#and once again i ask for smarter folks to add to this

[grem-archive]

So I don't know if you'd have the time to read a specific text or not, but with the isolationism post going around now it seems like this is the most relevant time to ask? If you can't rn that's fine, I'm just curious to hear other people's thoughts on it, especially people who know more about American history than I do, because I studied Japanese history in college, and obviously compared to the isolation of Tokugawa Japan, America has never really come close to anything like that so I might be biased

Anyway, the essay I'm talking about is The Myth of American Isolationism by Bear Braumoeller, the pdf is available for free from Harvard (or it was when I checked earlier today). Nothing on his website gave me the impression he's crazy biased or super nationalistic and therefore unreliable, but I'll admit I didn't read any of his other work or anything to check

I guess what Braumoeller says just makes a lot of sense to me? I went through public school in America and had never even heard that we sent people to represent us at League of Nations meetings, especially not after we decided not to join, until I read this essay. I just remember being told we tried to cut ourselves off as much and as often as possible, but the foreign policy of the US in the 20s and 30s that Braumoeller points to and what I know of our foreign policy after that makes me feel like the US has never actually been as extreme about isolation as people make it sound?

Idk, I'm curious to hear other people's thoughts about his claims who have better knowledge of American history than I do, cause obviously my public high school didn't bother telling me that many details, and I know you gotta be careful reading about history from individual authors cause so many of them have a specific narrative they want to spin

Sorry this was so long

Apologies in advance for the length of this answer & if it's disjointed/repetitive. I've been really tired lately, but I hope it's still insightful. Take the following with a grain of salt yet an open mind.

Also to anyone with a better understanding of American foreign affairs and policy, I implore you to add to this post. Your knowledge would be greatly appreciated.

Alrighty, so I've been sitting on this one for a while. Mostly for the fact that foreign policy and international affairs are not what I study, even though often it's hand-in-hand with history. My primary study is also more geared toward archaeological conservation, field methods, and museum curation. I had to consult a friend for this who is more interested in this type of question. I would also say there are people within the fandom with a much better understanding of this than I do, and I would greatly appreciate their input on this.

It also took me a while to read the paper, which I could thankfully get through my university. No one's fault but mine. I'm easily unfocused.

I would personally argue that the United States has never been truly isolationist. Sure, we've had periods of fluctuating isolationist sentiment - something that Braumoeller even points out - but as he also rightly points out that this is relative, saying 'American isolationism' is most often challenged by the historian sect, "who tend to define isolationism by security policy," when it could be an ideology in more than one sphere of policy. It's not a cut-and-dry definition. One section of policy could ring with an isolationist leaning (no military action), but then a country stays involved in another manner (economic). One facet of public opinion could sound isolationist ("I want the US to mind its own business."), while another shows we'd rather stay involved ("But I don't want us to stop having an influence.").

In fact, I very much enjoy how Braumoeller phrases the American ability of the 1920s on the third page of the PDF: "...thanks to America's overwhelming strength, it could rely on banks rather than tanks:". Our security was economic rather than militaristic, in simpler terms. He goes on later in the paper to demonstrate how this strategy was used on more than one occasion. So, I would describe this behavior of the first half of the 20th century as non-intervention rather than isolationism.

Never have we cut our ties with the rest of the world completely nor necessarily tried to keep the world away, not even during periods often seen as isolationist. To look at a period of American history that I'm slightly more familiar with, we will use the Revolution and its aftermath as an example. I've seen it said by a fellow student that "post-colonial" America was in a state of isolation. This is untrue. Once again, this is a better described by non-intervention.

Let's look at the Barbary captives, three American merchant ships captured by "pirates" off the North African coast in 1784-1785. The Kingdom of Morocco became the first country to recognize US independence in 1777, reaching contact with us in 1778 via Ambassador Benjamin Franklin, staying in France. Sultan Mohammed ben Abdallah also secured for the Americans security of trade, saying any ship flying the American flag might be welcomed in their ports. A later treaty, the Treaty of Friendship, was signed in 1786, then ratified in 1787, both as a promise between the two states and to afford further protection to American merchants. Of course, it wasn't foolproof, as American ships were still at risk of capture by non-participant states, but this showed an American desire to still be involved with the world. This also showed a world open to this brand-new country seeking entry. The Treaty of Friendship was our first treaty with a non-European power.

Past that, we still desired to trade with other (colonial) powers, such as selling to Saint Domingue (Haiti), which only ended with the start of the Haitian Revolution in 1791. 1784 also sees the beginnings of ties with China as an independent state, with the merchant ship Empress of China returning to Massachusetts shores after a 15-month voyage. Our influx of imports and news from Britain even rose back to comparable pre-Revolution levels by the mid-1780s, especially as British merchants began to demand American customers pay their debts. I realize I'm citing trade, but trade can be political and also is a form of economic involvement.

We often quote George Washington as warning us to stay out of European affairs; yes, this is true that he warned against this. But I would look at his words from the angle of not becoming militarily involved. Looking for more companionable relations rather than flirting with gunpowder and bayonets, or even inserting ourselves politically in many ways. America still very much entertained ties to the rest of the world after the Revolution and into the next century, but we did very little to be physically involved in their sphere.

I realize I've sort of sidetracked the question, but this was the best way I could figure to answer it. So, to compare US "isolationism" to the hard isolation of Tokugawa Japan would be incorrect; the brand of "isolationism" we tend to hear about here wouldn't even be close, in my opinion. We wanted to be left alone but did not want to give up on having an influence if that makes sense. Hell, there were times when we flirted with being involved, but didn't actually do so until later or until prompted by some interest. A necessitated carrot-on-a-stick type nation, I suppose.

Also man...I guess maybe my school was the odd one out in teaching that we still sent delegates to League discussions despite not formally being a part of it. You are not the first person I've heard say this.

[angsty-nerd]

Meta: Echo’s Big Fight in 3x09

Let's talk about the Big Echo fight. Because wandering around in the fandom this past week, I’ve seen a lot of very specific conclusions as far as what they were or weren't arguing about, and I’m not sure my take on that scene really aligns with other folks. So let me try to break it down a bit and give y’all an alternative perspective on it.

To start with, the scene opens with Max on edge because they're breaking and entering. Liz is singularly focused on the mission, and he's kinda freaking out. Instead of responding to his concerns, Liz gets straight to business.

"Ooh, ooh, this is interesting. Heath left Genoryx two days after I did. Must have realized he didn't need to be working underneath their corporate thumb."

Liz is kinda projecting here. Heath never once displayed any discomfort with Genoryx as a company the way that she did. He wanted her to stay. He wanted the resources there. We know these things as an audience, and Liz would too if she was thinking through the big picture at this point in time.

Max, on the other hand, doesn't know any of that. Here's what Max hears from Liz: he hears surprise. He hears Liz acknowledge that this is unexpected news. And right as he’s processing this unexpected reveal...Max sees Heath's Wild Pony t-shirt.

Weird coincidence #1 from Max's POV was Heath (the guy who is currently so pissed at Liz that he won't take her calls) supposedly rescuing Liz's science out of the good of his heart so that Genoryx doesn’t get their hands on it? This doesn't add up.

Weird coincidence #2 was Heath quitting Genoryx - a decision Heath made that Liz wasn't expecting.

The Wild Pony t-shirt is now the 3rd thing that doesn't add up. And if the t-shirt clue isn't adding up for you, see my post about it here:

The T-shirt is strike 3 for Max. He can't really pretend that he's not suspicious of Heath anymore. So he broaches the subject with her.

"How much do you know about this guy, Heath? How close were you?"

Max is feeling uncomfortable and looking for more information. He's trying to make the clue make sense. Why would Heath have the T-shirt? Does he have a connection to Roswell that Liz doesn't know about? And Liz doesn’t listen.

"This isn't the time to be jealous about a boy I met."

For all that Liz is clinical and on mission, she jumps very quickly to assuming that Max is NOT on mission. Yes, Max is inherently more emotional than she is. But throughout the episode he's been asking questions about Heath and NOT JUMPING TO CONCLUSIONS. That's one of the keys to me here. Max really is trying to give her the benefit of the doubt about him.

At Liz's house, he asked about "the boyfriend" but he wasn't doing it in a jealous or judgy way. If anything it could almost be interpreted as concern. He started with "were you happy" and only when Liz kind of metaphorically admitted that any happiness was a façade...that's when he brought Heath into it. And yeah, Liz says that he impacted her life and helped her grow, but she didn't exactly express romantic feelings that would make Max jealous. So when she basically jumped straight to the jealousy assumption instead of actually discussing this with him, he starts getting worked up. Because she is not hearing him. She is not acknowledging that the facts they have found during this investigation are not adding up. So he is honest and blunt about what he's thinking.

"I'm just saying it's possible that he took your one-of-a-kind alien spores and quit, so that, just like you, he could use the research himself, free of Genoryx."

Max is the one who brings the science into this conversation. Not Liz. And he's not criticizing or questioning HER application of the science. He's questioning the trustworthiness of Heath. Because the lies are starting to jump out at him like a friggin’ neon light.

BUT — now that he's specifically brought up the science, he has her attention. Because Max questioning her science is HER sore spot. So what does she say back to him? Something kinda judgy.

"That grand trust speech certainly had a short shelf life."

Side note: I really don't think there actually was a "grand trust speech" in this episode. I can think of a few scenes where there might have been an opportunity for one. In particular during the milkshake scene when he admits to saving her tapes. But they actually don't talk about trust in that scene. They talk about having hard conversations. They talk about moving forward instead of looking backwards. But they don't talk about trust. My guess is that there might have been content cut for time at some point in this episode, that may have included some grand declaration from Max, but that's really just speculation on my part.

Regardless…Liz's response to Max bringing up the science is to basically accuse him of not trusting her. Which is not what he was saying. He was not questioning her use of the science. He was questioning her trust in Heath through the context of her science. So he elaborates on what he IS saying, and as he does, he's getting more and more worked up...because this does relate directly to his personal fears, and, frankly, his buried trauma that he's never properly addressed.

"I trust you. Okay? But I don't trust some guy I have barely met with a secret that could endanger me, could endanger my family and break the frickin' Internet if it came out."

Max doesn't know Heath, and he doesn't trust Heath with a secret that could endanger Michael and Isobel. His emotions are escalating, because now he's thinking about the science that scares him in the hands of a guy that all signs points to being potentially untrustworthy, and he's triggered.

BUT he doesn't back up his argument. He doesn't point out the very specific evidence he's identified that Heath is probably lying to Liz.

And Liz is inherently reactive and sometimes overly defensive (see 1x09 list of Liz's flaws). So even though he's focused on Heath, she immediately reacts defensively and takes it as a criticism of HER.

"You think I would let myself be conned?"

"No, I think you came out here looking for a partner, and it could blind you."

*deep breath* and this is where it starts to get personal. And rough. Max isn't entirely wrong here. But he also kind of is. Liz didn't choose Genoryx for partnership. She was looking for resources, freedom to do the science she wanted to do, and to save her father from deportation.

But partnership? Yeah, Liz wanted that. But she wanted that from MAX. She was looking for partnership in life, not in science.

And now that Max has thrown that direct criticism out there, Liz is going to throw a bomb right back at him.

"Just because you sabotaged me when I thought you were mine does not mean that Heath would take the same path."

Ouch. This is the hardest line in this whole scene for me to work with. Because it is combative. And purposefully hurtful.

BUT…she is NOT TALKING ABOUT HER SCIENCE. She has not said a single word about her science in this argument. She moved past that. She had the epiphany that she was wrong and she apologized (3x03). That is in the past for her.

This argument, for Liz, is about betrayal. This is about her believing that they were going to be partners and move their lives forward together (2x12), and right when she believed in that future, Max made another massive decision that directly impacted her life (just like he did in 1x13) instead of working with her to make big decisions together.

"And just because you changed the wallpaper doesn't mean you've mended your blind spots."

I really hate this "change the wallpaper" line. It feels like they're mixing metaphors. Liz called her life a commercial. Max is saying that she's changed her decor. Like...pick one and stick with it.

That aside… I think this barb is about her arrogance. Earlier in the scene, she seemed baffled at the idea that Max believes she could have been conned by Heath, because Liz is used to always being the smartest person in the room. She thought she was smarter than Diego and he figured her out. She believed her lab was secure, but Diego (possibly) got in. Sometimes, like most scientists, Liz is so bogged down in the complicated, brilliant details she’s thinking through, that she misses simple things that contribute to the big picture. And I think that's what Max is getting at here. In her arrogance, she believes that she can control the Heath situation. But she's not acknowledging the human factor here - that Heath is a person who may have his own unspoken ulterior motives driving him. Just like Diego did. She's just not seeing what Max is seeing.

BUT - again I'll say. Max is also not communicating the scope of the evidence he is collecting. They're both wrong here.

"I have learned my lessons, but you... oh, my God, you sound an awful lot like the guy who blew up my lab. So forgive me, but you're making it perfectly clear why I felt like I had to go and change the wallpaper."

This is the only line where Liz even comes close to talking about her science, but again, she's talking about his betrayal. She's talking about him undermining their partnership. She's talking about her need for a change of scenery from HIM.

And that’s when Max blows out the safe and they put the fight on hold to finish their investigation.

But, to sum it up…the fight was all about trust and betrayal. It was necessary for them to work through it, though frankly? I wish they could have finished the discussion. Because instead of them coming to some sort of peace with their trust in each other, the truth came out about Heath, Liz realized that she was wrong, she apologized, and they moved forward together, on mission.

I can’t help pointing out though…after the fight and Liz's epiphany about Heath, Max and Liz spent at least 15 hours in a car together. And I'm sorry, I refuse to believe that they didn't talk about anything important for 15 hours. Fic writers assemble? 😆

Many thanks to @ober-affen-geil for doing a quick review and checking me on opinions vs facts. Very important.

And for my next trick… road trips, life choices, and Robert Frost! Coming soon to a Tumblr near you…

[bloody-bee-tea]

Resolve

We did it folks, this is follows right after Escalation and marks the end of the Rumor has it series! I hope it can live up to all of your expectations! If you want to listen to a song that could very well be Jiang Cheng’s character song for this story, please listen here. This fic is 10k long, so I suggest you read it on AO3 here. Thank you all so much <3<3

Jiang Cheng is reasonably sure he lost consciousness a few times on the flight back to the Cloud Recesses, but despite Lan Wangji’s clear wish he didn’t give him the satisfaction of dropping off the sword. Jiang Cheng would rather die standing up than fulfilling that particular wish.

Jiang Cheng is also sure that Lan Wangji planned to land at the end of the staircase that leads up to the Cloud Recesses and make Jiang Cheng walk all the way up there—something that Jiang Cheng wouldn’t have been able to do—but one look back at him must convince Lan Wangji that Jiang Cheng is really in no condition to do that.

His urge to see him prosecuted and sentenced to death while Jiang Cheng is still aware must be really strong.

Jiang Cheng is almost pathetically grateful that they are flying straight up to the Cloud Recesses, because even though he would never admit it—at least not out loud and definitely not to Lan Wangji—it lets him keep at least a little bit of dignity.

Like this, at least, he only drops to his knees once he steps off the sword. Jiang Cheng grits his teeth when he sees the satisfied look on Lan Wangji’s face, but his legs won’t carry him and despite the dagger still lodged in his shoulder, he lost a significant amount of blood by now.

Standing just doesn’t seem like a good idea at the moment.

“Jiang Cheng,” Wei Wuxian says, worry colouring his tone, but when he wants to step forward, Lan Wangji keeps him away with a hand to his arm.

Jiang Cheng wonders what Lan Wangji thinks he will do to his brother, but given that Lan Wangji seems intent on getting him killed today, he can guess at the picture Lan Wangji has of him.

“And what now?” Jiang Cheng snarls when Lan Wangji simply stares down at him, but he can’t keep the pain completely out of his voice.

The dagger in his shoulder really hurts like a bitch.

“And now we will decide what to do with you,” Lan Wangji calmly says and Jiang Cheng can’t help the snort that escapes him.

Yeah, right. As if Lan Wangji hasn’t made his mind up already.

“How can you still be amused by this?” Wei Wuxian wants to know and Jiang Cheng wonders just when his brother stopped being able to read him.

“Come on, Wei Wuxian, you’re usually smarter than that. There’s nothing to ‘decide on’,” Jiang Cheng tells him and he feels a sick sense of validation when Sect Leader Yao steps into the courtyard behind him.

“That’s right,” he sneers and Jiang Cheng has to grid his teeth so that he doesn’t straight up jump at the other Sect Leader. “With what we saw you do today, there is not much wriggle room for you.”

“And doesn’t that make you happy,” Jiang Cheng says, but he doesn’t even deign to look at the other man.

He is very, very sick of Sect Leader Yao right now.

“I can’t deny that it’s kind of satisfying to see you like this,” Sect Leader Yao freely admits and Jiang Cheng works his jaw at that. “It will certainly bring justice to my late right hand,” he then adds, and now that Jiang Cheng can’t let stand.

“If it brings so much justice to him, why don’t you tell me his name? Why don’t you tell me why it took you ten goddamn years to want to bring justice to him?” he demands to know but before Sect Leader Yao can flounder for an answer, Lan Wangji speaks up.

“Enough. Everyone will be able to bring their grievances with Sect Leader Jiang to me today,” he says and Jiang Cheng resigns himself to a long and arduous farce.

“What is the meaning of this?” Lan Qiren suddenly asks, having stepped into the courtyard without their notice and Lan Wangji turns towards him, bowing slightly.

“Sect Leader Jiang has been caught in the act of killing two innocent people. He will be held accountable for that, today.”

“And everything else, it seems,” Jiang Cheng drily adds when Lan Qiren turns towards him. “Everyone is here, after all,” he tacks on with a nod backwards to where Sect Leader Yao stands.

A lot of the other smaller Sect Leaders have gathered there as well and it’s only then that it really hits Jiang Cheng just how well planned this was for them all to be already here. Jiang Cheng knows that he should feel betrayed that Lan Wangji and especially Wei Wuxian plotted against him like that, but all he can feel is anger for Xie Xifeng and her wife.

If Lan Wangji had time to plan this, then he probably had the time to save her. Instead Jiang Cheng is left with two dead bodies on his conscience. 

“Wangji, what are you doing?” Lan Qiren wants to know, but Lan Wangji meets his gaze evenly.

“What is right,” he gives back, sounding so goddamn certain that Jiang Cheng would love to tell him the truth just to see him shaken to the core, but he keeps his mouth shut.

He did not save all of his people from abusive and horrible situations to just throw them back into it.

Jiang Cheng would never do that to them.

Lan Qiren stares at Lan Wangji for a moment longer, before he simply turns around and stalks away. Jiang Cheng gets the distinct impression that he wants to run—which he never thought possible—but Lan Qiren adapted a pretty quick stride.

Jiang Cheng distantly wonders if he’s going to get Lan Xichen, and if Lan Xichen would end his seclusion for this, but despite Lan Xichen’s earlier words, Jiang Cheng doesn’t count on it.

It’s easy to take a stand against his own brother when it’s in an abstract situation. It’s much more difficult to do when the case actually arises, Jiang Cheng knows that from experience.

Jiang Cheng turns away from the retreating back of Lan Qiren and his eyes fall on Wei Wuxian. He seems pained by the proceedings but it just leaves a hollow feeling in Jiang Cheng when Wei Wuxian still doesn’t speak out.

He clearly believes every last word everyone says about Jiang Cheng and Jiang Cheng didn’t know it was possible to feel that betrayed.

Jiang Cheng wonders if this is how Wei Wuxian felt before he died and if this is the punishment Jiang Cheng deserves for not helping his brother back then.

It does seem kind of just, if Jiang Cheng looks at it like that. It doesn’t make it any easier to bear, though.

“Sect Leader Yao, if you would,” Lan Wangji suddenly says and Sect Leader Yao steps up, chest puffed up like a peacock and Jiang Cheng has to fight the sudden urge to throw the dagger from his shoulder at him.

“Jiang Wanyin killed my right hand man,” he declares and then proceeds to list off a few other names.

Names, Jiang Cheng very well recognizes, because all of these people are living a happy and safe life in his own Sect now. Jiang Cheng never quite realized that so many of Sect Leader Yao’s people hated their life enough to turn to demonic cultivation but when Jiang Cheng looks at the smarmy smile on his face, he finds that it does make sense.

Once Sect Leader Yao is done, Sect Leader Ouyang steps forward. It goes on like this, for longer than Jiang Cheng cares to take note of, and he can’t deny the warmth ball of pride in his own stomach when he hears just how many people he truly saved. It’s easy to forget sometimes, when they are all wearing purple.

There are a few names he doesn’t recognize—and two he failed to save that he remembers very well—but overall, Jiang Cheng can put a face to every name.

He can’t help but to smile at it, knowing that he did right by all of these people, and of course that is when Wei Wuxian chimes in again.

Jiang Cheng should have known.

“Are you proud of what you have done?” Wei Wuxian demands to know and he sounds incredulous, but Jiang Cheng simply smiles at him, too.

“Yes, I am,” Jiang Cheng easily gives back, because all these names just mentioned are the legacy he built over countless years.

He is more than alright to die for all of them.

“He will show no remorse,” Lan Wangji says to Wei Wuxian, who has to turn away from Jiang Cheng at that.

“Because there is nothing to regret,” Jiang Cheng adds, damn well knowing how it must sound to them, and then he settles back on his heels.

His shoulder is still throbbing, he’s still steadily losing blood, but he knows that it won’t be much longer now. Lan Wangji will sentence him and then it will be over rather quickly, at least Jiang Cheng hopes for that.

Jiang Cheng is okay with that, because even keeping himself upright is getting harder by the minute now.

“We have heard all the accusations,” Lan Wangji says, and suddenly his voice carries. “And there is one disciple of the Lan Sect to be added to the list. Lan Zhi,” Lan Wangji says and hate curls in Jiang Cheng’s gut.

How dare Lan Wangji.

“Oh, now you remember him?” he seethes because what he really wants to do is lunge for Lan Wangji.

How dare he speak that name. 

“He was a patient, kind young man and Jiang Wanyin killed him when he strayed from the right path.”

Jiang Cheng has another scathing remark on his tongue when suddenly Lan Xichen steps into the courtyard.

“Do not speak of Lan Zhi, and especially not to Jiang Cheng,” Lan Xichen says and walks over to Jiang Cheng, taking a stand besides him.

Lan Qiren is not far off and despite everything, Jiang Cheng has to close his eyes in relief.

He truly underestimated how it would feel like to have someone on his side.

“Brother,” Lan Wangji whispers, bowing his head in what Jiang Cheng thinks is not at all appropriate, but Lan Xichen silences him.

“Do you even really remember Lan Zhi? Do you still remember how unhappy he was? How burdened he became here? Do you remember that it was your oversight who even enabled him to turn towards darker paths?” Lan Xichen wants to know and Lan Wangji looks with big eyes at him.

“Brother, what are you doing? You’re in seclusion.”

“I am not. Not anymore,” Lan Xichen replies, Lan Qiren’s approving nod underlining his words.

“You would break your seclusion for him?” Lan Wangji asks, and Jiang Cheng would laugh at how incredulous he sounds if he weren’t so sure that his shoulder would not thank him for it.

“Zewu-Jun,” Wei Wuxian says, and Lan Xichen silences him with a single look.

“You are attending in the capacity as the Chief Cultivator’s husband. You do not have a voice here,” Lan Xichen frostily tells Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng raises an eyebrow in surprise.

He has never really heard Lan Xichen being angry—hadn’t really thought that he was capable of that, if he’s being honest—but it’s a welcome surprise right now.

Once he’s sure that Wei Wuxian knows his place, Lan Xichen turns his attention back to Lan Wangji, who seems like he considers strangling his own brother, but doesn’t dare to make a move.

“Wangji, how can you forsake justice like this? Are you really so blinded by your hate for Jiang Wanyin? So much that you would see an innocent man accused and sentenced?”

“Innocent,” Lan Wangji repeats, his voice as disgusted as Jiang Cheng has ever heard it, and looks Jiang Cheng up and down once. “Did you even look at him? He’s bathed in the blood of the true innocents he killed.”

“Half of that blood is actually mine,” Jiang Cheng speaks up, because his shoulder is still sluggishly bleeding.

It seems like Lan Xichen only notices the dagger in his shoulder now, because he falls to his knees besides Jiang Cheng, hands hovering helplessly over the dagger.

“Wangji, why did you not immediately call a healer?” Lan Xichen wants to know, but Jiang Cheng scoffs at that.

“Please. As if he’d waste any resources on a dead man.”

Lan Xichen freezes at his words, and Jiang Cheng realizes that Lan Xichen never truly contemplated what Jiang Cheng’s sentence would be.

“Wangji,” Lan Xichen says without looking away from Jiang Cheng, but his voice is noticeably colder. “What sentence are you aiming for?”

Jiang Cheng forces a smile on his face, even though he damn well knows what Lan Wangji’s answer will be, but Lan Xichen doesn’t seem to take it that well.

His hands are shaking.

“He killed countless innocents. The only sentence can be death,” Lan Wangji calmly replies, and Jiang Cheng takes a little bit of pleasure in the nervous shuffling from Wei Wuxian.

He doesn’t seem all too happy with that decision, and Jiang Cheng very vindictively finds himself hoping that it will haunt him for a long time.

Lan Xichen lets out a long, measured breath, and Jiang Cheng has to admit that he admires the resolve in Lan Xichen.

“No,” Lan Xichen says and turns back around to face Lan Wangji.

“That will not be his sentence.”

“When he is found guilty, it will be,” Lan Wangji replies, outwardly calm, but Jiang Cheng sees the almost nervous twitch of his hand.

“If, Chief Cultivator, not when,” Lan Xichen coldly reminds Lan Wangji and then turns towards Lan Qiren. “Please get a healer,” he says to his uncle, who immediately leaves.

Jiang Cheng almost wants to tell him to stop—he still doesn’t see himself getting out of this, since he is as unwilling as ever to tell Lan Wangji the truth—but he doesn’t stop him.

It really does hurt like a bitch and it would probably help with his light-headedness if the bleeding was stopped.

There is an almost uncomfortable silence in the wake of Lan Qiren’s departure, and to Jiang Cheng’s surprise it’s Lan Wangji who breaks it first.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks Lan Xichen, who shakes his head at Lan Wangji.

“I could ask you the same, Wangji,” he gives back. “You don’t even have proof and yet you already condemned a man to death.”

“Proof is there,” Lan Wangji replies and nods towards Jiang Cheng. “The dagger. The blood. The bodies.”

Jiang Cheng grits his teeth, because it would probably not do him any favours if he yelled at Lan Wangji, but he must notice the tension in his jaw, because Lan Wangji narrows his eyes at him, almost daring Jiang Cheng to forget about his manners.

Jiang Cheng will not give him that satisfaction on top of everything else.

“Is that really enough to condemn someone?” Lan Xichen asks. “You don’t know what happened. The circumstances could be different.”

“With all due respect, Zewu-Jun,” Sect Leader Yao pipes up and Jiang Cheng almost admires him for how daring he is, “but the circumstances don’t leave much to interpretation. He was the only one with them. They are dead now and he is drenched in their blood.”

“Of course that must mean I killed them,” Jiang Cheng agrees, voice saccharine sweet. “Especially since my words don’t count for much, right?”

“So if you found me in the clearing, your rabbits dead around me, their blood on me, you would assume I did it?” Lan Xichen demands to know of Lan Wangji, who immediately shakes his head.

“Of course not. Brother is different,” he explains and Jiang Cheng nods slightly.

He always knew it had nothing to do with proof or circumstances but everything to do with who he is as a person, and yet it still stings.

Especially since Wei Wuxian continues to stay quiet.

“Then at least admit that you’re not doing this for justice but out of a deep dislike for Jiang Wanyin,” Lan Xichen snaps and Lan Wangji seems as taken aback by that outburst as Jiang Cheng feels. “This has nothing to do with righteousness, Wangji, and I demand you stop this.”

“It’s not only my decision,” Lan Wangji replies, pointing at the other gathered Sect Leaders. “They all have grievances with Jiang Wanyin, and they should be heard.”

“Heard and appropriately dealt with,” Lan Xichen urges, but Jiang Cheng can tell that he’s losing faith that he will be able to convince his brother to stop this. “But not this.”

“Exactly this,” Lan Wangji decides with a nod and Lan Xichen turns desperate eyes on Jiang Cheng.

He can’t offer him more than a one shouldered shrug, because he will not throw his people in front of these undeserving people, and so his only option is to stay silent. His only option is to die.

“Wanyin,” Lan Xichen whispers, clearly begging him to speak up, to set this right, but Jiang Cheng can be stubborn on the best of days.

And this is so far from a good day.

“No,” Jiang Cheng decides and it seems like Lan Xichen wants to argue his decision, when Lan Qiren comes back, a man with a bag behind him.

“Lan Yimu will have a look at that shoulder now,” Lan Qiren decides, and he levels Lan Wangji with a look so severe even Wei Wuxian doesn’t dare to pipe up or even move.

Lan Qiren really hasn’t lost his touch since their student days, Jiang Cheng thinks and then grits his teeth against the pain, when light fingers probe around his injury.

“Can you still feel your fingers?” Lan Yimu asks him and Jiang Cheng wriggles them in reply. “That’s good,” the healer decides.

Jiang Cheng knows what’s coming next and he braces himself before Lan Yimu even speaks again.

“I’m going to take the dagger out now,” he warns Jiang Cheng, barely a second before he removes the blade from his shoulder.

Jiang Cheng bites down on a pained noise, keeps it trapped in his throat because he will not show weakness here. He has more pride than that.

He startles slightly when a hand is put to his uninjured shoulder, pouring spiritual energy into him, and Jiang Cheng is even more surprised when he looks up and sees that it’s Lan Qiren who is the one passing his energy to him.

“You have to speak up,” Lan Qiren urges him, effectively distracting Jiang Cheng from the pain in his shoulder, even though it gets better when Lan Yimu puts a numbing paste on the wound.

“No,” Jiang Cheng replies, and Lan Qiren seems to sense that his decision is final, because he doesn’t try again, even though he seems unhappy with his decision.

“It wouldn’t matter what I say anyway,” Jiang Cheng tacks on, trying to soften his words. “Xiuying won’t let them into Lotus Pier and they won’t believe without proof. Might not even believe it with proof.”

Lan Qiren clicks his tongue in apparent displeasure but he doesn’t argue Jiang Cheng’s words.

“You shouldn’t move your arm too much for the next couple of weeks,” Lan Yimu advises him, just as he’s tying off the bandage and Jiang Cheng scoffs.

“That won’t be a problem,” Jiang Cheng bitterly says, because he doubts he’ll even make it until tomorrow.

Really, for all that Jiang Cheng enjoys the receding levels of pain, it’s a waste of a perfectly good healing cream.

Lan Yimu shares a look with Lan Qiren, before he bows his head low to Jiang Cheng again.

“He was my cousin. Thank you for saving him,” Lan Yimu then whispers and Jiang Cheng can do nothing but stare at him.

Jiang Xiuying never spoke of the family he might have left behind, and Jiang Cheng never dared to ask, but of course there must still be people left who remember Jiang Xiuying from before, other than Lan Qiren and Lan Xichen.

“He is living well,” Jiang Cheng lowly gives back, even forces a small smile on his face because Jiang Xiuying is living well, and the only regret Jiang Cheng has is that he won’t see him come into his full potential.

Jiang Xiuying will make a great Sect Leader, no matter the circumstances of how he got there.

“That is enough now,” Lan Wangji interrupts them, clearly displeased that it takes so much time, and the dread settles in Jiang Cheng’s stomach again.

It was a nice reprieve, he has to admit that, but of course it couldn’t last forever.

“Wei Wuxian, how can you allow this?” Lan Xichen suddenly asks and Jiang Cheng’s head snaps up. “He is your brother. You should know him better.”

“Sixteen years are a long time, Zewu-Jun,” Wei Wuxian replies. “A lot can change in that time. People can change.”

“But not this fundamentally,” Lan Xichen keeps arguing even though Jiang Cheng knows it’s futile.

“Don’t waste your breath, Lan Xichen,” Jiang Cheng advises. “He can’t admit that the rumours might be fake,” Jiang Cheng says, not taking his eyes off Wei Wuxian, who is turning a worryingly shade of white.

“What? Why not?” Lan Xichen wants to know and Jiang Cheng huffs out a humourless laugh.

“Because if they are not true then that means I never hated him, or what he turned into. If these rumours are not true, and I never hated him, then I must have turned against him because it was the right thing to do for me at that time. And wouldn’t that be worse than me simply hating him?” Jiang Cheng wants to know, despite how much he still hates to hurt his brother like this, and the look on Wei Wuxian’s face tells him all he needs to know.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t like to broadcast it, but he does know how to read the people closest to him.

“Shut up,” Wei Wuxian chokes out, but even from the distance Jiang Cheng can see the tears in his eyes. “You hate what I did!”

“Because of the repercussions it had for us, yes,” Jiang Cheng easily replies, because he came to terms with that a long time ago. “I never hated you. Certainly not enough to kill people who followed your path.”

“And yet you’re doing that,” Lan Wangji interjects, smoothly stepping to the side to put himself between Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng.

“You can’t protect him from everything,” Jiang Cheng says, slightly raising his cuffed hands. “No matter how hard you try, there are some things no one can protect him from.”

He turns his gaze to Lan Xichen with his last words, willing him to understand that this is simply how it is supposed to go, but it seems stubbornness runs in both Lan brothers.

“No,” Lan Xichen decides and turns back to Lan Wangji. “You said he killed two innocent people. If that is true, they should hold resentment. Enough for you to summon them.”

“You want me to play Inquiry,” Lan Wangji states and Lan Xichen nods.

“Ask them what really happened. You’re not going to believe Jiang Wanyin, but maybe you will believe them.”

“They won’t come,” Jiang Cheng says with a small shake of his head.

It was a good idea, but given how they died they shouldn’t hold any resentment. Tan Chunhua might, since her death was an entirely too tragic accident, but Jiang Cheng doesn’t count on it.

“We have to try,” Lan Xichen replies, just as Lan Qiren leans down, seemingly trying to steady himself, since he’s still passing spiritual energy to Jiang Cheng, but Jiang Cheng doesn’t sense any weakness in him.

“I called onto the other Sects,” Lan Qiren whispers to him and Jiang Cheng has to suppress a white hot flash of fury at those words.

“No,” he bites out. “You leave them out of this!”

Jiang Cheng doesn’t want Jiang Xiuying to have to come back here and take a stand. He doesn’t want Jin Ling to see his last remaining family go.

They both deserve better.

“It’s done,” Lan Qiren informs him and for the first time since this all started Jiang Cheng feels the urge to fight against his cuffs.

He doesn’t want the people he loves to suffer unnecessarily, and it will be bad enough once they hear about this already, Jiang Cheng knows it. They don’t have to witness it as well.

“We’re not at their place of death,” Lan Wangji muses, effectively dragging Jiang Cheng out of his own thoughts. “Without their names I can’t call upon them.”

“Xie Xifeng and Tan Chunhua, which you would know if you had tried to help them,” Jiang Cheng informs him—rather smugly, really—and he watches with satisfaction as a sliver of doubt appears on Wei Wuxian’s face.

Jiang Cheng knows it’s wrong, but he hopes it will accompany him for the rest of his life; always at the back of his head that maybe, just maybe, things weren’t as they seemed. That maybe Jiang Cheng wasn’t the monster everyone made him turn to believe.

Lan Wangji doesn’t outwardly react as he gets his guqin out and settles behind it. He plays a few notes, before he sits and waits and when nothing happens, he plays the same sequence again.

But again, nothing happens.

“Try it again,” Lan Xichen demands but Jiang Cheng shakes his head.

“They won’t come. They didn’t die full of resentment. There won’t be anything for you to summon,” he tells Lan Wangji, but it’s Sect Leader Yao who speaks up.

“How can you be so sure? Did you destroy their spirits, too? Taking even the chance of reincarnation from them?” he demands to know and Jiang Cheng can’t even be bothered to turn his head around to him.

“Sect Leader Yao, if you know of a way to shatter a spirit on purpose in the moment of their death, please do enlighten us. You must really be a master in disguise if that is the case,” Jiang Cheng taunts over his shoulder, because Sect Leader Yao should know better than this.

But then again, it’s Sect Leader Yao. What did Jiang Cheng expect, really.

“If they won’t come, nothing can be proven. The absence of their spirits cannot be taken as a sign in favour of Jiang Wanyin,” Lan Wangji decides and Jiang Cheng almost finds it hilarious how Lan Wangji is bending himself backwards, trying to slander Jiang Cheng’s name.

“This is not justice,” Lan Qiren suddenly speaks up, his hand still a steady weight on Jiang Cheng’s shoulder. “If it can’t be taken as a sign in favour of Jiang Wanyin, then it can’t be used to condemn him further, either.”

This doesn’t seem to sit well with Lan Wangji at all, because Jiang Cheng actually sees him working his jaw, and Jiang Cheng will take his small pleasures where he can get them.

He won’t have much chances for any bigger ones, after all.

“Maybe Sect Leader Yao should tell you the name of his right hand man, so you can try to summon his spirit,” Jiang Cheng tosses out there, just to see Sect Leader Yao flounder really, and he’s not disappointed when there’s a very telling silence behind him. “He’s calling for justice for him ten years after his disappearance, he must have meant a great deal to Sect Leader Yao. Surely Sect Leader Yao remembers his name?” Jiang Cheng adds when nothing comes forth.

Lan Xichen sends him a reprimanding look, but Jiang Cheng simply shrugs. Taunting Sect Leader Yao won’t change the outcome of this anyway, but it does amuse Jiang Cheng, even in a situation as dire as this, and so he simply can’t pass this opportunity up.

Sect Leader Yao continues to be suspiciously quiet, and in the end it’s Lan Wangji who saves him some face.

“We will try Lan Zhi,” Lan Wangji decides and like every time when that name is used anger boils in Jiang Cheng’s veins.

He wants to snap at Lan Wangji, wants to tell him that he doesn’t deserve to use that name, but instead he closes his eyes and wills himself to be silent.

This round of inquiry is bound to be as successful as the one before and Jiang Xiuying is not here to be hurt by the sound of his old name.

Rationally, there is nothing Jiang Cheng should even get angry about. Still, he can’t help it.

“Why would you, Wangji?” Lan Xichen asks. “Did you truly not—,”

“Enough,” Jiang Cheng snaps, interrupting Lan Xichen before he can expose Jiang Xiuying. “Enough. Don’t drag this out any longer.”

Lan Qiren’s hand on his shoulder tightens, but Jiang Cheng is tired.

Lan Wangji has his mind made up—Jiang Cheng wonders why no one else can see it—and he doubts there is anything that will make him change his opinion of Jiang Cheng.

“He is asking for his sentence himself,” Sect Leader Yao crows in victory, as if it would mean that Jiang Cheng admitted to every single accusation. “We should give it to him.”

“Jiang Cheng,” Wei Wuxian suddenly says, but Jiang Cheng does not want to hear from his brother at this moment.

“Yes, you should,” Jiang Cheng bites out, forcing a smirk on his face, but before anyone can so much as move a muscle Zidian sparks to life on Jiang Cheng’s finger.

“He’s attacking!” Sect Leader Yao screams, already diving for safety behind the other Sect Leaders, but Jiang Cheng is staring at his finger in confusion.

“I’m not,” he shouts, because if he really wanted to attack any of them, he would have done so earlier, and then he watches as Zidian detaches itself from his finger and moves through the air.

Jiang Cheng follows its path with his gaze and his eyes go wide when he sees Jin Ling flying over the Cloud Recesses.

“No,” Jiang Cheng breathes out as he watches how Jin Ling expertly yields Zidian, drawing it in a graceful arch over his head before he viciously brings it down on the protective barrier surrounding the Cloud Recesses.

It splinters after one hit, and Jiang Cheng is unsure if that is because Jin Ling is truly that angry or if Lan Xichen and Lan Qiren did something.

It doesn’t matter in the end, because the barrier crumbles and Jin Ling doesn’t waste any time descending into the courtyard, stepping down from Suihua right next to Jiang Cheng.

“I hope you forgive me this trespassing, Zewu-Jun, but the disciples at the front gate wouldn’t allow us to come in. A mistake, surely, but really rather bothersome, given what is happening here,” Jin Ling smoothly says but Jiang Cheng can hear the faint tremor in his voice.

“There is nothing to forgive,” Lan Xichen immediately gives back, probably smiling with how light his voice sounds, but Jiang Cheng can’t tear his eyes away from Jin Ling.

He had been resigned to never see him again, and despite the fact that he is happy to see him one last time—not to mention how proud he is of him—Jiang Cheng really wishes he would be anywhere but here.

Jiang Cheng is just about to speak when Zidian is transferred back to his finger.

“I hope you forgive me, too, jiu-jiu, I know it is still yours, but this was an emergency,” Jin Ling says to him, not taking his eyes of Lan Wangji and clearly daring him to do anything right now.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Jiang Cheng softly says, because he thought he had been very clear in his instructions.

Jin Ling was supposed to be at Lotus Pier where Jiang Xiuying would need his help. He shouldn’t be here, watching Jiang Cheng die.

“Xiuying was very adamant,” Jin Ling easily gives back and as if on cue, Jiang Xiuying marches into the courtyard.

“I hope you will forgive us for being late, Chief Cultivator,” he sweetly says and Jiang Cheng has to admire him simply for the bite he puts into those words. “We were delayed at the front gate, but luckily we made it in time to this public trial that you surely wouldn’t dare hold without the Big Sects present.”

“You are not a Sect Leader,” is the first thing Lan Wangji says to Jiang Xiuying and Jiang Cheng immediately sees red.

“Do not speak to him,” Jiang Cheng hisses, raising up on his knees, Zidian sparking on his finger in response to his anger and Jiang Cheng is going to send it out, wound on his shoulder be damned.

“How dare you,” Lan Wangji says, and he clearly only waited for this, because Bichen is drawn and pointed at him in an instant.

“Wangji,” Lan Xichen tries, tries to calm everyone down, but his brother clearly doesn’t listen to him since he advances on Jiang Cheng without hesitation and it only takes Jiang Cheng a moment to understand that Lan Wangji is going to strike him down without remorse.

When Zidian lashes out, Jiang Cheng thinks for a split second that he lost control of his own spiritual tool but then Jiang Xiuying steps in front of him, arms outstretched and sending Zidian at Lan Wangji with natural ease.

Lan Wangji deflects the hit with Bichen, but the end of Zidian curls in an astonishing display of control and manages to flick Lan Wangji on the cheek, instantly drawing blood.

Jiang Cheng knew Jiang Xiuying would be magnificent with Zidian.

“Do not dare to touch him,” Jiang Xiuying seethes at Lan Wangji, calling Zidian back to his hand, where it continues to spark, picking up on the anger in Jiang Xiuying.

Lan Wangji seems to have half a mind to turn his sword against Jiang Xiuying next, but after a lengthy staring battle Lan Wangji sheathes Bichen and gets back to his original place, a clearly distressed Wei Wuxian immediately at his side and fussing over him.

Jiang Xiuying watches his retreat with hawk eyes, clearly not daring to take his gaze off him until he is a good distance away and then he turns his look onto Zidian, now finally dormant on his finger.

He takes a few seconds before he turns around to Jiang Cheng, a question clear in his eyes and Jiang Cheng shrugs through his embarrassment.

Jiang Cheng has transferred power over Zidian to Jiang Xiuying years ago, because just like Jin Ling, he simply wanted to keep him safe. Unlike with Jin Ling, Jiang Cheng might have forgot to mention it to Jiang Xiuying.

Who doesn’t seem to take it as well as Jiang Cheng had hoped.

“We’ll  talk about this when we get home,” Jiang Xiuying threatens and Jiang Cheng is unable to keep his mouth shut.

“If,” he corrects, because Lan Wangji now seems more murderous than ever.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t like his chances, not even with Jiang Xiuying and Jin Ling here now.

“When,” Jiang Xiuying hisses and then stalks away, putting his back to Lan Wangji in a clearly disrespectful move.

It’s only now that Jiang Cheng realizes that Jiang Xiuying didn’t come alone. He walks over to a bunch of Yunmeng disciples and when Jiang Cheng recognizes them, he goes cold.

Of course Jiang Cheng knows that Jiang Xiuying would never force any of the people Jiang Cheng saved to show up here—their intention of telling the truth more than made clear by their actions—so these must be the ones that are alright with having their new identity revealed, but Jiang Cheng doesn’t have to like it.

“This is not a public event,” Jiang Cheng desperately says. “Disciples are not allowed here,” he goes on, turning back around to Lan Wangji. “I’m requesting you send them away.”

“Since you are being accused of a crime, you lost the right to call yourself Sect Leader,” Jiang Xiuying states. “I am acting Sect Leader of Yunmeng Jiang and I have every right to be here,” Jiang Xiuying bites out at Jiang Cheng and there is nothing Jiang Cheng can do to change that right now.

But the rest of his people shouldn’t be here.

“I am a newly appointed Sect Leader,” Jiang Xiuying says. “You cannot expect me to travel without due safety precautions.”

Jiang Cheng wants to strangle him for putting himself into this situation, but Jiang Xiuying looks at him like he expects it, his gaze steady and unwavering, and Jiang Cheng sinks back onto his heels, turning an imploring gaze on Lan Wangji.

“They stay,” Lan Wangji says, probably just to be contrary, even as he swipes the blood from his cheek. “There have been enough interruptions already.”

As if on cue one more interruption appears.

“Ah, am I late?” Nie Huaisang sheepishly asks from behind his fan. “I came as fast as I could, but—,” he trails off and shrugs. “Oh, good, Jiang Wanyin is still alive,” he then says when his eyes fall on Jiang Cheng and he positions himself far away from Lan Xichen. “Don’t let yourself be distracted, please do go on,” he expectantly says, when all eyes continue to stay on him, and Jiang Cheng wonders just what exactly he is up to this time.

“You have good people,” Lan Qiren suddenly whispers to Jiang Cheng and even though Jiang Cheng wants to do nothing more than wholeheartedly agree, he fears that their presence here will only make things harder on them.

Jiang Cheng’s eyes fall on Jin Ling, and it’s only then that he realizes how pale and shaken he seems and Jiang Cheng understands suddenly that Jin Ling pushed himself to fly as fast as he could to Lotus Pier, explaining everything to Jiang Xiuying, before they made their way here. Jin Ling probably didn’t rest since he flew off at the house.

And it must be like this, because if Lan Qiren only called for help when he fetched the healer, they are way too early.

“I wish I didn’t,” Jiang Cheng almost belatedly whispers but Lan Qiren only squeezes his shoulder.

“Your actions against the Chief Cultivator will be excused this once,” Lan Wangji says, voice icy and Jiang Xiuying mockingly bows to him. “It will not be enough to derail this trial. Let’s continue,” Lan Wangji declares and Jiang Cheng can’t believe how blind he truly is.

He is looking straight at Jiang Xiuying but he doesn’t seem to recognize him at all. Jiang Cheng honestly suspects that Lan Wangji is so dead set on killing him today that he doesn’t allow even the slightest doubt and so he conveniently tunes the nagging voice out.

It’s the only thing that makes sense, because otherwise Lan Wangji is just stupidly oblivious.

“Now, the accusations have been presented. Since Jiang Wanyin refuses to speak and there is no proof in his favour, who stands against Jiang Wanyin?” Lan Wangji asks and it’s worded incredibly biased towards Jiang Cheng’s guilt.

Predictably, Sect Leader Yao is the first one to speak up.

“The Yao Sect stands against Jiang Wanyin,” he declares, chest proudly puffed up and Sect Leader Ouyang steps up next.

“Baling Ouyang stands against Jiang Wanyin,” he agrees, and after that it’s just a flood of the smaller Sects declaring their stand against Jiang Cheng.

When the last one falls silent, Jin Ling doesn’t hesitate to speak up.

“Lanling Jin stands with Jiang Wanyin,” he declares, to the surprise of no one and Jiang Xiuying nods his agreement.

“Yunmeng Jiang stands with Jiang Wanyin,” he says, daring Lan Wangji with his eyes to disagree.

Everyone turns towards Nie Huaisang next.

“What do you want me to say? I don’t know, I really don’t know what to do,” Nie Huaisang says, rather predictably, Jiang Cheng thinks and Zidian sparks on his finger again.

It’s clearly reacting to Jiang Xiuying’s anger, since he’s glaring daggers at Nie Huaisang.

“For once in your life, do the right thing and say the truth,” Jiang Xiuying snaps at Nie Huaisang who looks at him over his fan, before he snaps it shut.

Gone is the headshaker and Jiang Cheng can hear Lan Xichen take a shaky breath at the reminder that Nie Huaisang is not as innocent as he seems.

“Fine,” Nie Huaisang says, his voice suddenly strong and clear. “You’re making a grave mistake, Lan Wangji,” Nie Huaisang tells him. “Qinghe Nie stands with Jiang Wanyin.”

Lan Wangji doesn’t seem surprised by these turns of events, but he also doesn’t seem to be happy about it. Once Nie Huaisang falls silent Lan Wangji turns expectant eyes on Lan Xichen, clearly expecting him to back Lan Wangji as well, now that all the smaller Sects do, despite Lan Xichen’s earlier show of support towards Jiang Cheng.

Lan Xichen’s vote will decide this, Jiang Cheng suddenly realizes, because if one of the Great Sects sides with the smaller ones, they outweigh the other three Great Sects and Jiang Cheng has a split second to doubt Lan Xichen.

He feels bad for it, even before Lan Xichen squares his shoulder.

“Gusu Lan stands with Jiang Wanyin,” he loudly declares without hesitation or doubt and Sect Leader Yao gasps in outrage as a hush falls over the crowd.

“Brother,” Lan Wangji says, clearly displeased with that, but Lan Xichen shakes his head.

“No. He is innocent of the charges you brought against him and Gusu Lan will not allow you to kill an innocent man. We stand with him,” he reiterates, underlined by Lan Qiren nodding.

Wei Wuxian has been oddly quiet; strangely enough his gaze is fixed upon Nie Huaisang and it’s not long before he speaks.

“Why do you stand with him?” he asks and Nie Huaisang flicks his fan open again.

“Because he is innocent and I have something to make up for,” Nie Huaisang says with a little nod of his head and Jiang Cheng is reminded of the conversation they had just before everything went to shit.

If this is how Nie Huaisang wants to make up for killing Mo Xuanyu then he should probably think again, Jiang Cheng bitterly thinks, even though he is aware that there is no way that Nie Huaisang can make up for a lost life at all.

“I see,” Wei Wuxian mutters and Jiang Cheng scoffs.

“You don’t see anything,” he tells him and then forces himself to his feet, shrugging Lan Qiren’s hand off in the process. “Now that this is decided, can I leave?” he asks, raising his still cuffed hands in a clear demand to be released, but Lan Wangji doesn’t move.

“Just because some people don’t find you guilty it doesn’t mean that you’re absolved. The Chief Cultivator stands against Jiang Wanyin.”

“The Chief Cultivator is supposed to be an unbiased voice. His job is to mediate between the Sects and balance the scales,” Jin Ling says, and Jiang Cheng doesn’t think he has ever heard him speak this frostily to someone before. “You’re not supposed to take sides.”

“The accusations regarding our lost disciple have to come from Gusu Lan,” Lan Xichen chimes in and Jiang Cheng is beyond grateful that he doesn’t use Jiang Xiuying’s old name. “You have nothing to bring against him, since he didn’t slight you personally.”

Lan Wangji’s grip on Bichen tightens and Jiang Cheng wonders just how badly Lan Wangji really wants him dead.

“So you just want to let him leave, knowing that he will kill again?” Wei Wuxian asks and Jiang Cheng can’t help but to jerk with his words.

It still hurts, to know that his own brother doesn’t even believe that he is innocent.

“The trust is broken,” one of the other Sect Leader agrees and they all start to nod.

“We can’t trade with Yunmeng anymore,” someone else says and Jiang Cheng closes his eyes.

Even if he does survive this, the reputation of his Sect will be tarnished, and the lives of his disciples will be unnecessary hard after this.

It’s everything Jiang Cheng never wanted.

When he opens his eyes again, his gaze falls on Jiang Xiuying who is already looking at him.

“Let them speak,” Jiang Xiuying lowly says, just loud enough to reach Jiang Cheng’s ears. “They are here on their own free will.”

Jiang Cheng takes a deep breath, because he suspected as much, but he still didn’t want to drag them into the spotlight like this.

“They shouldn’t have to,” he gives back and by now they have the attention of everyone, Jiang Cheng is more than aware of that.

“But they want to,” Jiang Xiuying replies and then smiles slightly at Jiang Cheng. “It’s not even only for your sake,” he then admits while he glares at Lan Wangji. “It would bring us great pleasure, too.”

Jiang Cheng chuckles at that, despite how everything inside him screams to bundle his people up and bring them far away, to protect them from prying eyes.

“Jiu-jiu, please,” Jin Ling chimes in when Jiang Cheng doesn’t agree to their plan and Jiang Cheng can’t help himself, he reaches out with his still bound hands to tug him closer to himself.

“Let us protect you for once,” Jiang Xiuying whispers, his voice steady and sure, and with Jin Ling’s comforting weight leaning against him Jiang Cheng finds it hard to remember why this is a bad idea.

That changes when his eyes fall on Lan Wangji again, but by then he has already agreed.

“Fine,” he mutters, casting a desperate glance towards his people.

“You are keeping them safe,” Jiang Xiuying promises. “You’re keeping them safe by protecting yourself.”

“I already said fine,” Jiang Cheng snaps, because he never did learn how to deal with the gratitude and love of his people and Jiang Xiuying smirks at him, because he knows exactly what Jiang Cheng is feeling.

He does know him too well, after all.

“We will keep them safe as well,” Lan Xichen suddenly says from right beside Jiang Cheng as he reaches out to undo his cuffs. “We are standing with you.”

“And I thank you for that,” Jiang Cheng says with a small nod before he straightens up. “Alright,” he decides. “Pardon this, Lan Xichen, but let’s stick it to your brother.”

Jin Ling snorts at his words, just as Jiang Xiuying bites back a smile and even Lan Xichen can’t hide the amusement in his eyes.

Jiang Cheng knows he will crash sooner or later; today has been a bit much with everything and the fact that he almost died today will catch up with him once he has a moment to think about it, but right now, with the people he loves behind him, he feels like he could do anything.

And if Jiang Cheng is being honest, the only thing he really wants to be doing right now is to make Lan Wangji and especially Sect Leader Yao eat their own words.

Jiang Xiuying motions for the others to step forward and Jiang Cheng recognizes all of them, of course he does. Even Jiang Sushan is there, Fu Zhihao pressed close to her side and Jiang Cheng itches with the need to send them away immediately.

Fu Zhihao barely healed and she’s still in no condition to be around older males for longer than absolutely necessary. She shouldn’t be here at all.

Jiang Cheng glares at Jiang Xiuying but he simply shrugs. He did say they are all here voluntarily, Jiang Cheng reminds himself. He just hopes it’s true as he turns towards Lan Wangji.

“Regarding the accusations made against me today,” he starts and cuts his glare over to Sect Leader Yao, who has the good grace to shrink back at the venom in that glare, “I have something to say.”

“Speak,” Lan Wangji demands, but he doesn’t sound too sure all of a sudden, doesn’t seem too happy with the proceedings, and Jiang Cheng does rather enjoy the feeling of triumph it brings him.

“I am innocent. I did not kill any demonic cultivators, nor did I torture them.”

His voice rings out in the courtyard because everyone is silent for two seconds, but then chaos erupts. The voices calling him a liar are the kinder ones, and Jiang Cheng shakes his head at them.

“And I have proof,” he continues, raising his voice so that it carries over the others.

Luo Ganting is the first to step forward and Jiang Cheng seethes with anger when Sect Leader Yao doesn’t seem to recognize him instantly.

“My name is Luo Ganting,” he says, turning towards Sect Leader Yao, his face speaking of the disgust he feels for the other man. “And I used to be Sect Leader Yao’s right hand man before Sect Leader Jiang saved me from my certain death.”

Sect Leader Yao gasps dramatically, but Jiang Cheng sees how he goes pale, how he starts to sweat and he knows there won’t be any more accusations from that front.

“I turned towards demonic cultivation when I couldn’t stand to be in Sect Leader Yao’s presence anymore and Sect Leader Jiang saved me. He gave me hope, a home, and a family. I have been with him for ten years now and I regret every year I wasted with Sect Leader Yao before. Jiang Wanyin is innocent.”

Fu Zhihao is the next to step up, Jiang Sushan hovering protectively at her back, but her voice doesn’t shake.

Jiang Cheng is incredibly proud of how far she has come in this short amount of time.

“My name is Fu Zhihao,” she starts and she keeps her eyes on Lan Wangji. “My family married me off to a man thrice my age, who insisted that I be a good wife. My hate for him was so strong that I turned to demonic cultivation without a second thought. I killed him and the child I was carrying but Sect Leader Jiang came to rescue me. I haven’t been with him for long, but even that short amount of time was better than the life I spent before.”

“In case it is unclear,” Jiang Xiuying chimes in, his voice as cutting as the glare he sends at Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji. “She is the girl you accused Sect Leader Jiang of killing during the last cultivation conference.”

Lan Wangji’s face has turned into stone but Wei Wuxian watches the proceedings with big eyes, his lips parted, the colour drained from his face.

One after one Jiang Cheng’s people step forward, telling everyone present in what ways Jiang Cheng saved their lives. It’s clear by the faces of everyone present just how much they hate this, and Jiang Cheng has to admit that he does too.

He doesn’t like to be reminded how his people suffered before, can feel his eyes burn with the mere memory of it, of how unhappy and desperate they were, and Jiang Cheng has to actively remind himself that they are doing well these days.

It’s all in the past.

When the last person steps back, Jiang Xiuying steps forward and Jiang Cheng itches to pull him back, to shield him from this. But he knows he can’t do that, understands that this is something Jiang Xiuying has to do now and so he simply watches on.

“My name used to be Lan Zhi,” Jiang Xiuying starts with, raising his hand, his white forehead ribbon tightly clenched in it, adding proof to his words.

Jiang Cheng didn’t even know he kept it.

“And I used to be a disciple of Gusu Lan.”

Jiang Cheng does rather enjoy how Lan Wangji goes pale at that and he can’t help the small, satisfied smile on his face. The shock serves Lan Wangji right after he didn’t even recognize Jiang Xiuying.

“I turned towards demonic cultivation in my unhappiness and it was Sect Leader Jiang who showed me a different way. Who listened to me and took me serious, who offered me another life, one not dictated by rules that were suffocating me. He noticed me,” Jiang Xiuying says, clearly aiming to hit low with this, and going by Lan Wangji’s flinch, he managed it well. “He gave me a new name and a new family, and I couldn’t imagine a happier life.”

Jiang Cheng itches to pull Jiang Xiuying close, make sure that this doesn’t affect him more than he lets on, but he forces himself to hold still.

When no one else steps forward, Lan Xichen speaks.

“The accusations brought against Jiang Wanyin are baseless. He is innocent.”

“Then what happened today?” Wei Wuxian suddenly asks and Jiang Cheng jerks with the reminder that there are two people he didn’t manage to save.

Jiang Xiuying seems to sense his distress, because he steps close to Jiang Cheng, a supportive hand on his arm and Jiang Cheng takes a deep breath before he speaks.

“When I entered the house, Tan Chunhua was already dead. Xie Xifeng lost control of her powers and a knife went flying, hitting Tan Chunhua in the neck. When I tried to calm Xie Xifeng down, she lost herself to her grief and in the following outburst of her powers she accidentally turned Tan Chunhua into a puppet. She stabbed me,” he recounts, pointing at the injury in his shoulder. “When Xie Xifeng realized what she had done, she chose death over life and threw herself at Sandu,” Jiang Cheng forces out, the only thing grounding him into the present Jiang Xiuying’s steady hand on his arm.

“You tried to help,” Wei Wuxian whispers, clearly not taking that revelation well, and Jiang Cheng bares his teeth at him.

“Unlike you, who arrived before me and could have done something to prevent this tragedy,” he hotly says and then turns away from Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji. “Now if that is all, I wish to return to my own Sect.”

Jiang Cheng doesn’t wait for Lan Wangji’s reply to that, and his path away from this farce of a trial leads him straight in front of the smaller Sect Leaders. Jiang Cheng tenses when Lang Hanying steps forward.

“What now?” Jiang Cheng snaps at her, but she bows deeply.

“We apologize for our misconception and blind belief that led to your suffering. Please do understand that we will need some time to reconcile this new information with the image we carried of you for so long.”

“Whatever,” Jiang Cheng grumbles, because he honestly couldn’t care less—all he wants to do right now is go home—but Jiang Xiuying doesn’t seem quite satisfied with it.

“You stood against him before,” he says, a clear challenge in his voice, making sure to look every person straight in the eyes, and Jiang Cheng knows that Jiang Xiuying won’t forget that these people called for Jiang Cheng’s death.

He can hold a grudge better than anyone, Jiang Cheng has found, and he promises to only let Jiang Xiuying deal with Sect Leader Yao now. Let him sweat some more.

“We cannot stand with him, the rift between the Jiang Wanyin we thought we knew and the real one is too great,” Lang Hanying says apologetically and then turns towards Lan Wangji. “But we do not stand against Jiang Wanyin,” she declares and Jiang Cheng can’t deny that he feels vindicated.

It’s a good feeling, he finds.

Jiang Cheng expectantly turns towards Lan Wangji, who seems as if he would rather take the punishment whip again as to say the words everyone is expecting from him now.

But no one steps in, and even Lan Xichen only raises an expectant eyebrow at his brother.

“Lan Wanyin is innocent and cleared of all accusations. Sect Leader Jiang is an honoured Sect Leader and is held in the highest regards,” Lan Wangji does eventually manage to press out and Jiang Cheng wonders just what it cost him to say that.

He can’t find it in himself to feel bad for Lan Wangji.

“Jiang Cheng,” Wei Wuxian says unexpectantly and steps forward.

Jiang Xiuying immediately moves between them, and Jiang Cheng knows that he wouldn’t have any qualms using Zidian on Wei Wuxian as well, but Jiang Cheng tugs Jiang Xiuying back.

It’s not worth it. There have been enough meaningless fights today, and it’s simply not worth it.

“Jiang Cheng,” Wei Wuxian says again, and this time it’s Jin Ling who intercepts him, just as protective as Jiang Xiuying.

“Don’t you dare speak to him,” Jin Ling hisses. “There is no relation between you at all, not after today, so you should return to your husband’s side.”

It’s said with so much disdain that even Jiang Cheng has to raise an eyebrow in surprise, but when Wei Wuxian doesn’t move, he lets out a sigh.

“You believed this,” Jiang Cheng says, and all of a sudden he feels tired to his bones and yet again it’s only his own stubborn pride that keeps him on his feet and his head raised. “You believed I killed countless people, out of hate for a single person. You wouldn’t listen to reason and you would not give me the benefit of the doubt. There is nothing more to say between us, Wei Wuxian.”

Jiang Cheng doesn’t wait to see the effect his words have on Wei Wuxian, turning away from him almost before he finishes speaking, but he hears the pained breath Wei Wuxian takes in the wake of his words, voiced with utter finality.

He knows it’s petty, but Jiang Cheng hopes Wei Wuxian will regret his actions until the day he dies, just like Jiang Cheng still regrets the actions he took sixteen years ago.

“Thank you for your support,” Jiang Cheng says with a small bow when he comes across Lan Xichen and Lan Qiren, who simply nod at him.

“We promised,” Lan Xichen gives back as if it is that easy, as if promises haven’t been broken countless times before. “You will always have a friend and ally in Gusu Lan.”

“Yunmeng Jiang appreciates it,” Jiang Cheng replies and then turns towards Nie Huaisang who is still watching the proceedings with hawk eyes.

“You want the position as Chief Cultivator so badly, you should get rid of the old one,” Jiang Cheng says without preamble and he enjoys the surprised look on Nie Huaisang’s face.

He’s not as unpredictable as he likes to think, especially not since Jiang Cheng saw his true face once, but right now Jiang Cheng is too tired to be angry that Nie Huaisang used his plight to his advantage.

“I’m filing an official complaint against the current holder of the position,” Jiang Cheng informs him. “I accuse him of actively withholding help to Tan Chunhua and Xie Xifeng, causing their death with it. Do with that what you want.”

“I will, Jiang-xiong,” Nie Huaisang promises and he seems way too satisfied for Jiang Cheng’s taste.

“That won’t be necessary,” Lan Xichen suddenly says, his eyes still on Lan Wangji who honestly seems shell-shocked by the proceedings today.

Jiang Cheng can’t even pretend to feel bad.

“What do you mean?” Jin Ling wants to know and it’s only then that Lan Xichen turns towards them.

“He broke several rules with his actions. He will be asked to go into seclusion for an as of yet undetermined time to reflect on his behaviour. The position of Chief Cultivator is thus vacant.”

“Do you think he will repent for what he did?” Jiang Xiuying asks and Lan Xichen slightly bows his head.

“My brother has strong opinions. It will take him time to come to terms with the fact that he was blinded by unjustified hate. Time we will give to him.”

Locked away in the jingshi, Lan Xichen doesn’t say out loud, but Jiang Cheng understands him anyway. It doesn’t feel like enough, after all Lan Wangji put him through, especially today, but Jiang Cheng still nods.

“His inactions regarding Tan Chunhua and Xie Xifeng are a different matter. He will be punished for that accordingly, since he used them to manipulate you,” Lan Xichen adds and even though he sounds pained, his voice doesn’t waver.

“That seems acceptable,” Jiang Xiuying says when Jiang Cheng can’t find it in him to answer and Lan Xichen leaves them with one last bow.

Nie Huaisang kept quiet through the exchange, fanning himself or maybe simply hiding, but Jiang Xiuying clearly did not forget about him.

“If you come after us, or Jin Ling, we will destroy you,” Jiang Xiuying promises Nie Huaisang as they walk past him, and Nie Huaisang seems to be smart enough to believe him.

“You shouldn’t aggravate other Sect Leaders,” Jiang Cheng chides him, once they made their way away from them all and Jiang Xiuying huffs.

“He shouldn’t play with my Sect Leader,” he gives back and then stops Jiang Cheng with a light hand to his shoulder. “We came here out of our own will. We took a stand because we wanted to,” he reassures Jiang Cheng who still finds that hard to believe, but who nods anyway. “And I am so giving the title of Sect Leader back to you,” Jiang Xiuying then adds with a dangerous smirk and Jiang Cheng knows there will be several loud and lengthy conversations about this.

“You were stupid, jiu-jiu,” Jin Ling says from Jiang Cheng’s other side, his voice all choked up, and Jiang Cheng can tell that there are more talks in his future on that front as well.

Given that he thought he would never get to see these two people again, Jiang Cheng is rather looking forward to it.

Bonus Jiang Cheng/Jiang Xiuying chapter

{Buy me a kofi}

[avengerscompound]

Snapshots - Three

Snapshots: A Bucky Barnes Fanfic

Series Masterlist PREVIOUS //

Buy me a ☕ Character Pairing:  Bucky Barnes x  F!Reader

Word Count:  1897

Rating:  M

Square filled: @buckybarnesbingo, C3 Free Space

Warnings:  sex talk, smut on the series.

Synopsis:  Before Bucky Barnes became the Winter Soldier he had a life and plans for the future.  A lot of them involving you.

During an art lesson you, Bucky and Steve find out about the bombing of Pearl Harbor.  Bucky and Steve go to enlist in the army.

Three

Bucky had been making faces at you for half the art class.  It was distracting, to say the least.  The little quirks of his eyebrow as he whispered to the boys around him.  Occasionally he’d bite his bottom lip as he gazed in your direction and then start actually doing his work.  You were about to start up an actual paint war in the classroom so you could cover that smug look on his face.

Only just when you were about to snap, a boy came in.  “Japan just bombed Pearl Harbor!”  He announced loudly.

The room broke out in chaos, everyone talking at once.  Bucky and Steve huddled together whispering and when the teacher dismissed the class, they grabbed their stuff and rushed out.  Normally it was impossible to get Steve or Bucky out of art class.  Steve always had one more thing he wanted to add to whatever he was working on and Bucky would hang around flirting with any girls still around.  Today they couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

You packed your bag and headed out.  You expected to see them somewhere during your trip home but they were nowhere to be seen.

It wasn’t until the next day that you saw him again.  He showed up at your apartment a little after midday, knocking on the door like the place was on fire.

“Is your dad here?”  He asked when you opened the door to him.

“No.  He’s gone out for the day.”  You said.

“Can we talk?”

You nodded and led him down to the living room.  He sat down on the sofa chair, perched on the edge and tapping his hands impatiently on his thighs.  “What’s going on?”  You asked as you took a seat.

“I enlisted in the army yesterday.”  He said.

“You what?  Why?”  You said, shocked.  There was so little time before the end of school, and he was smart.  You’d gotten into Barnard and were starting the following year and he’d always had similar marks to you.

He sighed and collapsed back into the couch.  “I kinda thought I might anyway.  I got into college but… I can’t afford it.  If I served then it’s a job, I might even be able to study.”

“There are other ways.  Scholarships.”  You said.  “I have a scholarship.”

“I was looking into it.  It was a long shot.  I always knew that. That’s why I was boxin’.  I was putting my winnings aside.  But, darlin’,”  He rubbed his eyes with the balls of his hands.  “I can’t just sit here and do nothin’ while the world is falling apart.  Steve and I went to enlist after school.”

“Steve enlisted?”  You asked dumbfounded.

“Yeah.  I mean… he tried.  He was 4F.  He was obviously going to be 4F.”

He sat up again and looked at you as you stared at him, not even sure what to say.  You weren’t even sure exactly why he’d come to tell you.  You were friends, but not exactly the closest of friends.  You most just studied with him and Steve once a week and maybe you’d see them on weekends.

“I go on Monday.”  He said.  “They're sending me to Wisconsin.”

“James!”  You gasped.  “Why… why didn’t you wait until school ended?”

“It pretty much has.”  He said with a shrug.

“Oh, James.”  You sighed, patting your chest.  “I don’t… I don’t know why you’d just put yourself in harm's way like this.”

He sat forward and put his hand on your knee.  “Yes, you do.”  He said.

You nodded and frowned a little.  “I guess so.”

He moved beside you and took your hand, playing with your fingers, quietly while you leaned against him.  Neither of you wanted to say it, but you knew you were both thinking about the fact that there was a strong chance he might never come back if they sent him overseas to fight.  “I want you to do some things for me.”  He said, finally breaking the silence.

“What are they?”  You asked.

“Well, first, I don’t want you to let anyone stop you from doing something amazing with your life.  Get your degree and do something with it.  You were right not to ever say yes to me.  Don’t get fooled by smarter boys because they have degrees or fancy cars.”  He said.

You felt tears prick your eyes and you shook your head.  “Don’t talk like this is going to be the last time you see me.”

He chuckled.  “Don’t worry, darlin’.”  He said, putting your hand against his chest.  “I’ll be back.  It’s just training first anyway.  Besides, I told you I was gonna marry you.  You gotta be my rich scientist wife so I can be your pretty toyboy, right?”

You snorted and he wrapped his arm around you.  “In your dreams.”

“That’s right.”  He said.  “I will be dreaming about it.”

A tear escaped and he cupped your jaw and wiped it away with his thumb.  “What else did you want me to do?”

“Keep an eye on Stevie.  Since his ma died he only agreed to live with me and my folks ‘cause I begged him to.  I don’t think he’ll stick around when I’m gone.  He’s mad about being rejected by the army too.  I know what he’s like and he’s gonna start picking fights with everyone.  I know you’re going to be in Manhattan, but I don’t know.  Just check up on him from time to time.  Make sure he doesn’t do anything too dumb.  He doesn’t have anyone else.”  Bucky said.

You nodded.  “I can try.”

“Thanks, doll.”  He said.  “My folks are having a going-away dinner, thing, tomorrow.  Will you come?”

“Sure, Buck.”  You said.

The following night you had dressed up.  Putting on the nicest dress you owned and spending that little bit longer perfecting your hair and makeup.

The event was a strange and surreal mix of somber and excited.  His dad was extremely proud of his boy and kept going on about how many of this or that person he was gonna end up killing while he ruffled Bucky’s hair and put him in a headlock.  It was a little morbid how he kept going on about it.

His mother, on the other hand, looked like she was attending a funeral.  She kept bursting into tears and needing to be reassured by Bucky that everything was going to be fine.

Despite the fact Bucky had been having dinner at your place every week for a year now, you’d actually never met his parents before.  It was weird doing it under these circumstances.  They both definitely seemed to be under the impression that you were dating or something.  His mother kept telling you, that the two of you would have to look after each other while he was gone and his father had very quickly thrown out that there was a chance you could organize the wedding before he was deployed.   You hadn’t wanted to argue with them.  Not under the circumstances at the very least.  Thankfully Bucky was at least smart enough to look embarrassed when it happened.

His siblings were mostly fine though his youngest sister, Rebecca wouldn’t let go of Bucky’s hand for anything and ended up falling asleep in his lap.  Steve kept to himself most of the night and was a little surly when engaged.

“I just want a chance to do what everyone else gets to.  People are out there risking their lives and I’m stuck here watching.”  Steve scowled as you sat beside him.  “Bucky taught me how to fight.  I know how to fight.”

“I know, Steve.  But it’s better this way.  You don’t actually want to be there.”  You said.

“Don’t tell me what I want!”  Steve shouted.

Everyone turned and looked at him.  He puffed out his chest and stood up storming off to the bedroom he shared with Bucky.  Bucky sighed and went after him.  You sat awkwardly with your drink.  He emerged a little later and smiled at you.  “That kinda put a damper on the whole thing.”  He said.  “It’s late, can I walk you home?”

You nodded and stood up.  “Thank you for having me.”  You said.

“Of course, dear.  It was lovely to finally meet you.”  His mother said getting up and coming over to hug you.

“Don’t smother her, ma.”  Bucky teased.

“You’ll visit while James is away?”  She asked.

“Of course, ma’am.”  You said.

“Good.  That’s good.”  She said.

She followed you both to the door and you waved when you got to the bottom of the steps.  When you were sure she was back inside you elbowed Bucky.  “What have you been telling your family?”

“Just the truth.”  He teased.  “About how you were my future wife.”

You couldn’t help but laugh and you elbowed him again.  “You are incorrigible.”

“Sorry about Steve.”  He said.

You shrugged.  “My fault.  He obviously has strong feelings about going.”

Bucky nodded.  “He doesn’t like bullies.”  He said.  “He’s gonna get in trouble.”

“Can’t be worse than the trouble you’ve gotten yourself into.”  You said.

“No.  You’re probably right about that.”  He said.  “I’ll be okay.”

You reached over and took his hand, linking your fingers with his.  He looked over at you and smiled.  “What’s this?  Pity handhold.”

You shook your head but you wouldn’t look at him.  The truth was, you had started to wonder why you had kept rejecting him.  You weren’t some notch on his belt he was waiting to carve.  You had been important to him.  Why could you only just see that now?

He stopped walking and turned you to face him.  “I will be okay.”

You nodded and his hand went to your chin, tilting your face up to look at him.  “I will.”

“Yeah, you will.”  You said.  More for him than yourself.

“I’ll be back soon enough.  We can explore whatever this is before I ship out if you like.”  He said.

You let out a soft breath.  “This is a momentary lapse of judgment.”

“Oh, I see,”  Bucky said.  “Well, I should take advantage while I can.”

He leaned into you, his lips slightly parted.  You bridged the distance, bringing your lips to his.  He kissed you slowly and tenderly.  There was nothing lewd about it.  He kept his hands on your arms, they didn’t roam or try to take any more from you.  He pulled back slowly and you chased his lips for a moment before opening your eyes, to see his blue ones twinkling down at you.

“We’ll definitely explore that more when I get back.”  He said.

You shook your head.  “I’ll be in my right mind by then.”

He chuckled and put his arm around your waist and continued the short walk to your door.  “Thanks for coming tonight, doll.  I’m glad you were there.”

“Of course, Buck.  Travel safe tomorrow.”   You said.

“It’s not the travel I’m worried about.”  He said and kissed your cheek.  “If you wanted to wait for me, I’d be okay with that.”

You smiled and rubbed his arm.  “Might have to if your ma is going to be planning our wedding.”

He chuckled and you headed inside, a tight feeling in your chest.  You knew he’d be back, but nothing about this felt good to you at all.

// NEXT

[yourdeepestfathoms]

A Little Piece Of Heaven (part one)

[Tour!verse]

TW: Surprisingly not many...I guess mockery of religion, specifically Christianity and anything in that branch. Very minor mentions of self harm (like one time- if you blink you’ll miss it). But mainly this fic is just psychological.

———————

Lord of The Flies

Let’s get something clear really quickly: Joan Meutas was not religious. Did she used to be? Unfortunately, yes, but after seeing the world for what it really was, after getting an axe to her vagina from her beloved husband, she has realized that there was no merciful God who would save lost souls. It was all a hoax by crazy old folk from wherever Jerusalem was to herd people into one belief, thinking that it may make them more humane and friendly. But religion has done more harm than good- Christianity damns all non CIS heterosexuals to hell, Jews got murdered by the thousands, that one branch literally won’t eat anything besides fucking grain or some shit, Catholics are just rude as all hell, those fasting things literally cause people to STARVE TO DEATH, and for what? To appease some higher being? Do they truly think they will be saved? If God was so merciful and wonderful and kindhearted, why would he make things like murder and cancer and rape and torture?

Joan even once heard that the Bible stated that when a woman was on her period she had to leave her village and wasn’t allowed to come back UNLESS she had a turtle dove. She’s never read the Good Book before, so she doesn’t know if that was true or not, but it doesn’t sound unlikely given all the stupid rules she’s heard about.

So, no, Joan was not religious.

It’s strange, she thinks, how offended people get when she says it or simply hints at it. Their eyes will practically bug out of their skull and they probably pray for her “lost soul”, maybe even do that weird cross gesture on their chest when they think she isn’t looking. They look at her as if she was actually a demon spy loosed from hell and not just someone who has enough common sense to realize that an “all powerful father” was complete and utter bullshit.

That’s the thing- it’s like the word “atheist” was purposely made to seem like the most evil string of letters to ever be created. You know the words- those synonyms that just sound much worse than the actual root phrase (molest, slaughter, moist). Atheist just has this dark shade to it. Or so religious people say.

But enough of that! There’s a reason why such a taboo subject is being brought up.

Joan was going to contact Death.

As they say, desperate times calls for desperate measures. And desperate Joan was.

You see, her queen- Jane Seymour- used to be quite the woman. Sharp, beautiful, powerful, but also warm behind the closed court doors. Joan was very lucky to see this side of her as her youngest lady in waiting, often getting called gentle pet names and sometimes pats on her head if she was particularly lucky that day. As a touch-starved orphan servant, this was like a pot of gold to Joan- love and affection is something she’s craved long before reincarnation in the modern world. And, speaking of the resurrection, Joan thought she would get even more of Jane’s “Mum Treatment” since they had more time on their hands, but she was very, very wrong.

Jane...Jane was different. She changed. No longer was she the motherly, caring, strong woman from the past, but instead coming back as some reduced version of herself- slightly younger (24, 25, maybe even 23), more awkward and timid, and much less maternal. The way she now looked at Joan wasn’t with compassion, rather...plain curiosity, sometimes even aversion. Her memory of her young lady in waiting has waned- it was as if she didn’t remember that Joan had been at her side the whole time when she was bedridden after giving birth to Edward! Like she couldn’t conjure up the remembrance of a teenager literally watching her rot away and slowly die for days!

To say the least, Joan was not happy. Add in trauma, insomnia, hate on social media, constant stress and pressure from her profession, and a severe lack of friends and you can probably see why Joan was going to such extreme measures.

Now, she knew about the stories. She’s read The Monkey’s Paw. She knows about the consequences of one’s actions. Joan wasn’t going into this completely stupid- have some faith, will you?

Gambling with Death was a risk. A huge risk that could very well end with her soul being ripped out of her mouth or her flesh being worn by a supernatural being that then goes on to commit atrocities under her identity. And not only was it a massive risk to take, it was also very, very stupid.

If I have to spell it out for you, listen closely: Death knows things. A lot of things. They don’t call him the “Lord of The Flies” for nothing. Which is why he loves to play games for those desperate enough to contact him because he knows he is much smarter than whatever pathetic, miserable piece of useless garbage comes clawing at a mirror, begging him to reveal himself. And unless you have every secret of the universe, you’re probably going to get ass-blasted back to Tuesday.

Oh, what am I saying? You won’t get a second chance.

You’ll be long gone by then.

And whatever state the cops find your body in the next morning depends on whatever mood the beast was in.

However, in Joan’s case here, she is desperate and stupid enough to take the risk. In her eyes, she doesn’t have much to live for. She’s a slave to SIX- day and night she’s working endlessly over musical paperwork and the same songs over and over and OVER again. It doesn’t help that she isn’t the closest to the rest of the cast and is often left alone when everyone else goes out and has fun. The scars on her wrists are evident of how many nights she’s been alone.

Without Jane, she has nothing to live for. She needed her.

And that’s exactly why she was sitting on the floor in front of a mirror propped against the wall in the dark theater surrounded by candles and a semicircle of salt.

Joan has done a lot of studying up to this point. She knows she has everything correctly, now she just has to get Death to appear...and hope he doesn’t immediately pull her small intestines out from her throat for bothering him.

Joan stares into the mirror as hard as she can, closes her eyes, then counted to ten. Her eyelids lingered shut for longer than she would like to admit after she hit the number one, but she eventually pried them open.

It was not her reflection staring back at her.

To be honest, Joan wasn’t exactly sure of what she was expecting to see. Some parts of her believed nothing would happen, other parts convinced itself that a grim reaper-like figure or a horned, goat-legged demon would be kneeling on the other side of the glass wielding a scythe or pitchfork. However, a suit-wearing young man was not really something that crossed her mind in her theories.

If Joan wasn’t a lesbian, she might have found him attractive, but he definitely was at a straight woman’s perspective. Perfect smile, the most amazing cheekbone structure, unflawed olive skin, neatly combed brown-blonde hair, a broad chest, phenomenal shape- if it weren’t for his yellow eyes with slit pupils, he might have been the perfect lady’s man (although, knowing straight women, they probably wouldn’t care for his demon eyes- after all, you don’t need to see someone’s peepers to suck cock!).

Joan sat completely bewildered, all of her confidence draining and being replaced with dread that drenches her like a thick, dark oil spill. She can feel her hands, which are lying in her lap, starting to tremble and clenching her fingers doesn’t help at all. The ability to form a coherent sentence slips from her mind, so Death speaks first.

“Hello, Joan Meutas.”

This guy is the real deal. He pronounced her last name correctly!

Joan opens and closes her mouth like a fish out of water and Death is thoroughly amused by her sardine impression. He watches her through the glass, waiting patiently for her to learn how to enunciate again.

“H-h-hello-”

“Yes, yes, h-h-hello to you to,” Death laughed. He wasn’t directly trying to be cruel, but Joan’s self esteem was far enough into the ground to hear his jibe as a mockery of her understanding of the English language. “If I let you speak the whole time we are going to get nowhere! Pull yourself together, kid. You should see the look on your face! You look like you just got caught making out with the family goat!”

Joan’s expression remained one of fright.

“What? Didn’t you own a goat back in- god, what year were you born? 1517 or 1525? Historians paint it as both! But I thought a family farm animal was the big rave back then! I apologize- I need to catch up on the modern slang. Say, would you be considered a ‘boomer’? Because I have been DYING to use that phrase on someone who contacts me. Could you imagine it?” He warps his voice into one of a pruny old woman, “‘I wish for great fortune!’ ‘Okay Boomer.’” Death bursts into fits of maniacal laughter that sounded as if a thousand lost souls were chortling together at once.

Joan is still silent, but during Death’s monologue she was able to wire her brain back to functionality. She sits up a little bit straighter and Death notices, so he containers himself instantly, also fixing his posture.

“Ready to talk now?” He asked.

“Yes.” Joan answered.

“Wonderful,” There’s a glint in his piercing yellow eyes, “What is it that you desire of me?”

Joan gathers up all her courage, sits up a little taller, and says, “I desire to challenge you to a game of question-and-answer.”

The glint flares into a blaze of confidence. If Joan stares hard enough, she swore she could almost see the fires of Hell burning in his eyes.

“How fun,” The words ooze out from Death’s pale lips, soaked in liquid menace. “Shall I go over the rules?”

Joan nodded. She knew them, she knew she did, but it would be good to hear them one last time.

“Very well,” Death said. He cleared his throat and began speaking as if he were reading off of a manual, “Death’s Gambit: A two-player game between the Lord of The Flies himself and a human. After being conjured- just gonna skip over that process, you’ve clearly got it down, kid- and initiating the game, both parties will have sixty-six minutes and six seconds to answer as many questions correctly as possible. Anything can be asked- trivia, personal inquiries, riddles, even dares, as long as the salt circle is not exited. The catch of the whole thing is this: The Prince of Darkness is obligated to tell the truth only if the human answers correctly to his question or does a requested dare or the human manages to stump him. However, if he answers correctly or the human answers incorrectly to HIS question, he may lie about whichever question he wants. The score will not be revealed until the very end once the time is over. If the human wins, the Keeper of Souls MUST grant any one wish they have. If He-Who-Lies wins, the human will be the victim to whatever losing punishment he comes up with. Remaining rules include: The salt circle cannot be left- you may find yourself no longer in your dimension-, the game cannot be quit until the time is over, items like watches or phones are not permitted to be used to look up answers or keep track of the time. Good luck and Beelzebub be with you.”

Despite knowing this all already, hearing it out loud, spoken by the beast himself, made it all hit home for Joan. She was really doing this; she was gambling with Death.

She had to be the stupidest fuck to ever grace God’s green earth.

“Are you ready to begin?” Death asked.

Joan took a deep death and answered, “Yes.”

A wicked smile curled on Death’s lips. The candles around Joan blaze.

“The game is on.”

A dark feeling weighed down on Joan after that was spoken. The air around her seemed to shift. Her gut was screaming at her to run away, to hide, to do something other than just sit there, but she couldn’t move. Not from fear, but from sheer will. She couldn’t be stupid. Who knows what lurked outside her thin salt circle....

As he usually did, Death initiates the game and asked his first question.

“What was the name of Catherine Parr’s true love?”

Like that, a cold stone drops deep into the pit of Joan’s stomach. Of all the questions she expected him to start off with, Tudor history was not one of them. It startles her, takes her by surprise, and she realizes very quickly that that’s exactly why Death asked it. He’s trying to disorientate her right off the bat and weaken her before she has the chance to get some points in.

She could not let that happen.

It’s just that- she didn’t know Tudor history outside of knowledge on her queen and whatever is said in the show. The others certainly did talk about their past lives, but Joan- she-

It stung, to say the least, when she realized that Death knew about her nonexistence friendships with the queens. And that he was targeting that.

“Thomas Seymour.” Joan finally said.

She was pretty sure that was the right answer...but not completely positive. And, because of that, her worried mind began to scream doubts inside of her brain.

Was that a trick question? He’s supposed to be the embodiment of pure evil- wouldn’t he think Henry is Parr’s true love? Was Henry the right answer?

“Your turn.” Death said, not reacting to Joan’s answer, which scares her even more.

“What’s- why did you choose to show up in that body?”

“Oooh, you’re starting with a personal inquiry!” Death said, laughing, “How fun! And I hope you’re not flattering yourself, Joan- I don’t look like this to make your pussy wet. Trust me, I could look way more attractive, but I know you.” Those three words slither into Joan’s ears and made her shudder. “Isn’t the whole point of being a lesbian to not be attracted to men?” Death laughed again, “But I look like this because I want to. I can take whatever shape I want! Remember that one time I was a snake? That was weird. Although, peeping at a naked chick was pretty damn fun. As a lesbian, you could probably appreciate the sight.”

For just a moment, the image of Death disappears, the mirror hazes to white, and Eve appears. Not the paintings you always see- THE Eve, bare breasts and vagina and all, and if Joan weren’t also asexual, her own genitals may have been burning with desperate pleasure.

“She was a sight.” Death said, returning to view. He chuckles, then immediately goes to his next question, “What was the exact height of Mount Everest in the year 1666?”

Joan’s heart just about stopped.

How in the holy hell was she supposed to know that? Then again, that was probably the point of asking such a thing.

“Three...hundred feet?” It came out as a question, but it’s taken as an answer and Death doesn’t react except for a slight twitch of his nose. “What...is the hardest piece to learn on the piano?”

“Liszt.” Death answered smoothly. “What animal can see the most amount of colors?”

“A...dolphin.” Joan physically cringed at her answer. “Who wrote Liszt?”

Is this what she was going to be doing the whole time? Asking the King of Hell fucking piano trivia?

“La Campanella.” Death once again answered perfectly. “What is the full chemical name for the antidepressant and anti-anxiety medication, Zoloft?”

Wasn’t that the medicine Joan was supposed to take for her anxiety?

“I- I don’t know.”

Death just hummed and awaited his next question. He didn’t laugh at her like she expected him to, which slightly lightened the blow of her stupidity.

“What’s my favorite song in SIX?”

“None of them. Why did you stop taking your Zoloft pills?”

The answer followed by such a question felt like Joan was just punched in the stomach with a spiked gauntlet. She swore she was winded by some unseen force (probably shock). Her breath hitched in her throat and she seemed like a little kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

“I-” She hunched her shoulders around her neck. Death is giving her a curious look, which was at least better than worry or concern. “They- they weren’t helping me...so I didn’t think there was a point taking them if they weren’t going to fix me.”

Death hummed once more, this time louder and more enthusiastic. He clearly liked her answer.

“Interesting,” He mused, then quiets himself for the next question.

“What’s standing behind me?”

Ever since the game began, Joan picked up on the presence of something staring at the back of her head. She could feel their eyes burning into her skull, sometimes even breathing on the back of her neck.

Death smiled. “See for yourself.”

Joan saw nothing in the reflection, just darkness beyond the candles and Death, and she was not about to go and look away. She was scared about what would happen if she turned her gaze away from the mirror for even a second.

When Death realized Joan wasn’t going to fall for his tricks that easily, he quirked an impressed eyebrow and moved on.

“Will you greet the worker who just came in?”

Joan glanced fearfully to the corner of the room. A figure is hunched there. The glow from the candles just barely licks at their claws.

“What was their name? Terrance?” Death said, “Doesn’t he work in lightning?”

“That’s not Terrance,” Joan murmured.

Death took it as an answer, it seems. He leans in close to the glass and when he whispers, his hushed tone is right at the back of Joan’s ear.

“You don’t want to know what he really is.”

Joan can feel a panic attack rising in her chest. Death is trying to scare her, stray her from answering coherently or correctly and get her to waste time by freaking out. She had to steer the game back into calmness.

Or, rather, however calm a Devil game could get.

“What do I have in my pocket right now?”

Death seems a little bothered that the cryptic theme was interrupted, but he gets over it.

“One black pen that’s almost out of ink, a granola bar you promised yourself you would eat, and a rosary you stole from Aragon.” He said, “Oh and, by the way, that isn’t going to protect you from me. So return it as soon as possible or Aragon is gonna be PISSED!” He laughed, imagining the storm the golden queen would cause if she caught Joan with such a precious belonging.

Joan swallowed thickly. She didn’t want to check her pockets. She didn’t want to know that he was right.

“What is the color of the sky?”

It seemed like an easy enough question, but Joan, believe it or not, knew better than to fall for such a simple trick. She wracked her brain for a moment, then answered, “Black.”

Death doesn’t react aside from licking over his dried lips. His tongue is too pointy. Joan moves on.

“Does Jane care about me?”

Honestly, the question kind of surprised her. It bubbled up from her throat from out of nowhere- yes, she had been wanting to ask it so badly, but she didn’t actually expect it to come out.

“Yes.” Says Death.

For a moment, joy bursts through Joan, but the metaphorical, celebratory confetti is sucked up by the vacuum of doubt.

Is he lying? Is he giving me false hope? Or is he telling the truth?

“What’s your blood type?” Death asked.

“A...AB.”

Like Joan fucking knew that.

“What’s my favorite color?”

“Blue.” Death smiled, “Because the blue sky would always remind you of opportunities for a better life.”

A shiver runs down Joan’s spine. She didn’t like how he knew that.

“What’s something that you can’t eat for lunch or dinner?”

He’s asking a riddle. Joan bit the inside of her cheek, thinking.

It couldn’t be a food. That was too easy.

Think, Joan, think!

“...Breakfast.”

Death chuckles. Joan doesn’t know what to think of that.

Twenty minutes pass by in a blur. Cold sweat soaks Joan’s brow, dripping down her face, but she’s too scared to move from her stiff position. Her back muscles hurt from sitting like a statue for so long- how the hell does Death look so relaxed? Then again, he doesn’t really have much to worry about.

He doesn’t have to worry about the possibility of being mutilated or dragged to Hell or that that figure in the corner has been getting closer and closer as the minutes passed by.

“Do you think every human deserves to live?”

The question came out of nowhere, really. Death had been asking mostly trivia up until that point. He tittered at Joan’s stunned expression, then raised his eyebrows as if to say, “Well?”

“No.”

Joan didn’t hesitate because she knew it was the truth. Not everyone deserved to live. Rapists, pedophiles, serial killers, racists, homophobes, terrorists, abusers- they didn’t deserve life. People like them deserved to die.

And anyone who doesn’t believe that is a fucking idiot.

“Do YOU think every human deserves to live?”

Death scoffed. “Of course not.” He peered at Joan, really analyzing her for the first time. His yellow slit eyes raked over the girl, making her feel uncomfortable and violated. “You know, you and I think a lot alike. Not many humans give ‘no’ as their answer. They think optimism will make them seem like a good person. It’s pathetic.”

Joan just nodded silently.

“Now...where were we? Oh, yes.” Death leaned in, “Which queen suffered the most?”

Joan furrowed her eyebrows. The whole point of the show was to not compare, especially traumas, but...

“Katherine Howard.”

Come on- clearly K Howard had it the worst. The girl was violated by four different men before she was an adult! None of the other five stories combined could possibly rank to the fifth queen’s suffering.

“Honestly, I think the same!” Death said, “I mean- what is UP with the whole ‘one of a kind, no category’ gimmick? How stupid! Last time I checked, being a victim of sexual abuse doesn’t make you ‘one of a kind.’ Why would you even think of it that way?“

Joan nodded slowly.

“I agree,” She said, “Um- here’s my next question: Is this question false?”

Death raised his eyebrows and cooed in obvious interest.

“True.” He said, smirking. “My turn. Do you resent the queens?”

Joan actually recoils. Death laughed.

“I-”

Did she? Did she resent the queens? Surely she didn’t... She couldn’t! The queens were perfect! How could anyone ever hate them?

“No.”

Death almost looks disappointed.

“What’s worse than death?”

“You’re living it.”

Cold sweat drips down Joan’s face. It stings her eyes and is salty on her tongue. She hears noises all around her, but doesn’t dare to look. She already knows “Terrance” is on his knees beside the salt circle and his leaning his face in right next to hers. She can smell the rot on him.

“Have you ever wanted to hurt the queens?”

Death’s questions are definitely ramping up in darkness. Was the time close to ending? Is that why he’s getting deeper?

Joan shut her eyes tightly for a moment, but opened them quickly when the fear of losing sight of Death nagged at the back of her mind. Before her, on the other side of the mirror, the being is waiting patiently, eagerly for her answer.

“Sometimes,” Joan breathed, “Yes.”

Death smiles a wicked smile.

“How interesting,” He purred, then gestured for Joan to ask her question.

“Does God exist?”

“Unfortunately.” Death groaned, then laughed. He inspected Joan again. “How would you hurt the queens?”

Joan felt her stomach ache. She didn’t like that question. She didn’t want to think about actually hurting the queens, even if she’s considered it one or two times before.

“I- I haven’t really given it any thought.” She answered, then quickly sputtered out her next question before Death could comment, “Does the Bible speak the truth?”

“Of course not.” Death said. “My next question is this: If I were to give you a task, would you do it?”

“Depends,” Joan said, “What would the task be?”

Death held up both arms in a shrugging motion. “I don’t know! Pick up my dry cleaning? It depends! Don’t put me on the spot like that!” He then laughed that horrible laugh again. Once he contains himself, he says, “Time is ticking. The game is almost over. I want to switch things up before we end. I have a dare for you.”

Joan nods.

“Stab yourself in the hand.”

That flush of icy cold dread floods through Joan’s system again. Every part of her being screamed at her to refuse, there will be other offers or questions she could make up for, but she knew that was just false hope. Like Death said: time was almost up. She couldn’t risk refusing and docking more points (if she isn’t in the negatives already, that is).

“Fine.” She forced out through her teeth.

She reached for the pen in her pocket, but Death held up a hand.

“Don’t use that inky thing,” He said. “It won’t get the job done. Please- allow me.”

He flicked his wrist and a large carving knife appears out of thin air and clatters to the floor in front of Joan. She stares at it for a moment, then picked it up, setting her left hand down in its place. She took a deep breath, screwed her eyes shut, and plunged the blade down.

Joan couldn’t choke back the scream that burst from her lips. She cried at the pain, sobbing in horror when she looked down to see the knife practically pinning her hand to the floor. Dark red blood pools around her fingers, gushing and spurting like spigot from the wound when she pulls the blade free. She cradled her wounded hand close to her chest, weeping weakly.

“Very good,” Death cooed, clapping.

Joan raised her eyes slowly and Death smirked at how lit up they were, almost like hot coals.

“I have a dare for you.” Joan growled, her voice low and dangerous.

“I accept.”

“Change your eye color to blue.”

For a moment, Joan swore she saw the slightly twitch on Death’s features. She watched him close his eyes, sit their silently for a moment, then open them again.

They were still yellow and slit.

“I cannot.” He said. However, he wasn’t angry or irritated at being stumped, rather amused. “Next...what is the flying speed of a swallow?”

Joan ripped off of a strip of her shirt and wrapped it around her bloody hand, hoping it would be a good enough substitute for real bandages for now.

“African or European?”

Death grinned. And that grin only grew wider as the candles around Joan went out until only the one behind her remained lit.

"̸̡̢̢̣͓͚͖̪̼̪͑͊̈́͋̀́̾͗͘ͅT̷̼̺͈̮̜͔̙͂̋̉͋͛̈̿̀̕͜͠͝i̸̢̹̙̼̠͓͚̖̗͔̮̔̌͂̓̐̊̈́̔̃̕m̸̡̱̤̱͙͎̦̱͙̪̻̓̅͌̉̀̈́̐̄͒̌̕͘͝e̸̟̳͒'̸̗͎̞̙̋̎̓́́͑̉͐͑̈́s̷̰̬̙͖̲̩͚̥͈̝̩̻̻̮̭͂̀̐̓̑̓͌̓̀́̐̐ ̷̡̳͍̗͉̝͔̃̑͛̀͊͌͆̌̒̃̔͘̚͠ͅû̵̞̠̣͉̻̖̅̓̄̏͝p̷̛͖͎̮̖͇̬̮͉̥̲͈̟͊̃́̃̏̇̇͛͗̅̕͘,̷̢̧̧̹͈̗̝͙̪͉̖̆̈́ͅ ̸̲̩̥̇͂̓͌̀̋͗̀͛̚J̵̼̣̋ö̴̡͕̺̪̠͓̹͔̂͝ą̶̡̜̭̤͖̭̫̝̘̆̂̾̐͊̾̒̂̏n̶̛̛̬̦̥̠̮̐̓̃̋̍̒̂͐̂̽ͅ.̴̪̰̩̀͊̑̐́̂͗̍̐̈́̚"̴͍͆͛́̈́̈́̍͆̀͗͘͝͝

It was almost impossible to breathe. Joan can barely hold herself together- the tears are flowing freely and she can’t get them to stop. She would say a prayer for her damned soul if it weren’t for the whole atheist thing, and she worried that Death would get angry at her for it, even if it was said in her mind, which he couldn’t possible read (or, at least, she hoped he couldn’t).

Still, she bowed at the waist and thanked Death for the game.

“Let’s tally up the score, shall we?”

Joan first saw blood start to spread across Death’s midsection, then a sharp sting struck her in the stomach. She hissed in pain and lifted her shirt slightly, as did Death, and they both saw tally marks upon their flesh.

Death had twenty-three.

And Joan watched in shock as a twenty-fourth tally carved down through her skin right before her eyes.

“Congratulations, Joan Meutas,” Death says, “You’ve won. What is it that you wish for?”

[cryptidofthekeys]

Turg and Jim in: The Game Show but Jim makes Turg cheat so he can get all the money

(This is going to be stupid, probs short, and honestly I paused all my wips, that will be MUCH longer than this, just to write Turg Fanfiction, I paused my wwe fanfics for this, ....For T u r g, so naturally it'd be worth it, this isnt going to be like spectacular or anything tbh, its just short and maybe even for practice but either way I hope y’all enjoy... this.)

Turg looked up at the building and tilted his head "Turg in right place?" Jim came up beside him and looked at the building as well, a grin spread across his face "Yes Turg, yes we are! Now remember, here's the deal... You get in there, do all the work for me and win the mon... er... Green paper... And then I promise you'll get the jelly or whatever it was you wanted" Turg suddenly had a goofy smile on his face "Turg win! Turg want jelly!!" He exclaimed, running into the building, Jim chuckling and then quickly sprinting after him, so far so good, hopefully Turg could remember the plan just long enough to win him the money prize.

Turg had headed backstage and one of the employees walked towards him "There you are! You were almost late! And... Oh good lord, you are even more terrifying than I thought..." They sighed and just began walking off "I don't get paid enough for this..." They muttered, meanwhile Turg was just idling in his spot, he didn't really understand what they said but either way, he was more so fixated on the jelly... Jim wanted the green paper stuff and then he'd give Turg some jelly! Speak of the Devil, Jim had appeared behind Turg and placed a hand on his shoulder "Now, just remember the plan... You got this Turg!" Turg had a dopey smile plastered on his face "Believe in Turg?" Jim rolled his eyes, but he put on a smile and nodded "Yeah yeah sure, whatever, now get out there and win me the green paper!"

Turg nodded and before he headed onto the stage, Jim had placed an earpiece in Turg's ear, he had explained this part to Turg who seemed to understand the very basic hopefully, it was just a little... Insurance policy, he of course didn't mention the whole... Cheating part to Turg, otherwise then the other wouldn't have agreed to wear it more than likely, and of course Jim had made the earpiece himself so it was small enough so the host wouldn't see it... Well unless the host got very close and just looked directly at Turg's ear... But it was unlikely they'd do anything like that! And besides, he was going to make one hundred percent sure that he was NOT going to get caught, he needed that money and he'd do anything to get it!

Turg then headed out, waving at all the audience members who gasped in horror at first but then they slowly began clapping, they... They really didn't... Know what to think of this man, er... Monster? Whatever it was coming onto the stage, even the host of the show looked a little... Nervous, they began whispering something into the ear piece, just sighing afterwards and then looking back at Turg and smiling "Hello hello hello! Welcome Contestant Number One! May we have your name please?" Turg walked behind the little table in front of him and looked at the host, still having the dopey smile spread across his face, it seemed like he didn't even really know what was going on "Turg!" The host looked even more confused than they already were "Erm... Is Turg your name?" The other nodded "Turg Turg!" The host didn't want to know, they didn't care about asking, they'd just roll with it "Well uh... Welcome Turg Turg!" The host then moved to the other contestant Turg would be competing against "Annnd Contestant Number Twooo, what's your name?"

"Peyton!" (listen, they dont need a last name its fine and if thats your name by any chance reader, well, im very sorry to put you in this nightmare asjdfklsjhdfksla) The host grinned "Welcome Peyton! Alright audience, now that we've gotten acquainted with our contestants now we can begin the game! Noooww... The rules are simple! Very simple! We'll have fifteen questions, whoever buzzes in and guesses the correct answer wins a point! The person with the most points by the end of things will be the winner! And of course, the prize will be One-Hundred Thooouussaannd Dolllllaaaarrrssss~! Or, if the winner is feeling PARTICULARLY lucky, they will be given a bonus round where they can win even more money! In fact, they'll be winning Four-Hundred Thousand~!" The host glanced at Turg and looked towards the audience "Although... If I could, I'd just pay t h a t thing whatever it wanted just to get out of the building!"

(Jim’s not gonna care much bout the host insulting Turg now if it were him o h b o y- hahaha n o- but in this case like always- he wants money, who cares bout Turg)

Turg still had the smile on his face, as he heard the audience laugh he clapped even though they were technically making fun him, and then the music had cue'd, the host looked down at their paper "Alright! First Question~!" There was a pause before they continued "Can you name the THIRD largest freshwater lake in the world?" Turg had buzzed in, he honestly just pushed the button because it was glowing red, the voice in his ear piece had whispered the answer to him and surprisingly Turg understood "Turg says... Lake... Superior?" The host was surprisingly shocked and so was the other contestant and the audience, there was a dinging noise as the host spoke "Th...That is... Correct...! One point goes to a Mr. Turg Turg~! Wow... You are smarter than you look! And you look... Unholy... Eugh..." Turg just smiled and clapped "Turg do good!" The host nodded "Uh riiight... Anyways, next question! What is someone who shoes horses called?" Turg had managed to buzz in again before Peyton could, maybe it was because Peyton was still stunned at the other's intelligence.

Once again, the voice whispered the answer into Turg's earpiece "Turg think it... Farrier?" A shocked gasp resonated within the building, he was actually getting these correct... The host blinked in surprise "That is... Also... Correct, another point awarded to Turg, bringing him to a total of two~! C'mon Peyton! You should step up your gaaame~!" Peyton nodded, this time they'd buzz in, they were going to be prepared and focused...! "Third Question~! What kind of weapon is a falchion?" This time... Peyton had managed to buzz in "A Sword!" The host grinned and uttered out a correct and the audience and even Turg cheered despite them being correct meant they were one step closer to catching up, Jim was a little bit upset at that... He couldn't let them catch up! He'd think of something if he needed, after all he was one of the smartest people around! The host then cleared their throat before continuing "Alriiighty~! Fourth Question~!"

"What is another word for lexicon?" Turg had once again failed to hit the buzzer before Peyton, he seemed to be distracted at the moment much to Jim's dismay... "A Dictionary!" The host seemed delighted now "Cooorrreect~! Another point for Peyton, its a tie so far ladies, gentlemen, and all non-binary folks!" (yes, the host included nonbinary folk, why? Bc I can and am supportive, thats why) Jim grew angrier at this by the second, not by the host including non-binary folks, no, that's actually progressive and smart, and more game shows should do this, if he ran a game show he would do that ...That'd actually be a good idea, hosting his own game show, he should do that some time, he shook his head, he was losing focus! Anyways, he was angry because the other contestant was slowly catching up, it was almost break time so he had a backup plan already in the works just in case he needed to put a stop to that potential threat, then the host looked at both Turg and Peyton "Fifth Question and then we'll go to a commercial break~! Can you name the seventh planet from the sun?"

Peyton buzzed in "Uhh... Ve-Venus...?" They... Didn’t really know much about planets sadly... A noise played and the host shook their head "I'm sorry but that is iiinnncorrect~! Turg, its onto you~!" Jim once again whispered the answer into Turg's ear "Turg say it Uranus!" A resounding 'ding ding ding!' played "Coooorrreect~! So far, that leaves Turg at three and Peyton at twwooooo~! We'll be right back after these messages folks, stay tuned you don't wanna miss this~!" And with that, commercial break began, the host going off somewhere to get a drink, honestly despite one of their contests looking like a horrific monstrosity, he seemed smart! ...A little too smart for his own good, something was going on... It just didn't add up, how could something that seemed so... Out of it, something that seemed to be lost in its own little world be so smart?! The host would find out the truth soon enough, meanwhile backstage Peyton was sitting down and just thinking, they were unsure now if they could beat Turg... He was smarter than they give him credit for, and speaking of him... Peyton noticed that Turg had sat beside them "Oh, uh, hi Turg!"

Turg gave them a little wave, he seemed to notice their expression and he tilted his head "Turg make sad? Turg make... Uncomfortable?" Peyton shook their head "No no! You uh, didn't make me sad or uncomfortable, I was just thinking... You're really good at this game! I didn't expect it, if I'm being honest... While I would like to win, its been an honor competing against you!" Turg smiled "Turg think you good too! Turg need win though... Jim promise Turg jelly if he wins Jim the green paper stuff! Turg hope you understand" Peyton looked at Turg and blinked, they were a bit confused by that, but it wasn't really any of their business... The host however had overheard their conversation, well... At least they knew he had a motivation now as to why he's doing this, they then walked on back stage, time to look for this... Jim fellow... Maybe chatting with him would give them the answers they seek... They knew spying on others wasn't particularly... A good thing but they needed answers before they continued.

Eventually they had heard someone laughing backstage, that laugh unnerved them immensely, it sounded... unhinged... They crept up and hid behind one of the objects laying around backstage, meanwhile Jim himself was absolutely delighted, he seemed to be on the phone with someone from what the host could tell... "My plan is going so well! And I don't even have to do any of the work either, I'm tellin' ya Grim with the little earpiece I placed on Turg, m y victory is guaranteed~!   ...   What do you mean you don't think it'll work?! Well what do you know anyways?!" Jim hung up on this... 'Grim' person and sighed "I'll show Grim... I'm gonna rub it in his face when this works and I win the money" The host grinned and whispered to themselves "Not if I have anything to say about it... You greedy dirt bag...~" The host flinched as something fell over, this caught Jim's attention and immediately the host had crept away, didn't want the other to catch them in the act! Unbeknownst to them however, it was a little too late, Jim had spotted them right before they could get out of there, he'd definitely have to keep tabs on this one...

(I know the chance im taking by saying you greedy dirt bag but I can assure you I know what im doing by referencing even just a s m i d g e of that)

Meanwhile... The show was coming back on, everyone had gotten back into their places, and then after a countdown from five, the music played and the host had a big grin on their face, they would let the game play out until the end... But they knew what they were going to do, they were gonna expose Turg and Jim like the frauds they were! "Aannnnd we're back ladies, gentlemen, and of course can never forget the non-binary folks out there as well~! Alrighty, so once again, we have Turg in the lead with three buuuut... Peyton's not far behind folks~! They're only a little behind with only two points but they still have a chance to catch up~! From here on out the questions are going to be m u c h harder~! Onto the Sixth Question~! In "Thunderbirds", what was Lady Penelope's chauffeur called?" Peyton buzzed in immediately "Parker!" The audience clapped as the host spoke "Coorrecttt~! Oooh its a tie now~! Turg three and Peyton three! C'mon now Turg, don't let them beat you now, you've come sooo far~!" There was a pause before the next question "Seventh Question~! On "Blue Peter", what was John Noakes's dog called?" Turg buzzed in this time and listened as Jim whispered the answer "Turg says Shep!"

More clapping from the audience "Cooorreecct~! Turg four, Peyton three~! Eighth Question! What is sushi traditionally wrapped in?" It was Peyton's turn now to buzz in "Edible Seaweed!” Another one correct, despite the host knowing that Turg was cheating, this was still all so exciting! "Correct again~! Nineth Question! What is the oldest surviving printed book in the world?" Turg buzzed in this time and took a second as Jim once again helped out "Turg think it... The Diamond Sutra!" Another round of applause and cheers, the audience as loving this! "Correct! Tenth Question~! How tall would a double elephant folio book be?" Peyton buzzed in now "Fifty Inches!" A ding ding ding noise sounded but it was a little drowned out by the audience's cheers and applause "Cooorrrecct~! Alrighty folks, it looks like Turg and Peyton are once again tied! Five to five! Oh the suspense is killing me! Who will win this game and the prize~!" The questions went on and on... Each contestant buzzing in and getting them correct, eventually they came to the final question, the music got much more dramatic than before as the host's voice echoed throughout the building.

"Allriighty! Time for the f i n a l question folks! Among land animals..." The host paused before continuing, just adding to the dramatic flair "What species has the largest eyes?" Both buzzers went off but the host had been paying close attention to whose buzzer went off first and it was... "Turg! Do you have the answer!" Turg nodded, waiting for a few moments, he was a little confused as to why the host was coming in so close to him and looking at the side of his head, the host had seen the earpiece, just like Jim said was there... And they even heard a faint voice now that they were close enough give out the answer "Turg says... Ostrich!" There was a pause, the air was tense with suspension before balloons came floating down, confetti popped and cheery music played "Aaannnd cooonngraaatulations Tuuurrrrrrg! You arree the winner!" Jim immediately came out from backstage, walking up to hug Turg who immediately hugged him back and began clapping.

(lemme tell y’all when I used google to literally fact check every question I got off this one site, I was committed to getting this right, who knows google probs lied on some of them but I did my research as best I could just for this one lil fanfic and its more like a crack fic at this point just thought I’d point that out)

"But wait hold on! There's more folks!" The host immediately grabbed the earpiece from Turg's ear "I was waiting for this for the remainder of the show! Lookie here, lookie here! Turg is no winner folks! But a fraud, this man uh... Jim... has placed a little earpiece device on the ma.. er... monster... thing, whatever he is! He has been whispering the answers into Turg's ear! Their nothing but cheaters the both of them!" The audience along with Peyton had gasped, and then the audience started booing, Turg was confused however and just tilted his head until he heard the word cheater and looked back at Jim "Turg... cheat...? Turg do bad?!" Uh-Oh... Now Jim was caught, he didn't want to have to do this but his hand was forced ...Oh who was he kidding, he would LOVE to do this any day of the week! He brought out The Book of Chaos and began reciting something from the book, meanwhile the host was just speaking out towards Peyton and the audience "Sooo it looks like Peyton's the winner folk-" They paused as they looked back towards Jim, eyes widening in horror as they saw the man... Floating...?

His eyes looked demonic as he kept chanting the words from the book in an entirely foreign language, and just then... Fires consumed the host and began spreading rapidly, the exits were engulfed in flames in no time, and the screams of everyone echoed throughout the building, people trying desperately to find a way out, or the others who caught on fire trying to put themselves out, meanwhile Jim was casually whistling as he walked over and swiped the money, he should have just done this in the first place, it would have been so much easier! It's always easier to murder and steal than to... Okay well he didn't really play by the rules either he pretty much cheated at that too, either way! He got the money, and now he was happy, he grabbed Turg by the arm and just like that they were teleport-ed out of the building, Jim had only teleport-ed them a good bit away, he DID want to watch the building burn to the ground at the very least.

(listen, Idk how many powers Jim has- but if he can set people on fire, give them death kisses, and god knows what else he can teleport if he wants)

Turg was sitting on one of the parking blocks away from Jim, looking down at the ground, he was... Awfully quiet for once which made Jim look over and raise a brow "What's wrong with you?" Turg didn't speak, he just kept his gaze on the ground, he didn't want to watch the building burn unlike Jim, who blinked in surprise... This was the quietest Turg had been pretty much ever, so Jim was confused before he realized, was Turg... Angry with him...? "Look, Turg, I had to do what I did, I needed the green paper, the money! I needed to insure we won! Otherwise I couldn't have gotten you jelly!" There was a long moment of silence before Turg spoke up "You make Turg cheat, you make Turg do bad thing... You make Turg e v i l... Turg not forgive Jim... Nuh-uh..." Jim rolled his eyes "Come on Turg... It's not THAT bad! I could've made ya do w o r s e you know..." The sound of the entire building beginning to collapse took Jim's attention and the pair sat in silence, watching the building begin to fall in on itself, not a soul seemed to make it out of there...

Except... Oh no wait! There was somebody crawling out and away! Turg seemed to stand up at this and squint, he could see... It was Peyton! "That Peyton! Person Turg was competing against!" Jim looked ahead "Well, what a surprise! They made it out alive! ...A witness I'll have to make sure doesn't tell anybody who caused this..." He whispered the last part to himself, watching as Turg rushed off in Peyton's direction, once he got there he helped Peyton up who looked back at Turg "Ugh... Tu..Turg...? What... What are you doing here? Why did you come back...?" Turg looked at Peyton as he helped them to their feet "...Turg have something to say... Turg sorry... Jim made Turg do bad, Jim made Turg do evil thing... Jim... Lied to Turg..." Peyton looked at the other, they felt... Rather bad for him... He was manipulated into doing someone else's dirty work... "It's... It's alright Turg... Honest, I forgive you... You were tricked into doing something you would have never if you knew what it was, right?" Turg nodded "Turg never want to cheat, never want to be bad! Turg want good! Turg do good!"

Peyton nodded and smiled "Yeah... That's what I thought..." Before Peyton could say anything else, Jim had came over and immediately they backed away, Turg noticed this and stood in front of Peyton "Jim you go away! Turg protect new friend! They good, they kind!" Jim sighed "Turg, I'm not going to hurt them, I... eugh... I promise, and I would n e v e r break a promise!" That was a lie but... Turg was extremely gullible and he seems to believe this luckily for him... "I just need to talk to them for a second..." Turg slowly nodded and stood out of the way, but he was still going to stick close by, sure, there was no way he could or would hurt Jim, even if he did make him do a bad thing... Turg was a pacifist! But he would protect his friend in... SOME way... Jim had grabbed Peyton and pulled them close "Look, you can't tell anybody who did this... If you do, I'll kill you too, understand?" Peyton looked at Jim, and sure, that threat was terrifying but... They wanted to try something "...I'll keep quiet about this situation... Under one condition, just... hear me out..." Jim was silent, staring at Peyton in confusion "Go get your friend, Turg, some jelly... And APOLOGIZE to him...! He's very upset with you and rightfully so...!"

Jim groaned in frustration "Ugh, f i n e...! Fine...! If it'll make you and him get off my case about it and if it'll keep you quiet I'll go get him some damn jelly but I swear, if you go tell anybody after this... I'll-" Peyton cut him off "I won't, I swear it... Just if you do this ONE thing..." And with that Jim was off, and then Peyton sighed deeply, they were so thankful he was gone now... And he wasn't that close to them, after all, being near that man considering he just set the building on fire, killed multiple people and almost killed them as well, it was terrifying to even look at him... Turg though, they just wanted him to be happy, and not be sad or upset about this... Turg tilted his head "Jim... go away...? Just like... that?" Peyton nodded "He'll uh, be back soon... He needed to do something I think... For now let's just... Sit here, and talk for awhile..." and so both Turg and Peyton sat there, talking away and getting to know each other, it was almost nighttime when Jim came back, a large plate of jelly which made Turg's eyes light up, however, this could just be another trick, he turned away and kept his eyes away from the plate.

Jim looked at Peyton who encouraged him to go on... He took a deep breath and came closer to Turg "...Turg... Listen... I'm... I'm sorry about earlier, I'm sorry I lied to you and used to in order to gain profit, I shouldn't have done that ...To you anyways... So I uh, bought you some jelly... Just like I said I would... So uh, yeah..." Jim realized how... Awkward he sounded, he had never really apologized for anything before so this was a weird... Thing, either way, all he needed was Turg to forgive him and that was it... Turg was silent for a few minutes, his eyes slowly drifting back toward the jelly, no matter how many times he tried to resist he just couldn't help it, he grabbed the plate and immediately started consuming the jelly, he was about to consume the plate as well but Jim took it back from him "No no, let's uh, n o t eat the plate in front of your little friend there! That's uh, impolite or whatever!" Turg nodded and there was a long pause before Turg smiled "Okay... Turg forgive Jim...! Jelly was good!" Jim might not be... The best... But he at least honored his word of getting him some jelly!

It was a win in Turg's head at least, meanwhile Jim was just thankful that mess was over with, now he wouldn't have to deal with Turg being mad at him, and of course more importantly, Peyton wouldn't tell a soul now, it was set in stone! "We uh, should be getting home... It's late and some of us want to sleep" Turg nodded and turned back to Peyton "Turg's friend want stay? With us?" Peyton looked at Jim and then back at Turg "Aha no... No thank you... I've got my own place but don't worry Turg, I'm sure we'll see each other, I can uhhh... Come visit, whenever you'd like!" This made Turg smile and let out a series of... weird noises, but they sounded like happy ones! He looked thrilled which Jim immediately ruined the mood "Alright, alright, very touching, we're going now" Turg waved bye before being teleport-ed away with Jim... While Peyton didn't like Jim at all in the slightest, they would however be more than happy to visit Turg whenever he wanted...

The End.

I’ve never used “The End” I dont think in any of my stories but for once- there it is, it makes a cameo-

... I swear I tried my best y’all, you can tell happy endings eugh, arent my strong suit, but oh well no matter

[starlightwrites]

For the Emotional Prompts, could I please get Anger 10. “Do that again and you’ll regret it" for Cori and Gage? There are a lot of reasons I can imagine either one saying that, to each other or anyone else, so I'm curious to see what you'd do with it! Thank you!

Hi @aliceliveson!

Thank you for asking! It took me a couple of days to land on a scene, but I think I found some context for this one. This was a challenging prompt; I really liked writing it!

For the Emotional Prompts (linked)

Anger: “Do that again and you’ll regret it.” (Gage)

Corinne was already at the arcade by the time he caught up to her.

He found her up front by the token machines, leaning against the wall and talking to Fritsch. Bit her lip. Didn’t look up as he entered the room; she shoulda’—should always have her head on a swivel when she was out. Especially when she was out without him.

And that was the real fucking problem, wasn’t it? She was just out. Hadn’t told him that she was leaving. Left him sleeping while she wandered all over the goddamned place alone. She could have gotten gutted or grabbed. After the shit that happened with Nisha? She should have known better. Should have thought better.

Fritsch nodded at whatever she said before glancing back over his shoulder, his gaze landing on the door. Cori finally looked up too. Took her long enough.

He raised an eyebrow. She nodded at him and then turned right back to Fritsch. Right back into the conversation as if she hadn’t gone awol and scared the living daylights out of him.

He crossed to stand closer to the middle of the lobby. From there, he could see into the rooms on either side. Some Disciples milling around the shooting game. He could hear folks out back, most likely Pack, given how loud they were. No one by the hoop-shoot game. No telling if there was someone out in the back closet, but there were enough people just from what he could tell that there was potential for this to go south.

“So, Boss,” Fritsch said. “You gonna kill it?”

Cori thought for a second. Sighed. Drummed her fingers on her thigh. She was nervous about something.

“I don’t think so. Better plan:  let’s put out a general bulletin with RedEye to open season on the thing. I’m sure there’s plenty of raiders around here who’d love to take a crack at a Super Mutant.”

“You might be right about that, OverBoss, but I’ll tell you something because I like ya.” Fritsch smoothed the ends of his moustache. He leaned in and spoke quiet enough where Gage had to strain to hear him over the constant noise from the old soundtrack in the background. Quietly, he added “Eventually, you’re gonna want to hop back in that ring. We all got things around here that keep us useful. This arcade is my pride and joy, but it’s also the only reason I get to stay here without a collar. Folks need some way to blow off steam, you know?”

Corinne nodded.

“You’re doing good work here, so far as I can see. But the gangs need reminding of how tough you are. Keeps them from getting too curious about who could take you in a fight. Pass this one up, but maybe take on the next asshole who gets caught in the trap, right?”

“Maybe.”

“I knew you were made of smarter stuff. Old Gage over there doesn’t trust just anyone, do you Gage?”

He grunted. The Disciples in the other room were still watching.

“That’s some glowing praise from Gage,” Fritsch grinned as he nudged Cori with his elbow. She smiled.

“I’ll remember the advice. And thanks for the tokens,” she replied.

Fritsch nodded and waved them off. The Disciples watched Cori cross the lobby but didn’t move. After a moment, Gage cracked his neck, nodded to the Disciples and Fritsch, and followed Corinne out into the midday sun.

She walked like there ain’t no place she oughtta be, and sure, not like she needed to be outpacing a deathclaw, but the unaffected ease of her stride was pissing him off. Looked back over his shoulder again. Some runt Fritsch had probably hired from the travelers scrambled out the door in the direction of RedEye’s radio tower, at the other end of Nuka Town. Disciples weren’t following, but he could tell at least a couple of them had thought about it just by how they’d been standing. Ears probably pricked up under their masks.

He waited until they made it all the way up to Fizztop before saying a word.

“And what the fuck was that, huh Boss?”

“Excuse me?” She flopped onto the couch across from the bar, feet up on the table. Half a smirk played across her lips like she thought this was the funniest damn thing.

“You ran off.” He folded his arms over his chest. Her eyes swept from his hairline down to his boots and back up again. The smirk faded.

“I went to handle some OverBoss business,” she said.

“By running off.”

“Yeah, to talk to Fritsch. Not to go fight Nisha or anything like that. Didn’t you want me to be more hands-on?”

Fuckin’—

Gage looked down at the shitty star pattern on the faded blue carpet.

Of course. Of course he wanted her acting like she owned the place, because that was the only damn attitude that raiders payed attention to. But she had to know that running off without a word to talk to an unaffiliated repairman wasn’t what he had in mind.

“You know this ain’t what I meant.”

“Do I know that?” She took her boots off the table and sat up a little straighter. “Because listening to my constituents seems like doing my job.”

“Listening to your what?”

“Fritsch. He wanted me to fight in the arena.”

“And you said no?”

“Absolutely!” She shot up from the couch, throwing her arms up. “He wanted me to fight a super mutant. There is no way in hell I am fighting a super mutant alone.”

At least she’d thought something through.

A super mutant in the gauntlet. If he weren’t so mad, he woulda said she’d made a good call in having the other raiders torture it to death. It should at least keep them happy and preoccupied for a bit, which was always good. But that didn’t erase the fact that she’d done all that alone. That’d he’d woken up and she’d been gone.

“Do you know what might have happened to you if someone had heard you say “no” to a fight?”

Corinne sputtered for a second. Mouth open. Mouth closed. Jaw clenched. Hands on her hips. Couldn’t tell what she was thinking, but she sure as hell wasn’t just agreeing with him, which meant that whatever she was about to say was dead wrong.

Finally, finger in his face, she hissed “so what? You’d have me fight a super mutant voluntarily?”

That wasn’t even the point. This wasn’t even the point of the whole thing, but somehow they’d spiraled off track and he couldn’t even begin to think about how to explain to her that she was fuckin’ mortal and that some of those raiders wouldn’t hesitate to gut her if they thought they had the chance.

“I ain’t sayin’ that,” he growled.

“No. You aren’t.” Her tone spiked, arms stretched out. “You aren’t saying anything helpful, really. You’re just yelling at me for doing my job, and last I checked around here, I was the one in charge. Not. You.”

Not him.

Oh, for sure he knew she was in charge and not him. Cuz if he was in charge? He wouldn’t make stupid calls. He wouldn’t put himself in danger just because. He wouldn’t argue with good advice. He wouldn’t go prancing off to a place where he was likely to get stabbed in the throat just to talk to a mechanic about some bloodsport, cuz he wouldn’t go fuckin’ anywhere without someone watching his back. Because he knew better.

Fritsch was smart and kept to himself for the most part, but he didn’t ever claim to know how to run this place, and there was no way in hell that he’d stick his neck out to keep her safe, push comes to shove. Can’t alienate the folks who pay for his meals; Frisch ain’t the type to shit where he eats. And she may not have had the time to ask him for help in the first place, because she probably hadn’t seen noticed the gaggle of mask-wearing jackasses sitting just around the corner, fiddling with their knives. If those Disciples had realized she was alone. If they’d followed her out of that place. If they’d gotten her by herself—

She’d be gone. If he hadn’t shown up, there was a fair chance she’d be gone and he’d be finding chunks of her all around the park.

Didn’t want to think about that.

“Do that again,” he said through grit teeth, “and you’ll regret it.”

“Mmhm.”

“I’m fuckin’ serious.” He stepped in close to catch her eye. “That was risky. You know how many people would be pissed off that you didn’t take the fight? If I hadn’t turned up, those Disciples in the back room might have gutted you for turning Fritsch down. You ever seen what the Disciples do to folks they don’t like? For once in your goddamned life, just think shit through.”

She blinked. Jaw locked up and lips pressed together in a hard line. He realized he was towering over her, right in her damned space, and he straightened out. Took a step back.

“I’m serious,” he said again. Just for something to say.

“I heard you.”

He wanted to retort. Tell her off. Remind her that he was on her fuckin’ side. But his mouth felt dry and his head ached and for a minute there, he couldn’t think of a damn word to add to the conversation.

“Is that all you had to say, Gage?” Her tone was crisp and sharp, like falling through the ice on a barely frozen-over lake.

Outside, the sun burned bright through the windows behind her. Vibrant blue, cloudless sky extended out like someone had spilled paint. In the distance, one of those mangled birds he saw sometimes landed and perched on the wall around Nuka Town, its dark wings a black splotch on the horizon. The flat, dusty earth stretched out as far as he could see and he had the strange thought that they were on an island but somehow, he was still alone out here. Stranded in this strange place that ain’t quite land and ain’t quite sky.

He looked at her again. Angry—her chest heaving, eyes hard, shoulders squared. And she coulda been gone. That’s what this was all about. Not that she made a bad call, cuz she’d made bad calls before. That she coulda been gone, and he wouldn’t have had a single say in that. Might not even have known till it was way too late. For all the times he felt like they were a team, this was the reminder that she was gonna do what she wanted, and that there wasn’t anything he could do to stop her.

And he was tired. Plain and simple.

He shook his head, then, turned around, and slunk back through the doors and into the quiet dark of his old room.  

[wilsonsnest]

winter, Sweetheart - VI

this is the part where i go age of ultron? whose ultron? and civil war? idk her. we’re pretty much totally deviating from here on out folks. feat. shit getting real and nat to the rescue.

warnings: sickness, hurt/comfort, bad medical practices

He finally settles them in a Bucharest. Romania, he admits, probably isn’t the safest place for the both of them to hide out. But Sweetheart is getting worse, and he loses strength too quickly to make moving possible. The Soldier - Bucky, now, he’s trying it out still. He tries to fix the Falcon’s wing as best as he can, but he’s no expert when it comes to cyberbionic systems even if he was, the mess of Hydra’s experiments would have made his skills useless anyway. Neither of them really knows how the wings work exactly, and the best he can do is solder any wires that seem to go together and snip any ones that seem to be in the way.

Neither of them are keen to test the results of Bucky’s patch job and so Sweetheart’s wings stay tucked away and covered. He supposes it doesn’t matter anyway, their former “employers” are either dead and on the run. The Soldier and the Falcon are on their own now.

For a short time, things seem okay. Bucky accessed Hydra accounts that even most Hydra techs wouldn’t have a clue about. He’s able to buy them a shitty one room apartment with peeling wallpaper and a creaky wooden floor where the landlord asked zero questions except for cash payment.

He steals painkillers for them both, easier than buying illegally or legally. Both of their flesh bruises and wounds heal fairly quickly though, thanks to the bootleg serum Hydra had pumped them full of. Bucky is in good enough shape, but its the Falcon’s broken wings that are causing the problem. The strain of the pain has reached levels where Sweetheart mostly stays curled up in bed, sweating into the mattress and gritting his teeth in pain. It was running like an infection, but the wound was entirely technological.

The last time Bucky had taken a look, the Falcon had actually whimpered in pain. He didn’t try to touch his wings again after that. At this point, he would only make things worse. Bucky focuses on the things he can do for Sweetheart. He washes him, feeds him and starts hunting for someone who can fix this. He knows there has to be some cowardly Hydra doctor that ran off before everything came crashing down.

But the longer he searches, the worse Sweetheart gets. There are nights when neither of them sleeps. Sweetheart is in too much pain, on as many painkillers as his body can stand and Bucky stays by his side, almost hoping for someone to find them so he can take his anger out on someone.

He gets desperate and he drops a clue. One that only a particular person will recognize.

Bucky waits by the kitchen counter, the windows blacked out and a singular light on near him. Theres a gun stored in one of the kitchen drawers, close enough that he knows he has a 75% chance of getting to it before she can attack him. He stiffens, as the door opens and Natasha walks in, dressed in a tailored pantsuit hands weaponless. Bucky narrows his eyes, and can see the points where she’s hiding her supplies, probably more firepower than he has currently stored in this room.

But theres an uneasy truce here, and they respect one another enough to not greet each other with guns drawn. He’s shot her once before, but he’s also the one who taught her own to survive worse.

She closes the door behind her, but doesn’t lock it. “I was wondering who contacted me. The Winter Soldier,” She gives the civilian clothes he’s wearing a once-over. “or James Barnes.”

“Bucky.” He says tightly, only really sure of that for now. He moves in an arc around the room, careful to face her at all times. He doesn’t want to get too close, but he also wants to be near Sweetheart in case he has to haul him away to escape. The Police could already be on their way.

“I know someone who’d be happy to hear that.” She says softly, and its more genuine than he ever remembers hearing her speak. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, no wire. “I can’t guarantee someone hasn’t tracked me here.”

Bucky nods, he knows that. He moves to kneel by the mattress Sweetheart is laying, finally asleep after a long night. His skin is ashen and clammy, sweet dappling his feverish forehead. Even asleep, he shakes. Bucky swallows and gestures toward him, not touching. “He needs help. I can’t… fix this.”

It’s hard to admit this weakness, but he fears the worst if he doesn’t get help. Natasha’s brow furrows, and she takes cautious step forward. She can tell how hard this is for him, how bad it must be if he’s willing to risk asking for help. Her eyes are unreadable, but theres no disgust or anger and Bucky is grateful for that. Natasha never met the Falcon, though their training overlapped at points. Hydra kept the Falcon isolated and even more secret than the Winter Soldier.

“I can call Stark.” Natasha offers quietly. She looks at Bucky now an shakes her head before he can protest. “It’s the only way he isn’t ending up in a jail cell or worse.”

“The Falcon,” The name tastes bitter on his tongue, but he’s never called him Sweetheart in front of anyone before. It would be like a betrayal to do it now. “Has never killed anyone.”

He knows this because he made sure of it. Natasha gives him a plaintive look and raises an eyebrow but Bucky only holds her gaze steady. Eventually she concedes and nods. “It gives us something to work with at least.” The tight spot in Bucky’s chest loosens just a little.

“His name is Sam Wilson.” She adds, dipping her head toward Sweetheart. Bucky just stares at her blankly and she huffs a little. “His friend, Riley, the one whose car you destroyed? He was Sam’s partner in the Air Force. He thought he was dead. He’s looking for him,”

Like Steve’s looking for you. It goes unsaid, but hangs in the air between them.

Still, to know the Falcon’s identity feels surreal to Bucky. It means nothing. As far as Hydra was concerned, Sam Wilson was erased. He has only ever been The Falcon and to Bucky he’s always been Sweetheart. He doesn’t know if he likes how Sam feels yet.

“Do you have a go-bag?” Natasha asks even though she already knows the answer. “As soon as I call this in to Stark, everyone is going to know. Including Steve.”

Bucky grimaces, but he knew that was coming. Even hearing his name makes his head hurt. He isn’t ready to face that yet, or else he would be going with them. He hates the idea of leaving Sweetheart, but can’t handle being around Steve or the rest of them. He glances at Sweetheart, shaking beneath the thin sheet and presses his lips together tightly. He’s never left him not knowing he’d be back. He has no idea when they’ll meet again and it terrifies him. His Sweetheart has been his responsibility for so long, how can he trust anyone else to look after him?

But then Sweetheart moans low in his sleep and rocks a little, trying to soothe his own pain. Bucky moves closer, presses his metal hand against his hot skin. Sweetheart settles and Bucky looks up at Natasha. “Don’t tell him.”

“I can’t lie to Steve anymore.” Natasha almost sounds apologetic, but he can tell shes telling the truth. “And he’s smarter than he looks, he’ll see right through me.”

Bucky ducks his head, but nods, he can appreciate her honesty at least. For a moment he rocks in place and out of the corner of his eye he sees Natasha look away. Grateful, he leans forward and presses his lips to Sweetheart’s temple. A promise that he would see him again. He moves quickly after that, he wouldn’t be surprised if the Avengers are already en route.

He lifts the floorboards to grab his backpack and heads towards the window. He stops and glances toward the Falcon and Natasha. He can’t hide his concern from Natasha though and she carefully moves closer to the mattress.

“I’ll stay with him.” She assures him. Theres a determination in her gaze that makes Bucky want to believe her. “Rileys told us a lot about Sam. He’s a good man. I won’t let anything happen to him.”

Bucky wouldn’t know anything about that, but he does know that the Falcon deserves the chance to be free from whatever Hydra did to him. The truth is, he only really trusts himself as far as Sweetheart goes, but his hands are tied in this instance. He’s kept his Sweetheart’s hands as clean of blood as possibly could and thats all he can really claim. With a final heavy sigh, he slips out and the window and disappears.

[write-havoc]

Of Sons and Daughters Ch 11

Summary: Arthur is tasked by Dutch to watch over a young woman who had just lost the last member of her family she had left. That young woman just so happens to be the daughter that Dutch told no one else about.

This is a non canon AU with no major spoilers

Fandom: Red Dead Redemption 2

Pairing: Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character

Status: Ongoing

Contains: swearing, PG 13 smut

Intended for readers 18+ of age only

Masterlist in my bio

Several days pass as the gang comes to terms with Micah’s betrayal to them. With what Charles had told them about what he had seen, it’s evident that after Micah’s plan to get Dutch out in the open to meet with Colm had failed, he went out to that train station to telegraph Milton. Once the agents arrived, Micah must’ve told them Dutch didn’t take the bait. Milton’s impatience apparently had gotten the better of him because he then decided to just raid the camp instead of going about contriving another plan to get Dutch away from everyone to arrest him.

During these days, Emmeline settles in more. She tries her best to do jobs around the camp at Shady Belle. Laundry, mending clothes, washing up, none of it is really new to her, anyway. Once the sun goes down, she starts to help Lenny in his pursuit to teach Sean how to read. The Irishman seems more inclined to listen to Emmeline than Lenny, so he actually makes progress.

“The... dog... j-j-“ he reads along as he points to the words on the page with his finger.

“Sound it out,” Emmeline says in support.

“J-um-p-ed. Jumped!” he calls out excitedly. “That fucker jumped !”

Emmeline and Lenny both laugh at his reaction.

“You’re doing good,” she comments. “See, you’re getting it down. You’ll be reading novels in no time.”

Karen, who is close by, decides to see what all the hubbub is about. “Who jumped?” she asks as she comes to stand by Sean.

He points to the illustration of the little puppy in the book that Lenny had borrowed from Jack. “The dog!” He follows the words with his finger again as he reads. “The dog jumped!”

“You can join us, Karen,” Lenny mentions. “If Sean can learn, you surely can, too.”

She thinks it over a minute. “If I learn to read, Mary Beth will be shoving those stories she writes in my face all the time askin’ if they’re any good.” She moves to sit down next to Sean. “But I guess I ain’t got nothin’ better to do right now.”

Soon enough, Abigail and Jack join in on the lessons, though Hosea has to be recruited to help out with the teaching. It helps to keep spirits high in this time of uncertainty. Arthur often sits next to Emmeline as she continues to help, though most of the time he’s sketching in his journal instead of helping out.

“Who taught you to read, Emmeline?” Abigail asks one of the days they’re all sitting around the fire.

“Both my parents loved books,” she answers. “They didn’t send me off to school, but they both taught me all they knew. Taught me to read and write. How to add numbers. Even had me read some history books, too. They wasn’t really educated, but they did their best.”

“Well you’re loads smarter than Arthur, here,” Sean calls out at Arthur’s expense. “How’d you manage to convince a sweet girl like that to be with you.”

Before Arthur can respond, Emmeline steps in to defend him. “He didn’t have to convince me. Arthur is sweet and kind. And he ain’t dumb. He’s taught me a lot.” She looks over to Arthur and smiles.

“Ain’t that sweet!” Sean razzes him further.

Karen slaps the back of the Irishman’s head. “He’s a better man than you, Sean.”

“Aw, you love me. Give us a kiss.” He leans into Karen, his lips puckered.

“I don’t love you, you pig!” Karen calls out, but everyone knows she’s not serious.

About a week after they had moved into Shady Belle, Arthur finds Dutch standing at the back of the property looking over the swamp.

“Whatcha doin’, Dutch?” he calls out as he approaches.

The older man doesn’t even turn around, though he does answer. “Watching the alligators,” he says with very little emotion in his voice.

Once Arthur comes to stand next to Dutch, he can see blood in the water and an alligator moving around underneath it. “They fighting or something?”

“I watched a boar walk over to the edge of the water,” Dutch starts, eyes still fixed on the swamp. “I watched as one of those gators silently swam up to it, the boar none the wiser. Only took but a few seconds and that gator had that boar in its mouth, dragging it in the water as its meal.”

“Shit,” is all Arthur can think to say.

Dutch lets out a sigh. “All this time, I thought I was the alligator. Turns out I’m the boar.”

Arthur could tell that Dutch hadn’t been taking Micah’s betrayal very well. He had shut himself in his room, barely talking to anybody, which isn’t normal for him. This is actually the first time Arthur had spoken to him in days.

“Now come on, Dutch,” Arthur replies gently. “You ain’t no boar. You’re a man. And men make mistakes on occasion. I know that more ‘n anyone.”

“I’ve been thinking about... him ,” Dutch says, refusing to use Micah’s name. “About everything he’s done. Everything he’s said.” He lets out a heavy breath and casts his gaze to the ground in front of him. “He played me, Arthur. Like a fiddle. Told me everything I wanted to hear. Then he tried to get me to turn on you.” He finally looks over to the younger man. “And John. And Hosea. I nearly fell for it.”

“But ya didn’t.”

“But I nearly did. And everything I’ve been working for would’ve been lost .” He lets out a sigh. “I’ve just been trying so hard ,” he brings his hands up and clenches them into fists in front of him, “to hold onto everything. To keep everyone together. Not to fall into the trap of this...” he waves his hands around, “ civilization .”

“I know, Dutch. We’re still here. We’re still with you.”

Dutch turns his body to face Arthur and places his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “But for how long?” He doesn’t stay to get a response, instead, walking past him toward the house.

Just a little while later as almost everyone is eating their supper, Sean calls out, “Hey, English!” in Arthur’s direction. Bill is walking next to him, which can mean nothing good, most likely.

Arthur lets out a sigh, causing Emmeline to chuckle beside him. “Yes, Sean?” he replies, already exasperated.

“Me and Bill was ‘avin a drink at some saloon in San Denis when we hear these two blokes talkin’ about some train that’s s’pose ta be carryin’ a lot of gold. Apparently they gonna be movin’ money outta the bank fer some reason.”

“And...?” Arthur says after a pause.

Bill jumps in. “We rob it!”

Arthur just shakes his head. “I don’t think we should be doin’ nothin’ like that right now. All the heat that’s been on us... we need to lie low.”

“Don’t we need the money, though? To get to Tahiti?” Sean asks, parroting Dutch’s words.

“Right now we gotta focus on not getting nabbed by them Pinkertons,” Arthur explains. “Micah don’t know where we went to, but I’m bettin’ he’s told them agents that we’d head further east once they ran us outta Clemens Point. If we do something big, they’ll know it’s us and it’ll only be a matter of time before they find this place.” Arthur scratches at his beard as he thinks it over. “We need to do shit much more quiet than we have been. No train robberies. No banks or stagecoaches. Nothin’ like that. We send the women into the city to pickpocket some rich folk. Javier and whoever else can rob homesteads as long as it’s quiet. Me and Charles can hunt and sell the pelts. It won’t get us a heap load of money, but it’ll make us enough to keep surviving. For now, anyways.”

Since Dutch is continuing to lock himself away most of the time, there’s no one else giving the gang orders but Arthur and Hosea. They are both in agreement that the gang needs to lower their profile for the time being. Especially until Dutch gets back to his old self. Arthur hopes he’ll come out of it, sooner rather than later.

During this time, Emmeline and Arthur try to figure out what it means to be in a relationship together. She, of course, has no experiences of her own to draw off of. Arthur isn’t much better, though, only having one serious relationship in his life. There are some awkward moments, usually coming in the form of Arthur being teased every time someone catches him even so much as looking at Emmeline. She shrugs it off, but Arthur usually has to try to hide his blushing cheeks.

While he’s never been very comfortable with public displays of affection, he makes up for it in the privacy of their own room. He’s tentative for the first few nights, but with Emmeline’s assurance that she is fine with his advances, he gets more comfortable with her physically. Before too long, he comes to crave the intimacy that she provides. He had long since accepted that he would never have another woman in his life, but then Emmeline showed up and awakened parts of him that had been dormant.

One morning, Arthur and Emmeline are cuddled up together in the small bed in their second floor room. Arthur has been working hard lately, so he decides to sleep in a little today. As for Emmeline, her pregnancy has continued to take the energy out of her, so some extra time in bed doesn’t bother her any.

“You awake, Emma?” he whispers when she stirs a little from her position lying on his chest.

“Yeah,” she answers sleepily without lifting her head. “But I’m still tired. I might just fall back asleep.”

He kisses her crown. “Go on ahead. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Just a few minutes after she tries to fall back asleep, she’s overcome with a wave of nausea. Thankful that she decided to put her nightgown back on last night after she and Arthur were done with their “activities,” she runs out of their room to try to make it outside before the contents of her stomach could come up. Unfortunately, she just barely makes it out into the hallway before she starts to heave.

Abigail can hear the commotion from her room just a few feet away. She leaves Jack, still sleeping soundly, to see what’s going on. “Are you alright?” she asks Emmeline when she sees the mess at her feet.

Emmeline clears her throat and wipes her mouth. “I’m fine,” she says as she looks up to the other woman, unsure what else to say.

Arthur comes out of the room, having hastily put on his pants to cover himself. He shares a look with Abigail before he gently lays a hand on Emmeline’s back. “Why don’t you go back in and lay down,” he says to her. “I’ll clean this up.”

Abigail’s face suddenly lights up as she calls out, “You’re pregnant! I knew it!” She had her suspicions, but the fact that Emmeline had gotten sick and Arthur isn’t at all worried about it confirms what she had thought.

Both Arthur and Emmeline snap their heads to look at the other woman.

“Keep it down,” Arthur growls out.

Abigail lets out a scoff. “Ain’t nobody up here but Jack. And he could sleep through the end of the world. Even Dutch and Molly are out, for once.” She starts to vibrate with excitement despite Arthur glaring at her. “But it’s true, right?”

Emmeline smiles gently as she nods slightly. There’s no use in lying at this point.

Abigail can’t hold back the squeal of happiness as it leaves her mouth. The thought of having another child in the camp for Jack to play with swirls in her mind.

“Shh!” Arthur pats the air to try to calm her. “You can’t tell nobody, Abigail. Especially not the rest of the girls.”

“I wont.”

“Abigail?” John’s raspy voice rings out from the steps. “You alright up there? I heard you yell.” He starts to come up the stairs before she even answers.

Abigail runs over to meet her husband on the landing. “Emmeline’s with child!” she tells him immediately.

Arthur throws up his hands and rolls his eyes. “Abigail! I just told you not to tell no one!”

“John doesn’t count,” she replies as she leads John over to where the group stands.

“Is that sick?” he points to the pile a few feet away.

Abigail swats him on the chest. “Don’t worry about that! You’re gonna be an uncle!”

“Don’t tell nobody else,” Arthur asserts. “I mean it. Both of you.”

“Alright, alright.” Abigail turns to leave. “I’ll get a bucket to clean up that mess. Then we’re gonna talk all about this.”

John shakes his head and claps Arthur on the shoulder. “Looks like we’re more alike than I thought.”

Emmeline scrunches up her face in confusion at his comment. “What?”

“I knocked Abigail up with Jack on accident, too.”

Arthur shakes his head. “Shut up, Marston.”

She looks over to Arthur for a moment before turning back to John. “But you were happy, right?”

“Little Johnny Marston ran away. Like an idiot,” Arthur answers for him. “I won’t never do that.”

“I came back,” John defends himself.

“It only took four years for you to get your shit together to be somewhat of a father to the boy,” Arthur bites back sarcastically. He had always looked down at John for his decision to leave instead of accepting his role as a father. Now that he’s put himself in the same position with regards to an unexpected pregnancy, he’s focused on not repeating the younger man’s mistake.

Abigail reappears carrying a bucket and some rags. “Stop fighting, you two. You should be celebrating.”

“We ain’t ready to tell everyone just yet,” Emmeline comments. “So I think we’ll have to wait for any parties.”

“It’s your news to tell. But the second you do it, there’s certainly going to be a party.” Abigail bends down to start to clean the floor. “I suggest you nibble on some biscuits to settle your stomach, though. If you start getting sick all the time, people are gonna get curious and ask questions.”

Early one morning, Emmeline takes Abigail up on her advice. Once her stomach starts to roil, she sneaks out of bed quietly enough not to wake Arthur to head down to Pearson’s wagon in search for biscuits. The sun isn’t even up yet, so it takes her a few minutes in the dark to locate the small tin on the table.

After eating a few of the biscuits, she decides to head over to where Miss Susie is hitched at the edge of camp to visit with her for a moment.

“How ya doin’, girl?” she asks as she pats the horse on the neck.

Upon hearing a rustling behind her, she flips around just in time to see Kieran exiting his tent not far away from her.

“Miss Emmeline?” he croaks out, his voice still tinged with sleep.

“I’m sorry, Kieran. I didn’t mean to wake you. I honestly forgot your tent was over here.”

“That’s okay.” He moves to the other side of Miss Susie, petting her on the nose. “It ain’t too much before I’d get up anyway.”

“I need to thank you for taking such good care of her,” she says as she continues to stroke the horse’s coat. “I haven’t gotten the chance to take her out much lately.”

“She’s a real good horse. Very friendly. I must admit that she’s my favorite to ride out of all of them.”

She smiles. “Really?”

“Most of the other horses only accept one rider in the saddle. Miss Susie here don’t mind me taking her out at all.” He pats her neck. “I’ll get her a couple of carrots for a treat.”

He starts to move further away to where he keeps his supplies while Emmeline continues to pet her horse. Suddenly, there’s a scuffle and when she turns to look, she sees a man in a green vest grappling with Kieran, trying to pull him off into the woods.

“No!” she screams at the top of her lungs and instinctively runs toward the man that she realizes must be an O’Driscoll with what Arthur has told her about them. She doesn’t have any weapons on her and she’s only in her nightgown, but she doesn’t let that stop her from trying to help Kieran. Jumping on the O’Driscoll’s back, she forces one arm around his neck and tries to pull him away.

Unbeknownst to her, the O’Driscoll hadn’t arrived alone. His partner roughly grabs her by the shoulders and throws her off the first man and onto the ground hard. She’s stunned for a moment, but once a gunshot rings out, she comes to just in time to see the man on Kieran crumble to the ground.

With the O’Driscoll’s plan well and truly bungled by the surprise appearance of the raven haired woman, the remaining man can only think about making it out alive. He quickly pulls the woman in front of him up by the hair and holds her to his chest, using her as a shield.

“One move and she gets it,” he calls out to Bill, first and foremost, since he’s the only one close by with a gun. That’s not going to last for much longer, though. He can hear everyone else in the camp stirring at the noise. And with the sun starting to bathe the landscape with light, he no longer has the cover of darkness on his side.

“Let her go,” Kieran pleads.

The O’Driscoll knows he has to make a run for it now before he has more guns trained on him. He figures that the only chance he’ll get is if he kills the girl, catching them off guard enough to make his escape. He cocks his gun then a shot rings out.

Meanwhile, Arthur is pulled from sleep by the sound of Emmeline screaming “No!” It’s faint, but it’s like his mind is attuned to her voice. Without much thought, he grabs his gun belt and runs out of his room in only his union suit. As he’s running down the stairs, he’s bucking his belt around his hips and drawing his Schofield, ready for a fight. The sun is just barely up, but there’s enough light that he can see a man on the edge of camp holding Emmeline to his chest. Their right sides are facing Arthur so he gets a good look at the gun the O’Driscoll is holding to her head.

Arthur runs full bore at them. Without slowing even a little bit, he readies his gun to shoot the man behind Emmeline. Despite everything going on around Arthur, he somehow sees the small movement of the man’s thumb pulling back the hammer on his gun. Time seems to slow as Arthur lines up his shot to the side of the man’s head before he can fire his gun. Arthur wastes no time in pulling his own trigger, sending a bullet straight into the O’Driscoll’s temple, dropping him.

Emmeline thinks she’s been shot for a moment. She waits for the pain to radiate through her, but it doesn’t come. The only feeling she gets is the cool morning air rushing over her back, signaling that the man that had been holding her isn’t behind her anymore. Before she can turn to see what had happened to him, Arthur rushes over and turns her back to him.

“Don’t look, sweetheart,” he says hurriedly.

Bill’s voice calls out, “We got more bastards coming!”

Without a thought, Arthur picks Emmeline up, cradling her to his chest and runs back to the house. Gunshots start to ring out as he gets closer to the front doors. Before he can open them himself, Dutch bursts through them, both of his guns in his hands.

“Get her in here with the women!” he calls out to Arthur then starts shooting from the porch.

Arthur deposits her just inside. “Run upstairs to Abigail.” He places a kiss on her forehead then turns to go back outside.

Emmeline does as instructed and rushes up to the Marston’s room. She finds Abigail cradling a crying Jack to her chest on the bed.

“Get in here!” Abigail holds her free arm out to Emmeline and she huddled up next to the woman.

Though they’re about the same age, Emmeline allows Abigail to hold her as if she were her mother. She wraps one arm around Abigail’s back and places the other around Jack as an added layer of protection for him.

Outside, the firefight is intense. Round after round of O’Driscolls come at them. It has to be every single member of the gang, Arthur reckons. He sticks right beside Dutch as the man takes down his fair share of enemies. That is until he hears Sadie scream from behind the house.

“Go,” Dutch calls out unprompted. “I’ll cover you.”

Arthur runs around the house as Dutch takes down any men that might shoot at him. When he sees Sadie, she’s pinned down behind one of the buildings in the back. He fights his way toward her, then the two fight their way back out, clearing out all the O’Driscolls that had flanked the house. Soon, the gunshots fade as the few remaining enemies retreat.

Arthur doesn’t even give himself a minute to rest before he’s rushing back into the house and up the stairs. John is hot on his heels as he’s thinking similarly to Arthur in wanting to check on his family. Both men come through the door to the Marston’s room and see the women and Jack sitting on the bed, still cuddled together.

Upon seeing Arthur, Emmeline jumps up and runs over to him, enveloping him in a hug. “Are you hurt?” she asks into his shoulder.

“I’m okay.” He pulls back to look at her. “You okay?”

She nods, her eyes still watery with unshed tears. The battle had certainly shaken her up.

He pulls her back into him and cradles her head to his chest. “It’s alright. It’s over now,” he whispers to the top of her head. After a moment, he looks over to John, now sitting beside Abigail and Jack, his arm around them. “We need to get out of here,” he says suddenly.

John looks at him confused. “What do you mean?”

Emmeline backs up to look at Arthur as well. “Are they coming back?” She takes his statement as meaning that they need to clear out the camp again.

“No. I don’t know.” Arthur shakes his head. “I mean we ,” he gestures between himself and John, “should leave.”

“What are you saying?” John bites back.

“This life ain’t no place to raise a family, John. We all know that. Jack shouldn’t be raised like this.” He looks over to Emmeline. “No child should. Both of us need to seriously start thinkin’ about leaving.”

John stands with a huff. “All the shit you gave me for leaving and now you’re suggesting it?!”

Arthur takes a step towards the younger man. “You didn’t just leave us . You left them .” He gestures to Abigail and Jack. “Your responsibilities to the gang are one thing, but you left your responsibilities as a father. That’s what I gave you shit about. That boy needed a father. Still does. And this life more ‘n likely is gonna end in him losing you. Or bein’ an orphan.”

“Arthur’s right, John,” Abigail concurs as Jack still clutches his arms around her, though he’s cried himself out and is now falling asleep despite the voices around him. “We can’t keep doin’ this forever. Jack’s getting older and he’s gonna be aware of what we do pretty soon. What you do. He’s a good boy. Smart, you know. He could do so much more than either of us.”

Emmeline feels a bit like a third wheel in this conversation. Though, undoubtedly, she’s one part of the subject of the conversation, everyone else besides her is dealing with a history she’s not involved with. Arthur and John have lived together for over a decade as brothers, for lack of a better word. And Abigail has been with the gang for a few years as well. The decision whether or not to leave the group certainly must be a difficult one for them. The input of a person that’s only been there for a few weeks probably won’t be very welcome at this point, so Emmeline keeps her mouth shut.

John looks from Abigail to Arthur then flicks his gaze over to Emmeline. “You plannin’ on leavin’ with her?” he asks Arthur.

“Don’t have no plans, really.” Arthur runs his hand over his beard as he lets out a sigh. “That O’Driscoll had his gun to her head, fixin’ to shoot her,” he says as he gestures to Emmeline. “In one second she coulda been gone. I coulda lost that chance to...” he swallows roughly at the thought, “to be a father. All because of some old gang feud she ain’t had no part in.”

Not knowing what to say, Emmeline just takes Arthur’s hand in hers. Truth be told, she was specifically avoiding thinking about how close she came to death. And how close Arthur came to it as he battled outside. This whole situation is something she’s never had to deal with before.

Heavy footsteps echo in the hallway outside the room causing everyone to look in that direction.

“Arthur, John?” Dutch’s voice calls out as the footsteps grow nearer.

“In here,” Arthur answers.

A moment later, Dutch appears in the doorway, looking more lively than he has of recent. “Everyone alright in here?”

Everyone nods.

“Good,” Dutch continues. “No major injuries on our side. It seems the O’Driscolls plan was thwarted thanks to you, Emmeline.”

“Oh?” she replies. “I didn’t really do nothing.”

“You alerted us,” Dutch says, pride in his voice. “And Kieran told me you went after the man that attacked him. That was very brave.”

Arthur whips his head around to look at her. “You what ?”

“I just reacted,” she answers. “I saw someone hurting Kieran, so I tried to stop it.”

“You can’t do that,” Arthur asserts.

“Now, son,” Dutch interjects, “she most certainly saved that poor boy from a grisly fate. I think she deserves praise for that.”

Emmeline gives Dutch a genuine smile. Despite the fact that she hasn’t known the man that fathered her for that long, she’s not immune to his charms. Much like the way he’s fostered loyalty in Arthur over the years, she feels a sense of pride that the man is complementing her.

Arthur, on the other hand, is not happy. “I don’t think we should be encouraging her to put herself in danger.”

“It’s not encouragement, Arthur. Just acknowledgement.” Dutch pauses then lets out a heavy breath. “That’s not why I’m here, anyway. Javier caught one of the O’Driscolls before he could run away. I thought I could use you two,” he gestures to Arthur and John, “to interrogate him. See if he won’t tell us where that bastard Colm is so we can return his hospitality .” The word is laced with venom.

Arthur and John share a look before nodding.

“I gotta get dressed first,” Arthur says as he turns to leave with John and Dutch.

“Meet us in one of the buildings in the back,” Dutch calls out as he an John start to descend the stairs.

Emmeline follows Arthur over to their room. “Did you really mean all that?” she asks while he gathers some clothes from his trunk. “About leaving?”

He pauses his motion and turns back to her. “I’ve been scared since... the doctor told us we was gonna be parents, really. Scared what kinda father I’d be. Scared what Dutch is gonna say. Scared about it changing everything here, my whole life, everything I’ve ever known. But all of that weren’t nothing compared to how scared I was when I thought I was gonna lose the two ‘a you. And I don’t wanna leave you a widow, neither. We both need to get outta this. Together.”

She gives him a soft smile as she looks up at him. “That’s what I want, too.”

Over the last few weeks, Emmeline has come to care for the people around her in the camp. All she’s seen is people working together in a normal way, doing everyday things like tending the horses and cleaning up. But this burst of violence is unlike anything she’s ever experienced. She’s never been so close to gunfire, never seen anyone be fought with or shot. Now that she has, she wants nothing more than to never experience that again. If that means leaving everyone here... it’ll be hard, but she’s fine with it as long as she, Arthur, and the baby are safe.

[comicgeekscomicgeek]

Their Hero Academia – Chapter 33: The Sports Festival Part 6: Round Two—FIGHT!

Presenting the next raw and unedited chapter of my on-going, next-gen, My Hero Academia fic, Their Hero Academia!

Earlier chapters can be found here

Toshi’s first fight was still a few matches away and for the moment, all of Class 1-A except for Haimawari (whose fight was up after the next one) were seated in the stands.  The fights so far had been amazing and intense and even though he wasn’t quite as fascinated by Quirks as his dad…  he’d made sure to take plenty of notes so they could talk about all of it later. He wasn’t so drawn into his own little world though, that he didn’t notice that Katsumi and Izumi weren’t sitting together.  Which was very unusual.  They’d been getting along fine as recently as before lunch.

Unfortunately, he suspected he knew the answer.  The two of them were going to be matched up against each other in the Tournament. And while Izumi probably had no problems fighting Katsumi, he wasn’t so sure it worked in the other direction. He thought Katsumi had worked everything out after her talk with Izumi, but… maybe not.  And while he may not have had the strongest sense of self-preservation in the universe, even he knew better than to poke that hornet’s nest.

On the other hand, there was a lot to think about from the fights so far.  Koharu Kocho, the moth-girl from the General Studies Course, had definitely done a number of Monoma.  Her Quirk had a lot of utility, which made him wonder how she’d missed out on making it into the Hero Course.  The classes were normally sixteen strong, but it wasn’t a hard and fast rule.  If there were more qualified applicants, then they just expanded the classes.  So what had gone wrong there?  He could ask her that later, if he had the opportunity. He’d watched the Sports Festival for years with his dad and between the two of them, they’d gotten pretty good at figuring out which General Studies kids were going to make it into the Hero Course.  He had a good feeling about her.

Of course, that meant there was a chance he’d be fighting her later.  He’d have to remember to hold his breath as much as he could.  His gravity-jumps could probably keep up against her flying, but that sticky stuff of hers was going to be a problem too…

Ojiro’s fight againt Fukidashi had been hard to follow and it really made him want to know more about how exactly Fukidashi’s Quirk worked or what exactly it even was.  She’d demonstrated transformation, weapons generation, even some kind of solid air blast. Add in the fact that she seemed to be some kind of living cartoon and he didn’t know where to start.   But Ojiro had managed to overcome all of that, which was impressive too.  She was a good martial artist and the invisibility thing made for perfect stealth.  If he fought her, he’d have to be careful.

And then there was Mineta’s fight against Kan.  He was pretty sure he wouldn’t fall for any of her tricks like that… but really, when it came to Mineta, no one could say what she would do.  The important thing was not to underestimate her.  She acted the fool, but she was definitely smarter than she let on.

Down on the field, the next fight was starting.  

“And now for our next round!” Present Mic announced.  “From Class 1-C comes the wheeled-wonder, Yui Aoki!  From Class 1-B, the top traffic cop, Kimiko Dashi! Keep your eyes peeled, everyone, because I think this one’s going to be quick!”

Aoki was a red-haired girl and looked normal from the waist up.  Below, though, her legs merged together around a large wheel.  She’d been one of the front-runners during the obstacle course, nearly as fast as Haimawari.   Dashi had striped hair of red, yellow, and blue, and wore what looked like a traffic signal over her right arm.  If he remembered right, she could project similarly colored beams from it and speed things up or slow them down.

Yeah, Present Mic was right. This was definitely going to go quickly.

After Hawkeye gave them the signal to begin the fight, Aoki revved back and then shot forward.  But just as quickly, Dashi fired a beam of red light from her hand.  The beam struck Aoki and immediately froze her in place.

“Do you think there is a time limit?” Sora, who was sitting to his left, asked.  “The energy requirements to complete halt kinetic energy would have to be significant.”

“Probably,” Toshi agreed. “I saw her doing it a few times during the Obstacle Course and Quirkball too.  It didn’t seem to last too long any time.  Just enough to be useful.”

“Wow!”  Shota, who was to his right, said.  “Look at them!  She just stopped her flat!  Can you imagine the Villains she could catch?!”

“Great Quirk,” he said, leaning slightly forward to keep watching.

Dashi quickly stepped out of the way, then hit Aoki with a blue-colored beam of energy.  This time, it appeared to super-charge Aoki’s speed, propelling her far faster than she’d be on her own and sending her right out of the ring.

“Aoki is out of bounds!” Hawkeye announced.  “Dashi wins!”

“I told you that was going to be a fast one, folks!” Present Mic announced.  “But another one bites the dust and we continue on!”

“All right!” Shota shouted. “Haimawari’s up next!”

“Just remember not to cheer too loud,” Toshi said.  “We don’t want you bringing down the stands or anything.”

“Aw,” Shota said, looking down, “that only happened one time!”

***

“Next up is Isamu Haimawari of Class 1-A!  You saw him come in first during the Obstacle Course, but now he’s up against Sasuke Kido of Class 1-B!  Unstoppable force meets immoveable object!  A clash of opposites, right before our eyes!  ARRRE YOU READY, Eraser?!”

“Yes.  Yes, I am.”

“Could you sound less enthusiastic?”

“I’m willing to try.”

Isamu stepped into the ring and gulped hard.  Kido was shorter than him but a few inches, but more muscular.  He had red hair and was shimmering slightly in the sunlight, an orangish-glow surrounding him.  His force field.  That was going to be hard to get past.  But he’d knocked bigger over.  He just needed to get enough speed up first.  The ring wasn’t big, but if he could keep moving…

“Both of you ready?” Hawkeye asked.   When they both nodded, she stepped back and yelled, “FIGHT!”

Kido took a step forward, but didn’t seem inclined to make the first move.  He didn’t have to, not really.  His Quirk required a lot less mobility than Isamu’s did.  So it was up to him.  Of course.  Isamu took a deep breath, dropped to all fours, and launched himself towards Kido.

Kido’s reaction time was good though, forming his force field into a staff and swinging it in a wide arc as Isamu got closer.  Fortunately, his own reaction time was just as good and he fired a blast of reverse thrust, propelling himself just out of range of the swing.  

Then, he gave himself another forward push, ready to shoulder check Kido.  Kido, though, switched back to a force field and he bounced off, thrown back a few feet.   “You’re going to have to do better than that,” Kido said, following up with an attack, his force field formed into a mace.  He swung again and Isamu pushed to the side, dodging subsequent blows by moving to the left or right with his Quirk.  He could “push” himself in any direction, reacting with incredible speed. Kido was strong and those force field constructs looked like they would hurt if they connected, but right now, Kido couldn’t connect.

Granted, it didn’t give him a lot of space to attack either.  And if he shifted to guarding rather than attacking again…

Isamu saw an opening and applied a careful stream of force, just from his left hand.  With his other limbs in neutral, it set him spinning and he brought his legs around, slamming his legs into Kido’s.  The blow took the force-field wielder by surprise and knocked him down, but left them both tangled.  Before Isamu could get away, Kido moved, getting up and grabbing at his uniform as he did.  

“Got you now,” Kido said, drawing back a fist, his whole body glowing with his force field.  

“Oh, no you don’t!”   Isamu yelled.  He took a desperate gamble and planted his feet and his left hand on Kido’s force field.  With a grunt, he ignited his Quirk and pushed off.  His Quirk treated the force field like a contiguous solid object and he went up and over… and since Kido was holding onto him, he got dragged along, flipped and slammed hard on his back on the ground.  Unfortunately, he still had his force field up, so while Kido was rattled, he wasn’t knocked out.  He was back on his feet in a flash.

Isamu propelled himself backwards out of fist range, circling around.  They were both tiring, but neither was giving up.  Between his speed and Kido’s guard, all it would take would be someone getting lucky once, taking an opening the other didn’t see. They were still close enough to the middle of the ring for his next idea to work though.  Kido’s force field was protective, but the fact that he’d been able to flip him and trip him up suggested it was purely that, lacking any anchoring capabilities…

He applied more speed, carefully modulating his output with quick bursts of power from different hands and feet.   Faster and faster he went, circling Kido again and again until he was nothing but a blur.  Only his goggles allowed him to see well enough here, even with the reflexes and enhanced perceptions that came with a speed Quirk, he needed that little boost against the wind he was kicking up.  Kido was struggling to try and follow him, occasionally striking out with a punch, but always where he had been, not where he was.

Finally, when he’d disoriented his opponent enough, Isamu rushed forward.  Kido didn’t even bother to get out of the way, putting up his force field as a strong guard.  As he got closer to Kido, Isamu threw out his other arm and slapped a palm against Kido’s force field.  And then he extended his repulsive field out all his limps at once.  The pulse pushed him backwards, hard… but it was also a powerful enough kick to send Kido sailing back to, lacking any anchoring to go with his force field.

Maybe too powerful a kick! Isamu very nearly went out of the ring, but he was able to apply his Quirk’s adhesive powers, clinging to the concrete of the ring just before he went out.   Kido wasn’t so lucky.  Isamu’s push had been strong enough knock him just outside the ring.  Not much. But enough.

“And Kido is out of bounds!’ Hawkeye announced.  “Haimawari wins!”

“GO HAIMAWARI!”  Shinso’s voice, probably empowered by his Quirk, somehow cut through the roar of the crowd.  It cut itself off pretty quickly, so Midoriya or Tokoyami probably reigned him in.

So he’d come in “first” in the Obstacle Course, survived Quirkball, and won his first match in the Tournament Round.   He was definitely still in a “set on fire” induced coma and still back in the medical wing.

“YOW!  That was one fast-paced fighting frenzy!  Talk about your high-speed action!”

“Sound strategy on Haimawari’s part.  And do try to control yourself, Shinso.”

***

“Next up is a rivalry for the ages!  Izumi Todoroki and Katsumi Kirishima-Bakugo!  If their father’s rivalry is anything to go by, this should be one heck of a match!  Two classmates, locked in battle!  Fire and ice against explosions!  It’s gonna get hot down there!”

“I’m hoping these two have more sense myself.”

“Aw, where’s the fun in that?”

Katsumi stepped into the ring and watched Izzy do the same on the other end.  Hawkeye was about to give them the signal to fight when she raised a hand.  “Nope, nope, nope,” she said.  “Not gonna fight Izzy.  I’ll just go ahead and withdraw and save everybody the trouble.”

Katsumi would have sworn that the air suddenly got several degrees colder.  Then again, with Izzy, it probably had.  She looked over at her friend and actually took a step back. She had never seen Izzy look that angry before.  Hell, she wasn’t entirely sure she’d ever seen Izzy look angry before.  Not at anyone and especially not at her.  But right now, if looks could kill, she’d be dead.  She was honestly a little impressed.  Katsumi had thought she’d corned the market on angry glares.

“Fight me!” Izzy demanded, fists tightly clenched.

“Izz, I can’t…” Katsumi began, her heart pounding in her chest.

“Fight me!” Izzy insisted again.  “Would you fight Toshi?”

“Of course, I would!” Katsumi shot back.  “I’ve been scrapping with him all my life!”

“And what about Kana? Would you fight her?”

Katsumi frowned, not liking where this was headed at all.  “Damn right, I would.”

“Then why will you not fight me?” Izzy growled.  The temperature dropped another few degrees.

“Ladies…” Hawkeye began. “Are we going to be fighting today?”

Izzy pointed at her and it felt like a knife in her heart.  “I am not some fragile china doll in need of constant protection!  I will not shatter in the wind if you fight me! If you are truly my friend, if you truly respect me… then fight me, dammit!”

In spite of it all, Katsumi found herself laughing, nearly bending over double as the laughter broke the tension like a rubber band snapping.  “Damn, Izz.  Where’d you learn to talk like that?”

“I learned it by watching you.”

That got another laugh from Katsumi.   But Izzy was right.  Maybe her head wasn’t still screwed on right when it came to her.  You didn’t fall out of love with a person that fast or that easy. But she’d always thought of Izzy as someone who needed her, someone who needed protection.  Soft and fragile Izzy, who’d she’d always looked out for and who she would try and move mountains for.  

Izzy, who she’d never actually asked if she needed or wanted the protection.  Izzy, who always excelled in her training, even when Katsumi wasn’t there to watch over her.  Izzy, who pushed beyond her limits, even when her limits might be more than that of others.

Izzy, who she claimed to love and respect more than almost anyone else in the world… and whose wants she hadn’t even thought of.  Would she have been happy being handed a victory like this?  Never.  Then she owed her friend the same respect.

“Fine then,” Katsumi said. She dropped into a fighting stance and brought one hand up, palm up, bringing her fingers in.  “You wanna fight?  I’ll fight you, Izz.”

“Wonderful,” Hawkeye said. “Now that that’s settled… FIGHT!”

Katsumi was expecting ice. She was prepared for ice.  It was Izzy’s go-to move; she preferred to rely on her ice to contain or restrain when possible, only using her fire when necessary. She got the heat for her fire by creating ice anyway, but now, Katsumi noticed the bands of Izzy’s regulator rig were blinking bright orange.  She must have made some ice beforehand, storing up heat for the fight.

That gave her a split-second’s advantage when Izzy unleashed a powerful blast of flame.  She slid under it, grabbing a small chunk of rubble with her left hand and using her Quirk on it.  As she came up, she gave it a toss to that it landed at Izzy’s feet, where it exploded with more bang than bomb, just enough to get Izzy to shriek and get moving.

But Izzy stayed on the offensive, pointing, and Katsumi felt the temperature around her feet drop a half-second before the ice started to form.  She let out a growl and jumped, landing next to Izzy and coming out swinging.

It put Izzy on the defensive, letting out a small gasp, but she put up a wall of ice between them and Katsumi let out a cry of pain at her knuckles impacted the cold wall.  But she also passed her Quirk on to it, giving it another strike that let it explode, sending chunks of ice flying.  One of those struck Izzy as she was darting away, hitting her in the back and sending her down to her knees.

No! Part of her brain rebelled.  It wanted her to rush to Izzy’s side, to make sure she was okay. Another part of her brain argued against it, telling her not to embarrass Izzy in front of everyone like that, that this fight was what she wanted.  

Izzy settled the problem for her, scrambling back to her feet.  Katsumi felt the sudden temperature change that more ice was incoming, but the form of it, combined with her distraction, took her by surprise. A pillar of ice formed under her feet, rapidly rocketing her upward.  Then, Izzy followed up with a blast of flame, slicing right through the pillar and sending Katsumi tumbling down to Earth.

She really needed to figure out better uses of her Quirk, she realized, maybe even some kind of support equipment.  Dad could use his to fly, attack at a greater distance, all kinds of things.  She had to touch something to make it blow up and her range was only as far as she could throw it.  And that was it.

Not nearly the kind of utility she needed against Izzy going all out.

She had never really realized just how powerful Izzy was before.  And to think, I was protecting her…

She rolled when she hit the ground, trying to distribute some of the kinetic energy involved.  It still hurt like hell, but she was still fighting.   She hit the ground with a palm again, forcing her Quirk out and into it.   Seconds later, a column of explosions shot towards Izzy, knocking her off her feet.

Katsumi got unsteadily to hers, grabbing a chunk of ice and readying herself to use her Quirk on it as she approached Izzy.  “Izz…” she started.  Was she breathing?  Was she out cold?  What if she’d really hurt her?  What if she’d killed her?

Dammit, she was hesitating again.  Izzy got to her feet just as unsteadily as Katsumi had.  They’d been knocking each other around pretty hard.  She was definitely going to be sore tomorrow, that was for sure.  

“No regrets?” she asked Izzy.

“No… none,” Izzy said. She’d lost her ponytail at some point, her head framed by a halo of white hair that went red further down and she sported a nasty looking bruise on her pale cheek.  She had done that.  She’d done that.  She’d done that to Izzy.  She probably looked quite the sight herself, though that bothered her considerably less.

“Good,” Katsumi said, with a confidence she did not entirely feel.  She tossed the ice block with all her might.

Izzy was just as quick on the draw, shooting a rapidly expanding stream of ice from her hand. The icicle struck out, hitting Katsumi in the head and knocking her down again, while she saw the bombified chunk of ice she’d thrown at Izzy explode, knocking her down again as well.

Katsumi tried to get up. Oh, how she tried.  But right now, the ring was spinning and her legs didn’t seem to want to support her.  She tried to turn her head and focus.  Was Izzy okay…?

It looked like Izzy was on one knee, trying to get back up.  Well, that was a little better than Katsumi was doing…

Maybe she just needed to lie down for a little while?  Katsumi tried to get back up again and slumped down.   Yeah, staying here sounded really good…

“Kirishima-Bakugo is unable to continue!” Hawkeye announced.  “Todoroki wins!”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Izzy unleashing another blast of flame skyward, all the bands on her regulartor rig bright red.  And then she saw Izzy collapse too…!  She tried to get up again, but had no power in her limbs…

“Well, those two certainly pushed themselves to their limits and beyond!  We’ll take a brief break to get them off the field and then be back for more action!”

“Irresponsible and overly dramatic…  I don’t know why I was expecting anything different.”

[sohannabarberaesque]

"There but for the grace ..."

It was expected to be a given that any and all visitors entering Jellystone Park were given a warning to beware the park bears and avoid feeding or teasing such, with particular emphasis towards a certain Yogi Bear, notorious for stealing "tourist-type goodies" from picnic areas without provocation.

But to imagine the Invisible Motorcycle of the Hair Bear Bunch, driven by the ever-dopey Square Bear, arriving at the entrance gates to present their Golden Eagle Card (allowing unlimited access to national park lands) for access, even the likes of Ranger Murgatroyd, so manning that particular station, could not believe such defiance of physics and the laws thereof ... let alone the fact of three bears, formerly of the Wonderland Zoo until forced into closure thanks to the insanity of Zookeepers Lionel Botch and Eustis Peevly aggravating general incompetence and mismanagement (and those two now wasting away in a sanatorium), actually riding same. Which was enough to send Ranger Murgatroyd into near-panic mode, having to call Ranger Smith at No. 2 Ranger Station for instructions (even with the pass having been shown and cleared to go).

Barely five miles into Jellystone Park, the ever-cautious Ranger Smith had to pull over the Invisible Motorcycle and, before being able to issue that warning about a certain Yogi Bear and his habit for stealing picnic baskets, turned that proverbial white as a sheet in seeing three almost laid-back bears defying physics.

"Could you PLEASE explain what exactly this Invisible Motorcycle is about?" asked an irate Ranger Smith.

To which the ever-jocund Hair Bear responded, "Actually, it's a product of Square Bear, who drives it."

"I just don't believe it," Ranger Smith exclaimed. "I just DON'T believe this is happening!!"

"Uh, Mr. Park Ranger," Square was quick to explain, "this is our primary way of getting across the country." Prompting Hair Bear to add, "I don't know how he does it ... but we sure get around!!"

Which had the somewhat-difficult-to-understand Bubi chiming in: "You can understand, Mr. Ranger clyde, that this motorcycle is rather powerful innovative, that we've managed to--" until Square covered up Bubi's mouth as a signal to, in effect, stifle it. Square, for his quarter, rejoindered, "What Bubi was saying was this this motorcycle manages to get around without serious detection."

"A stealth motorcycle?!!" was how Ranger Smith put it.

"But at any rate," Hair remarked, "for years, the zookeepers at the Wonderland Zoo were forever threatening us with being sent off into 'the National Forest,' whatever that was, for our shenannigans."

"And, by contrast," Ranger Smith added, "I've repeatedly threatened Yogi with being sent to the St. Louis Zoo--and several others, including in Duluth."

"Awww, Duluth," Hair added. "Charming little city on Lake Superior--the Aerial Bridge, Skyline Parkway, the lakefront--"

"What I was bound to get at, folks," Ranger Smith remarked, "was to beware of a certain Yogi Bear in particular ... he can be rather sneaky with the picnic baskets of tourists, and you never know where he can turn up among the picnic areas from day to day!"

"But then again," Hair added, "we're bears ourselves!"

(Ranger Smith promptly gave himself a facepalm of sheer disbelief.)

*************

Meanwhile, Yogi Bear and his ever-cautious companion Boo-Boo could be seen strolling in the general vicinity of another picnic area, hoping for some "serious tourist-type goodies," never mind Boo-Boo's inevitable rejoinder about "The ranger's not gonna like this, Yogi" for what seemed like the quadrillionth time.

"But then again, Boo-Boo buddy," Yogi responded, "can you just imagine what the reaction would be with a few of my fellow ursines actually visiting Jellystone for once, joining ourselves truly and then some--"

Only to be interrupted by the most disbelieving sight ever to face such ursine companions--that of the Invisible Motorcycle and the occupants thereof, otherwise known as the Hair Bear Bunch. And as it turned out, Hair held tight a bag full of box lunches from a park convenience store just up the road a ways for which the three were planning something remotely resembling picnic lunch. And it was the sight of Yogi and Boo-Boo that led Square to essentially brake that Invisible Motorcycle at a pulloff close to a rarely-used picnic site beside Jellystone Lake's Ursa Arm, with all three dismounting (or what passes for it) rather suddenly and Yogi and Boo-Boo going into the recognititory double-take with the Hair Bear crew.

"On behalf of Jellystone Park," Yogi began with rather inherent bombast, "may I welcome you fellow members of the ursine community to this rather amazing place of wonder and relaxation--" Whereupon Boo-Boo responded, "I have to acknowledge that my companion, Yogi Bear, can sometimes get in a little too over his head when it comes to welcomes--let alone a desire for tourist food."

Which had the Hair Bears laughing uproariously.

"And, may I guide our honoured guests over to this picnic area--" (Which, even with a short walk across a gravelled path which must've seen better days, was not good enough to attract the suspicions of park rangers led by the ever-vigilant Ranger Smith, never mind the stench from a pit toilet in the same picnic area as had somehow made that particular site less attractive of late to visitors as the rangers hid some distance away close to some wild hemp plants.) Finding the right table was pretty much a picnic right there when--

"Uh, Yogi--allow us to introduce ourselves. I happen to be Hair Bear--"

"I've heard much about you yourself!" respondeth Yogi.

"--and," Hair continued, "the same about you. Now, I happen to be a rather crazy-minded, fun-loving example, formerly of a certain zoo as went downhill--"

"Not so much by your antics, I understand," as Yogi put it, "as by zookeeper incompetence." To which Boo-Boo added, "Was it really true that the zookeepers at the Wonderland Zoo went insane?"

"How right you are, Boo-Boo!" Hair added. "But don't quite blame us."

"Yeah," Square chimed in. "I happen to be Square Bear, driver of the Invisible Motorcycle and the brains, you might say, of all manner of crazy antics we're fond of getting into."

To which Yogi enquired, "Such as--?"

Square continued: "Killing time in a Secret Surf Spot we have north of Malibu ... crashing all manner of parties ... and just roaming the roads, being ourselves."

"I should add, also," Hair added, "that Square Bear is also especially fond of the females ... and in many of our outings, some lovesick female or two proposititons us, and such will be the cue for us, led by Square Bear, to have some wonderful matings ... doesn't mating feel wonderfully natural ..." Making Boo-Boo giggle somewhat at the very mention of mating, and prompting Yogi to apologise somewhat.

"Bubi Bear, Bubi's the name," so beginning his spiel. "I may seem a little hard to understand the clyde, hard to wonder what exactly I'm thinking all this time, and yet I happen to have my share of the experiences and then some...."

Which had Boo-Boo wondering "Yogi ... what exactly is Bubi Bear trying to say?!" Whence Yogi responded, "I've got to acknowledge that even yours truly, this smarter-than-the-average ursine, can get rather dumbfounded by Bubi's remarks and how he explains them!!"

Which had the Hair Bears laughing heartily as they went into their box lunches of ham-and-cheese sandwiches, chips, pickle and seltzer water, which were generously shared with Yogi and Boo-Boo even as the rangers in Yogi Watch mode were wondering what to make of this meeting of the bears in the bushes even as Cindy, the one true love Yogi could not resist. came strolling by (and, for some reason, couldn't help but notice the Hair Bear Bunch with a certain "come-hither" look as was practically enough to arouse her ursine passions long enough to send the Hair Bears into a nearby denuded patch of land many of the park's bears had used for generations, it seemed, as a sacred mating ground, and not even Yogi could resist reacting in bewilderment at the cries of ursine pleasure vis-a-vis Cindy and the Hair Bears sating the fires of their ursine loins.....

"Which just makes you wonder, Yogi," Boo-Boo remarked on clearing up the picnic site, "if that Hair Bear Bunch is for real."

Yogi replied: "They're real by me ... even with a zoo background, come to think of it!"  

[beinglibertarian]

Onward, Collectivist Soldiers

As I contemplate where I fit in my current relation to the State and its politically-correct and uptight sycophants, I realize not much has changed since Catholic school. If I benefited at all from the tutelage of nuns, it’s in being able to identify when I’m being indoctrinated or hoodwinked.

The first few years of my scholastic career were spent at a Catholic school in New Jersey. It was there that I, along with other kids with last names like O’Dowd, Vigliotti, Rispoli, and Gomez, were first introduced to the doctrine of original sin.

Sister Nazarene told us a sin was whenever a person did something wrong. God would not like it if we sinned, and if we sinned, he would damn well know all about it. You couldn’t hide from God. Apparently, a really long time ago this guy Adam and this broad Eve did something so bad that we, the first grade class of St. Francis Albert of Hoboken School, were guilty of it too.

As unreasonable as this seemed at the time, we were taught to understand that God was really pissed off. And touchy. 

You see, before the beginning of time, God spent a whole summer making this place called the Garden of Eden for Adam and Eve. Eden was this groovy resort where people could just relax forever and ever, just as long as they behaved. By and by, good ol’ human imperfection had its way, and Adam and Eve goofed up. God was so hurt and insulted that he decided from that moment on that every Vigliotti, O’Dowd and Ferrara, as well as the Changs, Goldbergs and Patels, would be culpable for what those two Biblical miscreants did. Forever and fucking anon. He was God, after all. 

Do you know what the transgression was? What Adam and Eve did that was so damned bad? They ate an apple. Not just any apple, but a super apple that had magic powers. Some wiseguy who looked like a snake called Satan told them to do it. He beguiled them. Sister Nazarene said that to beguile someone was like tricking them. As I recall, many us felt at that moment that we were being beguiled too. But God help ya if you asked any questions, or wanted clarification. You’d get a smack on the knuckles with a ruler faster than you can say Galileo Galilei. 

Anyway, after they ate it — the apple, that is — Adam and Eve became smart. Turns out, God didn’t like smart people. Folks like that might want to find a meaning for things. They might find joy and fulfillment in intellectual pursuits, or in the labor of their discoveries. They might want to build stuff, make tools and what not, and shape the world according to their needs, according to their vision.  

“Bullshit,” said God. “That’s my department. Who in the Hell do you bipedal monkeys think you are, muscling in on my action? From now on, your lives will be hard and mean and your kids will have it hard too. Now get out of here and don’t come back!”

This was called the expulsion from paradise. God did not like competition. When we would grow up, we would find out that most people don’t like competition either.

As we matriculated — that is to say once we got to the second, and then third grade — some of us Catholic kids started to think that all this original sin jazz was nothing but a bunch of malarkey. We looked for a Garden of Eden on the globe in our classroom and found none. We read up on snakes. They can’t talk, let alone beguile. Apples, while having some nutritional value, can’t make you any smarter than a rap on the head with a ball peen hammer. 

Then, somewhere along the way, we were taught that this other guy, Jesus, died for all of our sins, lock, stock and fucking barrel. 

“What gives?” we wondered. “How can there be original sin and Jesus too?” 

We had a lot of trouble wrangling with this paradox. Mrs. Alverone, our third grade teacher, said a paradox was when something didn’t really make sense. And how!

Eventually, due to either boredom or mental exhaustion, all of us kids gave up our pursuit for the truth in favor of more lofty pastimes like dodge ball, smear the queer, and pouring salt on slugs. Halcyon days! 

Still, it bothered me: being guilty of, and then having to atone for, things I didn’t do, couldn’t do, wouldn’t do, and had nothing to do with. A few months later I broached the subject again with my pals.  

“Maybe original sin is just a way to remind us all that people are imperfect beings,” Crazy Dominick said while burning some ants with a magnifying glass.  

“Well, shit,” I said. “You don’t need Biblical scripture to teach you that. Just look at how Fat Arnie swings a whiffle ball bat: just like a girl. And what about Jackie Smith dropping that pass in the end zone during the Super Bowl? And just look at how corny M*A*S*H has gotten since Alan Alda took over.”

Indeed it was a world fraught with imperfection. All we kids could do was observe, contemplate, and avoid the wrath of the nuns by never getting caught doing anything fun.

More and more it began to dawn on me that teaching us that we were all born guilty was just another way for the church to keep folks in line. 

Think about it: if you’re constantly apologizing, you’ll never have time to do much of anything else, especially disobey, think critically, or pursue your life’s ambitions. I guess I was a late bloomer, but by the time I was ten years old I came to the grim realization that people like holding dominion over one another, especially with vague concepts, opaque language, and moral absurdities. And if those methods won’t work, brute force and violence will do the trick just fine. “Miracle, Mystery and Authority,” as Dostoyevsky once put it. 

It goes without saying that aside from those obligatory funerals and weddings that pop up from time to time, I haven’t willingly stepped into a church since Jimmy Carter cured cancer. The way I saw it, you should stay away from people who want you to feel bad. Little did I know, assholes abound.

Now listen: if you think that living in a world that has begun to cast aside archaic concepts from the early Mesozoic era will free you and me from the efforts of dimwits to encroach on your sovereignty through didactic chicanery, think again, tough guy. Plunderers of the spirit will always seek new and improved ways to turn their contempt for joy into a moral crusade. Why? Because people like fucking with other people, and the best way to fuck with someone is to defame them from up on high in the lofty strata reserved for those with a knack for judgment and a lack of self-awareness.

Nowadays, when I observe the world and the myriad discussions, arguments, diatribes, and commentaries that our fancy-pants, interconnected culture is heir to, I see new versions of the old skullduggery popping up all the time. And so do you.

Aren’t terms like “privilege”, “cis-gendered”, “patriarchy”, “carbon footprint”, “intolerance”, “unfairly disadvantaged”, “triggering” and the like, bandied about by people claiming a moral authority steeped in victimhood, just as sanctimonious and illegitimate as that of the church and its so-called divine morality? I’m not saying that all of those terms are inherently bad in and of themselves; a just and fair world is a thing to aspire to, just like a world free of sin and talking snakes is. If annoying, PC bromides help the cause, so be it. They won’t, but hey, don’t progressives need something to do too? 

Where the trouble starts is when an elite class of people, the heads of civic organizations, the clergy, media dolts, or politicians throw condemnatory terms about in an arbitrary and self-serving manner to stifle anyone who disagrees with or challenges them, all in the name of righteousness.  They think that by forcing dissenters into a posture of constant apology and atonement for intangible transgressions they can either alienate or eliminate them without the trouble of firing squads, cattle cars, inquisitions and re-education camps. Meet the new douchebags, same as the old douchebags. They’re just less blood-thirsty and well, kinda, wimpy.

In the world of the collectivist headcase, the collective is the Garden of Eden, and being met with the collective’s disapproval for things he may or may not have done, or advantages that he may or may not have, is akin to the expulsion from Paradise. But who told them we wanted to be part of their world anyway? 

It wasn’t okay when the church thrust upon us their ecclesiastic version of a full nelson and it’s equally offensive when modern-day demagogues do the same with their new-fangled concepts of original sin. But I don’t blame stupid people for using shortcuts to thinking; that’s what dummies do. And I don’t blame connivers for selling snake oil. What pisses me off is when people who know better allow themselves to be pushed around by these turds and their lexicon of defeatism. 

The bottom line: don’t let anybody make you feel guilty for your own life. Especially if the shame being thrust upon you is the last ditch tactic of an inferior mind that wishes to hold sway over you because their own existence is so damn uncompelling to them. That there is some bullshit.   

As writing this article has now become a tedious affair, and in order to avoid being redundant, I have provided below a post-modern to Biblical translator. Those of you with even a modicum of parochial education will find it helpful… but if your parents were jerk-offs and you went to a Montessori school, then not so much. As it is incomplete, feel free to add your own variables and expressions. I hope this helps out. Extrapolate and deduce as you will, big shots.

Privilege = Original Sin

Reduce your carbon footprint = The Ten Commandments

Cis-gendered = Lust

Patriarchy = Sloth

Intolerance = Pride

Non-Vegan = Gluttony

Trigger = Wrath

Global Warming = The Flood

Climate Change = The Rapture

Bruce Jenner = Jesus

Oprah = God

Michael Moore = John the Baptist

Jordon Peterson = Satan

Individualist/Libertarian = Heretic 

Bill Maher = Doubting Thomas

Ron Paul = Nebuchadnezzar

California = The Promised Land

Corey Booker = Moses

Taxes = Acts of Contrition 

This article represents the views of the author, and not those of Being Libertarian LLC.

The post Onward, Collectivist Soldiers appeared first on Being Libertarian.

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[copperbora]

A Lesson in Layering: Suffering Scotland’s Spite

Also called ‘that time I was an idiot and got drenched hiking beside bonny Loch Lomond.’ (Or: ‘A Story about Hypothermia.’)

Layering: it’s an art form, which I always think that I am starting to get somewhat good at until I fail spectacularly. The first time this happened, I contracted hypothermia, but thanks to the (mostly) proper action which I took, I didn’t die from my mistake. On this glorious day in Scotland, trekking the beautiful West Highland Way, I made a mistake which could have killed me.

What is ‘layering,’ you non-hikers/outdoorsy people ask? It’s the art of dressing in layers according to circumstances of weather and temperature. The idea is to wear just the right clothing for the current situation which you exist in so that you are neither too hot nor too cold so that you not only stay happy, but you don’t die because your body is too cold (hypothermia) or too hot (hyperthermia/heat stroke.) Again, both conditions can kill you, so it’s important to take care of yourself and get your layering right if you’re in the backcountry where you may be far from help should something go wrong. 

Intimidated? The main rules of layering for outdoorsy pursuits are simple - NEVER wear cotton (once cotton is wet it stays wet - Search and Rescue calls it ‘the death cloth’ and there’s a saying ‘cotton kills’ for a reason - it loses 95% of its insulating value when wet, at which point it also conducts crucial body heat away from you) and choose layers which either dry quickly (such as synthetic fibres like polyester,) or retain their thermal properties when wet (i.e. merino wool.) Wet clothing chills your skin, making you cold - in fact, a primary goal of layering is to avoid sweating, since sweat, like any other liquid when chilled, can cause your internal body temperature to drop, thus giving you hypothermia. And don’t think you’re safe just because of summer as more people fall prey to exposure in summertime than in winter because of a lack of preparedness.

And don’t ever get cocky - for example, just because I have a lifetime of backcountry experience, it doesn’t mean that I am safe from mistakes. Don’t ever dare believe that you’re invincible from peril just because of experience, no matter how impressive, because Mother Nature likes to reward such bravado with hard knocks - or death.

My layering on a day when I used my brain - note the saturated face fabric of my Gore-Tex waterproof shell and my sopping wet hair - it was very wet out! I was significantly less clever on the day of my mishap.

Imagine the lush green forests of Loch Lomond - actually, don’t, here’s a picture to set the scene, from the day I screwed up:

Just a nice cruise along the quiet northern end of Loch Lomond. 

It had been sort of spritzing all day and the temperature was mild. Fellow hikers all claimed that it was going to really rain at some point, but none of them could agree about what time that it would. With how every other spritz of rain had passed, I turned decidedly derisive of the truth of any forecast. Scotland had already proved that it did whatever the hell it pleased in terms of weather, so I was just going with the flow, but it was about to prove its derision even more. It was on this day that I learned: Scotland doesn’t care about what the weatherman has to say, but occasionally, it does (sort of) do what is predicted, but only on its own terms. 

So, it had basically been overcast all day and it didn’t really look like it was going to do much more, despite the small instances of spritzing. I was focused on slaying kilometres and getting to a certain spot on my map, a hill called Cnap Mor, which lays at the very end of Loch Lomond. I didn’t want to waste time by layering up - and this, folks, could be a fatal mistake. It’s always worth your time to take time layering up or down - better to lose a bit of time putting your pack cover on than have wet gear. But, of course, I was trying to slay kilometres, right? I had a long way to go - I was on Day 3, and I needed to get my butt to Fort William, which was still a vast number of kilometres away.

Definitely the right kind of weather for incomplete rain gear. Definitely.

It was near Ardleish, at the top tip of Loch Lomond that I began to fail myself. Here, on the last shore of the loch on the trail the wind started gusting and the rain started pouring. I donned my Gore-Tex jacket and put on my pack cover; believing that the rain would pass, I didn’t don my rain pants or gaiters, and this is where I fucked up. I thought about it, considered it, then didn’t do it.

I’m very conscious that I could have died because of this slip up. I’m very lucky that I was in Scotland, and not some place like the Rockies, where the temperature would have dropped much lower. Scotland’s temps in April were wonderfully mild - ranging most of the trip around 11 °C - but back in the Canadian Rockies where I most often hike, temperatures regularly drop below freezing at night, even in the heat of summer. Even so, I still could have died in Scotland’s mild weather - most people who meet their maker because of hypothermia do it in mild temperatures which are well above freezing, just like what I experienced that evening in beside Loch Lomond.

Not seen: the wind blasting in my face. And the sheep.

So, like an idiot, I hiked on, wanting to slay more kilometres. I didn’t understand that I should have stopped there - it would have been a good place to camp. I remember thinking all day as well as the one before how nice it would be to maybe camp beside the loch, and this would have been the smart thing, but nope, I decided to hike on. 

Very quickly, within the hour, I realized that this was a bad idea, but I refused to turn back, wanting to destroy more distance. Water began running over the trail and I started consciously hunting for a place to stop for the night, but there weren’t any good campsites to be found. I dismissed the one likely candidate I found (while still not donning rain pants or gaiters,) due to fears of nearby widowmakers (dead trees or ones looking likely to fall,) which was probably a wise decision, but I was already making a really bad one. So, I hiked.

And so the trail slowly became a shallow river.

And hiked. The day grew old, but I couldn’t find a place to stop and there were no other hikers left on the trail, the Way completely deserted apart from me. I prospected a few more maybe camping stops, but I was getting very tired, I was soaked to the bone, and the only thing keeping me warm was my continued movement. The water running over the trail was three centimetres deep; it was so wet that even my waterproof socks were saturated - something which wouldn’t have happened had I been wearing my rain pants and gaiters. Everything I was wearing was soaked.

The view of tiny Dubh Lochan from the hillside where I eventually managed to make camp. It was the flattest and driest piece of ground which I could find, which wasn’t saying much. Everywhere else the ground was soaked, and it was soaked there too.

Eventually, I thought that I saw a faint trail leading up from the Way and I clambered up the hillside where I found a somewhat flat piece of ground which was to be my sanctuary. I set my tent up in the pouring rain then clambered inside with my Packtowel to mop it dry of the literal puddles which had gathered inside of it during its pitching. Thankfully, my synthetic sleeping bag was fine, as was my Neoair Xlite mat - so were both of my heavier midlayers and my hiking dress. I slowly peeled off my soaked clothes, blessing the fact that the temperature was actually warm enough for me not to instantly freeze despite being in a state of undress, and snuggled into my sleeping bag.

Then, to add insult to injury, my matches and piezo igniter were also soaked, so I couldn’t cook in my tent’s vestibule as I had planned. A hot meal would have been just the thing after so much suffering, but alas, it was not to be. I ate Cliff Bars and hard cheese for dinner instead, with some mini Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups for dessert. I made sure that I ate at least five hundred calories, then, as my brain slowly relaxed out of survival mode and I finally fully confirmed that I was safe from hypothermia, my body dry and warm again, I finally let myself sleep.

Scotland’s creeks and rivers are very well fed.

The next morning, all my clothing which I had worn the day before was still extremely wet. Thus, I donned what would become my leg wear for the entire rest of the trail - my rain pants and gaiters. I never again hiked without them - in this environment, it just wasn’t worth it to have another mishap. That night I intelligently took a hostel room in Tyndrum to dry out my gear and I continued the trail as a much smarter person. I’d learned from my mistake, and I never underestimated Scotland again - from then on, I changed my layering as needed. I eventually just started keeping my Gore-Tex jacket around my waist rather than bothering removing my pack to stow it when I didn’t need it (there were precious few good places on trail to do this,) and I learned how to change my upper layers without taking off my backpack at all. Thus, I kept my layering system quick, and I didn’t get soaked again. I almost never removed my pack cover; I kept myself and my gear dry.

Properly layered and comfortable on the second to last day, at the windy top of the Devil’s Staircase between Glencoe and Kinlochleven.

That night by Dubh Lochan, had I not had a dry shelter, sleeping bag and midlayers the night before, hypothermia could have taken me out - and the most important thing you need to know about hypothermia is that it’s a quiet killer. As your core body temperature drops, your body begins to shiver as it desperately tries to bring its temperature back up - but if your temperature continues to plunge, you eventually stop shivering, stop talking (if you can’t speak it is seriously bad news,) and eventually... you just fall asleep - and without intervention, you never get back up. The human body is incapable of tolerating temperature fluctuations of more than a few degrees, so once its internal temperature wavers, things can go south pretty fast.

The moral of the story - layer your clothing, follow your instincts (I repeatedly thought that I should layer up but didn’t,) and change your layers according to circumstance. I failed to layer up and I paid the price - literally - since my mistake necessitated my unplanned stop in Tyndrum to dry my gear so that I could continue my hike. But, an unplanned stop in Tyndrum was much superior to my unplanned demise (and I ended up eating something other than dehydrated hiker chow for supper in Tyndrum at its divine Real Food Cafe, plus I bought a small delicious hoard of Snickers and Scottish chocolate bars. I also bought new socks, which I promptly got soaked within ten minutes the next day. I digress.)

My sanctuary in Tyndrum; I had this entire room all to myself - it was wondrous! (Not seen: my gear spread absolutely everywhere.)

Thank you for teaching me an apparently much needed lesson about layering, Scotland.

[queenzufufu]

Soldier Boy (2/?)

Summary: Alfredo only had three main goals in life: earn money, keep his family safe, and to try and one up his parents and make it past the age of thirty.

The Fakes? He couldn’t be any further from that world. No doubt he’d love to be part of it but he knows it’s never going to happen. There’s just no way.

Until one night, and one heist gone wrong, finds him in the middle of a gang war that he finds he has no choice but to get involved in.

Part 1 AO3

Bursting through his door, Alfredo wanted nothing more than to run and lock himself in the bathroom. Unfortunately, that isn’t an option, as the familiar sound from the water pipes informs him his grandma is currently occupying that particular space.

So instead, he runs downstairs, to his room, to the childhood room he’s grown up in, hoping that maybe it can offer some form of comfort and calmness. He doesn’t know what to do - he supposes, the smartest idea would be to wait for his brother to come home and confront him about the mess he’d got Alfredo into earlier. For the other... issue… Shit, he didn’t know, was he even supposed to do anything about that?

It was just - fuck, it was all just such a big fucking mess right now. His head is spinning, his heart pounding, he can still taste the smoke on his tongue and hear the voices of those men.

The Fakes.

Somehow repeating the name in his mind adds to the gravitas of that day’s earlier events.

The Fakes.

He’d been in their company, by complete accident, he’d been put in the company of at least some of the crew he’d worshiped on TV and in the papers all these years.

How many had there been? There’d been the two in the building and the one outside who’d tripped him. Had the others been there too? Sure, no one knew quite how many members there were but it was more than three. Usually there’d be reports of at least five or six.

What’s it matter anyway? Get a grip of yourself.

He hears the door above click shut and exhales in relief. His brother is home and they can deal with the more pressing shit now and keep Alfredo’s mind distracted from the more insane but relatively non-urgent matter.

Denver’s dressed how he normally is. Long white t-shirt, jeans, sneakers and a snapback - like almost every other guy in their neighborhood. He and his brother look remarkably similar, the main difference being Denny was granted the gift of actually being able to grow facial hair.

He greets Alfredo with an amused smile as his younger brother scrambles up the stairs and into the kitchen, and is already busying himself with taking the pre-cooked dinner out of the pot - one that Alfredo had completely ignored in his frenzy - beginning to dish it up.

Alfredo wastes no time in blurting out everything that had gone down in the alleyway after he’d left the club, maybe missing the minor details about how he’d practically pissed himself, but telling his brother of all the important stuff. Namely the money and when they wanted it by.

To his shock, and dismay, Denny seems largely unbothered by it. Well, he’s sure as pissed that they jumped Alfredo like that, but about the whole owing them money? He laughs it off like one would at the silly antics of squabbling children.

“Yeah? Y’know we wouldn’t have this problem if they gave me the good stuff in the first place. Rats are getting smarter - they’re no longer falling for the white chalk shit. Bastards think they can make me submit? I’ll show ‘em what I’m made of, they’ll wish they never met me.” He’s all confidence and lazy grins, and Alfredo starts to think that maybe he’s been freaking out over nothing.

Denny just shoves a plate of food in front of him and orders him to eat. “I’ll deal with it, kiddo. Don’t worry about it.”

It feels like he only blinks and it’s the dead of night, but he can’t sleep. Tomorrow he’s going to have a proper talk with Denver whether his older brother wants to or not. His brother was up late - talking on the phone or his laptop to someone, the quiet murmurings of his voice echoing down the stairs to the basement, and Alfredo could see the hallway light was still on - but since then things have gone quiet and dark and still, and Alfredo assumes he’s asleep.

Unlike Alfredo - the dim glow of the moonlight seeping through the tiny windows that looked more like they were drains once upon a time, reminds him of other later nights back when he was small and he’d wait up in bed for his father to come home after a job, buzzing with anticipation to see the man and hear his stories, or those first few evenings after his father had been killed when Alfredo had been too young to really understand that death meant he’d never see the man again. The word ‘never’ not making sense in his confused and distressed mind. Nights spent staring into a particular space not seeable during daylight. His memories, his pains, his fears.

When he wakes up, Denver’s already gone. Alfredo suspects his brother is avoiding him. That was the thing - Denny could talk a mile an hour about anything to anyone, but when it came to personal issues involving family, he’d rather things just be left unspoken. Maybe they were too similar in that respect. But the main difference was the little voice in Alfredo’s head simply wouldn’t allow things left unsaid, no matter how uncomfortable - never had been as good as blocking out his true feelings as his brother.

He tries texting but there’s no reply. He tries calling but it goes through to voicemail. It’s not unusual. His brother kept two phones on him and unless you called the emergency number he often wouldn’t pick up during the day unless you were one of the top dogs.

It’s Alfredo’s one day off in the week, so he thinks, to hell with it, he’ll wait until his brother gets back. Better try and talk things through today rather than waiting til tomorrow when those Ruski’s will be expecting their money.

He waits. And he waits. And he lies and waits when his Grandma arrives home and questions if he’s been inside all day. And when it begins to grow dark he waits some more.

And when it’s nearing ten he receives a text from Denny simply saying he wasn’t coming home that night - that he was too busy. Alfredo reads that as “going to the strip club”.

So seeing as there’s no point in waiting, and that he’s wasted a whole day, Alfredo does the only thing possible. He goes out for a drink.

It’s getting overly crowded and loud, but Alfredo doesn’t feel like leaving just yet. The Rusty is a bar frequented by all kinds of blue collar, lower class folk of their neighborhood. It’s warm, the staff don’t take any shit, and the beer flows cheap and cheerful.

By all accounts, he’d normally enjoy an atmosphere like this. Drunken laughter, the heavy smell of booze, the old-timey songs being played from the jukebox - he’d spent away many a night here, even before, when he was too young to be in such an establishment - and it almost felt like a second home at times. Never seemed to have as much time to visit anymore, though.

But even the familiar setting fails to take his mind off things - as the evening had worn on, Alfredo had found himself sinking deeper and deeper into thoughts of the events occurring the other night.

Who knows what’ll happen if you run into either of them again, you’re nothing compared to The Fakes, a speck of dust on their radar, and you’ve already shown weakness against those Ruskis. Doesn’t help that Denny brushed you off, but he is the one people have always said is more suited to this life. He probably knows what he’s doing. Still, can’t help imagining all the ways things could go wrong, if something goes wrong…

A hand brushes against his hip, now, and he’s looking up to see a dark haired older woman leaning over him, posturing her figure suggestively against the bar. His stomach churns at the idea of actually interacting with another human being right now, but his natural politeness wins over.

He feels the woman’s eyes on him as he asks, “Can I help you, ma’am?”

She smiles, leaning further forward, her movements unsteady. “Bye me a drink?”

Alfredo side-glances. She’s a regular, he’s seen her around quite a bit. “I uh… maybe another night.”

“What’s wrong? Don’t like what you see?” she purrs, tracing a finger down her neck to cleavage, biting her lip invitingly.

It’s a dance she’s probably done a hundred times over. Actually, Alfredo’s pretty sure he’s given her money once when she tried this before, just trying to be kind, but she took it as an insult, claiming she wasn’t “some whore”.

He swallows, rushing to think up an excuse, and then purposefully looks away, muttering, “I’m gay.” What? Where the fuck did that come from? That was a new one when it came to excuses. Usually his natural awkwardness would ward any lady off after a while.

The woman snorts, haphazardly standing up straight again. “So?”

At Alfredo’s silence, she sneers. “Whatever, don’t bother me.” And then she’s staggering off, to a man sitting just a few stools down from Alfredo, leaning over him and proceeding to ask the same question.

Alfredo finishes his drink and stands up. He had hoped that maybe he’d find some answers to his problems at the bottom of his glass, but he’s three drinks down and starting to feel tipsy, and there has been no such grand eureka moment yet.

He heads outside, squeezing through the crowds, avoiding drinks being waved precariously in the air. He doesn’t know if he’s going to head home but he… he just needs some fresh air for a minute.

There're two men smoking outside but they leave pretty soon after, leaving Alfredo leaning against the wall. The city always feels strange at night, alien. This part of town, one that wasn’t particularly glamorous or touristy always fell into a sort of slumber. The streets deserted. The only sound coming from establishments like The Rusty, the occasional shouting and dogs barking, and the age-old sound of gunfire, followed - sometimes - by police sirens.

He’s interrupted from his daydreaming by shouts, or grunts, that suddenly begin echoing from nearby. It sounds unmistakably like a fight breaking out. Either that or a couple are very violently making out in the back alley. It is probably something Alfredo should steer well clear of.

Still. He’s always been too curious for his own good, and it’s not like anything too bad can happen, not if he keeps hidden.

Edging quietly along the wall and peering cautiously around the corner, he freezes at the sight of four men engaged in a fistfight. At first he just assumes it’s a normal drunken brawl, but the actions are too precise, too well-balanced, and he realizes it’s more than a common scrap.

At first glance it looks like a very uneven match. Two brutes of men, both with buzzcuts and tattoo filled arms, going up against two smaller, scrappy dudes. But on closer inspection, it looks like something completely different. One of the smaller ones, a skinny guy dressed head to toe in black, with his hood up, isn’t even bothering to throw a punch of his own. Instead, he is simply ducking and diving under every fist thrown his way. His movements are lithe and sleek, like a cat, perfectly timed and graceful. He doesn’t even seem to be that invested in the scrap.

And the other man, slightly shorter with curly hair, in just a t-shirt and jeans, is just as unconventional. The man he may going up against may be double the size of him, but again, each time the big man tries to attack, he performs some reversal, ending with the big guy trapped in some hold, only to release him a moment later. He was toying with him, that was clear, looking like he was enjoying it too, because after a few more rounds the smaller man starts laughing.

Perhaps it’s his laughter that causes him to lose concentration for just that split second, because a devastating right hook to his cheek has his whole body spinning backward.

The man slowly raises his head, bringing up a hand to touch at his face, and Alfredo’s heart doubles its speed without him knowing why.

Do I… know you? He can’t quite see him properly, there’re too many shadows falling across him.

He doesn’t have long to take in his face anyway, because the man suddenly grins, sneers, and is quickly spinning back and landing a punch of his own, one that sends the huge guy crashing to the ground. He spits red on him, and Alfredo can’t quite hear but he’s pretty sure he says something like, “You had to go and ruin the fun, didn’t you?”

Again, there’s that twinge of recognition in the back of Alfredo’s mind, as the man then saunters slowly down the alley, towards his accomplice.

The other man is left blinking in a daze on the ground, but after a second his attention is grabbed. Alfredo wanders if he’s had his senses knocked from him as he starts leaning towards a pile of trash stacked up against the wall - squints as the man reaches behind one of the trash bags and slowly pulls on something. His eyes narrow as the gleam of metal shines under the dim street lights. The dude had somehow found and was pulling out a fucking metal pipe! Now that would certainly spice things up, although he doubted it would change the outcome much.

The shorter man stops, hearing the footsteps as his foe struggled to his feet and staggered behind him. Alfredo sees the figure's shoulders sagging, as if bored. But he didn’t do anything else. Surely he would turn now to face his attacker? No matter how amazing you were, that was generally a good idea.

As the brute grows closer, Alfredo finds himself stepping slightly around the corner.

“Back for round two?” the man snidely asks, still without turning around.

Turn around dude! Alfredo wasn’t quite sure why he was on a side all of a sudden.

The man doesn’t turn, only his fists clenching. The oncoming attacker has his grip still firmly around the metal pipe.

Alfredo bites his lip. Again, it’s that same compulsion he felt when he’d ran inside a burning building - back then he’d thought it was because of some complex of wanting to be a hero for once instead of a criminal. Now though, there was no reason like that. All he knew was that he wasn’t going to let this brute of a guy hit the other with a solid chunk of metal.

As the man raises the pipe, aiming for the curly head, Alfredo charges forward without so much as a pause to think, launching a surprise attack on him. He’s kept himself strong, lean, all his life, but he was nothing compared to this mass of a man. Jumping on him had seemed like a good idea at the time, not so much when the curly haired man aims a powerful kick to the brute’s crotch - although he can’t see properly but honestly, it’s the only thing that could have occurred.

The man doesn’t even scream or shout - his whole body just goes rigid, like he’s been electric shocked, and then slowly, almost comically, the man falls backward - and naturally, because he’s an idiot, Alfredo goes with him. He isn’t sure the black dots that appear in his vision will ever go away, as he struggles under what feels like three hundred pounds of human.

Well… that was successful. You. Fucking. Idiot.

He hears more shouting, and the sound of another body hitting the deck, and then… it’s quiet again. Other than the low rasps of pain coming from above him. No lie - you hit a man where it really matters and he’s reduced to a whimpering baby.

Alfredo’s world shifts and rejoices at once, as eventually the weight is hauled off him and chucked into a wall nearby. There are a few mutterings and then someone is approaching him quickly.

There’s a pause as Alfredo blinks blearily up at the man, who stares back down at him silently, and Alfredo remembers that shit, yeah, he wasn’t exactly on this guy’s side. He’d just decided in his idiotic brain that he should help. For all he knew, this guy was some fucking murderer or something!

Great… you’ve really done fucked up now. You should -

“Hey, it’s the kid again!” The voice doesn’t sound angry, but excited. As his vision comes back into focus, he can see it belongs to the curly haired man, and Alfredo recognizes him, and he remembers that voice. And his eyes nearly pop out of his skull.

“What the fuck are you looking at? Get the hell outta here!” An angry British voice snaps. Alfredo isn’t sure if it’s directed at him. “And if he’s not dead, get that guy outta here too!” Guess not.

“It’s alright, Gav, I know him, he’s the kid me and Geoff ran into - or he ran into us…”

There’s a loud, exaggerated sigh. “Whatever, Michael, we shouldn’t have come here anyway. I bloody told you it was a bad idea, bloody told you, but noooo, oh it’ll be fine you said, what’s the worst that can happen?” He squawks out in a high pitched imitation.

The man leaves Alfredo, who manages to push himself up into a sitting position, breathing heavily.

He looks over at the two, who are standing over the two brutes, who in turn are even more dazed than Alfredo. “You think these are the guys?” the curly haired man asked, vaguely hopeful sounding.

Alfredo doesn’t know what they mean by “the guys”. He’s more concerned with the fact that they’ve both just addressed the other by their names - their first names - in front of him. That’s not right, his fuzzy mind told him, you’re not supposed to know that. This could be really bad.

Fortunately they seem to have forgotten about Alfredo for the time being. The one called Gav inspects the two men, left slumped against the wall in their daze. He eyes them fiercely, like a big cat mulling over its dinner. “Nah, I know these two psychos - they’re no hardened criminals they’re just stupid, and desperate.” He emphasises the descriptions with a firm kick at each guy, before stuffing his hands deep into his pockets. “C’mon, Michael let’s go. You two, fuck off.”

The men don’t need to be told twice - scrambling haphazardly to their feet and scampering off down the alley like kids running from a school fight.

“You wanna go, you go. But I’m not leaving until I’ve had at least one drink.”

For a moment, Alfredo thinks the British man is going to argue, but then he looks away, resigned, and kicks at an empty beer bottle. “Fine, you go in. I’ll stay out here and keep watch.

A moment’s silence - perhaps an unspoken argument, but then the attention’s unfortunately back on Alfredo. “Hey,” the man asks, crouching down in front of him and snapping his fingers in front of his eyes. “You okay, dude?”

“I –” Alfredo falters, thinking over his word choice carefully. “It’s alright. I’ve had worse,” he assures. His ribs aren’t broken at least - he hadn’t heard or felt a crack. Maybe just a little bruised - and he’d dealt with those before.

The man nods, offering his hand, and slowly Alfredo accepts it. “Tough guy, huh?” he says, as he pulls him to his feet.

“Nah… just a soldier,” Alfredo replies through gritted teeth.

The corner of the man’s mouth tilts upwards, where a bruise is already forming. “Thank you, soldier. I owe you one. Made my day with that little stunt you pulled there.”

“Everything okay?” Alfredo surprises himself by asking, and the guy, Michael - he now knows this guy’s name is Michael - raises his eyebrows, also seeming surprised by the question, amused even.

“Yeah, I’m fine, not the first fist fight I’ve been in and sure as hell won’t be the last. Hey, you sure you’re okay?” He asks as Alfredo doubles over again as he tries to stand up straight, and he places a hand on Alfredo’s shoulder. He frowns as Alfredo flinches away instinctively, his brain still partially screaming at him to get away as quick as possible.

“Just winded. That guy was built like a fucking football player.” Alfredo looks down, biting at his lower lip. After a moment he blurts out, words tripping over each other in his haste. “I don’t wanna cause any trouble. I’m not gonna do nothin’. I won’t say nothin’. I can just go and forget about everything. Did before, I didn’t mean to run into you again, it just happened. I’m sorry.”

Michael looks confused for a second, but then his face softens as he reads between the lines. He moves a hand under Alfredo’s arm and helps straighten him up - a gentle but strong touch - slowly enough this time that Alfredo doesn’t flinch. He must think you a weakling, Alfredo thinks. Getting into such a state after something as small as that. Alfredo knows he wouldn’t normally act like this either, but it’s… well, it’s been a hectic couple of days.

“Hey,” Michael says, with surprising tenderness. “Let’s go inside - I wanna drink and I owe you at least one too. Those guys may have spooked Gav, but to hell if a couple of brain-dead thugs are gonna put a dampener on my night. And about the whole, you know what we look like so now we’re gonna have to kill you thing, don’t worry about it, it’s just a scare tactic -  well, sort of - and by now I think I’ve gotta pretty good idea about you. Far as I’m concerned this is twice you’ve gone out of your way to help someone you thought you saw in trouble. Thank you.”

He sounds sincere, and Alfredo peeks up at him.

“Don’t mention it,” he replies, with a little smile. “I think I was just trying to feel like I was doing something good for once.” Even as he says it the words don’t quite sound true, but it’s the closest he can get to it right now.

“Well, consider your good deed of the day done. Not saying that I wouldn’t have handled that dude, cause I would’ve, but I appreciate back up in any form.”

He begins to pull Alfredo back into The Rusty - which is a strange atmosphere to return to - with a grin, and Alfredo fights off his rabbit in headlights expression. It’s insane. What’s happening right now is insane. Only two nights ago he’d been witnessing this guy - one of the Fakes, people he’s been idolizing for years - pull off some sort of heist, or at least escape one that had somehow gone wrong. And now here he was, being pulled into The Rusty by the same dude, who was now offering to buy him a drink.

Just stay cool. He won’t try anything dodgy in here, with all these people around. Just gotta be careful. This guy almost seems like any normal person - there’s no need to freak out. But he wasn’t like any normal person, that was the problem.

“My Grandma used to raise me on your news clips,” he whispers, and Michael shakes his head while Alfredo’s cheeks burn. What the hell did I just say?

“Y’know, you’d be surprised how often we hear that.” He chuckles lightly. "Hell, I was kinda the same."

The casual ease in the way Michael replies to that quite frankly creepy admission, makes it a little easier to breathe. Michael must notice the relief on his face; he looks amused suddenly, but doesn’t say anything about it. Just eyes out a couple of free seats and pulls Alfredo over to them, pulling out a chair and practically forcing Alfredo into it.

“I’m gonna get one of their craft beers. That good for you?”

“Yeah, that’s cool,” Alfredo assures him, and closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath, checking his ribs over once again. Ouch, yep definitely bruised. When he opens them again, Michael has already closed in on the bar, and once again Alfredo’s brain seems intent on reminding him of the absurdity of this situation.

This isn’t something that just happens. This isn’t something that just happens to a guy like me. And yet it had. And as Michael returns, drinks in hand, it becomes that more real.

Michael sits, setting their drinks down, and immediately takes a gulp of his, letting out a satisfied sound as the liquid touches his lips. “Needed that - this is what I came for, a good drink with good company. Well, Gav was my first choice but seeing as he’s decided to go on watchdog duty, you’ll have to do. There’s many other nights for me and Gav.” Michael’s smile is fond and Alfredo feels a tinge of something almost like jealousy. It must be nice, being part of such a tight and trusting crew, having people you relied on that closely.

Don’t get him wrong, Alfredo was tight with his own guys, but that only went so far. Most of them are only kids, he doesn’t know how many he could truly count on in a life and death situation. And outside of work, if they weren’t family, he barely saw them at all. It was purely business.

“Holy shit!” Michael exclaims, breaking Alfredo out of his reverie. The older man’s staring at him likes he’s just discovered something amazing. “I just realized I’ve been talking to you all this time, and I don’t even know your name. My mother would be absolutely horrified by my lack of manners.”

Oh, that was right, wasn’t it? Somewhere in his mind, Alfredo had assumed that Michael didn’t want to know his name, to at least keep some sort of distance between them. “It’s uh… I’m Alfredo,” he replies, quietly.

“Nice to meet you, Alfredo. I mean it. In my line of work you often find yourselves working within the same small circles, rare you actually just get to meet a normal dude who isn’t involved in my sort of life.” There’s something in the way Michael says it that makes Alfredo wonder what exactly Michael assumed he did; that Alfredo had already unintentionally given enough hints for the other to realize he didn’t exactly have a normal day job.

But then maybe that was the point. Maybe Michael just wanted someone to talk to someone who wouldn’t balk at his mere presence - no matter how in awe Alfredo was - but wasn’t high enough in the chain that they’d ever normally run into one another in their day to day lives. Not significant enough to be an ally. Or a rival.

“I guess I owe you too,” Alfredo murmurs. “You did let me use your little escape tunnel after all, even if I was only there thinking I was trying to save you. Most crews wouldn’t have let me walk out of there alive.”

“We aren’t most crews,” Michael replies, but raises an eyebrow at him. “But why do I get the feeling you’re speaking from experience?”

Alfredo shifts uncomfortably under his gaze. He knows Michael’s prodding for answers is most likely out of pure curiosity - that Alfredo’s own problems probably seemed so minuscule to whatever had been going on with that heist and that fire - but something about the smile on Michael’s face makes Alfredo want to share everything, he wants Michael to know. To hear what’s going on, to offer some words of wisdom.

Here’s someone who’s been there and done it all, he thinks - surely he might have some idea on how to deal with a rival crew. And what the fuck, if he kills you after this, at least you’ve got something off your chest.

“I… I ran into some trouble,” he says hesitantly, keeping a firm gaze on his drink rather than at Michael. “Before I ran into your lot, I was walking home. There were these guys - rival crew, I know ‘em, or know of them - and they jumped me. Only two guys, I know it sounds dumb, but they took me unawares and suddenly there’s this knife at my throat. Said my brother owed them money, that he’d taken a package and hadn’t paid ‘em back. Said if they didn’t get that money back by tomorrow night there’d be trouble.” Alfredo sighs. “But when I talked to my brother he told me that the stuff they gave him were bad, that it wasn’t selling for enough and that there was no way he was payin’ them back. Said he’d sort it all out, but I dunno…”

“Shit - so this is all over some heroin? Coke?”

Alfredo’s lips twist, wryly.

“It must seem… very trivial. Probably something you deal with loads, right?”

“You think?” Michael asks, and his eyes narrow in thought. “No, not really… I ain’t been alley jumped since I was a kid. Now you could say the violence and danger is upped significantly, but so’s my team and all the weapons and technology we have behind us.”

This is a weird conversation to be having.

“Yeah… different worlds. Sorry for rambling.”

“No, no, no - don’t apologize. I may be older now but don’t think I don’t remember how scary and personal local gang scraps can be. But I gotta few questions for you.” Michael sounds genuinely interested, and it’s gratifying - that someone cares. “What exactly is your role in your crew? What would be, say, your day-to-day schedule?”

It’s so strange - having the question presented in such a professional and normal way.

“Um, well I just run one of the corners. I’ve got guys who keep the packages in a safe place. I’m there to hand out and collect the cash in at the end of the day, and to deal with any trouble with the police or other crews who come on our turf.” He finds it’s embarrassing to admit, thinking how mundane it must sound, but Michael nods.

“So… you’re like a Lieutenant?”

Alfredo nods at the familiar term.

“And your crew, it’s drugs only?”

“Yeah, strict rules on that. Had a few guys get into some serious shit when they tried to deviate.”

Michael takes a long sip from his beer, placing it back down with a thud and spinning the half-full glass in one hand. “How long you been doing it?”

Alfredo shrugs, smiling uncertainly. “Forever. Was born into it. Kinda on and off during elementary and middle school - did a few months of high school but dropped out after uh… after my girlfriend dumped me. Been school-less and girlfriend-less ever since.”

“So you never really had much choice, I mean, in the career department, I’m sure you get a lot of offers with the other issue,” Michael scoffs, so matter-of-factly that Alfredo blushes. “Good looking kid like you, you must be more of a hit it and quit it kinda guy right now, I’m guessing.”

“Not really,” Alfredo mumbled, knotting his hands together. “I haven’t really been with anyone since then. Just sorta kept to myself and played video games in my room in my free time.” He wonders when this conversation had switched to his love life, or lack thereof.

Michael barks out a laugh, in a sort of disbelief. “Jeez, how old are you, kid?”

“Twenty-eight… I mean, almost.” It’s embarrassing, and it must show on his face, because Michael smiles.

“Hey, no shame in that Mr, Almost Twenty-Eight. I mean, I can’t really talk, I’ve only been in one serious relationship myself, I’m just lucky enough to still be in that same one. And I can see how your line of work doesn’t allow for many opportunities to hook up with someone. Heck, that’s why I wanted to buy you drink, not for um… I mean, I just wanted to meet someone new for a change, like I said.” It was the other man’s turn to blush, and it was such a human reaction that it catches Alfredo off guard, as if he didn’t expect a member of The Fakes to express such emotions. In a way, they’d always seemed to mythical, so inhuman, growing up and watching them in the news, perhaps he had started to view them as characters, rather than as people.

But then here was Michael, admitting to being in a quote-on-quote, serious relationship, and then getting all flustered.

“Married to your work, right?” Michael asks, the red still present in his pale cheeks.

“Something like that,” Alfredo says, and smiles a bit ruefully, finally relaxing a bit. The more time passed, the less he felt he was actually in any danger. Also the three and a bit beers could be helping. “I feel like I owe it. I’ve been told I owe it, to my family, and to the other members of the crew who looked out for me when I was small and both my parents were gone. Some days I dream of… something else but then I remind myself that that’s not real life, that that ain’t gonna happen, so I might as well make the most of what I got. And I am grateful for what I got. For my grandma and my brother. S’why stuff like this puts me on edge - anything to do with family, it makes everything that bit more real. And I’m not the guy who can cope with it. I’ve gotten better over the years but I’m just… I’m just not like the others. I’m a soldier, but I don’t enjoy it. I don’t take pride in what I do. I just do it cause it’s my duty.” He lets out a long breath, admitting quietly, “And I fucking hate killing - seeing a body hit the floor after you’ve… that’s a sight you I can never forget.”

He glances back up at Michael, expecting ridicule or amusement from the man. Instead, what he finds shocks him. Michael nods. There’s a gentle understanding in his eyes, a look of empathy, Alfredo thinks. He supposes, if anyone knows what it was like to kill someone, it would be a member of The Fakes. He can’t even imagine how high their body count must be, individually and as a whole crew.

“I know it sounds dumb. And I know the guys I killed weren’t good either. But I take no pleasure in it, cause at the end of the day, when I look in their eyes and see the life leaving them… at the end of the day, I just find it’s my own face I’m staring into. That the guy I killed could have just as easily been me. Or my brother.” He looks to Michael again, almost desperately. “I can’t lose my brother, Michael.”

“Okay,” Michael breathes, and Alfredo huffs out a bit of a laugh, fidgeting awkwardly.

“Sorry, you didn’t come here to hear all that.”

“Not true. I came here for some company and some company you have provided. And believe it or not I know what you mean.” He gives Alfredo a hard stare. “We kill, you know that. It’s part of the job. But it is and always will be, a last resort. There’s a reason I run with the crew I chose and that’s one of them. If, for whatever reason, that were to change, then I’d be out. Quick as a flash, I’d be out. But luckily I don’t have to worry about shit like that.” He offers Alfredo an apologetic look. “I would help you with your problem, I really would, but there’s other stuff going on that we’re still trying to figure out ourselves - that little million something robbery you might’ve seen on the news the other week? Well, that’s all gone, and that’s not even the start of it. At the moment, the best I can offer you is some advice.”

Alfredo shrugs a bit, scratching his nails into the indents on wooden table, thinking over what Michael had just said - wondering what exactly had occurred. “That’s more than I could ever expect anyway,” he says, “You’ve taken me more seriously than members of my own crew would. When he looks up Michael’s eyes are genuinely concerned - genuinely angry, but not at Alfredo. On his behalf.

How could he care already? He barely knows you. Your problems are none of his concern and sounds like he’s got enough of his own.

Right?

He shakes it off. Their glasses are nearly empty now - he hadn’t even realized he’d been drinking.

“I think you should go with your brother tomorrow night - fuck what he says. If you’ve got a bad feeling about this, you trust your instincts. Bring back up if you want, who cares what they might think of you if it turns out everything’s fine.”

“Is that what you would do?” Alfredo asks, a little shyly.

Michael just shrugs. Apparently he’s got no qualms about sharing his secrets too, now.

“Yeah, that’s kinda a code I’ve always lived by and always tried to encourage others to follow. Gav, out there, he was more like you when I first met him - always unsure and second-guessing himself.” He leans forward, a strange smile on his lips. “Let me tell you right here and now, for all of his joking, that man out there possesses one of the most brilliant minds in this fucking city. I’ve lost count how many times his quick thinking has saved my sorry ass.”

“I see,” Alfredo whispers - maybe too quiet for Michael to hear him in the rowdy atmosphere. He feels a bit like an imposter. Hearing Michael talk about someone else in The Fakes, someone he was obviously very close to, felt like a privilege he shouldn’t be entitled to. There’s a deep something in Michael’s eyes, an emotion or memory that doesn’t quite seem to be going away. “And what if it does go bad? What if I find myself with a fight on my hands?” He’s had to deal with minor gang wars before, but never over something his brother had done. He’d never been directly linked to one before.

Michael’s spine stiffens.

“You fight tooth and nail with everything you’ve got,” he replies, voice deepening. “You do everything in your power to protect those around you and you won’t give in until your dying breath. You lay your life on the line if it means saving those you love.”

Alfredo shivers suddenly, even though it’s nowhere near cold. He has a feeling Michael is not only talking about Alfredo’s problems now.

“Is it bad?”

Alfredo doesn’t know why he asks. Curiosity, maybe. Or again - maybe a tad close to jealousy. That here was a man being very open and honest with his emotions and feelings towards his crew, an example of why The Fakes had stuck together when so many high-risk crews had disbanded, or disappeared or simply died out. Again, he was reminded how different their lives must be.

Michael looks down. Alfredo worries that he’s gone too far and he’s upset him, or angered him - but after a moment Michael starts laughing. Low, humorless, scoffing chuckles.

“I don’t know,” he replies, and reaches up, rubbing his hands over his face. As he tilts his head back, in the warm glow of the lights, Alfredo suddenly notices how young he looks. Soft cheeks, one darkening by the minute from the earlier punch, and feathery hair, the freckles on his face. “We don’t know who, what or why. The stuff that’s been happening to us recently is… concerning, but we’re working on it. That heist you caught us on the other night was actually a little test, we were expecting it to go wrong, ready for it to go wrong, had surveillance and guys all around to see if they could spot anything, but nope. We got nothing. Whoever these guys are, they’re good.”

“But you’ll be fine, I mean, you’re the most powerful gang in the city.”

“Yeah? We weren’t always. There was another lot who came before us. Powerful crews fall just as easily as small ones. The only difference being, they fall harder.”

Alfredo stares at him, confused, and after a moment Michael lowers his hands and stares back at him. His eyes aren’t angry, but there’s still that something in them - something deep and unsettled.

“Having power doesn’t mean you quit worrying. In fact, quite the opposite, cause it feels like everybody’s out to get you,” he continues. “And I’m not good at worrying, I leave that to Jack and Geoff. Let them handle things while I come out and try to drink my worries away.”

“You… you worry because you care,” Alfredo manages, and Michael gives a heavy sigh. His hands are braced against his knees.

“Of course I fucking care,” he says roughly, and takes a deep, shaky breath. “You’d understand if you were with us. Those guys… they’ve seen me at my very lowest and my very worst and yet somehow, for reasons I still struggle to understand, they stick by me, through it all, they’ve got my back. It can just send my head into a spin sometimes, y’know? Trying to make sure I got all their backs covered as well.”

“You sound like a good friend,” Alfredo says softly. Then, “Thank you, Michael. Not just for the whole not killing me part and offering me advice. But just for talking to me and for being honest. I haven’t… I don’t remember anybody talking to me like that. It was nice. I only wish I could help you the same way you’ve helped me.”

Michael’s face brightens a little. He shakes himself, seeming to attempt to regain some of his former bravado.

“It’s no problem,” he says, and turns away for a moment, shoulders heaving as he takes a deep breath. “Look at me. I came here to try and forget my problems with Gav, and instead I’ve laid them all out on the table to a complete stranger.” He smiles a little, regarding Alfredo. “Or maybe I should be calling you an acquaintance now, after all, you’ve sat here and listened to me spew shit,” he announces, and Alfredo chokes out a startled laugh.

“I think we’re even on that front,” he says.

Michael shrugs.

“Yeah, but I’m supposed to be the wise old-timer, parting knowledge onto a scrappy young upstart like yourself - not unloading all my problems onto you.” He grins then, a fond smile shining towards Alfredo.

“Gavin’s gonna say I shouldn’t have told you any of that, in case you do turn out to be a piece of shit. But I’ve been around a lot of pieces of shit in my day - and you smell like roses compared to them so - thanks, for listening.”

Alfredo doesn’t really know what to say to that - some part of him still believes this is a dream he’ll wake up from at any moment - another part realizes that at some point in their whole conversation, they’d both finished their drinks, and he was also now completely relaxed. Michael’s smiling so warmly that he can’t help but return it.

“Tell you what, I might be otherwise occupied now, but what you said got me thinking,” Michael began, pulling something out of his pocket. “You got a pen on you?” Alfredo shakes his head, tilting it in curiosity as Michael snatches one off another table. “This here,” he says, scribbling down something on the scrap piece of paper, “this here’s my own personal number. You get in any trouble, you call that number. This is my favor to you for being such a good drinking buddy. It’s a one-time thing though, don’t think I can just go around helping you out whenever you need it.”

He stands up then, gripping Alfredo’s shoulder for a second, regarding him with a strange expression, and then leaving without another word.

Alfredo watches him leave, then turns back. The piece of paper sits in front of him. The digits on there staring back at him - never had he thought he’d be so hypnotized by a set of numbers.

Alfredo lets out a shaky laugh of disbelief, grabbing the note and stuffing it deep in his pocket.

Well, fuck me.

Everything was wrong the moment he entered the building - an abandoned warehouse near the docks, in a section guarded by one elderly, half-asleep guard who didn’t give a damn what went on during his watch. Alfredo was just glad his brother had let slip where the meet was in the first place - after that initial talk, he hadn’t seen his brother since.

He’d woken up late after the previous night, and had then needed an extra hour or so to try and comprehend what had happened and convince himself it hadn’t all just been a dream. In the end, the piece of paper, still in his pocket, was all the confirmation he’d needed.

His brother was already gone, working, and it was where Alfredo should have been a few hours earlier. Surprisingly, his grandma hadn’t woken him up, but all made sense when he went upstairs and saw an angry note saying that she’d tried to wake him up but failing that ordered him to tidy the house from top to bottom before she returned home.

There was also a voicemail from Angel calling him a “lazy ass sonofabitch” but also saying he’d cover for him and offering him any help if he needed it. Yeah, that kid was alright. But Alfredo didn’t want to drag the teen into this. He’d called up a few of the boys, but none of them saw the point of accompanying him. They were all busy. Alfredo would have to be enough.

He was going to the meet early, in order to not miss it. He’d called Denny a few times as well, but again there’d been no answer - his brother was just going to have to get pissed that Alfredo had turned up uninvited.

As he stepped into the warehouse, though, an unnerving sense of dread had descended upon him. It’s growing dark, evening closing in. His shadow casts long - looming and vanishing into the dark building. His ribs still give off a dull ache. He's wrapped them tightly but it'll take them a few weeks to heal up. He just hopes he won't need to do any fighting today.

He walks further in.

There's no one about. It’s quiet, strangely so, ominously so - he can’t see or hear anyone.

But that’s not why he’s frozen to the spot.

It’s largely empty and filled with an old, rusty smell, and there’s a cold draft flowing through the open space.

That’s not why he’s shaking.

Specks of dust, illuminated by the hole in the roof, floating down slowly, swirling into various patterns, descending to the floor in their little dance.

That’s not why he’s staring.

That’s not why his heart's thudded to a stop.

The figure was lying with his back to him, but Alfredo knew, with his heart in his throat, he knew who it was the second his eyes laid eyes on them. Long white t-shirt, jeans, dark hair.

His legs were stumbling forward, as his lungs constricted under the shock at the sight.  

He collapsed to his knees next to his brother, not bothering to question why the floor felt damp when it hasn’t rained in weeks. He can’t take his eyes off the back of his brother’s head.

“Denny…”

He reaches out and grabs the shoulder. He pulls until his brother falls onto his back.

Cold, pale skin. Open, soulless eyes. Throat slit.

He’s dead.

“Denny, c-c’mon…”

No. It can’t be.

But it is. He’s dead. His older brother is dead.

He shifts and his knees nearly slip. Only now does he notice there’s so much blood; everywhere he looks is red. He’s breathing too fast and it’s a struggle to stop it.

Not dead. Murdered.

He hears the sounds of footsteps approaching, tap-tapping on the concrete floor. He tries to stand up, but can’t. His knees are rooted to the ground and he can feel a sickly dampness seeping through the denim. He can’t bring himself to stand, though - all the life has been drained out of him, just like his brother’s had.

“What have you done to him?” he hisses, although it’s painfully obvious what had been done to his brother. Not just the method of death, such a cruel way to go - struggling for air and choking on your own blood -

Alfredo doesn’t want to think about it but he can’t help himself. Can’t begin to imagine his brother, a man he’d always idolized and looked up to, more than anyone - even The Fakes - who’d always been so strong and outgoing - can’t imagine his last moments being so… helpless.

“Take a good look at him, boy.” It’s the same guy he met before, the smaller one. He’s wearing a fedora this time - decked out in a suit like an old-school gangster. This time he’s also accompanied by not just one, but half a dozen henchmen, all clones of each other. “He came to us earlier than scheduled, demanded to talk to us, demanded that we be the ones who apologize. Threatened us. Pulled a gun on one of my men. Well…” he scoffs. “This is what happens when you don’t meet our demands. Your brother did this to himself because he had the nerve to go back on his word. He was in the wrong here, boy, and you can’t say I didn’t give him a chance to pay his debts. I am a reasonable man after all.”

No.

This was more than a petty squabble over money.

Alfredo’s fists clenched, his fingers sticking to his palms.

This wasn’t things were done! Was this guy insane? Alfredo knew that this horrendous act only meant one thing. An outright declaration of war. And a war was bad for all crews involved. Nothing good ever came of it. Just more death and destruction.

“But a man can only be reasonable for so long,” the man carries on, as deadly calm as ever. “Your brother’s actions have bought you some time, but now it’s up to you to pay up.” He crouches down, breath tickling Alfredo’s ear, and it takes every inch of Alfredo’s self-restraint not to grab at his throat. “You don’t bring me what that shit head owed me by Saturday and it’ll be your dear old grandmama next. You got that?”

When he pats Alfredo on the back, every fiber of his being is screaming at him to kill. To take his revenge. To make him pay.

He wants to do something. He wants to make things right. But the only way to do that is go back in time. Doing anything now would only get himself killed, and that wouldn’t do anyone much good.

So he lets them go. Still knelt in his brother's blood, hands lying limply on his knees, tear-filled eyes staring into his brother’s own lifeless ones.

They leave him there, struggling to breathe properly, eyes blurry, stinging; muscles constricting painfully, whole body shaking.

The coldness in the warehouse, and from the oncoming night, claws into his bones. Suddenly he can’t be near Denny anymore, can’t bear to look at him. That’s not his brother anymore. His brother is gone.

He runs - in no particular direction. Just runs as fast as he can away from that warehouse and the body of his brother, ignoring the pain in his chest. Runs through the old dockyard, blinded by sorrow and rage. Ran until there was no more ground and all that was ahead of him were the metal railings that blocked him from the sea. And only then does he stop. Stop and double over, before throwing his head back and screaming to the heavens.

His cry of anguish echoes around the empty dockyard.

He’s out of breath, shivering even more now he’s facing the full force of an ocean breeze. His clothes still stick to him uncomfortably, sickeningly.

He pulls out his phone. He knows he has to act in some way. First of all he has to make sure the… the body is taken care of. He needs people he can trust. Who can he trust?

What was the point of being in a fucking crew if none of them had responded to his earlier requests for back up?  What was the fucking point?

His fingers slip, leaving smears of blood on his phone screen, making it hard for him to read the contacts through his damp eyes. He realizes he doesn’t know who to call. His Grandma? No, he couldn’t bear to speak to her. Couldn’t bear to tell her that another one of her family members is gone. He should call… he should call his Uncle - but he knows the man would be on the warpath immediately, blinded by rage and hatred. Alfredo doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want a war. He wants to make them pay - he will make them pay, but not like that. He just needs - he needs a moment, that’s all. A moment to figure out what the fuck he’s supposed to do.

More tears spring to his eyes as he remembers who exactly he would call at moments like these.

“You promised you’d always be here…” he whimpers under hushed breath. “You promised you’d always have my back.”

And he had done - to the very end. Or at least that’s what Denny would have believed he’d been doing. Alfredo had no doubt, his brother’s idea to go and confront them earlier was due to them threatening his own baby brother.  

If you weren’t so helpless…

Now though, Alfredo was in even deeper, murkier waters, and he wasn’t sure he had the strength or stamina to stay afloat.

They’ll kill Grandma, and then you’ll be all alone.  

His fingers hover over the contacts for his Lt, but he stands his ground on that one, still not wanting to bring the kid in on something like this. Also he doesn’t want the boy to see him in this state.

Who then? He can’t fucking just linger here covered in his brother’s own blood for the rest of the night! The place might be quiet but it wasn’t completely abandoned. If he didn’t get things sorted soon who was to say a wandering dock worker or trespassing teenagers wouldn’t stumble across the scene and get the cops involved in something they had no business in.

You could have prevented this… somehow…

He should have been here. He should never have let his brother come alone - never let him out of his sight. He should have trusted his instincts more. He should’ve been here, he should’ve been here, he should’ve been here -

Pull yourself together! Denny deserves better than this! Better than you!

He sniffs, and wipes an arm across his face, trying to avoid coating himself in blood any further. God, he’s always hated how it feels. How blood can dry so quickly and turn sticky, impossible to rub off. How it would cake under your fingernails, turning black and flaky. Dead.

He scrolls through the list of names in his contacts, not really taking any of them in. He hovers over his Uncle’s name again - supposes that’s the best option, word would get around quick enough anyway.

He goes to call him, but as if attached to some invisible wire, his hand jerks away last moment. There was always…

He digs into his pocket, praying it was still there.

It is, and Alfredo plants a permanent red fingerprint on the corner of it as he haltingly keys in the number.

He calls it.

It rings for about ten seconds.

And then… “Yo.”

His mind blanks.

“… anyone there? Jeremy I swear –”

“Michael?” he whispers, shakily.

“Oh… yeah? Sup.” The man sounds like he’s in the middle of eating - Alfredo can hear other voices in the background, laughter, a joyful atmosphere. “Who is this?” Michael asks, but Alfredo finds his tongue as gone numb. He only emits a quiet, nervous breath. The tone on the other end shifts, and the background noise quietens, as if Michael is walking away. “… Alfredo?” he says after a moment.

A strange calm settles over him, although his blood begins to simmer in his veins as he sets one very clear goal in his mind, and fuck if he’s ever going to get a better chance than this to see it through.

He takes a deep breath, steadying himself. “I… I need to call in that favor.”

[howwelldoyouknowyourmoon]

Blame v. Responsibility in the Fall-out from the FFWPU and Sun Myung Moon

I thank the folks who made comments on my posting.  In this response, I will talk about the terms, “blame,” “responsibility,” or “judgment,” all of which have broad meanings. Let’s focus on the main definition as meant in the context, and postpone other definitions of each word for future discussion.

▶

# Let’s say Mary is another victim of Rev. Moon and his church. They pretty much ruined her life. She is too old now to do anything in her life to start over. Seeking her damage at court was impractical and she has given up on that. Thanks to help from her friends and the government, she is now able to make a living.

What is the right thing for her to do about Rev. Moon and the church?  This is the ethical question that we are now inquiring about.

1. The most popular thing to do would be to blame the offender and keep holding him responsible to undo the damage done to Mary. Both blame and responsibility must go to the offender.  That is the perfect justice.

The crucial problem with this idea of perfect justice is that we are living in a less-than-perfect world.  All right, a FAR less-than-the perfect world. Perfect justice is impossible in this world. If you think otherwise, I think you are still unfortunately caught up in the cult mentality. Rev. Moon is dead and the church is now free from the liability for Mary’s damage. What can we do?

I guess the second best we can try is to ruin the social reputation of the offender. But, how does that work for Mary personally? That was my point. The damage done to Mary was real and practical, but social reputation is a mental and emotional effect. The invisible solution does not add up to compensate the materialized damage done to Mary.  Mary knows it subtly, and this unsatisfactory result only frustrates her and amplifies her anger. She suffered enough when serving the cult, and after leaving it. She has now entered into another stage of suffering with her anger and frustration. Pursuit of perfect justice usually ends up with a prolonged state of individual suffering. That was the Jesus’s insight and he gave us the warning, “do not judge.”  In this case, yes, the concept of perfect justice is a bitch.

2. The person whom I will call Andrew is also a victim of the Church. Andrew was one of the early quitters from the church, with much less damage than Mary’s. He moved on with his life and is now living fine.  When seeing Mary’s suffering, Andrew feels both sympathy and frustration. “Why is she stuck in the unfortunate past? Yes, it happened, but it has gone now. Move on. Be responsible for your life and do something for yourself.”

Andrew has an attitude problem. He slightly blames Mary for what happened. “If she were a bit smarter, she would’ve left the church much earlier and got much less damage. Then she could forget about it and move on.” He is ignoring or putting way less weight on what the offender did to Mary. He ends up sending both blame and responsibility to the victim. Andrew is a victim blamer and he is a fool with this issue. He is so confused that he cannot see who the offender was.

3. Despite the stark differences in their attitudes, the ideal moralist and the victim blamer have one thing in common.  Both believe, “blame and responsibility must go hand in hand.” The former believes that the blame and the responsibility must go to the offender; the latter, to the victim.

Most of us know better – Blame and responsibility can separate from each other.  Especially in Mary’s case, they must separate for Mary’s own emotional well-being.

Conclusively, in my humble opinion, the right thing to tell Mary is – “Blame Rev. Moon, and be responsible for your own life.” (Don’t say it verbatim. Say it nicely with compassion.) As an adult, Mary must be responsible for everything that happens to her life.

It is a shitty deal because of the unfairness, but it is the way of all life forms on the earth that has so many limitations. Even the God is not taking care of Mary’s emotion; who are we?

Damage was done to the victim personally, but she cannot punish the offender personally, at least physically or financially. If she does not obey the at-least rule, she now becomes the offender and the Leviathan (government) will punish her. Instead, Mary should petition the community (if organized well), the government, or the God to punish the offender. Then, she needs to forget about it. Punishment is not her job. No point to judge Rev. Moon from this point on. She needs to move on with her life. She is also responsible to work on her emotions and to heal her wounds by whatever means that work, with or without help.

A commenter mentioned about Matthew 18:15-17 as a dissent to my argument. The Gospel verse commented applies only when you belong to a well-organized community with right rules. That doesn’t work for Mary, because she left the UC community, let alone questioning if the community is well organized with right rules. Besides, her old-time community loves the offender (because he was the parent who gave birth to the community) much more than Mary. They will not honor her demands. In the particular section, Jesus was talking about something different from the subject of his teaching “Do not judge” which I was discussing.

4. Mary now wishes to expose to the public Rev. Moon and his church’s immoral or unethical behaviors. She can help protecting potential victims that way. This is probably the best thing Mary could do about her damage. Her effort has a practical benefit for lessening the potential damage to innocent people. It is also a good thing that could please Mary, and in turn it could help to heal her emotional wounds.

For people like Mary, I suggested that they do the work without negative emotions (including anger) as much as possible, because the negative emotions quickly becomes a burden on others, and it will work against her efforts for good.

5. Lastly, Mary needs to know her target audience for her community awareness mission.

(a) First, the die-hard church members are not her target. She cannot change a thing about the church’s legitimate membership. Both the church and the public know enough by now how weird and bad Rev. Moon was. Exposing further information about Rev. Moon’s fault would sound like, “we initially thought Rev. Moon stole about $1 billion, but we recently found out that the amount was close to $1.5 billion.” Do you think the new information would change anything significant in the readers’ mind, those who already know how bad he was?

The core members know how bad Rev. Moon was – but it does not change their faith, because they value the underlying cause more than his revealed superficial behavior. They will ask you back, “why do you think he did such bad things?” Regardless of how bad the exposed morality of Rev. Moon was, to the members the information would just be about the means that he utilized to achieve the end – God’s providential goal that the members value much more than Mary’s emotional well-being. Here, Mary is practicing the Kantian ethics treating means as ends in themselves, and the church members are practicing the Utilitarian ethics that allows sacrificing people and things to achieve a higher goal, whatever that is. The Unificationists have one of the highest goals on earth, and they will consider Mary as a sacrifice. Again, the morality is a bitch. Don’t play with it.

(b) The only group or audience in which Mary’s contribution would be significant is that of skeptics. Those who already have some doubts about their faith in Rev. Moon. They are the target audience Mary needs to focus on.

How many are there? Nobody knows for sure, but I could show a snapshot of the reality on this particular forum ‘What is on the Moon’ (WIOTM): A couple of years ago, I included an outside link in my posting to show a picture, and the outside server computer was counting (without prior notice to me) how many readers clicked my link – not one by one, but roughly by an increment of 50, like “50 people clicked your link.” My posting was rather controversial and I believe most of the readers clicked on my link out of curiosity. The final count was less than 200.  And we know the absolute majority of readers on this forum are the ones who already left the church and do not need Mary’s help. One of my 2nd Generation friends benefited from the exposed information about Rev. Moon posted here, and has stopped practicing his worship. But he is still staying with people in the community. Well, it’s been a couple of years now and the readership could have increased significantly. I don’t know, but I think this shows a picture of the reality. Not that the number is of the utmost importance, but I simply point out that Mary is facing a big challenge in her mission. It will be beneficial for her not to expect too much.

© For other groups than this target – like the die-hard, those who left, and the public – Mary’s informational exposure is mostly a sort of entertainment. A means to kill the boredom of mundane life. I think Frank contributes a lot for this function. Personally, I am not interested in the conspiracy kind of politics or behind-politics stories. However, his postings should entertain many. Rev. Moon and his church is an interesting subject for a tiny segment of the population on earth. But it works for me because it is more fun than the usual chatting with the colleagues in my office. I once was a Moonie.

This is the reality as I see it.

– Kenneth

http://whatisonthemoon.tumblr.com/post/165741281557/blame-v-responsibility

Kenneth’s earlier post: Do Not Judge Rev Moon

A response to Kenneth: Thankfully, Kenneth gets it.

[simplemlmsponsoring]

New Post has been published on https://simplemlmsponsoring.com/attraction-marketing-formula/blogging/the-step-by-step-process-for-starting-growing-and-getting-traffic-from-your-blogs-email-list/

The Step-by-Step Process for Starting, Growing, and Getting Traffic from Your Blog’s Email List

Did you know that one of the best ways to get more traffic to your blog is actually…building your email list?

Yep, that’s right. If you’ve been struggling to drive more traffic and attract more social shares for your blog posts, your email list is about to become your new best friend.

You might be shaking your head at this point, and wondering, “What the heck does list-building have to do with blogging? Do I even care about sending emails, or building an email list? I thought I was supposed to focus on driving more traffic, attracting more social shares, and getting more people to comment on my posts.”

Here’s the secret a lot of people don’t know: Building a loyal email list for your blog can get you all three of those things. In fact, it’s one of the very BEST ways to get all three.

Blogger, author and speaker Michael Hyatt, who is one of the most successful bloggers in the world, has a list of over 500,000 email subscribers. He said this about his list:

“I have literally built a million dollar business on the strength of my email list. Ninety percent of my income comes from it. Even today, my email list is still my #1 business priority and asset.”

Michael Stelzner, founder and owner of Social Media Examiner, has a list of almost 600,000 dedicated subscribers who receive his blog posts in their inboxes every day. Stelzner said, “Email is the most important channel for you to cultivate in your online business.”

But why exactly is building a list the key to a blogger’s success? Why is it so important, and why are all the world’s top bloggers recommending you focus on building your list?

4 Reasons You Need to Focus on Attracting Email Subscribers for Your Blog

According to The Inbox Report – which collected details of the email habits of over 1,500 Americans – over 89% of adults check their email at least once a day, and nearly 21% check their email more than 5 times a day.

No other marketing tool allows us to connect with blog readers as quickly and effective as email marketing – and focusing on list-building can give you some remarkable blogging benefits.

Here are four of the biggest reasons why building your list can give your blog a big boost:

1. Your email subscribers will give you traffic on demand.

You will get more unique visitors from your own email list than you will get from practically any other traffic source – especially if you’re a beginning blogger.

When someone joins your email list, they will read more pages on your site than they would if they were not on your email list – so if you want a high-traffic blog, it’s a good idea to focus on building your email subscriber count.

Want to see how you can turn email subscribers into blog visitors? Let’s go back to Michael Hyatt for an example.

When Michael publishes a new post, he sends an email like this out to his list subscribers:

Michael’s email subscribers click one of the links in the email and go straight to his newest blog post. Keep in mind, Michael has over 500,000 subscribers, so that’s a LOT of potential traffic.

2. Email subscribers share your posts.

Once people get to know, like and trust you, they are more likely to share you content on their favorite social media platforms – so if you’re looking for more shares and wondering how to make a post go viral, the answer is in your email list.

As your list grows, your social share numbers will rises accordingly — especially if you prompt people to share your posts, like Jon Morrow does in his content notifications:

3. Email subscribers are more likely to comment on your posts.

Do your blog post comments feel like a ghost town most of the time?

If so, I get it. Getting people to speak up in your comments section is challenging – but once again, you can go back to your email list for the answer to this problem.

Your visitors are more likely to comment on one of your posts once they are on your email list, so your email subscribers will usually be your most frequent commenters.

People often want to be a part of your community before they start commenting, and being on your list helps them feel connected to you – especially when you’re sending them high-quality content on a regular basis.

4. Emails subscribers are buyers.

This one shouldn’t surprise you.

If you want to start bringing in revenue with your blog (or bring in MORE revenue from your site), building your email list is the #1 thing you should focus on.

Jon Morrow tells his students that if they are amateur marketers, they can probably make about one dollar per email subscriber, per month. If you have 5,000 subscribers on your list, that means you can probably make around $5,000 a month from your blog – and it only goes up from there, as you become a smarter copywriter and a better marketer.

If you want to use blogging as a springboard to quitting your day job, improving your lifestyle, or taking that dream vacation, remember that the money is always in your email list.

Setting Yourself Up for List-Building Success

What if you don’t have an email list yet?

Perhaps you’ve been focusing on writing great content for your site, and you didn’t think starting a list was important. Maybe the task “Start an email list for my blog” has been on your to-do list for months.

If that’s the case, don’t keep putting it off! Follow these simple steps for starting an email list for your blog this week:

1. Sign up with a trusted email service provider to help you manage your list and make sure you comply with current CAN-SPAM laws.

I know you don’t want to spam people, and I also know you don’t want to pay steep penalties (up to $16,000 per email!) for violating federal CAN-SPAM laws.

A reputable email service provider (like MailChimp, Emma, AWeber, or Drip) will make sure that the email messages you send to your list are CAN-SPAM compliant, and make it easy for people to subscribe and unsubscribe from your list.

Our fearless leader, Kevin Duncan, uses AWeber (affiliate link) as his email service provider, and I use Infusionsoft. There are tons of choices out there, so you should be able to find a service that fits your needs and your budget. Most services make it easy to sign up and get started.

2. Have a plan in place for how to build relationships with your subscribers.

Last week, I was talking to a client on the phone, and I asked him about his list size.

“I have about 500 people on my list,” he said.

But when I asked him about the last time he emailed anything to his list, he answered “I think it’s been at least six months. I just don’t know what to send them.”

Too many bloggers start bringing subscribers in – and watching with glee as their email list numbers grow – but they have no idea how to connect with those new community members.

It’s critical that you figure out in advance what you’re going to send to your subscribers, and when you’ll send it – and then you keep your word and do what you’ll say you’re going to do.

At the very least, I recommend sending out what I call “content notifications” any time you’ve published a new blog post (see Michael’s example, above), but you can also do a weekly newsletter, a curated blog post of great stuff from around the web, or a daily tip.

Whatever you decide, just do it well, and do it consistently – it will help your new subscribers start to trust you!

3. Create a welcome message for new subscribers.

Most email service providers (like MailChimp and AWeber) will let you send an automated welcome message to new subscribers. This message will go out to new folks who join your list, whether they sign up in the middle of the night or at 2 PM in the afternoon – and because it’s totally automated, you won’t have to lift a finger to send it.

Your welcome message should be friendly and gracious, and it should explain what’s going to happen next.

Once you’ve decided how often you’re going to email your list (see #2, above) explain that plan to your new subscribers in your welcome message, so they know exactly to expect.

For more information on crafting a welcome message that connects with your subscribers and builds trust, download my free report, “The Ultimate Guide to Creating a Warm Welcome Message for New Subscribers.”

3 Ways to Start Building Your Blog’s Email List

There are a million ways to get more subscribers – and just as many bloggers who want to give you advice on this topic – so I’m just going to give you three quick-and-dirty list-building tips.

List-Building Tip #1: Give away something free to get people to join.

Unfortunately, you can no longer just add a little “Sign up for my newsletter!” box to the sidebar of your site, and expect new subscribers to come pouring in the door every day. We are so inundated with email offers every day that most of are really picky about what we sign up for.

Want to know how to get past people’s hesitations? Give them something valuable if they sign up for your list. Some call it a “incentive,” some call it a “bribe,” and some call it a “giveaway.” Whatever you decide to call it – you need one for your blog!

If you give new subscribers an incentive to entice them to sign up for your list, you can build your list up to 10 times faster than you can without an incentive.

If you’re still dragging your feet, look at it this way: Would you rather take one year to get your first 1000 subscribers, or 10 years? Having a powerful incentive on your website can literally save you nine years of time and effort.

Come up with a giveaway idea that it compelling for your audience, and create it this week. It doesn’t have to be long or complicated! Sometimes one-page cheat sheets or checklist bring in more subscribers that 300-page ebooks. Keep it simple and create something quickly.

List-Building Tip #2: Offer your giveaway on your blog.

Once you decide what you’re going to give away, you’ve got to let your blog visitors know you’ve got something great to offer them.

You can add a welcome gate, pop-up, pop-over, landing page, or content upgrade to your site, or simply add a footer to your blog posts that says, “Like this post? You’ll love my [awesome giveaway name here]. Sign up here to get it right away.”

You can use tools like Sumo, OptinMonster (affiliate link), or LeadPages to offer your incentive, or talk to your web developer about the best way to feature your giveaway on your blog.

List-Building Tip #3: Once you’ve got list-building tips #1 and #2 in place, promote the heck out of your blog posts.

Derek Halpern of Social Triggers recommends spending 20% of your blogging time creating content, and the other 80% promoting that content. Sound extreme? I know. I was a little shocked when I saw those numbers.

Even if you don’t meet that standard, absorb the lesson Derek’s trying to impart: We should spend more time promoting the content we’ve already written. This is especially true for the vast majority of bloggers who don’t promote their content at all – they just hit “publish” and pray someone will notice their new stuff.

Looking for idea for promoting your posts? Start with this list of 107 content promotion ideas from CoSchedule. I recommend finding 10 ideas that are in your comfort zone, and four that are “stretch” goals for you (like asking partners and affiliates to share your content) – then doing all fourteen of them every week.

Promote your content consistently, and see your email subscriber (and blog traffic) numbers grow!

List-Building Tip #4: Guest blog for popular sites where your audience hangs out.

Yes, this strategy still works, although it’s not the goldmine it was five or six years ago. There are still great guest blogging gigs out there, but you need to be very selective about where you guest post.

Here are the questions I ask myself before I consider submitting a guest post to a site:

How many people have shared the blog’s recent posts on social media? These numbers don’t have to be in the thousands, but if you see one-digit numbers for every post over the past few months, it’s not a great sign. How many people are commenting on this blogger’s posts? When people consistently comment on the blogger’s posts, it means he or she has an active and engaged community. That’s exactly what I want! Will the blogger let me add a short bio and a link back to my site at the end of my post? Some bloggers want to put advertisements or other links at the end of my guest post, and they want to bury my bio. That’s their prerogative, but it will cut down on the amount of email subscribers I get from my guest posting efforts. Those folks go on my “no” list every time. Will the blogger send an individual email about my guest post to their email mailing list? If yes, that’s a big plus for me as a guest poster – it will mean more traffic, social shares, and comments for my post.

If (and only if) a blogger meets all four of these criteria will I approach them with a guest posting idea.

Hint: When I asked these questions about Be A Better Blogger, I got “YES” answers for all four – which is why you’re reading this post today!

Your Email List: The Springboard to Your Blogging Success

If you’re feeling stuck in your blogging journey – if you’re frustrated by your traffic numbers, aggravated by your lack of comments, and bewildered because no one is sharing your posts on social media – I encourage you to focus on building your blog’s email mailing list.

List-building isn’t easy, but every minute you spend focusing on your list it is going to pay off tenfold in your traffic, engagement, and social sharing numbers.

Start your email list today, and start enticing people to join that list by offering a useful and valuable giveaway. Then use some of the tips above to start attracting more email subscribers.

Here’s my promise to you: Having a loyal list of subscribers who can’t wait to read, share, and comment on your blog posts is going to make you feel like the king (or queen) of the blogging world.

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