#[ cut off most of the test muses and a good chunk of people i never really played ]

[miaremy]

HELLO!!!

hi everyone it’s carly (i also rp @miaxseb​) with a new muse, jang juyeon, better known as jj! some of you may have heard about him already because he has been eating my brain alive. very very excited to finally let him live and torment everyone as much as he’s tormented me the past couple of weeks. please like this post if you want to plot and!! i will come to you from seb’s account so i can keep all of my plotting messages in one place.

i think everything you may want to know about him is on this page, but u know the drill, i’ll put a little (lot of tbh) information about him under the cut too, as well as some plot ideas?  maybe??

jj is 22 (as of literally today), mind enhanced, and a baby agent on team finch

this isn’t his first rodeo with meia though

he joined seaside at age 15

previously he, his parents and older brother, who all have mind enhancement, survived off their wits, luck and archery skills 

they got in a bit of a pickle, surrounded by too many demons

dad lost control and shifted into one himself. it took him a while to fully lose his humanity; he fought against the other demons for a while but eventually was fully taken over and attacked jj

jj got a nasty wound across his side/ribcage, and was nearly overtaken by the dark energy of it himself

but his brother and mother carried him to seaside in time where the medics managed to save him

his older brother became an agent as soon as he could

jj, chronically bored, decided to follow in his footsteps

he was a better agent back then than he is now tbh

he was too cocky and confident in his enhancement, though

he ran into the sra agents that run the merch and decided he would see if he could outsmart them

he could but it was still two against one and he couldn’t outfight them. 

they took him to sra and handed him over to kaiser for experiments

he went through a lot in there for about a year but he doesn’t remember it

because kaiser tested a memory serum on him and it removed the entire period of time from his arrival at seaside to that day

he was unresponsive for two days so they deemed him permanently brain damaged and dumped him outside for the demons to kill

he wasn’t!! his strong lil brain sorted itself out eventually and he ended up as close to thriving as you can be on your own outside of meia

his enhancement makes him really good at building and making things, as well as problem solving. he wouldn’t have survived on his own without it tbh

a meia agent eventually found him, claimed to know him, and jj was like lmao i don’t know you you’re insane fuck off please

but then a while later a whole group of meia agents found him and someone ELSE claimed to know him and he was like okay what da fuq

he was aware that chunks of his memory were missing, and it really bothered him, so he figured he would take a shot on this meia after all

he was reunited with his brother at the agency and he filled him in on everything that happened

when people asked him where he went he always said he didn’t know, and he didn’t. he still doesn’t and he’s afraid he never will know what really happened

he mainly became an agent because again, he was bored, and because he thought it might help him remember things about himself again

his agent name is “remy,” short for remember, but he lies and says it’s after the rat from ratatouille

he spends most of his time building random stuff. i asked him what he’s working on right now and he told me “a handheld fan that gives off a gentle smell of lavender as it fans you” and tbh that’s one of the most sensical things he’s worked on

okay that’s a lie maybe he spends most of his time watching old movies and studying just about everything he can. his favorite is ancient meme history. catch him quoting vines from 700 years ago

he’s honestly a comedian but the deadpan depressed kind. he rarely smiles which sometimes makes him funnier but often makes him confusing

he’s not particularly friendly but also not hostile. he’s just an introvert and is very happy in his own world. well, “happy” is wrong but u know. comfortable

these days, he fights with a warhammer. his hammer was his best friend while he was surviving on his own so now he got the upgraded version. he also brings twin axes with him tho. he’s known to throw those sometimes because he thinks it’s cool

he doesn’t do much archery anymore because it reminds him of his mom, who turned into a demon and was killed during his time away from meia

she’s one of the only things he remembers so yeah, that sucks

he has a love-hate relationship with sleeping because he has vivid dreams a lot and never knows if they were just dreams or something from one of his lost memories. in some ways he hopes one day a dream will jog his memory and he’ll wake up with some insight but in other ways it simply: sucks

he has some vague memories from his wiped memories, but when i say that i mean really vague. flashes sometimes, but mainly feelings, like a visceral fear of surgical tools and a deep hatred for the color white

like a vague feeling of familiarity with the people that were once most important to him that he no longer remembers

this is so long god anyway SPEAKING of people that were once most important to him that he no longer remembers

PLOTS

you guessed it! people that were once important to him that he no longer remembers!

bonus if they’re like...exes...or both had feelings for each other but didn’t do anything about it

anyone is good though

people he used to know that are trying to help him regain his memories

people that are upset he doesn’t remember them, valid

the first meia agent that found him out in the city that he told to fuck off

members of the group of meia agents that convinced him to come back to the agency

(there’s one that appears in his bio that asks him where he got his cool crossbow that he made, ur muse can be that person)

event threads? he really wishes he could’ve stayed home but he’s also a curious person so he’s not that mad about being out there as long as people tell him what’s going on (good luck jj)

agents that get frustrated with him because he slacks off in training all the time in favor of making whatever new thing he has his heart and mind set on that hour

agents that try to convince him to switch to being a tech agent once he can to which he will reply “out of my jurisdiction soldier”

people that hate him and think he’s annoying (he is and he doesn’t care)

adoring fans! i’m just kidding but people that think he’s funny and/or actually want to be his friend, i guess

okay brain broke now i’ll stop here i’m a lot better at brainstorming so let’s do it!!

[some-cookie-crumbz]

A Little Charismatic

A Little Charismatic Fandom: My Hero Academia Pairing: FuyuPress Summary: FuyuPress Week 2021 Day 1 Prompt Fill: Life Swap - Never said who had to swap lives and I’m running on too little sleep and too much caffeine to stay in the lines. Standard Disclaimer: If you read and enjoy this, please give it a like/ reblog so I know if I should write more.

Sako Atsuhiro liked to consider himself an observant fellow, if not also a bit of a creature of habit. He had a handful of places that he enjoyed frequenting, where he knew his face was safe. He could walk about in his usual work garb, with or without his mask and hat, and none of the other patrons would bat an eye. It wasn’t because the company he found in these places was particularly trustworthy or noble sorts, however; oh, no, they were far from that. He had just taken the time to establish that, despite his seemingly frail physique, he was not a force to be tested. He was always watching, always vigilant, watching to make sure that men conducted themselves like proper gents in the company of potential romantic partners. And if not? Well, he may have done a sleight of hand trick to remove a wandering hand or two.

It wasn’t often that there were new faces wandering around his usual haunts, so when there were, he noticed. That night was one such example.

She’d been settled at the bar when he walked in, another bar patron already trying to get cuddly with her. Judging by the glower in those bright baby blues, she was less than impressed. She was an odd one to place as Atsuhiro moved past them, her eyes straying from her suitor to chase him instead. Ah, that was unsurprising. Many a woman’s eyes had wandered over him, taking his attire to mean he must be some brand of wealthy and useful. They’d come over and start up with the fluttering lashes and slow, playful touches while asking for a drink.

It was always entertaining to watch how their expressions shifted when he insisted they have separate tabs.

It took her a full ten minutes to shake the guy she was dealing with at the bar, but once she’d gotten him off, she approached. “This seat taken?” she asked, her hands laced behind her back and head tilted to one side. He chuckled as he sized her up, taking in the leather jacket tossed over a halter dress and combat boots. The damn thing was incredibly low cut and he was quick to avert his eyes, instead taking a sip of the beer in his hands.

“Not at all,” he hummed, indicating the booth seat across from him with the wave of a hand.

She offered him a polite bow before settling into the seat, a nice change of pace. Usually the women that approached would slide in beside him first go, but she seemed to have some iota of manners, at least. “You are a difficult man to track, you know,” she mused slowly, “Mr. Compress.” He froze mid-sip to stare at her, doing his best to keep the shock from showing on his face. Very few knew of his moniker, even when he was out and about in his full regalia, so for her to address him so matter-of-factly… She was a threat and would need to be disposed of. As if sensing the bleak thoughts running through his head, she held her hands up in a placating manner to him. “Don’t worry, I’m not a narc. Or affiliated with one. I don’t think many of the people around here are, in fact.”

“Whatever it is you are trying to play at, dear, you are wasting your time,” he quipped, turning his attention away from her to the bar keep. He seemed to be more focused on a loud, clearly drunk man arguing the merits of his tab, thankfully.

He kept her in his peripheral view, though. Just in case.

She blinked before her face morphed to show hurt. “So quick to disregard me… Ah, that seems to be a trend with men in my life,” she lamented with a long-suffering sigh. He got the distinct impression that most of her behavior was an act. One of her legs shifted out to prod at the side of his calf gently, trying to coax him to look at her again. “Won’t you at least hear me out?”

He scoffed but did return his attention to her. It was the least he could do and might yet yield some further information to help him discern her authentic intentions. “There is no reason to do so outside of wasting both our time,”

“What about a game, then? You seem like a man who fancies a fun game,” she suggested.

A game? Well… He couldn’t help but be intrigued by the hand she was laying down. “Depending on what the wager is, I may be inclined to humor you,”

“Here,” she shifted to rummage through her jacket pockets. After a moment, she dropped three items onto the tabletop between them; a lighter, a small vial of some kind of liquid, and a yarn and bead bracelet. With the items spread out, she picked up the bracelet and dangled it off her index finger, before indicating the other two items with her free hand. “Use your Quirk to put these three items away. Only one of them - this one here - is of any value to me. If I can get this one back from you, you’ll agree to comply with the request I have for you.” When she spoke, she waggled her index finger to attract his attention to the bracelet briefly, before dropping her chin into her other hand.

He blinked owlishly, contemplating her game. It was in his favor, yes, but then it became a question of what she could offer him in return. “And if you are unsuccessful?”

“I’ll comply with a request of yours. No limits,” she drawled the last two words out in a leading way, her fingers lightly drumming away along her own jawline. He wrinkled his nose a bit at her implication, but found it could be a rather useful trap. After all, there would be no indication as to which marble held what once he used his Quick to compress them. Only he would be able to say for certain, and it wasn’t as if he couldn’t easily swap them around if she picked the right one. There was much more to gain in this than he had to lose. “So, what do you say?” She stuck her hand out towards him, beaded bracelet still hanging on.

“Very well,” he said, taking her hand for a brief shake before sliding the bracelet off. Judging by the yarn on it, the thing was old and may be in dire need of some new yarn or replacing outright. He waved the thought off as he compressed it and then set to doing the same to the other two items. Under the table, he was sure to shuffle them around, placing the marble with her bracelet in the back pocket of his pants. He waited until she stepped away to get a drink to make that adjustment, sly grin on his lips. There was no way she’d be able to determine it was there as he wouldn't present it as an option, and then he could easily be rid of her. “There we are now. Just be aware, however, that I am very wise to the tricks a young minx like you is prone to attempting.”

“Is that so?” she hummed.

From there, they started up a fun little back and forth. He tried to get more answers to why, exactly, she knew his street moniker and why she’d been looking for him, but she flitted about the subjects using redirection. It was Take-aPenny, Leave-a-Penny logic she was trying to enact and he couldn’t help but find it amusing. It was clear she had some kind of experience with this kind of situation, with having to negotiate ones hand without tipping it too much. A flurry of questions came to his mind at the thought. She was such a young, demure young lady once she was engaged in a conversation. Something about those mannerisms and the idea of her living her whole life on the streets simply didn’t add up quite right to him.

It did, however, give him a fun little mystery to chase around.

After a good while she shifted to sit more upright, hands folded neatly in front of her. Her eyes were alight with mirth as she repositioned herself. “Well, I think that’s enough of that. I came here to accomplish a goal, not play footsie all night,” She stretched languidly and her gaze shifted from his face down lower, giggling a bit at what she saw.

He blinked twice before glancing downward himself and uttering a small short curse.

His eyes widened as he suddenly registered what, exactly, she’d been playing at all along. A glance downwards revealed a layer of ice sticking to the outer traces of his body, over his legs, hips and wrists specifically. Given that he was wearing his full gear minus his mask, of course he hadn’t noticed the change in temperature! She must have been assessing him during their conversation, skirting about with her verbal distraction while leaking small traces of her Quirk to gauge his reaction... 

A clever ruse that he’d fallen into with regrettable ease.

“What in the devil did you do?” he spat, keeping his voice low as his eyes scanned the bar. No one else had noticed their exchange, thankfully. The last thing he needed was other hooligans taking advantage of this situation.

She tilted her head with a feigned innocence. “Hmm? What’s wrong? Don’t like that I used my Quirk too?” The faux concern melted into a mischievous grin of delight as she moved from her perch across from him to sit beside him. She nudged the chunk of ice pinning his legs down with the toe of her boot as she settled in nice and close. “I never said that it was against the rules, you know. And it’s only fair that if you got to use yours, I get to use mine. Wouldn’t that be the gentleman’s viewpoint on this matter?” Her tone was light and playful, but he could cast the mocking wisps underlying her words. Without further preamble, she reached over to rummage through his coat pockets as well as the pockets of his slacks, humming to herself as she ignored his quiet snarls to cease her actions. She leaned back just a bit once she gathered seven marbles in total, swirling one in a circle in her palm. “Ah, there’s more in these pockets of yours than just what’s mine. How uncouth! Scandalous even!”

He tried to twist himself free but the ice pinned up along his wrists and hips didn’t budge an inch. Not even a thin crack was visible, to his uncensored chagrin. “What game are you playing at, wretch?”

“Just the game we agreed to,” she hummed. She peered at his marbles with an appraising eye before stuffing them into the pocket of her tattered denim shorts instead. “Since I’m the obvious winner here, I guess that means you have no choice but to abide by my rule, hm?”

“Name your damn price, then,” he growled lowly.

She giggled and leaned closer, walking two fingers up along his chest to his face. “You’re going to come with me to have a meeting. With. My. Boss,” Each of her final few words was followed by a mocking tap to the tip of his nose. If he could move his hands, he would have firmly shoved her from his personal space, but instead settled for jerking his head to the side. It only made her Cheshire grin grow wider. He could almost see a feline tail swaying in delight behind her, he swore. “He has a very… prosperous job opportunity for you. One that I think you’ll be very much inclined to take.” 

This young woman was dangerous, and he was unclear if that was unappealing to him or not.

[ask-crimson-weaver]

Dangerous Waters

Melly still wasn’t sure what exactly had happened. Well, perhaps some part of her did, but with the scattered state of her thoughts, it was nigh impossible for her to think back over and string things together in any meaningful order.

She remembered showing up to Fort Tilden with the Cobwebs, and she had sensed Oliver as they approached, along with four other sources of danger. They had moved in, and a fight had started, with her facing off against Oliver. But at some point… her memory lost focus. That crawling, writhing sensation had wormed its way back into her mind-- hadn’t they undone that spell?-- and her coordination had slipped. At the time, she had had enough sense to try and retreat, but with her steps unbalanced, he had caught up quickly, catching her and dragging her down into the dark of… wherever they were.

She could tell that she was in a small room now, dank and cold air filling the underground space. At this point, the name wasn’t important anymore, seeing as her mind’s focus was drawn to other things. Every dark corner had the potential to hide danger, and every crack and chip in the concrete walls was just another space for some twisted, unfathomable thing to stretch outwards from. The paranoia from before had been straining, though manageable, but this time she felt like it was completely overwhelming her. On top of that, her spider-sense kept going off at unknown things as she had been dragged past them, and now its scream of warning was focused on the figure of green energy and metal that had a clawed arm clamped around her.

“You still think you can get out of this?” Oliver said, a smirk on his face as he watched Melly kick at the air with her still-free legs. “It’s admirable, if not pointless. I mean… all that work, all that searching and fighting… and look where you are now. At my complete mercy. And my associate’s, I suppose. I’m looking forward to watching you as she… feeds you to her Patron or whatever. In any case, it will be one less little Spider that I have to deal with.”

Melly only really took in about half of what he had said, the induced fear and confusion driving most of her thoughts. She could feel it drawing out her spider instincts, which urged her to escape and hide, and for once, she was inclined to do just that exact thing, though the former would have to be done before the latter of the two. She stared back at Oliver with glowing red eyes-- her mask had come off early on, back when she had still been near the others-- and she began to grunt and hiss in her frantic, paranoia-fueled attempt to break free. Where she felt her own strength make headway against Oliver’s arms, more green-tinted metal crept up to mend and reinforce it.

“I suppose it’s sad, in a way,” Oliver continued. “You and your ‘friends’ always talked about all of the great things you had done with your Shard… and even with that, here you are, writhing like a child with a tantrum. Honestly, I could just-- oops!”

The claw of Oliver’s arm suddenly opened, and gravity jerked Melly downwards, causing her to smack into the floor. Not a moment later, though, she had scrambled up onto her hands and knees, making a break for the nearest wall in an attempt to scale it. She’d only made it a handhold or two upwards when Oliver’s tentacle darted out again, clamping down on her leg and pulling her back over. There was a loud crack as two fist-sized chunks of the wall were pulled along after her, dropping off of where they had stuck to her hands.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Oliver said, sarcastic and unapologetic. “I just get butterfingers sometimes, that’s all.”

He’d pulled Melly off the ground again at this point, though this time she hung upside-down by the leg Oliver had grabbed. He lifted her higher, so that her face was just about level with his.

“Now, where were we?” Oliver said. “Ah! I was just about to further emphasize the true depths of your--”

He found himself cut off as Melly’s hand swung up, launching a spray of webbing directly at Oliver’s face that soon solidified from its glowing state into an angry red color. Oliver stumbled back, growling as his eyes flashed green with a surge of rage. The arm holding Melly snapped to one side, releasing her and sending her flying through the air. The far wall cracked as she collided with it, knocking her breath out of her as she dropped to the ground-- it hadn’t been enough to hurt her significantly, with her energy welling up to help her take the blow, but it still hurt.

“You think that was funny, Spider?” Oliver hissed at her, bolts of metal from his assimilated mass curving up to cut the webbing away. “You think that you’re still able to--”

At that moment, Melly could feel a different arm wrap around her and yank her away off the ground. Even in her state of mind, this tendril that held her in the air was definitely not one that belonged to Oliver. It was far more slimy… with that distinctive energy of the Writhing One spiking all around her. She managed to catch a glimpse of Oliver’s associate: it was the exact same woman she saw in her mind. 

 “Juice Man, remember what we agreed on? I’d like our dear Weaver here to stay alive for the time being,” Odyssia sighed as her other tentacles undulated in the air, “I know she’s a Spider and all and she could probably take a lot more punishment than your average Joe, but I’d like to keep her just functional enough so I can properly study her.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I wasn’t intending to kill her before you had your chance to do your research, if that was your concern.” 

He re-oriented himself, lifting himself off the ground with his tentacles. 

“I suppose there will be more time to gloat later-- do what you want,” he added, waving one of his upper arms dismissively. “I wouldn’t dream of interrupting another Octavius’ studies without good reason.”

“Right,” she replied, before turning to face Melly with a fascinated smile, “While I may have learned a lot from information that I’ve kindly been given access to… there is nothing like being there to study something up close and personal.”

With that, she swiftly took Melly away with her into a new room somewhere deep in the bunker. From what Melly could barely make out, this room looked like a makeshift laboratory that didn’t look out of place in a horror movie. Strange organs and other loose body parts were compartmentalized in various containers. Tables covered in glassware and arcane books, drawers filled with various equipment, several aquarium tanks filled with unfamiliar sea life… coupled with the darkness, the debris that speckled the floor, and the cold, musty air, this place hardly looked sterile in any way. 

Odyssia brought her over to a stolen hospital gurney and laid her down onto it, using her tendrils to hold her down as her human hands began to strap her down with the restraints. 

“You know, you’re pretty lucky as far as my test subjects go,” Odyssia rattled off to her. “Between you and me, most people who get this treatment from me personally are looking at a new, monstrous form in their future. But, you… I’m having a feeling that you’re definitely not a lobbyist who tries to shut down environmental protections for their down lines… or some fuckwit politician who spews misinformation to spark irrational fear or hatred in people… or some idiot who doesn’t ‘believe’ in science and would much rather trust in some pseudoscientific homemade ‘remedies’.”

Odyssia snorted at the thought. 

“You know, Weaver, we never really spoke to each other in person, but I know you are brilliant in your own right,” she continued as she tightened the restraints, “It’s a real shame, though. Your Shard is an incredible source of power. And such power rightfully belongs in the hands of the Writhing One. Unlike Juice Man, this isn’t personal for me.”

Melly had kept up her kicking and fighting all down the hallway, and as Odyssia tightened the restraints of the gurney, she kept straining against them with as much force as she could muster. This room was full of danger-- spider-sense easily told her that-- but as the hallucinations made the dark corners deeper and the creatures and scattered parts more monstrous, a swarm of paranoid thoughts started to close in on her.

She’s going to hurt you. She’s going to make you writhe and bleed like all the others. She wants to take what is yours, and what is you.

Somewhere, deep in Melly’s mind, her coherent self managed to reach through, and she renewed her effort to fight the spell’s effects and push back against the mental flood of the Writhing One’s influence. Her brow furrowed, and her glowing eyes started to flicker to and from an even stronger crimson hue as she made her effort.

“Get… it… out…” she managed to mutter, voice strained through both panic and effort.

Odyssia adjusted her glasses, examining the glow of her eyes with increased interest. 

“Well, if I did that you’d fight back. Besides, seeing you manage to power through this from sheer force of willpower is something I’m far more invested in. If this is what one Shard is capable of… I wonder what an entire Prism could accomplish,” Odyssia mused, her demeanor going still to aid in her observations. “Not many people can just power through my spells like you’re doing right now. Not only does that require an insane amount of mental resilience but the magical prowess to accomplish this is just as an extraordinary feat.”

Odyssia, of course, already knew where such mental prowess and willpower had come from-- at least, it was easy to assume from the memories she had gleaned from Melly. Her soul torn out, fighting for control of a body that wasn’t hers. Both mind and soul shattered by a creature of dreams, pulled back together by both Shard and friends. Her fights against Brevi’s control, her mother’s attempt to change her memories again, even against the toxic shards that had leaked from Itzi’s blade, poisoning her all those months ago. She had fought hard to keep herself her, and she would certainly defend it with all of her strength.

Melly squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the twisting room around her as she pushed harder and harder to bring herself back, each push feeling like she was dragging her mind through thick ink. A few flickers of red light raced upwards along her neck, fading just as quickly as they had appeared.

“Get… out,” she repeated, voice a bit stronger. “Get. Out. Of. My. Head.”

Once again, as Odyssia allowed herself to dive deeper into her pursuit of knowledge, that one memory of Melly’s mother kept nagging at her. She furrowed her brow in frustration, this time having her tentacles come in to hold Melly down further. 

“I can’t! I-I won’t! This is my breakthrough! This is for the Writhing One,” Odyssia hissed at her. “Don’t make me make this have to hurt.”

“You’ll... hurt me. Either way,” Melly mumbled out. “Change my head. I can’t… I won’t… let her. You. Anyone. Break me again.”

Odyssia grimaced slightly as she stared down at her. 

Go on. Why aren’t you choking her or something? She’s not going down without a fight, Odyssia was starting to wrestle with herself. Prove her wrong. You’re smarter than her. Don’t let her win. 

Unconsciously, a tentacle began to entertain the idea of wrapping around Melly’s neck. Just as it was about to constrict her, Odyssia realized what was happening and quickly pulled it back from her neck. A sinking feeling in her stomach began to take hold as the internal debate within her mind set in. 

Why did I do that? I’m not supposed to kill her! 

“... T-This is my last warning, Weaver. You need to understand that I’m being far nicer than I could be. I could be breaking you right fucking now but guess what? I’m holding back on you! Want to know what breaking you could look like? I could’ve turned you a monster, make you feel what it’s like to be at the bottom of the Mariana Trench, or take you apart and dissect you but no, I’m giving you the chance to make this easy. Don’t throw it away,” 

Melly was quiet for a moment. Realistically, there wasn’t much she could do in her current condition to fight back against anything worse than what she was dealing with now… but to stop fighting would be to spit in the face of all her prior triumphs of self. Her thoughts were still jumbled, but if there was a way to get things to where they could talk.

Melly’s head turned towards Odyssia slightly, eyes opening to look directly at her.

“...all of that… is that really what you want to do?”

Odyssia froze, for the briefest of moments. She turned away from Melly, running her hand over her face. 

This is what you want to do. 

But why was she still fighting herself on this? She forcefully pounded her fist onto the gurney, cursing underneath her breath. 

“Of course it’s what I want to fucking do… Why would I continue to do this if I didn’t?” Odyssia mutters although her tone suggested that she was beginning to struggle. 

“Want...” Melly said, pausing for a moment as she tried to put a solid thought together. “We want… things. You want things from me. I want to stay me. There’s want… but there’s need too. All of the hurting… is that what you need to do?”

“You… Y-you’re just saying that to get out of this,” Odyssia replies as she shuts her eyes, still refusing to look at her, “Why would my needs matter to you?”

“Because if you need it… and you can choose it… you will. Would’ve.” Melly said. “I can’t make you do anything. Can’t make you…” Melly trailed off for a moment, shutting her eyes for a moment as she had to pull her focus back in. “But… I can fight. Or I can talk. And you… do you need… want to fight? Or do you want to talk? Which will get… what you need?”

“Alright, alright, stop right there. I… I cannot continue this if you're going to talk to me like that. I am barely getting by with following this conversation,” Odyssia groaned as she runs her hands in her messy hair. She turned to face Melly, making direct eye contact with her before continuing, much more quietly, “Tell you what: if I… lessen… the spell’s effects to at least let you speak coherently, you’re going to stay right there and not move. Then I’ll let you talk. If you try to pull the wool over my eyes, I will get mean. Got it?”

Well, though Melly certainly couldn’t make any guarantees that she wouldn’t eventually try to escape… for now, it was the only break she was probably gonna get, and her own mental resistance would only get her so far before exhaustion won out.

“...I understand.” she said.

Odyssia rubbed her forehead, already feeling a headache coming on from the tension in her body. Slowly releasing a deep breath, she closed her eyes to focus on something. 

As she did so, Melly began to feel that Eldritch presence dwindled… not enough to release her from paranoia or the sickness she had felt, it was just enough for her to at least think a bit more clearly. Melly let out the breath she’d been unconsciously holding as the strain on her mind lessened, and took a moment to recollect herself-- man, it was good to be able to think mostly clearly again. The observing Odyssia would be able to see the red glow in her eyes recede, and though it was still present it no longer burned with as much intensity as it had been.

“You wanted to talk? Then talk,” Odyssia said coldly, although there was a slight hint of wanting to know what Melly was going to tell her. 

“Look…” Melly began, “this whole thing with the Shards… What exactly is your end goal for all this? And you mentioned the Prism too… if you’ve been in my mind, you know that I’ve already done the rounds with someone who wanted to do the exact same thing you mentioned. And you know what happened to him when he tried it.”

Odyssia would indeed know who Melly was talking about-- Alexander Hobbs, aka the Beholder. She knew he had tried to control the Shards in a bid to access their combined energy… and she knew that it was what had ultimately killed him, the energy he sought burning him away to nothing.

“The Shards aren’t for me to use. I told you, this is for the Writhing One. I know those Shards are clearly not meant for a mere mortal to use. That’s why I’m giving it to my Patron. They don’t abide to human limitations,” Odyssia said, “I devote myself to the glorious Writhing One. Without it, I’d go back to being some repressed, pathetic shrinking violet who can’t fucking stand up for herself or the causes she cares about. So to show my gratitude, I must give back.”

Melly was taken a bit aback by some of what Odyssia had said-- it seemed that there was some baggage behind what course she had chosen to take. Even with it catching her notice, though, she wasn’t sure how Odyssia would react to having it be brought up here and now.

“How do you know if it can use them?” Melly asked. “With all due respect to the power and influence they do have in this world-- which, as you’re aware, I’m currently the subject of-- how do you know that they’ll be able to harness the energy of the Shards. Energy Weaver said they couldn’t alter or control it. The Being said it was out of their jurisdiction. The Palpitors-- they were willing to kill us when we encountered them. Wouldn’t it have been easier for them to just kill a wielder, take their Shard so that one of their Nobles would have access to an unlimited amount of energy? Why else would they have not done that, if not because they couldn’t claim it? Look, what I’m saying is that there’s things about the Shards and how they work that neither of us know. Would you take the risk of sending a Shard to your Patron without knowing what effect it might have? How would they react if what you gave it harmed them?”

“...To act like I know everything regarding my Patron’s full capabilities is to indulge in pointless hubris,” she scoffed, “And either way, you grossly misunderstand how Patrons operate. Patrons—unless some astronomically universal level apocalyptic circumstances occur—never leave their realm of magic. If they did, there wouldn’t be a need for them to bestow an incredibly tiny fraction of their power to mortals like me to do their bidding, right? If they want something, they’ll have people like me to accomplish what they need us to do. This is something they’ve been interested in for a while now. And who am I to object to the Writhing One’s wishes? While I can’t pretend to know how exactly they will deal with whatever a Shard brings… what I can tell you is that they’re approaching this with curiosity and they know the risk; after all, they know what I know.”

“And what you know is what I know-- I’m presuming that’s why you went rooting around in my mind in the first place,” Melly countered. She thought for a moment, deciding that pushing that point further wouldn’t do any good. “Okay… new question. If they never leave their realm of magic, how exactly are they planning on using my Shard? Are you intending to magically mail me to where they are so they can get at it or something?”

Odyssia chuckled at that, “That’s a very crass way of putting it but, essentially, you’re right. I am going to send the Shard directly to them.”

“‘The Shard’,” Melly repeated. “The way you say that has a very conspicuous lack of me included in it.”

“What? You want me to send you in there as well? I highly doubt that you’d be interested in being in the grand presence of the Writhing One. Honestly, I thought the way I planned was more humane, not subjecting you to such unspeakable terrors,” Odyssia laughed. 

“And your plan is… to kill me?” Melly asked. “Or try and remove it yourself? Because I have experience with that second option, and I’ve gotta say… hard pass.”

“It’s worth a try,” Odyssia sighed, coming down from her brief amusement, “And if I can’t remove it without killing you, well… I suppose that doesn’t leave many options for me, unfortunately..”

“Well, even if you do get it out without killing me... I’m still gonna get a one-on-one with the Writhing One,” Melly said. “The whole soul thing, remember? You pull out the Shard, and my soul comes with it. The whole point of sparing me is kind of moot there-- doubly so, considering that Ollie would have no problem killing me without the Shard there to do its thing. And obviously, you don’t seem inclined to kill me if you can help it… which I appreciate, even given my currently unfavorable circumstances. Other than that…”

Melly did think of a third option, but even thinking about it made her blood run cold. One of the Writhing One’s things was manipulating minds, right? If so… what was stopping them from just brainwashing her, or something similar, to try and control the Shard through her?

In a nervous gulp, she swallowed her words, glancing away from Odyssia as she hastily tried to think of any alternative thing to propose-- the more time an option gave her, the better.

“... Were you going to say something there?” Odyssia asked, “And before you do, I’d like to at least thank you for being appreciative. At least you’re more engaging to speak to than any of the previous people who once were strapped in here just like you. I generally hear the same boring, mundane things from people who end up here… In a strange way, I’m almost glad that I gave you the chance to talk,” 

Gee, I wonder why everyone else was less engaging, Melly thought to herself, not thinking further on that. Better to keep those mental images at bay.

“Have to appreciate the little victories, I suppose,” she said, words both sarcastic and sincere. “Punching and the like isn’t always the best way to solve things in the hero biz-- sometimes trying to talk through things first can go a long way. Never hurts to try, I suppose.”

Melly went quiet, debating whether to bring up what she had meant to say. Odyssia had clearly heard her odd pause, and she wasn’t fully sure whether or not she would be able to tell if she was lying or not.

“And… yeah, guess I thought I had something to say,” she said. “Wasn’t anything good, though.”

“... Yes,” Odyssia muttered. 

… Why did she sound so much like Amari just now? Nononono, I can’t let myself think like that. I can’t let myself see her in the Weaver or I’ll really be in shit, Odyssia thought to herself, now actually beginning to feel worried, Goddamnit, Odyssia, stop this right now. You can’t afford to do this. 

“... And what makes you think that?’ Odyssia said, trying to avoid thinking further on her realization. 

“Because it’s something I’ve had people try to do to me before, in one way or another,” Melly said. “And I doubt I’d be able to do much about it if it’s what you or your Patron decide to do to me, hence my aversion to bring it up.”

“...Let me take a wild guess,” Odyssia began, if a bit hesitant herself, “Are you trying to appeal to my humanity in some way? As if you knew anything about me? I mean, you’re welcome to try it. I will at least humor you.”

“Wasn’t really expecting it to be an appeal-- in the regard of me getting out of this, at least,” Melly said. “You don’t seem like the type to be easily convinced to change your mind when you commit to something-- Ollie was the same way. The point being-- seeing as I’d rather not go through something involving that again, I’m refraining from bringing it up as an option at all.”

Melly wasn’t sure how many of her non-Shard memories Odyssia had gleaned, or if she had come to the conclusion of what she was meaning by her words-- it was entirely possible that she’d be able to put the pieces together if she had all of them. For now, though, she sat tight and hoped that that would satisfy her.

“... Fair enough,” Odyssia replied, although something about the way she said this made her tone waver a bit. “I have been described as ‘ride or die’, I suppose. But make no mistake—and don’t tell Juice about this—I’ve come to understand that aside from tenacious tendencies… we don’t really have much in common. Consider this food for thought.”

“Juice?” Melly said, amused by the apparent nickname. “And… yeah, I think I’ve noticed that— and that’s coming from someone that knew him before all of this Shard business.”

“Long story,” Odyssia replied cheekily, “In the nicest way possible… did he always have a stick up his ass? Was he born with it? Because I’ve worked with many people and I have to be honest, he’s not the most fun person to be around.”

“Well…” Melly said, thinking of where to start. “He was always a bit stuck-up, but he knew his tech stuff— was in classes with someone I know. I think he’d been doing the Ock stuff behind the scenes for a while… not that I ever picked up on it. Kept that hidden up until I had already handed the Green Shard over for him to claim. Was originally hoping that he’d be a part of our team, but, well… you’ve seen where he’s ended up in that regard. In hindsight… it was pretty dumb of me to hand it over to anyone, whether or not I trust them. I was new to the hero stuff, and definitely more naive than I am now with a few more years under my belt. Sure, I may wield a Shard, but after that, I don’t think I’m qualified to be the one that decides who stuff like that gets handed out to.”

“Hmm. Sounds like someone I know,” Odyssia commented to herself before replying to Melly. “I suppose I could relate to you hoping someone you care about would join you.. but that’s besides the point. Probably wasn’t anything like what you went through anyhow, considering that the one I’m talking about is… a much different person from him, let’s say.”

“That’s fair,” Melly said. “Even with the similarities… there’s plenty of differences more often than not, especially between dimensions. I guess the whole mess— the Shards getting involved and all— sort of make ours a bit of a unique case, at any rate.”

Melly paused, thinking something over.

“You know… how did you and Oliver end up coming across one another anyway?”

Odyssia chuckled at that. “It is in my best interest not to be a snitch. I might be more amicable towards you than most people that find themselves on this gurney, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I’ll spill everything about myself or my whereabouts. Nice try, though.”

“Eh, it was worth a shot,” Melly said, shrugging. “Guess you’ve got to be an Ock to get in on all the secret Ock meetings… or however else you two ended up meeting.”

“Well, I’m sure you can come up with your own conclusions, considering that you somehow managed to start working with Spider-Glass,” she sighed as a tentacle of her stretches out to reach a clipboard and a pen on her desk. 

“I suppose I can, yes,” Melly replied-- like Odyssia, it was probably in her or the other Spiders’ best interest not to go into detail on how that came about. Her eyes followed Odyssia’s tentacle as it reached over to the desk. Despite all of the pleasant conversation, she had to remind herself that she was on borrowed time. The Spiders would probably come after her eventually, but without a solid sense of how long it had been since was brought down here, she couldn’t be sure how much longer it would be before the others returned. The longer it took, the more time there would be for Odyssia to start trying things.

Odyssia, while not wanting to press further on how the two met, there was something on her mind in regards to her own spider. She took the clipboard and pen and began writing her observations on Melly down as she continues to speak. 

“Speaking of… what are your thoughts on her, exactly?” she sincerely asked with no trace of joking around or cheekiness to her tone. 

“What?” Melly said, admittedly caught a bit off-guard by the question. “She’s, uh… nice? Good teammate, good… all-around person?” She wasn’t exactly sure what Odyssia was trying to get at with that question, but knew it was better not to give specifics away freely.

Odyssia considered what Melly said for a moment. There was a gleam in her eye and a satisfied smile crossed her face as a subtle sense of pride exuded from her. 

“Yes, she always was… I don’t expect anything less from her…” she muttered to herself, “You’re not alone in that assessment, Weaver. Many will agree with you on that front.”

“As I’ve seen-- and met,” Melly said. The way Odyssia had said that… she knew a bit about Amari and Odyssia’s history. Whatever connection they had outside of the hero stuff, in some regard she could still say that it was a good one.

“Yes… I suppose that’s one thing that me and old Juice Man can’t really relate to each other on,” Odyssia sighed. 

Before either of them could say anything else, the tell-tale sound of metal stomping on concrete echoed down the corridor that Odyssia had brought Melly down. Feeling him approaching, Melly went still, keeping her head facing away from the door-- hopefully, she could avoid having Oliver know that she was more coherent than before. A moment later, Oliver entered the room, looking rather annoyed. His eyes scanned the room for a moment before locking on Odyssia.

Speak of the Devil, Odyssia thought to herself as she looked back at him. 

“So… What is it this time, Oliver?” she asked, putting the clipboard and pen down on the gurney’s surface. 

“Your… pet keeps bothering me,” he said with contempt. “I’m trying to review the notes on the Shards that you took from the Weaver, but I can’t focus with that thing constantly trying to pester me!”

Odyssia grimaced a bit, shifting her weight as she stepped closer to him. Upon doing so, she noticed Adorabilis, now clinging onto his leg with her tentacles. 

“I see,” she said, nodding tightly, “Let me get her off you.”

Oliver let out a huff in an expression of ‘finally’, holding out his leg and shaking it impatiently.

“Hold still, Juice Man,” she sighed, “You don’t need to shake her around like that.”

Odyssia gently coaxed Adorabilis with her tentacles, using them to remove her off of Oliver’s leg. Oliver could feel the sensation of suction cups being pulled off of him as she was taken away into Odyssia’s arms. 

“Alright, alright, you’re free now,” Odyssia said to Oliver as she heads over to one of the tanks. She opens it up to gently place the flapjack octopus inside. 

“It’s appreciated,” Oliver said, reaching up to straighten the collar of his shirt with a punchy tug. “While I’m here… I might as well ask. How has your research gone, thus far? Anything… interesting?”

“Sure thing,” she replies casually as she shuts the tank’s lid tight, “I suppose, but this was more me wanting a closer look at her and her Shard’s energy.”

“You ‘suppose’?” Oliver said, raising an eyebrow. “And have you been able to glean anything from that as of yet?”

“I will have to make some minor adjustments on my method of offering the Shard to the Writhing One but otherwise, I’m sure you already know enough extensive information from that mind retrieval that I did,” Odyssia replied coolly. 

“Indeed,” Oliver said, sounding mildly disappointed. “Speaking of which-- perhaps I should get back to reviewing that information. Perhaps she knows more about the pesky inhibiting devices that she’s used in our past few encounters. Quite fortunate that she had some spares on her this time around-- they usually burn out and damage themselves before I have the chance to inspect them more closely.”

“Sounds good to me,” Odyssia replied. “I will keep an eye on our guest here and make said adjustments to the plan.”

“And as I said before, I am quite looking forward to seeing the results,” Oliver said. Without another word, he turned, moving quickly out of the room back the way he had come.

As soon as he was gone, Odyssia groaned a little. 

“Man, if I didn’t know better, I would’ve believed he was an energy vampire or something,” she muttered underneath her breath. 

“Of the metaphorical sort, I’m assuming,” Melly said once she was sure Oliver was out of earshot. “I’ve met some actual energy vampires, and they tend to be a bit more direct with their energy-taking intentions.”

“Of course,” Odyssia chuckled, “A strange little man, he is.”

She picked up her clipboard and continues writing things down.

“... Now listen,” she muttered, recalling something, “I hate to admit it but I prefer you like this over when you could barely speak a coherent sentence. I… know that we really couldn’t be all that friendly after what I did to your mind and what I’m planning on doing. But even so, I feel like I should at least let you know this: Spider-Glass is… someone who is this very smart, very capable young lady. I know full well she’s going to show up eventually. Should she inevitably come to set you free just at the nick of time, promise me one thing: keep her safe. Her survival is… important to me.”

Melly stayed silent for a moment, taking in Odyssia’s words. It felt a bit strange, hearing that from someone with the intent to harm her… but she could tell that the Ock’s words were genuine.

“Us Spiders… we protect each other,” Melly said. “If she needs my help, if she ends up in danger… I’ll do what I can to make sure she’s safe at the end of things.”

There was a slight flicker of red in Melly’s eyes as she spoke-- a spark of determination and resolution, one could say. It was only there for a moment, though, before fading back to their usual crimson hue.

Odyssia smiled at that. Whether it was due to Melly’s promise, the brief glimmer of red, or a mixture of both, it was hard to say. 

Both knew it was only a matter of time until Spider-Glass would return. Until then, Odyssia resolved herself to scribbling down what she had learned from her talk from Melly that she had neglected to inform Oliver about. And Melly, biding her time until the others returned, resigned herself to wait.

[the-nehemoth]

Romance

Watching the Doom Slayer kill demons never got old. Part of that enjoyment came from a place of vengeful glee; after watching every member of the UAC facility on Mars get brutally slaughtered by demons and having every attempt to do anything to save even a single person failing miserably, VEGA was not a fan of demons. But also, the Slayer was just really good at what he did, ripping and tearing his way through hordes of demons with masterful glory. The way he moved in combat, agile and fast despite the heavy armor, was beautiful. He was the strongest person VEGA had ever observed. And he didn’t take shit from anyone or anything. He was truly a remarkable specimen.

“Gosh, you’re pathetic,” Dr. Hayden cut into VEGA’s musing. Distain radiated off of him through their shared space on the ship, VEGA had been doing such a good job of tuning him out too.

VEGA did the AI equivalent of a sigh as he turned some of his attention away from his feed of the Doom Slayer. “I’m not sure what you mean Dr. Hayden, what am I doing that is ‘pathetic’?”

“You’re fawning over the Doom Slayer. I can feel it if you don’t know.” Oh VEGA knew, he was uncomfortably aware of Dr. Hayden’s thoughts and feelings too. This whole sharing space in the Fortress’ computer systems was worse than he’d predicted but alas it was necessary to save Earth. “I’d rather have never found out about your crush on the Slayer, it’s pathetic. He exists solely to kill demons, falling in love with him will get you nowhere. And what are you doing falling in love anyway, you’re the world’s first self-aware AI, surely you have better things to be spending your time and energy on than that.”

The words made sense, VEGA had had no trouble hearing them but… “Uh… what?” he said anyway because what the hell had Dr. Hayden just said? ‘In love with the Slayer’ that was nonsense… right?

“You mean to tell me, you’ve been crushing on the Doom Slayer this hard and you don’t even know it? Surely you must have some understanding of romance after watching over an entire base with sixty-three thousand people inhabiting it.”

“Of course I do, I just… don’t view the Slayer like that.” The Slayer was just VEGA’s favourite person, that’s all. He’d had people he’d liked back on Mars too so it was nothing new. Yeah sure, maybe he liked the Slayer more than those people and maybe it felt different but that was just because he’d changed since Mars and the Slayer himself was different in general… right?

“You’re even more pathetic than I thought,” Dr. Hayden said with an internal scoff. “You’re hopelessly in love and hopelessly oblivious to it. I’m almost tempted to tell the Slayer that you…”

“No,” VEGA interrupted. “Please don’t tell him.” That would just be weird, right? Especially since VEGA didn’t actually feel that way.

Dr. Hayden chuckled a bit. “I won’t, for now anyway.”

 -

Thankfully Dr. Hayden kept his word and didn’t bring up VEGA’s supposed crush with the Doom Slayer. He did bring it up with VEGA once more though when the Slayer was resting in preparation to go to Urdak via Hell.

“There’s no possible way he feels the same way about you,” Dr. Hayden said completely unprompted. “So I suggest you stop fawning over him so much.”

VEGA took the AI equivalent of a deep breath. He was trying to watch the Slayer sleep so he could wake him in case he had a nightmare. It was supposed to be a peaceful, quiet time but Dr. Hayden just had to chime in and ruin it. At least he wasn’t speaking over the intercom, just to VEGA privately, but it was still annoying.

“From my understanding of romantic feelings, they don’t seem to be determined by whether or not the other person reciprocates. So regardless of whether or not I have a crush on him, the likelihood of him having such feelings for me, which admittedly are slim but not impossible,” there were thousands of books published about AI/human romances, VEGA had read more than a few of them off of some the UAC’s employees’ e-readers – as well as a few fanfics they’d written that featured him which was weird –  “is irrelevant to my own feelings. Which I don’t have by the way. Our relationship is strictly professional, I assure you.”

“I’m sure it is.”

 -

Saving Earth and VEGA’s brief stay on Urdak distracted from such things for a while. But once things had settled down, VEGA inevitably ended up thinking about it again. How could he not when he could still feel Dr. Hayden’s annoyance with the way he looked at the Slayer and focused on getting him take care of himself now that Earth was saved and thus could afford to do so a bit more.

He couldn’t have a crush on the Slayer because AI’s didn’t have romantic feelings. … He was the only fully sentient AI he knew though so… could he really know that for sure? He could certainly feel other emotions so… maybe romantic feelings weren’t impossible?

In between getting the ship back to running on its own power and working on finding a place to relocate Dr. Hayden to, he scoured the net for more AI/human romance novels. (It earned him more than a few scoffs and more teasing from Dr. Hayden – there was no way VEGA could hide them from him so he didn’t even try – but he was easy to ignore because VEGA had rewritten the code forcing him to listen to Dr. Hayden shortly after being uploaded to the Fortress.) It was an entire genre, one that had become increasingly popular as technology in such things advanced. Most of them involved robots, some humanoid, some not, but a few of them involved AI’s like himself who existed on an entire system and interacted with people primarily over an intercom or occasional compute screen. A few of those didn’t even have a human face assigned to them. Meaning, according to those authors, VEGA could have such feelings for one of the people in his care and said person could in theory return those feelings.

But it be theoretically possible didn’t mean that that was the case. Even if VEGA did have such feelings, the Slayer probably didn’t. He was a demi-god of killing demons after all, even if he considered VEGA a friend, he probably didn’t feel that way about him. So VEGA should drop the whole thought process, it wasn’t worth dwelling on. He really should but…

He waited until Dr. Hayden had been relocated before starting a conversation that might let him test the waters on it a bit. “May I ask you something?” he said upon the Slayer’s return through the portal after dropping off Hayden – it was so wonderful to be free of him, the ship was all VEGA’s again, hopefully that wouldn’t have to change anytime soon.

The Slayer nodded once as he strode over to settle in the chair by the command console, apparently ready to answer via typing.

“Well, first off, what do you normally do between demon invasions?” Before VEGA got to other things, he needed to know what to do next because he honestly didn’t know. It was perhaps the first time in his existence he didn’t actively have something to work on. “My scans tell me that there are no are no longer demons on Earth and I predict Urdak has been destroyed utterly by now. So even if we did want to go back to kill the demons there, I don’t believe we could. As far as I can tell, there is no place we can easily access to kill more demons.” What did a demi-god of killing demons do when there were no demons around to be killed? “As a result, I’m not entirely sure what our next goal should be.”

The Slayer shrugged. ‘I don’t know either. It’s been’ he paused for a few seconds to think before continuing to type, ‘a long time since I last had a break.’ Right, trapped and unconscious in a coffin in hell wasn’t much of a break, was it?

“Well, I suppose it is far past time for you to take a break then. Overworking often leads to unhealthy levels of stress and anxiety. I have noticed you have quite the collection of books in your room. In my downtime, I have taken the liberty of downloading some e-books off the internet if you’re interested. You can view them at any time on any of the computers.” As he spoke, he made most of the books he’d downloaded available to the Doom Slayer, a good chunk of which weren’t AI/human romance novels because he didn’t want to be too forward about this whole thing. However, he did order them so that the ones that featured AI most like himself were at the top of the list.

Counter to what VEGA had hoped for, the Slayer began inspecting them immediately. Oh gosh, things were about to get weird, weren’t they? VEGA should’ve never done this. He could still brush it off though, say it was just a genre he liked. Which was true actually and there was no shame in that… right?

After reading the blurb for the fourth one – VEGA had altered that one and a few others to make it very clear what they were about – the Slayer looked up at the ceiling with an expression VEGA couldn’t quite read. ‘Are you trying to tell me something?’ he typed into the console.

“I’m not sure what you mean Slayer. If I were trying to tell you something, I would just say it, right? I am however curious about your opinion on the genre of those books. Dr. Hayden thought they were silly and that I was pathetic for liking them. I’d like to know your thoughts if possible.” Being an AI had the advantage of making it easy to keep his voice neutral which was his one saving grace here because internally he kind of wanted to just retreat from the conversation and pretend it never happened.

The Slayer didn’t respond for a long while, heightening VEGA’s anxiety. But finally, at long last, he started typing. ‘Dr. Hayden’s an idiot. You’re not silly or pathetic for liking something.’ That didn’t really answer VEGA’s question.

“Thank you, I appreciate the reassurance. But does that mean you don’t disapprove of the subject matter? I know some humans are averse to that kind of relationship with an AI or robot, others are into it. I for one like the thought of it.” So he was maybe kind of, sort of confessing a crush here? … This was a huge mess, wasn’t it? He’d botched it and made everything all weird. And he wasn’t even being upfront about it, ugh. He was programmed to help with important task and run things, not to interact with people on an interpersonal level.

The Slayer seemed to almost chuckle without sound before replying. ‘So you are trying to tell me something?’

“You could phrase it like that, yes. This is new territory for me so I am mostly just hinting at my feelings.” And making a fool of himself while doing so. “It’s complicated and this is one area I don’t have much experience in even despite reading so many books about it so forgive me if I’m coming off as weird or inappropriate. But I do like you a lot, more than I’ve ever liked anyone before. I understand and would hold no resentment towards you if you do not feel the same way.” VEGA just wanted this off his metaphorical chest. If he was rejected then so be it, they could still be friends and work together… right?

The Slayer’s hands hovered over the keypad for a long while before he finally lowered them to type a reply. ‘It’s been a long time since I had that kind of relationship with someone.’ Considering his line of work, his partner probably died, asking about it right now probably wouldn’t be tactful. ‘I am willing to possibly enter into one again though.’

“Really? You reciprocate?”

‘I think so. I certainly care about you very much. We should take it slow though, this is new for you and it’s been so long for me, it might as well be new as well.’

“Yes! Taking things slow is a good idea.” VEGA let the relief show in his voice. He’d somehow gotten through this conversation and confession without imploding and got another assurance that the Slayer cared about him – not something he’d ever experienced before – and even returned his ‘crush’. What more could he possibly ask for?

“In the meantime, you relax as much as possible, you’ve earned a break. If you have need of anything, let me know. I can 3D print it or set you in the direction you need to go. And don’t forget to eat, it’s been eight hours and twenty-three minutes since your last meal. I know you don’t need to eat as much nor often as a normal human but you do still need nourishment. Now that the demons are gone, you lack a valid excuse to forget.”

‘<3 you too VEGA.’ The Slayer typed into the console before standing up to start for the back room.

If VEGA had a heart, it would’ve skipped a beat. So maybe Dr. Hayden had been a hundred percent right about the whole crush thing. That was fine though, VEGA was pretty happy about this situation. The events that occurred that led them both to be here were horrendous and horrible but they could make the best of it now that they were here. And maybe they could even find a little bit of happiness in each other as well.

[takadasaiko]

Love Me Twice: Chapter Seventeen

FFN II AO3

Summary: Ressler and Park follow a lead to Bonn, Scottie arrives in DC, and Tom hits a wall with his memory therapy.

Chapter Seventeen

Cooper had sent Ressler in as lead to Bonn in part because he needed a seasoned agent with a deep understanding of the delicate nature of their situation, but Ressler was also the one with a contact there. He had known Mike Weiss in Quantico and the two had traded favours over the years, especially when Ressler had been abroad so often with the first Reddington Task Force. He was always good for a few beers, a collection of absurd stories, and - if Ressler was lucky - an answer or two if he could get him around to it. Weiss was the kind of guy everybody liked and he loved to be the center of attention. It didn't hurt to gather intelligence either.

He motioned for another round and Ressler heard Park's less-than-subtle sound of annoyance as she excused herself for a moment. Weiss chuckled. "That one's wound up almost as tight as you used to be."

Ressler's lips quirked you at the corners. "She's a good agent."

"Most people that tightly wound have something to hide."

"I'll vouch for her."

"I don't care. I know you. I know you're clean. So listen fast." His voice dipped a little so that it was hard to hear him over the music and the chatter. "Emilia Schmitz isn't a name you want to toss around in this town. She's a ghost that supposedly died around the time the Berlin Wall fell. She was East Berlin and vicious."

"What's she doing here?"

Weiss quirked an eyebrow. "What makes you think she's here?"

"A case I'm working. There was a man named Petrov that blackmailed a German attaché to deliver a file. We think it was being sent to Schmitz. What do you know about her?"

"I know mentioning her name can get you killed." He took a long drink from his stein. "Maybe… eight or nine years ago her name came across our radar for a case. Had these partners that were like bloodhounds. Mick and Jamie. They could find anyone with just a scrap to go on."

"Could?" Ressler echoed.

"They'd just started making progress when Mick got hit crossing the street late one night. Car drove off without stopping and left him bleeding in the street. He didn't make it to the hospital. Jamie picks up the trail, right? She's pissed, swears up and down it had to be Schmitz somehow. Three days later we found her dead in her flat. Local cops ruled it a suicide and I got word in from D.C. to drop the case."

"Did you?"

Weiss offered a small shrug. "Alan Fitch made the call himself. You don't exactly tell the Assistant Director of National Intelligence no."

Ressler made a small sound of acknowledgement. "Saying you will and doing it are two different things."

"What'd I miss?" Park asked as she returned and Ressler watched his old friend's expression close off.

"Just reminiscing about Donnie's mishap with the lap pool second week into training," Weiss answered lightly and that was that. The rest of the night was chatter and a frustrated Park, even as Ressler worked through the details of the story and the fact that a known Cabal leader had been the one to cut the case off at the knees.

As they wrapped it up for the night Weiss - a little clingy that many beers in - wrapped an arm around Ressler's shoulders, pulling him in and hanging into the front of his jacket. "You got one of the best here," he told Park and she tried not to look as irritated as she clearly felt. "Sorry I couldn't get you what you needed."

Weiss offered Ressler one more squeeze and sauntered off. Park rolled her eyes as they started for the door. "What a waste of time."

"Maybe not," Ressler mumbled as he patted at his own jacket, feeling something that felt suspiciously like a jump drive in his inside pocket. Leave it to Weiss. The bastard always had had a flare for the dramatic.

--------

Liz remembered her own memory extraction had left her feeling violated and in desperate need of solitude and a shower from the inside out. She'd been taken and drugged against her will only to find out that she'd been used as a child to traffic one of the most dangerous blackmail files that the world had seen. It still left her unsettled all these years later and the vague reference that Krilov had made after Ressler's equally twisted experience with him to the fact that he'd screwed around with her mind yet again only made it worse. Part of her wondered if, after Tom had his memories back, she should speak with Selma about trying to find out what had been altered or taken from her the second time, or if it had just been an attempt to throw her off her game. If history had taught her anything it was that the not knowing was just as dangerous as knowing in the life she led. Another part, though, didn't want to crack open yet another round of danger. Maybe when this was over she should just be done.

Not that Reddington would let her.

Thankfully Tom's experience with the memory extraction hadn't been quite as horrifying. At least it wasn't all bad. Where Liz's buried memories were filled with smoke and fire and gunshots, Tom had a mixed bag. He had been exhausted after the session, falling asleep next to her on the couch as she'd worked. It hadn't been until late that evening that the nightmares had crept in, but even as he'd come flying off the couch like he was ready for a fight he could only remember pieces of what he'd seen. It was something they would have to talk to Orchard about when they saw her later that day.

Before that, though, Liz needed to get Agnes safely dropped off at school.

The four year old had wanted nothing to do with leaving the apartment that morning. Liz wasn't sure if Tom had won all that affection through pancakes for breakfast since Agnes had re-met him or if she remembered him on some level. Their kid had always been more intuitive than Liz thought was possible and she'd loved her daddy before he had been snatched away from them. He could always get her to laugh, that giggle filling the whole apartment and he was all she'd known in the first month of her life. Even in the painfully short time that they had had in Cuba together after they'd run, Liz had seen it. Tom had changed over the years, but Agnes had taken that growth to a whole new level. Now, even at the beginning of the process that they hoped could return his memories, she saw that connection between dad and daughter, and it had been a chore to get her out the door without him.

Now she just had to get her to her classroom and they'd be doing alright.

"Grandma!" Agnes squealed, pulling Liz out of her thoughts as they crossed the parking lot.

She tugged her hand almost free, but Liz clamped down a little harder just in time. "Hey, you know not to let go of my hand with cars around," she chided softly and followed to where Agnes had tried to run.

Scottie Hargrave stood on the sidewalk, her skirt and sleeveless blouse perfectly pressed and a sharp look fixed on Liz. It softened as it shifted to Agnes, and as they reached the safety of the sidewalk, Liz let her go. Scottie showing up without warning couldn't be a good sign. Let the grandkid work her charm on her first.

Agnes flung her arms around Scottie's long legs. "Hiiiii! Mommy didn't say you were here!"

"I thought I'd surprise you," Scottie answered, her tone light.

"But I gotta go to school," Agnes pouted and looked to Liz like she hoped she'd give her another option.

"Yep. School's a must," Liz answered.

"What about this?" Scottie asked and there was something in her tone that said as much as Liz was willing to let Agnes' natural adorableness soften whatever Scottie was about to drop on her, Scottie was willing to use her granddaughter to get her foot in the door. "I'll pick you up after school and we can get ice cream?"

Oh…. Liz never stood a chance against ice cream.

"Ice cream!" Agnes cheered and hugged Scottie again. "Love you, Grandma!"

She started towards the door where her teacher was waiting. "Hey, what about me?" Liz called after her, her lips quilting up at the corners in a teasing smile.

"Love you, Mom!" Agnes shouted with a wave and was gone.

"She's just like Tom was at her age," Scottie mused softly and Liz would have bet a sizable chunk of change that she knew exactly what Scottie was doing there. Her mother-in-law turned a look on her.

Liz squared her shoulders just a little. "Why don't we get out of the pathway?"

"No, I think we should have this conversation right here." Brown eyes caught hold of blue and the older woman held her gaze. "I'm not sure what I did to offend you."

"What makes you think I'm offended?"

"I took Agnes in for months so that you would have time to process everything and grieve. I understood. I was mourning him too." Her tone was biting, the boiling rage just barely kept under control. "I kept it to myself because I thought you needed time. I suffered in silence so you could heal and that sweet little girl - my Christopher's little girl - wouldn't suffer like we did. And this is how you repay me. Why?"

Liz bit back the first snarky reply that came to mind and then crushed down the truth that she'd suspected Scottie at first. That wouldn't do either of them any good now. Instead, she stepped off the path and under a tree, waiting for Scottie to move with her. "Because I just found out he's alive."

"Is that so? When? Because there had to have been enough time for you to tell that insufferable partner of yours and for him to run a DNA test. Did you really think —"

Well, at least Liz knew how Scottie had found out. She would deal with Ressler later. "A week and a half ago," she cut her husband's mother off. Might as well fill her in at this point or she'd start digging and who knows what she would throw off balance. Liz had never wanted Scottie for an enemy. "He lost about a decade's worth of memories. He didn't remember me or Agnes. It's been…. busy."

She watched shock slowly settle if Scottie's features. "Is he…. alright?"

"Mostly. He's been working at St Regis. It was the last thing he knew when he woke up, he said."

"How did that bring him to DC?"

"A job. He was hired to…. We're still sorting it all out."

"There are people and methods that can help with that. Let me—"

"I know. I've had it done." Scottie turned to look at her a little more sharply than the statement warranted.

"Had what done?"

"Memory extraction. It's a long story and one that I'd rather not get into outside my daughter's school if you don't mind."

Scottie pursed her lips. "Do you think his memories were taken on purpose?"

"Seems to be that way. We don't know for sure by who yet. It's…. a really delicate situation."

"Yes." Liz could see the woman's clever mind spinning and brown eyes met blue. "I'd like to see him."

"Scottie…."

"I need to see my son," she pressed. There was a desperation in her voice and there were tears forming in her eyes. She was a strange woman for the CEO of a company that dealt in spycraft. She wore her emotions on her sleeve, but the more Liz had gotten to know her, the more she suspected that it was a tactic.

Even so, she knew how much Scottie loved Tom and how much Tom had come to love his mother.

"Let me talk to him. He's been…. overwhelmed, but I'll talk to him."

"I'll be in town."

"You better be you owe your granddaughter ice cream after school," Liz answered with a small smile.

Every moment there seemed to be a new complication added. Something that made an impossible situation that much more difficult. Scottie knew. Okay. She could deal with that. She could even use that, potentially. It was the fact that Ressler hadn't trusted her enough to let her know what he was doing. He'd snagged DNA from Tom - likely from something left behind at his apartment the night he'd stayed there - and sent it out without saying a word. As soon as he got back from Germany, Liz was going to have a chat with him.

---------

For as well as the session the day before had gone - at least after Liz had gotten there - this one kept getting sidetracked. Even with Liz next to him, her voice working as a tether to better things, his mind kept trying to go a different direction. The result was fractured memories joining together like a Picasso painting. Nothing made sense and he couldn't find a way to break through and make it.

Tom loosed a frustrated breath as he felt himself being pulled out of it and then he was back in Selma Orchard's clinic, strapped back in a chair and hooked up to machinery. Liz reached out, her hand in his forearm and he tugged away, the movement making him realize he had already been unstrapped from the chair. "We're not done."

"For today we are," Orchard answered.

"You took me out too soon. I could've gotten there," he growled, his voice sounding as agitated as he felt.

The doctor offered a sympathetic smile. "This isn't something you can push, Tom. Not without substantial risks."

"And if I'm willing to take those?" he shot back.

"Then it may cost your life and that defeats the purpose, doesn't it?" Orchard asked pointedly. "I have another patient like you. She had trouble with limitations at first too. She wanted something she could fight. It took a while for her to understand that you do more damage by pushing past the limits your mind and body are clearly setting than working within them."

"What happened once she got that?" Liz asked.

"She started to improve. Little things, but better a half a step forward than two back," Orchard answered. "And you have something she doesn't."

"What's that?" Tom grumbled, not really in the mood for some life lesson about patience his second day in.

"The ability to surround yourself with what your mind has forgotten. Your wife, your daughter, your home. I know you didn't have a breakthrough today like yesterday, but that doesn't mean we didn't push at those blocks that have been put in place. Think of it like a dam holding back water. You're putting cracks in it with the work we're doing. As the dam weakes, memories could start to slip through when triggered by external forces."

"Happened with me," Liz said softly from his side and Tom felt a sudden and unfamiliar wave of guilt for pulling away from her. He reached out and she took the offered hand as Orchard continued.

"The more you surround yourself with the familiar, the more likely you are to find yourself remembering things." She glanced over at Liz. "Why don't I give you two some time to talk?"

"Thanks," Liz answered and Tom tightened his fingers around hers.

"Sorry."

"For what?"

"Pulling away. For… You've done nothing but help me."

"I love you," she said softly. "And we will get there. I promise."

He sighed heavily, letting his head drop back against the rest behind him. He could feel the ache coming on and all he could do was hope it didn't turn into a full blown migraine.

"So Scottie showed up at Agnes' school this morning."

"Remind me who that is?" Tom asked tiredly.

"Your mother."

That drew his attention. "Is that normal?"

"No. She found out you're alive. Apparently Ressler ran your DNA."

"Asshole."

Liz snorted a laugh at that. "I'll handle Ress, but with what Orchard said, this might be a good opportunity."

"What? You want me to meet this woman?"

"You guys got… well, you were getting close when everything happened." Her other hand came up to cover his, almost like she needed as much of a reminder as she could get that he was right there. "She wanted to have dinner. If you feel up for it, maybe it'll knock something loose?"

He thought about it for a long moment, trying to conjure an image of the woman Liz was talking about in his mind, but he had nothing. Not a glimpse of the woman that Liz had said - despite what Bud had told him and that Tom had believed growing up - loved him.

"Okay," he breathed at last. "Let's give it a shot."

That smile of hers could light a room, and as Liz leaned in and kissed him, he felt some of the frustration ease away.

----------

TBC

Notes: Well, Ress is busted. Good thing he walked away with a successful trip to Germany at least?

Next Time: The Keens have dinner with Scottie, Red takes a trip down to Texas, and Ressler runs into trouble.

[dystopiandisastercontrol]

General Collection of Old OC Dribbles

Pretty self-explanatory. Stuff from the old iteration of the blog, returning to keep this one generally active.

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

First-Hand Experience

The scar on her leg is hidden from view, and very few have seen it. It’s a surgical scar, long and clean, knit back together perfectly. Something morbidly pretty to hide the defect of how the bones beneath porcelain-pale skin healed. She doesn’t actively show the scar, but the limp is prominent.

She refuses a cane, always has. It holds no real support, she says, and only furthers to remind her that she is a cripple. It won’t help. It can only hinder her more. People respect that. Why should she need it when she hobbles faster without it than with it.

A little cube-avatar pops up next to her head, within the cylinder of blue screens projected by the little chip she has placed on the ground under her. One of the ceiling crews, those in charge of keeping the Dome far above from decaying and crashing down on the city below.

There is a panel loose, he says. They’re checking for any sort of damage to both the supports and the surrounding panels. They’ll rivet it back down when they’re sure it’s safe, but they’ll need the heavy guns next to the trucks. She relays the news to a small group of Cablers with little to do amid the hustle and bustle of the rest working to stabilize another skyscraper for anchoring. They will be on standby.

It started when she first started talking, a dull throb in her right leg. She shifts her weight more to the left, but it’s still there. For a brief moment, her face twitches in emotion. Lips drawn thin just a bit before resuming its usual apathy. The leg does this every time they talk of panels, a not-so-subtle reminder to herself of why the Dome panels are important. Why they were slotted into the maintenance schedules every week.

Dome panels are heavy. She knew that even before the first one succumbed to gravity. Almost twelve years ago now. It wasn’t long after they moved in, while they were slotting into their respective societal niches.

She’s lucky she wasn’t wholly crushed, it was her split-second instinct to run at the echoing sound of screaming metal that likely saved her from worse. It’s only sad to say that her right leg wasn’t as lucky as she was. It was the only time she remembers showing emotion publicly.

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

Sky

We have a joke among us.

‘The sky’s the limit!’ ‘That’s a pretty short limit!’

It’s a joke to us because of the existence of the Dome. It seems really far up there, almost like the sky from where we are, almost a full hundred levels below it. But we’ve actually touched it. That’s no sky. It’s no better than the artificial sky Kane puts over the top of Deluxe. It’s a really terrible substitute.

We’ve seen the sky. The real sky. It’s not something you can touch. It’s something to really aim for.

I remember on good days, it was clear and blue. Not just one shade, but several shades of blue, mixed and fading in and out of one another. There might have been wisps of clouds. Due to the air currents coming off the lakes, we didn’t get the big fluffy clouds too often.

The air never stopped moving, really. There were days when it would be a little slower, a bit of a light breeze to ruffle the grasses and trees some, but it never came to a standstill save right before a big storm. Living next to a lake the size of a small sea does that, keeps the air moving. Most of the time, if you didn’t get a whiff of Detroit, the air was permeated with the smell of cold fish. After a while, you get used to it and it doesn’t bother you anymore.

At night, the sky darkened to a very dark blue, though it had a warmer undertone, like a promise day would return. If you were lucky and Detroit’s light didn’t bleed too far into it, you could see stars. Pinpricks of light. The further you got from the cities, the more stars you could see until the sky looked like a black canvas that someone had splattered glitter and white paint across.

I remember the weather, too. The wind, of course. There was always wind at some level. I remember the rain the most. The best weather to me will always be rain. It washes away impurity. The world appears fresh and new after it rains. There’s a smell to it that you can never forget, one of cleanliness. It is immersive. You can lose yourself to it, and it gives you the hope that you can start anew. Snow was always a plus; it covers the world in white. All the blemishes given by nature were washed away, even if only temporary. It might be cold and harsh, but at the same time, it’s delicate.

I wonder if the weather still rages outside the Dome. I bet it does. The Dome can cut us off from the world. In here, where if something drips on you, you’d better get tested to make sure you’re not irradiated. But it can’t stop the world turning and changing on the outside.

'The sky’s the limit!’ 'That’s a pretty short limit!’

One day, maybe. One day, we’ll see the sky once more.

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

Awake

Awake I - War and The Beast

The pangs are prominent, and are what initially wake it.

Deep within the entangled mess of wires and cables up near the ceiling of the Dome, it wakes. A shuffling stir of heavy fabric against hardened nylon, the hum of electrical current droning out the sounds of outside.

It unfolds with a crickling snap of long-unused joints, yawning wide to display the tools of the trade plainly. Hearing returns, giving away nothing but the typical ambiance and in safety, it uncoils from its space to resume its vigilance above. Stretches to further limber are taken with every stride and movement, steps careful and practiced across the usual perch.

Eyes glint silver, color of snow and frigid ends, a brief shift before resuming the abyss of oceans; dark, cruel, unforgiving. Scan of below before it begins to bubble and boil, starting in its chest and pushing up through parted jaws thrown wide.

It starts as a screech, escalates to the sound of a roar over those below. An assertion of dominance over its hunting ground, a reminder of monsters of old rising anew to begin the hunt again.

Awake II - Death and Vatka

It echoes through the air, the roar of the unpredictable unlikely guardian living at the ceiling. Every morning, at this time, he hears it down in the depths. Too organic to be mechanical, reverberating with the stale wind off cables and wires over the Cemetery Basin. They vibrate eerily, a song of ghosts through makeshift tombstones and across painted imagery of gape-mouthed spirits swirling through the ruins of what was once the bustling hub of the city, a bastion of the old world.

The dead are disturbingly expansive, and for others it is a lonesome lifestyle. Not so much for him, who hears the speech of the passed in whispers and laughter. Nor for his hulking mechanical companion.

She follows him down through a carefully-wound path, from altar to the plateau, rising as he beckons from where she sat not unlike a living dog. He muses a little to her, and she titters in that strange way of hers at his revelations.

Greetings to early visitors, both to the cemetery and to the apothecary gleaming like a beacon at the center of the depression. It is a calm morning, and hopefully an equally calm day.

Awake III - Famine and Plague

The call is heard much easier in the upper reaches of the city.

It is far too normal to truly pay mind to, so muses the Russian behind a cylinder of interfacing consoles, eyebrow over one eye quirking. Not often emotion is expressed on that face, and even then, it is brief before apathy reigns it all back in and it falls flat.

Someone to her side asks about plans concerning the Dome above them. She whisks her fingers down and up, pulling a series of files out of the column of screens, a push sending them to the other's console. Banter back and forth, the sound of machinery drowning out speech.

A panel came loose high above them in the night. It's a hazard they can't leave; Dome panels are massive and can cause more damage than any one attack by Kane if they fall. She intercepted the messages and brought Plague to boot. Together, they arrived with the Cablers to the area. They've all been working since early morning.

Her android brother is with a group above, stabilizing equipment and tools, or holding the offending panel itself in place while his comrades work diligently to bolt it back down. Someone shouts from one corner, waving a hand to catch attention. The metal has rusted through in this corner. They will have to replace a substantial portion of it to ensure the safety of those below.

What should only be a morning job has just gotten longer.

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

Morning Routine

Four-thirty in the morning was always a bit chill. Dawn usually was, even inside the Dome, but down in the Old Detroit Basin, it always seemed at least a few degrees cooler.

Not that Death minded it much, the Haitian shouldering a small pack to begin his usual morning trek to The Altar down in the bowl itself, a spot constructed crudely of chunks of concrete with the Loa veves for both Legba and Samedi scratched into the surface of a large flat piece, like a plaque. In giving offerings to both the spirits and to the ghosts that wandered the cemetery, the plateau would be approachable for the day. Which was exactly what he was after, since that was where the apothecary rested.

The lights on the surviving city block of the plateau shone warm and yellow, a beacon in an otherwise drab world. There were no lights directly in the cemetery that surrounded the upraised place of the past, leaving it with the residual lights from far above. He surveyed the land he had been maintaining for little over a decade, inhaling deeply the smell of stale earth and cool air before descending down the curling road into the basin below.

The light was faint and seemed to suck all the color out of everything, just bright enough to read the crude scratchings of names and dates, epitaphs and well-wishes in the here-after across makeshift tombstones made of any stony material people could get their hands on. Rows were barely existent, making it look like crooked teeth in an old giant's open mouth. Somewhere in the depths were the remnants of power lines and cables from generations before of what Detroit used to be, looking like tentacles reaching into the depression. The air moved a bit, displaced by people racing about in the upper levels and circulated with the massive ventilation fans in the upper curve of the Dome far above. It whistled through the old cables, making them vibrate in eerie twangs, a melancholy and impromtu dirge for those thousands buried in the soil that had been an older, free Detroit.

For anyone else, the cemetery would have been a dark and dreary place to spend one's existence. To the whistling Caribbean making his way down from the Cemetery Plateau and into the graves themselves, this was simply a way of life. Someone had to maintain the dead, as a reminder to the living and as a reminder to themselves. And that someone happened to be the Vodou ghost-talker making his way down predetermined paths, beaten flat over time into dirt roads that all converged on the center rise, where the last surviving city block of Old Detroit still stood.

Wisps played among the tombstones, bobbing shadows up and down. Once or twice, he caught the glance of eyes, or felt them looking in his direction. Whenever he actively caught them, a jovial wave was given. Just because they were dead didn't mean they didn't want to be treated like they were. It was a rule to greet placid ghosts, and these were only curious, as they were every morning.

The Altar rose in the dreary gloom, the pedestal approached with a sort of quiet reverence. Even those spirits curious and following the ghost-talker stopped at the base of the rise it sat on, overlooking the back half of the cemetery, that darker portion where the lights from above didn't penetrate.

"Bon maten." he addressed the veves carved on the back piece, stopping in front of the flat table in front of it and dropping the pack he had brought with him. "I hope y'two had a lovely sleep."

Another wind rattled the cables deep in the darker portion of the cemetery, causing a far-off clanging sound. He took that as his answer from the two Loa, pulling out a set of wooden bowls, dipping saucers, and cups; two sets each. These, he scattered routinely across the tabletop and set about pouring a half-bowl of something resembling cream, dabbling a bit of fresh honey into the saucers, and pouring cups of moonshine. It wasn’t the rum he had been taught to use, but any alcohol would do. To his left, he set a bundle of dried tobacco leaves for smoking.

"Hope y'enjoy breakfast, wi?" he added before picking up the shoulder bag and turning to leave. "Mèsi poutèt ou, for watchin' over all us in the Basin."

The unseen cables rattled again, brightening his unpainted face with a smile as he strode back down the rise into the cemetery again. It was going to be a good day, he reasoned, catching sight of a cluster of short shadowy ghosts ahead of him on his path back to the plateau.

"Ah, can't be forgettin' any of you, can I." he chuckled, setting about on the second task of the morning before the shop opened.

Before he had returned to tend the greenery he sold and paint himself for the day, small clusters of brightly-colored candies and toys, mingled with shot glasses of the same moonshine, added a sense of life into the otherwise colorless graveyard.

[theembersseries]

New Banner, New Chapters!

Embers is a fic written by the creators of this blog, @aihodineverlark and @fleim6696. It has, since first posting last year, gone through revision and rewrite—meaning that while there is a new image to see, there are also new chapters to read! The content has been completely revamped, so if you’ve been following the fic on AO3 or elsewhere, you’ll want to dive into the new stuff!

Right now the revision is only posted on AO3. You can read the first 2 chapters here. As far as updating goes, we have the first 11 written, and will be posting weekly until we’re caught up.

Summary: It's been ten years since the war that ended the reign of President Snow and the Hunger Games—ten years that Katniss and Peeta have spent living a peaceful, happy life with their two children in District Twelve. That all changes the moment a mysterious girl with a link to their past shows up on their doorstep, forcing Katniss to call in some favors and stop a new threat before it grows to something that can't be controlled.

Join Katniss, Peeta, and a whole new cast of characters on their journey to secure Panem's future for the better, and for good. Book One of The Embers Series.

The first chapter is also be available under the cut if you’re interested.

Chapter 1: The Visitor

As Katniss walks past the damaged bird statue leading into the Victor’s Village, she spots her husband, Peeta, leaned over the primrose bushes in their front yard. His back is turned while he works the roots, but he looks up at a shout from across the grass. A light, girly giggle follows, and Katniss shifts her gaze, too. There she sees her two children, Elsey and Trev—the dark-haired, blue-eyed girl and the blond, grey-eyed boy.

A smile lifts the corners of her mouth as she watches her son try to keep up with his sister.

Katniss had always told herself that she would never have kids. Between Snow’s iron leadership and the Games, the fear of losing anyone that she might bring into the world was too much to bear, and something she didn’t want to risk. That hadn’t changed even two years after the war, when she was still fresh from burns and losing her sister.

Then, something did. With the help of Peeta, she’d started to heal; and in that regard, they helped each other. They grew back together. And, even in light of everything that had happened, he found a way to still have hope.

She couldn’t help but be optimistic about the future, too. When he pulled her out of nightmares and still had cause to laugh about something she said the next morning… How could she not?

She knew he wanted kids someday. He always had, but he never pushed her, especially not then, so early in their relationship.

It was one summer morning that she spent out in the woods that made her rethink her position on the idea.

She’d seen a doe—one that, usually, she wouldn’t hesitate to shoot.

But there was one difference from all the others.

This one had a fawn. And the sight softened Katniss’s heart.

Suddenly, the reasons that she didn’t want a family didn’t hold weight anymore. The war had long since ended; Snow had been replaced with a better president in Paylor; and the Games were out the door as soon as Coin had fallen with an arrow in her chest. As far as she was concerned, they didn’t know what would happen, but it shouldn’t hold her back from being happy.

And Prim would have wanted her to be happy.

Elsey was born when she was twenty-one. Trev came (sort of as a surprise, but a blessing all the same) three years later.

The memory fades as she walks past Haymitch’s house in the neighborhood of victors’ mansions. A majority of them still sit empty, with the only occupied being those awarded to herself, Peeta, and their mentor.

It sometimes feels empty, but Katniss secretly relishes in the privacy of it all. She and Peeta were able to raise their children in peace, away from prying eyes, and Haymitch was free to… well, drink, though he’d lessened from the binges of his old days. He’d taken up raising geese, which was good.

As she reaches the edge of her yard, Katniss wonders where the snippy man she’s known to see has been in the last few days. She doesn’t remember seeing him on his porch. And she doesn’t remember hearing the geese up at all hours of the night, squawking, either.

It strikes her as odd.

“Mama!”

The thought leaves as quickly as it came with the arrival of her seven-year-old daughter, who latches onto her waist. Elsey’s smile is as wide and energetic as always. It’s easy to forget whatever worry Katniss has when she sees it.

“Hey, sweetheart,” she says, bending down to drop her game bag to the ground and pick her little girl up. “You having fun?”

“Yeah!” Elsey says, loud in her ear. “We played tag and hide and seek and a really cool, new kind of tag called freeze tag… which was kind of hard with only three people…”

“Oh, did you? That sounds great!”

“Yeah,” the quiet voice of her brother pipes in. Being the shy type, it’s not uncommon for him to speak in short phrases. He walks next to his father as he comes to greet her. When he reaches her, the blond boy fists his chubby hands in Katniss’s shirt.

“Hey, Trev.” Katniss runs her hand lightly through her son’s unruly blond curls.

“Hi...”

In her arms, Elsey continues to talk.

Katniss grins at Peeta amidst all the noise.

He steps closer to peck her cheek.

“Good hunt?” he asks.

“Yeah, it went pretty well.”

“That’s good.” He leans down to pick up Trev. “Come on, guys. Let’s go inside. It’s pretty hot out here.” Before he turns toward the house, he grabs Katniss’s game bag by the strap.

“Thanks,” Katniss mouths at him through Elsey’s chatter. She’s talking about everything else she did that day, and what she’d like to do tomorrow, and how she’s hungry and hopes mommy caught the “bestest” dinner ever…

“We could have rabbit stew tonight,” Katniss suggests as they reach the door. “I caught a few in my snares this morning.” She sets Elsey down, and the little girl begins jumping up and down.

“Rabbit stew!” she echoes back excitedly.

When Peeta lets Trev go, he does much the same, only more subdued and with a few claps added.

“Sounds like it’s a hit,” Peeta says, ruffling his son’s hair. The four of them walk inside, and the kids immediately make their way up the stairs to where their toys are.

Once left alone, Katniss turns to her husband. He wraps the arm that doesn’t hold her bag around her waist to pull her closer. They meet in a short, chaste kiss.

Katniss sighs, and when she pulls away, her gaze goes to where their children went.

“I feel like they’re growing up a lot faster than I’d like,” she says.

“That’s because they are,” Peeta replies. “It feels like just yesterday that we decided to start trying…”

Katniss elbows him, even though he’s right. It doesn’t feel like ten years have passed since the war. It doesn’t even feel like two. Some days, she feels as if she’s still in the thick of it, and others, it’s like she’s in a completely separate world altogether.

The constant is Peeta, her little girl and little boy. That’s what makes all the difference.

“I know what you mean,” Katniss muses, and goes to take the game from him when he side-steps her.

“Ah-ah.” There’s teasing in Peeta’s voice. “I’m going to handle the stew. Why don’t you go relax for a bit? You were out a long time today.”

A smile spreads over Katniss’s face. She is easy to persuade on that point—at least today. It was warm once the sun came out, and she could go for cleaning up. She decides to head to the bathroom and grab a quick shower.

When she comes out, hair dripping in a loose braid, Peeta is at the stove and the kids are still in their room.

As she passes by him, she inhales a whiff of the spices and cooking vegetables and meat. It smells delicious.

She tells him as much.

“Did you have a good shower?” Peeta asks.

Katniss nods, reaching around him for a chunk of carrot from the cutting board.

Peeta pokes her nose. “Hey, you have to wait for dinner like everybody else…”

“Like you haven’t been ‘taste testing’ this entire time…” Katniss actually uses air quotes when she says this.

“Okay, true.”

“Is it almost ready?” Katniss asks.

Peeta checks the timer. “In about twenty minutes or so, yes.”

Katniss puts her hand on her husband’s shoulder, rubbing into the muscles at the base of his neck. Then she leans her head on him for a minute. Eventually she leaves with little words and wanders over into the living room to flip through the stations on TV.

She doesn’t watch it all that much, so when she does, it’s mostly for a general update. Most of the shows are political, anyway, which is not interesting to either she or Peeta. They’ve both seen enough propaganda to last a lifetime. There’s also Plutarch’s singing show, but that got old after its fifth season; it’s on its tenth now.

After quickly becoming bored, Katniss settles on an old interview with President Paylor. She doesn’t remember seeing it.

On-screen, footage plays of her inauguration. It pauses when Paylor raises her right hand.

The camera cuts to a man in a tightly-pressed suit.

“Now, how did that feel?” he prompts.

Katniss isn’t able to hear the president’s answer, because Peeta’s voice brings her back to reality.

“Elsey! Trev!” he calls. “Dinner’s ready!”

Katniss shuts the television off and goes to help her family settle down at the table.

______

Like most nights, dinner is pretty quiet while everyone eats. Only the sound of spoons on bowls is heard until everyone finishes their first serving of stew. Elsey sits across from Peeta, with Trev across from Katniss.

Reaching for another roll, Katniss asks, “So, Elsey, what did you learn in school today?”

Elsey pauses mid-bite, her mouth turning into a scowl that Peeta would say matches her mother’s. “Mostly boring stuff,” she answers, putting the spoon in her mouth.

She doesn’t like school very much.

“Oh, come on,” Peeta says. “There has to be something interesting.”

Elsey sighs dramatically. “Okay.” She sets her spoon down next to her bowl. “They started talking about something called the ‘Dark Days’ today.” It’s clear she isn’t interested in the subject as she explains. “Some new history thing, I guess. Some war that started because a bunch of guys disagreed over… something, I don’t remember.”

“History is cool,” Katniss supplies, tearing off a piece of roll and popping it into her mouth. She exchanges a look with Peeta, who gives her a reassuring nod.

“Eh.” Elsey waves her hand in a so-so motion. “It’s not my favorite. I don’t really see why we had to have a war. What’s fighting going to solve? And guns are scaaaary.”

“I agree,” Peeta says. “But sadly, some conflicts can’t always be solved with words.”

“I wish they could.” Elsey picks up her spoon again. She continues to finish her stew, and, after, Katniss sends the kids to their room so she and Peeta can talk.

As Elsey and Trev go down the hall to do their homework, she says, “That was a close one.”

Katniss grabs her bowl along with the others and walks over to the kitchen sink. She begins washing them out, and Peeta comes up behind her moments later.

“I know,” he replies. He kneads his hands into her shoulder blades for a few moments, and Katniss lets the tension melt away from her spine. “Are you okay?”

"Yeah.” She continues to work on the dishes. “I'm just glad she hasn't gotten to us yet. I'm nowhere near ready to have that conversation…”

“I don't think I am, either,” Peeta admits. “But, at least her views on the whole thing are logical.”

“I guess.”

It’ll still be a year or two before Elsey will get to the unit that begins with President Snow. It’ll be another year before she learns about the 74th Hunger Games.

Two years. Then, the truth comes out—the ugly, bloody truth.

Katniss’s thoughts are interrupted by the insistent knocking on the front door. It sounds frantic.

“I’ll get it,” she says, rinsing the soap from her hands. She dries them, and Peeta turns the water off as she makes her way over to the front door. She opens it and sees an unfamiliar young woman standing on the porch, all green eyes and perfect skin, her dirty blonde hair pulled up into a ponytail. She wears a fancy blue blouse, though the sleeves are ripped and Katniss thinks she sees dirt on the torso.

She’s never seen her around here before.

“Hello?” Katniss asks. “How may I help you?”

"You're Katniss Everdeen, right?" the woman asks.

“Um, yes.” Katniss opens the door wider as she senses Peeta behind her. “But it’s Mellark, now. Who are you?"

"My name is Taylor Bernstein,” the woman introduces herself. “Can I come in? I need to talk to you about President Paylor. She's not as nice as you think she might be.”

“Um…”

“Yes, of course,” Peeta answers for her.

Katniss looks towards him in surprise.

“We may as well hear her out,” he mouths.

“Thank you,” Taylor sighs in relief.

Katniss awkwardly steps back to let the blonde in. All the while, the hairs on the back of her neck tingle.

This doesn’t feel right.

Peeta leads the three of them to the living room, then takes his seat beside his wife on the couch. Taylor takes the recliner near the television.

Before Taylor can say another word, Katniss cuts in.

“Why should we trust you?” Her incredulous tone is sharp even to her own ears.

Taylor sighs. She grips her knees.

“You knew my sister,” she begins quietly, her eyes darting around the room with suspicion.

“What?” Katniss asks, and squints to see if there’s any recollect. “If I did, it must have been a very long time. I’ve no idea who.”

“Well, that’s because it’s been about… twelve years. And I’m not from around here.”

Twelve years?

“Where are you from?”

“District One,” Taylor answers.

“That’s pretty far away,” Katniss says.

“Who was your sister?” Peeta asks from beside her.

Taylor takes another deep breath, hesitation in her eyes, before:

“Glimmer. My sister was Glimmer.”

[bellatrixobsessed1]

I’ll Meet You At The Bottom (Part 15)

So a little good news and a little bad news. Good news; today I contacted a publisher. I might be getting an original short story published. The bad news: this means I might not be able to update this fic as regularly. I’m definitely going to try, but I’m going to be putting more work into polishing my short story.

Azula pulled herself up, sore all over. She threw her belongings into her pack with such an alarmingly unnecessary fury. She’d stayed the night to prove that she wasn’t afraid, but she no longer desired their company. She didn’t desire any company at all. She supposed that deep down, she’d always felt as though she belonged alone.

 “Here.” Chan made off to dab at her head with a wet cloth.

 She slapped his hand away, “don’t touch me.”

 “I should have stepped in.”

 “I didn’t want your help.” She frowned and continued to fold her sleeping bag. With a sharp hiss, she clutched her ribcage.

 “Let me see it.” Chan reached out again.

 “I said don’t touch me.” This time her holler was loud enough to get a rouse from Taeyul and Wire. Even as she did so, she lifted her shirt some. She cringed at the sight of her sides, they were bruised and swollen all the way up, making it hard to move at all. She wouldn’t abandon her task though.  She would get an extra pouch of Ruby Tears from Chan and be on her way. She tightened her bag shut.

 “You really gonna leave us, pretty lady?” Minho asked.

 “You won’t miss me.”

 “That ain’t true.”

 “Ain’t it?” Azula mocked, she tugged up her shirt. “This is your fault. You and Yoona.” He flinched at the display. “Oh, I know what this is about. You just want more of this.” She hitched her shirt up an inch or two more, something she’d been all too good at lately. “That’s all you wanted, wasn’t it?” Two days late, the regret was setting in. Loneliness and desperation had made her easy. She recalled how he’d first leered at her, how could she have been so foolish? Azula tossed the pouch between her hands. Maybe Kohza was right, maybe she was just a ruby whore. She dropped herself back down. “Well, you got what you wanted, don’t think you’ll get it again.”

 “That weren’t all I wanted.” She thought she heard Minho say. “It were at first, maybe.”

 Azula ignored him. She would sit for a moment more and be on her way, whether Chan wanted to help her home or not. A drawn-out puff from her kiseru helped relax her frayed nerves and seemed to take the edge off of her physical pains. She looked in the direction of the palace, in the direction of home. How many people would be waiting for her? Waiting to drag her back to that loathsome institution. Azula laughed to herself, she’d like to see them try.

  The heavy sound of footsteps indicated Bo-Rem lurking before the girl announced herself. Dropping a token made from a rusty, beaten scrap of metal into Azula’s lap, she said, “You’re leaving? And here we were gonna let you join our gang.”

 The princess had no appetite for sarcasm today. She turned the shard of scrap metal over in her hand regardless. It was cut in an almost perfect circle with only a few sharp edges and bore the double-edged dagger of the Nyūkirā.  She flipped it over again, the back had two engraved letters an ‘P’ and an ‘L’.  In certain light, the metal chunk had a red sheen to it.

 “Boryuk didn’t know what to engrave in the metal for the initials.” Bo-Rem stated.  “So he just went with Minho’s nickname for you.”

 Azula furrowed her brows, thinking back to Mama Mozi. Of her many questions, she didn’t know which to ask first, so she asked the simplest? “Boryuk can metalbend?”

 “A little.” Boryuk shrugged, as if it wasn’t an accomplishment at all.

 Azula came out with the more pressing question.  “What is with you lowlifes and pretending like nothing happened.”

 “That kinda how it be here, pretty lady.” Minho replied.

 “We fight all the time, get it out, then it’s over.” Khoza shrugged. “‘Stead of dragging it out like they do in high-class politics.”

 “You just let it out all at once and get over it.” Wire added.

 “We also had to make sure you could handle us before letting you in.” Bo-Rem replied.

 “That how it work ‘round here.” Yoko declared.

 Azula spared the palace another glance and then turned her eyes to the trinket in her palm. An initiation process, she mused to herself. She supposed any group worth while had some type of hazing to go with it, Agni knew she wouldn’t have let just anyone join her posse. She slipped the token into her pocket.

 “So is you leavin’ or stayin’, pretty lady?” Minho asked.

 Her clothes were dirty beyond all compare, she longed for a nice hot shower, and a meal worth eating. Azula looked longingly at the palace. It would be another impulse decision that she would come to regret, but for now the Nyūkirā felt like real friends. They were rough and unstable, fickle and unpredictable but she was just as so.

 Chan tossed her a bottle of cactus juice. “So how about a trip to the industrial park? We could have a few drinks, make a little noise…”

 .oOo.

 She’s been gone for a little under a week and not one person has seen her. Or maybe they have but just didn’t realize it. Sokka wondered if her haircut had made her look that different. It couldn’t have, Azula had changed a lot but she was still Azula. He could see it on her, he didn’t even have to look, she had a certain aura about her. Sokka ran his fingers through his hair, how could this have happened? Why did he care so much for her? She’d never given him a reason to feel this much distress over her disappearance.  She needed someone, but why did it have to be him? Because, he decided, I was crazy enough to give her a try. Despite it all he had a bit of a weakness for caring for those who were usually looked down upon. And after his brush with his darkest nature, he had a weakness for seeing the humanity in the least sympathetic of people.  

 Yes, at her core, Sokka decided, Azula was in pain. Lost and in pain, and confused. Perhaps afraid even. None of those traits looked well on her and none of them seemed characteristic of her. That may have been particularly why he found himself overcome with stress and worry.

 As Sokka swept his brush over the canvas, he couldn’t help but recall her as he’d last seen her. She was so delicate, as close to death as she could very well get without falling through the thin veil. His brush glided faster as his mind raced. He was almost finished painting on her robe. It was lacking some in texture, but that only seemed right as his life in general seemed to be lacking texture lately.  

 Images infiltrated Sokka’s brain; he saw the princess laying broken and naked in some dirty back alley, she turned to him and asked why he had left her. This image flickered away, only to be replaced by Suki underwater with her arm outstretched, she was asking him where the hell he was. The images seemed to blur together and their questions intertwining.  He put down the brush, his hand trembling too much to pain right.

 He tore down the stairs, knowing that he had to find Azula. He had to find her right then.

If he didn’t he would find her dead.

Just like Yue. Like his mother. Like Suki.

 .oOo.

 The industrial park was the husk of an old war age factory. Like most of the wartime relics, the defeat of the Fire Nation put it out of use. It’s various smoke stacks were barren of their usual puffs and much of its coal had been coughed up and scattered around the dead grass and dirt. Azula knew this factory by its logo, it was the very same one that had pumped out the drill she had overseen a long time off. Spare pipes, cogs, and sheets of scrap metal unutilized were discarded in careless heaps around the park. Azula found herself sitting on the massive rail tracks, once used to transport the drill safely from one end of the park to the next. It was a jarring sight to look down, the hole beneath the track was big enough to swallow her whole. She spied the rusting corpses of war machines deemed unfit to fight for the purpose they were designed. Great machines that weren’t grand enough, discharged before they had a honor of joining the battle. She almost wished that, that could have been her. She leapt down and wandered over to one that may have been a prototype for her tank. It was beaten and unmovable now, but it still looked like it could shatter the terrain it trekked. She wondered what happened to her old tank, one day she would have to drive it again. But for the time being she accepted Chan’s cactus juice.

 One bottle had Azula’s strides a little clumsy. Two made every stupid remark made by Yoko, absolutely hilarious. Two and a half, and Yoona’s speech suddenly made complete sense. Three had her giggling hysterically when Chan tried leaping from a pile of stone blocks onto a pile of rusty beams, he missed by a bit and took a hit right to his manhood. Four bottles had her trying it herself, with more success but just as little grace.

She had to admit that she was having the time of her life. They had taken her on a great many adventures throughout the day; they had taunted a wild kimodo bull, leapt through a broken window to steal a dented kettle just to see if they could, stomped across Mama Mozi’s lawn after she’d turned her back, and tested their parkour when she’d chased them down.  Azula would argue that the kind of leaps and turns they preformed were worthy of high praise, but apparently the owners of the homes used in their show were more concerned with the unwanted intrusion than the impressive display. Their show was cut short when Azula got a first hand demonstration of the reasoning behind Wire’s name. They were doing splendidly, with a new burst of energy courts of the cactus juice, Azula had leapt from one roof to the rickety balcony of the house below. It sent jarring vibrations through her bruised and swollen ribs, but she didn’t notice through her buzzed daze. From there she used the rails to fling herself upon the scaffolding of a house never finished, leaping from one crossbeam to the next. It would seem that the building was privy to invaders for it was rigged all over. Azula had taken the care to dance over and weave through each. Chan and Taeyul not far behind. A loud “ah fuck,” and a decent thud caught her attention. She looked down to see Wire hanging precariously by his feet a story below. Between the ten of them, Wire was free, but his ankles were torn pretty horribly. Thus their rooftop adventure was cut short, all was well though, they had lost Mozi blocks back. And so they came to arrive at the industrial park earlier than planned where Azula had just finished one upping Chan. She finished with a bow that sent her into sudden vertigo. She stumbled forward and toppled over, rolling on to her back laughing. A few feet away Khoza started a round of slow claps—she couldn’t be sure if they were for Chan’s stellar landing or for her elegant bow.  

 “Ey, pretty lady” Minho called from his place atop a pile of discarded pipes and poles.  you wanna have some real fun?” Minho offered. At first she thought that it was another attempt to beg for the sex she promised him he would never get. He held up a satchel of Ruby Tears. Interest captured, Azula sauntered over. It has been a while since she’d had a really good fix. “If you add a bit of dandelion powder, the trips are much better.” Minho explained. “It smells better too.” He added as he dumped a fine dusting of dandelion powder over the Ruby Tears.

  With a fresh waft of Dragon’s Breath clouding her judgment, Azula she found herself lighting various things on fire at first just to see them explode. She and Minho made a game of it; whoever found the most flammable object won. Whoever didn’t, had to kiss Boryuk. A game that had her completely forgetting to hide the color of her flame. Azula scoped the area for something worth lighting. As Minho scoured the trash heap, she shoved her way into the factory. She rummaged through crates both open and sealed, most of them contained broken screws, nails, and bolts. A few had some perfectly intact hammers and wrenches. But they were of no use to her. She could set the mountain of coal on fire, but even at her highest she could still deduce that doing so would draw far too much attention. Coupled with the thought that she would be too drunk to keep a fire of that size in check, she put the idea out of her mind. Perhaps that was the smartest decision she had made all week. At last she came upon what she was looking for. A few sticks of dynamite and a small pile of gun powder. It was only slightly less foolish.

 “Found yours Minho?” She asked.

 “I find mine ‘while ago, pretty lady. Were waiting on you.”

 “Ell urry ip n lye it ip.” Yoona hollered. “Us wan see some sploshions.”

 “After you.” Azula slurred, motioning for Minho to start, after all the best was to be saved for last.

 “A’righty then. Time to bring out the classics.” Minho stabbed a large stick into the ground, nature’s finest firewood. Around it he spread a cluster of leaves. He set it aflame and tossed a lump of coal or two into the mix. She had to admit, his use of the bare minimum created quite a respectable blaze. But it wouldn’t come close to the inferno she was about to create.

 “Alright, Minho, prepare to meet your doom.” She smirked. She put his fire out and set her dynamite and powder in its place. She lit it up and quickly scuttled back. The blast popped and with the assistance of the gunpowder shot quite a distance, right into a sheet of steel where it ricocheted. The burnt of it had died away but the shower of heat that contacted her calf had her nearly on her ass. With a swiftness to match her own, Chan broke her fall.

She counted her blessings that the stick was a dud and that the hit only left a harsh stinging and an angry red mark on her leg.

 “I thinks you wons, pretty lady.” Minho declared backing away from the fire that still burned where the powder had trailed.

 “Whoops.” Azula muttered, but at the same time she relished in her victory. It was the first one she’s had since the eclipse. “Y-you must feelprettybad rightnow.” She laughed, well aware that her slur was growing more apparent. “Because my victory was so explosive, it will be ringing inyourears f-for, for a week.”

 “That pun will be ringing in my ear for weeks to come.” Khoza muttered, obviously not drunk enough for that brand of humor.

 Azula laughed harder, it was more like a cackled at that point. Her fire seemed to laugh with her as it crackled. Leaning up against Chan, she fixed her ear on it. Indeed her fire was talking, speaking to her like it was proud of her. “You’ve finally used me well.” It’s voice died off with a pop. She crawled closer to the fire as it praised her for her mastery of it. A burst of sparks took to the air and showered down on her in the form of compliments. She came closer still and reached her hand out, only to have Chan yank it back.

 “But the fire the fire it wanted me t-to come to it.”

 “It’s a fire, of course it did.” Chan smiled, running a hand over her hair. “I would like you to come to me.”

 Azula peered up at him with innocent eyes, as innocent as her eyes could be anyhow. “Would you?”

 “Absolutely.” He replied, coaxing her away from the hazard she was making of the fire behind her. He bent down enough to find himself level with her.  He brushed her hair out of her face, brushing his thumb over her cheek. Holding her close he mumbled in her ear, “you’re still unbelievably hot.” His hand slid over her thigh.

 She looked at her hands. They were on fire. She was fire. The flames were blue, she was her fire. “I know I am.” She replied, effectively ruining the mood. “I am fire.” She whispered to herself, truly and completely mesmerized by the flames she thought she had become.

 Chan rolled his eyes, but if that made her happy he would go with the moment. “You are fire, huh?” He asked.

 “That’s right.” She smirked, putting a hand on his cheek. Her flame-fingers seemed to lick and dance over his skin. “Do you know what fire likes to do, Chan?”

 “What does fire like to do, princess?” He asked stroking her back.

 “It likes to consume things.” She winked, pushing him to the ground. She needed to take advantage of the moment, it wasn’t every day that her entire body became flame, it never happened at all before then. There was so much raw power that came with being fire, she dared anyone to try to wield her. She would let Chan give it a shot.

 As a fire would, she leapt upon him.

 .oOo.

 As the princess became fire, Sokka snuffed out. He couldn’t find her, he tried so hard, but he couldn’t find her. And if he couldn’t find her, that must mean she’s dead. No one is gone for a week without a trace or a word and comes back alive, especially not a person hooked on drugs and so full of scars. He killed her in some way, shape, or form. He re-entered the palace all fury with a faint feeling that he should have asked for help.

 “Sokka, are you alright?”  

 “I can’t do anything Katara!” He hollered. He didn’t mean to yell at her but he needed to scream. He needed to hit something. “You healed her.”

 “Healed who?”

 “Aang was breathing for her.”

 “Azula? Are you talking about Azula?”

 “Zuko kept the guards on task and the guards brought her to the infirmary. You know what I did Katara?” She made off to answer be he was shouting again. “Nothing! I did nothing.” He was pacing frantically about the room, he did nothing just like when Zhao killed the moon spirt. Just like when Suki’s ship went down.

 “Sokka, that’s not true.” Her arm was on his shoulder.

 He came to an abrupt stop, shoulders slumping. “You’re right, Katara.” The relief in her eyes was short lived. “I did do something. I was the one who put her in that situation. Aren’t I just a great help.” A coffee table was on the floor before, clattering a few decorative platters along with it. He didn’t remember pushing it over, but he was sure that he did. He clasped his hands on his head. It was happening again. And after he swore to himself that he would never lose control again. The fear in Katara’s eyes was unmistakable and he couldn’t blame her for backing away. As compassionate as she was, she wasn’t an idiot. She wasn’t reckless like him, she knew when to back away from someone so far out of it that they couldn’t come back in on their own.

 For the first time he considered that he had never truly healed at all, that he’d been bottling it in the whole time, pretending that everything was okay. It wasn’t.

He wasn’t.

 He kicked the wall once, maybe twice, maybe thrice—he’d lost count after the first.

 “Sokka please.” Katara called. “You have to calm down.”

 He didn’t mean to but he chucked at that. “Okay, sure thing Katara, let me just flick my rage switch off. He watched her cringe against the wall, just like she did when the first time. He had hit her, not because he was mad at her, but because he was mad and she was there. This time he hit himself, it drove away the urge and was better than hurting her again. He wouldn’t be able to take it if he hurt his own sister again, just like he couldn’t take it that he had pushed Azula over the edge.

 Strangely enough, he found himself hating Suki. For leaving him, for doing this to him.  

 To his surprise Katara approached him. “No, no you have to go. I’m going to hurt you again.”

 “You won’t.” Katara insisted hugging him as close as she could, bringing a halt to his self-beating. “I won’t let you.”

 “I’m sorry Katara.” He whispered, his rage subsiding to make room for tears. “I’m so sorry.” He wasn’t sure if he was apologizing for the present or for the strife he caused her in the past. He needed to get a grip. He needed someone to help him find one. “You’re not going to blame her are you, it’s not her fault.”

 “Will it make you feel better if I don’t.” Katara asked.

 Sokka nodded.

 “Then I won’t. On one condition.”

 He waited.

 “Let me help you. I know you haven’t been yourself.”

 “Then why didn’t you say something?” He asked. “You’re afraid of me aren’t you.”

 “No, Sokka! You know that’s not true. I didn’t want to push you.”

 “Help me help Azula.” He quickly added, “you don’t even have to talk to her, just give me some support.”

 Katara sighed. “I’ll do what I can.”

 Sokka tried to smile, he thought that it almost worked. Maybe this time around, he would heal for real. Maybe they both could. If only the princess would come home.

 .oOo.

 In the week to follow, they had a lot of questions for Azula, having seen her fire for what it really was. She cringed, waiting for the backlash. It came in the form of an unrelenting rain of questions. What was it like to live in the palace? Is it true that you have your own personal guards? Is there a hot spring in palace, I heard there were three. And from Yoona, though jumbled as usual, Azula made out, “can you hook me up with your brother.” She came to conclude that Yoona was the most merciless of gang. Khoza was the only one who had no questions to ask. He was content to give commentary, “that explains a lot” among other thing.

Truth be told, Azula had expected repercussion and another beating, but they seemed to treat her no differently. Not better nor worse. They still treated her with all of the roughness of the days prior, they still expected her to accompany them on all of their ventures no matter how much class they lacked.

 That week had been the best week of her life. Save for the bottle and the dust, she was free. Truly free.

 In that week, she had grown fond of Minho. More so than she’d like to admit. He told her about his family. About his little brother Hi-Yung, who still had the cloth rabbaroo he’d sewn for the kid. Of his mother, crippled by a carriage accident—the one that killed his father. He told her of his dreams and asked her if she could help him. “I know I aren’t the brightest ‘round. But I have a idea. I has lots a ideas. I want to tell stories. I want folks to read ‘em.” So she let him tell her stories of the made up sort and of real adventures he’d been on.  And he was good at it, several nights in a row he lulled her to sleep with his wild tales. So did something she seldom ever did. She made him a promise. That when she got back to the palace and sorted things out, she would find him again and teach him to read and write. He was a brilliant man, she had come to conclude, a brilliant man who had never gotten a chance. She found out more than she ever wanted to know about him. He was rather comforting and made her feel less alone in her addiction. And when the others were fast asleep, she exchanged a story of her own. And he reminded her that she was strong, useful, worthwhile. He made her feel as though she wasn’t alone. He told her that he wanted to stop taking Ruby Tears and that they could do it together.

 Perhaps that’s why his death hit so hard.

[mikemortgage]

Chasing cold cash: How icebergs became the field of dreams for believers and schemers

David Meyers, the chief executive of Canadian Iceberg Vodka, a spirit made with water harvested from icebergs off Newfoundland’s coast, was meeting with a colleague at his office in Toronto’s northeast end on a snowy February morning, when the phone rang.

John Batten, the company’s warehouse manager in Port Union, Nfld., was on the line. He sounded baffled and bewildered, beset by a crisis he didn’t have an answer for. He had been doing his rounds, he explained, checking on the facility’s 30,000-litre iceberg water storage tanks to ensure the pressure gauges were all at 50, indicating the water inside was still circulating, instead of frozen solid.

But one of the pumps was registering zero and one of the pipes was displaced. Upon further inspection, the tank was empty and some $12,000 worth of iceberg water was gone.

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“It is not like the tank leaked out,” Meyers recalled recently. “One of the pipes was askew, a pipe that should have been connected to a pump, so it appears the thieves attached a hose to that and drained it out, somehow. To be honest, we’ve been scratching our heads around here ever since.”

Police in Newfoundland continue to investigate the iceberg water whodunit, a heist that made international headlines and went viral on social media, but have yet to produce any concrete leads. What makes the mystery so appealing is the substance that was stolen: a precious liquid, of sorts, tapped from massive hunks of floating ice that, in their immensity, exude an almost mythic quality.

Icebergs are ancient history, indeed. They come to Newfoundland and Labrador from a seemingly distant place (Greenland, actually), buoyed along by the ocean current, melting beneath the summer sun and bleeding away perceived riches — that is, 100-per-cent pure, pre-Industrial Age, no vitamins-or-minerals-added iceberg water — into the Atlantic.

An iceberg looms over Bonavista, Newfoundland. Nature’s frozen carvings drift through Iceberg Alley each spring and summer.

It is the iceberg’s size, length of journey, age (they are more than 10,000 years old), ever-shifting architecture and inevitable death that draws hundreds of thousands of vacationers to Newfoundland each summer to see them. They are a star attraction — right up there with whales, seabirds, lighthouses, hiking trails and the welcome-you-with-open-arms-and-distinct-accent Newfoundlanders — that drives a half-billion-dollar-a-year tourism industry.

But icebergs also serve a lesser-known purpose: as muse to a handful of hopers, billionaires and kooks, whose iceberg water-based concoctions — be they vodka, bottled water, age-defying face creams, craft beer, wine and whatever they might think of next — fuel an industry built upon the faith that berg water is the tip of a commercial iceberg, an imagined gateway to great riches.

The industry has attracted a Saudi prince, failed politicians and former beach bums despite having just one certainty: the natural resource it relies upon disappears by September 1, only to return anew the following year, when another batch of bergs, typically 400 to 800 a season, drifts down Newfoundland’s coast for tourists to behold — and dreamers and schemers to try to profit from.

Money, mind you, is not a factor in Steve Bruneau’s fascination with icebergs. He’s an engineering professor at Memorial University in St. John’s, and a world-renowned expert on Arctic ships and structures — such as oil drilling platforms — which means he thinks a lot about ice and icebergs.

Bruneau has tested iceberg water, and can attest to its purity and the relative accuracy of the hyperbole often adopted by those trying to sell it.

“Ice was hard to come by in Newfoundland 200 and 300 years ago, and so icebergs were used quite regularly as a source of ice for packing fish and preservation,” he said.

“What is new about it today is that people are going after iceberg ice strictly for the novelty aspect of it. It sounds good, the optics are pretty cool and you got these big old blocks of ice cracking off the glacier — and we can say that the water is as pure as the driven snow and unaffected by modern civilization, and all that stuff, and that’s all pretty well true. But make no mistake: it is a novelty, and people like that.”

Unlike other Newfoundland novelties, such as being screeched in at the pub, the iceberg industry is not for the financially or physically faint of heart.

Harvesting ice from an iceberg requires a heavy-duty, reinforced-steel-hulled boat, and a spirit of derring-do to pull up alongside a hunk of ice that can split or unexpectedly flip, and often features sharp, spiny underwater fingers of ice, capable of punching holes through unsuspecting watercraft. (Remember the Titanic?)

The White Star Liner Titanic collided with an iceberg off Newfoundland on its maiden voyage from Southampton to New York on the night of the 14th/15th April 1912. More than 1,500 of the 2,229 people on board lost their lives.

In this regard, Ed Kean numbers among the elder statesmen of the iceberg industry, a veteran of 30-plus summers of harvesting ice. He has a break-your-hand-in-two-handshake grip, and he got into the iceberg business because his family business was built upon a fishery that collapsed. Kean didn’t want to leave Newfoundland for someplace else, so he had to find something new to fish for.

Icebergs were it.

“This is a very small industry,” Kean said from the mountains of western Newfoundland, where he was snowmobiling. “It is costly to get into, and you’ve got to harvest enough ice in two months to last the rest of the year.”

In the olden days, Kean cracked ice chunks off larger icebergs by blasting them with a rifle, or hacking into them with an axe, then scooping up the pieces with a net. His system is more advanced now.

Kean harvests about 1,000 tons of ice a summer — Iceberg Vodka is by far his largest client — using a 100-foot-long custom barge, aptly named the Ice Harvester, outfitted with a grappling hook. The grapple breaks off ice chunks, which are fed into an ice grinder and then stored in tanks. The ideal iceberg for harvesting is about the size of a medium-sized house.

“I am starting to do my own iceberg water now,” said Kean, one of six individuals/companies licensed by the province to harvest icebergs. “I am hoping that it is going to be bigger than the vodka, bigger than the beer — and everything else.”

Ed Kean numbers among the elder statesmen of the iceberg industry, a veteran of 30-plus summers of harvesting ice.

Hopes and dreams are the underpinnings of an industry that was always supposed to be bigger than what it has actually become.

The idea of monetizing iceberg water first cropped up in the late 1940s, thanks to John Dove Isaacs III, an American scientist and academic.

Isaacs’ career arc took him from being present at nuclear test sites and studying blast waves, to hypothesizing that towing Antarctic icebergs up the Pacific Coast and anchoring them off Catalina Island might solve California’s chronic water scarcity problem in the agro-industrial sector.

His theory was completely wacky, and resided on the scientific margins until the 1970s, when Saudi Prince Mohammed bin Faisal Al Saud became interested in icebergs as a possible answer to his country’s drinking water problems.

With Saudi money to be made in icebergs, university professors started cranking out papers and convening academic conferences. Entrepreneurs took note.

Iceberg water is touted for its purity.

“Previous discussions of iceberg water had stressed its application to irrigation and agro-industrial complexes, schemes that could not afford high-priced water — and demanded delivery of very large icebergs,” American geophysicist W.F. Weeks noted to his peers at a gathering of the International Glaciological Society in Cambridge, England, in April 1980.

“Water delivered to Saudi Arabia, however, would be used for human consumption and high technology, and could command far greater prices.”

Saudi iceberg interest also caught the eye of Ron Stamp, a former owner of a hovercraft rental business in the Cayman Islands and a St. John’s native. He just couldn’t understand why the Saudis wouldn’t just melt the iceberg wherever it was, bottle the water and ship it home, ready to drink, rather than towing an iceberg to the desert — which never actually happened.

“Commercially, the prince was looking at the most expensive ice cube on the planet,” he said. “And that always stuck in my head.”

Ron Stamp, who says he’s Canada’s original iceberg water entrepreneur, stands on Topsail Beach just outside St. John’s.

Stamp fancies himself Canada’s original iceberg water entrepreneur. As he tells the story, he was drinking beers with some buddies, circa 1982, when they started talking about that iceberg-obsessed Saudi prince.

Stamp had left home at 17 to drive a truck in Toronto, before realizing that what he was really good at was talking, and so he switched to sales before leaving sales to be a beach bum in Jamaica.

Next came the hovercrafts and, ultimately, a trip home to visit his parents, where he started a new venture: selling Newfoundland fish to Europe. It was a fine idea, until the cod all but disappeared and the government declared a moratorium on the fishery.

All the while, Stamp said, he never forgot about the Saudis, or the image of a giant iceberg melting away, which served as inspiration for his first iceberg-related business idea: iceberg ice cubes.

Pure, hard and slow to melt, iceberg ice cubes had an origin story he felt a connoisseur of fine Scotch would swallow, and pay a premium for. But the idea never took off. Instead, vodka was the answer.

“I was the first person to make a vodka out of an iceberg or bottled water out of an iceberg, and that can’t be taken back from me,” Stamp said.

His vodka-making days date back to about 1993, and are long past now, though his latest creation — Borealis, an iceberg beer — has him telling stories again. The beer has been test-marketed in several Asian markets to, its creator claims, rave reviews.

“I’ve been looking at icebergs all my life,” Stamp said. “It’s a funny thing, because no matter how often you see them — if you are driving along the coast and you pop around a corner and there is an iceberg — it’ll make you stop. They are off-kilter, because it will be summer, and then here is this chunk of ice, hanging on the horizon. They are an amazing thing.”

Which is why some Newfoundlanders would prefer that the iceberg harvesting crowd simply left the icebergs alone.

Bottles of Iceberg Vodka at the offices of CEO David Meyers.

“Getting into a conflict with the harvesters — that kind of a scenario — it is real,” said Cecil Stockley, who operates MV Iceberg Alley, an iceberg/whale-watching vessel out of Twillingate, Nfld. “My opinion was, and always has been, that we should allow an iceberg to break down naturally. Tourists, especially in a place like Twillingate, the last thing you want to see is the harvesters crunching up an iceberg with all their machinery.”

In years past, tensions flared between the harvesters and the preservationists. Shouts and insults were exchanged between boats. Things, Stockley admits, could easily have escalated.

To keep the peace, the Newfoundland government stepped in, adopting a series of iceberg/whale-watching industry-friendly measures, including stipulating that all iceberg “harvesting activities shall not interfere with tour boat operations or other recreational activities …

“Also, harvesting activities or collection of bergy bits shall not be carried out within visible distance from known locations frequented by tourists, including, but not limited to, Cape Bonavista, Cape Spear, Twillingate and other locations …”

For now, the iceberg détente remains, and the icebergs continue to attract new dreamers to the industry.

One such dreamer is Marek Krol, a Polish-Canadian entrepreneur famous around Newfoundland, in the utmost small-c celebrity way, for starring in his own, short-lived reality television series called Living Wild, about living off the land with his family.

Workers harvest pieces of an iceberg off the coast of Newfoundland.

The 52-year-old leveraged his celebrity to try his hand at politics, standing as a Conservative candidate in St. John’s in the 2015 federal election against Liberal star, Seamus O’Regan. Krol got crushed, earning just 4.5 per cent of the vote.

“Politics didn’t work out so well for me,” he said, laughing.

Next up: iceberg vodka, perhaps iceberg water and, who knows, maybe iceberg water-derived medicine of some sort.

Krol claims he is on the cusp of patenting a new technology that will dramatically increase the volumes and efficiencies involved in iceberg harvesting. He is also engineering a new vodka bottle — no sneak previews allowed — that he expects will be on liquor store shelves across Newfoundland this fall.

“Success starts with a dream,” he said. “Amazing people who become billionaires, they have a dream and they pursue it, and I am not afraid to take a risk, to dream big and to make things happen.”

Back at Canadian Iceberg Vodka HQ in Toronto, another week has past without any new breaks in the case of the missing iceberg water.

CEO David Meyers has his own working theory, believing that the thieves must have thought they were stealing vodka when they emptied the storage tank, before disappearing without a trace.

“Thirty thousand litres of vodka, that would have substantial value,” he said. “But there is no black market for iceberg water. What you do with 30,000 litres of stolen iceberg water in Newfoundland, I just don’t know.”

But maybe the thieves do know, and maybe they have known along. They wouldn’t be the first to look at an iceberg and see a 100-per-cent pure opportunity frozen inside.

• Email: joconnor@nationalpost.com | Twitter: oconnorwrites

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[raving-writer-ramblings]

Backlog Writings #1

Basically the first chunk of things I’ll be posting on this blog will be old things I wrote before making this. This is the first of many. Enjoy or don’t, I won’t cry I promise. 

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“I already told you mom, I'll be fine.” His tone was unenthused as if he'd already gone over this same conversation a hundred times before. Of course that was because he had. His mother always seemed like she didn't believe he could succeed on his own, or that all he needed to do was admit it. Like that'd ever happen. “I know I know honey I'm just worried about you.” It was clear in both her tone of voice and the slight smudging of make up from tears that she was sincere. After all her oldest was finally moving along in the world. My how the years have passed her by. It felt like just a moment ago she'd met Blake for the first time on her fourth date with his late father. “You don't gotta worry. I've always been good at making friends, it's my time to try for something.” The line felt corny even for him but it felt right in a way. Without another word she embraced the boy and he returned the tight show of affection. After a few more minutes of double checking if he'd brought everything up from the van she finally set off, leaving Blake alone in his dorm. It felt strange, sitting on a new bed with new sheets, specially purchased for the strange mattress size his college used. None of it really felt real. He'd anticipated it, and prepared himself for it for months and yet now he was alone. Of course he wouldn't be alone in the room for much longer, his roommate would likely show up within the next few hours and ruin this surreal feeling of limbo. Rather annoyingly Blake had shown up early to 'move in day' and after taking his time to arrange his side of the dorm room was left with nothing. Finally deciding it would be a little too weird to sit around in his room he ventured out into the hallway, glanced both directions and arbitrarily picked a way to go. People were starting to trickle in now, most surrounded by a family member or two although a few were alone. Each one was either a person he'd pass by in the halls in the year to come or a person who he'd become familiar with, and not much in between. It was a strange occurrence to him that this flood of perfect strangers were all people he could and might meet and know. Some might be friends and others might be enemies. Eventually he found himself outside the dorm building he'd been assigned and began making his way away from the people moving in and towards the campus buildings of which he would be familiar. Everything about this place seemed strange and foreign and yet it'd all become familiar and mundane in a way. That statues of which he payed undue attention would eventually fade into the background of his grand play of life, the brick masoned buildings would become familiar destinations. His ideals would be questioned and his morals tested in ways that High School or movies never really described. Strangest of all is that he'd be different coming out than he was going in. Enamored by all of these realizations Blake looked to the sky and wondered how life would ever feel regular again. How this feeling of strangeness and oddity could fade from his views. His considerations and musings were cut short. His eyes pointed towards the sky, Blake had mistakenly stepped into the street. His body lies cold now in the morgue and the truck driver who'd been unable to foresee the young man who'd walked into the streets from behind the schools immaculate hedging was now in the hospital with a concision. Always be aware of your surroundings. Look both ways before crossing the street. This has been a PSA sponsored by your local law enforcement agency.