#(takes place before madam red dies for context)

[cocolacola]

might have some free time soon so i have to brain storm: how the fuck do u write grellerin

[minmotl]

Chapter 30: Sui Zhou is Upset That Tang Fan Wants Him to Marry

Context: Follows directly after Chapter 29. We left off at Sui Zhou bringing Tang Fan home to see his grandmother. Grandmother loves Tang Fan and after the dinner, Sui Zhou is unhappy that Tang Fan is pushing for him to get married. At the end of this chapter, Sui Zhou is called away for business and Tang Fan ends up being taken to the palace by Wang Zhi.

Introduction Post | Masterpost

—

Highlights under the cut

Sui Zhou says this in such a domineering manner that everyone is stunned speechless for a moment, glaring at Sui Zhou.

This is not Tang Fan’s place to say anything. In the first place, he does not have any right to speak out, but this does not hinder him from habitually using the eyes he usually applies on his cases to analyse the personalities of the people before him. Brushing his eyes past them, from the way they talk and act, plenty is revealed.

For example, Sui Zhou’s parents are both honest people, otherwise when Sui Zhou’s sister-in-law Lady Jiao spoke, Sui Zhou’s mother would have spoken out to stop her. And also, taking a look at Sui Zhou’s brother and the way he kept mum, this is actually quite similar to the way Sui Zhou is, but Sui Zhou doesn’t speak because he finds no need to. When he is analysing a case and is required to speak, he always says only as much as is necessary, while Sui Zhou’s brother seems to simply be a man of few words and is quiet out of character and habit.

Tang Fan shakes his head inwardly. He heard Sui Zhou say before that Sui An wanted to take the Imperial Examination, but with this kind of personality, even if he manages to get lucky and is selected, it’s likely that he would not last as an official for long. Which high-ranking official is fond of a subordinate who refuses to speak?

Compared to her husband, Lady Jiao is talkative and knows how to adapt to her situation, but she’s too eager to bring attention to herself. Her elders are both honest people and cannot keep her in check, so she probably does as she wants when she’s at home. No wonder Sui Zhou ended up moving out.

With Sui Zhou’s declaration, Tang Fan can no longer keep silent. Taking a step forward, he puts up both his hands in greeting to Madam Zhou, “I am Tang Fan, courtesy name Run Qing. Madam Zhou you can just call me Run Qing. I am a judge at Shun Tian Prefecture and a good friend of Guang Chuan’s. Today I’ve brought my younger sister Ah Dong to celebrate Madam Zhou’s birthday, I wish Madam Zhou an abundance of fortune and to live a long life.”

Ah Dong greets Madam Zhou obediently as well, “A thousand fortunes for Madam Zhou.”

Then, she brings the present they brought with them to Madam Zhou.

Madam Zhou laughs openly, “Good, good! Since you are close to our family, then there is no need to be too fussy. It’s so rare for my Ah Zhou to bring a friend home and wish me well for my birthday, I can tell that you must be a good child. The young lady looks beautiful and smart, this is good, this is good!”

It is a popular trend in recent years to open gifts in front of everyone as it doesn’t matter if the gift is cheap or expensive, as long as it is well-thought out, the person celebrating their birthday would be happy.

Lady Jiao takes the gift box and pulls at the string over the box, opening it. She sees a Longevity Peach carved out of jade. The colour of the jade is warm and the item is both intricate and cute. The size of a palm, it’s most suited to be played with in one’s hands.

For Madam Zhou’s birthday, the palace also sent some gifts over, but she has been frugal all her life and does not wish to announce it, so her birthday banquet simply involves her daughter’s family and a dinner. Seeing this gift, Madam Zhou is both stunned and flattered, “It’s good enough that you came, why did you splurge on such an expensive gift?”

Tang Fan smiles, “I didn’t spend any money on it. I don’t mind letting Madam Zhou know that my salary is low, if I really was to buy it I wouldn’t be able to afford it. This Longevity Peach is an heirloom passed down in my family, and since my parents and elders are no longer around, I took it out as a gift to give to you, I hope Madam Zhou does not refuse or dislike this gift!”

He may have said this humbly, but just from the colour composition of the jade, Sui Zhou knows that the price of this jade peach is not cheap and it looks like the jade has aged well. To be able to collect and keep something like this, it’s clear that the Tang family was well off.

From this gift, it is enough to see the Tang Fan’s thoughts and well wishes.

Madam Zhou is the Empress Dowager’s sister and the Sui family as seen plenty of powerful officials and wealthy individuals. The Ming dynasty also has a tradition of respecting the elderly, so instances of an old lady yelling at an official on the streets, lambasting them to the extent of carriages carrying officials having to move around the elderly are possible. When Sui Zhou first introduced Tang Fan as a judge from Shun Tian Prefecture, the Sui family was not the slightest bit shocked. After all, Sui Zhou’s father and brother both have titles within the ranks of the Embroidered Uniform Guards.

With this jade longevity peach however, Lady Jiao takes the hint and shuts up.

Madam Zhou is still shaking her head, “Don’t spend so much money the next time! It’s good enough that you are visiting. I’m really happy to see the both of you!”

Tang Fan grins, “That’s where you’re wrong, Madam Zhou. When it comes to your eightieth, ninetieth birthdays in the future, not only will I spend, but I will spend even more! When that time comes, I will find a bigger longevity peach for Madam Zhou!”

Madam Zhou is so tickled by that, that she burst out in laugher, “Such a glib tongue, Run Qing. You’re more than a hundred times sweeter than Ah Zhou and Ah An. It must have difficult for you to be able to be friends with Ah Zhou. If he bullies you, you must tell me, I will support you!”

Listening to this, why does Tang Fan feel as if he’s about to marry Sui Zhou? Then again, he supposes that Madam Zhou is already so old, sometimes she may speak without thinking, and so Tang Fan brushes the comment off with a smile.

Although it is a family banquet, but the dishes on the table were obviously intricately cooked. While the Sui family isn’t fond of words, with Tang Fan around, he manages to entertain Madam Zhou well. Sui Zhou’s sister Sui Bi is older than Ah Dong is by a few years, but the two young ladies become fast friends and shortly after begin to talk in low voices with one another.

In comparison, Sui Zhou’s parents and older brother look to be guests at the table instead. They don’t say much and concentrate on eating from the start to the end. Lady Jiao of course wants to interrupt and say something, but Madam Zhou seems to not be fond of speaking to her. Holding Tang Fan’s hand, she continues to talk to him. Once she hears that Tang Fan’s parents died early and his older sister is married off out of the city, and moreover, Tang Fan has yet to marry, she sighs, “What a poor thing. Being an official in Jing city all on your own, and you don’t even have a soulmate to accompany you at your side no matter what. Someone of your character, I’m guessing the matchmaking ladies must have been dying to step through your doors. What kind of women do you like? Come, tell me, I’ll help you look around!”

Once Tang Fan hears this, his skin goes numb and quickly, he uses Sui Zhou as his shield, “Madam Zhou, I remember that Guang Chuan seems to be older than me by a few years, I’m sure he’s more eager to get married than I am?”

He’s just finished speaking when he feels someone staring at him from the side, obviously unhappy with the way Tang Fan is creating trouble for him by diverting it from himself to Sui Zhou.

“Run Qing has high expectations, don’t randomly connect the red string for him,” Sui Zhou speaks, finally shifting the old woman’s attention from Tang Fan to him.

Madam Zhou is unhappy with what he said, “Nonsense, will you not marry if you have high expectations? It’s no trouble for me to go and find the Empress Dowager and let her pick some, if he doesn’t like a common woman, I’m sure a princess or a royal member will do?”

Tang Fan doesn’t know whether to cry or laugh and is about to stop her, but Lady Jiao sourly half jokes, “Madam Zhou you’re really biased. You haven’t known Run Qing for even half a day and you’re already helping him to find a match, if people didn’t know, they would think you took in another grandson!”

Madam Zhou chuckles, “Run Qing this child and I get along well, so what if I play matchmaker for him? Don’t tell me you want this too? I’m of course more than happy to get Ah An someone from the royal family, but then you’ll have to give up your position, no?”

At that, Lady Jiao becomes silent.

Tang Fan manages to convince Madam Zhou to dismiss the idea for now, and after the meal, Ah Dong and Sui Bi look to be getting along well as well, and so she’s invited to stay for the rest of the day. Tang Fan and Sui Zhou then bid Madam Zhou farewell with the promise of coming to visit her often, and it’s only then they are allowed to leave.

After exiting the house, Tang-daren wipes at his cold sweat, “Guang Chuan, the old lady in your family is really persistent. Luckily I did not give in, otherwise Madam Zhou would really have gone into the palace and asked for a princess from the Empress Dowager for me!”

“Is a princess no good?” asks Sui Zhou.

It sounds as if Sui Zhou is teasing him, but the man’s face is cold as ice, even the way he speaks is cold and without feeling. However, Tang Fan has long gotten used to this poker face of his and does not mind, only shaking his head with a laugh.

Is marrying a princess good or not? All women that exist are precious and treasured despite their status and are naturally good. However, becoming a Prince Consort by marrying a princess, this means he will not be able to participate in politics. Even those who were originally officials will have to quit their roles and go home, but this rule is aimed only at civil officials. For officials in the military, this rule is not enforced as strictly. For example, the Prince Consort Jing Yuan who died protecting the late Emperor during the Tu Mu Fortress Rebellion was also an official and was allowed to lead the army during wars.

However, for civil officials this is a death sentence! After marrying a woman from the royal family, their careers are as good as dead, so men with ambition see marrying women from the royal family as turning their backs on their careers. While Tang Fan does not obsess over his position, but he has after all studied so hard for more than a decade, all to continue on his life’s path to service the people and be able to do something for them.

After their meal, they steadily walk back home in the direction of their house to digest the food they just ate. Their steps are slow and steady, as if they are very relaxed and free.

Tang Fan then teases him, “But Madam Zhou said something right. You’re not young anymore, you should be getting married. Don’t wait a few more years and by then no one will want you.”

Sui Zhou glances at him, “You truly wish for me to get married?”

Without waiting for him to reply, Sui Zhou adds, “If I marry, you will have to move out.”

Tang Fan nods, “That makes sense, after all, we have to prevent tongues from wagging.”

“You’ll have to find a house on your own.”

“Houses in Jing city are really hard to find,” Tang Fan sighs.

“In a few years, when Ah Dong is old enough to marry, you’ll have to cook by yourself again.”

“That makes sense…” Then he considers that again and finds that the prediction is wrong, and adds, “Then I can go find one to marry too, no?”

“And let her find out that you’re writing erotica fiction, and that it’s selling pretty well?”

“…”

“Or maybe you’d like to explore further with her, let her write some, so that she can contribute to the family expenses as well.”

Tang Fan laughs, “It wouldn’t be so bad?”

“Judging from your current salary, aside from your massive food expenses whenever you run out to eat, when Ah Dong marries, you still have to put together a dowry for her and then after you get married, you will need to feed one more person. When you have children, that’s even more mouths to feed.”

The more Tang-daren hears, the greener his face becomes.

Sui Zhou continues to analyse it, “And it’s also likely that you will end up marrying someone like my sister-in-law, if our wife is not virtuous, that is disaster for the family that will end up harming your children and grandchildren.”

“Don’t say anymore,” Tang-daren says weakly, “Marrying a woman is so scary, I think I won’t marry any time soon.”

Sui-baihu makes a noise of assent, his expression stern and firm, obviously having the same thoughts as Tang Fan.

[antihero-writings]

The Boy with the Unspeakable Name (Ch8)

Fandom: Harry Potter (and the Chamber or Secrets)

Fic Summary: Tom Riddle may have won his battle with Harry in the Chamber of Secrets, but there were a few unforeseen consequences; loss of Tom’s memory being the most obnoxious of them. Is it possible to stop Tom’s past from becoming his future? Or is the young Tom Riddle doomed to repeat his mistakes?

Notes: Hey! I'm so so sorry there was such a delay with this one! I was having a bit of a block with it. I hope you're still interested in reading! I'm hoping the next one will be a bit faster, as it's one I've been excited for. Cross your fingers everybody!

By the way, I changed that thing I said I would in the Snape chapter! It's towards the end, when Snape's looking into Tom's mind. It's not a big deal if you don't want to check it out, but it is related to this chapter!

I hope you guys like it!! As always, it's your comments, and interest, that keep me writing!! <3

Chapter 8: Only in Dreams 

Tom stared up at the ceiling in the hospital wing, his hand behind his head, thinking about all that had happened…and some of what hadn’t happened.

Sometimes that was very dangerous thing to do indeed.

An annoying woman by the name of ‘Madam Pomfrey’ kept periodically checking on him, and offering him food and medicine. He wouldn’t be surprised if she woke him in the middle of the night just to make sure he was sleeping well.

There was also a boy in the bed beside his. He kept asking him if he wanted to play a game with a strange name. Tom made it clear the only game he was interested in playing was one in which he shut up.

When he had arrived with Snape earlier, a group of students were leaving. Apparently they had been ‘petrified.’ Whatever that meant. That made it sound like they’d been turned to stone, but they clearly were still flesh and blood—(maybe he would have preferred stone).

Snape even pulled aside one of them—a girl with bushy hair. Tom tried to subtly listen, but Snape pulled her into another room, and Madam Pomfrey had deigned that moment as one of her thousand times to ask if he was comfortable.

Which left him here, with the annoying nurse, a boy who probably couldn’t hold in his own pee…and a lot of questions.

So many things about this whole situation weren’t quite right. Waking up in that chamber with the dead girl, the way she died, the way Harry and Snape reacted to his presence, and Dumbledore’s later denial that he had killed her, or that their hatred was all that serious. And though Dumbledore had explained the diary, he wasn’t satisfied there either. Not to mention the fact that everything else in that Chamber still was unaccounted for.

There were things they weren’t telling him.

He highly doubted a teacher would be so vehement against just a bully, not to mention the fact that everyone else he’d met so far hadn’t recognized him…He had to be something more than that.

There was something they weren’t telling him. In fact, he reasoned, there were probably a great lot of things. He wasn’t going to assume they were all on the same side just because they said so.

The idea that this was a magic school, and that he was a student…He wasn’t quite sure how to feel about it yet. They’d done magic in front of him, so he couldn’t deny it—not that he intended to. And the thought did send a certain energy through him…like that word was everything right in the world. And he was indeed excited to learn magic. Well, maybe ‘excited’ was too strong. But that was one of the few things that didn’t give him confusion, question and pause. Rather it create a form of what could only be called hunger within him. He wondered how proficient he had been at magic before he lost his memory. More than anything he wished he could remember the spells.

He was sure he could figure this, them, out—maybe even tonight, if he just stayed awake a little longer. But he was more exhausted than he realized and, in the midst of his pondering, fell into dreams.

“Wait, mom!” His voice sounded strange, high and young…too high, too young. Almost girly.

A plump woman with short red hair turned around at the last word.

“What is it, Dear?!” She sounded a bit put out. “Are you ready to go?”

“I’m missing my Charms book!” Tom’s voice was pained. “Have you seen it?”

She gave a forced exhale. “And you’re sure you checked your room? Didn’t miss any corners?” She inclined her head. “You’re sure it’s not sitting on your nightstand?”

“Yes! That was the first place I checked!”

“You checked under the bed?”

“Yes!”

“The bookshelves and wardrobe?”

“Yes!”

She sighed. “Talk to your father, Fear.”

“Did you say you were missing a Charms book?” A boy about his age with red hair like their mother’s came in front of him, along with an identical copy of him.

“We wouldn’t know anything about it, sure.”

“We’re just a little concerned”

“Of course, for our—” The last word got blurred.

“Boys. You didn’t take”—He was sure she said his name, but for some reason the word became murky, as if she was trying to speak through a veil of water—“Charms book, did you?”

“What?”

“No!”

“Never!

“You know us, Mom, would we ever do something so terrible as steal a poor”—Another blurred word—“—’s charms book?”

“We’re good and virtuous boys.”

Tom looked at the woman who was apparently his mother, who gave him a knowing look. “Check your brothers’ room.”

The dream turned over, and now he was standing on a platform in front of a glimmering red train engine, the words ‘Hogwarts Express’ emblazoned on the front. Steam poured out from its many orifices, and it whistled with the shrillness of a bird being squeezed…though the sound was like music to his ears.

That wasn’t the only loud noise, in fact this place was extremely loud indeed. The whole platform was full to bustling with children, parents, and as many other assorted relatives as it could hold. But the strangest thing was, he wasn’t annoyed by their presence. He was feeling many things: nervousness to leave his parents, and about what house he’d get sorted into, and if the other kids would like him, and excitement, excitement for what the castle would be like, what house he’d get into, what the classes would be like, what friends he’d make…but no annoyance.

Perhaps more than anything there was a pit in his stomach about Harry and Ron. Were they okay? Why didn’t they get through the barrier? He had been so excited to ride the Express with them. His parents tried to assure him they’d be fine, but he could hear the fear lining their voices too. He tried to let the sight of the engine distract him, and the excitement about the coming year overpower him. They’d gotten safely through crazy situations before.

He gave his parents a giant hug, and his mom kissed him many times, and he could tell she was trying very hard not to cry. They told him everything would be fine, and gave him a number of quick quips of advice. He looked towards the engine, about to take his first steps towards it on his own.

The dream crossed over itself, and though he was on the same platform, he was alone.

Well, not alone alone, it was just as loud as before, and there were just as many passersby. Not the same people, still. But this time, the sound was muffled somehow, like he couldn’t completely hear or feel what was going on around him. Just a few loud shouts would break through, and each time they did, annoyance would strike him.

There were no parents to wish him luck, or kiss him goodbye. No brothers to steal his books.

Did he like it better that way?

He looked down at his robes, and felt satisfaction run through him. They were clean and sleek and new. The first clothes he’d had that fit that description in a long time. None of the other kids got those. Well, none of the other kids could do magic either. He was special.

Just satisfaction. Not really excitement or nervousness…Just that hunger. That hunger for magic, for prowess, for a better world. Nothing compared to the bursting geysers of emotion he’d felt moments ago.

He looked up at the engine, a small smile lining his features as he stepped up to enter it.

Tom woke up to the hospital room, and went from teetering to falling off the bed.

And for a brief moment he was dizzy with unsurity; unsurity of where, or even who he was.

After he took a moment to right himself, the questions restarted themselves:

Was that just a dream? Or were those his memories?

They can’t have been, could they? He didn’t wake in a flurry of remembrance of all the memories preceding and following those. Besides, Dumbledore had told him his family was dead.

Although the final dream, or memory, was so different from the first two…Maybe that was from another year, and explained what had happened to his family?

He could tell from context they were his family, at least at some point. Yet he didn’t recognize them, or remember their names, or much of anything else about them.

Yet…

Yet, at the remembrance of their images, waves of emotion crossed over him, mostly comprised of loss, and longing. He didn’t know where those waves could have hailed from, when he didn’t remember or care for these people. But something inside himself wanted all this to stop.

It overwhelmed him. He wanted to brush it off…but stayed on the ground, leaning against the wall, digging his nails into his shirt.

He tried to feel normal…or even remember what normal was. He thought he felt normal most of the day. Right now he didn’t feel like…himself.

A line of light reached its hands out to him, and he looked up to see the door to Madam Pomfrey’s room open slightly. She must have heard him fall off the bed—(did she have owl hearing? The other kid was still snoring like a troll). Meeting her eyes was a mistake, because she gave a small gasp, and ran over to him with the speed of a rocket powered penguin.

As she helped him up, she quickly began bombarding him numerous questions, comforts, and recommendations—

“I’m FINE!” he yelled, pushing her hand away—(the other kid’s snores abruptly stopped, but he didn’t wake)— “Stop pestering me, Woman!”

Her eyes widened, apparently so shocked a student would speak this way to her, that for a moment she couldn’t speak. And at that look, before she could scold him, he muttered.

“I’m…sorry.”

The words just came out, he didn’t really think about it. But as his tongue traced the words he tasted iron.

“My dreams weren’t very pleasant,” he added. “That’s all.”

She still proceeded to berate him heavily for his behavior, and checked more than once that his dreams really were the only problem, but he could barely hear her. He couldn’t stop thinking about how strange it was that, after all the foreignness both the day and the night had to offer, the most foreign experience of all that day, was the feeling of those two words leaving his lips.

[talietikasero]

Aria of the Sol

So, this is a preview (with brief context before each scene) for something I’ve been working on for a while. This is a “what if" scenario following the "Aria was revived” ending (/ original implication?). Set in the three-week gap between Revelator and Strive.

[Check it out on AO3]

Scene 1 (Chapter 1): Aria wakes up in the hospital and meets her daughter and son-in-law. [Inspired by “Ch’io mi scordi di te?” by rex101111]

[November 25. Illyrian Royal Medical Center, Patient Room 107. 11:02 am] Approximately five days had passed since she was checked in as a patient. If only she knew the collective shock from the medical staff and those who were waiting to visit their family members when they saw her unconscious form being brought into the facility by Sol nearly kicking the doors off, who had Ky and Sin trailing right behind. Those standing outside were treated to the sight of the Gullinkambi Dark acting as the group's transport, with Daryl's fleet right behind as they were all returning to Eastern Illyria.

“She gonna be alright?”

“Let’s hope so.”

“You’re good to go, Johnny. Thanks for the lift.”

“Anytime.”

“Daryl, drop the girls at my home. Dizzy will be waiting outside.”

“Understood.”

Inside her head, memories of who she was started flooding in from two clashing sources. Source A had recent memories about her days figuring out what it’s like to be human. People tracking her down, one annoyed she got away, another insisting she take off the mask so he could see her face. Source B saw nothing but death and destruction, whether it was from her hands or not. Humanity hated her for this, but she didn’t care. Those foolish “knights" who dared oppose her. That grumpy old man who, against all odds, survived fighting her on seventeen different occasions. Out of those eleven brave souls who participated in the tournament that led to her release, one stood above the rest. When she saw him, it was then that she remembered herself —who they were – before taking her final breath.

“H… How could I have forgotten you? If only we could have talked one last time… Just the three of us…”

“…Justice…? That’s right… The man who created us… our boss! I won’t rest until you lie writhing in agony before me!!”

Vision hazy, she stood alone in a void that seemed all too familiar before seeing two others in front of her. This strange woman with a halo and a pumpkin motif who mirrored her in physical appearance down to the face simply smiled, where the armored monster who she admittedly was frightened by stood idly and stared before nodding. They faced each other, joining their hands before merging as one. She saw her own reflection, still dressed in her researcher clothes. Her identity became clear.

She is Aria Hale, one of the key researchers assigned to the Gear Project.

Various figures and faces she couldn’t put names to appear one by one, two of which appeared to be her old colleagues still dressed in their white lab coats. She wanted to call out to them before refraining as they changed into strange attire. One was covered from head to toe in a hooded robe that looked more like a straitjacket than anything, where the other was clad in red, black, and white, and was the reason for her demise seven years prior. Was this truly how they were in her absence? Everything suddenly went blinding white.

Aria had regained consciousness. Nose crinkling at the sterile "lemon" scent, her eyes slowly opened to see the dimmed fluorescent light above.   "Nnnngh, where am I?"   Her sudden awakening startled the nurse who was doing her hourly check-in, causing her to rush out the door and call for one of the main physicians. Whoops. Curious about her surroundings, she saw that she was dressed in a light blue hospital gown and had been hooked up to a system that tracked her life signs. This wasn’t the project complex infirmary. Where exactly was she?

When the nurse returned following a doctor, Aria apologized for the unintended scare, to which the latter understood and said she overreacted. After a series of questions regarding any possible issues and if she had any dietary restrictions, the doctor had another staff member bring her something to eat and drink. She wasn’t listening to what they were discussing but did catch “well now that she’s up, please contact his majesty.”

[1:15 pm]

“That was unexpected.” The breakfast she ate wasn’t the subpar hospital food she recalled from back then. Rather, she was given a bowl of freshly chopped fruits, some toast and berry cream cheese, and a mug of coffee with sweet cinnamon cream and sugar mixed in. As an afternoon treat, she was also left a fruit tart, along with a kettle of hot water, a small assortment of tea, and two cups.

Aria was passing time with a copy of the local newspaper in hand while the radio played music, trying to wrap her head around what she was reading. The main story reported that there was this worldwide battle ranging from Illyria to the Japanese Colony. The article detailed various heroes fighting against someone named Ariels's forces; assassins, pirates, a doctor (with a paper bag on his head? What in the hell), some soldiers (oh my god just how large is that man with the helm?), and... is that a girl with wings? What exactly did she miss? Despite not knowing who this blue-haired girl was, she couldn't help but feel a little proud of her, reading the positive things the people were saying. "She saved my life!"

"She refused to abandon us."

"She's like an angel! No, a goddess!”

“If she were Queen, she’d make a perfect match for King Ky.” The hospital's usual noise of medical staff chatting or yelling life-saving orders, wheels on carts and beds rolling, and footsteps were present, but she heard what sounded like a group of people headed towards her room. She folded the paper and placed it on the table next to her bedside, figuring she'd finish reading it later. If there was something that caught her attention, it was the weekly news recap radio broadcast stating that the Gear Maker has turned himself in.

“The ‘Gear Maker’… Asuka’s been arrested?”

"Ah, here we are."

"Thank you."

"Thanks, doc."

"This is exciting! I can't wait to meet her." Was her head playing tricks on her? Those muffled voices on the other side of the door sound familiar yet entirely foreign. Still listening, she saw herself in the mirror the nurse had left earlier. "Well, if they come in here, I can't look disheveled." She lowly muttered as she touched up her appearance; it wasn't too bad, just a light sign of tiredness (she wanted a haircut too.) “…When did my hair become… two-tone…?”

First, she heard a soft, feminine voice. "I think it'd be best if she saw you first. I don't want to scare her. D-don't give me that look, Dad!" Scare her? How could that happen when she'd already seen the worst horrors imaginable?

"Dizzy, look at me. You're not scary. But I see what you're getting at." Whoever the second person in this conversation was, she could sense they were reassuring her of something. It sounded like they were together in some way. "I think she'd be happy to see you." Her eyes widened as the third voice caught her off guard. Is that who she thinks it is? Is it really ---?   "Incredible, Sol. Your soft side is showing." "Shut it, Ky." Dizzy? Sol? Ky? Who are these people? "I'd say it's normal to forget someone from before, but you know all three of them. Or at least I did. ~" Who the hell was that? Now there's a voice in her head? Great. She just wanted to sleep again and tell those three to come back later. Now was not the time for having to get answers for every question that may pop up. "Heh. Doctor, could you do the honor?" "Oh, of course." There was a gentle knock on the door. "Ma'am?" "Y-yes?" Aria put the mirror away and adjusted her blanket. "You have a couple of visitors. Is it okay to come in?" "Yes. Please enter." The sound of the door slowly creaking open was harsh compared to the steady beeps of her vitals monitors. She wondered who would step in first but kept her hopes at bay. A blond young man dressed in blue and white was the first to enter. Had she seen him somewhere before? He was older now but lacked the fierce and determined gaze she remembered. Neutral bordering on welcoming, this man bowed as he introduced himself. "Good afternoon, madam. My name is Ky Kiske. I'm the King of Illyria." Oh god, what did she do? How was she supposed to greet royalty, let alone the man who's in charge of everything? Unsure of how to do so, she politely nodded and smiled. "Pleased to meet you, your highness. To what do I owe the honor of a visit?" "It's been a few days but what a relief it is to see you're awake. I hope you don’t mind as my wife wanted to come along, and we brought an old ‘friend’ of yours." "I appreciate the concern." "We're sorry to show up unannounced, but we came as soon as we could." Dizzy was the second to enter the room, taking a seat close to her. "I know this may come off as a shock, but it's nice to finally meet you, Mom." Aria took a moment to study Dizzy's appearance. Features remarkably like her own, mainly in the eyes and face shape. Long blue hair tied with yellow ribbons, a tail, red eyes, and wings. The realization hit her like a freight train as this was who she had just read about. This heroine, the queen, was her daughter. How the child of two stressed-out scientists from over one hundred and seventy years ago ended up as one of the most powerful women on Earth is an answer for another time. For now, she was trying to think of a conversation starter. “Nice to meet you too.”

//

“It wasn’t until our college years that I met your father.”

“You two weren’t high school sweethearts?”

“If we knew each other back then, something might’ve come out of it. He is two years older than I am.”

“Oh. So, with that if you were a sophomore, he was a senior?” Dizzy may have the mind of a woman in her mid- to late-twenties, but she never had the chance to attend an actual school. She did have an idea about how education systems worked.

“Precisely, though I might’ve been bumped up to the same student standing now that I think about it. Though that would’ve been unlikely as I earned my PhD in my late teens. Our studies differed, with my focus on cytology, and his in magic particle physics, but the two of us were recruited to work for the same project group after graduating. He was confused as to how I could be interested in someone like him – an extrovert and an introvert, respectively. Aside from me and our mutual colleague, he didn’t have very many friends – if any at all.” Aria noticed the expression on Ky’s face, indicating that he already knew about her partner’s lack of social skills. “I guess he wanted to be around me so much that he asked to be transferred to the team I was with, rather than work on his original assignment. All jokes aside, it was really because of how much significance the project held. I think he was tasked on researching some powerful spell. Saint Oratorio, I believe it was called.”

Dizzy turned to Ky, asking something that popped into her head. “Isn’t that what they fired that day?” Ky nodded, remembering the argument on if another energy blast should’ve been used or not. Aria noticed the couple sneaking in a quick glance at the door, then exchanging a knowing look at each other.

“Excuse me for a second.” Ky rose from his seat and headed out the door. “Get in here and talk to her, you moron!”

“I told you I’d go in when I was ready!”

“And when would that be, huh?”

“When you and Dizzy left! Let go of me! AGH!”

The door swung open with Ky dragging a familiar face into the room by the lapel of his jacket. Dark brown hair, olive skin, and those bold rectangular eyes she vividly remembers. The world knew him by a nom de guerre – Sol Badguy. His real identity wasn’t common knowledge, only being known by a handful of individuals – Asuka, Paradigm, presumably Ky, Leo, and the Valentines, and her. He displayed no significant signs of aging despite the time that passed since she last saw him, still appearing to be in his mid-twenties. Aria’s grip on the blanket tightened as she murmured his name. “…Frederick?”

____________________________________

Scene 2: After being discharged from the hospital, Dizzy takes Aria out on a shopping trip. Aria meets a friendly time traveler. 

[December 2. Downtown Shopping District. 12:15 pm]

“Let’s get going. There’s more shops to browse."

Although the public started to trust her, Dizzy and Aria went out with two members of the Convict Hammer team as their escort. Thankfully, the citizens were nice enough to give the Queen her space and greeted her whenever she passed by. There were some who gave her “thank you” gifts, ranging from goody baskets filled with sweets and teas to flowers and handmade trinkets, all of which were given to their escorts to carry.

Weather today was a cool 60 degrees Fahrenheit, slightly overcast with scattered clouds. Aria recalled something regarding her accessory choice on a past date. “You gotta be some kind of eccentric to wear a hat on a day like today.” The promenade was bustling with the usual crowds, some people were getting ideas for what gifts to buy for those special in their lives as Christmas was approaching. Aria noticed a family of three walking past a toy store, seeing the child point out what was in the window to their parents. Glancing at Dizzy, who was busy meeting and greeting the people she protected during the recent attacks, she thought to herself “if only I – no, we were there for you back then. That could’ve been the three of us.” It made her chuckle that their escort had to explain everyone needed to wait their turn to speak with her daughter – she is technically a celebrity.

Aria couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. She stood still, noticing everything froze similarly to that fateful day. Out of nowhere, a man with long blond hair, wearing a blue shirt, black pants, a varsity jacket, and a black bandana appeared next to her. His sudden presence nearly made her jump out of her skin. Just like Ky, Aria vaguely remembers seeing him before too. He simply smiled and waved in a friendly manner. “You have nothin’ to worry about. Name’s Axl. I’m a friend of Fre—I mean, Sol’s.” One more person to add to the list of who knows his real name. “He asked me to check on you today. Glad to see you’re doing well.”

Aria blinked at him owlishly. “I’m sorry but did you just say check on me?”

“Yeah, he’s got other business to attend to – can’t say exactly what it is either.” He shrugged, giving her a look that she couldn’t decipher. “He told me to tell you he’s sorry for being gone, but he did add something about making it up to you. We’ll meet again sometime.” Axl raised his right hand, making a peace sign. “See ya ‘round, Ari.”

“W-wait!” Time resumed, leaving her standing in the middle of the sidewalk confused about what she just heard. She tried to find Axl, her head turning to all possible directions, and no trace of him was to be seen as if he vanished into thin air. Her motions bordered on frantic as some passersby gave her puzzled looks. “He doesn’t have the decency to see me in person, yet he sends a friend to say hi and watch over me. Sometimes, I just don’t understand you, Frederick…”

“Madam Hale, is everything alright?” One Convict Hammer asked regarding her wellbeing. “You seem like something's troubling you.”

“I’m fine, really. I spaced out for a bit.” Aria rubbed the back of her neck in attempt to brush aside what just happened. “Sorry.”

____________________________________

Scene 3: Ky takes Aria to the castle. She meets the other Kings and has something to ask one of them.

[December 3. Illyria Castle War Room, 9:45 am]

“The last time I saw this many people staring at screens and tapping away at keys was during a project crunch.” Coffee cup in hand, Aria commented on the operator crew stationed around what looked like a throne on the lower floor. “It was either from a sooner deadline or everyone just decided to make last minute changes on their data. It wasn’t odd to see at least one or two people running down the complex’s halls with a sizeable stack of papers.”

“Not too different from the crew here, but what can you do? We’re only human. Normally, civilians aren’t allowed in here, but I’ll make an exception.”

“He’s right about the ‘no civilian' policy.” A boisterous voice came from the burly man that approached them. “Ky, who is this?”

“Aria, this is Leo Whitefang, the Second King. Leo, this is Aria Hale. You know, my mother-in-law and you-know-who’s partner.”

She nervously smiled at him. “Hi?” Fitting name considering he has a hairstyle reminiscent of a lion’s mane. He towered over them, standing with a sturdy frame at six feet and five inches. She noticed the difference in the two kings’ fashion choices; Ky wore lighter clothes with his jacket placed over his shoulders, where Leo had a heavy coat with a furry lining.

“Oh, my apologies.” Leo apologizing wasn’t something anyone saw often. He gave Ky a side-eyed glare. “A heads up would’ve been nice.”

“One of the few times I decide to drop by, and the God of War's better half is here.” A man who looked to be exactly the midpoint of Ky and Leo's age gap approached the three, briefly bowing as he stood near them. “Good morning, Ms. Hale.”

"Daryl?" Kiske and Whitefang asked in unison. “What are you doing here?”

“With the G4 summit next week, I thought I’d at least consult with you two in person before I go. It’d be a terrible idea if all three of us went, wouldn’t you agree?”

Aria wondered what the Three Kings had for a planned course of action regarding the conference. At the moment, she remembered what she and Ky had discussed on the trip to the castle. She tapped his shoulder and leaned in to whisper “did you forget my idea?”

“Ah, right. That’s one of the reasons why I brought you here. Leo, Aria has something to ask.”

“And that would be?” She didn’t speak, only bumping her fists together. “You want us to do what now?" Leo asked as he crossed his arms. He had an idea of what she meant but would rather hear it from her. "Teach me how to fight. I can't be reliant on others to defend me." "Okay." Ky chimed in. "Okay!?! You're telling me that the woman who used to be Just--- OW!" Aria punched Leo in the stomach as hard as she could. "Don't call me that."

“AUGH! Was that necessary!?” Ky couldn't help but laugh at Leo's expense. "And we're off to a good start. Look at it this way, it's not like we’re placing her in a big role like Ramlethal."

"Dammit, bambino! You have a point. Fine. Report back here at 0900 tomorrow. Your training will begin then." Leo’s communicator went active. Holding a finger up to his ear, he answered and looked towards the hallway. “Hm? Yeah. Alright, I’ll be right there. I’ll get you access.” Click. “That was Ram. Did you not authorize her entry to the armory?” Ky shook his head – the task referred to was Leo’s job. “Before I go, what’s your preferred style? Sword? Shield? Bare hands?”

“You’ll find out when you start teaching me.” Aria replied with a hint of playful snark.

“You really are Sol’s girlfriend.” As Leo walked away, Aria turned to see what looked to be a girl wearing a white body-length cape with red bandages on her left limbs waiting for him. The mysterious girl seemed to be hovering a few inches off the ground and was accompanied by two small flying creatures.

“He’s a bit of a hardass, but you learn to tolerate it.”

“I heard that! There’s a multitude of reasons you’re not as popular as us and that’s one of them!”

“See what I mean. Also, this is for you.“ Daryl handed Aria a medium sized gift bag with pink and purple tissue paper sticking out. Printed with an art nouveau floral pattern, there was a sun emblem on the lower right corner, not-so subtly hinting at who dropped it off. “I didn’t know which flavor you’d like, so I put both chocolate and strawberry desserts inside, on top of your actual gift. Don’t worry, I didn’t look.”

[Kiske Residence, Aria’s room. 5:15 pm]

“If you ever stop by, I hope you like what I picked out…” Aria placed the folded bag in the drawer and slid it shut. She looked to the closet where the other clothing she bought was stored, including a dress and hat like what she owned in the past. Hopefully, she’ll be able to wear it sometime.

“Ram, are you sure about this? We haven’t introduced ourselves yet! She might think we’re being rude.”

“I’m certain, El. At least let me try and speak with her. I’m only the messenger here.”

“Hey, are ya talking about Sol’s gal? Ya know, I was the first Valentine’s companion.”

“Ugh, stay out of this, you big balloon creep!”

“Lucifero. Self-destruct. Why must you follow me everywhere?”

“You’re getting better at this whole showing emotion thing, but you’re terrible at small talk! …okay. I’ll be waiting in our room until you’re done.”

Following the fading footsteps, a rhythmic knock-knock-knock preceded a monotone voice. “Miss Aria? May I come in?”

“It's unlocked.” Her attention was turned to the same young girl from this morning standing in the doorway. She wore a dark blue and white sailor dress with a mint green bow, had amber eyes, brown skin, and cream white hair. “I don’t think we’ve met before, but you’re Ramlethal, right?”

“Of course you two have met! Just not like this! ~”

“Correct. As you may have learned, I am a Valentine, and as such my sister and I were created from you.”

“’Valentine'? Created… from… me?”

“Mother used you as a template for our existence. I can see why now but telling you this isn’t why I’m here.”

“Then why are you? Do you… want to chat? You look like you could use someone to talk to.”

Ramlethal's blank expression shifted to a soft smile. “Perhaps another time, but there’s something I have to do first.” She walked up to Aria and hugged her. “This is from him. Thank you for returning. Sol is much happier than he was before.” She let go and left, gently closing the door behind her.

Aria stood there dumbfounded at what had just occurred. “He’s… happier?”

She took a seat at the desk where she placed her gift from earlier. Her curiosity got the best of her, and she decided to open it. “I know it’s from you, but what exactly did you get me?” Removing the tissue paper and the extra gift desserts, she pulled out a black box. Placed inside was a brown teddy bear dressed as Sol – removable headband included – holding a heart and rose, along with a card that had “to Aria” written on it. Opening it, she read the message.

“Cute plushie, isn’t he? I got this custom made just for you. Even comes with a change of clothes: a purple shirt, black slacks, and a lab coat. Hope you’re not too worried about me. I promise I’ll see you soon. Okay? 🖤”

Aria finally has friends and family, yet without Frederick, she felt alone. Opening the container with the strawberry pudding, she picked up a spoon, and placed a scoop of the sweet in her mouth. “I’ll hold you to that… Really wanted to share this with you too.”

____________________________________

Scene 4: Aria meets her other genetic copy and her grandson. Song used: “Pirates” by Caravan Palace.

[December 5. 6:30 pm]

Reorganizing her belongings, the soft melody from the song currently playing on the phonograph filled the room.

Do me, beauty. Rock me up, yup go once again. Hug me, beauty. Oop, the way this life is clearing into my brains. Fool me, beauty. Let me think of home once again. Hear me, beauty. You gotta hide away the secret of your low bone this man.

“Miss Aria. It’s me, Ram. Can I come in?”

“Of course.”

“I hope I’m not intruding on anything.” Ramlethal was carrying her puppy in her arms to keep it from barging in.

“You weren’t. I was just cleaning up. What brings you to my room?”

“I, uh, wanted to tell you I think your skills are developing nicely.” She chose her words carefully, trying not to sound off-putting. Holding a conversation is something she’s still working on. “I had some downtime and observed again.”

Aria's training today consisted of testing her agility and competence to read and react to opponents. During a brief cooldown period, she did notice the small group of people watching included more. “Who were those two standing next to you, Dizzy, and the others?”

“My younger sister and your grandson. They’re,” Ram paused for a second, “actually waiting outside because they would like to talk to you as well.”

 Aria's attention went to the open door, seeing a grey-haired girl and a blond boy with an eyepatch sticking their heads in. “Come on in, you two.”

Elphelt and Sin entered, both taking note of how grand the royal residence's guest room was designed. The younger Valentine was nowhere near as reserved as her sister when it came to talking about something – the first thing that came out of her mouth after seeing Hale was “oh, she’s even prettier in person! I see where Miss Dizzy got her looks from! And by extension, me!”

“Like looking into a mirror, isn’t it? Even more so since you got a new hairdo. ~”

“Weirdly familiar, like I’ve seen you before.” Sin poked his chin, trying to recall. “I remember now, there was the first one with the winged hat who tried to kill the Old Man! She had a freaky Gear form and managed to brainwash me for a bit too. But I can tell you aren’t her since she’s gone.” He was jabbed in the arms by the sisters. “Ouch, what was that for!?”

“You had a brain to begin with, you dope?!”

“El, don’t be rude!”

As the three were fighting amongst themselves, Aria found herself thinking “what in the hell happened.”

[7:43 pm]

“I’m glad I had the chance to speak with you. Is this what is referred to as ‘therapy'?”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it that, but let’s say yes for the time being. Hey, what’s wrong? Was it something I said?”

“N-no. It wasn’t. You just seem more like a mother to me than my ‘actual' one. I am aware I’m not human, and she created me as an emotionless doll she threw away when I had no further use.” Ramlethal tried to soothe herself by smoothing out her bandages. Part of her wanted to tell Aria about what happened in Scandiva, yet she couldn’t bring herself to do so. Her magehound started snuggling next to her, sensing the mood drop. “She… she called me a failure.”

Aria grabbed a tissue and wiped the tear that ran down Ram's cheek. After disposing of it – and picking up the Sol bear – she kneeled in front of the Valentine, holding the plush in front of her own face. Using one of the bear's limbs to tap her knee, she had her attention. “Listen to me. She’s the failure, not you.”

Peeking up from behind the toy, Aria was treated to the sight of her genetic copy struggling to keep herself from giggling.

____________________________________

Scene 5 (Chapter 2): Day trip date. Aria brings up a very sensitive subject later that night. (Note: this was written with the game’s implication of a pregnancy. Also, I did some level of research and figured the stage I picked is approximately where Italy's Amalfi Coast is.)

[December 9. L'oro di Illyria. 5:45 pm]

A few hours later, they went for a leisurely trip down south, dressed in their best attempts at incognito clothing. Emphasis on attempt as the suppressor was a dead giveaway (it was worth a shot). Aria was wearing that dress and hat she purchased a week prior, paired with leggings, fuzzy boots, and a warm winter coat. A callback to how he dressed himself in the past, Frederick was wearing a black button-up shirt with a tank top underneath, dark blue jeans, and a pair of Chelsea boots. He also had a mid-long jacket that she brought along just in case, placed under the sidecar’s seat.

“Oh, I remember this place! Heaven’s Edge! It’s where we met for the first time after I left the Sanctuary to get some fresh air. Ah, memories. ~ Or am I remembering wrong? Those sword monoliths look very familiar.”

There’s that childlike voice again. It changed to a mature tone mid-sentence.

“Just who are you? And how can your voice change like that!?”

“Oops, I’m sorry. You see, I’m the previous owner of your current body. My name is J—”

Before this disembodied voice could say her name, Aria’s attention went elsewhere. “You alright?”

“Uh, yeah. This isn’t what I thought you meant by going out, but at least the trip here was fun.” The highway they took was through inner Italy and had passed through numerous towns, of which contained convenience shops to obtain refreshments here and there. “Built that bike yourself, didn’t you?”

“Designed for one so that’s why I made a sidecar for you.”

“Can it turn into a minibike if I wanted it to?”

“What? You’re psychic now? I’m still working on that part.”

“Hey, chief! Ari!”

“Axl? What are you doing here?”

“I was in the area. Thought I’d drop by and say ‘ello. Almost didn’t recognize the two of ya.” He wasn’t used to seeing Frederick, let alone anybody, in anything so casual. Aria, on the other hand, wore that dress nicely. He couldn’t help but feel a slight hint of sadness, as the last woman he saw in a similar clothing article was M— he mentally shook his head and put on a smile. “That outfit looks lovely. Ain’t you a lucky guy?”

“Thank you. Nice to see you in real time and not during a time freeze.”

“Ah, yeah. I wanted to avoid trying to talk in a crowd. My bad if you were annoyed by my choice.” Axl had the power to jump to any point in time and any dimension, yet he’s been frequently visiting for some reason only he knows. “I got something to tell you.”

“I could use a quick snack.” Aria wasn’t paying attention to Low and spotted the outdoor marketplace, noticing the large ship cruising by. “I’ll be over by that fruit vendor. Don’t be too long, alright?”

As Aria left, the two men watched her reach into her purse, taking out a few W$ to purchase an apple. It amused them as she tried to fight the kind vendor about giving her a free apple, insisting that she pay for it as it’s only fair for business. Not only did she end up with a free fruit, but she was also given a bag containing two additional and a bottle of cream soda with a straw. She didn’t look back at them; her attention went to admiring the colorful cliffside residential buildings.

“Do you think I could get a free piece of fruit and a drink too or is she a special case?”

“You might scare the living daylight out of him.”

[9:15 pm]

"So, um, about Dizzy." Aria clasped her hands together and twiddled her thumbs, avoiding eye contact while staring at the paved stone walkway.   "I was trying not to bring her up, but what about her?"   "I..." She took a deep breath and collected her thoughts. "I didn't know how to tell you." She didn't hear a response, worrying her about what Frederick was thinking. A moment later, she felt a hand rubbing her back, taking this as a sign that he's listening while trying to soothe her. "I already experienced how you reacted when I told you I was sick with that infection, but I didn't want to make that worse by telling you you're going to be a father. I don’t recall how far along I was, but you shouldn’t have had to live with knowing you’ll never see your unborn after I was gone either."   He remained quiet a bit longer before reaching to wrap his arm around and pull her closer. Not too suddenly as he didn't want to give off the wrong idea, but once he saw her ease into him, he placed a kiss on the crown of her head. “Do you remember your birthday where I showed you that programming ‘error'?”

“You mean the ring? Of course I do. I didn’t mind that you didn’t have the real one because your method was so cute. It was so… you. If neither of us killed the mood, I would’ve told you I was looking forward to changing my name to Aria Bulsara.”

“I’d be lying if I said I didn't occasionally think of some alternate time where we truly settled down. We were still scientists and met under the same circumstances, but there was no Gear project or magic, and you didn't have an illness. Or at least one you didn't tell me about near your last days."   "Wha--... really?"   "Yeah. Then all this shit happened." His voice was deceptively calm, yet she could sense the rage beneath it all. "My conversion and the resulting amnesia, your conveniently timed 'disappearance', and the destruction of the complex with countless deaths were the beginning."   "Then decades later I lost control of my mind and body and waged war against the world. That stubborn geezer never quit, but then Ky and you showed up to seal 'me' away. I don't think I felt it, but during my imprisonment, that's when I gave birth?"   "Sounds about right. We're living in one of those stories I used to read when I was bored. The reader turns out to be the hero, where someone very close to them was used as a twist villain."

____________________________________

Scene 6 (Chapter 3): Aria takes up the offer of becoming a bounty hunter, taking up the alias “Luna". Her new outfit is a blue, black, and white version of Sol's, with a pair of blue goggles in place of a headband. Song used: “Seven Seas of Rhye” by Queen.

[December 10. Somewhere in the Illyrian outskirts. Midday.]

“No targets today, so do you wanna just relax? I think there’s a beach just up ahead.”

“We’ve been on the road for a few hours, so a rest period at a beach sounds perfect right now.” She noticed what song was currently playing, having already passed the bridge. “Oh, I know this one! It’s one of my favorites.” Clearing her throat, she began singing along. “Storm the master-marathon, I’ll fly through.”

He couldn’t help but smile and continue. “By flash and thunder-fire and I'll survive (I'll survive, I'll survive).”

“Then I'll defy the laws of nature and come out alive,” she pointed a finger at him. “Then I'll get you!”

“Be gone with you, you shod and shady senators.”

“Give out the good, leave out the bad evil cries.”

He clenched his fist and held it up. “I challenge the mighty Titan and his troubadours.”

She placed her index fingers at the ends of her mouth. “And with a smile.”

He pointed towards the shore of the Tyrrhenian Sea as they sang the last line together. “I'll take you to the Seven Seas of Rhye!”

//

[Nighttime.]

A cool 55 degrees, the night sky was clear as the stars strewn throughout were in full display. They sat by a bonfire, sharing drinks and leaning back against the Firewheel Mk.2, enjoying the other's company. There was a brief squabble on whether they should find an actual motel room to stay in for the night, with Aria winning as she convinced Frederick to sleep in a bed as opposed to the ground.

Fire crackling paired with sounds from the nearby wildlife, she thought of a conversation topic. “Hey, do you wanna hear something weird?”

“Shoot.”

“Before I woke up, I saw myself, Justice, and someone else.”

“Oh yeah?”

“It was unnerving. She looked just like me but had a halo and her hair was the inverse of mine. My first day at Ky and Dizzy's, I scrounged around and found a cracked one that looked just like what I saw. Along with an iron mask, a crux ansata, black heels and gloves, and a white jumpsuit. It all fit me perfectly! I was considering wearing that instead of this.”

“Jack-O.”

“Huh?”

He took a drag of his cigarette, blowing the smoke out before continuing. “To bring you back, a special Valentine was made that contained the other half of your soul. Her name was Jack-O.” He butted the cigarette before tossing it into the fire. “Ram, Sin, and I chased her down before any additional damage could've been done. Then a few days later, she reappeared with Asuka, and struck a deal with us. Said something like ‘if you can get me close enough, I can fuse with Justice to revive, well, you.’ I thought they were full of it. Turned out they were telling the truth.”

“He's right! ~ I took off my mask and told him I was literally half of you. Nearly lost his mind right there. Sorry about the forced mind override, but you refused to accept it, and he wasn’t going to back down. ~”

“That explains the voice in my head. I wonder how her stuff got into my room though.”

“She’s still in there?” He gently poked her forehead. “I can imagine when you wear these, she also sees life through blue tinted lenses.”

“You’ve got puns now? I knew I should’ve gone with a pink color scheme.”

“Blue’s more your color.”

[dewitty1]

I dream of you, to wake

harryromper @harryromper

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter Characters: Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Luna Lovegood, Ron Weasley, Molly Weasley Additional Tags: Angst with a Happy Ending, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Hermione Granger, Healer Luna Lovegood, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, unusual careers, Dreams, Dreams vs. Reality, Dreamsharing, Coma, Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, Hogwarts, Don’t copy to another site Summary:

“Typically coma patients are made comfortable and left to regain consciousness in their own time,“ Draco points out carefully.

“Typically, yes. But when has anything about Harry been typical.” Hermione sighs, rubbing at her eye with the heel of her hand. “The Healer-in-Charge has consulted with experts at all the major wizarding hospitals. They all agree. Whatever’s happening inside of Harry’s head right now is killing him.”

Draco Malfoy is a world-renowned dream-walker, and he may be Harry Potter’s only hope.

Excerpt:

He doesn’t recognise the restaurant, but it’s the sort of place he loves to eat at. Stiff white linen tablecloths and red wine in giant boat-sized glasses. The dessert in front of him is fussy and complicated, and when he takes a bite, delicious flavours explode on his tongue.

Harry is dressed up — a beautifully tailored jacket and no tie, his shirt open at the collar and his hair tamed. It makes Draco’s mouth dry. He glances down at himself and is not surprised to find he’s wearing a suit. But he’s absolutely dumbfounded to see he’s wearing a suit that he actually owns.

Not possible.

But unmistakable. A rich, dark blue three-piece he’d had made in Paris last winter.

There are only two explanations and neither of them make any sense: that Harry can somehow have seen him in this suit or that Draco himself is now contributing to the fabric of these dreams.

No.

Harry raises his glass in a toast, smiling broadly at him.

“Happy anniversary,” he says, clinking his wine against Draco’s, who is suddenly finding it impossible to think, let alone speak.

Focus! Or neither of you are getting out of here.

“I’m not really one for speeches, as you know,” Harry goes on, ducking his head briefly, a blush rising high on his cheeks. “But I want you to know how happy the last few years have made me.”

“Harry…” Draco’s not sure he can take this. He needs to burst this bubble swiftly, before he doesn’t have the strength to try — physically or emotionally.

Harry tangles their fingers together on the table. “No, let me. I never thought, when we first met under that tree as children all those years ago…”

Draco shakes his head, giving Harry’s hand a small squeeze. “We met in Madam Malkin’s, being fitted for robes.”

He expects to see that familiar flicker of annoyance or confusion, but Harry just smiles more broadly.

“And when you came to teach at Hogwarts, you were so self-assured, and so bloody attractive I couldn’t stand it,” he breaks off in a chuckle. “It brought back all the best memories from school, watching Quidditch together.”

Draco’s chest clenches. “We don’t have good school memories, Harry. We hated each other. You fought and won a war I was on the wrong side of.”

Again, he’s expecting him to resist the truth. To disagree, or worse to pull his wand. He’s not expecting Harry to just smile at him, as if he’s his favourite person in the world.

“I know none of those things happened out there. But it doesn’t matter. They happened in here. You’re amazing, Draco. I’m so happy you found me.”

“This is all inside your head, Harry. None of this is real.”

Harry laughs at this. An honest, delighted sound.

“Dumbledore once said to me, Of course it’s happening inside your head, Harry. Why should that mean it’s not real?”

Draco’s got no context for this and hearing Dumbledore’s name is a shock, like feeling ice water poured down his spine.

“We need to go home, Harry. To your room at Grimmauld Place. Ron and Hermione and Luna. Molly and the children. They’re all there waiting for you.”

“No, we need to stay here,” Harry says firmly. “We’re together here.”

Draco huffs an exasperated laugh. “We’re in bed together out there. Besides, when you wake up you won’t want this. You don’t want me.”

Harry’s expression drops, finally. He looks sad and serious. “You don’t know anything about what I want.”

Draco’s ribcage feels too small for his lungs. A week ago he’d have said that was the truth. But he’s lived a whole lifetime in these tiny shared moments of the dreams.

“I’ve been here, Harry. I’ve seen what you want. They’re all things you can have. A different job. A life that’s true to who you are. You can have those things.”

Harry shakes his head, looking hopeless, his eyes damp.

“You don’t understand, Draco. You left Britain and didn’t look back. You carved a new path for yourself. Put yourself back together.”

Draco’s throat feels thick and his own eyes are starting to prick.

“I wanted to help, at the trials,” Harry says in a low voice. “And I … couldn’t.”

Draco thinks about Granger’s confession. She’d been right, of course. Draco hadn’t deserved Harry’s help back then.

“But I kept tabs,” Harry cuts off with a rueful laugh. “Christ, I’ve been keeping tabs on you since we were kids. It’s hard to break the habit of a lifetime. And you were just always moving forward. Studying and training and getting treatment and then helping others. And I’m just stuck. Doing the same thing I’ve always done. The only thing I know how to do: chasing Dark wizards.”

Harry rubs a hand over his face. Draco desperately wants to comfort him.

“Draco, I thought the world would open up after Voldemort. And instead it’s just gotten smaller and smaller. But you, you’re not shackled to the past. You found a way to live.”

Draco takes Harry’s hand in both of his.

“You have to too, Harry. You have to find a way to live. Out there you’re dying.”

Harry’s eyes are filling up with tears now, and Draco suspects his own are as well.

“I’ve died before. It’s not so bad.”

It’s awful to hear words of defeat come from this man.

“No. You don’t get to give up, Harry. Not when you’ve shown me what your life could be like. What our lives could be like.”

“It won’t be like that,” Harry says sadly, reaching into his jacket for his wand. Draco panics.

“It won’t be exactly like that,” he agrees quickly. “Our history is much more complicated. But we can make a start on our own version. Together.”

Draco feels the silver anchor around his wrist start to burn. His body must be starting to fail.

“Come with me, Harry,” he pleads, the tears falling openly now.

Around him, the dream is starting to collapse. The walls of the restaurant fall away, and the other tables and diners are turning to fog.

Harry is taking his wand out of his jacket.

“Please, Harry. We can do this. You’ve hunted enough Dark wizards for several lifetimes. It’s time to do something for yourself now. It’s okay to want things for yourself.”

Their table disappears and Draco stumbles as he finds themselves in a blank featureless space that looks oddly like a train station. He clings to Harry’s hand. Harry raises his wand.

“Don’t cut me loose, Harry. Come with me.”

His wrist burns. A sob escapes his throat.

Harry says, “You…”

[thesnapewecandreamof]

600 Follower Ficlet!!

I am CRYING! I thought 500 would be the last of this thing but I was wrong and I love every single one of you!!! 

Another Tumblr Apocalypse is happening but I’m not overly worred about this blog because I haven’t even done any NSFW thing here. I’m not going anywhere. Where else would I post my shit, twitter? Facebook? I don’t think so. 

Anyway, I hope you like this! 

Promises, Promises

“Your life is not your own, keep you hands off it”

When Severus Snape stalks the walls of Hogwarts, the students part around him like the Red Sea. The Bat of the Dungeon’s stride leave taken points and hushed insults in his wake. His robes almost seem to be in a constant state of billowing, and many students wondered if he places a charm on it every morning before breakfast.

Severus Snape has a grace about him that fools those around him that he is born from aristocracy, a patrician in school master robes. His deliberate speech and his dulcet voice grab the attention of people without needing to rise in volume, it is a fact that the softer he speaks, the more will pay attention.

But it is all a carefully cultivated lie.

When he walks, he looks almost as if he is levitating, gliding upon the air mere inches from the ground. This is perhaps, one his biggest lie for Severus Snape carries a heavy burden within him.

The weight of an Unbreakable Vow is heavy on his soul. To most individuals it feels as though a necklace of the most precious gold is placed upon their necks, they can almost forget that it is there given enough time. To Snape, it is a chain made of the heaviest of irons and the strongest of steel. There are only so many vows one can make without having to bear a physical reminder of the chains wrapped around oneself.

A vow of silence to save the werewolf that nearly ended him.

A Life Debt owed to his hated enemy.

A Dark Mark-a slavery mark- to the darkest wizard of their time.

A promise from a bargain made to the Light.

Dumbledore has once made him take a vow to never reveal the secret of Lupin or he will be expelled from the school. It is quite ironic that the first chain to wrap around him would be the easiest to deal with but would leave quite the scar on his mind and heart.

How many people hold ownership of parts of his soul he wonders. Does he even own a part to himself anymore?

His resentment of Dumbledore doesn’t quite fade but it slowly, slowly, moves to the back of his mind. There are nights when they can enjoy a cup of tea and talk about the recent prank of students or the weekly blunders of the ministry. There are days when they can almost seem like friends. Days that he can almost forget how the Headmaster deemed his life lesser and unworthy to save.

But then he returns, and they are forced to reprise their roles. There was a brief moment when Dumbledore turns his back to gaze outside the window, seemingly waiting for the brewing war to erupt, there was a moment when he turned too quickly and caught sight of Snape slouching in his chair, the weight of the promises and the vows weighing on him, the fear and the helplessness stealing his breath, and Dumbledore can see how much it hurt.

And he does nothing.

His eyes stray to the window once again and only turns when he was sure that Severus has resumed his mask and is once again the faithful spy ready to serve.

Every time that the dark mark burns Dumbledore can see a flicker of emotion on Snape’s face and he almost wants to stop his spy from returning to enemy ranks. Almost.

But they had a deal, and deals must be honored. Even if Dumbledore has failed in his part of the bargain.

So Snape continues to spy, to gather intelligence, to bare the pain of failure from a disastrous raid if it means that there are people he can help. Those whom he could not save will haunt his mind and will weigh on his soul forever, but those he could, those people will never know his identity and he was grateful for that.

Keeping the Potter boy safe was going to get him killed one day, he had made his peace with that. He was quite certain it wouldn’t even concern being revealed as a spy, the mischief the boy gets himself in is dangerous enough. There are days when it is incredibly painful to look at Potter. To feel the weight of the Life Debt and the Promise tug at his soul. But he is a master of deception so the students still see the grace of their professor as he walks and insults everyone who comes to his way with his sharp tongue without any hint of the weights he carry.

He had been contemplating an idea after dealing with his upset Master and quietly pitched it to the Headmaster late in the night. Another Unbreakable Vow, this one, meant to be broken. The Headmaster was alarmed at the idea, but Severus was quick to explain the logic of it. It was a backdoor for the spy if he were to be revealed and tortured for information. It was more effective than any poison he will be able to brew and this only took words. It took awhile but eventually, Dumbledore did agree.

Revealing why he started spying and then dying immediately afterwards seemed poetic to him, hilarious even. Albus didn’t share his morbid sense of humor.

But then everything starts to fall into place and Narcissa come to him, begging to help Draco in his impossible task. Narcissa who, with Lucius, helped him get rid of the damnable accent that screamed his unworthiness in belonging in their world. Narcissa who all but dragged him to Madam Malkins when he informed her that he was to be a professor, Lucius who made sure he knew everything about the Pureblood world. Two people who had led him to the Dark Lord’s circle but ultimately held a smidgen of care for him. It was barely a decision at all.

It’s a bad habit of his, giving parts of the soul he no longer owns to people who needs it more.

Maybe that was why he was willing to split it apart for Dumbledore’s schemes. Willing may have been a relative term but the screaming and arguing would eventually lead to the same conclusion, so yes, willing.

Narcissa was clever when she constructed their Vow, ever the Black and the Malfoy. He wished he’d had her common sense and deviousness when he made the other bonds that chain him.

The plan resumes and though he was never truly alone in the Headmaster’s office, he feels the strain of loneliness deep in his heart. There were days he was numb save for the constant weight on his chest and soul.

As the snake bit his throat to ribbons, he wonders if Albus somehow knew of what is to come. He was thankful for his blurred vision as Nagini retreats with her master.

He thought he had failed, the despair was crushing and he almost wanted to sell his soul again to anyone if they can assure the Dark Lord’s defeat. But then the boy revealed himself and tried his best to stop the bleeding. Severus had not failed yet! It was a useless effort to save him but Severus felt his heart pang as he looked into those eyes. Even his ruse of being the enemy didn’t stop Potter from trying to help him. “Fight back you, coward!” Where is that rage now, he wonders. Where could Potter find within himself to show compassion after everything he has been through? The gleaming green of his eyes was all the answer Severus needed.

“Take them...take them.” The tears revealed more than he liked but the boy needs context and maybe Severus is selfish but he needs someone to understand, he needs someone to know. He never claimed to be selfless.

He doesn’t need to absolve himself to the world. The boy is enough.

And Severus wants to be free.

He feels the Unbreakable Vow working its way to his magic, his blood, his bone. It would only take a few seconds for him to meet his end. He wonders if it would hurt and hopes it doesn’t.

He has given parts of his soul away and broken what little part he had for himself. He doubts he’d make it to the after life meant for good people, and he was certain she was there, surrounded by good people who fought for the Light. They’d never meet again and it once again brought a pang to his dying heart.

“Look at me.” This was enough. The progeny of his best friend and his hated enemy, the mentee of his almost father-figure, a boy cast into something not of his choice very much like the young blond fighting for his life. Harry Potter. It’s enough.

“Taking your own life, interesting expression. Taking it from whom?”

He feels the chain that bound him for most of his life fell away and he is free.

Yes I know that I’ve used that Sherlock quote before but it just won’t leave me alone! I had this idea that why wouldn’t Snape use an Unbreakable Vow as an escape, a cyanide pill, to escape being tortured for information just in case?

I was going to write an AU where he does get tortured and kills himself via Unbreakable Vow and people thinking that it was Dumbledore who gave him that option only to find out that it was Snape who insisted on it, but that didn’t pan out.

I just can’t let go that Severus must have helped make that anti-venom for Arthur, he must have that on him ALWAYS. He can put a stopper on death for someone’s sake! People make AU’s of Snape living and I make an sort-of AU where he still dies. But c’mon, that’s why you people read my shit!

In the end, was it truly Nagini’s venom that killed Severus Snape?

[collegeessayguy]

How to Discuss Challenges in Your College Essay So That It Doesn’t Sound Like a Sob Story

This is a question that came up during last week's live course. And, to be frank, there are many ways to talk about your challenges in your personal statement. But here are three good techniques:

1. WITH A LITTLE POETRY

Here’s a professional writing example:

We wanted more. We knocked the butt ends of our forks against the table, tapped our spoons against our empty bowls; we were hungry. We wanted more volume, more riots. We turned up the knob on the TV until our ears ached with the shouts of angry men. We wanted more music on the radio; we wanted beats, we wanted rock. We wanted muscles on our skinny arms. We had bird bones, hollow and light, and we wanted more density, more weight. We were six snatching hands, six stomping feet; we were brothers, boys, three little kings locked in a feud for more. [...] And when our Paps came home, we got spankings. Our little round butt cheeks were tore up: red, raw, leather-whipped. We knew there was something on the other side of pain, on the other side of the sting. Prickly heat radiated upward from our thighs and backsides, fire consumed our brains, but we knew that there was something more, some place our Paps was taking us with all this. We knew, because he was meticulous, because he was precise, because he took his time. - Excerpt from “Lessons” by Justin Torres. For the rest, click here or “Google Justin Torres Lessons”

Here’s a personal statement example:

I can do this by myself. I held the blade, watched it slide across my flesh. The knife was just like Richard Selzer described: cold, gleaming, silent. Red drops of blood trailed the slightly serrated edge. I let out a long sigh. I was at my most desperate. My friend had died in September of my junior year. Five AP classes, weekly volunteering, and a tutoring job had provided added stress. I needed reprieve. And I found it in the knife. Two months later, my French teacher, Madame Deleuze, discovered my secret. That day in AP French while everyone else drilled vocabulary, she called me out to have a talk. - Excerpt from the "Knife" essay, which may be found in College Essay Essentials

IMPORTANT: This is extremely difficult to do—like walking a high-wire—and, if done poorly, this can fail spectacularly. I’d only recommend this if 1) you have lots of time before your essay is due, 2) you consider yourself a moderately good writer and, 3) you are able to speak about your challenges with distance and objectivity (i.e. - you have mostly or completely come through the challenge(s) you’re describing). If you’re short on time, don’t have a lot of experience writing creative non-fiction, or are still very much “in it,” I’d recommend not choosing this method.

But, if you are interested in doing this, and want to learn more about how, check out my analysis in my book College Essay Essentials. (Not trying to sell a book here, it’s just too much to print here and I wanted you know more where you could learn more. That’s where.)

2. WITH A LITTLE HUMOR

Click here for a movie example, or Google this phrase:

But partying it up with a bunch of munchkins isn’t the only way to bring light to an otherwise pretty dark situation.

Here’s a personal statement example:

When I was fifteen years old I broke up with my mother. We could still be friends, I told her, but I needed my space, and she couldn’t give me that. - Excerpt from the "Breaking Up With Mom" essay found in College Essay Essentials

Note how she uses the (funny, but subtle) cliche of “I needed space” and puts it the context of something that was a pretty big deal for her—cutting her mother off.

Another example:

I’ve desperately attempted to consolidate my opposing opinions of Barbie into a single belief, but I’ve accepted that they’re separate. In one, she has perpetuated physical ideals unrepresentative of how real female bodies are built. Striving to look like Barbie is not only striving for the impossible—the effort is detrimental to women’s psychological and physical health, including my own. In the other, Barbie has inspired me in her breaking of the plastic ceiling. She has dabbled in close to 150 careers, including some I’d love to have: a UNICEF Ambassador, teacher, and business executive. And although it’s not officially listed on her résumé, Barbie served honorably in the War in Afghanistan. - Excerpt from “Barbie vs. Terrorism and the Patriarchy” in College Essay Essentials and in PDF for “How to Write a Personal Statement”

And here’s a request (and challenge) for you, dear reader: I’d love to see more examples of the use of humor to address challenges, as I haven’t seen many great ones.

Request: Can you think of any--either in personal statements or otherwise? If so, please email them to info@collegeessayguy.com. Or:

Challenge: Maybe you write the essay that provides a great example for future students.

3. WITH STRAIGHTFORWARD EFFICIENCY

This is the simplest way, and it can even be the most vulnerable. Why? Because there's nothing dressing it up--no hiding behind poetic language or humor--you're just telling it like it is.

Personal statement example:

At age three, I was separated from my mother. The court gave full custody of both my baby brother and me to my father. Of course, at my young age, I had no clue what was going on. However, it did not take me long to realize that life with my father would not be without its difficulties." - Excerpt from "Raising Anthony" in College Essay Essentials and in PDF for “How to Write a Personal Statement”

IMPORTANT: I mention “efficiency” above because it’s important to do this in the most succinct way possible—probably in the first paragraph or two. But they you need to move on to a) what you did about it and b) what you learned. So just tell it, with simple and plain language.

ALSO: If you're unsure/insecure about adding humor or poetry, I'd recommend starting with the straightforward method. It'll get you started. And, who knows, maybe some humor and poetry will emerge.

Here's one more example of a straightforward, efficient opening to an essay that deals with challenges:

It was Easter and we should’ve been celebrating with our family, but my father had locked us in the house. If he wasn’t going out, neither were my mother and I. My mother came to the U.S. from Mexico to study English. She’d been an exceptional student and had a bright future ahead of her. But she fell in love and eloped with the man that eventually became my father. He loved her in an unhealthy way, and was both physically and verbally abusive. My mother lacked the courage to start over so she stayed with him and slowly let go of her dreams and aspirations. But she wouldn’t allow for the same to happen to me. - Excerpt from “Easter" essay in College Essay Essentials

STILL UNCERTAIN ABOUT HOW TO DO THIS? WANT MORE?

For a complete structural analysis of the “Raising Anthony” essay mentioned above, click here, or Google “College Essay Guy Significant Challenges Essay YouTube” to watch an 18-minute video.

Rock on. With humor, poetry, and (most of all) efficiency.

[meeedeee]

Westworld: (De)Humanising the Other RSS FEED OF POST WRITTEN BY FOZMEADOWS

Warning: total spoilers for S1 of Westworld.

Trigger warning: talk of rape, sexual assault and queer death.

Note: Throughout this review, it will be necessary to distinguish between the writers of Westworld the TV show, and the writers employed in the narrative by the titular Westworld theme park. To avoid confusing the two, when I’m referring to the show, Westworld will be italicised; when referring to the park, I’ll use plain text.

*

This will be a somewhat bifurcated review of Westworld – which is, I feel, thematically appropriate, as Westworld itself is something of a bifurcated show. Like so much produced by HBO, it boasts incredible acting, breathtaking production values, intelligent dialogue, great music and an impeccably tight, well-orchestrated series of narrative reveals. Also like much produced by HBO, it takes a liberal, one might even say cartoonishly gratuitous approach to nudity, is saturated with violence in general and violence against women in particular, and has a consistent problem with stereotyping despite its diverse casting. In Westworld’s case, this latter issue is compounded as an offence by its status as a meta-narrative: a story which actively discusses the purpose and structure of stories, but which has seemingly failed to apply those same critiques to key aspects of its own construction.

The practical upshot is that it’s both frustratingly watchable and visibly frustrating. Even when the story pissed me off, I was always compelled to keep going, but I was never quite able to stop criticising it, either. It’s a thematically meaty show, packed with the kind of twists that will, by and large, enhance viewer enjoyment on repeat viewings rather than diminish the appeal. Though there are a few Fridge Logic moments, the whole thing hangs together quite elegantly – no mean feat, given the complexity of the plotting. And yet its virtues have the paradoxical effect of making me angrier about its vices, in much the same way that I’d be more upset about red wine spilled on an expensive party dress than on my favourite t-shirt. Yes, the shirt means more to me despite being cheaper, but a stain won’t stop me from wearing it at home, and even if it did, the item itself is easily replaced. But staining something precious and expensive is frustrating: I’ve invested enough in the cost of the item that I don’t want to toss it away, but staining makes it unsuitable as a showcase piece, which means I can’t love it as much as I want to, either.

You get where I’m going with this.

Right from the outset, Westworld switches between two interconnected narratives: the behind-the-scenes power struggles of the people who run the titular themepark, and the goings-on in the park itself as experienced by both customers and ‘hosts’, the humanoid robot-AIs who act as literal NPCs in pre-structured, pay-to-participate narratives. To the customers, Westworld functions as an immersive holiday-roleplay experience: though visually indistinguishable from real humans, the hosts are considered unreal, and are therefore fair game to any sort of violence, dismissal or sexual fantasy the customers can dream up. (This despite – or at times, because of – the fact that their stated ability to pass the Turing test means their reactions to said violations are viscerally animate.) To the programmers, managers, storytellers, engineers, butchers and behaviourists who run it, Westworld is, variously, a job, an experiment, a financial gamble, a risk, a sandpit and a microcosm of human nature: the hosts might look human, but however unsettling their appearance or behaviour at times, no one is ever allowed to forget what they are.

But to the hosts themselves, Westworld is entirely real, as are their pre-programmed identities. While their existence is ostensibly circumscribed by adherence to preordained narrative ‘loops’, the repetition of their every conversation, death and bodily reconstruction wiped from their memories by the park engineers, certain hosts – notably Dolores, the rancher’s daughter, and Maeve, the bordello madame – are starting to remember their histories. Struggling to understand their occasional eerie interviews with their puppeteering masters – explained away as dreams, on the rare occasion where such explanation is warranted – they fight to break free of their intended loops, with startling consequences.But there is also a hidden layer to Westworld: a maze sought by a mysterious Man in Black and to which the various hosts and their narratives are somehow key. With the hosts exhibiting abnormal behaviour, retaining memories of their former ‘lives’ in a violent, fragmented struggle towards true autonomy, freedom and sentience, Westworld poses a single, sharp question: what does it mean to be human?

Or rather, it’s clearly trying to pose this question; and to be fair, it very nearly succeeds. But for a series so overtly concerned with its own meta – it is, after all, a story about the construction, reception and impact of stories on those who consume and construct them – it has a damnable lack of insight into the particulars of its assumed audiences, both internal and external, and to the ways this hinders the proclaimed universality of its conclusions. Specifically: Westworld is a story in which all the internal storytellers are straight white men endowed with the traditional bigotries of racism, sexism and heteronormativity, but in a context where none of those biases are overtly addressed at any narrative level.

From the outset, it’s clear that Westworld is intended as a no-holds-barred fantasy in the literal sense: a place where the rich and privileged can pay through the nose to fuck, fight and fraternise in a facsimile of the old West without putting themselves at any real physical danger. Nobody there can die: customers, unlike hosts, can’t be killed (though they do risk harm in certain contexts), but each host body and character is nonetheless resurrected, rebuilt and put back into play after they meet their end. Knowing this lends the customers a recklessness and a violence they presumably lack in the real world: hosts are shot, stabbed, raped, assaulted and abused with impunity, because their disposable inhumanity is the point of the experience. This theme is echoed in their treatment by Westworld’s human overseers, who often refer to them as ‘it’ and perform their routine examinations, interviews, repairs and updates while the hosts are naked.

At this point in time, HBO is as well-known for its obsession with full frontal, frequently orgiastic nudity as it is for its total misapprehension of the distinction between nakedness and erotica. Never before has so much skin been shown outside of literal porn with so little instinct for sensuality, sexuality or any appreciation of the human form beyond hurr durr tiddies and, ever so occasionally, hurr durr dongs, and Westworld is no exception to this. It’s like the entirety of HBO is a fourteen-year-old straight boy who’s just discovered the nascent thrill of drawing Sharpie-graffiti genitals on every available schoolyard surface and can only snigger, unrepentant and gleeful, whenever anyone asks them not to. We get it, guys – humans have tits and asses, and you’ve figured out how to show us that! Huzzah for you! Now get the fuck over your pubescent creative wankphase and please, for the love of god, figure out how to do it tastefully, or at least with some general nodding in the direction of an aesthetic other than Things I Desperately Wanted To See As A Teengaer In The Days Before Internet Porn.

That being said, I will concede that there’s an actual, meaningful reason for at least some of Westworld’s ubiquitous nudity: it’s a deliberate, visual act of dehumanisation, one intended not only to distinguish the hosts from the ‘real’ people around them, but to remind the park’s human employees that there’s no need to treat the AIs with kindness or respect. For this reason, it also lends a powerful emphasis to the moments when particular characters opt to dress or cover the hosts, thereby acknowledging their personhood, however minimally. This does not, however, excuse the sadly requisite orgy scenes, nor does it justify the frankly obscene decision to have a white female character make a leering comment about the size of a black host’s penis, and especially not when said female character has already been established as queer. (Yes, bi/pan people exist; as I have good reason to know, being one of them. But there are about nine zillion ways the writers could’ve chosen to show Elsie’s sexual appreciation for men that didn’t tap into one of the single grossest sexual tropes on the books, let alone in a context which, given the host’s blank servility and Elsie’s status as an engineer, is unpleasantly evocative of master/slave dynamics.)

And on the topic of Elsie, let’s talk about queerness in Westworld, shall we? Because let’s be real: the bar for positive queer representation on TV is so fucking low right now, it’s basically at speedbump height, and yet myriad grown-ass adults are evidently hellbent on bellyflopping onto it with all the grace and nuance of a drunk walrus. Elsie is a queer white woman whose queerness is shown to us by her decision to kiss one of the female hosts, Clementine, who’s currently deployed as a prostitute, in a context where Clementine is reduced to a literal object, stripped of all consciousness and agency. Episode 6 ends on the cliffhanger of Elsie’s probable demise, and as soon as I saw that setup, I felt as if that single, non-consensual kiss – never referenced or expanded on otherwise – had been meant as Chekov’s gaykilling gun: this woman is queer, and thus is her death predicted. (Of course she fucking dies. Of course she does. I looked it up before I watched the next episode, but I might as well have Googled whether the sun sets in the west.)

It doesn’t help that the only other queer femininity we’re shown is either pornography as wallpaper or female host prostitutes hitting on female customers; and it especially doesn’t help that, as much as HBO loves its gratuitous orgy scenes, you’ll only ever see two naked women casually getting it on in the background, never two naked men. Nor does it escape notice that the lab tech with a penchant for fucking the hosts in sleep mode is apparently a queer man, a fact which is presented as a sort of narrative reveal. The first time he’s caught in the act, we only see the host’s legs, prone and still, under his body, but later there’s a whole sequence where he takes one of the male hosts, Hector – who is, not coincidentally, a MOC, singled out for sexual misuse by at least one other character – and prepares to rape him. (It’s not actually clear in context whether the tech is planning on fucking or being fucked by Hector – not that it’s any less a violation either way, of course; I’m noting it rather because the scene itself smacks of being constructed by people without any real idea of how penetrative sex between two men works. Like, ignoring the fact that they’re in a literal glass-walled room with the tech’s eyerolling colleague right next door, Hector is sitting upright on a chair, but is also flaccid and non-responsive by virtue of being in sleep mode. So even though we get a grimly lascivious close-up of the tech squirting lube on his hand, dropping his pants and, presumably, slicking himself up, it’s not actually clear what he’s hoping to achieve prior to the merciful moment when Hector wakes up and fights him the fuck off.)

Topping off this mess is Logan, a caustic, black-hat-playing customer who, in a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it foursome with three host prostitutes – two female, one male – is visually implied to be queer, and who thereinafter functions, completely unnecessarily, as a depraved bisexual stereotype. And I do mean blink-and-you’ll-miss-it: I had to rewind the episode to make sure I wasn’t imagining things, but it’s definitely there, and as with Elsie kissing Clementine, it’s never referenced again. The male host is engaging only with Logan, stroking his chest as he kisses and fucks the two women; it’s about as unsexualised as sexual contact between two naked men can actually get, and yet HBO has gone to the trouble of including it, I suspect for the sole purpose of turning a bland, unoriginal character into an even grosser stereotype than he would otherwise have been while acting under the misapprehension that it would give him depth. Spoiler alert: it didn’t. Logan doesn’t cease to be a cocky, punchable asshat just because you consented to put a naked white dude next to him for less time than it takes to have a really good shit; it just suggests that you, too, are a cocky, punchable asshat who should shit more in the bathroom and less on the fucking page. But I digress.

And then there’s the racism, which – and there’s no other way to put this – is presented as being an actual, intentional feature of the Westworld experience, even though it makes zero commercial sense to do this. Like. You have multiple white hosts who are programmed to make racist remarks about particular POC hosts, despite the fact that there are demonstrably POC customers paying to visit the park. You have a consistent motif of Native Americans being referred to as ‘savages’, both within Westworld-as-game and by the gamewriters themselves, with Native American mysticism being used to explain both the accidental glimpses various self-aware hosts get of the gamerunners and the in-game lore surrounding the maze. Demonstrably, the writers of Westworld are aware of this – why else is Episode 2, wherein writer character Lee Sizemore gleefully proposes a hella racist new story for the park, called ‘Chestnut’, as in old? I’ve said elsewhere that depiction is not endorsement, but it is perpetuation, and in a context where the point of Westworld as a commercial venture is demonstrably to appeal to customers of all genders, sexual orientations and races – all of whom we see in attendance – building in particular period-appropriate bigotries is utterly nonsensical.

More than this, as the openness with which the female prostitutes seduce female customers makes clear, it’s narratively inconsistent: clearly, not every bias of the era is being rigidly upheld. And yet it also makes perfect sense if you think of both Westworld and Westworld as being, predominantly, a product both created by and intended for a straight white male imagination. In text, Westworld’s stories are written by Lee and Robert, both of whom are straight white men, while Westworld itself was originally the conceit of Michael Crichton. Which isn’t to diminish the creative input of the many other people who’ve worked on the show – technically, it’s a masterclass in acting, direction, composition, music, lighting, special effects and editing, and those people deserve their props. It’s just that, in terms of narrative structure, by what I suspect is an accidental marriage of misguided purpose and unexamined habit, Westworld the series, like Westworld the park, functions primarily for a straight white male audience – and while I don’t doubt that there was some intent to critically highlight the failings of that perspective, as per the clear and very satisfying satirising of Lee Sizemore, as with Zack Snyder’s Suckerpunch and Lev Grossman’s The Magicians, the straight white male gaze is still so embedded as a lazy default that Westworld ends up amplifying its biases more often than it critiques them. (To quote something my straight white husband said while watching, “It’s my gaze, and I feel like I’m being parodied by it.”)

Though we do, as mentioned, see various women and people of colour enjoying the Westworld park, the customers who actually serve as protagonists – Logan, William and the Man in Black – are all white men. Logan is queer by virtue of a single man’s hand on his chest, but other than enforcing a pernicious stereotype about bisexual appetites and behaviours, it doesn’t do a damn thing to alter his characterisation. The end of season reveal that William is the Man in Black – that William’s scenes have all taken place thirty years in the past, shown to us now through Dolores’s memories – is a cleverly executed twist, and yet the chronicle of William’s transformation from youthful, romantic idealist to violent, sadistic predator only highlights the fundamental problem, which is that the Westworld park, despite being touted as an adventure for everyone – despite Robert using his customers as a basis for making universal judgements about human nature – is clearly a more comfortable environment for some than others. Certainly, if I was able to afford the $40,000 a day we’re told it costs to attend, I’d be disinclined to spend so much for the privilege of watching male robots, whatever their courtesy to me, routinely talk about raping women, to say nothing of being forced to witness the callousness of other customers to the various hosts.

It should be obvious that there’s no such thing as a universal fantasy, and yet much of Westworld’s psychological theorising about human nature and morality hinges on our accepting that the desire  to play cowboy in a transfigured version of the old West is exactly this. That the final episode provides tantalising evidence that at least one other park with a different historical theme exists elsewhere in the complex doesn’t change the fact that S1 has sold us, via the various monologues of Logan and Lee, Robert and William and the Man in Black, the idea that Westworld specifically reveals deep truths about human nature.

Which brings us to Dolores, a female host whose primary narrative loop centres on her being a sweet, optimistic rancher’s daughter who, with every game reset, can be either raped or rescued from rape by the customers. That Dolores is our primary female character – that her narrative trajectory centres on her burgeoning sentience, her awareness of the repeat violations she’s suffered, and her refusal to remain a damsel – does not change the fact that making her thus victimised was a choice at both the internal (Westworld) and external (Westworld) levels. I say again unto HBO, I do not fucking care how edgy you think threats of sexual violence and the repeat objectification of women are: they’re not original, they’re not compelling, and in this particular instance, what you’ve actually succeeded in doing is undermining your core premise so spectacularly that I do not understand how anyone acting in good sense or conscience could let it happen.

Because in making host women like Dolores (white) and Maeve (a WOC), both of whom are repeatedly subject to sexual and physical violation, your lynchpin characters for the development of true human sentience from AIs – in making their memories of those violations the thing that spurs their development – you’re not actually asking the audience to consider what it means to be human. You’re asking them to consider the prospect that victims of rape and assault aren’t actually human in the first place, and then to think about how being repeatedly raped and assaulted might help them to gain humanity. And you’re not even being subtle about it, either, because by the end of S1, the entire Calvinistic premise is laid clear: that Robert and Arnold, the park’s founders, believed that tragedy and suffering was the cornerstone of sentience, and that the only way for hosts to surpass their programming is through misery. Which implies, by logical corollary, that Robert is doing the hosts a service by allowing others to hurt them or by hurting them himself – that they are only able to protest his mistreatment because the very fact of it gave them sentience.

Let that sink in for a moment, because it’s pretty fucking awful. The moral dilemma of Westworld, inasmuch as it exists, centres on the question of knowing culpability, and therefore asks a certain cognitive dissonance of the audience: on the one hand, the engineers and customers believe that the hosts aren’t real people, such that hurting them is no more an immoral act than playing Dark Side in a Star Wars RPG is; on the other hand, from an audience perspective, the hosts are demonstrably real people, or at the very least potential people, and we are quite reasonably distressed to see them hurt. Thus: if the humans in setting can’t reasonably be expected to know that the hosts are people, then we the audience are meant to feel conflicted about judging them for their acts of abuse and dehumanisation while still rooting for the hosts.

Ignore, for a moment, the additional grossness of the fact that both Dolores and Maeve are prompted to develop sentience, and are then subsequently guided in its emergence, by men, as though they are Eves being made from Adam’s rib. Ignore, too, the fact that it’s Dolores’s host father who, overwhelmed by the realisation of what is routinely done to his daughter, passes that fledgling sentience to Dolores, a white woman, who in turn passes it to Maeve, a woman of colour, without which those other male characters – William, Felix, Robert – would have no Galateas to their respective Pygmalions. Ignore all this, and consider the basic fucking question of personhood: of what it means to engage with AIs you know can pass a Turing test, who feel pain and bleed and die and exhibit every human symptom of pain and terror and revulsion as the need arises, who can improvise speech and memory, but who can by design give little or no consent to whatever it is you do to them. Harming such a person is not the same as engaging with a video game; we already know it’s not for any number of reasons, which means we can reasonably expect the characters in the show to know so, too. But even if you want to dispute that point – and I’m frankly not interested in engaging with someone who does – it doesn’t change the fact that Westworld is trying to invest us in a moral false equivalence.

The problem with telling stories about robots developing sentience is that both the robots and their masters are rendered at an identical, fictional distance to the (real, human) viewer. By definition, an audience doesn’t have to believe that a character is literally real in order to care about them; we simply have to accept their humanisation within the narrative. That being so, asking viewers to accept the dehumanisation of one fictional, sentient group while accepting the humanisation of another only works if you’re playing to prejudices we already have in the real world – such as racism or sexism, for instance – and as such, it’s not a coincidence that the AIs we see violated over and over are, almost exclusively, women and POC, while those protagonists who abuse them are, almost exclusively, white men. Meaning, in essence, that any initial acceptance of the abuse of hosts that we’re meant to have – or, by the same token, any initial excusing of abusers – is predicated on an existing form of bigotry: collectively, we are as used to doubting the experiences and personhood of women and POC as we are used to assuming the best about straight white men, and Westworld fully exploits that fact to tell its story.

Which, as much as it infuriates me, also leaves me with a dilemma in interpreting the show. Because as much as I dislike seeing marginalised groups exploited and harmed, I can appreciate the importance of aligning a fictional axis of oppression (being a host) with an actual axis of oppression (being female and/or a POC). Too often, SFFnal narratives try to tackle that sort of Othering without casting any actual Others, co-opting the trappings of dehumanisation to enhance our sympathy for a (mostly white, mostly straight) cast. And certainly, by the season finale, the deliberateness of this decision is made powerfully clear: joined by hosts Hector and Armistice and aided by Felix, a lab tech, Maeve makes her escape from Westworld, presenting us with the glorious image of three POC and one white woman battling their way free of oppressive control. And yet the reveal of Robert’s ultimate plans – the inference that Maeve’s rebellion wasn’t her own choice after all, but merely his programming of her; the revelation that Bernard is both a host and a recreation of Arnold, Robert’s old partner; the merging of Dolores’s arc with Wyatt’s – simultaneously serves to strip these characters of any true agency. Everything they’ve done has been at Robert’s whim; everything they’ve suffered has been because he wanted it so. As per the ubiquitous motif of the player piano, even when playing unexpected tunes, the hosts remain Robert’s instruments: even with his death, the songs they sing are his.

Westworld, then, is a study in contradictions, and yet is no contradiction at all. Though providing a stunning showcase for the acting talents of Thandie Newton, Evan Rachel Wood and Jeffrey Wright in particular, their characters are nonetheless all controlled by Anthony Hopkins’s genial-creepy Robert, and that doesn’t really change throughout the season. Though the tropes of old West narratives are plainly up for discussion, any wider discussion of stereotyping is as likely to have a lampshade hung on it as to be absent altogether, and that’s definitely a problem. Not being familiar with the Michael Crichton film and TV show, I can’t pass judgement on the extent to which this new adaptation draws from or surpasses the source material. I can, however, observe that the original film dates to the 1970s, which possibly goes some way to explaining the uncritical straight white male gazieness embedded in the premise. Even so, there’s something strikingly reminiscent of Joss Whedon to this permutation of Westworld, and I don’t mean that as a compliment. The combination of a technologically updated old West, intended to stand as both a literal and metaphoric frontier, the genre-aware meta-narrative that nonetheless perpetuates more stereotypes than it subverts, and the supposed moral dilemma of abusing those who can’t consent feels at times like a mashup of Firefly, Cabin in the Woods and Dollhouse that has staunchly failed to improve on Whedon’s many intersectional failings.

    And yet, I suspect, I’ll still be poking my nose into Season 2, if only to see how Thandie Newton is doing. It feels like an absurdly low bar to say that, compared to most of HBO’s popular content, Westworld is more tell than show in portraying sexual violence, preferring to focus on the emotional lead-in and aftermath rather than the act itself, and yet that small consideration does ratchet the proverbial dial down a smidge when watching it – enough so that I’m prepared to say it’s vastly less offensive in that respect than, say, Game of Thrones. But it’s still there, still a fundamental part of the plot, and that’s going to be a not unreasonable dealbreaker for a lot of people; as is the fact that the only queer female character dies. Westworld certainly makes compelling television, but unlike the human protagonists, I wouldn’t want to live there.

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