#On the other hand her common sense is rather more intact than a lot of people's

[oculusxcaro]

Khare never used to be quite so dim-witted. Her slower thought process and ability to learn has been heavily impacted as a result of her mutation but she's still canny enough to gauge a situation or look of a person and go "Yeah, that is somebody I probably shouldn't piss off."

[rugbypolycule]

take your hand in mine

pairing: itadori yuuji x fushigoro megumi

characters: itadori yuuji, fushigoro megumi, kugisaki nobara, fushiguro tsumiki (mentioned),  fushiguro toji (mentioned), gojo satoru (mentioned)

rating: general audiences, no warnings apply

words: 1968

summary: yuuji is half-decent at painting his nails for a beginner. megumi is absolutely smitten and gets pulled along for the ride. they're both in love and clueless.

or: an intimacy fic where yuuji paints megumi's nails. because those boys deserve some quiet time.

ao3 link

Itadori Yuuji isn’t someone who gets embarrassed easily. He rarely pays attention to the opinions of others, and not for a lack of caring. He has such a strong sense of self, such an unwavering faith in his own mind that criticism often flies right over his head. On anyone else, the trait would far too-closely resemble arrogance – even self-centeredness. The pink-haired boy, however, is too gentle, too empathetic and kind. His steady confidence shines in a bright halo that threatens to overwhelm even those with the strongest defenses.

In simpler, more candid terms, Fushigoro Megumi feels like he can’t breathe when Yuuji smiles. If he were more honest with himself, he’d recognise that his feelings of breathlessness aren’t reserved for Yuuji’s full-watt smile. The truth is that around Yuuji, Megumi’s lungs work overtime. He is almost constantly filled with this restless sort of energy, the urge to act. It makes his fingers itch and his pulse lurch to his throat.

It’s a cool day. It had been overcast for a while, the clouds heavy with an oncoming storm so strong it could almost be tasted. Yuuji loves days like these. The feeling of his hair standing on end, the thickness of the air around him, the velvety grey of the sky. It is the sort of day that makes you want to stay inside with lights dimmed and quiet music playing.

Yuuji finds himself in this exact position, scrolling through Pinterest on his laptop. Ever since meeting Megumi and Nobara, he had discovered a newfound love for fashion. He loved bright colours and stark geometric patterns and shiny skin and lips. It felt fresh and energising. He loved the attention to detail that went into putting together a full outfit – the studded belts, sheer scarves, painted nails.

Yuuji loved the look of nail polish. He could wear his dark uniform and still bring colour into his life, and for cheap. Plus, going shopping with Nobara was always a fun experience. She had picked out a bright purple shade for Yuuji, but he had his eyes on a bottle bursting with golden yellow. He bought them both at her loud insistence. They ate sushi that day. It was nice.

Now Yuuji sits on his bed, yellow bottle in slightly trembling hand. His nervous anticipation doesn’t come from fear that people would think he looked weird or strange; he is more worried about messing up the application and look messy, about which Nobara often complained. The concern quickly dissipates, though, making way for Yuuji’s quiet excitement as he opens the bottle.

The breaking of the seal causes a wave of fumes to fill his room. Yuuji’s nose tickles. He sneezes a few times, coming dangerously close to spilling the yellow paint everywhere. Thankfully, his reflexes are stronger than his body’s averse reaction. He slowly lifts the brush out of the bottle, taking care to wipe off the excess varnish just as Nobara had told him. With a slightly steadier hand, he begins painting his left index finger. He moves on to the next, then the next, then his right hand (which is considerably more difficult and why didn’t Nobara say anything about that?) Though he was unpracticed, he didn’t make a huge mess like he thought he would. Save for a few yellow-tinged cuticles, he had done a pretty decent job.

For a while, Yuuji just sits back and admires his work. Nobara had told him to wait no less than 15 minutes before even thinking about using his hands. Yuuji lasts 5 minutes before looking for a cooking video to pass the time. Nothing was smudged, and Yuuji quite happily sits through more than a few videos before the smell of the nail polish becomes too much for him. It had been plenty of time now, so he doesn’t worry about messing up his nails as he opens the door to his room.

He stops short as he finds Megumi on the other side of it.

If anyone asked, Megumi was just walking past Yuuji’s room for no reason. In fact, he was only going to get water, and had to pass by Yuuji’s room in order to get to the common area. The reason he stopped at his classmate’s door at all was simply to ponder the possibility of getting a snack. There was no other motive behind it.

Sadly, all his excuses do nothing to hide his deer-in-headlights expression. Before he can open his mouth in order to deny being there on purpose, a hand is thrust towards his face. Megumi flinches back in a sort of surprised confusion before realising that Yuuji has yellow fingernails.

“Do you like them?” asks Yuuji, grinning at Megumi like an expectant puppy.

Oh. There’s that hummingbird thrum in his bones again. The rapid movement of blood that makes his head light and his breath shallow. Yuuji is beautiful.

“Yeah,” Megumi tries to answer. It’s at times like these, when he’s lost for words and doesn’t know how to move his face to seem genuine, that he really appreciates Yuuji’s personality. Almost anyone else would have thought Megumi disinterested, or worse judgemental because of his monotone and lacklustre response. Thankfully, Yuuji just huffs out a laugh.

“You don’t have to sound so excited about it, Fushiguro.” He rolls his eyes, still grinning, arm still extended. “I thought you would’ve appreciated it more.”

Megumi softly bats his hand away. “I don’t ‘not appreciate it’, Itadori. It’s cool. I’m just… thinking about how it probably wouldn’t suit me.”

Megumi gets whacked on the shoulder. “Hey!” He complains as Yuuji pulls him into his room and sits him down on the bed. The nail polish smell, not having quite left the room yet, makes Megumi’s nose wrinkle up. Yuuji lets out a giggle that sounds like sunshine on skin.

“What are you doing?” Megumi almost whines as Yuuji rummages around in his closet. Yuuji turns to face him, pulling a plastic bag out with him with a flourish. His smile hasn’t left his face yet, and Megumi feels like he’s drowning in it.

“Won’t suit you? We’ll see about that,” says Yuuji, confident as always.

Megumi tries not to splutter. “Well. Yellow isn’t really my colour, Itadori.” He says his name too softly, like he always does. He tenses up and hopes Yuuji doesn’t notice.

To his almost-disappointment, Yuuji doesn’t react. Instead, he pulls out a bottle of purple nail polish and throws it towards the bed, a way too smug look on his face. Megumi wants to kiss him so badly it hurts.

“Nobara got me to buy two,” he almost sing-songs, “so now you have to let me paint yours!”

In another reality, there is a Megumi that rips his gaze away from those brown eyes and mumbles something about Yuuji not making any sense. He leaves the room with his heart intact, and goes and eats ice cream with a spoon with his wolves in the dark.

Instead, he tries desperately to stay quiet, to suppress a gasp as Yuuji grabs his hand to inspect it. Megumi blames the tightness in his ribs on his binder and toughs it out. Except Yuuji’s hand is so warm and impossibly soft and that idiot shuffles close enough that their thighs are touching and it’s all. A lot.

Yuuji is still just cradling Megumi’s hand in both his own, turning it over and staring for so long it’s as if he’s trying to commit the skin to memory. The air is still thick with an oncoming storm, but now a tentative intimacy mingles amongst the electrified atoms. Megumi doesn’t dare move or speak, as if the universe will punish him by way of Yuuji letting go of his hand. He chooses rather to count each of Yuuji’s eyelashes, watch his nostrils flare as he breathes out in quiet concentration.

“You have really pretty fingers.” Yuuji murmurs, completely unaware of how devastating it is to Megumi’s heart.

Having been abandoned by his father, not knowing his mother, and his sister being in a coma, Megumi hasn’t been a close acquaintance to touch. Hell, even when his sister wasn’t confined to a hospital bed, he was too prickly and stubborn to receive hugs most of the time. Somewhere not-so-deep down, Megumi craves touch. Sometimes, he stares at the ceiling and wonders what it could feel like to be close to someone that didn’t involve the rigidity of training or the annoyance of Gojo’s hair ruffles. To feel warm and fuzzy and for it to be because of someone else’s hands.

Yuuji’s touch, combined with his soft words of praise, are a dream come true. Megumi can only cough awkwardly and watch as Yuuji starts to coat his short nails in purple. Yuuji’s tongue is almost the same colour as his hair, and it sticks slightly out of his mouth as he works. At some point Yuuji had turned that low music back on: a steady and slow lo–fi that does nothing to calm Megumi’s racing heart.

Yuuji keeps slowly rubbing his thumb back and forth on the back of Megumi’s hand as he glides the brush against his fingernails. It’s in all ways comforting as it is maddening, and Megumi does not expect the quiet, “you take such good care of your hands,” when it comes.

Yuuji chooses that exact moment to look into Megumi’s eyes. His face is so open and earnest and it’s becoming harder and harder to keep looking back without leaning forward into his space and just…

Megumi lets out a shaky breath. “Really? Thank you,” he replies, trying to sound as casual as possible with his pulse constricting in his jaw. His mouth feels dry.

Yuuji moves swiftly onto his other hand until all that’s left is his pinky. Not wanting to repeat the slight smudges he had accidentally painted onto Megumi’s left pinky, Yuuji pulls this last finger closer to his face, his breath fanning against it and sending shivers up Megumi’s whole arm. He finishes painting the nail quickly and carefully, but doesn’t put down Megumi’s hand.

Megumi can’t help the soft gasp he lets out as he feels a feather-light kiss pressed to his wrist. It’s as if his blood sings. They observe each other quietly for several moments – taking one another in, willing the silence to never break. Yuuji eventually pulls his face away from his work, now admiring the job.

“All finished.” Yuuji’s voice isn’t loud, but it fills the room. Megumi moves on the bed, beginning to pull his hand away. Yuuji drops his wrist in favour of grabbing Megumi’s waist with both hands, eyes almost panicked.

“You can’t leave yet!” His voice doesn’t raise above the volume of the music, but his words are emphatic. Megumi is trembling in his grasp. “You have to let them dry. And since I spent all that time painting your nails for you, it’s only fair that you stay here with me while you wait.”

Megumi is about to protest, knowing his limits are close to being reached. His face is burning hot and surely visible from the mere distance Yuuji sits away. He feels fit to burst.

The sky does before he has the chance.

The first clap of thunder sounds outside, and a pitter pattering of rain begins to thrum against the window. Megumi resigns himself to this still fume-filled room. He lies down on the bed next to Itadori Yuuji, feeling everything. He doesn’t answer when Yuuji asks if he wants to watch something, nor does he pay attention to whatever the pink-haired boy pulls up on YouTube for them.

Instead, Megumi exists in a content closeness to his friend, counting his eyelashes, and feeling the heat of Yuuji’s hands on his waist.

[beewolfwrites]

The Oar in the Sand - Chapter Four: Guessing Games

@cheshiya @tenseoyong @szallejhscorner @something-more-original-please @ofsunsetsandpoetries @nek0dzuken @allozaur @serenzippity

I’m sorry if there’s any typos or mistakes in this. Some chapters are just harder to write, and I end up repeating words over and over haha. If you spot any, do let me know! 

As always, I’ll leave the AO3 link here. And I hope you like it! 

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

The Latin alphabet.

The message could be written in any language from English to Spanish, Czech or even Latin itself.

It could mean anything.

Unlike An, Headband or Pigtails, I had the advantage, and I could still save us. Except I had no idea where to start, and the steady pressure of the game was already settling on my shoulders like a thick fog.  

The Queen was smiling at me from the other gallows. I understood now, the way her eyes had lingered on me back in the reception. She probably hadn’t accounted for a foreigner to be here – after all, her game was intrinsically designed for native Japanese speakers. And yet that smile, the way the corners of her eyes crinkled ever so slightly; she was still confident.

And she should be. She already knows I can’t read morse code.

‘I don’t mean to rush you,’ said Pigtails, ‘but do you think you’ll be able to decode some of it?’ Her previous hope had wilted away, and she was now watching me with apprehension.

The message glared at me from the screen, nonsensical and confusing. The dots and dashes were swarming, melting into one dotted mass that darkened the room. My arms and legs felt detached, swinging from this noose like a doll. So many people had died. The teenage girl, the business man, Pink Scrunchie, countless players accused of being witches... I wasn’t able to save any of them.

And now, four more lives would be added to the list.

‘Stop panicking.’

I jumped at the sharpness of An’s voice. The dots and dashes returned to their screen. My hands and legs were still intact, still moving.

‘Take a deep breath and focus,’ she instructed.

Swallowing, I breathed in and out shakily. My chest felt hollow, and at the same time, it was crawling with jitters. ‘How can you be so calm? 何を知っている分からない.’ I don’t know what I’m doing.

‘Yes, you do. Chishiya brought you to the Beach for a reason.’

Chishiya?

That was why she trusted me?

I couldn’t hold back a bitter laugh; no matter how much I loved him, what he did at the Beach, the way he had almost betrayed me, it was still painful to think about.

‘違う.’ You’re wrong. I didn’t exactly have the vocabulary to explain properly, but I was sure they’d get the gist. ‘苣屋は私を使ってトランプの盗むしていた. それが唯一の理由だった.’ Chishiya was using me to steal the cards. That was the only reason.

An’s lips parted in surprise. Headband and Pigtails were whispering in low voices. I couldn’t quite make out what they were saying, but from their tones it was clear they didn’t think too highly of Chishiya.

‘So that’s what really happened,’ An muttered, filling in the rest of the blanks herself. ‘It was hard to believe Arisu could be capable of doing something like that.’ She shook her head slowly, processing the new information. ‘I suppose it no longer matters, since the Beach is gone now. But Chishiya still made a good decision bringing you to us. I’ve heard about your games, and I believe you’re more capable than you think.’

I remembered my conversation with Chishiya the day before the second stage, when he told me I would be good at Diamonds. Back then, he was wrong. Just looking at the dots and dashes on the screen, I knew this game was beyond me. And yet, it would be nothing more than a simple brainteaser for someone like him.

I wonder, what would he do? How would he approach this game?

I tried to picture his response to a morse code message. I tried to imagine his methods of breaking it down logically. But even so, it was impossible to understand how his brain worked. He was totally different to me. He was rational and analytical, able to uncover a solution to even the most complex situations. All I could do was notice things. I wasn’t Chishiya, nor would I ever be. And right now, was he wandering the streets looking for me? Probably not. Knowing him, he might have even gone straight to the Jack of Diamonds venue.  

No. That can’t be true.

He cared. I knew that. I’d felt his fingers playing with my hair whenever I drifted in and out of sleep during the night. I’d witnessed that unreadable expression of his when he first saw the bruises Niragi left. I’d felt his hands tearing me away from the balcony edge when...

‘If we were in a game together, and say, someone pointed a gun at me, would you do that? As in, would you stand back and watch?’

‘I don’t know.’

My vision glassed over at the memory. Chishiya, you...

You liar.

I rubbed away the tears and tried to hold my chin up higher. ‘みんな、ごめんね. 今大丈夫.’ I’m sorry everyone. It’s okay now.

There were only fifty-two minutes left. The Queen, who had remained silent this whole time, was watching on with a vague, academic intrigue. Despite the pristine neatness of her olive suit and her black shoes, she was relaxed, raising her delicate eyebrows as I looked at her squarely.

‘You said before that you might be able to answer some of our questions, so I want to make a deal.’

‘What kind of deal?’ Her eyes glinted as if I’d just proposed a new game – as if I’d made this even more fun for her.

The drawing of the gallows was still waiting, empty, on the second screen. ‘If we figure out this message and clear the game, you have to answer my questions.’

She took the time to consider it. ‘I suppose that’s fair,’ she said. ‘One of us will die here, so it hardly matters anymore. It’s a deal.’

I’d said those same words to Chishiya, and I had no intention of breaking our promise here in this library. With a little more confidence now, I analysed the coded message closely. Normally in a game of Hangman, vowels were a first choice because of how often they were used. But we could only pick two.

What’s the most used vowel in the Latin alphabet?

Most people would assume it was A, but if I had to make a guess, I’d probably say E. Lots of languages with a Latin alphabet, like French, Spanish and Italian, used words like el, es, e, and est. But if E was the most common vowel, would that make it too obvious a choice?

I chanced a look at the Queen. She was smiling, not in a manipulative or secretive way, but as if she was quietly supporting us from the sidelines. It was peculiar. There was a chance she had purposely avoided E because of how often it was used, and I wouldn’t put it past her – she was still alive for a reason.

So what’s the second most common?

U was a no-go. Out of all the vowels it was definitely the least popular. A would be far too obvious as well. It would have to be a gamble between I and O. There were just forty-eight minutes left, and there was no time to waste hesitating between them.

Pick one, pick one.

‘If it’s okay with everyone,’ I said, ‘I’m going to choose O.’

Pigtails and Headbands looked unsure, most likely because I kept switching languages accidentally. On the other hand, An was open to the idea, replying only with, ‘I trust you.’

I held my breath, transfixed by the dots and dashes before us.

A number of Os appeared, scattered throughout the message; two in the first line, three in the second, four in the third, and one in the fourth. The drawing of the empty gallows remained unchanged.

We did it!

Beside me, Headband exhaled a sigh of relief and murmured a subdued thank you. Much to my surprise, however, the Queen didn’t seem disheartened by our small victory. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she looked pleased for us.

‘A good choice to start with, I must say.’ She clasped her hands together, resting them against her blazer. ‘Unfortunately, you’ve used up one of your vowels, but you seem like smart girls. I’m sure you’ll do well.’

How could she be so happy?

‘Isn’t this a bad thing for you?’ I asked. ‘Aren’t you worried?’

‘Should I be? There’s no good or bad,’ she countered, ‘just two perspectives.’

She’s a gamemaster, isn’t she? She set up these games, and she’ll die here if we win.

‘But we’re your enemy...’

She smiled warmly once more. ‘I think you’ll find we’re on the same side.’

On the same side? I didn’t understand. It didn’t make sense at all. ‘What do y—’

‘Don’t bother.’ An took off her sunglasses, openly assessing the Queen. ‘She’s intentionally wasting our time.’

She was right. The clock was now on forty-seven minutes, and the Queen seemed to be particularly skilled at raising more questions than she answered. I could interrogate her about all of this once we’d cleared the game – some things took priority. I focused my concentration on the code, trying to find some kind of hint or pattern there.

.-.   ..   -.   --. / .- / .-.   ..   -.   --. / O / .-.   o   ...   .   ...

.- / .--.   o   -.-.   -.-   .   - / ..-.   ..-   .-..   .-.. / o   ..-. / .--.   o   ...   ..   .   ...

.- / -   ..   ...   ....   o   o / .- / -   ..   ...   ....   o   o

.--   . / .-   .-..   .-.. / ..-.   .-   .-..   .-.. / -..   o   .--   -.

From what I could see, the O in the first line was capitalised. It was a standalone word – usually that would mean the word was either archaic, or it was in another language. But the Os in the third line were even more curious. The morse symbols repeated themselves twice, with the Os hinting at what could only be either onomatopoeia, or again, archaic terminology.

‘What do you think?’ Pigtails asked.

My eyes scanned the repetitions in the third line. There was something off about it. Words didn’t usually repeat themselves twice in a row like that... unless they were poetic. It would certainly explain why the O was alone in the top line, and why this message was carefully constructed with line breaks in the first place.

If it’s poetry, I might have heard it before.

Headband perked up suddenly. ‘What about going with the most common characters?’

By characters, she must’ve meant letters. I still didn’t know what language the message was in, so I could only use the letters I knew rather than those with accents. Although, playing Hangman as a child, there were always certain letters that wielded the best chance of success.

‘Let’s go with M,’ I said at last. There was usually at least one hiding somewhere. The four of us looked at the screen in anticipation. My fists clenched at my sides as I willed for an M to appear in the mix.

The screen changed.

The wrong screen. A circle appeared below the noose in the drawing. The hangman now had a head.

I could feel the others looking at me, aware that they had put their trusted me and I had let them down. ‘I’m sorry...’ I told them. ‘I’m sorry. ごめん.’

A hand lightly squeezed my shoulder. ‘It’s okay,’ Headband said. ‘We’ve still got more tries.’

Pigtails stepped as close as the noose would allow. ‘This was going to happen at some point. And at least now we know which characters aren’t there. It narrows down the possible words.’

There was silence from An. Perhaps she was disappointed in me, or even regretting her decision to let me captain this game. I wouldn’t blame her if that was the case. I felt the same way, only my regret was stained with guilt too. If I couldn’t save the three of them, at least I would die too. At least I would get what I deserved.

I glanced up at the timer. Forty-five minutes until someone gets sent to the gallows. I couldn’t let it be them.

I can’t lose control of myself like this.

‘You’ve used up one of your ten consonants,’ the Queen reminded us, steady and composed as always. ‘As a word of advice, relying on an age-old strategy doesn’t necessarily work.’

Every time the Queen opened her mouth, she only confused me more. And judging from An’s response, I wasn’t the only one to feel that way. ‘Why should we listen to your advice? Our failure is your win.’

‘Maybe you shouldn’t,’ the Queen replied. ‘But I’ll leave it up to you to decide.’

She didn’t sound like she was purposely trying to mislead us, but that in itself could be what made it so misleading. Most people tend to gravitate towards common letters when playing Hangman – is that what she meant by an ‘age-old-strategy’?

In that case...

I took a deep breath. Maybe this was worth the risk. ‘I think we should try doing the opposite,’ I stated. ‘I think we should choose an uncommon letter.’ Realising I’d slipped between languages yet again, I tried to remember the words in Japanese. ‘逆が試みよう.’ Let’s try the opposite. ‘レアの文字.’ An uncommon letter.

The Queen could have purposely avoided using popular ones to throw us off. But if I was wrong, was it worth losing a turn? The bodiless head dangled from its noose on the other screen.

Only six chances left.

‘It’s worth a shot,’ said An.

Pigtails peered at us from the end of the platform. ‘Are you sure? We don’t have that many chances of guessing.’

I understood her hesitation. It felt like we were gambling with our lives, and I was the one calling the shots. And it was even worse for her as she was placing her life in someone else’s hands. ‘I know, わかてる,’ I tried to reassure her. ‘If it doesn’t work, we can try a different approach.’

Headband was twiddling her fingers again, although there was a hardness in her posture. A resolve to win. ‘It won’t be a waste, because we’ll know then that it’s the wrong strategy. I trust you two.’

It felt good to know they had my back, even if my previous attempt at guessing hadn’t worked. Maybe things would take a turn for the better? I exhaled slowly, trying to assemble the most unlikely letters. Q was definitely a contender. Z was again, too obvious, but X was hardly ever used because there were fewer words you could make with it. It was probably the most unlikely letter to appear in a game of Hangman.

Forty-three minutes ticked down to forty-two.

‘X.’

We waited with bated breath. Headband played with her fingers. Pigtails chewed on her lip. An clutched her sunglasses in both hands, her eyes locked on the message before us.

Please... please.

‘Relying on an age-old strategy doesn’t necessarily work.’

A black line appeared beneath the hangman’s head, his new body dangling from the noose.  

[a-secret-bolton-vampire]

The Coming War for the North, Part 3: The Battle of the Bastards

To see the previous installments of this series, part 1 and part 2 are available to read here and here, respectively.

The idea that Jon and Ramsay would fight has been around for a while, even before the TV show. There are a lot of signs pointing to a similar confrontation in the books, but how it unfolds might be a little different from the show. In this final section, I'll get right down to business on this final battle for Winterfell, and the purpose and themes this plot line.

Two Snows & Winterfell

Jon and Ramsay are two very different, and somewhat very similar characters. Throughout ADWD Jon has letters sent by Ramsay detailing events transpiring in the North, including the retaking of Moat Cailin, and the marriage of Arya Stark (really Jeyne Poole) to the newly legitimized Ramsay Bolton. Stannis also begins his campaign to take the North, and sends letters to Jon detailing his movements and what he is doing. When confronted by Melisandre, Jon learns that Mance Rayder was actually Rattleshirt in magic disguise, and Rattleshirt is actually Mance in magic disguise, and with Melisandre's nudging, agrees to send Mance and six spearwives to rescue Arya from Winterfell.

Then Ramsay sends the pink letter and tells Jon that he defeated Stannis, has captured Mance, and demands Stannis's family and allies or he will attack the Night's Watch. Don't forget that Jon is the one who started this, not Ramsay. He was the instigator, helping Stannis and taking Arya away from Ramsay. Not to say Ramsay is in the right here morally (quite the opposite), but Jon did break his vows for this to happen, and he wasn't really on Ramsay's radar until this happened. Thus, ADWD has set up a rivalry between the two. However, the two characters have a lot in common to be set up as foils to each other.

Both are bastards of a very prominent noble lord of the North. Both resent their bastard status and yearn for approval to be a trueborn member of their House. And both want Winterfell. Ramsay already has Winterfell and is declared the Lord of Winterfell, while Jon nearly took Stannis's offer to be Lord of Winterfell, before rejecting it to keep his vows to the Night's Watch, while still yearning to have Winterfell. However, from there, they are complete opposites.

Ramsay is a demon in human skin, a sadistic serial killer and rapist who enjoys torture and murder, and has no regard for the laws of men. Meanwhile, Jon, as raised by Ned, is a noble and honourable person who tries his best to keep his oath and honour intact (although he does forsake it at the end of ADWD). In the season 4 DVD extras for Game of Thrones, GRRM himself even talks about this.

The relationship between Roose and Ramsay is, in some ways, a dark counterpoint to the relation between Ned Stark and Jon Snow. In both cases, a noble father with a bastard son. Jon and Ramsay are literally the opposite to each other. Jon is very noble and honorable. And Ramsay is none of those things. Roose himself is a cold and calculating man. A dispassionate man. "I placed far too much trust in you." But their treatment of the bastard son is very different. Ned keeps Jon Snow at Winterfell and he's raised with Robb and Bran. For all practical purposes, he is one of Ned's sons. Ramsay gets nothing from Roose.

Given the fact we have good build up between a rivalry between them, and that they are foils of each other, a confrontation between the two seems very likely. And even more so when you look both at the past history and at ADWD. The Stark-Bolton rivalry is the longest and most prominent feud in the North, supposedly dating back to the Long Night. Numerous wars were fought between the Red Kings from the Dreadfort and the Kings of Winter from Winterfell, some of them ending in Bolton victory. At least twice, two Bolton kings (both named Royce) took and burnt Winterfell (and it happened a third time in ACOK when Ramsay did it). The Boltons also were alleged to have flayed and worn the skins of Stark princes as cloaks.

In a way, this rivalry is a very dark, yet still grounded fantasy version of werwolves and vampires. There are quite a lot of stories including werewolves and vampires that have the two be natural enemies, with feuds that go back centuries sometimes. Of course, both the Starks and Boltons take on very clear roles as werewolves and vampires. Starks have warg blood in them (even if not all of them were wargs), and many of them have dreams at night of being a wolf and rampaging around, which sounds very much like old werewolf legends. The Boltons being vampires, on the other hand, is less magical and more implied.

The Boltons have this unearthly, sinister feel and look to them that makes them appear somewhat inhuman, with pale eyes variously described as dirty chips of ice or pale moons, and a look about themselves that is similar to some descriptions of vampires. Then of course there is the Dreadfort, a spooky old castle ruled by a very spooky and yet somewhat cultured man (Dracula anyone)? Then of course we have all the very creepy images of Boltons flaying people, and Ramsay sometimes writing using human blood as ink.

Basically, what I'm saying is that ASOIAF has done what Twilight did but better.

To go back to the future, it makes thematic and narrative sense for the Starks to retake Winterfell from their ancient nemesis. The rivalry began between a Stark and a Bolton, and will end with a Stark bastard and a Bolton bastard, fighting over dominance of the North and of Winterfell.

The Battle of the Bastards

At first glance, it seems like it's a no brainer for how this battle will unfold. Ramsay is gonna lose a lot of support, and Jon will have all the support and completely demolish Ramsay. However, while I do think it will end in victory for Jon (and not without outside help), I think that both are going to be in rather desperate positions, Jon maybe more so.

After Jon's resurrection, there is no question in my mind that he is going to head south. Those were his last thoughts and actions as he died, similar to how Catelyn killing a Frey and her grief of losing her family was the last action and thought before she died, and Beric protecting the smallfolk from the Mountain was his last act before dying. Given the strong implication he is inside Ghost, coming back, we should expect a darker, different Jon, one who doesn't give a shit, is more violent, and more determined. Of course, if he is to retake Winterfell, he should need support.

Fortunately, right before he died, he got all the free folk to cheer for him and agree to join him. Mix those free folk with the giants and mammoths that were recently let past Eastwatch, and he might have a formidable force. However, of the 4,119 or so free folk that are currently south of the Wall, not all of them are fighters. If we take the estimate for 20,000 warriors and 100,000 free folk in total, then we should expect around 820+ free folk capable of fighting. Not a lot. He will need some outside help. Of course, there is already set up for that in ADWD, when he marries Alys Karstark to Magnar Sigorn of Thenn.

He tells a captive Cregan Karstark to send word to his relatives at Karhold and yield to prevent their deaths, but Cregan stubbornly refuses. Alys believes Karhold will open their gates to her, and Alys is thankful for Jon Snow providing her refuge at the Wall and a marriage to get out of an even worse one she did not want. The strength of Karhold may not be the best, but it seems very likely for Karhold to join Jon and his cause, under the banners of Alys.

As for the other houses of the North, I don't expect much more support. Think about how Jon will look to the Northmen. He is a bastard, and those are already quite condemned throughout the North (and Westeros in general). He broke his vows by leaving the Night's Watch, and since the North takes vows and oaths and honour much more seriously than the rest of Westeros, being an oathbreaker who abandoned the Wall is not going to make him popular. And finally, he is leading a band of wildlings south. The North despises the free folk, thinking of them as savages, thanks to centuries of conflict with them. So the picture of Jon painted as an oathbreaking wildling bastard is going to be a major problem for him. At worst, he would be viewed just as evil and treacherous as Ramsay, the other prominent bastard in the North.

In fact, even if Ramsay loses a lot of support from his own actions (more later), he could use this to his advantage. At best, the northerns who hate Jon will remain neutral in the conflict, but at worst, they might even ally with the Boltons. The clansmen have a deep hatred of House Bolton, but they also have a very deep hatred of the free folk, so they may actually remain neutral. The Umbers are another House that deals frequently with wildlings, and many years prior, Crowfood lost his daughter to wildlings raiding south of the Wall. So instead of Jon's presence invigorating the Umbers to fight against Ramsay, their own vehement hatred of the wildlings might lead them to simply stick with Ramsay.

However, that isn't to say everything will go swimmingly for Ramsay. Their hold on the North is tentative, and if Ramsay kills Roose and Walda and their child, it could become even more unstable. For one, Lady Barbrey Dustin isn't loyal to the Boltons, but instead loyal to Roose. Her sister was the former wife of Roose, and Domeric was her nephew, so Lady Dustin has reason to be on friendly terms with Roose. On the other hand, she despises Ramsay, blaming him for Domeric's death, and not even allowing him to step foot in Barrow Hall because of it. In turn, Ramsay also holds her in contempt.

"It should have been you who threw the feast, to welcome me back," Ramsay complained, "and it should have been in Barrow Hall, not this pisspot of a castle." "Barrow Hall and its kitchens are not mine to dispose of," his father said mildly. "I am only a guest there. The castle and the town belong to Lady Dustin, and she cannot abide you." Ramsay's face darkened. "If I cut off her teats and feed them to my girls, will she abide me then? Will she abide me if I strip off her skin to make myself a pair of boots?" "Unlikely. And those boots would come dear. They would cost us Barrowton, House Dustin, and the Ryswells."

If Roose dies, not only would Lady Dustin probably suspect Ramsay, but she would simply not follow Ramsay. So already, just by becoming Warden of the North and Lord of the Dreadfort, Ramsay would lose the Dustins and the Ryswells. Of course, since Lady Dustin does have a grievance with the Starks because Ned never brought her husband home from Dorne, I think she would probably remain neutral in the conflict.

Other houses might leave Ramsay too. Some might stay simply out of fear of retaliation for betrayal. It will depend on the House, their head, their own needs and goals, etc. As for the actual battle itself, who knows what will happen. However, I do think that Ramsay will likely try to lure Jon into some sort of trap rather than give him a direct face to face confrontation. There is also very interesting foreshadowing and even direct confirmation that the battle is going to be possibly more magical than we might believe it to be. Not only are there giants and mammoths... in the final script GRRM wrote for the show, he put in this note:

[N.B. A note for future reference. A season or two down the line Ramsay’s pack of wolfhounds are going to be sent against the Stark direwolves, so we should build up the dogs as much as possible in this and subsequent episodes.]

So the hounds are going to fight the Stark direwolves... wait, direwoves? Not direwolf? Curious...

The Pack Survives

I purposefully avoided the other factions of the North there, because the heart of the conflict will be Ramsay vs. Jon. But Jon won't be alone, at least not entirely. There is Rickon, who is to be touted as the Lord of Winterfell by the Manderlys so they can support Stannis. He isn't even the only Stark who could join in. Sansa is in the Vale under the guise of Alayne Stone. Arya keeps warging into Nymeria, who leads a massive pack of hundreds of wolves throughout the Riverlands. Bran is training his demigod greenseeing powers beyond the Wall with Bloodraven and is definitely manipulating events far south of the Wall.

So, the plural of direwolves makes me think Ghost won't be the only Stark direwolf fighting against Ramsay. We could get Nymeria's wolf pack joining as well, and Shaggydog, or even Summer (if Bran is in the North at this time that is). In fact, the idea that Ramsay will fight against Rickon is something that is heavily hinted at in ADWD.

The next litter to come out of the Dreadfort's kennels would include a Kyra, Reek did not doubt. "He's trained 'em to kill wolves as well," Ben Bones had confided. Reek said nothing. He knew which wolves the girls were meant to kill, but he had no wish to watch the girls fighting over his severed toe.

And then, more directly...

"Stark's little wolflings are dead," said Ramsay, sloshing some more ale into his cup, "and they'll stay dead. Let them show their ugly faces, and my girls will rip those wolves of theirs to pieces. The sooner they turn up, the sooner I kill them again."

Ramsay may be impulsive and unaware of intricate politics, but he seems prepared for what to do should Bran or Rickon show themselves again. This makes me worried for Rickon, honestly. Will Ramsay capture Rickon and keep him prisoner as hold over Jon Snow? Will he kill Rickon like he did in the show? I really, really hope not, but I'm afraid that's exactly what will happen.

There is a line that Ned spoke in AGOT that George says will eventually be very important, that I think perfectly applies to this situation.

"When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives."

Ned speaks to Arya about this in King's Landing, to get her to understand that the Starks should not fight one another in times of danger, or be isolated from each other, but look after one another, protect each other. Winter has now come, the snows are falling and the white winds are blowing. Who is the lone wolf in this scenario? While Jon certainly fits the bill (he literally is a lone wolf, it's very clear at the end of ADWD he was prepared to ride to Winterfell all by himself until he got the wildlings to his side), I think Rickon could too.

Rickon is very isolated from everyone else, even when he was at Winterfell. He was only 4 years old, and didn't understand why everyone was leaving him. Given the plan to use Rickon as a pawn to reinstall Stark rule of the North being something we can cheer for and expect to happen, I don't think it will happen. Rickon, the lone wolf, will be used to try to depose Ramsay, but it won't go well, and he will die because of it.

Jon will probably find himself in a bad position in battle too, and very nearly die as the lone wolf... but now that winter is here, and everyone is starting to converge on Winterfell at some point, I think that it won't be Jon who ultimately retakes Winterfell: it will be all the Starks. Sansa may be in the Vale, but Littlefinger plans to use her to take Winterfell back at some point (even if it won't go exactly to plan).

"When Robert dies, Harry the Heir becomes Lord Harrold, Defender of the Vale and Lord of the Eyrie. Jon Arryn's bannermen will never love me, nor our silly, shaking Robert, but they will love their Young Falcon . . . and when they come together for his wedding, and you come out with your long auburn hair, clad in a maiden's cloak of white and grey with a direwolf emblazoned on the back . . . why, every knight in the Vale will pledge his sword to win you back your birthright."

Arya is having a lot of wolf dreams as Nymeria, and GRRM has said that her wolf pack will one day be used as a Chekov's gun. Bran may be far away, but he is getting more powerful and beginning to influence events as far south as Winterfell. The pack comes together to survive in winter, to help Jon and the North by defeating their enemies.

So as Jon fights against the bastard he so deeply despises, it won't just be him. It'll be the Knights of the Vale, led by Sansa. It'll be Nymeria and her wolf pack, piloted by Arya. It'll be Bran, skinchanging into whatever is around. TWOW may end up being the darkest book in the series, and the retaking of Winterfell won't be as glorious as we imagine or even as I spelt it out (Rickon's death and the perception the North has of Jon should play very big roles in making it not entirely happy), but this will be maybe one of our only moment of deserved catharsis we might get from it.

[frozenartscapes]

does dragongard have a crest stone?

So, I think this would be a good time to talk about how I’m approaching Crest stones and Relics in this AU (partially because this is a good question and partially because I’m not sure if it will ever come up organically in the story and I hate writing exposition dumps within a story)

Short answer: yes, technically she does have a Crest stone

Long answer: I’ve always interpreted original Crest stones as being the hearts of dragons. The stones in all the Relics, and the one grafted onto Byleth’s heart, were all once the organic, beating hearts of living people. However, when those people died, the magic contained in their bodies rushed into their hearts and the whole organ calcified, trapping the magic within.

So this would have happened to all the Nabateans who became the Relics (we don’t know their names because the weapons crafted from their bones and hearts are named after the humans who possessed the weapons, not the Nabatean themselves). And any Nabatean Rhea was able to lay to rest in the Holy Tomb, assuming their bodies were intact.

We know that TWSITD are able to eventually manufacture artificial Crest stones (and Relics, from the look of it). But they still needed Nabatean blood (it’s implied they only get this technology once they get their hands on Flayn’s blood). So this is partially why, in this AU, they go for turning Edelgard into a Nabatean over just giving her two Crests. It would be far easier if they had a more reliable blood source - since it would seem that they had to figure out how to artificially manufacture blood, too. Finite resources, and such.

So, going back to the question: yes, Edelgard technically has a Crest stone, because her heart is her Crest stone. It won’t look like a traditional stone unless she dies, but it functions very similarly. It grants her additional strength, boosts magical abilities, and allows her to access Nabatean-specific skill sets like turning into a dragon or healing sleep cycles. There is the complication that she is still technically human, so as a result things like age-based immortality have been significantly affected. (As in: she’ll live a long time, far longer than most humans, but not to the extent that someone like Rhea has.) This is also how I interpret the other living Nabateans, like Rhea, Seteth, Flayn, and the other saints. They all have “Crest stones” but until they die the stones are in reality their hearts, their source of life and power.

Ok, now I’m just going to ramble about the Relics for a sec, but I’ll put it under a cut because this post is becoming long

So: the Relics. Imma be real with you guys for a moment: I grew up Catholic, and I minored in Art History (with a heavy lean to Medieval and Renaissance history). So these Relics... Ok, here we go.

Relics in Christianity, and specifically Catholicism, are things not many people know of if they aren’t part of the religion. If you are they are something so weirdly normalized half the time you don’t even think about it. But many things about Catholicism are. (Like Transubstantiation. That is such a fun thing trying to explain and not sound like a lunatic.) But we’re talking about relics, here, because the creative choice to call them Relics in the game was fucking phenomenal.

Catholic relics are basically dead people. There are some that aren’t - the True Cross and the Crown of Thorns are notable, non-dead people relics. But for most relics boasted about by various churches, they are either part of or a whole person. Whether or not that person is the saint they are claimed to be can get rather dubious, but yeah... Dead people. Often displayed in gilded boxes or holders, covered in gold or jewels, surrounded by paintings done up by famous artists. (Also note, too: If they aren’t a person-based relic they still have some morbid connection to how the saint they are connected to died, like, for example the True Cross - an execution device, or St. Paul’s Chains - chains that bound him before his martyrdom). It’s all very morbid and a little creepy but what’s more creepy is how normal it is to walk up to a box with a perfectly preserved saint just eternally sleeping away inside before asking her to shoot you a little prayer before your big test. But I digress.

In Three Houses, the Relics are also dead people. Dead dragons, to be more specific, but the Nabateans were both dragon and human so my statement still stands. The Relics themselves are bones (which are common for a church to hold as a relic of a saint). And in order for a Relic to function properly, it also needs the Crest stone (heart) of the dragon the bones came from. 

We also have seen that the Relics are highly unstable. If someone were to wield a Relic without possessing the Crest that matches it, the weapon can turn them into a Demonic Beast. And even having the Crest might not save you, as we see with Maurice, it’s possible to still be turned into a Demonic Beast through the power of the Relic/stone combination anyway.

So here’s my take on this: In Christianity, relics are meant to be a strong link between the physical world and the saint being represented by the relic. Praying with St. George’s arm present provides a better link to the saint than just praying to him normally. Sort of like, calling his office via an extension rather than using the main office line. The spirit of the Saints are closely linked to their relics, which is partially why they’re venerated so much.*

*I should note, however, that many of these relics are listed as the “real” relic, but in reality are more like a piece of wood or random body part discovered on a Crusade and brought back as a “treasure” from wars that ravaged many parts of the Middle East. They might hold spiritual significance, but just remember that the acquisition of many of these relics was certainly not the Divine miracle people claim - which also conveniently relates back to Three Houses when you realize what the Relics truly are and how they were obtained

So in Three Houses, every Nabatean crafted into a Relic still has their spirit present within the bones and Crest stone. They can’t really interact with anything outside of the Relic, but there is a strong connection between their spirits and their heart/bone/blood. This is why only someone possessing a particular Crest can wield the corresponding Relic. A Crest (the blood) ignites the power in the stone (the heart), which then prompts the body to come alive (the bones of the Relic itself). If any one of those things is missing or incorrect, the spirit behind the weapon will do one of two things: nothing, or react to the error. The angrier the spirit, the more violent the reaction. And I don’t know about you, but if I was ever murdered so my body could be twisted into a grotesque weapon to then be used to kill more of my family, I’d be pretty pissed about it.

If the bodies of the Nabateans are not laid to rest, they cannot be at peace. And the anger they feel about what happened to them and their brethren will continue to burn and fester. For some Nabateans, their anger was stronger than others. Whoever Maurice killed to get his Relic was so furious that it didn’t matter Maurice also had their blood - that rage still turned him into a Beast anyway. (But at the same time, Maurice was also the asshole who did the deed. Marianne, however, is a kind, gentle soul who does not enjoy raising her hand against any living creature. That would be something the spirit of the Nabatean could sense, and it would reflect how they respond to the user of the Relic.)

This is also why, in the canon game, characters with weapons made from artificial stones/bones did not face any issues. It’s implied that Aymr, for example, was created specifically for Edelgard. Despite holding the Crest stone of Maurice, she has no issue using it, because they reconfigured the stone to be attuned to the Crest of Seiros. (It’s also entirely possible that they just created this stone, and the Crest of the Beast was carved on it for ??? But this would effectively make the stone a blank slate to pair with any Crest that was available.) So these artificial weapons would not have a spirit of a Nabatean connected directly to them, and would be safer to use as a result.

(In terms of Crest stones being able to turn people into Demonic Beasts, even without the Relic, I see that more like handling something like a radioactive substance. The sheer amount of raw draconic power contained in a Crest stone would be enough to transform a human into a monster, just through contact alone. Even the artificially created ones still stem from that same magic, so holding one of those without any sort of protection would result in the same thing. That's why I'm starting to headcanon that, rather than just her two Crests activating at the same time, Edelgard just ripped the Crest stone out of Aymr when she turned into the Hegemon. Real or not, holding a Crest stone in your bare hand is a lot like that scene from Chernobyl when a firefighter unknowingly picks up a chunk of the exploded reactor core with his bare hand: You're dead before you even realize what you're holding.)

[gospelofme]

Super Nova

Chapter 3

So It Begins

The capital city of Valencia on Jelucan was cold. All the time. This whole planet was cold. All the time. Why Varex had decided to move here was beyond her. She walked down the rocky road towards the location of the safe house. She passed a group of Muunyak that were all packed for a trip down the mountain on which Valencia sat. She had always found their furry little faces adorable. She stopped and rubbed the cheek of one of the creatures, warming her hands a bit in the warm, woolly fur. The creature snorted and nosed at the pockets of her coat for treats. She lingered a little bit longer, but moved on when the cold started to seep through her layers.

She hurried to the safe house which was located in the side of the mountain with numerous other dwellings. The door to the apartments slide open and she entered a rather modest lobby. There was a droid at a desk in the middle of the space, his job was to answer any questions residents might have. Sayr didn’t need him, she walked past the droid and to one of the three lifts. When the one became available, she stepped in and pressed the button for the fifth floor. The trip was a long one, at least five minutes total, which made sense. Floors between levels probably had to be thick to support the weight of people living inside a mountain. She exited the lift and found the correct apartment number. She pressed the buzzer on the side of the entry pad and waited.

Moments later the door slide open and a Rodian greeted her at the door. He stepped aside to allow Sayr to enter the apartment where a Wookiee and a Chiss sat in the main room. Varex was no where to be seen but that didn’t surprise her. Sayr took a seat next to the Wookiee on the long sofa.

“Darr, how’ve you been.” She asked the immensely tall black-furred Wookiee. Darr responded with a low grumble. Sayr nodded. She looked over at the Chiss who glared at her.

“Krev, I see you haven’t forgotten our last encounter.” Sayr acknowledged.

“My knee still hurts from time to time.” The Chiss muttered, tapping a hand on his right knee. Sayr gave him a sympathetic look but didn’t have anything to say. The Rodian, Avi, took a seat next to Krev, both sharing a smaller couch. Krev looked irritated at his personal space being invaded.

An uncomfortable silence fell over the group. That’s the way it tended to happen when you were sitting in a room with at least two beings that you’ve double crossed. At least Darr enjoyed her company, she did get along the best with the Wookiee. The door slid open again and Varex arrived with food.

“Nova! Glad you could make it!” Varex said cheerfully, it was like he had gathered some old friends together together a reunion. He set the food out on the table, it was an assortment of some local delicacies. Utensils were passed out and the group dug in, Sayr finding herself hungry for food other than freeze dried rations and caf.

“So what’s this special assignment you’ve come across Varex?” Krev asked, apparently Varex had been lax on the details with everyone else too, which made Sayriel feel better. She didn’t like being the only one left out of the loop. Varex sat back in the armchair he had chosen and finished chewing his food before he spoke.

“Well, they’re a few ancient artifacts of a…knowledgeable and secretive nature.” Varex said, choosing his words carefully. Krev set his utensils down on the table and got up to leave.

“No no, okay fine. They’re holocrons.” Varex said hurriedly, Sayriel almost choked on her food, Darr giving her a large thump on the back. Krev stared at Varex for a moment and then sat back down. Sayriel coughed a couple more times and took a swig of water. He certainly didn’t just say what she thought he had. She had to have misheard him.

“So that’s why you’ve included Nova then?” the Rodian, Avi, asked. Yup, he had said holocrons.

“Well, yeah, but she’s fun to have around too.” Varex said, giving Sayr a sideways glance. Krev coughed at that statement and Avi just took another bite of food. Darr was the only one who gave a agreeing growl.

Sayriel couldn’t care less about what the others thought of her. She just glared at Varex, who was trying hard not to meet her gaze.

“Holocrons?! Are you crazy? What makes you think that’s a legitimate opportunity?!” Sayriel finally said. She knew Varex took risks with his job choices but she didn’t think he was downright stupid about them. Holocrons were a thing of the past. Even she didn’t have access to any during her training in the sect on Yavin IV. She had read about them, but had never seen one before in here life. She had no idea what type of energy they gave off in the Force anyways, how was she supposed to know they were on the right path? She put her utensils on the table and leaned back on the sofa, rubbing her face with her hands.

“How do we find them?” Krev asked, Avi seemed interested as well.

“Yes Varex, how do we find them?” Sayr asked a bit more sarcastically. Varex cleared a spot on the table and set down a holopuck. He pressed a button on the side and a list of locations popped up. Sayriel recognized them as planets that all had one thing in common, they each had had a temple on it that was either Jedi or Sith.

“We use the process of elimination.” Varex said. “Each of these planets had at one time a Jedi or Sith temple. From what I’ve been able to research, holocrons could be found in the temples. The most common one would be the temple on Coruscant. However, that one was converted to Emperor Palpatine’s palace after the Republic fell, so it’s unlikely any holocrons remain there. Next there was one on the ice world Ilum, but that planet was destroyed. This is where Nova comes in, since she’d know more about possible locations.” The group then looked at Sayr who had been trying to focus on her food. She looked up at them and took a moment to swallow what was in her mouth. She looked at the list Varex had compiled, finding herself rather impressed with his research.

“Well, the one on Yavin IV is gone too, and this one is just a few blocks and statues left.” She said, removing two more from the list. She had been to what little remained of the temple on Yavin IV and it was just a pile of rubble. Apparently Jedi Master Luke Skywalker had torpedoed it into oblivion with his X-Wing. She looked at the list a bit longer, “how many holocrons does this collector of yours want?” She asked finally.

“Well he said he wanted two of each, I’m assuming he means two Jedi and two Sith.” Varex said with a shrug. Sayr studied the list. She didn’t think just visiting all the Temple ruins was a good idea. Many were unstable and some were guarded by locals who didn’t want people like them poking around.

“Well, these two here are Sith, and Moraband contains two possible sites we can check. From what I remember from my studies a long time ago, Vader’s castle on Mustafar was built on top of a Sith cave and what was rumored to be a temple site. But that area used to be guarded by a Sith cult, however I’m not sure if they exist anymore.” Nova found herself becoming more and more invested in this the longer she examined the list of possibles. It could be fun to look for something she had only read about in books.

Varex looked pleased as he watched her participating. He had hoped she’d be all for this a little bit more than she seemed, but he knew Sayriel well enough to understand she tried to distance herself with jobs related to the Force.

“Just to add a little bit more excitement, this guy is willing to pay 200,000 credits for all four holocrons!” Krev, Avi, and Darr all looked particularly happy. Even Sayriel found herself more interested, that was a lot of credits for things this collector couldn’t use. Unless…

“This collector, why does he want these?” She asked, a thought suddenly striking her. Holocrons contain ancient knowledge and secrets and could be dangerous if in the wrong hands, even in this era.

“He just wants to add them to his collection, which is rather extensive. He took me on a tour of part of it. He has lightsabers from both Jedi Masters and Sith Lords, he has some ancient Jedi armor, pieces of the original Jedi temple on Coruscant. A set of robes supposedly worn by Jedi Master Mace Windu when he was killed by Emperor Palpatine. He even has a whole set of original Clone Wars Era clone armor, the paint job is still intact.” Krev whistled at that notion. Varex went on but Sayr has stopped listening after the mention of Master Windu’s robes. While it was highly unlikely those were real, anyone could buy a brown robe and call it a Jedi robe, the collection seemed a bit morbid to her. She wanted to ask Varex if the collector was a Force User, but there was no way Varex, himself a non Force sensitive, would know.

Within the hour, Sayriel’s ship was locked up tight in the ship yard down in the valley below the mountaintop city. She was sitting in one of the jump seats on Varex’s ship, The Grand Orbiter, next to Darr. She had to admit, she really enjoyed the Wookiee’s company. She wished she worked with him more often, but she was used to being a one-woman show. They had decided to check out the Temple of Eedit on Devaron, figuring that one would be their best bet to try first. The temple was largely in ruin thanks to orbital bombardment back in the day, and it was largely picked through. But there was still a chance something was missed. Holocrons were small after all.

Little did the pirate crew and their Grey friend know, they weren’t the only ones headed to Devaron.

Tag list

@jgvfhl @nelba @leias-left-hair-bun

@baby-queen-zen @halzore @escapedthesarlacc

[witchynyx]

Southern Hemisphere Witchcraft: Seasons & Sabbats

With seasonal celebrations being an important part of most folks' practices (whether you follow the Wiccan/neopagan Wheel of the Year, observe just the solstices/equinoxes, or even stick with more mainstream religious and cultural holidays), living somewhere that doesn’t follow a Euro-centric seasonal model can make the question of “how do I approach these here??” a common stumbling block.

Having put a lot of thought into this question myself, and participated in a lot of discussions on the topic, I’m going to suggest getting at least some basic understanding of your areas seasonal (and possibly agricultural) patterns first, and then looking at how you might approach it.

Southern Hemisphere Seasons

One of the most obvious and well-known difference between the hemispheres, that even most folks living in the Northern half are aware of, is that our seasons occur at the opposite time of year.

Obviously this is an over-simplification, as seasonal patterns are affected by far more factors. This idea of “opposites” is also largely based on a Euro-centric seasonal model, which awkwardly sits over the calendar in some places, and in others - like the tropics - is almost entirely absurd.

I feel like it’s beneficial for most of us to try to learn about the actual natural weather patterns of our own areas. It might be pretty similar, and most of the differences are down to the different flora and fauna, or it might not divide into four distinct seasons at all. For Aussies: I’ve found Indigenous weather knowledge to be a useful place to start researching, because that’s going to give you much more reality-based information in a colonised country than modern science, which is still often interpreting data through a foreign lens.

It’s hard to try to adapt a system built around the patterns of another place to where you live, if you don’t really know what the patterns are here. Once you have some idea of the seasons, you can look more into what might be the best approach to celebrate them.

So When do I Celebrate the Sabbats?

Ok, so there are a number of different ways to approach this, depending on how quickly you want to make a decision and how much effort you want to put into said decision.

Approach #1: Follow the “Traditional” (European) Dates

An easy option, that requires zero real thought, is to just follow the dates as they’re celebrated in the Northern Hemisphere, as they’re presented in pretty well every witchy/Wiccan/Neopagan book you’re likely to get your hands on.

Pros:

Follow the dates in most books/resources;

Celebrate at the same time as the majority of the (international) community;

Sabbats will thematically match the European seasonal holidays that have made it into our secular calendar (Yule/Christmas, Samhain/Halloween, Ostara/Easter);

If you follow European pagan beliefs, particularly any that the Wiccan/neopagan wheel has borrowed traditions from, you’re celebrating those holidays at the same time as they were/are celebrated in that land;

Does your environment come alive in winter (when the NH are celebrating the height of vitality at Beltane and Midsummer) and die/go into hibernation over summer (when the NH are focusing on the quiet/hibernation of winter)? Because that might match up well!

Cons:

Celebrating Summer Solstice when it’s Winter Solstice where you are (and vice versa, and the same with the Equinoxes) can just be.. weird?

The imagery and symbolism is likely to be double-out: Not only do you have the disconnect, for example, of Yule/Christmas symbolism being heavy on foreign flora and fauna like pine trees, holly, and robins, but it can also cause some cognitive dissonance decorating with snowflakes and heavy roasts and mulled wine when it’s the height of summer and you can see heat rising off the road outside.

Approach #2: ‘Flip/Rotate’ the Wheel

Another easy option, and probably the most popular, is to just flip/rotate the Wheel of the Year so that the solar events (solstices and equinoxes) match up. This shifts the dates by 6 months, and “swaps” the Sabbats. It’s version that you’ll see in almost any book/resource you look at that acknowledges those of us in the Southern Hemisphere.

The Southern Hemisphere Wheel of the Year above by Jenwytch (2004) shows the flipped/rotated version, with the Sabbats on both images arranged synwyse (and thus anti-clockwise for the SH)

Pros:

Follow the Southern Hemisphere dates in most books/resources;

Celebrate at the same time as the majority of the Southern Hemisphere community;

Sabbats will thematically match the Eurocentric view of the seasons: You’re celebrating mid-winter at Winter Solstice, and midsummer at Summer Solstice;

Does your environment come alive in summer (when Beltane and Midsummer are celebrating the height of vitality) and die/go into hibernation over winter (when the focus of Yule is on silence and scarcity)? Because that sounds like a match!

Cons:

Celebrating opposite the international community can be alienating, especially when so many people/spaces don’t acknowledge that their experiences and practices aren’t universal;

If you follow any European pagan beliefs that the Wiccan/neopagan wheel has borrowed traditions from, you’re celebrating those holidays at the opposite time as they were/are celebrated in that land;

Sabbats will thematically oppose the European seasonal holidays that have made it into our secular calendar, and might make you extra-aware of how weird it is decorating for “autumn” Halloween themes at the height of spring and “spring” Easter themes when it’s autumn. How do you decorate for Halloween AND Beltane, or Christmas AND Midsummer? If you have children, how to you explain that dichotomy?

As listed above, this approach can leave folks pretty confused and frazzled as to how to reconcile celebrations with “energies” so different to what folks in the other half of the world are celebrating, or especially how to reconcile these celebrations with the European holidays in our calender. One of the things worth noting is that the planet is a constant state of balance: what’s happening in one place is a balance to that which is happening in another. The other thing to note is how the “opposing” celebrations relate to each other: eg Samhain and Beltane both have a focus on the ‘thinning of the veil between worlds’, with Samhain on its way into winter lending itself to a closeness with the dead, and Beltane at the height of spring holding a focus on the Fair Folk - one gives thanks for the bounty of harvest and the other to the bounty of life flourishing (which will later lead to the harvest), and both traditionally focusing on divination and relationships. They can easily be seen as different sides of the same coin.

Approach #3: ‘Flip/Rotate’ the Wheel and then Customise it

This is where the work starts to come in. Again, one of the more popular approaches is the flip the wheel (as above) and use that as a framework to customise your own Wheel of the Year.

Usually the names and dates will remain intact (although aligning with the timing of the astrological events might become more important than celebrating on the same calendar date each year), but then how much you stick with the ‘traditional’ vs how much you customise things is completely up to you. Maybe you keep the themes and mythologies but add in/swap out seasonally-appropriate local flora and fauna? Maybe you add in some extra days that are important to you as well, because they’re important to your religious path, or because they hold great personal significance to you. You really can take this where you like.

Pros:

Following the Southern Hemisphere dates from most books/resources, either exactly or close enough;

Celebrating the same things at the same time as most other folks in the Southern Hemisphere community, or pretty close to;

Great for forming a connection with your local seasons and environment;

Flexible and customisable: If something doesn’t gel, explore why, change things, try stuff;

Interactive and dynamic: Your relationship takes priority over the information written in a book, and being forever-changing rather than fixed can be interesting and engaging.

Cons:

You might never be “finished” building your wheel;

It takes active thought and involvement. Particularly if you’re new, this can be incredibly overwhelming;

If you follow pagan beliefs from elsewhere in the world (especially any of those that the Wiccan/neopagan wheel has borrowed traditions from), you’ll have to decide whether it makes more sense to celebrate events by the seasons or the calendar.

I think probably the easiest way to approach this is a little at a time. Start with just flipping the wheel, and as the wheel turns, work on your relationships with both the sabbats as they’re presented and the seasonal shifts happening around you. Maybe set one goal to focus on for each revolution: Get a feel for the ‘traditional’ wheel, get a feel for the seasons where you live and how they compare, notice what the local flora and fauna are doing, meditate on what colours/energies are prominent, learn about what your local agricultural cycles are doing and what food is in season. The fact that there’s no time limit on it means that you can just do a little at a time, and you can tweak it each time it rolls around.

One book which uses this approach is Dancing the Sacred Wheel (2012), by Adelaide witch/author Frances Billinghurst. Frances presents her approach to the Sabbats in this book, and it’s highly influenced by both the natural cycles around Adelaide, and her path as a Celtic Wiccan.

Approach #4: Create Your Own Wheel from Scratch!

The final approach is to completely throw the Wicca/neopagan wheel straight in the bin and build your own wheel/calendar from scratch. No guides and no preconceptions! Is that exciting? Terrifying? Maybe some of both?

Pros:

You’re starting from zero with no existing frameworks or ideas!

Ultimate freedom and flexibility;

Cons:

You’re starting from zero with no existing frameworks or ideas!

Enormous job: starting from zero with no framework or guide;

For a great example of this approach, check out Australian Druidry (2017) by Julie Brett, who takes this approach creating a Wheel of the Year for her area in Sydney (pictured).

My own Wheel of the Year is probably somewhere between approaches 3 & 4. I’m still working on it, but here’s where I’m at as of late 2020.

[punksarahreese]

Warm | Bloodletting

Nosdecember day 11 | @neworleansspecial

Occult!Au; Connor’s trauma makes him feel cold and alone, but Ethan is there to help him through it

CW: abuse mention, murder mention, ptsd

***

Ethan would like to say that the screaming surprised him when it woke him from a dead sleep. That would be a lie though, since it had become an almost nightly feat as of late. So when he sat up upon hearing the muffled sobs and sound of shuffling across the dark cabin, he thought it would be like any other evening. That was until he heard the door slam shut, preceding a loud boom of thunder.

That was what had him on his feet, sliding on his slippers and rushing into the hallway in seconds. Will had emerged from his resting place on his old futon too, hair disheveled from sleep and looking at Ethan blearily.

“Did he..?”

“Yeah,” Ethan sighed, “I think he did.”

“Do you want me to go look for him?” The youngest werewolf looked exhausted, having been hunting all afternoon for the pack and for the vampires too. He was still wary around Ava and Estia but he supposed this agreement wasn’t too bad. At least if he was providing them with animal blood then it meant no wandering humans were at risk. Still, he wasn’t used to so much activity and hadn’t completely adjusted to the act of changing forms comfortably. Needless to say, the last thing Will wanted to do was go running after an upset Connor at midnight.

“No, I’ve got him,” Ethan shook his head and was already tugging on his boots, “He’ll be upset.”

Before Will could press the matter any more, Ethan had already slipped out into the storm. He didn’t bring an umbrella, though he did have the forethought to tuck Connor’s jacket under his arm since the other hadn’t bothered. He wasn’t sure which direction Connor had gone in and the rain interferes with his scent, so Ethan just started walking.

This was, unfortunately, more common as of late. Connor continued to have nightmares about his mother, ones he told Ethan about one night before Will had joined him. His mind often ran through the events of her murder, making him relive the trauma from his teenaged years every night. After his father’s death, at the hands of Connor himself, the nightmares got worse. He barely slept anymore and when he did he almost always woke up screaming.

Connor’s main issue was his coping mechanisms, or lack thereof. Ethan knew his dad had been abusive and would frequently punish Connor for showing any weakness. He knew that he grew up emotionally stunted, used to hiding his feelings and pushing everything down. Cornelius wanted a soldier, a strong heir to the clan; he didn’t have time for a soft son. It didn’t do Connor any good, especially not now.

He didn’t know how to cope, didn’t know how to express his emotions. He never had the chance to properly grieve for his mother and had to make the regretful decision to kill his own father. That was a series of events that would haunt the werewolf for the rest of his immortal life. It made Ethan worry.

Luckily it didn’t take too much walking before he spotted his friend. Connor was crouched on the ground by the riverbank, head in his hands. He wasn’t crying, not audibly, but Ethan could see his shoulders shaking. He was probably freezing, even though lycanthropy made their body temperatures run higher than normal; being out in a rainstorm shirtless is good for no one.

“Connor?”

“I’m fine, Ethan,” his mumbled reply sounded so dejected that it confirmed he was, in fact, not fine. Ethan didn’t say anything though, just came closer and wrapped his coat around Connor’s shoulders.

“You’ll catch your death out here.”

“That’s so dramatic,” Ethan could have swore he heard the eye roll from Connor, “I’ll live, unfortunately.”

“Hey, don’t,” Ethan didn’t like the sound of that. He knew they all had trauma and bad memories to work through, this wasn’t news. Yeah, life as a tiny pack of werewolves wasn’t easy and immortality was the opposite of comfortable. Still, Ethan wouldn’t let one of his pack suffer, especially not with whatever war was going on in Connor’s mind.

Somehow he managed to drag Connor to his feet, wincing at how bloodshot his golden eyes were. Connor hated appearing weak, immediately tried to shy away from him, but Ethan persisted. He wasn’t used to comfort, didn’t remember what it was like to be consoled or cared for. Even still, it didn’t take long before Ethan had coaxed Connor into a hug.

That was the breaking point, the moment where his façade shattered and the scared, abused boy came back to the surface. He hated this, hated that he so easily broke down, but it was what he really needed. Ethan just stood there, holding Connor as he sobbed into his shoulder. His whispered reassurances were barely audible over the rumbling thunder and the river beside them, but it was okay. Connor was just grateful to have him there, even if he didn’t want to admit it.

They stood like that for a while, until Connor’s arms had officially went numb. His tears did stop, save for some poorly stifled sniffles and sound that could only be classified as a whimper. It hurt Ethan to see him like this, the strong and ever confident man he had grown to admire since they met breaking down. He was broken, traumatized, and all Ethan could do was watch as his brain forced him to relive the worst parts of his life.

“You’re safe, Connor,” Ethan promised, “I’ve got you.”

“He-“

“I know. I’m sorry.”

The other man pulled back enough to meet his eyes and the pain that crossed his face was immense, “I- I don’t want to be a... a monster.”

“Hey,” warm hands found Connor’s cheeks, brushing away the tears and forcing eye contact, “You’re not a monster. You aren’t him.”

“But...” Connor exhaled shakily, “I- he said...”

“He was a liar and he hurt you. What happened was bad but you did what you thought was right. You probably saved a lot of lives that day, Connor, including your own. The fact that you even feel guilt for this means you aren’t a monster.”

“P-promise?”

Ethan nodded immediately, not giving him a chance to doubt his words. That alone helped Connor visibly relax, though he still looked like he wanted to run away and never stop.

“Let’s go home, okay?”

Connor wanted to protest, not wanting Will to see him like this. He wanted to keep some of his dignity, leave some semblance of his pride intact. Still, he was cold and so tired. He just wanted to sleep, though he knew the second he surrendered to the exhaustion that the dreams would be back.

“Tired...”

“I know,” Ethan agreed as he led him back down the forest path. He kept an arm around Connor’s waist, giving him a sense of stability because he knew everything was too much at that point. They walked in silence, both soaked from the rain and chilled to the bone. Ethan would light a fire when they got back, he promised, then Connor could rest.

Will wasn’t awake when they returned, knowing better than to pester Connor after a panic attack. While the other wolf trusted him, he didn’t like to show weakness around their newest friend and Will understood that. Their bond could strengthen eventually and maybe then Connor would let himself be more vulnerable, until then he could just let Ethan keep him safe.

It took a bit of coaxing to get Connor to sit down on the couch. He wanted to retreat to his room but Ethan wouldn’t let him, citing that he would only get sick if he went to bed so cold. So Connor ended up bundled in a blanket, looking rather poorly as he watched the other light the small wood stove across the room.

Maybe it was the warmth of the room when the fire started up. Maybe it was the exhaustion from his panic. Perhaps it was all of those things, plus the way Ethan sat down beside him and opened his arms without a word. Whatever the cause, Connor let himself lean into the comfort. No words to be had, that would be too embarrassing, they just sat in the silence.

The warmth was comforting, something that had been majorly missing from his life for years. It was weird but not in a bad way. For the first time, Connor felt safe, wrapped in a soft blanket and with his head on Ethan’s shoulder. Ethan didn’t mention it, just ran a hand up and down his arm in a soothing motion. Connor couldn’t help but melt into the touch because it was the most genuine affection he had felt in years. Even if he couldn’t express it properly, he was so grateful for this moment.

Ethan made him feel safe, cared for. He never judged him and he was always so patient. The way he logically navigated every situation and knew how to keep him calm was something Connor would forever admire. That was when Connor realized that just as much as he had saved Ethan when he first got turned, the other wolf had begun to save him too.

[seasonal-obsession]

Today is where your book begins, the rest is still unwritten

Summary: it takes reaching adulthood twice for Jane Seymour to find out she is dyslexic

Can be read on AO3 or down below

She came from a noble family, albeit not a prominent one, but yes, she could've had a formal education even back then. Except Jane never enjoyed her reading and writing lessons, she'd much rather work on her embroidery, and such womanly duties were preferred at the time. A lot has changed since then, and yet Jane, here in the 21st century, still doesn't like reading more than she used too.

Sighing, she drops the book on the kitchen table. She places her hand to the centre of the page. Maybe if her finger follows the lines she'll be able to focus enough to finish this paragraph. Catherine's old writing is full of the complex flourish that was so popular at the time, and the words keep tangling in Jane's head.

“Not quite to your taste?”

As if summoned, Catherine Parr appears at the dining room's door. Jane startles by the sound of her voice and blinks up at her; it's odd to see anyone home so early in the afternoon.

“—Sorry, what?”

Catherine drops her backpack in the chair in front of Jane's and proceeds to take off her coat. Smiling, she answers, “the book. Pretty outdated, I imagine”

Oh, she must have been glaring at The Lamentation of a Sinner a bit too hard then.

“Anna and Catalina seemed to like it anyway” Jane reassuring smile suddenly turns sheepish, “I... haven't gotten far enough to say”

“Do you mind if I join you?” when Jane shakes her head Cathy sits down and pulls out a book from her backpack. After that, they both remain quiet.

Jane finds herself taken aback by the comfortable silence between them. It's a pleasant surprise; after all, they aren't that close. They don't normally spend time together, apart from the shows and the rehearsals (well, at least not alone, sometimes they do hang out with Catalina together). Maybe that's why Jane, despite her unliterary tendencies, decided to read the other queen's book in the first place, to get to know her better. Writing had been an important part of who Catherine was in her past life, which she reminded everyone when she sang on the stage.

…Jane might be the last to take this into account; apparently, the rest of the queens had already read it.

Minutes go by, the silence only broken by the sound of Cathy turning pages. Jane begins to feel a little self-conscious, Catherine is such an avid reader and she still hasn't finished the page she was reading when the other queen arrived. Out of some self-imposed pressure, she tries to read faster. But the more she hurries, the blurrier the words get; letters fussing together beyond recognition, and she has to give up and start that sentence again, and again. A headache is beginning to form behind her eyes. Suddenly, she closes the book and stands up from her seat.

“I'm going to the kitchen to make some tea, do you want anything?”

“I'll have some coffee” Cathy replies, glancing up from her book, “if we still have any”

“It was Anne's turn to do the groceries this week, wasn't it?” Jane says with an amused smile as she puts the kettle on, “where do you guys keep this stuff?”

“Top left cabinet”

“Hmm... I can't see any”

“Let me see", Catherine walks up to the cupboard, "—oh. It’s this other one”, she notes before opening the left cabinet’s door.

Stupid.

“I sort— eh, sorry I… must've not been paying attention”, Jane mumbles, subtly averting her eyes.

“Don't feel like you have to apologize. It's fairly common for people with dyslexia to confuse left and right”, Jane is giving Cathy a perplexed look, so she continues, “Oh, I thought you knew? It happens to you sometimes, like when they teach us new dances or when you're driving and we give you directions”

“But that's just… me, messing up”, Jane replies confused, “because I'm not paying enough attention”

“No, no it's fine” Jane dismisses it quickly, trying to seem nonchalant as she shakes her off. She didn't know all her little slips were that obvious, shit. “I guess I just need to make an effort haha...”

“Jane you're the most dedicated person I ever met, if you're not making an effort then no one is” Catherine states firmly

Jane looks at Cathy's serious expression and gives herself a moment to consider, to really think about it. What if all of it, reading, writing, memorizing; what if it wasn't as difficult for everyone else as it was for her? She thinks of her teachers, of all the times she heard “you are smart Jane, but you need to apply yourself more” or when she would get scolded, how they said that she needed to stop being ditsy or lazy to pass their class; and she always thought they were right, thought “I'm not trying hard enough”. Dyslexia …it makes sense. That's why she makes spelling mistakes no matter how thoughtful she is, why reading takes so long, and sometimes the letters seem to blur. Did she even need her reading glasses? Everything the same and somehow it feels like her whole world shifted, just a little, and at last the picture's properly framed.

The noise of the boiling kettle breaks her out of her thoughts. She finally answers, voice barely above a breath, “…is it not meant to be that hard?”

Catherine shakes her head; she's staring at her with sympathetic eyes. Oh, she must look like a mess and over such a little thing.

“Were you never diagnosed?”

“No, I mean, I always… struggled with it but I thought it was normal, you know? So I never said anything”, Jane rambles, trying to explain. And even though she thinks she's not making any sense, she doesn't feel foolish at all because Cathy's there, leaning against the kitchen counter, listening attentively and nodding along like she knows exactly what Jane means, “how did you notice?”

“Your handwriting was a bit of a giveaway.” Jane slaps Cathy's shoulder lightly and they both giggle.

They make themselves their drinks and move back to the kitchen table. Sipping her coffee, Catherine stretches her arm across the table; she absentmindedly traces one of the edges of the book's cover with her fingertips. It’s an old edition, not from way back when she wrote it, but close. She wonders if they kept all her words intact or if she would even be able to tell if they changed them, after all this time.

“I think I want to read this.”

Jane puts down her teacup and moves to hand her the book, “Oh sure, here let me—”

“Do you mind if I start back from the beginning? I know you said you were only a few pages in, but I’d like to reread the entire thing”

"I don't…? —Cathy, you don't have to", Jane stutters a bit ashamed.

"I want to."

And Jane can't help but believe Cathy's being sincere, because her voice is warm and she's looking at her with kind eyes. Trying not to feel overwhelmed, she answers with a small tentative smile, "I guess it will be just like listening to an audiobook?"

Cathy returns her smile fully, "and with the author's exclusive comments too."

Then she turns to the page and starts reading aloud.

[brokenjardaantech]

captain allen appreciation week 2020 day 1 + 7: vacation + acceptance

notes:

i combined day 1 & 7 as they happen to be the theme of the same story. it's also a prequel to a fic that i haven't written a word yet.

a little bit background since i think things can be confusing:

allen's full name is Louis White Allen. his dad's french and his mom american, though he's raised in alaska. his sister, anna allen, is a commissioned officer in the air force. the siblings speaks both english and french fluently.

sara ryder replaces elijah kamski as the inventor of androids.

this fic is set in september 2038, about a month after connor was first deployed at the phillips' hostage situation.

tags: griefing, family issues, brief mentions of childhood neglect and parentification

ao3 link if that’s what you prefer

-----

To this day, Lou's heart hammers when he sees a call from the military. Last time he received one was ten years ago, and he ended up with more questions than answers, answers that he knows he and his father very likely will not get in their lifetime. Staring at his phone vibrating on the coffee table, Lou debates whether to induce his cats' wrath - one sleeping on his lap and the other he hasn't stopped petting since they finished dinner - by standing up and interrupting their naps. It's not like he's at his full mobility anyways; his cybernetics still needs about half an hour to sync with his nervous system properly and to download the newest software. Whoever the fuck is in charge of calling the family of a soldier who went AWOL in Göttingen can wait.

It seems that the universe has other plans, as the air suddenly becomes charged with static and the phone launches itself towards Lou's chest. The tip of his fingers are numb, a common occurrence after his and his sister's unexplainable outbursts, but he manages to catch the phone before it hits his chest or, heaven forbids, his cat, who is startled awake and promptly returns to sleep after her favourite bed has no intention to move.

He accepts the call. 'Allen speaking. I don't think I have family members in the military anymore.'

'I don't know how many of yours are with us,' the voice from the other end lacks the robotic quality of an android's, so it seems the military is still using humans to contact family members, 'but this concerns your mother, Commander Deborah White. You're the only next of kin we can reach, Mister Allen.'

Lou does sigh. Just as he thinks he can leave her behind after all these years... 'What about her?' Not that he feels strongly that she was gone, as she wasn't quite there for her family to begin with, but something about a Commander going missing on the flagship of a fleet always sits wrong with him; as poor of a mother Deborah White was, a woman with her service record didn't deserve to simply vanish. 'I thought she went MIA more than twenty years ago.'

'She was until a few hours ago. I wish I can break it to you more gently but... we found her. Her remains, at least.'

The beat of his heart suddenly becomes too overwhelming. The air swells with the familiar buzz of static, and it takes all of Lou's self-control to not break everything in the living room with a shattering hazard. There is also the urge to hang up, to pretend that this is just one of those weird dreams he never can remember the details of, because he doesn't need to be burdened with a closure; he wasn't close enough to her to want that, he tells himself. Knowing that she's gone is enough. However, 'How?' is what he says in the end. He closes his eyes, free hand buried in his cat's fur, trying to convince himself that he is doing this for his father.

'Your mother's bones were found in a sealed compartment in the USS Blue Ridge when we were scrapping her. She must've been sitting there for years. Her skull indicates that -'

'Thanks, but I don't think I need to know that,' Lou swallows, willing himself to not think of the implication of an intact skull. It would've been a horrible way to die, sitting in cold seawater for days, feeling her skin rot away before dying of starvation; he'd rather her snap her neck upon impact and go painlessly. 'Anything more?'

'Yes. How would you like to deal with the body?'

Something tickles Lou's chin. When he opens his eyes, he finds the third cat trying to squeeze himself onto his already-occupied lap and purring as if having sensed the human's distress and wanting to soothe him. He recalls how his mother joked that she would probably die at sea and his father's reluctant acceptance of the entire affair; Papa's resignation after he received the news, saying, 'At least she got what she wanted.'

'She spent most of her life at sea,' he replies. No need to rub salt on his father's wounds. 'Let her rest there as well.'

'Very well. If you wish to, a memorial will be held in two months' time. Families of other deceased will attend. You may find support there.'

Support my ass, Lou thinks. It's been twenty-something fucking years. Yet, for some reason, he still promises that he'll consider going before hanging up. His finger hovers over his father's contact afterwards, but remembering that it's midnight in France and that he has a month worth of leave accumulated, he opens his browser instead and starts searching for plane tickets.

----

A month later, Lou finds himself in the commune of Gâvres with a large backpack on his shoulder and missing his cats very dearly. They aren't even his cats, technically; his neighbours keep them as outdoor cats, and Lou, unable to stand the thought of them suffering out in the winter cold of Detroit, took them in, and now they spend more time at his than at their original owners'. Having dropped them off at Hank's - that man takes better care of his pet (now pets) than himself - Lou isn't worried - he doubts his neighbours will even notice that their cats are gone. Emotions are terrible things, however, and the purpose of this trip alone makes it different from all the time he has visited his father before. At least he hasn't just recovered from nearly dying from implant rejection this time.

'Louis?'

Lou turns when he hears his father's voice and the awkward weight reminds him that he hasn't taken off his backpack yet and has been standing in the living room of his father's house staring at nothing for the past few minutes. Not waiting for his son to take it off, Papa Allen crosses the room and embraces Lou, sweat and all. 'How are you?' he asks in French, and when Lou answers truthfully in the same language, 'I missed you,' somehow everything in the world goes right again. Fuck the deviant crisis, fuck the android-infested America that makes his nerves buzz every single waking moment, fuck absent mothers still managing to make a comeback years after she died. He's just Louis Allen, absolutely not a SWAT captain, not the only survivor of the Blast, not the pioneer/guinea pig of CyberLife's groundbreaking cybernetics technology.

He has to let go of his father. 'I hope it's okay. What I did with Mom.'

Papa sighs. 'How about you take off that thing first,' indicating the backpack, 'and settle down for now.'

So Lou walks up the stairs and deposits his backpack in the room designated as his, and, catching sight of the other bed in the room, his legs suddenly feel weak, and he lowers himself, trembling, onto his mattress. Smart, fearless Anna, whose brain always runs - ran - a lot faster than the rest of the world.

Who graduated top of her class and as the Valedictorian of the academy, and subsequently disappeared without a trace.

His left leg twitches. The feeling of something foreign using his body returns, and when he leans forward - with a difficulty that wasn't there before - to take off his sock, it reveals white and grey chassis. A stark reminder that he owes her his life two times over despite her being the younger sibling.

‘How come I’m still alive?’ was the first question he asked after he regained his voice. ‘Ryder threw a fucking building on me.’

‘I dug you out, Lulu,’ replied Anna. ‘Freaky glowy telekinesis finally has its use. I was hungry for hours afterwards.’

At that moment, Lou made the mistake of looking down and seeing his pure white leg. ‘What the hell happened to my leg?’

‘CyberLife’s newest tech.’ As if to demonstrate how he should use his new leg, she gave his feet a poke, and Lou nearly screamed from the sensation. He did not expect to feel anything at all, but apart from the looks, the leg felt...real. ‘Fucking building crushed half your pelvis, your entire left leg and a rib. It’s already minced when I uncovered you, so they need to rebuild everything from scratch. I asked them to add something that can help you control the telekinesis better as well, so we’ll need to test it out later. No more randomly exploding shit. And before you ask, yes, your junk’s unharmed.’

Lou’s coma-addled brain struggled to process the influx of information, and all he got was, ‘I should’ve died.’

Anna hit the break to what seemed to be the beginning of a technical jargon-filled rant. ‘Well yes,’ she gestured just like the meme, ‘but you lived.’

‘No one survives after being crushed by a building, Anna,’ he said, voice rising. Then he asked in French since English felt too raw, ‘Exactly how much tech is in me right now? And how long was I out for? Why did CyberLife choose me?’

She looked away.

‘Anna?’

‘I don’t fucking know, okay?’ she replied in the same language. ‘You were on the brink of death when I dug you out, and there Ryder was, offering to save your life for no cost. You were in a medically-induced coma for one month and was out for reconstruction for another. It took your body two weeks to get used to the cybernetics and...here you are.’

‘Ryder offered,’ Lou said slowly, ‘to save me? As in Sara Ryder?’

‘Yes.’

‘Anna, she was the one who threw the building on me!’

‘I know. One more reason to let her save you.’

‘But you did it anyway.’

‘I did.’

‘Even though you know it’ll probably come back to bite our asses.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘You know the answer, Lulu.’

And Lou has stopped denying that he does a few years ago. Anna joined the Air Force to fly, to be closer to the sky, but he knows that it wasn’t enough; from the way she turned her eyes towards the aurora when they were young, the attention she paid towards all news related to space observation and exploration, to the talks about leaving the wasteland that is known as earth behind and finding a new home in the cosmos - Anna belongs to the abyss of space. The military was simply a stepping stone towards something greater, a greatness that she must be working towards somewhere on this god-forsaken piece of rock.

The place where Lou’s flesh meets his implants aches in anticipation of the storm that will no doubt force them to remain indoors for days. Grinding his teeth in the numbing pain, he uses his hands to put his non-functional left leg onto the bed and lies down sideways with his back towards his sister’s bed, his phone buzzing in his pocket to notify him of an unexpected software error that may take hours to fix. Switching on do-not-disturb, he shoves the offending piece of technology underneath his pillow and loses his fight against jet lag and pain.

----

Lou wakes up cold and hungry. He is covered by a blanket that wasn't there when he fell asleep, so his father must have checked on him when he realized that his son was doing more than putting down his luggage, and the dark sky outside the window almost brings him back again before it flashes.

Then the booming thunder reminds him that it isn't dusk at all.

He successfully rolls over on his other side, which means that his cybernetics are functional once more. Kicking the blanket away, he sits up and grimaces at the taste of his mouth.

He feels better after his regular morning rituals, though the lack of three furry friends harassing him and brushing against his feet is something that he'll need to get used to, and his father is cooking lunch when he reaches the kitchen.

'Morning, Louis,' Papa says as he hands the pan over to his son. 'What did they drag you through to have you sleep for so long?'

Lou is glad that he can use concentrating on not burning his food as an excuse to buy himself a minute. Should he tell his father the truth, or should he avoid talking about work just like many people do during their vacation? 'Things are getting bad in Detroit,' he decides in the end as going on a vacation at one's father's house isn't exactly normal either. 'Androids are breaking their programming and starts having their own thoughts. CyberLife's trying to cover it up, but I've dealt with enough violent deviants - that's what they're calling those androids - to know it's gonna be a problem real soon if they don't solve it now.' A pause to think of how to continue. 'I'm glad you're not in America anymore.'

'It must be exhausting,' is his father's reply, and that's all Lou needs to realize that his father has no idea what he's talking about. Then again, the man moved back to France before androids were a thing, and although they kept in frequent contact, Lou never talked much about his work; the police getting reformed means that SWAT is deployed only when peace is not the option - that means seeing people get hurt or die constantly. Androids aren't really a thing in Europe, so his father never experienced the 'androids taking over everything and making everyone lose their jobs' shit. He won't understand.

'That's why I'm here.'

They lapse into silence as Lou finishes cooking and empties the content of the pan onto two plates. Never one for formality, Papa brings them to the living room, sitting at the corner of a couch while Lou retrieves his plate and fork and curls onto the window sill. At this proximity, he can feel the raindrops hitting the glass as if he is standing in the rain.

Papa clears his throat. 'About your mother, Louis.'

Lou tears his eyes away from the raindrop he's betting on to win. He hastily shoved some eggs into his mouth to buy himself some time to mentally prepare for the conversation. 'What now?'

What he actually says isn't what Lou expected. 'I'm glad about what you did with your mother's body.'

'Her skeleton, you mean,' he replies. 'What's left of it anyways. I don't think they found the whole set.'

'Still,' Papa isn't looking at him. 'That's what she would've wanted. And by I'm glad - I'm not opposed to it.'

'That's it?' Lou turns back towards the rain. 'That wasn't your reaction when they told you that she was MIA.'

'I was young - younger - back then,' a sigh. 'It wasn't fair to you. Or to Anna. Especially to Anna. I'm sorry.'

No it wasn't, Lou wants to say, but - 'I've made peace with it a long time ago. Mom, me and Anna, Alaska; that was all you knew. I... I don't blame you for it.'

He has to close his eyes and press his forehead against the glass. He considers switching to German to further detach his emotions, but then he realizes that nearly everything has fled his mind from disuse. Why does he think spending his vacation with his father right after they discovered that his mother might have died painfully a good idea?

'That's what I thought I'd react when you called me, you know?' Papa says. 'I thought I'd break down. Then I realized that I've moved on and... that's it. Hard not to after more than twenty years.' Even with his vision gone, Lou can still feel his father's gaze on him. 'You've done that for your mother. Have you, for Anna? It's been ten years.'

'Have you, Papa?' Lou asks instead of answering even though he knows his answer. 'Can you stand the thought of your daughter gone as well?'

'After your mother?' the father feeds himself a mouthful of food and swallows. 'Kind of have to.'

'Of course you did. I raised her, not you.'

That is the last thing he says to his father before the storm goes away.

----

Emotionally exhausted, Lou goes to sleep early despite waking up not ten hours ago.

He knows he’s dreaming as soon as he opens the door and discovers his childhood living room behind it. The room is dark, so the lights must have been switched off, and even though it feels like he has smacked his hand all over the wall it’s on, he still can’t find the switch. It does bring him closer to the window, outside where a storm is going on at full force and paints everything white, and although he knows that what he is seeing isn’t real, he dreads the upcoming and necessary shovelling.

The world is suddenly lit up from behind him, followed by the voice of Neil deGrasse Tyson and the clicks of a keyboard. When Lou turns, Anna is there sitting in front of the couch, her brother's homework scattered in a semi-circle around her, and an old, bulky laptop snug between her crossed legs. It should have been a normal day in their house in Anchorage had Anna been a child but not an adult, which is the form Dream Anna is appearing in - she is younger than him by nearly eight years.

‘Where’s the light switch?’ Lou asks, looking around for good measure. ‘As much as you enjoy Cosmos, a documentary about space isn’t sufficient lighting.’

‘Relax,’ says Anna. ‘Eye problems aren’t in our genes.’ Then, waving at the papers around her, ‘Everything’s done. Your teachers didn’t suspect a thing,’ she gets younger and younger following each syllable until her age makes sense, ‘but you asked me to do it on a separate piece of paper, so I did. Feel free to copy directly if you wish.’

That is when Lou realizes that she’s playing games on the notebook, something that looks like a simplified version of Temple Run but set in space. ‘No thanks,’ he says. ‘I’d like to keep the creases on my brain.’ Then he notices that his sister didn’t really answer his question, so he asks again, ‘How am I supposed to switch on the lights?’

‘With your phone,’ is the matter-of-fact reply. ‘Don’t tell me you uninstalled the fucking app for cat pictures.’

‘For one last time, Anna, I don’t download cat pictures.’ And it hits him. ‘Wait, phone? The house isn’t automated when you’re at this age.’

‘Is it?’

Anna stands up and stalks closer to her brother, and she grows and grows and grows until they’re off the same height and she looks... older, how she should look like if she’s alive she’s still here. She is now Major Anna White Allen of the United States Air Force, dressed smartly in her dress uniform except for her cap, which she holds in her right hand. Their surroundings have also changed to that of the Phillips' penthouse terrace, harsh wind whipping around them.

'You aren't real,' Lou breathes, feeling light-headed. ‘You - you’re gone. Just like Mom.’

‘Open your eyes, then. End this early if you want to. Forget that this ever happened. I don’t mind.’

It is followed by a terrifying moment of wakefulness, the images blurring and then regaining clarity as he stays asleep. ‘And Papa wants me to let you go,’ he says with a sad chuckle.

‘Why?’

‘We found what’s left Mom. How long do we need to wait to find what’s left of you?’

‘Why are you talking like I’m dead?’

‘Cause you probably are, like Mom?’

‘I know you think we’re alike,’ an eye roll, ‘but we’re different.’

‘Say you’re not dead. Where the hell are you?’

‘Does it matter?’

A blink. They’re floating in space, Anna dressed in some form of armor, and Lou in normal clothes. He attempts to draw a breath and wakes up choking and crying, the dream completely forgotten save for the faint image of Anna falling towards earth and getting burnt to crisps.

----

A few days later, Lou finds himself walking on the beach with his father. The sky is cloudy and the wind is strong, so it is cool even though it’s September and Lou grew up in Alaska. They started throwing questions back and forth ten minutes into their walk, some of them silly and simple and give them a good laugh, but the others -

‘Answer me honestly, Louis. Do you think Anna’s dead?’

It is easy. ‘No.’

‘Where do you think she is, then?’

Lou’s face suddenly becomes too hot to bear. ‘Does it matter?’

‘If it affects you, yes.’

‘I don’t want to talk about it. She wouldn’t want us to speculate.’

‘But she’s not here, is she? Maybe you’ll feel better after you say it out loud.’

Lou sighs, oh how the turntables… ‘In space, probably.’

‘You’d think we’ll hear about that.’

‘Secret space programs exist, Papa.’

‘Not in America.’

‘I never said it’s an American program,’ Lou says as he kicks a rock away. ‘Do you know what they said when I received the first call from the Air Force? They asked me if Anna has ties with other space agencies even though she’s never been in NASA; she just talked about other countries’ space programs so much that they suspected her having ties with them.’

‘Hmm.’

‘What does that even mean?’

‘You know you won’t see her again, right?’

Lou halts his steps. Anna? Gone forever? ‘Does it matter?’

Papa sighs. ‘You’re in denial, Louis. You didn’t do this with your mother.’

How dare he - ‘Of course I didn’t, she was barely there!’ he has to put a few steps between them. ‘I raised Anna! How do you think that’s even comparable?’

‘I simply don’t want you to live in uncertainty for the rest of your life.’

‘You just don’t know your daughter,’ he counters. ‘She told me she’ll come back.’

‘You know -’

‘You don’t know shit!’

He runs. His lungs and legs are strained when he gets home, his father’s home, but he doesn't stop at that. He packs his stuff (not that there’s much to put back into his backpack), jumps into his rental car, and is back in Brest before he knows what he’s doing. His return flight is next week, so he has a lot of time to kill.

In the end, he takes a trip around the country alone, going to places he both never had time for and, if he’s been there before, misses dearly. He may have forgotten what they’ve talked about, but he remembers Anna visiting him often. The images flee his mind whenever he tries to recall them, but he doesn’t think they’re talking on earth, and he always wishes that he at least remembers some of it.

A few months later, he’ll learn that his speculations are closer to the truth than he thinks. A few months later, Louis Allen will prove his father wrong.

But he doesn’t know that yet. Therefore, after collecting the cats from Hank and unpacking his luggage, he takes all of Anna’s things and puts them into a box, telling himself that it is the first step towards admitting that maybe, it’s a big fucking maybe, he will never see his sister again.

[veniredi]

Rewatching WEP EP01

I was planning on rewatching Wonder Egg Priority anyway, but now that there’s an English dub that makes it even better! I’ve decided to make a list of things that I didn’t notice the first time around, things I’d forgotten about, or things that make more sense now in hindsight with knowledge from future episodes.

Acca and Ura-Acca both laugh when Ai says she doesn’t want anything, the first time she descends the stairs to the Egg room. As the lights go dark behind her, and the laughter overlaps, it comes across as quite creepy. Maybe a hint about the truth of the Accas and purpose of the Egg Dreams?

Acca gets very angry when Ai hesitates to break the first Egg (at least I’m pretty sure it was Acca’s voice speaking, not Ura-Accas). Another hint to Acca’s real intentions. I remember this crops up again in later episodes; Ura-Acca is more lenient with allowing the girls time to play while Acca just wants them to get back to hatching Eggs.

Kurumi sure does know a lot about the Wonder Egg situation. She knows about the Seeno Evils, that they’re only after her, that there’s a time limit, that Ai is immortal (as long as her eyes and heart are intact). We find out later that the Acca’s can control which Eggs the girls get, so did they pick Kurumi on purpose to be a tutorial for Ai? Do the Accas pick all the Eggs? Each girl tends to get Eggs that died by a common theme; Ai gets girls who where bullied (by a schoolmate, or their coach) Rika gets girls who were led to suicide by a popular figure (the Yu-Yu fangirls, the girl in the cult) Momoe gets girls who were sexually abused, Neiru...I’m not sure about Neiru. But either the Dream World works by this unsaid law, or the Accas are choosing Eggs of a certain type specifically for each girl.

All the other Wonder Killers we see are based on adults. They are outlandish, bizarre and brightly coloured. Except for Kurumis. Is it because this Wonder Killer is another young girl that she doesn’t look as strange as the others? Or did she just not have enough time to ‘evolve’ to that form, like the coach does in episode 2? It could be something to do with how children perceive adults who hurt them (as literal monsters), or it could tie into the recurring theme of girls dying young before they become ‘dirty’ adults (one of Neiru’s Egg Girls and Wonder Killer Sawaki reference this).

When Koito visits Ai at her house, we get a shot of a vase of lilies. Flower Language plays a huge part in this anime. Lilies can symbolize death (a funeral), innocence, purity, or it can be short-hand for yuri (girls love/lesbians). In my opinion this could be a reference to Koitos suicide, the innocence of their friendship, or hint that Koito was in love with Ai (or/and vice versa) rather than Sawaki-Sensei (the fact the vase is in the dark could mean something too).

“It’s all my fault, because I betrayed you”. Ai says this to Koito’s statue. This could be referencing that Ai did nothing to stop Koito’s bullies or (if the penultimate episode can be taken at face value) that Ai was supposed to jump with Koito but backed out at the last minute. However this would contradict a later episode where Ai seems to say that she would have died with Koito, if Koito had asked her.

“If I save more people, then won’t Koito come back? Tell me she will!” So far in this episode I think the Accas have only stated that the statue girls “will be saved”. I’ll have to see in future episodes do the Accas ever confirm that the statue girls will come back to life, or if this is something Ai and her friends only assume to be the case.

I did NOT catch this the first time (I think I assumed it was a doctor and then forgot about it) but the man with Ai’s mom in the hospital is Sawaki Sensei. So they were already that close, that she called on him for emotional support.

The Accas say that Kurumi is “a sculpture in some other world”. So there was a hint as early as episode 1 that there are parallel worlds!  “And unless her friends go to that world, it’s likely she’ll stay that way forever.” I thought only girls who had someone missing them became statues...but does this line mean that ALL girls who commit suicide become statues in the Dream World? Kurumi said that she only had fake/shallow friends, but I thought if she was a statue then someone missed her enough to want to bring her back. Maybe she’s so knowledgeable because she’s been hatched so many times, but is no closer to being saved because no friend is fighting for her... so she’s trapped in a constant cycle of being hatched.

Saw a lot of wisteria hanging over the entrance to the Accas house, so did a quick google search and: “Historically, Wisteria symbolizes long-life and immortality. ... In Japanese Kabuki theater, the symbolism for the Wisteria is Love, Sensuality, Support, Sensitivity, Bliss and Tenderness. The abundance of the Wisteria flowering vine also signifies our own expanding consciousness.” Immortality and expanding consciousness sounds about right...

The Acca’s say they worry about Neiru, so apparently she’s been hatching Eggs for a while. I’m inclined to believe she’s been doing this longer than any of the others and with the most Eggs too, as she bulk buys enough Eggs to fills a suitcase. Yet, as far as we know, she’s the last girl of the four who hasn’t had her statue revive. We haven’t even seen her sister.

I thought I’d also point out the lines on the sky in the background (I’ve noticed them before, but it took me an embarrassingly long time, I think I only noticed the lines at all in Frills episode or around then) . Anyway, it’s a reminder that wherever the Accas are, it’s probably underground, fake and simulated, like their mannequin bodies. (I’ve never quite understood if the Accas and their house and Egg Gacha machine are in the real world or in a Dream....

A question I’ve wondered about before, but just remembered; how did the Accas find the girls in the first place?? How did they know where to find Ai and the others?

Can Egg girls be hatched in the same Dream that their statue resides in?

I just found out on the Acca’s wikipedia pages that Acca means ‘Red’ and Ura-Acca means ‘Reverse Acca’ or I suppose ‘Reverse Red’ (is ‘reverse red’ blue? Still the implications of ‘reverse’ are interesting).

[shockapella-sweet]

Autumn Bridge

AKA the “Jacqui Briggs/Takahashi Takeda marriage proposal in the Fire Garden” fic that took me forever to finish, but yay, it’s done! Ever since I first saw the Shirai Ryu Fire Garden stage, I’ve envisioned Tacky popping the question here, so this is the result.

Note: This takes place a year after Shinnok’s defeat, and a year before the events of MK11, so Jacqui’s still a specialist (and Takeda still exists). Also, that Fire Garden stage is utterly gorgeous and needs to make a comeback in a future game (along with Takeda, obviously). Includes brief mentions of a terminal illness.

 Hope you enjoy this little offering, fellow Jakeda-lovers! ^3^

*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

Hot and cool. That was the best way to describe the air.

At this time of the day, when the late afternoon sun barely hovered above the horizon, the air – draped over this piece of forest land like a blanket – was warm, but not uncomfortably so. Light winds pierced through this mild layer, their coolness intermingling with the humidity.

These winds made their way through the well-maintained grounds, brushing against the bells that hung from a nearby wooden structure; the bells tilted to and fro, their notes obliging on the ears of those within hearing distance. Catching the pleasant rings, the winds carried them away as they made for the trees.

Much like a group of freezing, elderly men who yearned for the warm embrace of youth, the crooked trees appeared to be stretching towards the sky; their gnarled limbs – lined with an array of rich red, orange and yellow leaves – were extended high, as if to grasp the last rays of the setting sun. However, for the leaves that broke away and were quickly gathered into the invisible arms of the passing breezes, the effort seemed entirely in vain.

With a carefree flourish, the winds danced through the trees, the folding leaves almost like castanets in their hold. The crinkling sounds were enough to startle the nesting birds and send them flying into the sky, only to return when the stars would take their place in the heavens.

Changing course, the winds swept over the cobblestone path before descending upon a small bridge that cut across a stream. A man and a woman wearing light clothing stood upon its deck, their hands resting upon the rails. The winds surrounded the pair at once, their accumulated leaves falling upon their forms like confetti – one breeze cupped the woman’s face in an almost flirtatious manner, cooling her hot skin while softly intoning the bells’ peals in her ears.

At precisely the same moment that a smile appeared on her face, the winds moved on, spreading themselves swiftly and merrily throughout the rest of the grounds.

Sighing softly, Specialist Jacqueline Briggs canted her head at her companion.

“I needed that,” she murmured. “It was getting to be like a sauna out here. Then again, I don’t expect it be Sub-Zero levels of cold in a place that’s called the Fire Garden.”

Takahashi Takeda chuckled, tugging at one of his rolled-up shirt sleeves.

“It gets pretty cold in the evening at this time of the year,” he said, “so be glad you brought your sweater. Wouldn’t want you to become an ice sculpture, do we?”

“If I did, I’ll be counting on you to warm me back up,” was the coy reply.

Ignoring the heat that spread from his cheeks to the tips of his ears, the Shirai Ryu cleared his throat, saying: “So, apart from the hot weather, what do you think of the Fire Garden, Jacqui? You like it?”

Jacqui nodded, her smile widening at his eager tone. She leaned forward, casting her eyes on the leaves that had fallen upon the water, piggybacking on the swells that carried them downstream. A sweet scent mixed with an earthy aroma made the specialist’s nose tingle as she breathed in.

“It’s incredible, Takeda,” she answered, exhaling. “I thought that nothing could top our moonlight walk in that forest in Lampang, but geez, this place is in a class all of its own. If Cassie were here, she’d be posting snaps of it all over the ‘Gram and on her Friendships profile.”

Takeda’s cheeks were akin to red apples as he grinned.

“I’m glad you like it here. It’s cool to be able to show you where I trained with the Shirai Ryu … aaaand I thought this would be the perfect place to spend our anniversary together.”

His girlfriend appreciated both facts. A year ago, the pair not only walked away from Shinnok’s failed invasion with their lives intact – they also came away with a relationship that went beyond a mere six-week association between a Special Forces member and a Shirai Ryu chujin. While recuperating from their battle at the Sky Temple (which included a week-long getaway to Venice Beach and plenty of umbrella drinks by the poolside, thanks to the one and only Johnny Cage), they knew that they wanted to give what they felt for each other a shot.

Soon afterwards, it became common knowledge among their close colleagues in S-F and comrades of the Shirai Ryu clan that Jacqui and Takeda were officially dating. Between then and now, the couple learned all that they could about each other: their childhoods, their training, their dreams and their fears. For the specialist, her life on the farm was a relatively happy one, save for the ghosts of her father’s revenant past that haunted him – and by extension, the rest of his family – in his darkest hours. The lack of hugs, cuddles and hair tousles was overcompensated with overprotection against enemies that young Jacqui knew little or nothing about … except for the Outworld ghost that regularly starred in her father’s nightmares.

As for Takeda, his mother’s death, coupled with his father’s absence, made for many a difficult discussion, but he could only thank the Elder Gods for Jacqui’s patience and understanding as he slowly opened himself up to her. Fortunately, talking about training under Master Hanzo Hasashi at the Shirai Ryu Temple – and sharing tidbits about his quiet life in Lampang before it was permanently disrupted – came more easily to the telepath. From moonlight strolls to drills at dawn (and the occasional training screw-ups), he shared them all with her. He even took it one step further and brought her to Lampang three months after they began dating, showing her the forest that was near to where he and his mother used to live. Their evening walk there was one filled with breathless kisses and countless caresses, witnessed only by the moon and the stars.

And now here we are, at another one of Takeda’s stomping grounds for a romantic rendezvous. He sure has an eye for pretty places.

Jacqui resisted the urge to smile as she thought: Just like I’ve got an eye for pretty asses.

Out loud, she said, “It’s beyond perfect. I also enjoyed the spread that Master Hasashi prepared for us. What was the food called again?”

“Hiyashi chūka and mizu yōkan – cold ramen noodles and jellied red bean paste. Of course, Master Hasashi only ever prepares fancy food like that when we have important visitors, which is like, almost never. So yeah, I should bring you here more often.”

The specialist playfully swatted her boyfriend. “If this is a glimpse into how you might cook, then you should’ve brought me here a lot sooner.”

Turning on the spot and leaning back with the points of her elbows resting on the rails, Jacqui let her quartz-coloured eyes wander over the entirety of the Fire Garden. The reds, oranges and yellows of the autumnal foliage glowed like embers in the dimming sunlight. “You really trained here?”

Takeda nodded, mimicking her movements. His left forearm brushed against her right, the hairs tickling her exposed skin.

“Sometimes, but not a lot,” he replied. “Master Hasashi prefers the Fire Garden to be an area of contemplation. It was built – well, rebuilt – to honour past Shirai Ryu members and our loved ones. Still, Master Hasashi did hold training sessions here so that we could learn how to use the environment to our advantage.”

“In case of attacks?”

“Yeah. For the older guys who pulled pranks on the younger recruits, they milked it for all it was worth.”

“You Shirai Ryu were actually allowed to prank each other?”

“Ha, hell no. But the glory you got from pulling one off without Master Hasashi ever finding out that it was you was too good to pass up.”

Not that I ever tried, Takeda thought, grimacing at the memories of those who failed, and paid dearly for their pranking misfires.

Jacqui rolled her eyes to the heavens. “If they tried to pull that s*** on the farm, Dad would’ve skinned them alive and used their bodies as scarecrows.”

A nervous expression bloomed on Takeda’s countenance. “And you wonder why I don’t visit your place often.”

Jacqui smirked. “Dunno why you’re still scared of my dad. He’s warmed up to you now. Took him a long while, but he’s definitely more accepting of our relationship.”

“With or without my dad’s, uh, prodding,” the Shirai Ryu muttered. “Dear Elder Gods, every time he opened his mouth, I thought it was the end of me for sure. He might as well have asked Mr Briggs to kill me on the spot.”

“At least Mom had our backs, and …”

Jacqui’s voice trailed off. Takeda turned to look at her, concern etched into his features as he sensed the sombre air that enveloped her.

“Your mother … how is she?” he asked softly.

Jacqui let out a dry bark of hollow laughter.

“Why not just read my mind?” she asked in kind. A slight bitterness underlined her tone.

The telepath shook his head. He had his boundaries when it came to his mind-reading abilities.

I learned that the hard way after S-F’s last inter-realm conference with Outworld. Jin still hasn’t forgiven me after I told him I knew where he was during the half-hour break. As if the hickey on his neck didn’t give me a clue the first time.

When it came to Jacqui, however, there was just some things that had to be vocalised rather than telepathically mined out.

“Speaking about it out loud to somebody does help, Jacqui,” Takeda quietly responded. “It’s painful, but it’s worse if you keep it bottled up. Same thing happens when I talk about my mother …”

He did not need to say anything more. Jacqui’s top teeth dug painfully into her bottom lip as she wrapped her arms around herself. The nearby trees rustled, letting loose some of their fiery fronds.

“It’s not … it’s not looking good,” she said, a little shaky. “She’s going to treatments like she’s supposed to, but the doctors say that her chances of recovery … are not happening.”

Takeda touched her shoulder, tracing a pattern with his thumb. “Aren’t the meds helping, either?”

Jacqui’s feet came into view as she shook her tilted head. “Oh, she hates them. The doctors have increased the dosage, but it’s not doing anything. She’s too far gone, they say. They’re talking about three months from now …”

She sniffed, then swallowed.

“It’s so weird, Takeda,” she practically mumbled. “All her life, Mom never had to carry around boxes or little containers of medication, besides the ones for Dad when he had his bad spells. Now all of a sudden, she can’t even leave the damn house without carrying a tote bag full of ‘em. It’s just … oh God, just so …”

Takeda’s arms were around his girlfriend in mere milliseconds. Up and down, his hands rubbed along the grooves and ridges that lined the length of her back as she shuddered in his hold. One side of her face rested against his chest, while her fingers clutched at the material against his shoulders.

For a minute or so, the couple’s combined warmth was incomparable.

Pulling away, Takeda gazed upon Jacqui’s face – surprisingly, there were no tears in her eyes, nor were there any streaking down her cheeks. Tinged only by the orange and pink hues of twilight, her features were simultaneously smooth and firm.

I wish I could be that strong.

I can’t imagine how her father must be taking all of this …

It was as if Jacqui read his thoughts, for she cleared her throat and murmured: “Dad’s not handling it well. He took it harder than me when he found out. But he’s being strong for Mom’s sake. For mine, too.”

A pause. “He’s trying hard to be like that … like how she used to be when he was in recovery.”

Takeda gulped, holding her gaze steady.

“I’m so sorry, Jacqui,” he whispered. “I … I wish I knew what I could say to make it all better. I really wish I knew.”

Jacqui said nothing, offering him a small smile.

Her boyfriend continued: “Might I be able to see her, please? If she’s allowed visitors, that is.”

Here, Jacqui gave a heartfelt laugh.

“Of course you can,” she replied, her smile bigger. “It’s not like she’s in prison or anything. I bet she’d love to see you. She thinks you’re adorable, you know.”

The tips of Takeda’s ears were as red as the leaves.

“I’ll drop in as soon as possible,” he promised. “I was planning to see your folks soon, anyway.”

The specialist cocked her head, a few braids coming to rest against her cheek.

“Both of them? On the farm? Willingly? That’s a first.”

It was the Shirai Ryu’s turn to roll his eyes, but he could not help but grin as he took her hands into his own, giving them a gentle squeeze.

“I want to share something with them.”

“What is it?”

“Something that I want to share with you.”

Jacqui’s brows furrowed. “Do I have to repeat the previous question?”

“Be gentle with me, it’s our one-year anniversary.”

A smart-aleck remark that Cassie Cage would have approved of was on the tip of Jacqui’s tongue, but the lovable expression on Takeda’s face stopped it short.

Goddamn, Mom was right: he is adorable …

Letting go of her hands, Takeda took half a step back. His eyes, dark as black moonstones, met hers – he breathed in sharply, feeling a flicker of anxiety. The sound of the steady stream beneath the bridge soothed his nerves only a little.

Breathe out, Takeda. Breathe out.

“Takeda, are you okay?” Jacqui asked, her brows furrowing further. “You look kinda pale. You want me to fetch Master Hasashi or something?”

The telepath hastily exhaled, saying, “No, no, don’t. I’m fine.”

“Boy, if you’re lying –”

“Like I would do that to you. Master Hasashi raised me better than that.”

“Bet your dad would totally agree.” The sarcasm was not quite Kung Jin-levels of high, but still high enough.

Chuckling under his breath, Takeda drew his arms behind his back. He canted his head, looking at the military woman through half-lidded eyes. Beneath his breastbone, his heart fluttered like a hummingbird; every nervous beat was akin to frantic wings beating against his ribcage.

Breathe … just breathe …

Inhaling deeply, a caramel fragrance carried by a gust of wind shot up Takeda’s nostrils, relieving his senses. His unease left with the puff of air that he breathed out.

“I’d never want to lie to you, Jacqui,” he began to say. “I want to be honest with you always – to be able to share all of my truths with you. Even when they seem unpleasant to hear, or … or to talk about, it makes me so incredibly happy to know that you accept them as is. For that, I just want to give you the rest of me. Everything.”

Jacqui stared, her face bearing a mixture of bemusement and captivation in response to this remarkable speech.

Takeda went on, his confidence climbing to new heights.

“When our fight with the revenants was over … when we walked through the woods in Lampang that night … whenever we’re together … all those times, I just wanted to keep holding onto you and never let go. I wanted to have like – you know, like what your parents have. What Master Hasashi and his wife had … what my parents could have had.”

The lump that suddenly rose in Jacqui’s throat was as hard as a rock.

“Takeda,” was all she could say.

The Shirai Ryu shifted his weight from left to right. His eyes shone.

“But above everything else, I want you to be happy. The Elder Gods know you deserve it, and so much more. The thought of seeing you smile and hearing you laugh each and every day fills me with joy like you won’t believe. It’s a little selfish to say, but I want – I need – to be that person who gets to see and hear you like this before anyone else. I want to be one of those reasons that you do … like you already do for me.”

Jacqui’s chest rose and fell with each tremulous breath. Her mouth parted, but no words came.

But just this one time, the telepath allowed himself to delve into the confines of her mind, finding the words that she could not voice:

What else do you want, Takeda?

His grin spreading bit by bit, Takeda brought his arms forward. He raised his hands, which were clasped around a small, square object.

Jacqui’s eyes widened.

A box.

Indeed, it was a box, its surface a smooth and polished maple wood. In Takeda’s hands, it looked very fine and small.

A box that’s big enough to hold a … a …

The specialist’s eyes were now as wide as china plates.

Oh my God …

“Jacqueline Sonya Briggs,” Takeda’s voice was full of hope and adoration, “please may I have the honour of marrying you?”

Grasping the lid, he pulled it open. Cushioned in the foamy black insert was a gold band – flawless, solid, and expertly fashioned in its shape. Atop the unblemished metal was an Asscher-cut white diamond; in the glow of the descending dusk, it glimmered like a bright yellow spark.

Jacqui gawped at the ring in astonishment, which morphed into disbelief, before finally transforming into …

“Jacqui?”

She raised her head – quartz met moonstone, reflecting the brightness that swirled in them. For a moment, she could see the future in them: a home as high as two storeys; a comfortable living room with lofty bookshelves and a fire burning in the grate; a kitchen that was filled with the mouth-watering scents of khao soi simmering away in a large pot; late afternoon chats with friends in a lush garden and with drinks at the elbows; late nights that saw heat overcoming two entwined bodies; early mornings that saw the frigid dawn driving them into each other’s arms once more in search of warmth; a smile, a laugh and a kiss from one that the other mimicked in kind; a future filled with …

“Jacqui, please say something.”

In this man’s eyes, the specialist could see it reflected clearly …

… happiness.

Hers. His. Theirs.

“Yes.”

Takeda nearly dropped down in a dead faint. “You’ll really marry me?”

Jacqui nodded, her vision becoming misty. “Yes, Takeda, I will marry you. Yes, yes!”

Other than Takahashi Takeda – who, in teary elation, slipped the ring on her finger before scooping her into his arms, holding onto her body for as long as that bridge could hold them – only the winds could have heard Jacqui Briggs’ reply.

Rolling around their balmy forms with their leafy instruments, the winds carried away her words down the cobblestone path, past the trees, against the bells that tolled one last time, above the wooden structure and into the night sky above the Fire Garden, where the returning birds circled among the clouds.

Tomorrow, their song would bear the winds’ message loud and clear, regardless of the heat or the cold that it would bring.

[sweetbyte]

Title: Helping Hand

Pairing : Katsuki Bakugo | Momo Yaoyorozu

Rating : T 

Summary : She is often described as a girl with a bleeding heart; He’s just bleeding out. || Quirkless AU

He’s never been so fucked in his whole goddamn existence. In a secluded alley, injured, possibly bleeding to death, no cell phone, all in all- totally fucked.

Some cynical part of him, the part who isn’t gasping in pain-the pussy, thinks this is exactly what he deserves. Karma, if you will, for being a less than stellar piece of shit for all his life. He’s no saint, he’s never tried to be one, but if this is what he gets after trying to help a damsel in distress, never a-fucking-gain. Let the world fucking go up in flames. The bitch straight up ditched, purse intact, leaving him to his death, no gratitude whatsoever. If they were going to leave him to die, they could have at least brought him a drink. That or the stupid motherfucker could have least finished the job and put him out of his misery. The fucking nerve.

“Momo, I don’t think this is a good idea.” His ears perk up at the sound of voices, both females, and he sees the ever so faint glow of a flashlight.

“I heard a commotion. What if we find another poor animal?” The second voice, a much softer voice, begins as the light moves slowly from left to right on the ground. “This will be the fifth time, I keep saying we need cameras back here.” He stifles a groan. Of course, he’d be found by a bleeding heart humanitarian in his final moments. How lovely.

“I keep saying you need to stop closing the clinic alone.” The other voice replies in exasperation and he thinks maybe at least one of them will have some shred of common sense. Probably not since they are in a dark alley at night, most likely unarmed and unsuspecting. “You get tunnel vision when it comes to helping the unfortunate. I’m just glad you called me this time, it’s not safe for you to be out here like this. I guess it’s an improvement.” The light gets closer and he’s truly upset that he hasn’t just died by now, and that they haven’t found him yet. Shit just beam the goddamn light ahead of you, its impossible to miss him. He’s doomed.

“I appreciate it, by the way. I hope I didn’t interrupt anything important.” At that he snorts, and the flashlight finally shines over him as he hears them gasp.

“Oh my- Jirou, quick call a medic or something!” He sees the light fall to ground as one girl immediately drops to her knees to assess him while the other girl stares in shock before pulling out her phone.

 “I really don’t think you should get too close. Not exactly the animal you were expecting but he still might bite.” The girl with the phone warns and he snarls just to be petty, causing her to mutter unimpressed. “Great, he’s feral.”

“Feral or not, he might die here! Look at all the blood he’s lost!” The girl on her knees, gently chides as she sets to work looking at his wound. He’s too tired to even attempt to push her away so he lets her soft hands begin to poke and prod.

“I’d rather not, you’re the vet tech, not me.” The phone girl frowns as she finally gets connected to whoever the fuck she called.

“Listen, I’m far from being proficient in the medical field, but I need your cooperation.” The humanitarian calmly begins after locating the nasty gash by his abdomen. “I need to take you back to the clinic, I have the necessary materials there to at least disinfect and bandage you up until you get proper treatment. You are continuing to lose blood.” Her eyes are focused on him, waiting for his response to continue and he wonders what she would do if he said no. “Whatever.”

Oddly enough, he sees her smile a bit before proceeding to tear his shirt. It completely takes him off guard, her strength and the sheer audacity. Before he has the chance to ask her what the fuck she’s doing, she bunches the shirt that hasn’t already been bloody soaked and presses it into the wound. It hurts like a bitch and he hopes she gets it from the loud curse he lets out.

“I’m sorry, do you think you can hold it there while I help you up?” At least she sounds apologetic, the wench, and he just nods. She braces herself under his arm of his uninjured side and helps him to his feet with an almost ridiculous ease.

“Wait, Momo, they advised for him not to be moved until they get here.” The phone girl bursts when she sees them up.

The humanitarian, Momo, tuts disapprovingly. “When will they arrive? I can’t risk him bleeding out. They can just meet us at the clinic.” He hears the phone girl groan loudly over as she continues to update the medics, he guesses. Momo begins to walk with him to the clinic she keeps talking about. Her hold on him is firm yet considerate; her body against his is stable yet supple. Its so fucking odd.

The walk isn’t far, it’s just around the fucking corner of the alley way. Veterinary Clinic, of course that’s where she works. Vet tech. How fucking appropriately humane of her. Her friend trails behind them and assists with the door. After they make it in, he hears the door lock behind them. “I’ll start tending to him, you wait here until the medics arrive.” Momo instructs and her friend nods before telling her to be careful and he glares at her, not that she cares.

Momo then proceeds to drag him to a room where he sees a steel exam table. He’s more relieved than he’ll ever admit. She had been practically carrying him at this point and its all he can do to keep holding the shirt to his side.

“The tables are sterilized, I promise, I do it myself. They are also adjustable, so it won’t be a problem trying to hassle you up on it. I only ask that you sit when I tell you to. Can you do that for me?” He rolls his eyes at her, of course he fucking can.

“Do I get a treat?” He snorts while the table lowers.

“If you’re a good boy.” He freezes for a moment and she seems surprised at her own answer as she blushes furiously before shoving him on to the table and raising it up to her level. She then busies herself gathering gloves, gauze, bandages and such from the various cabinets.

“I can be a good boy.” He teases and he must have lost a lot of blood if he’s taking in the shade of her luminescent eyes and practically fucking flirting with her. Hell, if he truly is dying of blood loss might as well make the most of it. He’s dizzy and she’s admittedly very attractive. If he plays his cards right, maybe he'll get lucky and get sucked off before he kicks the can. He shakes his head, it not likely, this girl, unlike him, is a proper fucking saint. She would never.

“Somehow, I find that hard to believe.” She laughs as she carefully peels the bunched-up shirt off and starts to dab and tend his wound. She’s extremely efficient and concentrated so he lets her work in silence. By the time the ambulance finally does make it on scene, she has him bandaged and cleaned. He’s temped to tell them to go fuck themselves, but she pushes him out towards them stating that he’ll probably need further medication for pain and such.

In the midst of being loaded up into a gurney, which is completely unnecessary, she shoves a card in his hand and smiles. “Hope you feel better, and for the record, you did great!”

She practically skips away before he can say anything. He looks at the card during the ride to the hospital and resists the urge to smirk. 

Momo Yaoyorozu

Come again to redeem treat. (:

A/N: Yes, another bakumomo oneshot, please do not judge me. 

[itsblissfuloblivion]

Torch - Chapter 4: December

A/N: We are on time!  Lots of holiday hi-jinks and Harry coming to terms with some feelings and stuff in his life.  Hope you enjoy!

Love,

@fightfortherightsofhouseelves

&

@gryffindormischief

Also on FF and Ao3

Torch: a Hinny canon compliant multi-chaptered fic featuring HBP missing moments. Updates every first day of every month, from September 2019 to August 2020.

____

December roars in like a lion, harsh and unrelenting with gusting winds and ever growing snowdrifts that seem to hedge the castle’s inhabitants inside either by impassibility or impossibility . The wind chill dipped low enough that Harry nearly didn’t try to sneak out for a fly, but even as he did Filch and Madam Hooch each caught Harry on his path to the pitch. Still, he did duck their attention and sneak past the courtyard beneath his cloak.

And yet, the moment his boots crunched in the snow, Harry felt as if the cold, blustering wind chapped nearly every inch of his body, exposed or not. Disappointed and somewhat damp, Harry trooped back indoors and did his best to vanish his puddling tracks to avoid detection as well as detention. Harry feels like a bit of a ponce for laughing at his own joke but honestly he’s begun to reach the point where he can’t deny himself simple, dull pleasures when the majority of his existence feels like one self-denial after the next.

The most glaring of which, is an increasingly uncomfortable pang ringing through his chest every time he sees the swish of Ginny’s robes, his lungs draw in a breath of her scent, or she says something brilliant and cheeky. Hell, sometimes he’s sitting in the humid greenhouses listening to Professor Sprout warn them about some venomous, bloodsucking, carnivorous something or other and Harry’s mind wanders to the slant of Ginny’s smile or the delightful peal of her laughter.

And then Ron will pass him a note or just let out a snort in his sleep and Harry feels the chain of responsibility to his best mate tighten around his heart.

It wouldn’t be a betrayal in the classic sense. But risking Ron, the Weasleys, Hermione - and even Ginny herself - for the possibility of returned... feelings or whatever seems like a gamble he can’t take. Not when everything good in his life seems like it hangs from one delicate thread.

Now, as he sits across from Ron in the common room, each half-assing the chapter questions to prepare them for the next day’s Potions lesson, Harry shoves all thoughts of Ginny down low and deep so they settle like lead in his stomach. At least it feels like he can breathe again.

Which is for the best, since his Lavender-free Ron time is low and half the time when he does get it there’s some related drama that manages to worm its way in.

So when they’re nearing the end of their problem sets - with the Prince’s assist - Harry decides to take full advantage and grabs the community chess board. “How’d you like to wipe the floor with me in a game?”

Ron frowns thoughtfully. “I can always tutor you, Harry,” and then a hint of mischief teases his lips, “You’re not a total dunce.”

Kicking his shin beneath the table, Harry shoves their books and other detrius aside, settling the board on the table with a dull thud and the clatter of loose pieces.

Considering this is a community board, it’s remarkable how many pieces have remained intact and actually with the board. Plus, it’s an unspoken rule that if a student finds the board with missing pieces they are obligated to fill the empty place with something creative and magically enhanced.

Overall, they’ve just got mismatched bits from other boards and one intricate Origami-type knight that flits about the board rather than sliding like the rest.

Harry and Ron volley the first few rounds back and forth quickly, and almost as quickly Harry loses two pawns and Ron commands his full army like a proud general.

The fire crackles warmly in the grate as they continue game-play with no losses and Ron gradually enacts what Harry’s almost certain will be his undoing. It’s an odd thing because on one hand, Harry hates to lose and on the other, watching Ron in action is a sight to behold. Although the casual ‘tips’ that really sound more like taunts are going to earn him some itching powder in his sheets.

Harry’s just finally taken one pawn and from the gleam in Ron’s eye fallen right into the trap set for him, when the sickly sweet scent of Lavender’s perfume engulfs the table.

And though Ron’s hormone induced googly eyes have cleared somewhat since that fateful victory party, he still abandons Harry mid-game with promises to resume.

Leaving Harry positive that the itch powder plot will definitely be unleashed and wondering whether this is how relationships go .

It’s not that he doesn’t understand the infatuation, he wishes he didn’t to be honest, but to be so wrapped up - and to let someone be so wrapped up.

Not that it’s Lavender’s fault, but could it be right to be with someone who doesn’t recognize how important your mates are? To let someone take so much of your sense that you alienate one and ditch the other at the drop of a hat?

He doesn’t begrudge Ron fun, or a life outside of him and Hermione, but things should fit not drive a wedge. At least in Harry’s mind.

His dream girlfriend would fit in right alongside them all, bust his arse and tease Ron, love Hermione and give her a run for her money. She would - well perhaps further detail isn’t the best considering his train of thought gets narrower and narrower and it begins to become clear that his dream, his ideal, is very real and very unattainable.

____

The days until December 20, when the Slug Club Christmas Party will be upon Harry and his frail nerves (and probably so will jolly Professor Slughorn), resemble a maze filled with booby traps to Harry. In this particular case, the booby traps are laid by fellow Gryffindor Romilda Vane, by his best mates’ quarreling, by Ron snogging Lavender ostentatiously all over Hogwarts, and of course by Draco plotting his sneaky plots in full liberty because no one would simply listen .

By December 20, at precisely eight in the evening, Romilda Vane’s tried to push spiked gillywater on him, offered him probably love potion infested Chocolate Cauldrons, if what Hermione’s heard in the girls’ bathroom is correct. Hermione herself announced she’s attending the party with that McLaggen buffoon so loud that she might as well have shouted from the Astronomy Tower while Ron morphed into the pettiest version of himself by laughing at Hermione in class leaving Luna of all people as the one to comfort her back in the girls’ bathroom again.

So many things happening in that bathroom, so many stupid feelings Harry really doesn’t want to deal with.

Therefore he sends everything to hell and surprises himself by inviting Luna to the party, as friends. At least she’s a decent human being, doesn’t giggle absurdly, and is genuinely kind. At least he has that.

And the Prince. Yeah, the Prince helps more than his real life friends most of these days.

Forlorn and sighing, Harry nearly confesses his loneliness and despair to Hedwig since both friends aren’t available and Ginny’s...probably getting ready for her date with Dean Thomas. He hasn’t asked, but by now Harry’s fairly certain she’s bound to go with Dean to the Slug Club party, dance with Dean, kiss Dean.

With another sigh, Harry checks the time: 7:50 PM. Time to go.

As he enters the theatrically adorned chamber next to Luna, a crowd of girls glowering in their wake, his eyes scan the space for hints of red hair. Instead, he finds Hermione looking harassed and dishevelled, in a hurry to escape McLaggen’s less than desirable presence and attentions. He’d really love to confront her with a most heartfelt I told you so , but he’s got more pressing matters on his plate at the moment. Such as why isn’t Ginny at the party, is she alright, what did that berk do to her and also why is that slimy git Malfoy sneaking in? Isn’t he supposed to have known Slughorn since he was in nappies or some such?

If he’d ever be asked to recount what happened after Malfoy’s impromptu appearance, he’d only be able to say what he’d been saying for the past four months: that Draco Malfoy is up to something. Which apparently is not enough for anybody because the situation is as stale as before. Malfoy is indeed up to something, Snape is helping him and the world is closing its eyes and ears and letting it happen. Brilliant.

As he drags his feet back to the Common Room, Harry’s mind buzzing with the latest information, he still has half a hope that the Fat Lady will swing aside to let him in and there’ll be Ginny, alone in the armchair by the fire, studying or maybe even taking a moment to relax in spite of the ever looming OWLs.

But there’s no one waiting for him behind the portrait door and no fire in the hearth. Just the Common Room, drafty and chill, motionless and deadly quiet in the dark.

There’s no Dean either in their shared bedroom. No Ron and no Seamus. Only Neville, lightly snoring from beneath his sheets.

Perhaps they’ve all gone to a party of their own.

Perhaps they’re happy and laughing and don’t need him anymore.

Perhaps...it’s time he sleeps. After all, they’ll be leaving Hogwarts soon and there’s so much he needs to do before he boards the train.

Harry sighs, hugs the pillow closer to his chest and closes his eyes.

The train trundles over the tracks that slice through the Scottish countryside, dark against the blanket of snow continually refreshed by flurries slowly drifting from the clouds overhead.

Harry’s tried more than a few times to close his eyes for a brief rest, only to be jostled either nearly to the floor or so that his forehead slams against the chilled glass window. Even if he could find a comfortable position, his mind is still whirring with the details of Snape and Malfoy’s conversation. It had been just vague enough that no one was going to believe him. At least not enough to actually do something with the information. Nevermind that Malfoy had bashed Harry’s nose in and left him for dead or at least for severe discomfort and intense inconvenience. Harry was apparently reading into things, imagining the odd conversations and even stranger behavior, and Malfoy meanwhile was a bloody Prefect.

Honestly, it’s reached the point where it feels as if his life has no point. He tries and searches and puts himself in danger and still each year it’s a random series of events that he can’t plan or prepare for that lead to near death or - well in the worst cases there have been deaths. And for all Harry’s targeted by Voldemort and his supporters, it never feels like he’s earned the distinction by doing anything but somehow managing to stay alive.

He’s just let his forehead thud against the glass again, the cool pane easing the ever-present ache of his scar, when the compartment door slides open.

Harry’s hoping for Ron, sans Lavender and his recent bad attitude, but finds another Weasley studying him curiously.

“Hey, Gin.”

She blinks. “What’s with the face, sad man?”

Slumping lower in his seat, Harry props his legs on the opposite bench and sighs. “I just feel - do you ever - ”

He can’t quite work out the words to explain himself, not without sounding like a wingy baby or giving Ginny a dangerous amount of information. When he glances up, Ginny’s still eyeing him speculatively.

“You haven’t narrowed things down much with those little fragments,” Ginny says, lips kicking up in a wry half smile.

“It just feels like, year after year, I’m left with these huge decisions and responsibilities and people die and it’s my fault. And still no one ever believes me when I tell them shite is about to go down.”

Ginny pauses a moment before perching on the bench opposite him and smoothing her school robes. “I think - well I suppose the first thing I should like to address is the fact that none of this is ever your fault, Harry.”

Her eyes are watery and her voice is low and full of fire as she continues, gaze pinned to her dark tights. “Riddle, he - he does what he wants, when he wants, and you’re one of the far too few people who’ve recognized him for what he is and done something about it. Not sitting around the wireless and having a good long chat. You’re - you’re always out in the thick of things and risking your stupid, noble neck and if idiots like Skeeter or anyone else have shite to say about you well then - “

One angry tear escapes down her cheek, though her jaw is set firm. “Then they’ll have me to answer to, yeah?”

She chuckles darkly and shrugs, “As for nobody believing you, I’d suggest lessons from Lockhart but I suppose that’s not really feasible, eh?”

“He was fairly expert winning converts.”

There’s a pause and quiet settles between them while the Hogwarts Express rattles through the snow before Ginny rises and pats Harry’s knee. “For what it’s worth, I’m always in your corner.”

“I could be a complete nutter.”

“You haven’t been wrong yet,” Ginny says with a shrug as she grips the door handle, “Except about that weird moustache attempt at the start of October. Not good.”

Harry flushes. “Ron is a pranking arsehole.”

“Sure,” Ginny winks.

Rubbing at the back of his neck, Harry manages a somewhat strangled goodbye. “Have a uh - nice time with Dean.”

Ginny’s mouth opens and closes around nothing before she smiles, almost forced seeming. “Sure. See you at home then.”

____

Like Hogwarts, the Burrow has always given Harry a very at home feeling. The smell of a fresh, steaming meal cooked with love and care, the lilt of so many laughs shared between the cramped little house’s inhabitants, the paper chains and fairy lights Ginny likes to put up every Christmas, everything gives Harry the feeling that he’s welcomed and safe.

Hermione’s presence is the only missing element to Harry, mostly in the moments they usually spent in the room beneath the attic. He can picture every detail, Hermione sitting cross legged on one of the beds, a book on her lap, Ron and Harry daring each other to another round of Exploding Snap or simply laughing - probably because Fleur said something equally snotty and funny while Mrs Weasley nearly combusted and Bill looked lovingly at his bride to be.

But Hermione isn’t here and Ron and her aren’t talking anymore. Harry doesn’t want to complain, Ron’s his best mate and all, but Lavender just gifted him a ghastly Won-Won locket for Christmas and if Ron’s too daft to put a stop to this then someone really should.

In all fairness, Kreacher’s maggots aren’t that appalling right now.

Or maybe they are and Harry’s just a bit sour that his best mate and his girlfriend are gross, who knows.

Still, when Harry lightly jokes about this with Ginny because he can’t really help himself and he’s long since stopped denying himself the simple pleasure of...conversing with her (and perhaps peeking to see if Dean’s sent her anything for Christmas - a failed mission, Ginny’s much too careful and private), her only reaction is:

“Don’t you dare knock some sense into him. This is too entertaining to stop so soon.”

And the mischievous grin on her face as she says it is what truly does Harry in: he accepts that he either blurts out his feelings or combusts from the pressure of keeping everything mashed up inside his chest.

Thankfully, it’s Bill who saves him from something that could have easily become Harry’s single most embarrassing memory by calling them both to help with Christmas dinner preparations.

Ginny marches down with a roll of her eyes and a snide comment, while Harry feels lighter somehow and so very thankful.

Before he steps out of the living room however Bill’s hand falls steady on his shoulder.

“Don’t take too long,” he says, looking Harry in the eye for a beat.

Harry’s left to wonder what to say, if he intended to convey what Harry thinks he did, and finally how did he guess...

It’s funny how other people can read your heart in an instant when it takes you months to even begin to realise. Life’s funny like that. Harry’s life at least.

When Harry reaches the cosy dinner party, he’s pushed in a chair between Fleur and Ron, the latter’s mouth already full with what seems to be a bite of what each platter has to offer. The table’s an impressive blend between mouth-watering smells and the clatter of forks and knives, the hearth crackling invitingly in the background, the room lit with candles upon candles perched on lampads serenely floating by magic.

Turkey, roast potatoes, stuffing, pigs in blankets, Yorkshire Pudding, gravy, Brussel sprouts, cranberry sauce, Christmas pudding, and mince pies, all garnish the Weasley family table as the wireless plays lowly (sans Celestina Warbeck tonight) and they eat and talk and feel merry.

“Is Hermione not joining us, dear?” Mrs Weasley asks the room at large although, to Harry, her question seems pointed.

Ron coughs briefly into his plate, grunts something akin to a “No” as Ginny takes her time rolling her eyes for a dramatic effect.

“She was - er, busy,” Harry half-asses an excuse as he generously dips another bite of turkey into a nice serving of gravy.

“What I’d give to be sixteen again and starting a relationship,” Mrs Weasley chuckles, her eyes glazed over, mind already down memory lane.

“What would you give, Molly dear?” Mr Weasley teases.

“Oh, I don’t know, but remember the thrill of seeing each other in Hogsmeade, Arthur? Nothing compared to those weekends. Ah, so lovely being young and in love,” she smiles, rising to bring another plate full of steaming hot turkey.

And perhaps it’s not just Harry who notices the ill looking shade on Ron’s face and that his fork hasn’t scooped any bites for a good couple of minutes.

“How’re things with that Dean Thomas guy, little sis?” Bill changes the topic, casually asking over the dinner table and Harry can swear he’d seen him wink in his general direction.

Ginny simply shrugs, “None of your business.”

“Now come on, Ginny,” Fred grins.

“We’re only looking after you, as responsible big brothers,” George continues.

“No need,” she drawls between two spoonfuls of pudding.

“We heard he’s a good flyer,” George pipes up, grinning dangerously.

“But does he have any other qualities?” Fred wiggles his eyebrows.

Ginny pauses, looks them both in the eyes and mutters, “Plenty.”

To be completely honest, Harry was expecting a furtive glance or maybe a different answer - perhaps a merge between “He’s a terrible kisser” and “I’ve dumped him.”

Instead a simple word, plenty , is what makes his food come back with haste and it takes all his willpower to fight it back. Plenty.

He’s now joined Ron in the ill looking, besotted fools’ corner, unable to eat another bite because suddenly everything tastes like bleach down his throat. Always together like the best mates they are, eh.

Plenty .

And it all goes further down spiralling at lightning speed when Percy, as pompous as ever, trots in importantly, the Minister at his tails.

Harry can’t recall exactly when everybody’s retreated to their rooms, Mrs Weasley a mess of tears and hiccups, Mr Weasley looking broken hearted and all their children feeling angry and ready to throw a punch up Percy’s nose. Hell, Harry feels the same and him and Percy aren’t even related.

The following five days leading up to the New Year are somewhat tamer, freestyle Quidditch (Christmas themed), listening to Bill and Fleur swap stories from Egypt and France, and Exploding Snap tournaments with a Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes twist included. Learning about Veelas and curse breaking amongst century old mummies of former pharaohs is more interesting than Harry’d ever guessed and he can’t help but think that both Bill and Fleur might fit better in an Indiana Jones movie than crammed in a small cottage in Devon.

Which is a slightly peculiar thought considering he himself has always hated the spotlight but somehow some of the Weasleys seem to belong there, to dazzle, to impress effortlessly.

Ginny, for instance, she’s...a superb flyer. She’d belong nowhere better than on a pitch, kicking arse and smart-mouthing everyone around her, wild red hair flying all over, impish smile widely flashing.

Ginny. Unwillingly he’d found himself around her a great deal more since that little “plenty” thing. As if she’s sought him again and again, as if to show him that perhaps she didn’t mean it like it sounded.

But then again why wouldn’t she? Dean is her boyfriend, as Harry’d been so bluntly reminded not five days before.

Still, whenever he does find a cosy spot on the couch, there’s Ginny next to him. At the table, his elbow bumps into hers as they eat, exchanging looks and jokes unspoken. Before bed, her eyes linger just a second longer, her fingers fiddling, teeth sinking into her bottom lip.

And as they celebrate the New Year - ah, Harry believes he needs a good old crowbar over the head because she’s beautiful, her deep brown eyes filled with sparks and colours as the fireworks crash and collide in the night sky, and he’s insane enough to stand next to her. He’s such a fool.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

She looks up at him, eyes big and waiting.

Seven.

Six.

His heart beats faster.

Five.

Four.

Three.

“Harry…”

Two.

“Would you...?”

One.

Her hands clasp at the back of his neck, her temple flush against his chest, against that heart that can’t stop beating and he sits there like a sad, sad fool as Ginny slowly dips her head to look him in the eyes.

She’s impossibly beautiful, flowery scent intoxicating his brain.

“Harry, do you promise me?”

He has no idea what she’s asking him to promise, but he is completely certain he’d even promise her the moon if only she’d ask for it.

“What we talked about on our way home. On the train.”

What they talked about…? Oh.

“Promise you’ll stay away from danger this year, that you’ll fight that noble impulse of yours? Bugger Malfoy or Snape or anyone else, just stay safe, Harry, please,” she whispers, arms still around him and Harry hopes she’d hold him like that forever.

Forever only lasts a second and not more sometimes because as soon as he nods, she’s gone with another glance full to the brink with something so intense and yet with absolutely nothing.

Happy New Year, Harry. You’re still all alone and very lonely.

[docfuture]

Princess, part 10

      [This story is a prequel, set several years before The Fall of Doc Future, when Flicker is 16.  Links to some of my other work are here.  Updates were theoretically biweekly–more realistically, I’m going to try to get the next one out by early July.]

Previous: Part 9

      Flicker was going to lose pieces of self.  She could put memory summaries in the Database, but that wasn't enough.  She could only permanently store her emotional context in her squishy human brain, which was offline.  This constricted connections between memory, place, and time.  Her older memories should be intact.  When the isotope exchanges were complete and she could finally restart everything and heal, everything should still be there.  But that didn't help now; anything old that she didn't already have loaded into her speed mind was inaccessible, and any new context would be ephemeral--gone after her next proper sleep.       And that 'should'... wasn't a would.  Itchy spots in her speed mind hinted at losses on the boundary, reflexes and habits needed for her squishy and speed halves to work together that she might have to relearn.  Her speech synchronization problems might return, or her chronic self-interrupting.  Old sensory issues might come back, too.       Those losses might extend to memory access.  Which was a little scary.  Moments perfectly preserved in a box did her no good if she forgot where she put the box.  Perhaps because the original link to the first box was now in a junk box labeled 'Misc' on a shelf somewhere.       But that was life when she wasn't technically alive, with a heart that couldn't beat, lungs that couldn't breathe, and a whole reconstituted flesh body locked down in suspended chemical animation while the isotope exchanger worked.  Force fields helped protect everything else from her still-considerable radioactivity.  She probably wouldn't remember exactly how the half-pain, half-itching from her speed body felt, or how her claustrophobia was combining with sensory deprivation to make everything more unpleasant.  The best she could do was to take notes for the Database, which she could finally talk to again.  Slowly.       Doc had rigged up inductors to transmit visual signals that her speed mind could sense.  They could give her low res video if she slowed down to near human speed, but for anything faster she was limited to text.  She was already used to virtual typing, and there were more inductors to pick that up.  The biggest problem was lag--if she typed too fast, she had to wait and watch characters slowly appear to catch typos.  She was watching slowly updating video stills of Doc as a background while they talked by text.       It was way better than nothing.       "... too many versions of the 'alien invasion' story out," sent Doc.  "It wasn't worth trying to correct them.  The Volunteer kept his press brief honest but short and vague--he mentioned non-hostile non-humans who were injured but would recover, he just didn't say they were whales--and then flew off before anyone could ask him any more questions."       "Okay," sent Flicker.  "Can we go back a bit?  No immediate crisis is good.  But I'm still missing a lot.  It's making my mind itch.  More.  It's itching for other reasons, too, but this you can help fix."       "No problem.  What first?"       "What was the bit with Breakpoint?  He wasn't trying to warn you or me?"       "No.  I got a notification just as you started your final run.  The warning was for Journeyman, he listened, and the danger passed."       "More details, please?  Did you forward the warning?"       "I didn't need to; Journeyman was standing beside him.  That was one of the precautions I arranged before you left, and they were quite willing to help.  Journeyman had his own detection setup coordinated with the Database, and they had the attack triangulated in a fraction of a second.  And then Breakpoint got the danger sense spike, just before Journeyman wanted to port, which delayed them for a second."       "A trap?"       "Possibly.  But I think a potential time loop was more likely."       "Caused by what?"       "I don't know."       "Surely you have a theory?"       "Lots.  Theories are easy, distinguishing them is harder," sent Doc.  "Too many parameters we don't know.  But your trap did confirm the attack was based on some kind of foreknowledge--the timing was far too precise for any other explanation to make sense.  Perhaps Journeyman and Breakpoint would have caught the attacker, triggering a loop.  Or killed it, with the same result.  Or they did get caught in a loop and broke out."       "How would that even work?"       "Several possible ways.  Time loop theories are hard to falsify.  But after it was safe, they ported in and swept the arrival location for clues.  The attacker apparently came from and returned to the Topaz Realm, a common intermediate stop for interdimensional travelers who wish to evade pursuit or tracking.  The two of them declined to pursue further, and returned unhurt, though rather drained from the double port.  Journeyman went to ground quote 'somewhere safe' unquote, and Breakpoint is with Jumping Spider.  I'm sure we'll get additional details later, but the attacker was almost certainly an extradimensional being who portaled in specifically to try to assassinate you, with implications of harm to the entire planet."       "And got away.  Whee."       "An overt repeat attempt seems unlikely.  This was a clear worldwide threat, in a way Hermes was not, and now there is a specific event to track from.  The compatible world probability background has shifted by quite a bit.  There are a wide variety of entities with extraordinary perceptions and abilities that are now aware of the attacker and united in the desire for Earth to keep existing, if little else.  The Database has been getting messages from all over the world.  Hideki told me he already had to gently dissuade a group of young Japanese superhumans from charging off on an interdimensional mission of vengeance.  They vividly recall your help during the quake, and feel inclined to track down whoever tried to kill you given the slightest opportunity.  I was also asked to convey their wishes for your speedy recovery."       "That's..."       Some emotional thing.  But Flicker didn't have a working human brain to feel it, and her emulator wasn't up to the task.       "...nice."       She sent a note to the Database to relay a socially safe thank you.  Her mind still itched.       "Okay," she sent.  "Thanks for the summary.  Now... I have a problem.  Your UI works--I can talk to you and the Database.  And if the exchanger were going to be done in a couple of hours, that would be enough.  But it's going to take longer.  I can tolerate the physical part--but I'm not so sure about the psychological.  Sensory dep, and I have to keep shifting what I'm doing to maintain concentration.  I've been recording the more organized parts of my raw impressions and alerts into the Database.  But it's as tedious as hand-typing an endless stream of hex codes.  That's making my attention wander.  I've lost my spot a couple of times already and had to pattern match to find it again.  I hate to complain, but is there anything better you can manage?"       A pause, and the background picture updated to show Doc with his hands clasped in front of his face, looking somber.  Then he started typing again.       "I've been fabbing something that may help.  I'll let you know when it's ready."       The rhythm of the isotope exchanger changed slightly, the ion beams stopped, and the discomfort eased a little.  A message from the Database appeared:       "First pass complete, left leg."       "Well," sent Doc.  "Ready to start lowering the tritium load in the bone marrow of your other leg?"       "Yes.  But it doesn't really matter," she sent back.  "It's the next thing.  We need to get as much as we can done while I keep my chemistry clamped down or I don't get a livable body back."       "Yes.  We may be able to speed up later.  But at least it's working."       "Yeah..."       *****       Tedious hours passed.  Then there was a pause and shift, while radiation-hardened robots installed a new set of inductors for her head, along with an elaborate set of shielding, wiring and cooling pipes.  Flicker took an all too brief run around Doc's test range.  Even though she was still blind and deaf, the flow of air and the sudden bright crispness of her mass sense made it a welcome break.  But she made a little of that air radioactive--she was still giving off too many neutrons--so it would have been indulgence to stay outside the force fields for more than a millisecond or two.       Then tests and adjustments.  Fiddly and annoying, but Doc was determined not to set off an immune reaction from Flicker's high speed nervous system, and DASI concurred with the need for caution.       Another shift... And a world turned on.       A better interface, through a virtual body representation.  Audio, distorted but functional.  Video.  And faster text and data when Flicker sped up.  The grinding background of confinement, restlessness and inability to fully relax was still there.  As was the discomfort from the isotope exchanger.  But her sensory deprivation was greatly reduced.  It worked.       There was one rather jarring issue.       "I feel this sense of cosmic dread," she said.  "Like I'm on the edge of a precipice to dimensions I can't even see, and might at any moment slip and lose my connection to sanity, or drag anything and everything I care about into the abyss."       "Good," said Doc.  "Sounds like your alarm systems are appropriately compatible."  The wide video window showing his image floated in front of her.  The darkness around the edges was still flecked with the writhing static of closed-eye hallucinations, but they were less intrusive.       "Good?  It's not exactly--"  She blinked and suddenly everything was gone, then the old interface returned--text and a fixed picture.  And the static everywhere else.  She sped up.       "DASI?" she sent.  "What happened?"       "You blinked for too long, and the interface interpreted it as a user shutdown request.  I can adjust that, but the safety shutdown thresholds are necessarily quite stringent.  One moment."       Another blink and Doc was back, eyebrow raised.  Half a second had passed.       "--fun," she finished.       "Fun was not a design goal," said Doc.  "This is a high performance multi-sense cybernetic interface.  It's not remotely safe.  The basic sensory relays I started you with were already as high-bandwidth as I could manage safely.  But they weren't enough.  I don't know how to make a full cybernetic interface that's comfortable but not psychologically addictive.  I keep the controller in the vaults for a reason.  I fabbed spare inductors.  They'll probably break frequently.  And shut down for other reasons.  Don't get attached to the interface.  I wouldn't even consider using it if your biological brain was functional.  I put together a list of other ways it's dangerous.  It's just not as dangerous as risking sensory deprivation for what might be days."       "Okay.  But if you think the alarm system for my high speed mind is compatible with a cybernetic interface... Don't I already have one?"       Doc looked down, then back up.  "Possibly.  But you'll want to be careful how you conceptualize that.  Because right now, if your body has a cybernetic interface, you might be that interface.  So it's not a good time to shift your self image."       "Yeah, yeah, because my flesh body is dead," said Flicker.  "I get it.  My internal conceptualization has been pretty consistent.  Messed up, but consistent.  It's like a meat demon with a little metal bug on the forehead.  High speed mind is the bug.  And only the demon is dead.  The bug is mostly worried about staying sane and connected.  And I've got the connected part now, but sane requires something to do.  I can't move while the exchanger is working, can't put things in long-term memory, and my emotion emulation is bad, so my options are limited."       Doc put a hand on his chin and looked back at her image in the video window.  "Could definitely be worse.  You'll want to test the interface at speed.  DASI will keep monitoring.  Perhaps we can tune down the doom response a bit.  And Armadillo will be here in a little while.  She's rather better at cheering people up than I am.  I'm sure she'll be happy to talk about whatever you want."       "Might help a little.  But I'm not sure talking will be enough.  Sec."       Flicker sped up.  The interface speed lagged noticeably and the temperature of the inductors rose.  The temperature in her brain would have gone up too, if she hadn't already been entropy dumping to get rid of the heat from radioactive decay and the isotope exchanger.  She skimmed the hazard list.  Doc hadn't been exaggerating.  And the full interface would not be able to keep up with her mind if she sped up all the way.  The problem was cooling, which was the usual problem that stopped Doc after he'd solved everything else.       So.  Use restraint.  Don't push it all the way to the limit, and it would break less frequently.  She adjusted some preferences with DASI's help, so the interface would gradually degrade to monochrome text and virtual typing input at higher speeds.  That would give her fast responsiveness as well as the increased sensory feedback she needed when she slowed back down.  A few tests verified it worked.       At DASI's suggestion, she tried taking notes at speed with the better interface as a direct substitute for long term memory.  A slower and more structured version of the memory dumps she did before sleeping when her memory was overleveraged and she couldn't stuff everything into squishy brain in time.  With the memory dumps, she could put keys into her squishy brain to connect by reference--but not with everything locked down.       More tests.  The notes were accurate on rereading, though seemed kind of passive-aggressively gloomy.  Upon reflection, she decided that was accurate as well.       What to do?  The data from Speedtest was recorded.  Talking was... talk.  Little point in reading or trying to learn.  Introspection could become a problem fast--her mood was already pretty dark.  But she couldn't get renewal from physical rest, so she was going to slowly go squirrelly from lack of sleep and contact with squishy brain.  And she already felt the kind of frustrated dissatisfaction that she usually handled by going on patrol.  Then she might still end up frustrated, but at least she'd saved lives.  Now she couldn't even do that.       She wasn't helpless.  She still had a net connection, her database node, and assorted bots, both physical and virtual.  But what was safe to try?  She slowed back down.       "Interface works," she said.  "But the doom abyss is getting old real fast."       Doc was studying his own display intently.  He tapped out something on his keyboard then looked up.  "How's that?"       The tension eased somewhat.  "Better," she said.  "Less cosmic dread, more dangerous machinery in operation alert.  I can live with that.  But I could really use something to do."       He shook his head ruefully.  "I understand.  Sometimes the hardest thing to do is nothing.  But you have a very good chance of surviving your bit of existential roulette if you can manage to keep yourself together and stationary long enough for the exchanger to do its work."       She frowned.  "Is that what you call the kind of trap I set?  I thought you said we're safe now."       "No, I said further direct attacks were unlikely.  Whether that's because they wouldn't succeed or aren't necessary is still open.  We can't be reasonably certain until the next time you sleep, then wake up functional and something approximating sane."       "That's disturbing."       "Yes.  But what's done is done."       "So you don't think trying it was a good idea?"       "I'm reserving judgement.  And if you were going to try, the Moon was a better place than Earth.  You minimized direct collateral damage.  However..."  A crooked grin.  "Now probably isn't the best time for critical analysis.  Survival and data recording were the right priorities once you made it back.  We can hash out details later."       "Yeah, but it does give me something to focus on, which I need.  I think that finally getting to go fast was so wonderful, so freeing, that I got overconfident."       Doc studied her image for a moment.  "Based on my preliminary analysis of the Database summaries, I think you may be underestimating another effect.  I can explain, if you think it will help."       "Well, yeah."       "When you left the earth's atmosphere, you were hit with mental changes and a flood of alarms and activations on top of your acrophobia.  Which you coped with very well.  I think your caution, careful safety compartmentalization, and lockdown checking were absolutely correct and optimal reactions.  Having a previously unknown part of your mind wake up and suggest you mess with Planck's constant locally?  That would have terrified me.  But you handled it."       Doc waved a hand.  "That was a way more drastic reaction than I expected, and means I need to rework a lot of my theories.  Anyway, you took care of everything, and landed safely.  You jumped to the Moon.  Your landing message sounded like you were euphoric."       "I was."       "And your fear went away.  You had mass again, the alarms stopped, and you were finally getting to run Speedtest.  Of course you were feeling great.  And I made a mistake.  Before you started your final run, I suggested you go as fast as you felt safe.  I didn't include a stronger warning because I didn't want to interfere with your joy.  But I knew.  I know that feeling, it's Now I Am Invincible, it's incredibly dangerous for a superhero, and I knew the way you usually keep it in check is your care for all the people and other living things on Earth, and there was nothing living on the Moon except you."       He looked down.  "I should have warned you.  I didn't.  I'm sorry."       "Doc, no," said Flicker.  "I'd have done it anyway.  Nobody died.  I got the data.  And whoever or whatever that was, we needed to know about them, and now we do.  I'm going to keep going."       She bared her teeth.  "Even when I can't move for a while."       Doc kept looking down for a moment, then wiped his eyes and looked back up.  "Yeah.  On that note, it's time to move the exchanger focus again, and Armadillo is here.  Shall I invite her in?"       "Sure.  And thank you for--"  She waved the hand of her virtual body.  "This, and the list of reasons why it's dangerous.  Both.  They both help."       The crooked smile was back.  "I do what I can manage."

Next:  Part 11

[milkcartonbastard]

The Water Will Carry Me to You

Fandom- It. (Richie/Eddie)

Notes- Soulmate AU. Warnings for Henry's bullying and mild violence. I bring everyone together with a rock fight. Happy ending.

~~~

  Richie Tozier stood abandoned in a dark room. There was only a humming around him, like the sound a motor would make in water- it was muffled. He felt like he was freezing, slowly turning into an icy statue. He was shivering uncontrollably and his teeth were chattering, so he pulled his arms around himself tightly.

  There was one beam of light coming from the side- where a wall should be- of the room and showering down into the empty space. Richie could see particles of something floating noiselessly in the light and catching his eyes. The little flecks of debris burst into flame and disappeared, floating out of the light and into the darkness, which was freezing Richie to death.

  Richie immediately made the decision that he would rather burn than freeze to death, so Richie began to move towards the light. His body moved with great difficulty and he had a very difficult time staying on the ground. He was moving through the air like it had the viscosity of water instead. Actually, Richie was pretty sure he was in water. His teeth chattered again, and sure enough, air bubbles rose into the water and floated away from him.

  Still, Richie walked on the ground and made his way to the warmth of the light. He could feel his feet and legs freezing. If he didn't make it to that light soon, he knew he would die. He was so close and stuck his arms out in front of him. The humming was growing louder, but Richie was beginning to think it was his heart and not something far away from him. Yeah, that made sense.

  Richie's fingertips grazed along the entrance of the light beam and he pushed them into the light. The water was colder there than in the dark and Richie felt his fingers start to gloss over and turn to ice. He watched, dumbfounded, as another hand pushing itself into the light across from him. Richie's had was in up to his elbow and he was icing over. The hand across from him was burning and he watched with amazement as that hand touched his. The ice melted and the fire extinguished, leaving their hands together in the beam of light, under the water. The other hand was a little more tan than Richie's own and smaller. The heat from the other person's body heated his own and he stopped shivering.

  "Cold." The voice across from Richie said. His ears perked up. Was that a boy or a girl that had spoken? He couldn't tell for the water surrounding them and the echo that played with their voices.

  Suddenly, Richie's heart gave a large thud and he was being blasted backwards, his hand being ripped away from the other person's. Richie was soaring, slowly, through the water and tumbling rapidly into the darkness and away from the light. In a gasp of breath, his eyes snapped shut.

~~~

  Richie had been dreaming again. He dreamed almost every night, but sometimes he would only see a dark void where his subconscious movie should have been playing- but that only happened when his soulmate wasn't sleeping at the same time he was.

  All of Richie's dreams were different, but he never saw the face of his soulmate. He wouldn't either, until he met them in person. He wouldn't know right away, only when he laid down at night and let sleep take him. Then he should see their face, beautiful and the other half of his soul.

  It was like that for everyone. Soulmates appeared in dreams and interacted that way. Richie was one of the rather unlucky ones, because most people could see their soulmate's whole body- minus their faces of course. Richie was stuck with shots of their arms or their back. It wasn't too bad. Richie's best friend, Bill Denbrough, could only see a hand wrapped around his own and birds flying through the clouded sky. Bill seemed content though.

  Soulmate dreams were... complicated. Like Richie's, for example. Richie always dreamed of some extreme circumstance where he met his soulmate. He was underwater and walking on the ocean floor in one and trying to pull someone out of a stormy sea that sucks them both in during another. All of his dreams with his soulmate had one thing in common though- water. Richie hopped they didn't find each other in a flood or a hurricane. He hoped it was a swimming pool or at the quarry. Something simple that wouldn't scar Richie for life.

  Richie sighed as he moved fitfully under his damp sheets. His curly hair was sweaty and plastered against his sultry forehead. He wiped at his eyes and squinted harshly towards his alarm clock. Big, red, angry, numbers stared back at him and let him know he might as well go ahead and get up.

  His first day of Sophomore year was in a few hours and it wouldn't hurt him to get ready early. So Richie swung his legs over the side of his bed and grabbed for his glasses. In one quick tug of the fitted sheet on his bed, he pulled it up and stuffed the loose sheet and duvet into a ball of dampness. He violently grabbed his pillowcase and swung his pillow around until all he had ahold of was the case. He tossed all his shit into the hamper and made his way to the shower.

  It was going to be a great fucking day.

~~~

  English. Richie had English III for first period this year, followed by Art, then pre-Calculus, then Astronomy, then lunch, then Physics, then Derry history, and then it was all wrapped up in the seventh class period from hell. Study Hall.

  Study Hall with Mr. Penny. The most batshit teacher in the entire teaching industry. Richie hated this man with a passion. All the man did was shush Richie, shout at Richie, write up Richie, and just suck major dick. Sure, the entire point of the class was to be quiet and not disturb others, but who the fuck was supposed to actually sit in a classroom full of students, stay at one desk, do homework, and not open their mouths? Not Richard fucking Tozier- that's for sure.

  "Sit. Down." Mr. Penny's voice was high and flute like, always causing the hair on the back of Richie's neck to stand on end. He had red hair that was receding down to the side of his head and no facial hair. He had small, circular glasses, and a pinched nose. Richie huffed and bounced his leg under his desk. He wanted out of there. He had no friends in that class and wasn't allowed to talk.

  That rule- no talking- made the rebellious streak in him fight against his want to not be in trouble on the first day of school. Richie just sat at his desk, bouncing his leg up and down, and tried not to let the string of profanities he was thinking of fly out of his mouth. It was a lot more difficult than usual. He was used to being at the Arcade all summer. Or goofing off with his friends. Bottling himself up and losing the freedom that summer gave him was honestly the reason he was having so much trouble being good right now.

  Richie grabbed a Deadpool comic out of his bookbag and started flipping through the pages. Deadpool's white and yellow boxes were arguing from one side of the page to the other. Richie laughed softly, admiring the cleverly worded insults and jokes that would make Bill stutter out the words "Beep, beep, Richie."

  "Ahem. Study hall is not for your entertainment purposes. It is for what the name states. A study hall. Grab a book from one of your classes, Richard. Not some- some overpriced funny book." Mr. Penny was out of his chair and plucking the comic from Richie's grasp. Mr. Penny had called Richie Richard, again. That was something he insisted on doing to his students. He called them by their formal first names instead of their surnames. Richie would have preferred some teacher to bark 'Tozier' at him than 'Richard.' Mr. Penny didn't seem to give a shit- which irked every muscle in Richie's body.

  "I payed good money to see a page full of your wife's boobs in comic form. If I didn't pay, I would have ended up grabbing a free newspaper to look at your mom's vagina. And nobody wants that. Free or not." The words fell from Richie's mouth and smacked Mr. Penny in the ears before Richie could stop it. Mr. Penny's face and the top of his head turned a violent shade of purple and a blood vessel appeared on his forehead. He was sputtering, trying to keep his arms at his side.

  "To Principal King's office. Now." Mr. Penny's words sounded like they were being released from a balloon. Yeah, Richie could imagine his head turning into a red balloon that would float off and pop in a set of power-lines. Richie cringed at the order, snatched his comic from the teacher, and slung his bookbag over his shoulder. Mr. Penny didn't even notice that Richie had taken it, but instead was barking at the class to get under control. They were laughing hysterically and Richie highly doubted he would lecture them back into shape.

  Richie walked through the deserted hallways and towards the back of the high school's gym. Richie knew Principal King's policy. First office visits of the year are forgiven, so he didn't bother stopping in there. Mr. Penny would call Mr. King and tell him all about the disrespect and Richie would get spoken to tomorrow, so he didn't sweat it. Instead he slipped out to the back to see if he could bum a cigarette off anyone. Which, he was in luck, because his favorite person to bum off of was out there.

  Beverly Marsh had a cigarette between her fingers and a hall pass dangling from her wrist. Richie grinned at her, pushing his glasses up his nose. Bev rolled her eyes and handed the smoke to him. It was almost intact, like she'd lit it seconds before he arrived. He took it and took a drag from it. The red headed beauty grabbed another cigarette from her pack and hung it between her lips. She lit it and the smoke mingled with the cloud Richie was making.

  "Are you skipping?" Bev asked. Richie snorted and shook his head, his dark curls bouncing.

  "I had Mr. Penny. He took my comic, I made a comment, and got kicked out. Mr. King's office can wait 'til tomorrow."

  "What'd you say, Trashmouth?" Bev grinned. Her wide, green eyes danced with humor. Richie's cheeks heated.

  "Something about his wife's boobs and mother's vagina." Bev's laughter busted out, her cheeks and ears tinting pink. Richie shoved his shoulder into his friends, laughing along with her.

  Richie and Beverly had been friends since the beginning of eighth grade year. From the moment Richie had met Bev, they'd hit it off. They shared cigarette's behind the gym during lunch or break and just laughed about the stupidest shit. Her humor almost seemed to match his- almost.

  They snuck out together a lot, sneaking into movie theaters, and skipping class when they could. Richie didn't worry about his grades, because he was one of the top in his classes. Bev just seemed to like the rush skipping supplied. Either way, they got called to class more often than not.

  For a moment- a brief moment- Richie had thought Beverly could have been his soulmate. He'd asked her, but they'd soon discovered their dreams did not match up. Beverly did dream about water, but there were always fish swimming through it. Richie had never seen a fish in his dreams, which quickly told them they weren't for each other. Plus, they'd known each other for a week by then and neither had dreamed about the other.

  Then Bev had found her soulmate. She'd been at a pet store, watching fish swimming inside of a tank. She told Richie that the boy came out of nowhere, but was looking at the same fish through the glass of the other side of the tank. Beverly told Richie that she knew the chubby faced boy was her soulmate as soon as they locked eyes. Richie was surprised about that, which led him to hope he knew when he met his soulmate. He wanted to know right then, not when he went to sleep that night.

  Richie blinked up at the cloudless sky and felt the heat coming off of the pavement. It would be a perfect day to go down to the Quarry with Bill, Bev, Ben, and Richie's other friend- Mike. They'd become a nice little friend group since the beginning of high school.

  "Wanna go to the Quarry after school? It's a nice day. I'll get the others on board, too."

  "Sure thing. I might be a little late, since I'm dropping some books off at the library with Ben." Bev crushed the lit end of her cigarette against the concrete underneath them. She flicked the remains off into a nearby ditch and stood up.

  "Later, Rich."

  "Yeah, later."

~~~

  Everyone had agreed to meet up at the Quarry. Richie was already on his way, peddling slowly on his bike. He wasn't in a rush, since he was going to be the first one there. Bill was taking his little brother home and was going to come by after that. Mike would be a little bit since he had a few chores to do. So Richie rode alone, his back tire squeaking slightly as he started up a hill.

  The warm wind whipped through his hair and warmed him to the bone. His Hawaiian shirt was open and blowing loosely around his body. He had a white t-shirt on underneath it that was plastered against his flat stomach.

  Summer was Heaven for Richie, even during the school year. He loved the heat and the way his body was warmed to the core by the sun. He loved it.

  Richie pedaled absent mindedly. He was thinking about not thinking. He thought about the birds chirping pleasantly and the way the leaves of the trees seemed to wave at him as he passed. If he imagined hard enough, he could hear the kidlike voices of the green leaves calling to him.

  "Hi, Richie!"

  "You look cute today!"

  "That ass is doing amazing, Sweetie!"

  He chuckled to himself. The imaginary voices of the leaves played in his head. He opened his mouth and tried to mimic them. He sounded squeaky, like the back tire on his bike. Richie cleared his throat and tried another voice, but never finished his full sentence when he saw who was on the road in front of him.

 The birds stopped singing around him and his bones tried to escape through his skin. Richie's bike skidded to a halt, alerting to Henry Bowers and Belch Huggins that a victim was approaching. Richie observed the empty car and the one bike laying on the ground. His chest constricted for a second, worried it could have belonged to one of his friends.

  Bowers and Belch grinned widely, sending Richie's spine on another mission to escape again. Bowers ran toward him. Richie dropped his bike and bolted into the woods nearby the road. Fight or flight- and Richie wasn't much of a fighter. Bowers and his three mouth breathers had been terrorizing Richie and his friends as long as he could remember.

  Bowers had been on a rampage ever since he'd discovered he was being held back- again. It would be his second Junior year. No matter how many kids he beat up though, it didn't change anything. He was a lot more physical now, actually breaking bones, and slicing up kids. There was a rumor going around that he'd shot Mrs. Lenshaw's tabby cat. Richie didn't have to think too much on that. He'd go to the grave swearing it was the truth- just because Bowers was that fucked up.

  Richie was a lot faster than the others, so he managed to get a pretty good head start on them, since he could only hear them behind him. They must have found Victor Criss, because now three sets of voices were yelling out for the 'Four Eyed Freak.'

  Richie made a split second decision and ran into one of the open ends of the sewer tunnels. It smelled like shit and there was grey water congegated in the middle of the piping, but Richie ran down it. He was careful to avoid going too fast or making too much noise. He didn't want to get himself cornered by Bowers and Co.

  Richie had made a few turns down the tunnel before he considered himself safe. It was dark and dank, but Richie managed his way down the pipes. His breathing was ragged and his skin was flushed. He walked on just a little more. He and Bill used to come down to the Barrens and explore the sewers- It was something to do during the summers. He was sure he'd been in this set of tunnels before, because it looked familiar and he guaranteed Bill could navigate them well. Richie sighed silently and rested his back against the sewer wall.

  How long would he have to wait here before the coast was clear? Richie pushed his glasses up his nose and his head thumped back against his resting spot. It was quiet in here and he could here the sound of his own breathing. He'd managed to avoid sloshing around in the water and telling the bullies where he was. He would either sit down here or go farther in and hope for another exit.

  Raspy breathing came from farther down in the tunnel and Richie jumped out of his skin. Something was triggered- it sounded a bit like a rusty pipe releasing air. But then again, it was too quiet for that. Was someone else in here? Was it Bowers or one of his gang? Richie's heart thundered in his chest and his palms felt slick, and not from the moisture on the sewer's wall.

  Something clicked inside of Richie's brain. He remembered the sight of Belch and Henry grinning while standing over someone's bike. They had chased some other poor kid, who must have also seen the sewers and taken full advantage of the hideout. Fight or flight.

  Richie walked beside the small and thin strip of water running in the sewer tunnel. It was attached to the Kenduskeag- Derry's very own section of the canal- and there had been very little rainfall, which meant there was barely any water standing in the pipes. He kept his hand against the wall as he walked, since it was rather dark and he could see a little bit, but not much. Soon enough, that raspy breathing was getting a little louder and the sound of an aspirator- Richie had identified it as not a rusty pipe- went off again.

  Richie rounded another corner and he saw a shape leaning against the concrete with their shoes in the water. They weren't wheezing anymore, but Richie could feel the fear rolling off the kid in waves.

  "So uh, whatch you do ta wind up in ta slammah? See me, I punched Ole Fuck Face Bowers right in ta kissah and heres I's am." Richie had flipped his Hawaiian shirt's collar up and was slouched and walking with his hips out from his body. He spoke from the side of his mouth and had his fists out in front of him.

  The other kid didn't seem to enjoy his Voice that much and had to take another hit of his aspirator. Richie held his hands up in surrender and dropped the New Yorker/JD accent. "I'm not here to hurt you. I'm actually hiding out from Bowers too."

  The kid's arms- which had tensed up by his side- relaxed. "Did he follow you in here? Are you alone?"

  "No, he didn't see me. I had a pretty good head start." Richie sighed and sat down next to the other boy. The other seemed slightly taken aback and scooted over a little to give Richie room on the slab of concrete that was higher than the rest of the tunnel. "I'm Tozier. Richie Tozier."

  The other boy scoffed and Richie could hear the eye roll. The lighting was absolutely  terrible, but Richie could make out thick, long, eyelashes. He could really only see how his chest rose and fell jaggedly. He wanted to pat the boy on the back or offer words of comfort, but that seemed weird, so Richie kept his hands to himself.

  "Eddie Kaspbrak." Eddie sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and chewed on it gently. Richie watched his lip, but peeled his eyes away and looked down the tunnel in the direction he had come down. "How long do you think we'll have to wait in here?"

  "Probably until some other loser comes along and gets caught." Richie leaned back against the sewer wall before jolting up. "Losers! My Losers! Aw, shit. We've got to get out of here."

  "Wa-what? What are you talking about? They're out there waiting for us!" Eddie hissed out the words. Richie shook his head and had to push his glasses back up his face before they slid off his nose.

  "My friends! We're supposed to meet at the Quarry and this is the route we all take. They don't know about Mullet Face out there and his goons. I've got to go!" Richie stood up and could feel the air move behind him. Eddie was stood up too and Richie looked back at him. He had expected the kid to continue sitting there and maybe to take another hit of his aspirator.

  "I don't think it's a good idea to go alone. I'll help you so you don't get killed, okay? But you have to do the same for me." Eddie spoke quickly and stuck his hand out. Richie looked at the outline of it in the darkness before taking it in his own and shaking.

  "Deal. Come on."

  Richie had no clue how to get out. He was honestly lucky to have found Eddie, because Eddie led them out of the sewers like he was walking on a straight path. They only got lost once, but that was Richie's fault. It took barely any time for the two to arrive at the entrance, but it took a second for Richie's vision to focus in the bright light. The other kid had stopped wheezing- thank God- and was now just clutching his inhaler anxiously.

  Richie poked his head out of the piping, looking around for the three Dickbags. He saw nothing, so he cautiously moved forward. The birds were not chirping and the tree leaves were not giggling in Richie's imagination anymore. The sky was gorgeous and so was the summer breeze, but that was all. Richie felt chills worm their way up his skin and into his bones. Something was wrong.

  He heard screaming. It was far off, but he heard it all right. It sounded like a girl and she sounded scared and panicked. Richie felt Eddie flinch beside him, but they didn't try to go back inside of the sewer. Richie started to walk towards the noise.

  "Ben! Stop it! Please!"

  Richie's eyes widened and he took off running. Beverly was screaming and she was screaming about Ben. Richie was flying, his long legs covering more ground than usual and he could sense Eddie running close behind him. He was terrified of what he would find when he emerged from the bushes. Nothing prepared him to see Henry Bowers holding a knife to his friend's stomach and trying to cut it.

  "Stop fucking moving!" Henry cursed and slammed Ben's back against the Kissing Bridge's wooden railing. Beverly screamed out when the knife glinted in the sunlight. She was being held back by Belch Huggins, who was holding her arms behind her back and twisting them like he was trying to give her an Indian Burn. Her face was a pasty white, which was a sharp contrast to the reddening heat of anger coating Ben's face.

  Ben wasn't crying, only thrashing madly and yelling out that nobody better touch Beverly. His blue eyes were wide and slowly getting an enraged look to them. He couldn't get to her because of the eight-inch blade hovering in front of his gut, but Richie was getting nervous about that look in his eyes, because Bev made a sharp noise of pain, and he truly believed that Ben was about to plunge himself onto the knife just to strangle Belch.

  Richie looked around, trying to find something to help Ben out. Victor Criss was holding him tightly by the shoulders and staring at Henry's knife in bewilderment. Richie got the feeling they hadn't planned this out as much as Henry had. Richie's eyes flicked across the scene, trying to think of something- anything- that could help. He hadn't even remembered Eddie standing next to him until a big rock went flying through the air. It smashed against the back of Henry's head and knocked him forward. The knife fell from his hand and Ben kicked it backwards- sending it spiraling over the edge of the bridge and into the shallow waters below.

  "Hey, Fuckface! Over here." Eddie's voice cut through the air and Henry's head snapped toward him. Ben barreled forward, breaking free from Victor's grasp and knocking Henry to the ground. He stepped around the crumpled form of Bowers and started towards Belch Huggins. Belch had stopped twisting Bev's arms up after he saw his batshit leader hit the ground. There was a pause in the air and Belch tossed her away from him. He moved towards Ben, seeing the fight about to happen and wanting to be the first one to get in a hit. But Richie was ready this time.

  "Hey, Dick for Brains!" Another rock soared through the air and landed with a pleasing thud against Belch's stupid face- Richie saw blood spurt from Belch's nose. Beverly turned around and sent her foot barreling into his crotch, causing him to lose his breath and double over. Victor was trying to help Bowers up when the sound of machine gun fire started down the hill. Henry flinched out of the corner of Richie's eye. Nobody said a word.

  Richie let a relieved grin overtake his face at the sight of Bill Denbrough rolling down the hill on the bicycle he called Silver. Silver was a massive bike with playing cards clothes-pinned to the spokes, when they caught air they made a machine gun noise. Henry Bowers had recognized it all right. Bill was standing while pedaling; a set of arms were wrapped around his waist and curly hair was peeking over his shoulders. Bill easily pieced together what was going on. The happy and joyful smile on his face disappeared quickly and was replaced with a seething and angry look. Victor Criss hissed through his pointy and crooked teeth, his arm supporting a glaring Henry.

  Silver rolled to a stop, causing the boy behind Bill- Stanly Uris who just happened to be the one holding Bill's hand in those dreams- to poke his head around his torso. His smile instantly dropped too, the light left his warm, dark, eyes and Richie felt a pang of sympathy. He doubted in the two weeks of them finding each other that Stan had seen Bill mad. Richie supposed there was a first time for everything.

  "What the fu-fuck are you duh-doing?" Bill set his mouth in a tight line. Stan set his feet on the ground and stood up from the back of Silver. Bowers glared at him as he straightened up his blue button-up. A snarl left his mouth, but Bill had already dropped Silver to the ground and was walking towards Bowers.

  "No-none o-of yo-your fu-fu-fuc-king business, Mush Mouth." Henry jerked his arm in synch with his mocking stutter. Richie could see a pump-knot forming under his greasy mullet where Eddie had hit him. Bill's hands knotted into fists and he took another few steps towards Henry. Belch was slowly getting to his feet and making his way to his two friends.

  The next bike over the hill carried Mike Hanlon and- as if it were possible- Henry Bowers's sneer deepened. Richie felt something slide into his hand and he gripped it. It was a fat rock that barely fit in his hand, which said something. He got the message though. He passed it to Beverly who was standing beside him. She took it and he felt another large rock slide into his palm. Ben must have gotten one too, because his knuckles were white from gripping whatever was in his hand.

  "Go the fuck away!" Mike belted the words out. Stan and Mike were standing with them now and they had rocks of their own. The side of the road that Richie and the Losers were standing on was littered with the big bastards, which could only benefit them.

  "Or what?" Victor Criss sneered at Mike. His face was sharp and angular, sort of like a cats. One of those ugly naked cats that sort of reminded Richie of Gollum from Lord Of The Rings.

  "We'll make you." Ben spoke up, his voice was sharp and deep. Richie grinned widely while maintaining eye contact with the three idiots in front of him. Bill was still standing a few feet away from Bowers, his fists ready to fly at a moments notice.

  Ever since Bill had found out who gave his little brother, Georgie, a black eye over spring break- he and Bowers had been in an all out war. Every time that Bowers had tried to fuck with him, he and Bill had ended up fighting, which meant whomever was with Bill also fought by his side. (It was usually Richie) Now it was seven to three and Richie was pretty sure he knew who was about to win. Here's a hint- they had rocks.

  "You can't do shit." Belch grunted the words out. His voice was higher by a few octaves- almost being a perfect match to Mr. Penny's voice. Richie thought about how good Beverly would play soccer with kicks like that.

  "Tell that to your broken nose, asshole." Stan's voice was steady and Richie would have believed he was calm- had it not been for the slight shaking of his hand that the rock resided in.

  "You're just a bunch of fucking losers." Henry smiled like he's said something new. He stood up to his full height. Richie hadn't noticed how close in height Bill and Henry were becoming until then. Bill was a full two inches taller, with a wiry form, but he could pack a punch. Too bad Henry was stronger and meaner, otherwise Bill could have taken him by himself.

  "Exactly." Bev paused. Richie saw her arm flex and then the rock in her hand went flying- hitting Henry on the gap between his eyebrows. He grunted- flying backwards and knocking Victor down with him.

  Soon enough- five other rocks were flying through the air and bouncing off of the bodies of the three bullies. Bill was standing above the three- his chest heaving up and down. He raised his fist and brought it down- hard- against Henry Bower's face. He only hit him once before letting him drop back to the ground. Henry was angry now- shooting up from the ground- only to get drilled by another six rocks flying through the air. Victor grabbed him by the back of his shirt and the three of them scrambled to get into Victor's car. Bill managed to get Silver out of the road before the car went barreling by.

  "Bev."

  Mike dropped a rock into her hand and she took it. She reared her arm back and threw the rock at the car. It hit the middle of the back windshield and bounced off with a bang. No cracks could be seen, but the car had sped up. Bill clapped her on the back and she grinned. She'd always had the best aim out of all of them. The boys had tried to talk her into playing for the school's softball team, but she said it wasn't really her thing. Plus, she'd have to quit smoking to join.

  "Das right! An' doan yous come back now!" Richie put on a Voice and sauntered forward. He bit his thumb in the direction of the car, steadily proving how much of a dork he was. The others laughed, but one laugh was unfamiliar. It sent a smile over his face and his cheeks glow softly. Eddie.

  Richie hadn't actually looked at the kid since they got out of the sewers. He turned around, expecting to see some twelve year old standing there with tears in his eyes. Instead, his eyes met the prettiest whiskey color he'd ever seen. His eyes were bright and shining. His hair was a wavy brown that hugged his ears and fanned over his forehead. Freckles rested subtly on his nose, which had a cute little button shape towards the end. Richie felt goosebumps roll over his skin. He realized he was staring- so he had to mentally jumpstart his brain.

  "The rocks! Good thinking, Eds!" Richie clapped Eddie on the shoulder, only to have his hand smacked away.

  "Don't call me Eds. That's not my name." Richie smiled. He wasn't offended that his hand had been slapped away, he was too giddy for that.

  "Thanks, for what you did. I thought Henry was really going to do some damage to Ben." Bev smiled at him, her hands nursing the red skin of her forearms. She leaned down and pecked the side of his cheek. Eddie's face flushed, but he looked proud more than flustered.

  "Anytime. I would hope that someone would do that for me."

  "Someone wuh-will now. Wuh-welcome to the Loser's Club. I'm Buh-Bill." Bill smiled softly and the others looked around with wide eyes. Nobody had ever been inducted into the Loser's Club that quickly before, but it somehow felt right. It felt like a piece of a puzzle had clicked into place. Richie had only thought that the Loser's Club would fit six, but he was wrong. It was seven and he thought it had always been meant to be seven.

  "Yeah, Eddie. Welcome to the Loser's Club." The others introduced themselves one by one. Ben and Beverly intertwined hands and grabbed their bikes. Mike tossed his leg over his own and Richie grabbed his. Bill mounted his bike and helped Stan onto the back. Stan's hands grazed gently over the busted knuckles on Bill's right hand. Bill whispered something to him and Stan's face softened.

  One by one- the group of kids started down the road. Richie was watching the others go, laughing and giggling along. Eddie stood by the side of the road, sporting a dazed look on his face- one that told Richie right away he'd never had any friends before. Richie rolled his bike back and forth, listening to the squeaking of his back tire. Eddie was watching the others and Richie was trying to string words together in his mind.

  "We're going to the Quarry. You coming?" Eddie's face turned toward Richie's and Richie felt his breath leave him. Eddie was absolutely stunning and Richie's heart was pounding like a drum. His brain started to try and explain the reason- but Richie pushed that thought away. He focused on the rocks laying everywhere and the broken concrete that Derry really needed to repair.

  "Yeah." Eddie grabbed his bike and off they went.

~~~

  The Quarry was abandoned, much to the delight of the kids. They all arrived at the same time- bikes squeaking and playing cards gunning. They laid their bikes down before taking off some of their clothes. They were all in shorts and Bev also had on her bikini top.

  The Quarry was the unofficial initiation to becoming a Loser. Once you made the jump- you were in for life. Eddie wasn't going to be told this, of course. He could be pushed or jump himself, but no matter what he was going to hit the water below. He was a Loser already- he just needed the Badge of Bravery that came with the Quarry. (In Bill's words, at least.)

  Bev squealed loudly, trying to get out of Ben's reach. Her soulmate had managed to wrap his arms around her waist and was walking her towards the cliff. Soon enough, she was being pushed over the side and he was jumping in close behind her. It was a full couple seconds before the water below was reached. Bill grinned mischievously at Stan, who shook his head pleadingly.

  "No. You better not!" Stan tried to fight the smile off his face, but to no avail. Bill had his arms wrapped around Stan, their chests close together. Bill pecked his lips gently before shoving his soulmate a good four feet over the Quarry's edge. Mike was the one to push Bill over, who hadn't been expecting that at all. Mike jumped after, leaving Richie and Eddie standing up top.

  "Are they always like this?" Eddie asked. Richie nodded his head and casually tossed his arm across Eddie's shoulders. He led the two of them forward, feeling the slight shaking of Eddie's body. The jump could be pretty scary, especially for someone who had never attempted it before. The two boys looked at the water below, watching the small shapes of their friends swimming and splashing around. Richie could already hear the game of chicken being discussed.

  "I guess it's just you and me, Eds." Richie looked over in time to see a grin spread across the shorter boy's face. Before Richie could prepare, Eddie's hands were on his chest and he was being shoved over the edge. Richie's long fingers wrapped around Eddie's wrist and he was being pulled over the edge too.

  While falling, Richie was staring at the terrified look on Eddie Kaspbrak 's face. His brown eyes were open wide and his mouth was letting out a shriek. His arm was still in Richie's grip, but he didn't try to pull away. Eddie's free hand smacked the curly haired boy's shoulder. Richie laughed and his body broke through the water.

  The Quarry's water was cool, which was a wonderful contrast to the heat of the sun. As Richie plummeted down into the depths, he felt the water lift his hair, loosening the tight spirals and pulling them towards the surface. Eddie was right across from Richie, looking through the surface and into the sky. His cheeks were puffed out from him holding his breath, which caused him to look like a very startled chipmunk. Richie laughed again, watching as his air bubbled up. He kicked his legs and brought his head out of the water, Eddie following close behind him.

  "You mu-made it!" Bill was swimming over, the others trailing behind him. Eddie was wiping his right hand across his face and smiling softly. The others circled around and patted him on the back. Eddie was smiling, clearly happy about the positive attention.

  "Welcome to the Loser's Club, Eddie Spaghetti!" Richie rolled his knuckles against Eddie's head and dunked him under the water for a split second. When Eddie reemerged, he was sputtering and flushed. He locked eyes with Richie and lunged at him. Richie swam quickly, laughing and trying to stay out of Eddie's reach. The others laughed and started teaming up for chicken. (Mike and Richie won, mostly because Richie cheats.)

  The Losers learned about their newest member. Eddie Kaspbrak had moved to into the town of Derry after living a few towns closer to Bangor. His father had passed and his mom had insisted that his spirit was haunting the house. Eddie hadn't been too upset to have found out he was moving. He'd had a rough time at school and thought a new start would be good. It was too bad Henry Bowers lived in Derry, otherwise the town would have been perfect.

  Eddie was a Sophomore at the same high-school the others went to. He had classes with all of his new friends, just not at once. Apparently, he and Richie were in the same Study Hall and he'd been there to witness the scene with Mr. Penny. Richie had gotten a lot of 'Beep, beeps' after Eddie had finished the story.

  By the time Richie got home, he was exhausted. They had left the Quarry after sunset. Everyone had pulled their shirts and shoes back on and mounted their bikes. Richie was one of the last to leave, since he'd lost his glasses in the water at one point and had to find them. Then the tire on his bike had finally decided it was done with his shit and busted while he was riding down Up Mile Hill. He had to push it beside him on his way home.

  When he got home, he'd seen his mom sitting in the kitchen, smoking a cigarette and reading some erotica novel with Fabio on the cover. He'd cracked a joke about it, causing a smile to twitch onto her face. He took that as a win.

  After his much needed shower, he'd put his fresh sheets on his bed and tossed his glasses on his nightstand. As soon as his head hit the pillow, Richie was unconscious.

~~~

  He was freefalling- dropping through the black horizon like a ton of bricks. His face was turned toward the sky, but his curls were blocking his view. It's not like he could see anything anyway- he was basically falling out of a void. Air was gushing against his back, causing his shirt to snap against his stomach like a shitty whip. His hands were clawing the space in front of him, trying with all of his might to find something to grab ahold of.

  After what felt like an eternity, his hand scrapped across something resembling flesh and he gripped down on it. It was an arm and the arm belonged to a person. He struggled to see around his curls, but then his body met the water.

  The quick and rapid falling was cushioned by the water, which was not something that could happen in anything but a dream. Richie felt like he'd landed in a bed of feathers, sinking in slowly and gently. The water held him and was beginning to pull him towards the surface. Richie's eyes were shut now, trying to prevent the water from irritating them. Richie felt the direction of the water change and his body was being pushed to the surface.

  He opened his eyes when the sunlight turned the back of his eyes a glowing red. The sun was shining down- the sun had been no where to be seen earlier- and was casting rays against the green water. Fluffy, white, clouds were floating in the blue sky and cicadas screamed sweetly. The water droplets on his glasses raced towards the bottom of his lenses. He blinked hard and stared at the cliff in front of him.

  The Quarry. He was swimming in the Quarry. He'd never seen a place before in his dreams- not one he could recognize, at least. Richie's lips parted in awe and he looked around. He couldn't have been alone in the water? After all, he heard water stirring beside him. Richie cast a glance over his shoulder, not actually expecting to see someone's face. A beautiful face.

  "Richie?"

  Eddie Kaspbrak was floating next to him, water droplets cascading down his flushed face. Richie took in the sight. Was it really Eddie? He had the same mouth with water sliding across the plush lips. He had the same button at the end of his nose and his hair was slicked back, slightly darker now that it was wet. And he had the same eyes. The eyes that looked like sun shining through a bottle of whisky, eyes that somehow held the sun and stars and once. Could it be?

  "Eddie?"

  Eddie nodded and Richie felt his face change. He was smiling widely and opening his mouth to talk. But he never got a chance to say anything, because his alarm clock was startling him awake.

~~~

  Richie was ready for school in record time. His heart was thundering out of his chest and his hands were shaking like maracas, which really deteriorated his ability to dress himself. Richie's glasses were still on his nightstand when he went to leave his room, causing him to lose some precious seconds of time that he could be on his way to Eddie.

  Eddie. A boy. The new Loser. His soulmate.

  People didn't judge one another for their soulmates- it was Fate that marked them after all- since no one had any say over it. Soulmates had always been a touchy subject for Richie. Sure, he'd asked Beverly and Bill, but he'd trusted them not to judge his yearning for someone to- for a lack of better wording- love.

  Richie's parents weren't soulmates. Nobody except for a handful of people knew this, but it wasn't really a big deal. A minority of people never find their soulmates and Maggie and Wentworth Tozier had just given up on looking. They still had dreams of their respective other halves, but nothing came of it. Richie was waiting for the day one of his parents came home with another person. Cause that would be the icing on top of the cake of an already shitty household.

  Richie had always worried he'd end of just like them. That maybe after so many people with similar dreams came and went- that he would still be holding his own heart in his hands, just waiting for someone to come by and trade it for their own. Maybe Richie would take up drinking- like his mom. Or maybe he would wake up in another person's bed after his 'late night shifts'- like his dad. Or maybe worse, he would spend his entire life searching for someone who could never love him in return.

  But that was all out of the window now. He had a soulmate. He had found him and he was going to him. Richie didn't think he could handle it if Eddie rejected him, but then he thought about his face in the dream. The blush that coated his cheeks and the water that dripped over his curved up lips. He was happy to see Richie and Richie was so fucking happy to see him.  

  Richie grabbed his bike off of the concrete of his driveway. He threw his leg over the seat and kicked off from his spot, only for his bike to go a few feet and crash to the ground. In his fit of excitement, he'd forgotten all about his back tire being blown out. He cursed- definitely waking up old Ms. Harris in the process- and tossed it on the ground. He started to run now, his long legs covering a lot of ground.

  Richie lived closer to Bill Denbrough than any of the others and he was about to take full advantage of their friendship. Richie was at the Denbrough residence within five minutes. He couldn't even feel the way his legs were throbbing or his lungs were trying to shut down- he definitely needed to lay off the cigarettes- because the heat in his chest and in veins was overriding every other feeling. Eddie. His soulmate.

  Richie's fist pounded on the door for a solid thirty seconds before it swung open to reveal Sharon Denbrough, who looked very concerned about the red color in Richie's face- yeah, he really needed to lay of the cigarettes.

  "Richie? What's wrong, honey?" Mrs. Denbrough pulled her housecoat tighter across her chest. Richie wheezed hard and coughed before he tried to speak.

  "Soulmate. I need Bill to 'High-Yo Silver, Away!' me to school. I can't run- oh Christ- anymore." Richie was gasping for breath and she was shouting over her shoulder for Bill.

  "Oh, I remember when I saw Zack for the first time in my dreams. He was walking through a field of stargazer lilies- which is our common theme- and he just turned and looked at me. Our eyes met and it was three days before we found each other again. It was a rough time, but it all worked out in the end." Sharon smiled, her blue eyes were so similar to Bill's that it was disturbing. Bill came out of his kitchen, hopping and pulling his shoes on with a piece of toast dangling out of his mouth.

  "Come on!" Richie's hand shot into the door frame and grabbed his friend by the arm. He pulled Bill with him and grabbed Silver. Bill was trying his best to eat his toast, but Richie smacked it out of his hand. "We have to get to school!"

  "Wuh-what's at scuh-scooh- fuck!- there?" Bill tossed his leg over Silver's seat and helped Richie onto the package carrier. As soon as Bill picked his foot off of the ground- Richie's heart jumped into his throat. He hated riding double on Silver, mostly because of the way Bill always got her started off. She would waver from side to side, almost tossing the boys off with each pump of Bill's legs. The playing cards on the tires would swish at first, but by the time the they were at the end of Bill's street, the cards had the machine gun noise down pat.

  "Eddie. He's my soulmate." Richie shouted over the sound of the cards and his own heavy breathing. He was clutching the top of the package carrier, hoping today wasn't the day Bill would run them into traffic. Bill's foot almost slipped of the pedal and his entire body stuttered. If Richie wasn't so anxious to see Eddie, he would have laughed long and hard.

  Bill's excitement took over his tongue and his stutter increased ten-fold. Richie told him everything, making sure to answer all the questions Bill could possibly ask. Bill was smiling, looking over his shoulder occasionally. He was thrilled about the news and Richie was thankful. If the two teens weren't going fast before- they were a speeding bullet now. Bill leaned off his seat and hovered over Silver's handlebars. She swayed heavily while he shifted his weight from pedal to pedal.

  "High-yo Silver, AWAYYY!" Bill screamed at the top of his lungs. The playing cards were deafening now and Richie was clutching onto anything to keep him from falling off. Needless to say, they made it to school in record time. The best part was- a newly familiar bike was already shoved in the bike rack.

  "Ruh-Rih-Richie! Luh-look!" Bill brought Silver to a stop, which was a painstaking process of Death flashing before Richie's eyes. Eddie was standing on the grass near the front of the building with his fingernail in-between his teeth. When he caught sight of Richie- Richie could see the change in his face.

  Richie didn't even bother to wait for Silver to come to a complete stop. He stumbled when he connected with the ground, but quickly righted himself. He was running again. Eddie's hair was messy- like he hadn't taken the time to brush it. His shirt was inside-out and Richie was pretty sure his socks were mix-matched. He looked perfect.

  "Richie-"

 Eddie was knocked off his feet and his body crashed to the ground. Richie was wrapped around him like a snake, crushing his bones under the impact of him falling on top of the shorter of the two. A pair of lips were pressed against Eddie's face repeatedly, causing a blush to rise to the surface of Eddie's pale skin. He erupted into a fit of laughter.

  "Hiya, Eds." Richie propped himself above Eddie, staring down at him. Eddie was glowing and his hair was even more dishevelled, now with little decorative pieces of grass.

  "Fuck off, Trashmouth."

  Eddie's hands cupped Richie's face and he pushed himself from the ground. He pulled their mouths together. It was a quick kiss, mostly because neither of the two could stop smiling long enough to try and make it good. It wasn't even messy, just weird and gentle. It wasn't a big deal though, because they had the rest of their lives to master their smiles.