#all the bureaucracy is really sickening

[movielosophy]

Under the microscope | It’s all started from here when his calculation doesn’t match the deed.

[tiny-maus-boots]

Queen of Hearts pt 18

A/N: It's been awhile for this one. I was a little bit kinda sorta life threateningly sick so I had some time to complete this. Thank you as always to @chloes-yellow-cup and @kimmania for listening to the hcs that eventually become real stories. i love you awesome nerds.

18 Aggression Factor

“Jesus, this is a fucking nightmare.”

Aubrey nodded her agreement at the thought and leaned back in her seat. The leather creaked softly, the only counterpoint to Beca's soft comment. They had gone to the docks, and on the surface in the full light of day everything appeared on the up and up. But just a little digging after business hours had uncovered a nest of nastiness that she didn't yet know what to do with.

“We have to do something Aubrey. We can't just let all those women suffer. Some of them were just girls…”

Aubrey didn't say anything for a long time. She was sickened by what she and Beca had seen. But it all made sense now. Everything that Weston had been involved in was suddenly and disgustingly clear. Weston had been using his connections with the Russian mob to traffick women as play things for the rich and elite.

“We can free them all tonight. But then Roman and his crew close down shop here and open up somewhere else.”

“They're going to do that anyway now that they've killed Grant's kid. The kid was nothing to them or his father. By morning all those girls will be shipped and held somewhere else.”

And if Beca were to go to her superiors now she would sidelined by the wheels of bureaucracy before anyone could save those women. Her thumbs tapped lightly on the steering wheel as she turned the problem over in her head. She couldn't see any way to help the innocent victims immediately that would stop the operation entirely. She had to choose. Save who she could now or let them and countless others suffer until she and Beca could maybe find a way to dismantle an entire organization and see that justice was served to the people behind it all. 

“All those rich pricks are going to get off scott free from this, aren't they?”

Detective Mitchell looked away and sighed deeply. It bothered her as much as it bothered Aubrey. When they had started this working arrangement it had been because Aubrey wanted someone on the Force that was in her pocket. In truth it could have been any cop, and quite a few that had less compunction about taking her money to look the other way. But she had needed Beca Mitchell in particular.

It had been late when Beca had pulled into the big bay doors of the abandoned warehouse. But dead of night seemed about right for whatever was about to happen. She pulled the rusted old Nova into a cleared space and got out of the car warily. 

Happy and Lilly were stood menacingly and armed to either side of a seated figure lost half in shadow. Somehow Aubrey managed to be the most terrifying of them all, calmly waiting for Beca's arrival with the patience of a large predator. Smoke curled in a lazy tendril around Aubrey’s head and she casually dropped the butt of her cigarette to the floor and ground it out with her shoe as she rose.

“Did you bring him?”

“In the trunk. It'll be a miracle if he survived carbon monoxide poisoning back there. I think the catalytic converter fell off this bucket somewhere on Imperial.”

Aubrey nodded and Happy and Lilly moved to pull their guest out of the trunk of Beca’s unmarked police car. She put a hand into her suit jacket and pulled out an envelope of cash and tossed it to the Detective. Beca caught it and counted the cash half distracted by the none too gentle way her cargo was being dragged and strapped to a dusty work table.

“So look. I know the deal here. You make moves and I follow them. In the end I make some money and really shitty people get what they deserve. I'm oddly on-board with meting out punishment in non legal ways when its due. But this guy? He's nothing. Some B&E, some minor theft. A bar fight. On paper this guy is no one.”

And she had looked. Beca might be okay with playing things a little loose with the law for Aubrey but she wasn't going to do it blindly. She had pulled Mervin Evans’ jacket and read through his past charges before she picked him up and shoved him into her trunk. He wasn't a great guy but he wasn't horrible either.

The blonde glanced away from Mervin and pinned Beca with a cold stare. She wasn't afraid of Posen exactly, but she was a fan of exercising caution around an unpredictable variable. Asking too many questions could easily land her on the table next to Mervin.

“On paper you're an officer of the law and I'm a hardworking, law abiding, businesswoman.”

“Touche.”

Aubrey slid the suit jacket from her shoulders and hung it neatly from a hanger. There was a deliberateness about the way the other woman removed her cufflinks and watch and placed them in the pocket of her jacket. Beca swallowed hard when Aubrey rolled up the sleeves on her shirt and strode to the table with echoing steps. 

“You can leave now, Detective. The kitchen is gonna get hot.”

Beca narrowed her eyes at the subtle challenge. Okay sure watching Aubrey tug on leather gloves before picking up a thin steel bar and hefting it lightly in hand was alarming. But if she left now without questioning this was she really the person she thought she was? 

“You implying I can't hack the job?”

Aubrey chuckled softly and placed the bar on the table near Mervin's head. For the most part he had been sort of out of it, too many bumps in the road on the way over. He groaned and his head lolled to the side. He just stared at the bar for a moment in dazed confusion before recognition dawned on him and he started to struggle. Happy slapped him hard a few times to settle him and Beca shifted uncomfortably.

“I'm not implying anything. I'm out right telling you. You ain't got it, kid. Now beat it before you realize how dirty your hands really are.”

Whether she meant to or not Aubrey had issued a challenge that Beca couldn't ignore. She had to take a stand one way or the other. Even if it might get her killed.

“I need to know what he did, Posen. He's too small of a fish in our great big pond to deserve whatever it is you're planning.”

Aubrey picked up a torch striker and gave it an experimental squeeze to text the way it sparked. She nodded in approval before using it to point at a wide eyed and gagged Mervin.

“You're right. He's a little fish, but he's no Nemo. He's a remora.”

“Wait. Like those fish that eat shark leftovers or whatever? Where the fuck is this going?”

Aubrey lit the acetylene torch standing at the head of the table with the striker. Mervin jumped and tried to struggle but the straps around his body held him fast. She was methodical about the way she heated the end of the bar, leaving the fire on the tip until it glowed a white hot.

“Hm. Something like that. Remoras feed on shit. And this little shit eating fishie is feeding from a shark I don't want in my water.”

“I'm guessing we aren't talking a cute friendly reef shark.”

Aubrey inhaled deeply and closed her eyes for a moment. Beca was used to seeing the action and knew that the person she respected most was about to do something that she felt needed to be done. Aubrey was violent and practical to brutality but it was never without a reason. When she opened her eyes and looked at Beca there was a hollow void where most people had a soul. 

“Someone is taking women from MY streets. Teenagers, Mitchell. Young women are being stolen and sold and this stronzo, this oh so little fish, is the one finding them for his master. And do you know what he does to them? He brands them so they know who they belong to. And now I'm going to mark him.”

Aubrey raised the brand and moved to bring it close to Mervin's arm. Only Beca's shaking hand on her wrist stopped her. 

“Wait…wait…”

Whatever was going on in the Detective's head was a struggle Aubrey did not envy. Her job was simple. She did what she needed to and she didn't have to play by anyone's rules but her own. Mitchell on the other hand lived with a foot in two worlds, there were lines she couldn't cross with the same ease Aubrey did. 

Lines she shouldn't cross because she had people in her life that would never understand. Detective Mitchell had a family. Brothers and sisters and two of the most loving people as parents that chose Beca and saved her from a life in the system. Aubrey had done her research on Beca long before she ever approached her. She knew all her triggers and all her secrets. She knew them all and played on them to get what she wanted. Just like she was playing on that now. 

“Are you asking me to spare him? Do you think he spared those girls he stole and hurt? Do you think if I let him  go now he'll stop and change his ways and never touch another person's daughter…or sister?”

The look in Beca's eyes was terrible to behold. A leviathan of disgusted rage rose in the deep blue depths and if Aubrey were being honest, she was proud to see it and bothered that she had to be the one to invoke it. Hate boiled beneath the surface when Beca gripped the brand in her own hand and pressed it down with a scream on Mervin's forehead. 

Aubrey felt nothing as she watched him writhe and howl in pain behind his gag. She felt nothing when Mitchell flung the brand away and staggered drunkenly to the door outside to retch on the hard black macadam lot. She gave Mervin a disinterested look and nodded to Happy and Lilly to finish the work. They would without question or conscience and she appreciated that.

But it wasn't what she needed.

Aubrey stepped outside and knelt by Beca heaving on all fours. She reached out a tentative hand to rub the other woman's back soothingly and wasn't surprised to be shrugged off. She had pushed too far. Beca tried to scramble away, tears running down her face freely but Aubrey gathered her as easily as a child and held her while she struggled with what she had just done.

“I'm sorry Mitchell. Sorry I goaded you into it because I didn't like being questioned. Because I felt like a point needed to be made.”

“I'm gonna hork again.”

Aubrey eased away and let Beca rise on shaky feet. The way the Detective looked at her would haunt her at night when she was alone and the horrors of her life replayed themselves on repeat. Anyone else would have looked away from the accusation and revulsion. Aubrey stared back, evenly, accepting who and what she was now. She hadn’t always been this. Once it had affected her too.

“I threw up my first time too.”

“Jesus Christ, Posen. This work is fucking evil. The people that do this are fucking evil.”

You're fucking evil.

Beca didn't say it. She didn't have to. Aubrey rose and brushed the dirt off her neatly pressed slacks. Yes. She was. She nodded at the unspoken statement and smoothed her tie.

“I'm no saint, that's true.”

Something flickered in Beca’s eyes and she looked away from Aubrey. The blonde slid hands in her pockets and considered for a moment.

“I might be the devil.”

The detective turned to eye her quickly. Measuring her worth with a skill that only cops had.

“You're not the devil. You're fucking awful sometimes but you're not the devil Posen. You're trying to do a job with the only tools you have and its sick work but maybe some of it has to be done.”

“I'm a weapon, Detective. My purpose is pain and order and I am very good at it. Who I inflict pain on is how I sleep at night.”

Beca nodded and turned away to stare at the moon above. Her voice was raw and tight as she struggled to contain her emotions.

“Lesson learned. Don't question you if I don't want to become an unfeeling weapon.”

Aubrey hesitated and looked up to the moon as well. No one questioned her. Ever. Even before her father had passed and her work was new, no one had questioned the way she handled business. And perhaps that was why she was the monster she was today.

“I need you to keep questioning me, Mitchell. Even if I hate it.”

Beca glanced at her quickly again, eyes wide with surprise. Aubrey sighed deeply.

“There are lines even I shouldn't cross and I don't know if I recognize them anymore.”

“What are you asking here? You want me to be your Jiminy?”

Fatigue set in making her shoulders hunch with the weight of so many misdeeds. Seeing Detective Mitchell break down, seeing her feel something, had shown her how far removed she was from humanity. And it scared her.

“I don't flinch, Bec. Humans should flinch when they do terrible things. They should feel it in their soul. I feel nothing.”

“Jesus. You're really asking me to help you be human?”

Her lips quirked in a quick grin. If anyone could help her find her humanity again it was Beca Mitchell. Perhaps the only person alive not afraid to tell her to fuck off. 

“I just want to be a real girl.”

“Great, fantastic, maybe you can start by taking a crack at that work life balance thing. Take a night off…and don't fucking call me.”

She had taken that advice to heart and gone to a poker game hosted by a friend. Aubrey smiled softly at the memory of spending four hours letting the most gorgeous creature she had ever seen win every single dollar she had brought and her heart to boot.

Beca had been right then and she was right now. Aubrey inhaled deeply knowing she was going to end Roman and his business but Weston's friends would still be safe to continue doing what they wanted. And she wouldn't be able to do a damn about it. 

“I need to make an example of Ekzarova and make it very costly for his organization to run that line of business.”

“Too costly to be worth the effort.” Beca watched her careful nod of agreement before speaking again. “Richie Rich's friends are a lost cause aren't they?”

“For now. Yes. They have more money and resources than I do. So for now, until I can find out the right leverage on them, they skate on this.”

“We still have the proof on those drives.”

“If you thought that was enough to nail them for this you would have used it a long time ago. We both know it'll get buried and you'll find yourself out of a job.”

“And Alice?”

Alice Alice Alice. Aubrey hadn’t allowed herself to think about her ex girlfriend. She was afraid the rage would overwhelm her good sense and she would do something sloppy enough to get her caught.

“For her part in what happened to Happy? For putting her hands on Stacie…”

She gave Beca a look that didn't mask the well of darkness in her soul at the thought of ending Alice.

“She needs to be made an example of too or they'll send another just like her. But you know. Competent.”

“You asking me to cross lines Jiminy?”

“No I'm outright telling you we are going to cross lines. A lot of them.” 

“Bec…”

“Don't Aubrey.”

“You're a cop.”

She felt it bore a mention. Beca was rapidly approaching a point where there would be no turning back. She had a life and family she could easily lose.

“For what though? Did cops stop my alcoholic father from beating my crackhead mother to death in front of my face? Did cops take me out of the foster system and put me in a safe home where I felt loved for the first time in my life? I'm sorry was it the cops that found the gang banger that murdered my older brother for trying to protect a store clerk? Are cops doing anything at all to protect any of these women? No. Man…fuck the police. They are part of a system of abuse and I'm done Aubrey. I'm fucking done. You know who was there to save me? People. Just fucking good people. And a goddamn murdering mobster might be the best one of them. So don't fucking tell me what I'm losing. The answer is nothing. I lose nothing but the shame of being part of the problem.”

“Okay.”

What else could she say? Aubrey reached out a balled fist and held it steady. Beca looked at her and bumped their knuckles together. 

“I don't think I'll ever be a real girl if I lose myself in this, you know that right? What I'll have to do to end this whole thing…”

Beca's tone gentled and she looked at Aubrey with something the blonde had never seen in the Detective's eyes before. Pride.

“Aubrey, this only makes you that much more human and real.” 

They sat there a minute longer while she let that sink in. Somehow, somewhere, she had changed. Because of Beca.

“So you gonna be my best man or what?”

Mitchell was right. Fuck the police. If they were going scorched earth then it wouldn't matter who stood by her at her wedding. And she really couldn't think of anyone she wanted more at her shoulder.

“Do I get to bang hot bridesmaids?”

“No guarantee but there is an open bar and a hot doctor among the guests.”

Beca sighed heavily as if she were making a huge sacrifice at not being able to sleep her way through the wedding party. But Aubrey could see she didn't really mean it.

“Yeah alright. I guess I can rock a suit for a day. Maybe I can pass out and Doc Beale can give me some mouth to mouth.”

Beca winked at her and slid out of the car with a chuckle. The door slammed, leaving her to sit in the quiet car park alone. She had a lot to prepare and she needed to do it quickly. But right now the only thing she could focus on was getting back to Stacie to find a little peace before she burned the world to the ground.

[give-soup-please]

How about the Narrator is like a guardian angel, I really liked that, it seemed interesting. And I bet that you'll turn it into something amazing

Guardian Angel Narrator (platonic or romantic)

(one potential idea for an AU. Dunno if I like the way this one turned out, but here we go.)

He doesn’t think much of his job. Everyone has an assigned purpose, and his is to protect his charge- whoever it may be.

He’s been here since the start of human civilization, when humans gathered together and created the idea of divine protection. 

He’s bored, mostly. He watches the cycles of civilization roll like a spinning wheel. Creation, uprise, downfall, destruction. The same four, over and over again.

Heaven and hell are such bureaucracies, demanding petitions for miracles and curses be formed in triplicate.

He drifts from assignment to assignment, doing the bare minimum. He’s utterly disinterested. 

His last assignment dies, a 90 year old woman who ran a knitting group and did charity bake sales for her church. He gently guides her on, seeing her to her eternal reward. He can act professional, at any rate. 

He gets a memo from the head office, and you’re next on his list. You’re a slightly more interesting case. Your original guardian angel was… dispatched by a rogue demon. That was rare. 

His eyebrows keep climbing as he reads more into your spiritual history. You’re being fought over. Both sides are very invested in you, for one reason or another. He’ll have to keep an eye out. Something interesting is bound to happen with your life.

He carries his tools. A sword, a book, and his voice. He takes his place at your side, and begins to do what he’s been doing for thousands of years. He takes a polite disinterest in you.

Months go by, and slowly, he finds himself more drawn to you. You have a good heart. A rare treasure, in this world. You smile, despite your suffering. You do your best to help friends, despite the fact that no one is helping you.

You’re soft. You’re sweet. You’ve been through so much, yet your soul remains mostly untarnished. 

Evil surges around you constantly. He wards off spiritual attacks again and again, and does his best to gently guide you away from bad people without his influence being noticed. 

He appears in many ways. ‘Instinct’, ‘intuition’, ‘thin slicing’. It’s that strong voice inside you. Like yours, but more powerful.

Every time you choose to do the right thing, he celebrates. Odd. He’s never felt so good about doing his job before. 

A lot of his power is derived from the desire to help you. He’s never been so strong in his entire career.

It’s so gradual, he doesn’t notice himself doing it. He starts standing guard at your bed, warding off nightmares to the best of his ability. Sometimes you’ll see an unknown figure in your dreams, shining brightly.

He begins reading to you from his book. Your ears can’t hear him, but your soul can. Those random moments of complete peace you’re feeling, that’s because of his voice. Your soul settles, and the rest of your body follows.

He’s getting more and more frustrated by his limitations. He’s fed up with the paperwork, the reports, the general stinginess of heaven. Can’t they see how valuable you are? You were precious, an utter rarity in a bleak world. He needs more resources, but heaven is all about maintaining a celestial balance! It’s sickening. 

He begins having visions. He looks up and sees strings. Golden bands of light, all attached to him. He can see through them, but they are definitely there. He’s chained. He couldn’t see it until now.  

His protectiveness grows. He watches over you at parties, making sure no one slips anything into your drink. He keeps you company on your commute, whether to work or school. You don’t get in car accidents. 

He’s received another memo. Something life changing is about to happen, and not in a positive way. The higher ups are claiming it’s for your character development, that you need to grow in order to fulfill your purpose.

He marches right up to his manager, absolutely furious. “This is ridiculous!” He shouts. “They’ve been through enough. I’ll not stand by while they get hurt, I won’t allow it.”

Management makes it clear. He needs to stand back and let it happen, or he’ll be punished. Several threats are made. Everything from having his wings stripped to casting him out entirely. 

He’s quelled. For now. The weeks slip by, and the horrible thing is almost upon you. He snarls and curses his lot, but there isn’t much he can do. He can’t- He can’t-

You’re so lovely, so deserving of a better fate than this. He can’t stand by. 

You’re about to get damaged, in the name of some divine plan. Without thinking about what he’s doing, the narrator raises his sword and cuts the chains that had been binding him.

Time freezes for a few moments. You can see him. He hasn’t had time to shield his true form. You see a mighty figure, tall, with wings. He’s beautiful. He’s terrifying. You turn and run, narrowly avoiding that terrible fate. 

You run back to your apartment, shutting and locking the door. A throat clears gently behind you. 

“I don’t suppose ‘be not afraid’ is too much of an ask?” You whip around to see him standing there, sheepishly.

You should call for help. You should be afraid. You should be panicking. But you’re not seeing him in his full glory now. The wings are there, but he’s not shining brightly enough to hurt. 

His wings are beautiful. Iridescent, reflecting light off into different colors. 

“We’ve met..?” It’s a half question, half statement. You recognize him, but you’ve never seen him. You stay very still, waiting for him to make the first move, to see if he’s a threat.

He takes one step forward slowly, as if trying to avoid spooking an anxious animal. “I’ve been watching you from a distance for so long. It’s been insufferable. I- I’m free to do as I wish now, and… Heh- The only thing I can think of doing is to help you as much as I can.”

You saw the chains he broke. “...You don’t look fallen.”

He glances at his body. His wings are still white, his robe perfectly ironed, nothing has changed. “Yes- Well. Obviously I’m not.” He hadn’t even thought about what would happen afterwards. He was that focused on making sure you weren’t hurt. 

You smile. “Congrats on the new freedom. I’m guessing you weren’t allowed to talk to me before?”

He can talk to you. You can hear him. The narrative binds have been cut. “Oh, it was dreadful. Imagine spending all this time with someone you like, and being unable to do anything major to help. I’ve watched you struggle and suffer so much…”

He takes another step closer, and you’re not shying away. It’s a good sign.

“So… Now what are we going to do?” You ask. “This is major. What’s going to happen to you? To me? Angels are real, and I’ve somehow landed myself with a dedicated one.”

He preens at the word ‘dedicated’. “Obviously, life will continue as it always has, you just have another resource. Don’t worry about you getting in trouble, it was my c-choice.” His voice wobbles a bit at the last word. He’s free. He’s finally free.

The two of you can have proper conversations now. He doesn’t have to file paperwork, he can just make things happen. No one can control him now. He’s going to make you happy, to make up for all the times he couldn’t help.

“That doesn’t matter. What matters is that we have each other. I intend on doing my job to the fullest. I will protect and guide you. It is my duty, and my pleasure, to be by your side until the end.”

Well, that was both concerning and flattering. “Are you sure about this? Don’t you want a life outside of… me?”

He’s genuinely confused. “What for? I’ve seen enough of the world. It isn’t- You’re one of the few things here worth serving. No, no, no, I’m quite sure about this.”

Life goes on. The days are brighter. You’ve always got company when you ask for it. He reads from his book on request during sleepless nights. You’re so glad he decided to break himself out of heaven’s control.

He’s not fallen, he’s just come a little closer to neutral ground.

[grazzt-fanpage]

"So, first let me give you recognition for asking the question. Knowing where to draw your lines yet being compelling enough to incorporate the adult elements and concepts is a noble DM/GM talent.

I love Graz’zt. He’s been my favorite BBEG since I started when my mentor used him in AD&D back in like 2002. Now, everyone has a different take on things and I’d like to paint a different picture and idea for you.

No one really knows where Graz’zt (Graz from here on out) came from. Some say he was an arch devil and possible relation to Asmodeus who was sent to be his agent in the abyss. Some say he was a renegade from the hells, who was sickened by the bureaucracy and limitations of his surroundings so he went to carve his own kingdom out of the abyss. Maybe he’s always been a demon from the start. No one knows. But there’s three constant things that need to be stated.

One, he’s powerful. Honestly, he may be the only one who can really overthrow Demogorgon. Most “Demon Princes” rule one layer, this guy rules three. Three planes equivalent to planets are under his control, two of which he defeated rivals for. If he wasn’t fighting a three sided war against three other princes, Orcus being the main one, he’d probably have succeeded.

Two, he’s never been overthrown or stabbed in the back. Now, this is my own personal flavor, but to me he’s the most, shall we say, “human” of the entities. He represents the very concept of hedonism and pleasure, and so his subjects, which number devils, demons, and mortals of all kinds, are bound to him and to his will. To them, to serve him is to serve themselves, because after all, pleasure, like a drug is addicting. Once his influence is even moderately experienced, like an addiction, you begin to allot more time and resources to it. Given time, you stop trading to obtain the drug and become enslaved and enamored to it. Graz will give you what you want, and more importantly what you need. And he’s relatable to that. Need protection from the devils and demons? There’s always a place in his court where, as long as you obey the rules, no one will touch you. Revenge is your bag? He’ll give you the resources to break your foes. Want love and admiration? He can remake you entirely. And he doesn’t even want your soul or anything. He just wants to put you on the board to see how the pieces rise or fall around you. By then, though, it’s too late. Use his help once, even talk to him with enough time, and you are his. And when that happens, all other impulses and drives are gone. There is only Graz and his will. And you want to serve him because by doing so you get what you want, and that feels so good... but it was his goal all along.

Third, he’s smart. Wicked smart. This is a force of nature in pure power that is cerebral as well. He was summoned and bound to the mortal realm for centuries by a powerful, evil sorcereress and then pulled a reverse Stockholm syndrome on her. He experienced love. He has children.... a lot of children, fiendish and mortal alike. He’s the person who comes to the orphan in the alley, dying and breathing their last, as they wallow in the mud and filth, crying from pain of hunger; and like an angel, saves them, sates all their needs and heals them to a new. But instead of nurturing a new, beneficial purpose, he sets them with a chip on their shoulder and a goal of bringing down the very world that almost condemned them to die. He’s the guy who throws seeds of discord in a royal court or just a bar room brawl. Someone loves to fight and gets challenged to a boxing match? He might stoke the fires of satisfaction so much that the fighter accidentally kills their opponent, and now can’t ever feel happy or alive unless this new, strange, raw sensation is met again. Enter Graz, offering to give him all the death battles and physical strength they could ever want. And if the investment turns bad, it’s blackmail, betrayal, or downright obliteration for anyone who would buck too hard. But no one ever does, because not many really want to.

In my mind, Graz’zt is like the main character from the book “Pimp” by Iceberg Slim. Now, I’m not telling you to read that book or glorifying the objection of human beings, or even sex work and the like. But Graz is a cunning and destructive entity. He’s the enemy who will break you, then fix you, and you’ll be so grateful that he healed your wounds in such a way as he did, that you’ll forget he’s the one hurt you to begin with."

I think this is a really good Graz'zt analysis.

[justicebled]

remembered that yuri has an extremely badass title that he gets after the end of part one, involving magistrate ragou's death and vanishing into the river of the bridge at dahngrest. ragou basically is full of triggers and i'm half asleep, but yuri actually gains in the west, the title most familiar ' vigilante ' but actually, in japan, according to @zelotae after yuri puts a stop to that monster of a thing, (ragou), he actually gains another title instead of that, called "conqueror of sin".

i find that one far more fitting, as i feel most people think vigilantes look 'cool' and 'edgy' and are just there to stop things the law can't touch it for 'personal reasons' when it couldn't be further from the truth with yuri.

yuri is not doing this for personal justice, but true justice the world won't give, or more clear: the right thing. yuri is impartial / emotionless and has shown this repeatedly when facing in battle or stopping one of the villains of the story all plastered with triggering topics yes, they're that evil, i'd compare symphon.ia's world and terca lumireis to be equal tbqh. just different horrors but no less equally horrifying, that he is not doing it to break the law.

in actuality, while the empire does have a 'law' in place, it actively time and time again in almost every thirty minutes of the game establishes for you that it is just like putting a poster up, it's empty and it says words but it doesn't actually fulfill anything. it doesn't stop poverty, it doesn't stop the abuse, murdering, and neglect of the lower class, it does not stop using the councils and bureaucracy from using their power from the royal family and fellow nobility to abuse for their own ends and even the first law of the knights in zaphias is not what you'd think.

it isn't, 'i will protect the people' first. the first law basically says 'serve the empire'. rather sickeningly, the second law is 'with this sword i shall protect the people'. yuri, who was a knight for three months and couldn't bear the corruption / evil within it, as the knights like everything else in the empire, is just pretty, gilded toys, they don't actually do anything is the one ironically in halure when people are being threatened, telling his former comrades in the knights:

" with this sword i shall protect the people. " and this should be the first law of the knight's code.

so really, terca lumireis has no real law. and if it does, it is not truly one. so i find the term 'vigilante' really cheap and kinda tacked on when it's MUCH more complicated for yuri's case, as all he does is impersonal and the only person who suffers is him. conqueror of sin fits him far more, and i'll probably go with that, though his tag fits fine as truth is also what yuri embodies as much as true justice / rightdoing.

if anything, yuri is more of an unwitting but unflinching rebel and borderline accidental revolutionary, small town hero to big hero (he'd look either sick or furious if you call him that btw) who just wanted to return the aque blastia (water supply) to the slowly but surely withering people of the lower class / caste system, the lower quarter, and instead is thrust upon with the hero's journey, which he has to by the end of part one, make the choice to follow, with good and bad consequences.

you know that any authoritative system is a fluke when someone you're trying to arrest is reciting to you, the people who should be saving and protecting instead of him, that your role is to protect and serve the people.

instead? the poor are not even given graves, and are burned, cremated, and placed at random locations on the continent where their very ashes are scattered with not a grave to remember them.

this is the kind of evil, horrifying, sickening world that yuri lives in. a lawless one, and one that has lost its heart, light and its hope, and instead the burden of being the heart, light and hope falls upon a single man who only wanted to return something and go home.

[realhankmccoy]

Bruce, Christina and Trump see hints of black people existing online: omg the carnival is burning down! Blacks! No! It’s all over!

well, maybe their carnival is all over for them due to the Trump xenomorph, as they never have anything sexy to write or substantive to discuss. It’s not my fault they just see blacks as a faceless mass and freak out. Lots of white people are that awful in America. It’s truly sickening to see it in Bruce and Christina every time they get in a white panic about black content (which they associate with fire and destruction due to their racism)

they can’t picture anything black as being fun or substantive. They think it’s like taking some poison liberal vaccine or ipecac. They honestly find their own fart noises more substantive because they’re so steeped in racism and what it can do for them. Like many a rightist, why not capitalize on the power and money of it and openly admit it and think that makes it ok? That’s how all typicals generally get into it. They find themselves ‘clever’ for choosing it for the power over others it gives them, but it’s not very clever when that’s the lure for every one of them and their peers, is it?

I’d consider it really fucking stupid, actually, but Christina comes up with a page of bureaucracy to explain what I already know and the reason why she’s exactly all like the rest of them.

Bruce and Christina: maybe barbering on about Mjolnir, Sonnnenrad and Swastikas will help me, plus Swans albums.

Christina’s not as motivated as Bruce, so she just is into her Nazi friend’s Sonnenrad and hasn’t done the Mjölnir or Swastika yet… she’s got a lot of catching up to do on her elder sister as she goes further down her Trump-approved Q-Anon white suoremacist rabbit hole … she’s still in the stage where she’s telling herself she’s just curious and capitalising on the powrr and doesn’t actually support the beliefs, but of course her whole lifestyle and content actually supports the beliefs. Bruce actually knows lots of Swans albums, Christina, compared to you. Gotta steep yourself in a lot of em if you want to really feel that white power on his level, ya lazy Nazi cuck.

[rwbyvein]

Firen Lhain:  Chapter 709:  The Lion of Naples:  Part II/III

Neo placed the package into the mailbox by Signal, and sauntered on her way.

* * *

Yang heard shuffling from downstairs, but rolled over trying to ignore it. That was until Zwei started barking. "ZWEI!" she shouted, but he kept up his eager barking. "ZWEI!" she repeated, but he kept barking. "WHAT DO YOU KEEP BARKING ABOUT?" she shouted as she walked down the stairs, but found him eagerly clawing at the front door. She sighed and opened the door only to find a postman there.

"Package for you, Yang." he said.

"Hm? Who from?" she asked, "Wait, is it Ruby?" she asked, and he looked at the package.

"Your father."

"Dad?" she asked, as she reached her hand out and he handed her the package.

"See ya." he said, and turned to walk away.

"What the hell is it?" Yang asked, as Zwei eagerly did circles on the ground below the package. "What?" Yang asked him, and put the package on the ground, opening it with her one hand. As she opened it up she found dog treats. "What the hell, dad?" she asked, as Zwei eagerly looked at her. She sighed and pulled out a treat. "Okay, you are a pretty good dog. Who's a good boy?" she asked, and Zwei eagerly sat at a begging stance, and she threw it to him, "You are." she said, developing a wide smile.

* * *

Neo slipped in through the second story window. Right by the window were two envelopes, one saying, "Hey, sis." that was open, and the other saying, "Summer Princess", and sealed. She took a picture of them with her scroll. She didn't have time to unseal and reseal it, so she opened the one that said, "Hey, sis." It helpfully explained Ruby's insanely idiotic plan of walking all the way to Mistral. She put the letter back down. She looked at the picture on her scroll and slightly moved the letter until it was exactly where she found it. Neo then slipped out the window as Yang was smiling while petting Zwei.

* * *

Neo sat quickly in the bushes as she thought this over. Two half-continents was a lot of ground to cover, but, if they were walking, there was two ports they would have to go through. That, or she could just fly straight to Mistral, and find them when they get there. Knowing them, they will likely make a scene of themselves. They were really good at getting themselves into trouble.

Roman's image flashed into her mind, and the tears started flowing. He was good at getting into, and out of, trouble, himself.

* * *

Neo stepped off the airship in the Mistralan aerodrome. She queued up and showed one of the many fake passports Roman had gotten for her to the bureaucrats, and she was quickly let through. As far as Mistral was concerned, she was a native coming home. One who needed a little extra help because of her disability. Just the thought of it made her want to stab all of the bureaucrats with her umbrella, but she put on a fake smile and walked through the checkpoint.

* * *

She stood atop a house near the base of Mistral, looking up at the shining elite at the peak in their shining mansions. She would much rather have a warehouse filled with ill-gotten-gains, and tears formed in her eyes and Roman's face flashed in her mind.

* * *

Neo found herself huddled in a corner of the slums. She had to chase away a few beggars with the knife in her umbrella, but it was now hers, and what was she going to do with it? She could start her own crime syndicate, or even take one over. But without Roman, what was the point? The only thing she knew is that she had to do something before the idiots arrived.

* * *

The answer was apparently buying an old water tower. Most people didn't want it because a water tower isn't a house. Anything with a roof is a house, (and several things that don't realy have roofs). And this one had a great view of the aerodrome, and the main gate.

Okay, water tower is a bit misleading, as while it is / was a water tower, it does have a brickwork structure. Plenty of places to live. With a bit of firedust, anything that's fireproof can be a kitchen. In truth, she had too much space to know what to do with. She was only four feet tall, afterall, and all she has was the clothes on her back, the hat on her head and the blankets she was using as a bed. And one more thing. She put the hat on her head, used her umbrella to adjust it, and walked down the many stairs from her giant former water tower.

* * *

Neo walked into the post office and showed them her passport. The postman walked into the back and returned with a package almost as tall as she was. "Are you... sure you'll be alright?" he asked, and she eagerly nodded. He handed her the package, sent from one of her aliases.

* * *

Neo put the package on the floor in her 'bed'room. She used the knife on her umbrella to open the package and pulled out his cane, hugging it dearly, tears pouring down her face.

* * *

She wasn't sure how much time had passed, as the days and nights all seemed to blend in together. The thing that changed, though, is she was tired of just watching. She wanted to do something more productive.

* * *

She walked towards the aerodrome and her clothing quickly changed to blend in with the Mistralan bureaucrats. It always amazed her how no one questioned a well dressed person carrying a clipboard or file folder, dropping off and picking up documents. She was just a young clerk, either a new hire, or from another branch of the bureaucracy. A few days of picking up and dropping off papers gave her access to the entirety of the archives. One of the supervisors even gave her a proper ID, which she looked properly humble and reverential over. People were so easy to manipulate; it really sickened her. She smiled as he turned away, and she hung the ID around her neck.

* * *

Something strange was going on. The Huntsmen were disappearing. She didn't know why, but she could guess at who. Cinder.

* * *

Neo paced about her water tower. This was unexpected, but fortuitous. Cinder was just as responsible for Roman's death as Ruby was. Maybe even moreso. It was doubtful that she was still calling herself Cinder Fall, at least officially, but she still wanted to check the archives.

* * *

Neo walked through the corridors of the bureaucracy when some doofus stepped in front of her, obviously wanting to talk to her. She tried to put on a neutral face.

"I, uh..." he tried to say, "You are just so..." he continued, as she felt a shiver up her spine. He was really doing this, "I mean, you are so beautiful, and..." and Neo wanted to stab him. It took all of her effort to not completely show this on her face, but enough was getting through to get him to run away with his tail between his legs. Figuratively, as it's impossible a Faunus would have been hired as a bureaucrat.

* * *

Neo looked through the archives as quickly as she could, but found no sign of them. Then she sat up. Of course, she wouldn't find a record of her. It's likely that nothing she's done inside the City of Mistral would be written down.

* * *

Neo vigorously walked down the narrow streets of lower Mistral, hobbled by her tiny legs, dodging pedestrians to and fro. She was wasting her time reading reports and watching the hoity-toity aerodrome, when her enemies were already here. Why wasn't there anyone to stop her?

She felt weak and had to pull off into a tiny alcove as the images of Roman flashed through her head. She struggled to fight back tears, to breathe deeply, and hurry back on her way. She didn't have time to be stopped on her quest for revenge against the two who stole Roman from her. She didn't know anything about the underworld hierarchy in Mistral, which meant she had a lot of stabbing to do.

* * *

Neo walked passed all of the bodies of the goons, either beaten up or stabbed, and up to the boss.

"What the hell do you want?!" he asked, and Neo smiled and held up a picture of Cinder. Following a moment of non-recognition she instead showed him a picture of the idiots. Another moment of non-recognition and she knocked him out with a single kick. That, or broke his neck. She was not certain ,nor did she care enough to look. She turned to leave, but then paused to wonder if they had a nice stash of Lien, or maybe Dust for old time's sake.

* * *

Neopolitan dropped the dust into the dry water part of the water tower, as it seemed the safest place for it. Worst case scenario, she wasn't exactly attached to this place, and it might even help her fake her death.

* * *

Neo looked into the basin, at the giant stash of Dust she had acquired in a week. Roman would be proud. She wiped the tears from her eyes and closed the lid.

* * *

She paced around what passed as her bedroom, spinning Roman's cane. The stash of Dust was nice, and the stash of Lien even nicer, but she's wasn't any closer to finding the bitch and the idiots that followed her around. She dramatically gestured to the open window as it occured to her. She didn't spend any time in Huntsmen circles. In fact, they did everything they could to stay away from Huntsmen. The times they dealt with Huntresses proved disastrous. As she thought about, Ruby only attacked them because of what Cinder forced them to do. She might have to rethink her priorities for vengeance.

That said, Cinder was a Maiden. Neo wondered what she intended to do when she caught up to her.

Well, she really didn't care if she succeeded. If she died, she died, but that's that only thing that could stop her from getting revenge. She'll just have to figure that one out when she gets there.

* * *

She didn't know why she expected this to be more complicated. She put a few forms on the desks of a few bureaucrats, and all of a sudden, under a different name, she was a Huntress. And a few others she figured she might be able to take advantage of. The best part about being mute is that people tended to not ask her questions, and just assume the papers were genuine. Worst case scenario. all she had to do was nod.

* * *

Neo walked up to the annoying garden, filled with the glowing screens for Hunstmen to pick their missions. A voice echoed in the back of her head, "Don't do it." Roman said, and she looked about nervously, turning away from the garden at the last moment.

* * *

Neo sat in her water tower, weeping. It, of course, wasn't Roman, but her own mind trying to reason with her. If she had succeeded, she would be picking a fight she simply could not win. The only thing she had to do was sit in her water tower, watching the aerodrome.

* * *

Or she could infiltrate the government to find out where they were hiding. She quickly stood up, wiped away the tears, and walked down the stairs of her tower.

* * *

She poured over the documents a third time, but they were all valid. What this meant was disturbing, all of the disappearances traced back to the headmaster of Haven Academy. Him being a pawn of Cinder would explain so much. Potentially an ally? But, if he was in Cinder's clutches, what did Neo think she could do? Other than stab him.

[ellewritesathing]

So Close - S.S. XXXI

Summary: The universe has a funny way of putting the things you want right in front of you, but just out of reach. Stiles and Y/N have been best friends ever since Scott brought him home, but when Stiles realizes that he might want to be something other than best friends, she leaves to go to some fancy private school up North. Now that she’s back though … maybe he’s got a shot? A Teen Wolf AU in which the reader has always been so close to Stiles and yet so far.

Masterlist Prev. | Part 31

Word-count: 4k+

A/N: soooo uh some rambling ahead but you can skip this if you want!! i’ve been writing so close on and off since like august of 2019 which is a little insane to me. i loved the beginning of so close because it was just like whacky incidents, and i realise i can’t change the entire teen wolf plot but it’s my fic and i can make it lighthearted if i want to. so here’s to trying to fix the mess i’ve made and get back to the fun stuff!! hope you like it!!

Deaton wanted to keep you overnight for observation, but there was no way your mom was letting you stay in the animal clinic by yourself. Melissa was a force of nature when it came to her kids, and the only person who could convince her that it was okay to let go was you or Scott - and Scott was never any good at arguing. 

“Mom,” you said quietly, taking her hand in yours. Her voice was so loud and strained that she didn’t seem to hear you at first, so you gripped her hand more tightly and tried again. It was hard to focus with the lights so bright. “Mom, I can stay here. It’s one night.” 

“One night?” Melissa repeated, still strained but quieter. “It’s not one night. You haven’t been home in- Do you even know what day it is?” 

“Mom, it’s one night.” 

“Months. It’s been months,” Melissa argued, barely even listening. “You weren’t even here for your birthday! It is not one night. It’s- it’s-”

“One night.” Your voice was hollow but you needed to keep it together. For her and for everyone else. “You can stay here the whole time. I’m not going anywhere else. I promise.” 

Melissa was quiet. She looked at you, then over your shoulder to Scott, and then to Deaton. You could feel her heart rate dropping in your hand as she came to a decision. “Alright. One night.” She sighed and rubbed her forehead with her free hand. “Do you need anything from home? I’ll bring you some pajamas, toiletries, your pillow… anything else?” 

You shook your head and Melissa squeezed your hand again, shaky as Scott pulled her back and helped her out to the car. Once you were sure they were gone, you put your head in your hands and started sliding down to the floor. 

“Hey, hey, hey-” You weren’t sure where he came from, but Stiles put his hands over yours and tried to get your attention. “Hey, look at me. You’re okay.” 

“Stiles, I’m not okay,” you whispered. Your eyes burned, maybe from the tears, maybe from the lights. You couldn’t tell. “I’m seventeen now. I- I missed my birthday and I’ve died at least twice in less than a year. And I’m- I hurt you. So badly. There’s no coming back from that.” 

“Of course there’s coming back,” Stiles said. He didn’t waiver, no matter how much you tried to push him away. “Y/N, I have done so, so much worse. And you’ve never given up on me.” 

“That’s different.” 

“How is that different?” 

“It just is!” You pulled your hands away from your head because it wasn’t helping anyway. It was still too loud. “Because you didn’t hospitalize Lydia. Or kill Scott. Or blow up-” 

“Well, I kidnapped Lydia. Maimed Scott. And I’m pretty sure I’m responsible for at least two shrapnel bombs,” Stiles said. “So. You know. It’s kind of the same.” 

You were quiet enough that Stiles took it as a sign that you agreed, or at least that you were considering it. He laced his hand through yours and it was difficult to focus on anything that wasn’t the blood flowing through his fingers. 

“Stiles,” you said carefully, “It’s different because we’re sitting here and I- I can’t focus on how guilty I am because all I can focus on is the pit in my stomach. I am so hungry, and it’s so selfish. All I can think about is-” 

“You’re still hungry?” Stiles asked. “You ate like an entire pizza an hour ago.” 

Somehow, you managed to avert your eyes when you were already avoiding eye contact. “The food made me feel sick.” 

“Okay, well, it’s not a full moon ‘cause that was a week ago. So maybe it’s just because it’s been a while since you had anything to eat,” Stiles said. “Your stomach just needs to adjust to normal again, that’s all.”

You wanted to believe him, you really did, but you couldn’t bring yourself to. All you could do was muster up a smile and let Stiles kiss your forehead, doing your best not to think about how badly you wanted to rip his throat out.

--- 

You weren’t sure what was worse: spending the night on Deaton’s exam table or knowing that your mom, Scott, Stiles, and Deaton were all watching you. They didn’t even take turns; all far too concerned for different reasons to sleep. To be fair, it’s not like you slept either, but that wasn’t out of concern. It was because they were too loud and you were too hot. 

A cold shower once you got home did nothing to help the pounding in your head. The water hit the shower walls so hard that it was deafening, and you couldn’t cool down no matter how low you turned the temperature. Just like the night before, it was insufferable. 

And you were still hungry. 

You dug through the fridge and stuffed all the food you could find into your mouth before one of your loved ones came to check on you. That’s how Stiles found you on the kitchen floor, drinking orange juice straight from the bottle. He got a weird smile on his face and you nodded at him. 

“I thought a couple of raccoons broke in,” Stiles said, head tilting to the side as he gestured to the trash can piled high with wrappers. “But I’m pretty sure raccoons are less messy.” 

“Very funny, Stilinski.” You rolled your eyes and patted the ground next to you. “Sit with me?” 

“I’d love to, but I can’t,” Stiles said. He rocked on his heels as he pretended to think about it. “Got a surprise for you that isn’t on the kitchen floor.” 

“A surprise?” you asked, pulling your legs up to your chest and setting the juice to the side. “What is it?” 

“God, do any of you know what the word ‘surprise’ means?” Stiles said with an exasperated sigh, clearly more at something or someone else than you. He held out a hand to you. “Come on. Come here and I’ll show you.”

You let Stiles pull you up but didn’t say anything else as he did. Whatever this surprise was, you were sure that you deserved it. So much had happened, even if everyone wanted to pretend it hadn’t. Even as Stiles led you through the house, you could hear your mom on the phone with the school upstairs. It made you feel sick. 

“Stiles, I think we should just-” 

And then he opened the door and you saw a very familiar, very beat up Porsche on the street with some very familiar, less beat up people leaning against it. 

“Oh, my god. Is that-” 

You looked at Stiles for a second and he nodded at you, then you made a run for it. Isaac caught you, but you’d sprinted into him at such a speed that you knocked the wind out of him and rocked the Porsche. He laughed and said something you didn’t process as you turned and wrapped Cora up in your arms. She was uncomfortable under your grip but she let you hug her to your heart’s content. 

“What are you guys doing here?” you rushed out. You were holding their hands to keep from drifting away. “I thought you were still in Argentina. The last time we talked-” 

“We were,” Cora interrupted slowly. “Then you stopped answering our texts, and a few days later Stiles called.” 

“And you actually answered?” you teased. 

A few months ago, that would have made them laugh. Now it made them smile in a way that didn’t quite reach their eyes and broke your heart. 

“So how much of it have they told you?” you asked. 

“Told us what?” 

“Don’t you dare, Lahey. You can’t lie to me for shit,” you said, pulling your hands back and crossing your arms over your chest. As the conversation became less ecstatic, you became more aware of the sun scorching your skin. “Cora, what do you know?”

Cora took a breath and looked at Isaac before speaking. “We know you were possessed by the nogitsune and then Scott turned you. Into what is unclear, but Derek said that if it’s you then it can’t be anything that bad.” 

It made you smile at least. Derek never would have said anything that mushy to your face. You took a breath and focused on relaxing your muscles. “Okay, okay,” you sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m a little-” 

“Crazy?” Isaac asked. 

You glared at him and he shrugged it off, but you still held his hand as you led him and Cora inside. They didn’t ask questions about what happened or how you were dealing with it, they just sat with you and talked about anything else. Scott and Stiles joined you guys after a few minutes, and so did your mom when she eventually needed a break from all the bureaucracy. 

Even though Isaac insisted he was fine, Melissa still came back with bowls of food and some drinks. She made his plate just like she did when he came over after fights with his dad and when he was staying with you. For the hour or so you spent together, everything felt normal. 

And then Stiles bumped over a glass during one of his stories and scrambled to pick it up, cutting himself in the process. It was like someone electrocuted you. Everything inside of you lit up and it took all you could not to attack him. A sickening feeling of not being in control flooded inside you - a ghostly reminder of being possessed - when you called out for Scott to get you out of the room. 

For a second, Scott didn’t look like he understood. He clicked but Cora was faster thanks to growing up with plenty of werewolves still learning control. She had you out the room and up against the stairs in seconds, claws sinking into your arm. You cried out and pushed her away but Cora was far stronger than she looked. 

“Hey, look at me,” she said, hand coming up to hold your head in place once Isaac took hold of your limbs. “Breathe. Stop focusing on the anger. Focus on the pain. Pain makes you human. Pain makes you heal. You understand?” 

“Let me go.” You didn’t recognize the growl that came out of your mouth. Everything about this was so disgustingly similar to being controlled by the nogitsune, so you did your best to listen to Cora. “Pain makes you human,” you repeated in a labored voice. “Pain makes you heal.” 

Isaac let go before Cora did, and she let go before you were ready for it. Your breathing slowed back to normal but your brain was pounding out of your skull. 

“Is that- Is that what’s gonna be like?” you asked. “On the full moon, I mean. Am I just going to … to lose control like that?” 

Cora looked over at Scott and Isaac shifted uncomfortably next to her. Scott sighed and sat next to you on the stairs. 

“Not always,” he said, very carefully choosing his words. “It’s going to take everything you’ve got on the first few not to lose control, but it will get better. You’ve seen it with Isaac and Boyd. With Liam. You know how to do this.”

“I don’t think I do,” you said in a small voice. You looked over Scott’s shoulder and between Cora and Isaac and your eyes landed on Stiles. He was looking at you too, but his eyes were full of concern for you while yours were full of something else. Guilt. You could have killed him. “I think you should take me back to Deaton.”

It didn’t take much convincing to get them to take you back. Scott and Stiles stayed with you while you explained everything to Deaton from the light and sound sensitivity to insatiable hunger and then losing it altogether. He was quiet for a few moments as he thought and then he retreated into the backroom. 

You did you best not to eavesdrop but it was difficult with the new hearing that you couldn’t control yet. Luckily for you, Stiles squeezed your hand and it was almost impossible to focus on anything else. 

Deaton came back with a metal drinking bottle. He set it down in front of you and gave you a smile. “You’ll feel better after drinking this.” 

“What is it?” you asked, untangling your hand from Stiles’ to grab a hold of the bottle. As soon as you unscrewed the top, you felt that electricity turn back on. 

“I think you know.” 

“Well, I don’t!” Stiles said next to you. “Is someone gonna explain to me what’s going on? What’s in the bottle?” 

“Blood,” Scott said. You should have known he could smell it. 

“Blood?” Stiles repeated. “Why blood?” 

“I was hoping that it wouldn’t come to this,” Deaton said. “But it seems Y/N spent too much time without a beating heart. She needs something to keep her alive and in control, and that’s what the blood is for.” 

“Does this look like control, Doc?” Stiles asked. “Black eyes and a death-grip on a water bottle?” 

“I think it looks like someone who’s trying,” Deaton said. “And who needs a moment alone to drink.” 

Stiles looked ready to argue again but either the look on your face or Scott’s hand on his arm got through to him because he closed his mouth. Then he wiped his face and nodded just before Scott led him out of the room. 

Deaton disappeared again and then it was just you and the bottle. 

The bottle full of blood. 

Blood that was sticky and warm as it slid down your throat. Blood that made your entire body tingle and feel alive. Blood made the light not feel blinding and finally, finally drowned out all the noise. Blood that fixed your hunger.

--- 

“Are we all good?” Melissa asked when the three of you got home again. She looked like she’d been pacing ever since you left, stopping only when she heard Scott unlock the door. “Or do I need to get Cora back in here?” 

“We’re all good,” you said, squeezing Stiles’ hand lightly. He still seemed freaked out from earlier but you knew he didn’t mean it. “Why do you look like you have bad news? Did something happen to Dad? No one’s said anything about him since I got back-” 

“No, honey. No, it’s nothing like that,” Melissa said. She was about to reach out but seemed to think better of it. “Why don’t you sit down?” 

“Mom,” you said hesitantly. Your hesitance didn’t stop you from sitting on the couch and holding onto Stiles’ hand with two of your own. “What’s wrong?”

Melissa took a breath. “So I talked things through with the school. They’re willing to let you finish summer school and test out with them so you don’t have to repeat sophomore year.” 

“Wait, that’s it?” Stiles asked. “Summer school?” 

“Because you missed the last few weeks of school, it’s either this or repeating the year,” Melissa said. When you didn’t answer, she continued, “The tests are at the end of this month.” 

“The end of the month?” you repeated. “That’s in like-” You stopped to frown. What day was it? 

“Three weeks,” Scott said, sounding awkward from his armchair. 

“Three weeks.” Every single thing that could go wrong in the next three weeks flashed through your head, as well as the realization that passing these tests would take up every waking moment of the next three weeks. “I can’t do that in three weeks. I- I just got back. I don’t even remember what I was doing before I was- you know. I can’t- Three weeks?” 

“Hey, hey,” Stiles said, wrapping his hand around yours. You didn’t realize how rough you’d been on them during your freak-out until he held them still in his own. “You can do this. Lydia can tutor you when you’re not in class and I can-” 

“Stiles, isn’t there a full moon in three weeks?” you asked. “You said the last one was a week ago.” 

“Oh, uh, yeah,” Stiles said. He shifted slightly and looked at Scott. “But we can figure that out.” 

“Can we?” you asked. 

“Of course we can,” Scott said, snapping your attention back to him. “We’re all here for you and we’re not going anywhere. Okay?” 

You bit the inside of your lip. He wasn’t going to listen to your doubts; that just wasn’t how Scott was. He believed the best in people. “Okay,” you said eventually. Taking a deep breath, you stood up and made a list of all the things you needed to do. “Okay. I’m gonna get my stuff together. When do I start school?” 

“Tomorrow,” Melissa said. “It’s Tuesday.” 

“Tuesday,” you said under your breath. You nodded and started heading for your room. “Tuesday. Three weeks. Full moon. I can do this.” 

You reached the top of the stairs when you heard them whispering downstairs. Despite how wrong you knew it was, you focused your hearing on the whispers. Somehow, it worked. 

“You really think she can do this?” Stiles asked. 

“I have no clue,” Scott said. “But I think she’s gonna try.” 

---

Apparently, spending ten hours a day locked up in your room studying and only taking breaks to train with Isaac and Cora wasn’t exactly how everyone pictured you spending your time once you came back home. They were worried about you, they said. You needed a break, they said. Come to the scavenger hunt with us, they said. It’ll be fun, they said. 

So now you were in Deaton’s animal clinic, sandwiched between your friends and thinking about the mountains of chemistry you had to get through when this was all over as you listened to Lydia explain the rules. 

“Okay, any questions?” she asked, hands on hips, after wrapping it up. 

Isaac held up a hand. “Uh, yeah, I’ve got one.” He jutted his chin out in Liam’s direction. “Who’s the kid?”

“I’m Liam. Scott’s first beta,” Liam answered. He looked at Scott before adding the ‘first beta’ part but he should have looked harder and talked less. 

“Oh, you are not his first beta,” Isaac said, pressing himself off the wall. 

Liam was getting ready to square up and you jumped out of your corner to put one hand on Isaac’s shoulder and wrap your other arm around him. “Okay,” you said, forcing a smile. “Isaac, this is Liam, the kid Scott and Stiles kidnapped. Liam, this is Isaac, turned by Derek but-” 

“What I meant was: any questions about the scavenger hunt?” Lydia asked, straining her voice to keep calm over the noise. 

“No,” you said, nudging Isaac lightly. “Right, guys?”

“No,” Isaac repeated after a few seconds, eyes not drifting from where they locked on Liam’s. “No questions, right, Liam?”

“Right,” Liam said after another few seconds. 

“Great,” Lydia said. “Grab your first set of clues and partner up. No cheating.”

You didn’t want to leave Isaac when he still seemed ready to pick a fight with Liam, but he was already skulking towards the table with the clues and maps. He picked one up and asked Scott to be his partner since Malia and Cora wanted to be together. Stiles grabbed the things and rushed over to you before Kira and Liam had the chance to scramble together the stuff to be your partner. The two of them looked very awkwardly at one another while you bit back a laugh. 

“Well, why are you all still standing there?” Lydia asked. “Go scavenge!” 

Not only were you and Stiles an excellent team, but the two of you were also extremely competitive. That’s why you were surprised when - after blowing through most of Lydia’s clues - Stiles pulled you into the alley that stood between the store and Jeep. 

You laughed as the two of you got tangled up and almost fell into the wall as a result. “And now?” you asked, holding onto his arm to keep you both steady. “I thought you wanted to win.” 

“Of course I wanna win-” Stiles was so close that you could have heard his heartbeat without the super-hearing. “Liam and Kira? They’ve got no chance.” He pressed a kiss to your neck and looked back up at you. “Scott and Isaac? Please.” Another kiss. “Our only competition is Malia and Cora and the emotional baggage on that team is-” 

“Nothing compared to ours?” you teased, lifting a hand to the side of his face. Your thumb traced his cheek and you leaned in to kiss him. “I miss this,” you said with a sigh after pulling away. “I miss you. These past few weeks-” 

“Yeah, I know,” Stiles said. He moved some hair out your face and dropped his hand to your neck. “We’ve barely seen each other.” 

“After my finals,” you promised. You leaned in and gave him another kiss. “Now let’s go kick some scavenger hunt ass.”

“Oh, you know it!”

---

Three weeks - that’s how long you had. Three weeks of awkward study sessions with Lydia because you couldn’t stop feeling guilty about hurting her. Three weeks of training with Scott and getting your ass kicked by Isaac and Cora. Three weeks of spending absolutely no time with Stiles. 

Your three weeks were up. 

After tossing and turning the whole night, slowly going crazy from the lack of sleep and the near-full moon in the sky. Sighing, you rolled over and checked your phone. Four hours until you had to be up to take your test. Hesitantly, you opened up your chats and clicked on Stiles’ face. 

‘Hey, are you awake?’ 

You put your phone on your chest and stared up at the ceiling while you waited for a response, but it turned out you didn’t need to. Not even three seconds later and your phone started vibrating. 

“Did I wake you?” you asked in a low voice. 

“No, I, uh- I don’t sleep that well by myself,” Stiles said, even though it sounded like he’d just woken up. “Are you alright?” 

“Nervous.” You stretched out and started fiddling with your covers. “Stiles, what happens if I show up today and someone gets a papercut? Am I just going to freak out and attack some poor kid?” 

“No, of course not,” Stiles said. You could hear him shaking his head. “Scott’s taught you how to control it, alright? And I’m gonna be right outside with a very special juicebox. Nothing’s gonna make you freak out except the Geometry Section.”

He always knew what to say, but something still didn’t sit right with you. It wasn’t something that you could explain, but Stiles was one of the only people who’d listen to you try. Listening to him breathe over the phone, you knew that tonight wasn’t the night to try to explain it. 

“Thank you,” you said softly. “I miss you.” 

“I miss you too. I feel like the only time we had alone was at Lydia’s scavenger hunt,” Stiles sighed. He stretched out in your mind and the thought made you smile. “Got any plans after your tests?” 

“Lunch with the most understanding boyfriend in the world?” you asked. 

“Okay, well, then he’ll understand if you cancel on him and go out with me, right?” Stiles asked. “Or, like, I could go with you guys and we could all pay separately-” 

“Shut up,” you laughed, tilting your head back into your pillow and trying to be quiet. The line went silent after you did and, even though you could still hear Stiles’ breathing, you asked, “Hey, you still there?”

“Always,” Stiles said without missing a beat. “I was just listening to you laugh.” 

Despite the fact that it made your heart jump, you said, “Weirdo.” 

He laughed and then it got quiet again. So quiet that you thought he’d fallen asleep again just before he asked, “You still there?” 

“Always,” you said quietly. “I should get back to sleep but, uh, will you stay with me?” 

“Of course,” Stiles said. “And I’ll be there at seven to take you to school, okay?” 

“Thank you,” you yawned. “I love you, Stiles.” 

“Yeah, I love you, too.”

Part 32

[haec-est-fides]

New Rome’s Swift, Bright Sword

[Word count: 1818. Warnings: blood, character death.]

It's oddly easy to picture Octavian in a scene like the opening of Disney’s Hunchback of Notre Dame, specifically The Bells of Notre Dame. Jupiter is the god of supplicants, and the power Octavian has as augur... He's the model of tradition and morality in his religious community. At least, he thinks he is. His self righteousness and abuse of power are defining characteristics, much like they are for Frollo.

Imagine it: Octavian riding through New Rome on some cliche white horse, a bit older and leaner and more confident in his authority. I don't know who he'd be chasing. Some Greek, perhaps. A troublemaker. A lawbreaker. Of course, he'd only do it for the good of Rome, because it's his duty.

Maybe that would make sense: a Greek demigod and what seems to be her younger sibling, trying to find safety in New Rome but suspected of spying, of conspiracy and plot. Of course they'd run. Octavian is Rome's swift, bright sword. (More a dagger slipped between unsuspecting ribs.)

The demigods tried to claim sanctuary, running for the Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus. Even Greeks knew the sanctity of temples. But Octavian pursued, a legionnaire or two at hand to do as he said without hesitation. If someone half as cruel as Lawrence were there...

The older demigod ran, dragging the younger in tow, to safety -- and to judgement. She didn’t realize that Octavian had the final say as to their fates, whether they reached the temple or not. 

Octavian had an excuse for everything, and when he jumped off his horse to take care of the problem before the gods were involved, he was already thinking of what to tell the Senate. They were spies. They were assassins. Ah, there: they were thieves. Simple enough with the ragged bags they carried.

The flat of his sword cracked the older one upside the head and she fell to the stone steps with a sickening crunch; a trickle of blood stained the marble. The little one cried out, releasing the other girl’s hand and backing away -- into the arms of one of Octavian's men, away from the safety of the temple. Octavian regarded the dead girl coldly, perhaps more familiar with the sight than he should have been. The girl’s grimy bag spilled out next to her, revealing only crumbs and a small stuffed animal. An old lion. An offering.

New Rome had a hesitant peace with her sister camp. A non-aggression pact, really. Initially, the discovery of the Greek camp had meant war, but negotiation changed that. Supposedly, they were now allies. Octavian sneered as he recalled the details. One detail in particular. The praetors had passed a law declaring that any Greek demigod who reached Camp Jupiter would receive a few days of peace while their petition to join the legion was evaluated by the Senate. However, if a demigod made it to Jupiter’s temple and had their augury read, Octavian was under honor to let them join, if that was the will of the gods. Only the truly desperate tried to bypass the Senate proceedings. 

Octavian made sure that few Greeks ever reached camp to begin with, that Senate hearings were tedious and drawn out, that the bureaucracy turned as many away as possible. ‘Let them find their way to New York,’ he often thought, ‘They’re not wanted here.’ If any Greeks overstayed their welcome, while technically not a crime in itself, Octavian could pin them with any number of other accusations. 

He looked up at the marble of the temple before him. While it was in many ways his source of power, he also hated it. Sanctuary. None of these barbarians deserved it.

Octavian’s thoughts were broken by a cry, and he narrowed his eyes as he registered one of the temple's priestesses running towards him. A child was still struggling in the arms of a soldier; a girl still lay dead at his feet.

"P- Pontifex, what happened? What have you done?" The priestess fell to the side of the girl on the steps -- checking for vital signs, finding none.

"She was an enemy of Rome. I merely did the job of my office." 

The other child's whimpering was starting to get on his nerves.

The priestess gave a bitter laugh. Two of her fellows peaked out from the temple behind her. "This is not your duty."

He sneered, "What do you know of being Pontifex? I am guiltless. This was justice." He didn't sheathe his gladius.

The priestess stood, half cradling the girl’s body in her arms. To Octavian's surprise, thunder rumbled above them. Her voice was cold, "You may tell yourself that, but all the same you spilt blood -- innocent blood -- on the steps of this temple. A place where supplicants are promised safety. That's sacrilege, Pontifex." She spit his title at him; it stung. The sky grew dark with clouds and a chill wind whipped a strand of Octavian's hair out of place. Something felt...wrong.

Off to the side, his lackey barked a laugh as the girl struggled again. "Shut it, kid. You'll face Roman justice for what you and your friend did." The soldier shoved the child to his companion before glancing over to Octavian. "How uh, swift should that justice be, sir?" The soldier's grin was cruel, like a crude knife. The Pontifex looked on dispassionately.

Octavian mulled the thought over for a moment, analyzing. The child wasn't in the temple, had never reached it, though the whole hill was a kind of sacred ground... He could get around that. He glanced at the child: a girl, perhaps four or so. Covered in dirt, nearly wiped out from her struggles. Whimpering. Useless. Greek. Her dark hair fell haphazardly into her face and her nose quivered. Like a rabbit. How easy it'd be to handle this little problem right now-

Lightning cracked through the air and Octavian’s eyes widened. The priestess, turning to give the older girl's body to her companions, spoke again, "Lord Jupiter sees what happens here. You of all people know that he makes his will known. Will he approve of what you've done here? What you're about to do?" 

Over her head, Octavian made eye contact with the blank white stare of Jupiter himself, everlasting in marble, looming over him, over his fate. For the first time in many years, Octavian felt afraid.

He cleared his throat, hoping not to show his sudden nerves. "I maintain my innocence. I've merely done what is demanded of any true Roman. But-" The priestess turned to face him from the top of the steps, curious. "If I were to appease Jupiter for my transgression," his voice was laced with sarcasm. The soldiers chuckled. "What would you suggest I do?"

"Spare the girl."

Octavian’s brow rocketed upwards, "What?"

The priestess stood above him, oddly illuminated by the torches of the temple, backed by the massive statue of the king of the gods. "Show her mercy. Let her join the legion."

The idea was ridiculous, and yet... "Who will take care of her? Sponsor her, when the time comes? You surely can't expect that I-"

Lightning cracked once more, silencing the Pontifex. His gaze hardened. Never before had the gods opposed him so. The priestess had the nerve to look smugly down at him, at his divine reprimand. His eyes flared and he turned to his men, who still held the little girl in their grasp.

She had stopped fighting, but she shrunk back when Octavian approached. He finally sheathed his gladius. His men looked at him with confusion, but he ignored them. They didn't matter. Octavian looked over the child and reached the same conclusion he had earlier: she was less than nothing to him. Now...a burden. He lowered himself to her level, tilting his head in a way that made the girl whimper again. His eyes were cold. Surprisingly, his voice was soft -- too soft -- when he spoke, "What's your name?"

She didn't say a word.

Octavian's nostrils flared, but he kept his composure. He forced his voice to be sweeter, friendlier. "Your godly parent, then? Hm, little one?"

She met his eyes with hers, terrified -- a navy blue that reminded him of the ocean. He hated it. She didn't speak.

Octavian had no patience for this. He should just order his men to throw her in the Tiber and-

"Fortuna. My mom's name is Fortuna." The Pontifex nearly recoiled in shock. The girl continued, "My name is Emma." She sniffed and wiped away some of her tears on her sleeve, smudging dirt across her face. That was when Octavian noticed that she was clinging to a stuffed animal of her own: a well worn teddy bear with a laurel crown stitched onto its chest where a heart might be.

"You claim to be Roman." He snatched the bear from her without a second's hesitation and stood, pulling a gold dagger from his belt. Before she could cry out, he'd ripped the plush open, spilling cotton into the wind.

Octavian’s mind was racing. A Roman? If the brat was lying, he'd gut her himself. But...if she was Roman, why would she be running for sanctuary with a Greek? Was the other girl- No. She couldn't be. He rifled through the stuffing for a moment before clutching the empty skin in his fist, knuckles white.

All good signs. She was telling the truth.

Perhaps she could be useful to him. 

"Well, Emma, it is my sincere pleasure to welcome you to the Twelfth Legion of Rome."

His men looked at him like he'd grown a second head. The priestess hesitantly started down the steps, disbelief in her eyes. Octavian gave the child another once over, unsure of what her future might hold.

"Release her." The soldiers let go of the girl like she was on fire. Emma wobbled a little, standing on her own again. She looked up at the Pontifex with wide eyes as he addressed her. "You will go with the high priestess of this temple and she will watch you for the night. I will decide how best to care for you in the morning." He turned to leave, robes swirling as he mounted his horse once more. "And once you've proven yourself, I will sponsor you to join the legion proper."

His men mounted their own horses and the girl ran into the waiting arms of the priestess. Before riding back into the city, Octavian pinned the two girls with a final glare. His voice was icy as he bid his farewell to the lady of the temple. "You. Make sure no one hears of this. A single word gets out about what happened here, and I will hold you responsible."

A gust of wind blew as the Pontifex and his men rode away, sunset barely visible through the dissipating storm clouds.

[missjosie27]

The Other World- Part 1

Ladies and gentleman, I’d like to say my customary few words before you read this fic. As most in the HM community know on here, there are many who have drawn or written out our characters for this extremely flawed game that we’ve come to love one way or the other. One of the best and most thought out is the one created by @hogwartsmysterystory better known as Ethren Whitecross. I think we can all agree how incredible his writing is and how it’s inspired many people, including myself. This is my own way of saying thank you and to pay homage to his MC.

The following story is split into two parts, since the whole story is too long to release all at once. It is my tribute to him and his writing and I hope you all enjoy reading it. Part 2 will be released tomorrow. 

If anyone needs background on my MC, please visit my tumblr page and MC info. I realize not everyone will get the context right away. 

Enjoy!

A ringing in David Grant’s ears echoed as though it were the loudest noise on the planet. It was also hardly the only commotion going on at the moment. Within the confines of the Ministry, the scene could be described as quite chaotic.

It’s to be expected. Especially given that You Know Who has been dead for less than forty eight hours.

Standing within the spacious halls of the atrium, the once precocious curse breaker of Hogwarts was a much different man from the days of chasing after his long lost brother. Gone was the easy going smirk, the baby faced features of a teenager ready to take on whatever the world had to throw at him. What remained was a tired, unshaved, long haired ex-Auror who had suffered the trials of war, intrigue and then some. The once warm hazel-blue eyes were dulled to a flint like cynicism unrivaled even by the hardiest of warriors.

With the exception of Harry Potter (the stories were certainly true about his exploits), the law enforcement of Magical Britain had suffered more than most. Some had kept up the charade of the blue robes by staying in the Ministry after Voldemort’s takeover, others were placed under the imperious curse (poor Dawlish), while others yet defected and joined the resistance. But to David, that mattered not. The end of the battle of Hogwarts only brought a simple question to his mind.

Where was his wife?

Memories of the battle against her parents flashed in his mind once more- the sickening crunch of Matthias Snyde’s neck breaking, the unhinged screams of his wife, Lyra, who ordered her daughter to kill him. The battle for the soul of Merula Snyde. It had taken every once of his willpower to break through to her and he was certain she had been placed under the imperius curse herself. No one could control his wife, not unless they were prepared to do so by using the Dark Arts. However, that did not change the fact that she still carried the Dark Mark on her forearm and that in turn marked her as a Death Eater and a traitor.

Funny how fast things can change in the span of two days, he thought humorlessly.

There was no joy in his heart, no consolation to be had. He had stepped into the halls of this Merlin forsaken place for a single purpose and would not leave without knowing that Merula would not spend an eternity in Azkaban for crimes she was not culpable for. Consequences be damned, he would spend an eternity in there with her if he had to.

He needed to see someone with the authority to release her. Someone close to the newly appointed Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt, his mentor and friend. Surely, he would listen.

Finally, amongst the crowd of hectic witches and wizards, he spotted a familiar face, Williamson, one of the few Aurors that had actually been clever enough to escape the Ministry and resist the dark regime before it happened. He was also a protégé of Kingsley and was probably in a position to speak to him given the circumstances, even if they were not the closest of blokes in the past.

He grabbed the shorter man by the shoulder as he hurried by.

“Williamson.”

“Grant?” the dirty blond haired Auror exclaimed. “Is that really you?”

“No, it’s the Archbishop of Canterbury. Of course, it’s me.”

Williamson shook his head.

“Still haven’t lost that infamous sarcasm, have you Grant? It used to be a lot funnier.”

David’s patience, already on thin ice, showed signs of cracking. He had not gone traveled thousands of miles and collected numerous bounties across Europe and the U.S. to bandy words with a lesser Auror.

“You know why I’m here, Williamson. I need to speak to Kingsley.”

The man gave a haughty sigh, though similar to everyone else, he too showed signs of immense fatigue and stress.

“The Minister,” he corrected. “Is not seeing anyone at the current moment as he has quite enough on his plate. Namely, the envoys from France and the United States.”

“He can make time for me. My wife is currently locked up in a cell somewhere in this fucking hellhole and I want assurances she’s not going to be charged with anything.”

Williamson tried to tug himself out of his grip, but David was much stronger and much more seasoned than his counterpart. The former recognized this and attempted to placate him as best he could.

“For God’s sake David, let me go,” he said, shaking his shoulder away. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to your wife. And I don’t think the Minister does either.”

That evasive response got his blood boiling again. Even with Britain and shambles, red tape and bureaucracy still impeded him.

“She’s innocent,” he growled. “She was under the imperius curse and nothing she did was voluntary.”

“We can’t prove that one way or the other. She’s got the mark and is the suspect of several crimes perpetuated against muggle born families.”

David could feel himself going numb, refusing to believe that Merula ever did anything so horrific under her own willpower. It wasn’t possible. Even as young children, when she was at her worst, he never truly believed she was capable of such atrocity.

“You’re wrong….”he managed to choke out. “You’re wrong and I can prove it. I just need to see Kingsley.”

This time it was Williamson’s turn to get serious as he received a hard stare.

“Frankly, you don’t have much to stand on either. Your own conduct in this war is under scrutiny as well. We’ve received word from the American, German, and Russian governments about various undertakings that occurred under your watch. Bounties, assassinations…”

“I did what I had to,” David replied with quiet fury. “You have no right to judge me for anything, Williamson. I’ve suffered through enough, I’ve…” he barely contained the lump in his throat as thoughts of the deceased permeated through his mind, people he’d never talk to or interact with again. People he loved.

“I just want my wife back. Please, she doesn’t deserve to be treated like the rest of those monsters.”

A flicker of sympathy appeared on his colleague’s face, but it was clear from his defeated posture there was nothing he could or was willing to do.

“I’m sorry, Grant. My hands are tied. The dust hasn’t even settled at Hogwarts nor on this new Ministry and you come barging in here demanding a Death Eater be released? Not only can I not guarantee such an action, but the question of your reinstatement among the Auror office remains to be seen as well. I’m sure the Minister will see you when he has sufficient time. Until then, there’s nothing I can do.”

And with that he walked off without another word, leaving David with no prospects or immediate solutions to his problem. He was completely and truly alone.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Quiet. Then again, this place was always quiet.

In the aftermath of his plea falling on deaf ears, David did not heed Williamson or any other Ministry official. Given the chaos surrounding Britain, there was no one to stop him from going into the Department of Mysteries, namely the room of death.

He had only been in here once. And that was in the aftermath of a massive battle between the Order of the Phoenix and the Death Eaters over some ancient prophecy that You Know Who had desired for some reason or another (the circumstances surrounding his connection with Harry Potter were still dubious). That basically had been mop up duty and ensuring that Tonks was not too seriously hurt.

A massive lump formed in his throat at the thought of the pink haired witch, one of his best friends and partners in crime. Seeing her body- pale, cold, and fragile body on the stone floor of Hogwarts- was too much to bear. Despite Tulip’s attempts to console him, there was no consolation to be had.

David shut his eyes as silent tears rolled down.

Tonks, Fred, Talbott, Badeea, Ben….they’re all gone. They’re gone and I’ll never be able to see them again.

If there had been a stray rock or pebble, he would have flung it into the archway itself. But there was none to be had. The emptiness was symbolic of room itself, black and devoid of life. Personification of death, the lives robbed by its random cruelty. Because that’s what this was in his mind: simply cruel

Dropping to his knees, he ran his hands through his almost-shoulder length hair, the tears dripping off the stubble of his chin and onto the floor. By now the shock of the battle had well worn off and the only thing remained was the unadulterated, raw pain that marked its end. Hundreds were dead, including numerous friends and coworkers. And now his wife was essentially condemned to live out the rest of her days in prison, victim of a family legacy forced upon her.

It’s my fault, he thought to himself. I couldn’t protect her. I let her fucking manipulative, piece of shit parents get their hands on her and now our entire lives are bloody dead on arrival.

After all the fighting, after all of his efforts to find Merula and end the pestilential war that plagued the U.K. for almost twenty years, he had failed. Even with You Know Who dead, the ideology he perpetuated took a piece of himself and his life with him.

What was the point? What was there left to live for or hold onto? Merula wasn’t dead but she might as well have been- a fantasy of something that wasn’t coming back. Just like Tonks.

Like Ben….

Like Badeea…

Like Talbott….

There is no point, came the internal conclusion.

Suddenly, David felt another presence within the room. At first, he believed it to be some stuck up official who was about to order him to leave (in which case he would have been in for a rude awakening) but he found that the feeling was much different than sensing a person sneaking up behind you. No, this was…supernatural.

The presence was not one entity, rather it felt like multiple. Even more unsettling was that these entities seemed to speaking to him.

David Grant…..David Grant

It was barely more than a whisper, but it was extremely audible, as though the message was specifically designed for his ears only.

David Grant….David Grant

He looked around and realized that this voice, or voices, were coming from the mysterious archway itself. Even more mysterious, he felt drawn to it, despite his own fear.

“Who…who are you?” he said standing up walking towards the archway.

Come….Come….

“Come where? I don’t understand.”

Come see….come see….

At this point, David was so delirious, so filled with grief and emotion he didn’t even consider he might be going mad. Who were these spirits that desired to speak with him? What did they want to show him?

“Tonks?” he asked aloud, swallowing his throat. “Ben? Talbott? Grandpa? Is that you?

He reached his hand toward the shadowy, white substance that moved about within the archway, all rationality forgotten. The knowledge that this door was the veil to a world beyond life, to death itself, did not register.

I can see my friends again. Maybe I can go to a place and be with Merula again and start over. No war, no pain. Just a life worth living, a life better than this…

As the tip of his index finger touched the veil a white, hot flash blinded him as a force more powerful than he had ever experienced tore into the very soul of his being. Time and space seemed to be ripping itself apart and back again as he was plunged into an unknown cosmic channel that seemed to go faster than the speed of light, yet slower than the oldest tortoise. Just as David thought he might go mad from the insanity around him, everything went black.

Then he knew no more.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The scent of daisies and wildflowers wafted in the air, carried by a soft breeze. The air was warm and tender as it was on a summer day in Britain. The chirping of birds signified the season and the promise it offered to all creatures.

Hazel blue eyes fluttered open.

Thinking back to what just occurred, David sat up and saw that he was in a meadow on the edge of a forest of some sort. Tall grasses partially obscured his view, and the ground itself was so soft, he almost wished to remain there. However, curiosity got the better of him.

Standing up, the scene became more familiar. This was no ordinary meadow. It was a place he and someone very dear to him had once visited during a weekend at Hogwarts. A peaceful place that had been the spot of one of the greatest moments of his life.

This is Hogwarts. Or at least the edge of the grounds.

He saw the forest, the same one he once saw Fenrir Greyback emerge from in his first year, its tall trees just as imposing as ever, though less so in daylight. To his north, was the castle itself, its massive presence right where he left it…except it wasn’t. There were no visible signs of damage to the longstanding magical institution, at least none that he could see. It was as if the Giants who had wreaked havoc with their clubs on the towers, never existed in the first place.

Frowning, David turned his gaze downward. Though the day was cloudy, visibility was still strong. The hoops of the Quidditch pitch could be seen even from this distance. Sloping all the way across the hill was Hagrid’s hut, the fire damage to its roof also gone.

“What on earth?” he muttered to himself. This couldn’t be Hogwarts, he was just there. The state of the school was a mess and the physical damage immeasurable. How could it have been gone in the span of one day? Come to think of it, how long had he actually been out for after he touched that veil?

“Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea, after all,” he said aloud. “But how in the hell did I get here?”

Whatever the case, he needed to find out what exactly was going on. If a significant amount of time had passed, Merlin only knew what happened since his absence.

But before he did, another marking caught his eye, one that he was unfamiliar with. To the untrained eye, it looked like a piece of dark granite stuck in the middle of the ground, but David knew better. Whatever it was, it warranted a closer look. As Kingsley always told him- “Check every aspect of your surroundings. If something is out of the ordinary, investigate with caution and care.” As David often joked, it was his own version of ‘constant vigilance’ employed by Mad-Eye Moody. Really, it wasn��t a surprise the smooth and capable man became Minister.

Deciding to test apparation this far from the school itself, he discovered that there were no wards and saved himself the walk.

Upon closer inspection, he saw that the gray semi-obelisk was actually a monument. A monument to those who had died in the fighting against Voldemort and his forces during that fateful night. He read the inscription.

Here lies those who willingly gave their lives in the face of the greatest evil our world has yet seen. May their sacrifice never be forgotten, and their memories preserved by the love of family and friends. This monument is a tribute to them and the day of May 2nd, 1998.

David could feel goosebumps rush down his body as he glanced at the names engraved on the stone. There was at a least a hundred, which thinking back to the official dead count was about the number killed in the battle. His heart sank as the casualties remained unchanged, ‘Nymphadora Tonks’, ‘Remus Lupin’, ‘Fred Weasley’, ‘Ben Copper’, and others were all listed. Curiously, however, there were others he didn’t even recognize while some were conspicuously absent. Badeea’s name was not among the dead nor was Talbott Winger. One of the names, a man by the name of ‘Ethren Whitecross’ had the stars and stripes flag next to it, signifying he was American.

“There were no Americans at that battle as far as I know,” David said to himself. “I spent the last two weeks of the war trying to bloody well convince them not to intervene, didn’t I?”

It suddenly occurred to him, that this monument had to have been created after the epic battle and sure enough when he checked the creation date, his guess proved to correct.

“Commemorated September 1st, 1998,” he said. “Paid for by the Board of Governors with the consent of Headmistress Minerva McGonagall.”

David almost had to sit down again and suddenly felt very disoriented.

I’m…I’m in the future, he realized. But how is this possible? Has such a thing ever been confirmed?

Sure, there were stories, but they were usually old wives tales, legends that carried no bearing on reality. Though time turners technically had the ability to send someone back in time, they were all destroyed three years prior and besides, it could only send you to the maximum of thirty-six hours back in time not forward.

There was no question, he needed answers. And the sooner he received them the better. What year was it? Were people wondering where he went? What was the state of the Ministry? Was Kingsley still in charge? Were the Death Eaters given trial or executed? His stomach then dropped a few notches.

Merula

Above all else, the fate of his wife was the most important aspect of this investigation. If something had happened to her without him there to defend her honor…well he didn’t want to think about that just yet.

“She’d come and find me no matter where she was and tear my ear off,” he said with a dry chuckle.

Wasting no more time, David decided to visit the Ministry first. They would surely hold the records and documents about all trials, prisoners, and even the status of current, ex, or retired Aurors. People might be shocked or incredulous to see him barge in randomly, but it was worth a shot.

Making sure he maintained the necessary distance from the wards, David apparated away and in a flash was gone.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Unbeknownst to everyone aside from the Minister and the Head of Magical Law Enforcement, there was a secret entrance to the Auror Office in a random pay phone booth in Manchester. As part of their training and oath, they were not allowed to use it except in cases of extreme emergency such as an attack or during a war. And though David’s situation didn’t qualify under either circumstance, he figured that going missing for God knows how long and not knowing what happened was enough of an excuse. Besides, if Tonks didn’t get caught for sneaking a whole case of beer during training, it was a safe bet no one would give him grief over this either.

Trying not to think about Tonks and making sure no muggles were looking, David stepped into the booth, awaiting to be transported to the main Auror office. It was quite a simple process. The old muggle machine had been charmed to recognize the magical signature of any law enforcement officer in its ranks. All you had to do was place your wand in the tray, say aloud your name and you’d be whisked away to the halls of the Aurors.

David did just that, as he could feel the magical sensors checking him over including multiple dark detectors.

“David John Grant,” he said, showing his badge.

However, instead of finding himself inside the Ministry in the next second, a wave of green slime appeared out of nowhere, drenching him from head to toe in a disgusting ooze.

“ACK! What the f-”

He quickly exited the booth to the curious glances of some muggle onlookers, who were no doubt attracted by the minor commotion. Giving them all a quick smile and a wave, David ducked behind one of the brick buildings the city was known for, cursing himself and the booth.

A few cleaning charms later, there was little trace of the substance on him (save for his vans) but the incident only brought more questions. Why had the secret entrance denied him? Technically speaking, he hadn’t officially resigned from the Aurors when he went into hiding and took up being a vigilante. His magical signature and badge should have been more than enough to avoid the pitfall of having that odious slime dropped all over him. It was merely a safeguard against dark wizards, but it also revealed something else.

Whatever the reason, the Ministry no longer recognized his credentials. That in itself was an ominous sign. If he wanted answers, he would have to go about it the old fashioned way.

Ensuring no one was peering into the alley, David apparated out of sight once more.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

One trip to London and a red phone booth later, David was finally inside the Ministry. Walking down the sleek, marble halls, it was almost exactly as he had remembered- the same statues, same fountain, same amounts of flying memos zooming in and out of their respective stations. The hustle and bustle was back and there was no sign of any damage from the war.

If the Ministry looks this good, it must be a fairly long time since the last battle.

Even more promising was the person sitting at the front entrance desk. David recognized those dark features and orange sideburns anywhere: Talbott Winger. He was wearing the blue robes most Aurors did while on duty and that was also a good sign. He, Tonks, and Talbott were the last ones accepted for mentorship in 1991 which meant he would know just what the hell was going on.

He was just about to greet his old friend, until he stopped dead in his tracks, recalling the monument and how Talbott’s name wasn’t on the list of the fallen. Seeing him alive and well at the Ministry all but confirmed this was the case. But this only brought more confusion to David’s already very bamboozled mind.

He died during the battle. I witnessed it with my own eyes. So if this is the future, how can he still be alive?

None of this was making any sense at all. Nevertheless, David knew that he had to try and do something to figure this mess out. Though naturally reserved, Talbott did not hesitate to help the rare few he called ‘friend’. Perhaps he could provide some assistance, whatever the reason for this madness.

“Hey, Talbott.”

The ebony skinned wizard looked up, his sharp eyes penetrating him like the hawk of his animagus form.

“Can I help you?” he asked, his voice betraying no hint of recognition.

David rolled his eyes playfully as he leaned on the desk.

“Come on, mate. Quite having me on. It’s Dave.”

An awkward silence followed as he sought to clarify.

“David Grant.”

Again, the name did not compute as Talbott merely gaze a polite look of bewilderment.

“I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Okay, now this was definitely getting weird. How did Talbott, even if he was somehow not dead, not even know who he was?

“Talbott, I’m your friend. David Grant. We went to Hogwarts together. I helped you find your lost necklace that your mother gave you.”

That statement lit up the dark, brown eyes of the animagus though it was not out of familiarity, rather the emotion seemed to be pain and shock.

“I don’t know how you know about that, but I can assure you, you were not the one to help me find my necklace nor did I attend Hogwarts with you. Now, is there something I can help you with?”

David was practically reeling. How was it possible that the man he had gone through so much with didn’t even so much as recognize him? It didn’t make sense. Nothing about this made sense.

Alright, at the very least, I can get in here, find my old office and pour through some old files. I’m sure whoever’s in charge now can clear this up.

“Yeah…uh…I’m an Auror,” he said showing his badge. “Listen, I’ve been gone awhile for reasons you wouldn’t believe anyway but I just need to get to my old office and talk to someone. Is that possible at least?”

“Give me your badge and wand.”

Short and to the point, no time for idle chit chat. That was Talbott alright, which made the situation all the more disconcerting.

Talbott took his items and examined them, muttering a few standard identification and security spells, before getting up from his chair.

“One moment, please.”

David raised an eyebrow but didn’t object. Though he didn’t know why a simple identification spell required going into a backroom, he was sure whatever issue popped up would be cleared soon enough. After what seemed like half an hour (it was only ten minutes, but it seemed longer), Talbott returned and handed his wand and badge back to him.

“I’m not quite sure what the issue is, sir. But there’s no record of any David Grant of having worked for the Auror Department, or any other Ministry job for that matter.”

The twenty five year old leaned forward slightly, as if not hearing him correctly.

“I’m sorry what?”

“Your badge is authentic but there’s no employment history of anybody with your name here. When I applied more tests to your wand, it didn’t match any current witch or wizard in the entirety of the United Kingdom, nor anything ever sold from Ollivanders.”

This time the confusion was shared by both men, as David looked incredulously at his wand and badge as though he no longer knew what they were, while Talbott appeared to be a cross between dumbfounded and even a tad sympathetic.

“Nothing at all? No David, or John Grant or anyone with that name?”

“Nothing. If it makes you feel any better, I’ve never seen anything like this before. I want to believe you. But as far as the government is concerned, you don’t exist.”

David let those words hit him a few times before even contemplating a course of action.

As far as the government is concerned, you don’t exist

You don’t exist…

You don’t exist….

“I-I don’t understand,” he finally spoke aloud.

“Neither do I,” Talbott affirmed. “But unfortunately, I can’t let you in the Ministry at this time. I’m sorry.”

David didn’t even bother to argue the point. It seemed as though every time he found a simple method to answer his questions, the end result would just add more to his ‘to-do’ list. The revelation that the British Ministry held no record of anyone with his name was the icing on the cake.

“Well…uh…thank you anyway.”

Turning around to leave, there was one more question burning on David’s mind, one that he was sure even this version of Talbott wouldn’t mind revealing.

“Would you at least mind telling me this? What day and year is it?”

Talbott gave him a questioning look but gave him a straight answer.

“May 4th, 1999,” he answered.

So a whole year has passed? That explains why the war damage has been fixed. But not everything else. Including my own status as living, breathing person.

Then he noticed something else. A small pin attached to the front of Talbott’s Auror robes. Upon closer inspection, he saw it was an American Flag, the second one he had seen today.

“I beg your pardon but why do you have a lapel of the United States flag?”

“Full of questions, aren’t we? It’s a commemoration.”

David didn’t understand but then again what else was new. He needed to ask for more.

“What does America have to do with the commemoration of the end of the war?”

There was no mistaking the obvious look of pain and sorrow on Talbott’s face this time. So distraught that look was, he shifted his gaze to the side.

“The citizens of the United Kingdom weren’t the only ones who gave up their lives in order to stop You Know Who.”

It was there that David ceased, prudently unwilling to press the matter further. Talbott wasn’t going to speak more on the subject anyway and to do so would have been inappropriate anyway.

“Thank you for your help, good day.”

David didn’t turn to witness Talbott’s reaction. He had seen enough. From being thrusted a year forward in time, to seeing an old friend alive, right down to his own seemingly non-existence, this whole scenario was becoming positively ridiculous. And if he couldn’t find information at the Ministry there was another source he could turn to.

It was a time for a trip to Diagon Alley.

[wildenessat221b]

four significant factors

https://archiveofourown.org/works/20295730

The rain is getting heavier and Aziraphale is safe in heaven, questioning everything.

Crowley is far beyond the questioning phase.

Long ago, in the time before time had numbers because the event which marked the shift from BC to CE hadn’t happened yet, Aziraphale had watched the Earth on a viewing screen - (which would of course, later make its way down to Earth in the form of the flat screen television) along with many other of the celestial beings who had gotten wind that the inconspicuous drizzle that was pattering on the planet would keep inconspicuously drizzling for quite some time until it was neither inconspicuous nor a drizzle and harbouring a hefty sum of dead bodies.

 All as part of the Great Plan. The Ineffable Plan. The Greater Good. Or… something.

 (Aziraphale really hated his job sometimes. All the… hellforsaken justifications.)

 Aziraphale had been wringing his hands nervously over one another with uncomfortable pinpricks gathering under his skin. He’d felt a flush creeping up his neck, quivers take root in his legs and bile that wasn’t even there, really climb metaphysically up the throat of his non-corporeal form.

 These sensations were a reaction to two things. Firstly, the gathering storm, the implications it held and the feeling that a grave miscarriage of justice was about to take place. Secondly, the simply sickening feeling that none of the other angels gathered around the screen seemed in the slightest uncomfortable, nor even fazed.

 Aziraphale almost marvelled at the blasé primness of their posture, the righteous shakes of their heads when they nodded with false graveness and muttered about ‘fitting punishments’ and ‘making examples.’

 Crowley’s words from earlier, when they’d run into each other before the rains began, rang in his ears. “Kids! You can’t kill kids!”

 He swallowed thickly, which earned him a funny look from a wizened-looking angel to his left who had the distinct look (because they certainly had a look) of one who hadn’t left the office since creation, nor encountered a human and had probably never seen the act of swallowing up close before.

 Or perhaps he just wasn't being as subtle as he thought he was about his disapproval.

 Attempting to mould his face into one of neutrality, he shifted his attention back to the screen. The winds were beginning to climb, causing great, white foaming shards to whip against the side of the vessel. Over the sound system (which was a system for sounds not even remotely resembling speakers – more like the inside of a bat’s ear, if the inside of a bat’s ear were made of what can only be described to the layman as pixie dust) he could hear elemental lashing and the odd mortal scream. As subtly as he could manage, he winced.

 Which necessitated narrowing his eyes.

 Which made them squint.

 Which made them focus.

 Which made… something catch his eye.

 It was a flash of red, abnormal and fiery against the muted blue-grey of the water. A flash of red… attached to a Caucasian head… attached to black clothing… which covered a body.

 It was a very familiar demon, clinging to the railing of the arc and attempting to haul himself aboard. This would have been an easy feat – his chosen body was young-ish, perpetually, and at this time, it was assisted by being in the cosmic scheme of things actually fairly young – but his movements were slowed by four significant factors.

 One of these factors was a three-year-old boy, who Aziraphale would later discover was named Abraham. He was clinging to his right leg.

 Another of these factors was a four-year-old boy, who Aziraphale would later discover was named Peter. He was clinging to his left leg.

 The next of these factors was a six-year-old girl, who Aziraphale would later discover was named Ruth. She was hanging on tight around his neck.

 The final of these factors was a one-and-a-half year-old girl, who Aziraphale would later discover was named Mary. She was balanced on his right hip.

 So he only had one arm free to do the hauling. Not an easy task, you see.

 He later disclosed that he’d managed to get them that far by flying, but a wave had knocked him out of the sky, waterlogging his wings and leaving him hanging on by his one free limb. “And it was bloody slippery.”(Later, in this case, was the year 2004 at a fish bar called ‘Oh My Cod,’ where the plaice was so good that Aziraphale felt he could ignore the casual blasphemy.)

 If Aziraphale’s corporeal form had a heart in the solid sense of the word, it would have been in his throat as he watched Crowley and his young passengers tumble over the side of the railing and to safety. He let out a silent sigh of relief, just as an angel to his left sucked in a disdainful breath.

 “That Fallen is meddling with the Great Plan!” she shrieked, pointing a glowing finger towards where Crowley and the children were scampering across the deck and towards the steps that would take them inside and to safety.

 A great chorus of grumbles and grunted outrage began. Angels left and right began jabbing at their (rough incarnations of) smartphones, jabbering about error reports and the like.

 Luckily, even in an… establishment such as heaven, bureaucracy takes ages to get things done. Long enough for whole seas to dry up it seems.

 But Aziraphale didn’t know that at the time, could only step back and attempt to somehow shrink inwards on himself to the point of obscurity while the angels raged and he silently, seethingly disagreed.

 That was the first time that he felt like an alien in heaven.

 And the first that he resolved to spend the rest of his existence dancing delicate circles around Crowley on Earth.

 (Or more, if circumstance permitted.)

 (Circumstance and his own stifling, misguided, painful conscience.)

[bountyofbeads]

Coronavirus Exposes Core Flaws, and Few Strengths, in China’s Governance https://nyti.ms/38FTXIO

Effects of Coronavirus Begin Echoing Far From Wuhan Epicenter

Hong Kong closed its schools for several weeks, Beijing began limiting bus travel in and out of the capital and China’s travel association suspended tour groups of citizens heading overseas.

By Chris Buckley and Tiffany May | Published Jan. 25, 2020Updated 6:11 p.m. ET | New York Times | Posted January 25, 2020 |

WUHAN, China — The repercussions from a mysterious virus that has sickened hundreds of people began reverberating far from its epicenter in central China on Saturday, as Hong Kong closed its schools for several weeks, Beijing began restricting buses in and out of the capital, and the country’s travel association suspended Chinese tour groups heading overseas.

The new measures, coming on top of previous travel restrictions that had effectively penned in tens of millions of people in Hubei, the province at the heart of the outbreak, are certain to further dampen celebrations of the Lunar New Year, which began on Saturday.

They came, too, as China’s top leader, Xi Jinping, who had said little publicly about the crisis despite growing criticism of the response, pledged Saturday that officials would “stand at the front line to safeguard social stability.”

The illness linked to the virus has killed at least 42 people and sickened more than 1,300 in China, according to official reports. Cases have been confirmed in all but one of China’s provinces and autonomous regions, as well as in at least 10 other countries as the virus has spread to Europe, the United States and, most recently, Australia.

Among the newest victims in China was a 62-year-old ear, nose and throat specialist, who died on Saturday, according to state news media. The state-owned television network said the doctor had been at the “front line” of the outbreak, despite retiring from a Wuhan hospital in March 2019.

And officials in the southern city of Hechi said on Saturday that a 2-year-old girl suffering from the coronavirus had been admitted to a hospital, becoming the youngest person known to be infected.

In a sign of how the coronavirus has shaken China, Mr. Xi convened a meeting of Communist Party leaders on Saturday to try to stem the outbreak.

“We’re sure to be able to win in this battle to beat the epidemic,” said Mr. Xi, according to a summary of his remarks by state media, offering some of his most extensive remarks to date on the crisis.

Mr. Xi called for stronger efforts to provide medicine and other supplies to affected areas. Shortages have angered doctors and medical workers, particularly in Wuhan, the Hubei provincial capital where the outbreak began. Hospitals have issued pleas for donated supplies.

Party leaders also directed railway stations, airports and ports to step up measures to deter the spread of the virus, through ventilation, disinfection and body temperature checks.

Chinese officials announced later Saturday that more than 1,200 medical personnel would be sent to Wuhan and over 10,000 beds in 24 local hospitals would be requisitioned for treating confirmed and suspected cases of the virus.

But the official response so far has drawn stinging rebukes on social media, where people are questioning whether the authorities are accurately reporting the number of cases or doing enough to rein in the outbreak. In particular, people have denounced the perceived indifference of local, provincial and even national authorities.

“Where is that person? He is not on the front line,” one user wrote on Weibo, a Twitter-like platform, in an apparent reference to Mr. Xi.

State media has maintained a steady drumbeat of positive news about the outbreak, praising the sacrifices of responders and everyday people. But there was little doubt that the disease had derailed celebrations of the Lunar New Year, the country’s biggest holiday and busiest travel period.

Travel constraints imposed earlier in Wuhan and 12 nearby cities have effectively penned in 35 million people. Wuhan tightened its restrictions further on Saturday, with a ban on most vehicle traffic in the city center.

The restrictions began spreading far beyond Wuhan, too: In Beijing, the city government said it would halt all inter-province buses beginning on Sunday, effectively limiting road travel into the capital.

The association of China’s travel agencies said that it would suspend all tour groups and the sale of flight and hotel packages for citizens headed overseas, starting on Monday. Groups already on their trips were allowed to continue, with the directive that travelers’ health be closely monitored.

The move to cut off group tours could have a ripple effect across countries that depend on Chinese tourists. While China is now home to an increasingly sophisticated population ready to hit the tourist routes by themselves, a large number of Chinese do not feel comfortable traveling abroad unless they are with a group.

New measures were also imposed in Hong Kong, where its leader, Carrie Lam, declared a health emergency. Five coronavirus patients connected to Wuhan are being treated in Hong Kong, and more than 100 others are suspected of having the viral pneumonia.

Lunar New Year celebrations are being canceled in Hong Kong, schools will be closed until mid-February and the Hong Kong Marathon has been called off. The city is also suspending flights and train services to Wuhan.

A study by the medical journal The Lancet, published on Friday, raised new concerns that people infected with the coronavirus might be able to spread it even if they do not have flu-like symptoms.

Researchers studied a family in the Chinese city of Shenzhen, five of whom had traveled to Wuhan and two of whom had come in contact with an infected relative in a hospital there. Testing conducted after the family flew home found that six members had the coronavirus, including one who had not gone to Wuhan.

One infected family member, a child, had no symptoms, suggesting that people with the virus might be spreading it without knowing that they have it, the study found.

“It shows this new coronavirus is able to transfer between person to person, in a hospital setting, a family home setting, and also in an intercity setting,” Yuen Kwok-yung, an author of the study, said in an interview. “This is exactly what makes this new disease difficult to control.”

The United States Embassy said on Saturday that all American employees at its consulate in Wuhan have been ordered to leave. The United States government is arranging a charter flight to evacuate American diplomats and citizens on Sunday, according to a person familiar with the plan.

For people in the United States with close ties to China, the outbreak has brought worry, disappointment and scrutiny. Some Chinese-Americans have had their Lunar New Year plans waylaid, as travel schedules for the coming week and beyond are interrupted.

Chinese-Americans have scrambled, though, to send aid to their friends and family in China.

Sean Shi, of Issaquah, Wash., said he shipped several boxes of masks to China in a friend’s luggage, hoping that they could reach friends in the Wuhan area. Later in the day, Mr. Shi was back at a hardware store, buying another 46 masks for some of his former peers at Wuhan University.

“We understand it’s a tough situation over there — the panic, the shortage of equipment,” Mr. Shi said. “We just realized the situation is very serious — more serious than we thought.”

______

Christopher Buckley reported from Wuhan, and Tiffany May from Hong Kong. Reporting was contributed by Steven Lee Myers, Vivian Wang, Raymond Zhong, Carlos Tejada, Rick Gladstone, Mike Baker, Jeffrey E. Singer and Elian Peltier. Yiwei Wang and Claire Fu contributed research.

*********

Coronavirus Exposes Core Flaws, and Few Strengths, in China’s Governance

While China can mobilize a huge national response to the outbreak, its response to the crisis is also a lesson in how the country’s political weak points can carry grave consequences for world health.

By Max Fisher | Published Jan. 25, 2020 Updated 4:13 p.m. ET |New York Times|

Posted January 25, 2020 |

It was the initial news reports that first suggested China’s political system might be getting in the way of its ability to confront the coronavirus outbreak.

The outbreak seemed to already be a full-blown crisis, infecting dozens in China and even some abroad, by the time it became widely reported.

This seeming delay was of a familiar pattern in China, one suggesting that local officials may have played down early warning signs or simply did not coordinate enough to see the problem’s scope.

While outsiders might suspect an attempted cover-up as the cause, experts see something much more worrying: weaknesses at the very heart of the Chinese system.

Its rigidly hierarchical bureaucracy discourages local officials from raising bad news with central bosses whose help they might need. And it silos those officials off from one another, making it harder to see, much less manage, the full scope of spiraling crises.

“That’s why you never really hear about problems emerging on a local scale in China,” said John Yasuda, who studies China’s approach to health crises at Indiana University. “By the time that we hear about it, and that the problem reaches the central government, it’s because it’s become a huge problem.”

While much remains unknown about the outbreak, a common theme is emerging.

Any political system is better at solving some problems than others. But the coronavirus, like other health crises before it, is bringing out some of the deepest flaws and contradictions in a Chinese system that, for all its historic feats, remains a work in progress.

Those flaws, which have long frustrated Chinese leaders, appear to have played a role in everything from the pace at which officials responded to the coronavirus outbreak, to China’s yearslong inability to address the health risks that experts have long warned could lead to an outbreak just like this one.

While the country is now mobilizing a nationwide response — one of the system’s strengths — the incident is already a lesson in the political weak points that can bring grave consequences for China and, as infections spread, the world.

A System at Odds With Itself

“When you look at the coronavirus, it looks a lot like what happened with SARS. It involves a very similar template,” Mr. Yasuda said.

The SARS epidemic, which killed hundreds of people in 2002 and 2003, initially spread unchecked when local Chinese officials minimized early reports.

Their fear was not public unrest, it later emerged, but getting in trouble with the party bosses who controlled their careers.

Guan Yi, a professor of infectious diseases in Hong Kong who helped identify SARS, has accused Chinese authorities of once more delaying action, including by obstructing his own efforts to investigate the outbreak.

“This is a continuous theme in central-local relations in China. You do not want to be the one to bring bad news,” said Vivienne Shue, a prominent China scholar at Oxford University.

That gulf between central leaders in Beijing and local officials who run the country day-to-day, Ms. Shue said, is “the core conundrum in how that system works.”

It leads officials on both sides of the center-local divide “to do many counterproductive, irrational things,” she said, in their efforts to manage and manipulate one another.

That has included holding back reports of potential crises, in the hopes of solving things without the bosses finding out.

At the same time, China’s quasi-imperial system leaves the top party bosses in Beijing with little direct power over what happens in the provinces — policy proclamations are sometimes ignored or defied — other than promoting or punishing subordinates.

The two ends of the system are engaged in a constant push-pull dynamic, putting them occasionally at odds — particularly in moments of crisis, when each is looking to blame the other.

This has been an issue throughout China’s modern history, Ms. Shue said, with power fluctuating between the center and the periphery. Xi Jinping, China’s current leader, has sought to centralize power, setting up Beijing-based working groups to exert more control outside the capital.

But the system’s underlying contradiction remains. Mr. Xi’s tightening grip may make local leaders all the more wary of releasing information that could invite his wrath.

As China modernizes, integrating its once-disparate provinces and cities, local mistakes can become national crises before Beijing is even aware that something has happened, as may have happened with the coronavirus outbreak.

“As logistics and the distribution systems have expanded, you really see how the local and national have been linked together,” Mr. Yasuda said, referring to the hastening rate at which health, environmental and economic crises can now spread.

That is not all downside. The central government has enormous capacity to mobilize in a crisis, as it is doing now, locking down several major cities to slow the disease’s spread.

“Once a clear problem has emerged, it’s very good at diverting resources,” Mr. Yasuda said of China’s political system. “But it’s not good at dealing with emerging problems. So it’s built to be reactive instead of proactive.”

WHEN CHINA’S STRENGTHS BECOME A SOURCE OF PERIL

In some ways, China’s system has been a source of strength.

Party bosses set priorities, then reward the institutions and officials who best carry them out.

And since the days of Mao Zedong, China has operated under a system known as fragmented authoritarianism, in which even the most local leaders have near-absolute authority over their remit.

That has led to a culture of what Elizabeth J. Perry, a Harvard University scholar, has called “guerrilla governance,” in which results take precedence over procedure or accountability, and in which it is all leaders for themselves.

This approach is seen as crucial in having enabled China to lift hundreds of millions of citizens out of poverty and turn itself from global backwater into world power.

But it can be disastrous when it comes to managing health and environmental issues.

Disease and pollution don’t respect provincial or municipal borders. And because of the way they spread, it often takes a unified, nationwide policy to prevent or stop them — something for which guerrilla governance is ill-suited.

“It’s very difficult to come together to create a clear actionable plan,” Mr. Yasuda said, adding that, for any health or environmental regulation to work, “you want it to be standardized, you want it to be transparent, you want it to be accountable.”

But China’s system de-emphasizes those concerns, sometimes to disastrous effect.

In the mid-2000s, Beijing demanded a drastic increase in milk production. When factory farms were unable to meet their targets, officials conscripted vast numbers of rural farmers. Some of the farmers, struggling to meet their quotas, watered down their milk, then added an industrial chemical known as melamine to fool quality sensors. The tainted milk poisoned thousands of infants.

Experts fear a similar regulatory failure may have enabled the coronavirus outbreak: the longstanding inability to clean up so-called wet markets, which are stuffed with livestock living and dead, domesticated and wild. Though the outbreak’s cause is still being studied, Wuhan’s wet market is considered a prime suspect.

The markets have long been considered a major threat to public health, particularly as a vector for transmitting diseases from animals to humans. And they are a lesson in the perils of patchwork, decentralized regulations like China’s: While some markets are more carefully policed than others, all it takes is one to cause an outbreak.

In another echo of the tainted milk scandal, top-down political priorities provide an incentive to look the other way. Taking down the markets, which are popular, would risk a public outcry. Local officials had every reason to fear that their bosses, who have not made the markets a priority, would punish them for causing trouble.

Aligning With Public Good, Or Not

A foundational mission of any political system is to align its leaders’ incentives with the needs and desires of the wider public.

Democracies seek to do this through “the competition of interests,” Ms. Shue said, on the belief that inviting everyone to participate will naturally pull the system toward the common good. This system, like any, has flaws, for example by handing more power to those with more money.

Within China, Ms. Shue added, the common good “is seen as something that should be designed from above, like a watch being engineered to run perfectly.”

But sometimes the watch can be designed in ways that harm the public good.

In 2001, for instance, Beijing ordered provincial officials to reduce water pollution from factories. Many provinces simply moved the factories to their borders, ensuring pollutants would flow into the next district. Nationwide, water pollution worsened.

So far, the coronavirus outbreak seems to highlight both the strengths and perils of China’s model. Beijing, apparently having learned from the SARS epidemic, has pushed for faster and more drastic action.

But the same systemic problems, from gun-shy local officials to weak health regulations, appear to be recurring as well — a reminder that the system remains, Ms. Shue said, “a work in progress.”

*********

China’s Omnivorous Markets Are in the Eye of a Lethal Outbreak Once Again

The coronavirus that has spread from Wuhan has been linked to the sale of live wildlife at a market that experts describe as a perfect incubator for novel pathogens.

By Steven Lee Myers | Published Jan. 25, 2020 Updated 8:06 p.m. ET | New York | Posted January 25, 2020 |

LANGFANG, China — The typical market in China has fruits and vegetables, butchered beef, pork and lamb, whole plucked chickens — with heads and beaks attached — and live crabs and fish, spewing water out of churning tanks. Some sell more unusual fare, including live snakes, turtles and cicadas, guinea pigs, bamboo rats, badgers, hedgehogs, otters, palm civets, even wolf cubs.

The markets are fixtures in scores of Chinese cities, and now, for at least the second time in two decades, they are the source of an epidemic that has spread fear, taxed the Communist Party bureaucracy and exposed the epidemiological risks that can spawn in places where humans and wildlife converge.

The novel coronavirus that has already killed at least 56 and sickened more than 1,370 in China and around the world is believed to have spread from exactly one of these places: a wholesale market in Wuhan, a city in central China, where vendors legally sold live animals from stalls in close quarters with hundreds of others.

“This is where you get new and emerging diseases that the human population has never seen before,” said Kevin J. Olival, a biologist and vice president of research with EcoHealth Alliance, a nonprofit research organization, who has tracked previous outbreaks.

[ UPDATES ON THE CORONAVIRUS: Xi Jinping warned that China faced a “grave situation” as the epidemic “accelerated.”]

While the exact path of the pathogen has not yet been established, government officials and scientists said the new contagion had ominous similarities with the outbreak of SARS, or severe acute respiratory syndrome, in late 2002, which killed nearly 800 people and sickened thousands more around the world.

Now, as the government struggles to contain public anger over the outbreak, it is facing calls to do more to regulate or even ban the sale of wildlife — and growing questions about why so little has changed in the 17 years since SARS.

That disease was ultimately traced to a coronavirus that jumped from bats to Asian palm civets, a catlike creature prized as a delicacy in southern China, and then to humans involved in the wildlife trade there. According to officials and scientists, the new virus also appears to have originated in bats and made the jump to another mammal, though which one is not yet clear.

The latest outbreak — the scope of which is still unfolding — has led to calls inside and outside of China for better regulations or even an end to this kind of culinary adventurism. While turtle and boar meat are not uncommon in Chinese restaurants, game meats such as civet cats, snakes or pangolins tend to be considered specialties only in some regions. Their consumption is driven as much by the desire to flaunt wealth as by a mix of superstition and belief about the health benefits of wildlife.

Once the Huanan Seafood Wholesale Market in Wuhan was identified as the most likely source of this outbreak in December, the authorities promptly closed it, though it was not clear what happened to the animals that had been for sale there. Officials announced only on Wednesday that they had banned the sale of wild animals throughout the province. Two other provinces, Henan and Inner Mongolia, also imposed suspensions on the trade this past week.

On Friday, officials from three national agencies announced tighter controls, including a suspension nationally of the sale and transport of animals possibly linked to the new coronavirus. The statement specified only badgers and bamboo rats, a species of rodent found in southern China that lives in (and eats) bamboo thickets. Both had been advertised for sale in the market in Wuhan.

The flurry of government action came after an unusual outpouring of public sentiment against the trade of live animals. A campaign on Weibo, the social media platform, drew 45 million views with the hashtag #rejectgamemeat.

“Eating game does not cure impotence or have healing powers,” Jin Sichen, a television presenter in Nanjing, a city in southeastern China, wrote on his Weibo page on Wednesday. “Game not only doesn’t cure disease, it can also make you, your family, friends and even more people sick.”

“One must be mentally sick to eat game in order to show off and flaunt,” Mr. Jin added.

A group of 19 Chinese scholars also called on the government to do more to regulate the trade and the public to stop eating wild animals.

The Wildlife Conservation Society, an advocacy organization based in New York, called for a global ban on the commercial sale of wildlife, especially in markets like those in China, saying that the latest outbreak proved the public health threat.

Christian Walzer, the organization’s executive director of health, said that the astonishing diversity of wild animals in markets like these, packed in small cages in crowded market stalls, created a perfect laboratory for the unintentional incubation of new viruses that can enter human cells. Viruses can be spread through saliva, blood or feces.

“Each animal is a package of pathogens,” he said in a telephone interview.

But some Chinese consumers ascribe traditional medicinal benefits to the animals. Vendors and even officials in state news media have touted wildlife as alternative sources of protein and sources of revenue in impoverished regions.

An article by the Xinhua news agency last fall, for example, said that farming bamboo rats was helping to lift people out of poverty in Guangxi, another southern province.

Worries about meat supplies surged last year over the outbreak of African swine fever, which led to the killing of 40 percent of the country’s pigs. Production of domesticated livestock on the country’s farms is, compared to the sale of wildlife, subjected to far more regulation and inspection. Outbreaks still occur, but they are identified more quickly.

Part of the problem with the wildlife trade is that there is far less regulation, despite the greater risk of live animals’ infecting each other and people, especially in markets that can be unsanitary.

Mr. Walzer said that one problem with the legal production of some species is that it can blur the lines between those raised in captivity and those captured in the wild, where unknown viruses have existed for years without contact with humans.

“It’s a public health hazard, not only in China but everywhere,” he said.

At the peak of the SARS outbreak in 2003, the authorities banned the sale of civets and culled the existing stocks, but within months they ended the ban and trade had resumed as before.

“It is driven by interests,” Qin Xiaona, president of the Capital Animal Welfare Association, an advocacy organization in Beijing, said of the current outbreak. “Many people profit from the wildlife trade today.”

According to a medical blog posted on WeChat, the health authorities in Wuhan visited the market in September and inspected eight vendors selling frogs, snakes and hedgehogs, among other animals. All were licensed to sell wildlife, and no violations were found.

Despite the spread of the virus around the country, a Hong Kong television network, I-Cable News Channel, found scores of wild animals still for sale on Wednesday at a market in Qingyuan, a city in Guangdong, the province where SARS originated.

THE EPIDEMIC HAS NOW PUT SELLERS ON THE DEFENSIVE.

“Are you sure it is eating wild animals that has caused the epidemic?” said Zheng Ming, the sales manager of James Gorman contributed reporting from New York. Zoe Mou in Beijing and Claire Fu in Chengdu contributed research. selling animals in Yichang, a city 180 miles west of Wuhan. Until the ban on sales announced this past week, he sold porcupines, civets, guinea pigs and bamboo rats among others.

“We observe the law,” he said. “This is a completely legal business.”

**********

Coronavirus Spurs China to Suspend Tours Abroad and Xi to Warn of a ‘Grave Situation’......Concern over the outbreak has crept closer to central government offices and the ruling Communist Party’s seat of power.

PUBLISHED Jan. 25, 2020 Updated 8:32 p.m. ET | New York Times | Posted January 25, 2020 |

CHINA MOVES TO RESTRICT TRAVEL, INCLUDING TOURS ABROAD.

China said on Saturday that it would suspend all tour groups and the sale of flight and hotel packages for its citizens headed overseas, starting on Monday.

The association for China’s travel agencies said tour groups that were in the middle of their trips could proceed with their itineraries but should closely monitor the health of their travelers.

This measure may come as welcome news to countries that have been gearing up to screen travelers from China for fevers and other signs of infection.

The Beijing city government also announced on Saturday that it would suspend all inter-province buses from Sunday, effectively limiting road travel into the capital.

The measures, taken hundreds of miles from Wuhan, where the outbreak of a novel coronavirus began, were a sign that concerns over the spread of the outbreak have crept close to central government offices and the ruling Communist Party’s seat of power.

Wuhan also tightened its restrictions further on Saturday with a ban on vehicle traffic in the city center, to begin at midnight.

The local government said some vehicles would be exempted, including shuttle buses and trucks moving supplies. Residents responded with frustration on social media. One woman, who said she was pregnant and near her due date, asked if she was supposed to walk to her gynecologist’s office.

All the reported deaths from the outbreak have been in mainland China, but travelers have spread the virus to numerous other places. Cases have been confirmed in Australia, Malaysia, Nepal, Vietnam, Singapore, Japan, South Korea, Taiwan, Hong Kong, Thailand, France and the United States.

The authorities in Wuhan said they would also speed up the customs process for donated supplies, as hospitals in the city raise the alarm about a shortage of hospital gowns, surgical masks and other necessities.

A notice posted Saturday on the website of the city’s customs agency said that new channels were being put in place to ensure that donations were put to immediate use. Overseas donations will be exempted from tax duties, the notice said.

During past crises, the authorities in China have been criticized for their reluctance to accept overseas assistance, apparently preferring to project a sense of control. As China has grown more affluent, it has become a provider of aid rather than a recipient, particularly to regions like Africa.

China has made exceptions during some past disasters, including a devastating earthquake centered on Sichuan Province in 2008.

SCHOOLS IN HONG KONG AND THE MAINLAND POSTPONE CLASSES

On Saturday, Hong Kong’s leader, Carrie Lam, declared a health emergency in the semiautonomous Chinese city and said schools would be closed until mid-February.

Two American universities with campuses in China also postponed their start dates. Duke Kunshan University, a partnership between Duke University in North Carolina and Wuhan University, said it would not resume classes until Feb. 17.

Classes had originally been scheduled to resume Feb. 3, after the Lunar New Year vacation. (Duke Kunshan University is not in Wuhan, but in Jiangsu Province, more than 400 miles away.)

New York University also announced that its Shanghai campus would start its spring semester one week later than planned, at the request of municipal authorities.

Schools in Hubei Province, where Wuhan is and where the outbreak has hit the hardest, had already decided to delay the start dates at all schools, from kindergarten through college.

Fifteen more deaths are reported, including one in Shanghai.

China on Sunday morning announced 15 more deaths from the new coronavirus, including one in Shanghai, the first to be reported so far in the metropolis.

Thirteen more deaths were also announced in Hubei Province, where the outbreak began, and one was announced in Henan Province. The latest deaths brought the toll in China to 56.

Across the country, 688 cases of the new virus were diagnosed on Saturday, the government said early Sunday.

That brings the total number of confirmed cases to 1,975. Deaths from the coronavirus had previously been reported outside of Hubei, the outbreak’s epicenter.

But the death in Shanghai, which is amoung China’s most populous cities and a major commercial hub, is likely to add to anxieties about the disease’s spread.

Shanghai’s municipal health commission said on Saturday that the patient who died was an 88-year-old man.

Nationwide, more than 400 new cases of the virus were diagnosed, officials said early Saturday, bringing the total number of confirmed cases in China to more than 1,370.

Travel restrictions in Wuhan and 12 other cities have essentially penned in 35 million people on the country’s biggest holiday, normally a time for traveling to visit family.

WHY IS THERE SO MUCH PANIC?

Though the number of coronavirus cases and deaths is alarming, public health experts have so far warned against mass anxiety. After all, the common flu kills roughly 35,000 people a year and hospitalizes about 200,000 in the United States alone.

It is too soon to know the mortality rate of the virus in the new outbreak. But there are signs that this outbreak could be far more serious than the common flu. For one, the virus has been identified as a coronavirus, named for the spikes that protrude from its membrane. Other coronaviruses have far higher mortality rates than the common flu, and have also led to global outbreaks.

Chinese citizens are also haunted by the memory of the SARS epidemic in 2002 and 2003, a coronavirus outbreak that also started in China and eventually killed more than 800 people worldwide. During that epidemic, Beijing at first played down the crisis and withheld information, eventually drawing widespread criticism.

And conclusive evidence about how the outbreak started is lacking. While officials in Wuhan first traced it to a seafood market, some patients who have fallen ill never visited the market. Researchers have also offered disparate explanations for what animals may have transmitted the virus to humans.

The Chinese government has promised far more transparency than in the SARS crisis, and the World Health Organization has praised its cooperation with the scientific community.

Still, mistrust of the local and national authorities is evident on Chinese social media. And China’s health system has already struggled under the new virus’s strain, with hospitals in Wuhan issuing urgent requests for help and donations.

Xi Jinping, China’s leader, says the nation will ‘beat the epidemic.’

In a sign of how the spread of the coronavirus has deeply shaken China, the nation’s top leader, Xi Jinping, convened a meeting of the Communist Party leadership on Saturday to begin an offensive to stanch the spread of the outbreak, improve treatment of victims and speed supplies to areas under lockdown.

“We’re sure to be able to win in this battle to beat the epidemic through prevention and control,” Mr. Xi said, according to an official summary delivered on Chinese television.

Until now, Mr. Xi had said little publicly about the growing crisis, even as confirmed cases of infection with the new and little understood coronavirus multiplied over the past week and Wuhan — the city in central China where the virus first spread — and nearby areas came under a net of travel restrictions intended to contain the outbreak.

Mr. Xi issued brief orders about the emerging epidemic five days ago. Now, though, he has ordered mobilization across the country and drastic measures to hold back the virus, which is linked to pneumonia symptoms that can be deadly.

The China television report showed Mr. Xi speaking to the six other members of the Politburo Standing Committee, the Communist Party’s topmost decision-making body, and a circle of other grave-faced officials. The leadership meeting took place on the first full day of China’s weeklong Lunar New Year holiday, a time when the entire country, including party leaders, usually take time off for family get-togethers and relaxation.

“Confronted with the grave situation of this accelerating spread of pneumonia from infections with the novel coronavirus, we must step up the centralized and united leadership under the party central” leadership, Mr. Xi said.

The Communist Party will establish a top-level team, called a leadership small group, to grapple with the crisis, the meeting said, giving efforts to fight the outbreak greater urgency and centralized coordination. Here are some of the other measures and main points announced:

Mr. Xi demanded strong efforts to provide medicine and other supplies, a point of anger among many doctors and medical workers in Wuhan who have complained about a shortage of protective masks, gowns and other safety equipment.

Officials in Hubei Province, where the outbreak began, received an implicit telling off. Residents and many other Chinese people have said that officials did not respond seriously enough. Hubei, the meeting said, “must make containment and control of the epidemic its topmost priority, adopting even stricter measures to prevent it expanding within and spreading outward.”

The meeting called for concentrating resources, experts and treatment to cope with the surge of infections, including sending patients with serious symptoms to designated medical units. This suggests that there may be more hospitals built or modified to deal solely with the outbreak.

LOCAL AND MILITARY MEDICAL RESOURCES ARE TO BE POOLED FOR THE RESPONSE.

Public spaces across China, including railway stations, airports, and ports, were told to step up measures to deter the spread of the virus, including ventilation, disinfection, and body temperature checks for people. “When suspected cases are found they must be held for observation locally,” the meeting ordered.

Beijing response highlights longstanding tensions between national and local officials.

In his remarks on Saturday, Mr. Xi also seemed to address Chinese citizens’ growing dissatisfaction with the official response. On Chinese social media, users have asked whether the authorities have accurately reported the number of cases or taken enough steps to rein in their spread.

Commenters have especially condemned the perceived absence of the local, provincial and even national authorities in the heart of the outbreak. Mr. Xi had made few public remarks about the disease before Saturday, when he called for officials to “stand at the front line to safeguard social stability.”

“Where is that person? He is not on the front line,” one user wrote on Weibo, a Twitterlike platform, an apparent reference to Mr. Xi. The posts were quickly deleted.

A professor of infectious diseases in Hong Kong who helped identify SARS, Guan Yi, has accused Chinese authorities of delaying action and of obstructing his efforts to investigate the outbreak.

Local officials in China have long had incentives to avoid revealing problems that might invite the wrath of party bosses. But Mr. Xi’s efforts to centralize power in Beijing have further weakened local authorities and increased their incentive to deny problems.

It’s part of a longstanding pattern that can make both levels of government slow to acknowledge problems, then blame each other once a problem is revealed.

State media has maintained a steady drumbeat of positive news as the outbreak has spread, praising the sacrifices of responders and everyday people.

“This is a continuous theme in central-local relations in China. You do not want to be the one to bring bad news,” said Vivienne Shue, a prominent China scholar at Oxford University.

U.S. ORDERS THE EVACUATION OF AMERICAN CONSULATE EMPLOYEES.

The State Department has ordered all American employees at the United States Consulate in Wuhan to leave the city, as a lockdown imposed on central China expanded, the United States Embassy said on Saturday.

It said the evacuation of its American staff members and their families was necessary because of the spreading outbreak of the coronavirus, the disruptions caused by the restrictions on transportation in Wuhan and the overwhelming of hospitals.

The evacuation order, made on Thursday, according to a statement from the United States Embassy, was a sign that the measures imposed by the Chinese authorities to try to contain the outbreak of the mysterious coronavirus may be escalating alarm and confusion.

Lines have formed at hospitals and residents have complained that the traffic restrictions have made it nearly impossible to seek timely medical help.

The United States government is arranging a charter flight to evacuate American diplomats and citizens on Sunday, according to a person familiar with the plan. The plane would likely take evacuees to the West Coast of the United States, this person said.

Medical staff would be aboard the plane to screen passengers, and evacuees who were not American diplomatic officers would be responsible for the cost of the flight, according to the person briefed on the plan.

The French Consulate in Wuhan also told its citizens on Friday that it was considering setting up bus rides for those who wished to leave the city, in cooperation with the Chinese authorities, according to France’s Foreign Ministry.

Hong Kong declares a state of emergency and shuts schools.

On Saturday, Hong Kong’s leader, Carrie Lam, declared a health emergency in the semiautonomous Chinese city and said schools would be closed until mid-February.

The city is treating five coronavirus patients connected to Wuhan, and more than 100 others are suspected of having the viral pneumonia.

Hong Kong is also suspending flights and train services to Wuhan and will cancel all Lunar New Year celebrations. The Hong Kong Marathon, originally scheduled for early February, has also been called off.

Masks and hand sanitizers have sold out in most pharmacies in the city as residents have stocked up on supplies in a panic since last week.

Yuen Kwok-yung, a leading expert in infectious diseases who discovered the agent causing the coronavirus, had called for schools and universities to remain closed beyond the Lunar New Year holiday in an effort to contain the infection’s reach.

Recent cases have shown that people who do not show symptoms could transmit the disease, according to a study published in The Lancet on Friday of which he was a co-author.

“If there are local cases in Hong Kong that is not directly connected to Wuhan, this is a big issue,” Dr. Yuen said in a phone interview. “It would mean that this epidemic has reached another level of severity.”

[faveficarchive]

All the Colors of the World: Part 4

Les Amours Perdues

By Vivian Darkbloom

Pairing: Mel/Janice, Xena/Gabrielle

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: After meeting once again post-Macedonia, Mel and Janice come to terms with their feelings for one another, while also coming to terms with who they are individually.

For the rest of her life, Gabrielle would replay the image in her mind: she, atop a horse, holding aloft a sword. Was that really me, the "we must stop the cycle of violence and hatred" pacifist bard? Leading a battle? A warrior Queen? Then, the answer: It was. For some wild moment I was there, I felt the blood singing in my body...that rush. For that second I knew what Xena felt in battle. Dare I admit it? It was...glorious.

But the glory ended. Quickly.

A nerve-shattering clang brought the sword out of her hand, and almost threw her off the horse. Petrus's mount danced around Argo; Xena's mare, however, was leading, and she kept Gabrielle out of the warlord's reach. A rising roar filled the bard's ears: the armies were converging on them and the ground thundered. She was in the eye of the storm. But then she was falling, caught in the fatal throes of gravity, with time shifting wildly. The decent was slow, then fast. She heard—and felt—a sickening crunch in her wrist as she hit the dirt. Before she could stand up, she felt a sharp, agonizing pain in her thigh. The bastard. He had thrown a dagger into her; the hilt protruded from her leg.

He dismounted and walked to her, sword in hand. She looked once again into the dead eyes. How can anyone have eyes with no color? She did not want this to be the last thing she ever saw, but so be it; to counter it, she shut her own vivid eyes and thought of the vivid blue ones so dear to her..

As it turned out, it wasn't the last thing she saw. She heard the familiar whoosh of the chakram riding on the wind, and a gurgle. Opening her eyes, she saw the chakram embedded in Petrus's chest. The warlord dropped to his knees in front of her. His features began to ease into relief as he welcomed death, but then contorted in pain as he coughed up a bit of blood. "As I said, little Queen, you have good taste," he whispered. He fell back on the field, dead.

A wave of exhaustion and relief hit Gabrielle, as the tension and buildup of the past few days snapped within her. She felt herself being scooped into strong, familiar arms, and her eyes caressed Xena's concerned face.

"I'm taking you back to the village," the warrior said.

The bard nodded. So much for the battle rush. Who needs to fight this fucking war anyway? Not me. "Xena?" she began.

"Yes?"

"You have the most wonderful timing."

*****

Colonel Anton Frobisher had not seen Mel since the young woman had spent a year studying at Cambridge ten years ago. He had witnessed her in every stage of her life: as a sweet-natured infant, a curious toddler, a precocious child, a lanky teenager, a soft-spoken young woman. While he was eager to see this latest "version" of his oldest friend's progeny, she remained fixed in his elderly mind as a little girl, an intelligent eight year-old, who—when she didn't have her nose in a book—was chasing around Patches, a very old cat that lived on his estate in Cornwall. Wielding a long stick that she called a sword, the girl swore that the ancient calico was her arch enemy seeking revenge against her. She was...an odd child at times. One day the old cat triumphed and caught Melinda with a rather nasty scratch on the arm.

* * *

June, 1924

Nicholas Pappas carefully dabbed peroxide on the cut. The girl's eyes brimmed with tears, and her lower lip trembled, but she stared stoically past her father into space.

"You're being very brave, Melinda," he said soothingly. "Almost done." Quickly he wrapped some gauze around her arm and tied it neatly. Out of sheer relief a tear escaped her eye, and he soaked it into his dry, callused thumb. "There we go," he said, with a kiss to her forehead. "Come, let's join Uncle Anton for tea."

They headed for porch, where Anton waited in a wicker chair. At the table before him, high tea awaited them all. He ruffled Melinda's hair as she walked by. "I daresay, Melinda, Patches—"

"Catlisto," corrected the girl solemnly.

"Er, yes—Catlisto—may have won the battle, but you won the war. She flew out of the house like a storm."

"No, Uncle Anton, I shall never be rid of Catlisto," Melinda intoned dramatically. "She is an immortal."

Anton shot a glance at Nick, who convulsed in silent laughter over his tea. Good God, Nick, what do you let this child read? "An...immortal, you say?"

"Yes, a cat is the form she now takes. Centuries ago she angered the gods, and Zeus turned her into a common house pet." With that, Melinda shoved a scone into her face, in only the way a hungry child can.

"Well," Anton mused, looking out into the yard, "now that I think about it, that old beast has been around here ever since I can remember..."

* * *

He was impressed as she stood in his doorway; Melinda continued to grow more stunning with age. She incorporated her father's looks—the height, the broad shoulders, the black hair and blue eyes—into an irresistible package. He felt a strange attraction toward her—strange, because it was based solely upon her resemblance to the dead man who was her father. Ah, Nick, even though I never told you, you knew how I felt. And you remained my friend anyway. Bless you. "Melinda, I'm so delighted to see you again. You look lovely," he said to the woman, at last. He rose from behind his desk and walked to her. She bent a little to receive the kiss that the shorter man placed on her cheek.

Her smile was shy, yet warm. "Hello, Uncle Anton." She paused. "Or should I call you Colonel?"

"Call me that only when we work, my dear. Do sit down." Mel sat in a leather armchair across from his desk.

"Well, I've got you all set up in a flat, dear, not far from here. Fact is, we've taken over a whole block of flats, it seems. Nothing spectacular, you know, probably nothing you're used to, living in that grand house by yourself."

"I'm sure it will be fine, Uncle Anton." Is he implying I'm...spoiled? The house I live in would barely be big enough to be a shed on his estate, she thought.

"Good. I'll have McKay take your bags over in a bit. Now, I do recall you know quite a number of languages, aside from that ancient nonsense you know."

She chuckled. "Yes, I do."

"Well?" His demand was a bit imperious, as his career-soldier-dom seeped through.

"Oh! Let's see, I know Spanish, Italian, German, Russian, Polish, Romanian..."

He clasped his hands in delight. "Excellent! We have quite a large number of Polish military in London right now, you know. About 30,000 men. So we need all the help we can get in translating services. I've quite a number of documents that need work. But that can wait until tomorrow. Tonight, I think you should have dinner at my home. We'll catch up a bit."

"Sounds wonderful."

He stood up and she followed. "Let me walk you out." He stepped outside the office and instructed Sergeant McKay, his assistant, to bring around a car to take Mel and her luggage to her new flat on Mecklenburgh Street.

As they descended the steps to the ground floor, his curiosity overtook him. "Melinda, why is it you are here, in London?" he asked gently. The urgent letter she sent gave no reason for her sudden interest in being so much closer to the war.

"Ah, well, I did want to contribute to the war effort..." she stammered, sliding her glasses up along her nose with a shaky finger. He smiled, charmed at her nervousness.

"But you could have done that just as well in your own country," he retorted.

"Yes, you're right," she conceded. A pause. "I came to find a friend...who's stationed here."

I knew it, he thought smugly. The old girl is in love. "An American, I assume?" She nodded. "What branch is he in?"

A faint blush colored her cheeks. "Er, my friend is in the Women's Army Corps, Uncle Anton."

"A woman?" Frobisher mused.

Mel raised an eyebrow, gently amused. "Yes, unless they changed the admission policy or something."

Oh my. He couldn't keep a grin off his face, which made her blush deepen. So Nick, that's why I caught you poring over Kraft-Ebing one day, when your daughter was a teenager. And I thought it was in reference to me. He noted with empathy the anguish and worry now on her face;. obviously, she was very taken with whomever this person was. He smiled inwardly: And I may be in a position to help. But for the moment he resolved to try and cheer her up: "So she's one of those...what do you call them, wackeys, eh what?" He waggled his thick, gray eyebrows.

He was rewarded with a giggle. "A WAC, you mean."

"And you don't know where her assignment is?"

"No," Mel answered, her expression turning morose once again. "An Army friend said she had been stationed here, in London. But I don't know where, exactly."

He opened the door and they were outside, against the darkened sky. Mel's ebony hair blended into the night, yet her eyes glimmered like beacons, even in the foggy, blacked-out haze of London.

Frobisher patted her arm. "Melinda, if she's here I'll find her. Let me see what I can do. What's your friend's name?"

She ducked her head, preventing him from seeing those bright eyes cloud over in pain. And she told him Janice's name.

Frobisher hung up the phone with a sigh. Almost two weeks had passed since Mel's arrival in London. As he could've predicted, she threw herself into the work at hand, and was very good at it. He regretted that her duties called upon her to act as an escort to military functions for some of the Polish officers, many of whom, inevitably, grew infatuated with her. He noticed the weariness with which she threw off the advances; it was obvious to him that she was discouraged in her search, and losing faith.

Now, finally, after untying knots of bureaucracy, he had news for her. He wouldn't have imagined that finding one American WAC would be so time-consuming; but Janice Covington was, after all, only one of many involved in the war. And the news wasn't good. True, it could be worse, but it still wasn't good. He walked down the corridor to where she shared an office with two other translators. Only one of the translators, Cutts, was in the office. "Hello, sir," the young man greeted Frobisher; he was exempt from military service due to a heart problem.

"Hello, Cutts. Where's Melinda?"

"Think she went to the loo, sir."

Frobisher chuckled at his bluntness. He lingered at Mel's immaculate desk, and noticed the curling, black and white photo taped on the wall above her desk: It was Melinda, looking rather disheveled, with a small, fair-haired woman, wearing a fedora, who gazed at her rather intently. Rather adoringly. And Melinda? How often had he seen the girl grin like that, with such unfettered joy, with such abandon of her very serious, almost mask-like, demeanor?

Cutts noticed Frobisher’s interest in the photo. "It's an odd picture, isn't it, sir?" he said. "Doesn't do Miss Pappas justice, probably not her friend either." The older man smiled mysteriously. On the contrary, it does them more justice than you can imagine.

"I happen to like that photo." He heard Mel's soft voice from the doorway. He turned to her, and immediately his face gave everything away. "You found her?" Mel asked; her tone shifted, and crackled with nerves, almost like a static-filled broadcast.

Frobisher nodded with resignation. "She's in France, Melinda."

After he told her, she immediately went back to the WC, leaving the men staring after her in stunned silence. Crammed into the small room, she pulled off her glasses with a trembling hand and cried above the toilet. This is so...frustrating. Every time I think I'm getting closer...I find out she's somewhere else. Her glasses, cradled loosely in her curled hand, slipped out of her grasp and clattered to the floor. At least they didn't end up in the toilet. That would be just my luck about now. She could not stop the visceral, angry curse that welled up in her mind. God damn you, Janice.

*****

September, 1944

It was Paris, but it sure as hell wasn't springtime. A third-rate hotel served as their base of operations. It did not endear the French to Janice Covington, nor she to them—especially when she growled for whiskey in their dour cafes, and only got red table wine that made Thunderbird taste like Veuve Cliquot.

She walked out of the hotel, and saw him leaning against the ambulance they were taking. Blaylock threw the ambulance keys at her. They sang through the air with a whiz, hit Janice in the right breast, and fell to the ground with a ping. She scowled. He blushed. "Sorry. We've got to get going," he said.

"If they think I'm such an idiot, why are they letting me drive him there?" Janice grunted, scooping the keys from the ground. "They" referred to General Bradley's underlings, the American liaisons to the Force Francaise d'Interior (or FFI; that is, the Resistance), who called upon Captain Blaylock for a driver to escort Max Duval, an FFI leader, to Reims. What Duval would be up to in Reims, Blaylock was not told; but when the Captain offered Janice—the best driver of ambulance, jeep, and truck in Paris—for the mission, he was rebuffed. It took a good deal of conniving on Blaylock's part, but the authorities finally agreed to let Janice drive Duval—if she were escorted by Blaylock.

"They don't think you're an idiot, Janice. They're just touchy about this one. Duval is a pretty important guy, and he was almost killed in the street fighting that went on last month, before the Liberation. Besides, they promoted you, didn't they?" The thought of a WAC—who was also a private—undertaking this crucial task was more than their Division Leader could bear, so they promoted Janice. But not by much.

"Yes, I do so love the alliterative joy of Corporal Covington rolling off my tongue," she said sarcastically.

Blaylock grinned. "Well, if you wanted to be an officer, you should've gone into officers' training."

"I didn't want to be an officer," she snapped.

"Then why the hell are you complaining?" he retorted, confused.

They stopped walking toward the ambulance truck they were taking for the journey. After three months of blood, mud, and death, not to mention the growing realization that her feelings for Melinda Pappas had neither decreased nor deceased, Janice allowed herself a surly outburst, aimed at one of her closest friends: "Because I can."

Luckily, Blaylock was accustomed to such outbursts, having known Janice for many years, and merely shrugged it off. "Well, you need someone to come along anyway, since you barely know French," he chastised her in his gentle way.

Duval, still nursing a broken arm from his fight of several weeks ago, sat morosely in the ambulance truck's open hatch, waiting for them. Aside from her rudimentary Greek, Turkish, and Arabic, Janice knew very few modern languages; French, especially, was perplexing to her for some odd reason and she watched impatiently yet enviously as Blaylock conversed effortlessly with their charge. However, Duval's meaning was unmistakable to her when his moist dark eyes settled on her and he crooned, "Ah, un blonde ange." Both men grinned at her with sheer infatuation.

"Oh, Christ." Janice walked away with a growl and a roll of the eyes, and climbed into the driver's seat. "I hate the French."

Blaylock gestured for Duvall to enter the truck. Closing the hatch, he sauntered over to the passenger side as the engine kicked over.

As they drove out of the city, all was quiet. Judging from the heavy breathing in the back, Duval had fallen asleep. Blaylock studied Janice's sullen profile and racked his brain for conversation, for something to divert his cranky friend. He had noticed as of late she seemed moodier and moodier, more inclined to pick fights with everyone from their Division Leader (concerning the general lack of respect given to the WACs) to a whore on a street corner (who said she would charge Janice more than a regular customer, not only because she was a woman but an American as well). Well, that was my fault, I never should have dared Janice to ask her how much she would charge. Ah. He remembered something he wanted to tell Janice: "Guess who I ran into on Boulevard Saint Germain yesterday."

"Who?"

"Papageno."

Janice blinked in recognition at the name; Papageno was a Greek friend, an important contact in the world of archaeological digs. He could provide men, supplies, and the most crucial gossip with a snap of the fingers. "What's he doing in Paris? I thought he was sitting out the war in England."

"He was. But once he heard Paris was liberated, he came here. I think he wants to be closer to home. Anyway, he sends his regards, and said he would try to meet with you soon. He also asked if you received the scroll he sent you from England."

She remembered with a jolt. The scroll. God, I haven't even thought about it...it all seems like another lifetime ago. And I suppose it is. It also served as a reminder of Mel. But then, I don't need much to remind me of her. "Yeah, I did. I'll have to tell him."

"Are you working on a translation?" Blaylock asked, his professional curiosity piqued.

"Yeah," Janice replied absently.

"Are you using Nick Pappas's daughter again?"

The truck swerved violently, almost ending up in a ditch, and provoking a cry of "Mon Dieu!" from their startled passenger. Blaylock looked at her in alarm.

"Using?" Janice bristled.

"For the translation." Blaylock supplied impatiently. His eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Uh, yeah...I am...I...she has the scroll now. I left it in her hands." As well as my heart, my sanity, and everything else.

Blaylock's lips quirked as he suppressed a grin. A sudden instinct had overtaken him. "You know," he drawled sadistically, "I've never met Miss Pappas. But I know Clement Young, her former advisor at Vanderbilt."

"Really." Janice said flatly. The last thing she wanted was to talk about was Mel. It's bad enough she consumes my mind...if I dare talk about her, I think I will go crazy.

"Yeah. Clem says she quite brilliant. Practically a genius."

"It's true," Janice quietly affirmed.

"And she's quite a knockout, he says."

Corporal Covington was silent.

"I believe his expression was, 'She's got legs for miles.'" What he omitted was Young's further commentary on the subject: "It's a shame, though: I think she's queerer than a two dollar bill."

Corporal Covington clenched her jaw.

"No opinion on that, Covington?" he teased gently.

And since when did Corporal Covington not have an opinion on a woman? A bittersweet realization hit Blaylock: The woman he was in love with was finally in love with someone. And it still wasn't him.

*****

In an effort to find out more information about her missing friend, Sergeant McKay, Frobisher's assistant, directed Mel to the St. George, a pub that WACs were known to frequent. She selected a Friday evening to go there. It wasn't terribly crowded, and while she was thankful of that, it decreased her chances of finding Janice. She scanned the room and spotted a group of khaki-clad American women at a table. None of them resembled the fiery-haired archaeologist. With a sigh she walked up to the bar. The barkeep smiled and nodded at her; however, before she could order a drink a decidedly unfamiliar hand cupped her ass. What is it with men and my behind? she thought, spinning around in anger. A British soldier, a sergeant, was grinning at her.

"Meg, love! Didn't know you was back in town!" he cried happily in a Cockney accent. His eyes roamed her figure. "Nice outfit! Thought you was doin' your bit overseas, drivin' an' all that. But I'm real glad you're back."

"Sir," she replied icily, "I'm afraid you're mistaken. My name is not Meg."

He doubled up in laughter upon hearing her accent. "Bloody hell! That's great...I reckon if Vivian Leigh can play Scarlett O'Hara, so can you!"

"Sir...sergeant," she said, gritting her teeth, "I am not who you think I am." She rifled through her purse, pulling out her work papers and passport, thrusting the documents in his face. As his laughter subsided, he studied the papers. His face paled. "Jesus H. Christ, miss, I'm sorry!" he apologized. "I really thought you was Meg...you're her spittin' image."

"That's quite all right," she replied, relieved that he believed her.

"I should've known a classy-lookin' woman like you was no Meg." Oh wonderful, he's a talker...and a drunk one at that. He'll never shut up. " 'Specially since I heard she's..." He held out a hand, palm down, wiggling it. "gone a little queer...they say she had a bit of funny business on a ship with some American lass. An' I can tell you certainly aren't one of those types of women."

Because he managed to snag Mel's interest, she let his last comment pass. "On a ship?" she asked. Could it be...?

"Yeah, transport to France. 'Bout three months ago." It fit in with the date of Janice's departure for Normandy, she realized; Frobisher had supplied her with the time line. "My mate was a watch on board. Said he recognized Meg from the old days, when she and I went out together. Well, he gets on duty one mornin', see, and hears these noises in a supply room. And there was no mistakin' what them noises were about. He figures it's one of the officers having it off with one of the ladies, and they deserve to have one last time together before hitting the ground, eh? So he doesn't bother 'em. Well, 'bout an hour later he sees Meg come out with some little American WAC!" the sergeant finished the story on a note of incredulous laughter.

Mel slumped onto a barstool. Was that Janice? Who else would be brave—or stupid enough—to do something like that? Was she sleeping with another woman already? And why someone who looks like me? It makes no sense...running away from me to become involved with someone who looks like me? I am never going to figure this out. She scowled, and recalled the woman named Velasko, and her parting words to Mel: "If you ever find Janice Covington, tell her I'm gonna kill her." Take a number, Miss Velasko, Mel thought darkly.

*****

There was a church in Reims, they were told, where they were to deliver Duval. As they reached the town's outskirts, Janice's eyes scanned the rubble and husks of buildings that began to surround them with increasing alarm. "How can we tell what goddamn building is the church?" Janice complained.

"Janice, if anyone could put goddamn and church in the same sentence, it would be you," Blaylock retorted. But he also looked discouraged. Finally he yelled back to Duval, who scurried up to the front. "Ou est la eglise?" he asked the Frenchman, who frantically scanned the streets.

"Ici! Ici!" Duval cried, pointing at a large building which, indeed, still resembled a church, despite its crumbling facade; a stone lineup of angels adorned the top of its entrance, all part of an elaborate-heaven and-hell scene, with its details chipped away. Jesus was missing the arm which pointed upward; demons had faces blown off, rendering them even scarier. The ambulance pulled up too the door. Before Blaylock could stop him, Duval had opened the hatch and was out of the vehicle. A thin man, dressed in black, peered from the open doorway of the church. He then came out and hugged Duval.

"Aw, that's sweet," Janice said, only semi-sarcastically. Blaylock, however, could never get used to the intense fraternal affection of Frenchmen, and he glanced about awkwardly. After a few minutes of speaking with his comrade and some others who emerged from the church, Duval bounded over to them and smothered the Captain with an embrace. Janice laughed at Blaylock's consternation. "Merci beaucoup, mon ami," Duval whispered into the Captain's ear. Then he released Blaylock and turned to Janice. "Ah, Madamoiselle Covington!" he breathed ecstatically. It was Blaylock's turn to laugh.

"Dr. Covington," Janice corrected automatically. Duval blinked in confusion.

"Corporal Covington," Blaylock threw in. Duval looked even more confused. Then he shrugged with a Frenchman's insouciance. "Au revoir, mon blonde ange," he whispered melodramatically and planted a kiss on Janice's lips. She pulled back, sputtering.

Duval's dark-clad comrade came out of the church with a small rucksack. He handed it wordlessly, with a smile, to Blaylock. The Captain opened it and returned the smile grateful at the sight of apples, cheese, bread, and a wineskin. With a final wave the two men departed into the church.

She waited until they had disappeared behind the door, and she wiped her lips with the back of her hand. "Did I mention I hate the French?" she grumbled as they climbed back into the ambulance truck.

The sound of the wheels blowing out was so like an explosion that Janice thought they hit a mine. The truck swerved violently, spinning around almost 360 degrees, until the end of the vehicle slammed into a tree. Her jaw hit the steering wheel and she bit part of her lip at the impact. But the vehicle was still, and they had not blown up, although the radiator was smoking from under the hood.

She looked at Blaylock, who was rubbing his knee. "You all right?" she asked.

"Yeah, just banged my knee against the dash. You?"

"Fine. The steering wheel packs a hell of a punch, though." She rubbed her jaw. "What happened?"

"Don't know. Either you ran over something sharp in the road, or we set off a mine that, luckily, had a delayed explosion."

She jumped out of the truck. They were on a slight incline, with the passenger side tilted upward. Before Janice could suggest that Blaylock come out on her side, he kicked open his door and jumped out. "Shit!" he cried as she heard him fall with a thud. She ran over to him. He sat on the ground, now rubbing his ankle instead of his knee. "What?" she asked.

"Great. Now I think I sprained my ankle," he moaned.

She held a hand down to him. He grabbed it and hauled himself up; as always, he was impressed with her strength. He leaned on her lightly, relishing the physical contact between them, despite the throbbing pain in his ankle and the grim circumstances. How in the hell do we get out of this?

Janice scanned the road. Her breath caught at the sight: huge shards of broken glass were trailed along the road. "Son of a bitch! I ran over glass and I didn't see it!" She disengaged herself from Blaylock, who leaned against the truck for support.

Blaylock peered into the road. "It's clear glass, Janice. It's hard to see it," he said gently. He knew immediately she would beat herself up about it.

"Fuck!" she screamed, and furiously started to kick at the truck and its flat tires. Obviously she would beat up the faultless vehicle as well. I just have to keep her from kicking me around too, he thought. "Janice," he began patiently, "It was an accident. By the time you would have seen it, it would've been too late anyway. Besides, if you're gonna blame anyone, blame me. I was distracting you by trashing the Giants anyway." He watched as her stopped kicking, and her ragged breathing relaxed into a stable rhythm. "Sorry," she panted.

"Forget about it. Let's just concentrate on getting out of here." They were both silent for a moment. Janice paced, hands crammed into her back pockets, glaring at the road. Then it hit Blaylock. "Hey! There was a farm about two miles back—"

"A farm?" she echoed.

"Yeah, you didn't see it. It was on my side of the road. It looked pretty abandoned, but there was a truck there! I remember seeing it. If we could get that truck...I mean, if there are people there maybe they would drive us to Paris, or we could exchange the food for the vehicle..."

"Or if there isn't anyone there, I could hotwire it," Janice grinned.

He stared at her. She was a doctor—an intelligent and admired professional in her field (in spite of her father's reputation), a Harvard graduate, and a beautiful woman. But she was also as much of a roughneck and hooligan as her father, the infamous Harry Covington. It was the duality of Janice that intrigued him, and compelled him to love her. "Where in hell did you learn to hotwire a car?" She opened her mouth to reply, and he cut her off: "Never mind, I don't want to know. Okay, let's walk back to that farm." Tentatively he put all his weight on both legs, and winced when the swollen ankle screamed its protest.

"Wait a minute, hotshot. You're not going anywhere. You can hardly walk." With a gentle shove she pushed him against the truck again.

"The truck's not going to come to us, Janice."

"Look, why don't you let me go get it and I'll bring it back. You stay here."

His face darkened. "No deal, Covington. I'm not letting you go alone."

"For Christ's sake, Dan, you're injured. You have to admit you'd slow me down if you came along. Hell, I could run there if I went by myself."

"You don't know—"

"—any French, yes, I know, but I know how to pantomime real well, and I think between that and my pidgin French I'll convey the urgency of our need."

He sighed. He knew he would regret this, but he nodded his consent. "All right," he growled. He handed her his .45."Take this, and the food for the swap. I've a got a rifle in the back, so I'll be okay." She tucked the gun into her waistband, under the cover of her jacket, as if she had been doing such a thing for years. And she probably has, he thought. Another thing I don't want to know about.

She grinned. "I'll be back," she said, and took off, jogging lightly down the road. Wistfully, he watched her form grow smaller until it disappeared from his sight.

*****

Indeed, the small farmhouse had been abandoned; there was not even livestock, although there was blood to indicate most of it had been slaughtered, rather sloppily, for food. At least I hope it's animal blood, and not human, Janice thought as she carefully prowled around the buildings, handgun drawn. Her search yielded no one, living or dead.

The truck was, to her astonished pleasure, a very old Ford. She checked under the hood for any suspicious wires, which might indicate a bomb, and found none. The body was terribly rusty, and, given its age, it was harder for her to start it than she had hoped. But eventually the engine turned over, and she hopped into the driver's seat triumphantly.

The old truck lurched down the road. She was reluctant to drive it fast, in case it would die. As she approached the wrecked ambulance she saw no sign of Blaylock. She beeped the horn, which resounded shrilly in her ears. This is not good. Where is he?

She put the brake on, and, with the truck running, came out of the vehicle. "Dan!" she shouted. She noticed that the hatch of the ambulance was open in the back. Which it hadn't been before. Briskly she walked toward the truck, thoughts racing. He's okay...maybe he just fell asleep...no need to panic, no need...

She turned the corner, looking into the ambulance and the eyes of a German soldier. He was crouched down and shoving medical supplies from a metal chest into a large rucksack. Blaylock, she noticed, was face down behind him. In a dark pool.

They could only stare at each other, stunned, the American woman and the German soldier. He looked young, perhaps a little younger than me, Janice thought. This moment of empathy gave him just enough time. Just enough time for his expression to change from shock to recognition to rage. Just enough time to draw his pistol and shoot her.

At first she couldn't believe she was shot, but the pinprick of pain in her thigh unfurled like a fire and within moments a sticky warmth started to drip down her leg. Another shot, and she fell back, this second bullet also lodged in her leg. She gasped as she hit the ground, and waited for him to shoot again. But he went back to stuffing his rucksack. Obviously stealing the bandages, ointments, and instruments were far more important, and he had no time to be merciful and kill her quickly. He would just let her linger, let her die slowly, like her friend.

Her friend. There was a bloody smear on the edge of the door. A fresh one. Is Dan dead?. She groped for the .45. So it comes down to this. "Hey!!" she screamed. The soldier's head snapped around. She pumped three bullets into his chest. His gun, which he had drawn after the first shot, clattered onto the metal floor and slid toward her, like an offering. She stared at the Luger, panting. I've never had to shoot anyone before...

She stood up—ignoring the runaway blood that coursed down her leg and the faint feeling that accompanied it—and crawled into the back of the truck, to where Blaylock lay. She turned him over. His torso was slick with blood. He had been shot twice in stomach. But he was still alive. Barely. "Janice?" he whispered. His eyes were wide, unfocused, and staring past her, into the unknown, into a future that was far away from her.

She struggled not to cry. "Jesus, Dan," she said huskily, "I leave you alone, and look at all the trouble you get in. I'm the one who's supposed to get into trouble here."

"Yeah, sorry." He gave her a weak smile. "The son of a bitch. He caught me off guard..."

"Shhh, Dan, be quiet.. I've got to fix that wound." She started to move away but his bloody hand gripped hers.

"Too late," he gasped. "Let it go."

She knew it too. But fought it nonetheless. "No!" she screamed. She scrambled toward the rucksack, pulling out bandages. The floor was slippery with his blood, and she practically slid across the truck. Jesus...I'm going to faint. I can't Not now. "I have to get you into the other truck," she breathed heavily.

"Shit, Janice, you're wounded too," he said, spotting the growing crimson stain on her trousers, as she crawled back, cradling bandages.

She pressed a bundle of gauze to his stomach. "Hold on to that. I'm going to try and move you..."

"Wait," he said feebly.

"No, I can't, Dan, I've got to..." I've got to...I've screwed up again, haven't I? She dropped her head, and the tears came.

"Please...don't, Janice. It'll be okay." He touched her arm with a shaky hand. "Just stay with me for a moment."

She cradled his head and placed it on her lap, wrapping an arm around him.

"I'm sorry, Dan. So sorry."

He coughed. Blood speckled his lips. "Not your fault the damn Kraut shot me."

"No, it's not that." I'm sorry about hurting you. I laughed when you found me in bed with a woman, remember? I'll never forget the agony of your face. Why did you—and why do you continue to—love me? "I'm sorry about us."

He understood. "I know." He smiled weakly. "Fat lot of good that does both of us, huh?" She tried to smile back at him, but his words hit home. She dropped her gaze. Then he said, "Janice?"

"Yeah?"

"Is it her—Dr. Pappas's daughter?"

"Yes," she admitted softly.

"Did...something go wrong?"

Goddammit, Dan, you're here dying and you're quizzing me on my love life? Nonetheless, the words tumbled out of her. "It was me, Dan. I acted like a fool."

"You go back...get back to her and fix it," he said hoarsely. "Make sure you get home."

She felt his breathing slip away to nothing, disappearing with the light as twilight drifted over them. She lost track of how long she sat there with his body, drifting in and out of consciousness, until a pair of headlights blinded her and she heard the screeching of a vehicle and voices, speaking English, that grew louder and louder as they approached her.

*****

Gabrielle awoke with her lover's name on her lips. "Xena?"

She was back in her hut; it was night, and in the dim candlelight she made out Ephiny's slender form, sitting beside her on the bed. "Sorry to disappoint you, But I'm not Xena," the regent replied with a smile.

Gabrielle cleared her throat. "Did we—" Ephiny reached for a mug of water on the table next to them, and held it to the Queen's lips. She drank it greedily and gratefully.

"Yes. We were triumphant. After Petrus was killed, a lot of his men lost heart. It was a quick battle, and we had very few losses. A lot of injuries, though."

The Queen tried to sit up; Ephiny assisted, and gently propped the bard in a sitting position with some pillows. Her wrist was bandaged in a splint, and another around her thigh. "Where is Xena?" she asked nervously.

"She's fine, Gabrielle. She's at the common baths."

"Oh." The bard frowned, wondering why Xena did not use their private bath. "Why didn't she—"

"She didn't want to disturb you. Look, how are you feeling?"

"Okay, I guess. My wrist hurts more than the leg. And I'm hungry."

"Big surprise. Let me bring you some food." Ephiny stood up.

Gabrielle swung her legs onto the floor. "Wait, I'm coming with you."

"Oh no you're not. Xena will chop me into tiny pieces and feed me to the dogs if I let you out of this hut."

"Actually, I think she likes you too much...to feed you to the dogs. But if I'm not mistaken, I'm the boss around here, right? " She felt the old anger rise, the anger she usually directed at the warrior when she was being "protected." I'm not a kid. "I want to see people, visit the wounded, make sure everything is okay." She glared at Ephiny, who held up her hands in surrender.

Leaning on the regent, Gabrielle limped through the village. Tired warriors greeted her, the children were back, and the wounded in the healer's hut were a minimum. Ephiny reported four Amazon deaths in all, an astonishingly low figure.

They ended their walking tour with a stop in the food hall. By this time Gabrielle's leg was screaming with agony, and she plopped down on a bench while Ephiny raided the kitchen. I wonder if I could get Ephiny to carry me back...her half-serious thought was interrupted by loud voices outside, the door swinging open, and Eponin and Solari entering the food hall.

Solari was exhorting her friend, "Are you kiddin', Pony, it was awesome to watch her...she slices, she dices, she..."

Eponin caught sight of the Queen, and clapped her hand over Solari's mouth. The indignant Amazon made a muffled noise of outrage. Then she followed Eponin's gaze to where Gabrielle sat, frowning at them.

"Hi, Gabrielle," Eponin said innocently.

"Mrehlow, Abrial," Solari said through the hand.

"Hi, girls," Gabrielle replied sarcastically. "Who are you gossiping about?"

"No one," Eponin said meekly. With a warning look to her friend, she withdrew her hand from Solari's mouth.

"No, just the uh...new cook. She has very impressive chopping abilities...I've never seen anyone de-seed a pomegranate the way she does..." Solari babbled. Eponin rolled her eyes.

"Nice try, Sol, but no one knows better than I how well Xena slices and dices," Gabrielle said.

The Amazons were shame-faced. "Sorry, we know you don't like hearing about stuff like that," Eponin said.

"It's okay." Gabrielle smiled at them. I don't like hearing about that...about Xena killing like that. But it's a part of her...and I've accepted the whole package deal, right?

Ephiny stumbled out of the kitchen, with a rucksack of food so large it blocked most of her upper body. "Is this enough?" she asked.

*****

Gabrielle leaned on Eponin for the walk back to her hut, Ephiny and Solari ahead of them, carrying the food. As they arrived at the door, Solari playfully kicked it open and she and Ephiny entered to deposit the food.

They came scattering out like crazed ants. "Beat it, Pony!!! She's in there!" Solari shouted as she ran by Eponin and Gabrielle.

"Oh gods!!!" Eponin took off as well and Gabrielle found herself lurching into empty space. She caught herself before falling and limped into the hut.

Xena, clad only in a shift, stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed. A bounty of foodstuffs was spilled at her feet, like some haphazard offering.

Blue eyes drilled into the bard. "Where," began the warrior in her lowest, most deadliest tones, "in the...Hades...have you...been?"

Quick, say something. It was an idiotic impulse, one which had—and would—plague her for the rest of her life. "Oh great warrior goddess, most powerful one, see you not the tribute my minions and I bring to you?" Gabrielle spread out her arms, indicating the food on the floor.

"You should be in bed," the warrior continued in the same dark tone.

"My love, words like that from your lips I cannot resist." With that, the bard hobbled past the food and playfully flopped on the bed, which jarred the stitches in her thigh; a cry of pain escaped her mouth, which blossomed into a comely pout.

"I have no sympathy for you," grunted the warrior. Nonetheless Xena sat on the bed and carefully undid the bandage around the bard's leg. "Mmmm, Lydia did a good job with the stitches. I see no sign of infection." Her blue eyes scanned Gabrielle's body, not with the appraisal of a lover, but the scrutiny of a healer. "You've a nasty bruise and a big cut on your calf, though. How's your wrist?"

"Feeling better."

"Good. Try not to jostle it too much. I'm going to put some salve on that leg." She walked over to the table, where her healing pouch was. She returned to the bard, her hands covered liberally with a thick herbal paste that she rubbed gently yet firmly into the injury.

"You must've had a busy day," Gabrielle said. "I should be rubbing you down."

The warrior smiled. How does she make it both gentle and wicked at once? wondered Gabrielle. "That comes later."

"Ahhhh," replied the bard knowingly, with a leer.

"I think you're a little too banged up for that."

Once again the bard resorted to pouting. She sighed, and gave up. "I'm glad we didn't have a lot of deaths. I mean, there were a lot of injuries, but Eph told me the centaurs got hit even worse."

"Yeah, and on top of it all they lost their healer a few days ago. Fell down a ravine. Died from the injuries." All the while Xena continued a steady massaging rhythm into the bard's leg.

Gabrielle gasped. "Gods! You're kidding! What did they do after this battle? Surely Lydia couldn't handle all of them...unless you helped." It dawned on her: Xena had been in the centaur village. For the first time since Solon's death six months ago. She stilled her lover's hands. "Xena?" Her eyes grew teary. "Why didn't you say..."

"Well, I was going to say...in my time." The warrior's crystalline eyes were darkened by the fire and the candlelight, but her tone was deep and gentle. "It felt funny at first...I kept looking for him, but I remembered he wasn't...there anymore. Then, the wounded started coming in." She gave a light shrug. "And I just didn't have time to think about it anymore." She looked up at Gabrielle. A look of anguish, one that she had not seen in quite a while, had contorted the young woman's face. "Gabrielle?" she whispered.

The bard looked into the fire, as if she wished to be devoured and undone by it. As she had been devoured by the god Dahak, and by her own guilt of the events that followed. This cycle never really ends, does it?

"Gabrielle," Xena said again, softly. "Stop." The bard's small hand flew to her cheek and she rubbed it, allowing her fingers to staunch the flow of some tears. A larger hand, sticky with salve, covered her own. "Stop," repeated the warrior. "Don't hold yourself responsible for this any longer. Because I don't. And no one else does."

Gabrielle's look held surprise. Which, in turn, stunned Xena.

"Do you think I hold you responsible, still?" Xena's voice was low, urgent, incredulous. "Do you think I would have allowed myself to be brought to you the other night, that I would've surrendered my heart to you, if I still felt anger toward you, if I still felt that...hatred?" She permitted herself to shudder at the memories of the past year.

The tears fell freely now. "No," Gabrielle conceded. "You're right. I just...what I truly hate is what we put each other through."

"Me too," the warrior agreed, brushing Gabrielle's cheek lightly, with her knuckles. They looked at each other for a long moment, not saying anything, not needing to.

Silence, however, was not a state that the bard indulged in for long. "Hey, how did you get so damn eloquent all of a sudden?" she cracked.

"I think it's your influence, Gabrielle." Using the back of her hand, Xena wiped away the lingering tears on her companion's cheeks. She then returned to the task of rubbing the salve into Gabrielle's leg.

"Well, it's only fair, don't you think? You influence me in a lot of ways."

To her delight, the warrior looked pleased. "How so?"

"Well, let's just say I've never enjoyed having a sword in my hand until today. I felt it, Xena. That rush...it wasn't exactly battlelust. But I felt the spirit. Your spirit." She paused. "Am I making sense?"

"In a poetic, bardly kinda way," snorted the Warrior Princess. "I'm not sure this is something you should be happy about experiencing."

Gabrielle chuckled. "No, it is a good thing. I want to experience it all, don't you? Well, I guess you have...but I haven't. When I tell a story, it's like I'm painting a world. Creating it. And I think for a long time I was only using a few colors. Do you see?"

Xena nodded.

"Now, I think, I've loved you long enough to see the world through your eyes sometimes. And to use the colors your vision has brought to me."

The practical warrior pondered all this. It's all kinda artsy-fartsy, but it makes sense, I suppose. "But the...colors I've brought to your world, Gabrielle, they have been pretty dark."

The bard leaned forward and captured the warrior's lips in a long kiss. Then the urge to talk outweighed the desire to kiss. "Oh no, no, Xena. You aren't just blackness. There is lightness there, in the blue of your eyes that leads to your soul, and the red vibrancy in your lips, and the gold of your skin..."

"Mmmm," Xena murmured with approval, as a series of kisses were linked in a chain of desire down her throat, "I think that graffiti I saw on Ares' temple in Athens was true: 'Bards Are Better Lovers.' "

"It is true. Although I just wrote it to piss off that old he-goat who calls himself the God of War."

"Gabrielle!"

*****

November, 1944

He thought he'd seen it and heard it all from the old man. Sergeant McKay had served as Frobisher's assistant for almost a year now, and in that time he had to memorize as many Gilbert & Sullivan operettas as he could manage (sometimes Frobisher liked some impromptu duets from him and Scotti, the unemployed, one-armed, opera singer doing cryptography), as well as the old man's tea rituals ("McKay! I told you, Earl Grey in the morning, and Darjeeling in the afternoon! Darjeeling is an afternoon tea.").

Then, one afternoon, the old man was roaring at him once again: "McKay! Come quickly!" With a roll of the eyes the chubby Irishman lumbered into the Colonel's office. Frobisher stood excitedly at his window, his walking stick pointing at something outside, the tip of the stick eagerly tapping the glass pane. "McKay! See that woman down there?" The Sergeant looked out the window; in front of the courtyard, near the stone fence that surrounded the building, stood a blonde woman dressed in khaki, lighting a cigarette. "Fetch her! Bring her to me at once!"

"Sir!" McKay cried, outraged. This is too much. I won't be procuring women for him as well, he thought.

"Damn you, McKay! I said now! Go get her! That's an order!"

The color drained from McKay's ruddy face. He was not the type to disobey an order, and in that respect he might have made a fine Nazi. Nonetheless he reluctantly jogged to the steps, and the momentum of his bulk carried him down the staircase rather swiftly. He half-hoped the young woman had escaped, for her own good. God knows what the old bastard would do to her. But the woman was still there, smoking. She wore the uniform of a WAC, and was much prettier than he initially thought. She glared at him with suspicion as he approached.

"Excuse me, miss." McKay couldn't get used to it—the idea of women in the military. Hence he usually disregarded calling them by rank. "I've been asked to escort you to Colonel Frobisher's office."

The young woman's brow creased in puzzlement. "Who?"

McKay sighed in exasperation. "Colonel Frobisher! Commanding Officer of the Intelligence Corps!" He pointed in the general direction of Frobisher's office.

"Why?" the woman asked yet another question.

"I don't know, miss. Just come with me, please."

Taking one last drag on a cigarette, the woman shrugged her acquiescence and dropped her smoke on the ground, crushing it with a black heel. McKay took off at a quick clip, then realized the woman was not at his side. He stopped and turned around. She was walking slowly, with a pronounced limp. "I'm sorry, miss." McKay said. "Didn't mean to take off like that." The woman merely smiled and nodded at his apology.

Frobisher was waiting impatiently until his door opened and McKay appeared breathless. "Here she is, sir," he said warily, and showed the woman in.

As she stood before him, Frobisher took her in: slender yet muscular; he had noticed the limp as she came in. Her green eyes burned in her tanned face, a mass of reddish blonde hair was pinned up haphazardly in a sloppy bun. A cap hung limply from a back pocket. He admired the defiance in her eyes. Oooooh, Melinda, you picked a lively one. Nonetheless, he had to show the impertinent girl, who merely stared at him, who was in command. "Good God, young woman," he growled, "don't they teach you to salute your superiors?"

Instantly she straightened; standing at attention, she knocked off a crisp salute. "Sir!" she said firmly.

"Name and rank?"

"Covington, Janice. Corporal." She paused. "Sir."

"Division?"

"The 13th, sir."

"Ah. You were in Paris recently, no?"

"Yes, sir."

He nodded at her leg. "Wounded, then?"

"Yes, sir."

"What happened?"

"I was shot by a German soldier, who was trying to steal medical supplies from an ambulance. He killed my commanding officer."

"And the soldier got away?"

Janice's eyes flickered with something; he was not sure what. "No sir. I...killed him."

He gave her a sympathetic smile. "At ease, Corporal." She relaxed gratefully. "You're a very brave woman."

She said nothing. He let it go. Not easy to kill a man. The first time's the hardest.

"I suppose you're wondering why I brought you here."

She nodded. "Yes, sir."

"We have a mutual friend." He paused. "I believe you know a lovely young woman named Melinda Pappas?" Covington's cocky facade dropped like a stone. Not so spunky now, are we? Amazing, I've never seen someone go pale quite so quickly.

"Yes...sir," she whispered.

"Melinda's father was a very good friend of mine. And I've known her since she was a child." Frobisher peered at Janice critically. "Melinda's been looking for you, you know. She's been in London for nigh on six months now."

Janice could barely mask the shock on her face. "I wasn't aware, sir," she replied hoarsely.

He leaned back in his chair, smirking. "Well, you are now, aren't you? And what shall you do about it?"

*****

As usual, Mel had fallen asleep in her clothes. She spent so much time between work and hiding out in air raid shelters that she saw little point in undressing most of the time, except to bathe; and, in the face of the cold, wet English weather that she was unused to, she had abandoned her usual skirts and dresses in favor of warmer, more practical clothing. She wore a pair of baggy gray flannel trousers that Frobisher had given her, saying that they used to belong to a male "friend," and a white blouse, one of her own.

A faint boom had awakened her, along with the droning sound of the air raid siren. Time to get out into the shelter again. She groped for her glasses in the near dark, and could not find them. Sighing, she stretched and got up. The colonel had also provided her with a huge black overcoat, and now she donned it and stepped outside. The coat felt heavy and protective, like armor, yet it was also soft and warm.

Outside the apartment building were a few fellows from the building. Several of them worked in HQ as she did; in fact, Cutts, her office mate, lived in the building too. The young man was now smoking a cigarette and watching the light flashes from the east. He saw her approach. "Melinda," he said with a nod.

"Hello, Frank. What's goin' on?"

"Lots of coastal activity. Might not reach us." They continued to watch the lights in silence. Then a noise pierced the twilight: a shrill whistle grew in intensity and an explosion shook the ground. From a mere half-mile away they saw it: bright orange light and smoke. Mel grasped his arm, and he instinctively touched her hand. "But then again..." Cutts whispered, "I may be wrong."

*****

Son of a bitch.

It was early morning, almost eight o'clock. Janice walked as quickly as she could down the street. The air raid of the night before prevented her from finding Mel. She was, of course, pressed into service, and had driven an ambulance to one of the outer neighborhoods, which had been quite devastated. Thus her night had passed, driving, digging for bodies, administering first aid, and sleeping in the back of the truck when she could, the sharp bitter tang of medicine and blood curling in her nostrils. And it was hard to sleep, but not due to the smells, or her exhaustion: It was her realization that Mel was here...in this goddamned, godforsaken war zone of a city.

In the morning, when she was off-duty and supposedly sleeping, she headed for the address that Frobisher had given her. It was not far away, but her bad leg ached a little as she walked. She wished the damn leg would heal faster, but the doctor did tell her it would take a while, and that both the pain and the limp should decrease dramatically in due time.

As she grew closer to her destination, she saw that this area too had been hit by the raid. Part of this street she traversed had been decimated and lie in charred, darkened ruins. Remnants of smoke curled lazily, enveloping the street. She froze, her heart in her mouth. What if...? Her leg throbbed, telegraphing its message of distress, and she leaned against a lamp post, breathing heavily. She hung her head, a hand over her eyes, unable to look at the ruins. If it is true...I can't bear it. I can't lose her. Not now. If she's dead, it's because of me...she followed me here. The responsibility hit her like a punch in the gut. She wanted to turn and run, not find out...wouldn't it be better not to know at all, than to find out that Mel was dead? To imagine her living happily, and not see a body, another dead broken body? Too much death. I've had too much. I do not want to see hers. I couldn't bear it. Almost imperceptibly, her body shifted, as if to head back the way she came.

Don't walk away.

The voice inside her was new. Yet old in its origins. It felt so thoroughly a part of her that she never believed it was her ancestor, but she realized, standing on that street corner, that it was. She'd heard it in Macedonia, after she'd pulled Mel out of the cave, when Jack Kleinman impulsively took a photo of her and Mel. She had looked at Mel and, as the camera clicked, so did everything else. I've found you, the voice had said. Janice had shrugged it off, chalking it up to too much booze the night before and her always raging hormones, but now, finally, she could not deny the way in which she was drawn to Melinda. No matter how much she drank. No matter how many bar-room brawls she indulged in. No matter how far she would run.

A fate, a destiny, a bond. Call it what you will. Your courage has carried you this far. It will get you through.

All you have to do is look up. Now the voice sounded...amused. But before she could comply, she felt a gentle touch on her arm. And when she did look up, it was into the blue eyes that she would love for all her life, and beyond that.

Mel was thinner, perhaps even a little gaunt, and looked tired. This was all exacerbated by the large, dramatic dark overcoat she wore, and her black hair, which, uncharacteristically, hung loose and tumbled past her shoulders. Her long, elegant hand lingered on Janice's arm as they stared at each other.

"I've...found you." Janice thought it best to start with Gabrielle's words.

Mel's jaw shifted, as a sea of words and emotion, stymied over the course of a year, threatened to spill out into incomprehension. "You found me? I've been looking for you..." she sputtered.

"I know. I'm...sorry. Are you hurt?" Tentatively she pulled on Mel's sleeve, and surveyed the streets; people were talking on streets corners, pulling out wreckage, helping their neighbors, their homes destroyed, damaged, ruined. Lives were disrupted, but life went on, and no one seemed to pay attention to two lovestruck American women gazing intently into each other's eyes. Perhaps even the most unsympathetic passerby would admit it was better than having a bomb dropped on one's home.

"No, I'm fine. Just tired. Our block wasn't hit, luckily. Just some smoke damage....I was on my way to the office..." Mel continued to stare at Janice in utter disbelief. When she first saw a fair-haired, khaki-clad woman standing dejected, leaning against a lamp post, she thought, too little sleep and no glasses makes for pleasant hallucinations. But as she drew closer, she knew it was Janice. It was really her; she was really here. Don’t be a ninny and start crying now, Melinda Pappas. Nonetheless the unbidden tears sprang into her eyes. "God," she whispered, "there's so much I've wanted to say to you."

"I know, Mel. I’m sorry about what happened..." Janice trailed off.

"You mean...you regret it?" The tall woman’s voice had dropped to an agonized whisper.

"Jesus, no, I didn’t mean...that. I don’t regret that. I meant, I shouldn’t have left the way I did..." Quick, say it before you lose your nerve. "Look, I have only two things to say to you at the moment," she gulped. Come on, I can do this, after everything I've been through this past year...surely this is not hard. Or is it, quite possibly, the hardest thing I've ever done? "I love you. I think I always have, from the minute I saw you." She paused again, for effect. "And I'll never leave you again." Another pause. "Actually, I guess that was three..."

Mel seemed stunned, as if the Nazis had dropped a bomb on her head.

"You're not gonna faint again, are you?" Janice asked anxiously, recalling that fateful visit a year and a half ago, when Mel fainted at the sight of her. That should have told me something, then. Would a native southerner faint at just a little heat? No, it would take a lot of heat to lay this woman low. She allowed herself to smile a little, and was pleased to see Mel return the smile.

Mel shook her head vigorously. "No, I, uh..." The tall woman was clearly exasperated and befuddled. "Janice Covington, I don't know whether I should slap you or kiss you."

"I think I would prefer the latter, although I don't blame you if you do the former." Janice grinned. "Or you could compromise and do both..."

She was rewarded with a dazzling smile and a laugh from her lover, who enfolded her in an embrace, into the blackness of her coat. She closed her eyes with relief and inhaled Mel's scent. Surrounded by the dark warmth of the coat, her mind's eye was radiant with color.

*****

"You haven't asked about the scroll."

A curious hand fluttered against Mel's taut stomach. "Hmmmm?" Janice drawled sleepily.

To Mel, the drab flat where she had spent the past six months had never looked better. For two days she had not left the room, and hardly exited the bed she shared with Janice. The wily old Frobisher had wrangled a two-day leave for Janice, and excused Mel from her duties. He even sent over an embarrassed McKay with some food; the sergeant's overtaxed heart fluttered at the sight of Mel in a bathrobe, and the tiniest glimpse of the American WAC that he had led into his CO's office the other day, scantily clad (wearing a T-shirt and men's boxers) and lounging about on the bed. It's even worse than I imagined. In fact, I don't know what to imagine, McKay thought miserably as he left.

Night had fallen over weary London. Mel poked the slumbering woman who was curled up against her. "Corporal Covington, honey, don't fall asleep."

"Mmmmnrfph."

"Janice, don't you want to know what the scroll said? About Gabrielle?" Mel sank lower into the bed, turning to face her lover, and anchored her hands into the thick fiery hair. Impulsively she kissed Janice passionately, hoping it would awaken and arouse the weary WAC, so that they could talk about the scroll. I know, it's classic bait and switch, but all's fair in love and war...she thought.

For a moment, it seemed to work: The green eyes fluttered open with surprise, then the lids drooped down again and Janice broke the kiss. "You're an exhausting woman," she moaned in protest. Mel raced her hand over the dangerous, delectable curve of Janice's hip. "But don't stop touching me. Ever."

"I won't."

"Mel, I love you."

"And I love you, but...about the scroll..."

" 'Kay, tell me...I'm listening..." mumbled Janice, half-asleep, face buried in a pillow.

Mel narrowed her eyes in exasperation. "All right, here's what I've found out thus far. Ares becomes smitten with Gabrielle and makes her his Chosen. She goes on a violent rampage and conquers all of Greece, murdering ten times more people than Xena ever did. Meanwhile, Xena opens a bordello in Athens and secretly pens the Satiryca for Petronius."

"Ah, good old Gabrielle."

Mel, shaking her head, sighed in defeat. "Good night, Janice," she said, planting a kiss on Janice's forehead.

"Hail to the Queen, baby," Janice muttered, half-asleep.

Melinda Pappas arched an eyebrow in pleasant surprise. She smiled as she curled up to sleep next to her companion.

END!

[dukeofriven]

Hussie, Hitler, And Boy I’m Tired

I said earlier that I didn’t want to put on my hip waders and muck about in the Homestuck tags. *pulls off hip waders* I went anyways. I went even though I was feeling pretty good because I had a nice dinner and got to watch the New Years Bake-Off special. I went anyways, and I did it for you, my eight followers who aren’t pornbots. It turns out the Homestuck fandom of Tumblr is as scary and hyperbolic as ever, and has taken one lousy bit of badly written crap and extrapolated that backwards into ‘Homestuck has always been a racist anti-semetic pile of garbage and everything about it is terrible and Andrew Hussie needs to die.” I’m not paraphrasing, by the way. Someone out there is chanting ‘die Andrew Hussie die,’ because he had the gall to... clumsily dunk on Hitler like a fifteen year old trying to impress his English teacher with edgy comedy? This new stuff is too dumb to be offensive, especially in an era with, y’know, Hitler-praising alt-right Neo Nazis actually being mainstream media figures.  Hey Tumblr fandom? Can you... mm not chill, chill’s not the word I’m looking for what is it... oh yes. Can y’all fuck off for once?

Tumblr doesn’t deserve to enjoy things because it doesn’t know how to enjoy things responsibly. It lurches from adoration to hatred without pause, and as a writer it gives me nothing but an anxiety. I cannot produce anything imperfect, I cannot ever write crap because if I do then all my work will be tainted by it forever. On Tumblr you are always judged by your worst effort, which is a fucking god-awful standard for large media franchises of any kind. You know who one of the greatest, most thoughtful, socially-driven authors of the twentieth century was? Terry Pratchett. You know what’s kind of sexist and lazy and awful? The Colour of Magic. You know what’s weirdly colonialist and smug and all-around shit? Snuff! Neither of those shitty books invalidate the forty other Discworld novels. The existence of Anchorman’s bloviating nothingness doesn’t erase Will Ferrel’s warm and desperately human performance in Stranger Than Fiction. The Forced Kiss Equal Romance kiss in Blade Runner doesn’t erase the rest of the movie piercing question on the nature of what it means to be human. And on and on and on. Andrew Hussie’s sneeze-shart dogshit history rewrite that was so embarrassingly bad it got pulled from the internet didn’t erase Rose/Kanaya, or gay Dave, or Joey Claire tap-dancing her little heart out to try and defeat a monster. And even if Andrew Hussie does a JK Rowling and produces nothing but ill-thought-out crap from here until the day we all die in the great Disney Final Merger of 2023, it still won’t invalidate the good moments that made you happy. I mean if Andrew Hussie toddles out of retirement onto a talk show in a bathrobe to discuss his new revelations on the Puppetgrandmasters of Scion who all have worryingly Semetic names, I’m not going to be so naive as to pretend that his earlier media can be consumed in some kind of vacuum, that the future cannot affect the past. but I am saying that the good that happened in it - the things that affected you in positive ways - are not ethereal. It mattered to you then, and that’s okay. Tumblr’s hyperbolic responses seem to be rooted in embarrassment and self-flagellation. People seem so terrified by the thought that anyone might associate them as a fan of something - gasp - linked to controversy that they... well, they say shit like “die andrew hussie die.” Hey dude. Hey. You need to redirect that anger, my friend. There’s actual Neo-Nazis in the streets. On the TV. In the US government. I guess what I’m trying to say is... Woof. Okay. You know, to give Andrew Hussie partial credit here, its nice to see someone actually write Adolf Hitler the way he really was - a pant-shitting constantly whiny toddler of a human being who endlessly threw tantrums and got to where he was largely on the strength of other people’s bad decisions. Remember kids: the biggest myth Neo-Nazis have ever perpetrated is that Germany under Hitler was well-run, well-organized, and anything other than a collection of squabbling dysfunctional fiefdoms run by party hacks propped up by a bureaucracy and military too bound by inertia, ego, and cultural racism to do anything to stop a lunatic from ripping their country to shreds. That whole ‘trains running on time’ thing? It’s nonsense. Go study the conduct of the war once Germany had exhausted all its pre-war stockpiled resources and ran out of useful shit to loot, once it had to start relying on its leadership for the things that make wars winnable - supplies, reinforcements, fuel, winter clothing. Watch the way from 1942 onwards Germany stumbled from one disaster to the next, as Hitler fired more and more generals and drew more and more authority to himself and his fellow party cronies. Hitler should not be feared as a man of competence or skill - he was a buffoon, a clown of a human being fuelled entirely by petty, vindictive spite and an unlimited capacity for cruelty. And before anyone goes ‘well if he was so objectively pathetic how the fuck did he take over Germany’ I direct you to google the last two years of American politics and the words ‘Donald Fucking Trump.’ [I recommend, on these war subjects particularly, Sir Antony Beevor’s bleak and sobering works, particularly Stalingrad, Berlin: The Downfall 1945, and Ardennes 1944: Hitler's Last Gamble.]  Sorry this... kind of got away from me somewhat, but I really hate it when people get mad that someone didn’t take Hitler seriously (and, to be strictly fair, this is not what everyone is mad about in regards to Andrew Hussie, either). You should never take Hitler seriously. Take hate seriously - take violent words, and calls for purity, take his ideas of superiority and racial preeminence and anti-semitism seriously as the evils, the horrors as they are. But the man himself? He literally stank - a combination of his halitosis, chronic flatulence, and was constant diarrhea. [I am not exaggerating] He was a sad pathetic clown, and Andrew Hussie chose to write him as such. He just... went too far. It happens. It’s not good writing. It’s fucking shit, to be honest. Boring shit. The Minions movie decided to have the Minions sit out the entirety of WWII by having them get stuck in a cave or some such. Honestly that’s a better option than what Andrew Hussie went with - and ‘be more like the Minions movie’ isn’t advice I give that often. You want to be disgruntled that an author wrote something this bafflingly tone deaf and tedious? Sure. I know I am. But to chant for his death? Are you fucking kidding me? Look! Look out your window at those marching Neo-Nazis trying to establish a white supremacist state? What the ever-loving fuck are you people doing in here getting ready to string-up a man whose crime was making Adolf Friggen Hitler too petty???????? Tumblr. Tumblr, for the love of god this has to stop. This ‘Ceasar’s wife must be above reproach’ shit has to stop - it’s killing fandom, it’s killing good media critique, it’s burying proportional fan response, and its just exhausting. Why can’t you ever just let something be lousy without it being literal death warrant? There’s real demons out there - I can see them out the window, and every time I turn on the TV. Maybe - just bloody maybe - not every single crime deserves the exact same level of disapprobation and punishment? Maybe we could read some content and say “boy that sure had some lousy implications and also was just really poorly written” and then... stop there? Wouldn’t that be nice, for a change? We could dislike something without feeling like it required activism on our part. We could say ‘this piece of media was shit, but it didn’t advocate for a white ethno-state, so I will continue to think of it only until the end of this sentence.’ I am not advocating for an end to media criticism for anything that isn’t openly hate speech (but if you think that I am I am going to assume you’re already so needlessly enraged about this whole matter that I’m a bit puzzled why you’ve bothered to read this far since its obvious we don’t agree on many fundamental issues.) What I am calling for is the end to death threats against people who don’t mean you harm. Because that’s lunacy. That’s beyond the pale, actually, that’s really disturbing and sickening and you should seriously reconsider your relationship with media. Because there are people out there who do want to hurt you. Their lives are fuelled by hate, their philosophies are driven by it, as are their politics. I assure you that when a time traveller steps through a portal trying to prevent the rise of ‘the great Trump War of 2020′ the inciting incident will not be ‘Andrew Hussie trivialized the holocaust by citing its origins as a grudge Adolf Hitler bore Albert Einstein over a rivalry in secret clown ninja school before being taken on as an agent of a baking-obsessed alien space witch and bumped into power by the Peters principle.’ Because just by writing that sentence I have already reaffirmed a very simple truth: this is way, way too stupid to give the slightest shit about. So let’s tell Andrew Hussie that his new work is... mmm.... kind of like a shit if a shit had a shit that was itself shat out by a shit and then vomited on by another shit who had eaten nothing but shit since Sunday. Let’s tel lhim “hey dude, your clownish work summoned the spectre of anti-semetism, and you can do better.” Frankly, I think that message was already sent, since in the two hours between me going to make and eat dinner and then coming back to my computer, the new material was discovered, read, disseminated, and removed. Two hours. Sure, maybe a bit of lag due to what does and does not hit my feed but come on - this all took place in an afternoon. It’s already down. Our voices were heard - we didn’t think this was very good, and apparently Whatpumpkin agrees enough that they didn’t mount a defence of it. Rather than take the next logical step, though - which seems to be calling for the death of Andrew Hussie and removing all of Homestuck from the internet and maybe nuking Toby Fox from orbit just to be extra-sure? - we could do... something else. Talk about the release date for Stranger Things, maybe. Track down some local Neo-Nazis and punch them. Read some Antony Beevor books and really educate ourselves on what a smelly fuck-up Hitler was so we can chant that at Neo Nazis at their next rally. Or you could watch the New Years Bake-Off special. It was pretty good.

[bigyack-com]

To Take On the Coronavirus, Go Medieval on It

There are two ways to fight epidemics: the medieval and the modern. The modern way is to surrender to the power of the pathogens: acknowledge that they are unstoppable and to try to soften the blow with 20th century inventions, including new vaccines, antibiotics, hospital ventilators, and thermal cameras searching for people with fevers. The medieval way, inherited from the era of the Black Death, is brutal: Close the borders, quarantine the ships, pen terrified citizens up inside their poisoned cities. For the first time in more than a century, the world has chosen to confront a new and terrifying virus with the iron fist instead of the latex glove. At least for a while, it worked, and it might still serve a purpose. The Chinese leader, Xi Jinping, was able to seal off the city of Wuhan, where the Covid-19 outbreak began, because China is a place where a leader can ask himself, “What would Mao do?” and just do it. The bureaucracy will comply, right down to the neighborhood committees who bar anyone returning from Wuhan from entering their own homes, even if it meant sleeping in the streets. The White House, in defiance of recent American history, also opted to go medieval by aggressive measures like barring entry to non-Americans who were recently in China and advising Americans not to go to China or South Korea. Over the years, states and cities have imposed local quarantines, but there have been no national restrictions on entry since 1892, according to Dr. Howard Markel, a medical historian and author of “Quarantine!” In that year, President Benjamin Harrison ordered that all ships from Hamburg be kept offshore for 20 days because officials in that city, one of the world’s biggest ports, had lied about its cholera epidemic. It apparently succeeded. The United States had cholera outbreaks in 1832, 1849, 1870 and 1910, but not in 1892. Many public health figures consider shutting a nation’s doors to be an archaic tactic, and nearly impossible in the jet age. But for Mr. Trump, such a move is natural. He was elected on a Build-the-Wall platform and in 2014, when a few heroic American medical workers got infected fighting Ebola in West Africa, he advocated leaving them there to die. (They were flown back, and survived.) Updated Feb. 26, 2020 What is a coronavirus? It is a novel virus named for the crownlike spikes that protrude from its surface. The coronavirus can infect both animals and people and can cause a range of respiratory illnesses from the common cold to more dangerous conditions like Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome, or SARS. How do I keep myself and others safe? Washing your hands frequently is the most important thing you can do, along with staying at home when you’re sick. What if I’m traveling? The C.D.C. has warned older and at-risk travelers to avoid Japan, Italy and Iran. The agency also has advised against all nonessential travel to South Korea and China. Where has the virus spread? The virus, which originated in Wuhan, China, has sickened more than 80,000 people in at least 33 countries, including Italy, Iran and South Korea. How contagious is the virus? According to preliminary research, it seems moderately infectious, similar to SARS, and is probably transmitted through sneezes, coughs and contaminated surfaces. Scientists have estimated that each infected person could spread it to somewhere between 1.5 and 3.5 people without effective containment measures. Who is working to contain the virus? World Health Organization officials have been working with officials in China, where growth has slowed. But this week, as confirmed cases spiked on two continents, experts warned that the world was not ready for a major outbreak. Also, this virus’s speed and apparent lethality gave the experienced doctors in the White House Coronavirus Task Force reason to be nervous. It is spreading between nations very quickly. And, while data is still sketchy, some measurements indicate that its fatality rate might be close to that of the 1918 Spanish flu. As a result, they endorsed dropping the portcullis and shutting off air links to China. They even created quarantine stations on military bases, the equivalent of Venice’s island lazarettos, where, in the time of the doges, the infected awaited their fate outside the city. This has led to much consternation among other public health experts, who argue that travel restrictions can cause more panic, misery and death than they prevent. Crowds may besiege hospitals, supercharging the infection rate. Closed borders can cut off vital medications like insulin. Factory and shop closings mean lost wages, hardships and possibly recession. Also, quarantines feed racism and stigma. Officially, the World Health Organization opposes travel and trade restrictions. It reiterated that even as it declared the epidemic a global emergency on Jan. 30. But it now admits that they helped. The head of the W.H.O. team that visited China said this week that China “took one of the most ancient strategies and rolled out one of the most ambitious, agile and aggressive disease-containment efforts in history.” The W.H.O.’s epidemic-modeling teams concluded that travel restrictions had slowed the spread of the virus outside China by two to three weeks. For the United States, the delay was probably far greater. Air-traffic data shows that flights from China to the United States dropped much more than they did to Europe. As of this writing, a single case not connected to any known transmission has turned up in California, but there are no indications of large outbreaks like those in Italy and Iran. Harsh measures horrify civil libertarians, but they often save lives, especially when they are imposed in the early days. The best-known modern example is Cuba’s AIDS epidemic. In the 1980s, Cuba and the United States were both hit hard by the AIDS epidemic. In Cuba, the virus first infected thousands of soldiers, doctors and nurses who had served in Africa. The Castro regime’s response — roundly condemned by other countries — was to make H.I.V. tests mandatory, and to force everyone infected into quarantine camps. The camps were not hellholes: they had bungalows, gardens, theater troupes, medical care, more food than people outside often had, and less homophobia than gay men often faced in macho rural Cuba. But no one could leave, except for brief family visits with an escort whose main job was to make sure that no sex took place. Meanwhile, the United States took a pro-legal-rights approach. Even offering an H.I.V. test was made illegal without a separate counseling session, which scared many away from testing. Although gay bathhouses were epicenters of transmission, there were long divisive fights over closing them. After triple therapy was developed in the mid-1990s, most Cuban camps closed. But the difference in lives saved by choosing brutality over freedom was stark: Cuba’s H.I.V. infection rate was for decades about one-sixth that of the American one. New York City and Cuba have roughly the same population. In the epidemic’s first 30 years, fewer than 2,500 Cubans died of AIDS. Over 78,000 New Yorkers — mostly gay men — did. As the virus creeps closer, stark choices will arise. The U.S. cannot shut out the whole world. Even if all air travel were stopped, the virus could reach Latin America or Canada and enter over our land borders. With luck, the extra time that China bought us by falling on its viral grenade will help produce a treatment or a vaccine. The threat will subside and reporters like me will be accused of alarmism. Top American health officials now say “it is not a matter of if but when” the virus begins to spread here. But the American experience will not echo the Chinese one. China has had imperial rule since 221 B.C. The United States, born of rebellion, prizes individual rights. There will be no national lockdown. No threats to have anyone “forever nailed to history’s pillar of shame,” as one of Mr. Xi’s underlings warned those who hid cases of infection. But local control — and the political factionalism that is endemic to democracy — can carry grave risks in the face of a crisis, Dr. Markel noted. In 1918 and 1919, as the Spanish influenza swept across the country in waves, various cities reacted in their own ways. Cities like St. Louis that reacted quickly — canceling parades and ball games, shutting schools, transit systems and government offices, ordering the sick to stay home — ultimately had fewer deaths. In cities like Philadelphia and Pittsburgh, which were paralyzed by political feuds or pressure from local businesses to avoid shutdowns, many more ultimately died. To overcome the divisiveness that would imperil a cohesive national response, Dr. Markel said: “You need leadership from the top — and there has to be trust. In an epidemic, the idea that ‘everyone is entitled to their own facts’ is really dangerous.” The Times is committed to publishing a diversity of letters to the editor. We’d like to hear what you think about this or any of our articles. Here are some tips. And here’s our email: letters@nytimes.com. Follow The New York Times Opinion section on Facebook, Twitter (@NYTopinion) and Instagram. Read the full article

[crowned-ladybug]

Once Upon A Dream

Hey I’m back with my shitty titles

About three months and 10k words later here’s the fic I wrote out of that one dream I had once...kind of a self-indulgent pile of headcanons and feelings.

NOTE: I started writing this in the beggining of May and I didn’t want to keep changing it, so it ignores every piece of canon from after that. “Google gets an upgrade” is probably the first big thing I didn’t end up involving.

Please, if you don’t like this fic, or the ideas behind it, or the fact that it’s quite possibly very OOC, please just leave me alone about it. This story has become really, really important to me.

Special thanks to @lum1natrix for letting me submit the original dream to her (which ended up being ~2k words of this and the rest of me is trying to fix it), @sunkistjello for being genuinely interested in my headcanons and the story itself, and @bajszi-s-secret-life for letting me ramble on about my story ideas to her even if she probably can’t understand half of them

Word count: 9.7k words

Warnings: mentions of blood, injury and death, possible character death

Having a pocket dimension as your primary residence isn’t the worst thing in the world, really, even if it comes with a whole pack of rather...interesting roommates. It definitely has its charm, at least.

Said roommates are all interdimensional and, in certain cases demonic beings tied to living, breathing people’s life force, none quite like the other.

There’s Dark, demeanour and looks just like his name would suggest. He’s tall and wiry, his skin is pale as chalk and he’s always wearing a suit. Looking at him makes anyone feel dizzy, because he looks like a glitch dragged out from the deepest depths of an old VHS tape. He’s bossy, strict, and he denies ever having smiled in his existence. Some of the other beings are legitimately scared of him – or at least they’re really wary.

There’s Wilford, who’s the sickening mixture of cotton candy and murder compressed into a human shape. He wears a mysterious pink moustache, which gets its mysteriousness from no one knowing whether it’s dyed, fake or if it’s always just been pink since the dawn of time. He seems friendly from afar, smells like a candy store and talks weirdly. In a strange way, he could be called brave, or maybe he’s just too reckless for his own good – but either way he’s one of the only known beings to have teased Dark in the face and lived to tell the tale. He also seems to have an unhealthy obsession with trying to interview everybody and making it big on TV.

There’s Anti, the wild kid who might not be a kid, but he’s definitely wild. He’s like the lovechild of a computer glitch and a murder-happy demon, dangerous and unpredictable. Just like the person his life force is tied to, Sean, he’s loud and full of energy, trotting everywhere he goes, white noise sizzling in his path, excited at any chance to cause mayhem. He can be terrifying, but mostly he’s more of a friend to everyone else in the little pocket dimension. One day he decided he likes Dark and started following him around – and to everyone’s surprise, Dark, heartless, terrifying Dark, grew fond of him. Now the two of them are friends and definitely a force to be reckoned with.

There’s Google, who’s just like how you’d expect: punctual, emotionless and fast. His hands are always cold and he claims his heart is too, but everyone here has at least a little humanity stuck in them. He plans and does the logical thing and goes about everything the most optimal way, which sometimes only gains him glares from the group of ragtag hectic demon spawns he’s living with. For the most part he’s helpful and calm, but one time Anti tried to dump a bucket of water on him and he started swearing in every language available to his translate function – all at once.

There’s the Host, the observant one who knows more than anyone else around who has eyes to see. He’s a mystery in itself, with a bloodied blindfold he’s never seen without and a soft voice that always narrates what’s going on instead of speaking like everyone else, and so he sometimes stays silent and gestures instead of talking. He’s a pleasant company, as surprising as it is. He holds small talk, helps out where he can and sees others’ distress with sightless eyes. He sees what once was and what only will be, and somehow that has made him almost kind.

There’s Chase, who isn’t magical or mysterious or terrifying. He just wishes to have fun and for everyone to get along, and he dreams of his old life before it all crashed. He had lived thinking himself a human for long, building himself a human life because he forgot the one he had had before. Anti found him once things had gone bad and Chase was alone, and brought him back to their own little dimension. In a way, Chase is even more different than the rest of them. He just wants to play with his toy guns and look cool while doing so, and he sees friends in all the bloody-handed demons around him. Anti considers him a brother, and while Chase is grateful, he can’t help missing his other family.

There’s many others who come and go, some stay long and some only pass through, some good and some bad, some powerful and some...not so much. There’s too many of them to count.

In a strange way, they’re like a family.

The pocket dimension changes at its own will and today it’s nothing but a labyrinth of shadowy corridors with no windows, and rooms to match. There’s long desks and uncomfortable chairs in some of the rooms, but everything just looks the same. The air feels dry yet it seems foggy, for it’s grey and details get lost way before you’d expect them to. Everything is grey, just grey.

Chase doesn’t like it. It reminds him of bureaucracy, cold buildings and offices with strict people telling you to sign papers and thinking you’re nothing but a string of numbers and a handful of bills. His feet make almost no sound as he walks and he can’t tell what the floor’s made out of. He searches from room to room, hoping to stumble upon a coffee machine, but he gives up after the twentieth failed attempt.

He fixes his belt that has a loaded Nerf gun hanging from it and makes his way down the next corridor, hoping to at least run into a friend. Hell, at this point he would take Dr Iplier and his constant predictions of painful death, because wandering alone in such a creepy place is starting to make the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

He barely turns the corner when his luck comes into play and he hears a distorted cheer that changes pitch at least twice in the middle. Turning around with a genuine smile he finds Anti running towards him, glitching back a few steps every now and again. But aside from that, he’s barely messing with reality, no changes of hue or contrast surround him, and even the cut on his neck is closed up into a thin red line. He must be having an unusually great day.

Anti catches up to him and flings an arm around his shoulder, shouting as he greets his friend. Chase laughs and leans into him, grabbing the back of his shirt and cheering a half-mocking “Suh, dude!” with enthusiasm.

Anti laughs too and squeezes him around the shoulder, guiding him the opposite way. “Come on, man, I gotta show you something!”

Chase silently hopes it’s not a dead body.

They wobble down the corridor because they’re both yet to figure out how to walk properly while hanging onto each other like this. They run into corners a few times and trip on each other’s legs, but it makes their walk all that much more fun. Chase thinks about how much they must look like they’re drunk, but he doesn’t mind. Anti shoves him to the side and he shoves back and their heads knock together.

It flashes through Chase’s mind that Anti considers him a brother, and he finally decides that he likes that. He likes – loves – his glitchy, demonic, occasionally murderous brother.

“...and then he tells me, me, that he always keeps his files neat and organised!” Anti is fully immersed in the story he’s telling about his human host with much more emotion than necessary. He nudges Chase playfully as he continues. “Me, who’s slept in his computer like a dozen times at least!”

“...and is known to have eaten an equal amount of files,” Chase teases, and it earns him an exasperated groan.

“That was one time! And it was an accident!”

Chase laughs. “Alright, bro, alright.”

He would keep walking, but Anti suddenly forgets about his wounded pride and lets out a really choppy-sounding “whoop, whoop!”. Chase almost trips over his own legs when his friend grabs his arm and drags him into one of the rooms he almost passed.

“We’re here!” Anti exclaims, and as he waves his free arm around it displays the magenta of missing textures for a second. Chase is about to ask “Where?” when his eyes adjust enough that he doesn’t feel the need to.

Well, he’s still not sure where exactly they are, but it’s very much a here. The room is dark and pretty vast he assumes, as he can’t even seem to make out the walls. The only light source is a combination of multiple screens across the room, attached in a curved line and giving the impression of equipment at a spy hideout. Chase guesses there must be something displayed on the screens, but for now he can only see their unpleasantly bright light. He can make out a few silhouettes, and as his eyes adjust, enough details to recognise them as his friends and acquaintances, fellow beings he shares this pocket dimension with. Almost everyone who’s usually present is there. Chase’s heart swells – he’s found them, finally.

In front of the screens are a few chairs, and he can see Dark sitting in one of them, reading a book in the piercing light – though Chase can’t help but wonder if he even needs the light.

To his right are several more chairs and a few tables, one of which is covered in papers. Wilford is standing next to the desk, organising the papers, reading through them, making corrections with a pen that he then absent-mindedly tries to put back into his shirt pocket, failing a handful of times before succeeding. Finally he waves enthusiastically towards the other end of the room, pride shining in his eyes, and in response another being appears in Chase’s sight. Bim Trimmer, resident gameshow host who’s both somewhat human like Chase and kind of bonkers like Wilford makes his way over to the tables, and as he passes he flashes an award winning smile towards Chase and Anti as a greeting. Chase assumes him and Wilford must be discussing plans to try to make it big on TV – again.

On one of the spare chairs sits the Host. Google is standing nearby, silent and unmoving, his eyes shut, probably on energy saving mode. As the two newcomers watch, the Host reaches out to touch his arm and get his attention. Google comes to life immediately, the logo on his chest lighting up and his now open eyes flashing for a second before they focus on the blindfolded man next to him. He asks in a slightly robotic voice how he could be of help, and the Host responds in sign language.

It isn’t exactly an unusual sight. The Host isn’t the most thrilled about his constant narrating whenever he speaks, his inability to converse like anyone else. So, when he can’t take his own voice any longer, he goes silent and instead, he signs.

Google responds without hesitation, speaking because while he can sign too, the Host is still blind. The conversation continues and Chase stops staring, but he sees the grin spreading on the Host’s lips and the way his movements gain more momentum. He only recognises one sign (he’s started learning recently, but he’s only making slow progress), flat fingers against the lips, then moving outward as if blowing a kiss – thank you.

When he looks away, he sees Anti already beckoning him deeper into the room. He follows good-naturedly, curious as to what else is there to see. He thought finding the rest of the entities was the big thing to show, but apparently he was very wrong.

Anti leads him straight to the screens. As Dark notices them approaching, he stands, putting his book back on the chair he had previously occupied. Chase bites the inside of his cheek – Dark is intimidating, even if he isn’t particularly trying to be at the moment. He only relaxes when he sees that his gaze is fully fixed on Anti.

“Look, Chase!” Anti gestures at the screens. Being this close, Chase can make out what they’re displaying: a scene equally as grey as where they are, but this one is of thin streets veiled in fog, and there’s a figure walking along who looks like but a silhouette against the faded background.

As Anti’s fingers hover closer, tiny glitches start sparking to life on the screen and he withdraws his hand quickly, flashing Chase an almost apologetic smile.

“That’s Sean,” he announces without lingering. Chase would have never recognised his - their - human counterpart on his own, but he chooses to believe Anti. “We somehow managed to track him!”

Now that makes it sound like Sean is some elusive target, when in reality both Chase and Anti could easily find him in his world. But having a window to said world, solely focused on him as well, that is…impressive. Chase doesn’t know what to think.

“That’s…cool?” he shrugs meekly, but it is good enough for Anti, who turns back towards the screens and watches his host go harmlessly about his walk.

Chase allows him a few minutes of that, partly because it feels polite to do, partly because he still has to digest the situation…and partly because he feels like if he did anything slightly out of line, Dark would murder him (which would be quite impressive considering they’re both beings immortal as long as their current host is alive, so killing Chase would only be manageable by inadvertently killing Anti as well).

“So…” he starts after his thought process comes to a halt at “What do we do now?”.

Anti takes his time before answering. He grabs one of the nearby chairs, sits down, makes sure to arrange his legs comfortably and lean back before the clever gaze of his eyes finds Chase again.

“I feel like this would be the perfect opportunity to prank him a little,” he speaks with eloquence that is very unlike him. But his painted mask of seriousness crumbles just the next second, his signature grin taking over his lips. “Let’s scare the shit out of him!”

Chase swallows, hard. His eyes wander to look at Dark instead, because right now he feels like a much bigger threat. He’s leaning on the back of Anti’s chair, lazily eyeing Chase like some black cat that’s too smart for its own good. Except this cat has more than just tiny fangs to bite with and more cruelty than any feline. Chase feels like if he makes but a single wrong move, Dark will pounce and he will be nothing more than a memory.

Usually Chase feels glad that Anti has found friends amongst all these other beings, but right now he isn’t the happiest about one of those friends being a fiercely protective and sadistic demon.

He slowly looks back to Anti, who is waiting patiently for a response. Patiently. That’s quite unusual of him. Chase decides to thank their brotherly relationship for his luck.

“That’s...not a very nice thing to do,” he responds finally. He might be soft, but his heart is in the right place and he has probably the strongest sense of right and wrong out of everyone present. Right now that sense is telling him that scaring Sean, a harmless human on his way home on the foggy streets who has never done anything to hurt any of them wouldn’t be the nicest thing to do.

Dark blinks slowly, but he’s no cat and Chase knows not to take it as a sign of contentment. He’s still looking Chase up and down as if not knowing what to make of him in the current situation.

“Maybe,” Anti shrugs, and suddenly Chase gets the feeling that he might be getting some pleasure out of playing authority like this. Playing king is definitely not Anti’s style, but for now he seems to be enjoying just sitting back and watching Chase be uncertain with his words. “But it would be fun.”

“Eh, let’s just...have some fun that doesn’t hurt anybody, okay?” Chase tries with a half-hearted shrug, and he silently prays that he can somehow convince his demonic brother to lay off his idea. Even if they don’t end up giving Sean a heart attack, two guys materialising out of nowhere in the middle of a town street could possibly get some unwanted publicity with the humans. The last thing they should want is for Sean to get into trouble.

Anti is about to respond as he absently glances over to the glowing screens – and the words get lost in his throat. Instead, he’s jumping up, his chair falling back from the force and startling Dark enough to make him blend into the shadows for a moment. Chase flinches back from the sudden noise as the chair hits the ground.

Anti remains staring at the screen for another moment, his whole body tense and ready to spring, eyes turned pitch black and his fangs pulling at his lips. Chase follows his stare to the screen and his blood runs cold in his veins when he sees what got his friend so wound up.

The uneventful scene of Sean walking home in the fog has turned unsettling. Chase can no longer make out details and he can barely tell which way the street is going. There are dark figures, tall and sinister, getting closer and forming as if they’ve come to be from the fog itself. It’s impossible to tell what they are, but Chase doesn’t even think to because it doesn’t matter. They’re making their way towards Sean and they don’t seem friendly.

Before Chase could say a word or Dark could hold him down, Anti launches himself forward, right into the screens and through them. The image keeps glitching for a moment after he’s gone through, but once it clears out, Chase and Dark can see him standing beside Sean.

Anti can feel the rush of adrenaline in a way that feels almost a little too human, and he pulls strength from it on top of his already superhuman abilities. He glances to the side, giving a reassuring, friendly grin to a visibly shocked Sean. He doesn’t realise that maybe it’s not the easiest to muster “friendly” when his pupils are nothing but thin slits against red eyes and his fangs are long and sharp enough to put dragons to shame. He feels blood trickle down his neck, and knowing that his cut has opened up more with his rushing blood, he wipes at it absently.

He jumps into combat without a second thought, swinging his hand with his fingers curling into talons. For a moment he regrets not having his favourite knife on him, but it’s not like he’s helpless without it. He finishes one dark figure after the other without caring to look what they are and definitely without them even realising what’s coming for them. Why would he care, anyway? All he cares about for the moment is that these...these whatever they are had clearly had ill-intentions towards Sean, and Anti just won’t stand for that. He completely forgets the fact that just a few minutes ago he was planning to pull a possibly cruel prank on the man, because in his mind it would have been all in good fun. But these creatures, they weren’t here for fun. They were here to hurt his friend, and Anti would have to be dragged all the way to the Underworld and chained to the biggest poplar tree before he let that happen.

He only turns back towards Sean when he has torn off the last head he could see. The fog is thick and a monochrome grey again, and Anti can’t tell whether the figures had melted back into it or if it’s simply too dense to see through.

Sean still looks just as shocked as when Anti appeared beside him out of nothingness, but the tension in his eyes slowly starts to let up when he looks at him demonic friend. Anti looks really proud of himself. No, proud sounds like too plain a word to describe it. His eyes look almost human, and they sparkle with pride and some warm kind of joy Sean has never seen on him before. He wears a smile to match, a wide grin that’s soft and friendly and excited all at the same time.

No words are spoken, but Sean reads them from Anti’s face. I did it, you see? I did it, I defeated them, I protected you. I protected you! Just like a good friend, a real friend!

The fleeting thought crosses Anti’s mind that he hopes his friends on the other side are seeing this, seeing him being victorious and protecting his friend. He hopes Chase is grinning like a madman, maybe throwing his fists in the air because look at that, look at his bother – his brother! - kicking ass. He hopes Dark cracks a small smile, nods his head a little in the way that is like a whole speech of praise coming from him.

A smile spreads on Sean’s lips, and he’s about to laugh or walk up to Anti and pat him on the shoulder, maybe even hug him, thank him for what he’s done or ask what just happened, anything that’s just very nice and very human and very Sean. He never gets to do any of that.

Abruptly, Anti lurches forward, his eyes widening as his joyful expression melts into one of shock. Sean jumps forward to cross the distance between them, but there’s nothing he can do as Anti tumbles to the ground.

On the other side of the screen things seem frozen. Dark is the only one who moves, letting out a pained scream of his friend’s name that sounds almost more like the roar of a wounded beast, then he launches forward and through the screen, not entirely unlike how Anti had done so only a few minutes prior. Chase remains standing in the same spot, paralysed, feeling and looking like a terrified child.

Dark collapses to his knees next to Anti’s body. He couldn’t care less that the ground is wet and he’s probably ruining his expensive clothes. Sean hovers nearby, shocked and unsure of what to do, but Dark doesn’t spare him a single glance. His eyes are focused on the growing red stain in the middle of Anti’s chest. He presses his hand to it, clumsily trying to stop the bleeding as if he were a human and as if Anti were one as well, but the blood bubbles past his fingers and he feels helpless.

No one had heard the gunshot. No one can tell who even fired, there’s no one else around, no one they can see at least, and right now it’s not important either. For once, Dark is not hellbent on taking revenge, he’s instead clutching his friend’s body in his arms as if he could just keep him together and make him okay again if he just holds him tight enough.

He doesn’t know what snaps him out of his trance, but he suddenly stands, still clutching Anti’s limp body in his arms. He doesn’t look at him anymore, he just can’t. Poor guy’s eyes are rolled back into his head, his mouth is half open and he’s barely breathing. His hands are ashy black and Dark doesn’t want to question why, but aside from that and the cut on his neck, he looks almost human and all too vulnerable. But if Dark doesn’t look, maybe he can convince himself that Anti’s just asleep, he’s fallen asleep on him again, how annoying, right? He just fell asleep again and Dark is simply carrying him over to somewhere he can sleep without ruining his back, because Dark cares, even if he does so in secret.

He orders Sean to follow but doesn’t look his way to confirm he’s heard. He just takes a step forward, slipping through the fabric of this dimension and into another as if he was just walking through a curtain. Even he’s surprised he manages so easily when he’s so unfocused.

Dark never registers the small tug at the back of his coat as Sean grabs onto him the last second, allowing himself to be pulled along.

They arrive back in the dark room with the screens, and Sean immediately lets go of Dark. He steps to the side, looking around and still unable to shake his shock. He’s just hopped into another world, just like that.

Chase is still standing in the same spot, staring at Dark and Anti now, but no one knows if he actually sees them. He’s trembling slightly and his eyes are wide and empty, and Sean listens to his good heart when it tells him to comfort him. He walks over and wraps an arm around the poor guy’s shoulder, who almost collapses immediately. Sean bites his lip as he holds him up until Chase finds his balance again, and then they just stand there. Sean really wishes he knew what to say, how to help at least one person – being, whatever – in this room, but he just doesn’t. They’re both confused and terrified.

Wilford comes closer, casting curious glances at Anti’s limp form and waiting for an explanation with unhidden curiosity. He doesn’t seem concerned in the slightest, but then again maybe he doesn’t realise the weight of the situation yet. Google follows with a neutral expression, but his eyes are flashing wildly and Dark would know if he had the time to think about such things that he must already be searching for solutions to the current situation, trying to come up with anything that could help. The Host stays where he is and doesn’t come closer, which seems like a very Host thing to do. Sean briefly wonders if he already knows what Anti’s fate will be, or if he had already known before Anti decided to jump over into the human world. Bim is nowhere to be seen.

Dark’s eyes find Wilford’s, the only being’s who might be able to help. He might be missing a few marbles, but no one could ever deny that somehow, Wil knows a lot.

“He’s been shot,” informs Dark coldly.

Wilford nods to signal he understood and hums quietly, thinking. He doesn’t speak for long enough that Dark deems it too long, and when he tries to get closer, Dark’s immediate response is to clutch Anti closer to his chest, growling in the back of his throat.

Google doesn’t seem to see, probably too deep into searching for answers, so Sean deems himself the most competent being in the room after Dark and Wilford. It puts a bitter taste in his mouth, but his shoulders tense knowing that he might have to separate the aforementioned two before they get into a fight over Anti’s (possibly dead) body.

“Lemme see, will ya?” Wilford asks friendlily, and Dark glares daggers at him but loosens his hold on Anti nonetheless. “We shouldn’t need to worry,” he adds, staring at the wound on Anti’s chest. “He’s immortal here like the rest of us are, he’s probably gonna be fine.”

Dark’s teeth grown into fangs for a moment (no one’s seen him do that before, it’s normally Anti’s thing) as he snaps at Wilford. “Well, he’s supposed to be immortal out there too and it sure as Hell doesn’t feel like it now!”

Sean swallows hard and Chase looks at him expectantly. He has a feeling they’re both thinking the exact same thing. Anti’s only immortal as long as Sean is alive – but he’s alive, right? Fear stirs in his chest just when he’s thought there’s no way for him to be even more scared, and he’s definitely not a fan. But before he can voice his doubts, Wilford speaks again.

“Listen, my friend, Sean is doing just fine, probably more alive than ever from what I can tell,” as he says that, Sean lets out a silent sigh of relief in the background. “And as long as he’s fine, Anti should be too. Simple as that.”

Dark doesn’t respond. His eyes narrow, but instead of having a long stare-down with Wilford, he pushes past him without wasting another word. As he walks away, still clutching Anti in his arms, Wilford shouts after him.

“You can sulk all you want, Darky, but that won’t change the fact that I’m right!”

Sean doesn’t know what to think, but he’s pretty sure the pink man isn’t right. He silently grabs Chase’s sleeve (God, the guy is still shaking like a leaf) and drags him along as he follows Dark out of the room.

Once they’re outside and Sean sadly notes that the corridors are just as grey as the streets in his world are right now, he turns to Dark, not even intimidated by the fact that he’s a good head taller than him and, well, very dark looking. “What now?”

Dark takes a deep breath before responding. He looks at Anti, who’s out cold and still completely limp, but at least the red has stopped spreading on his chest and his neck wound has closed up again, too. He’s not sure if that’s a good sign.

“I don’t know,” he admits, and Sean can feel Chase sway beside him, though that could still be the effect of his panic. When Dark looks up, Sean thinks he can see helplessness in his eyes. “Do you think Mark could help?”

Mark – he’s another mere human, Dark’s human counterpart, and Wilford’s and Google’s and the Host’s and Bim’s, and Sean’s friend.

Sean lowers his gaze for a moment before answering. “I don’t think so,” he knows that’s not the answer Dark was hoping for. “No human could, I don’t think. Anti’s not human, we can’t just...bring him to a hospital,” and silently he adds, only to himself that maybe if Anti was human, he wouldn’t even be alive anymore.

“Dr. Iplier? Dr. Schneeplestein?” Chase asks hopefully, but Dark’s expression doesn’t light up like he hoped it would.

“They’re almost never around. I’m not sure if they’re even actual doctors, either. Maybe they would just do more harm than good.”

Sean wants to cut in that there’s not much worse than being shot in the back and bleeding out with no help, but he keeps his mouth shut. Even if he’s not feeling like himself at all at the moment, Dark is still a powerful demon and who knows what he’s capable of – especially in a dimension Sean is not familiar with.

So, he tries the next worst thing.

“But, he’s immortal, right? So what if-”

“Immortal means he can’t die unless you do or if severe your bond, not that he heals magically,” Dark cuts in bitterly, but without any anger. “In which case the best thing than can happen is he stays like this. In a coma, if you will,” he looks at Sean with something in his eyes that makes him seem human for a moment, and he draws his arms tighter around Anti’s frail frame. “Do you really think I’d want to do that to him?”

“No, of course not,” Sean sighs, and he can see Chase nod out of the corner of his eye. “Let’s just...figure something out. Quick.”

Dark starts walking down one of the corridors without another word, and Chase and Sean follow without a question. Chase catches up to Dark, looking at Anti the whole time with worry in his wide eyes. He wants so desperately to help. Anti is his family. But after a few steps, his shoulders shake, and he falls into step behind Dark again. Sean can’t bring himself to comment on the fresh tears running down Chase’s face.

Time feels strange and Sean can’t keep track of it well. It gives him a sliver of hope, that maybe Anti can hold on longer this way, but he isn’t sure how much he actually believes that, how much trust he is willing to put into the physics of a strange pocket dimension. He can’t tell how long they have been walking when they wind up in another room, almost as dark as the previous one.

There is a bed, a wardrobe and a few cabinets, and a single window with nothing but darkness on the other side. Sean makes a mental note to not go near it.

While Sean looks around, Dark walks over to the bed and lays Anti down carefully. Chase immediately crawls onto the mattress, sitting as close to Anti’s unmoving body as he possibly can. He lowers his head, staring at his brother and looking every bit as still as him.

“Why are we here?” Sean asks Dark after he averts his eyes from the heartwrenching scene. He’s scared for Anti, he really is, and he feels sorry for Chase, but he can’t let that take over him right now.

“We’re closer to the centre here,” Dark states as if expecting Sean to know what he means by that. He realises his mistake as he walks over to the wardrobe, so he explains. “The dimension has a centre, where its energy is more dense and powerful than towards the edges. The room where we arrived was near the edge. I’m hoping that maybe here Anti can...stay alive easier.”

“I see,” Sean says, staring at Dark’s back absently. He doesn’t question all the talk about Anti dying if he’s immortal, because no one knows enough about his kind, about these beings in general to be sure about anything. No one knows if they’re truly immortal or just very hard to kill, no one knows how fragile Anti is on his own or what it would take for the bond between him and Sean to shatter. No one wants to find out, either.

“Good. Go, be near him. He’s tied to you, maybe you being near will help,” Dark adds, digging into the wardrobe and visibly relieved that he doesn’t have to keep explaining something even he doesn’t fully understand.

Sean goes to sit down on the bed, his eyes travelling to the wound on Anti’s chest without meaning to. The room falls into silence.

...and silence is exactly what Sean doesn’t want. It allows his thoughts to gain his attention, and he doesn’t want to think right now. He barely knows what is happening or where he is, a literal interdimensional being tied to his soul (though he had come to accept that part a long time ago) is possibly dying right in front of him for protecting him from Lord knows what...When will he even get home? And how the Hell can he explain all of this to Signe? “Oh, yeah, sorry I’m late for dinner, I got dragged into another dimension trying to save Anti’s life.” Doesn’t sound likely.

He smooths his hand over the covers absent-mindedly, watching as the fabric creases under his fingers. Funny, he could have sworn it was black, but now it looks more like dark red. He doesn’t think much of it. Instead, he turns his head to stare at Dark’s back. Anything but his own thoughts, anything but dozens of unanswered questions that only lead in circles and make him anxious.

He’s thinking about how he’s glad that these beings, Dark and Anti and Chase and all the others, just look similar to their hosts and not exactly like them. He’s glad that when he looks at Dark, it’s Dark looking back at him, not Mark. Because Dark is tall, taller than Sean and definitely taller than Mark, he’s lean and his face is thin, and there’s no kindness in his eyes. And similarly, if you asked Sean he would say that Anti looks nothing like him either, because Anti’s a lot more angular and pointy looking, he’s thinner and his eyes can get so sharp their gaze could pierce skin.

“What do we do?” he asks quietly, not looking up from his hands as he bunches the sheets between his fingers.

Dark stands beside the bed, apparently having found nothing of use in the wardrobe. He watches Anti for a moment before speaking, a humourless chuckle in his voice. “You’re too human even for this strange world.”

“I don’t-” Sean’s voice drowns out when he follows Dark’s indifferent gaze down to his hand. He feels Chase’s silent stare, too. Suddenly he understands why the red sheets had seemed black at first.

“This place has been grey all day,” Chase says, his voice so fragile that Sean has trouble believing it’s actually him. “But it’s not, not around you.”

An idea strikes Sean, and without thinking he hovers his hand over Anti’s arm (his heart jumps when he sees his skin as a more lively colour and how the ashy tint of his clawed hands seems to fade), then places is on his chest. The blood under his hand is warm and wet, and he recoils immediately. Why did he do that?

As he draws his hand away, Anti lets out a tiny groan, and they all freeze in shock, watching if he’s waking up. But he goes still again just like that, like he’s never stirred in the first place.

Sean stares regretfully at his bloody hand. He doesn’t know if he’s done a good or a bad thing, and he also has no idea where to wipe all the blood off now.

“There should be towels in the wardrobe,” Dark says as if he’s reading Sean’s thoughts. He’s staring intently at Anti still, like he believes if he looked away, Anti would disappear.

There’s a whole shelf of towels, and Sean makes quick work of wiping the blood off his hand. He stares at the stained towel in disgust. That blood is the blood of a friend of his.

Before he could throw the towel away and reclaim his spot on the bed, he hears the door on the other side of the room open. From the corner of his eye he can see Dark self-consciously straighten his back, and he turns to see who the visitor is.

It’s Google. He’s wrapped up in his usual artificial glow, and the quiet ticking that imitates his breathing seems awfully loud in the silent room. He looks around with more emotion in his eyes than Sean thought an android could ever muster.

“Anything new?” Google asks. No one speaks, but he gets his answer as Dark turns away to keep staring at Anti instead, looking about as old as he must be – a couple thousand years, probably.

Eventually Sean makes his way back to the bed and sits again, and Google stands near Anti’s head. The minutes that pass seem like hours.

“Sean, you’re turning this world human around you...maybe you could turn him human, too,” Chase speaks hoarsely after a long bit of silence. “I’d rather have him be mortal than to keep him like this forever...” his voice rises near the end of his sentence, then he chokes up. He fails to notice Dark’s pointed stare.

“And risk him dying to his wound?” Dark retorts before Sean has a chance to speak, but there’s barely an edge to his voice. “Chase, even you should know better than that...”

And that’s when Chase breaks. Dark bites his tongue, eyes flashing with instant regret as if he’d just made a child cry, but it’s not his fault. Yet another thought of helplessness was just the final bit needed before Chase couldn’t hold himself together any longer.

The room goes still, and no one knows what to do, and Chase buries his face in his hands and he sobs and whimpers and shakes. He just feels so helpless. In that moment, he’s not a father of two, he’s not a demon who never unlocked his full potential, he’s not some mysterious being in a mysterious dimension. He’s just a normal guy, the most average of bros, who’s losing the only family he still has, and he cannot do anything to stop it. It’s heartbreaking.

Sean doesn’t know what to do with himself. He wants to help, so much, but there are no words of comfort in a situation like this. He can’t bring himself to lie that everything would be alright.

There’s a faint whirring coming from Google’s direction, almost drowned out by Chase’s crying. His eyes are flashing white and his body is rigid as he’s trying harder than ever to find solutions. It’s the only form of sympathy he has to offer.

Slowly, over time, Chase’s crying subsides. He keeps his hands in front of his face and his breaths come in little hiccups that make his shoulders quake, but he’s just a tiny bit calmer. Sean gives him a small smile even if he can’t see it.

In the meantime, Sean has taken to resting his hand on Anti’s arm. It doesn’t appear to have any effect at all aside from bringing back some colour, but that small detail is comforting just the tiniest bit. The black patches of skin are fully gone now, and Anti’s hands look like normal human hands again. Even his nails are trimmed nicely, and they aren’t painted black like they were the last time Sean had seen them, only a few days ago.

It’s a while before anything happens again. The door opens, and once more Dark and Sean are the only ones to react. They both watch as one person after the other files into the room.

The Host is first, looking downright dejected and guilty as if this was all his fault. He blames himself for not seeing what would happen to Anti. Next is Bim, following the Host closely, eyes red and cheeks puffy. It’s obvious that he’s been crying, and it looks like he still might. Lastly, there’s Wilford.

Sean doesn’t need to look to know that Dark isn’t happy. Wilford knows too, and he directs his words at Dark immediately after politely closing the door behind himself.

“Look, my friend,” Dark’s frown deepens a that word, but Wil doesn’t seem fazed. “I may be an a-hole, but even I don’t want him to die!”

After another moment of staring, Dark gives a small nod and turns back to the bed. He has more important issues to deal with right now than playing one-on-one turf wars with Wilford.

Wilford considers that good enough, and makes his way deeper into the room. Everyone gathers around Anti silently.

The Host, his shoulders slumped in defeat, raises his hand and signs towards Dark, Sean and Chase, moving his fist against his chest in a circle. Sorry. Then his frown deepens, and it takes him another moment before he speaks.

“The Host wishes, with all his heart, for Anti to wake up and be okay,” that’s all he can do. Wish. Hope. Because he can’t see.

Dark nods silently, and he’s grateful for those words even if he doesn’t show it. Sean mutters a tired “Me too, buddy”.

Bim finally gathers the courage to sit next to Chase, who still hasn’t recovered from his crying. He glances up curiously as he feels the mattress dip beside him, and he doesn’t pull away when Bim hugs him from the side and presses his head into his shoulder. Bim starts crying again, and soon the two of them, the most human ones out of the group, are weeping silently together. Sean doesn’t notice, but there’s tears rolling down his face, too.

Google still hasn’t moved, but he looks more and more hopeless as he just searches and searches...the internet knows nothing about saving demon lives.

Wilford places a hand on Dark’s shoulder, but he doesn’t look particularly offended when it gets shaken off immediately.

“Y’know, gotta admit,” he sighs, more quiet than he’s ever been. “I am kinda fond of this kid,” he decides he doesn’t want to risk an all-out war with Dark right now, so he doesn’t add the last thought – it’d be a shame if he didn’t make it.

Sean just can’t bear the silence anymore, the silence and those stray sentences that float away without anyone grasping them, and decides that if no one else is going to talk properly, then so be it, he will.

“He came out there to save me,” his throat feels tight, but he swallows and continues. “He saved me from...Lord knows what those things were, and he, he looked so happy in the end.”

Bim raises his head to listen properly, Chase wipes at his eyes, and Google’s whirring slowly stops as he finally gives up the search. They listen.

“He looked so happy with himself once he was done fighting. He just...looked at me and,” he smiles shakily. “he was proud of himself. He did the right thing! He helped me, he saved me...” he swallows again. “I think he really just...wanted to be a good friend, y’know?”

Chase nods along silently, and Dark lowers his head. The Host absent-mindedly signs “friend”.

“Is he...” Bim says, but he cuts himself off like he’s scared of his own voice. He takes a breath and tries again. “Is he going to stay like this forever now?”

“No.”

Everyone’s heads snap to look at Dark, and even Wilford looks genuinely surprised.

“Why?” Bim asks again, because if he’s the one who’s started this conversation, he has to be the one to carry it out. “How do you-”

“Because he’s my best friend,” Dark says, and he does so with so much certainty that no one dares pry after that.

Silence, again. Chase hiccups another sob and wipes at his face.

Then, Anti stirs.

Everyone goes still and just watches, because what if they just imagined that – or what if they didn’t, is it good or bad? Anti’s head rolls to the side and he frowns, and Sean’s fingers twitch with the need to grab him, shake him to wake him up and know if he’s okay. Chase reaches out tentatively, but the moment his hand would touch Anti’s arm Anti jerks and curls up on his side. As he tries to push himself up, his arms shake and he starts coughing, and still no one knows what to do.

Anti retches and keeps coughing, and then there’s blood splattering on the sheets. Chase panics, because that’s so much blood, too much, it’s pooling on the sheets and dripping on the floor and it terrifies him because that’s Anti’s blood. He reaches over, grabbing the back of Anti’s torn, bloody shirt, and he finally manages to pull him up to sit. The fabric rips further under his fingers and he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the feel of dried blood against his skin.

There’s blood running down the sides of Anti’s mouth and dripping down his chin, and he coughs another one or two times after sitting up. His eyes are glassy and he doesn’t seem to recognise anyone around him.

He takes two deep breaths and shuts his eyes tight for a moment, and just for good measure, wipes the blood off his face and cleans his hand on the already ruined covers. Then he opens his eyes again quickly, too quickly, and looks down at his chest – and more importantly at his bloody shirt, black fabric soaked with dark crimson. He visibly freaks out and takes it off as fast as he can, ripping it even further. He tosses it to the other end of the bed in terror.

He has new scars. Star shaped ones, thin lines running into a single spot without leaving a dent, shiny and white. One on his back and a smaller one on his chest to match. Demons scar differently from humans, but it’s all too clear what left those.

Anti takes a few more shaky breaths, trying to calm down as if waking from a nightmare. He blinks rapidly a few times, shuts his eyes tight, then chokes a small sob. A few tears roll down his cheeks and he whimpers in the back of his throat. Then he wipes at his face again, opens his eyes. His gaze slowly focuses on Dark as he comes to his senses.

Everyone is silent and still. They don’t know what to make of the situation, what to do, what to say. Then…a chuckle. Shaky, weak, but undeniably alive.

“So...best friend, huh?” Anti’s lips draw into a small grin, not quite the usual one but getting there, because damn him if he’s not going to try and hide his pain and fear with humour.

Dark looks aside and shrugs. He doesn’t exactly know what else to do.

Anti lets out a little laugh. “I always knew you were sappy deep down, you old fart.”

He would probably say something else too, but before he knows it Dark is sitting on the bed and hugging him tight. Anti doesn’t know what to do for a moment, because Dark is not a hugging kinda guy and now he’s holding onto him like his life depends on it. Then he feels Dark gently knocking him upside the head without letting go.

“Shut up.”

Anti chuckles again, then he finally hugs Dark back as tight as he can, and he’s glad his nails aren’t sharp right now because they would be tearing holes into the perfect Armani suit. He tucks his face into Dark’s neck and smiles against his skin because Dark is his best friend.

When Dark sits back, he has an unusually soft expression on his face. Anti smiles at him, but then his eyes drift to the side and he sees Chase. Poor guy looks even more shaken than Anti, with eyes red and tears still running down his face.

Anti offers him a small smile, too. “Hey, bro.”

The next thing he knows, he’s on his back, Chase on top of him hugging the life out of him. He laughs, loud and joyful and very much alive, and he hugs his brother back. Chase is crying again, full on crying into Anti’s shoulder and his whole body shakes with it.

“I...I almost...almost lost you...” Chase stutters, and suddenly Anti feels really bad. “You idiot...No, don’t you...don’t you dare...say sorry.”

Anti stays silent and just holds onto him until he can sit up again. When he does, Anti’s sitting up as well, and he grins at Chase before taking the snapback that had somehow stayed on his head all this time. Chase lets him, and Anti looks really proud of himself with his brother’s favourite hat on his head.

It seems Anti’s only realising bit by bit how many people are present, because he looks absolutely delighted when he notices Sean sitting on the bed too. Sean smiles at him – everyone seems to be smiling now – and waves, saying a soft “hey”.

Anti wobbles over to him on his knees and pulls him into a hug, because he doesn’t care, he’s so happy and he wants to hug everyone now. Sean doesn’t object.

“Thank you for saving me back there,” Sean mutters, and Anti’s rarely heard him this serious.

“Anytime, man.”

Sean sighs and pats him on the back. “You’re my favourite dumbass demon.”

Anti pulls away laughing and he playfully punches Sean’s shoulder. He feels so happy to be alive, he thinks he’s going to burst.

Wilford seems to be resenting the fact that he’s not in focus, because he loudly claims that “this calls for a group hug”. Bim cheers loudly at that, and the Host smiles.

They all pile onto the bed, clumsy as it gets, and they all but suffocate Anti in one giant hug. For once Dark doesn’t mind physical contact, Bim fights the urge to cry again and Google smiles softly as he props his chin on the Host’s shoulder. And Anti’s in the middle, smile huge enough to reveal his fangs, just radiating joy. Things were scary, he’s pretty sure he almost died, but now everything feels better than ever. He’s just so happy.

After a while they all pull apart, but most of them remain sitting on the bed. Anti’s in the middle, grin wide and his hat knocked to the side. Dark comes back from the wardrobe with a towel in his hands and wraps it around Anti’s shoulders to make up for his ruined shirt for now before he sits down behind him. Anti thanks him and pulls the towel tight around his shoulders.

“So...what happened?” Anti asks. No one responds. “The last thing I remember is that I was fighting to protect Sean from those things, but after that it’s just...nothing.”

Everyone remains silent. The wounds are still fresh, thinking, let alone talking about the hours when they thought they would lose Anti would just hurt too much. Bim suddenly finds his cuffs very interesting. Chase shifts a little bit closer to Anti.

The other reason no one is speaking up is because they actually have no idea.

Google starts whirring, and everyone watches as it gets louder and louder until he slaps himself on the forehead. Anti and Sean are very amused by that ending.

“We’re all idiots,” Google says, and Dark is already opening his mouth because he’s not willing to accept that as fact. Google doesn’t pay him any mind and continues. “We already know that Anti gains his power from attention, and more importantly love, right? I think because we were all here, worrying about him, not wanting to lose him, loving him...that was enough to bring him back from the brink of death.”

A stunned silence settles between them. It makes so much sense. Anti sniffles a little, but everyone pretends not to notice, and Chase pulls him into a hug again to comfort them both.

Dark is the first one to speak. “Now, regardless of that,” he semi-seriously scolds Anti. “don’t you dare pull a stunt like that ever again.”

Anti agrees to try.

“The Host wishes to say that he could not be happier with the outcome,” the Host smiles, and Bim nods along enthusiastically.

“I think we can all agree on that, my friend,” adds Wilford. He earns a rare smile from Dark, but no one dares mention it.

They talk about nothings for a while, because no one wants to mention today’s events but being in each other’s company is comforting. At some point Chase gets his hat back and they get rid of the ruined covers to make sure no one sits in blood. Sean doesn’t mention it, but he notices the whole room seems to be gaining colour.

“Guys, I’m sorry, but...I think I should probably get going,” Sean says after a while. It earns him some disapproving whines. “I don’t know how late it is in my world, but if it really is late, I don’t want Signe to worry. Plus I do want to tell her about what happened to day, and man, I’m exhausted.”

No one really argues aside from Anti’s tentative “five more minutes?”. Sean only laughs and hugs him and Chase goodbye.

“I’ll escort you back,” Dark offers. Anti immediately bounces to get up, but Dark shoots him a glare. “You stay here and don’t get yourself into any more deadly situations.”

“But I’m-”

“Don’t say that you’re fine, I won’t believe you anyway,” and while Dark looks really strict saying that, there’s genuine worry in his eyes. That alone convinces Anti to stay put.

Sean bids goodbye to everyone and jokingly tells them to be good and stay out of trouble before he takes ahold of Dark’s arm and the two of them disappear into thin air.

It’s evening in the human world, and the sun is just setting. They appear near where Anti got shot and leave the scene as quickly as possible. Neither of them want to remember right now.

Dark walks Sean all the way to his house. It’s a bit of a walk and, naturally, Sean won’t stay silent during it.

“Best friend, huh?” he teases, but he’s genuinely curious.

“I might be a bitter old demon,” Dark says without looking his way. “but even I have a heart too.”

“...and Anti stole it?” there’s a small smile forming on his lips. He can’t help it.

“Yeah,” Dark chuckles in a way that makes Sean think “fond”. “that glitchy rascal. Plus,” he shrugs. “that Chase kid needs his brother.”

Sean finishes quietly like he’s able to read Dark’s thoughts. “...and we all need our friend.”

Dark nods. They agree on that.

Sean is long used to having these beings in his life – so is Signe, so is Mark, so are some of Mark’s friends. They came out of nowhere, no one really understands how or why, they’re strange, sometimes scary or funny or cunning or very, very human. Sean is glad he decided to make friends with them. After all, they had just waltzed into his life, first Anti, then all the rest of them, and he could do nothing about it other than make the best of it. He’s happy he did. They’re a strange gang of curiosities, an ever growing family of demons and entities, and damn would he miss them if one day they just up and disappeared. He really hopes that day will never come.

Street lights flicker on as they walk and Dark regards them with mild interest. He looks almost human in the evening light – or maybe it’s just his peaceful mood making him appear so, Sean isn’t exactly sure.

They arrive at Sean’s house in comfortable silence. He walks up to the door and Dark waits a few steps away before he turns back to say goodbye.

“Well,” Sean smiles lightly. “It was nice seeing you again, Dark.”

Dark nods his head with respect, and it’s clear that he’s bidding farewell to a friend. He disappears into thin air the moment Sean closes the door behind himself.

“You too, Sean.”