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wincestisasincest · 2 years

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Waves on the Shore - Chapter 10: Hands of Time

Viktor x Fem!Reader slow burn enemies to lovers

x posted on ao3 // WOTS masterlist

Summary: Jayce and Viktor questioning you about your weapon (made with farm-fresh Hextech) is the only thing keeping you from going to jail for science crimes. You and Viktor are literally at each others throats lmao. Also you’re from Bilgewater because pirates are fucking rad

Notes: THIS IS SO LATE RIP TO ME. If you are unaware, I spent the week without my usual meds and having 10000 allergic reactions every time I breathed so that is why. On that note, though, tHANK YOU to everyone who told me to stop being stupid and take care of myself and stuff y'all are too nice. ALSO this one may have a lot of typos but I didn't want to delay it any further so. I will still try to update this Friday now that I am not actively dying.

Some things that you may or may not care about:

- The song that is referenced is "Leave Her, Johnny" and it is a real pirate song!!!! I've linked it if you want to listen and see what it sounds like (spoiler alert it fucking slaps)

- Also, the Demacian steel is something I made up but I based it off of damascus steel from real life it's not relevant to the story but isn't it fucking cool?

Anyway, thanks for your patience and enjoy this week's episode of Supernatural

Word Count: 8.1k

Tags: @edenstarkk, @modernamilf, @dedicated2viktor, @doctorho, @yeehawbvby, @arcaneparx, @the-lake-is-calling

Mentions of: Suicide (Jayce's attempt), dismemberment, corpses, imperialism (booooooo), kidnapping

Triggers: Panic attack, self-harm (kinda? like it's not deliberate but they end up being fine with the pain and not stopping), dead animals, animal dissection (it's the mouse), language

This was the best chance that you had.

Caitlyn told you that the market was the place to connect with the staff of Piltover’s wealthy houses. In the early afternoon, before dinner but after lunch, they would descend upon the stalls with cultivated lists of what they needed at the house, exchanging gossip with each other as they shopped.

Only upon arrival did you realize how hard it would be to actually enter one of these conversations.

They zipped the square like bees in a hive, a blur of different earth-toned lapel dresses and baskets of goods, heads absentmindedly following the chatter as their feet automatically took them to their next destination. There were signs, but no one was looking at them. There was no question about it, these people had a rhythm, and hell if they were going to let some outsider like you disrupt it.

It wasn’t all them – you considered yourself an outsider too. Even if there was camaraderie to be had, you knew that you weren’t “working class.” You’d only gotten your first real job a few days ago, and before that, you didn’t work so much as barely scrape by through leeching off of other people. These maids and nannies and butlers, however little hey were paid, still made their own living. Your living never really felt like your own.

But, this was the best chance that you had to, maybe, make it your own someday.

You’d given up on trying to fool the wealthy of Piltover. Your first week on income and you’d already had to be told that water was free and tried to haggle something that wasn’t supposed to be haggled. That, combined with the fact that you were a bad liar around rich people because you enjoyed upsetting them, meant that they would figure you out in seconds. So, you had to take the alternative route of getting one of the house staff to put in a good word for you.

You blinked forcefully. Fretting about the time bomb of winter break in the background was just another waste of time. You fell into sloppy step with everyone else, like an instrument on the off beats, hoping to god that you would naturally fall into some small talk while you were buying what you needed.

One of the stalls caught your eye. A middle aged woman with withered, skinny fingers and a thousand-yard stare attended the counter. A patchwork of vibrant fabric swaths curtained off the area behind her.

“Hi,” you said plainly, hands folded in front of you, “I need a needle and thread.”

Now that you were staying long-term, you decided to invest in clothes that actually fit, even if it meant you’d have to fit them yourself.

The woman pressed her palms into the wood table, looking you up and down, making no effort to hide her judgement.

“We don’t sell that here, sweetheart,” she grunted, “it’s just fabric.”

“Oh. Okay,” you said dumbly, “uh… thanks.”

Great start. This might take a while, you thought, turning on your heel.

“Wait, wait,” she reached her hand out, eyelids slack like it physically pained her to look at you, “we might have something.”

She crouched behind the counter, abandoning you to linger by the stall in modest banality while the rest of the world moved on without you. Snippets of conversations that you weren’t a part of flitted past your ear like butterflies.

And then you heard it.

Everything else was muffled as the honed notes of a tune you could recognize even if you were deaf passed behind you like a ghost. The person humming it kept moving, clearly not here for you.

You turned your head and saw the back of a woman, with white frizzy hair, black heels, and a black overcoat, be absorbed into the crowd.

“Excuse me,” you said when the lady reemerged from behind the counter, not making eye contact as you drifted back into the channel of moving servants.

The melody circled around your head like twine on a spinning wheel. It was “Leave Her, Johnny” – relatively foreign to anyone in the Bilge who made a halfway honest living. It was traditionally sung on the last day of a voyage, with the lyrics playfully reworded to make fun of the captain or quartermaster of the ship. It was a song for vessels where disrespect towards authority was the norm. It was a song for pirates.

You ducked under bags of produce and split conversations in half as you dug through the crowd, eyes trained on what you were pretty sure was the back of her coat and ears attuned to her fond humming. The square was too congested to run in, but you kept a quick pace and deliberate step. Her coat was growing smaller and her humming quieter.

Further into the market, you were suffocated by the noise. It felt like you were attached to the handle of a music box, getting nauseous as the melody kept going around and around and around, supplemented by talking and clacks of dark colored heels just like the ones the woman wore. But you clung to that humming like a life raft.

You were a little kid that had lost their parents, bobbing their head around in circles, looking for people who were definitely somewhere, just not here. You got on your tip toes and looked over the field of heads for a wisp of white hair. Nothing.

The music in your ears curdled and the humming vanished. She was gone.

You started to hyperventilate as thick coats whizzed past you like freight trains. They all looked the same from down here. You were sinking, getting swallowed by a wave of discordant talking and clacking, and now, your own heartbeat. Panic shot up from your stomach.

You were finally losing it, you figured. What if you had imagined it all? What if that woman wasn’t even real? Alarms fired from all the synapses in your brain, some telling you to get started, some telling you that you were already out of time, and some telling you that you were in trouble.

You inhaled, gathering up all your might to plow through the wall of people and release yourself into the other side of the market. You gulped at the air, a classic fish out of water.

Bending over, hands on your knees, you focused on the cracks in the street, weaving through the cobblestones like a stream. When you blinked, you could feel your pulse through your eyelids.

A panic attack. Or an anxiety attack. You didn’t know the difference, and you weren’t sure what you were panicked or anxious about. Everything in Piltover, everything in your life, felt so big that you couldn’t even begin to assign specific emotions to things yet. It was all under the umbrella of cautious awe; trying to look for your future felt like staring up at a skyscraper.

The melody floated through your numb skull as you regained whatever the hell you’d lost in there. Maybe sanity, maybe reason, or maybe hope. But you didn’t have an infinite supply, and soon, you were going to run out.

*****

Viktor watched you flinch again as the final holt of blue lightning exploded from the mini portal circuit with a pathetic, but kind of cute, pop. You screwed your eyes shut until the sound had completely dissipated, and just a little longer, for good measure.

You tentatively opened one eye, confirming that everything was okay, and then exhaled as you opened the second one. You blinked, your eyelashes fluttering like white flags.

“Damn it all,” you groaned, plopping into the chair you’d burst up from a moment ago.

You prodded the charred mess with your finger, soaking in the dissatisfaction. Viktor could see the smoke curl in the air even from where he was sitting – you must’ve completely fired the circuit.

Viktor hated to admit that it brought him a little… not joy, but reassurance. He was reminded that you could, in fact, fail at things like everyone else. Jayce had the same thought, exchanging a look with Viktor from the other side of the lab as if asking who should interrupt your sulking first.

Jayce took the initiative, crossing his arms casually.

“Y’know, I think that’s the first time I’ve seen you mess up,” he said with a half-smile. A stranger would’ve mistaken it for pleasure, but Viktor know that Jayce wasn’t cruel enough for that. There was no malice here, he was just trying to lighten the mood with humor.

“The cannon,” you mumbled, eyes laser-focused on the clutter in front of you.

“Ah… not really your fault,” he countered.

You dragged your hands down your face.

“Don’t worry, I can fix this thing, and I’ll figure out how to…”

And the words were lost on Viktor as he put his energy into analyzing you. Your brows froze into a permanent, impatient furrow, occasionally twitching with the fretful ups and downs in your voice. You weren’t looking at them anymore, but at your own hands as they offered weak gestures to compliment your speaking. Oh, Viktor thought, this actually bothered you.

Failure bothered him too, so he wasn’t going to get on your case about it, but your reaction was… unexpected. Not unlike that time you’d covered your jail cell in equations. You were making a weak effort to stay composed as you addressed them, but the non-verbal cues gave you away.

“Sounds good,” Jayce’s comment snapped Viktor out of his thoughts, “any idea what happened?”

“You sighed, picking up some pieces that the explosion had scattered across the table and dropping them into a pile.

“Yeah,” you said curtly, “just gonna take a little while to correct. What about those, uh… Ionians?”

Viktor returned his focus to the open mouse, raking through its exposed systems for any lead on its death. He remembered dissecting animals in one of the biology classes at the Academy, and he hated it as much then as he did now.

Even though they were already dead, the poor animals looked so tortured spread out on that table, formaldehyde fuming from their guts. It was paradoxical, how one could be reminded that this was a living being with just as much complexity as a human, and then told to break that being down until it no longer resembled anything with a conscience.

The skin underneath the mouse’s fur was stretched and thin, tearing in places that Viktor hadn’t even touched yet. He kept the conversation between you and Jayce in the background like radio to distract himself.

“What about ‘em?” Jayce crossed the room to you.

“Did you say they like… needed help?”

Viktor clicked his tongue quietly. The mouse’s intestines still had bits of cheese in it, which should’ve been impossible with everything else Viktor had uncovered.

“They do, but we don’t wanna rush things here,” Jayce said.

“Well, sure, but couldn’t you send them some aid in the meantime?”

“No can do.”

“Why not?”

“Noxus. We would alienate them.”

Viktor checked his notes again, running down the list. Flaky skin, lost hair, bloated belly, and, most importantly, tissue breakdown.

“And you’re not alienating them by helping the refugees?”

“Not at all. Even Noxians don’t like casualties of civilians – if no one is left then there’s not really anyone to have power over.”

“That’s disgusting,” you said flatly, “I hope the Ionians win.”

“That’s Noxus,” Jayce shrugged, “though, I’ll admit, I thought you’d be a bit more on board with this whole thing.”

No, Viktor mentally corrected him, Jayce thought that he knew you well enough to make predictions. Jayce thought that you were his friend.

“Why’s that?” you perched your chin on your hand.

“Prioritizes lives saved over everything else. Sounds like your brand.”

“I’ve got a brand now?” you masterfully deflected the question.

“Yeah.”

“Maybe you can draw me a logo or something.”

Jayce chuckled. Shit, you were actually kind of his friend.

“You’ve seen my work?” Jayce said cheekily, and Viktor could practically hear the smug eyebrow raise.

“Uh, yeah. Every time I pass by your desk it looks like an art museum.”

Viktor noticed Jayce’s art too, when he first looked through his notes. It wasn’t a hidden talent, but it wasn’t something that he advertised about himself either.

“What can I say? I’m a creative at heart.”

“I’ll try to keep up then.”

“Psh, you keep up fine. I’ve seen your sketches – way better than most engineering students.”

“I use a ruler to get the lines straight.”

“Oh. Well then yeah, maybe stick to other stuff.”

You snorted.

Viktor was caught in a deluge of déjà vu listening to your banter. Jayce sounded just like he did when Viktor first started working with him. For some reason, he felt angry.

Exhaling with frustration, he set his eyes on his work and jerked his train of thought back onto the rails.

The mouse’s death was impossible because it had died of starvation in less than 12 hours, with a partially full stomach.

Viktor brushed the errant, ripped out pages filled with his observations of the plants and opened his notebook to a clean piece of paper.

“Pardon me,” a new voice, slick but reserved, like honey seeping down the back of the throat, entered into the room.

Something about the sobriety in it stopped Viktor’s pen just short of reaching the paper. He didn’t need to look up to know who it was, but he did anyway.

“What’s up?” Jayce asked, the intonation of his question just a little too high for it to be natural.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news,” Mel folded her hands, casting a long shadow into the hallway.

*****

You rubbed your arms and switched the weight between your legs in front of the door, trying to retain some warmth. Viktor didn’t knock.

“It’s cold, hurry up,” you snapped, more aggressively than you intended.

He just contemplated the brass knocker and rested his hands on his cane, silent.

“We need a plan,” he determined.

“Couldn’t have talked about this on the way… here…” you faltered, instantly mesmerized by the cloud of your own breath that appeared in front of you, “Woah. I didn’t know that you could…”

You slowed down your words and just started exhaling plumes of frozen air, toying with new combinations.

“Why… if we breath out carbon dioxide then how can we see it in the air…?” you said, watching each word dissolve into the cold.

Viktor glanced at you from the side. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say that you caught him off guard. He put his free hand in his jacket pocket and faced you.

“It’s not just carbon dioxide – there’s also moisture from your mouth and lungs. That’s what you’re seeing,” he explained, unusually even-tempered.

“Cool,” you hadn’t looked at him once the entire time, but you could feel his eyes on you, “so… what were you saying?”

“We’re not going in there until we’ve decided on what we’re going to say,” he said, returning to his normal, grumpy baritone, “and it’s not my fault that you didn’t bring a jacket.”

“I’m sorry, I was a little distracted,” you gestured to the door with one hand, letting the other run through your hair, “I mean, fuck, what a thing to drop on a Wednesday morning.”

“Then you can only imagine how Alex will feel.”

You crouched down, seating yourself on the stoop of the house. Elbows on your knees, you stared into the empty street. It was already relatively far from the city, as is expected for a safehouse, and the added cold weather that would keep people from going outside even in the middle of the day effectively rendered this distant edge of Piltover a ghost town.

Viktor was right, You can’t just go in there, guns blazing, and expect things to not end with you clawing each other’s eyes out while Alex processed some new trauma in the background.

“I- you should be the one to say it,” you said to the open, “I don’t think I’ll be able to do it, uh… kindly.”

“I will not be any better.”

“Yes, you will. Trust me,” you started to idly watch your breath dance through the air again, “I can, uh… hold the tissues.”

“He may require physical comfort. If so, he will not want it from the person who tells him.”

“What do you mean ‘physical comfort?’ I can like, hold his hand or something,” you looked over your shoulder. Viktor was trying to be neutral, but his lips were closed too tightly, and you clocked pent up frustration in a second.

“Can you at least try to take this seriously?” he pinched his nose. Apparently you had said the wrong thing again.

“Wha- I am!” you threw your hands in the air, “Gods, I’m not trying to piss you off right now, y’know? I just… well, I warned you, I’m not good at this stuff.”

You looked forward again before he could say something foul to your face. Instead, you saw his scuffed leather shoes in your peripheral vision as he stood on the other side of the stoop, watching the street with you.

“No kidding,” he said thoughtfully, “and… apologies. Our strategy will have to change, though.”

“Oh, great.”

“I will take care of the… physical comfort, if needed, and any additional support, but you will be the one to tell him.”

“We should’ve brought Jayce, he’s good at hugging,” you paused, realizing how weird that sounded, “at least, according to Caitlyn.”

“I’m no expert, but with children, it is usually the thought that counts for this sort of thing.”

“Uh… it’s not a thought, it’s a hug?”

“It is a physical gesture to let them know that they are not alone. Just being there means a lot.”

“Right- not an expert, a philosopher,” you bit your lip, catching yourself in an automatic insult where one wasn’t warranted, “Sorry, that was rude. You’re probably right. Are you sure you want me to break it to him, though?”

He thought for a wonderfully quiet moment.

“Practice on me,” he said finally.

“What?”

“Practice what you’re going to say on me first,” he impatiently waved you up with his hand, “Go on, stand up, it’s cold out here.”

You grabbed the railing and lazily hauled yourself to your feet, almost falling back down when you made eye contact with him.

Angry eyes were fine – they bounced off of you like a fly to a window. But non-angry eyes you could only take in passing glances or shared looks. Those round ambers, relaxed in discernment, went straight to your soul and it felt like getting shot in the chest. Your eyes dropped to your feet.

“No, no, make eye contact,” he insisted.

You inhaled softly, lifting your head and feeling the shock in your arteries again. But you stayed, your spine straight, forcing yourself to look past the pupils and get lost in the lovely golden color.

“And don’t look so constipated,” he winged, “it’ll just make him feel worse.”

“Listen-“

“I- trust me,” he paused, perfectly candid, “please. I am not trying to make you uncomfortable here. Do you believe me?”

“…yes,” you squinted at him suspiciously.

“And do you know why you believe me?” he waited for you to shake your head, “Because I looked you in the eye.”

Damnit, that was good.

“Alright, alright, point taken,” you grounded yourself to the floor.

He permitted your gaze to drift upwards for a second as you mentally prepared your little speech to Alex. When you came back down, you were ready this time, trapping his irises in your sights. They shined like rusted coins in the foggy sunlight.

“Alex, we’ve gotten word from one of the people looking for information in Bilgewater about your family. We don’t know anything about your siblings, or your father, but they found out what happened to your mother. She’s in gang custody.”

Time blurred, and Viktor’s observant eyes were replaced with Alex’s, completely nonplussed.

“Uh… I don’t have a mom,” he said.

“What?” your composure, that you’d spent all that time preparing, dropped in an instant.

“I have a dad and a pop,” he explained, “no mom, though.”

You looked at Viktor, who just shrugged.

Alex’s room was small, but it was all his. A twin sized bed, a desk, a chair, a bookshelf, and a dresser were all cozily pushed against one of the walls, with just enough space to walk through and not feel squished. Viktor sat by his side on the bed, while you straddled the desk chair.

The safehouse was run by an old married couple – who also happened to be retired Enforcers – that had already gone through kids of their own, so they were uniquely prepared to meet a 10 year old’s needs. The cover story was that he was their grand nephew staying in Piltover over the winter, which you liked, because it meant that he could still enjoy a social life, even if it was highly supervised.

You weren’t his guardian, so it really was none of your business, but you made a point to inspect his living conditions early on and you were not disappointed.

Now, though, the smallness of the room was stifling. Like there was a much bigger world waiting just outside, and you didn’t have access to it. You were missing the bigger picture here, like you were characters in a play that someone else had written.

“Well, then- who the hell did Mel’s informants find?!”

Viktor had begun skimming through a piece of paper while you were busy being frustrated. You didn’t know what it said, but it looked like Mel’s elegant handwriting.

“Female, late 20s to early 30s, five and a half feet tall…” Viktor blinked, breaking his monotone to mouth the next phrase quietly, like he needed to confirm what he was reading, “left hand replaced with a hook.”

“Oh,” you tsked, “well, the hook is helpful, but that doesn’t narrow it down too much in Bilgewater of all places.”

“Alex,” Viktor set the notes in his lap for the moment and addressed the boy, “your sister had her left hand replaced with a hook, did she not?”

“My sister’s not a grownup.”

“But she did have her hand replaced?”

“Yeah… so what?”

“Just a theory I have – would you be able to provide me with a detailed description of your sister? As well as your other family members?”

“The Enforcers already did that,” he kicked his legs restlessly.

“Yes, but this is for my own purposes,”

You furrowed your brows at him. What fucking purposes? It was strange, certainly, but what piece of information did he think the Enforcers would’ve missed out on that was essential to his own investigation?

Either he didn’t even think to explain it to you or didn’t care to hear your opinion, because he calmly waited for Alex’s answer.

“I would be willing to, eh, grant a favor if you help me,” he offered when the kid didn’t say anything.

“Anything?” Alex drew the word out, sounding a little too excited.

“Within reason and provided that the Enforcers have no objections.”

Alex cartoonishly pretended to think it over, putting his hand to his chin and humming to himself.

“Help me do my house chores after I tell you,” he said curtly, “take it or leave it.”

“Sold,” Viktor answer, just as curtly.

You sighed and gave up on trying to figure out what the fuck just happened. You were familiar with the concept of exchange – in fact, it reminded you of how you made your living in Bilgewater – but it was odd to see Viktor in that position. He fit it well.

“You may leave, if you wish.”

Alex didn’t answer, and you turned to check on them. Oh, shit, Viktor was talking to you.

“Uh, you sure?”

“You can also stay if you are interested. But I can handle things by myself from here,” he hand a hand in his pocket, freezing with resignation when he didn’t find what he was looking for, “Could you hand me a pencil?”

“Sure, yeah… paper too?” your hands ghosted over the different coloring utensils and blank sheets of parchment. There were open books here or there that Alex seemed to be copying the drawings from, adding his own spins on them.

“Please.”

“And, uh, I think I will go,” you added as you retrieved the items, turning around to pass them to the bed, “I’ve got that thing to fix. I’ll let Jayce know.”

“I will likely not be back tonight, so one of you must dispose of the remaining formaldehyde.”

You nodded, accidentally making eye contact for what felt like the millionth time today when he took the pencil from your hands. It replaced whatever curiosity you had left with the restlessness in your legs that finally compelled you out of the room.

“See ya, Alex,” you said from the door.

Back in the street, the cold was a punishing reminder of how stupid you were for not bringing a jacket. Thankfully, your conscience was preoccupied with an even bigger act of idiocy – gods you had put up with all that shit from Viktor because you thought that it was to Alex’s benefit, only for it to mean nothing.

You weren’t sure if he would use it against you, but he had seen it, and there was nothing good to overshadow that. You felt like the victim of some cruel joke, getting tricked into everything that you swore you’d never become – first, a Piltover lapdog, and now, a little bitch. You had to stop letting up so easily.

They paid for your services, not your personhood, and you could not forget that. And yet, you were oddly grateful to Viktor for sparing you from, perhaps, a worse fate.

Hell, he didn’t even have to come with you in the first place, but he did. When you asked, he had no questions, issues, or complaints, he just said he’d need a minute to clean up his work and get his coat. He’d taken the extra time to show you how to do this without permanently traumatizing the kid, even though that wasn’t part of the arrangement. And now, he was staying to help do the dishes and letting you get off with nothing, even though coming here was your idea.

You probably owed him something for that.

*****

Yes, Jayce was getting to see many sides of you today.

First, he’d witnessed a mistake, something he’d forgotten you were capable of doing. Then, he’d seen you ask Viktor of all people for help, and apparently be persuasive enough for his partner to instantly agree. And now, you’d come back and he was getting to study you as you silently lost your mind over a pile of Viktor’s terrible handwriting.

You’d explained the situation to him as briefly as possible when you returned, and then promptly made a beeline for Viktor’s notes as though you’d completely forgotten about all the stuff that you needed to finish. Jayce wasn’t going to stop you. If anything, he was curious.

But, over the afternoon, your irritability had grown, only getting worse the more you tried to tamp it back down and focus. You were a whole orchestra of ticked off – sighing, clicking your tongue, scratching your scalp, stamping your foot – and as it finally neared the end of the day Jayce was pushed to ask the question he’d been simmering on since you started.

“Heimerdinger tells me you can’t read,” he said from the other table, making you flinch but getting you stop the slightly grating drumming of your fingers, “so I don’t know what you’re trying to find in there.”

You relaxed into the seat of the chair, giving your poor eyes a break and cracking your knuckles.

“Word travels fast, huh?” you stretched your neck.

“Here? Yeah.”

“I was… well, y’know, Viktor is stuck there, so I was looking through his stuff to see if I could,” your shoulders drooped, “help or something? I don’t think he likes to be behind. But, for the life of me, I cannot figure out where he left off.”

“What’ve you got so far? Maybe I can help,” he said good naturedly. And he meant it, even if you both had better things to do at the moment.

“Something about the aging and de-aging of Vitamin C in organic material. I dunno, chemistry has a lot of words, I was never great at it,” you pursed your lips, “but you don’t need to help, I’ve wasted enough time today.”

“Uh… what?” Jayce raised an eyebrow, stopping his own task – carefully layering different kinds of Demacian steel over the circuits surrounding the transistor.

Jayce was quite pleased that his early interest in forging was making a return in his career. He remembered leaning about Demacian steel back when he was a kid, reading under the covers at 2 am when he thought his mom was asleep. It was made through a special process, where the blacksmith would weld pre-existing steel and iron in a forge with little to no oxygen. As a result, the metal absorbed carbon from the hot charcoals that created crystalline-like nanotubes in structure, which gave it flexibility and sturdiness suitable for Demacia’s finest blades.

And, apparently, it was exactly what they needed to fortify the transistor’s design.

“Well, y’know, I already broke the test circuit this morning…” you crossed your arms, “…with an explosion.”

“Oh, that?” he chuckled lightly, “That’s been bugging you a bit, hasn’t it?”

“Well, no one likes not doing the thing they’re supposed to.”

“Of course, but,” Jayce set down his tweezers, “you know that we’re not like, pissed at you or anything.”

You blinked, as if you just remembered he was there.

“Yeah, I know. I’m sure you’ve got a bunch of ‘em,” you shrugged, “it’s just an inconvenience.”

“Actually, that’s the only one we have,” Jayce rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, “so, we do still need to fix it. But, more importantly, Viktor and I make all kinds of mistakes while we’re doing this stuff, so, y’know, you’re allowed to do that too.”

“Oh,” your eyes shifted, “yeah, I guess that makes sense.”

“I mean, you’ve seen us screw up before. Big time,” the corners of his mouth twinkled fondly, “What, you think we’re that hypocritical about it?”

“No,” deliberation pulled at the end of the word, “I think I’m just getting used to the whole, like, ‘job’ thing.”

“I don’t believe that you’ve never had a job before.”

“Well, I sorta have. I did gig work, y’know, like, short term stuff. Where you get in, fix the thing, get paid, and then leave. Mistakes, uh, don’t go well there, because if you inconvenience your employer you might get paid less. Hell, I fyou mess up really bad you get your ass beat.”

“People would beat you up?” Jayce raised an eyebrow.

“Well, not me,” you put your hands to your chest, “because I didn’t make mistakes. But other people, yeah.”

“That’s… kinda brutal.”

“Yeah,” you admitted, “but I guess I understand why people were so defensive of their stuff. Because, like, if I didn’t fix the beer tap then the bartender can’t work, and then we both won’t be eating at night,” you paused, “not to say that there aren’t assholes who do it just because they can. But it depends.”

“Ah, well,” Jayce said genially, “mistakes are part of the process here. So, as long as that mistake isn’t fatal, you don’t need to worry about getting paid.”

“Every mistake used to be fatal,” you reflected, gruff but not malicious, “or, at least, that’s how it felt. Like you’re hanging on by a thread.”

“It’s good that you’re still here, then.”

He smiled kindly at you, but you just looked lost. Not scared, not worried, just lost, like you were trying to piece everything together and weren’t sure where to start. You stared straight through Jayce and into oblivion.

“I guess I am,” you said, “but I’m lucky.”

Your eyes dropped in a quiet memorial to those who weren’t. Jayce bent his head, trying to keep your focus from underneath your contemplation.

“We’re all lucky,” he said, “doesn’t mean that we don’t deserve to have good things happen sometimes.”

“I don’t think it’s really about deserve,” your pupils twitched back up, “cause, like, everyone deserves a decent living. But that hasn’t happened, so we’re not even close to deserve yet. It’s about…” you brushed your thumb over Viktor’s writing, “it’s about winning this stupid fucking rat race. Like, asking yourself how much you’re willing to lose for a shot at rising above what you were born with. And people like the kind in Bilgewater, who don’t have much to begin with – they aren’t exactly dying to stick their necks out.”

“Yeah,” Jayce found himself nodding somberly, “I mean, survival was never an issue for me, but I get it. Trying to build something for yourself is always a game of risk. And it shouldn’t be.”

You arched an eyebrow, filled with the same reticent curiosity that Viktor had when he stopped Jayce from ending his own life. As if you were asking: “Really? With all this privilege, you’re upset because you lost a game that you knew you shouldn’t have been playing?”

And he would answer that, if he can’t make things better with his privilege, then was it really worth anything in the first place?

Obviously, he couldn’t say any of that to you. No one knew about his almost-suicide except for Viktor, and he would like to keep it that way. It wasn’t his proudest moment, even if he could justify his sadness. His pride was wounded, his dream was shattered, and he was an emotional wreck. Any way that he tried to process it in his head would have his failure come out on the other end, screaming at him that he was a waste of all his “gifts.” Altruistic, smart, wealthier than most, and all he did with it was get kicked out of school for not being careful enough.

But now, he was living proof that he wasn’t a waste. And, even if he didn’t like that it happened that way, his mistake lead to the best decision in his life.

“That’s where I’m having trouble,” you said finally, resting your chin in your hands, “because staying here, well, it wasn’t risky. It was so easy, and I feel like I’ve gone around, like, the rules of life or something. It’s just a bitch to tall take in.”

A switch flipped in Jayce. He got up from his chair and slid into the one across from you, putting his hands on the table to demand your full attention.

“Pen,” he said earnestly, “the rules are fucking bullshit. And I say this as someone who has spent my whole life benefitting from them and screwing with them – nothing has to be this way.

“I know that,” you rolled your eyes with dubious coyness, “like, obviously getting your hand cut off because you were fishing in a part of the bay that pirates owned isn’t the state of nature. But, y’know, they don’t care, and when they catch you, you’ll still get your hand cut off.”

“Not in your case, though,” Jayce patiently withdrew his hand, speaking in short sentences to encourage your rambling.

“Exactly! Like, whether I stayed or I left, I would still get to keep my hand, so to speak. Any consequences were personal preference but none of them were really bad. It was just… a choice. And I feel like this entire time I’ve been waiting for someone to cut that hand off.”

“I mean… that was kinda the point. We wanted to make it easy.”

“Yeah,” you snorted grimly, “and, I do appreciate that, even if I still don’t entirely understand it.”

“I mean, we had the resources to do, so we did,” he shrugged, “and you’re proof of concept for our whole ‘making lives easier’ thing.”

“Seems like you made Viktor’s life harder,” you grinned dryly.

Jayce bit his cheek. Of course you didn’t know what Viktor had said, you weren’t there, he told himself, but still he was caught off guard. He’d have to correct you.

“He was your biggest advocate, actually,” Jayce said.

“Uh…” your chuckled awkwardly, “are you sure about that?”

“Not that I didn’t also want you to hang around,” Jayce added, “but I was ready to let you leave when you made it clear that you wanted to. But Viktor, he was determined. He took care of most of it – the stipend, the Enforcers, hell, he even spoke to Heimerdinger about it.”

“I- wow,” you faltered, thoughtfully picking on your thumb’s cuticle, “I didn’t know that.”

“You left quite the impression.”

“Yeah,” you tilted your head to the side, looking out the window, “I guess I did.”

The darkness outside came alive with the moonlight, dropping gentle hues of blue across your face. The wind viciously rapped against the glass, but the brass handle never even shuddered. Jayce felt safe, in a way, like he could wait out the entire winter in here as you sorted through your thoughts.

You were on the verge of some big revelation, he could feel it. Barely breathing but mind racing as you tried to convert everything you’d learned today into something practical. Jayce was excited for it, even – you could realize the importance of their mission, you could see how much you could do if you really put your mind to it.

A warning tap of your fingers queued him back in as your mouth parted.

“What were we talking about again?” you quirked one side of your mouth goofily. Perhaps not today, Jayce thought.

“Ah, y’know what, I don’t really remember either,” Jayce sighed, trying to play off his disappointment, “I think it’s time to call it a day.”

He’d long since broken from the trance of his work and the exhaustion was starting to hit him.

“I’ll be here a little longer,” you said, standing up and wiping your hands on your pants, “Viktor asked me to clean up the formaldehyde if he didn’t come back.”

Jayce considered helping you, but you were deadest on doing something to make up the time that Viktor had lost. If this was that moment, then it could be all yours.

“Right,” he stood, grabbing his coat, “don’t forget to lock it when you leave.”

“I won’t,” you said over your shoulder as you organized the notes near the edge of the table.

Jayce rolled his shoulders through the sleeves of the coat and opened the door, taking one last look at you milling about the lab, completely unbothered. He felt like he was missing something.

“Good night, Penny.”

You didn’t look at him.

“Good night, Jayce.”

*****

It was colder by the time Viktor left Alex’s house, but somehow, with the heat lamps warmly leading the way back to town, the street actually had some life in it.

Viktor didn’t know what to expect anymore. He thought that he had some grasp on his own work, but every turn just gave him more questions and told him that his previous answers were wrong to start with. He wasn’t a detective, he was a scientist, and while he thought that those two professions weren’t that different once, he was beginning to reconsider.

Either this kid was miraculously connected to everything, or this conspiracy was bigger than anyone realized.

If that woman actually was Alex’s sister, the implications were disastrous on every level. Whether or not the pirates did it on purpose, they were aware of what they had done. Then, it would only be a matter of time until they figured out how to control the portal’s biology-altering effects, if they hadn’t already.

And what if they had? What did that mean for everyone else involved? Were Alex’s family also hidden in plain sight, and Mel’s informants were simply unable to identify them? Or, even worse, they’d already died but were so beyond recognition that no one thought to mention it.

What about Myrna? Alex claimed that he’d seen her associating with the gang before – had something awful happened to her? So awful that Iron Leg was compelled to attack the moment that he caught wind of it? And why was his first move to attack Piltover, of all places?

Footsteps began to ripple on the pavement as he returned to the more populated parts of town. People were still sparse, but the occasional shop owner leaving for the day or family being shown out the door after dinner would pass by.

So, Viktor concluded, he could not go insane at this very moment. Bad for publicity.

He craned his neck to see over the tops of the buildings, finding the window of Heimerdinger’s office – the highest window the Academy had – lording over the city like an eye. Heimerdinger would be losing his mind if he knew what Viktor was uncovering.

Viktor looked a few stories lower, landing on the floor that the lab was. You and Jayce had, no doubt, gone home for the evening, but even then, you’d spent the entire afternoon without him. You’d be the best of pals by now.

Viktor exhaled, shoving his free hand in his pocket.

He was being overdramatic. He knew that Jayce wasn’t that type of person, and he knew that if you wanted to spite him, then you would be more direct about it. But that made it all worse, because, once again and without even trying, you were exceeding him in what was supposed to be his thing.

He kept telling himself that it would be okay – you weren’t competitors. But the resentful nausea quelling in his stomach didn’t believe him. Maybe you had been trying, he thought. Why else would you beg him to come see Alex with you only to leave the minute that you got the chance? You clearly didn’t like being around him, with how nervous you got. Did you know that he would agree to stay?

And he’d fallen for it so readily, because he couldn’t bring himself to refuse something so… honest. If you needed him so badly that you overcame your own ego to ask him, then it must’ve been important. At least, that’s what he thought.

You were so confounding, but his recent state of mind was starting to make him wonder if he was the crazier one here. At what point did his speculations about you become his fault?

“Oh!” a kind voice collided with his shoulder, knocking him off balance as he breathed in sharply.

An older woman, with white hair in a neat low bun and sea green eyes. A thick black overcoat draped over her blue lapel dress.

“Apologies, dear! My eyes aren’t quite what they used to be,” she smiled.

“Quite alright,” Viktor forced a forgiving smile of his own, “I was distracted, myself.”

“Well, then, I hope we both make it home without another incident.”

She carried on forward, falling into a content hum. Viktor watched her go over his shoulder, and he could’ve sworn that he’d heard you humming that same song earlier this morning. Small world.

Damnit, he was thinking about you again.

He shook his head testily and continued on his way. Enough about you, he thought, he was going to put at least one thought to rest tonight, and maybe, finally, get something done here. He had to find his notes again, and maybe revisit one of his plants.

He had to go back to the lab.

*****

You were not mentally well.

You weren’t too proud to admit that to yourself. But, alone in the lab, no patrol officers stalking the halls and no Jayce to make you think twice, it didn’t matter anymore. You could let loose, and no one would see it. You could yourself to fucking snap. You realized now that this had been a long time coming.

It started after Jayce had left, when you picked up a cup of cleaning fluid so violently that you crushed it between your fingers. It gushed over the sides and creeped down your knuckles, ponderous as a waterfall, over the open cuts and scrapes that you always had. It burned, but you didn’t move, didn’t stop it, just let the pain sear through you nerve endings. Finally, a feeling that you could fucking process.

Because you couldn’t process everything else, gods, you really couldn’t.

You should’ve figured it out when you’d fucked up the cannon, you thought, as you dumbly through the cup in the trash, missing it by a few feet. You moved like you were drunk. Your limbs weren’t your own anymore, your own fucking life wasn’t even your own anymore. It didn’t belong to anyone else, but it certainly didn’t belong to you either, you thought as you slapped the cleaning fluid off your hand with a paper towel.

Breathing got harder, but you didn’t care. You liked it, almost, because it meant that you were doing something.

Or maybe you should’ve realized it when you met Alex, you continued as you half sat half fell on the floor. You’d ruined his entire fucking life and you weren’t even trying to. Before you’d even agreed to stay, your normal survival, the thing that you had always lived on, were fucking over other people. It was all your fault, because this was where you were now and you couldn’t deal with that shit.

The wind was too fucking loud, it sounded like one of the gods themselves was whistling in your ear as they watched you shrivel up and die.

That woman this morning, gods, you’d lost her, if she was even fucking real. You didn’t even know why you wanted to find her so bad, maybe you just wanted a single fucking scrap of what you’d left behind, but she vanished. Maybe you wanted the reassurance of knowing that you and Alex were not the only pieces of Bilgewater in Piltover, so that way, if he fucking died because of you and then you finally lost your mind, you could find solace in someone else.

You were restless and weak at the same time. You wanted to throw something, so you unsheathed your knife and gracelessly chucked it across the room so hard that something in the hilt broke. Then, you held your own arms so hard that your nails dug into your skin and the tips of your fingers were warm with blood.

Oh, and Viktor. Viktor Viktor Viktor. Advocating for you? Was he fucking insane? Wasn’t he supposed to know what this kind of thing was like? Did it even fucking matter what you said to him when he was just going to advocate for you in the end? Did your hatred mean anything?

You made a mistake today.

You made a mistake and there were no personal consequences, because personal consequences didn’t fucking exist anymore. You were on a new level, a big player who made big decisions, and yet it felt like you’d fucking lost everything.

Your mistake postponed the fate of those Ionians. Decided whether they would stay or leave. Whether they would live or die. Did they even want to come here? Did you want to send them here? What if they ended up like you? Washed away by the fucking weight of everything, separated from all that they knew, getting to decide whether they would stay and defend their country or leave it behind? Would it even be saving lives if they ended up like you? Because you were fucking dying here.

You smelled the formaldehyde that you hadn’t cleaned up yet. Formaldehyde. Corrosive to carbon steel in liquid form. Corrosive to Demacian steel.

You were going to end it. You moved like a robot, shaking the bottle of formaldehyde and standing above the half-finished circuit. It would melt the steel, fuck the wires, and seep into all the cracks that it wouldn’t. You didn’t know how you would justify it. You didn’t care. You didn’t want to think about it anymore, didn’t want to fucking choose for other people when you couldn’t keep your own head above water.

You wanted it to fucking die. Maybe then you could breathe again.

“Wha- you’re still- what the hell are you doing?” a Czech voice said in the doorway.

You turned. Viktor.

Fuck.

~ End Notes ~

i'm not sorry for the cliffhanger die mad abt it

End credits song (don't worry it is NOT as depressing as it sounds i promise): "I Think I'm Going To Kill Myself" by Elton John

(btw I'm thinking about throwing together a playlist with all of the songs i'm putting here and maybe others??? keep an eye out)

#viktor x reader #viktor arcane x reader #viktor arcane #viktor #viktor x you #enemies to lovers #slow burn #viktor x y/n #arcane x reader #jayce talis #mel medarda #mel #caitlyn #jayce #waves on the shore #caitlyn kiramann #Spotify

79 notes · View notes

doorsclosingslowly · 3 years

Text

Hell is just a beat away (2/9): Keen to show you the unhappy ones below you

Despite early promise, young Maul has turned out to be a disappointment, willfully delaying his training with secret attempts to make himself friends from scrap metal. He must be properly motivated, and so Darth Sidious sends him to a slave market on an impossible mission. It backfires. (A Star Wars: Darth Maul (2017) comic AU)

Warnings: accidental underage alcohol consumption, body horror, mention of sex slavery, violence against children, minor character death.

The attendant bends gracefully, smiling as she refills fine translucent cups. The first one is in front of Master Zalandas Fyaar, so the standard diplomatic protocol of privileging the Jedi emissary and guest apparently holds true even on this tiny corrupt world, and then comes that of the twi’lek’s own employer. The man who is Zalandas and Eldra’s new charge. His name is Martrey Woobudg, a tall harried human just like Fyaar, and the upstart frontrunner candidate for mayor of the capital of the Outer Rim planet of Teth. A second passes—a wriggling suspicion in the back of her mind, and then Eldra smooths it over—and then the beautiful twi’lek looks at Master Zalandas and bows and tops up the cup in front of Eldra, too, even though that one has barely been touched.

Woobudg and Master Zalandas pick up their drinks immediately, taking a break from hurried planning to praise the olid tea within. Eldra nibbles at the porcelain edge of her cup. The twi’lek attendant does not drink. She doesn’t even have a cup. Or a biscotti. Or a seat, and when fine hot droplets of tea splatter Eldra’s padawan tunic, and she realizes she’s actually biting down hard now on her crockery.

It’s not the fear of getting poisoned that holds Eldra back from enjoying her tea, although, considering they were called here after the third assassination attempt on Woobudg… maybe a little caution should be in order. It’s a serviceable excuse should Master Zalandas ask, anyway, even if it’s not the true reason, and neither is what Eldra privately decides is the painfully obvious and pointless braggadocio inherent in Woobudg serving imported Chandrilan tea, despite the well-publicized price-hike after last year’s ruined harvest there, and the fact that it absolutely genuinely does taste like unfiltered bantha piss. He’s serving his pricey swill to a couple of Jedi, moreover: to his protectors bound by duty, who do not revel in wealth.

It’s not that, though.

It’s not even really because this is only Eldra’s second diplomatic mission, and she’s sworn she’s going to take her job more seriously this time around. She’s going to make sure no-one, not even once, peeks in unnoticed through the doors and windows. That isn’t it either, and truthfully she’s paying attention far less than she means to.

It’s something far more petty and profane: the subtle spiced fragrance of the attendant’s perfume as she bends over Eldra to reach the china. Her dress, as expensive as the tea, made from rippling opaque silk in a slightly lighter shade of blue than the woman’s skin. It’s a fairly modest cut. Barely any flash of cleavage, despite Eldra’s vantage point. Chosen expressly for this meeting, Eldra thinks sourly, and who do you think you’re fooling?

It’s the attendant’s bearing, calm and open and as serene as any Jedi Master.

It’s the fact that Eldra’s still thinking of her as ‘the attendant’ even though she’s been flitting around the room for two hours now at least. It’s that she wasn’t introduced. It’s that she doesn’t have a cup. A biscotti. A seat.

It’s her teeth.

What would happen, Eldra wonders, if I asked her to come sit and have a drink with us? Besides the obvious, of course: Master Zalandas’ abject disappointment at Eldra’s dearth of diplomatic skill. Would the attendant keep smiling? Displaying her teeth? Or would she flinch the moment the hot nasty leaf juice hits them?

Because her teeth are white-lacquered, dainty, tiny, horrifying stumps. Eldra can’t stop looking at them. They’re almost worn down to the gums. Twice-sanded at least, probably. Once, to sharpen the natural edges further—Eldra runs her tongue over the edges of her own canines, her pointy incisors, like she’s been doing ever since researching for a class project the customs of the peoples of the polar tip of the northernmost continent of Ryloth, the place where she was told she’d been born—teeth sanded once, sharpened, and then, they were ground down again mercilessly to make them blunt.

“Another biscotti, Padawan?”

Watch your feelings, Eldra. Remember that you are a Jedi. Remember your duty. That’s what Master Zalandas means, and Eldra startles, self-conscious and guilty. She must’ve lost her bearing, been grabbing attention even with the question bitten back behind her lips. She nods, a quiet thanks for the reminder. She studies the window again, on guard for any assassin. She tells herself: this meeting is important. Martrey Woobudg is a reformer, an anti-corruption juggernaut, and his rise a chance to wrest Teth from out the criminal syndicates’ control and, ultimately, bring it into the regulatory orbit of the Republic once more. If he keeps his promises after he wins, the election will spell a sea-change for the poor, who’ll finally be able to go about their lives without paying massive bribes to every single government official they have the misfortune of meeting, and it will aid the rise of a stable middle class. It’ll keep out the Hutts, too. It’ll be a triumphant sign of progress. Woobudg is important. His safety is paramount. His fate determines the future of so many people; it’s so much bigger than the life of this one attendant. Eldra knows the brief.

And still, her eyes are drawn back to his twi’lek servant.

To his slave.

That’s why you sand down someone’s teeth until there’s barely anything left. Why you keep at it long after it hurts. Why the sharpest teeth are so popular on Ryloth in the first place.

No-one wants a sex slave capable of biting their throat out.

Dutifully, she attempts to listen again, to keep watch, but looking at Woobudg’s face it’s still all she can think of. Slaver, slaver, slaver. He’s important, and Eldra must protect him, and he’s a slaver.

Looking back at the attendant, she’s met by the serene smile again, full of awful tiny teeth.

Looking at her Master, she feels her own inadequacy.

Looking down at her own hands is no escape. They’re darker than the attendant’s, callused and oil-stained and nails half-covered with flaking black nail polish. They’re the hands of someone far too slowly growing into the knowledge that her body is a shell, a vessel, that she is a luminous being of higher purpose. They’re a Jedi’s hands, or will be, and through them the force flows and shapes the galaxy. They are the hands of someone who will know no emotion, but peace. They are the hands of someone who neither covets nor disdains expensive Chandrilan tea. They are the hands of a faithful servant of the Republic. They are the hands that will protect Woobudg from his enemies and facilitate the rise of Teth, come what may, because she knows right, and she knows duty.

She forces herself to meet Woobudg’s eyes when he looks at her, feigning attention, and hopes he didn’t just ask a question.

She fidgets with her twi’lek girl fingers.

⁂

Hiding and curled and dirty under the stranger’s ship in the now-deserted hangar, two hours after he crawled down there, Maul finally realizes he’s been underestimating his Master. This mission on Nar Shaddaa is not just a chance for the apprentice to prove himself. No, Master is wise and efficient, and he wouldn’t have a single purpose for anything He does when He could, instead, have a myriad. It’s not just a test of Maul’s skill and loyalty.

It’s also a series of lessons.

Yesterday, Maul had been so sure he knew the meaning of cold.

He’d read about it, after all, memorized all the ice worlds in the galaxy and the medical texts on hypothermia and studied the schematics of atoms bouncing ever more slowly off each other. He’d looked at holos of skin blistered and sloughing off from unwise exposure, and he’d been impressed. A little scared, maybe, and very excited to progress in his studies so one day he’d have a chance to experience winter. But Maul’s been hiding under the stranger’s ship for hours now, and Nar Shaddaa is cold. It’s not flashy, the cold, like the holos of icebergs and boiling water thrown up and coming down powder implied. It’s not exciting at all. The cold of Nar Shaddaa is quiet. It’s the floor leeching into Maul’s back and legs, until he can’t tell anymore where wet dirt ends and he begins. It’s uncontrollable shivering. It’s his nose leaking, leaking, leaking. It’s making him tired.

Mustafar bubbled and smoked, and even inside the training complex with its sophisticated uncounted layers of insulation—Maul had dug into the wall once, tunneling almost a quarter-way through with a droid’s breastplate repurposed into a shovel—even inside, during some of the periods that Maul had taken to calling ‘seasons’ after researching the planet of Naboo, it was often so warm Maul wished he was allowed to tear off his tunics, and an additional layer or two of skin with it. Sweating, panting, he’d read the word cold, and he’d wanted it badly. He’d dreamt, open-eyed, for so many hours, of himself rolling around in the cold white snow and chasing ice-weasels. But back then, on Mustafar, it was hot. And Nar Shaddaa is real, and it’s now, and it’s so so cold.

Maul can’t stay down here forever, or even for another minute. He wants to sleep. He wants to run, at the same time, to fight the Jedi apprentice until he meets victory or glorious death. He wants to have completed this mission already. He wants a lightsaber of his own, so he can hold it and bask in its warmth. He wants to sleep. Force, he wants to be asleep. He wants to wake up in his small boiling cell and realize this has all been a dream.

(He wants someone to hold his hand and say, “I’ll help you,” but that’s the most impossible thought of all.)

There is no point in wishing for anything, though. There has never been. He must act. He must stop sneezing. The slave auction will be in four days now, a short strip of time he just needs to overwinter somewhere, Maul tells himself, and even if he doesn’t want to go anywhere near Master’s Star Courier now that it has killed the teenagers that could have been Maul’s friends and the mangy brachno-jag besides, there are many other options. Many other ships. He’s curled down here, in the cold, under just such a ship.

He knows how to pick locks.

It’s not hard at all to gain entry to the ship, now that he’s thought of it. He could have done it in less than thirty seconds, if his hands were shaking less and he had the proper tools, the ones he’s been meaning to build himself for years but in Master’s complex on Mustafar there was little point and then he had to construct stilts and the vocoder-mask for his mission and he forgot—Maul could have sliced the lock in under twenty-five point five seconds, he decides, with the tools, but the ten minutes he actually fiddled with it were acceptable too, because neither the training-droids nor Master himself were there to witness it, and besides, he doesn’t have much practice yet. (He should lock the door again and re-slice it, and over and over, until he’s quick enough. He should. But there’s no-one here to watch, and Nar Shaddaa is cold…)

This one looks almost exactly like Master’s ship, on the inside. Maybe all starships do: a few red-plush benches around a low table in the main travelers’ compartment, overlooked by a massive idling viewscreen, two small side rooms with pairs of sleeping berths, a refresher with a sonic shower and a kitchenette and, most interesting of all, an unlocked engine room and a cockpit with a slightly different layout than the Star Courier had. Maul shall explore them in detail, as soon as he’s warmed up and fed and made sure there are no hidden traps in here. He didn’t dare take apart his Master’s property, but this ship belongs to someone who won’t, can’t, defend his claim against Darth Maul, heir of the Sith—soon-to-be Darth Maul, he corrects quickly—and power is the only true right in the galaxy. Through power he will gain victory, and what is victory in this situation but access to a stranger’s ship’s mechanics? A fuel tank blinks enticingly, and soon Maul shall learn its secrets.

Food first, though.

He upends his satchel over the low table and picks through his haul from the ill-fated convenience store visit. Bottles, ordered by color, to the left—a toxic orange looking one the furthest away, then brown, then the two water bottles with their beautiful waxing gibbous shape when seen from the top and the yellow labels with red writing—and the crinkly chips packages to the right, joined by the sandwiches and the jaw-mask and two pairs of huge glasses with dark lenses and wide red-black frames.

The orange drink is bitter and sickly sweet and probably poisoned, and when he pushes it away it tips over and spills all over the carpet. It deserved that ending, though. It was vile. It didn’t have the right to be drunken by a Sith Lord.

Trying to rinse the taste off his tongue is unsuccessful: the fancy water is bitter, sharp, oily, and Maul shudders. At least the sandwiches smell bright and meaty through their flimsi wrapping. They’ll mask the awful water he’ll have to sip from to avoid dehydration, and so he picks one, to devour while he explores the sitting area.

Perched in an overhead nook is a flickering holo of a weequay male kissing the top of a young weequay’s head, and he turns it off as quickly as he can.

The two blankets and five little pillows are far more welcome spoils, and so is the datapad wedged underneath one of the benches. Someone’s taped a scrap of flimsi securely to the back, too, with two neat rows of handwriting. A name, and then a series of numbers.

Maul types them into the datapad, and it lights up.

“Good evening, Johen,” the pad greets him.

There are pages opened already on the datapad, a search for restaurants on Coruscant and a school’s newsletter and—two catalogues. One of them is Grakkus’ slave auction, and Johen is already logged in.

It’s… in three days?

There must be a mistake. Master said it was in eight days, four days ago, and Master is never wrong, but there’s no slave auction on that date no matter which button Maul presses and where he navigates on the catalogue, just the one in three days, and then five days after, and another five days, and another…

Master doesn’t make mistakes. He knows everything, studied the secrets of the galaxy that the Jedi would keep suppressed, and the hidden weaknesses of far-off planets’ politicians, and every single one of Maul’s minute failures except for the secret dreams, and He would know the true date of this slave auction. He would not err, not when this mission is so vital to the grand plans of the Sith that he sent his own apprentice to complete it. He would never…

He wouldn’t…

But what He would do is test Maul.

A true scion of the Sith does not trust blindly in dates and dossiers, and Master knows that. He must have told Maul the wrong date to pass on this wisdom. He must have, and He didn’t even fear the risk that this momentous mission might fail, because He trusted that Maul would understand.

And Maul did.

Master made the right choice. It’s as if someone had pumped Maul’s chest cavity full up with helium, pulling him off the upholstery and into the cool air: he found the correct date, with time to spare. He procured food and drink and shelter by himself, anticipated the need to hide his childish face under a mask. He built a vocoder. He is powerful and devilishly clever, and more prepared to serve the Sith than anyone has ever been, in all the history he knows, and Lord Sidious knew this when He sent Maul to Nar Shaddaa.

Master has never put His true pride into words; despite the considerable skill of His tongue He likely never will, but this mission is plain proof of the sort Maul never dared to yearn for.

His Master trusts Maul’s skill.

The emotion is overwhelming, and Maul wraps himself up in his blankets, to trap the acknowledgement for a while before it can dissipate.

He is victorious already. He is vengeance. He is Sith.

He’s won three days early.

After half an hour, though, basking in his glory gets boring. His face is growing warm. He’s eaten two sandwiches, too, and forced down seven gulps of awful water. He should sleep, but he isn’t tired yet.

Maul doesn’t exactly know what to do with downtime. Or: he does know. On Mustafar, he had long stretches with nothing to do. Apparently, it’s physically impossible to keep training all the time. SRT-X (or Strut, as Maul had called it in secret) once put itself in front of Maul and showed articles to Lord Sidious, about a vain bodybuilder on Corellia whose arm muscles had eventually started breaking down from overexertion, and he’d nearly poisoned himself with the waste of his own overbulged dead muscle tissue. Strut didn’t survive that confrontation, which in retrospect Maul admits was completely fair. (At the time, he’d cried his eyes out, no matter how much Master had tried to make him to stop, but that too had been a valuable lesson: the Master is always right, and contradiction suicide. Even if the frequency of lessons had tapered off somewhat after that. Lord Sidious had probably independently decided to make Maul train less. He was wise that way.)

He’s had long stretches where he didn’t even feel like tinkering with his droid projects, or meditating, because occasionally the hatred just wouldn’t come. That was before Lord Sidious showed Maul what the Jedi had done to the Sith: nowadays, it’s much easier to feel hatred. (Or what passes for hatred, anyway. Mostly it’s nothing but protective anger, but that is just another failure he cannot admit even to himself.)

During those times when there was nothing to do, Maul often researched people. Master is a politician in His spare time, of course, as Maul overheard some years ago, and He makes people dance and shiver and obey with a single word. It’s almost more impressive than being a Sith Lord. To manipulate people… to talk them into being your friends… Maul might need that skill, especially in the future when he will become the Sith Lord and teach his own apprentice—he would need the skill just to find an apprentice—and so he started his research project. Which admittedly consisted of looking at the hololessons that Master left for him. But that was the best way to observe natural behavior. Which was why Maul watched them. Over and over.

He’s not brought the hololessons with him now, but he is in someone’s ship. Johan had a picture up with his child. Maul already learnt so much today, about cold and efficiency and never trusting anybody and stealing from supermarkets, and maybe there is something additional to learn here, about people. He wobbles back over to the small holo and brings it down to his nest.

There’s nothing else on the datadrive, though, nothing but the toddler cradled in her father’s arms. No instructions. No meaning. Maul tries to imagine what it would feel like, to be that small or that big, but nothing wants to move in his head except for the water strangely threatening to blur his eyesight.

His chest hurts.

His chest hurts, and pain is a message.

Maul wishes he knew what he’s being told.

He moves closer and closer to the holodevice—there must be some power trapped in there, to make him react this way—and then his nose bumps against the plasteel.

It hits the off button, and Maul is alone again.

He tries to fall asleep.

He counts: he nearly finished his mission. He learnt about cold, and efficiency, and not trusting, and probably something about babies. He found food and water and shelter. He nearly made friends with hooded aliens and a brachno-jag. He—

Maul shoots upright and logs back in to the datapad.

He’s forgotten to search the database for the padawan.

⁂

There is one location on Teth even worse than the tea room: the stage out in the open air where Candidate Woobudg is stubbornly campaigning for freedom.

That’s what he keeps shouting.

Freedom, with the might of the Republic guarding his back and his twi’lek slave kneeling at his feet.

Freedom, the people rallying below mutter. Eldra is walking amongst them, looking for threats, while Master Fyaar is standing grimly behind Woobudge. “Optics,” Woobudg had explained and Master Fyaar had acquiesced, and Eldra didn’t understand and did: the twi’lek attendant would look too much like a person, she thinks, if she was next to a Jedi who could have been her daughter.

Freedom! Freedom! All around her, and something pulls on Eldra’s sleeve. It’s the hand of a young red twi’lek man. He’s collared and his left breast is exposed, suckling a sullustan baby. The child’s family—slavers—are a few meters ahead, and that’s what must have given him the courage to beg, wild-eyed and hoarse, “Take me with you, please!”

Freedom!

“We didn’t…” Eldra looks away. “We did not come here to free the slaves.”

⁂

No padawan is listed anywhere in the catalogue for Grakkus’ slave auction. There’s no Jedi, no witch, no force-sensitive or force-null or Sith or any thing or any being in any way remarkable. Nothing, neither in any listing for any future auction nor in the archives of successful deals stretching six decades into the past. No padawan who is not for sale but just a member of Grakkus’ personal collection except a boy who died ten years ago. No references to a Jedi sold by a third party, or even any guest who might be a Jedi when Maul cross-referenced the user lists with holonet articles about his ancestral foes. Two Jedi artifacts, but it’s not like those count.

No person that could in any way be interpreted as the mission target that Master talked about, not even after Maul exploited a weakness in the catalogue’s search field to give himself access that Johen shouldn’t have had and scoured it all over again.

Nothing. Nothing at all.

No way to succeed.

He should have been afraid all along. Maul wasted two hours basking in premature victory and safety; he wasted three days being cautiously optimistic, when he should have been swallowing down his pleas for mercy ever since the very second Master announced He’d send him to Nar Shaddaa.

Send him to failfail.

There’s no padawan here.

What does it mean, that Master wants Maul to fail the very first mission he ever had? What did Maul do wrong? Why couldn’t He just punish—?

Master might have made a mistake, perhaps, Maul’s mind offers timidly. Maybe He’s seen news of a padawan that isn’t here, but Master does not make mistakes. Master knows everything.

Besides, it being a mistake—which it isn’t—wouldn’t make a lick of a difference to Maul’s chances of surviving his Master’s wrath.

Maul swallows a gulp of the oily water, then another, and it burns. That doesn’t make his mind stop spinning, makes him even more woozy and warm and nauseous, but his growing illness won’t matter anyway if Master wants him dead. If he doesn’t find a padawan, nothing will ever matter again.

He’ll be punished. He’ll deserve it. He’ll die.

Maybe this is another lesson. Maul is training to become the Sith Lord after all, and every true Sith must learn that failure is not an option. Their mission is too important for that. Revenge is too important.

(Even if it’s not really meant as a lesson, not truly, Maul has to believe it is. Otherwise, what else is there to do but wait for death?)

Maybe this is a lesson in improvisation. In overcoming terror. In never giving in.

There must be a padawan somewhere on Nar Shaddaa. Somewhere in this quadrant, at least. Somewhere in the galaxy. Master must have meant ‘Nar Shaddaa’ in some general sense that doesn’t just refer to the planet, or maybe the padawan He talked of was moved…

The one location where there definitely are some padawans is the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, Maul knows. But there are also several thousand armed and trained Jedi Masters there, and while Darth Maul will absolutely kill them all to avenge his fallen Sith brethren and sisters and siblings, he generally assumed it would happen at least one or two years in the future. That he’d have time to build a lightsaber before fighting to the death against the Grand Master Jedi, and also grow a little taller. His battle plans always took those things for granted.

Maul will just search the rest of the galaxy first for a suitable padawan, he decides, and keep the all-out assault on the Temple as a backup plan. That’s not cowardice: he only has a few more days and travelling to Coruscant will take a lot of time. It’s just efficient to try and find a padawan somewhere else first.

Maybe even somewhere on Nar Shaddaa. Maybe the owner of this ship just wasn’t interested in Jedi padawans.

Maul could get a different result on a different ship. He has to.

⁂

It happens too quickly for Eldra to process. The rally ends and the people disperse, and then there is a sound like static—and then she’s on her back with Master Fyaar’s heavy body on top of her. The air is shivering with the heat of blaster bolts and thick with the stench of burnt flesh and hair.

“Eldra,” Zalandas Fyaar rasps out. “Eldra.”

Eldra looks up at her. Master Fyaar’s blonde locks obscure her face, but they cannot hide the stripe of cooked skin at the very top of it, flecks of bone showing through. More than anything, Eldra wishes she could see her Master’s eyes, see the clear blue serenity that reminds her that all is as the force wills it. More than anything, she wishes she could see a mouth twisted in disappointment at Eldra’s failure to notice the ambush. Freckles. Worry-wrinkles. But Master Fyaar cannot raise her head, because she shielded Eldra with it, and—

“Eldra.”

Eldra raises her hand to Fyaar’s wound. She’s good at healing, she gets far better marks there than for diplomacy or geography or sports, and this is cauterized so there won’t be an infection, she just needs manipulate a few cells, to stabilize…

“You’re strong, child. You will not fall to the dark. I know it.”

That sounds like a goodbye. It doesn’t have to be. It won’t… “Master, please—” Eldra can heal her, she is healing her, the wound is closing a little.

“Always remember you are a Jedi.”

“Master—”

“Remember yourself.“

Jedi Master Zalandas Fyaar doesn’t die because she gives up. She doesn’t die because Eldra gives up, or because Eldra fails, or because survival was impossible: the man who pulls Eldra away from her dying Master simply doesn’t care that they need to touch.

He pushes Master Fyaar to the ground—“This one’s toast!”—and pulls Eldra upright by her left lekku, and no matter how desperately she fights through the pain worse than anything she has ever thought she’d bear, like her brain is being squashed and really that’s what is happening, like every thought she has has been replaced by puke-inducing pressure and she does retch and vomit, but still she fights, because if she can just get to Master Fyaar and save her then everything will be okay.

She fights until she doesn’t see the rise-and-fall of her Master’s chest anymore, and then she screams, and then she stops.

⁂

It’s the twelfth ship now. Same procedure as the last ones. Maul’s working through the entire shipyard ship by ship. Slowly, he crawls over and stands up and waits until the world stops wobbling, and then he slices the lock of the cargo hold. He searches for datapads and tries to access any slaver database he can.

Somewhere, someone must be selling a Jedi padawan. They just have to.

⁂

Something’s being shoved in front of her. A holocam, Eldra registers, to—shoot a picture for the ransom note? But why would they… it would suffice just to contact the Temple; they know where they sent Eldra and her Master; they know they haven’t been in contact; the must know that something went wrong.

Unless they don’t know she’s a…

“How do we want her?” the man holding the holocam asks. “Sultry?”

“Nah,” someone behind her back replies. “Feisty little Jedi like her’ll fetch more as a gladiator or something.”

So they do know. The Temple will ransom her, she’ll go home and everything won’t be okay because Master Fyaar will still be dead but—

“Growl.”

But she’ll go home—

“Growl, you little piece of shit!” the one behind her shouts, and she snarls. There’s a clicking sound. “Again!” she bares her teeth and gets another click, and another, and one more. There. They got the holo they don’t need, and then soon she’ll go—

Eldra screams when a hand twists her lekku.

She screams and screams, and when she calms down, she’s alone in a cell, on the ground, covered in fresh vomit and terrified and confused. I wasn’t fighting! I snarled for the camera, she thinks. I did what they asked me to do, there’s no reason… except they could. Because I’m alone right now.

Because they killed Master Fyaar.

They killed my…

And she…

“Remember yourself,” Master Fyaar said, her last words, and here Eldra is with her fists balled and gathering strands of hate around herself like a shroud. “Remember yourself,” and Eldra could hurt these people so easily if she felt for their cells and made them boil. Eldra could make it painful, and slow. It would be so easy.

So easy to fall.

“Remember yourself.”

⁂

Maul is sweaty and hot and he feels the way he did when he wasn’t allowed to sleep for days. He’s finished one half bottle of the awful water, and it hasn’t helped: everything is spinning and blurry and he’s still thirsty on top. He’s also inside his seventeenth ship and ready to give up on Nar Shaddaa. He’s been seeing the same nine slaver auction databases on repeat, and there’s considerable overlap between the offerings, and still nothing Jedi in sight.

I can’t fail, he thinks, and hits refresh again.

I can’t just fail my Master, and he’s about to exit the database and the ship and the planet when he notices the flashing window at the bottom right.

An alert!

An alert prominently featuring a twi’lek girl baring her teeth at the holocam, but the person is almost incidental to his interest.

“Jedi padawan for sale!” the headline screams in flashing red. “Freshly captured!!!”

So this is his enemy, his target, the prize he has to fetch to fulfill his destiny: she’s young, though probably older than him, and her blue face is badly cut up. There are deep purple bruises on both her lekku, and despite the anger and toughness she’s trying to display she mostly succeeds in looking terrified.

Hah, Maul thinks to himself. I knew the Jedi were soft. I wouldn’t be this weak, if I was captured, which never would happen in the first place because I am Darth Maul, heir of the Sith Order.

He looks at the picture again, trying to find his hatred. She and hers slaughtered the Sith on Malachor; they live in pampered safety; they know nothing of the Force. They—she would just as soon kill him, hurt him, traffic him if their fortunes were reversed. She is his enemy.

Still, she looks just like a person, alone and scared.

There is no point in looking at her image any more.

Maul studies the alert carefully. She is going to be sold tomorrow—not the date Master had told him of, but Maul already established that it was a test. She is going to be sold in the palace of Xev Xrexus, but maybe Master had misheard the name or it was yet another way of probing Maul’s skill. The terror Maul felt because of these tricks was a valuable lesson, a reminder of the utmost importance this mission held for the Sith Order and how inacceptable any kind of failure would be. Maul, moreover, has seen through it: he is completely equal to the task. He will bring the padawan to his Master, and not deviate from the plan for a single second. He is much more skilled than anyone else would be, anyone who isn’t an awesome Sith and therefore, he’ll perform admirably and easily, and Master will be proud. Master will pronounce him Darth Maul, and the many years of training will have paid off. He knows this. (Thinking it really hard, over and over, is the same thing as knowing.)

She’s been captured—

Master must have foreseen it. He is, after all, gifted in the art of clairvoyance he had told Maul, always already aware of the mistakes Maul might make at any point. So it makes sense, it does, that Master sent Maul to this planet days ago on a mission to buy a padawan that was captured two hours ago.

Master is wise that way.

He planned…

And…

By now, Maul is so tired and thirsty—his brain flashing Master knew and but why in quick dizzying succession—that even the relief of having succeeded can’t boost his energy anymore. He locks the ship, overriding any key fobs, and sets an alarm for well before the padawan’s auction. He takes a bite of the awful chips he acquired in the shop, and throws up.

⁂

“Smile.” He does. “Growl.” He does. “Not like that.” There is a slap, and then he arranges his facial muscles differently. He doesn’t know whether he’s succeeded, until he sees the approving nod, and feels the lack of punishment.

There is his body and there is him, and no connection between the two. If he had a mirror, he could make it look more natural, but only an approach. There is no joy here. No anger, or not the kind they would have him display. No future. There are no brothers to watch. There have been no brothers, ever since he was selected and taken off-planet, off-home, too many days or years ago now to count. These people’s expectations are a thick leather shirt, riverdunked and allowed to dry on the body, so tight that he can hardly breathe. There is no space inside for himself, let alone dreams or brothers or rage. There is only a face to rearrange, to the approval of a master.

A different master, soon.

Maybe that master will kill Savage. Maybe they won’t. One way or the other, this will the last ever auction he is sent to. Savage will make sure of that.

#darth maul #eldra kaitis #savage opress #dimtraces makes things #hell is just a beat away #i'm awful at crossposting but i actually managed to write something again!!!

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jungwooisms · 5 years

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maritimesilkroad3 · 4 years

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Exploring the Silk Road

21st Century Maritime Silk Road

The actual Silk Road is one associated with China's most popular tourist destinations. There are actually already heaps of travel agents as well as tour companies offering excursions in 2010. So where is it and also why is it so popular?

21st Century Maritime Silk Road

Traditionally the actual Silk Road extends via Xian in central China and taiwan to either the Middle Far east or Europe. In fact there are several routes, some to Moscow in the north and those straight into India and Pakistan in the south. The same as travellers in the time regarding Marco Polo - the particular thirteenth century - typically the ancient trade routes remain although the type of goods available and the method of transport get changed. The reason why the Cotton Road starts/ends in Xian is that it was the ancient investment of China and dimensions trade routes, in many cases across the Yangtze and Yellow Estuaries and rivers, were already established for you to distribute goods within Cina.

Nowadays, many tourists start off their Silk Road trip in Beijing. The Poderoso City, the Great Wall involving China the many places connected with historic interest will make the 3-5 day stay useful. Add to it a little store shopping and time to experience n . Chinese cuisine and you are positioned for your Silk Road encounter.

Getting there. Most intercontinental airlines fly into Beijing, Shanghai and Hong Kong. You will find a lesser choice of flights to help and from western Tiongkok and most of these are structured out of the capital of Xinjiang Province, Urumqi.

China offers rail connections north in order to Mongolia, Hong Kong, Tibet along with west to Moscow. To the even more adventurous there are multiple track links into Vietnam.

Instructor access from/to Pakistan is offered along the Karakorum Highway, in addition to November though April, introduced closed. Delays and distress can be part of this path so be prepared. Travel throughout Pakistan needs serious thought. We spent 12 great days travelling there at the end of 2007 but with the climb of the Taliban the risk intended for westerners has increased dramatically.

Integralinis are required for all access take into account China and I recommend that all these be obtained well in advance.

Driving around Train travel is famous in China although it is equipped with an extensive coach network. Naturally you could fly but that might really defeat the main intent behind visiting China - in order to meet the people. Train travel is usually reliable, fast and affordable. "Soft" sleeping compartments because of four or on a few routes for two persons are offered or if you want to join often the locals try the "hard" class, but unless you need treatment on a tight budget, it's not encouraged. You will need assistance buying the railroad tickets as few stop staff speak English. The particular timetables and options might be complex. Ask a travel company with China experience to help you.

Many companies offer tours over the Silk Road. Most of these work with a combination of coach and also. International companies include DISTANCE, Peregrine, World Expeditions, Vacation Indo-China. You can find these applying Google. Some tours will include a lour leader and guideline. Standards of accommodation in addition to comfort are reflected from the pricing.

Another option is to work with a guide through Chinese firms like Xinjiang Silk Path Adventures in Urumqi. Community guides can be provided with a per day basis or all round for a tour, at inexpensive prices. Tour guides are required to always be licensed in China.

When is it best to Go China is a huge country covering eight timezones. Its climate varies noticeably. Summers can be hot as well as sticky and the winters really cold so the best several weeks are in Spring and Fall months. Consult a good guide reserve for the temperatures that you can knowledge at the time of your planned vacation so that you can dress appropriately.

Egypt Road Highlights To get the best of a Silk Road quest it should not be rushed. Let a minimum of 14 days in addition to just about any stay in Beijing. If you are such as Uzbekistan add another eight days:

The major attractions are generally:

o Xian the Clay Army and other historic web sites o The Labrang Monastery in Xiahe, in the Gannan Tibetan Autonomous region to The Fort and Wonderful Wall of China Adult ed at Jiayuguan o Dunhuang for riding the two humped Bactrian camels in the great sand dunes. Nearby are definitely the Buddhist Mogao Caves fixed into a desert backdrop from the Flaming mountains. o Urumqi has an excellent Xinjiang Comarcal Museum. Two hours apart is the spectacular lake section of China, the Beautiful Lake. Here you'll find Kazakh people living in yurts and also grazing their herds associated with horses, sheep and goats. If you have the time, stay right away and experience the food and food of the locals. o Turpan is famous for its grapes, along with nearby are the ancient urban centers of Gaochang and Jiaohe, the Bezeklik thousand Juggernaut Tombs and the underground normal water systems called karez in which link Turpan to much essential snow melt from the far away Tian Shan mountains. a Kashgar, a trade option city for thousands of years. Visit the outdated city before it's destroyed and attend the famous On the animal market which though dusty is a great spectacle. e Those with extra time may find the actual southern Silk Road remanso towns of Yarkand in addition to Khotan of interest. This area is much less visited but does have several interesting side trips which includes camel safaris and journeys into the Taklamakan desert. This kind of predominantly Uyghur area provides much of interest for those that are seeking something a little different. i A short train journey or maybe flight will take you across the european Chinese border and then up on Tashkent the capital of Uzbekistan. Here the real gems in the Silk Road are to be within the ancient cities regarding Samarkand, Bukhara and Khiva. Coach travel in Uzbekistan is comfortable and reasonably priced, although the rail line western world offers an alternative.

If you are looking for a getaway with a difference and you are a small adventurous, then travelling the particular Silk Road should be on the side your list. It is harmless and affordable. And it is any hugely rewarding experience. Sure, it will have its challenges but you may be asking yourself what a story you can tell if you get home, not to mention your excellent digital photographs of the best parts of this scenic journey.

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cakelanguage · 5 years

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Merry Christmas @aceflorins! I’m your FFXV Secret Santa ( ffxvsecretsanta on twitter) and I’m here to bring you a gift~ <3 Now, sit back and relax as you read the tale of Ignis and Iris going Christmas shopping together.

You can also read this on AO3

It was a crisp winter morning, one that Ignis would generally spend indoors attending meetings or making sure Noctis unearthed himself from the confines of his sheets to do whatever he needed to do that day. Today however, Ignis had made special plans with Iris to go Christmas shopping of all things. He wasn’t sure what sparked Iris’s interest in going shopping with him, but who was he to argue with the strong-willed young lady.

He tugged his scarf tighter around his throat and checked his watch again. Iris still had a few minutes left to get there before she’d officially be late. But he needn’t have checked given that Iris was jogging towards him, a wide grin on her face.

“Hey Ignis, sorry for the delay,” Iris greeted, adjusting the strap of her bag.

“Good morning, Iris,” Ignis said, stepping away from his spot against the wall. “How are you doing?”

“Well I’m great now that I have you here to help with my shopping.” Iris swayed her body playfully. “You boys are always so difficult to shop for.”

Ignis raised a brow with a smile. “Even me?”

She pondered on her answer before shaking her head. “Okay, you’re easier to shop for Ignis, but you always insist you don’t need anything.” She waggled her finger at him with a firm look. “And I’m not just getting you a gift card so you can get Ebony again.”

“I quite liked that gift.”

“Yeah but anyone can give a gift card, Ignis,” Iris insisted. “I wanna give everyone a gift that shows them I was thinking of them.”

Ignis couldn’t argue with that logic. Despite having plenty of money set aside that Ignis could spend on gifts for his friends, he’d always chosen make them special treats to enjoy. Because he knew that the time and effort he put into them. He’d started out this unofficial tradition when he’d made moogle macarons, then an elegant orange cake, then milk tarts, all the way to last year’s dessert of cherry blossom petit fours. Gladio might have laughed at the tiny dessert, but Ignis knew he’d eaten at least five of them.

“I suppose I can lend you any insight I have on your selection of gifts.”

Iris snorted and shook her head. “A simple yes would have been fine, Iggy.”

Ignis rolled his eyes and motioned his hand for Iris to follow him. “Now what would the fun in that be?” They began their trek through the crowded streets of one of Insomnia’s more popular street markets. “But first, we need something to warm us up.”

Iris giggled. “We haven’t even started our shopping yet and you’re already ready for a coffee break.”

“Ah, not a break, coffee fuel.”

Iris’s eyes widened before she burst into full peals of laughter, Ignis’s own laughter joining hers.

With a warm cup of coffee and hot chocolate in Ignis and Iris’s respective hands, they were ready to start their search for the “perfect” gifts.

“Did you have anywhere you wanted to look first?” Ignis asked, looking around at the multitude of shops that lined the street.

Iris shrugged her shoulders with a sheepish grin. “Not really?” She answered. “I mean, I figured the bookstore might be a good place to go for Gladdy’s present, but other than that I’m pretty much lost.”

Ignis nodded and gestured to the street. “Lead the way, my lady.”

Iris laughed and grabbed Ignis’s arm. “To the bookstore!”

They walked at a leisurely pace, maneuvering their way through the crowds to the warmth of the bookstore. Iris let out a sigh of relief, putting down her hot chocolate on a display table so she could take off her gloves. She shoved them in her pocket and picked up her hot chocolate before giving Ignis another smile.

“So, I don’t know if you know this, but Gladdy has a thing for those trashy romance novels you can pick up at the grocery store,” Iris said, dragging Ignis further into the store. “I’m hoping we can pick up one that’s at least somewhat more cultured than one of those.”

Ignis’s brows climbed towards his hairline. “From what I’ve seen, he reads an awful lot of history and things like ‘The Art of War,’” Ignis said.

Iris snorted inelegantly, her grin turning sly. “Gladio takes book jackets from our library at home and puts them over his books so no one can tease him.”

“Hm, that’ll have to change now, won’t it?”

Iris’s jaw dropped a little before she recovered. “Iggy, you really are full of surprises.”

“I live to surprise,” Ignis said with a mock bow.

“Oh, I’m sure you do.” She nudged her elbow into his ribs before she started perusing the shelves.

Ignis mindlessly began scanning the titles, covering up his laughter as best he could at some titles. Some titles were so over the top and dramatic that Ignis could very well see them amongst the slew of dime store novels in the super markets. He wondered if the authors were all being serious with their naming when he came across names such as ‘Warrior and the Wanderer.’

“Oh my Astrals, Ignis this one is perfect!” Iris squealed, holding a book up to show him the cover. It was bright yellow with flowers and tiny hearts, and what looked to be an oddly colored Zu in the corner. “It’s like an enemies-to-lovers storyline and I’ve read some reviews about it and people seem to like it a lot. What do you think, Iggy?”

“I can’t say I’m well-versed when it comes to romance novels, but it certainly looks enjoyable.”

Iris smiled. “Maybe you need to find some time to squeeze in some romance reading, never know when you’ll need that kind of insight.”

He put a hand to his chest with a mocking look of surprise. “Are you implying I don’t know romance?”

“Well, do you?”

Ignis took a slow sip of his coffee, his eyes giving her a look. “I’m plenty romantic.”

Iris held her hands up in surrender. “Whatever you say.”

Ignis wasn’t really annoyed or bothered by Iris’s teasing, but he liked that Iris didn’t back down or seem effected by his joking back. “So, that’s Gladio down, who are we shopping for next?”

The girls face scrunched up in thought. “I think… Prompto should be next. He’s been really into experimenting with his photography lately, so I figured we could check out the electronic store.”

“He has been trying new things, particularly with his filters and angles. He’s also been trying to take pictures during his training sessions,” Ignis sighed, “he’s going to end up breaking that camera if he doesn’t start being more careful.”

Iris snapped her fingers and pointed at Ignis. “That’s it! Maybe I can get him some camera safety equipment and like a new memory card.” She looked hesitantly away. “Is that lame to give him?”

He shook his head. “I think it shows Prompto that you’re noticing his love of photography and that you want to give him something that he can use to keep one of his precious things safe.” He clapped a hand on her head, smoothing the back of her hair down. “’It’s the thought that counts,’ isn’t just a kind phrase to make someone feel better, but true as well! I told you before but I’ll tell you again, whatever gift you give the others, they’ll love.”

He wasn’t sure if she fully believed his statement, but the soft look he was getting from her spoke of her gratitude.

The electronic store was as busy as he thought it’d be, but Iris seemed to be right at home in the bustle. Luckily Ignis’s height was his own advantage as he was able to follow Iris fairly easily to the camera section. But he could see the very moment that Iris became overwhelmed by the selection of products in front of her.

“Is it a good time to mention I know nothing about cameras?” Iris asked.

“If it makes you feel better, I know nothing about them either,” Ignis conceded. He knows the basics from Prompto, but any further than that and he’s lost.

Iris gave him a look he’d seen her give Gladio, and there was a small part of him that felt somewhat honored to be on the receiving end of it. “Not much better, but I guess we can be lost together.” She picked up one of the lenses on display. “So do you know what makes this lens different from the other ones?”

Ignis picked up another one and turned it around in his hands. “Well besides the difference in size and the varying numbers along the rim?” He placed the lens back on the counter and nodded his head at Iris. “Haven’t a clue.”

The sigh Iris let out flowed through her whole being. “Maybe it’d be easier to just get him a gift card…”

“I thought you didn’t want to do that,” Ignis reminded, plucking the lens from Iris’s hands and putting it back on the display. “I’m sure we can get Prompto something even without knowing such about cameras. Besides, we could always just ask one of the salespeople for help.”

Iris made a noncommittal noise. “We could ask…”

“I’m sensing a but.”

She sighed. “It’s a pride thing, I’ll get over it.”

“Ah, the Amicitia pride, Gladio’s the same way.” Ignis gave her a reassuring smile and continued looking at the camera display. “Fear not, I’ll be the one asking so you can hang onto that pride of yours.” He quickly held up his hand to halt her protests. “While I’ll tell you there’s no shame in asking for help, I’m not going to make you do something you obviously don’t want to do.”

“Y’know Iggy, you really know how to treat a girl.”

Ignis just smiled at her. “You’re welcome.”

He made his way towards the closest sales rep. “Excuse me, sir,” Ignis said.

The sales rep, Marcus looked haggard but put on a smile. “How can I help you?”

“I’m looking for a gift for a photographer and was wondering if you had any recommendations.”

Marcus’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Oh thank god,” he muttered before a renewed pep seemed to flow through him. “I thought you were another customer asking about the latest phone upgrades or why our computers cost so much.”

“I take it you’ve dealt with quite a few irate customers today?”

Marcus shrugged. “More like the feel entitled. But,” he clapped his hands, “gift recommendations for a photographer! Alright well my first suggestion would be a memory card, those things are more useful than you know.”

Ignis and Marcus walked back to the camera section, Ignis making note of the suggestions that the sales rep was giving him. Ignis winked at Iris when he saw her and Iris held a hand over her mouth to prevent herself from laughing at the action.

“Typically, I don’t recommend picking up lenses for photographers unless you’re familiar with what they’ve already got but if you do wanna go that route it’s best to stick with a gift card.”

He chuckled and shot a look at Iris. “I’ve been informed that a gift card is not an option.”

Marcus quirked a brow, but just shrugged his shoulders. “Well, then I’d lean towards other camera accessories then. Maybe a camera bag?”

Iris punched her fist in her head. “That’s it!” She exclaimed, startling Marcus. “Do you guys have anything that’s good for taking your camera somewhere dangerous?”

Marcus stared at her wide-eyed. “H-How dangerous?”

“Like some hiking, fighting monsters, that sort of thing.”

“O-oh, well if that’s the case we have a really nice sport camera strap and it includes a safety tether.”

Iris’s eyes were positively gleaming. “That’s the one I gotta get.”

Ignis nodded approvingly. “Two gifts down.”

With Iris’s two purchases safely stored in her shopping bag the two set off again, strolling lazily down the street.

“Any ideas for…” Ignis asked, waiting for Iris to fill in the gap.

“Noct’s next on my list,” Iris confirmed with a little sigh. “It’s just I really don’t know what to get him.”

“No ideas at all?”

Iris shrugged, her shoulders drooping. “I want to get Noct something special, something he’ll really like.”

He nodded, pushing his glasses up. “Well you know Noct likes fishing.”

His statement at least got a laugh out of Iris. “Yeah, Noct would much rather pick out his own tackle than have me pick something out. I would just get him a cute one.”

“Noct doesn’t dislike cute things,” Ignis pointed out, “He adores cats.”

“But he’s basically cat kin.”

“Cat kin?”

Iris shook her head. “Don’t worry about it. Okay besides fishing Noct likes… to sleep?”

He wasn’t able to contain his snort of laughter. “I’m sure Noct would sleep all the time if we let him, don’t you think?”

“I mean, he’d wake up to eat your food at the very least.”

“Truly a high honor.” Ignis sighed. “Now if only I could get him to eat more vegetables.”

Iris giggled. “I mean we can always pray for a Christmas miracle.”

“Even Saint Nicolas himself would struggle to make that kind of miracle happen.” The two dissolved into peals of laughter, Iris falling into Ignis’s side.

They eventually managed to get their laughter under control. “You’re always so serious, Iggy. It’s nice to see you relaxing a little.”

He didn’t quite know what to say about that. He knew he was more serious than the others and that was just the way he was, but he had to admit it was nice to relax a little while shopping with Iris. “So, any thoughts on your gift for Noct?”

Iris hummed, her brows furrowing in thought. “What do you think about a self-care kit?” Iris asked.

Ignis made a noncommittal noise. “When it comes to taking care of himself, Noct does need all the help he can get,” Ignis said. “What sort of things would be in this kit?”

“Well, a soft blanket for one thing.”

“Make it a weighted one, or a blanket that’s a little heavier. Noct won’t ever say it out loud, but he often gets anxious and the added weight on his blankets calms him down when his anxiety acts up.”

Iris looked at him in surprise. “I never knew that.”

He gave her a rueful smile. “Noctis works very hard to make sure people don’t know about it, so I’m telling you this in confidence.”

She pretended to zip her mouth closed and gave him a thumbs up. “Noct’s secret is safe with me.” She walked forward a couple of steps before turning around to face him again. “The next thing I’d put in his kit was a silk pillowcase, it’s great for the skin and your hair.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say that one sounds like a gift for you,” Ignis teased.

She gave him a mock indignant look. “I’ll have you know I’m only thinking of Noct,” she grinned and sent him a wink, “But I have been very good this year.”

“Of that, I have no doubt.” He shook his head. “I’m sure Noct will appreciate you thinking about his hair, Astral knows how long he spends getting it to look ‘just right.’”

Iris’s grin turned sly. “I don’t know Iggy, I’ve seen you staring plenty at Noct; you must appreciate some of his grooming efforts.”

Ignis felt his cheeks grow warm and he cleared his throat. “So, blanket and pillowcase, anything else?”

“Hm, well does Noctis like taking baths?”

“Baths?”

“Yes, baths! He seems like the kind of guy who’d like them, but you’re the Noct expert.”

He nodded. “When he has the time, he does enjoy a good soak. I typically add Epsom salt and a few drops or rosehip and lavender oil, it’s a particularly good combination for relieving his aches and pains as well as soothing the scar on his back.”

Iris sighed wistfully. “I wish someone would pamper me like you do with Noct.”

The blush on Ignis’s face must have spread to his ears, but he maintained his decorum. “There is no doubt in my mind that you will find someone who treats you as the wonderful woman you are.”

Iris’s own face flushed red. “Ignis you really know exactly what to say.”

Iris had filled the basket on her arm full of little things for Noctis’s self-care kit and had wondered her way towards the cash registers when she spotted Ignis already checking out. She hadn’t even realized that Ignis was also shopping for something. In fact, it looked like Ignis had been gathering items throughout the day and had been hiding them in his pockets until he’d bought enough items to warrant a bag.

Iris quickly paid for her things and joined Ignis by the door. “I didn’t even notice you were buying things,” she commented.

Ignis raised an eyebrow. “Did you really think I had gone to all these stores with you without picking up anything?” he asked.

Thinking about it now, Iris felt a little silly for thinking Iggy really wasn’t buying anything throughout the day. “I just thought you were waiting until we went to one of the specialty stores for your fancy ingredients.”

“Well, at least I don’t have to worry about you knowing what your gift is.”

Iris stared at him and tilted her head. “M-my gift?”

Ignis nodded and adjusted the bag on his arm. “I thought it’d be a prudent idea, just something a little extra for all of you.”

Iris gave him a warm smile, blinking away the water that had gathered in her eyes. “Ignis, has anyone told you that you are the sweetest?”

Ignis hummed and shook his head. “It could stand to be mentioned more often.”

She laughed and shook her head. “Well, that’s everyone’s gift except the one for you Iggy.”

The man quirked a brow at her. “Any thoughts on that gift?”

Iris huffed and threw her hands up. “Well maybe if you’d actually give me something to work with I’d have an idea.” She crossed her arms and waited for Ignis’s response.

Unfortunately, Ignis didn’t seem to catch on to what she was trying to get him to say, not that she really expected him to. “As I’ve told you twice now-“

“I know, I know, the gift comes from the heart or whatever, but come on, not even gonna point me in a possible direction?”

“You’ll think of something, Iris.”

Iris rolled her eyes and prayed to the Astrals she’d figure out something.

The shop Ignis had taken her into was brimming with the scent of spices, warm cinnamon and vanilla the two strongest scents Iris could pick up on. The lighting was soft and she felt like she’d walked into a home kitchen, if she was being honest.

No wonder Ignis liked coming here.

Iris trailed after Ignis’s sure steps towards the back of the store. “Do you know what you’re making?” Iris asked.

Ignis made a noncommittal noise. “Well, I was hoping you’d help me make the final decision,” Ignis said, holding up three fingers. “I’ve narrowed it down to three desserts, but I felt like you should help me decide.”

Iris let a mischievous smile form on her face. “And if I want to taste test all three before deciding?”

Ignis’s eyebrows shot up and he gave her a look. “I’ll make them all,” he held up a finger when Iris opened her mouth to speak, “eventually. But you’ll help me decide which one to make first.”

She pouted and tried to give Ignis the best puppy eyes she could, but years of being subjected to Noctis’s puppy dog eyes must have made him immune because he didn’t react at all.

“You won’t faze me,” Ignis said confidently, pushing his glasses up, “I’ve become immune at this point.”

“Not to Noct,” Iris whined, “I’ve seen you give in to him before.”

Ignis’s cheeks turned pink as he avoided eye contact. “That’s less to do with being immune and more to wanting to see him happy.”

Iris awed and bumped her shoulder against Ignis’s side. “You big sap.”

“Mum’s the word,” he said without hesitation. “I can’t have Noct knowing I’ll give into him if I know it’s something he really wants.”

“Won’t tell a soul.” Yes she would. She was definitely going to tell Noctis about this. She couldn’t wait to see the prince’s reaction to the bit of info. “Now, give me the dessert ideas!”

With a flourish of his hand, Ignis had his recipe book out. “The first idea was an ulwaat berry and white chocolate mini cake. The second idea also uses ulwaat berries, but is an ulwaat linzer mousse cake.”

Iris furrowed her brow. “What’s linzer?”

“A jam-packed cookie, they’re quite popular during Valentine’s day as the window to see the jam inside can be shaped like a heart.”

She licked her lips. “That sounds delicious, what kind of mousse?”

Ignis read over his recipe again. “I was thinking of a light hazelnut mousse dome that would encase a fresh ulwaat berry compote.”

Her mouth was salivating at the thought of the combination of flavors. “That one.”

The man stared at her and then back at his recipe book. “But I haven’t told you my last idea yet.”

She shook her head. “I don’t need to, this one sounds too good to pass up.”

He had the audacity to look exasperated. “I already said I’d make all of them eventually.”

“The less I have to wait for this one, the better.”

Ignis chuckled and closed his recipe book. “Well, I can’t exactly argue with that kind of conviction.”

With an experienced hand, Ignis quickly started gathering the ingredients he’d need. He grabbed a plastic bag and walked over to the bulk bins and started scooping out the berries he’d need.

Iris was almost mesmerized by Ignis going into “the zone,” but she needed to use this time to find Ignis a gift while he was distracted. She looked around at the cooking utensils, but knew that was a silly choice since Ignis already had all the utensils he needed. It had to be something unique. Something that he’d like and hopefully find funny.

And then she saw it.

It was stupid and she knew Ignis would never buy it for himself, but Astrals it was the perfect gift. She quickly swiped the blue apron from the hanger and all but ran to the register. She couldn’t let Ignis see it, it had to be a surprise. He was either going to hate it or get a laugh out of it.

Honestly, either would be fine in her opinion.

As soon as the cashier handed her the receipt, she quickly hid it one of the other bags. Just in time too as Ignis was making his way over to the registers.

Ignis placed the heavy bag of ulwaat berries on the counter beside the hazelnuts and white chocolate. “I trust you found something, Iris?” He asked off-handedly, as the cashier rang him up.

Iris put a finger to her lips. “It’s a secret for a certain someone,” she mock-whispered. She knew that he knew it was a gift for him, but he continued to play along.

“Well, I’ve no doubt they will love what you picked out.”

She struggled to hold back the laugh that threatened to tumble out of her. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that just yet.”

When the gang gathered for their mini holiday get together, Iris got to see not only Ignis’s reaction to her gift, but the other guys’ too. Prompto kept looking from the gift in Ignis’s hands and then back to her, switching between laughing and nervous chattering.

“O-oh wow, Ignis you- I mean, aprons are always good to have especially since you cook,” Prompto said, before his eyes got wide and he held up his hands. “N-not that you’re messy, I mean, I’m the messy bitch of this group, definitely not you but I mean… that’s some apron, buddy.”

Gladio however, seemed to have busted a gut from laughing so hard at the other man’s expense. It was nice to know that Gladio still teased the guys in the same way he teased her. Her brother tried to control his laughter and say something but as soon as he looked back over at Ignis he was laughing again.

Noctis’s shy laugh seemed to fill the room with a warmth she didn’t know it was missing. Noctis so rarely actually laughed that when he did, it was something to cherish. Noctis leaned into Ignis’s space and straightened the fabric in Ignis’s hands so he could read it again.

“You know you could always just ask for a kiss, right Ignis?” Noctis teased.

Ignis huffed softly and turned his sharp eyes to Iris. “You were right,” he said calmly, but the smile tuck into the corner of his mouth reassured Iris that Ignis didn’t actually hate his gift, it just wasn’t something he would willingly buy.

Ever.

Iris shook her head. “Nah, I think it’s a perfect gift Ignis, now we all know how to say thank you for your cooking.”

Ignis’s gaze swept over them all, his eyes lingering on Noctis for a few moments before returning to look at Iris. “There’s no reason to go that far. A thank you will suffice.”

Gladio snorted. “Aw, Iggy if I didn’t know better I’d say our kisses weren’t good enough for you,” Gladio said, crossing his arms.

“Not exactly-“

Prompto seemed to have broken out of his perpetual cycle of laughter and shock because he bounded up to Ignis, bumping his shoulder into the other man’s. “Yeah Ignis, we can definitely pay you back in kisses,” Prompto said, before dissolving into another giggling fit.

Ignis rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to respond when two arms circle around his chest followed by a pair of lips pressing against the corner of his mouth. He sputtered inelegantly and turned his now wide-eyes to look at Noctis, who was once more just smiling at him. “N-Noct-“

“What can I say Iggy,” Noctis said, shrugging his shoulders, “I’ve got to kiss the cook.”

Gladio and Prompto fell apart into another fit, but all of Ignis’s attention was on Noctis. Ignis looked entirely lost and smitten at the same time. Without conscious thought, he turned just enough to make eye-contact with her.

She waved her arm at him before giving him a pointed look and nudging her head in Noctis’s direction and shot him a thumbs up.

Ignis cleared his throat, his face turning red once more. “Well then,” Ignis said, turning his gaze back to Noctis. “If that’s how you feel, you can give all the thank you’s for the group.”

The prince laughed and shook his head. “Yeah that sounds fair.”

The two seemed to get lost in each other’s eyes, and their staring was only broken by Iris’s giggling. The two men looked at Iris with raised brows.

“But you gotta remember Noct,” Iris said in the most serious voice she could manage. “You can’t touch the buns.”

Noctis threw his head back and began laughing once more, Ignis joining him soon after.

And Iris? She’s happy that her crush was so happy. If she had to lose Noctis’s love to someone else, she was happy it was to Ignis.

The dessert Ignis makes

Ignis’ gift from Iris

#ffxvss2019 #ignis scientia #iris amicitia #brotp #ignoct #background ignoct #iris amicitia is a gift #as is Ignis #ffxv #ffxv fic #XV.#final fantasy xv #fanfic #My fic

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whocalledhimannux · 6 years

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The Queen’s Thief Timeline

I realized as I sat down to write some fic that I needed a real timeline for this series. I haven’t been involved in the online fandom for very long, so it’s quite possible others have one this before, but I love picking through things like this, so I made my own. I’m posting it on tumblr in case anyone else would be interested!

The Thief is the only book that’s tightly plotted to the point where I can actually name almost every day in the book; for the others I’m using significant events +the next day or +two days later or what have you. If a day is given with a + it means I have concrete proof of when the next thing happens, either because the narration or a character says something like “the next morning” or “two weeks later.” If there’s a ~ it means I’m guessing, and I give reasons for my estimate. A lot of the travel in Queen of Attolia and A Conspiracy of Kings is estimated, but it is very consistent.

In cases where large units of time pass with only a few scenes described in detail, I’ve focused more of my attention on the bigger-picture stuff and skipped over the smaller scenes.

WARNING: This post has been updated with information from Return of the Thief. The sections for The Thief, Queen of Attolia, and King of Attolia remain unchanged and can be read without encountering spoilers. The sections for A Conspiracy of Kings and Thick as Thieves contain spoilers for Volume 1 of Return of the Thief regarding how the books overlap (without discussing events involving the book’s internal plot). The RotT section, of course, is entirely unsafe for those avoiding all spoilers

The Thief

Begins in late summer (probably ~July, based on a comment about watermelon season)

Day 1 - meeting with the magus Day 2-5 - traveling in Sounis Day 6-8 - traveling through the mountains. They reach Eddis by midday on Day 6 and Attolia by evening Day 8 Day 9 - Sea of Olives Day 10-12 - traveling in Attolia, reach the dystopia by evening (from the mountains to the dystopia is three full days of travel on foot, but they are delayed by about a day because of Ambiades getting rid of food; ordinarily it probably takes 1.5-2 days) Day 13-15 - Gen visits the maze each night Day 16 - camp above the dystopia with Ambiades Day 17 - ambush by Attolian soldiers. from just before midnight day 17 to just before dawn day 18, Gen steals food from Pirrhea and then horses from Kahlia Day 18 - arrested at the foot of the mountains, Gen stabbed (it takes them 1 day on horseback to cover the delayed 3-day trip on foot) Day 19-21 - held in Attolia’s river fortress, escape late on the night of the 21st day Day 22 - from dawn until evening, walk to Eddisian camp, then travel on horseback to the capital of Eddis, arriving “long past midnight” in the early hours of Day 23 ~ 2-5 days. Magus says he has had “days” to get clean while Gen slept + 2 ceremony formally acknowledging Eddis as holder of Hamiathes’ Gift + 14 Gen in bed

Conclusion: The book takes place over 42 days minimum, probably closer to 44 or 45, counting from Gen’s first narrated day in prison to the day Eddis tells him to write the book. He was in the prison for “months” and it takes him “months” to write the book, but there aren’t any seasonal cues to narrow it down. It takes place from mid/late summer to late summer/early fall of Year 1.

The Queen of Attolia

Gen is caught around midnight on a day in mid-summer one year after events of The Thief ~ 5-10 days spent in prison. Eugenides appears before the court with yellow/green bruises, and there has been time for a tradesman to quickly travel from the Attolian to Eddisian capital (3-5 days?) and the ambassador’s party to travel from Eddis to Attolia (more formal and more people, so probably a little slower than the tradesman, maybe 4-6 days) + 1 day hand cut off + 3 days in prison ~ 4-6 days travelling to Eddis. Galen, in conversation with the oculist, says it has been 7-10 days since Eugenides lost his hand. “Early fall” - war has started, without Eugenides knowing. He starts practicing his handwriting (and sends one of the attempts to Kamet, possibly?) Winter - Eugenides goes to dinner for the first time END OF YEAR 2

“Late winter” - Eugenides told to stop whining. The weather was starting to warm up enough for the court to walk outside on the roof, so this might be just before spring, perhaps March? + 1 Magus visits and Eugenides learns he’s at war with Attolia (Sounis will declare war on Eddis “by summer”) + 1 Magus leaves ~ 2-4 days Magus back in Sounis and speaking to the king Spring/early Sounisian summer Navy burns, Magus stolen ~ 6 or 7 weeks, Eddis and Sounis strike an alliance, which by the end of this period has fallen apart Late summer - Eugenides spars with his father. Sounis and Attolia fight over islands and Eddis is somewhat ignored. Winter + 10 days Eugenides disappears from the court, reappearing on the 11th day. (most likely it takes 3 days to travel between Eddis and Ephrata) END OF YEAR 3 (Eugenides' excursion to Ephrata might also take place in the early months of year four)

Spring - Attolia reflecting on her rise to power Late Eddisian spring/early lowlands summer - Eugenides’ plot is set in motion + 4 days traveling to and crossing the dystopia, reaching Ephrata, stealing the queen + 1 day Attolia traveling with the Eddisians, Medes attack that night + 1 day reach Ephrata again. Minister of War sent back to Eddis. + 1 day Attolian and Eddisian armies surprise the Medes at 7am. Return to Ephrata. Kamet and Nahuseresh flee. + 1 day Attolia sets off on a sea voyage to the capital. ~ 2 or 3 days travel ~ 6 days or more, Eddis arrives with the duchesses + 1 negotiations start + 21 days negotiations + 2 Eugenides demands an answer from the gods + 3 wakes, final scene talking with Attolia

Conclusion: The book takes place over roughly 2 years. The last chunk of the book--setting out from Eddis to the last scene--takes place over about 43 days, placing it in early/mid summer of Year 4.

King of Attolia

Wedding takes place in the summer “Less than 2 months” later, Costis punches Eugenides * + 1 waiting in the courtyard + 1 first day at court ~ settling into a routine * Artadorus leaves after Eugenides addresses his tax fraud ~ a few days later, Costis talks to Aris about the dynamics of the king and his attendants * + 1 Eugenides hits Costis while sparring and dances dramatically with the queen + 1 becomes friends with Dite + 1 Costis tells Attolia about Eugenides staring out the window ~ 2 or 3 days pass (Costis evidently doesn’t speak to Aris in this time period, because it is only later that they talk about Costis’s meeting with the queen, so I don’t think it’s a very long time) Mede spies are returned, Relius is arrested, Costis is dismissed, and Aris is promoted NOTE: in the meeting with the Mede spies, Costis recalls a day when Eugenides heard that Sounis was in revolt and Sophos had disappeared, but there are no other contextual notes that would pin down when that day happened.

~ a few days later, Eddis and the magus discussing events in Attolia. It is “late summer.” * Eugenides dances with Hiero. + 14 assassination attempt + 1 Costis appeals on behalf of the guards about to be killed + 1 visitors coming and going in Eugenides’ room + 1 Costis shoots the door, Eugenides and Attolia make up + 1 everyone goes to the queen’s chambers. Fall of the House of Erondites. Eugenides pardons Relius and visits him in the infirmary.

NOTE: This marks 98 days since the wedding. A number of these days are unaccounted for, but probably occur during the the time that Costis is adjusting to court. I’ve included an asterisk at every point where you could easily squeeze in some extra days or weeks based on the tone of the text even if it’s not made explicit.

The minimum time Costis could have spent as a lieutenant is 22 days. (I reached this number by assuming that the “less than two months” between the wedding and the punch is two months minus one day, and put the bulk of the remaining 98 days after Costis is dismissed.) The maximum time he could have spent as a lieutenant is 67 days. (Assuming “less than two months” was one month plus a day, and the bulk of the remaining 98 days during his time at court prior to his dismissal.) This isn’t counting the time after his return to court following the assassination, which is plotted more tightly.

+ 1 Costis is recalled to chambers. Phresine tells Eugenides a story. 2nd visit to Relius.

+ 1 Aulus and Bogoas visit. Sounis is retaking the countryside, but Sophos has not been found. Eugenides is drugged at night. + 1 Aulus and Bogoas leave at noon. 3rd visit to Relius. + 1 Costis is kicked out so the king and queen can have sex. (That’s what happens, right? Right.) + 1 Costis is dismissed. + 1 Made a squad leader again. ~ at least a week, probably several. Costis survives four wineshop fights and a stray arrow. Relius slowly heals. Sejanus is convicted. Sounis continues to retake the countryside. Costis gets Eugenides off the roof. + 1 sparring with the guard

Conclusion: 8 specifically-mentioned days pass after the fall of Erondites, but there must be at least 7 uncounted days (during which Costis is almost killed a few times and Eugenides moves back to his own rooms) and possibly a few more weeks after that. From the wedding to the scene in the baths, roughly 4 months pass. The book takes place from early/mid summer to early/mid fall Year 4.

Conspiracy of Kings

First concrete mention of time - Sophos knows Eugenides has proposed to Attolia, but it’s unclear whether that means the informal engagement or the formal one determined after a month of negotiations. No mention is made of the wedding or coronation.

villa attacked + 2 Sophos travels to slave market + 1 bought by Berrone + 1 waits in the cellar and is brought to the fields ~ 3 days minimum, possibly a few weeks Sounis is raising an army ~ a few weeks First dream of Moira Late summer - Sounis has retaken the hinterlands. [Probably the week after the attempted assassination of Eugenides] “Winter rains” come END YEAR 4

Spring Sophos reunited with his father + 1 travelling, arrives at camp that night. Sounis has been dead “more than a month.” + 1 Magus and Sophos hiding ~ “next few days” on foot + 2 days through the mountain pass, same as The Thief ~ at least 2 days traveling in Attolia + 3 traveling to capital after being robbed ~ in the capital long enough to be kicked out of their inn, then shoot Eugenides with a pea ~ unknown weeks in the palace, negotiating

Summer Discussion about the number of troops Attolia is sending + 1 meeting with Melheret + 1 Eugenides and Melheret spar. That night, Eugenides and Sophos go out to a tavern. + 2 meets Melheret in the garden + 2 departs the capital Travel back to Sounis goes “no faster” than the journey on foot with the Magus - probably about a week, maybe more “Some weeks” in captivity Apricots are noticeably far out of season. Apricot season in Greece is typically June-July. + 4 after receiving Eddis’s letter, proposes going to Elisa ~ within a week, they leave the villa and arrive at the coast ~ several days meeting with the barons one on one Vote + 1 battle, Eugenides’ army arrives NOTE (minor spoilers for RotT): Ornon takes part in the negotiations with the Neutral Islands, and arrives at the Mede Empire as the Attolian ambassador, not the Eddisian one, which implies that he arrives only after the ceremony in the beginning of RotT making Eddis a vassal of Attolia.

+ 2 spent at the Sounisian capital ~ 2-4 days travel to the Eddisian capitol + 2 leaves for Attolia ~ 2-5 days travel to Attolian capitol (earlier this trip took about 5 days by foot or with a large army, so this trip is probably closer to the short end of this range) + 1 ceremony before the court

Conclusion: 40 specific days take place between the troop discussion and the last scene, although that doesn’t include the random weeks spent in captivity at the villa. Overall, the book begins in the summer of Year 4 and probably ends in the summer of Year 5.

[ROTT SPOILERS: Initially I estimated that this book ended in the fall of Year 5, which fits slightly better with the apricot season and the traveling time and (per the beginning of Return of the Thief, the time it takes to plan a royal wedding and coronation of a high king). The comment that the wedding took place “almost immediately” and the amount of time it takes for Kamet and Costis to be mentioned in the narrative altered my estimations. I’m just going to assume, then, that Eddis with its colder climate has a different apricot season, that the Attolians are genius wedding planners, and that the barons already had fancy gifts for Eugenides on hand with little advance notice.]

Thick as Thieves

Kamet and Nahuseresh spent “more than a year” at the country estate, which means the earliest they could arrive in the capital is late summer Year 5, around the same time Sophos is leaving the Attolian capitol. However, based on context clues in both ACoK and RotT, it may have taken up to 5 months after that for Ornon to arrive, and he is in the Mede Empire when the plot kicks off.

Costis’s arrival time is less clear. This timeline leaves at minimum a year of his life unaccounted for, between the end of KoA and the beginning of TaT. My initial idea was that Irene and Eugenides sent an ambassador to the Mede Empire very soon after the end of KoA, prior to Melheret’s arrival. (They mention being “browbeaten” by the emperor, so he may have insisted on receiving an ambassador from them before sending one. Otherwise, this would mean they delayed nearly a full year after Melheret’s arrival before sending out Ornon.) Costis would therefore have traveled with the previous ambassador, with Ornon arriving after him to trigger the plot with Laela. I still think this is the more likely idea, especially given that Eugenides still seemed to be concerned about Costis’s risk of being assassinated when he came up with the plot in the first place.

On the other hand, Costis makes several references to Eugenides’s treatment of Melheret throughout TaT, which may imply that he was actually in Attolia for some or all of the time. It’s possible that, after Eugenides won over Teleus, the threat of assassination was not as dire and there was no rush to get Costis out. Or Costis may have simply learned these details from Ornon, Ornon’s retinue, or letters from his friends. Pick your preferred headcanon.

Plot kicks off: Nahuseresh denied the governorship, Kamet beaten.

~ a month (his bruised ribs have barely healed when he runs into Costis) + 3 Kamet and Costis traveling to Sherguz, boat fire, spend third night at the inn + 1 join caravan ~ 8 to 12 days. The trip from Sherguz to Perf is predicted to take two weeks and they’re “more than halfway” when the Namreen attack + 3 days in the lion cave + 4 days minimum of traveling. NOTE: Based on traveling speed, this is roughly the time when they would have been expected to arrive in Zabrisa, if not earlier because they wouldn’t have been traveling cross-country on foot. It is unclear how long it takes a ship to travel from Zabrisa to Attolia, however, so Eugenides may not know they’re MIA for another week or more.

+ 1 buy food, predict it will take 3 days to Traba or “4 days at the rate [Kamet] traveled” + 3 arrive in Traba, where they sell Kamet’s chain + 1 leave the following morning ~ 2 or 3 additional days to Koadester (based on the map and their previous travel speed) + 2 travelling, captured by slavers on the second evening + 1 sleep during the day, talk about “the kitchen boy” NOTE: Previously I had thought that Kamet met with Eugenides the day Queen of Attolia began; on a recent reread I noticed this was incorrect, because Eugenides had only been in the city one day before being chased out. It is more likely, then, that Kamet last saw Eugenides in the spring of Year 2. Eugenides had warned Eddis that it would be dangerous for him to return to Attolia so soon, so he probably told Kamet he was running away without realizing that he would be back in the summer.

+ 3 traveling + 1 arrive at the farm where Costis repairs a pan + 11 hiking the Taymets + 1 travel with the potter + 1 reach the mill, Costis falls, Kamet returns past midnight (technically the next day) + 1 traveling for the entire day, spend the first night with Godekker + 1 Kamet and Godekker argue + 1 guards visit, Godekker tied up + 1 find the ship At this point, they have spent 85 days traveling by foot and donkey through the Mede Empire and Zaboar. Their travel by sea is more difficult to pin down.

“Days passed” in travelling from Zaboar to Sukir 1 day docked, verifying seal ~ a few days traveling to Thegmis. The reach Thegmis and go on to the capitol the same night and are taken to the palace. + 1 Kamet appears at court and talks to Eugenides

+ 1 Relius talks to Kamet about sharing information ~Kamet meets the young Erondites ~within 30 days Kamet visits the kitchen ~ some more time passes, Eugenides proposes trip to Roa, says Costis has been gone for “the last few weeks” + 7 boat leaves for the first leg of the journey Roa, a week after Eugenides had originally suggested it

Conclusion: Approximately 142 days, or almost 5 months, pass between when Kamet is beaten and when he departs for Roa based on my accounting of Thick as Thieves by itself. [RotT spoilers] Between the time Eugenides comments that Costis “may still be alive” and the time that they actually arrive, my estimate of the RotT-specific plot is that between a month and a half and three months pass, which would lengthen my TAT estimate--as mentioned above, their sea travel is not well described, so it’s perfectly plausible that the trip took 6-8 months in total rather than 5.

Given both the discussion in RotT and the fact that it is not winter when Kamet and Costis cross the Taymets, my guess is that they left Ianna-Ir in late winter or early spring (say, Jan-Mar), and departed for Roa in late summer or early fall, all in Year 6. The timing of Kamet’s letters at the end of TaT are covered in the timeline for Return of the Thief, below.

Return of the Thief

The book begins immediately following A Conspiracy of Kings and probably a few months before Thick As Thieves, in “late summer” of Year 5.

Pheris is brought before his grandfather ~3 or more days days for Pheris to travel to the court ~1-2 weeks Pheris recovers from his illness, Sophos and Helen are married (“immediately, before her barons could object”), and the other monarchs swear allegiance to Eugenides NOTE: Later in the book, the gifts Eugenides receives at the allegiance ceremony are mentioned as “birthday gifts.” This would probably make him either a Leo or a Virgo--make of that what you will.

Several weeks pass as Pheris adjusts to the court [Eugenides orders Pheris to see a tutor weekly Eugenides and Pheris visit the temple of Hephestia] NOTE: These bracketed events may be spread out through the end of the year and the beginning of the next.

END YEAR 5

Mid-Spring: Festival of Moira Shortly after the festival, Eugenides comments that “Costis may still be alive,” and Pheris tells Juridius about the supply wagons. NOTE: As mentioned above, the earliest Eugenides could have known the TaT trip went off the rails is probably 15-21 days after the boat caught fire in Sherguz. Depending on how quickly he got that message, and how quickly he was informed that the Namreen were still on the hunt, this is probably around the time when Costis and Kamet are being captured by the slavers or even crossing the Taymets.

Eddis and Sounis leave. The Pent ambassador is sent home. Pheris feels increasingly guilty and then falls ill. ~30 days after Petrus treats Pheris, Erondites burns the supply wagons. Juridius is exiled. Some of the attendants are cycled home. Costis’s flag is sighted. Irene miscarries. Later that night, Costis and Kamet are brought into the palace. +1 very early next morning, Pheris and Eugenides make the sacrifice to Ula. ~ a few days pass as Irene recovers ~“many days” pass. Eugenides forgives Pheris Kamet interacts with Pheris in the library +7 days, leaves vocab Kamet [and Costis] leave Attolia (my TaT estimate is about seven weeks after their arrival) ~weeks pass. Relius takes over tutoring +7 days Pheris looks through Relius’s rooms Destruction of the Mede fleet at Hemsha +3 days, Melheret leaves Attolia ~time passes as Pheris studies Receives first letter from Kamet, saying he and Costis have settled in to Roa. +1 writes a reply letter ~30 days. Relius returns. A short while after, he receives a letter from Kamet that includes the hand-drawn map from TaT. Pheris has been at court for more than a year, so this is probably mid/late fall

END YEAR 6

Mid-spring. Festival of Moira. Costis travels to the capitol. Mede movement revealed. ~indeterminate time passes as Attolia prepares for war Eugenides and Attolia go on royal strike and win the same day +1 Erondites leaves ~an indeterminate but fairly short amount of time passes. Costis leaves for Roa again. +1 Relius leaves ~indeterminate time passes. The Braelings expect to have ships arrive “before the summer windstorms.” Eugenides buys the three Pent ships. Minor naval official insults Eddis +1 Eugenides’s trial +1 miracle ~indeterminate time passes The big chase through the palace +1 The army begins to march ~1 week Irene’s pregnancy is revealed NOTE: Based on the references to spring and summer, and eliminating the days that are specifically mentioned, my estimate is that there are approximately four months of miscellaneous time for the three countries to prepare for war and march the army from the capitol to Leonyla

+3 days fighting Death of Lamion. +1 parley +5 days fighting +1 parley. Eugenides fights on horseback because he said so. +3 days fighting. Eugenides fights on foot, with permission. Death of Cleon the Eddisian. Eugenides learned of the death of Stenides.

Late summer windstorms have come early. NOTE: This comes from Yorn Fordad as an explanation for why the Brael ships are not there. It’s not clear whether there was independent confirmation; it could have been that the winds were early and Fordad seized on that as an excuse, or that he lied. Regardless, it would suggest the battle is taking place around mid-summer.

~4 days minimum pass as the Attolians push back and Bu-seneth doesn’t appear on the battlefield. Ambush at the cairn. Death of Hilarion, Philologos, Xikos, Perminder, and Legarus. Death of Ion Nomenus later the same night. +1 day. Past midnight, Eugenides and Pheris return to the Attolian camp. Death of Erondites. +3 days rest. Sejanus found. +1 Sejanus escapes. Troops divide to drive out the Mede. Battle at Naupent. Death of Hector, the Minister of War. Death of Nahuseresh. +1 Attolia arrives at Naupent +3 days the funeral pyre burns. Eugenides pardons Sejanus and requests that the other monarchs go home. Late summer. The Etesian winds are blowing, and the returning monarchs are expected to be back in the capitol within a week. ~driving the Medes out Death of Sejanus

[~driving the Medes through Roa. Return of Costis and Kamet. ~few weeks to built a fort on the new border. +3 days celebration after the birth of the twins. NOTE: 4 weeks passed between when Attolia’s pregnancy was revealed and when she left for the capitol. Presumably Eugenides would have noticed the pregnancy on his own if she had been showing at the reveal, and with a twin birth she probably delivered around 36 weeks. That would imply that Eugenides was separated from the other monarchs for 4-6 months, which would also fit with Eddis still being pregnant at the end of the book. Accordingly, any of the events in brackets could have happened in fall/winter of Year 7 or the first few weeks or months of Year 8]

END YEAR 7

Eugenides travels to the capitol by sea. He meets his children and dances on the roof with his court.

Final conclusion: Return of the Thief occurs over approximately two and a half years. The books of the Queen’s Thief end in the winter or early spring of Year 8.

#queen's thief #thick as thieves #a conspiracy of kings #king of attolia #queen of attolia #timeline #return of the thief spoilers #rott spoilers #return of the thief

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kingsheadharborrp · 3 years

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Lilian Whittaker

Name: Lilian Grace “Lily” Whittaker

Date of birth: May 10th, 1991

Age: 30

Gender/Pronouns: Cis woman, she/her

Occupation: Marketing & Events Manager at White Woods Winery

Hometown: King’s Head Harbor. Rhode Island

Length of time in King’s Head Harbor: 18 years originally; returned 4 years ago

Neighborhood: Sandport Village

Faceclaim: Adelaide Kane

BIOGRAPHY (Trigger Warning: Car accident, Death, Depression )

For a family with a reputation and lineage as the Whittakers, crafting a dynasty was important. The family has a reputation for being matriarchal, with Elise Whittaker’s husband Ian taking her last name when they married. The women were held in the same regard as their male relatives, ensuring that they were all on an equal playing field where gender roles were concerned. By the time their daughter Lilian Grace came along, named after both of her grandmothers, Ian and Elise already had the perfect heir in the form of their son Brendan, and the addition of Isabelle a couple years later completed the trifecta. The Whittaker siblings did not necessarily grow up in competition, but their skills and personalities rather complemented one another’s in a way that made their parents think that the future generation was equipped to carry on the legacy. And while Brendan and Isabelle were the ideal candidates, Lily often felt as though she was meant for something else.

Middle child syndrome was not just a combination of buzzwords, it was actually what Lily’s life was like growing up. While her siblings shone in their own rights, she was more soft-spoken and demure in nature and always far more good-hearted than you would’ve expected her to have been - especially considering her cutthroat parents. In spite of her kindness and desire to help others, her privilege was also incredibly apparent as she romanticized the world around her, which was easy to do from within the confines of her family’s cushy oceanside manor in Winter Pearl Bay. Romantic, naive, and kind to a fault; she was very much like a Disney princess in the movies she’d grown up watching. Unlike the other residents of her affluent community, Lily was always compassionate to even those outside of her social circle, stopping to give people money on the street and sharing her snacks with other children. She was easy to take advantage of though, with her overly trusting nature and desire to please everyone. But if everyone else was happy, she should be too.

It was no question that once Lily graduated from Kingston, she would attend a prestigious school on the east coast like her parents and brother did - they had both met while at Harvard, getting their bachelor’s and master’s degrees at the Ivy League institution, and Brendan was all too happy to follow in their footsteps. But as the middle child, Lily had a lot more freedom to choose her own path of study, and it surprised no one that she chose Columbia University to get the best of both worlds - living in New York City with the opportunity to spend time in Paris eventually. Pursuing a degree in French was more than something she did simply because she loved it; there was no question that being fluent in a second language would be beneficial to her career as an eventual businesswoman. After all, the plan was that she would take a leadership position at the family company. But being away from home and experiencing the freedom that came with living in both American and European cities, Lily reconsidered the plan that she thought had been laid out for her since she was a young girl and delayed her return to Rhode Island.

Event planning seemed to be something that piqued Lily’s interest from her freshman year, when she would be at the helm when it came to organizing sorority events or even house parties with her friends. An internship with a prominent wedding planner in New York confirmed that it was what she wanted to do, and even though she experimented with the corporate world and even toyed with the idea of relocating to Europe permanently after a year studying in Paris, she ended up being a full-time wedding planner in New York after graduating from Columbia. Was it really a surprise that the romantic and idyllic Lily had a special knack for wedding planning? She often dreamed of what her own big day would be like one day and to whom she’d be married, but until then she was happy helping other couples finish their love stories in the best way possible. She dated around during her time in both New York and Paris, but no relationship really stuck long enough to give a name to the love interest in the romance novel of her life and every date was reduced to a mere side character. It didn’t seem to dampen her spirit or discourage her from dreaming, she simply saw it as a sign that other things should be her focus for the time being.

Brendan’s incessant questions as to when she was joining the family back in Rhode Island began to annoy Lily. Along with the perks of being the firstborn came the responsibility, something that she was free of. She could spend her time in New York at the event planning firm she’d been working at, enjoying herself and the freedom that came with being the spare to the heir - until one tragic accident changed the line of succession. The Crown Prince was no longer, and the Whittakers crowned his heir without her desire to accept the succession. The guilt of returning to the career and life she loved in New York was too much, so Lily returned only to put in her notice at work and pack the things in her Upper East Side brownstone and traded it for the Whittaker guest house on the family’s estate back in King’s Head Harbor. The family maintained a strong front, but with the loss of Brendan they were crumbling behind closed doors. The sadness was unbearable for Lily at first, and although she worked through it to the best of her ability it still creeps up from time to time. Her parents let it get the better of them though, with Ian’s relationship with his elder daughter becoming increasingly volatile over the years while Elise projected onto her.

It has been four years since Lily’s return to King’s Head Harbor, and she and her family had eventually reached a compromise: she could continue event planning as the Marketing & Events Manager at White Woods Winery, a passion project that the Whittakers co-owned with the Blackwoods. Things had begun to improve until Lily began dating a man her family had not approved of in 2020. An elaborate plan to frame him for theft resulted in Lily cutting her parents off after reaching a settlement where she and her boyfriend would not speak of the incident as long as all charges were dropped, and she moved out into a starter home she had purchased in Sandport Village. Unfortunately, the romance didn’t last and the couple was far too different to make anything work between them. Since the breakup, Lily has been focusing on herself and getting her life back on track, maybe even giving her parents a second chance at being a family again.

PERSONALITY

+ open-minded, compassionate, loyal

- supercilious, entitled, sensitive

WRITTEN BY Admin Shanta

#kingshead:bio #lilian whittaker #kingshead:taken #f

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orbemnews · 3 years

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Their Olympics Are Already Canceled A few years ago, Bud Kling had three rooms added to his house in the Pacific Palisades in California. The builders used extra concrete along with a reinforcing metal beam — and not because Mr. Kling was expecting a crowd. The rooms weren’t for people. They were designed to house and showcase his 30,000-strong collection of Olympic pins, the colorful and endlessly varied souvenirs that have been bought and traded at the Games for decades. Even when the builders were finished, Mr. Kling, a 74-year-old tennis coach, still had far more pins than he could fit in his home. He also owns about 100,000 “trading pins” — multiples of the same pin that can be swapped — and he hauls some of them to the Games. His stash is stacked in his garage and in rented storage space. “I have a very patient wife,” said Mr. Kling, unnecessarily. When organizers of the Tokyo Olympics announced that the 2020 Games would be delayed for a year and, in March, that no overseas spectators would be allowed into the country, few were as despondent as Mr. Kling and other hard-core Olympic pin traders. To them, the Games are only partly about sports. For every minute they spend watching competition, they spend one minute — maybe two — trading pins, either in impromptu scrums outside venues or at designated trading centers. The collapse of the pin trading market will hardly register in the ledger of losses incurred by the Tokyo Games, an enterprise that the country’s organizers say will cost more than $15 billion. About $3 billion of that stems from renegotiating contracts caused by the yearlong delay. But stuffing the national coffers hasn’t been the point of hosting since the price tag for throwing the world’s largest gathering started to soar more than a decade ago. Countries vie for the Games hoping for the ultimate look-at-me moment, a slick, multiweek advertisement aimed at the entire planet. Tokyo will get a healthy portion of self-promotion if the Games go ahead, which organizers vow will happen despite national polls suggesting that an overwhelming number of people in Japan — who are contending with a prolonged fourth virus wave — would prefer another delay or outright cancellation. For Olympics goers around the world, these Games will be remembered as the party they had to skip. That includes about 250 pin traders, people who plan their lives around the two-year interval between the Summer and Winter Olympics. Never heard of Olympic pins? They are a portable, wearable bit of promotion and branding for athletic delegations, national Olympics committees, corporate sponsors, news media outlets and cities bidding for the Games. (The New York Times makes its own pins and gives a couple dozen to reporters covering events.) To the unmoved, the pins are the kind of $7 memento you toss in a drawer, or a wastepaper basket, as soon as you return from the Games. Thousands of people buy pins, and many spontaneously trade them once they see a trading hive outside a venue. Host countries cater to both casual and ardent fans by producing vast quantities of pins, which are sold at souvenir shops. Japan was prepared for pin-crazed crowds. The country’s organizers have made 600 different officially licensed pins, a spokesman at the Games said, and there are 12 souvenir stores set up around Tokyo. Now, demand for this bounty is an open question. It’s not just that Japanese fans will be the only ones admitted to the Games. Trading is such a hands-on, face-to-face activity that there are worries that it might be discouraged — or even banned. The press office at the Games would not comment other than to send along a “playbook,” published in February, outlining safety protocols. Pin trading wasn’t mentioned, but one of the principles stated that attendees should “keep physical interactions with others to a minimum” and “avoid closed spaces and crowds where possible.” That makes pin trading all but impossible. For years, Coca-Cola, a longtime Olympic sponsor, has built pin trading centers on the grounds of the Games. A spokeswoman said there would be pin-related promotions, including a chance to acquire pins representing Japan’s 47 prefectures. Whether the company will open and host a pin trading center in Tokyo, the spokeswoman said, is still under evaluation. For years, Mr. Kling has been recruited by Coca-Cola to help oversee and manage its pin trading centers, a volunteer position that has made him the unofficial pin czar of the Games. Among his many roles is to enforce etiquette and unwritten rules. That means ensuring that tables are shared fairly, counterfeit pins are weeded out and newcomers aren’t overcharged. “Occasionally I’ll hear an older guy tell a kid, ‘My pin is much bigger, so you need to trade me two for it,’” he said. “We don’t want anyone grinding down an 8-year-old.” Some are in it for the money. There are more than 80,000 eBay listings for Olympic pins. These speculators had a golden moment in Nagano, Japan, in 1998, when, for reasons that nobody ever explained, the organizers failed to produce enough pins. A trading frenzy ensued. A few people earned $40,000 in a few days. The pin economy had a tulip mania moment. “Guy I know made a down payment on his house with money he earned in Nagano,” said Sid Marantz, a pin trader who has been to 17 Olympics and is another regular volunteer at Coca-Cola pin trading centers. At 76, Mr. Marantz is retired from a family business that sold food ingredients, like salt and sugar. He got his hands on his first pin when his parents took him to the 1960 Olympics in Rome. He was a huge fan of Rafer Johnson, an all-rounder out of U.C.L.A. who won gold in the decathlon that year. “I was just swept away by the whole thing,” he said. He attended his next Games in Montreal in 1976 on a tour with Track & Field News, to which he subscribed. That was the first time, he said, that spectators got involved in pin trading on a large scale. It’s an affordable hobby, at least in Mr. Marantz’s practiced hands. He estimates his whole collection has cost him about $10,000. That’s in large part because after the 1996 Games in Atlanta, he and three friends learned about a warehouse in Colorado — home to the United States Olympic & Paralympic Committee — filled with 750,000 unsold pins. They chipped in $35,000 and bought the entire lot. Each kept about 40,000 pins, and they sold the rest to pin collectors around the world. “We called it ‘the motherlode,’” he said of the acquisition. “It means I go to the Games with pins that effectively cost me nothing. That’s why I’ll trade with absolutely anyone.” Beyond making new friends, pin trading is about the quest for obscure, hard-to-find treasures. These include pins from African delegations, because they tend to field small teams. (Burundi’s pins are especially prized; the country brought nine athletes to Rio in 2016.) Any country that has recently changed its name will find itself in the cross hairs of pin traders. That means you, North Macedonia, which will compete at its first Games since Greece compelled it to add “North” to its name. The pins of Japanese media companies have been sought after ever since Nagano, because they are often adorned with cute cartoon mascots. This time around, though, not even this genre will be hot. Pins from Tokyo 2020 — yes, it’s keeping the name, never mind the actual date — are going to be worth next to nothing, Mr. Marantz predicts. Supply is going to swamp demand. Both Mr. Marantz and Mr. Kling had purchased thousands of dollars’ worth of tickets to events in Tokyo, money that has since been refunded. Only recently have they begun to accept that they really won’t be heading to Japan in a few weeks. On Friday, Japan’s government extended a state of emergency in Tokyo and other prefectures until at least June 20. “It’s like a boulder falling,” Mr. Kling said of being forced to skip the Games, “and hitting you in the head.” Source link Orbem News #Canceled #Olympics

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currentlyinmars-blog · 4 years

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The Music Industry During Coronavirus

COVID-19 put the world on pause in March 2020. Jobs forced employees to work from home, colleges closed campuses and sent students home and major cities went on lockdown, enforcing curfews and making non-essential businesses close.

With government-enforced restrictions on large gatherings, the music industry has been one hit the hardest. It’s been forced to put one of its busiest seasons, the spring, on hold. Albums were pushed back, venues were closed and all scheduled festivals and tours have either been rescheduled, will be rescheduled or are simply cancelled.

(MØ at the Electric Factory, Maranda Leecan, 2018)

Festivals

The spring is a phoenix season for the industry, with numerous events making up for the lack thereof in the winter. Local venues right now would typically be booked back-to-back with shows.

It’s also the beginning of festival season, which starts with two of the biggest in the United States – SXSW in Austin, TX in March and Coachella in Indio, CA in April. SXSW’s cancellation on March 6th would foreshadow how much of an effect COVID-19 would have on the industry.

SXSW takes over Austin, with events for all forms of media being held throughout the city. SXSW is known for its showcasing of up-and-coming bands and artists from all over the world that haven’t broken yet. Billie Eilish played SXSW when barely anyone knew her - now it’s hard to find anyone who doesn’t.

Though SXSW is big for people who travel to attend, it’s safe to say it’s bigger for the artists and bands that travel to perform. Some bands that were scheduled to play had to set up GoFundMe pages to raise money just to be able to make it to Austin from other countries.

SXSW’s cancellation caused patrons a loss of money and time. But for these musicians, it’s cost them opportunities to meet people in the industry and make international fans of festival goers. Most importantly, it’s cost them multiple paychecks for each cancelled show.

(Billie Eilish at Coachella, Maranda Leecan, 2019)

The same can be said for the rescheduling of Coachella’s two weekends from April to October. Bigger artists slated to play the festival this year, like Frank Ocean and Travis Scott, will still be okay without the check. However, the smaller bands and artists on the lineup that a lot of people overlook won’t be.

These festivals give them exposure at a guaranteed sold-out festival, a larger than typical show paycheck and an opportunity to make more by touring the West Coast between the two weekends. Almost all shows around the festival were cancelled following the postponement.

(Shame at Coachella, Maranda Leecan, 2019)

Venues

While festival cancellations and postponements are awful, venues that host shows every night are getting hit harder by this. The two biggest promoters of live music in the U.S. are Live Nation and AEG. For these two, a loss in revenue for so many months can probably be survived, even though they’re still huge.

On March 12th, Live Nation was reported to have lost $8.32 billion in its stock price in only 30 days from its $15.84 billion market cap on February 12th. That same day, the company paused all its tours indefinitely through the end of March, which would then be reassessed.

As April to May hasn’t shown a slowdown of the virus, it’s safe to say this pause will continue indefinitely. Considering its costs, Live Nation may still be able to make it through this pandemic as a survivor - due to being such a known name in the industry and a multi-billion-dollar company.

The same can’t be said for independent venues. At the end of March, CNN ran a feature story on small nightlife businesses in New York City in the wake of COVID-19, including the independent venue, Elsewhere in Bushwick.

(Slayyyter playing at Elsewhere, Maranda Leecan, 2019)

It was, fittingly, Friday the 13th, when the crisis between coronavirus and nightlife began. First, gatherings of 500 or more people were banned in New York City. Then, all non-essential workers were mandated to stay home by the governor, which put the nail in the coffin.

With no employees to work, no artists booked and no patrons coming in, there’s no revenue to pay for the still incoming bills or to the employees for the time they’ll indefinitely have off. “In terms of lost revenue, we're looking at easily two, three months just completely wiped out,” Dhruv Chopra, co-owner of Elsewhere said

These stories seem like they will sadly continue for a lot of the smaller guys in the industry. Just this May, Great Scott, the music venue in Allston, MA, announced they won’t reopen after being forced to close during the pandemic.

Many venues set up GoFundMe pages to help in these times. However, they’re run solely on the goodwill of the general public, who are also losing their jobs and income. So, it can only go so far. As the CNN story notes, government assistance seems to be the only thing that could sustain those businesses long term. Without that, the future of smaller venues and promoters right now is uncertain.

The Recording Industry

While the live music industry has obviously been hit, the recording industry has had its downfalls, too. Spring is important for live shows, but it’s also important for press, promotion and more surrounding big releases for the spring and summer. Initially, a handful of albums had their dates changed due to the pandemic.

While most had moved back, Dua Lipa’s anticipated sophomore album, “Future Nostalgia” was moved up and released one week early. It could be tied to being leaked in its entirety two weeks before its original release date, but Dua also said that because it’s an album she made to be “fun and something to dance to and feel good,” the album should come out now more than ever.

Two other albums had their dates pushed back at the start of the pandemic. Lady Gaga had plans to release her sixth studio album, “Chromatica” but shared in March that it didn’t feel like the right time to release it with what was going on in the world. HAIM pushed back their third album, “Women in Music Pt. III” for similar reasons.

However, months later, their dates are back. At the end of April, HAIM announced their album would be coming out on its original date, June 26th. On May 6th, Lady Gaga announced “Chromatica” would be coming at the end of the month on May 29th.

(Amoeba Records in Hollywood, Maranda Leecan, 2019)

Now, a lot of people think that right now would be a great time to release music. Everyone’s trapped in the house, so listening to and streaming music should be happening even more. However, it doesn’t seem that it’s happening that way.

At the end of March, Rolling Stone reported that streams in the United States during the week of March 13th through the 19th, which was the beginning of closures and self-quarantining, dropped 7.6 percent.

As well as streaming, digital song and albums sales also predictably dropped. The future only seems to get worse with delays in shipment, most notably with Amazon pausing shipments from U.S. music providers to put priority to household essentials and medical supplies.

Going Live

In the music industry, a lot of acts are represented by a multitude of teams – management, agents, labels, etc. Though with social distancing, a lot of artists are representing themselves. They’re posting more on social media, connecting with fans and almost universally, they’re going live more than ever.

Instagram Live has been incredibly utilized during this pandemic as a way to connect. For smaller artists and bands, making money during this pandemic without shows has come from merch sales and donations.

Up and coming artists like Girli and Ron Gallo have performed full sets on Instagram live and asked for donations, if people had the means. Other established artists like James Blake and Rex Orange County have performed live without asking for anything. Publications have also joined the livestream club, including Pitchfork, who has hosted various lives with artists like Weyes Blood, Phoebe Bridgers and Nilüfer Yanya.

(Charli XCX playing at the 9:30 Club, Maranda Leecan, 2019)

An artist that has undeniably used going live to it’s full potential is Charli XCX. She started quarantine with a series of livestreams of her own, doing random things with other artists – like doing with vocal warmups with Tove Lo and taking a psychopath test with Rina Sawayama. She also has hosted DJ sets for others.

However, the most fascinating thing she’s doing is making a completely new album in a little over a month, solely while social distancing in her home in California. On April 6th, she announced the album, which is aptly titled “how i’m feeling now,” first on Zoom after tweeting the meeting code out. In the same meeting, she set the release date as May 15th, before she even started working on it.

From there, she’s worked remotely with producers, sharing vocals and beats through the internet. For single covers, she’s enlisted artists that she’s come across online to rework photos her boyfriend takes of her in their house, after asking fans which pictures they like the most. She’s utilized Zoom more during the process, inviting fans and other guests to meetings to ask her questions. She’s used Instagram Live to share lyrics, production, and more with fans to have dialogue on what should make the album.

Future Implications

Looking at how the music industry has reacted to this pandemic leads to a lot of questions for its future. A lot of things will have to change, but what will they be? Precautions will inevitably come into play following COVID-19, as it wasn’t even a thought to anyone a few months ago but, has now put the entire industry on a halt.

(Governor’s Ball, Maranda Leecan, 2019)

Already, festivals like Governor’s Ball in New York and Firefly in Dover, Delaware had to cancel their 2020 plans instead of rescheduling. It’s becoming likely that COVID-19 will last until the summer, maybe even after. Outdoor events can only be held until the end of the fall and festivals can only be held on weekends. Other festivals have already rescheduled to the weekends that fit into that criteria and no more spaces are open for those making changes now, forcing cancellations.

In addition, many artists who were scheduled to play these festivals had to move around their own tour dates as well and will have to drop out. That means the fall weekends will be packed with festivals and the nights of fall will be packed with all the rescheduled tours. That’s assuming these events will happen, as they’re totally dependent on a vaccine, which could take up to 18 months to formulate.

Assuming the reschedules happen as planned, the end of the year will be oversaturated and will lead to people having to choose what they’ll make it to. Most people will also just be starting to make personal financial recovery from loss of job and income. Everything might get rescheduled, but will the shows be as packed as they once were with people having to choose what to attend?

(Tame Impala, Maranda Leecan, 2019)

In addition to financial recovery, social recovery will come into play as well. Will the forced distance of being separated for so long be beneficial or detrimental? Will it make getting back to shows and being around people even more important?

Or will seeing now how we’re able to connect with artists and see shows (some being larger than anything that could happen in human form, like Travis Scott’s Fortnite show) from the comfort of our beds be something that people will want to continue even after we’re able to physically connect again?

These are questions that no one has the answer to right now, they’ll come with time. The only certain in this entire situation, for not only the music industry, but all industries across the world, is that everything is going to change after recovery of COVID-19. And right now, we can only hope it’s for the best.

#text #covid-19

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junker-town · 5 years

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WNBA nearly did All-Star weekend right. But they made the stars fly economy

The WNBA nearly did All-Star weekend right. Then 6’8 Brittney Griner was given a middle seat in coach.

Welcome to The W Is It, a weekly column about all the stuff that freakin’ rules in the WNBA. Have any tips of topics to cover? Find me @mellentuck on Twitter.

When Brittney Griner landed at McCarron International Airport in Las Vegas on the Thursday before the All-Star Game, she was greeted by a limo ready to take her to an upgraded suite at the Delano Hotel. As she walked through the doors of her new room, she witnessed something not seen at any of her previous five All-Star appearances: a room with a common room and supersized bathroom.

It’s here where the Phoenix Mercury center changed before going to a luxurious players-only dinner down the Vegas strip at the Bellagio. There were no ball-signings or media appearances to make. Just the best in the world enjoying a night together.

“It was fun,” Griner told SB Nation of the weekend. “Not that the other ones weren’t fun ... the one in Phoenix [in 2014] was fun. But it just felt like a real All-Star.”

At least it felt that way once the players arrived. The 22 All-Stars still had to fly coach to the event, which meant a middle seat for the 6’8 Griner. She had to pay her own money to upgrade and get the necessary extra leg room.

“If they would’ve listened to [Aces general manager and head coach] Bill Laimbeer on how to get us there, our travel there, to make us really feel like All-Stars, then it would’ve been great,” Griner said. “Like first-class seats, or at least exit row.”

Indeed, Las Vegas’ inaugural All-Star flashed the grandeur the stars of the league’s biggest celebratory weekend has long craved. At the same time, Griner’s flight difficulties showed the league still has a ways to go to improve the All-Star experience for those stars.

Upon arrival, everything was pristine. The biggest draw of the weekend featured a beach party performance the night before the game, with rapper Snoop Dogg and hip-hop artist Iggy Azalea performing at the Mandalay Bay casino and hotel. (Las Vegas Aces star Liz Cambage was set to open the night as a DJ, but technical difficulties scratched that segment.)

The next day, the All-Star Game player introductions were done between sets of Cirque Du Soleil stunts. For the first time ever, the game even had a halftime act, with singer Teyana Taylor owning the stage for the duration of the intermission.

Taylor was able to perform because, for the first time since 2006, the Three-Point Shootout and Skills Competition were not only paired together, but given their own night. For the past three years, the Three-Point shootout was played at halftime of the actual game, and there was no skills contest. Moving the events to Friday night gave the players a second day of spotlight on ESPN and opened the weekend to other events.

Taylor’s performance was a memorable one for the All Stars. In lieu of a halftime speech in the locker room, the players surrounded the stage to enjoy quasi-personal show. First-time All-Stars Diamond DeShield of the Chicago Sky and Odyssey Sims of the Minnesota Lynx took the mic to belt out Taylor lyrics in front of the crowd.

SING IT, @diamonddoesit1 pic.twitter.com/afZVZ3Lffk

— Chicago Sky (@wnbachicagosky) July 27, 2019

Griner also noticed all the other players from around the league in attendance to enjoy the weekend with them. With so much to enjoy around the game, it was hard for them to pass up, even if the alternative was a much-needed vacation. Luminaries included Sky forwards Gabby Williams and Stefanie Dolson, Seattle Storm guard Sue Bird and recent World Cup winner Megan Rapinoe, and NBA All-Stars Kobe Bryant and Chris Paul.

“I’d definitely call it my favorite weekend,” Griner said. “They made a lot of improvements. The aura around everything was great. I think it should be there again.”

But there’s still a ways for the league to go, through no fault of its host. One complaint was the All-Star Game’s early tip time at 12:30 p.m. PT the afternoon following the Snoop Dogg and Iggy Azalea concert. “Come on,” Griner said. “We’re all adults here. Maybe push the game back a little later.”

And then, there were the flights. All-Star Weekend is funded through a partnership between the WNBA and the host franchise, according to the league. Usually, the host franchise is responsible for travel arrangements.

Knowing that, Laimbeer, the coach and general manager of the Aces — and himself a 6’11 former NBA player — proposed setting $20,000 of his organization’s share aside to pay for first-class flights for the 22 All-Stars. But the league rejected the proposal, forcing Griner and her companions to squeeze into coach seats.

“I made a complaint at the board of governors meeting about that specific issue,” Laimbeer told The Associated Press. “They are our best assets, they are our All-Stars; treat them with respect. I apologized to them that I couldn’t get that done.”

Difficult travel accommodations have become a key point of emphasis for the league’s players and coaches. The WNBA’s collective bargaining agreement, which expires on Oct. 31, requires all players to fly commercially, which has contributed to frequent in-season delays, cancellations and uncomfortable trips across the country. Last season, 24 hours worth of plane troubles caused Laimbeer’s Aces to forfeit a late-season game with playoff implications. This season, new L.A. Sparks head coach Derek Fisher posted a picture of his team carrying their own bags through an airport terminal.

View this post on Instagram

So after a hard fought win on national television @la_sparks are right back to reality that these women are not being treated like the best athletes in the world!! #facts #hastochange #comeonnow

A post shared by Derek Fisher (@dereklfisher) on Jun 8, 2019 at 5:53pm PDT

“So after a hard fought win on national television [the L.A. Sparks] are right back to reality that these women are not being treated like the best athletes in the world!!”

Still, the league played police for All-Star in the name of fairness and parity. The fear was that Laimbeer’s first-class ticket offer would be seen as a recruiting tactic to lure top players to join Vegas’ superteam in the future. After all, Vegas acquired Cambage, last year’s league-leading scorer, when she requested a trade from a smaller-market Dallas Wings. MGM owns the Aces, and few, if any, other teams can and will match the pockets of the international powerhouse. The league OK’d the upgraded suites, but drew the line at airfare.

The league’s logic mirrors the decision to force Mystics guard Kristi Toliver to get paid a mere $10,000 for what is typically a six-figure role as an NBA assistant coach during the winter. The Wizards and Mystics are both owned by Monumental Sports, so the WNBA wanted to prevent them from using the carrot of a six-figure salary with the same organization to circumvent the salary cap and retain Tolliver as a player.

Yet this anti-tampering fear from the league is wildly misplaced. For one, the WNBA’s current CBA features the core designation, a provision similar to the NFL’s franchise tag that can be used to keep a player for up to four years. This is already one of the most team-friendly perks in all of sports, so what threat would a comped first-class flight really pose to a small-market team?

More fundamentally, the All-Stars deserve better. This isn’t the same as NBA teams offering perks outside the CBA to lure free agents like Kawhi Leonard that make tens of millions of dollars a season. These are the WNBA’s most talented athletes, who already play year-round because a maximum salary — a maximum salary — is worth just $117,500. Their bodies are pushed to limit over and over again, and their health should be the primary concern.

Consider that the All Star showcase was already missing six of the league’s biggest stars due to injury. Reigning MVP Breanna Stewart tore her Achilles in the Euroleague title game (Dynamo Kursk), while teammate and legendary point guard Sue Bird has missed the entire season to arthroscopic knee surgery. Former MVPs Candace Parker and Diana Taurasi have only played 10 games combined due to nagging ailments, and thus missed the weekend. A’ja Wilson, the league’s second-most popular player by fan vote, has been in a walking boot due to a high-ankle sprain in late July. Finally, Maya Moore, arguably the league’s most recognizable face, is taking the year off to focus on “family” and “ministry dreams.”

Vegas’ All-Star set the pace for what the W should bring every year, and players are eager to come back. But it wasn’t perfect just yet.

Now for some fun stuff.

Speaking of ... Candace Parker is BACK!

A hamstring injury has cost Parker all but nine games this season, and she’s looked shaky for most of those. Until this week.

Check out the highlights from @Candace_Parker's season-high performance ⬇️ #WatchMeWork pic.twitter.com/7YbIwm31P0

— WNBA (@WNBA) August 4, 2019

CP3 was named Player of the Week after a pair of wins showed her score 16 and then 21 points. She looked like her former All-Star self, throwing behind-the-head passes in a win over the Storm. Let’s goooooo!

now candace is throwing THIS pass l.a. is getting rude af and im ready for it pic.twitter.com/vPGgXjxh9N

— Matt Ellentuck (@mellentuck) August 4, 2019

Courtney Williams is a PROBLEM

The Sun quietly have the WNBA’s best record, despite being forced to trade top big Chimey Ogwumike to the Sparks before the season. Though forward Jonquel Jones takes a lot of the spotlight, Williams is an assassin. In a win over the Liberty, she scored 28 points on 12-of-18 shooting and also added seven rebounds, six assists and THIS BLOCK.

She’s 5’8.

courtney williams is 5'8 pic.twitter.com/L3wFJztoAc

— Matt Ellentuck (@mellentuck) August 4, 2019

Marina Mabrey is disrespectful as hell for this lmao

The L.A. Sparks guard:

Blocked the hell out of Seattle’s Jewell Loyd

Chucked the ball at her to try and gain possession

Dapped up her teammate Tierra Ruffin-Pratt after doing it

Legend.

marina mabrey lmfaaaaoo this is the most disrespectful shit ive ever seen pic.twitter.com/Z6KUDB9lbX

— Matt Ellentuck (@mellentuck) August 4, 2019

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mastcomm · 5 years

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It’s Time to Ask What Africa Needs

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The ideas just keep coming. From Europe’s leading clubs: a proposal to expand the Champions League, to squeeze four more lucrative matchdays into the competition’s format. From UEFA: a whole new trophy to win, but one for countries that feel (rightly) excluded from the Champions League.

From FIFA: another new tournament, this one in the summer and based on the Club World Cup — the one that was, in itself, an expansion of the old Intercontinental Cup — but bigger, richer, and more in China. And, as my colleague Tariq Panja reported this week, from Stephen M. Ross and his Relevent Sports team: a version of the International Champions Cup that is conspicuously more than a meaningless preseason moneymaking exercise.

They are all, for now, under consideration, despite the endless warnings from FIFPro — the global players’ union — and from a number of leading managers, not least Jürgen Klopp, that players are already facing the risk of burnout, that soccer is in danger of strangling its golden goose. The meetings still go on, in locked rooms and hushed tones in five-star hotels, the workshopping, the brainstorming. There is no such thing as a bad idea.

Last week, it was confirmed that this year’s African Cup of Nations — Africa’s equivalent of the Copa América, or the European Championship — would, in fact, be next year’s African Cup of Nations: Cameroon, the host, has noted that it is far too hot to play the tournament in June and July, and so it has shifted it, quite understandably, to January. (The fact its summer dates would have clashed with the new Club World Cup was a factor, too).

This is, in many ways, not a new idea: the Cup of Nations always used to be played in the (European) winter, until it was decided in 2017 that it should be played, instead, in the (European) summer.

The thinking was flawed — it did not require a meteorologist to work out that temperatures would rule out a swath of countries as potential hosts — but the logic was simple: pretty much all of Africa’s highest-profile players work for clubs in Europe. Switching it to the off-season made sense for them, and for their employers.

The switch back, then, is not exactly popular: Everyone in the corridors of power might be willing to contemplate almost any other proposal for new tournaments or ruining existing ones, but the restoration of a historic, important competition to its usual dates is universally seen as A Bad Thing. Have the African authorities not thought about what effect they will have on the integrity of the Premier League at all?

There will come a point when this Eurocentric thinking has to stop. Yes, that is where all the money is. Yes, that is the economic engine financing the global game. But it is not the limit of soccer’s horizons. It does not own the game.

Making sure everything works well for Europe will, eventually, have damaging consequences elsewhere: in terms of attendance and interest in local competitions (which has already happened across Africa) and, possibly, down the line, in the development of players. Europe has to start thinking of itself as the tip of the pyramid: the summit, yes, but in quite a bit of trouble if the rest of the edifice is not secure.

There is one idea for a new competition that appeals. It came, back in November, from an unlikely source: Gianni Infantino, president of FIFA, the concept that a stopped clock is right twice in a day fitted out in a finely-tailored suit. On a trip to the Democratic Republic of Congo, Infantino suggested that a Pan-African league should be under consideration.

His theory was, obviously, based on money: he thought that such a competition might be able to command revenues of $200 million a year. But there is a sound logic behind it.

Africa is home to a couple of dozen major clubs: Kaizer Chiefs and Orlando Pirates in South Africa; Al Ahly and Zamalek in Egypt; Espérance and Étoile du Sahel in Tunisia; DR Congo’s TP Mazembe; and Ghana’s Asante Kotoko, among others. A league of 20 teams, as Infantino suggested, would be of a far higher standard than any of the national competitions they currently call home.

That would be beneficial, of course, for players, and the prospect of selling continental broadcast rights would help improve facilities and infrastructure. It might, even, enable teams to hold on to some of their brightest prospects for just a little longer, delaying the exodus for Europe.

It might, in other words, provide the basis for another pole to emerge in soccer’s firmament: not enough to compete with Europe, but to rebalance things just a little. Soccer is weaker if western Europe has a monopoly on talent, on wealth, on power, as it does now. It is healthier if Africa — and Asia, North and South America and the rest — can make decisions without having to think how Europe will react. This might be a step on that road.

United’s Problem Is Not the Glazers’ Wallet

The ire at Old Trafford is mounting. Two defeats in the space of three days — first, painfully, at Liverpool, and then, humiliatingly, at home to Burnley — have brought Manchester United’s fans to the brink of mutiny. They want Ed Woodward, the man who runs the club, gone, and they want the Glazer family, the owner that employs him, out as well.

That neither will happen encapsulates United’s problem. The complaint against the Glazers has long been that the club would have been able to spend far more in the transfer market, strengthening its squad, if the Glazer family had not continually drained its finances to service debts and pay off interest.

And yet, since Alex Ferguson retired in 2013, Manchester United has spent more than £1 billion on transfers. That is an eye-watering sum, and not just because it has been so consistently wasted. United’s recruitment in the last seven years has been so bad it’s a leap to believe that all it needed was another few hundred million pounds.

No, the issue is not the lack of spending, it is the lack of culture. The Glazers will not fire Woodward because he is good at making United a commercial powerhouse, at keeping the money rolling in.

They have created a club where sporting decisions have a secondary importance to financial ones, where the rapid decline we have seen in the last few years can be tolerated if the balance sheet remains healthy, and where nobody has the expertise or knowledge even to recognize the causes of the slide, let alone halt it. United lacks a clear on-field vision and a defined, modern off-field structure. It has invested money in players, but not in itself.

A Basic Understanding of Causality

At the risk of taking something that is supposed to be lighthearted fun rather too seriously, allow me to address one of the worst developments of this Premier League season: the rise of the League Table Without VAR.

You will, I suspect, have seen one, either on your social media feed or in a variety of publications, both major and minor. The premise is simple: this is how many points each team would have if English soccer had not introduced a video assistant refereeing system at the start of the season.

The premise — and, yes, I know it’s meant to be nothing more than curiosity-as-content, not taken to heart — is also, sadly, deeply stupid, and for two reasons. One is that VAR is merely a method for enforcing the actual rules. It has mostly made decisions correctly (even if we do not always like how correct those decisions are). Would anyone think to publish a league table if the offside rule did not exist? A league table if you were allowed to pick the ball up and throw it? A league table if everyone on the field had a sword? No, they wouldn’t.

The second reason, though, is that this kind of thing encourages a fundamental misunderstanding of causality. Let’s use, as an example, the penalty Manchester City was eventually not awarded against Crystal Palace last week. If it had been given (and scored), it does not necessarily follow that City would have won, 3-2. Maybe Palace would have shut up shop more effectively. Maybe City would have won by 6-1. Maybe Sergio Agüero is not in position to score either of his subsequent two goals.

What’s the phrase? Oh yes. Goals change games. Or, as analysts put it, they affect the game-state. Does any of this matter? Yes and no. That it is intellectually vapid is not important, but the fact that it adds to an atmosphere of suspicion and credulity and conspiracy is not helpful at all.