#though it was really more an implosion than explosion

[sukugo]

gojo ass explosion.

[m1ckeyb3rry]

── THE GLASS PRINCESS // THIRTEEN

Series Synopsis: You wake up in a strange room with no memories, broken glass at your bedside, and a prince named Zuko as your only chance at figuring out who you really are.

Chapter Synopsis: Things in Ba Sing Se come to a head, taking a violent turn you are unprepared for.

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Zuko x Reader

Chapter Word Count: 5.4k

Content Warnings: complicated relationships (strangers to friends to lovers to enemies to strangers to lovers to enemies to lovers), amnesia, alternate universe, lots of secrets and lying and mystery

A/N: as seen in the chapter summary this is chapter leans on the more violent side #sorry BUT just wanted to say i love you all thanks for reading and sorry i’m so mean to your character

“Quynh,” you sniffed, holding onto one of her claws. “Quynh, they want to kill Kuei.”

She growled, low and deep, which only made you cry harder. Only when she noticed that did she stop, though her breaths still came quick and short as she rubbed her cheek against your body in a vain attempt to comfort you.

“Who?” she said.

“I don’t know,” you said. “They haven’t done anything yet, but I heard them. I heard them!”

“Tell me what they said, my dear,” she said. “As best as you can, so that there is no chance of misunderstanding.”

“They said that if I turn out to be an Earthbender, they will get rid of Kuei so that I can take the throne,” you said. “They want a powerful ruler, and they don’t — they don’t think that he can be that. But I don’t want to be queen! I just want to play with Kuei!”

“That’s contingent on you being an Earthbender, though,” she said. “You haven’t shown any signs of bending yet, have you?”

You hiccuped. “Yes. Today. I was on my way to show Kuei when I overheard the conversation. But no one can know. Pinky promise not to tell anyone, Quynh! I don’t want Kuei to be in danger.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” she soothed you. “But you are a bender of Shan’s line. If you do not learn to control your power, you will destroy this palace.”

“Huh?” you said.

“Bending without control is based solely on a wild instinct. If you do not train in some way, shape, or form, then your every emotion will be like a stone on the surface of a pond. For the everyday individual, this isn’t anything devastating, but you are the princess of the Earth Kingdom. Your bloodline begets only the strongest of Earthbenders, and so the consequences of your bending running amok are that much greater,” she said.

“But if anyone catches me, then Kuei — Kuei — I don’t want Kuei to die!” you said, bursting into tears again. 

“He won’t,” Quynh said. “Listen to me, Y/N. If you cannot train properly, if you cannot learn the Earthbending forms and movements that are specifically designed to calm the mind and focus the art, then we must come up with a suitable replacement.”

“What can replace a teacher?” you said.

“I will be your teacher,” Quynh said. “And the crystals around us will be your element. Crystals are a step removed from stones, and so they are difficult for the more traditional benders to master, but you are skipping over to them entirely by virtue of your situation.”

“Will that be enough to ensure that I am not caught?” you said.

“I think so,” Quynh said. “Once you are bored of crystals, we will move on to glass. You see, dear girl, there is a truth that is oft-ignored in this new era of bending: it is no harder to move a mountain than it is to emboss a window. Perhaps one is more ostentatious — who ever takes the time to be impressed by the minute details of a piece? — but both are of the same difficulty. The explosion and the implosion are equally as destructive, are they not? If you cannot practice with the mountains that are your birthright, then you must turn to the other extreme. You must endeavor to bend with an exact perfection; allow no blemishes, so that your mind does not turn on itself in its solitude.”

“Princess Y/N,” a slippery, cool voice said as you rounded the corner towards where the tea shop was located. “It was surprising enough to see you hanging around the Avatar and his friends, but to find a girl of your birth and stature in the Lower Ring instead of in the palace is definitely unexpected.”

You froze. It was a voice you did not recognize, but if they knew you had been with the Avatar, then there was only one group they could have been from. Your swore as stone gloves warped into cuffs around your wrists, binding them behind your back and dragging you into the custody of a man wearing a familiar uniform.

“Dai Li,” you hissed. “What are you doing here?”

“Between the two of us, I do not think that you are the one who has the right to be asking me that,” the agent said. You ground your teeth as another agent dropped down beside you, grabbing your shoulder roughly.

“Long Feng will be furious,” this new agent said. “You’ve disobeyed his singular order. What an ungrateful girl you are! A princess who was given everything she ever asked for and was only asked to stay in her rooms in return. Yet you could not even do that much.”

The people on the streets were beginning to stop and stare, whispering to one another at your state. It wasn’t every day that Dai Li agents made their presences obvious — there was an unspoken awareness that they were always there, creeping about in the corners of the collective consciousness, but it was rare for them to become forefront. Even in the crime-riddled Lower Ring, it was the militia-men who enforced the common laws. The Dai Li only appeared for the gravest infractions, and for you to be led away in stone cuffs like this was a scandal of unprecedented magnitude.

“There are more important things for Long Feng to be furious about,” you said as you were pulled through the streets by the Dai Li agents.

“Nothing is more important than you, your royal highness,” the first agent said sweetly, mockingly. “The safety of the Earth King’s heir is paramount to the kingdom’s security.”

As you passed the tea shop, the door slammed open, and the Dai Li agents paused as Lee sprinted out, his face like a thundercloud, his shoulders tense and expression in a scowl darker than any you had ever seen him wear.

“What’s going on here?” he said, crossing his arms and staring down the Dai Li with none of the fear and respect that they rightfully commanded. The way he stood was if he were the one that they should be afraid of, though it was a ridiculous notion — what could a simple tea shop worker do to the famed members of Ba Sing Se’s secret police?

“Out of the way, boy,” the second agent said.

“Where are you taking Y/N?” Lee insisted. “I won’t move until you tell me.”

“Y/N? You’re on a first-name basis with her royal highness?” the first agent said. “How impetuous! It’s laughable, really, for you to think that this girl cares about you.”

It was meant to be nothing more than humiliation. By exposing your identity, the Dai Li were ensuring that you could never again return to the Lower Ring, not if you valued your life or at least your dignity. The people who lived here hated you, after all, hated everything you stood for. The spoiled princess who cared little for their suffering…now that they knew the truth, they would never accept you again.

The whispers grew louder. Her royal highness? Y/N, as in Princess Y/N? The Earth King’s sister? What is she doing here? How dare she show her face after everything? How dare she pretend to be one of us?

“Get out of here!” a man shouted. The declaration was like the breaking of a dam, as the people’s voices rose higher and higher. The Dai Li stood beside you grimly, doing nothing to shield you from the insults thrown your way.

“Is this how you royals entertain yourselves?” a woman said. “Is this what we are paying our taxes for? So that you can live our lives for fun and then go back to the luxury of your palace?”

“Give us our money back, thief!”

“Do we look like tourists, huh? Why’d we have to pay to enter the city?”

“Why are we second to a bear? Why does the Earth King care more about his pet than his people?”

“Selfish witch! You’re no princess. You’d abandon the kingdom if it meant you could live a life of luxury! You ought to be sent to the front lines, let’s see how you like it there!”

“Down with the tyrant! Down with the traitor!”

It was exactly the kind of uprising that the Dai Li had been employed to quell, but they stood there and watched, faces impassive as people came closer and closer, pressing in on you, screaming things that you could not cover your ears from, not when you were still restrained.

“Ain’t she the princess they said was made of glass? I wonder if she’ll break like it, too!”

You weren’t sure who hurled the first brick, but it was only thanks to Lee’s quick reaction that it did not hit you in the head. He yanked you out of the way, but the missed opportunity only incensed the people further.

“You have to get out of here,” you said to Lee. “This is the culmination of years’ worth of anger. I am the target for their rage, but if you’re near me, then you will be caught in the crossfire. Take Mushi and go somewhere far away until this has blown over!”

“Will I see you again?” he said. A window shattered, glass raining down around you as people began to fight one another, too. They were just furious now. They just wanted someone to hate, and whether it was their neighbor or their princess mattered little to them. As long as they could inflict the hurt they felt onto another person.

“I don’t know,” you confessed. “I don’t know anything anymore, if ever I did. But I want to, Lee. I want to see you again, and so I believe that I will.”

“Death to the Glass Princess! Death to the Glass Princess! Death to the Glass Princess!”

“You have to go now!” you said. A nearby produce stand was turned on its side, tomatoes rolling out and bursting as people stomped on them in their haste to destroy something, anything, everything.

Out of nowhere, Dai Li agents manifested, using their Earthbending to trap the citizens in constructs of stone, the riot stopping as abruptly as it had started. You used your shoulder to shove Lee away from you, shaking your head at him when he tried to protest before turning away, knowing that he would not leave unless you dismissed him in a way so inarguable that it left him with no choice.

In such a short time, the road had been utterly destroyed. The storefronts had been torn apart, glass and stray stones and smashed goods everywhere. The street itself ran red with tomato juice and pulp and blood, and the people who were encased in rock by the Dai Li were bruised and worn from the effort of the riot.

“Where are you taking them?” you said as the Dai Li moved with brutal efficiency, restraining everyone in the crowd before releasing them from their temporary prisons.”

“They’re all due for a visit to Lake Laogai,” the Dai Li agent standing at your left shoulder said.

“This is why you were forbidden from leaving the palace,” the other Dai Li agent said.. “Do you understand now?”

“I understand,” you said, though what you understood and what he was saying were at odds with one another. It was the kind of conclusion you were only equipped to draw now that you had left the palace and seen the reality of Ba Sing Se, of the impenetrable city whose walls contained any explosions and turned them inward.

As you were marched down the street towards the palace, you could not help yourself from craning your neck for one final glimpse of the ruined street where you had spent so much of your time. Your happiest days had been on these very cobblestones, in and out of these very shops.

Those days would never come back. They were gone now, destroyed as surely as the setting in which they had taken place.

You caught the eye of the man who had started it all, who had shouted at you to leave the Lower Ring. He had been forced to his knees and held there by stone restraints, and a Dai Li agent stood above him with a severe expression on his face.

When the man noticed you looking at him, his eyebrows drew together, his irises shining with fear and desperation. He mouthed something at you, or perhaps he said it aloud and you were too far to hear it, but either way you comprehended the message.

Please.

Your eyes widened, but you were shoved around a corner before you could react. And then there was a scream, followed by a horrible cracking sound, followed by an eerie, disconcerting silence.

Upon arriving in the palace, you were brought to the throne room. The throne itself was noticeably empty, but Long Feng was standing in front of it on its dais, his sly face adorned with a mournful frown. It only deepened when he saw you, and he sighed as the Dai Li agents paused before him, bowed, and then left, leaving the two of you alone.

“Princess Y/N,” Long Feng said, trying to adopt the same fatherly tone he always took on around you. “I cannot begin to describe how disappointed in you I am.”

“Then don’t,” you said. “And tell the Dai Li to free me of these restraints. What would my brother say if he saw me like this?”

“Why, certainly, he’d agree with me, if not my methods,” Long Feng said. “You’ve nearly died so many times in the city that it’s clear I was right. You never should’ve left.”

He might as well have dumped a bucket of ice over your head. So many times. How had he known about any other instance? How had he known that assassins had come for you, and more than once?

“What will happen to the people of the Lower Ring?” you said. “What will you do to them?”

“Do not fret,” he said. “The instigators were publicly executed, as a reminder to the others of the power of the Dai Li. As for the rest, well, the only ones hurt by their little demonstration were themselves. That’s an even better punishment than anything I could come up with.”

“Executed?” you said.

“As long as you stay out of it, Ba Sing Se will remain safe,” Long Feng said. “Now that the dissenters are gone, the public sentiment will return to its usual.”

“But I don’t want it to return to its usual! The people of Ba Sing Se hate Kuei and I, and for good reason,” you said. “They are struggling, and instead of helping them, we are making things worse. Surely you know this, so why have you not yet advised my brother to stop what he is doing and enact policies that will benefit our kingdom?”

Long Feng scoffed. “You know nothing of ruling a kingdom; in fact, you know even less than your brother. If you and he would leave the running of Ba Sing Se to the more qualified, then things would not be so dire.”

“There’s a war,” you said. Long Feng paled, and for a moment, his well-schooled expression dropped into a sneer. It was brief, but you were quicker than he. You saw it, and the beginnings of a theory formed in the back of your mind.

“Who has fed you such vicious lies?” he said. “There is no war.”

“The Avatar,” you said. “I’m sure your men told you that I was with him. If I am lying, then he must be, as well. Do you still deny it?”

“The Avatar is a young boy,” Long Feng said. “Young boys are prone to exaggeration and boasting. In a world that has survived for so long without him, don’t you think he would do anything to gain some legitimacy? Fabricating a conflict isn’t beyond that scope. Of course, occasional skirmishes are a natural consequence of the size of the kingdom, but an actual war is unthinkable. The world is at peace.”

“And the refugees are tourists,” you noted. “Isn’t that right?”

“You’re confused,” he said. “The overload of information that you were faced with in Ba Sing Se has muddled your poor mind, so that you are susceptible to the mind tricks of outside actors like the Avatar.”

“That’s not true!” you said. “I know what I saw. Why are you denying it so vehemently?”

Speaking to Long Feng always reduced you to childhood. With him, you were once again nothing but a little girl throwing a tantrum. It did not help that he was perpetually looking down his nose at you, like you were lucky to have gained his attention at all, like he was doing you a favor by acknowledging you in the first place. You despised it, despised how small he made you feel, despised how powerless you became whenever he rebuked you.

“I’m afraid I must ban you from your brother’s chambers for the time being,” Long Feng said. “I cannot have you contaminating his clear-headed judgment with your hysterics.”

“You’re confining me to just my room?” you said. If that was the only punishment you received, then it’d be a blessing, but of course you could not reveal that to Long Feng, who would then come up with something even worse to thoroughly chastise you.

“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe not. How did you escape?”

“Why would I tell you that?” you said.

“If you ever want to see Kuei again, you will,” he said, his smirk growing cruel as you gasped despite yourself. “You two are all-too-similar. Perhaps you think that because you have found a way out of the palace, you are invulnerable, but I can promise you one thing, your highness: if you do not cooperate, I will forbid you from your brother for good.”

You clenched your fists by your sides. “The window.”

“The window!” Long Feng said incredulously. “Do you expect me to believe that? You live on one of the highest floors of the palace. Even for an Earthbender, that route would be suicide, but you are not so much as that. You are worsening your own case by lying.”

Closing your eyes, you bowed at Long Feng, though as a princess you were required to bow to no one but your brother. He did not stop you, though. He never stopped you.

“You’re right,” you said. “I was lying. I apologize. The truth — the truth is a little more incredible, and I had doubted you’d be convinced by it, but that is out of my control. The only thing I can do is speak it and hope you have faith in me as your princess to stand as a bastion of integrity and truth, even when I tell tales that are all but outlandish in nature.”

“Get on with it,” he said. You took a deep breath to calm your racing heart, whose pulse beat like a drum in your chest, behind your eyebrows, around your ears.

“I disguised myself as a servant,” you said. “Once I was dressed like that, no one paid any attention to me. Making my way to the kitchens, I snuck out of their door, and from there, I ran into the city.”

“No one noticed the truth of your identity?” Long Feng said.

“It’s amazing,” you said. “The kind of things that you pay no attention to when you think of someone as lesser. When I looked like a servant, I was treated as one. For better and for worse.”

You waited with bated breath, hoping beyond hope, praying to Quynh, to Agni, to Tui and La and every other spirit that he would believe you.

“It seems I underestimated you, your royal highness,” Long Feng said. “Chhay!”

From behind the dais, a man appeared. He wore the same uniform as the rest of the Dai Li, though the collar of his undershirt was gold instead of green, a signifier of his elevated status. You knew without being told who he was: Captain Chhay, the legendary captain of the Dai Li and Long Feng’s second in command. The stories told about him were numerous; he was the closest to a national hero that the Earth Kingdom had, as well as the main reason that the Dai Li were so loyal to Long Feng.

“To ensure that you never have the cause to don a servant’s garb again, I will assign Chhay to be your guard,” Long Feng said. “He will stay with you at all times and watch over your every move. In that way, we can be certain that you are where you are supposed to be at any given moment.”

“Don’t worry, your royal highness,” Captain Chhay said. Fear spiked in you, because the voice was not unfamiliar to you, and you suppressed a shudder, doing your best to remain neutral. “I’m sure we will get along.”

“Yes,” you said, fighting to keep your own voice steady. “I’m sure we will.”

Captain Chhay emanated an aura of cocky, self-assured smugness. He knew that he was powerful; maybe he even knew you feared him. Either way, he had to understand that between the two of you, he was the stronger, and so he walked with a swagger to his step as he escorted you to your room.

“Captain Chhay,” you said, holding onto your skirts, wishing you had someone there to protect you. The Blue Spirit…Lee…you would’ve even taken Sokka, at this point, though you doubted he would’ve done very much besides maybe demand the captain do a cartwheel. But you were alone, without even the Water Tribe cartwheel-fanatic as an ally, and so you had to figure out how to do this on your own. “How long have you been in the Dai Li?”

“I didn’t take you as a student of history,” he said.

“It’s one of my hobbies,” you said, wiping your palms against your bodice. “I’m sorry. I’m really nervous.”

“Nervous? Why?” he said, though a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Not because of me, I should hope.”

“It’s — it’s just that you are so famous,” you said.

“And you are a princess,” he said. “I am but your humble servant. As for your question, I joined the Dai Li shortly before your brother’s coronation.”

The next question was the most delicate, and you could almost persuade yourself to not ask it at all. After all, did you really want to confirm this? Was it worth it, or did you ought to leave well enough alone?

No. If you were right, then you were the only hope left for Ba Sing Se. For your subjects, who were crumbling under the oppressive injustice they faced daily to the point that they had almost killed you in an attempt to restore some semblance of order. If not you, then who would defend them? Who cared for them nearly as much? Who knew them in the way you did?

“When were you promoted to the rank of captain?” you said.

“When Long Feng was appointed your brother’s regent,” he said. “The information is public, so why are you asking me?”

“There’s no better source than the one which lived through the event,” you said. “I am going to take a bath. I trust that you do not need to be at my side for that?”

“I will remain just in front of the door,” Captain Chhay said. “Don’t even think of doing anything funny. I’ll detect it immediately, so it’d just be a waste of time for the both of us.”

Your bathtub was more like a small pool, constructed at Kuei’s behest when you had told him you longed to learn to swim. It was filled with warm water at all times by servants who never introduced themselves to you, and it was deep enough that you could float in it and not touch the bottom if you so desired.

It was only once you had submerged yourself that you let your mind wander. What did you do now? You were just the weak little princess, the girl who could do nothing for anyone, including herself. You could not even go to Quynh for advice, not with Captain Chhay all but atop you constantly. If you exposed that secret, then there was no telling what might happen, to both you and her alike.

You were trapped in a vipers’ enclosure, and the vipers were of such deadly stock that you really had no hope of survival at all. You could only submit to Long Feng’s demands, could only beg Captain Chhay for mercy, so that he was not overly harsh when the time came.

The pool had begun to cool off by the time that you ascended the stairs to leave it, wrapping a towel around you to ward away the chill you had been feeling ever since Long Feng had unknowingly revealed his hand. But that chill was internal, and the towel could do nothing to protect you from it, so after a moment, you set it aside and put on your nightclothes, exiting the bathroom with trepidation.

Captain Chhay was leaning against the wall, his hair let out of its braid and loose around his shoulders, his helm low over his brow, though he was by no means asleep, tilting towards you as you scurried towards your bed like a mouse.

“I will rest now,” you declared, pulling the blankets up around your shoulders and staring at your desk, which was at the other end of the room. It was covered with your glass sculptures, the ones Quynh had been so proud of you for making. A dragon. Twin fish. A badgermole. A flying bison. A bear, constructed so carefully that the fine points of glass covering its surface appeared to be fur, appeared to be genuinely soft to the touch. And uncountable others, each different from the rest, united only by the perfection that you had attempted to attain with every attempt.

Sleep evaded you, though you were not actively trying to seek it out, either, not when Captain Chhay still stood in your doorway, his half-lidded eyes trained on your motionless form.

If you fell asleep, there was no guarantee you’d ever wake up again. You mulled over the events of the day as you tossed and turned, hating how things had changed in such a short span of time but realizing it was necessary. It was in the end not a change that had occurred but a shift in your awareness. These things had been happening for quite some time already.

More than yourself, you worried for your brother. Maybe you could escape, could open the door and run into it and demand Quynh close it before you were pursued, but what would become of Kuei? As long as Captain Chhay was around, it was not safe for him. It was not safe for either of you.

With that in mind, it was obvious what you had to do, but were you capable? Well. You supposed you had to try. For Kuei. For your kingdom. You had to try, or else your people would continue to die, would continue to endure agony and blame your family for it, though you and your brother had never done anything but try to love them.

So you threw the blankets aside and slid off the bed, shoving your feet into a pair of slippers, and you did not pray to the spirits for help. It was your father you called upon — not the 51st Earth King, but your father, the man who in a sense constituted half of your being. It was him you asked for guidance, even though he could never give it to you, even though he had never known you enough to care.

“What are you doing?” Captain Chhay said.

“I had a nightmare,” you said. “Can I talk to you about it? I am still so — so shaken up.”

“I’m not your babysitter,” he said. “Talk to someone else.”

“Aren’t you?” you said. “I have no one else. Please, captain…I am all alone in the palace. In the world, in fact. Won’t you at least listen to me? If it were your own daughter asking, wouldn’t you want for someone to show her that consideration?”

“I don’t have a daughter,” he said gruffly. “My wife died before she could give birth.”

Still, he softened imperceptibly, making his way towards you. You backed up towards your desk, his every step matching your own as you grew closer and closer to where you wanted to be.

Please, Father. 

“It was such an awful dream,” you said.

“What was it about?” he said, finally giving in, taking off his helmet so that you could see his shrewd eyes, which were as gentle as he could make them. It was almost as if he felt sorry for you, as if he were seeing his never-born daughter in your place.

“The day my father died. I saw it in such vivid detail,” you said. Your back hit the desk, and your hands trembled as you reached for one of the statues, slick fingers glossing over their surfaces before finally finding enough purchase to grab onto one of them.

“You weren’t even alive when that happened,” Captain Chhay said. “How can you dream about it?”

“I’ve been told the story so many times that it can sometimes feel as if I were there myself,” you said. “Besides, it was a dream. All sorts of impossible things happen in those.”

“That is true,” he said. “Was that all? It happened many years ago. I’m sure it was frightening, but there’s nothing to be done about it now.”

Please, Father. You disguised the twisting, undulating motions of your hands by pretending to wring them behind your back out of distress.

“Something different happened,” you said. “Something new. You see, this time, I heard the assassin’s voice as he killed my father, and to my surprise, it was one I recognized.”

“Your mind cannot conjure up new sounds, so of course you recognized it,” Captain Chhay said, though the softness was rapidly fading from his eyes, replaced with wariness.

“No,” you said. “That’s not why. I recognized it for a more meaningful reason, I know I did.”

“Whose was it, then? Are we to place a man on trial just because, what, you had a nightmare?” he said.

Please, Father.

“Actually, the trial has already begun,” you said. “And the verdict has already been decided. The voice really does belong to the man who murdered my father all of those years ago, and I know that because it was the same voice which belonged to the man who tried to kill me so many times. Because it was your voice, Captain Chhay!”

I’m sorry, Father. Please, Father. Father.

Before Captain Chhay could react to the accusation, you used your bending to impale his heart with the spike of glass that had once been the bear statue. He collapsed immediately, blood bursting from the site like a fountain, the glittering tip of the makeshift weapon poking out of his back.

“How — did — you — bend?” he choked out, voice gurgling as even more blood welled up in his mouth and spilled past his lips, forming a puddle by his cheek.

“Long Feng isn’t the only one who’s been keeping secrets,” you said, bending the glass out of his body so that there was no evidence of what you had done. Smashing it against the ground to further the deniability, you bit your tongue to push back the bile rising in your throat. “You were assigned to kill me, weren’t you? Weren’t you? Answer me!”

Captain Chhay’s body convulsed once, and then he was completely still, his eyes glazed over, frozen while looking somewhere distant, forever stuck searching for something he could not find.

You had done that. A choked sob escaped you, your horror at the deed mixing with the relief you felt that he could never hurt you again. He could never take Kuei from you like he had taken your father.

Patting your palms, now stained with crimson, against your white nightgown, you turned towards your dressing room, where the door to Quynh’s Den had just appeared. Walking towards it, you pulled it open and gave the room one final look, taking in the violent scene created by your own hands.

Then you stepped into the passageway and closed the doorway behind you for good.

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[spacetime1969]

Danny Fenton’s Field Trip to the Ghost Zone!

I have had the wonderful opportunity to write a fic inspired by the art of the wonderful @arisu-artnfics as part of @ecto-implosion. I ended up thinking it would be fun to bring in a trope from a completely different fandom, and write a Peter Parker Field Trip fic for Danny Fenton. Enjoy!

Chapter 3: The Field Trip

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Dash Baxter hadn’t expected that his class field trip would end up like this. He had been expecting a boring day at the planetarium, but instead they had found themselves in the Ghost Zone!

A lot of things had happened all at once. First they had fallen through a portal and landed in the Ghost Zone. Then their bus driver had abandoned them to dive through the portal as it closed, trapping them all behind him. And then, while the rest of the group was grappling with the fact that they had somehow ended up in another dimension, Fenton and his friends had gone and recruited a ghost to fly them home, somehow!

Honestly, Dash could deal with all of that. It was a lot, but he was an Amity Parker, born and raised! What was weirding him out was how relaxed the nerds were about all of this!

Dash wanted it on the record that he wasn’t scared (definitely not). He was just a little nervous, okay? Don’t judge him! They were in the Ghost Zone! How could he not be at least a little nervous? This is where the ghosts lived! Everyone should be nervous!

Not the nerds though. They only seemed to be mildly annoyed by the fact they were stuck in the afterlife another dimension. He could understand Manson and Valerie, they were both pretty scary themselves. He could even sort of understand Foley, but Fenton was infamous for hiding from even the most tame ghosts, disappearing to some hidey-hole until Phantom took care of them. Heck, he even abandoned his friends a lot of the time, leaving them to be saved by Phantom. So why the heck was Fenton so chill now that they were literally flying through the Ghost Zone?

Dash wasn’t gonna be stuck wondering for long, Mr. Lancer had the same question. “Mr. Fenton, How are you so calm!”

Danny stared at him. “Mr. Lancer, the portal to the Zone is in my parents lab. Did you really think that me and my friends wouldn’t have tried going through?”

Mr. Lancer spluttered at Fenton’s dry response. “I had assumed that your parents at least had enough lab safety in place that you wouldn’t have succeeded!”

Dash may have been a jock, but he wasn’t stupid okay. He had seen enough movies to tell the difference between a laugh and a cackle, and the way that Fenton’s laughter threw his head back and shook his whole body was absolutely a mad scientist’s cackle. The sound almost scared him more than the fact they were stuck in the Ghost Zone.

“Mr. Lancer, we’re Fentons. If my parents go too long without blowing something up, me and Jazz will do something ourselves just to make sure it’s not too quiet.”

Fenton’s friends were nodding along. “Yeah, the first time Danny slept over at my house it was too quiet for him to fall asleep. So he went down to the kitchen, modified the toaster oven to reach 3000°, and poured molten salt into the bathtub. Gave my parent’s a heart attack.”

Lancer’s eye twitched. “How old were you when you did this?”

Fenton shrugged. “Like six I think? I’m not sure. I did learn to get permission first after that though.”

Dash and Paulina shared a look. Holy shit, Fenton was a mad scientist. Like, it was common knowledge that the Fenton parents were, but apparently they had all missed the fact that Danny Fenton was just as crazy as them.

They both jumped when a mechanical hand popped out from a panel in the ceiling and the voice of their ghostly driver echoed through the speakers. “That's science, baby!”

Fenton gave the mechanical hand a high five and chuckled. “Well I didn’t write it down, but I did learn something, so it probably still counts.”

Manson laughed. “Hypothesis, everyone likes explosions before bed. Conclusion, hypothesis incorrect.”

The nerds (and Technus) laughed while the rest of the bus stared at them. Dash didn’t know whether to be terrified of them or just glad that they were still nerds. Then Fenton made eye contact with him and grinned. Definitely terrified of them.

“Well, in the meantime, we have reached our first stop!” Technus said, as the bus made a bumpy landing.

Fenton frowned. “Wait what? Why are we stopping? I thought we were headed to the Far Frozen?”

“That’s the destination, but, since your parent’s shut down the portal, things in the Zone have been shifting around even more than they usually do. So we will have to go from stop to stop and get directions as we travel,” the ghost replied.

“So where have we stopped now?” Valerie asked.

“Jonny and Kitty’s place!”

Fenton looked out the window. “Oh yeah I recognize it! There’s their track.”

“Go see if they know where Dora’s castle is right now. That should be in the right direction.”

“Yeah alright, I’ll go ask,” Fenton said.

The rest of the class pressed their faces to the windows and watched as he walked out of the bus and over to the dirt track. He held his hands to his mouth and yelled.

“Kitty! Johnny! You here?”

There was a moment of silence, and it seemed like there wasn’t gonna be a reply. Then there was the sound of a revving motorcycle. It appeared from behind one of the embankments, with two people riding it. They rode towards Fenton, not slowing down as they got closer and closer.

Fenton just stood there, not even moving as they barreled straight towards him. Dash glanced over at the nerds to see their reaction, only to see them all looking entirely uninterested. Foley wasn’t even watching, messing with his PDA instead. Dash looked back out the window as his other classmates gasped. Just as they thought that Fenton was gonna get turned into a pavement smear the bikers slid into a skid, kcking up enough dust to temporarily block Fenton and the bike from view.

Dash and his classmates watched as the dust cleared, wondering if Fenton had just gotten run over, but when the dust cleared Fenton hadn’t moved an inch. The bike on the other hand, had stopped barely an inch in front of him.

The couple on the bike and Fenton stared each other down.

“Boo! 3/10 try harder next time.”

Dash flinched at the loud voice next to him. He turned to see Manson giving a thumbs down and heckling the ghosts outside. The guy rolled his eyes and the girl in the red jacket blew a sarcastic kiss towards her. Manson laughed and her friends rolled their eyes. The rest of the class was just staring at her, baffled.

With Manson seeming to have broken the staring contest, Fenton and the two ghosts relaxed and started talking, but whatever they were saying was too quiet for Dash to hear. They seemed to argue for a bit, before Fenton shrugged and randomly tackled the guy off his motorcycle.

The class watched in shock as they tussled in the dirt. The other ghost hopped off the motorcycle and went to join them, but Valerie cackled and jumped out the window of the bus. Lancer tried to reach out and grab her but Manson and Tucker blocked him. Not that it mattered, she was already out the window by the time he’d moved.

“Not on my watch Kitty!” Valerie yelled as she tackled the second ghost from behind.

Manson and Foley cheered as the four wrestled in the dirt.

Fenton managed to pin the ghost he was fighting quickly and he tapped out. The two then sat and watched as the others wrestled. It wasn’t long before Valerie also managed a pin, and they all helped each other up. They brushed their clothes off and shook hands, speaking for a moment more before Valerie and Fenton walked back to the bus.

“Okay, Johnny said that Dora’s is about 10° up with a 30° azimuth.” Danny said as he and Valerie climbed back into the bus.

“Alright!” Technus yelled. “Next stop, Dora's Castle!”

Dash fell back into his seat as the bus jumped and they were once again flying through the ghost zone.

For a long moment all the students just sat there, but eventually Paulina broke the silence with the question everyone was wondering. “What was that?” she screeched.

Fenton just looked at her in confusion. “What was what?”

“What do you mean ‘what was what?’ The fighting and stuff! You went from a perfectly civil conversation to fighting in the dirt! Valerie jumped out the window!”

“Oh that! Well Johnny said he wouldn’t tell me unless I fought him. So I did.”

Paulina spluttered at his relaxed statement before turning to their other classmate.

Their classmate who had literally jumped out a window less than ten seconds ago just shrugged. “I wasn’t about to turn down a fight.” Valerie said.

“Why?” Paulina cried.

Valerie just shrugged again. “It’s fun.”

Dash... had no idea how to respond to that. Apparently, neither did Paulina, because she just slumped into her chair.

Dash had no idea how to react to everything he was learning about Fenton and his friends today.

[antishifter-shifting]

I do not know if this counts, but considering it happened the first night after I made this account, I'm planning on sharing it just because it makes sense to share what's going on connected to this account.

I do believe this one was a dream(?) but the timing feels really interesting. By all accounts, I might be already just. Wildly wrong, and it's almost adding to my agreement with things here. This isn't the storytime I mentioned in the last post, though.

I was in a movie theater with a few other people. I hadn't picked a movie, so that's partially why I was surprised I was there in the first place. I was planning on going out just to see which movie this was, but I was approached by someone? I don't know who, I couldn't say. They just kind of looked at me

I can only really say I was "unmade"

I don't know how seriously anyone will take this, just from people's reactions to this. But that's genuinely the best way I can think of to describe what happened.

It was like? I don't know. It felt like an implosion and an explosion at the same time? If I were to try and place it in shifter terms here, I think the theater could be considered a waiting room? I don't know about the other part, though. I kind of just felt that and was floating, but I woke up as it happened, I was only really "unmade" for. God, I don't know, maybe 3 minutes?

Like I said, I might be wrong, and it could've been just a dream, but? The timing feels more than just coincidence, and I had done the whole "say you're already there before sleeping and don't put much effort into it" prior as well.

[halfbaked00q]

@cicerfics I actually agree with you lmao, he's suuuch an interesting study in contradictions cuz I think he both would & wouldn't be highly brainwashable.

Cuz I do think Casino Royale (book) catches him in a weak moment, and Mathis allegorical Voice of Reason sets him back on The Correct Path. And I think in the aftermath of it he's like. hardened his heart to it all and committed himself to his mission/to a new mission (hunting down SMERSH). So having had some of his cleavage points tested (rock analogy) and some of the weaker flakes flaked off. He's more durable than ever and less likely to break off along them...? tbh I'd probably have to read more of the books to see how it actually plays out lol but. theoretically!

I also have some other post about him being a Prince Rupert's drop-ass man lmao, hit him head on and he'll never break. manage to get past his armor to his soft underside/tail tho? instant implosion turned explosion.

I do kind of feel like movie (Craig) Bond is perhaps. less brainwashable this way? Like it'd have to be a brute-force brainwashing vs like a subtler cult indoctrination "before he knew it, he was someone else" route. Cuz even his thing w Vesper Makes More Sense in the movie, it's like seeded before all that at least. Whereas in the book it's like. lowkey kinda like ?? okay we're doing this now ig? cant latch onto le chiffre cuz he's dead so latches onto Vesper-lookin-ass man, okay... (also comphet. and him going "and :) my balls still work!! :)") But yeah, I think for movie Bond it'd be more likely to manifest in more like PTSD/trauma coping responses than like, true longterm ideological changes.

But for my pet premise, it's more Man w the Golden Gun style so like, get any man for long enough and amnesiac'ed enough and really I think you can make him swear to anything. There WOULD still be some fictional science stuff that you just gotta roll with involved though lol,. but like. I do think if they can get him like sleep deprived for long enough, for example, and enough time to train certain responses & asociations in him, they can at least mindfuck him temporarily. Which is kinda all they need for a short term op - they just need to wind him up long enough to point him at M, they don't need him as a longterm asset.

[boratos]

reflective - gestalt

I initially split up everything about my process into following the layers of neurosis as I felt that it lined up pretty well with my feeling progressing during the semester. I had the most trouble with my 3D and it took the longest for me to come into acceptance with it. The layers of neurosis is a really important concept in gestalt psychology as it’s an extensive timeline for you to loosely follow along in your journey of authenticity. This lines up with my project as I feel that the goal in the end is really to achieve a balance of authenticity with myself and the work I put out.

THE PHONY

💡 this refers to the fake or inauthentic way that people act with other people. This can often be seen in the games that people play day to day (as Berne has written about in his TA approach) and the way people make small talk to avoid delving into anything too deep.

In the beginning, I felt the need to be performative, this can be stemmed back to when I selected my word. I picked this word knowing I would have to do grand gestures.

self imposed expectations of grand gestures

performative about my own ideas and how grand i felt they were

THE PHOBIC

💡 at this layer people resist seeing the real them. This includes aspects of oneself that might cause emotional disturbance or pain. As a result of this aspects of the real self are denied, and self-acceptance is forfeit.

To work through this I decided to be the most authentic in that moment and shoot myself

IMPASSE

💡 Feelings of emptiness or nothingness. This can also be accompanied by a feeling of being stuck, and an attitude of avoidance. People in this stage tend to try to manipulate the environment and people around them, rather than dealing with their problems. Perls’ thought this was an important layer, and saw it as the source of many problems in therapy.

This feeling of stuck and avoidance is the layer I’m at right now (March 2025). Pushing away working on my 3D because I don’t know what to do with it. I am working around everything to avoid working on my 3D meaning I am working on. I know I’m purposefully avoiding working on the inevitable and should definitely deal with it head on. I feel stuck and not progressing how I want to.

pushing away my 3d

needing more research

not liking what i have right now

IMPLOSIVE

💡 This layer occurs when a client allows themselves to come into contact with feelings they might have pushed away previously – feelings of deadness. This layer happens as a result of pushing through the previous layer, and the self that emerges is often seeking completion of some sort. One of the reasons this is sometimes referred to as the implosive layer is that important aspects of self are often pushed inwards or imploded, to keep them out of conscious awareness.

EXPLOSIVE

💡 This occurs when all the previous layers have been worked through. This is when the person often experiences catharsis, and this can be through grief, anger, joy and so on. This on it’s own isn’t enough though, and clients will need to continue onwards to make sure growth continues.

While I’m in this process of development to hopefully reach a cathartic feeling of a finale to this project, my work is endless and cyclical. Also following along with the therapy, I may not even be pleased by the end and that is okay and still means it could’ve been worked through

[labellerose-acheron]

Belle's anger exploded at once, though the explosion was more of...an implosion. She felt it in her own chest at Hades' words, too shocked, frankly, to say anything at all at first. Her lips pressed firmly together but her eyes were as hot as fire as she stared at him.

"I don't need to learn!" She let her anger off its leash to bite and snap. It wasn't really anger, after all, it was fear. Wild, untameable fear. She hated the feeling of it, more so than she hated feeling angry. (Neither was pleasant, however.) It made her feel wild and unreasonable, digging her heels into the ground like a horse being led to, well--water.

"And neither does Opal! It isn't necessary. She can wait until she is older."

"What if something happens?" Lou cut in. "What if she is at a friend's house and lies about being able to swim and the parents don't pay enough attention?"

"She wouldn't lie," Belle snapped, but her breath caught in her chest at the thought. It sounded exactly like something Opal would do. Belle's face had gone blotchy, her eyes filling with tears.

"I don't want them anywhere near the water! They could--it could--" she hiccuped through the words, feeling even more anxious at the way she so easily came apart at the thought of it.

"It is dangerous." She knew it wasn't a good argument, which was horrifically frustrating and part of the reason she felt like crying, but she just knew that she wanted to argue it. "I am saying no."

@trip-downtheriverstyx

Swimming Lessons || The Acheron Family

[cassandraclare]

The Letter Game (in full)

Many have asked to read last week’s letter game in a slightly simpler format. So here it is, for everyone’s enjoyment in plain text, under the cut. The action takes place between Chain of Gold and Chain of Iron. Read on . . .

1: INVITATION

To all and sundry—

The leaves are changing, and with them the season. It grows colder in London by the day, and even without the pestilence that recently ravaged us, even without demons breathing down our necks, cold with chill—now is the time for all good Shadowhunters to come to one another’s aid, and support one another in that most hallowed Nephilim tradition: song and dance.

So, a Musicale! The Townsends are pleased to invite the Enclave, in toto, to our West End home this Friday’s eve. Refreshments will of course be served, but the entertainment will be provided by you, our esteemed guests and friends. We would be so honored if you would help us welcome the coming of winter by bringing your most excellent capers and ballads, to keep us warm.

Grahame and Millie Townsend

2: Lucie » Cordelia

Cordelia, my sister, the very twin of my own heart,

Can you believe the Townsends’ invitation? How pretentious can one be, I ask you! It took all four Herondales an hour of discussion to conclude that “Friday’s eve” meant simply Friday evening rather than the eve before Friday (that is, Thursday). And is the demons or our necks that are meant to be cold with chill? “Cold with chill!” As a writer of words—no, even only as a reader of words—I am offended.

I digress, however. I write to ask whether you will be attending, as that will be significant to my own decision of whether to go. I asked James, and he was unenthused but “supposed” that “we must.” So I wish to let you know that if you don’t fancy attending, I believe James could be easily convinced. But, as unpleasant a night as it promises, I fear he may be correct that “we must.” You and he, after all, must do the social rounds as a betrothed pair, and I—well, I can hardly sit alone in my bedroom all night while all my friends witness Catherine Townsend’s cold-blooded murder of “O mio babbino caro.” 

So whatever your preference, I will be amenable. We can put on our frills and watch the most foolish of our set warble and prance, and at least we will have each other’s company and champagne. Or, if you’d prefer, tea and draughts in the Institute parlour. I am yours to command, my warrior-sister.

(I have realized only at this moment that perhaps you not only wish to attend but to perform yourself; if that is the case, I retract all previous mentions of warbling in favor of my unconditional enthusiastic support. I will even accompany you, if you wish, but I am not very good at the spinnet so please, something fairly slow would be best.)

Yours ever across the still waters of time and space,

L. Herondale

3: Ariadne » Anna

Dear Miss Lightwood,

I expect that you will have received the same invitation to the Townsends’ Musicale that the rest of the Enclave has. I write with the question of whether it’s your intention to attend, and to say that I hope that you will, and that I hope to see you there.

It’s not your sort of party, of course—dull, bourgeois, and stuffy, I imagine you’d say—but since as the daughter of the Inquisitor I am rarely able to appear at the more lively gatherings that you prefer, I do plan to attend myself, much as I would rather be elsewhere. (At one of those lively gatherings, perhaps?) Catherine will have my head if I am not there to keep her mother out of her hair, for one thing, and for another…well, I wish to see you.

I have it on fairly good authority that your brother and his roisterous band, or whatever they call themselves, are planning to be there. So I also write to implore you to come so that a cooler head will be present and any explosions, or implosions, or indeed bedlam of any kind, will be, if not prevented, at least more easily contained and cleaned up after.

For the event I am thinking of a dress I have, in a deep ruby color, with a rather striking neckline. I am no great judge of my own appearance, but I do know your taste and I daresay you will find it flatters me. For your part, I hope you will wear those pinstriped trousers you have. You have not worn them in an age, and I miss them, or rather, I miss how elegantly you wear them.

In short, I hope to see you there.

I know it is not your habit to keep letters from admirers, but rather to use them to kindle your fireplace. Perhaps that will be the destiny of this note as well, but I believe not. I come to you not as an admirer, after all, but as a friend, and one who wishes you all the best things in the world—

Yrs.,

Ariadne Bridgestock

4: Anna » Matthew

Mr. Fairchild—

Matthew, I have instructed the courier bringing you this note to evaluate your sobriety and, if it is found wanting, to slap you across the face twice. Straighten up and pay attention, you debauched fool. It’s still breakfast-time. And this is important.

Are you going to the Townsends’ musicale? 

Let me rephrase: if you know what’s good for you, you will be going to the Townsends’ musicale.

I hope to enjoy your company there, of course, as my friend and companion. But also, to be frank, I will need the support. My night was free and so I told them I would be there, but I wasn’t thinking, and now I’ve received a note from one A.B., letting me know in no uncertain terms that she will definitely be attending as well. It will be a large gathering, no doubt, and most of our time will be spent watching Thoby Baybrook chase after the juggling-balls he keeps dropping during his performance, rather than close-quarters socializing. But—and I trust in your confidence on this matter—I find I flutter with nerves. Imagine. I never flutter!

I hope I can count on you. I am not usually in the business of begging favors. However, this is an unusual situation. Matthew: she will be wearing the burgundy dress.

Anna

5: Ariadne » Matthew

To Matthew Fairchild—

All right, I’ve sent the letter. Against my better judgment, I should add. It seems more likely to drive her away than to attract her, to be honest, but you have her confidence in ways that I no longer do. If you think she is more likely to be there as a result, I will trust in your plan.

However.

I am fully aware that under most circumstances neither she nor you would be found as such a dreary party as an Enclave-wide musicale. (Nor would I, but as the daughter of the, et cetera et cetera, I hardly need to tell you.) So let this note serve as, not a threat, but a promise: if you even think about ditching the party for one of your Downworlder orgies, or whatever your usual scene, and you leave me and her to awkward politesse over stale canapes without showing up yourself…I will follow you to the ends of the Earth and your life will be forfeit. Forfeit, Fairchild. I daresay I can best you in a duel three times out of four, but also be assured I am very good with a dagger in the dark.

I look forward to enjoying this merry entry in the social season with you. I will see you there.

Yours sincerely,

Ariadne Bridgestock

6: Matthew » Cordelia

C,

No, that won’t do at all. There are already other C’s. Christopher, for instance. Also Caiaphas, a werewolf from whom I sometimes purchase wine. (He has an excellent nose, you see.)

Cordelia Carstairs, you need not worry about the Townsends’ party. First, none of Our Lot are planning to perform at all, but merely hang back and watch the festivities while imbibing and filling seats. You certainly shouldn’t worry that you’ll be asked to dance as you did at the Ruelle. This will not be the Ruelle. It will be far more insipid.

I’m sure J is focused entirely on your responsibilities as an engaged couple to make the rounds and be seen by the whey-faced provincials of the Enclave. He is correct, as always, the bastard, but he worries too much. Rest assured that we Thieves will be concocting a plan in which we are able to (1) have a good time at the most boring gathering of the season and (2) not miss cake. (I don’t know if you have had cake at the Townsends’. They are a tedious family, but their cook is some kind of confection-obsessed elf who performs great conjurings with spun sugar and buttercream.) (Yes, he really is an elf, I think. Or Catherine was having me on. His ears are fairly pointed, in any event.)

I do not particularly anticipate this musicale with great pleasure, but I do, of course, anticipate the opportunity to spend time in your presence with great relish. Truly, my parabatai could not have picked a more suitable bride with whom to be mutually bored to tears at parties for years to come. I suggest that for this one you bring a flask to tuck into your reticule. If you don’t, worry not; I will bring two. At least two.

I remain, as always, yours sincerely, etc etc,

Matthew Fairchild

7: James » Thieves

CONFIDENTIAL—DO NOT DISTRIBUTE—ON PAIN OF TORTURE—THIS MEANS YOU

Merriest of Thieves,

After extensive discussion, we’ve reached consensus (or as close as we will come) on our plan for Having Fun At the Townsends’ Musicale Even Though It Is a Musicale Hosted By the Townsends. (A variety of alternate names were proposed, but all have been vetoed by the plan’s organizer, that is, myself. Please do not continue to send proposed names, Matthew.)

Our esteemed colleague Christopher has, it seems, been working in his spare time on a new method of rapidly sending written messages without the use of couriers. Instead, messages are sent with a combination of runes (so bring your steles) and a propellant of Christopher’s own invention. I’m told that the technique is not yet flawless, but Mr Lightwood reports that it is ready to be shown and tested, and what better place than a party at which missing the main entertainment would be not disappointing, but rather a great relief.

Down a corridor from the Townsends’ main parlour is a small games room. I say games room, but in truth it is empty of games, and nobody ever uses it. It is windowless and a bit close, but mostly empty of furnishings and a suitable location for a scientific demonstration. Even better, the corridor itself departs the parlour with a dog-leg, and once one has passed around the corner, one is invisible to the notice of the other partygoers. (See attached floor plan of the first storey of the house; thanks to TL for his freehand drafting skills.)

This plan assumes that none of you are planning to perform in the musicale itself; if this is not the case, then MF wishes me to remind you both of your loyalties and to the overall philistine-like qualities of most of the guests.

Surely this will provide sufficient entertainment to get us all through the evening.

The party is only one days away, so if there are any questions about this plan, please hiss them to me sotto voce tomorrow night while Millie Townsend is performing her murder ballads.

Courage, half a league, half a league onward, and so on,

James H

PS: For those whose main draw to this party is Morgaint’s famous Victoria sponge, Christopher assures me that we should be done well in time for dessert. (I should add a warning that it should not be referred to as a Victoria sponge within earshot of Morgaint, as he will lecture you at length about the recipe’s preceding Victoria by centuries, the history of confection in pre-Roman Britain, and so on. He is very temperamental, even for a faerie.)

8: Thomas » Alastair

Dear Mr Carstairs—

We have not spoken in many weeks, presumably as a result of the unfortunate circumstances under which we last met. Nevertheless, I write this evening to extend my wishes for your family’s continued health and good fortune.

As I’m sure you know, this Friday marks an Enclave-wide social event at the home of the Mr and Mrs Townsend. I know that your sister will be in attendance, with her fiancé. The Lightwoods—Eugenia, Anna, Christopher, and myself—are also planning to be there. And, of course, we expect the family of our esteemed Consul, including both of her sons, to make an appearance.

Shall we expect to see you there? I ask merely because if so, I will not be attending. I understand that as your family will be there you have every right to attend, so I am happy to be the one who bows out of the evening.

Yours sincerely,

Mr T. Lightwood

9: Alastair » Thomas

Mr Lightwood

Tom

Look, you,

I am amazed and impressed by the effrontery of you writing to me to ask whether I will be attending an event only to them tell me that if I attend, you will not. No doubt you are feeling aggrieved about the last time we met. Well, so am I.  Jests and pranks from our schoolboy years are hardly a good enough reason for the kind of public humiliation I suffered, both from Matthew Fairchild’s rude outburst and your own. The very thought of attending a party with the likes of you sends me into a mixture of, on the one hand, paroxysms of helpless laughter, and on the other, a thumping headache of barely contained fury that I

[letter discarded, not sent]

Mr Lightwood,

Thank you for your kind letter.  I am, of course, aware of the upcoming affair at the home of the Townsends, through the usual means of receiving my own request to attend. It would seem to me obvious that I had no need of being informed about the party as though I would otherwise be ignorant of it. Unlike some of the London Shadowhunter families, the Townsends have only ever been courteous to the Carstairs family, and the implication that I wouldn’t have received exactly the same invitation that you did is exactly the kind of nonsense that

[letter discarded, not sent]

Thomas,

I won’t be attending the Townsends’ musicale, as I am already committed to a preferable previous engagement cleaning out the pigeon cages in the Regent’s Park Zoo.

Thank you for thinking of me.

Receipt of your letter is hereby acknowledged.

I don’t know why you would write to me at all, but please do not write back to try to explain.

[letter discarded, not sent]

Thomas,

I do want to apologize, I have tried to apologize, but every time I come near you a wall of your friends prevents me from doing so. You can hardly hold it against me that I have not apologized when you will not allow me to do so. Yes, I know what I did rises far above the level of a jest or a prank. But one must be allowed to make amends somehow, for otherwise what is there? Hopelessness? Not I suppose that you care much what I feel. Just because you are beloved of your friends, and ridiculously tolerably handsome, you think —

[Letter discarded, not sent]

10: Cordelia » James

J—

Do you need rescuing? Everyone is in the games room for Christopher’s demonstration, even Thomas, who has spent most of the evening hiding from my brother. You on the other hand have been waylaid in the corner with Mrs Whatshername. I tried to get close enough to intervene but was swept away myself by Mr Townsend, who wanted to tell me about his travels in the Levant when he was a younger man. Could not tell if he was confused about my family’s origins or he simply assumed anyone would be fascinated by his tales of camels and pyramids. Anyway, M suggests he could interrupt and scold you for ignoring your betrothed. Lucie says you are ignoring your betrothed, but don’t listen to her, I know you are far too polite to interrupt a member of the older set. (If you yourself remember, please remind me of her name when you come.) 

Come as soon as you can. Do not allow Mrs Whatshername to follow you.

Daisy

11: Christopher » Thieves

To: James, Lucie, Matthew, Thomas, Cordelia, Anna, Ariadne

From: Christopher

In an ideal world, I would have been able to send you this note through this very technique I am demonstrating tonight, but it does make a fairly loud bang, and I thought that would likely give the game away. Though I wish to not allow social proprieties to impede the progress of science, I have been reminded by several of you that discretion can be the better part of valor. Although I admit I can’t think of any personal examples where that would be the case.

In the games room I have piled a supply of protective spectacles, which I suggest you wear. There is no danger of damage to your eyes, but there may be some very bright flashes. In addition, the propellant which I will be using to send the message is an experimental mixture, similar to those I have tried in the past but not exactly the same. There is a very very small chance that inhalation of its fumes may cause some temporary effects to the mind, so I recommend that you hold a handkerchief over your nose and mouth during the demonstration. To be clear, I don’t think that any of these effects would have any negative impact on our ability to return to the party and attend the musical performances afterwards. At worst, it may make those performances seem more enjoyable than they would otherwise.

12: James » Townsends

Dear Mr and Mrs Townsend,

On behalf of myself, my family, my fiancée, and my fellows, I wished to extend sincerest apologies for departing your lovely gathering without saying proper goodbyes. Your musicale was, as all would have expected, a smashing success, with performances across the board demonstrating the falsehood of the common claim that the Nephilim are unable to produce works of art. Surely your daughter Catherine’s rendition of Puccini’s famous aria could stand alongside the finest professionals to be found in the Royal Albert Hall.

As you discovered along with the rest of the guests, Christopher Lightwood wished to use the opportunity of having us all present to demonstrate the state of his newest invention. I’m told that when it is completed, it will utterly revolutionize the way that Shadowhunters are able to communicate with one another, obviating the need for the runners, couriers, and use of the mundane Royal Mail to send messages to one another. Instead we will have a fully self-contained rune-based method. Surely anyone would agree that such a development would be well worth whatever growing pains the process of invention and experimentation might create.

As you also discovered, Mr Lightwood’s demonstration took an unexpected turn, with a good amount of his customized propellant being released into your games room and corridors. Luckily, it was a mild evening, and open windows as well as the vigorous fanning of the doors by Thomas Lightwood and Ariadne Bridgestock quickly dispersed the gasses.

That said, neither I nor my companions are able to account for an interval of roughly ninety minutes between the end of the demonstration and our departure from your house. To that end, it seems that we were sadly lacking in good manners by failing to thank you for your warm hospitality at the time. Again, please accept our deepest apologies, and our thanks for that hospitality, even if it has been delivered discourteously late. 

Warmest regards,

James Herondale

13: Matthew » James

Jamie,

Good Lord, what was in that stuff of Christopher’s? Do you know if there will be any lasting effects? I hesitate to ask Kit, he seems too dismayed.

Also, I am trying to find out to whom exactly I owe an apology for specific behaviors that might have happened after the demonstration. I seem to have lost more than an hour from my memory, as well as my waistcoat and a garnet ring of which I was quite fond. Any thoughts you have would be appreciated.

Matthew

14: Lucie » James

James,

I have been expecting to hear from Matthew, but as it has been most of a day and I haven’t yet, can you please let him know that I will make myself available to be apologized to during teatime, either tomorrow or the next day. Please also tell him that I will be sending along a bill for the costs of cleaning arrack out of the skirt of my dress. For such a prodigious consumer of spirits, you would think he would have learned not to slosh them around so much when he talks. I suppose Christopher’s propellant takes some of the blame, but honestly, Shadowhunters are trained in agility and dexterity and even under the influence of one of Christopher’s experiments he should be able to, at very least, not slosh so.

Lucie

15: Cordelia » Anna

Dear Anna,

The last hour or so of the party was something of a blur for all of us, I think. But I feel confident in assuring you that both you and Ariadne acted with all due propriety, and that at no point did you “make an ass of yourself,” as you put it, either out among all the guests or in the games room. 

Also, when next you speak to Ariadne, please compliment her on her lovely dress. It suited her quite well! I wondered if you were responsible for finding it for her? You do have such an excellent eye for what colors and cuts will flatter. 

Anyway, do not worry. I have made some private inquiries, and nobody took note of any unusual behavior on the part of either yourself or Miss Bridgestock. (In fact, Rosamund seemed to be under the impression that you were shamelessly flirting with her. I can confirm that you were not and that Rosamund simply has an odd way about her.)

Are we still on for tea Wednesday? Let me know if not and otherwise I will see you then.

Cordelia Carstairs

16:  Townsends » Everybody

For the attention of: 

James Herondale

Lucie Herondale

Matthew Fairchild

Thomas Lightwood

Anna Lightwood 

Christopher Lightwood

Alastair Carstairs

Cordelia Carstairs

On behalf of not just our own family, but the parental generation of the Enclave more generally, we wish to communicate our displeasure with your behavior at our soirée on Friday’s eve. You are all adults or near-enough, under Nephilim Law, and so you should be held to account as any adults would be. And you should be ashamed of yourselves.

Given the influence had by many of your families, and the small size of the London Enclave, we cannot bar you from all of our future events. If only we could. We will, however, be more careful in future about shutting off access to rooms in our house that are not intended for use by party guests.

Rather than taking the time to craft individual complaints, we hereby itemize the most obvious of our grievances, so that you may all have your behavior exposed to one another. Certainly none of you deserve to have your actions kept private.

Alastair: We were glad to see you eventually arrive, though there is a wide difference between “fashionably late” and the hour you appeared. (Just in time for the desserts, we note.) Also, the song you performed was highly inappropriate for the ladies present, especially the unmarried ones, such as our daughter, and also your own sister.

Lucie: While we have always supported your hobby of writing down entertaining tales, and we understand that the storyteller’s art does involve artistic creativity, your ongoing, strident, melodramatic narration of the events following the Christopher Lightwood Incident was not appreciated by us or, especially, Mrs Rosewain, who you referred to throughout as “Mrs Whatshername.” 

James: Your interruption of the cake serving to declare your undying devotion to your true love was a gallant gesture. It might, however, have gone over better had you not pledged your troth to a portrait in oils of our ancestral matriarch, Frideswide Townsend. Your taste is admirable, of course, and she was considered a great beauty. It is unfortunate for your affections that she passed away in the late sixteenth century.

Anna: We would thank you to come by and pick up your brother from our house at some point. He has been muttering to himself, fiddling with a pencil and paper, and threatening “another test, much improved.” Please retrieve him post-haste.

 Thomas: We don’t know how you made the acquaintance of that vampire who attempted to accompany all of the performers on his dulcimer, but he is not welcome back to our house, and if we see him again, neither are you.

Matthew: Whatever was in that bottle you were plying to my mother, we only found her this morning, napping on our roof. When we woke her she said it was of a greenish color and asked for more of it. We would be obliged if you could bring another bottle by, at your convenience.

Cordelia: Your demonstration of the supernatural sharpness of your sword was very impressive, even if it was not in the spirit of the kinds of performance we expected for a musicale. It is, however, not all that surprising that it was able to cut through our drapes, a dining-room chair, or the sponge cake. We spoke to your brother, and he suggested that we should feel free to send an invoice for replacement costs to the Herondale family, since soon enough you will be their trouble, and not his.

In short, you have all behaved abominably, and are, each and every one of you, embarrassments to your various hallowed family names. 

We hope you will join us the Thursday after next, for boating and luncheon in Hyde Park.

Mr and Mrs Graham Townsend

[therealvinelle]

What do you think the Cullens would do if some person they were talking to, out of nowhere just quite literally exploded in front of, and on them? Kinda like in that movie Spontaneous. Would they lose control and slurp up the mess on the ground, (and themselves) or would their bloodlust be curtailed by shock of wtf just happened?

I'd say something witty about how this is a strange anon to receive, but holy jesus you've sent me down a rabbithole.

Here's a trailer to the movie Spontaneous. It looks amazing. Kevin Feige wishes this had been his plot for Infinity War.

Here's a trailer for the movie Spontaneous Combustion, which I found by accident while searching for your fic. This looks amazing too. Can't believe Marvel didn't buy the rights to this guy.

I'm serious, people, you definitely want to watch these trailers. I just about died laughing.

So, on to your ask.

In the spirit of your ask, which implies a level of randomness, I thought the people blowing up should be random too. So, being in the mood to procrastinate through spending way too much time on tumblr things, I wrote a program that'll generate for me random Twilight characters.

Unsure whether the explosion should kill vampires or not, I generated an answer. The answer is yes, any generated vampire dies.

Without further ado:

Alice watches Vladimir blow up.

Alright, alright.

The first question to be answered here is why Alice is in Vladimir's presence in the first time. In canon they only meet once, at the end of Breaking Dawn.

For the sake of simplicity, we'll have Vladimir blow up then.

The Cullens and the witnesses are all celebrating being alive, when Vladimir suddenly explodes.

For the sake of the ask, Alice is sitting closest to him when this happens and making conversation.

Her first thought is utter shock. Not just that he blew up, but that she didn't see it coming (she wouldn't, because I randomly generated him. No decision was made). Her second thought is horror.

The Cullens just confronted the Volturi, now mere hours afterwards their allies are blowing up.

Holy fuck, Aro has a gifted ace up his sleeve, and he's using it to kill them remotely.

Panic ensues, not just for Alice, but among all the witnesses. Some of them refuse to leave, Bella has to shield those 24/7, though given the belief that her gift is psychic that doesn't make them feel very safe.

The others decide to go after the Volturi and beg for mercy, assuring them they never meant to challenge them.

Aro, of course, is very confused, but agrees. Why, yes, he does have a vampire who blows people up. Yes, yes he does.

Bella watches Aro blow up.

Oh I'm dying laughing at this one. And wishing I'd put this down for Carlisle, that would be even funnier, but alright.

Bella is walking about post-Breaking Dawn, minding her own business, when suddenly Aro appears in front of her. He looks around himself, utterly surprised by his sudden deplacement, and then blows up.

Bella has been living in terror of this man for years.

In Volterra he had his servant torture her and Edward and then made ominious threats, then a few months later the Eclipse disaster unfolded, finally we have Breaking Dawn where he showed up to murder her and everyone she loved.

Her shield may be powerful, but for as long as Aro was alive her family was never truly safe.

His untimely implosion changes all of that.

I imagine after a long moment of incredulity, Bella burns the rubble, just to be sure, then tells her family the joyous news.

Carlisle gives the guy a funeral. It's weird.

Carlisle watches Vassilii blow up.

Close call, due to my not switching out the names we almost had Angela. In which case Carlisle have stood there, covered in blood and in shock for several long seconds, before bringing out the bleach and gasoline for a crime scene clean.

As it is, Carlisle is minding his own business when suddenly an immortal child dressed like a medieval Eastern European appears before him. It says something in a foreign language that might mean "hi", he doesn't know but he says "hi" to it back, then the child blows up.

Carlisle stares at the rubble for a very long time, wondering if he is perhaps losing his mind. If, perhaps, Aro was right about animal blood being a slow suicide, and Carlisle has finally hit the limit for how long a vampire can go on without human blood.

He burns the rubble and prays for the child's soul, as an immortal child is doomed anyway, and keeps his silence about what happened. In part because there's a solid chance this was all in his imagination.

If Aro ever touches his hand again, and sees the immortal child that he burned a thousand years earlier resurrect, travel through time, all in order to blow up in front of Carlisle, he... well there comes a point where you say "nothing to see here" and refuse eye contact with the universe glitching.

Edward watches Randall blow up.

Randall, for the ignorants, is one of Carlisle's friends that came to witness for the Cullens in Breaking Dawn.

Suddenly he appears in front of Edward, says hi and how do you do, and then he blows up.

Edward tells Carlisle, who is saddened by this, and they try to piece the guy together. They fail.

Edward sends a somber thought to this noble man who agreed with Edward that the Cullens are awesome enough to be worth dying for.

Emmett watches Mary blow up.

Emmett will never admit it, but it's the coolest, raddest thing he's ever seen.

Esme watches Eleazar blow up.

Oh boy.

The Cullens are visiting the Denali. Irina has not been dead for long, but given the crystal clear memory of vampires, and the loss they already suffered (Sasha's death traumatized them) it doesn't really matter how long it's been, the Denali are devastated anyway.

The whole coven is as fragile as it can possibly get.

Then, Eleazar goes to join Esme in the kitchen, and explodes all over her and the kitchen.

The remaining Denali and the Cullens are called to the kitchen by the sound of Esme's screaming, and find her in hysterics, surrounded by gray rubble.

The Denali are near catatonic with grief at this point, while cooking has been ruined for Esme. One moment you're making food, the next people are exploding all over your kitchen.

Yeah.

Esme is not okay.

Jasper watches Nahuel blow up.

It's a shameful moment in his life.

But, hybrids are edible.

And that blood was splattered all over him.

Jasper has the worst control fail of his life, worse even than when he failed with Bella because this fail means he can't be around Renesmée anymore.

It's miserable all around.

The one highlight here is that it didn't happen when they were headed to the Volturi trial together.

Rosalie watches Emmett blow up.

Jesus christ, random Twilight character generator, just when I thought you were just going to give me boring results.

Not only does Rosalie lose the love of her life, the guy who kept her together, the one good thing she had going for her who made her life worth living, but he did so right in front of her, blowing up out of nowhere.

There's no explanation to be had, no culprit to be found, no reason for it. She had no goodbye, just as she can have no revenge.

She will never have closure.

Renesmée watches Renée blow up.

We go out on a high note, my god. Well done, generator, I'm laughing.

Renesmée is curious enough about her grandmother to go to Florida. She was going to watch from afar, but finds herself talking to the woman who raised her mother.

It's all going well until Renée suddenly explodes all over Renesmée.

Renesmée's first thought is nothing, she's in shock.

Then...

Well, she was controlled as an infant, so I don't think an adult Renesmée would lose it unless under extreme circumstances, like if she encountered a singer.

More, though, Renesmée might have any reasons of her own not to drink human blood, but she has been raised with this being a big no-no.

So she shouldn't.

However...

Is she ever going to get a better chance?

Ethically, she could easily argue this is the right choice. No one will be negatively affected by this, at least not directly.

The human is right there, already dead, and there's no body so while Renesmée does have to clean up the gore. Hell, if she laps up the blood on her clothes and the ground she will be cleaning up. Why waste perfectly good blood?

If Renesmée Cullen is ever going to have human blood, this is it.

It will come down to how much she respects her grandfather, and how important she believes Renée was to Bella.

-

Bonus, because I'm having way too much fun with this:

Bree watches Atheonodora blow up.

Bree is minding her own business when suddenly a vampire unlike any she has ever seen before, one with hazy eyes and odd skin, appears before her. They stare at each other. Then the woman blows up.

Bree takes this to mean that exploding is apparently something vampires just do sometimes, runs off in a panic and, sobbing, tells Riley.

Riley, having no idea what to make of any of this, tells her it was those evil yellow-eyes with their witchcraft and sorcery.

[gypsydanger01]

THE STORM - Part eleven

Fandom: The Boys (Amazon prime tv series)

Pairing: Black Noir x OC

Disclaimer: I don’t own The Boys, only my OC characters and certain pieces of au plot.

Comments, reviews, constructive criticism, and other requests are always more than welcome!

  Posting new chapters on Wednesday and Friday!

 Mallory

The following day started out cloudy but ultimately turned out to be a lovely day. Unfortunately, though, the pale sun in the sky gave little warmth, and Sarah trudged on towards the local park, hands stuffed in the pockets of her coat.

Waking up in a fairly good mood, she decided to go for a walk, and maybe make a trip to the local park. Children’s laughter grew louder and louder until she turned the corner, and there it was. To be honest, it wasn’t much of a park, run down and covered in graffiti, but children are quick to move past that. All that mattered to them was playing, running around, and having fun.

Sarah looked away and sat on a bench, legs crossed one over the other. She checked the time and flipped open the burner phone she kept for contacting Mallory. After five minutes, at precisely eleven o’clock, she selected the only registered number and called.

“Mommy, mommy, look—look at me, mommy,” a little girl called from the swings, her mother smiling and assuring that she, indeed, could see her.

It reminded Sarah so much of her younger self calling out to her mother, and it hurt. She'd visited the playground they used to go to before the Vought trials, but it had become abandoned, all grass and rusty edges. It was sad how it'd been left behind.

She waited for the other end to pick up.

“Hello?” a voice called out, and Sarah smiled lightly.

She paused and breathed out, “Hey Mal, how are you doing?”

Mallory chuckled on the other end, “Well these knees aren’t what they used to be, but I’m okay,” Sarah heard her plop onto the sofa, “More importantly, how are you?”

Sarah ran a hand through the curly tresses that had been blown into her face.

“I guess it’s decent, can’t really complain. I’m still working as a data analyst for the labs, in bioinformatics…,” she trailed off. “But I heard a slot is opening up for a researcher in the developmental biology labs, so I’m going to try and see if they’ll hire me.”

“Please, Sarah—just be careful, keep your eyes open,” she murmured, “always vigilant, alright?”

The young woman stared out at the children crawling over the playground’s castle, tumbling down the slides, running after each other and laughing out of pure, innocent joy.

“Where are you?”

“Neighborhood playground.”

“I thought I heard children. How’s school?”

“Well, actually well, I’ll be finished with my post doc soon enough. They hired me as an assistant professor a couple days ago, I’m teaching a microbiology class for some juniors.”

“That sounds interesting, it would be entertaining to see you teach. You’re a mix of patient and impatient—don’t really know what that would look like in the classroom.”

Sarah snorted lightly, “Fortunately, they seem to be good listeners, quiet and respectful—I don’t know what I’d do if they were a bunch of little arrogant rich kids.”

Mallory too started laughing, thinking back on the young woman’s training. She was proficient in using a great number of weapons and could easily hold her own without one. In an interrogation room, she was skillful in psychologically manipulating a suspect into confessing or giving up information. She spoke multiple languages and was a natural at reading body-language. She had a good eye for meaningful details that are often overlooked. She was the perfect field agent. Mallory had a hard time seeing her as a professor, calmly explaining a powerpoint to a bunch of students.

“I guess it’ll help you further develop that patience of yours,” Mallory surmised.

Sarah couldn’t help but agree.

“Hey, Mallory?” she asked tentatively.

The older woman stilled on the couch, “Yes dear?”

“Do you remember Dr. Roberts? The doctor I saw for my…” she trailed off, searching for a better word, “for my health problems?”

Mallory pursed her lips and stayed silent on the other end.

“I need to contact him—”

Mallory cut in, “What happened? Do you need to come home?”

Worry laced in her voice, the older woman couldn’t help the string of worst scenarios playing in her head. She knew the danger correlated with the young woman’s plan and felt helpless in being left out. If anything happened to the girl, she wouldn’t be able to live with herself.

 When the dust finally settled, there was nothing left but a crater and a little girl lying amid the smoke and ashes. That’s how they found her: curled in a ball, shivering with her skin covered in soot.

When the perimeter was deemed safe enough, Mallory and a team of experts approached the figure. Alive, yet on the brink of death, the little girl had slipped into a coma, and they were quick to have her internalized in a secured section of a local hospital. Only Mallory and few others had the security clearance to access the small room that held her.

Months passed and the room stayed quiet. Mallory went to gather updates from the doctors once a week. At the CIA they had many hypothesis but couldn’t seem to put together the disaster that had been the implosion of that Vought clinic. She had her underlying suspicions and didn’t trust the little girl who had survived. She had to be enhanced, she had to be a supe. There was no other explanation, no other alternative. And yet, she was the only link that would allow them to piece together the accident. The news had presented it as an explosion due to an accidental chemical explosion, but Mallory knew they were far from the truth.

It was an experimental factory for building little supes. And evidently, it had worked.

The proof of that was the little unknown girl lying in her white, pristine cot.

Mallory would look at her with detachment, knowing the child was probably a victim, and yet not feeling any remorse. She had leveled an entire building.

But then one day, as she watched a nurse report her vitals while tucking the little girl in, she opened her eyes. Afraid and trembling, she looked around wildly and fixated on the woman standing at the door.

With her height and professional attire, she was the epitome of rigidness. Blonde hair perfectly pinned back into a bun. Sharp light blue eyes guarded and alert. The two stared at each other, both with underlying dread and a sliver of fear.

And then something twisted in Mallory. Maybe it was the blatant fear in the young girls’ eyes, or maybe it was the innocent tears trailing down her cheeks.

“Where’s my mommy?”

Mallory moved forward, compelled by some unknown force.

She sat at the girl’s side, “She’s not here at the moment, okay?” she explained softly, tension visible in her rigid shoulders. She had no idea what the little one was capable of, and she didn’t want to find out.

The nurse gently took a hold of her bony wrist, taking her vitals once again. “How are you feeling?”

The little girl wiped at her face, “Sleepy.”

“Okay, and can you tell us your name sweetie?”

She looked up at the strict woman beside her, “Marianna,” she said matter-of-factly before adding, “my mommy calls me Mari.”

As the minutes passed, Mari seemed to grow livelier and more awake, her skin less pale and clammy than before.

The nurse pressed a button on the side of the bed, calling the assigned physician, Dr. Roberts.

“Marianna, I’m going to have to get a little bit of blood so we can have it tested and make sure you’re okay. Is that alright?”

The girl pulled her legs into a crisscrossed position and shrugged her shoulders.

“Okay,” she answered as if it were the most normal thing in the world. The nurse hurried to prepare the syringe and test tube, comparing her to the hundreds of kids who cry and scream in vicinity of a needle.

Marianna watched her sterilize the needle, then looked back at Mallory.

“Can I hold your hand?”

Mallory was left speechless and felt like she should distance herself before growing attached. Nevertheless, she nodded and let Marianna’s small fingers grip her own.

 “Mallory?” Sarah called into the phone, suddenly worried.

The woman was brought out of her memories and focused on the task at hand.

“Why are you bringing this up now? I haven’t heard from Dr. Roberts in years.”

Sarah explained, reciting the story she’d come up with, “I know but I have some samples I took that need to be tested,” she explained. “Discreetly,” she stressed.

Mallory thought about it and let go of the tension in her shoulders, “Alright, I thought something happened with you.”

Sarah felt terrible for lying but couldn’t see any alternative. “No, I’m doing alright, I just need to contact him for these samples. I don’t know anyone else who would do it. And he’s trustworthy.”

Mallory nodded to herself, “Alright, I’ll look for his number and email—I’ll send you the info by tonight.”

“Great, thanks Mal.”

Mallory laughed lightly, “Please, you won’t let me get involved, this is the least I can do.”

They chatted for a few more minutes before saying their goodbyes with the usual promise of talking at the same time next Sunday.

Sarah stayed seated on the park bench for a little while longer, trying her best to recall details on Dr. Roberts. She’d met him only a few times at the hospital after she had woken up from the coma.

 Mallory was seated on the edge of her cot, answering Marianna’s flood of questions. Mostly, she tried to avoid answering questions about her parents. Mallory’s heart squeezed tight every time the little one inquired about their whereabouts, and why they hadn’t still been to see her.

They were waiting for word on her final results, and when Dr. Roberts finally entered, they both fell silent.

“Good morning everyone,” he greeted, lively energy in his movements, “how are you doing today, Marianna?”

The little girl looked at Mallory and answered shyly, “M’okay”

“That sounds great,” he smiled, “I have your test results here and everything is looking good. Great, actually.”

He further explained certain details and made sure to indicate what medications she would need to take over the next few weeks.

Finally, he rose and excused himself to speak with Mallory. In the meantime, the little girl put on the clothes the woman had brought for her.

“She’s really doing fine, she must have some regenerative enhancement as well, because she’s healthier than what she should be.”

“And will the other enhancement manifest?”

“I don’t think so. It seems like it’s linked to the amygdala—the center for processing fear, stress, anxiety, and the likes—" he paused. “The accident took its toll, I think. And when she’ll remember, or you tell her, I think it’s going to effectively shut that part of her down.” He thought about it and added, “Think of it as an emotional wall.”

Mallory nodded, processing the information. The little one might have a chance at a semi-normal life.

“Just follow the instructions on the papers I gave you and you all should be fine. She just needs to be looked after and cared for. It’s going to be a shock when she finds out.”

Mallory agreed and her chest squeezed at the thought of the pain the girl would go through.

She thanked the doctor and headed back into the room.

“Are you ready to go, sweetie?”

She watched the little one scramble off the bed in fresh clothes, a small light blue backpack on her shoulders. It contained some items Mallory had brought her over the course of her stay at the clinic. There was a comb for her unruly hair, chap-stick, some crayons, and a small notebook.

“You remember what we talked about?”

The little girl nodded, “My name is Sarah now.”

Mallory smiled, her usually frigid expression melting away. She reminded her of her grandchildren at home.

“Come on, let’s go meet your new friends.”

Marianna, now officially named Sarah Burns, skipped along with her down a hallway and out of the building. As she climbed into the back of her car, Mallory scanned the premises for any watchful eyes. She slipped into the driver’s seat before looking back at Sarah.

“I was almost forgetting—I got you something,” she said reaching into her jacket pocket.

Sarah’s eyes widened at the Snickers bar she extracted. The little girl laughed and clapped her hands.

 Sarah was pulled back into the present as a little girl ran past her—she felt the movement of air in waves. The woman stood and took her leave, heading back home.

MASTERLIST

Tag list: @ateliefloresdaprimaveraa @ellejo @dust-bun @coco724  @proximio-5 @damiminator @omegahighendpro @rpgluvr95 @sweetrabbitteamx

[lemonz-and-limez]

The Breach Implosion Complication

A/N: Ok, to say I am nervous to post this is an understatement. I think it's safe to say I am downright terrified. This is the first time I will be posting a crossover and I just don't know what to expect. But I have really been enjoying writing this and I hope you all love reading it just as much!

Just for some timeline references, this is set after Big Bang Theory 9x09 and Flash 2x09. And, yes, we've got some major dubious science in here lol.

Sheldon stared at his whiteboard with disappointment. His work was suffering; he knew this, but, now that the university had him on a time crunch for some work that was substantial… he was starting to see the scope of his work's downgrade. But he couldn't help that he was distracted by personal matters, by the loss of his most important relationship. Sheldon wanted to blame Amy for his professional downfall, but he couldn't bring himself to do so. Despite everything, he still loved her and wanted her to be happy. It wasn't her fault that he was an inadequate boyfriend.

Glancing over at the clock on his desk, Sheldon sighed when he realized it was almost noon. He had wasted half the day staring at this godforsaken whiteboard and still coming up with nothing. He was running out of time. The university was going to pull his funding if he didn't come up with something soon.

Suddenly there was a knock on his office door, and Leonard peeked his head inside. "Hey, buddy, we're off to lunch. You coming?"

Sheldon shook his head in the negative. "No," he replied. "I can't afford to waste any more time. I need to come up with something."

"Sheldon," Leonard sighed and fully stepped into the room. "Maybe it will help if you get out of this room for a while. You're working yourself to death."

He wanted to yell, throw, lash out at his best friend still standing in the doorway. He was *not* working himself to death. After all, he hadn't come up with anything of value in months. If he was working himself to death, he would have made progress by now. "Leonard, really, I'm fine," he tried reassuring the shorter man. "I just need to focus."

Leonard held his hands up in surrender. "All right, suit yourself. But I heard something pretty cool happened in Central City a couple of days ago. I know how you love a good discussion about that."

Without further ado, Leonard left him alone. Sheldon sighed once again. He loved talking about the latest metahuman news with his friends. Two years ago, when the Flash made his first appearances as the Streak in Central City, Sheldon and his friends spent almost all their time reading about him. Consuming the limited information that there was on this mystery man in red. Like the vigilante of Starling City, or the Green Arrow as he would later be known, nobody knew who the Flash really was. It wasn't that he was hellbent on finding out who this new hero was, but it made for an interesting hobby. Even if Amy told him it was a tad creepy.

Sheldon deflated again the moment his ex's name came into his mind. He couldn't let that hinder him, though. He needed to focus. Friday… he just needed to get to Friday. Then he could talk to his friends about exciting topics. He would either still have a job or be fired by the end of the week, no matter what.

Sheldon was about to turn away from his board to sit down, but a sudden woosh and jolt stopped him. And before he could even process what was happening, Sheldon was in an entirely different room altogether.

He knew he had just moved insanely fast, but the sudden stop was the thing that was truly disorienting. He held his arms out in front of him as if to make sure he had his balance. Sheldon looked around the room almost frantically, taking in his new surroundings, trying to deduce where he was. There were screens everywhere, each displaying some kind of data or logo. But Sheldon was so out of sorts he couldn't comprehend what it was. There was a hole in the wall, almost like a closet, but it was empty. There was nothing in it.

When Sheldon turned around, he was met with three pairs of eyes. Two of which were standing behind a large console with even more screens with even more data. A man and a woman both look shell shocked to see him standing there. But they were not who interested Sheldon the most. No, that award went to the man who stood next to the long desk. Clad in all red leather, a white emblem with a lightning bolt on his chest.

"You-you're," Sheldon sputtered and pointed at the man. He couldn't seem to take his eyes off of him. "You're the Flash."

With a nod, Flash validated Sheldon's last statement. "I am. And you're Dr. Sheldon Cooper."

"You know who I am?" he asked, shocked to hear his name come from the person he had admired for so long.

"I do. Child progeny, who graduated at eleven, had his first Ph.D. by the time he was sixteen and now works at CalTech."

Sheldon looked at the other two people in the room, wondering how in the world these people knew this information. What else did they know? "How- how do you know all of that."

The Flash smiled under his cowl. "Your biography on your university's website is very detailed."

One of the other two people in the room finally spoke up. The man... who had long dark hair and some kind of graphic t-shirt. "We also kind of ran a background check on you."

"Cisco!" Both the woman and the Flash whispered harshly.

Cisco, apparently, held his hands up. "Excuse me, but he asked!" He defended himself before sitting in front of the console to work on one of the screens.

There was an awkward silence for a moment as the remaining two people and Sheldon stared at each other. "As amazing as it is to meet you," Sheldon said, gesturing to the man decked out in all red. "Why did you bring me here? Also, where is here?" He asked, gesturing at all the surroundings.

"You're at STAR Labs in Central City, and we brought you here because we need your help."

"Wow, ok, STAR Labs as in particle accelerator explosion STAR Labs?" Sheldon had heard of what had happened here over two years ago. It was tragic, really, how wrong the accelerator being turned on had gone. Its success could have meant leaps and bounds for the scientific community. But instead, it only seemed to have brought tragedy.

The Flash sighed. "The very one. Look, I know our reputation here is less than stellar, but we really could use your help."

Sheldon looked at the woman, who at this point had still said nothing, and saw that she was nodding in agreement. He really wanted to help, but he had a deadline he had to meet. A very hard deadline that could cost him his job. "Look, Flash, I would love to help, but I have a lot of work back home that I need to take care of."

The Flash made eye contact with Cisco, who took a renewed interest in the conversation. "Dr. Cooper," Cisco started, standing again. "We know your work has taken a hit recently; if you help us, we may be able to help you too."

Sheldon narrowed his eyes at the shorter man and crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Do I want to know how you know that?"

"Probably not, no," Cisco rushed out, shaking his head. "But if we work together, I think we could be of great use to each other." Suddenly, he smirked. "And besides, I think you'll be more than happy to help us," he said, pointing at Sheldon's chest.

Looking down, confused, Sheldon was embarrassed when he remembered what shirt he had put on that morning. His signature red Flash shirt. Suddenly his cheeks were just as red as his clothing, and he kept his head down to hide that fact.

"Hey," Cisco called, bringing Sheldon's attention back to him. "It's alright, we of all people understand."

Sheldon shot the man a tight-lipped smile that was gone as quickly as it came. "I want to help, I really do. But I don't know how much help I'll be right now. I've been going through some stuff lately."

"Believe me when I say that everyone in this room has been through some stuff," The woman next to Cisco finally spoke. "Maybe a change of scenery will be good for you."

Looking back at the Flash, he saw that the scarlet speedster was questioning him with his eyes. "What do you say?"

"Alright," he nodded. "I'll help you. But I think it's only fair if I know why."

The Flash nodded. "I agree, Dr. Cooper. And it is only fair that you know who you're working with." He gestured over at his colleagues. "These are my friends," He spoke again, gesturing to the other two people in the room. "Cisco Ramon and Dr. Caitlin Snow."

Caitlin… or Dr. Snow… smiled genuinely at him. "It's nice to meet you, Dr. Cooper."

Sheldon nodded back at her. "So, what do you need me to do?"

Flash looked to his friends, and it was as if they were having a silent conversation simply through facial expressions. It was when Cisco and Caitlin both nodded that he turned back to Sheldon. "Maybe it would be easier if we showed you."

"Ok," he whispered, following all three people as they led the way.

STAR Labs was state of the art with all the latest technology, even though only half a dozen people were employed there. Sheldon had heard bits and pieces about what really happened here when the particle accelerator exploded. Still, like everything else that came out of this lab, it was a mystery. Maybe he would be able to get the full story before he went back home.

Flash led him and his friends through the winding halls and down an elevator. When they arrived at the heavy metal door, Sheldon went in ahead of them, cautiously curious. His eyes winded as soon as he saw it, though. A large mass of light that appeared to be stable but was whirling with energy.

"This," Sheldon pointed at the elephant in the room. "Is this a wormhole?"

"You could say that," Cisco said as he came to stand next to him. "We're calling them breaches."

Sheldon's brow furrowed in confusion. "Breeches? To what?"

It was the scarlet speedster who answered. "To another Earth."

"Another Earth?" Sheldon repeated. "The multiverse theory… it's true?"

"Definitely, and we have a giant problem to prove it." Cisco went further into the room to stand next to the breach.

"What's the problem?"

"He goes by the name Zoom," Cisco started, an edge to his voice that was telling of how serious the situation must be. "And he's from Earth-2. Zoom has an insane need for speed and will do anything to make sure he gets what he wants. He's already broken Flash's back once."

Sheldon's eyes shot to the man in question, who only nodded his confirmation. He remembered seeing that story on the news, how the Flash was nearly beaten to death by a new dangerous villain. "That was Zoom?"

Flash continued for Cisco. "Yes, and he won't hold back again if we let him, which is why we need your help. We need to close the breaches to the other Earth."

Cisco pulled up a map of Central City on one of the computer screens. He gestured for Sheldon to come over to him. "These are all the breaches that are scattered throughout the city. We need to close all of them except for this one," he said, pointing at the large wormhole in front of them.

"Exactly how many are there?"

"Including this one, there are fifty-two breaches in Central City," Cisco told him. Sheldon must have looked shocked because he quickly continued. "This is the largest one though, it's giving off the most transdimensional energy."

Sheldon studied the breach in front of him. He was fascinated with it. The way it flowed, to and fro, almost like water. But it wasn't a liquid, no, not at all. It was the gateway to a parallel universe. A door. He began nodding his head, understanding a little bit more of what they needed to do. Nothing was certain; he needed to write a formula, breakdown the math. But after months of getting nowhere with his research, he finally felt a renewed love for science.

"So, basically, we need to close the door from this side, ultimately locking anyone on the other side out. The event horizon on this side of the breach needs to collapse." Sheldon thought out loud, pacing back and forth. "Which means that the breach would need to be unstable…"

Flash and Cisco seemed to be catching on to what he was saying, and both of them came closer to the breach where Sheldon was now standing. With both men in close proximity to him and all three of them staring at the wonder in front of them, Sheldon continued. "It's going to take a lot of energy to do this, though."

Cisco snapped his fingers. "You'd need a detonation of some kind. Something that would destroy it but not create…" He sighed and paused heavily. "Not create a singularity."

The mood in the room suddenly turned somber, and Sheldon watched as the other three people simultaneously look down. He had a feeling he knew what this was about. "I take it you're referencing the mysterious singularity that happened here last year?"

All three people scoffed, but Flash was the one who ultimately spoke up. "Not mysterious, but yes, we don't want another repeat of that event."

Even though he was challenged with everyday social interaction, Sheldon knew better than to probe further on the subject. He had a feeling it was a sore spot for them, and as of late, he was also too familiar with sore spots. He wouldn't like them asking about Amy. Which was not outside the realm of possibility, seeing as how they knew a little too much about him. But regardless, he didn't want to cause any undue pain to people that he barely knew. Especially since one of these people was the Flash, a man who he'd admired for years.

A man who he now wanted to help.

"I'll need some time," Sheldon told the team. "But I think I can figure this out."

His entire academic career and Sheldon had never seen someone react with such gratitude for his assistance. Back in California, people only came to him begrudgingly. They knew he was the best for the job, but his lack of social graces gave him an infamous reputation. Sheldon always told himself that he didn't care, and maybe for years, he honestly didn't. But there was a strange feeling in his chest, looking at these people who didn't really know him and seeing them be thankful for his help—people who all seemed so genuine and caring and only wanted to do good in the world. Sheldon had to do this for them; he needed to do right by them.

Suddenly there was a beeping sound coming from one of the computers. The Flash looked at it for a moment. "I have to go," he informed them. "Look, Dr. Cooper, thank you for helping us."

Even if he was in a rush, Sheldon could tell that the man was genuinely grateful. He smiled slightly. "My pleasure."

And in the blink of an eye, the Flash sped off, leaving a gust of wind behind him. Papers flew off the tables, and his hair was messed up, but Sheldon was too mesmerized to care. So transfixed that he almost didn't hear Cisco when he said he would show Sheldon to a lab.

"So, why do you want to keep the breach downstairs open but not all the others?" Sheldon asked as he and Cisco walked the halls once again.

"One way in, one way out," Cisco stated simply. "Right now, Zoom could breach to almost anywhere in the city. But if he could only access this Earth one way, we could know he's coming and be prepared."

"You want to set up a trap," Sheldon affirmed. He had to admit, "That's smart."

They turned a corner and came to a stop in front of an open door. "It is, and get ready to meet the jerk who came up with that idea." Cisco's facial expression was somewhere between scared and annoyed.

And Sheldon was about to ask why he looked so apprehensive when a loud crash from inside the lab stopped him. And he could now add anger to the list of emotions so blatantly written across Cisco's face.

"Yo! Harry, what have I told you about throwing my stuff?!" The shorter man yelled as he stomped into the room. Sheldon cautiously followed behind him.

Inside there was another, taller, man dressed in all black. With hair sticking up in almost every direction, fingers through it, agitating it more. But when he angrily turned around to face Cisco, Sheldon had to take a step back. The man was older, late forties maybe even early fifties. But this man's face had been all over the news right after the particle accelerator exploded. And after his mysterious *death* which occurred last year. A death he was sure Team Flash knew more about than they were letting on.

Harrison Wells… the CEO of STAR Labs and the man who kept far too many secrets for the liking of the scientific community. But he was well respected, and he fascinated Sheldon anyway. Most of his research was leaps and bounds ahead of the times. Sheldon often read through his papers with interest instead of disdain like he did most other scientists. He had, honestly, hoped to meet the infamous Dr. Wells one day… but he died.

"Dr. Cooper?" Cisco questioned, pulling Sheldon out of his musings. "Are you ok?"

Sheldon couldn't look away from Dr. Wells… Harrison… whoever he was standing awkwardly in the back of the room. "You're dead," he stated outright, confusion seeping from his voice.

"On this Earth, yes," Dr. Wells answered, his voice rough.

Cisco explained it in layman's terms. "He's from Earth-2." He paused with a heavy sigh. "As for the Dr. Wells of this Earth, that's part of another really long story."

Well, that was one way to pique his curiosity, Sheldon thought. Obviously, there was more to the story of STAR Labs than the media was covering. And these new people that he had been introduced to obviously knew everything.

"Ramon," Dr. Wells whispered, the gruff in his voice stronger when his voice was quieter. "Who is this? And why is he here?" He asked, crossing his arms.

"This is Dr. Sheldon Cooper," Cisco beamed a stark contrast to the other man who only continued to frown. "He's going to help with our breach problem."

Dr. Well's brow furrowed with confusion. "How is a Geologist going to help close the breaches?"

Sheldon didn't think the other man could have hurt him more even if he physically punched him. He staggered back with a hand to his chest in offense. "Geologist- why would you? Who said I was a geologist?" He asked frantically, looking between Cisco and this hooligan who had the audacity to insinuate he was one of the 'dirt boys'.

"I take it you're not a geologist on this earth?" Dr. Wells' presumed.

"Wha- NO!" Sheldon shouted, and Cisco flinched but giggled beside him. Sheldon looked at him sharply, shooting fire at him with his eyes. How was this funny?

All the humor left the shorter man's face. "It's not funny," he said seriously.

"No, it's not!" Sheldon seethed. "Why would you think I'm a geologist?"

"On my Earth, you're a world-renowned geologist—best of the best. I pulled a lot of strings to get you to come work at STAR Labs with me," Dr. Wells explained.

Never in a million years did Sheldon think he was a rock monkey in any universe. He almost didn't want to believe it, just tell himself that Dr. Wells was just messing with him. That was until said scientist pulled up a picture on whatever fancy watch he was wearing and confirmed what he had told Sheldon.

Sheldon walked further into the room as a holographic picture of his doppelgänger standing with Dr. Wells appeared. It was a part of a news article from their world.

STAR Labs Revolutionizing the World of Geology!

The headline read. Sheldon didn't bother reading the article. After all, he wasn't this other Dr. Cooper. Sheldon didn't waste his time on rocks. He did, however, waste his time studying this picture from another Earth. Looking into the eyes of the man who was him but at the same time not. The man who stood by Dr. Wells' side, donning a wide grin. They were identical; of course, they would be genetically indistinguishable. But there was something lighter about the Sheldon Cooper of Earth-2; more at ease. Sheldon figured one would have to be if they decided to go into a field like geology.

But no, there was something else. Perhaps it was the fact that he was working in a multibillion-dollar facility with cutting edge tech and an excellent paycheck, no doubt. Or maybe it was that golden band on the fourth finger of his left hand—the gold glinting like a star in the night sky to the camera lens.

"He's married," Sheldon whispered in fascination, still examining the picture.

Would he look like that if he hadn't been so stupid? Would he have a dopey grin on his face if he had acted on their fifth anniversary instead of ruining it? Even though he was all the way in Central City, over fifteen-hundred miles away from Los Angeles, that wretched ring in his desk drawer was screaming at him like a banshee.

"He is married," Dr. Wells said, pulling him from his musings. He closed his watch with simultaneously made the picture disappear. "Quite the woman he found too. She's a force to be reckoned with."

Sheldon was too curious not to ask. "Who is she?"

With Dr. Wells poised to answer, Cisco's voice rang from the doorway of the lab. "Okay!" He yelled in a sing-song manner. Sheldon looked back at him incredulously. "Look, feel free to talk about your doppelgangers all you want, but I have some work I need to go take care of."

"Be my guest, Ramon," Dr. Wells snipped.

"I don't need your permission, Harry," Cisco snarked back. The tension between these two was insane, and Sheldon wasn't sure how he felt about it. "Listen, Dr. Cooper, everything you need should be in this room, but if you need anything, don't hesitate to ask. Oh! Before I forget," he reached into his pocket and handed him a flash drive of some kind. "This will give you access to a STAR Labs computer. Just plug it in, and you should be good to go."

Sheldon took the tiny device from his hand. Just an ordinary flash drive, it appeared. "Thank you," he told Cisco.

And with that, he was gone, but not before telling Dr. Wells… Harry… to behave himself.

Sheldon took a moment to really get used to his new surroundings. This had to be one of the smaller labs in the building, and yet, it was already more extensive than Leonard's. Tools everywhere, tech that any geek like himself would love to get their hands on. Their whiteboards weren't white; instead, they were like glass. You could see right through them. The white marker that was provided created enough of a contrast, though. Sheldon could tell by the plethora of calculations that Dr. Wells had on a couple of them.

As awkward as it was just standing in the room like an intruder while the man from Earth-2 got back to work on whatever it was he was working on, Sheldon found a spot and dove into the work he was brought in to do. A large table all to himself, almost twice the size of his desk back home. A board and white marker for him to brainstorm on. And a computer that sat idle with the STAR Labs logo.

When he plugged the drive into the monitor, a browser opened up and a long list of files. One of which was conveniently named, Breaches. Curiously he clicked on the folder and found that Cisco had complied all the information that they currently had on these portals to another dimension. In detail, it was explained to him how they stabilized a breach using quark matter. It was rather helpful, and Sheldon began to calculate on the "whiteboard".

He worked faster and more eager than he had in months. The formulas and equations flowed from him like blood did to the heart. That was until he hit a roadblock. Confused, he stepped back and observed his work, studying every last detail, every last decimal. Until he found the slight miscalculation that threw off most of his work. To say Sheldon was upset was an understatement. He couldn't even solve something he was inspired by, something he was excited about. His mind, once his most prized possession, was worthless now. In an uncharacteristic display of anger, he chucked the marker he held in his hand at the wall in an unbridled fit of rage.

Dr. Wells, who had barely made a sound since Cisco left well over an hour ago, looked up at him with wide eyes. His hands stilled over whatever piece of technology he was tinkering with and continued to stare at Sheldon with obvious shock.

Sheldon interlaced his fingers behind his head and took a few deep breaths. "I'm sorry," he apologized. "I'm just frustrated."

Dr. Wells laughed slightly as he wiped his hands with a nearby cloth. "Don't worry about it, believe me, I understand." He twisted on his stool to face him fully. "I even know what that look on your face is about."

"What look?"

"The 'someone I love is gone, and now my work is suffering because of it' look," Dr. Wells asserted.

Sheldon sat back down on the stool of his own and scoffed. "She's not gone, she just…" he couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence.

"She broke up with you," the other man supplied. "Yeah, I figured."

For what seemed like the millionth time that day, Sheldon looked confused. "How?"

"When I showed you the picture of your doppelgänger," Dr. Wells explained. "There was a glint in your eye when you realized he was married. Like a yearning almost."

Sheldon hadn't realized that his emotions were that obvious. Or maybe the other man was just smart enough to pick up on nonverbal cues like that. There was no point in trying to lie to Dr. Wells, though, because he was right. There was a yearning—jealousy.

"We've been broken up for almost six months," he started, letting down barriers that even his friends couldn't break down. But for some reason, he was trusting a complete stranger. "She's the only woman that I've ever loved like that, and now she's trying to move on, and I…" his voice began to break the more he spoke, but he shook his head. Even though he was willing to talk, he was not willing to break.

There was a rolling sound, and Sheldon looked up to see that Dr. Wells had moved closer. "Sheldon… can I call you Sheldon?"

He nodded.

"My wife died when my daughter was four. I had to learn very quickly and very suddenly how to raise a child on my own while simultaneously grieve for the woman that I loved. And, yes, for a while, I was not good at it. Because losing someone who is your whole world, who is essentially your other half, it's unnerving. Like a part of you has been yanked away, and you have to find a way to live with that. It's one of the hardest things to do, but only the toughest of people come out of it stronger than they did before. And if you're anything like the Sheldon Cooper on my Earth, I know you're capable."

Sheldon studied the man in front of him. He appreciated what he was trying to say, but Sheldon didn't feel like he deserved it. "How is this even comparable, though? Your wife died, my girlfriend just broke up with me."

"Pain is pain," Dr. Wells said. "There's no comparison because everyone feels it differently. I don't know your situation, and I am not going to assume anything either. But ignoring the problem won't get you anywhere. Believe me, I am speaking from experience."

Sheldon scoffed. "Well then, what am I supposed to do? Just be a brooding mess all the time?"

"No… don't let it control you, let it drive you." Dr. Wells smiled slightly as if he was thinking about something. Or someone, Sheldon couldn't be sure. "Who knows, you just might surprise yourself."

With that, Dr. Wells rolled back over to his own workstation and left Sheldon sitting in thought. The last time he had seen Amy was on thanksgiving, the day they went to the aquarium together. As friends. In the car, Amy had asked him if he was doing ok. Of course, Sheldon knew what she was asking him, but he didn't want to tell her the truth. He didn't want her to see him vulnerable and hurt. And later that night, when he laid in bed unable to sleep, he wished he had just opened up to her. Because everything inside of him was coming to a head, ready to explode. Maybe talking to Amy would have been freeing.

Perhaps he would do something about it when he got home. But first, he had a job to do, and he wasn't about to blow it for the Flash.

Just as he turned back to start working on the equations again, an alarm sounded throughout the building. The other scientist in the room leaped from his seat and moved around the room frantically.

"What is that?" he asked as Dr. Wells grabbed what looked like a futuristic rifle.

Dr. Wells slung the strap of the weapon over his shoulder. "That is a proximity alarm; we need to move," he informed Sheldon, taking him by the arm and leading him out of the room.

Sheldon ran alongside the other man down the long winding corridors of STAR Labs. "What is going on?" he asked. He struggled to breathe as they came to a stop in front of a random concrete panel.

With a quick survey of their surroundings, Dr. Wells said nothing as he raised his hand to the wall like he was pushing a button. Sheldon watched as a specific part of the wall split in the middle creating an opening to a hidden room. But it wasn't like a door, no, the two halves disappeared into the adjoining two panels of concrete.

"Get in," Dr. Wells nudged him.

Sheldon stubbled into the all-white room that was, for the most part, empty. Except for, what looked like, a plinth in the deepest part of the space. He ran his hand over the white tiles that had random bumps everywhere, like brail.

"What is this place?" Sheldon asked, turning back to Dr. Wells.

The mechanism that let them in, activated again, but this time closed the "door" instead. It was like it wasn't even there. There was a mechanical clicking noise that sounded like when Sheldon's father cocked a shotgun. Sure enough, that's almost exactly what it was. Dr. Wells was now standing with his gun aimed towards the closed door.

"This is the only place I could think of to hide," Dr. Wells spoke shakenly.

"Hide? From what?"

Dr. Wells looked him dead in the eye, and Sheldon could see the fear there. "From Zoom… he's in the building."

A/N: Thank you so much for reading :)

I have about two and half chapters written already and will try to update on Fridays.

[yrahcaz-arataz]

Let’s Do the Time Warp

SUMMARY: After an argument with his cousin, Zachary vents to an imp and accidentally makes a wish to send his whole club to an alternate universe in 1693 Salem.

TRIGGERS: Alcohol, death mentions, 

MENTIONS: @zztophat, @of-hexes

 St. Patrick’s Day was a night for all kinds of drinks and party-goers. As a club owner, Zachary was responsible for making sure his club, the Ritual, was festive for the holiday and that it never ran out of alcohol for his guests. Responsibility wasn’t exactly something that Zach was great at until it benefited him, primarily when it got him more attention. A night like this was sure to bring in a crowd, but he made it all the more tempting for them. Every seventh drink served was free, and if anyone happened to have a real four-leaf clover, all their drinks were free for the night. Anyone caught not wearing green was charged extra.

The club was adorned in all kinds of festive decorations for the holiday. Green confetti rained down on the crowd every hour at the hour. Streamers hung all around the club on every wall and ceiling. There was a fountain that looked like a glass of beer pouring over, and an actual rainbow went from one end of the club to the other where two pots of chocolate gold sat. All of the servers were dressed like leprechauns. Even Zach himself was decked out in an all green suit and tophat.

He performed throughout the night, doing small tricks while maneuvering through the crowds, but his real show didn’t start until later in the night. The main performers until then were the Hex Girls. They kept the crowd alive with their music and kept everyone dancing, but they weren’t the only form of entertainment that would draw people in. The Ritual promised to deliver a show-stopping performance starring Zachary and Zatanna Zatara. It didn’t happen too often, but Zatanna had agreed to do a joint show with her cousin. Zachary tended to enjoy them a lot more than she did, and once the show started, it was obvious why.

To Zachary, the show was great. The crowd loved it, and he delighted in the applause. However, it was at the expense of his cousin. Zachary failed to mention to Zatanna that he changed parts of their show. As a skilled entertainer, Zatanna was quick to roll with the punches and catch up each time, but it also put her in a much more difficult position each time. Even through her bright stage smile, those who paid attention could tell she was frustrated, but it was only once the show ended that she really spoke her mind.

She was understandably upset. He’d ignored cues and just done things on a whim while leaving her to pick up the pieces. She lectured and argued with him for longer than Zach could keep track of. He mainly zoned her out in favor of talking to other guests at the party, but he got the gist of what she was saying. He was unprofessional. He didn’t take things seriously. He had no attention to detail. The list went on and on and on. He argued back a little, pointing out that the crowd was happy about the performance and that a few little changes weren’t going to kill anybody. That of course, didn’t help anything and only prolonged the argument. They went back and forth like this until Zatanna just left the club. Zachary huffed as she stormed away, and he just went to his bar, getting many drinks for himself as he complained about his cousin to the current bartender.

“She’s always doing this,” Zachary explained as he downed another glass. It was quickly refilled as he continued talking. “Literally, anything and everything I do is met with ridicule and disappointment. She never has anything good to say. It’s always Why can’t you take things seriously, Zachary? Or It’s not all about you, Zach! Or What were you thinking, Zach? Or or or the one she really loves to shove in my face now: Your inattention to detail is going to get you killed, and the world doesn’t need any more dead Zataras!” Despite how he acted, Zach did listen to what Zatanna said, at least some of it. How could he not? She was so loud when she was angry with him, and it wasn’t as if he didn’t know how she felt. He hadn’t been there when her dad had died, but he had been there for the aftermath of it. She usually took care of him, not that he asked her to, but it was the one time he’d taken care of her. She’d been so broken over it, so he understood why she didn’t want to see it happen to him too. He’d been conflicted over that thought at first. He knew that he could be reckless at times, and he didn’t want her worrying about him dying like her dad had. He dealt with that with a mixture of arrogance and denial, both working to push her away as if that would stop her from worrying and then just refusing to acknowledge that he was as much at risk as she thought he was. If she would just give up on him, she’d stop worrying about him all the time, and if he actually took the time to think about how he was acting, he might’ve realized how little sense he made. Both were just as unlikely to happen. He told her constantly that there was really nothing to worry about despite his actions proving otherwise.

He sighed. “Why can’t it ever be You did a great job, Zachary! Or I’m proud of you, Zach. Or even That was a great show tonight, Zachary. I mean, I know I changed some things up last minute, but I knew she could handle it. The crowd still loved it, and it was a great show. You don’t get a standing ovation for a bad show.” He grumbled as he drank another glass. The bartender filled it once again.

“It really was a great show.” Zachary turned in his seat to look at the guest who had spoken to him and was now giggling. If Zach was just a little more drunk, he would’ve thought he was talking to an actual leprechaun. The man was extremely short. He didn’t look like he was much more than three feet tall. He was balding at the top of his head with a large amount of grey hair puffing out on both sides. He wore a purple bowler hat with a flower poking out of the brim and a purple and gold suit with a green bowtie. He had a smile that was a little too wide to seem like he was just being friendly, as if he’d smiled for too long and it had just gotten stuck that way.

Despite the signs that something wasn’t quite right with the man, Zach continued talking to him, just happy someone was agreeing with him. “Right? Thank you! I thought we did a great job.”

“You did! You did!” The man laughed. “Oh, how I’d love to see it again and again and again. How many changes do you think you could make before she just couldn’t keep up anymore and would just burst?! What do you think would come out? Butterflies? Confetti? Fireworks?”

“Fire ants, a volcano, locusts,” Zachary supplied monotonously. If Zatanna was that angry, he knew it wouldn’t be anything pretty or anything anyone would want to stick around for.

The man burst into a fit of uproarious laughter. He sounded more crazed than amused, but Zach just took another drink to get him through this interaction, only chuckling a little in response. “I like you,” the man decided. “You know how to make things fun in a way that lasts. Me, all you have to do is get me to say or spell or write my name backwards, and then all my hard work? Gone-zo. Poof! . . . Anywho, you were saying about your cousin?”

Zachary blinked. “Right . . .” His mind was feeling the buzz from the alcohol a little more now, but something was weird about what the man said. Zach still was in a foul mood though, so it wasn’t hard for him to get back on track to airing his complaints. “I just hate having to be yelled at by her all the time. It makes me wish I was dealing with literally anything else. Hell, I’d rather be living through the Salem Witch Trials than this. The only people who might actually miss me are in this club right now.” They probably wouldn’t even miss him, just the parties and alcohol he offered, but that was beside the point. At least then he wouldn’t be Zatanna’s problem anymore.

“Well, that sounds doable,” said the man brightly. Zach wasn’t sure what he meant and just rose his brow at the man. “The name’s Mister Mxyzptlk!” He announced. With a wave of his hand, the name appeared in the air above them in bright sparkly letters. Zach was sure that if he blinked, those letters would still show up behind his eyelids. “Just shake my hand, and your wish is my command!”

Zachary stood up, nearly falling over from the alcohol in his system, but he kept his balance. “What wish? I didn’t make any wish. What the hell are you talking about? What is this?” He gestured wildly around him, swiping his hand through Mxyzptlk’s name in the air. In the process of that, Mxyzptlk took his hand, shaking it. Zachary ripped his hand away, but it didn’t stop the following events from unfolding.

Mxyzptlk started giggling and singing to himself. “Oh what a glee it is to be, in Salem sixteen-ninety-three.” He snapped his fingers repetitively while doing a little dance. The entire club started to shake. It jerked forward and back. Zach and the other guests inside the club were knocked to the ground as the lights cut out.

From outside the club, it appeared just as eventful. The club was loud and bright. It shook while all of the other buildings nearby remained still. Then, in a flash of blinding light, everything sucked inwards towards the club. It looked as if it imploded, disappearing into a single point along with everything that was within five feet of it. Windows nearby shattered, pulled outward into the streets. Then, the air that filled in the space blasted back out, and everything was still once again.

Debris littered the streets. Any pedestrians nearby had been roughly tossed about by the implosion of the club and the following explosion of forceful air. Some pedestrians were even less lucky and had disappeared along with the club. From an outside standpoint, there wasn’t much concrete evidence to tell what had actually even happened. The lot where the club had been was empty, removing the complete foundation. Pipes and other electrical lines had been pulled apart as if the club were simply ripped out of the ground, but there was no real trace of where it had gone.

Inside the club, it was dark. Cut off from all of its sources of electricity, the club allowed no light in. Zachary stood up, using the chair from support. His head was still spinning, both from all the shaking and all the alcohol in his system. “Tel ereht eb thgil!” He cast his hands up, and the room brightened once more, all the lights filling with a magical glow. As the guests all started to get their bearings, Zachary used his magic to help the injured. He was weaker like this, and there was no spell he could use to cure himself of his drunken state since his powers didn’t work on people. He just did simple things like making sure glasses of water were passed around and pulling out first aid kits for people to get access to. He didn’t really know what he was dealing with here, and that crazy imp was nowhere to be found anymore.

“I’m either really drunk, really high, or I’m dead,” Zach heard someone say near the doors to the club. He didn’t like the sound of that. He quickly pushed through the crowd to get outside. There was no big city. No cars or big buildings. No smoke polluting the sky, nothing recognizable from where they’d been before. Instead, there were trees and wildlife of a forest. “Where the hell are we?”

Zach sighed. He had a bad feeling that he knew the answer. “Salem. 1693.”

[neuxue]

Wheel of Time liveblogging: The Gathering Storm ch 48

It’s like reading a reaction-gif summary of the previous chapter except every gif is just pain and also made of words instead. With bonus prophecy.

Chapter 48: Reading the Commentary

Min sat in Cadsuane’s small room, waiting—with the others—to hear the result of Rand’s meeting with his father.

Yeah about that.

A low fire burned in the fireplace

And a much less low (bale)fire burned in Rand’s hands…

Mix that with Min’s discomfort around Rand lately

The fact that even Min feels ‘discomfort’ around Rand is uh. Telling.

Though perhaps, just maybe, he turned a corner of sorts in that last chapter. Via attempted patricide, but whatever works.

Then again, maybe that’s just wishful thinking on my part and he’s gone off to incinerate someone else instead.

But the pattern of the narrative points more towards the former, I think.

Min’s uncomfortable about Rand, and a very different sort of uncomfortable about Cadsuane—or perhaps ‘ambivalent’ is a better word. Cadsuane does not make for an easy ally, but she does have her talents, and their aims do align even if just about everything else about them differs.

So Cadsuane’s planning and Min’s reading commentaries on the Prophecies of the Dragon. This ought to be interesting.

One line in [the Commentary] teased at her, a sentence mostly ignored by those who had written commentary. He shall hold a blade of light in his hands, and the three shall be one.

OH OKAY PROPHECY INTERPRETATION TIME. HERE WE GO.

The blade of light seems like it has to be Callandor, especially given Rand’s own musings about it last chapter.

And the three shall be one…the first thing that comes to mind is the fact that Callandor can only safely be used in a circle of three. Which Rand currently sees as a box, as strings tied to him, as a trap…but flip that around and it’s an image of balance and unity and trust. So that’s definitely an option.

Or maybe it’s something else entirely; maybe the ‘blade of light’ is another reference to ‘he shall slay his people with the sword of peace’ and the three that shall be one are…maybe the three major groups of people? The Aiel, the Seanchan, and the ‘wetlands’? That feels like a bit of a reach; the three people in a circle to use Callandor safely seems more likely.

Though apparently various scholars fall more on the nations side of things and tend to think it’s about three major cities or kingdoms. In that case I’d side with my own choice of three rather than just three wetland nations, but either way if that’s given as the default opinion in the text it’s almost certainly wrong, so I guess we can throw that one out.

Min, no, you’re not useless.

And what of Min’s own relationship with Rand? She was still welcome in his presence; that hadn’t changed. But there was something wrong, something off. He put up walls when she was near—not to keep her out, but to keep the real him in. As if he was afraid of what the real him would do, or could do, to those he loved…

Rand, fix this. Min Farshaw deserves better.

But now he has been brought directly to that point of crisis, to looking down at his own father and weaving the balefire that would erase him from existence, and thinking, truthfully, that it is no more than I’ve done before. His own fear of that exact fate brought him to that point—so was he right to be afraid? Or is it the fear that made it into a near-reality, as he fought so hard to deny it or prevent it that he ended up in a war with himself that made it into not just a possibility but a near-inevitability?

It’s perceptive of Min, though, to recognise that he’s not keeping her out but trying to hold himself in. Even Rand can’t quite see it that way, because he is in effect locking himself into a box of his own making and calling it liberation.

And it would be so easy for Min to be hurt by it and think it was directed at her, think that he was indeed trying to wall her out; that’s a pretty common response from anyone who’s being kept at a distance by someone they care about. But Min is Min, by which I mean she’s fucking incredible, and so she sees past that and to the truth: that this isn’t about her; it’s a war of Rand against himself and she is a casualty, not a cause. And not just that, but she sees the reason why, and sees much closer to the truth of what it’s doing to him, and instead of being angry or offended she’s trying to find any way she can to help him.

Again, Rand, Min deserves better and you should thank her profusely when you uh…sort some of your shit out.

He’s in pain again, she thought, feeling him through the bond. Such anger. What was going on?

Do you really want to know?

Still, it’s more than the flat nothingness he’s felt when committing atrocities in the past. Because that’s what that last scene was: a shattering of the ice, and a point of collision of everything Rand’s tried to hold at bay, a collapse of all those walls and barriers and a flood of the feelings he’s tried to suppress. But hopefully it’s an implosion rather than an explosion; Rand’s been externalising his pain without really…acknowledging that he’s doing it for so long, when what he needs to do is actually deal with it and with everything else about himself he’s been trying to ignore or suppress.

She had to trust in Cadsuane’s plan. It was a good one.

The sad thing is that it really is a good plan. By which I mean it has—on paper—a good chance of succeeding at Cadsuane’s goal of getting Rand to re-learn laughter and tears (well, a better chance than just about anything else at this point), but it also is simply good for Rand himself. He needed to see Tam, and Tam is someone who can offer him the kind of help and support and love he so desperately needs but can’t ask for. And Tam, as his father, is going to see him as Rand, the boy he raised, rather than as the Dragon Reborn who owes salvation to the world. It’s a good plan because while there is of course a motive outside of simple concern for Rand’s wellbeing, it’s not a trick or a trap even if Rand sees it as such. It’s just…something good for him. Something he and Tam both want and need and should get to have.

And the fact that it fails precisely because it’s Cadsuane’s plan is sort of a cruel twist and yet at the same time a fitting case of catastrophic consequences.

Cadsuane and Rand get along like oil and water. Or perhaps like flint and steel, striking sparks when they interact simply because of who they are.

Cadsuane’s intentions are good—she wants to save the world and she has, at a few points, actually said out loud (and she cannot lie) that she is trying to do what is good for Rand, not for her or for the White Tower or anyone else. She’s trying, in the best way she knows how. And she’s right about so many things: that he needs to relearn laughter and tears, that he cannot face the Last Battle as he is now, that in many ways he still is just a boy and he’s lost and without direction or guidance, that like it or not he carries the task of saving the world, that he’s becoming too cold, that balefire is dangerous, that he needs to see his father.

Her aims are good, and even some of her reasoning for how to accomplish them is fairly solid. She tries putting Rand off-balance and making it clear that she is not going to be cowed by the simple fact of who he is…which again comes very close to being exactly what he needs. If she fears him he will not respect her, and if she doesn’t push him he will never listen to her.

But it falls apart when it comes to her specific methods. She means well, and her follow-through is almost what he needs…and then veers off in the opposite direction. It’s part of why I appreciate her so much as a character, I think, because that’s such a fascinating dynamic to watch. And it’s a fascinating way to show absolute failure: by anchoring it in very good reasoning and insight and perception and logic, and letting it come very close to something that will work, and then just…swerving away at the last second. It’s frustrating and agonising at times and yet feels so much more real than if she were just hopelessly misguided from the start.

Instead, it comes down to personality and communication and trust, as so many parts of this series do. It’s a conflict of personality and a misunderstanding of motive and a lack of communication; two strong personalities shouting at each other across a room and refusing to budge, rather than taking a step towards where the other stands and meeting somewhere in the middle.

So when she fails it doesn’t feel like the cheap failure of a plan that was stupid and doomed from the start, the way you often see in fiction. Instead, it feels like the frustrating failure of an intelligent, capable woman who tried her best and executed a plan that could have worked but that fell apart because of a chance word and a clash of personalities and a problem of methods.

Though I wonder.

Did she fail? I’m framing it as if she had, but in a way…she was right that Tam was, probably, exactly the person Rand needed most to see. The one person who might be able to get through to him, and force him out of the mindset he’s in one way or another. And…well, he sort of did, I think. Could anything else have brought Rand to that point? Would anyone else have survived that moment where he came closer to that last line, to repeating Lews Therin’s last deed? Would anyone else, watching Rand weave balefire in terror, have caused him to question, and at the last moment make a different choice?

It’s certainly not the precise outcome Cadsuane might have intended or expected or hoped for, but…was it really a failure?

And the other side of the question is: if this does work, and if the result of all of this is somehow Rand coming back to himself (or some version thereof), does it really matter who gets the credit? Would it be Cadsuane, for orchestrating this, or Tam, for being exactly who Rand needed and also just an all-around excellent father, or Rand himself, for holding back, or anyone else all the way along the chain of causality?

In the end, can any one person take credit for what ultimately has to be one man’s choice?

I guess we’ll just need to see what the actual aftermath of that last chapter looks like. After all, Rand made…I think…the right choice in that moment but what comes next? Does the collapse continue, and can he pull some of himself out of it intact? Or will he turn away again and drag those walls up again and set another city on fire? Personally I lean towards the former but we’ll see.

What were Rand and Tam discussing? Would Rand’s father be able to turn him?

That’s…still an open question at this point, I think. But it looks like maybe yes. Kind of. Perhaps. Just about. Indirectly. By way of balefire and internal crisis and memory of the worst moment of his last life. You know, as you do.

“Cadsuane,” Min said, holding up the book. “I think the interpretation of this phrase is wrong.”

Round of applause for Min! Imposter syndrome who?

Seriously, stating outright disagreement with the opinions of a well-respected scholar when you’re the equivalent of an undergrad is hard. Especially when your audience is Cadsuane.

Beldeine seems to take the standard view that Min is an undergrad and therefore has no idea what she’s talking about. Well, Beldeine, unfortunately for you Min is on the protagonist side of the narrative so she’s probably right.

Nobody could humiliate one more soundly than an Aes Sedai, for they did it without malice. Moiraine had explained it to Min once in simple terms.

That alone is astonishing: an Aes Sedai explaining anything in simple terms is practically unheard-of.

Aes Sedai would be very good at the icily professional business email of shame.

“And why,” Cadsuane said, “is it that you think you know more than a respected scholar of the prophecies?”

“Because,” Min said, bristling, “the theory doesn’t make sense. Rand only really holds one crown. There might have been a good argument here if he hadn’t given away Tear to Darlin. But the theory doesn’t hold any longer. I think the passage refers to some way he has to use Callandor.”

“I see,” Cadsuane said, turning yet another page in her own book. “That is a very unconventional interpretation.” Beldeine smiled thinly, turning back to her embroidery. “Of course,” Cadsuane added, “you are quite right.”

So while we’re on the topic of Cadsuane’s methods…

It’s a harsh challenge to Min, especially as it plays directly into what she must know are Min’s insecurities about her position as a young self-taught scholar. At the same time…actually, I think the main reason I don’t have any problem at all with this is because I’ve had professors like this. The ones who push you in precisely the places where you’re most uncertain because they want to see if you can create a strong argument against the exact challenges you’d get from the field as a whole. It’s a case of ‘this is what you’re going to face if you publish this, so you’d better be prepared for it and have a sound argument’.

Does Cadsuane have to say it the way she does? No. But in a way, this is her giving Min a fighting chance to prove herself. Cadsuane is old and competent and walks a line between highly confident and arrogant, but she does listen to young people and unconventional ideas when she genuinely thinks they have merit. It isn’t always easy, and she absolutely has her biases that prevent her from being fully open-minded, but she is capable of changing her mind. So she’s giving Min a chance here, because she believes in giving people what they deserve. She’s not going to dismiss Min on the same basis Beldeine did; she’s going to credit or dismiss Min based on how sound her ideas are.

Cadsuane’s methods often centre on challenging people, and pushing them in directions that make them uncomfortable, and yeah there are all kinds of problems with that and she sometimes comes down on the wrong side of it. But at other times there’s value in the way she does it. It’s just that, like anything else, taken to extreme or excess it’s a problem, and it’s not a one-size-fits-all solution, and she’s a flawed person like most people so sometimes she fucks up by letting her own confidence/arrogance carry her across the line from challenging and somewhat abrasive into unnecessarily harsh and somewhat abusive.

Anyway, Min seems to have acquitted herself well in this mini thesis defence here, but…it makes me wonder if it’s too simple a win to actually be correct.

“Through a great deal of searching I discovered that the sword could only be used properly in a circle of three. That is likely the ultimate meaning of the passage.”

As soon as a character says ‘that’s probably what it really means’, I begin to doubt. Especially because there’s sort of a rule of threes, here. We get the first explanation from the scholars’ interpretation, which is there to be proven wrong. Then you get the protagonists’ first interpretation, which is usually closer but ultimately also either wrong or incomplete. And then at some stage you get the third and ‘true’ explanation, in which everything comes together.

Sanderson holds to this particular rule of threes in his other work, so the pattern seems especially…likely, here.

So what else do we have three of? Past, present, future would be an interesting one. There’s the trio of Elayne, Min, and Aviendha but that doesn’t seem to fit here. There are far more than three people in Rand’s head at this point or else I’d have posited an outside guess at Rand, Lews Therin, and Moridin.

There are a lot of dualities in this series, but fewer trios than one might expect from epic fantasy. I blame the gender binary.

But seriously, there are so many opposing or balanced pairs—Light and Shadow, Creator and Dark One, saidin and saidar, salvation and destruction, White Tower and Black Tower, men and women, what hand shelters, what hand slays?, chaos and order, Rand and Lews Therin…it’s a series that deals with this idea of balance, and of what happens when one side of a balanced system is thrown off, and of how to find that balance between opposing or antagonistic forces without erasing one or the other. Which is fascinating and all, but right now I need sets of three.

I guess there’s technically the True Power along with saidin and saidar.

Okay actually that’s interesting. Rand has channelled the True Power, after all. And according to Lews Therin, his attempt last Age failed because ‘we used saidin, but we touched it to the Dark One. It was the only way! Something has to touch him, something to close the gap, but he was able to taint it.’

And Rand touching the True Power, while it certainly served to turn that scene into…*waves hands wildly in the direction of everything That Scene is*…that, seems like yet another of those things, like Callandor, that should have some further purpose. What good does dragging your character to that point of absolute horror do, if it can’t then be flipped around later into some kind of key?

Well, I mean, it causes great pain and suffering for the character and thus for the readers, which really is plenty of purpose in and of itself and I’m sure as hell not complaining, but. My point is. That right there is a loose end that, used correctly, could be part of a really satisfying twist or tying-off.

But then how does that relate to Callandor? Unless it’s just that he needs to be in a circle of three, and thus allowing flows of saidin and saidar to be controlled, and then he separately but alongside that channels the True Power as well? Hmm. When I try to put it all together it doesn’t fit as well as I thought it would. So either I’m wrong or I’m still missing something.

But it would fit with the rule of threes I was playing with earlier (first answer characters come to is wrong, second is closer but incomplete or slightly incorrect, third is a late realisation that brings it all together) in that it would allow Min and Casuane to be partially but not completely right: Rand needs to be in a circle but there’s more to it somehow.

Maybe.

Nynaeve is in the room as well, being Nynaeve. In case anyone was wondering.

And…what was that vision that was suddenly hovering above Nynaeve’s head? She was kneeling over someone’s corpse in a posture of grief.

Min was just thinking about Lan so that seems like the connection we’re supposed to make here, which of course makes me doubt it. I also am still holding on to my certainty that Lan is going to live (denial? What are you talking about?). And the fact that this is appearing suddenly, given that we know exactly what’s happening in another part of the palace, suggests that it’s related to something Rand has just done or decided, something that has tipped the future towards this outcome.

And that makes me think of Egwene’s own dreams, and Min’s other viewings, of Rand and corpses and funeral biers or pyres, and mourners. Which of course brings us back to that whole question of what happens to Rand? Thanks, Aelfinn, for your clear-as-mud answer on that topic.

At one point, when all the Forsaken were coming back in different bodies, I thought maybe Rand had a chance of something similar, especially as there are definitely some lines that seem to point in that direction…but so far that seems like the Dark One’s domain, so now I’m not so sure. Maybe to live, you must die really does just mean he has to die in order to be part of the cycle of rebirth again. Or maybe he could be reborn immediately, and given a chance to live in peace in the world he has bought with his sacrifice? Or, with Egwene’s dream of a funeral pyre, some sort of phoenix-like death-and-rebirth healing or renewal of body and soul? It would fit the Fisher King theme we’re working with: the land renewed and changed and maybe healed, and so the Dragon getting the same, through some kind of cleansing fire type thing. Rising from his own death, finally healed of the wounds he has carried and thus taking part in the renewal, but no longer recognisable as who he once was, because this will be a different Age and the man who had to play that role is effectively dead (at peace), allowing Rand al’Thor to have a life?

I don’t know. I predict metaphysical fuckery, and beyond that I give up.

“Cadsuane,” she said. “This is still wrong. There’s more here. Something we haven’t discovered.”

“About Callandor?” the woman asked.

Min nodded.

“I suspect so as well,” Cadsuane replied.

Well at least they agree with my little rule of threes.

Oh hi Tam.

“What have you done to him?” he demanded.

Cadsuane lowered her book. “I have done nothing to the boy, other than to encourage him toward civility. Something, it seems, other members of the family could learn as well.”

“Watch your tongue, Aes Sedai,” Tam snarled. “Have you seen him? The enitre room seemed to grow darker when he entered. And that face—I’ve seen more emotion in the eyes of a corpse! What has happened to my son?”

Oh, Tam.

He’s furious here, and it’s directed at Cadsuane, and perhaps rightly so…but I think there’s another layer to this, which is that he has just seen his son, who seems barely alive and is surrounded by darkness and Tam had to stand there and talk to him and still feel powerless to help. He’s grieving.

And it’s an excellent counterpoint to the Tam we saw last chapter, because it’s a way to almost watch the scene again through his eyes. We saw him filtered through Rand’s, and we saw him careful and gentle and offering anything he thought Rand might take. He pushed Rand a bit, towards the end, but even then he was absolutely the father trying to help his wounded child.

Here, though, we see Tam’s side of it. We get his impression of Rand, we get his shock at the darkness that surrounds him—a shock he absolutely could not let Rand see.

We see his pain now, when he tried so hard to hide it in that last scene for Rand’s sake.

Tam al’Thor is a good parent and this hurts.

And I also really like how the love that pushes Rand to this breaking point, to the point of repeating but then rejecting Lews Therin’s past, is the love between parent and child rather than, say, the love he feels for Min or Elayne or Aviendha. And it’s not even the second cliché of a mother’s love; it’s the bond between an adoptive father and his son. I mean sure, that comes  up plenty in the genre as well, but it’s just nice that that’s the tipping point. It’s something a little different and it’s lovely.

Tam took a deep breath, and the anger seemed to suddenly flow out of him. He was still firm, his eyes displeased, but the rage was gone.

Tam was the one who taught Rand the trick of the flame and the void, after all. And he’s using it here because now he’s feeling more than he can deal with; it’s all too much all at once. But he knows, too, how to steady himself.

“He tried to kill me,” Tam said in a level voice. “My own son. Once he was as gentle and faithful a lad as a father could hope for. Tonight, he channelled the One Power and turned it against me.”

I am emotionally compromised.

And he’s not even angry at Rand for that, because it’s all so wrong, and so instead it’s just pain. Pain for Rand’s own pain, shock at what Rand has become, grief for the boy he was who—by his own words and Tam’s acceptance—may as well be dead now, and something almost like disbelief that they could have come to this. I think he even knows that it’s not really personal, but that doesn’t make it better. This is his son except he’s so lost and broken that Tam doesn’t know how to bring him back.

Because at this point Rand is the only one who can do that. If he chooses to.

The words brought back memories of Rand looming over her, trying to kill her.

But that hadn’t been him! It had been Semirhage. Hadn’t it? Oh, Rand, she thought, understanding the pain she’d felt through the bond. What have you done?

This is precisely the distinction I tried to make last chapter, but it gets harder and harder to hold those things separate, and now Min has to wrestle with that and face what Rand has just done of his own volition, and that’s twice now that he’s almost killed those he loves most, and the first time he was controlled by Semirhage, but what does it mean that he almost did the same now?

Does it help, Min, that he’s asking himself that exact same question? What am I DOING?

There’s so much pain in these chapters it’s overflowing the book and I’m FINE.

Of course Tam went immediately off-script. That feels like a genuine flaw in Cadsuane’s plan; she shouldn’t have given him a script at all. She should have known that wouldn’t help, that Tam and Rand needed to be able to just…talk.

“I don’t know what you did to him, woman, but I recognise hatred when I see it. You have a lot to explain to—”

On the one hand, Tam does certainly have cause to be angry with Cadsuane. On the other hand, Rand’s state of mind is not Cadsuane’s doing, any more than it’s any single person’s doing. It’s the result of two years of torment and responsibility and trying to endure the unendurable.

But then, can you fault Tam for being angry, and looking to any target he can find? This is his son, and what he’s just seen is horrific, and he has to do something.

In short, we’re all emotionally compromised.

Except Rand, who has simply compromised his emotions.

Cadsuane calling Tam ‘boy’ is…grating. Though she does have several centuries on him. Still.

“Cadsuane!” Nynaeve said. “You don’t need to—”

“It’s all right, Wisdom,” Tam said.

HE CALLS HER ‘WISDOM’. I mean, with a second or so to think about it, of course he does. But given all she’s struggled with, and her entire character arc of growing beyond Wisdom of Emond’s Field and finding her strength and authority in a world so much larger than her village, and learning to make her place and claim respect in her own right…it’s just really lovely for her to get this nod from Tam. To him, she is still Wisdom, and he accords her that respect without even a moment’s hesitation.

It’s like Rand said: Tam is one person who hasn’t changed. He’s a fixed point in a world where so much is uncertain and so much is shifting.

Tam stared [Cadsuane] in the eyes. “I’ve known men who, when challenged, always turn to their fists for answers. I’ve never liked Aes Sedai; I was happy to be rid of them when I returned to my farm. A bully is a bully, whether she uses the strength of her arm or other means.”

…fair enough.

And it’s good to see someone challenging Cadsuane on that point, especially someone like Tam who can sustain that challenge. He’s like Gareth Bryne that way: he’s damn near unflappable, and she can’t get a reaction out of him through her usual tactics. It’s the sort of thing a character like her needs to run into sometimes, because the thing with Cadsuane is that she’s been on top for so long, and in the Aes Sedai power structure that means no one challenges her. And so there’s no check on arrogance that can so easily creep in to what once was simply confidence, no pushback when she takes something too far. That’s not good for anyone.

“Didn’t we warn you that Rand had grown unstable?”

“Unstable?” Tam asked. “Nynaeve, that boy is right near insane. What has happened to him? I understand what battle can do to a man, but…”

Ow ow ow this hurts.

(I feel like the whole second half of this book, and especially the last several chapters, have been basically just…[not pictured: me, trying to walk quickly across hot sand sprinkled liberally with broken glass and burning coals, mostly failing and going ‘ow’ a lot]).

One thing that stands out here is how differently Tam responds to Rand’s…‘instability’…than so many other characters do, or would. Because once again, he responds entirely as a parent, above all else. He doesn’t shiver in fear of what this might mean for the world, or simply stop at stating that Rand hardly seems sane as if that’s all that needs to be said, or suggest a course of action. No, he just asks, calmly but with this undercurrent still of loss and something like desperation, what has happened. He hasn’t seen Rand in years and now he sees this, and he wants to know what has hurt his child.

It stands out especially given that Cadsuane’s next statement is to tell him that’s irrelevant. Because she is one who looks to the world first, and the person second. (And I’ve said this before, but her viewpoint absolutely has its place as well, but it’s that as well that’s important. You also need people like Tam or Nynaeve who look to the person first).

Tam knows what PTSD looks like and this is something else, and he’s angry, yes, but mostly I think everything about his response in this whole scene is just a manifestation of…shock and grief and confusion and pain at seeing his son hurt in a way that he doesn’t even know how to identify, much less help.

I am not a parent, so I could be completely off-base about all of this, but this seems like it has to be right up there with a parent’s worst nightmare: to see their child so hurt and so far gone and to be helpless to do anything at all to save them. I mean, Rand outright said that the Rand Tam knew, the Rand Tam raised, was dead. And Tam just had to stand there and take that, and again I’m not a parent but even I know that no parent should have to bury their child, much less stand there and watch him bury himself.

And that feels like the root of Tam’s responses here: his gentleness with Rand; his pushback when he thought he had just enough of Rand’s attention that maybe, maybe Rand would listen; his horror at watching Rand weave balefire because I think he was just as afraid for Rand as of him in that moment; his uncontrolled anger at Cadsuane when there’s no other way to release what he’s feeling; his shock and confusion now as he tries to figure out what has happened to his son.

This is not Tam al’Thor’s best day, is what I’m getting at here. He rescued an infant from the slopes of Dragonmount, only to find that some part of that child never truly left that mountain and everythign hurts and nothing is okay and I would like ten million more chapters of this please.

“If you’d explained to me how he regarded you,” Tam said, “it might have gone differently.”

He’s probably right, there. That’s one she really should have been more open about.

But she has a point, too: there’s no use going over the woulds and shoulds and maybes. And…I have to wonder if there was really any way for that conversation to end other than it did. If it hadn’t been the mention of Cadsuane, it could just as easily have been something else that set Rand off. A rage in him fit to burn the world, and he holds it by a hair. That’s more true now than it was even when Cadsuane first said it; he is unstable for all that he thinks he is cold and controlled, and he has almost no limits on what he is willing to do (except perhaps one), and that whole conversation was, in retrospect, a time bomb.

Because at this point, given how far he has gone, I don’t think anyone could truly just…call Rand back in a single conversation. I think it has to come from him; and I think with all the walls he’s built and all the damage he’s done to himself, with this war he’s been fighting against himself as much as on the field, a violent moment of crisis might really have been inevitable, and possibly the only way to force him to face that.

So passing blame around like a hot-potato is…an understandable part of the process, because they’re human (silly mortals), but ultimately probably not going to accomplish anything.

“This is what we all get,” Min said, “for assuming we can make him do what we want.”

The room fell still.

Okay so.

On the one hand, this is a great line, and to a certain extent I agree…

But. On the other hand, it feels a bit…I don’t know. Cheap? Simplistic? Not quite true? Because at least three of the people in this room are among those very very few who do actually look at Rand as a person, as the person he was, rather than as the Dragon Reborn, saviour and destroyer of the world. Nynaeve followed him out of Emond’s Field, with the others, and followed him into a dream battle and said ‘at least let me heal you’ because there was nothing else she could do. Min has stood by Rand through most of the series purely because she loves him, and when so many other people’s perceptions of him were changing, she told him ‘I see you, Rand. I see you.’ Tam al’Thor is Rand’s father, and hasn’t had a chance to do much for him directly, but he hiked to Tar Valon to try to find him, and then specifically stayed out of his way because he thought that was the best thing he could do for him.

These are not people who have been trying all along to manipulate Rand into doing what they wanted.

And even this…this is an intervention, more than anything else. When your friend, lover, son, former babysittee, whatever is willing to annihilate cities, I think it’s fair to step in.

What help would they be to him if they just stood by and watched his descent this entire time? What good would it do anyone—Rand included—for them to never push back when they thought he was going too far, to never question his decisions? It’s like I was just saying above regarding Cadsuane: it’s not good for anyone to live unquestioned and unchallenged, especially if they hold that kind of power, authority, or influence.

And when talking to someone stops working, when reasoning with them stops working, when begging them stops working, and when, again, they’re ready to annihilate entire cities…yeah, you’re going to have to look at other options.

But none of them started at that point, and they’re some of the few who really haven’t been manipulating him to their own ends in general, and so this feels a bit…unfair, I guess.

I love Min, but I’m not sure I completely agree with her here. It would be a very true and very fair statement if made in just about any other company, but to Nynaeve and Tam? Not sure I buy it.

That said, in light of everything happening, I think everyone’s entitled to a bit of unfairness and anger and shock and all the other emotions flying around because hell, I’m emotionally compromised and I’m just the reader.

“He opened one of those gateways right on the balcony. Left me alive, though I could have sworn—looking in his eyes—that he meant to kill me.”

It has to mean something that he stopped himself. That has to be the turning point we’ve been waiting for. It’s too perfect a mirror/inversion of The Last That Could Be Done for it not to be…right?

Also someone please just sit Tam down with a giant mug of hot chocolate. This genre is not easy on parents even when they survive the first chapter, as it turns out.

“I’ve seen that look in the eyes of men before, and one of the two of us always ended up bleeding on the floor.”

Wow, okay, uh, sure, that’s…a line. Damn. There’s a whole conversation to be had here about swords and ploughshares and men who have seen too much and yet find a peaceful life for themselves in the aftermath but I don’t have much more than an ‘in this essay I will…’ for that so I’ll leave it for now.

But I think, in that exchange, it’s Rand who is left bleeding.

That moment tore open the wound he’s been trying to stifle and ignore, the gaping wound in his past life that led him to his own suicide once and that he is now forced to remember but has never been able to process. How the hell do you even begin to process something you never did, except a past you did do it, and suddenly you get that just…dropped into your brain and it’s yours but not yours and is it any surprise Rand has ended up where he is?

It tore that wide open by forcing Rand to face it head-on (no more than I’ve done before) and face it as himself rather than as a memory of a past existence that he can try to shove away. And it tore down his walls and threw emotions like knives at the shields he’s been trying to hold up and even if he’s not bleeding physically, he is absolutely bleeding.

And so is Tam, if we’re talking metaphorically here. That conversation was not without casualties.

“Ebou Dar,” Min said, surprising them all. “He’s gone to destroy the Seanchan. Just as he told the Maidens he would.”

But that would mean closing down anything that might have come of that conversation and realisation, shoving it all away back behind those walls of ice, and I’m no more a therapist than I am a parent but I’m pretty sure genocide is not a recommended coping mechanism for…uh…anything.

“Light preserve us,” Corele whispered.

Rand’s been evoking that reaction a lot, lately. It’s become something of a repeated chapter ending the way ‘Tarmon Gai’don’ echoed throughout Knife of Dreams.

Next (TGS ch 49) Previous (TGS ch 47)

[noramoya]

“ONE MONTH AGO, HBO AIRED AN EXPLOSIVE ‘DOCUMENTARY’CALLED ‘LN’, WHICH TOLD HORRIFIC STORY OF CHILD SEXUAL ABUSE BY TWO ACCUSERS OF THE POP ICON MICHAEL JACKSON. IN THE AFTERMATH OF ITS PREMIERE, WHICH WAS ALMOST UNIVERSALLY EMBRACED BY THE MAINSTREAM MEDIA, I WROTE THREE DIFFERENT STORIES, INCLUDING ONE WHICH INCLUDED INTERVIEWS WITH IMPORTANT SUBJECTS THE MOVIE IGNORED, CASTING DOUBT ON WHETHER THE FILM REALLY SHOULD BE TAKEN AS MOSTLY OR EVEN PARTLY FACTUAL.

Since then, the production (LN) has been found to have numerous substantive problems, and its narrative is now filled with significant holes. But strangely, while the tabloid press in the United Kingdom has been all over the movie’s implosion, there has been a complete blackout of these developments in the news media here in the United States.

The revelation which has gotten the most attention (it has been featured in at least three of the major U.K. tabloids), deals with the story of the accuser James Safechuck, who was originally presumed to be the more credible of the two alleged victims. It centers on Safechcuk’s detailed claim in the movie that he was forced to have sex with Jackson, in the second floor of the train station at Jackson’s Neverland Ranch.

In the film and in his lawsuit deposition, Safechuck says, under oath, that his abuse by Jackson ended in 1992, when he was about 14 years old. A huge part of the movie’s narrative is that Jackson lost sexual interest in these boys when they reached the age of 14, supposedly because that is when puberty hit (though the average white American boy currently begins puberty at around ten years old).

However, there is now a huge problem with Safechuck’s allegation. Because the construction on the train station building, which was not commenced until late 1993, wasn’t completed until mid-1994, and after that time, Jackson, who had just gotten married to Lisa Marie Presley, was rarely even at Neverland for the next several years (about 2).

This suggests that Safechuck, based on his own testimony, and the film’s most prominent premise, made up the story about being abused in the train house.This would be problematic for anyone who has no corroboration for their dramatic claims, and who finally came forward to sue 21 years after their abuse, but given the remarkably wide latitude which abuse claims are given, especially in the #MeToo era, it would hardly be devastating on its own.

But that radically changed when the movie’s director Dan Reed, who has been effectively acting as the PR director for the massive lawsuit these accusers have against Jackson’s estate, inexplicably poured gasoline on a brushfire. Instead of simply saying Safechuck was mistaken (which would have only been seen as rather strange), Reed decided that Safechuck had indeed been abused in the train house, but his star victim had just gotten the year very wrong.

Except that explanation simply doesn’t work, and it causes enormous portions of Reed’s film to go down in flames. Even if we concede that Safechuck was just mistaken about the train house episode, occurring at the start of the abuse (which he says began in 1988), at earliest Safechuck is at least a mature 16-years-old by the time it was built.

So, according to the movie’s own director, Safechuck lied under oath, lied in the film, and his abuse at 16-years-old, at which time he was clearly well past puberty and even larger than Jackson, blows apart the project’s entire theory of how and why Jackson supposedly only preferred the company of very young boys. But as much as this episode brings suspicion to the credibility of the research and testimony behind Leaving Neverland, it is really only a piece of a much large puzzle.

Here are just some of the other recent revelations which, in a rational world, would have the American news media thoroughly revisiting the claims at the center of this movie:

• The other accuser, Wade Robson, asserts in the film that he was first abused by Jackson when left alone with him, as his family went on a trip to the Grand Canyon. However, his mother, Joy Robson, a central figure in this saga, testified under oath twice, including well after Wade finally announced that he had been abused, indicating that Wade was actually on that trip with his family (it should also be noted that a radio interview Joy did in 2011, which casts further doubt on other aspects of Wade’s timeline, was just recently mysteriously removed from YouTube).

• It was revealed that Joy not only remained part of a Michael Jackson fan group on Facebook, well after her son went on the Today Show in 2013 to announce that he was abused, but that she had “liked” several pro-Jackson posts way after that event. Then, within hours of someone tweeting about this discovery, those “likes” suddenly disappeared.

• The movie tries desperately to explain why Robson was Jackson’s star witness at his 2005 criminal trial, and attempts to spin a narrative that a pensive dinner at Neverland influenced his decision to lie on Jackson’s behalf (which is strange because he also claims he didn’t know yet that he had actually been abused). However, people who were at the dinner say they are sure that it occurred after Robson’s testimony, not before.

• Robson testified in his lawsuit that he realized he was abused while in therapy, in May of 2012. However, there is an interview with Robson which was posted to YouTube, in July of 2012 where he is still speaking of Jackson with very high praise.

• Stephanie Safechuck, mother of James, who was exceedingly close to Jackson, is shown in the movie describing in detail how she celebrated learning the news of Jackson’s death (which she says happened as she awoke in bed, even though Jackson died in the afternoon in LA where she lived) because he could no longer abuse any children. However, since James has said numerous times that he only realized that he was abused when he saw Robson on the Today show (four years after Jackson’s death) and had never told anyone at all about it, it would require time travel for his mother not to have totally made up that story, with some rather poor acting.

• In an attempt to promote the narrative that the evil Jackson PR machine can and will destroy anyone claiming to be a victim of the pop star, Reed blatantly used a clip of one-time Jackson attorney Mark Geragos totally out of context. Then, making matters even worse, Reed responded to Geragos’ anger over the editing ploy by exposing that he clearly had not done even the slightest research into an event he had featured in his film !

• So, why is it that none of this has gained any media traction here in the United States, even though it has in the United Kingdom? There appear to be at least three explanations :

– FIRST, attention spans here are shorter and ‘LN’, especially in the Donald Trump era, is already considered “old news”;

– SECOND, the strategic use of Oprah Winfrey to sanctify these accusers as legitimate carries far great weight in the American media, where she is still revered and feared;

– THIRDLY, the impact of the #MeToo movement having radically altered the rules for how we evaluate such stories is much more pronounced here.

Of course, none of this remotely justifies the American media taking a dive on this story. And, just because they have, it doesn’t mean that Leaving Neverland is at all based in truth.”

John Ziegler is a senior columnist for Mediaite. He hosts a weekly podcast focusing on news media issues and is documentary filmmaker. You can follow him on Twitter at @ZigManFreud or email him at johnz@mediaite.com

[brooklynislandgirl]

Beth & Riggs!

All Hands || -

who wakes up first in the morning

Martin doesn’t wake up in the morning.In fact the only way Beth can properly describe it is…from an article she read, wherein researchers from the University of Glasgow observed four groups of loops inside a solar flare. It was said by one Doctor that the event was a great example of a simultaneous implosion and explosion. The energy transferred from the magnetic field to power the flare left a pocket of reduced support that caused the implosion. After a series of scientific ballet steps, the flare loops oscillated until they found a new equilibrium in its plasma.Yeah, that sounds about right. Bolt upright. Legs and arms akimbo, stretching outward. His hair trying to drag him back down or strangle him for the impertinence. That space and time where he’s not sure which way was up and what was dream and reality and the inevitable shock and disappointment when he finally grasps where he is. She throws a leg over his table, a flesh and blood barrier reef between him and the weapons stashed around that she could find. Spoons another mouthful of Fruity Pebbles and chews slowly, quietly as she can. “Mornin’ Texas.”

That malicious glare thrown her way. If looks could maim….“I’m going to assume there’s no bacon to go with that sugar infested monstrosity you’re grazing?”“Of course. Ya jus’ goddah wan come get it.”Finger guns. “I knew I kept you around for a reason, Hawaii.”

who’s the first to fall asleep at night

She doesn’t really sleep.At least, not the way normal people do, and that suits him just fine. He’s not normal by any stretch, and almost welcomes the fact that she isn’t either. He did notice however that she had a habit of drifting off round her third beer, her fourth glass of wine. He’s half into his own bottle when she slumps down at the table. Few minutes later, even and deep breaths. She’d have made a good SEAL he thinks, because that is a survival skill. He gives up his blanket. Tucks her in. Settles down on his couch, arm across his eyes, nursing the bourbon. Maybe an hour goes by, maybe longer and it starts. The fidgeting. The puppy kicks. Sometimes there’s one sided conversation. Sometimes she’s just running ~swimming~ away from something.The first time he witnesses a night terror, he think she is having a cataleptic fit. Every muscle petrifying as he watches, helpless. A strangled breath that is soundless. Eyes open, staring into the dark of the trailer. Wherever she’s gone, whatever is happening, it’ss somewhere he can’t reach her. He’ll never admit it out loud, but that…that scared the shit out of him.

It was shortly after that when he buys the air mattress. Another blanket. Spare pillows. You know, Hawaii, contrary to popular opinion, I am civilised. She doesn’t make a fuss about it. Most of the time, he waits until she is asleep. Sometimes, he doesn’t. But he ends up joining her more nights than is seemly. Spends hours awake on his back, staring up at the ceiling, carding fingers through her hair. That’s just what friends do.

what they playfully tease each other over

“Chea'ah!”“Did you just call me ‘Chia’ as in Chia pet? Or as in the spotted fast running cat, cheetah?”“No. Chea-ah. CHE-AH. Li'dat one who cheat.”When her face gets red like that, her freckles come out. The ones that cup the left side of her mouth. The ones that dot her nose. Her eyes glitter and she snarls. He kind of likes her teeth. Sharp. A little crooked. Not often seen unless she’s smiling or…fixing to rip his throat out.“Do you have photographic evidence of the alleged cheating, Hawai’i?”“No?”“Then your skating on thin ice. Filing a false report is a violation of Section-”She lunges across the table, cutting him off at the best part.By the time they’ve hit the floor and ended up feet away, multi-coloured fake money and little hotels that will later be found in very uncomfortable places {boots, hair, under the stove}, they’re laughing and have forgotten why.And maybe, just maybe, Riggs admits to himself, he does it on purpose.

what they do when the other’s having a bad day

She knew the second her call went to voice-mail that something was wrong.Martin doesn’t ignore her calls. Mr Murtaugh doesn’t answer his either.It’s weeks before she hears from either of them, and by then she’s canvased the usual suspects: the morgues, the hospitals, central processing, everywhere she can think of. Because of course she would assume the worst.By the time he drags himself into the trailer, she’s torn between wanting to strangle him and…oh.Oh.The look on his face says it all and she can’t find the moral fibre to ask him where he’s been. Instead she reaches for the bottle just above the stove. He drops his bag at his feet, barely has the energy to close the door behind him. His arms find her waist, and he buries his face into her neck. Bends him a bit, she’s so much smaller than he is, and yet she holds up mountains.

how they say ‘i’m sorry’ after arguments

“So, lemme get dis straight. Mexico. Tito. Dead in ya trunk. IAB investigation. Suspension. Uhm. Dere any kine else I should know?!”

Though soft, her voice is awed. Not in pride. There’s too much fear and worry, tinged with an anger at the situation and maybe a little bit at him. Because she knows, she knows without a shadow of doubt, that Martin had done all these things without the intention of ever coming back from it. Which is why he looks so lost now. Why she can practically taste the whiskey on his breath. The way he shakes in her arms. Because even after all of this? She hasn’t managed to let go.

He murmurs under his breath and she can’t make any of it out, except it’s rough timbre. The vibrations of his voice against the lower part of her shoulder.

“...Said ‘M sorry, Hawai’i.”

She believes him. Not because of the words. It’s in the way his fingers twist in the back of her shirt. The way he shakes even if it’s so subtle no one else would notice. It takes all the fight right out of her.

Fingers lose themselves in his hair. And she hugs him closer.

“I know. An’ if ya evah do dat again, Martin, I’ma find ya an’ break every bone in ya body.”

which one’s more ticklish

She shrieks like something dying.

Squirms, kicks. Digs nails in wherever they can find purchase and tries to drag herself away.  

It’s no good. Martin has a hold of her ankle and refuses to let go. He also has a feather though that becomes fingers against the delicate arch. The devil’s in his eyes. That very foot gets set up on his shoulder, because he’s a stupidly brave man. Goes for her knees. A new scream of laughter that could deafen someone at twenty yards and peel paint right off the walls.

By the time he’s gotten to her waist, they’re dishevelled. She’s got both legs wrapped around his middle and is putting every ounce of her strength to prevent his forward progress. His hair and shirt will never be the same, they’re both red and breathless from exhaustion.

And of course, OF COURSE, Andrew Riley misunderstands the situation.

“The Fuck’re you doing?”

Neither can be sure which one he’s addressing but they answer in unison.

“Unnawaddah basket weaving.”

“Sky-diving into a vat of marshmallow fluff and whiskey.”

their favourite rainy day activities

It starts by waking up on the beach, the pounding surf whisper-screaming a warning and the gulls aren’t numerous and loud. Or maybe it’s the cold that gets them, unseasonable compared to the night before. By the time he’s fully aware of his surroundings and brushing sand off his skin, she’s sitting with her back to him, knees drawn up to her chest and her arms wrapped around them. The wind picks up her hair, flies it behind her like a tattered, dark banner.

“Storm comin’ in.”

There’s something wistful in her tone that has nothing to do with the surf conditions. He drops down behind her, palms smoothing their way up from elbow to shoulder in the slowest meander he can manage. She gets a little lost like that sometimes, and for the life of him, he can’t figure out why, or where she really goes inside her head. But he gives her the same courtesy and comfort that she offers when he does the same. They stay that way until the rain comes slashing in, cutting like knives, and the lightning starts.

The rest of the day is spent cooped up inside his trailer. He doesn’t mind the feel of her nestled between his legs and draped across his chest. When she curls up, she doesn’t take up much room. And the blankets are piled up too, making a warm cocoon around them.

They listen to the rain. To the radio. Drowsing in and out of consciousness with nowhere to be and nothing that needs to be said. Sure they shift around for the sake of comfort and it never fails that they have to take turns moving so the other can hit the head, after drinking coffee and cocoa.

“Hey, Texas?”

“Yeah?”

“Y’evah....”

“Nope.”

“Me, eiddah.”

how they surprise each other

It’s nothing cinematic. Little notes left in a desk drawer in purple sparkly pen encouraging him day by day. A hot cup of coffee waiting for her in the morgue before she slips in to work. A picked up dinner because the other knows no one thought about it over the long hours. Fingers laced together when least expected. A drive down to Mexico because why not?

And that’s what makes them so solid. It’s nothing like those tv-show dramatic revelations or soap-opera twists. And honestly, it’s better this way because neither one of them handle big things well.

Okay, so maybe it was the salsa dancing lessons that really got her, and how she kept smiling at him all night. {{Nevah knew ya had dose kine moves, Texas.}}

Or the way he was mesmerised by watching her field strip and clean his M-16, shaving a good forty seconds off his personal best {{next time, blindfolded, Bethany.}}

their most sickening shows of public affection

“So, I come out of the john and I’m looking around and looking around, because I was only gone like a minute tops. It’s like you gotta put an RIFD tag in them ~do you think they’d notice if I did?~ But anyway, so I’m searching through the typical Saturday crowd and then what do I see?

“Riggs, strolling down the boardwalk carnival fuckin’ thing, as if it’s goddamn Coney Island, and he’s wearing my sister like a backpack! A BACKPACK! Legs wrapped around his hips, one arm across his shoulders. And the other hand, she’s feeding him tufts of cotton candy. And this asshole, occasionally holding up his Coke next to his head so she can lean in and take sips! Who does that, Gamble?!”

Brian isn’t sure what’s funnier, the red in his partner’s face, the vein throbbing in his temple, or the outrage at something that while, yes, not exactly normal, is not the worst he’s personally seen with years on the Job.

“Sounds...horrifying.” This is accompanied by an eye roll in Riley’s direction in the most sarcastic way Gamble can manage. “Still. Could be worse. There’s this one picnic table at the pier that’s just out of sight from the Boardwalk and from the beach and if you spread a blanket on it, you can spread other th-”

He’s cut off by having to duck the stapler launched across at him. Which only makes the former Ranger laugh harder. Practically chokes on his coffee when there’s a particular drawl behind him.

“Y’all are just highly envious that A....She likes me better, maybe because crazy as I am I actually respect her...and B....no cotton candy for either of you.”

[chopper-witch]

A Weapon of My Own Design: I Have My Suspicions (Ch 5)

Characters: Loki x OC (Ashira), random seedy people

Warnings: drinking, scars 

Locations: Her ship, my MCU fanfic version of Coruscant

WC: 4,444 (approximately) 

Summary: Loki is suspicious of Ashira. Ashira is just tired.

A.N: This one is shorter and probably still has lots of mistakes ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ 

AWOMOD Master

Previous

--

“Breaking news in the Ninth Sector - Naboo has just been attacked by an Aresian fleet. Information is still coming in but according to ground sources an intermediary from Ares sent down is demanding information about the sighting of the escaped princess Ashira. Bounty for the return of her, unharmed, has been raised from four billion to eight billion credits. We will have more as more comes in.”

Loki sits quietly in the shadowed part of the stairs, reading the translation, eyes occasionally looking over to Ashira as she sits with her back to him, tinkering with yet another explosive piece of technology. 

Her talking interrupts the translators, the machine simply saying error as she grumbles angrily in her first language. Loki isn’t too upset about that - it gives him a moment to think. 

Her home is willing to pay eight billion credits for her safe return. That’s not a ransom for someone who stole her to return her, no, that’s how much they will give someone if they bring her back. And Ashira, she is dead set on staying away, even going so far as wanting to see her home burn. But she mentioned that even if her home burned her running would not end. Then there is her nightmares that he has only experienced once but assumes happen every so often. She begs in them for her parents not to let something happen, cries out in pain and regret when it does. 

From what he knows, the only logical conclusion is she was part of some deal or trade that means enough to her home planet that she is worth paying billions of credits to whoever gets her back but also means enough to the other party that her running will never be over. 

She stops her muttering, the machine beeping once indicating it has picked back up again. 

“-has been completely destroyed due to the supposed lack of cooperation. The implosion technique was used and means there are likely no survivors.”

Loki looks up to see Ashira’s reaction. 

Ashira stops fiddling with the bomb, staring straight out in front of her. As soon as those words cross her ears - implosion technique - her grip on her wrench tightens. It’s her fault they’re dead. If she hadn’t gone they wouldn’t have seen her and the Aresian fleet wouldn’t have come down to get information and then destroy the planet. 

And if she hadn’t created that implosion bomb 300 years ago, there would be a chance of survivors. 

Her building emotions blinds her from what her body is doing. Loki, however, isn’t blind and watches carefully.

She keeps squeezing the wrench more and more and more, her skin cracking slightly along each crevice. A light purple glow highlights the breaks, a more neon one in the palm of her left hand where the wrench sits. And as she continues to grind her teeth and angrily clench the tool, the ripping in her body becomes increasingly startlingly. She isn’t noticing, focused on her emotions.  

That is until the power source of the grenade sparks out and the wrench turns to dust, her finger nails flying into her palm. Ashira pushes herself back from the table within a second of explosion. In front of her is nothing but near invisible dust - a wrench, a bomb, a highly explosive power source and an entire box of indestructible metals all gone into tiny particles.

It’s then she feels the burning on her skin. She looks down at her arms to see the cracked veins running along them, turning them over slowly to see the breaks everywhere, even on the hints of her legs that she can see. It’s the first time in a years she’s lost control. 

First time in years she’s even used the terror inside her. 

Ashira stands; the chair goes skittering backwards but she doesn’t pay any attention, instead turning herself towards the stairs to get away from her mess. Her eyes catch Loki’s. 

Loki simply looks at her, trying to show no intentions at all. But Ashira on the other hand - she is paling, panting and eyes are widened in panic. If her skin wasn’t ripping apart to look like a purple volcano Loki might just tease her about seeing a ghost. The combination of the actual crackling noise mixed with the heat he feels radiating off of her silences him entirely.

“I need to shower.”

That’s all she says as she darts past him, nearly shoving him over in her dash to get upstairs. 

Loki was already increasingly suspicious about her false intentions for their Naboo stop along with finding the book he cannot read but most definitely mentions Asgard and the Nine Realms. But this… watching her turn practically indestructible objects into nothing, her skin shattering as she does so is something else entirely. 

He moves towards the table. A power of his is molecular rearrangement meaning if there is any molecular integrity left, he can turn these items back into their original form or into another entirely. But as the familiar green glow covers the dust, nothing happens. The items remain practically invisible, destroyed and unable to be reformed. Loki touches the thin layer of dust where the box of parts once was. It vanishes as soon as he touches it, simply disappearing entirely.

She shattered the molecular integrity of these objects; they have been shattered beyond their most basic aspects. They have, in all practicality, vanished.

Her power may very well be why she is so desired. And while he has no intention on turning her in, he does want to know everything she’s been hiding from him. 

Those scattered notes of hers might be a good place to start. 

If he could read them.

—

Two weeks later they finally land again on a planet in an entirely different quadrant. Two weeks of avoiding each other, uncomfortable silences and awkward interactions when they finally run into each other.

“Welcome to Coruscant. We’ll be here for at least a week,” Ashira pulls her sweater down over her hands, nervously playing with the edges. “I need to deal with some stuff. And if you want to stay here you are more than welcome.” 

Ashira is leaning in the doorway, staring defeatedly outside. In the gritty morning light, her hair nearly fades into the sky. It’s braided back in yet another way he has never seen: two tight braids from each side but leaving the rest of her silver hair its natural curl, the braids never touching but somehow holding the hair from her face. A loose, white sweater reaches just above her knees, the deep blue of everything else that seems royal covering her legs with shoes to match.

“I’m going to stay with you, for now.” His voice is soft. “May I know what things you need to deal with?” 

Ashira fiddles with the end of one of her braids. “I’d prefer not to tell you. You don’t want me to put you in more danger you let me do this by myself.” She sighs. “The main city is about two miles from here, not a long walk for us. You can do whatever you what when we’re down there.” 

Loki walks to stand beside her, leaning on the right side of doorway. “Anything worth it there?”

“Give me two hours when we get to the city. I’ll tell you where to meet.” 

-

It’s an awkward walk. For once Ashira seems almost entirely vulnerable but also completely guarded, hugging her own arms close to herself for most of the walk. Her fingers twitch whenever they lay by her side, tugging nervously at the edges of the fabric. Her entire aura seems off to Loki. She’s been twitchy before but not visibly nervous like this before. 

At the city’s edge she stops. 

“There is a fountain four blocks straight forward and another six to the right. Meet me there in an hour and a half.” 

“Alright.” 

The seediest bar in the city is a cesspool for the worst of the universe. It’s mostly just people running from charges, child traffickers who aren’t esteemed politicians. But it is the only safe place for Ashira to meet with the only person not trying to drag her back home. So she slides casually beside the fellow citizen of Ares, her ex lieutenant commander Selene. 

Selene glances over to Ashira. Ashira’s face looks much like it did after their Lycra endeavor, where they got what they needed but got back with a lot less soldiers and a few too many scars.

And just a few inches of hair chopped off Ashira’s head when they got back.

“Rough day?” Selene asks, pushing her second drink to her left.

“You think?” Ashira picks up the glass. Though she knows better than to hold it to the shitty lighting she does it anyway. The glass, as expected, is a discolored cloudy gray, strays of brown along the sides. 

“You need to stop checking out the glasses every time we meet here. It’s unbecoming.”

The ex-princess sets down the glass, eyes narrowing at her friend. “I live in my ship that was designed for duo missions that’s hundreds of years old. I do updates with non-compatible technology and spend most of my time going to cesspools like this. Looking at a glass is in no way unbecoming. Everything else I do, possibly.” 

Loki slides into the seat at the bar three seats down in a disguise. Seeing Ashira beside someone also with silver (albeit nearly dark gray) hair at least six inches longer than Ashira’s but braided exactly the same and purple skin (hers only a shade or two lighter) is a surprise. She’s running from her home, why would she saddle up beside someone who could be trying to drag her back? 

“You are horrendously overdramatic.” 

The bartender steps in front of him. The woman is imposing, taller than nine feet and hell of a lot more terrifying than half the people in here. 

“Whatever’s not poisonous.” 

“Hm.” 

“I’m really not in compared to you, Selene. Telling people you can control the moon and darkness, get over yourself.” The ex-princess sighs loudly as the bartender slams a drink that definitely looks poisonous in its green hue in front of Loki. “But seriously, tell me what’s going on, Selene? Why is everything getting worse?” 

The prince leans forward to hear the response. 

“He’s done with the army,” Selene replies, turning towards Ashira and lowering her voice. “He wants the stones.” 

The stones?

“Shit.” She knows Loki followed her into the bar. This is bad and she promised to prevent him from getting danger. “We need to speak in Aresian. I may have picked up a stray.” 

Loki leans back as she switches languages. It isn’t Kree since the device hasn’t picked anything up and sounds similar to the mumbles she lets out when something is going wrong.

Selene gasps, her mouth widening in awe. “You did what now?” 

“Hey,” Ashira shrugs and sips a bit of the offendingly strong drink, “he fell face first in front of me out of the sky. Was I just supposed to leave him?”

“Wait, let me get this straight. Some guy just falls out of the sky and you just go like, ‘hey, hop in my shitty ship so I can patch you up’?” Selene pauses, tossing all her loose hair behind her shoulders, sending a sultry glance towards Ashira. “Or was it more dragging his unconscious body into your lair?”

Ashira shakes her head. “I’m stopping you there.” A soft sigh passes her lips. “No, he fell. He was alright actually, then a bunch of gangs tried to catch me so I was like, buddy, you gotta come with me. And he’s stayed so far.”

“So he’s the one you were caught running with on Naboo?” Selene chuckles quietly. “I thought you just grabbed a really cute hostage, not a live-in.” 

Ashira smacks Selene’s left arm. “Now seriously, what the hell is going on? The stones?” 

Ashira pushes the sleeves of her sweater up slightly. The room is warming as the crowd grows and she cannot keep them rolled down. A paled purple scar is obvious on her right wrist, one he has not seen before but is clearly old and healing over. It’s no more than a two inches long but wide, indicating it went deep and without proper medical attention. The edges are a jagged, mangled. It wasn't clean but was definitely rushed. How has he never noticed that before?

“He has grown restless. And finally realized what he can do if he has all of them.”

The ex-princess sits up straighter. She looks to the shelves of drinks to keep her mind occupied. “So they doubled the bounty so people have more incentive to bring me back.”

“You are the only one who knows where the Power Stone is and the only one besides him and very few others who can hold them without their containers.” Selene shrugs. “Plus for those who refuse to obey…”

“I know, the whole decimating thing.” 

Loki watches Ashira lean forward onto her hands, covering her face entirely. Whatever the conversation is about, it doesn’t look good. Her hair falls completely to the side as she turns on her hands to look at her friend.

From his spot he can just barely make out the end of a second scar along the lower part of her right neck, the edge wrapping around where a necklace would sit. Instead of metal to present something beautiful it is simple pale scarring, jagged just like the one on her wrist. 

The prince closes his eyes a second. She dug stuff out of her skin or someone cut it out for her. Either way it doesn’t look good. 

“Selene.” Ashira places her hands flat on the bar and pushes herself back up. “This is a disaster. I should have ended this when I still could.” 

Loki perks up at the sound of a name. Selene. Aresian… Selene… Aresian... the words seem to be tied together in a way he already knows.

“Hey, don’t worry about it. We can still fix this. We’ve got this. We used to be the baddest bitches out there.”

Her lips pull into a soft and small smile. “I’m not dragging you down with me, Selene. Plus the stray I picked up is good at magic, maybe I could use him.” 

“So you’ll use him and not me?”

“I can’t lose you, Selene. You are one of my only friends. Maybe even my only one left.” A low hum passes her lips. “I actually need to be going soon, promised my new friend I’d show him one of my favorite places to eat here.” 

“May I join? I just want to personally assess how good he is, you know?” 

Ashira shakes her head slightly. “You are ridiculous. And no, I’m sorry. I nearly got him killed like eight times already. Pretty sure he even followed me in here and used his magic to conceal himself.”

“That’s why you switched. You never cared before, I was wondering.”

“Thanks for letting me know. I’ll figure out something with the Power Stone. Stay safe and just don’t get caught.”

“You owe me like a hundred times. This place sucks.”

Selene stands reluctantly. Now Loki can actually see her in full. She’s taller than Ashira by nearly half a foot and thinner as well, wearing basically just a dark blue catsuit. Her walk is the same as Ashira’s, Loki notices: combining grace with the clunkiness of a warrior. Whatever boots she has keep her completely silent as moves about through the crowd of pestilence. But she pauses, turning on her toes and placing her right arm onto Ashira’s right shoulder. From where Loki is he cannot hear if anything is said as she leans into hug Ashira from behind. 

The other woman releases her friend and finally pushes past the crowd of people. Loki watches as she leaves and notices the nearly flat tactical belt along her hip. But it is stuffed in small places. Though he cannot tell there are at least eighteen different weapons in there that are collapsed somehow.

Ashira looks to her left down the bar. She knows Loki is somewhere in this bar, his curious self already sniffing in her things and now following her around when she asks to be left alone. Her eyes catch the sight of a () who is paying attention to Selene as she walks out. Not a sip of his drink is gone and from the tiny bit of space in his sleeve gleams the corner of the translator you gave Loki. 

Her hands curl around the edge of the bar. Of course. 

She repeats the move of her friend and pushes back to stand up. Loki is far too distracted trying to get more information about Selene that he doesn’t notice Ashira hovering near him until her fingers are gripping the left shoulder of the guy to his right.

“Pardon me,” she interrupts, “but I need to talk to this guy beside. Do you mind moving?” 

The man turns his head. Loki’s self preservation instincts told him as soon as he entered not to bother this man, beside him was the closest seat to her. Barely humanoid, bulking like a Kronan but not nearly as tall with a scowling, scared face but Ashira’s stupidity never ceases to amaze him.

Whatever creature this man is stands up, the chair toppling in the process. Loki conjures a knife within the sleeve of his right hand in the event this goes very, very wrong like it seems to be. In his hand flashes a small dagger he has seen around her ship, not one of home. 

He’s too far to conjure his own things. 

Kronan-man hybrid, or whatever he is that Loki can’t identify, softens immediately as soon as he sees Ashira. His fists uncurl, shoulders roll back down his back, whole body un-tenses. 

“No problem,” he smiles nervously, patting her left arm, “go ahead.” 

“Thanks, doll.” 

Loki is amazed at how the man proceeds to walk out of the bar at your command. And that he lets you call him doll.

With her right foot Ashira tilts the chair back up right, staring directly into the face of the illusion Loki has put on. As she slides to sit, Loki shifts in his own seat. Her stare is unnerving. She does not move a muscle in her face, not blink or wince as she sits.

“Drop it,” Ashira states, “you aren’t as sneaky as you think.”

“I’m sorry but I don’t know what you're talking about, darling.”

“You haven’t touched your drink and on top of that the translator I built you is tucked under your wrist so… drop it. Also if you really were just another patron, you’d know not to talk to me like that.”

Loki glances around a moment to check the surroundings for a moment. The look of a typical Kree fades away in a roll of gold to expose the prince.

He furrows his brows and narrows his eyes. “The drink and barely the corner of the translator gave it away?”

“And I knew you followed me.” Ashira sits in the chair beside him and slides his drink to herself. “Didn’t know which one you’d be but I knew you’d be close.”

Loki laughs. “So you switched languages.”

“You made it clear you didn’t like that I put you in danger. With this… the less you know the better.” 

“You mean not ratting out your friend?”

Ashira leans onto her elbows, placing her right cheek into her fists and looking at him. For the first time she looks completely normal. Her face is blessed with smile, eyes showing more brown than black for the first time since he has met her. 

“I don’t want to drag her down. She… she doesn’t deserve to be caught up in all of this.”

He mocks her position, smirking instead of smiling. “But she meets you in this joke of a place?”

“It’s the only place that’s safe enough to meet.” Ashira takes a moment to look around the place. “All these people probably have at least fifty warrants and six different bounties on their head.”

“So then why don’t you just stay here?”

“You’ve seen it, right?” She leans her arms straight forward, face also looking back out to the shelves. Her chin rests heavily along the counter. “But don’t worry, there’s nicer places in the city than this seedy shit. Not much nicer, but nicer.” 

“You promised me food. I intend to hold you to that promise.” 

“Then let’s go, your majesty.”

—

Loki is, admittedly to himself, is more suspicious than he was before. There are connections being made in his head but he doesn’t have enough information to know if he is being paranoid or realistic. 

Those damn notes. The best solution to figuring out this mess. 

—

For most of the week it works similarly. Ashira wanders somewhere for a few hours and Loki follows behind, trying each time to be sneakier with it and each time she knows he is there and either switches languages or chooses to speak in a code he cannot decipher. Then they go walk around the town together. 

People in the seedy parts are too scared to mess with her and when she isn’t dressed to impress she blends in surprisingly well. And though she doesn’t have any dresses as far as he can tell, she has far too many outfits for someone with that little of space.

— 

It’s on their last day Loki chooses not to follow Ashira in the morning. He told her he would meet her at the fountain, sending her off before him before he shoved every piece of paper he could find with her writing into a bag. Someone in this city is bound to be table to translate. 

There is less than twenty minutes until he is meant to meet you again when he is running out of stores and places that might translate, at all. Then the translator beeps. Someone is speaking in Kree nearby so it has begun translating but there is only one voice at most and it’s a whisper. 

So he pulls it out of his pocket to see what it says. 

‘Finally going to know what that whore wrote about me. Tells me it’s all in code… once I have proof, it’s over for her. Hey man, I told you this guy was the best. Code, language whatever. Who cares if she speaks some freaky language, she wronged you.’ 

He slips it back into his pocket and instead follows the sounds of the voice. This feels awfully fortuitous. 

He’ll take anything at this point. 

So when he reaches a door after twisting and turning down an alleyway, walking uncomfortably past the two younger men, he doesn’t even bother reading the sign, just pushes inside. 

The man at the desk nearly jumps out of his skin at the suddenness of the intruder. All along the wall are various computers and rolls of paper with languages Loki has never seen before all lit by a shitty ceiling light fading yellow.

Loki returns his attention to the man inside. He’s short, maybe even as short as Ashira and appears human. His glasses are round and too large for his unusually slender face; his hands are stained with ink and calloused at their tips. Though he does more than just translate, it is his main profession. At this point he is more intrigued than anything as to why someone so dressed up would enter an exchange store. 

His eyes fall immediately to the large stack of papers Loki drops in front of him.

“How much for a translation?” Loki inquires. He’s practically stoic as he speaks, eyes trained carefully on the man.

“This is Aresian, rarest language out there. Not even everyone from there speaks it.” He picks up a page and holds it up to the light. “Steal this from the royal family or something?”

“Or something. Can it be translated?”

“Of course it can. But all these documents… it’s gonna take some time even with them running through the computer. Give me six, seven hours. It ain’t gonna be cheap either.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Loki places the credit pass Ashira gave him onto the counter. The man picks it up tentatively, holding it up to the light as well. He then places it onto the reader beside his main computer and begins to type away.

“Holy shit, where’d you get this many credits? Did you steal from the royal family as well or something?” 

“Or something.” The man hands Loki the pass back. “I’ll be back.”

While he admits he has dealt with very illegal things before and people who don’t sit, something really doesn’t sit right with this one.

Loki moves swiftly to the exit. He promised to meet Ashira near the fountain ten minutes ago and given her uncanny ability to always know things he needs to make his way there before she happens upon him in the store. 

He exits and sees no Ashira in sight. That is, of course, until he rounds the corner and runs immediately into her. 

“What’s so interesting about an exchange store?”

“Thought they may have something to remind me of home, they didn’t.” 

Ashira shrugs. She knows he lying - exchange stores aren’t for mementos. People go there to get the illegal deeds done, illegal items traded and words sent out they can’t themselves. 

“Well sorry about that. Come, there’s this place I think you’ll enjoy.” 

—

Loki expected Ashira to keep a grip on him all day after nearly catching him trying to read through everything she owns. Instead she tells him, after taking him to a suspiciously nice restaurant, to meet back at the ship around sunset or a bit later so they can leave then. 

Of course that leaves him more suspicious of what she might be hiding as well. 

But if it provides him time to go get the translations without needing to sneak around too much, he doesn’t mind.

“Here you go. I don’t know who you stole those from but don’t let them know you have them. I’m wiping my computer clean after that should anything happen.”

Loki takes the documents and tucks them into his bag. He’s curious by the other man’s words. What could possibly happen? Ashira said this part of the town is never even touched.

“What do you mean?” Loki inquires as he re-buckles the bag.

“It ranges from stupid formulas for better fuel economy to shit no one should be uttering outside their guarded gates. If they catch you with these, and more importantly the translations…” the man opens his arms in defeat, “Well it was nice knowing you.”

“Execution?” A logical punishment. 

The man laughs. “Boy, you’ll wish for something as sweet as execution.”

--

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