#Finals are on the horizon and I gotta study

[localguy2]

The second chapter of TSP:Hunted is FINALLY out. (after like a month) 

Most fun I've had writing this, there's an NGTV bit that I'm really proud of for some reason (Snaketastrophe has made me love NGTV format) 

Anyway, hope you enjoy! 

[illdothehotvoice]

I got distracted looking at vacuum cleaners online last night because I want to make a poltergust very badly (specifically G00) and now I gotta take this final on 6 hours of sleep whoops

[honorarysimp]

Chapter 2: None the Wiser

series masterlist

You navigate your motorcycle down a quiet suburban street, the sun beginning its descent towards the horizon.

The houses lining the street all have a sense of tranquility about them, each one seemingly occupied by a picture-perfect family.

Eventually, you come to the correct address, the number nailed to the mailbox in front of the home. You kill the engine of your motorcycle, the silence that envelopes you as it dies almost soothing.

A frown tugs at your lips as you remove your helmet, your fingers running idly through your hair.

The sight of the house Lorraine calls home surprises you, the image of the "American Dream" lifestyle seeming at odds with the person you knew her to be. The white picket fence, meticulously kept lawn, and cozy abode all seem too perfect, too generic.

But then again, five years can change a lot.

You kick down the kickstand, the sound of the metal connecting with the concrete almost too loud in the still air. You swing your leg over and slip off the bike, the metal still warm from the overbearing sun of the afternoon.

With your helmet still in your hand, you nervously fidget with it, the metal of the strap cool against your fingers.

Taking a deep breath, then hooking your helmet on your handlebar, you approach the fence surrounding the home with a mixture of trepidation and curiosity.

You reach the gate, its white paint unblemished and gleaming beneath the fading sunlight. Hesitantly, you grip the latch and pushes open the gate, the hinges creaking slightly. You carefully step through just as a shrill caw cuts through the air, boots thumping against the manicured lawn.

The house stands in front of you, its pristine exterior almost unnaturally perfect. The windows sparkle, the white paint of the siding gleams, and there's a manicured rosebush that borders the front walkway that has been neatly trimmed into a small ball. A stone walkway leads to the front door, its brass knocker polished and gleaming.

You raise your fist, ready to knock, when a sense of wrongness suddenly washes over you. Something about this house doesn’t sit right with you, though you can’t quite place your finger on what it is.

Just as you’re about to shake off the feeling and knock, the door suddenly swings open.

Your brain processes the sight in front of you in an instant. The perfectly styled blonde hair, the picture-perfect smile, the air of false politeness.

Oh, no now this makes more sense.

You feel none the wiser with exactly who would greet you at the door, and you should’ve known better than to think this was Lorraine’s residency.

Bobby-Lynn, prior captain of the cheer squad back when you were all in high school, stands before you. Her blue eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief.

You barely manage to mutter a disbelieving "you've gotta be fucking kidding me" before she envelopes you in a fierce hug.

The scent of her perfume fills your nostrils, the sickly-sweet scent almost suffocating. You stand there awkwardly, your arms remaining stiff at your sides as she grips you tightly.

“Oh my gosh! Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes! Lorraine said you were comin’ but to be honest, I didn’t believe her-“

Lorraine? Oh. Oh, that little shit. She’s got some explaining to do.

After what feels like an eternity, she finally releases you, her perfectly manicured hands remaining on your arms as she steps back, her smile still plastered on her face. "I haven't seen you in years!" she exclaims, her voice dripping with false enthusiasm.

You forcing a smile, the gesture feeling more like a grimace than anything else. You take a step back, putting distance between yourself and her sticky sweetness. With a bluntness that masks your discomfort, you reply, "that was sorta the point”.

Her smile falters for a brief moment, not expecting your blunt response. Her gaze flickers for a moment, her eyes studying you closely, before that false smile returns, wider than before. "You never change, do you?" she quips, her voice dripping with artificial affection.

You ignore her question, the memories of high school and her presence causing your stomach to twist with unease. You glance over her shoulder, scanning the interior of the tidy living room for any sign of Lorraine. "Is Lorraine here or not?" you ask, your tone bordering on curt.

Bobby-Lynn’s false smile dips once more, but she quickly recovers, maintaining her sweet demeanor. "She’s in the kitchen, helping cook dinner as usual," she replies, her voice annoyingly cheerful.

You can’t help but make a face, your thoughts racing as you prepare to ask about Lorraine. You're about to speak, but before you can even ask, she links her arm through yours, the action nearly making you stumble.

“A lot has changed since high school, Rooks. Wipe that look off your face,” she says with a faux-chiding tone, her voice grating on your nerves.

You find yourself being pulled into the house, the door shutting behind you with an ominous finality. You cast a glance over your shoulder at the closed door, a frown tugging at your lips.

But before you can dwell on it, Bobby-Lynn guides you into the living room, her arm still linked through yours. As you look around, the space feels more like a lion's den than a comfortable living area. Every inch is meticulously arranged, the decor designed for maximum aesthetic appeal, yet everything feels cold and sterile.

Before you can even process your surroundings, the sight of Jackson — the once-star quarterback and now serving your country last you’d heard — standing to greet you catches you off guard.

His broad frame stands tall, his face a bit more weathered than when you last saw him in high school. But his greeting is what's most surprising, his face lit with an enthusiasm you've never witnessed him direct at you before.

“Rooks! You came!”

Jackson steps forward, his arms outstretched, and pulls you into a firm hug. You can smell a hint of his aftershave as he clasps you tightly, his broad chest pressing against yours. He pulls back slightly just as you register what’s going on, his hands remaining on your shoulders, and offers his condolences for your Pop.

"I'm real sorry for your loss," he says, his voice sincere as he gives your back a firm pat, your frame going rigid under his touch “best goddamn Mayor this town ever had”.

You remain still, your body taut as a bowstring, the forced embrace and pat on the back causing your skin to prickle with discomfort. You offer a nod of acknowledgment, but your expression remains stoic beneath his gaze.

Just as Jackson releases you fully, another voice intercedes, a familiar tone that causes your stomach to sink further. "Is that Rooks? Well, I'll be goddamn," the voice echoes, their tone filled with a mixture of surprise and a hint of mockery.

You turn, eyes landing on the source of the voice, and nearly laugh aloud at the sight of the man who stands before you. It's Wayne, his familiar face now sporting a hint of stubble and a few new lines around his eyes. But it's the woman who stands behind him that shocks you even more—Maxine, her red hair still as vibrant as your memories serve you.

Wayne continues speaking, his smooth voice layered with sarcasm and wit. "Well, look who decided to grace us with their presence again. Rooks, back from the dead. Never thought I'd see the day," he quips, a smirk on his lips.

Meanwhile, Maxine stands silently beside him, her gaze fixed on you. Her eyes study you intently, that vixen look you remember from high school still present beneath her lashes.

Bobby-Lynn's voice cuts in, admonishing Wayne. "Wayne, that's not funny. The poor thing’s Pop just passed. Show some respect," she says, her words laced with a hint of irritation.

Wayne's smirk falters slightly, and he offers a half-hearted apology, "sorry, Rooks. Didn’t mean to ruffle feathers”.

Your irritation mounts at Wayne's sly remark, and you respond curtly, your eyes narrowing.

"Clever," you mutter dryly, voice dripping with sarcasm. The sound of them using your old nickname only further adds to your annoyance.

You’ve never been fond of it, the name representing a part of your past you've been trying to leave behind.

Which gets brought to attention as Wayne sidles up to you, slinging his arm around your shoulders with a familiarity that sets your teeth on edge. He grins as he says, "I gotta ask, do you still see ‘em? Or did you finally grow out of that?"

His words sting, reminding you of the countless times he teased and belittle you for your ‘hallucinations’ way back when. A part of you wants to shrug off his arm, but you remain still, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

You push past your discomfort, your words filled with bitterness and sharp with anger. "I haven't been 'seeing things,' Wayne. That was just your and everyone else's bullshit way of making my life a living hell" you snap, your voice dripping with venom.

His arm drops from your shoulders as you step away, creating distance between you and the unwelcome touch.

Wayne raises his hands in a mock surrender, a smirk still on his lips “whoa, relax, Rooks. I was just messing around," he says, his voice dripping with false innocence. His apology is insincere, the sarcastic tone he uses making it clear he hasn't changed one bit.

Just as you're about to lose your temper, the front door opens and Lorraine appears from around the corner, her presence making you feel even more on edge.

Your eyes flicker to Bobby-Lynn, a sense of betrayal washing over you as you realize she lied to you. You shoot her an accusatory look, your expression giving away your anger.

Lorraine steps into the room, her sweet and timid demeanor immediately defusing the tension in the air. Her voice echoes through the room, asking with gentle concern, "everythin’ alright?"

The sound of her voice instantly has a calming effect on you, even though you're still seething on the inside.

Maxine, whose gaze has been studying you almost hungrily, finally pipes in, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "Oh, we was just catchin’ up," she says, her gaze unabashedly raking over your form.

Yeah, definitely still the same manipulative snake she was in high school.

You turn your gaze to Lorraine, preparing to ask her about why she made you come here, only for your words to die in your throat as you spot another familiar figure behind her. Your heart drops as you recognize the face of the man you thought would rather be caught dead than be around this crowd.

It's RJ, a scrawny band geek from high school. He was the epitome of ‘weird’ back then, always lingering on the outskirts of social groups. Oddly enough, he stands right behind Lorraine now, his presence here seeming completely out of place.

As your eyes roam over his figure, the last person you would've expected to see in this gathering, you can't help but feel a mix of surprise and old memories resurfacing. After all, you were just as much a ‘freak’ to everyone in the room at one point in time.

The sudden appearance of RJ toting up and showing off two bottles of wine awkwardly, stuns you into silence, your mind struggling to catch up with the unfolding situation. Everyone else, seemingly used to RJ's odd behavior, voices their approval with enthusiasm.

Everyone except Lorraine, who remains unnervingly silent, observing you intently as her eyes studying your every reaction.

You're still trying to wrap your head around RJ's appearance at this gathering when Wayne pipes up from beside you, putting his hand on your shoulder once again, this time his touch slightly less mocking. He speaks with a more sincere tone, his voice lacking the previous sarcasm.

"I'm sorry, Rooks. I was just tryna cut the tension a bit. I didn't mean to come off so harsh," he offers apologetically, his eyes locking onto yours.

You take a moment, trying to sort through the whirlwind of thoughts and feelings swirling in your mind. As you stand there, RJ leads the others with a surprising confidence into the kitchen, leaving you feeling lost in a sea of unexpected emotions.

You remain frozen, your mind struggling to process the flood of emotions coursing through you. Wayne's hand drops from your shoulder as he follows the rest of the group into the kitchen, leaving you standing alone in the living room.

Too much. Too much. Where do you even start?

Lorraine silently approaches, her gentle presence having an unexpected calming effect on your tumultuous emotions. She looks at you intently, observing your expression and demeanor with a careful eye. For a brief moment, the two of you simply stand there, the silence filling the air as she waits for you to speak.

Your voice is tight, almost strained, as you whisper to Lorraine, "are you fucking kidding me? Them? Of all people?" Your body is tense, your chest feeling like a coiled spring as you take in the situation at hand.

The sight of all those who tormented you both from your past all gathered in one place, is overwhelming, and you're struggling to keep your composure.

Lorraine's voice is soft and earnest as she whispers to you, her gaze never leaving yours. "I'm sorry," she says quietly, her tone conveying a sense of understanding. "I know it must be overwhelming seeing them all here, but they've changed. You'll see”.

Her words cause a ripple of uncertainty to cross your features, but she adds a final thought, her tone gentle “you need people right now, and you wouldn't have agreed otherwise."

You clench your jaw, struggling to keep your emotions in check. A mixture of anger and disbelief washes over you as you glance towards the kitchen, where the sounds of boisterous laughter and conversation fill the air.

It's almost surreal to think that these people, who use to verbally crucify you on the daily, are now considered Lorraine's friends. Your anger and frustration bubble just beneath the surface, a bitter taste settling in your mouth.

Lorraine's gentle voice breaks through your thoughts, her soft "hey" drawing your attention back to her. Her eyes, wide and innocent, bring an unexpected sense of reassurance, grounding you for a moment.

"I'd never lead you astray," she says, her words filled with conviction. Looking into her earnest eyes, you can't help but believe her.

Your heart is racing, torn between anger, disbelief, and the unexpected comfort Lorraine manages to bring. You stand there, feeling the inner turmoil that threatens to spill over.

As Lorraine walks past you, her eyes never leaving yours until the last second, she offers a knowing look, as if she understands the whirlwind of emotions swirling within you.

With that, she continues on towards the kitchen, joining the others, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

You stand there for a moment, undecided. This is the point where you'd normally leave, walking away from the people who caused you so much pain. You don't owe them anything, including Lorraine.

The words echo in your mind as you think about the decision you're facing. Why on earth would you stay in this situation, surrounded by people who had made your life miserable in the past? But then you think of her.

It's Lorraine, for Christ sake.

She has never been anything but kind and true to you. She's the only one you consider anywhere close to a friend, the only one you could ever… is trust the right word?

You feel a strange pull, as if some invisible force is urging you to stay, to give it a chance. Your mind races, trying to evaluate the situation and reason with yourself. Despite your reservations, you can't help but wonder — what exactly do you have to lose?

You take a deep breath, running your tongue along your teeth and clicking it against the roof of your mouth. You shake your head, sighing in frustration.

But Lorraine's words echo in your head, and as much as you hate to admit it, you can't deny that you do need people right now.

You may have despised your Pop, but he was still your father. Besides, it’s either this or return to that goddamn house of horrors.

With a clenched jaw and stiff movements, you slowly pivot on your heels, forcing yourself to move forward towards the kitchen.

Your reluctance and trepidation are evident in every step, but you push yourself onward, accepting the reality of your situation.

As you get closer to the kitchen, laughter and chatter grow louder in your ears, and you mentally brace yourself for what lies ahead.

You must be out of your goddamn mind, that has to be the explanation. This town, this fucking town.

Internally, you pray this won’t be a mistake.

____________________________________________

Over the past two hours, you've silently observed and taken mental notes on this odd group of friends, your inner investigator at work. You've noticed the subtle changes in their personalities, the unexpected friendships, and the hints of something lurking beneath the surface.

It's clear that time and circumstances have altered these people, and they're not the same ones you remember from high school.

But then again, they are. It’s strange.

Through your observations, you've noticed that Bobby-Lynn and Jackson are a couple, which isn't surprising given their past. However, the revelation that Wayne and Maxine are together comes as a surprise.

But what truly shocks you is the revelation that RJ and Lorraine are a couple now. You never saw that one coming.

You've noticed how RJ tries so hard, but it seems like an uphill battle. His overzealous and awkward enthusiasm clashes with Lorraine's quiet and soft-spoken nature. It's like watching a fish and a bird try to dance together, it just doesn't quite fit.

You observe the group from the sidelines, sipping on the same half-filled glass of red wine you've been nursing for what feels like days, always the outsider looking in.

Your eyes roam over the scene in front of you — the raucous laughter and the growing tipsiness of your old classmates. The familiar feeling of being the quiet onlooker takes hold, keeping you firmly on the fringes.

While observing the group, you’ve noticed the subtle glances exchanged between Bobby-Lynn and Maxine, each silently communicating something unknown.

It disturbs you, how its sole focus seems to consistently shift to Lorraine, who has also been sipping the same glass of wine since the first bottle was opened. There's a strange energy in the air between all three women, and you almost want to assume there's something deeper going on beneath the surface.

You don’t trust Maxine nor Bobby-Lynn as far as you could throw them, and that’s not saying much considering you don’t even trust them at arms length.

Lorraine's fingers toy with the stem of her glass, her eyes darting between Bobby-Lynn and Maxine. The air is thick with something, and you can almost feel the undercurrents of unspoken words that linger in the air.

The way Lorraine glances back and forth between the two women, her gaze never quite settling, leaves you with a sense of unease. There's something going on here, but you can't quite figure out what it is.

You’ve also been observing RJ's behavior with Lorraine; he's being more touchy than necessary, and every time Lorraine responds with a forced smile, one you recognize as her plastering on a facade.

It makes you uncomfortable, you don’t like it.

Suddenly, your eyes inadvertently meet hers, gazes locking for a moment almost as if she’s finally begun to feel the weight of your attention.

You quickly look away, feeling like you've stumbled into something you weren't supposed to see, something more complicated and strained than it should be.

You find yourself looking back at Lorraine, your eyes drawn to her against your will, like a magnet pull. To your surprise, she's still looking at you.

When your eyes meet, she shakes her head subtly. A clear message telling you to drop it, then looks away herself. But for some reason, you can't seem to break the magnetic pull, your gaze remaining locked on her for a moment longer than it should.

You mindlessly fidget with the stem of your wine glass, your eyes darting around the room. Finally, they land on Maxine, who is watching you with a calculating gaze.

As soon as your eyes meet hers, she takes a sip from her own glass, her knowing look making you feel like she can read your thoughts. You quickly look away, trying to seem casual, as conversation continues around you.

You excuse yourself, citing the need to use the bathroom. Bobby-Lynn motions down the hall, informing you where it’s located before leaning back against Jackson, who’s engaged in a boisterous banter with Wayne.

You refuse to look at Lorraine and RJ, avoiding the sight of his possessive hold on her. You tell yourself that it’s their business, not yours, and yet the fact that it’s continuing to bother you makes you angrier than ever.

It’s maddening, this irrational sense of anger and protectiveness towards Lorraine, over a relationship that should mean nothing to you.

As you make your way down the hallway, you involuntarily stop just short of passing a bedroom. A strange feeling, almost like a tug on your awareness, makes you pause, as if something is drawing your attention.

Something about the room beyond the half-open door tugs at the back of your mind, an ominous undercurrent that raises the hairs on your arms. You stand there, staring at the door, feeling an intense sense of unease. Your heart races, the air almost heavy with a feeling of foreboding.

Something feels amiss, something that fills you with a sense of impending danger or revelation. Every instinct screams at you to turn away and keep walking, but you can’t, your feet rooted to the spot.

Against your own better judgment, you find yourself moving towards the room like a puppet on strings, your body acting on its own accord despite your logical mind protesting.

This unnerving sensation, the feeling of being tugged by something other than your own volition, is becoming a disturbingly familiar occurrence for you more and more these days.

You slowly step inside the dimly lit room, your eyes darting around the surroundings. There's a faint hint of burning sage in the air, mixed with the scent of herbs. As you tentatively walk around, your gaze lands on a small, worn velvet pouch resting on the bedside table.

It looks innocuous, but there's something about it that catches your attention. You walk over to it, almost in a trance, and pick it up. Feeling the weight of the contents shifting around inside.

Your eyes flit towards the open door, a brief moment of indecision passing over your face. Every instinct tells you that you shouldn’t be doing this, that it’s wrong, but your curiosity and strange compulsion propel you forward. With a sense of both trepidation and determination, you ignore the nagging guilt and pour the content of the pouch out and into your free hand.

As the contents of the pouch spill out into your palm, you're taken aback for a moment.

The first thing you notice are several strands of hair, clearly someone's locks collected and tied together with a thin strip of leather.

Then there's a collection of small bones, which range in size and shape, some from small animals and some human-looking, like phalanges. There are also a few dried and crushed herbs mixed in, the unmistakable scent of sage among them.

Your eyebrows furrow and your mind whirls, searching for a reasonable explanation.

What on earth would snooty, picture-perfect Bobby-Lynn have an assortment of witchcraft material on her nightstand for?

It doesn’t make sense, it all clashes with the image you have of her in your mind. Sure, she’s a snobby bitch, but this?

You hastily put the components back into the velvet pouch, taking care to place it back exactly as you had found it.

Your mind is a tangle of thoughts and conclusions, but you shake your head, refusing to let your thoughts jump to conclusions based on such limited evidence.

You take a deep breath and exit the room, cracking the door just a hair behind you, being mindful to leave everything as undisturbed as possible.

Yeah, no, fuck this. Time to go.

You feign nonchalance, forcing a yawn as you reenter the room. Upon rejoining them, you quickly offer up an excuse to leave, "I think I'm gonna head out," you announce, avoiding eye contact with no one in particular.

Liar.

The protests come all at once, a chorus of voices blending together as everyone tries to persuade you to stay. Amidst it all, the sound of RJ’s drunken voice stands out, loud and slurred. Your gaze drifts to Lorraine, who looks obviously disappointed.

Your better judgment tells you to stay silent and mind your own business, but you find yourself gesturing towards RJ and locking eyes with Lorraine. In a soft but resolute tone, you ask her, "did he drive you here?"

RJ, already a bit disheveled, attempts to defend himself, but he’s clearly inebriated. "I’m not that drunk-" he slurs, attempting to justify himself.

However, you cut him off and shut him down. "You're not driving anywhere tonight," you say resolutely, your tone brooking no argument.

A tension fills the air as Lorraine begins to speak, her voice soft and resigned. "It's fine, I'll drive us home," she says, attempting to brush off the situation.

It’s logical, because she’s a grown woman who can handle herself. Yet, it doesn’t sit right with you, the image of her driving home with a clearly intoxicated RJ in tow sends a jolt of unease through you.

You can’t help but blurt out a reason why it’s a bad idea, your concern for Lorraine’s safety overriding your usual reserve. "That’s not a good idea," you say, your voice firm “RJ’s in no condition to be a reasonable passenger, considering how he can’t keep his fucking hands to himself. It’s not safe for either of you or the people on the road”.

Your own outburst catches you off guard, and a wave of embarrassment should wash over you. But you find yourself surprisingly unbothered, too invested in the situation at hand to care about your lack of filter. The room goes silent as everyone looks at you, a bit taken aback by your vehemence.

Maxine mutters under her breath, just barely loud enough for you to hear, "loose cannon”.

Bobby-Lynn gives her a disapproving shush, which only has her roll her eyes. Wayne then speaks up, a sensible solution in his voice, "hows about I drive RJ home? It's on my way anyhow”.

The tension in the room rises as RJ puffs up his chest in protest, his inebriated state making him more volatile. But before even he can respond, Lorraine steps away from him and starts gathering her belongings with a steady and firm resolve.

RJ, still puffed up and tipsy, begins to ask "what are you—“ only for Lorraine to cut him off with a firm "stop, don’t even with me right now."

Her gaze then flicks to you, her expression unreadable, almost guarded. Without another word, she swiftly exits the kitchen, shaking her head in what appears to be frustration or disappointment.

RJ, still agitated, tries to follow Lorraine — shouting her name in anger. However, your actions are almost instinctively protective. You step in his path, creating a barrier between him and Lorraine as she exits the kitchen.

In his inebriated state, RJ becomes brutally honest, spitting the words in your face as he says "you don't get to just show up back here and think you have a place with us."

His words are harsh, fueled by a combination of alcohol and resentment. The sting of his words momentarily catches you off guard, but you recover quickly, hitting back with a truth of your own.

"That's rich coming from you," you reply, "considering I watched Wayne shove you into a locker Sophomore year”, your blunt response is delivered with a hint of bitterness, a reminder of old grievances and past tensions.

The others in the room murmur, no one is surprised by this revelation, simply watching with growing intrigue. RJ’s face colors with embarrassment, clearly not expecting his own past to be brought up like this. Wayne, uncharacteristically avoids your gaze, a flicker of guilt on his face.

As the tension in the room continues to mount, a soft touch on your arm brings a moment of clarity. Your head turns, and your gaze meets Lorraine's dark brown eyes. Her steady presence instantly has a calming effect on you, making you feel grounded and less on edge.

Her eyes remain locked with yours, a silent understanding passing between you. Lorraine’s gentle tug on your sleeve, accompanied by her simple request, "take me home?", is enough to make you snap out of the tense exchange.

You quickly nod your agreement, the thought of leaving Lorraine alone with RJ in his current state and driving off with him not the ideal situation. You know she needs a safe ride home. Without another word, you turn away from RJ and the others in the room, guiding Lorraine towards the exit.

As Lorraine and you make your way towards the front door, RJ clumsily tries to follow, stumbling and calling after Lorraine in his drunken state.

However, Jackson steps in this time, stopping him from tagging along. Sensing RJ’s aggression, you cast a sharp glare their way, not keen on having any further confrontations.

You and Lorraine silently descend into the front yard, the sound of the gate creaking quietly as you pass through it. The night air is crisp and quiet, a stark contrast to the tension and noise of the house you've just left behind.

Before you can mount your motorcycle, Lorraine gently catches your arm, drawing your attention back to her. You turn completely to face her, your motorbike momentarily forgotten.

The streetlamp across the road casts a soft, warm glow on Lorraine, illuminating her delicate features. Her usually stoic eyes are softened, and in the dim twilight, they almost seem to sparkle.

In this moment, with the gentle light playing across her face, she looks truly beautiful. Your thoughts are momentarily muddled, caught in the spell her gaze seems to cast on you.

With a hint of frustration and genuine curiosity, Lorraine asks, "what the hell was that? Huh? It's been five years, haven't you changed any? Or did you just leave for nothin’?" Her voice is firm, a hint of irritation behind her words. She's not looking for a fight, but she wants to know what drove you to such a display back there.

You find yourself opening your mouth to provide an explanation, but the words get stuck in your throat. You feel like a teenager again, flustered and unsure how to articulate your thoughts.

Your mind races, but nothing coherent comes out, leaving you just staring at her, your mouth hanging open uselessly.

Lorraine's expression softens, her doe eyes studying yours intensely. A sigh escapes her lips, and she turns away from you, but casts a look over her shoulder at you.

She then murmurs a soft request, "I don't live far, could you walk me?" her voice is quieter now, the annoyance replaced by a hint of vulnerability.

There's a sense of frustration and confusion swirling through you as you struggle to make sense of your emotions and actions. You feel unsteady, off-balanced, as if walking on shifting sand.

It would mean walking there and then all the way back here for your bike.

Yet, at Lorraine’s request, you step up next to her without hesitation, falling into familiar steps beside her, just as you used to. The silence between you is both comfortable and strangely tense.

You walk together, the only sounds being the soft crunch of gravel under your feet and the occasional bird call in the distance.

But you ignore it, you always ignore it when they call to you.

After a few more minutes of silence, Lorraine finally breaks it, clearing her throat and adjusting her bag on her shoulder. She looks at you with a sincere expression, her voice soft and slightly apologetic. "I'm... real sorry about that," she says, her voice sincere.

"I do mean it when I say they've changed. They're good people, y’know?” she speaks genuinely, trying to reassure you that the people you just left behind are decent, despite tonight's display saying otherwise.

Your mind drifts back to the odd bag you discovered in Bobby-Lynn's bedroom, filled with items that made your hairs stand on end. You haven’t had much a chance to process it, what it could be, what it means.

These thoughts spark a question to your tongue, which leads you to ask Lorraine, "how long have you been hangin’ around with them now?" your voice lacks accusation, yet hints at curiosity and maybe even a slightly protective tone.

Lorraine lets out a soft laugh, the sound echoing down the dark street. Her laughter prompts a reluctant smile to tug at the corners of your lips.

With a knowing look in her eyes, she replies, "long enough now that you ain't got nothin' to get your ass in a twist over” her response is playful yet resolute, asserting that she can take care of herself.

You hum and nod, shoving your hands into the pockets of your jacket, trying to appear nonchalant.

Then in a feigned casual tone that doesn't quite hide your curiosity, "and RJ?" you question, laced with subtle care as it falls from your lips despite knowing it's none of your business.

Perhaps you ask because despite the fact it’s been five years, you do care, more than you're willing to admit.

Dare you say, you always did care? Never.

Lorraine gives you a playfully chastising look before turning her gaze forward along with you. Her response, typical of her, is short and to the point.

She simply shrugs and says, "it’s good," her voice carrying a hint of resignation and perhaps a bit of frustration.

The ambiguity of her answer leaves you wondering if she really means it's ‘good’ or if she's just trying to downplay any issues.

Seeking to bring a bit of humor to the moment, you give her a lighthearted tease. "Good? Lorraine, that's about as vague as a politician's promise. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're holdin’ back on me," you say, your voice filled with a touch of playful banter.

Your words seem to hit the mark, as Lorraine lets out a soft, amused scoff, a hint of a smile on her lips. "Oh, shut up," she responds, but her tone is lighter now, less guarded. There's a sliver of familiarity in her reaction, a flicker of the old spark between you.

Maybe your friendship did somewhat survive the wreckage you left in your wake before you abandoned the ship that is this sinking town five years ago.

As you continue walking side by side, a comfortable silence envelops the two of you. After a moment, conversation begins to flow effortlessly. It feels natural.

You catch up on the past five years, sharing stories, news, and everything in between. The conversation is light, filled with laughter and genuine connection. Despite the years of separation, it's as if no time has passed at all.

The easy banter and familiarity between you make it clear that some things, like your bond, never change. It was rare for you two to talk like this back then, but now?

It’s nice.

As the conversation continues, you realize that you've reached the heart of the town, having slowed your pace without realizing it. You look around, taking in the familiar surroundings, trying to figure out your exact location. The realization hits that you must have arrived at Lorraine's place.

Your curiosity prompts you to ask, "you live around here? In town?”

Lorraine nods her head in affirmation, gesturing upward towards the upper part of the small town library.

"Yeah, I got the loft up there, all to myself," she replies. The revelation gives you a mix of surprise and a sense of familiarity. It feels strange yet fitting that Lorraine would live above the library.

As Lorraine reveals her living situation, you let a playful smile tug at your lips, unable to resist a little teasing. "Livin’ in the library, huh? It's like you were meant to be a resident bibliophile," you jest, a hint of friendly mockery in your voice.

Lorraine instinctively swats at your arm, a gesture that is unexpected but also far too familiar, making the both of you laugh.

As the laughter slowly dies down, you find yourself taking in Lorraine's smile, watching how her brown eyes glimmer in the soft light. In this moment, you realize that you've never fully noticed just how pretty she is.

Has she always been, and you just never noticed?

The realization catches you off-guard, and you question why this thought is suddenly so prominent in your mind. Confused, you wonder what's wrong with you, why you're suddenly so focused on her beauty.

“Thank you,” her voice softer now as she tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Before you can respond, she continues, her voice filled with gratitude.

"It's nice havin’ someone around that makes me feel normal again," she says, her words carrying a hint of vulnerability "I… feel like I can breathe”.

The honesty in her confession reaches you, and you can't help but feel a pang of guilt for the years you've been away. The implication that she hasn't felt normal all this time sits heavily on your shoulders.

You recall her isolation on her family farm, the strained relationship between her parents, and the weight of the unreachable expectations she faced from them both.

The realization hits you how deeply this town has affected her too, how it's left a lasting impact on her psyche as much as it did you.

That wasn’t your fault, you were drowning, you did what you had to do.

But this is Lorraine, you may not have been close but… maybe you were. More than you want to admit, and to admit that to yourself? That might shatter you.

You meet her eyes, your heart heavy with remorse "I'm sorry, Lorraine," you say, your voice sincere and filled with empathy. "I never meant to leave you here alone, dealin’ with all of... this... on your own” your words hang between you, the weight of your absence evident in the air.

There's a moment of silence as Lorraine looks away, her gaze drifting to the side as her thoughts race. The energy between you feels off, strained and awkward. You can't quite put your finger on what's causing this sudden shift, but the tension is palpable.

The words escape your lips before you can even think about it, “you should come by the manor whenever” you blurt out, the words leaving you like they have a mind of their own.

"I'll be there, gettin’ things together the next couple days. I wouldn't mind your company” you stumble over the words as they leave your mouth, surprised by your own impulsiveness.

Surprise flashes across Lorraine's face, but she quickly softens her expression into a small smile.

Concern fills her voice as she asks you, "are you doing okay? Bein’ there after everything?" Her eyes search yours, looking for some kind of confirmation that you're truly alright.

You start to open your mouth, intending to reassure her that you're fine. You're about to brush off her concern, even though you spent the night sleeping on a park bench with your backpack as a makeshift pillow. But something stops you. Instead of speaking, you remain silent, closing your mouth without a word.

Old habits die hard, you suppose.

After a moment of studying you, Lorraine gives you a small smile and reassures you, “I’ll stop by” her voice is gentle and sincere. She then follows it up with another “thank you”.

The weight of her words hangs in the air, and her gratitude seems to go beyond this conversation. It feels deeper somehow, as if there’s a hidden understanding between you.

As Lorraine turns to head up the stairs to the library, you find yourself lost in thought. The understanding you have between the two of you has always been there, but you never quite had the words to define it.

Perhaps it was a connection born from shared experiences, a bond that defied explanation.

As you consider this, you realize that even now after all this time, you still can't find the words to describe it.

And when she turns to give you one small departing wave before slipping inside, you find yourself forgetting what you were worried about in the first place.

previous, next

————————————————————————

Tag List: @thatshyboy1998

if you’d like to be added just let me know!

[kararisa]

marigold promises

— 31. "just" the lab report [☕︎ = 0.4k words]

As the hours tick by and the sun dips below the horizon, you find yourself still nestled on the worn couch in the cramped living room, poring over your textbooks. It's hardly an ideal study environment — the constant bickering between the seven-year-old you're babysitting and the sibling she likes to annoy hardly contributes to your concentration. Yet you stay anyway, driven by an unquenchable thirst for knowledge. You crave answers like a desert craves rain, and you won't rest until you've found them.

After all, it would be nice to see Rhinedottir again after all these years, wouldn’t it?

More time passes; the night sky unfurls. The clock marks the time 5:58 p.m., and a comfortable silence settles between the three of you. You and Albedo finally complete your lab report while Klee hunches over her worksheets, studying for an upcoming quiz.

“It’s getting pretty late, Cupcake,” Albedo starts. “Do you want to go ahead and head back to campus?”

You wave off his concern. “Curfew isn’t until a couple of hours from now. I can wait.”

The room falls silent again as you all return to your tasks. The only sounds are the scratch of Klee's pencil on paper and the faint hum of the AC. The stillness of the moment is interrupted only by the occasional rustle of pages or the tapping of keys on a keyboard. You feel a sense of calm wash over you, grateful for the respite from the chaos of the day.

You wish you could stay wrapped in this tranquility, even for just a moment longer.

But at last, the sound of the door unlocking rewards your hours of patience. Now that the moment is actually here, though, you find yourself frozen in place, all the words you’ve prepared escaping you.

Rhinedottir has always been strict with Albedo. She had never truly approved of your friendship with him, claiming that associating themselves with a competitor would only serve as a source of distraction.

That’s definitely one thing she has in common with your mother.

“Mom!” Klee gasps and runs to the door, laughing as she’s snatched into an embrace.

Their mother laughs in turn, “Klee, Albedo. How have you two been? Not too bored without me I hope.”

You recognize that voice. And it’s not the voice you expected to hear.

“Mhm! Albedo brought someone here and they’re super nice.” Klee rambles on about everything you did as she and her mother make their way into the living room.

You finally get a look at her.

"[Name]?" Alice greets, her look of surprise turning into one of joy, "It's been so long since I've last seen you! How have you been?"

— previous || masterlist || next

summary: you and albedo have finally reached a mutual understanding as your first year of college comes to a close. with a new school year comes a new beginning, and you start off strong with albedo asking you the oddest of arrangements: "would you like to be lab partners?"

author's notes:

idk how the college campus curfew works so shush suspend your disbelief. you’re sleeping in the same room as albedo ok

he also just bought you a shirt, undergarments, and some sweatpants. gotta make sure you’re comfy

featured song: Coming Back to Me by Leith Ross

taglist (i):

@fvkkyu @mintreen @edreee @khyllynnn @xxmirrorballxx @aiikalvr @yaefics @unsterblich-prinz @aequha @alch3myy @lovely-althxa @nei-rinn @cridtiins @zestrya @skylions-den @moriiartt @theother-victoria @sunsethw4 @dazaisfavgf @serossidechick @koiir @lazy-sanns @sweetbunnybunbun @dee-zbignuts @redactedhimbo @yurstepm0m @fanfictwarrior @fuyaa @saoiirsee @ireallylikehamsters @kissingkzuha @whosxangel @kitsuvil @orionicchaos @blurr3db3rry @semi-orangeapple @kunikuzushiit @atlatcaheart @wrrapedroundmyfingerlikearing @scarafrisbee @lost-wicked-artist @kairxse @elysiasbae @eurekatanya @empathum @tatiratty @zannivrs @mikismusings @sunoo-bby @astolary

— the taglist is currently CLOSED! shoot me an ask or a reply if you've changed your url or you'd like to be removed.

[dysfunctional-doodle]

YPI PROJECT BEAT MY ASS AND I’M SUPER TIRED BUT THE TOO MANY TURTLES COMMENTARY GRIND NEVER STOPS ‼️‼️💯💯💯

betrayal…. (playing uno is 100% more worth your time than patrol, can confirm, best game ever, played a game with 20 people in a german exchange (but it was kinda quick since we only had one pack of cards and. well. 20 people))

HELL YEAH, WE’RE MAKING PROGRESS!!!!! (i have a feeling this might get a bit angsty…)

😭😭😭😭 (speech to text is really annoying i get the struggle)

y’know, of all the turtles to slander clothes, i didn’t think it’d be him

god noooo the feels 😭😭 (i never quite experienced the bad-teacher side of the neurodivergent experience (my physics teacher was crazy supportive despite the fact i never scored higher than a 40% in his class) but i would get a loooottttt of shit from classmates,,,,,,, sucks ass i feel for mm mikey)

gotta keep expanding your horizons!

ok but. of all the turtles………

love it when this happens

taking action! (also hold on 2012 mikey is an adult in his timeline???)

sighhhh i hope tech stays with the mikeys forever because their dynamiccccc 😭😭😭

not sure if i’m ready for the angst that is most likely coming our way. BUT i’m excited for it

Happy you liked my insane rambles again!

Referring to what you said about teachers, I have personally had some struggle throughout school with the way they teach things which I kind of use to write the issue mm mikey is having, very loosely. Though I don’t have a neurodivergency diagnosed (though a lot of people have kind of told me that I most definitely probably have big ADD or something similar rattling in the old noggin so idk) I learn much differently to what schools want. I am a very hands on learner, and really struggle with visual/auditory classes. It’s like being told how to write a good story but not actually doing it - I just tune out, or it is difficult to get it to “click” unless I explain it to myself in a weird way that actually makes much more sense to me. Once this “click” happens it’s great, I have no issues, but I have a lot of questions and thoughts that others don’t get prior to this point that I’ve unfortunately been disregarded for, as my teacher just didn’t want to explain and deemed me as stupid and needing extra classes because I didn’t learn in the same way. Not to brag but I’m pretty intelligent without even studying so this was a slap in the face for me.

So yeah, I kinda based at least some elements on this experience, though obviously a lot is also made up/fictionalised.

Wow that was a ramble

Anyway, you also mentioned Mikey’s age? I don’t think I’ve ever properly written down the ages outside of a discord I am in that talks about this fic, oops. In short, the timelines are not linear, but rather dotted around the place. A breakdown:

1987 are the ones where I’m not 100% sure on what to age them as, but I imagine around 17 - 19, all the same age

Rise boys are about 6 months - a year after the events of the movie

2012 are about 20 - 22, a few years after their final series (with Mikey being an extra 2 years ahead due to Dimension X)

2007 are what I believe are their cannon ages at 21? Takes place a few months after their 2007 movie (I also consider the 90s movies to be from the same universe due to the details present in 2007)

2003 are a few years after the crossover movie, making them the oldest at around 25 (Mikey being 24 due to him being a few months or so younger when they were sold)

Mutant mayhem boys are literally a couple of weeks after their movie

Bayverse boys are a year after their second movie

Hopefully that clears things up a little :)

[oh-snapperss]

"look at the moon.." + ethubs for the writing prompts 👀?

hi leo!! oops i universe au coded this. my bad!

"look at the moon" + ethubs (x)

note: this is part of the universe au that i share with @team-clockers! you can find the rest of the posted parts of the au here.

Words: 882

CW: none!

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

“Bdubs, does the moon look big to you?” 

“Heh?” Bdubs squints suspiciously over at Etho, who’s paused his work to stare over at the horizon with squinted eyes. The sun is just barely down, already past Bdubs’ bedtime–not that he really minded, not this once. They’d spent most the day plotting out their horse course, and honestly, Bdubs had struggled to sleep ever since they’d returned from last life. Call him crazy, call him weak–every time his eyes closed, his side was pierced by arrows, or hot air rushed by his face as he fell towards the netherrack, or the scream of the wither shattered his focus before agony tore through him and–

Yeah, maybe Bdubs wasn’t so timely on his sleeping habits. But nobody needed to know that! Five minutes here or there, nobody would ever notice. And here, now, when he had only just barely gotten to speak to Etho since returning from the game? He wasn’t about to complain about being up later… too much. 

Even so, Etho’s starry eyes seem clouded, more so than normal, and his eyebrows are pinched together. Bdubs has to squint to even make that out, given the setting sun is just behind Etho’s head like some sort of strange, blinding halo. Hues of pink and orange streak out behind him, as the sunset starts to fade. 

“The moon, Bdubs. Look at the moon.” Etho repeats, and this time Bdubs does so with a frown and a roll of his eyes. Etho has always been attached to the stars, dragging Bdubs out at the most ungodly of hours to point out new constellations forming, or older ones fading. (“Look, see? New stars there. And there. And one gone over there… wonder which world it was.”) 

The moon is a normal size. 

…or….

He tilts his head, studying each of the craters on its surface with careful consideration, trying to discern what might be different. A chill runs between his shoulder blades and he spins on his heel to face Etho again, somewhat glad the sun is below the hills now, so it won’t hurt to look at Etho. A few red streaks remain, reminiscent of the sky in the game, after so much blood had been spilt that the very sky seemed to be filled with it–

The moon. Look at the moon. Think about the moon.

“What about it?” …the craters. He shouldn’t be able to see the craters in such careful detail. “Seems normal to me!” He forces a grin, straightens his back as if to shake off the shivers racing up and down his spine. 

“Seems big, doesn’t it?” Etho’s head is tilted too, eyes no longer squinted, but rather focused on the moon now behind Bdubs. This time of night, Bdubs never can tell which of the stars are reflected in Etho’s eyes, or which are there already. Maybe there’s no difference. 

This time, when Bdubs cranes his head around to glance at it, he knows Etho is right. “Pshh, you’re bein’ ridiculous!” Don’t look at the moon. Don’t think about the moon. “It’s just a moon!”

“I know, but-” 

“But it’s late, Etho. I gotta sleep!” Sleep is pronounced like shreep. Not because he needs to or thinks it should be, or really even wants to, but just–he doesn’t want to think about something else going wrong, not now, not when he’s only just gotten his Etho back and not when he can’t even get through a night without the nightmares or–

Etho’s gaze stays transfixed on the moon for a few moments more, but he drops it with a shake of his head to finally, finally catch Bdubs’ eyes. “I know, I know… king of sleep can’t be up late, right?” 

“That’s right!” Bdubs puffs his chest out. There’s no pride or feeling in it. “King of sleep, you know I gotta, baby!” 

Etho laughs, and it’s fuller than any breath of air Bdubs has taken the last few minutes. “Riiiight, of course, c’mon–” He holds his hand out, and Bdubs’ breath catches. “Wanna just sleep out here since it’s late? I think I’ve got a bed–” 

“Yes!” Bdubs shocks himself with his enthusiasm, quickly trying to dial it back. “I mean, yeah, it’s late, I got a bed on me too, could stay here-” 

Etho’s eyebrows aren’t so knitted together anymore, instead squinting at him with what Bdubs knows is one of those heartstopping smiles he hasn’t seen since the games. Even with the mask, he can tell. “Yeah… yeah, I’d like that.” 

“Yeah?” Bdubs breathes out, eyes wide. He places his bed (and if it isn’t facing the moon, who’s gonna say anything?) and Etho places his own right next, below the stars. There’s no roof, or anything, but for once, Bdubs couldn’t care less. 

“It better not rain,” he comments anyways, as if he wouldn’t get soaked a thousand times if it meant Etho would stay. 

“It won’t.” Etho responds easily, some kind of authority in his voice, and somehow… Bdubs believes him. 

Perks of being the first player, he figures. 

And when Etho tugs the old green blanket over them both, and pulls Bdubs as close as he’d been held in the games, Bdubs knows–

They’re gonna be okay. 

(And the moon isn’t big.) 

[laundrybiscuits]

(wait for the season to come back to me tag | Part 1 | Part 2)

“So this is Casa Harrington,” Eddie says, as Steve fiddles with the locks on his third-floor walk-up. 

“Harrington-Buckley. Robin lives here too.” 

“Huh. Gotta say, that is not what I was expecting to hear.”

“What?” Steve finally wrestles the door open. He glances back at Eddie. “Come on in, man.”

Eddie saunters in, taking his time about it. “Thought you’d end up with Lady Wheeler, is all. Score one for the nerdy band kids of the world, I guess.”

“Oh, jesus, no.” Steve feels oddly hurt. He knows Eddie didn’t mean anything much by it, knows that pretty much everyone they’ve ever met has thought the same thing about them.

It just seems like Eddie should be able to sense the queerness of Steve-and-Robin somehow.

Steve takes a deep breath. Robin probably wouldn’t mind him telling Eddie about her, but he thinks she’d get a kick out of doing it herself.

He’d asked her, around ‘89, if she thought Eddie’d been like…like them. 

She’d hesitated. “I don’t know, Steve. I mean, there was a lot of talk, you know? People said stuff about him. But they also said he had, like, wild Satanic orgies every night and that he’d mixed up some kind of super-drug that would make you see god and that he was secretly related to the Manson Family. So I don’t know.”

He’d said, dredging words up one by one, “I kind of thought he was—flirting with me, back then. A little bit. I thought. I thought that maybe once we made it out I could. We could.”

Robin Buckley, the other half of his soul, had wrapped her skinny arms around him and understood completely. “Tell me about the date you were gonna take him on,” she’d said, rocking him a little. “Were you going to turn up the famous Harrington charm? Give him the ol' razzle dazzle?”

He’d laughed, and she’d laughed, and they’d both felt the grief like another body between them. 

“I’d take him to Enzo’s,” he’d said, knowing it was a lie. “I’d show up with flowers, not roses, something weird because he’d like that better. Maybe those white flowers you get at—at funerals. I bet he’d think it was funny.”

“Sounds like a pretty good date.” Robin had tucked her head into his shoulder. Her hair had smelled like grease from the diner she’d been working at, those days. “He would’ve been a pretty lucky guy, Steve Harrington.”

So now, with Eddie standing in his living room, he just says: “It’s not like that with me and Robin. We’re just friends.”

Just friends is what he always says, and it never sounds right. It never sounds like it means enough, like there’s anything casual or impermanent about him and Robin. They’re more up in each others’ business than most married couples Steve knows, they just don’t have sex about it. Steve wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Eddie’s studying him carefully again, like he’s trying to figure something out. “Okay,” he says. “It’s—funny, I guess. In the lab, I’d make up all these little stories in my head about what you all were doing. Just to pass the time, you know. I had this whole narrative arc mapped out where you and Wheeler reconnected in the aftermath of tragedy, older and wiser, and had a spring wedding. There were lilacs. Henderson was your best man.” Eddie laughs suddenly, a quick bark. “It’s so stupid, man. Ignore me. I was just going a little stir-crazy in there, got caught up in my head.”

Steve thinks about Eddie all alone and trapped, telling himself stories about the outside world. Giving the people he’d known a happy ending, even someone like Steve, who he’d mostly known as an arrogant jackass. The image of Eddie sitting on a floor in a cell, deciding on lilacs for a spring wedding, makes Steve want to—to do something. He’s not sure what. Break something, maybe. Scream. Take Eddie to a beach in La Jolla and drag him into the surf, just to ruin his clothes and make him laugh with the wide horizon behind him. 

“Sit down,” he says. “Do you want a drink? We have beer, coffee, soda…I think there’s some tea in the kitchen. Or food. We could get food.”

“Hm.” Eddie perches on the arm of the sofa. “I think I’d rather see those pictures you promised me.”

“Oh. Right.” Honestly, Steve had kind of forgotten about them. “Yeah, let me just…” He rummages through the hall closet for the shoebox they keep most of their photos in. There’s a few stuck up around the walls and on the fridge, but Steve’s long-haired phase is permanently banished to the shoebox, never to see the light of day again. Unless Eddie Munson turns up and asks, obviously. 

He’s rifling through the packets, pulling out a couple of the less embarrassing ones, when Eddie’s suddenly just—there, leaning up against Steve’s shoulderblade. Eddie hooks his chin over Steve’s shoulder, and Steve lets himself lean back into Eddie’s warmth. Just a little bit. Hardly anything. 

“That’s…my vest.” Eddie reaches out to rest a fingertip against the photo, where—yeah, Steve’s wearing the vest. 

“Lost it in the move to Chicago,” Steve says. His voice is very normal. It doesn’t betray anything about the full-blown panic attack he’d had when he realized it was gone; the way he’d broken down and sobbed on their new kitchen floor like a baby, saying Robin, Rob, I lost it. I lost him. 

Robin had cried too. It was good to live with someone who would cry about Eddie with him. 

“Shame. You looked almost like a real metalhead, Stevie.” 

It’s…less far-fetched than Eddie’s little grin suggests. Steve’s never going to be, like, a metal devotee, but he’s listened to every band that had a patch or pin on Eddie’s vest. He’s successfully had extended conversations about music with actual metalheads that didn’t end in him being called mainstream or a poser, which he’s weirdly proud of. He doesn’t know how to say any of that to Eddie without making it sound like a bigger deal than it was, though, so he just laughs. 

“Come on, you can look through these on the couch,” he says, pressing back a little more into Eddie, just for a moment.. “Uncover all my secret shame.” 

He wishes he’d taken the time to make a real photo album so Eddie could flip through it, move through the echoes of Steve’s life like his echo has moved through Steve. This is pretty good, though: Eddie tipping out each set of photos and laughing at how they’ve even kept the weird blurry ones. 

They’ve moved on to vacation photos from Paris—Steve and Robin standing awkwardly in front of the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe with the same fixed smile and stiff posture that every tourist photo seems to have—when a key scrapes in the lock. 

“Oh, shit,” says Steve, without really meaning to. 

“What’s the play here, Harrington? Want me to climb out the window?” Eddie’s smiling, but not like he’s making a joke. Steve thinks he probably would climb out the fucking window if Steve so much as breathed wrong, which is why his hand shoots out to clamp around Eddie’s wrist. Just in case.

“No,” he says. “Sorry, I didn’t mean…I just realized that, uh. This is gonna be a pretty big deal for Robin, too. And all of them. We all…we all really fucking missed you, man. So just, brace yourself, I guess.”

The door finally swings open. “Steve, are you home, because the top lock was unlocked again, and—”

She freezes. Her keys clatter to the floor. 

“Steve,” she says slowly. “May I see you in the hallway for a moment.”

And—Steve suddenly realizes that she thinks he’s picked up some kind of Eddie lookalike again. 

They’d had a really bad fight about it a few years ago. He’d yelled that he was allowed to have preferences, and she’d yelled that it was really fucked up to try and screw the memory of a dead man, and it hadn’t gotten better from there. Finally, he’d agreed that maybe there was potentially something more than just general preferences going on with him, and she’d agreed that he was an adult who was allowed to make his own bad decisions as long as he was being reasonably safe about it. 

They’d sat down and made a flowchart to help him decide whether to sleep with someone. Steve thinks he’s the luckiest guy in the world to have Robin Buckley for a best friend.

“It’s him,” he says. “It’s Eddie. Like, it’s actually him. Eddie, say something.”

“Uh…” Eddie waves the hand that’s not currently being held captive. “Hey, Buckley. Did you…what do you mean, actually me?”

Robin sits right down on the floor like her joints have stopped working. “What the fuck,” she says. “Oh my god. What the fuck.”

“Yeah,” sighs Eddie. “It’s kind of a long story.”

[ot7stan4life]

Renegade Runaway

Sua (Dreamcatcher) x Female Reader

(1 part - completed ✅)

Word Count: 3700

Summary: In one last effort to save humanity, you travel back in time on a mission to stop the woman they call the “Renegade Runaway” from committing a cold blooded murder that sets the world on a course for destruction. Yet, you could’ve never expected to find an angel in that devil’s dress.

Warnings: mentions of violence, abuse, death, and war, positive ending

A/N: gotta give the title its credit-

"All this man has done is lie and cheat and kill,” the harsh words left the woman's lips like venom, poisoning the man beneath her black boot with guilt. Raising her pistol, she positioned the barrel of the gun between his eyes.

Standing there over him, triumphant-looking with her pink hair flowing in the rough wind, she could have easily been mistaken for an angel cast down from the Heavens. Only the red satin dress and burning hatred in her eyes revealed the hidden evil beneath those imaginary wings and glowing halo.

That’s how I’d envisioned my final encounter with the one they called the 'Renegade Runaway' before the world changed forever. Except, that moment didn’t quite go the way I’d planned…

My eventual journey there was long and tedious, starting all the way back to the day I was born. The world was war-torn, the planet exhausted and dying. The human race was on the brink of extinction. One final hope remained in the potential of time travel, one that I quickly decided to dedicate my life to. Though the final mission to prevent the end of times promised nothing for certain—not even a return trip home—I volunteered to see it through without hesitation knowing that my future was not guaranteed had I conceded to the Earth's fate.

The task was simple enough: prevent one murder that had been committed over three-hundred years ago. After centuries of research, it had been determined that this very moment was the one that catalyzed the butterfly effect that would eventually lead to the end of times. Researchers hoped that changing the outcome could potentially prolong the survival of mankind. It was our only promising solution, so we had to try. And my one single chance to test that theory started the first day I met the Renegade.

—

Waking from a deep, dark slumber, I found myself laid out across the grainy desert ground, head resting against the roots of an old tree with a dusty brown cowboy hat placed over my face to shield my pale skin from the ruthless sun rays cast down from above. The dirt and sand crunched under my boots when I finally stood upright and the hot wind whipped through my mid-length hair. Though I had studied this very town in this exact time period, suddenly being stripped from my own time and placed here, I was rather disoriented.

I was always told it never quite felt real. At least not at first.

A nearby whinnying brought my attention to a horse that stood at the ready beside me, anchored to a tree by the lead attached to its harness. It was a beast of an animal, standing a few feet taller than me, showing off its muscular body while shifting its weight from leg to leg. Though I had never seen one in person, I knew them well. The creatures often came up in categories such as farming, transportation, and warfare in my research of the Wild West.

Gathering the lead in my hands, the animal hesitantly let me take my place on its back and followed my commands when I spurred it on towards civilization. It took a moment to get used to riding, but once I felt more comfortable, I coaxed it into a gallop. Dust kicked up with every thud of the horse's hooves, blowing across the never-ending desert floor that blurred with waves of heat in the distance, obscuring the horizon line. The air stung my eyes and tasted like salt, leaving my throat dry and body parched. Even in the short journey to the local square, beads of sweat had accumulated on my forehead from the harsh climate—one that closely resembled the state of the entire planet back in my time.

As I neared the town, square-shaped buildings made of wood faded by the sun eventually came into view, accompanied by the bustle of western folk crossing the empty stretch between shops ahead of me. Just like the history book said, everyone here had a role to play. It was a community that, in a lot of ways, relied upon the efforts of every single individual to thrive. New faces were unusual and those that were born here almost always stayed here. Maybe it wasn't everyone's idea of paradise, but it was the only thing they knew, so they couldn't possibly picture something greater. There was this sense of acceptance, or rather, resignation. Most people gave into it, but a select few stood in resistance. In particular, women who desired more than being at a man's side with no power their whole lives rejected the traditional ways of the Wild West.

I could feel that sense of indignation the moment I stepped foot here. There was a storm brewing in this small western town. A storm started by one they called the Renegade Runaway. One that would catalyze a ripple effect of pain and suffering throughout the coming centuries. But that's why I was here now: to change that seemingly predetermined fate.

Riding up to the local saloon, I got off my horse and tied its lead to a nearby fence.

"Sheriff." My greeting was aimed towards a pale woman with short black hair flowing from underneath her cowboy hat as I stepped onto the wooden porch in front of the local saloon. The sand left boot prints behind me like chalk coating the brown walkway.

The woman I acknowledged was standing just a few feet away, leaning against the front of the building, one leg propped up on the wall behind her as her dusty brown eyes gazed over the desert horizon like a hawk. She wore dark cowboy boots over tan pants held up by a belt with a badge on her left hip and a holster housing a white and golden revolver on her right.

At my greeting, she cast her gaze towards me and used her leather gloved hand to tip the edge of her hat down in recognition. "Howdy." Her lips turned up in a closed smile making her high cheek bones prominent.

I noticed the tight lines framing her smile and the way her cheeks almost indented because of how well defined her face was. There was no doubt in my mind that she was in good shape and, if I weren't here strictly for business, I might've inquired just where she got such perfect genes from or how exactly she managed to acquire her position—being a woman and all.

I was looking for someone specific and as much as I would've loved to ask—I glanced down at her badge—Sheriff Kim for help, this wasn't exactly a matter that I needed local law enforcement to be involved in. In fact, having the Sheriff on my tracks was the very last thing I needed.

So, I ventured inside the saloon without another word to the woman and walked straight to the bar. The one person I figured I could count on to find information in a small old western town was the one who got to hear all the latest news and gossip thanks to her occupation: the bartender.

"What can I getcha?" She said in a low, cool, calm tone when I took a seat on one of the stools. Her voice matched her appearance and—as I would soon find out—her personality. She had on an oversized white shirt with a denim vest and denim jeans. I couldn't see below her waist, but I assumed she was wearing cowboy boots since that's all anyone wore around here. Her long grey hair was twisted up into a single bun on the back of her head with the black ends that looked burnt from a fire sticking out the top and two small strands of her bangs free to hang on either side of her face. She looked intelligent and friendly, but not too friendly. Although, I got the feeling she was trustworthy just from the aura she gave off.

"Just pop, but make it look like a drink." I wasn't one to drink often, but certainly not while on a job.

She didn't hesitate with my request and started pouring it just out of sight of the other guests, making me wonder if many people asked the same.

Folks often did illegal business in saloons, so if you were caught here without a drink someone might assume the same of you. Proud cowboys didn't tend to take a liking to bandits or crooks and, I'd imagine, neither did the Sheriff.

That in mind, I grabbed the glass as soon as the bartender was finished pouring and took a sip before looking around the place discreetly.

It was just before sundown and the bar was starting to fill up with people coming in after finishing their shifts. The usual working men occupied the place, though there seemed a lack of prostitutes lurking for a typical western saloon. It appeared as though the women here held more positions of power than most other cities during this time period–no doubt due to the woman I came to find.

Though, I didn't spot anything that seemed helpful to my case, so I looked back to the thin woman behind the bar. She was already looking back at me, like she knew I wanted to ask her something. I'm sure she was used to strangers coming in here and questioning her, but somehow I got the sense that she didn't seem to mind it.

"You wouldn't happen to know of a gal named Bora, would you?" I asked after taking another sip, assuming these people knew the Renegade by her real name.

Still, I found it hard to gauge the bartender's reaction; she didn't seem to give away her emotions all that easily, an almost disinterested expression permanently etched across her face. Maybe that came with the job, or maybe that really was just a part of her personality. Nonetheless it didn't help me get a sense of who Bora was to these people—or at least to her.

"Bora?" She seemed to ponder, her hands momentarily stopping their job of cleaning a glass while her brain was at work. "I know several Bora's,” she concluded, continuing on with her task as if she had never stopped.

I found it odd that she didn't say more. It made me wonder if she didn't want me to know the answer or if she simply didn't care enough to tell me.

"The Bora I'm looking for is... shall we say... in some trouble,” I added, hoping she would catch on.

Much to my surprise, the bartender cracked a half smile and let out a small chuckle.

"Trouble, huh?" Her head raised and her eyes shifted to the far side of the room. "You must be looking for the Renegade."

I followed her gaze and spotted a woman with light pink hair sitting at a table in the far corner of the room. Looking at her now, I wondered how I missed her before. She seemed to take up the entire room and appear invisible all at the same time. Finally being in her presence was something else entirely; her aura was captivating with a hint of underlying mystery and danger.

Without saying anything further to the bartender, I stood up and began walking over to where the woman was, completely forgetting my drink on the bar top. I thought I heard an amused 'good luck' from the bartender, but I was already so preoccupied with this mysterious woman that I very well could have imagined it.

From what I knew about Bora, she was the definition of trouble. Mumblings of the townsfolk would tell me that she was an outlaw, a rebel, a deserter, 'a devil in an angel's dress.' I knew better than to fully believe such rumors. However, she was dangerous, and because of that, I knew I couldn't count on getting the answers I needed out of her the old-fashioned way. If I wanted anything from her, I'd have to play the game her way.

"You don't by chance happen to be the one they call the Renegade, do you Miss?" I offered gently, hoping I didn't appear to pose a threat. Any wrong decision and I could lose my one chance at salvation for good.

Although, she didn't spare me a glance, grunting out a cold response,

"What do you want?"

I allowed my eyes to take in her appearance, or at least what I could see of it with her back turned to me. I suppose I didn't expect the over-dramatic townsfolk's descriptions of her to be so literal, but, to my surprise, she was wearing a red satin dress. Similar to the Sheriff, she had a holster around her waist that held a silver and wooden pistol. The weapon was all too familiar to me and now I was sure I had the right woman.

"It's less about what I want and more about what you want,” I replied, trying a different approach.

She still didn't look at me, but she turned her head slightly, giving me a view of her side profile.

Maybe the only thing that shocked me more than her attire was her appearance. The single sharp feature on her face was her pointed nose. Other than that, her appearance looked rather soft. All the drawings I had seen of her painted her as a fierce woman with hard features and a striking gaze. Seeing her now, had I not witnessed the outcome of her future actions, I might've questioned how such a small, innocent looking woman was worthy of titles such as 'demon' or 'devil.'

"I don't want anything from you,” she said in a low tone. She didn't necessarily sound rude, but more like she was trying to intimidate me so that I would stop my ploy and leave her alone.

"I could offer some help,” I suggested, taking the seat across from her without permission. No one else in this old bar even dared look at the pink-haired girl, let alone sit near her. But she was no threat to me.

"I don't need your help,” she was quick to respond, still hardly paying me any mind as she took a sip of her whiskey. The honey colored alcohol resembled the thick rays of sunlight shining in through the titled slats in the wooden blinds. The dust made up of sand and smoke seemed to be permanently suspended in the air, making the rays look like bars of pure sunlight that you could just reach out and grab.

"Alright, then I can offer you information," I reworded, fully aware she was a woman who did her own dirty work but still valued any opportunity she could get to have the upper hand against her enemies.

There was a long pause and, after weighing my words, she finally took the chance to look me over.

She cocked an eyebrow, apparently unimpressed. "You aren't from around here, are you?" She told more than asked.

It was obvious she already knew the answer to her own question simply based on how I carried myself, but I had a feeling she was also implying that not many people around here tried to talk to her. They knew better than to bother her.

"You aren't either... or so I've heard," I tried to show her that I wasn't one to scare easily.

"Well then surely you've also heard that I work alone." She sat up straight and raised her glass to her lips before meeting my eyes.

The words almost felt rehearsed, like she had a method to keeping people out.

One side of her lips tilted upwards as she glanced over my features. "And not even a pretty face'll change that." She tilted her head back to take the final swig of whiskey, then slammed the glass down on the table before giving me a wink and getting up to walk out.

Only the image of her receding shadow was visible as she pushed through the saloon doors.

—

In the coming months, the renegade kept her word... for the most part. She was stubborn—which I had quickly gathered after my first encounter with her—and too independent for her own good. She wasn't necessarily reckless, but her solo endeavors often proved far too ambitious. Whether that be pursuing criminals or cowboys or men that just seemed to have too much money and power, she was constantly jumping into situations too dangerous for one woman to handle alone. That's where I came in. She didn't give trust away easily—claiming hers had to be earned—so I gained it by proving my loyalty to her, always coming to her aid when she found herself in trouble.

It took a while for me to get close to her and even longer to finally get her to open up to me. Once she believed my intentions were pure, she slowly unveiled the secrets of the mysterious 'Renegade Runaway,' allowing me to peel back the layers of her heart and eventually get a glimpse at what was inside. Unlike the fables, she was no devil or any other divine being for that matter. It became clear through her vengeful motives that she was purely and entirely human. She was hurting and broken from a painful past—one she would rather forget, yet the same one that drove her actions. In her lifetime she had witnessed the women she loved—friends, sisters, and even her own mother—get cheated, tortured, and murdered by all the powerful men surrounding them.

In her eyes, those that ruled the world were not worthy of it, because all they did was ruin it. She felt it was her duty to strip them of their privileges and bring them suffering as they had done to so many others. As noble an effort it seemed, history tells us that nothing good ever comes from vengeance. Still, she was blinded by the inescapable shadow of loss following her, clung to her figure as a constant reminder, a constant trigger that sent her over the edge.

That's why we found ourselves here now: Bora standing over a man she and I both knew all too well, pistol to his temple with memories of her mother's mangled body underneath his own boot playing on repeat in her mind while I helplessly watched a few steps away. The air grew cold and thick in the abandoned town square we now occupied as the very climax of my mission approached. This was the one murder I had trained my whole life to prevent.

"He doesn't deserve to live,” she seethed in anger. "He murdered my mother and countless other innocents." Her grip on the gun tightened with every word that left her mouth, turning her knuckles white.

"Perhaps you're right,” my voice cut through the brewing storm looming overhead, loud enough to not get lost in the violent gusts of air whipping around our bodies and through the gaps between the buildings surrounding us.

The townsfolk had all run for shelter, frightened either by the imminent threat of catastrophic weather or the violent coup that was now in progress, led by the renegade standing a few feet in front of me.

"But killing him will only make things worse in the long run." I took a tentative step forward, hoping the relationship we had formed over the past month—though still rather unsteady—would be enough to convince her to trust my words.

A flash of lightning struck the horizon, painting the gray sky blue before a boom of thunder punctuated its disappearance.

"How could you possibly know that?" she shouted, now growing impatient.

The wooden and silver weapon shook in her hands, her finger tempting the trigger. Even she didn't understand why she hadn't pulled it yet. It was her master plan, after all. Finally putting an end to all the suffering this man had caused to countless women and their families, including her own. It felt like her only purpose in life. Her destiny. Like it was already written in the stars. So why couldn't she go through with it? And why would she listen to me: a stranger she had met only a month ago? One that seemed to be from another world completely. The kind of person she never thought she'd find herself so attached to. Yet, there she was.

And though she couldn't possibly understand what I meant when I told her I've seen what comes of her actions, she somehow believes. When I said that this one decision will determine the fate of the world, she somehow knows. Because, deep down, she can feel that it has happened before. This exact moment had already played out in some distant reality. One that she had already experienced and would never experience all in the same life. One that always ended in disaster.

But, not this time.

This time, she looks deep into my eyes and finds a sort of empathy and honesty that she has never experienced before. In me, she finds someone who understands the pain and loss she has felt. Beyond that, she finds someone who manages to live with it. To forgive and move on. Someone who stopped trying to end violence with more violence. Someone who has found a better way.

Someone who cares for her.

And it shows her that her life doesn't need to be a constant cycle of death and revenge. That there is hope for a peaceful resolve. And maybe even room for love, not hatred.

The sky cries down in relief as Bora's gun falls with the raindrops, softening the hard dirt ground beneath our feet as they soak into the dying earth. Like the fresh water nourishing the desert floor, the renegade's decision to spare the man gives room for new life to grow and, one day, eventually, to flourish.

Now that a new string has been woven into the fabric of reality, the future is uncertain. This new life might seem daunting to most, but not me. All it promises are new possibilities for a world without hatred, without violence, and without suffering. A world where love and peace are not merely fantasies, but the promised reality.

And it all starts with me and her.

—

A/N: This is an older imagine that I’ve had written, but I hope to start writing new stuff again soon. Also, sorry for not replying to some of the requests/comments you’ve sent me in my inbox. I promise I see them and I will respond to them soon. I just didn’t want to say “I’m working on this” and then take way too long to actually write an update for you.

**This imagine was transferred over from my Wattpad acc OT5Stan4Life**

[saphscorner]

Drabble request: Tango x grain with heavy tango angst? Pls?

hello hello! happy to oblige! gotta admit i'm a little out of my element with this one, i´m not sure if i´ve ever written this pairing before, but it's definitely been a few years if i have. i'm also less than experienced in writing angst, but i have to say i had lots of fun with this! thanks for the request and i hope you enjoy <3

word count: 1385 words (oops got carried away lmao-) pairing(s): tango/grian warnings: blood, injury, panic attakcs general tags & vibes: angst, hurt/comfort, secret life mechanics & setting

Hunched in the mouth of a cave, Tango wished it would all just go away. His vision was blurred, breaths coming in shallow heaves as he watched a stream of his own diluted blood trickle between cracks in the stone floor. He was dimly aware of how soaked he was from the rain, trembling from the cold, the pain, and an oncoming wave of panic. 

A few days ago, Tango had been transported into the Secret Life world, where a distinct lack of regeneration had waited for him. In theory, a lack of regeneration shouldn't have been more than an annoying obstacle to overcome, but in practice had led him to realize that it also meant his wounds simply didn’t heal. They would perpetually bleed and ache, leaving him in constant pain while waiting for the merciful ten hearts that the Secret Keeper would grant him upon completion of his task. 

Small injuries were tolerable, but the tumble Tango had taken in a cave pushed him right up to his breaking point. It had been all that he could do to drag himself up to safety, before he'd collapsed to the stone floor, sobbing through the beginnings of a panic attack. 

His world was spinning as he wiped again at the ugly gash on his upper arm, his shaking hand returning slick with blood. He dragged it down the front of his shirt, his vision swimming. He thought for sure he might pass out; to do so would have been a sweet release from the pain, if only for a few minutes. Breathless and dizzy, he'd reached the point where he could no longer hear himself crying. 

Tango wasn't sure how long he'd been there when the sound of shuffling and footsteps from outside the cave cut through the ringing in his ears. 

"Who's there?" He cried out, instinctively scooting back. It was only when his back hit the wall that he realized he was no longer being rained on, having moved under an overhang sufficient enough to keep him dry. He wiped fervently at his eyes, leaving bloody streaks along his tear-stained skin. 

"Tango?" Came the reply. "Is that you?" 

In that moment, the only thing that escaped Tango was a half-stifled sob. He was a wreck, and had just enough lucidity to realize that the last thing he wanted was for someone to see him like this. 

"I'm- I'm fine," Tango finally managed back, his trembling voice entirely unconvincing. Thunder rumbled distantly, followed by a flicker of lightning from the threatening grey clouds along the horizon.

Footsteps were still nearing him, and the next thing Tango knew, a figure stood half-illuminated at the mouth of the cave. He felt a wave of dread as they took a step further inside, and he realized that the person who had happened across him was Grian. 

"Tango? What happened?"  

Tango just shook his head. He tried to speak, but all at once couldn't. What even had happened? He knew he'd gotten hurt, and he knew he'd dragged himself to the surface, but how long had he been there? His world was spinning, his train of thought muddled by his state of panic. His breaths came quicker, and Grian was suddenly before him, crouching down to his eye level. 

"Can you talk to me? Are you okay?" 

Tango opened his mouth to try to speak once again, and only a sob escaped him this time. 

"Okay, God, okay, right," Grian drew in a deep breath, evidently trying to maintain his own composure as he studied Tango with a concerned gaze. 

Tango's sobs were shaking and uncontrollable. He wished Grian would just go and leave him to cry himself unconscious. He couldn't stand the pitying look in his eyes, and couldn't stand to be seen so utterly vulnerable and out of control. He hugged his knees further to his chest, trying to bury himself away with his head tucked between his knees. 

A hand came to rest softly on his shoulder, and he flinched for a moment. 

"Tango, I'm going to help you, okay? You're bleeding, so I'm going to bandage you up. We’ll start there.” 

"It-" Tango hiccupped. "It won't- won't help," he finally managed. "It... it just doesn't stop bleeding." With tearful eyes, he finally chanced a look back up at Grian. 

"I know," said Grian. "But this way you at least won't have to look at it." He was already rummaging through his inventory for a roll of bandages. He carefully took Tango's arm into his hands, beginning to wind the bandages around his wound. "Take one deep breath for me. Can you do that?" 

Tango nodded slightly, making an effort to draw in a slow breath. He held it for a moment, then let it out. Tears were still flowing from his eyes, and his breaths still came shaky, but it was a start. 

"Good," said Grian, continuing to wind the bandages. "Do it again, with me this time. In..." he inhaled in demonstration and Tango followed, "...and out...."

Tango again wiped at his eyes with his free hand while Grian secured the end of the bandage into a proper wrapping around his arm. 

"Again," said Grian. He shifted to hold Tango's hand instead, guiding him through another slow inhale and exhale. 

Tango held Grian's hand back, his grip tightening slightly on his palm as he followed him through a few more rounds of deep, intentional breathing. He could feel his tears beginning to subside, though his chest still felt tight and his stomach twisted and fouled with nausea. 

Once Tango had properly stopped crying, Grian gently released his hand, in favor of cleaning up some of the blood streaked on his skin. He pulled his cuff down over one clenched fist so he could use the fabric to wipe Tango’s skin. 

"Can you talk to me?" Grian pressed gently, as he carefully cleaned away the mix of blood and tears from Tango's cheeks. 

"I... I think so," Tango said softly. His voice was weak and shaky, and he drew in another slow breath to feel more sure of himself. 

"Good. Do you want to tell me what happened? Or would you rather we not talk." 

"Maybe... not talk for now," said Tango. 

Grian offered him a small, reassuring smile as he dropped his hand from Tango's face back to his side. "That's okay. Just more slow, deep breaths for now." He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of another rumble of thunder, watching lightning flicker in the clouds. "We'll wait it out here for now. But I'll get you back to your base when the skies clear up, and I'm going to make sure you're okay." 

"It still hurts," Tango complained quietly, 

"I know, no regeneration is awful," Grian agreed. He paused for a moment, rolling up his sleeves as he finished cleaning Tango up the best he could. "You know, I don't know why this wasn't my first thought..." 

Before Tango could ask him what he meant, Grian had one hand on Tango's chest, splayed over his heart as he closed his eyes. He remained there for a moment, the touch feeling warm even through the thick, wet fabric of his vest. It wasn't long before Tango’s health was up a heart, the pain feeling just a little more bearable all of a sudden. 

Grian smiled as he blinked his eyes back open, his hand retreating. "It's not much, but it's worth something, right?" 

Tango nodded slowly. "You've done so much for me already, you know." Little by little, he could feel his panic easing, the world returning to lucidity as his eyes dried. Suddenly, he was just tired.

"You're lucky I found you," Grian teased.

"I am, actually," Tango agreed with sincerity. 

"You know you didn't have to try to turn me away." 

"I know..." 

“Do you know?”

"No..." 

Grian sighed. He reached into Tango's hair to push a bit of it back out of his face. "I want to help you, that’s all. Especially when it comes to things like this, there's absolutely no reason to go through it alone." 

"You are pretty helpful," Tango admitted. "Just... thank you." 

Grian took his hand to give it one more gentle, reassuring squeeze. "Anytime," he said. And truly, he meant it.

[megamanrecut]

Okay, so taking awhile (again) on the next chapter, so here's another part of 'Become the Night 2'

Become the Night 2 Teaser, 2/? (part 1 here, or Ao3)

The air raider droned monotonously as they flew West. For awhile, Turner was quiet as he sat straight-backed in the passenger seat, staring imperiously into the horizon. Proto studied him curiously out of the corner of his eye.

Turner was not quite like Elec Man—certainly, the resemblance was there—they had practically identical faces and eyes. Yet while Elec Man could produce a glare as cold as a serial killer twisting a knife between your ribs while watching the life fade from your eyes, Turner’s similarly icy, penetrating glare only held the menace of one who might hold a knife up to a throat, but go no further. 

“We can’t tell anyone about this,” Turner said finally with the curt formality of an executive ordering about an intern.

“Don’t worry, I sneak off all the time!” replied Proto, waving a hand airily. “No one will think twice about it. But I gotta ask…how come you came to me for help? Why didn’t didn’t you go to Pharaoh Man instead?”

There was a small pause. Turner twisted in his seat to look blankly at Proto. “Who?”

“Geese, kid, how secret was this mission you and Elec Man were on? Don’t you know your other allies in the Syndicate?”

Turner stared at Proto for a moment, then shook his head. “Only our mutual acquaintance Mr. Smith, and stop calling me diminutives. I am Mr. Turner to you.”

“Can you fight?”

Turner angled his chin hastily and gave Proto a superior look.  “No, it is not my responsibility to ‘fight,’ that’s the job of lowly combat robots like you.”

“…Care to run that by me again, junior?”

With a small jerk, Turner added, “Please.”

Smiling, Proto looked out the window. They were flying over Indiana, green fields of corn stretching below them in a checkered grid. Despite all the blatant, uncalled for rudeness, he was enjoying Turner’s company a lot. Elec Man had taught his little brother well in acting the part of Syndicate, and his little brother was a good student—but Proto had a feeling underneath this robot was quite different from Elec Man or Syndicate altogether.

“…So ballet?” he queried, recalling something Elec Man had said about the mission in California.

Turner held himself up proudly (again a bit like a peacock fanning its feathers) “Yes. My alias is Todd Turner, perhaps you’ve heard of me.”

“…I’m afraid not?”

The feathers drooped. “Oh. Well, I’m the best ballet dancer in the world.”

“…Okay…?”

Picking up on Proto’s tone, Turner drew himself up indigently. “I like it a lot and if you’re going to make fun—“

“I wasn’t, I wasn’t!” said Proto hastily, though he felt his own eyebrows raising more than he intended. So then, Turner was a ballet dancer? That explained the prince-like suit!

As Turner continued to look offended, his pale eyes glaring superiorly ahead, Proto decided to change the subject back to the matter at hand.

“So…how long has Elec Man been missing?”

“I never said Mr. Smith went missing,” Turner replied stiffly.

“…No offense kid, but you are a bad liar (which according to my little brother is actually a good thing!). I could tell something was wrong the moment I first saw you.”

“No you couldn’t—how?”

“Well, for example, I saw you casing our house yesterday, while Rock and I were out walking his robo-dog. You thought you were hidden. I would have trashed you, but I noticed your eyes, which are just like your older brother’s, and decided to wait.”

At this, Turner’s pale eyes darted over to Proto. The high-and-mighty act he had been putting on slipped. He looked small, and scared.

“But listen, you don’t have to worry—“ Proto put in hastily, then added with a laugh, “I’m not going to hurt you, you know—I’m Break Man!”

…This didn’t quite alleviate Turner’s apprehension as anticipated. “…Who?” He sounded just as bewildered by this name as he had at Pharaoh Man’s.

“Break Man!” Proto repeated, confused. “The red bomber!”

“Never heard of you.”

“Well, I’m kinda like a superhero in New York City.”

This was met with awkward silence. Turner stared at Proto, scrutinizing him like a complicated jigsaw puzzle. He didn’t seem to know what to make of this information. They flew through a few puffy clouds, which briefly blanked the air raider’s convex windows in white.

“And you are…living like a human?” Turner sounded doubtful, as though asking if pigs could fly.

“Yeah, I guess,” replied Proto, feeling slightly defensive. “…Something funny about that?”

Turner quickly looked away from Proto back out the window. “No, not at all. …Though, you’re nothing at all like I pictured.”

“What did you picture?”

Turner’s brows drew together. He still looked nervous. “They call Cypher the 'Devil of the Underground'—that Cypher could take down an army of scrappers faster than fire in a paper warehouse, that he leaves no enemy alive,” he whispered.

“Stop! You’re making me blush,” laughed Proto, pleased. “I’m not half as scary as your brother.”

“Yeah, you’re not like that at all,” agreed Turner. “Really you’re just a dork from the suburbs.”

…Proto’s self-pleased feeling crashed.

“You don’t even dress well,” Turner added, almost accusingly, eying the old T-shirt and baggy jeans Proto was wearing beneath his bomber jacket.

“Well, this is just my lab clothes—shut up,” Proto muttered, fully aware he was wearing something that leaned more on the ‘comfort’ scale than the ‘cool’ scale, an unfortunate fashion trend that had snuck up on him when he had moved back to Dr. Light’s laboratory. Stuck up little brat, he thought, then smiled. He supposed Turner’s statement was a product of Elec Man’s influence—if anything, he should be annoyed at Elec Man.

“So…what did Elec Man tell you about me?” Proto asked casually as he checked the flight instruments and adjusted the altitude slightly.

“Not much.”

“…Oh.”

Proto’s shoulder’s slumped a little. He himself still sometimes thought of Elec Man—usually when he was busting amateurish heist that Elec Man would have found funny. He remembered how they used to challenge each other by doing something reckless. Instead, Proto was now making sure Roll didn’t do the same reckless shit he used to do while fighting Dr. Wily. Of course, it made sense that Elec Man had put all of that behind himself; Elec Man had always tried to act so mature...

Turner was eyeing Proto in a strange, almost jealous way, then clarified with significance, “Mr. Smith complains about everyone—the delivery men being late, the seamstresses mishandling my costumes, the director slacking off, when someone in the audience coughs too much, if one of the violins in the orchestra is off-key—but not you.”

Proto perked up again. “Really?”

Turner had gone back to watching Proto with a guarded expression. “I can trust you, right?”

“Yes, though you obviously don’t. You’re that desperate, huh junior?”

Turner sniffed. “Well…Mr. Smith trusted you.”

“Yeah. I mean, I was programmed to obey the Syndicate for most of the time we knew each other, but I think he did even outside of that.” Proto checked the flight course—an hour until they reached Los Angeles. “Alright, now that we have that settled, I’ll ask you again…how long has Elec Man been missing?”

At first, Proto thought Turner would continue to be aggravatingly stubborn, but Turner responded in the smallest of voices, “…Three days.”

Three days. Shit. “Kid, you better tell me everything. I got a real bad feeling about this. Your secrets are safe with me, honest—just tell me.”

For a moment, Turner continued to waver, then finally told Proto about his mission at the ballet—about having a target, an unknown person of whom he had been tasked to assassinate on a certain night. Then, reluctantly, he explained that he had told Elec Man that he couldn’t do it, and that Turner’s mission had been called off. 

“…Elec Man said our creator said I didn’t have to do it anymore, and I could just perform as usual, which is what I did,” Turner continued somberly. His eyes had been on his knees the entire time. “But then, that night…Elec Man wasn’t backstage like he usually is. He wasn’t at our apartment either. He wasn’t anywhere.”

Proto had been frowning all throughout Turner’s story. “This person you were targeting…were they dangerous?”

“I dunno.” Turner looked helplessly down at his hands, which had been balling up the fabric of his suit’s pant legs in a way Elec Man most certainly would not have approved of. “I think…I think something definitely went wrong. Elec Man wouldn’t just leave like that. If I had just done my part of the plan, then Elec Man would still be around, he—“

“Whatever happened wasn’t your fault,” Proto told Turner sternly. “I’m sure Elec Man would say the same if he were here.”

For the first time, Turner’s perfect posture crumpled. He sat slumped in the passenger chair, his eyes downcast on the creases he had just made in his suit’s pant legs.

“Hey, you did right thing coming to me for help!” Proto reassured him quickly. “We’ll find your brother, don’t worry.”

Turner was silent for awhile. Proto wasn’t sure if he’d speak again, but finally— “I don’t know what you mean by calling Elec Man my ‘brother.’ He’s just my prototype.”

“Does he care for you? And you him?”

“…Yes?”

“Well then, junior, he’s your brother.”

Turner mulled this over. Proto could see a flicker of excited revelation cross his face, like a momentary sunbeam. Again, Turner’s behavior thoroughly reminded Proto of Rock. Rock could be obnoxiously lawful like this, especially when he was enforcing Dr. Light’s rules with a dog-like level of obedience far beyond what even Dr. Light considered necessary. From then on, Proto decided to make it his mission to get Turner to laugh.

But first things first. “We’re almost to L.A.,” Proto announced. “Let’s check this apartment of yours out first, okay? Perhaps we can get a clue to where Elec Man is.” 

Continued in Part 3

[foibles-fables]

fanfic writer questions

Thanks for the tag, @uhhhyaenbyjade!!

1- How many works do you have on AO3?

Sitting at 79, currently!

2. What's your total AO3 word count? 363,375

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Like, ever? Lots of them over the past twenty years, hahah. Currently it's mostly Horizon that's got me by the throat, but I've also put out a couple one-offs for Stray Gods and Control over the least year. Besides those, I'd say my main claims to clownery would be Legend of the Seeker and Warrior Nun. I'm also finally dipping my toes into the ATLA scene after missing the boat for way, way too long.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

I'm gonna remix this question a little bit and pick the top one from my an amalgamation of my five most prominent/recent fandoms, since otherwise Warrior Nun dominates due to sheer fandom size-- 1- Because the Light Is Close (Warrior Nun) 2- The Weight of Us (Legend of the Seeker) 3- rest like you belong here. (Horizon) 4- brave this time (Stray Gods) 5- dream geometries (Control)

5. Do you respond to comments?

I do!!! Gotta lavish my genuine gratitude on you lovely, wonderful, amazing folks who take time out of your day to read and hype up my silly writing.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Oh hmmm. If we're talking recently (like, written since 2010) it's gotta be so i'll stay half away (Horizon). That comic, man. lmao. lol. OH! Or waiting through daybreak (Stray), because that cat game is an emotional wrecking ball

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

TOO MANY OF THEM, LATELY? I feel like I need to dive back into a bittersweetness era, because wouggghh have my endings been tooth-rottingly sweet. Recently I'd pin this title on entering light (Horizon).

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Not directly on the fics or to my face, which is nice.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Hell yeah! Overwhelmingly sapphic, usually of the more esoteric variety re: language. Using sex as a character study is my passion.

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

Not in many, many moons have I written a crossover. And the only time I ever did, it was from two shows in the same universe, lmao.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not to my knowledge, thankfully!

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

For the first time recently, yes!!! So freakin cool! Check out this Mandarin translation of eye for eye, tooth for tooth (Control).

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Not a fic, but I gotta thank Meg for being my cowriter on Talanah's FOTH path!!!!

14. What's your all time favorite ship?

don't make me choose between Cara/Kahlan and Aloy/Talanah. please

15. What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

Sorry to that one early Warrior Nun fic I left hanging after a single chapter

16. What are your writing strengths?

Emotional immediacy, prose-craft, evocative syntax, lyricality

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

MY SPEED. OUGGHHHH. Also I am actively trying to get better at dialogue, along with location/setting descriptions

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

I'd tackle it if it fit the scope of the fic, and only with the guidance of someone fluent in said language!

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Written for and posted? The Xenosaga series at age 11, baybeeee. I wrote plenty before that without posting, however.

20. Favorite fic you've written?

This legitimately changes on the daily. It's impossible for me to choose, so I'll just toss out if you held yourself up to the light (Horizon) as today's contender.

No-pressure tags: @mehoymalloy @tjerra14 @finrays @sssammich @askweisswolf and anyone else who sees this and wants a go! Just tag me as your tagger!

[nagy-bari]

to pass the time

a hungary-austria conversation on a long summer train road.

tw: rape as a topic. cause how else can you interpret historical aggression?

’if i gotta be honest with you i had crazy dreams about raping you when we were younger. And I thought you were a boy.’

The confession is aimed at the train window rather than her and the aristocratic voice makes it surreal and quite simple really. She quirks and eyebrow, a sign of curiosity and attention and he fixes a small village in the distance.

‘any reason you’re telling me now?’

‘I’m just a bit baffled I remembered.’

‘I hope you do realise you did rape more than once and not in your dreams.’

She doesn’t care if her voice is off or threatening. Truth be told she finds the whole conversation so bizarre it shuts down her anger. He does not dare to turn around following the village with his eyes till it’s lost over the horizon. He seems just a bit agitated. Good. After all this is no simple topic.

‘the political history of our nations will not be our whole…’

She lets the smirk crawl up her lips, watching him falter as he searches for those godawful idealistic and composed words.

‘identity?’ she offers after a good amount of silence, her voice light, amused.

‘partly, but yes.’

She waits for any more out of the blue heavy topic but the silence seems final. Her anger checks in again but she goes with the absurd for now.

‘strange how you started this whole reminiscence with and ‘if I gotta be honest with you.’ She’s drawling out the words, enjoying his growing discomfort, letting the whole problem sink in just a bit, just a little bit before he deflects, finds a way to claim high art and morals.

‘a simple phrase to start a conversation.’

‘yet so telling.’ Her smile sharp yet playful, something not many seen before.

‘a little topic to pass the time.’

‘even stranger then.’

He finally looks at her, not fully turning but from the corner of his eyes a cautious glance.

‘I thought you’re familiar with strange.’

She chuckles, a bit furious, a bit surprised.

‘well then, shall we unpack this whole misery?’

‘why would we need that? We’re not-‘ ‘married anymore? In a relationship? On the same side?’ she cuts in, her smile growing to a warning grin, her voice sharp and biting acid but he simply blinks it away – yet finally turning to face her. ‘you can’t just drop this on someone and expect them to never talk about it. Or if that was your bet let me enlighten you my dear Osztrák, you missed the timing.’ She leans forward, relishing in how he moves just a bit away and she lets the poison burn a bit ‘again.’

‘am I to believe you discuss all fraudian matters with all your… aquientances?’

‘if they decide to “be honest with me”’ she’s grinning like a cat and he’s scowling but there’s some dark anticipation in his eyes hiding behind the glasses. She leans back, relaxes, crosses her legs in an old fashioned seductive manner and watch him clench his jaws – an old reflex of self-discipline, of never being direct.

‘it was a hypotethical to begin with.’

‘it’s all right, I know just how… uptight you can be.’ she decides on a voice just a bit sultrier than her usual and watches him squirm. A hand clenched involuntary now smoothing out, neck just a bit sticking forward, eyebrows painfully smooth still – not for long, not if she has anything to do about it.

‘so… what now?’

‘how charming. Dropping such a horrid revelation on a woman then giving up in the first minutes. Darling you know better than this.’ The poisonous smile never leaves her lips and she eats up every tiny reaction he fights to hide. An old game between them. How the tides turn. Centuries ago it was him studying her under scrunity for any reaction – as one would a wild animal or a scientific peculiarity. Now it’s his turn to be under the cruel curious gaze of another.

‘I know how it sounds.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘I know it sounds…’

‘deranged?’

‘unorthodox.?’

‘animalistic.’

‘repressed.’

‘now you admit that? How else does it sound?’ ‘as most dreams, unrealistic and horrid.’

‘let me remind you again, they weren’t only fantasies. You did act them out.’ ‘not as I dreamed them.’ She feels her anger spike again and she slips the old charmer persona for a moment.

‘don’t you dare sound disappointed.’ ‘it’s not- it’s.. I’m just still bewildered at those dreams myself.’ she thinks for a good minute, watches and hopes he’s stewing in discomfort but the grotesque curiosity leads her to speak:

‘okay then. Tell me. Tell me your dreams where you raped me as a boy – for a change.’

He almost scoffs at her remark and she could punch the glasses straight through his pretty little face only for that. But she is curious. He collects his thoughts or enjoying the tension building up from the absurdity of it all. Everyone always blamed her for being kinky. But it turned out all she was just a fuck good catalysator for others.

‘I guess it was because of your smile. Smirk to be precise. Cause even in my dreams it never broke.’

It makes her grin wilder in reflex but she’s almost flattered. ‘it was hazy and all over the place but I could feel you… or I thought I did. It usually all started with us on the battle field, or in a forest hunting or… me chasing you on horseback. But you didn’t turn back with arrows just ran and ran and I finally got you close enough to get you to stumble. We would wrestle. Roll in the dirt a bit, horses long forgotten and I would get on top, I could hold you down but you would smirk. So I wanted to break that smirk no matter how. You would try and kick and bite and do everything to get out. The next I would pin you on your stomach and tear down your pants to…’

She’s staring at him smile never leaving her face, freezing the air around her on a hot summer day and he finally decided to look at her. He holds his own, eyes shielded with the glasses and his voice is so simple, so calm she would almost believe it bothered him, the topic but she knew better. What made him trail off was excitement. He wanted her to know how much she – he, a past long forgotten or never understood – was already humiliated in his mind, in his world long before she joined his empire, long before she was a somewhat horrible equal in political power, long before their broken alliance started. He never wanted to befriend her. He wanted to take revenge to all the loss he had before she turned, before she settled.

She keeps her grin, her eyes probably biting and just a bit deranged cause here she is, listening to an admission of never forgotten hate – desire – towards her and just… listening.

‘all I remember is the sensation. I could never see your face when I took you, it was always in the dirt or filled with mud and grass, a little bleeding, short broken gasps for air cause you were beaten enough to crush a lung. I felt you all around me gasping for air and for release. Or a little break, or a slower, gentler tempo. Or a smooth hand to hold your back cause at least that would mean it’s maybe more than just a crude joy for the other. But I never did such a thing. I loved to listen to those hoarse gulps of air and that creaking breath fighting for your life. You usually bled after from your behind. The release never came. I chased it. Over and over again, in different times, in different chases.’

Her smile slowly smooths out, her eyes loose some of her poison, as she listens. He stares at her and the quiet desperation seeps out of his voice. It’s a confession. To her, to his past, to the stories he never told before. To all who had survived.

‘I would have loved to at least once feel the release, the careless bliss of ruining you for life.’

The sentence hangs between them and she tilts her head curiosity leading on.

‘you sound like it never came.’

‘no. whenever I had my bliss you turned back, that same grin on your face. You never broke.’

‘but you did.’

‘only my pride.’

‘and this is why you never went down on me?’

He huffs and she slips back the grin.

‘honestly it’s almost charming to hear that my ex husband wanted me so bad he chased me in his dreams.’ tilting her head and pushing her chest out like an old movie femme fatale ‘if I leave out the rape it’s a classical love story.’ Her voice carefully light and dripping with sarcasm not lost on him. ‘such a pity his dreams made him so tired he never considered doing me a little flavour once in a while’ she tutted and he huffed again with an eyeroll.

‘as if you didn’t have dozen others who were even grateful to do so.’ ‘oh are we playing the cheater card now?’

‘no, it’s a mere observation.’

‘and how do you know so well about their offers?’ she leans forward again but he stands(sits) his ground this time. Her voice like an old movie star, high and just a little bit false naïve nagging with a pinch of sensual promises ‘were you watching? Stalking? Chasing them off? Inviting them over?’ she drops her voice to normal ‘were you jealous or did it help you get off again? The idea of your wife being served with care you never gave? Was it a different form of chase?’

He stares at her blankly – almost. His jaws are set like concrete.

‘no. you never grinned like that in real life.’

She genuinely laughs cause she’s disappointed.

‘if only you could have told me this before.’

‘you would have tried to recreate it.’

‘naturally. It’s an interesting challenge.’ ‘you want me to believe if I told you about this before you would have been just the same, just like this?’ ‘no. but I might have told you about how the turk got to live your dreams to see you finally snap.’ She knows her voice is nonchalant, her curiosity long gone on that matter.

He tenses all over. She can see the veins on his forehead, see the color rise on his neck to his temple, his hands balled into fist.

Centuries ago it would have been the greatest personal victory for her for decades. Now it’s a mere sidenote on a summer train road. It’s her turn to look to the scenery running past them, leaving the other in rude suspension – as if it ever mattered to them.

‘he handled me as any man handles another when high on adrenaline and bloodlust. He realised halfway it was not quite true. The man part. No time for cloth tearing or any other theatrics he caught me when I was already beaten, beat me more all the while speaking and making me watch his face. One hand holding my neck and face so he could bite or spit at me whenever – some grotesque form of a kiss – other working himself up then finding the closest seams to rip just enough to find what he wants. Once in my ass he tuned out everything I guess. Still holding my neck to crush if needed. It hurt like hell. It was humiliating. When he came he almost chocked me to death. That made me come as well. Reflex. Surviving. To chase away the pain. To calm down a bit. He smoothed down his hands on my throat, down to my stomach to start something else but stopped midway. Realised something. Hold my head up again, new eyes studying my face full of dirt sweat blood and tears and snot. His thumb in the most cruel gentle move caressing some speck of mud away before running it over my lips. I couldn’t see him from the tears. But I felt my lips wobbling into a smile. Pitiful. The hope that the absurdity will be the reason I survive. I wanted to spit at him. But my throat was choking on the air now back in it. So i just sobbed there, hysterical crying too broken to make a sound. He finally pulled out. It was the worst time I had. he left without a word. I crawled back home. Some year later I asked him for help. One of his conditions were that I dress “properly”. He never hurt me after this. Always a gentleman during sex. I got plenty a beating for disobedience.’

She relaxes back to her usual pose, her voice casual. Somewhere deep she’s thankful to finally tell her story as well. Confessions or admissions to someone who no matter how twisted is some part of it. The novelty to tell a story one only fantasizes about keeps her from looking at the man across her. To see if he let anything show or if he listened at all.

‘he never apologized for this.’ She continues after some minutes of silence’ but he was so careful, so tender as if I was made of bristle glass breaking from the smallest mistake when someone holds me wrong. It was honestly suffocating. Different from your suffocation. Where you were nothing If not gaunt, forcing me to escape from the bland nothing, he was too much. So, so much. I guess that’s why it’s harder to forgive him. Why I’m still not over it all.’

‘you mean you actually love him?’

It’s her turn to scoff.

‘do you want me to believe you’re capable of jealously now, after all these years?’

‘I’m honestly curious if you actually love him or are just overwhelmed by his actions.’

‘and if I am? Why should I tell you?’ she looks back at him annoyed and fixes her scowl even when his eyes are begging her for closure. ‘your dreams are not mine to correct. What you wanted and what happened are two different stores.’

‘would it be impossible to forgive me if i was the one who did it?’

‘I’m reminding you for the third time. You did rape me. Not the way he did, but you did as well.’

She dares him to correct her or to deny, but his eyes seem lost, as if he genuinely doesn’t get it. Her rage turns to ice.

‘your grin…’

She grabs him by the collar yanking him close so she can spit the words without a sound and he’ll still hear them clear.

‘your disturbing repressed hate-obsession with my old victories made you so laughably simple it didn’t even hurt when you asked Ivan for a favour to keep me in check. You were never man enough to come and get me yourself, always hiding behind mercenaries, allies and your backwards politics. I’m not gonna pity you for some fantasy never fulfilled not even if that’s only some repressed trauma you had to suffer yourself. Grow. Up.’

His eyes are cold, distant and a little bit snobbish but he holds his ground. She knows better than to believe he’s unaffected. His nerves are on edge but his voice is collected and calm.

‘You know darling, it takes away the edge from your threat just how many times I caught you enjoying these little intermissions and… favours as you so simply put. Hearing you say ‘grow up’, right now, after all these years, after seeing you fuck up your freedom again is just laughable. I told you all this cause I just remembered and the silence was getting boring.’

‘keep telling yourself that, but you just admitted you can’t forget me no matter how. I’m not flattered but I’ll take the win.’ She shoves him back but it’s his turn to grab her face, both hands latching onto her sides with the precision of a dancer. His touch is there but without force. It freezes her up.

‘you’re so desperate to convince yourself all around you can only feel hate towards you it’s honestly sad to watch.’ His voice is levelled and almost cold, but it’s cold as wound dressing should be, biting at first but soft after a moment. ‘You know I could help you. I already do. All those little side jobs, all those commuters along our borders, all those times I let you come and go as you please. You’ll have to grow up and accept you can’t paint everyone as the devil who’s not you.’

She’s furious and outraged but she keeps her head there – she could tear it out, she could spit at him, she could- forcing her tone to match his.

‘as if you care’

‘I do. Like it or not we’re still in the same boat. Granted it’s more of a canoe now with all the others in it  but I’m not going to just watch as you upturn this, what I’ve been working so hard for.’

‘so I should paint myself the devil. You do hate me.’ ‘no.’

‘you want me to be in check, to behave. You want me to be a little obedient servant – again.’ She’s forcing the sounds to be calm but her nerves are boiling with rage and he’s still holding her face like a disinterested little kid holds an old rubber ball that’s yellowed from time and dust – reluctant and apathetic.

‘I want you to grow up. To face the reality we live in. Thought that if I come clean with old grudges and dreams and show you how that’s in the past it’ll…’ ‘what? Miraculously make me forgive you?’ her laugh is hysterical and she feels the tiniest tension in his fingers but his eyes stay the same, impassive distant - guarded by those glasses. ‘you do realise there’s nothing to forgive if you don’t even fucking apologies.’

‘why should I apologies for some old dreams?’

She’s done.

Grabbing his throat with sharp painted nails she doesn’t even hear him hiss out as she slams his head into the seat behind him. She’s caging him and he’s breathing expectantly as she grabs the glasses from his eyes staring down at him, face suddenly blank from seething rage. Slowly moving closer staring at his eyes – finally seeing some truth in them, the anticipation, the nerves, good and dark, the morbid humor in them so old, so familiar – his hands finding their way back to her face, so soft, so light, not even a caress just an anchor for him to hold out, to grasp, to remind himself – she’s real.

‘forth. Fuckin. Time.’

Her voice is hollow but her eyes are burning up an inferno.

‘it wasn’t only in your dreams.’

‘here to act them out?’ his lips turn into a soft half smile as he stares up at her. ‘you wish.’ She moves to sit back but his hands hold her there. Eyes begging her for something, for some closure for an answer to a question never voiced.

‘do you still think I hate you?’

‘you care about your economy and cultural heritage. I’m some part of it. Nothing more.’ She lets go of his throat, moving further back but he moves with her still holding her cheecks staring at her with eyes darker than ever.

‘do you still think I hate you?’ he leans forward, slow, gentle and she stands her ground. ‘yes.’

He smiles but closes his eyes.

‘why?’ ‘obsession is only a form of… attention. You never gave me the kind I wanted.’

‘you never told me what you liked.’ ‘you never asked.’

There’s a long minute where he just hold her with closed eyes smiling so close, so close, almost a caress, almost gentle and she feels her rage, still there, always there subdue just a bit, old, almost familiar feelings washing over the moment.

He sighs and lets go, sitting back, she the same. The train rattles under them, the rhythm quiet but steady. The summer heat barely kept out of the old wagon. He allows himself a silent chuckle and she lets a half-genuine small slip up. They look at each other.

‘for better or worse.’ ‘in sickness and health.’ ‘till you sell me out.’ ‘till you turn on me.’

The quiet laughter is familiar and nostalgic. The train slows to a halt, the summer sun burning up the rest of the conversation.

[ziracona]

Christmas season always is nice because I have some more time to write, so have a The Kid chapter. ^u^ Lots of fun to be laying ground work. As always, tumblr gets the chapter first. [Fate/GO AU – The Kid (pt: 1, … 22, 23, 24, 25, ?)]{Some spoilers for original Grand Order run/through Temple of Time, vaguer situational spoilers for later arcs}

-

-

“Okay, I think I got it,” says Ritsuka.

“Good. I know it’s a lot,” replies Doctor Romani with some chagrin, giving her a sad little smile, “Are you sure you’re up for it?”

“Well, that’s the thing—I mean, I am,” she answers, “But, uhm. What do you need me for?”

He blinks. “Huh?”

“Well…?” she flushes a little and kicks the dirt of this barren landscape with a shoe, glances at me. I’m not sure what she needs reassurin’ for, but I guess it’s what I’m here for, so I smile and give her a thumbs up. “Uhm,” she continues, turning back to the Doctor, “Can’t you do it yourself?”

Oh my God.

I look at Robin. He looks at me, eyes slightly bugged.

Oh, she’s totally right! We all forgot he’s got free access to her mana supply. Oh, that would be a scary thought in other circumstances.

The Doctor blinks a second more, then opens his mouth, thinks, looks back. “…Oh you’re right.”

She gives him an awkward smile. “I mean, I’m happy to, if it would help. But uhm, I think you understand better than me what we need, so you might do a better job asking right. Or uhm—we could take turns trying!” she suggests helpfully, “If it doesn’t work at first, and you get tired!”

“No, sorry…I…” He blinks again, thinks, straightens up. “I’m…processing a little slow today. At…everything.”

He gives her a smile, and for the first time since the world ended, I kinda think looks almost…relaxed. Honestly, it’s reassurin’ to see. Poor guy has been freaking out. I mean, we all have, but, he’s got I think the rest of us all pooled together still easily beat, the way he’s been sweatin’.

“I…forgot for a second, but.” He holds up his hand, looks at it. Touches his throat, and I can see a faint blue line glowing around his neck. Guess that’s the crest he transferred. Wonder why it’s on his neck? Gotta say though, I kinda appreciate this happened during our outing, because I feel less stressed getting these speeches from him in that dumb little shirt David picked out for him, than I would in the lab coat. Hard to feel like were at Final Defcon or whatever when he looks like that. “I can do magic myself again, now, thanks to you.” He laughs at himself softly and shakes his head. “Well, I’d appreciate you here just the same. You can let me know if the pull on your reserves are too high. If you feel like it’s bad enough, I can always abort. We need Unlimited Blade Works to keep functioning, no matter what else happens. Everyone inside here is depending on it.”

She gives a nod.

“You actually managed to find a leyline?” asks Robin as Mozart meanders over to the rest of us.

He stretches his arms lazily above his head and grins. “Oh, absolutely! Well no—not absolutely or at all. But, the Doctor was right about there being a higher concentration of mana in a part of the marble than anywhere else. Best we can do, and I think it works as a focus pretty well, especially given our odds! Honestly.” He comes to a stop by us and glances around at the giant gears standing like mountains along the horizons in every direction, the endless sand dunes with swords embedded in them beyond count. “I’m just astonished by this phantasm.”

“Yeah, no shit,” agrees Robin.

Me too, I think, studying the place again. It’s huge. I’m pretty sure it goes on a long way past what I can see, too. Full of swords. I heard Emiya’s incantation. ‘The bearer lies here alone, forging iron in a hill of swords.’ No kinda hyperbole, I guess. I think ‘over a thousand blades’ is actually, well, not a lie, but underselling it pretty drastically. Whole thing is crazy!

“You know how long reality marbles tend to last?” asks Mozart, glancing at Robin on one side, then Salieri on the other, “Five minutes, if you’re trying.”

“Cú Chulainn said he’s seen Emiya use Unlimited Blade Works for well over fifteen before,” answers Robin, watching Ritsuka and Doctor Romani continue to discuss logistics.

“Indeed, and we’ve all now seen him run it for about five hours now,” agrees Mozart, “Astonishing.” There’s a silence, and then almost like he can’t not say it, the Caster adds. “The world record? One day.”

Robin looks at him then. So do Salieri, who’d been staring off into space, and Kotarou, who like me has been trying to watch everything.

“So…” I say.

“Will he be able to go longer?” asks Kotarou anxiously.

“Yes,” says Cú Chulainn.

SHIT – where did he COME from?

“Where were you?” asks Robin, jumping almost as much as I did.

“Checking on him,” says the Lancer, stretching. Damn he can be quiet! And fast. Mental note to never fight that guy if you got any kinda choice, I tell myself. “He says he can tell how much he’s got to work with, and even if they burn through a lot the next few hours, he’s got at least four days in him.”

“Damn. We shoulda talked to him before offerin’ suicide,” I say.

“You all did what?” says Mozart.

“She turned us down,” says Salieri.

“Well I should HOPE so. I didn’t consent to that,” he huffs.

Salieri considers saying something to him, sighs, and doesn’t.

“You were part of the conversation where we decided to do it,” says Robin, miffed.

“Well yes, and I said ‘if it comes to it,’” says Mozart.

“THIS isn’t ‘coming to it’?” asks Robin, gesturing to the reality marble around us.

“No,” says Mozart with panache.

“Enough,” says Salieri, “She refused, so it doesn’t matter anyway.”

Mozart keeps huffing just the same.

“So,” says Cú Chulainn to Robin, ignoring everyone else, “They about ready?”

“Yep,” says Robin, “Here’s hoping.”

And how, I think.

The focal point of the reality marble seems to be a hill. Kinda near where we appeared, so, we had to get some of the humans to move away from it. Which means we also kinda got a hell of an audience. We could wrangle them, try and get privacy, but honestly, they all know about magic now, and we ain’t takin’ that shit back any way you slice it. They’re neck deep; deserve to know what they neck deep in, if you ask me. Seems Doctor Archaman and Ritsuka decided the same thing.

So weird, to be workin’ with mages like that. Nice change. –Well, I guess Doctor Archaman ain’t a proper mage. He’s a spirit. Or. Was—is more one of us than one of them, for sure. Rits is a one of a kind draw though.

But I guess in his own way, so is he.

Weird. All this almost feels meant to be. Makes me feel a lot more assured than I should! But hey, that’s how I lived as long as I did! Attitude’s half the battle, like Salieri said. I mean, sure I died young, but I made it through like five or six scrapes that woulda had anybody else well and dead ‘fore I did. I’m proud of that. Here’s to one more!

“Oh—looks like he’s doing it,” comments Robin, interrupting something Mozart was sayin’ to Salieri that I didn’t catch.

Doctor Archaman seems to catch that and turns to look, gives us the kind of tired smile mostly I remember seein’ my mother give Joe and me.

“Need anything from us?” asks Robin.

“Uhm, quiet, I guess,” he says, considering, and then ruefully, “I could do without the audience.”

It’s mostly said like a joke, and it’s uh, at least as much about the 200-odd people around the hill, basically all of whom are watchin’, but my condolences Doc. Let’s see—Rits said 206. Minus us, the doc, and the kid, that means 196 humans. Kinda proud of that. It’s such a small number, but, it’s a lot more than the ten of us. It feels like a lot right now, and I’m really glad we were able to save somebody. Ain’t over yet, I remind myself, Just getting’ started.

“Alright,” he says, and he turns to the sigil he’s drawn in the sand around the hill, and raises his hand. He hesitates then and glances back at all of us though, lingers on his dad and smiles, then addresses the whole group. “Actually, there is something you can do. This is going to be a hell of a gamble, and we really, really need it to work. If not the first time, then, by the third, if we want any kind of working odds moving forward. So. Pray.”

He means it, and I do.

Growin up Irish when I did, New York, to Indiana, to Kansas, to New Mexico, the only constants were that everybody with somethin’ distrusted and hated me just in case it turned out to be merited, and only outcasts like me were worth pallin’ with or trustin’, mostly. But, they were pretty solid. Always figured God for one of those, myself—outcasts. Got killed for bein’ different, gets used to justify 100 different things by sunup, and my Mom told me to be good ‘n pray, and I gotta say, I made a lot of appeals in my life—to the government, to the sheriff, to my Dad, my neighbors. Think God ‘n Lady Luck are the only two who ever answered. So why not? Nothin’ to lose here, and a lot to gain.

I close my eyes, think, “Please. Whatever’s the best thing you got, send it on over, sir.”

Ahead of us, Doctor Archaman raises a hand like he did before, but this time, he shuts his eyes and begins to whisper—or—no, he’s singin’, under his breath. “Shema, Chaver.” Just those two words. The information that isn’t really mine that the grail gave me translates the Hebrew in my head: “Hear, Friend.” Again and again. “Hear, Ally. Hear, Companion.” It changes, but I understand the word. He’s calling for anyone who would be it, in any form.And around him, wind starts to whip up in the desert around us. I see the sun glint off swords, and for a moment, the sky above me flickers and it ain’t empty grey, it’s blue, with white clouds. Stunningly different.

And Doctor Archaman opens his eyes.

“Every word of God is refined,” he says in Hebrew, with the cadence of a poem. His voice is different than I’ve ever heard it before. If I hadn’t already believed he was who he said he was, I would now. “A shield for all who take refuge in Him. A shield for those who walk in integrity; to keep the paths of justice. Hear me if you hear, and answer. Wisdom come into your heart, knowledge pleasant to your soul. Let thought watch over, discretion guide you; let it save you from evil.  Return to me: As iron sharpens iron, a man sharpens the countenance of his friend. As in water, face answers to face, so is the heart of a man to a man. Abide our call!”

There is a massive spike in mana around him, and bright aqua blue and white energy flickers like a pillar of fire. From it I hear what seems like two voices, distorted and overlapping, so intense a frequency even as a spirit I feel it in my bones—I-I see humans past me overing their ears, Mozart wince: “A woman of valor who can find.” It tears through us.

Doctor Archaman looks even more shocked than the rest of us, but he recovers, almost stumbling over himself for a second, and calls back “For her price is beyond pearls.” Like a call and response. And he extends his hand.

The light shatters over him and us, force so strong it pushes me back even though I keep my footin’, leaving two little Billy Boot shaped drag lines in the sand for about five feet. Mozart goes over backwards and is caught by Salieri, Kotarou seems to dodge it some way, and Cú Chulainn slams his spear into the ground and hangs on to it, but Robin, and David over way up closer to Doctor Archaman, get pushed back like me. The whole thing is so bright and loud, even a spirit, I squint my eyes a second, and when I open them full again, the light is sliding to the ground and dissipating like melting snowflakes, and a woman is standing there.

“ROMANI!” calls the woman, brown hair, light skin, dropping a giant staff on the ground and making a mad dash for him like a bat outta hell. He looks so taken aback he almost trips backing away from her, but she football tackles him and knocks him flat on his back, then drags his upper half up into her, almost weeping with giddiness.

“I—Huh? –Yes—what??-p-please-“ tries his muffled voice, failing to disentangle himself and getting wrapped around more thoroughly while the rest of us stare.

“Oh my GOD! I can’t believe it! You’re back! You’re here! How are you…-?” She lets go to hold him at arm’s length, hands on his cheeks, eyes brimming, beaming. “I don’t understand! This is amazing!—it’s-“ She can’t finish and starts crying, and pulls him against her again.

He’s clearly got no idea who she is, by the look on his face, like, not even a clue, but no doubt in my mind she ain’t mistaken him for someone else; she knows exactly who he is. The way she’s weeping with joy, she must have known him really well before. Memories the throne took from Doctor Archaman, then? Poor lady. She’ll be awful sad when she realizes that.

She looks past him then and sees Ritsuka and says, “Ritsuka!” letting go of Doctor Archaman and crawling off him, snagging his wrist as she climbs up and starts to tow him after, and then her expression changes. Fear. A flicker of disbelief. She scans Ritsuka again: confusion, fear, sadness. Analysis. Acceptance. She blinks, and then the ability to read her expression so easy vanishes like she’s locked it behind a vault.

She turns to look at the Doctor again, and her expression is happy still, but it’s sad too. “…Roman, when is this?”

“When?” he echoes, clearly lost, “Who--?” He makes it to his feet and dusts himself off. “–Uhm. 2015. About two months before the end of the year. And…?”

She looks at Ritsuka again, and her expression softens, but in a sad way. Ritsuka is giving her the same blank, big eyed look the Doctor was when she arrived.

“Ah. …Wait.” Her brow furrows. She looks back at the Doctor. “Two months before? -Are we…IN Blade Works?”

“Bl—yes,” he says, confused, but regaining a modicum of composure now that he’s not being climbed like a tree, “How do you-? You know me. I mean, you must, but?”

The woman glances from one of us to the next, taking the whole situation in, sucks in a breath, and lets it out slow.

“Alright,” she says, opening her eyes and turning back to face him fully, letting go of his hand, and pressing her fingertips together, “Sorry. I thought I was…some time else. You haven’t met me yet, poor you, but I know you.”

“Oh,” he says like that makes any sense.

“Luck for us, I didn’t open my mouth more. I’ll uh, try to keep a lid on that, to not cause any more wrinkles in time than I already have,” continues the woman grandly, all composure and charisma and control, like she wasn’t soaking his shirt with tears a second ago. Like this is light, and easy. “I guess you’ll need proper introductions, then.”

“Yes, although, uh, if any of your knowledge would help us,” he tries, clearly curious.

Yeah man. A lady reacted that way to me, I would be curious too. –Wait he means tactically.

She regards him and smiles. “Hmm. I guess some of it might. First things though: I,” she continues grandly, with a sweeping arm gesture, “am Leonardo Da Vinci.”

wait she’s a what now?

“Although, given my choices-“ she pauses to gesture to her extremely female lookin’ self, “I would prefer to just be called Da Vinci. The expert inventor, the renaissance woman, the genius; class: Caster. At your service once again, Roman.” The name she says quiet and fond, not like the rest of it at all.

He seems flustered by this, but nods. “Well, glad to have you, uhm, Da Vinci. I’m – well, you’ve got me at a disadvantage, because it seems there’s a lot you already know, including me and the young lady there, but, I’m Doctor Romani Archaman, that’s Ritsuka Fujimaru, and these are King David, Archer, Antonio Salieri, Avenger, Fuuma Kotarou, Assassin, Cú Chulainn, Lancer, Billy the Kid, Gunner, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Caster, and Robin Hood, Archer. We’ve got one more Archer, but he’s focused on this reality marble. But, you knew the marble, so I’m guessing you knew that too.”

“Not my first time meeting any of you,” she says with a very self-satisfied smile, eyeing us in turn, and then zeroing on Salieri, “Exceeept you. Antonio Salieri? Avenger…Interesting…”

She truly does seem both interested and deep in thought, like this must be significant. Salieri begins to look uncomfortable.

“But, anyway,” she adds, looking up, “happy for you to make my acquaintance. Unless, anybody remembers…?”

I don’t. Sure think I woulda. I lean over to Robin and whisper, “You met her before?”

“No,” he whispers back as he gives her a nod.

“I didn’t know the throne ever did anybody favors,” I observe.

He glances over.  “Huh? Do you not like her already?”

“No! No—I didn’t mean like, did you a favor forgettin’ her. I meant --Like, if she can choose to get a new body made to order, who did it take six inches off my stature?” I ask.

“It did?” he chokes out.

“Yes! I didn’t used to be five-two!” I reply, incensed.

He laughs silently and shakes his head. “Guess it liked her more.”

“What did I ever do to the throne??” I ask, “I thought it was just terrible to all of us, but if even the throne is giving me the short end of shit, where the hell is justice in the world?”

“Never to be found unless you make it,” replies Robin with a grin, turning his attention back to them.

Damn if that ain’t true. I mean happy for her, but damn. It really didn’t have to do me that way…

“Well, well,” says Da Vinci, turning slow, hands on her hips, proud smile and she glances the area up and down, then turns her laser focus back on Doctor Archaman in full, “What happened?”

“Uh—I can tell you the short of it,” says Doctor Archaman. He runs a hand through his hair and awkwardly adjusts a glove. “But, you know me. How is that possible? –You said ‘when’ is it-? Does that mean…?”

“Mmmm,” she nods, shutting her eyes, “In short form, I have memories of you I haven’t earned yet.”

“But you can’t have residual memories of the summon you’re on,” pipes up King David with a note of anxiety in his voice.

“No,” she agrees thoughtfully, “But I didn’t say they were from ‘this’ summon. Just that they’re about you,” she smiles at Doctor Archaman, “Some time in the future.”

Doctor Archaman has a look on his face like he doesn’t quite believe that, but I dunno why. Seems likely enough to me. And I mean, if she’s lyin’, it ain’t out of any kind of ill will. We all saw that greeting—you’d think she was the guy’s wife or somethin’.

“Al…right. You might be able to help a lot then,” he replies, eyeing her, “but-“

“—Are you hurt?” asks Ritsuka with a note of panic in her voice, stepping forward.

Da Vinci blinks, and turns like a cat trying to see its own tail, reaches blindly for her back. Rits is right. How did we not notice that? Her hair I guess? It’s so long, must be it was in the way before she bowed and it fell over her shoulders in front, but, her dress is torn, and there’s blood around it, like somethin’ stabbed her between the shoulder blades…only, it’s a sideways cut. Not the way you’d usually use a knife to the back…? Maybe I’m wrong-

As Ritsuka sees it better, she hurries forward holdin’ her little medkit. “You are! –Here, let me-!”

Da Vinci reaches out a hand and catches her shoulder and stops her, smiling softly. “No, I’m alright. That’ll vanish on its own in a minute. Here, look.” She takes a knee and turns her back towards Ritsuka, and they’re facing my side, so I can see from here that there’s skin past the tear, not a wound.

“Oh,” says Ritsuka, calming down.

“Thanks though,” says Da Vinci brightly, “Don’t worry! I just got here. I’m not about to leave you.”

“Odd thing to say,” I hear Salieri say quietly. I can tell he’s thinking very hard.

I mean…is it? Maybe a little odd, bein’ so new. She just seems real friendly to me.

“You were right,” observes Doctor Archaman, kneeling and tilting his head to inspect the tear too, “The fabric is resetting itself.”

That ain’t odd—our clothes mend just like wounds if we get hurt, generally. Just a little flash of magic—after all, that’s what makes our forms in the first place, clothes and all. What’s weird is her being damaged on summon. Ain’t supposed to work that way.

Doctor Archaman touches a piece of bloody fabric and it tears free in his hand. He looks down at it, an odd expression on his face. Below him, her dress shimmers and closes and the blood that was soaked into it vanishes with the tear. Doctor Archaman looks at where it was, and place his hand on her back, brow scrunched up, then looks at the front of her chest. For a second I’m confused, then enough of the parts of me that have been shot realize he’s checking for where he thinks an exit wound would have appeared.

“Were…? …You shouldn’t have been wounded on summon,” he says to her.

“I wasn’t,” she points out.

“You were damaged, then—if slightly,” he corrects, brow scrunching up again. He looks at Ritsuka, then back at this new Caster, straightens up, and offers them each a hand. Both take him up and stand with him. “How did…?” Something else occurs to him. “How did you remember me?”

“Would you believe luck?” she asks with an impish grin.

“No,” he replies.

Her grin widens, and she puts the back of a hand to her forehead. “Oh Doctor, you wound me.”

“You’re being awfully cagey,” he comments, relaxing at her manner, “You did something wrong with the summon.”

“ME?” she asks in mock innocence, “You’re the summoner! Tch, some workman, blaming his tools.” She smiles at his expression, breaks into a laugh, and then shrugs, “Well. You can hardly blame me. You said you’d give me the short version of the situation here, right? Well, the short version for my situation is I was on my way back to the throne after my last summons still, when I heard you calling, and I wanted it bad enough it looks like I made it.”

“That’s insane,” he says, deeply impressed.

“That is, it’s like a millisecond, but good for her,” agrees Robin quietly to me.

“No kiddin’,” I whisper back, logging away that that’s apparently barely logistically possible.

“I am a genius inventor,” she says smugly.

“Yeah, I g—” He chokes mid sentence and falls to a knee, clutching his throat.

“Oh no!” calls out Mozart in the understatement of the year, dashing forward. I got no clue what I and my gun can do to help, but I go too.

“Roman!?” calls Da Vinci. She takes a knee to be by him, but before she can, he’s jerked physically backwards, towards the tip of the hill and the staff our new caster dropped there. His crest is lit up in full brightness on his neck, dragging him back with it with force as he clutches at it, then tearing him up into the air at the hill’s pinnacle and holding him there.

I hear King David shout his name, Ritsuka too, most of us. The only one who gets to him is King David though, whose hand just touches the tip of his shoe as he jumps to reach him, before the summoning circle explodes with light again and blasts him back out of it, the doctor’s shoe with him. The light changes color from white to aqua to pink and purple, then shatters into a pillar of smoke, and a second woman stands on the hill. She’s taller than the first, dark skin, and black, almost purple hair, covered in jewels and bright fabric and a really elaborate headpiece like ears and horns, and she’s holding him in her arms bride style as he coughs his lungs up.

“Oh heaven,” says David in astonishment before Doctor Archaman can manage to choke out anything.

“Makeda?” the Doctor manages in utter disbelief between gasps, gaping.

“Solomon!” she calls ecstatically, dragging him forward and smashing him into her chest in a hug, burying her face against his. WHOOPS she weren’t supposed to say that out loud I’m pretty sure!

“What?!” he manages, too stunned for a moment to do anything at all, “But—you aren’t even on the throne! How in the heavens did you-?”

She relaxes her hug and beams at him, eyes bright, and sets him on the ground. He unsteadily regains his feet physically but I’m pretty sure not mentally.

“You called! And I heard,” she replies excitedly, “I had to fight pretty hard though! There was a spirit in there that wasn’t even on the throne who was fighting like a black rhino at full hate! I—”

She sees Da Vinci.

“YOU!” Her arm goes up, eyes and mouth wide, pointing at her.

Da Vinci just stares, mouth wide as well, for a second, like she’s blanked on what to do.

“Uhm. Yes,” says Doctor Archaman with extreme anxiety and discomfort, “I seem to have, uhm. –Wait—I don’t understand? How are you able to come at all, when…?”

Never seen a man so out of his depth. My heart goes out to him.

“My Qu—Makeda—Queen of Sheba,” he tries desperately.

WAIT THAT’S WHO?!

“Why were you summoning her?” asks …the Queen of Sheba?? “Don’t you—” She pauses, looks him over, and grabs his left hand. He’s so stunned he lets her, and she rips the glove off and immediately action comes back to him with a vengeance and he yelps and snatches it back like a man who’s burned his hand on a stove.

She blinks at him, processing something, as he turns a sorry color and fights for his life to get the glove back on quick. What the hell?

“Oh,” says the Queen of Sheba, in a voice like she can’t decide if she’s sad, glad, or disappointed.

“Queen-“ he starts.

“-Wait,” cuts in Da Vinci, “Are you? From?” She makes an insane hand gesture.

“Does ‘Tituba’ mean anything to you?” suggests the Queen of Sheba, “Maybe familiar with the uh…?” She makes a gesture like a noose for some goddamn reason.

“Oh!” says Da Vinci ecstatically, “Yes! Yes! Then, you’re the-“

“-Please!” interrupts Doctor Archaman desperately.

They stop and look at him.

“Please,” he manages with slightly more decorum, but uh, not much, “Da Vinci, uh, Queen Makeda. Say anything that makes sense. I’m begging you.”

They both look at him.

Da Vinci bursts out laughing. “Oh, I’ve missed you Doctor Roman,” she says, walking over and taking his hands. He almost warily lets her, beyond confused.

Behind him, the Queen of Sheba walks up and drapes her arms around his shoulders. Ooooooh, right. He had like 1000 wives didn’t he? Famously? No wonder, I remember, I guess he’s still a ladies’ man? “Don’t worry. It’ll be different now,” says the Queen of Sheba, leaning her head against his.

“W-What?” he says, low-key terrified by that and I gotta admit I wouldn’t just love the sound of it either.

“Do you have any idea what’s going on?” whispers Robin through his teeth, leaning close.

“Not a drop,” I reply the same way.

“Me either,” agrees Kotarou, who I forgot has gotten close enough to hear, “If she gets to look exactly how she wants though, why did I get stuck as a teenager now?? I wasn’t even famous back then?!”

“I said that too! But about my height!” I say excitedly, turning to him, “If it can be fair and good, the hell did we two do to it?!”

“Maybe she figured out how to get on Alaya’s good side? Maybe she could give us advice?” says Kotarou hopefully.

Damn I didn’t even think of that!

I eye Da Vinci with some renewed interest.

Across the way, Salieri looks almost out of it, watching this scene unfold. Damn, I didn’t even think about that. Height and age got nothin’ on what the throne did to him, poor guy.

“Any other beautiful women coming out of that summoning circle to answer your call?” asks David cheerily, walking up to Dr. Archaman, “Or just these two?”

Da Vinci smiles at him, and Queen Makeda gives him a slightly uncomfortable look.

“Well, there were some others who heard,” replies Da Vinci, playing along and making a muscle for show, “But she’s the only one I had to fist fight.”

Dr. Archaman looks deeply worriedly at the circle now.

“Alright then,” says Da Vinci, clapping her hands together and then stretching them above her head, before waving a wrist and summoning the staff she discarded on summon back into her hand, “What’s the emergency, Roman?”

“Ah—Right. Uhm,” says Dr. Archaman, running a hand through his bangs and trying to straighten up, but failing because the Queen of Sheba still has her arms laced around his neck, “Uh?” he adds towards her.

She smiles and lets go.

“Okay. Well, the short version is we’ve got a very limited amount of time before everyone here dies, and if we die, the world ends,” he says.

“Oh, just that,” says Da Vinci.

He smiles back at her, “Just that.”

“A reality marble?” questions the Queen of Sheba, taking a few steps further onto the hill, and touching the hilt of one of the many swords embedded in the ground.

“Yes! Right, sorry,” says Doctor Archaman, turning to her, “You aren’t familiar with it like Miss Da Vinci i—”

“—Oh please never call me that again,” interjects Da Vinci happily, “Just ‘Da Vinci.’ Or ‘Technical Advisor.’”

“You’re gunning for a position after being summoned for two minutes?” asks Doctor Archaman.

“Well, it was mine the first time, and I want it back,” she says innocently, batting her eyes in a way that is more like teasingly bumping someone with an elbow than sincere flirting.

“Whatever,” he says in complete distraction, turning back to the Queen of Sheba, “Sorry. Uh—This is the noble phantasm of one of the heroic spirits working with us, Emiya, an Archer. His Master-“ he indicates Ritsuka, who immediately looks incredibly uncomfortable at the title, “-has an almost impossible fount of magical energy, and according to our lancer there, Cú Chulainn, he’s already able to sustain it for far longer than most reality marble users can, considering its sheer mass and scope, but that all considered, we’re still working under a finite time constraint-“

“—And you decided to burn energy summoning TWO MORE heroic spirits??? CASTERS at that?” asks Da Vinci, delighted.

“—Well, I didn’t mean to summon two,” he replies awkwardly, “Or specifically ask for Casters, but, yes. We didn’t have a choice.”

“Because you die if the reality marble goes down?” ask the Queen of Sheba.

How the hell did she?

Most of the others look surprised, but King David don’t. I try and remember all I know about her. I know she’s super wise, and a queen with a lot of riches and power, but I got no clue if she had some kind of foresight or mental abilities. If she does though, that’s great! The Doc said we needed someone with time travel, mechanical marvels, or clairvoyance, and if we actually got one of those three on the first try?? Or uh—first and a half?? Second? Whatever—right out the gate? Then hell yeah, go us!

“Right,” says Doctor Archaman, “There’s a lot more I’ll go into detail with you, but the short of it is, the world was supposed to—or—going to end, at the start of the next year. A demon, Goetia, was going to do it. Is going to do it. Or, in a way, has.”

“But you said it’s…” Da Vinci furrows her brow and blinks, puts a gloved hand up to her chin. “…That shouldn’t happen for another two months.”

“It shouldn’t,” agrees Doctor Archaman, “It can’t, as far as I can figure it out, any way I look, but it did. Two months early. Or, it hit us, two months early. We jumped into the reality marble to escape it-“

“-Smart,” says Da Vinci.

“-Thanks—and it worked,” he continues, barely missing a beat, “But. Now we’re stuck here. And once the magic supply for Unlimited Blade Works runs out, we go back to history, and get erased with the rest of it-“

“-Unless you can move to a fixed point in time, somewhere not destroyed by Goetia, before then,” finishes Da Vinci, thinking it through with him.

Oh, she’s smart. I bet she’s gonna be real useful! The hell am I sayin ‘she’s smart’—duh she’s smart!! She’s one of like, the world’s most famous genius inventors ‘she’s smart’ yeah and bread tastes good.

“So…You know of another fixed point then, if this was your plan?” asks the Queen of Sheba hopefully.

“Yes!” replies Doctor Archaman, relieved, “I do. Chaldea Security Organization, in the North Pole. I could give exact coordinates. I would put –well, I was going to say ‘cold hard cash’ but given the circumstances, I’m betting lives on it which is a lot more. I would bet anything—no, it’s not even a bet—I am sure, that they’re there.”

“But you can’t move a reality marble,” says the Queen of Sheba, more like she’s thinking than as a disagreement. She walks along the hill and runs her hands along more of the swords, thinking.

“You can’t no matter what?” I ask Mozart mentally, since he’s our caster.

He shakes his head and mentally replies, “No. Reality Marbles don’t exist in space. –In reality’s space, I mean. You inverse reality to make them. You turn inwards, and move yourself and others into your inner world, and shut out reality completely. This worked because we don’t exist in reality right now at all. Reality Marbles by nature shut reality out, to make the internal reality of one person the truth for as long as they last. Like stepping into a reflection’s reality, if that reflection was your mind. But the downside is that, since they aren’t in physical space of the world’s reality, when they end, even if you move around inside them, you always go back to wherever you were when the marble was initiated.”

That makes sense I guess. I knew how they worked after the Doc’s explanation, but I had figured there must be some way to cheat the movin’.

Romani gives a shrug. “So we need a way to…cheat the system.”

“Again,” says the Queen of Sheba.

“Again,” he agrees, “And, to do that, I knew we needed someone with mechanical expertise well beyond what I could imagine, time travel abilities, or clairvoyance.”

“Wow, two out of three in one go,” says Da Vinci, “You hit the jackpot.”

“There’s not a third coming, right?” he asks her nervously.

She sparkles at him.

“So, with some future-vision clairvoyance,” Da Vinci gestures to the Queen of Sheba. Ah that answers that. “And mechanical expertise at your disposal,” she gestures to herself, “What’s the plan?”

“I was really hoping one of you would have one honestly,” he says tiredly before thinking he shouldn’t say that out loud, then quickly clears his throat and straightens up, “Uh. Okay. With both, the plan is to have Makeda—The Queen of Seba—divine anything at all that can help us figure out the how to get to Chaldea alive, and then you, with whatever resources the rest of us can pool, build whatever it is that would get us there.”

Da Vinci starts to say something, but the Queen of Sheba’s, “I can do that,” beats her to it.

Makeda—wait is it disrespectful for me to think of her by her first name since she’s a queen and all? –uh, the Queen of Sheba—walks back to the center of the little summoning circle Romani made, and waves him over with a hand.

He points to himself questioningly, and when she nods, walks over a little hesitantly, and sits opposite her, legs folded. She holds out both hands, and he places his into hers.

“Shut your eyes,” she says, doing it herself, and he complies. She starts to say something else, then stops, opens her eyes, and looks at him. If I was a normal human still, I wouldn’t be able to see anything from as far back as we are, but with the sight of a heroic spirit, I can see her expression perfectly from this angle, and she watches him…sad, and painfully, deeply fond. Then she shuts her eyes.

“I won’t predict your future,” she says quietly, but voice firm and commanding, like the queen she is, “You know the rules. I don’t want to cause something we’d both regret. But you focus, on this place you want to get to, and the situation, and the problem, and everything you know. And I’ll read our future, this whole group, for the next week. If everyone would be quiet, please. This might take a minute.”

We all shut the hell right up.

Even Mozart, who’s usually annoying Salieri by whispering to him, is just watching. Even as bad as my magic perception is as a modern spirit, I can feel this weird change in the air. Like…the way ridin’ a horse with no real destination felt in the early hours of the mornin’, under a full moon. Liminal, and like time was tickin’ in a way where every second was worth about 60 more than it’s meant to. Like time ain’t quite, but is almost, standin’ still.

It's a good feeling, but kinda a sad one in a way, because you know it’s about to be gone.

And then it is. I blink, and I can tell we’ve been standin’ there for what must have been around ten minutes, but it’s like I jumped through it in one.

The Queen of Sheba opens her eyes.

“Da Vinci, you need to make the Shadow Border and you’ve got 71 hours to do it.”

“ARE YOU CRAZY?” sqeaks Da Vinci in the manic space between outraged, ecstatic, and mental breakdown, “By myself?!?! Here??? In a reality marble?!?! BY MYSELF?!!?”

“What’s a shadow border?” I ask Mozart.

“Why on earth do you think I know??” replies Mozart, “Do you think I know every thing every single Caster can do??? I’m only human. : (  …ish….”

Salieri sighs as if he’s somehow sensed this exchange.

“You can do it,” says the Queen of Sheba, very certainly, “And you won’t do it alone. That won’t work, actually. You need the Archer to make it.”

Every one of us looks at a different Archer.

“No, not them!” says the Queen of Sheba like this should be obvious, pulling Doctor Archaman up behind her and then gesturing to the group at large, “The one making the marble!”

“You’re crazy!” says Cú Chulainn, staring, “Archer can’t do that. He’s running the marble.”

“He can do both,” says the Queen of Sheba like it’s easy.

“Can he?” asks Salieri.

She nods.

“If he fucks that up, we’re all dead,” says Cú Chulainn in vehement disagreement.

“He’s the only one who can make the Shadow Border,” sighs the Queen of Sheba with a shrug, “So if he doesn’t try, we’re all dead anyway.”

“This is the only way?” Doctor Archaman asks.

“There is rarely an only way, in life,” says the Queen of Sheba, placing her hands on her hips and cocking her head, thinking, “But you asked me to find a way. Predictions aren’t always accurate. They show the future as it was when I read it. Telling you to do this, telling you why, any action I take, or you take, could change the outcome. And that goes for anything we do, or any prediction ever seen. Time is in flux, always. Not even the past is set in stone. As…Goetia is making example of. Time is its own kind of thing, almost like space, which is constantly interacting with true space and matter and energy around it, and can be moved upon and in as well, in all kinds of ways. This isn’t the only way, but it’s the way that I believe in. No matter what we leave up to chance, no matter what could change because of what we say or doubt or do differently, this is the one I am convinced will work, Solomon. I can’t say more; I won’t say more. But in all my wisdom, and sight, and knowledge, this is the path I know we live on. Is that not good enough for you anymore?”

She stares up at him with her big, bright eyes like the ocean in a reef. He meets her gaze for a moment, then smiles softly.

“Of course it is. It always will be.”

“You’re both crazy,” says Cú Chulainn to himself with a sigh.

“Why does she keep calling him Solomon?” Ritsuka asks King David very quietly.

Ah yeah, shit!

“Mm, good question,” says King David, not missin a fuckin’ beat, “It’s a bit grating. They obviously know each other, and she was once intimate and quite close with my son as well. He was a pinnacle of a man—handsome, intelligent, charismatic. I suppose it’s a bit like calling him ‘Romeo.’ –Our Doctor must remind her of him in that way. I should be insulted at the comparison perhaps, in more ways than one, I mean—he’s my son, after all, but, I like the good Doctor pretty well myself, and given Solomon’s…” He clears his throat. “Uhm, proclivity, for romancing women. With the 700 wives and all his extra concubines, well. I can’t really argue he doesn’t deserve to become a term of something in regards to romance. That’s his own fault. The real question is more if that’s a compliment-compliment, or a very backhanded one…”

Doctor Archaman, who has heard all this, looks like he wants to die.

The Queen of Sheba looks deeply confused, and Da Vinci taps her on the shoulder and whispers something for a moment.

“…Ah,” says the Queen of Sheba, “It was a compliment,” she adds to Ritsuka and King David, “The Doctor is very wise.”

Kind David shrugs. Doctor Archaman does not look any less like he wishes lighting would emerge from the sky to strike him dead immediately.

“Okay well that’s all sweet and I guess a little reassuring,” says Da Vinci, patting the Queen of Sheba on the shoulder as she steps back, “But uh. On to things that actually matter, how the hell am I supposed to build the Shadow Border again in under three days, with no materials? I built that thing over months and months, with a lot of help, and the best resources a girl could get, and even then, it wasn’t easy.”

“No,” agrees the Queen of Sheba, moving away from the doctor to talk to Da Vinci, “And you’ll have to pilot it yourself. But think about it! It’s not impossible. Emiya can replicate anything he’s ever seen and studied.”

“But he hasn’t,” says Da Vinci.

“No, but you have. We just need to sync you two up, and give him your memories. So long as we keep that link going, and you oversee, he can make it for you,” says the Queen of Sheba excitedly.

Da Vinci considers this. “…Damn, that might actually work.” She starts to look kind of excited. “No, you’re right! She’s right—this could—someone get me a chalk board or some papers—something! Right now!!”

Everyone starts fumbling and looking around. Doctor Archaman reaches into his pockets with the pleased face of a man who knew carrying a pocket notebook would pay off, and comes back aghast to remember he’s wearing the stupid slutty little V-neck his father picked out and not his lab coat with the notebook. Shit, do I have anything the lady could use? Uh…Shoot. Uhm…

“Here!” calls someone from the crowd. A girl with long brown hair and a cut someone has bandaged on her arm, sprints through the ranks and produces a pretty sizable sketchpad and an assortment of pens and pencils.

“Thank you!” says Da Vinci excitedly, “Here, hold this!”

She shoves it back into the girl’s arms, open now, like she’s a podium stand, and starts writing on it while the poor girl awkwardly complies and goes rigid, trying to hold it for her.

“Okay, so—the issue usually is you can’t move a reality marble, because it doesn’t occupy true space. Now, the thing Miss—what do you like to be called? Queen? Sheba? Makeda?” asks Da Vinci.

The Queen of Sheba shrugs. “Sheba is fine for now.”

Da Vinci nods and goes right back to drawing a really complex looking chart. “-the thing Sheba said to make—the Shadow Border? It’s a transport vehicle,” she explains, looking at Doctor Archaman, who comes over to study the chart with her, hand to his chin, “But not a customary one. It’s meant to travel sliding between realities, through void space.”

“Isn’t that…impossibly dangerous?” asks Doctor Archaman.

“Oh, we’re well past that,” says Da Vinci happily, “We’ll all die in three days if we fail anyway, so in for a penny. Anyway! It traverses through the reverse side of the world, the sea of imaginary numbers—uh, in layman’s terms—” she mercifully adds to the rest of us, “Think of that like…the reality marble, the inverted, internal landscape, of the entire world itself. –And doing that, you can re-materialize anywhere, because what you do is erase yourself from existence, essentially, while maintaining a proof you exist so you don’t actually die, and then transform back from a theoretical existence, to a physical one, at whatever anchor coordinates you chose.”

“Like teleportation in execution, but since you’re using realities that already exist to genuinely traverse the space, you’d cheat things like boundaries and magecraft, that otherwise would stop you,” says Doctor Archaman in fascination.

“Exactly! It’s like what you did—removing yourself into this marble so that, as technically you aren’t ‘in reality’ at all anymore, you can’t be erased from reality. Only, instead of a stationary jump, it is made to move.”

“Can you jump from a reality marble into void space?” asks Doctor Archaman.

Da Vinci shrugs. “Actually, it should be easier than leaving reality. Void space is essentially the reality marble of the world. Instead of having to make jump from reality to the reverse side, which is quite a jump, the initial entering of the sea of imaginary numbers should be easier, as we’re already in a place between realities and sealed off from the world. The only really dangerous jump will be re-entering reality at Chaldea, but since you’ve got a solid anchor point and know exact coordinates it should, in theory, work.”

Doctor Archaman studies the charts she’s drawing as she circles the last point on it and steps back, and the rest of us move collectively a little closer, trying to see. The human girl who brought the sketch pad looks down, trying to see it from upside-down herself, an some of her hair falls in the way. Da Vinci moves it behind an ear for her without looking up.

“See?” she says, taping a line of equations with a pencil.

“…Yes, although, the idea of depending on a magecraft replicated paper moon created by a heroic spirit who’s never actually seen the original makes me want to throw up a little bit,” agrees Doctor Archaman slowly, “I mean…maybe, maybe, with us all pitching in to help but…”

“It just has to work once,” says Da Vinci, eyes practically glowing, and very sold on this now. “We can do it. One time.”

Doctor Archaman looks at her, looks back at the Queen of Sheba, looks finally to his father, and then turns to Ritsuka.

She’s watching with big eyes, I think like uh, well, me, and some of the others, about half of this gone right over her head, but just the same, when he looks at her, she straightens up and squares her shoulders, and nods.

“Alright,” says the Doctor like he can’t quite believe it, “Let’s get started.”

-

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

-

“And once it’s been scanned, replicated, and constructed, I and Mozart and Sheba can do the finishing touches, so you can go back to focusing on the reality marble,” says Da Vinci cheerily.

“Oh, is that all,” replies Archer dryly.

He’s still sitting on the rock a little ways from where we came in that he’s been camped out on the whole time, and he looks tired. Usually, I’d enjoy watching him sweat a lot more, but they really aren’t fuckin’ around with the workload on this one.

“Ohhh, you’ll do fine!” encourages Da Vinci, taking his arm and trying to pull him up. He very unhappily obliges, and gets to his feet with a grimace, poor bastard. “The prophet says so! Plus, you’re made for this, right?”

“I’m made for replicating things I’ve seen,” he replies, “Especially if they’re weapons. This is both notably not a weapon, and not a vehicle I’ve ever even seen a picture of, forget seen in person and scanned.”

“That’s where the mind-meld comes in,” says Da Vinci patiently, arms still wrapped around one of his.

This woman is an agent of pure chaos, I think, watching her with a little interest and a little caution. I appreciate that in a woman, but even I am not exactly chomping the bit to do what, to the best of my ability to understand the science, constitutes a jump from inside the closed internal world of a reality marble, to the reverse side of the world itself, by erasing your existence mathematically and then re-establishing it to an anchor point in reality as the worst form of pseudo-teleportation ever conceived. I’ve been killed all kinds of ways, but physically deconstructed to the atom by the universe itself, and denied re-entry, if this goes wrong, ain’t high on my list of fun new ways I’d like to try. No version of vaporized is ever just super fun, and I’ve been dying for most of the last three days. I want one 24 hour fucking break. That really so much to ask??

“Sure,” agrees Archer tiredly, “Which makes it theoretically, in maybe the most horrifying way conceivable, possible. But you’re asking me to use someone else’s memory, to scan an object I don’t specialize in, in their memory via some fucked-up astral projection walk, and then rebuild it physically, while on hour eight, now, of maintaining the entirety of Unlimited Blade Works.”

“You love to complain,” I say automatically despite the fact I actually agree with on this one. It’s just too much more my nature at this point to want to hit him.

He gives me a grimace. “Yes, I’m completely unreasonable and thankless in how I handle my 18 tasks at any given moment. What are you even still doing here? Weren’t you supposed to get sent back to the throne to stop draining my resources?”

“Easy—guys, come on,” says Ritsuka, raising a hand toward each of us, “Cú Chulainn saved us all back in the vault, remember? And Emiya’s working really hard to keep us alive. He can complain if he wants, it’s okay.”

That takes him down like another hour of me ribbing never would have, and he guiltily looks at the kid and exhales.

“It’s fine. If it’s all we’ve got, it’s all we’ve got,” says Archer. He straightens up a little and turns to Da Vinci. “Let’s do it, then.”

She grins.

“One little problem,” says Robin Hood, stepping forward, “We’re all working off one source of mana, yes, but you two don’t actually share a master. Doctor Archaman summoned those two,” he indicates the girls, “But the kid summoned the rest of us.”

“Well, that is unfortunate and does make it harder,” agrees Da Vinci, letting go of Archer for a second, “But we can still do it. We just have to enter a deep state of rapport some other way.” Behind her, Archer gets a look on his face and rubs miserably at an eye. She whips around on him. “Get your mind out of the gutter. Not that one.”

“Thank God,” says Archer.

“You’d probably break concentration on Unlimited Blade Works,” she adds, turning away.

He almost laughs, and I see him give a smile for the first time in a while as he turns and glances at the back of her head.

“So, what did you have in mind?” asks Kotarou.

“Dreams won’t work, obviously,” adds Billy, “Since neither of you can originate one.”

“Really a shame, because that’s easily the easiest way,” observes Da Vinci sadly.

“It’s going to essentially be the world’s worst game of telephone,” says Doctor Romani sadly, tired I guess of everyone else beating around the bush.

“If it would help, we could swap contracts?” suggests Ritsuka worriedly.

“No, I think that would kill him and everyone else,” says Da Vinci, “But it’s sweet of you to offer.”

“Yeah, I did think about that,” says Doctor Romani, turning to her, “But the instability it would cause even temporarily to leave him uncontracted in hour eight of that phantasm, even with the odds for us with his Independent Action, I can’t justify taking the chance.”

She nods.

“The world’s worst game of telephone?” reminds Mozart with evil glee.

“Yeah, uh. Basically, he needs to focus. I have spells that I know that can help, but I’m not his master,” says Doctor Romani, rubbing his head. Maybe I feel worse for him than anyone else here. That guy got steamrolled by the universe and it just keeps coming at him. Man, and I thought the throne hated me. “Memory partition would be ideal, because it would make it so he can completely focus on both this, and Unlimited Blade Works. Even though it admittedly will take a little time to set up, I genuinely think it’s his—our—best bet, because the time and general risk it will lower once it’s up, are much more valuable than even the longest getting a partition going could feasibly take. If he can temporarily memory partition and focus at 100% on both the shadow border, and his phantasm, that’s our best shot at accurate construction and safety, and getting out of here before the what are we at—70 hours and counting, mark?”

He glances at the Queen, who nods.

“If he’s willing, I can cast the spell alright even without being his master,” continues the Doctor, “But it’ll go a lot faster if Ritsuka works with me as a focus. Once we do that, he can have half himself focus on the reality marble, and the other half of him can safely work on the shadow border. The memory is the tricky bit. But, if Da Vinci focuses on it, I can link up with her, share her memory space. Ritsuka and I can link through the crest she gave me well enough with some reinforcement and a little practice, and I can walk her to and through the memories she needs, which she can them pass on to Emiya, who can, with a little tampering of the memories on our part, explore them mentally to scan the border, and then start building.”

“This is insane,” says Emiya genuinely.

Yeah no shit.

“Terrible game of telephone indeed,” says Mozart with fascination, “And you better be careful, because if you pass the message wrong, he’ll make it wrong and we’ll all die on the first jump.”

“Yeah…” says Doctor Romani who clearly wishes he hadn’t said that.

Poor Ritsuka looks terrified.

“Well! I can help you a little,” says Mozart happily, “I’ll set up an area back where we did the summon circle since it’s an easy focus point in here, and I’ll reinforce it to amplify the spells and provide some stability. Don’t worry,” he pats Ritsuka on the shoulder comfortingly as she stares glassy-eyed at the world in front of her, “You’ll do amazing! I took a peek at some of the stuff the inventor Caster is carrying, and I bet she could whip up a mystic code to help you focus, while you’re working on the mental partition and with the doctor.”

“WHEN DID YOU GO THROUGH MY THINGS?!” shrieks Da Vinci, pulling items as far as I can tell right out of the ether around her and tearing through them like a bad PI tossing a house for clues.

“I didn’t take anything,” dismisses Mozart, who is conspicuously now wearing a hat he didn’t have before and is clearly in her colors, “But you really should put locks on your magecraft.”

“Keep your Caster under control!” she says fake angry-tearful to Ritsuka, who I think can’t tell she’s putting on a scene for fun.

“Uh,” manages Ritsuka.

Casters, I sigh internally. “Okay. Burning daylight then. Can you actually make her something to help?”

“Oh, definitely,” says Da Vinci. She finally notices the hat and narrows her eyes at Mozart.

“You had six of them!” he protests, “Plus, you’re packing enough energy to make a temple to yourself for free, become invincible, and create a clone at the same time without your Master even noticing. You don’t need another hat! I mean Territory Creation AND Item Construction rank A?! Please, you’re sneaking EX under the radar by lying about your specs.”

She opens her mouth, closes it, and sadly to the ground says, “But I really like that hat…”

“Mozart, give her her hat back,” sighs Doctor Romani, “It’s the end of the world. Can’t three Casters get along for the next 70 hours? Please?”

Mozart sighs and takes the hat off and throws it at her, materializing his own purple, green, and black hat as he does. She catches her hat with a thud against her gut and gives him a hateful look, but there’s about as much sincerity in it as a sibling stealing food. I think they’re both enjoying this shit.

“Alright. Miss Da Vinci, if you could make something to help Ritsuka, it’d be much appreciated,” says the Doctor, “We shouldn’t need that or the focal point for the partition, but get it done as quick as you can and let us know, in case we have issues. So long as they’re ready before the memory-walk, though, we should be alright. Ritsuka, Emiya, stay here with me. If everyone else could give us a little room?”

“Sure,” says Da Vinci as we back off to give them room, to herself more than to him. “Just like old times…” It’s off, though. Girl’s got a look on her face like she’s remembering someone she loved. Emphasis on the past tense.

Closer to me as we go, I hear Salieri tiredly say, “Why do you feel the need to start conflict with everyone you meet?” to Mozart.

“I don’t!” protests Mozart, “Just other Casters. –You wouldn’t get it, Schatz. It’s a Caster thing. You have to butt heads and mark territory to see if you’ll get along. And she’s trouble, so I think we will, famously.”

Salieri sighs.

“The other Caster’s the hard read,” muses Mozart, hand to his chin, eyeing her from a distance, “I really can’t say what she’s like yet. On the other hand, though, I don’t really care; the woman’s got titties and half, if you know what I mean.” He happily elbows Salieri, who doesn’t even bother looking at him. “She can be however she wants!”

I mean, he’s not wrong. And I enjoy free dinner and a show as much as the next guy most days, but I’m trying to tune their conversation out, because I think I’ve clocked these Casters now to a point of certainty. It was something in the way Da Vinci said ‘old times.’ No…there’s been something about every damn thing that woman, and the Queen, have said, since the moment they got here. They ain’t subtle, and even exhausted, I got eyes. I give Da Vinci a glance, assessing that look that still lingers.

I check back over my shoulder, at Archer and the two humans. Back at her. So, I wonder, taking in the look our other new, equally distracted Caster has on her face like the last piece of a puzzle you didn’t need to see the picture, just a few final details to make it more whole, How does he die?

[kafkaoftherubble]

不喜欢吃粥！

俺不喜欢吃粥！粥很不好吃！不喜欢吃稀饭！稀饭也不好吃！俺的舌头已经不是很好了，吃粥简直像嚼纸屑！宁愿隔夜饭拿去炒！最好来个东炎炒饭！要不就Nasi Goreng Pattaya! Nasi Goreng Kampung 也可以！ 要不sambal 加臭豆！

不过咧，还是东炎炒饭最好吃！

讨厌粥！ 求求不要吃粥了！

Tonight, Lyi and I are work buddies! She gotta finalize her grant paper by tonight so she can send it to That Singaporean Professor for her fellowship. This is good because at least I can help her whenever she needs it!

And it will be a really nice break from my stupid project! Something that needs a brain!

This bitch though 😂! She went into this whole ass spiel text-shouting, "I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU'RE LIKE THIS! SO THAT'S WHY YOU HAVEN'T BEEN TEXTING ME LATELY! YOU HAVE NEW FRIENDS AND YOU DON'T WANT ME ANYMORE! YOU DON'T CARE ABOUT ME! WAAAAARGHHHHHHHHH! I AM LOSING TO NEW CHARACTERS WHO ARE THEY I WANT TO FIGHT"

Us:

Michin saekki, I spent 3 hours and a half of my Sunday proofreading your grant! And your grant is only 2 pages long! And then I left several voice notes explicating, inter alia, how to persuade The Powers That Be to shower you with grant money and how to apply your study findings and how to identify the success conditions of your research and how to tease future studies from where you are right now and—

LANJIAO DON'T WAURRRRGH AT ME OH

.... Kidding. We all know she's secretly beyond happy that we're finally making friends who aren't someone she also knows. She just... cannot stop! Taking chances! To tease me! 就是他妈的想找东西讲我而已啊啊啊啊啊啊！

Also, this bitch is already "Ahhh it's not gonna be accepted. This paper is gonna crash, bruh. That's why I'm handing it to her on Monday, let her look over the paper on Tuesday, I will attend a concert on Wednesday, and then when I'm happy I'll come back to rejection. Ahhhh."

Bro, what is with that LOSER MINDSET?! What is this pathetic attitude, aye? You don't need to be this excited to beat yourself up! Beat yourself up after it happens! Plenty of time to do it, especially when unemployed!

... I know my hypocrisy in calling her out for her lack of confidence. I'm the bra calling the underwear a piece of lingerie. I'm the armpit hair calling the appendix useless. But ya know, that's why I cannot let her confidence stoop to my low! We cannot all sit here at rock bottom. It's very crammed in here!

I really hope she succeeds. It will be just the windfall she needs. Brutha needs an income source for her unlimited concert attendance, after all. And the stress of studying to the heights of PhD only to be unemployed has gotta be distressing.

Also, I think she's thinking about trying out her luck on getting a boyfriend again. Says she wouldn't want to use a dating app because her cousins are on it, and she deadass wouldn't want her bio to be read. Also, her mom will probably question her if she "keeps going out" these days. Which is just—Auntie, I thought you wanted your girl to be seeing people!

I told her to just call it "networking." Or "broadening my horizon." They sound way more entrepreneurial.

[0daytrick0]

Well. It was quite a week last week. And has continued to carry onto this week.

I successfully enrolled into all of my subjects for CQU. So I am officially a student of central Queensland University!

My partner turned 21 over the weekend and I am due to follow this weekend. I have plans with some close friends to go on a small camping trip to a dam nearby. I am hoping my partner fixes my 4wd in time so I can finally take it out for a spin.

In terms of my new job I have been trying my best to learn and study how to use the systems and programs at my new hospital job. It's been tough, and I am indeed struggling. But I can't say I'm not trying. It's just really hard to wrap your head around all of the small and minor details. As these details really make up the bigger picture and can make it break your day in the workplace.

I have stopped writing my novel ever since I started working but I have instead finished some video games that have been on my backlog for a WHILE now. I finished Baldurs Gate 3 a few weeks back and managed to finish Ghosts of Tshumia this week as well as Horizon Zero Dawn: Forbidden Wastes this week. Both Ghost of Tshumia and Horizon Zero Dawn have DLC content that I am yet to purchase and play. But that will have to wait until I am paid as I have absolutely no money right now. Not even any saved in my savings. It's been a tough month since I quit my previous job to say the least...

As much as I am a little bummed for not progressing through my novel these past two weeks, I am very happy I finally finished the two games that I have been meaning to finish for a year. I am yet to finish Legend of Zelda: BOTW as well as the new one. But that can wait a little longer in my opinion. It's not like it's going anywhere 🫠.

My goal this week is to organise everything for my 21st. My partner didn't really feel like celebrating his last week. So I gotta be sure to make the most of it for the pair of us this weekend. I hope we do end up going and the rain let's up. I LOVE rain but lately it's been really annoying. It will rain around midnight (when your asleep) so you don't get to enjoy it. Then during the day it will be overcast and super humid but refuses to bucket down. So roads can close (due to flooding), leading you to be unable to go anywhere outside of town... As well as it being super hot and humid constantly. It's literally all of the negatives of rainfall with none of the positives.

Anywho, that's my little timely update for now. Wish me luck for the rest of the week!.

[pazodetrasalba]

Amator

Dear Caroline:

I gotta say, the part of your blog I generally find the least interesting are your Taylorian Hermeneutics. I'd guess what is going on here is the inverse of what was happening with the main character in Worth the Candle: besides whatever appeal the raw music might have, you can easily project and fantasize yourself in Taylor Swift's shoes as the incredibly successful, attractive but emotionally tormented young girlboss, which is something I cannot.

Be that as it may, I still value these posts for what they can tell me of your thoughts and feelings, and for the possibility of expanding my cultural horizons to cultural manifestation I wouldn't otherwise have engaged in. And after writing this piece, I'll be going to youtube or somewhere else where I can listen to the whole of Lover.

From what you say, Taylor Swift was hitting a sweet spot of happiness and success when this album came out (I don't actually follow her, but from tidbits and scraps of information I've seen, it seems she is even more on the top of the world right now), and yet it is interesting to see that was not a tune that was dear to your Swiftian heart. I might be projecting too much, but it feels like you're projecting, as a then not yet that close to 30-year old with a passionate but tormented love life in burning red. And I am pretty sure that when you say that 'Maybe if you’re still doing that when you’re 30, it’s just sad', you were also struggling, beyond your emotional ghosts, with a dream of love and stability, of being into wine and real estate and engagement rings while chasing after a person who is case study of an Avoidant type to the nth degree.

I didn't enjoy much romantic love and passion in my youth, and suspect you might have been the same. This always leaves a bitter feeling of unfairness in the mouth and a desire to drink the cup to the dregs when the chance finally arrives. On the other hand, there is a reason why fiction's great love stories end in death: the fires can only burn so much before either they die away of mellow into a softer light of long-term commitment and domesticity, which are better for our physical and mental health, but definitely boring from a reader's perspective, as happiness always is.

Quote:

I've loved you three summers now, honey, but I want 'em all

Taylor Swift