#Aside from whatever refugees escaped that plane. If any.

[tswwwit]

I feel like if Dipper were ever reincarnated as a demon, he wouldn't fit in super well with the others. Yes, he's been raised to vie for power and step on everyone in his way using whatever means is necessary - it's the same toxic bizz as when he was a human, appealing to gender norms. He's tougher, scarier, more powerful (than ordinary humans, that is), but when it comes to asserting control - being Evil - he doesn't have it in him. Given enough time, I think he'd grow pretty vocal about leaving living things alone. NOT torturing organisms for the hell of it, or stealing people's souls, or conquering planets. Sure, he's a demon. That's no excuse to be a MONSTER.

It's a VERY unpopular opinion amongst neighboring demons, and rumor spreads fast about the Goody Two-Shoed Activist imp raining on everyone's blood-splattered parade, so much so that it makes it to Bill, who's immediately intrigued. Call it intuition, but only one soul's capable of overriding goddamn demon nature for some preachy bullshit about "Doing Good." Lucky for him, demons occupy the same plane of existence, so all it really takes to verify the guy is a snap of his fingers, and POOF! He's floating right next to him. Sure enough, Dipper's fashioned himself a new and improved demonic form, and it is lovely!

No one likes Dipper's kumbaya "Can't We All Just Get Along" ideology, but Bill's almost instantly smitten with the guy, whoever he is, so he's gotta be at least somewhat powerful. Demons take notice when the all-powerful Bill Cipher starts lending his time (and magic?) to some low-leveler like Dipper. Is he being blackmailed? Are they working together? No. Not possible. Bill doesn't "work" with anyone, save for whatever human catches his eye every few decades. Doesn't look to be doing him any benefit, either. The opposite, even. Lending power to a saint like Dipper only makes it harder to cause chaos, after all. Why would he actively go against his OWN best interest to cater some imp's? It's almost like he's. He's.

A henchmen.

(Bill's also 30% more affectionate the first month they reunite, because he still can't believe that his adorable little human husband came back as the same SPECIES as him! He'd never complain over having a sweet human to squeeze, but one with teeth and claws and cute pointy ears doesn't hurt).

[thefamilyeldritchabomination]

Maze-Chapter One: What's Next? Pt. 1

In the vast expanse of the interdimensional planes, where places of various existences are born and various existences die like the stars in the skies of Earth, the research island of Nibiru sailed silently. It had been centuries since the devastating fall of the nursery island of Tir Na Nog happened, the island that Nibiru was born upon. The loss had been great, many of the refugees from the island made themselves at home on Nibiru, some of which being the majority of the caregivers to the missing Queen Elect, the one that would’ve most definitely been the last Queen produced before Tir Na Nog died before getting lost to a rip in reality on Earth recently. Others that weren’t so lucky in escaping the island, faced either being held prisoner by the respective patheon of that realm or isolation in a freshly made universe, doomed to eons of worth of loneliness until sapient life forms could begin to form. Eternal life had a downside and they were very well established to the faes of the phantom islands that traveled dimension to dimension looking for a place to settle upon.

 The anger ate at him, the serpentine being that sat curled up on his throne, the scales glistening like nebulas in space with white specklings that resembled stars and round gemstones dotting along the back like planets. How dare Crom Cruach, the one responsible for Tir Na Nog dying and the loss of Mac Lir, escaped with no punishment. Gilded nails clicked on the surface of the throne as the figure thought carefully over the scenario after receiving some date that had caused this. It had been originally a survey data to inspect a new plane of existence, only to find three Queen signals coming from a closed off plane, one of the signals being identifiably Crom Cruach’s. The plane was clearly closed off by whatever deities inhabiting it, clearly understanding that there was more out there and didn’t want more issues coming to their doorstep. It irked the figure, knowing that the smug bastard that killed his childhood island had it cozy in that dimension, avoiding any real consequences. The door to the throne room opened, attracting the figure’s slitted, golden eyes to pay attention.

“Brother, our communications team had attempted numerous times to contact the deities of that plane. It’s clear that the deities we’re dealing with have absolutely no intentions of communicating with us.��� A deer-like Faun said as she approached her serpentine brother with that news.

“That’s not good at all Virgo, not good at all. That plane has Crom Cruach and he needs to answer for his crimes against our own kind.” The serpentine leader said as he glared a bit at his screen of the closed off plane.

“There isn’t much we can do about that Ophiuchus, if the plane is refusing communications, part of the hospitality protocol is to leave it be.” Virgo explained as she pushed aside a strand of bronze blonde hair from her face.

“Unfortunately, we cannot uphold the hospitality rule this time around. This is a major situation, one of which has the missing Queen Elect on there. We cannot just leave her there if we’re able to pick up on that signal.” Ophiuchus clicked his nails a bit in thought on how to bypass this little blockade. 

 “Are you even hearing yourself? You’re suggesting to go against the code of the Fae with hospitality, something that had been upheld since the maiden voyages of the twelve Nursery Islands. If we were to go against the code, we could face serious repercussions for it.” Virgo argued as a thought came into Ophiuchus’s face as he turned his attention to something else.

“Change of plan, instead of our planned visitation of the new dimension, have our navigation team set course for Earth.” Ophiuchus ordered as a plan finalized in his mind on how to reach through that barrier.

“Earth? Why would you want to go to Earth? There’s a massive upheaval right now in the deities’ political landscape since Koenma resigned over two decades ago and Meg Mell is right now sailing there for its incubation cycle.” Virgo was taken aback from the departure of the original plan for a place of current political upheaval.

“Earth is a neighbor to that closed off plane. Every house has a back door, we just need to find the key to it and I have a pretty good idea who that key should be.” Ophiuchus explained as he went to the cabinet to remove some things for the plan to work.

“As you wish, Ophiuchus, but know that your spouse is going to be upset with you over this change of plans and its reasons. Even though you are the Queen of Nibiru, it doesn’t mean you’re invincible to consequences.” Virgo warned, having a feeling things were about to belly up from this derailment.

“You are dismissed, Virgo. On your way back, do send my request to Taurus to bring me the spirit world files from the Japanese Branch, specifically the ones dated from the nineties to early two thousands.” Ophiuchus motioned for Virgo to take leave so he could process his thoughts.

 As Virgo left the throne room in annoyance, the one called Ophiuchus went to work on something that resembled a table that had made a child with a maze. It had been a while since this piece had been used, originally once used to give inspirations to mortal leaders back in the BCE times of mankind in their dreams, but now would serve a far different purpose that he had in store. Although it had been decades since Ophiuchus had been on the planes of Earth’s seas, he had been keeping up to date on its current affairs both mortal and spiritual. There had been this one fox youkai, if memory serves, had a skill for breaking and entering, a skill that had been very well honed throughout his expansive criminal career. Sure, the fox youkai did make an unusual choice of remaining in a human body which was likely seeing its wear, but should still be able to perform this task in mind with little issue. All Ophiuchus would need was the right ‘motivation’ as Nibiru made its course towards the plane of Earth, more precisely, the Sea of Japan.

=======================================================================

[completelynobody]

Legis....It’s you

Olidas' Afternoon, 15th day of Summer's Warmth, Year 45 A.E.

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United Merchant's Guild Hall, Freehold of Proust

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Lex Legis handed over the parchment containing the completed form he was required to fill out in order to be considered for the position.

"All the information you asked for."

The halfling behind the counter accepted it, and looked it over with a skeptical scowl.

"Right....Mister Legless..."

"Legis," He interrupted, "Lex Legis."

The halfling gave him a sidelong glance.

"That's what I said...Legis...anyway, the Kaelinth city guard is currently at a full roster. If you're dead-set on a city guard position, Jobrak will be where the action is."

Lex nodded.

"Wherever...its fine."

The halfling set the parchment down.

"If you're so motivated to be a guard, why not try one of the kingdoms? The lords are always looking to hire guards, or outriders."

Lex shook his head.

"Nobody in any of the kingdoms had any use for my father. Now, I don't have any use for them. I'm perfectly happy in Proust."

The halfling shrugged.

"Suit yourself. I'll get this information into the works. Someone will come out to talk to you shortly."

Lex nodded.

These guild people were very thorough. He liked that.

After a lifetime of uncertainty, things were finally following a logical order for him.

Born to off-world parents, Lex never really was accepted by the children his age, who were born native to this world.

His father, being an off-worlder was forced to find work where he could. That meant the Legis family often had to move from settlement, to settlement.

Despite his father's prowess in battle, none of the native born rulers particularly cared to hire him on.

Probably due to the blue tinted flesh, inborn to his race.

The Zenythri, a people who could trace their lineage back to beings hailing from the outer planes devoted to law and order, were rare enough on the world his family escaped, before the Illithids ravaged it. Here, on Alluria, the Legis family was positively unique.

Unfortunately, uniqueness was not a favorable condition in this world's different societies.

When Lex reached fifteen years of age, he left his family back in the lands of the western frontier, and made his way as a mercenary adventurer.

Using all his father had taught him of the art of marksmanship using blaze-dust weapons, Lex had made a name for himself among the ranks of independent men-at-arms.

In the intervening decade, Lex had shed blood on two continents against all manner of foes.

He preferred to take jobs working for established rulers...much the same way his father had tried.  Despite their resistances to hiring men like him. Men who were different.

No matter what the cause, some part of him could not be brought to work for any entity opposed to the established authority.

After ten years of it, Lex had seen enough though. The disorder that invariably accompanied the nomadic lifestyle of adventuring was wearing on him.

He chose to settle in Proust.

Lex couldn't quite explain why, though. Perhaps it was the inherent disorder of the freehold's lack of any centralized authority that called to him? A situation that, on some inborn level, he felt he could rectify.

The closest thing to a governing body in the freehold was the United Merchants Guild. Moral ambiguities aside, they represented order in the region. It was that order that appealed to Lex the most.

Of course, the money wasn't bad either.

"Lex Legis?"

A comely human female was holding his parchment. She cut an impressive figure, standing rigidly amidst the bustling happenings of the guild hall.

"Here, I'm here."

He stood and waved a hand to gain her attention.

She looked at him with a blank expression, belying no prejudices she may have due to his unusual skin tone.

"You're here applying to join the guard?"

He nodded.

"Yes, someplace fixed though. One of the towns or cities. I'm not exactly eager to patrol long stretches of empty roads."

She smiled.

"I completely understand. Follow me."

She lead him back to an out-of-the-way office, deeper in the guild hall. Holding open the door she beckoned him inside.

Once in, she closed the door and rounded the desk.

Settling into her chair, she indicated the empty seat across from her.

"Make yourself comfortable Mr. Legis."

Lex sat, hands folded in his lap.

"My name is Dandria Dustil. I'm chief recruiter for the guild's security forces here in Proust."

Lex studied her. Her dark hair and features, as well as her tan skin tone spoke volumes as to her origins.

"You're Redgulan, are you not?" He asked.

She blushed.

"Yes, originally. I was born on a farmstead north of Lanterum. But I moved to the city when I was very young. Lived there until the attack eleven years ago. Now I'm a proud citizen of Proust."

He nodded with a slight smile.

Changing the subject, Dandria pretended to recheck the information on the parchment.

"So you're aware of the fact we're looking to fill the ranks of the Jobrak guard, yes?"

Lex nodded.

"Like I told the small-fellow out there, wherever is fine."

Dandria offered a nod in return.

"It says here your preferred method of armament is a blaze-dust pistol?"

Lex smiled.

"Its a family thing. My parents and I came here from another world with the rest of the refugees escaping the Illithid armada. Where we came from, my father was a fairly respected warrior. His weapon of choice was the same as mine is today."

She offered no indication of approval or disapproval.

"Those weapons have become more common since the war. The old Admiralty made use of them extensively. Did you serve?"

Lex shook his head.

"I thought about it, but if my father wasn't good enough for them, then they weren't good enough for me."

She clicked at him with a humorous tone.

"Oooh...a bit of callousness? That'll come in handy here in the freeholds."

He shrugged.

"Let's just call it a pragmatic indifference."

She smirked.

"Fair enough. It also says here you've done wok as a bounty hunter?"

He nodded again.

"Yes. Tracking down lawbreakers mostly. Bringing crooks to justice just appeals to my nature, I guess."

She quirked a brow.

"Were any of these 'crooks' guild members?"

He chuckled.

"A few."

Dandria reclined in her chair.

"Then why come work for the guild if you know we don't exactly operate within the law all the time?"

Lex shrugged.

"I figure, here, you are the law. Doesn't affront me much if the laws of other regions are being bent. Just so long as what's law here remains consistent and equally enforceable."

She smiled again.

"They are indeed."

She leaned forward and used a quill to sign off on the parchment.

"You can go ahead and report to the constabulary headquarters in Jobrak. Bring your gun. I suspect you'll need it sooner than later. As far as I'm concerned, you're the newest copper in the Jobrak city guard."

Lex smiled and got to his feet.

"Thank you Miss Dunstil. I'll head out first thing."

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

Heindas' Evening, 10th Day of Summer's Ebb, Year 47 A.E.

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The Nymph's Nest brothel, Jobrak, Freehold Territory of Proust.

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"Yes, Lord Idald, I am fully aware of your status in the Kingdom of Redgulus. But, as I've repeatedly reminded you, you're not in Redgulus."

Lex shook his head when he took in the state of the Redgulan nobleman's appearance.

Half-dressed, covered in spatters of vomit and other less identifiable stains. The noble shook a fist toward him.

"I am Rosgrave Idald, second son of Count Hernon Idald!"

He waved a sheet of wine-stained vellum at Lex.

"And I've just gotten word of my father's passing! So...naturally, I am grieving in the proper Redgulan fashion! I'm getting drunk and sporting with harlots!"

He waved the vellum so hard, he threw off his own balance. He stumbled into Lex's partner, a gruff Dwarf named Gaorge Stonepalm. Gaorge shoved the nobleman to the floor.

"Keep off of me with all that mess!"

Gaorge clenched a fist.

"Or I'll spill the contents of yer skull all over this lovely carpeting!"

Several of the courtesans who worked at the brothel looked on from an adjoining room.  Lex could hear their whispers of disgust.

He gently reached out and clutched Gaorge's wrist, giving it a quick squeeze, calming the dwarf.

"I am sorry for your loss Lord Idald. But that doesn't mean you can shirk your bill here. These ladies have provided a service for you, and they expect to be compensated. If you don't pay up, my partner and I will have no choice but to take you to the city's jail, and hold you until your family sends funds to cover what you owe, as well as post your bail. I'm quite sure the last thing your poor, beleaguered mother needs right now, in this difficult time, is word that one of her sons is sitting in a freehold city's jail cell because he refused to pay his brothel tab."

The lord rolled onto his ass and sat on the floor, drunk and incredulous.

He began to weep.

"I'm sorry!"

He grabbed a fat coin purse from his belt and threw it at Lex and Gaorge.

"Here! Just take it! Take it all. I don't care anymore!"

He accentuated his words with more waves of the vellum.

Gaorge smiled and picked up the pouch, testing its weight.  He looked to Lex.

"This ought to cover the bill, and then some. A pittance for our troubles?"

Lex shook his head and took the coin purse.

"No, Mister Stonepalm, we're duly compensated for the work we do."

He opened it and counted out enough coin to cover the nobleman's bill. He handed the coins to Gaorge.

"Go settle Lord Idald's account, I'll get his lordship on his feet and out of here. I'll see about getting him a room at the Red Boar Inn. Meet me there."

Gaorge smirked as he eyed up the ladies who were turning on their sultry charms now that the Dwarf had gold in his hand.

"You bet Legis. Say...an hour?"

Lex glared at him.

"Ten minutes. And that's to pay the bill already due, not for your own sport.”

Gaorge scowled.

"Pelor’s balls, Legis, yer too uptight sometimes. Whatever. I'll meet you in ten."

Lex nodded and crouched down, helping Rosgrave to his feet, and tucking the coin purse back into the nobleman's belt.

"See you there."

He threw the nobleman's arm around his shoulder to help support him.

"Come on now Lord Idald, let's get you somewhere you can sleep this off."

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

Hexdas' Midnight, 23rd day of Autumn's Rest, Year 49 A.E.

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Beggar's Alley, Jobrak, Freehold of Proust

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

Lex cursed and he crouched behind a stack of ruined crates, and quickly went about reloading his pistol.

Lex really hated the undead. Especially vampires. Even more so when those vampires liked to cast spells at him.

He looked across the alley to his partner Gaorge. Smiling, as he worked at reloading, he called out to the wounded dwarf.

"How we doing over there, Stoney?"

The Dwarf clutched at a wound on his scalp that was still gushing blood.

"Me? Oh, I'm just fuckin' dandy! Its all fresh mangoes and perky pixie-tits over here!. How about you, Legis? Still fiddling with that stupid gun? Anyone ever tell you swords don't need reloading?"

Lex smirked as he tamped the ball and powder tight.

"And anyone ever tell you that swords require you to get awfully close to the raging vampires you're trying to vanquish?"

He peered up from behind his cover to see the vampire was working out the somatic component to another spell.

He crouched back down and cursed again.

"He's warming up another one Stoney! What's the plan?"

The dwarf pulled his hand away from the wound and rubbed his bloody fingers together. He laughed.

"Same strategy my father's great grandfather, Orlock Stonepalm used against the dreaded Minotaur Lord of the Sullen-Depths Labyrinth!"

Lex chuckled.

"Let me guess...we rush it?"

The Dwarf hefted his axe and nodded.

Lex shook his head as he pulled back the firing mechanism.

"Our Warforged colleague, Constable Spade, tried that already. He didn't fair so well."

Gaorge shrugged.

"Maybe the bloodsucker will be surprised we'd be dumb enough to try it too?"

Lex rolled his eyes.

"Alright, on three...I'll put a ball in the bastard while you clear the distance and hack it down."

Gaorge smiled.

"I can agree to that."

Lex grinned.

"You know why I love being partnered with you Stoney?"

The dwarf's face crinkled in confusion.

"No, why?"

Lex smiled wide.

"You're real easy to shoot over."

Gaorge rolled his eyes this time.

"Kiss my ass Legis."

Lex laughed.

Garoge smirked.

"You ready Legis?"

Lex nodded.

Gaorge set in a crouch.

"On three, right?"

Lex peered up again.

"Yep."

Gaorge nodded.

"Alright....THREE!"

He burst forth from behind his cover and rushed down the alley at the Vampire.

Lex laughed and quickly stood up, taking aim.

As the dwarf closed the gap, Lex saw the vampire's eyes go wide for a moment before it completed its spell.

He pulled the trigger, and in less than a heartbeat, the familiar buck of the explosive recoil shook his arm.

At the same moment in time, the vampire's spell was unleashed.

Lex felt his muscles begin to seize up.

He braced himself against the tightening sensation, trying to steel his fortitude against the vampire's arcane power....

Gaorge heard the whistle of Lex's shot whizz over his head. The vampire's spell must not have gone off properly, because he didn't see any brilliant flashes or feel the heat of any explosions.

Gaorge almost pitied the creature when his axe buried into its head, splitting it like a ripened fruit.

The creature dissipated into a gaseous state and drifted away in the night winds.

He sighed.

"Well Legis, looks like it got away this time."

He paused, awaiting some sarcastic, yet dry reply. When one didn't come, he turned and looked back up the alley.

"Hey Legis, did you hear me?"

He saw Lex, standing motionless in the shadows. His arm still extended, aiming the pistol at where the vampire was.

"Legis, you alright?"

He started walking back towards his partner, who refused to answer.

"Come on man! Its gone! Quit posing and come help me pick up the pieces of what's left of Spade. Knowing Jimur, he'll want to melt down the poor bastard's body for the raw Adamantine."

Legis still refused to answer, much less drop the aiming pose.

The dwarf walked a little more briskly toward his silent and still partner.

"Come on Lex, what in the hells is wrong with you?”

He kicked a small, empty wooden keg at him.

Legis made no attempt to move, or block the projectile. It made impact, and knocked Lex down.

Gaorge's heart sank when he heard the distinct sound of rock, striking rock, and cracking.

The dwarf ran as fast as his short legs would carry him to his now fallen partner.

He dropped to his knees when he found Legis laying in the alley, completely petrified.

The keg he'd kicked had knocked over the living statue, causing it to make impact with the cobblestone alley.

The arm holding the pistol had broken off at the shoulder. The chest cracked diagonally from the broken shoulder, down to the hip.

Gaorge tried to frantically hoist the statue back up to its feet, but the blood on his hands caused him to lose his grip..

He watched in horror as his partner's form impacted the ground again, separating the upper section from the lower along the fault line.

"Oh gods...Legis. I'm so sorry."

Thirty minutes later, Gaorge pushed a wheelbarrow filled with the parts of the fallen warforged constable, and the pieces of his petrified and shattered partner, into the Jobrak City Guard headquarters.

"Someone help!"

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

Bocdas' Afternoon, 8th Day of Winter's End, Year 50 A.E.

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

Hallink Gemnibbler, the gnomish enchanter, smiled as he gazed upon his completed creation. He turned to his current patron, Jimur Fletcher, who stood nearby.

"Well? What do you think?"

Jimur stepped out of the shadow of the large bodyguard who was never farther than an arm's length from him.

He casually looked over the creation.

"Is it alive?"

Hallink clicked his teeth.

"He is most certainly alive. It took me a few months to piece everything together properly, and I had to make a few necessary adjustments here and there...but yes. I think its all in all a successful experiment."

Jimur looked at the gnome with a dubious glare.

"So you just pieced the poor bastards together, and brought him back to life like this?"

The gnome nodded.

"Yes. I'm afraid the warforged was a complete loss. And the petrified constable would have been as well. Luckily there was enough of the fallen warforged's....chassis...left to act as a new body."

Fletcher looked first to his bodyguard, then to the creation.

"So he's a living golem?"

Hallink shook his head.

"Technically, he's a half-golem."

The bodyguard let out an agitated groan, but otherwise remained silent.

Jimur turned to face Hallink.

"So he's alive, but has golem parts?"

The gnome nodded.

"Yes, I suppose that's accurate. Save for his head, and torso, his body is primarily artificial."

Jimur looked back at the creation.

"Well...when can he get back to work?"

The gnome laughed.

"Whenever you'd like."

Jimur's eyes narrowed.

"You put him back together physically...but is he 'all-there' mentally?"

The gnome shrugged.

"Depends on how mentally stable he was before. There's also bound to be some slight residual affect to his state of mind. He's really been through quite a shock. But...I took steps to ensure he won't pose a danger to the general public."

Jimur stared at the creation.

"What kind of steps?"

The gnome walked over and stood next to Jimur.

"I wove a few mentally binding spells into the whole construction process. He's going to fairly single-mindedly perform his duties as a constable. But unlike a true golem, he is capable of his own thoughts and able to plan his own courses of action. The spells are more like safeguards. Directives, if you will."

Jimur turned to him.

"Oh yeah? What are these directives?"

The gnome smiled.

"Ask him."

Jimur quirked a brow and turned to the creation.

"Officer....what are your directives?"

Lex Legis blankly looked up at Jimur Fletcher.

"Serve the public trust. Protect the innocent. Uphold the law."

[sunflowerseedsandscience]

D’Un Nouvel Oeil: Chapter Eight

Previous Chapters: One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven

ORADOUR-SUR-GLANE, HAUTE-VIENNE, FRANCE FEBRUARY 1944

Shortly after sunrise, Scully gives up on sleeping any longer and pulls herself out of bed, Mulder following behind her. She hangs a sign on the cafe's front door, informing her patrons that the restaurant will be closed for the day, and with Mulder by her side, she begins the long walk out of town to her mother's farm. Apprehensive about what she'll find when they get there, she's silent for the entire journey, and Mulder, wisely, does not push her to talk.

She's relieved to see, as they approach the farm, that the animals are all still in their proper places: Philippe the draft horse is in his paddock along with the goats, the chickens are pecking about the yard, and when Scully peers into the barn, she sees that the farm hands have already gotten a start on the morning milking, even without her mother there to supervise. She and Mulder take stools and settle in to help at once, and for a brief time, Scully simply concentrates on the task at hand, trying not to think about the fact that yesterday, Maggie had been sitting on the stool Mulder now occupies. Her mother's absence is a constant knife in her side, a loss felt so keenly that it makes her physically ill.

With the milking done, Scully arranges with the farm hands to make sure that all of the tasks once done by Maggie will be taken over, that the animals will get fed and watered, the cows will be milked, the eggs will be collected, and Philippe will be brought into the stable on cold nights. And finally, when she can put it off no longer, Scully ventures cautiously into the farmhouse.

As expected, the soldiers have torn the place apart inside, looking for any evidence that could provide them with insight into the workings of the Resistance. It's all in vain, of course: Maggie never, ever wrote anything down, never received notes or messages, never kept physical evidence of any sort in her home. Her role had been, quite simply, to provide food and shelter for anyone passing through who might need it, and she had only ever been alerted to the imminent arrival of refugees by word of mouth.

"It does give me a small bit of pleasure," Scully tells Mulder, looking around at the wreckage of the kitchen, "imagining your commander and his men going through all this trouble and not finding a single thing. I'm sure they expected a treasure trove of labelled maps and ciphers and lists of addresses of other safe houses." She bends and begins to gather up shards of shattered china. She retrieves a pail from where it lies on its side in the corner of the room and begins to deposit broken plates into it, and as she turns to continue working, she notices that Mulder has not joined in. Instead, he's standing in the kitchen doorway, looking around at the wreckage. The expression on his face is far too easy to identify, and setting the pail down, Scully goes to him.

"Mulder," she says softly, taking his arm, "none of this is your fault."

"It's my commander that's done this," he says, eyes full of shame. "My father's best friend. And my countrymen who helped him."

"That doesn't make you responsible for it," Scully insists. "If you hadn't come running out here last night, things would have been infinitely worse. Without your warning we would have been caught completely unaware and my mother never would have gotten away in time." She squeezes his hand. "And most likely, I would have been arrested, as well." He drops his head, giving a small nod of assent. "Now come on. Help me get this straightened up."

Together, they clean up the broken china and glassware. A few of Maggie's grandmother's good plates have only broken into two or three large pieces, and Scully saves these, in hopes of gluing them back together later. The receipts and invoices that have been torn out of the writing desk are gathered up, organized, and re-filed, and the letters from Bill, Charlie, and Melissa go back into the desk drawer. The pantry has been looted, and all of the wine is gone, but in the cellar, pushed far back on the shelves, Maggie's fruit preserves remain untouched. Scully will not need to come up with new fillings for her pies. It's a small enough relief, but today, she'll take whatever she can get.

Upstairs, clothing has been torn out of wardrobes and drawers and scattered all over, and they fold it all back up carefully and put it away. Maggie's jewel box lies on the floor, the lid torn off by the hinges and the contents gone, but Scully knows well enough that anything of real value had long-since been packed away and tucked into a bag of clothing and identification, set aside in preparation for just the sort of hasty departure she'd had to make last night. The full-length mirror in the corner of Maggie's bedroom has been shattered (out of spite, as far as Scully can tell- did they think there might be hidden messages behind the glass), and she carefully sweeps up the shards. All of the duvets and pillows have been torn, and feathers cover everything like snow. Scully saves the ripped pillowcases and duvet covers for use as bandages.

It takes most of the day, but finally, the inside of the farmhouse is put to right. As the sun nears the horizon, Scully stands in the kitchen doorway, staring listlessly across the room at the sink, thinking of how, just yesterday evening, she'd stood right there with her mother, washing dishes and talking, never guessing their world was about to come crashing down around them.

She'd give anything to return to that moment.

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

Scully feels as though she's moving through an impenetrable fog as February passes into March. Her days and nights are taken up almost entirely by work, many of her mother's responsibilities now falling to her... but being much too busy suits her just fine.

The busier she is, the less time she has alone with her grief.

Still, no matter how late into each night she stays up, there simply aren't enough hours in the day to get everything done, which is how she finds herself, one evening, teaching Mulder the finer points of how to bake a pie.

"It should be even, all the way around," she tells him, as he tries to roll out the bottom crust for a cherry pie. "Right now, your edges are much thinner than the center." It's the kindest assessment she can manage: in truth, his first attempt at a crust is a lumpy, uneven mess, a little three-dimensional map of the French Alps in pie crust, full of hills and valleys and patches of flour that he hadn't managed to mix in thoroughly enough. Mulder frowns at his own work, then glances over at Scully's crust, which is perfectly level, a uniform consistency throughout.

"I don't know how you do that," he grouses, balling his own dough back up and trying to mix in the bits of flour.

"Practice," Scully says. "The pie crusts I made when I first learned were every bit as lumpy as yours."

"Nothing wrong with a few good-sized lumps here and there," Mulder murmurs, abandoning his pie crust to nuzzle at her neck, running his hands over the swell of her hips. A little shiver goes through her and she giggles... but within seconds, she remembers why she shouldn't be giggling, and sobers instantly. Mulder backs off at once.

"I'm sorry," Scully whispers, but Mulder shakes his head.

"No, I'm sorry, Scully," he says. "I know you don't want-"

"It's not that I don't want to, Mulder," Scully says, cutting him off. "It's just that... I feel like I can't let go and relax, no matter what I do." She sighs. "I can't stop thinking about it, and I feel like I don't have any energy left over for everything else. Not as busy as I am."

"Have you ever thought that maybe you're doing too much, Scully?" Mulder asks tentatively. She shakes off the thought with a toss of her head.

"What did I stay behind for, if not to help people?" she asks. Mulder doesn't answer, and after a moment, she looks up from her crust to see him trying- and failing- to conceal a look of dejection. She realizes immediately what he thinks she's said, and dusting her hands off on her apron, she reaches out to touch his cheek, bringing his gaze to hers. "I don't need to stay for you," she tells him, "because you would have come with me if I had left." His face relaxes, and he smiles at her. "Yeah, I would have," Mulder agrees, and kisses her.

Mulder is definitely right about her doing too much, however, and that becomes apparent as March draws to a close. She is tired all of the time, more exhausted than she's ever been in her life, and it's no surprise to her at all when she begins to feel ill, as well. For a handful of days, she's barely able to keep anything down, and every evening, as soon as the cafe is closed, she retreats to her bed, sleeping harder than she has since her mother's departure. She's preparing to do just that on the last Saturday evening in March when the knock comes.

Mulder is at the sink, washing dishes, and she's just finished locking up. The pounding at the back door makes both of them jump. She's not expecting anyone, not tonight, and it's with great caution that Mulder opens the back door to reveal...

...Byers. Alone. Scully grabs him by the arm and pulls him roughly into the kitchen.

"Is she all right?" she asks, the moment she's got the door shut and locked. "Is she safe?" Byers smiles, and Scully's sense of relief is so acute that for a moment, she's actually lightheaded and has to grasp the counter to remain standing.

"She's in Switzerland," says Byers.

"Switzerland?" Scully says, confused. "I thought you were taking her to Spain!" The plan for an escape route for either of them has been in place since the beginning, should they ever need it.

"We tried to," Byers explains, "but there were too many checkpoints. It got too risky. We had to backtrack and go east instead of south. We were able to get her on a boat across Lac Leman. She's got her papers and enough money to get on a plane to England. She asked us to tell you that she's going to contact your brother's wife in America and make her way there as soon as she can... and that she loves you, and she'll see you when all this is over. I'm sorry it took so long for me to get back here to tell you," he says, looking apologetic, "but we had to be careful and move slowly, and then we lost a lot of time when we had to turn around and change direction. But I promise you, your mother is safe, we stayed on the shoreline watching until the boat docked on the other side, and-" It's as far as he gets before the emotions raging through Scully are just too much, and she collapses into embarrassingly loud sobbing. Or, at any rate, she thinks, dimly, that she ought to be embarrassed; in reality, she doesn't care. She crosses the kitchen and seizes Byers in a hug, gratitude overwhelming her beyond coherency.

"Thank you," she gets out, barely, "thank you so much...." And she's overcome again. Byers pats her on the back

"It was nothing, Scully," he says. "We were happy to do it. But listen, I can't stay, Frohike and Langly are waiting for me north of town, we need to meet our contact, so...." Scully is dimly aware of Mulder taking her arms, freeing poor Byers from her grasp.

"Go on," Mulder tells Byers, giving Scully a squeeze, holding her close. "Thank you for coming to tell her- to tell us. It means a lot." Mulder moves out of Scully's grasp just long enough to shut and locks the back door after Byers, then turns back to Scully, putting his arms around her again. "Come on, Scully," he says, his voice tender, pulling her across the kitchen, towards the stairs. "Let's get you up to bed, all right?" Words are still beyond her, but she nods, and allows him to lead her up to her bedroom.

She can't stop crying, no matter what she does. It's as though the stress of the past month, the horror of not knowing whether or not her mother was safe, had built up and built up, and now, knowing that she's all right, everything is coming out all at once. Scully sobs until finally, she has to run to the washroom to be sick (not an uncommon occurrence, these days), and it's only then that she manages to calm herself.

When she comes back from the washroom, Mulder is waiting for her, a glass of cool water in his hands. She accepts it gratefully, taking a long, slow drink, and then smiles at him, at his unsure expression. He looks as though he's unsure of whether or not she wants him there- and she finds that the very idea of him leaving right now makes her want to start crying again.

"Please stay with me," she says softly. "I know I haven't been very... very present, these last weeks. I've just been so scared. I'm sorry that-"

"Scully, you have nothing to apologize for," Mulder interrupts, taking her hand. "I understand. I just wish you would have leaned on me a little, let me be there for you, instead of holding me at arm's length. I wanted to comfort you."

"I'm not very good at leaning on people," she admits, smiling slightly. "I don't like needing help."

"I've noticed," he says. "And I know you don't need my help, Scully. That doesn't mean I don't want to give it to you."

She takes him to bed, then, for the first time in a month, and allows herself to believe that, just maybe, everything will be all right now.

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

It's three days later when she finally connects all the dots.

She's stacking clean towels and bedding in her linen cabinet when her gaze falls on the pile of cotton pads on the lowest shelf... and suddenly, she knows the reason for the exhaustion, for the nausea, for her rapidly changing moods, swinging from one extreme to the other with little to no provocation. She does a quick count in her head and swears out loud.

She sinks down to sit on her bed, clutching her lower belly as though she can feel what's going on inside, even though she knows full well that it's much too early for any sort of outward sign. She curses her own idiocy: how could she have been so distracted to miss all of the signs so thoroughly? She's a doctor, for the love of God! More than anyone else, she should have been able to figure out what had been going on!

Regardless of how long it's taken her to figure things out, her next step is clear: she needs to tell Mulder. The idea doesn't fill her with any sort of dread; in spite of the stories she's heard through the years of unmarried women and girls who have been abandoned by the father of their child, she knows full well that Mulder is not that sort of man. She's not entirely certain what his feelings towards children are, but she knows beyond a doubt that he will stand by her.

No, it's not Mulder's reaction that concerns her. The person she truly dreads telling is not on hand to receive the news in person, but one day, Scully knows, she'll have to find out.

It's not quite enough to make her relieved that her mother is gone... but it's close.

She decides not to wait to break the news to Mulder. He shows up in the cafe at the start of the dinner rush, as usual, and eats a sandwich before retreating into the kitchen to help her get through the day's work. She follows him back, and finds him already wrestling with the ball of pie dough she'd mixed up earlier in the day, rolling it out into a very uneven lower crust and trying to place it into a pie tin.

"I need to talk to you," she says. "I know you're supposed to meet Spender for cards tonight, but can you stick around after I lock up? Just for a bit?" He's immediately concerned.

"Of course," he says. "Is everything all right? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she assures him. He looks as though he'd like to press her for a more satisfactory answer, but doesn't. He returns his attention to the mess he's making in the pie tin. "You know that the holes are supposed to go on the upper crust and not the lower one, right?"

"I'm filling them in, don't worry," he promises. As she watches, he pulls some dough off of the ball on the counter, flattening it into one of the tears in his crust. "It'll be covered with fruit anyway, right? No one's going to see it." As much as she'd like to argue, Scully knows she doesn't have time- and it won't do any good, anyway. Shaking her head and sighing, she returns to the dining room.

The rest of the evening passes quickly. The cafe is blessedly busy, and Scully doesn't have much time to worry about the conversation that's coming as soon as she's closed up for the night. But when the moment finally does arrive, when she's locked the front door, brought back all of the dirty mugs and dishes, locked up her earnings for the day in the safe, and hung up her apron, she suddenly finds herself unaccountably terrified.

She doesn't think Mulder will be horrified, doesn't think he'll leave... but what if she's wrong?

Mulder picks up on her nervousness right away. "What's going on, Scully?" he asks. "Have you heard something from your mother?"

"No, it's not that," she says. "There's no easy way to say this, Mulder." And almost immediately she proves herself right, her powers of speech failing her, her carefully-worded, well-thought-out revelation forgotten as she stands there, arms crossed tightly over her sore, tender breasts. She raises her eyes to his, begging him to read her mind somehow, to know what she needs to tell him without her having to say a word.

And miraculously, he does.

"Scully," he says softly, "are you pregnant?" She holds his gaze for a moment longer; then, closing her eyes and looking down, she nods.

The silence seems to stretch on and on, and Mulder's face is completely unreadable. He looks as though he's been clubbed over the head, it's true (and in a way, he has), but beyond that, his expression leaves her with no clue as to what he's thinking. She wills herself to speak up, to say something, but she can't... and after a moment, it becomes unnecessary anyway. Mulder crosses the kitchen suddenly and quickly, pulling her close to him, wrapping his arms comfortingly around her.

"Are you sure?" he asks, his voice muffled, his face pressed into her hair.

"As sure as I can be, at this stage," she says. "I feel like such an idiot... I'm trained in medicine, I know the signs, and I missed every single one of them. I put everything down to stress, to worrying about my mother... but then none of the symptoms went away after Byers came to see us, and then... I knew." She draws back and looks up at him. "Are you angry, Mulder?" He looks at her like she's lost her mind.

"Of course I'm not angry," he says. "It's maybe not the best time, I'll grant you, but... come on, Scully, you can't tell me you haven't at least thought about this, about what it would be like." She relaxes into a smile. Of course she's thought about it, but distantly, as a possibility that didn't even bear dreaming about, under their current circumstances.

"I have, Mulder, I have, it's just...." She shakes her head. "Not like this. Not while everything is so uncertain, and certainly not before-" The word "marriage" sticks in her throat. "My mother will be horrified if she finds out, Mulder. I don't care how much she adores you, she's a dyed-in-the-wool Catholic and this will break her heart." Mulder nods and pulls her close to him again. She can only guess at what's running through that unpredictable mind of his... but somehow, what he eventually comes out with is no surprise at all.

"Scully," he says, drawing back to look at her, "marry me." Her eyes widen for a moment; then, shaking her head, she laughs. His face falls. "Ouch. Not quite the reaction I was hoping for." Scully gets herself under control, quashing the giggles as best she can.

"Oh, Mulder," she says, taking his hands in hers and squeezing them. "It's not like I don't appreciate the offer, believe me. But I don't want you to marry me because you have to."

"I know I don't have to," he argues. "I want to."

"But I don't want this to be the reason," she insists.

"Don't think of it that way, Scully," he says. "I'm not. It's not a reason to marry you. It's an excuse."

His words melt her heart, and the temptation to say yes right then and there is all too real. But this is something she needs to think about- and something she needs to give him the chance to think about, as well. There's every chance he'll decide, after closer contemplation, that maybe it's not something he's ready for after all, and she doesn't want him beholden to a promise he's made at an emotional moment.

"How would we even do that, Mulder?" she asks. "Your government has forbidden it. It's not like we can just march up to the town hall and demand to be married."

"I'm not talking about a civil ceremony, Scully," he says. "I'm talking about going to your church and having the priest marry us. He'll keep it a secret. Nobody else has to know."

"But it wouldn't be legally valid," she argues. "A civil ceremony is the only kind the state recognizes. The French government wouldn't care that we were married in the eyes of the church."

"But would your mother care?" he asks gently. And he's got a point, she knows he has. Her mother would not be at all bothered, as long as the priest had given them his benediction. "Just think about it, Scully," Mulder urges her. "We could even tell her we got married before you got pregnant, if you want. There's no reason she has to know any different." He hopes, just for a moment, that she'll say yes, right then and there, but he knows her well enough to know that that's not how she operates. He will need to be patient.

"I'll think about it, Mulder," she promises. "And one way or another... thank you."

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

The first weekend in April brings with it an event that Scully has been helping to plan for over a month... and one that seems almost appropriate, given the question that's been weighing so heavily on her mind. Her neighbor, Guillaume Bertrand, who owns the butcher's shop right next to the Cafe Pequod, had approached her not long after Christmas with a proposition. His eldest daughter, Sophie, had just informed her parents of her intent to marry her longtime sweetheart, and Guillaume had proposed to Scully that, in exchange for hosting a small wedding lunch, he would provide Scully with several choice cuts of meat, free of charge. She had readily agreed. When he'd heard about the upcoming celebration, Mulder had somehow produced several bottles of very nice wine to be served at the wedding lunch- under the condition that Scully claim that they are a gift from her.

Aside from the wedding party, there seems to be a larger than usual number of German officers and soldiers in the cafe today. The weather is just beginning to warm up, and with the sun shining and a hint of spring in the air, everyone is relishing the opportunity to get out and enjoy the day. Scully worries, at first, that there could be problems and tension, with so much of her dining room taken up by the Bertrand family and their guests, but so far, there's been no trouble at all. Even when Guillaume Bertrand, his face flushed red with the impressive amount of wine he's consumed, begins singing- loudly- in French, the German soldiers merely laugh, tolerant of an old man's joy on the day of his daughter's marriage.

Scully makes a run to the kitchen for a tray of pastries, bought for the wedding party by a German officer in a particularly generous mood, and when she returns to the dining room, she sees that Mulder, sitting at his customary table, is no longer alone. With him is Jeffrey Spender, the childhood companion he'd warned her against, and several other officers she doesn't know. Mulder catches sight of her and waves her over.

"Mademoiselle Scully," he says, in French, as she approaches, "please let me introduce my childhood friend, Jeffrey Spender. We grew up in Berlin together." Scully reluctantly offers her hand, and her skin crawls when Spender kisses it. She's extremely glad when he lets go.

"Such a pleasure to meet you, Fraulein Scully," says Spender, in German. "Fox talks about you so often. Might my friends and I sample the coffee he raves about so much?" Scully pastes a look of polite confusion onto her face, turning to Mulder, who translates the request into French. She nods in response.

"Put it on my tab," says Mulder. She brings the coffee quickly, electing not to remain at the table as Spender and his companions drink. She heads back to the kitchen, wishing she could just remain there until Spender and his friends are gone. She doesn't like the look of him at all. But unfortunately, the sound of rising singing calls her back to the dining room almost immediately, and she comes running with her heart in her throat.

"Allons enfants de la Patrie, Le jour de gloire est arrivé!"

Guillaume Bertrand, standing up now, holding his almost-empty wineglass aloft, has made the switch from singing innocuous folk songs and lullabies to singing the one song likely to get him and his family thrown into prison- or worse.

"Contre nous de la tyrannie, L'étendard sanglant est levé!"

The sound of "La Marseillaise," unsung in France since their defeat at the hands of Germany, stirs something in Scully's heart- but only for a moment. Sophie and her mother are pulling desperately at Guillaume's arms, trying in vain to make him sit down, but he responds by jerking his arms out of their grasp and climbing up to stand on his chair, instead. Scully is seconds from going to him, distracting him somehow (possibly with another bottle of wine, if need be), when suddenly, Mulder stands up and calls out to Sophie and her mother.

"Mademoiselle, please, let him sing," Mulder insists. "Patriotism, love for one's country, is a beautiful thing to see. And besides," he smiles, "your father has a beautiful voice." Guillaume grins brashly at Mulder and continues his song, his wife and daughter cautiously returning to their seats.

"Entendez-vous dans les campagnes Mugir ces féroces soldats?"

Scully feels tears pricking at her eyes, and before the entire cafe can catch her crying, she turns and retreats to the safety of the kitchen. She leans against the butcher's block, taking deep, steadying breaths, love for Mulder, for his bravery and his determination to do the right thing, coursing through her.

She could not possibly have asked for a better man. She owes him an answer, and there is only one answer she could give.

The hinges on the kitchen door creak, and Scully turns to see Mulder standing in the doorway, looking concerned.

"Scully, what is it?" he asks. "Are you all right?" Nodding, she crosses to him, sinking willingly into his waiting arms. She lets him hold her for a moment, until she's mastered her tears, and when she looks up, his gaze is inquiring, worried.

"Yes," she says, and a look of wild, uncontained happiness overtakes his handsome face.

"Yes?" She nods, beaming.

"Yes," she says. "Yes, I'll marry you."

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

On a beautiful April Saturday, exactly one week later, Scully closes the cafe at noon, hanging a sign on the door apologizing for closing early. She steals upstairs and changes out of her work clothes, exchanging her flour-dusted skirt and blouse for a clean, simple dress of light blue. Mulder arrives at the kitchen door minutes later, his uniform clean and pressed, and together, they set off through the back streets of town.

The priest is waiting for them when they arrive at the church. Scully has not told him the reason (or, as Mulder insists on calling it, the excuse) for their hasty wedding, but she assumes he's guessed, though if he knows, he hasn't shown himself unwilling to help them. He's known Scully since she was a little girl, and has known her mother longer than that, and there is not much he wouldn't do for her family.

The ceremony is quick and simple- no witnesses are needed, they've decided, since the marriage won't be legally binding anyway- and no rings are exchanged. They leave the church with no outward sign that anything has changed... but in her heart, Dana Scully feels completely new.

Next Chapter  >

[djinmer4]

The Draco (Demon General AU)

“Now is the perfect time to attack.” declared Azazel.  “The dimensional walls are weak.  Your half-brothers and nephews have grown into their powers.  Genosha has been attacked and its defenses are down.  We will tear apart this prison by invading the material plane and claim our rightful ownership of the world!”  With that, the red demon hoisted a glass in celebration.  His generals, from blind Ginniyeh to unusually quiet Seir followed suit.

They spent their last night in either preparation (Yidrazel checked over the troops and weaponry one last time) or revelry (Jillian and Seir had one last tryst and she tried to draw him into an orgy but he declined).  As the evening wore on and things quieted down, Ginniyeh drew Seir aside.  “Tomorrow, we will try and make the invasion as quick and bloodless as possible.  But it has been thousands of years since the troops have had a chance to indulge their bloodlust, and there will be casualties.

I know you have grown fond of some of the leaders on that island.  So I’m giving you tonight to go ahead and claim whoever you want and spirit them away.  Bring them back here, drop them off into the cells below and I swear that I will allow none to harm them.”  He hesitated, but she continued talking.  “You’ll never get a better chance to save them.”

Seir bowed his head to his older sister.  “Thank you, Ginniyeh.  I won’t forget this.”

She smiled.  “Just remember that you owe me a favor later.”

“I will.”

“Kitty!  Katzchen!”

Shadowcat whirled around.  “Seir?” she hissed.  “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you.  What are you doing out in the foothills around Hammer Bay and not asleep in the city?”

“Following Nils.”  She pointed over, where he could see a large number of mutants dancing around a bonfire.  (Not a bonfire, he knew better.  The incipient portal shone and capered like a fire but was much more dangerous.)  “He’s been having episodes of sleepwalking that we’ve been trying to control.  He asked that I follow him tonight to see where he’s been going.”

Seir cursed to himself in ancient Sumerian.  He knew that Azazel had already called his progeny to open up the portal, but he hadn’t realized they were already that close.

“I think I recognize some of those people,” Kitty continued talking.  “They’ve been part of the recent refugee influx, now that Wanda’s reopened the borders.”

“You’re right.”  Kitty jumped, startled, but Seir had heard the other man sneaking up on them.  “For some reason, Genosha’s been infiltrated by a group of mutants.  Ones who look very similar to your friend Seir here.”

The man was taller than either of them and very muscular.  Not to mention covered in more tattoos than even the Demon General.  He shifted around and held out a card to Kitty while giving Seir a suspicious look from yellow and black eyes.  “Marcus Skarr, aka Kiwi Black.  A private investigator from New Zealand.  A couple asked me to find their runaway son.  I traced him to Genosha and was about to call them when I found him doing this.”  A quick jerk of his chin towards the gathering.  “What is this, some sort of cult?”

“No,” said Seir grimly.  “It’s an invasion.”

The other two turned to look at him.

“Katzchen, you remember how we first met?  With the Dire Wraiths and Belasco?”  One slow nod.  “The same situation all over again.”

“Is this your fault?” accused Kiwi, getting straight to the heart of the problem.

“No this plan was in the works before I was even born.”  Before Seir could explain, there was another interruption.  A reporter and her crew had just shown up and was filming the ceremony.  The reporter closed in on the apparent leader, a dark-skinned man with a red bandana and a black beard, and began questioning him on the ritual being conducted.  “And for what purpose are you conducting this ceremony?  All across the island people are watching right now, wondering the same question.”

“This rite will draw the true rulers of this world back from the Hell the Cheyarafim banished them too.  Be prepared to bow before your proper masters, peons!”

“She’s doing this live?” Kitty was aghast.  “Seriously, does no one sleep on this island?”

“That fire’s getting bigger.” muttered the Maori.  “How?  I don’t see them adding any fuel.”

Seir gave up on being discreet.  Forget alerting everyone and getting the troops in position, he’d just have to hope everyone was still on guard and would act accordingly.  Teleporting in, he shoved his sword through the herald’s back, straight through his heart.  The man turned and saw who had stabbed him.  He had just enough time to gasp, “Traitor!”, then Seir beheaded him with another sword.

“Citizens of Genosha,” he addressed the frozen camera crew.  “This ritual is just the beginning of an interdimensional invasion.  All around Hammer Bay there should be many other gatherings like this.  Attack the participants!  Break up the circles!  Otherwise monstrous troops will come pouring in to destroy your city!”  He followed his words by turning and hacking at the mutants who made up the circle.  Most died silently or had already been drained of their life force, but the last one looked up with confused eyes.  “Ssseir?” slurred Nils Styger.

The Demon General froze for a moment.  Still, the shimmer in the air had died and all the other members of this gathering were deceased as well.  He could probably spare this half-brother.  “Nils, hold very still.  I need to cut you free from the others.”  Seir slashed downwards, freeing Abyss’s hands from the dead bodies that had melted together.  Not giving the younger man a chance to recover, he teleported them both back to Kitty.

Kitty’s watch was flashing and she was speaking into it.  Giving directions to someone on the other end of the communicator, he realized.  Pushing Nils towards her, he turned away.  “There must be several dozen of these gatherings on the island.  We’ll have to go to destroy each one.”

“And who the hell are you to be giving orders?” challenged Kiwi Black.  Kitty was too busy helping Nils to take charge.

“The one who planned out this invasion,” said Seir and teleported away.

Wolverine stabbed the lion-faced hulk in the back of the head, taking care to twist the claws in so that whatever brains this thing had were scrambled.  Kitty’s message had been short but combined with that cosplayer’s live transmission, it had given the X-Men the gist of what they needed to know.

As the brute came down, Wolverine jumped away.  He didn’t relax his guard until a hex bolt shot down from the air and incinerated the body.  Twisting his head up, he called up to Princess (Queen?) Wanda, “You’re lucky the X-Men were here to help with the rebuilding.”

“I’ll thank you later,” said Wanda absently, more focussed on trying to knock out enough of the cultists to close the portal.  “But right now we’ve got an invasion to get through!”

“I haven’t had the chance to torture any of you Cheyarafim in thousands of years,” the black-winged demon held Angel down and tore out another handful of feathers.  “I suppose I should make this last, but why bother?  I can spend the next hundred years hunting down every last one of your kind.”  A sharp punch broke more bones and the blonde mutant screamed.

Before Yidrazil could enact more punishment, a glowing blue tomahawk came down and decapitated him.  The body was shoved off of him, and Angel found a broad hand held out.  He gladly grasped the hand and allowed the other, more muscular man to help him up.  “Kiwi Black,” the man introduced himself.  “I was with Shadowcat when she first got wind of the invasion.”

“Angel of the X-Men.  And very grateful for the rescue.”  He looked around.  All the cultists were either dead or knocked out, difficult to tell in the dark.  This Kiwi must have used the leader’s distraction to close the portal.  it might have led to a few minutes more of torture, but Angel couldn’t fault his reasoning.  “Will you be able to fight?” asked the broader man, bringing his thoughts to the present.

Angel tried to move a wing and cringed.  The pain was unbelievable.  “Not a chance.  I can’t fly either, but I can walk.”  The older man nodded.  He got an arm around the X-Men’s waist and let the other lean on him as they made their way back to the city.  “I think that was the last gathering outside the city.  And I know Kitty ordered that med tents be set up all around.  I’ll get you to one of those tents before I go searching again.”

Angel would have sagged in relief if he hadn’t already been sagging in pain.  “Thank you.”

Ginniyeh tried to scream, but she didn’t have enough moisture in her body left even for that.  As the world faded away, all she could think was “That damned traitor!”

After all the portals had been closed, Seir found Jillian on the shore at the edge of the city.  Her wings were shredded and all her limbs broken.  It looked that she had fallen from the air.  Without immediate attention, she wasn’t going to make it.

“Seir?” she asked as he pulled her into his lap.

“Yes, Jillian?”

“We failed, didn’t we?”

“Yes, we did.”

“Did anyone else escape?”  She coughed, blood spilling from her mouth.

“I saw Father get pulled back into the Brimstone Dimension.  Not sure about anyone else.”

“That’s okay.  Father can try again in twenty to thirty years.  He’ll just have to choose a different weak point in the barrier.  Genosha was-”  A hacking bark that did nothing to clear her lungs of blood.  “Genosha was much better defended than you told us.”

He stayed silent.  No reason to hurt her when she’d be gone in a few minutes. 

“You’ll do a better job next time, right?”

“I will.”  There wouldn’t be a next time.

“Seir?  Please kiss me one last time.”

He leaned down and pressed his lips to hers, kissing her deeply.  He wasn’t bothered by the taste of blood.  When he pulled back her eyes were already glazing over and she had ceased to breathe.  He held her for a little longer to be certain that her heart had stopped too.

When he looked up, Senyaka and Melloncamp were both there.  Letting his sister slip from his arms, he discarded his weapons and put his hands on his head.

“They’re not waking up,” whispered Nils.

“No, they’re not.  Aside from you, none of them are recovering.”  Kitty was equally quiet.  “The doctors don’t know what to do.  We’ve got them on IVs and tried everything from electroshock to psychic screaming.  But Jean says that when she scans them, it’s like there’s nothing there.”

“Is there no hope then?”

“I don’t know.”  The silence was broken by another bed flatlining.

“I hope you understand why I’m doing this.”

“Ja, ja.  Despite going out of my way to save your city, you still can’t trust me.”

“You passed on critical information about our infrastructure and defenses to a hostile party.  You changed your mind at the last minute to help us, but that doesn’t wash out your actions from before.”  Wanda stepped up and clasped the inhibitor collar around Seir’s throat.  “Hopefully you won’t have to stay here too long.  Just a few weeks, no more than a month.  Long enough for Genosha to recover a bit.  Then I’ll call the full council together to make a decision on your fate.  We’ll take into account everything you’ve done for and to us.  With a bit of luck, the council will issue you a full pardon.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

Wanda activated the collar then stepped outside the cell.  Senyaka locked the door and activated the barrier, before standing guard with Mercury.  They were taking no chances with this prisoner.

Far away a woman watched a replay of the recent events on Genosha.  Every time she reached the end of the transmission she started it over again.

“He’ll pay for this with his life,” she promised herself.

[drjacquescoulardeau]

CRUELTY, FROM HOLLYWOODERS TO EXTRATERRESTRIALS

 From Hans Eisler and his “Hollywooder Lieberbuch” to Fritz Land and his “Metropolis,” there is only one step to jump to find ourselves in Geoff Nelder’s International Space Station invaded by Extraterrestrials on their way to conquer the world, and that is no entertainment, not even a film. Not even by Orson Welles adapted from H.G. Wells. Just some much entertainment for today’s audiences who want some blood and violence, vengeance and hatred, so that they can practice their empathy for as cheap a price as a ticket for the film and nearly nothing for a Kindle.

  AMAZON PRIME – THE LAST TYCOON – SERIES 1 – 2017

 The series is brilliantly produced, directed and acted. The smallest and lightest detail is perfect for final reception. Just as a series it is both dramatic and suspenseful. It deals with characters that are provided with depth and complexity, at times contradictions. And yet the subject of the series is grave and serious. We are dealing with Hollywood around 1936 when Hitler is arising in Germany and starting to open the concentration camps (Dachau is named). We are in the USA, and in Hollywood the debate about what we can say or show about Germany is raging. The Germans are heavily blackmailing American producers with the very dynamic cinema market in Germany.

 That’s the first element. Some, like Monroe himself, have to hide their Jewishness by changing their names. The subjects dealing with Germany have to be absolutely apolitical. You can have the sound of the music but certainly not the sound of any protest in Germany or in the world against Hitler. There is a tremendous lack of courage among the people in the cinema industry at the time. This is a serious question that is pushed aside by many at the time.

The second dimension of the series is the hyper-realistic description of the ugly and often criminal atmosphere among the professionals of the cinema in Hollywood. They are ready to recuperate Fritz Lang, at least for a short while, as a Jewish and German refugee, but they are not ready to support any opposition to Hitler. And among them, we have family practices and professional practices that magnify the power of the bosses of the studios, then the power of the producers over all artistic professions, and then a dependency hierarchy with some who can block the system, like of course authors.

 Then we have a professional environment made of rivalry, hatred, exploitation, ambition, ruthlessness, inequality and hypocrisy. They do one little good action to cover all their crimes and they show to the world a positive and beautiful façade that has nothing to do with their reality. They smile to photographers and they kill one another with daggers in the back all the time. And it is in this atmosphere that some beautiful films are produced and Oscars are won. And Oscars have their feet in blood, literally: the blood of assassinated people or people worn out and burnt out so much that they can only cut their wrists and take an overdose of opioids or whatever other drug they can put their fingers on and grab.

 But the series is a real beauty and you will like it if you are not too sensitive to airsickness or vertigo. Be sure – and do not overlook the following fact – that the dead people on the screen correspond to dead people off the screen. Hollywood is not ethical and has no morality. It is all about money and fame, Oscars and domination. Hollywood is a control freak at the level of the global planet. And it hurts when some shares of this market evade them. It hurts so much they are ready to sacrifice a few sacred cows, or stars, to regain the ground they’ve lost.

 Dr. Jacques COULARDEAU

 GEOFF NELDER – ARIA: LEFT LUGGAGE – 2011

 Imagination, when compared to life, is so absurd that it becomes fascinating, mesmerizing and even hypnotizing. And Geoff Nelder really puts the smallest dishes imaginable into the biggest ones till the latter are overflowingly full.

 The story is simple. Some extraterrestrials decide to take over the earth. So they deposit a suitcase on the International Space Station. The suitcase is taken down to earth, then opened by some reckless cat who will not even be killed by his curiosity. That spread a virus on the planet at the speed of light. This virus destroys the memory of people backward, so that they lose their memory from right now back on, one year in just a few days. And they reach twenty or more years in a few months. It creates an artificial Alzheimer and the consequences should be the extinction of the human race when the loss of memory reaches birth since then they will lose the memory of their basic needs like hunger and thirst, though the book pretends they will keep the memory of reproduction, at least the need of that type of physical contact, producing babies that would be forgotten as soon as being born. Destruction all around.

 But later on, the extraterrestrials deposit a second suitcase on the ISS. The team decides to take it down themselves with their shuttle and they select a base in Wales that is entirely cut off from the rest of the world and where a band of uninfected scientists have taken refuge incognito of anyone. The second suitcase is then opened and it reveals it propagates a second virus that amplifies the memory of people to the very simultaneous remembering of absolutely everything down to the last detail since even before birth. This mental cramming causes serious mental disruption and at least people simply get psychotic with headaches to accompany the disruption. And from psychotic to psychopath there is only one step and the victim of this second disruption starts killing or trying to kill. But he is also endowed with enhanced humanity and life and he can even survive mortal wounds, hence death itself.

Then the conclusion is simple “Where’s there’s life, there’s hope.” It sounds like Obama and these uninfected scientists manage to travel all around the globe to another isolated area where some scientists have taken refuge in the south Pacific. Yes, definitely, they can.

 The best part is for me the emergence of the first virus in a Boeing Dreamliner flying from New York to London. It is hilarious to see how the people who are losing their memory are also losing their consciousness of why they were travelling to London and so they hi-jack the plane to go back to New York, and the book reveals that this hi-jacking is impossible today because any plane can be taken under control directly from some air-traffic controlling center and then no one can pilot the plane from the cockpit and the plane can be taken anywhere the technicians in the air-traffic controlling center decide. The bully passengers who have taken over the plane thus find out the plane is directed onto a disaffected airstrip where it will be quarantined for as long as they will remember, and remember is interesting since they are losing their memory. Quarantine forever.

 There are dozens of situations of that type that are dramatically humorous. And the escape of the English scientists and the ISS team from Wales to move to the South Pacific is just both incredible and funnily absurd, not funny ah ah but funny strange of course, like the famous joke of old about French cows who have five legs and not four like all self-respecting English cows.

But the author is titillating us with an important question: what is the role of memory in life? It is crucial since the loss of memory is the surest way to die, and at the same time, the preservation of memory will provide every living person with the consciousness that life is lethal since it leads to death anyway and at all times. You must admit it is crucial, isn’t it? Unconscious death as opposed to conscious death. The choice of the century.

 And excessive memory leads to psychosis. Luckily the author avoided the now un-trendy if not politically incorrect term of schizophrenia. Psychosis means killing to survive, though survival is short lived in a way. But it also leads to self-preservation on the side of “normal” people who kill the deranged people with no pangs of conscience at all. Memory is the core capability of our brain and central nervous system that enables all other mental capabilities starting with sensing, perceiving, identifying or recognizing (naming), experimenting, speculating and conceptualizing without which no language is possible, no abstract thinking is possible, no human species is possible. Our memory associated to the mutations brought to us by the emergence of the bipedal long distance fast runner that Homo Sapiens was some 300,000 years ago gave Homo Sapiens the tools he needed to invent and develop our human articulated languages. No memory then no language, not even the simple set of eight or nine calls a standard monkey species have at their disposal.

 Yet I think the description of this loss of memory is rather tamed by the fact it is seen essentially through people who do not lose their memory. When someone is severely hit by Alzheimer they may well lose the ability to eat and drink and only very basic physical functions will survive for a while, like breathing and rejecting waste. That leads some older people to the simple situation when they have to be fed otherwise they won’t do it on their own, and they won’t communicate anymore. They are not reduced to a vegetal state because a plant does not forget to breathe and their roots do not forget to work and the plant’s nourishment comes from the roots and the breathing of the leaves.

Highly entertaining though totally foolish crazy mad science-fiction directly out of Mad Magazine and their Alfred E. Newman. In a way, it is refreshing to know that on this planet some people might be slightly saner than most others, especially politicians.

 Dr. Jacques COULARDEAU