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afairmaiden · 2 years

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The Others (Part 1)

This is part 1 of my entry for the 2022 Inklings Challenge (@inklings-challenge). I don’t know if it’s going to be finished by the deadline, but I wanted to get something up at least.

“And this is the condemnation, that the light has come into the world, and men loved darkness rather than light, because their deeds were evil. For everyone practicing evil hates the light and does not come to the light, lest his deeds should be exposed. But he who does the truth comes to the light, that his deeds may be clearly seen, that they have been done in God.” John 3:19-21

I remember thinking the woods were beautiful.

I remember everything, even the things I was supposed to forget.

In fifth grade we took a field trip to the preserve just north of the city. There were twenty-six of us, plus the teacher and teacher’s aide, and for once they let us choose who we would be paired up with for the day. I waited quietly, watching the others make their choices, until the only other person left was a girl named Jess. I was secretly glad, because I’d always thought she was cool, even if no one else did. Her hair was too long and her clothes were strange-looking, and it was no secret that she and her brother didn’t get enough to eat because her parents could barely support one kid, let alone two. Still, she was always nice, and I was excited to have a chance to hang out with her.

It was a warm day at the very end of April. No one was saying much on the bus. We just watched as the scene outside changed from close gray skyscrapers and pavement to fields of windmills and sparkling solar panels under the open blue sky. Finally, we came to the entrance of the preserve, where a uniformed guard waved down at us from his post high up in the watchtower and opened the gate for us.

We parked by an open grassy area bordered by flowers and trees. There was a large welcome sign and a stand with a physical guestbook where we spent a good ten minutes struggling to write our names with the old-fashioned ballpoint pen that was attached to it. The teacher was annoyed, but I noticed her name didn’t look much neater than ours. I remember it was bright, almost too bright, and far too open and exposed for my liking. It was quiet as well, which seemed strange after the constant humming, buzzing, rattling, whirring sounds of the city, not a sound to be heard except the occasional breeze rustling the leaves. A couple kids nervously asked if there were any animals, but the park ranger who was leading the tour assured us there was nothing to worry about; the animals were in another part of the preserve, and there were cameras everywhere. It was perfectly safe to go exploring.

After a brief tour, we were allowed to wander around on our own, so Jess and I split from the group and went down a trail where some flowers were growing. We read the signs – there were roses and lilies, violets, baby’s breath, white chrysanthemums, pink carnations, monkshood, rhododendrons, tuberose, sunflowers, and snapdragons. We went further down the path, where the bushes grew taller, talking a little as we went, but mostly admiring the scenery. The path went up and up, then turned a little until we suddenly came to a tall chain-link fence. We could see beyond it that everything was wilder, and here we heard other sounds. I thought I heard running water below, and Jess gasped and pointed at something that might have been a bird.

We stood there for a few minutes just looking when I thought I heard something else that I couldn’t quite name. It slowly grew louder, and with it, the light seemed to grow brighter until it was nearly blinding and I had to shut my eyes. I don’t know how much time passed before the noise stopped and I heard my name being called. I looked up to find the teacher’s aide, Marcy, coming toward me. For a second I froze, because she was usually in a bad mood, but she seemed unusually cheerful and started talking as though we were good friends.

“Found you! Well that was fun, wasn’t it? I love it out here, don’t you? But it’s time to be heading back now.”

I looked around to see where Jess had gone but couldn’t see her anywhere. I began to panic and opened my mouth, but found myself unable to speak as Marcy drew nearer, looking entirely oblivious to what had just occurred.

“Come on,” she continued brightly, taking my hand. “Remember what the ranger said? This is public land that’s open to everyone, so you can come back anytime you want.”

I finally found my voice, but all I could say was, “But…Jess—where—”

“What’s that?” Marcy asked. She looked confused. Just then there was the sound of a horn honking. “You’ll have to tell me on the bus. We don’t want to be late.”

We arrived at the bus just as everyone else was getting on. I continued to look around, but Jess remained nowhere to be seen, a fact that seemed entirely lost on both the teacher and the park ranger as they called roll from the guestbook and told the driver that everyone was accounted for. Marcy sat next to me on the bus and made small talk the whole ride back.

When I got home, I used my mother’s computer to try to look up Jess’s family in the building directory, to see if she had gotten home another way, but they weren’t there. Their names, numbers, everything was gone. It was like they’d never even existed.

***

I knew when the lights started flickering that it was only a matter of time. It was hardly a surprise; the factory had been short on people since long before I started working three years ago, we’d been losing people every year, and there was no one to replace them. Over eight hundred apartments in the building, and now less than fifty were occupied, all the other businesses were long gone, services had been cut to the absolute essentials, the elevators were down every other week, and the food seemed even more tasteless than usual. I tried to tell myself it would be alright, that buildings closed all the time, and we’d just be reassigned to an identical one a few streets over, where we’d probably be doing the exact same jobs even. All the same, when the notice finally came from management, my heart started racing and I started having trouble breathing normally.

For half a minute, I actually considered making an appointment with the building therapist. Even if it was an obvious trap, I almost thought it would be worth the risk of being red-flagged for instability if I could actually talk to someone. Fortunately, the moment of insanity passed, and after we were dismissed, I made my way down to the wellness lounge instead, to release the negative emotions in a safe, positive way.

Gina, our resident Lightbringer, was already there, looking perfectly serene and shining as brightly as ever. She greeted me with a warm smile and a slight bow, which I returned, relieved that even if she guessed my true feelings, she wouldn’t mention it. Acknowledging the darkness might dim her own light, and she couldn’t risk that, especially when she appeared to be preparing for a display.

“So, a change is coming,” she said in her usual dreamy tone, closing her eyes and sighing deeply. “What a wonderful opportunity for growth.”

My smile felt somewhat strained as I nodded mutely.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said, suddenly fixing her eyes on me intently. “How would you like a change of pace? You’ve certainly distinguished yourself as a model employee during your time here, but I’m afraid that even in a larger factory, your opportunities for advancement will be quite limited. You’re very bright, you know—” She smiled as I stared back in shock. “Far too bright for a place like this. You may not see it, but I do. You have a gift, and I’d hate to see you sell yourself short. Now, the ranger service is looking for qualified applicants, and I think it would be just the job for you.”

I wasn’t about to argue, but I hardly know what to say. I’d ended up here precisely because I’d never been particularly gifted at anything. Decent, yes, solidly average, sure, but gifted? She seemed to sense my hesitation because she smiled encouragingly and put a hand on my shoulder.

“I’m going to put in a recommendation for you, and I expect to hear something soon.”

***

A week later, I boarded the subway with everything I owned packed in one backpack and one standard issue rolling suitcase. I had assumed I would be moving close to the preserve, so I was surprised when I put in my number and discovered that the training center was at the heart of the Inner Circle. Apparently this was news to my fellow passengers as well, as a number of excited whispers suddenly broke out. Though everything outside the windows was flying by in a blur, we knew we were getting close as the light seemed to change, and when we came to our stop fifteen minutes later, we found the station looking bright and clean, the people professional and put-together, and the technology state-of-the-art as interactive holographic displays offered travelers assistance at every turn.

We were met by a man in a tan uniform who scanned our cards and ushered us into an elevator marked ICTC – Authorized Personnel Only, which brought us to a spacious meeting room on the twentieth floor, which looked much like the wellness lounge in my old building, except the walls and furniture were a rich dark red rather than plain white, and instead of harsh white LEDs overhead, the room was faintly illuminated by a soft blue glow coming from the edges of the carpet. In the center of the room, a table of food had been laid out, and a pleasant-looking woman invited us to help ourselves and have a seat while a number of other uniformed individuals took our belongings to our rooms. There were about twenty of us in total, and we all sat a little awkwardly as we waited for the orientation to begin.

It began slowly. After we finished eating, the next hour was spent signing the usual liability paperwork before receiving a series of inoculations we would need to work around actual wildlife – rabies, Lyme disease, a number of diseases I assumed had been eradicated centuries ago and others I had never heard of. Then while we were all feeling a bit sore and slightly sick, the woman who had greeted us took her place at a podium in front of the room and began began to speak.

“I hope you all understand what a great honor it is to be chosen for this program,” she said. “We’re doing very important work here, work that keeps not just the preserve, but the whole city safe.”

She began her presentation on local wildlife, making use of a holographic projector like the ones we had seen below.

“This is a chipmunk. This is a squirrel. This is the sound of a mountain lion screaming.”

This continued for a couple hours before it was time for lunch. More food was brought in, and after a while, we began to relax and even started talking a bit. When it was time to start again, the lights dimmed, and the instructor once more took her place at the podium, this time making use of a large screen on the wall. Her expression, which had seemed pleasant at first, now appeared somewhat forced as she smiled down at us.

“You should know,” she said quietly, “that we’re not alone here.”

She waited a moment for the sentence to sink in before pressing a button, and a map of the city, outlined in blue, appeared on the screen.

“Here, you see, is the city. This—”

She hit the button a second time, and the map zoomed out slightly, revealing a larger area outlined in yellow.

“This is the border of the old city. And this—”

She hit the button once more, and the map zoomed out until the city was a fraction of its size, a spot of gray in a sea of green. She pointed to an area about a hundred miles southeast.

“This is where we believe they’re located.”

“There are people out there?”

The question came from a girl near the back, who immediately turned red and clapped her hands over her mouth. Everyone stared at her, then looked to the instructor awaiting her response. Finally, she spoke.

“No,” she said slowly. “We don’t think they’re people.”

The rest of the meeting was kind of a blur. The instructor explained that they were known simply as the Others. We had first made contact with them about two hundred years prior, and considered them not exactly friends, but allies. They had helped us develop certain technologies that had allowed our city to survive the Long Winter. Even so, they had never sought to interfere with our governance, but seemed content to keep an eye on things from a distance. But lately, she said, there had been some...concerning developments.

“Wildlife behaving strangely. Unusual weather patterns. You may have noticed that the wireless network has been a bit unreliable at times. And the issues with the electric grid haven’t been limited to older buildings.”

As if on cue, the lights flickered once...then twice.

She continued, “Meanwhile, they’ve been increasingly unresponsive to our communications.”

She turned back to the map.

“We call it the Dead Zone. All technology fails there. Signals get scrambled. Video feeds freeze up. Satellites can’t get a clear picture. Large crafts are too conspicuous. Small crafts get knocked down or blown off course by strong winds. Even our...alternative methods have proved ineffective. We don’t know why, but we don’t think it’s a coincidence. If we want answers, we’re going to have to go down there ourselves. Or I should say, you are going to go.”

She paused again before continuing, “It may be dangerous. In the early days, we agreed to certain boundaries, and there’s a possibility that crossing into their territory will be considered an act of war. That is why it is absolutely imperative that we all demonstrate our unwavering commitment to walking in light.”

Her smile never faltered, but I imagined there was a flash of warning in her eyes.

“Now, you are here because we have faith in you. And in order to prepare you further, we have invited Lightbringer Gina Avery to assist in your training, beginning with a special display after dinner.”

***

The display that evening was even more spectacular than usual. As always, we filed into the room in silence and took our places on the floor, careful not to bump into each other as the door shut, leaving us in utter darkness. We remained in silent meditation for a few minutes before we heard the sound of low, distant rumbling start, and began to see the faintest glow of red rising from the floor, revealing the dark silhouette of the city skyline with clouds flying low overhead. Then came the sound of a bell, and Gina began to speak.

“We have gathered together this evening to remember. To look into the shadows of the past, the dark times of blindness and ignorance and despair, and to recognize how far we have come.”

The rumbling grew louder, and the moment she finished speaking, there came a sharp crack, and for the briefest moment, the room was illuminated by a flash of red as if lighting had struck in our midst. Several people screamed. I remembered watching displays with my mother as a small child and how I would instinctively reach out for her at these times, and how on those rare occasions she would pull me in and hold me close, stroking my hair until it was over.

Gina continued, “We remember the times of inequality and suffering, when greed and selfish ambition dominated, when prejudice and superstition made people afraid.”

As she spoke, the lightning continued, illuminating larger silhouettes like monsters rising above the city, bent on destroying it. Greed was a tall, thin man with glowing green eyes counting out bills. Ambition was an ancient barbarian with a sword, cutting down everyone around him until he was the last one standing. Superstition was a group of people bowing before strange symbols, then turning to attack one another. These images lasted only moments before the lightning ceased, leaving the city illuminated by dancing waves of red and orange, like fire.

“But now...” The flames froze. “We know better.” They faded. “We suffered great losses...” Utter darkness once more. “But we have survived and advanced as a civilization.” A hint of white on the horizon. “We have learned to live in harmony...” The city suddenly illuminated by millions of points of yellow light from every window. “To embrace diversity, equity, and inclusion in all realms of society...” The sky turned a brilliant pink. “To care for the earth and all its creatures above our own convenience...” Purple. “To sacrifice our own desires for the good of others...” Blue. “As we meditate on these things, we shine with the light of the universe...” The ceiling above now filled with millions and billions of stars and swirling galaxies. “We give no place to the darkness. We banish from our minds all fear, all anger, all selfishness, all lies of the past that would drag us back into the shadows of disharmony. We will not allow our lights to be dimmed.”

[part 2]

#inklingschallenge #team chesterton #genre: intrusive fantasy #imagery: light #story: incomplete

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ts-waywardchildren-au · 3 years

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Wings

so I finally got tumblr to stop being a bitch and let me post the full thing!

AO3 link

taglist: @theimprobabledreamersworld

Word count: 4330

TW: mentions of religion/church, mentions of alcohol, shouting, implied homophobia, implied past transphobia.

Anyone who knew Mr. and Mrs. Harte would quickly realize that, if there was any couple in the world who should not raise children, it was them.

Mr. Harte was, in the nicest way possible, both a workaholic and an alcoholic, despite his preaching that the Bible should be followed to the letter, which meant every time he opened a bottle he sinned. But, of course, the bible applied only to other men.

Mrs. Harte was what most would call a busy-body who cared much more about her appearance to her neighbors than she did children. She was the kind of woman who everyone only pretended to like but then gossiped about her behind her back. Despite her insistence that she was the most important woman in the world, she made none of her own choices, only followed the latest beauty trends, and did as her husband said.

This is why, when the Hartes decided to have children, everyone was slightly concerned, to say the least.

The Hartes saw children as vessels for the parent’s ambitions, as dolls to dress up or as little creatures to be trained to impress friends and family. Ten years later, their only child Patton was none of these things. He was not a prim and proper girl like Mrs. Harte had wanted, nor was he the kind of boy who played every sport known to man.

Patton was the kind of child who would prefer to play in the dirt rather than keep the tiny suits his mother had picked out for Sunday church perfectly spotless, the kind of child who would rather chase dragonflies across the soccer field than kick the ball. The kind of child, who, among other things, wanted nothing but to play with his friends and to ride on his father’s shoulders, and to bake cookies with his mother.

But Patton was also the kind of child who never got to do these things. This is perhaps the reason why, when he saw a door in the trunk of a tree, did not immediately run back to the park where the church kids played. He had organized a game of hide and seek with the other children, and while the other children could be quite dull, none could pass up a game of hide and seek, not even the older kids.

He wiggled out from his hiding place from under the bushes and tiptoed towards the tree trunk-door that should not be there. He turned his head to the side, looking at the door from all angles. Up and down, side to side, inspecting every inch before raising a hand to knock on the gray wood. One, two, three taps, and the door creaked open. Where one would expect to see the inside of a tree, there was instead a hallway.

Figuring that inside a tree would be an even better hiding spot than under a bush, Patton stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Unseen light sources allowed Patton to see as he walked away from the door. Had he looked back, he might have noticed that where the door should have been was a blank wall with not even a crack to suggest an opening. But Patton did not look back- he just kept walking, his footsteps echoing on the floor of wood paneling until he came to a staircase going upwards.

There, on the first step, someone had planted a sign.

“Be sure,” Patton read aloud. “Be sure… of what? I’m sure this is a very good hiding place!”

He had a habit of talking to himself, something his parents very much did not approve of, and it was through his conversation with himself that Patton deduced that he must be quite sure that he wouldn’t be found. Had he known how correct he was, perhaps he might not have gone up the stairs. But Patton was ten years old and had a sense of adventure, so he began to climb.

The stairs seemed to go on forever, spiraling upwards without end. But as soon as he thought about giving up and going back down, Patton saw the end of the stairs.

“Hello?” Patton called out from the top stair. It only now occurred to him that this could be someone’s house he just walked into!

There was no reply, and Patton stepped off the stairs onto the landing. It didn’t seem like anyone’s house, because Patton couldn’t think of any houses that had no roof or walls! The floor of the not-house seemed to be… tree bark? Patton looked up and saw the sky, bright blue and cloudless. He didn’t know it at the time, but the sweetness in the air was the lack of pollution and car exhaust, and his ears had stopped ringing because there wasn’t the constant noise of cars. It was so quiet… so pretty!

“Young man, what are you doing up here?”

Patton let out a small squeak of surprise and turned to face the adult who had walked up behind him.

“Oh- um- I- I’m sorry, ma’am- I found a door and I was playing hide and seek, and I walked up the stairs, and now I’m talking to you, and- I- um, I’m sorry!”

“Oh!” The adult’s face softened from the glare she had before Patton stuttered out an apology. “It’s quite alright. What’s your name?”

“I’m Patton! Um… is this your house?”

“You could say that. So, Patton, are you sure?”

Patton didn’t understand what he was supposed to be sure about, so he did what all children would do: say yes and hope there weren’t consequences.

At his affirmation that he was sure (even though he was not), the adult clapped her hands and smiled. As she moved towards Patton, he saw what made this adult so unlike the rest of the adults that he knew.

“Why do you have wings?”

“I’ve earned them. And someday, Patton, you will too.”

That answer only slightly satisfied Patton, but it was good enough for now- even a ten-year-old realized that he wouldn’t be getting any further clarification anytime soon.

“How do I get them?”

“Well, Patton,” the adult turned her back and beckoned Patton to follow her. “You’re sure?”

“Yes, I am!”

That was the first time Patton had felt sure, though he didn't know what it was for- he only knew that he was sure he wanted answers, sure that he wanted wings! The other children would want to be friends with him then, right?

“Very good. Now stand here, beside me.”

Patton did as he was told, and for the first time got a good look at the new, strange adult. She was tall, taller than his mother, with long silky black hair that Patton thought looked quite like one of the ties his father wore to work- straight and shiny.

Patton had been told, like all children, about stranger danger, but this adult… Patton didn't know why, but he knew that he would be safe with her.

“Take my hand, Patton, and don’t let go, alright?”

Patton nodded and gripped tightly, something his mother would have scolded him for. But neither his mother nor father was here to tell him off, and Patton knew that as long as he didn't cause too much trouble, nothing bad would happen.

Before Patton could ask what was going to happen, the ground was far beneath him and the adult. He let out a shriek but remembered to hold on to her hand and not let go. He kicked his feet, searching for solid ground.

The wind rushed past his ears, tangling his hair, making his eyes water.

Every time the adult flapped her gigantic wings the noise of hundreds of feathers made his ears ring with the thunderous movements.

But… his curiosity overtook his fear. Would he get wings like that?

Wings like the birds he saw in the park? Or maybe like the dragonflies in his garden? Maybe like the colorful butterflies that he always attempted to coax onto his finger? Or perhaps the black and red ladybugs he liked to let crawl all over his fingers?

As suddenly as the ground had left from beneath him, Patton stood upright once again, this time on the greenest grass he had ever seen.

“This is my home, Patton. You may stay here for as long as you wish.” The adult gestured to a ladder hanging from a tree branch, connections to something obscured by the dark green leaves that were as big as Patton himself.

“Oh! Thanks! Um, what should I call you?”

“You may call me whatever you wish, but my name is Noelani.”

“Okay! Thank you, Miss N!”

***

Over the years, Miss N became Miss Noelani, which simply became Noelani, who became Patton’s friend.

And over the years, Patton sprouted his wings- they had come through small and itchy at first, and he was unused to the new weight on his back. His feathers had grown in, small and fluffy at first but becoming larger and sleeker and his wings grew. He had been in this world, the one he began to call home, for almost two years when he could finally fly on his own. Noelani had taught him, by coaxing him to jump off tree branches and trust he would catch himself. He had been afraid, at first, even terrified. But Now?

Now he flew everywhere, stretching his arms in the wind, laughing as he let the air blow through his feathers, grinning as he plummeted towards the ground and caught himself at the last second.

There were contests held every full moon, and Patton had competed in them for as long as he had been able to fly. He had started wobbly, unsure, but once he grew into his wings?

He was unbeatable. He was the best flier there was, darting in between trees and taking sharper turns than any others dared to.

The cheers of the audience fueled him to go faster, faster, faster! He stretched a handout, reaching for the finish line.

“Come on, Chick!” Noelani’s shouts of encouragement could be heard over everyone else’s cheering.

A burst of speed and Patton flew ahead of the other competitors by a full wing length, stopping only when he landed on the branch behind the finish line. The wingbeats of other races still hadn’t stopped, though one by one they joined Patton on the branch. When the last competitor landed, everyone began to give their congratulations.

“Good race! That was close!” Patton smiled at the second-place finisher, who in turn shook his hand.

“Maybe I’ll beat you next time, Pat!”

“You can certainly try!”

“Chick! You were amazing!”

Patton turned to see Noelani coming through the small crowd, a grin on her face. Her hair was shorter than when Patton had first met her, and the feathers on her jet black wings had dulled, but her smile was still the same.

“You know, when I was your age-” Noelani was cut off by Patton’s laugh. She glared and continued. “When I was your age, I could never have done that!”

She took Patton into a hug and handed him a towel when she pulled away. “You’re so sweaty! Gross!”

“It’s not that bad!” Patton wiped his forehead and grimaced, “Okay, maybe it is that bad.”

“Come on, Chick! Clean up and I’ll get you some food.”

Patton nodded and turned back to the other racers, giving them a final grin before leaving.

“Hey! Patton! Wait!”

He turned around to see the second-place finisher running towards him.

“Here, I wanted to give you this.” He handed Patton a small pastry. “I made it myself. Don’t eat it yet, save it for when you start to get sore.”

“Oh! Thanks! I’m sure I’ll enjoy it!”

Patton slipped the pastry into his pocket and waved as he began to fly after Noelani, allowing himself to glide in the wind instead of frantically flapping his wings to propel himself even faster.

It was only after a meal of freshly picked fruit and homemade bread that Patton remembered the pastry he had been given by the second-place finisher- what was his name? Something that began with a D… oh well, Patton would have to thank him later!

“Someone gave this to me,” Patton said as he took the pastry out of his pocket, several crumbs falling onto the table. “Would you like to split it?”

Noelani shook her head. “It’s yours.”

Patton nodded and took a bite, and immediately felt the tightness in his shoulders and wings disappear. He was always sore after a race, and usually was for a few days after that, but not anymore.

Before Patton could take another bite, Noelani gasped.

“Patton! Patton, you-”

He looked at Noelani, and before she could make another sound, Patton let out a scream.

“I- 'm- I can’t see my hands- what’s happening to me!?”

Noelani grabbed his shoulders and pulled him into a tight hug. “Patton, listen to me. Listen to me! Whatever happens, you can find your way back. You can find your way back, and I will be waiting here for you.”

“But- I don’t want to leave! Noelani, what’s happening!? Noelani-!”

One minute, Patton was holding tight to his friend and in her home, and the next he was surrounded by a pile of feathers on the asphalt of an old weathered playground, illuminated by glaring streetlights in the absence of the sun.

“No! No! Let me back… let me back!” Patton pounded his first against a tree, begging, pleading for a door to appear until his hands became bloody.

Crying, begging, pleading for a way home.

A gust of wind began to blow through the park, and Patton began to frantically grab his feathers from dispersing in the gust. He wouldn’t let what was left of his home be scattered away from him. sand

With an armful of gray feathers and eyes full of salty tears, Patton began to walk to where he remembered his parents’ house to be, his bare feet leading him across the cold concrete sidewalks of the too-bright neighborhoods.

He wondered briefly what someone would make of him, an unfamiliar teenager walking barefoot through the street, carrying nothing but a bundle of gigantic feathers and wearing a sky blue tunic with an open back.

Already he missed his home, missed the familiar weight of his wings, missed the way Noelani’s feathers would tickle his cheeks when they hugged.

He paused at the sidewalk leading up to the house where he had lived for the first ten years of life yet had never truly called home. His home would always be at Noelani’s nest, where he would spend hours leaping between branches to find the sweetest fruits, where he would chase after the crows and sparrows, could bake the perfect meals on top of a fireplace, where he could practice racing around her tree-

He took a gasp of breath, and before doubts could creep into his mind, knocked at the door and winced as another cut on his fist opened up.

After a minute of waiting, he began to worry. What if his parents had moved away? Then where would he stay while he waited for his door to come back? Or what if they no longer remembered him? Though he had never called this place home, he still loved his mother and father! What would he do if he never got to say goodbye, to tell them where he was?

The door opened with a familiar creak.

“Patton?”

“Hi, dad!” Patton put on a smile, a performance for his family.

“What- Patton!” His mother appeared behind his father and put her hand over her mouth in disbelief. “Where have you been? And- how- how do you look so much older-?”

“What do you mean? Mom, I’m sixteen and Noelani always said I had a baby face!” He chuckled, although laughter was the last thing on his mind.

“Patton, you’re twelve! You’ve been missing for two years!”

“Patton, come inside. Tell us everything you can. Should we call the police? Honey, I think we should call the police!” His father added.

“The police? Why would you do that?” Patton tilted his head to the side in confusion, a habit he had picked up from the birds that he had befriended.

“BECAUSE YOU HAVE BEEN MISSING FOR TWO YEARS! BECAUSE YOU LOOK SIXTEEN WHEN YOU SHOULD BE TWELVE!”

His mother shouted and looked surprised at herself for being so loud. His father put a hand on his shoulder and led him to the couch- a different couch than the one Patton remembered. This one was new, shiny leather, while the one he remembered had been soft red fabric. He felt his hair get staticky, and the feathers in his arm- which his mother seemed to just now notice, and wrinkled her nose at the sight of them- began to stick up.

“Patton, tell us what happened. We care about you, son,” his father said gently. Patton didn’t know why, but the thought of being called ‘son’ brought out an emotion he didn’t like. So he did what he always did: ignored the feeling and began to talk.

He talked about how he had been hiding and found the door that didn’t belong, how he walked through the hallway and climbed up the staircase, where Noelani had found him and taken him to her nest. He told them what Noelani had said, that the world was full of magic, that birds were the carriers and messengers of that magic, how the birds gave all humans wings so they could fly between the gigantic trees that held houses, or sometimes even cities.

He told his parents about racing, and about the war he had always known he would have to fight to protect his home. He told them about the racing he did to distract himself from his visions of battles, the training he did so that when the war came, he would be able to protect his friends.

And he told them about the last race he ever won, before fading away while pleading to stay with Noelani, to stay in his home, to stay in the world of birds and flight and magic and everything else he loved. The world where someone cared about him for who he was.

When he finished his story, there was a beat of silence before his father spoke up.

“Patton, I think you should get to sleep. We kept your bed in your room, and you can borrow some of my pajamas for the night. We can talk about this more in the morning.”

And with that, Patton was sent up the familiar stairs to an unfamiliar room. Everything left in there was coated in a layer of dust- only a bookshelf with some stuffed animals and old books next to a bed he didn't remember being that small. Patton knew there should have been more things- toys strewn across the floor, a baby-blue rug, a lego set of a cat. His parents must have cleaned up while he was gone.

He realized he still had his feathers in his arms. He dropped them to the floor and dragged the neatly made blanket off the bed, and began to build himself a sleeping nest like the one he had at home.

When he was satisfied with his work, he lay down and covered himself in the largest feathers he had carried from the park- his dark gray flight feathers.

It took him too long to fall asleep, but when he awoke and went downstairs, he found his father waiting for him.

“Son,” he began. “I’ve done some research, and I think the best place for you to be is a boarding school. Thomas Sanders’ Home For Wayward Children. I heard he deals with… cases… such as yours.”

***

A week after the conversation that Patton had no say in, he found himself carrying a bag and a suitcase across a cobblestone pathway to an imposing, mansion-like structure where a man waited for him at the door.

“You must be Patton, right?” The man asked, holding out his hand in greeting.

“Yes, sir,” Patton replied, attempting to hide the fear in his voice. He hadn’t been with his parents in years, but he still remembered that any school he would be sent to was almost guaranteed to be one of religious teachings.

The man waved him off. “No need for formalities, you can call me Thomas! Or Mr. Sanders, whichever you prefer. Now, Patton, may I ask what your world was like?”

“My- my world? Um, I go to church every Sunday and-“

“No, no! Not this world! The one you call home. Mine was one of the trees of every color, with the softest grass, and fairies hiding in every flower, dryads in every tree. And not the kind of fairies your parents likely despise! Oh- sorry, that was probably a little odd. Never mind that, tell me about your world!”

Thomas led Patton through the sturdy oak doors into the house- if it could be called that. From the outside, it looked like a single house had been built onto until it became a sprawling maze of living rooms, and the inside was even more confusing.

The entry hall alone had painted portraits that looked like they belonged in museums, not hung on wallpaper that looked like it was from the seventies. A crystal chandelier cast oddly shaped shadows across the multitude of doors that connected to the hall.

“My world… my world was one where birds carried magic and gave it to any who they thought was worthy. I made friends there. Some were like me, humans who were given wings. Others were birds. Sparrows, crows, finches, ravens, robins… I loved them all. And- and I want to go back.”

“I understand, Patton. Almost everyone here wants to go back. It’s my job to try to help you and these other kids not be so homesick while we all wait for our doors.”

“Th- thank you. I haven’t been away from home for more than a week and I already miss it.”

“You will never miss home any less, but I hope the weight of missing it gets easier to carry. Now come on, let’s get you settled. I can-“

Thomas was cut off by a crash coming from what sounded to be far above their heads. He cringed and continued. “I need to go fix that. Ah, Nico can show you your room. Pryce, if you’re doing what I think you’re doing, stop it! Nico!”

Thomas took off in a sprint through one of the doors, leaving Patton alone in the entry hall until another man came running in.

“Hi, you must be Patton! I’m Nico. Nico Flores-Sanders. I help my husband around the school. I’ll show you to your room, and make sure Janus doesn't kill you,” he laughed and took Patton’s suitcase.

“Uh, that was a joke, right?” Patton asked tentatively.

“Mostly, yes. We did have to break up a fight between them and another student, though. To be fair, the other student was being, ah, quite a jerk.”

Patton nodded. Don’t be a jerk, and don’t start a fight. Those seemed like easy enough rules to follow.

“Here, up this staircase and the first door on the right. If you get lost, you can always ask your roommate for directions. Somehow they were faster at learning their way around than I was!”

“You went here, too?”

“Yup! Though back in my day, it was called Eleanor West’s Home. She didn’t actually run this building, she ran one on the upper east coast. Thomas and I met when we were both in school, and when he took over, I helped him run it.”

“Oh! You two must be really good friends!”

Nico began to laugh, and Patton couldn’t understand what he had said that was so funny.

“Ooo-Kay. Here’s your room. Janus! Your roommate is here!”

Nico knocked, and Patton’s new roommate opened the door.

“Uh, hi. I’m Patton.”

“Janus. They and them pronouns. If you call me he or she, I will break your knee.”

“Janus, what have we said about cryptic and threatening introductions? Please make Patton feel welcome,” Nico scolded.

Janus rolled their eyes and gestured with a gloved hand for Patton to come in. They waved at Nico, who gave a smile and closed the door. In the dim light, Patton could see the odd appearance of the person he’d be sharing a room with.

Janus wore a black bowler hat, a bit of wavy brown hair sticking out of it and hanging in their eyes, which Patton could tell, even in the dark, were two different colors. The most startling thing about their appearance, though, was the scar that ran from their left eye down to their chin.

“That’s your bed, on that side. I hope you don’t mind the dark because the curtains stay closed at all times. I have a space heater, so if it gets too hot in here, I will move it but under no circumstances will I turn it off. And I meant what I said, if you use any pronouns for me besides they and them, I will not hesitate.”

Patton did not ask “hesitate to do what?” because he was pretty sure he knew the answer. However, he did ask, “why are your pronouns they/them?”

“I am non-binary. Neither a man nor woman. It falls under the transgender umbrella.”

Patton just nodded and thought for a minute. “Am I non-binary, too?”

Janus raised an eyebrow. “You can be if you feel like it fits you.”

He began to unpack his suitcase and bag, putting his feathers on the bed and clothes in the dresser. He had refused to let anyone touch his feathers, his reminder that his home had really existed, that he wasn’t just making things up like his parents insisted that he was. When he was done making a proper nest on the floor with the pillows, blankets, and what was left of his wings, he turned to Janus.

“I’m Patton, and I think I’m non-binary, too. I went to a world where birds were magic and humans could get wings. And, um, thank you for not breaking my knees.”

That night, as Patton curled into his makeshift nest, he felt like she belonged somewhere for the first time since he had faded from Noelani’s hug.

#sanders sides #thomas sanders #patton sanders #ts patton #janus sanders #ts janus #nico flores #ts nico #karrot kings #pintroverts #platonic moceit #sanders sides au #sanders sides fic #wayward writing

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feferipeixes · 3 years

Text

The Good Lines (1/3)

Trapped in an unfamiliar world, Alcor finds that he doesn’t mind the loneliness. He doesn’t care about finding a way out. He doesn’t even care about Mizar. All he cares about is solving puzzles, and drawing the good lines.

(or: I Think Dipper Should Play The Witness)

Chapter 1: Tutorial (link to chapter 2) (3)

I promised this a year ago and it’s finally happening! No knowledge about The Witness necessary -- this is basically a TAU fic. Thanks @toothpastecanyon for beta reading it!

(See the most updated version on AO3!)

===

One of the first signs that something was wrong was the silence.

Alcor didn't know when it had happened, but at some point he realized he couldn't remember the last time he'd heard a living thing. Sure, he could hear the grass crunch beneath his shoes, and the babble of the river cascading down the mountainside. When the silence got to be too much, he’d listen to those things as closely as he could.

He never heard a cicada screech, though, never heard a squirrel chitter, never heard a wolf howl. One time, he wandered through the forest and was assaulted by the chirping of birds, but when he looked closer he noticed that there were speakers hidden in the trees. That confused him even more, because who decided a forest needed assistance in creating an ambiance? Would the speakers switch from birds to crickets when it got dark out?

The next thing he noticed was that it never got dark out either.

Another strange thing: his magic wasn't working. He walked upon the ground instead of floating above it. He saw the physical shape of things instead of the shape of the ideas they embodied. And his hand didn't alight in flame when he snapped his fingers. He was still a demon -- he could see it in the pitch black reflection of his eyes when he looked in the ocean -- but it seemed less relevant right now. Which was without a doubt extremely odd.

However curious these things were though, he didn't have much of a chance to dwell on them. He was too busy drawing the good lines.

The panels were everywhere on the island. They were all sorts of materials -- some made of metal with a plastic border, some made of glass so he could see the scenery as he drew, and some were just embedded into the concrete he walked on. Many of them were connected with thick wires. They all had a grid of some sort on them, sometimes containing fanciful shapes and dots. All had one or more bulbous circles somewhere on the grid, as well as one or more rounded off ends. Some of them were pretty to look at, but he knew they weren't just for show. They were puzzles.

He couldn't remember when he'd discovered it. Maybe someone had told him (who? He was all alone). Maybe there were instructions on one of the panels (but he'd never seen any text on the island). Or maybe it was just instinct that led him to reach out and touch a panel, right on one of the large circles. It made a little popping noise, letting him know this was okay to do, and to keep going. So he dragged his claw across the grid, and as he did so, he drew a line. It was simple, it was effortless, it was satisfying. He drew the line around intersections in the grid to one of the rounded off bits and lifted his finger. The panel flashed angrily and highlighted some of the symbols on the grid.

Oh no. That was a Bad Line.

Frowning, he tried again; touching the circle, dragging his claw through the grid in a different pattern this time, and letting go at an end. The panel made a squeaky little beep, and the wire leading out of it lit up.

Alcor smiled. That was a Good Line.

---

There was a mountain at one end of the island. Well, it looked like a mountain, and the climate at the top was dramatically different from that at the bottom, but there was no way it was tall enough to really be considered a mountain. It only took a few minutes for Alcor to follow the path to the top, and he wasn’t even using any kind of demonic superspeed.

The summit was covered in weird stuff, but at this point Alcor would’ve been surprised if such a significant-looking location on this weird island wasn’t covered in weird stuff. Still, he wouldn’t have guessed that it would be covered in random statues of humans. There was an old man speaking at a podium, a figure in a trenchcoat using a camera on a tripod, a librarian gesturing angrily, and so on.

There were two statues at the center under three parabolic arches. One was a young man with a strange ladle-shaped mark etched onto his forehead, struggling to carry a large yellow box covered in images of eyes and which had a thick cable coming out of it. The other was a young woman in a sweater, holding the box’s cable taut and seemingly trying to pull the first statue back. All of the statues seemed vaguely familiar -- especially the two in the middle -- but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He eventually decided it was just because humans all look the same.

There was another thing he found while observing the statues: a tape recorder, sitting on a rock near the statue with the tripod. It looked positively archaic in design, and only had one button on it. When he pressed the button, the voice that came out was so clear that it was almost as if the words were being transmitted directly into his brain.

“Up there you go around every hour and a half, time after time after time.”

He frowned at the odd device and cocked his head. It was nice to hear a voice for the first time in what seemed like forever, but he had no idea what it was talking about. He pressed the button again to no effect. The voice just kept talking.

“And you realize that in one glance that what you’re seeing is what was the whole history of man for years.”

Whatever. He decided to ignore it and take in the lovely view instead. He could see almost the whole island from up there, from the desert to the quarry to the forest to the swamp. There was something stunning about the diversity of landscape he could see from one spot. And yet, it wasn’t quite the beauty of the sights before him that made him marvel. It was the thought of all of the unsolved puzzles he was yet to find.

“You finally come up across the coast of California and look for those friendly things.”

There only seemed to be one panel at the mountain’s summit, and it was hardly a puzzle -- just a single zigzagging line. Quick as a whistle, he tapped the starting node, dragged his finger up, and released. It made all of the same sounds the other panels did, but it was kind of disappointing. There was no challenge in it, nothing to occupy his mind or give him a sense of accomplishment. It wasn’t a Good Line or a Bad Line, it was just… a line.

Huh.

“And you do it again and again and again. You look forward to that, you anticipate it. And there it is. That whole process begins to shift of what it is you identify with.”

He set off down the mountain again, and headed toward the greenhouse he’d noticed on his way up. Just as he expected, it was full of puzzles. Surrounded by colorful flowers, he stared at a panel and thought, and thought, and thought.

Hours passed. He solved two more.

“You look down there and you can’t imagine how many borders and boundaries you crossed again and again and again. And you don’t even see ‘em. All of history and music and poetry and art and war and death and birth and love, tears, joy, games, all of it is on that little spot out there that you can cover with your thumb.”

Alcor bounced between areas on the island when he got stuck, always breezing past the scenery without a second glance because there were more important things to attend to. Across the island and toward the desert. Across the island to climb through a treehouse. Across the island to get lost in a boat. He waited for it to blur together but it never did.

“And you realize with that perspective that you’ve changed. That there’s something new there. That relationship is no longer what it was.”

It was peculiar, if he did let himself think about it. He didn’t want to -- didn’t want to give the voice that kind of victory -- but in between panels he sometimes needed a little break and there were only a limited number of things to put his attention to in this place. So, occasionally, he let himself wonder why he was alone.

This was not an unfamiliar question for him. He could come up with a million reasons for it right off the top of his head. He was immortal, so maybe everyone else in the universe was just dead. He was a monster, so maybe everyone else in the universe was just scared of him. He was a dream demon, so maybe he was just buried so deep in the Mindscape that he couldn’t find his way out.

Somehow, none of those reasons felt like the truth. If they were, he’d probably be sadder.

“And you think about what you’re experiencing and why. Do you deserve this? This fantastic experience? Have you earned this in some way? Are you separated out to be touched by God to have some special experience here that other men cannot have? You know the answer to that is No. There’s nothing that you’ve done that deserves that, that earned that.”

Besides, there wasn’t anything to be sad about, if he really really thought about it over and over again until words lost all meaning. He was Alcor the Dreambender, after all! He was the most powerful entity in the universe. Feared like a demon by the masses, revered like a deity by the foolish. All because he’d had the great fortune to rid the world of a villainous creature of destructive chaos.

He did deserve it. He was special. He spent a day lying face up on a rooftop in the town, thinking these things to himself on loop.

“When you come back, there’s a difference in that world now, there’s a difference in that relationship between you and that planet, and you and all those other forms of life on that planet, because you’ve had that kind of experience.”

Past the town there was a little peninsula with some sort of old building on it. Alcor made his way over, but when he got there he was dismayed to find not a single puzzle in sight. There was, however, a statue of a man kneeling on the floor. Alcor jumped when he saw it out of the corner of his eye, reaching for him with a crazed look on its face, but relaxed when he realized it wasn’t alive.

It was an odd sight, to be sure. Alcor followed its gaze to a glass shelf behind him, on which sat a chalice of some sort. He reached up to grab it -- almost knocking the shelf over as he did -- and cautiously stuck his tongue in.

Whatever was in the cup, he thought as he walked away from the building, it was delicious.

“And all through this I’ve used the word ‘you’ because it’s not me, it’s you. It’s us. It’s we. It’s life. And it’s not just my problem to integrate, it’s not my challenge to integrate, my joy to integrate -- it’s yours, it’s everybody’s.”

There was a long pause, and Alcor thought the recording might finally be over. He took a sip of his drink and smiled. Back to thinking about the current puzzle. It was a tough one -- three different colors of symbols on it -- and he was glad that the voice wasn’t distracting him from it anymore.

And then:

”Please come back, Dipper.”

Alcor did a spit take at the sound of his true name. The panel he was working on made a sizzling noise and deactivated.

“Did that work? Can you hear me?”

He shot to his feet and looked around in all directions. No one. He was still as alone as ever.

“You’re not responding so I don’t know if what you’re doing is just a coincidence.”

“What? Hello?” he yelled.

“Oh, thank the stars, it worked! Dipper you have to get out of here.”

“What are you talking about?” he sputtered. “Who are you?”

There was the sound of a deep breath, inexplicably broadcast from the sky. “I’m your sister, S- I mean, uh. Mizar. I’m Mizar.”

Alcor’s eyes widened. “Mizar?”

“Yeah. I’ve been trying to contact you for so long. I can’t believe it finally worked.”

“I don’t understand. What finally worked?”

“You need to listen to me. This isn’t the real world. You’re in a virtual reality game.”

“I’m what?” Alcor said. He backed up, accidentally leading himself to the edge of the platform he was standing on, but instead of falling off, his back hit a wall. He spun around to see what had happened, but there was nothing there. “Mizar? I’m- I’m so confused.”

Mizar sighed. “I told you. None of this is real. It’s a computer program. Haven’t you noticed that things aren’t quite right?”

“Well, yeah,” Alcor replied. He flapped his wings, but stayed firmly glued to the ground. “My demon powers don’t work. Honestly though that’s fine with me. I’m just having fun drawing the good lines.”

“The what?” Mizar demanded, incredulous.

“The good lines!” Alcor squeaked, and waved at the puzzles behind him. “I don’t know what they’re for or what they do, but I’ve been so busy solving all these puzzles that I’ve barely thought about… why… things are… off…”

He trailed off, and Mizar sniffed.

“That’s the point. They’re there to keep you occupied.”

Alcor frowned. “Why though? Who’d go to so much effort to make all of this for me?”

There was no response.

---

Alcor continued to solve puzzles. He didn’t know why Mizar’s voice had stopped, but he was glad it had -- she was the true distraction, not the puzzles. And yet every once in a while, he’d be staring at a particularly difficult panel with one of those Y-shaped symbols on it that made no sense to him, and his mind would begin to wander.

And when it did, he’d notice another one of those tape recorders nearby. There were a lot of them on the island, and they all had boring quotes from philosophers or whatever on them. But then Mizar’s voice would cut in, with a note of glee like she’d thought he’d never speak to her again. Every time she sounded more and more desperate for him to leave. And every time it made him feel more and more frustrated.

“Okay, so,” Alcor said as Mizar's voice faded in for the 20th or so time, “you said last time you might’ve figured out who made this island.” He didn't look up or take his finger off the panel in front of him.

There was a rustling noise, and then a loud pop. “Sorry, had to plug in my headphones. That’s right, though. I’ve done some more research since then and I’m sure of it now.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“It was an advanced artificial intelligence,” Mizar replied. “I think you might be familiar with it. It’s called ‘the Alcor Virus’.”

“Oh.” Alcor paused for a moment. “Yeah, I wrote him to mess with fanfic writers. Why do you think he made the island?”

“I don’t think,” Mizar said. “It definitely did. There’s traces of it all over the computer network in this building.”

“There’s traces of him all over every device with a processor in the whole world,” Alcor countered. “He’s a really good virus. I’m very proud of him.”

Mizar groaned. “I also found its executable embedded in the binary for this game. Also a few summoning circles, and a big ASCII art picture of it giving me the middle finger.”

“Okay, maybe you’re right,” he conceded. “Why, though?”

“How should I know?” Mizar said, with more than a note of irritation in her voice. “I’m not a psychologist and I’m definitely not a computer scientist. Also why does it matter ‘why’ it’s doing this? Isn’t it time to get out of there already? I’ve already asked you like a million times!”

“No!” Alcor exclaimed, throwing his hands up. He walked out of the structure he’d been standing in and headed toward an area with some shady trees in which he’d noticed puzzles he hadn’t solved yet. “I like it here. It’s fun for me. And I deserve a vacation from all the people who bother me all the time. Why would I leave?”

“Because you can’t just run away from your problems!” Mizar shot back. “You think this is healthy? Literally living in a virtual reality world so you don’t have to talk to anyone anymore? How do you think I feel?”

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“Horrible! I thought you cared about me, Dipper, but all you care about are those stupid puzzles! Stars, sometimes you act like such a demon!”

Alcor frowned. “You know that I -”

“Yes, I get it, you ARE a demon and you can’t help it that you’re a selfish piece of shit. I GET it. Is this how it’s really going to end? You’re just going to turn me down after I’ve spent all this time trying to get you out?”

Alcor’s ears turned red as he felt Mizar’s furious, extraplanar glare land on him. “It really means that much to you that I leave?”

He heard Mizar smack herself in the face. “Yes, yes, a hundred times yes! It kills me that you’re not in my life anymore! You probably thought I could get along just fine without you and no one would be affected by you staying forever on your fantasy puzzle island vacation, huh? Why do you think I keep asking you? I’m starting to get sick of it!”

Alcor felt every muscle in his body tense up at that. He squeezed his eyes shut as Mizar continued to shout, tried to fend off the words violently striking at his ego, and only opened them again when she cut off mid-word. The light on the tape recorder had turned off.

He tried to let himself relax again but he couldn’t. It felt like his chest had become a black hole and it was taking all he had not to shrink up into a tiny little dot and vanish. He hated being yelled at. Hated it.

Maybe Mizar was right, though. Maybe he was just being a selfish jerk. He'd done it before. Countless times, to countless Mizars, his self-serving actions had caused harm to mortals and it was always his fault because he couldn't put himself in their shoes. Maybe he was a monster after all. It was just like a monster to have wants and needs that inevitably end up hurting people.

Alcor exhaled, long and heavy, and pressed the button on the tape again. When the pre-recorded message ended and Mizar’s shouts returned, he interrupted her.

“Okay. I’ll go.”

#gravity falls #transcendence au #the witness #dipper pines #alcor the dreambender #mizar #reincarnation #fic #my stuff #long post #the good lines

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mosaicofdreamsanddragons · 3 years

Text

Scholarly Pursuits

Tang enjoys an evening of scholarly pursuits. At least that’s what he tells the others. They don't need to know about the heist.

Or: Upon the fear that MK might be under the circlet’s curse Tang resolves to find the activation spell and destroy it.

Link for ao3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27446992

It had started with a Monkey King story, as so much in Tang’s life seemed to nowadays. MK was cleaning up the mess his clone had left in Pigsy’s shop and he’d seemed so down Tang had offered a story. MK’s morose “Anything that doesn’t have clones in it,” was to be expected really. Poor kid had been through a lot.

He ran through all the stories he knew in his mind for one that didn’t involve clones or a duplicate and replace. “How about the time Monkey King attained immortality for the first time? Or perhaps how he met one of his friends?”

MK looked up from where he was sweeping. “What’s the first adventure he had with the Monk?” he said.

Tang smiled and began a story of a Monk who freed a Monkey from under a mountain, their initial clashes with a tiger and bandits, and the resulting fight over the Monkey’s viciousness that split their company until a mysterious old women who was far more then she seemed provided a hat which tightened on command. The story had its desired effect as MK had all but forgotten the broom and the now spotless floor, in favor of perching near Tang and hanging onto his every word.

“Did the circlet work cause of what was said or is it based on who said it?” he said pulling out his unauthorized autobiography and scribbling something down.

“Well…” Tang began but he was cut off by an annoyed shout.

“Stop distracting the kid!” came Pigsy’s angry voice as he stomped into the room, only to do a double take at the spotless floors. “Hhhnf,” he said. “Good job kid, you get the rest of the night off.” MK let out a happy squeal of delight and rushed up the stairs leaving Tang alone with Pigsy.

“Take out tonight?” Tang suggested but Pigsy was not listening to him.

“A circlet that tightens upon command?” said Pigsy. “Any chance that’s going to bother him?”

Tang did not let his shock at Pigsy asking for his knowledge on Monkey king stories show on his face. Instead he pushed his glasses up and smiled. “He’s not wearing one is he? So it’s irrelevant.”

Pigsy huffed and moved off, “I suppose it’s not like anyone remembers how to activate it now,” he muttered.

And Tang’s blood ran cold.

Pigsy continued on oblivious. “How can you even be hungry when you spent all day….” But the words had muted into white noise, taking a backseat to the cacophony in Tang’s brain.

Because Pigsy’s assumption was wrong. Someone did know how to activate the circlet. Tang knew, he’d learned it.

…and that meant others could too.

“…And we aren’t getting takeout when we have perfectly good leftovers!” Pigsy’s indignation finally blasting through the bombshells in Tang’s head.

He nodded and followed the pig, taking care to keep his trademark smirk on his face. No point in worrying him further. And it’s not like the kid had been wearing a circlet at any time. There was nothing to worry about.

When he’d still been young and naïve, before he’d packed his bags and gone as far west as his meager saving would send him (only two cities over and right into Pigsy’s noodle shop) he’d attended university and managed to secure a job working under a professor in charge of the archives. Aware of his fascination with the Monkey King and thrilled to pass on the love of folklore studies to another, the professor had one day shown him an old papyrus, “And this here is the spell to activate the Monkey King’s headband.”

“Really?” said Tang committing the words to memory. “Does it work?”

“Of course not!” said his professor. “That’s just a story. But this does show us the importance the myth had in the past….”

He was huddle against Sandy and Mei watching MK return to life for the second time in one day. He burst from a stone, just like all the stories, looking exactly how Tang had always envisioned the Monkey king: hovering in the air in front of the sun, wielding a staff, and a faint glowing band across his head.

This was not a story.

This was not a dream.

This was a memory.

He sat bolt upright and all sense of sleep gone. After checking to make sure he hadn’t woken Pigsy, he slipped onto the balcony to think. He let the cool night air chase any last remnants of sleep from him; he would need his whole mind for this.

The facts were simple. The Monkey King’s circlet caused terrible pain when activated. Tang had seen the fragments of an ancient paper with writing on it and been told it was the activation spell for the circlet. MK had appeared to have a circlet on his head during his first fight against the demon bull king.

It was the unknowns that were less straightforward. He didn’t know if the Monkey King’s circlet could be activated by anyone with the spell or if the speaker mattered. He didn’t know if anyone else had attempted to learn the spell since he’d seen it in a dusty archive. He didn’t know if MK really even had the circlet on him or if it was just some cool aesthetic he’d created with his own powers in the heat of the moment.

And MK knew and worked with the actual Monkey King. Surely he would know if his successor had inherited his circlet. And surely he’d do something about it? Right?

Tang felt his hands clench on the cold iron balcony railing. He stared at it for a moment and then took a deep breath and forced himself relax. His fingers uncurled and he tucked them into his pockets before lifting his gaze to MK’s balcony.

Fact: He’d memorized the words within moments. That information was still out there and easily accessible to any enemy who could fool a university’s security system.

Fact: Tang could not afford this risk, not with MK at stake.

“But what can I do about it?” he wondered aloud. “It’s not like I can pull of a heist by myself.” A rustle in the trees caught his attention and he froze realizing what he’d just said aloud. He scanned the area for eavesdroppers (or worse, Pigsy) but there was only an orange bird rustling around in the plants on a nearby balcony. He had avoided trouble this time but the warning was still there. If he was going to do this, no one could possibly know.

All good heists require plans. And the best require simple plans with straightforward execution so when it all failed in the third act, he could still figure his way out. The barebones of this plan was simple: get into the university, hope the passcode for the archive vault hadn’t changed since he was a student, destroy a priceless piece of ancient papyrus, get out. He could take the bus.

Then the morning news caught his attention and he had a better idea.

“Mei,” he said sliding his phone over to her, “Could you do me a favor?”

“Sure!” she said glancing curiously down from the top picture to the article beneath it. “What do you need?”

“Could you sign up as a last minute competitor at this race for me?” said Tang.

Mei skimmed the details of the race. “I don’t know,” she said brow furrowed. “This is in the next town over and I’m not familiar with the track.”

“It could be good practice for the big race coming up,” said Tang, “or you could do it just for the fun of racing. Either way I was heading into the town and I figured why not head in together?”

“So you need a ride?” said Mei.

“And to test out my Mei merchandise,” he said holding up the flags he’d made for her. He’d been working on a hat too but she didn’t need to know about that disaster until he managed to fix it.

She looked from his tiny Mei flag and back down to the phone. “I guess it could be fun.” Her smile returned and she bounced on her chair. “Yeah. It’ll be fun!”

Tang smiled as he closed his phone on the picture of his old professor standing next to the judges in a crowd shot. His old professor was not a racer. But his old professor’s spouse was on the panel of judges for this competition. Which could very easily mean he’d be there for support. And he would know the new passcode for the archives. If there was a new passcode. The trick would be to get him talking.

And he had just the conversation starter.

“Sandy,” he said greeting the tall blue river demon. “Could I by any chance borrow one of your therapy cats for a little trip?”

“Where ya headed?” said Sandy. “Not all of them like long term travel.”

“Mei’s got a race in the next town over,” Tang explained.

“Say no more!” said Sandy cheerfully. “Therapy cats are excellent for pre-race jitters! This is the track she doesn’t know right? The one she signed up for last minute?”

“The very same,” said Tang.

“Ordinarily I’d say you should take Mo,” said Sandy. “He’s the best for differing travel, but he’s got a vet appointment. Don’t worry though, I’m sure one of the others would be willing to help.” He started shifting through his many cats, asking them if they’d like to accompany Mei.

Tang glanced about the room. He’d need a cat that was nondescript in case this went poorly, but it would need to be able to help Mei with said pre-race jitters. He should probably just leave this to Sandy, he knew his cats best and…he felt something brush up against his legs. A fluffy orange cat looked up at him, golden eyes meeting his. He reached down to pet it but it darted off, only to turn back around and look at him like Well? What are you waiting for?

If Tang did not know Mo, this would be strange cat behavior. But he followed the cat into the kitchen…oh it wanted food. “I don’t know where Sandy keeps the cat treats,” he said.

The cat gave him what can only be described as a dirty look before hopping on the counter, grabbing a something from a basket, and placing it down in front of Tang.

“Do you want me to play?” he said reaching down and picking up…Sandy’s wallet. The cat was a little pickpocket. The cat could fetch wallets, wallets which might contain things like passcodes to old archives. He met the gold eyes of the orange cat as it smirked, smirked!, at him. You ready for a heist? it seemed to say.

“Sandy,” he said lifting the cat up. “I think I found the perfect one.”

Mei loved the cat. “Just look at its little green stripe!” she said. “It matches my jacket! He’s the perfect little mascot!” and the cat seemed to like her happily playing with him to calm herself down. He even put up with her dancing around with him in a fit of pre-race jitters and had greatly enjoyed the ride over.

“He sure loves to race!” she grinned, setting the cat on the front of her motorcycle. “But I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait with Mr. Tang!”

Tang smiled as he accepted the cat and waved Mei over to the starting line. Then he joined the booth with the friends and family of the other competitors, right below the judges. Time for part one of the heist.

“Okay,” he whispered to the cat. “It’s all up to you.” The cat looked at him and flashed the smirk it seemed only to display around him. Then it darted up the stairs towards the judges box.

As Tang watched the race he tried to keep his focus on how Mei was doing and how well she was taking these curves despite being new to the track and not on how he’d just hitched his heist on a cat being able to steal the wallet of his old professor. But he held his ground.

Mei was baited into taking a turn wrong by a more experienced racer. The centripetal force caused her motorcycle to teeter. And Tang felt his anxiety well up inside him. He leaned forward. What if the cat was just a cat and he was imagining all of this? What if his professor saw him and realized his aim? What if Mei didn’t make the turn and it was all his fault for suggesting this fun family outing during a heist?

Mei threw herself to one side causing her whole motorcycle to right itself and zoomed ahead. Tang let out the breath he’d been holding into a cheer before falling back into the chair he didn’t realize he’d risen from.

Only to land on something. He shifted his weight to find a leather wallet. He glanced up to see the cat a few seats above him grinning at him like Why are you so surprised?

He turned this attention back to his find and carefully flipped the wallet open, credit cards, debit cards, ID, coupons, ah ha!

Slipped behind a faculty ID was a small piece of paper with a 1410 written on it. He smiled…

…and slipped the paper back into the wallet.

The cat batted him with its paws. Why did you do that?

“Less…” he glanced around at the cheering fans around him, “…obvious” he whispered.

The cat looked at him. Then it batted the wallet through the gaps in the stands until it fell to the ground below them.

“What did you do that for!” he whisper-shouted as the crowed around him roared.

The cat innocently licked its paw and rubbed its ears. Less obvious he could almost hear innocently repeated back at him.

It…was a good point. This way the professor would not even have to know he was here and the crime wouldn’t be traced to the disappearing wallet. He’d just assumed it had fallen from his pocket to the ground below. Tang could work with this.

Mei pushed the racer who had tricked her out of the track. Tang rose to cheer, loosing himself in the race. All he had to do now was wait and support his kid.

Mei placed bronze. Tang was thrilled. Bronze on a track she hadn’t even prepped for! He ran down the stands to give her a congratulatory hug. She excitedly jumped around the track, bonze metal swinging, and he found himself swept up in her joy. The cat decided to celebrate too by stealing his flag and running around waving it in the air and sticking it in the faces off all the other contestants.

Eventually though, Mei had to head back and grabbed the overexcited kitty. “You sure you don’t want a ride back?” she said.

“No I’ve still got some scholarly pursuits in this city,” said Tang. “Go enjoy your night of celebration with the others. Pigsy said he’d have the race playing at his store, so they’ll be ready and waiting for some celebratory partying.”

Pleased at the prospect of some fun at home, she headed off bundling the cat into the motorcycle. It was less then pleased and when it finally gave up on struggling it looked back at him with big sad eyes How could you abandon me partner? He ignored it. Between the cat’s sadness and Sandy’s wrath, he’d take the former.

He waved and turned back to head towards the bus station. A glimpse of golden shimmer caught his eye but he ignored it. He was on his own now.

It was up to him.

The only person who noticed the cat turn into a hair upon its return to Sandy’s home was Mo. Mo, being used to this nonsense by now, just went about his day as normal.

The bus ride to the next town over was uneventful and that gave him time to plan. He’d made it this far without drawing attention to himself, no point in loosing that now, so he bought an obnoxious sweatshirt that screamed college student to the skies and a hat he could pull over his eyes. Then he took off his glasses slipping them into a bland backpack and braced himself for the future headache.

He would like to say he looked the part. But after all these years all he could hope for was that he’d be mistaken for a professor or that no one got close enough to determine his age.

The school was laid out the same way he remembered it and it was quite easy to get into the library above the archives, find a book to read, and head down to the basement to use the reading nook set up there. Conveniently able to watch the comings and goings by the archive door, while looking the very picture of a diligent student seeking a quite study spot.

So convincing in fact, actual college students had the exact same idea. There were four or five of them sitting in the nook. Well then, looks like this was a game of patience. Fortunately for him, while he had never attempted a heist before, he was quite the expert on waiting games.

Nearly five hours later most of the students had headed off towards the main floor and the remaining two were getting antsy. The silver one’s leg wouldn’t stop moving and the gold one was nervously glancing at the archive door, and then at him, and then at the exit.

Finally the gold one turned and whispered loudly to the silver one, “I don’t think he’s going to leave. Should we knock him out?”

“Can you do it quietly?” said the silver one “What if someone hears?”

Hmmmm. He could use this. “Gentleman,” he began. “It seems we are about the same business tonight. Perhaps an unlikely truce? I don’t ask what business you have with the archives, and you don’t ask what business I have.”

Silver and Gold looked at each other. “You just had to pick today for this” “Excuse me you said no one ever tries to rob places on weekdays!” “Well now we’re in the middle of another person’s heist!” “I know that I have ears.” “What do we do?” “We could team up” “No way! That always leads to betrayal!” “We could just continue like we never saw him?” “Yeah, we’ll just pretend we never saw each other.”

Tang took the opportunity to head over to the archive and type in the passcode. The door slid open but the noise caught the attention of Gold and Silver and they darted in behind him. He’d hoped they wouldn’t notice but as they wandered away from the books and over to the museum pieces he figured he might as well just get what he came for.

Even after all these years, he still remembered where the band-tightening spell had been. Reaching into the vault he withdrew the fragile paper from its spot among the rare books. Carefully he put on his glasses to read the lines, he couldn’t risk destroying the wrong paper, that would mean the loss of a priceless piece of history. Even this one was a priceless window into the past an…bang!

He could hear Gold and Silver arguing behind him. Something about not being able to carry all of whatever they were after. Gold and Silver two thieves that could easily walk over here, read the spell, and be able to hurt his boy. He took of his glasses and slipped them into his backpack, removing what had been in there before: a lighter.

It was a tad old fashioned but it did the trick. The flick of a cap and the paper burned to nothing in his hands.

Then the fire alarms went off.

Tang slammed the door to the books room closed so they wouldn’t get damaged by the sprinklers and sprinted for the exit. Gold and Silver followed hot on his heals but couldn’t quite keep up with the five large objects in their arms. Tang dove thought the door but they weren’t going to make it. So Gold dropped what he was carrying grabbed Silver and leapt through the door with a hint of magic.

They barreled into Tang but he barely registered that they were still holding on to a calabash. Instead is focus was on sprinting to the exit.

He burst from the building into a massive panicking crowd of college students rushing about like someone had yelled there would be free food but failed to give directions.

He could use this. He let himself match the frantic paces of the students and let the crowd provide cover to slip through an old hole in the fence towards the dorms. One he’d used many a time as a student late for class. He was pretty sure it had a gap in the security system too, as it had never been fixed. So he slipped through and stepped to the side, throwing off his college sweatshirt and his hat and pulling out his glasses.

Tang walked to a bus stop and took the next bus home. It was an uneventful ride.

That night the robbery was all over the news. He watched the broadcast while eating noodles at Pigsy’s shop. “While no clear leads have been found. It is suspected that two of the culprits appeared in this photo taken moments after the crime.” Tang looked up to see fuzzy photos of Gold and Silver sprinting into the crowd. “A third accomplish is suspected, but while discarded clothes were found matching the image above, it is unclear if its tied to the case or not as all footage from the heist itself has been replaced with footage of this bird.” A video played of golden bird with magnificent red and green feathers preening in front of a security camera while a loud bang could be heard in the background. “Donors to the archive, including the Long family, have called an investigation of the security …”

Tang smiled smugly to himself. Nothing like a job well done.

#monkie kid #my fic #Tang #Mr. Tang #monkie kid MK #Qi xiaotian #Monkie kid Mei #long xiaojiao #Pigsy #Sandy #monkie kid sun wukong

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moon-rabbit-music · 4 years

Text

Fuck it, 12:06 a.m. more like time to WRITE

___

Somehow, when Ganon rises, Urbosa isn’t surprised.

It’s just all too cosmically perfect - that the world’s most primordial evil has the perfect timing, to awaken from a slumber of thousands of years at the precise hour at which their hope is lowest. Almost as if it knows.

Almost as if it knows.

That thought nags at her the whole time - as she rides a borrowed steed toward Gerudo Canyon, as she jogs (!) all the way from the stable to Kara Kara Bazaar, as she takes a sand seal the last leg to Gerudo Town, as she boards Vah Naboris. Almost as if it knows - as if it had not, in fact, been as dormant as they had thought, but somehow, had been watching. Planning.

When she activates the terminal and is met with orange light and swirling darkness, she still isn’t surprised.

The beast is fast, but she is faster. It wields lightning, but hers is stronger.

The fight is a blur, at first. She strikes it down, again and again, dark liquid dripping from her blade, but every time it gets back up, seemingly unaffected. It swings its axe, and it should be as easy to dodge as it was the first ten times but she is beginning to tire and it slams into her shield and there is a horrible crunching sound and Daybreaker cracks, right down the middle. She roars and moves in to strike, abandoning her usual finesse for sheer rage, and the blade sinks in so deep that she nearly loses her grip on it. Then she yanks it out, and the beast screams and it draws back, darkness pouring from the wound like blood. She moves to strike again, but before she can, it retreats inward on itself, a radiant blue glow encompassing its form as it shrinks down into a sphere the size of her fist and flies out of sight.

For one brief, glorious second, she thinks it might be over.

No such luck - she turns around and there it is, hanging in the air, lightning crackling around it - not the lightning she knows and loves, but a sickly green kind, sour and corrupt as the beast itself. Metal stakes appear out of thin air and embed themselves into the platforms and the floor. She almost laughs. It’s too easy.

As it screeches and raises its arm and the metal stakes begin to spark, she runs. She leaps up the nearest ramp, up until she’s by the terminal again, and she pulls one of the stakes out of the ground. It’s lighter than she expects. She hefts it over her shoulder and throws.

It hits its mark. The beast falls. She snaps her fingers and the lightning answers her call. The beast does not scream again, for it is dead.

The adrenaline wears off, and she collapses.

Burn marks stain her arms. There is blood running down her side. When she tries to stand up, putting weight on her right leg, it protests but does not give out. She grabs at the edge of the terminal and pulls herself upright. Her fingers dance over the stone, and the angry orange fades to a gentle blue.

She makes her way outside, to the control panel situated atop its head. It isn’t until she’s set Naboris’s sights on the castle that she looks up, and her stomach drops.

Ribbons of darkness, streaked through with a deep, purply red, wrap around Hyrule Castle. Beyond, perched on the side of Death Mountain, Vah Rudania is surrounded by the same.

She looks to her right, towards Zora’s Domain. Vah Ruta is shrouded as well. To her left. Vah Medoh too, although underneath the darkness she can see the brighter red of its shields. As she watches, the red flickers, and then dies.

She doesn’t know how, but in her gut lies a horrible certainty that her fellow Champions have fallen.

Then, she will have to be strong enough for the four of them. She screams, and Vah Naboris fires.

___

It’s not enough.

Days pass. Ganon rages, but leaves Gerudo Town and the surrounding area alone. Zelda visits, wearing the same expression that she had at her mother’s funeral. She tells Urbosa that the Guardians and the other three Divine Beasts are all under Ganon’s control, that her father is dead, that Link is dead, that Purah and Robbie are taking him to the Shrine of Resurrection, that her powers had awakened only once it was far, far too late. She tells her that she is going back to the castle, to try and contain Ganon until Link awakens and regains his strength. Then she cries, and Urbosa wants nothing more than to hold her close and tell her that she loves her and that she has done her mother proud, but the words don’t come, so she just hugs her little bird as tightly as she possibly can and prays that it is enough.

That night, she dreams of a woman made of stone, whose smile is impossibly sad and whose words are impossibly cryptic. She says that she will give Urbosa one more gift - the gift of time. The rest, she will have to do on her own.

Over the next 100 years, Urbosa only cries twice.

___

She hates being old. Some days, she hates it so much that she wishes she too had succumbed to the scourge set upon her Divine Beast a century ago. She hates being bedridden, hates how the simple act of sitting up makes her back ache in twenty different places and gives her a headache to boot. But more than that, she hates how people treat her. She used to command respect. Now all she gets is reverence. People look at her and they see not a person, but a story.

Some people are still good to her, though. She corresponds with the Sheikah elder, Impa. Riju, the young chieftain, speaks to her regularly, and her determination and maturity well beyond her years reminds Urbosa of her little bird. She almost forgets why she is allowed to remain alive in the first place.

Then Riju tells her of a mysterious tower, with a heart of orange light, that had suddenly risen near the highlands, and of others like it across the land. Two days later, she receives a letter from Impa.

Link has awoken. I have advised him to find his way to you as soon as he is able. His time in the Shrine of Resurrection robbed him of his memories and his strength, but he seems to be regaining the latter quite rapidly. I have done what I can with respect to the former, but you knew him far better than I ever did. I can only hope that seeing you again will help him remember more of his past. I am sure that this is an unnecessary request, but I beseech you to help him in any way you possibly can.

-Impa

Riju tells the guards to allow a Hylian voe by the name of Link to enter, should he come asking for the Lady Urbosa. No such voe arrives, but they do welcome in a Hylian vai who makes a beeline first to the arrow shop and then to the palace. “She” looks exactly as Urbosa remembers.

“You look as lovely as ever, Link,” she tells him, and he blushes. He stands in the doorway, awkward and hesitant, and she beckons him closer.

“You don’t remember me.” It is a statement, not a question, and he nods.

“I remember bits and pieces,” he signs. “You helped me sneak in. Zelda liked you. She spoke to you as if she’d known you her whole life.”

She nods slowly. “What else do you remember? Of everything.”

“Very little,” he responds. “Voices. I remember voices, but not who they belong to. And...” He rummages in his bag and pulls out a small, familiar assemblage of wood and cloth. “I remember this...a gift. From Revali.”

It is something of a gift, she decides, that he remembers so little. A painful gift, to be sure, but if he remembered everything...even he would crumble under the weight of all that loss, revealed so suddenly, and in such dire circumstances. She tells him what she thinks necessary for him to know - the names of the Champions, where their Divine Beasts are, that the Zora may still remember him but he will be a stranger to the Goron and the Rito.

She does not tell him about how Mipha would heal his wounds after every battle and gently scold him for his recklessness. She does not tell him about how Daruk would laugh heartily and slap him on the back with a hand almost as tall as he was. She does not tell him about how Revali would braid his hair each night until he leaned back into the Rito’s chest and fell asleep. Those are not her memories to share.

She tells him to visit, sometimes, and he nods uncertainly before leaving. She raises a hand in farewell, then drops it back down to her side, exhausted.

Urbosa knows the line between hope and belief is a thin one. But deep in her heart, she believes that this time, things will turn out differently.

#breath of the wild #urbosa #link #revali #revalink #(but only if you squint lol)#my writing #i wrote this in 2 hours and i am not going to read over it at ALL goodbye #also the ending is super abrupt but whatever #i am writing an Actual Proper Full Length Fic around this concept though #honestly i might fuckin just. copy paste some shit lmaooo #that is if i ever fuckin get to this point #i'm over 1000 words in and we're still like 1.5 years out from the calamity #i mean there's gonna be hella timeskips #but yeah #ok it is 2 am i am going to SLEEP thank you for reading my bullshit uwu

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book-addict-03 · 4 years

Text

Hello, starting a Tenrose fic and wanting some advice. Constructive criticism is highly appreciated <3

Chapter I - The Beginning and The End

Rose knew it was a stupid idea, even as she was sitting, watching the house full of Torchwood agents. The only reason she even considered it was because she was so tired of running. She was even more tired of losing people. It didn’t matter that there was no one left. It didn’t matter that she was finally going to give them what they wanted.

She listened to the fallen Autumn leaves crunch under her boots as she stalked towards the house. The rustling sounds of the trees and the chatter of distant birds soothed her as she headed towards what would surely result in her torture. After all, why hunt someone for over 60 years if you didn’t have a truly malicious plan in mind?

As she kicked the door open, she couldn’t help the small smirk that graced her features. She had planned to surprise them, of course, but she was pleased to see the shocked and flummoxed looks on the faces of all 15 Torchwood Agents. She would take this sight with her, to pass away the time while she’s strapped down to a table in the Labs.

They had started hunting her when she turned 40 and it became clear to everyone that she hadn’t aged past 20. Of course, they’d suspected it throughout the years, especially when paired with her rapid healing. She’d had the extent of her healing tested throughout the years, obviously, but when it became clear that her young looks were truly unorthodox rather than good genes, Torchwood had started seeking her out for tests on top of her usual quarterly examinations. She hadn’t planned on going into hiding, but eventually she was left with no other choice.

So here she was, aged 107 years old looking no older than 20, surrounded by confused Torchwood agents, finally handing herself in. It had taken over half a century, but they were finally seeing it. Rose Tyler had finally given up.

She didn’t fight back, even as four men jumped to wrestle her to the ground, all flailing limbs and elbows. Truly terrible form, she thought, their training regime really must have changed if they thought this sort of performance would suffice in the capture of London’s most wanted criminal.

Of course, she could have fought back if she’d wanted to, years of running and fighting had left her with a toned and strong body, as well as a full martial arts skillset from her training and employment at Torchwood. So no, she hadn’t been overcome, she had submitted. She knew the distinction wouldn’t be made in the records or to the public, but she had to keep her pride intact if nothing else. Honestly, who would expect anything else from the long-lost heiress of the Vitex fortune?

“Hello boys!” she said with a wide grin, seemingly nonplussed by the agents currently holding her to the cold, hard concrete floor, “Honestly, is this how you greet your guests? I must say, this is really poor hospitality. I mean, I’ve been in some really bad establishments, and when I say really bad, I mean really bad but honestly, this is unrivalled.”

“Shut up, you bitch” said the person wearing the boots that were currently right in front of her face. The man laying across the top of her back prevented her from angling her neck to see the speakers face but from the burly voice, she decided it was safe to assume the person was male. “Goodard, get up and chain her.” Also in a role of power, she noted as she was roughly jerked upright and put straight into a cold metal chair. She tried to cross her knees but the men chaining her down wouldn’t allow it. With an exaggerated huff, she allowed the young men to chain her to the chair, ankles tied firmly to the legs of the chair.

Finally allowed to see the man that would probably be hailed as her captor, Rose took a few moments to observe his harsh features. If she was being honest to herself, he looked like a stereotypical Disney villain. He sneered down at her with a sharp, elongated face, greying hair and a rapidly receding hairline. He could be no older than 50, but he had only a small amount of hair left.

“If you’re tying an old woman down with truck chains then I must be making a good impression.” She said, with a smirk. She was bored and wished, not for the first time, that she could just fast forward through certain moments.

“You and I both know your age is not an accurate depiction of your strength or abilities, which is precisely why we’ve been looking for you for so long, Agent Tyler.” He said, clearly enunciating her previous title from her employment at Torchwood. If he expected a reaction, he must’ve been sorely disappointed, because the next words out of his mouth were:

“Fingal! Jab her, get her in the truck and let’s go” followed by a sharp prick in her neck and a veil of black taking over her consciousness.

…~oOo~…

Six months later, Rose was recovering from her 17th surgery while also preparing for her 46th MRI. This time they were going to try drowning her to see what would happen afterwards. It was one of the least imaginative deaths they had come up with so far, but she still wasn’t looking forward to the time spent swimming in a swirling haze of pain that always followed her death.

Of course, it wasn’t the first time she’d died.

The first time had been a shock, she had been hit by a stray bullet, fired by a hunter who must’ve thought her to be a deer or some other sort of animal. Her mother and Tony were still alive at the time. They had discussed what was to be done in the event of her death a while beforehand, so they had carted her body off to a cave deeper in the woods to wait until nightfall so they could light a pyre. Just as twilight peaked, Rose woke up with a gasp and scared the absolute shit out of her family. Her mother had been yelling at her for weeks after that, saying that Rose had surely knocked 10 years off her life span.

That time she’d been out for over 5 hours, lately they had been cut down to an hour or less. Rose assumed it was a ‘practice makes perfect’ sort of scenario. Well, she hoped.

…~oOo~…

Rose knew something was different from the moment she stepped into the room. Her skin felt tingly and she felt slightly invigorated, she knew her evolved senses were picking up on something, something she was unable to interpret. Of course, the strange occurrence didn’t change her actions. She didn’t even falter, she knew doing anything other than what they asked was pointless. No matter what, they were going to force her into the tub of cold water. She could do nothing to stop them, she’d tried before on several occasions. They always sent her with multitudes of armed guards who were instructed to use brutal force if she showed any sign of resistance. So, she’d pretended nothing was amiss and forced herself to place one foot in front of the other, climb into the tub and accept the blanket of numbness that was handed to her as the water blacked out her vision.

She swam in the inky depths of her mind, waiting for her body to come alive once again. Usually, it just felt as though she had been asleep, sometimes she would remember different moments of her life or dream of a different future for herself. This time was different, she was aware of everything going on outside of her own head but remained unable to do anything. Instead, it was like she was in a viewing panel inside her own mind. Weird.

“Hello, my Wolf,” said a mystical voice from behind her. She turned to see herself, wearing different clothes and with the bleached blonde hair she had grown out decades ago, but still her. She immediately knew who was speaking to her through her own image, because who else could it be?

“TARDIS” she greeted with a nod and grin, “it’s been a long time since we’ve spoken. Though I must say, we don’t really speak, do we? It’s usually like a telepathic game of charades. This is new,” she said, waving at the whole of the entity in front of her.

The TARDIS smiled and nodded to Rose, “I have no other corporeal image for myself other than you, the one who shares my heart. You must know by now that your link to Bad Wolf was not removed from you, as my Thief had thought” Rose wasn’t sure if it was a statement or a question, but she nodded anyway. “Good, that makes this easier”

“Makes what easier?” Rose asked, with a suspicious expression marring her features.

“My magnificent plan, of course. I know that your journey since the Bay has been taxing on your soul. You have lost many, and I want you to know that I cannot fix that. I wish to give my Wolf and my Thief the second chance they deserve… I believe that you both need each other; you know that as well as I do. This is my gift to you. I can take you back to your own universe. I can take you back to him.”

The TARDIS said this with an air of finality that didn’t sit well with Rose. Her passionate yet detached deliverance of her speech didn’t do anything to help either. She was sick of detachment. She hadn’t spoken any of this to anyone, so when the TARDIS prodded at such painful memories, the floodgates of thoughts and feelings hidden away over decades of life faltered and she broke.

“What if I don’t want to go back? I have lost everything since Bad Wolf Bay, I lost my chance at a normal life, I lost my family, all because your thief didn’t give me a choice! What makes you think I’d willingly go back to him?” She was pacing, her minor rant had made her realise how exhausted she was and the warmth on her face alerted her to the fact that she was crying.

“You need home. The TARDIS is and always will be your home. I will care for you, as I always have. I can’t help you while you’re here though. You don’t belong in this universe; you already know that they will not accept your modified biology. You know that my Thief will at least understand your situation and the loss that has followed. I wish for no more than to allow you both the comfort you desire, but it is still your choice. Do you wish to stay here, or are you ready to come home?” Her soft-spoken words pierced Rose’s armour and she crumpled to the floor. Decades of loss, sorrow and pain suddenly cascading through her barriers.

“Please. Please, take me home” She sobbed. The TARDIS gave a small, affectionate smile. Her plan would work. She just knew it.

Of course, she knew her Wolf’s anger and nonchalance were a shield to protect her already worn-down heart, much like her Thief and his indifference towards others who seek to help him. The fact that the Void had warped time a lot more for this universe than her own was likely going to be a slight issue, but that couldn’t be helped. She would take care of them; she would make sure they were happy again. Together.

#dr who tenth #rose tyler #tenrose #tenth doctor x rose tyler #doctor rose fic #tenrose fic #fanfic #fan fiction

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rebeccathenaturalist · 4 years

Photo

I do some volunteering in my area with the Junior Duck Stamp program. I thought since it's the perfect time to get kids involved in it that I'd make a comic to spread the word! I wish I'd known about it when I was a kid, because this would have been right up my alley. Still, it's fun getting to be a part of the effort now. If you don't want to type out that entire link, you can just navigate to it by clicking http://www.fws.gov/birds/education/junior-duck-stamp-conservation-program.php

I'm still getting the hang of the settings on my new scanner, so bear with me as the image quality may shift and change over the next few weeks. At least the colors are better!

Species portrayed: Giraffe (Giraffa camelopardalis), northern shoveler duck (Spatula clypeata), plains bison (Bison bison bison), northern pintail duck (Anas acuta), harlequin duck (Histrionicus histrionicus), green winged teal (Anas carolinensis), trumpeter swan (Cygnus buccinator), nene (Branta sandvicensis), surf scoter (Melanitta perspicillata), Canada goose (Branta canadensis), tundra swan (Cygnus columbianus), brant goose (Branta bernicla), fulvous whistling duck (Dendrocygna bicolor)

Transcript under cut.

Title: Junior Duck Stamps: Science & Art For Kids!

[First panel: A desk surface with an image of the hydrological cycle, a pot with seedlings in it, a stack of books with a stuffed toy bison on top of it, a small toy northern shoveler duck, a computer monitor with an article about giraffes on it] Conservation education is a topic near and dear to my heart. After all, I started this comic to teach people neat stuff about nature! And I admit other people doing the same in a variety of settings and media.

[Second panel: a series of stamps with various ducks, geese and swans portrayed on them] One of my favorite conservation education programs is the Junior Duck Stamp Conservation Education and Design Program (or Junior Duck Stamp Program.) Created in 1989 by the National Fish and Wildlife Foundation, it officially became a U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service program in 1994. The program combines science and art to educate children about waterfowl and the habitats they rely on.

[Third panel: At the top, a surf scoter duck, Canada goose, and tundra swan sit in a grassy field. Below them, a brant duck is labeled with “broad bill”, Long neck”, “oily feathers” and “webbed feet”. Next to it is a recreation of the National Wildlife Refuge System’s “bluue goose” logo.] The education portion is based on curriculum materials available for free online. They include information on the different species of native waterfowl (ducks, geese and swans), adaptations these birds have to their environment, why National Wildlife Refuges and other protected habitats are crucial to their survival, and much more.

[Fourth panel: a rough sketch of a duck and duckling sits partly covered by a drawing of a trumpeter swan in flight. The drawings are surrounded by a variety of art supplies.] All children kindergarten through 12th grade in the U.S., American Samoa, and U.S. Virgin Islands are encouraged to create art for the Junior Duck Stamp art contest. The national winner gets their art on the following year’s Junior Duck Stamp, among other awards. Sold for $5 each, the stamps help to fund further conservation education through the Junior Duck Stamp program.

Want to get your kids or students involved? Get more information at http://www.fws.gov/birds/education/junior-duck-stamp-conservation-program.php

There you can get free curriculum materials for traditional and home school classrooms, as well as important information about the art contest like rules, entry forms, a list of eligible species, and more! You can also contact your state coordinator who can help with more local resources. This includes any volunteers who can visit your classroom and teach kids about the program and contest. Adults interested in volunteering can ask the state coordinator too!

[Fifth panel: A fulvous whistling duck sits on a sign with contest deadlines, with cattails in the background.] JDS Contest Deadlines: February 1 - California, Maryland. February 15 - Massachusetts. March 1 - Maine, Missouri, Ohio, Virginia, Rhode Island, Pennsylvania. March 15 - everyone else.

While the art contest deadlines mark when the art entries must be postmarked, the educational material on the website can be used year round! It’s a great free resource that has taught thousands of kids about our nation’s waterfowl for over a quarter of a century. If you have kids in your life, share the Junior Duck Stamp Program with them today! That website again is: http://www.fws.gov/birds/education/junior-duck-stamp-conservation-program.php

#nature #animals #wildlife #birds #art contest #mine

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angryrabbit42 · 4 years

Text

Bonus Tracks 6

All for the lovely: @a-rose-by-any-other-doctor @dwsecretsanta

Welp, here’s the end. I hope You enjoyed it. Merry Christmas!

Read on AO3 https://archiveofourown.org/works/21925084/chapters/52331086

Track 4: Remember

“I don’t live here,” Rose whispered in his ear as they entered the mansion. His eyebrows went up. “Only, you were looking a bit worried and I thought, ‘Oh, he’s forgotten and is afraid I live with Mum and he’s going to have to live with Mum and there are an awful lot of carpets here.’ Thought I’d remind you that I don’t live here.”

“Oh,” he breathed glancing down anxiously at the carpets. “Do you--”

“I’ve got hardwood floors.”

“That’s alright then,” he murmured as the tension drained out of him. “I didn’t want to be rude.”

“Liar.”

“Alright, I didn’t want to be homeless my first night in a new universe,” he murmured in her ear. His palm was a bit clammy where it gripped hers. “You know me and mums, they ah,” he trailed off, tugging an ear.

“Slap you?” Rose whispered back as Jackie turned to glare at them.

“Rose has a flat,” Jackie announced tersely. “But Tony hasn’t seen either of us in a week. He’s asleep by now,” she worried. “I don’t suppose there’s any real point in offering you your own room?” she asked the Doctor.

“Oh, I could kip anywhere, a sofa, a pool float, a low wall…” he began enthusiastically.

Rose shook her head. “I’ve got him. He’s fine, Mum.”

The new Doctor flashed her an interested look. “I don’t want to impose if it’s too soon, or you don’t want...If it’s too soon or weird or--” he stopped talking when Jackie cleared her throat. He stepped behind Rose. “I didn’t mean… we…” Helplessly, he kneaded her shoulders.

“We agreed to a fortnight in eyesight...” Rose remarked. “Your memory is terrible…”

“It’s not my memory,” the Doctor muttered as his eyes darted around.

“Still daft, is he?” Jackie asked with amusement.

Taking pity on him, Rose told her mother, “Leave him alone. We’re too tired for anything your dirty mind is going to imply, Mum. He’s new.”

“Mint condition,” he reminded her.

“Right, in mint condition,” she agreed and glared at her mother continued, “I want him kept in mint condition, ya hear me? No slapping.”

“I wasn’t implying anything, sweetheart. He hasn’t done anything to earn a slap...yet,” Jackie kissed his cheek and whispered something in his ear. The Doctor turned beet red. His expression was a mix of pleased and revolted as Jackie Tyler rolled her eyes at Rose.

Rose started walking. “Ignore her. You can meet Tony tomorrow and I’ll show you my, erm, flat,” Rose stumbled almost saying ‘our’ flat. She didn’t want to pressure him.

“Yes,” he agreed. “Your place would be better than Jackie’s place… Do I ah, need my own place? Nope, no, nevermind. Too soon to answer that one. With the talking and the reuniting and the sleeping and talking and--”

Rose slapped a hand over his mouth. “Our flat then. Yours for two years rent-free… Then I’m turfing you out.”

He snorted and murmured something too low for her to hear. If she had to guess it was, “In two years we won’t need a little flat.”

“Have to warn you, it has curtains and doors.”

He made a disgruntled sound. Rose laughed then whipped her hand away. “Ugh! You licked me!”

“Wanted to earlier when you covered my mouth,” he replied, grinning.

“You’re such a child,” Rose grumbled, smirking at him. Every minute spent with him felt like old times. Rose felt her own tension easing. Being with the Doctor had always felt natural as breathing. It was everything else that had been difficult. “This is me, us.”

She opened the door for him and ushered him in. He kicked off his shoes immediately to leap onto her bed. He gave it a few bounces to make the headboard rock against the wall in a parody of lewdness. Rose glared. “My mother is down the hall.”

“I know,” he teased bouncing a few more times before flopping down on his back. “Your bed is comfy. Perfect place for one last memory…”

Rose kicked her own shoes off. She shrugged her way out of her leather jacket and climbed up onto the bed to flop down beside him. “One more?

He nodded. “Mm-mm, one single memory left. Shame, I like remembering my old personalities. That scarf-wearing one was fun, wasn’t he? Do you think I can get drunk on ginger still? I’d quite like to eat more gingerbread cookies…”

“You don’t know?” Rose asked, taking her earrings out and plopping them on the nightstand.

He shook his head, “New, new, new Doctor, new new new rules,” he cocked his head to the side considering his change in biology, “still, can’t be that different. Tastebuds feel the same? Second stomach is still there…”

“A second stomach? Of course, you have a second one…” Rose rolled over onto her stomach, pillowing her head on her arms. “That’s why you ate all the toast…and jam and my last two birthday cakes!”

“You only wanted the frosting!” He rolled his eyes. “I’m down a kidney,” he remarked, making a face. “I feel,” he dragged the word out like taffy, “mostly the same.”

“How do you feel different?” Rose asked as he settled down next to her, rolling up and leaning his head against his palm.

“The heart… feels wrong. The beat is slower and lonely. Everything else is fizzy,” the Doctor ran a hand through his hair. “When I licked you I could tell that you were dehydrated, your temperature is up by two degrees and you are exhausted.”

“Great,” she drawled.

“It is great! My magnificent tastebuds remain magnificent,” he enthused and gave her a once over. “I like licking things.”

She slapped at him. “Terrible!”

He giggled. “Donna’s fault. She read every bodice ripper ever made.” The Doctor made a disgusted face then reconsidered.

“C’mon,” Rose reached out and he snuggled up against her.

He hummed happily as he wrapped his long arms around her. “Ah, much better, two hearts again!”

Touched, she let him snuggle for a bit before she reminded him about the memory. Enthusiastically, he reached out to touch her temples. Wisps of happy pinks and golds and blues sparkled around her like fireflies. She tried to send the same enthusiasm back. He beamed.

Once settled into one another’s minds, he whispered a word and Rose stepped into a wood-paneled office.

“Control,” Rose called out. “I’m in a principal’s office? I think? Or at least a teacher’s…” The air was thick with the scent of tea, books, ink, and biscuits.

“Twenty minutes, Rose, any sign of the Tardis?” Pete asked.

Rose surveyed the room. There was a desk with several sonic screwdrivers in a cup. “Looks promising, there’s some alien tech here.”

“Alright Rose, no time for sight-seeing on this one love, move fast,” Pete reminded her and cut the link.

Rose examined the desk. There were framed photos of a young girl with dark hair and big eyes in 60s kit and a blonde elegant woman with laughing eyes in the picture opposite her. Rose liked her immediately. She looked like a woman who wanted to get into trouble. Rose saluted the woman as she rooted through the cup of sonics, finding the one she was familiar with. Stealing it, she slipped it into a pocket before turning around. There was a record player with several familiar bands, Ian Dury was on the player.

A wind kicked up in the room. Rose felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. The key she wore warmed against her skin. The screeching, grinding brilliant sound of the Tardis materializing filled the room. Rose felt like her heart was going to burst. It had to be the right him now. The cannon had been getting her closer for weeks. She had even seen him for a second when these adorable aliens had been floating up through the sky. This was her time. This was her Doctor. She was here for sure this time.

The Tardis settled with a thump. Rose’s heart leaped into her mouth. The door opened and a young woman walked out backward. She was a slim black girl, tall and pretty in high waisted jeans and a Prince Tee. “And then he says, ‘what sort of bird are you?’ And you, you idiot, you just had to say, ‘Big’ as in BigBird from Sesame Place? You had to know I’d break character then! You nearly got us beheaded--” She spun around and spotted Rose. Her eyes were wide as saucers. “Doctor.”

“Yes,” a gruff, Scottish sounding voice replied with amusement, “I couldn’t resist. It was there! And I couldn’t help myself… Besides, you started it, Oscar, the--”

“Doctor,” the young woman said again. “There’s someone in your office,” she stage whispered.

Rose arched a brow. The young woman arched hers back and gave her a once over worthy of Jack. Rose smirked. The young woman smiled back. From within the Tardis, the gruff voice asked, “Is it Nardole in a wig? He’s very sensitive about his invisible hair.”

“No, it’s, she’s a blonde,” Bill called. “A hot blonde, a very hot blonde. Hi, I’m Bill. This is a decorative closet,” she said pointing at the Tardis. “And we, well, we were um, just getting pencils, right Doctor? Out of the closet--that is decorative. This is not strange at all.”

“Yes,” the voice inside rumbled, “Sorry, Bill, there aren’t any more pencils in there, just pens…” The Doctor said playing along. Rose suppressed the urge to giggle. He pulled the doors shut, locking them before turning around to face her.

Rose knew right away from his voice that he wasn’t the right one. He was tall, Scottish sounding, with lovely wild silver hair and musician's hands. She was ready to put a brave face on when he did a double-take. His entire presence swelled. He was somehow taller, looming, his eyes fixed on hers, a soft smile playing around the edges of his mouth. “Bill, this is Rose Tyler. Rose, this is Bill Potts. Bill, she ah, she well, you know, travels with me.”

“Hi,” Rose said to the room but her eyes were magnetized to his. The Doctor’s expression was intense as he drank her in. This was a later Doctor. A Doctor that knew her. And she wasn’t with him. Either she had failed, or they had had their time together and she was… Rose swallowed all that down as he stared at her, blue eyes warming.

“That closet sure looks like a type 40 Tardis,” Rose teased. “Friend of mine stole one of those once.”

Shyly, he hugged an elbow. “Yeah, that can happen. I once blew up a friend’s job to get a date.”

Rose laughed.

Bill glanced between them, eyes getting wider all the time as she drawled, “What? No. Are you like actually flirting right now? With her?” She turned to Rose. “With him? Unbelievable.”

“How long have you got, Rose?” the Doctor asked, “before Pete drags you back to Pete’s world.”

“Fifteen minutes now.”

A sigh escaped him. “Never enough time.”

Rose dove into his arms, surprising Bill so much that she took a step backward. The Doctor surprised Bill more by wrapping himself around Rose. Rose didn’t notice anything but the scent of him then, so tantalizing familiar. He picked her up and swung her around a bit.

“Is nobody going to tell me the story behind this?” Bill asked.

“No,” the Doctor told her. “Later. Go away now.”

“Right, okay, bye Rose.” She gave Rose another flattering appraisal before the Doctor glared at her. Rose waved as Bill went to the door. She left and Rose would be money the girl was leaning against the door listening.

The Doctor let her go but not completely. “Let’s speed things up, so we can get it all in. I know where you are in your timeline. Give me the recall disc.”

Rose handed it over and he sonicked it. “There you are. Next jump will be the big one. I’ll be waiting. Take a big gun. Take the biggest gun you have.”

“I did reach you,” Rose said with relief, “in time?”

“Yes, Rose Tyler,” he said softly, “you found me right on time.” His smile lit up her insides.

They stared at one another until he covered his mouth in a slow show of distress. “Oh, this, why couldn’t this moment get the four hours or the week? Rose, I have so much to… No, it doesn’t matter now.” he turned his back for a minute. “Another face can handle that… I have to�� I always get the worst parts.”

“What do you mean?” Rose asked, drawing closer to him.

“You young lady, have been bumping into younger versions of me and causing all sorts of heartbreak. Each and every one charmed,” he said with mock disdain.

“And you? Aren’t you charmed?” Rose asked, trying not to get excited. The next jump… he said the next jump.

“Oh, completely, tremendously, desperately charmed. You’re Rose Marion Tyler. I couldn't help myself. I’ve always been susceptible to your charms. A sucker for that smile of yours. A goner for it. You’re so brave and jeopardy friendly. It was like traveling with Calamity Jane.” He reached out to cup her cheek. “That was so long ago now.” He studied her face.

“Me?” she barked out a laugh. “Who saved who from the Daleks? Who saved who on that space station? You get into trouble ordering chips.” Rose leaned into his hand.

“I do manage to get into the most ridiculous situations. Ah, maybe we both attracted a bit of chaos in our day.”

“Did it all turn out alright?”

“Of course, we saved the day. We saved all the days because we saved the Universe! We had a little help,” he said, grimacing. “You’ll find out all about him soon enough.” He let out a sigh.

Her watch beeped.

“Five-minute warning, right, hurry up Doctor,” the Doctor grumbled. “Oh, there’s never enough time!” He pulled her in for another hug. “I’m going to block this memory for you Rose, and a few others that might interfere with your future. You’ll get them back when you need them. Do you trust me?”

“Always.”

“Wow, no pressure,” he teased. “I’m also going to have to go back in time and muck about with my own memories… You’re an awful lot of work, you know.”

“I’m worth it.” Rose said, clinging to him.

He snorted, not disagreeing.

“Are you happy?” Rose asked, cutting through his nervous chatter. “I know...I know I must be um, dead by now. Were we happy?”

“Rose, yes, I’m alright, I’m even sometimes less grumpy and almost cheery...sometimes.” He winked. “You’ve met Bill. She keeps me out--no, she doesn’t. She attracts trouble too.”

“You wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“No. Stop asking questions! I can’t tell you your future.”

“So? Tell me yours. Did you move on?”

His eyes flicked to the picture on the desk. “Yes. And no. And that’s it. No more spoilers. I have work to do and precious little time to do it in.”

“You’re going to erase anything you say,” Rose argued, feeling a flash of annoyance with him. “C’mon, you can say anything you want to me than just delete it. Be brave.” Rose’s mouth went dry.

“I’m only blocking them, not erasing them…” he muttered. “And you know more than anyone that I choose coward every time…” He drew her closer to him until they were breathing the same air.

Rose huffed. “Stop running away. This is the last time you’re going to see me, probably. I might die in the big battle. Or not,” she trailed off.

“Fishing for spoilers again? You are relentless.” he pulled away, folding his hands together, gathering his thoughts.

Her watch beeped. “Thirty seconds, Doctor, now or never.”

His fingers uncurled reaching to her temples. “I could never deny you anything.”

Rose felt the Doctor’s mind brush up gently against hers. She imagined inviting him in. His thoughts slip and sifted through hers looking for the memories he needed to hide. The colors were rich dark navy and a lovely royal purple sliding down into indigo then darkness as Rose felt parts of herself locking away. She gripped his biceps.

He counted down as he tidied up her mind. “The last memory, the one we’re making right now will vanish when you do.”

“Make it good,” she dared.

He whispered in her ear.

The Doctor gave her a little shake. “Rose, Rose it’s okay, I’m here. I’m here.”

A sob escaped her and she clutched her new new new Doctor. “It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

Rose gave into the tears as the memories cemented themselves back into place. The Doctor’s eyes were wet too with worry as he tried to comfort her. Rose could tell he hadn’t gotten any of the memory from the confusing swirl of his thoughts weaving in and around hers. Rose squeezed him before letting go to wipe ineffectively at her tears.

“What did you see? Did he upset you?” The Doctor’s eyes grew hard. “I’ll go back to that universe and kick my own--” Rose put a finger to his lips. He stilled.

“I’m fine. I didn’t expect…” she trailed off. “I didn’t expect him to ever say it.”

“Say what?” he asked, clinging to her a bit.

Rose dashed more tears out of her eyes. “He said goodbye.”

“Right, I’ve said goodbye to you before…” the Doctor said, his adorable face confused.

“No, he ah, whispered it in my ear, just like you did, on the beach…” Rose trailed off. “He did love me.”

“Don’t be stupid,” the Doctor growled.

Rose stared.

“Of course he loves you. I’ve always loved you.” The new new new Doctor said in exasperation.

“Well, sometimes it needs saying, alright!” she shouted.

The Doctor closed his mouth. He looked devastated. “I can’t take you back to him. The walls are sealed. I can leave if you want. I can--”

“Why would you leave?” Rose asked.

“If I remind you but I’m not…enough--”

“No, no, no,” Rose protested as he tried to leave the bed. She dragged him back down. “He still left me.”

“Rose, the Doctor, any of those Doctors, their first loyalty has to be to the universe.” He began.

“And you gave that up?”

“Not completely, I still plan on protecting my new universe…” he said.

“And you stayed…” Rose added.

“Because he left me here…” the Doctor answered unable to meet her eyes.

“Would you have chosen me?” Rose asked.

“Yes, yes, every time!” he exploded. “You have no idea what it was like for me! I spent so much time wishing you were with me. There wasn’t a chance in hell that I wasn’t going with you.”

“You gave up space and time for me,” Rose said, choking on a fresh flood of tears. She felt a flood of guilt for that. He’d clipped his wings for her.

“No, I didn’t,” he blurted. Rose sat up straight. “I would have. Easy. Or we could have stolen a spaceship or built one if we wanted. I’m a genius.”

“You gave up the Tardis.”

“Yeah, I gave her up. But I didn’t give up the universe or anything for you. I gained you.”

Rose wiped away her tears at his distress. “But you chose to stay here…”

“In this universe… But I didn’t choose between the universe and you. I didn’t have to do that… I’m not exactly as selfless as him.” He reached into his left-hand pocket, searching again. “I mean sure, he had to make a choice between you and the universe. I was under no such obligation. I wanted you, of course, I did. More than anything,” he paused glowing with warmth, “He chose the universe. I chose both.” Triumphantly he pulled a piece of something that looked an awful lot like the organic parts of the Tardis. “As for the Tardis… well, we’ll just grow our own.”

“Oh, you crafty thing,” Rose said and took the little Tardis cutting. “I love you,” she cooed at the cutting.

“And me?” the new new new Doctor asked hopefully.

“Yeah, you too.”

“Him too,” the Doctor said looking out the window.

“Yeah of course. Is that a problem?”

“No, he’s me. Bit mad to be jealous of a man I was less than twenty-four hours ago. And if the memories did anything, they proved that every version of me that meets you falls in love with you.” The Doctor replied, eyes soft and gooey.

“Oh, now I know you’re human,” Rose teased. “You’re all sappy and sentimental. It’s a bit domestic,” she drawled.

He fell back against the pillows. “I’m dead. Kill me now. I like the domestics? Oh, no, I can’t…Oi, not human, never all human.”

“Human enough,” Rose teased.

“Just human enough,” he agreed. “Still mostly alien though… that alright?”

“Yeah.” Rose agreed easily reaching out to mess up his hair.

“Yeah?” He asked reaching out to return the favor.

Giggling, Rose Tyler said, “Yeah, but two stomachs?”

“Ask me what else I’ve got two of.”

Rose hit him with a pillow.

#dwsecretsanta #doctorwho #Rose x tentoo #Twelfth Doctor x Rose #rose tyler #tentoo

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anonthenullifier · 5 years

Text

An Auspice of Scarlet - Chapter 11

A Scarlet Vision Victorian AU

Chapter Title: In which an olive branch is offered and the witch discovers the truth

Chapter summary: The occupants of the tower strategize how to handle the threat of Ultron and Wanda is presented with new information about her past.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12184758/chapters/43265102

The wall of the room is ordinary. Not the ordinary of her own bare walls in Normanskill but of the framed portraits and gorgeous landscapes hung on the embellished wallpaper typical of houses owned by wealth. Yet this specific wall is different. Wanda replays in her mind the way it looked opened two nights ago and then tries to remember how it shut. If she can recall its movement then she should be able to recreate it. Her fingers skim the seams of the wallpaper, inspecting every indent and raised portion, swiping underneath each picture frame as she searches for the solution. Nothing happens.

Wanda steadies her fingers by balling them into fists and inhaling deeply. There hasn’t been any sign of Vision all day, not even a conversation to be overheard about his well-being. That itself has acted like a splinter under her nails, a steady, just below the surface anxiety gripping her the longer she goes without feeling his mind. Foolishly she thought his need for order would prevail, that at eight he’d bring her tea and at ten he’d stop by for last checks before the tower retired into the oblivion of dreams. Instead she was met with Happy’s discombobulated apologies at roughly 8:30 and 10:15, a hurried, rambling exchange of items that underscored the clear differential in discipline between the butlers.

Cold tea or receiving a finger towel instead of a hand towel doesn’t matter to her. What does matter is the slow drip of dread submerging her in the running narrative of her life and the role she seems destined to play, even when she vows to change. Wherever there is order she always tips it into chaos.

Wanda shakes the thoughts away, refusing to become mired in self-loathing, and concentrates on the wall. There’s a sconce to the right—a shapely bronze mermaid. If she were to wade into the terrifying depths of Stark’s reasoning, this seems right up his alley for a switch to a secret door. Wanda grips the waist of the mermaid and pulls down, victory racing through her veins as the wall opens.

The passageway is dimly lit, though still brighter than the tunnel this morning. A solitary gaslamp, spitting out its last breaths, and the residual light of the hallway ahead of her are doing their best to break the darkness. Wanda trails her fingertips along the wall as she approaches the corridor, hoping to anchor her nerves to the sensation of the rough panels so that once she reaches Vision she can form coherent thoughts. All she needs is his ear for three seconds, at the least, just long enough to apologize and stare into his eyes to confirm he’ll be okay.

When she reaches the brighter path of the servants’ wing, she turns left and freezes.

“You lost?” Tony disembarks from his casual lean against the wall.

“No.” The man’s arms cross as he faces her, a challenge etched into his wide stance, one she meets head on. “I wanted to check on Vision.”

Derision rocks his chest with an exaggerated snort, “You sure like to make stuffed birds laugh.” Hardened amusement shifts into an unflinching seriousness. “That’s not happening.”

Wanda accepts the statement, any challenge sure to be met with more hostility if their past interactions are any indication. “Okay, then how is he doing?”

“You hurt him, Wanda.” Her quiet, “I know” is shoved aside by Stark’s overly enunciated, “Again.” He steps towards her and it takes every ounce of her resolve to not be pressured into moving, “We had an understanding about this. You aren’t getting close to him again.”

Anger is to be expected, hatred is not surprising, and unfortunately, she can’t even bemoan him this decision, even if she’ll challenge it in the future. All she needs right now is just some confirmation Vision is okay. “How is he doing?”

“Go back to your room.”

Wanda can feel the bile rising up her throat and the scarlet dancing beneath her skin, both of which she keeps in check in case any ill-will from her lessens her chance at getting an answer. “Is he awake?”

This only hardens Stark’s face more, his feet stepping out wider, physically expanding to bar her from even seeing the door to Vision’s room. “I really don’t see why it matters to you. Vision’s not out here right now, no need to keep pretending to care.”

“I’m not pretending.”

“And I’m the King of England.”

Stark digs his feet in and it seems the only way she will get to Vision tonight is through mental force, an option she discards immediately. This means what she should do is walk away, allow another night to pass and Vision to recover, hopefully once he is fully cogent he can convince Stark to let her talk to him, like he did the last time she hurt him, though this requires the presumption he’ll want to see her. But staring at the thin, slimy smirk on Stark’s face presents her an opportunity to needle back, channel her heightened anxiety into acrimony at someone other than herself and possibly get answers along the way. Without the risk of compromising her chance to see Vision there’s no requirement she tiptoe around her disdain, so she switches topics, making sure her voice is as serious and emboldened as Stark’s. “How long have you known Ultron?”

The corner of his mouth drops, eyes attempting to bore a hole into her or cause her to combust, but she stands tall, matching the angles of his body to put them on equal footing. Stark doesn’t dismiss the question, head bobbing side to side until he shrugs, sending the whole world off his shoulders as if he’s got nothing better to do than begrudgingly deal with her, “I could really use a drink, care to join?”

The offer catches her off guard until she realizes that the most successful way to keep her from Vision is if she’s with Stark instead. It’s not a bad strategy, for either of their goals. “A drink sounds good.” Never in all the long nights since she lost her parents, did she ever think the idea of sitting down over a glass of spirits with Tony Stark would be considered appealing more than tortuous.

“Perfect, just give me a second.” She watches Stark walk to the only door in the hallway, is tempted to move closer to look inside, but the man isn’t at the door for long, just enough time to peek his head in, and then he shuts it and starts walking. “Come on.” Nothing more is said between them, Tony purposefully staying three steps ahead of her the entire journey, even when they enter the study (every inch of which is covered in mahogany with accents of forest green paisley), all he provides her for direction is a grunt and nod towards a chair while he fills up two glasses from a crystal carafe.

Wanda accepts the drink, sniffing the liquid and waiting until Stark takes a sip before she follows suit. It burns in the best way, coating her throat and chest with a medicinal warmth that feels almost like an atonement, or at least the first step in searing away the guilt suffocating her.

The question has been asked and based on the way Stark is inspecting his drink so studiously, rotating his wrist to send the liquid sloshing, it is unlikely he has forgotten the topic of their nightcap discussion. Within the crystal prison of Tony’s glass, amber spirits swirl into a cyclone. “What do you know about Ultron’s past?” The raging storm is mesmerizing, never slowing, his wrist absentmindedly maintaining the perfect rhythm as he waits for her to answer his counter-question.

The image of Ultron during their first meeting is crystal clear, the way his prosthetic hands rested so openly, the way his eyes always had a sheen of sorrow when he probed her on her own tragic past. He’d been refreshingly unreserved in allowing the sharp corners of his life to stab at her heart, forgoing the socially accepted method of sanding down the edges to make it more palatable. If only she’d seen through his disguise that day. “He was a businessman, fairly small company. There was a riot near his office,” the details are still fuzzy to her, social issues and financial nuances that never seemed necessary to understand the aspects of his story he deemed important, “something about bread, I think.”

The liquid keeps its spiral even while Stark responds. “FlourA.”

“Sure.” Briefly she loses the thread of the story, distracted at Stark’s knowledge of Ultron’s past and why he wants her to tell him what he already appears to know. “He went into a shop to try and stop some men from killing the owner but the crowd grew too frenzied and someone threw an incendiary through the window.” Ultron had given her graphic details of his injury, described the way it felt to be torn apart by the red-hot ball of fury, “lost his arms, injured his leg, had glass shards embedded in his face.”

“Yeah,” the tornado dies as Tony takes a sip of the drink, lips smacking at the strong taste. “We’re definitely dealing with the same person. That’s what he told me too.” Tony breathes in, places the glass down, and releases an audible, worn out breath, his body slouching into the chair as he finally begins to answer her question. “My first contract, after assuming ownership of Stark Industries, was for the War DepartmentB. Apparently, they’d received a gift of a rare precious metal from some jungle kingdom.” The tone suggests the metal may not have been freely given. “Wanted me to develop some sort of an exoskeleton meant to help wounded soldiers get back to war. I had hoped to then bring it to the public once it worked.” No doubt for the sake of profit and not because of some charitable need to help the less fortunate of society. “We decided that we’d choose our test subject based on physical need and mental functioning,” he picks up his glass and tips it towards his chest, studying the liquid, “you know, no lunatics or anything.”

“Ultron was your subject?”

Tony nods at her supposition. “When we sent out feelers for subjects, over twenty people recommended this guy named,” the glass clings against the table as he tries to conjure up the name, “MarkC or something like that, touted him as a community hero for how he’d responded to the riots.” A long sip empties his glass. “Want another?” Her own is only half empty, but she hands it to him anyway, eyes following as he fills up both glasses. “We were torn, you know,” the carafe swings in his hand, sending the liquor into a frenzy, “should we choose an actual soldier or choose someone we could make into a solider?” Tony hands her the now brimming glass and plops back into the chair across from her, facial muscles loosening the more he imbibes. “Mark always rose to the top of our list— intelligent, even-keeled, persuasive, promised us everything we could want with his willingness to undergo our tests. I didn’t even think of checking his story.” His lips clasp into a thin line, eyes never leaving the steady swirl of his drink. “It’s not an excuse,” which means it is going to be offered as one and she will promptly reject it, “but my parents had died only months before, I was overwhelmed with the company and dealing with their estate, all I wanted was to protect people, to feel like I-”

“Like you had control.”

Tony’s nod is in slow-motion, her words being weighed with each dip of his chin, “And then I lost it. Two days before we were going to start building the vibranium exoskeleton on his body, some high-level, hoity toity government guy discovered glaring inconsistencies in his story.” This is information she has never heard nor gathered from Ultron, his version always maintaining the exact same details and heroically tragic overtones. “He was at the riots that day. Not as a bystander but as an organizer. Gave a speech and everything.” Ultron does love public oration and manipulation so this fits her knowledge of him as a person. “Turns out he was the one that suggested they all march over to Hart’s business to make their demands known and that if Hart refused their offer of less money for flour then they should take it by whatever force was necessary.”

This sounds far more in line with what she knows of Ultron, what she has seen him do simply with words, offer subtle suggestions to turn the tide of individuals and crowds. “He started the riots?”

“He did. Apparently, he was also the one trying to kill Hart, not stop it.”

Another behavioral consistency with the true man but this still doesn’t explain Ultron’s fury and need for vengeance. For some reason she never inquired of Ultron why he hated Stark, the mere fact his hatred matched her own was enough to assume Stark was the nexus of all Ultron’s pain and anger. Now it seems vital to understand the origins of his motivation. “What did you do to him?”

“I didn’t do anything to him,” defensiveness enters his voice, body bristling and ready to fight.

It causes her to rethink what she said and acknowledge it could have been phrased better. “I’m sorry, I meant, what happened next?”

Stark’s annoyance lessens slightly, though his knuckles remain white from gripping his drink. “I literally did nothing to him. We released him from the program, the War Department locked up the vibranium and started brokering deals of who they might sell it to, and my contract was done, project U.L.T.R.O.N. was forgotten and frankly I haven’t thought of Mark, or whatever his name was, for some time.”

There is a disconnect in how Stark views harm, one that seems to demarcate around the intricacies of commission versus omission. “Doing nothing isn’t the same as not harming.”

“Oh, well, since you seem to be the expert,” how easily they always return to this state, the push and pull of their relationship requiring tension and sarcasm, “please tell me how I ruined his life by merely releasing him.”

Wanda proceeds with a caveat, an olive branch to soften his negativity to what is coming, “Nothing excuses what he has become or what he is planning to do.” Stark’s crystal tumbler sways to the side in acceptance of her preemptive placating, encouraging her to proceed. “You gave him hope,” just like Stark Industries had done in Novi Grad, a promise of something just a bit better than what they’d had before, “a path forward after he’d lost so much. My guess is you had fitted everything and tested it out.”

“We had created functional versions in less resilient material.”

Sokovia had tasted the fruit of their labor, an economy that at least provided what was needed—food on the table and a roof overhead for everyone. The success of Stark’s factory was already bringing other businesses into negotiations to establish a presence in the city. “Then you just took it away, did you even let him have a prototype or offer anything to help his injuries?” Tony’s silence speaks volumes, eyes distant and mouth set in a stern line, as if he’s possibly looking in a mirror for the first time in his life and realizes the blemishes in skin. “He’s a horrible man, a monster, and he likely didn’t deserve anything, but I imagine, in his mind, you abandoned him when you knew he needed help, just like you did Sokovia after the factory.”

His voice is quiet and forcefully even, “I left Sokovia because I thought my continued presence would only be a reminder of what happened.”

“You helped send us into a depression. No one else wanted to come to the city with the skeleton of your failure still standing.” There’s no counter argument or biting remark, only his unnerving stare, “Had you just done something, anything, it would have hurt less than the abandonment.”

Tony glances down, morosely watching the ebb and flow of his drink, wrist endlessly in motion. “All he was to me was the lunatic who caused a year of my work to be for nothing.” A sip breaks the sentence, followed by a grimace and he continues, “Then again all Sokovia was to me was an ill-handled disaster I could forget about by just turning away.” Frustrated tears threaten to fall from the corners of her eyes at finally getting an honest admission from him. “But you can’t forget it,” it seems the tears are mutual, glistening in his own eyes, “and neither can he.”

“He wants to obliterate you and everyone around you.”

Tony’s wrist stops, the ripples of his drink calming into a placid lake, “Do you still want that?”

Whether the answer she gives is the one meant to get her back to Vision or the truth, it is the same, “No.”

Briefly he snaps out of the melancholy, lifting the glass in solute to solving one problem at hand, “Cheers to that.”

“Cheers.” Their glasses clink and the feeling in the air is unburdened, almost peaceful, though that is strongly influenced by the alcohol. She considers keeping him in this mood, not currently annoyed at his company, but there are still more answers she needs. “How did you get the vibranium back for Vision?”

Stark sobers, putting the glass down and leaning forward, elbows coming to rest on his knees while he lowers his voice as if the heads of the War Department are in the hidden passageways surrounding them. “It was an amazing material, actually tried to buy it from them myself, but I didn’t succeed at that. So I kept an eye on it, tracked it as they sold it and turned my interests more towards finishing the arc reactor. Conveniently, they sold it to Queen Victoria a year before I went over to do some work, give some speeches to aspiring engineers like myself.” Like Victor Williams.

Vision told her he’d never asked or wanted details about the acquisition of the vibranium, his control over curiosity and morality impressive, something she doesn’t consider a vital trait in her own life. “Did you steal it?”

“I did,” mischief alights on his face as he picks up his drink again, “don’t tell Vision though.” His jovial pride slips backwards into somberness as he continues, “Vision was the perfect candidate. He needed it to survive, he had a clean past, a bright future, clearly had heroic qualities.” And Tony’s guilt at being the cause for the injuries no doubt played into his (not wrong) perceptions of Vision’s fit for the program. “The design was going to need an update given the difference in injuries, which wasn’t a big deal, but project U.L.T.R.O.N was done and they said I couldn’t re-up the contract. I did try,” the glass waves through the air as he attempts to resolve the dissonance created by breaking the law, “to use official,” he pauses, “somewhat official channels and when they didn’t respond in a timely manner, what else did they expect to happen?”

Wanda weighs the words, a little perturbed at finding she believes Stark so easily. “How did they never realize you took it?”

“Oh, they knew.” The trademark cocky grin he uses in public saunters into their conversation. “They could never find it though,” his voice grows conspiratorial, inviting her into a dark web even Vision is ignorant of, “I convinced them Vision had the plague, so they never went into his room and that also made them want him out of the country. All of that, plus being the preeminent businessman of my country,” this is the Stark she knows far better than the vulnerable one of before, “made it easier for Polk to convince the Queen to let me return to the States instead of facing prosecution.”

Belief in his veracity and the cunning of his actions, however, can’t change the truth of what Ultron wants or what he has planned, the past cannot save the present. “Ultron is looking for the vibranium.”

“Of course he is.” A beat and the uneasy comfort they have descends into mistrust, “You didn’t tell him about-”

Wanda makes sure her, “No,” is forceful and irrefutable before easing into the uncomfortable truths of Ultron’s knowledge. “But Ultron suspects Vision has it.”

“Fuck.” A hand to his face muffles the second part of his comment, “Don’t tell Vision I just said that in front of you.” An alien, surprisingly hopeful smile forms on her lips at the now two implicit suggestions of speaking to Vision at some point in the future. “Wanda,” then it flees at the way Stark is eying her, “since I’ve been so open to your questions, mind if I ask some of my own?”

The only way they will successfully take down Ultron is if an alliance is formed, if the line between sides is thoroughly and unmistakably carved into the ground. Wanda does her best to mimic the way Stark tilted his glass towards her earlier, “Go ahead.”

His fingers tap against his mouth as he sorts through whatever questions he has, pausing several times to raise a finger and then seemingly deciding that question is not the best. Finally, he seems to hone in on a strategy, settling himself back comfortably into his chair, and proceeds, “How’d you get involved with Ultron?”

Unlike Tony, Wanda doesn’t feel compelled to share long narratives, no matter how much alcohol she’s consumed. “We had the same goal, to destroy you, it seemed an ideal partnership.”

“That’s honest.” Typically he’d say it sarcastically, yet in this moment it seems a refreshing observation to him. “You know, I always kind of fantasized about underground crime networks out to get me, shunned scientists or jealous business partners who realized they could never reach my intellectual potential.” Of course he has, no doubt he’s even given them snarky and Stark-centric names. “It’s really not fun, now that I know it exists.” He finishes his second glass as he transitions to a new topic, “I’m still having a hard time with one minor—actually major thing. I get you wanted to destroy me.”

“Yes.”

“And you maintain you’ve never wanted to harm Vision?”

“Yes.”

Tony scrunches his face as she confirms what she’s already told him on numerous occasions. “So how does he keep ending up like this?”

The full explanation involves going all the way back to Sokovia, to the baron, the emergence of her powers and the winding path that brought her to Stark’s mansion. Each step of that journey will no doubt be crudely questioned, her intentions and her motivation never truthful enough for Stark. Even with the aid of bourbon, she has no desire to go through that, so she tries to find a way to summarize all of it as succinctly as possible. “My best guess,” Wanda can’t look at the man across from her and actually say this, so she keeps her eyes locked onto the checkered pattern of the tabletop between them, “is that everyone I’ve ever loved in my life, I’ve lost. And the deeper I care about Vision, the more I want to protect him, the more hurt he gets because of my past associations. I think it’s my fate or something.”

Silence isn’t what she expects, Tony Stark not a man capable of more than a second of stillness before he feels the need to fill it, yet he hasn’t spoken, hasn’t even placed his glass down or suggested another drink, the only sound in the room is her own heart beating in her throat. “He’s doing okay, Wanda. Not great by any means, but okay.” The tiniest weight lifts from her chest. “Been sleeping pretty much all day, like he is now. The one time he was awake, well that’s a bit dicier.” This isn’t comforting, though she waits to see if Stark elaborates on his definition of dicey. “At first he seemed himself, logical and quiet, and then,” her fingers grip the glass tighter as Stark elongates the pause in his sentence, “Then he went off the rails.” Stark laughs, it’s one note, brief, and borderline manic, “Like when I asked him what happened he tried to tell me you have powers that come out of your hands.”

Wanda bends forward to place her drink down, using enough force that the clink of the crystal on wood is loud enough to pull Stark’s attention solely to her. “You mean like this?” Scarlet engulfs her hand, pulsing in even rhythms, growing brighter the longer he stares, and then she steals his glass with a whip of scarlet.

“Huh.” She’d expected him to be gobsmacked, maybe a bit terrified because fear is still a welcome look on his face, and it’s possible his lack of words is the way this manifests, but it is not nearly as satisfying. “I suppose him saying you read minds is not a whole hogD either?” Wanda shakes her head, not particularly interested in entering the millionaire’s mind to prove it. “Huh.”

This would be the point where she should bring back the séance, help him understand she’s being truthful, yet she feels perhaps it is best for him to come to that conclusion alone or possibly even go back to Vision, a source he trusts far more than her. “Anything else?”

His face is full of questions, ideas treading together just beneath the surface until he tamps it down. “I think I’ve reached my weird quotient for the night, so maybe tomorrow.” The atmosphere cracks around them as he stands, stretching his arms out to shoo away the ghosts of their past before he glues on an unconvincing disinterest to his close-lipped smile. “I should check on Vision.” Stark hesitates, mulling over something in his mind, “I’ll let you know when he wakes up.”

“Thank you.” The door shuts behind Stark and she’s left alone once more.

“This room’s too small.” Clint paces through the empty rows of chairs, eyes taking in every angle of the room. “There’s no clear shots in case we need to shake a flanninE.”

Over breakfast they all discussed how to prepare for Ultron, a conversation that was illuminating and helpful, though uncomfortably absent the one person Wanda wanted to see the most. The path forward is structured along two branches - technological and tactical. Stark, Rhodes, and Vision (once he stops, according to Stark, sleeping away his responsibilities) are experimenting with what was labeled a failsafe option in case Ultron gets ahold of the arc reactor, though Stark maintained an infuriatingly tight-lipped policy on the device stating it was too soon in development to divulge more. This left Wanda and her chaperones to determine the defensive strategy for the demonstration, and Wanda can’t help but wonder if the insistence they check on the set-up at the Crystal Palace is an elaborate way Stark is keeping her from Vision.

Natasha follows in Clint’s path, face devoid of all emotion or sign of her thoughts. The room itself is on the third floor, deep in the west nave with a small stage at the front and enough room for about twenty people to sit and watch. It’s exactly what would be needed for an intimate demonstration meant only for experts in the field. But, considering Ultron’s intentions, it is also perfect for an ambush as there is nowhere to hide, or run, and little room to fight back once control is lost. Natasha seems in concurrence as she steps onto the stage and stares out at the seats, “It’s not ideal.”

“Not ideal?” Clint flails his arms, turning to emphasize the space around them. “Nat, this is the reincarnation of Budapest.”

Whatever event he references casts a dangerous cloud over Natasha’s mind. “Do you have a better suggestion?”

“I do, actually, thanks for asking.” Clint marches out of the room, his steps confidently leading them down the semi-crowded hall and to the railing overlooking the main floor under the dome. “Right there,” he points to the stage still constructed from Stark’s opening demonstration, “I could stand up here and,” with realistic sound effects he pantomimes notching an arrow and letting it loose, “have actual control of the situation.”

Wanda was rarely included in the intricacies of tactical planning in Sokovia and with Ultron, only being brought on once her own part had been cast, making her feel practically useless right now as the two bicker. “You’d have ten times the people to watch.”

“They didn’t call me Hawkeye for nothing, Nat. I can hit anyone from any distance.”

Natasha’s remains on task, uninterested in joining his competition. “We open the demonstration to the public it means more people are being put in harm’s way.”

It’s a fair point, a large portion of their breakfast revolved around the need to reduce collateral, the reminder of Vision’s torture still too fresh. Except the size of the room won’t matter if Ultron succeeds fully with what he wants. When she dove into the abyss of his mind, she found a similar, monstrous plan to the time before, a bait and switch where a personal attack on Stark sits at the epicenter of wider destruction. Wanda glances over her shoulder, an action she’s been doing constantly since they left the tower, before hesitantly adding to the conversation. “He wants to use the arc reactor attack as a way to steer people deeper into the building,” the images still float in her mind and the harrowing glee he felt when thinking about it tingles on her palms, “where they can’t escape as easily.”

The rest is left hanging, too unbearable to utter in the open like this. Both of her companions seem to understand her concern. Natasha’s stoic and calculating stare sweeps across the open and majestic room before them. “How many minds can you control at once?”

“It depends.”

“On?”

The list is long and not at all exhaustive, this very line of inquiry of great interest to the scientists and the baron. Wanda narrows it down to the three most prominently featured in this setting. “I’m better in smaller rooms,” this allows her quicker access to everyone, “I’m better the closer I am, and if they are all thinking of the same thing.”

Clint leans against the rail to get a better view below them, “It’s pretty spacious compared to the other room.”

An eye roll betrays Nat’s feeling on the uselessness of his obvious observation. “If we could get you close and have everyone paying attention to one thing, how many?”

Wanda flexes her powers, hand buried in her skirt in case of curious onlookers, and presses gently against the crowd below. It’s difficult, hundreds of minds bouncing in hundreds of directions, no two the same, though she can locate pockets of similarities based on the displays. This isn’t how it would be if Stark moved his display here, that man, for better or worse, demands attention and during the Iron Man presentation almost every thought coalesced around him. When she recalls that feeling, the onslaught of hundreds of minds in unison, her powers flow a bit easier. “Two hundred, at best, and it couldn’t be anything complicated and I’d need to be protected, I can’t focus on all those people and defend myself.”

“I’ll cover you,” these words from anyone other than Natasha would be viewed as a polite yet empty promise, from the spy, however, it’s a binding oath.

“Then I think it could work.”

Clint surveys the ground floor again with an appreciative nod, “We should mosey on back to the tower to update everyone, plus,” the blacksmith’s pocket watch isn't on a shiny chain but it is a well-crafted and durable device, the solid silver face popping open to confirm his thought, “we need to get ready for the shindig tonight.”

Stark’s lavish party, the one Vision informed her was in protest to the President’s own event, is occurring on the Virginia in a few hours. Wanda wasn’t invited, not a single person inquired if she had clothes or if she intended to go, which is fine, because she’d have declined anyway. It does create a barrier on their reconnaissance efforts, “We should head back,” Natasha’s open displeasure lies at the crossroads of inadequate time to prepare for a mission and the unenviable option of crossing Pepper’s sternly reiterated timeline for the evening. “On the way out look for anything that obscures sightlines, evacuation paths, or might be trouble for us.”

What two days ago was a wonderland of unique, enthusiastically narrated innovations, turns into a nightmare. The Fresnel lensF is stripped of its structural beauty and revealed to be a monolith blocking the closest route of escape. Each statue rises to block sight lines and cage in the eager crowd likely to form, Wanda even pushes her powers against the base of scene frozen in struggle—a hunter attempting to strike down the snake poised to attack. The pedestal shakes and Wanda adds it as a potential concern. They walk past the cord pyramid and it is a fire hazard, the Colt display becomes either an armory for themselves or a garden of death in Ultron’s possession. For a moment, Wanda stops and stares at herself in the enormous mirror, a fuzzy recollection of its history only heightening her attention to the empty space beside her. She begins to turn away and then stops, feet slowly rotating her back to her reflection where over her shoulder she can see the woman in white in the distance, staring directly into the glass. The woman moves on, apparently gaining all she needed.

When they return to the tower, it’s abuzz with activity. Numerous nameless, nigh identical socialites lounge in the front parlor awaiting the scheduled ride to the Virginia. The women are experts at looking at ease even in their intricate structured and lavishly decorated dresses, and the men, being chivalrous, lean against walls and tables and the backs of couches as they cheerily chat. Pepper flits between groups, the polite and gracious smile of a host affixed to her face. There's an entire fleet of butlers and maids, faces she has never seen before and assumes are employees of the invasive species of wealth in the room. Natasha guides them through the crowd, deep into the secondary parlor reserved only for long-term house guests. It’s here they find Rhodes and Tony locked in debate. “Are you really turn coating now?”

“I’m just saying,” Rhodes’ manner is similar to how she’s seen parents acting while defusing the bomb that is a sassing adolescent in public, “For the sake of time, go with the other one.”

“Tony,” Natasha, who has a built-in clock and believes in wasting none of that time, intervenes, “we have some ideas for your demonstration.”

The millionaire whisks around, a toothy, slightly disordered grin on his face. “Great, you can tell me at the gala, but more importantly, do you like this one,” a garish gold laced monstrosity is held to his neck, “or this one?” a subtler maroon cravat with flecks of gold ascends. Most people would allow feedback at this point, but they instead get the backstory. “Without spoiling anything, Rhodes and I prefer one of them and then, in an act of utter betrayal, Vision has sided with Pepper.”

Natasha’s inhale isn’t audible, but the disapproval and annoyance at this being the crisis is palpable in the air around her. “It really seems Vision is the only intelligent man in this scenario. Like him, I will always side with Pepper.”

“I like the gold one,” Clint’s selection isn’t as sincere as it is devious, a smirk on his face belying his need to cause more drama.

“Thank you!” Tony now turns to her, “Okay Wanda, you’re the literal tie breaker now.” This she takes as a promising sign, the act of asking her opinion perhaps indicating there is some level of understanding and possibly (though unlikely) forgiveness. “This cunning gold one,” a dramatic flourish brings the eyesore to his throat, “or,” limply he displays the other one, “this one that probably twenty other people will also be wearing tonight.”

Due to the breakneck pace of Stark’s mouth, her mind took far too long to connect all of the information being lobbed around the room. “Did you say Vision is awake?”

Tony piggybacks on her question with a bribe, “He is, side with me,” the gold cravat rises to his neck and does a little dance, “and maybe I can tell you where he is.”

“He’s in the study,” Rhodes states it matter-of-factly, ignoring the daggers sent his way via Stark, “asked us to inform you he’d find you as soon as he’s done.”

Tony’s “Traitor” occurs simultaneously with her, “Thank you.”

Patience being an aggravating virtue, Wanda locates an available seat on the other end of the couch from Rhodes, settling in to wait for Vision to finish whatever he’s doing, certain if she tried to disengage from the conversation and slip out the back door in search of the butler, she would be immediately apprehended. “Wanda,” she looks up at Tony, his voice lacking its usual layer of acidity while maintaining its cocky authority, “you didn’t choose.”

The cravats shimmy in the air as he waits for her. “The gold one,” Tony perks up, shoving the supposedly boring one away, “is hideous.”

“You know what,” the majority opinion is shoved deeper into his trouser pocket, a seething shrug undermining his attempt at nonchalance, “clearly none of you understand fashion,” Rhodes’ Hey! isn’t acknowledged in the mini tirade, “and this room doesn’t have to be a democracy.”

Wanda startles when the door to the parlor opens, heart frantically tapping against her rib cage until she sees it is Pepper, not Vision, entering the space. “Tony, we need to go,” there is no leeway offered in the statement, her austerity shackling Stark’s usual flippancy as he silently obeys and heads towards her with a smile. The woman glances at the cravat being tied around his neck and her lips purse into disapproval, “You are not wearing that thing.”

This seems to be the key to releasing any control she had, Stark leaning in to kiss her cheek while offering her a waggish, “We need to go, Pepper, can’t be late to our own party.”

Tony struts out of the room, leaving Pepper to share a commiserate and silent stare with the room. “Natasha are you-”

“Clint and I will meet up with you at the boat.” This seems the only concern left, Pepper exiting towards the main parlor and Clint and Natasha out the back door towards the living quarters.

Only Rhodes remains, sitting with his legs crossed and book in hand, fingers tapping out a spirited rhythm to whatever tune seems to be in his head. “Are you not going?”

The tapping stops, “I don’t particularly feel like being surrounded by Brown Stone FrontsG tonight.”

Having witnessed how the wealthy and hoping-to-be-wealthy treated the man on the journey down river, Wanda can’t fault him his decision even if she knows it is more likely to be a pretext to the real reason. “And I’m guessing Stark doesn’t want me alone with Vision.”

“That is the ancillary purpose.” The book closes over his finger, saving his place as he angles his legs towards her. “Based on everything that’s happened, figured it wouldn’t be a bad idea for a third person to be around in case there’s trouble.” If the comment had come from Tony she would immediately internalize it about herself, but there is something in Rhodes’ nonjudgmental cadence that implies the trouble is external, that he is thinking more of an ambush from without instead of from within, and this trust, as misplaced as it is, soothes a fraction of her anxiety.

Wanda smiles at the man and they lapse into silence, his book opening up as his legs swing back into comfort, swaying with the song of his mind. Typically companionable silence is welcomed, something Wanda doesn’t mind on good days, but on days where her mind is firing like an out of control piston, it puts her on edge. “Do you know what Vision is doing in the study?”

“Tony called in some doctors. Wanted someone other than Vision to tell him everything was fine.” A fair decision to make, one Rhodes seems unconcerned with, his attention returning to the book.

Her fingers twist together, each second that passes urges her powers on, and it’s when the scarlet threatens to break that she stands up and moves to the window, where she can hide her fidgeting hands from Rhodes. Scarlet twines between her fingers in an orderly, focused fashion as she counts each person who gets into the carriages outside, every flouncy dress or four-piece suit that disappears into the rod iron and wood vehicles being one less potential source of interference once Vision is done. Instead of helping to pass the time, the procession into the three carriages is agonizingly slow, each hand gently cupped to help up the large-skirted women, or pat to the back as the men speak, is another reminder of how long it has been since she’s seen Vision.

Wanda watches as Tony bows low, hat clasped in his hand, when Pepper (the last of the train of guests) approaches the carriage. A detachment of sorts exists, her feelings towards the man still lurking in the background, but she is able to watch the seemingly flirtatious banter, the brazen way Stark kisses Pepper’s cheek in public, the sheer exuberance on both their faces, and accept how wonderful their love seems. She even finds herself caring that it not be ruined by Ultron. It’s a bit disquieting to wish good will to Stark. Tony pauses as he follows his lover into the carriage, his face turning towards the tower, and Wanda fights the impulse to duck out of view, instead remaining at the window in full sight, hoping it serves to further extend the peace treaty between them.

Once the doors are shut and the horses trot away, Wanda leaves her observation point, pacing back and forth behind the couch, getting occasional glances from Rhodes, her mind going over each word she intends to say to Vision. She has at least five variations, all depending on what she thinks he may (or may not) say upon seeing her. Each one starts with his name and an apology, from there it diverges into additional apologies or inquiries as to his well-being, or promises it won’t happen again, or explanations as to why he should never talk to her again, or, her current preferred route, simply wrapping her arms around his waist and refusing to let go.

The sound of voices, particularly the gentle lull of Vision’s, renders her motionless, her feet stuck mid-stride and her hands finding each other. Two women dressed in rational costumesH enter the room, one of them (her jet-black hair secured in a serious bun just above the equally serious knot of her apron) is walking backwards as she speaks. “You are certain this can wait until after the demonstration?”

“I am certain.” Wanda’s breath catches once Vision enters, his voice matching the relaxed clothing he wears, his shirt loosely tucked into dark linen pants she knows he would never wear in public, even if they are still nicer than what Clint wears on a daily basis.

The other woman mirrors the concern from her companion, “We can do it tonight.”

“I cannot afford to be quiescent right now.” Whatever their discussion concerns, it is one that feels as if it is the third time it is happening, an obstinacy to Vision’s refusal that is common when people feel their limits are being unduly challenged. “Mr. Stark is expecting a great deal from me in the next two days.”

“Three days then,” the second woman, auburn hair braided and draped over the shoulder strap of her stiff white apron, makes the decision.

Vision gives in with a somewhat strained, “Very well.” It’s only at the conclusion that the three people realize they aren’t alone, Vision’s face turning up to survey the room and then freezing when he sees her. All her planned words flee at the timid concern in his eyes and his tentative, soft, “Wanda.”

“Vision.”

She’s upset she can’t muster more, doesn’t provide him guidance or any sort of question, despite her careful plan. But he fills the silence by taking up the mantle of pleasantries. “How are you doing?”

If not for the entreaty on his face and the tension of his body as he waits for her response, she’d label this as default politeness. Except this is genuine, perhaps not the actual question he has, but all of his concern, his worry, his rumination on what happened is stuffed into the one phrase. Wanda offers him a small smile and watching his own anxiety be sloughed away by the action eases the weight on her chest. “I’m fine, Vision. How are you?”

“I have felt better,” perhaps he’s finally moving away from the socially expected dampening of his pain, “a lot better, actually, yet it is still a vast improvement over yesterday.”

Wanda’s relieved, “Good,” barely reaches the midpoint of the chasm between them.

“Vision,” the black-haired woman, her back still to Wanda, places a hand on his arm, a touch that is friendly and not unwelcomed, or at least he doesn’t pull away or deflect the invasion of his typically well-guarded personal space. “We’ll be back in a few days.”

Vision’s face slips into embarrassed congeniality and Wanda takes it to heart that her presence made him forget, for a moment, what was happening around him. “Of course, thank you for all of your help,” he steps back and opens his shoulders up to both women, “both of your help.” Even Rhodes joins Wanda’s interested stare at the group, his book forgotten as they watch Vision’s eyes widen in horror, “My sincerest apologies.” His placation is leveled at every person in the room. “Miss Maximoff, Officer Rhodes, please let me introduce you to Dr. Helen Cho,” he angles his body a bit to the right to indicate the black-haired woman, who turns around and offers Wanda and Rhodes a small bow, “and Dr. Christine Palmer,” the other woman smiles and the honorifics are what Wanda focuses on, not certain she’s ever heard a woman, much less two with that title. “They both have been instrumental in my well-being for many years now,” this is said with a pointed weightiness typically absent his voice, one that insinuates for those in the know (currently everyone but Rhodes) that the re-construction of Vision’s body lays in the hands of these women, “and, fortuitously, are both in town for the Exhibition.”

“I am here for you,” Wanda decides she likes Dr. Cho, the woman’s assertion of Vision’s importance is unshakeable and a bit of a challenge, even if she has a bright joy on her face, “The Exhibition is secondary.”

“And it is enormously appreciated.”

The conversation lulls and etiquette binds them all to remain in place, even Vision appears uncertain how to proceed in juggling his two guests in conjunction with how to respond to Wanda and how to also bring Rhodes in, his eyes discreetly bouncing between all their faces. Rhodes rises from the couch, lays the book on the cherry coffee table, and fastens a friendly grin to his face. “Allow me to show you two out so Vision can get back to resting.”

Vision’s face falls at the excuse, mouth already opening to provide a counterpoint at the suggestion he cannot complete his duties, but Dr. Palmer accepts the offer, striking down any dissent with an impressively firm and multifaceted, “Thank you.” Both women give goodbyes to the butler before following Rhodes out of the room.

The subtle swishing of the door fills the charged yet silent air between them, Wanda still stationed behind the couch while Vision stays near the doorway, their eyes locked and both of them waiting for the other to move. They should reconcile over Ultron, at the very least establish enough of an understanding to finish planning for the demonstration. But that’s an ugly conversation to have when she’s only just gotten him back. His continued silence suggests he may be struggling with the same battle, so she detracts from the Ultron tainted space between them. “You know, I’ve never met women who were doctors before.”

“Oh,” Vision’s eyes veer to the side, mind needing a few seconds of adjustment before he irons out the confusion contorting his features, “Yes, unfortunately society deems women incapable of such a job despite compelling evidence otherwise.”

Wanda braces her hands along the back of the couch in what she hopes is a casual lean that lightens the atmosphere of the room. “So how did you end up with two then?”

His face relaxes, whatever else had been on his mind abandoned as his voice takes on a hint of the enthusiasm it had at the Exhibition. “From my understanding, which is based on Mr. Stark’s explanation,” a look is shared between them that acknowledges the grain of skepticism required, “due to the experimental and controversial nature of his proposed procedure, no surgeons were willing to risk their reputations on,” now the corners of his mouth droop and she can practically feel his thoughts muddle, “what they deemed Mr. Stark’s Frankensteinian endeavor.” She only understands the reference based on what he told Ultron and it is not one that sounds generous towards himself.

“So how did he find someone?” Wanda laces her question with encouragement, fingers digging into the leather upholstery to tamp down her temptation to walk closer to him, deciding now that he’s fully alert, she needs him to make the first move, that he should tip them into whatever momentum seems best. Ideally it would be returning to what they had developed over their time together, what culminated between them on the steamboat.

However there is no sign of him moving, a rod shoved down his spine and into the ground keeping him tense and still. “A surgeon by the name of Stephen Strange contacted Mr. Stark and explained that, though he could not perform the procedure due to a recent injury, he had a very talented colleague, Dr. Palmer, who was interested.”

Wanda carefully considers his words. Even within the spiritualist community there are gender divides, the mesmerists are the reputable face of the movement, the men who meld science and mysticism into dramatics, and they are almost all that, men. The worst, most unconvincing mesmerist will still be believed over herself. She imagines the medical community is just as dismissive towards women. When you are denied visibility, then even the most egregious or controversial procedure can’t really harm a reputation that isn’t allowed to exist. “And Dr. Cho?”

Bemusement crinkles along the outer corners of his eyes, “She happened to be on a research fellowship, though we were not aware she was a woman for over half a year.”

“How is that even possible?”

A nervous, self-effacing laugh proceeds the explanation, “Dr. Cho subverted societal limits by hiring a man to act as one Amadeus Cho, famed JoesenI biologist, and she accompanied him as his interpreter. When Mr. Stark first heard of her, well his, I suppose, work it was at a consortium on physiology where she was presenting the translated talk on counteracting malignant bodily responses to surgical procedures.” Vision’s shoulders relax, slightly, pride at Dr. Cho’s bluff evident in his voice, “It was a cunning ruse, she could answer all questions asked at the presentation without drawing suspicion or derision.” For a moment Wanda wonders how many men have any idea the exhaustion that imbues your life when the only way to be considered seriously in your field is to have to be a completely different person.

“How did you finally figure it out?”

“Once I was conscious and conversant enough to handle my own communications,” something that took over half a year, far longer than even she imagined, “I thanked her for her integral role in facilitating the development of my medicine and constructing the infusion pump. Though she was ostensibly just an interpreter, she played a surprisingly hands on role which led me to inquire if she had ever considered pursuing the field itself.” Politeness isn’t a tool she ever believed needed to be honed, it was always just something people used to remain civil and distant, yet Vision utilizes it just as efficiently as she imagines Natasha can garner information with a pistol. “She informed me of the truth and then returned to Seoul soon after,” he pauses, assessing her face for recognition of the name. Wanda has heard of it once, from Tony, she thinks. Based on the woman’s appearance she can reach an educated guess the city is in what she has heard people refer to as the Orient. “We communicate monthly via letter or telegraph on my progress and she continues to synthesize all of my medication.”

Wanda isn’t sure how to respond, awed at the drive and ingenuity of the people surrounding Vision while realizing she isn’t ever going to reach such levels. “They both sound amazing.”

This draws his right foot forward, face growing severe at her tone despite his voice maintaining its even keel, “I am incredibly fortunate to know such remarkable women.” Another step towards her and her heart pounds against her ribs, “That includes you, Wanda.”

Her half-formed, disbelieving, “Vizh...” is enough to finally propel him to a decision. Wordlessly he crosses the room and envelops her in his arms, draws her tight against his chest and she collapses into him, returning the embrace, anchoring herself to his waist, her cheek resting firmly against the soft fabric of his shirt.

“Wanda,” her name is muffled, his lips pressed to her scalp as he offers an unnecessary, “I am so sorry.”

“No,” half her mind tells her to step back and say it to his face while the other half commands her to stay in the safety of his embrace where she can hear the familiar and remarkable rhythm of his heart. The latter half wins out, her sentence soaked up by his shirt, “Don’t apologize.”

Thankfully his own mind seems in concordance with hers concerning their closeness, his arms snug around her and his lips laying another kiss to her hair to help transmit his response, “I should have come sooner, but Mr. Stark-”

Without connecting with his mind, she can’t be sure of the rest of the sentence, but it probably would have been about confining him to his room or being too devoted in caring for the butler to allow space for others. Both of which are true. “Was only trying to protect you. I’m not angry at him.” Which is also true, annoyed, upset, disheartened, yes, but she can’t fault Stark his need to protect family. “Or you.”

The feel of his arms pulling back incites in her a need to cling to him, yet he still manages to pry himself away enough to stare at her, his unerring attention tugging her own eyes to meet his. “Wanda,” his bare hand molds to her cheek, “there is no reason I need to be protected from you and I have informed Mr. Stark that, though I appreciate his concern on the matter of my safety around you, it is wholly and completely misplaced.”

He is wrong to put his faith in her, she knows this based on sifting over and over again through her own past and what occurred with Ultron, revealing numerous fine points of contention to his argument. Only one is needed, however. “I hurt you.”

“Against your will.”

Wanda shakes her head, her movements dampened by his hand still holding her face, “What if it happens again?” Ultron is only one of the faces from her past and not the only one with a grudge against Stark, if they all find out who Vision is, how many others will manipulate their bond? “Vision, I-”

“I suppose if it becomes a regular ordeal, absent sadistic third parties, then perhaps we be concerned.” This is not at all how she envisioned their conversation going, him being the comforter, the foundation of calm, immutable optimism that somehow brightens the room around them, even managing to coax a laugh from her. His smile encourages her lips to maintain their upward arc. “I,” his free hand finds her own, sliding over it in a snug embrace, and then he brings it to his face, “I trust you, Wanda.”

The offer hangs in the air, her palm laying against his freshly shaved jaw, temptation and desire warring with the memory of watching him flinch from her and the weight of his body in her hands, of the fear still residing in herself at what she is capable of doing. For now she stays out of his mind, needing more time to trust herself again, but she needs him to understand how much the offer means. “Thank you.” She lays a hand to his chest and lifts onto her toes to press a questioning kiss to his cheek, seeking permission that this level of intimacy is fine. Strong, slightly trembling hands, cup her face and draw her in, their lips meeting and it doesn’t matter that she’s not delving into his mind, everything he is thinking is channeled into the kiss. The scrunch of his fingers against her cheek, the half step forward to eliminate all space between them, and the unerring, desperate pressure of his mouth asks her to accept his pardon, begs her to understand that what she has done against him has been weighed judiciously and he’s acquitting her of wrongdoing. Even if she has yet to agree, she accepts his judgment, hoping it can help her stay strong against what is on the horizon.

An uncertain, “Hello,” edges itself between their chests, forcing them apart as they turn towards Rhodes’ body leaning halfway through the doorway, “sorry for intruding,” he truly looks apologetic, “just wanted to let you know I’ll be in the lab.” Wanda doubts this was Stark’s intent of having a chaperone on hand, not that she will challenge Rhodes’ decision. “They should be back sometime around eleven, so you should probably mosey on down before then to make yourself look at home, okay?”

Vision seems just as surprised at the freedom offered them, a confused, “Of course,” falling limply from his lips as the sailor leaves the room again.

Perturbation is etched into the wrinkles forming on his forehead. “What’s wrong?”

“I have never parsed him out,” it’s a confession that bothers him, the role of a good butler hinging on accurately reading the room and understanding individual preferences. “I always assume, due to his military background, a strong adherence to orders, for which he is often a voice of reason against some of Mr. Stark’s more outrageous ideas. On the other hand, he is often just as enthusiastic of breaking rules as Mr. Stark. They can be a terrifyingly roguish duo when their thoughts align.”

Wanda admits she never imagined their prime confidant and gooseberry picker to be Stark’s closest friend. “Maybe he sees the line between morality and rules as more fluid than you.”

“That is possible.” A possibility that seems to send his mind diving deep into thought, his lips parted slightly in anticipation of speaking. “Wanda?” The seriousness is back on his face, a dreadful portentousness oozing from his very slow, very cautious suggestion, “If you are amenable, I wanted to show you a project I have been working on.”

Whether this is about Ultron or Tony or the Exhibition, it honestly doesn’t matter, she would say yes to anything he asked of her right now. “Of course.”

A precise nod joins his unconvincing, “Wonderful. It is in,” his voice falters, just a slight break in the words, “my quarters.” This isn’t offensive to her even if he hastily attempts to assuage her nonexistent concerns, “If you are more comfortable here, I can bring it down.”

“I’ve been in your other room before and you snuck into mine not too long ago.” And they have shared a bed.

“Yes, this is true.” He steps away and offers her his arm, an action she almost declines, out of principle. Instead she accepts, willing to conform to any societal expectation that dictates she be closer to him.

They walk through hallways, up several stairs, through secret doors, a path that is either the fastest (even if the most complicated) or meant to disorient her. With each turn in their journey Vision’s overall calm dissolves, the jitteriness in his steps and his politely distant directions send prickles along Wanda’s spine. The only promising sign of his nerves being unrelated to her is the fact he practically clings to her. When they walk they are arm in arm, when he has to find the switch for a secret passage he laces their fingers, and each time he waves her through a doorway ahead of him his hand moves from her arm to her back. It reminds her of the tunnel, of how her fingertips dragged through the roots and dirt of the wall to tether her to physical reality and away from spiraling thoughts.

“After you,” Vision motions her through the door and into his room. Like the manor, it is far bigger than any butler usually has, this space even more luxurious with two separate rooms, the main one housing his bed, a mirror, a wash basin, walls that are not busy but still display exquisitely realistic paintings of trees and mountainsides, and a table piled with books and covered in papers, a sight that would be surprising, given his usual cleanliness, if not for the general feel that he had been working on something prior to being interrupted. “It is back here,” his hand rests on her lower back as he guides her into the second room, a small laboratory filled with metal parts (organized in piles based on size and shape) and even more scribbled-on parchment.

“I thought you said you weren’t an engineer anymore,” she says it lightly, a gentle prod with a wide smile and he, thankfully, responds how she hopes, with a mild shrug and marginally sheepish tilt to his mouth.

“Mr. Stark included in my contract that, as his butler, I had to be well versed in mechanics and machinery to be an overall help in the household.” Sometimes (usually in weaker mental moments) she thinks that if Stark didn’t have that name, she may actually like him. “I only have a working space here, however, as I do not want to be involved in this aspect of the job too frequently.”

Wanda stands in the middle of the metal menagerie watching Vision wring his hands with distant eyes. “Vizh?”

This snaps him back to attention, determination filling his movements even if his, “Over here,” is a tad shaky. On the table is an array of devices, all almost identical—a metal plate (with a rivet in each corner) holding what appears to be a long cylinder that is flanked by metal rods sticking up from the plate. “These are some of the electromagnetic coils recovered from Mr. Stark’s factories.” Suddenly his jitters make sense and her heart sinks at the knowledge of what these small, harmless looking devices have wrought in their lives. “I,” Vision pauses, his fingers twining through her own, pulling her gaze to his face, one that is steeped in guilt and only sends her heart careening down towards her feet, “For years I had been attempting to figure out what caused the malfunctions.”

She doesn’t miss his roundabout acknowledgment of success, “What was it?”

The desk chair creaks as Vision pushes it out of the way and her body recoils into numbness when he lets go of her hand and picks up one of the coils. “This is the one from Mr. Stark’s London factory,” it’s horrifying to see the contrast of his scarred skin next to the charred remains of the very thing that changed his life, but it is even worse to see him turn it so casually through the air, “it had a small dent just under the primary interrupter leading the rhythm to be off just enough to build up too much energy. And this one, from his Brussels factory,” the prior one is placed down and another is picked up, no sign of hesitation or worry about it, and she has to imagine it is due to some sort of mental detachment he has formed, a dissociation from the past that allows him to do this. “It was in the coil itself, one of the inner wires appears to have been frayed upon the initial manufacturing.”

He stops the explanation and allows the suggestion to gestate in her mind. “Are you saying it was purposeful?”

“Based on the available evidence, it does suggest someone sabotaged the parts during their assembly.”

Fire flashes before her eyes, the screams of that day, of Stark’s memory of Vision’s own fate, echoing in her ears. “Who?”

The coil descends onto the table and the way he so gently grips both her hands is the opposite of comforting. “I am not sure,” anger boils up at his ignorance, at why he is telling her this if there isn’t even an answer, at how he could decide now, of all times, is the best to broach the topic, “but I think you may be able to help me.”

“How?” She spits it out, yanking her hands away and crossing her arms, recognizing he is not the one that deserves her ire and yet she's incapable of pushing her emotions aside.

Vision, in return, is overbearingly calm in response, his movements slow and words careful as if she is the damaged coil ready to burst into flames. “I saw an engraving on Ultron’s hand, when I shook it.”

Growing up she and Pietro played a game where one of them would draw a picture, sitting close enough to make out the general swoops of the pen but far enough that the image was obscured.

“It is the same mark that is etched into each of the defective coils and only on the defective ones, even Sokovia."

The entirety of winning or losing balanced on correctly guessing what was drawn. After the wager was placed, the piece of parchment was flipped over. Wanda almost always won, her attention to detail and ability to read her twin’s body language trumped Pietro’s quickness of guessing. He never slowed down long enough to consider what they’d seen that day or the day before, never thought about the conversations they’d just had as sources of inspiration.

“This is it.” Wanda barely registers grabbing the palm-sized piece of paper he offers, her eyes honed in on the unmistakable lines drawn in black ink.

Since she was ten, the broad brush strokes of her life all indicated that when the picture was finally revealed it would only be Tony Stark’s cocky face.

It’s not.

The paper flutters to the ground, her lungs collapsing in on themselves and bursts of light pop into her periphery from holding her breath. “Wanda?” Her name is said from far away, years stretching out in front of her as she stumbles backwards in her mind. “Wanda?” She tries to speak but her lips are parched, her tongue a useless, dried out thing in her mouth. By his third, very imploring, “Wanda?” her hands manage to act, pulling the hem of her blouse from her skirt and lifting it up and over her head, ignoring his startled, “Wanda!”

Wanda shoves the band of her chemiseJ off her shoulder and angles her back towards Vision, pointing him where to look. Thankfully he understands without requiring more from her. His touch is tender, skimming forward over the indented scar on her shoulder and then backwards, as if the first time was a lie. It’s unnecessary for him to bend and retrieve the paper, to hold it to her back and compare, because it’s obvious he memorized the interconnected initials well enough to recognize it on Ultron’s hand during a brief handshake. “Who did this?” The mournful fury of his voice is so foreign, so ill-fitting to his demeanor that she almost laughs, but she doesn’t, worried the action is too close to sobbing and she refuses to break down now.

“His,” the word comes out in a croak, her tongue working poorly at wetting her lips, “name is,” the first part doesn’t even come out as noise, only “von Strucker” surfacing. That’s all she can get out, the wave of self-loathing far too strong as she wrestles with the converging image of yet another misstep at seeing the truth. Years after Stark left, a baron from Prussia entered Novi Grad armed with a promise of revitalization to the ailing city, a well-laid out plan to rebuild its legacy, establish it as a leading center for scientific inquiry and innovation. All of it was meant to allow them steps towards autonomy. She and Pietro soaked up his words, years of living in squalor and nursing their anger made them revel in the condemnation leveled against capitalistic experimentalists such as Stark. They were blinded by hatred, a flaw she can’t ever seem to shake, believing Baron von Strucker when he said he had a way for them to finally show the world the true might of Sokovians. Even after he branded them, making them his scientific property, they rationalized it as simply part of the process, a necessary pain towards their role in the new Sokovia. “He did,” Wanda lights her hand with scarlet flames and watches the reflection of her torment in Vision’s eyes, “this to me.”

Vision cups her hand confidently, not flinching or rescinding his touch even when the red inferno crawls up his wrists, “Wanda I-”

The content of his question is lost as her mind reels, all the pieces cascading around her in random patterns, but if she can just grab a hold of them, one at a time, she can finally fit them together. Pride has to be swallowed for her to accept the clear, well-researched proof Vision has that Stark, though not blameless or pure by any means, was himself not fully in control of the disaster. That the death of her parents and all the others lost in the factory fire were enmeshed in a larger, longitudinal scheme for power, one directed by the man who stepped in as their savior. All the minds she ruined, all the lives that crumbled before her, the families and relationships torn asunder by her need for vengeance, were for nothing other than removing obstacles that happened to be pestering von Strucker or threatening his standing. But she recognized the malevolence and the mistreatment in Sokovia, she and Pietro had been drifting away from the von Strucker's hold, and Pietro’s death finally motivated her to carry out their plan to run, to start a new life. Then Ultron found her and the cycle repeated.

This is where her puzzle begins to turn from easily connected tabs and slots to wavy, indiscernible edges that seem to fit with any number of other pieces. Ultron groomed her, called her his miracle, his gift, a happenstance meeting that brought him in contact with a like-minded soul. Eventually she told him about von Strucker, the mutual goal they shared and Ultron’s lack of sufficient financial resources was enough to convince her to briefly reinstate her connection with the operation, all with the intent of righting the wrongs wrought by Stark.

Arms wrap around her and she feels her body moving, can hear her name in the distance and ignores it, mind working to shove the last bit in place, the thing that changes the entirety of the image she thought she’d been making.

Ultron already had the prosthetic when she met him.

“Wanda…” hands cup her face and she finally opens her eyes. Scarlet pulsates wildly around her, her emotions thrown out and in amongst the tempest of red is Vision, his face pale and lips moving with a frantic, “Wanda.” Words fail her still, her mouth opening and only a guttural breath conveying any information. Vision leans his forehead against hers, the fog of her powers fleeing from his path only to reform around his head in an eerie halo. It doesn’t faze him, his hands sure against her face and his voice beseeching. “Please let me help you.” There isn’t anything he can do about her past, her story written, her life painted and the colors are dried, ready to be hung on the wall next to his trees and mountains. He grabs her hand and puts it to his face, repeating his plea, “Please, Wanda, let me help.”

The scarlet coiling around his body becomes less chaotic as she accepts his offer and anchors herself to his mind. Immediately she is met with the sound of rain, a gentle patter so soft she can count each drop pooling into the empty bucket of her sanity. But then she remembers the symbol, the hand, the implications of what it means that Ultron knew von Strucker before she ever arrived in New York and she begins to unconsciously change Vision’s mind, the drizzle escalating into a storm, lightning crashing and thunder shaking the foundation of their connection. Somehow he pushes back, his hands firm without hurting her and his head pressing closer to her forehead, forcing their noses to touch. The storm dies down to the type of weather that is comfortable to watch from the window and this is when she begins to leeches his calm, packaging it into a bundle and moving it into her own mind, their breathing synchronizing until she is no longer shaking. Only then does she open her eyes and meet his doleful stare and unnecessarily remorseful, “I am so sorry, Wanda.”

It’s not his fault, he knows this, she knows this, his apologies can’t change anything, can’t go back in time and convince her to walk away after the first experiment, can’t bring Pietro back, can’t stop her from falling into Ultron’s honeyed promises of vengeance. Nothing can change what has happened and for the first time she accepts it, bottles up her anger and her fear and directs it at the future, the only thing she has left that is under her control. It’s fortunate that her future is tangible, his forehead pressed to hers, his breath hot against her cheek, the waft of metal finally associated with something pleasant, and she realizes there is only one way to guarantee her past can no longer haunt them. “I’m going to kill Ultron.” It’s not a perfect remedy but it is expedient and final and arguably a horrible idea, one she needs him to counter. Vision remains deathly still, even his mind shutting down and presenting merely an empty field. SO she pushes him, “Why aren’t you telling me not to?”

“Because I cannot decide if morally it is worse to kill him or to allow him to live on to do it again.” The torture of the dilemma makes his voice crack, his eyelids dropping as he directs his stare down and he whispers, “There could be one other option.”

Wanda lifts his chin until their faces are even, “What?”

“Mr. Stark and I have been designing a failsafe.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard it mentioned like ten times,” she doesn’t try to temper her annoyance, too tired and emotionally exhausted to be polite. “What is it?”

An apologetic purse of his lips is his only acknowledgment of her frustration. He leans back, hands traveling from her face down to her hands, which he clasps between his. It’s only now she realizes he relocated them during her mental crisis to sit on his bed, out of sight of the coils. “We have been designing a mechanism that will only be activated if the arc reactor is removed from the pump. It,” he hesitates, a deep exhale sending a scurry of agitation along her arms, “would destroy the reactor, something we believe is necessary to eliminate the possibility of Ultron harnessing its power and it will," his voice shifts into what is almost tipping into optimism, a morbid one and one he seems to reticent to share, "in the process, severely maim the individual who grabs it, that was Mr. Stark’s addition. But-”

Wanda can’t be passive on this, ice freezing her veins and stopping her heart, imbuing her voice with a frigidness she hopes he feels bodily. “Absolutely not.”

“Wanda-”

“No, Vision,” red seeps out of her hands, engulfing his arms once more, “you are not sacrificing yourself, I won’t let you.”

Defiance lingers in his otherwise placid features, “It is an option of last resort only. We have already-”

“It shouldn’t even be an option, Vizh. There has to be another way.”

He examines their joined hands, uncomfortable with being the messenger yet still he soldiers on in his attempt to justify his ridiculous suggestion. “We believe we have devised a way to dampen the power of the Arc 2 from the Iron Man to function adequately within the infusion pump.”

Of course he would have a fall back option and a source of rationale for the tightrope walk over a gaping grave he’s suggesting, “And what if the pump is destroyed?”

“It shouldn’t be, but,” the length of his hesitation is unnerving, a fissure forming in his usually unflappable countenance, “to be frank,” a phrase that concerns her far more than the idea of destroying the arc reactor, “according to Dr. Palmer and Dr. Cho, regardless of the functioning of the pump, parts of the exoskeleton are degrading at a faster rate than is sustainable.” Tears wet the corners of his eyes and frustration tenses his fingers around her own, “And if anyone has to take on the yoke of potential harm in this plan, there is no reason for it to be you," he almost stops there, continuing in after a few seconds, "or Mr. Stark, or Miss Potts, or Officer Rhodes, or anyone who has an actual chance at longevity.”

Her mind wasn’t prepared for the whiplash of emotions, diving from joy at seeing him into the depths of angry resolution and now swinging into hopelessness. It is discombobulating and makes her feel like she is lost at sea, splashing out an SOS. “Is there nothing that they can do?”

“There is an experimental procedure,” the one they must have been talking about when they entered the inner parlor, “with equal chance of success and failure based on Dr. Cho’s animal trials.”

All he has offered her since they’ve met is a kindness predicated on an optimism that all will work in her favor, that she is strong and capable and this will carry her through. It’s alarming to see his inability to apply the same support to himself. Wanda lets go of his hands and rises onto her knees, using the momentum to lean into him, her arms wrapping around his neck so that she can lay her forehead to his once more, ensuring he can hear her, “Stop being an imbecile, Vision.” Air rushes past her cheek as he chokes out a laugh, “Regardless of what happens, of whether the procedure works or not, of how fast your the metal degrades, you matter just as much as anyone else," this is the truth in general, but not quite for her own view, "but to me, you matter even more than everyone else."

“Wanda…”

“There’s no logical argument against my statement so don’t even try,” another deprecating laugh and she draws him in for a kiss, one that is feather light while still conveying her certainty in what needs to come next. Everything until this point has been taken from her, over and over again, so many times it was influenced by a misplaced trust formed in desperation. Through all of those stumbles, and falls, and metaphorical cliffs she’s been shoved from, it’s allowed her to recognize the rarity that is the bond between the two of them, one she ardently refuses to lose and she needs Vision to know this, in case what he fears comes true. “You matter to me because your mind is brilliant and makes me feel safe.” He tries to respond but she takes a page from Stark’s book and just keeps talking. “Your words enrapture me because they are always filled with warmth, and kindness, and genuineness even if you are a sore winner and sometimes stubborn." His tiny smile urges her on. "Despite what you may think, you are incredibly handsome.” She kisses away his disagreement, thrilled when his hand comes to rest on her waist. “But most importantly, you have the single most extraordinary soul I have ever found. I love you, Vision and no one is taking you from me.”

Anxiously she reads the lines on his face, untrained in how to interpret the branching near his eyes or the long, unbroken line across his forehead, lines she needs and wants more time to learn. But she doesn’t feel like more can be said, her point made, and she refuses to access his mind right now, needing whatever he says or does next to be of his own volition. Finally, his features still and he doesn’t hide anything behind a wall of etiquette, every drop of contrasting emotion allowed to flit through his eyes. And then he smiles and the world, for a moment, exists only in the space around their bodies, its core resting in the decreasing space between their lips as he requites her profession. “I love you as well, Wanda Maximoff.”

If they were not a day away from potential catastrophe, if there were not other plans to iron out, strategies to delineate, if the clock on his desk didn’t tick quickly towards Stark’s return, she would extend out this moment, trap him in her embrace and lose herself in him. But if they can figure out how to stop Ultron, can find a way to stop the past from encroaching on their future, then she knows they can lavish themselves in their affections after, unimpeded by anything and anyone, a promise of a tomorrow much better than she’s used to. “Is there nothing else you can think of to stop Ultron?”

She’s not surprised by his quiet and remorseful, “No.” Which leads her into the next thing to confirm.

“Do you actually think it will work?”

Vision’s hands curve snugly around her waist, keeping her close as he answers, “Theoretically it should incapacitate enough without undue harm to others or the infusion pump,” this isn’t the strength of assurance she wants. “I am supposed to be constructing it now so we can test it tomorrow.”

If they want a fighting chance against Ultron, they have to prepare for all possibilities, even the ones they vehemently hate. “We should go to the lab. I want to see this thing,” but this begrudging acceptance of at least seeing if the failsafe is a feasible last resort doesn’t mean she foregoes the opportunity of one more drawn out kiss (one that curls his fingers into her blouse and ends with a sigh for more) to solidify her stance before setting them on the path to figure out Ultron’s destruction. “Come on.”

A solemn nod of acquiescence is paired with him untangling from her embrace. He helps her stand from the bed, his hands flattening the creases in his shirt while she walks to retrieve her blouse, leveling a deadly glare at the coils on the table. “Wanda?”

“Vizh?”

The comment takes time to wrestle from his throat, a rationale she didn’t let him make earlier coming out, “The device is only necessary if the rest of the plan fails. I trust you, Miss Romanov, and Mr. Barton will render it a useless endeavor.”

“We won’t need it.” It’s a promise she intends to keep, whatever it takes. The picture of her past has been rendered, and now she’s determined to allow no one other than her to draw her future. “Let’s go.”

Victorian Culture and Language Decoder:

The Flour Riots of 1837 occurred in the dead of winter when a confluence of increasing food prices and poor political and legislative response to food shortages sparked a riot. It is believed a group of largely anti-capitalist speakers (known politically as the Locofocos) were responsible for calling together the meeting in the park.

The U.S. Department of Defense at the time was still named the War Department.

Ultron Mark Twelve is one of Ultron’s aliases and really the only human-ish sounding one I could find. I’m open to suggestions if there is something better.

Whole hog: Thorough, bare-faced lie

Shake a flannin: get into a fight.

Fresnel lens: a description and a couple pictures are at the bottom of a website that has the link on AO3

Brown stone fronts: Wealthy politically oriented men of New York City. The epitome of wealth at the time was to live in a Brown Stone house like the millionaire Vanderbilts.

Rational costumes: Women who wear pants.

It wasn’t until 1896 that the Korean Empire began, so prior to that it was known as Joseon.

Chemise: the common undergarment for women during this time. Something like this (link can be found on AO3)

#scarlet vision #wanda maximoff #vision #au #alternateuniversescarletvision #thescarletvisionnetwork #mine #aos #ao3 #please just go in the tags

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squiddybeifong · 5 years

Text

A Page Turner

Fun fact: if you go to @ravensflockofrobins and search Bette’s name, there’s one (1) post at the time I’m posting this. And it’s not even a shippy thing rip this drowning paper boat

She didn’t know what compelled her to take a quick vacation, exactly.

Maybe it was the lack of crime. Maybe it was the disgustingly scorching heat that summer brought. Maybe it was that she needed a break before she accidentally zapped the TV and the horrid romance movie that Starfire was playing.

Whatever the reason, Raven made up her mind. opened her eyes and moved Silkie off her lap, teleporting to her room. She considered her options and started a particular spell, one that she’d admittedly used many times before. One of the few (very few, incredibly miniscule) perks of being Trigon’s daughter: interdimensional travel.

Sliding through the dimensions as easily as flipping pages of a book, a particular timeline called to her. It smelled of bookstores and crumpled daisies and Raven blinked as she stepped into this particular universe.

The Golden Age, she reminded herself, taking in the not-so-golden scenery around her. The world around her was the sheer definition of nostalgia: the colors muted in the most charming of ways, the whimsy of the backgrounds (she simply took the buildings fading into space at the edges as a perk), the blocked off rectangles where additions would be written.

Surely more of a comic book feel than the animated life she knew, but it felt right.

What didn’t feel right was the lack of yellow. Sure, some of the stores had signs with bold letters the color of pineapple flesh. And, yeah, the lemon paint job on some of the cars was impressive. But aside from the sprinkling of pollen from the just barely blooming flowers, Golden Age Gotham wasn’t the most golden of scenes.

Honestly, with such a heavy title this ‘golden age’ was falling flat.

Raven pulled her cloak around herself and sunk into the shadows, casually setting out to explore. She avoided the areas she already knew and delved into the thick of the city, grateful that their emotions didn’t press on her as strongly as her own dimension’s did. Food vendors, students clamoring on the sidewalks as they got the most of that wonderful time between school being let out and their parents calling them in for dinner, even some rats who scurried out from the sewers, all but sunbathing as they dragged dropped pieces of food and cigarette buds back to their hovels.

Not too different from the Gotham Raven knew, but she still stayed hidden, watching all that she could. A pout involuntarily curled her lips at the sight of her favorite pretzel food-truck, replaced with a dual newspaper and ‘shoe polishing on the go!’ stand.

There was a simultaneous groan from all the kids as a clock rang, their disappointment mingling with the adults’ sighs of relief.

Raven felt the muted mix of their emotions, her lips quirking up at how similar people were in their complaints, dimensionally different or not: “Man I can’t wait to get home,” a mustached man breathed as he observed his freshly polished loafers and tucked the afternoon paper under his arm; “What? You’re betting on the Yankees? Get outta here, ya freakin’ jag!” an incredulous teen cried at his friend, shoving his shoulder in horrified disbelief; “I swear, Debbie, all he ever says is ‘Aspic’s lookin’ good as you.’ Not tasty, or even pretty, but good! That carrot cake looks good but my aspics are gorgeous. The nerve of that man!” a big-haired woman bemoaned to her pencil skirt-clad companion.

Raven’s head tilted in confusion; what was aspic?

Before she could dwell on whatever food trends she obviously wasn’t privy to, the Bat symbol lit up the sky. At its appearance the crowd seemed to hustle home even quicker, the conversations muting to a murmur as the clouds darkened over Gotham.

The symbol was bright against the sky; one flicker, only a simple fix if this dimension was the same as her home. Raven hummed at the sight and melted even further into the inked on shadows, following the panels as she landed just beyond a bank.

An explosion sounded halfway across the city.

Half of the officers hesitated and the other half jumped into their cruisers, speeding towards the pillar of smoke. The rest glanced among themselves and followed. Raven frowned at them; it was probably a diversion.

Sure enough, she felt the giddy nerves of the bank robbers inside a few seconds later. The Titan laid her cheek in her fist and merely watched as they scrambled about, her head turning as she felt Batman’s unmistakable aura enter the page. A brow raised at the youth of his visible face, then her eyes widened to a comical size.

Oh. Oh.

The demoness froze in her spot, watching as Batman went gliding over the rooftops. But Robin wasn’t by his side. Neither was either of the Batgirls that she knew. No, this one must have been one she’d never met. Surprisingly, she didn’t display the Bat symbol on her chest at all; in fact, her crimsons and emeralds were a stark contrast to the rest of the comic, but her fit was odd.

Not quite made for being Batgirl, but inexplicably belonging in this golden age. How odd.

But her hair…

Raven swallowed the air in her throat. Well, that certainly answered why this place was the golden age.

Admonishing herself at the beginnings of a schoolyard crush that she could feel starting, Raven shifted in her spot. This wasn’t her dimension, she could potentially indulge with screwing everything up, right?

So, despite wanting to keep a low profile as she watched them fight, the empath turned into a bird and phased in just behind them, watching as this Batgirl fought. Not quite as endlessly sarcastic as Steph, not as eagerly critical as Babs, not as intense or skilled as Cass, but as excited as any Batgirl for the ability to fight alongside the Batman.

She didn’t even seemed fazed when bolded words popped up in unison with their punched and kicks. Both she and this Batman slid along the BAM!s, BIFF!s, POW!s, and WHAM!s that described their attacks without any hesitation, and within a few pages all the bank robbers were apprehended.

The blonde nodded at the police as they cuffed the men, tossing her pine cape over her shoulders. “Aw, too bad Robin missed this,” Batgirl grinned up at the cloaked vigilante, her bright smile making Raven’s heart flutter.

“We should team up more often, Batman!”

He glanced down at his sidekick for this fight, “Batwoman needs you far more than I do.”

The rejection didn’t deter her, although her grin did falter. Her hands went to her hips, “Then at least until Robin’s arm heals up. You shouldn’t have to fight alone.”

The dark knight’s head tilted in silent agreement.. “Hmmm, very well.” His masked eyes took in the groaning bodies and the sound of approaching police sirens, “Go continue patrol while I find out what these robbers know about that explosion.”

“On it!” She gave him a salute and sprinted off, a flash of blonde hair and christmas colors. She got a block away without trouble, her eyes glancing at the police as they zoomed by and her fingers curling into fists as she noted a bird following her.

Batgirl frowned. She zig-zagged through the panels but no amount of speed lines or ducking into the fading buildings stopped the little avian. So, the Gothamite dove just behind the city’s library. The secluded setting made the bird sloppy and the hero tossed two smoking batarangs, leaping and pinning the raven in place. There was a shift like one page flipping to the next and the bird’s eyes turned red. Batgirl gasped and jumped back, her fists up in a fighting stance as the bird morphed into a woman.

Blue eyes blinked, skeptical and amazed at the plum cloak and stunning lilac eyes. No, not a woman. A teenage girl, just about her own age. But Batgirl didn’t let this mystery girl’s looks perplex her for too long; she immediately sized Raven up, carefully watching how the shadows followed her every move.

This little excursion certainly wasn’t going to plan but something in the Gothamite’s face made the demoness decide to be honest, consequences be damned. A sigh escaped, then she awkwardly met the blonde’s gaze, “Uh, hello. I’m Raven.”

A stormy glare was her answer, then a terse introduction, “Bat-Girl.”

They both jumped as the Bat’s comm blared out. The empath let out a sigh, her words a bit strained, “I promise I’m not a threat.”

Bat-Girl narrowed her eyes and took out her comm. She kept the mystic out of the screen’s view as she nodded at Batman’s instructions. She noted how Raven paused as she quickly gave Batman her report, her stoic features blanching at the sound of the hero’s voice.

Raven bit back a shudder at how young the dark knight was, Certainly not quite to the point of being the gruff, sandpapery tough guy that he was in her dimension. For the first time Raven wondered if the Golden Age was on the same age basis as her reality was.

Bat-Girl signed off and tucked her comm away, muffling the one link back to the BatCave under three layers of pockets. Raven shook her head at the familiar sight, quietly musing to herself, “Figures Bruce would still be so obsessive this early on.”

She just barely dodged the kick Bat-Girl aimed her way, strands of black magic swirling around them and pinning the mortal to the bricks. Raven stayed out of arms’ reach and narrowed her eyes at the hero, trying not to spend any time taking too much stock in how defined her bare forearms were.

Refocusing, amethyst eyes searched the vigilante’s face. Raven crossed her arms over her chest, making sure that her magic didn’t squeeze the blonde to the point of discomfort. “Does Robin exist?”

A derisive snort was her answer, “You mean birds?”

“I mean Dick Grayson.”

Bat-Girl’s eyes glared behind her mask, the muscles in her arm twitching. Raven took that as an invitation to speak, “I’m a part of his team.”

“In the future?”

Raven shrugged, “Something like that.” She considered pulling back but the pulse of Bat-Girl’s emotions kept her close. The demoness raised a brow, “You don’t seem too surprised.”

“This is the golden age,” Her voice raised half a pitch as she let out an exasperated laugh, shifting under the tendril of magic pressed painfully snug to her throat. “We still get a narrator during our fights sometimes.”

She looked her animated visitor over, “Didn’t think Richie would team up with a…” She paused, taking a moment to consider just what kind of powers described Raven. “A spirit of some sort--no…” Her lips spread as she guessed, “A demon?”

“You’re perceptive.”

Blue eyes rolled but Bat-Girl didn’t stop the cocky grin from brightening her face, nonchalant to the hold she was in, “And you aren’t a threat.”

“I’m not.” The shadows that held her slunk away, “Dick and I are heroes in our dimension.”

She could feel the concern seeping out of the heroine, but still the blonde let out a sigh and rolled her fingers. If this Raven character really was a teammate of Richie’s, then perhaps she could let her guard down just a little. Although Batwoman and Batman would be disappointed in how quickly she was trusting this pretty face.

Bat-Girl rolled her jaw, “Well in this dimension I’m Bette. Bette Kane.”

Recognition lit up amethyst eyes but Raven didn’t speak and Bette didn’t question her. In fact, the not-yet retconned hero seemed to be opening up to the prospect of Raven being in her dimension, if just for a visit.

So the empath decided to test her luck. She jerked a thumb over her shoulder, “Would you mind showing me around, Bette? I’m not used to having to turn the page.”

“Pfft,” Bat-Girl snorted and Raven got the impression that she realized her words weren’t a metaphor. Instead, the teen readjusted her mask and motioned for Raven to follow, “Already got one sack of feathers to look after.”

“Well this one can take care of herself just fine.”

Her sleeved shoulders straightened at Raven’s words, affronted at the mere idea of not helping someone she could, “Doesn’t mean you should.”

“Spoken like a true bird, Miss Kane.”

Bette raised a brow, the movement moving her mask. But Raven didn’t explain and she shrugged, “Anywhere you want to see?”

“Anyplace with you there is fine with me.”

Bat-Girl ran a tongue over her teeth at the demon’s shameless attempt at flirting, trying and failing to keep a straight (hah!) face. An idea came to mind and her eyes lit up, watching as Raven’s gaze flicked to her mouth.

“You’re okay with other birds, right?”

When the superpowered teen merely shrugged she continued, “There’s a bunch of nests over on the gates around Wedgwood Museum. Gotham Academy’s music class has been holding their practices out in front.”

Raven smirked at that, “Taking advantage of tourist season?”

“Hey, tubas are expensive!” The blonde chuckled as she motioned for the Titan to follow her, the two of them easily gliding past the stiff backgrounds. Bette grinned at her flying guest as a flick of magic kept her grapple hook from falling out of a crumbling rooftop.

The sound of music got louder as they neared the gated house. Violet eyes shut as she tried to place where she’d heard that jazzy tune before, her attention on Bat-Girl as she murmured, “But they’ve really been getting better. Sometimes I like to listen in, feed some birds when crime is pretty low.”

Raven clicked her tongue at that. “Well I have some free time for a picnic, if you’d want.”

She glanced at Bette from the corner of her eye and felt that urge to be honest curl in her stomach again. A breath quickly escaped her before she was reminded of Batman’s instructions, “I read ahead. Apparently the robbers bought off the Riddler for a few of his bombs. Just a classic distraction case so they could get away clean.”

Bat-Girl tilted her head as Wedgwood came into view, lengthening her grappling hook until she skipped onto the ground. The two made their way towards the house in silence as Bette mused over her words, the mage’s shadows mingling with the tree’s shade to keep them from being spotted by any civilians.

“A picnic does sound nice,” Bette aimed a lazy smile Raven’s way, fiddling with the green triangles that adorned the ends of her sleeves. A gasp escaped as a disk of black magic appeared under her feet, lifting them up and levitating up to the large tree that hung just outside of Wedgewood’s gates.

Bat-Girl leaned against the mystic’s shoulder as they got settled just beyond the tree’s branches, hidden by the tulip tree’s waxy leaves. The tuba-heavy refrain started up again and Raven let herself get comfortable, clinging to the calming nerves that washed out of Bette. Her eyes slid open at the wave of nervousness and she turned to the Gothamite, “Is something wrong?”

She started to pull away, horrified that she might have made Bette uncomfortable. Bat-Girl’s hand wrapped around her wrist, preventing her from going too far. The blonde licked her lips, her words coming out faster than normal, “No, this is okay. But do you have to go after this?”

“Yeah, it’s probably getting late back at the Tower.” The cloaked teen sighed, sliding her hand down until her palm pressed against Bette’s. She weakly smiled, a lilt in her voice, “But I can always come back.”

Bette squeezed their hands, “Just to see me?”

“Just to see you.”

“Hmm,” Bat-Girl felt her smile widen as she guessed, “Perks of being a demon?”

She felt a heat curl up her face as Raven’s eyes flicked from her eyes to her lips and back again, “Something like that.”

#betterae #bette kane #raven #all the robraes #<-- means ALL of them #my writing #at first i was like.. fluff!!! then i was like no.. it’s e x p o s i t i o n time #i just?? i dont even know anymore. i’ll admit i have never read the golden age comics and i don’t know bette’s personality that well so im #wingin it. i feel like it came out pretty good tho #despite the fact that bette is bat-girl with a hypen. like none of the others separate it but she does so /shrug/#i assume the golden age was a few decades ago?? like big hair and yankees obv exist and hopefully aspics were still in season then #anyway PSA bc that sole pic of the batgirls really shows off bette’s arms. Like WOW dc we are sapphic af u can’t expect us not to notice #they went out of their way to put some definition in so appreciate it dammit. Actually you know what?#can i assign fanfic homework? go to randys robrae blog and search bette. go to the only post that pops up and look at those forearms #like holy sappho batman!!#visible arm strength AND a v neck?? sign rae tf up for krampus’ workshop bc there’s a goth elf that she’s got her eye on

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intergalactic-zoo · 5 years

Link

We're firmly in the Silver Age with this week's entry, "The Complete Story of Superman's Life," which begins much like last week's entry with the claim that "millions want to know" where Superman came from and how he got his amazing abilities. And the title page boasts that some of the facts have been revealed before, but this is the first time that the story has been told in full. So, here's 1961's Superman (vol. 1) #146! Creative Team: Otto Binder and Al Plastino All-Star Summary: Doomed planet. Desperate scientist. Last chance. Kindly couple.

Key Elements: Superman is Earth's mightiest hero, with many amazing abilities. His story starts on the distant world Krypton, which orbits a red sun. Krypton was home to an advanced civilization with futuristic technology, as well as many fantastic creatures. Krypton is beset by damaging quakes, and Jor-El warns the Council of Scientists that these are signs that the planet will soon explode. Jor-El suggests that they build space arks to evacuate the planet, but the Council laughs at him and throws him out. Jor-El conducts experiments with small rockets, ultimately building one large enough for him and his wife Lara to send their baby son Kal-El to Earth. The rocket escapes just as the planet explodes, and the debris turns into radioactive Kryptonite. The rocket lands on Earth, and Kal-El is discovered by farmers Jonathan and Martha Kent, a childless couple living near Smallville. They leave the child with an orphanage, but plan to come back to adopt him. At the orphanage, the child displays superhuman strength. The Kents legally adopt him, and name him Clark, after Martha's maiden name. The child demonstrates amazing abilities, and by using the indestructible blankets he was found in, they're able to make clothes that can withstand his powers. The Kents sell the farm and move to Smallville, where Clark starts school and eventually becomes the teenage superhero Superboy. He keeps his true identity secret, and begins wearing glasses (fashioned from the indestructible remains of his rocket) as a disguise. When neighbor Lana Lang begins to suspect that Clark is Superboy, he takes elaborate steps to protect his dual identity. Eventually he discovers that he came from the planet Krypton, which explains his amazing powers. Clark grows up and goes to college, but realizes that maintaining a secret identity will require him to pretend to be meek and mild-mannered his whole life.

The Kents die shortly after Clark's graduation from college, but not before Pa instructs him to use his powers for the benefit of humanity. He decides to move to Metropolis, but when Superboy leaves, Smallville comes out to celebrate him. In thanks, Superboy bakes a cake so large that everyone in town can have a slice. Clark Kent becomes a reporter for the Daily Planet, so he can learn about crimes as they happen. And when they do, he's off to save the world as Superman! Interesting Deviations: While the story in The Amazing World of Superman mentioned Earth's yellow sun, this is the first origin we've examined that specifically noted the color of Krypton's sun. I'd be interested to know when that bit of lore entered the mythos. Clearly sometime between 1948 and 1961, and I would venture a guess that either Siegel or Binder was behind it.

It's fascinating how the demonstrations of Krypton's advanced civilization have changed over time. Originally it was that they had super powers, in 1948 it was that they could build amazingly fast flying machines, and here it's that they have robotic laborers and that they can remove the pollution from their atmosphere.

Given how Krypton's destruction has become an allegory for ignoring environmental catastrophe, this is an especially interesting element.

This is the first mention we've had of Krypton's other fauna, in this case a metal-eater kept in a Kryptonian zoo behind glass bars. Ethics of such rudimentary zoos aside, I kind of wish it were a thought-beast instead. The physics behind Krypton's destruction receive more elaboration here, with Jor-El identifying that the planet's core is made of uranium and that a chain reaction has begun, making Krypton into a "gigantic atomic bomb." Krypton's destruction being used as an allegory for the existential threats facing the contemporary world is, clearly, not a new phenomenon. The reason for the Council's rejection of Jor-El's predictions has changed considerably from origin to origin, but this one is unique in my experience: the Council possesses a "Cosmic Clock" that predicts disasters, and it says Krypton will be safe.

There's a tendency in these origins to make it seem like Jor-El is a bit of a crank and a doomsayer, but I like that this story pushes in the opposite direction, making the Council look like fanatics, blindly trusting in this mechanical Nostradamus. You can see shades of how Brainiac gets involved in Krypton's destruction in The Animated Series. It's 1961, and we've met another survivor of Krypton at this point, so we get a panel of Jor-El discussing his theories with his brother Zor-El, and a surprisingly lengthy editor's note linking the exchange to Supergirl's origin.

Also, assuming the Kryptonian calendar is like the American one, Krypton blew up on a Tuesday. Speaking of 1961, the existence of the Space Race means that Jor-El's methods have come to mirror that of Earth space agencies. We see Krypto here for the first time in an origin story, and a mention that Krypto's rocket isn't the first test flight Jor-El has conducted. Beppo the Super-Monkey was introduced three years earlier. We've seen in a couple of origins that Kryptonians were familiar with Earth, but here Jor-El discovers it himself. There's no mention here of trying to build it large enough to hold Lara as well. I think this is also the first origin we've looked at where Kal-El was verbal before he was launched into space. Not only do we see Kryptonite mentioned here, but also the origins of Red Kryptonite.

Unlike most versions of the origin, here Kal-El is thrown from the rocket when it lands, but is unharmed because anything from Krypton is indestructible on Earth. Anyrhing except the rocket, which explodes due to its super-fuel, all of which seems like a pretty tremendous oversight on Jor-El's part. The rocket being destroyed was a frequent element in Golden Age origins, but I'm surprised to see it happening here in the era of "indestructible blankets became the Superboy costume." Though there's enough of it left for the Kents to recognize it as a space ship. Kal is left on the doorstep of the orphanage under the cover of night. We see some of the classic feats of strength at the orphanage that we've seen before, but here they go unnoticed by the staff. The Kents, on the other hand, start cataloging his powers immediately. Though the sheer number of otherwise life-threatening situations the Kents allow Clark to get into makes them look pretty negligent.

We see the further influence of the popularity of Superboy stories here, as the Kents sell the farm and buy a general store in Smallville before Clark begins school. Clark adopts his Superboy identity after mastering all of his powers except flying, which he eventually conquers with the help of Pa Kent, some weather balloons, and a rope.

The story introduces the super-robots, Clark's secret tunnel out of town and the secret rooms he built in the Kent house, and his reunion with Krypto. Clark's discovery of his abilities is notable first in that it repeats the justification given all the way back in Action Comics #1, using an ant and a grasshopper as Earth examples of creatures with strength like Superman's, and second in that it distinguishes between the powers he has due to Earth's weaker gravity, and the powers he has due to the yellow sun.

At the end, we get a neat little space-age addition to the old "It's a bird!" exclamation, inserting "a rocket" in there.

Additional Commentary: The issue starts with a brief run-down of Superman's powers and character, which culminates in this neat little panel. I'm always down for Superman, champion of the underdog.

The scenes of Clark leaving Smallville are almost verbatim what we'd see in The Amazing World of Superman, down to people saving their slice of cake and Superman becoming a citizen of the world.

It wouldn’t be entirely surprising that the 1973 origin would hew so closely to this one, except that the last section is really the only place where it does. The biggest deviation is Superman pledging his loyalty to the United States in this version, likely speaking to the greater Cold War tensions in 1961 than 1973.

The Rocket: We'll see variations on this version of this red-and-blue rocket in several origins, and to be honest we see at least a couple of variations (differing mostly in how pointed the nosecone is) in these panels. It's not particularly distinctive, but at least it has those retro fins and the color scheme. Three out of five exploding Kryptons.

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my-one-love-is-music · 6 years

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Sing, Little Bird Ch. 11

Here it is, the last chapter. Thank you all for reading! I really enjoyed writing this fic and it got longer then I expected but it was still a joy to write from start to finish.

Also on AO3!

Dick ran his hands over the planes of his suit, his gauntlets making an interesting sound as they rubbed over the stiff, yet flexible material he wore in the field. Waiting for his injuries to heal had been a long process and then coming back to training to build up his muscle mass was just as long and suffering. Especially with the aches and pains that came with it.

Wally had been there every step of the way, offering encouraging words and touches. He’d always suggested recovery foods and meals that they could share together while curled up on the couch or in Dick’s room in Mt. Justice. He’d even kept Dick wrapped tightly in his arms when the anxiety and frustration of everything was too much and broke him down, forcing the healing cracks open wide.

Dick was always surprised how Wally could keep him from feeling weak and useless and broken when he was struggling to get back on his feet. But Wally was never shameful with his loving words and presence. He kept Dick grounded when it counted.

He was sure that the team’s easy acceptance of his return to training had something to do with Wally too. As much as Dinah had emphasized the possibility that the team would struggle with seeing him healed, he never heard their worries or anxieties with the events that had caused his injuries.

Dick took a deep breath, checking the edges of his domino to make sure that it was securely in place over his eyes. Energy thrummed under his skin and he was ready for this. He was strong and knew what they needed to do. His first mission back was going to be a successful one. Recon in a secret lab was something he could do in his sleep.

He turned away from the mirror in his room and opened the door, stepping into the hallway. He kept his shoulders back, walking tall down the hall. He felt good, healed. He knew he could do anything. He wasn’t going to let anything else stand in his way.

Wally was already waiting outside of the Bioship when Dick walked into the hanger. M’gann and Connor were talking with each other next to the ship. Wally grinned and sped over to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders to press him against his side.

“Ready?” he asked, keeping his voice low despite Connor’s ability to hear them. Connor was usually polite enough to pretend to tune out other people’s conversations when they didn’t apply to him.

“More than ready,” Dick admitted. “I can’t wait to make idiots of these guys when we take their intel right out from underneath them.”

“You mean like what you usually do until you get caught?”

Dick elbowed Wally in the side. “The only reason I get caught is because everyone else doesn’t know what it means to stealth.”

Wally chuckled. “You sure you’re going to be okay, though?” he asked softly.

Dick smiled. “I’ll be fine. Besides, I’ve got you watching my back.”

Wally made a point of leaning back to look over Dick’s backside. Dick rolled his eyes and smacked Wally in the stomach.

“You can’t blame me for appreciating a very nice bit of back,” he said, with a chuckle.

“You’re horrible.”

“Maybe, but you still love me,” Wally said, pressing their foreheads together.

Dick rolled his eyes but still smiled. “You’re lucky I do.”

Wally’s grin softened. “So lucky,” he murmured.

“Ugh, gross. Can the two of you reign in your sappy couple behavior until we get back from the mission?” Artemis asked as she walked across the floor with Kaldur to where they were waiting by the bioship.

“Aw there’s no need to be jealous of me and my boyfriend Arty,” Wally said, dropping his arm to Dick’s waist to keep him close.

Dick elbowed Wally in the side, causing him to yelp and pull back.

“I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m ready to get going,” Dick said with a sharp grin. “I’ve been waiting for this and it’s always fun to make adults look like idiots especially when they realize it was because of a bunch of kids.”

“A bunch of meddling kids,” Wally supplied.

“Yes, yes, let’s go,” Artemis said, pushing them both towards the ramp that led into the bioship.

Dick cackled but let himself be directed into the ship. He took his seat in front of Wally and relaxed as the buckles extended over his chest to hold him in place. M’gann seated herself on the platform and placed her hands on top of the twin orbs that would direct the ship.

The ship hummed underneath them and lifted from the floor of the hanger, rising steadily as the rock above them opened, giving them access to the sky.

Once they were free of the close confines of Mt. Justice, M’gann turned the ship towards the city.

“Cloaking activated,” M’gann said as they flew above the streets and buildings filled with oblivious people.

They reached the opposite edge of the city and M’gann lowered the bioship onto the roof of a standard and inconspicuous building. From the looks of it, no one would suspect that it was even a lab. They’d probably think it was nothing more than a small business filled with floors of cubicles and employees.

“Link us up, Miss Martian,” Kaldur said as the team were released from their seats.

“Mental link established,” M’gann said through their minds.

Dick pressed a hand to the center of his uniform, watching as the black stealth mode extended outwards to encompass all of him. The rest of the team did the same.

“Let’s begin,” Kaldur said. “Our first priority is to get to a computer and hack into their systems. We’re looking for blueprints and documents detailing what they’re experimenting on. If it’s something urgent then, and only then, will we engage. Understood?”

“Got it,” Dick said. “I should be able to access their network as soon as I get a computer connection.”

“We have rooftop access through a stairwell. Robin, check for any sign of an alarm system. We need to get in undetected.”

“On it,” Dick said, rushing over to the door. There wasn’t an electronic keypad on the outside, but a quick scan let him know that getting in wouldn’t be so easy. He scanned the ducts and found they had motion sensors, too. It would be a gamble which they could get into with enough time for him to hack into the system and turn them off.

“There are sensors inside the door and the ducts. I’ll have to hack the system to keep them from detecting us.”

“But you can’t do that form out here,” Kaldur said.

“Nope. Need access through a keypad which I don’t have out here. We might have a few more seconds if we go through the ducts.”

Kaldur nodded. “Superboy, open the duct to give us access.”

Connor pulled off the ribbed grating with a quiet whine of pulling metal. He jerked his head and Dick took the lead, not even hesitating to grip the top of the duct to slip his legs inside. He braced his hands against the sides and slid down, landing with a soft thump in the main duct.

He moved out of the way, glancing down in each direction. He saw two red sensors a foot in either direction and knew they wouldn’t be able to get everyone down without moving past one of them.

“Unless you want to risk alerting the security system, we’re not going to fit everyone inside,” Dick said.

“Is there an entry point to hack in?” Wally asked.

“Let me check.”

Dick crawled towards the one on the right, hand moving over the smooth paneling. The sensors were older, the lab not having the upgrades that usually came with the times when security was their highest priority. He pulled out one of his throwing discs and worked the sharp edge underneath where it connected to the wall, popping it away to access the wires.

Dick pulled a line from his wrist computer and hooked it into the feed. He pulled up the lines code and scanned over it, finding the entry point he needed. He shut everything down and intercepted the warning signal to indicate there was a malfunction. Anyone watching wouldn’t even notice a difference.

“We’re in the clear. Everyone can come down.”

Wally appeared at his side a moment later with a bit more noise than necessary.

“Could you at least try to keep quiet?” Dick asked.

“Sorry,” Wally shot back with a grin. “I should save my limited stealth power for later when we really don’t want to attract any attention.”

Dick rolled his eyes and started to crawl down the duct to make room for everyone else. He looked down through the metal grates below him to get a sense of where they were. An empty hallway stared back, but he didn’t trust his limited range of vision. Especially when he didn’t have access to all of the building’s systems.

His mind raced as he thought over the rough set of blueprints they’d been shown before the mission. It was enough to give him a general sense of the building but didn’t help much more than that. The blueprints they did have also didn’t document the sublevels they were certain existed below the building.

Dick took the first left he could find and reached the end of the duct. He looked down into the room below and found a small office.

“I’ve got eyes on an office. Don’t know if there’s anyone inside.”

“Is there a computer?” Kaldur asked.

“I can’t see from this angle but it’s more likely than not.”

“Robin, open the duct and get inside the room. Artemis, cover Robin from the duct. The rest of us will be on standby for backup.”

“Got it,” Dick told them. He worked the grate open, glad when it pulled up into the duct instead of being forced outward.

He grabbed a throwing disc from his belt and stuck his head through the opening, scanning the area for any sign of personnel. The room was empty but there was a computer on the desk.

“No sign of anyone, but there’s a computer. I’m going in,” Dick passed on before he slipped through the opening and landed in a crouch on the floor.

He hurried over to the desk, keeping an ear out for the door. The computer was already on and Dick plugged a cable into a USB port, hacking in easily with minimal firewall resistance.

He found the blueprints for the building and the numerous sublevels hiding underneath the building they already knew existed. He copied the files onto his own computer and stored them for reference later.

Dick turned his attention to their documents then. He pulled open the first report and froze. He read the first sentence a second time and read slowly, absorbing every bit of information in front of him.

“Bad news,” Dick said, hacking into the security cameras. He found the holding cells easily, pulling up a perfect image of a group of kids huddled together.

“What’s wrong?” Kaldur asked. “Has someone seen you?”

“No. But these guys are experimenting on kids. There’s a group in a holding cell on sublevel three.”

“We can’t leave them,” Wally said immediately.

Dick could almost hear Kaldur’s sigh through the link.

“No, we cannot,” he agreed. “We have no idea what could happen to them during the few hours it would take for us to report our findings and send in a new team. Robin, return to the vent. Now that you have the needed information we can get down to sublevel three and free those kids.”

Dick pulled his chord free from the computer and hurried over to the vent.

“Give me a hand, Artemis.”

She stuck her arm through as he jumped and pulled him up swiftly. Dick stuck the grate back in place and pulled up the blueprints for the building.

They moved quickly, making it through most of the air ducts before they reached the elevator shaft that would take them down to the sublevel they needed. The descent took some maneuvering since M’gann was the only one who could fly, and Artemis and Dick had grapple lines where the others didn’t.

“The whole lab is open. The only smaller rooms are storage closets which means we’re not getting in and out of there without being seen,” Dick explained.

“Unless you turn off the lights,” Wally suggested.

“Not recommended,” Dick said. “That could cause them to lockdown the whole lab. But on the other hand, it would give us a couple of extra seconds then if they first spot us.”

“Just get to the point,” Artemis snapped.

“He means that neither option is preferred but shutting down the lights would give us a bigger window of opportunity then if we do in without shutting them off,” Kaldur supplied. “But we can’t go in blind. We will need a plan.”

“From what I can see, the kids are being kept in a metal cage. They’re protected by thick bars of metal. Superboy should be strong enough to pull them apart and get those kids out. Once that happens we’ll need to use the elevator since they won’t be as comfortable crawling through the air ducts,” Dick offered.

“Kid Flash will work offense with me and Artemis,” Kaldur added. “M’gann you will stay with the kids to keep them protected and keep them calm. Robin you will work with M’gann to get them out. Your skills will be needed to get the elevator moving and keep the security systems from running us into the ground. Are we all clear on the plan?”

Everyone nodded.

“Then let us get into our positions.”

The closest opening from the duct was ten feet from the cage the children were kept in. Scientists and other personnel filled the room, but no obvious security officers were standing in the corners. Their odds were potentially higher.

“Now, Robin.”

Dick nodded and hacked into the system. Within the seconds the lights had shut off. Dick turned on his night vision. Several panicked voices rose up in the room, but Connor wasted no time in dropped down through the grate and hurrying to the cage.

Wally and Artemis went next, rushing around to knock down any potential threats and keep them from getting a message out to higher level security in the building. M’gann floated down and went over to Conner and the children, speaking softly to sooth them as they panicked.

Dick and Kaldur took the back.

Dick landed in a crouch and his breath caught in his throat for a moment. Even though he had night vision, for one panicked moment he was back in the basement where he’d been kidnapped, and he was one wrong move away from being taken again and shoved into the darkness, never to return.

A warm hand landed on his back and Wally’s face came into view. He nodded once and pressed a kiss to Dick’s lips before he sped off. Dick relaxed. He was okay, he wasn’t going to be sent back there. No one was going to take him again. Wally wouldn’t let him get taken again.

Dick sprinted towards the elevator. He kept an eye on the scientists in the lab, making sure none of them were a large threat. M’gann and Connor were getting the kids out of the cage easily. He hoped the lack of intense security would work in their favor.

Dick hacked into the elevator easily. It was less secure than the computer. He turned away from the lights as the doors slid open. Someone shouted in alarm before it was cut off by Wally who slammed into them.

“Let’s go,” Connor growled, funneling the kids into the elevator.

M’gann floated in after them and Dick slipped inside with them.

Dick and Connor nodded at each other as the doors slid shut, separating them.

“We’re headed back to the top floor. We’ll get to the roof and get them on the bioship. Meet us up there and we can get this taken care of,” Dick said.

“We will rendezvous soon,” Kaldur answered.

Dick looked at M’gann who nodded back at him. The kids were restless behind them but weren’t brave enough to ask them any questions. Dick was glad none of them were screaming or crying. It kept the rest of them calm and would make the evacuation easier.

His eyes stared at the numbers without blinking as they rose. Once they passed above ground he tensed, waiting for another attack to come. It had been long enough for someone to react, but nothing happened.

The elevator shuddered to a stop at the top floor and Dick pulled several throwing discs from his belt before the doors slid open.

He jumped out with M’gann behind him and spotted several guards running towards them from the end of the hall. He threw his discs, trying to slow their progress.

“Miss M can you-“

Before Dick even finished his though she sent a large energy beam towards the group and knocked them off their feet. He grinned and spun around.

“All of you come with me,” he ordered the kids, running ahead.

The kids stuck close to him and Dick burst into the stairwell leading to the roof, holding the door as they rushed up the steps to freedom. M’gann slipped into the stairwell behind him and floated after him as he sprinted up the stairs.

“We’ve reached the roof,” Dick relayed as they threw the roof door open.

“We’ll be out soon,” Kaldur explained. “Have the bioship waiting in front of the building. We won’t make it up to your level in time.”

“Of course, Aqualad,” M’gann answered.

M’gann opened the bioship and herded the kids onboard while Dick covered them in case another attack came.

M’gann tugged his arm and pulled him up the ramp before it shut. The kids huddled in a corner while Dick was strapped into his seat and M’gann guided the bioship off the roof towards the front of the building.

Wally, Kaldur, Connor, and Artemis ran through the front doors of the building as they touched down, Artemis firing several arrows behind her as they ran. M’gann didn’t put the bioship down, only allowing the door to open for them to climb inside.

Wally was at Dick’s side in seconds, opening his mouth to say something, but Dick shook his head. They had more important things to take care of first. Wally nodded and took his own seat as they left the lab behind.

Dick stared at the ceiling of his room at the Cave. He’d long ago stripped out of his uniform once they’d taken care of the kids and done the debrief with Dinah, passing on their information to the league with what they uncovered.

Wally had tried to talk to him again when they got back, but he made his excuses for showering and getting cleaned up. He knew Wally was giving him a little more time to himself and had no doubt gotten changed and eaten half the food in the kitchen already.

A knock sounded on his door and he sighed, eyes falling shut.

“It’s open, Wally.”

The door slid open.

“How did you know it was me?” he asked, sounding insulted as the door shut behind him.

Dick chuckled and sat up in bed, turning to face Wally who was watching him with barely concealed worry.

“Who else would it be? You were trying to talk to me the second we left the lab and I knew you’d show up sooner or later.”

Wally sighed and hurried over to the bed, crawling on top of the blanket to pull Dick into his lap. Dick let himself be handled and sagged against Wally’s warmth, resting his head on Wally’s shoulder.

“Are you okay?”

Dick smirked. “Do you mean in the physical sense of okay because I’m pretty sure none of us came out of today’s mission with any injuries and-“

“No,” he said, smacking Dick on the arm. “You know what I mean.”

Dick huffed a laugh. “Yeah I’m okay. There was a moment of anxiety there when I dropped out of the air duct, but I had you there with me.”

“I’m always going to be there for you,” Wally said, voice firm and determined.

Dick’s chest warmed, and he smiled.

“I know you will be. You’ve been there since the beginning and you haven’t left my side since. I’ll be just fine because of you.”

Wally cupped his cheek, thumb brushing over his skin. Dick tilted his head back and met Wally’s shining gaze. Wally ducked his head and pressed their lips together in a soft kiss.

Dick sighed, eyes sliding shut as he let Wally’s warmth wrap around him while they relaxed after a stressful mission.

Dick knew he’d never be cold again.

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#birdflash #molim writes #fic: sing little bird #last chapter

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