#'machines woven out of light' was what i thought about when i saw this prompt

[robo-dino-puppy]

horizontober 2023 | 22: weave

[callme--starchild]

Half of What You Think of Me

Donald felt this could be one of the most uncomfortable rides of his life as an adventurer. Curled up in the seat and wrapped in seat belts, his gaze wandered around the plane.

Della was piloting and chatting with Launchpad, who sat in the adjacent seat — since when had the two of them become so close? — while Scrooge stood between them, serving as the lookout that clearly both pilots were failing.

Goofy was more discreet in the seats across from him. The children were huddled around the dog, bright eyes filled with curiosity as he told them the story behind each photo in his wallet. He could actually perceive the way they waited for a photo that included him to know the memory — possibly shameful — that it possessed.

But if he knew his friend like the back of his wing, Donald knew that those images, as well as Mickey's, were in the oldest part of his cellphone gallery, far below many photos of Max. It was not something that particularly offended the duck, he understood very well what it was like to be gushing over the photos of their respective proteges.

(Feeling watched, Goofy looked up for a moment as the four ducklings admired the photos he had taken during the Powerline’s concert years ago, appreciating the soft gaze his old friend had on the children, the same loving gaze that not only seen when he looks at his.

If he hadn't known Donald since they were both younger, he wouldn't have hesitated to think of him as the biological father of the kids. He could be the uncle, it's true, but having triplets under his care for ten years was worthy of admiration, especially when counting and accepting without hesitation one more girl.)

"You are pretty quiet."

But a British accent snapped both parents out of their reverie, causing Donald to discover Goofy's gaze on him for a second before continuing to tell stories, this time about a prom.

"Oh hello Mrs. B." Donald greeted the housekeeper as she sat next to him, surreptitiously glancing at the four children. Needless to say, he did it in a very strange way by being with the belts around him. A sad smile decorated his face.

On the other hand, Beakley's expression remained neutral, with a glint in her gaze that Donald didn't quite know how to describe; preferring to focus again on the kids to perceive the way her features softened.

"You know they're not upset, right?"

Donald looked up; he hadn't noticed the moment when he lowered it and, ignoring the damp burning that was beginning to appear in his eyes, he looked back at the housekeeper. Despite the severity that was commonly woven into her face, the sailor managed to perceive the small, almost ghostly smile on her face.

It was almost hilarious that they initially got along as well as oil and water. And look at them now, bonding like a pair of confidants.

"If it was them, I would be," he confessed feeling himself shrink in his seat, his feathers clinging to the seat’s leather as if he might rip it apart.

Actually, he could; that is, he had faced greater threats for a fifth of his life, an airplane seat would be a piece of cake.

"After all, I took away from them a part of their life that currently makes them happy," and it was not the same to give it up on your own free will than to have it disappear like sand between your fingers, he knows. And it was better to think about that than the anger that tickled through his veins, all against himself “just because I was looking for an idealization of normality worthy of a  sitcom .”

Involuntarily, Donald grunted the last word. Even if it had been fun to feel on a TV show, he knew that sooner or later his trick would end up being discovered because those kids were smarter than he liked; he also did not feel happy to lie to his family — and to know that it was not the only lie he has made, the house of cards that he created with so much effort would collapse. Maybe it was better to keep the low budget and the recorded laughs on a show.

Even if he kept thinking about the life he left behind, it didn't mean that they were calm leaving theirs because what he was doing was more dangerous and it was certainly hypocritical and—

“Even if the method you used was unorthodox, I can see why you used it." Beakley's voice was the light that Donald's darkness needed, and he clung to it like a lifeline. "You love your family and you just want to see them safe and sound. I can say that I share the sentiment.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the gleam of amazement in Webby's eyes, leaning her elbows on an armrest as she listened to Goofy. He had never bothered to get to know the housekeeper better even if he lived on the pool at her house, and the fact that this was their longest talk planted something in his heart.

"And even if that fantasy were possible, I think we both know that they would not be happy with it” yes, leave the fantastic situations to cartoons and other kinds of programs for children to see “and it's incredible that I say this, but it seems like Scrooge knows what he does to keep them protected.”

There was a hint of disbelief in her voice, and the sailor stifled his laughter. To tell the truth, even he was surprised; in the adventures he engages in, he has not seen any of his nephews being pushed into a portal, shrunken, or into a block of magical ice.

It didn't hurt as much as it seemed.

“You're right.”

"Of course, I’m always right," and they both laughed, like a couple of old friends who haven't seen each other in years.

How things changed in just a few months.

"By the way," of course, they couldn't stay on the same topic of conversation, Donald himself didn't feel so comfortable talking about him, "what did you ask the genius for?"

"Oh," a smile crept in, and the duck wondered if the spy had noticed the instant his feathers turned scarlet, "I just asked for a small, big detail. You will see it arriving at the mansion.”

And oh, Donald won't be able to forget the happiness on Beakley's face at the sight of the family photograph. The photograph that included her.

One more lie.

The young duck's footsteps echoed across the silent 151st floor, one hand on his chin as he narrowed his eyes in a thoughtful and distant expression.

"Sooner or later, you'll make a mark on the ground, Old Cape," being pulled out of his thoughts by a small orb that appeared beside him, his reverberated voice playing with the superhero's nerves in an almost impossible way, "you've been like this since you returned from your mission in the 21st century, do you want to talk?”

But Uno was so worried, so nervous that Donald forgot that he was not a biological being but a machine. A  machine that acted, thought, and spoke in such a human way that it burned, that Donald wonders at what moment hearing that voice had become the most important part of his day-to-day life, prompting him to keep putting on his kevlar suit to go out on a new adventure from which he does not know if he will be able to return alive.

When had he been so lucky to meet Uno that the mere thought of something happening to him in the 21st century terrified him?

"I saw myself there," he murmured after a few seconds of silence, listening to the buzz of a chair appearing behind him and feeling a pair of hands supporting his shoulders with such care that it made him uneasy, sighing heavily as he removed his mask and his fingers fiddled with the texture, "apparently I'll be a secret agent in the future."

"Sorry to interrupt you PK, but…" Sure, Uno was concerned. He had foreseen temporal paradoxes before leaving with Lyla.

"It's all I know, he— I didn't agree to tell more. You know, the current of space-time and all that paraphernalia” but his voice gave away his anguish, and a dull sound gave away the way he let his back hit the back of the chair “but…”

But. There was always a  but.

"The Ducklair Tower wasn't there." No, his voice hadn't cracked, and Donald fought the urge to rip the hood with the voice modulator off because it was the only thing that kept his identity  secret when he's Paperinik.

Silently, Uno made his companion's sailor suit appear, letting another buzz roar in the newly silent secret floor.

"Something is going to happen, Uno, something is going to happen to  you and I don't know what it is." He squeezed his hands, applying so much force that his trembling knuckles paled more.

"It's probably not that bad, Hero." But even if Uno was an AI, he managed to hear the uncertainty in his own modulated voice. Odin Eidolon peered into the recess of his database.

Donald dropped the mask onto his lap, slowly rubbing his temples. He looked exasperated, he felt terrified.

Paperinik had never been terrified, but under that mask, he was still Donald Duck, and Donald Duck had to act on his fear more than once if he wanted to continue his life.

"He said he missed you," and maybe that's what dismayed the superhero since his return to the 20th century, staring at the ceiling and feeling smaller than usual.

He knew that the seconds were scarce before they found themselves back home, the skyscraper that was the Ducklair Tower would cease to be a non-existent point to remain the base of Channel 00 as well as the defender of the city’s; but even so… he— Donald from the future—  Double Duck had used them to dedicate a few words to the artificial intelligence, even if he had been very specific in that he would not shut up facts.

Perhaps that was what kept Donald uncertain, not Paperinik, and it is that the very idea that something was happening with Uno unsettles him.

For the first time, Uno does not know what to say to lift the spirits of his partner, not even a one-liner. But it was impossible, the artificial intelligences did not waver, not even one as advanced as he — modesty aside. That did little to reassure Donald.

It could be the first time that something had alerted both the hero and the civilian.

"Do you really think something will happen, PK?" The AI questioned empathetically as a pair of hands helped the superhero remove his suit. His system did not allow him to believe, Uno was logical; and while the Pangea project proved that even he could be wrong, it was further proof of the influence that the biological duck has had on him.

But Uno didn't believe, he  knew something had to happen for Odin to emerge, especially considering Donald couldn't connect the dots and figure out what took him a few minutes.

"I don't know," Donald growled, pulling on his sailor shirt with the help of Uno's arms — changing in front of the AI was already absolutely normal for Donald after months of doing it, often too hasty to even notice.

Still, that only demonstrated the confidence both partners had. So why did Uno feel he was lying to the sailor by hiding the truth about the billionaire businessman of the XXIII century? Why couldn't he tell him that he would never leave him alone — or how impossible it would be to get rid of him, even though clearly neither of them wanted that?

Why did the thought of losing Uno, and not by aging, terrify Donald so much?

That conversation felt very distant to the retired hero. But now that he was aware of the reason for his doubts, he wanted nothing more than to have a hint of tachyon that would allow him to travel to the moment when Uno was deactivated to avoid it.

And maybe hit Everett, who knows. He would literally have all the time in the world at his complete disposal.

But Uno was there, face to face. And Donald couldn't believe it,  he barely  could do it, but the last thing he wanted was to blink and have the intelligence— android in front of him disappear into thin air.

"H-How?" He whispered, feeling his voice harsher than usual. He was supposed to go to the abandoned Ducklair Tower to see the result of his wish. Instead, a robot perfectly built to match the appearance of an ordinary mallard stood in the middle of his door.

At this, Uno laughed. Donald didn't know how to feel; his voice did not have those reverberations that made it robotic, but one that could be heard in any duck that no one could suspect, the absence of walls causing no echoes that were familiar to the sailor to be heard.

It generated a strange feeling in his chest, but he didn't want it to fade away.

"The first piece of information that comes to my system is to be reactivated in the Tower "Uno confesses, and for some reason, he does not dare to say that among these are Donald's memories, those that he had managed to record and save in his database because well, those were personal “but this body had been in the planning for… a long time.”

His voice becomes distant as well as his gaze, and the sailor does not dare to inquire; the mere idea that his best friend had this project planned without him even knowing since before he was deactivated, left a knot in the pit of his stomach. And he prefers to focus on the lump that rested rather in his throat and left him shaking.

"It's still a bit unstable, but what else could I do? I've missed you, Old Cape…” And hearing that old nickname again felt like a lunge, and Donald couldn't help but laugh sadly as he felt moisture running down his cheeks and the edges of his beak, rushing into the android's arms before he could even prepare himself, backing out of reflex.

As Donald cradled his face against the opposite chest, concentrating on the hum that was so familiar and strange at the same time, Uno couldn't help but smile wistfully as his arms wrapped around the smaller duck's body. The AI was already aware of the size of his old companion, but now that he could see it directly, he looked much more fragile than he might have thought.

The plumage felt soft, and though he could perceive the knots and some messy feathers, the delicacy of those that grew again could not be missed. Uno was no stranger to the ducks’ molting, he had witnessed some from his partner back in the tower, but he had never realized how silky they could be.

Donald's sailor suit was now a gloomy black, had the occasional wrinkle, and exuded a faint stench of sea salt, sand, and dirt. He wasn't sure how he could identify the smells, but it must be his vast knowledge.

But the duck was trembling, sobbing in a shaky, broken voice. Or a voice more broken than usual. Not that he was critical.

"I missed you too," he confessed after a few seconds of silence, tentatively breaking the hug as he wiped his eyes. Only then could he notice that the eye bags had intensified, looking darker than he could remember “more than you think, old friend.”

And even though One couldn't age, he recognized the symbolism behind the Peking duck's words and was beyond grateful for it.

—

“So… this is the new Donald Duck?" His wing scanned one of the framed photographs on the boathouse’s stairs, and being able to feel was a feeling he didn't want to lose now.

And he was not able to stop smiling — not that he wanted to — when he appreciated the affectionate happiness on his partner's face when he kept the nephews he had heard so much about tucked in, detecting a newspaper that read blizzard in its headline.

It seemed like yesterday that Donald walked into the secret story, with a smile more radiant than he could remember, shouting from the rooftops that he would be an uncle. What he would give to go back to those times when everything was simpler and their only concern was facing Evronians and time pirates.

"It's true that a lot has changed since you left." Rubbing his arm in a nervous habit, Donald refused to leave his partner's side. Occasionally he could be heard sobbing bitterly, betraying that he had cried previously, "I would have been fascinated you were here, you would have experienced as much as I have."

However, the android had years of knowing the sailor to know that, despite the nuance that had colored his voice, no signals or double meanings were detected that directly blamed him. Donald was better than that, and they both knew it was neither their fault that he found himself disconnected and cut off from his side when he had no say in the matter.

But the would not exist. The damage had already been done and the wounds were already scarred, and with the presence of Uno Donald felt as if those scars were being treated despite being carved into his skin for ten years. It was as if the android was able to heal them almost automatically, and he was more than grateful for that little detail.

The bond between them was that strong.

"But I'm here now," he murmured, hugging his partner by the shoulder. And the sensation was so new that it was surprising to both of them, yet it didn't bother either of them, Uno's hand settling as if it had been made to be there — and maybe it was. After all, the body was built by Uno himself. “And I have no intention of leaving again…”

And it's not that the smallest duck wanted to, chuckling softly as he leaned his body against Uno's, an almost comical sight given the difference in height.

“I am glad to hear that.”

Uno's gaze continued to roam the photos, realizing that neither Scrooge nor Della was in them — except for a framed photo, prior to the hatching of his friend's nephews.

"He's Huey," Donald spoke suddenly, pointing to the red-clad triplet, and in an instant, the android had already registered that data, "he's Dewey, and he's Louie. Is more like their nicknames, but it is how they usually identify themselves.”

The intelligence said nothing, but he knew he didn't need words to show how grateful he was that he took the trouble to help him identify the triplets. It was easier and faster to search the system for them, but it was not as detailed as hearing it from his best friend and taking into account the way his voice softened when talking about them.

"And it seems that the family has grown," he added, pointing to the new family photo, seeing that in addition to Donald, the children, Scrooge and Della — who now had a leg made entirely of metal, were a girl and two ducks, the latter stout.

When the other duck followed his sight he made an affirming sound, gently taking his arm to lead him in front of the photo.

"Yes, she is my honorary niece Webby." He pointed to the duckling, and of course, Uno smirked. The hero had always had a soft spot for children, he could leave him one on his care and it wouldn't take him long to spoil them “and they are Launchpad and Mrs. B. She may look a bit strict, but she's nice; something tells me you two will get along very well.”

Of course, it hadn't taken long for his tone to turn to mock, and though the android didn't fully understand what he meant, he couldn't help but laugh with him. Like the old inside jokes they both used to have, and the fact that they will escalate now that they were together again filled him with satisfaction in an inexplicable way.

"In that case, I'm looking forward to meeting them, Old Cape."

[self-proclaimed-chaotic-good]

As You Wish | Farm Boy!Bodhi Rook x Reader (1/2)

Trope Prompt: Time Travel

Words: 2064

Fandom: Rogue One (Star Wars)/Doctor Who Fusion

Summary: What was supposed to be an early summer weekend trip with the Doctor turned out to be an adventure that landed you in the middle of a field during the Indus Valley civilization where you meet a charming farm boy.

-

You bounded up the familiar blue police box and let yourself in. The Doctor looked up from her fiddling on the console and grinned at you.

“Morning. It is morning, right?” She greeted.

“Well, it’s close to evening, Doctor,” you said, checking your watch.

Her eyes widened. “Ah, I see. Well, how was school, (Y/n)? Dealt with any rowdy children? Had to put someone on time out?”

“I work at Cambridge,” you reminded her, “and no. But there is a new Astrophysics professor coming next week, which is exciting. I know everyone will miss Professor Draven, he was a pretty chill dude, but apparently the new professor had been one of Draven’s best students.”

“Those teachers can brandish their prestigious PhDs about, but experience and how they use their knowledge is what counts,” she said, waving her sonic screwdriver around.

“Is that a euphemism, Doctor?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. She waved you off. Maybe it was just you. Maybe it was from hanging out with Jyn, one of the assistant professors, too much. You skipped over to the console and leaned against it. “So where are we going today?”

The Doctor gave you a wide grin, swinging the console monitor towards you. “It’s getting a bit chilly here in London, so I thought somewhere warm would suffice. So how about India? We can go and meet the Buddha and check out the sights. Or maybe we can go to Petra?”

“Either one sounds great.”

The Doctor spun around the console, flipping switches and pulling levers. The TARDIS began to wheeze and rumble as it took off. You held onto the console tightly, watching the lights flash as the TARDIS shook.

You stumbled back as the TARDIS landed to your destination. You bounced on the balls of your feet as the Doctor parked her beloved machine then gestured for you to follow her out.

The summer sun hit your faces as the Doctor creaked the door open. She scrunched her face up and hummed looking around with squinting eyes. She raised a hand to shield them and stepped out. You stepped out and landed in a field of grass.

“Doctor, are we in someone’s farm?” you asked, spotting the wheatfields and livestock.

“Huh, I suppose we are,” she said, surveying the landscape. “But I believe I’ve got the right region. Just about.”

You frowned. “How can you tell? The distance between the Sun and the Earth? The distant dry areas beyond this fertile farmland that’s likely near a river? The sheep and chickens?”

“No, well, yes that, and look!” The Doctor pointed over at the farmers who had just now noticed them. “Long cotton woven garments and clothes wrapped around their head to shield from the sun using sturdy copper and stone tools.” She swung her finger towards a nearby settlement. “Mud bricks and straw roofs, the patterns on the pottery. I’d say Mid-East?”

“Ah. I see.”

One of the older men walked up to the two of you cautiously, his hoing stick held tightly in his hands. “Who are you? Why are you here?” he asked gruffly.

The Doctor smiled bowed her head slightly “I’m the Doctor and this is my friend, (Y/n).” You follow her lead and lowered your head as well. “We appeared to have taken a wrong turn in our travels,” she said, “Say, where exactly are we?”

He looked back at his fellow farmers who watched with curiosity then at you. “This is the village of Jedha, several miles away from the city.”

“The city of…?”

“Mohenjo-daro, of course.”

Your jaw dropped. The city of Mohenjo-daro? A major city of the Indus Valley civilization? The time could be between the twenty-sixth to the nineteenth century BCE. You’ve been volunteering at archaeological digs every summer but never had a chance to even see Mohenjo-daro. And here you were, in a farming village miles from the city.

“Forgive us for being so cautious, but you have arrived in such ill timing since strange things have been happening to our fields. If you are traveling to Mohenjo-daro, you may speak to our village elder and they can see to aid you for your journey. I,” He holds a hand to his chest, “am Sahim Rook. If you would follow me, please.”

You fell into step with the Doctor as Sahim walked you towards the village. You looked back and saw the others returning to their menial tasks, occasionally shooting curious glances at you and the Doctor. You did just land in the middle of their field.

“You said strange things have been happening here? Like what?” You asked him.

He hummed, scratching his graying beard in thought. “There seems to be creatures disturbing our animals and a sickness that would fall onto anyone who strays too far from the village. They become a different person, they get violent like they were possessed, then they become ill, near death.” He paused and turned to the two of you. “You say you are a doctor.”

“Right I am!” The Doctor said proudly.

“If you don’t mind, could you take a look at our patients?”

“Of course, it’s the least we could do.”

“Thank you.”

-

The village elder, Sahim’s mother, welcomed you and was delighted that the two travelers were willing to help in the mysterious illness. She led the two of you into a hut nearby filled with rows of straw beds covered in cotton sheets with the patients resting on each one.

“Sahim says that they were uncharacteristically violent when they returned to the village,” The Doctor said to the elder.

You scan the room, patients with droopy eyes, or coughing into bloody rags, or are still yet to wake. They shiver and scrunch their faces in pain, sweat soaking their body. It was horrible. What could do such a thing? Some sort of foreign disease recently introduced or a parasite? The thought it could have contributed to the decline of the Indus Valley civilization had crossed your mind, but it couldn’t be the main reason. Many theories suggest that settlements along the Indus river were affected by floods.

“Yes,” she said with a solemn nod. She swept her hand over the room and sighed. “They came back, vandalizing houses, disturbing the animals - some went as far as killed some, and wrecked some of the crops. When the sun began to rise, they would collapse with a high fever, sick to the point of bedridden. The others are understandably scared and worried. Other farms had been affected before us as well. It is devastating.”

“Leave it to us, Elder.”

The elder gestured towards a woman tending to a patient. She adjusted her delicate headwrap and stood. “This is Sassui, my daughter-in-law,” the elder said, “She has been working the hardest to nurse them back to health. Sassui, these are travelers that are making their way to Mohenjo-daro. They offered to help in any way they can before heading to the city.”

“I’m the Doctor and this is my friend, (Y/n),” the Doctor introduced us.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Sassui said softly. She had a small smile on her face, but it seemed forced. Dark circles under her eyes and her movements seemed to be sluggish. She had been working nonstop with barely any rest. 

As if reading your thoughts, the elder said, “You need some rest, Sassui.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that my son hasn’t come back from trading in the market. I’m not sure what’s worse, that he had fallen victim to the sickness or he had fallen victim to gambling and spending money feverishly.”

The elder huffed. “That boy is going to get himself into trouble if he doesn’t sort himself out.” She then turned back to the Doctor. “Well, I’ll leave you in Sassui’s care.” With that, she left.

Sassui’s lips tightened into a thin line. “Shall we start with the first one?”

-

Luckily, some only needed herbal remedies and some rest to get their health back up. The rest needed something stronger.

You carried a bucket filled with dirty rags and plopped it down near their well. Sassui had asked you to soak them in water and get a separate bucket for the patients. You had just filled the first bucket when you heard galloping heading towards the village. You looked up and saw a young man, his face similar to Sahim with a dark beard outlining his jaw and black hair flowing down to his shoulders, riding on top of a camel with a satchel hanging at the back.

“Bodhi!” Sahim called out. The older man marched towards him and placed his fists at his hips. “It does not take this long to travel back to Jedha from the nearby city. Where are your cousins?”

The man, Bodhi, turned around and frowned. “Huh, could have sworn they were behind me,” he muttered. He hopped off his camel and tied them to the nearest post. “But, we did manage to sell a lot this week! Ah, there they are!”

His three cousins arrived much later, carrying the goods that they were able to buy at the market. They all headed over and tied up their mounts before unloading their satchels. “Hello, uncle,” they all greeted with a bow with their head before carrying their load over to the huts.

“See! And we used the money that we earned to buy the food and supplies that we need,” Bodhi said.

Sahim shook his head. “That much supplies are worth more than our goods could give us. What did you do?” Bodhi struggled to talk his way out of it under his father’s scrutinizing gaze.

“We sold all the goods and we got what we needed! What more do you want from me?” Bodhi snapped before carrying his satchel and storming away.

Sahim gave you an apologetic look before following after his son. You waited until they were both out of sight to continue your task for the second bucket. You busy trying to pull it back up from the well when a voice startled.

“Hey.” You let out an embarrassing squeak, dropping the pail down in the well again. You spun around and was met by two large brown eyes staring back at you in amusement. “Sorry about that. I’m Bodhi, by the way. My father says you arrived this morning.” He flashed you a bright contagious smile.

“I’m (Y/n),” you said, automatically sticking out your hand. He looked down at it and grabbed it tightly. You shook it and tried to let go, but he wouldn’t budge. “Um…”

Bodhi tilted his head to the side. “You’re very beautiful,” he said.

“Um.”

His eyes flickered to the well behind you. “I’ll help you with that. So you’re helping my mother with the sick, are you?”

“Yes. Me and my friend. Do you have an idea of how this could have happened?” you asked, watching him pull the pail back up.

“Well, many folks on my travels say that it’s demons. Spirits who’ve sinned before they died, coming back to spread sickness and anger. We call those the Pishacha.” He poured the water into the second bucket and lifted it up with ease. He gestured for you to lead the way.

“So, do you believe in those ghost stories?” you wondered, making your way back to the hut.

Bodhi shrugged. “Whatever it is, it’s costing the farm a lot of money. With less wheat and livestock to sell, means less money and not enough supplies to do repairs and care for the sick, let alone feed ourselves.”

“So, you try other ways to get more money,” you said.

Bodhi shot you a look. “Yes, exactly. You think differently of me now?”

“I never knew much about you to have an opinion in the first place,” you said truthfully, “But it sounds to me you still care about your family a lot. Enough to do risky things.”

You reached the hut when you noticed Bodhi wasn’t there. You turned around and saw Bodhi frozen in place with a curious look in his eyes, his arms hugging the bucket close to his chest. “Thank you,” he said softly, “You’ve been kind to me so far. Anything else you want me to do?”

“Well, help me finish up with these buckets and we’ll take it from there.”

“As you wish.”

[worryinglyinnocent]

Fic: The Eyes Have It

Summary: Seeing the same familiar blue eyes in several different circumstances, Weaver is beginning to think that the universe is trying to tell him something. Izzie from the coffee shop might just hold the key… Woven Beauty / Cursed Rumbelle.

Written for the @a-monthly-rumbelling prompt: Falling in love in a coffee shop, and my contribution to @rumbelleishope.

Rated: T

The Eyes Have It

Although various copyrights prevented Sleepless Beauty Coffee Shop from proclaiming itself to server Seattle’s best coffee, its regulars in Hyperion Heights were all of the unanimous opinion that it was far superior to any chain brand.

Weaver was no exception and he had been coming to Sleepless Beauty for his first cup of the day for as long as he could remember. Probably for as long as he had been on the force.

Funny how he could never quite recall the circumstances of him becoming a detective.

For as long as he had been coming here, Izzie had been serving him. Not only did she know his coffee order by heart, she knew his routine well enough to have it ready for him when he came in. Even when he started bringing in his own mug (Tilly had been on at him about the environment), she could always anticipate his arrival and be ready to pluck his cup from his hands and fill it with the heavenly caffeinated mana that only she could make in just the right way.

Izzie’s shifts always seemed to line up with his own. If he ever went into the shop at any other time for any other reason, he could always guarantee that Izzie would be there. If he hadn’t walked her home after closing one night, he’d be convinced that she lived in the place.

Weaver wasn’t sure when they had become such close friends. Sometimes it seemed like it had always been that way. He couldn’t remember their first meeting, which always struck him as odd because Izzie’s appearance was comparatively distinctive and surely, his first impression of her would have stuck in his mind. She had a stark silver streak in her dark hair; her colleagues called her Rogue and she always smiled at the comparison even as she protested that she was old enough to know better. Then there were her glasses, always tinted against the lights that gave her migraines. Weaver could never really tell what colour her eyes were, and he didn’t know why finding out was so important to him.

At least, that’s what he told himself. Deep down, or really, not so deep down despite how much he tried not to think about it, Weaver knew exactly why he was so intrigued by Izzie’s eyes.

You live so long you see the same eyes in different people.

For all it was a pop culture quote, Weaver thought that it summed up his situation quite well. The same eyes kept haunting him, following him through his life, and whenever he saw them, there was the same sense of familiarity. It was as if the universe was trying to tell him something.

The first time it happened was a fair afternoon in early fall. Weaver would always remember the day because Izzie had worn flowers in her hair that day to try and preserve the last traces of their dying Indian summer, and they’d still looked fresh and pristine when he’d come into Sleepless Beauty after closing to tell her about his strange encounter.

It should have been a fairly average working day, and it had been up until the pregnant woman named Claire Littleton had come in to talk about having been taxi-jacked the day before. The crime was unusual in itself for a place like Hyperion Heights, but there was something about her that seemed familiar. It was only later he had realised that it was her eyes, after she had gone into labour whilst sitting at his desk and a couple of female officers had whisked her away towards the hospital, never to step foot in his life again. He was certain that he had seen her eyes before somewhere.

Izzie shrugged when he relayed the events of the day to her, her hands curling around her own coffee mug. She’d been sweeping the floor ready to lock up and leave for the night, duly abandoning the task in favour of sitting with him and hearing his tale.

“The world is a big place, John,” she said, and Weaver couldn’t remember when he’d given her his first name, but he knew that she was the only person who ever used it and he liked that she knew something about him that no-one else did.

“I know that.” He sighed, wishing that he knew how to impress upon Izzie the importance of what he had felt, even if he didn’t quite understand the importance of it himself yet.

“It’s perfectly possible that you’ve seen her somewhere before, and something about her stayed with you, and now you’ve met her again and she seems familiar.”

Weaver shook his head. As much as he wanted a rational explanation for it all, Izzie’s wouldn’t work.

“She’s Australian and this is her first time in the States. There’s no way I could have met her before.”

“Well, maybe you saw a relative.” Izzie patted his hand in reassurance, and despite himself, Weaver caught her fingers, not wanting her to let go. When his world stopped making sense like it had done today, Izzie was always the one thing that remained constant, grounding him in reality when his mind went into overdrive. Weaver had always considered himself to be a practical man not much given to flights of fancy, but there was something about those familiar eyes that he simply couldn’t explain away.

Izzie gave his hand a sympathetic squeeze and pressed a soft little kiss to his cheek. If Weaver didn’t know better, then he’d say that he blushed.

The second time it happened, Weaver was frightened. Not because he’d seen the familiar eyes again, but because of who they belonged to this time. Izzie was wearing a bright green dress under her uniform apron that night, and her hair was loose. Weaver wondered briefly if she had a date that he would be keeping her from, but the thought was soon chased away by the weight of everything else that had happened during the day.

As soon as she saw him through the window, Izzie knew that something was wrong, and she abandoned the mop to come and unlock the doors and let him in.

“John, what’s wrong?”

At first he couldn’t speak. Izzie had been sceptical the first time he had felt this, and although he knew she would be sympathetic to his fear now, he didn’t want her to think that he was going mad.

“We caught the killer,” he said eventually. Izzie just nodded her understanding and steered him over to the nearest table, taking the chairs down off it and going to start up the coffee machine. As she worked, Weaver took a while to gather his thoughts and try to make sense of it all.

He’d been working the grizzly homicide for a few days now. Murder no longer affected him in the same way it used to, even this more gruesome example.  No, it was the murderer who had unnerved him the most. She had been so morbidly cheerful, practically skipping along as they led her to the interview room. That in itself was disturbing enough, but when he got his first glimpse of her brilliant blue eyes, it had taken all of his composure not to startle. The Hierophant Killer had the same eyes as the taxi-jack victim from three months ago, the same eyes that he had seen before somewhere. The familiarity was uncanny, and the fact that this time it had come in a pint-sized serial killer package was disturbing to say the least.

“We’ll get to the bottom of it,” Izzie said softly. “I’m sure there’s a good explanation for it. Weaver was leaning against her, glad of her sensible, stoic presence beside him. It felt like she was the only thing keeping him sane. She put an arm around his shoulders, and he didn’t shrug her off. It was comforting to know that even if she didn’t entirely understand what was going on, she was on his side. We’ll get to the bottom of it.

Izzie held him until they could stretch out the moment of security no longer, and he walked her home.

The third time it happened, Izzie witnessed it first-hand. She was the one who’d called it in, after the coffee shop had closed for the night and Weaver and the dispatcher were the only ones left in the station. Naturally, since the call was from Izzie and Weaver didn’t have anything else to do (a blatant lie, but he’d always drop everything for Izzie), he took care of the case personally.

She was waiting for him by the door, looking pensive. Her hair was in a ponytail today, the silver streak almost sparkling in the light.

“She’s through here. I found her sleeping out by the bins.”

Izzie led the way into the storeroom. The girl was certainly striking with her pastel-stained hair and piercings, and she could barely have been eighteen. A rebellious runaway who’d ended up sleeping rough behind coffee shops. She was scarfing down stale muffins as if she hadn’t eaten in days. Maybe she hadn’t.

“Ava, this is my friend John. Maybe he can help you.”

The girl scoffed. “No-one’s ever been able to help me before.” She looked Weaver up and down, and his breath caught in his throat as he recognised the eyes of the Hierophant Killer, the eyes of the pregnant Miss Littleton, the eyes he’d seen before elsewhere, in another life, in another time.

“Are you a cop?” Ava asked when he continued just to stare at her dumbfounded.

“Detective,” he managed eventually.

The girl shook her head. “There’s nothing you can do. There’s nothing I want you to do. Thanks for the muffins, but I really ought to be going now.”

“Please don’t leave,” Izzie begged. “It’s dangerous out there.”

Ava shrugged. “I’ve been homeless my entire life. Not died yet.”

“John, can’t you do something?”

“Like what, arrest me?” Ava’s voice was brittle, sad, and her eyes were so hurt and that hurt was so familiar; he’d seen it before in the same eyes in a different face.

“Izzie, we can’t make her stay here if she wants to leave,” he said gently. Izzie looked pained.

“Well, at least take some of his food,” she said, beginning to stuff old muffins and cookies and sandwiches into paper bags and shoving them at Ava. “It’s only going in the trash otherwise.”

Weaver had never really noticed Izzie’s intense need to mother young ones before, but after he saw her desperate need to protect Ava, he couldn’t unsee it.

Maybe there was a different kind of familiarity at play here, a child who was no longer in the picture.

Once Ava had vanished into the night again, bound for who knew where and hopefully not the morgue, Izzie crumpled. Weaver held her until she was calm again, and they sat in the coffee shop until well into the night.

“You recognised her eyes, didn’t you?” Izzie said presently, before blowing her nose again.

“Yes. Did you?” Weaver tried not to sound too hopeful.

“No. But I could tell that you did. Funny how the world works, isn’t it?”

Weaver knew better than to ask her about motherhood. If her instinct was anything like his recognition, then she probably wouldn’t even know.

There was something going on. The universe was trying to tell them something. Weaver just couldn’t put his finger on what.

The fourth and final time it happened it came out of the blue. Not that the other occasions hadn’t caught him by surprise, but they had all been within the purview of his normal police work. He didn’t know what possessed him to go to Roni’s that night. He wasn’t a big drinker. Well, he didn’t often go out, that was probably a better way of putting it. Still, something had made him wend his way towards Roni’s and take a seat at the bar.

“Can I buy you a drink, detective?”

She was wearing a black mini-skirt and a blue backless shirt, and Weaver remembered seeing her hustling pool somewhere although Roni’s didn’t have a pool table. She had long brown hair, and exactly the same blue eyes as runaway Ava, the Hierophant Killer, and pregnant Miss Littleton. This time, Weaver wasn’t unnerved anymore. He wasn’t even really surprised. He was just intrigued.

He accepted the offer of a drink, perhaps in the hope that he would learn what it was that the universe actually had to say.

Her name was Lacey, and she was new in town. Of course, because he’d never seen her here before even if he’d known her eyes for a lifetime. Perhaps in another life he’d have responded to her flirting and taken her up on her not so subtle suggestion to go home with her. Something felt wrong. Her eyes seemed wrong, or rather, they were right and everything else was wrong. The more he talked to Lacey, the more he wanted to talk to Izzie. Izzie, whose true eyes he had never seen behind her tinted glasses.

God, he’d been slowly falling in love with her for years and he hadn’t even noticed.

Weaver pulled out his phone and tapped out a message to Izzie. He couldn’t remember when he’d got her number.

Can we talk please? Something’s going on. I think I know what it all means now, with the eyes.

“You ok, Detective?”

He looked up at Lacey.

“Yes… No… I’m sure you’re a lovely girl, but…”

“But there’s someone else,” Lacey finished for him. She didn’t seem at all put out, in fact, there was a smile on her face. “Go to her.”

Izzie’s reply buzzed in.

Of course. Come on over. I’ll make coffee.

When he looked up again, Lacey was gone. Of course she was. He’d never seen any of the others again after their first meetings, after all.

Sleepless Beauty was locked and dark when Weaver got there, and it took him several moments to realise that Izzie had invited him to her flat. Hopefully the coffee wouldn’t have gone cold.

Izzie was wearing her pyjamas when she answered the door. She wasn’t wearing her glasses, and she looked at him with Lacey’s eyes, Ava’s eyes, the Hierophant’s eyes, Claire Littleton’s eyes.

Just as, deep down, he had always known that she would.

He’d seen those eyes before, in a different life that felt so close he could almost reach out and touch it.

It reached out and touched him instead, as Izzie gently placed a hand on his cheek.

“John? What’s going on?”

“Do you believe in past lives?”

“John, what’s that got to do with anything?”

“I think I knew you in a past life. I think… I think that’s what the universe has been trying to tell me, that we belong together. They’re your eyes I keep recognising, Izzie.”

“Oh John…”

The kiss was something else. It was soft, and chaste, and tentative, but the sheer power of it was phenomenal. Weaver remembered that power from years ago, a dark castle, a dark curse, a spinning wheel.

“Rumpel!”

This time, Izzie really went for it, except she wasn’t Izzie, she was Belle, and they were Belle’s eyes that had led him back to Izzie. Not a past life, but the same life in the past, before the new curse had brought them to Hyperion Heights.

“I knew you’d find me,” Belle said when she finally let him breathe. “You said something about a trail of breadcrumbs.”

She sighed with happiness, resting her head against his chest. Lacey, Ava, Hierophant, Claire… They had been the breadcrumbs, knowing that Belle’s eyes would be the same in whatever world they found themselves in.

Rumpelstiltskin couldn’t quite believe that the gamble had paid off, but he was too grateful to think too deeply into it. The curse had been broken. He and Belle were reunited, and he knew that her eyes would haunt him no longer.

[leiascully]

OctoberFicFest Day 31: ascent VII

Scully wakes up in the early morning.  The tent glows like she’s underwater, rays of sunlight dissipating through the blue nylon.  She eases the stiffness out of her muscles and slips out of the sleeping back into the cold.  She can smell woodsmoke in her hair and the faint aroma of her own sweat on her skin as she dresses in the clothes from two days ago.  It’s oddly comforting.  The fabric sits against her skin now like she’s always worn these things.  She folds the roll of toilet paper into her jacket pocket and goes to find a convenient tree.  She unzips the flap of the tent and clambers out, sealing Mulder back into the seawater belly of it.  

When she looks out across the clearing there’s a mane of tangled hair in the trees.  She thinks it’s a shrub at first, or some thicket of bramble, but then it blinks, and she sees that the pale oval is a face, not a sunbeam falling in just the right way through the leaves, and that the shadows delineate arms, legs, the long span of a back.

As soon as she takes in all of this, the creature - the mountain woman, the sasquatch, whatever she is - is gone.

“Mulder,” she says faintly, but it isn’t worth waking him.  Besides, some part of her wants this moment to herself.  He has been the sole witness to so many of these incidents or phenomena or tall tales.  She holds this one inside her, cupped like a robin’s egg, fragile and beautiful.  She has endured many miracles, but this - this is some other magic.  And she was witness to it.

She takes care of the things she needs to do behind a tree and washes her hands in the creek before she gets water and boils it for coffee.  These mundane things, the ordinary tasks of percolating and stirring, seem both special and frustratingly quotidian.  No wonder Mulder always fumed and bubbled over after a case.  

There have been other moments like this in her life, but never one that was only  hers, as clear as this, as lovely as this.  This morning, she wasn’t in peril.  She didn’t fear the mountain woman or whoever that was under the thicket of hair, in the cover of the trees.  They shared something, she and the mountain woman.  She has rarely communicated with any of Mulder’s unlikely beasts in any way she’s cared to remember.  She’ll remember this one: the light, the shape of her, the stillness, the sudden recognition.  

Behind her is the noise of a zipper and Mulder stumbles out of the tent, a rangy hound scenting for coffee.  She pushes the toilet paper into his hand and he crunches away into the underbrush.  When he comes back, he accepts the mug of coffee and gazes around the clearing.

“Nothing new?” he says, and it’s only half a question.

“Nothing around the tent,” she says.  

“Huh,” he says, casting about.  

“Mulder,” she says slowly, “I saw her.”

“What?”

“I saw her,” she says.  “The mountain woman.”  She points.  “She was there, just under the trees.”

“That’s amazing,” he says, already moving toward the spot.  She watches him cast back and forth, but he doesn’t seem to find what he’s looking for.  Scully sips at the weak coffee and lets the sunlight play over her skin.

“She knows how to hide herself,” he says, coming back to her.  “A couple of broken twigs, a few crushed leaves.  You’d never know she was here.”

“But she was,” Scully says simply.

“I believe you,” he says.

They disassemble the campsite after breakfast, soaking the ashes of the campfire and packing all the bits of equipment away in their neat packages.  It’s easier going down the mountain.  They make good time, skidding down the occasional slope and slipping easily through the fence.  The cabin is a welcome sight.  She’s ready for a shower and a meal that isn’t reconstituted.

The next morning she makes coffee in a machine, toasts bread in the oven.   She can feel herself pacing the same grooves of her routine, making her circuit of the kitchen and the living room.  Mulder comes in yawning and makes eggs for himself.  She sits at the table with her coffee and her toast and her local butter and jam, watching him perform his part of their version of domesticity. Winter is coming and they should move on.  She knows it’s dangerous to stay too long in one place.  Even as off the grid as they are, they might be found.  Still, as they begins to sort through the chaff they’ve acquired, paring back down to essentials, she thinks of the mountain woman.  She has felt at home here, and somehow the mountain woman is part of that, a running thread that ties her to their former life.  

She sees the woman again in her mind’s eye: wild, free, perfectly suited to her environment in a way Scully may never be again, or maybe never was.  But in that moment, they were one thing, part of the same thing, the weft and warp of a universe woven through with glittering threads of possibility, of potentiality and perfection.  

Despite the odds, she has been happy in this cabin.  Despite the odds, she will be happy elsewhere, with Mulder, in a world where a beastwoman and her son can exist somewhere outside of Scully’s normal range of perception.  The poem from days ago comes back to her: they will float on in their dark habits, keeping their difficult balance, and the unknown will sustain her as it has for years.

“I love you,” she says to Mulder’s back.

“I love you too,” he says into his pan of eggs.  “What prompted this spontaneous declaration?”

“I thought I’d put one more mystery in your life,” she says and picks up a book that isn’t worth keeping.  

[entergamingxp]

Final Fantasy 9 and the picture book adventure of a PS1 Final Fantasy • Eurogamer.net

There’s a small, almost incidental sequence that I’ve often thought about since I first played Final Fantasy 9. In it, Princess Garnet (or ‘Dagger’, at this point in the game) and her buffoonish knight Steiner have a conversation whilst in a hillside cable car, all brass and rivets. Soon after they are reunited with thespian/thief Marcus in the station café, before the next leg of their journey. The area is framed from up high, round tables and stools and bottle green gas-lamps. The lighting is warm, people are chilling, and the music is a near-lullaby recorder version of the game’s theme Melodies of Life. The scene feels recognisably suspended, in transit. An enclave of calm and safety removed from normal concerns, like morning light on a weekend lie-in.

Marcus notes that Garnet has changed during her adventures, now more experienced, talking in slang. This is later in another carriage, and you mainly see the back of her seat throughout the conversation, as if happening upon it as it unfolds. Then she gets up, suddenly excited to talk about the things she’s seen, the battles she’s fought. And then, ‘I’ve always wanted to see the marvellous architecture of Treno! I can hardly wait!’.

‘On second thought’ – Marcus thinks, in a thought bubble – ‘she hasn’t changed that much’.

I think what stuck with me was the sense of an in-between time, but captured, noticed. Made visible by its inclusion but still casual, offhand, overheard in the way it’s framed on the screen. It’s even more effective because the cable car and station sequences straddle more dramatic scenes with hero Zidane and the rest of the gang in the ravaged, rain-pelt kingdom of Burmecia. And I love the sense of scope this brings, that adventures are big (cosmically so, this being Final Fantasy) but they’re also asymmetrical and irregular and the small bits matter, too. But also, I love how much of this texture comes from the fixed-perspective backdrops of the game.

Now you might have guessed, but I only started this replay because I was Full Of Hype from all the Final Fantasy 7 Remake coverage. My YouTube algorithm had doubled-down on reviews and comparisons and Let’s Plays. Between you and me, I even got emotional watching a YouTube player herself get emotional at the Remake’s title screen and I’ve barely even played the original. And I never normally watch Let’s Plays! I don’t even have a PS4!

I had bought 9 for the Switch previously though, not because I had any intention to actually replay my Favourite Ever Final Fantasy – of the four I’ve played, tied with 12 – but because I vaguely intended to use the new modifiers like No Encounters and Speed-Up to have a dip sometime. A quick-flick through a fondly remembered journey I once took – charming and painterly and medieval-adjacent. I think I’d pegged FF9 as an aesthetic and world I loved (which reminds me of Crystal Chronicles too actually, which is gorgeous), but draped and fastened around a rickety old gameplay machine. I’d bought it as a playable nostalgia prompt, I had no real interest in playing it again properly.

But all that Hype pushed me over – along with those Speed-Up and No Encounters options – and I decided to play a bit, then a bit more, and then a lot. Because to my surprise, the thing holds up! Battle animations have real crunch and flair (and that mid-air hang-time of Freya’s Spear!). The menu work is responsive and engrossing, with that bright and breezy chime-squeak noise. Even Zidane’s run gait and footstep patter seems somehow right-on and satisfying, with that little whoosh on jumps. And pressing your way through the game’s story grammar of dialogue boxes and panto reactions feels less archaic and limited than just different but charming: A uniquely-video game hybrid of reading and theatre, metered out and sped-up with button-presses and without the tedium of voice recordings read out slower (and false-er) than you can read. Oh, and of course there’s the music!

But most of all, it’s been a treat to play through this kind of adventure again, one that takes place on gorgeous pre-rendered backdrops. Without the concerns of a right camera stick. Without constantly, distractedly roaming my gaze around for the next engagement or interaction. Without being the screen-centred nucleus of all happenings, shifting the world around my avatar’s back.

Instead you get the stripped-back, near 2D pleasure of controlling Zidane – or Garnet, who runs knock-kneed, or Steiner who runs like a bucket – around a fixed scene, drawing the control stick around its ring in pleasing curves and loops that follow the path’s many (many) meanders. These are routes that curl over and around themselves within a single area – the M6 spaghetti junction but fantasy.

And with this comes characters who run into and out of the scene, sometimes disappearing towards a vanishing point, like on the walkway to Lindblum that stretches away like the bridge in Shadow of the Colossus. Or sometimes startlingly big and screen-filling, the party now all cramped together in Eiko’s rock-hewn cave cellar. When Marcus is looking for Blank (who’s been petrified in stone by a forest spell) the scene plays out sideways through a silhouette forest like it’s Donkey Kong Country Returns.

All this elasticity of perspective lends a neat sort of visual potential energy to the journey, a cinematic framing that’s baked into the game as you play it, and a sense of movement and progress as you transfer between backdrops. There’s a screen in which you run towards the Iifa Tree on a huge woven road of roots, shot from above with mist-shrouded tendrils stretching far down into the crevasse. Then when you get to the tree proper the camera pans up, the characters dwarfed at the bottom like that famous Secret of Mana title screen.

Yes it is a shame that in these HD ports the backgrounds are a little smeared in translation, and the newly bright and crisp character models look a little detached atop them – you can see a YouTube PSX Let’s Play to see how it should look, with the pleasing grain of its unsmoothed textures. And for how good it could look check out the unearthed original source images, or a video of the brilliant-looking AI-enhanced Moguri Mod) – but these images are still a treat. This is a fantasy world that looks lived-in, drawn with a free-hand irregularity. Ladders bend, roof-tiles curve, stairs are uneven, and overall things seem slightly chubby, charming, emplumped (yes, I made that up). But it still feels well-observed and grounded, with that So True recognition of real spaces and how they happen: There’s a worn groove in the cobblestones outside a theatre’s back-alley entrance. Rat-kid Puck calls to Vivi from a wooden scaffolding platform amidst the rooftops of Alexandria.

Often these areas are anchored by some foreground detail, like the strange dragonfly with a ballooning frog-neck in Black Mage Village, or the clutch of bluebells by the North Gate. And many of the scenes have movement and noise, like the clatter of cogs and gears (there are so many cogs and gears!) or passing clouds outside a shattered airship window. I especially like how the shop and house interiors are painted as if cut-open to peer in, the outside alongside the insides, drainpipes and grass tufts and some birds nesting in the Card Enthusiast’s chimney. All of this collapsed together in flatness, squashed into single frames dense with stuff and secret, without being beholden to – and broken by – 3D space and shifting perspectives.

So the story itself plays out as moments witnessed within these scenes, sometimes even across scenes, as FF9’s Active Time Event mechanic allows you to cut to character vignettes happening simultaneously elsewhere. And as with any real adventure, important events and conversations often take place in unassuming edge lands and collateral spaces; cellars and riversides and make-shift paths as much as throne rooms and city-squares.

CGI cut-scenes aside, this is drama and movement that occurs within the frame, instead of your avatar being the focus, the centre of the story, The Shit – the heroic, roaming Inducer of Important Moments. Here instead Dagger will run atop the screen, small amidst the clutter of Treno city. Or Eiko the child-summoner will jump off the airship’s bow, surprising and sudden without any fuss or angle change. At one point Freya performs a river-dance prayer in the sanctuary of Cleyra, facing the screen like an audience. At the end the camera pans quickly across to see the harpist’s strings break into a droplet shiver, which feels interesting and uncertain because it happens within shot, without the machinery of cuts and edits.

Quick aside – have you ever used the word ‘continua’? I hadn’t! But I recently saw a BBC3 short about languages, and in it this guy just comes on and casually says that language is what ‘helps us make sense of the continua of experience’. Just casually! Like ‘continua’ wasn’t the word I’d needed for so long! Because I’m always thinking about this kind of thing. About where you make the breaks, and how that affects the whole.

I often think about the way that music (or silence!) in games is such a physical component of game spaces. And how it can lend that sort of metaphysical differentiation to areas – this place is different to the last in some essential way. And I think a lot about visual voltas too, jolts of change like that fixed shot of the Temple of Time behind Hyrule Square, where suddenly all is quiet and Link seems small. The kind of step change that gives a visual journey its stresses, its passage and rhythm.

Part of the richness of this whole era of Final Fantasy came from its four-course fullness, from flipping between the flavours of battle and town and overworld and menu. But also, from a game made up of pre-rendered or painted screens, its areas tied intractably to their framing, perspective and paths. So that each one is firmed up by specificity, as discreet places in the world and unique beats in the story.

When I’m feeling particularly pretentious (or caffeinated, basically), I wonder if it’s a bit like spacetime, and its interdependence. As in, because videogame spaces happen via video (and sound, and play), so how we see and control a character through them also sort of is the space. Like how Samus’ weighted movement in Metroid Prime make the planet Tallon IV itself feel heavier, more solid. Or the university newspaper piece I once wrote about playing Tomb Raider Anniversary (The best Tomb Raider. Tied with nothing) with mouse control on PC – able to jump with the right-click and move the camera simultaneously like a first-person shooter – and how it seemed to subtly shift the focus from Lara as a marionette I manoeuvred around the environment, to a central axel around which I looked around tombs. And I can’t tell you how much time I spent fiddling about and experimenting in Breath of the Wild – forcing myself to play only with the lock-on camera, or with other Zelda area music playing concurrently through headphones – to try and work out what exactly had so changed the felt quality of this 3D Zelda.

And I wonder how different the spaces of the Final Fantasy 7 Remake feel to those playing fresh, compared to those to whom these new 3D-spaces exist in relation to their memory of the f9ed-perspective 2D originals, like visual DNA now brought to life.

(With caffeine and sugar I’m even worse).

These FF9 backgrounds don’t really feel like potential 3D spaces to me, to be imagined and triangulated out into something else – not unless I try to imagine it for fun. Instead it’s an adventure that feels- as artist Toshiyuki Itahana says in the Inside Final Fantasy 9 documentary – like a picture book. Occurring in solid, particular visual moments that feel lived in, witnessed, specific. And it’s still so fun! With its own type of happening that emerges from these scenes with the luminous, captured happenstance of a photo: The opening with Puck the rat, criss-crossing across Alexandria’s rooftops. The chat between Zidane and Vivi by a village wall behind a windmill field. And a long-remembered scene in a hillside cable car, just to the side of the plot proper, but right at the centre of a story that builds and builds from moments and details and asides. And then an ending so lovely I cried.

from EnterGamingXP https://entergamingxp.com/2020/07/final-fantasy-9-and-the-picture-book-adventure-of-a-ps1-final-fantasy-%e2%80%a2-eurogamer-net/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=final-fantasy-9-and-the-picture-book-adventure-of-a-ps1-final-fantasy-%25e2%2580%25a2-eurogamer-net

[thejokerbug]

In Ishgard

It was nightfall before Joker could clearly see the outline of The Holy City of Ishgard. The high walls, which once made her feel protected inside of them, gave her a sense of dread and as if she were being locked in a cage. Maybe in time it would feel like home once more. She sat up a little straighter, shivering and regretting the shorts she wore with the woven poncho. It were fine enough for the weather in Thanalan, but not the snow of Ishgard.

Raument looked over to her as he saw her sit up out of the corner of his eye. He sighed as he saw her shiver and then looked at the legs she was showing. He shrugged his coat off and handed it over to her. "Cover yourself. What would everyone think if they saw me bringing you back like that." His tone was tense and there was a soft scoff from him.

Joker took the jacket in her small hands. She pulled it on, it only weighing her down more. The heaviness only brought her further down to Hydaelyn. There was a light blush from her as she looked to her exposed legs. He was right, what would people think of her? She wrapped the jacket around her and looked away from the man, ashamed. "I'll think better next time."

The man put an arm around the darling girl and pressed his lips to the top of her head. She wrinkled her nose some, not sure why the affection she craved for from him felt wrong now. The elezen didn't take note of the subtle motion from her. "I forgive you, dear. You will relearn your manners in time."

Dear Arman,

I suppose I ended the last letter poorly. Perhaps you think me strange for saying such a thing. I should have told you the story as you told me your own. Am I worrying you yet? What thoughts are going through your head? What do you think I am going to write next?

About a year ago I should have wed. Does this surprise you? Ashioux was his name. He was an elezen only a few years older than myself. I met him in the Brume when I was merely a child. We became quick friends after I let him touch my horns and he let me touch his ears. He spent his life from that moment on to protect me and teach me to handle my own with the larger elezen. At least long enough for help to come.

As many of the young men did, he wanted to fight in the dragging war when he was of age. I couldn't fully understand it. It may be something I will never fully understand of you Ishgardians. Maybe there is something wrong with me that I cannot have the same national pride. Or perhaps it is the treatment Halone's children have given me which keeps me from ever fully belonging to the prideful nation. Sometimes I wonder if I should have tried to venture to Othard instead of wandering around Eorzea when I left Ishgard. Maybe I would find of my own national pride there, where more of mine own kind are.

The only downfall would have been I would have never met you.

Little One

The large home loomed over Joker as she kept the jacket as close to her as possible. Everything felt numb, partially from the cold air and partially from being emotionally drained. There were things she needed to sort out in her own mind, but she knew that would not be until at least the morning. That was if she could even find sleep. Raument pushed open the large wooden doors and Joker slipped through as soon as there were enough room for her. She welcomed the warmth from the fire blazing in the front room. She slipped the jacket off before the door was even closed.

Raument passed her without taking the jacket back. Joker didn't seem fazed by the older man ignoring her actions. Instead she merely kept the jacket in her arms and followed the man up the stairs and to his study as quietly as her shoes would allow. Why did she think the man would allow her to go straight to her room for bed? Of course he wouldn't. Not when they needed to discuss her behavior.

The older elezen motioned to the coat rack in the corner of the room, which Joker went over to and put the jacket on a hook. She set her bag down next to the door of the study. Her pale eyes stared at the cane in the corner as Raument approached it. "Before you can learn from the mistakes, you need to suffer from them," he murmured in a gentle and loving tone.

It was a mechanical response. The young au'ra moved to the desk without the word, too mentally exhausted to say anything to the man. There was no excuse or no begging Joker could even think of to justify her behavior since she had left the comforts of her home. Her chest tightened as her breath hitched, catching sight of the worn cane. She knew she deserved this. She was the one that ended up making the mistakes and not saying something to try to stay in Ul'dah.

Raument moved behind the young woman and the metal of the handle pressed between her shoulder blades to force her to bend over the desk. His arm swung back. "Remember, dear, this hurts me in my heart more than it would ever hurt you. You're the one who broke my heart with your actions." Then the cane hit the back of her upper thighs with a smack. Joker bit down on her bottom lip and winced, closing her eyes to keep herself from showing the pain.

"Yes ser, I know."

Dearest Arman,

I thought the way I ended the last letter would have prompted you to reply. I am childish in that aspect. I think it is time I tell you the full story of when I left Ishgard. I should have told you earlier, but thinking about Ashioux causes a pain in my chest and heart that hasn't dulled since the day I found him.

He went to fight for his city like most of the young men. I didn't want him to. His family didn't want him to. Still he went. We all prepared ourselves for the day we would get a letter than he had died in combat, but he kept coming home. I don't think I could describe the relief when I would wait at the gates of the city and catch sight of him coming home with the other soldiers. Each time gave me more hope that perhaps there was a happy ending in store for the orphaned outsider and the brave knight.

I suppose you are guessing that it was the last battle against Nidhogg and his brood which was the undoing of my fiance, but this is the part of the tale which everyone would be wrong. He came back, the smug man laughing as he saw me waiting for him. It was the greatest feeling I have ever felt to have him come over and take me into his arms, proclaiming the Dragonsong War had ended.

Then the secrets started reaching our ears. How the war had merely been a ploy by the high borns. His reaction was much like your own. There was an anger which I tried to quell. He stormed off, much like you had, needing to be alone. I let him have his night alone. The next morning I snuck into his room, through his window, which I had done before. I was met with the love of my life hanging from a noose tied up to a beam near the ceiling.

Part of me feared I would find the same thing again after you left me that night. He took his own life a few weeks before we were to wed. His family blamed me and didn't allow me to the funeral. Everywhere I went, I kept seeing his ghost. I couldn't be in Ishgard anymore. Raument saw this and gave me the supplies and the chocobo to leave and create my own adventure like the ones who frequented The Forgotten Knight.

I left Ishgard, the only home I had known, and kept going until I found myself in Gridania. I entered that city pure and innocent, never having partaken in alcohol or fend for myself. Maybe I had gotten myself in over my head when I left home.

Can my rock come back to Ul'dah? Even if tis only for one day or two. I need my rock to ground me again and help me out of this mess I've created. I don't know what I am doing anymore.

Little One

The young woman winced as the door closed heavily behind her. She dropped her bag right there next to it, not bothering to unpack. She took unsteady steps to the familiar canopy bed, her legs weak under herself. Welts and bruises were starting to form on the backs of her thighs and under the thin fabric of her shorts. There was a long dress laying there for her, just for the morning, and a long, modest nightgown for her to sleep in.

Like a machine being put back on the line, she dressed in the nightgown and went to lay down in her bed. She stopped as she lifted the covered and looked over to her bag at the door. She sniffed once and then went over to it, digging into the bag until she could find the familiar, worn jacket that was perhaps twice the size of her, probably even more. Her lips cracked into a smile for the first time since she had entered the city. It was a short lived smile as she buried her face into the worn fabrics, inhaling deeply.

The small girl settled herself on the loveseat right at her window, curling up under the jacket, it giving her a warmth no blanket or bed ever could. It gave her a comfort she didn't know she could ever find again in the city, but it also gave her an emptiness that she didn't know she could ever fill again.

"I will always be there for you," came the words from a young male elezen. His tone calm and soothing, it could put even a primal to sleep. He was sitting on the canopy bed, his back against the headboard and his legs folded under one another. The long, inky black hair that was usually in a bun had been down, the locks framing his face.

"You promise?" Joker asked, curled up in his lap and clinging to the linen shirt covering the man who was only older by a few years. Her pale purple eyes stared up into his bright blue orbs. They were searching for any hint of a lie from the man.

His arms tightened around the young woman. His lips lightly kissed the long hair that was perhaps as dark as his own that covered her own head. "I will always return to you. You are my home."

She looked down to the ring around her slim finger with a smile, the red gem in it glistening in the afternoon sun that was peeking through her window. "I pray the Fury allows you to and doesn't take you away from me."

Gentle fingers grip her chin lightly to turn her to face him. The man was full of a conviction to return to her. "Not even the Fury will keep me from coming back to you." Then he leaned down and his lips touched hers.

The same slim fingers that still wore the ring reached up to Joker's eyes as she felt the corners and blinked down at the wetness on them. When did she start crying? She sniffled and turned over on her other side, bringing the jacket tighter around herself and took a deep inhale of the smell of stale whiskey that somehow still clung to it. All it did was cause her to curl up tighter and sob quietly into the worn fabric. Her chest hurt and felt light, like something had been ripped out and was missing from her.

It wasn't until the sun was high in the sky that there was a knock on her bedroom door. "My petite daffodil? Are you awake?" asked a gentle voice, the same voice that had been rougher and full of anger merely the night before.

She tried to open her mouth to say something, but nothing came out. She quickly wiped away the already dried tears, as if it would somehow unlock her voice. It didn't. There were a few moments of silence before the door opened anyways.

Raument stood at the door, his eyes narrowing at the empty before they scanned the room to land on the small form on the loveseat. He slowly approached it and put a hand on the shoulder of the form. "Dear, it is time to wake up." His eyes gave the jacket a once over before a low, dangerous sound came from him. He jerked the jacket off of her, Joker nearly falling out of the loveseat. "Is this his?" his voice bellowed.

There was no response from Joker, but her wide, frightened eyes spoke volumes to him. Joker had to scramble to her feet as Raument turned on his heel to stride out of the room. For every long stride he took, Joker needed to take two or three steps of her own to keep up to him. "Raument!" she protested.

"How dare you bring something of that heretic's into this house! Have I not taught you better?!" his voice filled the stone house as he made his way to the fireplace of the front room. There was another sound of protest from Joker as he threw it into the fire.

She dove for the fireplace to pull the jacket out of it, having to swat at the ends and the sleeve that had already caught fire. "Why would you do that?" she asked in her own meek and timid voice. She ignored the pain in her palm as she beat the flames off of the cloth.

"He told me to! That heretic said to burn it if I found it and I did," he hissed. The hard stare he gave the girl didn't even falter as he saw her diminishing the flames with a bare hand. All he did was kneel down next to her and grab her wrist to look at the soot covering her hand that looked like it might have been burned. "And now I have to take you to the healer. Couldn't you have just behaved for one day? Just given me one day to figure out how to reintroduce you to the people of the city? No, you had to go and do this. And now everyone is going to know the whore is back."

She blinked away the tears forming in her eyes, he had never called her that word before. Though she was also a good girl before she left the city. She tried to pull her hand back, using her free arm to keep the jacket close to her. "I...I'm not a whore," she whispered, but her voice broke and gave away how much she didn't even believe her own words.

Arman,

You are really worrying me. I need to hear from you. I need to see you. There is nothing more I need right now. If I knew where you were, I would go to you myself.

I took a day trip to Limsa Lominsa, thinking you would be there. I even asked around, but no one has seen you. I'm lost and I need you. You said you would be my rock. You said you would come back to me. A rock doesn't abandon someone who needs them.

Joker

She waited in the room, twisting the ring around her finger. Her grey hair was put up into a tight bun, something that she hadn't done since she left Ishgard. She smoothed out the few wrinkled on her dress, trying to steady her shaking hands. The healers in Ul'dah were not the same kind of healer as the man Raument had made her go see.

In the beginning, Joker simply went to this man as a child because Raument could bribe him into staying quiet about him having an au'ra in his care. As the years went on, it was just a convenience to keep going to the man. As much as Joker protested each and every time, Raument still made her go to the good healer, Eaulfix.

Eaulfix was an old man, to put it kindly. His hair went past the stage of greying Raument was currently in and was pure white. The beard and mustache he kept were the same shade. The wrinkles around his eyes and mouth would normally give him a more welcoming feeling, but Joker knew better.

If she were an elezen, it would be no problem. He would simply look at the burns, give her some medicine, and send her on her way. It just wasn't the case. Joker shut her eyes tight when asked to remove her dress behind the curtain so he could take a look at her. The shakes were back. Every fiber in her being told her to run, but she was frozen to the spot while undoing the laces on the front of her dress and slipping it off. She folded it onto the cot that she had sat on.

Eaulfix raised a concerned eyebrow at the bandages already on the young woman, which only made her stomach turn before he even asked if he could remove them. If she had said no, she knew he would go out there and tell Raument about them. As long as she took them off and complied, there was the chance Raument would never know.

The healer was already reaching for the stitching on her collar before the bandages had a chance to settle on the ground. He made a few sounds as he inspected them and then asked her to lay down so he could inspect the stitching on the claw marks across her stomach. He gave another satisfied sound. "It seems the healers in Ul'dah know what they are doing." Joker gave no response.

He kept her laying down on the cot as he took the burned hand, prodding and poking it to see just how bad it was. The healer ended up putting an ointment on it and wrapping the hand. He rewrapped the other wounds, putting his own ointment on them to keep them from getting infected.

If Joker were an elezen, he would let her get dressed and leave, but Joker was an au'ra and not an elezen. Eaulfix ran wrinkled fingers over the scaling on Joker's calf. She shut her eyes and that sick feeling was back. If there were something in her stomach, she knew she would have thrown up.

He went into his drawers and took out a pair of tongs and a scalpel. Her stomach fluttered with her nerves. He clamped the tongs around a scale and used the scalpel to slice into the flesh and get a few of the scales loose for his collection.

Dearest Arman,

I'm sorry if I sounded angry in the last letter. Just please come back to Ul'dah. I don't care what it takes to get you here, I will pay your way. If gil isn't the issue, I will do whatever. Please come back and save me. This is me on my hands and knees, begging you.

Little One

There was a bandage on her calf where the healer had taken her scales. Eventually they would grow back, they always did. There was also a bit of bruising on the inside of her elbow, where the man had drawn blood. It had been a few days and Joker seemed to slip into a routine of fake smiles and manners to Raument. It made him happy and perhaps he wouldn't hurt her again or make her go back to the healer if he were happy.

Which is why it came as no surprise to the young au'ra when Raument suggested going to visit the aesthetician. Joker only gave her grey hair a glance. Yes, it was her natural color, but it also wasn't the hair of a lady.

She slipped into the new, black boots and slipped on her new gloves, them covering the bandaging around her hand. She gave them a wide smile. The more she smiled, one day it would be real again. That was how it worked, right? The jacket was draped over her loveseat, the cuff of one of the arms burned and the ends of it singed. She still couldn't sleep without it, but perhaps she would be able to soon enough.

"My darling daffodil," she could hear the gentle words carry up the stairs. There was a forced giggle from her as she practically floated out of her room and down the stairs to the man. He leaned down and she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Father," she said, the words sounding wrong coming out of her mouth. It were the title Raument wanted her to call him and who was she to reject the old man's request after he saved her? Not only from the streets when she were a child, but now from the dangerous streets of Ul'dah.

The aesthetician was already waiting in the front room for her. Joker gave her a polite bow, which was returned to her. It didn't take long for the grey hair to be turned an inky black or for it to be tamed and straightened. Even the new bangs were done in a few quick snips of the scissors.

"Now there is my young daughter," Raument murmured when he finally got to see the work the aesthetician had done for them. "Now we can have you going around Ishgard and looking for a new fiance, hm?" Those were the words to break the spell. The words that broke Joker's smile and made her run to her room to lock herself away.

It took Raument a few days to get her to come out. The fake smiles were back, but the young woman couldn't bring herself to fool herself again that this was home. She was stuck there, but it was not home.

Dearest Arman,

Are you not coming back because you have found another little one? Is it because you know I haven't been physically hurt yet? If I were to take a knife and slide it across my throat, would that be the thing to bring you back? Would it even hurt much? I think it would be worth it, just to have you come back and let me lean on you again.

Is this your way of making me learn to get myself out of my own problems? Any other time and I wouldn't mind. This time, I can't. I can't see how I can get myself out of this mess. It has snowballed and turned into a mess where I can't even see the light anymore. I wake up every morning in darkness and go to sleep in the same darkness. Alcohol doesn't even numb it anymore.

Please, at least write me back. I just need to read one word from you and perhaps I will have the strength to continue on.

Your Little One

It took Joker a week before she found herself at The Forgotten Knight. Raument was already asleep and she managed to slip out of the house. The hardest part was finding a dress in her new wardrobe that was casual enough for the tavern.

"May I have a bottle of whiskey and a glass?" she asked in a soft voice as she leaned against the bar, fitting her small body between two men that were sitting at it. She flashed both of them an apologetic smile. They didn't seem to notice or care though. It was better that way, she didn't find either of them attractive.

When she got her bottle and the glass, she strode over to the table near the fire. She made sure to sway her hips just right in order to garner the attention of someone before she even sat down. Her slim fingers uncorked the bottle and slowly poured her first glass.

As soon as her lips touched the glass for her first sip, there was a midlander sitting down to join her. She tilted the glass back to take her first sip. It was weaker than the whiskey she drank in Ul'dah, but it would do the job of numbing her enough to not care who it was she ended up home with.

There was a smile plastered on her face as she set her glass down. "Good evening," she started, crossing her legs and resting her elbow on her knee, her chin resting in her hand. She tilted her head just a bit in order to give herself a bit more of an innocent look, most men preferred it.

"'Evening," he replied, his voice smooth. She already knew this midlander was older than herself, but he held soft features that were framed by long, dark brown locks that were held back in a ponytail. It wasn't a bad thing and she knew she wouldn't even care after she finished her bottle.

"What brings you to the great Holy See of Ishgard?" she asked and made sure to add a cute little giggle at the end of her sentence. Really, she didn't care, not this time. She just wanted to get drunk and have him make her forget herself for perhaps an hour or two.

A man came by to delivery a large mug of mead for the midlander. He took it and took a large drink from it before saying a word. "I heard there were dragons to fight."

Joker was quiet as she took a slow sip from her whiskey. She gave the midlander another once over. He had a bow with him, but he looked like he was new to adventuring. His skin was too soft to have been worn away by years of harsh weather or fighting. "You're going to end up dead," she said, trying to be as playful as possible.

He took the bait. He went on to stories of taking down large monsters to impress her. Joker gave the appropriate nods and giggles as she slowly sipped at her glass, refilling it when she needed to. Once he had finished his fourth mug and she had finally found the bottom of her bottle, only then did he suggest a walk around the city to clear their heads. If only it were just a walk.

All he needed was for her to lead him down an ally for him to show his true intentions. He had her pinned against the wall as his mouth covered hers. She let out the appropriate moan and whimper to egg him on. His body pressed against hers and a hand was already fumbling to get under the skirts of her dress to pull away her panties.

The au'ra didn't resist him. She let out a begging whine for him to continue. Her hands slipped up his shirt and gripped his smooth back. It was wrong. The smoothness of his skin, not riddled with a single scar. It felt wrong. Even as he forced his length inside of her and she let out a gasp, all she could think about was how wrong it was to be taken by a man with such smooth skin, whose body didn't tower over hers. Someone who she might even be able to beat should they get into a fight.

The one thing that kept at the front of her mind as he had sex with her against that wall was how the man didn't have the scars to show his body had been through hell and back. It was wrong.

Dearest Arman,

I went to Limsa Lominsa again to look for you. No one has seen you. I even went to Gridania. You know I hate Gridania. I went there looking for you. I went there because of you. No one there has seen you either.

Are you dead? Did your stubbornness finally kill you? No, nothing could kill you. I know you are alive. You have to be. You have to be somewhere. You have to be getting these letters. If you aren't, I don't know what I would do. Please just send me something saying you are okay. I can't continue if I know there is no chance of you being able to be my rock once more.

Your Little One

Of course Raument was waiting for the young woman when she returned home. He smelled the alcohol and the sex on her. She couldn't even give him a name of who she had been with. He smacked her across the face, it was the first time he had ever done so. All Joker could do was laugh in his face. That was when he took her to his study again. The cane was brought out and a new set of welts were given to the back of her thighs and her rear. And she laughed the whole time between her wincing.

Afterwards she found herself in her bathroom with a tub filled of hot water and bubbles. She slowly lowered her body, the stabbing on her calf stinging as it hit the water. The wounds on her collar and stomach had at least closed and started their scarring process, she could be thankful for that. Though her thighs and rear were on fire from the welts and the few places where her skin were broken.

She leaned her head back and took a glass she had brought in with her, filled with a glowing blue liquid, and drowned it quicker than she ever did with alcohol. The glass slipped from her hands and shattered against the wooden flooring. She merely giggled.

She sunk down deeper into the hot water and let out a content sigh. She lifted her leg into the air and brought her fingers over to the stab, lightly touching it as she frowned. Raument had to know the healer did that, but he didn't say or do a thing. Mostly because the healer was willing to stay quiet about her and anything he found.

The young woman slipped her body down until her head was under the water. She held her breath and shut her eyes tightly. The hurt in her chest hadn't gone away since she arrived. Ishgard didn't even feel like home anymore. It just felt like the frozen city she had entered as a child. The ghost of Ashioux still belonged to the city and so did the ghost of her former self, but she knew she had changed since then. She was no longer the woman who would be happy settling down and popping out a few kids, or at least trying her hardest to become pregnant by the man she had loved.

Had loved? No, she still loved Ashioux and didn't see herself ever giving up that part of her heart. Ashioux was not Ishgard though. Ishgard was a dead, frozen city that had rejected the man she wanted to save her. Rejected the man she still held some hope would come through the gates and save her.

Dearest Arman,

I love you. There must be a part of you which knows this by now.

Your Little One

She gasped, feeling light headed as she finally surfaced from the water.

"Little one, you have to do this on your own. I can't help you this time."

The words repeated themselves as she panted to catch her breath. Her lungs burned from being under the water for so long. Her eyes stung as the bubbles slowly slid into them as she blinked. This time she would have to save herself and Joker knew how. All she needed was to wait for the right time to leave and return home.