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#because the government sees us all as filthy disgraces that go against the will of god

baoshan-sanren · 4 years

Text

Chapter 55

Emperor Wei WuXian And His Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Birthday

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“I want to see A-Yuan.”

WangJi suppresses a sigh, and makes no response.

Jiang WanYin, who has likely never suppressed a single thing in his life, bristles like a cat, “Are you deaf, as well as stupid? The Lan Sect Leader has ordered that you rest. Granny Wen has ordered that you rest. You are not going.”

Slumped against the pillows, Wei Ying does appear feeble and weak, his body motionless in a way that suggests an exhaustion too deep for needless activity. It had taken a long time to remove all the trappings of rank necessary for the audience he had held. It had not taken nearly as long as the initial preparation, but long enough where even Lady Jiang had looked worn down by the process. WangJi’s task during this time had involved standing on the other side of the screen, listening to the faint mutters, and being handed layers upon layers of silk. The disrobing process had resulted in a succession of whispering, slithering sounds, both of silk against silk, and silk against Wei Ying’s skin, sounds that will doubtlessly haunt him in his dreams.

He is not precisely tired, but he is beginning to feel brittle in an unfamiliar way. The day had been long and stressful, allowing no time for contemplation and reflection. There will be consequences to the assistance the Lan Sect had provided to the Emperor. There will be consequences to such a blatant attack on the Divine Ruler, and these consequences may range anywhere from a set of executions, to an outright war. There will be consequences to Wei Ying’s actions today, the audience he had held, his defense of Wen RuoHan, his order for the immediate release of the Wen Sect from the Imperial dungeons.

Only days ago, WangJi would have disregarded the majority of these events as issues beyond his scope of understanding and responsibility, but today, he cannot. Soon enough, this will be his world as well. The Second Young Master of a disgraced Sect need only obey. The Emperor Consort must understand the complexities of ruling an Empire, the consequences of each decision made, the hierarchy governing the sect relations, and the full scope of the delicate balancing act that keeps the Empire peaceful and prosperous.

This is the cost of marrying Wei Ying, a price that WangJi is more than willing to pay. But it is a cost made no less overwhelming by his willingness.

Wei Ying’s expression turns stubborn, “He is alone among strangers, thinking I am on my death bed. I want to see him.”

“Wei WuXian,” Jiang WanYin says tightly, “if you can get up right now and walk out of this palace on your own two feet, you can go see A-Yuan, or go straight to hell for all I care.”

Lady Jiang may have acquiesced to his request, but she had taken her leave. The Imperial guards could have been ordered to carry Wei Ying anywhere he desires to go, but this would defeat the purpose of keeping the child hidden.

Wei Ying had been ordered to sleep.

WangJi thinks, if he could only be persuaded to close his eyes and stop speaking for a moment, the exhaustion he is trying so hard to ignore would accomplish the rest.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying whines, turning his head, his eyes large and shining, “I want to see A-Yuan.”

Wisps of hair are stuck to his cheek, curving around the line of his jaw. His face is pale, but his lips are no longer bloodless, hovering just on the verge of a pout. WangJi knows that this is an expression Wei Ying has used before; he has seen it turned on Lady Jiang, and he has seen it throughly shatter her resolve. He remembers thinking Lady Jiang too easily swayed by such obvious tactics. He remembers thinking that he, himself, would never fold so easily by a mere hint of a pout.

WangJi is a fool. Love must permanently remove the most essential parts of one’s brain, because he can say absolutely nothing in response to Wei Ying’s plea.

Instead, his mind unhelpfully provides the memory of Wei Ying’s braid coiled in his lap. Wei Ying’s temple pressed to the side of his neck. The rich scent of ripe pears. The curve of Wei Ying’s waist through the heavy silk of the Imperial dragon robes.

Underneath these memories, his mind is hopelessly sifting through possible solutions to the issue. Wei Ying most certainly can not walk out of the palace on his own two feet. He can not cross his own chambers without being supported, and would likely need to be carried any longer distances. A-Yuan cannot be brought to him, as the situation at court is still dangerously tense, and the child must remain hidden.

“If you attempt this,” WangJi says carefully, “you will fall ill before you reach him. It will scare the child, to see you so weak. But if you must go see him, I will carry you.”

Jiang WanYin splutters.

Wei Ying’s eyes widen.

The expression on his face, the baffled disbelief slowly melting into a familiar softness, is so open, so transparent, that WangJi feels his own face heat in response. He is suddenly finding the embroidery on Wei Ying’s bed curtains extremely fascinating.

“You are both right,” Wei Ying says after a few moments, “I should not go tonight. Tomorrow is soon enough.”

“Ugh,” Jiang WanYin says, “Now I feel ill too. Just go to sleep.”

“You leave first,” Wei Ying says, “I want to speak to Lan Zhan.”

Jiang WanYin makes a noise. It is a wordless one, but it still manages to perfectly express a hefty dose of disgust. He leaves quickly, as if afraid that Wei Ying will begin to speak to Lan Zhan before he has managed to make his exit.

Wei Ying reaches out, but seems to do so unthinkingly, the motion immediately interrupted by a hiss of pain. Perhaps the wrist injury is not the most serious one he had suffered, but WangJi has noticed him forget that particular pain often enough, where each resurgence catches him by surprise. In two steps, he finds himself by the bed, but once there, he is forced to stop and practice some self-restraint.

“You promised to be more careful,” he says, “The Head Healer should have strapped that arm to your chest.”

He means it as an admonishment, but his voice does a poor job conveying anything other than worry.

“It does not hurt,” Wei Ying lies with a smile, “Come sit next to me. That way, I do not need to move much.”

Only moments ago he had insisted that he is well enough to visit A-Yuan. Now, he is too weak to move on his own, and must have WangJi sit by his side.

WangJi wonders why these brazen tactics, which would be abhorrent in anyone else, are so irresistibly appealing when employed by Wei Ying. He wonders if there is anything about Wei Ying that will ever be unappealing. He is, again, forced to consider the possibility that love makes one unbearably stupid, and that this is precisely why he has already moved to sit down by Wei Ying, without giving the consequences of such action any further thought.

Wei Ying reaches for him again, the moment he has settled on the side of the bed, and WangJi takes his hand carefully, supporting the splinted wrist with his palm.

“You said you would not move.”

“I forgot,” Wei Ying says shamelessly, his fingers warm against WangJi’s pulse.

“You should sleep,” WangJi admonishes.

“I will,” Wei Ying says quickly, “but I have not-- had the chance to speak to you. After-- the Gifting Ceremony.”

His gaze lowers to their joined hands, fingers restless against WangJi skin, despite the fact that even this small movement must pain him.

“A great deal has happened,” he goes on, the words rushed, “There is so much I was not aware of before. About YanLing DaoRen, and his use of resentful energy, and this-- apparent affinity for demonic cultivation present in his descendants. The Lan Sect takes pride in the purity of their cultivation techniques. Over the centuries, they alone have remained unblemished by unorthodox practices.”

He falls silent then, letting WangJi try and make sense of the words on his own. This feels much akin to Wei Ying’s proposal, where WangJi must separate the words, then place them in a different order, just to discern the meaning behind them.

Once he does, however, he feels frustration and fondness flood him in equal measures.

“I still want to marry you, Wei Ying.”

“You--“ Wei Ying shifts, “Are you not worried? This affinity does not bother you?”

“Will you begin practicing demonic cultivation?” WangJi counters.

“What? Of course not!”

“Then it does not matter,” WangJi says firmly.

“How can it not matter?” Wei Ying says, agitated, “YanLing DaoRen nearly destroyed the Empire. He slaughtered thousands. How can you be sure that his madness will not become my own?”

WangJi, prepared to call his assertion utter nonsense that it is, pauses before speaking. It had not occurred to him that Wei Ying would be so throughly rattled by Nie HuaiSang’s revelation.

In retrospect, it seems obvious that this had to have been the purpose of Xue ChengMei’s story. To sow doubts and fears, not just in Wei Ying, but in all those closest to the Emperor. A filthy tactic, meant to cause chaos and uncertainty. It is no wonder that Song ZiChen had demanded no one speak to the boy.

“Wei Ying,” WangJi says carefully, “You are not YanLing DaoRen. I am not Lan ZhongYi. We exist under the shadow of those who came before us, and bear the burdens they have placed on our shoulders. But we are not them.”

Wei Ying’s breath stutters, his fingers pressing against WangJi’s wrist.

“But--“

“We spoke of Lan ZhongYi, and the reasons behind his actions. Do you remember what I said to you?”

“My mother did not kill Xu XiaoYun,” Wei Ying says softly.

“And I did not kill the Empress,” WangJi responds.

The words feel much lighter than he had imagined they could be, if ever spoken out loud.

Wei Ying falls silent, a rare enough occurrence where WangJi allows it to happen. There are now dark shadows under his eyes, and it takes a great deal of restraint not to issue another reminder about the necessity for rest, and long, uninterrupted sleep. Perhaps Wei Ying’s stubbornness requires a different type of approach. WangJi is starting to believe that any firm insistence on a specific course of action is more likely to propel Wei Ying in a completely opposite direction. This is something that will require further thought.

“You still want to marry me?” Wei Ying says, the corner of his mouth now slightly lifted, an expression that is not quite serious, but not quite teasing either.

“Yes,” WangJi says, “I still want to marry you.”

Wei Ying grins, shifting a little closer, “Will you allow me to make the announcement? Before the Lan Sect departs?”

WangJi is certain that the events of the last few days have already reached Cloud Recesses. The delay to consult with the Elders seems pointless now, as the rumors of the betrothal have been running rampant since the last Sect Leader meeting. Uncle’s actions, during and after the Gifting Ceremony, must have only served to reinforce these rumors.

It is difficult to decide which course of action will result in greater impropriety. An immediate announcement, or a lengthy delay, during which the entire court will ruthlessly judge his every interaction with the Emperor. The Emperor who is wholly unashamed of expressing his affection, and insists on behaving as if they are already betrothed.

WangJi sighs, “You must obtain uncle’s approval for the announcement.”

“Will you come and visit A-Yuan with me tomorrow?”

WangJi nods. It is a small enough request, and he is fond enough of the child where a visit would not be a chore.

“Will you spend the night?”

“Wei Ying!”

It is unbearable, the sheer number of times Wei Ying can make his face heat in a single day. How can an Emperor be so utterly shameless?

“Ahh, Lan Zhan, do not be angry. I only meant that you should stay in the Imperial chambers. What if I were to fall ill during the night and need assistance?”

Carefully, WangJi places his hand back down, and rises from the bed, “If this is the case, we should summon the Head Healer right now, and request that she spend the night in the Imperial chambers.”

Wei Ying splutters, “Wait-- that--“

“I would not want to take the chance of you falling ill during the night.”

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying whines, “Why are you so cruel? Can I not ask my future husband to spend the night with me?”

“No, you may not.”

“What if I were to find myself unable to sleep, and in need of company?”

“Summon the Royal Companion. I am sure he will be equal to the task.”

“But--“

WangJi bows deeply, “Good night, Your Majesty. I will take my leave now.”

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying’s voice follows him out into the hall, “Hey, Lan Zhan! Wait!”

WangJi closes the door behind him, and turns to the nearest guard, “His Majesty requires the presence of the Royal Companion. And the Head Healer.”

The guard does not question the order.

#the untamed #cql #mdzs #ficlet #m #wwx emperor au #wangxian #wei wuxian is whiny #lan wangji is mortified #jiang cheng hates them both #we're gonna check on xue yang next #then find out what nie mingjue has planned #at least one person will die by the last chapter #but they will have deserved it #thank you for all the nice comments guys #ily chickens

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threeletterslife · 4 years

Text

The Exam

→ [1/7] of the Society Series

→ summary: Three societies. Two dead lovers. One test. In a world that prioritizes intelligence and the ability to regurgitate textbook information, will you choose love and poverty or splendor and solitude?

→ pairing/rating: taehyung x reader | PG-15

→ genre: 99.9% angst, 0.1% fluff (if you squint) | dystopian!au & utopian!au

→ warnings: profanity, death, mentions of tuberculosis and leptospirosis, blood, extreme poverty, extremely brief mention of cannibalism and overdosing, undiagnosed depression and mild anxiety, brief mentions of the afterlife and physical violence, this shit ain’t happy pple

→ wordcount: 21.4k

There's a strange stench that permeates the air in the city of Dystopia.

It is the odor of death. The dark, muddy soil reeks of decaying bodies, of rotting rats and excretions. Deteriorating child flesh even has its own distinct smell, but you've become so used to it, you don't really mind it as much anymore.

Every day is a festival for the unusually large rats that inhabit the city. With their matted-fur and worm-tails, the rodents feast on decomposing human bodies, ripping apart the dark, putrid meat and leaving dried blood splattered on the barely-paved streets.

Bodies are everywhere.

Sometimes it's hard to tell if a fallen child is dead or asleep in the towering masses of waste. There are too many orphans wandering lost on the streets with no bed or home to conceal them in warmth. There are too many people who never know when their next meal will be, or if there will be clean water to drink for the day. Hell, most of the huts in the dystopian city are on the very verge of crumbling down.

You're lucky.

Your home has semi-working electricity and plumbing. But every now and then, the lights will refuse to turn on and the pipes will leak—or even burst if it was a bad day.

Most citizens of Dystopia, however, roam the streets, homeless, until death finally whisks them away. Nobody knows what happens after death. But everybody knows it is better than Dystopia.

This place, this Dystopia, was home for your childhood memories. Shamefully enough, it was also your birthplace. But you don't live there anymore, thank goodness. You live in Purgatory now, a smaller city with slightly more opportunities and fewer rats.

But Purgatory isn't that much different from Dystopia either. Death still hangs over the heads of the weak, ready to take their hands and lead them away when the time comes. Purgatory is a wild place full of children and teenagers from ages ten to eighteen. They're there for one sole purpose: education. Rigorous education that may come with the price of death.

It's how the whole damn system works.

Every Dystopian-born must suffer ten years of life in that hellhole; if they are still alive by then, they are relocated to Purgatory where "equal opportunities" are given to all with mercy. At least, that's what the authority claims. Really, you see it more as a ruthless competition. It's not "equal opportunities" or whatever bullcrap the government was trying to sell to the people. You see it as a game of sharks and minnows—a game of exceptionally robust predators and abnormally frail prey.

Annually, every student who is eighteen in Purgatory is required to take an exam. An exam that determines their entire future.

Every year, the highest-scoring students—or student—are whisked away by the government with silk draped around their hunched shoulders, layers of soft mink coats keeping their frayed bodies warm and their dirty tresses bathed with the richest, fragrance oils. Then they are granted access to Utopia.

Utopia, the city of the rich. They breathe expensive air there, bathe in priceless tea and wear extortionate silks and furs. They deserve it. Because they're the most intelligent people in all three cities of Atna. At least, that's what the government says.

It is merciless when they throw every other eighteen-year-old who 'failed' the Exam in the city of Dystopia. You'd think they'd spare their precious Utopian-borns—the children of the men and women who proved their intelligence by reigning over every other student in Purgatory. But they don't. The Utopian-borns are dumped into Dystopia as well. Into a foreign place where the air is dead, baths are infrequent and clothing is for the greatly fortunate.

Yet that's rare. Most often, Utopian students always tie for the highest-score and are taken back to their luxurious birthplace. It's too advantageous for them. It's unfair. Unreasonable. They train from their birth until the last second before they leave the warmth of their Utopian homes for the Exam. Of course, they would score the highest.

One year, out of the hundreds of eighteen-year-olds who took the Exam, twenty-three of them made it back to Utopia. All Utopian-borns.

Still, a handful of Utopians are tossed into the slums—they are a disgrace to all of Atna for they had the advantage and didn't take it.

You've seen those sad individuals your whole childhood. They were the ones who weren't used to horrifying conditions. Consequently, they were always the last to eat and first to die.

When you were the adventurous age of nine, you and your best friend Jimin would sit outside the shabby, repulsive place that you called home and would watch the Utopian-borns straggling across the streets.

They wailed and begged as their eyes reflected one sole emotion: fear.

"I bet she's Utopian-born," Jimin huffs as he points at a girl frantically cramming her mouth full of scraggly weeds that had somehow sprouted from the fetid grounds. Both of you silently watch as her bloody fingernails pierce madly through the mud, uprooting the plants with surprising success. "Doesn't she know those are poisonous?"

You shrug, staring blankly at the girl. "No, she's not Utopian-born. Doesn't look over eighteen. Maybe she doesn't want to take the Exam." Taking Jimin's hand into yours, you sigh, "I bet he's Utopian-born, though." Your small finger points at a young man huddled up against a pile of rubbish, completely naked and rocking back and forth, as if that action would save him from the wraths of Dystopia. He had stripped off his tattered clothes and had unskillfully attempted to wrap them around himself to combat the harsh weather. A simple but deadly mistake.

A Dystopian-born would know better.

"He's going to die," Jimin says, cocking his head. "Let's go help him." He starts to tug you towards the unclothed man but you forcefully pull your friend back, eyebrows twisting downwards into a deep frown.

"Leave him." Your cold eyes stare right past the Utopian-born, gazing at the bright neon poster behind him. It reads Utopia, a wondrous place for deserving people.

And below is an image of a gorgeous, healthily plump woman in a spotless, white bikini, skin sparkling and well-tanned and her hands immaculately manicured. Her hair is loose, glossy and looks like it smells of flowering spring roses. She's holding a gleaming bottle of fizzing golden liquid in one hand and a handsome man's hand in the other. The man smiles brightly, revealing a row of pearlescent teeth as he boasts shiny, black sunglasses and wears a watch made of dazzling rubies and diamonds.

Behind the couple is a house—actually, a mansion made of polished glass with luscious trees decorating the purlieu and the pool filled with glimmering water tinted a light shade of azure. The sky is cerulean blue, and the clouds resemble cotton candy.

Everything speaks perfection.

These identical posters are littered everywhere across Dystopia. It is a painful reminder for the Atnatians who have failed the Exam—even more so agonizing for the Utopians who had been banished from their previous home.

The propaganda posters are the only clean, resplendent objects in the slums. But personally, you think they're revolting.

Your unsympathetic eyes trail back to the naked man. You take another glance at the stupid government propaganda poster behind him before you squeeze Jimin's hand. "Yeah, let's leave him," you repeat.

The pick-the-Utopian-born-from-the-crowd game abruptly halts soon after when Jimin comes over to your small hut one day, crying profusely, his tears leaving clean streaks on his dirt-covered face.

"He's dead!" he cries, fat droplets of tears dribbling down to his chin.

You frown in confusion, eyebrows knitting into a small frown. With the mortality rate of Dystopia, your best friend could either be talking about your neighbor from the next hut over or the other fifty bodies left dead and abandoned on the streets. "Who's dead, Jiminie?"

"T-That Utopian-born," Jimin whimpers, dirty hand reaching up to wipe away the tears obscuring his vision. Although there were many Utopian-borns roaming around Dystopia, you had a clear idea of who he was talking about. "The rats... they—"

You grab his filthy hand before it reaches his eyes. "Don't rub your eyes, remember?"

Jimin nods dejectedly, his head dropping low as his tears dripped to the floor, leaving wet puddles of brown dirt. "Sorry, Y/N, I forgot..." He sniffles, which didn't help the snot that was leaking out of his soot-covered nose. "But the rats..." he trails off, hand reaching up again to wipe away his tears. But he pauses, thinks better of it and tries to blink them away instead.

You nod, knowingly. "And it's not the first time you've seen that happen, Jiminie. Don't cry..."

Your friend whimpers, kicking the wet dirt beneath his feet. "But if we had helped him... The rats wouldn't have eaten right through his guts! They wouldn't have bitten him to pieces or drunk his blood!" he wails. You are silent, never great at solacing. "If we had helped him..."

Time is running out for both of you. You'd soon be relocated to Purgatory and you know Jimin is starting to get anxious for the both of you. He would cry in fear and grief for every dead corpse on the street, bite his nails hard enough to draw blood even though you would tell him not to, and try to help all the suffering Utopian-borns, despite your avid protests.

Jimin had always been too soft-minded, too kind. Death frightened him.

But you weren't afraid of death. Never have been. Never will be.

You are fucking terrified of death. It is the only occurrence that will keep you from scoring the highest, and as a seventeen-year-old, the Exam was looming closer than ever. You couldn't die now. Not after all the years of rigorous studying. You'd skipped nights of sleep, countless meals to get to this position.

To you, Purgatory would always be a second Utopia; for one, the conditions are immensely better than that of Dystopia, maggots no longer crawling in your food and clothes not as battered and ravaged by irritable rats or insects. This city is your one chance where you can prove yourself deserving to live in Utopia—to confirm that you can outlast, out-study and outsmart everyone in your year.

You eat, sleep and breathe your studies, something only a few students can manage to do. One of the only things that keep you motivated to wake up at the crack of dawn and open up a dusty book is the fact that no one's ever secured a perfect score on the Exam.

But you know you'll be the first.

You'll be the first and only person to obtain a perfect score. And thus you will be the only eighteen-year-old going to Utopia in your year.

It is a fantasy. A dream. A goal. But you thirst to achieve it.

In fact, you haven't left the library in weeks. You've practically been glued onto the same hard, wooden chair for what seemed like days now. You have also never ceased to flip the pages of your colossal textbooks. You're quite happy to say that the other students aren't studying as hard as you—most of them have given up by now.

Logically, it makes sense to surrender to the Exam.

Although you're given eight whole years to study in Purgatory, most students use that time to stuff themselves full of savory victuals, sleep in cots instead of in fetid mud and live without the shadow of death appended to their feet. Obviously, the conditions aren't as astounding as Utopia, but anything's better than the slums of Atna. It isn't worth it, they say. It isn't worth the eight years of miserable studying, only to be beaten by someone better (there's always someone better) and thrown into Dystopia without ever being able to live. But 'surrender' isn't in your vast vocabulary.

As much as you hate cheesy platitudes, you're in it (ahem, forcibly) to win it. Besides, your competition is dropping like flies on a scorching hot day. You suspect it's from that nasty tuberculosis that's been going around for a while.

There's only a year left before the Exam now. It's such little time for you to finish reading everything in that library, and such little time alike for the other students to live their last year to the very fullest in Purgatory, the downgrade of Utopia but the upgrade of Dystopia.

But especially for you, a year definitely isn't enough. You're just a tad bit off schedule—you were supposed to finish reading and memorizing everything in the library last year so you'd have two good years to review. Now you only have one.

It adds on to the multitudes of problems that no one truly knows what's on the Exam. They say anything in the grand library is fair game, but besides that, you don't know much. And because of that, you and what's left of your competitors have been reading everything in the library from novels to textbooks to published theses.

As a matter of fact, you're just one book and a page shy from reading everything in the damned library. Your eyes bore into the paper overlaid with equations and one too many graphs, forcing your brain to memorize every detail, every print and word. You know you shouldn't frown when you study. Someone you'd once loved had told you an unpretty, permanent crease would be etched on your forehead—but now you can't help it—frowning helps you concentrate.

Especially now. The library is usually dead silent except for the soft crinkles of paper as students flip the pages of their reading materials, yet you swear at least half of the students in the room have tuberculosis. There's heavy coughing every ten seconds, the infected splattering crimson blood on the thin, worn-out pages of the textbooks. And that's how the disease has been spreading.

They're going to die before the Exam. You swear they are—how pathetic of them to spend the last days of their lives cramming study material in their heads.

You don't care much for the infected, as long as they keep their distance from you. You don't know what you'll do if you catch the disease as well. But in your mind, nothing is worse than the mortality rates of Dystopia. At least no one in Purgatory dies from famine.

Still, there are never adequate treatments or vaccines and you can recall at least ten people who you haven't seen since tuberculosis first broke out. Not that you care, though. In the end, you're just glad you're not one of the diseased. You've always had a strong immune system, anyway.

You let out a soft sigh, feeling the urge to rub your dry, tiresome eyes but thinking better of it. Shutting the heavy textbook with a gentle thud, you place both hands on the wooden table, steadying yourself. You slowly close your eyes, relishing in the comfort of the darkness—you haven't slept in nearly three days, haven't left your seat to eat either. Your empty water canteen stares back at you, begging for it to be refilled. You swallow, your throat feeling unbearably scratchy, but you don't succumb to its desperate demand.

Now you only have one more book to read. Just one more and you'll be done. You'll treat yourself to an actual meal and a few hours of sleep (not too much because you still need time for review). With the Exam inching closer every minute, every second, you really don't have time to waste.

Water will have to wait for later.

Besides, you know for a fact that the last book you have to read isn't too long—just a hundred pages or so. You slowly open your eyes, vision slightly blurry as you force yourself to stand. Immediately, your legs threaten to give out and you have to stagger forward to use the dated bookshelves to steady yourself.

Step by step, you carry your barely responsive body to the special corner in the library that you haven't touched in the seven years you've lived in Purgatory. The unfamiliar, gray, tattered book catches your eye and you continue to wobble closer and closer to it. Family Studies, it should say.

Quite the ironic book to read about in a world where families are ripped apart by the government and their indecent tactics. But it's not like you have a choice. You need to get to Utopia—you've made promises...

You may be broken on the inside and out, but you won't let yourself break a promise.

Wearily, you force yourself to lift up your shaking arm to touch the book's spine. But you gasp, nearly jumping back with the little energy you have as your cold hand comes in contact with something warm.

Flesh, you finally register in your head. I've touched flesh.

Your head jerks up rather painfully, leaving your eyes struggling to adjust to the sight in front of you. A boy. A tall boy. His figure towers over you, and he frowns deeply, eyes bloodshot as he looks you up and down. In one hand he clutches a frayed brown blanket draped comfortably over his shoulders and the other stubbornly grasps the book—your book.

But you don't acquiesce, glaring at him as you tug the book closer to you. The boy glances your way tiredly, no emotion displayed on his malnourished, sculpted face. "Excuse me," he croaks, tugging the book closer to himself.

"Excuse you." Your voice comes out much raspier than you had expected, making you instantly regret opening your mouth to speak. But the desire to have the last book in your hands is far greater: "I need that." You pull the book back.

The boy scoffs—even that comes out as a dry cough that makes you flinch back just a bit. "I need it too."

You hate the parched feeling tickling the back of your throat, and you let out a little scream of frustration before instinct gets the better of you. You quickly slap the boy's hand, taking advantage of his surprise as an opportunity to snatch the book from the shelf. Once the book is safely cradled in your arms, you turn to the boy and give him the side-eye. "Well, I need it more."

With that, you attempt to hobble away with the best of your ability, but you fail when the boy grabs the back of your threadbare shirt, stopping you from moving any further. "Please."

He sounds so desperate, voice dripping with misery—something you were once so familiar with. His hands shake, grasping the fabric... You hate yourself for turning around to see his forlorn face. His eyes are full of suffering, of so much pain—that too is so familiar to you."Please..." he whispers again as his grip loosens on your shirt.

You're silent. It hurts. It physically pains you that the only human interaction you've had in months, maybe years, reminds you so much of him.

"Pleaseeee!!" Jimin drags out, a burst of giggles leaving his throat as he tugs excitedly at your arm. "Please! Let's go, let's go!"

You grumble, begrudgingly dragging your feet as Jimin pulls you towards unfamiliar territory. "I'm not hungry," you whine. "Can we just stay in the dorms?"

"We've got eight years to stay in the dorms, Y/N. Eight! Please? Just a few minutes in the cafeteria? I heard they serve actual food! Maybe if we're lucky, we'll get to snag some snacks!" Jimin exclaims, his cheeks tinged pink with elation.

"Where did you hear that from?" you mumble in protest before giving in to Jimin's persistence.

"The ones who failed," he answers lightheartedly. "I've been asking around."

"Oh."

You can't really say much more. There's nothing more to say.

The cafeteria is larger than at least ten Dystopian huts combined; there are rows and rows of rusty lunch tables and a long, metal countertop with a few baskets of bread on top. You and Jimin manage to salvage some before the rats get to it. You force yourself to ignore the angry squeaking and chattering around your bare feet.

The slices of white bread are only slightly moldy, which already makes it better than anything one can forage from your birthplace. You take each bite slowly, chewing steadily to keep the flavor on your tongue just a little while longer. But all too soon, it's gone. Though you'd denied it earlier, you are definitely hungry. Maybe even starving.

You look up to see Jimin swinging his feet back and forth, his hands grasping the side of the old bench, keeping his body balanced. He notices your eyes on him and looks at you, giving you a small smile. You smile back.

"This is already better than Dystopia, isn't it?" he says, small hand tentatively moving towards yours to encompass it. You nod your head in agreement. "We have eight years..." You nod again. "Then we'll be able to go back home."

You don't hesitate, a faint smile appearing on your lips. "Of course."

"Not dead, yet, huh?" you sigh, facing the boy next to you, scrutinizing his every movement. When he doesn't answer right away, you slam the textbook down in the middle of the table to get his attention—and to spite him, of course.

The boy scoffs as he glares at you through the tired slits of his eyes. Any sense of the weakness he had shown from practically begging you to share the book with him yesterday is gone. The feebleness might've been just an act—a sly trick to get you to help him. "Sorry but I plan on going to Utopia as well. That, we have in common," the boy bites right back. "Our only difference is that I'll actually make it there."

You blow air through your nose, prying open the previous book titled Family Studies and muttering death threats under your breath. You clear your throat before you speak again. "Yeah, right. Please shut up before I regret sharing my textbook with you."

"For your information, that's not exactly yours," the boy snorts. "It's the government's. And you've seen the shit that happens when you mess with them."

There's a sadder undertone to his voice that you pick up immediately. He sounds cocky but ruined at the same time—you would know because that's the façade that you had put up for yourself for years now. You can't stop yourself from asking the question that falls from your lips quite easily: "Why? Someone you know messed with them?"

The boy averts his eyes from you, looking down at his feet covered up in tattered shoes. "More like someone I knew." He shrugs, turning his head up so that his dark eyes pierce through yours. "But it doesn't really matter anymore."

Something stings inside. You wish you could say the same.

"It's only been a week," you giggle, watching Jimin stuff his face full of soup made of mystery miscellaneous ingredients. "Shouldn't you have gotten used to having enough food by now?"

Jimin pauses his vehement eating to give you a 'duh' look. "Silly, I'm going to store all the food now when I can. You know, before we have to go back. When's the last time Dystopia had meal times, anyway?"

"Never, of course," you laugh. The rats or some other pesky rodents chatter right along with you. But they only sound as if they are wryly laughing with you and Jimin. A bit embittered, you kick your feet in an attempt to shoo the rats away—or at least shut them up. "Too bad this place still has rats."

Jimin nods. "I've seen some of them around our food too." He makes a disgusted face. "Think about it. What if this mystery soup is made of rat droppings and piss?"

"Oh shut up. Don't be like that," you sniffle, turning up your nose in complete distaste. "That's disgusting."

"I'm only joking," Jimin chuckles, taking another spoonful of his soup, exaggerating the action and making you mock-gag in repugnance.

As annoying as he sometimes is, having Jimin around is something you always have been thankful for. It was everything to have a friend be by your side. You've seen what happens when people are left alone for too long. They go bat-shit crazy. Completely bonkers.

Being tossed back to Dystopia is inevitable; neither of you was going to stop it. Yet even just your best friend's presence is your very own incentive to wake up the next day with a hopeful smile on your lips. He matters so much to you.

"Let's have the time of our lives in Purgatory," he'd told you over and over again. So much so that you can still hear his voice today, tainted with hope and faith. "Then we can go back to Dystopia together."

You grit your teeth, catching your lip between them and biting so hard you taste blood. The strong taste of iron drives you to focus. You furrow your brows, staring at the pages of the textbook and reading thoroughly, mulling over every word in your head with careful precision. When your eyes reach the end of the page, you're just about to look up and ask the boy if he's done reading, but he's one step ahead of you.

The boy flips the page over and smiles at you smugly. You frown at him disdainfully, but without another word, you concentrate on the content once more. Until—

"Taehyung."

You sigh, reluctantly looking up at the boy. "What?"

"Taehyung. My name's Taehyung," he says. "Just thought you ought to know. There are 98 pages left in this book, so I just thought it'd be better to introduce ourselves. We'll be sitting together for a while."

You squint your eyes at him, pondering over his words. But he does make quite a good point. You suppose you and the boy—Taehyung—had gotten off on the wrong foot. Although he was kind of a cocky asshole, you guess it wouldn't hurt to at least tell him your name.

"Fine," you say, upturning your nose. "I'm Y/N."

"Cool." Taehyung grins. For a guy who's been living in unkempt conditions for several years, his teeth look pretty near to goddamn perfection. It's a little irritating if you do say so for yourself.

You're about to pick up where you last left off in the textbook when Taehyung scoots closer to you. You lean away, frowning at him as you shoot him a 'what the fuck are you doing' look.

He seems oblivious to your stone-cold glare. "Sooo, Y/N," he says. "What's making you study this hard?" he asks. "I thought I was the only crazy one here." He laughs wryly. When he sees that you're ignoring him and still reading from the damned book, he huffs and slams it shut.

"What the fuck, Taehyung," you spit out, jerking your head towards him. "Can't I study in peace?"

"Didn't anyone tell you it's rude to ignore?" he counters.

"Give me the book back."

"No." He grins, pushing the book away from you as he crosses his legs confidently, leaning back in his chair. "Answer the question. Please," he adds hastily. "C'mon. If we stay cooped up reading all day, we'll die before even getting to live in Utopia."

You let out a frustrated groan, but he's right in a way. You should take study breaks now and then—possibly to keep your sanity. "What's making me study so hard? Fine," you huff. "We all have our mad-person reasons. Happy?" But upon Taehyung's disappointed look at your vague answer, you let out a deep sigh. "And I made promises I don't want to break," you elaborate reluctantly.

"Promises?" Taehyung says. "Interesting... You look like you've been through some rough shit."

You scoff. "Me? Says you. You're Dystopian-born too, right?"

"I'm that obvious, am I?" He grins. "It's true though. I've seen bad shit in Dystopia."

"Yeah, well, I've seen the worst shit right here in Purgatory," you mutter. "So I think I win."

"Oh?"

You ignore him. "Give me back my book," you demand.

"First of all, it's not your book," Taehyung laughs. "And secondly, worst shit in Purgatory? Must be an interesting story behind that. Do tell."

"No."

Taehyung huffs as he leans back even further in his chair. "So you've lost someone you love, then."

You freeze. How did he—

Biting your lip again, you contemplate whether to answer. Finally, you let out a small, "Yeah. Two, actually."

"Damn, two?" Taehyung gawks. "Wow. Um, I'm sorry. You weren't kidding about the bad shit you've seen here."

"I really wasn't." Now you're definitely not in the mood to study. Not when Taehyung, single-handedly, in just a few minutes, reminded you of them. "It's dumb, but I use them and the promises we made together as an incentive to study. That's my mad-person reason," you confess.

Why does it feel better to tell someone else about yourself?

"That's not dumb," Taehyung offers, his eyes mirroring your own sadness in them. "It's good to have someone you love to be your incentive." He pushes the textbook back towards you. "Sorry for pestering you. You can study now if you want."

You nod curtly as you quickly open the book to the page you had left off. It seems that Taehyung does have the smallest bit of sympathy in him. You suppose he's not a completely horrible person (as you had thought before).

Sighing, you try to read through the sentences on the page, but you find yourself reading the same phrase over and over again. Damn. Your stomach flips and you begin to feel a little queasy as melancholy washes over your head. Shit. Now you really can't concentrate.

"You're, okay, right, Jiminie?" you beg, frown lines appearing on your forehead as you take both of the sick boy's hands in yours, watching his tense face relax ever-so-slightly from your soft touch.

"It's probably just something I ate. I'll be fine!" he manages to answer enthusiastically. "I'll throw it all up by tomorrow and you'll see me stronger than ever!"

He was wrong.

As the long days rolled by, he got sicker and sicker. Most of your week was spent in Jimin's room. It became a daily routine to watch him throw up whatever you suggested he eat. It became a reoccurring attempt for you to try to calm his sweltering fever. Every day you were more exhausted than the last. And so was he.

You were losing hope, but you tried not to show it. You knew he was dying, but neither of you mentioned it. You were losing your best friend and you couldn't do anything about it.

No one cared either. Everybody turned a blind eye to the ten-year-old boy suffering in overwhelming pain. They either had been preoccupied with studying or didn't want to catch whatever Jimin had. To them, Jimin, your light and life source was nothing but another body to be tossed in the graveyard at the end of the day.

And just like that, he passed away.

You can still recall the misery reflecting in his eyes, his quiet whimpers, his delusional words. You can still remember him. Quite clearly, too. He didn't know who you were the last few minutes before he blinked half-way and never woke up again. The moment you knew he was dead, you'd cried, clinging to his body and letting out the sorrow, the weakness, that you had hidden from him when he was alive.

To the ten-year-old you, his death was a mystery.

But it was leptospirosis. You know that now, after years of flipping the pages of those medical textbooks. It was a rare disease from animals, but mostly rats. Those damn rats. You wish you can kill them all.

"Those fucking rats!" Taehyung slams his fist hard on the wooden table, immediately stopping the persistent chattering of the damned rodents. "I swear to god, they're one of the worst things about Purgatory, other than the goddamn Exam itself!"

You nod in silent agreement, sighing as you play with the leftover crumbs of your breakfast. "I'd even argue that they're the worst things to ever exist. Besides the Exam."

No matter how annoyingly vocal Taehyung is about his pure hatred for rats, it feels good to have someone to talk to while eating your breakfast. You haven't had company in years.

Taehyung lets a smile loose, a boxy grin that has some sort of weird way of making you feel calm. It's impossible to believe that he's supposed to be your competition when both of you have developed a friendship over the past several days. It wasn't easy for Taehyung to befriend you—especially since you've shut out every other person in your life since... since Yoongi. But he was persistent, and you admired that about him. So slowly, very slowly, you began to open up to the boy.

You told him about Jimin, and you have to admit, it felt fucking fantastic to have someone else mourn for Jimin—to have someone else besides you who didn't ignore his death. And now you're just beginning to tell him about Yoongi upon his stubborn urging.

"You should continue," Taehyung says. "You were telling me about your preteen boyfriend?" he asks with his mouth full of bread—his words are just barely discernible and you crinkle your nose in disgust.

"Gross. Haven't you read those etiquette books? Thought they would've taught you a thing or two about not talking with your mouth full," you huff. "And don't call him my preteen boyfriend. That sounds wrong. Not to mention... it takes away so much of the meaning of my relationship with him."

"Okay, okay, sorry," Taehyung says, but chewed up bread crumbs escape his mouth and land on the metal lunch table. You make a face. "But," Taehyung continues, paying no mind to your disgust, "at the end of the day, I just wanna know if all Utopian-borns are bastards or not."

You roll your eyes. "Oh, c'mon. Do you really think I'd love a bastard?"

"Well, you're quite unpredictable, dear," Taehyung swallows his food (thankfully) before he laughs. "You thought you were going to study alone for the rest of your time here. But look at you, with me, sharing a textbook."

"You better not tell me shit like 'you didn't know love when you were ten,' Taehyung," you say as menacingly as you can. "I'm not gonna tolerate shit talk. And besides, Yoongi was definitely not a bastard. He—" you pause abruptly. "Ah, shit," you say, trying to blink away the tears that had suddenly sprung upon your eyes. Your fingers grip the hem of your shirt and you clear your throat before you continue. "He died so he didn't have to deal with bastards."

"Oh, shit," Taehyung breathes when he realizes you're close to crying. "I'm sorry... You don't have to tell me about him if it's gonna make you feel bad. I was joking about the whole Utopian-born-bastard thing anyway."

"No, I want to tell you," you say. "I need to tell someone. I can't just pent these things up inside of me, Taehyung. Don't you know? I'm using you as my personal rant-listener." You grin at him, though your tears roll down your cheeks.

Taehyung looks confused at your juxtaposition of tears and happy grin. "Okay then," he says. "If you're really sure." He frowns, tilting his head. "I just don't get the part when you said he died so he didn't have to deal with bastards. He can't choose when he dies or not—"

"Oh, yes he can," you cut him off. "Think about it," you say as more tears trip down your face. Taehyung gives you a perplexed look, his confused eyes meeting your sad ones. You sigh. "You can choose when you want to die sometimes," you whisper in a shaky voice. "Intentional death."

You've lost your appetite ever since Jimin passed away. But you come to the cafeteria every day to pay tribute to your best friend, who had announced one too many times when he was alive that the cafeteria was his favorite place in the whole world. So you sit down by yourself on the lunch tables, staring at the bread but never reaching out to take it.

Without Jimin, your world is drained of color. Life loses its meaning. There is no point. You were supposed to go back to Dystopia as adults—together. That had been your one wish. Your only wish. And now it couldn't happen. Not when Jimin's not with you anymore.

Large men in spotless white suits had dragged his limp body off of the small cot as you were begging, wailing on the side. You asked them to bury him, to give him a proper memorial. But they ignored you, pushed you away to the side. They didn't even have the decency to respect him, to cover him up with a blanket or sheet. You had to watch his clothes collect dirt and his face drag in the mud as they pulled him by the legs.

Even after they'd yelled at you, you'd watched, followed them as they flung his body into a deep pit reeking of death.

They burn the bodies in the pit every Sunday; then the week starts fresh with an empty abyss for the dead.

You want to jump in the pit after Jimin. Maybe you can conveniently dump your body in the hole a few minutes before they set fire to it—maybe you can be with Jimin that way.

It feels like a knife in your heart when you think about his last few delusional words. He'd told you fitfully, in a full sweat, that he was in so much pain, but he'd rather be in pain than die. He was afraid of death.

You aren't. You are in so much pain, you want to die, unlike him. Ten years of life is enough, you decide. Whatever is waiting for you after death has to be better than what you are living in right now.

So you plan it out. You wait until Sunday, until five minutes before they're supposed to come to burn the pit of bodies. You're going to jump in. Find Jimin. Burn to death with him. Simple.

Not so simple.

You stand exactly three feet from the pit (you measured it yourself, with your own feet), thinking it would be better to have a running start of some sort. But your feet are frozen as well as your mind is. You just can't seem to get yourself to move. You've pictured yourself jumping into the pit at least a hundred times before, so you can't help to wonder why you can't seem to do it now.

It frustrates you. Your mind tells you to run, to jump, but your legs are glued to the ground.

"Gonna jump?"

You nearly lose your balance at the sudden voice that comes from behind you. You quickly whirl around to see a lanky boy with tousled black hair. He's leaning against the exterior of the common building, staring at you with cold, judgmental eyes. He's taller, bigger than you, so you discern that he must be one of those older kids. You scowl at him. "And what if I did jump?" you retort.

"Wouldn't recommend it, kid," the boy says. He laughs coldly. "First of all, they're not going to burn that shit for several hours. Do you really want to lay around rotting bodies before you die?"

"What if I don't care?" you answer defiantly, crossing your arms.

"What are you? Dumb?" The boy scoffs, leaving his place against the wall and starting to walk towards you as he casually stuffs his hands into his pants pockets. "Get out of here," he says menacingly, eyes narrowing and mouth set stern. "And don't come back."

You admit you're slightly scared, but you don't back down. "No." You glare. "I don't want to."

The boy laughs, shrugging. "It's always the dumb Dystopian-borns. You can't be more than ten-years-old. What's got you so suicidal, huh?"

You narrow your eyes. "I'm not dumb!"

"Hm... Prove it... idiot."

You fume, face turning bright red as you stomp your feet. "Shut up! Leave me alone!"

The boy laughs. "I will if you get out of my sight."

Angry tears slip from your eyes as you grip your fists tight. "I don't want to! I-I want to die! My best friend's down there. And I'm going to be with him!" you yell as snot runs down your nose and your cheeks are wet with hot tears. You feel pathetic. But you need to get your point across to this mean, older boy who isn't leaving you alone. "You can't make me leave!"

There's an uncomfortable silence that follows, yet you stand your ground and glare at him. But to your surprise, the boy lets out a small sigh and begins to walk up to you. He crouches down to your level and he wipes your tears (and embarrassingly a bit of your snot) with the sleeve of his frayed (but obviously high-end) sweater. "It's okay kid," he says. Before you know it, he's pulling you into a tight hug. "Stop crying, hm? It'll be all right, kid."

Nobody's ever hugged you like that before. Not even Jimin—because he knows how much you don't like physical affection. But you needed his hug; it was long overdue.

You hiccup, crying out the rest of your tears as the boy holds you into his arms. It takes you a few minutes to calm down, and when you finally pull away from the boy, you notice that your shirt is slightly wet as well. And not from your tears, but from his. You look up to see the boy's back turned on you, hiding his face from your view.

"Let's go get something to eat, kid," he says, and you can hear just the hint of tears behind his voice. And when he sniffles, it confirms everything.

Cocking your head in curiosity, you begin to follow him—

"Wait, wait!" Taehyung interrupts. "Before you go on any further, you need to address the elephant in the room, Y/N. Why the fuck is he crying?"

"Yeah, well, I didn't know then either," you say. "It's complicated. I mean, I only found out the reason way later. If you'd just let me continue—"

"Oh, sorry. Continue, then."

"Yes, thank you—"

"Wait, lemme interrupt just one more time," Taehyung interjects again. "Just one last question." You groan, but you nod, telling him you're all ears. "Exactly how much older is he than you?"

You sigh. "He was three years older."

Taehyung sucks in a deep breath. "Right... He's, uh, dead. But damn. You were into a Utopian-born that was older? You really broke all the boundaries."

You shrug. "I guess I always didn't really give a fuck about societal norms or whatever the shit people call it."

"And yet you're conforming to the largest societal norm in Atna by studying for the Exam," Taehyung points out. "Times have changed."

You smile sadly, shaking your head. "I'm only doing this for Yoongi. He made me promise... So, here I am, trying to fulfill his wishes. Will you let me continue now?"

"Yeah, yeah."

"Anyways..."

Yoongi watches you devour the bread, but you're too hungry to care about his incessant staring.

"You should slow down," he says. "We don't want you to choke to death or anything—" he pauses, eyes turning wide before he mutters a "Shit, I gave her a fucking idea."

"I heard that," you say.

Yoongi visibly pales.

"It's okay," you assure him, setting down a loaf of bread to stare right back at the boy. "I feel better now. I don't think I've eaten for days."

"Damn," Yoongi mutters under his breath. "What kind of best friend was he for you to be this distraught over his death?"

"Distraught?" you say, blinking blankly at him.

He sighs, "Right, right, you're only ten. Distraught means sad. Upset. Depressed. All those fun words."

"Oh," you murmur. "Jimin was everything to me," you say shyly. "He promised me that we were going to go back to Dystopia! Then we could share a house and live together as adults..." you trail off, losing yourself in the figments of your wildest imaginations. "We were supposed to have so much fun in Purgatory..."

Yoongi cocks his head. "Kid, I think you liked him."

You frown at this strange comment, crinkling your nose. "Of course I liked him, he was my best friend."

"No, kid. You like liked him. Maybe you loved him. I don't know," Yoongi says, shrugging. "Think about it. Wait no, don't. Forget about him. Don't make yourself sad. Talk to me. What do you wanna do? Wanna go to my room? I have some stuff back from home there. You can play with them if you want."

You squint your eyes at the boy, staring at him suspiciously. "Why are you trying to be nice...?"

"Nice?" Yoongi scoffs. "I'm just, uh, I'm just trying to get rid of stuff that I don't need anymore. I'm definitely not being nice. So you better follow me 'cause I don't want a lot of things."

You don't buy his lie, but maybe that's a good thing. In your eyes, this boy is, indeed, nice and he's trying to help you take your mind off of Jimin. He even prevented you from leaping off the ledge and falling to your own death. You hope he sticks around.

And stick around he did.

Yoongi is bossy, straight-forward and frankly rude sometimes, things that Jimin totally wasn't. But he is also generous, thoughtful and emotional (on a good day), and that's all you needed to stick by his side.

He is so generous that in the first week that you met him, he gave you nearly a closet-worth's supply of thick sweaters and jackets for the upcoming winter. In that same way, he is thoughtful. You took the clothes gratefully, never once having held such expensive material before in your life.

On late nights when you slept over in his room, he always asked if you could tell him stories of your childhood. And you'd gladly oblige. That's when he got emotional. Though you never see him cry, you always hear it when you tell your stories. Yoongi tries to hide his emotions to the best of his ability, but frankly, he's a loud crier, so you hear him every time. But you let him think he's good at hiding his tears for the sake that he's your friend.

One day, though, you come down with some sort of throat sickness, and Yoongi practically orders you not to speak for the next 24 hours. He had his own medicine cabinet in which his rich parents gifted him before their only son was shipped off to Purgatory from their grand mansion. So you were getting the best treatment anyone in Purgatory could get.

Yoongi even offered to tell you stories that night. To repay you for being an amazing storyteller.

"I've always wanted to hear about Utopia," you croak despite having a painful burn in your throat. "I hate that place. But I want to know more about it."

"Stop talking so much," Yoongi sighs. "Do you want to get better or not?" When you're silent, (having passed his rhetorical question test in which the correct answer was to stay quiet) he smiles to himself and continues. "I hate Utopia too. It's not as great as it seems. You know that every Utopian-born is a slave to education? I think the moment I was born, I got tossed in tutoring. From six in the morning to eleven at night I was tutored. Seven days a week, no breaks. It's probably illegal, but my parents had a lot of copies of the books in the library in Purgatory. They made me get a head start on everything. After a while, you start to think about what the whole point of education is...

"My parents always told me that I was only suffering in my younger years—that I'd only have to suffer until I'm eighteen and if I scored well on the Exam, I'd be able to come back home safely and have the time of my life in Utopia. But I just didn't want to become a slave to education," Yoongi says. "I was sick of it. Sure, I'm privileged. Sure, I had everything I wanted growing up, but I didn't have one thing you Dystopians have—freedom.

"When you're studying all day every day, you don't get a lot of chances to make friends," Yoongi says. "I grew up with adults breathing down my neck and telling me to memorize useless facts. That was the closest thing to friends I ever got. I'm not sure if every Utopian-born is forced to live like this, but I can damn well infer it. Anyways, my parents aren't here now, so I can do whatever the fuck I want."

You laugh. "You don't want to go back home?" you say in your sick, gravelly voice

"I'm just tired, Y/N. I'm tired of everything," Yoongi exhales. "You'll understand when you're older."

"You're only three years older than me, though," you pout. "Do three years change that much?"

"Yes," Yoongi replies as a matter-of-fact-way. "I don't even want to take this stupid fucking test. But I also don't want to rot in Dystopia—no offense. I know I won't last there."

"Yeah, you won't last," you tell him with a giggle.

He huffs. "That's real comforting, Y/N."

"I know," you rasp. "Please tell me about Utopia, now. Are the skies really that blue? And does everyone have a pool? What do you eat there? Do you get your own room??" The last question throws you in a coughing fit, and Yoongi looks at you worriedly. He waits until you stop before he continues.

"It was always blue outside, yeah," he says, slowly, carefully as if he was taking his time to form his words to match his visualizations. "Sometimes we had scheduled rainy days for the private gardens and stuff," he says nostalgically. "I think I had about three pools in my home in Utopia, but I’m not sure if other families had them too. You know, I didn't get around much. Always stuck inside and studying." He sighs. "At least the food there was good. Way better than the crap we're forced to eat here. Barbecue ribs with generous amounts of sauce, slow-cooked potatoes in a bonfire, roasted lamb chops, fresh fruits and vegetables picked up from the nearby food-growing facilities... Caviar, licorice, cotton candy, chocolate, cakes, pudding... And if I ever ate bread, it was with fresh strawberry jam and smooth almond butter."

You don't understand half of the stuff he's saying, but whatever it is, it sounds delicious.

"I could talk about the great food there forever," Yoongi says. "The only thing I miss about Utopia is the food... It's really lonely there. I had my sleeping chamber, my pool room and my study room, but I was always in there alone. Whatever. Do you want to hear more?"

You nod. "Yoongi?"

"Yeah?"

"You cried when I first met you. Why?"

Yoongi visibly stiffens. Knowing him you expect Yoongi to wave off your question or ignore you altogether, but to your surprise, he doesn't.

"You made me feel bad," he confesses bluntly.

"Me??"

"It was just so strange for me to see someone else get upset over a friend..." he trails off. "You were going to die for him. You were going to leap into a pit because you loved your friend that much. You couldn't bear to think of a life without him. So you were going to die with him. And that just..."

"It was stupid, I know," you pout. "You don't have to say it again."

"It was stupid, yeah," Yoongi agrees. "And I'm saying it again because I can. But at the same time, it hurt me. You know, I made up my mind to jump that day too."

"You did??"

"Yeah and imagine my surprise and annoyance when I see some ten-year-old Dystopian-born in my way," Yoongi sniffles. "Pissed me off."

You huff. "Well—"

"And I was still pissed off at you until you told me you were going to do it to be with your friend," Yoongi says. "Do you know why I was going to do it?" You shake your head no. "Because I'm selfish and I didn't like my life and I didn't want to continue living in this hellhole by myself. Because I wanted to give up. And also because I didn't have a purpose to wake up to another day, but that's just one part of a plethora of other reasons. They were all selfish. It made me just... feel something when I saw you. And you were just willing to die for someone who wasn't yourself. Even though that's fucking stupid, it made me realize how I've never really lived before. And maybe you were the key to my first friendship? I don't know."

"Wow," you mutter.

"Is that all you have to say?"

"Yes, well, no? My throat's hurting again, Yoongi," you whine. "You told me to stop talking minutes ago."

"Oh, well, in that case, just go to sleep," he says. "You'll feel better in the morning."

"Thanks," you whisper against your cotton pillow. You snuggle in your cot below Yoongi's bed and let out a small sigh. "You're not that selfish, Yoongi," you say.

And you mean it. Yoongi's shown you nothing but generosity. He's shown you that he's caring when he tries to be. Even though he's unbelievably bossy sometimes, he does it for your own good. His quiet demeanor is a façade to the overwhelming emotions inside, and you can see right through it.

Yoongi doesn't answer for the longest time, so you wrap your arms arm yourself to preserve warmth and fall asleep. You wake up the next morning with an extra layer of blanket on top of you.

Taehyung begins to tap his feet on the ground restlessly, consequently making your chair shake underneath you. You try to ignore it for minutes, but the constant shaking is making it hard for you to concentrate on the textbook sitting between the two of you.

"Taehyung," you say.

"Hm?" he asks, his eyes boring into the pages of the book. "What?"

"Can you stop?"

"Stop what?"

"You're shaking my chair."

"Oh," Taehyung says. He finally looks up from his reading and makes eye contact with you. "Sorry," he apologizes hastily. "I didn't mean to do it... I just got nervous. This book is just... It's weird. I mean, when was the last time we put emphasis on family?"

"Never, of course," you say. "I barely even remember what my parents look like."

"Really?" Taehyung's eyes are large as he stares you down with curiosity mixed with just the slightest bit of pity. "Do you miss them?"

"No."

"What? Really?" Taehyung gasps. "You really don't care at all?"

"They're not prominent figures in my life," you say. "It was always Jimin. And then when Jimin died, it was Yoongi..." you trail off. "I do regret not being close to my family. I don't think I said goodbye when I had to leave to Purgatory."

"God, well, that's harsh."

"I know. What about you? Were you close with your family?"

"Oh, very," Taehyung replies. "I had three older brothers and one younger sister. My sister and two brothers didn't make it out in the world. So in theory I only had one older sibling."

"I'm sorry," you say.

"It's fine. It was in Dystopia. Too many people die so the deaths start to become irrelevant," Taehyung shrugs. "I miss them, though. My brother's dead now, but I miss my parents."

"Dead?"

"He tried to start a revolt in Purgatory eleven years ago," Taehyung says. He frowns, shaking his head in disbelief. "I didn't think he was that dumb to actually go through with the rebellion. It was a man-slaughter, by the way. Everyone in his year was killed."

"Everyone?" you say. "Even to me, that sounds severe."

"Yeah, well, it was easier for them. Assumed that everyone in that year was a rebel. And rebels deserve to die, apparently," Taehyung says. He grits his teeth, fisting his hands in slow-coming anger. "You do know why they have the fucking Exam, right?"

"To choose which people are worthy of being in Utopia?"

"That's part of the reason," Taehyung says. He leans into you so suddenly that you gasp quietly. "The government does it to weed out the feeble-minded ones. Haven't you heard rumors? In a few years, they might just exterminate Dystopia and Purgatory altogether. There aren't enough resources to keep everyone alive," he whispers with urgency, and you can feel his hot breath on your cheeks. "So they're trying to grow a stable society with highly intelligent individuals. They want to get rid of the excess. The unworthy. They do it by hosting the Exam."

He looks satisfied at your rather shocked face and decides to give you some space, leaning away and taking away the warmth on your face.

"They're going to get rid of Dystopia?" you whisper. "And Purgatory? That's not fair to the people living there. They're gonna close off Utopia forever? That's bullshit."

"It's rumored." Taehyung shrugs.

"Is that why you're studying so hard to go?" you say, cocking a curious brow at him. "To avenge your brother?"

"Maybe," Taehyung grins. "I mean, I'll see what I can do."

"You shouldn't," you tell him with a frown. "They're gonna kill our whole year because of you."

Taehyung raises an eyebrow at you. "You know what they're doing is wrong," he says. "Don't you want to right the wrong?"

"No," you say. "I don't. I'm not going to risk my life or any other lives to fix this stupid system. The only fool-proof way to beat them is to beat the Exam—by that, I mean get a perfect score. Think about it. It's a huge middle finger to the government. Imagine if only one person out of hundreds gets to go to Utopia for scoring the highest, and, you know, assuming that only one person gets a perfect score because it's that unheard of. If that keeps up year after year, Utopia will die. They'll be underpopulated. The government will realize the system is flawed with time."

"That would take years and years. And a lot of assumptions to make," Taehyung scoffs. "You're talking about one person from every fucking year having the will and intelligence to score perfectly. Statistically impossible."

"So what?" you say. "You think a bloody revolution will solve everything?"

"A bloody revolution would obviously take less time than what you're thinking of," Taehyung says. "There are people fucking dying out there. There are people eating dead bodies. One bloody revolt can do a lot for the future."

"It won't do a lot for the present, though," you argue.

Taehyung sighs. "You know what? I'm sorry we even fucking got into this damned conversation. Whatever. Let's just finish up the book."

You clench your teeth but you don't say anything, merely nodding to show your agreement.

For the next thirteen hours, it is completely silent. After the small argument, neither you nor Taehyung feels the need to speak to the other. There is obvious tension and awkwardness between the two of you—like it had been in the beginning. You try to ignore it, immersing yourself into the contents of family studies, no matter how tedious you found it. Night rolls around and both of you end up skipping dinner.

Breakfast the next day is skipped as well.

By the time lunch comes, you and Taehyung have finished reading and reviewing the last book in the whole library. He slams the textbook shut and slides it across the table. The sound isn't as jarring as you expect it to be. So you just blink your dry eyes and try to steady yourself to prepare to stand up from your seat. Maybe you should leave Taehyung alone for a while... Maybe he doesn't want to talk to you anymore. And maybe you shouldn't hang around him... He could get you killed. He could rope you around in his master plan that his older brother had left with loose ends. You don't want to die; you don't even want to think of the possibility of death.

The only way you can beat the goddamn Exam is to be the only person to score 100 percent. And you're going to accomplish that. For years you've set your mind on this one single goal. Sacrificed food, water and sleep for it. You're not going to let it slip from your hands this easily—not when you're this close to it.

You wobble away from the chair, never looking back at Taehyung as you try to walk away from the table.

"Wait."

His tired voice echoes in the nearly empty library and it rings in your ears. You stop walking but you don't turn around.

"What, Taehyung?" you say through gritted teeth. Though you try to hide the slight waver in your voice that would indicate your exhaustiveness, it shows quite obviously.

"Let's grab lunch together. Please," he says—no, pleads.

God, he must know how much that word affects me. He knows about Jimin, so it probably wasn't so hard to use that knowledge to his own advantage.

After contemplating for what seemed like minutes, you finally turn around to face Taehyung. It surprises you when you meet his eyes almost immediately.

"You didn't finish telling me about Yoongi," he says. "I hate cliffhangers."

It occurs to you that both of you are too proud to apologize over an argument; in fact, this was Taehyung's way of apologizing to you without uttering the words, 'I'm sorry.' Your apology would be something similar.

You nod. "C'mon," you say. "Let's go to the cafeteria."

For two whole years, you were the happiest you've ever been with Yoongi. He made you almost forget about Jimin, but you made sure you honored your dead best friend by visiting the pit every now and then. It had been the last place you'd seen him.

Yoongi likes to come with you when you go to the pit. He's been getting anxious these days when you're not by his side.

Actually, you notice that he's been acting a bit strange. In the past few months, he began lecturing you about famous inventors and world leaders. He taught you the locations and capitals of countries you didn't know existed. He's been telling you the events of history as if he'd lived through them himself. The most annoying part was when he tried to make a damn math problem out of everything.

You only assumed that the pent-up knowledge inside his head was finally getting to him and he had to let it out to someone before he exploded. So you went along with it. And you suppose that sometimes, the lessons Yoongi taught you were enjoyable.

Until it got to the point that he began to quiz you on the material you learned from him.

You groan, eyes fluttering open to greet the morning sunlight that floods through the faded curtains in Yoongi's room. You had a rough night with a bad dream. You've never been this glad to finally wake up from your sleep.

Aside from the sunlight, you're also greeted by Yoongi's loud voice the moment he catches you awake. "Capital of Senegal?" he demands, pointing at you as if you had just committed a crime.

You squint your eyes at him, frowning as you stifle a yawn. You're still cranky from having a bad dream (that you can't remember now that you've woken up), so without so much of the slightest blink of an eye, you tell him to "Please, stop."

Yoongi snorts. "No, seriously," he says. "What's the capital of Senegal?"

"I dunno," you lie even though there's no way in hell that you don't know at this point in time because Yoongi's been making you memorize the world capitals for weeks now. But frustration starts to bubble up inside of you. You thought Yoongi would know a thing or two about maintaining personal space. Making you answer stupid geography questions the moment you wake up for six days in a row was downright mean and he deserves to hear a mouthful from you. "Yoongi what the hell is up with you?" you huff. "What does the capital of Senegal have to do with anything??"

"It's Dakar!" Yoongi yells, throwing up his hands. "Fucking Dakar, Y/N! Is that so hard to remember?"

"Why does it even matter?!" you yell back at him.

"I'm trying to help you!" Yoongi shouts. "I'm helping you learn, goddammit!"

"Why would I have to learn??" you say absolutely confused out of your mind. "You know how much you hated being stuck in tutoring. Well, I hate it too!"

"Oh, shit," Yoongi curses, collapsing on his bed with his hands buried in his face. He realizes that you'd just made an extremely valid point, and it puts him to shame. "I was just trying to help..."

"What? Help me pass the Exam?" you snort half-jokingly. "Yoongi, I want to go back to my home, Dystopia, with you."

"No, Y/N," Yoongi says. "I'm not going to Dystopia."

"Then wha—"

"I've been thinking, Y/N," Yoongi cuts you off, patting the spot next to him for you to sit. You do, rubbing your eyes and trying to tame your bed hair as you wait for him to continue. "I've been thinking a lot..." Yoongi says, "about the future. I've thought about every scenario in my head, and I don't think I'll ever be content."

"Aren't you happy with me, here?" you say. "I thought we were having fun..."

"Sooner or later, Y/N, I'll have to take the Exam," Yoongi says. "I'll fail, as expected. I'll be tossed into Dystopia and I'll have to wait until you come back home. But I'll most likely die in less than a year so you'll never actually get to see me again."

"Don't say that!" you shriek. "Don't even—"

"I'm obviously not going to make it in Dystopia. I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth and waking up in this dingy room in Purgatory every day disgusts me. Think about how horrible it'd be for me in Dystopia when I can't even stand it here. Then the only solution left is for me to go back to Utopia," Yoongi explains. "And that's not going to happen because I don't intend on learning new material anymore. I'm not a scholar. Was forced to be, but never wanted to be. I give up."

"You're giving up??"

"I'm giving up."

"But Yoongi..." you breathe but no further words come out of your mouth. You don't want to put words in his mouth, but you're scared of what he's thinking of doing to himself in the future. Yet you don't have the guts to ask him about his plan out loud.

"I know, Y/N," Yoongi sighs. "But I'm not bringing you down with me."

"What??"

"You're going to Utopia, Y/N," Yoongi says. He's so nonchalant with an atrocious statement that you wonder if he has a concussion. But when he's staring at you so intently, you realize with a heavy heart that he's dead serious.

"It's too late, Yoongi," you protest. "I would never beat the Utopian-borns... I'm already two years behind the game, and if you factor in the time the Utopian-borns have studied, I'm twelve years behind!"

"It's not too late," he argues. "Think about it. Utopian-borns like me—unless they're batshit crazy—aren't trying as hard anymore. Their parents aren't there to supervise them, and they're probably insanely cocky about how much they already know."

"What's your point?"

"You can easily beat them with willpower," Yoongi says. "And I already tried teaching you some stuff that I remembered too—whether you were paying attention is solely on you, though."

You huff. "I was paying attention," you say. "And that's impossible. I'm not a genius, Yoongi. Intelligence is genetic. You told me so yourself."

"I did," Yoongi admits, "but it doesn't matter how innately intelligent you are. What really matters is willpower. And I have none. But you have a lot. I'm just saying, Y/N. Utopia... it's not really a life for me. I don't really give a shit about education and being intelligent. I don't really give a shit about anything. But I think Utopia is a life for you. It's a life you deserve."

"I can't just accept what you're telling me, Yoongi," you say.

"Yes you can," he says. "I want to leave soon, you know. I don't want to distract you from your studies... And besides, Purgatory's food fucking sucks. I bet they have better food in the afterlife."

The afterlife. It's then when it truly dawns on you of the atrocity that your friend would commit to himself.

"You can't just kill yourself," you scoff, twisting your body towards Yoongi in complete bewilderment. "What about me? I never agreed to any of this!"

"You've wanted to go to Utopia the moment I started to tell you about it," Yoongi says. "You think I wouldn't know? I'm helping you get there."

"But I don't want to be alone!" You sniffle, chin pointing to the ceiling so the tears that are starting to well in your eyes dry away. But it's no use. The more you think about being abandoned again, another person you genuinely cared for leaving you into the afterlife... it makes you feel broken.

"Well, I don't really want to live," Yoongi says. "We're all selfish. It's human nature."

"I thought you cared about me!" Your voice rises two octaves. "We were supposed to spend the rest of your time in Purgatory together! You can't just leave early because you feel like it! What am I going to do without you??" You're sobbing now, the tears running down your face in fat droplets that blur your vision.

"Hey..." Yoongi murmurs. "Y/N..." He gives you some space to cry, to let out the worst of your emotions. Then he encompasses you in a warm hug in which your face is up against the soft material of his sweater and he pats your back comfortably. "You'll get over me."

"I won't," you whimper. "That's a promise."

"C'mon don't waste a precious promise on that," he whispers.

"I will so waste a stupid precious promise on that," you whisper back. You hate him for doing this to you. For telling you that he was going to leave you so you knew what was coming—now you were dreading the moment he was going to abandon you instead of relishing in his presence, his embrace, his warmth.

For hours, the two of you bask in complete silence. You've calmed yourself down to the point that the tears roll down your face sporadically, but not in steady streams anymore. Yoongi runs his fingers through your hair, an act that he only does to ensure you that everything will be all right. It's rare that the two of you are ever this close in proximity, and you want to cherish this moment before he's gone. But curiosity pulls at the strings inside you and you just have to ask—

"W-When are you going to do it?"

"Hm?"

"When are you going to commit suicide?"

"I'm not going to tell you."

You pull away from Yoongi, scowling at him. "Why not?"

"You'll try to put a stop to it," he says. "I need to get through with this, Y/N. You can't change my mind."

"I want to say I hate you, but now I feel like I need to be nice to you," you confess, running a hand through your hair in confusion.

Yoongi smiles, shaking his head. "Act normally." He hesitantly reaches out for your hand, and when you give it to him, he holds it perfectly—not too tightly nor not too loosely. "Just promise me one thing." When you don't answer, he turns to you, squeezing your intertwined hands for emphasis. "Get to the top for me, will you?"

"I can't promise tha—"

"And please don't frown when you study. You're gonna get a permanent crease on your forehead."

"Fuck, Y/N," Taehyung chokes, blinking away a tear that was starting to become too heavy for his eyes. "That's it? You let him just... leave you like that?"

"I feel like I should've put up a bigger fight too," you admit, playing with what's left of the bread crumbs on the lunch table. "I should've helped him. Nursed him back into a healthy mental state. But what did I know? I was fucking twelve then. I didn't know shit about mental health or psychology."

"You know now at least," Taehyung offers.

"I'd rather not know," you say. "Now that I know that I could've helped him... it just feels worse." You let out a deep sigh that takes the heavy weight off of your chest. "He overdosed about four days later. They found him before I did... And since then, I've been alone, studying my ass off."

"I can't help but admire your determination," Taehyung says. "You honestly can't beat human willpower. Yoongi's right."

You smile, shrugging nonchalantly. "I just want to keep my promise with him... And maybe I want to live in glory for the rest of my life, but who am I to blame? Everybody wants that life."

"Everybody deserves that life," Taehyung says. "No one should have to go through near-death experiences to get to it."

"Life's never fair," you say. "Deal with it."

Taehyung snorts. "I know. I'm trying." He pauses, placing a pensive hand on his chin and looking off into the distance as if he were thinking hard about something. "Hey, you know, the best way to retain information is to repeat it out loud or teach it to others."

"That's exactly what Yoongi made me do," you say. "All those random quiz questions throughout the day... I didn't appreciate it then, but I'd sure appreciate it now."

"Then we can be study buddies," Taehyung declares. "We'll quiz each other. We have about a year left before the Exam. We'll review every concept in the whole damn library together. Two heads work better than one!"

"Aren't we supposed to be competitors?" you say. "I'm looking to get a perfect score, Taehyung," you grin. "If you can't keep up with my rigorous schedule, you shouldn't even be proposing this plan to me."

"Oh yeah?" Taehyung cocks an eyebrow as he grins right back at you, revealing his perfect teeth and boxy smile. "Bring it on, Y/N."

Bring it on? Oh, you'll bring it on, all right. Taehyung won't even know what hit him.

Having someone else to study with you doubles your competitiveness, which is a feat in it of itself because you are definitely more competitive than at least one hundred of your peers combined.

Every day, you've been trying to wake up earlier than Taehyung to get to the library first. The only problem is, he's been doing the same as well. You thought you had him beat when you sauntered into the library at 4 a.m. feeling quite refreshed after an hour night's sleep, but it turned out that Taehyung never even left the library. He'd grinned at you, practically staring into your soul with bloodshot eyes and croaking, "I win!" so victoriously that you really had to accept his triumph over you.

But when the two of you start to play a little game of who-can-stay-awake-for-longer, Taehyung has to put a stop to the madness when you start to mumble jumbled sentences in Latin after he asks if you need some water.

You and Taehyung look out for each other almost by habit at this point. It's become a routine for you to wake the other up if you were the first to awake. Now morning trips to the library are done together, and you have to admit it feels much better to be able to walk side by side next to someone who is willing to babble his head off to wake you up a bit more.

Dinner is skipped Mondays through Fridays to make extra time for review. On Saturdays, you and Taehyung indulge in the full three meals that Purgatory has to offer while also finishing up your studies. But Sunday, Sunday is the holy grail of the week. No studying, no library, just you and Taehyung taking some time off (for once).

Surprisingly, you'd come up with Special Sundays, after Taehyung had a huge mental breakdown over plumb-forgetting how to graph polar curves on one typical Saturday night. And the special day has stayed since. Neither of you wants to get rid of something that is the only non-study related activity of the week.

Most Special Sundays are spent in either Taehyung's room or your room. Taehyung prefers your room because you have extra blankets that Yoongi left for you, and as winter comes by, any additional coverage is very much appreciated.

This Sunday, however, you managed to convince Taehyung to hang out in his room—only because his mattress is softer than yours and you've been getting bad back and neck pains these days.

"By the time I'm twenty, I'll be suffering from a fucking herniated disc," you tell Taehyung as you groan, shifting your position on his bed for what seems like the hundredth time. "I feel so fucking stuffy. Like I need to crack my back but I can't. Don't even get me started on my fucking neck."

"By the time you're twenty, you'll be in Utopia and the special doctors will be all over you to treat Atna's very own princess," Taehyung snorts. "They'd do anything to keep the perfect scoring girl alive and well."

"Princess my ass," you laugh. "I'd like to wish. How's the cot, by the way? Kinda feel bad about making you sleep there while I take your bed."

Taehyung shrugs. "I don't mind. I honestly don't even feel a difference," he says without skipping a beat. "And we don't want your back messing up your chances. On the day of the Exam, it'd be worse to have your body betray you than your mind."

"I'd literally fucking cry if my stupid back is still like this before the Exam, Taehyung," you say. "All these years I spent with my nose buried in a book... Only to fail because my body couldn't handle it."

"That's the worst," Taehyung sighs. "But if you stretch every day, it might get better. Honestly, we need to start taking care of ourselves better. We need to reserve time to rest... to take our minds off of studying. Even if it's only one day per week."

"Yeah," you agree. "You know what's fucking sad though? We're still talking about the stupid Exam even now. It never escapes our heads."

"We're slaves to the system," Taehyung bitterly murmurs. "What do you expect?"

"That's true," you say, wincing as you try to shift your position on the bed again. "I don't expect much at this point. Not from the people who've turned the library into a battlefield and the students into soldiers."

"The Exam is the war," Taehyung says. "Losing the war means death, mostly. I see no difference."

"We are so depressing," you sigh. "But it's all true."

"I know," Taehyung says. He turns over on his side to look up at you on his bed. "You ever think about the worst-case scenario?"

"You mean like... we don't make it to Utopia?"

"We?" Taehyung smiles. "So you think we'd get perfect scores together? What happened to being competitors?"

"Oh, shut up," you snort. "We're a team. I thought it was obvious. And I am not talking about not making it to Utopia. We are not going to self-sabotage months before the fucking Exam."

"You're just going to ignore the chances? You're going to ignore the chance of failure?"

"Yes!" you say, turning on your side to face Taehyung. "Of course I am. Do you really want to lie here talking about failure? We shouldn't even plant the thought of that in our heads right now. It's all about victory. We're the smartest, most capable people in our year, so if we don't get to Utopia, no one will. Understand?"

Taehyung belts out a laugh that has you frowning. "Your confidence deserves a gold medal sometimes," he says. "I do understand you..." he continues, "but only to a certain extent."

You scoff, "Oh, come on, Taehyung. What happened to the cocky bastard I met months ago??"

"That was such a mask behind the real me, Y/N," Taehyung laughs. "I thought you knew that by now. I'm fucking terrified of failure and even the slightest thought about failing makes me want to crawl in a hole and just... vanish."

"I swear to god, Tae, if you talk about vanishing like that again, I'll seriously make you want to vanish," you threaten him with the most menacing voice you can muster up. "We're already victors to this stupid game, winners of the war. Don't you dare think otherwise."

Taehyung smiles, eyes twinkling when he realizes you'd called him by his special nickname (that he kept trying to get you to call him) for the first time. "I'll try not to," he says. "But I'm not making any promises."

"Well, that's still good enough for me."

Four months until the Exam.

You're both physically (your back pains are gone) and mentally (you've always been) ready. But your friend is another story. As more days pass, the more anxious Taehyung begins to feel. He's never able to sleep, so he steals a couple of library books back to his room every night to read while everyone else is salvaging every hour of shut-eye they can get.

His insecurities are catching up to him. And you've always been quite loud-mouthed and confident, so you don't understand him very well. Yet, you're a team, and you do not leave team members stranded.

Motivational pep talks are not really your thing, but they have become your thing these past few days. You walk Taehyung to his room from the library every night, telling him that he had nothing to worry about—that he was going to do superbly well on the Exam. Sometimes, you feel like you're repeating the same phrase over and over again to him, but Taehyung reassures you that whatever you say helps him calm down.

But the mental breakdowns are becoming more and more frequent. Taehyung can't seem to sit still for ten minutes without starting to shake his leg and vibrate the whole table. He has to stop reviewing the Exam material to catch his breath, wipe away his tears and relax the tensed muscles on his face.

You let him take his time. You're always there for him to lean on, to help him catch up on the study time that he missed. And he's forever grateful to you.

"I don't think anyone's been this understanding of me," Taehyung sniffles as you pat his back comfortingly as he blows his nose on a scratchy napkin you handed him before. "Back home, my brother used to tell me to man up when I started to have my panic attacks. He was always the mentally stronger one of us."

"That wasn't very nice of him to say that," you remark. "It's normal to feel uneasy, especially at a time like this. The Exam is four months away... Not too close but not too far either..."

"God. I wish I wasn't so anxious all the time," Taehyung sighs, crumpling up his tissue and pocketing it. "I wish I was like you. Not afraid of losing... Not afraid of failing... Just so confident all the time."

"You can be like me," you say. "Just stop worrying so much."

"Easier said than done," Taehyung scoffs. "You're going to Utopia for sure. There's literally no doubt, Y/N."

"You're coming with me," you argue. "Not to avenge your brother's death or whatever. But just to enjoy the wealthy living since we both deserve it at this point."

"I'm not a charismatic leader," Taehyung shrugs. "I would've never been able to help start a revolt like him. I'd really like to go with you to Utopia... If we both got in, do you think we'd keep in touch?"

"Of course!" you exclaim. "We kept each other company in the loneliest of times. Have you seen anyone else in our year who's serious about taking the Exam making friends now? Everyone's too busy thinking about competition."

"What did I say?" Taehyung grins. "Teamwork works, and two heads are definitely better than one."

"Very true," you smile. "Remember when we fought for that book? The very first time we met?"

"How could I forget?" Taehyung laughs. "I thought you were going to murder me with that look of yours, honestly."

"Oh, wow. I'm not that scary, am I?"

"Oh, yes you are," Taehyung argues. "Do you know how hard it was for me to literally act tough in front of you in the beginning? So you wouldn't take me as some kind of wimp?"

"You acted tough for me?" you giggle, resting your hand on your cheek as your elbow sits on the table. You stare at Taehyung with an amused look on your face. "So you're just actually a big ol' softie?"

"W-Well, I wouldn't call myself a softie per se," Taehyung blushes. "I'm just uh..." he trails off. "Damn, Y/N. You put me under the spotlight."

You shrug, grinning as you watch Taehyung squirm under your intense gaze. Maybe you're a little mean, but making him blush is pretty funny. Teasing him is even funnier.

"It wouldn't be the first time. And definitely not the last," you say with a mischievous grin playing on your lips. Taehyung huffs, but his face looks much more relaxed than it had been several minutes ago—even the redness of his eyes are slowly fading away. He looks much better. He looks ready. "Hey, wanna go back to where we left off now?" you say. "If you're feeling better?"

"Yeah, sure," Taehyung smiles. "Thanks."

Goddamn. His smile is insanely contagious. It must be those perfect teeth and that boxy smile.

"No problem," you manage to murmur, feeling yourself start to blush thinking of Taehyung's immaculate smile. "Um," you hesitate, "yeah, so as I was saying before about Einstein's theory of relativity..."

Three months.

Something fishy is going on here. The closer the Exam looms over your head, the more you expected yourself to become miserable—stressed about the last-minute study material you could've forgotten over the years. Yet you find yourself rather relaxed.

It occurs to you, however, that you're only this relaxed because you have to be—for Taehyung. One of the two of you has to show strength to help the other. Pretending to be so strong-headed and confident (even when you fell into the familiar pit of self-doubt), helped you actually become confident in your knowledge and predestined success. There's really nothing to worry about, you tell yourself and Taehyung. If it's not the two of us, then it can't be anyone else.

The more you comfort Taehyung, the more he opens up to you, and the more you open up to him. Your friendships in the past have always been a little lopsided—with Jimin, you constantly comforted him, cared for him, and with Yoongi, he had been the one to take care of you. For once in your life, you had a relationship in which you both gave and took; Taehyung is your balance. The in-between of Jimin and Yoongi.

The platonic relationship with Jimin is mirrored in your relationship with Taehyung, but sometimes blush creeps up your cheeks when Taehyung teases you back or when your hands graze each other. So maybe you're not completely platonic with him.

And maybe you're just missing someone to love.

"Do you think we'd be happier if we just... never studied for the Exam?" Taehyung whispers to you as you lie side by side on your bed. The midnight moon is bright enough to illuminate just a sliver of Taehyung's face as he stares at the ceiling of your room pensively. "We would be hanging out... never going to the library... Making friends..."

You hum thoughtfully. "I don't know," you say. "I guess maybe we would be happier—just for the eight years we're in Purgatory, anyway."

"That's right," Taehyung says. "That's a good point, actually. I feel like what we're doing right now is right. We're suffering now to make gains later. And..." he trails off. "And... um, if we don't make it, at least we'll know that we tried."

You nod. "Yeah, I guess. It would be better than being tossed back into Dystopia and wondering for the rest of our lives what would've happened if we did study for the Exam."

"Exactly," Taehyung says. "I think it's crazy that we only have three months left," Taehyung says. "But weirdly... I feel less stressed than before. Maybe your optimistic preachings are getting to my head," he laughs quietly, nudging your shoulder playfully.

"Me? Optimistic?" you snort. "That's the first."

"It's true," Taehyung muses. "My anxiety isn't as bad as before, and I'm pretty sure you had a part to play in that."

"In three months, you won't have any anxiety ever again," you reassure him. "You won't even need to hear me babble on about optimism and self-confidence."

"And we'll be having the time of our lives in Utopia," Taehyung breathes.

You smile to yourself, nodding silently. The two of you let the silence consume you, letting Taehyung's last words echo in your head; it's a good way to end the conversation—on a positive note. A lasting note of hope and faith.

It's then when you feel something warm on your hand. It takes you a moment to realize it's flesh. It takes another moment for you to realize it's Taehyung's hand. When you don't flinch away, he quietly almost hesitantly encompasses your hand in his. Delicately, your fingers intertwine and lock perfectly together.

Immediately, your cheeks heat up but you refuse to speak about it. Reassurance floods through you as the two of you lay side by side in the comforting darkness of your room with your hands held tightly together.

And neither of you speak until the sun peeks out from the horizon to paint the skies with another morning, another day. You don't need to talk to Taehyung to know he's thinking the same thing as you.

We'll have the time of our lives in Utopia.

Two months.

The last-minute crammers crowd the library so much that there is a line to enter it. You and Taehyung found a very effective way to battle the sudden influx of students, though. Every day, the two of you enter the library as early as three in the morning (to ensure that little to nobody was there) and take six to seven books with you, hiding them under your jackets and sweaters.

Studying in your rooms is much better.

There are less judgmental eyes, fewer chances of catching a stupid cold that's been making its way through the younger kids in Purgatory and you and Taehyung can lounge on the beds when you get tired of sitting straight.

Two months to the Exam is shockingly close, so close that your back pains have been plaguing you once more. Taehyung tells you to stop slouching when you sit, but you find it hard to sit straight and read the tiny text of the textbooks. So you end up ignoring him.

But on some days, it hurts for you to turn your body, your back aching to the extremity that you started believing one uncalculated movement could leave you paralyzed for the rest of your life. It's on those days that you wish you listened to Taehyung earlier. You push on though, too stubborn to admit to Taehyung that he's right and too impatient to try to fix your pain at such an urgent time.

Except you're not too good at hiding your discomfort and Taehyung catches onto you.

"We should take a break," he says, closing an astrophysics textbook and practically tossing it over his head.

When you hear the loud thump of it hitting against the wall, you gasp. "Tae! You can't just throw the fucking book. We're not even supposed to have these in our rooms!"

"Maybe that was a bad idea," Taehyung says, fidgeting his hands. "A little too late now, though, isn't it?" He shrugs. "We need a break."

"I'm fine! I swear!" you say. "We'll study for a few more hours."

"Your back's killing you, isn't it?"

You scoff. "N-No!"

"You stuttered."

You groan, wincing quietly as you try to sit up straight. "I'm not gonna die because of this. I think I can keep going."

"If you don't fix that now, you probably won't be able to sit down for four hours to take the Exam," Taehyung tells you. He takes your book and throws it over his head, making you grimace when it thuds against the wall. "I'm gonna loosen your back muscles!" he declares.

"What are you gonna do? Step on my back and make it crack?" you snort. When you see that Taehyung actually looks like he's contemplating it, you quickly say, "Please don't."

"Don't worry. I'll try not to make it hurt," Taehyung grins. You look at him so threateningly that he has to raise both of his hands defensively. "Oh, c'mon! I'm trying to help."

You give him a nervous look. "So what? You're gonna give me a massage?"

"It'll help!" Taehyung says. "Just get all comfy and lay flat on the bed. Stomach on the covers, please."

The mere thought of his hands roaming on your back makes your face heat up. God, this is going to be intimate. Maybe that's why Taehyung suggested it... and maybe that's why you're actually complying with him.

Hesitantly, you situate yourself on the bed, laying your face on your arms. "Just my back," you tell him.

"Yeah, of course," he says. "I have credentials, technically."

"Oh?"

"I found a magazine about it," Taehyung says. "So I'm very much qualified."

"Oh god."

You hear Taehyung rustle behind you and you try to twist your body to see what he's doing but your back prevents you from moving. In frustration, you ask, "What are you doing?"

"Rolling up my sleeves and staring at your back. Why?"

"Why the fuck are you staring at my back?"

"I was trying to figure out where it hurts," he answers, "but I guess I could've just asked you instead."

You snort. "God, Tae. It honestly hurts everywhere. But especially around the shoulder blade area."

You can just imagine Taehyung nodding professionally, with his sleeves rolled up and his hair slicked back to prevent stray strands from poking at his eyes.

"Okay, I'm gonna put pressure there," he says. "Deep breath out..."

You obey him, closing your eyes and blowing air out of your lips, simultaneously relaxing your body. The moment you feel his hands on your back, goosebumps checker your arms. No one's ever been this close to you; no one's bothered to be this intimate with you.

"Feel good?" Taehyung asks.

He sounds closer to you than you expected him to be, and your breath hitches quietly. "Y-Yeah," you stutter. "A little lower."

Taehyung listens, rubbing your sore back with such care and calculated pressure that you have to bite your lip from letting rather embarrassing sounds from escaping your mouth. You don't realize how tense your body was until Taehyung calls you out. "You're so tense, Y/N," he remarks, his hands dealing with the clumped muscles on your back. "Try to relax."

You're red-faced, unable to admit to him that if you do as he says, you might just let out a moan and it'll really be game over then. You are not going to embarrass yourself in front of him because Taehyung would never let you live that down. And if you're really going to spend your days in Utopia with him, you'd rather not let him have any memories he can use to tease you.

"I am relaxing," you lie through your teeth. But when Taehyung gets to a particularly sensitive part on your back, you hiss through your teeth. "Ow..."

Taehyung immediately stops his ministrations. "Do you want me to stop for a second?" he asks with so much worry laced into his voice that you almost feel guilty for making him question himself.

"No!" you exclaim. "I mean, no. I'm fine. I guess my back was much worse than I thought..."

Taehyung laughs. "Well, if I do this for you occasionally and you stretch every day, you'll be in good condition again."

"Thanks," you mutter. "Really, Tae, I mean it."

You can just imagine the boy grinning ear to ear behind you. Though you expected him to say something cocky or silly, you received silence in response. "Tae?" Gritting your teeth, you try turning over on your back, which was easier than expected—Taehyung's massage had already done wonders.

With a little oof, you flip over to finally get a good look at Taehyung. "Cat got your tongue??" you tease him, raising an eyebrow and gazing at his rather blank face.

"No... no," he answers right away. "For a second I thought..." he trails off. His handsome face morphs into a look of worry, of nervousness.

"You thought...?"

"I thought I..." he trails off again, much to your impatience.

"Oh, come on, Tae," you sigh. "Spit it out!"

The boy grins, shaking his head. "For a second, I thought I heard you moan, Y/N. Enjoying yourself a little too much, aren't we?"

Okay, you had not expected that. The color quickly drains from your face and your mouth drops open rather unflatteringly. You sputter to think of an excuse, any excuse that would whisk you away from the embarrassment consuming you at this moment.

"I'm just kidding," Taehyung says as he nearly falls over in a fit of laughter. "You should see your face!"

"That's not funny!" you yell, sitting up on your elbows and glaring at the laughing boy.

"No, it was definitely funny," he says, grabbing your hand and helping you sit up. The action brings heat to your cheeks and you have to look away. "Oh, c'mon," Taehyung whines, "learn some humor, Y/N."

He must mistake your embarrassment as anger. You'll play along.

"You can literally shut up," you huff.

"Damn, you're not very scary when you pretend you're mad," Taehyung says, grinning mischievously at you.

"I am not pretending!"

"You're still holding my hand, Y/N," he teases.

Oh shit. He's right. That's the second time that's happened in one month. Is it strange to seek physical comfort? Or is it strange to feel so comfortable with Taehyung? "I-I," you stutter embarrassingly, unsure if you can even finish your own sentence when Taehyung interrupts you.

"It's okay, Y/N," he says. "I don't mind holding your hand."

You gape at him in shock—so much so that you're sure you don't look too attractive at the moment with your mouth hanging open and your eyes bulging.

Taehyung tightens his grip on your hand as he tugs you closer to him. His eyes sparkle with something you recognize as mirth, which is funny to see in a student's eyes just two months before the Exam.

Hm. You like the way his warm hand encompasses yours, and you adore the way he stares into your eyes as if he knows you and cares for you.

Before you know it, you're breathing out a rapid, "I don't mind holding your hand either."

You didn't know it was possible for Taehyung to grin even wider but sometimes even you're wrong.

One month.

This is the official crunch time. The time when existing contenders of the Exam become vicious and violent to ward off competition. The time when those who never cared for the Exam begin to host parties to live their best and lasting moments in glee. The time when some cocky Utopians begin to study—they think they're so above everyone else that they only need one month to prepare.

But you and Taehyung relish together in the time left in Purgatory together. You'll see him again in Utopia, but Purgatory is the place where you met him and got to know him. It's special, no matter how much you hate the dingy library and cramped dorms. It's special because, without the given situations, you would've never even met Taehyung. You would've spent the last year in Purgatory alone, haunted by the thoughts of Jimin and Yoongi. You couldn't have survived. Or maybe you could've. But Taehyung's helping you survive with a huge smile on your face. And happiness has never been so close to your fingertips.

Your hands are intertwined with his larger ones as the two of you stand against the wall of the building, staring into the empty pit of the dark abyss.

At this point, you're not quite sure where you stand with Taehyung, but you don't care as long as he's here to comfort you every day and you're there to hold his hand.

The cozy wool of Yoongi's sweater keeps you warm in the brisk night air as does Taehyung's presence right next to you. You look out at the pit, and for once, your stomach does not sink with misery. Paying your respects to the dead loved ones has never been this peaceful before.

"Do you think they're watching over you?" Taehyung whispers, judging you softly as he gazes up at the sky dotted with nighttime stars. "Maybe they're wishing you the best on the Exam."

"I actually have no idea..." you say, looking up at the sky with Taehyung and squeezing his hands. "But I miss them."

"You'll reunite with them one day," Taehyung tells you.

"Yeah," you say, "I definitely will."

"In the meantime, I bet Jimin's having the best time eating good meals and getting good sleep on a comfy bed..." Taehyung trails off as he looks at you. "And I hope Yoongi found his happiness by now."

You nod to yourself. "Me too, Tae."

"Only a month left, Y/N," he answers. "And strangely, this is the most peaceful I've been in my whole life."

When you look up, you find that Taehyung's already staring right back at you. A small smile stretches across your cracked lips. "Trust me, it'll be even more peaceful on the day that we're finally admitted into Utopia. We're in this together, right?"

"Definitely," Taehyung says. "I'm not nervous anymore. Not since you convinced me that I don't have to be afraid."

"Still gonna start a violent revolution?" you whisper. "Follow in your brother's footsteps?"

"Not now, not ever," he answers. "The system works. Why would I bother changing it when the people who truly deserve it are going to Utopia? I'm not brave enough to revolt... And I'm not putting you at risk for my dead brother."

"Thank you... Tae, that means a lot," you say. "Do you ever think there will be another revolution, though?"

"There are always revolutions," he replies. "There will always be more revolutions. Not everyone can always be completely satisfied with the authority's actions. It is what it is. Even if I have to take the brunt of it."

"You won't," you tell him. "We'll be long gone in Utopia before that happens."

"Y/N..." Taehyung mutters. He turns you around to face him, studying your features before pulling you in for an embrace. "I know you don't like it when I talk about this... but," he pauses, unsure. Yet he takes your silence as the cue to continue on. "In the case that we are separated after the Exam... In the case that something goes wrong... we... we should just continue on with our lives."

"And ignore whatever separated us?" you murmur against his shoulder. "We won't have to worry about that though. I told you not to worry. We're going to Utopia."

"I'm saying, just in case," Taehyung whispers. His hands run through your hair as he rests his chin on your shoulder. "But I'm sure you're right. We'll be in Utopia in no time."

You hum, basking in the warmth of Taehyung's arms. "Of course."

One week.

The library is swarming with teenagers in your year, desperately fighting over books and arguing over facts. It's funny only because you and Taehyung had once been in that state of animosity. It seems such a long time ago, though.

You and Taehyung lounge about in your room, reiterating textbook information out loud to each other over and over again so the material is ingrained in your memories. After a while, it occurs to both of you that you know too well about every book in the whole library. It's no use regurgitating the same information repeatedly when you already know it. So the two of you spend more and more time talking about your futures.

"Do you think they'll let me work as a family counselor when we get to Utopia?" Taehyung asks as he tosses another textbook against the door to your room.

You laugh when he hits the target on the door and shrug. "I don't know, honestly. Do you think they even have family counseling there?"

"You're right," Taehyung scoffs, shaking his head. "We know so little about the place we want to be in so badly."

"Maybe the more we know of it, the less we'll want to be in it," you say. "It's like that thing... that saying..."

"Ignorance is bliss?"

"Yeah, that," you say. "I'm sure we'll have good things to do in Utopia, though. Whether there is a family counselor position or not."

"But I guess we'll have to find out in a week."

One day.

You feel sudden unrest in the air. People are biting their fingernails so hard, they bleed. Others are pulling out their hairs. Some are picking at their scabs.

You and Taehyung hold each other the whole day, whispering little facts here and there to ensure complete memorization. You would be lying if you said you weren't the slightest bit nervous. Yes, you're intelligent, yes, you deserve to be in Utopia and yes, you've been diligent for years... but Taehyung's right. There are some scenarios that might just happen.

Maybe you and Taehyung earn perfect scores along with six others. Or maybe you and Taehyung earn the same scores as fifteen others. Or maybe you and Taehyung don't earn the same scores at all, leaving you separated forever.

You try not to dwell on the negativities too much. After all, it's no use to think of such thoughts anyways, they'll only distract you while taking the most important test of all time. Positive thoughts, only.

Tomorrow will be the very last day in Purgatory. For four hours, you and the hundreds of other students in your year will take a life-changing test. The Exam results will be kept confidential for a painstaking two hours after the final student finishes the Exam. Then men in white suits will whisk away the highest-scoring ones without another word. You will know when you didn't score the highest. Because the men in white will not give you a second look. They will walk past you like you are the scum of the earth. You've seen it happen; you've seen how much that can break someone.

You swear that you will not be broken. You will be the victor who is escorted out with the men in white. You will be accepted into a wealthy society. You promised Yoongi. And Jimin would've wanted to see you like this.

Most of all, you and Taehyung are in this together.

You visit the pit with him in the dead of the night one last time. There are already a few dead bodies piled up in the dark abyss and the stench of death protrudes up your nose quite uncomfortably, but you manage to ignore it. This will be the last time that you will see the last place you saw Jimin and Yoongi. If it weren't for them, you wouldn't be here, so confident about acing the Exam with another man you see your future with.

When you close your eyes, you can imagine your ten-year-old self standing at the edge of the pit, contemplating jumping to be with Jimin. You can see Yoongi scoffing at your stupidity before taking you into his arms and reassuring you. You can see your ten-year-old self crying. You can see a younger version of Yoongi crying. And every year after Yoongi's death, you've visited the pit by yourself. Until this year. Until you met Taehyung. And now you're not so alone anymore.

"Are you tired?" Taehyung asks, placing a warm hand on your cheek.

Your eyes flutter open immediately and you shake your head. "No, I was just thinking. I don't think I'm going to miss this place, but I'm going to miss the memories I made here." You fist the fabric of your sweater—Yoongi's old sweater, which is surprisingly still pretty large around your frail, petite frame. "It's too bad I don't really have a token of remembrance with Jimin..."

"He was all of your childhood," Taehyung soothes you. "I'm pretty sure you don't forget your childhood best friends."

"That's true..." you sigh. "God, I really don't want to forget anything that happened in my life. I need to remember all of this," you gesture towards you and Taehyung. "So we can recall it in the future."

"You'll remember us for sure," he says. "How can you forget? When you'll see me every day, pestering you for the rest of your life?" Taehyung teases, poking at your cheek playfully.

You roll your eyes. "Fun."

"Damn right," he coos, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "We deserve the fun."

"I know," you say, smiling at his unfiltered flirtiness. "C'mon," you tell him, grabbing his hand and dragging him into the building, "we should sleep early today."

"Good idea," Taehyung giggles. "To getting perfect scores tomorrow!" he yells to the sky, his eyes squeezed shut as he dwells in the last few euphoric moments of being in the fresh, night air before being tugged into the dorms by you.

Your heart flutters when he grins widely at you, revealing his row of pearly whites. Damn. You used to hate those too-perfect teeth, but now you love them as much as you... god, as much as you might love him.

To getting perfect scores tomorrow indeed.

One hour.

One hour before the Exam, everyone is lined up to enter their own private room, which is barely a room at all from what you've heard. The space is hardly enough to fit a desk, but it's decorated with bright fluorescent lights and spotlessly white walls. Apparently, it looks more like a mental asylum than an Exam room.

Some may be sensitive to such a small, suffocating place, but you don't really mind. As long as the information is in your head and you don't come down with amnesia in the middle of the Exam, you're fine. You're more than fine. You're going to win this thing—with Taehyung of course.

You and Taehyung hold each other's hands, strangely not as nervous as the jittery teens around you. It's strange for the two of you to be in silence for so long, but it seems fitting in such a loud environment. You probably couldn't hear each other even if you did speak.

There are peers who are already crying. Those who are missing because they jumped into the pit the night before. Those who are physically unwell and have failed to take care of their bodies. Those who look confident on the outside but their eyes brim with fear and uncertainty. And then there is you and Taehyung—radiating confidence.

Taehyung squeezes your hand when the men in white come into the halls, starting to drag the students away by random to shove them into the private Exam rooms. The process takes forever, according to the others, given that there are hundreds of students and hundreds of small rooms.

"It's hilarious how they haven't come up with a more efficient system," you whisper to Taehyung, shaking your head in disdain. "You'd think after taking away the smartest people in Atna that they'd somehow make this process less time-consuming. But they didn't."

"What?" Taehyung whispers back, looking confused as he sees you talking but he can't hear a single word.

"It's hilarious how—" you stop yourself, "NEVER MIND," you say, raising your voice. He wouldn't be able to hear you even if you did yell. And you weren't going to risk a sore throat before the Exam.

Taehyung nods at you, squeezing your hand. The two of you are reduced back into a state of silence as you watch your peers being taken away before you. The men in white are getting closer and closer, and for the first time, you're nervous. You've waited six years for this moment. Four hours are going to decide your future.

Taehyung must sense the tenseness building up in your shoulders because he places his hands on them, wordlessly telling you to relax. You thought in the last moments, you'd be comforting him, but you suppose it's the other way around.

The tables have turned.

The two of you are closer to the men in white than ever. Both of you are going to be whisked away any second now. Taehyung turns you to face him and hands you a tiny ball of paper, grinning.

He mouths something that you do not hear over the incessant roar of students, but you can make out exactly what he says. 'I'll see you in Utopia.'

The small amount of pressure on your shoulders is immediately lifted. 'I'll see you in Utopia,' you mouth back, tightly clenching your fist around the tiny ball of paper he had given you. He gives you a bright, reassuring smile before a man in white takes him away. You watch him leave, mirroring his smile and letting out a deep breath.

When a man in white finally whisks you away into your cramped Exam room, you can't help but feel reinvigorated. Even if your desk is shaky and your chair squeaks when you shift in it, you're absolutely hung up on the fact that you need to finish the Exam as quickly and carefully as possible to read whatever Taehyung had written on the small piece of paper.

The countdown commences, the camera in the room zooms in and out to check if you were keeping your integrity... the Exam booklet sits in front of you.

God, you're so ready.

Confidence surges through your body. You're going to make it out alive. You're sure of it.

Well, that wasn't so bad at all.

You don't want to brag, but the Exam was a piece of cake. The questions were never about understanding the material—instead, they focused on the specifics. The stuff you couldn't common-sense your way out of. The stuff that you either knew or didn't know. But you're a strong memorizer so the questions—even the oddly specific ones—were easy.

The men in white already took your Exam booklet away to score it. Now you're forbidden to leave the testing room for two hours while they grade it. But it's boring in here.

Your neck is a bit sore from looking down at the paper and your fingers ache from gripping your pencil. Maybe once you get to Utopia, Taehyung can give you one of his insanely therapeutic massages?

There's nothing really to do in the room except stare at the camera that's still watching you or counting the number of cracks on your desk. You contemplate for a short while whether to open the note Taehyung had handed you, but you don't want to risk an accusation of dishonesty.

If you're accused, you're likely to never be seen again.

So you make use of your time and doze off. After taking the Exam, you realize that there's no doubt you scored extremely well (you might've even gotten a perfect score!) and all the nervousness you had over the past several years (which wasn't that much) have vanished into thin air. You're confident enough to sleep.

In your dreams, you see Jimin, Yoongi and Taehyung. The four of you are best friends in a world that looks like Utopia but isn't. There is no Exam that determines your whole future. There is no Purgatory, no Dystopia... No horrible education system. No rats... No pit... It's a utopian world that's better than the Utopia that you know today.

And you're only woken from your heavenly dream when there's a knock on your door. It opens before you can stay anything and a man in white gestures for you to walk out of the room. Rubbing your eyes and shaking away your drowsiness, you obey him. The man closes the door once you are out of the room.

Left and right of you, there are hundreds of students standing outside of their rooms. The tension, the nervousness in the long hallway could be sliced with a knife. But you don't contribute to the sea of worries. You lean against the door, waiting for you to be whisked away, waiting to meet Taehyung at the end of the hallway. Waiting to be driven away in some grandeur vehicle.

You wait for only two people to be taken away. Or maybe there are others who scored a perfect score? No matter. At this point, you only care if you and Taehyung made it.

Everyone holds their breaths as the men in white start to walk through the halls. You see Taehyung ahead of you, already giving you a silly look and smiling confidently at you. You breathe a huge sigh of relief before turning your head to watch the men in white.

So far, they haven't taken anyone from their stance in front of their Exam rooms. Your heart beats loudly in your chest when they come closer and closer to you. God, they must've passed at least two hundred people to get to me. And still no high-scorer.

You and Taehyung have an enormous chance now.

You hold your breath as the men in white come closer and closer.

Any minute now...

You grit your teeth, tensing your shoulders when they're so nearby, if you reached out to them, you could touch their white suits. Your ears ring, drowning out the cries of the students who were standing behind you and were left stranded by the men in white.

Closer and closer and closer...

Your nails dig into your skin.

Closer...

You nearly scream in victory when a man in white stops straight in front of you. He nods in your direction and then places a hand on the small of your back to escort you away.

You can feel the burning eyes of jealousy digging daggers on your back as you begin to walk. But you can't help feeling like royalty. This is the moment you've been waiting for. You've been selected. You've scored the highest. You're going to be Utopian.

Taehyung catches your eye and gives you a huge thumbs up from afar. You're grinning from ear to ear as you begin to approach him. As soon as a man in white officially deems that he is coming with you, you're going to proudly hold his hand and walk through the hallway like you owned all of Purgatory. You're going to spend the proudest moment of your life with him by your side. Knowing that you made it through with him. And then you're going to read his note in the vehicle, on the way to Utopia. You have it all planned out in your head. It's going to be wonderf—

Wait.

The man in white who is escorting you is not slowing down, and the other men around you aren't looking to stop either. Wait.

You're going to pass Taehyung at this rate. Wait a fucking minute.

You suddenly break out in cold sweat as you and the men come closer and closer to Taehyung.

There's no way.

He had to have done extremely well. He has to come with me.

Taehyung looks a bit taken aback as well. His eyes reflect fear and the worry lines pressed on his forehead indicate no less than that.

You don't lose eye contact with him as the men continue to escort you down the hallway.

"Taehyung," you murmur when you're directly next to him. "Taehyung!" you yell. Your voice echoes eerily across the corridor.

"Y/N!" Taehyung yells back.

He's behind you now. The men won't let you stop walking.

"Taehyung!" you scream again, trying to turn around to look at him. "Tae!"

"Don't turn around, miss," the man escorting you speaks gruffly.

"There's been a mistake!" you cry. "Tae-Taehyung is supposed to be with me! Taehyung!"

"Don't make this difficult," the man answered. The hand on your back suddenly seems threatening.

"Y/N!!" Taehyung shouts again. His eyes brim with tears and he sinks to his knees.

"Get up!" someone yells at him. "Stand up, boy!"

"Y/N!" He ignores the command, sobbing with his hands reaching out for you and eyes pleading for safety, for your comfort.

You twist your body around, shaking off the grasps of your escort as you yell his name so loudly that your voice echoes across the vast expanse of the hallway.

"Behave," your escort grunts with gritted teeth as he tugs you away, gesturing the other men in white to block your view from Taehyung.

Tears stream down your face as you beg the men in white to let you see Taehyung one last time. They don't budge. It's not until you hear the beatings and Taehyung's agonizing screams that you try to kick the men's shins and escape. But they catch you, hoist you up and carry you away.

You thrash, scream, "Please don't hurt him!" but the screams, grunts and kicks never stop. You always thought your walk down this hallway would be glorious—the glory only lasted for a few minutes. You were supposed to walk down here hand in hand with Taehyung. Now Taehyung might be dead for disobeying orders.

You were supposed to be draped in silk and mink coats. You were supposed to be spritzed with sweet fragrances and treated like a princess. But everyone—even your peers—look at you with what you recognize as pity. Or maybe even disgust.

They must think you're crazy for not being thankful for being a high-scorer on the Exam. Some would kill to be in your place right now.

You hadn't expected—after your eight years in Purgatory—for your journey here to end like this. You're embarrassingly carried across the shoulder of the man in white, forced to dangle over him like a dead animal. You can feel the scrutinizing gazes of your peers. The ones who didn't get chosen.

It strikes you that you're alone now.

No more Jimin. No more Yoongi... And no more Taehyung.

You squeeze your eyes shut, praying for another person who scored the same as you. Maybe you'll find a new friend? Maybe you won't be alone again.

But the hallway ends and opens up to a door and you're still the only person the men in white have escorted. Your heart sinks. You're alone.

They shove you in a shiny black vehicle where the inside is air-conditioned and smells of roses. There are unfamiliar snacks in elaborate wrappings and ice-cold fizzy drinks around you—all for you—but you aren't hungry. The tears won't stop.

Were the riches and wealth worth the loneliness that will consume you for years to come?

You are a legend. A model figure. A genius.

The first to ever score 100% on the Exam. You're dragged from here to there, paid by the richest of Utopians to tutor their young children before they're sent off to Purgatory.

Frankly, you're upset at the lavishness of Utopia. There is always more to eat—so much so that one-fourths of every meal goes into the trash. The people here put ice cubes in their water to cool it. In Dystopia, there was never enough to eat and water was scarce. Purgatory never had a diverse array of food, and water was always lukewarm.

You're not sure if you belong here.

You miss Taehyung more than ever these days. Your new home is far too large for one person. You feel empty, cold inside. Even basking in the sunlight shining through your gold-rimmed window isn't enough to warm you. You tug the sleeves of Yoongi's sweater over your hands. Even after all these years in Utopia, you can't get accustomed to the fancy, frilly clothes here. You like Yoongi's old, frayed sweaters much better. And it's your only token of remembrance of him. You feel like you did him well because after all, you kept your promise. But Yoongi was wrong about one thing: the life of a Utopian did not suit you.

You can't help but think back to the days of Dystopia—of you and Jimin. Taehyung's right, you never really forget your childhood best friend. You've written down all of your memories about Jimin in a black leather-bound journal, which you keep out in the open by the window sill. On harder days, you like to read through the entries to refresh your memories and recall the stories that make you laugh or tear up with nostalgia.

The magnificent garden outside your home looks empty despite the plethora of flowers and colorful vines that sprout and bloom across the expanse of the healthy, verdant grass. Sighing, you clutch the silver locket resting between your collarbones. You've been wearing the necklace ever since the day you were first admitted into Utopia.

Inside the locket is a neatly folded up note. The piece of paper is old and crinkled and it has obviously been ripped out from a textbook called Family Studies. Taehyung's writing is etched onto it in black ink. You've read over the note so many times that you know exactly what it says by heart.

Y/N,

I was saving this to tell you in Utopia, but I can't wait for that day, even if it's tomorrow. I need to tell you now that I love you. Thank you for being by my side. Thank you for dealing with me. Thank you for calming me down.

You're welcome for those back massages. You're welcome for listening to your stories about Jimin and Yoongi. You're welcome for being by your side. I do it so much because I hate seeing you lonely.

Utopia will be great, Y/N. I think we'll live a great life there, don't you think?

I just want to say that if anything happens, we need to continue on with our lives. Because whatever the Exam decides, we deserve the results.

Nevertheless, I'll see you in Utopia, Y/N~

You tear up every time you open up your locket and study Taehyung's handwriting and his last words to you. Of course, you love him too. And it kills you that you don’t even know whether he's alive.

How cruel it is to live in such a wealthy place but feel worse than you had been in Dystopia and Purgatory.

The Exam is a curse. There is no way you could've beaten it, but you'd very much rather be hauled back into Dystopia with someone you care about than being stuck in this fast-paced, artificial world with no one but yourself.

It dawns on you horrifyingly. You did not beat the Exam. You did not win. You survived it.

And for the rest of your life, you must suffer the casualties.

—masterpost

—masterlist

#ficswithluv #btswritersnet #btswriterscollective #bangtanfairygarden #bangtanidx #tae #taehyung #kim taehyung #taehyung imagine #taehyung fanfic #taehyung fanfiction #bts #bts fanfiction #the exam #this story kinda hurts lmao #i was reading it over yesterday and damn it hurts yikes #some of the details are important to remember for the secOnd part of the series (:

158 notes · View notes

kenjiro-s · 5 years

Text

Silver Spiderwebs

Akiyasu Kurahashi x Kagemaru

Hellfire, hellfire

Take my soul

I'm waiting, waiting

I'm ready to go

There was a cat staring at him from a branch. He narrowed his eyes, letting a talisman form and sizzle in his palm. The animal just licked its paw in the most offensively demonstrative way and he let the talisman form all the way, burning with pulsing red light. The cat kept licking between its toes, purposefully ignoring him and appearing to focus all of its attention to something on the bottom of one paw.

Just a regular cat, then. Not that useless little yokai that always clung to Saotome’s shoulder and snapped from behind her. The thing had been ginger in cat form but he believed in never being too cautious. It couldn’t hurt. But even Saotome’s spoilt pet couldn’t keep a straight face when put against talismans of the caliber he used. He let the paper melt in the air again and glanced at his torn sleeve.

Curling his lip in disgust, he pushed his glasses up his nose. The last prisoner had made things…messy. Throwing the man’s belt on the near sycamore tree, not caring about the blood dripping down on his kimono. He was filthy enough since the man had had the audacity to spit on him. True, he’d never spit on anyone ever again and his end had been more than fitting but he felt disgusting.

He had screamed in the end, though. They always did. He ran a mental check over the military’s hierarchy. The next in line was…He couldn’t remember the name but he knew the face. And address. And habits. And after that, Kyonosuke Aizen. He couldn’t wait.

He would rip their little structure and burn it to the ground member by member. They would learn what happened when one chose orders over their own humanity. They had forced his hand and now it was his turn. He was simply following their example, he thought with a smile. Burying his humanity in favour of personal goals. For all of them it had been promotions. More comfortable life. Money, prestige, the entertainment district. Shallow, shallow pleasures. For his father, it had been his entire life. The sins were all theirs. He was just doing what he had to. It was all their fault.

Usually, he would go back to the temple to cleanse his body and mind but tonight…The soldier had been a vulgar, disgraceful waste of space and he could feel his head pulse with pain.

He could still hear the obscenities, the man’s word becoming less and less defensive, and more profane. He tried to suppress his shiver under the heavy layered black robes. Such foul language, and then the soldier had had the audacity to actually spit at him. Maybe cutting off his tongue and gagging him with his own belt had been too much but he’d been polite. He’d offered clean and quick death. He’d been as respectful as possible when one had a hostage hogtied on the grass in the middle of the forest. And what had he gotten in return ? His entire lineage disrespected and their memory – insulted. He almost shook his head but the pulsing pain in his nape and the fuzz staring around the edges of his vision hinted that would be a bad idea.

Being alone in the outskirts was out of the question. Actually summoning a portal sounded like a task he couldn’t even consider doing with how low his energy was and how fast his headache was spreading, and he would need to lie down soon. He couldn’t go home.

He was rarely tempted to curse. His parents had been patient enough to teach him to be good and polite and respectful, and especially after he’d started to show promise in following in his father’s steps, profanities were almost a sacrilege. An Onmiyoji had to be a protector, a pure being of balance and harmony, not a sailor or, he remembered with distaste, a soldier. If his parents could see him, they would be so disappointed, he thought, stepping between the first tall buildings of the city. Almost there.

Not by his actions or words, but by the company he kept. True, that one soldier was nice enough but the rest of them were plain disgusting. And the Government chose them to represent its power. How very fitting.

A little more. He paused to lean a palm on a streetlight, vision swimming. Only a little more.

He didn’t have a safe house or anything inside the city and especially in the entertainment district, but for the moment there was one place that was the closest to safe he could get before going involuntary horizontal. The Spider who ruled over the entire part of the city was a reluctant ally, for now, and based on their mutual interests it would be the polite thing to do to offer him a place to rest for the night.

He realised, right when he’d reached the huge mansion surrounded by tall stone walls, that the Spider didn’t have one polite bone in his body.

The gate slid open, the well-oiled hinges not making a sound, and he was greeted by a woman in a butler uniform who bowed deeply.

- My lord. – Kagemaru really knew how to pick his staff. The gate slid closed behind him just as soundlessly and he considered that if he didn’t know the Spider and only judged him by his possessions, he would consider him the most refined and distinguished gentleman in the capital. Of course, anyone who had spent more than five minutes in the lord of the mansion’s company could never link him to the word “distinguished”, what was left for “gentleman”. And not only because people usually wouldn’t call him a “man”, either. The Spider was every bit as vulgar and obscene as the soldier whose blood was fertilising the forest floor tonight. He just didn’t look the type.

Following the woman, he noted the numerous guards and their weapons, and the surprising amount of yokai among them. Magic users were more than useful but finding, training and keeping them under control and leashed were all tasks that required not only strong will and incredible amount of fully tamed raw power, but also the kind of personality that could steal a soldier’s ability to think for themselves. Good thing he was no simple soldier.

That just helped cement his opinion that while the Spider looked as delicate and fragile as a flower, he was a predator that held the entire district and all of its vices in an iron grip and everyone who even considered opposing him met an early demise, no body or evidence left, and yet obvious what had happened and why. He wasn’t afraid of the man, the Spider’s skills were impressive based on the amount of power he could control but as an Onmiyoji he had many more tricks up his sleeve. And Kagemaru knew it.

But that was the first time he was at the man’s personal residence. They always met at one den of sin or another, the Spider carefully avoiding his temple when possible and him never stepping in the yokai’s home simply because he didn’t see the need to show off or look like he was threatening on purpose.

Huge manicured gardens, stylish minimalistic decorations and subtle hints of old money. The Spider truly had an exquisite taste, more so because he knew the yokai did not come from said old money and whatever class he showed with his possessions, words or actions, that had all been learnt late in his life. It was impressive.

It was also quiet. Behind the tall stone walls the Capital was bubbling with life. The entertainment district had recently woken up, with the clocks nearing midnight, and the locals were crawling out of their tiny little homes to search for happiness, carefully measured in time, money and alcohol percentage. But who knew how the Spider had managed to secure a huge lot of land right in the centre, and build his own private piece of heaven in it. Maybe some day he would ask, just to see what kind of lie the man would come up with. He almost smiled but his head felt like it would split open at any given moment so he just breathed through his nose and kept his eyes on the cobblestone path.

The butler led him through a huge double door and a dark but obviously tasteful lobby, down a few dark hallways and to a big and just as minimalistically decorated sitting room. After pouring him a glass of cold water, the woman bowed deeply once more and left as quietly as she’d appeared. He was alone.

Letting his senses expand through walls and floor and soft carpet, he could almost taste the deeply ingrained magic in every little molecule. Yokai magic was so distinctly different from his that is was almost impossible to understand. Or at least it would be for novices like Saotome.

He leaned back on the soft velvet couch, closing his eyes in the darkness. He’d been very careful with what he’d been teaching her and the results were clear. Her power was almost ready, ripe for plucking, but her skills were rudimentary and her control – nonexistent. The perfect battery. His control, on the other hand, was a fine tuned instrument he’d been working on for a decade and it showed.

He could almost see in his mind every layer and thread that rigged the mansion, turning it into a huge spiderweb where only one wrong movement, only one step of a stranger on its grounds, would alert its master and probably to something to incapacitate whichever poor soul had made the mistake to make the thread twitch.

Oh, the Spider obviously knew who was in his home and where exactly they were but he’d been greeted at the gate. And the man still worked for him. He wouldn’t dare to make an offensive move. He rubbed his eyes, looking for relief.

No such luck.

He retracted his senses, willing the migraine to go down. Still nothing. The room was as dark as possible and the entire mansion was dead quiet and yet he could almost hear the shouts from outside, drunk patrons acting like they were the gods’ gift to everyone who worked in the district, and from the guards who very carefully kept the same patrons’ grabby hands from unpaid merchandise. He could hear it, and it was pulsing in his skull and sloshing around his nape, and he knew that if the lights had been on and his eyes had been open, his vision would have been all static.

Reaching blindly over the table surface, he tried to find his glass and maybe press it to his temple, when something cold and smooth wrapped around his fingers and tightened.

- What a pleasant surprise, boss. – The only reason he didn’t kill the Ayakashi there and then was because he was so exhausted his reactions were slowed down to a crawl. And the Spider knew it. That was probably why he’d approached him in such a direct manner. Still, he frowned under his hand, that had been way too forward and not nearly respectful enough. And then he kept talking. – If I had known you would be visiting me, I would have stayed at home to greet you properly. How disappointing, I wasn’t able to show you the full extent of my skills…

The last words were whispered so close to him, he could feel the yokai’s warmth on his neck. He chose not to answer, pressing down on his eyes a little more and trying to find relief. Any relief.

A soft sigh misplaced the quiet air in the room somewhere on his right and the hand he wasn’t pressing on his face with was taken in a cool and gentle hold again.

- Come. – And then the Spider pulled lightly.

He shook his head. Not tonight. He wasn’t in the right mindset. The soldier had ruined his mood and his clothes with his filth and his migraine had soured any desire he might have had for distractions of the kind the Ayakashi was offering. Whether the mind was willing or not didn’t matter because his flesh definitely wasn’t.

The yokai huffed in what sounded like annoyance and tugged on his hand again.

- I’m just going to rub your temples, boss. I promise not to try to violate your virtue…tonight. Come on…

One more light tug and he rose from the deep couch with a sigh. He trusted Kagemaru not to let him slam into any furniture and followed blindly for who knew how long. The yokai’s fingers were cool, thin and long, and his grip was unyielding around his own hand.

- Here… Step… - The Spider’s bed, he guessed, opening his eyes. Up on a raised dais, with thick mattress and a high frame, and several rows of draperies and cushions, as far as he could see in the soft light of the thin sliver of a crescent moon that came from the tall windows.

He almost dropped on the soft sheets but the Ayakashi pulled on the hooks and buttons of his robes, undressing him with almost clinical speed and precision.

- Careful where you put your hands. – He didn’t get any kind of reaction. The disrespectful…

- Lie down.

He was bare to the waist and as he turned to argue, Kagemaru pulled his glasses off placing them on a glossy bedside table.

- On your front, come on.

- I don’t remember you being the one with the orders. – He turned and really saw the yokai for the first time tonight. The Spider’s face unimpressed, one eyebrow raised, inky hair up in a glossy intricate updo and kimono decorated with what he knew were handstitched silver spiderweb patterns. He was breathtaking in a way regular people simply couldn’t be no matter how hard they tried, and he knew it. He also had all his make up on. Which meant he’d cut his performance short and hurried to the mansion still in his full geisha attire. Sleek, ethereal and deadly, the Spider owned the district and it showed in every carefully calculated movement.

- And you’re so tense you’re about to vibrate out of your skin. You know I am more than skilled with my hands. On you stomach. Boss. – If he’d had a fan, he knew the man would be tapping it with impatience. As his hands were empty, he just raised his eyebrows a little more.

There wasn’t a choice, not really, but he still moved slowly and carefully, keeping his exhaustion and desire to sleep for a week under control. The last thing he wanted to show in front of his subordinates was weakness. He knew the Spider would go for the throat the moment he sensed even a small crack in his armour. Which was okay, he would do the same if the opportunity arose. It was simply how the world worked.

And then…

With the first press and slide on those long fingers over his neck and shoulders, and then down his back, he felt the filthy night slip away from his mind, leaving space only for the almost hypnotic pressure of Kagemaru’s hands. Oh, he had his wards that protected his body up and ready but those were only for extreme situations. For now, he would allow the yokai to show where his skills really did lie and massage the evening away. Hopefully, by tomorrow he would be ready to keep going with his work.

Up…and down. And up again. To his ribs and up over his neck, and then down his biceps. And back…

The Spider’s hands slid lower down his spine, fingers finding every tense spot, pressing and rubbing and just leeching the pain away…Until they paused right over his right kidney.

- Problems in your end ? – He frowned in the perfumed cushion under his cheek. What was the yokai talking about ? But he got his answer a moment later when a single fingertip pressed down lightly and the entire area flared with sizzling pain. He lost control for a heartbeat, feeling his lungs seize with tension and his entire back give an involuntary twitch. The soldier’s friend, the one who had died first in blind fury, spit dripping from his open mouth and an animalistic scream waking the forest, had gotten him but he hadn’t paid attention at that exact moment. He’d been too busy navigating with familiar to rip out the soldier’s trachea out through his mouth. And then, later, he’d been too busy interrogating the piece of shit who’d spat out insults like he’d had his entire line massacred by Onmiyoji.

Before he could object, though, the Spider had already gotten up from the bed and while he could stretch out his senses to figure out where the other man was, he didn’t see the point in aggravating his migraine. Yokai could move silently when they felt like it. Adding to that the specific race of yokai the Spider was, and the fact that he was on his own turf, he would have to want to humour someone a lot to make actual noise.

Some shuffling later, and he felt the bed dip again. He hadn’t bothered to raise his head or look around. The Spider was smart enough not to try him. Not now.

- Did it ever occur in your narrow and limited human mind to call back up ? – The audacity. He tried to raise his head, maybe to sit and show the Ayakashi how narrow and limited his mind was but two fingertips gently pressing on the back of his neck made him pause. – Stay still. There’s no blood but I don’t like the colour. You’re a master of your craft and yet you have no sense of self preservation.

And then he dared to tsk, making…some noises. Boxes and tins being opened and ruffled through, if he had to guess.

- Even that stupid girl knows better than to rush alone. – He allowed himself to fall back in the pile of cushions, tuning his face to the side.

- Saotome has her pathetic little army of Ayakashi to curl around her legs like dogs. I prefer to do everything myself. It’s a delicate operation… - He choked through this time he did his best not to allow it to show. The Spider was rubbing something wet that was quickly warming up and smelling sharply like… - What is that and why does it stink so badly ?

- Quiet. The bruise will be gone by the morning. That’s what happens when you don’t take keep your vital parts safe. – The yokai’s neutral voice let him know exactly what the man thought of his actions.

- Don’t get cocky, demon. – Silence. Then, a low huff. And then…

The Spider’s laughter was not something lots of people had heard, he knew. It was a loud, cold sound and he could hear in it how it started in his chest and rang up in the still air. Nothing like the laugh he used when playing coy, and being a pretty and charming geisha. No, this showed him all of the mirth was on his expense and his expense only.

- Oh. That was amazing. – And then he clapped softly. – Beautiful. Simply beautiful. Now, Onmiyoji – san, you are, of course, correct. In every other place and time I would definitely be much more polite. But you are forgetting one tiny little detail, so allow me to educate you.

The cool hands returned on his back, spreading over his shoulder blades. And then the yokai put his weight there. Before he knew it, the Spider had swung one leg over and had him caged under him. Hands on his back, knees on both sides of his hipbones, pressing down. He tried to raise one arm to flip himself over but the Ayakashi made another tsking sound and caught him by the elbow, holding his arm down.

An eternity later he felt something cool and silky caress his back. Previous experience linked the sensation to the Spider’s long inky hair. He was leaning forward, trying to get him to react, but still only touching him with his hands and hair.

- See, between the two of us… - He felt the purr warm his ear, the yokai so close he could feel his light perfume over the overwhelming scent of the cushions. – I am the one who knows how to run a city. You, Onmiyoji-sensei, know how to run a temple and harness powers that should be left alone. Different qualifications, if you will. Why do I mention it, you may ask. Well. – He felt…Kagemaru was…nuzzling him from behind, nose barely touching his hair and lips almost on his neck. – Obviously, I know better than you how not to get killed in an alley so how about you don’t jeopardise our entire mutually beneficial relationship by dying out of injured pride ? How does that sound ?

His mind was recalibrating but his flesh was still unwilling. Not that he would give the Spider the satisfaction of knowing he was getting to him. It was basic biology and he wasn’t exactly worried about what the yokai would do, but still. It was the principle.

- Get off me. – The other man hummed a little in response and then, within half a heartbeat, he was again only rubbing the sharp smelling get on the small of his back.

- How many were there ?

- Four soldiers. The last one was the chattiest. – The Spider kept rubbing the medicine in, touch getting lighter.

- Was it him who did that ? – He shook his head.

- The one before him. Honestly, they had higher standards back when I was recruited. That was such a disgrace.

- Someone insult your sensibilities ? Or hint something about your virtue ? Maybe you lack of said virtue ? – He sighed.

- He was like a rabid dog. Killing him was an act of mercy more than anything. The other one was just vulgar.

- Never knew that was something that repulsed you that much. – He could hear the smile in the words though the tone was not too mocking. Yet.

- There is a difference.

- Oh ? – He didn’t respond. Kagemaru wasn’t even fishing for compliments by now. Even when working, he never did that, he knew. He was too confident to play the blushing virgin. – You can stay here tonight.

- How very generous. – He felt the mattress rise where the yokai had gotten up.

- You on the streets in this condition ? The little freak with the Death Flute would be just cleaning the damned thing with a napkin and you would drop dead. I’ve invested way too much to let your silly human hubris mess it all up. The place is a fortress so nothing can get in here.

- Except for you.

- You said you didn’t want to. You’ll have to actually say it if you want to play games like that. – When he didn’t respond, the Spider dropped a little laughing sigh. – Sleep. You won’t be disturbed.

It was still early when he woke up. Both working in a temple and with the military had taught him to rise with the summer sun and he had kept the habit because, well, it gave him more than enough time to finish all he had to do during the day. The bed was unfamiliar but he knew the scent from all the times he’d woken up in different beds in the various meeting places him and the Spider used to do business.

He was in the yokai’s mansion. In the yokai’s bed. Rolling to his back, he stretched, looking for random pain and soreness. Nothing. The other man was too good with his hands. His head was clear and as he rubbed the small of his back, he discovered the bruise from last night was completely healed.

Finding a plain white kimono, soft and light, he shrugged it on and tucked the obi as loosely as possible. The house was as quiet as it had been the night before. And he’d woken up alone. With no memories of waking up throughout the night, he had no idea if the Ayakashi had made use of his own bed and not disturbed him or taken his rest in a guest room.

In the sitting room, surrounded by papers, the Spider was tapping his lip with the back of a pencil. Hair half up with a simple ribbon and wearing a matching plain and simple white kimono, the man was rolling one ankle, appearing to be stretching without putting any thought in the movement. He allowed his eyes to wander only for a moment, because the endless expanse of pale skin of one graceful leg fully in his view had to be appreciated. The yokai never did anything by accident. He’d wanted the attention.

- Sleep well ? – He let gaze rise up to meet the other man’s lavender eyes, not answering. The small smile he got in return made him feel like the yokai was celebrating some kind of a victory.

- You ?

- Haven’t gone to bed yet. – He dropped the pencil on the cluttered desk so completely at odds with the neat and precise order in the rest of the house. Stretching his arms up and dropping his head back, Kagemaru did some kind of complicated breathing sequence and then rolled every joint a couple of times. The entire process took less than a minute and looked so practiced, intricate and based entirely on muscle memory at the same time he had to raise his eyebrows. – What ? I have work to do. The district won’t run itself, you know. I need a bath and then to catch at least some sleep before tonight. Oh, you might hear about a soldier today whose reputation might have suffered quite a hit. There are so many diseases a man can catch these days just by keeping the wrong company and some of them really eat the brain away. Make the men act like rabid animals. Too bad that information ended up public right after his body was found, too. Poor widow…

With his arms up, eyes closed and kimono open at the neck and down, almost showing his muscled stomach, he was a study of grace and plain morning beauty, and he almost missed what he’d said. The very epitome of the lazy concubine, and yet he acted like a lightning when motivated. He knew it, but to see it in action… And yet, the Spider didn’t look even a quarter as deadly as he knew him to be. As he’d seen him to be. As he’d just proven himself to be only a minute ago. They were much more alike than people thought, weren’t they ?

- Tell them you’re going to pray tonight, or make an offering or something. I took some blueprints of the closed part of the underground system and those are old and fragile. Can’t carry them around.

Kagemaru smiled sideways, one corner of his lips twisting up. With one last shake, he let his arms fall down, propping his chin on his palm.

- Inviting me to your temple, Onmiyoji – san ? How can I refuse such an offer ? It will be more than honour for me to visit your sacred place. – The smile was anything but sacred. He knew what the Spider was hinting and suggesting. He’d known even before offering. Good thing they thought alike.

- Be proper.

- You know me. – He slid from the chair, hair framing his delicate features. – I’m always proper. Now. You can find your way out, right ? I have some catching up to do since I would be…devoting myself to the gods and our cause tonight.

#ayakashi #ayakashi romance reborn #ayakashi kagemaru #kagemaru #akiyasu kurahashi #akiyashi ayakashi #oneshot #fanfcition

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evabellasworld · 4 years

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Death of Mandalore

Chapter 7

AO3 Link | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7

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Summary: After murdering Chancellor Palpatine of the Galactic Republic, Vanya Doyvesky joined leagues with both Death Watch and Darth Maul, hoping to reclaim her Mandalorian warrior heritage. But with broken promises and betrayal against Death Watch and Maul’s crime syndicate, the former Mandalorian Jedi had to choose the right path not only for her but for Clan Doyvesky as well.

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As the trio entered the palace, Vasilia saw her sisters waiting for her as Maul approached them, with his hands behind him. Vizsla took off his helmet as he faced the Sith Lord, breaking the news to him. “The transition of power will be seamless,’ he said with dignity. “We now have the support of the people, and Satine to bait Kenobi. With his demise, our deal will be complete.”

“Your oversight requires correction,” Maul stated, disapproving of Vizsla’s plan, recognising the flaws in it. “We now have a base, an army, and the means to expand to other neutral systems.”

Vizsla laughed softly to himself, before shifting his focus to him. “It wasn't an oversight, it was intentional,” he revealed his plans against him. I don't have an interest in other systems. Your vision no longer matters.”

Vasilia let out a soft gasp as the bell tolled in the palace, before she and Bo cuffed his arms behind him, making Maul glare deathly at Vizsla. “Oh, don’t fret,” Vizsla casually brushes off, as he sat on his throne that he usurped from the Duchess. “Kenobi will be dealt with but now, you'll do as I say.”

Standing across the room, Vanya, Katrina, and Maria whispered among one another, anticipating Vizsla’s betrayal against Maul. Vanya knew that it would happen at some point, she just didn’t realize it would be that soon. But she wasn’t aware of the two-thousand neutral systems that Satine was in charge of.

“You know, I was expecting a showdown between the both of them,” Maria murmured. “I didn’t think that he would spare the Sith Lord.”

“You could say that again,” Vanya agreed with her sister’s words. “I thought Vizsla was going to kill Maul and his brother after they took over Mandalore.”

“I may not be a Jedi, but I have a bad feeling about this,” Katrina expressed her uneasiness, as she watched them escort Maul out of the palace, displaying his captive like a trophy.

“The violence is over!” he declared. “The last of the parasites infecting Mandalore has been caught. The Duchess has abandoned her duty to protect Mandalore. Her political dream only encourages aggression against our planet.”

Pulling Maul’s horns, the Zabrak let out a grunt as Vizsla continued to boast in his speech. “We have learned from this beast the consequences of pacifist principles,” he pointed out. “It's now time to restore the traditions of Mandalore! No one will ever threaten us again!”

Vasilia heard the people chant his name repeatedly as they praised their new liberator for ending the violence that erupted in Mandalore, much to her dismay. If only they knew what was going on behind the curtains, she thought, watching them praise Vizsla like a bunch of sheep.

“He is the hero we need,” one man claimed. “And yet, we don’t deserve you.”

“We love you, Pre Vizsla,” another man shouted at the podium. “We will forever be grateful for fighting for us.”

Vizsla smiled at those commendations that were showered on him as Vasilia cringed, her fingers fidgeting. Bo turned to her and noticed her unusual posture, prompting her to ask. “Are you alright, soldier?”

“I’m alright, sir,” Vasilia cleared her throat, stopping herself from shaking. “I just don’t like standing in front of the crowd, that’s all.”

“Really?” she tilted her head sideways. “You know, if you’re willing to stay behind after this, Vizsla and I could get you all sorted out if that’s okay with you.”

Her eyes widened behind her helmet, and her heart was pounding. “That’s very kind of you, but I’ll be fine,” she uttered. “Thanks for your offer, though. I really appreciate it.”

“Oh, I’m not suggesting you meet me and Vizsla after this,” Bo reaffirmed her words. “I’m ordering you to stay a little longer for a meeting with Vizsla and me, along with Death Watch as well.”

“But what about my sisters?” Vasilia brought up, unable to swallow her saliva down her throat. “I made a promise to them that they’ll be seeing our family again. I can’t keep them waiting in the palace any longer.”

“You’ve made a promise to Death Watch that you will fulfill your duty,” she asserted her authority against her. “So you will be seeing me and Vizsla once this is over. Do you understand, soldier?”

“Yes, ma’am,” she resigned as her heart sank, wondering whether she would make it back home on time.

As he finished waving at his new subjects, Vizsla, signalled to his latchkeys, including Bo and Vasilia to follow him back to the throne room, where he finally sat down. She watched Maul escorted by the guards towards his cell as the door sealed tightly, leaving her and her sisters trapped inside.

“Hey Vas,” Vanya called her as she saw her sister and Vizsla’s cronies seated. “Are we going home now?”

“Not yet,” she answered her. “Vizsla summoned the higher-ups for a small briefing and such.”

“But it’s already late. Can’t you just tell him that you could do this tomorrow or something?”

“I’m sorry, Vanya,” apologised Vasilia, reaching for her hands. “You’ll have to wait outside for now.”

“But what about Mama and Papa?” Katrina raised her fingers. “You said that we could go home after we took over Mandalore.”

“And we will, but for now you’ll-”

“Oh, no one is going anywhere,” Vizsla told them. “All of you will have to stay here for an emergency meeting, including you and your sisters.”

Maria’s jaw dropped as she removed her helmet. “But why?”

“That’s an order, soldier,” he pointed at her.

“Wait, you and Bo-Katan only said that this meeting is only for the higher-ups,” Vasilia recalled, as she stood up from her seat. “You never said that my sisters need to be involved as well.”

Bo sighed, before pointing her blaster at the Doyvesky’s sisters. “I really wish you didn’t have to ask, Vasilia.”

All four of them convulsed as Vizsla and his men did the same as well, surrounding them in circles. “I don’t understand,” Vanya’s voice shattered. “What’s going on here?”

“Shut your traps,” he barked. “You and I know that you were going to turn against us.”

“What are you talking about? Since when we were going to betray you?”

“Enough with your tricks, traitor,” Bo sneered. “We figured that you’ve been spying on us. We know that you were planning to strike us once we claimed Mandalore, and we know that the only reason you joined Death Watch was to report all of our activities back to the Jedi and the Republic remnants. Admit it, Master Jedi, you’ve been lying to everyone in this room, including your own flesh and blood.”

“Look who’s talking,” Maria rolled her eyes as she crossed her arms.

“Say that again, I dare you!” Bo roared, as she was about to push the triggers. “Come on, child. Since you’re so clever, might as well open that filthy mouth of yours.”

“Don’t you fucking talk to my sister like that,” Vasilia raised her voice, pulling out her weapon. “You have no right to say that to her.”

“Put down your weapon, traitor,” Vizsla demanded. “Or you and your family will perish.”

“You know what, I am sick and tired of being treated like shit by you and your fucking followers that act like a bunch of mindless sheep,” Vasilia expressed her dissatisfaction, shielding Vanya, Katrina, and Maria from potential gunfires. “You claim that you want to go back to our true Mandalorian roots, but only when it benefits you.”

“Vas, what are you doing?” Katrina clings her arms around Maria. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“Don’t you realize what you have done to gain more power?” she continued, ignoring Katrina’s pleas. “You claimed that Satine’s government had purged your culture and the people who practiced it and yet, you yourself ordered a massacre on the entire villagers on Carlac. You claimed that you would fight for the Mandalorian people and yet, you ordered a bunch of criminals to attack your own people just because you’re a bunch of cowards who want to look like you’re on the right side of history.”

“You may have won your battles today, and you may have successfully deceived your people into thinking that you’re their saviour, but we both know that you’re only doing this just to fulfill your own greed, that’s all.”

“You have a good point, Vasilia,” Vizsla let out a sigh as he stabbed her chest with his darksaber.

Dropping her helmet on the ground, Vanya’s lips quivered as she took a few steps backward, her eyes blinking. No, this can’t be, she shook her head in denial. Vasilia can’t be dead. She has to be alive. She must be alive.

Her head felt heavy as she watched Katrina and Maria running up towards their older sister, holding her hands for comfort. This can’t be happening, she spun around the throne room. Vasilia is not dead. She’s not dead. She’s alive, and I know it. I know my sister better than anyone else in this room, and that is a fact.

“Vas, wake up, wake up,” Vanya heard Maria sobbed. “Please, we need to go home to Mama and Papa. You promised that we would go home and have pizza together with Mama and Papa. You promised that everything would be back to normal. Please, Vas, please, we need you alive.”

“Take those scum to their cell,” Vizsla ordered his men as he glared at Vanya, who didn’t resist when her arms were locked together. “They are a disgrace to our people.”

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lovemesomerafael · 4 years

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Destroying The Planet To Save It Chapter 23: Kind Of A Douche

Chapters 1-20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Read It On AO3

Jarman Arias stood fondling his machine as it emitted its sickly green light. He hated that he had to rely on the foul green orbs he purchased at an obscene cost from a lowlife who’d smuggled them to Earth from the outlaw markets inside Knowhere. Arias didn’t know the origin of the orbs, which was fine with him. The less he knew about the alien crystals he’d had to contaminate himself with to get what he wanted, the better. At least he’d made sure that lowlife smuggler didn’t live to enjoy his profit. The poor fool was one of the very first to be used in a test of the machine. Arias remembered the satisfaction he felt, listening to the man’s screams. It was fit punishment for a traitor to the human race, dealing with dirty rabble from some inferior world.

Arias clenched his fists in rage at the idea of those filthy Asgardian vermin, whom he particularly hated. Treading Terran soil as though they didn’t defile it, with their glowing stones and their pomposity and their ridiculous costumes. At least now, they would never be able to return. Nor would the real evil: those malparido, gonorrea Chitauri.

Arias had been in New York the day the Chitauri came. He had been inside a building, hadn’t even been on the street. He’d been sitting at a large, beautiful table in the hushed, very well-appointed offices of one of his investment bankers. He should have been safe. But the nightmarish, insectoid creatures with machine parts obscenely grafted into their bodies had poured through a hole in the sky, riding some sort of hovering chariots, invading and rampaging at will through the city. And the Avengers? The Avengers had protected no one. The Avengers had been part of the problem. Their wholly destructive – and entirely ineffectual – frenzy of violence had only made things much, much worse. Arias believed it was Thor – another beastly invader – who had hurled that glorified mallet of his into the side of the very building where Arias had been cowering, watching with horror as monsters filled the skies.

A hole five stories high had opened up in the building, leaving Arias kneeling only a few feet from open air, seventy floors above the street. And one of those repulsive reptiles had driven its chariot-thing, with the corpse of its accomplice still onboard, into the very room where Arias clung to the base of the massive table. He’d been too afraid to scream. He had lost control of his bowels and bladder, and could only weep in near-catatonic terror.

Several more invaders had passed the hole in the building, making a noise that still haunted Arias, as the Chitauri beast had dismounted and begun to move toward him. Arias whimpered and drooled, knowing that he had seconds to live before the thing devoured him. Suddenly, his eyes had been drawn to movement behind the creature as that tawdry, red-and-gold electrified tin man blasted one of the flying chariots with his laser beams or whatever the hell they were. The chariot cartwheeled into the building, very near the giant hole that bastard Thor had made, shattering on impact. Shards of hot metal and some sort of burning liquid sprayed into the room. The Chitauri that had been menacing Arias was… How to describe the horrifying sight of the hideous body being torn apart by the fragmented craft, limbs flying and a large hunk of torso landing in Arias’s lap?

But that hadn’t been the worst part. The worst part was the disgusting, putrid sludge the creatures apparently called blood, which had spewed from his severed carcass all over Arias, entering his eyes, his nose, his mouth... Even now, recalling that moment and the vile, rotten stench, Arias retched and had to force himself not to vomit.

He hadn’t been rescued. Not one of the Avengers, the so-called heroes of the day, had tried to help. Instead, he remembered seeing that jumped-up clown who called himself Captain America, presumptuously directing the pitiful feint at clean-up afterward. And then the Avengers, those disgraceful, insolent, unspeakably arrogant pendejos, had simply gone home to their skyscraper.

Arias swore violently, his voice rumbling deep in his chest with the primal rage he felt remembering his horror and helplessness on that day. It would not happen again.

He turned quickly away from the machine, his purple cape swirling around him, and stalked out of the room toward the lower levels. He wanted to check on his guests. Very important guests, actually. Now he smiled with the conceit of a feral cat watching its morally wounded prey writhe under its paw.

He hadn’t even had the idea to “invite” his guests until they, themselves suggested it. But once he had learned that S.H.I.E.L.D., the Avengers, and the United States government all knew of his machines, he knew he had to do something. And when he’d learned that the lovely Anita Herrera, with whom he had been so intrigued, was actually a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, he’d been furious. That had, of course, led him to realize that he would not be enjoying the prestige of employing The Falcon as he’d dreamed, because he had to assume that Sam Wilson was a spy, too.

The idea of the Avengers doing something so ignominious as acting as bodyguards at the Presidential event had always seemed suspicious to him. So he’d set some of his staff to doing research and headed off to his villa for a relaxing weekend. The research team had reviewed the surveillance from the bunker on the night of the tornado, and found footage of beautiful Anita creeping around. Which, of course, had led to a review of the video surveillance of the villa.

Arias had very much enjoyed some of the video of Anita and Sam in their room. But he had decidedly not enjoyed the footage of Anita searching his office, and discovering the ancient implements in their padded drawer, not to mention the robes he was currently wearing.

Arias had considered being ashamed by the fact that he, himself, had been in the room and missed Anita’s covert search on the night of the tornado. He had also actually invited the spies to his own villa. But he was not a security guard. Those were not his failures.

Then, when he’d investigated further, he had learned of the red-haired infiltrator who had been allowed not only to enter his facility, but to wander about unescorted! His guards had fallen for the very simplest of ruses and, worse, had tried to hide from him what they’d done. That level of unprofessionalism, of course, could not be tolerated. He had simply killed the other guards responsible for that breach, but he needed to set an example. Santiago Cárdenas had therefore been the resource who piloted the machine that created the earthquake in Washington D.C.

Still, Arias hadn’t had the idea of “inviting” his guests until Anita Herrera, supposedly a well-regarded S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, had contacted him to suggest they meet. He had wondered what to do about her and Sam Wilson, but when she agreed to simply walk into a restaurant to offer herself to him? The idea had sprung into his mind fully-formed. He had enjoyed their dinner together, watching her spout her transparent lies and try to seduce him. And afterward, he had decided that it was time to utilize his access to the so-called most powerful man in the world. That had actually been somewhat disappointing, really. Arias had simply called his operative in the White House and the pitiful little President had been brought to him almost immediately, like ordering a pizza.

The two would die, of course, as would Sam Wilson. But not before they got him what he wanted. Because he would never, ever, be made to cower again. He had started with intentions of the purest altruism. All he wanted to do was protect the Earth. Of course, none of his top echelon of advisers had supported him in that. They had always argued that he should announce his mastery to the world, be acknowledged for his power, and be rewarded accordingly. He always replied had not done his work for that. But now they had forced his hand, tried to destroy one of his facilities, and were once again imperiling the world with their reckless stupidity. So they would pay the price. How did these fools, who courted invasion with their own wildly irresponsible actions, dare to stand against the only man who could defend the planet?

Arias was deeply, venomously angry. He allowed his rage to flow like lava through his chest. He was in control now, and he would keep the world safe from further violation. By either alien infestation, or these smug, imperious children who called themselves by the hopelessly vainglorious name of the Avengers.

He left the room where his beautiful machine hummed, striding the short distance down the corridor to the end, where it took a sharp right turn. This was the very lowest level of the facility. At the end of the hallway, there was a wider space, and at the back of that space, a door. Guards stood on either side of that door, although there was really no need. For one thing, there was no way to open that door from the inside. And for another, only Arias and his most trusted lieutenant had the key.

He wanted very much to go into the room, to talk with his guests. He had toyed with the idea of having Anita brought to him, to enjoy her before she piloted the machine. He had no hope that S.H.I.E.L.D. will see reason, of course. He knew that, when he declared himself and demanded that S.H.I.E.L.D. acknowledge him, deliver Sam Wilson to him, and imprison all of the other Avengers and their allies, S.H.I.E.L.D. would refuse. That pompous fool Coulson had enjoyed just enough minor success that he would imagine himself and his organization able to deny Arias what he demanded.

Which meant that Anita, alas, would have to be sacrificed. She would be the resource that would pilot the machine to destroy Washington D.C. But he hoped that, once that lesson has been taught, the United States would see reason and capitulate to save their President and avoid further destruction. Once America, that boastful, swaggering giant, was under his thumb, of course, surrender by the rest of the world was only a matter of time.

Arias stood tall, looking contemptuously at the screen that showed Anita Herrera sitting ungracefully on the floor, the President next to her resting against a wall, leaning weakly against her. He appeared to have regained consciousness, but he did not look well. Arias smiled. What a foolish man, to think that he had power, to think that he was any match for the Custodian of the planet.

It was time. Arias swept out of the area outside the holding room and strode back up the corridor, past the room where his machine glowed and purred as its caretakers tended to it. He entered the crowded control room, pleased to hear an awed hush precede him as he crossed to the center.

He nodded to the technician who had been awaiting his arrival, and the technician flicked a switch. Just like that, Jarman Arias, the Custodian, was broadcasting on every screen in the world currently powered up and connected to any cable television system, any streaming service, or any internet site.

“I am the Custodian of this planet,” he began ponderously. “It is my role to protect her, and you, from invasion from outside. I will protect Earth, and her people. And my first step in doing so is to remove those who would aid alien species to attack us, people who have betrayed their own kind, and will do so again, if allowed. I am talking about S.H.I.E.L.D., and those abominations who call themselves the Avengers.”

“Man, this guy’s kind of a douche,” Clint whispered to Natasha as they watched from their assigned position.

“I have two guests here in the facility where I am currently located.” Arias signaled the technician, who touched a screen that switched the video being broadcast. All those screens were now seeing Anita and the President as they sat on the floor of the room where they were imprisoned.

“That man is the President of the United States. He may look different than you are used to seeing him, but I think his current state is a more accurate reflection of his real status than his usual posturing.”

“This guy wants to talk about posturing? While he’s wearing that?” Bruce muttered to Catherine in the close quarters of their location.

Catherine snorted. “Wanker.”

Arias continued. “That woman’s name is Anita Herrera. She is an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., a spy, and a criminal. Today, she is going to do something very important. For you. For humankind. What that is will be determined by S.H.I.E.L.D. and its Director. Agent Herrera will deliver to me two things I demand: absolute control over S.H.I.E.L.D. and Sam Wilson, who fancies himself a hero and calls himself the Falcon. Or, if Director Coulson chooses, Agent Herrera will destroy Washington D.C. Director Coulson, you’ve just been sent instructions for contacting me. Do so within thirty minutes. If you do not, you will have chosen to reduce America’s capital to rubble.”

“I really hate it when I’m right,” Sam snarled into the comms.

“We all do, Falcon,” Steve replied. “’Cause you always have to point it out. You in place?”

“Fuckin’ A.”

Sharon Carter knew a lot of people who were quite skilled at swearing. She actually didn’t know many people who didn’t swear. All of her military friends and acquaintances could swear fluently and creatively, and certainly S.H.I.E.L.D. was peopled by some of the very best. Not one of them could hold a candle to Phil Coulson. She has always admired his ability to combine, twist, and conjugate foul language into lyrical expressions of both satisfaction and displeasure.

Currently, Coulson was marching back and forth before a bank of monitors and instruments, waving his arms to punctuate his expletive-filled reaction to Arias’s announcement. It was an astounding display of wicked eloquence Sharon wished could be recorded for posterity.

She simply stood back to appreciate the performance. They had thirty minutes, and they already knew the answer he would deliver to Arias.

“Is the team in place?” Coulson asks Sharon.

“Getting there, Director. Vision is assisting everyone to access their positions. He reports that sixty per cent of the force is good to go. He estimates the rest will be at their assigned locations in fifteen. He can enter from anywhere, so we’ll be ready in plenty of time.”

“Tell him to do it in ten. This Arias fuckwit pisses me off.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“The Custodian,” he scoffed. “Lamest fuckin’ name. Relinquish S.H.I.E.L.D? My skinny, white ass I will.”

Sharon had to work very, very hard not to look at Director Coulson’s ass as she contacted Vision.

Arias turned to the technicians at various stations in the control room. “Tell me when Coulson makes contact.”

“Yes, Custodian.”

He did another of those turns that billowed his cape behind him satisfyingly, then stalked across the room and down the corridor toward the machine. Arias’s lieutenants followed at his heels. They understood that now was the time to tell him that he had delivered his message powerfully and masterfully. They, of course, did not disappoint him.

“Bring the woman,” he said to Olviedo, his second in command, as they walked. “It’s time to get her prepared.”

When Arias turned into the room with the machine, Olviedo continued down the corridor to the locked room where Anita and the President waited. He approached the thick, metal door, but before he inserted his key, he gave instructions to the guards to be especially careful. The President had been drugged and beaten, but he was still not to be underestimated. The guards nodded and took positions just behind him, so that he missed their momentary eye contact and slight nods to one another.

Neither Anita nor President Burke got up when they entered. Olviedo brusquely ordered Anita to stand, with the oh-so-predictable result that Burke objected. While the guards took a struggling Anita by her arms, Olviedo dealt with him. Burke almost got to his feet, but Olviedo landed a surprisingly powerful blow to his left temple, knocking him to the floor once more. Olviedo was occupied, which meant he was entirely unaware of the activity behind him as he kicked Burke unconscious with one quick, well-placed strike of his boot heel.

Anita fought against the guards’ hold, even as one of them deactivated his nanomask, just long enough to show Anita his face. He signaled her to continue her cries and struggles while the other guard briefly deactivated his mask, while she shouted defiantly and resisted. Continuing to scream and fight was easy enough – she was genuinely terrified of this situation, after all – and it kept Oliviedo from seeing her reaction to the fact that the guards were Markus Turell and Bucky Barnes.

Olviedo re-locked the heavy door and signaled for the guards to bring Anita and follow him.

When she arrived in the machine room, Arias smiled warmly at Anita, as though pleased to see her. Which wasn’t entirely false; she was a beautiful woman, and wearing that torn cocktail dress and fearful expression, she looked like several of his darkest fantasies. She feigned unconcerned disgust at seeing him, which didn’t fool him for a second, but he appreciated the attempt nonetheless. He did like a woman with some fire to her.

“Ah, mi Anita,” he greeted her, taking her hand. She attempted to pull it roughly back, but he had her wrist in a grip tight enough to leave a mark.

“You son of a bitch,” she spat. He stepped backward, pulling her with him, and she fought him all the way past the corner of the machine, where her eyes widened as she was confronted with a coffin-like receptacle extending from the machine at thigh level like a drawer.

That was it for her ability to play along with whatever was about to happen. She turned abruptly away from him, jerking her wrist from his grip. Continuing to move in the same direction, she stepped backward, stomping on his foot with the spiked heel of her shoe while swinging her elbow into his face. He stumbled backward, hands clasping to his head, leaving his abdomen wide open for the vicious kick she launched. Her heel probably would have punctured his flesh, were it not for the ridiculous robe thing he was wearing under his cape.

She would’ve continued to go after him, except that she was suddenly looking down the barrels of two sidearms in the hands of the guards, and covered by half a dozen more from others in the room.

“What are you wearing, Arias, you asshole, Joseph’s Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat?” She huffed furiously, breathing heavily from her exertion. “Is the ‘C’ for caricature?”

“Put her in!” Arias roared, injured and humiliated before his men, which made him angry enough to kill her himself, if only he hadn’t needed her to pilot the machine. As it was, he knocked her into the drawer-like receptacle with a vicious backhand that left her bleeding and disoriented.

The guards wrestled her into the drawer-thing, strapping her limbs down as she struggled, spitting and cursing. Then, as she screamed, the reservoir retracted smoothly until Anita was entirely within the machine.

“Custodian, S.H.I.E.L.D. has made contact,” a technician announced. “I can connect you whenever you’re ready.”

“Excellent,” Arias responded, pulling roughly on his robe to straighten it, then running a hand through his hair in an attempt to put himself to rights. Fucking bitch. I will enjoy listening to her die. “Begin the program.”

Several of the technicians began to push buttons and throw switches, while one typed something that appeared as strange symbols on a monitor in the control surface of the machine. One of Arias’s lieutenants brought a long, rectangular metal case towards him, holding the case so that the catch faced him. Arias opened it, revealing the metallic objects Anita had found in his office on Marathon Key.

These objects upset him, just as the orbs did. They were the reason for the long, black gauntlets he wore, although he admitted to himself that fashion, too, played in a role in choosing those. He did not want to touch the implements, tainted as they were from being not of Earth. They horrified him, really, with their repulsive markings and the heavy, shifting weight of them, as though something alive was trapped inside.

The machine was now making a number of sounds, as Anita’s muffled screams and the thumps of her attempts to escape could be heard from the compartment where she was imprisoned. The machine whirred and clicked, whined occasionally, and made other unidentifiable noises as… something happened inside it. Anita’s cries reached a crescendo, then quickly slowed, quieted, and then stopped.

“Connect me with S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Arias ordered imperiously, lifting the first metal object from the case. It was irregularly-shaped, with multiple surfaces, all at different angles and of different sizes. It was strangely luminescent, which seemed impossible, given that it was metal. That was another thing Arias didn’t trust about them.

“Arias-“ Phil Coulson’s voice was heard from several speakers around the room.

“I am the Custodian,” he corrected. “That is how you will address me.”

“Yeah, not likely. I just called to tell you to suck my dick.”

At S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, Sharon stifled a laugh.

“Your Agent Herrera will die, and your capital will be destroyed,” Arias said matter-of-factly.

“Meh. Climate in D.C. sucks, anyway. Maybe they’ll rebuild somewhere better.” There was a soft beeping sound.

Arias whirled toward the technician. “Did we lose the connection?” He really did not want to contemplate the humiliation of having his conquest of the planet hampered by something as pedestrian as technical difficulties.

“Uh… No, Custodian. It, uh… S.H.I.E.L.D. has ended transmission.”

Bucky, standing to the side, very determinedly did not smirk at the idea of Coulson hanging up on this grandiose jagoff.

Arias was incensed, and yanked hard on a small lever near the top of the machine, where it was bathed in the ugly green glow coming from the multiple openings in the level above. The noise of a small motor accompanied the sight of a small hatch opening. Inside the hatch was a simple compartment, the exact size and shape of the implement Arias held in his hand. It took him a moment, given its very irregular surface, to find the correct orientation, but when he did, the object slid home and the compartment lit with more of that eerie green light. Arias shoved the lever back up, and the compartment closed. The sound from the machine changed.

“OK, the feed from Bucky’s body cam is showing Arias starting with those objects,” Sharon said into the comms.

Coulson’s voice could be heard next. “Go time, Cap.”

“About fuckin’ time,” Sam’s exhale came over the comms. Steve didn’t comment on that, because he agreed.

“First wave, go!” Steve ordered.

Arias had just finished placing the second implement into its niche when he heard shocked voices over the sound of the machine. He looked up and was startled to see Vision, that machine-made red abomination, who had just come through the wall. At the same time, Arias could hear shouts and gunshots begin up the corridor, seemingly from the control room.

He did not panic. He knew these adversaries, knew they had freakish powers and would try to resist him. He simply touched the ornately decorated collar at his throat, barked a command and went back to his work, pulling down the third lever perhaps more quickly than he had done the first two. The scream of the ultrasonic weapon filled the air.

Vision ignored everyone in the room, simply tossing them out of the way, as he moved to the side of the machine away from the control surfaces at which the technicians were working. He began trying to tear panels off of the machine. Bullets ricocheted off of him, which actually took out one of Arias’s lieutenants. The rest of the men in the room rushed to find cover.

Arias screamed at them to stay where they were, and to stop firing. There was no cover, and the only one hurt by the bullets was on their side. They would have to find another way to deal with Vision. The pilot’s mind was even now being programmed with visions of the destruction she was to cause once the energy began to penetrate, and then saturate, her body. They just needed to keep Vision from doing much damage. He couldn’t, really, not from where he was hacking and tearing at the machines’ cowling. Perhaps he could disable the ultrasonic weapon, but that was a small matter. Arias’s guards would simply have to deal with any intruders. Or not. Once the machine was activated and Washington destroyed, Arias himself had a personal escape route that would allow him to simply leave the facility, and the guards, to their fate.

He continued to place the implements into the machine. Four in, three to go.

“Second wave, go!” Steve’s voice came through the comms.

Like cockroaches, black figures began pouring into the bunker through every access tunnel big enough to fit one, and a few that really weren’t big enough, but Vision was one determined dude, whom none of the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents wanted to cross. Once they began entering, the flow of agents in tac gear into the bunker didn’t stop.

Arias’s armed guards fought desperately, and knew the underground facility much better than the agents. Still, the agents’ training and numbers gave them the advantage. Besides which, they had Captain America, Ironman, Hawkeye, the Black Widow, and Ant-man with them. It really wasn’t a fair fight, but the Avengers didn’t want a fair fight. Not today. Arias had kidnapped one of theirs, and they were still steamed from their defeat the day before. The lunch room where poor Santi had first brought Natasha began to be filled with disarmed, frightened bad guys.

Joss and Wanda, along with three other agents, only paid enough attention to Arias’s men to avoid being shot. Their mission was to rescue the President, not to engage anyone except as necessary to get to where he was being held. They encountered a surprising number of Arias’s men who, not knowing that they’d already lost, fought fiercely. One popped out from a side corridor, grabbing Joss by the neck and holding a gun to her head.

“I don’t care who the hell you people are,” the guy said in heavily-accented English. “I just want out. Get out of my way and I won’t-“

That was all he got out before Joss made her move, flipping him over her shoulder. Wanda caught him in mid-air, and he found himself slamming into, then sliding down the opposite wall of the corridor, upside-down, to land painfully on his head. One of the agents took his gun, and they moved on, leaving him for someone else to deal with.

Sam was not happy about having to help herd up Arias’s men before he could get to Anita. He had to keep ruthlessly stomping down thoughts of her as he and his team worked their assigned corridor, one where they didn’t expect to find many men. He’d reluctantly agreed that he was too emotionally involved to have been assigned the role one of the guards - not that Steve was likely to back down on that - but still, it was hard. Sam might have taken some chances he shouldn’t have, and was perhaps rougher than he would normally be with the men he disarmed once they surrendered, but who could blame him? He trusted Vision, Bucky, and Markus Turell to keep Arias from activating that machine, but he wanted like hell to be there, already holding her and getting her the fuck out of this hole.

Arias now had the last implement in his hand, as Vision fought with guards who tried to subdue him physically. He couldn’t use the energy from the mind stone, for fear of hitting the machine. Tearing into its guts was taking longer than they’d planned, because he kept having to consult Bruce and Catherine. The two were monitoring Vision’s progress from nearby, outside the bunker, as to which wires or circuit boards to tear out next. But no matter how much of its guts Vision tore out, it didn’t seem to be stopping whatever the machine was doing. As Arias continued to place the objects, the noise was getting progressively louder, the green glow brighter. Soon, Vision was going to have to give up trying to disable the machine and stop Arias from activating it.

There were many other machines throughout the world. They needed to know how Arias activated them, so that they could destroy them without accidentally triggering them. They had no idea how many sets of those weird objects he’d inserted into it might exist. Perhaps one for each machine. They needed to know how to activate the machines, so they would know how not to. Arias certainly wasn’t going to tell them, no matter what they did to try to convince him. So Vision had to let Arias continue until the last possible second. And he had to be right. If not, Anita’s body would be shot through with a beam of energy much more than capable of killing her.

It was a frenzied, slow-motion race that had those monitoring it at S.H.I.E.L.D. and in the mobile command post near the bunker completely on edge.

Bucky and Markus, meanwhile, had been busy taking out guards and technicians. In keeping with Steve’s usual order, they used non-lethal force wherever they could, and sent many disarmed guards and unarmed technicians flying into the corridor with instructions to get out of the bunker. They wouldn’t get out, of course; they’d meet the rest of the team. But they didn’t know that.

As he tossed two more screaming guards into the corridor, Bucky saw Joss and her team jogging down toward him. In her black tac gear, armed to the teeth, her hair once again in that businesslike French twist, she easily could’ve distracted him if he’d allowed it. He gave her a cheeky salute and a grin, which he was pleased to notice made her flush an adorable pink, and went back to work.

The door to the room where the President was being held needed a key. That was unexpected, but S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Avengers were pretty used to the unexpected. Joss signaled to one of the agents, who began shaping plastic explosives on the hinges. Joss banged on the door and tried to yell to President Burke to get as far away as he could, but on the monitor, he didn’t seem to hear anything through the massive metal door. At least he wasn’t right next to it.

The agent gave them a signal and the team retreated behind the bend in the corridor. At a nod from Joss, she called “Fire in the hole!” and triggered the charges.

Seconds later, the team came around the corner again, to find the door entirely intact. Joss displayed some of the colorful language she’d learned in the Air Force.

Steve and his team had cleaned out the rooms in three of the five corridors, and had run out of space in the room where they were putting those they’d disarmed. The conference room became a second holding cell, once Ironman welded all but one door shut. Now it was time to deal with the armory room. Tactically, it was a lousy situation. Several of Arias’s goons had shut themselves up in the room, with who knew how many weapons and an unknown quantity of ammunition. The team stood just around a turn in the corridor and discussed what to do. Ant-Man couldn’t go in and do recon, because the metal doors were airtight; there was no way for him to get in. Ironman was going to have to burn through the door, which was going to take time and give those inside plenty of time to plan their defense. The only good news was that damned hypersonic weapon was finally disabled. They all triggered the buttons on their collars to turn them off, grateful for the relative silence and an end to the uncomfortable pressure on their bodies.

Arias didn’t seem to be paying much attention to what was going on in the room around him, as the machine reached a painful scream of volume. When Vision saw him place the final object into its niche, Bucky and Markus watched from behind Arias, ignored, as he pushed buttons, turned dials, and flicked switches in a sequence long enough that Bucky was glad for the body cams – he was never going to remember that shit. Arias then looked up, and they heard the unmistakable sound of Anita screaming inside the machine.

That was that. Vision had to be satisfied with the amount of destruction he’d caused the machine so far and turn to Arias. He launched himself over the machine, colliding with Arias just as he touched a final lever on the control console, and sent Arias flying. Markus took Arias’s place at the controls, and simply began reversing the sequence of what Arias had just done. Bucky didn’t have much time to be impressed with his memory, because he was around the side of the machine, removing a short pry bar that had been hanging from his belt. There was a muffled explosion from the hallway, which no one in the machine room paid any attention to, as Vision dealt with Arias, Markus dealt with the machine, and Bucky tried to free Anita.

Joss and Wanda’s team stood looking at the hinges of the door, now devoid of paint but still very much intact.

“I don’t know what I can do here,” Wanda said. “But let me try.”

A stream of scarlet flowed from her fingertips to the door and around it, outlining it and the hinges and latch. It was beautiful, but Wanda scowled. “Not that way, apparently. I think we’re going to have to go old school. Back around the corner.”

“Wait, what are you gonna do?” Joss asked.

“Blow the door in. Brutish, but effective.”

“And probably fatal. That’ll blast the door right into the President. Look where he is.”

On the monitor, the President was, indeed, slumped against the wall, directly across from the door. He was awake and alert; he’d heard the initial attempt to blow the hinges, but he didn’t look like he was going to move anytime soon.

“Anyone got any bright ideas?”

For a few moments, the team stood looking dumbly at the door, minds considering and rejecting option after option.

“Do you suppose…” Joss cocked her head, squinting at the door thoughtfully.

Wanda turned to look at Joss. She could see that Joss wasn’t just staring at the door. She was doing something, and Wanda correctly guessed that she was using her telekinesis somehow. “What is it?”

“Shhhh. Bucky and I discovered I can sort of… feel things, even if I can’t see them. I’m trying to… see how this lock works. It’s not easy by feel.”

“Why?”

“My dad’s a locksmith. I love locks. Used to play with them when I was a kid. I might be able to figure this one out.”

Arias was beyond furious. He was outraged that this magenta horror was trying to stop him from doing what was necessary to protect the world. He was just angry enough to consider the unthinkable. It would, of course, destroy this machine and make it impossible to level the city as he’d planned, at least for a time. Arias truly hadn’t thought he would need to use the Pulse. But he was otherwise unarmed and his entire cadre of lieutenants, guards, and assistants appeared to have abandoned him, except for two. Although now that he considered it, he realized they weren’t doing anything to help him. Rather, they were doing something to his machine while this Vision creature lifted Arias from the floor by his neck.

He sighed dramatically. “The Avengers. Always part of the problem.”

He squeezed the small trigger in his hand.

The men in the armory room apparently decided not to wait to be trapped by the Avengers in an inescapable shooting gallery. Without warning, the door was flung open and heavily armed men boiled out of the room. There was a shocking number of them, and the element of surprise gave them a split second to already be among the Avengers when the team shook off their surprise and began to fight back. Scott disappeared into insect size, and soon every member of the team was dodging bullets and fighting one or more armed men.

Sam’s team threw the last of the men they’d cleaned out of their corridors into the conference room. He didn’t even bother saying anything to the rest of his team, or the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents guarding the conference room door, before sprinting down the corridor toward the machine room.

He didn’t make it.

The door to the President’s cell clicked loudly and a crack appeared between the edge of the door and the frame. “You know what?” Joss smiled. “When this is over? I’m totally rethinking my stance on mutant pride. Might even read some of that Xavier guy’s stuff. Because you gotta admit, that was pretty cool.”

The team quickly burst into the room and Joss threw herself to her knees, sliding the last foot or so toward the President.

“Sir?” She looked into his face, very pleasantly surprised to see that, when he opened his eyes, there was a glittering fire in them.

“You get Arias?” He asked hoarsely.

“Not yet, Sir, but it’s in process.” She reached behind her to accept the first aid kit one of the agents handed her.

At that moment, the comms went nuts. Steve was hollering for backup and there was a host of overlapping chatter that made it clear there was a serious firefight going on.

“Natasha’s down! We need every swingin’ dick up here NOW!”

Joss and Wanda exchanged glances. Joss didn’t even have to ask. “No, he doesn’t usually talk like that. It’s bad. I need to go.”

“Yes. Go,” Joss told her. “Mr. President, can you shoot a gun right now?”

Burke made what Joss assumed was his war face. It was pretty gruesome, especially with the injures to his face. “Absolutely,” he growled.

That was good enough for Joss. She looked up from the bandage she was applying. “All of you. Go. I got the President.”

That was when the lights went out and all of the omnipresent sound of humming power, and the screaming coming from the machine down the corridor ceased abruptly. It was immediately disorienting, the quiet even moreso than the dark.

Vision simply crashed to the floor and didn’t move. The machine continued to glow hideously, which is how Bucky and Markus saw Arias seemingly disappear into the wall. They both ignored everything except the desperate calls for help that had begun erupting from their comms. Saving their team took priority over chasing Arias, or even checking on Vision. He’d be fine; he’d just been powered down.

Bucky swore as he pulled his night-vision goggles from his belt and donned them. This is why he hated when Steve split them up on missions. That dumbass always got himself into shit, which meant Bucky had to get him out of it.

#The Avengers #Captain America #The WInter Soldier #Bucky Barnes #Steve Rogers #Natasha Romanoff #Wanda Maximoff #Vision #Sam Wilson #Phil Coulson

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doedipus · 8 years

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Let’s Play Dungeons and Dragons: Introduction

So, I think I’m going to go ahead and post the D&D stuff I was talking about earlier. About three months into the campaign, I started keeping notes on each session. I’m thinking of releasing a session or so worth of notes regularly (probably a couple times a week) until I catch up with where we are now, and then just posting updates whenever major story beats wrap up (probably every 1-3 weeks. Sometimes boring things take a long time). Of course, there’s a very obvious problem with that idea: there’s three months of lore between the start of the campaign and when I started taking notes! Thankfully, one of the other players was taking care of that at the time, so I’m going to try to summarize it as best I can.

Let’s get started!

The story began in the town of Valen, a port city located on a peninsula off the southern Sword Coast of Faerun. Three adventurers, Lucas Valeroyant (played by Rich), a recent graduate from the arcane academy of Candlekeep, Ser Graham Broyer (played by Rich’s boyfriend Jake), a trans man who ran away from home and began travelling under his late brother’s name, and Rolen Amastacia (played by Ludovik), a disgraced elven noble and holy man, were summoned from their homelands to a tavern by a mutual friend, Rockseeker. The trio received a mysterious black box from the innkeeper, and were told to deliver it to Rockseeker himself in Waterdeep. The magnificent corvette The Spirit of Fire and her crew awaited them in the harbor, ready to set sail for adventure.

While in town, Lucas met Greg, a dancer at a local bar. Greg robbed him blind and fled. Later that night, some bandits make an attempt on their lives, and were revealed to be assassins. The inn they were staying at was burnt down shortly thereafter, and Graham identified the attackers as the Sisters of the Night, a cult of ne’er do wells bent on causing chaos in Faerun. The party tracks down and captures Greg before fleeing the city on the Spirit.

On the boat, they meet Escrima (Rap), a strange young man from Calimport who was involved with a cult worshipping a lovecraftian creature known only as MOTHER. The party was attacked by some cultists, including villain apparent Sister Elsa. They defeat the attackers handily, though the sister escaped to fight another day. Lucas and Rolen (and Rich and Ludo) began to butt heads frequently, and a rivalry between the two was formed both in and out of character.

In between sessions, Jake posted on /r/transgamers to recruit players, and I joined the gang.

The gang stopped over at Lucas’ alma mater, Candlekeep, to do some research about the Sisters. While there, they ran into Constanza de Catarina (Kim), a tiefling cultist masquerading as a human noblewoman gathering information about the Sisters for her own organization, and Coy (Max), a dragonborn Big Boss expy wandering the world after the dwarven complex he called home was sacked by an angry dragon. The pair quickly hooked up with the party, comparing notes, and running errands for the locals. Along the way, Lucas and Greg formed a close emotional bond. In the countryside, the gang ran into a giant army of drow, orcs, bugbears, gnolls, and Sisters dragging an adult dragon out of its cave and loading it aboard a massive airship.

The party eventually learned of a secret library below Candlekeep, and set about searching for it. After a dank journey through the partially submerged ruins below the academy, the gang found what they were looking for, and discovered the Sister’s master plan: resurrect their old leader, Overseer Minnia, and summon the demon god Yeenoghu into the material plane. They also found a handful of nifty magic items and a ton of funds, and promptly stole them, because adventurers are bastards.

Among the treasures was a key to a nearby portal to Sigil. Constanza, Graham, Rolen and Escrima accidentally triggered it, and were whisked off to the wild and dangerous city. They met a sapient rat hoard, known as US, and became involved with a murder mystery, meeting Narcovi, a dwarf working for Harmonnium, a guard force in the city, and eventually tracked down and nearly captured Sougad Lawshredder (known within the party as “crazy eyes”), a Believer of the Source who was trying to ascend to godhood by killing lawful folks across the outer planes. Sougad escaped, and Narcovi rewarded the party by helping them locate a portal back home.

Meanwhile, the opening of the portal triggered some sort of alarm in the Candlekeep security, and Coy and Lucas narrowly escaped through the use of a helm of teleportation and some potions of invisibility. They fled Candlekeep, sailing towards the province of Amn, where they believed their missing companions would likely turn up, if they ever did at all. Along the way, the crew encountered a band of slavers and rescued a child slave, Akim. The pair ascended a mountain outside the village of Amswater where a derelict gate was said to stand. Sure enough, the party popped out of the portal shortly after they arrived, and much rejoicing was had.

(Both of those sequences happened in separate sessions due to scheduling snafus. JP, our DM, is a fucking saint for even bothering to set up something like that)

While the gang caught up on the mountain, a company of drow, led by the Sisters sacked Amswater. The party pushed them back, and managed to rescue a couple of villagers from enslavement, though many others were killed in the battle, or carted away to the Underdark. The villagers, having nowhere else to go, boarded the Spirit of Fire with the party. Together, they stopped off at Athkatla, a nearby port city, and Constanza entrusted the refugees to the government there, explaining the situation in the countryside. This earned her the first of several legitimate noble titles that she didn't have to forge.

The adventurers set sail to Waterdeep at last. The sea voyage finally granted them some time to themselves, opportunities to get to know each other, and hone their skills. Graham and Constanza bonded over dragonchess, Escrima attempted to indoctrinate Graham into his cult, and Lucas taught Coy some minor spells in exchange for draconic lessons. Akim bonded with his savior, and essentially became Coy’s adopted child. Constanza established dominance over Escrima by cleaning his filthy ass off. Along the way, the crew captured and sort of tamed a live Wyvern, christened “Lupe,” who the adventurers tried desperately to find some use for besides venom milking.

Eventually, the gang arrived in Waterdeep and met with Rockseeker himself. The man was ostensibly a dwarf, but was quickly discovered to be something more, though the party couldn’t say exactly what. Rockseeker retrieved a parchment from the mysterious box, and explained that contained within it was a magical map that marked the locations of artifacts that could annihilate the Sisters for good... though, the map was encrypted, and the party was going to have to carry the map to Neverwinter, where a talented friend of Rockseeker’s could help them.

While in the city, the gang did much shopping and sleeping around, the latter of which clued them in on a plot to assassinate the Visible Lord of Waterdeep, John Merrow. Supposedly, the ambitious Lord Hier was planning on having him taken care of at an upcoming celebration at his estate. Coincindentally, Rockseeker had some invitations just lying around, so the party had an easy in.

However, the party was still a few days off, and the gang busied themselves with shopping and taking care of small jobs for the locals, as vagrants of their sort are want to do. They uncovered a small vampire infestation, but events conspired such that they never quite got to the bottom of it.

(Scheduling snafus raised their ugly heads again, and Rich ended up doing a solo session)

At this time, Lucas decided to go track down his old mentor from his student days, Gandalf (no relation to the lesser deity from LotR, we swear!) to see if he had any insight on the events that were unfolding, and possibly a way to get Candlekeep to forgive him for his tresspasses against them. He met up with an acquaintance from Candlekeep, Eva (played by Jake), a young lass who had at least one shrine dedicated to Lucas in her home. The two tracked down Gandalf, and, to their horror, discovered that he had become a necromancer, turning most of the town of Proskur into his thralls. The duo narrowly defeated him, though not before Gandalf murdered Eva and blasted a chunk of Lucas’ shoulder off. Eva’s soul found its way into Lucas’ body. Lucas returned to Waterdeep, thoroughly shaken. This is how JP likes to handle multiclassing, by the way.

Since Jake wasn't around to take notes for the session that weekend with the rest of the party, I ended up taking over that day. For whatever reason, Jake basically decided to let me handle the note taking thereafter, so that’s what the rest of this tale is going to look like.

I kind of have a pretty strong emotional connection to this group and campaign. They’re the first group of people I ever met who didn't previously know me as a dude or anything, and because my voice was one of the only things I’d worked on at the time, I was able to just be myself without all the other baggage for a couple hours every week. I didn't really talk about my being trans at all for quite a while, and I’ve been led to believe that I was basically stealth to them for the first couple months of play... though I eventually got more involved with the trans community on reddit, and more open about it in general.

The group was also really my first foray into the LGBT community in general. My impression of LGBT spaces and the people that inhabited them was pretty negative at the time. I just had the idea that everyone was super outgoing and boisterous theater club types, a class of person that I struggle to relate to and get along with. However these folks turned out to be pretty down to earth for the most part, and the realization that there were people like me who I could actually relate to and enjoy being around really opened my eyes.

#let's play #dungeons and dragons #d&d #d&d 5e

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brodie-483 · 4 years

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I feel like these days, I'm filled with so much fucking anger, frustration, stress and rage. I see so much fucking ignorance in the world. So much ignorance and racism, lack of understanding and lack of education. I'm so tired, so fucking tired of being made the blame. My people being blamed. And for what? FOR WHAT? We can't just sit down anymore and let racism, depression, mental illness, death, injustice, abuse, harassment and oppression continue on in our lives while the Government sweep us underneath the carpet anymore either. So many people, so so many just don't understand what torture we have gone through because of our skin colour and where we're from.

I went through most of my childhood witnessing firsthand how the corruption in the police and government would go on and on and on and on. That all came from seeing my own brother and father go through that level of abuse on a regular basis, especially my own father. He copped a lot of abuse, racism, torture, attacks, harassment, humilation, embarrassment and violation from those who swore a sacred oath to protect and serve the community. I do admit, yes, he suffered his own demons. He was an alcoholic, a serial drug addict, homeless quite a lot, living in the streets.... but he also suffered mental illness. He was officially diagnosed with Paranoid Schizophrenia and estranged delusions disorder. He did time in one of the toughest prisons in Australia, where they practically made him a slave. They would make him work to the bone, til sweat and blood would pour out for very little wage. And meanwhile, the guards would give beating sessions and take him into private rooms to take turns in beating him. He became used to an institutionalised lifestyle, even at home, on the streets, anywhere.

He copped just as much on the outside, even worse than he did inside:

Now imagine you're 7 years old, your dad picks you up from school and you're both walking home, talking, asking how the day was, how studying is going, what you've been learning. And while all this is happening, we see police drive pass us slowly, real slow down the street. Then they come back around and do it again, they drive slowly as they death stare at my father and I. They do this a few more times until eventually, they stop in front of us. They hop out, ordering my dad to put his hands on the hood of the car. He asks "what did i do? I'm just taking my son home officer." Then they yell "shut the fuck up, coon dog and put your disgusting hands on the car NOW." Meanwhile, they have their hands on their holsters either on a taser or their gun preparing for the worst. So my dad cooperates, he does what they say. They then slam his head down hitting the car when they cuff him up. He's trying to say "what the fuck is this? I'm just taking my son home." They just tell him to shut the fuck up and they look at me, telling me to stand on the fence where they would rub and rough up my hair. Then they start to search him, checking and feeling every inch of his body. Trying to find anything, any excuse or reason to lock him up or worse, give him a beating.

He too had copped quite a lot of beatings from the police. They would randomly pick him up, throw him in the back and they would take him out to the bush. There, they would use him as "practice" or "punching bag", a disgraceful way of letting out their frustrations onto a man who did not matter to them one bit because he and his family were victims of the Stolen Generations. Him and his brothers were taken away by police and placed into disgusting foster homes for the Half-Caste Indigenous Youth.

I grew at such a very young age knowing just how cruel and disgusting the world really is. Because of his mental illness and drug habits, sometimes he would have psychotic breakdowns. Therefore my family would have no choice but to call an ambulance to take him to get support and help. That was the main plan, but what we got was not right nor expected. Police coming to our door, telling the ambulance that they have the situation under control. Then from there, they would order us all outside to the back yard. Where they tackled my dad, threw him down onto the ground. They would then pound, beat, stomp, strangle, choke and even spit onto my father. Calling him "filthy black dog, ape, coon, abo, creamy, animal." Even using Yellow Pages phone books, cuffing him and making him sit on his hands and knees while they would whack into his arms and back. They did this so there wouldn't show any signs of bruising or blood drawn but brutal enough for bones to be broken and sprained. So that way if we ever tried to take it to the courts, there would appear to be no physical evidence of brutality. While they would do this, they would point a gun at my older brother and mother and even a taser at me, an 8 year old boy.

Now, I got so used to seeing my father get abused and attacked but every time I saw it, it was a nightmare come to life. Watching my own dad get beaten and broken down at the hands of Authority. I remember one time they tried to do it, and I ran in front of them telling them to leave my daddy alone. I cuddled into him, hoping that they would stop. But you know what they did? They ordered my mum to grab me and pull me off or they would "give a proper fatherly discipline to the little creamy half breed mutt." So, she and my brother would have to pull me away. Even they would turn to my mother, calling her "ape fucker, boong lover, coon sucker." Such disgusting terms to insult to a woman trying to protect her family. They would order us to watch as they would bash into him, but my mum tried to cover my eyes as much as possible so I wouldn't have to see that. But I did see it, I heard it and I felt it. And that level of trauma was not imprinted into my mind, it was Burned.

My dad was meant to appear on TV, where he would have an interview with Derryn Hinch in discussion of police brutality, corruption and racism. But my dad refused to go on because he feared for the lives of his family, of his 2 sons. We received a few threats, some were more subtle than others. Even to the point where they would slowly drive past our home, real slow and look at us like we're animals to them. Hoping they would get that chance to put us down. As much as he wanted to fight back against the police, he did what he thought was right.... to protect his family. But however, he was NEVER ever afraid of them!! One thing he always taught us was that they are nothing more than thugs with a gun and a badge to say that they're allowed to do what they want and get away with it.

Next part would concern my very own brother. So back when he was a teen, he and other Koorie boys got a chance to go to Alice Springs on a cultural young mens trip. It would turn out to be an amazing extravaganza for them, but for my brother.... he copped what he didn't deserve. They were all eating up, but some of the boys left some mess behind instead of putting it into the bin. A local redneck officer saw and ordered my brother to pick it all up. He refused because he didn't need to feel responsible for other people's mess. But the cop didn't care. He ordered "YOU BETTER PICK UP THAT RUBBISH NOW, YOU BLACK DOG. YOU BETTER DO WHAT THE FUCK I SAY." Then he pushed my brother onto the wall where from there, he grabbed him by the collar and began lifting him up. My brother was dangling in the air while being choked by the officer. The other boys tried to tell him to stop and pull away. For a while, it went on but eventually it came to a stop.

Now this part would concern me, growing up I was always filled with pride for my culture. Having the Aboriginal flag pin on my shirt or having face paint on. But many people would see that intimidating, they would see the pin and immediately walk the other way or try to get as much distance away from me as possible. And whenever I was in the shops, security or the owner would follow me around. Always assuming that I was going to steal something. Now.... to start with High School. Ahh, for fucks sakes!! I hated High school, I hated going and I hated everyone in there. Mainly because a majority of people never even gave two shits about me. From my first day at Year 7 up til Year 10, I copped racism and bullying almost on a daily basis. Mainly by this small group who thought they were all tough cunts, trying to cause trouble and pick on the less fortunate and those who couldn't stand up for themselves. I used to get laughed at so bad for being fat, being overweight. And then the racism would start. Getting called "creamy, abo, coon, boong, what percent am i?, ape, gorilla, half breed, dole bludger, black bastard, village idiot, savage, creep, half caste, freak and etc." Imagine being called all that in your life. Imagine being ridiculed, attacked and humiliated like that. And in front of the class as well, the teacher didn't even care enough to stop it. And I was scared to even talk back or stand up for myself because everyone was on their side, laughing with them, laughing at me, pointing at me and talking about me like i was nothing but a fucking juggling circus monkey to them. And the teachers were just as helpless. My mum nearly went up to the school every day to tell them how I was getting attacked, laughed at and abused. All they would do is give detentions or tell them off for a bit, but that did absolutely Nothing. I copped all that and so much more within a 3-4 year period. After copping so much of that, I started to hate myself, I hated my family, my culture, my origins, my everything. I would argue with mum trying to stay home from school, because I knew that I was going to get bullied. I had so much anxiety, fast heartbeats and butterflies in my stomach whenever I head into class. Sometimes the bullies wouldn't be there, and that would be the best feeling ever. A feeling of peace and quiet. But when they were there, it became fucking Hell for me. Tearing me down, tripping me over, sticking signs on my back, throwing stuff at me.

So I copped that and more up until Year 10, when one day I was getting ready for school. Then just having such a massive breakdown, collapsing on my bedroom floor. My mum sees and asks whats wrong. I turn and say if I go to school today, I'm going to the Eastlink bridge up the road and I'm gonna kill myself. Then I ended up in the psychiatric hospital, the same one they would put my father in. So imagine being the only Aboriginal kid in your year level, the only one. I felt so alone, no one would understand. No one to turn to, no one to help me. I would sometimes cry walking home from school and self harm when i got home. Thats how much I hated myself.

I spend many months in and out of the psych wards, many treatments and therapies. Doctor after doctor, worker after worker. But nothing was working for me. But that was til I was able to learn about my own tribe, about my own language and where I'm from. To find my own sense of belonging and rediscover my life and passion for my culture. It wasn't all these medical treatments, sessions and 1 hour a month bullshit. It was reconnecting back to my origins, to my dreaming and to nature.

But still to this day, I have never even received an apology from anyone who did me wrong, who bullied and attacked me. Just like when i was a kid, not one cop ever took responsibility for excessive force, racial profiling and brutality on multiple occasions against my family. My story and my family's story is but one of thousands in Australia and millions around the world.

For over 300+ years, we have copped so much. Lives killed and taken away, men enslaved and forced to work til they would have no strength and then shot DEAD. Women raped multiple times, forced to live as home nurses, maids and even pleasure escorts. And the children, especially half-caste children kidnapped by our own Australian government and placed into foster homes, their goal to exterminate us all by breeding us all out. The English would wipe out tribes, civilisations, traditions, homes, families, cultures and sacred sites. They are the reasons why our connection to nature, to the land was severed. Yet White Australia still like to complain, about the ANZACS. Yes, the ANZACs is very important and they fought for the country, died for the country.... a noble cause. But what did us black fellas die for? Why were we killed? In our own homes, our own lands, either protecting our families, our homes or ourselves. Where's the honour in that? You tell me that, white australia. At least the war soldiers had a chance to fight, live and die in defense of the country. But the country was built on the backs, blood, sweat, tears and corpses of my people.

This all comes to show that the entire system MUST improve and change for the better. Not just the police, but the government, traditional acknowledgements, mental health system, education in schools especially. Why do we still learn all these languages and information from different countries yet we still know NOTHING from our own. Why?

So until this all changes for the better, I along with my brothers and sisters who choose to stand up with me and raise their fist high swear to keep fighting for justice, for peace, for equality, for opportunities, for acceptance, for love and for closure for so many people who have been in so much inter-generational pain.

Also, if anyone appears to have an issue with what I just said.... you can unfriend me right now and FUCK OFF back to NAZI Hell because you are not welcome if you are filled with judgement, racism, prejudice and bullshit.

Yes, All Lives do matter but until we in our own homes accept that people of Colours Blacks, Asians, Indigenous, Africans, Muslim, Gay, Straight, Trans-gender, non-binary, poor, mentally ill are accepted and equally treated and helped in this society NOW, All Lives Do Not Matter.... not to the government, to the rich, to the white suits, to the White Superiority. WE MUST MAKE A CHANGE, not for profit, not for jokes, not for favouring, but for the Future.

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touchpointpress · 6 years

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Following the publication of Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or, Life Among the Lowly in the spring of 1852, threats against its author became common. Hate mail arrived daily at the Stowe’s house in Andover, Massachusetts. One morning the mailman rang the doorbell with a small package. When Harriet Beecher Stowe opened the box, she was horrified to find a human ear sent her from the owner of a southern cotton plantation who had cut it off one of his slaves.

It was the Fugitive Slave Act that fired this professor’s wife and mother of six to write a book that shook the nation. Passed by Congress in 1850, this law empowered the federal government to prosecute any person, black or white, who aided runaway slaves. Punishment for doing so usually meant prison and a $1000 fine. It legally gave every white citizen the right to challenge any black person not in the company of a white man or woman. Federal agents could now pursue slaves into free states and apprehend suspected fugitives, even if they had been living free for years. Former slaves who had earned enough money to buy their freedom, as well as their children born free, were in peril of being captured and sold south.

Harriet Beecher Stowe wrote her blockbuster in Brunswick, Maine where the family had recently moved from Ohio. Harriet’s husband, a professor of theology and the Bible, had obtained a position at Bowdoin College, his alma mater. She described Calvin as “rich in Greek and Hebrew, Latin and Arabic, and alas! rich in nothing else.” He also vowed not to shave his beard until every slave was free.

Harriet was glad to leave Cincinnati since she’d lost her 18-month-old son to cholera there. She credited her grief as one of the inspirations used in her novel. “It was at Samuel’s dying bed and at his grave that I learned what a poor slave mother may feel when her child is torn from her and sold.”

It had been a long, hard trip by train and ferry to mid-coast Maine, especially traveling with children and expecting another baby soon. Now settled in the drafty house on Federal Street, Harriet was homeschooling her youngsters, as well as selling original sketches to make ends meet.

“I always felt I had no particular call to meddle in politics,” she wrote a friend, “but after the Bloodhound Bill, I feel the time has come when even a woman or a child who can speak a word for freedom and humanity is bound to speak.”

Harriet’s brothers, all ministers, were passionately committed to the anti-slavery cause. “If only I could use a pen as you can, Hattie, I would write something that would make this whole nation feel what an accursed thing slavery is,” one sister-in-law urged. Stowe believed she could bring about positive political and social change using the power of her pen. And hadn’t Calvin always encouraged her gift of writing?

“This horror, this nightmare abomination! Can it be in my country? It lies like lead on my heart; it shadows my life with sorrow,” Harriet said. “I am obliged to write as one who is forced by some awful oath to disclose in court some family disgrace. The time has come when the nation has a right to demand and the President of the United States, a right to decree their freedom.”

Stowe would later deny actually writing Uncle Tom’s Cabin, convinced she had been “an instrument of God to stop the national sin of slavery…I the author of Uncle Tom’s Cabin? No, indeed! The Lord Himself wrote it. I was but the humblest of instruments in His hand.”

Harriet had stayed on a Kentucky plantation and spoken with slaves there. She’d interviewed fugitives who’d crossed the treacherous Ohio River and hidden in homes belonging to her family. Stowe’s character, Eliza, who fled Kentucky to the free state of Ohio on ice floes, carrying her baby, had been inspired by one runaway she met. And she’d listened to her brother’s descriptions of slave auctions he’d observed in New Orleans.

“Uncle Tom’s Cabin: or Life Among the Lowly was first published in installments between June 5, 1851 and April 1, 1852 in The National Era, an anti-slavery newspaper. Harriet claimed each chapter was written with her “heart’s blood” and that many times she thought her “health would fail utterly.” She was putting out sixteen to twenty pages daily.

“As long as baby sleeps with me nights, I can’t do much at anything, but I shall write this thing!” Some sections were written at the kitchen table on paper bags while “chowder bubbled on the wood stove and the baby slept by my feet in a basket.” She read sections out loud to her children. After hearing one chapter, nine-year-old Freddy burst into tears, crying “Oh Mamma, what a wicked thing slavery is!”

Harriet’s husband was napping when she wrote Uncle Tom’s death scene, which she insisted appeared to her in church as a vision during a Sunday service. She’d completed nine pages, pausing only to dip her pen, when Calvin awoke and she read it to him. Afterward, she asked him if it would do. “Do?” His sobs shook the bed he lay upon. “I should think it would do!” He insisted she send it to the publisher immediately without revision.

It was published in book form by John P. Jewett in March of 1852. Of the five thousand copies printed, three thousand were sold the first day. Stowe’s novel became an international phenomenon and the single best-selling book in the world at that time. It was eventually translated into fifty-eight languages from Hindu to Hungarian. A missionary sent the Stowe family a Japanese translation. Three hundred mothers in Boston named their baby girls “Eva” after the character in Stowe’s novel. Massachusetts Senator Charles Sumner shared the book with his Southern colleagues in Congress.

Harriet had hoped her book would make enough money to buy a new dress, but to her amazement, the first royalty check amounted to as much her husband had earned in a decade. With ten thousand dollars in the first three months of sales, the Stowes were suddenly wealthy.

Stowe’s story focused readers’ attention on the evils of slavery in a way as never before. Previously most Northerners had simply accepted slavery as economic necessity sanctioned by the Bible and a property right guaranteed by the Constitution. “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” either inspired or infuriated Americans in a manner that political pamphlets, newspaper accounts, and slave narratives never had before.

John Greenleaf Whittier claimed that, “The heaviest blow which slavery has received for the last half-century has just been struck by a woman.”

Popular anti-slavery poet, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote Stowe to say, “I congratulate you most cordially upon the immense success and influence of Uncle Tom’s Cabin. It is one of the greatest triumphs recorded in literary history, to say nothing of the higher triumph of its moral effect.”

From France, author George Sand wrote, “The book is in all hands. People devour it. They cover it with tears.”

Frederick Douglass, the former slave and abolitionist leader, deemed it “a work of marvelous depth and power, whose effects are amazing, instantaneous, and universal.”

However, “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” brought the wrath of Southern slaveholders and supporters of slave labor, down upon the author who was labeled “a meddling woman who knew nothing about slavery.” Many regarded it as so destructive to slavery it would cause slave insurrections. Punishment was possible for possessing this “filthy negro novel.” In some southern towns, one could be arrested and jailed for buying the book, having it on your person, or just lying around your home.

Little girls jumped rope to the chant: “Go! Go! Go! Old Harriet Beecher Stowe! We don’t want you here in Virginny! So Go!” The Alabama Planter newspaper said in print that “the woman who wrote Uncle Tom’s Cabin must be either a very bad or a very fanatical person.” A Tennesse pastor called Harriet “as ugly as original sin.” A cousin, then a Georgia resident told her that “prejudice against my name is so strong there she dares not have it appear on the outside of letters to me.”

William Lloyd Garrison endowed the book with high praise in his radical newspaper, The Liberator. “I estimate the value of anti-slavery writing by the abuse it brings.” He told its author. “Now all the defenders of slavery have let me alone and are abusing you!”

Because pro-slavery advocates accused her of publishing “a tissue of falsehoods,” Stowe put all other writing aside to document her sources in detail. “I am now very much driven,” she explained. “I am preparing a key to unlock Uncle Tom’s Cabin…It is made up of facts which my eyes have looked upon and documents my hands have handled… I write “The Key to Uncle Tom’s Cabin” with the anguish of my soul and tears and prayers, with sleepless nights and weary days.”

Playwright George Aiken adapted Uncle Tom’s Cabin for the stage. The three daily performances in New York were always sold out with actors remaining in costume from noon until midnight. By the late 1850s, versions were playing in sixteen different theater companies simultaneously across the country. At the time, it was the most successful play ever produced in the American theater. It ran for two hundred and fifty performances in Boston, one of which Harriet attended. She was reluctant to go because her father, conservative preacher Lyman Beecher, disapproved of theater and Harriet’s husband was then Professor of Sacred Literature at Calvinistic Andover Theological Seminary.

“I’ve never been to a theater in my life,” Harriet said, “but I have such curiosity to see how my characters can go from page to stage; to see in flesh and blood the creations of my imagination.”

It was these theatricals that turned the character of Uncle Tom into a “step-‘n-fetch-it” buffoon never intended by Stowe. Her black hero became a character of ridicule. It was this image of the spineless slave that so angered African-American author, James Baldwin, a century later. Harriet’s Uncle Tom was not the meek yes-man depicted in stage adaptations. Since Stowe neglected to have her work copyrighted, she had no say over such changes nor did she ever receive any profits from the productions.

Spinoff souvenirs, posters, and publications, including sheet music, known as “Tomitudes” were for sale everywhere. A variety of board games, dolls and nick-nacks were manufactured in multitudes.

W. E. B. Du Bois, the renown African-American scholar said, “To a frail overburdened Yankee woman with a steadfast moral purpose we Americans, both black and white, owe our gratitude for the freedom and the union that exist today in these United States.”

You Risked Jail for Reading This Book! by Juliet Haines Mofford Following the publication of Uncle Tom's Cabin; or, Life Among the Lowly in the spring of 1852, threats against its author became common.

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pamphletstoinspire · 7 years

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THE SECOND BOOK OF MACHABEES. - From The Latin Vulgate Bible

Chapter 9

INTRODUCTION.

This Second Book of Machabees is not a continuation of the history contained in the First; nor does it come down so low as the First does, but relates many of the same facts more at large, and adds other remarkable particulars, omitted in the First Book, relating to the state of the Jews as well before as under the persecution of Antiochus. The author, who is not the same with that of the First Book, has given (as we learn from chap. ii. 20., &c.) a short abstract of what Jason, of Cyrene, had written in the five volumes, concerning Judas and his brethren. He wrote in Greek, and begins with two letters, sent by the Jews of Jerusalem to their brethren in Egypt. (Challoner) --- Hence the whole book has been considered by some as an epistle. (Cotelier, Can. Ap. p. 338.) --- But it is easy to distinguish the letter from the history, (Calmet) to which a preface is prefixed, chap. ii. 20. Yet the Alexandrian copy has at the end, "A letter concerning the acts of Judas Mach.[Machabeus.]" (Haydock) --- The appendix of two epistles was added to the First Book by him who wrote the second, (Worthington) abridging the work of Jason. (Haydock)

Chapter 9

The wretched end, and fruitless repentance of king Antiochus.

1 At that time Antiochus returned with dishonour out of Persia.

Notes & Commentary:

Ver. 1. At. Read 1 Machabees iv. 28. (Worthington) --- Time. The year [of the world] 3840. The motives and ill success of this journey are given [in] 1 Machabees iii. 31., and vi. 1. (Calmet)

2 For he had entered into the city called Persepolis, and attempted to rob the temple, and to oppress the city; but the multitude running together to arms, put them to flight: and so it fell out that Antiochus being put to flight, returned with disgrace.

Ver. 2. Persepolis; otherwise called Elymais, (Challoner) a chief (Worthington) "city of Persia." Hence Elymais may be called Persepolis. (Haydock) --- The famous city of this name, where Cyrus had built a palace to the astonishment of the world, had been (Calmet) burnt by Alexander when intoxicated, and urged on by a harlot. (Curtius v. 15.) --- Noble ruins still remain on the Araxes.

3 Now when he was come about Ecbatana, he received the news of what had happened to Nicanor and Timotheus.

Ver. 3. Ecbatana, capital of Media. (Calmet) --- See chap. i. 16. (Haydock)

4 And swelling with anger, he thought to revenge upon the Jews the injury done by them that had put him to flight. And therefore he commanded his chariot to be driven, without stopping in his journey, the judgment of heaven urging him forward, because he had spoken so proudly, that he would come to Jerusalem, and make it a common burying-place of the Jews.

Ver. 4. Forward. He felt a violent fit of the cholic.

5 But the Lord, the God of Israel, that seeth all things, struck him with an incurable and an invisible plague. For as soon as he had ended these words, a dreadful pain in his bowels came upon him, and bitter torments of the inner parts.

Ver. 5. No explanation given.

6 And indeed very justly, seeing he had tormented the bowels of others with many and new torments, albeit he by no means ceased from his malice.

Ver. 6. No explanation given.

7 Moreover, being filled with pride, breathing out fire in his rage against the Jews, and commanding the matter to be hastened, it happened as he was going with violence, that he fell from the chariot, so that his limbs were much pained by a grievous bruising of the body.

Ver. 7. No explanation given.

8 Thus he that seemed to himself to command even the waves of the sea, being proud above the condition of man, and to weigh the heights of the mountains in a balance, now being cast down to the ground, was carried in a litter, bearing witness to the manifest power of God in himself:

Ver. 8. Man. He seems to have claimed divine honours, ver. 12., and chap. v. 21., and ix. 8., and Daniel xi. 36. (Arabic) (Calmet)

9 So that worms swarmed out of the body of this man, and whilst he lived in sorrow and pain, his flesh fell off, and the filthiness of his smell was noisome to the army.

Ver. 9. No explanation given.

10 And the man that thought a little before he could reach to the stars of heaven, no man could endure to carry, for the intolerable stench.

Ver. 10. No explanation given.

11 And by this means, being brought from his great pride, he began to come to the knowledge of himself, being admonished by the scourge of God, his pains increasing every moment.

Ver. 11. No explanation given.

12 And when he himself could not now abide his own stench, he spoke thus: It is just to be subject to God, and that a mortal man should not equal himself to God.

Ver. 12. No explanation given.

13 Then this wicked man prayed to the Lord, of whom he was not like to obtain mercy.

Ver. 13. Not like. Because his repentance was not for the offence committed against God, but barely on account of his present sufferings. (Challoner) --- For these he really grieved, 1 Machabees vi. 11. Yet was not sorry for the offence against God and men. So the damned acknowledge that their punishments are inflicted on account of their sins, yet have not true repentance. (Worthington) --- In like manner Esau repented for the loss of his birthright, Hebrews xii. 17. (Menochius) --- Epiphanes had abandoned God, who now laughs at him, (Proverbs i. 26.) as some of the Machabees had threatened, chap. vii. 14, 7, 9, 31, 2, 5, 6.[14, 17, 19, 31, 32, 35, 36.?] He is the model of false penitents, who are actuated by servile fear.

14 And the city, to which he was going in haste to lay it even with the ground, and to make it a common burying-place, he now desireth to make free.

Ver. 14. Free and independent, (Calmet) like Antioch. (Pliny, [Natural History?] v. 21.)

15 And the Jews, whom he said he would not account worthy to be so much as buried, but would give them up to be devoured by the birds and wild beasts, and would utterly destroy them with their children, he now promiseth to make equal with the Athenians.

Ver. 15. Athenians. This seems to have been put for Antiochians, chap. iv. 9., in Greek; which name would suit better here, as Epiphanes had no power over Athens. (Grotius; Calmet) --- Yet it was highly privileged (Haydock) above all the cities of Greece. (Menochius) --- Jason had obtained for the citizens of Jerusalem to be called Antiochians, chap. vi. 1. But this grant had been revoked, or not carried into effect since the late troubles. (Calmet) --- Here the privilege is to be extended to all the Jews. (Haydock) --- Ptolemais and Calliroe enjoyed the same. (Harduin.)

16 The holy temple also, which before he had spoiled, he promiseth to adorn with goodly gifts, and to multiply the holy vessels, and to allow out of his revenues the charges pertaining to the sacrifices.

Ver. 16. Sacrifices, as Darius, Philometor, and afterwards (1 Machabees x. 39.) Nicator did, 1 Esdras vi. 9. (Calmet)

17 Yea also, that he would become a Jew himself, and would go through every place of the earth, and declare the power of God.

Ver. 17. No explanation given.

18 But his pains not ceasing, (for the just judgment of God was come upon him) despairing of life, he wrote to the Jews, in the manner of a supplication, a letter in these words:

Ver. 18. No explanation given.

19 To his very good subjects, the Jews, Antiochus, king and ruler, wisheth much health, and welfare, and happiness.

Ver. 19. Subjects. Literally, "citizens." (Haydock) --- Similar addresses (ver. 20.) were sent by the emperors to the Romans; and by Cæsar and Anthony to their allies. (Josephus, Antiquities xiv. 17., and 22.; Tull. Epist.)

20 If you and your children are well, and if all matters go with you to your mind, we give very great thanks.

Ver. 20. No explanation given.

21 As for me, being infirm, but yet kindly remembering you, returning out of the places of Persia, and being taken with a grievous disease, I thought it necessary to take care for the common good:

Ver. 21. No explanation given.

22 Not distrusting my life, but having great hope to escape the sickness.

Ver. 22. No explanation given.

23 But considering that my father also, at what time *(Year of the World 3817, Year before Christ 187) he led an army into the higher countries, appointed who should reign after him:

Ver. 23. Father: Antiochus the great. The Persian monarchs generally took this precaution. --- Countries. So profane authors style the provinces beyond the Euphrates [River]. Diodorus, St. Jerome (in Daniel xi.) and others, inform us that Antiochus attempted to plunder the temple of Belus, at Elymais, and took off a vast sum of money under pretext of paying the tribute to the Romans. But the neighbouring nations fell upon him, and cut him with his army to pieces. Philopator succeeded to the throne.

24 To the end that if any thing contrary to expectation should fall out, or any bad tidings should be brought, they that were in the countries, knowing to whom the whole government was left, might not be troubled.

Ver. 24. No explanation given.

25 Moreover, considering that neighbouring princes, and borderers, wait for opportunities, and expect what shall be the event, I have appointed my son, Antiochus, king, whom I often recommended to many of you, when I went into the higher provinces: and I have written to him what I have joined here below.

Ver. 25. Antiochus Eupator, nine years old. --- Below. This is lost.

26 I pray you, therefore, and request of you, that, remembering favours both public and private, you will every man of you continue to be faithful to me and to my son.

Ver. 26. Favours. He must have been deranged. (Calmet)

27 For I trust that he will behave with moderation and humanity, and following my intentions, will be gracious unto you.

Ver. 27. No explanation given.

28 Thus the murderer and blasphemer being grievously struck, as himself had treated others, *(Year of the World 3839) died a miserable death in a strange country, among the mountains.

Ver. 28. Mountains, at Tabes, (Polybius) in Patacene. (Curtius v.) --- Historians relate that he lost his senses, (daimonesas) being terrified by a demon, on account of his criminal attempt against the temple of Diana. (Polybius, excerp. Vales.) (St. Jerome) --- This was a real crime in him, as he took the idol for a deity. But his conduct towards the temple and nation of the Jews would probably weigh heavier upon his conscience. (Calmet) --- St. Cyprian (exhort.) styles him "an inveterate enemy to all good; nay, in Antiochus antichrist is expressed." (Worthington)

29 But Philip, that was brought up with him, carried away his body: and out of fear of the son of Antiochus, went into Egypt to Ptolemee Philometor.

Ver. 29. That was. Syriac, "son of his nurse," appointed regent. --- Philometor Lysias asserted his title to the regency, and had the young king, so that Philip applied to the Egyptians to help in the execution of the last will of the deceased. (Calmet) --- Read 1 Machabees vi. 17. (Worthington)

#second book of maccabees

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readbookywooks · 8 years

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Another Reputation Ruined

IT was not much more than three-quarters of a mile from the town to the monastery. Alyosha walked quickly along the road, at that hour deserted. It was almost night, and too dark to see anything clearly at thirty paces ahead. There were cross-roads half-way. A figure came into sight under a solitary willow at the cross-roads. As soon as Alyosha reached the cross-roads the figure moved out and rushed at him, shouting savagely: "Your money or your life!" "So it's you, Mitya," cried Alyosha, in surprise, violently startled however. "Ha ha ha! You didn't expect me? I wondered where to wait for you. By her house? There are three ways from it, and I might have missed you. At last I thought of waiting here, for you had to pass here, there's no other way to the monastery. Come, tell me the truth. Crush me like a beetle. But what's the matter?" "Nothing, brother - it's the fright you gave me. Oh, Dmitri! Father's blood just now." (Alyosha began to cry, he had been on the verge of tears for a long time, and now something seemed to snap in his soul.) "You almost killed him - cursed him - and now - here - you're making jokes - 'Your money or your life!'" "Well, what of that? It's not seemly - is that it? Not suitable in my position?" "No - I only-" "Stay. Look at the night. You see what a dark night, what clouds, what a wind has risen. I hid here under the willow waiting for you. And as God's above, I suddenly thought, why go on in misery any longer, what is there to wait for? Here I have a willow, a handkerchief, a shirt, I can twist them into a rope in a minute, and braces besides, and why go on burdening the earth, dishonouring it with my vile presence? And then I heard you coming - Heavens, it was as though something flew down to me suddenly. So there is a man, then, whom I love. Here he is, that man, my dear little brother, whom I love more than anyone in the world, the only one I love in the world. And I loved you so much, so much at that moment that I thought, 'I'll fall on his neck at once.' Then a stupid idea struck me, to have a joke with you and scare you. I shouted, like a fool, 'Your money!' Forgive my foolery - it was only nonsense, and there's nothing unseemly in my soul.... Damn it all, tell me what's happened. What did she say? Strike me, crush me, don't spare me! Was she furious?" "No, not that.... There was nothing like that, Mitya. There - I found them both there." "Both? Whom?" "Grushenka at Katerina Ivanovna's." Dmitri was struck dumb. "Impossible!" he cried. "You're raving! Grushenka with her?" Alyosha described all that had happened from the moment he went in to Katerina Ivanovna's. He was ten minutes telling his story. can't be said to have told it fluently and consecutively, but he seemed to make it clear, not omitting any word or action of significance, and vividly describing, often in one word, his own sensations. Dmitri listened in silence, gazing at him with a terrible fixed stare, but it was clear to Alyosha that he understood it all, and had grasped every point. But as the story went on, his face became not merely gloomy, but menacing. He scowled, he clenched his teeth, and his fixed stare became still more rigid, more concentrated, more terrible, when suddenly, with incredible rapidity, his wrathful, savage face changed, his tightly compressed lips parted, and Dmitri Fyodorovitch broke into uncontrolled, spontaneous laughter. He literally shook with laughter. For a long time he could not speak. "So she wouldn't kiss her hand! So she didn't kiss it; so she ran away!" he kept exclaiming with hysterical delight; insolent delight it might had been called, if it had not been so spontaneous. "So the other one called her tigress! And a tigress she is! So she ought to be flogged on a scaffold? Yes, yes, so she ought. That's just what I think; she ought to have been long ago. It's like this, brother, let her be punished, but I must get better first. I understand the queen of impudence. That's her all over! You saw her all over in that hand-kissing, the she-devil! She's magnificent in her own line! So she ran home? I'll go - ah - I'll run to her! Alyosha, don't blame me, I agree that hanging is too good for her." "But Katerina Ivanovna!" exclaimed Alyosha sorrowfully. "I see her, too! I see right through her, as I've never done before! It's a regular discovery of the four continents of the world, that is, of the five! What a thing to do! That's just like Katya, who was not afraid to face a coarse, unmannerly officer and risk a deadly insult on a generous impulse to save her father! But the pride, the recklessness, the defiance of fate, the unbounded defiance! You say that aunt tried to stop her? That aunt, you know, is overbearing, herself. She's the sister of the general's widow in Moscow, and even more stuck-up than she. But her husband was caught stealing government money. He lost everything, his estate and all, and the proud wife had to lower her colours, and hasn't raised them since. So she tried to prevent Katya, but she wouldn't listen to her! She thinks she can overcome everything, that everything will give way to her. She thought she could bewitch Grushenka if she liked, and she believed it herself: she plays a part to herself, and whose fault is it? Do you think she kissed Grushenka's hand first, on purpose, with a motive? No, she really was fascinated by Grushenka, that's to say, not by Grushenka, but by her own dream, her own delusion - because it was her dream, her delusion! Alyosha, darling, how did you escape from them, those women? Did you pick up your cassock and run? Ha ha ha!" "Brother, you don't seem to have noticed how you've insulted Katerina Ivanovna by telling Grushenka about that day. And she flung it in her face just now that she had gone to gentlemen in secret to sell her beauty! Brother, what could be worse than that insult?" What worried Alyosha more than anything was that, incredible as it seemed, his brother appeared pleased at Katerina Ivanovna's humiliation. "Bah!" Dmitri frowned fiercely, and struck his forehead with his hand. He only now realised it, though Alyosha had just told him of the insult, and Katerina Ivanovna's cry: "Your brother is a scoundrel" "Yes, perhaps, I really did tell Grushenka about that 'fatal day,' as Katya calls it. Yes, I did tell her, I remember! It was that time at Mokroe. I was drunk, the Gypsies were singing... But I was sobbing. I was sobbing then, kneeling and praying to Katya's image, and Grushenka understood it. She understood it all then. I remember, she cried herself.... Damn it all! But it's bound to be so now.... Then she cried, but now 'the dagger in the heart'! That's how women are." He looked down and sank into thought. "Yes, I am a scoundrel, a thorough scoundrel" he said suddenly, in a gloomy voice. "It doesn't matter whether I cried or not, I'm a scoundrel! Tell her I accept the name, if that's any comfort. Come, that's enough. Good-bye. It's no use talking! It's not amusing. You go your way and I mine. And I don't want to see you again except as a last resource. Good-bye, Alexey!" He warmly pressed Alyosha's hand, and still looking down, without raising his head, as though tearing himself away, turned rapidly towards the town. Alyosha looked after him, unable to believe he would go away so abruptly. "Stay, Alexey, one more confession to you alone" cried Dmitri, suddenly turning back. "Look at me. Look at me well. You see here, here -there's terrible disgrace in store for me." (As he said "here," Dmitri struck his chest with his fist with a strange air, as though the dishonour lay precisely on his chest, in some spot, in a pocket, perhaps, or hanging round his neck.) "You know me now, a scoundrel, an avowed scoundrel, but let me tell you that I've never done anything before and never shall again, anything that can compare in baseness with the dishonour which I bear now at this very minute on my breast, here, here, which will come to pass, though I'm perfectly free to stop it. I can stop it or carry it through, note that. Well, let me tell you, I shall carry it through. I shan't stop it. I told you everything just now, but I didn't tell you this, because even I had not brass enough for it. I can still pull up; if I do, I can give back the full half of my lost honour to-morrow. But I shan't pull up. I shall carry out my base plan, and you can bear witness that I told so beforehand. Darkness and destruction! No need to explain. You'll find out in due time. The filthy back-alley and the she-devil. Good-bye. Don't pray for me, I'm not worth it. And there's no need, no need at all.... I don't need it! Away!" And he suddenly retreated, this time finally. Alyosha went towards the monastery. "What? I shall never see him again! What is he saying?" he wondered wildly. "Why, I shall certainly see him to-morrow. I shall look him up. I shall make a point of it. What does he mean?" He went round the monastery, and crossed the pine-wood to the hermitage. The door was opened to him, though no one was admitted at that hour. There was a tremor in his heart as he went into Father Zossima's cell. "Why, why, had he gone forth? Why had he sent him into the world? Here was peace. Here was holiness. But there was confusion, there was darkness in which one lost one's way and went astray at once...." In the cell he found the novice Porfiry and Father Paissy, who came every hour to inquire after Father Zossima. Alyosha learnt with alarm that he was getting worse and worse. Even his usual discourse with the brothers could not take place that day. As a rule every evening after service the monks flocked into Father Zossima's cell, and all confessed aloud their sins of the day, their sinful thoughts and temptations; even their disputes, if there had been any. Some confessed kneeling. The elder absolved, reconciled, exhorted, imposed penance, blessed, and dismissed them. It was against this general "confession" that the opponents of "elders" protested, maintaining that it was a profanation of the sacrament of confession, almost a sacrilege, though this was quite a different thing. They even represented to the diocesan authorities that such confessions attained no good object, but actually to a large extent led to sin and temptation. Many of the brothers disliked going to the elder, and went against their own will because everyone went, and for fear they should be accused of pride and rebellious ideas. People said that some of the monks agreed beforehand, saying, "I'll confess I lost my temper with you this morning, and you confirm it," simply in order to have something to say. Alyosha knew that this actually happened sometimes. He knew, too, that there were among the monks some who deep resented the fact that letters from relations were habitually taken to the elder, to be opened and read by him before those to whom they were addressed. It was assumed, of course, that all this was done freely, and in good faith, by way of voluntary submission and salutary guidance. But, in fact, there was sometimes no little insincerity, and much that was false and strained in this practice. Yet the older and more experienced of the monks adhered to their opinion, arguing that "for those who have come within these walls sincerely seeking salvation, such obedience and sacrifice will certainly be salutary and of great benefit; those, on the other hand, who find it irksome, and repine, are no true monks, and have made a mistake in entering the monastery - their proper place is in the world. Even in the temple one cannot be safe from sin and the devil. So it was no good taking it too much into account." "He is weaker, a drowsiness has come over him," Father Paissy whispered to Alyosha, as he blessed him. "It's difficult to rouse him. And he must not be roused. He waked up for five minutes, sent his blessing to the brothers, and begged their prayers for him at night. He intends to take the sacrament again in the morning. He remembered you, Alexey. He asked whether you had gone away, and was told that you were in the town. 'I blessed him for that work,' he said, 'his place is there, not here, for awhile.' Those were his words about you. He remembered you lovingly, with anxiety; do you understand how he honoured you? But how is it that he has decided that you shall spend some time in the world? He must have foreseen something in your destiny! Understand, Alexey, that if you return to the world, it must be to do the duty laid upon you by your elder, and not for frivolous vanity and worldly pleasures." Father Paissy went out. Alyosha had no doubt that Father Zossima was dying, though he might live another day or two. Alyosha firmly and ardently resolved that in spite of his promises to his father, the Hohlakovs, and Katerina Ivanovna, he would not leave the monastery next day, but would remain with his elder to the end. His heart glowed with love, and he reproached himself bitterly for having been able for one instant to forget him whom he had left in the monastery on his death bed, and whom he honoured above everyone in the world. He went into Father Zossima's bedroom, knelt down, and bowed to the ground before the elder, who slept quietly without stirring, with regular, hardly audible breathing and a peaceful face. Alyosha returned to the other room, where Father Zossima received his guests in the morning. Taking off his boots, he lay down on the hard, narrow, leathern sofa, which he had long used as a bed, bringing nothing but a pillow. The mattress, about which his father had shouted to him that morning, he had long forgotten to lie on. He took off his cassock, which he used as a covering. But before going to bed, he fell on his knees and prayed a long time. In his fervent prayer he did not beseech God to lighten his darkness but only thirsted for the joyous emotion, which always visited his soul after the praise and adoration, of which his evening prayer usually consisted. That joy always brought him light untroubled sleep. As he was praying, he suddenly felt in his pocket the little pink note the servant had handed him as he left Katerina Ivanovna's. He was disturbed, but finished his prayer. Then, after some hesitation, he opened the envelope. In it was a letter to him, signed by Lise, the young daughter of Madame Hohlakov, who had laughed at him before the elder in the morning. "Alexey Fyodorovitch," she wrote, "I am writing to you without anyone's knowledge, even mamma's, and I know how wrong it is. But I cannot live without telling you the feeling that has sprung up in my heart, and this no one but us two must know for a time. But how am I to say what I want so much to tell you? Paper, they say, does not blush, but I assure you it's not true and that it's blushing just as I am now, all over. Dear Alyosha, I love you, I've loved you from my childhood, since our Moscow days, when you were very different from what you are now, and I shall love you all my life. My heart has chosen you, to unite our lives, and pass them together till our old age. Of course, on condition that you will leave the monastery. As for our age we will wait for the time fixed by the law. By that time I shall certainly be quite strong, I shall be walking and dancing. There can be no doubt of that. "You see how I've thought of everything. There's only one thing I can't imagine: what you'll think of me when you read this. I'm always laughing and being naughty. I made you angry this morning, but I assure you before I took up my pen, I prayed before the Image of the Mother of God, and now I'm praying, and almost crying. "My secret is in your hands. When you come to-morrow, I don't know how I shall look at you. Ah, Alexey Fyodorovitch, what if I can't restrain myself like a silly and laugh when I look at you as I did to-day. You'll think I'm a nasty girl making fun of you, and you won't believe my letter. And so I beg you, dear one, if you've any pity for me, when you come to-morrow, don't look me straight in the face, for if I meet your eyes, it will be sure to make me laugh, especially as you'll be in that long gown. I feel cold all over when I think of it, so when you come, don't look at me at all for a time, look at mamma or at the window.... "Here I've written you a love-letter. Oh, dear, what have I done? Alyosha, don't despise me, and if I've done something very horrid and wounded you, forgive me. Now the secret of my reputation, ruined perhaps for ever, is in your hands. "I shall certainly cry to-day. Good-bye till our meeting, our awful meeting. - Lise. "P.S. - Alyosha! You must, must, must come! - Lise. Alyosha read the note in amazement, read it through twice, thought a little, and suddenly laughed a soft, sweet laugh. He started. That laugh seemed to him sinful. But a minute later he laughed again just as softly and happily. He slowly replaced the note in the envelope, crossed himself and lay down. The agitation in his heart passed at once. "God, have mercy upon all of them, have all these unhappy and turbulent souls in Thy keeping, and set them in the right path. All ways are Thine. Save them according to Thy wisdom. Thou art love. Thou wilt send joy to all!" Alyosha murmured, crossing himself, and falling into peaceful sleep.

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