#And in my childhood I thought the rapture would happen any minute or someone would bust into school and kill me for my faith any time

[rattusn0rvegicus]

Do regular people like, Not constantly swing from being standing on the precipice desperate for suicide and *aching* to live a full life depending on the week/month and sometimes the day

[aquilaofarkham]

title: the harder the rain, honey, the sweeter the sun rating: T+  word count: 3,015 summary: Trevor and Sypha never thought that vampires—even half vampires—could ever get sick but when Alucard succumbs to a fever during a rainstorm, they discover that there’s still much to learn about their friend. 

For @kamek 💛 Thanks so much for commissioning me!

READ HERE

“You’ve been coughing for an hour.”

It hasn’t actually been an hour; or has it? It feels that way. Time flows differently when it rains as a constant, all-consuming mist. Things seem to go on for much longer than they really should. The annoyed hunter and his equally annoyed companion could have been working on their wagon’s broken wheel for as long as he just suggested, or a mere ten horrid minutes could have passed instead. Who can say in such miserable circumstances.

“You exaggerate.”

Alucard’s voice comes out not as smooth, dulcet tones but as a hoarse, ugly rasp. Rather than the words themselves, he coughs them out half-formed and pained. Trevor wishes he were in a better mood so that he could jest and say he sounds like his late grandmother whenever she smoked strong tobacco in her curved pipe. Instead they work in frustrated silence, not one inch of their bodies dry. At least Trevor does what he can to cover himself; Alucard doesn’t seem to care that his good coat and gloves with their gold embellishments are both ruined beyond repair. Nor does he notice how his long strands of hair stick against his forehead then tumble down his face like soaked rags.

A hooded figure in blue sits at the front of the wagon keeping a watchful eye on the road, though there isn’t much to be seen. Not long ago, she used to wait in anticipation for whatever creatures might mistake their caravans as an easy dinner consisting of one distressed damsel and her two manservants. A few steps closer then flames would fly, the blade of a needle sharp sword would sing, and Trevor would forgo his whip in favour of fists just for the challenge of it all.

Today she waits for the rain to stop and for the boys to stop fiddling with that damn wheel before one of them breaks a finger. They’ll survive one night with their transport incapacitated.

Sypha curls in on herself, using her robes as both dry shelter and a warm blanket; a way of giving herself momentary comfort. This personal method feels more familiar to her than the two men working tirelessly (and fruitlessly) behind her do. Most times it’s a failed effort, which is why Sypha has always preferred the company of others so that she doesn’t have to shoulder a sense, or rather, the responsibility of loneliness.

Alucard likes to be alone sometimes; Trevor is overly familiar with it as well. He grew up with loneliness like it was a childhood friend. Sypha can’t stand to be alone. It’s not in her nature nor in her blood.

Rain always makes her mind wander, often to places she would rather it stay away from. To distract herself from those sorts of thoughts, she tries listening to whatever Trevor and Alucard are saying to each other. Perhaps some of their usual banter or one upmanship they’ve become masters of. What she hears does nothing to ease her concerns. Trevor’s is the only voice she can make out clearly. Alucard barely sounds human.

“Keep… keep holding up… the wagon, you…” Every other word is interlaced with a chorus of dry coughs into his elbow. Trevor doesn’t want to know what comes after that “you” and Alucard has no energy to tell him.

“Fuck the wagon and the wheel. You need to drink something.”

“Why don’t you… give me a drink… from you…” Alucard keeps an arm over his mouth while his other hand steadies himself against the canvas covering. By drink, Trevor assumes he meant his blood, but Alucard’s worsening state already ruined any levity of his poorly executed quip. He watches how his friend sways from all sides, his head lobbing around as though it were a boulder attached to his neck. If Alucard weren’t coughing or paler than ever, he might be mistaken for a drunk.

And if Trevor were the same man he was mere months ago, he might feel some sick pleasure in seeing the sulky half-vampire prince like this—but that was then. A time he doesn’t look back upon fondly.

“Let’s get you inside.” He lets go of the wagon before it leaves any more splinters in his skin and places them on something he’d much rather hold instead.

“Let me go… we need to… fix and go…”

“You need to shut up before you run your throat raw and bloodied.” For once, Alucard is rather complacent in Trevor’s arms (he has no energy to struggle against him otherwise). Are half blooded vampires usually this warm? No, Trevor tells himself. This sort of warmth burns and hurts. As he helps Alucard into the wagon, Sypha joins them.

“What’s wrong? Did he injure himself?” Once inside, they remove their hoods and clear an area for a makeshift bed. Hay and blankets may seem beneath the Tepes prince but for Trevor and Sypha, they are luxury items.

“No. Stubborn ass just got himself sick. Probably from all that cold and rain.”

“I never thought that could happen to him of all people.” Sypha’s comment is one of both curious surprise and genuine worry.

“Well, we learn something new everyday.”

“Are we near any villages?”

“Not for miles.” Trevor isn’t even sure if he wants to leave Alucard in the care of a normal Wallachian healer. Too many risks, too many possibilities that he might leave this world the same way his mother did. “Can’t you perform a healing spell or something?”

“My magic can only manipulate elements like fire and water, not the human body.” Without thinking (and perhaps knowing), Sypha picks at the scars on her right bicep, healed by her own flames. “If I were a scholar of that kind of magic, I would be invincible and there’s no fun in that.”

“Garlic…” A weak voice interrupts. Trevor and Sypha turn their attention downwards at Alucard, eyes shut, struggling against the resistance of his own worn throat. “Get… garlic… echin… cea…”

“What was that last thing?”

“Ech… what?”

“Flower… purple petals…”

Deciphering Alucard’s request comes easier to Sypha than to Trevor. “Echinacea! It’s a flower that can be used for medicine. If we mix it with the garlic in a broth, it might help him.” Before Yrevor can come up with a cynical response regarding the lack of garlic and echinacea with the rest of their dwindling supplies, Sypha has her hood raised and a basket in hand. “I’ll go look for some in the woods.”

“Will you be alright out there?” Trevor glances through the canvas slit leading outside; the skies went dark minutes ago and the rain has picked up.

“Of course! You look after Alucard, I will be back shortly.” A quick kiss on Trevor’s cheek and a light caress across Alucard’s burning forehead before they lose Sypha to the outside world. The optimism in her eyes, the same kind that matches her tone, used to be so infectious. But Trevor is too distracted by the heavy drops of rain battering down upon their meager shelter.

--

Alucard’s breathing doesn’t occur naturally; what little air there is in his lungs forces its way out through trembling colourless lips. More strained whimpers than breaths. Like Sypha, Trevor never believed it was possible for him to be in such a weakened state he can barely lift his head. His eyes are shut tightly but he cannot sleep. Every time Trevor lowers a cloth, wiping away as much sweat as he can from his forehead and cheeks, he can feel Alucard’s unbearable warmth. It seems no amount of cold rainwater collected in a bucket will help bring him respite.

“Come on.” Trevor says, wringing out the cloth before repeating the same process, the only thing he can do for now. “You survived Dracula twice. A little cough isn’t gonna be the end of you.”

Alucard always has something to say, always some witty repartee or equally sarcastic remark. Never before has the sulky, brattish, beautiful half-vampire left Trevor in absolute silence. If it’s not through spoken words then it’s through gestures; a smile coupled with a raised middle finger that’s not to be taken seriously. Never before until now.

“You’ll be fine you dramatic bastard.”

None of this seems right, not to Trevor at least. Vampires never feel sick; they never feel anything according to the family bestiary. Only the agony of fire and consecrated steel among others. That side of Alucard’s heritage should offer him some protection against nature’s uglier natural causes. We learn something new everyday. This unwelcome discovery concerning their companion weighs heavy on Trevor’s confidence and fragile optimism. It’s not long before they’re both killed outright despite his best efforts.

“Sorry. I know this isn’t your fault. None of this is.”

On the surface, Trevor apologizes for nothing. Yet still, he knows he must acknowledge what’s underneath. Everything from the mounting frustration over that broken wheel, the worry he feels regarding Sypha’s whereabouts, and the misplaced anger that someone as strong as Alucard could succumb to something so stupidly human. Saying it all while Alucard is more delirious than a nun who has just found rapture might be cheating, but at least he can say it.

“I’m not good at this sort of thing. For as long as I can remember, I had to take care of myself and... it was always rough love with me. No one cares that you’re hurt or if you feel like shit, get up and keep moving. Probably not the best approach. To be honest, I panicked a little when Sypha told me to look after you.” Another pause and Trevor wipes his forehead again, only with more tenderness.

“I’ll do my best to treat you better than how I treated myself.”

Alucard stirs, shifting his head away from the damp cloth. Trevor backs off with the fear that he heard every single ramble he should have kept locked away in his closely guarded heart. A few strenuous groans later and he finally speaks.

“Blanket… Lisa gave me… water…”

Trevor discerns three words: blanket, Lisa, and water. He can give Alucard two of those; the third one might be harder. Scrambling from one corner of the wagon to the next, Trevor covers him with a second blanket and guides his mouth towards the opening of a leather water canteen.

“Come on, one more sip. That wasn’t so hard, was it? Sypha will be back soon and you’ll be right as rain.” They’re not lies persay, but Trevor still cannot say them with certainty. Before he has the chance to give him more, Alucard interrupts.

“Miss her… so much. No time… I never said… goodbye I never… said… thank you. For every… thing.”

Alucard’s eyes close even tighter along with his lips, as though desperate to hold something back. Something he’ll never let anyone see. Trevor places a tentative hand on his matted hair, drenched in sweat. A gesture of empathy or he knows what it feels like to never say goodbye to those gone from your life as well.

“Sleep. Just sleep.” A tall order to ask of him.

--

Sypha once read a book she found in the annals of the Belmont archive; a series of poems collected into a singular narrative originally written in Italian. She managed through the introductory cantos before pulling herself away from the temptation of distraction. There wasn’t much to remember from what little she read save for the first few lines.

Midway upon the journey of our life

I found myself within a forest dark

For the straightforward past had been lost

As Sypha continues further into the woods, basket empty and soaked down to her bones, those lyrics prode at her thoughts like devilish taunts. She’s not lost, but she must admit that her trek through mud and prickly bushes has gone on for longer than she hoped for. Not even the poor little light emanating between her index and pinky finger is enough to withstand the downpour of rain along with the darkness of night.

Another outsticking root catches Sypha’s root, causing her to stumble forward. Though it doesn’t show on her face, her mind flies into a rage. How fucking hard can it be to find some fucking common plants in the middle of the fucking forest? If Trevor or Alucard ever heard her say that, they would be shocked into silence. Yes, she can explode a vampire’s internal organs into flames but god forbid she curse as much as her two boys do.

Sypha stops to catch her breath and refocus her thoughts. Anger is good, anger helps push her forward. It’s been with her since childhood, helping her survive, but this anger is directed at nothing. All it does is exhaust her more than the rain. It won’t make her dryer, it won’t clear a path through the dense foliage, and it certainly won’t make wild garlic and echinacea flowers magically appear in her hands. Sypha has to do that herself.

The light between her fingertips begins to fade but only because Sypha’s attention is somewhere else. She looks ahead and sees the same sort of light amongst the trees, dim yet noticeable against the monsoon. They float off the ground as graceful little flames of blue and form a path where there was none before. There they stay, patient, waiting for somehow to follow.

Sypha is very much aware of these tiny creatures. They have many names ranging from fairy lights to wil-o-wisps; frivolous, unassuming names that mask their true motives. How they lure lost travelers to their death for they too are the remaining souls of those who met their ends in nature’s grasp. A bedtime story meant to warn children about walking alone in the woods, but like most Wallachian stories, it holds true.

Sypha takes her first step along their path. She may regret this in the worst way but what else is there to do. The thought of Trevor and Alucard (Alucard especially) propels her, even if she is putting her fate in the hands of dead spirits.

A few more twigs and branches scrape at her wet cheeks. One foot begins to cramp up, causing a limp in her step, and yet she follows the lights nonetheless. At least she isn’t dead yet.

Sypha won’t die; not tonight. Upon reaching the end of the pathway, she finds herself surrounded by the very things she needs so desperately. For the first time, and what might be the only time, she’s grateful for Wallachia’s creatures.

--

Dreams, memories, and hallucinations all mean the same to Alucard. They meld together until he can no longer differentiate between reality and whatever his mind conjures up. He thinks he’ll stay in this one at the moment, for it’s a happy moment this time. Where everyone called him Adrian, not yet Alucard. Warm underneath a quilted blanket made by his mother and father, sheltered by the walls of his sanctuary.

A woman with the same golden hair as his leans over him and removes a stick-like device from his mouth. She examines it with a furrowed brow before placing something soft next to his head: a hand sewn wolf doll stuffed of downy feathers with glass eyes and a leather nose. “It’s a good day to stay in bed.” The woman tells him, rubbing his hot forehead with her soft hand. She smiles; always smiling in his memories of childhood.

After tucking him in and disappearing for only a moment, she returns holding a steaming bowl. Alucard does his best to sit up while the woman guides a spoonful of soup into his mouth then another. It tastes of garlic and fresh herbs; it tastes of a home that once was and might never be again.

“I think he’s coming to…”

The scene of Alucard’s bedroom fades as his heavy eyelids force themselves open. Sounds of steady rain tapping against stretched canvas fills his ears, mingled with two faint yet recognizable voices. His lips feel warm and there’s a strong aftertaste lingering on his tongue. Was it really just a wishful dream?

Another surge of watery garlic and herbs enters through his mouth, slowly and carefully, while a rough hand helps prop his head up. Without thinking too much about it, Alucard assumes the one feeding him hot broth is Sypha and the one holding him is Trevor. His train of muddled, foggy thought suddenly changes when he realizes that Sypha has returned. She was successful and they are all together. They are all safe.

“Don’t you worry, Al. We’ve got enough garlic and flowers to last us for days.” Trevor chuckles at the nickname he will no doubt force upon Alucard in the near future. “How in the hell did you find so much anyway?”

Sypha tells a little white lie. Neither of them need to concern themselves over the possibility of dead souls roaming the very forest that surrounds their wagon. “I must have gotten lucky.”

“Who mixed the soup?” Alucard asks, his voice much clearer.

“Trevor did.”

“... I can tell.”

Trevor’s grin is wiped clean off his face along with any sense of smugness. He and Sypha switch places with her assisting Alucard and him in charge of the stew. “I hope for your sake you meant that as a compliment.”

Alucard won’t say. But he does manage a smile of his own as he’s fed a few more hearty spoonfuls. He doesn’t grimace or spit it back out; a good enough sign.

“Now sleep for god’s sake.”

Alucard thanks both of them, though it comes out as a tired mumble before his eyes close and his still pale face relaxes. Trevor and Sypha stare at him before turning towards each other, nevertheless feeling a joined sense of relief. They watch over Alucard for a while longer, huddled together for warmth, weary yet calm expressions basked in shadows caused by the one lantern they managed to hang above them. Oddly soothed by the now gentler rain.

No one dares mention the broken wheel.

[brownskinsugarplum76]

Eye of the Storm, Ch 7

I want to start by saying that I'm excited and thankful to have almost completed 10 chapters of this story! 🙏🏽🙏🏽🙏🏽 I really wasn't sure if I had it in me to do a longer story and keep coming up with ideas. It's been a fun process to imagine and write the scenes and chapters. I have more ideas, but I'm curious to see where this goes as I write. Thank you for putting up with my fits and starts.

So... The smut is going down next chapter, but there are a couple of instances of making out in this chapter... I hope you enjoy it! ❤️❤️❤️

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Despite Maggie's head start, Robert was victorious in making it to the house first, thanks to his long legs and the experience that soccer gave him with sprinting. 

"Way to go, Broadway Joe!" Maggie caressed Robert's back when she reached him. 

"Bloody Joe Namath? Really? I've rubbed elbows with him from time to time in New York… I think you'll find Englishmen are more sophisticated and entertaining…" he snarked. 

"Calm down, baby, there's only one confirmed bachelor I have my eyes on." She stood on her tiptoes to kiss Robert's cheek. 

"Mmmmm…" He smiled at the feel of Maggie's lips on his clean-shaven skin. "But I'm starting to think the single life can be overrated, love…" He kissed her on her forehead. 

Maggie was surprised to hear Robert muse about settling down. "You? Trading all this in for a house with a white picket fence?" 

"I'll never return to suburbia. I had my fill of it with my childhood… No, what I'm thinking of is more like a farm… A horse, a goat or two, chickens… Bonzo's living the gentleman farmer dream right now, with his family, and I'd love to have that one day… The farm and the family…"

"OK… I can't picture you doing either the suburbs or a farm. But now I'd love to see you try!" 

"Stranger things have happened, dear…" He put an arm around Maggie's shoulders. "And who knows, you might be the one to see it all play out."

Maggie was too surprised by everything Robert was saying to respond. Her smile said it all, while she pondered going through life as Mrs. Plant. 

"I hope that wasn't too taxing, though? The running?" She needed to change the subject quickly, before she started naming children and picking out china patterns in her head. She knew that Robert's attention span and resolve could be as unpredictable as the timing of California's earthquakes. 

She searched his eyes and took in his facial expression, afraid to find traces of pain. "I wasn't thinking. I shouldn't have made you--"

"--I'm fine, Mags. In fact, I think that was just what the doctor ordered. Everyone has been babying me after the accident, myself included. But maybe that hasn't been the best idea… I've got to start getting back to life, you know? You just forced me to do it in a small way. And eye thank yew," he drawled. 

"One small run for Robert…" Maggie intoned. 

"...One giant step forward for ye olde Golden God!" Robert lifted Maggie in an embrace and swung her around as they kissed. "Thank you."

Maggie smiled shyly. 

"Oi, Strider!" Robert whistled loudly for his dog, who had started racing toward a seagull again. His pup bounded swiftly over the sand to return to his master's side. 

"Let's go in, Maggie love. I believe there's an unfinished matter to attend to?" 

"I think so. But maybe we should get some dinner first, and make sure we have enough energy."

"I like the way you think, woman. It is going to be a long night, innit?" 

"If I have my way…"

"And mine, too…" Robert backed Maggie up against the glass patio doors, pressing his body into hers. He teased his tongue between her lips and communicated all of his feelings--past, present, and future--to her with his steamy actions. Her sighs and her tight embrace acknowledged that she understood and agreed.

***

"You must really love fajitas," said Maggie, carrying both of their plates to the table at the same time. She'd never touched a microwave before, but with Robert's direction, she became a master of using it to heat the food. Robert's quick tour of the drawers and cabinets enabled her to find everything they needed to set the table. She smiled to herself at how easy it felt to blend their lives together. 

"Bloody hell, just like the first night! I forgot we still had some left until you found them." Robert couldn't help but smile when he thought of the meal she had served him back in San Diego. "I'm sorry that I don't have any tequila, though…"

"No worries, I think this wine will do nicely." She took one of the three bottles of California cabernet sauvignon out of its ice water bath and handed it to Robert. 

"I suppose we can have a tequila-soaked moment on the beach whenever we want now, yeah?" He picked up the corkscrew from the table and opened the bottle. 

"Mmmmm hmm…" Maggie nodded her head. 

"We'll have to take advantage of that soon." Robert poured the glasses and handed one to Maggie. 

"This is wonderful," Maggie gushed. She sipped the wine as Robert loaded a tortilla with steak strips and grilled vegetables.

"I'm friends with the owner of the winery. I'll have to take you there sometime."

"Is there anyone that you don't know?"

"Well, I never got to meet any of your presidents, or their kids, even though several of the presidential youth have dug our music." He bit into the fajita.

Maggie laughed. "Well, at least we know your influence didn't bring down the Nixon administration." She added some more grilled vegetables to her tortilla and took a bite.

"No, there's only two hotels at which we've caused newsworthy levels of scandal, and neither's in your nation's capital… Well, maybe three, if you're fool enough to believe Carmine Appice's fishwife's tale…"

Maggie sipped the wine while Robert paused to polish off his first fajita. 

"Your country, and your state, in particular, have been wonderful to me. And not just because of the concerts and, uh, the night life. It just feels like home, you know? Tons of sunshine, easy access to the beach, the woods, the desert, the mountains… Very little rain… I've met so many wonderful people here, made so many pleasant memories… The Los Angeles area has been our home base for the tours, but I could see myself making permanent roots here. And I would love to come home to you, most of all…" He held Maggie's gaze while he readied a second tortilla and then sipped some wine. 

"You know you don't have to say all these things to get me to sleep with you, Robert."

"I know! I mean every word. I'm almost 30, for Christ's sake. Freedom is nice, but living freely with someone dear…" He drained his glass and set to work on his food again. 

"I just need something more. Maggie, do you know how close I came to losing it all? Some of the doctors thought I'd never walk normally again. And it will happen someday, our band will become a thing of the past. The press never fully loved us, and now the winds are shifting a bit with the fans…"

"What do you mean?" Maggie finished her food while Robert gathered his words. 

"I've seen the teen magazines. Somehow they kept showing up here, when I didn't have anything better to do. It seems some of the younger kids are getting tired of the light shows and 30-minute improvisations. They'd rather see their stars in black and white face paint and vinyl or, I don't know, torn shirts and safety pins, rather than me in my ladies' kimonos, or Jagger in some blue eye shadow, or Townsend destroying another guitar that they can only dream to afford…"

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "This isn't going to go on forever… I need to start thinking about a second act for myself. And that goes for my personal life as much as my professional one."

Maggie poured herself some more wine. "You know what I think, Robert?" She took a healthy sip from the glass.

“What’s that?”

She finished the glass. “I think you'll find that you have nothing to worry about. There's only one Led Zeppelin. No one else can do what you all can do. I think you've sealed your place in the history books many times over. And whenever it might end--and I don't think it'll be soon--I'm sure you'll get back on your feet quickly. I know you. You can't stop singing. It's too much a part of you."

Robert smiled softly.

"And I also think you have all the time in the world to think about the future of the band and your personal future. Nothing is going to be solved in one night… I think that maybe I need to help you forget about all that for now.” She grabbed his plate and finished the last bite of his third tortilla. Then, she took their plates and cutlery to the sink.

Robert, realizing the bottle of wine was almost empty, grabbed it and finished it in one swallow. He uncorked the next one.

“I'd like that a lot, Maggie dear. It will be much more fun to focus on the different ways I can make you come one time after another…" He chuckled devilishly. "Let's pick up where we left off.”

He stood and grabbed the fresh bottle, wrapping his fist around the neck, and turned toward the bedroom. But he relinquished control of the wine when Maggie caressed his hand and took the bottle, placing it back on the table.

“I’m going to need both of your hands right now.” She traced his jawline with one hand.

"I'm all yours… Every. Last. Inch…" He bent down, fisted her hair with one hand and pulled her closer by the waist with the other. All of the energy of his fear quickly transmuted to lust with a savage kiss. 

As Robert peeled off her shirt, fondled her breasts, and dove in for another hungry kiss, Maggie knew that he was back with her in the present and ready to fill each second of the next several hours with rapture rather than dread.

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The rest of my stories are here, or search for the hashtag #brownskinsugarplumlibrary

[televinita]

Little Women (2019): Thoughts

REQUIRED READING: the prequel post about my background going in to this film.

SNAPSHOT VERSION: Though I have some casting qualms, and may adjust my opinions after I reread the book, mostly I think this is everything my heart has needed since the magic of the ‘94 movie was broken for me. My heart is very full.

FULL VERSION: Twice as long as the prequel post (a.k.a. 1800 words), starts below.

I did not expect LW to be the first Unexpected Comeback Fandom of 2020 (or a comeback fandom ever, really), but here I am, having spent every day since I saw this film mooning about this story and looking up different editions and supplemental books in the library catalog, so I'd better process how I feel about it while the memories are relatively fresh.

Most of my thoughts are on casting rather than specific scenes because like I said, I can’t remember the book super well, so I’d like to get my movie memories to fade so that the book can surprise me. Also because I think I will have a more in-depth post about them when I watch the film a 2nd time, whether that’s in theaters or on DVD. But here’s what I’ve got for now.

ON CASTING

In no particular order --

* Emma Watson is very pretty but it is so hard to take her seriously as an actress. She's just Emma Watson, Famous For Being In Harry Potter and Getting Hired For Other Big Name Projects. I feel like she's so consciously acting all the time. She made a not-terrible Meg, I guess? No worse than she made a Belle. But it was roughly as hilarious watching her try to be a mother now as it was watching her try to be a mother in the last Harry Potter movie. To the point that I just kept hearing the "Damn! I'm SO maternal!" song playing as her theme in the background at all times. * I realized 6 days prior to seeing the movie that Florence Pugh is recognizable because she's in Midsommar and honestly, that just ruined everything for me. I didn't even see that film, I just know it's gross and I would hate it and while she is not tainted forever like the 50 Shades actors, she is definitely too tainted for Little Women. Also I could not stop thinking about how I associate Amy with being very dainty and prim and Florence, while perfectly lovely, is not. * Laura Dern was kind of strangely modern and kooky for Marmee, but I love her as an actress and I loved that she was just like "HELLO STRANGE NEIGHBOR BOY, COME BE MY FIFTH CHILD." So I was OK with that. * ARE YOU KIDDING ME WITH BOB ODENKIRK. What kind of anachronistic garbage. What crack were you on, because it was obviously not the good stuff. "Did I stumble into an SNL parody??" I wondered more than once. * Meryl Streep as Aunt March was AMAZING. Ten Oscars. * Beth consistently looked younger than Amy, so that was weird. She was okay but kind of childlike, and failed to make Beth my favorite like she is in the book. * JO! Saoirse Ronan is by far my favorite actress in this set, but I didn't think she was right for Jo going in. "Jo's not a redhead!" I said, indignantly stamping my foot, because my childhood-era love for this novel reigns defensively supreme like for no other classic besides Black Beauty. (another 1994 classic they should remake soon, even though I love that version. Just saying.)

But damned if she did not COMPLETELY embody every essence of Jo there is and make Jo my favorite character this time. Truly, nobody except Meryl Streep so thoroughly matched my expectations for their character. Ten Oscars, part II. Or at least the one she is actually nominated for. If Jo loses to ScarJo I will riot. * John was nice. I feel like he was exactly what he was supposed to be, which is to say kind of plain and milquetoast but perfect for Meg. I don't actually remember him existing in the novel, so that was an interesting game of "how important is this guy?" until suddenly Meg was getting married and I realized I did, in fact, have a very dim memory of a wedding from the book. I think I will like their romance more the second time around, though. * Mr. Laurence was VERY EXCELLENT. IDK why I know the actor, even after looking him up, but I liked him in this role a lot. His grandfatherly quasi-adoption of Beth was so sweet. * As for Professor Bhaer...UGH. I hated him on sight and my brain wouldn't even let me recognize who he was for like 3 scenes, I was just like, "who is this random boarding lodger and why are we focusing on that weirdo." I mean, he's objectively handsome? But he did not do it for me. He lacked the gravitas I expect from this character and his thick accent scraped my ears and drove me insane (update from the future: his accent is also driving me insane in the book, where I have peeked in at a few chapters as incentive to reread. whyyyyyyy). * LAURIE: maybe it's been too long since I read the book, but never could I ever have imagined I'd want to use the term "fuckboy" to describe Laurie. It wasn't even Ski Chalet's face so much as it was that in all present-day scenes (post-rejection), he is such an insufferable, melodramatic, pouting trash heap that I didn't want him to marry any of them at that point. (Also YOU STILL DIDN'T MAKE ME UNDERSTAND WHY HE GOES FOR AMY, so good job.**) However, I took especial delight in paying attention to all the cuddly platonic friend cuddling he heaped on Jo growing up, in focus or in the background, and I loved it...kind of a lot? The ship radar made noise. That noise is getting louder by the day, smoothing away his faults. He may have permanently taken up residence in my mind's eye as the new Laurie. ...this is the worst. Make it cease. (**update from the future, I am peeking at the book and it looks like it's a lot easier to understand both in text and when you're inside Laurie's head. He is still clearly sulking his way through Europe, but in a way it's easier to recover from. Also, I don’t have time to unpack this but as I finish the edits on this post I started 5 days ago, I’m starting to think I could not only ship Laurie/Amy, but believe in it from the start.) ACTUAL PLOT AND FILM QUALITY

+ The shifting between past and present was very jarring right off the bat, but after that I think it worked.

+ I loved the attic play rehearsals so much

+ I am so glad Jo’s shorn hair is both fleeting and as hideous as it should look, and not Pixie Cut Chic (Childhood Me wailed at that part reading the book)

+ I remember hardly anything about the book's Part II / Good Wives, so basically everything in their adult lives was news to me. Amy and Aunt March go to Europe? Jo goes to live by herself in New York? Meg marries a relative pauper? Any of this could be true to the book or just made up as an alternate idea to explore, and I would be none the wiser. That made it more fun. (NOBODY SPOIL ME ON WHAT'S TRUE)

+ It did not occur to me until just now that the part where Jo publishes her version of Little Women is not in the book (right?), but that was beautifully done.

+ The house interiors were breathtaking. It's not like I don't regularly watch period pieces, but this time there was just something about seeing an old house, like the ones I am often in for estate sales, decorated the way I always imagine seeing when I enter those homes, that kind of made me tear up. + The outside shots were pretty too + Jo made me cry with her I'm so LONELY! speech, rude. (I went into this movie thinking I was 100% on board to finally read Alcott’s sequels for their Jo/Professor content, and now I'm like 'ah damn it is gonna be the season for the Jo/Laurie AU novel, isn't it.')

+ A strike against Beth and/or the actress playing her: I did not cry about her death (in my defense I was busy crying about Jo's pain).

+ I did NOT remember precisely how Laurie & Amy got married, so even though I knew it happened eventually, I felt that sucker punch to the gut reveal just about as hard as Jo did. WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOUR WIFE.

+ My mom said she’d heard this movie was lauded as being super feminist, which rarely goes well for me, but I thought it felt like really authentic "married women literally were not allowed to control their own income and it sucked" 19th century feminism, and not someone using their 21st century voice to claim this is how people would have REALLY talked if The Patriarchy Of Historical Record hadn't silenced/suppressed it. Nothing rankled me. I’m very confused by the people who think it says Jo is queer and/or didn’t end up with the Professor, but if that’s what you see then I guess it’s a win/win situation for all of us. + LOVED the closing montage. + Basically, at all times that I wasn't annoyed by the casting, I was feeling the same magic I did while reading the book and/or while watching the 1994 movie as a child. I can’t think of any parts I really hated.

IN CONCLUSION

Part of me is honestly kind of sad I didn't reread the book before watching this movie, because even though I usually prefer to go movie first and then get the Expanded Edition that is the book, in this case I wish I'd taken my last chance to properly visualize everything in my head on my own -- since I’ve mostly forgotten the ‘94 film -- before the new movie washed it away forever. This is one of the rare times I would have liked to hope and guess what would be shown vs. cut, and be able to anticipate the thrill of seeing the page come to life.

However, seeing it was the impetus I needed to finally take my childhood copy off the shelf (and thank heavens I have it, because the library request is backed up 3 or 4 deep for every copy), and it took all of 5 minutes to get instantly sucked into chapter 1 and feel such rapturous joy and familiarity that I consciously cut myself off and decided I am going to journal out my feelings after each chapter on this reread. So that’s something!

[impulseislost]

Feel Special

 He was glad Felix had helped him that day. How he’d made him feel special

or Felix found Minho when he needed him the most

🌹

Warnings: swearing, mentions of homophobia. mentions of blood Characters: Lee Felix, Lee Minho Relationships: Whatever ths ship is with Minho and Felix, keeping in mind this is just for the story and i do not actually believe anyone in this fic is as i have portrayed them Notes: My birthday fic for Minho this year (had to take a big ol screenshot of the mv weeee)

It was raining. And, well, Minho was wet. Obviously. It was pouring down with rain and the entrance didn’t offer much shelter. There was enough that he wasn’t sitting on the wet ground, that his few possesions were dry but other than that, most of him was positively soaked.

He sighed, leaning back to watch the people passing him by without so much as a glance. It was like… He wasn’t even human anymore. Like because his family didn’t want him anymore meant that no one else would.

He hated it.

He was cold, wet and had nowhere to go. God, he hated it so so much. What had he done to god, if there even was one at this point, to be so forsaken?

The rain only poured harder at his question.

Damn.

More people flew past him, on their way out of the rain. They paid him no mind, some sparing him a glance. Dark umbrellas that just ghosted past him.

Minutes passed, and the rain showed no signs of ceasing. Until a man with a brightly coloured umbrella (though man would be an overestimation honestly) came drifting along the path.

His eyes sparkled brightly as he peered around the area with a slight smile on his face. Like he was proud of what he was seeing. The boy’s eyes landed on Minho after a moment and he stopped, his smile falling away as he took in the drowned rat that was Minho.

“... Are you alright hyung? You seem rather soaked?” Minho had no clue why this boy was referring to him as hyung, he’d never met the boy and they were in America for god’s sake. Let alone the fact he probably had no clue Minho spoke Korean in the first place. 

“Um, yea. I’m fine.” He mumbled, glancing up at the boy. He seemed to shine, with some sort of inner light as he tilted his head.

“You’re sad, in pain?” Minho had no idea how he knew that, or why the boy seemed to know him. He sure as fuck didn’t.

“What? Are you in--” He started only to get cut off

“There’s a cut along your cheek that’s bleeding. It’s a pretty solid guess.”  The boy cut in, tapping his own cheek. Minho flinched, raising his hand to cover his cheek. The boy smiled sadly, coming to sit next to Minho on the wet ground.

“My name’s Felix. Are you alright.” A moment passed before Minho burst into tears. Felix looked stricken and he reached out to tentatively pat Minho on the back. After a moment, Minho shook his head, leaning into the touch.

“My parents told me that God hates the people who don’t fit into the perfect world he created.” Minho started, missing Felix’s offended face, “That God doesn’t want people who don’t fit to exist. They’re wrong. I hope.” He leant back, looking at Felix in distraught.

The boy sighed, looking into the sky.

“I’m sure God doesn’t hate anyone. Christianity probably just took his words too far.” Minho tilted his head for a moment, watching the boy with a frown.

“...My name’s Minho. Sorry.” Felix smiled gently, reassuringly. And like that, they fell into a silence, as the rain fell down around them. 

Felix’s umbrella was folded and on the ground beside him, his hands on his lap. Eventually, Felix stood up.

“Do you have any dry clothes to change into Minho hyung?” He shook his head. He’d been forced to leave all of those at home and there was no way his mother was ever letting him step foot inside the house ever again. Felix frowned, offering Minho a hand.

“Let's get you some then.”

(“Felix.” Minho murmured days later as he curled up on the couch next to the boy. The blonde looked down him as if surprised to see him awake before humming. “Does God hate me?” 

Felix frowned. And once again Minho found himself remembering that he hadn’t told Felix why he’d found him in the rain that night.

A moment passed, then.

“No. He doesn’t.” Minho sighed, leaning back to look into Felix’s eyes. He had these strange eyes, that sparkled like the universe and glowed in a pale gold. Sometimes when he wasn’t paying attention, Minho was even sure they flashed.

“... My mother told me, the night I left,” Left, such a polite way of putting it, “That he did. That unless I changed my ways, I was going to hell.”  Felix froze.

“I promise you, God doesn’t hate you. That he’s positively in love with you.” The boy said after another moment. Minho frowned but said nothing more.)

When Felix was young, much younger he first made a boy. He had given this boy his own will, the ability to choose what he wanted. He gave this boy to a young woman by the name Mary and told her to raise him as if he were her own.

She did.

Back then the world hadn’t taken kindly to the boy, hanging him on a cross to die and holding him into a cave for his body to decay in. Or so the story goes.

In the story, the boy came back after three days to offer some last wisdom to someone.

The truth was far grimmer and Felix hated it.

They’d hung his boy off a cross alright, leaving him with injuries that slowly killed him as they festered. Twice daily they gave him water, refusing him the quicker death that dehydration would offer him.

And when his wounds killed him, they’d locked his body in a cave. Here was where the story diverged from the truth. Three days passed before Felix had found his boy. And on the third, Felix left the cave himself.

He’d been distraught.

It wasn’t until years later that he’d try again.

It wasn’t until he’d known that humans were far less cruel, that they cared more and acts such as ones that had happened to Jesus.

So when he started again, he started more carefully. The boy was given the gift to be himself, to be more cautious. The gift to share his passions in any way he chose. A creative mind. 

And carefully, Felix picked out a family to leave his boy with. From afar he watched as Minho grew into an amazing human until he decided it was safe to leave the boy alone.

He hadn’t been careful enough, he realised the night he found Minho crying in front of that diner. His heart had ached for the boy as he sat down to talk to Minho for the first time in his 22 years. 

So he did his best to comfort the boy.

Minho asked him, almost two weeks after if God hated him. Felix had to pause. No, no he didn’t hate Minho.  He had never hated him. Hell, he couldn’t bring himself to physically think of it either.

So he answered as honestly as he could.

Days later as he watched Minho dance around the kitchen he realised just how true that was. He loved Minho, more than he ever should’ve.

He felt disturbed. What?

Another day passed, and Minho was leaning on him on the couch. Telling him stories of his childhood. And… Maybe for the first time, Felix opened up.

“Minho I… I’ve been living for a very long time. Long enough that it’s become difficult for me to be surprised.” The human tilted his head, looking at Felix in confusion. He sighed, looking behind him at the wall, “Still, you manage to surprise me every day.”

The boy’s head tilted to the right, questioning. Felix smiled sadly. 

“After you’ve seen Rome’s fall, seen thousands killed in your name, you’ve seen everything.” He said with a shrug. Minho looked very, very confused for a moment before raising an eyebrow. As if, he was expecting Felix to go on. He sighed. “You always do so much for others, give up so much of yourself Minho. But even when things turn out horrible you just… Keep going.”

Minho stared at him for another few moments before he cleared his throat.

“Well… I don’t have much else going for me do I?”

A month or two had passed since Felix had… Unceremoniously adopted Minho. Honestly, he had no fucking clue how that one had happened, other than he’d entered the house with a bag and now he had like…. Slightly more than a bag.

He’d tried to pay Felix back, oh trust him he head, but every time he attempted the god had denied him.

‘It’s in my nature’ he’d say. Well, fuck that.

Fuck Felix for being so nice. So kind. So-- Nope. Minho wasn’t going down that path in a hurry. Nope, nopitty nope.

That was a scary thought and one Minho wasn’t quite ready to bring himself to deal with.

It wasn’t to say that Felix wasn’t good looking - quite the opposite really, he was quite literally star kissed in every sense of the words - but Minho was scared.

He didn’t want to be cast out again. He knew Felix wasn’t like that, but the tiny voice in the back of his head was always there. What if?

Even now, sitting on the couch next to Felix scared him. What if he was radiating gay energy or some bullshit his mother used to sprout. Still…

He found himself staring at Felix. He was beautiful, in every sense of the word, just watching the drama on the laptop screen in front of him in rapture. He loved watching him, loved him in general. But… He knew he'd never ever admit that aloud.

“You’re staring.” Minho pulled himself out of his stupor, cheeks reddening. Felix smiled at him gently, watching the boy fondly.

“Sorry.” He murmured after a moment. Felix smiled again, leaning over to pat his shoulder.

“No worries.” The blonde giggled, before retreating back into his original position. A moment passed for Minho, his cheeks still bright red, before he slowly let out the breath he had accidentally held.

Fuck.

So… Maybe, just maybe he liked Felix. Liked the way Felix acted. How he was so kind and caring. Minho was scared. Liking Felix like that scared him.

Gods weren’t supposed to fall for their creations. One of the first rules he’d been taught before he was sent to create his own life. Higher beings weren’t supposed to lest they show favouritism towards the creation.

Felix loved all his creations. Even the ones in Australia, though what had come over him when he had created the platypus he had no idea. Still.

Minho held a special place in his heart, one he wasn’t quite sure what to make of. What did it mean? The way his heart raced and his cheeks reddened whenever Minho said or did anything even remotely unplatonic (Which the human was trying to avoid keep in mind, after all, he was going through currently the biggest gay panic in his life over Felix), It was really confusing.

He didn't understand.

The way when Minho curled up into him he felt like his heartbeat so loud that the boy could hear. The way that his breath hitched whenever he caught the boy dance.

He googled his symptoms once.

What does it mean when your heart races because of a boy. The first result was WebMD so he quickly left that page. He was decently sure he wasn’t having a heart attack after all.

why are my cheeks going red whenever he's around was just as useless. Why couldn’t google tell him what was happening? He found himself avoiding Minho after a while.

He wanted to escape the way his heart hurt, the way his breath quickened.  It wouldn’t last him long. Minho wasn’t stupid, he knew that.  He’d figure it out and confront him and… Felix wanted to figure out what was wrong with him before then.

Okay Google, why does he make me smile so much? How do I know if I love him? How do I stop loving him? A week and a half passed before Minho cornered him. Just… In the kitchen.

“You’re avoiding me Lix.” Felix turned around, glancing at Minho innocently.

“What do you mean?” Minho squinted at him.

“You don’t hug me, barely talk to me sometimes and I’ve seen you actively leave the room when it services you.” Felix froze. Shit.

A moment passed before Felix sighed.

“Something’s wrong with me. I don’t understand.” It was Minho’s turn to freeze.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know! My heart keeps racing and my cheeks keep burning and I don’t know what’s causing it.” He muttered out in a rush. Another moment passed before Minho reached out to pull him into a hug. 

Felix’s cheeks flamed up.

“Lucky person, whoever it is.” He hadn’t realised he was so easy to figure out. Apparently, he was if Minho had figured out his predicament.

He paused, before shrugging and deciding to go for it. Damn it, if it made things awkward he’d suffer through it.

“Yea, you are.” Minho stiffened, before glancing at Felix, his own cheeks ruby and warm.

Minho wasn’t sure he’d heard that right? Felix liked him? 

He pulled away from the blonde to stare at him. Before he swallowed.

“I uh…” He said, very intelligently.

“You don’t have to say anything but. I thought…” Felix whispered. Fuck it.

Minho flushed, before leaning to kiss Felix. A second passed before he pulled away, to see Felix’s flushed and red face.

“... Hey... Do you maybe… Wanna go out sometime?” Felix’s eyes widened before he frantically nodded. Minho giggled. Cute.

He was glad, that Felix had helped him that day. How the boy had made him feel special. Maybe one day he’d be able to return the favour.

[asterythm]

of delirium and dandelions // 0.1: dandelion

Title: Of Delirium and Dandelions Word Count: 1k Chapter Summary: In which a wish is made a̶n̶d̶ ̶a̶ ̶g̶a̶m̶e̶ ̶i̶s̶ ̶p̶l̶a̶y̶e̶d̶. No -- this is not a game. General Summary: Ah -- what a shame. Patton's gotten his new apron dirty, and dried bloodstains are just so difficult to wash out, you see. Warnings: The SS Horror Family AU deals with both psychological and physical horror aspects; I will do my best to list all the triggers for each chapter, but it's very possible that I may forget one, considering how graphic this story is going to get -- which means that if you are generally a sensitive reader, this is not the story for you. Please, please, please take care of yourselves. This story will contain physical and mental abuse, blackmail, blood and gore, body horror, antidepressant overdosing, insanity/hysteria, manipulation, knives, scars, mouth sewing, panic attacks, lots of tears, what could be interpreted as sympathetic Deceit, torture, and excessive violence. This chapter will contain mentions of blood and kinda-subtle insanity. (Since it's only the prologue, this chapter is a lot shorter and more docile than future chapters will be.)

A young boy plucks a dandelion from the ground. It’s the best one he’s seen all day — perfectly round and brilliantly white and so, so fluffy. He laughs a happy, twinkling sort of laugh and purses his lips to blow.

“Wait!” shouts his friend, bounding up behind him. “You gotta make a wish first. That’s the rule!”

“Oh, okay,” replies the young boy, a little sheepish. “I wish… I wish to… to…” What was that thing that his teacher had said yesterday? It had sounded really wise and smart. “I wish to always listen to my heart!” There, that was it. He’s not exactly sure what it means, but it sounds cool. Satisfied, he takes a big breath in and he blows as hard as he can.

The dandelion seeds explode from the stem and go skipping about, carried on the wind. They look like the little ashes that fly out of a campfire pit whenever his father drops a new piece of firewood onto the pile — dancing around in the breeze as if they are alive. The boy watches them soar with a smile on his face. He catches a seed in his little fist.

When he opens his hand again, the seed is gone.

xxx  20 YEARS LATER xxx

Logan had been the first one to notice that something about Patton seemed to be a little bit… different. The changes were infinitesimal and spread out over time, but Logan’s observant eyes never did miss much, and so when Patton began to talk less and smile more, Logan noticed. When Patton would spend days at a time hidden away in his room, Logan noticed. When Patton began to eat less, Logan noticed. When a subtle pain crept into Patton’s eyes and didn’t go away, Logan noticed.

Logan noticed, but he did not say anything to any of the other Sides until it was far, far too late. That was Logan’s first mistake.

So you see, it was really all Logan’s fault.

xxx

It had been Virgil who had taken it all a step too far. He should have realized that his sarcastic comments lately had crossed some kind of line and were offending Roman more than usual. Of course, Logan noticed. Patton noticed. Roman noticed. All of them saw when Roman was showing up to videos with his hair messy, his sash uneven, his crown askew, and a shorter temper than ever.

But Virgil didn’t notice, or perhaps he noticed but didn’t care enough to stop. That was Virgil’s first mistake.

So you see, it was really all Virgil’s fault.

xxx 

If anyone could have made more of an effort, it was Roman. He got upset over the smallest of things in the days leading up to what happened, and he just kept expecting someone to resolve his problems for him. He could have spoken up; he could have just told Virgil to stop, to back off, to be a little kinder. But he said nothing and allowed the others to see his misery. He just wanted someone else to help him deal with the heartache he was going through. He wanted to know that the others cared about him. He wanted to be told that he was important, for once in his life.

No one spoke up. He continued to hold to his hope, telling himself over and over again that someone would offer to help. That was Roman’s first mistake.

So you see, it was really all Roman’s fault.

xxx

Whoever’s fault it was, it wasn’t Patton’s. That much was for sure. Patton did the right thing. Patton kept his family together. He helped Logan learn that it was okay to let other people know what he was feeling. He made sure that Virgil would never frown or say anything hurtful again. He guaranteed Roman’s permanent happiness. Or, at least, absence of sadness, which is more or less the same thing, right? Patton saved his broken family. He helped them. He brought them back together, and now they wouldn’t ever separate again. He was quite certain of that.

All that it took was a tiny bit of bloodshed. Just a few drops; and the brand-new ruby red pearls that now decorated the mindscape were so beautiful, after all.

Yes, Patton did the right thing. It didn’t matter what the other Sides thought. They simply didn’t have a strong enough grasp on what was best for Thomas. In time, they would come to understand his decision had been for the greater good. They had to. Thomas himself had said it, all those many years ago; always listen to the heart.

xxx

The pendant around his neck bounced up and down as he walked. Contained within it was a single dandelion seed. It was a lovely necklace; he’d found it while he was going through some of the more cluttered parts of his room, so many weeks ago. He didn’t remember it from Thomas’s childhood, but perhaps it had just been forgotten by everyone — until now.

After he put it on, he felt a little dizzy for a couple minutes and had to lie down. Perhaps he had passed out at one point. He wasn’t entirely sure.

But after the dizziness passed, a wonderful clarity came to him. He suddenly understood so much more. He’d spent so long being moral, being kind and loving and true and good and just and… and… and he was tired. Tired of Morality. Tired of who he was. Tired of being tired.

This wasn’t who he was meant to be. He was meant to make Thomas happy, not to make Thomas force himself to constantly be “the nice one”. The one who always had to bend over backwards to accommodate others. The loser — the geek — the whatever.

Thomas deserved a break. It was finally his turn to be happy! The other Sides were holding him back; they didn’t realize it, but they were destroying him from the inside out. Roman and Virgil were always fighting, Logan pretended that he didn’t have any feelings whatsoever. They were such a sad family, and it absolutely broke Patton’s heart to see the problems that plagued them, day in and day out. He had to help. He had to do something.

So Patton took responsibility. Thomas would be happy now. He’d be ecstatic, blissful, rapturous, euphoric…

He’d be delirious.

xxx

[next chapter]

[afjakwritesarchive]

I wish you would write a fic where... there is lots of emotional or physical pain and suffering, but with a cute usuk end to make hearts melt.

Anon, how did you know I was waiting for an excuse to write a fic like this? Hope you like this! :) Also, sorry this is so late!! 

Title: KidnappedPairing: USUKRating: T (descriptions of violence ahead!)AU: Human, Undercover cop!ArthurGenre: Angst, romanceSummary: Arthur is desperate to save Alfred after he is kidnapped. A/N: Sorry for all the inaccuracies. For the purpose of fun angsty USUK, please overlook them!

Arthur had been sipping tea and looking over case files when he'd gotten a text from an unknown number. The message, containing only the words 'You'll want to see this', was a link to a livestream on a website unfamiliar to the Brit. At first, he'd been confused. The stream, which seemed to be filmed from a camera situated in a corner toward the ceiling, displayed an empty room. However, after staring at the sparse room for twenty seconds, there was a sudden commotion. Arthur watched his phone screen in horror as someone, tied to a chair and with a black bag over their head, was suddenly dragged into the room by a masked figure clothed entirely in black. He'd immediately leapt from his seat and rushed to the tech room, using his phone's mirroring feature to project his screen onto the TV.

The figure who brought the captive in left the room. While his department's resident tech expert Ivan Braginsky tried to track the number, Arthur watched as the unidentified captive strained against thick, unyeilding ropes. The ropes had been wrapped around the person's arms, tied at the wrists, and secured to the back of the chair. Ropes had also wound underneath the seat of the chair and over the person's thighs, effectively gluing them to their seat. Both of their ankles had been secured to the two front legs of the chair, leaving them completely immobile and defenseless.

The door onscreen opened once more. Arthur let out a sharp cry of outrage, drawing the attention of several more people in the room. At the sight of the man who had entered, cries of shock rang throughout the room.

"Get the chief, now!" Arthur hollered to one of his coworkers. "Someone record this!"

Within a minute, every officer currently at the station had swarmed in the tech department, crowding around the television.

"Hello, officer Kirkland!" Came a low, sing-song voice from the screen. The man who had walked in was now sauntering toward the camera, looking up at it with a vicious grin on his face. "Oh, I wish this were a skype call so I could see your pretty face looking shocked—I'm sure it's just perfect."

Arthur grit his teeth, green eyes narrowed and hatred burning within them as he stared at the man. "Fuck," he muttered under his breath.

"How did he find you out?!" Cried one of Arthur's coworkers, Elizaveta. Like Arthur, she had been assigned to go undercover in order to infiltrate one of the city's largest drug dealers, and stared in awe at the image of the man himself on the screen.

Arthur gave no reply, hyper focused on the screen.

"Do you like the theatrics? I figured you would, considering how much you like acting." The man joked, a reference to the Brit's time undercover. He grinned as he turned around, leisurely striding toward the captive. He reached forward, pulling the bag away from their head with a flourish.

Arthur immediately let out a cry of shock, clamping a hand over his mouth to keep from screaming out as he watched the most dangerous man in the city pluck a pair of noise-cancelling headphones off of the love of his life.

"What the fuck is going on?!" Were the first words out of Alfred's mouth once the headphones were off.

"Oh, my. A gorgeous face ruined by extremely poor manners. You know, typically you introduce yourself before you begin to scream profanities at someone." Said the man, grinning happily at Alfred.

"Yeah, well, typically you don't tie someone up until the third date!" Spat Alfred sarcastically. "Who the fuck are you?"

The man in front of him fixed Alfred with a faux pout. "You don't recognize me? Gilbert Beilshmidt, the devilishly handsome and dangerously charming millionaire?"

Alfred's jaw fell open in shock, staring at the man before him in awe.

"Oh, so you do know me!" Gilbert said with a laugh. "Well, now that I've been introduced, it's your turn. Correct me if I'm wrong: You're Alfred Jones, twenty-six years old, six-foot-four, one-hundred eighty-five pounds, half-brother to Matthew Williams, and you live on Liberty Street in an apartment with your cat, Hero."

Alfred glared harshly at the man, squirming some in his seat. "What do you want with me? You're not an idiot. You know I don't have any info that you need."

Gilbert leaned forward until he was face-to-face with the American, leering at him. "You're right. You don't have any information at all. But you are leverage. Someone—and I won't say who, because that would ruin my awesome fun—is both close to you and my case. I thought it could be fun to make them squirm a little by taking you."

Alfred's face twisted into an enraged frown, brows pulled together and bright eyes narrowed. "Dude, that's fucked up."

"That's the point," Gilbert replied. "Now, let's try something: I'm going to ask you some questions, Alfred. If you refuse to answer or lie to me, I'll hit you. Make sense?"

"Sure," Alfred grumbled, glaring at the man as he stepped back.

Gilbert clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels as he spoke. "Alfred, are you married?"

"Shouldn't you already know that?" Alfred snapped.

Immediately, Gilbert raised his palm, striking the American harshly across the face. Arthur's hands came to his mouth, muffling a sudden cry of shock and outrage as he watched the American's head jerk to the side from the force of the hit. After a moment, Alfred raised his head and fixed Gilbert with a harsh glare, his cheek still red where the man had hit him.

"What the hell was that for?!" Alfred cried.

"You know, for someone in your position, I think it would be rather obvious that you shouldn't speak to me that way." Gilbert said coolly before smacking the American once more.

"Fuck you," Alfred spat out. "Hit me as many times as you want. I'm not gonna answer your dumbass fucking questions."

"No?" Gilbert questioned, leaning forward again.

"No." Alfred said with a resolute nod.

"Hm," Gilbert hummed in consideration, suddenly inching closer. He moved to straddle Alfred, settling himself over the American's bound thighs with a devious smile. "You know, Alfred, I know a lot about you. There was a reason I picked you rather than any of the others I could have."

Alfred turned his head away from Gilbert, chest heaving as if the anger within him was trying to break free.

"Don't ignore me," Gilbert purred, his tone low. He took Alfred's chin very gently in a pale hand, guiding the blond's eyes to meet his.

Arthur growled, fists formed at his sides as he watched the exchange. The rage within him was unparalleled; the longer he watched Gilbert touch Alfred, the more the fire within him burned, and the more compelled he felt to bash the TV screen in, if only to rid himself of the horrifying image upon the screen.

"Listen to me very carefully, Alfred: I know everything. I do my research. I know you have secrets that not even your closest friends know. That not even Arthur know."

Alfred stiffened, glaring harshly at the man. "Leave Arthur out of this. Whatever sick game you're playing, he's not involved."

Arthur felt a pang in his heart at the American's words, so steely and sure. Several of his coworkers turned to glance at him, pitying expressions on their faces at the sight of the hurt on his own. Oh, if only Alfred knew... If only he knew that not only was he involved in the game, but that he was a crucial player, Gilbert's main opponent. How would he react knowing that it was all Arthur's fault he'd gotten kidnapped, that the facade his best friend had kept up for years was all a lie? What would he say when he found out that Arthur wasn't a librarian, but an undercover agent in charge of a case for one of the most dangerous criminals in the city?

"Perhaps so, but I find it a little unfair that there's so much of your life you haven't told him. Does he know about your parents, Alfred? The night you ran away from him? All the foster homes you moved in and out of?"

Arthur's jaw tightened. He did know—after a night of particularly heavy drinking, Alfred had let some of the details of his childhood slip. The next morning, Arthur had brought it up, and Alfred had explained heartwrenching story. Around tears, he'd detailed the abuse of his monstrous parents, his escape, how he'd lived hopping couch to couch for almost six months until, at the tender age of fourteen, he'd been taken in by the state and circulated through various foster homes until adulthood. Knowing this, and seeing Gilbert use the blond's unpleasant past as bait, enraged him beyond belief.

"He already knows all that," Alfred said, gritting his teeth.

"Oh?" Gilbert said, quirking a brow. "What about Janie, Alfred? Does Arthur know anything about that?"

Alfred fumed, nostrils flaring. "Shut up." He hissed.

"It's a shame, what happened. You escaped one abusive household, and before five years had passed, you'd moved into a house where another was soon to start. You trusted her, didn't you, Alfred? You didn't think she could ever hurt you."

"Shut up!" Alfred yelled, struggling against his bonds.

"What was your breaking point with her, Alfred? How many times did she apologize to you before you realized she didn't mean it?"

Arthur's eyes were as wide as saucers, watching the screen rapturously. Whatever Gilbert was alluding to was obviously upsetting Alfred, and it made him fume. More than that, though, he was unbelievably concerned. Alfred had never mentioned anything about someone named Janie, nor any type of abusive relationship, but if Gilbert knew about it, it meant that there had been some record of it. Dread settled in the pit of Arthur stomach. If there were any records of it, it usually meant that it had been severe enough for Alfred to either press charges or seek some type of therapy.

Gilbert leaned in closer, pressing his lips against the American's cheek. When he pulled back, he smiled a sinister smile and reached out, caressing the American's cheek. "How many times did she do this to you before you fought back?"

Arthur watched in horror as the man's other hand snaked downward, settling at Alfred's thigh for a moment. He massaged the area briefly, eyes on the American's now horrified face. Once the blond's breaths had quickened considerably and he began to see true panic set in, he pushed his hand between the American's bound thighs.

"Don't," Alfred breathed, his voice shaky.

"Get the fuck off of him!" Arthur roared at the TV. Elizaveta reached out, resting a hand at his shoulder and fixing him with a sympathetic frown.

"Why not? What's wrong, Alfred?" Gilbert asked teasingly.

"Get away from me," Alfred growled, squeezing his eyes shut tightly.

"But you look so cute when you're afraid! I stole the records from your therapy sessions, you know. She wrote that you were afraid afterward. That you didn't want anyone to touch you. Is that still true? Does it scare you to have me touch you this way?"

"Stop," Alfred said, his voice weaker now.

"Beg me." Gilbert commanded, leaning in.

Alfred's plush lips parted and he took in a breath to speak, only to have the breath stolen from him when the man atop of him suddenly pressed their lips together. Alfred let out a muffled cry of surprise and squirmed in his bonds, shaking his head in order to get the man off of him.

"My, you really are afraid!" Gilbert exclaimed with a laugh. "All you have to do is ask me to stop and I will, Alfred."

"I have a location!" Ivan, an agent on the tech team suddenly cried, breaking all of the agents in the room away from the screen.

"They made it too easy to find them. They have something planned. We need to get there as soon as possible." Elizaveta said urgently.

"We need to go now." Arthur growled.

Green eyes flitted back to the screen, his thick brows pulled downward. Alfred was visibly trembling, the word 'please' falling from his lips repeatedly. Gilbert's face was obscured, his head bent. Arthur fumed; he was kissing Alfred's neck. The mere sight of it made Arthur's heart burn.

"I'll kill him." Arthur seethed.

Elizaveta handed him a bulletproof vest, which Arthur shrugged into without ever taking his eyes off the screen. His team was ready to go within two minutes, and they sped to the source of the crime in a hurry. As the Brit expected, it lead them somewhere that was completely inconspicuous on the outside; an empty building on the outskirts of town, once a hair salon that had gone out of business two months earlier. The windows were boarded up, and the door locked. Elizaveta had to kick it in to enter, and several agents spilled in with their guns raised. After a quick search of the premises, a staircase was found, and the Brit lead the team down the concrete steps.

Immediately, his mouth fell open in shock. At the bottom of the steps, a hallway stretched on in either direction, up until a corner at the end of each. Numerous doors were situated on each side of the hallway, and Arthur scowled.

"Start searching." He commanded, nodding to his team. Several agents started forward, only for a sudden voice to appear, playing from speakers embedded into the walls.

"Go down the hallway you're facing right now, Arthur. Take two lefts. Fourth door on your right." The voice of Gilbert purred.

Unthinking, Arthur immediately followed his instructions and dashed down the hall, Elizaveta close behind and urgently calling his name.

"What if it's a trap?!" She called, catching up to the Brit as he sprinted down the hall and took the first turn.

"I don't fucking care!" Arthur exclaimed. "I have to find him!"

"Arthur, wait!" Elizaveta called, following him around the second corner.

Arthur rushed to the instructed door, wasting no time before raising his foot. He kicked it twice before it succumbed to the force, swinging inward. Immediately, his eyes went wide in horror and all the blood drained from his face.

Gilbert stood in the center of the room, Alfred directly in front of him. One of Gilbert's arms was wrapped around his waist, his fingers roaming underneath the American's now half unbuttoned shirt. His other hand held a gun, the barrel of which was currently buried in Alfred's golden hair. Ropes still encircled the length of Alfred's arms, securing them behind his back. To Arthur's anger, the state of the American's clothing gave the impression of a hurried dressing after a hookup; his pants unbuttoned and unzipped at the front, his shirt half-unbuttoned. His hair was a mess, blood flowed in two neat lines from his mouth and nose, and tracks of tears were clearly visible upon his lightly freckled cheeks.

"Take one step closer and I'll shoot him," Gilbert said, his casual tone infuriating Arthur.

"Arthur!" Alfred cried, eyes widening to the size of saucers at the sight of the man. His eyes flitted over the Brit's ensemble and then back into his face, his eyes shining with surprise. "You're a cop?"

"More than just a cop," Gilbert purred, pressing his lips to the American's cheek. "He's an agent. Been undercover for two years."

"What do you want, Gilbert?" Arthur demanded.

"I don't want anything. You and your team has been a pain in the ass—I figured that I should return the favor, and what better way to do it than with him? It wasn't that hard to figure out, Kirkland. Everywhere I turned for information on you, someone mentioned Alfred and the rumors that you loved him."

Arthur's eyes flitted briefly to Alfred's face. The American's shoulders had slumped, an expression of shock set upon his handsome face. Arthur felt his cheeks reddening despite himself, and he fixed his eyes back unto Gilbert's face as the man spoke.

"I was going to kill him at first, but it seems like a lot of fun to watch you squirm over him. Maybe I should keep him around a little bit and see what I can get you to do." Gilbert suggested with a sickening smile. "Drop your gun, Arthur." He commanded.

Arthur's breath hitched in his throat. "You know I can't do that," he said, his words slow and deliberate.

Gilbert tilted his head to the side in mock confusion. "That's funny, I thought you cared about him." He said before suddenly taking Alfred's shoulders.

He whipped the American around to face him and, much to Arthur's disdain, pressed a quick kiss to his lips. Then, with a dull thud, Gilbert had smacked gun against the side of Alfred's head full force, the American falling the floor with the force of the hit. Arthur yelled in outrage, leaping forward to come to Alfred's aid. However, when Gilbert aimed the gun at his friend once more, he froze in place and looked to Gilbert angrily.

"I told you to put the gun down," Gilbert said, gazing fixedly into Arthur's face.

"No!" Alfred cried suddenly, leaping forward.

Gilbert cried out in shock as his captive suddenly plowed into him, sending them both the floor. He crashed into the concrete on his back, Alfred atop of him with his arms still bound behind his back.

"You fucking dick!" Gilbert shouted angrily, realizing that the American had knocked the gun out of his hand, where it had slid across the floor and against a wall.

As Gilbert struggled to push Alfred off of him, he watched Arthur race to the gun and quickly apprehend it. The Brit then sauntered forward, grinning triumphantly. Elizaveta dashed into the room, blood dripping from her lip, and let out a cry of happiness. She pulled her own gun from her holster and aimed at Gilbert.

"Go take care of him, Arthur. I got this," she said, nodding in the direction of Alfred.

Arthur nodded and leaned forward, quickly lifting the American off of Gilbert and to his feet, immediately tugging the blond into his arms.

"God, I'm so glad you're alright," Arthur sighed, pulling back and ushering the American out the door.

Alfred stumbled on his feet as they walked out, brows furrowing. "H-Hey," he murmured, "I... My head feels weird," he told the Brit.

"What?" Arthur asked. "Your head feels—Oh! Shit, you need a doctor!" He exclaimed, suddenly remembering the hit from the gun Alfred had endured.

Alfred nodded, looking up. His eyes were unfocused and he swayed on his feet. Arthur put a steadying arm behind him, helping him to walk. "Hey, Artie?"

"Yes?" Arthur asked as he helped Alfred through the exit, supporting the majority of the American's body by this point.

"You're not gonna bust me for the pot I smoked, are ya?" Alfred asked, speech slightly slurred.

A laugh bubbled in Arthur's throat and he opened his mouth to reply when Alfred's eyelids fluttered and he dropped backward, unconscious.

Alfred woke to the beep of a heart monitor and a hand squeezing his.

"Woah," he groaned aloud, squeezing his eyes shut once before allowing them to open.

"Alfred!" Exclaimed a familiar voice, making the American jolt. The hand in his squeezed tighter, and he heard the rustling of paper to his left side.

The American turned his head, watching as his best friend tossed a magazine off of his lap and stood up, hovering over him with a bright smile.

"Hey, Artie," Alfred greeted, surprised by the roughness of his voice.

"How do you feel, love?" Arthur questioned urgently, leaning over him with his thick brows furrowed in concern.

"My head fucking hurts," the American replied with a chuckle. "That bastard really fucking pistol whipped me, huh? I thought people only did that in movies."

Arthur frowned, very gently carding his fingers through the blond's golden hair. "I'm afraid he did," he murmured. "I'm so sorry, Alfred. This was all my fault. You had a concussion. Well, you still do, but before it was... God, I'm so fucking sorry. I can't even begin to tell you how terrible I feel."

Alfred blinked up at him, surprised. "Hey, it's not like you kidnapped me or something. You were there to help me."

"I know, I know. But I should have just put the gun down. I... I thought he'd hurt you more if he knew I was defenseless, but it was unfair call to make. I should have never put you in jeopardy, not even for a second. I was gambling with your life."

"I'm okay, aren't I?" Alfred said, a reassuring smile on his face. "Besides, it wasn't all bad."

Arthur's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "What about that situation could possibly be good?"

"He was a pretty good kisser." Alfred joked. At the glare he received from Arthur, he laughed. "Okay, okay, not funny. I meant that it wasn't all bad because I got to watch you get all flustered and blushy in the middle of a crime scene, and all 'cause Gilbert said you loved me."

Arthur cursed himself when his green eyes went wide, his face involuntarily blooming red at the comment.

"I was pretty flattered, yanno. If everyone he talked to knew, that means that you're either so stupidly in love with me that it's obvious to everyone who sees you, or that you gush about me to everyone you meet. Either way, I thought it was pretty great." Alfred teased with a winning smile.

"Do you want another concussion?" Arthur threatened as he released Alfred's hand, turning away.

Alfred let out a cry of protest and hurriedly sat up, immediately wincing in pain. Arthur whipped around and immediately began to scold the American, helping him to lay down again.

Alfred looked to his friend once the pain had dulled down to the familiar ache at the side of his skull. "I wasn't making fun of you, you know. I was really happy to hear it."

The Brit folded his arms across his chest, huffing. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, I'm glad you love me, 'cause I love you too and I'm kinda sick of pretending I don't." Alfred said with a grin.

Arthur kissed him.

[theeurekaproject]

Orestes et Electra

"She's kinda cute." Ace said. "The girl, I mean."

Lyra stood in the middle of the spaceport, gazing through the skylight. Her black clothes stood out like a sore thumb in the utilitarian gray of the place, and passing Ministratora castes gave her a wide berth, but she didn't seem to care much. She just looked up through the glass with a rapturous expression, like she was staring at heaven itself instead of the thick, polluted clouds that obscured the sun.

"I guess," T shrugged. "Not really my type.” He wasn’t lying—Lyra was not his type—but she seemed to have an intoxicating quality about her anyway, something T didn’t want to share with Ace.

"Her hair is pretty,” Ace said.

"You say that about every girl you meet.”

"Says the guy who like the green chick from the new Ultores movie," Ace countered.

"Because she's a badass," TB-2215 said. "Besides, she's not even from Ultores, she's from Custodes de Galaxia-"

"And the princess from Stella Bella-"

"She's a badass, too. And talk about pretty hair-"

"Talk about out of your league. And you tell me Acidalia is too classy for me."

"See," T said, "the main difference between crushing on fictional characters and crushing on the Imperatrix is that the fictional characters don't exist."

"'Fictional characters don't exist' isn't what you said when you were crying at Infinitum Bellum," Ace said.

"I did not cry." (Admittedly, he had cried. But everyone in the spaceport did not need to be made aware of this, and besides, it didn't really matter.)

"I was there. You can't hide from me," he replied. "I think you're the only person who could shoot down six people, and then start hysterically sobbing because they killed off-"

"Hey, what's Lyra doing?" he asked loudly, interrupting Ace. "Go talk to her if you think she's so cute. Go on, leave me alone."

"I would, but..." he said slowly, "I mean, they're already looking at her enough. Aren't we supposed to be being inconspicuous?"

"Just go." T lightly nudged him. "Don't be obnoxious. She's supposed to be your pregnant girlfriend, isn't she? Go."

"You're all business lately," he said. "What's up with you?"

T eyed him. "You know exactly what's up. I'm not talking about this further. Not here."

"Right, right," Ace sighed. In a quieter tone, he added, "She'll be okay, you know."

"No, I don't," T retorted. "It's not a guarantee."

"I've seen that woman with a blaster. She shot down twelve people in about five seconds while wearing a tiara of flowers. If there's one person on the planet who can stay alive, it's-"

"Keep your voice down. And not even the most skilled marksman could survive a twenty-person ambush with no backup."

"Andromeda will send backup," Ace said.

T sighed. "But how long will it take? Cassandra’s useless.”

"I don't know. I wouldn't stress about it," he replied. "Things like this have happened before. Remember last week?"

"Yeah," T said, "but Cassiopeia is different. She's an idiot. I think her IQ is the same as the kitten we snuck onto the ship when we were, what, 10? Her plans aren't so much 'incoherent' as 'nonexistent.' You saw what she did— just grabbed-"

He bit his tongue suddenly. Talking about this here was a bad idea. He didn't mention his sisters' names. Cassiopeia on its own was common enough that he could have been referring to any girl, but if he brought up the Imperials, they'd all know exactly who he was talking about—and it was never a good idea to clue in everyone else to private matters.

¨My point is,"he said softly, "my mother is a lot smarter, and a lot more powerful, than Cassiopeia ever was."

At that moment, he heard his sister's name, broadcast in a cool, feminine voice, and he jumped six inches.

"Relax," Ace said. "They're talking about Mars."

He was right: they were just announcing the 1815 flights to Acidalia, Utopia, and Arcadia Planitia—the place she was named after, not the Imperatrix. He checked their tickets—1830. They were scheduled to board in fifteen minutes.

"We better get going," he said. He wondered, briefly, what David Seren himself had thought when he left the planet sixteen years ago—except he actually had a baby with him. Had he expected that he wouldn't return to his home for the next decade and a half? Had he been nervous?

T decided not to think about it too much. He had been reluctant about this whole ridiculous thing in the first place, and anxious about what it would mean to leave Eleutheria unsure of when he was coming back. How long would it take for his squadron to notice he was missing? What if they went searching for him? What if they thought something bad had happened to them both?

He had grown up with these men. They were more brothers than anything else. They'd spent their whole childhood play-fighting, having movie nights, and talking about girls in between school and battle. They were the lucky ones—the sons of the elite, the TB strategists and the AX tech specialists, both immunes, neither concerned whatsoever about death. Maybe they should have been.

He remembered staying up late and listening to stories about distant worlds with the older boys who seemed like they knew the whole galaxy; they'd tell tales of planets with temperatures so low liquid tetraoxygen sloshed around in the seas and burned all the living things it touched, places so rich in carbon and so high in pressure it snowed solid diamonds, the gas giant that moved so fast it rained molten glass sideways. His favorite was the tidally locked planet, with one side trapped in eternal night, and the other so blisteringly hot it was an ocean of lava where the clouds were made of rubies and sapphires. He was always so jealous of the men who actually got to see these strange, alien worlds, and the creatures—or the people, even—who lived on them.

More than once, one of the lower ranking men, someone who actually got to experience the rest of the galaxy, would go missing. They might return a few days later, wide-eyed and skittish; other times they'd simply vanish. Those stories were more fables to be told around the faux-campfires of lights the blasters made when they were charging—tales of ancient alien ruins, of beautiful women with green skin, of life beyond the two known sentient species in the galaxy. Life beyond the Mira.

T didn't think he'd ever really laid eyes on the people who called themselves the Mira, but the tales told about them ranged from hideous monsters to almost fae-like creatures. They were sparkly purple people, and then they were hideous, psychotic animals with no humanity left in their strange, gelatinous minds.

It was probably a little of both.

The propaganda portrayed them as savages, but propaganda always did that. The older men recalled tales of nights with beautiful alien women, but TB-2115 couldn't help but doubt that, too (especially since every eyewitness had described them as "cold," "wet," and "icy to the touch" regardless of their perspective.) The Mira were an enigma.

He always thought they were interesting. The researchers—the xenolinguists, the biological weapons research squad, the historians—were always more appealing to him than the fighters he was supposed to idolize. His specialty—his purpose—was always strategy, military logic. If we put those soldiers there, how many people could die? If we launched the pox now, how many would it infect? He played games of war like they played games of chess—the TB units were the grandmasters, the rest of the army the pawns, Eleutheria the king they protected. But T always found chess boring.

One could only talk so often about endless death and destruction before it got to their head. He may have been a lucky one when it came to his chances of death and dismemberment—virtually nonexistent—but the subject matter of his education was depressing. Playing with people's lives, deciding whether it was worth it to save the people you loved, weighing probabilities, taking the other path because one less soldier might die, putting other people through hell for a benefit so small it was hardy noticed—it wasn't worth the reduced chance of a terrible fate. Especially not when the hypothetical king was an unstable, broken mess of a country who couldn't move one square because every shift required intense thought and argument and the tension was building so thick that the piece would shatter into shards of broken porcelain regardless of what the rest of the board did.

Even here, at the spaceport, people were whispering. It was Lyra—a Cantator in the middle of a nice spaceport?—but something else, too. It was odd, venturing out into regular, civilian life—this talk would not have been tolerated in the barracks. Yet here everyone was, muttering. This planet was as tense as it could get. They were on a dangerous precipice, hovering over the edge of the void, about to fall.

"Hey, T," someone said, breaking him out of his reverie. "Time to go."

"Right," he said thickly. "Yeah."

"This is amazing," Lyra sighed. "I mean, stars, look at this!" She pulled a piece of her bubblegum-pink hair out of the neat braid she'd been trying to wrestle it into, seemingly forgetting about tidiness entirely. "Eleutheria's so big. And it's pretty. I guess that sounds stupid—that sounds stupid, doesn't it?—but when you only ever see the very bottom of the heap you don't have the full picture. The only parts I've ever seen of this world are the little tiny alleys in downtown Appalachia, and I never thought once about leaving, but..." Her voice trailed off. She continued to excitedly fidget, ignoring the stares she was receiving.

"At least she's excited," T muttered.

"Maybe it'll be a learning experience?" Ace suggested tentatively.

T glared at him and handed him a ticket. Lyra took her own, holding it so tight it crinkled and cracked slightly. A voice announced the presence of the 1830 Acidalian flight and she practically jumped.

They boarded slowly, cramming into the cheap seats while the foreign dignitaries in creamy off-while stepped delicately to the windowed deck. T already hated this. It smelled like spent fuel and stale sweat, and the outside seemed infinitely better. Mars, the little red dot in the distant sky, was very far away.

His meta vibrated in his pocket. Annoyed, he picked it up and glared at the little glowing name: Diana. His codename for Artemis. He scrambled to answer it, dropping his own visor on the way; two Suffragium giggled at him. Momentarily, he thought, If you knew who I was....

"Hello?" he asked, his voice breaking awkwardly.

"T?" she asked. “What’s up with Acidalia?”

He choked on his own saliva. "What?"

“She’s not picking up her meta.”

A chill ran down T’s spine. Acidalia always answered her metadit.

"I'm in the KC Interplanetary spaceport," he said. "That's close to the palace."

"Have you taken off yet?"

"I think we're about to. I'm getting off."

Ace and Lyra looked at each other, confused. "What?" Lyra asked. "Are you okay? Spacesick already? I mean, I heard that could happen-"

He shook his head. "Ace, get her off-planet. I have to go."

"What's she saying?" Ace asked. Now everyone in the section was staring at them—as if two soldiers and a Cantator weren't suspicious enough already.

"Not here," T muttered. "Talk to you later." He stood abruptly, putting his visor back on and pushing past the people in front of him. A Scientia glared at him for a second before he whipped out his stunner pistol and waved it in front of his face.

"TB sector soldier here. I'm on military business. Get out of the way."

She jumped aside, and suddenly the aisle was clear. The girls who had been laughing at him before looked at each other and shrunk back, smoothing their hair and settling down where he couldn't see them. He jumped over someone's turned-over backpack and raced past the upper decks.

"I know you!" said a girl in silver-white. She was young, maybe twelve or thirteen.

"Really?" he asked, not listening much. He scouted around a corner, drawing his gun. If someone caught on to where he was going—someone with the Nova—it would be less than ideal.

"I saw you at the coronation," she said, like it was obvious. "You were the one who talked with the Imperatrix." Then, in a deep whisper, she added, "do you like her? Aleskynn says you like her."

"Aleskynn doesn't know what she's on about," he replied. "That's not true." He pulled his mask down. One person had already recognized him; there were sure to be more.

"I think it would have been romantic," she sighed. "Forbidden love, and all..."

T cringed, wanting more than anything to mention their genetic relationship. "No thanks. Hey, kid, where's your mother?"

"Don't call me kid," she demanded, standing up to a height of a full 140 centimetrons. "I'm the daughter of a Negotia. You're just a standard soldier."

"You're going to get yourself killed," he snapped. "Get back up on deck and hide, you hear me? Now."

"What?" Her bright pink eyes turned a deep, dark purple. It was the latest trend—color-changing eyes. It looked just as fake and stupid on this girl as it did on Aleskynn when she went through her rebellious phase; TB-2115 had a picture of her with bright orange hair and sea-foam green eyes in his wallet.

"You heard me."

She backed away slightly before scampering up the pretty marble steps—so far apart from the standard gray steel the rest of the planet had to use—and glanced back at him.

"Go," he called. "Get out."

She vanished behind a featureless pillar of stone.

He darted around the corner, sticking close to the wall before bursting out of the ship's doors. Three Raedae in identical uniforms jumped backwards at the sight of him.

"Which one of you is in charge?" he demanded. Two of them glanced at their comrade nervously.

"Me," she said softly. "Hi."

"Hi," he replied, far louder. "Get this ship off the ground immediately. Don't ask questions, just go." He flashed his visor at her, identifying himself as a high-ranking soldier. The Raeda didn't respond, signaling something to her comrades. All together, their steps strangely in line with one another, they surrounded the ship and signaled it for takeoff. He knew better than to stick around.

At least Ace and the Cantator would be safe for now. They couldn't exactly track them down once they were thousands of miles away on Mars, could they? Well, they probably could—it just wouldn't be worth the effort.

T sprinted off the runway and out of the spaceport, to the astonished looks of everyone around him. People fell out of his path once they realized who he was. They'd surely be talking about it later, but that didn't matter now.

The planet outside was a glowing array of dazzling blue-on-black lights. It was a pretty urban area, covered in countless art projects he could all recognize by name; the capitol city of Eleutheria was all beautiful neoclassicism mixed with neon. It seemed like it would never work, but it was stunning—everything from the ultraviolet lights to the bioluminescent flowers. Acidalia's touch was everywhere.

Pictures of his sister ran through his mind at the speed of sound, tripping over one another so quickly they came in flashes and vanished into thin air again. Braiding her dark hair on her balcony at night when they weren't supposed to be there, gossiping about the upper-class idiots she paraded around with, telling extravagant and exaggerated stories of places neither of them had any business being.

What would they do to her?