#and some prophecy-inducing crack apparently

[fabeong]

Love how yesterday I wrote angsty poetry inspired by Nico Rosberg and the next fucking day Lewis' move to ferrari is announced wtf

[thegraystreaks]

i just read your fics on ao3 and they were so good, i love missing moments from canon! Idk if you ever take prompts but if you do i would really love to read a different way for percabeth to get together in canon?

anon, the way you got me to write something for the first time in ages….

anyway this is super self indulgent but I had a lot of fun writing it!! thank u for your kinds words I would die for you probably!!

this takes place during botl, the day Percy comes back from Ogygia, sometime after Annabeth storms out of the Big House.

-

“Annabeth glared at me. You are the single most annoying person I’ve ever met!” And she stormed out of the room.

I stared at the doorway. I felt like hitting something. “So much for being the bravest friend she’s ever had.”

-

He finds Annabeth in the arena. It’s empty save for her — everyone knows by now that sparring with her while she’s like this never leads to anything good. So she’s taking on a dummy, her anger apparent in the rigid lines of her body, fury in the force behind her blows. She rolls and kicks, dodging imaginary attacks, and Percy could swear that the air is thick, charged, like the feeling before a thunderstorm. Which is stupid — it’s camp, and the magical borders keep the sky cloudless as always. 

As he approaches, the only acknowledgement of his presence is her intensified rage, the way her blade slashes and hacks with renewed vigor. They’re gonna need to replace that dummy, he thinks.

“Can we talk?”

She wheels to face him, thunder in her eyes. For a moment, he’s scared he’ll need to pull out Riptide. She turns to the dummy one last time and stabs it straight through the heart. “You wanna talk? Then go ahead.”

He swallows nervously. Now that he’s got her attention, he doesn’t quite know where to start. His mind flashes to last winter, and how distraught he was when she had been kidnapped. How he’d have done anything to get her back. How he just knew that she couldn’t be dead. He reaches out hesitantly, but pulls his arm back when he glances at the hilt of the blade, still sticking out of the dummy. 

“I was thinking about how upset I was last winter, when you were kidnapped. That, um — well, ‘sucked’ doesn’t really cover it. That was awful. I really am sorry that I worried you.”

Something shifts in her eyes, and he can see the hurt dripping through the cracks of her anger.  “You couldn’t send an Iris Message? I thought you were dead, Percy.”

He scratches the back of his neck. “Drachmas were a bit hard to come by on the island.”

“Ha,” she laughs drily. She pauses to wipe at the sweat on her brow. “What was she like?” The words drip with contempt.

“I don’t — who?”

“Don’t play dumb,” she scoffs. “Calypso. What was she like?”

Air rushes out of Percy’s lungs. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t that. Chiron was right, then. She had figured out where he’d been. 

“Does it matter?”

“Well, you spent two full weeks there, so I can’t imagine she looks like the ancient hag she is. How old is she again? Two-thousand? Or is it three?”

“Annabeth—”

“Two weeks, Percy!” she cries.

“I’m sorry, okay? Time was weird there!” 

“Oh, time was weird, that’s your excuse?”

“Yeah, that’s my excuse!” he shoots back.  “And I wasn’t just laying on a beach being fed grapes or something, I was recovering! From being blown up!”

That seems to drain some of the fight from her. She looks away, and her voice shrinks down: “I’m sorry you were hurt. I—I hate seeing you hurt.” 

In the silence that follows, he thinks inexplicably of Aphrodite coming to visit him last winter, the limo so out of place in the desert. The way that she had appeared, if only for a second, like the girl in front of him. How she had promised she wouldn’t let his love life be “easy and boring”. Gods, why couldn’t it be? The rest of his life is crazy enough. 

He had hoped, briefly, that Aphrodite might’ve forgotten about her promise when they’d returned to Olympus. He remembers a slow, sad song, and his hands on Annabeth’s waist as they had swayed. How it had felt like the pieces were maybe finally starting to fall into place. The memory seems worlds away.

“Annabeth, listen. I’m sorry I was gone so long. But I didn’t choose to be sent there. And—and I came back.”

“Duh, Percy,” she rolls her eyes. “That’s her curse.”

“Okay, you’re right.” She turns away. He reaches out, more confident now, and takes hold of her arm. “But curse or not, I chose to come back.”

She pulls her arm out of his grip. “Yeah, so that you could tell me I have to bring some mortal girl to lead my quest!”

“What does Rachel have to do with this?”

“Are you fucking serious?” she shouts. He can see the walls building back up, the storm returning in her eyes. She whips around and yanks her dagger out of the sparring dummy, kicking up dirt as she begins to stalk away.

This was not how he wanted this to go, not his intent when he came to find her. Of all the ways returning to camp might’ve gone, he had never imagined it like this. He tries to reconcile the girl that kissed him in the mountain with this one, who can’t go more than a minute without yelling at him, that won’t stop running off. Why is this so complicated? She kissed him, right? Isn’t that supposed to be it? The happy ending? If movies told him anything, it was that the kiss means you get the girl. It shouldn’t be this hard. It wouldn’t be, he thinks bitterly, if she would quit storming off.

“Gods, would you stop running away when we’re talking?” he shouts after her. “Would it kill you to stick around and listen to me?”

He’s taken aback when she actually turns around, arms crossed and foot tapping. “Well?” 

Percy blinks. He hadn’t thought this far ahead. Shit, what is he trying to say? “You know, Calypso offered me immortality. I could’ve escaped the prophecy, I could’ve lived in paradise forever—”

That probably wasn’t what he should’ve led with. “If you want me to ‘stick around and listen’, you’re off to a terrible start,” she seethes.

He steamrolls on anyway: “—but I didn’t, I didn’t take her offer, because — well, because of Grover and Tyson, and the quest isn’t over yet, but also because—” he stops. He’s rambling. Focus. How can he say this? “Did you really kiss me back there, or did I make that up in my head?” 

She freezes. Silence stretches out between them, and Percy kind of wants the ground to swallow him whole. But it’s out there, now. Might as well go all in. “I really hope you did, because I’m gonna feel insanely stupid if it was just some volcanic-explosion-induced fever dream.” 

Slowly, she unfreezes. Nods. “Uh. Yeah, I did.”

He takes a step closer. “I don’t care about ‘some mortal girl’. At least, not the way I care about….about you.” He can feel the blood rushing in his ears, can feel his heart beating painfully fast. She’s still just standing there, staring and staring but not moving. She’s not saying anything, why isn’t she saying anything?

“Gods, can you throw me a bone, Annabeth? I feel like I’m dying here—”

He’s cut off when she lunges forward and kisses him. It’s like their first kiss in two ways: it’s over before he can even react, and it leaves him staring, dumbfounded. How is it that she’s caught him off-guard with this not once, but twice now?

“Think you’ll remember that one was real?” she asks, still only inches from his face. Her breath smells of strawberries, and her eyes are puffy from his almost-funeral, but the storm in them begins to clear. 

He laughs, bright and full. “You should probably kiss me one more time, just to be safe.”

“Hmm,” she considers, arms coming up around his neck. “Should I count down so that you can be ready this time?”

He groans. “You are so not making this easy.”

“I am never, ever going to make things easy for you, Seaweed Brain. Get used to it.”

“Gods, you’re insufferable. It shouldn’t be this cute.”

“Three, two—”

He’s on her before she reaches one, one hand pulling her closer at the waist and the other finding her cheek. When their lips meet, it feels like everything he’s been waiting for. Like the clouds parting, like sunshine, like warmth, like happiness.

It may not be their first kiss, but it’s their best yet.

[calpops]

falling facade | c.h.

part two: falling freedom

part one: falling flowers

5k words

Copyright 2020 calpops. All rights reserved. This original work is not allowed to be reposted by anyone else on any platform in any format (translations included). 

<< >>

The previous night was an alcohol induced blur; stiff muscles and a throbbing headache woke Calum. The curtains were pulled shut but a gap in the fabric let a strip of sunlight filter through and shoot extra flares of pain through his head. He stumbled out of bed; the sheets scratchy and unlike the Egyptian cotton that adorned his mattress at home. He took a moment to collect himself, to note the state he was in. Wearing only an undershirt and boxers. Something typical of any night. If the world would just stop spinning for a moment he knew he could figure this out. His clothes laid on the floor just past the foot of the bed and pieces of last night came back to him. A discarded suit jacket laid in a heap and songs that led down the aisle and accompanied first dances filtered through his hazy thoughts. The wedding.

He reached down, felt the dampness of the fabric and furrowed his brows. It only made him more confused for a moment; until flashes of dim light and secretive whispers led him back to a pool. He turned, seeing the red silk dress just inches from his clothes. His heart hammered, too scared to put that piece of the puzzle together. He tried not to think about it, to push it away but a lingering feeling of something unsettling forced him to turn back to the bed. To find another within the sheets. His heart leapt, throat closing in with a wildfire of heat threatening to suffocate him.

It all came back from just one look at his best friend’s sister bundled under the covers. Michael’s sister shifted, a slight groan freezing Calum in his newfound trepidation. Locking in memories he knew he could never tell. Hoped that she would keep as secrets as well. When Arden rolled to her other side and seemingly fell back into sleep Calum let out a breath he wasn’t aware he had been holding and drowned in the memories of just hours ago. Drowning in moments of fingertips lingering and lips brushing against each other, in the sway of their bodies as they danced and fallen flowers they had walked away from.

Calum broke from the reverie of the memories flooding him, only long enough to notice the yellow stain contrasting against red silk and fall back on his heels, stumbling to the chair in the corner and dipping his head in his hands. His heart pounded as he tried to ground himself into the moment and confusing reality  in the hotel room, Arden was still under the covers and Calum still sat motionless in the chair pushed into the corner. The room was quiet save for the even breathing of Arden and Calum’s heart beating so hard he could hear it in his ears. He was flushed and warm, cheeks burning as the rest of the night started piecing together. The yellow stain on her dress, the secret between them and the chlorinated scent that lingered on damp clothes.

He rubbed at his temples, willing the hangover headache to just go away. He couldn’t remember how much they drank but he knew they’d blown past the proposed two drinks at the open bar and meandered their way out of the wedding and to a filthy pub. Arden sighed in her sleep and Calum shot his head up to look at her. Her hair was splashed across the pillow and the red lip stain was faded. Calum’s fingers touched his lips; remembering the taste of sugar and then chlorine. He started making sense of it; pulling back the moment of spilling some horrible and greasy “food” on her dress and drunken giggles deciding it didn’t matter. Stumbling their way back to the hotel and huge eyes casted at the door to the pool. Running in as quietly as possible and jumping in with clothes still on—thinking maybe that would get rid of the stain. Calum could almost feel the breath ripped from his lungs as he plunged under, could hear her laughter echoing around the empty room and the sobering shh that followed it so they wouldn’t get caught.

He pinned his eyes on her, still quiet under the sheets. Her arm came out from under the covers, hands clutching the comforter and a glint on her finger stalling Calum’s heart beat and air supply. Her eyes fluttered open for a moment and her lips pouted.

“Arden, what did we do last night?” Calum managed to ask barely above a whisper. Surprisingly Arden heard and her eyes opened again.

“Went to a wedding,” she said—nothing about the situation alarming to her. Not the headache he was sure she must have, not his presence in what he now knew to be her hotel room. “Drank too much.”

In a broken attempt at an explanation of his confusion Calum swallowed a lump in his throat and forced words out. “Look at your hand.”

Arden, with tired eyes and languid movements brought her hand to her face to inspect. Her arm dropped.

“We also robbed an old lady for her ugly jewelry, apparently.”

It took two seconds for the joke to die and reality to set in. Arden sprang up, the sheets falling and pooling around her hips until they both realized she was only in a bra. She quickly covered herself and stared at the ring on her finger. She shook her head frantically as if trying to convince herself.

“We didn’t, no way,” she let out in a disbelieving whisper.

Calum got up and stumbled to his phone, holding onto a thin hope that there may be photographic evidence or a lack thereof to quell the fears rising in him. It was dead and the case was cracked. He threw it to the floor in disappointment and jumped when the hotel phone rang. He turned to look at Arden who glared at the phone and timidly reached over to answer it.

She couldn’t even get out a hello before Calum heard Michael’s muffled voice yelling on the other side. Arden flinched, dropped her head and the corded phone to the bed; still able to hear Michael’s spiel. Calum picked up key words. What and stupid and even strung an entire sentence together; management isn’t happy. Calum’s heart sank as Arden wrapped the sheet around herself and climbed out of bed to wobble over to her own phone laid face down on the entertainment center. Michael was still reeling on the phone and Calum took it upon himself to move to it and try to calm the storm.

“Michael, hey, Michael!” Calum snapped, finally getting his best friend to shut up. “What did we do?”

A moment of pause ensued before a disbelieving huff and shriek came from Michael. “You don’t even know?”

Arden’s phone seemed to have some life left as she went to Calum’s side and showed him the screen. Instagram was loading, the photo still gray but the caption attached to a post he made sent shockwaves through him.

She said yes. Followed by the date, a bouquet of flowers and a ring.

In the blink of an eye the photo appeared and Calum’s guess and fears were correct. They were close together, Calum kissing Arden’s cheek as she held her left hand up with the gaudy diamond on her ring finger. He couldn’t make out where they were, the lighting was too dim and the photo too grainy. But the fact they were in formal wear and somehow a flower had ended up tucked behind her ear left the photo and caption feeling pretty convincing. And through the panic a tinge of relief cut through. If it was just this photo then maybe they really didn’t do what fears ultimately plagued them.

“Is that it?” Calum whispered, not wanting Michael who was still frantic to hear, Arden understood the implications behind the question and forced a shrug but went to her own camera roll and came up empty.

Arden grabbed the phone from Calum after discarding hers on the bed. One hand still held the sheet tight around her and the other brought the receiver to her ear. “Michael, we’re going to have to call you back.”

“No! You need to get back now. Management wants to see you both.”

Calum heard that sentence loud and clear and felt his knees go weak. “We’ll leave soon. Just. Hold them off for a while,” he suggested and Arden hung up the phone before Michael could say another word. She even went so far as to unplug the cord and sink onto the bed, hands gripping the sheet covering her with a tight hold, pulling it tighter.

Calum’s head was still throbbing, his stomach churning and heart racing much too fast for his liking. Arden had gone peaked, face drained and eyes dull. Her phone was on silent but Michael’s call lit up the screen. She ignored it and turned the phone completely off. Calum bit back laughter, finding it an inappropriate reaction.

“There’s no way we got married,” she voiced their fear aloud and in the moment all Calum could picture was a bouquet that would have landed in Arden’s hands. It was coincidental, it had to be. Calum had never been one to believe in the far fetched and something as silly as an old wedding tradition being a warning or signal—a prophecy—was beyond far fetched in his mind.

“No,” he agreed. “We’d have some kind of proof.”

And in that moment a thought struck him hard and fast. He leaped away from her, just two strides taking him to his suit pants where he last knew his wallet to be. He was desperate in looking for a receipt to the ring and the possibility of a marriage license or a commercialized certificate from a shifty chapel being within the faux leather. He found what could be a receipt but it was water stained and the letters and numbers bled. He convinced himself it was for the ring; the five digit number at the bottom was smudged but it still managed to wrangle the breath out of Calum. It must be for the ring. But there was nothing to accompany it. The lack of papers eased his mind and worries. He voiced his findings to Arden who had slowly made her way over to her bag; still wrapped in the sheet.

“Maybe we thought it would be funny,” she murmured. “It’s got to be a joke.”

“I don’t think management is finding it all that funny,” Calum said and let anxiety of having to meet with them eat away at him.

The last thing he wanted was for Arden to be pulled into the chaos and bullshit of management. But Michael said they wanted to see them both. Surely it was for damage control. They were probably drafting posts of explanation as he and Arden sat in their stupor of confusion and hangover haze. Maybe they’d chalk it up to a joke. Maybe Calum would have to apologize. Maybe they’d let it die off. All those maybes didn’t feel too likely but Calum didn’t voice that thought. Instead he watched as Arden finally left her bag and shuffled to the bathroom with clothes in hand. It prompted him to remember his own things were in his room across the hall. Made him realize he’d spent the night in here.

A storm of new questions were aroused by that but he shut them down. He could only focus on one life altering dilemma at a time. He forced himself off the floor with his things in hand and shuffled out of the hotel door—telling Arden he’d be back and they’d need to leave as soon as possible past the closed bathroom door on his way out. He changed and packed his things with forced movements and was met with the sight of Arden ready to go in the hallway. Dark circles highlighted a night without rest and fidgeting hands told of her nerves. Calum sighed. He wanted to take her hand like he had done at the wedding but stopped himself; suddenly scared to initiate anything that could be perceived as more than platonic. A night with uncertainties followed his every motion and burned his throat with every word.

“Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” she answered and bit her lip. “How much trouble do you think we’re in?”

Calum shook his head and put a hand on her back as he led them down the hall. He couldn’t begin to fathom what sort of storm would be waiting for them. All he knew was that it would be big and possibly dangerous.

“Plenty.”

***

The management office was stuffy; the air was stale and the lights were too bright for the lingering ache in Calum’s head. Michael met them there, not wanting his little sister to face the wrath of management alone. But Calum could tell from the stoic gaze and lack of conversation that Michael would hang him out to dry if it meant defending Arden. No matter how much they bickered and fought and no matter how distant they got from each other, they’re family and family was everything to Michael. Calum understood that. Knew he’d do the same for his sister Mali if the roles were reversed. And suddenly he felt nauseated; the paper cup of water sitting on the oak table in front of him doing little to ease the overwhelming feeling. They hadn’t gotten married—the record showed and proved that—but there were intimate moments that transpired before and after the false engagement announcement that Michael wouldn’t approve of. The team was quiet, staring at Calum and Arden as if they were children needing to own up to their actions, clear their souls of guilt and bear the weight of consequences.

Michael cleared his throat and miraculously spoke up first. “They were drunk. It was just a joke. No one can be taking it that seriously. We don’t need to do anything too drastic.”

The head of management didn’t say a word, just directed their attention to a laptop screen filled with tabloids and tweets and headlines all about the engagement. They were still trending on twitter. And for the first time since morning Calum saw the photo again. It wasn’t the ring on her finger or the caption that stole his attention this time. It was the numbers. The likes were in the millions when his usual posts barely cracked five hundred thousand. Tens of thousands of comments littered the photo. Apparently, plenty of  people were taking it seriously.

“How do we fix it?” Calum choked out, way too overwhelmed to even pretend to have suggestions.

“We use it to our advantage,” the head of management declared and Calum could feel outrage building in his chest. He didn’t want to be used, he didn’t want whatever it was he may or may not have with Arden to be a pawn, he didn’t want Arden to have to play their game. “Make it a stunt. Get good press for about a year and then you can separate.”

While almost everything inside of Calum was screaming no there was a tiny inkling begging him to take the deal. A year wouldn’t be so bad. They could control the narrative and he could keep Arden’s name safe. Without an amicable agreement management could trash her reputation. Spin her into a heartless monster. They had control of his name and socials, they could wreak havoc on her and pretend it was done by his hands. Calum found himself nodding and then looked to Arden who was shaking her head in tiny bursts.

“No. No, I don’t want to be a stunt,” she finally spat out. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Calum could sense the frenzy in her voice; she was verging on hysteria. He reached a hand out under the table where eyes couldn’t see and gave her knee a reassuring squeeze. She turned to look at him, eyes pleading for guidance and another way out.

“I think this is the best we can do,” Calum told her, trying to garner her trust. He’d explain it to her later, when the suits weren’t circling them like predators ready to strike on vulnerable prey.

“Unfortunately, I think he’s right,” Michael pitched in and Calum knew he must have had the same thoughts of Arden being under scrutiny, fire, and slander should she refuse. Even if they didn’t use her name directly. Everyone would know anything vague would point back to her. She was still shaking her head.

“Come on, Arden. I never ask you for anything,” Calum said and brought her back to the yard where all of this accidentally started. She let out a small and sarcastic laugh.

“Alright,” she conceded and blew out a breath. “I’ll do it.”

The head of management gave a grin that was supposed to be friendly but was more unsettling than anything. He pushed papers towards them and Calum collected that they were contracts. A stunt was never just a verbal agreement. That was too risky and uncertain. They wanted it to be legally binding.

“A contract?” Arden squeaked, thumbing through the several pages they had worked up during the hours it took to get back to California. “You didn’t say I’d have to sign anything.”

Arden was looking at Calum then, for answers and for direction. He bit his lip and took up an offered pen, settling the ballpoint to a signature line.

“Shouldn’t you at least read it over first?” Michael jumped in, trying to be a voice of reason and advocate for both sides.

Calum considered that and started scanning; all the words blurring together in legal jargon he couldn’t quite comprehend. He caught the timeline; a year with publicity stunts and posts to sell it. The rest was a blur that left him looking at Arden and Michael who was reading over her shoulder.

Arden looked up suddenly, towards the team. “Why does the split have to be my fault?”

Calum hadn’t caught that within the fine details. He knew the answer to her question; in the eyes of management she was dispensable. Calum’s reputation rained on the band’s livelihood. Arden was the fallout. An easy target. He felt the fight to protect her surging through him, ready to stand up for her and demand a change. But she surprised him by continuing her train of thought with venom in her voice.

“It shouldn’t be my fault. It shouldn’t be Calum’s fault either. It can be mutual. And respectful.”

“People will point fingers if it’s a mutual decision. We’re just looking out for the best interests of the band. Surely, you understand reputations would be hurt. You wouldn’t jeopardize your brother's career, would you?”  

Manipulation. Business would be nothing without it. Arden crossed her arms over her chest, eyes flickering with fury and desperation; clearly not okay with the tactic employed to try to make her bend to their will. She shot Calum a look that begged him to follow her lead.

“The only reputation I can ruin is this company’s. One little tweet detailing the matter of these contracts ought to be enough. The only thing I have is the truth. I can use it, if I want. I haven’t signed any NDA contracts. I’m not a client. My brother’s career would explode with support if the fans knew the truth,” she said, voice contrite and eyes fixed on the man in charge. Her gaze was stony as she slid the papers away from her. “Fix the damn contract.”

Everyone fell silent, mouths hanging open in shock and Calum caught the stifled laughter from Michael. The head of management took her words for what they were worth and pulled the papers back; requesting a redraft. It took a couple of hours for everyone to come to an agreement and for legally binding signatures to be inked. It was night by the time they left the office; fresh air finally finding way to their lungs. There was an unspoken communication to take a moment to decompress after the stressful affair. Arden sat on a bench positioned on the curb, looking worse for wear with her head in her hands. Michael stood by and Calum chose to sit next to her.

“Well, at least they gave us an easy way out,” Calum mumbled; the alternatives spinning through his mind and darkening his thoughts, hurting his heart.

“What about this is easy?” Arden asked, suddenly sitting up to face Calum, eyes wild and in search of answers.

“Trust me, Arden. Management could’ve conceived something worse,” Michael defended but didn’t offer the alternatives. It seemed neither Calum or Michael wanted to be the ones to voice them aloud, not when Arden was already so worked up and the management building sat directly behind them.

They kept their voices low as people passed. The later hour left little foot traffic but the random pedestrian happening to pass by didn’t need to hear their conversation. In fact, Calum was sure that might even get them in more trouble. Sharing this new secret would surely be a breach of contract. He hadn’t read every line of the new draft but he knew how management functioned. For all intents and purposes, Calum would keep it between only those who needed to know.

“You guys need new representation,” Arden mumbled and went back to her position of looking down with her head in her hands and elbows balanced on her knees.

“At least you held your own standing up to them. I’ve never done that. It was incredible,” Calum offered in all honesty.

“I felt like I was gonna puke the whole time,” Arden said, the words muffled with her head down and hands squishing her cheeks. “Still do.”

“Still hungover?” Michael attempted to make a joke but Calum shook his head.

He knew what Arden meant. That same nervous feeling had assaulted him in the office. He’d swallowed it down and tried to even his breathing. It’d come and gone quickly but the situation had fried his nerves completely. He felt numb, fingers tingling with apprehension now that it was just him, Arden and Michael. He knew the gist of it but there were still secrets kept and those moments came back to Calum, guilt eating at him in a fresh wave.

“Nerves,” Calum answered; for Arden and for himself.

Arden nodded and even though Calum knew he probably shouldn’t, not with Michael and secrets made of moments just like it right there, he put his hand gently on her back, hoping it might be comforting. Michael didn’t flinch at the contact but Arden finally looked up. A bit of color was coming back to her face and her breathing began to even out. He felt her press into his touch, accepting the comfort and giving him a grateful glance. Her eyes were bleary with exhaustion and a tired sigh escaped her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, directing the comment at Calum and then turning to Michael. “I’m sorry.”

Calum’s heart sank, caught in that free fall from the night before, but this time it felt like hitting jagged rocks was imminent. It was less like floating through the air and more like dropping. Arden was crestfallen, completely torn apart and convinced it was her fault. Calum shook his head, trying to shake away her apology as he felt it wasn’t owed. It took two to tango. And it surely took two to get drunk enough to fake an entire engagement for the world to see. If it wasn’t happening to him; Calum might have found it amusing. And maybe once time put some distance between it he’d tell the story fondly.

“It’s not your fault,” Calum said, rubbing small circles on her back without thinking about it. It went unnoticed or at least unmentioned by Michael. “You don’t have to apologize.”

“It is. I asked you to go to the stupid wedding with me. I got us drinks. I don’t remember anything about the ring but I woke up wearing it. It’s my fault.”

Michael stood as a silent mediator for them. Offering sympathetic shakes of his head and confused expressions as their discussion unfolded.

“I agreed to go. I found the pub. I bought the ring and made the post, Arden, if it’s anyone’s fault it’s mine,” Calum argued.

Arden’s eyes widened as if a revelation had surprised her.

“You bought the ring,” she said but her tone wasn’t accusatory; it was shocked and followed by a wave of guilt. “How much did it cost? Calum, we should return it.”

He waved her off, wanting to settle the panic and guilt consuming her. “Don’t worry about it. You need it for the stunt, no returning it now.”

Michael, jarring both Calum and Arden as he broke his silence pitched in, “He’s right. It’s not like you could replace it with anything else, fans would catch it in a second.”

“Management probably wouldn’t like it much either,” Calum added and rolled his eyes. Management was the last thing he wanted to cater to after all they had done but the contracts were signed and it was time to play the part.

Calum watched as Arden fiddled with it, twisted it around and around her finger, looking at it with disdain. Calum wondered where this situation would fall on Arden’s scale: okay or not so okay. From the pained expression written on her face and the shake of her leg Calum’s bets were leaning toward the side of not so okay. It was in that moment he became determined to shift the perspective and experience. If they had to go through this, they were going to make it as okay as possible. They were going to control the narrative; Arden had fought for that right after all.

Calum’s hand hadn’t stopped rubbing Arden’s back but the silence they fell into startled him into realizing and stopping. He let out a sigh and she shifted away, a blush capturing her cheeks as she bit her lip and stared at Calum as if trying to figure him out. Michael stared at both of them, for less contemplative reasons and more dumbfounded ones.

“You look exhausted. We should probably get you home,” Calum suggested.

All of his things were still in Michael’s car, all of Arden’s things were too. They didn’t stop on the way, they got to the office as quickly as possible. Michael took an Uber and met them there. Now it was time to leave and Calum could only hope Michael would be kind enough to drop him off at home and that the awkwardness lingering between them all might start to melt on the way.

“Yeah. I’ll go get the car,” Michael offered and Calum tossed him his key fob he had forgotten to give back until that very moment. Michael stalked off and Calum took the chance to have a conversation with Arden alone.

“Thank you,” he began with. “For agreeing to do this with me.”

For a moment Calum contemplated words of explanation. Whether it was the time or place to let her know the reasons he thought it was best. But the words it would take to say it all felt too heavy. He didn’t want her to know it was for her sake more than anything. That she was dispensable in the eyes of business and the only way around ruthless rumors and a ruined reputation was into a contract. That felt like information for another time, or, information that if she didn’t know it wouldn’t hurt her. He decided to reword it; shift the way the blame might feel like it was falling, clearly she felt the weight of it already.

“For me,” he said. “You’re really saving my ass here.”

Arden’s eyes narrowed and if she had any doubts of his thanks she didn’t voice them. She just nodded, a bit dejected and lost. Calum’s hand found hers and she let their fingers entwine though she arched an eyebrow in question at his antics.

“Better get used to it now,” he said while trying to keep his voice light and secrets below the surface. “Gonna be stuck with me for a year.”

“There’s worse ways to spend a year,” she said, a shadow of a smirk crossing her lips. “I guess.”

“Just think; if Ashton hadn’t been busy, you might actually be married to him right now. Till death do you part.”

Arden’s laugh was uncontrolled and free, infectious and a sound Calum craved to hear again the instant it stopped. She drew blank as a reality of being married to Ashton swept past her eyes. Calum was grinning when she pretended to shudder and vehemently shook her head no.

“He is chaotic and convincing enough for that to be a reality. I guess a year is nothing compared to that.”

The car pulled up and even though Michael was able to see them Calum didn’t let go of Arden’s hand. The doors opened and he helped her into her seat, gave her a small wink before taking up a place in the back. The ride to Calum’s place was quiet and offered everyone a chance to think over the events of the past two days and how two days felt like lifetimes. Michael pulled to the side of the road by Calum’s house and it only took Calum a moment to collect his few things and bid them both goodbye. He took one last long look at Arden before the door closed, gave her a comforting smile and told her he’d see her tomorrow. He knew he wanted to see her again whether they were contractually obligated to or not. Whether it was falling freedom now shackled to signatures or something much more.

<< >>

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[soundwavefucker69]

Baby Tal'ika: Mace takes one look at this kid and kisses any peace goodbye

ohohohohoho let’s have some fun with this. I think it’s gonna be long, so I’m putting in a break

-----------

It took a grand total of three seconds for Mace to come to the conclusion that this was his future padawan, and another three seconds for him to come to the conclusion that he was never going to know another moment’s peace in his entire life. Really, it wasn’t hard. The tiny initiate was somewhere between adorable, achingly sad, angry, lonely, scared, and something else Mace had rarely, if ever, seen on a child their age: resigned.

They were resigned, and he could see it in their eyes.

They were also like a dying star in the Force, and already knew how to trick the perceptions of sentients to pass unnoticed and unseen, which brought him to the question of why someone had taught them that at an age when that was the last thing you wanted a youngling who was not supposed to go missing to know.

Mace felt a lot of things when he looked down at one Tal’ika Fox-Kenobi, and not all of them were positive, but they were all very, very sure. Confident. Aching, in their own way.

And the child just looked at him, set their stubborn jaw, and flopped down on the grass of the Room of One Thousand Fountains before reaching up with one tan hand to grasp his own.

“I want to meditate,” they announced, and Mace felt something in his heart ache, because what child their age wanted to meditate?

“Alright,” he agreed, and sat down with them. “But can we speak first?”

They were old, but they had also been raised by a Jedi. And apparently a whole cluster of clones, but that was neither here nor there. So, realistically, they were a youngling, and didn’t need to be initiated into the Jedi, but they also needed to be verified. For a lot of reasons. The way Qui-Gon had brought Anakin into the temple had been a hot mess, ignoring a variety of regulations that were in place to protect a prospective initiate, spouting off about prophecies and things that a child shouldn’t have to worry about, but Anakin had been a lot of things. And Tal’ika had been a lot of things, too. He wasn’t going to do this in the council chambers, which were big and terrifying for someone so young. No, the fountains were a far safer place, far more secure and less scary.

“Yes,” Tal’ika replied, but they hadn’t let go of his hand. Raised by clones, indeed. They were probably used to contact, and constant contact, at that.

“Alright,” he said slowly, and let his big hand lay out on his knee so they could trace over the lines in his palm and pick at his calluses. “You can’t answer wrong, so just be honest with me, and I will be honest with you. Is that fair?”

Tal’ika paused, tilting their head in consideration as they looked for loopholes in that statement, before they nodded, firm and sure.

“Yes. That’s fair,” they decided, firmly, with confidence that made his heart sing. This was a child that was young, and well adjusted, and well loved, for all the turmoil he sensed in them.

“Thank you,” he said seriously, because he always made a habit to thank young ones. “Can I ask you about where you’re from?”

“A ship,” they replied. “The last one blew up, so Cody called help, so we’ve been on the Havoc Marauder.”

Okay, that was concerning. Mace knew that name. No wonder Tal’ika already bit three people. He couldn’t even blame them.

“Not on a star destroyer?” He hedged out, and they scrunched up their nose as they turned his hand over to trace the curves of his fingers.

“Why would I be on a star destroyer? Plo saved me from the Empire, why would I be back with them?”

The what now?

“Why did he save you?” He asked, and they looked up at him like he was stupid.

“Because they killed people like me,” they replied, like it was obvious. “They killed you.”

“I see,” he said seriously, as something uncomfortable settled in his gut. “How did they manage that?”

“You tried to arrest the Emperor, and then he killed the whole council and the Order and threw you out a window,” they replied and frowned. “You don’t take care of your cuticles, Master Windu. That’s not healthy. Plo makes a good cream for cuticles.”

“I’ll be sure to ask him for it,” Mace promised, because Plo did make good cuticle cream, and was constantly harassing Mace in that polite way about how he kept leaving his cuticles cracked and bleeding, and that was a bit easier to focus on than the whole Order being killed. “How long ago was that?”

“Uh... thirteen years? I think? I wasn’t born yet. There’s chips in my bavodu’e’s heads, and they had to kill you. Plo likes to kidnap them so he can take them out. He even taught me how! It’s fun. Better than staying on the ship, anyways,” they responded and rubbed at his cuticles with a little furrow in their brow. “Your cuticles are a mess.”

“My apologies. I’ve been too busy to take care of my cuticles,” Mace said, because they were really liking to circle back to the cuticles. Chips? What on earth? “Tell me about how you’ve been living.”

“We have to travel around a lot, on account of me and the bavodu’e being Impir-icle property that stole ourselves,” Tal’ika responded and shifted their little fingers to start pushing back the offending cuticles. “And Plo is supposed to be dead, so they’re pretty mad about that. He’s very proud that he keeps making them mad. He won’t say it, of course, but he’s very proud.”

“Who do you live with?” Mace prompted, and Tal’ika sneezed. He didn’t even flinch at the flying bits of snot that splattered his hand. They had at least tried to do it into their arm, and they wiped his skin off with their sleeve before going right back to getting his cuticles presentable.

“Uh... Right now, we have Plo, Wolffe, Sinker, Cody, Rex, and we just kidnapped Gregor. Oh! And the Bad Batch. Echo is teaching me how to slice, and Hunter gave me a knife, and Crosshair taught me how to make a headshot. Cody was upset about that. Actually, Cody is upset about everything everyone is doing, because the Bad Batch are ‘gremlins’ and are making me ‘too feral and competentent’. Neyo just left, to join the Rebellion, and he took Thire with him, because Thire keeps getting sad about me, and Neyo didn’t want him to be alone. I think I made him sad, too. But they might be sad because Bly just marched on. He didn’t do well when we took the chip out and got sick. I mean, not sick like when I get a tummy ache, but sick like he didn’t want to get out of bed and just stared at the wall all day. He wasn’t doing well, and then he was gone, and Neyo was trying to take care of him, but Rex said sometimes other people aren’t enough to make you better.”

Mace knew Commander Bly, and the casual hints being dropped that Tal’ika didn’t fully understand was making his stomach sink in his gut. Empire, Order dead, chips that made the clones kill their Jedi, Plo kidnapping clones to take the chips out... It painted a morbid picture for Bly, and a morbid one for Aayla, and he wasn’t certain he wanted to confront the picture in the presence of a child.

“Sometimes people aren’t enough,” he agreed, as careful as he could manage, and Tal’ika looked at him with the big amber eyes he’d seen a million times.

“Is that why Plo is sad?”

“... Yes. That’s why Plo is sad,” because even now Plo was sad, and Mace hated to see it. He couldn’t imagine how Plo would be in the aftermath of a very morbid future Tal’ika was painting. “Can you tell me how Plo is teaching you?”

“Everyone teaches me,” Tal’ika replied dismissively, and went back to pushing back his cuticles. “But Plo and I do meditation in the morning. And before bed. It’s a little hard, with how everyone is sleeping on top of each other right now. Not much room. Lots of people. I have to share a bed with Echo and Tech, cause we’re the smallest. We do a lot of exercises, and he teaches me things.”

“Like how you hide,” Mace supplied, and they nodded firmly.

“Yeah. And the Code, but they also teach me the Resol’nare. Plo lets them, though, so long as I understand how to follow the Code.”

It would seem that in the aftermath of devastation, what few clones left were clinging to the Mandalorian diaspora. He didn’t know how to feel about that. Did that make Tal’ika the second Mandalorian Jedi in history? Force, that was going to be a headache when they got older.

“And your regular studies?”

“Uh...” Color rose in their cheeks. “Leia says they are ‘un-or-tho-dox, but Tech says they’re re-le-vant.”

In hindsight, he shouldn’t have expected much from a half feral Jedi youngling raised by some of the most unorthodox clones he had ever heard of. Cody was wonderful, but he had met Captain Rex, and he knew for a fact their educational modules had to be a hot mess. And then Plo had gone and tossed them in with the damned Bad Batch. Granted, it sounded like he was desperate, given the previous ship blowing up, but the very thought of Tech getting his hands on a hyper intelligent Force sensitive child’s educational requirements was headache inducing.

Yes, the Temple was going to be better for them. Much better for them.

“Can we meditate now?” Tal’ika asked, their voice barely pitching into a whine, and Mace decided he’d grilled them enough. The picture they painted was a bleak future, where the survivors fought for what little happiness a hard galaxy could afford them. And, well, he still had to accept them into the temple, and he had to actually examine their Force core in order to do that.

He knew they would pass, of course, just as sure as he knew they would be his. It was a quiet, uncomfortable confidence in his gut that he hadn’t felt since he first laid eyes on Depa, but this was going to be his padawan, Obi-Wan and Plo be damned.

“Yes. Of course. May I--- Oh.”

Tal’ika had simply climbed to their feet and plopped right between his crossed legs. Right. Raised by clones. Of course Plo would indulge their tactile nature in meditation, and of course they were still young enough to get away with it.

Tal’ika’s spine straightened, and then they breathed out, their eyes slipping shut as they crossed their legs to balance on his calves. Mace just came to the conclusion that this child was forceful, possibly a little too forceful, but there was little harm in it. They evidently had a good head on their shoulders, and far be it from Mace to ever tell a little one no. So, he just balanced his hands on his knees and relaxed into a meditation with their warm back pressed up against his chest.

“Do you need me to walk you through it?” He asked, and they firmly shook their head no.

“No. Plo says it’s time for me to start doing it on my own,” they replied firmly, and Mace’s lips twitched in a smile. Of course they were going to be advanced. This was a Kenobi child.

“Alright. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

They were so firm, so sure of themselves. He didn’t think they’d ever heard a disparaging word from someone in their life, and he was quietly glad for it. There was nothing that gave him greater hope than a young child who knew exactly who they were and what they wanted, a child who had never once been given room to doubt themselves and their needs, who expressed things firmly and aggressively without a hint of shame. It was a good thing.

Slipping into meditation was as easy as breathing. Their little back pressed against his chest, and he followed each breath as they sunk into the Force together, their Force signatures tangling together as they steadily dropped their shields to share with him. Mace let them drift, cataloguing and categorizing the conflicting emotions that had risen up within himself and setting them aside. Anger was there, and pain, and confusion, and fear. How could he not be afraid? They had essentially spoken of genocides, of the clones and the Jedi, and this was his home. His family. He was the Grand Master of the Order, and he had evidently failed it in their time.

He would have to do better.

Tal’ika was still at an age where they needed a little help, and Mace set to the task with an age-old comfort as he helped them identify the emotions in their body that was too damn small for the burning Force presence that engulfed them. They were angry, and they were terrified, despite the cool exterior. They had communicated as much as they could, but someone, namely Plo, had evidently taught them extensively about when words weren’t enough, the Force would suffice. No wonder they had been so demanding about meditation. The fear of all the changes and confusion was a roiling core, and Mace nudged along at their shields, coaxing them into letting them down so he could help.

They did, easily, with only the trust of a child, and Mace hummed as he reached out to touch that fear and press forward with comfort and reassurance. Letting go wasn’t enough, sometimes. It took awhile to learn, and they were far too young to have it mastered. Being validated was important, too, and he made sure to acknowledge the fear and uncertainty overtaking them. It was only natural.

Inch by inch, they let go of the fear, and he buffeted them with warmth and acceptance as they did. The trust of a child was always an overwhelming sort of thing, and he couldn’t help but wish he could spend more time with younglings. It was a lot easier, even with time-traveling post-apocalypse younglings. Adults got wrapped up in their emotions and consumed by them. Younglings, though, did a lot better with letting comfort be comfort and fear be fear and anger be anger. They didn’t mix things up, took anger for safety and fear for a shield.

After helping them detach from their fear and pain and loneliness, which they let go with surprising swiftness, he spent a little time nudging along their shields and examining who the Force was telling him they were. Tal’ika Fox, the child of Obi-Wan Kenobi and Commander Fox of the Coruscant Guard, was a lot more than their lineage. Sifting around, he could see that they were kind, at their core, not at all like their father, who Mace knew never hesitated to cut someone down if they stood in the way of justice. No, this was someone who would hesitate, and at any given opportunity. However, interspersed with that kindness and desire to help was an unsteady nature. No, even unstable, which could be attributed to the cloning techniques used to make them. Or perhaps they had been engineered to be more aggressive and unbalanced. He wouldn’t put it past the Kaminoans. Plo had been apparently doing his damned best to prove the difference in nature versus nurture, though, given how Tal’ika had just demanded meditation when they felt like they couldn’t keep it together for much longer. As they got older, they might need real medication to help balance them out, but for now they could do their best to balance them out in the temple and their upbringing.

Compassion was there, too. Boundless compassion, and forgiveness, which was going to be a given, given their Plo’s apparent proclivities for kidnapping and yanking control chips out of clones’ heads. They’d probably been shot at a fair number of the clones they’d saved, and probably had been scared by a good amount of them, but here they were. All of the tenants of the Order so entrenched in their being.

Yes. They would be fine for the Jedi.

It was almost nice, sitting in the grass with them on his lap, taking this meditation so seriously, serious as a heart attack. He could feel their single minded focus, and it brought a sense of fondness to the whole ordeal. He needed to do this more often, probably after he solved the problems presented by their little time traveling initiate. He almost lost track of time, just letting the Force flow around them as he let his mind drift, emotions rising up and being set to the side, correcting nudges given whenever their attention began to focus. In fact, he did lose track of time, right up until the moment someone cleared their throat behind him. He hadn’t even felt Ponds come up, more focused on fixing Tal’ika’s posture.

“Commander,” he said as he opened his eyes. Tal’ika let out a quiet noise of frustration at the interruption, and he patted them on their shoulder.

“You told me to collect you for the briefing, sir,” Ponds said, and Mace ignored the mild amusement radiating off the man at the sight of his general with a mini Obi-Wan in his lap.

“Well, we’ll have to drop Initiate Tal’ika off at their creche, first,” he replied as Tal’ika climbed to their feet and straightened their robes, which they seemed to be deeply displeased to be wearing.

“I can take myself,” Tal’ika declared, and Mace cringed at the thought.

“The last time you ‘took yourself’ to the creche, you ended up in the restricted section of the Archives with a lightsaber that did not belong to you,” he replied, and Tal’ika paused.

“Well, if you don’t want your weapons to go missing, you shouldn’t leave them laying around just anywhere,” they sniffed. “Cody told me Obi-Wan was always leaving his saber everywhere, so I was really doing a good deed. For Cody.”

Ponds was physically restraining himself from laughing, and Mace was just infinitely glad he had no bad habits, because he wasn’t sure he’d survive the humiliation of Tal’ika helpfully correcting his.

“I’m not sure Obi-Wan would agree with you, Tal’ika,” he said gravely, and Tal’ika crinkled up their nose.

“That’s because he doesn’t know what’s good for him, Master Windu.”

“Sir, you are going to miss the briefing,” Ponds cautioned, and Mace leaned over to pick Tal’ika up and set them on his hip.

“I’m the Grand Master of the Jedi Order. They can wait,” he replied, and Tal’ika snorted.

“That’s abuse of power,” they said, very seriously, like they had heard it many, many times before.

“We all have our vices, Initiate Tal’ika,” Mace replied, just as seriously, and Tal’ika took his face in two very small hands to turn it to them so they could look him directly in the eye.

“I don’t.”

Ah, yes. Their apprenticeship was going to be a nightmare. Mace couldn’t wait.

[blankdblank]

Anaticula Pt 49

- Borrowed a quote from Tolkien for 2nd Prophecy -

Pt 1 - Pt 2 - Pt 3 - Pt 4 - Pt 5 - Pt 6 - Pt 7 - Pt 8 - Pt 9 - Pt 10 - Pt 11 - Pt 12 - Pt 13 - Pt 14 - Pt 15 - Pt 16 - Pt 17 - Pt 18 - Pt 19 - Pt 20 - Pt 21 - Pt 21b - Pt 22 - Pt 23 - Pt 24 - Pt 25 - Pt 26 -  Pt 27 - Pt 28 - Pt 29 - Pt 30 - Pt 31 - Pt 33 - Pt 34 - Pt 35 - Pt 36 - Pt 37 - Pt 38 - Pt 39 - Pt 40 - Pt 41 - Pt 42 - Pt 43 - Pt 44 - Pt 45 - Pt 46 - Pt 47 -

Raised safely in Neville’s arms you were aparated home again straight to your room where across a towel you were laid for Remus and your father to inspect the wounds on your middle as Regulus inspected your slowly bleeding burn scars after laying Harry beside you. In a hurry the others rushed off for supplies and snacks for you and Harry as Percy rushed in to your side, “Jaqi! Harry!”

Slowly your eyes cracked open and you flashed him a weak grin, “Hey Perce.”

Carefully he brushed your hair from your face eying your still bleeding scar, “What happened?”

In a weak chuckle you said, “I slapped him.”

Percy looked up at the others and Ron by Harry’s side chuckled saying, “She slapped Riddle across the face.”

Percy looked down at you, “You’re alive…”

You giggled again then winced at your father dripping more Phoenix tears onto your bleeding burns healing them one at a time, “Sorry Pumpkin, few more.”

Remus caught Percy’s eye saying, “We’ll show you the memory later.”

Regulus, “It was remarkable. One on one with him. Never seen anyone match him like that before.”

Turning your head you caught Dumbledore’s eye saying, “Professor.” Moving closer to your side his hand folded around yours.

“Yes child?”

“I’m sorry, about using your wand.”

He shook his head and patted your hand, “No, no, no. Don’t you concern yourself about that. It was a spectacle in the most wondrous of ways. I see you’ve been able to study my dueling memories somehow?”

A smirk eased across his lips and you replied, “The wand showed me how you moved. Let me see a few counter curses, really old ones.”

Deepening his smirk, “A good thing about an old wand, old memories. And very loyal friends. If you know how to listen that is. I would have no other wielding it.”

Regulus dabbed your cheek again asking, “Does your scar hurt?”

“It’s sort of burning, not as bad as before, but not when you touch it.”

Remus, “Do you still feel the link?”

Lowering your gaze you closed your eyes then nodded when they opened again. “It’s there, it’s weaker, but it’s there.”

Dumbledore’s head cocked to the side, “Weaker?”

You nodded, “I could feel it, withering, no, not withering, but, when our minds linked and I pushed him back, part of it seemed to go back with him.”

Dumbledore nodded and is eyes scanned over the floor releasing your hand to stand and start pacing, your father said, “Perhaps it might be too hard for him to control how much of himself he takes back after severing off so many pieces.”

Remus, “I can’t imagine it is easy to measure out your soul.”

Ron looked between you, “What’s this about souls?”

Looking at Ron you said, “There’s a way that Riddle found in a way to make himself immortal,” in a roll onto your side allowing them to start healing your back you winced then continued as Regulus kept your stained hair out of your face he was still tenderly cleaning, “Horcruxes. Pieces of a soul kept in an object or living being.”

Ron, “How would you even make pieces of a soul?”

Sirius, “You have to kill someone.”

Ron, “So you’re saying, you said, your scar. You’re a horcrux?”

You nodded, “I was before too, before I went to Azkaban, but the Dementors ate the first one.”

Ron nodded, “And now he’s back, and you are one again.” his eyes dropped to his lap then rose again after wetting his lips, “Then all we need is a Dementor again. Maybe you can call one of those foxes, the one that brings them so you don’t have to link minds with him again.”

Your head tilted, “Only thing, Novem seems to be off exploring with his friend, left Newt’s some time ago even the dragon and birds are lost to where they went to.”

Ron, “We’ll find a way to get one. Any others?”

You shook your head, “Other than a snake he hasn’t got anymore, we found the rest, he just doesn’t know that yet.”

Tilting your head more your eyes closed at the closer to your nose Regulus got while Harry stirred and sat up with Ron’s help, “Hey there Harry. You all right?”

His head tilted to the side, “Not the worst I’ve been.” Before long he left with Ron and the twins to all get some food as Percy took Dumbledore to answer a call to the Ministry.

Alone in the room a soft sniffle from you stopped Sirius and Regulus. Over his legs your father crawled at your hand covering your eyes to lay out and hold you against his chest. Tightly in his arms you sobbed through his low assurances he wouldn’t go into any traps or battles without a double again, and when you calmed you shifted back onto your side letting them finish healing your back as you summoned a fresh shirt from your closet to change into. Tossing your bloodied shirt away you asked, “Did you hear anything? At the arch?”

Regulus, “Heard your Mum,” you all looked at him, “Telling me to keep you away from it.”

Sirius, “Did you hear her?”

“No, I don’t know who I heard. It said, ‘I am here. Not yet. Balance the scales. Trust. Hope. Love.’ What’s it supposed to mean? I don’t even know who said it.”

Remus, “Balance the scales, clearly it has to do with the war.”

Regulus, “What about that Prophecy?”

Sirius looked you over, “Prophecy?”

“Right.” Leaning back you reached into your pocket pulling out your enchanted pouch from which you pulled out hearing its soft whisper.

‘Child of four pillars blessed by Dragons old, no kindness may yet find you yet your heart will never cold. A shield for all forgotten, Monster to Man’s eyes. In place of the Dark Lord they will set up a Queen. 

And you shall not be dark, but beautiful and terrible as the Morning and the Night. Fair as the Sea and the Sun and the Snow upon the Mountain! Dreadful as the Storm and the Lightning. Stronger than the foundations of the earth. All shall love you and despair. 

Fires and turmoil shall pave your road to return upon my call. Always watched and guarded, blessed be your reign. Queen of scales balanced wrongs righted and glorious tales. Of all those sent wandering our light inside you grows. Soon you’ll be returning to paths you shall not know. Hold fast as darkness finds you, near light it ever grows. The path goes ever onward, when I call you, you will know.’

Teary eyed you looked at the trio in various stages of rubbing their faces while you floated the orb to your dresser to sit on a stand you made for it. Sniffling softly you said, “Well that certainly wasn’t cheerful at all. Is it mandatory for all prophecies to be death sentences? No kindness may yet find you, very hope inducing.”

Remus, “Someone’s calling you. New ally maybe in the war.”

Regulus, “One of your blondes, or their friends you keep dreaming of?”

You shrugged, “Who knows. Closest I’ve come to a date is something about my birthday, and apparently there’s a morpher baby in my future.”

Your father’s lips parted and you called your dream journal over showing the sketch of you having tea with the blondes and a group of their friends in some garden courtyard they all looked over. Wetting his lips your father asked, “Any clue on a name?”

“In the snippet I called him Teddy.”

Remus, “I always wanted a son named Teddy.”

“Maybe he’s yours and I’m babysitting? I’ve had other dreams where you’re with the dark haired guy in this one. He looks, maybe at least a year, so nine months to have him, another year to get that old, two, three years till we meet them? Just long enough for the world to go to hell.”

Regulus tapped your arm in the image, “Your mark. It’s showing, meaning Riddle’s dead. That’s a good sign at least, even if none of them are smiling.”

Remus looked you over saying, “I’ll get you some soup.”

Leaning back against your pillows you grinned at your father in his move to snuggle up against you nestling you in his arms to flip through your dream journal inspecting each sketch. The one with Sebastian on the Daily Prophet however stopping him at the smudges from your tear drops as it read he was engaged and expecting with one of the Bulgarian Team’s Veela cheer squad. Softly he mumbled reading the date as set for this July, “Oh Pumpkin…” Leaning in he kissed the top of your head folding his arm tighter around your back, “We’ll find your soulmate. We’ll find them.” Kissing you again.

..

By the hours end the teens were back at school and you were down in the sitting room with the twins, your father and uncles while over the radio hearing that you, Dumbledore and Harry were publicly apologized to for all the slander Fudge sent out about you and your family. Of course the larger story being that he had resigned and Umbridge was being suspended and removed from Hogwarts to St Mungos after having been freed from the herd of Centaurs by Dumbledore, who was being returned to his rightful place as Headmaster.

By nightfall Trelawney and Hagrid had been welcomed back into their old positions while you, Fred and George eyed your letters clearing you of all restrictions and lifetime restrictions Umbridge had given you with a full welcome to return for your final weeks of the first term and the rest of the second until you graduate in June. Staring at the letter over dinner George was the first to speak, “Well, if we do go back now we’ll be in time for the Ravenclaw match.”

A grin split across your face, “True.”

Fred, “Plus, you could actually get to put that Head Girl title of yours to good use.”

At the doors Sirius entered the sitting room with your trunks stacked in the doorway alongside your owls eager to be back to use with Tulip peeking inside, “If you hurry you can make it to supper.”

On your feet you all walked over to the trio hugging them tightly then pulled back. Looking over your father’s face he smiled at you cupping your face, “Enjoy your last term. I love you Pumpkin.”

Stealing another hug you mumbled back, “I love you Dad.”

Fred and George closed in around him too making him laugh, “We love you too!”

“I love you too boys.”

Strolling around them you called your door and levitated your things back to their places in your dorm, inside which Cedric popped up from his desk and just about tackled you all in a tight hug onto the benches, “You’re back!” He pulled back then said, “I mean, we knew Dumbledore would bring you back, but, you’re back!” he looked you over taking in the bruises around your neck and knuckles before stealing a glance at your darkened scar, “You ok? We saw the picture, Ron and them made copies for the paper. He was strangling you, and that slap!” Your brow inched up at his hands gripping your shoulders, “You slapped, him, across the face. And lived!!” At your awkward giggle he paused then asked, “What’d it feel like?”

Your head tilted to the side, “I mean, I was sort of in an adrenaline rush from dueling my aunt, but, stung a bit.”

He laughed, “It was a hell of a slap.”

Your heads turned to the door that crept open with gasps rippling on the other side before you were pulled through to the common room with echoes of ‘you’re back!’ rippling around the room. All until dinner they asked for a full recap of what had happened, in which you conveniently forgot a few names, same as Harry forgetting Lucius after having his sticky spot explained more in detail by Barty and Snape upon their questioning him for his status and especially yours.

Slytherins were first to spot you rippling echoes of their gasps and growing questions for you until finally the main hall opened up and everyone seemed to stop and turn to greet you three personally welcoming you back again. Steadily they trickled into the Great Hall after doing so and the rest having missed it fell silent when you entered, the giddy squeak from Minerva sounded and shifting into her cat form she hurried under the table between you and down the steps shifting back a few feet away widening your grin as she said, “There you are!” Hugging you three as tightly as she could manage then pulled back looking you all over. A gentle shift of your bangs showed the still darkened scars, “Does it hurt?”

“Only when I let my mind think about it. It’ll pass.”

She cupped your good cheek, “Oh,” shaking her head, “You slapped, him-,” shaking her head again, “Oh.”

Behind her Barty strolled up smirking alongside Snape, the former who looked to the twins, “Marvelous combusting buffer charms, Neville showed us the pictures from the scuffle,” he shook his head exhaling in a short puff, “Wow.” He looked to you, “And you, simply marvelous.”

Claiming a hug of his own while Snape stated, “I possibly cannot fathom which of your parents you could have inherited that idea from. To slap the darkest Wizard of our age.” Students readied to jump to your defense until he said, “True no other bloodline could muster the sheer audacity and effort to do so, and quite justly too. None deserves such a bold action as you, or could have managed to live through it, I am surprised you returned tonight I imagined there would be a celebration of some sort from your father at least. He is well?”

You nodded with a teary gaze he answered with a tight hug of his own, “12 parts foolish and four parts bravery, what your mother always said,” you pulled back nodding as he added, “Solves any problem and the key to her success. Of course quadruple the foolish and you have your father’s. For now, eat up. Exam tomorrow.” Making you three chuckle and nod moving to take your seats at the table catching the smiles and grins from the rest of the DA and your family in doing so, once there Dumbledore stood tearing Harry’s eyes from you in your battered state.

“As it is clearly obvious our Triplets have been fully cleared of any punishments and expulsions that were so wrongfully bestowed, further on that, any wrongful punishments in the past term will be expunged from all records and we will start afresh. Again I will be taking over Umbridge’s courses, for those sixth and seventh years willing to return to it after your strike. Further more, on punishments, all bans and restrictions for all clubs, including Quidditch teams are lifted, our usual Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff match will be on schedule if the weather allows. As for the Prefects, each and every one of you are being reinstated to your positions if you care to accept them back again, kindly stand,”

Around the hall all the Prefects stood accepting the badges floating to them they gladly pinned onto their robes again through the sea of cheers. While you and Topper waited a moment then joined them as he said, “And of course our Head Boy and Girl. The pair of you have continued to show the qualities instilling our faith in you that our student body will be led in the proper path we should tread. If you would please stand at your acceptance.”

Two pins floated back to you both that you added to your robes then looked up at him again when the second round of cheers died down, “These truly are troubling times, but in these times each and every one of you has given me hope. Hope that we can overcome anything, by banding together. You defended this school, you all saw a tyrant and when the Ministry refused to act you did, blocking all you could without resorting to violence. We will need that, loyalty, trust, love of one another on a human level to bind together for a peaceful future. Tomorrow classes start up as usual, you can be students again, but kindly, do not forget what you have done and what you can do to change the world. All it takes is one no, wavering or firm, one no and others will stand with you against tyranny and cruelty. Please take your seats, and let us feast with a toast to a brighter future, shaped by each and every one of you.”

…

Breakfast brought with it the papers. All showing copies of the pictures filling the issue with most focusing on your slap used for a story apologizing to you for everything from blaming your family for the escape of the Death Eaters. Up to them finally admitting your supposed ‘boggart induced accident’ in the Triwizard Tournament was indeed from a Death Eater so far from imagined up with proof Riddle was indeed back. Somehow though in the whirlwind downfall Fudge was in it left you all wondering who was following the buffoon up to bat and what they would unleash upon the Wizarding World.

Yet all the same as soon as breakfast ended you were up and on your way off to Herbology a nice and simple jump back into class for you three to melt back into it. Through the aid of numbing creams for your bruised knuckles you added your gloves brought from your assigned cubby complete with set of tools to return to tending to your assigned plants other Puffs had been taking turns tending to and collecting from. 

Gathering all the collections Professor Sprout grinned at you all and brought out your next subject, a giant molting pineapple looking bulb needed to be cleared off and properly tended to, a task taking you all to handle it properly in the allotted time before it would bloom with either a waft of citrus or rotting garbage. Thankfully it was the former and once it did you all collected the seeds from its slime filled center you couldn’t but help to gag in collecting your share.

Magical Creatures came next with your aiding a band of Acromantulas to collect some of their venom and help clear a few minimal sores after having encountered a magical weed they had a bad reaction to.

Double Potions came next, eased onto your desk was a small cylinder of cream from Professor Snape for your bruised neck and hands. Generously you applied it and used an enchanted quill to take notes in his explanation of the potion you would be brewing through the week, each day adding a new supply of ingredients or sifting and straining in various stages using the shivering cauldrons you had been instructed to purchase for this year followed by an exam to fill the rest of the time.

Double Charms was followed by RoR then lunch. While Cedric hurried off for a Puff Paper meeting you headed down to the Chamber in which Tulip had been settled again and you, Fred and George started up on the next batch of products for your shop that Oliver had been handling the day to day minimal orders while the majority of all your orders were being handled by mail. The few days it sat open Oliver would be in charge with the rest of the week free built around his team practices and games he would have to travel for.

A pattern he hoped you all would be joining him on once you graduated. Hopefully joining him on the Kestrals Team, who had been readying to lose their best four players. Full invitations to warm up with them through August were offered and enthusiastically accepted by you all, especially Cedric who was also taking an internship with the Quibbler over the summer. Plans were being made and as painful as it all seemed to leave school you were eagerly hoping that it could lead to new beginnings that once this war had been ended you could fully enjoy the freedom of it.

Again out of habit your hand rose to fidget with the chain on the necklace from Sebastian you had long since removed from over the summer after the dream you had about him clearly moving on. Simply rubbing the back of your neck you sighed and stared at the letter you were drafting to your aunt Petunia about inviting them to Christmas to share what was coming, a suggestion your father and uncles agreed to, especially as the spell protecting them and Harry would be breaking soon.

Transfigurations came next with two breaks leading to dinner followed by Ancient Runes and History.

By the end of the week you had settled into the groove of it again and were relieved to head back to Hogsmeade where you could have a bit of retail therapy. Gladly bundled up in the increasing snowfall between Snape and Barty you strolled though each shop chatting with the pair who couldn’t be happier to spend all the time they could with you as the other students went a bit crazy at their first trip back to the shopping center in so long.

.

Quidditch came early the next day after the mini blizzard through your shopping spree and even after the break you were right back at it and through the usual head to head battle it was another stolen victory from Cedric followed by a consoling cup of cocoa for Cho followed by a sharing of sweets from the trip the day before.

The following week you sat for the exams they had and you were content on your final evening to relax before the train ride home again. “Scrimgeour?” Looking at the Prophet front page reading the name of Fudge’s replacement Fred asked. “Isn’t he just another Fudge?”

Cedric nodded, “Dad says that’s close to what he is, always on about how supportive to Fudge he was past the attacks on you. Never outwardly denied Riddle, but no doubt he’d hoped it was lies.”

“I doubt anyone wanted it to be past lies. Aren’t we supposed to have a vote for Minister? Does it say if he’s a temp?”

George, “I doubt they would want a temp.”

Fred nodded, “Probably have too much doubt in a vote right now too.”

“Great.”

Cedric, “Look at it this way, even if he is another Fudge he wouldn’t dare play the same games as him. He can’t be that daft when you’re on every paper.”

With a sigh you settled back in your seat and looked out the window making Fred ask, “Petunia answer you yet?”

You shook your head, “No, Harry said something about Marge visiting for early Holiday. Maybe she’s just busy.”

George chuckled, “Hopefully he doesn’t blow her up again,” Softly you chuckled though even under your hat the darkening of your roots slowly faded through to the end of the braid being smoothed between your fingers.

“Hopefully.”

Pt 50 

[hoenn-hakase]

So I work in retail, and this post I saw the other day was on my mind nearly my whole shift and while most of the responses crack me up, it seems like the tired, broken, cynical worker is almost commonplace. The Chosen One then is probably the weirdo who, like the original prompt brings up, someone seemingly happy with the job which just makes them seem out of place. 

They’re like your classic RPG hero where every day is filled with fears and hope it’s all going to go well. 

The one that customers have come to know by name because they’re always there to greet them with a genuine smile. And when they ask “Can I help you?” they mean it. They WANT to help you, and would just as easily stop their work to go looking for some unicorn plush a woman swears she saw the other day, all the while listening to and engaging with the mother in a conversation how it’s *important* to find it for her daughter’s birthday apparently. And they find it, even though they know they have to explain what came up to their boss eyeing them with suspicion as to why they left their post.

The one who listens intently to all the stories that pass through their line with glee and compassion as they hear of parties they’ll never attend and weddings not happening for months. Sharing the sympathies for loved ones in the hospital and buying food and trays for funerals. 

The one who seems to carry a bounce in their step as they move between ALL the duties a cashier has to do anymore (because heaven forbid you ever be idle for a moment outside of the mandatory break). That looks at the wall of stock and decides to try working it like a puzzle. That gets excited over hidden items they find while cleaning. That has learned the rules well enough to know which ones are needed and which ones are dumb and all of which they’ve learned to trust their judgement to know when bending the rules is actually the right thing to do (and how to get away with it in). And sometimes when it gets just quiet enough and they’re wiping things down or reorganizing the shelves, or just taking their break they hum little ditties playing through a tired brain.

The one who, while not actually being a manger of any kind, will still go over to where they see their co-worker is having a problem. If it’s the customer being a jerk, then put on their best authoritative voice and calmly explain to them the HERE’S WHAT WE’RE GONNA DO and see if they can deter the conflict before having to call in someone higher up.

The one who has been loyal and dedicated and hard working enough that when the call comes to go save the world, they don’t even have to quit. Their boss and co-workers all understand that Chosen would never leave them short like this (because they’re someone you can depend on) unless it was super important and rather than quitting, the boss figures how to cover them being gone for three weeks before we determining if this really is a permanent leaving because they just really don’t like the thought of losing someone so good. 

And you KNOW that if this were a classic adventure, Chosen was close enough with their boss and coworkers that the traveling party knows they can always stop in for supplies, information on what’s happened while they were gone, and maybe take a rest. 

They’re the one who, even if it never felt like it in the day to day grind, they made an impact. The customers wonder what happened to them and if they’re alright when they realize they haven’t been seen in a while. The boss occasionally texting them for updates on the situation and asking if they think they’ll be back or if they need to make for more time. The one who everyone is rooting for when they finally leave because it always felt like they could have, and should have, been doing so much more. 

And while the Chosen may feel they’re really not that special, and don’t know what it is about them that makes anyone believe they can save the world (prophecy be damned) it’s that level of calm in the face of aggression. It’s that willingness to help someone even if it’s just one person with a question. They’re tired and sore and mentally exhausted, but they’ve learned to keep going. It’s that holding onto the glimmer of hope for humanity even after dealing with some of the most terrifying, annoying, rage-inducing, tear causing, muckraking, hellion people you’ve ever met and never get a word of thanks. And then still coming back the next day with a smile. 

Or plot twist the ENTIRE party is made up of ex-retail workers and I guess this one would be the Princess trope to travel with the jaded Ready To Paunch Things worker, the Lawyer It Up on Benefits worker, and our Has Dealt With People’s Bullshit So Much Could Be A Diplomat worker

[casualarsonist]

Star Wars Episode VIII: The Last Jedi review

*SPOILERS*, but who cares at this point?

I’ve placed a lot of expectation on myself for this review. It’s been through three incarnations already, and I still can’t get it right. It’s muddled, it says too little about too many things, it’s all over the place emotionally, and it needs a good edit. 

...Hey then, I suppose in that case it’s perfect, because it’s exactly like Star Wars: The Last Jedi *badoom tish*.

For those that don’t know, I’m a massive Star Wars fan with all the usual caveats applying - not the prequels, not the garbage games, not the Christmas Special. And yet The ‘Last Jedi’ was the first Star Wars film ever released that I straight-up refused to watch. It started with me simply failing to care, and then it became an antagonistic joke to some people who asked me to review it, until finally it turned into a matter of earnest protest - I was not going to pay to see this film, because that way Disney wins. It was only after I realised it was released on a streaming service that my girlfriend had a subscription for that I decided to bite the bullet. I’ve asked myself many times before and since how the hell things could possibly have gotten to this point - to the point that I, the second biggest fan I know, for whom the series was and is a deep and integral part of my life, would simply stop giving a shit?

In the case of The Last Jedi, it began with the mundanity of Disney’s output. Who would have guessed that, after all the prophecies of hope and dread following the corporation’s acquisition of the Star Wars licence, the actual end-result would be that they would simply bore us to death with aggressively average releases? That fact, coupled with the unfathomable laziness of The Force Awakens’ rehashing of A New Hope’s story, and the cavalcade of negative press, reviews, and anecdotes I read and heard in the wake of The Last Jedi’s release hammered the last nail in the coffin with such force, it might as well have been fired directly from the Death Star. For what it’s worth now, it’s immediately clear that even though the prequel trilogy are, by most metrics, terrible films, at least they still very much fit into the Star Wars universe. There’s something about George Lucas’ touch, something that I can’t explain, in that while it stands for nothing in terms of guaranteeing quality, it can at least be counted on to sprinkle originality and imagination over an otherwise well-worn, classic story. George Lucas’ Episode VII sure as hell wouldn’t have been a blatant reboot of A New Hope. And whatever your thoughts on the man, the fact is that without him, we’re stuck in a real worst-case scenario: a bunch of isolated  ‘enthusiasts’ writing disconnected fan-fiction screenplays for the corporate zombies on Disney’s board to mutilate in accordance with their latest focus-group data. Mediocre scripts rendered ever-more tedious by a studio intent on watering down anything and everything that might turn someone away, and in doing so, they end up turning away everyone that was looking for something new. For the series that I so adore, this is a fate worse than death. So it is that we end up with Rian Johnson’s crack at the franchise, and so it is that I found myself completely and utterly ambivalent. 

I wish I had enough passion in me to savage this film - to create a real spectacle piece, a cathartic script to read for anyone else feeling angry and disappointed. I wish that, after all the waiting and the bemused anticipation, The Last Jedi had made me mad enough to rip it to pieces...but, honestly, I don’t know if it did. I think the overwhelming sensation that filled me when it was all said and done was that it met my expectations exactly. And don’t get me wrong - by most metrics, The Last Jedi is an utter clusterfuck. By most metrics, it’s a terrible Star Wars film. But it’s not like Johnson scorched the earth of the franchise - Disney had more to do with that than he. Johnson’s script simply built itself a weird, amateurish hovel atop a pre-existing ruin. And while I’m not saying that no-one could ever possibly release a good Star Wars film again (even though I don’t think they will), for me - and judging by the extremely lackluster numbers of ‘Solo’, a great deal of others - Disney simply cannot recapture the strange, flawed, wizard-magic of George Lucas and Lucasfilm, and I don’t know if I’m ever going to care about another Star Wars film again. 

Yes, it’s that famous nerd-fan hyperbole at play here - I won’t deny that I care more than I should - but I want to reiterate that I’m not so much in histrionics over this particular instalment, but about what the film and its collective flaws represent. The feeling George Lucas got during the test screening of The Phantom Menace - that dreadful understanding that your multi-million-dollar creation is a dog’s breakfast - is a feeling that should have echoed throughout the entirety of Disney HQ when The Last Jedi was first screened. Disney’s fractured, unfocused, haphazard production process is directly mirrored in The Last Jedi’s fractured, unfocused, haphazard final product. Its plot is a mess and filled with holes and unfinished ideas. It’s tone-deaf. Every single attempt at humour is groan-inducing. It’s so fixated on concluding the stories of old, core characters, and yet unceremoniously shovels beloved side-characters into a mass grave; and every single time it tries to introduce someone or something new, they either don’t fit properly into the universe, or the film drops it like a pot of Kevin Malone’s chili into the middle of a confusing series of events, glossing over character’s histories to such an extent that it’s impossible to care about them. Admiral Ackbar is in this film, apparently. I didn’t know that until one of the characters mentions that he’d been killed. Maybe I wasn’t paying enough attention, or maybe they said his name while I was yelling at the TV in incredulous rage, but one of the most revered characters in the series is eliminated with such little fanfare, I didn’t even know he was onscreen when it happened. He’s then supplanted by a commander that was apparently trained by Leia, but has never been mentioned in 40 years of canon. She’s killed an hour later. That’s cool. That was a good decision.  

It’s going to be really hard to detail all the missteps in The Last Jedi’s lumbering progression towards its underwhelming end, but I’ll try to relate some of the most impactful. Through an absurd web of barely-connected story threads, we follow Luke Skywalker as he drinks raw milk from an alien’s tit. We see General Hux turned into some slapstick comedy ragdoll existing only to scream incomprehensibly and be dragged around the set by the dark jedi. We see Luke toss his old lightsaber away as if the last time he had it, it didn’t disappear down a bottomless pit. We’re still not given an explanation as to where and how it was found, and we probably never will. We see every side character from the previous film either written-out or killed. We see Leia somehow master the Force to overcome certain death, and it’s never explained how. We see an X-Wing ‘drift’ in the vacuum of space. We see Captain Phasma return as if she’s some kind of nemesis to Finn, only to have her ass kicked by the ex-stormtrooper grunt in a 30-second fight before falling to her presumed death. Leia chastises Poe for being reckless, then immediately sanctions his recklessness. Finn decides that the only way to stop a First Order weapon is to fly into it and kill himself. This does not happen, and there are no consequences. Yoda’s force ghost somehow burns down the site of old Jedi texts, and then the texts turn up unscathed in a throwaway shot later on. A joke prop from A New Hope is given a role of sentimental importance, even though most people won’t even know it ever existed, and won’t therefore have any emotional connection with it - I didn’t, and I’ve watched the film about 30 times. And perhaps most importantly, we see the ‘Resistance’ on the run from an evil entity that somehow crawled out of the ashes of a decimated Empire with enough manpower and capital to finance and build a weapon the size of a literal planet, lost that planet along with all the men and materiel remaining on it, and STILL remains far more powerful than the fighting force and governing power that defeated its every incarnation throughout history. Apparently, eradicating the Empire’s dictatorial command structure and freeing the most influential planets in the galaxy does absolutely nothing to weaken it, and yet the entirety of the armed forces of the new Galactic Republic exists aboard a dozen underpowered ships. 

Nothing makes sense. Nothing is sacred. The weakness of J.J. Abrams conceit for Episode VII is revealed here as Johnson intentionally erases every mystery he established and tosses away all the minor characters that glimmered with the faint hope of being something more interesting this time around. He’s stated in interviews that he was trying to ‘subvert audience expectations’, and if your expectation was that the second film in the trilogy would build on the first, he certainly succeeded in that goal. But what story is The Last Jedi trying to tell? Like The Force Awakens, it’s so trapped by the prestige of its past and the burden of creating a future that, in accordance with Disney, must please every single human being alive, that it achieves nothing. When Mark Hamill tells you to your face that he completely disagrees with every single decision you’ve made about a character he’s known and lived for forty years, your decisions probably need a rethink. But Johnson didn’t rethink his decisions, and Mark Hamill is such a boss that he gave it his all regardless. No, The Last Jedi doesn’t scorch the earth. It simply salts the already desolate landscape so that nothing more may grow again, at least from this story-cycle.

So with all this frustration, you might assume that I despised the film...but I didn’t. It has the worst script of any Star Wars film, no doubt - worse in its inept storytelling and its awful, atonal jokes than almost anything Lucas ever wrote – and yet I'd still watch it again sooner than Episode 2. I’d watch it sooner than The Force Awakens. It's stupid, and overlong, and a directionless, muddled mess, but it still has some good moments. I liked seeing Luke, despite the potential of his character being wasted. I liked the idea of a union between Kylo and Rey, even if that too was squandered. I still like Kylo Ren, even if that’s not a popular opinion. As much as Admiral Holdo's character was ineptly shoehorned into the plot, I liked her final scene. Leia carries herself with strength and dignity, and actually gives orders and counsel, as she should. These moments are a drop in a bucket when it comes to tallying the bad vs the good, but they're there, and they’re okay. 

But this film cannot be fixed. Rian Johnson has said that J.J. Abrams shared no long-term plans for the trilogy. No shit. For every three films planned, George Lucas had a three-film arc; that’s what tied together even the worst of the Lucasfilm releases. Disney has no such plan. They’re trying to cobble together a trilogy of films without retaining any creative staff, and giving the new people they bring in through a revolving door free-reign to do whatever they want right up until it clashes with the company’s monetisation plan. There’s no consistency. There’s no permanence. There’s no balance or flow between instalments because there’s no unified oversight, and the end result is that every incoming writer has to spend a large portion of their time guessing the answers to questions that the previous writer posed. And Rian Johnson, for his part, has no idea what he’s doing or where he’s going. His contribution to the Star Wars legacy is to undo everything Abrams left for him, retroactively destroying any worth The Force Awakens might have had, and establish nothing for himself. Every film in this new cycle has been a patchwork mess led by an ever-changing roster of freelance writers and directors looking for a million-dollar paycheck. It’s an utter disaster, and Disney can call it ‘canon’ all it likes, but this is not a real Star Wars film. 

3/10

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A Few “Miracles” That Actually Have Totally Mundane Explanations

If you want to annoy a scientist, just say the word “miracle.” That’s because most miracles aren’t exactly miraculous, per se. Every time a seemingly unexplainable event occurs, there’s a strong chance that someone somewhere has put hours of blood, sweat, and tears into figuring out why.

However, this demystification of the world does not necessarily make it a duller and less interesting place – far from it. What makes the world so fascinating is what we learn about it. Besides, quite often, the truth is stranger than fiction anyway.

So, whether you take the view that we’re raining on your parade or aiding you in your quest for knowledge, here’s a bunch of “miraculous” occurrences that turned out to be something way different. 

The Oracle Of Delphi And Her Mad Prophecies 

The Oracle of Delphi, the high priestess of the Temple of Apollo in Delphi, ancient Greece, was regularly touted for her abilities to foresee the future and often talked with the god Apollo. It turns out, the numerous women who took on the role of the Pythia, the high priestess, were probably tripping on hallucinogenic fumes.

A study from 2001 saw archaeologists head to the Delphic temple where these miraculous trances took place between 1,400 BCE  to 381 CE. Just as people had previous speculated, the temple was located along a fissure in the bedrock that was seeping ethylene gas, a known narcotic that induces a euphoric trance-like state.  

The Oracle of Delphi doing her thing (aka getting high). Heinrich Leutemann/Public Domain

Weeping Virgin Mary Statues

Over the years and across the world, there have been dozens of reports of Virgin Mary statues weeping from their eyes.  A lot of the time these weeping statues are often proven to be a hoax or practical joke designed to make a quick buck. In fact, many have even been declared fraudulent by Church officials.

However, the Catholic Church does actually accept one weeping Madonna as a miracle that happened in Siracusa, Sicily in 1953. Although Italian chemist Luigi Garlaschelli dispelled this notion in the mid-1990’s, revealing this is a load of nonsense by offering his own explanation. He recreated this particular statue with similar materials and found that the glazed plaster allows water and humidity to be absorbed but prevents it from pouring out unless the most minuscule of scratches occur. In this case, water can gather in the crack then pour out in a tear shape.

As for reports of tears of blood, Dr Garlaschelli said: “Nowadays madonnas weep blood. In my opinion, this is because we now have color TV.”

Jesus Burnt Onto Toast

Jesus is everywhere, even, apparently, in your fish sticks. The face of Jesus Christ has been spotted on a silly amount of foods (at least 22 types of food by Buzzfeed’s last count up), from the ubiquitous burned toast and breakfast tacos to Messiah-shaped Cheetos.

This old urban legend seems to be a case of pareidolia, a disposition to find and recognize a relatable image, pattern, or (most often) a face in a meaningless image.

In his book, The Demon-Haunted World – Science as a Candle in the Dark, Carl Sagan argued that pareidolia probably originated as a survival technique. Particularly in instances of low-light, being able to easily pick up on a threat, such as an approaching face in the distance, could be life-saving. As such we became acutely-sensitive to spotting faces and other potentially recognizable visual stimuli. Sometimes, the old trick of the brain can have a minor misfire and we read into a meaningless image more than necessary, such as seeing Jesus’s face on your fish stick.

–

 Littlewood’s Law Of Miracles

So, yes, there is usually a reasonable explanation behind supposedly inexplicable things. However, there’s one last thing to consider when hearing about miracles that links up with the super-interesting “law of truly large numbers.”  

British mathematician JE Littlewood suggested that people should, statistically speaking, expect “one-in-a-million events” to occur around every 35 days. If you have ever had a profoundly weird “what are the chances of that?” experience, perhaps this is something you can relate to. Depending on a person’s belief system, some might call these ultra-rare events a miracle. To others, it’s a freak occurrence, luck, or perhaps an inevitable occurrence at some point in the universe’s 13.8 billion year history. Keep being weird, world.

Read more: http://www.iflscience.com/editors-blog/a-few-miracles-that-actually-have-totally-mundane-explanations/

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A Few “Miracles” That Actually Have Totally Mundane Explanations

If you want to annoy a scientist, just say the word “miracle.” That’s because most miracles aren’t exactly miraculous, per se. Every time a seemingly unexplainable event occurs, there’s a strong chance that someone somewhere has put hours of blood, sweat, and tears into figuring out why.

However, this demystification of the world does not necessarily make it a duller and less interesting place – far from it. What makes the world so fascinating is what we learn about it. Besides, quite often, the truth is stranger than fiction anyway.

So, whether you take the view that we’re raining on your parade or aiding you in your quest for knowledge, here’s a bunch of “miraculous” occurrences that turned out to be something way different. 

The Oracle Of Delphi And Her Mad Prophecies 

The Oracle of Delphi, the high priestess of the Temple of Apollo in Delphi, ancient Greece, was regularly touted for her abilities to foresee the future and often talked with the god Apollo. It turns out, the numerous women who took on the role of the Pythia, the high priestess, were probably tripping on hallucinogenic fumes.

A study from 2001 saw archaeologists head to the Delphic temple where these miraculous trances took place between 1,400 BCE  to 381 CE. Just as people had previous speculated, the temple was located along a fissure in the bedrock that was seeping ethylene gas, a known narcotic that induces a euphoric trance-like state.  

The Oracle of Delphi doing her thing (aka getting high). Heinrich Leutemann/Public Domain

Weeping Virgin Mary Statues

Over the years and across the world, there have been dozens of reports of Virgin Mary statues weeping from their eyes.  A lot of the time these weeping statues are often proven to be a hoax or practical joke designed to make a quick buck. In fact, many have even been declared fraudulent by Church officials.

However, the Catholic Church does actually accept one weeping Madonna as a miracle that happened in Siracusa, Sicily in 1953. Although Italian chemist Luigi Garlaschelli dispelled this notion in the mid-1990’s, revealing this is a load of nonsense by offering his own explanation. He recreated this particular statue with similar materials and found that the glazed plaster allows water and humidity to be absorbed but prevents it from pouring out unless the most minuscule of scratches occur. In this case, water can gather in the crack then pour out in a tear shape.

As for reports of tears of blood, Dr Garlaschelli said: “Nowadays madonnas weep blood. In my opinion, this is because we now have color TV.”

Jesus Burnt Onto Toast

Jesus is everywhere, even, apparently, in your fish sticks. The face of Jesus Christ has been spotted on a silly amount of foods (at least 22 types of food by Buzzfeed’s last count up), from the ubiquitous burned toast and breakfast tacos to Messiah-shaped Cheetos.

This old urban legend seems to be a case of pareidolia, a disposition to find and recognize a relatable image, pattern, or (most often) a face in a meaningless image.

In his book, The Demon-Haunted World – Science as a Candle in the Dark, Carl Sagan argued that pareidolia probably originated as a survival technique. Particularly in instances of low-light, being able to easily pick up on a threat, such as an approaching face in the distance, could be life-saving. As such we became acutely-sensitive to spotting faces and other potentially recognizable visual stimuli. Sometimes, the old trick of the brain can have a minor misfire and we read into a meaningless image more than necessary, such as seeing Jesus’s face on your fish stick.

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 Littlewood’s Law Of Miracles

So, yes, there is usually a reasonable explanation behind supposedly inexplicable things. However, there’s one last thing to consider when hearing about miracles that links up with the super-interesting “law of truly large numbers.”  

British mathematician JE Littlewood suggested that people should, statistically speaking, expect “one-in-a-million events” to occur around every 35 days. If you have ever had a profoundly weird “what are the chances of that?” experience, perhaps this is something you can relate to. Depending on a person’s belief system, some might call these ultra-rare events a miracle. To others, it’s a freak occurrence, luck, or perhaps an inevitable occurrence at some point in the universe’s 13.8 billion year history. Keep being weird, world.

Read more: http://www.iflscience.com/editors-blog/a-few-miracles-that-actually-have-totally-mundane-explanations/

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