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mariacallous · 2 years ago

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We used to live in a world where large-scale conventional wars that left thousands of dead and wounded existed only in video games and books. A world where mutually beneficial commercial activity was guaranteed by a global security order, to which the world’s leading nations adhered in exchange for membership in a shared civilization. A world trending irreversibly toward liberal democracy.

Russia’s war of choice shattered these assumptions. In the heart of Europe, at least 18,000 civilians are dead, 14.5 million displaced, and thousands more tortured, mutilated, forcefully resettled. The trauma and misfortune Russia has wrought, unprovoked, on Ukraine is akin to those depicted in the tragedies of antiquity—advanced weapons such as drones and missiles notwithstanding. The barbarity of Russian warfare defies everything modernity stands for.

When this war is over, though, there is still hope that Ukraine will take its place in a brighter and honorable future, earned through the heroism of its people. The same cannot be said for Russia, which now finds itself staring down the inevitable black hole of its future.

I came of age as the borders of the Soviet Union collapsed and Russia embraced the West. I was one of those euphoric young Russians standing amid the ruins of communism, looking forward to a life free of ideology, oppression, and untruths. Back then, it seemed that after a decades-long totalitarian detour, Russia had finally found its true path—that of a free, democratic country. Now I’m forced to revise, yet again, my assumptions about what Russia is and what it will become.

This time, I, like many others, struggle to see any light in Russia’s future. I asked a group of military experts, sociologists, journalists, and economists who think about Russia professionally to help me envision the future. If there’s any agreement among them, it is that Russia as we knew it—a semi-mythical Eurasian nation that, according to its own lore, had saved the world from the Mongols and Nazis, endured a communist experiment, and then reunited itself with the West—is no longer there. Should Russia endure as a state within its current borders, we might as well come up with a new name for it.

So deep is the country’s malaise that even Russian President Vladimir Putin’s exit from the Russian political stage, whenever it occurs, is unlikely to change the country’s current trajectory. Too many red lines have been crossed, too many points of no return passed. Increasingly lawless, economically doomed, and morally bankrupt, Russia is running out of good endings, as though caught in a reenactment of its own sad folk tale in which the only choices available to the protagonist are to lose his horse, lose his life, or lose his soul.

War is a great catalyzer: It sharpens trends already in place and hastens their inevitable denouement. Russia’s descent into authoritarianism started a long time ago, but until Feb. 24, 2022, Putin felt compelled to at least maintain the semblance of a managed democracy.

Not anymore. “War has accelerated Russia’s descent from autocracy and into a totalitarian state,” said Mark Feygin, a former Russian opposition politician and lawyer who now runs a popular YouTube channel tracking the war. Russians’ two remaining freedoms—the ability to leave the country and to access alternative sources of information—can be shut down at any moment. Lev Gudkov, a prominent Moscow-based sociologist and director of Russia’s last independent pollster, the Levada-Center, described Putin’s regime as “totalitarianism 2.0,” under which key repressive instruments of the Soviet Union, including a politicized police force, subservient courts, and media censorship, have been reinstituted in a reversal of 1990s liberalism.

One clear break from its Soviet past is the Kremlin’s willingness to operate outside of any legal boundaries, or even its own societal norms. The distance between prison and success has always been short in Russia, but Russia today is a country where private individuals such as Yevgeny Prigozhin, the founder of the infamous Wagner Group, can recruit convicts, arm them with weapons supplied by the Russian Ministry of Defense, and throw them to the frontlines. Those who manage to survive are granted amnesty and hailed as heroes, despite their criminal pasts.

Exiled businessman Mikhail Khodorkovsky, Russia’s richest man before Putin imprisoned him, said Putin had “reset the rules of the game towards pure violence.” Russians never expected much from their historically weak legal system, but now they can be punished outside of the court of law in a positively medieval fashion.

This brutal “justice” isn’t limited by Russia’s borders, or battlefield lines. In case it wasn’t already clear by the poisoning of Alexey Navalny or Sergei Skripal, Russian agents’ suspected involvement in the recent Spanish letter bomb campaign—whose targets included the Spanish prime and defense ministers, and foreign diplomats—is yet another indication that Russia will resort to terrorism to achieve its goals, a hallmark of a failed state.

Whatever Russia emerges after the war, it won’t be the Russia of Chekhov and Dostoyevsky, the country that once tantalized Western intellectuals with its perennial quest for meaning and capacity for the sublime. It will be a country of warlords and criminals, where force is the only argument and crimes are not crimes so long as they are committed for the Motherland.

If this metamorphosis worries Russians, they show few signs of it. Having once considered themselves part of a peace-loving nation that picks up arms only to defend itself, the population has now closed ranks around its war-waging president. “If at the start of the invasion we saw fear and disorientation, towards the end of 2022 our polls showed increased public support for the authorities,” Gudkov told me.

In a repressive state, polls may not accurately reflect the true sentiment behind perfunctory answers, and samples may be biased towards pro-government participants, because those who don’t agree are afraid to participate. But they do indicate an overall trend. Of the 72 percent indicating their support for the government, 20 to 25 percent are actively pro-war—either because they have bought into Putin’s ressentiment narrative or been convinced that Russia really is surrounded by enemies. Propaganda pours daily from every TV screen in the country, and it is effective in manufacturing a form of organized mass consensus.

Many Russians likely share some psychological propensity to justify the war because if what they believe—that their country is engaged in a righteous war against forces of evil—is untrue, then the alternative is being complicit in, and thus culpable for, its crimes. Still, the majority may simply be afraid to protest given the scale of repression they experience and the regime’s track record of brutality against dissenters. “People feel impotent to influence the regime, so they adapt,” said Mikhail Fishman, a Russian independent journalist and host of a popular analytical show that is blocked in Russia.

As economic conditions worsen, Russians will simply be told to tighten their belts further and make sacrifices for Russia’s “great victory.” Those sacrifices won’t be small. Sergei Guriev, a professor of economics at Sciences Po in Paris, warned of the “catastrophic” economic impact of Western sanctions on the Russian oil and gas sector, the main source of funding for the federal budget.

Equally bad for Russia’s economic prospects is its unprecedented brain drain. Since the start of the invasion, more than a million people, or 1.5 percent of the country’s labor force, have fled. Whether afraid of being drafted or repulsed by Putin’s war against a nation with which Russia shares centuries of common past, those who leave tend to be more educated and productive. Their absence will prevent Russia from developing knowledge-based industries or diversifying from an oil- and gas-based economy in the future. Likely a long-term pariah state, Russia will continue to be cut off from cross-border trade and investment while it hemorrhages cash and resources into a bottomless war effort—instead of, say, schools or hospitals. Taken together, these trends indicate a bleak economic future, the brunt of which will be carried by the Russian people. The only trajectory available to their country is that of irreversible economic decline.

What of the Russian elites, whose hedonistic pre-war lifestyles, replete with yachts and villas on the French Riviera, are a far cry from the stringent demands imposed by their boss? They can’t be happy, yet there have been no high-profile government resignations or criticisms of the war from this group. The oligarchs, too, are silent, even though many have ended up under Western sanctions. “Putin has done a lot to make sure they all know he can persecute any lack of loyalty,” Guriev said. According to Gudkov’s data, 12 percent of Russia’s high-ranking officials have been arrested over the past five to six years.

This reality creates the same mood of fear among elites as it does among regular people. Arkady Babchenko, a journalist who staged his own death to thwart an alleged assassination plot by Russian security services, put it more bluntly: “Anyone showing dissent will simply fall out of the window”—a nod to a string of unexplained deaths of Russian businessmen over the past few months. “Putin rules Russia as if with a joystick,” Babchenko said. “It’ll go wherever he turns it.”

Lawless, declining in population and talent, and stuck in a resource-draining war against the collective West, it’s difficult to avoid the question much longer: Can Russia survive as a state? Many experts—and a growing portion of world leaders—think not.

Retired U.S. Lt. Gen. Ben Hodges, former commander of U.S. Army Europe, told me that the West should be preparing for the federation’s imminent breakup. What—or who—would emerge after the current regime is anyone’s guess, he said. “The Kremlin has always been opaque, but in the old days we knew who the next three or four guys were,” Hodges said. “Now I don’t think anybody has confidence in what would regime change look like.”

If the breakup is imminent, how soon will it come? In an assessment created for the U.S. military a few years ago, Alexander Vindman, former director for European affairs for the U.S. National Security Council, forecasted Russia’s decline over the course of decades; now, the calculus has shifted to years. It’s possible, he said, that the beginning of Russia’s breakup may be seen in the next five to 10 years, particularly on the state’s margins. Vindman has studied Russia for years, but even for him it is hard “to break out of the confines of the notion that Russia will always be there, that it’s an enduring state,” he said.

Unlikely as Russia’s disintegration might sound, breaking the country into national “successor states” may be the only way to put an end to its pattern of predatory, consumptive despotism against its neighbors. For centuries, Russia has cast itself as a metropole, and its playbook for success has been based on the contributions of its provinces and republics, which act as an economic engine and talent farm for Moscow. That arrangement collapsed in 1991, and since then, Russia has failed to replace it with a more sustainable or productive model. It can’t quite shake its raiding mentality.

Alexander Etkind, a historian at the European University Institute, thinks in terms of “de-federalization,” a process in which Russia’s ethnic regions sue for sovereignty to reclaim their wealth. Most of Russia’s oil and gas, Etkind said, is extracted in two autonomous ethnic regions in Siberia: Yamalo-Nenets and Khanty-Mansi. From there, oil and gas are piped to Europe, but the hundreds of billions of dollars of profit go to Moscow, which then doles out payments to its regions. Disruption of that model by Western sanctions may prompt resource-rich regions to challenge Moscow’s control. Why can’t the Republic of Sakha sell its diamonds itself? Why does the Chechen Republic need a battled, isolated Moscow to sell its oil?

In the post-colonial world, Russia’s modus operandi of plundering territories in its domain is not only amoral but outdated. “The problem with the Russian empire,” Feygin said, “is that it doesn’t produce anything. Let it finish falling apart.”

Can anything be built on the territory once called Russia that isn’t a prison? Despite the country’s failure to do so in 1917 and 1991, Khodorkovsky—the exiled businessman and head of the Open Russia opposition coalition—believes that Russia could be rebuilt as a parliamentary republic. In his manifesto How Do You Slay a Dragon?, a riff on the anti-totalitarianism fable by Soviet writer Evgeny Schwartz, Khodorkovsky sees the transition to a decentralized, de-personified parliamentary model with self-governed regions as a way for Russia to break free of its autocratic curse. The idea seems to be shared among other opposition politicians, including Navalny and Ilya Yashin, both of whom are now in prison. A change of this magnitude, however, will require a radical overhaul of Russia’s entrenched bureaucracy and a way out of the inertia inherent to a country of Russia’s size.

This and any other remotely optimistic scenario for Russia have one important condition: Ukrainian victory and Russian defeat. Though in the short term, likely the next two to three years, the defeat would only lead to more repression, it would weaken Putin politically and open the possibility for change. That doesn’t mean there will be a revolution. Russian people have long abandoned attempts to influence their government (elections in Russia are “managed” from above, just like everything else), but a more moderate faction within Russia’s current ruling elite may be able to steer the regime toward a lite version of Khrushchev’s Thaw, the period of relative liberalization that followed denunciation of Stalin’s terror. It could even be that, after a temporary revanchist swing toward “national patriots,” a democratic coalition would get another chance at rebuilding Russia, as is the hope of Khodorkovsky.

It isn’t clear, though, how eager Putin’s elite will be to give up their wealth or even freedom, as they’re likely to someday face criminal charges for their involvement in his war. Just as Putin was once the guarantor of their wealth, his rule may be their only chance to avoid persecution.

Putin may even convince his underlings that being shunned by the West is not the end of the world and that money, the raison d’être of his regime, can be made elsewhere. Russia still has plenty of sympathizers who see it as a counterweight to U.S. hegemony. The unfolding geopolitical realignment may even weaken the effect of Western sanctions, as Russia could switch its supply sources and develop alternative markets for its oil, gas, and other natural resources.

One year into the invasion, with Russian casualties mounting, it is clear Putin has decided to win this war no matter the cost. He’s urgently switched Russia’s economy onto military tracks and directed factories to work day and night to produce artillery shells and guns. The Russian army is expected to mobilize more troops in the spring. They may be untrained and unequipped, but they will still be thousands of men thrown into a fight.

Drawing out this war is Putin’s only hope, Hodges says. Today, Western support for Ukraine is strong. Yet it is not inconceivable that if the war goes on for too long, at some point the West may be forced to address other pressing domestic or international issues instead. In this less hopeful scenario, a battered and outnumbered Ukraine will be forced to negotiate. And Putin’s regime will be allowed to survive, regroup, and pursue its next target.

There seem to be three paths available for a post-war Russia under Putin or whomever may succeed him: break up into smaller pieces, turn further toward tyranny to keep what’s left of the realm together, or endure a long period of slow decline.

The common thread in all three is violence. A breakup means re-distribution of power and assets, which won’t happen peacefully. A weakened, anachronistic empire, whether in its tyrannical or slow decline incarnation, means a Russia severed from its foundational myths and struggling to stay economically relevant—a dark, unpromising place.

This is a far cry from the Russia that people shaped by perestroika had hoped for. Instead, Russia has become a democracy supernova that never fulfilled its promise, collapsing in on itself, spreading death and destruction to those within its orbit.

But nothing lasts forever, not even a black hole. The decline is slow, but one day a black hole runs out of matter to consume and starts losing its mass, exhaling tiny particles back into the universe. They escape faster and faster, until the black hole’s center is small and unstable. In the final tenth of a second of its long life, all that is left evacuates at once in a huge flash of light and energy. What was once thought to be eternal becomes a memory.

No one—not the best experts, the Kremlin’s innermost circle, or even Putin himself—can predict conclusively whether Russia’s own demise will come in the form of a huge explosion, a slow decay, or some combination of the two. But after years of consuming and destroying all the light in its path, perhaps the bigger question is whether Putin’s Russia can transform what it has consumed into something viable.

For Russia itself, Ukraine’s victory may be the only chance. In the words of Gudkov, “It’ll bring some future back.”

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filipinoizukuu · 4 years ago

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I saw your post about the FA's translations, and I totally agree. Sometimes, when they do not translate accurately, is to make it sound better or cooler in English, but it just ends up taking away a lot from the context and characters. We know how one of the most affected character interpretations is Katsuki's, a main character, no less. And Izuku and Katsuki's relationship too, which is something super super wrong, considering is deeply intertwined with the main plot of the series, thus if someone misinterpreted their dynamic, this person would miss a bigass chunk of the message the story has.

Here is the panel you mentioned before btw

I remember when I read this, only 10 or 11 chapters into the manga (?), and I was like "...I'm...pretty sure this guy didn't say that" khshsjdhs

OK FIRST OF ALL LMAO HELLO MANG!! THANK YOU SO MUCH AND DW ABOUT IT I TOTALLY GET WHAT YOU MEAN !!

(this is your warning for a long post ahead!)

In any case, I still think you're very correct on this! Not to ramble a bit, but Horikoshi's particular talent in developing the plot of MHA is actually very very brilliant and there are a lot of blink-and-you'll-miss-it details that together, assemble the big picture of what MHA is.

Translations are such an integral part of being able to understand foreign media. MHA or otherwise. The simplest of details say a lot about a character and often times make or break a series because everyone knows that strong character dynamics are what carry even the shittiest of plots.

First and foremost, I want to clarify that because of the nature of fan translations and the fact that most of it is volunteer work/ written out of pure enjoyment of the manga--we shouldn't judge these fan translators too harshly (if at all) for interpreting it the way they want to. FA, as far as I can tell, is a fan-based group that works out of donations.

The first thing I wanna bring up is that when it comes to fandom and its works, there are two types: Curatorial and Transformative. Now, the transformative part is something that must be very familiar to a lot of you. Fanfiction, fanart, and most headcanons fall under Transformative Works (i.e. AO3) because they are all about transforming the canon world to fit each individual's personal preferences. Meta-analysis posts and Character Breakdowns are also classified under this.

Curatorial on the other hand are fandom interactions made with the explicit purpose of being as close to canon material as possible. This is working out the logic of quirks, for example, or memorizing as much canon content about your favorite villain as possible. These are more cold, hard undeniable facts that lend themselves to the DIRECT VISION the creator/author had while making this media. If you were to ask me my opinion on this, this would be the moment where I tell you that the Curatorial side of fandom is where fan translations should (for the most part) fall under.

What people need to know though is that oftentimes, fan translations do not.

Translating isn't and has never been a one-is-to-one process. There are hundreds of thousands of aspects in a language that make it so that it isn't perfectly translatable. Colloquialisms to sayings to dialects, to just plain-out words that don't have a proper English translation to them! Manga is made by and for a Japanese audience, so obviously in a lot of instances, there will be cultural nuances that will not be understood by anyone who hasn't immersed themselves in Japanese culture/language.

So what does this mean then for fan scanlations?

It means that a vast majority of translators teach themselves to only get the essence of the message. They take the dialogue as they understand it and translate it to something of their interpretation. When language and cultural barriers exist, translators do what they can in order to make it understandable to the general populace. This means making their own executive decisions on how they see a character speaking. In example, if they see Todoroki using very direct and impersonal Japanese--one translator might interpret it to mean that Shouto is stiff and overly formal, while another may see it as him being rude and aloof.

The problem is, translators are fans just like us.

Like with the image Mang posted above, the translator based the usage of curse words off of their understanding of Bakugou's character. The lack of foul language in the original Japanese might have made the translator think "Oh. There just aren't enough Japanese cusses for his character." And took that as an initiative to make Bakugou's lines more colorful and violent because this was working off of the image Bakugou had had at this point in canon.

But Codi! You may cry. Wasn't it proven multiple times that Bakugou prefers concise and short lines? They should've known better!

Yes. Maybe they should've known better. But tell me honestly in your first watch-through of MHA, did you perfectly understand Bakugou's character either? Did you catch the whole 'direct and no flowery language' aspect of his language when you first saw Season 2?

Most people don't. I only really understood this fact after I'd read multiple discussions of it and even double-checked the manga myself. These are the kinds of things that only become noticeable with a sharp eye and some time to scrutiny. But the fact of the matter is that when it comes to fan translations, the clout and recognition are always going to go to who can post the quickest.

Am I excusing erroneous translations? A bit, I guess. It's hard for us to go in and expect translators to catch all these errors before release when we ourselves only catch these errors like 4 months in with a hundred times more canon context than these scanlation groups did at the time of its release.

Still, there are plenty of harms that come with faulty translations.

When a translation is more divorced from the original's meaning than usual, it creates a dissonance between what is actually happening versus what the audience sees is happening. This looks like decently-written character arcs being overruled and rejected by most of the readers because of how 'jarring' and 'clumsy' it seems. By the time translators had caught on to the fact that Bakugou was more than just a ticking time bomb, we were already several steps into showing how significantly he cares for Deku.

The characters affected most by these translation errors are often those with the most subtle and well-written character arcs. A single mistake in how the source material is translated can make or break the international reception of a certain character to everyone who isn't invested enough in them to look deeper into the canon source.

It creates hiccups in plots. Things that seem out of character but really aren't. Going back to MHA in specific, the way that inaccurate translations hurt both the 'curatorial' and 'transformative' parts of the fandom is that people have begun to cite them as proof of the main cast's characterization.

Bakugou and Todoroki are undeniably some of the biggest examples of mistranslation injustices.

Katsuki, in a lot of people's minds, has yet to break out of the 'overly-aggressive rival' archetype box that people had been placing him in since Season 1. One of the most amazing aspects and biggest downfalls of Hori's writing was that at first, nearly every character fit into a very neat stereotype for Shonen Animes (Deku being the talking-no-jutsu sunshine MC, Uraraka being the overly bubbly main girl, Todoroki being the aloof and formal rival). He made the audience make assumptions about everyone's characters and then pulled the rug beneath our feet when he revealed deeper sides of them to play around within canon.

What made this part about Horikoshi's set-up so good though were the many clues we were given from the very beginning that these characters were more than what they acted like. Even from the very first chapters, for example, we learn that Katsuki (as much as he acts like a delinquent) dislikes smoking because it could get him in trouble.

That is just a single instance of MHA's use of dialogue to subtly divert our expectations of a character.

Another example is when they replaced 318's dialogue of the Second User saying that Katsuki "completes" Deku with him saying that Katsuki merely "bolsters" him. This presents a different situation, as that line was meant to reinforce the importance of those two's relationship as well as complete the character foils that MHA is partially centered around. By downplaying their developed connection, it becomes harder for the MHA manga scanlations to justify any future significance these two's words have on each other without mottling the pacing of the story.

AKA, it butchers the plot.

With every new volume, there are dozens and dozens more of these hints and bits scattered around! So many cues and subtle foreshadowing at the trajectory of everyone's character arcs--yet mistranslations or inaccurate scans make it so that we don't notice them. This is what I mean when I said that some character arcs are being done great injustices.

Until now, many people can't accept that Katsuki Bakugou cares for anyone other than himself (much less his rival and MC, Izuku Midoriya), nor can they accept that Todoroki would ever willingly work by Endeavor's side. The bottom-line then becomes that because of people missing heavy bits of characterization that become very plot-significant in the future.

When it comes to the point where people can no longer accept or fit their interpretation of the earlier manga events to what is happening in canon, the point of a translation fails completely because it has lead people to follow an entirely different story.

TL;DR - Fan scans are hard. Translating is hard. Don't get too mad at fan translations, but also maybe don't treat them as the catch-all for how characters truly operate. Thanks.

Side note: DO NOT harass FA for any of these things. FA is actually a pretty legit and okay source for scans (they've been operating since like 2014 ffs), but regardless of that they still don't deserve to get flack for their work. You can have any opinion or perspective of canon that you want, I don't care. These are just my two (more like two million tbh) cents on translations. I suggest reading takes from actual Japanese audiences tbh if you wanna know more about the source material of MHA. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

#IM SO SORRY MANG I RLLY WENT ON A RAMBLE FOR THIS #asks #mang #bnha #mha #my hero academia #boku no hero academia

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degrassi-fanatic · 4 years ago

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Window Sill

As Kakashi wanders through the streets of Konoha, absentmindedly flipping through the pages of Icha Icha Tactics, he hears children’s laughter ringing through the alleyways as a familiar brown and blue blur races right past him, towards the direction of the hospital.

Shaking his head, Kakashi laughs softly at their antics; Konohamaru really is just another Naruto.

And just like Naruto, he’s about to be beaten half an inch from death.

As he predicted, in the distance, Kakashi can hear Sakura-chan shout, followed by the loud crack of a chakra enhanced fist and the sounds of Konohamaru and his little gang of delinquents wailing in pain.

He’s about to sprint off towards the hospital to save the children from Sakura’s rage when he notices Ebisu’s already halfway there, shouting something like “Just because you can fix bones, Sakura-san, doesn’t mean you should break them.”

A wave of nostalgia washes over him. It only feels like yesterday when Kakashi had to be the one to stop Sakura from giving Naruto permanent brain damage from a grade 3 level concussion.

Speaking of the little punk, Kakashi senses his familiar chakra pattern not too far away.

Shutting his book, he turns around only to bump into the younger man, who seems to have been standing only a hair-breadth away from him. Naruto looks uncharacteristically nervous as he darts his eyes everywhere and anywhere that isn’t Kakashi’s own.

“Naruto.” he greets, as he takes a step back to put some space in between them.

“You were in ANBU, right, Kakashi-sensei?” Naruto asks out of the blue, wringing his hands out in front of him.

Dread begins to build up in the pit of his stomach.

There’s only one reason why Naruto would be so anxious asking about Kakashi’s time in the ANBU forces.

In his whole life, Kakashi had never expected for Naruto to figure him out. He had always operated under the assumption that Naruto was simply young enough for those memories to have disappeared as he grew older, or that his ANBU commissioned mask was enough to hide his identity, or that maybe Naruto would simply learn to let the matter go.

It goes without saying that he’s a fool for believing in that last one.

“Yes.” Kakashi answers back, a touch wary.

“Do you know who Hound is?”

The question confuses him to no end.

Why on Earth would Naruto ask Kakashi who Hound is? Was it some weird tactic to get him to tell the truth? Was it a last chance to own up to everything? Doesn’t Naruto know that Kakashi is…

That’s just it, Kakashi realizes, Naruto doesn’t know that he is Hound.

He doesn’t know that it was Kakashi, who up until Naruto had entered the Academy at the age of eight, had been spending every available night in between his ANBU mission with him.

“Hound?” he pretends to ponder as he tilts his head to the side, “Why do you care about him?”

Suddenly, Naruto drops his chin down to rest at his chest, his hands curling up into fists as his whole spine does ramrod straight.

He mutters something under his breath but it’s unintelligible, even to his heightened sense of hearing.

“Sorry?” Kakashi asks, as he leans in closer to listen.

“He used to take care of me.” Naruto mumbles out.

When Naruto was still only a baby, Kakashi remembers standing guard inside of his nursery. Sometimes, when he would wake up in a crying fit, Kakashi would either have to bottle-feed him milk or rock him back to sleep. Other times, the only thing that would soothe him would be the hushed stories Kakashi would whisper to him about his parents and all their feats.

Afterwards, when Naruto had begun to totter around, Kakashi remembers having to keep watch from the window. It worked well up until one day, when the boy had flung open his window in the middle of the night, giggling at the sight of a masked man outside of his bedroom. Naruto tugged and tugged at his arm, whining about wanting to play, until Kakashi had no choice but to climb inside.

The openness of his actions had made him worry because surely Naruto was old enough to understand that letting in a stranger was dangerous but, his worry was outweighed by the sheer amount of trust that was offered up to him when Naruto continued to open up his window for Kakashi.

Unfortunately, all of those nights spent playing with Naruto and his toys came to a screeching halt when the boy turned eight.

Naruto enrolled into the Academy, and Kakashi never bothered coming back to his window.

“He was the only person who— he was the only one beside the Sandaime, who used to hold me and play with me and… yeah.” Naruto explains, kicking at the ground, “He never talked, which was weird, but I guess that just made him a better listener.”

It felt like the Earth had stilled beneath Kakashi’s own two feet.

Kakashi was the only one to hold Naruto?

“The only one?”

All Kakashi gets in terms of a response is a shrug of his shoulders.

“Y’know, when I was little,” Naruto reminisces with a small grin, “He used to bring me toys from wherever he had his missions.”

It was Kakashi’s favourite thing in the whole wide world, seeing little Naruto’s reaction to all of the toys he had brought back for him; a physical reminder that no matter where he went or what he was doing, he was always thinking about Naruto.

His smile had been Kakashi’s only motivation when it came to staying alive.

Every night, Naruto would sit by his window sill, waiting in anticipation for Kakashi to come back from a mission. The two of them had even created their own special password and as soon as Naruto would hear that quick three-two-three knocking pattern, he would throw open the window for him.

A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

“Hound, he, um, he stopped coming by once I got into the Academy.” Naruto continues.

The phantom smile on Kakashi’s face vanishes as he fights back a flinch at the reminder of his actions.

“At first, I thought he was just caught up in a mission but then days became weeks, which became months, and soon a year went by and I realized that he was never going to come back.”

“Do you miss him?’ Kakashi asks quietly.

“If I’m being honest, I’m pretty pissed at him,” Naruto explains, clenching both his jaw and his fists, “He just left. He didn’t bother explaining why, and eight year old me just had to deal with it, deal with losing one of the only people in the world who cared about him.”

Blinking back tears, Kakashi cannot bear looking at Naruto right now, so he averts his gaze to the ground.

“I’m sure he had a good reason.” he lies.

“Yeah, well, no reason is good enough for me,” Naruto spits back, “So, if you can’t tell me who Hound is, can you at least tell him Naruto is still pissed after all these years?”

“I will.”

It seems as though Naruto has given up on his mission to find out who Hound is because weeks pass by without incident and without Naruto popping up to have any more startling conversations about the past.

Kakashi is really starting to believe that Naruto has finally learnt the art of letting go, only to be proven extremely wrong when he’s shoved up against a tree.

Naruto’s arm is pinning his shoulders against the harsh, splinter-y bark of the tree trunk, while his other arm goes to rest beside Kakashi’s head to maintain balance.

He’d commend Naruto on his improved sneak attack skills, if it weren’t for the fact that his precious, signed copy of Icha Icha Tactics is page-first in a pile of dirt. He’s a moment away from yelling some sense into that nonsensical head of Naruto’s when he notices the stream of tears dripping off of his jaw.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” he asks, his voice cracking, “I’ve been stalking you for two weeks because I desperately wanted to know Hound was, and you haven’t met up with anyone that could be him.”

It’s in that moment that he comes to the overwhelming realization that he needs to come clean; it’s either that or let Naruto experience more pain than necessary, and Kakashi will always do anything in his power to prevent the latter.

But, how do you tell one of the most precious people in your life, that you have deceived them?

“Naruto…”

“That’s the reason he stopped visiting,” Naruto says, gritting his teeth, “It’s because he was dead and no one thought to tell me and now I have to mourn someone I never really knew all because—”

“It’s me, Naruto,” he blurts out, “I’m Hound.”

For a minute or two, nothing happens as the anguish on Naruto’s face dissipates. He studies Kakashi’s own face, presumably for any signs of deception or lying.

Then, as if a whirlwind erupts from within him, Naruto grabs Kakashi by the collar, hauling him off the tree and throwing him onto the ground. Before Kakashi can scramble to get up, Naruto climbs over his body and wrenches his fist back behind him.

Within a second, he feels a burst of pressure at his jaw, followed by the unsettling clashing of his teeth in his own mouth. Faintly, he tastes metal and with some poking and prodding, he realizes he’s accidentally bit into his own cheek.

“You jerk!” Naruto cries as he slams his fists down into Kakashi’s chest, “Why didn’t you tell me! Why did you stop coming around! I used to cry myself to sleep because I thought you finally realized I was a demon!”

His punches grow weaker and weaker by the second until soon Naruto is collapsing atop of Kakashi, hiding his face in Kakashi’s neck like he used to when the other kids were being especially cruel that day.

“Hey, hey, shh,” he murmurs as he strokes the back of Naruto’s head, “ You did nothing wrong, okay?”

“Well, it felt like it.”

Kakashi’s chest caves in on itself.

Before he can say anything else, an explanation, an apology, anything, the warm weight atop of him is gone. He can only vaguely register Naruto mumbling out a shunshin no jutsu.

Soon, all he’s left with is a puff of smoke.

Days keep adding up until it’s been more than a week without Naruto giving Kakashi the time of day, and for once, it’s not because of the lack of trying on Kakashi’s part. In fact, he’s attempted all sorts of plans to get the man to even look at him.

He bought enough ramen from Ichiraku’s to last him a lifetime, he tried to entice him with promises of teaching him a new jutsu, he bought him a brand new orange jumpsuit, hell, he even swallowed his pride and tried to enlist Sakura’s help only for her to shake her head while softly telling him this was something he needed to do on his own.

It’s a complete mess and one he wishes he weren’t so concerned about cleaning up.

And he wouldn’t be, if it weren’t for the simple fact of the matter that Kakashi misses Naruto and he misses his company and his stupid ramen and his stupid orange jumpsuits.

Sulking as he strolls alongside the bank of the river, Kakashi kicks pebbles into the water while he thinks up various ways to get Naruto to talk to him.

Konohamaru could maybe help him out but, then again, he’d probably side with his big brother Naruto on the matter at hand. Perhaps, Sai or Gai could help, they seem level headed enough to come up with ideas that could work. Actually, Sai isn’t well versed in emotions and Gai would just say something about the Springtime of Youth. Tenzou, maybe…

While deep in thought on what to do, Kakashi doesn’t notice a person walking in front of him, until he barrels right into them. Before the person can fall into the river, Kakashi catches them by the wrists and drags them in close.

Looking down, he realizes it's Naruto that he's caught.

Once he’s made sure that Naruto is safe from losing his balance, Kakashi takes a step backwards. Awkwardly, he shoves both his hands into his pockets as he rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet.

“Thanks.” Naruto mumbles out, his cheeks burning.

For longer than he’d like to admit, Kakashi debates with himself on what he should say to the man in front of him.

“Y’know, you have to talk to me some time.”

Immediately, Kakashi cringes at the words leaving his mouth.

“You stopped talking to me for four years and were going to spend the rest of our lives lying about it.” Naruto accuses, the flush on his cheeks now being a result of anger rather than embarrassment.

His heart aches at the underlying pain he can hear in Naruto’s voice. Without thinking twice, Kakashi reaches out for Naruto’s arm.

“I’m sorry, if you’d let me explain—”

He’s cut off by Naruto knocking his hand away.

“I don’t need to know why you left,” Naruto says as he begins to walk away, “My brain can fill in the blanks.”

“Whatever you think my reasoning was,” Kakashi explains as he follows Naruto, “I promise you, it’s not.”

All of a sudden, Naruto stops in his tracks, only a few short steps away from reaching the dirt path back to the village. He whips around to glare at Kakashi, his eyes lighting up with fury as he raises an accusatory finger in Kakashi’s direction.

“Did you even want to be my sensei?” Naruto questions as he takes a step towards him, “Or were you disappointed when you realized the kid you ditched years ago was your student now?”

“I wanted to be your sensei.” he says earnestly, but it seems as though Naruto isn’t even listening to him.

“Why did you bother coming around if you were just going to leave?” Naruto snarks out as he shoves his finger into Kakashi’s chest, “Was it me? Did I drive you off?”

“No, just let me—”

Before he can get another word out, he watches as all of the ire and all of the incendiaries building up inside of Naruto fade away, only to be replaced with a bone-deep sense of weariness that should never be worn on the face of someone so young.

“You want to know something, Kakashi-sensei?” he asks, not looking for a real answer, “For the longest time, I used to wonder if you ever thought about me, if you saw potential in me or if you just saw me as a roadblock for Sasuke and Sakura’s success. I used to wonder if you even liked me.

“Now, I know my answer.”

How could Naruto think that? How could Kakashi let him think that?

For a second, it looks like Naruto is about to say something else but then he simply turns around and continues walking in the direction of the village.

Remaining where he is, Kakashi stands still as he stares at Naruto’s back.

“Minato-sensei and Kushina-san had just died.” he says, the name of his parents causing Naruto to halt, “Rin and Obito had died before that. My parents long before that.”

Twisting his neck to look over his shoulder, Naruto meets Kakashi’s eyes; a puzzled look on his face

“But, you were still alive.” he continues, “Up until you were eight, I could keep you safe. You weren’t a shinobi. You didn’t have to take orders from higher up. You didn’t have to go on suicide missions. You were okay.

“Then, you entered the Academy and suddenly, I couldn’t protect you anymore.” Kakashi croaks out as he scrunches his eyes closed, “I couldn’t face the possibility of losing you so, I left. Like a coward.”

Naruto doesn’t say anything else so Kakashi assumes that he’s already gone and left but then he feels a pair of arms hook around his shoulders and the telltale tickle of Naruto’s hair against the side of his face.

Letting out a ragged breath, Kakashi returns the embrace, fighting back the onslaught of tears in his eyes.

“Thank you for taking care of me.” Naruto murmurs into his ear.

“Thank you for not dying.”

#naruto #~fic~#uzumaki naruto #hatake kakashi #kakanaru #ish #only if you want it to be

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rjhpandapaws · 4 years ago

Text

Technical Difficulties

Ch 2: A Change in Luck

Three and a half months in and Daniel was still baffled as to how he had not only managed to land the accounting internship at AME, but keep it given his luck when it came to computers. He was an accountant, he had an understanding of computers; sort of; they just hated him. AME was almost entirely paperless. So given the fact that the intern terminal almost always had problems when he used it and the coffee machine in the break room had decided he was the devil; he was a little surprised he that he had been brought on as well. It wasn’t just computers if he was honest, he just wasn’t very technologically inclined. His phone was an older model, but he understood how it worked for the most part, and it hadn’t crashed yet so he hadn’t bought a new one. The issue was, that as an accountant there was an unspoken expectation that he understood computers. He didn’t. He could use the internet and more or less guess his way around a basic accounting program, but he had gone into this for the math. Given that AME was a science and technologies company, and Silas wrote all of their programs, the accounting software was not anything close to basic. Daniel felt like he was on the verge of drowning.

He honestly thought he was going to be let go within his first week after what happened with the coffee machine. Richard had said that Silas would be up to fix it when he had the time, and then recommended a cafe close to the office. He had treated it like something that happened every day. Silas had been thoroughly entertained. When the terminal had crashed on his shift the first time, he had thought that would be it. He was definitely done for this time. Richard had explained that three different people used the terminal and it was bound to happen eventually. Daniel had just been unlucky. Silas was up within the hour to fix the issue. He had been annoyed, more at the interruption than at Daniel it seemed. In the coming weeks he became familiar with the head of the IT department. He would email or call down whenever there was an issue that he couldn’t solve on his own. Silas would either walk him through it if it was an easy fix, or come up to fix it if it was a bigger issue. He always seemed a little frustrated, and Daniel always felt guilty even though he knew Silas wasn’t necessarily upset with him.

This was it, today was the day he would finally lose his internship. All he had done was log into the terminal then the screen went blue and it made a digital screech that was nearly painful. He might not have been the greatest when it came to computers, or even good really, but they knew they weren’t supposed to make that kind of noise. He had barely clocked in and it was already time to call Silas. He picked up his phone and dialed the extension for the labs since that’s where he normally was in the morning. He hoped that he wouldn’t wake him this time, Silas didn’t take too kindly to that. “You got Silas.” Came through after two or maybe three rings. “It’s Daniel.” He replied meekly and a quiet but sharp sigh came from the other end of the call. He flinched but continued, “The intern terminal blue screened and it’s making a god awful noise that I can’t get to stop.” Daniel heard something get set down, “I’ll be up in a few Daniel.” Silas hung up and Daniel looked back at the computer. He didn’t want to make things any worse so he made his way to the elevators. Maybe if he put some distance between himself and it the thing might decide to behave. He knew that wasn’t how computers worked, but he could hope. It was probably his last day here anyway, it wasn’t like things could get any worse.

Should he have stayed at the desk? Gotten his things together maybe? There was no way he was going to be keeping the internship after this. Richard had been understanding so far, but even he had to have his limits. Speaking of limits, Silas was probably at his when it came to Daniel. The elevator chimed and brought him out of his head. Silas stepped out of the elevator pushing a cart in front of him. When he saw Daniel he gave a friendly smile. He was definitely getting terminated. “Hey Daniel.” He greeted lightly, “Wanna take me to the problem child? I’ll see if I can fix it up here without having to take it apart, then you’ll be good to go. No worries, okay?” He was definitely all worries at the moment, but he found himself agreeing anyway. “Alright.” He said and tried his best to keep those same worries out of his voice, “I know I break things pretty badly a lot of the time, so I’m sorry about that.” “I don’t think this one is your fault.” Silas said as he walked with Daniel back to the bullpen, “You aren’t the only one that uses that terminal. You were just unlucky today. Just like with the coffee machine.” Daniel let out an embarrassed laugh. That had been one of his worst first impressions yet, “Oh god, don’t remind me.”

“We had a good laugh about it though.” Silas said and Daniel could hear the smile in his voice. When they got back to what was his desk in the morning there was white writing on the deep blue screen. That had not been there when he had left and he had no idea what it meant. He was relatively sure that it wasn’t anything good though. He was definitely going to lose this internship before the day was out. He was certain of that now. It had been good while it lasted, but it was time to concede that a tech company was not the place for him. “The writing wasn’t there when I left.” Daniel was on the verge of panicking again, “That’s pretty bad isn’t it?” He heard Silas sigh. It was that same annoyed sharp sound from the phone and Daniel withered a little. He was done for, “Yeah. I’m going to have to take it apart and see what the issue is.” He moved to start disconnecting the terminal from the monitor and the wall, “”It’s gonna take me a few days probably. Is there anything you can do here while the computer is down?” Get fired, he thought bitterly. “Paperwork I suppose.” He said as he moved out of Silas’s way, “I’d have to see if there is anything backed up. If not there won’t be anything for the interns to do.”

“How would you like to learn about computers?” Silas asked once he finished situating the computer on the cart and stood, “If Richard says it’s okay of course.” “That sounds interesting.” Daniel liked the idea, but he was wary. It wasn’t like this could make him any worse with computers, “Maybe I won’t have as many issues with them then.” That was of course operating under the assumption that he hadn’t lost the internship. “Just talk to Richard.” He said as he pulled the cart away from the desk. “Then if you’re able to, come down to floor six. I might have this taken apart by then, so I’ll see you in a bit.” Daniel nodded absently. Talking to Richard was the thing that he was dreading the most. His luck, if it could be called that, with him had to be running out by now. He had unintentionally messed so many things up by now that he had to be on thin ice. People were only so forgiving. This was a big company and there was no doubt that they could find someone better. He was still confused as to why Richard had picked him at all. He took a deep breath to find something that could pass as collected if he tried hard enough, and made his way to Richard’s office. This was the moment of truth. He would either be packing his things or going down to see Silas.

He hesitated outside of the door. Was he was ready for this? Richard was overly rational to the point of being a little too blunt. Did he want to face that on top of the possibility of losing his internship? When it came down to it, did he really have a choice? He made a last ditch effort to compose himself and then knocked. “Come in.” Richard said after a moment. Daniel opened the door and stepped inside, there was nothing else he could do. He closed it quietly behind him. Richard looked up and several things passed through his eyes though his expression was still carefully neutral. The concern that came to rest in his eyes didn’t do anything to help his anxiety. If anything, see it so blatantly made things worse. “Daniel is everything okay?” Richard asked as he set aside what he was working on. He leaned back against the office door and then the floodgates opened. “I didn’t mean to. I logged in then it went blue - and - and it started screaming.” Daniel was distantly aware that he was in tears and that it wasn’t professional to cry in front of your boss. He liked this place though and he wasn’t ready to lose the internship, “I called Silas and he said he could probably fix it. I don’t know what I did to it, but please don’t fire me.” “Hey, breathe.” Richard said with a gentle sternness to his voice, “Computers break all of the time. It’s nothing to get fired over Daniel.”

Daniel nodded and scrambled to get himself together, “I’ve just - it’s - everything I touch here seems to break.” “That’s how technology is sometimes.” Richard replied in that same tone, it was comforting, “It breaks. That computer was giving us trouble for a while even before you were brought on. It would be unfair to fire you just because you happened to be the one who was logged in when it decided to finally quit.” Daniel nodded and wiped his eyes with the sleeves of his sweater. It was a bad habit that he still carried with him from when he was a kid, “Is there anything I can do until it’s back up?” “The paperwork is all caught up. Echo finished the last of it yesterday.” He said, “So the day is yours. If you want to head home and decompress I don’t blame you.” Richard leaned onto his desk, “You’re good at what you do Daniel. So don’t worry, alright?” “Right.” Daniel agreed, “Okay. I’m sorry about... this.” “You’re alright Daniel. Take tomorrow as well since there’s nothing to do until the computer is back up.” His panic came back almost full force at that, “I’ll let the other interns know too. Maybe you guys could do something together.” Daniel flinched internally at that idea, “Maybe.”

He stopped on his way to the elevators to clock out. He should have been relieved; but what he was feeling in the wake of his panic attack was the emotional equivalent of tv static. Learning what was wrong with the computer would help him to feel less guilty. He just wasn’t sure he was ready to spend who knows how long around another person. It would be rude to leave him hanging though, so with a deep breath he hit the call button. He was blissfully alone on his ride down to the sixth floor. Daniel hadn’t really interacted with his coworkers, even the ones in his department, so he was glad for the empty elevator. His luck had made him rather familiar with the IT department. Namely Silas and Josh; he didn’t know who the two lab techs were and the thought of meeting one or both of them made his stomach turn unpleasantly. Maybe spending the rest of the day in the lab wasn’t the best Idea. Daniel shook that thought away as the elevator doors opened. He was met with the sudden sound of loud techno metal music. Something he hadn’t been ready for, but wasn’t all that surprised to learn that Silas listened to. He was leaned against a table with what Daniel assumed were computer parts scattered over it and he was bobbing his head to the music as he looked over something on the tablet he was holding.

Silas looked like he was about to jump out of his skin when Daniel approached. “Holy fuck.” He breathed, then continued once he had collected himself, “I was busy. I didn’t hear you come in, sorry about that.” “Sorry for scaring you.” He replied as he looked over the table. The sudden silence was almost jarring when Silas finally paused the music, “What were you working on?” “Product specs.” Silas replied, and he looked excited if Daniel had to pick a word, “I can’t show you unfortunately because it’s got private information.” He had said it with a shrug but almost sounded disappointed, “I figured I could get more work done while I waited. Your department is all caught up?” Daniel gave a nod as he came to lean against the table beside Silas, “Yesterday’s intern apparently did the last of it. So I’m free until the computer is back to normal.” Silas glanced at the screen that was at the end of the table. There was a loading progress bar on it, though Daniel had no idea what it was for. Silas seemed to understand it just fine though, “We’ve still got about a ten minute wait.” Daniel didn’t know how he gathered that from the progress bar, but he was impressed. Silas continued, “Is there anything you want to do to pass the time?”

“Talk, I guess. There isn’t much else for us to do.” He replied, “Do you enjoy doing all of this? It seems like a lot of work for just four people.” “It’s definitely a lot of work, but it’s worth it.” Silas said with a slight shrug, but the smile from before was back, “As far as liking it, that really depends on the day. The days I’m not able to get anything else done, not so much; but on the days I’m able to get more research done are pretty nice.” “So you don’t like IT work all that much?” He found himself asking, “Why do it then?” “Because I do actually like it, and I’m good at it.” He replied a little dryly, “It’s what got me through college. What about you, why accounting?” “I like working with numbers.” He started, “They are like little puzzles for me to solve, which is fun. It’s simple most days, but technology tends to give me trouble and that makes things difficult.” Silas gave him a friendly smile, “Let’s see about fixing that last part.” He said, “On the days you have time, I can teach you about computers. Then maybe you’ll have better luck with them.” Daniel liked that idea, after all, it wasn’t like his luck could get any worse when it came to computers, “Only if you have the time. You have a lot to do already.” “We can start with this little problem child.” Silas said as he moved to get to work, “You can even come over here to see what I’m working on if you would like.”

Daniel joined him on the fair side of the table. Silas spent hours explaining the parts and what they do to him. He watched Silas slowly slip into his element and Daniel found himself pulled in. He didn’t know what he had done to get Silas to thank him, but apparently rattling things off to Daniel had helped him solve the problem. He even explained the process to Daniel as he fixed it. He asked questions and Silas answered them. Talking to Silas was easy and Daniel found himself hoping they could do this more often. He sat down and rested his head on his arms, content to listen to him for the rest of the night.

#A Guide to Bad Business Practices #A Guide to Bad Business Practices AU #AGBBP #Technical Difficulties #TD #Daniel60 #daniel x sixty #dbh Daniel #dbh Sixty #dbh fic #dbh

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goodlucktai · 5 years ago

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i’ll find a ring if you’ll find a shaded tree

good omens pairing: aziraphale/crowley word count: 3203

read on ao3

There were plenty of ways Crowley might have imagined his afternoon going, if he had spared the idea any mind. It’s miserable out, the sky sponged gray all the way across with heaving rain clouds, so one could safely assume it would be an afternoon spent largely in the warm indoors until his dinner date with an angel later in the evening.

This assumption, if made at all, would be markedly dashed (pointedly, even, with a fat red marker and a pair of eyebrows raised above the clipboard as if to say ‘you really thought you’d get away with a quiet day in?’) by said angel himself.

The door jumps open, locked at all times but never at all for Aziraphale, and then closes again with two identical slams. There’s a brief stutter to Aziraphale’s hurried steps as he presumably tries to adhere to politeness and toe off his brogues in the foyer without losing any forward momentum.

“Crowley! I’ve been calling you, your stupid answer-thing is full!”

In the time it takes Crowley to sit up from his boneless sprawl on the sofa, Aziraphale is there in all his pale creams and butter yellows, as well as a criminally soft dove gray sweater vest Crowley gifted him four Christmases ago.

He’s lovely, as always, and there’s a happy, squirmy little creature in Crowley’s chest stirred to life by his voice and proximity alone; but he’s wearing a look of wide-eyed panic better suited a man at the wrong end of a firing squad, and working furiously at the signet ring that’s adorned his pinky since the actual beginning of time.

“Angel? What’s-- “ Crowley seizes up in some alarm when the angel keeps coming, piling onto the sofa with such disregard that Crowley has to either yank his knees up to his chest or lose them. “Oi!”

“Give me your hand,” Aziraphale whispers furiously, like a man afraid to be caught speaking in church. He catches hold of Crowley’s wrist, pushes the ring onto the traditional finger, and goes on, “Do exactly as I say, and for the love of all that’s holy, don’t ask questions.”

There is absolutely no way Crowley can abide these terms. If the threat of Falling wasn’t enough to keep his mouth shut in the Beginning, an Aziraphale-brand snit certainly won’t be, so-- just as soon as Crowley can get his jaw to stop hanging open, and kick his backfiring brain back into operating speeds, and do anything besides sit there and ogle Aziraphale’s ring on Crowley’s finger-- then there are absolutely going to be questions. Loads of them.

However, beating him to the punch, is the flashbang arrival of an Archangel.

Gabriel, to be precise.

Aziraphale tenses. Crowley’s hackles go up in as textbook a Pavlovian response as there’s ever been.

He feels his skin spring to scale, sharp canines lengthening, and the way the room swims into fuzzy, heat-based vision means his eyes have probably gone all yellow, too.

‘And die already,’ Gabriel had said, to Aziraphale’s precious form. ‘Die already,’ like it was the last revision on an audit report and then he could clock out for the day and call it a job well done.

For what he would have easily-- casually-- taken from Crowley, there isn’t an end in sight to this wounded rage.

“Alright, dearest,” Aziraphale murmurs, putting a hand on the small of Crowley’s back. It’s so quiet there’s a good chance Gabriel can’t hear, and even with the thrum of nervous tension in every inch of Aziraphale’s corporeal form, he spares Crowley something soft. “It’s alright.”

“So this is where you’ve run off to,” Gabriel says, looking about in open distaste. “Who decorated this place, anyway? I love the empty space, don’t think I like the color.”

It’s the light pressure of Aziraphale’s hand on him keeping Crowley pinned to the sofa, and only that. He’s as good as chiseled from stone, mouth open only slightly to track Gabriel’s scent, to show off his teeth.

(He does make a mental note to change everything about the flat Gabriel even halfway approves of. No, scratch that, he’s starting over completely. He’s moving to Chelsea. Fuck you, onion eyes.)

“Well, I had to see it for myself,” the unwelcome creature goes on cheerfully. “Not that we didn’t believe you, Aziraphale, just that-- well, you’ve fudged the truth a bit before, haven’t you? No, don’t look like that, it’s forgotten!” He waves a hand over his shoulder, carelessly. “Let’s leave the past in the past, or whatever it is they say, I don’t know. And with Her approval, there’s not much room for argument from me is there?”

He laughs, inviting them to share in the joke. Aziraphale doesn’t even smile, and Crowley is actively waiting for Gabriel to come two steps forward and one to the right, where he would be just out of the way of the coffee table and well within striking distance. Aziraphale’s fingers bunch in the back of Crowley’s shirt as if to say ‘don’t you dare’.

“To think, we assumed you were fraternizing with the enemy all this time when you’ve actually been in love! There’s nothing wrong with love, is there? That’s as holy as it gets!” He sounds like a kindergartner describing their parent’s job exactly as it was described to them, with all the confidence and faculty of someone who has no idea what the words coming out of their mouth even mean. He either has no clue how to read a room or he’s bluffing his way through this uncomfortable situation like a pro. Clapping his hands together in a self-satisfied way he adds, “Make sure you save us a table!”

“It’s going to be a private affair, I should think,” Aziraphale says stiffly. “Close friends and family only.”

“Probably better that way, not too crowded,” Gabriel agrees with a commiserating nod. It’s as if Aziraphale slammed a door right in his face and he just chose not to notice. He turns to leave, and pauses, turning his hat in his hands. “I have to say, Aziraphale, I really am relieved this whole thing got straightened out. I thought you had lost your way.”

It’s an unexpected moment of sincerity. Aziraphale blinks, but Crowley isn’t so easily won.

“After six thousand years of making his life a misery, you want to extend the olive branch now? Now that you know he won’t drag you down with him?” Crowley bares his teeth. “How’s that for unconditional love?”

If a single lunch date at the Ritz watching Aziraphale eat both his and Crowley’s own vanilla custard and listening to him complain about some obstinate customer or another would cost Crowley absolutely everything, he would pay it. He would be a fool not to pay it. He can’t imagine the audacity of six thousand years wasted. All that time, all those angels were free to know Aziraphale, free to love him, and they chose not to.

As happy as Crowley is to fill that space, to take that spot, he’s angry it was ever left empty to begin with.

Gabriel is watching him with an expression that can’t decide whether it’s more startled or annoyed. Aziraphale’s free hand finds one of Crowley’s, working it free of its fist and threading their fingers together. His thumb rubs at the patch of shining black scales just under his knuckles, soothing. It’s as if he’s loosing plates of Crowley’s armor one by one, the way he did in Wessex once after a round in the tiltyard. He doesn’t speak but his body says hush.

Crowley bites the inside of his lip, so hard it almost draws blood.

“She said we could stand to learn a thing or two from you,” Gabriel says. It’s not so much annoyance as it is scrutiny, but that rankles even more. “I wasn’t sure what She meant before, but it’s love isn’t it?” He says it again like an animal mimicking a human word. The sound is almost right, except in its lacking of all meaning. “Demons aren’t supposed to know it, but you do.”

“Well, look at the time,” Aziraphale says loudly, not even pretending to look round at a clock or Crowley’s watch. “I can’t believe we’re nearly late for our appointment. I guess you’d better go, Gabriel.”

Gabriel lights up with the manic eagerness of upper management that every hourly employee knows to dread. “Would you mind giving a seminar? We could arrange a day-pass for you, and cater lunch! Aziraphale would like that, I’m sure. Just look at him.”

Aziraphale doesn’t react, but it’s a studied non-reaction that means the barb hit home. Oh, that complete and utter git.

Gabriel takes two steps forward and one to the right. Crowley watches with animal stillness as the archangel rounds the coffee table, saying something about PowerPoint presentations. He’s going to bite. One good snap. It’s Gabriel’s fault for coming over this way. You don’t just invite yourself into the snake’s den, do you? Not without a nasty repercussion, at least. And besides, Crowley’s not even venomous today. Probably.

At the last second, Aziraphale bullies him back against the sofa with angelic strength, an arm pinned across Crowley’s chest like an iron bar and his own body blocking access to Gabriel’s. Crowley hisses at him and pushes ineffectively at the solid weight of him, but he might as well have been pushing at the side of the bookshop for all the good he was doing.

“I really think,” Aziraphale grits out in the ‘we are very much closed for the day, no more sales I’m afraid, please make your way to the exit’ tone Crowley is intimately familiar with, “that you should leave now.”

“Al-right,” Gabriel says in his obnoxious accent. He looks disappointed, but bounces back too quickly for Crowley’s taste. “I’ll get back to you on that seminar. Maybe we can chat at the wedding!”

Aziraphale only sits up when Gabriel is well and truly gone, straightening his vest with unhappy tugs. Crowley remains coiled against the arm of the sofa, seething.

“Should have let me take off his arm, ” he mutters. “A hand at least.”

“It’s simply not worth the paperwork, my dear.”

Something’s wrong with Aziraphale’s voice. It wobbles a bit, in a way that sends alarm bells ringing in every square inch of Crowley’s form, and when Crowley leans forward to get a good look at him, sure enough-- there are tears in his eyes.

The anger deserts Crowley as deftly as the light of the Host once did. Color returns to his vision, fangs retracting back into only slightly sharper-than-human canines, and the hands he reaches for Aziraphale with are smooth and scaleless.

“Angel,” he says hopelessly. “Hey, I’m sorry. I won’t bite anybody, swear.”

Aziraphale chuckles a bit, accepting the hands that curl around his own and squeezing Crowley’s fingers in turn.

“It’s not you who needs to apologize. I can’t believe I’ve done this.”

“The wedding sham?”

True, Crowley’s heart knocks a little harder against his chest than it has any right to at the idea of-- marrying Aziraphale, being married to him. There’s a ring on his finger and he can’t even think about that without a giddy, champagne-bubbles feeling making a nuisance of itself in the unguarded part of himself that’s been a lost cause since Eden. But…

Aziraphale nods, miserable. “They came to the bookshop to offer a performance review. A performance review, of all things, after a year-- anyway. Naturally, they want to know how we escaped their judgement, and all those clever lies we thought up just weren’t doing the trick, and Sandalphon started talking about going round to yours, and I-- panicked. I couldn’t let him-- “ He takes a fortifying breath, grip on Crowley’s hands tightening to the point that a mortal’s bones would have broken. “I made up some fanciful story about a union. I believe I called it a marriage of true minds,” he adds with a half-smile, and seems galvanized at Crowley’s amused snort. “Michael tried to call my bluff, had me sign the form and submit it right there with the four of them as witnesses, and…”

“And it worked,” Crowley surmises. He taps the back of Aziraphale’s hand with his thumb and tries not to think about ineffable plans or inscrutable mothers. He almost manages it.

“I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale whispers. “I knew it would work, I knew it would. I’ve known for… a long time. Since Hamlet, at least.”

Crowley feels himself go red, and abruptly can’t make eye contact anymore. It’s really quite something, to suddenly have to address the elephant that’s followed you room to room for roughly four hundred years. He gives a tentative tug at his hands, and Aziraphale absolutely does not release him.

“Please look at me, Crowley.”

He almost can’t. He certainly doesn’t want to. He’s babbling, he realizes with vague horror, saying something along the lines of, “It’s a human thing, Aziraphale, they made it up back when people first decided they needed heirs to inherit houses, you were there, we tried to talk them out of it.”

Lunch dates at the Ritz. Picnics in the park. Warm evenings in the back room, dozing under piles of worn quilts on a worn tartan sofa, the hearth left empty because fire in the bookshop makes Crowley twitch and Aziraphale can read him like any one of his precious books. Sharing chilled white wines and heady reds, cherry cordials that leave smudges on Aziraphale’s lips, thousands and thousands of years of stories they both remember a little bit differently.

It’s good. Better than Crowley knows how to ask for. He can’t stand the thought of losing it.

Fingers touch his chin, gently, and guide his face up.

“And furthermore,” Crowley insists hysterically, “it doesn’t have to change anything. You were clever to come up with it, and if it worked that’s even better, and we can just go through the motions, an addendum to our Arrangement. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

Aziraphale says, “My darling, it means everything. Of course it does. Only this isn’t how I wanted it to go.”

His voice is tinged with tears again, but they seem borne of frustration rather than hurt. Crowley risks a nervous glance at him, heart surging up hopefully like some sort of stupid buoy.

“I wanted to do it properly,” Aziraphale is saying, brow furrowed, mouth all puckered. “You deserve champagne and flowers, all that fuss you pretend to hate. I see you get all misty-eyed at proposals, even ones on television commercials.” Crowley squawks, outraged at the flagrant slander, but Aziraphale goes right on, “There’s a meteor shower coming up that’s supposed to be the event of the century, and I had-- it was, I had everything planned. Your ring isn’t even ready yet. This is all horrible.”

Crowley stares at him. He thinks maybe he’s supposed to say something into this silence, but for the life of him, he’s got nothing. Aziraphale’s ring seems to burn on his finger. After the seconds melt into minutes, Aziraphale looks at him. His expression recycles its defeat into concern.

“Crowley? Sweetheart, what is it?”

The endearment sends a shiver all the way down Crowley’s spine. He opens and closes his hands like lobster pincers, to be certain he’s not gone actually paralyzed, and still Aziraphale doesn’t let them go.

“You said,” he says intelligently, and then doesn’t know where to go from there. “It wasn’t a lie?” he tries again, in a rather small voice.

“The marriage?” Aziraphale searches his face in the manner of a grad student desperately searching the footnotes of an incomprehensible text. “Of course it wasn’t. A fake marriage certificate would hardly have been approved by God.”

Crowley tries to say something and only manages to come up with a squeaking sound. Somehow, it betrays him entirely, and Aziraphale’s eyebrows come together.

“The proposal is meant to be a surprise, but I would have hoped we were on the same page with the engagement.”

Before he can make sense of literally any one thing about this situation, brain still struggling to jump the hurdle of the word ‘engagement’ in regards to them, Crowley finds himself so wholly embraced that he’s practically hauled into Aziraphale’s lap.

He sputters, puts up a token protest, and goes absolutely pliant when he feels lips against the crown of his head.

A halo used to rest there, shining like anything, but a kiss is much better.

They’ve kissed before, when it was culturally appropriate and even a few times when it wasn’t, but something is different about this time. Namely, that Aziraphale kisses him again, on the forehead this time, and then again on the bridge of his nose, and then again on the cheek, and then again right on the corner of his mouth, and Crowley is almost ready for it when their lips slide together, his breath almost doesn’t hitch when Aziraphale kisses him like they do in romance films, like he means to never stop.

They part because Crowley’s lungs have forgotten they don’t actually need air and because Aziraphale seems to want to gaze at him.

“I know I’ve said it before,” he says. “I know you heard me.”

‘They’ll destroy you.’

‘That was very kind of you.’

‘I won’t have you risking your life.’

‘I forgive you.’

‘To the world.’

“I heard you,” Crowley says, because he did.

He always heard Aziraphale, even when Aziraphale had no clue he was calling out. He heard ‘oh, you silly idiot’ and ‘you’re not as funny as you think you are’ and ‘please come in, please convince me to let you stay’ in a sidelong glare or the roll of his eyes or the downward turn of his mouth when they stood by the shop door.

And every lunch date at the Ritz and picnic in the park and evening in the back room was stuffed full of ‘I love you’s. A tartan quilt and an unlit fireplace and a cherry cordial, passed from an angel’s fingers to a demon’s mouth, were quiet, secret ways to say what it wasn’t always safe to say.

“Me, too,” he whispers.

“My Crowley,” Aziraphale says affectionately, another way of saying what he’s been saying for years, “I know.”

Desperately trying to get his footing back, Crowley rubs at his eyes with the heel of his hand and sits back as far as Aziraphale’s arms will allow him to go.

“I still want that proposal,” he informs the angel. “During the meteor shower. With all the fuss you promised. I’ll be sure to act surprised.”

Aziraphale smiles at him. “You can’t act to save your life. I see right through you, you know.”

But that’s hardly Crowley’s fault. Six thousand years of being known would give away anybody’s edge. He rolls his eyes, and settles into where he’s obviously meant to stay for awhile, looping his arms around Aziraphale’s neck.

“The act is for everyone else’s benefit, angel. We know better, don’t we?” Crowley grins, crooked, and thinks of apples and flaming swords, freely given. “We always have.”

#good omens #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #aziraphale #anthony j crowley #my writing #gomens fic #its 1am and i have no regrets #im invincible

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cpd5021 · 5 years ago

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Crossing Lines - Chapter Two

Thank you to everyone on the positive feedback for this new story line, I look forward to sharing the rest of it with you! Also, a special thanks to the Let’s Talk About Upstead group chat for giving me ideas, inspiration, and always tolerating my random questions.

Note: Also, I thought I should mention, the only episode I have seen of FBI is Hailey’s so I’m just kind of winging it on writing OA and his story line...

It was Friday. I was officially done with my first week here in New York. Under different circumstances, this little stint might not have been so bad. I might have even found the change of pace momentarily enjoyable. But this wasn’t a vacation, this was a punishment and that much was painfully obvious every day that passed. Although, to be fair, maybe that was just my interpretation because the entire unit here had been nothing but welcoming and helped me to settle in quickly. My partner, OA, was a stark contrast to Jay. Much of New York was a stark contrast to what I was used to. Here, at least in the task force, it was more pant suits and policies over the knitty gritty police work I was used to back home. Home, Chicago....every single time it popped into my head I found myself swallowing down the now all too familiar burn in my throat. The first two days here had been a whirlwind of activity, we caught a case immediately and I was thankful for the distraction. I was met with late nights and early mornings as we worked to wrap up the case. One thing that was nice was the nearly unlimited resources the FBI had to gain information on their targets, it sped up the process greatly. Unfortunately, it made it a little too quick and my source of distraction was quickly resolved. My third day had been painfully slow. OA had walked me through filling out the necessary paperwork after we wrapped up the case and that had taken me all of two hours in the morning, leaving the rest of the afternoon to drag on. OA, bless him, had tried to break the lull by lingering by my borrowed desk, making a valid attempt at small talk. But my less than enthusiastic participation had finally led him to give up. He left me to my own devices yesterday, save for the necessary communication needed to aid in our next task, helping a local department with a small sex trafficking ring located in the Bronx. Today, he had gotten more pushy and quite frankly, called me out on my bullshit. I felt a small hint of a smirk tug at my mouth as I recalled this morning's events.

“Here is a coffee, cream and sugar on the side because I’m not sure how you take it. Yet. Note the yet, because I fully intend on learning how you take your coffee as that’s what good partners do. I take mine with two creams, jot that down.”

My new partner finished his speech, nodding to the pad of paper on my desk before handing me the second cup of coffee. I looked up at him, eyebrows slightly raised, trying to figure out if this was his form of teasing or if he was just a pompous jerk. The smile in his eyes told me my first impression was correct. I returned his smile and nodded my thanks as I took the coffee from him. He sipped his, glancing at me from the corner of his eyes and looking satisfied with himself that I had at least taken the coffee. We headed to roll call then, another slightly unfamiliar habit of the task force. We didn’t do morning meetings in Intelligence unless there was something to, well, meet over. Although the hustle and bustle of New York kept them plenty busy and they always had something to go over. After roll call, we were sent down to the district courthouse to subpoena some records for a case we had picked up.

“Don’t you guys have people for this?”

I tried to break the silence that had lingered over us on our way to the courthouse. I knew I had been harsh the first few days as I was trying to come to terms with everything, but I also realized that it wasn’t in any way his fault I was here.

“And here I thought cops did most of the leg work. You’re telling me you have people for this?”

He challenged, glancing over at me with a smirk on his face. I returned his look, happy to have somewhat broken the tension between us.

“No, but you’re the FBI. Aren’t you supposed to have someone for everything?”

He laughed wholeheartedly then, a sound I hadn’t yet heard. It was loud, booming out of his large build, but it was also slightly contagious and I found myself chuckling along beside him.

“As a matter of fact, we do have people for this. But I asked if we could do it, get out of the office for a bit to give you a breather. It seems like it's been a rough week for you.”

His straightforwardness threw me off a bit as it was usually me being the one to be so blunt. I tilted my head a little as I looked out the window, considering how to proceed with the conversation. Straightforward as I may be, tiptoeing around my own thoughts and feelings was something I was a little too good at.

“It was a bit of a surprise coming here to be honest with you.”

I looked over at him, trying to get a read, but he was still too new to me to be confident in my assessment. He nodded in understanding and I found myself wondering what this task force had been told about me beforehand.

“So you didn’t sign up for this detail?”

OA asked after a minute, coming to the conclusion I wasn’t going to elaborate further without being pushed.

“No. My boss just picked me to come.”

It wasn’t a total lie, he had been the one to pick me. I was just leaving out a few crucial details.

“What did you do?”

His question had my defenses rising up at a rapid pace, his words unknowingly echoing what Jay had said to me the night before I left. The thought had me swallowing hard as once again my throat burned. I felt a pang of pain at the thought of Jay, the way he had ended our conversation, how he had just walked away from me without so much as a second look. I had considered reaching out to him, my first night here all I wanted to do was meet him for a beer and do ‘our thing’ but that wasn’t an option as I was hundreds of miles away. To be honest, I’m not sure that will ever be an option again. I snapped out of it, realizing I had been lost in thought and he was waiting for me to reply.

“What makes you think I did anything?”

I shot him a look, trying to keep myself composed. I knew he didn’t mean any harm with his question, he seemed like the type who just liked to know about his partner, what made them tick, and currently, that was me.

“In my experience, one doesn’t get sent out of an elite unit without asking...without there being a cause. Unless your sergeant was trying to show off by sending his best detective. But from what I know about Hank Voight, he doesn’t seem like one to boast.”

He continued to throw me off each time he spoke and before I could stop myself I was rambling off my response.

“What do you know about Voight? Or why do you know about Voight? And I’m definitely not the best in the unit...”

I tacked on the end, feeling suddenly self conscious at his assumption. I felt another pang in my chest as I considered who I would list as the best in the unit.

“I do my homework. When they told me I was getting a partner from Chicago, I wanted to see what I was up against. And you didn’t answer my first question...what did you do that got you sent here?”

Again with the straightforwardness. I was rarely on the receiving end of it and it was making me up my game.

“He just thought it would be a good experience for me.”

I told the half truth again. Those hadn’t been Voight’s exact words, but I knew the intention was there.

“Okay then, I’ll just have to guess. Did you blow a UC operation? Lose a stash of drugs? Oh, forbidden office romance gone wrong?”

His tone was teasing but his last option struck a nerve within me. I stared out the window as he continued to drive, taking in the towering structures surrounding us.

“I’m very good at UC work, too organized to lose drugs, and nothing good comes from workplace romances so I avoid those at all costs.”

I glanced over to him and saw that this time my words had struck a chord in him, his grip on the steering wheel tightened and he nodded before we both fell into another silence. We returned to the office, dropping off the records we had picked up and returning to our respective desks. I pulled out my phone, letting out a sigh when I saw that it was once again empty from any messages or missed calls. I opened up my texting app, scrolling down to Jay’s feed and let my thumb hover over his name, wondering if I should reach out. I desperately wanted to talk to him, even if it was just some small talk. I wanted to know that Jay, my partner, my best friend, would be there when I got back and that I hadn’t inadvertently destroyed our relationship. Before I could muster up the courage to type out a message, OA was walking past my desk informing me we needed to roll on something. We spent the rest of the day working the case before handing it off to another unit within the force.

Now, I sat in my hotel room, having freshly showered and changed into some baggy sweats. I was laying on the bed, propped up against my headboard and debating what to order for dinner when my phone buzzed from it’s spot on the nightstand. I snatched it up and felt my pulse increase when I saw who the text was from.

“How’s New York?”

I couldn’t get a read on Jay’s tone from his three word question, it was probably pointless to try through text anyways, but at least he had text. I scrambled to come up with a reply, my mind drawing a blank as all I could picture was our last meeting before I left.

“It’s...not bad. I guess. Busy?”

I let out a breath, waiting for his reply. I just wanted to hear his voice.

“Not really.”

Came his quick reply. I took a deep breath before hitting the call button on my phone and hoping this wasn’t an awful idea.

“Yo.”

My heart stopped for a second when I heard his voice float through the phone, despite his short greeting.

“Hey Jay...”

I all but whispered into the phone, my throat suddenly burning more than ever. I wished I was back home and could be standing in front of him, but for now this would have to do.

“How are you?”

I let out an emotionless chuckle at his question, unsure if he was just making small talk or if he wanted a deeper answer. I decided to play it lightly at first, test the waters.

“Okay. You?”

I returned his question, hating the way my voice broke slightly with pent up emotion.

“Okay.”

His tone was cool, not quite standoffish, but certainly not the warm calm one I was used to.

“That’s good.”

I could feel my heart breaking with each exchange of this conversation. He had changed, or rather his response to me had changed. Our close knit bond, the thing that works between us, felt more distant than ever.

“Yep. Did you need something Hailey?”

His coldness shattered me and I found myself blinking back tears.

“No...I’ll let you go. Sorry.” I breathed out my response, knowing my voice would give me away if I spoke any louder. Before he could reply I hung up the phone, tossing it onto the bed beside me as the tears began to flow freely down my face. I decided on skipping dinner and reached to shut the lamp off beside me, blinking into the darkness as I fought back the waves of emotion threatening to overcome me.

I spent all of Saturday and most of Sunday in bed. I ignored the knocks from housekeeping and my only venture out was to raid the vending machine down the hall. I had been trying to tell myself to stay positive the first week, just keep my head down, stay within the lines, and get through this as quickly as possible. Now, as my alarm sounded beside me, I had lost all motivation to do much of anything. I forced myself out of bed, dragging myself into the bathroom to get ready for the day, only picking up my pace when I noticed that I was on the verge of being late. I walked into the office, forcing myself to return the smiles sent my way but knowing the smile never reached my eyes. I was once again numb and I was fully content with that fact. I was done with the anger and the pain that life had sent my way so I found the numbness a gentle relief from all of it. I had turned myself on autopilot, giving the appropriate responses when needed, contributing to conversations when it was unavoidable and just going about my tasks, staying between the lines as if my life depended on it. In a way, it kind of did. On the other hand, I wasn’t sure I had much of a life to return to once I was done.

Halfway through my second week, I got a text from Voight, asking me to call him when I was available. I delayed as much as possible, but once my day at work was done I found myself once again locked away in my hotel room with no good excuse to avoid him any longer. With a sigh, I dialed his number, my heart stuttering with each ring.

“Upton.”

His gravelly voice saying my name brought a shiver to my skin as our last conversation flashed into my mind.

“Sarge..” I replied quietly, fighting to control my voice.

“How are things?”

The question tripped me up a little bit, he hadn’t said work or New York even, but things, which lead me to believe he was asking about more than my stint here.

“Work is good. Lines are clear.”

I knew my added statement was probably pushing it, but I had found a newfound boldness knowing he was miles away. I was met with momentary silence and I felt my bravery falter slightly as I awaited his reply.

“Mmm, good to hear.”

His short reply left me unable to get a read on him. I decided to wait for him to continue the conversation, letting the silence linger between us.

“I talked to your boss there, heard you’re doing very well with everything. They were a little concerned though, mentioned how you seemed to be functioning on autopilot.”

His words caused me to stiffen, it was true that I had been running on autopilot but I didn’t think it had been that noticeable, given that I was basically a stranger to these people. I didn’t know how to respond to him, I knew he wouldn’t buy it if I tried to lie or blow it off. But I didn’t want to open up to him either, the wounds from our last conversation still fresh.

“I’m fine sir.”

I tried my best to keep my tone even and calm, hoping that by some miracle he would accept my reply without question.

“Hailey, I sent you there to get your head on straight. But I still want the same Upton back when you return, the Upton that could set all of us straight, the one who could keep her sides clear. The Upton that I wanted in my unit the first time I met you. Just keep that in mind kid..”

I couldn’t speak, I knew my voice would break if I tried. I blinked away the tears that had formed, a few escaping down my cheeks. Another silence fell between us as I struggled to compose myself.

“I’m gonna let you go now, good night Hailey.”

I heard the click of his end disconnecting and set my phone on the nightstand beside me. I let out a deep breath, wiping at my face and rubbing the wetness out of my eyes. After I had somewhat pulled myself back together, I ordered myself some dinner and then showered. Climbing back into bed, I pulled the covers close and willed sleep to come. Promising myself that tomorrow would be a better day.

My alarm went off and for the first time in a few days, I jumped out of bed on time and went right into the bathroom to get ready for my day. On my way into work, I stopped by the coffee shop I knew OA got his coffee from in the morning, placing my order and then heading into the office. I made my way to his desk, happy that he didn’t yet have a cup and happily handed the second cup over to him. My gesture was met with a confused smile as he took the drink.

“I take mine black, for the record.”

I smiled at him, hoping I could clear the air between us. This was someone I barely knew and I was sure I hadn’t made the best impression so far. My goal for today was to change that.

“I’ll jot that down.”

He sipped at his coffee, nodding in satisfaction that I had gotten his order correct. I made my way over to my desk, setting my things down before we headed to roll call. It started like any other day, until of course, it wasn’t. We ended up with a case on a major drug lord, a higher up in the Cartel that had managed to escape arrest time and time again. They had been following him for a while, tracking his movements every time he was in New York, but they hadn’t managed to get him cornered yet. This particular time was different though, as this batch of heroin he was dolling out proved to be laced with something that had its users dropping like flies. We spent all day chasing ghosts, always two steps behind him and I knew it was going to be a long night. With all the resources the FBI had to offer, we managed to set up an undercover op and have it fully ready to execute in a matter of hours. Now, under the cover of the New York night sky, we rolled out to put our plan into action. We had two officers, posed as buyers and a meet set up with our suspect. Our job was going to be to come in for the arrest once the exchange was made. Surprisingly, everything fell into place exactly as we had planned. Our buy went through and we took him down, even managing to get a few bricks off one of his runners while we were there. It felt good to have a success, one secured by the books, and I found myself back in the office, helping OA log away the drugs we had seized. Our conversation flowed easily, both of us riding the high of our win. The good mood was short lived when OA received a phone call, the caller relaying some information that had him instantly pacing in anger. I waited in silence for him to end the call, sending him a questioning look when he hung up.

“He’s walking. Somehow, we don’t have enough to charge him.”

I inhaled sharply as his words settled in. It had seemed like an open and closed case, we had played everything right and had managed to take him down without problem.

“How?”

I asked, my heart sinking with the news. My mind shifted back to the case with Gael, how it was eerily similar to this one. Major drug lord manages to escape the law once again. I swallowed hard at the thought and focused on OA’s pacing.

“Because we didn’t bust him with the drugs, he was there but they weren’t in his car. They don’t think they can prove it’s his product.”

His pacing paused as he leaned against the table, clearly fuming with anger over the whole situation. I felt my own temper flare, knowing that was a bs excuse and it should have been enough to charge him, there was no doubt the product was his.

“That’s bullshit.”

I voiced my irritation and he nodded in agreement.

“I needed this win.”

His voice was low and the anger had shifted to disappointment.

“I can understand that. Why don’t you head out, I can finish this up.”

He looked up at me, debating if I was bluffing but nodded when he saw my confidant gaze. He let out a sigh, moving to gather his things from his desk and then left for the night without saying another word. Now I was alone in the office, surrounded by bricks of drugs that had yet to be accounted for, with the knowledge that another criminal was going to walk. I glanced over to my computer where I knew there was a file containing all of the information on this guys known addresses and vehicles. A thought entered my mind, one I had no business thinking. One almost mirroring the events that had led me to New York in the first place. I looked around the empty office, before returning my stare to the stack of drugs before me. With a sigh, I scooted my chair over to be in front of my computer and jiggled the mouse to power it on. As my screen lit up, illuminating the space around me, I easily located the file on my computer and clicked it open. I let out another breath I didn’t realize I was holding as I pulled up the information I was looking for, quickly reaching for my notepad and jotting a few things down. I closed out of the file and shut my computer down. I grabbed the bag that we had transported the drugs in, loading them into the bag and zipping it closed, figuring I would drop them off on my way out. As I made my way out of the office, drugs in hand, I felt my shoulders stiffening with the weight of what I was doing. And suddenly the lines were blurring again.

#one chicago #chicago pd fanfiction #halstead and upton #jay halstead #hailey upton #halstead #jay x hailey #upstead #upton

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aliceslantern · 5 years ago

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Heartlines, a Kingdom Hearts fanfic, chapter 18--Demyx Alone

Twelve years ago, Xemnas betrayed the royal court of Radiant Garden to his father, Xehanort. Prince Ienzo flees to another city and begins university in the aftermath, hoping the anonymity will protect him from eager eyes with ill intent. The darkness spilling across the country, as well as an individual from his past, cut short Ienzo's new beginning and bring new conflicts to light. Strained between the desires of his magic and his heart, Ienzo's choice will change him forever.

Modern Fantasy AU, Soulmates, Zemyx. Updates Fridays until it's done.

Chapter summary: With Ienzo missing, Demyx has no choice but to take his daughter and run.

Read it on FF.net/on AO3

---

Demyx woke suddenly to Amalia’s crying. He groaned and turned over. “Your turn,” he mumbled to Ienzo, but when he didn’t feel weight shift on the mattress, he just sighed and sat up. Ienzo wasn’t in bed; he probably had just gone to the bathroom or something. Amalia kept screaming, high, strange keening. “I’m coming, baby,” he said. “Let daddy wake up first.” He forced himself to his feet and crossed over to the bassinet. He picked her up and checked her diaper--clean. She was hungry. He hefted her into his arms. Her cries quieted, but didn’t cease. “I know, I know.” He went upstairs, groggily. It wasn’t like Ienzo to take so long. He always preferred feeding the baby fresh milk if possible. Whatever. Demyx warmed a bottle, coaxed it into his daughter’s mouth, and tried not to nod off as she fed.

Something smelled like smoke. He rubbed his eyes and crossed over to the toaster, because it was Even’s favorite thing to burn bread. But it was clean, or at least, empty. Demyx wandered around the kitchen, sniffing. The smell seemed to be coming from outside. He burped Amalia and let her keep eating.

He realized the bathroom door was open. No Ienzo. Had he gone upstairs? But why?

Something was wrong.

Demyx took a deep breath. He set Amalia’s empty bottle in the sink and held her a little more tightly against him. “Ienzo?” he called, bracing himself for Even to yell at him for waking them all up. But it was just silent. “Ienzo?” He took a few steps outside. The grass, well-kept by Aeleus, was smoothed down by the front walk, but the smell of smoke intensified here.

Not smoke. Darkness.

Heartless? But how could Heartless break through their wards? Demyx sighed heavily. “Every day’s a new surprise,” he muttered, and Amalia snuffled as if in reply. He crossed back inside, grabbed some shoes and Amalia’s baby sling, and tied her to him. If the wards had been compromised, best to have her near him. “Where did your daddy go?”

He walked past the property line, but the smell of darkness faded. “Zo?” he called again. “This isn’t funny.”

An unnatural silence. A spike of adrenaline shot through him. He ran back into the yard. “Aeleus? Dilan? Where are you guys?”

He didn’t see them. He didn’t feel them. Demyx dashed back into the house, into Even’s study, which at first glance was empty.

Then he saw the blood, barely visible against the dark floor. His breath caught. “No, no, please, no.” Fear made him quake. He took a few small steps along the trail of blood, holding Amalia so tightly she had begun to protest. He forced himself to loosen his grip.

Even was unconscious under the desk, where he’d been evidently dragged, bleeding from his side. Demyx covered his own mouth to keep from screaming. With a shaking hand, he reached down to feel at Even’s pulse, and breathed a sigh of relief when he was alive. As gently as he could, he dragged him out from under the desk and shoved the chair cushion under his head. “Even? Can you hear me?”

He groaned weakly. Demyx tugged up his shirt, to get a better look at the wound. In his magic training, Ienzo had taught him the basics of healing. He held his hand over the wound. It was no more than a graze, but his head had been hit hard. Demyx dug in their medical supplies until he found the potion and tipped it into his half-open mouth.

This brought him around at last. He coughed. “You alright?” Demyx asked.

Even blinked. He clutched at his head. Demyx helped him sit up. It took him a moment to fully gain awareness, but then he gasped. “No.”

“What happened?”

Even shot to his feet, wavering dizzily, but before Demyx could stop him he’d darted outside. Apprehension tightened into a pit in his stomach, and Amalia began to cry again. Slowly, Demyx followed, and found Even on his knees by the smoothed grass, probing it with his hands. “Even?” Demyx asked. “What happened?”

He didn’t respond. He just punched the dirt, his long hair falling into his face. He was trembling.

“What’s going on?” Demyx asked again.

“He’s…” He swallowed audibly. “He’s gone.”

It felt like being strangled. “Who?”

“Ienzo. I can’t feel him. But his scent, it’s all over this dirt--” Panic had flooded Even’s voice. “With darkness , with-- nothing.” He looked up. “Someone got through… with nothing .”

“I… I don’t understand.”

“Nothing, boy, nothing! The type of matter! We’d protected against darkness, but not… nothing .” The horror made him look older than he was, and he punched the ground again.

“How do you know he’s gone?” Demyx asked shakily. Amalia was crying louder now, intense, shrill cries Demyx had never heard from her before tonight. He tried to shush her.

Even bobbed his head towards the baby. “She wouldn’t cry like that if he were in the area. She can sense him.”

“What if he just… went…” Demyx didn’t believe what he was saying, but the alternative was falling into a complete panic. “To fight Heartless… he’s going to come back.”

Even just looked at him wearily. “We need the dog,” he muttered.

---

Moments later, the glowing white wolf was at the gate, and before Demyx’s eyes he shifted into a man. Isa. “When did you notice?” he asked.

“I’d… gotten up to feed the baby,” Demyx said. “That must’ve been about two--” Amalia was still crying, cries that hurt him to hear. Even was darting all over the yard, looking for Aeleus and Dilan.

“...She wouldn’t be crying like that if he’s near.”

“That’s what Even said.”

Isa took a few steps toward the baby; Demyx flinched. “I need to smell her,” he told him. “I can track Ienzo’s scent that way.”

“Do you know what nothing is?” Demyx asked.

Isa’s face turned paler in the porch light. “Oh,” he said softly.

“What?”

He sniffed. “Yes, I… I smell it. I know what happened. Xehanort’s family… they were experimenting with nothing, its entropy... they used it to break through your protection.”

“So they took him?”

“I hope .”

“Why would you hope ?”

His eyes were drawn. “Better than the alternative. I…” He exhaled, then smelled at the baby. “I’ll scout as far as I can.” His form melted back into the wolf’s and disappeared along the horizon.

Demyx’s knees were weak. He wobbled over to the front steps before they could give out on him. He tried to soothe Amalia, but nothing he said or sang seemed to help. So he had no choice but to let her cry.

---

Demyx felt numb.

He didn’t know what to do other than try to comfort Amalia, as vain as that was. She barely stopped crying other than to eat, though he noticed over time that the cries became quieter, until finally she exhausted herself into a stupor. He was not going to allow himself to panic until he knew what Isa had to say.

It grew lighter out. Aeleus and Dilan and similarly been wounded, and Even tended to them wearily. He and Demyx drank too much coffee. Demyx tried to force himself to have breakfast, but he just ended up throwing it back up. Like their daughter, he could feel with a certainty that Ienzo was gone .

Isa reappeared shortly before dusk, his blue hair glowing in the fading light. Demyx held his breath. “No trace of his scent within my range, nor of the nothing,” he said softly. “They must’ve… teleported somehow. I’m sorry.”

“Where could they have taken him?” Even asked.

“ If he’s alive,” Dilan said.

“He’s alive,” Even said, too quickly.

“I would assume they’d take him back to Hollow Bastion--what was once Radiant Garden,” he explained. “But going there would be essentially fatal. At least, for you.”

There was a pronounced silence.

“...Unless…” Isa murmured. “Unless I were to… offer myself back up.”

“I thought you’d poisoned that well,” Dilan muttered.

“Perhaps if I explain I owe Ienzo, he would devise a way to use that to his advantage. If I can get close … I can get him out. I understand you… don’t fully trust me. But what other options do you have?”

“What indeed?” Even said, his voice hollow. He stood up and brushed off his pants; he was still wearing his bloody shirt. “Either way… we know what we must do.”

“What?” Demyx asked.

Woodenly, he turned towards him. “It’s no longer safe here,” he said. “We must operate under the assumption that Amalia is the last remaining heir to the throne. Her safety must be our priority.”

“But he’s not--”

“We must assume he is,” Even said sharply, though not without pain. “Aeleus, give the resistance a status update. Dilan, you remain here and work things out with the dog. Demyx… we need to get you and the baby ready.”

“For what?”

“For us to run.”

---

In a haze, Demyx packed. Over the past ten months this place had become his home. He didn’t know what was important. So he focused on his daughter, but even then. What about her favorite books, did he bring those? The blanket Kairi had made for her? There was only a suitcase between them, not even a particularly large one. Even said their things could be arranged for later, but he had no idea if that would actually happen. So Demyx took whatever would make the baby most comfortable and shoved a few changes of clothes for himself in the crevices. Put some photos into his backpack. He knew there was not enough room for the sitar, but he couldn’t stop himself from running his fingers over the varnish anyway.

He was digging for Amalia’s scale cream when he saw it, lying on top of the dresser--Ienzo’s pendant. He never wore it when he was asleep, claiming he felt choked. It still felt warm.

He broke then, pain and fear and a heartbreak he didn’t know possible washing in all at once; he fell to his knees, unable to bear up against it. He remembered something he and Riku had read in the mayor’s library, about his kind , what happened when they lost what they had found--

Seekers consider their mates and their offspring priorities, because they are also vital to their mental stability. Those who lose mates often follow soonafter, either through their own hand or a sheer lack of will to live, resulting in what has been dubbed “soul sickness.”

But Ienzo wasn’t dead.

Amalia, on the bed, was again squalling. Demyx nearly had to crawl to get over to her. He drew her into his arms and couldn’t help but sob for a moment.

“Get it together, yes? We can react later.” Even, if possible, seemed even more hollow than before. “Your daughter needs you and I need you not to be a sniveling mess.”

Demyx wiped at his eyes. The man was holding, of all things, a set of clippers. “What’s that for?”

“Your hair,” Even said. “I’m afraid the style is rather distinct and must be made unrecognizable.” He offered them towards Demyx. “I’ll leave what you do up to you, but it must be ordinary. You understand? Otherwise I’ll shave you bald myself.” “A disguise?”

“Of sorts. I’ll watch the baby. Now go . We don’t have all night.”

Numbly, Demyx complied. For a long time in the bathroom he stared at the fine blades. Tremblingly, he turned it on. It took a long moment before he could find the nerve to run the clippers along the back of his head, tufts of blonde mullet falling in shivering piles onto the floor. He shaved it down so the lengths matched the sides of his head, strangely dark compared to the normal shade of his hair. Hazily, he swept up the hair, threw it away, showered off the little bits, the remains of the gel. The hair that remained flopped over the side of his head, into his eyes. He hoped this was unrecognizable enough. Easier to mourn his hairstyle than anything else.

Even appraised him warily once he returned. “I suppose that is an improvement,” he said dryly. He handed Demyx a pair of glasses. “Put these on.”

The lenses had no prescription.

Even took a step back. “Good enough. Get dressed. We’d better leave sooner rather than later.”

“What about the milk?”

“We’re taking it too. I’ve got that handled. Make sure the baby wears a hat.” He was already walking away.

Amalia cried again when she saw him, his silhouette changed confusingly enough for her weak newborn eyesight, but once she was in Demyx’s arms and could smell him she calmed. “I know, baby,” he said softly. He kissed her cheek. “I know. I know.”

Demyx slipped Ienzo’s pendant into his pocket. He took one last look around their room--the place where their daughter had been born--and left.

“Give me your phone,” Even said.

“Don’t crush it,” Demyx said. “Please--I have pictures of her on it--”

“I’m not crushing it.” He took off the case and pried open the back uncomfortably quickly. In front of Demyx’s eyes, he pulled out a small chip from it. “Need to disable the GPS and your SIM card.”

“But what if--”

“What?”

“Someone… needs to reach me?”

Even gave him a droll look. “Which is more important, silly friends or your daughter?”

“Well, her, of course, but--”

Even cracked the SIM card in half. “If you truly need to pass along a message, you can use the resistance network.”

“...How many times have you done this?”

Even was tapping something into the device now. “What?” he asked flatly.

“Just up and ran.”

Even looked up, his green eyes so empty. “You know… I don’t actually recall.”

“That should be everything,” Aeleus said in the same numb tone. “Dilan’s putting the other set of plates on the car, and then he’ll help us leave the city.”

“Good.”

“What about… Isa?” Demyx asked.

“He’ll meet back up with us at the new location,” Aeleus said. “I’ll be waiting.” He left.

After changing the baby one last time, Demyx strapped her into the car seat. Even just exhaled heavily. “This was supposed to have been different,” he murmured, and got into the car.

Demyx sat in the back with the baby. Even with small magical enhancements, things were cramped. He was handed two passports. “This is the name you’ll use in public,” Even said. “Hers too.”

“...When did you make these?”

“As soon as I was able to get a good enough photo of the baby,” Even told him.

“Even always has multiple contingency plans in place,” Aeleus said.

Demyx’s hair had been edited to look ordinary . The passport dubbed him Emyd, and the baby, Ava. They were from “Traverse Town? Never heard of it.”

“Yes,” Even said. “Exactly. Now keep the baby quiet and let me work.”

---

Amalia, exhausted from all her crying, slept heavily, and despite himself, Demyx did too. He’d taken intro to psychology for one of his gen eds, and one of the things he remembered was that, in times of extreme stress or trauma, some people… simply fell asleep. He was woken gently by Aeleus an unknown amount of time later, handed a bottle of Ienzo’s milk which had been warmed with a spell. “I’m not sure if the baby gets carsick, but best feed her while we’re still.”

Demyx complied. Amalia just blinked, but took it without complaint. “I know, you miss daddy’s booby,” he murmured. “Hopefully we’ll see him soon.”

They just drove. The night seemed to get deeper, the stars, brighter. Demyx drifted in and out of sleep, uncertainly. Finally, they crossed the threshold of a city without border control, a city with bright neon lights and old cobble roads and buildings that looked worse for wear. They ended up parking in front of an old motel complex that had been turned into apartments, its sign flickering. Some of the cars in the lot were rusty, old. Even took a key out of a manila envelope and unlocked the door.

The place clearly hadn’t been seen in a long time. It smelled musty and stale. Demyx could see where rooms had been clumsily added, and the furniture--Mid-Century modern and wrought-iron beds-- was covered in old sheets. Even began warding the doorway, and Aeleus took in their few things.

It was a two bedroom apartment, railroad-style, the orange streetlight shining straight into the farther bedroom. Demyx pulled the dusty curtains shut; Amalia sneezed gently. He took the cooler which contained bags of Ienzo’s milk and loaded them into the old freezer, which smelled like tuna fish. His hands trembled as he did so.

Please be okay. Please be okay. Please be okay.

He also knew Ienzo would fight tooth and nail if he were physically able to. But what if he--

Demyx felt Aeleus’s large hand pat his shoulder once. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to; his sad blue eyes said it all. “There are clean linens in the vacuum sealed bags in the closet,” he said instead. “I’m sure you must be exhausted.”

“What about you? You were driving all night.”

He shrugged. “I’m used to it. We can clean tomorrow.”

---

Like Twilight Town’s perpetual sunset, Traverse Town had perpetual night, strange heavy wards which kind of worked. Being nightlocked did strange things to Demyx’s body, making him constantly groggy. He’d always been a morning person. Isa kept searching for Ienzo, but any leads he had ran cold; Even’s lie-detecting magic showed the man was being truthful.

Honestly? Considering that before someone had been able to break through their wards, Demyx felt much more at ease knowing he was around. Not that he’d ever admit it. He accompanied Demyx and Amalia on their daily walks, though they didn’t talk much. Between Even's stressed silence, Aeleus’s natural propensity not to speak much, and Demyx’s ambivalence towards Isa, he found himself talking more and more to the baby, especially as his hope began to dwindle.

They’d gone out grocery shopping. The people in Traverse Town were more haggard than Twilight Town, always looking over their shoulders. “Everyone’s so tense,” Demyx murmured, wiping a drop of drool from Amalia’s face.

“This is a place of refugees,” Isa said to him. He was tossing an apple restlessly from one hand to the other. “I grew up here.”

“You did? You never mentioned that.”

“You never asked,” he said levelly. “You don’t hesitate to hide your disdain. Why should I volunteer anything?”

Demyx sighed. “I don’t… hate you. It’s just that Ienzo… told me so many stories.”

“I regret it deeply,” Isa murmured. “You have to understand. It was like… I was in my body, but I was not the one controlling it. The darkness drowned out all reason.”

“So how did you learn to fight it?”

“It took a long time. I forced myself to… really look at my actions, to… remember who I was once, before all this. What I used to be capable of. My… best friend.” A dark chuckle. “I wonder where he is now. What he’s up to.”

“What was his name?”

Isa canted his head a little. “Lea.”

Demyx snorted in disbelief. “As in L-e-a, not L-e-e?”

“Yes?”

“Isa, we went to college together. At Twilight Town University. He was in my graduating class. He studied theater.”

Isa smiled, the first genuine one on him Demyx had ever seen. “Of course he did,” he murmured. “Small world.” “I’d give you his number--but Even would probably kill me.”

“I don’t deserve to see him. Not yet. I… have a lot to atone for.”

They walked in silence for a moment. “Why’d you do it?” Demyx asked. “Join him?”

Isa considered. He folded his hands behind his back. “To say I came from a bad home is putting it mildly,” he admitted at last. “My mother died young, my father turned to hard drugs. The usual sordid tale.” An eye roll. “And once I hit puberty, all bets were off. Every full moon, I would involuntarily transform into a monster, a form I could not control. As the situation… devolved, I so happened to run into “Ansem.” I had no idea what this mess signified.” He touched a strand of his hair. “He offered me a chance to learn to control myself, a place where I could live safely. How was I to know that was wrong? But, Demyx, all this suffering. All this death. What’s it for? We deserve… better.” He looked at Amalia. “Especially her.”

“Yeah. We do.”

---

The days passed, one after another, almost endlessly. Amalia began outgrowing all of her clothing, began smiling, laughing. It just made Demyx’s heart break all the more to know Ienzo wasn’t there to see it. So he took photos and videos.

Too soon, they ran out of breastmilk. Demyx bought formula, tried to get Amalia to drink it, but she just pushed the bottle away, or spit it right back in his face. He let it go for a feeding or two, figuring if she got hungry enough she’d drink it anyway, but he began having to actively wrestle the bottle into her mouth. “Come on,” he murmured. “ Eat, please.” He went out and bought another kind of formula, but she wouldn’t eat that either. Was it too warm? Too cool? Not concentrated enough, too strong? Maybe it was making her nauseous? He should’ve mixed the last bag of milk with the formula. He gave her some flat ginger ale, and she drank that all down. But she wouldn’t. Eat.

He could barely sleep that night. She wasn’t crying, but she seemed more lethargic than usual. Was she really sick? She had no fever, but she was clammy. He tried giving her a bath, some tummy time, as though the stimulation would give her appetite back. But she kept refusing the formula. She drank the juice he gave her, so she was getting some calories, but something had to give.

The evening of the second day, he was exhausted, anxious, and near tears. Even came back into the apartment and raised an eyebrow. “What’s the matter with you ?” he asked.

The tears overflowed. “She’s not eating,” Demyx said. “I tried three different kinds of formula--but she just won’t--she spat it up on me, look at my shirt. It’s been almost two days, Even, I don’t know what’s wrong with her, if she’s sick, she’s going to starve .”

Even’s harsh gaze softened. “Ah,” he said softly. “I know what’s wrong.”

“I’m a shitty dad.”

“No, you aren’t.” He went over to the kitchen, opened the cabinet, and pulled out a bottle of honey, of all things. He added a spoonful to the bottle Amalia had rejected, heated it back up, shook it well, and presented it to Demyx. “Try this.”

He did. Amalia began chugging it down so quickly Demyx had trouble getting her to stop long enough to burp. “What--”

Even sat across from him at the table. “Ienzo’s mother had the same problem when she was weaning him,” he said, his eyes hazy with memory. “Royal milk, for whatever reason, is incredibly sweet. Some kind of compound that’s good for the magic. As well-intentioned as you were, I’m sure to her you might as well have been feeding her lemon juice. Just add some honey to the formula, and begin lessening the amount over the next few days. She’ll be right as rain.”

“Oh,” he said, sniffling. He remembered the last time he’d made love to Ienzo, when he'd accidentally tasted it. The tears still were running down his face, salty. “Even, I don’t know if I can do this.”

“You can because you have to,” Even said firmly. “It hurts. I know it must hurt more than you can bear. It hurts me, too. I raised him, Demyx, he’s my son. But Amalia needs you. You can’t fall apart. She can’t lose both of you. Understand?”

He nodded. Even handed him a napkin, and he mopped at his eyes.

“You look exhausted,” Even said, a bit more gently. “I’ll watch Amalia, if you want to get some sleep. And you should shower. You smell like spit-up.” He crossed over and took her into his arms. “We’ve gotten through worse.”

How , Demyx nearly asked, but then he remembered that Even had once been Radiant Garden’s surgeon general and head researcher, working under his dear friend Ansem, along with all of his friends . He wondered how much of Even’s harshness came out of a desire to push others away before he lost them, too. “Thanks,” he said.

Even kissed the baby’s head. “She is my granddaughter.”

---

Time began to pass. Isa often left on long excursions to search for Ienzo, but it got to the point where each and every time he came back with no new information, and Demyx tried to stop letting himself hope.

Every few weeks, they would move to a different safe house. They stayed in hotels, trailers, empty apartments, old houses. One week they camped inside an old mansion, and Amalia fell asleep to the sound of raindrops pattering on their tent.

The countrysides were safer, but the cities had resistance contacts, who were doing their own part to try and find Ienzo. Luxord the bartender had gotten into contact with Xehanort’s forces, but of course they wouldn’t tell him anything. “I’ll keep trying to climb the ladder,” he said, over a hazy phone call. “But no more than whispers ever reach the bottom rungs.”

Demyx missed his friends. He missed Riku’s dry insults and Yuffie’s obnoxious brashness, Lea’s terrible jokes, Roxas’s worst moods. He missed Sora, Riku, and Kairi’s gross flirting.

More than all he missed Ienzo. It was a longing so intense it was almost a physical ache , and sometimes he couldn’t help but break down whenever he had a moment to himself. He took to wearing the second pendant as well. It still glowed faintly. He hoped that meant Ienzo was still alive.

Amalia grew. Before long she was able to support her own neck, roll over. She discovered she could see herself in mirrors and would stare for hours, though Even insisted she could not yet recognize it as herself. She began making small vocal noises, and her hair got longer. She played with her hands and feet. When she was two months old she caught her first cold, and while Even said it was mild, Demyx didn’t sleep for the better part of three days. Her smile could light up the room; she could coax one even out of Isa.

Demyx realized, as time passed, that Isa had become his friend, had become trusted. He had no issues leaving Amalia with him for short periods of time, except during the full moon when he was still locked into wolf form. The baby found this amusing, crawling all over him, tugging at his tail, but Isa would do no more than sigh heavily and flick the tail around for her to play with.

Amalia began manifesting small signs of magic. Once, she sneezed on Demyx and gave him freckles that lasted nearly a week. Even was giving her a bath and discovered her laughter could make the water move (he told Demyx this sopping wet, unhappy). Aeleus took her for a walk and found to his horror she had worked her way out of the papoose and was floating steadily upwards. It became habit to tie her down with a thin silk cord whenever they went outside.

Winter came. It got colder. Demyx missed Ienzo.

Isa was able to teach him a spell to put his sitar into a sort of pocket dimension after it finally arrived, so he could take it with him everywhere. Demyx was so grateful that he hugged him; the gesture surprised them both. Those days were so full of music that Even eventually had to snap at him to quiet down so he could get some research done. Amalia loved every minute, making tiny humming noises.

They were staying in a house on the northern coast when they heard the knock. These moments never became less tense, even though they were usually just housekeepers, or door-to-door salespeople, or, even more rarely, a member of the resistance. Demyx looked through the peephole and saw a man with an eyepatch--and a gold eye. He covered Amalia’s mouth to keep her from making noise. “What?” Isa mouthed. Demyx bobbed his head towards the door. He just sighed heavily and approached. Then, “Xigbar?”

“Come on,” he said. “I just wanna talk.”

Demyx grabbed a hat out of the diaper bag and pulled it hurriedly onto her head. He began backing towards the door, slowly. Even came down the stairs in his usual distracted huff, but then, “Braig?”

“You know him?” Isa asked.

“Even. Long time no see.” A wicked smile.

Even hesitated.

“I just wanna talk,” the man reasserted. “Aw, who’s the little cutie?”

Demyx held the baby more tightly.

“My nephew and his daughter,” Even lied smoothly. “We’re staying with him for the moment.”

The man--Braig? Xigbar?--sighed. “Bullshit. Why on earth is Saïx with you? Come on, Ev. We’re old friends. I come in peace, okay?”

Slowly, Even opened the door. “Xigbar,” Even said slowly. “Sold your soul to a demon, then?”

“It’s complicated.” He sauntered over to the kitchen table and sat without being invited.

“How complicated could it possibly be?”

Isa crossed back over to Demyx and the baby.

“I got clout with the old man,” Xigbar said. He picked up an orange from the fruit bowl on the table and twirled it idly. “Earned his trust for twelve years. Worked my way up.”

Panic began to overtake Demyx in earnest. Had they been found out? How?

“But I’m playing a bigger game, Even. I don’t give a shit about the darkness. So for him to win… well. We’d all be dead, and what then? Nothing can rise from the ashes if there’s nothing left.” A sigh. “Long and short way of saying I know where your boy is.”

The words left Demyx without his permission, his soul crying out. “He’s alive?”

A chuckle. “Boy, is he,” Xigbar said smoothly. “Speaking of games… not sure what that one is trying to pull… or if he’s really brainwashed… or if he submitted just for the sake of… that .” He gestured to the baby.

Even had turned red. “How’d you--”

Xigbar just looked tired. “Like I said. I hear things.”

“What did he do?” Even asked.

“He’s helping the old man. Last I heard he’s been going by Zexion.”

Even staggered as though he’d been punched. “But--how--why--”

A shrug. “The son named Ansem has done all sorts of crazy experiments on people. Loves to torture. But you’d know that, wouldn’t you?” He locked eyes with Isa. “Listen, I wouldn’t put it past the princeling to be running some kind of gambit of his own.”

Even frowned. “So why tell us all this? What does it accomplish?”

“Because if you need a way in, I’m it,” Xigbar said, as though it were obvious. “I’m tired of playing along. Maybe it’s time to change the game.”

Even’s face went blank for a moment. Then, slowly, “how soon can you get us there?”

---

Demyx hadn’t thought that it would be winter when he first took his daughter to the sea. Too cold for her to touch. Even bundled in layers, it was hard to keep her adequately shielded from the wind. “This is where you and me come from,” he whispered to her, and she cooed. “In the summer we’ll see if you’re a little fishy after all.”

She looked out at it, contemplatively.

“Her safety, and yours, remains the priority,” Aeleus said gently. “That is to say… not to get your hopes up.”

“In case Ienzo is a brainwashed zombie?” Demyx said dully.

He rested a palm on his shoulder. Amalia reached one tiny palm towards him; he took it. “Have faith in him,” Aeleus said. “But… yes. It is… possible.”

“I’d hoped he was alive, but I…”

“I know,” he said. “I cannot stress this enough--your duty is not to fight for Ienzo. Your duty is to care for Amalia. Especially as we go into--”

“Enemy territory?” Demyx took a deep breath. It tasted like salt. “Why have me go with you, then?”

“You’re safer with us than on your own.”

He had a point. He looked back out at the ocean. “Excited to go home?” he asked dryly.

“It hasn’t been home for a long time.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “Come. We have to catch the ferry.”

Demyx followed Aeleus back up to the dock. Radiant Garden was a city on the water. His own seeker magic was thankfully strong enough to shield Amalia’s, but Isa and Even were forced to find their own way over. No friendly border control guards here.

“We’re to meet someone here,” Aeleus said, taking him aside at the ticket booth. “Though I’ve no idea who.”

They waited as the next two ferries came and went. Amalia, uncomfortable in the cold despite wrappings, squalled a little, and Demyx held her more tightly against his chest. “Did they know we had a baby?” he spat. “She’ll get sick.”

“...If no one shows in a few minutes, you can wait inside the terminal.”

In the early morning fog, Demyx saw a figure emerge with a small suitcase; a tall old man with a thick red scarf draped over his shoulders. His face came into better focus as they both struggled not to react. “...Horrid morning, isn’t it,” Ansem said pleasantly.

“This is a terrible risk,” Aeleus said under his breath. “You mustn’t--”

“My city, my people, my son are at risk,” he said, equally as low. “It’s about time I put my own neck on the line.” He turned to Demyx. “Oh.” His eyes softened.

“Had anybody told you?” Aeleus asked.

“No,” Ansem said. “Is this--”

“Our daughter,” Demyx said. “She’s six months old.”

“Oh,” he said again, his eyes watering. “Her… name?”

Demyx mouthed it. “She goes by Ava outside.”

“Can I… could I--” He held out his arms. Demyx handed him his granddaughter. She settled down against him like she’d known him her whole life. “My son’s a father.”

“He was worried you’d be disappointed in him,” Demyx murmured. “This wasn’t, ah, on purpose.”

“...How could I be disappointed in a face like that?”

Amalia looked back up and him and smiled. Demyx reached over to wipe away a streak of drool. “She’s getting her first tooth. Chewing on everything.”

“Next ferry is leaving soon,” Aeleus said. “We should go.”

Ansem handed Amalia back to Demyx. “Right. Very well.” He pulled his cap lower over his face.

They got on the ferry to what was once Radiant Garden.

#heartlines #demyx #ienzo #zemyx #child oc - amalia #even (kingdom hearts)#aeleus #isa (kingdom hearts)#dilan (kingdom hearts)#xigbar

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alonelytinywriter · 5 years ago

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Stolen

Yandere! Chizaki Kai (Overhaul)/Original Female Character

Playlist ~ Movement - Hozier

Name: Naymi Aura ~ Birthday: July 14th ~ Age: 18 ~ Hair Color: Purple ~ Eye Color: Lilac ~ Gender: Female ~ Height: 5’3’’ ~ Quirk: Quirkless

Appearance: Aura is a relatively petite, rosy cheeked girl with clear, nearly translucent skin, and is frequently described as having a rather pretty face. She has large, rounded eyes, silver-lilac irises and a long feathering of lashes. Her wide mouth is fully feminine, with full, lush lips. Her hair is long, lighter at the tips that the roots, and is typically shoved under caps and hats although it falls well below her ribs. ~ From a young age, Aura was used to wearing the oversized masculine clothes passed down from her brothers and after running away and living on the streets at the age of 14, the clothing style became a protection. It was much safer for a young man to live on the streets vs a young woman. Graphic-tees, ripped jeans and leather boots paired with huge hoodies typically make up Aura’s wardrobe.

Power - 1/5 ~ Speed - 1/5 ~ Technique - 1/5 ~ Intelligence - 3/5 ~ Cooperativeness - 4/5

~Stolen ~

~ This was the part of leading the Yakuza that Chizaki Kai absolutely hated. All the fucking meetings. The blithering idiot before him had been talking for the better part of three hours and Kai still had no idea what it was that had caused the meeting to be called in the first place. Sighing deeply, Kai looked at the clock ticking silently on the wall for the third time in less than 30 minutes, his eyes narrowing as he saw, yet again, the layers of dust and grime that seemed to cover nearly ever surface of the office they were currently stationed inside.

~ It made his skin crawl, the way these heathens allowed the base of their operations to become so disgusting, so filthy. It was disgusting. There was a group of flies buzzing above the desk’s trashcan. Disgusting. The room was overly hot, and Kai could see a line of sweat drop down the man’s temple. Disgusting. The drone of the AC grated against his ears, drowning out the man’s words, drowning out everything around him until all he could focus on was the sight of the dust clinging to the AC’s ducts. Ducts that were providing air to the room. Air that was Disgusting. Disgusting. Dis -

~ Standing abruptly, Kai shook his head, a hand held in front of him as if he would physically stop the words flowing from the mans mouth. When he spoke his words nearly sounded like gravel crunching under one’s foot as his voice filtered through his mask. “Quite frankly, I no longer give a damn.” And with that, Kai walked from the room, his underlings tailing after.

~ The moment the door closed behind them, Mimic began laughing hysterically; Kai side eyed the man, but he was more than used to his followers’ antics, so he simply continued walking, his personal entourage close on his heels. Together they walked to their vehicles and piled inside, the chauffeurs already posed to embark the moment the last door had been shut. They were more than a little half way home when the driver slammed on his breaks quite suddenly, jarring everyone inside, the horn screeching through the air. “Sorry, Boss. There someone in the middle of the damn road.”

~ Kai cursed at his chauffeurs explanation and climbed from the SUV, expression murderous. He was sure that the moment the ingrate blocking their path saw his face they would know who he was. And what he could do to them. But there was no recognition on the young mans face when Kai locked eyes with him. He didn’t even seem to know that it was Chizaki Kai’s car that had almost hit him. Instead he was staring at the car with wide lilac eyes, eyes filled with nothing more than the fear of realizing they had nearly died.

~ The boy gasped then and Kai looked at the boy, really looked at the boy - the too delicate cheek bones, the full rose colored lips, the small heart shaped face - and he realized the boy was no boy at all. He couldn’t fathom why a girl with such a beautiful face would want to dress so . . . masculine . . . but before he could think much on the matter several cars pulled behind his convoy, snapping the girl from her trance. Any coltish fear that may have covered her face was masked by mock anger. She jabbed a finger at the crosswalk, which showed she was in the right of way, and flipped both Kai and his driver the middle finger. As the girl shifted, Kai caught sight of bright pink cords leading from her hoodie pocket to her ears. Headphones. Which explained why the girl hadn’t heard his car approaching. In fact, the girl had barely escaped at all - she was only inches away from the driver sides bumper.

~ Kai wanted to yell, but his mind seemed to have gone blank, his previous tirade forgotten. The girls beauty seemed to shine through now that Kai had noticed it and he could feel the front of his pants becoming uncomfortably tight, a nearly forgone feeling to him as most humans utterly repulsed him. She had looked so scared standing there in the road, wide violet eyes staring into his. It had made something primal in him awake, something that desperately wanted him to throw her against the nearest surface and claim what was his. To his dismay the cars behind his own began to honk, and the girl finally seemed to realize she was still standing in the middle of the road. “Watch where you’re going asshole!” She shouted before running to the safety of the sidewalk.

~ Kai had to know who she was. When he jumped back into the SUV he instructed his chauffeur to follow the woman, and they took off, driving ahead and waiting for her to pass before choosing their next position to keep an eye on her as she continued through the city. They followed her nearly to the docks, but only a few blocks away she turned and ducked into a back alley between two large factory buildings that had long since been shut down. The alley connected to the main dock road, and it seemed to be the most logical assumption that she was using the alley as a short cut, but she didn’t emerge along the other side, causing Kai to frown. “Where did she go?” Hoping that she didn’t live in the disgusting shit hole of a building before him, he pulled out his phone and texted the address to Nemoto, one of his most loyal lackeys.

~ The docks. Young woman. Thought to be a man. Shades of violet.

~ Kai knew that Nemoto would know the text was to find out any and all information about who she was, and he knew that Nemoto wouldn’t disappoint him; putting his phone away, Kai relaxed into his seat, eyes trained along the length of the alleyway for any trace of the girl.

~Forty minutes later Kai received the response e-mail from Nemoto, although it was not at all what he might have hoped for. It gave no idea of who the woman might be, not even a name. There was no background history, no tickets or citations, no reports of being lost or reported missing. No results came for jobs or hero records, and no one on the Japanese International Quirk Registry matched the girls description or any of the other Quirk Registry’s scattered across the globe. It was almost as if the girl didn’t exist. And a background check into the area had produced nothing remarkable - except for the fact it was a noted area for the cities homeless.

~ Nearly an hour passed and finally, just as Kai was preparing to instruct the chauffeur to take them home, light spilled into the alleyway. Before their eyes a section of the wall seemed to melt away and a moment later the girl appeared, smiling brightly as she waved goodbye to a young boy who seemed to have melted the wall, and a moment later the wall shimmered before becoming whole once more, leaving the girl standing in the darkness. She was dressed just the same as before, just as masculine, with a flat-billed hat added, but her hair, which Kai had believed to be short, was hanging down her back in waves only barely hiding the headphones that still trailed down her chest and too the pocket of her hoodie. She looked beautiful in a way that girls didn’t often look, and it was enthralling.

~ His chauffeur tailed the girl without a word, and Kai allowed his imagination to run wild. She had appeared so delicate, standing there in the road, staring up at him with her wide, doll like eyes. And he wasn’t a fool. He had seen the dirt ground into her cheeks, the grease matting her hair, but he knew that after a good bath he could have her looking like a little doll. He could imagine the way she would look under him, without her clothes covering her porcelain skin, the way her hims would shake when he took her, could feel her heat wrapping around him. He couldn’t wait to have her, and if she possessed a Quirk, well, he could easily handle that.

~ Fortunately, the walk ended at a grocery mart only a few blocks away and Kai watched through half-lidded eyes as she strolled through the automated doors. Wincing at the idea of the crowded grocery mart, Kai exited the SUV and entered as well. She had grabbed one of the smaller buggies as she entered, so Kai did as well, following after her slowly while she strolled the isles. She was careful with what she bought, picking up items and putting them back if she found something more worthy to add instead. Quickly the pile of food within the basket grew, but Kai noticed that none of it would require cooking, none of it would require electricity: cup noodles and onigiri rice balls, and other such foods.

~ She paid with change she seemed to have collected - some of it was dirty and appear to have been pulled from the sidewalks. The cashier shared a mixed look of disgust and pity with Kai as she took the girls money and bagged her items, and it made Kai’s blood boil that the woman would dare judge something that was his. But it wouldn’t matter, he reasoned, as he disposed of his buggy at the doors, not even bothering to put it away as he tailed his little violet dove across the parking lot. She leaned under the weight of the bags she carried, a weight that Kai used to his advantage the moment she ducked into the alleyway she had emerged from. It took nothing to set her off balance, causing her to stumble into the wall of the opposite building.

~ Her scream was short lived, Kai’s palm already pressed against her throat and her vocal cords merely gone. As if they had never existed. A noiseless sob escaped the girls mouth, her eyes going wide as she began to push against Kai’s shoulders. Kai merely pressed her further into the brick of the building behind her, his head ducking down so that his eyes were level with hers. “Shhh, now. You wouldn’t want your little friends inside to become involved, now would you?” The gloved fingers of his left hand grazed across her collar bone, and she stopped moving, her fingers gripping the front of his jacket until her knuckles flushed white. “Smart girl,” Kai observed softly, “now, you’ll be coming with me.”

#mha #bnha #yandere bnha #yandere #overhaul #yandere overhaul

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wits-writing · 5 years ago

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Ultraman Z Ep. 8: “The Mystic Power” (TV Review)

(Original Air Date: August 7, 2020, Director: Koichi Sakamoto, Writer: Sotaro Hayashi)

Kaburagi’s experiments to create Monster Medals continues in this week’s Ultraman Z as he gathers the material to push past the limits of the Z-Risers fusion to create the devastating Five King. Meanwhile, his plans to gather those materials lead to one of the weakest story threads in the show so far.

[Full Review Under the Cut]

Celebro, the alien possessing Kaburagi, has been gradually getting more focus over the last few episodes. The momentum around his role in the story this time comes from Juggler following up on his investigation into his operation after finding Kaburagi’s nametag after their encounter last episode. Juggler being the first character we’ve seen call Celebro by his name suggests that he’s connected to why Juggler’s on this Earth to begin with. We also get more of how Celebro’s been operating to obtain the materials he needs for his experiments to create Monster Medals. We see he’s contracted two shapeshifting Alien Pitt sisters to obtain rare specimens for him this episode. Brainwashing them to gather more sample when he needs more. That he refers to the use of these materials as “an experiment” shows a detachment from the damage he’s causing. What matters is seeing how he can use the power of the tech behind the Z Riser and the medals to his own use. Juggler’s investigation confirms a bit of this when he finds a notebook Celebro’s been keeping on Kaburagi’s desk, containing the details of Ultra Medal creation written in an alien language.

Last time I discussed the use of sunset as a lighting choice during the Ultraman fight. The fights in this episode go forward into battles set at night (or just darken the sky when Tri-King appears early on.) While the magic hour lighting of last time provided darker shadows cast across the Ultras, the fight set against the night sky emphasize contrast. All three of Ultraman Z’s forms have their bright colors pop against the dark navy of the sky during the fight against Tri/Five-King. This is itself in contrast with the first fight in the episode, when Sevenger and Windom are fighting Tri-King. The cloud coverage Tri-King brings creates a muted palette emphasizing the dire situation of the two robots being overwhelmed by the fusion monster.

The time between these two fights gets split between Juggler’s previously mentioned investigation into Celebro and the part of this episode that I’m the most mixed on, Yoko and Yuka’s subplot. I spent a decent part of my discussion of the previous episode on how I felt the two characters weren’t given much to do with prominent guest characters showing up. The way this episode uses the time they’re given makes me feel like I jinxed something by bringing it up, since they spend a portion of this episode captured by the Alien Pitt sisters. The sequence of events that get them caught is a series of misunderstanding caused by Yuka finding Haruki’s lost Z-Riser in the aftermath of the first Tri-King. One of the sisters sees this and takes them both under the assumption one of them must be Zett’s human form. Her decision to take them both coming down to her impatience to figure out which one it might be is a genuinely funny touch.

While Yoko and Yuka getting stuck with the role of capture victims is eyeroll inducing, there are a few things I enjoyed about their roles this episode. The opening sparring match at STORAGE headquarters between Yoko and Haruki makes a fun low stakes character moment between them while emphasizing Yoko’s fighting skills. Rima Matsuda as Yoko is especially impressive in this scene and the later fights since it’s clear she’s doing quite a few of these gymnastic moves on her own. The scene also works as a reminder of how much she outmatches both Haruki and Yuka in fighting skills. A trait used to humorous effect when Yuka pouts about being challenged by Yoko during the training exercise when they both know she’ll lose. Yuka’s fun as usual whenever she gets to express her passion for all things alien or monster related. That’s best displayed when Yoko and Yuka get broken free by Haruki and get to fight their captors. Yoko takes part in a more direct fight with one of the sisters. Meanwhile, the other spends most of that time running from Yuka as she asks to study her up close. These aspects don’t balance out what doesn’t work in their story, but they’re still nice to see. Though one thing I hope doesn’t get forgotten about in this subplot in the two of them seeing the Pitt sisters delivering more alien samples to the possessed Kaburagi. Since they barely remark upon “this guy is wearing the uniform of the guys that clean up after our monster fights” in this episode.

The main attraction for this episode is the debut of the latest of Ultraman Z’s fusion forms, Gamma Future. When the fight against Five-King takes a turn for the worse, Juggler decides to finally give the Ultra Medals he’s had since the end of episode one to Haruki and Zett (him being their source remains unknown.) This form is primarily based on the first three Ultras from the Heisei era of the franchise, Tiga, Dyna, and Gaia. Zett’s description of the three ties into the “mystical” theme of Gamma Future as a form. While the other two sets have been described by the rookie Ultra as “masters” and “brothers”, he only describes these three as being from other dimensions and that he’s only heard of them from Zero. It gives the sense that the three are mythic even among other Ultras.

Gamma Future’s look is set apart from Alpha Edge and Beta Smash primarily by its golden breastplate, a design choice taken directly from Tiga. There’s also a sense of grace and precision to how Zett moves in this form, emphasizing how it’s less physical than the other two. The attacks of this form are shown in three forms; energy tendrils, the summoning of the three Heisei Ultras to blast Five-King, and finally shrinking down so Zett can go inside Five King and blast him to pieces from within. It’s easily the most unique of the form debuts so far if nothing else.

“The Mystic Powers” leaves me with the most mixed feelings of any Ultraman Z episode so far thanks to how it misuses Yoko and Yuka. Though the advancement of the Celebro plot, presentation of the monster fights, and debut of Gamma Future are still enough to keep it from being even close to a bad episode. It’s still a well-constructed show and I hope it doesn’t repeat these mistakes to often in the future.

If you like what you’ve read here, please like/reblog or share elsewhere online, follow me on Twitter (@WC_WIT), and consider throwing some support my way at either Ko-Fi.com or Patreon.com at the extension “/witswriting”

#Ultraman Z #Ultraman #Wit's Writing #TV Review #tokusatsu #Haruki Natsukawa #Koichi Sakamoto #Sotaro Hayashi #toku #Tsuburaya Productions #tsupro

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workersolidarity · 6 years ago

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Throwaway Culture: A Marxist Perspective

I never imagined I'd be interested in anything a Pope might have to say, but this caught my eye after Googling: Throwaway culture. It was something I had been thinking about all day.

I'm not religious in any way, and there are points of disagreement I have with how Pope Francis has framed Throwaway Culture, but he also gave voice to an aspect of Throwaway Culture I've personally been focusing on, our trained willingness to toss other human beings away like garbage.

So first my disagreement with the quotes above. Throwaway Culture isn't something that rose up out of nowhere from the bottom up. The set of ideas behind the development of the Throwaway Culture was something encouraged and developed from above. It began with the evolution of our Capitalist economy from one based on industrial production, into one driven largely by domestic consumer spending.

Beginning after the Second World War, consumerism began when US mega-corporations, hoping to take advantage of a better educated, wealthier population by encouraging families aspiring to be part of the expansion of the Petty-Bourgeoisie (Lower Middle Class), to buy disposable products that could simoly be thrown away after one use and replaced by subsequent purchases. This made life easier for busy Petty Bourgeois households to focus on their family, rather than the tedious cleaning tasks they were previously accustomed to.

At the same time, this fueled a massive economic expansion as the Resources and other spoils of America's development into an Imperialist Power poured back into the domestic economy. This created millions of stable, well paying jobs, funded further economic development and infrastructure, and further reinforced America's new status on the global stage as the major dominating Super Power.

Following the crises of the mid-70's and into the Reagan years, the Bourgeois politicians, grown fat after years of economic boom, were all too happy to oblige the further Corporate push towards Consumerism and the single use economy. Policy was used, not to discourage single use products and consequently heavy trash producing economy, but instead the State actively encouraged this evolution.

Movies and media began reflecting the turn towards Consumerism, encouraging a new culture, one of post-modern aloofness, cynicism and sarcasm. A brave new society was being built by cultural elites. They were creating a world where people were expected to be disgusted by the sentimentality and emotion of human interaction. It slowly became culturally taboo to feel deeply for anyone else but oneself. Sentimentality was treated as a sign of weakness, and by extension, someone who could never succeed under the Neoliberal Capitalist order. They'd managed to repackage an old idea (Classical Liberalism or laissez faire Capitalism) into a new ideological framework dominated by free markets, deregulation, global free trade and specialization, consumerism and financialization.

Everywhere you look, society tells you the only things worth investing yourself in are economic success and fame. In other words, public acknowledgement of your economic success, thereby enshrining a kind of reality television mindset into the id of the public. Everything else is just an expression of weakness.

Which brings us to today. A time when society seems to be breaking down. Many people are deeply disatisfied with their lives. Instead of being showered with fame and fortune, most people have had to experience extreme economic uncertainty, disappointment with their career, and an inability to accrue enough money to satisfy their habit of trying to buy their way to happiness. Just as we'd been trained since childhood to do.

Unfortunately, even the mountains of cheap plastic crap overflowing from landfills hasn't exactly left very many people feeling fulfilled.

For most people, this brave new world filled with opportunity and free wheeling human interaction, has turned out to be even more alienating than the 19th Century factories Marx once observed. Except today that alienation extends well beyond the workplace.

Despite spending endless hours a day perusing social media and bragging about ones latest good time, people are more likely than ever before to feel lonely and listless. The cool cynicism encapsulated in so many movies and television characters, has swiftly turned into bitter resentment, loneliness, depression, poverty and addiction.

Where once detachment seemed a hallmark of the successful Capitalist, the ironic optimism people once felt from leaving behind human emotions, particularly emotions such as love, simpathy and empathy, has devolved into a society willing to throw families living in poverty onto the streets, only to arrest them the next day for the crime of being homeless and visible.

Instead of Liberating society from life's ills, Throwaway Culture has led to a society willing to tolerate even the most offensive of injustices, stripping away the humanity for those who's fortunes never rose alongside Neoliberal Capitalism.

Consumerism, as encouraged by the newly reformed ideology of Neoliberalism, manifested itself most obviously in the 90's culture of Post-Modernism. Post-Modernism soon devolved into today's Throwaway Culture. Today, workers tolerate some of the most horrific conditions under Capitalism since the end of the Guilded Age.

A society with a high tolerance for extreme exploitation, oppression and abuse at the hands of both employers and the Bourgeois State was always a critical goal of the ruling elite. The Neoliberal ideology was built on, and driven into the minds of the masses as the tool with which to train the workforce into developing this tolerance, and it has largely succeeded. Workers today are more willing to blame themselves for their economic failures, as opposed to recognizing a system specifically designed to create the illusion of opportunity, while nearly always leading to economic mediocrity at best, and brutal destitution at worst.

That same Neoliberal alienating logic even extends to those around us. When someone loses a job,or can't pay their bills, or goes to jail for minor unpaid fines, we tell ourselves that they must not have worked hard enough. Why should we help these people when they won't help themselves? Yet, when we experience these same conditions for ourselves, instead of waking up to the reality of the inherent inequalities of Capitalism, we are trained to blame ourselves. Every economic failure we live through, no matter how absurd, how unavoidable, we see it as a failure on our part. We must have done something wrong right?

Neoliberal ideology has so infected the public mindset, that we fault ourselves for even the cruelest of outcomes, despite knowing we did everything we could, worked as hard as possible, and still we often suffer severe economic distress despite doing everything right.

It's been drilled into us from the time we are toddlers, that Capitalism offers success to anyone willing to work hard and make good decisions. (Good decisions as determined by Capitalist interests). Yet, even when this idea proves to be false, we blame ourselves rather than question Capitalism.

All of these markers of today's society are a direct result of unfettered Capitalism run amok. The Bourgeoisie and their Bourgeois State have so thoroughly manipulated the public consiousness, that we find ourselves steadfastly clinging to the assumptions of Neoliberal ideology. Capitalism has become indistinguishable in the public consiousness from ideas like "freedom", "democracy" and "the pursuit of happiness".

These buzzwords have served to make the Capitalist System omnipotent in the mind of the public. It has effectively taken the Capitalism out of the arena of politics. No longer is Capitalism something to be debated. It has officially become sacrosanct, scientific fact, and essential to personal freedom.

Taking all these assumptions of Neoliberalism to their logical conclusion brings us to today's cutting edge of Capital expansion and reproduction.

Anything can be a product to be sold on the market, even you and your most personal information, and the market is infallible. So if cruelty is a side effect of Markets, well than cruelty must be acceptable too.

As Marx once said, it's either Socialism or Barbarism. Well, the results are in and Barbarism is now a dominant feature within the frame of this Throwaway Culture and Neoliberal Capitalism.

So when Pope Francis talks about people individually taking responsibility to change their behavior, it's not that he's wrong. But he's purposely avoiding looking at the cause of today's culture. He is, like it or not, part of the elite. And the elite cannot effectively criticise, or criticise at all, other sections of the elite. That's why it has always been up to the Working Class to lead the Proletarian Revolution to Socialism. The Petty-Bourgeois reformers in Organizations such as the DSA cannot be depended on to challenge the basic tenets of Capitalism.

As much as I admire our DSA Comrades for their hard work, they seem incapable of acknowledging the Nature of Capitalism and the Bourgeois State. To understand Capitalism would mean to understand why Reformism and Electoralism within the context of the Bourgeois State can never succeed.

In much the same way, Pope Francis is incapable of confronting the threat Capitalism poses to his own Church. He neglects to see (or just ignores) the way the Church as been deeply intertwined with the fortunes of the Bourgeoisie, depending on wealthy benefactors to pay for the day to day operations of the Church.

Taking individual responsibility is something that must happen after we've cast aside the Bourgeoisie. It's something that must be confronted eventually, but only after we've begun to build a new Revolutionary Socialist society. A Socialist society must be built on empathy, collective success, collective liberation, collective wellbeing and collective responsibility. Only then is it warranted to even mention personal responsibility, which has always been another buzzword for the Capitalist Class.

Throwaway Culture has been so incredibly successful at raising the individual above all else (think the "rugged individualism" of the American ideal pushed upon us all our lives).

This is, of course, a necessary feature of Capitalist domination and exploitation. To control the masses, the Bourgeoisie must divide the masses, and the easiest way of sustaining and normalizing a divided society is by creating a culture centered around the individual while minimizing into insignificance the importance of the collective, the importance of community, and even minimizing the importance of family and friends.

This has been so successful that most human relationships have become so shallow as to be practically meaningless. This of course making it easier to allow Throwaway Culture to move from an attitude towards society generally, into an attitude towards even the most important relationships a person can experience in life.

After all, in order for someone to find it acceptable to throwaway even those closest to her, then her relationships with them must be reduced to simple, meaningless economic transactions between herself and those around her. (think of our holiday "traditions" that always seem to require consuming large amounts of disposable products, overcooking massive meals and giving of gifts. All of which require prolific spending that is treated as a competition)

This is essentially where we've arrived today. All relationships are being reduced to simple and meaningless economic transactions. And after all, as we've been trained to do all our lives, our economic interactions are always disposable.

Pope Francis is right to bring these issues into the fore for the world. The Church, just as Communities and families do, requires a certain degree of importance placed on human relationships. The Church brings people together under one roof on a weekly basis, and must convince them all that this religious Community is at least equal in importance to their economic concerns.

This where the analysis by, and strategies of, Historical Materialists and those employed by the Church for its own survival meet. Generally, throughout the history of Capitalism, the needs of the Bourgeoisie have run parallel with the needs of the Religious elites. But Throwaway Culture, Consumerism, and Neoliberal Capitalism are becoming antithetical to the very survival of the Church.

And I'm not necessarily calling the Pope an Opportunist. For all I know he may truly believe that Throwaway Culture and Neoliberal Capitalism go against the teachings of the Church. Still, we have yet to see either Pope Francis or the Church more generally turn against Capitalist ideology.

If Pope Francis and the Church really wants to challenge the Culture of Consumerism, just like Socialists he must name the enemy of the Collective: Capitalism, Imperialism and the International Bourgeoisie.

Additionally, no amount of idealism, religious or otherwise, will help us to defeat the Reactionary forces of Imperialism. Only a deep Materialist analysis and understanding of how we got here can open the eyes of the masses, and help us to develop the strategies and tactics we will need to defeat Capitalism on an international scale.

We didn't arrive at this point when Throw Away Culture dominates the ideological underpinnings of society overnight. Nor can we expect to sweep generations worth of manipulation, historical lies, and Bourgeois propaganda under the rug.

Opening the eyes of the masses will take time, and unfortunately time isn't on our side. A multitude of crises are converging more quickly than anyone could have predicted. Yet, for those of us living in the heart of the Imperialist world, we are vexed by the least developed Proletariat in nearly two centuries.

How we can develop and educate the Proletariat of the Western world fast enough to avoid complete disaster on a planetery scale? This is something we must organize around and work through.

The time for Academic Marxist papers and years of drawn out debates are over. Climate Change and sea level rise are occuring many times faster than anyone predicted just a couple decades ago. Capital, instead of working to solve this Global problem, is actively making things worse. Meanwhile our Throwaway Culture is corrupting the very souls of the masses. If change must occur quickly to save the planet, then the human race is headed in completely the opposite direction.

We must unite as Workers and begin the hard work of educating and organizing the Proletariat. We have to find a way of uniting and organizing behind a single Vanguard Party, and developing our Praxis without delay.

Capitalism is sucking the very humanity out of us all. Unless we act quickly with an urgency that matches the scale of the problems we face, and unless we put aside our differences and our final visions for the Socialist society to come, instead working together to develop the fledgeling Socialist Movement, than it may soon be too late to change course.

I want to live in a Society that values empathy. A Society that embraces the human condition and our human emotions. Not a culture that ignores the trashing of our planet, embraces greed and detachment, and assumes the consequences of our actions can be solved by idealistic notions of just moving to another planet once we've trashed and exhausted the resources of this one.

A want a world where those living in the Global South aren't starving while Americans throw away tens of thousands of tons of food a day, just to keep the homeless and hungry from getting a free meal out of our trash cans. How disgusting a society are we willing to live with?

And so even though I am motivated by objectively Idealistic notions of Community. I turn to Historical Materialism to understand how we got here, and how we may fix it.

Socialism offers the only way out.

I'm not so naive as to think simply appealing to our humanity is going to change anything. Even if suddenly the great masses of workers agreed with those appeals tomorrow, we would still be at the mercy of Capitalist exploitation, oppression and a Bourgeoisie ready and willing to use any destructive and violent means to enforce it's will. A simple look at the Middle East shows Imperialism is alive and well, and what it looks like when Western Bourgeois interests are threatened.

A strategy and set of tactics must be developed. Theory is only as good as the praxis it's used for. We must also provide for the development, education, and organization of the Working Class.

Lastly, we must be ready for massive resistance by the Bourgeoisie. They will almost certainly react with violence to any major challenges to their power and the system they've spent more than three centuries building. Potentially a violent Revolution and even civil war on a massive scale must be prepared for. Socialists cannot expect to passively win this war. One look back on Proletarian Revolutionary History should tell us all we need to know about what we must be ready for.

But NEVER forget Comrades, there's many many times more of us than their are of them! We will win the Revolution to come!

Solidarity Comrades

Workers of the world unite!

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theangelssecondwing · 5 years ago

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Chapter 10

It wasn‘t easy to pretend that everything was normal. While Director Lazard had promised to keep us updated, there were no news on Genesis‘ whereabouts for a long time, and he didn‘t show up again. Sephiroth and Angeal were occasionally sent on new assignments, but none of them were particularly long, and they usually returned within a day or two. Then, one day, they returned and asked Yui and me to meet up at my place again.

„Clones“, Sephiroth said grimly as we sat down on my couch.

„Clones?“, Yui asked.

Sephiroth nodded. „We were attacked by a surprising amount of people looking like exact copies of Genesis.“

„So wait, you think Hollander is out there, cloning my boyfriend?“, Yui asked, sounding positively appalled.

„It‘s a reasonable assumption, don‘t you think?“, Angeal asked. „How else could this be explained?“

„I suppose you‘re right, but the question is… why? What could he possibly gain from creating an army of Genesis clones?“, I asked.

Angeal lifted an eyebrow. „You mean apart from having an army of 1st class SOLDIER powered superhumans under his command?“

„Hm. I knew something was off about this guy, but not in the ‚establishing a clone army to take over the world‘ way.“

„Nobody had any idea just how mad this madman is“, Angeal replied grimly. „Otherwise, Shinra wouldn‘t have employed him.“

„You sure?“, Sephiroth asked in a deadpan voice. „I mean they also employ Hojo, who treats the entire world like its his third grade science kit. Shinra has a tendency to specifically employ the maddest of madmen they can find.“

„That‘s not true. You‘re not a madman“, I countered.

„Are you really sure about that?“, he asked teasingly, putting an arm around my shoulders.

„The point is: There have been no further developments, and your orders are basically to eradicate any Genesis clones and forget about the whole ordeal otherwise. It feels like Shinra has just given up on Genesis, and if we want to save him, we have to do it independently of the company“, Yui stated.

„As we have already established. But Director Lazard is keeping us busy lately. Almost like he doesn‘t want us to have the time to dwell on the topic“, Sephiroth mused. „Good thing that as 1st Class SOLDIER, we do have right to refuse certain orders. That could grant us at least a bit of time to investigate. We would only have to find out where to start.“

„I can do that!“, I exclaimed. „I work in the archives. I can get all information on Hollander, including all sites where he worked while in the employment of Shinra. Most of these sites have been abandoned by now, but I‘m sure we can find some kind of clue somewhere in one of these labs!“

„Great idea, Cora. So you gather as much intel as you can, and then we all meet up here again once you have enough, so we can plan our next step.“

The next day, during lunch break, I snuck away into the archives, which at this time were deserted. Surely there was something I could find… I was so distracted while going through the endless masses of files that I didn‘t hear the footsteps until the person they belonged to cleared their throat. I yelped and lost my balance on the ladder I was standing on, falling backwards, crashing hard onto the floor and hitting my head, so stars exploded in front of my eyes.

„Ow...“, I groaned and rubbed the back of my head until the pain subsided a little and I could see again. Luckily, the filing cabinets weren‘t particularly high, or I could have gotten seriously injured.

„Serves you right for snooping around here all alone.“

I recognized that voice. I got up, though my back was killing me. „Vice President. Sir. Is there anything I can do for you?“ I got to my feet, but wobbled a little and Rufus actually motioned to catch me in case I would fall. But I stood, so he returned to his stoic posture of keeping his arms behind his back.

„Nothing in particular. I just saw you walk in here and got curious. While I do appreciate eagerness in my staff, something tells me that you haven‘t come here during lunch break to get some extra work done.“

My breath hitched in my throat ever so slightly. But still, there was nothing hostile about him. „Who knows. Maybe I was just curious myself.“

„Did curiosity lead you to the shelf specifically dedicated to information about the researchers in our employment?“, he asked without humor.

I grit my teeth. „And if that were the case?“

„I would like to know why.“ For just a split second, there was something akin to fondness in his features, but it disappeared as quickly as it came. „You used to trust me. So why can‘t you trust me now?“

„Because we were both different people back then“, I retorted.

Rufus looked at me for just a little moment longer, before pointing at a specific part of the shelf. „You will find what you‘re looking for there. Make sure that you and your friends make short work of Hollander, and keep the whole thing quiet afterwards.“

„Huh? You know?“

He smirked. „My father is so caught up in his own ego that he doesn‘t realize what is going on around him anymore. But I‘m not like that. You should know that.“ Then he turned around, giving me a dismissive wave. „As long as what you‘re doing doesn‘t endanger Shinra Corp‘s reputation or endeavors, I will not hinder you. In fact, it seems you are more willing to be helpful than Lazard is currently. Whenever I ask about the status of the operation around finding the doctor and our wayward SOLDIER, all I get are platitudes and excuses. So go ahead, and do tell me if you need a few days off for your investigations.“

I waited until he was gone, then I scrambled up the ladder again, despite my aching back, and got out a few files that indeed contained the information I needed.

During the subsequent meeting in my apartment, which turned into a headquarter for our private missions more and more, we concluded that our best starting point would be the reactor in Sector 5 of the city. Sephiroth stayed with me the night before they wanted to go investigate it, to ease my mind since I wouldn‘t join them. We were in my bedroom, Sephiroth already lounging on my bed and reading a book while I changed into my nightgown. I had bought it a few days before, in a sudden urge to get myself some sexier nightwear. I still couldn‘t believe that a nice nightgown like that actually existed in my size. It was black silk, with spaghetti straps and lace on the hems, and ended right underneath my butt. It actually didn‘t look too bad on me. Still I looked at my reflection in the full-length mirror mounted to the door of my wardrobe as if it was my worst enemy facing me. But it wasn‘t the deep self-loathing I used to feel. More like casual annoyance.

„What‘s this?“, Sephiroth exclaimed suddenly, and I turned around and approached the bed. An old photograph had slipped out from between the pages of the book. It showed a pair of children; a stern-looking boy with short, blonde hair and a pudgy girl with her dark hair in two braids.

„Oh. I completely forgot that was in there.“

But Sephiroth hardly seemed to notice me. He picked up the picture to take a closer look. „...That‘s you? With Rufus Shinra?“

„Yes“, I replied and sat down next to him.

He turned his head to me. „...I don‘t understand. I thought you hated each other.“

„That wasn‘t always the case, though.“

„Oh? Why didn‘t you tell me you used to be so close to him?“

„There are days where I forget that myself. We haven‘t really spoken to each other beyond polite, empty banter in years.“ I took the photo and gave it a long, thoughtful look, before stopping short. „Wait… is that a hint of jealousy I hear?“

„Possibly. Especially since your father seems so obsessed with you marrying him.“ Sephiroth‘s voice had become harder.

I let out a deep, resigned sigh. „And that was the problem.“

„What do you mean?“ I got comfortable, laying down next to Sephiroth. „Rufus and I used to be best friends. My father tried to suck up to the Shinras enough to make me seem like wife-material for Rufus from pretty much the moment the doctor said ‚It‘s a girl!‘. So I often spent summer vacation at the Shinra estate. Rufus and I were both rich kids with absentee parents, and we bonded over that. Became like brother and sister, we even started calling each other brother and sister eventually. He kept me safe from bullies, I brought him candy when he was frustrated. Our fathers were delighted, of course. After all, us getting along would make setting us up with each other easier, right?“

Sephiroth tilted his head attentively. „One might assume.“

„Well, no. Not in our case. As I said, we were like family to each other. But pretty much as soon as I started puberty, they upped their efforts to force us to fall in love. That went from forcing us to spend even more time together, which was honestly fine by us, to setting up ‚romantic‘ meetings for us and calling public attention to us while we were together. And it just got so uncomfortable that we started avoiding being seen together. We never said more than necessary to each other from that point onward. Then he started working for his father‘s company and he… changed.“ I paused for a bit, trying to find the right words. „It‘s true what people say. He never cried as a child. But he also wasn‘t always the complete jerk he is nowadays. But once he became involved in Shinra Corp., he became cold and cruel. And that was the end of even the last remains of our friendship.“ I tightened my hands into fists. „I will never forgive my father for this.“

Sephiroth had become a lot more relaxed while I was talking, and let me snuggle up to him. „And you shouldn‘t. I‘m so sorry.“

„It‘s okay. That‘s just how it is sometimes.“ I sniffled a little, upset by the memories of days long gone. But thanks to Sephiroth‘s warmth, I soon drifted off, the photo still in my hand.

#The Angel's Second Wing #fanfic #selfshipping

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itsclydebitches · 6 years ago

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RWBY Recaps: Volume 6 “The Lady in the Shoe”

Welcome back, everyone! The summary for this episode: Part Two was pretty excellently done (with one major exception) and Part One would be stellar if we could just separate it from its context. Which of course we can’t. So it’s a bit of a mixed bag this week.

Episode Eleven is titled “The Lady in the Shoe,” but apparently instead of a scolding and early bedtime children get to be blown up via missiles. Alrighty then. We open back on the mech battle with Ruby telling Weiss to get her butt down here, we need your help if we’re going to take down this monstrosity. Weiss briefly speaks my language.

Weiss: “You’re joking, right?”

Except it’s not a criticism about picking a fight with a Atlesian special operative in the first place, just that said special operative has some serious firepower on her side. Ruby justifies this leaderly decision with, “We’ve fought giant monsters before. This is just a tiny old lady…”

Which is precisely the problem, Ruby. You’re not fighting a giant monster here—this mech is not an objectively evil grimm rising up from the depths of the ocean that you are duty bound to fight. You are about to attack a tiny old lady—the sort of person you’re supposed to be protecting, even when they’re dicks. It still astounds me that the writers put all this dialogue into the characters’ mouths without commenting on (or even realizing) the staggering irony here. Can Ironwood please show up at the last moment and chastise them all for doing everything but what huntsmen are supposed to do?

Notice in this shot that no one has drawn their weapon yet. We know the kind of response time this group has. If there’s any danger nearby—real (grimm) or imagined (their uncle)—those weapons are raised in a heartbeat. Now here’s a massive mech bearing down on them and no one is moving to defend themselves, so some part of them must realize that this is a stupid, childish, needless fight that they are responsible for diffusing, considering that they started it in the first place. No one bothers though. They’re not outright attacking yet, but they’re not backing down either. That stubborn faith is admirable when set against monsters and Salem’s henchmen, not when it’s aimed at an authority figure you never should have made an enemy of in the first place.

However, Cordovin then reminds us of her dickishness, calling the kids “spider roaches” (ew) and promising to take them down. She wants to see how their “resolve holds out against the might of the Atlesian military,” once again encouraging the audience to accept this fight as the volume’s long-awaited resolution. Their resolve has been shaken the last few days, but fighting Cordovin has absolutely nothing to do with facing off against an immortal enemy. Having the kids hold their ground here doesn’t somehow tell us that they’ve re-discovered purpose in their good deeds and are willing to continue fighting against Salem, it just highlights how unwilling they are to admit when they’re wrong. This fight emphasizes only how immature and reckless the group is behaving right now. That doesn’t disappear just because RT tries to flimsily reframe it in another light.

Things immediately start going downhill. Done with her warning shots, Cordovin launches a missile at Maria and Weiss, though at the last second it’s blown out of the air by Ruby. This cues Cordovin into the fact that the rest of the gang is down on that cliff. She launches another shot and Weiss jumps down at the last second, getting up a barrier of stone and ice to protect them. Like so much in this fight, the save only comes at the very last second.

Oscar: “That was close…”

This should really be cueing the kids in. Cordovin isn’t playing around and this little encounter just got horrendously dangerous. The answer here is to surrender, admit that you were in the wrong for trying to steal military property, not escalate the situation by gleefully fighting back. And Ruby absolutely escalates it. A minute later—after laughing while dodging more missiles—Ruby takes a freaking headshot at Cordovin.

Look, there’s no excuse for that. Not in my book. I don’t care how likely it is that Atlas glass is strong enough to stop one of her rounds. I don’t care if Ruby assumed Cordovin would have her own aura up as an extra precaution inside the mech (if she can even manipulate aura like that. Cordovin is military, but that doesn’t automatically mean she can fight like a huntsmen. There might be a reason she got in that mech instead of fighting them herself). I don’t even care that Cordovin shot first and people are going to claim that the group is now justified to do whatever they want to her. Ruby could have been wrong. All of her assumptions about glass and aura might have come back to bite her. She looked a woman dead in the eye—not a grimm, not Cinder, not Salem herself—and shot with an intent to kill. What would everyone think of our precious protagonist if she’d murdered a Atlesian official after getting caught trying to steal their tech? Since when does the show encourage us to cheer on the group attacking an ally, no matter how much of an asshole she is as an individual?

I’ll be blunt: I don’t like this Ruby. I wanted leader!Ruby dealing with her anger at Qrow, our kind and level-headed girl growing into a mature young adult this volume. Instead we’ve gotten a smug, flippant child who is so obsessed with moving forward that she’ll eschew strategy and ethics in favor of results. She’s impatient. She’s once again overconfident in her abilities. She’s backsliding and this would be a fascinating thing to witness if the show weren’t incorrectly characterizing this as growth.

Before Ruby takes her shot though we get a bit more of that irony. Jaune points out that such a large mech will have difficulty hitting a small target, so they should spread out and give Cordovin too many things to focus on. “We just have to be smart,” a hilarious line given the context of all this. Maria is charged with keeping the airship safe, despite the fact that she had her license revoked. (Another example of them taking the legitimate, “How is this woman flying a plane?” question and reducing it to a joke.) Qrow offers to give them another bird’s eye view of the situation, despite the fact that we’ve seen no reason for this sudden change in his outlook. For 7 episodes now Qrow has been under the impression that everything he’s done as a huntsmen is useless and last week he followed that up with the worry that his semblance is at the heart of it all. Neither of these fears have been addressed. Ruby giving one incredibly broad line about how she still needs Qrow Branwen shouldn’t erase what’s been plaguing him for an entire volume… but it apparently does. Fighting is no longer a useless endeavor with Salem hanging over him. Stealing an airship is no longer a plan he’s against. His semblance is no longer something to take into account. (You’ll notice that, conveniently, his semblance doesn’t seem to have any impact on the fight. Suddenly close combat alongside allies is no longer the dangerous thing that the Tyrian fight once painted it as.) Like so many others I’m thrilled that Qrow seems to be in a better place… I just wish we’d been given a convincing reason for him to drop his bottle here and happily join a fight he’s so-far been against for three distinct reasons. Like so much in this volume, the ideas are great while the execution falters.

Truthfully though? I love the fight itself. Ruby skillfully dodging missiles or running along their back, Weiss creating a series of ice islands for them to jump off of, riding on the lancer she summoned… all of that is epic as hell. However, that’s undercut by the fact that I’m just not rooting for Team RWBY here.

Over the course of the fight they do a good amount of damage to that mech. One of the biggest blows is when Qrow and Ren manage to destroy the device generating Cordovin’s shields. They don’t disable it, they just shoot it until it breaks. The entire time I was thinking, “Wow. This is going to be a pretty penny to fix/this mech is going to be entirely useless if Argus suddenly needs it to defend themselves from some grimm.” The entire time the group—particularly Ruby—treats it all as a fun adventure that’s only serious when they want it to be (like shooting at Cordovin). Ruby’s logic is chastised because “This isn’t a game!” and when she gets into trouble Weiss demands, “What if I hadn’t caught you?” The answer is just a sunny smile, not any actual thought about what her choices just were and whether she should change them.

Ruby is meant to be chipper in the face of danger, i.e. “Bad! Landing! Strategy!” after getting knocked off a cliff by a grimm. She’s not supposed to attack other people, destroy their defenses, and laugh about it. Perhaps the most frustrating moment is when she hangs off the front of the mech, waving at Cordovin like they aren’t having a legitimate battle here. Nora’s commentary is something that I always enjoy, “And you said it wasn’t beach season” + “You get back here with my man!” is fun, especially since the latter finally acknowledges that she and Ren are a couple now. Hallelujah! But it only works because Nora’s entire brand is happy-go-lucky in the face of overwhelming odds. That never really changes. Ruby, however, is jumping between silly goof and murderous huntress within the span of a few seconds. Is the Cordovin fight supposed to be comical or something they’re taking seriously as one of our final battles? The writing can’t decide.

Of course, we do hit a point where things get bad enough that the group starts panicking again. Cordovin has enough of all this and makes a swipe at Nora, forcing Jaune to make a last second grab for her. Both of them are slammed into a rock with their auras broken. The rest of the group gets blasted right off Weiss’ lancer, but Ruby can’t quite make it to the edge of the cliff. She stops her fall with Crescent Rose and then just…hangs there?

Okay. This is what I mean when I say the writing is contrived; that things are working out in one specific way to serve the plot, regardless of logic. Why isn’t Ruby using her semblance? Is she really that exhausted already? Why not just dive into the water? We’ve seen numerous times—starting at Beacon’s initiation—that Ruby can fall from great heights provided that she use the impact of her shots to slow her descent. Why isn’t Weiss summoning something for her to drop onto? Why does Qrow reach for Ruby and then just stand there stupidly while Cordovin levels a shot at his niece?

There’s no reason why prodigy Ruby would just hang there cringing, or why all of her talented friends would just stand there dumbly, except that the plot wants Maria and Oscar to “have” to rescue her. Except they don’t have to. We haven’t set up a situation where they’re truly the last line of defense. Jaune and Nora have already been knocked out. Now you could have Cordovin cut off the rest of the group with one arm while aiming at Ruby. Show a brief shot of Ruby trying and failing to start up her semblance, slipping further down the cliff in exhaustion. Let Weiss scream at her to just drop and Qrow shout back that she never learned how to swim. Give us reasons—even if they’re flimsy—for why using the airship is suddenly the only option.

Because you know, airship. The entire point of this fight is to keep the airship intact and get to Atlas. Now it’s been shot at. We don’t see what exactly the damage is, but I’m going to roll my eyes hard if it’s conveniently minor. Have Oscar and Maria escape unscathed, but I hope the ship itself is wrecked. Let the group realize that they picked a fight and their reasons for doing so are now useless.

“This is what happens when you think you know better than those rightfully in charge,” Cordovin says and she’s right. Her being an asshole is entirely separate from the fact that she’s got her facts straight. She is in charge of the Argus base, adults do often know better than teens, and this is what happens when you think you know better than those who told you, “This is a bad idea.” RWBYJNR made their bed and now they can lie in it. Now if only the writing would actually acknowledge that...

We cut with the mech fight half over and transition to Blake and Adam. This is the part of the episode that I think was very well done, but let me preface that by saying I view this battle in the same way I view Qrow’s current characterization. Meaning, I’m glad we got there… but how did we get there? That’ll make more sense in a moment.

For now, we watch as Blake tries to get away from Adam, no doubt hoping to make her way back to Yang. All of Adam’s dialogue in these scenes is excellently done. He’s the epitome of an abuser, characterizing Blake’s growth as a flaw—“Can’t you do anything besides run?” Missing the fact that nowadays she’s only running from him—and blaming her for his actions: “I wouldn’t have to be doing this if you’d just behaved!” It’s the kind of dialogue that I’m sure will sound too familiar for many viewers. Definitely hard to watch, but that’s because it’s well crafted.

“You’re selfish. You’re a coward,” Adam says. “You’re delusional,” Blake shoots right back.

As the fight continues Blake ends up losing her coat, something the whole fandom was hoping for given the importance of her scar. I really enjoyed the use of editing during all this. Adam ends up breaking Gambol Shroud (symbolic and a good setup for volume 7) and manages to get Blake into the same position as when he first stabbed her. This time Blake blocks the hit and when she does we get the briefest look at Yang’s bike rushing towards them. The speed of the cut is a good choice, keeping up with the fast-paced action, letting us know Yang is almost there without drawing attention away from Adam and Blake.

However, the fight does simmer down as Adam finally removes his mask.

That brand is… disturbing. Granted, it would have been more disturbing if I’d been able to figure out what those letters (numbers?) were right from the start lol. For anyone still confused, Adam has a horrific SDC burned over one eye—a literal mark of the Schnee Dust Company. Did he work for the Schnees and receive that as a part of their slave labor? Was it enacted as punishment after one of his raids, a way of sending a message to all the other faunus? We don’t know, we might never know, but at the very least I want Weiss to see Adam before he’s either killed or makes another escape. Given everything else that’s been going on, RWBY hasn’t had time to explore the accusations Blake leveled at Weiss all the way back at Beacon, or the conversation we overhear her dad having at the party. It’s looking like Yang and Blake’s arc with Adam is finally coming to a close, but getting a look at his face could be the start of a new one for Weiss. She deserves to know the full extent of what her father has done. Not just to her as his daughter, but to an entire minority group.

“You didn’t leave scars, you just left me alone,” Adam whines like his own trauma in any way excuses what he’s done to Blake. “How does it feel to be alone?”

We get Blake’s ear twitching towards the sound of Yang approaching, she uses her semblance to escape, and at the last second proclaims, “I’m not alone.”

THEN YANG STRAIGHT UP HITS ADAM WITH HER BIKE.

Right now I do not CARE about in-world physics, or how Yang aimed coming off that cliff, or any of that. She hit Adam with a goddamn motorcycle while doing a flip off of it. There’s no world in which that isn’t badass.

Now we know how she gets rid of bumblebee. Yang couldn’t drag it on their adventure for forever. I’m glad it became something symbolic—Yang giving up a precious momento that carried her off into her new life, doing so without a moment’s hesitation for Blake—as opposed to just something like, “Yeah I shipped it off back to Dad!”

RIP Bumblebee. You will be missed.

Here though we get to the portion of the fight that (dare I say it?) feels a little un-earned. Look, I’m thrilled that we got these girls protecting one another and standing tall in the face of their abuser, but like Qrow’s sudden mood change, these kinds of payoffs are 100% better when we see how characters got there. The last time we touched on Adam in Blake and Yang’s lives:

Both of them were still having PTSD flashbacks, to the point where they instinctually flinch away from him in terror.

Blake was under the impression that she has to protect Yang and had no idea why that might not be what she wants.

Yang got pissed at Blake’s protective instincts and refused to communicate, shutting down the conversation.

Yang was coming out of a situation (Ozpin) where her anger had reached new levels and she was once again ready to punch her way through her problems.

Now, suddenly:

Neither Yang nor Blake hesitate for an instant. Yang in particular, who had no idea what she’d find when she went after Blake, is 100% confident in facing down Adam. Her hand shakes, yes, but that doesn’t actually have an impact on the fight. PTSD isn’t that kind. If you’ve been cowering instinctually for months now upon seeing visions of someone, that doesn’t conveniently disappear when you meet the real thing.

Blake announces that she’s not protecting Yang… even though two-three days ago that was her position. What changed?

Yang doesn’t react in surprise to hearing this sudden change of heart. Why is she acting like they’ve always been on the same page about protecting one another when they explicitly haven’t been? They had this disagreement literally days ago.

Yang is perfectly calm during the whole fight. She doesn’t use her semblance, immediately listens to Blake’s info about Adam’s, never once loses her temper. I’m thrilled to see the improvement but again, where did it come from? If Yang is going to get that worked up at Ozpin, why would we expect her to be perfectly cool when facing Adam, of all people?

As said, these are all things I wanted to see, but it feels like we skipped over a big chunk of the journey. And honestly part of that journey could have been worked into the fight itself, pretty easily. Let Yang jump off that cliff, see that it’s Adam, and immediately freeze. Blake has to block a hit to save her and comments, “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.” Yang gets pissed. She doesn’t need Blake to protect her, she’s doing the protecting, and she starts the first half of the fight in a temper that Adam takes advantage of. You can have them realizing in the moment that they need to protect one another so that by the time they’re holding hands we feel like we’ve evolved to this point naturally.

Let Yang realize halfway through the fight that this head-on approach isn’t working so that when she suddenly tells Adam to leave this feels more like growth instead of, “Wait. Yang’s just gonna let this guy walk away? Since when?” Like so much in volume 6, I’m thrilled with what we got… just not in the way that we got it.

Each fight is only half over though. Presumably Episode 12 will wrap things up and then Episode 13? That’s up in the air. At this point though I’m still really hoping for some repercussions. Give me a moment where Cinder and Neo show up, but the gang is so exhausted from needlessly fighting Cordovin that they don’t stand a chance. Let them encounter a swarm of ocean grimm drawn up by how scared the Argus population is,

but they’ve destroyed the mech specifically designed to fight them. Let the kids face some actual consequences for their actions so that they can finally realize how stupid they’re being.

Then Ozpin can show up and save them all. I want them to learn something, not die lol.

I doubt we’ll get it though. Most likely? The airship is fine, the battles are won, we’re encouraged to cheer for our current “heroes,” and they fly off towards Atlas without consequence. Yuck. I’m preparing myself for it though. We’ll see…

Until next week!

Other Things of Note

Just for the record, that team up with Ren could have been a perfect moment to slip in Qrow’s semblance. You recklessly shoot at the dust generator creating shields for a mech? Bad luck causes it to blow up in your face, launching Ren into the water, explaining Nora’s yell about giving her back her man.

Kinda surprised by Adam’s blue eyes. Not gonna lie. I mean, not that anyone else in this show is following real world genetics (Yang’s eyes are purple and red I MEAN), it just wasn’t what I was expecting.

“He gets to dish out damage without having to feel it? That’s just cheap.” Ah, that feels like a sentence with more than one meaning…

I brought up in a previous recap about how RWBY treats disabilities, emphasizing that they’re either ignored (Maria’s blindness isn’t a problem! She can still fly just fine!) or we reach a point where there are only upsides (Yang able to detach her arm and escape Mercury). We see another example of that here wherein Yang’s new arm is able to withstand the blow that would have otherwise torn through flesh. She’s now stronger not just because of what she’s survived, but because her arm is literally better in all respects from the one she was born with.

#rwby #rwby spoilers #mymetas #RWBY Recaps

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kazhewbrekker · 6 years ago

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vilify me - chapter 3

tumblr is now officially caught up with ao3 !! chapter 4 is being edited currently, and it will be the last chapter before i start college. so look forward to that.

(AO3 Link) (Chapter 1) (Chapter 2)

“What’s your name, soldier?”

I had considered Sector 45 a second home for a long time, and by extension I knew where all the best spots in the base were. I knew which seats were the most comfortable and which one’s cushions hadn’t been changed out since before I was born. So, I’d taken my new faux-bodyguard to one of the sectioned off rooms, chambers that had colored themes and a lack of decor. And also no cameras. That was the most important part, I would sit us right in the blindspot.

“Kenji Kishimoto,” he paused awkwardly, “sir.”

“Call me Ella, I don’t have a formal military title.” That was a lie, technically. “And I don’t take myself that seriously.”

Kishimoto-- Kenji snorted, he had a sense of humor.

“Where are you from?”

“Sector 43,” he paused to frown at me. “Where are you from?”

“Oceania Sector 124.”

It was an automatic response, replying with section numbers instead of places. No one from Sector 45 would know anything about the continent of Oceania. I doubted any of them had ever been on the other side of the world.

“New Zealand.” I amended.

Kenji’s mouth opened in an ah-ha moment, before promptly closing and leaving an awkward silence between the both of us. I was hesitant to close it, this soldier had been given a job and it wasn’t to make nice conversation and be my friend.

“Who are you then?” Kenji spoke before I did.

“What do you mean?”

He rolled his eyes, “If you’re getting your own personal guard you’ve gotta be someone worth protecting. So, who are you? Should I know?”

“I don’t know,” I blinked. “It’s probably better that you don’t already know who I am.”

Kenji seemed to consider this, and after another moment, sat down on the other chair facing my own. It was progress at least. He didn’t seem comfortable in the slightest. Though, I couldn’t exactly blame him for that could I?

“You already know what I can do.”

“News spreads fast here,” he shifted in his seat.

I nodded grimly. He’d been tipped off not to make direct contact with my skin or, at the very least, he’d seen me take down a man twice my size without a weapon. That would be enough evidence to convince most people. But Kenji didn’t look scared of me, he still showed the same level of discomfort as he had in Warner’s presence. It was possible he just had a problem with authority.

“Well, there’s nothing to worry about as long as you don’t touch me.”

“Why am I protecting you then?”

I bit my lip. He wasn’t an idiot, I couldn’t just lie and say I needed protection from the soldiers. Kenji had seen me practically bulldoze a man twice my size.

“Maybe it’s less about protecting everyone else from me--”

“--and about protecting everyone else from you. So, I’m on babysitting duty?”

I narrowed my eyes at him, “I tell you I’m not military and you’re already interrupting me. You don’t waste any time do you?”

Kenji seemed to resist a grin, “Sorry, Princess.”

Around Kenji, I refused to be unprofessional in case he saw it as a weakness in which he could exploit. Even after spending a day with him trailing my every move I couldn’t figure out a reason for Warner to assign him to watch me. If anything he seemed like more of a troublemaker than I was. Perhaps I was missing something, that hurt my pride.

Warner was in his office, at the desk with folders stacked before him, by the time I returned to the bedroom. I was unimpressed, and that much could have been easily picked up on, but I pulled a chair up to his desk and sat crossed legged. He paused when I entered the room and hadn’t moved since, but after I was settled he returned to the work before him without comment. Two could play at this game, I opened a book.

It was a long while before Warner spoke, “Do you want to know why?”

“I’d rather you not hide things from me to begin with,” I flipped the page, “but I suppose that’s asking too much, isn’t it?”

I could feel my heartbeat pick up pace, the tension that always wrapped around us seemed to be tightening into a stranglehold. The only thing that held me together, that kept me from giving in, was the fact that it would never ruin us. Fighting was just an aspect of our relationship, we disagreed on nearly everything but it made life interesting. I wouldn’t lose him over this and he had to know that he would never lose me either.

“Kenji Kishimoto has only been here for two months,” Warner began. “Kishimoto has been a nuisance, causing problems among the sector’s ranks and becoming a very frequent headache of mine.”

“And now he’s my problem?”

I finally looked up to meet his eyes, shards of glass that I could feel cut into my heart. He must have finally sensed that I wasn’t nearly as upset with him as I had made it sound, because his shoulders relaxed just a fraction before he continued, “There’s something suspicious about the timing and that’s not all.”

“No?” He placed a folder in front of me.

“I can’t tell if he’s lying.”

I raised an eyebrow and flipped open the file, Kenji Kishimoto was the first profile in the pile. I turned the page and found another soldier, and another, and another. “What is this?”

Warner didn’t speak as I kept looking through the files. I couldn’t see the connection with all of these people, some weren’t even from Sector 45 but from the other side of the continent. There was something so familiar about it that I had the urge to look away, insist that Warner answer my question. But then I didn’t need him to, a soldier appeared before me and I recognized the face.

Just barely, because it wasn’t in agonizing pain.

“Aaron.”

“North America’s files on double agents, people regents have been led to believe are members of the rebellion. You know we’re told to keep track of any soldiers that peak interest.” He paused, quiet. “You have a copy too.”

I dropped the papers unceremoniously and put my head in my hands. I knew, deep inside, that everyone who worked in the Reestablishment had some version of my kill-list sat in a box somewhere within their desk. That was how my work operated. Someone reported a citizen, or a soldier, or anyone of being suspicious and rowdy and then they called in me. The Reestablishment didn’t care if they got things wrong, if there was nothing to learn from the person they took in, and they had me kill them anyways. They were never let go after being taken in. Anderson thought it was good for me.

“You reported him?”

“Not yet.”

I looked up to meet his eyes, “What am I supposed to do?”

Maybe it was the fragile way my voice shook, my control slipping, or maybe it was the pain I could feel rolling off my mind in waves. I knew they were crashing into him, I watched as he took each with practiced ease and still managed not to break under their weight. He was so strong, my anchor, and now he was giving me a choice.

“I’ve never done an investigation before,” I strained out a laugh.

“You’re restless,”

“I’m tired, Aaron. I sleep all day--”

“You’re restless and it’s hurting you more than it’s helping you.” Warner reached out a hand towards me, pushing away from his desk enough that I easily slipped off my chair and came to sit on his lap. I ducked my head beneath his chin, taking in the warmth of him, the comfort as he brushed his fingers through the short strands of my hair. “I didn’t do this to hurt you, I’m not--”

“You’re nothing like him.” I pressed a kiss to his neck, “And you didn’t hurt me.”

“It felt like I did.”

“You told me the truth, that’s a good thing. Even if it took me by surprise.” I pursed my lips and laid out the options in front of me. Warner suspected Kenji to be a member of the rebellion and he very well might be, but he hadn’t been reported. It’s not my job to handle him unless he gets officially reported by a sector regent, theoretically I could leave it alone. But, if I was to dissuade any possible suspicion around Kenji, then I wouldn’t have to kill him. “You’ve given me quite a decision.”

“At least you’re not bored.”

“If Anderson found out--”

Warner frowned, “He won’t.”

We sat in silence with me curled up against him like we were children again. There had been a point in time where Warner wanted as far away from the work his father had be do then anything else, it was a testament to the strengthening of our bond that he shared this with me. And I was so, so proud of him.

“You don’t have to listen to him,” his voice was soft, I almost missed it just swimming through the contents of my own thoughts. He was watching me, gauging my reactions while pushing my hair behind my ear. “I hate watching you tear yourself apart.”

“I know.”

His lips kissed down my temple to the corner of my mouth and I tilted my face higher to give him more access. I would never get tired of my feeling of him against him. With him I would never feel alone.

“I love you.”

I smiled into his kiss as he repeated the words again and again and again. I was drowning and it was just fine, everything would be fine, I could handle this tiny mission. It was a means to an end anyways. And I could do anything, especially here, in North America with my best friend, the love of my life.

“I know.”

“Miss Sommers.” Delalieu greeted as I walked off the plane, my legs felt like gelatin and my heart was in my throat, constricting the airflow with each beat. It was easy to see Delalieu’s surprise at my visit. I fought back my own disgust with him.

“Lieutenant,” I nodded, “I assume Supreme Commander Anderson has already returned to the capital?”

Delalieu didn’t need to nod. My assumption was correct.

“Good, send the usual supplies to Regent Warner’s chambers. Don’t tell the Supreme Commander I’m here and don’t let anyone follow me up. Or else you’re dead.”

The way to Warner’s bedroom was far too familiar even after the months we’d spent apart for each other. Despite my mood, there was no way I could ignore today without guilt consuming my every waking moment. I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if I did. It was pleasing to watch as I made my way through the halls, soldiers new and old jumping out of my path.

Alone in the elevator, my nerves began slicing me in two. The door chimed and opened to a scene that was far more eerie then I had assumed it might be. Little was changed about the room; the red duvet on the bed had been stripped and crumpled to the floor, the closet door was left opened with the lights off. There was a knock on the far-wall bedroom door, I sped towards it and opened it only to find the hallway empty and outside sat the cart I had told Delalieu to send up.

It was filled with objects that felt more like memories. Medicine and antiseptic that forced my mind to think of laboratories and having my hair tied back in tight braids. I shivered. After setting the cart down on the table within the bedroom and locking the door behind me, I finally decided to look for the inhabitant, and quell the nervous energy in my stomach.

“Aaron, where are you?”

There was no response throughout the room.

I took inventory again and noticed the light to the bathroom was on. It was so stark against the objectively dark bedroom that I was shocked that I hadn’t noticed before. I crept closer to the slightly ajar door before pulling it open quietly, like the heroine in a horror movie. “Aaron?”

He was bent over the toilet with his back bared to me. Scars from previous years were crosshatched with fresh, welting cuts that now bled openly across his skin. Blood didn’t scare me, not anymore, but seeing him bleed was enough to bring tears to my eyes. It was an image of cruelty, true cruelty brought about by his own father. I would kill that man some day.

I retreated back into the bedroom to grab antiseptic, bandages, something to soothe the wounds, I went through the motions that his mother had taught me when I was five and then again when I was six, and then again and again until I was the only one that could clear up after Anderson when he paid his son a visit on his birthday. I’d been doing it so long that it felt like second nature, and that though made my skin crawl.

“Ella?”

Warner’s voice was barely above a whisper as I returned to the bathroom with supplies in hand, I settled on my knees beside him and brushed my fingers against the back of his neck, feeling the heat of his skin and calming my nerves.

“It’s me. I’m going to take care of you, okay?”

He groaned, dry-heaving into the toilet again. I pulled my fingers through his hair once more before bringing a towel to the cuts and beginning my work. I had forgotten, in the past months, that without Warner I couldn’t really touch anyone. Not like I could touch him. He was the only person I could be safe around, vulnerable without losing a part of myself, the only person I could be normal around. I switched towels, cringing at the choice of white fabric. Maybe not completely normal.

“Before I forget,” I wanted him to talk to me. Keep distracted. “Happy birthday. I would have gotten you something, but I figured that getting to see me again while I’m pissed at you was enough of a gift.”

He laughed weakly and rolled his head to the side to face her. I was struck with how truly awful he looked. Pale and sickly, sweat clung to his forehead and deep bruises sat beneath his eyes. I used the hand that was still grasped at the back of his neck to push the hair from his face. The blond strands I’d spent years in awe of now hung limp in the fluorescent light of the bathroom.

“How are you?”

“Better.” Warner’s lip twitched, “Now anyways.”

I narrowed my eyes at him before getting up to put the bloodied towels in the sink. That’s when I noticed the pill bottle on the floor near him. I didn’t need to pick it up to know what the bottle contained, but I prayed that Warner was smart enough not to have overdosed.

“No wonder you’re so slow,” I clicked my tongue. “How many did you take?”

Warner didn’t respond even as I got back down on the bathroom floor with him. He just stared at me with eyes glazed and confused. I touched his cheek, why this had to be the first moment we see each other after everything that had happened with Lena, with us. My own realization. Suddenly it felt dangerous to be alone with him in this state. I stood up once again, ever indecisive, I could change the sheets on the bed while I reigned myself in.

Warner’s hand shot out, loosely grasping my wrist and trying his best to draw me back down to him. Knowing that Warner’s usual strength could easily accomplish this task hurt all the more now that he couldn’t even pull hard enough for me to budge.

“Aaron,” my voice was gentle without planning to, “I need to change the bed. I’m not leaving, I promise.”

“Ella, I’m--”

“I know.” I smiled at him, and he let go.

Kenji Kishimoto was not going to make this easy for me. Everyday he would be forced to follow me as I walked in circles around the base. And it felt like the proper punishment for me. I think it was the beginning of a beautiful friendship, or maybe just the beginning of my investigation, whichever made me sound less soulless.

“What’s your favorite thing to do?”

Kenji gave me a deadpan expression, “I don’t know, Princess. I have to work all hours of the day.”

“You could humor me, y’know.” There was a pause as we continued walking and I thought up another question, “What’s your favorite color?”

“Grey.”

I threw my hands up in mock annoyance.

“Fine, what do you want to talk about?”

Kenji shrugged. He had been trying to keep a straight face for the majority of our limited conversations, but I’d grown very used to seeing beyond people’s masks. I could tell he was hiding a smile and maybe even some curiosity. I could use that, I knew I could.

“Come on, you’ve got to have questions.” I waited for him to respond, but he didn’t. “And I don’t plan on leaving Sector 45 anytime soon.”

He sighed and after another moment of mindless walking he said, “Fine.”

I clapped my hands together in glee before turning on my heel and heading towards another room similar to the one I had taken him to before. Sector 45 had a lot of unused rooms, especially on the upper floors, and I had never really registered why. The skyscraper hadn’t been built to house military, that much was certain, but it left a great many rooms easy to access and free of the hidden camera that made my skin itch beneath my clothes.

“Ask away,” I told him as I moved to the back of the room. There was a bookcase on the far left that held cookbooks on the second tallest shelf. I pulled one on Indian cuisine down.

“All right,” he didn’t waste time to consider. “Why are you here? In North America, I mean.”

“I work for the Reestablishment.”

“There isn’t anywhere in the world better then here?”

I smiled at him, “I wouldn’t go that far.”

The couches in the room were a toffee brown color that clashed with the walls and the woods. They had no taste for interior design in any of these rooms. It curled my lip, but I sat on the cushion and set the book beside me, gesturing for Kenji to sit on the other couch across from me. We were going to have a conversation and it was only polite to be on equal footing.

“For me,” I continued, “I suppose this is the best place in the world.”

He raised an eyebrow, or tried too anyways, but I could tell he didn’t believe me. Now I was weighing my options; If I confided in him then maybe he would see it equal to confide in me as well. But on the other hand then I’d had to tell him something honestly about myself. I wasn’t sure what information I could divulge easily. Kenji made a motion with his hand as if for me to keep talking, a quiet why sat in the air around us.

“Honestly?”

He nodded.

“Regent Warner.”

Whatever he’d been expecting me to say; the sun, which was now perpetually blocked out by clouds, the beaches that were filled with litter, or the oceans that were so polluted you could get sick from just standing near them. California was an unfortunate caricature of its former self, or so I remembered.

But Warner was the easiest thing for me to talk about, as cheesy as it sounded. I couldn’t help but have him in the back of my mind in every waking moment. Because we were partners, a pair, always together except when we weren’t. And this was the juiciest gossip I could give him without revealing myself as the Reestablishment favorite assault rifle.

“It did seem weird for you to walk out of his bedroom like that.” Kenji observed me with a new level of suspicion, “Wait, I thought you couldn’t touch anyone?”

“I can’t.”

“Then-- wait-- how?” He made an exasperated motion with his hands as I sat there smiling at him. It took him a minute to compose himself, “So, you’re here for him?”

“More or less. I’m on vacation.”

“The Reestablishment gives out vacation days?”

I laughed, “No, unfortunately. I’m a special case.”

Kenji finally leaned back in his seat, getting more comfortable as he continued to question me and I answered without difficulty. He gave me an incredulous look, “You don’t work for the military, but you do work for the Reestablishment. And you take time off even though you’re not supposed to. What are you, a diplomat?”

“No.” I shook my head, “Definitely not. My sister is far better versed in policies then I am.”

“You have a sister?”

I pursed my lips. If Emmaline were here she could sort through the contents of his head and deliver the truth to me on a silver platter. But Emmaline wasn’t here, I was, and I didn’t have abilities over the mind. I wondered if I cursed her loud enough, if she could hear me from the other side of the world.

“Am I going to learn anything about you beyond your favorite color?”

“Sure, Princess.” He grinned like he’d beaten me at something.

I waited. I couldn’t ask him another silly question, like what was his favorite animal, it was better to let the truth come to light naturally but that didn’t mean you shouldn’t help it along. Once again, I wished I were Emmaline, that I could so easily read people instead of harm them.

“Why are you a soldier?”

Kenji’s smile fell slowly until he was staring blankly back at me. I hadn’t thought it would be a hard question to answer, I figured he would brush it off and say he was simply bored and it offered a bit of excitement. That would be in character.

“Kenji?”

“Why do you think?” He spoke up, “Everyone has to eat, has a family they need to protect, that’s why everyone chooses to be mindless drones for a government that doesn’t give a shit about us.”

I sat patiently while he caught his breath and continued.

“Hell, it’s not even really a choice at this point. You either work for them or you work for them, there’s no in between for any of us. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Princess?”

Strong resentment for the Reestablishment. Unwilling to share details of personal life. Hostility evoked from questioning. Distracting demeanor, draws attention to himself, but through mischief instead of malice. It was a strong cover, if it was a cover. I couldn’t be too hasty in my decision. For once I could actually save someone from my chopping block rather than lowering the axe.

I hummed softly to myself before standing, the cookbook left on the seat. Decisions, decisions. When I moved towards the door with the intent to leave, Kenji got to his feet and his regret over his own words was written clearly on his face. I turned and smiled back at him, I wasn’t hurt by his opinion of the Reestablishment, I’d heard far worse.

“You’re dismissed for the rest of today, I think I’m going to take a nap.” He opened his mouth to speak up, but I raised a hand and silenced him. “Not to make light of your own difficulties, but it doesn’t matter high up you are. The Reestablishment takes away everyone’s freedom, even mine.”

I had never seen this room before.

It felt a little bit like Mum and Dad’s office. Cold and quiet. I wrapped my arms around myself as Mum and the other people in white coats moved around the room. They were talking quietly, but I was so far away from them I couldn’t make out any of the words. And then Dad kneeled down next to me.

He didn’t hold my hand anymore, even though Mum made me wear gloves. But he still smiled at me like he always did, that’s how I knew he loved me. “Hey there, little bird.”

I smiled shyly back at him. There was a creaking of metal across the room and I almost reached up to cover my ears it was so loud. I wished Emmaline was there, she always knew what to do. Or Warner. If Warner was there he could hold my hand while I waited for Mum to do my check up, this was probably another kind of check up. Dad moved into my line of sight, cutting off my vision of Mum.

“Ella, you’re five now and that means you’re a big girl.”

I nodded. Emmaline was six and she was already so much more grownup. I was determined to catch up to her.

“I need you to do something for me, little bird. You’re going to take your gloves off--”

“Mum said I wasn’t allowed to take them off.”

“I know,” he smiled, “but Mum needs you to take them off right now. Just for a little while, I promise.”

I glanced down at the pink cotton gloves that came all the way up to my shirt sleeves. It had been a couple months since I’d had to start wearing them and they weren’t itchy at all anymore. My hands honestly scared me a little bit. It had been a really sudden thing, I didn’t want to take a bath and the nanny watching Emmaline and I had had to chase me around the living room. When she finally caught me, she started screaming like I had kicked her. Mum had come then, she’d done a check up, and then she told me to wear the gloves and not take them off.

And she told me not to touch anyone.

Emmaline thought I was dumb, but I could understand that somehow I could hurt someone if I touched them. Like when you got too much static from rubbing your socks on the carpet and you shock someone. Except it seemed like it hurt a lot more. I didn’t want to accidentally touch Mum, or Dad, or Emmaline. Or Warner. So, I never took the gloves off just like I was told.

“Please, for me?” Dad asked.

I gave in. Pulling the cotton back to reveal my pale arms and then my hands. They looked just like normal hands. I imagined a current of electricity running through them, but nothing changed. Emmaline said that when she used her powers , she visualized everything.

“Alright, Ella, follow me.”

Dad led me across the room to where Mum and the other white coats had finally settled. Some sat in front of monitors and others stood around watching me, waiting for something. I wanted to hide behind Dad’s legs, but I wasn’t allowed to touch him. Mum came closer with a smile on her bright red lips.

“There’s my brave little girl.” My face soured at being called little. “Are you ready for your check up?”

“Yes, Mum.”

Mum’s hands and arms were covered as she lifted me into a high seat, it reminded me of the bar stools we had in the kitchen. In front of me, on a table, there was a rabbit in a cage. It’s nose was twitching in all directions as it sat, still and calm. Mum opened the top of the cage.

“Ella,”

“Yes?” My voice was shaking as Mum picked up the rabbit.

“I want you to hold this bunny for me. That’s not hard is it?”

“But--”

“Hold it and don’t drop it no matter what, okay? This is very important.”

Dad came around from the side and stuck things that felt like suction cups to my head, I was use to those. I didn’t want to hurt the rabbit. I didn’t want Mum to give me the rabbit, it was so much smaller than the nanny, what if the electric shock really hurt it?

“Mummy--”

“Ella,” my mother’s tone was suddenly sharper. “Be a good girl and do this for me. It’s very important that you hold this rabbit and not let it go, no matter what, is this clear?”

“Y-Yes.”

Mum lowered the rabbit in my arms and then pulled them tightly around it. I noticed then that the rabbit was also hooked up to multiple machines, I could see it’s heart rate monitor out of the corner of my eyes. I saw it spike. The second the rabbit was in my hands it began thrashing like crazy, I could feel it try to bite me or claw me, anything to get loose. But it didn’t hurt, nothing touched me. And then the rabbit stopped moving.

I watched everything. I couldn’t close my eyes as the soft rabbit with pure white fur lay limp in my arms. It’s heartbeat gone silent. I looked up at Mum, her hand held over her mouth and I wondered if she’s scream and me or cry. I had hurt the rabbit, I really hadn’t meant to. But her hand lowered and behind it was a smile.

“Interesting,” she said. “Very interesting.”

#vilify me #shatter me #aaron warner #juliette ferrars #unravel me #ignite me #restore me #defy me #tahereh mafi #kenji kishimoto #emmaline sommers #shatter me fanfiction #shatter me au #my writing #my fanfiction

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