#[ and this is how sandy dies he cannot escape love

[dollarbin]

Sandy Saturday #15:

The Sea Captain

Some songs birth worlds. Tangled Up in Blue, Famous Blue Rain Coat, The Diamond Sea, The Bells, Will To Love: sure, they appear on albums alongside other tracks, but really they serve as their very own beginning, middle and end. Unique characters arise alongside the riffs; otherwise untouchable landscapes are established within the beats.

Our attention is altogether seized when a song births a new world. There's no topless bar out there where the staff are currently standing by, ready to bend down and tie the laces of your shoe. But you can go to such a place anyway, right now, by simply dropping the needle on Dylan and letting him unfold such a space for you.

The Sea Captain, a humble, understated and self-penned track from Sandy Denny's second solo record, may seem like an unlikely choice for such distinction. But hear me out.

First, let's let Sandy tell her story:

At first we are in familiar territory for anyone who's ever listened to Liege and Leif (if you are sitting around reading this and you have not listened to Liege and Leif that is really, really weird): Sandy embodies not the titular captain but instead a deserter who takes to the sea to escape their troubles. They may be fleeing war; they may be fleeing their own family or past crimes. We don't know what they're running from, but we're instantly on their side: after all, they sing with Sandy Denny's voice.

But something weird is going on. Simply, put I'm not altogether sure that the deserter, our narrator, is human. They "fly" from the shore; later, when the ship catches fire, they once again "fly" away from it. Is it a bird? A storyteller? A ghost?

Denny switches perspectives in the final, equally elusive, verse to observe, rather than embody, the deserter as he passes by not just the boat, but also the song itself: he's gone and we cannot go with him because we, like the Sea Captain, cannot take to the air and fly.

Or, something? Likely, I've got all of it wrong. But I don't know if Sandy herself knew what she was writing; it's a poem, not a math problem.

Even so, the more I think about Denny's graceful, dense and obscure lyrics the more I remember reading an incredible piece years and years ago about another world building song, Geeshie Wiley's Last Kind Word Blues: the author is some kind of genius, and he goes on and on and on about the song, about Wiley and about the meaning of life. Imagine Greil Marcus, only with an editor and a fact checker: incredible depths.

Meanwhile, The Sea Captain is the perfect compliment to Ian Matthews' Please Be My Friend, which we featured a few days back, in that both songs present the young and aspiring Richard Thompson in the best possible light. I encourage you to listen to the track again; only this time just listen for Richard: he creeps in early, under Sandy's second verse, steps up to offer his solo, then cradles her tenderly for the rest of the track.

Thompson has called his solo on this piece one of the best in his career, and I concur. It's so quiet, so delicate; maybe the deserter dies in the ship's fire within this song, and that's how he is able to pass by the boat and fly his soul onward, leaving everything behind; if so, Thompson's solo is the sound death.

And if that's what death sounds like, wow: we have absolutely nothing to fear.

[cxffexngel]

[ @aaetherius​ ] || [ dFSÑDSFDf thanks for reminding me to open the submit page, so now you have free real estate with length of asks!!! ]

Kiss day was something the Singularity had mentioned to him before, and something he was already familiar with due to Sandalphon once citing it as a reason for suddenly stealing a kiss from him a day that felt like less than a breath ago. But when it had come up again in conversation with the airship's stalwart leader, whom Lucifer, unfortunately, happened to get far too much information from when it came to the customs Skydwellers held, he had learned just how scared a holiday it was. Now he was utterly determined to return the favor to the archangel. But Sandalphon had slipped from his grasp early, and in his sleep-touched daze he hadn't truly registered the other's missing warmth against him until he had groggily sat up on a collection of tangled sheets as his palm lazily patted the mattress in search for the other only to find the area beside him empty. A few blinks and he woke to a room devoid of the Supreme Primarch, losing his chance to gently wake him with a kiss.

Swiftly following his first failed attempt to ensure he celebrated the day properly - as the Singularity had ensured him not doing so would have dire consequences, and he would not wish for anything ill to befall Sandalphon - he quietly made his way over to the cafe where he expected the other to be. The smell of coffee had been fresh in the air when he had slowly poked his head in, but, alas, by the time he had gotten there Sandalphon had already left. With his wings sagging against his back, he carefully followed after any trace of the archangel, the Singularity even popping in from time to time to help him locate the other. But every time he came close to, he could sense Sandalphon's presence begin to fade. By the time sunset had become to trickle in through the windows of the Grandcypher, his core is heavy with worry. He's scarcely seen the other all day, and he fears Sandalphon is working himself too hard once again. It morphs his excitement into dread until, finally, he spots the other beneath the orangey-pink hue of the dwindling light, and allows a breath of relief to flutter past his lips. His core, the fragile thing that it is, simply can't wait to embrace the other, and instead of following the advice the Singularity had given him (urging him to surprise Sandalphon), he simply rushes over to the archangel.

His strong arms come to wrap so tightly, yet still somehow gently, about the other's waist that he nearly, unintentionally, lifts Sandalphon off of his feet. Burying his face into the crux of the other's neck, he allows the scent of coffee to almost overwhelm as he nuzzles softly into the other's skin, and the fabric of his shirt. "Sandalphon," he whispers faintly as he slowly lifts his head after a few moment, gingerly holding the other as close to him as he can manage. "Forgive me, I pray you have not been working too hard, but I have missed you." Slowly, he leans forward to give the other the gentlest kiss upon the tip of his nose. "The Singularity has informed me it is Kiss Day, and I wish to celebrate it, together, with you, if you will allow me to."

          All the day spent with the other’s footsteps trailing his heels, and Sandalphon wasn't doing it for any ill intention at al - no. It was just fond fear, Lucifer now most prepared than ever with newfound knowledge he really has to someday question it’s sources had the former Supreme primarch much more giddy and all the more determined to properly 'celebrate' days such as these. The itch to go and throttle the life out the captain bubbling like a gentle fire fueled by petty alone, but the chance for retribution never once dawning for his hands hold that little trouble seeker. No, instead the danger loomed dangerously close, always sensing the other's presence no matter where Sandalphon manages to excuse himself to. From somehow making it out the bed without waking the former, to at least opening the cafe until time had called and he left someone else to serve for the time being. Manage to hang some laundry without much trouble and then unceremoniously scramble from the other's field of vision. And again, it wasn't for naught nor because he did not wish for Lucifer's love at all. It's just that he knew that once the other's strong hold embraced him, that's all for the supreme primarch; it's mark his penance and be showered upon kisses and kisses until left a complete breathless mess laughing like an idiot, feathers sticking everywhere and his hair a worse mess than it somehow manages to look certain mornings, as if a strong storm had hit the airship while taken by slumber.

           Yet sundown is already before the Grancypher's periphery, strong orange rays painting sepia the grand vast of skies and dots of what could be lone islands within the distance to be seen - And worry paints Sandalphon's core now that it's been a while, the chase having drawn enough to at least spare the other and left Lucifer find him, finally. So he stops, the handrails that make the best part of the airship's edges so no one would fall a good leverage to let his palms rest atop them, leaning a bit so his armor less frame meets the edge and take in a gasp pf air that his lungs had begged for a while now - unable to shake the fluster that weights his core and the slight guilt that also hangs from that branch, which he knows wouldn't last. Fate sealed when those footsteps once more meet his ears and muscles reflexively tense a bit, but then relax with silent relief; praying the skies to be prepared and let all that contained love the other bleeds with overwhelm his soul, whisper an apology for purposely hiding from the other in some sort of childish play the younger crew members often entertained themselves with considering the grand amount of rooms, corridors and places to hide they could choose and test their abilities. Yet it all proves for even more naught, no matter how much he braces himself or trains his mind and body to somehow meet the other's presence and simply melt with it - his strength rips the air from his lung, that bold hold striking the deepest parts of his core and cold blod rush through his entire body as blinding lightings and leave trails of scalding heat in their stead. Unceremonious noise, akin to a gasp and squawk unfiltered past lips that part with the surprise clearly painted across sharp visage and that's how he knows that not even today Sandalphon was going to survive this man's shamelessness. yet, as always, there will never a better way for Lucifer to express his emotions like this, it is something he'd never change or wish for it to cease in any way. Just prays his own core can somehow build enough stamina to not painfully throb at each and endless ways Lucifer finds to express himself outrageously.

         " L-Lucif— " Strained voice barely manages out, a higher pitch as hands had somehow found where Lucifer's circle his waist, relishing on his the tip of his heels seem unable to meet the familiar worn wood of the deg's surface as the other holds his smaller frame as if his life depended on it - and probably it does, because now that he finally has a look, from over his shoulder, to Lucifer's messy strands as they veil from sight how his visage might be. Yet even without looking Sandalphon already can feel the relief dawning upon the other, how that intake of air simply nourished his core with everything that is right and bright. It doesn’t fail to dust his cheeks a faint rosy color, and it doesn't help too the bashful chuckle bubbling from the depths of his chest as it heaves out within their silence. " I... Missed you too. I apologize for my absence. " But he doesn't have the heart yet to say the truth, not when it had somehow burdened the other now that he thinks of it; did Lucifer think something worse? But nearly tangent thoughts banish the second he processes the kiss laid upon his nose, blinking his own worries away in a miraculous spell as he slowly shifts to face the other better, and rest his hips upon the handrail as it lazily creaks with the newfound weight added to it. Sound that gets carried away by the gentle breeze along the downy pale skirt that flutters slowly under the belts that keep them upright, laying his palms at the edge where those long gloves end, and skin peek from Lucifer's biceps. " If to celebrate it with you somehow fills for the time we spent apart, then I would never say no. " It was impossible to deny further the other, his core also yearns for it even as they have exchanged more touches and kisses than the two thousand of years worth of silence could dare and even recall. Oh how Lucifer's soft tone was all in the world to undo his own stubbornness, the only thing along; stronger than Lyria's beady eyes or Gran's unbearably kind soul, that could sway his core into caving and forget about responsibilities for once in a while, even if his war torn body aches to do things, to meet battles or go around the airship doing things. So one of his hands, the one even now adorned with the shining golden ring carefully traces where that pale skin radiates warmth, touches with featherlight gentleness against the other's broader neck where fabric edges with golden rims, and then cups the taller primarch's jaw with an unspoken apology all written on his eyes as they soften when he meets his gaze with one of it's own. Thumb tracing aimless circles where the a rosy hue paints the edge of the other's lashes with life and admiring how the sunset's light never cease to frame his visage almost as if he had been descended from the stars themselves. " I hope this counts as an apology, too, dearest Lucifer. " He tries to sound a bit timid, but it's impossible to not let his adoration drip from his tongue, head tilting as eyes relishes on Lucifer's clear senseless and unconditional worry even now having a strong hold to Sandalphon's own guilt, one he will make up no with endless spoken apologies, but with actions that would tear the remaining hours this day was left with, and simply let himself be engulfed by the cocoon of feathers the other may subject him with, if his own didn't manifest first and steal Lucifer for himself in a selfish streak.

[incorrectatotcquotes]

Hello everyone! I haven’t been very active lately, so I thought it was time to make a really long post to make up for it. And when I say long, I mean really long.

There are lots of references to A Tale of Two Cities in Cassandra Clare’s The Infernal Devices, and I wanted to post this theory I have that some of Clare’s characters in TID might actually be supposed to mirror characters from ATOTC. I have already talked a little bit about it in a previous post, but I wanted to make a whole long theory, so here it comes. Major spoilers for both The Infernal Devices (and maybe all of Shadowhunters) and for A Tale of Two Cities ahead. And of course, I’m no expert, so there might be some factual wrongs, and these ideas are just theories. If you find any wrongs, please tell me about it :-)

Will = Sydney?

This one is almost already confirmed. It is mentioned several times in TID how similar Will Herondale is to Sydney Carton, even Will himself knows it. Will seems to be quite upset about it (understandable, if all the stories are true, it might not be very nice to read about your own decapitation), but accepts it as the truth. Will and Sydney have similar personalities, they both seem cold and selfish at first glance, but later on proves to be good people. They both save the main character from their imprisonment in the start, Will helps Tessa escape The Dark Sisters and Sydney manages to get Charles acquitted from the false accusation. Later on they both also sacrifices their lives to save said main characters, Will covers Tessa’s body to shield her from the exploding automaton in Clockwork Prince (he survives, but he is totally prepared to die) and of course Sydney took Charles’ place at the guillotine. Will and Sydney both die at the final chapter of book three (ensuring heart break for us all). As mentioned earlier, they are both quite unpleasant characters from the start, both being rude and mean to the main character, and as readers we are annoyed with them at first, but later on learn to feel sorry for them instead. In Will’s case, he acts the way he does because he believes that he has a magical curse placed on him, making everyone who loves him die, so therefore he must make everyone hate him. Will’s only friend is Jem Carstairs, who Will dares to show his real self to, and who is sick and dying. His solitude and belief that he is unlovable (plus his belief that he unintentionally killed his sister) has made Will depressed and self-loathing. Now, we recognise that, don’t we, ATOTC-fans? Sydney’s problem and the reason for his bad behaviour is his alcoholism and depression, which is not a magical curse, but it might be a metaphorical curse. He also hates himself, and believes that he cannot be loved. Then there is the unhappy love they both have. Will is in love with Tessa, and he does not know that she loves him back, mainly because she is engaged to Jem (whom she also loves, and I’m not going to explain the very complicated romance in TID, it would take too long, if you haven’t read it, I’m sorry for the confusion). Sydney is in love with Lucie, who does not love him back, because she is happily in love with Charles. Will also quotes and almost quotes Sydney at various points in TID, like “you kindled me, heap of ashes that I am into fire”, and calls ATOTC and especially Sydney ridiculous, which honestly sounds like something Sydney would agree with. But Will gets to survive and sort out his life, which Sydney never had the time to do, so I think Will might have that life that Sydeny thought he might have led if he had been a better person. There are other examples of how similar they are, but I realise that this is becoming less of a tumblr-post and more of an essay, so I’ll leave Will and Sydney at this. But my conclusion is that I think Will Herondale was indeed meant to mirror Sydney Carton.

Gideon = Charles?

I’ll try to make this part shorter. So, if we assume that the theory that Will is supposed to mirror Sydney is true, is it not a little bit strange that he appears in TID and Charles does not? After all, Charles is one of the main characters, and Sydney is a side character. But maybe Charles does appear in TID, just a little more subtly. I read some theory (though I can’t remember where) that maybe Jem was supposed to be Charles, and I can see where that is coming from, Jem being a loveable gentleman and everything, but some things just don’t add up. Such as Jem being proud of his family, and his loyalty never being questioned, and not least the fact that it has been confirmed that Jem is based on the poet John Keats. But if we see it from the other end, maybe a TID-Charles will appear. Charles Darnay was born into a very rich family and after his mother’s death he was thought to not show any sympathy to the poorer people his uncle (and his father) were taking advantage of. However, as a young man he realised that the family’s actions were wrong and fled the country, deciding to become a teacher and lead a normal life from there on. He married “beneath his status” and lived very happily with his wife, even though they faced hardships, such as losing a child. Charles is later accused of being an enemy of England, and later also of France, so whatever he does it seems none of the two countries fully trust him. This sounds a lot less like Jem, and a lot more like Gideon Lightwood. Gideon was raised by his father and not his uncle, and he came back to England after living in Spain, but pretty much all of the rest fits perfectly into his story too. He is born into the rich but cruel Lightwood family, and is the first of its children to leave it, after spending time abroad and understanding that what his father is doing is wrong, He is later on mistrusted both by the residents of the Institute (because he is a Lightwood) and by the Clave (because he openly disagrees with his horrible father). Gideon’s appearance does not match Charles’, however. Charles is described to be dark haired and dark eyed, whereas Gideon is described to have sandy-blond hair and green eyes. I would not think the characters’ physical descriptions were very important, if it weren’t for the fact that Will perfectly fits the description from ATOTC. However, Gideon’s physical appearance does match that of Charles Darnay in the ATOTC TV-series from 1989.

(Sorry about the terrible quality of the image). I think Gideon Lightwood might be meant to mirror Charles Darnay. 

Sophie = Lucie?

So Sophie Collins is a loving and accepting person, who still manages to not be naive, and to be brave when she has to. This is not really evidence enough to say that she is supposed to mirror Lucie Manette, because they are common traits in characters. I really do not have a lot of evidence for this part of the theory, it is more a feeling than anything else. But if we assume that the theories about Gideon and Will are correct, there are at least a few similarities between Sophie and Lucie. Sophie is happily married to Gideon, despite all they have had to go through together, such as the loss of one of their children. Both Sophie and Lucie are described as very pretty, and they both become the comfort of the people around them. I’d also like to mention that Will does proclaim his love for Sophie (like Sydney proclaims his for Lucie), when she has knocked Jessamine unconscious with a hairbrush, although maybe Sydney put his in a nicer way than Will did. Sophie also manages to stay strong through all of her problems, something that Lucie also does. So there is not a lot of evidence, but I would still like to say that I think Sophie Lightwood is supposed to mirror Lucie Manette, perhaps the Lucie we would have seen if nobody had been there to protect her when she was still small.

Tessa = The Seamstress?

Yes, I know what you’re thinking, but I’m not only going to base this part of the theory on her relationship with Will. If anything, it’s actually a pretty weak argument considering The Seamstress and Sydney only had a few hours together, while Tessa and Will were married for almost sixty years. However, I think there is some evidence that points to Tessa being quite similar to The Seamstress. I think that Tessa might mirror different characters and historical people, depending on who she is with, for example being the Fanny Brawne to Jem’s John Keats. But with the characters mirroring ATOTC characters, I think she is supposed to be The Seamstress. For this one I again have very little evidence, but bear with me. We know very little about The Seamstress, pretty much only that she is born a peasant in the French countryside but manages to make herself a seamstress in Paris, something I imagine would have taken an immense load of work and determination. She is an orphan, and the only family she has left is her cousin, whom she loves very much. She is only twenty years old when she is denounced to the revolutionaries and guillotined, although she is innocent, and we never find out who denounced her. Tessa is born a poor girl in New York, her parents died when she was very young, leaving her with an aunt and a cousin (Nate) whom she thought was her brother. When her aunt dies, Tessa moves to London where Nate is already living. She is stubborn and determined, and she loves her cousin, making her risk her life several times in the first book in the attempt of saving him. We never learn what Tessa did for a living, but I think (and this might be wrong) that she always seems to have an interest in clothes and fabrics that none of the other characters has. Again, that is only what I think, and it might very well be wrong, but it is not impossible that she might have been a seamstress before coming to London. Tessa repeatedly gets captured over the course of the story, and is deemed insignificant by some Clave members, and suspected to be working for the wrong side by other Clave members. Tessa’s cousin is the one who betrays her, and although we don’t know who betrayed The Seamstress, her cousin is the only person we know that she knows, so I would say that that cousin is a good candidate to have done it. She also describes Will (okay, so I did bring up their relationship again) as looking  angelic quite a lot, and Will calls her “Angel Tessa”, which I think might be a paralell to how The Seamstress and Sydney ask each other if the other was sent to them by God. So, there isn’t a lot of evidence, but I think Tessa might be meant to mirror The Seamstress, at least a little bit.

Sorry that this became such a long rant. Again, this is the theory of an amature, so it is far from perfect, and please tell me if you agree, disagree, or find any faults in my reasoning!

[thesoloists]

Unsweet Dreams

Summary: Bucky may be free of Hydra’s influence, but he’s not free of that of the Winter Soldier. He’s slowly coming to terms with that.

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Words: 2.1k

Warnings: PTSD, trauma and anxiety, brief graphic depictions of murder (assault & strangulation), chronic nightmares, fluff via post-nightmare comfort (if it’s any consolation, I tried to keep it balanced)

A/n: AHH, I’m so nervous! It’s been awhile since this corner of the interweb has seen my writing (I made a new tumblr and everything), so if whoever reads this could just, y’know, drop me an ask telling me what you think about this fic, I would really appreciate it. Also, I promise not all my fics will be this dark. I just needed the bit of catharsis at the end. :’)

Bucky used to live in constant fear. It was like a malignant tumor, slowly killing him and robbing him of the ability to live every damn day of his life.

To be in a crowd was like sticking him in a coffin full of nails. As he struggled to stay out of the swirl of hurried people, his anxiety would skyrocket to the point of short-circuiting his mental system. His whole body becomes stiff, his responses shortened and robotic, as he becomes helplessly overwhelmed by the blaring warning signs going off in his head. Until his brain, finding no other option, shut down enough to function on autopilot. Only when he was away from everyone, when his mind was sure they were a safe distance from the danger of the Winter Soldier, would he come back to himself. But, to be honest, was there ever a safe enough distance from such a mindless beast?

The idea of becoming him again was so crippling that before Shuri offered to fix him, Bucky would spend days at a time locked in his room and weeks without leaving the compound. Shuri said he would never be that man again, the crudely molded vague interpretation of one, anyway—not after whatever indescribable thing she had done to him with Wakandan technology that Bucky still finds respectfully confusing. Bucky wanted so badly to believe her, but why, even now, if she is as certain as she was then that the gangrenous part of him is gone, why does he still see him in his dreams at night? Sometimes standing before him like a ghost, void of his humanity, empty of soul, filled only with commands of murder and mission and the pain endured in every attempt to scrape away the bloodshed. 

There’s no place in Bucky’s mind he can hide where the monstrous Winter Soldier cannot find him. In pleasant dreams of sandy beaches with the smell of salt on the open air, the beast will tear open a gaping black rift right behind him, grab Bucky by the back of his collar, and drag him into the void as his screams fall on apathetic ears. Where he ends up is a place where his cries are heard by no one, Where color cannot penetrate the bitter black, and where shapes and barriers do not exist. He can run forever and never hit a wall, and all the while, the Winter Soldier will stalk toward him. Inevitable, just as Bucky is with his surrender.

Agony awaits him, but he knows it will end. It has to end. And when it does, he will wake.

Bucky has long given up trying to escape on his own. Every attempt has proved futile, and it only draws out the agony. He prefers his death to be as quick as ripping a band aid. So, he goes nowhere, just stands in the very place the Winter Soldier dropped him, and waits.

The Winter Soldier stands maybe twenty feet away. His eyes are shrouded in smears of dark black, but his eyes are a stark contrast of light blue shards of cryogenic ice.

Knowing the end will be the same as every other end before it brings Bucky no semblance of comfort. He is helpless to it. No more than a prisoner to his own imagined fate.

After a while of the Winter Soldier reducing the encounter to nothing more than a one-sided staring contest, Bucky hangs his head, shaking it at the absurdity of being made to wait. “Just get it over with,” he mutters.

The shape of the Winter Soldier flickers and disappears, manifesting with daunting intensity right in front of him. Bucky finds nothing but the hoard of his own past screams in the Soldier’s empty gaze. 

In a blink, the Winter Soldier moves. The plates on the Soldier’s metallic machine arm whir and shift as his cold metal hand latches around Bucky’s throat in an unyielding vise, squeezing tighter and tighter, killing the human, killing Bucky. 

Then it is over. In that particular dream, after Bucky dies, Bucky wakes.

Most of the time, however, it is Bucky looking through the lens of the Winter Soldier as a captive, unable to control his movements. It is Bucky’s traitorous metal arm around the throat of someone he cares about, tightening around their choked gasps and rasped pleas...

[Bucky has no desire to live out the Winter Soldier’s greatest hits on all of his friends, so he asks that the burden be left to another’s imagination. If it is any consolation, he is very sorry.]

He’s killed them all more times than he can count. Steve always knows when he’s had one of the dreams the next morning and who it was about because Bucky is incapable of looking that person in the eye. The image of his hand wrapped around their throat is still too fresh a wound in his mind. He’s nothing more than a shell on those mornings. His eyes are gaunt, his attention impossible to keep, and he’s left haunted for most if not all the remaining hours of the day. It’s an inevitability.

It wasn’t until he met you that Bucky allowed himself to believe Shuri’s words of comfort weren’t just empty words meant to reassure him. It’s taken months for him to get to this point, but you have been nothing but patient, never forcing him into anything, never questioning the slow speed at which your relationship progressed. You only take what he gives and in return give what he needs. He still has nightmares, though they occur far less often with you sleeping beside him. In fact, before tonight, Bucky hadn’t had one in months. To know what it felt like to be well-rested, he hadn’t felt that probably since he was digging his stupid five-foot-nothing best friend out of trouble. Before either had turned their gaze toward joining the war. 

When Bucky has either nightmare involving the Winter Soldier, it doesn't matter which, he always wakes up crying. Sometimes silently, sometimes with whimpers or explosive sobs—freshly rebuilt only to be destroyed by the horrors that play out in a hell of his mind’s own making. You sleep notoriously light, so it doesn’t take much for you to wake, and you never want him to apologize for it. His whimpers begin quietly, but they are enough. With the fast action of someone who has done this many times before, you move across the bed until your chest is flush with his back, throw your arm around him, and hold on tight as you whisper sweet assurances into the crook of his neck as his body is wrecked by sob after sob after sob. Grounding him in the existence of his humanity, in the reality of his life as it is now—good and warm and safe— until his tremoring body stills. It’s by no means a quick remedy, and perhaps the emotional exhaustion does most of the work, but with one final shudder, Bucky lets out a hard breath, his last few tears nothing more than wet stains on his pillow.  

In unspoken words of comfort, you press kisses along the jagged scaring where flesh meets metal, before resting the side of your face against his shoulder which is damp with cool sweat, and guide his ragged breathing to a slower, fuller calm with the warmth of your breaths on his back. 

In the now quiet dark of the bedroom, Bucky strokes the back of your hand, tracing lightly over every knuckle with his fingertips. 

With tender movement, you turn your hand beneath his to grasp his hand loosely between your fingers. Your gentle squeeze is simply to ask, Are you okay?

He squeezes twice. No.

He shifts his hand again and after a beat, makes a small request by tapping three times on the back of your head. Your voice breaks through the darkness as you whisper to him, “Who was it, my love?” 

It takes him a minute because he has to remember, and that involves reliving the memory of the dream, if only for a glimpse. But he wants to remember, if only for an attempted catharsis. 

“Steve,” he says hoarsely. Or Natasha, Sam, Tony, or someone else unfortunate enough to have been dropped into the role of victim—But it’s Steve who affects him the most, sometimes in aftershocks that last for days. 

Three taps means he wants to talk about it, but doesn’t want to speak first. Something about having to break the silence after having to relive that trauma just feels too daunting to him, especially now that he’s just been reminded of the monster hiding in his closet after months of silence gave him the false security of maybe being finally free. If anything, it was the sobering realization that he would never truly be free, but it’s an affliction of which he’s willing to find ways to cope. So far, his best success has been found in months of therapy and in the love he found with you. He doesn’t solely rely on you. That’s a burden, and he’s not about to expect you, an extraordinary ordinary human, to somehow be the cure for his chronic mental disturbance. But you bring him words of encouragement and a presence that puts him at ease, and if this is merely the baby-steps to learning to walk on his own, he’s willing to take it and continue practicing. No matter how much he falls, you have made it clear you will always be there to catch him if he needs it.

You wait until he’s ready for you to get up, spending several minutes brushing strands of damp hair away from his face and the rest of the uncounted time trailing your fingers up and down his arms and across his chest in an endlessly light, thoughtful caress. Only when he tells you it’s okay do you briefly disappear into the kitchen to put a kettle on the stove. It’s always been difficult for him to go back to sleep after a dream like this, but it’s easier after he talks through it, and it’s easier with tea.

He doesn’t find sleep again, but you fall asleep on the couch an hour before dawn and halfway through his fourth episode of M*A*S*H. Your whole body is curled in a tight ball on the other half of the couch as you hug an empty mug of tea close to your chest. He carefully removes it from your grasp one vise-like finger at a time (jeez, you have an insane grip for someone who’s asleep), vaguely feeling like he’s trying to disassemble a bomb, and sets it on the side table next to the couch . 

As the credits roll, Bucky carries you back to bed and is part way through tucking you beneath the covers, all warm and snug like a cute little sausage roll, when you begin to stir. Instantly, Bucky freezes. Then he remembers you always do this as if it’s part of some weird post-nightmare bedtime ritual and always manage to go right back to sleep. Comforted by the assurance, and also a little amused by the memories, he turns to close the blinds to block out the rays that would have cut unbearably bright lines against your face had he done nothing (and he’s never been much of a do nothing kind of guy), but when he turns back around, you’re rubbing your eyes with your fingertips—awake, it seems. (Aw, hell.) You blink blearily at him with a lopsided smile he finds adorable, a smile there just for him. 

Sometimes he forgets how lucky he is. 

When your mouth opens with an obscenely loud, drawn-out yawn, he's never loved you more.

After smacking your lips, still in the midst of a sleepy haze, you ask, “You okay?”

While you look at him, Bucky realizes you’re trying monumentally hard to keep your eyes from opening fully, narrowing them to the point that he wouldn’t even know you were still awake if you hadn’t said something. Bucky’s smile turns butter soft at that.

His heart swells. He’s just so appreciative of you. Your kindness. That you willingly sacrifice precious hours of sleep just to tend to the wounds of his own psychological warfare.

“Yeah. I’m good now,” Bucky assures you, and he means it. He lowers his hand to cradle your cheek, sweeping the pad of his thumb back and forth across the swell of your cheek beneath your eyelashes. At the caressing motion, your eyelids flutter, then fall completely closed in total surrender. He leans down, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. “Sweet dreams, doll.”

Your response is swallowed by the pillow as you shimmy down the bed to bury your face beneath the covers, but he’s pretty sure he heard you say something endearing.

[boomcomplains]

It's typical. A loud noise sends a character back into a hostage situation, a war, or a gunfight. When faced with the majority of reporting on PTSD centers around combat-related PTSD (source), it makes sense that it's the shellshocked veteran we often see in books, TV, film and comics.  However, the civilian population that experiences PTSD is 13 times larger than its military counterpart. Of course, there are more civilians than those in the military, so naturally, that population is bigger. This article is not meant to dismiss those in the military who deal with very real and terrible side-effects from their time serving.

However, it does beg the question, what does a character with PTSD look like when their trauma is outside combat?

I think a very good study of this sort of character is Dr. Nicholas Rush from Stargate: Universe. There are many other characters out there that I could use, but I'm in a SGU mood today, so I hope you'll forgive me.

At the beginning of the show, Dr. Nicholas Rush is a difficult man. Unable to deal with his wife's terminal cancer, he drowns himself in work so he can avoid the pain of losing her. When she dies while he is off-world, this complicated grief drives him to focus on the mission of the ninth chevron because he has to make his absence from her deathbed mean something. After all, if he didn't succeed, he would not have an excuse. Without the excuse, he would confront the nasty truth that he didn't support his wife in her dying days because he couldn't handle the grief.

The ninth chevron leads him to the Destiny, a ship far beyond the reaches humanity could ever dream to go, with a singular but ultimately mysterious mission. His doggedness to stay on the ship, and follow the mission is likely a reaction to his own inability to come to terms with the trauma of losing his wife.

Because of this, he approaches situations from an ultra-logical world that doesn't exactly coincide with the emotional gray side of the human experience. That's why when he felt that Colonel Young was repeatedly putting lives and the mysterious mission of Destiny in danger, he decided to... frame him for murder... and when that didn't work, stage a coup.

I promise, within the confines of the show, those were actually both very rational decisions.

The coup was the last straw for Colonel Young, so he abandons Rush to die on a desert planet that has no stargate and therefore no possibility for escape. So, metaphorically, Young essentially commits the murder that Rush tried to frame him for.

It is there, on a sandy planet without food or water, that the narrative of Nicholas Rush's PTSD starts.

While attempting to escape, Rush alerts an alien race called the Nakai to his presence as tries to fix a crashed alien spaceship. For the Nakai, it's a lucky find because they are hell-bent on boarding Destiny. Why do they want to get on Destiny? I don't know. They're aliens. Sometimes you don't get to know the why when it comes to aliens.

On their ship, Rush is tortured and imprisoned in a water tank (this is important later). So for the PTSD counter, we have both abandonment and abuse to contend with. His feelings about Young essentially murdering him for doing what he thought was right for the ship are compounded with being mentally torn apart by the Nakai.

Flash forward, Rush is accidentally rescued from the Nakai's clutches due to a lot of plot points I'm not going to go into. Frankly, it's very likely most of you haven't seen the series—or have forgotten more about it than you remember—and the last thing I want to do is turn this article into a Stargate: Universe season recap.

So, back on the ship, Rush isn't sleeping, which you find out after he commiserates with fellow torture victim Chloe. It's assumed that it is for the same reasons as Chloe, which are vivid nightmares. For those of you keeping track, that is a classic sign of PTSD. The subsequent not sleeping because you're afraid of having more nightmares is also a very strong indicator.

Unfortunately, insomnia leads to emotional decision-making, usually based on your experiences in that trauma. But let's put a pin in that for just a moment, and we'll fast forward to a later episode entitled "Pain."

In "Pain", the crew accidentally bring a tick onboard that causes vivid hallucinations, some of which are paranoid delusions. For everyone who experiences this, there is little rhyme or reason why the hallucination starts, and they go with it unquestioningly.

Rush, however, is different. His hallucinations are all triggered. When under the influence of the tick, Sergeant Greer (a proponent for Young's leadership) threatens Rush. Because of this, Rush experiences flashbacks to the Nakai ship and sees everyone as a potential Nakai threat. Paranoid ideation is a symptom of PTSD. When I say "paranoid" though, I fear that this may be read dismissively. PTSD, in many ways, is a survival mechanism. It's a set of prefab reactions because you have already experienced something similar. Essentially, it's not paranoid ideation to you, because it's happened before.

It is unclear if Rush himself was affected by the alien organism, but it seems very likely that his reaction was hinged on the perceived/very real threat to his survival. The fact that it has been established that he has not been sleeping for episodes now, and his hallucinations are of past experiences—such as the room flooding with water, or seeing other members of the crew as Nakai —it seems more than likely that Rush's experiences in this episode are PTSD-related and not due to the tick.

This, however, is not our only brush with PTSD. Let's move forward to the next season, where he finds the bridge of Destiny and hides that discovery from the rest of the crew.

One of the cool things about Stargate: Universe in the first season is that they never find the bridge of the ship. They don't even know there is one because Destiny is so massive and broken, they haven't found it yet... or perhaps the Ancients were so culturally different at the time they didn't design the ship with a bridge in mind. Even if they did, there would be a fair chance the crew would have no idea how to use it.

So, Rush—who is established to still not be sleeping after an incursion with the Lucian Alliance—finds the bridge of the Destiny. Until now, he and the Science Team had been interfacing with the ship in what I think is probably a janitor's closet, so this is an incredibly important find because it is vital for the survival of the ship and the crew. Naturally, that means Rush should want to share it, knowing what we know of him from before he was abandoned on the planet and then tortured by the Nakai. Before, it was the greater good. Now, it's survival is first and foremost.

But no. Rush, instead, reasons that Young cannot be trusted with this find, and starts to lead a double life of surreptitiously guiding the ship (to disastrous results) and pretending like he's still doing things from the Control Interface Room/Janitor's closet.

But what led him to do this? After all, keeping this find under wraps leads to dire situations that compromise the survival of the crew, and indeed causes the death of one member. It is not a rational decision.

Except that it is. If there is one thing I want to make very plainly clear in this article, PTSD-sufferers reactions are rational, even if they don't seem that way to an outsider. I think oftentimes we nitpick plots in fiction because characters make decisions that seem illogical to us. Sometimes this is deserved because an author did not sufficiently help us empathize with a character, other times I think it is because we don't understand what it means to have PTSD.

You don't have to be triggered to have PTSD affect your decision-making process. You see, unmanaged, PTSD gets you stuck in survival mode. It's an undertow that drags you down with things that were true but aren't necessarily true now.

So in Rush's sleep-deprived, and exhausted state-of-my-mind, he reverts back to Young being the threat despite all the work they had done to repair the relationship. While some may be frustrated with this backstep, I can't tell you how much I appreciate that about his character. It explains the rationale for doing something irrational, and makes his character so much deeper.

The beauty of Stargate Universe is that it shows PTSD as it is. Even better, no one is excusing Rush's actions because of it, and/or invalidating his experience. It simply is.

PTSD is so misunderstood, it deserves logical, rational representation, and it gets that with logical, rational Dr. Rush. I mean, let's face it, there is logic to what goes on in a PTSD-sufferers brain, but it's logic from a different time period. Dismissing it as irrational is insulting, and I love that Stargate: Universe never does that, and I think it is exactly why Rush is such a deep and meaningful character.

In the end, I think there is a lesson writers can draw from this: don't be afraid to explore this within some of your characters. Understand their viewpoint, and what drives them to make their choices. If you do that, you will never have a boring story.

[lizartgurl]

“The Little Atlantean” (Aqualad x OC)

(part one) (part two) (part three) PART FOUR

@princes-jasmine @the-shadow-of-atlantis @super-spoiler@dykeclone @thespacebuns @flamebiirds @snaibzel

Kaldur dove after the human princess. Her dress was heavy and soaking wet, pulling her under even if she wasn’t exhausted. Her brother’s hand brushed the fin of his tail, grasping frantically for his sister.

“Emma!” The screams from her mother and siblings echoed through the water, pushing him onward, but those calls and the sounds of the storm had faded by the time Kaldur finally caught the princess’s wrist.

“Come on,” He grunted to himself. He wrapped his arm under hers, and swam back to the surface. He knew humans wouldn’t survive very long underwater.

He finally got them both back up to the surface, but he couldn’t stop there. The storm was past now, but Princess Emma needed to get to shore, to the very coastline Kaldur could see outlined against the horizon.

The waves were still tumultuous in the aftermath of the storm, which was just what Kaldur needed to carry him to the shore.

Vulko found them as Kaldur gently lay Emma on the sand, looking for some sort of sign that she was alive.

“Was I too late?” His voice cracked.

“It’s hard to say,” Vulko grabbed one of Emma’s bare feet (her shoes had been lost to the the ocean), and his face fell. “I can’t make out a heartbeat,” He reported, face downcast.

“No look!” Kaldur sat up, as Emma’s head instinctively turned to the side, coughing up saltwater, and her chest began rising up and down. Quickly at first, but evening out.

“She’s breathing,” Kaldur whispered, pushing the bangs back from her face.

She was more beautiful than anyone he had ever seen.

As the waves began to calm, rhythmically beating against the rocks, and the clouds parted to let the morning sun shine on the warm sands, Kaldur knew there was no place he would rather be.

“What would I give to stay here beside you? What would I do to see you smiling at me?” Kaldur started to sing a refrain that he’d heard his parents sing to each other long ago, before his father died.

La’gaan was washed up into a nearby tidepool, Garth clinging to his sore fins. Garth regained consciousness, just in time to see Princess Emma’s eyes opening as she looked up at Prince Kaldur, framed in the rainbow of light from the rising sun.

“I know, it’s beautiful innit?” Vulko asked with a grin.

Garth had no answer.

“Emma? Princess Emma!” Voices echoed off the beach cliffs that supported the capital of Emma’s kingdom.

“Scram, kid!” Vulko warned.

After one more backwards glanced to make certain Emma was alright, Kaldur dove into the sea before she could see that he had fins. La’gaan leaped out of the tidepool after him, and Vulko gave off a series of harried squawks to lead Emma’s family right to her.

“Emma!” Princess Annabella reached her first, pulling her sister to her feet for a hug.

“I thought we’d lost you!” Prince Richard and Princess Stephanie held her next, followed by a group hug of everyone trying to keep her upright.

“I’m so glad you’re alright,” Queen Mother Talia whispered, hugging her daughter last.

“You’re not mad at me for going after Damian and Athanasia right after you told me not to take anymore unnecessary risks?” Emma stumbled, trying to regain her footing on her own. Jason and Duke ducked under her arms, holding her up.

“I am mad, but my joy far outweighs my anger,” Talia promised. “Come, let’s all get home, fed, and cleaned up.”

“How did you survive that?” Duke asked.

Emma glanced out over the calming waters, and thought she saw a well-built young man swimming beneath the waves.

“There was a man...he rescued me.”

“Well, where is he? We must reward him for saving his future queen.” Talia stood up straight, shoulders squared

Emma shook her head, sending saltwater spraying everywhere... “He dove back into the water...he was singing this song, a beautiful song.”

“Oh great, she’s in love!” Jason announced, to the amusement of everyone else.

“So what if I am? He saved my life!”

“Emma, there’s no one else around,” Tim said.

“I think the saltwater’s gotten to your head,” Mara shook her head.

“Come now, Chef Louis will have breakfast ready by now,” Talia announced firmly, waving her children on toward the palace.

“Fishy!” Baby Athanasia squirmed in Annabella’s arms, reaching for the waves.

“That’s right, Asia, That’s where the fishies live,” Annabella adjusted Athanasia in her arms, squinting in the direction Asia was fussing about. Cassandra was having the same problem with Damian, but neither of them could see anything, and Talia was calling after them. Not to mention all of them were exhausted from the storm.

Kaldur barely noticed the baby twins fussing all the way back to the palace, his eyes glued to Emma as her brothers helped her back up to their palace home. She turned back to look at the sea once more, and Kaldur could imagine her eyes met his, if they weren’t so far away.

“Princess Emma,” He sighed.

Garth sighed as well, and gave La’gaan a warning look.

“Don’t worry, the Queen will never hear of this. You won’t tell her, I won’t tell her, this will just remain our little secret!”

But Kaldur was too distracted with his beating heart to think of what his mother would do if she ever discovered he’d saved a human princess.

“Where would we walk, where would we run, if we could stay all day in the sun? Watch and you’ll see, someday I’ll be part of your world!”

-

Tula knew something was up.

“La’gaan...” She started slyly, “You wouldn’t happen to know what’s up with my cousin, would you?”

“Uh, no? Why would I? I don’t know anything!” He spluttered nervously.

“La’gaan, please, you’re his best friend. You have to have noticed he’s much more day-dreamy than usual!”

La’gaan’s green cheeks flushed pink. “He’s got a crush!” He blurted out, then slapped his fins over his mouth. “B-bu-but, you didn’t hear that from me!” He darted towards an escape, nearly crashing into Queen Sha'lain'a.

"Your-Your Majesty!" La'gaan bowed deeply, too scared to look her in the eye.

"It's quite alright, La'gaan," with a single finger, Sha'lain'a tilted La'gaan's head to look up at her, sharp brown eyes shaded with a furrowed brow of concern.

"Sorry." La'gaan squeaked. He disappeared in a shower of bubbles.

Sha'lain'a stared after him. "What was that all a-"

Kaldur threw open the door to his suite, floating through the water towards the couch where Tula had settled to brainstorm.

"Good morning Tula! Good morning, mother!"

Now, both Tula and Sha'lain'a were staring at him, watching as he danced up and down the halls, humming blissfully and all but oblivious to those around him.

"I didn't think he'd get over my forbidding him from the surface so soon," Sha'lain'a whispered to Tula as Kaldur plucked several colorful coral blossoms from the palace decorations and began to twist them together in the shape of a crown.

Tula laughed and smiled up at her aunt. For all her firmness and rules, Tula knew that Sha'lain'a really did love her and Kaldur. Both Sha'lain'a and her son were just too stubborn to really understand.

"Can't you tell, dearest aunt? Kaldur's in love!"

-

Garth paced the sandy ocean floor. Kaldur lounged on his favorite rock just above him, plucking petals and acting as if being in love with the enemy of all Atlanteans wasn't as big a deal as it was. At this rate, it wouldn't be long until Queen Regent Sha'lain'a discovered this dangerous secret, and she most definitely would blame Garth for keeping this from her.

"She loves me!" Kaldur declared giddily, holding up the bare coral stem for proof.

Garth needed to act quickly.

“Kaldur, listen to me,” He started smoothly, “The human world is a mess! Look at the world around you down here! What we have here is much better than anything they’ve got up there.”

Kaldur propped up his face in his hands, “Yes, but we do not have a beautiful princess named Emma down here, do we?”

Garth sighed, and began to pace anxiously, tiny little legs scuttling back and forth. “Not since last I checked, but Kaldur! You cannot be serious about pursuing this- this human princess! You are a merman! It is impossible! Not to mention what your mother would say. She already banned you from the surface! What would she do if she discovered you deliberately disobeyed her orders!”

Too late, Garth looked up to discover that Kaldur was nowhere to be seen.

“Kaldur?” He called in a small voice, though he knew it was hopeless. He sighed, and tried to pull himself up inside his shell like a hermit crab,

“Someone’s got to nail that boy’s fins to the floor.” He muttered.

“GARTH!” A burbling voice jolted him out of his pity party. It was Topo, Regent Sha’lain’a’s messenger.

“Yes! What is it?”

“Queen Regent Sha’lain’a requests your presence in the throne room immediately. It’s about Kaldur’ahm!” Topo said.

“Kaldur-?” Garth gulped, and took one last, long look at where the prince had been, before following Topo, having resigned himself to his fate. Whatever that would be.

[shadowphoenixrider]

Azsuna Awaits (7/7)

(Previous chapter)

(So it is here, after a very long time, is the final chapter to this Azsuna adventure! Paging my usual lovely people: @galleywinter, @elfgirl931, @walkingdisasterofamage, @sigurdjarlson and @fer8girl!)

“Farondis?” Khadgar asked, squinting as they stepped into the sunlight. “Are you able to sense the energies of the Tidestone?”

The elf’s long eyebrows furrowed as he concentrated.

“Yes, I can. It’s still here in Azsuna,” he said, his gaze settling on the raised piece of land in the middle of the tide flats, containing some more ruins, grass and a couple of trees that had managed to take root there. “There.” He pointed towards a cluster of naga tents in the middle of the scattered stonework.

“Ya sure ‘bout dis?” Draggka asked the human mage as they hurried across the sandy flats, Spike keeping a wary eye out for trouble.

“I’m very sure.” He replied, giving her a look. “I may be old, but I am not invalid. There’s no need to fuss over me.”

“I be worried ‘bout ya!” The troll shot back. “Ya don’t need to pretend ya be an orc so I don’t be tinking dat ya be weak. I’ve known an’ fought enough of ya kind to know ya not be weak. But dere be some tings dat hurt ya more den dey hurt me, an’ head injuries be one of dem.” She sighed, forcing herself to relax. “I just want ya to be safe.”

Khadgar gave his own sigh.

“I know. But we haven’t the luxury of time,” he said. “The naga won’t wait long before they turn the Tidestone against us. We must stop them, no matter the cost.”

Draggka felt the protest burn on her tongue, but kept silent in the face of her lover’s stubbornness, merely sharing a suffering look with Spike. If the raptor could have rolled his eyes, she was sure he would have - instead, he let a rush of air blow out of his nose, and gave her a sympathetic look.

Some naga attempted to intercept them, but they were quickly felled by Farondis’s magic and Draggka’s arrows. To Khadgar’s credit, he mainly stayed out of combat, only using his magic to counterspell the naga casters.

As they reached the centre of the naga encampment, the group caught sight of Warlord Parjesh and Lady Athissa, the latter working her magic around the Tidestone, her many hands twisting and turning in strange patterns.

“Alright.” Farondis whispered. “Draggka, her pet and I will take the brunt of the fighting. Khadgar, do as much as your wound allows. We cannot afford to let them escape again.”

“We be wit ya.” Draggka said, watching Spike give the ghost elf a stink eye.

“I will be careful.” Was Khadgar’s quiet response. The hunter and raptor exchanged less than convinced looks.

They surged as one towards the naga, Draggka loosing an arrow at Athissa. She shrieked as it struck her upper shoulder, the magic around the Tidestone bursting in her face and startling Parjesh. They quickly faced their attackers, Athissa baring her fangs at them.

“You!” She swung back around to give her second-in-command a glare. “I thought you dealt with them, Parjesh!” The naga gestured with her many hands, a wave of icy wind blasting out from them. Farondis quickly gestured up a shield around them, the ice sparkling against the purple sheen. “Take the Tidestone and rally our forces! I will make short work of this minor interruption.”

“It will be done, Tidemistress.” Parjesh replied, sounding contrite.

Draggka swore, nocking an arrow and trying to get around Farondis’s shield to stop Parjesh, but the warlord managed to slip away in a portal as other naga closed in. The prince gestured, ‘throwing’ his shield out, the resulting backlash of energies interrupting Athissa’s spell and making her hiss angrily. More naga were appearing from the tide flats and were surrounding them, and they bunched up tightly; Draggka and Spike moved to cover their back, keeping Khadgar in the centre of their defensive position.

“You were fools to come here, landwalkers.” Athissa said mockingly, pulling the arrow from her shoulder and snapping it in two in her hand. “The Tidestone is our birthright, a gift for our Queen! You will make passable slaves to witness her glorious ascension.”

“Is that what you took me for?” Khadgar commented quietly, so only Draggka could hear him. “What is it with dark forces and attempting to enslave me?”

“Hatecoil! Seize them!” Athissa screeched.

The naga advanced menacingly towards them, their leader looking on smugly. Draggka tightened her grip on her bow, her hackles prickling - they could have easily stood up to the naga forces on their own, but Athissa skewed the balance in the serpents’ favour.

This is going to be interesting. Draggka thought to herself as she and Spike pulled back further, the circle of naga tightening around them. Spike uttered a low, vicious growl, baring his teeth.

Suddenly, a voice cried out:

“Look alive, Nightwatchers! Our prince needs us!”

Farondis looked over his shoulder in the direction of the call, his eyes wide with disbelief.

“Thaldrys...?” He murmured.

A host of yells went up as everyone turned to see an army of ghostly elves charge up the tide flats, led by Thaldrys with Idri at his side. The Nightwatchers were also joined by those who appeared to be civilians, who revealed to be otherwise when they raised their hands, the air thickening as magic coalesced around them.

The naga were taken by surprise, the serpentine elves reeling as they went from dealing with four opponents to quadruple them.

“You idiots!” Athissa screamed. “We are Azshara’s chosen! Are you going to let yourselves be beaten by a rabble of ghosts?!”

Their mistress’s chastisement kicked the naga back into business, and they attacked. Spike bolted as if released from a crossbow, hurling himself onto a naga mage, breaking her spell and raking deep gouges into her scaly torso with his talons. Draggka crouched down, loosing a rapid flurry of arrows into a warrior, the shock of being turned into a pincushion distracting him from Idri cleaving his head off. The women shared a grim smile and nod before turning to their next targets.

Magic saturated the whole air around the battle, thick like fog, and with the considerable forces clashing together, the troll felt the air could catch on fire at any second. It certainly didn’t feel like a place for a lowly hunter to be, amidst arcane explosions and gouts of fire and ice spraying this way and that.

In the midst of this magical mire, she glanced behind to see how Khadgar was faring. He was keeping close to the troll, and to her relief, wasn’t casting too many spells. What spells he did cast were short and quick - counterspells or temporary wards to mitigate blows or spell strikes. That said, Draggka could tell something was awry; an expression that looked like pain or fatigue flickered across his face after some gestures, and Atiesh was used less as an accent to his casting, but more to keep him upright. It’s getting to him. We’ve got to finish this.

Nocking an arrow to Thas’dorah, Draggka pivoted to find Athissa, locked in magical combat with Farondis. The hunter uttered a sharp whistle around her tusks, and in seconds Spike was at her side, jaws slick with naga blood. He followed her gaze, and the troll was sure that if he could, the raptor would have grinned. Instead, he crouched low, eyeing his prey but also keeping a watchful eye on the melee around them.

Draggka raised her bow, pulling the arrow back to her ear as she zoned into Athissa’s neck. As she focused, the hunter tuned out the rest of the world, only conscious of herself, the bowstring at full draw and the fletching of the arrow between her fingers. She felt the nebulous ‘power’ at the back of her head that she would pull from when she needed to grace her arrows with the arcane, but as Draggka ‘reached’ for it this time, she felt something else. Something more powerful, that seemed to come from the bow itself. It felt as if the wind itself was wrapping around the arrow, Thas’dorah almost urging her to let it loose.

Draggka made a quick final calculation, and released the arrow.

A gale ripped by her as the arrow took flight with a speed that would make a bullet green with envy, punching through the arcane energies surrounding the duelling magi and impacting Athissa’s throat with deadly force. The hunter didn’t have time to gawk at her handiwork as her hand went for another arrow, and Spike charged with a roar, claws flashing with murderous intent.

Athissa was frozen in place, her magic broken by her interruption and the arrow buried deep in her throat. Farondis pressed the advantage, calling up a small meteor, and with a grand gesture and arcane words, sent it flying straight into the naga’s face. It collided with a sickening crunch, and the sea witch flopped to the ground, dead.

The ghostly elves cheered, and the morale of the remaining naga shattered, urging their fellows to flee with fear in their gurgling voices. Farondis stayed standing at the foot of Athissa’s body, just staring at it as his people chased down the few remaining combatants.

“I...I can’t believe it.” He murmured. “We killed Athissa. That is to say, us and...my people.” He blinked, as if the coin had finally dropped. “My people...they fought for us. For me.”

Spike uttered a soft grunt, and Draggka turned to see the ghostly Highborne coming to join them, their footsteps eerily silent.

“Are you alright, Farondis?” Thaldrys asked.

“Yes, thank you.” The prince replied. “But, why? Why did you and your men come to my aid? I thought you despised me.”

To his credit, the captain had the decency to look abashed.

“We saw what you did,” he said.

“We didn’t realize what the Queen had become.” Idri spoke up. “And any with the courage to stand up to the Queen herself, as twisted as she’s become, is worth following.”

“The Nightwatchers are yours to command once more, my prince.” At Thaldrys’ words, he led a salute that the other elves followed as one. For the first time since Draggka had known him, Farondis smiled.

“I’m glad I have your loyalty again. It’s been a long time, Thaldrys.” He paused a moment, glancing at his feet briefly to compose himself. “And I think it’s time I told you the truth of what happened all those years ago.”

The sound of footsteps alerted Draggka to Khadgar approaching her.

“About time he told his story.” The mage said, watching the ghostly elf talk. “I cannot imagine keeping such a thing secret. For ten thousand years...” He went to shake his head, but winced. “Agh.”

“Ya not be doin’ too good,” she said softly. There was a pause.

“No, I’m not.” Khadgar finally admitted. “I...overestimated myself. It was all I could do to counterspell and ward, with all the other magi around, and powerful ones too.” He touched his temple gingerly. “I just cannot shake this dizziness, and those energies only made it worse. I...” The wizard glanced away for a moment. “You were right. I need to go back and rest in Dalaran.”

The seriousness of his condition negated any smugness the troll may have felt at his admission. Spike whined softly.

“Ya be okay getting back by yaself?” She asked, petting the raptor to reassure him.

“My hearthstone will do the trick.” Khadgar said. “Not that I trust myself to teleport in this state anyway.”

An awkward silence settled between them. Spike looked from one from to the other, as if he was confused as to why they’d suddenly stopped talking. It felt like an hour ticked away before Farondis came back to them and mercifully broke the stalemate.

“Draggka, Khadgar. Warlord Parjesh has taken the Tidestone to an island off the shore to the southeast, where Queen Azshara is staging more of her forces. I imagine that she is beyond angry because we opposed her and killed Athissa. Whatever she’s planning with the Tidestone, you need to get it back before she can unleash its power upon us.” He looked at Khadgar. “I don’t mean to offend either of you, but I think you will need more than just yourselves to survive against her forces.”

“None taken.” Khadgar managed a weak smile. “I am in less than splendid condition.”

“Yeah, ya only be speaking da truth.” Draggka nodded. “I know some people who can be helping me. I be letting dem know as soon as possible. We’ll get it back.”

“Thank you.” Farondis smiled. “The elves of Azsuna, not to mention myself, will forever be in your debt.” He gave a little bow, before the pair were left alone again.

Another awkward silence.

“Well...I think I should get back to Dalaran.” Khadgar spoke. “And leave the hard work to you.”

He reached out to her, brushing his fingers against her hand. Draggka flinched, shying away from him. Khadgar’s eyes widened with surprise, disbelief, and heartbroken betrayal that neatly skewered her own heart. The mage quickly veiled his emotions, yet his eyes belied the hurt he was clearly feeling.

“Draggka?” He asked quietly. “May we...talk?”

The hunter’s heart sank, a lump hardening in her throat and Spike looking up at her with concerned eyes. She nodded.

“Sure.”

They stepped away from Farondis and his people, finding some ruins tucked away behind some trees that stubbornly clung to the patch of land that the tide hadn’t swallowed up. They sat down on a slab of stone that had once held a domed ceiling aloft, but was now turning slowly green as algae and moss made their home on it. Spike walked a couple of metres away from the couple, standing guard against any threats.

“What have I done, Draggka?” Khadgar asked. “Why...Are, are you angry at me?”

“No! No, ya not made me angry.” She replied, shaking her head. “I mean, I wish ya decided to be going back to Dalaran sooner, but no. I not be mad at ya over dat.”

“Then...I-I am at a loss.” Khadgar put his hands in his lap, trying not to fidget restlessly. “D-Did something happen whilst I was unconscious? Please, Draggka, tell me what I’ve done wrong.” His pleading squeezed her heart as tight as a vice. “I want to make it right.”

“No! No! It not be ya fault!” She cried. Without thinking, she reached for him, before slamming her hand down on the stone between them. “It not be ya fault,” she said. “It...it be mine.”

Khadgar looked between her eyes and her hand, his silver brows knotting.

“Why don’t you want to touch me any more?” He asked, more calmly this time, though no less hurt. Draggka’s own brows furrowed, pulling her hand back.

“Ya...ya don’t mind me touching ya?” She asked back, confused. He blinked at her.

“Of, of course not. Why would I? Draggka, we slept together last night, why would I-”

“‘Cos I ripped apart a naga wit my bare hands an’ teeth!” The troll blurted out, her hackles fluffing up for a brief moment. It hurt to see Khadgar startle at her outburst, and her ears drooped, looking away from him. Maybe he would be better off with someone from the Alliance, she thought miserably.

“Ah...I see.” The archmage spoke. “That.” He sat for a couple of moments, collecting his thoughts.

“I confess, I, I was more than a little unnerved by the results of your berserking in the cave.” He began softly. Draggka bowed her head, feeling shame trickle down her back. “I have fought forest trolls during the Second War, and the knowledge that your people have such an ability is widespread, yet I don’t recall ever seeing it, nor the results of it.” She could feel his gaze settle upon her. “I don’t think we’ve ever spoken about it either.”

“No. We haven’t.”

There was a pause, as Khadgar waited for Draggka to look back at him before he spoke again. “Would you be willing to answer my questions on it now, in light of what has happened?”

“Yeah.” She nodded. “Might as well.”

“Okay. Thank you.” He flashed her a small smile. “Considering it is the first time I’ve known you to berserk, would I be right in thinking that it’s not a common occurrence?”

“No, but it be depending on da troll.” Draggka said. “Usually it only be happenin’ if we be really mad, or we be in a life or death ting. We do be havin’ some control over it - dere be some trolls dat work demselves into frenzies for battle. But it be taking a lotta training to do dat.”

“I see.” Khadgar nodded. “When you get into a berserk state, can you stop yourself?”

“Yes, but it not be easy.” She rubbed her arm self-consciously. “It...Berserking be feeling like ya be full of energy, of power. Probably kinda like what ya feel when ya be full of magic. It be like a battle rush, but ya senses be sharper. Ya be stronger, quicker. Ya focus be narrowed down on da threat or da ting dat made ya angry - everything else don’t register. It be going away afta a while, ‘cos ya either end da threat, or it goes away, or ya get too tired and ya can’t keep it goin’.”

The mage’s eyebrow furrowed thoughtfully.

“When you say the threat ‘goes away’, what do you mean?”

“Ya get outta da situation, or ya don’t see it any more.” Draggka explained. “If ya berserk ‘cos ya be mad at someting, and den dat ting disappears, it be hard to stay mad.”

“Ah, I see.” Khadgar rubbed his chin. “But you can stop the berserk yourself too, if you need to?”

“Ya can, but it be hard.” The troll said, fidgeting with some sand grains caught in her gloves. “It takes a lotta discipline. Like if ya be having to stop yaself being excited. Ya can do it, but ya feel it under ya skin, beating in ya heart, like ya be holding a lid on a pot full of angry makrura.”

The mage nodded slowly.

“I understand that feeling. I’ve had times where I could feel boundless amounts of magic practically leaking from my fingertips, but I’ve had to restrain it to keep myself and others safe.” She felt his eyes settle on her again. “I know it isn’t the same, but I am sure they aren’t too dissimilar.”

“No...” She admitted. “I suppose not.”

There was a long pause between the two of them for a moment, the only sounds being the tide coming further inland, and the distant sounds of gulls.

“...What happened back there clearly scared you.” Khadgar spoke again. “And you mentioned that this was different from the other ‘berserks’ you’re had before. I assume it was more violent than usual?”

“Yeah.” Draggka wrapped her arms around herself, drawing her feet together. “Yeah, it were. I never had a berserk like dat before.”

“Can you...Are you able to tell me what it felt like?” The Archmage asked gently. “If, if you can remember.”

She glanced down, closing her eyes as she tried to dig out memories of just what happened in the cave.

“It...I don’t remember much of it, which not be unusual, but...” The hunter frowned, digging deep. “I...I were so...angry. I tink...it were someting like de orcs’ blood rage. I were so mad I just...wanted to be killing dem wit, wit my bare hands. I wanted dem dead. I...I not realize when dey were ‘til I realized dey not be fightin’ back.” Her eyes opened again, her gaze on the floor, afraid of his expression. “I never known a rage like dat. Da thought I coulda, coulda hurt ya like dat...” She shook her head quickly. “It scares me.”

“Yes,” he said calmly. “It is a worry.”

“I don’t want to hurt ya.” She looked up quickly, meeting a cool neutral face. “Ever. But I be scared dat if I be berserking like dat again, and ya get caught in it...” Her gaze fell away from his once again. “I couldn’t live wit myself.” She swallowed hard, her heart burning with pain as she said: “I could understand...if ya don’t be feeling safe wit me any more.”

She clasped her hands together, looking at them instead of him, trying to hide the tears in her eyes and the pain in her chest. Bracing for his next words, the coup de grace-

“I do. Feel safe with you, that is,” he said. “And...I am fairly confident that you wouldn’t hurt me.”

Draggka blinked, confused. She looked back at him.

“How can ya be so sure?”

“I’m not.” He replied perplexingly. “The only way to know for sure is to be in that situation when it happens, and I’m sure we’re in no hurry to encounter said situation. However, from our time together, I think I have a fair idea about you and your nature. And...” He hesitated, trying to pull together the words. “My gut tells me that you would do everything in your power to avoid hurting me.” The mage looked away for a second. “Your berserking is a fierce reminder that you are a troll, a force to be reckoned with. But...I trust you.”

“Khadgar...” Draggka couldn’t fully believe what she was hearing. He mustn’t, couldn’t understand the magnitude of what he was dealing with, surely. “I, I could be killing ya wit my bare hands. It not- in normal berserk we be able to using our weapons like we do normally, but dat rage...I couldn’t. I-I tore into dem like Spike be doing. If dat were you, I coulda killed ya, I coulda ripped ya apart!”

“Quite possibly.” Khadgar replied calmly, almost eerily so. “Should you have wished it, you could have killed me several times over.” He looked back to her. “But on the other hand, so could I.” At her confused blink, he continued. “I am no less dangerous than you, Draggka. I might not be able to kill my foes with my body alone, but my magic certainly could.”

To emphasize, small motes of the arcane glimmered around his hand, gathering around his fingertips. “I would not need to condense it into an intentional spell, either. If I were to lose control of my magic in the height of an emotion, such as passion, the resulting backlash could easily harm you. If not kill you.” His gaze lowered. “It would only take a lapse of concentration, a waver of discipline, and...”

He trailed off, his magic drifting off into nothing. The archmage closed his eyes, but it didn’t take a hunter to see the pain and worry written into the lines on his weathered face.

“I...I didn’t realize...” The troll murmured, casting her mind back. She remembered feeling his magic surge and burst against her whenever her reached his climax. He had joked about it, assured her that he’d never hurt her - which she believed and didn’t doubt - but she’d never really considered the danger that it presented.

“I didn’t want to burden you with my worries.” Khadgar said softly, meeting her eyes with a steely determination. “But rest assured, I would rather my magic rip me asunder than have it harm you in any way. I would not allow it.” He closed his eyes, sighed, and opened them again, gentle once more.

“The point I’m trying to make is that we are as equally as dangerous as the other. We both have the capacity to do great harm; me with my magic, you with your berserking. Yet, in knowing this, we can take steps so we don’t harm one another.” A smile pulled at the corner of his lips. “You said that it was different to the other times you’ve berserked. It took you by surprise today, but tomorrow it won’t. You will know it when you feel it, and you might be able to restrain yourself, or maintain just enough awareness to calm yourself afterwards.” The smile finally grew across his face. “I will know to approach you with love in a similar situation, and to stay out of your way otherwise. It can be done.”

Khadgar tilted his head slightly, reminding Draggka of his raven guise. “Does that sound reasonable?”

“...I...Yeah.” She nodded slowly, turning his words over in her head. “I tink I could feel it when it be starting again. It not like it be coming outta nowhere.” She considered. “It be difficult, but I tink I could hold it back if I had to.”

“Excellent.” Khadgar’s smile widened, and became warm. “It won’t solve any problems immediately, but it is a solid foundation on which to build.”

Draggka nodded again, her eyes tracing over his face, finding nothing that answered the growing question in her.

“Ya...ya be weirdly okay ‘about all dis,” she said.

“As I said, we are both capable of mortally wounding the other - heck, same could be said for you and Spike, in your early days together,” he said, nodding over to the watchful raptor, who merely spared them a glance. “It is similar here. With everything you’ve told me about your berserking, and everything we’ve been through together, I...I would still lie beside you, just like we did last night.”

Khadgar shifted closer. “I trust you, Draggka. I know it in my heart of hearts. It is something to consider and be mindful of, but so is the secrecy of our partnership, where your stuff will go in my quarters, and how to control my magic in more...passionate moments.” He leaned a little closer. “I feel safe with you. I trust you. I love you.”

“I love ya too.” She replied, her ears drooping slightly. “I just...” She gestured uselessly as her words didn’t come.

“Draggka, take your gloves off for me, please.” The troll blinked at his request, but did as he asked, watching as he shed his own gloves. “Your rage is truly fearsome when roused, and I have no wish to ever be on the other side of it. But I do not fear you.” He met her eyes seriously. “In fact, I have never felt as safe as I have with you. I have been as vulnerable as one could be with another. Physically, mentally - I have even bared my soul to you.” He reached up to his collar to undo it, his gaze still locked with hers. “And not once have you harmed me. Nor do I think you would purposefully.” He set the collar down by his gloves. “Let me show you.”

Khadgar took her hands and gently placed them first on his cheeks, turning his head to give the palm of one an affectionate nuzzle, before guiding them down to rest on either side of his neck. He held them there for several long seconds, before he released his hands, letting Draggka decide what to do next.

Her first instinct was to pull away, frightened of hurting him. Her thumbs rested over the prominence of his larynx, she could feel the faint pulse of his blood under her palms, and her fingertips were centimetres away from his spine. All vulnerable, all bundled together under her hands. If she wanted to, she could crush her lover’s throat, preventing him from casting a spell to stop her from ending his life.

The thought was horrifying enough that the troll almost wanted to crawl out of her skin. He knew this weakness. He had to.

Yet he sat quietly, hands resting calmly in his lap. He’d never get them up in time if she was to go on the offensive. She shifted her hands to better find his pulse - it was strong, quickening slightly as it was sought out, but it returned to its serene regularity in the next couple of beats. His heartbeat had no anxious tone to it, as if he were merely reading a pleasantly engaging book.

Strangely, she was reminded of their trip to Ulduar, encountering the Legion’s forces trying to capture Magni. “Kill the mage!” The hooded inquisitor had rasped loudly. “Gul’dan wants his head!” That same mage was willingly putting his life in her hands, his trust in her absolute. When she met his eyes, they were just as full of that trust, of warmth, of love.

“Does this help?” He asked softly, voice vibrating through his hands.

“Yeah.” Draggka nodded, running her hands slowly up from his neck to his cheeks once again, watching his eyes lid at her touch.

“We will find a way through this,” he said. “I know we will.”

“We will.” She smiled, before she leaned forward to kiss him softly. “How be ya head?”

“Still hurts.” The mage admitted, reaching up to touch his bandage. “I think I need to lie down for a while. I’m sorry I wasn’t more help earlier.”

“Ya not be at ya best.” Draggka said, reaching out to take his hand, finding she’d missed its presence and his warmth. “I just be happy dat ya be safe an’ still wit me.”

“As am I.” Khadgar smiled warmly. “I don’t want to think of what could have happened to me if you hadn’t rescued me. I think it might be best if I stay in Dalaran from now on.”

“Agreed.” Draggka nodded, handing him his collar back. “Much as I love ya being around, I worry ‘bout ya getting hurt. Or worse.”

“Yes.” He nodded carefully, doing it up around his neck. “I am slightly concerned that we haven’t seen or heard any more from Cordana since we’ve been here.”

“Mmmm.” The troll murmured. “Been tinking dat too. Probably doin’ someting behind da scenes.” Hopefully it also means she was taunting me earlier about Khadgar.

“Possibly.” Khadgar sighed. “Light, the Legion hasn’t been here long, but already it has agents everywhere. Not that we’re in a position to deal with whatever Cordana is behind right now.” He paused for a moment, turning things over in his head. “I might reach out to my sources, to see if they can help. Anyway, more importantly, we need the Tidestone. I trust I can leave that in your capable hands?”

“Of course.” Draggka said, glancing over her shoulder to see where Spike was. “I’ll get de others together as soon as possible an’ go afta de naga. You just gotta rest.”

“That I will.” Khadgar smiled, reaching into his satchel and taking out a hearthstone. “Come back to me in one piece.”

“I will. Wit da Tidestone.” She grinned.

“Of course. My mistake.” The mage said, but the hunter noticed his eyes said: If I had to choose, I’d rather you. “You have the Dalaran hearthstone to return there, yes?”

“Yeah, still got it. I be fine - you go and get some rest.” The hunter replaced her gloves, watching Khadgar do the same.

“Okay, okay. Sorry. Can’t help worrying.” The archmage smiled weakly. “See you again soon, Draggka.”

See ya soon, Khadgar.” She smiled back at him, her ear flicking as she heard Spike approach.

After Khadgar had activated the stone and vanished in a flash of magic, Draggka got to her feet, petting the raptor as he nuzzled her. His blue eyes stared up at her questioningly.

“We’re fine now. Just my berserk caught us both off guard.” She told him, shaking her head. “I’m so lucky. He just...took it all in his stride. I wish I knew which of the Loa brought us together - I owe them a debt I’m not sure I can repay.”

Spike offered a chirping noise, raising his tail in a facsimile of a smile. “Yeah, we’re gonna head back and see who’s available to go get the Tidestone. We’re gonna need to move quick to stop the naga doing whatever it is they’re up to.” Spike dipped his head in a nod, barking once. “Let’s go. I’m sure one of those elves know a way back to Highmountain and the Lodge.”

And with that, they set off.

(Previous chapter)

[illogicalwritings]

Carry Me Out To Sea

Read Here on AO3

The legend of the Trance. It was supposed to be nothing more than a silly fable passed around between sailors and pirates alike in the rundown, trashy taverns after hard months of sailing. No one really knew someone who was stuck in a Trance. They just heard it from someone who’s cousin had heard it from the town gossip who’d probably lied about seeing a victim of the Trance. So, it was easy to exchange amongst one another as a cautionary tale for those who wanted to live a life on the rocky waves. Don’t get too close to the water, don’t stray from your fellow cremates, and so one and so forth. However, it did nothing but encourage the young from testing the boundaries of what they could get away with, as there was no proven proof that the Trance was a real consequence.

The mysterious, silent ailment was caused by being put under a mermaid’s spell. Supposedly, it was so they could keep their prey subservient and numb until they could return at a later day to reclaim their meal. Although, there was a specific problem with every story about the Trance, no matter how enacting a tale: no one had ever actually laid eyes on a flesh and blood mermaid, or if they had, they certainly hadn’t lived to tell the tale. Trance or not.

It was just stories, adequate entertainment for the young souls, a fright for the superstitious and confusion for the drunk . . .

That is, that’s all the stories were, until a young, promising sailor named Oikawa Tooru wouldn’t leave the beach. He remained there, day and night, weighted like an anchor in the sand. He sat there by his lonesome with an unwavering gaze locked on the rise and fall of the waves, and the only sounds that could reach him was the ceaseless melody of the sea.

Iwaizumi Hajime, his best friend since childhood, assisted by two others, Hanamaki Takahiro and Matsukawa Issei, had tried to carry the man back to his house. And they had succeeded up to a certain point. They had locked him in his room, his windows as well, when they noticed how he immediately tried to escape with a glaze in his eyes but moved like a madman to try and get back outside. With all means of escape cut off, they fell soundly asleep in the main room of Iwaizumi’s little shack, only to wake up and find Oikawa missing from his room the next morning.

Oikawa had picked the damn lock on the window in the dark of the night and wandered back to the shoreline. He sat down so the tips of his toes were often brushed with the cool water as it crawled ashore, a contented smile playing at his lips as he stared at the way the water glistened like shiny jewels with the rising sun. It was as if he was trapped in his own mind, an unbreakable prison, where the only recognizable feature of him was the adoring smile he cast towards the sea. He was charmed, plain and simple. Even the sun couldn’t touch. It cast it’s bright glow on him day in and day out, but he never once was burned or his skin made irritated. He stayed perfect, as he had always been, with his sweeps of sweet maple atop his head and his doe brown eyes so vibrant and alive with desire as the sea promised him untold pleasures.

And even though he was as responsive as a talkative corpse, Iwaizumi never once left Oikawa’s side during the day, and seldom during the night. It might’ve been survivor’s guilt or a best friend’s loyalty, the locals suspected, but it was so much more than that. Iwaizumi loved and adored Oikawa, faults and all. It was why he wanted to be there when Oikawa awoke from the Trance, like Iwaizumi was convinced he would. If he stayed by Oikawa’s side long enough, protecting him like a knight protects his king, then the mermaid would never come back and would give up on Oikawa indefinitely and then . . . And then Oikawa would return to his normal self.

For years Iwaizumi grumbled about how Oikawa never shut his trap, but now Iwaizumi just longed to hear about Oikawa’s dreams of becoming the best captain with the strongest ship on the sea. He wanted to hear about the dozens of treasure maps Oikawa had hidden away under his bed to hide from his merchant father, who didn’t condone treasure hunters or pirates and certainly would’ve struck his son for such fantasies. Iwaizumi wanted to see Oikawa be free on the ocean again, so much so that an anger built up inside him like a furnace. Iwaizumi wanted to kill the mermaid for grounding Oikawa to land like this, possibly traumatizing him so much that Oikawa would never again want to be near the water.

All of Oikawa’s dreams he’d held onto so dearly since childhood dashed away by fear. An easily attainable future for someone as strong and as determined as Oikawa was stolen. The very least Iwaizumi could do now was sit and guard his friend through storm and drought, to frighten away the hungry mermaid that might come for Oikawa.

Iwaizumi was never much of a talker, more of listener than anything else, always lending an ear to Oikawa’s insistent ramblings, but as he was alone with a silent Oikawa for the undetermined future, he found that he talked to Oikawa or to himself regularly, to banish the silence.

“I miss you, Shittykawa,” Iwaizumi said, one day, about six weeks into the ordeal. He placed a crown of woven seashells and the island’s best flowers atop Oikawa’s head. His best friend, despite neither eating or drinking anything for more than a month, hadn’t lost any weight. He was still his perfect self, the one that always took Iwaizumi’s breath away with just a smile or playful wink.

“I told you not to go swimming at night, didn’t I? I always did tell you that . . . right? Oikawa, please tell me that I always did my best to look out for you.” He reached out, cupping his best friend’s face with care like Oikawa might break if he held him with too much strength. The brown eyes blinked owlishly at him, with no signs of recognition or care.  He turned back to the water just a second later and Iwaizumi was left devastated by his side, guilt crushing his chest and making it difficult to breath.

Oikawa hadn’t even heard Iwaizumi, not over the whisper of the wind in his hears or the roaring lullaby of the crashing waves on the bank of the shore, so cold yet so welcoming. The sea called to him like a mother calling for her lost child, begging him to dive in and die to become with the water. He couldn’t join the waves yet, though, not quite yet. He had to wait for the merman to return. His mind was consumed with thoughts of the dark, smooth, iridescent skin that started at the midriff and continued to the tip of the shark-like tail, and tree bark brown eyes that also shined with a kaleidoscope of sunlight reflect off water. The very image hypnotized him into a pleased, catatonic state. All he needed was to remember the soft, warm lips against his and the gentle murmur of promised return and he was content to sit and wait until he died, if need be.

The waiting was a lonely and arduous task, but Oikawa waited with a smile until the merman would grace him his presence. And the merman did, on a cold, night where eat wind was whipping up a storm and clouds hid the shine of the full moon from view, blanketing the beach in an unforgiving darkness. Wrapped in a blanket and under a makeshift tent, Iwaizumi had fallen asleep after trying for hours to keep awake and watch Oikawa, but unconsciousness had taken over.

Through the wind came a song, fluttering like a butterfly against the loud noise of nature and into Oikawa’s ear, ripping him out of the Trance he’d been trapped in. He was left to double over, gasping for air like he was suffocating, having forgotten how to breathe on his own for so long. His eyes felt dried out and raw, skin was tough and sandy. He was out of place, he knew, and the the rain falling around him provided some semblance of comfort from the grueling torture of being land.

Oikawa coughed loudly when a sudden pour of harshly salt water was poured over him and he swore he’d never felt more alive. Sputtering, but finally feeling right in his own skin, Oikawa looked up to see the merman that had been all he could think about for weeks standing in front of him, draped in a blanket of dark grey silk.

“Koushi,” Oikawa murmured breathlessly, holding his arms out as is to be held. “I missed you!”

“Needy Tooru,” Koushi teased with a sly smile. He kneeled down, cupping Oikawa’s cheek, and pressed a sweet kiss against his lips. “But I missed you too.”

“You abandoned me,” Oikawa pouted, giving Koushi his best attempt at puppy eyes.

“You’re so dramatic,” Koushi chided playfully, taking Oikawa’s hands in his own and lifting him up and onto his own two feet.

“Shush, you know you love me.”

Koushi stuck his tongue out at Oikawa and chuckled, glancing to the side to make sure that Oikawa’s loyal guard dog hadn’t awoken yet. It seems they still had time.

“I do love you, Tooru, and I hate that I kept you waiting. I’m sorry for that. Are you ready?” Koushi asked, walking backwards and slowly leading Oikawa into the water. As the merman put one foot into the water, the raging sea and storm halted as if by magic.

Oikawa watched in as clouds floated away like a bad dream and let the moonlight shine down on Koushi. A merman or mermaid cannot step foot on land without angering the nature of sea and land, but all was calm as the merman returned to his place in the waters. Koushi’s scales shined in the light, glistening like no gems you could find on any piece of jewelry. They were more precious than gold. His hair, though dark and damp, was fine, silver threads that Oikawa longed to run his fingers through.

“It might hurt,” Koushi warned Oikawa, raising an eyebrow. “Can you handle it?”

“I’m the strongest on this island,” Oikawa boasted with a grin, “I can handle anything your magic throws at me. I want to roam my sea forever.”

“Your sea?” Koushi laughed. “Quite a statement, there.” Oikawa took his first steps into the water, still lost in the colors around Koushi, in his scales, in hair and in his eyes. At the contact of the cold sea, Oikawa suddenly lost his balance, gritting his teeth and clenching his eyes shut in pain. “Aww, need me to hold your hand, Tooru?”

“You’re worried about me.”

“I would never.”

“You are, though. You do want me to make it through this. You want me.”

Koushi bit his lip. “No human born has ever made it through the transformation, and the last time—”

“I’m not him,” Oikawa promised, raising himself back to his feet. His eyes swirled with nothing less than indomitable determination. “I’m stronger than your typical stupid pirates or “scrupulous” merchants. You know that don’t you, beautiful?”

Allowing him a moment of relief, Koushi continued leading Oikawa out to sea until they were waist deep in the water. They paused there, letting the human adjust to the temperature and the idea that he felt more right in water than he did on land. It was an unsettling change, but it felt right. When Oikawa nodded that he was ready, though, Koushi didn’t hesitate. He surged forward, grasping Oikawa by his cheeks and pressed devouring kiss after kiss against the human’s rough, chapped lips. Koushi hummed with hunger as he devoured what little was left of Oikawa’s human soul after being in the Trance for so long. It wouldn’t take much, but Koushi was determined to enjoy the meal for as long as he could.

Oikawa kissed him back with fervor, to keep his mind off the pain that bloomed in his legs, the sting wounds on his legs opened up like he was slashed with a sword. Koushi’s warm lips gave him a sense of sanctuary as he cried through the excruciating fires of pain coursing through his muscles and leaving him almost limp. Shushing him gently, Koushi lowered him to float on his back on the water, peppering more kisses down Oikawa’s neck and onto his bare chest, moaning as he licked the sweet humanity away from him.

“OIKAWA!”

Snarling, Koushi lifted his head away from his meal as he saw Iwaizumi barreling from the shore and into the water. Oikawa was close to passing out now, as he lay lifeless in Koushi’s arms, but he managed to lift his head to whisper an almost inaudible, “Iwa-chan.” At the sound of the name, a raw selfishness consumed Koushi and he wrapped an arm around Oikawa, willing his his tail out and dived down under the surface, taking Oikawa with him swimming with all his strength into deeper, darker, colder waters.

“Tooru,” Koushi sang, holding Oikawa’s face in his hands again, with more care than when hunger had overcame him previously. “Wake up, Tooru. Breathe for me.”

Oikawa opened his eyes and smiled with more strength than Koushi had expected of him. That was a good sign, though. Oikawa actually stood a chance of surviving the torturous transformation of human to merman. He took a deep breath and squealed with joy when he discovered that he wasn’t drowning, and Koushi let out a laugh more of relief than amusement at the sound of Oikawa. He was alive. Oikawa was very much alive.

Now renewed with excitement, the merman and the former human stared down at Oikawa’s legs as the gashes healed as his tail started to grow out. First came a wide, cerulean blue fin that formed where Oikawa’s feet used to be, and then came a soft rayed dorsal fin along his spine. Then a burst of colors bloomed like a garden all over the tail, luscious, rosy pinks, and seaweed green and sunny yellows. Oikawa was beautiful, as he took Koushi’s hand in his and began learning how to operate this new extension of his body. He bit his lip down and learned within a few minutes.

“You’re learning fast,” Koushi commended with a smile. “You show off.”

“I can’t help it if I’m a natural,” Oikawa tittered, swimming circles around Koushi.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re a genius Oikawa Tooru. Now, come long.” Koushi took Oikawa’s hand and started pulling him further into the sea. Thrill swam through him when he thought about how everyone would be so impressed when he brought back a fully transformed human. “I’m dying for you to meet the others! You’ll love Shigeru and Yachi. Daichi might be a tad jealous, though, but never mind him. He had his chance.”

Oikawa hesitated, glancing back towards the shore.

Koushi swam to his side. “Your friend? You miss him already.”

“It’s funny,” Oikawa murmured. “I remember him. I know him—He’s Iwa-chan, but . . . He feels so far away.”

“Want to see him one last time?” Koushi offered kindly. “As long as we don’t get too close, we should be safe.”

“No,” Oikawa replied, as if he were still in the Trance. “I think it would hurt too much. I doubt he would understand that I’ve always wanted this, but maybe someday I’ll visit him.”

Koushi huffed, scrunching his face up in distaste as he swam up so he was floating right in Oikawa’s face. “Just don’t go thinking you can replace me.”

“Same goes for you,” Oikawa countered with a grin. “Don’t go around looking for more humans, because I promise you that I really am the most gorgeous one you’ll get. I’ll get jealous, easily, and I’ve been told I’m a bit of brat when I’m jealous.”

“Deal,” Koushi hummed, pleased with Oikawa’s confidence and his sincerity. “Are you ready to go home?”

“Yes,” Oikawa smiled breathlessly, as the sea opened up to him, like she was welcoming her lost child. “I’ve been waiting my whole life to come home.”

[ruminativerabbi]

Pittsburgh

Like many of you, I’m sure, I took biology in tenth grade. It was a long time ago. I barely remember high school, and specific classes even less than the general experience, but I do remember one specific incident in biology class that made a huge impression on me then and remains with me still. I’m sure it’s no longer allowed, as well it shouldn’t be, but the experiment itself was simple enough. A frog was set into a petri dish filled with cool water. The frog looked happy enough, having no concept of what was soon to come…and also not able to extend its neck far enough out to see that the petri dish itself was being held aloft by a black metal frame that also housed a Bunsen burner positioned just beneath the dish in which the frog was seated. (Do frogs even have necks?) The frog could have hopped out at any moment. But why would he have? He was content, he was (he thought) among friends. It was the fall following the summer of love. I have the vague sense—although this can’t possibly be true—that “Strawberry Fields” was playing softly in the background.

And then our teacher, whose name I’ve long since forgotten, lit the Bunsen burner and the fun began. The flame was low enough so that the water would only heat very slowly, incrementally, almost unnoticed by us…but also not by the frog in the dish. The point of the experiment was simple enough: to demonstrate that, if the water were only heated up slowly enough, the frog would actually be paralyzed by the heat and thus unable to avoid the sorry end that appeared to await him and which in fact actually did await him even though he could easily have escaped his fate earlier on had he understood things more clearly. Or she could have. It really was a long time ago.

The world is full of frogs in petri dishes.

Facebook started out as a pleasant way for friends to stay in touch and then grew into something that would surely have been unrecognizable to the people dreaming it up in Mark Zuckerberg’s dorm room. And, somewhere along the way in that amazing growth from 1 million users in 2004 to 2.2 billion active users at present, a line was crossed that cannot be crossed back over, and which thus obliges Facebook to deal somehow with the unexpected and surely unwanted ability it somehow possesses to be manipulated by its own users to influence elections and to invade people’s privacy in a way that many savvy users still can’t entirely fathom in all of its complexity.

The whole concept of on-line DNA analysis started out as a clever way for people to learn more about their families’ histories and about their own genetic heritage. But as the data banks at ancestry.com, 23andme.com, and other analogous sites grow larger and larger on a daily basis, a line has been crossed there too that cannot be uncrossed and which will now oblige us all to deal with the ability of scientists, including (presumably) those who work for the government, to invade the privacy of people wholly unrelated to the enterprise and who themselves haven’t ever signed up or sent in a sample of their DNA for analysis. (To revisit what I wrote about this truly shocking phenomenon a few weeks ago, click here.)

Kristallnacht, the eightieth anniversary of which falls next week, was another such frog-in-a-petri-dish line. Things were dismal for the Jews of Germany and Austria long before 1938, but Kristallnacht—in the course of which single evening almost 2000 synagogues were destroyed, 2550 Jewish citizens died, 30,000 Jewish men were arrested and sent to concentration camps, and tens of thousands of Jewish businesses were plundered—made it kristall clear that whatever Jewish souls fell under Nazi rule were on their own and that that line into a dark, almost unimaginable future was one that simply could not be crossed back over. Indeed, the worst part of Kristallnacht was not the pogrom itself, as horrific as it was, but its implications for the future and the unavoidable conclusion to be drawn from the events of that gruesome night that there apparently was no level of anti-Semitic violence that the world could not somehow learn to tolerate. Kristallnacht, of course, did not come out of nowhere. Nazi anti-Semitism was hardly a secret. By 1938, the Jews of the Reich had been subjected to ever-increasing levels of degradation, humiliation, and discrimination for years. Obviously, they all noticed it, just as the frog in my classroom must surely have noticed the water warming as well. What the frog failed to grasp was that there was going to be a specific moment at which his ability to hop out of the dish was going to be gone and that he would have no choice but to meet his fate in that place. And that is what the Jews who had bravely decided to weather the storm in place also failed to seize until it finally was too late to do otherwise and their fates were sealed, their doom all but assured.

Is Pittsburgh that line in the sand that we will all eventually see clearly for what it was? Or was it just a terrible thing that an awful person with some powerful guns managed to accomplish before he was finally subdued by the police? The answer to those questions lies behind the answers to others, however. Was Pittsburgh more about the rise of the so-called alt-right than about anti-Semitism per se? (The Anti-Defamation League noted that there was almost a 60% rise in hate crimes directed against Jews or Jewish targets from 2016, the year of the presidential election, to 2017, the year of Charlottesville. No one doubts that the statistics for 2018 will be higher still.) Or is this more about guns than Jews?  We have become almost used to gun violence in our country—we actually name the incidents (Columbine, Orlando, Sandy Hook, Parkland, Fort Hood, San Bernardino, etc.) because it would otherwise be impossible to keep track of them all—so it feels possible to explain Pittsburgh (or rather, to explain it away) as just one more notch on that belt rather than as a decisive moment in American Jewish history. But is that reasonable? Or is Pittsburgh less about Jews or guns, and more about the way that houses of worship seem specifically to enrage a certain kind of American bigot, the kind who can spend an hour studying Bible with gentle, harmless church folk and then take out a gun and methodically attempt to kill all the others in the class?

Or is this something else entirely? That’s the question I found churning and roiling within as I contemplate the events of last Saturday in Pittsburgh and try to make some sense out of it all.

It’s interesting how the most accessible studies of anti-Semitism—Léon Poliakov’s The History of Anti-Semitism, Edward Flannery’s The Anguish of the Jews, David Nirenberg’s Anti-Judaism: The Western Tradition, Bernard Lazare’s Antisemitism, Its History and Causes, Rosemary Ruether’s Faith and Fratricide, and Daniel Jonah Goldhagen’s The Devil that Never Dies, just to name the books I personally have found the most rewarding and informative over the years—it’s interesting how little read or discussed these books are, including specifically by the very Jewish people who should constitute their most enthusiastic audience. Is that just because they are incredibly upsetting? Or is there a deeper kind of denial at work here, one rooted in a need to feel secure so intense that it simply overwhelms anything that might disturb people who live in its almost irresistible thrall?

I was a senior in college when I first read André Schwarz-Bart’s, The Last of the Just. It is one of the few works of fiction I’ve read many times, both in French and English, and is surely among the most important works of fiction I’ve read in terms of the effect it had on me personally in terms of shaping my worldview. (It also led, albeit circuitously, to my choice of a career in the rabbinate.) The book, in which are depicted episodes from the life of one single Jewish family from 1190 (the year of a horrific pogrom in York, England) to 1943 (when the family’s last living scion is murdered at Auschwitz), is upsetting. But it is also ennobling and, in a dark way that even I can’t explain entirely clearly (including not to myself), as inspiring as it is disconcerting. It was once a famous book—the first Shoah-based book to be an international bestseller and the winner of the very prestigious Prix Goncourt in 1959—but has fallen off the reading list of most today: how many young people have even heard of it, let alone have actually read it? I suppose people still read Anne Frank’s diary and Elie Wiesel’s Night, the two most prominent books about the Shoah of all…but both books are tied to their author’s specific stories and neither is “about” anti-Semitism itself in the way Schwarz-Bart’s book is. In my opinion, that’s why they have remained popular—because they’re basically about terrible things that happened to other people—and The Last of the Just hasn’t.

What should we do in the wake of the Pittsburgh massacre? Clearly, we need to find the courage to speak out and to say vocally and very strongly to our elected officials that we cannot and will never accept that this kind of thing simply cannot be prevented in a society that guarantees its citizens the right to bear arms. And, just as clearly, we need to make it clear to the world that this kind of aggression, far from weakening us, actually strengthens us and helps us find the courage to assume our rightful place in the American mosaic. But we also need to lose our inhibitions about learning about our own history. Pittsburgh was about the recrudescence of the kind of anti-Semitic violence many of us thought to be well in the past. To understand the deeper implications of Jews at prayer being murdered in their own synagogue, we don’t need to read any of the million statements issued by public officials, Jewish and non-Jewish organizations, and countless individuals over the last few days. What we do need to read is Schwarz-Bart and Ruether, Nirenberg and Flannery, and to internalize the lessons presented there. And we need take the temperature of the water in our petri dish and only then to negotiate the future from a position of informed strength characterized by a clear-eyed understanding of what it means to be a Jew in the actual world in which we live.

[pushspacetocontinue]

Russell Tolbert TV Tropes

Below the read more (because it is a long long list) are a list of TV Tropes (because I love them) that apply to Russell. There is a list for his main verse, Gemsona/SU Verse, his TF2 Verse, and his Superhero verse (the rest haven’t had much of a chance to be used) and I plan to add more of them as I find them, along with the ones for AUs. 

So if you decided to read them, click on and enjoy. Trigger warning for mentions of abusive parents, alcohol addiction and a suicide attempt below.

Normal Verse TV Tropes

Abusive Parents: His Mother, Cassandra. He and his brothers were all victims of her abusive behaviour. While her favourite thing to do was verbally and emotionally hurt then via humiliation, degradation, and manipulation, she wasn’t afraid to get physical with them either. She was also neglectful and dismissive, leaving her oldest sons to look after the others while she did whatever she wanted. Thankfully, his Father, Jean-Luc, is none of these things.

Adorkable: Loyal? Check. Shy? Check. Kind? Check. An absolute nerd when it comes to videogames, space, and drumming? Check. 

Affluent Ascetic: Lives in a modest but nice apartment with basic furniture and a few luxuries despite having the money for more. His reason being is that he’s perfectly happy with what he has already. 

Animal Motifs: Moths and Butterflies. 

Apologises a Lot: Part of him being an Extreme Doormat. 

The Baby of the Bunch: He has seven brothers, and they’re all older. 

Bad Dreams: He has them often, usually after something particularly distressing or painful. 

Befriending the Enemy: Usually his first option. If that doesn’t work and the enemy isn’t backing down, then the switch-blade comes out. 

Beware the Nice Ones: Will not hesitate to jump in and protect someone he cares about, even if it means kicking ass. 

Bookworm: Books and games were his biggest forms of escapism when he was a child. He’s carried his love for both into his adulthood. 

Bungled Suicide: Also combined with Interrupted Suicide. He tried to die but was too drunk to make himself bleed out quickly, which gave Gertrude enough time to find him and call an ambulance to save him.

- This led to a Happily Failed Suicide, where he had managed to start turning his life around since the attempt and making positive changes. He’s not where he wants to be yet, but he’s doing better than he was.

Character Tics: He laughs awkwardly when he’s nervous or embarrassed about something. 

Chronic Hero Syndrome: He admits that he just cannot leave someone in need behind.

Cool Uncle: Viewed as such by his eldest niece, Gracie. 

Combat Pragmatist: He’s not strong, but tries to make up for this by using speed and agility, fighting dirty, and thinking quickly. He’ll go for the eyes, crotch and neck if he has to. 

Cowardly Lion: He’s shy, socially awkward, insecure, and tries to avoid conflict whenever possible, but when it comes to protecting his friends or defending himself, then he’ll jump straight in. 

Disappeared Dad: For most of his childhood and teen years, although not his father’s fault. Thankfully, they’ve since reunited. 

Extreme Doormat: Something that he needs to change.

Friends Are Chosen, Family Aren’t: While reconnecting with his living brothers again, he still chose new people as his family after his mother disowned and vowed to kill him if she saw him again, and cares for him like they’re his siblings too. 

Guilty Pleasure: Nintendo games (particularly Pokemon and Yokai Watch). While his colleagues at the cafe like them too, he still feels a little bit embarrassed about it. 

Hair of Gold, Heart of Gold: A man who tries to be good and decent to those around him. His sandy/straw-coloured locks fit the bill. 

I Am Not my Mother: Partially why he does his best to be the good man that he is; he refuses to continue any pain or suffering his Mother caused him and his brothers, especially now that she’s gone.

The Insomniac: Has trouble falling asleep and then staying asleep if he does. 

Le Parkour: One of his main hobbies and skills, having kept up the practice for years. 

Massive Numbered Siblings: Lived with his seven older brothers and mother in the same house until they started moving out. 

Musician: A drummer for a (mostly) Electro Swing band known as Midnight Swarm. 

Must Have Caffeine: He honestly has no idea what he would do without coffee or other such caffeinated substances. 

Near-Death Experience: Has experienced a few of these in his life time. The most serious left him unconscious in hospital for two days, and needing time to recover after he woke up. 

Never Speak Ill of the Dead: A mild example. When people find out his mother died, he tries to downplay it simply by telling them ‘she wasn’t a good woman’ and leaving it at that.

Platonic Life Partners: With his dear friend, Pari Vass. 

Plays Games at Work: Plays on his 3DS or Switch when it’s slow at the cafe. 

Pungeon Master: He admits that he really likes puns a little bit too much for his good. 

Rage Breaking Point: How his anger presents itself. He holds it back and if it doesn’t get vented out, one more straw will eventually break the metaphorical camel’s back. There are warning signs though, such as increased irritability. He inherited this from his mother. 

Recovered Addict: Used to drink alcohol to excess. He has since stopped and has been clean just over a year and a half.

Right Hand Cat: A non-villainous example in Misty, who he inherited from his previous landlady, Gertrude. 

Secretly Wealthy: Thanks to a very large inheritance he received from his late landlady, Gertrude. He doesn’t like to flaunt it for fear of attracting the wrong kind of attention. That doesn’t stop from making regular anonymous donations to crowdfunding sites, charity organisations and from paying for other people whenever he can. 

Self-Deprecation: Guilty of doing this a lot. 

Sir Swears-a-Lot: Having a bunch of sailor-mouthed older brothers and a foul-mouthed mother has had this effect on him. He swears even in his casual speech, although he does rein it in when around  kids or the elderly. 

Speech Impediment: He has a noticeable stammer. He has got it somewhat under control thanks to spending a lot of time practising his talking, but it still comes out on occasion. 

Stage Names: When he’s drumming for the band, he’s Luna Moth. 

Straight Gay: Is attracted to other men, but has been mistaken for straight or asexual on several occasions. 

Weak but Skilled: Is fast, agile and knows how to move. But he can easily be taken down if he makes one wrong step. 

Unfazed Everyman: Has met multiple supernatural beings, monsters, or otherwise odd people, but has already learnt to accept their presence.

Why did it Have to be Snakes?: He’s absolutely terrified of the ocean. 

TF2 Verse TV Tropes

Breaking the Fourth Wall: Has done this a few times now. It seems to be a Scout thing.

Double Jump: A Scout standard. 

Death is a slap on a Wrist: He respawns when he dies, making any kind of death this. That said, he tries to avoid it whenever possible. 

Eaten Alive: Has been a victim of this twice now. He respawned both times, but he’s been left with a deep aversion to that kind of death. 

Fish out of Temporal Water: A very mild example. He was killed and remained dead and stuck in respawn for two years. When he came out, it felt like no time had passed, leaving him very surprised to see that he really had been gone for an extended period. However, he quickly became used to the idea and accepted it. If anything, he was glad for having more movies, books, and music to catch up on. 

Fragile Speedster: Once again, a Scout standard.

Friendly Enemy: Is this to REDs when off the clock (see Punch-Clock villain below.)   

Never Hurt an Innocent: He won’t attack civilians unless absolutely necessary, and even then, he does his best not to use lethal force.

Nothing Personal: How he views his job. 

Older than they Look: While this happens in his normal verse, it happens a lot more in the TF2 Verse. He’s often mistaken for a newbie, or someone way too young to be fighting.

Only in it for Money: Why he chose to work a job killing people in an endless war in the first place. That, and getting away from his mother.

Punch-Clock Villain: Is this to the REDs. Once battles are done, he treats them like any other person; with decency and respect. 

Railroad Tracks of Doom: How he was killed and spent two years in respawn.

Stereotype Flip: Scouts are often viewed as being loud mouthed, arrogant, and bratty. He is none of those things, not even in battle. This has surprised many a merc. 

Why did it have to be Snakes: Due to a previous medic’s experiments, he has been left terrified of snakes and spiders. He’s also very afraid of being eaten, having been swallowed alive before and finding it less than pleasant.

Super Hero/ Luna Moth Tropes: 

Lunacy: The night sky, particular the moon and the stars, bring out his full abilities. While he can still fight and use his abilities during the day, his performance suffers greatly. 

Mutant: How he feels it’s the best way to describe him, due to his zombie-like traits, he way he makes no noise (no rustling of clothing or a voice), and millions of stars can be seen beyond his pupils. That said, he uses his powers for good. 

Revenant Zombie: He spent a year ‘pupating’ when his mutation occurred. He was considered dead when it happened and even now, he doesn’t need to breath, eat, or sleep. He doesn’t even have a heartbeat or bleed. However, he does feel pain, he can become injured, and become fatigued. He theorises that whatever developed in his corpse happens to possess his memories and has yet to develop any consciousness if it even has one.

Rise From your Grave: The first thing he did after he first revived as the mutant he is now was claw out of the hole he was buried in. 

The Speechless: Due to his inability to make any noise, this also affects his ability to talk. He communicates via sign language, text, typing, and a special device that reads his brain waves in his base.

Star Power: In addition to his enhanced speed, agility, and stamina, the easiest way to describe his powers is ‘summoning pieces of the night sky from within and shaping them into whatever he chooses’. 

The Stoic: Comes across as this due to his emotions being severely numbed since his resurrection into Luna Moth. 

Uncanny Valley: Has invoked in a few people if they hang around him for too long without knowing what he really is. So he tries not to get too close to them.

Gemsona/ SU Verse Tropes: 

Alas, poor Villain: Feels this for Pink Diamond. He wishes she hadn’t been shattered and that things hadn’t gone as far as they had. 

Amazing Technicolour Population: A standard among gems like him. His especially so due to being a Bornite. 

Because You Were Nice to Me: Pretty much the main reason he defected to Rose Quart’s side. After the other gems believing he was flawed and treating him as such, he exchanged Rose Quart’s acceptance for his services. 

Desperately Looking for a Purpose in Life: He was originally dismissed by the Crystal Gems, who told him they would call him if his services were needed by them again. He still feels lost even now, despite trying to fill his life with different drives. 

Dual Tonfas: Has a pair of bladed ones that his Energy Bow (see below) turns into when he ends up in a situation that necessitates close combat. 

Energy Bow: The weapon of choice he summons from his gem, the arrows are made of Hard Light and infinite. However, he needs to take time to concentrate on ‘reloading’. It splits into Dual Tonfas (see above) for close combat situations. 

Inside Job: Before the shattering, some of his jobs were to pretend he was still on the side of Homeworld and give false messages. 

Martial Pacifist: Since the shattering of Pink Diamond, he refuses to raise his weapons unless absolutely necessary. However, despite all the years he’s been dodging combat, he still has some prowess and will fight if he has to. 

Really 700 Years Old: While he vaguely looks like a young human male, he’s just over 6000 years old. And it shows.

Sure, Let’s Go With That: Early humans who happened to meet him often assumed he was a fairy or other magical creature due to magic being widely believed in. He just went along with it. The same thing happened when people assumed he had a strange skin condition, which is now the excuse he often gives. 

Super Speed: Was designed to be fast and agile, so that he could deliver items and messages as fast and efficiently as possible. 

Trade Mark Favourite Food: Even though he doesn’t need to eat, he does enjoy coffee and noodles, although not at the same time. 

Video Game Dashing: Has the ability to ‘dash’ in a burst of speed in the air or on the ground. This ability even works on the surface of water.

Wall Crawl: Has the ability to do this, most likely to get past as many obstacles as possible while on messenger missions. 

We Are as Mayflies: Makes this observation a lot, about how humans and other organic Earth species live such short lives. He finds it endearing that they still make the best of the time they have.

[ladywinchester1967]

Dare You To Move: The Fall Out

Pairings: Doctor Dean Winchester x Grace Drake, Kenneth Drake x Grace Drake, Kenneth x William.

Warnings: Verbal argument, drinking, swearing, loss of virginity (in a flash back, that part is italicized), angst, feels.  

A/N: This is the second part in my series, Dare You To Move, which is inspired by the Switchfoot song of rhe same name. Each chapter has they lyrics at the beginning. Hope you guys enjoy! Unbeta’d, all mistakes are mine. The pictures are NOT mine, I found them on Pinterest and tumblr. 

Asking yourself “Da fuq is this?!” Catch up here!

Dare You To Move:

What Happens Next?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I dare you to move

Like today never happened

Today never happened before

Welcome to the fallout

Welcome to resistance

“What I did to YOU?!” Grace yelled as she stood up “You cannot be serious right now.”

“I absolutely can be!” Kenneth shouted “You deliberately did this to me! Going and having your fun like a whore!”

A flash of anger hit her light a bolt of lightning. If he was going for the jugular, so would she.

“And you’re not having your fun with William?!” She screamed

Kenneth’s eyes went wide

“What?!” He spat

“I KNOW Kenneth,” She yelled “I saw you two kissing!”

“WHAT THE HELL?!” Kenneth roared back.

“Oh Jesus Christ Kenneth,” Grace yelled “over a year ago, after the company Christmas party I saw you and William kissing in the alley!”

“That was-no-that wasn’t.” He stammered as he scrambled for an answer and she held up her hand to stop him after she took a deep breath.

“I understand,” she told him softly and she looked up at him “I’m not mad or upset.”

“You aren’t?” Kenneth asked, surprised.

“You love him, don’t you?” She asked

Kenneth didn’t answer right away, he looked away, raked a hand through his hair and then smoothed his hand over his mouth before nodding. She stepped closer to him and hugged him. He returned the hug, with more affection than she had felt from him since before they were married.

“You’ve known all this time and never said anything?” Kenneth asked, pulling back and looking at her.

“What could I have said?” She asked “You two were carrying on and you were obviously happy.”

“You mean,” Kenneth said “you never said anything because you wanted me to be happy?”

She nodded

“That’s what I always wanted for you Kenneth,” she told him “if I can’t make you happy, at least I know William does.” He looked shocked and relieved all at the same time as she went on “William is perfectly lovely, he always has been, but what about his family?”

William had a wife, Sandy, and twin boys, Jack and Bobby.

Kenneth sighed

“As far as I know, she doesn’t know. She wouldn’t be as understanding as you are.” He said and tapped the tip of her nose with his finger. She smiled

“Do they still?” She asked and Kenneth shook his head

“About as often as we do if you want the truth.” Kenneth told her “So, I guess can’t exactly blame you for your indiscretions.”

“Not plural,” she corrected him “just one.”

“Who is he?” Kenneth asked and motioned for her to sit down.

“Do you remember when I told you about my very first boyfriend? Dean?” She asked and he nodded “It’s him.”

“I thought he died in the war.” Kenneth said

“So did I.” She told him and filled him in. For the first time in more than a year, they had an honest and deep conversation, like they used to when they were dating. They talked well into the night, drinking while they were at it.

“What’re we gonna do?” Kenneth asked, downing the last of his drink.

Grace sighed

“We can carry on like we have been,” She told him “no one would know any different.”

“If we get caught?” Kenneth asked

“We’ll cross that bridge when or if we get to it,” she told him “we can both be discreet, obviously.”

“Obviously.” Kenneth echoed

“So, we just go on like we have been.” Grace said and raised her glass to him. Kenneth gave her a smile

“I knew I made a good choice when I married you.” He said.

Two nights later, Grace arrived at Dean’s apartment with a knock at the door. He opened the door, wearing a grin like a child on Christmas morning.

“There’s my girl.” He said happily and let her in.

“Hey handsome.” She greeted him as she crossed the threshold and he shut the door behind her. He then wrapped her in a blistering kiss, his hands all over her back and rear, making her squeal in delight.

“DEAN!” She chastised him as they kissed.

“Mhhh, I missed being able to grab this any time I want.” He smirked and did it again, grabbing a handful of her ass and giving it a firm smack. She laughed as she strolled in front of him and he grabbed her wrist.

“Wait, I have a surprise for you.” He said

“Oh really?” She asked and turned to face him. He nodded, an adorable grin on his face.

“Close your eyes Gracie Lou.” He said. She did and he gently spun her around, his hands on her waist. “Walk forward, I’ve got you.”

She took baby steps forward and placed her hands over her eyes so as not to peek. They walked a few more steps and he said

“Stop,” which she did “okay, now open them.”

She opened her eyes and on the table was a gorgeous bouquet of flowers that made her gasp.

“Dean,” She breathed “oh Dean, they’re beautiful!”

She turned to him and gave him a kiss.

“What’s the occasion?” She asked him, her arms around his neck.

He shrugged

“No occasion,” he said “they made me think of you and I wanted you to have them.”

She gave him another kiss and said

“You are the sweetest man Dean Winchester.”

They climbed up the fire escape to the roof of his apartment building and shared a glass of bourbon and caught each other up on the last few days they’d been a part.

“I have news.” she told him, tightening he blanket he’d brought up with them around her shoulders.

“Oh?” He asked and she nodded “Let me guess, one of those sketches of yours is finally getting out where it belongs?”

“And where’s that?” She asked

“A gallery.” He said with a smile and she laughed.

“No,” she said “though that would be wonderful.”

“Then what is it?” He asked

“Kenneth and I had a long talk the other day,” she told him “he knows. About you and me.”

She filled him in on the details of how Kenneth found out and Dean bit his lip.

“So, now what?” Dean asked reluctantly.

“There’s no “now what?” we carry on.” She told him and he looked puzzled “He knows about you and me and I know about him and William. Nothing changes.”

“He knows and he’s okay with it?” Dean asked and she nodded.

“What’s he going to say? That he can have an affair but I can’t?” She asked “Talk about double standard.”

“You’d be surprised.” Dean said with a roll of his eyes “So, nothing changes at all?”

“No,” she told him “we both agreed to use discretion and that was that.”

Dean sighed

“Well I’m relieved, but what about you?” He asked

“What about me?” She asked him.

“Are YOU okay?” He asked and she nodded

“I am,” She told him “all of our cards are on the table. He’s with William, he’s happy. I’m with you and I’m happy.”

He smiled, cupping her face in his hand.

“I’m glad to hear you say that.” He said and pressed a kiss on her mouth.

“What about you?” She asked him “This can’t be ideal for you.”

“I have what I want,” he said with a shrug “sort of.” She studied his face and he went on “I have you in my life, and that’s all I ever wanted. The other stuff? That can wait or never happen. I don’t care.”

“Dean,” she said, tears filling her eyes “I just-“ She cried “you’re okay with this? Dean I know how jealous you can get.”

“It’s be worse if he was fucking you,” he told her “that I wouldn’t stand for. But he-“ Dean paused and thought out what he was going to say “he’s THAT way, and he’s happy. You said so yourself, and you’re happy with me.”

She nodded

“Very much,” She said “happier than I’ve been in a long time.”

“I am too,” he said with a grin “I can accept this for what it is.” He said.

She kissed him again, placing her hand over his and squeezing it. They sat there for a long time, making out and holding each other. When they came up for air he asked

“Can you get away?”

“When?” She answered

“This weekend,” he said “I’m taking a short vacation up to my family’s cabin. Would you want to come with me?”

“In the woods?!” She asked. She only too well remembered the run down structure he and Sam called a “cabin” when they were teenagers.

He laughed

“It’s come a long way since then,” he told her “my Dad and brother built it up while I was gone. I think it was to keep them distracted.”

“What does it have now?” She asked as she crawled into his lap.

“Well,” He said as he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her “there’s a floor,” kiss “walls,” kiss “in door plumbing,” kiss “and a roof, without holes in it.”

“Mh, speaking my language Doctor Winchester.” She said and kissed him “I’ll see if Kenneth can spare me. I’m sure if I leave him pot roast and a chicken pot pie he’ll be okay.”

“Now you’re speaking MY language Gracie Lou.” He said with a groan “Think I can talk you into a chicken pot pie?”

She laughed

“I can be persuaded,” she told him, planting a kiss on him “all you have to do is ask me nicely.”

“Hm,” he said through the kiss “let me get you inside and you’ll see how nicely I can ask.”

His fingers dug into her back as they passionately kissed.

“Do your worst DOCTOR Winchester.” She told him.

“Oh baby, you have NO IDEA what you just asked for.” He said, his eyes alight with mischief.

“Dean, I’m scared.” She told him, shaking in his arms.

“We don’t have to do this,” he told her calmly, his hand running over her shoulder “I don’t want you to do anything you aren’t ready for.”

“I’m ready,” she whispered “and I want to but I’m not going to be any good. I’ve never done this before.”

“I know,” he told her “it isn’t a secret. I can show you if you want. That’s why I’m here.”

“Is it gonna hurt?” She asked him

“A little, from what I’ve been told,” He said

She nodded and unbuttoned her dress, her eyes on him. The fabric fell open and she slid it off her shoulders, then cast it aside. Left in her bra and underwear, she squirmed under his gaze as he bit his lip.

“Say something.” She breathed, covering up her chest with her arms.

“You look beautiful,” he said and took her hands in his “don’t hide from me, I want to see you.”

She sighed and kissed him, slowly and gently.

“Are you okay?” He asked and she nodded.

“I’m nervous,” she told him “what if I don’t make the right noises or something?”

He gave her a sweet smile and said

“I’ve heard the noises you make beautiful,” he told her “you’ll be fine.”

She nodded as they kissed, he trailed a hand down her arm and then to her back where he unhooked her bra. She slid the straps down and put the garment to the side. Bare chested, she pulled him flush against her, his warm skin making contact with hers. He slid his hands up and down her bare back, her smooth skin under his his rough palms felt amazing.

“Dean,” she sighed “I want, I want,”

“What sweetheart?” He asked and pulled back to look at her, his eyes full of concern.

“I want you on top of me.” She told him “Can we do that?”

“We can do whatever you want Gracie Lou.” He said and laid her on her back. She shimmied out of her panties and pitched them to the side. Naked under him, he looked her up and down, a grin on his face.

“You’re so beautiful.” he told her and kissed her hard.

“Dean?” She asked, her hands running down his back.

“Yes?” He asked

“Take your pants off?” She asked him and he nodded. He stood up, did just that and then lowered himself on to his hands and knees above her, his hardened length brushing against her inner thigh. She’s taken it in her hands and mouth, but never inside her. She briefly wondered how he would fit into her.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” He asked her “We can stop, I promise.”

“I’m fine,” she told him, her hands running up his strong arms “I want this with you.”

“I’ll go slow,” he told her “if you don’t like it or it hurts too much tell me okay?”

She nodded and they kissed. He took his erection in one hand and ran it through her wet folds, making her gasp. When he looked up in fear, she said

“That feels good.”

He nodded and did it again, using her juices as a lubricant. She sighed, a tingling sensation in her toes. He pressed the head of his cock into her entrance and he looked up at her.

“Still okay?” He asked and she nodded

“It’s fine,” She panted “can you give me more?”

He nodded and slid a little deeper, making her back arch.

“That-ohhhh-that feels good.” She told him, her grip tightening on his shoulders. They kissed passionately as he slid deeper into her, making her cry out. He stopped and she said

“It’s okay, it just hurts a little.”

“You sure? I can stop.” He said

“No, don’t stop,” She told him “do it quick, like a band aid.”

He nodded and sheathed himself inside her, the pain was sharp, then it dulled. He stilled, waiting for her to adjust to him. They kissed again, her fingers running through his hair, her nails scraping his scalp and he moaned.

“Sweetheart,” He said breathlessly and kissed her again “you okay?”

She nodded

“Move, please.” She begged him

He moved slowly at first, thrusting gently into her as they kissed.

“That-oh my god-that feels so good.” She told him her head throwing back “Oh Dean, that feels so good!”

He captured her lips with his and kissed her hard. Without her realizing it, her hips began to move with his, making him moan.

“I’m sorry!” She said

“No,” he said in her ear “don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

Their cries and moans filled each other’s ears as she felt the familiar coil in her lower belly begin to tighten.

“Dean,” she cried out “oh fuck, Dean!”

“Gracie,” he moaned against her neck and kissed it “Gracie I love you.”

She pulled back and looked at him, planting a sweet kiss on his lips.

“I,” She stammered, looking into his eyes “I love you too. Dean, I love you.”

His lips over took hers as they moved together drawing moans and sighs out of both of them.

“You’re so tight,” he said “god, so tight. I don’t know if I can hold on.”

“It’s okay,” she sighed “come for me.”

He gave her a smile and kissed her again.

“I love you, oh FUCK!” He cried out, the rhythm in his hips faltering as he slammed deep into her. She cried out loudly and exploded around him as he emptied into her, grunting. They were both breathing hard as he looked at her.

“You,” he asked, collecting his breath “You okay?”

She nodded

“Better than okay.” She told him with a smile and kissed him again.

When Dean woke up from his memory turned dream, the sun had barely risen, bathing his bedroom in a golden, pinkish light. He laid there for a few minutes, just waking up and then he looked on the other side of the bed. Grace was still asleep, the sheet tangled around her body, her bare shoulders and legs poking out. He felt a slow smile cross his face as he watched her back slow rise and fall with each breath. He slowly rolled to his side, so as not to wake her, and let one fingertip trace over her warm skin. She didn’t even move as he did this, off in her own dream world. This is what he thought and dreamed about when things got too rough during the war. He'd close his eyes and be able to picture her as clear as if she were standing right in front of him. In his dreams, she was there. Smiling, laughing and calling his name in the warm sunshine.

“Dean!” He heard her call as she dove into the lake head first as his brother Sam yelled in encouragement. Dean waited with baited breath until she resurfaced and looked back at him.

“Come on Dean! Don't be a wuss!” she yelled at him

“My sweet Gracie Lou.” He said quietly and kissed her shoulder blade.

Dean lost track of time as he sat at the kitchen table drinking his coffee, running his hands through his hair.

Could he really live like this? Keeping the love of his life a secret?

The life they should’ve lived was long behind them, but could they have that chance again?

“Dean?” He heard a soft voice ask.

He looked up and saw her wearing one of his button down shirts and not much else. Her dark curls fell in her face as he smirked at her.

“Good morning.” He said and opened his arms to her. She crawled into his lap, her bare legs stretching over his.

“Are you okay?” She asked hesitantly.

Her eyes looked up at him, apprehension in her expression. She bit her thumbnail, a nervous habit she’d always had and he brushed her curls out of her eyes. Looking at her in that moment, the sun light showing the different shades of brown and red in her hair, seeing the flecks of green and gold in her big blue eyes, he knew the truth. He couldn’t let her go even if he wanted to. She had his heart, she always had.

He kissed her forehead and held her tightly in his arms.

“I’m fine sweetheart,” he told her as an adorable, heart melting smile crossed his face. “You’re gorgeous, you know?” He asked and a blush rose on her cheeks.

“Stop,” she insisted and she giggled “no I am not.”

He shushed her and kissed her forehead.

“Yes you are.” He said and pulled her into a hug. She returned the gesture and laid her head on his chest.

This was how it was supposed to be, but instead, she was trapped in a marriage with a man she didn’t love and the man she did love, she couldn’t have. Tears sprang into her eyes and she gripped him tighter.

“What’s wrong Gracie Lou?” He asked and pulled back from her.

“Dean,” she said “how long can we keep this going?”

“Forever as far as I’m concerned.” He said

“But don’t you want a wife?” She asked “A family? Someone who is home every night waiting for you?”

He shook his head.

“I want you,” He told her “I made that clear when we started this. I’ll take you anyway I can get you.”

“I want to give you more,” She told Dean “I want to give you what you deserve.”

“Baby,” He said “I don’t deserve anything after the shit I did in the war.”

His eyes went dark and he looked away. He’d told her the things he’d had to do to survive, some were horrific, but his only thought was making it home. He did what he had to do to make that possible. She placed her hand on his face and made her look at him, a sad smile on her face.

“Dean, you survived,” she told him “you made it home.”

“But a lot of guys didn’t,” he told her “I’m going to burn in hell for the things I did to make it home to you.”

There it was, the thing he never said because he knew it would break her heart. She pulled him into her arms and held him tightly.

“You’re here with me now,” she told him “I love you Dean.”

“I love you too Gracie.” He said.

A couple of weeks later, Kenneth and Grace hosted a Christmas party at their house for their friends. Grace, Lula and Sissy had gone all out in decorating the house and preparing a feast for the guests.

“My word,” Kenneth said as he came down the stairs. Candles were lit all around the house, the tree was lit with lights and tinsel “it looks amazing in here.”

“You think so?” Grace asked “Are you sure there isn’t too much tinsel on the tree?”

“No, dear, it’s perfect.” Kenneth said and kissed her temple fondly. She straightened his tie and asked

“Did you put aside the good bourbon?”

“What would I do without you?” Kenneth asked and walked over to their bar. Lula’s husband, Malcolm, was behind the bar and he said

“Already taken care of Mister Kenneth.” With a smile.

“Scare me up a glass would you Malcolm?” Kenneth asked and Malcolm nodded.

Within twenty minutes, the party was in full swing, guests filtering in every few minutes with Grace and Kenneth there to greet them. At long last, Dean showed up in a crisp blue suit, his perfect white smile flashing.

“Doctor Winchester,” Grace greeted him “good to see you as always.”

“Mrs. Drake, looking beautiful as always.” He said and took her hand, kissing the back of it with a wink.

It was all she could do to hold back the laugh she felt coming as she turned her head to Kenneth, touching his hand “Darling?” She asked “Surely you remember Doctor Winchester?”

Kenneth blinked in recognition and smiled

“Of course!” He said and extended his hand to Dean’s and they shook firmly “Thank you for taking such good care of me while I was in the hospital. Grace and I can’t thank you enough.”

“The pleasure is all mine.” Dean said and dropped both Kenneth and Grace’s hand.

“Help yourself,” she told Dean “there’s plenty to eat and drink.”

He gave her a short nod as the door opened again, William and Sandy coming in. William wore a black suit while Sandy wore a cranberry red dress and white gloves.

“William, Sandy.” Grace greeted them, kissing their cheeks and exchanged greetings “get something to eat, there's plenty for everyone.” She pulled Sandy in closely and said “Ask Malcolm for the Grace Special, you’ll love it.”

Sandy grinned wide and headed for then bar, squeezing William's hand as she walked away.

“William, I love this suit on you, it looks amazing!” Grace raved, turning her attention to William.

“Custom made,” William said “fits like a glove.”

“You’ll HAVE to give me the name of your tailor so I can get some of Kenneth’s suits to him.” Grace told him.

“I’ll pass that along,” William said fondly to her “thank you for inviting us, your home looks pretty as a picture.”

“You’re always welcome.” She told William with a squeeze of his arm and pulled him in close “You know where the good bourbon is, see if you can’t scare up a glass for you, Kenneth and Dean.”

With a poignant look her way, William made his way to the bar.

The party went off without a hitch, everyone seemed to enjoy themselves, the drinks and the food. Once the gathering wound down and the only guests left were Sandy and William, Dean pulled Grace to the side.

“I’m going back to Kansas for Christmas,” he told her as he tugged her into the kitchen “and I won’t see you before the holiday, so I wanted you to have your present early.”

“Dean, you didn’t have to get me anything!” She said in an urgent whisper

“I WANTED to,” He told her and reached into a cabinet “I saw it and knew you had to have it.”

“How did you?” She asked

“Get it in the house?” He asked “Sissy was more than happy to help me.”

Grace giggled

“Of course she was.” Grace said with a smile. Dean handed her a box that was wrapped in blue and silver paper with a silver bow on it. She smiled and read the tag

Merry Christmas Gracie Lou,

Dean

She smiled and ripped the paper open. Inside was a velvet box, which she opened. Inside was the most beautiful stand of pearls she had ever seen.

“Oh Dean,” she breathed, her eyes brimming with tears “they’re beautiful.”

“Not as beautiful as the girl that’s going to wear them,” he said “but close.”

Tears escaped her eyes and she smiled up at him. She kissed him without thinking, holding him close.

“Dean, thank you. They’re perfect.” She told him.

“Merry Christmas my sweet Gracie.” He told her.

“I have something for you too,” she told him and went into a drawer in the kitchen and pulled out a small box with a gold ribbon tied around it. He smiled and opened it, it held a pair of cuff links, faintly engraved in it were the letters G and D intertwined and he smiled when he read it.

“So you’ll always have me close by.” She told him.

“You’re always close by,” he told her and tapped his finger on his heart “right here.”

They shared a grin and another kiss before they heard someone clear their throat. They both turned to see Sandy standing in the kitchen, her eyes and mouth wide.

“Grace,” she breathed

Grace immediately panicked

“Sandy, wait, please!” Grace said and Sandy turned on her heel as Grace ran over to her. Grace was too late, Sandy had already hustled William out of the door and they were gone in nearly the blink of an eye. Kenneth looked stunned as the front door slammed behind them.

“What the hell just happened?” He asked, bewildered.

“Fuck,” Grace swore, her face in her hands “she saw us; me and Dean!”

“Doing?” Kenneth asked and looked from Grace to Dean and back again.

“Kissing!” Grace said as she pulled her head out of her hands, her expression panicked.

“Oh, fuck.” Kenneth said as he and Dean both looked at each other “Well, cat's out of the bag now I guess.”

Grace immediately felt sick and ran up the stairs disappearing into the darkened hallway. Dean could hear her retching in the bathroom and glanced at Kenneth, who nodded. Dean ran up the stairs and found Grace in her bathroom, hunched over the toilet.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Did you guys enjoy?! I hope so! The next chapter will be called Tension, so keep an eye out for that. Kind feedback is always appreciated around here. Feel free to like, share and follow (pretty please?!). My boxes are always open, so feel free to drop me a line if you have a request, a question, you want be tagged in this series or in my forevers, known as The Squad!

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[martinmcg]

FREEDOM

Gull idled. This was what she lived for, these moments high above Freedom, released from the city’s grasp. Pedalling just fast enough to keep her paracycle in the air, she circled and ignored the stall light fluttering orange on its console. The city span slowly around her, but Gull was not part of it.

Even here where the black towers of the corporations pressed against the dome’s sharply sloping roof, she could glimpse The Elle through the city’s artificial canyons. The needle at the heart of Freedom rose from Rhaeticus’s floor to the dome’s roof. Close up it was too large to comprehend, it was overwhelming, but from out here, on the edge, it seemed slender and graceful.

Lifting off her goggles, she twisted her head and stretched to look upwards to the point where The Elle met the top of the dome and passed through. It glowed, sunlight reflecting off its smooth white walls, throwing light into the shadows between the towers. It lifted Gull’s heart. The Elle was the only way out of Freedom. The Elle was escape.

Charlie’s plink-plink chime dragged Gull’s attention back to business. Confirmation had been received. Gull looked down and saw the delivery platform lowering, like an ancient drawbridge, below her. She pushed forward and the paracycle’s nose dipped.

Charlie’s carbon-fibre skeleton groaned softly as they picked up speed. Gull smiled, patting the cycle’s side. Charlie could take it. Gull pedalled harder into the dive, struts straining as she pushed closer to the cycle’s limits.

The wind ripped at her clothing and slapped at her cheeks. Gull’s smile broadened and curled, suddenly reckless, at one corner. She loved to fly. At her back the propeller blurred, its whine all but lost as the wind whipped at her and roared away.

Gull came in fast and tight, pointing Charlie’s nose directly at the landing platform. A warning sounded but she slapped the manual override. At the last possible moment, when it seemed certain she would dash herself against the platform, she yanked back on the stick all her might, hauling Charlie’s nose up and slapping him down hard on to the landing platform. The paracycle bounced once then twice – long, looping and languid in the Moon’s low gravity – then began skidding towards the edge of the platform and a three hundred metre drop. Gull leant against the stick, bringing Charlie’s nose round, bleeding speed, letting the tail slide out until it seemed certain the little glider would topple over the edge. Then she flicked on the magnetic anchor.

The paracycle juddered to a halt slamming Gull forward against her harness then back into her seat.

Gull leant back, dragged her goggles off over her shaven scalp, and pushed back the sweat from her forehead with both palms. The only sound was the soft whine of the paracycle’s propeller, still spinning freely. She patted the frame of the paracycle.

“Good boy, Charlie.”

She reached back and grabbed the parcel, popped the console from its docking port and stepped between Charlie’s carbon fibre ribs onto the landing platform.

The guards were obviously groundhogs. They were clumsy and squat in a way only those born in high gravity could be. Still wrapped in bulky muscles, they were fresh from Earth.

“Do you have a death wish?” One of the guards bounced awkwardly towards Gull. He cradled his rifle in one arm – like a pet. It was a sleek, black M10 and Gull’s opinion of the guard dropped even further. The M10 looked impressive but it had a kick like a jackhammer and if the dumb guard ever actually fired the thing on The Moon he’d be flying arse over tit all the way to Copernicus.

“A girl has got to have some fun,” she said, trying to keep the contempt from her voice.

The guard leered, something dirty on the tip of his tongue, but Gull looked into his eyes and met his gaze nervelessly. She dared him. The joke died, dry in his throat.

“Identification?” The guard tried to reassert himself.

She handed him her company ID.

The guard snapped opened the little case.

On one side was a chip containing her biometric details. The guard ignored it. On the right was a credit chip. He scanned the chip and checked the read out.

“One hundred dollars?” There was contempt in his voice.

Gull sighed. She knew this was going to happen. Groundhogs were always the most trouble.

“It’s one hundred dollars for you, one hundred dollars for the next guy, one hundred dollars for everyone. It’s the going rate. Check the market board.”

The guard shook his head. “This is a free market, I can charge what the market will bear.”

“Well, this market will only bear one hundred dollars,” she stepped away from him, lifting her parcel. “And one of your bosses is waiting for this. If you want to go to arbitration, you can explain to him why his package was late. Is that what you want?”

“Okay! ” The guard raised a hand, suddenly smiling. “You can’t blame a guy for trying.”

She could, but she wouldn’t.

“Can I go now,” Gull read the name on the guard’s badge, “Castor?”

“Sure,” he waved her away. “Look after yourself.”

“No one else will.”

*

It took several moments, but eventually Paitoon was able to open his eyes again. His lips were still making the shapes of a mantra as he tried to calm himself.

A man in a blue uniform was standing in front of him, a sympathetic smile on his face. Paitoon’s head only reached the level of the golden shield emblazoned on his chest. “Freedom Constabulary Inc.” it said.

“Sawatdee-krap,” Paitoon said, performing the wai – placing his hands together at chest height and bowing slightly.

“Constable Hayek, sir,” the man bowed slightly, he had sandy coloured hair and blue eyes. “Do you speak English or should I send for a translator?”

“Pardon,” Paitoon flushed. “No translator necessary. I speak English. My name is Paitoon, Paitoon Chattaponsiri“

The guard looked over his shoulder at the seething mass of people on the station concourse.

“Overwhelming isn’t it?”

“Incredible,” Paitoon nodded, letting his eyes close again for a moment. “I never imagined it could be so huge, so busy…”

“Is this your first time in Freedom?”

“My first time off Earth.”

“I thought so,” Hayek grinned. “You have family here?”

“No. Not yet,” Paitoon looked away. “I have escaped the war. I hope to earn enough to bring my family here soon.”

Constable Hayek nodded slowly.

“You have a job arranged?”

“Not yet, but I’m sure –”

Constable Hayek shook his head.

“Do you have the means to support yourself?” Hayek asked. Paitoon looked at him blankly. “Money? Do you have much money?”

“I spent almost everything I had to get here.”

The constable sighed. “Well then, I’m afraid I must mark you as an indigent migrant. Freedom does not restrict entry, but those who cannot pay for air and water must ­–”

“But I am a programmer,” Paitoon protested. “I am very good. I earn lots of money in Bangkok. I do good work.”

“How many of these people do you think programmers, Paitoon?” The constable said, shaking his head. “There are no jobs. Without money or a company registration you cannot get insurance. Without insurance you cannot get credit, you cannot rent property, you cannot get work. You will have no status. You would be better to go home.”

“Please…” Tears welled in Paitoon’s eyes. “My family. The war.”

Hayek ran a finger over his chin, thinking.

“I’m not supposed to do this,” the constable said. “But there might be a way. I know some people. It won’t be cheap.”

Paitoon reached into his pocket and showed Hayek a small bundle of credit chips.

The constable nodded and gave Paitoon a card and pointed to the back.

“Give this to a man called Kush at this address,” Hayek turned the card over and tapped it, an animated map sprang to life. “That’s how to get there from here.”

Paitoon bowed.

“Thank you very much,” he said, then remembered what the flight attendant had said to the passengers as they left The Elle. “Take care of yourself?”

Hayek laughed, shaking his head. “Look after yourself.”

“Sorry. Very sorry,” Paitoon bowed again. “Look after yourself.”

The constable nodded.

“No one else will.”

*

Dropping the package off took longer than Gull expected. The wage slave behind the reception desk seemed to have had a lobotomy.

By the time she finished her console was flashing frantically with queries from Buck about where she was and a list of jobs she was to bid for. She sighed and shoved open the door to the landing platform.

The first thing Gull noticed was that the guards were huddled in one corner giggling and scanning chips.

Then she saw her paracycle drop away from the landing pad.

“Charlie!”

At first she thought they’d turned off the magnetic tether and let the cycle be blown away, but then Charlie turned sharply right, his wings wobbling, and began to gain height. Gull saw a flash of black hair. Then the cycle swished around the edge of the tower and was gone.

“My ‘cycle,” she turned to the guards. “You bastards let someone steal Charlie.”

The guards had straightened up. They weren’t laughing anymore. Their rifles were levelled at Gull’s belly.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“Shit!” Gull turned back to the now empty open space of the landing pad. “Bastards!”

“If you don’t have any more business here madam, I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask you to leave.” The big guard, Castor, stepped forward. He was grinning.

“I paid you,” Gull said. “We had a contract.”

The guard shook his head and tossed her credit chip back to her. She caught it. It hadn’t been drained.

“It can be very dangerous up here. We wouldn’t want an accident, would we?”

Gull’s shoulders slumped. She nodded. The guards escorted her to the lift.

“Look after yourself,” the guards chorused as the doors slipped closed.

“No one else will,” Gull whispered to herself as she began her journey to The Floor.

*

“Freedom is a dream.”

Everyone who came to Freedom believed it, at least for a moment.

Clutching his only bag and the card the constable had given him, Paitoon forced his way through the mass of people milling around the elephantine columns at the exit to the Elle station.

He stood before The Monument to the Founders, a slender pile of polished golden chains rising fifty meters above the ground. Each chain was at least as thick as a man’s leg and every link had been burst open.

Beneath the monument was a plaque, ten meters tall, with the proclamation of the three laws.

“Freedom is a dream built by man’s imagination,” it began. Paitoon didn’t need to read the words. He knew them by heart. “The dream will be built on three laws. The market is free. What can be bought, may be sold. Do what you want, and so will I. From these simple rules will flow liberty and justice for all.”

Paitoon stood before those broken chains and thought of his family on Earth and of what he’d given up to get here. His father had told Paitoon not to leave the monastery. He had begged him to keep his promise and complete his three-month’s retreat in the sangha. But the war had come so close and there was no shame in leaving.

Paitoon took a final look at the monument and closed his eyes, offering a prayer that his father and his family would soon see it too.

*

Gull was pushed out through what felt like an airlock – one small metal door clanging closed behind her before another swung open – and stepped into what appeared to be a busy street market atop a dump.

This was The Floor. Rotting rubbish fluttered in tottering heaps and the stink forced Gull to pause and fight back the urge to puke. Crowds swept this way and that in fast-moving torrents, each eroding its own path through the rubbish. Between the mounds of detritus, market stalls were wedged up against the side of the towers or huddled on eyots in the heart of the flow of people. Some of the stalls sold food, fresh and cooked, some of them sold clothes or electronics or drugs or people. One or two appeared to be trying to sell the rubbish on which they were built.

She had survived down here before, she told herself, and got out. She could do it again. She could feel the comforting weight of Charlie’s console in her jacket. As long as she still had that, she had a link to his transponder and she could find him.

She needed a Mission. She needed The Church of Christ the Entrepreneur.

*

Kush greeted Paitoon with a broad smile, placed a heavy arm across his shoulders and swept him inside the hostel.

It was not as Paitoon had been expecting.

The ground floor was a busy club. Music thumped loudly, so that the whole room seemed to throb, and a large group of bored looking young men lounged by the bar. Paitoon could make out a few couples leaning close together in dark booths arranged against the wall and on a second level above.

Kush rushed Paitoon through to an elevator.

The elevator pinged and the doors opened onto a narrow corridor, thick red carpet covered the floor and walls.

“I’ll show you your room,” Kush led the way. “And then we can talk about your new job and how you can pay your way.”

*

Missions weren’t hard to find, signposts were on every corner. But the guys blocking Gull’s path meant that getting through The Mission doors was going to be expensive.

Gull could hold her own in a street fight, if she had to, but she was giving a hundred pounds to even the smallest of these guys. Anyway, the ordinance conspicuously strapped to their hips suggested they didn’t do fistfights.

The biggest guy grinned and held out his hand, palm up. Another groundhog. His skin even still had that brown tint that suggested naked, non-fatal exposure to the sun.

“Pay up.”

Gull’s mind raced. She couldn’t afford street tax.

The second thug stepped forward, he could have been the first one’s brother, or clone. He let his hand drop to rest on the handle of his pistol.

“Come on! Don’t waste our time.”

The third one held back, at first Gull hadn’t notice him. He was tall and slender and pale. A Lunie, born and bred, Gull reckoned. He had the lean, rat-like face of someone who’d spent too long on The Floor.

Gull wondered.

“I am looking for escort to The Mission. I cannot pay street tax but I have enough credit to pay one of you the going rate.”

The two groundhogs grinned stupidly at each other, shrugged, reaching for their guns.

“Contract?” The Lunie asked.

“Contract,” Gull replied.

“What?” The first groundhog turned in time to see the butt of the Lunie’s gun catch him flush on the bridge of the nose and drop him, his face a bubbling, bloody mess on the floor. He was trying to scream, a mixture of fury and pain, but his throat was full of his own blood.

As the second groundhog fumbled to drag his gun from its holster he found the sudden blade of a razor-thin knife pressing on his Adam’s apple.

“Drop the gun, Ronnie.” The heavy weapon thudded to the ground. The Lunie nodded at Gull. “Pick it up – and strip Duke as well, before he works out he isn’t dying. Make sure you get the piece in his boot.”

“You better kill me now, you piece of shit,” Ronnie was trying to talk without moving his throat, a trickle of blood was running down the groundhog’s neck.

The Lunie laughed.

“Ronnie, I’m going to take every weapon and credit you have and then I’m going to leave you down here on The Floor. If you pair of witless groundhogs survive long enough to see my face again – and I doubt it – then you’re welcome to do you worst. This lady is not paying me to kill you but, if there’s a next time, I might just do you for free.”

The Lunie kicked out the back of Ronnie’s knees and he collapsed to the ground.

“Thank you,” Gull said.

“No need for thanks as long as you can pay,” the Lunie said, then smiled. “I’m Laslo.”

“I’m Gull,” she looked at the two groundhogs. “What do want to do now?”

“Empty their pockets, then I’m all yours.”

*

They kept Paitoon awake for six days. Someone would punch him, someone would be nice to him, someone would kick him, someone would feed him. At first he’d been overwhelmed by the horror of it all. He’d cried and begged and promised them anything. But by the sixth day, Paitoon had gone cold. The pain and the misery were still there, but he had become detached. His real self was somewhere else.

The first time they raped him, tying his hands and feet to the legs of a table, he had frozen in horror and disbelief. He’d simply refused to accept that this could be really happening. Later he’d kicked and bit and scratched and screamed, fighting them with every ounce of his strength, to no effect. Finally he’d fallen silent again, numb and beyond the kind of pain they could inflict on his body.

“Will you take the job?” Kush asked him.

Paitoon just nodded. He’d been saying yes almost since the moment the beatings had started. He’d have said anything to get them to stop.

But this time he just nodded.

Kush grabbed a handful of Paitoon’s hair and pulled his head up, staring into Paitoon’s eyes.

“Will you take the job?”

“Yes,” Paitoon’s voice was a whisper.

Kush stared at him for a moment longer then let Paitoon’s head drop. Paitoon heard him leave the room.

Paitoon had said yes a thousand times, but this time Kush seemed satisfied. And Paitoon knew that it was because he meant it now. He’d do whatever they wanted. He should never have left the monastery. It was karma. He knew it.

Kush came back, holding a hypodermic.

“This is Zoom,” Kush said, pressing the needle into Paitoon’s arm. “You’ll like it.”

The world began to dance.

*

The lay accountant in The Mission had to check with a Brother before he let her access the grid without paying in advance. Gull explained that they’d make no money if her credit was stopped and the Brother smiled sweetly and nodded.

Gull called base and cleared things with Buck. Technical problems, she’d said, and promised to be back on station tomorrow. He bought it. That gave her credit for another day.

Behind her, the Brother coughed politely.

Gull turned. “I need to find a paracycle.”

The Brother bowed slightly.

“There are many paracycle dealers, the nearest –”

“No,” Gull cut him off. “I need to find a particular paracycle. Mine. It’s been stolen. Can you help?”

“I have sworn to help others,” the Brother said, reaching into his robes for a retinal reader, “and make a profit.”

Gull swiped the reader across her eye and keyed in a figure. It was everything she could afford. She handed it back to The Brother. He checked the figure and then showed it to the accountant.

“And I’ll need a taxi.”

“I am certain that the Lord will look favourably on your gift, my child.”

*

Castor was a regular. He came to the hostel twice a week and, since their first time together, he always asked for Paitoon. Paitoon didn’t mind Castor. He was quick, didn’t talk and always left a generous tip.

This visit started like all the others. Paitoon began to undress, thinking of the money and trying to judge if Kush would think he’d done enough to deserve today’s fix. He could feel the need slithering behind his eyes.

He wanted to zoom.

Paitoon turned and was surprised to see Castor unmoved, sitting on the bed, hands clasped between his knees, staring at the floor.

“I don’t even know your name,” Castor said.

Paitoon closed his eyes. He could cope with the sex, and the beatings, and the humiliation. Zooming helped. He could cope with the violence and the pain. For the times between fixes he’d built a wall in his mind. The things that happened outside the wall happened to someone else, not to him. But he hated the customers who wanted to talk, who behaved as though he was their friend. They chipped away at the wall. They made it all feel real. He hated them.

“I’d like to help you,” Castor said.

Through the window of the hostel room Paitoon could see down a long open canyon between Freedom’s high towers. A flyer bobbed and swooped like a bird.

“Can you get me out of here?” Paitoon said it bitterly, sarcastically. He knew he was trapped. He turned to face Castor. “Can you?”

The big man nodded. “I think so.”

Paitoon paused. That wasn’t what he’d expected.

“Why would you help me?”

Castor looked up, meeting Paitoon’s gaze for the first time. He was a boy.

“I love you,” Castor said very softly.

Paitoon turned back to the window.

“You could live with me,” Castor insisted.

Paitoon turned back.

“I love you too.”

“I knew it,” Castor leapt across the room and grasped Paitoon, pulling him closer. “I knew it!”

*

Gull had no time for the Church’s religion but she had to concede that they were efficient. Within ten minutes the Brother had returned with a small tracking device and an address.

“Your initial payment covers the use of this device,” he held out the tracker, “for a twenty-four hour period. If, by the end of that period, it has not been returned to a certified representative of The Church of Christ the Entrepreneur you will be charged at these additional rates.”

The Brother held out a pad. She thumbed down through the terms and conditions. The rental rates for the tracker were exorbitant but it didn’t matter. If she didn’t have Charlie back in twenty-four hours, The Church could join the back of the line of creditors who’d be queuing up for a pound of her flesh.

She blinked into the pad and handed it back.

The Brother nodded.

“A taxi has won the bidding for your contract. Are you ready to leave?”

“Tell him I’ll be ready in ten minutes,” Gull said. “There’s one more thing I need to do.”

*

Stealing the paracycle had been easy. Castor bribed the security crew to get Paitoon into the building and the receptionist to delay the girl while they busted the locks.

Flying the paracycle, though, was altogether more difficult. Paitoon wobbled off the tower’s landing pad easily enough and turned quickly to get out-of-sight, just in case the girl was armed, but almost at once he realised he was dangerously out of his depth.

The little flier was being buffeted back and forth between Freedom’s immense towers. Paitoon was swept back and forth, up and down, on an invisible, violent roller coaster of rocketing updrafts and plummeting downdrafts.

Paitoon gripped the control-stick in two pale-knuckled, sweat-slicked hands, hunched down in his seat, and pedalled harder. He looked down at the computer’s controls and, timidly, twitched the control stick to the left, altering course as instructed.

The console he’d plugged into the paracycle’s computer had been expensive but it was old and not perfectly compatible with these more modern systems. He had, however, been able to create a simple emulator to allow him to get most of the basic functions working. Later he’d reprogram the whole thing.

Suddenly, a slicing crosswind burst from between two towers. It caught the raised wingtip of the paracycle and flipped the flier over, filling the wings like a sail.

All across the computer console lights flashed a frantic red. Paitoon jerked at the control stick. The paracycle refused to respond. It wrenched, twisted and turned. Helpless, Paitoon was thrown about in his harness.

A downdraft ripped at the flier, tossing it, nose down, towards to distant floor. Paitoon felt the wind rip at his face. To one side a silver tower was so close he felt sure that he could reach out and touch it. Looking down, the gap between the tower and its neighbour appeared to narrow. Somewhere, down there, was The Floor. Paitoon closed his eyes. How long will I fall, he wondered.

But after a few moments he felt himself tugged sideways. The console beeped.

The paracyle jerked again.

The flier was levelling off.

The lights on the computer turned green.

Paitoon looked at the console screen. A message was flashing.

“Warning: Do not exceed aircraft tolerances. Emergency recovery procedures in effect.”

For a long moment, Paitoon gawped helplessly. He had not known that was possible. He patted the computer box and began to pedal again.

“Khawp khun, little flier.”

*

Getting inside had been easy. Gull showed the guards an empty parcel, her company identity and paid them with credit. They waved her through.

Inside, she tried to look like she knew where were she was going. She made confident, but not aggressive, eye contact with each of the groundhogs she met in the corridor. This was a company building. The same company that she’d called at this morning. Someone there had set this whole thing up. One of the guards? They hadn’t seemed smart enough.

She glanced at the tracker again. She was on the right floor. It must be just down that corridor.

Then the signal went dead.

Gull tapped the tracker against her palm.

Nothing.

She reset it, waiting nervously in the narrow corridor, trying to look like she belonged.

Still nothing.

She sighed.

She’d have to try every door on the floor and hope that someone recognised her.

*

Paitoon had finished making all the modifications and was getting ready to leave when the doorbell rang. He checked the room’s security system and saw a messenger girl in the corridor holding a parcel. He opened the door with his hand out, wondering whether Castor had ordered something else that he might be able to sell.

He stood there for a moment, arm extended, wondering why she wasn’t giving him the parcel? He looked up into the girl’s face. She was shaven-headed and had that deathly white shade that marked out real Lunies. They all looked the same to him.

Then the pieces clicked into place. He looked left, to where the paracycle sat folded against the wall and a wave of panic broke over him.

“Yet mang!” Paitoon tried to slam the door but it bounced back off the girl’s foot, jammed into the frame. Paitoon grabbed the door with both hands and tried to force it shut, but the girl slipped her body between the door and the frame.

“I want my cycle,” the girl said softly. “Just give me Charlie.”

Suddenly the pressure on the door increased. Paitoon was driven back across the room, scrabbling to stay on his feet. He crashed with a thud against the far wall. His hand brushed a bag full of Castor’s stuff. His gun was on top, just out of reach.

The girl was standing inside the doorway.

“I just want my ‘cycle,” she said.

Paitoon lunged for the gun.

Pfft!

An insect bit the side of his neck.

No. That was wr-

*

Gull weighed the stunner in her palm, looking down at the little Asian lying on the floor. She didn’t know enough about Earth to be able to say exactly where he was from, but she was fascinated by how fragile he seemed. He could have been a Lunie.

Gull checked the other rooms. She was cautious but, she reckoned, if there’d been anyone home the sound of the struggle at the door would have brought them running.

Her plan had been to take Charlie and leave, but when Gull saw that little guy had been hacking at the console, she realised she was going to have to wait until he woke up. He’d done something to the systems. She couldn’t make her console fit and she couldn’t fly the paracycle without it. He’d have to fix it.

Finding the bag full of credit chips, a stash of Zoom and a good quality pistol, all the way from earth – worth plenty of credits – had made her pause. That was an extra complication she’d liked. It wasn’t what she’d come for, but she decided she’d deserved the money for what the little guy had put her through. Today had been expensive as well as frustrating.

She propped the bag next to the door. She pushed the little thief up against the sofa on one side of the room and sat in an armchair opposite him, setting the stunner on her knee. Then she sorted out her insurance.

*

When Paitoon awoke he was slumped on the sofa. His arms and legs were numb. He could feel a stream of warm spittle pooling at the base of his neck. It was strangely comforting.

He looked up.

The girl, the one he’d stolen the paracycle from, was sitting opposite him. She had the stunner levelled at his chest.

Paitoon tried to move his arm, but it flopped uselessly at his side. He noticed the girl’s eyes flicker at the movement. She was nervous.

“Tell me what you’ve done to Charlie,” the girl said.

Paitoon shook his head.

“Whomf?” His lips and tongue felt as unresponsive as his arms and legs.

“The paracycle,” the girl waved the stunner towards the machine. “What have you done to the systems?”

“Maggin’ it c’mpabable…” Paitoon shook his head in frustration. The stuff was wearing off, but it was hard to speak.

The girl ignored him walking over to Charlie, poking suspiciously at the changes he made.

“Fix it.” She turned back towards him, waving the stunner. “Put it back.”

He shook his head.

“’s beddah!”

“What?”

“Beddah!” Paitoon tried nodding at the console.

“Better?”

*

Gull watched as Paitoon started working on Charlie.

Something was bothering her.

“How did you plan to get jobs?”

“Wha?” Paitoon looked up over the edge of the magnifying lens he was using while working on the electronics.

“Jobs?” Gull waved the stunner around. “How were you going to get jobs with the paracycle. You haven’t got a company registration.”

“I do not need one,” the little guy was smiling broadly. He tapped the console he’d jury-rigged to Charlie’s systems. “I’ve set it up to adopt a different registration identity for every bid. Each one looks like a platinum-rated ID. No one ever checks up on identities with a high-trust rating but even if they did, by the time they’ve blocked one bid I would have already moved on.”

“But the whole system depends on the market being secure, everyone knows it can’t be hacked. The encryption -“

“The encryption is intact. I cannot read other people’s messages. The network is secure, but people are not,” Paitoon was suddenly quite animated. “Each bid is supposed to be authorised with a unique registration identity as it leaves each company. But people get bored or lazy so they do them in batches with the same code key. My console scans the network for clumps of messages from one node sent at the same time. It can then compare the identifier codes and construct a valid pattern that fits within the pattern of the clump and attaches it to my bid.”

“So you can bid without a company?”

“Yes.”

“But someone will work it out eventually?”

“Perhaps. But by then I should have enough money to incorporate – and I’ll have a trust-level based on delivering platinum-rated contracts.”

“I don’t…” The girl’s forehead creased in concentration. Paitoon watched, interesting to see if she could work it out. “Ah, I get it. The bidding and the trust rating systems are separate. You bid with the fake corporate identity for the bid, but when you complete the order you present the console and take the payment and trust-points to you own identity –”

” – just like any sub-contractor,” Paitoon smiled.

“Smart,” the girl shook her head. “And you worked this out by yourself?”

“I’m a good programmer. No one would believe me when I arrived,” Paitoon looked away, a mournful expression on his face. “I earned a lot of money in Bangkok, before the war.”

“You know what that means,” she pointed to the console.

Paitoon nodded.

“Freedom,” they both said together.

Then the door opened.

*

Gull watched the guard come through the door, dumping a bag of gear on the floor, unaware of anything unusual. She recognised him at once.

“Hello Castor.”

“Huh?” Castor turned, confusion spreading across his face. It took a moment for him to spot Gull sitting in her seat opposite the door. It took a moment longer for recognition to be flash across his face. And it took longer still for him to realise that he should be reaching for his gun.

“Don’t move, Castor,” Gull waved the stunner as menacingly as she could. “Your friend Paitoon can tell you what sort of sting this thing can deliver.”

“How did she get in?” Castor was looking at Paitoon.

The little guy opened his mouth but Gull hushed him.

“You concentrate on my flier, Paitoon,” her eyes never left Castor. “You know for a building full of company guards, security around her is a joke.”

Castor grumbled something, and started scanning the room. His eyes fixed on the bag of credits and the gun. He took half a step.

“Don’t do it Castor!”

The guard just leered and began to reach down.

Pfft!

The stunner’s compressed air jet fired a needle into Castor’s chest.

Dunk!

That wasn’t right.

Castor laughed – opening his jacket to reveal his work uniform – mesh and body-armour – beneath. Gull could see the little needle futilely trying to pump its sac of venom into the unfeeling plastic.

He put his hand on the gun.

“Don’t do it Castor.”

Castor laughed harder.

“How long do you think it will take that little peashooter of yours to recharge? A lot less time than it will take me to load this – so screw you, you’re dead.”

Castor checked the pistol, it was unloaded. He reached into the bag, looking for a full clip. Then he stopped. He pulled out a watch and some jewellery.

“This is my stuff! But this was all in the vault. How did you get this stuff?”

“I didn’t,” Gull shrugged, looking at Paitoon. “He had it all packed up when I arrived.”

“Paitoon?”

“I was almost free,” the little guy didn’t look up from the work he was doing on the console.

“After all I did for you?”

At this Paitoon did look up and Gull could see the hate in his eyes.

Castor rocked back, his face an image first of abject misery that morphed quickly into fury. He delved into the back, coming up with a full clip.

“Stop, Castor,” Gull stepped towards him. “You don’t want to do this.”

“Shut up!” The guard swept out a heavy arm and caught Gull across the side of the head. She sprawled across the room, tripping over a sofa and dropping to her knees.

Gull reached for for her stunner, but it was gone.

“I think I’d like to invoke my insurance policy now,” she said.

Laslo stepped from his hiding place in Castor’s bedroom, two pistols levelled.

“Put down the gun, Castor,” Gull said.

*

Paitoon saw the stranger, another Lunie, step out of the darkness of the bedroom and heard Gull warn Castor but he could tell that, even if the guard was aware of what was happening around him, he wasn’t paying attention.

He watched Castor finally succeed in slamming the clip into the pistol, flip the safety and pull back the slide to put a bullet in the chamber.

“Stop it Castor!” Gull was shouting.

“Castor!” Paitoon tried to put himself between Castor and the Lunie. “Don’t do this!”

Castor’s eyes were fat with tears. His chin was trembling. He looked like a child having a tantrum. Castor brought the pistol up, pointing at Paitoon’s chest.

Gull said something that Paitoon couldn’t make out over the pounding of blood in his ears.

Crack! Crack!

Castor slumped back against the apartment wall. Two roses of blood blossomed on his chest. His pistol flew across the room, landing at Gull’s feet.

For a moment there was absolute silence.

Paitoon found himself kneeling beside Castor, cradling his hand, gazing into the piercing stare of dead eyes.

“You silly boy,” Paitoon whispered and found his throat constricting and his eyes burning.

*

“Does he have insurance?” Laslo leant over Castor’s dead body. Gull took the opportunity to dip and scoop Castor’s pistol from the floor. She slipped it into her waistband at the small of her back.

Paitoon looked up, trying to compose himself.

“Does he have insurance?” Laslo pointed one of his pistols at Paitoon’s head.

“Yes… no…”

“Which is it?” Laslo pressed the gun barrel into Paitoon’s forehead. “Retard!”

“Not for this,” Paitoon took a deep breath. “His company provided him with investigation and retribution insurance but it only covered him while he was on duty.”

“Good,” Laslo smiled, poking Castor’s arm with his boot. Then, satisfied that Castor was dead, he turned to Gull. “So, contract fulfilled?”

Gull nodded, suddenly aware that two pistols were pointing at her midriff.

“Well you can keep your cash,” Laslo grabbed Paitoon by the collar and dragged him to his feet. “I’ll take this retard, his little console and that bag, and we’ll call it quits.”

“No! Please!” Paitoon squirmed but the Lunie pressed the gun to his neck and he settled down.

“Get your console,” the Lunie pushed Paitoon across the room. “You are going to make me rich.”

“I can’t you let take him,” Gull said.

“You can’t stop me,” Laslo smiled broadly.

Slowly Gull began to reach around behind her back, feeling for the butt of the pistol. The smile disappeared from Laslo’s face.

“And if you so much as touch that gun you’ve got tucked back there, I’ll blow your stupid head off.”

Gull froze and was suddenly aware that she’d underestimated the Lunie.

“In fact, I think I might have to kill you anyway,” Laslo walked across the room, his spidery limbs picking a path between overturned furniture.

“There’s no profit in it,” Gull said, trying to meet Laslo’s gaze.

“But maybe I think that you know too much about the retard’s clever little machine,” Laslo raised a pistol. “Maybe you’d report me to the Chamber, just to get your own back.”

Gull tried to take a step backwards, but she was already pressed against the wall. She raised her hands.

“Laslo, I…”

The Lunie put a finger to his lips.

“Stop!” Paitoon yelped.

“Shut up retard!” Laslo didn’t even turn round and Gull’s view was blocked.

“This is your last warning!”

Laslo laughed.

“What are you going to do, little man?” Laslo glanced over his shoulder then stopped laughing, taking a step to one side.

Paitoon was clutching Gull’s stunner.

“That thing isn’t even charg-“

Pfft!

Laslo’s eyes rolled back in his head and his mouth dropped open. Then his knees trembled, gave and, slowly, he collapsed to the floor.

“That bastard was going to kill me,” Gull said, lashing out with her boot against Laslo’s unprotected sides. Then she stopped, and turned to look at Paitoon. “You saved my life!”

Then she turned to the wall and puked.

*

Paitoon brought the girl a drink of water and she rinsed her mouth.

“Thank you.”

“Mai pen rai,” Paitoon dipped into a wai. “You’re welcome.”

“So I guess we should get out of here.”

“I certainly do not wish to be around when he wakes up,” Paitoon nodded at Laslo.

“Mmm,” Gull wiped at her mouth, then she looked over at her paracycle, Charlie. “Is he fixed?”

“Yes,” Paitoon looked away. “I am sorry for the trouble I caused you.”

Gull wandered over to the work table and picked up Paitoon’s hacked console.

“Do you really think this thing will work?”

“I am certain of it, at least for a while.”

Gull took another three steps to where Charlie lay folded against the wall. She stroked the paracycle’s wings.

“I won’t be your slave,” Paitoon said. “I won’t live like that any more. If that’s what you expect, then you’d better kill me now, because I won’t work for you.”

“I’m not going to kill you.” Gull scratched at the stubble on the top of her head. “Did you enjoy your flight in Charlie?”

“It was terrifying!” Paitoon’s complexion paled visibly at the memory.

“Then maybe we do a deal,” Gull said. “You run the technology, I’ll do the flying and we share the profits. We’ll call it a cooperative.”

Paitoon’s eyes narrowed.

“But I thought you Lunies only looked after yourselves.”

“Can your scam make both of us rich?”

“I think so,” Paitoon nodded. “With luck.”

“Then if I look after you, I am looking after myself. Right?”

Paitoon smiled.

“Contract?” Gull held out a hand. “Contract,” Paitoon replied.

“Freedom” was first published in Jupiter SF #12

FREEDOM was originally published on Welcome To My World

[kingofthenorth49]

Potholes on the information superhighway, and other things to miss

So as I sit hear listening to the sound of the wave gently caressing the soft sandy soiled walls of the eroding bank in front of our COVID driven overly expensive waterfront view, I’m staring at two words blinking at me from the screen of my laptop that are causing me to smile, that deep internally satisfying smile we only get when something so perfect touches our souls.

No internet.

Now that may send shivers down the spine of even the most hardened 15-year old gamer as they sit in front of their Xbox One for the 100th time as it does a 12 gig regular update, but not me, it brings a sense of inner peace. See I’m a gen X’er, born during Canada’s centennial and raised on skinned knees, streetlight hide and seek, and the best music generation of all times, if you discount the renaissance. Love me some Mozart.

But why would the lack of access to the internet of things, an absence of bit transfer, make me so happy?

Because we have become enslaved by technology, and we are indebted to a few technocrats who now control almost every aspect of our lives. Don’t believe me? Leave your phone at home for a day. Let me know how that works out for you.

Think about how easy it is to unperson someone now. They unpersoned the President of the United States in under a day, so think about how easy it would be to make you disappear from society. If you’ve ever read Orwell’s 1984 you’d understand how immensely easy Winston Smith’s job would be in 2021, how quickly you could scrub the very existence of a person from society should a bad actor, say like a government bureaucrat who didn’t like a post you made on twitter criticizing their political candidate. They can shut off your access to your bank account with a keystroke, no cash for you and speaking of cash, once our current paper/plastic currency goes away that control gets even tighter as you won’t make a single transaction without the government knowing about it, and eventually approving it.

Approving it you say? The government can’t tell me what I can and cannot buy! Really? C’mon Prole, you have a short memory. It was only a few weeks ago Walmart had to caution tape off clothing aisles in their stores across Canada so the unwashed masses couldn’t buy new clothes because they aren’t essential goods.

Well I’m glad to hear that, that mandate will fit well into my retirement plans, but I digress....

China has had a social credit system for some time; it’s a way the ruling class keeps the Proles in line. You write blogs like this that criticize the government; they turn off your access to things like travel. Miss too many days at work this month? No access to smokes or liquor for 60 days. Click. Unpaid parking tickets? Forget about booking that cruise Winston.

Do you think I’m making this up like some dude in 1948 writing about Ministries of Truth? Do you think this isn’t coming? It’s coming at us like a drug infused Charlie Sheen at dollar night at Baby Dolls.

Think vaccine passports. Seems innocuous (pun intended) enough doesn’t it. I mean countries have always required vaccinations to travel into them right? But here’s what you aren’t thinking about. If I wanted to travel to Mozambique I’d need a malaria vaccination, maybe a few others, but it’d be my choice to get vaccinated to do the travel. If I didn’t want to be vaccinated, I’d just not travel to Africa in the first place. No biggie.

But they are pushing to vaccinate the world population all at once, all for a bad flu (yes, I know people died, but people die every single day from the same family of viruses, some years more than others) and at the same time some countries are trying to mandate vaccination passports, like Canada for example. I bet most of you didn’t know that the Government of the right dishonourable sock puppet, the crime Minister of Canada, the son of Fidel himself has issues a request for proposal to tech companies to develop and operate a biometric identification system to imprint Canadian subjects’ identities to vaccination status.

That’s right, if you live in Canada soon you will be required to give up your biometric information to the government in exchange for a few beans, that is as long as you follow the mandated vaccination schedule and eat all your veggies. Think my tinfoil hat is on too tight? I’d challenge you to sit down and do some research on some of the bills Trudopes minions are tabling right now. They literally aren’t hiding their agenda any longer they’ve become that bold.

Combine that with the mass buying of single family homes buy large equity funds like Blackrock. There’s no conspiracy theory, both CBC and the National Post have reported on this, and it’s not new, large corporations have for a long time controlled the majority of the residential rental market but now they’ve changed strategy and have started buying homes in suburbia.

Why?

Control.

By 2030 you will own nothing and you’ll be happy. This is the agenda of the progressives, to even the playing field for everyone, equality is the end goal to ensure everyone is equal. Except them. Someone has to live in the farmhouse and drink the milk, you know, for brains and stuff.

Within the next decade those who stare at goats will control every aspect of our lives through the use of technology. Gone will be the days of individual freedoms and opportunity. It’s not a far stretch from where we already are if you think about it, we can easily be cancelled nowadays for simply sending the wrong 128 character combination across the IoT. Remember Jim? Oh yeah, he was a pot stirrer right up until the time he posted that tweet about JT’s wife liking chocolate better than vanilla then POOF he was gone. Whatever happened to him?

Holy squirrel’s batman, it’s hard to focus this morning. Sorry.

We give children iPhones and then can’t understand why they become introverted and troll their friends on social media by the time they are 12 or spend their nights locked in their bedrooms talking to strangers or conducting cam shows for magic tokens they can trade for new possessions.

This pandemic just helped that little model move up the greatest hits chart just a wee bit faster now didn’t it. I heard the word “Cave syndrome” for the first time yesterday, a connotation that some people will have a hard time re-integrating into society once things “open up”, and by “open up” I mean our tormentors allowing us by virtue of some untold regulation to resume our lives in a new normal.

A new normal of more control.

The allegory of the cave is a good one (double points right there folks!). Yes, I was going all Socrates/Plato on that one. Most people do not grasp the enormity of the reality of where we are going, nor do I think they even care because they have been facing the blank wall for way too long and have developed Stockholm syndrome as a result. If you don’t know that the water temperature is increasing, and you are enjoying what you think is a hot tub fiesta, well then all of this will be lost on you anyway so you might as well embrace the bubbles. Technology is a double edged sword that we’ve swallowed whole, damn the torpedoes. We have become so dependent I fear there’s no escape what’s next.

But not here.

Blink. Blink. No Internet.

I’m going to ensure there’s always a Barchetta stored here, you know, for the future, it just likely won’t be red. Red cars always attract attention.

For now I’ll enjoy the sound of the surf, the wind through the trees, and the feel of the cover of a good book in my hands as society races to obliterate itself at an alarming rate, one I’ll never understand. And I know one thing, i’ll use my phone to access the ‘net when needed, then shut it off when not. That’s freedom folks, that’s what I was promised, and that’s what I’m living.

Namaste.

[odairinga]

CONTINUED / @tovska​

concentration cannot be broken by the sound of his love’s voice. in swirls of blue and grey, the ocean comes alive upon soft skin, and fingertips coated in the thick color trace carefully the lines that have created. there has been the beginnings of a soft grin tugging away the furrowed brow that has marked his focus for the past minutes, and though his hand will notstop, and he will not dare mess up what he wants so dearly to perfect, finnick will bring a new fullness to his smile.

and though the soft laugh that follows does not disturb the quiet murmur of the waves crashing outside open windows, still it cannot be unnoticed —- how often does such a laugh escape a throat that has nearly been crushed by cruelty? however often do lungs that have flailed beneath lifelong oppression remember what it is to breathe so freely? let the simplicity and the beauty of this moment cover the scars that have torn their flesh like this paint has attempted to do —- let the tenderness shared in touch revive the worth that others have sought to kill. they do not need to think of it any more, because it has ended.

( or this is what he tells himself, but memories are the sea and his soul the shore : they will be forever joined, and when storms rage, one will try toswallow the other whole. )

“ it’s all covered in paint. ” there is something light and youthful in this tone —- from it, one might even forget how quickly he has been forced to grow up, and how that youth is but the shattered pieces of a childhood he had never been allowed to have. “ go and see what i did. ” gentle encouragement is followed by the press of that hand against a familiar shoulder, and when it is drawn away, without thought rhaelar brushes white strands from his forehead, and leaves upon his temple a marbled steak of white and soft blue.

PLEASURE  RADIATES  FROM  EACH  STROKE  OF  THE  BRUSH  ACROSS  TANNED  SKIN.  a  happy  smile  is  tucked  into  his  cheeks,  half  concealed  against  the  pillow  on  which  he  rests.  rhaelar  is  intentional  with  his  work  and  surely  a  masterpiece  has  been  created,  but  finnick  could  never  bring  himself  to  much  care  about  quality.  what  matters  is  that  the  hand  moving  in  patterns  across  his  back  is  the  only  one  he’s  ever  wished  to  hold.  shades  of  blue  and  gray  will  conceal  what  faint  scars  have  carved  his  body,  and  the  love  that  guides  each  movement  is  what  has  eased  the  pain  of  those  wounds—  what  has  allowed  the  endless  trust  he  feels  that  has  led  to  this  vulnerability. 

what  peace  have  they  found  together  after  anguish  to  flood  lifetimes!  there  are  moments  when  chaos  still  screams  and  rattles  the  foundations  of  what  they  have  built,  but  now  all  is  quiet.  right  now,  the  past  is  a  mountain  conquered  and  they  stand  among  its  peaks.

the  press  against  a  shoulder  far  more  relaxed  than  normal  is  understood,  and  upon  its  absence,  the  stroke  of  the  paintbrush  is  missed.  finnick  could  lie  there  till  he  dies,  he  thinks,  simply  accepting  his  dearest’s  affections  in  a  state  of  bliss,  listening  to  the  music  that  is  each  collision  of  waves  upon  the  sandy  shore.  warm  sunlight  has  caressed  exposed  skin  and  surely  illuminated  the  art  piece  he  now  wears  along  the  curve  of  his  spine,  coated  over  an  old  tattoo.   

“  I  don’t  want  to  move.  this  is  too  nice.  my  phone’s  on  the  table—  take  a  picture  for  me,  would  you?  ”  

[bearfeat42]

Getting married to papa iii and becoming mama Emeritus as a prompt

Soft, naked fingers ran upfrom Elizabeth’s fingers to her wrist, no further, and then back. He had takenoff his gloves to feel her warm skin. There was no one here to see it nowanyway. Elizabeth smiled at his touch, and hooked a pinky behind his. They weresilent, content, listening to the sounds the car made.

Emeritus had insisted on ablack matte Rolls Royce Phantom, because of course he had, and she had told himshe’d wear white. They both laughed over the irony.

She felt beautiful though inthis white lace dress. She thought it brought out her graceful collar bones andlong legs. She wore heels that made her just a bit taller than he was, but inhis full papal attire they both looked so majestic it had silenced them themoment they were both dressed. The ghoul driver looked at Elizabeth through therearview mirror and answered her gleeful smile. This day was going to beglorious.

‘I’m not taking your name.’She had whispered to him after a long night of passion, and he had smiled andkissed her temple, because of course she wouldn’t. He had explained then that atitle would still come with their marriage.

‘I thought you were asking formy hand, not offering me a job.’ She had said, burying her face in his neck.

‘You’ll be a great Mama.’ Hehad whispered back. Elizabeth looked at him, eyes suddenly dark.

‘What?’

‘You’ll be a great MamaEmeritus.’

‘No.’ She hissed. ‘Call meMama again.’

Emeritus exhaled, slowly. ‘Mama…’he started. Elizabeth took his hand and led it to her lips. Seductively, she ranher tongue over his fingers.

‘You like that, Mama?’ Thepope said breathlessly.

 ‘We’re almost there.’ Theghoul driver woke them from their blissful daydreams as they drove up the long sandyroad to the chapel in the Lincopia woods. Papa Emeritus took both her handsnow, and they looked at each other. The moment went on and on.

‘I am so happy.’ He whispered.A single tear shining in the corner of his eye.

‘I am so happy.’ Elizabeth’svoice broke, but she swallowed hard. ‘Don’t ruin my makeup, dear. The sister’stried so hard to make something of all this.’ She laughed aloud and maybe alittle nervously. A sob escaped, but she steadied herself. She moved a hand inhis neck and kissed him gently. They both lingered, even when the Rolls Roycehad stopped. They heard cheering and applause. Elizabeth wiped the vague smudgeof lipstick from his mouth with her thumb.

Dozens of sisters and ghoulswaited for them and cheered as Papa stepped out of the car and placed the miteron his dark hair, then walked around the vehicle to open the door for hisbride. He offered her his arm as she stepped out, and she was welcomed withcheering and clapping too. He held a straight face, nervous but determined, butElizabeth smiled widely, soaking up the attention and waving at her friends.The choir stood up as they entered, and the brother behind the organ startedplaying.

The priestess took both theirleft hands as they came to a halt at the altar. She bound them together with apiece of purple cloth.

‘Pagan, heathen, theist.’ Shesaid. ‘Sceptic, sinner, lover. Bride and groom.’ She bowed to the two of them,her words echoing through the chapel.

‘We are here to celebrate yourunholy, undying love. The love we feel in Him, but which you command, cherishand feed together. You have chosen each other to hold, protect and worship theway you hold, protect and worship yourselves.’

She took a candle from the altarand raised it to the south. ‘We call upon the element of Fire to come serve us,for we are Satan! Flame the passion of Elizabeth and Papa Emeritus the Thirdand fill them with all-consuming lust for each other!’

She took the burning incenseand raised it to the east. ‘We call upon the element of Air to come serve us,for we are Lucifer! Consciousness flows, one to another, so this couple mayshare mutual wisdom and unified vision.’

She took the crystal andraised it to the north. ‘We call upon the element of Earth to come serve us,for we are Belial! Your strength and constancy shall keep them together for aslong as they both shall live.’

Lastly, she took the chalicefilled with wine and raised it to the west. ‘We call upon the element of Waterto come serve us, for we are Leviathan! Grant Elizabeth and Papa Emeritus theThird the quality of serenity and patience and a love as deep as the ocean.’

She placed both hands overPapa’s and Elizabeth hands, and closed her eyes. She sang:

“We’re standinghere by the abyss

And the world isin flames

Two star-crossedlovers reaching out

To the beast withmany names”

Elizabeth heard a humming riseup in the chapel. The choir stood up again and sang the chorus in beautifulharmonies, but the rest of the ghouls and sisters sang along too.

“He is

He’s the shiningand the light

Without whom I cannotsee

And he is

Insurrection, heis spite,

he’s the forcethat made me be…”

Elizabeth closed her eyes andlet the pleasant and intense melody flow through her. Emeritus’ hand was warmin hers, and those of the priestess felt soft and wrinkly. When the song cameto a close, she looked at her groom, and saw the same emotion she had seenearlier, in the car. A sole tear ran down his cheek, glistening, beautiful. Itwas full of promise.

‘Elizabeth.’ He said her namesoftly, but it sounded through the chapel as the voices died out. ‘My love. Mymistress, my goddess, my woman. I pledge my life to you. I promise to be yourtrue friend, your partner, your support and strength. Watch me bleed for you.’

‘Papa Emeritus.’ Elizabethsaid. ‘My love, my master, my morning star. I pledge my life to you. I promiseto be your true friend, your support and strength. Watch me bleed for you.’

With shaking hands, they tookthe dagger from the priestess, Papa’s hand over hers, and moved it between thehands that were loosely tied together. Elizabeth felt how Papa drew her handcloser with his fingers before they sharply pulled back, leaving an acute painin their wounded left hands. Elizabeth gasped and her breath got stuck in herthroat for a second. It wasn’t a deep cut, but she had to clench her jaw not tocurse aloud. She saw Emeritus hold himself still, tightening his shoulders.Then, she felt the sticky substance run down her wrist. His blood mergedtogether with hers.

‘Elizabeth, I carry you inheart and spirit.’

‘Papa Emeritus, I carry you inheart and spirit.’

‘Light cannot be without dark.’The voice of the priestess sounded through the church again. Neither hasmeaning without the other.’ She untied the purple cloth around their hands andplaced it on the altar. She handed Papa a can of black and white paint, andspoke more as Papa delicately applied the skull paint to Elizabeth’s face. Heavoided the neat makeup around her eyes and lips. It didn’t have to be perfect,as this was just a ritual.

‘As the One Below is mywitness, and so are the Fire, the Air, the Earth and the Water, let your Spiritbe one. I pronounce you husband and wife.’

Papa grabbed the cloth fromthe altar and wiped his smudged fingers on it, giving Elizabeth a boyish grin. ‘HellMama Emeritus!’ he roared.

‘Hell Mama Emeritus!’ thecongregation answered.

Elizabeth worked her handsaround his back and pulled him in to seal the ritual with a passionate kiss.

[100morepod-blog]

Episode 6 - The Self Righteous Mind Post Mortem

              It’s always been interesting to me that so many people could be confronted with so many hard facts, and yet decided simply to ignore them. The facts must be wrong. We are now living in a time where facts have the amazing ability to have an agenda.               

              Being a mere mortal on this Earth and not having studied history as extensively as would be necessary, I cannot tell you much about political discourse and rhetoric have changed in the past handful of centuries or even decades. Certainly there was always an element of drama to them as some of the most famous and infamous politicians I am aware of (Lincoln and Hitler come to mind) have been known to be great and impressive orators. The orator that most readily comes to mind at time of writing is in this podcaster’s opinion unworthy to be compared with such masters of human speech, but there is no denying that we are all waiting for him to leave office to see if he has brought about an irreperable sea change in political discourse or if he will take it all with him when he goes.

              During the Obama presidency (a presidency I did not personally vote for or endorse), I like many frequently heard the sarcastic refrain “Thanks Obama.” Admittedly I was much less politically aware than I am now as I am succumbing to the stereotype of becoming more attuned to politics the older I get, but I never felt any noticeable harm or difference good or ill to my life throughout those two terms. I recall very recently turning to my dear friend Momo and saying “I believe Obama will largely be remembered as a caretaker president. He didn’t do anything egregiously bad or good, and mostly he was the first black president.”

              That’s not to say he won’t have his own legacy in the short term - a legacy that his successor is hellbent on dismantling in lieu of actual policy or governance. But anything done through executive orders can be undone by a new executive, and the Republicans who today cry “obstructionist Democrats” stonewalled any piece of legislation that Obama looked upon favorably. Such is the politics of today. Tomorrow a Democrat will regain the presidency and the Republicans will shout tyranny and the Democrats will complain obstruction, and not much will get done unless a lobbyist backed by powerful corporations says so.

              This all sounds very bleak, and I mean it to be so. Today I watched children on the news speaking on the need for some kind - any kind - of gun legislation to (and it pains me heartily to phrase it so) decrease the number of mass shootings that take place in what we call the greatest country in the world. Yet rather than empathy, those who viewed any regulation of firearms saw enemies, and their righteous minds seized on any small shroud of evidence that these were paid “crisis actors” after seeing one of these children rehearsing the speech he would give.

              Before this, families torn apart by the Sandy Hook Massacre fled their homes and moved out of state to escape the death threats they received for being “crisis actors” in the pocket of the liberal anti-gun agenda. The claim being that Sandy Hook was a hoax. No children died, and these people’s grief and pain are met with open hostility rather than compassion because they dared to ask that further harm be prevented.

              I can’t pretend to understand such pain. It shames me to say so, but I have never been so close to my family as I have seen others be. And yet, when I imagine receiving a phone call from the police saying that my little nephews or niece were at school when such an event took place... I lack the prosaic skill to describe the dread and disgust I feel.

              Often times I think of the superheroes I grew up idolizing. Batman stands out as having one singular and well defined rule - “Thou shalt not kill.” It’s a good rule in my opinion. No matter how many bones he breaks, or years of therapy the people he terrifies will need, Batman abstains from killing, and that’s something. In Batman Begins he makes the point that this specific rule is important because it makes him different from the criminals he hunts. It sounds so wonderful and heroic on the screen and in print. But putting it into practice proves to be so much more difficult.

              I imagine that like me, most of those who might read this have done pretty well at abstaining from killing, but I would challenge you to go a step further. It sounds so tired and trite I realize for me to say this again, but love thy neighbor. If you are truly “righteous,” if you are truly different from those evil conservatives, those evil liberals, those who would take your guns, those who would let you die rather than enact change, then love them. I am so very far from Jesus, so I won’t ask you to turn the other cheek. Fight. Fight with every fiber of your being for the change that you believe is right with the world. But I implore every American who reads this to remember that the enemy they fight is not an enemy. Simply another “righteous” mind fighting for what they believe in.

 Respectfully and with Love,

Geo