#Worlds Converging

[talesofourworlds]

@mistralxsoul continued from here!

Today was, decidedly, a little bit strange. And even that felt like it was putting it mildly, Guy thought.

His travels had brought him to a city called Zaphias for the time being. It was a much needed break, considering everything he'd been helping to achieve back home. Finally putting a stop of Van's plans and concluding everything at the Absorption Gate hadn't been an easy task, after all. Even without that, he'd been kept plenty busy in Grand Chokmah in the immediate aftermath. Whether that be with walking Emperor Peony's rappigs or settling into his own life, it had been a busy time for Guy. Fortunately, the Emperor had understood his need for a break. Much the same as his friends would have, he imagined.

So far, the stay had been pleasant! Zaphis itself was a nice enough city, or at least was presenting itself to be. In some ways it reminded him of Baticul. That likely had to do with the way the city was structured, Guy concluded. Nobility higher up in the city and the rest of the citizenry further down. In turn, the similarities had reminded him of Luke.

Oh, Luke... he hoped his friend was doing okay now that he had a chance to try and figure out what to do with his life. Knowing his friend, though, that wouldn't be an easy task. So, Guy shook his head and decided to go about his day. Luke wouldn't want Guy to dwell on wondering what he was doing with himself, Guy decided.

Ever since he'd arrived in the city, though, people he had taken the time to talk to had kept mistaking him for someone else. Someone called Flynn, he'd gathered pretty quickly. First it had been some of the knights he'd seen, then just regular citizens. Each calling him that name. One particular man who'd had a dog with him had greeted Guy like they were old friends before realizing the mistake. He hadn't really understood it, but politely cleared up the confusion before the man and his dog were on their way again. Apparently the two had had somewhere they needed to be outside the city.

Still. To repeatedly get mistaken for someone? Strange...

"Whoever this 'Flynn' is must be pretty well liked," Guy concluded as he continued to walk. It was still bizarre, but he could brush it off. Still, as he started to make his way down one particular street, his mind wandered. People kept mistaking him for someone who, he imagined, must have looked remarkably similar to him. Back home, given everything that had happened before he'd decided to take his trip, there would have been an easy explanation. But surely that couldn't be the case here... right?

All too suddenly, Guy became aware of what sounded like a scuffle. The familiar sounds of someone in armor was among the mix. Guy figured it was one of the knights he'd run into earlier that day, and from the sound of it he thought maybe they had it handled. He could help, but as he started to turn his head to see just what was happening, it happened. A yelp first, then a sudden weight crashing into him.

The knight in question, a blond man with his hair styled in an oddly familiar way, had gotten knocked right into Guy. The additional weight of his armor added to the force to the collision made it, in a word, memorable. Guy's own yelp mingled with the knight's as he fell to the ground with the armored man on top of him, and for a few long moments he took in the pain. Not the worst thing he'd ever endured, Guy knew, but it still hadn't been pleasant to get knocked into.

Fortunately, the knight's apology reached him as he found himself being helped to sit up.

"Don't worry about it," Guy told him. "I'm just as much to blame since I wasn't paying attention." Then, he got a good look at the knight in question.

For a heartbeat, Guy was stunned into silence. It almost was like looking in a mirror when he really took in Flynn's features. From the way Flynn's hair was styled to his eye color, they looked eerily similar.

A replica...?

No... no, that couldn't be the case, Guy reasoned with himself. The more he looked, the more he noticed differences. Flynn seemed a little more youthful in his facial structure. His eyes were a slightly different shade of blue. His voice, too, Guy realized as he was asked if he was okay, was different.

Van hadn't replicated him. He couldn't have. Guy knew there was a possibility of everyone having a sort of twin in the world somewhere, but he never thought he'd actually be seeing living proof of that.

"Oh, yeah," Guy finally answered, giving his head a small shake. "I'm okay. A little sore, but I think I can manage. This is hardly the worst thing that could've happened." A light laugh punctuated the thought. Getting knocked over and having a man in armor fall on top of him certainly wasn't as bad as the pain he'd endured when the curse slot seal had been at its worst, after all.

He looked past Flynn for just a moment, noting the fallen dagger and the nick on Flynn's cheek.

"What about the guy you were after? Is it really all right to let him get away?" If he could, he wanted to help. It was the least Guy could do after what had just happened.

[isbergillustration]

This guy is a warped and unwilling servant of the angels I draw (as opposed to the person who is an enthusiastically willing servant but only because they've been brainwashed by them since childhood). Used to be a trans dude now he's trans... something. You can read the first eight or so chapters about him on my writing blog @outgridwrites

[mochiiniko]

commission for @sirwow :>

rotating these two in my head i love them sm 😭

[mispatchedgreens]

wang baoxiang's kitchen, an extended universe. part 1: morning alone, part 2: "brother I'm getting a divorce", part 3: ah shit, how does soup even work, part 4: the kiss

get more of the kitchen and part 3 specifically here! ✨🥣🐀✨

[luc3ks]

bunch of misc stuff I've been doodlin and and chipping away at

[rw-repurposed]

The Convergence Local Group

The Convergence Local Group is the most influential local group within the iterator kind. Mostly comprised of Gen 1 Iterators aside from Upright Carnage (Gen 5). It was one of the earliest local groups known to the realm and each iterator had their own circle of influence within the society.

A Prideful Facade. APF is the administrator of the local group, being one of the earliest generation 1 ever built. He was the eldest in the group and thus had admin power over the other gen 1 in the group. He is dramatic, manipulative, and has a certain aura to him which moved people to follow his direction. He was the reason behind Upright Carnage's abuse and harassment overall. He once had a relationship with Sliver of Straw.

Order of the Day. OotD is a gen 1 that was built to research the fundamentals of the Void Fluid. Their research would produce many important findings regarding the essence of the void sea itself. This, however, led to their obsession with absorbing an abnormally high amount of water for their processors, making them the most greedy water hoarders in the realm. They were the ones who took Carnage's water supply and weakened her state.

Two-Faced Truth. TFT is the influencer of influencers. Everybody in the realm knows who he is. They all adore him. His antics, his personality, and the content he created to entertain iterators in their dire situations made him a lovable icon. However, he hides a dark secret. He is a massive blackmailer, gossiper, and perpetual liar. So many iterators who criticized his antics were cut off from their local group due to his lies and influence, and the victims rarely get a chance to redeem themselves. He was the reason no one answered Carnage's distress call except for Chasing Wind.

Unwanted Desire. UD is the certified bitch of the group. Her influence over the iterators ranges from her speeches and rants about their current situation, to uplifting and motivating words piled into their heads. However, she is far from who she actually is in front of everyone. She's a bitch and the main gaslighter of Upright Carnage during her time with them.

Anguish in Violence. AiV is a brutal Iterator who likes to experiment on creatures for their own entertainment. They were created to research the effect of void fluid on creatures, however, this turned into their deranged and manipulated obsession with violence. They sent multiple violent beasts to tear down Upright Carnage's superstructure down and causing her to fall down.

This local group is filled with abusers, they will not be redeemed.

Character List

[philtstone]

title: check yes, juliet

Summary:

It doesn't matter that Juliet is a freshly-minted, top-of-her-class field agent (alright, so she hasn't actually been in the field yet) or one of the few women working for the Federal Bureau of Investigation's cutting edge check fraud department (just last week, their 20-year-old coffee maker broke and they ran out of number two pencils to mark up their overhead projector notes with): every time her mother calls, all she does is lament that her beautiful, intelligent daughter isn't meeting any eligible bachelors.

“Maybe that’s for the best,” Maryanne sighs eventually. “All O’Hara women fall for liars, Julie. It’s our curse.”

Juliet has to wonder if she didn't scoff at her mother's claim a little bit too soon.

my brother & i had the earth shattering realization a month ago that the plot of "catch me if you can" (2002) is almost to a tee just a mildly alternate psych timeline and that thought has lived in my head rent free to such an insane degree that eventually 14 thousand words poured out of me in au fic form. im posting it so as many other people as possible can see the vision. and also because im sure theres one person other than me who revels in early seasons shawnjuliet's frankly insane levels of chemistry, lol. enjoy!

READ FULL FIC ON AO3

Excerpt:

“Your average bounced check would be routed to the bank it originates from, so you’d only really have a few days in one place before you were discovered. This guy’s been filing off the routing numbers, changing ‘em somehow – so cleanly and neatly that it’ll take a real sharp eye to notice. It’s all about the branch you’re cashing it in. A check cashed in at Chase Manhattan with the one changed to ten’s gonna bounce halfway around the country before anyone figures out it’s rotten, and by that point this asshole is long gone. The numbers go East, Central, West – you see how they cover 0-60, 70-80, and of course they require a special kind of ink to be recognized as real checks, which you’d all know if you’d read the report I circulated …”

Juliet doesn’t notice the full cup of orange juice in front of her until it’s too late. 

Her head’s still full of Carlton’s two hour long briefing this morning, during which she learned more about check fraud than she’d have ever thought a single person could in one lifespan. Certainly not Juliet, who’d originally studied literature at Florida State. Then again, back then she’d have never expected to end up an FBI agent, either.

Then there’s the wired, tense feeling in her gut that probably won’t go away ‘til this sting is over and they bring in the pathetic local guy Carlton’s been tracking for the last week. His MO is pretty girls in pastel dresses, which made Juliet the right man – woman – for the job. At least maybe doing this’ll help the guys in the office take her seriously as a field agent. And, well … she does love a nice peachy pink cardigan. The color goes well with her complexion.

“This idiot’s no real con man, he’s just a clown who can’t be bothered to work an honest job. Child’s play compared to the real thing. ” Carlton tends to pause here, angry that he’s got to acknowledge it like that – the real thin g. “ You know what they’ve been calling him in the papers these days?”  

Him . Always him. They don’t have a name on the subject yet, despite over a million cashed in fraudulent checks. Juliet hums and nods so her partner feels acknowledged. 

“ The skywayman . Pathetic. Like he’s some magician or something, instead of a two-bit liar who thinks he’s smarter than me. ”

“This isn’t personal, Carlton ,” Juliet says tiredly. “ It’s not like he knows who you are to be deliberately toying with you.”  

“Oh yes he is. I know he is. I know him .”

Her hands aren’t quite shaking, because that would be stupid; this guy, their local guy, shouldn’t have a gun on him, and if he does he’s not the type to shoot a woman. Juliet focuses on the paper in front of her and tucks a lock of her hair behind one ear. A window of ten minutes – that’s what Carlton said. Unlike Carlton’s unsub nemesis, they know plenty about this one. He’ll come in, dressed like the middle-aged schlub he is, loose tie probably, gray slacks, thinning hair. He’ll notice her, buy her a soda she’ll accept with a faulty check and then pick her pocket for the cash. The string of pearls at her neck makes her a sweet college girl whose parents have money. She mentally forces herself to stop chewing her lip and instead moves her right hand down to her lap, where she can pick at her nail polish without anyone seeing. 

“Well, obviously we wanna catch him,” Agent Dobson says, when they’re a third of the way through the morning briefing and half the room is asleep or dreaming of lunch. Juliet, of course, has been furiously taking notes. He means the Skywayman; he means the real thing. “But you gotta admit, Lassiter, there is a bit of a magic show to a good con, isn’t there? The press has that one thing right.”

“It’s not magic. It’s lies and deceit and a healthy helping of audacity, and a damn good typewriter. O’Hara, write that down. We’re gonna go through that list of makes and models again, see what we can come up with.”

Deep breath. Her purse, orange to match the cardigan, is in her lap. The gun’s in the purse. She’ll draw it, but not to shoot. This is the kind of work she’s begged the Chief for, and she’ll be just fine.

Maybe Juliet would feel less desperate to prove herself if this diner wasn’t in Miami, and her father didn’t gift her the only string of pearls she owns.

A voice clears itself quietly above her.

“Uh, excuse me? Hi, yeah, hi. That’s my seat.”

READ MORE

[asgard-pics]

[sonorous-eisfyl]

// @thestupidmeanone | cont.

"Really?"

---- He giggles, walking closer to pass Church the takeaway cup of coffee. "It's a latte-- I, actually wasn't sure what kind- if any- of coffee you liked, honestly..."

Taking a seat with a small sigh, he leans back with a smile.

"It has more milk compared to a macchiato according to my friend... if you find it too bitter you can add some sugar,"

With that being said; he pulls out a sugar packet for his own drink. . . and Church may notice that he may have brought 5 packets of sugar with him

[daily-slugplush]

day 45: worm ?

[talesofourworlds]

@mistralxsoul continued from here after longer than I intended oops

The monster attacks in this particular village hadn't escaped Velvet's notice, even before Flynn and his squad had showed up. She suspected the attacks had something to do with an Incarnation that might have been in the nearby area. Perhaps that was what was stirring up the monster population. If the ache in her left arm was anything to go by, it seemed a fair assumption. She hadn't gotten there in time to do anything more than help out in driving out the remaining monsters.

She also had played witness to the way the villagers reacted. Hence the comment she'd made to Flynn when the rabble had calmed down. It wasn't really her place. She didn't know the man, nor did he know her. What she was keen to pick up on first was how noble Flynn seemed. So willing to take on the brunt of the blame if it meant that his squad didn't get the worst of it. In the past, Velvet might have been the same way.

How different things were since her little brother had been killed.

"It's a noble thought. Wanting to take all that blame on yourself," Velvet commented. There was more that could be done, though. She'd intended on flying solo, at least until she could reconvene with Milla, but in this case? Flynn might need the help.

She sighed.

"...Hear me out," Velvet finally said. "Those people may hate you right now, but if we find where those monsters are coming from? We could change that." The idea was so far outside of what she would normally do. She almost wanted to take it back. Then she remembered what that boy she'd met when she was dealing with Alicia the Incarnation had taught her. Phi wouldn't steer her wrong. Maybe it was worth her while to allow a little help.

"I have a feeling about where ought to be a good place to start looking. I'd planned on checking it out on my own, but... you look like you need this after how those people just reacted to you and your squad."

[sirwow]

RD art dump GO

[dawnssummers]

— i never liked that ending either. more love streaming out the wrong way, and i don't want to be the kind that says the wrong way.

buffy the vampire slayer, 5.07 fool for love + 5.18 intervention + 5.22 the gift / richard siken, litany in which certain things are crossed out

[emblazons]

i’m about a month late to the ffvii rebirth fanfare but i saw your study/shot comparison for the ending while scrolling through some tags and was really curious to see if you had come up with any more conclusions since then! i just finished it a couple days ago and still reeling from it and have been enjoying hearing people’s thoughts about what the heck they think is going on. obvs cloud is not ok, but i’m still trying to decide just how much of what we’re seeing is due to his sanity going out the window and how much of it (if any) is aerith actually speaking to him and/or sephiroth messing with him. the way he tells the rest of the party to not look up at the sky though and none of them see what he sees, just clues them all in to the fact that he isn’t entirely all there anymore. a collective very concerned side-eye lol. somebody help him pls.

!!! oh friend, you're in a TON of luck: I actually started a few different commentaries on how I saw the ending on this weeks back, but didn't post them because I got distracted by other fandoms? I'm more than happy to share them though—not as developed as they could be, but some congealing of where my mind went upon finishing the game and rewatching the gameplay.

forewarning: FFVII ending spoilers + a long af post lmao

So I wrote this on my twitter (where I go to see things only on twt lol) the other day because of a bunch of concepts were clarified by the Ultimania + translators, which kinda sums up where my thoughts are:

Which...yeah. As I see it: as of the ending, Aerith is in fact dead in our current world (the one of the player narrative). How I see it, she's died in our primary timeline—though likely "alive" in the same way Zack is in some other timeline, in addition to her connection to every "universe" through the power of her connection to the planet as the last Cetra.

The white whispers (which represent Aerith/the will of the planet) as well as the “confluence of world” colors we see with Sephiroth are all around when Cloud supposedly “sees her alive" during the classic death scene—

—an indicator that the event itself was the "confluence" Sephiroth was trying to achieve, with Cloud experiencing several versions of it due to his own connection to Sephiroth/the lifestream/his fragmented mind. We see this both in what Sephiroth says around the event itself....and also the contrasting experiences of our party with what Cloud sees in the moment (+ through end of the game).

As I see it, Cloud’s consciousness by the end of FFVII:R-II is fully fractured; throughout both Remake & Rebirth he is already seeing visions affected by Sephiroth’s influence on the planet (the black whispers, the way hooded men and thin air turn into Sephiroth before his eyes)—and now, during the “confluence of emotions / worlds / reunion” mentioned (Aerith's death), Cloud’s already broken mind is slipping further into seeing “the middle space” of the worlds joined and prepared for destruction by Sephiroth in real time, rather than following the timeline of events in the world we play—a la the post that inspired your ask. :)

All that said: the reason he’s seeing Aerith (not just sensing her the way Red does in his own Lifestream connection) is because she’s a Cetra, and now (in death) the embodiment of the positive!Will of Gaia across worlds—so because of Cloud's connection to that "middle space" / ability to traverse different versions of reality because of his connection to Sephiroth, Cloud is interacting with her presence…despite it not being there for anyone else.

It’s also why he can see the sky split no one else can.

ADDITIONALLY:

The Aerith we see fight alongside Cloud in the final battle and the one we see walking around everyone as Cid fixes the plane…that’s the spirit of her person (think the Aerith of Advent Children). Aerith didn’t live this game—her spirit can communicate because of Sephiroth's successful confluence, though she’s ALSO "alive" in the same way Zack and Biggs are to us: aka she died in the world she was in but still exists in others, which Sephiroth confirms/explains both when Aerith pulls Cloud into another “doomed” world—

when he’s trying to manipulate Cloud in the Lifestream—

and when you’re fighting Sephiroth alongside Aerith in the void during the final battle (after she’s died).

Even so, Aerith “living on” as the last Cetra/the spirit of the planet + someone with access to multiple worlds through the "reunion" means she’s now as able to infiltrate Cloud's ongoing visions as Sephiroth is...and is likely trying to keep him even somewhat present despite his clearly fractured mind.

I think that’s implied repeatedly by through the hollow Holy Materia (implying both Aerith is no longer “there,” but still present + that cloud himself is now hollow)—

—and why/how the Black Materia (Sephiroth) is still manipulating him and very much driving his fractured thoughts, visions and actions.

As for the rest of the party: it's because no one but his “vessel-connected-to-Sephiroth” self (+ now dead-but-living-on-in-the-Lifestream Aerith) has any idea what he learned about worlds in the Lifestream that what’s happening to Cloud is lost on everyone (and why they look painfully concerned), and also why spirit!Aerith repeatedly gives him reminders to 1) not listen to Sephiroth and 2) focus on finding himself again.

All that said: because Cloud’s actual self is already slipping away from our present game TL by the second half of the game, it will have to be retrieved and rearranged—which we know will happen in game 3 (assuming you know the original FF7 plot where Tifa rearranges him in the Lifesteam) but that has to be changed from “Cloud finds out about Zack and finally cracks" because Cloud already knows about Zack in some capacity by the middle of Rebirth.

I personally think this sets us up for a really interesting resolution in that Tifa is going to probably have spirit!Aerith’s help putting Cloud back together in the Lifestream in game 3—and that she will likely play a bigger part in helping Cloud “find himself” in his own world again because it’s been made more apparent that she’s a full consciousness in the Lifestream/able to affect multiple worlds now because of Sephiroth completing the first step in his plan. That's more just hopeful on my part going into the next game than something rooted in analysis though.

But yes! those are my thoughts! I hope this gives you (more than a little) something. Feel free to ask if something isn’t clear though lol this was like 4 different half-done drafts combined 😂 Regardless, ty so much for the ask / giving me a reason to post them!

[shitpostingfromthebarricade]

In a World Without Heroes: deleted scene

Author's note: The Saturday morning interview scene between Grantaire and Enjolras in chapter 8 originally started from Grantaire's arrival and was intended to go through the events of the scene that has since replaced it. This scene ended up being replaced partly because the characterizations weren't panning out how I wanted (as you see by the end) and partly because it was dragging the scene/fic. Yes, it was good background for the reader, but ultimately (as Grantaire now comments in the replacement scene) this is the same thing Enjolras would have said in every interview since his release from prison, so it didn't make sense for Grantaire to be acting like he'd never tuned in for any of Best Boy's television interviews.

Anyway, I'm finally sharing it here because it's the backstory behind Mabeuf's Manhattan Autonomous Zone and Enjolras's arrest, and also I've been meaning to for uhhhhh two years. Enjoy.

By the time Grantaire texts that he’s on his way, Enjolras feels very nearly relieved.

He’d spent Friday evening catching up on what little cleaning has been neglected since the last time he had a guest — that is to say, since moving in — specifically in order to sleep in Saturday morning, only to find himself wide awake at 9AM with little to do but anticipate the events of the day.

“Hey,” says Grantaire when Enjolras lets him into the building.  He’s dressed down from how he usually is at the correctional facility but up from what he wears at the Chinese restaurant, which makes Enjolras feel better about his choice in clothes today.

“Do you mind walking?  I’m on the fourth floor.”

There’s hesitation, and Enjolras thinks Grantaire may be about to protest, but when he speaks it’s to say, “Yeah, sure.  I haven’t had a leg day in a while.”

“You work out?” asks Enjolras, surprised.

“Nope.  Lead the way.”

The walk occurs in silence except for their heavy breathing and a quick apology when someone coming down from the third floor brushes past, and then they’re at the door to Enjolras’s flat.

“Make yourself at home,” he says, heading for the kitchen.  “Would you like anything?  Tea?  Water?”

“Seltzer if you’ve got it, water if you don’t.”

Seltzer.  It’s what Grantaire has ordered both times they were out, too, and Enjolras makes a note that he should pick some up beforehand if they do this again.

There’s no reason for them to do this again, of course: with this past week’s interview completed, they’re over halfway finished with the collaborative part of the book, and there will be no reason for them to be spending time with one another anymore.  Even with Enjolras’s resolution not to pursue a relationship with Grantaire, the prospect of their burgeoning friendship coming to a halt with the end of their professional correspondence makes Enjolras’s stomach twist.

He re-enters the living room with two waters, placing one on a coaster in front of Grantaire and sipping the other for something to do.

“Thanks,” says Grantaire belatedly.  His eyes have been wandering around the flat since Enjolras’s return, and Enjolras wonders what he’s looking for.  At last, his attention falls back on Enjolras.  “You’re dressed different.”

Enjolras lets his eyebrows quirk in feigned surprise and glances down at himself as though he hadn’t spent fifteen minutes lingering over the decision that morning.  When he was merely a law student and the point person for a far-left branch of a tutoring group, Enjolras had had a lot more flexibility in what he wore; since his release from prison, however, his wardrobe has become a rotation of the same six white dress shirts, three tones of neutral trousers, and the occasional matching suit jacket.  Even on days when he isn’t working in some capacity or another, Enjolras finds himself dressing as inoffensively as possible in anticipation of someone’s inevitable recognition and the associations to follow.  His attire hadn’t been particularly flamboyant before then, but his use for his green rally shirts and blue cozy clothes has certainly fallen to the wayside since.

Today, after nearly five minutes of deliberation, he had settled on a pair of gray-ish jeans, a pale red undershirt, and a blue fitted shirt he’d nearly forgotten that he owned.  At the last second before he’d gone down to meet Grantaire Enojlras had pulled a white hoodie over, but already he feels himself overheating in the extra layer.

“Yes, well,” he shrugs, realizing that he should sit and taking the armchair on the far side from where Grantaire has seated himself, “I don’t need to leave today, so I can dress down.”

“That’s what it is!  I haven’t seen you in jeans and a shirt without a collar since you got out.”  Grantaire’s eyes suddenly narrow.  “You aren’t wearing a collared shirt under that, are you?”

Despite his discomfort, Enjolras snorts.  “I’m not.”

“I don’t know that I believe you.”

“My deepest condolences.”  His retort is met with crinkling at the corners of Grantaire’s eyes before they divert altogether as his attention turns to his lap.  Enjolras clears his throat.  “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you in purple.  It looks nice.”

Glancing back up, Grantaire’s brows furrow as he looks over his clothes.

“The scarf,” Enjolras clarifies.

The outermost layer of the sheer material is picked up and rubbed under close scrutiny between Grantaire’s fingers.  “I guess?  I thought it was gray when I grabbed it this morning, but in this lighting it looks blue to me.”

The scarf is definitely purple, but it isn’t worth disputing.  “It looks nice,” Enjolras instead repeats.

“Well cree, thanks.”  

Taking a deep breath, Enjolras decides to put an end to the stall tactics.  “The interview, then?  How do you want to do this?”

“Uh.  I was thinking just kinda like at the facility?  You say what you want, and I respond and ask questions as they arise.  Obviously no notetaking or recordings or anything, so it’ll pretty much be like a normal conversation that I know some of the answers to already.”

Nothing about it feels like a normal conversation, but Enjolras braces himself nevertheless.  “Let’s begin, then.”

“You sure?”  There’s a dubious crinkle between Grantaire’s eyebrows.  “We can shoot the shit for a while longer if you want, let you get comfortable and whatnot.”

Resting his hands carefully over his knees, Enjolras arranges his features into a neutral façade.  “I’m sure.”

Grantaire sighs deeply, a hand skating over his scarf and jerking the front back from his hairline as he scratches the back of his head.  “Okay then.  Well, where would you say it all started?”

He’s about to fall back on the polite clarifying tactics he’d been drilled on for televised interviews before when he realizes that he doesn’t have to.  “Where what all started?”  

Apparently Grantaire holds a similar amount of compunction toward his professionalism.  “I dunno, whatever you want.  The rally?  Broletariat?  Activism in general?”

Enjolras has managed to avoid shining a spotlight on his childhood this long, and his parents have made it clear that they have no interest in having their names attached to any of this, but beginning at the rally would feel like starting a sentence in the middle of a phrase.  “Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and I have known each other since we were young,” he says, finally settling for their indoctrination to the betterment of humanity as a promising starting place, “and we all were accepted to and attended Columbia for undergrad and stayed for our graduate degrees.  None of us were from New York City, and while we were studying, we saw a need in the local community for support, and we started up an afterschool tutoring group in conjunction with Barnard College’s urban teaching program.  I believe they’re still running, though I lost touch with them while I was away.”  

“On the road,” nods Grantaire.

“In jail.”  There’s no use dancing around it now: if Enjolras can’t say it in front of Grantaire, who else is there?  

“Right, that too.”  Grantaire’s body is draped over the corner of Enjolras’s couch casually enough, but there’s a stiffness in his posturing and the way he rubs the tip of his thumb back and forth along the side of his index finger that makes Enjolras think he’s uncomfortable.  

“The Broletariat’s inception was nearly accidental,” he continues. “Feuilly worked in the afterschool program at one of the schools we operated out of, and we got to discussing education law one day while he was packing up and I was waiting on a pupil and agreed to continue the conversation as a secondary location at a later date.  It was never official, but it did become regular: once work and classes let out, more and more of us met under the guise of lesson planning or studying or spending time with friends, while under it all we were organizing.”

“Organizing what?”

Enjolras shakes his head.  “At the time, we’d had no way of knowing.  We could feel unrest building toward something, and we made sure that the channels of communication were open and to keep up with the news and share resources and to — to be prepared for any eventualities,” he says.

“Enjolras, I was there.”

“It occurs to me that announcing our weapons stores to the general public may not go over well.”

“Good thing you’re not announcing it to the general public, then.”

Enjolras sighs.  “We were ready for anything, and one day, ‘anything’ finally had a name: Jean-Charles Mabeuf.

“Before his arrest, Mabeuf had been a churchwarden at a local church, a respected member of his community.  His friends said he had an expansive collection of books and was trying to grow indigo to start a small business.”

“Does indigo grow well in New York City?”  This time, it seems like a question Grantaire genuinely doesn’t know the answer to.

“Evidently not.  At the time of his arrest, he was several months behind on rent, had nothing in his fridge, and his famous book collection had dwindled to hardly anything: he was destitute.”

“Tough break.”

Enjolras shoots a sharp look at Grantaire.  “Do you remember what happened to him?”

“The prison left him to die of treatable causes, what more is there to know?”

“His landlord took him to court for the missing rent; Mabeuf had already fallen ill and couldn’t make it, and the judge issued a bench warrant.  He was arrested for being sick and poor.”

“Well, I’m seeing why I would selectively have culled that bit if I heard it.”

Enjolras feels his nostrils flare at the flippancy, but a small part of his mind reminds him that the Grantaire in front of him is not the Grantaire who drank his way through the entire rebellion and every strategy meeting leading up to it.  “I would be surprised if you hadn’t: his arrest hardly made the news.  I’m told that his church was in the process of arranging some care package or another for him, but that most likely would have been the end of it if not for the pneumonia.”

Now comes the part that the news and everyone knows: all of the symptoms were recorded upon his intake, but no action was taken to treat him.  Mabeuf remained in jail as he waited for his new court date, complaining every day of chest pains and requesting to be moved to the med pod.  He was never moved, and on 1 June, at eighty years old, Jean-Charles François Mabeuf was found dead in his cell.

“With the release of the coroner’s report, his church community took to the web for Justice for Mabeuf.  The movement against the privatized prison system had already existed and was merely on the backburners, and it seemed like the time for change had finally come.”

“Okay, so wait,” Grantaire interrupts.  “I was a bit hazy on the details at the time, but I mostly chalked that up to a whole slew of substances combined with a complete and manufactured sense of total apathy; as it would turn out, I am still just as confused.”

Enjolras leans back expectantly in his seat.  “About?”  

“A couple of points, honestly, but mostly what an armed splinter from a tutoring club expected to happen.”

A fair question.  “I was supposed to go into education law.”

Grantaire blinks.  “Okay?”

“There’s no special concentration in legal programs to choose one’s specialization: you take the relevant courses offered, intern with firms that handle the sorts of cases you’re interested in, and once you pass the bar, pursue that area.”

“Got it.”

“Once you start looking into the way the United States education system is set up, it becomes immediately evident how inextricably linked all of these pieces are: children are born in low-income communities.  Low income means that the property taxes that fund the schools amount to less, leading to fewer resources and higher drop-out rates.  The wages in positions for unskilled labor aren’t enough to live on, so people either pick up more and more jobs until they’ve worked themselves to the bone and, quite often, to the point of their bodies breaking down, at which point the failings of the health system become painfully apparent; are turned out onto the streets, which exposes the failings of our government’s housing system and its rotting capitalist firmament; or turn to more lucrative but less legal job opportunities.  

“Two of these are arrestable offenses disproportionately targeted communities of color, and the third skips past those steps directly to killing the dime-a-dozen wage slave.”

Grantaire stares at the coffee table in silence for long enough that Enjolras begins to suspect that he may not have been paying any attention at all before his brows finally furrow and he looks back up at Enjolras.  “So what were you expecting to happen?”

He sighs.  “I couldn’t rightly say what we expected to happen, but the goal was to draw national attention to any one of these points.  If something gave, we thought that the whole system might crash down around it.  Exposing the for-profit prison industrial complex as the corrupt, predatory, outdated, inherently racist system it is … it felt self-evident.  The whole system is broken, let’s build a new one together that serves all of its citizens equally and doesn’t feature intentional loopholes for legalized slavery.”

Grantaire is quiet for a long time before he finally asks, almost too quietly for Enjolras to hear, “When did you realize it wasn’t going to work?”

‘When’ indeed.  Enjolras makes no motion to answer.  When had he known?  Has he ever known?  Perhaps he still doesn’t.  “It still might,” is what he finally says.  “We haven’t failed yet.”

Grantaire looks affronted.  “You almost died, Enjolras.”

“I didn’t."

[eeveekitti]

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