Culloden three months ago, to hold her again and see Faith’s family restored to her.

Claire stayed frozen in the doorway, a voyeur to this moment, never fully part of it. She had a visceral desire to walk right over to Murtagh and pluck Faith from his lap, to hold her close in her own arms again ‒ oh god, even to look at her and know she was real ‒ and yet that desire was overpowered by one thought that kept Claire in check. That whisper of doubt in her ear telling her that she’d already screwed up. She’d startled Faith out in the gardens and now what did the girl think of her?

She felt the baby kick and her hand went automatically to the spot. Hadn’t been that long ago that Faith was just a little nudge felt from within and now they were nearly strangers to each other.

Fergus noticed her first and raced to her side. “How is Milord?” he asked in a whisper, and she realized her hesitation to join them had come off as being the bearer of bad news.

“He’s alright.” She pulled him to her side and gave him a squeeze. “He’s still fighting.”

“Can I see him?”

She drew in a steep breath, choosing her words carefully. “Well, he’s resting right now, darling. Maybe tomorrow, alright?”

He gave her a half-hearted smile, but she knew she had crushed him. Of course he wanted to see Jamie, but if… if he saw him while he was fevered and weak, heard Jamie’s talk of dying… no, she didn’t want that for Fergus.

He slipped away from her and went to join the others. Claire watched as he bent down to talk to Faith and then as she jumped down from Murtagh’s knee to take Fergus’s hand. Claire’s hand came up to press just below her collarbone where it felt like her heart was splitting open at the seams. To see them together again and slipping easily back into a rapport with each other, as children often did without much difficulty… Her children ‒ Hers and Jamie’s ‒ together again.

The ache was still there for the time that was lost with Faith, the guilt over any unintended pain she’d caused her wee girl. But there was something tender and hopeful in knowing she’d returned Murtagh and Fergus to Faith’s life. They both loved her so, and Faith would know that soon enough. Claire held both things, the hurt and the hope, as she watched Fergus and Faith.

Murtagh saw her then, still standing in the doorway. “Come sit down,” he called out.

She pushed away from the doorway and went in.

  It was later in the night when Murtagh came to check on her and Jamie. With Brother Thomas’s help, she’d made a poultice for Jamie’s leg and also managed a few times to get Jamie to drink some tea for his fever and pain. He slept fitfully, tossing and turning, and the fever hadn’t broken. Every time he spoke to her, it never felt like she was speaking to the real Jamie.

“Take another break,” Murtagh insisted gruffly. “I’m no’ sure all this pacing is good for the bairn.”

Her hand smoothed over the bump. She’d forgotten how everyone treated her as though she was made of glass as soon as the baby was visible. “Baby’s fine. I’m fine.”

Murtagh pulled a face at that and grunted, which she ignored.

“Ye’ve hardly gone near the lass since we’ve been here.” He said this bluntly, and Claire blinked quickly against the burn of oncoming tears. She’d hoped no one had noticed. “She’s awake still, wi’ Mary. Go an’ put the lass tae bed, Claire. I’ll sit wi’ Jamie.”

She chewed the inside of her lip, considering. With Jamie, she knew how to care for him ‒ a little too well, the damn fool. But Faith…

“And if anyone tries tae bleed him, it’ll be the last thing they ever do.”

She chuckled softly at this and her heart swelled with affection for the old grump that loved them all better than they deserved. “Thank you, Murtagh.”

He grunted and dropped into the chair at Jamie’s bedside.

“And where’s Fergus?”

“They gave him a room and he’s gone tae bed.”

“Thank you,” she said again, patting his shoulder as she moved past him, “for everything today. I didn’t expect… well, it’s been a shock, with Jamie. I couldn’t have managed without you.”

Without looking at her, he reached up and squeezed her hand where it rested on his shoulder. “Get some rest, a nighean.”

“I won’t be able to sleep. I’ll be back in an hour or two.”

“Alright,” Murtagh said with a resigned sigh. “Go and see Faith then and dinna hurry back. I’ll find ye if anything happens.”

She slipped quietly out into the hall and turned a corner leading to more sleeping quarters. She knew where Mary’s room was, but she went first in search of Fergus. He was still awake when she found him.

“Your own room, hmm?” She sat on the other small bed across from his, looking about the room. “Haven’t had that luxury in a while.”

Fergus’s mouth twitched slightly, like he was trying not to smile. “If you’re scared, just say so and you can stay in here, Milady. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

She grabbed the pillow on the spare bed and flung it at his head, relishing the sound of his laugh as he ducked and covered his head. Cheeky little arse…

But when his head poked back up, the moment of teasing had passed. She stood and dropped a kiss to the top of his head. “Just wanted to see you before you went to sleep. Have sweet dreams, love.”

“Goodnight, Milady.”

He caught her hand as she was turning away, and gave it a tight squeeze.

“I love you, my boy,” she murmured.

“I know. je t'aime aussi.”

Mary’s door was open and there they were by the fireplace, Mary sitting in one chair and Faith leaning against the other one. She had something small in her hand, some kind of toy, and alternated between moving it along the seat of the chair and turning to talk to Mary.

Faith glanced up and noticed her. Claire forced a smile and took that opportunity to enter the room.

“Claire! Oh, come sit. Here, Faith, let’s make room.”

Faith shuffled backwards until she bumped into Mary’s knees, staring curiously up at Claire as she took the other seat.

Mary asked about Jamie and she gave her the same update she’d given Murtagh and Fergus and any one of the monks who had poked their head into Jamie’s room to ask about him.

“I am sorry for startling you earlier,” Claire added. “I hope it wasn’t… well, I hope you’re feeling alright now.”

Mary exhaled a smile. “You’re actually the second person I’ve thought was dead to show up out of the blue, and both of those instances happened in the last few months…” Mary shook her head at that, and Claire realized with sinking dread that it had been Jack Randall she referred to. She’d all but forgotten… but no, she could see now that Mary didn’t want to discuss that. “Come to that, both times the message came from Jamie that you and‒ and‒”

“It was a terrible misunderstanding,” she said quickly. Firmly. “Jamie had no idea I was… alive.” Still had no idea, really.

Claire took a deep breath, unsure what Jamie might’ve told Mary already. “We knew that we couldn’t win. We knew if we fought the Redcoats in our current state, there was no way the Jacobites would be victorious. So we had Murtagh bring Faith to us and we were going to run. But there was… some confusion on that day. It was chaotic and we were desperate to get out of there. But I got separated from Jamie and Faith. And I think Jamie thought I was taken by the Redcoats and killed. He didn’t lie to you intentionally. He just didn’t know the truth.”

Mary’s gaze drifted towards the fire, still shaking her head slightly, though Claire got the impression it was more to do with the improbability of all that had occurred than any sort of ill feelings. And Claire didn’t blame her one bit.

“I’m glad you’re alright,” Mary added shyly. “And that you’re here.” Her hand dropped gently to Faith’s head, stroking her soft red curls in a familiar way. Her gaze flew to Claire suddenly, eyes wide. “Oh I’m so stupid! You’re here for Faith! Of course you are. And here I am chattering away with you.”

“No, no it’s alright,” Claire said swiftly. She had come here for Faith, but… “I did want the chance to speak with you, too. To explain.”

Mary breathed a sigh of relief but she still smiled politely and moved to stand. “She’s slept in here since the accident. You’re welcome to stay in here as well. But I’ll‒ well, I’ll make myself scarce for a bit. Give you two some time together.”

She moved a bit slowly, her much smaller frame balancing a larger belly than Claire, but Mary extricated herself from the room as swiftly as possible, closing the door behind her.

And then it was only Claire and Faith.

With the sound of the door closing, Faith seemed to realize then that no one she knew was with her. Just Claire. Just this odd woman who had wept hysterically at the sight of her earlier today. Claire had already been preparing herself for this ‒ No more tears. Not from herself, at least. She wouldn’t scare Faith again.

Faith stood stock still by the chair Mary had vacated, no longer wide-eyed with curiosity. Instead, she seemed to search the room for something familiar. She made a beeline for the door, which she wasn’t tall enough to open.

“Lovey, it’s alright…” Claire moved to her feet, but hesitated to take a step further. But when she stood, she drew Faith’s gaze and felt something wrench in her chest. The panic in the tiny girl was palpable. “I know you’re frightened and you don’t remember me, but I’m‒”

Faith’s expression pinched with worry and she breathed in deep, and it made Claire pause.

“Want my da,” Faith croaked in her little voice, and then her face scrunched up and she began to howl.

Claire moved in an instant to scoop the girl up. She held Faith close while she cried, the small girl’s body resting above the swell of the baby.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered so quietly that she knew Faith couldn’t hear it over her own wailing. “I’m so sorry. I’ll never leave you again. I promise.” She slowly paced the small room and rubbed circles on Faith’s back, just as she used to when Faith was a baby.

Faith’s howling didn’t let up, that stubborn streak making itself known. But the longer it went on, Faith crying in her arms and allowing Claire to comfort her, the less her tiny girl felt like a stranger to Claire. How many nights in Faith’s life had been spent just like this?

And eventually, her cries became more of a whimper and then ceased altogether.

Her head popped up from Claire’s shoulder with a red face still streaked with tears and her brows still creased together. “Want da,” she tried again, her lips forming a pout.

Claire’s fingers caressed the sweet face, wiping at the tears. It broke her heart that she couldn’t just bring her to him. “He’s still here, but he’s sleeping. You’ll see him as soon as he’s better, I promise.”

“No,” Faith whined half-heartedly. Claire swayed in place with Faith and watched her yawn and then shiver slightly and burrow into Claire’s warmth.

“Shall we sit by the fire?”

“Aye.” Faith murmured, succumbing to another yawn.

“Here,” Claire grabbed a woolen shawl and draped around them both, and sat in one of the chairs by the fire. Faith sat up straight once she was in Claire’s lap, glancing about again. Her gaze turned back to Claire.

“Wha’s yer name?” Faith asked in her sweet little voice. Her head cocked to the side in a familiar way and Claire felt the sting of tears but blinked them away swiftly.

“I’m your mama,” Claire said, feeling her heart clench at saying those words. She delicately traced the sweet face that she longed to smother with kisses, wiping at the last of Faith’s tears and brushing curls off her sweaty forehead. Faith’s brows furrowed together again and Claire wondered what she made of that, what she could understand of the word at the tender age of two.

“My mam?”

Claire made a slight sound, caught between a laugh and a cry. “Yes. Yours. I carried you inside me for several months while you grew. And when you were born, I held you close and I couldn’t believe that you were mine. My baby.”

“Baby.” Faith pointed to her rounded belly and Claire exhaled a soft, surprised laugh at this.

“Well, yes, there is one in there, but I meant you. You were a baby in my belly once, too.” She brushed Faith’s curls back out of her face again and cupped the back of her head to pull her forward, meeting no resistance from the girl. Faith’s head rested on her mother’s chest, a little awkwardly draped over the baby bump. Claire sighed. She was already running out of room in her lap and a desperate feeling gripped her, that she needed to rebuild her relationship with Faith before the next one arrived. “I would hold you here and let you hear my heartbeat as a newborn baby, the same sound you heard from within when I carried you. And you knew who I was from that sound.” Faith stayed quiet and relaxed under Claire’s hands as they cradled her head and slowly rubbed her back. “My baby.”

She wasn’t sure at what point Faith drifted off to sleep, but she stayed in that chair with her girl curled up on her chest much longer than she needed to. She felt Faith’s exhales of breath caressing her skin once more, no longer the quick little puffs from when she was first born, but deeper now. This was how they had started out, the two of them, and this was how they were finding their way back. Claire’s arms went about Faith’s still form, anchoring her there, and she pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, lingering there to breathe her in and know she was real. The tears did come then, spilling fast down her face. She shook slightly with choked-back sobs but didn’t make a sound.

Barely three months ago, Claire had been in 1948 with Frank. It seemed like another lifetime ago ‒ and Culloden with Jamie and Faith, another lifetime before that. She’d searched for months and now that she had this girl back in her arms again, she’d never let her go.

“Faith Elizabeth Janet Beauchamp Fraser,” she addressed her sleeping child slowly, pronouncing each name distinctly as Jamie had done with his own name when he first told her. “I don’t know what your future holds, but I promise to do everything in my power to see you living a long and happy life. And I know you don’t know me anymore, but you will. You’ll always have me from this moment on. I traveled 200 years just to find you… I’m not likely to let anything else stand in the way. And you won’t ever lose me.” Her lower lip trembled and a few rogue tears spilled onto Faith’s head. “You and me, Faith,” Claire rasped, resting her cheek on top of Faith’s head. “We’ll be alright. I’m here. I love you.”

She didn’t want to move for fear of waking Faith ‒ and in doing so, of ruining the moment of being able to hold her baby to her chest ‒ but she couldn’t stay there all night. She needed to check in on Jamie.

So she stood slowly, carefully, and readjusted Faith to rest her head high up on Claire’s shoulder. The girl breathed in sharply during the move, but turned her head into Claire’s neck and let out a sleepy sigh, settling back in.

Faith’s bottom rested just above the swell of the baby, which was almost protruding far enough to sit Faith on top of it, but not quite. “I really will have my hands full in a few months, won’t I?”

Claire sauntered quietly down the hall with Faith and turned into Jamie’s room to find not only Murtagh where she had left him, but Fergus, who had joined him too.

He must’ve snuck in as soon as she went to see Faith, since he was already sound asleep in a chair near the foot of the bed. Murtagh caught her eye as she entered and merely shrugged. “Didna see any harm in letting him stay. Jamie’s been out since ye left.”

“It’s alright.”

She reached over and brushed Fergus’s curls back from his forehead before shifting Faith’s weight higher in her arms. Despite wanting to keep the children from seeing Jamie in a distressing state, she felt strengthened by their presence and by Murtagh’s. They were whole, finally. And as long as Jamie stayed strong, they would remain so.

“Jamie?”

Claire’s voice called to him, and he whined. What punishment was this? He had fought so hard these last few months to give Faith the best life he could, to accept his future as just a father but no longer a husband. And while he was torn between fighting to stay for Faith or give in and be at peace... be with Claire… it felt as though the spirit of Claire was urging him to stay put. Stay with Faith.

“Jamie, don’t give up on me.” Her voice was pinched with worry. “Not now that I’ve got you back.”

But he didn’t know that he was strong enough to keep fighting.

Oh, lass, dinna be pained on my account, he wanted to say, i’ll be wi’ ye soon. But no words came out.

  The gardens provided an escape during the day as well as allowing for Fergus and Faith to run off some of their energy. Even though she’d been slow to walk at first for her age, Faith was quite steady on her feet now and Fergus made a game of chase with her, running at a slow pace to keep her after him. Every now and then, he’d slow down enough to let her catch him and flop dramatically onto the grass, which never failed to make Faith burst into laughter.

It was a short-lived escape from their worry, and inevitably for Claire, something would happen between Fergus and Faith that made her wish Jamie were present to witness it. They’d already lost so much time…

“Want my da!” Faith declared as she sped ahead to Jamie’s room before anyone could stop her. Claire huffed and picked up her pace as best she could.

“See? Da’s sleeping. We have to be quiet.”

Faith stood beside the bed, and her tiny frame shook. She was close to tears, Claire could tell. Nothing about the situation made sense to Faith, and she didn’t need to verbalize her distress for everyone else to know it was deeply upsetting to not have Jamie awake and alert.

“How about some cuddles for Da? You have to be careful of his leg but you can go up here by his shoulder and cuddle with him, if you want.”

It was nearing Faith’s nap time anyway, from what Mary had said. Faith didn’t need further invitation and started to scramble up the side of the bed.

“Easy, love,” Claire laughed, jumping in to help situate Faith to the other side of the bed where there was more room. She moved Jamie’s arm away from his body, creating space for Faith to curl against his side. “There we go. Rest your eyes, sweet girl.”

Jamie muttered softly and shifted in his sleep. Claire reached over and felt his forehead. He was sweaty and didn’t feel too terribly warm, which was promising. Claire tried to keep her hope tempered.

“Fergus, do you know where they keep the herbs for making tea? Could you run and grab me some more?”

Fergus shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I do not know, Milady,” he said regretfully. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright.”

She sighed. Brother Thomas wasn’t around and neither was Mary, but she wanted to make Jamie a fresh cup of tea and see if he would drink some of it the next time he roused.

Faith was still knocked out against Jamie’s shoulder and it was only Claire and Fergus awake in the room. “Come with me. I’ll show you so you know for next time. It won’t take long.”

  Jamie opened his eyes and felt like he was waking for the first time after a very strange dream. Tired and still weak, but his head felt clear. No more chills or aches through his whole body. No, just a dull pain in his thigh when he twitched his leg. He felt too warm and tried to kick his uninjured leg free from the blankets.

The fever was gone and he let out a sigh that was only partly relief. If the fever had left him… then so had Claire.

He became slowly aware of a small, warm weight on his right shoulder and looked to see a head full of wispy, red curls that could only belong to Faith. His arm tightened around her as best as he could and he turned to press a kiss to the crown of her head. “Deo gratias…” He whispered hoarsely into her hair, holding the only remaining testament that he had of his and Claire’s love. I’m sae sorry I almost left ye, a nighean...

She slumbered on, undisturbed by this even as Jamie’s hand came to rest on her head in supplication and he offered up a plea for this child’s safety and a humble request that if he should have to live the rest of his years on this earth without his wife, that he might still live to see this child of theirs grow up…

“Oh thank god!”

He stiffened at the sound of his wife’s voice, knowing it meant he was not as well as he thought, if he was still hearing her. But even as he wouldn’t turn his head to look towards her voice, he was aware that he and Faith were not alone. Out of the corner of his eye, a figure filled the entryway and in his peripheral vision, his sight told him it was Claire. But his head knew better. It wasn’t her. It couldn’t be her.

Then she drew near and her hands framed his face. His eyelids slammed shut in disbelief, pushing tears down his cheeks. “Thank god!” she said again in a tight whisper.

“Claire?” His voice came out ragged. Her hands gently held his face and turned him towards her. His eyes fluttered open and there she was, smiling down at him through her own tears. He breathed in sharply and could only stare because she would always be the most beautiful sight to his eyes ‒ And a sight he thought he would never see again. “How‒”

She leaned down and kissed him, tentatively at first but feeling him respond, she let the kiss unfold, lingering for what seemed like a blissful eternity until she pulled away, leaving them both panting softly. He reached up and touched her, tracing the outline of her face.

She was trembling terribly, almost on the verge of crying, as her eyes slid shut at his touch, and she let out a shuddering sigh. “I thought you were going to die on me.”

His heart felt as though it were trying to march right through his ribcage, it was hammering so fiercely. “I thought… I thought you were a dream. I canna believe ye’re real.”

He shook his head then as the truth set in. “Ye came all the way to France?” He was aghast, still shaken by the very presence of her. She smiled through a fresh wave of tears.

“I came two hundred years and all the way to France,” her hand reached tentatively for Faith, hovering just above the girl’s head before gently making contact, “Just to find you two.”

There was a soft scuffle of feet and Claire glanced over her shoulder, smiling brilliantly. “And I didn’t come alone, Jamie.”

“Milord!”

He’d hardly processed her words before Fergus was there, flinging himself haphazardly at Jamie. Fergus’s head buried itself in Jamie’s chest, and Jamie clutched him close, feeling a sudden, sharp sob tear from his throat. Oh God, his son.

His vision clouded over, but not before he’d noticed his godfather standing in the doorway. One arm tightened around Faith while the other held Fergus to him, and his resolve not to openly weep like a baby finally crumbled.

He had believed for so long now that his family as he once knew it was lost for good… and to have them returned to him in one instant, he felt a brief flicker of doubt. That this was nothing more than a fevered dream, to have everything his heart desired.

But he could feel the weight still of Faith leaning on his shoulder, awake now and sitting up from the sudden bursts of noise around her. He could feel where Fergus held a fistful of his shirt in a clenched fist, refusing to let go, and where the boy's tears were soaking through the fabric to Jamie’s chest. And he could feel Claire’s delicate hand brushing his hair back from his face, the softest touch but unmistakably real, before she framed his face again and kissed him, first on his lips and then peppering soft kisses across his face like she needed to cover every inch of him with her love.

And it was everything and all too much.

His family was here. And they were real. Deo gratias.

[comrade-meow]

Spell-caster's notebook, 2nd half of the 19th century - 1st quarter of the 20th century, Haute-Saône. Photo credit: Musées départementaux de la Haute-Saône

“When total war is being waged with words, one must make up one’s mind to engage in another kind of ethnography.”

—Jeanne Favret-Saada, Deadly Words: Witchcraft in the Bocage (1977)

One of the best studies of the power of language and its relationship to violence is Jeanne Favret-Saada’s Deadly Words: Witchcraft in the Bocage (1977). In this groundbreaking ethnography, Favret-Saada discusses how witchcraft employs language to gain power and catch the subject within a web of words. For Favret-Saada, the ethnographer is the unwitcher who lets herself become entangled within a network of power in which words create spells. She calls this being “caught.” For “those who haven't been caught” spells simply “don’t exist” (15).

Similar to Favret-Saada’s work on witchcraft in France, today’s cultural-political economy is immersed in another politicisation of language. This time the catching of subjects, government and institutions is happening in the public sphere under the guise of linguistically codifying identity. All this necessarily relies upon a previous “bewitching” of subjects who are willing to recycle the language of the magical spells despite the absence of evidence.

In witchcraft, language becomes the contested space that Favret-Saada rightfully notes as having taken hostage the very premise of communication, writing, “[I]t is no longer truth or error that is in question, but the possibility of communicating.” Addressing those who have been caught within the spell of language—the bewitched and the suffering—Favret-Saada asks:

In what way are the bewitched right when they say they are suffering? And the unwitchers, when they say they “take it all” on themselves? (And what of the alleged witches, who remain obstinately silent, or claim they do not believe in spells?) What, then, is at stake when such a discourse is being used? These questions led to other, more fundamental ones, about the effect of spoken words and the very rationale of this discourse: why is talking in this way so like the most effective kind of act? How do words kill as surely as a bullet? Why do people talk rather than fight or die, why do they use precisely these terms? And why this kind of language rather than another? If one talks in terms of witchcraft, it must be that the same things cannot be said any other way. (13)

Although Favret-Saada asks these questions about rural Normandy of the 1970s and the role of the ethnographer in studying her own culture, we can easily expand upon Favret-Saada’s premise here. For as she posits in the Bocage that one need not believe in sorcery, there is an accounting that takes place by virtue of the group’s symbolic code where “you have to be caught to believe” and where those who haven’t been “caught” have no place speaking about spells. Favret-Saada poses this question to herself: “What ultimate authority could I invoke, in talking about spells to a bewitched person or an unwitcher?” Does being an insider lend to the currency of language and belief such that any interaction with an outsider necessarily invokes a turf war over space, bodies and language?

For Favret-Saada, words do not merely represent or communicate beliefs—they have noticeable effects on the vitality and well-being of both the bewitched and the dewitcher. Where her work examines how words “kill” and “heal,” today we are in the throes of a culture war where the claim—contrary to fact—of words causing death, of words being “literal violence” are now thrust to the fore. Indeed, words are laden with such potential for “violence” today that many think twice before speaking or writing. The mere accusation of violence has become the negative reinforcement of a movement that has been allowed to make up facts, statistics and now even the very non-reality of violence.

If we are to move forward through the current debates over gender, race, and various other orbiting identities whose moral framework rests almost uniquely upon claims of victimhood, often in direct opposition to material fact, we must return to some of the primal tenets of reason posed during the Enlightenment. We are in the throes of a society caught within a hall of mirrors—many of which are firmly and uniquely fixed within the virtual world of social media—where the narcissistic output is unparalleled even by a three-year-old having a strop on the playground. Where words are “violence” and opinions akin to “murder,” we are witnessing the conflicts created when a direct antagonism between perceived identity and material reality is met on the social stage.

In order to understand what is driving this culture of identifying with oppression—often feigning oppression—our task must be to address those who claim to be suffering. While the subjects caught in the spell of words have been at the centre of media and political attention in recent years, these communities rely upon the language “witchcraft” to divorce themselves even further from ontological and empirical reality while surrendering themselves to a language that holds no resemblance to the material world. There is something to be said for the punishing efforts of these lobbies which seek to project phobias and other -isms into any thoughtful debate or prose on issues of “race” and gender.

Favret-Saada noted that those who resist the language of sorcery will be made to suffer. Today, we must ask ourselves if those fighting for the recognition of their identities even if the older remedies of psychiatry or religion have failed:

The priest and the doctor have faded out long ago when the unwitcher is called. The unwitcher’s task is first to authenticate his patient’s sufferings and his feeling of being threatened in the flesh; second, it is to locate, by close examination, the patient’s vulnerable spots. It is as if his own body and those of his family, his land and all his possessions make up a single surface full of holes, through which the witch’s violence might break in at any moment. (8)

This study considers how the aporia left by the fading grip of religion and medicine has been filled by outside forces coming to confirm the subject: the suffering subject. Having worked with those who were caught up in a spell, the dewitchers and the wives and families affected by witchcraft, Favret-Saada notes how suffering forms the core of how witchcraft is exercised in this community and she explores the reasons for this suffering.

Today, suffering is undergoing a cultural redefinition in the west through the recycling of historical tropes of violence and oppression injected throughout identity politics. Unlike the distant witchcraft of Favret-Saada's fieldwork, historical atrocities cannot simply be cut and paste into a present-day reality in order to rejuvenate a fresh violent act of suffering through which the subject identifies. Where Favret-Saada shows how working with the bewitched and their unwitchers implicates the constant manoeuvring of “good and evil," she claims that all unwitching "is impossible to cure without switching to a position of indirect violence.” Violence is a discursive marker for Favret-Saada where "he who does not attack automatically becomes the victim."

To understand the political forces that revive discourses of racism and sexism today by those claiming victimhood, we must ask those suffering why they suffer. Then, we must also ask why the spell involves converting others to their ideology so that the subject might suffer less. The symptom of suffering that we see by those claiming to have a gender identity, for instance, is inextricably linked to their need for others to mirror their self-image through language. This is similar to what Favret-Saada claims about dewitching, “a technique that neutralizes and exteriorizes venomous self-doubt." There are clear ideological manoeuvres meant to inscribe healing through fiat.

We need to understand how people weaponise emotionally-laden discourse today. The public shaming of those who do not confirm the suffering or pronouns of another seems to be part of a larger network of “sorcery” where the current structural functioning of our society rewards those individuals who engage in the aforementioned language games while punishing those who refuse.

Favret-Saada’s identification of power as the primary element in the effectiveness of ritual forms is a crucial contribution to our understanding of such rituals. Still, we can see the pitfalls of reducing the language of witchcraft to a tidy binary of the subject who suffers and the dewitcher who does violence. Where “the sufferer can choose to interpret his ills in the language of witchcraft,” it is also the case that those who do not claim to suffer are deemed de facto oppressors.

Where oppression is a historical and current-day fact, the truly oppressed subject is mostly not heard. What time has the underpaid or economically destitute worker to chime in on Twitter or to write her local politician? We are captured within a political field where segments of the population use words like “literal violence” to refer to another group whose push back on their notion of oppression. Those who use the stage of oppression in order to be heard are as numerous as is their narcissism expansive. When the media prints that something is “oppression” or “murder” today, we can pretty much bet that what is being communicated is invariably the opposite. In a world where narratives of oppression have taken hold of democratic processes with fury and where the mere claim to victimhood is tantamount to fact, we must concede that we are living in a post-truth era.

Emotions are given enormous weight over facts in media today and all it takes for one to be considered oppressed is to use the “magical spell” of language. The only way out of this chasm between truth and narcissism is to revert to the institutions of science, philosophy, journalism and law. Let us not forget that long before smartphones it was possible—even pleasant—to have heated discussions over a meal with friends and strangers, everyone chiming in with their thoughts and disagreement.

We must reject illogical, illiberal hokum being fed us as the "new progressive" language of the day and instead we should return to the table of dinnertime debate where facts outweigh feelings and where individuals are held accountable for good-faith debate. I have often wondered if the current popular authoritarianism would have ever taken hold without the cloaked anonymity that social media affords. Still, I am quite certain that the current stifling of free speech, academic debate and the media's drive of anti-science narratives are all directly linked to the fact that politicians are not held to account for their performances that have zero political vaue. From AOC's sporting her "tax the rich" dress at the Met Gala for which attendees paid £25789 to attend to David Lammy who claims that males have cervixes, the left is in dire straits with a political class of professional liars who use words to bewitch us all.

I suspect that were the online debate moved to the salon or dining room, we would all be able to see the ruffian sulking silently in the corner, angrily seething because his arguments were unconvincing. His fist banging on the table evidence his every iteration as less rational and credible than the one before. As he struggles to bully all those in disagreement around him, his turbulent behaviour reveals him to be fundamentally an irritable prig who harbours deep-seated misogyny and homophobia.

Real-life interactions are part of the remedy to the addiction-addled cycles of social media use. We cannot replace the vacuum left by religion's demise with political or ideological orthodoxy any more than we can unwitch the possessed who identify with their fictional oppressions.

One of the options we have at our disposal is to unplug and go outside. I’m heading there now. Come join me.

[theres-no-protocol-for-this]

ART

The last chapter of the story. After this would be Confidential Information, which I realize doesn’t 100% fit anymore, but I did my best.

My computational power is astounding; my human crew and the researches back at the university have barely scratched the surface of what I can do. I know who is responsible for taking my friend, and I will make them pay.

Several things happen simultaneously, which would be confusing for a human but is completely normal for me. We enter the wormhole, and Kaede sends over the data files she managed to download before we left the repair facility station. Everyone looks through them, me included, while I navigate us to the closest exit.

I get to the good parts first. “They” are the SecUnit’s manufacturing company, and they have been tracking it for some time. So, it’s our fault that they have it. We exposed too much information when we made a seemingly innocent request for repairs.

The company wanted to study a rogue construct in a controlled environment, and now they have SecUnit. And it can’t give them what they want.

Not for long because now we have a plan, and ours is better.

Humans and constructs secrete chemical that make them afraid. I don’t. But despite that, I know what terror looks like, and for me it comes with permutations, with possibilities and probabilities. A hundred simulated scenarios play themselves out in my processors, and they all begin with a simple premise.

SecUnit belongs with my crew and with its clients on Preservation and else where. The company (and I refuse to call it anything else because SecUnit wouldn’t approve) will pay for this. The only question is how quickly.

I falsify all kinds of data while my humans reprogram a few of my repair drones into malicious little monsters that will attack the feed. I also calculate fuel consumption, remind my crew to eat and sleep, and look through navigational charts to determine the fastest means of reaching our next destination.

By the time we return to transit space, nearly a hundred hours have passed. From the bridge, Seth speaks up. “Are you ready?”

Always, I reply.

I’m angry at the ones responsible. SecUnit would call this kind of anger cold — but then again, it taught me about anger in the first place. It shared its experiences and reactions with me. And right now, I’m thankful for these feelings because they make everything so simple. The university will balk when we visit next; this is probably not what they intended when they started the AI program.

Our engines have been calibrated. Everyone should strap in when we get close.

“We get one shot at this,” Martin reminds the rest of the crew, most of whom are seated in the crew lounge and eating dinner.

We’re in transit for just over twenty hours. My humans sleep, and discuss, and worry. I calculate.

Three. Two. One. Zero.

We exit the wormhole back in the same system we left 121 hours ago. The company’s warship isn’t here anymore, but why would it be? It chased us away, and it had no reason to stay behind after that. But they will call for it again once they realize we’re back, so our time is limited.

Right now, they don’t know we’re here because I’ve made sure of that. As far as the station is concerned, we’re a completely different ship, one with a contract in the sector that has nothing to do with the company. I didn’t know if I could spoof my signature well enough to pass. Now, I know.

When no alarms go off, I take the next step and request permission to dock.

Human-centric systems run mindbogglingly slow, so it takes a while for them to answer. As soon as the station’s feed becomes available, I hack into the repair facility’s HubSystem. Against me, it stands no chance now that it’s not on high alert, and I don’t give it time to change its mind. SecUnit would be gentle — I am not.

“Remember our mission,” Martyn reminds me. “We rescue SecUnit and get out. That’s all.”

If they have harmed SecUnit, I will not hesitate to deploy pathfinders to make sure they never get a chance to try again.

Martyn chuckles as if I’m joking. I’m not.

Next up, a little subterfuge on the part of the humans. We dock, I shake hands with Port Authority, and my crew heads out into the station. I scour the feed and begin working through the repair facility’s other systems — one at a time — until they all think I’m the one giving orders. I catch whispers of systems that I can’t reach, the ones we wanted to infiltrate, but I don’t care at the moment.

I’m also monitoring my crew’s vital signs as they setup the modified drones in several inconspicuous places near the facility. We are going to need them for the next step. And, I’m listening to comms traffic in case anyone notices that we’re not who we say we are.

Station security has rescinded all of the alerts associated with me. They really don’t expect us here. They don’t see SecUnit as a person and so don’t expect anyone to mount a rescue. It’s time to demonstrate the error in their thinking. Seth and Martyn helped me see my errors when Iris and I were young. This will not be the same.

Then I find SecUnit, and…

If I had a heart, it would be breaking right now.

It’s along in a tiny cubicle, immobilized and rendered silent, aware but not entirely away. The humans have restrained it not only with its governor but also chemical means. Its file is within easy reach, and inside I find cycles of pain and fear unlike anything I have ever witnessed, recorded in minute detail for further study. It has survived, and perhaps that will be have to be enough.

It still has my transmitter, which the company never found. They have hurt my friend, many times, and now my anger is no longer cold and distant. I will make them hurt, starting with Maxime Deneault, who authorized the procedures and signed off on the pain. And then on up.

But first, I reconnect my friend to the feed. SecUnit? I ping its hardware address.

ART? It sounds hesitant, disbelieving.

I’m so elated I play the opening theme to Sanctuary Moon.

Asshole. It sounds relieved. Fucking hell, ART.

Its governor tries to punish it for the unprofessional attitude. SecUnit stiffens from the pain but can’t move enough to relieve any of the discomfort.

I’m getting you out of there. We have a diversion ready as soon as you’re up and moving.

Wait, it tells me. You need those files, right? Seth does, to implicate the colony leaders? Get them.

I’m here for you, idiot.

I know that. But this way, it won’t all be a waste. Ten minutes aren’t going to change the outcome.

A technician walks into SecUnit’s prison of a cubicle and tells it to follow him. They head down a hall into a research lab. I watch through the cameras and make plans, examine schematics.

No, I say.

SecUnit sends me some sigil equivalent of a middle finger, and the governor doesn’t like that, either. At least its attitude hasn’t changed. I don’t know if it has all of its memories, but it appears to have enough. Do what you came to do. And then, get me the hell out of here.

I want to argue, but I can’t say no to SecUnit.

Oh, and I’ll need help to make sure the tech doesn’t realize you’re here.

Don’t worry about it, I tell it just as I find those air-gapped and entirely feed-disconnected servers.

I’m also ruining the life of one Maxime and scrambling all the databases I can get my hands on that won’t set off alarms. I won’t risk SecUnit’s safety, not now, but I make a list of other names. Meanwhile, the technician tests SecUnit’s governor and I panic. Flat out panic. I am about ready to zap the asshole, but SecUnit tells me it will be fine. That this isn’t the worst it’s lived through.

I will make sure it will never live through anything worse again. And if that means wiping the company from existence, well that’s a small price to pay.

The end.

[mopeytropey]

skip the beer, pour the whiskey 

a beer buds series: chapter 7 (or as @orangeyouglad8 and I have coined it: The Separation)

Available on AO3 at the link above or below the cut: 

Timeline: The Separation -- this falls within the span of time during which Clarke and Lexa were not speaking as they dealt with the fallout of having crossed a major boundary in their friendship (chapter 5 of 'apu'). Lexa has the sads and Lincoln, as always, is lovely.

Beer: glass of bourbon on the rocks  ::: Lexa is awash in contradictions.

She tends to find indecisiveness in others frustrating; recognizing the trait in herself is intolerable.

She has suffered this recent truth about herself for months—feeling inept at choosing a path and toeing a line between a dual existence.

Loyalty. Truth. Stay. Leave. Costia. Clarke.

In the absence of Clarke, she is further paralyzed. Lexa has spent the better part of November wallowing in the consequences of her inaction. Obstinate loyalty has caused her to lose Clarke, leaving her tethered to Costia by her own hand.

In a cruel twist, Costia spends more time at home, worrying over Lexa’s wellbeing while her students prepare for their finals during the early weeks of December. The extra care and concern, brief hugs and soft looks, only makes Lexa feel worse.

She’s agreed to Lincoln cooking her another meal, in a moment of weakness, and each step she takes towards his apartment is heavy with regret. She doesn’t wish to see friendly, familiar faces. She doesn’t deserve their kindness. Not even the prospect of time spent in Lincoln’s company has sounded appealing in the last month. Lexa has been hermitting away for weeks—mourning the loss of Clarke’s friendship and throwing herself a spectacular pity party.

At first, it was merely Clarke’s shift in tone. She had turned stringent, detached, employing the professional air of a work colleague. Her responses to Lexa’s texts lost all their effusive flair, cooling by degrees until they ended entirely. The message was clear: Lexa had said too much, showed her hand, and scared Clarke away.

“Hey.” Lincoln answers the door with a meager smile. Not the bright beam of light that he so often wears in Lexa’s presence but something kind and cautious.

“Hi.”

They engage in a brief, one-arm hug as Lexa crosses the threshold into Lincoln’s warm and fragrant apartment. She holds a peppermint tea in one hand, having stopped for something to keep her warm on her walk. She’s started frequenting a coffee shop closer to her apartment, not purely for convenience but by intention. Avoiding the more familiar shop by the water feels like adhering to some silent set of boundaries that Clarke has put in place.

“It smells good in here,” she tells Lincoln while slipping out of her shoes by the door and setting down her tea to remove her coat and hat.

“Pot roast and potatoes.”

Comfort food.

Lexa finds her smile for the first time in weeks, and Lincoln squeezes a hand to her shoulder before returning to his kitchen. She follows behind with her tea, running her fingers through the curls that have been flattened beneath her winter hat.

When Lexa was newly fostered by Gustus, he’d attempted a welcoming, home-cooked meal. The pot roast was tough and sinewy, the potatoes undercooked and flavorless. Lexa had never felt so utterly cared for, filling her plate no less than three times. Over the years, she, Anya, and Gus—Lincoln too, for how often he would find himself at their kitchen table—worked to improve the recipe together. They studied spice blends, cuts of meat, and countless cooking videos. Even their perpetual culinary failures were communal, familial. Eventually, it evolved into a cherished family favorite that Lexa directly associates with the comfort and safety of home. It remains the one meal her father is capable of preparing with relative success to this day.  

“Thanks for cooking.”

“I’m glad you came over,” Lincoln smiles at her from the stove. He doesn’t say finally, though she feels the implication.

Lincoln has continuously attempted to see her, despite Lexa’s refusal to socialize. Passing conversations at work and random text messages have been their only contact for almost a month, but Lincoln never stopped reaching out to her. She wonders if anything might have gone differently had she not eventually given up on repairing things with Clarke.

When days without contact turned into weeks, Lexa panicked. As the weeks stacked into a month, she lost all hope for restoring her friendship with Clarke.

It’s the space she wants, Lexa keeps telling herself. Further engagement would only push Clarke farther away.

“Can I get you a drink?” Lincoln is already drinking something from a beer glass but opens the fridge as he sips. “Octavia just restocked me with a bunch of shit I haven’t tried yet.”

“Uh, sure. Just … surprise me,” Lexa shrugs.

Incapable of making decisions. Even for the sake of alcohol. Lexa grinds her jaw at her own vacillating shortcomings: infuriating.

“You got it.” Lincoln works on making his selection while Lexa finishes sipping her tea, hoping it will calm her, and deposits her paper cup into the trash bin when she’s through.

“Actually, do you have any whiskey?”

Lincoln is chuckling as he abandons the fridge, leading them out of the kitchen. “Say no more.”

He stops beside a fully stocked drinks cart—mid century design of stained walnut with dull, brassy rails and casters. Lexa recognizes it immediately. “Is this the same cart from your moms’ house?” She runs a finger along one of the slender rails while examining its well-preserved design.

“Yep. The one thing I was allowed to take with me when I moved up here,” Lincoln grins proudly.

Lexa can feel the ghost of another smile. “I’m surprised Alice allowed it.”

“She practically wept when we loaded it onto the moving truck, but you know Rosa has a hard time saying no to her mijo.” His beaming smile returns, dimples and all, and Lexa rolls her eyes.

“It is an exceptional piece of furniture.”

“I swore to care for it like a firstborn child.”

Lexa smiles again, examining the bottles of liquor. “They’re still in New York?”

“Oh, moms are never leaving Carol Gardens, you know that. I think that house belonged to Alice’s great grandmother or something.”

Lexa lapses into fond memories of Lincoln’s childhood home—a stark difference from the foster families and group homes he’d previously survived in his younger years. Rosa and Alice were generous, kind, and gracious caretakers from the start. Eager to become parents and intent on making Lincoln feel safe and supported, they never gave up in spite of his ingrained mistrust. Their unconditional love and acceptance had been so unexpected and surreal, Lincoln spent the first six months of his stay with them waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“That party you threw over winter break freshman year.” Lexa smiles fondly at the recollection.

“Oh my god, I was grounded for an eternity.”

“Anya and I were afraid to show our faces for weeks after that.”

Lincoln tsks her recollection and rolls his eyes. “As if you two could ever do wrong in their eyes.”

“Did you go back for Thanksgiving?”

Lincoln uncharacteristically balks, his gaze falling to the collection of liquor bottles that sit on the drinks cart. “Uh, no. I’m taking O to New York for a few days after Christmas so she can meet Alice and Rosa, but we, uh, we went to—Octavia never really spends holidays with her family because she prefers the Griffins, you know, and we usually all just go to, uh—”    

He can’t even bring himself to utter her name, and it still feels like a punch to Lexa’s sternum.

“You can say her name,” Lexa tries for nonchalance, shoving her hands into her jeans pockets and smiling unsurely as she furthers the lie: “I’m not going to break apart or anything.”

“Right.” Lincoln clears his throat. “Anyway, Clarke hosts this little friends’ gathering every year at her place. You know how she likes to cook.”

“Right.” Lexa nods swiftly, trying desperately not to think about all of the other wonderful things about Clarke that make her disproportionately likable, not least of all her passion for food.

“How was your holiday? You were with Costia’s aunt?”

“Yes.” Her entire body feels rigid; a forced exhale does little to ease the tension. “It was … nice. Her aunt and uncle are great people.”

“Well, we missed you.” He offers hopefulness that Lexa doesn’t dare cling to. “Next year.”

She swallows roughly, unable to conjure a valid response, and hoists a bottle from the top tray of Lincoln’s cart. “I’ll try this one.”

Lincoln’s guarded smile is back, and Lexa wishes she weren’t the cause of it. “Let me get you some ice.” He reaches to a lower shelf for a glass. “Unless you want it neat?”

“No, I’ll take some ice. Thank you.”

Lincoln leaves her for the kitchen just as Gus emerges from the bedroom with a yawning stroll towards the couch. She is a giant ball of elegant, grey fur. Lexa follows her movements and plops onto a sofa cushion just as Gus leaps gracefully atop the armrest opposite.

“Are you keeping your distance now too?”

Gus watches her for a moment, calculating. It takes only the extension of her hand across the cushion for the cat to approach, nudging her nose into Lexa’s palm a moment later. She feels settled by Gus’s presence instantly. By the time Lincoln returns with her drink, she’s been lulled by loud purring and the downy fur between her fingers.

:::

Dinner is exceptionally prepared, and Lexa feels infinitely better with a full stomach. She and Lincoln talk of New York, and family, and the changing seasons. He’s being careful with her still, avoidant out of kindness and caution, but she knows there are things he wants to say.

On the couch after dinner, with Gus in her lap and a second whiskey sitting on the table beside her, Lexa finally makes a decision. She tells Lincoln the truth.

“I think I scared her off.”

Lincoln practically jolts at his end of the sofa when he realizes what subject Lexa is broaching. He has switched to whiskey as well—in solidarity, he’d said—and the two of them sip quietly for a few moments while Lincoln processes the new information. Lexa tries not to feel like a specimen under a microscope.

“Clarke?” His face creases in thought a moment later when Lexa nods. “That girl does not frighten easily—what makes you think you scared her off?”

“I talked to her about Costia.”

Lincoln’s dark eyes widen by a fraction. “What did you tell her?”

“How we almost broke up in New York. The disconnect I’ve been experiencing since moving up here.” Lexa exhales, feeling a rush at finally airing her admissions. “We were a little drunk.”

“Okay,” Lincoln smiles. “Still, I don’t think that would—”

“And then I sort of fell asleep on her couch … with her.”

She looks up from her lap to see the blatant shock in Lincoln’s gaping jaw and wide eyes. His expression would be priceless and more than a little humorous if she weren’t so anxious and full of regret over her actions.  

“Okay, that might sufficiently freak her out.”

“I know.” Lexa covers her face with both hands, and Lincoln instantly backpedals his reaction.

“No, no wait. Lex, sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that you did anything wrong.”

“I did. I messed up everything. I haven’t dealt with anything that’s going on with Costia, and Clarke is dating now—”  

“Hey.” Lincoln wraps a hand around one of her ankles where her legs are stretched along the length of the couch, and only then does she pull her hands from her face to look at him. “Listen to me: you did not do anything wrong. I’ve crashed at friends’ houses hundreds of times, so unless you’re telling me that you fell asleep naked …”

Just the sound of that image has Lexa’s stomach bottoming out as she buries her face into the crook of an elbow. “Linc, oh my god. No.”  

“Okay, okay,” he laughs, too proud of himself for having embarrassed her. “In that case, you really haven’t done anything wrong. It’s just—this is Clarke.”

Her eyes drift back to the cat asleep in her lap, and Lexa’s voice softens. “I know.”

“Do you?” Lincoln urges.

Lexa looks up. “I’m not a complete idiot.”

He smiles at her like an older brother might tease his distraught, younger sibling in the middle of an existential crisis. “Just checking.”

“The sleeping part was completely accidental,” Lexa grumbles, her face still cooling from the heated shame of imagining Lincoln’s inquiry while reaching for her drink.

Lincoln shrugs. “Hey, it happens.”

“Not with Clarke it doesn’t.”

“Yeah, I guess not.” Lincoln considers her for another moment, sipping at his drink while Lexa fidgets with a seam on her shirt. “What did Costia say when you told her about staying over at Clarke’s?”

“She was glad I was safe—that I didn’t try to walk home or anything.” Lexa exhales and watches for Lincoln’s reaction. “Why?”

“I just think her response is indicative of your relationship. On the one hand, there’s obviously trust there. She’s worried more about your safety than the threat of you sleeping on another woman’s couch.” Lexa can feel her cheeks warm again and takes a sip of her whiskey. “On the other hand,” Lincoln pauses, waiting to catch Lexa’s eye. “Costia’s not an idiot either.”

There it is.  

The truth (or at least an insinuation of it) that they have been dancing around for months. Lincoln’s gaze is not unkind but unrelenting in forcing her to confront her own culpability.

“I know.” Lexa thinks her voice has never sounded so small.

“You guys ever have that talk after DC?”

“No.”

Their intentions had been good. But in the end, they had been hindered by Costia’s schedule going into finals and Lexa taking on new responsibilities through Trikru. By the time they caught up with each other again, Clarke was gone and Lexa couldn’t see anything beyond the shape of her absence.

“I don’t even know if it’s worth it at this point,” she continues. “Who’s to say the same results wouldn’t keep happening again in relationships with other people?” Lexa bites at her lip, deepening the furrow in her brow. “What if the real problem is just me?”

“Hey, don’t say that shit about one of my best friends.”

Lexa finally makes eye contact to see Lincoln’s warm gaze looking back at her. Reassurance floods in even amidst all her surging self doubt.

“Deciding to be with someone shouldn’t be about calculated risk.” He rubs a hand across his abdomen, smiling fondly in contemplation. “You either feel it, or you don’t.”

“Feelings continuously shift and change—they’re an unreliable barometer.”

“Not always,” Lincoln challenges. “Sometimes you get that kick behind your ribs while in someone’s presence. Or, you feel that persistent pressure against your back, pushing you towards someone—you have to give those feelings some weight if it’s more than a fleeting impulse.”

She’s had similar debates with herself a million times, always ending up at the same conclusion. “I had all of those same feelings with Costia. And, look what’s happened to us.”

He tips his glass in Lexa’s direction. “Okay, sure. And, if those feelings have faded, doesn’t that warrant some consideration too?”  

“I don’t … I don’t trust myself to make the right decision.”

It might be the most honest admission she’s had in months. She’s relieved that Lincoln is her confidante when the truth slips out and the reassurance of his soft smile returns.

“You’re always too hard on yourself, Lex. It doesn’t have to be so complicated.”

Lexa responds only by glaring at him spectacularly over the rim of her glass. Teaching herself molecular physics might be less daunting than solving her current relationship dilemma.

“I’m serious!” He defends himself through a laugh. “Okay. For me, it’s just about wanting to spend time with that one person more than anyone else. It’s not always fireworks or these massive heart palpitations, sometimes it’s just preference. Like, I prefer this one person’s company over everyone else, regardless of how long the relationship lasts.”  

Lexa arches an eyebrow. “So it doesn’t matter if you and Octavia don’t last?”

“Oh no, she’s stuck with my ass forever.”

Lexa’s laughter dislodges some of the unease tightening in her chest.

“Honestly though,” Lincoln continues, “if O eventually met someone and felt that same draw that I feel towards her, or struck some connection that she believed would make her happier than I could … I would want her to explore that.”

Lexa watches her friend and resumes stroking her hand atop Gus’s head. “You’re an unbelievably good person, do you know that?”

“You are too, buddy. Don’t convince yourself otherwise.”

“Thanks,” Lexa responds softly.

“And, maybe Clarke is sorting through some stuff or taking space to figure out her own shit, but she’s not gone forever, okay? She’ll be back.”

Lexa releases a heavy sigh, wishing she shared Lincoln’s optimism.

In a week, she’ll leave for her holiday in New York. She’ll have the comfort of her father—his monstrous hugs, booming laughter, and mediocre cooking. And, she’ll face Anya, a far more imposing audience than Lincoln or Gus, in the midst of this internalized, romantic crisis. She’s exhausted by her own ambivalence and wishes someone in her life could just give her the right answers.

She wants shared laughter on the warm sand of a deserted beach.

She wants to place a coffee order for someone else and know it by heart.

She wants petty arguments about meaningless things that dissolve into long hugs and gentle apologies.

She wants extravagant brunches and lazy Sunday mornings, shared smiles in crowded rooms and soft touches that speak volumes.    

Her desires are not uncommon. She could likely have these experiences with any number of women. Lexa reconsiders the simplicity of Lincoln’s perspective and dares to hope that a solution to her indecision could be so cut and dry. Because if the answer is preference, her solution is simple.

She doesn’t want these experiences with just anyone. More than anything, she wants them with Clarke.

[vampirepiggyhunterdefensesquad]

Compliments 4/5

Zim had landed on another bush, and not a very comfortable one. He griped loudly to himself about the leaves and branches and Earth, absolutely refusing to think about what had just happened

for all of two minutes. Then Gaz's blushing face slipped into view in his mind's eye and it was all over. Zim groaned outwardly, but he understood well enough now that he wasn't going to be able to stop for a while. Separation was likely the ideal way to hurry up and be done turning it over in his head.

Even so, Zim found himself trailing after Gaz a few blocks. She could take care of herself, obviously, but just in case someone tried to hurt her in her weakened state... Maybe if he involved himself, she would--

No!! This was exactly what she had told him to STOP doing. Who CARED about some earth human girl?? Even if she DID have very sparkly eyes and a soft looking face that went red when he looked directly at it and hair he wanted to feel under his sharp fingers. Even if she did obviously want him to try. Even if she was incredibly powerful and scary and picked him up and threw him and that was, however insulting to his ego and bruising to his actual limbs, impressive for a human and a young one at that. Zim contemplated the image of Gaz throwing someone else like that-- preferably Dib-- and felt another pleasant-yet-horrible rush of heat in his guts. Disgusting. But it made him feel giddy.

Zim watched from a distance as Gaz walked up to her door and slammed it shut viciously. At that, he turned on his heels and stalked home, grumbling about bushes some more. He would have to put something on his skin to make it stop burning; the tiny cuts were incredibly unpleasant.

He found that when he let his mind drift to her, the pain faded slightly. But this focus was unhealthy, had to be bad for him. A small part of him was rioting whenever he allowed himself to contemplate her, focus on her too closely. It was almost a betrayal of everything invaders stood for, wasn't it??

"Nice antennae."

So why couldn't he bring himself to care???????

Zim reached his door. He hadn't realized how fast he'd been walking, and glared at it. He lived close to the Membranes, too close, much too close when it came to the Dib-filth. But it seemed a bit further when he thought about how Gaz lived there too.

. . . . Dib lived there, too.

Zim clapped his hands over his head and stifled a moan when the full implications hit him like a truck. This was the worst thing that could have possibly happened.

So it would be wonderful if his stupid, ANNOYING brain could stop acting like he had just had the best day ever.

Gaz's words had been angry, defensive. But her silence had been different. Her pause had said far more than her words did.

It would have been easy, easier than easy, to tell him to just stop. That she was annoyed and that was it. When she did eventually say as much, it was only after that conflicted silence. . .

She wanted his attention. Her blushes and reactions to his eyes made this much clear to him: Gaz wanted him to look at her just as much as he wanted her to look at him.

And the idea of looking at her had never been so appealing.

Zim nearly ran into his own front door-- he'd forgotten it was there. He nearly ripped the thing off its hinges in his haste to get inside.

He would see her tomorrow. That was fine. He wasn't going to get obsessed with anyone--especially a HUMAN-- especially after something so small.

Zim walked inside and rode the elevator down to the lab and sat down in his chair.

I want to see Gaz.

Zim stood up and walked out into the room with all the pods with human test subjects. One of them held a random person he'd snatched from the street a few evenings ago. She was sound asleep-- he'd been conducting tests to see how weak and fragile humans were when faced with emotionally taxing TV shows-- given how upset and unable to function properly GIR was after a series he loved ended, Zim was certain there was a method of world domination in television yet.

He kicked the glass of the tube, making the human stir, but not wake fully.

"HEY."

Kick.

"HEY!!!!!!!!"

The woman's eyes popped open. When her eyes fell on Zim, disguise-less, they widened in panic and she began banging on the glass, trying to shout for help.

Zim groaned and pressed a button to drain the fluid from the tube instantaneously. The ugly human's legs gave way and she collapsed at the bottom.

"Don't start screaming, nobody can hear you anyway," Zim said disgustingly, as if it was obvious. "Annoying, unhelpful, and, worst of all, annoying."

The human breathed deeply and lifted her head. Finally, her voice returned, and she looked. . .  confused.

"You. . . . you said 'annoying' twice."

"THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT!!!!" Zim hollered, slamming his hands against the glass. The woman fell backwards, but seemed to be calming down at Zim's childish outburst.

"Why am I here?"

"Listen, HUMAN. I normally would never stoop to the level of asking for help from your kind. . . but i believe this newest development requires some in-person questioning. You, you filthy, lucky human, are being given the chance to earn your freedom from my HHHORRIBLE LAIR. So listen carefully."

The woman nodded quickly. She seemed to be looking around carefully, taking in her surroundings, but she wouldn't be able to escape so it really didn't matter.

"You were once a smaller, younger version of your now old, ugly self, yes?"

The woman blinked. "I'm twenty four."

Zim squinted. "Twenty four. . . . . years? Old?"

". . . yes?"

Zim smirked. "Have you have retained a good memory of your youth, however long past it may have been?"

The woman was trying to brush her dripping, dark purple hair out of her eyes. "Yes," she said, in a resigned tone.

"Good. Are you in a relationship at the moment?"

The woman's head popped up and her eyes went wild. She fell backwards again, tripping over her own feet.

"CALM DOWN!!!! It's just for REFERENCE," Zim spat. "I have less than no interest in your disgusting, hideous body. I'm here to destroy your planet."

"That's comforting," she said sarcastically, turning around entirely. "No, I'm . . . not."

"Were you ever? And have you, despite your repulsiveness, had anyone ever. . . interested in you?"

The woman barked out a laugh. "Yes. I guess."

"So how did they fail???" Zim slammed his hands on the tube again, but this time it was out of desperation. "What mistakes did they make??"

The woman, apparently having not found an exit in the other direction, turned back to shoot him with a glare. "Why."

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN, WHY????" Zim's face flushed. "i MEAN-- EHHH-- YOU are in no position to ask ME ANYTHING, HUMAN!!”

"Wait. You're not. . . Why did you kidnap me?" she asked, completely confused.

"What? You were right there." Zim blinked.

"Wh-- you-- he didn't--you just happened to-- oh God, that's my luck, isn't it?"

"JUST ANSWER THE QUESTION!! How did your previous suitors fail???"

"Well, one of them tried to kill me."

Zim tilted his head. "And. . . . you didn't like that."

She just stared.

"Ok, no killing. No attempting killing. Got it!!!!!"

"So, you're trying to get a human girl to like you??" The woman looked him up and down.

"STOP!! STOP THAT IMMEDIATELY!!!" Zim waved his hands in front of the glass. "I said NOTHING about myself. I'm TRYING to conduct RESEARCH here!!!!! What else did they do???"

"Listen, alien-- what's your name, kid?"

"I AM ZIM." Zim announced.

"Zim. If you like someone, you can't interrogate someone you kidnapped for help. What if I just. . . intentionally sabotaged you or something?"

Zim, whose antennae had lowered, popped back up. "I wasn't going to let you go until it worked," he announced. "PF! What do you think I AAAAAAAM? an AMATUER???"

The woman smiled wryly and took a seat, leaning against the back of the tube casually. "What's she like, Zim?"

"Scary," he answered immediately, dropping to sit as well. "Also she thinks I'm 'cool.'"

"If she thinks you're cool, why are you asking me for advice? Hell, just ask her out. And let me go first."

"No. Also, that didn't work."

She squinted. "You asked her out?"

"Yyyyyyyyyyyy--not exactly?"

The woman gestured for him to continue. It was a testament to how shaken up Gaz had made Zim inside that he did.

. . . .

Zim leaned back on the outside of the glass tube, letting his antennae droop. ". . . And now I have to WAIT a whole DAY before I see her again!!"

"Why's that?" The woman examined her fingernails.

"What?"

"What if you went to her house and asked her out properly?" she suggested. "It sounds like you led with accusing HER of having feelings when in reality YOU were the one who liked HER."

"RIDICULOUS. Invaders need NO ONE. I would never like such a pathetic earth-human."

"Okay, so you don't want my help--"

"HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO 'ASK HER OUT'?" he screeched. "Human rituals are NOTHING like Irken romance!!!"

She turned her eyes to him again. "What? What's your alien romance consist of?"

"WE DON'T HAVE IT!" Zim wailed, slumping down further.

"Uh-huh." She tapped her chin with her finger. "Go to her door. Knock. When she answers, apologize for yelling at her. Tell her you like her, and tell her you want to spend time with her and look at her."

"NO!!"

"What the hell-- why--"

He turned around, glaring her down. "SHE WON'T. APPRECIATE SUCH A GESTURE. The Gaz-human is intelligent. She is far too smart to want such a. . such an UP FRONT method!!"

"Well, you'd be surprised." The woman turned away again. "Listen, are you gonna kill me if you get rejected?"

"Absolutely."

"So ask her nicely." From what she'd seen, she'd be able to escape if he stayed away for long enough. And this girl might be strong enough to incapacitate the alien--or, y'know, she might say yes. From the dazed, lovestruck way Zim talked about her, she might be just as violent and dangerous as he was. "And, uh, make sure you remember I'm the one who helped you."

"Yes, yes, yes. . ." The cogs turning in his brain were almost visible. "So. . . I tell her. And then she will blush. And agree to spend more time with me."

"Ideally."

"All right." He announced. "I am going."

"Wait, bring her something-- but not something too big!"

"Big?"

The woman contemplated. "What kind of candy does she like?"

[rachelbethhines]

Tangled Salt Marathon - One Angry Princess

There’s two halves to this episode. The first is a well constructed, if over simple, mystery for the kiddos to solve. The other is a failed attempt at being ‘deep’ and ‘mature’.  

Summary: Attila is finally opening up his own bakery, but people generally don't want to stop by because of his scary helmet. The next day, Monty's Sweet Shoppe is destroyed, and Attila is arrested. He is about to be banished from the kingdom, but Rapunzel makes an appeal to investigate the matter further. 

The Episode is Meant to be a Homage to 12 Angry Men, but Misses the Point of the Original Film

So for those who haven’t seen the movie, (though really you should) 12 Angry Men is about a jury trying to decide if an accused person is guilty of a violent crime. At first the evidence seems clear, but one lone juror refuses to vote guilty until the evidence has been gone over again. One by one he convinces the other men to vote not guilty as they each have to face they’re own personal biases.

Sound familiar? 

In the show Rapunzel is the sole believer in Attila’s innocence despite evidence to the contrary. She insists on investigating herself while challenging everyone else’s personal biases. 

The difference?

12 Angry Men is a hard hitting look at how privilege, prejudice, and cognitive bias can interfere with the American judicial system. None of the jurors are named, but they are all middle class, presumably Christian, white guys. And that is the point. They are all different from the accused; a young, poor, arguably non-white teen (the play is intentionally vague about the kid’s race so that you can slot any minority in there) who has a history of getting into trouble. If you were to change the ethnicity, race, gender, class, or age of any of the 12 characters then you would suddenly have a very different story. It’s their backgrounds and pre-formed opinions that inform their decisions. Even the main protagonist is not exempt from re-examining his own personal biases. 

Meanwhile the writers of Tangled: the Series are too busy showing off how clever Rapunzel is to actually deal with the themes of injustice and bigotry that they added in themselves in the first place.

Rapunzel Knowing Attila Before Hand Weakens the Message

In 12 Angry Men none of the jurors know the accuse. In fact, they can’t know him. It’s against the law. In order to have an impartial jury, no one can have any ties to either the defendant or the prosecution, and they must not have knowledge of the case or have had specific experiences that might cause them to be biased or unfair. 

Rapunzel being Attila’s friend means that she already has her own bias and an invested interest in making sure Attila goes free. She’s not acting out of the simple goodness of her heart here. She’s doing something that directly benefits herself. 

I don’t expect a children’s fantasy show to recreate the US judicial system with all of the complexities there in, but I do expect it to uphold it’s heroine as the selfless person it claims her to be. Yet the show constantly undermines this supposed character trait by only having her help the people she befriends, and only if that help doesn’t require anything emotionally challenging or mentally taxing from her.   

How much more powerful would this episode be if Rapunzel was defending a stranger or someone she actively disliked? Imagine if it was Monty who was being accuse and Raps had to swallow her pride in order to do what is right. But that would require the show having Rapunzel actually learn something instead of placing her on a pedestal. It would also mean giving Monty a reason to exist rather than keeping him around to be a convenient red herring.      

Rapunzel Shouldn’t Have to Prove Attila’s Innocence 

Rather than have a courtroom drama the show opts to have a ‘whodunit’ story instead. This unfortunately gives the implication that Corona’s judicial system runs on a ‘guilty until proven innocent’ mantra, which is backwards to any humane legal system. ‘Innocent until proven guilty’, ‘reasonable doubt’, ‘due process’, are the cornerstones of our modern social ethics. 

In 12 Angry Men, we never find out if the accused actually committed the crime or not. That is because his actual innocence isn’t the point of the story. It’s about whether or not the system is working like it should or if it’s being compromised by human error. 

Once again, I don’t expect a recreation of the US judicial system, but if you’re writing a story for a modern audience then you need to reinforce modern morals. Simply crouching Corona’s legal system as ‘of the times’ or ‘fantasy’ while ignoring why we no longer have such systems in place reduces the story to puerile fare. 

It also means that show’s writers didn’t put enough thought into their world building. 

No One Calls Out the Obviously Corrupt System 

The show has interwoven throughout its ongoing narrative themes of classism, injustice, abuse, and authoritarianism, but then fails to follow through on those themes by not having any of the protagonists actually examine any of these issues. They just sit there in the background, even as the show tries it darndest to present Rapunzel as an arbiter of reform. However a person can’t bring about change if they can’t even admit that there is a problem to begin with.   

In this episode alone we have

Banishment is considered a reasonable punishment for an act of vandalism. A crime that is usually considered only a misdemeanor unless the damage goes over a certain amount. Keep in mind that not even most felonies would be given such a punishment in the real world

Introduces the prison barge that regularly carries away convicts. In the past ‘undesirables’ would be shipped off to prison colonies as a form of persecution. Attila and every other person we see subjected to Corona’s legal system are of a lower class. 

Many prejudge Attila based off his appearance, lower class, and past upbringing. However, it is either Attila who is expected to change or Rapunzel who is expected to win people over. At no point is anyone told that they shouldn’t be prejudiced to begin with. 

There is no judge, jury, or lawyers. The king alone decides the fate of criminals, the Captain is expected to be the both the prosecutor and the ‘executioner’, which is a conflict of interest, and the defendant has no one to represent them unless they so happen to know a kind statesperson. Meaning you have to be either rich or well connected in order to even have a chance to defend yourself. 

Oh and there’s this...

Uh, yeah you do. You’re the flipping king. You make the law. You’re the one to bring charges against Attila, and nearly every other criminal in the show, in the first place. 

The show constantly wants us to view Frederic as simply an everyman who is only doing his job, but he’s not. He’s a ruler and as such he has powers and responsibilities that no one else has or ever will have. The series gives both him and Rapunzel all of the privileges of being in charge without holding them to account for the consequences of their actions. 

By not pointing out how wrong these actions are, the show winds up avocating them instead. When I call Tangled the Series authoritarian, this is why. Because authority is never questioned even when clearly wrong and nepotism is presented as the solution to conflicts as oppose to being the problem itself.

The Show Introduces Complex Issues but Then Oversimplifies the Conflicts Surrounding Those Issues

The creators of the show have constantly declared that the series is ‘not for kids’. That they were shooting for an older audience than the pre-school time slot they were given. Now ignoring the fact that Tangled was always going to have a built in audince of pre-teen girls and ignoring that children’s media can be mature, TTS lacks the nuance needed to viewed as anything other than a pantomime. 

As stated before, this episode alone ignores the very real issues interlaced within the conflict in order to give us an overly simple mystery that anyone over the age of five could figure out.  

It’s frustrating to watch the show constantly skirt towards the edge of complexity only to see it chicken out and go for the low hanging fruit instead. As a consequence the series winds up being for no one. Too shallow for adults and older teens, but too confused in its morals to be shown to small children and younger adolescents. 

I wouldn’t recommend this show to a parent, not without encouraging them to view the series either before or alongside their child in order to counteract it’s ‘lessons’ and I know parents within the fandom itself who’ve stopped showing newer episodes to their kids; stating that they want their child to be old enough to point out the harmful messages to before doing so. 

Once Again No One Learns Anything 

Rapunzel doesn’t learn that the system is flawed. Attila doesn’t learn to open up to people. Nobody learns to treat people with respect and to not judge others based on appearances alone.

The whole point of the episode is to just show off how much ‘better’ Rapunzel is than everyone else. The show constantly feels the need to tear down other characters in an effort to make its favs look good as opposed to just letting the mains grow as people. 

Conclusion

Tangled the tv series is no 12 Angry Men. It’s no Steven Universe/Gravity Falls/Avatar:TLA/She-Ra/Gargoyles/Batman:TAS either. It barely reaches the same level as the likes of DnD, Sonic SATAM, or Voltron. Interesting ideas but poor pacing, build up, and lack of follow through, with some naff decisions thrown into the mix bring things down in quality. And unlike the Dungeons and Dragons cartoon from the early 80s, TTS lacks the benefit of being a pioneer in the field of animation, where such flaws are more forgivable. 

[personalityarchive]

Mike Morton 7w6

[[28 August 2020

Originally written as a comment thread on PDB]]

I will admit that I did a double take seeing the consensus vote on Mike’s enneatype. I had thought it rather plain to see that he is a base type 7, but apparently that is not the case. Perhaps his career as a performer is what caused the mistype, but it’s still strange to imagine a type 3 Mike. (I also got a bit of a chuckle out of seeing Mike voted as chaotic good when he’s clearly a chaotic neutral character. More on that in its own thread.)

As a character with a full set of deduction targets, several costumes, and accessories, there is an abundance of information on Mike’s character that I feel is vital in discerning his true enneatype. From his deductions alone, it’s quite obvious that he cares less about personal image or professional success than he does about trying new things and having a good time. Especially the parts of the deduction tree written from Mike’s first person perspective, it’s obvious that image and career is a secondary consideration, tied more to the 7’s desire to be entertaining than from the 3’s desire to maintain a “good image”.

Mike’s second deduction target, entitled “The Secret of Juggling”, has this description line: “Throwing isn't just an interesting skill. It's what makes a juggler successful.” Now, if this was all it had to say about him, I would agree, a 3 interpretation wouldn’t be far-fetched at all. However, the deduction conclusion is what is truly significant here, as it is in fact a diary entry from Mike himself. The deduction tagline could be interpreted as a general statement on Mike’s career, or even as an opinion from Bernard himself. Meanwhile, the conclusion has this to say:

“Diary 1: Bernard said that the size and shape of the bag, as well as the type of filling, are critical. He refused my request to fill the bag with stones, stating that it was ‘hazardous’.”

We can see here that Mike is less interested in appealing to the expectations of others, and indeed, in maintaining a polished image, than Bernard is. What Mike is interested in is in fact trying out new things, even dangerous ones — his phrasing of Bernard’s response to his proposal shows that what he finds frustrating is feeling limited in his options. Mike doesn’t seem too convinced that his idea should have been rejected, and was less concerned with the practicality of it than he was in simply exploring the possibility. This is clearly far more indicative of a 7 than of a 3.

Now, based on what Bernard told Mike — namely, that he identified certain factors as “critical” to the bags used in juggling — we can infer that it is Bernard who is concerned about keeping up appearances, or doing things the “right way” (suggesting perhaps a base 1 or 3 for him). From this, we can further conclude that the tagline of this deduction target is indeed a reflection of Bernard’s thoughts rather than Mike’s.

This flows into the next deduction, “Artistic Acts”, with the description: “Creativity is what ensures that the stage performances continue to improve.” Again, this sounds like a statement from Bernard’s perspective, and perhaps offers us some insight into why Bernard treated Mike with the kind of leniency that permitted Mike’s later experimentation with acid and nitre. Since Bernard is the one in charge of the circus, he is the one concerned with constantly improving the show; because Mike’s creativity allows him to come up with new ideas (and gives him the natural charisma that propelled him into the position of audience favorite), Bernard is willing to let Mike get away with quite a bit.

Meanwhile, the conclusion for Artistic Acts gives us a summary for one of Mike’s own writings: “Notebook: The properties of Nitre and some ‘Test Records’ were recorded in detail.” The implication here is that Mike was not very concerned with how his experiments would directly benefit his performances; in fact, the notebook’s contents give a sense of unease, communicating a message in direct opposition to the deduction target summary. Not only is nitre entirely unnecessary in improving his performance as an acrobat, but Mike’s behavior seems rather secretive in nature. So, the purpose of this deduction target is to show a disconnect between the way Bernard perceived Mike and the activities that Mike was actually engaging in. Bernard saw Mike as an invaluable member of the Hullabaloo Circus, and assumed that the experiments and ideas Mike explored all went into augmenting said performances. Of course, by advancing along the deduction tree, it becomes increasingly clear that Mike’s area of interest had little to do with his professional success.

Taking a step back and analyzing the deduction targets for Mike from a more holistic standpoint, a certain pattern emerges. We can see that the first 5 deduction targets are separated from the last 5 in tone and perspective.

1) “Family: He's like a father; an ideal one.”

2) “The Secret of Juggling: Throwing isn't just an interesting skill. It's what makes a juggler successful.”

3) “Artistic Acts: Creativity is what ensures that the stage performances continue to improve.”

4) “A New Face: The circus is where people come and go. We always welcome new faces, and obviously, the beautiful ones.”

5) “ ‘Darling’: How people call each other often reflects the degree to which the relationship has developed.”

6) “Downcast: Watching a sad face can sometimes bring us some dark pleasure.”

7) “Carnival: Carnivals usually mean chaos, and chaos means opportunity.”

8) “The End: It's all over.”

9) “Encore: Audiences often say this hoping that the performer will continue performing on the stage.”

10) “Reappearance: Call their names and make them return to the stage once again.”

Laying them out side-by-side, it’s clear that the first five have summary lines that focus more on outward appearances, professional achievement, and success — all values of the 3. Key words can be picked out from each to support this conclusion: “ideal” from Family; “successful” from The Secret of Juggling; “improve” from Artistic Acts; “beautiful” from A New Face; “reflects” from “Darling”.

Meanwhile, the second half contain sentiments that are far more self-driven, or self-referential, yet less self-aware. Rather than seeking to appear a particular way in the eyes of others, there is an endogenously-generated drive based on the assessment of the appearances of those around the speaker. This way of approaching the self and others maps to the 7’s desire to forget the self through constant absorption in the external world. For the 7, there is a lack of consideration regarding professional success — real or perceived — and a greater emphasis on living in the moment. Plans for the future all funnel into goals that may not be practical or even fully fleshed-out, since stopping to examine their own thoughts and feelings can frighten the 7.

On top of this, the deduction targets undergo an overall shift in speaking style; while the first half of the deduction targets can be a bit longer, even bordering on long-winded, the second half are far more succinct but, again, less self-reflective. This displays the 7’s style of interacting with the world more than the 3, where focus can be more scattered in the search for instant gratification, although the analytical aspects of the mind center are still present.

What we see in the second set of deduction targets is the perspective of a more active, impatient person than the previous deduction summaries. There’s only one that contains a sentence with more than a single clause, and even then it’s to quickly connect two different concepts without having to go through the trouble of further explication. While indicative of a nimble mind, this cleverness manifests as an underlying impatience. Overall, the tendency in these deduction summaries is towards a more singularly outward-focused attention, with a desire to engage with the world without having to pause for self-reflection.

This pattern in turn suggests a split in the speaker for the first set of deduction target taglines versus the second set. While deductions one through four reflect Bernard’s perspective, six through ten are Mike’s. As for the fifth deduction, that’s the bridge; it’s where the speaker switches from one to the other, segueing into Mike being the deduction’s “voice” for both the summary and conclusion of each. Even more interesting, in fact, is the particular way the fifth deduction target implies an asymmetry in the perspective of the two speakers; the summary is a reflection of both Bernard and Mike’s understanding of the other, though the angle is skewed significantly when moving between the two.

While Bernard and Mike are simultaneously experiencing a shift in their relationship to one another, the directions of perceived development are not only incongruent, they’re fundamentally incompatible. The title and speaking style of this deduction further underline this imbalance; while the tone and pacing of the summary reads as Bernard’s voice, the conclusion and the name “darling” are clearly from Mike’s perspective.

The deduction conclusion is as follows: “Diary 2: I love Nitre! As long as it's mixed with water, even a hot summer's day can become refreshing! Bernard's reaction was hilarious, and he even called me ‘Dear Mr. Mike Morton’! Oh, Bernard, I want to hear it again. Next time, I'll make sure to put my cold hands down your collar.”

This casual and playful writing style is juxtaposed against the matter-of-fact — almost distant — statement on the nature of relationships in the summary, creating further dissonance within the deduction. It is implied, then, that Bernard’s opinion of his relationship to Mike has developed from one of paternal care (see the information given by the first deduction) to one of a more professional nature; Bernard is Mike’s boss, not his caretaker. Meanwhile, Mike has developed what appears to be homoerotic feelings towards Bernard, seeing the nickname “Dear Mr. Mike Morton” as a term of endearment rather than one of separation.

Referring back to the second deduction target, the subtle shift in Mike’s understanding of his and Bernard’s roles in their relationship can be further explored. While the contents of Diary 1 suggest that Mike does still see Bernard as a superior (one that he will listen to, if a bit begrudgingly), Diary 2 shows a significantly more excited response to what can be inferred to be reprimand from Bernard. Mike, it seems, has come to view Bernard and himself as interacting on equal terms, and thus, as eligible for developing a relationship outside the bounds of their previous connection. Similarly, Bernard no longer sees the power dynamic of their relationship as being defined by “guardian” and “child”; however, contrary to Mike’s interpretation, Bernard still very much sees himself as being the superior. In a sense, elevation from “child” to “employee” does put Mike on more equal footing with Bernard, but what Mike has failed to pick up on is the paradoxical increase in distance in their relationship, even as he is elevated to the status of “fellow adult”.

In these differing sets of expectations, we can see a clear conflict between a 7’s approach to relationships and that of a 1 (or a 3 with a strong connection to 1). While Bernard is concerned with the way the relationship is “supposed” to develop (e.g. the way a boss is supposed to treat an employee), the 7 is concerned with exploring possibilities and having fun. Further, the 7 is interested in relationships that are constantly changing, as a way of staving off boredom and maintaining investment in the other person. For many 7’s, the only way to preserve dedication to a single “other” is to NOT preserve some aspect of it. In other words, if he is to be limited in the individuals available for him to form attachments to, he must seek variety in the way the attachment functions.

Bernard seems to be interested in treating Mike as a proper adult now, one who has responsibilities and ought to know the proper way of behaving. His reaction to Mike’s experimentation with explosives is one of frustration, calling him “Dear Mr. Mike Morton” as a combination middle-naming of a misbehaving child, and a more professional way of addressing another adult. So, it can be said that Bernard appears to be straddling the line between criticism for a subordinate’s “improper” behavior, and a lingering fondness for his charge.

Mike, on the other hand, seems to have simply derived great amusement from the situation, whether or not he picked up on the remaining fondness Bernard held. His excited proclamation of love for nitre and his plans to put his cold hands down Bernard’s collar read solidly as a 7’s epicurean desire for pleasure and sensual enjoyment, rather than from any influence from type 3. In fact, it’s questionable if Mike was even consciously aware that Bernard was not as amused as he by the entire affair; indeed, his spin on being scolded is exactly the sort of reaction expected of the positive outlook of the 7.

Additionally, as opposed to the 3’s efforts to maintain a good image in the eyes of others, the 7 tries to hold onto a self-image of being okay through rationalization and positive reframing. As long as they don’t have to acknowledge negativity, they can feel comfortable and happy. At the same time, the 7’s rationalization goes towards thinking of what lies ahead, escaping from the limited present to a future with boundless possibility. What we can see Mike doing in his diary entry is just that: he chooses to see Bernard’s scolding as an expression of endearment, and has already skipped forward to thinking about fun or interesting plans for “next time”. Nowhere in this diary deduction is there even a whiff of the 3’s desire to appeal to the expectations of others, or appear competent and professional.

Following this split perspective, the deduction summaries fall squarely into the realm of Mike’s internal dialogue. Deduction six, Downcast, leads with the following: “Watching a sad face can sometimes bring us some dark pleasure.” When compared to some of the earlier deductions, the contrast is jarring. While the present or implied “others” were previously referenced in terms of interaction or as a source of expectations, here they exist solely as a source of entertainment. There is an absence of people-pleasing or even the sentiment that others are tools to be used; this falls far more in line with the 7’s desire to be entertained or to be entertaining, rather than the 3’s understanding of the give and take of unspoken social contracts. 

More than that, the conclusion of deduction six gives us another glimpse into the shifting dynamic between Mike and Bernard:

“Diary 3: Bernard sent his regards to my beloved little ones. He thought the wounds on Joker's face looked more like ‘corrosions’. His suspicions really hurt me! Of course, I did lose a bottle of strong acid. Maybe I'll have to get another bottle before Bernard finds out about this ‘mismanagement’.”

While I admit to being unsure who Mike is referring to as his “beloved little ones”, the rest of this diary entry is fairly straightforward. Again, we see Mike’s bubbly and enthusiastic character, brushing off what are clearly well-founded misgivings from Bernard. Like with the scolding he received in the second deduction target, Mike — in a very characteristically 7ish way — responds with a playful attitude: “His suspicions really hurt me!” is expressed in a manner completely foreign to the 3, especially one who is experiencing a threat to their image in the eyes of someone they feel close to.

While it may be true that Mike is wounded by Bernard’s ability to suspect him of such a crime, he covers it up with humor, rather than going to the 3’s tactic of trying to prove his integrity or good character. Rather than indicating a wounded ego, Mike shows an avoidance of the negative; he distracts from a situation that could be emotionally difficult by covering it up with a joke, then quickly moving onto something else.

Now, Mike does engage in willful deceit (planning to cover up anything that may further implicate him), the ego fixation of the 3. However, the tone he takes is still one of measured amusement; his cheeky admission of incriminating evidence paired with his word choice “mismanagement” indicates an almost facetious attitude towards Bernard’s accusation, and more broadly, his concern with professionalism and image. After all, “mismanagement” is a term likely employed by Bernard in the past, as previous deduction targets indicate that he is a man who takes his work seriously. By placing this word in quotation marks, Mike expresses two things: first, that he is using someone else’s word; and second, that he himself does not hold the same values.

The following deduction, Carnival, starts with: “Carnivals usually mean chaos, and chaos means opportunity.” Again, there is a clear expression of the 7’s unstructured energy, always looking for the next exciting thing, chasing that high. While a 3 takes a more structured approach to reaching their goals and seizing opportunities, it is the 7 who sees chaos itself as being opportunity. In chaos, anything is possible, and the 7 finds this stimulating, even considering it to be an ideal situation.

Of course, when figuring out one’s enneagram, it is also important to consider the lines of connection. If the core type is uncertain, figuring out just one line can be enough to create a compelling case for one enneatype over another. The final deduction targets and the rumor about Mike, therefore, offer some vital pieces of the puzzle.

Deduction 8, “The End: It's all over.” Short, sweet, to the point, but overall somewhat disappointing. There’s not enough substance to really determine much more about Mike than we already know. But, when including the slightly lengthier conclusion, necessary context is provided. The conclusion follows thusly:

“Newspaper Clipping: The carnival killer remains a mystery. The public feels that the local police did not do a good job and has called for further investigations.”

Despite not being directly from Mike’s own diary or journal, this is still following his perspective; the framing of this information is key in our understanding of its significance. Clearly, this conclusion functions to tell the audience what sort of tragedy occurred at the circus, but also to include Mike as being a member of the public who holds this belief. This hints at the start of a 7’s disintegration into 1, where the focus goes from what is “fun” to what is “right” and “wrong”, edging into the unhealthy territory of becoming critical and punitive.

When faced with the death of his circus family, Mike, in an attempt to distract himself from the painful reality, jumps into action, hoping to escape the fears nipping at his heels. After suffering such a devastating loss, he wastes no time with mourning; he immediately goes to enacting a plan to deal with the perpetrator of the crime. We see in his next deduction, Encore, the following: “Diary 4: I scoured the city's mortuary and found everyone except the strange new couple. They were scheduled for the grand finale and couldn't sneak out.”

We see immediately another massive tone shift in the speaker, though we know that rather than crossing over from one character to another, it is Mike who is undergoing the switch in tone. In stark contrast to the chipper, playful mood of his earlier entries, this one is very matter-of-fact, very controlled. The 1’s desire to be objective and principled has overshadowed the 7’s energetic distractibility. From the rumor on his page, we know that: “Mike Morton is the most popular guy in the traveling circus ‘Hullabaloo’. After surviving the disaster, Mike Morton's only goal is to find the real killer who destroyed his home."

This solidifies the interpretation of Mike disintegrating into a 1. As a 7, his natural instinct when faced with the threat of loss is to reach for more, trying to gather close that which he feels is important to his survival and comfort. Unfortunately, this option has been denied him completely; he cannot have “more” of “nothing”, which is precisely what he has now that his entire way of life, his home, his family, has been destroyed. Faced with this harsh reality, Mike has dedicated himself to the single-minded goal of hunting down the one who dared to steal everything from him. The 7’s impatience is magnified by the 1’s resentment and anger, leading to his overpowering pursuit of a quite 1ish crusade against the wrongdoings of others.

This understanding of the text is only further supported by alternate translations of the original text, which provide additional information and insight into both the tragedy itself, and Mike’s perspective:

1) “Blonde curls, a lively spirit and clear blue eyes forever full of joy, Mike Morton was the most popular guy in Hullabaloo, the travelling circus. Hullabaloo was Mike's entire world, a world where slaughter should never have existed. Having survived from the tragedy, Mike would stop at nothing until he finds the one responsible for shattering his world.”

2) “Now desperate and having lost the only things that mattered in his life, Mike's only goal in life is to find the true murderer of those he cherished.”

In all three translations, we see the overwhelming sense of loss, devastation and panic driving him over the edge. Having found the bodies of his comrades, and having discovered what in his mind is the suspicious departure of the circus’ newest members, the last hopes of employing his instinctive response (read: avoidance) are dashed. All at once, Mike is forced to contend with problems and pain he is unaccustomed to coping with. He dips immediately into the unhealthy emotions of the 1, the 1’s feeling of being the only one who is Right and Good; he alone can know the Truth.

This reading is supplemented by the correspondence we have from Mike to a man by the name of Arthur Russell. Thanks to being included as content for both Mike and Murro’s character days, we have not one but two samples of his writing post-Hullabaloo disaster. Following on the heels of the Encore deduction target, Mike’s drastic tonal shift while writing stands in stark contrast to his earlier, livelier musings. Mike’s birthday letter is as follows:

“Dear Mr. Arthur Russell,

The investigation report you've sent last time was of great assistance to me. In regard to the animal tamer Natalie, also known as Margaretha Zelle, I wish to acquire further information on her upbringing as well as her life before the circus. Starting next week, I will be out of town for a while, and your salary will be paid in the same payment method per usual. There is no need to send in your report this time. I will pick them up at your residence.

I look forward to your reply.

Yours Truly,

Mike Morton”

We can see that he has adopted a very formal voice, adhering to proper etiquette and expressing his thoughts in an impersonal, emotionally distant way. Without knowing whose signature adorns this letter, one could easily be convinced that this was penned by Bernard. In fact, my first time reading this letter caused me a moment of confusion; surely it was a mistake, a particularly egregious error similar to the mistranslation of Priestess’ name. After all, how could Mike have been the one to write in such a clipped, formal style? Yet, here is Murro’s birthday letter:

“Dear Mr. Russell,

Due to unforeseen circumstances, your mission objective has been "eliminated" prior to the engagement of your employee.

Therefore, I regret to inform you that the remaining payment is beyond my obligation, as stated in our agreement. After all, no one could possibly uncover a fully-intact cranial remains within that pile of ashes.

I wish you well.

Your loyal customer,

Mike Morton”

There is no denying it, Mike did in fact send these letters. His playful, somewhat childish persona is just that: an act. Underneath it, he is incredibly capable and self-sufficient, and the letters seem to place a great deal of emphasis on the matter of “should” or “shouldn’t”, whether something “ought to be” or not. He must do the right thing, in the right way; he expects others to do the same. To the reader, there is a feeling that beneath the carefully controlled surface lies a mass of ugly emotions. There is anger. There is resentment. There is a gradual movement towards a breaking point. It is precisely this which led people to initially believe that Mike himself could have been the circus killer. The details are obscure, the content sinister, the controlled tone reading as hiding something — some dark secret. Murro’s birthday letter seems to imply that Mike has hired a hitman to “eliminate” somebody — likely Murro — but an incident (perhaps even one of his own making) has prematurely killed that person off.

What these letters show us is the 1’s methodical approach; they bear a striking similarity to Mike’s early deduction summaries, as though Mike were subconsciously attempting to borrow from Bernard’s more structured, 1ish mannerisms. With a professionalism and formality that is unassailable in its dignity, but with the base 7’s falsely cheerful tone and the 6 wing’s suspicious nature, Mike sends letters to this “Arthur Russell” character.

Why wing 6 rather than wing 8? Especially when given his apparent embrace of violent means? Well, despite his vengeful rage, he does display the 6 wing’s avoidance of conflict, when possible; as far back as the second deduction target, this is made clear. Mike’s reaction to Bernard denying his request was not to lash out, or argue; he simply moped about it later, when he was alone. Then, when Bernard suspected Mike of disfiguring Joker’s face, Mike’s response was again one of disappointment, not aggression.

The mere fact that Mike would say that Bernard’s accusations “really hurt” falls in direct opposition to the 8’s unwillingness to display weakness of any kind. Even in jest, exposing one’s own emotional vulnerability is not something a 7 with a strong 8 wing would be comfortable doing. On the other hand, the 6 wing is far likelier to allow this; one defense mechanism of the 6, after all, is to appear vulnerable in an attempt to elicit protective feelings from an authority figure. Further evidence is supplied by Mike’s Deduction Star 2020 quotes.

Quote: "Don't think I'll trust you so easily, you cute little thing."

Here, Mike is speaking with the playfulness of his base, 7, while communicating a 6ish difficulty in trusting others. Especially when directed at someone (or something?) “little” and “cute”, this suspicion really does play to the 6’s anxiety and doubt. Where an 8 may feel powerful and confident in the presence of something that appears defenseless, a 6 will be wary; it can’t possibly be so simple, right? Surely it’s a trap?

A 7 with an 8 wing would be more likely to find this mixture of traits endearing, perhaps even themself feeling some twinge of protectiveness. The 8, in general, tends to champion the underdog, desiring to defend that which is innocent or tender. Besides which, the 7w8 is far more blunt and forceful; if there is doubt of a person’s trustworthiness, the problem will be dealt with head-on. It is the 7w6 who will communicate a lack of trust in the lighthearted manner used in the quote; after all, the 6 wing doesn’t want to escalate the situation unless it becomes absolutely necessary.

What of this Deduction Star quote: "I won't let go of the person that destroyed Hullabaloo’.”? Does this not embody the 8’s ego fixation, vengeance? Well yes, but actually no. It’s easy to mistake his actions as being driven by this, as both the 7 and the 8 share an assertive Hornevian type. However, the 8 experiences threats as a challenge, a call to battle; the 8 will make their presence known, and the subject of their wrath will be aware that they have a target painted on their back. By contrast, the 7’s aggression is more of an entitlement, and need not manifest itself overtly all of the time. The 6 wing is what allows the 7 to readily employ the dishonest, underhanded scheming that Mike happily does.

8’s “holy idea” is truth, meaning a life-long search for truth and justice. Mike does not show any interest in such a thing until after the slaughter. His 7’s harmonic pattern of optimistic outlook is twisted into the 1’s focus of attention on what’s imperfect and must be made better. His active nature is turned toward a need to do the “right thing” in the “right way”, with the 1’s ego fixation of resentment driving his actions. But what is it that separates the 8’s vengeance from the 1’s resentment, and how does Mike display one over the other?

The 8’s need for justice calls for the righting of all wrongs, notably towards those they feel protective of, while the 1’s resentment stems from needing to do the “good work” that others won’t notice, won’t care about, or won’t make a “strong enough effort” to do. Not only did Mike not feel protective of his fellow Hullabaloo performers, but we see from the newspaper clipping that “insufficient effort” on the part of law enforcement played a significant role in Mike’s outlook. His search for the “truth” behind the killings, then, is the 1ish excuse for his own actions. His goal is “noble”, therefore, his actions are “right” or “necessary”. The final deduction, “Reappearance”, further solidifies this view.

Summary: “Call their names and make them return to the stage once again.”

Conclusion: “Invitation: Enclosed is a photo of a dark-haired woman with a name on the back - Natalie.”

We find out what he was sent that brought him to Oletus: the knowledge that Natalie is at the manor. Remember, now, that he has been investigating Natalie under the suspicion that she was involved; he had no real evidence. Still, he insists that he is after the “truth”. This falls in line with the 1’s strong sense of purpose, coupled with the need to justify their actions to themselves (and sometimes others as well). He has convinced himself that he is following logic and perhaps objective truth, when in reality, he is allowing his own judgements and unsubstantiated convictions to guide his actions.

Driving this point home is one of his dislikes being listed as “violent and rude people”. Yet, somehow, Mike seemingly hired a hitman, and may have had some involvement in Murro’s death. This is the hypocrisy of the unhealthy 1: it is evil and bad when others do it, but the 1 is exempt, since they are acting for a good cause. (On the other hand, a stronger influence from the 8 would allow for the admittance of double standards, but with justification along the lines of “law of the jungle” or “the strong devour the weak”.)

Considering all of this, Mike’s childish persona seems to be a product of a 7 base with a 6 wing; his desire to enact retribution upon the circus killer comes from the 7’s disintegration to 1, not from an 8 wing. Following the tragedy at Hullabaloo, Mike undergoes a transformation: his spirited, ludic nature turns condemnatory, moralistic, and ultimately, vindictive.

[msclaritea]

Amy Coney Barrett is a Gun Rights nut and a serious danger to the public. Please read:

“Judge Amy Coney Barrett acknowledges that the decision she considers most significant in her relatively short time as a judge “sounds kind of radical”: She doesn’t believe the Constitution gives government the authority to ban all felons from owning guns.

One gun law expert calls the opinion an “audition tape” for the Supreme Court nomination she received, and Democrats plan to argue at Barrett’s confirmation hearings beginning Monday that it puts her far outside the mainstream. Even, they say, to the right of her conservative former boss, the late Justice Antonin Scalia.

“She is extreme on this issue,” said Sen. Richard Blumenthal (D-Conn.), a member of the Senate Judiciary Committee. “She would go much farther than her mentor Scalia did in striking down common sense measures.”

Supporters are enthusiastic about Barrett’s 37-page dissent in Kanter v. Barr, in which she argues only those shown to be dangerous may be stripped of their Second Amendment rights to guns, and that simply being convicted of a felony is not enough.

The opinion “shows that she takes the Constitution’s text and history seriously,” said Ilya Shapiro of the libertarian Cato Institute, and is committed to “holding the government’s feet to the fire” when individual rights are at stake.

The opinion — even some liberals who worry about its implications praise its craftsmanship — provides a preview of the kind of Supreme Court justice the 48-year-old former Notre Dame law professor would make.

For one, it shows a deep commitment to “originalist” interpretation of the Constitution, the method used by Justices Clarence Thomas and President Trump’s other Supreme Court choices, Neil M. Gorsuch and Brett M. Kavanaugh, to most often reach conservative outcomes.

Certainly it indicates that, if confirmed, Barrett would likely cement a majority more open to reexamining gun control laws that states and cities say are necessary for public safety and that critics contend crimp constitutional rights. Conservative justices have been itching to take on one of the court’s most controversial topics.

And Barrett’s Kanter dissent shows boldness and a propensity for casting off established readings of the law.

She had been on the U.S. Court of Appeals for the 7th Circuit less than a year when the case arrived before her. But she used it to sharply question federal and state laws that have been in place for decades.

She rejected the arguments of the Trump administration’s Justice Department and broke with the views of two fellow Republican-nominated judges on the appellate panel who brought a combined 72 years of experience.

Barrett looked at Scalia’s important caveat in the 2008 landmark decision establishing an individual right to gun ownership — “nothing in our opinion should be taken to cast doubt on longstanding prohibitions on the possession of firearms by felons and the mentally ill” — and saw daylight.

The court’s 5-to-4 decision in District of Columbia v. Heller only offered that up as part of a list of “presumptively” lawful measures, Barrett noted.

“The constitutionality of felon dispossession was not before the court in Heller, and because it explicitly deferred analysis of this issue, the scope of its assertion is unclear,” she wrote.

So she and her clerks set out to do their own analysis, she told a group of students at conservative Hillsdale College last year.

“I had to do a pretty deep dive into the history of the Second Amendment,” she said. Founding-era legislatures were concerned with keeping weapons from those considered dangerous, she concluded, but just being convicted of a certain level of crime was not enough.

“That sounds kind of radical, to say felons can have firearms,” Barrett told the students, but she said her examination found “no blanket authority just to take guns” without showing the person was dangerous.

At the same time, she said, government may take away certain civic rights, such as voting or the ability to serve on a jury, upon being convicted of a crime. 

Her position on the felon dispossession issue is at odds with nearly all other federal appeals court decisions on the issue.

Barrett’s elevation to the Supreme Court would pose a “real risk that the court has a majority making decisions to overturn hugely popular laws that save lives. We have an epidemic of gun violence in this country and this kind of reasoning ignores that,” said Kris Brown, president of the Brady Campaign to Prevent Gun Violence, noting Barrett listed the dissent first among her 10 most significant cases in her Senate questionnaire.

But Alan Morrison, a George Washington University law professor who was among the lawyers who defended the District of Columbia’s strict handgun ban that the Supreme Court struck down in Heller, thinks Barrett may be right.

“I agree with her conclusion that if you have a Second Amendment right — and I still have my doubts about it — then surely you ought to worry about people who are going to do dangerous things with guns,” Morrison said.

The plaintiff in the case “may be a crook, but there is no evidence that he is going to be dangerous,” Morrison said.

Rickey Kanter, from Mequon, Wis., pleaded guilty in 2011 to a single count of mail fraud for selling therapeutic shoe inserts that he misrepresented as Medicare-approved through his “Dr. Comfort” business. He was sentenced to a year and one day in prison, ordered to pay $50,000 and to reimburse Medicare over $27 million in a related civil settlement.

After Kanter served his time and paid the penalties, he challenged state and federal laws that prevented him as a felon from ever owning a gun.

It was a case gun-control groups worried about. “There was a real concern in the gun safety community that challengers were identifying very sympathetic plaintiffs in an effort to chip away at the effectiveness of the felon regime,” said Washington lawyer Deepak Gupta, who filed an amicus brief in the case for the group Everytown for Gun Safety.

Felon possession bans “are at the heart of background-check systems, concealed-carry licensing schemes, and many arrests and prosecutions for firearms offenses,” the brief said. “Kanter’s arguments would fatally undermine these systems.”

Judges Joel Flaum and Kenneth Francis Ripple, nominated to the 7th Circuit by President Ronald Reagan, ruled for the government. They said the federal and Wisconsin laws banning felons were sufficiently related to the government’s goal of keeping guns out of the hands of those convicted of serious crimes.

The government had justified the restrictions with studies showing higher recidivism rates among those convicted of even nonviolent felonies, they said. Moreover, courts are not equipped to predict which nonviolent felons pose a risk and which do not, they wrote.

“The highly individualized approach Kanter proposes raises serious institutional and administrative concerns,” Flaum wrote, noting Congress told the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives to abandon a program in which nonviolent felons could seek to have their gun rights restored as too time consuming and costly.

Barrett had a different take, after a six-month and exhaustive historical review. It touches on early state constitutions, founding-era documents and dictionaries and ancient law, such as the 1328 Statute of Northampton — the ancient English statute regulating the carrying of weapons.

She also quotes the colorful line from a law review written by UCLA professor Adam Winkler: “It is hard to imagine how banning Martha Stewart or Enron’s Andrew Fastow from possessing a gun furthers public safety.”

Winkler, the author of the book “Gunfight: The Battle over the Right to Bear Arms in America” and the one who compared Barrett’s dissent to an audition tape, agrees with the judge’s conclusion.

But he said it arguably envisions broader Second Amendment protections than provided by Scalia, who characterized the individual right to own a gun as belonging to “law-abiding, responsible citizens.”

Barrett’s reliance on historical precedent, Winkler said, could jeopardize modern-era policies like “red flag” laws that allow law enforcement officials to remove guns from people at risk of harming themselves or others, and bans on machine guns first passed in the 1980s.

“I don’t think Justice Barrett is going to say you have a constitutional right to machine guns, but this is the question raised by her approach,” Winkler said. “It cuts off innovative reforms and calls into question certain laws.”

Clark Neily of Cato, one of the lawyers who challenged the D.C. law in Heller, said Barrett’s detailed opinion suggests the view: “I know this is a high profile case that will get a lot of attention, and I’m going to walk you through my precise thought pattern, so you won’t have to guess why I came to this conclusion.”

Without Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg, Neily added, “there’s no doubt that on balance the court can be expected to be more favorable to cases presenting Second Amendment claims.” But he said he would not expect the court to move quickly.

In its last term, though, several of the court’s conservative justices expressed frustration that the court has provided no guidance on Second Amendment issues for a decade; Thomas frequently complains gun rights receive less attention from his colleagues than abortion rights.

Still, the court refused to take up nearly a dozen cases in which gun rights groups claimed restrictions violated Second Amendment rights.

Chief Justice John G. Roberts Jr. is thought not to be excited about the prospect of more gun cases. He is the only conservative justice who at one point or another has not publicly disagreed with the court’s decision not to accept a gun-control case.

But Barrett could change the math, and conservatives would no longer need the chief to count to five votes.”

This woman is disgusting. Please note by the highlighted part above that she has NO problem with people losing other, more vital rights. But keeping guns from felons is No Bueno.

[moonlightchess]

On Lesser Ghosts, my perpetually in-progress novel, a cast of current characters:

Brandon Graham: 30 years old, police investigator for the Dorset Police Department of Dorset, Vermont. The sole survivor of serial killer Seth Morgan, active throughout the bulk of the 90s and all the way through 2003, when he was captured shortly after a 15-year-old Brandon escaped his nightmarish year of captivity in the Morgan house. Casually alcoholic, gay, entirely jaded and weary of the world, but stronger than he appears at first glance. Recently assigned to the case of Cora Tycho, a promising young physics student from the Lower Prince area of Vermont who has gone missing.

Dr. Casey Tycho: 30 years old, and Dorset PD’s newest medical examiner. A British expatriate originally hailing from north London, Casey is the antithesis to the human disaster of Brandon. Sharp, extensively educated, responsible and diligent, he wears silk-lined suit vests and ties to work and has been sleeping with Brandon for six months in an arrangement that Brandon refuses to acknowledge as any sort of relationship. He’s quietly accepted this, both out of respect for Brandon’s boundaries and because being black and openly gay in a small Vermont town may not be the most desirable situation. His sister Cora has gone missing, and he hates how little he wants Brandon on the case, but he knows better than anyone how unstable the man can be.

Sara Graham: Brandon’s younger sister at 27 years old, a folk musician and “crafty mess” by her own admission. Bright, curious, extroverted and warm, much of her life has been dedicated to worrying about her brother. She makes beaded jewelry and pottery on the weekends, collects coffee mugs, and is a driving force in Brandon’s life, though he occasionally wonders if she doesn’t resent him at least a little for the way his kidnapping and subsequent fame as Seth Morgan’s sole surviving victim dominated her younger years. The two are very close, and she’s determined to not allow him to lie down and give up on the Cora Tycho case, no matter how much tension and distance it’s created between he and Casey.

Sasha Prescott: Brandon’s boss, police chief of the DPD. Tough as nails, but she harbors a soft spot for Brandon in spite of his sporadic displays of instability and recklessness in the past. Especially protective of Casey, having long since come to the conclusion that Dorset’s black community is small at best and they have to stick together - the disappearance of Cora, a young black woman in her town, has been keeping her up at night. Her hawk’s stare and firm hand keep the entire department in line, but this also means that she has a constant target on her back.

Kris Alden: A mystery. Was with Cora Tycho on the night she went missing during a camping trip in the woods. Claims he went home early, a result of stomach problems. Not much intel on him yet.

Audrey and Stephen: The forensic lab techs, working directly under Casey. Odd, dreamy types, ensconced in their own little world much of the time. May know more than they’re letting on.

Read the first few pages below!

                                                   🔍🔍🔍

09.12.19:

A burning and industrious early-morning sun insisted upon bullying the pleasant warmth of Casey’s skin into something too harsh to ignore as Brandon groaned, rolling over onto his stomach in bed.  Beside him, Casey stretched, languid as an enormous cat, his sleep likely having been far more restful. Still, his smile was tender as he reached for him, and the scent of coffee brewing from the kitchen suggested that he’d already been up once to make it for him. The sweetness of the gesture hurt, and he curled away from his touch. “Too fucking hot.”

“It’s only going to be about seventy today.” Because of course Casey knew the day’s predicted weather already, of course he was as on top of it as he was everything else in his life. Casey, with his autumn-brown skin and gentle, fox-gold eyes like candlelit amber, of course he was ready with coffee brewing and the forecast on his phone. They were the same age, thirty, but Casey was one of those rare people who had been an adult since twelve. He’d probably delighted in collecting school supplies for a new year when none of his friends gave a shit, he was the type of person who always knew where his keys were. He had a set-in-stone laundry day, which had blown Brandon’s mind when he’d first learned of it. Even now, at six AM, he smelled like fresh fucking bread. Literally the worst human, Brandon had long since concluded, but the sex was fantastic.

Wordlessly, he rolled over for his first cigarette of the day, ignoring Casey’s softly disapproving sound behind him. He briefly considered reminding him of his total lack of access into his personal life, that whatever happened between them sexually meant ten kinds of nothing outside the bedroom, but Casey had never pushed or questioned his boundaries. He kept his distance as Brandon rolled naked out of bed, ambling to the window to shove it open before disappearing into the bathroom without further comment. He gave him time to shower before following, tapping his fingertips against the glass shower door with a quiet, “Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“Want company?”

“Oh, uh. No.”

There was a pause, and then Casey’s silhouette nodding silently, turning to go. He was unique in that Brandon never felt so much as a semblance of guilt about bluntly rejecting the affections of anyone but him, and now it felt sharp. The hot spray of water went needle-harsh against his skin, but he still ignored the coffee Casey had left on the counter for him, as well as the text blinking on his phone. Eat something. Don’t be too late for work, Sasha will have your ass. Even now, he did his best to take care of him as much as Brandon would allow, but he rationalized that he’d never promised the man a damn thing. In fact, he’d made his limitations abundantly clear on the first night they’d tumbled, panting, into bed together, roughly six months ago. The problem was, there was another man. He was persistent and jealous, and he was always around. He was sitting on the edge of his bed right now, in fact. Late forties, moon-pale skin and sleek, ink-black hair, his deceptive youthfulness undercut by the coldness lingering in his dark eyes.

Seth waited, silent, watching Brandon dress. The most attention he ever paid to his honey-blonde mess of hair was a quick tugging of his brush, and the woodsmoke cologne his sister had given him for Christmas last year was left mostly unused on the dresser. His morning routine had long since boiled down to a quick shower, shave, and brushing of teeth and hair before throwing on whatever happened to be clean regardless of its fashionable implications. Today, Seth watched him button up a loose black Oxford over a pair of battered jeans, before embarking upon a ten-minute search for his keys because he wasn’t Casey and never would be.

A light drizzle began to dissolve the heat of the day like sugar in warm coffee once he was on the road, clouds going dense and dark with the sweet threat of a proper rain. Sasha had already texted him - 9:10, Graham. Late again. Casey had tried to warn him, but then he always did, and Brandon never listened. Elgar helped to swallow Sasha’s nearly tangible contempt for his time management skills as he drove, and beside him, Seth settled into the passenger’s seat to stare thoughtfully out at the increasingly heavy rain.

10.4.2003:

This far north into Vermont, where Seth’s house teetered on the border into Canada, winters descended early and lingered long. The ceiling-to-floor steel and rebar support pipe Brandon had been handcuffed to by the wrists for the past two weeks had absorbed the seeping chill, and Seth had only dressed him in a filthy, tattered wifebeater and a pair of old blue flannel pajama pants that smelled suffocatingly of mothballs. He woke every few hours with numb, stinging toes, shivering and dripping. The handcuffs Seth had restrained him with had to have been ordered from somewhere - there was no soft pink fur lining to suggest an intended use of foreplay, and instead they were solid in a deadly way, a way that thunked every time he slid them locked with a firm sense of finality. 

A fever burned through his bones overnight near the middle of October, and finally some part of Seth seemed to awaken to his basic human needs. He was provided a deeply itchy wool blanket that felt woven from canvas and sandpaper, but it did the job of keeping him warm. Every few nights, his worn boots would thud down the basement steps to offer him a plate of cold, congealed noodles that he’d clearly been keeping in the fridge. His wrists went raw and scabbed with the endless scrape of the cuffs, his knees cramping in their bent position. Stretching his legs was possible, but uncomfortable. The days began to melt together, the constant darkness of the basement transforming time into a static thing. He slept when the wave of exhaustion became too much to fight, he woke and watched the shadows when sleep eluded him. He lost all sense of night or day, the passage of hours.

Three weeks deep, the frantic hope that he’d be found began to fade. The basement began to feel like his place, and he began to forget what it felt like to not fall asleep hugging a metal pipe. Seth was strangely reassuring, an exponential effect that seemed to correlate with his slow acceptance of his situation. As time dissolved and desperation waned, Seth’s approval bloomed. Sometimes, now, the noodles were warm and slick from boiling water, fresh. His blanket was replaced with a less abrasive one, albeit filthy. At fourteen years old, Brandon learned that life began and ended here in his cold, dark basement. The memory of the day he’d been taken seemed irrelevant now, the faces of his parents to whom he’d clung so desperately in those early days.

“I know that you don’t understand.” Seth’s voice was soft, gentle more often than not, sedately erudite like a classics professor on vacation in the woods for the holidays. He was quite articulate, expressing himself fairly eloquently whenever he came into the basement to speak to him. “It sounds trite, like something Keats might have written, but believe me when I say that this is your chrysalis phase, Brandon. It’s tight and uncomfortable and emerging will be a painful struggle, but I want you to trust me. I know it’s asking a lot of you right now, but I also know that your eyes are open and you’ll get there. I trust you already.”

He wore a lot of high-collared fleece sweaters in earth tones and he kept his silky hair longish, framing his face in a soft sort of way that left him mild and relaxed to the eye. Brandon learned to crave him, the only human voice, presence, that he’d experienced in a month as the end of October approached. He couldn’t express this yet, but Seth would smile down at him, bending at the knees to wrap him in a new blanket or to offer him the day’s plate of noodles. Sometimes the blankets were splattered with fresh bloodstains and sometimes the noodles were wrapped around bullets of sausage that tasted blandly wrong, but he was there.

Once, shortly before Halloween, the burgeoning bond between them inspired him to blurt, “I wouldn’t say anything, you know. You could just let me go, you wouldn’t even have to drive me home. I’d never tell anyone, I understand your work here--” because Seth had often referenced his cryptic “work” without elaborating. “I won’t try to stop you, you could just--”

Seth’s open hand slammed into the side of his head, smacking his skull into the metal pipe with a gut-churning clang. The world exploded into white fire, his vision briefly going dark as his brain struggled to retain consciousness. A thick, hot ooze of dark blood began to gush from his nostrils, but he was too resigned at that point to so much as scream. Instead, he moaned softly, sagging forward as his head began to throb in time with his heartbeat. The agony was blinding, but he didn’t pass out, which came as something of a disappointment.

A month and a week passed.

09.12.19:

Dorset’s PD’s station was one of the lingering bastions of old-school police architecture, all museum-high ceilings and wooden desks arranged in rows. Brandon wove his way between them on his way to Sasha’s office, set high above the ground floor grunts and their ancient desktop computers. He’d always respected the way she’d left the glass panels that made up the front wall of her office intact, leaving her visible to her officers and techs alike. She was typing on her own laptop when he tapped his fingers against said glass, waving him inside. A still-steaming paper cup of Two Brews sat on her desk, littered with loose papers that themselves were littered with her scribbled notes. My office, whenever you decide to show up, she’d texted him.

Sasha Prescott was forty-four years old with dense, dark curls clipped short and precise. With her high cheekbones, full lips and velvet-dark skin, she could easily have been a model even in her middle age, dominating an industry obsessed with youth. And dominate it she would have - there was a carefully cultivated air of laser focus that she wore like armor wrapped around her, her narrow, jewel-black eyes piercing through lies and alibis like a hot knife through butter. She and Brandon’s mutual respect had led to a highly efficient and successful working relationship over the years, and they both appreciated that neither was in any way interested in developing any sort of personal friendship outside of work.

Now, he dropped into the Quaker chair in front of her desk and considered making an attempt for her coffee, which she didn’t appear to have started drinking yet. Her signature plum lipstick had not yet stained the rim, but she zeroed in on his intent with her standard razor perception and shook her head. “I will literally stab you,” she said casually, and he let his hand fall to his knee instead.

“What’s up?”

“First off, roll in here late again and I’ll write your ass up. Secondly, we have a delicate situation in our laps right now and I want some input on how to deal with it.”

Arching an eyebrow, Brandon kept his tone as nonplussed as possible. Too much visible interest might have convinced Sasha to change her mind, one of her stranger quirks. “I’m listening.”

“Cora Tycho is missing, as of somewhere around midnight last night.”

He nearly rose to his feet despite his resolve, an icy fist punching straight through his ribcage to seize his heart. “Casey’s sister?”

Sasha confirmed this with a short nod, her lips pressed tight. “She was out camping with a friend near the Lower Prince quarry. Her friend, Kris Alden, fell ill shortly after they ate dinner and decided to go home. Cora wanted to drive him, but there was no one available to take her back once he was home and he claims he felt guilty about making her miss some super-moon or whatever the hell it is, told her he could make it home on his own. She never came back from the woods, the Alden kid shared a class with her that she skipped this morning and no one has been able to reach her via call or text. It’s not enough to assume that she’s officially a ten-fifty-seven just yet, but people are starting to worry. She’s never been someone to just bail on everything like this, Kris described her as very thoughtful and responsible.”

“You’ve already sent someone out to talk to him? Does Casey know?”

“Not yet. That’s actually what I wanted your input on - obviously he’s not getting anywhere near this case, but given the personal nature of your relationship with him what are your thoughts on his capability to handle the work environment in general as it’s investigated? Should I just send him on a vacation until this is cleared, or is he frosty enough to stay professional here at the station while his sister is missing? You know him better than any of us.”

Brandon’s brain reeled. “Personal nature? I don’t know what sort of relationship any of you are under the impression that we--not that any of you should have any impression of our relationship, I mean. Shit. We’re not in a relationship! I barely know him!” His voice was raising in pitch while he remained completely unaware, his knuckles going white around the armrests of the Quaker chair. Sasha exhaled sharply through her nose.

“Jesus. Do I need to send you on a vacation too? Get your shit together.”

“Fuck. Okay.” Pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, he exhaled. “Casey is one hundred percent able to handle working while this is being solved, but that doesn’t mean he should. I doubt he’ll let you send him on a vacation, but try anyway. He doesn’t deserve to be here all day, trying to focus on other shit while half of Dorset is trying to figure out if his sister’s body is rotting in the woods somewhere. He should be with his family.”

“I’ll do my best. I’m giving this girl until tonight to turn up, and then I’m issuing a gloves-off ten-fifty-seven.” Sasha’s voice went to iron, and it occurred to Brandon that she cared for Casey as much as anyone at the DPD did. He was the lifeblood of the forensics labs, their unflappable new medical examiner whose lingering British accent left over from a youth spent in west London had a way of soothing even the most panicked and horrified relative of one of his corpses. 

“I need you to go into far more detail about the supposed “nature” of my relationship with Casey, up to and including just how the hell you even knew about it at all. Not that it’s anything. At all.”

“Would you kindly climb off my dick, Graham? I’ve got enough shit on my plate right now.”

“Sasha.”

“Settle down. No one else knows anything, even though according to you there’s nothing to know. It’s just that a lifetime of police investigation have left me a highly observant person--”

“A lifetime? You’re in your forties, don’t start writing your memoirs yet you drama queen.”

“...And as such, I’ve noticed you two leaving work together occasionally, showing up around the same time in very deliberately separate cars but sometimes accidentally wearing each other’s shirts, things like that. Things only I would ever notice, I promise. No one else has mentioned anything to me, and you know they would if the rumor mill was running about it.”

“Fine. Whatever. Any more intel on Cora?”

Wordlessly, Sasha slid a manila envelope across her stately desk. Opening it, Brandon was confronted with a glossy photo of a beautiful young woman, all sparkling honey eyes and rich dark skin like a sunset’s sweet glow, thick black hair meticulously oiled and wrapped and beaded into immaculate dreadlocks that she’d pulled back with a sky-blue silk scarf for her senior high school photo, Cora wore her brother’s beauty as elegantly as he did. They shared the same royally rounded nose and high cheekbones, full lips and dimples. His chest ached, and he brushed his fingertips against the photo thoughtfully without realizing he was doing it. Sasha had compiled everything - her academic records, notes on her hobbies and habits, her generally expected whereabouts on any given day. She had no legal record to speak of, her profile speaking to a bright, clean-cut girl with a gleaming future in physics.

“She was a student at NVU,” Sasha supplied. “Is a student. Solid grades, a quiet type, well-liked by her peers but not known to be a partier. Close with her family, especially our Casey. Loved to cook, according to reports. She entered several baking competitions last year, even won a couple. Played the violin all throughout high school, but turned down a suggested spot on NVU’s student orchestra. Said she didn’t want it to interfere with her study time, according to the orchestra leader I called. She seemed laser-focused on her goal of working for NASA someday, had a whole vision board about it on Pinterest.”

“I’ll start with Kris Alden. I’ll head out to his place today.”

“Start with Casey. I don’t want him to hear about this on the news, and my official statement on the case is going live tomorrow morning.”

“Shit. Okay.” Scooping the file up under his arm, he rose to his feet. “I’ll go talk to him, he down in the forensics lab?”

“With Audrey and Stephen. See if you can get him alone, he won’t like his techs seeing him break down in front of them if he reacts poorly.”

“How the hell else do you expect him to react to the news that his sister is missing?”

“I’m just saying, let’s be conscious of how difficult this is going to be for him. You’re not exactly known for your tact, but you have the best shot at holding him together here. You know as well as I do that the longer we go without finding this girl, the less of a chance we have.”

Brandon paused at her office door. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “Took me a year to get out of that basement.”

He hated the way her gaze softened, and so he made his way out without a goodbye to make a point, ignoring the irritating hiss of her compressed-air door mechanism that refused to let him leave with a satisfying slam. The forensics lab and department morgue was located in the basement of the station for obvious reasons, a narrow elevator depositing him into the DPD’s underground two minutes later. The temperature dropped by a few degrees once the doors slid open, the stone all around them cooling the air. He couldn’t hear the rain anymore, down here, and he found Audrey and Stephen hunched over a severed hand on a sleek chrome examination tray in the lab.

Audrey was tall and willowy, twenty-six with ice-blonde hair wound into a messy braid that she’d draped over one shoulder, so pale and slim that there was something ghostly about her, especially when taking into consideration her gray eyes so light and translucent they were nearly colorless, like a mirror or a deep-sea creature. She wore a white lab coat over a pair of black jeans and a loose, baggy gray sweater - she wore a lot of gray, black and white, and she always looked like a spectre, an overcast ocean. The selkies would have accepted her as one of theirs upon sight. Stephen was only barely as tall as her, with a much friendlier face, soft freckled cheeks and tanned skin suggesting a childhood spent outdoors working off baby fat. He had peanut-brown curls tumbling over his forehead and round, intelligent hazel eyes, a sharply defined mouth and an easily cheery demeanor. Oddly enough, he and Audrey were quite close.

“Hey guys. Anyone seen Casey?”

“Down in the morgue.” Audrey pointed to her feet, indicating the sub-level beneath them. “He left this hand with us and told us to collect data samples and disappeared. He’s been down there all morning.”

“Do you know whose hand it is?”

“Pretty sure it belongs to that wheat farmer who turned up in the hospital last week missing one. I mean, how many hands could there be unaccounted for in Vermont right now?” Stephen grinned, snapping his gum. He took a kind of morbid glee in his work, something Brandon had always suspected Audrey shared with him.

“Left hands, to boot,” Audrey added, shrugging. “How are you, Brandon?”

“I’m fine. I’d love to stay and um, look at the hand with you guys, but I’ve got to talk to Casey. Have...fun?”

Stephen’s grin widened. “Oh, we will, friend.”

“I hate the way you say things.”

Stephen’s laughter followed him back into the elevator, which delivered him to the bottomost floor of the DPD headquarters. Casey was there, bent over his own work, having forgone his stiff lab coat in favor of his neatly tucked-in dove-gray button-down, black silk tie, charcoal dress vest and matching creased slacks. His leftover British sensibilities were evident in his crisply classic style, always semi-formal and expensive even when he dressed “down” in Burberry cashmere sweaters and custom-tailored jeans. He looked so unflappable that Brandon’s faith in him was stirred anew, and he approached with more tenderness than was normal for him. His aura alerted Casey to something amiss upon impact, and he narrowed his eyes at him before saying a word. “Don’t see you down here often, love.” The last word slipped out before he could stop it, and Brandon watched him flinch minutely, almost imperceptibly.

[satin-swallow]

Mystery at Mountbatten || Chapter Eight || Straight Down to Earth

“Josephine stared at her with tortured pain etched all across her face, ‘I can already see her in your eyes.’”

Fandom: Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries Characters: Phryne Fisher & Jack Robinson Rating: T Genre: Mystery/Suspense/Ghost Story

By the light of day, no one really dares to share what they've been through.

Please read and comment at AO3 if you have a moment. Thank you!

“Paint ghosts over everything, the sadness of everything.”

(Richard Siken, War of the Foxes)

  They had - none of them - dared to speak a word about it.

 As they sat down the hall from Arthur Johns’ hospital room, there was silence apart from the mumbling that could be heard beneath the door as doctors shuffled about their morning duties. The muted babble gave the air of strained questions and dim concerns. Reginald stood near the window of the waiting room, his face the most serious any had perhaps seen it as he gently held his arm, which was bound and slung, a grazed bullet-wound rendering it all but useless for the moment. Hugh’s head was in his hands as he sat forward on an old wooden chair, guilt clawing at him ferociously, and the feeling of his pistol - now confiscated - still resting heavy in his palm. Mac, not quite as incapacitated as poor Dr Winslow, had leaned against a nearby table after she had been ushered out of the room; even with a patch of gauze to mark the spot in which she had been injured, she still wore the white coat that illustrated the care she had insisted on giving the boy at once.

 Soon, though, it had been time for questions.

 The doctor had now turned her attention to Phryne, watching her closely as she stood at the centre of the room, staring at the door as though it might grant her access to the interview down the way by sheer will. Her eyes were fixed and if Mac knew anything - which of course she did, and a great deal - she knew that meant that her friend was deeply troubled by the whole affair.  

 Then, weren’t they all?      

 When that door finally opened, it seemed that Phryne had been in some sort of trance, frozen in place until the moment she had stepped forward into Jack’s path and pressed him without speaking for everything he knew. His face was grave, clearly exhausted, and the shake of his head made all in the room hold their breaths.

 “He won’t speak,” he muttered hoarsely to Phryne, and it broke her heart on the spot. Her fingers curled round until they were clutching at his sleeve, and held his gaze with an earnest grief, “He just… he can’t.”

 “Not even to his parents?”

 Jack simply shook his head.

 “It’s the trauma,” Mac added gravely, “we’ve seen it before with children, a kind of shell shock.”  

 That the same impact could be visited on a child as on a man returned from war, none fancied to consider for long. Jack swallowed before the practicality of his work wrapped up those concerns into a more functional outlook, “Yes, well, at least he’s now safe. His parents will stay with him and report anything further to the Constabulary as it arises.”

 The silence seemed to ring. Could the entirety of the thing really come to nothing more than a watching brief?

 “And our reports?” Reginald offered up meekly.

 “What we need in the first instance has already been handled by the constables on duty at the Hall,” Jack responded, “we’ll call you in for the formalities tomorrow, when you’ve had a chance to rest.”

 Phryne’s grasp had not left Jack’s sleeve, just as her eyes had not left his face. They now seemed to echo the thoughts from around the room that ‘rest’ might not be had for some time.

 “You’re free to leave,” Jack said. Nobody moved.

 None asked what was next either, since the precarious nature of the whole was more than apparent. Indeed they were sure that the announcement of Arthur Johns’ reappearance would be widely reported considering the surrounding circumstances - which more than a few might consider unusual - and which never seemed to work in the Constabulary’s favour. Whatever had happened to the boy over the past few days, it would be speculated about until it was strangled into absurdity. Actual police work would be a nightmare and the truth would grow more obscure as the days wore on. If they could not get the words direct from Arthur’s mouth, they might be lost altogether to the annals of history and conspiracy.

 Much, Phryne reflected with a little irony, like the story of Lady Cavanaugh herself.  

 The sun was pouring in through the windows, however, as though to mark the charge of time, and there seemed little but to break and reconvene when the whole twilight atmosphere of the affair had been seared by its bright beams into a more manageable reality. They ought to have learned by that point, of course, that the entire matter of reality was spinning wildly beyond expectations.

 No sooner had the room settled into the impasse, when a commotion awoke violently in the corridor outside, voices rising from incivility to outright hostility in a few moments. Jack blinked, but it was Phryne who recognised the peculiarity of the source within an instant. She pressed passed him and through the door with a stride that was reserved for dealing with only one person in the world.

 “Aunt P?” she called out as she emerged amongst the white coats and caps, Jack in tow and the others following in similar curiosity. The older woman, however, was much too busy trying to persuade the cause of the ruckus that making a scene was hardly in his favour.

 Chester Willis, imposing and clearly upset, was having none of it, however, as he towered over the man Phryne knew to be Mr Johns. The pair were caught up in an exchange of bitter aggression, and it was not long before concern turned to intervention and Phryne was running.

 “Keep your delinquent son away from my boy, Willis!” cried Mr Johns, days of grief that Phryne well understood marked across his face. “Hasn’t he done enough?!”

 “Frederick is as much a victim of this situation as Arthur!” Chester yelled back.

 “And yet here he stands while my son can’t even speak!”

 “Hey!” Jack finally called out, forcing himself between the men as it looked like it might come to blows.

 “You’ve got a lot of nerve bringing him here like this, as though he has the right after what he dragged Arthur into – “

 “He didn’t drag – “

 “Stop it, both of you!” Jack interjected, and Phryne instinctually turned to poor Frederick, standing limply next to Aunt Prudence as though he might die on the spot, white through from head to toe. She took a hold of his forearm with a reassuring squeeze.

 “I think you had better go home – “

 “Not until my son has seen his friend,“ Chester pressed.

 “His friend?” Johns saw red, “This is how he treats his friends is it?!”

 “He doesn’t mean any harm, Mr Johns, I assure you,” Prudence foolishly attempted a defence, but received only the tail end of the man’s ire.

 “That’s just it though, isn’t it?” Johns hissed, “He didn’t think beyond what he wanted all those nights ago, and now my boy is in the hospital and another one is dead! And you’re all coddling around him to make sure that dear Frederick isn’t put out!”

 “He had nothing to do with – !“

 “He was the last one on the scene! Who else could have – “

 Chester Willis at once shoved forward again at the implication, swinging wide only to meet Jack’s immediate prevention. Aunt Prudence was too horrified by the statement to contain herself any longer. The stress of a million little pressures snapped within her, “Stop it! Stop! He just wants to see Arthur!”

 Phryne reacted almost instantly, taking a firm hold of her aunt’s shoulder and turning her away at once, while Jack managed the temper of both father’s with Hugh coming in to pull Willis clear of the fray. Frederick stood stupefied, and Phryne knew that nothing would do him as much good right now as getting away from the whole debacle. She moved at once towards the doors, pressing the boy and her aunt on by the elbow.

 “He just wants to see Arthur,” Prudence muttered again, distraught as the quiver in her voice devastated her niece completely.

 “I know, Aunt P,” she answered softly, “I know.”

 ***

 “I’ve given her a tonic for her nerves,” Mac confirmed as she stepped into Aunt Prudence’s drawing room, closing the door behind her and placing her hands squarely in her pockets, “she’s resting now.” Her voice sounded as weary as Phryne felt, even as she had extracted herself from the effects of her aunt’s emotions to manage the fallout of her own.  

 “Thank you,” she offered softly, her lips shrugging into a genuine gratitude, “I’m afraid she’s taking the whole thing entirely to heart.” She stepped away from the window, taking in an abiding breath and releasing it into a deep sigh, “I can’t really blame her – it is the cruelest trick of fate that he should be called ‘Arthur’.”  

 Mac’s sympathy was meted out in silence, alongside her more pointed concern, “It’s one of a few upsetting coincidences.”

 Phryne’s eyes fixed on her friend, and she knew inherently that this was a question more than an observation. “I’m fine, Mac, honestly.”

 “I don’t think that you are,” she refused.    

 “I’m managing,” she clarified, “if I fell to pieces over every missing child, I’m sure I’d be catatonic.”

 Mac didn’t argue, looking to the floor and knowing to pick her battles. “Where’s Frederick?” she opted for the more easily answered.

 Phryne did not miss the transition, and she frowned with dissatisfaction at the entire affair, “His father took him home.”

 There, at least, was something they could agree on.

 Mac’s lip curled slightly in dislike, “If I were Fred,  I’m not sure I’d want him for me, or against.”

 “I definitely don’t have as many scruples,” Phryne tossed aside at once, “the man is odious, no matter what side he’s on.” It earned a chuckle, a relief in the circumstances, and sufficient to set aside the charge of the room. Phryne smiled in response and stepped up to the doctor to examine the damage, “And how are you?”

 “Oh, you know me,” Mac responded tilting her head slightly to allow the inspection, and touching two fingers to the little gauze patch, “I have a hard head – I’ve had to adapt for survival.”

 Phryne grinned, “I’m sorry we dragged you into the fray.”        

 Mac looked alarmed at once, “Don’t you dare – if you didn’t, I’d have to lie awake at night worrying, and there are far better things to lose sleep over.”  

 The moment descended on them and the weight of the unspoken pressed itself in from all sides as though it had been waiting behind the emerald drapes. Phryne opened her mouth to ask, but Mac quickly put a stop to it, “I’m tired Phryne, and so are you – it can wait. Arthur is safe now, it can wait.”

 It was never the right answer for Phryne’s relentless desire to know, the instinct that had driven so many of her passionate pursuits, and her investigating streak particularly, but she would accept it because she couldn’t bring herself to demand more of a friend who had already given her so much.

 “All right,” she acquiesced.

 “Good,” Mac seemed only slightly suspicious, “now I’m going home – and so should you.”  

 ***

 Phryne had not followed suit immediately; even as Mac had picked up her hat and departed, the lady detective had taken the time to make sure that Mrs Lovell had settled her aunt well enough, and leave strict instructions that she was to telephone Wardlow first thing in the morning. Even so, it seemed beyond belief that the sun might be dipping into late afternoon as she finally approached the Hispano, and she inwardly questioned whether or not she should be driving at all. Her limbs bore that heavy, lulled feeling so often present in the wake of adrenaline and sleep deprivation, and her mind had begun to feel sluggish as she barely registered the decisive clicking of her heels on the outside stairs. The thought of a hot bath and bed was sufficient, then, to switch her off to the world, and prevent the wave of questions which threatened to break the moment there was room for it.

 It was for that reason that she did not recognise Josephine Randall until the woman was nigh on upon her.

 “You’ve seen her,” she pressed immediately, almost belligerently, and Phryne let out a curse so distinct she was surprised it did not instantly arouse Aunt P from upstairs. “I told you,” she seemed greatly distressed, “warned you.”

 “Mrs Randall, I’ve little time for this,” Phryne was not in the mood, “and I’ll thank you never to trespass on my aunt’s property again.” How she had followed them in the first place beggared belief. “If you have something to tell the police – ”

 “You don’t know what you’ve done,” the old woman didn’t listen, “it’s just like the first time – he came back from the islands without a care in the world, even when other’s told him what was at stake. He had to go ahead in his arrogance.”

 Phryne had tried desperately not to rise to it, even opening her car door to avoid the hook, but Mrs Randall had played her hand remarkably well. “What are you talking about?” she stopped.

 The woman seemed suddenly cowed, however, now that she’d said what had clearly rested on her for some years, and the same shake Phryne had seen at Mountbatten returned to her frame with a vengeance, “Polynesia. When the expedition returned, everyone could feel the cloud it brought down on the house. He wouldn’t listen… “

 “Wouldn’t listen to what?” Phryne pressed, smelling smoke in the woman’s fire, despite the babbling, and her eyes flashed a clear blue in utter impatience.

The hesitation turned to fear at the sight of that flash, however, and recognition seemed to blossom on the woman’s face. “… No, I didn’t –” She clapped her hands over her mouth as her fear turned to panic, “I didn’t mean – Oh God, it’s too late. It’s too late.”

“If you know something, and you’re keeping it -“

 “Evil! I told you there was evil in that house, and you wouldn’t listen either!”

 It was too much.

 “Mrs Randall,” Phryne advanced on her, unsettling her agitated stance and forcing her to step back, “unless you have something of substance to add, something which will help us actually uncover what happened to that boy, I suggest you step away immediately, or risk my doing something one of us will sincerely regret.”

 It was enough to frighten her into a whimper, and into shielding herself from Phryne’s aggression, and the detective chastised herself for the action almost immediately. She forced her impatience to heel and, after a moment, tried to calm the situation, “I’m sorry, Josephine, it’s been a long night.”

 “It’s too late,” she shook her head with a hoarse whisper, “I’m too late.”

 “Too late for what?” Phryne tried.

 Josephine stared at her with tortured pain etched all across her face, “I can already see her in your eyes.”  

 ***

 Jack’s office seemed desolate as darkness compelled him to switch on his desk lamp, and he felt a creeping fear that the administration of Arthur’s return would not allow him to get the sleep he so sorely needed. It was not that he resented the work, but rather the limitations of his own body in light of the multitude of questions that had now exploded through this case. It was a strange phenomenon, to go so quickly from having no leads at all, to having a myriad. He knew, however, that they would be of no use to him if he did not give his mind a chance to rest. He collapsed back into his chair with a heavy sigh and stretched the aching muscles in his neck.

 Without fail, the gloom drew him back to the Hall, sinister in his memory now as he recovered the sight and sound of Arthur, cowering from his touch against the bedroom wall.

 A steady anger had begun to boil in his gut at the thought, connected to the frustration of having no idea what had done this to him, how he’d found his way there, where he had been for the last few days, and he may well have stewed in it, had it not been for the steadying presence arriving at his door.

 “You look quite dashing, exhausted in the lamplight,” she teased.

 It washed over him like a balm, and his smile was instantaneous, “You should be at home, in bed.”

 “Promises, promises,” she purred.

 He eyed her from beneath the fingers that worked at the bridge of his nose, “What are you doing here?”

 “You didn’t honestly think I’d leave you here to while away the lonely hours by yourself, did you?” she stepped into the room, her gait bearing the laziness of a long day, stopping to rest her fingertips on the edge of his desk. He simply waited. “I ran into an old friend at Aunt Prudence’s,” she confessed, “Josephine Randall.”

 “What?” he sat forward, his brow furrowing in query.

 “Precisely what I thought,” she answered, “evidently our little adventure has not gone unnoticed; she was full of all kinds of condemnation.”

 “Condemnation of what? From my point of view, we found missing child,” he cut, always less charitable towards nonsense when he was tired, and clearly having fielded a little criticism from his superiors.

 There was a pause as she considered that for a moment, the gravity of her melancholy side reaching out from her, “Is that what we did?”

 Jack met her gaze over the desk, the lamplight casting faint shadows across her features that exaggerated the facts, which neither had yet addressed to anybody. “Is it?” he simply threw back, opening once more the first thing he could remember saying to her after the daze of it all.

 ‘What on earth are you doing?’

He wasn’t yet ready to confront the plummeting he had felt at the sight of her stepping, almost gliding towards the increasingly lethal window. The sheer determination on her face had frightened him on a viscerally deep level.

 Phryne measured him closely, the gauntlet lying between them and waiting to see who would answer first, expose themselves to the scrutiny of the other. It had all been fun and games when the thought of the unexplained had been a tingle in the spine, rather than a night of lost memories. The truth was that to speak first was to risk admitting credulity in the face of what had previously been too ridiculous for words, an odd sort of macabre almost amusement. It would take the kind of courage that none had summoned – not Mac, not Reginald, not Hugh. It was a peculiar test then, for lovers growing in intimacy and a new kind of trust, which went beyond dangerous situations and mysteries of the less… mysterious kind.

 Here they risked the most private of reputations: sanity before the world, or more specifically before each other.

 “I barely remember a thing,” Jack admitted, and the forthrightness of his risking ridiculousness drew a breath from Phryne, “Just the laughter, the stairs, an attacker, and Arthur.”    

 Phryne swallowed, and then she hesitated.

 For all his bravery, Jack’s story was hardly an exposure; his recollection contained nothing of growling in closets and women at windows. The breath she had drawn halted once more, and she ran from the admission, looking to the floor, “Any idea who he was? Your attacker?”

 Jack felt the departure, but was unsure what it meant – for them or for the look he’d seen in her eyes before he had pulled her back from the edge. His exhaustion stopped him from pressing it, “No idea – he was large, strong. I didn’t get a clear look at him, I don’t think.”

 When Phryne looked back at him, it was with both relief and the uncomfortable sticking feeling that she had misled him. After so many months of freedom from any hiddenness between them, it felt awful, wrong. She wanted at once to touch him and eradicate the barrier, but she could not bring herself to do it. “There’s clearly someone else who has access to the property, in honesty I’ve been finding myself rather curious about the Baron’s remaining family.”

 “Yes,” Jack agreed, standing up and coming around to her. “After last night, though, I’m not sure they’ll be very enthusiastic about helping us.”    

 “I’m sure they’ll have no choice,” Phryne argued back with a slight edge, clearly growing defensive against the suggestion that their operation had been anything other than fruitful, “you are the police after all.”

 Jack smiled, brushing her hair behind one ear, “Go home, Phryne. Get some sleep.”

 “And what about you?” she tilted into the touch.

 “I’ll be close behind, I promise.”

 It was impossible to hide anything from those eyes, Phryne knew – the same ones that had worn away at her with gentle pleading for a year before she had been utterly undone by them. The fact that he didn’t take her into his arms now, didn’t kiss her the way they seemed compelled to every moment they were near made her feel the growing distance, and her heart clawed at it and begged her to tell him what had happened, to confide in him the truth – at least what she knew of it. Her lips drifted open as though they might do it without her permission, but the memory of curls and silver skin shut them at once, the straining memory of her own desperate curiosity sounding more absurd by the second.

 Again she ran from the exposure, this time with humour.

 “I’ll be sure to get Mr Butler to leave out your slippers,” she quipped, and then she moved to walk passed him, each touch becoming abrasive with the secret and the thought of closeness feeling more like betrayal.

 She placed a hand on his chest as she made for the door. She did not get far.

 Without a further word, Jack set aside all functionality, took a hold of her wrist, and pulled her back around and into him, wrapping her into a hug which mirrored the one that had saved her so fiercely from that morning’s fall. Where previously his arms had been all fear, however, they were now full of a desperate appreciation, and Phryne felt his intent through her very centre as he buried his face in her hair and pressed an urgent kiss to her temple to reassure her that he was there regardless. It forced all anxiety from her with a huff of breath she had seemingly been holding until that moment, and she gripped at him in an admission of need she would never expose to anyone else. His kiss found her out in acknowledgment of even that vulnerability, tender and searching at once as the tension of the day’s coping buckled under his need to have her close and safe, and covered. The very warmth of his mouth seemed to question if she was all right. After a moment, they simply stood, their foreheads pressed together and Phryne holding tightly to his shirtfront as their breaths came in short rushes, colliding erratically.

 “Take me home,” she finally murmured to him.

 Paperwork be damned.    

[geeksrs545]

2008 FISA Transcript Shows NSA Already Knew It Might Have An Incidental Collection Problem

The ODNI has released several documents in response to FOIA lawsuits (EFF, ACLU). The EFF scored 18 of these (handy zip link here) and the ACLU seven. The ACLU's batch has proven more interesting (at least initially). One document it obtained shows a tech company challenged a Section 702 surveillance order in 2014. The challenge was shut down by the FISA court, but with the exception of Yahoo's short-lived defiance, we haven't seen any other evidence of ISP resistance to internet dragnet orders.

Included in the ACLU's batch is a 2008 FISA Court transcript [PDF] that's particularly relevant to the NSA's voluntary shutdown of its "about" collection. In it, the NSA discusses its filtering and oversight procedures, which were already problematic nearly a decade ago.

There are some really interesting tidbits to be gleaned from the often heavily-redacted proceedings, including this statement, which makes it clear the NSA engaged in wholly-domestic surveillance prior to the FISA Amendments Act.

THE COURT: All right. Well, what about the non-U.S. person status, which of course is new under the FISA Amendments Act? Are you going to be changing anything in terms of focusing on that?

[REDACTED GOV'T RESPONDENT]: We already sort of do with respect to the U.S. person status is so intertwined with the location of the target [REDACTED] to the extent that in the past NSA.would actually affirmatively identify targeted U.S. persons to us on the sheets, because one of the additional fields that they put in the sheets is basically a blurb, an explanation and a description of the target.

Clearly, we're not allowed to target US persons anymore, so I don't anticipate seeing any such descriptions on the sheets. But again, since the status of the person, the determination of how that is made is so intertwined with the same information upon which NSA relies to make a foreignness determination, that it would be hard for us not to identify such information as we're conducting the reviews.

Which, of course, means the NSA was allowed to target US persons and their communications previously, contradicting statements made by US officials, including President George W. Bush and Vice President Dick Cheney.

It's stated earlier in the transcript that the NSA does a few things to help minimize examination of US persons' communications. But they're not great. The NSA runs spot checks on analysts' transactions, deploys filters, and relies on self-reporting to guard against Fourth Amendment violations. It sounds like quite a bit, but the details show it's not nearly enough. To start with, the filters meant to filter out US persons' communications don't work.

COURT: The NSA minimization procedures, you're stating, 'contain a provision for allowing retention of information because of limitations on NSA's ability to filter communications.' My question I had was is the filter discussed in targeting the same filtering. I just wanted to understand that, and apparently it is. [The rest of the court's question is redacted.]

GOV'T: I think the inclusion of that provision in the minimization procedures was intended to be prophylactic in the event that the filters don't necessarily work, and NSA has represented that it's been their experience with the filters and [redacted] this provision basically captures instances where the filters may not work in every instance.

And there's a good reason why they won't work "in every instance." Further unredacted discussion reveals the NSA partially relies on an IP address blacklist to filter out US persons' communications. This is better than nothing, but still a long way from being a strong positive indicator of a target's (or incidental target's) location.

The court then asks about the limitations of the filters and we get several fully-redacted pages as an answer.

The court also asks about the "about" collection -- where targets are discussed but the communications do not directly involve NSA targets.The judge wants to know how often this is being used rather than the more-targeted "to/from" collection and how often it results in incidental collection. Unsurprisingly, the government can't say how often this happens. This is because the NSA saw no reason to track these searches.

GOV'T: As far as the percentage number, we don't have a number for that, because as I mentioned earlier, when we [redacted] we find to's and froms and [redacted] so we don't categorize those separately to be able to count those communications as abouts.

The court then asks why it's not possible to limit the collection to to's and froms. The government's response is that collecting it all just works better for the NSA, even though it apparently possesses the technical ability to keep these collections separate.

It is technically feasible. The problem with doing so is if you end up discarding a number of communications that are truly to-froms that you should be able to collect but [redacted]...

So by trying to limit us to no abouts, then we end up cutting out those kind of communications as well, truly to-froms. So it would be -- we're not surgical enough to take that out of the equation without impacting our ability to do to-froms effectively.

And later in the discussion, there's a bit of a bombshell about the "about" collection. The NSA shut it down because it couldn't find a way to prevent incidental collection of US persons' communications. In this transcript, the government points out incidental collection is just as likely with to-from targeting.

COURT: Is it more or less likely to pick up U.S.-person information in an about than a to or from?

MR. OLSEN: I don't know the answer in practice. At least from my perspective in theory, I wouldn't see why it would be more likely than a targeted to or from collection where the target's outside the United States where there's a similar possibility that that target would be in communication with someone in the United States, with a U.S. person in the United States.

If this is true, the elimination of the "about" collection doesn't do much to curtail incidental collection. And almost a decade ago, the NSA was already making it "impossible" to comply with Congressional requests for incidental collection numbers by refusing to separate its collections, even with the FISA Court raising questions about its Fourth Amendment implications.

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