#WE DO NOT NEED TO TEASE LIKE FORTY DIFFERENT ARCS AT ONCE

[bonestrouslingbones]

OK CAN MY BRAIN STOP COMING UP WITH IDEAS PLEASE

[mobius-prime]

248. Sonic the Hedgehog #179

House of Cards (Part Two: Royal Flush)

Writer: Ian Flynn Pencils: Tracy Yardley! Colors: Jason Jensen

Sonic and Tails are still embroiled in their fight from last issue, with Sonic trying to convince Tails to stand down so he can rush off to stop Rosemary and Amadeus from doing anything stupid. Tails, of course, refuses, hitting him again, and Sonic angrily tells him that while he understands sticking up for his parents, he's not cool with this whole "punching your best friend" business, to which Tails simply yells that Sonic's had this coming for a long time.

Oof, this is even worse than we previously thought. Rosemary and Amadeus approach the castle's side entrance, and Amadeus is suspicious when the codes he enters on the keypad let him in without a problem, realizing that since they haven't been changed since his arrest this must mean Elias is inviting him in. Indeed, inside the castle we see Elias urging his wife Megan along with their baby daughter Alexis to take shelter inside the nursery while he deals with the revolutionaries breaking in. He quickly orders Nicole, standing nearby, not to wake up his father under any circumstances, just as Amadeus and Rosemary enter the room.

I mean, while you have a point, Elias, the city is hardly going to fall to anarchy the moment it stops being ruled by a monarch. Keeping the peace is kind of the entire point of a democracy. Rosemary calls him out, insisting he should listen to his people who were just calling for a reformation earlier that same day, but Elias insists he won't step down, so Amadeus draws his sword. Elias reveals two honestly pretty cool-looking short double-ended blades beneath his royal cloak, and thus, the two parties clash swords…

And speaking of a clash, Sonic has finally gotten tired of fighting Tails inside the jail, heckled as they are by all the onlookers. Sonic rushes outside, and Tails follows him angrily, and what follows is possibly the most bizarre and scattered string of accusations he could possibly make. He calls Sonic out for, in order: leaving him behind on a lot of missions when he was younger, teasing him when he talked about his own adventures (to which Sonic objects that he teases everyone), and finally not immediately breaking his father out of prison when he got arrested. Sonic is truly baffled by the last one, considering Amadeus wasn't even in jail for a full twelve hours, and then Tails finally screams out the real reason he's so angry - Fiona. Yep, that's right, he's still hung up on Fiona - or should I say, Ian is still hung up on using her as a weird plot point in Tails' character arc.

Okay. You guys already know how I feel about the whole "Tails loving Fiona" thing. It's weird and unnecessary and just doesn't seem to fit literally anything else about Tails' character. But let's assume for a second that it is a valid thing to be upset about and that the whole plot point isn't weird as hell. A ton of things have just fallen into place with his little speech here. Tails has indeed been acting weird ever since Sonic returned from space, and he and Sonic haven't had a single good, honest heart-to-heart about it in all that time. Things have been strained between them for a while, and honestly, I'd say this is even less about Fiona than it is about Sonic being careless and forgetting to show Tails that he actually respects him. He's gotten so used to taking Tails' devotion for granted that once things started getting tense, he didn't know how to handle it, and ended up settling on the less-than-healthy option of  ignoring the problem and hoping it would go away. I've seen plenty of people point to this issue as a bad case of these two being totally out of character, but the problem that people cite always seems to be that Sonic and Tails are fighting at all, rather than what they're fighting about. And frankly, while Tails' initial stated reason for fighting Sonic - to help his parents overthrow the government - didn't make a ton of sense, anyone who knows anything about psychology knows that when one person is mad at another but isn't able to properly express why, those bottled up feelings can come bursting out in all sorts of bizarre ways, including many that don't seem to make any outward sense. And, of course, this can include blaming the other person for things that seem totally out of the blue - because that's not actually what they're angry about at all.

My takeaway from all this is that, again, Tails is not angry about the Fiona thing so much as that the Fiona thing represents a lot of what he has actually been upset about, and he's been carrying around these feelings of resentment that have been slowly building up for years. It's a very believable and reasonable reason for these two to end up butting heads, especially considering Sonic can be quite arrogant and self-centered at times, even without meaning to. In essence, what Tails is ultimately expressing in this whole outburst is that he's no longer content to simply be the forgotten sidekick who always has to take a backseat to Sonic's glory. And if you're wondering why Tails in the comics needs this character arc but not Tails in the games, that very premise is mistaken from the get-go - because he did get this moment of character growth in the games, just under totally different circumstances. Remember how the comics' Sonic Adventure arc never included Tails battling the Egg Walker or saving Station Square from the missile Eggman fired? In the games, that was a very important part of Tails' growth as a character - learning that he could be independent from Sonic and didn’t always have to rely on him or trail behind him, that he could be a hero in his own right. But that entire sequence was cut from the version of the story we got in the comics, and thus, Tails was still left as the sidekick, the little kid, the dependent younger brother without a family of his own. I would imagine that he had to teach himself a lot of that lost independence in the year that Sonic was missing - and it had to be jarring once he got over his initial joy at having Sonic back in his life, the realization that to Sonic, he was still the little dependent sidekick when he'd grown so much since those days. And since his life situation has so drastically changed even in just the last few weeks, all of these feelings have finally come bursting out of him in the form of siding with his biological parents over Sonic. With his above comments about Fiona and about taking away everything he cares about, the entire situation has just become crystal clear to Sonic, and now he wants to make amends, finally knowing exactly what has been bothering Tails this whole time.

But ANYWAY! While all that is going on above, Elias and Amadeus continue to battle it out, only to be shocked by the sudden appearance of a solid wall of nanites in between them. Nicole cheerfully announces from the doorway that while Elias told her not to wake up his father, he said absolutely nothing about waking up Sally, and that's exactly what she's done, with Sally glaring at the two combatants in stark disapproval.

See, this is why Sally should have been involved in the proceedings from the beginning. Outside, Tails has halted his attack after Sonic's words, uncertain about what Sonic is getting at, so Sonic explains himself.

There you go, Sonic. That was what he needed all along - a genuine apology and understanding of his feelings. Tails calms down once Sonic reassures him he's being sincere, and Sonic lightens the mood by joking that Tails has gotten too good at kicking butt for Sonic to want to continue being beaten on by him. Tails says he still wants to talk a few things out, but for now, they agree to team up, rushing to the castle to try to prevent Tails' parents from doing anything they'll regret. They're quite taken aback when they burst through the doors only to find Amadeus and Elias sitting down to a peaceful talk over tea, having agreed on a compromise. The government will be reformed into a combination of a democracy and a monarchy, with a council of six elected citizens being presided over by the king as a seventh member. This way, the people have a government that actually represents them, while they don't lose their monarchical heritage! That's actually probably the best solution that could have possibly been reached, and I applaud these two for having agreed on such an elegant solution.

Oh, Maximillian, so stuck in your old ways. Honestly, though, all things considered, I actually do not think he's a bad person. He's stuck in rigid tradition, but it was something he was indoctrinated into his whole life, and it's not surprising he'd be so resistant to change, especially after everything he's been through in his life. Remember, this guy can't be older than his mid-forties - it's not like he's some old and wizened ruler who has had time to process his life's experiences, he's barely halfway through an ordinary person's life span! That's a lot to deal with in a short amount of time. Outside, Sonic, Tails, and Sally watch the election take place, and Sonic asks Sally why she didn't run for a spot on the council, to which she slyly replies that it's likely for the same reason that Sonic didn't. I presume that means that she wants to have free time to herself to help lead the Freedom Fighters and not continue to be stuck at home, but we don't get a lot of time to think about that, because out of goddamn nowhere, Dimitri shows up in his little head-bubble and scares the living hell out of all three of the heroes, asking after Knuckles and warning them that Enerjak has returned…

[dakohtah]

i’d never hurt no one, and no one would ever hurt me

Oops! All Magnus fic, set post balance arc bc I felt like the boy was in need of some Hurtin. also available on my ao3

..

After the Day of Story and Song (TM TM TM), Magnus stayed pretty busy. He had to: even with the Hunger defeated, the devastation left in the wake of John’s appearance had left the entire planar system reeling with the weight of what it had nearly lost.

It wasn’t for his own sake, honestly. He was made to help. To protect. It’s what he’d wanted to do in Raven’s Roost. It’s what he’d apparently fought to do for—well. For a good while. So, when he started cleaning up the city of Neverwinter, it was just another facet of his duty. Real natural. A different way to save the world.

It was what he was supposed to do.

So, Magnus set out. 

His work in Neverwinter spread slowly, inexorably down into Rockport. He just figured folks could use a friendly face and a couple of helping hands as they got back on their feet, that’s all. These people—their weary faces lighting up in the face of a multi-universal semi-celebrity—they were almost always grateful, offering him a hot meal and a place to sleep as he passed through. Kids would beg him to stay a little longer, to play just one more game, or at least to show them his sword again before he moseyed onto the next town. Magnus had never pegged himself as the nomadic type—by choice, at any rate, but he wasn’t going to think about—well. So much to say, life on the road very nearly suited him. He really, really liked it.

The labor was nice, too. Folks always needed something done, big or small. He might find himself rebuilding houses. Spooking bandits away from some older pathways. Maybe helping to shape up old furniture. More and more, he found himself chopping firewood in preparation for the incoming Faerun winter. It all kept him just busy enough that he didn’t. Well. There wasn’t much time to overthink, was all.

He never admitted, out loud or in the privacy of his mind, that he wasn’t ready to unpack it all. Not the hundred years he wasn’t supposed to have or the way that he’d lost them—like they’d never happened to begin with.

And then, to have remembered it all anyway.

To have heard it, experienced it being broadcast across the planar system—left gasping at pieces of his own story that hadn’t quite settled in the amalgamated mess the voidfish (Fisher and Junior, their names are Fisher and—) had left of his mind. To have accomplished in one day what one hundred years of effort fell short of.  

And then what?

Was it time to celebrate? Or mourn? Magnus had lived nearly eighty percent of his life on borrowed time, and now the clock was ticking. He didn’t—?

It’s just. He couldn’t unpack it yet because he wasn’t sure what was supposed to come after. Somehow, he never in one hundred years thought there could be an after. Not for him.

Not after the Hunger and not after Julia.

So, Magnus set out and he fixed things because it was what he was supposed to do. He stayed on the move and helped where he could because he always had, and he was good at it. He almost always liked the people, and the work, and the children, and the way that almost no one ever asked him to talk about it more than once.

Sure, they’d always ask at least one time if he’d tell them about it. And he’d always answer, with an aborted little ‘eh’ hand gesture, “Maybe later?”

And then they’d let it go. And if they didn’t then he left as soon as the work ran dry. Maybe sooner, depending on their persistence. He’d heard that the city of Goldcliff was real warm, even in the winter. He let the thought settle in his mind. A little warmth felt like something he was well overdue.

“It sounds like you’re doing good work, Magnus,” and if Lucretia’s voice was halting as it traveled through the Stone of Farspeech, Magnus would chalk it up to a faulty fantasy connection. He didn’t look into it. If he thought too hard, he’d find himself buried in particulars that had been tucked away with Junior for nearly a decade. (Lucretia sounds like this at the beginning of every new year—this is the sound of her processing regrets. Don’t ask her if she thinks we could have saved them, she does. She’ll tell you how and you don’t want to hear it and she doesn’t want to say it. Remind her to eat. Remind her to sleep. Remind her you love her. Remind h—) “I. Well, I’ve told you about the work we’ve been doing at the Bureau of Benevolence. It’s—a start. If you ever decide that. Um. Well, you’d be welcome, of course, if you ever wanted to come and—well, if you’d like to—”

Stay. She wanted him to come and to stay and Magnus wanted—something. Not that. Not yet. Maybe never? Magnus wanted, but what?

“Thanks, Luce,” and maybe Magnus’ voice was a little soft. Faulty fantasy connection. Hard to tell. “Might take you up on that here soon,” but not yet. “Glad to hear things are still coming along with the rebrand. I gotta hit the hay, but I’ll catch up with you later, okay? Send my love to Carrie and Killian and Avi and Fish—uh, y’know. Everybody.”

Lucretia gave a halfhearted chuckle, “I will, Magnus.” The pause was as long as it was palpable, steaming in the chill of the air alongside Magnus’ puffs of breath, “I love you, you know.”

“I—” and it wasn’t easy to find words, but he managed eventually, “I, uh. Yeah. Yeah, I love you, too, Lucy. G’night.”

“Goodnight.”

The barn—too small for livestock, but just large enough to shelter a little feed, a load of firewood, and one Magnus Burnsides—seemed to hold an echo as the line cut out. It hadn’t felt too quiet when he’d settled in for the evening, but Magnus found himself wanting—something, anything. Early on in his pilgrimage, there had been crickets. Summer cicadas. The rustle of nocturnal animals who hadn’t yet tucked themselves away for the season. The sound of children laughing, sneaking out for moonlit mischief.

Magnus couldn’t quite pinpoint when his evenings had become silent.

He couldn’t quite pinpoint when the stillness had begun to bother him.

Not to say he was bothered. He wasn’t. He traveled alone for years, long before he’d even seen Craig’s List or heard any names even vaguely resembling Merle or Taak—oh, and there he went. Thinking about it.

Magnus took a moment to count the pieces of wood stacked in the corner. Seventy-eight. He would chop a little more before he left in the morning. It was shaping up to be a bitter season.

He just. Well.

He could stand to invest in a fantasy noisemaker, that’s all. For the first time, Magnus found himself wishing that Fantasy Costco hadn’t fucked clean off his plane of existence. Garfield may have been unsettling in a way that scraped at his bones, but he had a great selection.

Magnus took one deep breath, and then another. Tried not to remember the way Merle’s snoring would echo in tight quarters, tried not to remember the way that it was a menace this year but a comfort for about eighty before.

Seventy-eight pieces of wood in the corner. The dual sounds of pens on papers, now visceral in their absence, and Magnus would chop more before he left in the morning.

The lack of gentle footsteps pacing at one, two, three in the morning, and the lack of a rustle at four when Davenport would crawl back into his bunk. It was shaping up to be a bitter season, and Magnus could almost hear Barry and Lup whispering in the early morning. Heart-wrenching and gentle. In the silence of the Starblaster, Magnus would sometimes catch the tail-end of an “I love you,” and he took one deep breath. And then another.

Ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty, sixty, seventy, seventy-eight pieces of wood, and Taako leaning down over the top bunk at the Bureau of Balance. “Couldn’t sleep either, big fella?” The joke was stupid, elves never fucking sleep, but somehow, he always, always knew when Magnus was lying awake. Merle would say something about old habits, and fuck. Fuck chopping wood in the morning.

So, Magnus set out, just as the sun was teasing a light blush along the horizon. His feet crunched merrily as they hit the frosted ground. A bird chirped once, and then again.

It was shaping up to be a bitter season.

[star-trekkin-across-theuniverse]

Five Minute Ficlet

Based on a true story

XxX

When you’d requested a consult on an elderly patient with an abnormal growth on his forehead, you hadn’t expected Doctor Leonard McCoy to stroll into your clinic. When you double checked the chart on the patient, it made more sense. The old man you affectionately called Pops was actually a retired Starfleet Admiral.

“Fill me in, Lt. Y/L/N,”

“Well, Pops comes in once a week for a vitamin supplement by hypo. That freckle on his forehead has been on my watch list for about a year, but the growth has really sped up in the last month or so,” you explained. “When I scanned it with the tricorder, it was identified as cancerous. Pops just wants it removed, which, as you know, requires surgery. No laser will get that.”

Doctor McCoy leaned in and assessed your patient’s forehead, nodding. “Good call. I’ll prep my kit. You can assist?”

A telltale bead of sweat trickled down your back and you cursed your physiology, but nodded. “Absolutely. It’s been ages since I’ve scrubbed in, but I’m sure you’ll direct me?”

“Of course. I don’t see the point in sending the Admiral over to a clinic where the nurses are unfamiliar to him for something so minor,” he nodded. “You’re a little flushed, are you alright?”

“Hot flash,” you admitted. His brows furrowed in disbelief.

“You’re hardly old enough -”

“I assure you, I’m plenty old enough. But thank you for the compliment,” you teased, interrupting him. “It’s early days, so these are passing quickly enough. I’ll get Pops set up for you?”

“Thank you,” Doctor McCoy nodded. “Now Admiral, the lieutenant is going to help out while I cut that freckle off your forehead. I’ll numb the area, but you tell me if you feel any pain, and I can always add more numbing for you. You’ll probably need three stitches when I’m done, but the lieutenant -”

“Her name is Y/N. We don’t stand on ceremony here, Doc. And you can call me Dave,” Pops interrupted. Doctor McCoy smiled and nodded.

“Of course. So Y/N is going to keep an eye on that wound, and I’m going to want you to pop in once a day for three days after. In about ten days, she can take the stitches out. I’ll be around for about three more months, so if there’s any complications, she’ll give me a call and I’ll come check on you. That okay with you?” Doctor McCoy continued.

“Get to see my favourite nurse every day? No problem at all, Doc,” Pops smiled, winking in your direction.

“If you’re ready, Doctor McCoy, I’ve got everything set here,” you offered.

Subcutaneous injections were still the preferred method of pre-operative numbing, you recalled as Doctor McCoy prepared a syringe full of lidocaine. The dispersal of the fluid was superior to a hypo injection, and would have better coverage if Doctor McCoy needed to cut more tissue than initially assessed.

As you watched the injection, you realized your hot flash was not abating. You back was damp with sweat, and your brow was starting to drip down into your eyes. You ignored it, hoping it would stop soon, and refocussed on Doctor McCoy as he cut into Pops’ forehead. Blood welled up quickly and you passed the doctor some gauze to clear it so he could see what he was doing. He continued, carving an eye-shaped piece of skin out of Pops’ forehead with the cancerous growth at the centre. You held open the sample container for the excised tissue, and twisted it closed, concentrating on anticipating Doctor McCoy’s needs rather than the sweat dripping into the waistband of your pants. 

Doctor McCoy moved the gauze to start suturing the wound and an arc of blood spurted from the wound on Pops’ forehead across the bed, landing on your arm. It wasn’t enough to really notice, particularly as your skin was easily as hot as the blood spatter, thanks to the goddamn hot flash that wasn’t ceasing. Doctor McCoy quickly covered the wound as another short spurt of blood arced across the bed toward you.

“Capillary?” You asked. He nodded, applying pressure. He prepared his suturing needle quickly with one hand while continuing to apply pressure to the wound, and then pulled back the gauze again. The blood was just pooling instead of arcing, and you suddenly noticed an absence of the overwhelming heat you’d been feeling. You were very cold. Very cold, and the ringing in your ears that had started with the hot flash had changed to a static-like white noise. The periphery of your vision started to go black.

“Y/N, are you okay? You’re very pale,” Doctor McCoy commented.

“I think it’s just the hot flash?” You replied. Pops had threaded his fingers in your own when Doctor McCoy had started, and was still clinging to you. You needed to be there for him. You swayed a little, and your vision got a little narrower.

“I think you’re having a vaso-vagal episode, sweetheart. You should sit down,” he suggested. You hooked your foot in a chair and pulled it toward you, sitting down beside Pops and dropped your head between your knees, taking deep steady breaths. You head was swimming, and as much as it horrified and embarrassed you, you realized the doctor was right. The white noise in your ears was so much that you didn’t realize that Doctor McCoy was in front of you until he touched your shoulder. 

You looked up at him, humiliation written all over your face.

“I’m so sorry,” you started. He shook his head, waving it off.

“You’re an outpatient clinic. How often do you assist with surgery?” He asked.

“Well, this is probably the first time in,” you paused, “well, ever? I just. I failed you as a nurse. I should have been okay. It was just a little blood.”

“And your normal scope for here is to manage labs and maintain the health of the residents in your quadrant so they don’t clog up the urgent care clinics?” He asked.

“Yes?”

“And you work without the supervision of a doctor because your judgement and skill level is trusted?” He continued.

“Yes,” you nodded. He smiled and patted your knee.

“Then don’t worry. No one likes to see blood. And if you’re Dave’s favourite nurse, it suggests a friendship, and it’s even harder to see your friends vulnerable. Trust me, I know,” he smiled. “That said, I’d like to give you a quick assessment. Despite your protestations that you are of advanced enough age to be starting menopause, you’re really a little early, and I’d like to run some quick tests. And then just humour me a little longer. Vaso-vagal syncope can be an indicator of something more amiss than just queasiness at the sight of blood.”

“I really think I’m fine,” you protested, embarrassed still.

“Humour me please, Y/N,” he asked. 

“This is so mortifying,” you complained. Doctor McCoy smiled again, his eyes crinkling attractively at the corners. You looked at him and noticed for the first time how handsome he was, and then your embarrassment intensified. So not only had you made a fool of yourself in front of a doctor, but it was in front of a hot doctor. You wanted to melt into the floor. Instead, you hopped up on the biobed beside the one Pops was in, and let the doctor work.

The steady rhythm of your heart rate reassured you that you were fine, and you pointed at the monitor above your head with a smug look. Doctor McCoy arched his eyebrow and pulled your chart up on his PADD.

“Good lord, woman, you’re barely older than me. This is far to early for menopause!” he exclaimed.

“The women in my family have always started in their early forties,” you shrugged.

“Then then women in your family have always been treated by idiot who haven’t a clue about women’s bodies,” he countered. “I’m going to run a complete panel, including hormone levels on you, and I’m referring you to Anishka Polatoff. She’s the best gynaecologist Startfleet has to offer.”

“You think it’s so serious you need to refer me to a different physician?” you asked, doubtful. 

“More because I’d like to take you out for drinks and I don’t want to violate the sanctity of the doctor-patient relationship,” he smiled.

[luobingmeis]

“I’m here for you.” Danbrey?

i’m finally writing the danbrey hurt/comfort i’ve been meaning to and i’m hyped

this takes place after the calamity tree arc

Through bleary eyes, Aubrey could see that her bedside clock said it was one-forty-one-A.M. when she heard quiet knocking on the door to her bedroom in Amnesty Lodge. Instinctively, her heart leapt into her throat, for people who were staying in lodges didn’t typically get visitors that weren’t axe murderers and serial killers (or a serial killer who used an axe to murder their victims). 

Then, remembering that she has lived in Amnesty Lodge for half a year now and visitors (that weren’t axe murderers but, instead, Big Foot or a vampire or Jake Coolice) were actually quite common, her heart only swelled in her throat and choked her because holy shit it’s Mama and there’s another abomination and someone’s dead and holy fuck it’s so early and-

And then, with a sudden serenity and a drop into its rightful place in her chest, Aubrey’s heart stopped its marathon. Aubrey has actually been woken up by Mama before with some possibly-abomination related disaster, and her knocking was loud and forceful and typically followed with an, “Hey, Aubrey? Sorry ‘bout this, but we got trouble.”

The person on the other side of Aubrey’s door said nothing, though, and instead, as Aubrey pushed herself up on her elbow, knocked again.

“‘M comin’,” Aubrey, barely audible, mumbled out. Rubbing her eyes, she clumsily stumbled out of her bed and, after a moment, grabbed the throw blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders. Despite the fact that the radiator against the wall was cranking out heat, it was still mid-winter in Kepler and Aubrey would like to do as much as she could to fight the cold now creeping up from her bare feet and across her spine.

Swinging open her door, Aubrey blinked at the visitor on the other side. Haloed in the soft orange glow from the hall lights, left on for those who liked to wander, stood Dani.

Dani who was fully dressed with her too-big green jacket shrugged on over a sweatshirt, with her yellow beanie pulled over her slightly-tangled hair, with her light brown eyes (orange when she didn’t have her disguise on) glinting ever-so-slightly behind her round glasses.

It was the first thing Aubrey was seeing for the day and, damn, was it going to be hard to beat.

“Dans, hey,” Aubrey said, trying to seem as awake as possible as she leaned on the door frame. She stuck her head out, looking up and down the hall before back at her visitor. “Everything… good?”

“Do you want to go somewhere?” Dani asked.

Aubrey, who was about to tease Dani for answering her question with another one, snapped her mouth shut when Dani lifted up her hand and swung a key ring around her pointer finger. Aubrey looked from the key ring to Dani (who smiled nervously), then back to the key ring (still swinging around her finger), and then back to Dani again (who raised an eyebrow).

“Are those Mama’s keys?”

“To her truck?”

“Does she… have another car?”

“Oh, no. Well, yes, these are her keys. No, she does not have another car.”

Aubrey stared at the keys again, finally stopping their twirl around Dani’s finger. The ignition key faintly glinted off the orange lighting and the key to the front door of Amnesty Lodge clinked against it. The only two other keychains on the ring were a Cryptonomica one (that Ned gave her for Christmas before also giving her a stolen bottle of Whiskey) and one from the Monongahela National Forest (that she had from even before Aubrey got to Amnesty, though Aubrey hadn’t asked Duck yet if he had met Mama before).

She looked back to Dani. “Is this… okay?”

“Oh, I’m a fine driver. Mama taught me.”

“No, I-” Aubrey laughed slightly, shaking her head. “I’m not doubting your driving skills. I just mean- is this allowed? I don’t wanna get in, like, trouble, you know?”

“Oh- oh,” Dani said, laughing, too, except Aubrey noted that it seemed more… manic? “Oh, yeah, this is fine!” She spun the key ring again as if to accentuate her point. “Mama told me that I can always use her truck if there’s… something going on.”

Aubrey arched an eyebrow. “Something going on like a midnight coffee run? Or something going on like Kepler is burning to the ground and we need to evacuate?”

Dani smiled, and it was hopeful and sly and nervous. She leaned back and forth on her feet, clasping her hands behind her back.

Aubrey had never seen Dani so… wound up.

“She never specified,” Dani said.

Aubrey teetered for a moment. She had already pissed off Mama once recently, and even though she felt like going on a night drive was nothing in comparison to giving an abomination’s minion the power of speech and then bringing him to the Lodge, she really didn’t want to piss off Mama again.

But something about Dani’s nervous smile, her laughter, the keys spinning around her finger, the fact that she was dressed as if she was ready to bolt out the door was enough to convince her.

Aubrey smiled. “Yeah, okay, yeah,” she said, nodding. Dani’s face lit up and it tugged at Aubrey’s heart. “Let me just… put something warmer on, okay?”

“Okay, yeah, awesome!” Dani beamed, bouncing slightly. “I’ll be in the lobby! Just meet me there!”

“Okay,” Aubrey said, her voice trailing off as Dani turned and practically skipped down the hall.

Aubrey watched until she disappeared into the dark lobby before turning back into her room. She shut the door behind her and cast a look to Dr. Harris Bonkers PhD who, awoken from his slumber on the cushioned chair in the corner, stared back at her.

“Something’s up, Doc,” she said, shaking her head. Padding around the room, she grabbed the first sweatshirt and pair of jeans she found. “Like, you know Dans. She’s- she’s all chill and sweet and, well, you know Dani. But… but that was something, right?”

As she tugged on the clothes and then fished around under her bed for her boots, she looked back at Dr. Bonkers, who twitched his ears.

“Yeah, I know, I’m overreacting, right?” Aubrey huffed, shoving her boots on. “It’s just… something, you know?” Finishing lacing up her boots, she stood and grabbed her beanie (red and a gift from Dani) from where she had left it on the dresser. “I’ll keep you updated.”

And, after that insightful conversation, she turned and walked out of her room.

Dani was where she said she’d be, and Aubrey found her sitting on one of the loveseats facing out to the front of the Lodge. She didn’t look up when Aubrey approached her and, instead, kept her eyes trained on the light snow fall. The pale moonlight shining down onto her, Dani looked almost… otherwordly, as if, just for a moment, she was somewhere else.

And then Aubrey cast a shadow over the light and Dani jumped. She looked up at Aubrey and, after a second of a blank expression, she grinned. “Hey!”

“Hey!” Aubrey said back to her, trying to give her the same energy despite the fact that about seven different alarms were ringing in her head.

Dani shot up and grabbed Aubrey’s hand, pulling her to the front door. “This is gonna be so fun!” she was saying, smiling back at Aubrey. “A girl’s night!”

“Yeah, a fun night drive,” Aubrey said, keeping a close eye on Dani as she opened the front door with a flourish and started down the porch steps. The cold winter air brushed against Aubrey’s face and, instincitvely, she drew herself further into her sweatshirt. 

Mama’s truck, parked out front, was covered in a couple inches of snow. “You get in front, okay?” Dani said. “The cold doesn’t really bother me, you know? I mean, it does, but not- not like you guys, yeah? So, yeah, you get in front, and I’ll take care of the snow.”

“O-Okay, yeah,” Aubrey stuttered, nodding. As Dani unlocked Mama’s truck and dug in the back for the duster, Aubrey sent her one last glance before climbing up into the passenger seat. She shut the door behind her, a little bit of snow falling off from the force, and pressed her head up against the window to watch Dani.

When Dani finally climbed into the driver’s seat, she gave Aubrey an apologetic smile. “I should’ve given you the keys to warm the truck up, huh?”

Aubrey shrugged. “It’s fine,” she said with a smile, though she did tuck her hands between her legs to warm them as Dani started the ignition.

Dani smoothly manuevered the car down the winding road leading up to Amnesty Lodge, nodding her head to a song that only she could hear as she peered out the windshield.

“So,” Aubrey said when she couldn’t see the Lodge in the rearview mirror any more. “Where do you want to go?”

“I…” Dani hesitated and, for the first time that night, her voice lacked that sudden energy it had in the Lodge. “Can we just drive?”

Her words were backed with softness, barely enough behind them to fill the front of the truck.

“Of course,” Aubrey answered, her own voice just as soft. She couldn’t keep the worry off her face as she did another once-over of Dani but, still looking out the windshield, it didn’t look like Dani noticed.

“I’ve- I’ve done this once or twice before,” Dani began to explain. “With Jake.”

“Oh, could he not go out tonight?”

Dani shrugged. “I- I just wanted it to be the two of us,” she said, looking at Aubrey out of the side of her eye. “Is that… okay?”

“Oh- oh yeah, totally!” Aubrey assured, smiling, and Dani smiled back. “Things have been so crazy, I feel like I haven’t seen you.”

Dani huffed out a laugh as she turned down another side street. “Crazy is definitely a good word for everything.”

Aubrey, worrying her bottom lip, nodded. The Calamity Tree had, without a doubt, royally fucked them all over, and she didn’t need to be a part of the Pine Guard to see that (of course it helped though).

She was just glad that Duck and Leo were alright after the whole blowing-the-Pizza-Hut-sign-into-Leo’s-general-store… fuck up.

“It’s funny, you know?” Dani continued. “Well, okay, not funny, it’s fucked is what it is. It’s super fucked because, like, this shit has always gone on, you know? Like, all this stuff with the gate and Sylvain and everything… its always been here. But now? It just feels like everything is getting worse.”

“Maybe that means we’re getting better?” Aubrey offered with a weak smile.

Dani smiled, a real one this time, and glanced over at Aubrey again. “You are and, don’t get me wrong Aubs, that’s very comforting.”

“There’s a ‘but’ attached to that, isn’t there?”

Dani laughed dryly. “But all this shit keeps on happening and it’s getting worse and I’m… I’m here while it’s happening.”

Aubrey stared at her and suddenly, with the weight of something ginormous crashing into her, she was hit with the reminder that Kepler, that Earth, wasn’t Dani’s home.

“Dani,” she said quietly. Dani’s fists gripped the steering wheel tight enough that her knuckles went white. “Are… are you okay?”

For a little while, Dani stayed silent, and silent for long enough that Aubrey began to accept that she wasn’t going to get an answer. It wasn’t until they reached the main road that Dani finally spoke. 

“Do you ever think about just running away again?”

Aubrey, who had been staring out her side window, whipped her head around to look back at Dani.

“Or maybe not run away,” Dani kept going. “I don’t think that’s the right word. I didn’t run away, and you didn’t run away. We just have places that we can’t go back to. And, you know, sometimes I think about going somewhere else because- don’t get me wrong, I love Amnesty Lodge with my whole heart, and Mama has done… everything for me but… shit, I haven’t been home in so long, sometimes I might as well keep going, you know?”

“Dani,” Aubrey whispered, furrowing her eyebrows.

“And the best part?” Another laugh burst out of Dani, and it was sudden and sharp and pained. “Who knows what anyone would think of me if I did! Fuck knows I’ll never know what my parents and- and what my brother think of me! I’m- I’m just the daughter that was sent away and I miss them so much but who knows if they miss me back!” She shook her head as they drove past one of the town’s street lamps and, much to Aubrey’s horror, she saw that fat tears were rolling down Dani’s cheeks.

“Dani,” Aubrey repeated but, in that moment, she was lost for words.

“Maybe I’ll just become the girl that vanished from Amnesty.” Dani’s voice was shaking and Aubrey watched as a tear dripped off her chin. “I’ll just keep going because, well, where else do I have to go?”

Aubrey gaped and… and she wanted to tell Dani that she would be okay. She wanted to tell her that she would find her place; that Amnesty, with all that love Dani felt for it and all the love it had for her, would eventually feel like home.

But Aubrey, who had been walking farther and farther from a place that she loved but a place that might kill her if she returned, couldn’t lie to Dani like that.

Instead, she just said, “Maybe we should pull over.”

Dani scrunched up her face, tears still falling from her eyes, and pulled over into a gas station’s empty parking lot. She shoved the gear into park before sniffling and roughly rubbing at her face.

“Dani, I-”

“Aubrey, sometimes I can’t handle it.”

Aubrey swallowed thickly and held out her hand to Dani. With no hesitation, Dani took it. “Can’t handle what?”

Dani shook her head and released a shaking breath. “Being so lonely, even when there’s people in Amnesty who I love, and who love me. That everything is so quiet, even in the middle of the day when the Lodge is so alive. The fact that there are so many people over there and that I’m over here and-” Dani’s voice broke and Aubrey’s heart broke. She squeezed her eyes shut tight and tucked her chin down against her chest, her shoulders shaking as she continued, her words broken, “Sometimes I just have to speak so that this silence doesn’t kill me.”

And then, finally, in the driver’s seat of Mama’s truck, Dani broke and clamped her free hand over her mouth, muffling the sobs that escaped her.

“Oh, Dani,” Aubrey murmured.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I just-”

Aubrey quickly unbuckled her seatbelt and leaned across the console, unbuckling Dani’s own before collecting her in her arms. She held Dani (who buried her face in the crook of Aubrey’s neck and gripped onto the front of her sweatshirt) close and, in that moment, wanted nothing more than to take away every bad thing she was feeling and just give her a true moment of peace.

“Hey, hey, don’t apologize, okay?” Aubrey said softly, resting her cheek against Dani’s head. “You- you never have to apologize for this, okay? I-” She trailed off, thinking for a moment before sighing. “I want to say to just know that we all love you, and that we all want you to feel at home with us, but I also know that… it’s not that easy. So I- I guess what I can say is that… I understand what you’re feeling, and it fucking sucks-” Through her tears, Dani let out a wet laugh, and Aubrey smiled “-And know that, through all of this… I’m here for you.”

“I- I don’t want you all to think that I don’t love Amnesty,” Dani forced out. “I love all of you so fucking much! But-”

“It’s hard,” Aubrey said and Dani nodded. “I know.”

“I really miss my home, Aubrey.”

“I know.”

When Dani’s sobs finally started to quiet, and her tears began to slow, she pulled back, rubbing at her face with her sleeves. “I- wow,” she breathed out and, in the dim light, Aubrey could just see how red and puffy Dani’s face was. “That hasn’t… I haven’t done that in a while.”

“Hey,” Aubrey said, giving her a small smile. “It’s good to let out your emotions. Some people cry, others set things on fire.”

Dani gave her a look before laughing, and it still hitched slightly but it was the realest laugh Aubrey had heard from Dani that night. Dani reached over and grabbed Aubrey’s hands, squeezing them gently.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Aubrey squeezed her hands back. “Of course.”

Dani smiled and leaned forward, kissing Aubrey’s cheek, and Aubrey felt her face burn up.

Looking over at the clock on the dashboard, Dani’s eyes widened. “Oh shit,” she whispered, and Aubrey looked over to see that it was well past two-A.M. “We should, uh, probably get back?”

“Do you want me to drive?”

Dani smirked and rubbed her eyes one final time. “Nice try, but only me and Barclay are allowed to drive Mama’s truck.”

“Well, there go my plans of stealing her truck and putting flame decals on it.”

Dani laughed and, shifting the car out of park, began to drive back to Amnesty Lodge.

It wasn’t until Dani had parked the car again that she said, “Hey, Aubs?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I… stay with you tonight?”

Aubrey grinned. “Oh, hell yeah, a continuation of the girl’s night!”

Dani laughed and nodded. “Hopefully with less crying this time?”

“Maybe but, hey, I won’t judge.”

Dani beamed. “You’re so good to me, Aubrey,” she said, and Aubrey’s heart skipped a beat. “Now, come on, let’s get inside. Barclay is probably gonna want us to help with breakfast and I’d like to get some sleep before I make a fuckload of pancakes.”

[ghanswrites]

Riverdale, The Danger of Bloated Storytelling and Why the series should move to Netflix

The phrase, too much of a good thing comes to mind when someone brings up Riverdale. To be totally clear, I love Riverdale, warts and all and I believe that’s how the show is intended to be enjoyed. That said, there was something really special about season one, something that people seem to be unable to totally agree on. Was the magic of season one how grounded it seemed to be both in its characters and world building? Was it in how almost each character had a satisfying arc with an exciting set up for their journies in season two? I think it was both of those things and more but more than anything, the root of it is very simple, the reason why season one was so good was that it had fewer episodes. 

What?

How dare? 

Hear me out. 

To reitterate, I am NOT by any means saying I dislike seasons two or three, some of my favourite moments happen in those seasons, but most of my least favourite moments also happen and generally, the fandom has had mixed responses to it. A wise queen once said, “one voice may speak you false but in many there is truth to be found,” she read it in a book once. Point is, angry tweets aren’t the best resorces for writing advice or direction in story telling but they are a great place to go to get feedback on the broadstrokes of whether or not people are fond of the work and the general reasons why. The reasons you tend to hear brought up again and again as to why Riverdale allegedly sucks are A) lack of direction, B) lack of satisfying character development, C) Inconsistencies in the writing. All of these issues could be mitigated by shorter seasons and more of them. Let’s break it down.

The first season was fun and campy but also very tight, there wasn’t much filler and every episode took us one step closer to solving the mystery of who killed Jason Blossom. While the conclusion to that mystery was, at best, just fine, the logic behind it also completely tracked. Personally, I wasn’t disappointed by who the killer was and the reveal was pretty epic and well built up. I walked out of that season feeling energized and hyped to see what happened next, I was excited to have more episodes because I thought it would help the pacing instead, the pacing somehow got worse? When you are doing an episodic kind of series, more episodes is fine, more episodes don’t impact anything but when you are telling one big story with a season you need to be able to justify each episode or it will feel bloated. There are a lot of characters now to account for, sure but shorter seasons also means you can make more seasons, a shorter season allows for you to press the reset more often and a shorter season makes it easier to organize your story. Cheryl played a big role in season one but maybe in season two she could have faded to the background and we could have gotten more of Toni and then in season three maybe we could have gotten more of Ethel. By having shorter seasons and more of them, you don’t have to worry as much about ballancing your enormous cast of characters. By Trying to get everyone some screentime, the story can feel directionless, unmoored, too frenetic and not driving toward a clear endgame. 

Speaking of endgames, what are the character endgames from season to season? I used to know but now I’m super confused. In season one, there were clearly defined arcs set up, for Betty it was defining herself beyond people’s expectations, for Jughead it was learning to rely on others, for Archie it was learning how to ballance his life and for Veronica it was reconciling her past with what she hoped to be her future. These days...um...well I don’t know, it seems like Betty and Jughead are the only characters with clearish arcs while the other half of the core four are left flapping about in the wind. Archie and Veronica get screentime but its used to have them going in circles because like...how are you going to stretch out their story to fit a twenty two episode season? It worked okay in season one, keeping their stories more within the realm of typical highschool experiences, grounding the series in a way. Now? Ever since Hiram Lodge stepped onto the scene Veronica has gone in circles, she’s had good moments but has utimately suffered from the bloat because they needed a way to justify her continued involvement with her criminal father. Hiram also could have had an arc if they didn’t need to justify twenty two episodes of them being in more or less the same place in their development but that isn’t a horrible loss. The Adults can stay the same, the kids can not. The Kids have to grow and develop, Archie dipped his toes in a little too far into the Evil pool so his redemption felt cheap, likewise for Veronica but they had to do it because, you guessed it, twenty two episodes. Threads for characters are teased and never made good on, important relationships happen off screen because the story is simply too big. 

Speaking of being too big, (I know, yikes what a cheesy writing scheme), Every episode is written by a different person...ish. You don’t have the same people writing be stretches of episodes, the writers are peppered all over the place. If you’ve ever done RP on tumblr, you’ll have noticed that the depiction of a character and the character themselve’s will warp and change depending on who’s writing them, the same can be said for TV. Even Betty, the most consistant character on the show is different from episode to episode. If you have more episodes you need a bigger writers room, too many chefs spoil the soup and too many writers make a mess of a character. Archie and Veronica’s characters could both use more consistancy and fewer writers handling them. 

Now picture this. A Riverdale that airs thirteen episode seasons biannually on Netflix. Smaller stories, tighter character arcs, each season really delving in to some of the interesting side characters. Being a show on Netflix, they can take more risks, cross over with, say, Sabrina more frequently, hell, they could bring in the aliens if they wanted. The Archie comics could get weird so why not go there? They could even set an entire season in the forties if they felt like it. The point is, network television is limiting them on a creative level. 

As much as I would like to see this happen though...I know the CW won’t let this cash cow though. Seriously. For all Riverdale has done wrong, as far as the industry goes they’ve gotten right what they need to get right. Ultimately, as a creator, if your general audience is at least content with your work you’ve cleared the main bar you need to but it’s a shame to watch potential be squandered on selling covergirl lip gloss on TV when it could be used to sell covergirl lipgloss on Netflix. 

[willowlark369]

Conflicts of Duty

So, between the Infinity War trailers and finally getting to see Black Panther, I had a few ideas that needed to be written.

Read this on AO3.

“Do you ask this as my brother or my king?”

Shuri spoke the words softly, her tone more serious than she typically used. She didn’t want to admit that as she progressed on her project, her confidence in the simplicity of the solution had changed. To verify that her algorithm could do as she proposed—as she had bragged that it could—she had been forced to begin learning two different fields of science: neurology and psychology. Both fields were far removed from her preferred fields of programming and engineering. Given more time, she was certain that she would be successful in her goal of helping Sgt. Barnes regain his independent agency, but it would not be as quickly as she had previously projected.

On the other hand, the technology she already possessed allowed her to review a person’s memories from their perspective. Initially, she only had visual and audio information, but recently she had cracked the barrier for internal processing. She had spent weeks reviewing the life of James Buchanan Barnes as intimately as the man himself had. She had witnessed truly awkward moments that made her question just how sane any boy or man could truly be and gave her a recurring case of boys are icky feels. She also had seen some things which did not match the man she had believed Steve Rogers to be from the American movies she had watched with Baba.

As discreetly as possible, she had reached out to Dr. Stark. She had been expecting her request for information on the BARF to be rejected out of hand. At the very least, she was expecting to be questioned extensively or to have him demand regular updates, for him to meddle. Everything Steve Rogers and his compatriots had said in her presence about the man indicated that he was little more than a petulant child, prone to throwing tantrums and hoarding his possessions regardless of how many might benefit. Instead, he had been perfectly willing to send all his research to her, including the fab-specs for the device itself. The packet even included an impressive amount of studies and papers. He outlined his issue with making the device more available, which seemed to stem entirely from the power source being a really teeny arc reactor.

It was when she realized that he had included the fab-specs for that where he moved from Tony Stark, billionaire white boy, to Dr. Tony Stark, holder of four doctorates and five honorary doctorates. Despite what her sources, both media and those who had worked alongside the man, had said, Stark had shared a closely guarded secret with her, had treated her as a fellow engineer and genius. He had fought against publicly sharing the technique for miniaturizing his father’s arc reactor; he had kept every version of the ones he had built out of anyone’s hands except for his. Yet he had, after a five-minute discussion, just sent her everything. Then he had told her what had gained her that level of trust.

“I worked with your father,” Stark had said, his voice sounding suspiciously thick with something. Her mother’s voice had that same quality occasionally. “He was… he was really something. Hated me but up front about it and why. No spin; no recriminations; no directives. I’ve come to appreciate that kind of honesty.” He paused to draw an audible breath. When he continued, his voice sounded stronger, more certain. “Your father had a vision, of how the world could possibly be, of how to fix something he had broken. I know how that looks on a person.

“Anyway, T’Chaka was one of the few on the panel willing to actually listen to the people meant to be governed by the Accords, so um, we ended up talking a lot. You know how that works. Inevitably, conversations shift, and other things come up. He mentioned you, his brilliant daughter who refused to quit tinkering even when she should have been in bed.” Dr. Stark had chuckled. It was a warm sound, not quite the same as Baba’s had been but similar enough to make her ache a little. “God, he couldn’t stop bragging, you know? Every time you or T’Challa could even remotely be connected to a topic, you were, and he was so, so proud of everything you were doing, were leading others in doing.”

“That’s why you trust me more than your own leaders? Because my father was proud of me?”

“Well, that’s the grown up responsible thing to say and you should definitely use it as the main reason if anyone asks, but honestly? He mentioned a rant you went on about how Leia was the true Balance of the force and Luke was mostly just making messes like brothers do. Anyone who prefers the Ambassador over other characters is someone worth knowing. And the brother bit really reminded me of someone, so double the marks in your favor.”

Between all the chaos of Erik Stevens’ temporary coup, the fallout from it, and learning new subjects in order to help the first broken white boy T’Challa had brought her, she hadn’t been feeling generous as she continued sorting through Barnes’ memories. Part of her could recognize the hero from the American movies and shows she used to watch curled up next to Baba. She could see a man who had to fight to prove himself and never gave up trying. But she could also see how Steve Rogers had just never listened to the advice of others and made messes that just kept growing harder for others to clean up.

And he had used her grandfather’s gift to Howard Stark, a symbol of trust and promised loyalty, to do a lot of it. Dr. Stark had never brought up Siberia, not once, but she had seen it through Barnes’ eyes. She loved her brother, but she had seen him be so focused on revenge and making amends that he forgot to even ask about someone he had fought beside.

She could absolutely create a replacement for the Captain America buckler. It would be simple, boring. It would be hardly any effort at all to work in improvements. After all, she knew her people’s most precious resource far better than a colonizer in the Forties had.

She just didn’t want to.

But she understood that she had a duty to Wakanda, and through that duty, to her king.

“Does it matter?”

“A sister may refuse a brother a request if it goes against her heart.” Shuri raised her chin, unintimidated by the big brother she loved to tease about exposed toes in her lab. She gave a silent prayer to the Mother Bast for strength of will. Okoye had made this dilemma between two loyalties look so easy, yet this seemed harder than watching T’Challa fight his challengers had been. “But a loyal subject is bound to the will of her king. So do you make this request as my brother or as my king?”

“You will always be my sister first, Shuri,” T’Challa replied after a long moment. There was that strange thickness of tone again, on yet another person. Like she would a frustrating project, she examined her brother carefully.

She saw the same look in his eyes that he had when showing her the building he had purchased in Oakland for the Outreach Program. She thought of the memories she had watched and the old interviews she had started binging on to try and understand why people would think the things they did about Dr. Stark. She thought of how weighted Baba had looked in the last years of his life and the determination in every line of Okoye’s body as she aimed her spear at her own husband in defense of what was right. It occurred to her that maybe she knew how wanting to do better looked on someone, too.

“As your sister, I advise against providing more help to Steve Rogers. The debt you believe you owe for your pursuit of vengeance for our father is not to him and continuing to assist him in his endeavors is a betrayal of the ideals Baba spent so much of his last months working towards recognizing. Steve Rogers is a man who will not listen to any who tell him that he is wrong and refuses to acknowledge the rights of anyone who may find themselves in the path of the collateral damage he leaves behind. He is a face for everything Baba feared about the world discovering the truth about Wakanda and everything our uncle and cousin spent years stewing about. Even now, he flaunts the law our father died to see ratified, without regard to potential collateral damage. Arming this man, who claims to be a hero but whose actions show otherwise, is as foolish an idea as your stupid flip-flops and will make you look just as stupid in the long run.”

“He’s been good at getting the job done.”

“When will you learn that just because something works does not mean it cannot be improved? There is more to being a hero than defeating the bad guy. If you don’t believe me, have Nakia explain it to you. She does it better than me.”

“Something you are not good at?”

“You couldn’t handle me if I was perfect,” she quipped. Then she set her expression into something resembling solemness. “I understand that the danger incoming is great and that we will need everyone working together to have any hope of succeeding, but he is unworthy of that symbol and the trust that comes with giving him a weapon of my design.” She paused as an idea came to her.

“What’s that? I know that look. That’s the one you get before you play one of your tricks!”

“I think I may have a way of fulfill both callings. Changing the design will take away the symbol he betrayed with his actions and allow me to hide one of my remote disabling switches in it.”

“The ones you developed to prevent Wakandan technology from falling into the wrong hands?”

“Just so, my king,” she said, including the crossed arms and slight bow. She grinned when he batted at her a few times. She should make a few memes comparing him to an actual cat. Just for kicks. She grabbed a designing tablet and began working, too distracted by possible rebuilds to worry about maintaining complete focus on her conversation partner. T’Challa was used to it by now, surely. “If I change the design, he will also be more limited. I can take away his range, make him unable to tag team an opponent. That will be useful if he decides that only he knows how things need to be done again. It will need to be similar enough to a shield that he won’t question but different enough that he will be forced to adopt a different style.”

“You truly believe him to be an enemy?”

T’Challa sounded shocked. Shuri returned her gaze to him. He looked as lost as he had when preparing for Challenge Day. She had to stifle the urge to call for Mama or Okoye. She was too young to handle her big brother looking like that. A flash of Barnes’ memory settled behind her vision, steadying her as it steeled her resolve.

“Steve Rogers believes himself to be a good man. Everything he does comes back to that belief. He divides the world into two groups with it. Everyone who agrees with him is also good; everyone who doesn’t, isn’t. Because Steve Rogers believes that he is a good man. What can a good man do if not the right thing? Would that not make others wrong?” She took a deep breath, silently hoping to emulate Baba with her next words. “Believing is not the same as being. To be a good man, one must show compassion to all, even one’s enemy; one must build bridges, not barriers; one must be honest but not cruel; one must be willing to see worth in all things.”

“You’ve been watching Moulin Rouge again, haven’t you?”

“Baba has never steered me wrong before.” She gave T’Challa a sad smile. “Why would death change that?”

“When did my little sister become so wise?”

“Well, one of us had to be, and you were too busy staring at Nakia.”

“I do not—”

“You do so! It’s cute. Everyone thinks so.”

They bickered back and forth as she continued to work. If occasionally T’Challa would regain that lost look, well, Shuri was mature enough to not mention it. Even brothers could be broken, and she was good at fixing broken people.

She had so much practice, after all.

[lisatelramor]

Not Left To Stand Alone Ch 17

Saguru had barely finished his morning cup of tea when there was Kuroba’s distinctive knock on his door. At eight thirty-four. They hadn’t discussed when this outing was going to be, but considering Kuroba had stressed rest and relaxation in his speech about it, Saguru had been expecting him to be by a bit later. Well, he was dressed and didn’t need to take anything beyond his cane and his wallet.

“Yes?” Rather than Kuroba, Saguru found himself face to face with Momoi. She had her sharp grin on her face that had him half wanting to close the door in her face.

“Hakuba-sensei, you’d better be ready to go because we’re heading out!”

Saguru looked from Momoi to Kuroba a few steps behind her. Kuroba rolled his eyes. At his side, Takumi looked half asleep still along with his other friend, Himura Yuuto. If Saguru remembered correctly, Himura was also a member of the lacrosse team.

“Morning, Hakuba,” Kuroba said. “Someone,” he looked meaningfully at Momoi, “decided that we were going to have an early start.”

“You wanted to wait until eleven,” Momoi said. “If we waited that late all the best places at the beach will be filled up.”

“We’re going to a beach?” Saguru asked, mildly horrified at the thought—crowds, sand, and he didn’t even own a bathing suit, not that he would want to swim.

“We’re not going to a beach,” Kuroba said.

“Did you or did you not say we could go to the beach this summer?” Momoi said, one eyebrow raised.

“Yeah, sometime this summer.” Kuroba crossed his arms. “Beach trips take planning. You also need to give people a bit more warning to pack.”

Takumi yawned. “I told you it wasn’t going to fly.”

Momoi sighed. “Fine.”

Saguru and Kuroba both side eyed her. In Saguru’s brief acquaintanceship with her, she rarely backed down on anything she wanted.

“She has an itemized list of things to do,” Takumi said. “She made me read it out loud to her yesterday.” Another yawn and he added. “Fireworks were on there, what, four times?”

Kuroba laughed. “I’m sure we can manage fireworks. There has to be somewhere nearby that’s having some.”

“If there isn’t I want sparklers,” Momoi said.

“Done.”

Saguru hoped that it wouldn’t result in injury. Somehow he was stuck on the mental image of Kuroba juggling live sparkers. He’d done that once when they were in high school if Saguru remembered correctly, and had narrowly missed setting Aoko on fire when she startled him.

“Awesome.” Takumi slung an arm around each of his friends. Himura stumbled a little, throwing sideways looks at Saguru like he didn’t know how to act with a teacher present.

Hopefully he could relax or Saguru would feel rather guilty about agreeing to join the outing.

“Well,” Kuroba said, clasping his palms together. “We’re all here and mostly awake. Where to?”

“The park,” Momoi said instantly. “There’s a crepe stand there where we can get breakfast.”

“Ooh.” Takumi perked up at that. Himura laughed.

“You’ve already had breakfast,” Kuroba said, but he looked amused too. “All right, the park it is.” The kids cheered and Momoi led the way down the stairs listing off things that they were going to do with their day. If they managed to actually fit them all into a day, Saguru would be surprised. Kuroba watched them before glancing back at Saguru. “Sound okay to you? You’re not obligated to spend the whole day or anything. It sounds like they’re intending to have a marathon summer experience all in one day.”

“I’ll manage,” Saguru said. So long as no one actually expected him to run after them, things would work fine.

“We should hurry up before they get on the train without us.” Kuroba called after them, “Oi, wait up!”

“Stop being so slow!” Takumi called back.

“No respect,” Kuroba sighed. “Get a group of kids together and how do they act?”

“Like kids?” Saguru quipped.

Kuroba whapped him on the arm. “Just for that, I’m going to steal your second breakfast.”

“Ah, fewer calories that I didn’t need anyway. How tragic.”

Kuroba laughed. Saguru smiled to himself as they caught up to the others.

***

Momoi swarmed the crepe cart as soon as they arrived at the park, dragging Takumi and Himura along with her. Kuroba hung back to watch.

“When they first started walking,” he said, “I worried that Takumi was going to lead them into some kind of trouble. But then I quickly realized that Shiemi was the one to worry about. With Takumi we had to worry about him wandering off if something caught his eye. Once he was friends with Shiemi, we had to worry about them sneaking off on purpose on whatever quest they came up with that day.”

“It appears she still keeps things lively.”

“It’s one of the things I like about her,” Kuroba said with a smile that promised mischief. Yes, an adventurous attitude would be something Kuroba liked in a person. Saguru let himself be tugged along to the crepe stand, one of Kuroba’s hands latched onto his elbow. He could swear Momoi looked at them and smiled her card sharp smile. Saguru decided to pretend that she hadn’t because he was suddenly very clearly reminded of the conversation they had had after a recent literature club meeting.

“Kuroba-ji, I ordered you chocolate and cream,” Momoi said.

“You know me too well,” Kuroba said.

“Wasn’t sure what your tastes are, Hakuba-sensei.” She stepped to the side to let him place an order.

Not really hungry, Saguru supposed this would count toward lunch and get something savory. “Ham and cheese crepe please,” Saguru said. Momoi made a face behind him.

“Not something sweet?”

“It’s too early in the morning for sweets.”

“It’s never too early for sweets,” Kuroba said.

“You’re going to be diabetic by the time you’re forty,” Saguru said.

Kuroba stuck out his tongue.

The kids had all chosen things with cream or berries or chocolate, Saguru noted with amusement. Takumi’s first bite covered half his face in whipped cream. Kuroba dived into his crepe without spilling anything by some miracle. Saguru’s own crepe oozed cheese down the side of his hand as they walked. Ahead of them Takumi and Himura discussed lacrosse while Momoi tackled her chocolate strawberry crepe with single minded enjoyment.

It was nice. Not too hot or humid yet, with the soft sounds of guitar coming from where a music festival was setting up for the day.

“Bite?” Kuroba offered as he neared the end of his sugary treat. Saguru eyes the mess of whipped cream and melted chocolate. Why not? The rich taste of cream spread across his tongue, chased by bitter dark chocolate; it wasn’t quite as sweet as he had been expecting. Kuroba stole a bite of Saguru’s crepe in the process. “Not bad,” Kuroba said.

Saguru hummed in agreement. The bite Kuroba took from his crepe was very obvious. It was a little ridiculous to feel flustered by sharing bites of food at his age, wasn’t it? Saguru finished his crepe.

“You’ve got a bit of whipped cream on your face,” Momoi said to him. Saguru twitched, having not noticed her hanging back to walk next to them.

“Thank you.” He wiped it off.

She grinned. “Kuroba-ji—”

“No,” Kuroba said before she could say anything.

“I didn’t even—”

“Still no. I don’t have to know what you’re going to say, your expression tells me the answer will be no.”

Momoi sighed. “Well you’re no fun.” She watched Takumi acting out some sort of lacrosse motion to Himura. “Have any cards?”

A pack of regular playing cards appeared in Kuroba’s hand.

“Nice.” Momoi took them, shuffling them with ease. “I’m going to get that card trick you showed me down by the end of the day.”

“You can try.”

She kept the cards moving between her hands as they reached the music festival. It wasn’t fully set up yet, but there were already groups of musicians playing here and there, and a small amount of people coming and going between what booths were set up. Saguru found himself relaxing between the soft music and the rustle of leaves in a light breeze and the chatter of voices around him. Kuroba struck up a conversation with Momoi, showing her proper hand movements for the sleight of hand she was working on, and Takumi got dragged into it as well.

Saguru ended up standing to the side near an acoustic guitarist’s performance with Himura. Himura kept looking at him out of the side of his eyes while trying to pretend that he was paying attention to the musician.

“I don’t bite,” Saguru joked after a few minutes of this.

“It’s just a little weird,” Himura said, looking uncomfortable. “Takumi said you were sort of a family friend, but it’s different to actually see it. You’re different in class.”

“I’m a teacher in class,” Saguru said. “Outside of that, I’m just a person.” It was funny how hard it was for people to realize that sometimes. Teachers had their own lives outside of their professions like anyone else in the world.

Himura glanced at him again. “Shiemi-chan says you like Sherlock Holmes?”

The way he said it made it clear that he was editing her words to a more diplomatic phrasing. Saguru smiled. “I do. Are you also a fan?”

The next half hour of wandering was filled with a pleasant discussion about the Robert Downey Jr. films as they compared to the original Doyle works. By the end of the conversation, Saguru was relieved to see that Himura no longer looked uncomfortable about Saguru’s presence. By then, though, Saguru’s leg was getting tired, so they moved a bit away from the music festival to sit.

Kuroba produced a Frisbee from somewhere and the kids dashed off to use it while Saguru and Kuroba took a seat on a bench.

“Having fun, Mr. Holmes otaku?” Kuroba teased. He had taken the pack of cards back from Momoi for the moment and let his hands play with them as they wanted. Cards arced in a bridge, flashing glimpses of their red and black numbered faces.

“I am actually.” It had been a while since he went out to do something without an exacting itinerary or goal in mind. And there hadn’t been anyone staring him down or following him around by some miracle. It was almost possible to forget that today was a brief break between the stress of the media and work and the upcoming Kid heist.

Kuroba didn’t look like he had been spending his nights with barely any sleep in preparation for the 200th Kid heist. Right now at least, his face was relaxed and happy, faint smile lines bunched around his eyes as he watched Takumi dive to catch the Frisbee and send it spinning with perfect accuracy to Momoi’s hands. It was a wonder how he could turn off the background thoughts and enjoy the moment like this. Saguru envied that ability a bit. He was enjoying himself, but reality was never far off in his thoughts. It was something like a miracle that they hadn’t run into any reporters.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, almost ignorable. He checked it out of habit because it might be Mum. Hiroto’s name on the message had him pursing his lips. Are you okay? He’d had a message of some variation of that theme from Hiroto every day for the last week, and Saguru didn’t know how to respond to them when it was something more complicated than okay or not okay. He didn’t bother responding to this one, just tucked his phone away again.

“I take it there’s not going to be any more dates in the future,” Kuroba said, a wry twist to his lips as he guessed the message’s sender. The cards in his hands fanned and flipped independent of his conscious attention.

“Most likely not, no.” It made him feel a bit sad, not for the loss of the romantic aspect of the relationship in his life but because he wasn’t quite sure how to fix the strain to the friendship that had been forming between them. Hiroto clearly still felt guilty regardless that Saguru didn’t blame him, and Saguru was too strained from dealing with the fallout to keep reassuring him that things would be fine when Saguru wasn’t sure they would be. “It wasn’t a serious relationship anyway.”

Kuroba raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not upset over it,” Saguru said firmly.

“Not indifferent to it either,” Kuroba said. He held out the cards. They stared each other down until Saguru took one. Ace of hearts. It went back in the deck as Kuroba shuffled it. “There’s nothing wrong with that. I’ve had some really sucky dates over the years and even when I didn’t expect anything to come out of it, it’s still a little disappointing.”

“Of course it is a little disappointing.” Who wanted to waste time over a social interaction that they would be uncomfortable in or regret later? “I am uncertain if I will be able to keep him as a friend,” Saguru finally offered.

The cards vanished. It was incredibly irritating that Saguru couldn’t tell how Kuroba pulled that one off. “Give it time?”

“I intend to.” A dozen meters away, Takumi and Himura collided trying to get the Frisbee. Their game had turned into some sort of keep away with Takumi in the middle.

“If you feel the need to hang out, there’s always me,” Kuroba said lightly.

“Yes, with our busy schedules.”

Kuroba snorted. “You’re only as busy as you let yourself be. I made time for this. I can make time for other things too. And,” he said, “you have no excuse right now. You’re on break.”

Fair enough. Kuroba lounged back against the bench, his elbow bumping into Saguru’s shoulders companionably.

“Ace of hearts, huh?”

When Saguru glanced back at Kuroba, he had the card Saguru chose earlier twirling between his fingers.

“Maybe you’ll have luck soon in matters of the heart.”

“Really, Kuroba?”

Kuroba shrugged. “You never know.” He slid the card into Saguru’s shirt pocket. It was only in Saguru’s head that his hand lingered a second longer than needed. They went back to watching the kids play and Saguru shoved all the things he didn’t want to think about away to focus on the way the sunlight filtered through the trees. It was getting hot now, turning into a proper July day with all the discomforts that came with that. Thankfully they were in the shade. He closed his eyes and listened to the nearby music and Momoi’s cackle of laughter.

***

Lunch was at one of the food stalls surrounding the music festival—takoyaki and yakisoba, all fried food with far too many calories, but the perfect festival food. Saguru was still mostly full from the crepe so he stole a few of Kuroba’s takoyaki. Then Momoi saw an ice cream stand and dragged them all to it. Kuroba got a chocolate cone and Saguru caved and got a small vanilla cone. This had Momoi laughing and Takumi sighing. Saguru ignored this like he was determined to ignore every insinuation Momoi seemed driven to make.

“It’s a vacation,” Kuroba said with a shrug as he ate his ice cream. “If there’s any time to get junk food it’s now.”

“Point,” Saguru said, licking drips off his cone.

“There’s an open air market a bit away,” Momoi said, looking at her phone in one hand, a cone of black cherry ice cream in the other. “We should go.”

“You don’t even like shopping,” Takumi said. His strawberry ice cream scoop slowly melted onto his chocolate scoop.

“I like window shopping,” Momoi said. “Besides, I need to find a birthday gift for my mom.”

Himura held up his hands. He’d gotten a bowl of sorbet instead of ice cream and had the least amount of sticky residue on him in result. “So long as no one expects me to carry things, I’m good.”

They looked at Kuroba, who looked at Saguru. “I suppose looking at a market could be fun.” He did have Mum’s birthday coming up. Maybe something gardening related…?

“Shopping it is,” Kuroba said.

“Great.” Momoi linked arms with the boys. “Be my extra eyes, we’re looking for something floral or indispensably useful.”

As they reached the correct street, they were quickly surrounded by the crowd. Saguru kept half an eye on the eclectic mix of things being sold—handicrafts alongside kitchenware and cheap knickknacks painted bright, eye catching colors. Momoi gave stands a glance and powered past the ones that were of no interest before stopping for long chunks of time at ones that looked more promising. Saguru followed at a more sedate pace, Kuroba at his side, keeping the children in sight distance.

They paused at a booth with metal markers that Saguru could see Mum possibly using in her garden. Momoi was at a stand selling floral embroidery.

“What do you think of this?” Kuroba held up a garden ornament in the shape of a bird. It would have been pretty if the metal hadn’t been tinted nearly fuchsia.

“Too bright. If it were a natural green…”

“Hmm.”

The markers weren’t quite what he was looking for, Saguru decided. He glanced at the children; they’d moved on without buying anything embroidered. “I’ve been wondering, how did Momoi-chan and Takumi-kun meet anyway?” Himura was understandable. They both played the same sport and were in the same year. Momoi on the other hand was both a year ahead in age and school.

“Momoi Keiko’s her mom,” Kuroba said, like that explained everything. It took Saguru a second to connect the name to the family pictures of Aoko and Keiko with babies, and the high school classmate he barely remembered to her strong-willed daughter.

He almost stumbled into the path of another shopper as he stopped walking. “Wait. Keiko. As in Aoko-san’s best friend, Keiko? I’d had the passing thought but...they’re nothing alike.”

“Yes?” Kuroba’s lips twitched like he was trying not to laugh.

“How?” When? Considering their ages, Momoi Keiko would have gotten pregnant before Aoko and she had never seemed the sort to even be interested in dating let alone… Saguru shook his head. Those thoughts were rather narrow minded and full of assumptions, and it truly wasn’t any of his business anyway.

“The how is a bit more personal than I’m going to say, but Shiemi’s only a little less than half a year older than Takumi,” Kuroba said. “Keiko was due a month or so before Aoko, but Shiemi was born pretty early, and Takumi was born a bit late, and when it came down to it, Shiemi met the cut-off date for school and Takumi didn’t. They grew up together.”

“I see.” In truth, he hadn’t thought about his other classmates much after he left Japan. Kuroba, of course—he couldn’t help but think about Kuroba—Aoko, more due to her relation to Kuroba, on rare occasions their teacher or Koizumi because they had stood out in his memory… It was almost embarrassing that he hadn’t thought what happened to the others at all. “Keiko-san and Aoko-san are still friends then?”

“Yeah. They meet up every week or so and get drinks. Two ladies raising kids mostly on their own.” There was a small smile on Kuroba’s face, both respectful and wistful at the same time. “Keiko changed a lot after she had Shiemi. She’s a little scary these days actually. We’re not on the best terms. Understandably.”

“Understandably.” Saguru stopped and bent over a pile of t-shirts more for something to distract himself with than because he was actually interested. There was an awkward pause for a few minutes as they moved on. There wasn’t really any right thing to say when one was reeling over the shock of half conceived impressions from decades ago being smashed to bit. Nothing that he wouldn’t regret at any rate. Searching for something to redirect with, his eyes landed on a booth two booths ahead of them. “Well then.”

“What?” Kuroba followed his gaze before lifting one eyebrow. The entire booth was dedicated to Kaitou Kid fan merchandise. This included a special ‘limited printing’ 200th heist shirt, posters made from photos taken during actual heists, and uncomfortably accurately sized body pillows. The sign in front proudly proclaimed it to be the official Kid fan club merchandiser. “Well,” Kuroba echoed. “That sure is a lot of Kid’s face in one place.”

“I’m torn between wanting to make a comment about how teenage you would be full of narcissistic pride, and enquiring about if they’ve gotten permission to use Kid’s face in the market.”

“It’s just about impossible to control use of Kid’s motifs these days,” Kuroba said. In a lighter voice that sounded completely fake he added, “Aoko would love to arrest each and every person selling them on the grounds that they could be collaborating with a criminal, but at this point there are more Kid fans than there are police officers in Japan.”

“I’m tempted to get one of the bookmarks they’re selling and see how long it takes people to notice.”

Kuroba snickered. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that keychain you got a while back. I never knew you were a secret Kid fan, Hakuba,” he said with over the top batting of his eyes.

“Well I have always had a deep interest in all things relating to him,” Saguru said with a straight face.

Kuroba laughed again. “You’re starting to sound like a stalker again.”

“I don’t need to be a stalker. I already know where you sleep.”

“Now if I didn’t know this was your warped sense of humor, I’d be creeped out.”

Saguru let himself smile as Kuroba tugged him toward a new table, this one selling interestingly arranged potted succulents. “Well you know where I sleep too, so it evens the field a bit.”

“Does your mom have succulents?” Kuroba picked up a tiny pot with a bluish rosette shaped succulent.

“A few. She leans toward leafier plants most of the time.” Some of the pots were rather striking though, and he could see Mum enjoying them. “I admit that I’m not as familiar with them as some plants.” He was fairly sure that he could identify the aloe vera correctly. “Although I hesitate to buy a plant if we’re going to be carrying it around for the rest of the day.”

“Something to keep in mind.”

Plans to come back another day were solidified when he examined some of the striking color variations that the plants had. Yes, this was definitely something Mum would like. While Saguru talked to the stall owner about possibly reserving one of the pots, Kuroba went and checked in with the others. By the time Saguru was done, they were a good dozen or so stalls away and Momoi had a bag in hand. Takumi also had a bag, and that turned out to be sparklers.

By the time they made it back to the park and took another rest for his leg, it was well into evening and the music festival was well under way with vendors selling wares like a street fair. Kuroba brought back more fair food to share as they rested and waited for the sun to go down.

For a short while close to dusk, Saguru sat alone with their bags as Kuroba and the kids found a few stalls with games to play. Saguru smiled to himself, seeing Kuroba flinch away from one stall in particular and knew it had to be a goldfish game.

There were a large number of people milling around and the overlapping sounds of music had died off for the main performance of the night. It was some rock group Saguru didn’t recognize, with heavy drum beats that he could feel through his whole body. It sounded like something Aoko would have liked in high school.

While he waited, he pulled out his phone. No new messages, just the unanswered message from Hiroto. For the moment he felt like he could answer it. He sent off a brief message that he was fine at the moment and spending time with a friend. Hiroto would likely guess that meant Kuroba; Saguru didn’t care what he took from that though. He turned his phone off after he sent the message. The rest of the evening would be in the moment.

Despite the walking and standing, his leg was barely bothering him at all for once.

Night had finally descended when the others returned. Himura had a goldfish in a plastic bag and Kuroba kept both Takumi and Momoi between him and Himura’s prize.

“Congrats,” Saguru said, nodding at the fish.

Himura grinned. “Kuroba-ji practically teleported into the mask stand when I showed him.”

“You’re all horrible,” Kuroba said.

“When were the fireworks supposed to start?” Takumi asked.

Momoi had her phone out. “Soon. C’mon, there’s a better spot to view them…”

“You hear the lady,” Kuroba said, offering Saguru a hand up. Saguru took it gladly. Momoi led them toward the lake in the center of the park where there would be fewer trees to block the view. They were almost there when the first firework went up. The bright flash of color and echoing explosion had them stopping to stare.

“We’re going to miss the best vantage point!” Momoi gasped in the hush that followed. She grabbed her friends and dragged them at a much faster pace.

Saguru didn’t bother trying to keep up, watching as a bright green firework bloomed overhead. He could feel the reverberation of it in his body. Even with Tokyo’s light pollution, the fireworks were bright and beautiful, one after another. He almost forgot Kuroba’s presence entirely until a hand on his elbow moved him around debris on the ground that he had missed as he stared at the sky. “I haven’t seen fireworks in years,” Saguru admitted between booms.

“Yeah?”

“On television, yes. In person?” He never attended any events that would have them.

“Well now you have. Good call by Shiemi.”

They didn’t say any more as they finally joined the kids at the water side. The reflections added to the experience. The juddering cacophony of explosions of the finale were inexplicably cathartic.

“Well,” Momoi said after the last reverberations had faded into silence. “I think that was one of the best ideas I’ve ever had.”

“Definitely fun,” Kuroba said, ruffling her hair. She ducked away and held out a demanding hand.

“Cards. I think I’m pumped enough to pull off that trick now.” When she took the deck, Saguru remembered the card in his pocket.

“You might need this, unless it’s a different deck?”

Momoi took it and grinned. “Ace of hearts, huh?”

Almost in synch, both he and Kuroba gave her unimpressed looks. Perhaps she’d shared her opinion on their relationship with Kuroba as well.

“Fine, fine.” The cards arced in her hands almost as smoothly as they did for Kuroba. She pulled off a complicated maneuver with her hands that showed off the faces of the cards before shuffling again. “Himura, pick a card.”

With a long suffering look, he did, and Momoi proceeded to do a trick where no matter how much she shuffled, the card he picked was always at the top of the deck. Both Kuroba and Takumi had smiles when she was done.

“Masterfully played,” Kuroba said as she returned the cards.

“Told you I’d get it right.”

“It’s actually pretty hard to do,” Takumi said to Saguru as Momoi and Kuroba discussed how to further refine it. “You have to have really quick hands.”

“Palming and double lifts, correct?” Saguru said. He’d looked up quite a large number of sleight of hand tricks in high school.

Takumi pursed his lips. “Don’t pick it apart; that takes all the fun out of watching.”

“Detectives are critics,” Kuroba said, but he was cheerful about it rather than irritated like he’d been in school.

“To be fair, I usually don’t bother trying to figure them out most of the time anymore.” Although some of Kuroba’s tricks made for enjoyable mental exercises because they seemed so impossible.

“And with that,” Kuroba said, “it’s time to be heading home, kiddos.”

“But we haven’t done the sparklers yet,” Takumi said, holding up the bag.

Kuroba hesitated for a split second, Saguru only catching it because he was always watching Kuroba’s body language for what clues it would give behind his masks. “Well we’ll do them back at the apartment and your friends can stay the night.”

“Really?” All three teenagers stared.

“Yup,” Kuroba said like it wasn’t out of the ordinary to let people stay over. “Hakuba, want to join the slumber party?”

“I think I will decline,” Saguru said. He couldn’t tell if Kuroba had been teasing or not with that offer. “Besides, I live next door, that’s close enough.”

A half an hour later found him sitting in one of Kuroba’s chairs, watching Momoi and Himura chase Takumi with sparklers around the landing. A bucket of water with used sparklers was at Saguru’s side. Kuroba had a sparkler of his own, absently tracing bright shapes through the dark. The events of the day left Saguru languid and on the edge of dozing off. He should just go to bed, but if he left, the day would be over and the temporary reprieve would vanish with it.

“Thank you,” Saguru said.

Kuroba shrugged his thanks away. “I’m glad you came. Otherwise I’d have been the odd one out.”

Unlikely; Kuroba had a way of fitting wherever he went. He could have easily fit into Takumi’s friend group for the entire day, but he’d chosen to hang back with Saguru instead.

“You probably won’t see me tomorrow,” Kuroba said. “I’m going to be busy up to the heist.” A reminder, unwelcome, but necessary.

“Good luck.” Be careful, Saguru didn’t add. There’d been too many injuries lately.

The sparkler in Kuroba’s hand fizzled out. He tossed it in the bucket. “Lady Luck has been on my side so far. I’ll have to keep courting her.”

The image of Kuroba sending roses to a temple of all things popped into Saguru’s head. He should definitely go to bed.

Kuroba’s callused fingertips pushed hair back from Saguru’s forehead. He opened eyes he didn’t remember closing to see Kuroba crouched in front of him with a fond smile on his face. “Go to sleep, Hakuba. In your bed, not one of my kitchen chairs. I could try to carry you to your futon as you’re sleeping, but I don’t think that’d go well.”

“I weigh a good fifteen kilograms more than you at least. You’d drop me.”

“I’m more muscular than I look you know.”

Saguru gave Kuroba a slow once over. No, he had a pretty good idea just how much muscle lurked under the carefully baggy clothing Kuroba preferred. He’d felt the firmness beneath them and had plenty of imagination to picture the rest. “I’m sure you’re wonderfully fit,” he said, “but carrying a grown man larger than you would still be a strain.”

Kuroba blinked at him and pulled his hand away. He cleared his throat. “Right, which is why you’re going to bed and I’m not testing my weight limit for deadlifts.”

The sputter and hiss of sparklers and the kids’ laughter was further away now; they’d gone down the stairs to take advantage of the parking lot’s larger space. In the dark, lit by one street lamp and a handful of sparklers, they were a mix of shadows and gangly teenage limbs. Saguru heaved himself to his feet even though every bit of him protested the movement. His back cracked as he stood straight.

Kuroba snickered. “You sound like an old man.”

“I embrace that statement.” He turned away. “Good night, Kuroba.”

“Night, Hakuba. See you in a few days.”

Saguru tottered back to his room and all but fell into his futon, not bothering to change out of his clothes. He fell asleep to the sound of Momoi and Takumi challenging Kuroba to a sparkler duel.

[literallyjustanerd]

In His Eyes (Chapter 4)

This one’s pretty new, actually. And it’s Angsty.

Genre: Slow build/eventual romance Word count: 3333 Pairing: Nightcrawler/Angel Rating: T+

Read it here xxx

“Remember, your aim here is not offence. It is defence.” The professor’s voice rings out through the cavernous metal hall, echoing off the walls as his class stands before him. It is Thursday night, seven thirty-seven in the evening, and with dinner just barely digested, the class of hopefuls are lined up in uniform, some jittery with excitement and others just ready to go to bed. Peter is neither: though he is not exactly excited at the prospect of another boring defence simulation, this at least gives him something to do to fill the time.

“Collect the dummies, deposit them in the safety zone, keep them away from the sentinels’ attacks.” Jean’s mind is focused, her face drawn and eyes scanning the room that will in just a few moments’ time become a war zone. She is quietly serious, as she is about all her classes. Where the others are vocal in their excitement or criticism, she appears stoically serious. “You have forty-five minutes. Good luck.”

The professor wheels himself out of the room, taking his place on the bridge above to watch the exercise. Warren eyes him as he does, still unable to make a call just yet on what he thinks of the man. While he really has no intentions of ever joining the X-Men, he wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to show off his newly recovered skill, and so, when the lights go dark, there is a soft whoosh as his wings sweep outwards and stretch to their full breadth and the others take their stances. When the room lights up once again, they are surrounded by chaos, numerous towering sentinels advancing towards their area, which now appears as a derelict old lot littered with hunks of crumbled buildings and helpless mutants needing their assistance. Instantly, the most eager students are on the move: Jubilee has made a break for the nearest civilian to her within moments, and Peter really has no choice but to be the quickest to take action. The others take another moment or so to assess the situation, filtering through the tactics they’d been taught, the formations and strategies for “maximising efficiency,” as the professor so eloquently put it. “Cyclops!” Ororo shouts over the rumbling of the sentinels. “The one on your left, attack its legs, throw it off balance. Jean and I can push it over from the top.” She is already in the air by the time her sentence is finished, wind whirling and whipping around her in a vortex that takes her twenty feet upwards in two seconds flat. Jean is slower to follow: she has still not quite gotten the hang of self-levitation under pressure. “What? We’re supposed to be on defence,” Scott calls back. “Focus on getting the dummies to safety, not on taking the sentinels down!” “This is defence!” Ororo retorts. “If we take out the sentinel, that’s one less threat to worry about!” Kurt listens to the bickering continue, even as Scott relents –though not without great verbal resistance– and goes along with Ororo’s orders. Kurt knows what his purpose here, and he focuses on doing it well, ferrying dummies to the safety zone with Peter working alongside him as the others held off the Sentinels. Many a time this sort of exercise has ended in the two attempting an impromptu race – the speed of thought versus the speed of, well, Peter.

There is a thundering crash, the whole hall shaking as a sentinel falls, and for one very jarring moment, all of the students forget that this is a simulation. Though stuck very solidly in their minds is the fact that this simulation can still cause very real pain. As Kurt appears beside his next target, he is just in time to witness Warren swoop down beside him and scoop up a dummy from between two cement blocks, his movements reminiscent of a great bird of prey. For a moment, Kurt cannot help watching Warren arc back upwards, then shakes himself out of it to continue his work. “Jubilee, fry it! It’s getting too close to that group there!” “I have too many here, guys! Someone lend a hand!” “Quicksilver, if you run into me one more time, you’re spending the next week with a permanent storm cloud over your head!” Gradually, the action begins to slow. The dummies have been “saved,” and without anything else to do for the remaining few minutes, the others take down the remaining sentinels, having a bit of fun as they do, showing off and cheering or jeering at each other. Scott carves out his initials in the side of a felled robot, gaining a decent round of applause from the room and a quiet sigh from the professor. Ororo and Jean find themselves in a game of volleyball with a severed sentinel head. Even Kurt decides to get in on it, swinging himself up the branches of a tree, adding a few flips and flairs for good measure. When he reaches the top, he wants to continue, and takes himself in a blink to the shoulder of the last standing sentinel, which Jubilee had previously insisted on taking down herself. The group whoops and laughs as he teases it, dodges it, hangs by his tail from its arm. However, Kurt soon takes his routine a step too far. Midway between leaping off the sentinel’s head and landing safely and gracefully on the ground (complete with closing flourish and bow as he used to do when he ended his circus routines), the great lumbering robot almost manages to catch up to him, his sweeping hand just barely clipping Kurt’s heel. However, it is still enough to throw Kurt off, and though he teleports himself to the ground, he hits the ground awkwardly, his ankle giving way and sending him into a haphazard roll. Jubilee is there to help him up, fussing over him the whole way to the edge of the hall as Jean and Scott take care of the offending sentinel. Kurt insists he is fine, but he can’t mask the limp in his walk, or the wince on his face: his ankle burns with pain and already feels like it is swelling.

In the end, the team leaves the Danger Room with equal parts praise and criticism. Judging by his tone, it seems even Professor X knows that the lack of seriousness is not a problem he will soon have solved: kids will be kids, he supposes, sighing as he dismisses them to clean up and go to bed. He cannot expect to make full-fledged X-Men out of teenagers in just a handful of sessions. One by one, the kids disappear into the showers, the ruckus dying down but not quite finished. Losing himself for a moment in the buzzing atmosphere, Warren grins and laughs as Peter and Jubilee mock Scott and Ororo’s bickering, unable to catch himself before the others do. “Enjoyed yourself after all, eh, Angel?” Jubilee gloats, digging Warren in the ribs. In an instant, the smile retreats, replaced by his default flat expression and an eye-roll for good measure. “Yeah, yeah,” he dismisses. “Don’t go reading into it. It was just funny to watch you all running around like idiots.” Peter chortles. “Way to cover it up, feathers.” “Shut up.” Kurt’s mouth twitches up as he hears the defensive remarks from inside his shower cubicle, setting his neatly folded clean clothes down on the bench before running the water. He feels a certain swell of pride in his chest, spurred on by the thought that he has seen underneath the sharp and unyielding exterior Warren keeps otherwise unbroken. Part of him can’t help but to feel special that he is the only one to have an experience like theirs on the rafters that night. After Scott’s words to him a couple of weeks ago, something had changed in Kurt’s mind. The part of his brain that held his feelings for Warren was no longer fenced off and topped with barbed wire. Instead, he lets his thoughts wander, even going so far as to consider the possibility of Warren returning his, well… fondness.

When he steps under the water, his ankle throbs, reminding him to keep the majority of his weight on the other leg. It isn’t anything serious: a minor sprain at worst, he thinks, recalling a history of jarred joints and painful landings from trapezes and highwires. He showers quickly, dresses quickly, and takes himself to his bedroom, thankful as he often is that he does not have to go the long way as his friends do. He flicks the lock on the door –Peter had a habit of rushing in without remembering to knock– and pulls out a pair of flannelette pants and a white singlet. Adjusting to American clothing had taken a while: he was used to having just a few outfits to switch between, and the endless racks of identical garments in differing sizes confused him to no end. But Jubilee had insisted on taking him out and giving him a “proper wardrobe,” and with her expertise, and a little funding from the professor, he had ended up with a selection of outfits he was quite happy with. Though of course, despite his clothes now coming from a store, he still had to retain his knack for sewing – Levi jeans didn’t come with holes for a tail. Once he is dressed, he unlocks the door, leaving it open as grabs the novel Jean had recommended to him a week or so earlier. He sits on the window seat, ankle propped up on a pillow to keep the swelling down. He reads in the yellow light of his bedside lamp for a few minutes, once in a while eyeing the empty bed opposite his and wondering what Peter could be doing that was taking so long. Nonetheless, he is happy to have a little peace and quiet in which to get lost in the pages of his book. In Germany, he would read whatever he could get his hands on, mostly from second hand markets and from his fellow performers. Upon arriving at Xavier’s, the rate at which he burned through books had doubled, then tripled, until he was scarcely without something to read. He liked almost everything, from thrillers to period dramas, though his current novel, an addictive crime novel laced with romance, had particularly captured his attention.

Warren had almost passed straight by Kurt’s door as he made his way to his own room. He had never taken notice of it before, certainly. But this time when he walks past, the glimpse he catches of the boy sitting on the windowsill makes him stop. After two or three seconds, he opens his mouth to explain his presence. But Kurt has still not looked up, so he says nothing. It seems he is far too absorbed in his book to take in anything that is happening around him, his shoulders hunched forward as though to bring himself closer to what is unfolding on the page. Curiosity overtakes Warren as he watches Kurt, bathed in warm, incandescent light, one hand raised to his lips and brow knitted in deep focus. His tail moves as though with a mind of its own, swaying listlessly back and forth over the faded carpet. Without thinking much about what he is doing, and in fact with part of him resisting the whole way, Warren’s eyes slide over the details of Kurt’s face that he has never bothered to take in before. The sharp curves of his chin and his nose. The way his eyes catch the light and throw it back out. The markings on his face, intricate swirls and angled lines, all of which are clearly visible in the shadows thrown out by the lamplight. He wonders if Kurt was born with those markings. He wonders if he really wants to know. These thoughts, ones that still feel alien to him, are quickly caught by those closer to the surface and banished back to whatever strange corner of his mind they came from. They don’t belong in his head – they are strange and uncomfortable, and not part of the Warren he knows how to handle. Though thankfully, the swell of frustration that follows is familiar. There is still something in him that he understands.

“Warren! You scared me.” The exclamation itself makes Warren jump as he realises that Kurt has looked up from his book long enough to notice him. “Can I help you?” asks Kurt, closing his book but keeping one finger wedged in between to mark his page. Warren scrambles for a response slightly less uncomfortable than “I was just thinking about your eyes.” “How’s your ankle?” he blurts, and the two of them look down to Kurt’s raised ankle.

“It’s fine,” he shrugs in response. “Just a little sore. It’ll probably be better in a couple of days.” Warren nods, only having taken in half of Kurt’s words. “Thanks for asking,” he adds, and Warren notices a bright smile: Kurt once again feels that small tide of specialness rising. “No problem,” Warren replies. “It looked like you enjoyed the Danger Room. Even though you denied it to the others.” “Well. Yeah. I guess so. I just like flying.” Kurt notices the disjointedness in Warren’s words and smiles softly. “It’s okay,” he assures the boy standing in his doorway. “You don’t have to do that around me anymore.” “What? Do What?” “You know. The whole distant, angry thing. I think we’re past that now, aren’t we?” Those particular words hit Warren the wrong way, striking a chord in him feels off-key. The familiarity with which Kurt speaks, the assumption that he and Warren are on the same page brings a frown to his face. “Who says?” he snarks. This confuses Kurt: it feels like he is once again speaking to the Warren he knew months ago. He takes his finger out of his book and sets it on his nightstand, sitting up straight on the windowsill and pressing his lips together tightly. Warren kicks himself mentally for letting himself notice the action. The fire inside him grows, fed by confusion and discomfort and fanned by fear and frustration. “I just thought–” “What, you thought we were best buddies or something? Just coz we had a little midnight talk?” Kurt feels like the carpet has just been pulled out from under him, and now he is falling, flailing, his stomach thrown into his throat. “Well, no, but I– I figured we were a little closer than you were with the others. I mean, aren’t we?” He sputters, standing now and ignoring the protest his ankle puts up. The more he thinks, the more he stews under the heat of Warren’s glare, the more his specialness shrinks, turning poisonous and churning up his insides. You’re an idiot, he curses. He’s right. You had one little talk and suddenly you think you’re the apple of his eye, just because you have a little crush? His hands clench, fingernails digging into his palms hard enough to break the skin. Warren can’t believe what he is hearing. He isn’t ready for this, isn’t prepared for any of this to be verbalised, and hearing Kurt trying to do so anyway angers him. Part of him knows Kurt can’t be blamed, but it is easier, so much easier to let that part be drowned out. “Why the hell would you think that?” Warren spits. “We’re not closer than anyone.” “I’m sorry.” There are tears in Kurt’s eyes now: he had not invited them, but he stood no chance of fighting them back. Warren huffs in reply. “Same thing you said when you tore up my wing.” Immediately, Warren’s eyes go wide. He hadn’t meant to say that. Even in his state, he knew that that topic should have been out of bounds. But there is no way he will take it back. Instead, he keeps the scowl on his face and turns on his heel, trying not to look like he is fleeing as he hurries to the sanctuary of his room.

When he closes the door behind him, an unexpected tidal wave of anger hits him, surges through his veins so quick and burning hot that he feels it might tear him apart. He whips around and slams a fist into the wall, letting out a cry like a wounded animal. The talons that tip his wings dig into the wall, tearing up plaster and leaving small holes, scars, like many he has left on this room. How could he have done that? How could he let himself treat Kurt that way, when Kurt had done nothing but apologise and put up with his shit for months? One more pound on the wall, weaker this time, and he forces himself to stop: the last thing he needs right now is someone coming to ask if he is alright. Muttering curses to himself, he reaches between his bed and his nightstand, finding only a half-empty bottle of gin. It would have to do. Pulling the cap off, he drinks deeply, welcoming the intense burn in his throat. He deserves it, for what he has done. Should’ve known I’d find a way to fuck this up, he thinks. A perfect chance to open up, to let himself heal, and he throws it away because he’s too scared of a few thoughts he doesn’t understand. Maybe it’s for the best, he laments. Kurt deserves better, anyway.

Kurt’s fingers are numb. His mouth feels heavy, and his head is spinning with the number of conflicting thoughts vying for his attention. The bed catches him when he falls, and for a long while he just sits with his head in his hands, catching his tears and trying to make sense of what has just happened. This is what happens when your fantasies get the better of you, he chastises, driving his palms into his closed eyes and rubbing away his tears. Suddenly conscious of what will happen if Peter comes hurtling in to find him all teary-eyed, he switches off the bedside lamp, welcoming the dimness in the few seconds it takes his eyes to adjust to the dark. He peels back the covers and retreats underneath, covering himself completely and trying to pretend that it had all just been a bad dream. Warren didn’t hate him, he hadn’t just made a fool of himself, he hadn’t just shattered the tentative dreams he’d been putting together over the previous weeks. When Peter finally comes upstairs ten minutes later, finished with his talking and joking with the oblivious others, he finds his roommate seemingly asleep in their dark room. He does his best to be quiet as he slides into bed, wondering why Kurt isn’t still up reading as he has been every night for the past two weeks. Kurt keeps his mouth pressed to the duvet, muffling the sounds of his still shaky breaths. He listens as Peter’s breathing grows slow and even. It never takes him long to fall asleep. When Kurt is sure he is alone, he shifts, staring up at the ceiling and wondering where if now he will have to act like he and Warren had never been anything more than former enemies. The thought pains him, twists the knife already lodged in his gut. He hopes beyond hope that Warren will come around. There is always the possibility that this was just another defensive moment, and that he will feel differently in the morning. Or maybe he even feels differently now. Still, Kurt cannot see Warren giving up the pride needed to apologise, or even to respond well to having the subject raised over breakfast or during class. Maybe it’s just better this way, Kurt relents, turning over and cocooning himself in his duvet. It’s not like there’s any chance for us in the long run. In friendship or otherwise.

[bornfromscarletcords]

Western Dreams: Of Hope And Death

Well It wasn’t precisely a galaxy far far away, not to everyone at least, but given the nature of social economic structures, the general far reaching scope of racism (it just makes everyone more relatable), strange senses of imperfection that are often misplaced (short, tall, beautiful, not beautiful, isn’t that stuff all just a state of perspective), and the miraculous nature of a people’s ability to break certain poorly prescribed habits to rise beyond their common sequences and general dumbness, it would seem that this little western town, more or less out in the left hand of nowhere would become a beacon for destiny, it’s callings and trials.  

Well as it goes, or at least as we’ve heard it told every now and then, there was a bit of a dispute between the strongest and most powerful of this infinitely sided set of stories we call existence. Real bad ass nonsense you know, battles of ultimate destiny, and collision courses aimed at becoming the greatest the universe has ever known. Well as it probably should have been apparent (though in truth it’s hard to really tell these things when you’re punching your dumb brother or brothers in the face) greatness takes diligence, and patience, and something a little more deep than the general superficiality we are challenged with on a daily basis. Something’s are more simple to show than to explain, and vice versa, so we will balance both as best we can, and in short much of the story can be summarized with these words (though in truth the truly sweetest and most awesome bits are in those details oh so personal) “true tests never end” (I suppose we will add the “our loved ones” to the last bit). If you are getting the sense this may be something of a last will and testament, well then you wouldn’t exactly be wrong, as for all intents and purposes, we are already dead, or will be by the time this story is at least half way through. In fact every now and then we have been called something like the grim reaper but we didn’t come here to name drop. I suppose you could consider it something of a time capsule, crafted from the stuff of dreams, bearing the scars of hopes endurance, with many lessons on the nature of nurturing order in a senseless and unforgiving world. If this work speaks to you, consider your existence very carefully, there are enemies far and near, and sometimes your greatest enemy could be right beneath your skin, they could beat with the very same heart as yours, like twins, they are freaky business ya know. I suppose the short way of saying it is, be strong, be smart, and believe that their was a point to you surviving when so many things did not. Heroes are amazing, monsters are scary, but above all others, we needed a miracle. So much has been, and will be sacrificed (again we imagine) do not be sheep just waiting to be slaughtered, or to slaughter yourself. We’ve seen it written, in one way or another, that the god and devil do not look so different, but such is often the way of such complicated, and hilariously dangerous entities.

Well I suppose that’s good enough as far as precursors go, as a last note I should say that the events described here are subject for interpretation, as describing an interdimensional-space-time anomaly of the heart and soul, is more or less like describing a dispute in heaven, or the variance between sins and virtues. Have you ever considered the nature of ideals, or the epitome of chairness and one ultimate chair prime casting all chair’s in it’s image. Well this is sort of like that, one giant map of harmony between principles both divine and mundane connecting everything in existence. Driven home the point looks something like, if every aspect life and death revolves around the nature of a story, as in even the air you believe you’re breathing could be a story, then somewhere out there is the strongest most powerful story of all, and we were all molded around its image. Look for the signs, search deep within, the handwriting is everywhere you could say.

Let’s start with the simple stuff, their once were a couple of strange kids, who became so much more stranger, as kids are likely to do when they are finally convinced (even if only a little) of their ultimate greatness. You could say that there were around forty two potential candidates for this mission or even path, but as things were, in those early days only about seven showed up. It’s okay, though, the youth is fond of its odd schedules.

So let’s see, their names were something like Emma, Jared, Nathaniel, Conti, Anthony, Terra, and Arianne, though in the course of one’s existence you could have many names forgetting and recognizing others as time goes by. I suppose they were special, but you have to understand we are a strange people prone to much martial conditioning and spiritual trials. The simple way to say it is, many of us work on the perspective, that a broken leg will heal stronger than before if only for knowing that it was broken (the how’s and why’s of an event) and those that don’t heal, must have been too weak, and would have been eaten anyway. It’s harsh, and it’s far from right, but the existence of evil, and divine agony (and or irony) , sort of require a somewhat awkwardly twisted perspective on most ideas often taken for granted by the general populace (whoever and wherever they might be). Short version, they were special because they chose to be, it was not something that could be given, it was earned from one deep self to the other.

Emma was native american and had shortish hair around the ears and neck, and was, generally speaking, very very hot (or pretty or whatever). She was also, generally speaking, disagreeable and prone to being especially brutal if not educational to her fellows at the karate dojo her cousin was in charge of. Jared was the picture of at risk teen, though many could be fooled with his somewhat perverse understanding of the complexities of human desire and need, you could say that for all his angst and bitterness he had a way of getting things to go down the path he found most beneficial. He was something like arabian which may not sound right but we are not entirely in tune with the specifics of the niceties and public policies of your dimension (this is a pretty messed up story after all). Terra was half japanese, half dominican (not in the religious sense, more of that half island off the coast of wherever) and was often teased by her friends for being blasian (black and asian) or hispanese (hispanic and japanese). She was a pretty enough girl but like some of the greatest ideas, her true beauty and awesomeness were both internal things as well as a thing that could be understood through much effort and patience. Anthony was Emma’s slightly older, and slightly more ridiculous brother, he often scared people with his stone man disposition or general “don’t make me kill you” manner of bearing, he looked and was strong, if a bit foolish, but we’ve all been foolish at one point or another. He liked to keep his hair long and braided down his back. Conti was a ginger so his soul was always at least a little in question, and though we have no great love for the white man, he was alright as far as things went. With fiery red hair and freckles galore, his general laid back and humorous approach to life and other trials was endearing when it wasn’t downright disturbing. The man could find the gold in a highway pile up (gold because he was not always sold on the nature of silver linings and pipe dreams). He was a bit on the thin side, but we suppose you could say in a sort of lean gaelic swordsman type of way, or even like a highlander or something. Pretty macho when he wanted to be. Nathaniel was funny too in the way all possible future overlords are funny when they’re all cute and without their many tools. Nathaniel was black and was teased, in a not so endearing way, for it, though he didn’t especially mind as he was relatively certain it was the price he payed for the tiny yet effective actions of vengeance he took out on his peers in that not so normal town, where not quite nothing happened. He liked the other seven because they were “real” when so much had failed to be. Plus it helped that they didn’t call him a nigger, and that in a general way he didn’t feel the need to desecrate their family graves. Arianne had a face that was pleasing if you knew how to vibe with a person’s strange rhythms, otherwise it was unassuming, she had womanish curves and hair like autumn leaves which often left people unprotected from the cutting and concussive intellect she could and would often slam them with. It wasn’t exactly her fault, everyone’s a little different you see, and Arianne just had the burden of being awkwardly correct about a lot of things, like those mongolian warmasters of old or time travelers.   

So, one day these seven folk were walking, for reasons both mysterious and tragically humorous, towards the same destination. Because destinies are so strange and disturbingly insistent upon themselves, there were different paths between them, different angles from which to view their trajectory so to speak, but at some point we all just sort of get to where we were going (those that choose to exist are complicated that way). They were heading to an arcade, which occasionally doubled as a magic-shop and source of occult knowledge. Anthony was walking with Terra, because they shared a couple of classes together, Arianne was walking by herself because she had trouble trusting people (often for good reason, people suck), Then there was Nathaniel, Jared, and Conti who were sort of walking with sort of following Emma because she was smokin hot and great at video games (lots of virtual skill that one).

Some traffic accident and general local mayhem made the usual routes of access difficult to achieve, so each group, though pieces of a pattern far grander took their own special way to almost reach the arcade. Their journeys were disrupted/interrupted, by some mean ol’ bastards (or bitches depending on who’s telling the story). In some mythological story, which, like many myths, has far more truths than not (people tend to be more scared of what is true rather than what is false, which would explain the falseness you’re probably sensing in the world you currently reside in) there was a technique, the ultimate execution and counter-force method so to speak. The basics, though it was a relatively advanced style, was to take the negative energy provided by your enemy and the environment (like with pollution, or spiritually corrupted ghost realms) and to use them to fuel your own reverse strike(s). In theory a clear and brutal enough focus could burn the negative energy from your system so that it found no purchase even as you redirected it back at your foe, like creating a dimensional sink in the energies path lines and steering it towards your desired or required end. The technique was used by some of the greatest swordsman and death lords in that world, but it was a great strain on the mind, body and spirit, and so many were often corrupted or broken by the awesome might of the technique. It should be noted that although the demands of battle are great, in theory the technique, in it’s most evolved form expels, and does not allow any excess negative energy into their system. We are not exactly pacifist but our opinion is that it has less to do with morality (though it can play a great part in people’s individual choices on it’s uses) and more to do with the efficiency of focus and the extreme danger of handling such volatile energy all at once. But those are just the basics. The technique could lead to, and was in many ways centered on a slightly adjacent principle or “execution art” of tracking the “channels”  or “frequencies” of cosmic energy. There is a similarly labeled mathematical principle which deals in the nature of critical points, so we will use that term to describe the principle’s purpose. The ability to track and touch the fabric of dimensions and cosmic critical points of space-time, but more pointedly, to see how, at these points existence could be fractured, shattered, and manipulated. At a slightly more straightforward level it operated on the basis of destroying any hard substance by striking it’s most vulnerable point letting some of the hardest materials  more or less crumble like sand with the most delicate, yet precise, of touches (generally speaking, breaking a thing through its own design). By pairing this principle of critical centeredness with what you could call the ultimate reverse strike you could in theory, track the energies of any and all cosmic trendlines, straight to the core of their most pertinent openings and from these openings heal or break the cosmos as you saw fit.

In short you could say that for all the fortune or misfortune which was heading their way, it was within their potential, and still is depending on how or why you read this story, to at anytime become the strongest and most powerful entities within their existences by, in a manner of speaking, accepting and bending their most ultimate and truest selves as well as the most ultimate and truest versions of those both enemy and foe. So, moving things along, they sort of died and or got dimensionally turned inside out and folded to the end and back again. It wasn’t so much an explosion though it might have looked that way to many, it was more like a dimensional energy ripping itself loose through the fabric of creation. You could even picture it as something like a sharp cube-dimension (like an oddly ordered black hole) crashing. They were not okay, but at least you could say they had each other. They each probably saw something equivalently horrible as well as awe inspiring in its own way (glorious you could say) though a person’s heaven and hell is their own business more often than not. They had been shattered, broken though those who have been broken may know much of breaking in turn, and that which has been shattered can unshatter all the same. Most trauma’s require patience and a degree of depth to be understood in a useful way, there is seldom love without heart ache, or the fire of stars without the cold absents of the void.

The left quickly, stumbling and moving together in awkward yet oddly synchronized motions. You could say that what is magic to one world would be science to the other, but we often approach dichotomies from something of a yin yang perspectives or perhaps more straightforwardly, from the nature of balancing scales.  In a world of people more or less out of control, (which is not wrong necessarily, control can often be very overrated) order tends to come as a response to chaos, though by that same logic one society’s logic is another’s insanity. Our champions, if you want to call them that were both themselves and not, each other and nobody, their scales, their energies had been sent into undulation, and who could say if they’d ever truly rebalance. They passed out in a forest.

A couple of abstract and surreal dreams later some of which would give even those inclined to opiation a spark of envy, and the seven had awakened. A somewhat funny story as something of a non-sequitur. Two racers competed with one another every day to see who was the fastest and one racer would always win. The other racer felt really bad about this and pondered what it could be that kept him from succeeding. Well one day he noticed that his rival had always gotten to the racetrack before him, and so on that day he got to the race track first and one every race they had ever had (or never had depending on who’s telling it). Ha ha, a little bit of death-time humor.