#but it would be satisfying to connect everything like a sewing stitch

[pixlokita]

Okay yeah angst Cassie and Cassie|Vanny but like- Imagine the severe PTSD Cassie has to go through every time she enters an elevator- She really needs (NON Fazbear Entertainment managed) therapy- Poor girl-

Why can't she just live on with her animatronic wolf mama staff bot papa (Controversial there but whatever/ +even more trauma to the already traumatized girl so we better give her the best therapy-) 😭😭😭

And it's part of the reason she gets (most likely) Glitchtrapped in the first place!!!

(I know that we believe differently when it comes to who we play as in HW2 and that's good! I like to see different opinions play out. I'm not going to unfollow you just because we have a different opinion because you're that good of an artist and I love your comics. Period.)

Lmao 😭 eyyy thank ✨ tbh can’t blame Cassie if she ends up with elevatophobia :v as someone who’s been in malfunctioning elevators =w= that is terrifying as heck every time but still better than her straight up dying from the fall >>)b I love seeing Vanny Cassie too tbh just because :v bunby ;w; 💜✨🐰 but yeah too much sad Can get depressing fast TTwTT sometimes you gotta cope with the possible happier outcomes and hope they’re canon so you can enjoy all the sad stuff without guilt

[unseededtoast]

Turtle Doves | Joel Miller

Part Nineteen

Chapter Directory

Series Summary: In which two broken souls connect so deeply, that if one should perish, the other would surely die of a broken heart. (slow burn, timeline changes. After TLOU1, before TLOU2, assumed knowledge of infected, uses elements from both show and game)

Series Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, death, and sexual content.

Also cross-posted on Wattpad and AO3. Link to my masterlist for everything else I’ve posted!

"You got stabbed by a machete, you lost a lot of blood."

The morning sun is rising in the sky, illuminating the redness on my skin that is drying to a rusty brown. My hair sticks to my face and neck with sweat, and my butt has gone numb from sitting on the hard floor for far too long. My eyes are trained on the wall in front of me, and my ears are focused on Joel's breathing next to me.

With heavy eyelids, I look down at him to ensure he's still breathing and am satisfied to see him still alive. My eyes trail down to the large wound on his abdomen, and I know that there's still work to be done. Forcing myself off the ground, I rummage around for  a needle and some thread.

Thankfully, these people kept their medical care items with their sleeping supplies, probably in case they had to make a quick getaway. However, half the first aid kits are picked through and the other half are empty. After I've gone through every first aid kit available in here, I realize there's no needle or thread to be found. But in a town like this, there's bound to be one needle and a spool of thread somewhere.

Grabbing my hunting knife and making sure I've got a gun in my thigh holster, I take down the blockade from the front door and decide to go supply searching. Plus, I'd like to find my curved blade from last night as well. I'm confident that there will be nobody else showing up here, if there were, they likely would've shown up during the night.

The sunlight makes it easier for me to navigate around, and I walk back a few streets to look for my curved blade. The tall grass makes it difficult to locate, but I find where the grenade went off and start searching thoroughly there.

After ten good minutes of thorough searching, the sunlight shifts in the sky and illuminates the hilt of the knife five feet in front of me, concealed by debris from the grenade's explosion. It finds its way back onto my person and then I start looking for a needle and thread, systematically going through each building with careful eyes.

The search for a needle and thread proves to be more of a challenge than I thought it was going to be. It takes at least eight buildings before I finally find where they keep their garments. These people have been using a small garage as a closet of sorts, and stashed away in the corner was a small case of sewing supplies.

Quickly, I make my way back to Joel and reconstruct the barricade before I lean over him once more. His eyes are still closed and I press the back of my hand to his face, his skin still pale and chilly.

"Joel." I try to get him to open his eyes, but he just grunts in response. I was hoping he would wake up so he could take some of the oxycontin we found so that he's not suffering in pain. However, I think his wound is probably taking too much of a toll on him, so I'll try to make this as quick as I can.

It takes a few tries, but I eventually get the string threaded through the needle's eye. I rest on my knees, leaning over Joel's body and take a calming breath. I've done this before, but many years ago and with stakes that weren't quite this high. Before I can talk myself out of this, I stick the needle through the skin of Joel's abdomen and begin sewing the skin together.

His face contorts with pain with each stitch and I apologize each time the needle breeches skin, but this has to be done if the wound is going to heal properly. As I pull the needle through for the last stitch, I lean down and cut the string off with my teeth and tie it in a knot, confident it'll hold as long as he doesn't push himself too hard for a few days. Knowing Joel though, that's likely going to be a tall order.

The string and needle find their place back in the sewing kit and I resume my position with my back leaning against the wall next to Joel so I can keep an eye on him. I know I can't stay with him like this for long though, I have to find water for us; the rest of ours was used last night to clean Joel's wound to the best of my ability. Surely, these people had to have some sort of water supply.

I rummage around in my bag and pull out the map that has a new tear in the top of it from last night's events. My eyes find the approximate spot that we're at, and I see that there should be some sort of lake about a mile to the east. That shouldn't take me long to get to and back. Folding the map and placing it back in my bag, I reach for our empty water containers and decide to make the trip. When Joel wakes up, he's going to need to rehydrate himself.

I do my best to blockade the building and see where the sun is at in the sky to determine which way is east. Thankfully, the sun is still rising and it's rather easy to decide which way I need to go. The water containers clink together with every few steps, and I stay on alert the whole way to the lake, not wanting to be surprised or ambushed.

My eyes scan for more tripwires as well, becoming paranoid that they're everywhere around here. Soon enough, I reach the edge of the town and am met with overgrown grass and a sporadic spread of trees. Things seem peaceful enough but I cannot get the tension to leave my shoulders and I know I'm sure to feel this for the next few days. My mind is so occupied with listening for threats that I can't even admire the wildflowers adorning the overgrown grass. They're just blurs in my peripheral, my focus is getting back to Joel as soon as I can.

Luckily, the river is easy to locate. Its rushing waters lead me right to it and I waste no time in unscrewing the water bottle caps and filling them up. Small fish jump out of the water every few seconds and predatory birds swoop down to try and catch them, seemingly unbothered with my presence. The cool water is almost inviting me to take a dip and if Joel weren't severely injured a mile away I might consider indulging. Instead of fully immersing myself I settle on washing the dried blood off of my hands and arms. Knowing I can't be away from Joel for longer than is absolutely necessary, I make the short trip back to the town once my hands are clean and the bottles are full.

My barricade is untouched when I return and I drop off the bottles beside him. His eyes are still closed, his eyebrows tightly knit together, probably from the pain. If he would wake up I could force some painkillers into his system. But, I leave him be and go to rummage around in the town to see what I can find, after all his body does need rest after enduring that kind of wound. I'll give him the pills when he wakes on his own.

The bodies from yesterday's incident are littered everywhere and the smell of their decomposition is only going to get worse in the day's heat. With nothing else to do, I busy myself with piling their bodies up and going through their pockets. They're bound to have some good things, seeing as how they had a grenade to throw at me.

After an hour of solid work, I'm able to pile their bodies in one empty building, where they will permanently rest for all eternity. It took a few times to get used to the way their limbs flopped every which way and how their heads would just fall with gravity, but after the third body I got the hang of it. With each body I piled up the more I find myself reflecting on my actions.

I ruthlessly killed these people without an ounce of guilt, and I still can't seem to be all too shaken up about it now as I turn their pockets inside out. Only a few nights ago I was thoroughly disgusted with myself about the older couple on the farm, and I even felt a little guilty about the Fireflies we killed, so why is this so different for me? There's definitely some sort of difference, but I can't seem to pinpoint what it is.

With a distracted mind, I go about stuffing my pockets with the townspeople's grenades, bullets, and other weapons before I go back to check in on Joel. The sun is at its peak for the day and the sun is blisteringly hot once again.

I enter the building I've left Joel in to see his eyes have opened, and he's trying to sit up. Dropping the items in my hands, I rush over to him and push his hands away from his wound. His dark brown eyes look at me in confusion as I lift the hem of his shirt to check the wound. It's red and angry, but the bleeding has stopped and it doesn't look like it's getting infected. Gently, I lay his shirt back over top the cut and sigh, resting back on my heels.

"You almost bled out on me there." I crack a small smile as his head thumps back down on his backpack that I turned into a makeshift pillow.

"The hell happened?" His gravelly voice asks, and I sit crisscross beside him, blowing out a short burst of air between my lips.

"What happened was you got stabbed by a machete, you lost a lot of blood." I keep it short, not wanting to freak him out by what happened. But judging by the white scar beside this wound, he's no stranger to injuries.

"And you took care of 'em all?" He almost sounds like he's in disbelief, and I'll let him get away with the doubt this once.

"I did. I had to, I wasn't going to let them kill you." My voice turns into a whisper and I turn my eyes down, away from his face while he stares back at me.

"Shouldn't have risked yourself for me, I would've been alright." Joel tries to dismiss, but I'm having none of it. My eyebrows shoot up.

"Says the person who has saved my ass too many times. It's the least I could've done." I truthfully tell him. After everything he's done for me, I owed him this. Though I didn't do any of it out of debt. My hand comes up to push away a stray curl from his forehead, and my fingers find themselves lingering for a millisecond too long before he's clearing his throat. In the blink of an eye, I return my hand to my side.

"I should be fine to keep goin'." He tries to sit up, but I push him right back down with a shake of my head.

"No, I don't think so." My palm stays firm against his shoulder to keep him in place. His skin is warm and it's a welcome observation after feeling his skin become cold from blood loss last night.

"We gotta keep going." He argues with me, but I won't let him get his way.

"Joel I had to cauterize that wound last night and I put those stitches in. I'm very aware of just how bad it is. You're going to rest here for a few days, and you're going to let me take care of you." I tell him how things are going to go, not giving him a second option. I can tell he's less than thrilled with my words from the frown that becomes prominent on his face. He huffs in annoyance and I take my hand away from his shoulder to grab the red pills. I shake one out and offer it to him.

"It's a good thing we found these. Take this, and here's some water." I pass the pill and a water bottle into his grasp. His hand clutches the pill and he grimaces as he goes to sit up.

Without thinking, I hook my arm under one of his and help him sit against the wall. I can tell the movement has irritated the wound, and I check to make sure it didn't start bleeding again. My fingers ghost Joel's skin as I check, and I'm satisfied to see everything is still dry. As I lower the hem of his shirt back into place I notice that Joel's face looks a little flushed and it's only then that I realize that half of my shirt is missing and a good portion of my torso is on full display right in front of his face. Embarrassed, I back away from him to give him some space and feel like I should explain myself.

"Oh, sorry. Um, you see I had to pack your wound with something and I just kinda tore this without thinking. It was the adrenaline I think. But these people have a whole stockpile of clothes so I'll find a new one." I ramble and stand back to my full height, backing up towards the door as I speak, feeling my cheeks become warm. Flustered, I open the door and go back to the building where I found the sewing supplies.

My cheeks burn from embarrassment, or at least I think it's embarrassment. The thought gets pushed from my head as I look through their supply of clothes, and settle on a simple brown linen button up. My old shirt gets tossed into the corner and I go about searching for a new shirt for Joel, knowing the one he has on right now has been ruined by his blood. They have a plethora to choose from, but one shirt in particular catches my eye and I just know it's something he will like. I grab the soft material off the hanger and drape it over my arm as I make my way back to him.

Thankfully the awkward tension has dissipated with my return. Joel is drinking the water I found when I enter, and he places it beside himself when he hears me. His eyes lock onto the shirt over my arm and I hold it out for him to see.

"Thought you'd like this one." I say, looking over the material. It's a just a simple flannel, similar to the one I first met him in but this one is brown and not green. Not only did I pick this one because I thought he'd like it, but I think it would make his dark doe eyes look even more beautiful. Joel nods once,

"Thank you." He says and his eyes drift from the shirt to my face, and I give him a small smile, folding the shirt for him and placing it beside him.

"Eat this, it'll help the pill absorb. But fair warning it's probably all crumbles." I say and rummage around in my bag, finding the granola bar from a ransacked building. The wrapper crinkles in my hands as I pass it to him. He unwraps it and it's not as crumbled as I thought it would've been. He splits the bar into two and holds out a half for me, but I shake my head.

"Thanks, but you need it more. Plus these people have to have a stash somewhere. I'll find that." I decline his offer, pushing his hand back to him. The tiredness is beginning to creep up on me, and it's worse than usual, likely due to the adrenaline crash.

I sit beside Joel and rest my head back against the wall, letting my eyes close. The tension from my shoulders starts to dissipate, but I can feel that the muscles are achy. I know that if I stay here for too long, I'll never be able to get myself going for the rest of the day. And there are still things to be done. But five more minutes can't hurt, right?

Five minutes turns into an hour and I'm rubbing my eyes as I force myself back to my feet, Joel snoring beside me. He fell back asleep shortly after he finished the granola bar and his rhythmic snores almost lulled me to sleep. But the rumbling of my stomach became too much to ignore. There has to be some food stored here somewhere and it's time I find it.

The buildings I've already been through are immediately disregarded. If they had food in them I would've found it. So instead I branch out from this street and carefully go through the buildings residing on neighboring alleys and roads.

Some are left barren and empty, a shell of their former businesses. Others are strewn with sleeping bags, nothing interesting hidden among them sadly. The door squeaks open to a smaller building and my eyebrows are quick to shoot up on my face. Seems I've found their armory.

From the looks of it, they went easy on us with the grenades. Haphazardly secured to the wall are machine guns, makeshift flamethrowers, dirty bombs, and bear traps. My eyes study the wall and take note that there appear to be no missing bear traps, each hook has one dangling from it. But with these people, I won't entirely discredit that there's one sitting out there somewhere. Mentally, I make note to bring Joel here once he's healed enough, he'll have a field day in here.

I move on without taking anything, feeling secure with the weapons I have now. The building next to the armory is empty, but the walls are scorched. They probably tested the flamethrower here. It's a wonder the building didn't catch fire. Luckily, the adjacent building is just what I have been searching for.

It's almost as if I've stepped into a fully stocked grocery store. Old shelves are lazily piled with cans, granola, and other non-perishables. There are even some first aid kits scattered, though none of them are stocked very well. Tucking a kit under my arm, I shop around and settle on a can of decade old spaghetti-o's. A delicacy.

With my loot, I head back to Joel and try to make a plan of how to heal him quickly and make contingency plans in case someone else shows up here. From our experience so far, I know nothing good can last long so I don't want to let myself get too comfortable here.

Despite knowing we are likely not safe, I don't feel an urgency to keep moving, an almost calm feeling comes over me, much like it did back at the farm in the garden. Maybe it has to do with food security, but something in the back of my mind tells me it has a whole lot more to do with Joel's presence than anything else. I do my best to tune that voice out.

Part Twenty

[averytiredfanfictionwriter]

Sic Semper Tyrannis

A syndicate x Platonic! Reader/ Technoblade x Reader

Warnings: murder, kidnapping, blood, a somewhat graphic depiction of getting stitches

Word count: about 2800

Ao3 Link: wow.

I’m excited to share this. I did write a version with an angsty ending, which is up on my Ao3 account here if you want to read that one as well. Fair warning though, while writing it I found myself dying inside so I don’t know how you guys would feel. It was the original way I wanted to take the story but as I was writing I also created this one which is an alternate, fluffier ending. Reader is a raccoon hybrid in this one. Don’t forget to like and follow for more. Enjoy!

It almost seems to be a mistake, Techno thinks. The woman- no girl- standing in front of him never struck him as the anarchist type. She was always too soft, too nice for any of it. Yet here she stands next to Philza, shivering from the chill of the cave and rubbing her bare arms. 

“This is the new recruit I was telling you about.” The winged man smiles at Techno.

“She seems… soft.” He mutters, taking in her shivering form before handing her a cloak.

She only nods, accepting the cloak gratefully and clipping it around her neck with ease before burrowing into the thick material. 

“Trust me. You wouldn’t be saying that if you knew her how I do.” Phil mutters, rubbing at his shoulder.

“Fine. But do you swear to uphold the values of the syndicate? Do you promise that you’ll help in our mission to destroy the corrupted governments that threaten the freedoms of its citizens?” Techno stands over her, red eyes practically glowing.

She nods hastily under his seven foot tall frame and he seems satisfied as he backs away. “Okay then. Come take a seat. We have a lot to talk about today.” 

Techno makes his way up the stairs to the table behind him, taking a seat facing the entranceway. Y/n looks up at Philza and he only shakes his head. 

“Don’t worry about him. He seems scary but he won’t hurt you. In fact, that’s the nicest he’s been to someone that’s tried to join yet.” Philza says before walking towards the table.

“Wait- what do you mean ‘tried to join’? Phil, what happened to them?” Y/n says in a panic.

“We don’t talk about them.” Ranboo chimes in. “Now, come on. Don’t want to be late to your first meeting.” 

Y/n scurries up to a chair at the table, taking the one across from Phil and next to Ranboo. She sits furthest from Niki and Techno who both seem to be scrutinizing her every move.

“Now, let’s get this meeting started. First things first, we have a new recruit. This is Y/n. You all know her, but she’s going to be joining us. You’ll need a codename.” Techno states, and Y/n thinks a moment as they stare at her.

“Dolos. I’ll go with Dolos.” Techno nods, eyes flashing with an unknown emotion before returning to their usual blankness.

“Okay. Now that that’s over with, is there anything in particular you guys wanted to discuss? Any new information or governments?” 

Phil nods, standing as he stands from the chair and speaks to the group. Y/n zones out a little for the rest of the meeting, nodding along but not really listening. Soon, it’s time to go and they’re all standing, the sound of chairs scraping on the floor loudly and Ranboo’s laughter at something Niki said echoes through the small space.

“Y/n, can I speak to you alone.” It’s not a question, and the woman swallows thickly as she follows the piglin hybrid into a small room that connects to the main one.

“So why Dolos? I mean, of everything you could’ve chosen, why’d you choose Dolos?” He asks, standing against the door to the room, blocking her in.

“Ah, well- you see, I’ve been told I’m good at deceiving people and that I’m so good at it, no one ever knows until I tell them, and even then they don’t believe me. I think that it’s a good codename, that’s all.” She stutters out, and Techno’s eyes narrow.

“I’m not easily fooled. If you’re lying, or you’re here as a spy, I’ll figure it out. And then not even Phil will be able to save you. Do you understand me?” He grunts out, standing over her with his sword held in his hand.

She nods and all but teleports out of the room to get away as quick as possible. He looks after her, seeing the disappointed look on Phil’s face outside and the confused glances from Niki and Ranboo. He steps out of the room as well and leaves the meeting hall without another word. 

It’s a week before anyone hears directly from Y/n again, and when they do it’s not for reason they would have ever expected. 

“I need your help.” Techno takes in the sight of the blood soaked clothing that covers the young woman.

“What happened?” He’s bewildered, the first time he’s been surprised in a long time.

“It’s not my blood. Most of it’s from the people we were fighting, but some of it’s his.” She points behind her where Phil stands, holding up a severely injured Tommy.

“Come on.” Techno grunts, ears twitching. The voices chime in, but he pushes them aside. 

“Set him on the couch.” Phil lays him down gently and gets to work brewing potions for the young boy. 

Y/n sits next to him, clutching his hand tightly with one of hers as she continues putting pressure on the gaping wound in his stomach. Her striped tail swishes nervously on the floor behind her and the large black ears lay back against her head.

“Get his shirt off. I need to sew it up.” Techno has his sleeves rolled up to the elbow as he comes over with a small first aid kit.

Y/n uses her sharp nails to cut away the stomach section of Tommy’s shirt, revealing the ugly looking gash. She pales at the sight of it, getting up and running to the bathroom to most likely vomit. Techno only sighs as he gets to work, wiping off the dried blood around the wound and starting to stitch it up. Tommy shifts uncomfortably on the couch, crying out at the needle threading in and out of his skin. 

Once done, Phil shoves the healing potion in Tommy’s face, which he drinks and then promptly passes out. Y/n comes back from the bathroom, hair tied back from her face.

“What happened?” Techno asks, standing in front of her.

“We were running through the woods, having fun- y’know, kid things- when we came across a small group of people. They started to attack us, and we started to fight back, thinking there weren’t anymore of them. Well, we were wrong. Very wrong. We wouldn’t have escaped if it wasn’t for Phil. Before we got away though, they said something like ‘down with the order’. I don’t know what they meant though. It was hard to understand them through their masks.” Y/n spews out and Techno only stares at her.

“‘Down with the order’? That sounds like they know something. What did they look like? Any distinct markings for kingdoms or anything?” Techno says softly.

She shakes her head. “Nothing that I could see, unless I missed it. I could probably lead you back to the place we fought at. I don’t know if more came to collect the bodies or not.” 

“Take me there. But first, go get cleaned up. We don’t need you walking around drenched in blood.” Techno says, nodding to the bathroom. 

One shower and change of clothes later, the pair are on their way to where Y/n and Tommy were attacked. Techno notices her fidgeting more than usual, constantly looking around them and watching as she jumps at the smallest of noises. He chalks it up to having been just attacked and they continue walking.

She stops in a clearing and he stands beside her. No sign of bloodied bodies is anywhere to be found. In fact, there’s no evidence a fight even occurred here. No blood spots on the ground, no scrapes in the ground, no disturbance of wildlife.

“Are you sure this is the place?” He turns to look at her, but she’s gone. Suddenly, something hits him from behind and the last thing he sees is Y/n, crying softly as someone holds onto her.

Techno slowly opens his eyes, registering the cold metal against his wrists and multitude of people surrounding him. The voices scream out in rage- rage at Y/n for getting them captured, rage at himself for allowing this to happen, anger for not trying to stop him and Y/n from being captured. They’re angry at a lot of things, and he grunts as he feels a headache coming on.

Y/n stirs in the chair across from him, whimpering softly and her tail waves behind her slowly. “Where-”

“That doesn’t matter. What matters is that you need to tell us who the rest of the members of your little club is, or else you both die. Tell us, and you live. It’s that simple.” A voice speaks out, a young man with brown hair and light eyes.

He rests a sword on Y/n’s shoulder and looks Techno in the eyes. He says nothing, glaring at the man instead.

“Are you going to tell me? If not, then I guess I’ll need to encourage you to do so.” The young man sighs, and takes out a knife, grabs hold of Y/n’s tail and presses the knife against the base of it.

Y/n screams loudly, and Techno hates the sound of it more than any other sound he’s heard. The voices seem to hate it as well, yelling at him to just tell the man the names of the other members to end it.

“Fine.” Techno gives in. 

The young man smiles, dropping Y/n’s tail and wiping the knife off on her shirt. “Oh good! That’s very good.” 

“Don’t do it. It’s not worth it. My life’s not worth it.” Y/n mumbles, tears falling down her face as she clenches onto the armrests of the chair tightly.

“You might know one of them. His name is Zephyrus. Has black wings, wears lots of green. Another one is named Lethe. He’s half enderman. Good luck catching him though. The last one is Nemesis. You might never find her though. She spends most of her time underground.” Techno states and Y/n almost laughs at the use of the codenames.

“You’re lying.”

The young man holds the knife to Y/n’s throat and presses gently, causing a small trickle of blood to run down her neck. “You have one more chance to tell me their names before I kill her and then you. I’ll give you to the count of ten. Ten…” Techno growls at the man before him, the sight of his knife pressed against the woman's throat more than angering.

“I told you. Those are their names. It’s not my fault if you don’t believe me. Now let her go. I don’t even like her. Killing her wouldn’t get me to reveal anything.” Techno says calmly.

The man considers this, pausing his counting. “You’re still lying. I saw you help her and her friend, the blonde. I’m surprised the cut didn’t kill him, to be honest. I think I’ll have to go back to your cabin when I’m done here and finish the job.” 

Steam is basically pouring out of Techno’s ears and his eyes glow a bright red. “Don’t fucking touch him.” 

“Yes! I will, unless you tell me the real names of the other members of your little club.” He releases Y/n’s head from his grip, and pulls his knife away from her neck. 

“Phil, Niki, and Ranboo. Those are their names. Now let her go.” Techno growls and Y/n shakes her head.

“He’s lying. Those aren’t their names. There’s not even more than one other member of the group. The third member of the group is named Dream. He’s currently in prison for killing several people and blowing up a country not once, but twice as well as manipulating kids. He’s the only other member of the group.” Y/n says, hoping that they don’t know she’s lying and buy her bluff. 

The god currently sits in prison, waiting out his days monotonously. They would definitely all die the minute they try and kill him- if they even do get to him, considering Sam would kill them the minute they step foot in the prison.

“Finally, someone here is telling the truth. You’re going to give me the exact coordinates of where the prison is, and then you two are going to stay here while we go kill him.” Y/n gives him the coordinates and the man is almost bouncing in joy. “For your sake, we better not be walking into a trap. Let’s go boys.” They leave the room and Y/n sighs, her head hanging forward heavily, as if her neck can’t hold itself up anymore.

“What was that?” Techno asks and she shrugs.

“I told you. People don’t believe I’m capable of lying to them. They’re all going to die trying to get to Dream, or he’s going to kill them himself.” Y/n yawns.

“Yeah, and we need to get out of here in case some of them survive.” Techno says, struggling against the restraints holding him to the chair and eventually manages to break them.

“Alright, let’s get you out of here.” Techno mumbles, picking the lock on Y/n’s restraints and lifting her up easily in his arms.

The maze of hallways is nearly impossible to escape, but they do it somehow and step outside to a snowy tundra. The wind blows frozen ice shards through the air and it bites at their skin. They were stripped of gear and their cloaks. The cold is no match for Techno, who produces enough body heat to stay warm enough, but Y/n shivers in his arms and presses her face against his chest in an effort to keep warm.

Techno’s communicator beeps as it regains signal, and he works it out of his pocket, seeing the messages from Phil and quickly shoots one back with their coordinates and a request for blankets.

Looking around, the only shelter Techno can find until Phil arrives is the building they came out of but that’s not an option in case the people come back. Techno settles for sitting on the ground and hugging the woman to his chest, doing his best to protect her from the wind and cold. 

“Oh my god…” Phil says as he lands in front of the pair, quickly grabbing Y/n and wrapping the cloak around her.

“Take her back to my cabin. She needs to get warmed up and is going to probably need stitches in her tail.” Phil nods, passing his sword to Techno.

“Will you be fine walking back? I can zip right back here to get you. Tommy’s healed and can look after Y/n while I do so.” 

Techno shakes his head. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me. After all, you need to check on Ranboo and Niki. Make sure they’re okay. We’re not extremely far from the cabin, I’ll make it back before the end of the night. Now go already.” Techno says and Phil nods, taking off quickly with Y/n.

He looks back at the building they were in, and heads back inside. If there’s anyone left here, they’ll pay for what happened.

It’s a few days before Techno comes back and Philza spends the time either worrying over it or about the worsening condition of Y/n, who seems to have developed a bad cold or flu or hypothermia or all of it, really, as well as making sure Tommy doesn’t rip his stitches trying to do stupid stuff. When Techno does come back, he’s covered in blood and doesn’t even stop to talk to the members of the syndicate sitting in the living room or even wash up, instead going straight for the room where Y/n is sleeping and peeking in.

“She’s not doing well at all. I stitched her tail up, but she’s developed a fever and is still freezing cold all the time and isn’t getting any better, even with a ton of healing potions. I don’t know if she’s going to make it.” Phil mutters beside Techno and he only nods.

He steps out of the doorway and leaves to take a shower, taking extra care to scrub the blood out of his hair and changes into comfortable clothes. Peeking into Y/n’s room again, he sees her shivering underneath the blankets. Well no wonder she’s sick, she’s still freezing cold, he thinks to himself before opening the door further and stepping into the room. He climbs under the covers and Y/n instantly curls up to him, soaking in his natural warmth.

“Thank you, for getting me out of there.” She mutters, before falling back asleep.

“Anything for you.” He whispers, holding her tighter against him in an almost protective manner. 

Phil watches from the doorway, smiling as he watches Techno fall asleep curled up with her.

Tagged: 

@thegeekisheere

[darlington-v]

on the matter of chekhov’s gun

“what does chekov’s gun have to do with ranboo’s lack of panic towards his inability to speak about dream and his misdeeds?”

this was something asked in one of the replies to my essays, which made me feel the need to make this post instead of just a simple reply because i have a lot of thoughts on the matter.

first, let’s talk about chekov’s gun.

chekov’s gun is not just wilbur’s old crossbow, nor just something funny he would reference but it is a writing principle.

now, whether or not you follow that principle is up to you, but most good writers and writing will follow that principle which is: everything in writing has to have a purpose. even small details. 

they may not necessarily have huge plot relevance, but when you are writing you have to ask yourself, ‘why is this necessary for me to write this in?’ chekhov’s gun helps you maintain a cohesiveness within your story and writing as all of it will serve a purpose.

in writing anything, whether it is: character details, character arcs, plots of any degree (be it a small character arc or a main storyline point), setting details and the setting itself, you have to ask yourself, what purpose does this serve in the narrative? what does this establish?

let’s use a fine character detail for example. say your main character notices their companion sewing with a peculiar stitch that is not often used in their self proclaimed home country. what was the purpose of pointing that out? a good writer, utilizing the principle of chekhov’s gun, would have it be relevant to the story later. you could write their companion was lying about where they came from, which will later affect the mission they’re on, which will later come up due to the affects it has. or, perhaps, the companion was raised by parents who are refugees, which will then establish a personal connection with perhaps a political conflict at the core of this hypothetical story.

regardless, these give meaning to the fine detail you established in chapters, or episodes, or in the dream smp’s case, streams, earlier. which is what the principle of chekhov’s gun is. everything should be done with a purpose.

why is chekhov’s gun important?

the importance of using the principle of chekhov’s gun is in maintaining cohesiveness within your story. no one likes a dissatisfying story. we want to walk away from a narrative feeling a sense of wholeness and satisfaction. whether it has a sad ending, happy ending, or bittersweet ending, you want to walk away feeling satisfied. like it all had a purpose. a good story ends with good closure.

you get closure when your worries or questions or understanding of something are calmed, or answered, or explained to you. this is why chekhov’s gun is important. in making sure every element in your story serves a purpose, you make sure that any questions being asked are getting answered. in asking yourself “why does this happen” and then applying that answer to the story, whether it is immediately or later, you are making sure your loose threads are getting tied. you’re making sure that you will always be able to provide your reader closure.

and closure is satisfying! we all want closure. we all would like our lives and conflicts to have pretty answers wrapped up in a bow, but... the issue with reality, rather than fiction, is that we don’t always get it.

which is why it’s so important in fiction.

no one wants to use their time reading, or watching, or just consuming something in general, that leaves us unsatisfied. which is why we don’t have to, nor should we, necessarily use the way events unfold in real life as a skeleton for the way they unfold in fiction. like i said before, reality doesn’t always provide closure, but fiction can. in making sure your narrative has all of its loose ends tied up, you’re optimizing the amount of satisfaction received at the end of your story.

so, while chekhov’s gun is a principle, it’s a damned good one. it helps maintain a cohesive story which just naturally makes the story more enjoyable and satisfying.

what does this have to do with ranboo, or the dream smp for that matter?

well, you should apply this to any media you watch and think about critically, but it has to do with noticing small details and wondering what their importance is. 

i made an essay posing the question “why wasn’t ranboo shocked that he physically couldn’t speak about dream and the misdeeds they committed together” which talked about how ranboo didn’t really seemed shocked on the matter.

the point of the essay was really to point out that the behavior was peculiar and to ask what it may mean, because it was such an odd thing that stuck out to me. i wanted to perhaps go into depth about why he regards the circumstance with a tone of irritated understanding, and why he may understand whats going on. i don’t really have any solid ideas, but i wanted to start discussion on it.

now, why is chekhov’s gun relevant to this? because the lack of response sticks out, and it doesn’t have a clear answer yet. it subverts your natural expectations of how someone would react to their ability to speak being stripped from them. you would expect a bit more shock, and yet we don’t get that. at the very least it’s peculiar and it is a question to be asked. there’s a question created in the action.

as for the answer? i don’t really have one myself, it’s why i was posing the question.

i understand that ranboo was sufficiently shocked and panicked, but he wasn’t at a threshold to which he would have passed out. we clearly see him process the situation at hand. it’s not that he was numb to it, there is a pause where he processes the fact that he cannot speak. if he was numb to the shock, he wouldn’t have still been panicking over the prison, because he would have been shutting down all of the shock. that’s typically how shock and trauma works.

but even if his lack of response to the inability to speak was being numb or too mentally distraught, you have to ask yourself: why? 

what purpose does him being numb to that situation serve? what does that establish? if you say it establishes his character is mentally unwell or it’s a testament to ranboo’s mentality and his mental wellness, the issue is that we already knew that.

we already know ranboo isn’t okay. that’s been proven not only in the stream in question, but multiple other streams. there is no purpose in adding a new behavior or new element only for it to establish something that has been established before.

that is what chekhov’s gun and its principle has to do with my essay and questions raised. i am posing the question ‘what purpose is being served here’ because of the idea that every element to a story must serve a purpose.

as for why this is important to the dream smp as a whole, it’s very clear that there are at least three writers who likely use the principle of chekhov’s gun.

one is wilbur, he mentioned it and used the principle for season 1 of the dream smp. he shows the audience the tnt room and even like clearly references chekhov’s gun. 

another is dream! dream spoke on ranboo’s stream that he enjoys red herrings and leading the audience astray, with the conclusion being something unexpected but still understandable. i definitely recommend you watch the portion of that stream where ranboo and dream spoke about lore and writing because it was really insightful and just... enjoyable overall.

lastly, and most relevant to my essay is ranboo! similarly to dream, he likes red herrings. he’s stated multiple times on stream he loves to mislead the audience with small details only to have the reveal like... blow our minds later. the importance of chekhov’s gun and red herrings are that if you’re using the principle, your reveal is going to be SUPER satisfying because the red herrings will still serve purpose, just a different one than that which the audience expected.

and, in my opinion, their writing so far has been really enjoyable. i love ranboo’s lore streams and i love what direction lore goes when these characters and therefore ccs are involved. so... i trust them to write well, whether it is with the understanding of the principle being titled chekhov’s gun or the logical thought process which is... good writing has good closures. and in giving everything a purpose, you’re giving yourself a skeleton for good closure.

i definitely didn’t know the idea that “all elements to a story should serve a purpose” was called chekhov’s gun. and honestly, the name doesn’t matter. 

it’s just a damn good principle.

TLDR;

chekhov’s gun is the writing principle that every story element serves a purpose, which is why you should ask yourself “what does that mean and what purpose does it serve” whenever an event or element in a story jumps out at you, for whatever reason that may be.

if you need more info on chekhov’s gun here are some articles! they explain it much better than i probably ever will haha!

[lemmesimpinpeace]

Albert & William (feat. Louis) Random Fluff

Moriarty Manor - Upstairs Family Room

Albert and William sit directly across from each other, both of them focusing on their individual tasks while simultaneously engaging in light conversation.

Albert who was smiling to himself the entire time releases a small sigh of relief, feeling victorious he says without looking up: “William, the scarves I’m making for you and Louis are coming along nicely. I have no doubt they will be ready before winter starts a few days from now.

William flipping the page of the mystery novel he was currently reading, looks up at his older brother, and warmly replies: “ That’s wonderful news. Thank you for your generosity and hard work brother. And I’m sure if Louis were here, he would say the same.”

Delighted hearing his little brother being so appreciative, a small chuckle escape his lips, “Really, it’s no trouble at all, this is fun. I daresay I’ve outdone myself this time. I’m using a different yarn, so they won’t feel as prickling as the ones I’ve made last year.“

“According to you, Louis and I told you the material felt fine.”

After hearing William’s remark, Albert said nothing for the first few seconds then finally: "I’m happy to hear that, but there is no harm in wanting to improve the quality. As you’re well aware I want nothing but the best for you and Louis, especially if it’s something I’m creating by hand.

William laughs a bit and half jokingly retorts : “I would say how admirable of you, but that’s just your ego talking”

Realizing there could be a hint of truth in those words, Albert has a small smirk on his face, still, he feigns ignorance because it’s more fun that way, nonchalantly he confesses: "Now, William, I need you to understand that I enjoy spoiling the both of you whenever I am able to do so. This has nothing to do with me being a perfectionist."

William plays along and responds “Of course, brother.”

Satisfied and without saying another word, Albert focuses back on the task before him —interlacing yarn in a series of connected loops with needles soon to be Louis’s scarf. But, truly, William loves and appreciates everything his brother designed for him, even if majority of the items can only ever be worn indoors for obvious reasons.

Eventually William takes notice of the first scarf, his most likely, resting on Albert’s lap. He knew it was his because the color gave it away. It was a beautiful shade of dark burgundy —his favorite color. It had a simple rib stitch design and looked long enough to go round the neck twice or be worn in a loop. Overall, it appeared cozy yet stylish enough to match with any of his outfits. Being reminded of how attentive his older brother is, William smiled to himself. The only thing preventing him from wearing his new scarf outside at this very instant, was his (Albert’s) missing signature. His signature being a tiny green embroidered heart with their initials (W.J.M. or L.J.M.) stitched inside of said heart. He does this with every hand knitted item he creates for them, it’s done at the very end but, to him it’s the most important part. Cheesy? Yes, but sweet nonetheless. The black one that his elder is currently working on for Louis is coming along splendidly as well.

He silently praised his brother’s knitting skills rather than voicing it aloud. Actually on second thought, he decides to poke fun, with a cheeky grin he says aloud: “Your knitting skills certainly have improved, so much so, that we may no longer need to keep this hobby of yours a secret from everyone... To step out in public donning your creations without fear of sullying our dear family name...It would be a glorious day for us indeed.” With that, he looks back down in an attempt to continue reading his novel, the one he had forgotten about in the last 10 minutes but now he was sporting a mischievous grin on his face. At the same time, he hears Albert laughs.

He had stop knitting by then and in the most dramatic and crestfallen tone he replies: “How cruel... you believe the work I do is not worthy of display.” He closes his eyes and shakes his head, as he continues “I take it this also mean the sweaters I’ve made for you and Louis last Christmas are locked away and collecting dust? Never to see the light of day? William, you wound me... But, it matters not, you are my little brother and I love you. And I will continue to love you despite your treachery."

Of course, Albert is only pretending to have his feelings hurt, in reality he finds William’s honesty amusing. He’s also aware that most of his designs can be seen as questionable, but it’s done on purpose and everyone knows this.

Before William could expose his brother’s over-the-top performance, Louis walks into the room shortly after, pushing a cart with today’s lunch, and having already heard the last part of the conversation replies without missing a single beat: "Brother, enough with the theatrics, we love you but even YOU, wouldn’t wear those out in public.”

***Notes

I have no idea what this is, but here it is... it’s biased and ooc for sure, but whatever, I’m proud of it... You guys have no idea how long it took me to describe a damn scarf. I was literally googling how to describe a scarf because I just genuinely suck at describing things. In the end, I wrote the most blandest and generic description I could think of. Just assume they were some very pretty scarves. I also know nothing about knitting/sewing. I spent way too much time looking for descriptions for that too...I got the idea of Albert knitting from the omakes at the end of the ynm chapters. Personally I believe Albert knows how to knit articles of clothing that aren’t low key questionable/hideous, but he chooses not to because this is how he privately shows his love and affection. And he has a weird sense of humor. William and Louis know this. I also really wanted to incorporate Louis more in the story but I was only able to add him in the end. Sadly, it’s because I was already struggling with this. Adding another character would have stressed me out even more. It’s like I have thoughts, but it’s a challenge to form said thoughts into something coherent and enjoyable to read for others. I’ll do better to add him next time though.

[land-of-classpects-and-analysis]

Mage of Light

Well, now. Isn’t this quite an interesting situation? A Mage of Light giving the analysis, the story, the tale of their struggles and triumphs, of the Mage of Light? Granted, this was inevitable, much like how this will happen again with the Sylph of Life analysis. However, this one has come far quicker than the other one, and so it begs the question as to whether this will be a callout post about the socially anxious host themself, or if it will be another general look at the Classpect known as the Mage of Light? In a way, it will be a little bit of both, as bias and anecdotal scenarios will be an obvious thing that may pop up throughout this analysis. Whether it relates to the narrator of this piece, or to the general population of Mages of Light, will be up to your own imagination. Now, let’s end the theatrics and get ready to gaze into the scarring heat that us Mages of Light are known to look upon for guidance, reassurance, and, of course, the answers to all the questions we have.

It has always been rather fitting for the Aspect symbol for Light to be that of the Sun, at least personally speaking. From a very young age, we are advised to never look directly at the Sun, as its rays are bright and its light a burning hot. This is a good piece of advice for the literal Sun that the planet rotates around, but what about the more symbolic or metaphysical Sun? What about the children who are told to not look too deeply into the symbolism, the meaning, the message hidden behind the letters so elegantly carved into a book? After all, children are naturally curious and are capable of absorbing so much knowledge and rarely, if ever, seem to be satisfied with what they have. Many people talk about their own “phases” where they were fully dedicated to learning as much as they could about something. Pirates, Ancient Egypt, Dragons, Folklore, the Medieval Era, and so many more things. For the most part, parents do often encourage this curiosity that so naturally comes with being a child. Except, for some parents, it is a more conditional encouragement. Telling a child they may not know what or where their Christmas or Birthday presents are is a normal restriction upon a child’s knowledge. That is now what is being alluded to here. No, this is about the parents who blind their children from knowledge that may cause the child to be smarter and more tolerant than their parent, or have their child be more aware of the more horrific and taboo things in this world - the privileges that they may have. Little do their parent’s know how strong the curiosity of a child can be.

As a child, the Mage of Light would at least somewhat be, if not most definitely exactly, like this. While children are naturally curious, the young Mage of Light is someone who is constantly asking the questions, always trying to understand, never being satisfied with the answers they are given, and despising when someone - especially adults - hide things from them. Light-bound at their worst are known to be rather fussy, and if anyone is to perfectly encapsulate such a feeling, it would be a young Mage of Light being told they are forbidden from seeking out the knowledge and answers to a burning question of theirs. Tantrums and overall meltdowns are most definitely a mark of a younger Mage of Light, while later on in the Mage’s life, this contempt for being kept in the dark would show itself more as outright rebellion and sometimes even aggression, physical or otherwise. Much like the Mage of Void, the Mage of Light would be one who will grow into a person that will stop at nothing until they get the answers they want. Out of all the Mages, the Mage of Light is one who is more than ready to bash their head against a wall - metaphorically or otherwise - over and over, especially if it means they will finally come to answer or epiphany. They are born with the never-ending, forever-gnawing hunger to know and learn, and if no one will teach them properly, then they will happily teach themself.

Due to this way of life, it could be argued that the Mage of Light is one where their journey to knowledge and understanding begins as soon as they are born. However, that is only partially correct. While the Mage of Light is indeed someone who, in their early life, believes themself to be stranded in a vast ocean of knowledge - a Mage of Light’s true dream, really. However, what is important to keep in mind is what was mentioned earlier: that those now older, typically adults, will often look back at their learning “phases”, wherein they dedicated themself to only one or few topics of knowledge. Don’t think or believe for a moment that school is a place where their journey begins. Goodness, no. If anything, school is where the suffering of the Mage of Light begins - especially those who have their journey follow the path of seeking out knowledge of knowledge. However, that is for later on this analysis.

The Mage of Light, after leaving childhood, may know quite a lot about the (literal) ocean and the life within it, perhaps they know the entire history of all the wonderful European Folktales meant to startle children, or they dedicated themself to learn how to knit, cross-stitch, and sew, as well as the history of it. It’s hard to tell exactly when their journey does truly begin, as it can vary from Mage of Light to Mage of Light. One thing is most certain, though, when it comes to a common thread seen throughout all Mages of Light: their Aspect has not only revealed itself in its most purest form to the Mage, leaving them scarred from the encounter, but it has left something in the Mage of Light waiting to be awakened. That something is the hunger for more knowledge than what they already have. You see, what the Mage has been truly missing is the true mass, the entire volume, in which Light envelopes the world around them. After all, Light-bound are meant to be those who seek out knowledge of anything - even if it is something that would have been better left unlearned. As the Mage of Light enters a moment in their life where their parents cannot protect the Mage as much as they wish they could, and it is now up to them to make the decision of whether they seek out knowledge of something or not. Later on in the Mage of Light’s life, they will truly have to face the plasma heat of the Sun, and will finally realize why it is unwise to dance atop fresh ashes and burning coals.

Much like the Seer of Light, though, the Mage of Light poses another intriguing puzzle with their Classpect. The Mage of Light is one who actively seeks out knowledge of or through Light, there is no doubt there. What is interesting is that this basically boils down to someone seeking out knowledge of or through Knowledge, enlightenment, academics, and more. It seems like an almost obvious thing, and perhaps even redundant to say such a long-winded statement of “one who actively seeks out knowledge of or through knowledge”. While the latter half claiming it is rather redundant to say that makes a good point, it is also a rather brilliant and key difference to make between the two groups of Mages of Light. There are the Mages of Light who actively seek out knowledge through Light, wherein they have a journey far more like that of a chain, or like a spelunker who always manages to find holes, crevices, and cliffs that allow for them to go deeper and deeper into the Earth. While the knowledge they learned as a child may not be too helpful for a more “real” life, this curious passion and research may cause a spark to appear somewhere off in Mage of Light’s, close or otherwise.

Have you ever discovered a topic that has sent off the wonderful, serotonin-filled surges through your brain? No matter how obscure or mainstream it is, the brain - your brain - has processed that information enough to latch onto it like that of a long lost friend, relative, or lover. “More,” your brain tells you, “I want- no. I need more of this. More. More. More.” It’s a droning sound in your head, that four letter word being repeated over and over until, finally, you give in and seek out more knowledge of this topic. All there is to be found on it: every Wikipedia article, every theory, every documentary, every book, all of it, if only to keep your head quiet- but wait. What was that sentence you just read? It mentions something - or someone - that you do not know about nor ever heard of. Context is suddenly lost on you and you can feel as your brain begins to toss and turn within your skull like it is a coffin of calcium. Most people would shrug it off and continue reading, writing, research - but not you. No. You are a Mage of Light who has gone down the path of seeking out knowledge through Light - a chain forged from the brightest and hottest flame, and you are the blacksmith creating it. It never, ever seems to end, though, as every piece of information you take, every link you click on, everything leads down further and further down these rabbit holes. Until, eventually, you will discover that not only do you not know how to go back, that you are completely lost, but that all of these rabbit holes are connected and all lead to the same, fiery den. By the time you realize this, though, chances are that it will be too late to go back as you will find yourself in the chamber of the Sun, and it is simply too painfully beautiful to look away from. So you don’t. Even if you feel your eyes tearing up at how brightly it truly burns. You dare not look away, though, for you know deep down that this, this, is the most purest knowledge you could have ever discovered through Light and countless, sleepless nights. It is so gorgeous that you swear you might even go mad and lose yourself within its beauty.

Then there are the Mages of Light who simply seek out knowledge of Light. Chances are this is the one that brings most people to start scratching their heads. After all, isn’t this simply seeking out knowledge, point blank? Isn’t it? Wouldn’t it be great if it was just that easy? No, unfortunately this is the path in which the Mage of Light becomes knowledgeable of the fact that knowledge is all around them, not just in the form of objects, but also from the people around them. Most importantly, though, they will realize that a lot of this knowledge is painfully biased, disgustingly muddled in a game of telephone, and that a lot of it is just plain wrong. They are the ones who, unfortunately, will often know the facts and correct answers to a wide variety of topics. Whether it is something as obscure as the history and lore of bigfoot sightings, or as well known as World War 2 and all the intricacies within it, the Mage of Light is one who has already sought the knowledge of these things. However, due to the nature of so many Mages, they are often rather reluctant to open up and share their knowledge with others - especially in regards to the people they do not like. Mages can be rather petty, indeed, and are not afraid to taunt their enemies about the knowledge they have, waving it in front of the disliked person’s face like that of a carrot to a goat. Sometimes, the Mage of Light won’t even reveal that they have the answers to some people’s question, and instead leave them to continue spouting false truths. If the Mage of Light is especially vicious, they will inform everyone who not only knows their enemy but that the Mage trusts greatly, about the real knowledge and facts of whatever story their enemy is speaking. Oftentimes this is only for the Mages amusement of knowing that they and everyone they trust is in the know of what is true, while watching those they hate continue to fumble around in the dark - lost, confused, yet infuriatingly cocky that they know where they are going.

The main suffering of these Mages of Light is that of being so knowledgeable on so many different things, yet so few people ever bother to listen or take the Mage at face value. It’s the suffering of having the weight of hundreds of textbooks, papers, recordings, files, and so many other forms of knowledge all pressing down on one’s mind. It’s the suffering of knowing how many ignorant and unaware people there are roaming the world, sometimes even within the Mage’s own life and inner circle. They actively seek out knowledge of not just simple knowledge, but rather what other people view as their own knowledge. If the Mage is lucky, then someone or something will give them valuable knowledge to hold onto and maintain - adding it to their large, mental library that they have built over the years. However, as is more often the case than not, the Mage will encounter someone who holds knowledge so wrong and tainted that it often can drag the Mage down from whatever happy mood they may have been feeling. Depending on how truly bad this tainted knowledge is, the Mage of Light will do whatever it takes to try and set the facts straight and prove to the other person or party that they are wrong. Whether this comes in the form of polite corrections or downright red-faced yelling and screaming at the person - or, if pushed hard enough, physically aggressive constructive criticism - or somewhere in between, it would be best to be careful to spout off any false ideas labeled as facts and truths when around the Mage of Light, especially if they do not appear to be in a good mood. After all, they are someone who has a large umbrella of knowledge, and it is one they are not afraid to bludgeon proper knowledge into an ignorant person’s skull.

The Mage of Light is someone who can be seen as an unremarkable genius - unrelenting in their pursuit of knowledge and understanding. Even if such determination may be viewed in an unflattering light, the Mage of Light may not exactly care, as everything they do is for the sake of learning all that is available to them, as well as understanding the world they live in and the people that reside within it. Chances are, though, that being in the presence of the Mage of Light is quite a rare occurrence. This is mostly because Mages of Light are some of the most dedicated of all the Light-bounds when it comes to their Aspect. They are willing to throw themself into the molten, searing rays of the Sun - of knowledge - for many reasons. Ranging from getting to know all there is to know about one of their favorite people, characters, shows, or other interests, to simply wanting to see, know, and/or understand what it is like to experience a certain situation that has always intrigued them. Because of this, while the Mage of Light is a dedicated student, they are also someone who often ignores their own health and wellbeing for the sake of more knowledge. If they are not careful, then this can lead to not only mental suffering for the Mage, but also physical and social suffering, as well. Those who have managed to befriend a Mage of Light may be all too familiar at the sight of seeing their message having been left on read, or sometimes having never even been opened at all. Once the Mage of Light finds themself truly enveloped in the webbing of a particular interest or topic, it may be quite a long time before anyone sees or hears from the Mage of Light again. Because of this, those within the Mage’s social circle may need to take on the extra task of checking in and meddling with the Mage of Light’s business. 

While Mages so often attract people of similar minds towards them, this may bring great displeasure to the Mage of Light at many points in their life. They hate rereading the same book over and over, after all, and so if they sense one person or the overall relationship to be all too similar to a previous one, then chances are they will often pay little mind to these people and instead continue on their work. If no one has any knowledge to offer the Mage, then they will simply not bother with this person. However, deep down, the Mage of Light would love to have a few companions in their life, if only to share with them all of the discoveries they have made and have someone listen as they rant, ramble, and rave on about all they have learned, as well as all the ignorant people they have had to unfortunately encounter. The Mage of Light is like that of a pendulum, constantly swinging from one side to another, causing people to never exactly knowing what to expect when it comes to speaking with the Mage of Light. One thing is for certain, though, and it is that when the Mage of Light is caught in a good mood, they can be one of the kindest, most non-judgemental, and warmest people to be around. If they are feeling especially kind, then they can also be someone who shares their great amounts of knowledge and wisdom onto those they truly care about and trust. 

Mages of Light are those who should rarely, if ever, be questioned on whether they truly know what they are talking about. Much like their Passive counterpart, the Mage of Light is one where, after gaining great strides in their journey, they can become a borderline all-knowing entity if they so desired. They go after knowledge wherever they can sniff and claw it out, and as such is someone who poses themself to be the most valuable ally and friend to have, as well as being the most dangerous and largest foe one could make. There would be no point in fighting a fully awakened Mage of Light - at least not physically. They already know every possible move you could make, and they are well prepared and knowledgeable on how to counteract it. Amongst their other powers is that of seeing all there is to know in the present and the future, but rarely ever the past. If it is not transcribed in some fashion, then the past is one of the biggest weak points for the Mage of Light, as it is something that has already come to pass and therefore becomes an unreliable source of knowledge. There will always be blindspots, even to the most powerful Mage of Light, and it is these blindspots that bring all Mages of Light great suffering and anger. These blindspots are more often than not that of the Void-bound - people who manage to find ways to flicker out and hide away from the harsh rays of the Sun. Many Mages of Light find these people to be perplexing, and sometimes downright infuriating, in more ways than one. When the Mage of Light finds that they cannot gain knowledge from something, they may be quick to deem it as worthless or unreliable, and in the case of people, might see them as possible threats and adversaries.

There are some Mages of Light who may try to escape and run away from their Aspect, finding themselves incapable of withstanding all of this knowledge. It will be with great fear in their hearts when they find that there is no escaping something as grand as Light, The Sun, and knowledge. It is everywhere we go, and once someone has opened their eyes and truly looked upon its burning answers, it is something that cannot be so easily ignored. If the Mage of Light is going to expose themself to a source of knowledge, they will be damned if they are not going to try their very best to understand its intricacies. Even if trying over and over again brings them even more suffering, it is better than to suffer in silence as their brain claws at the inside of their skull and the yearnful hunger gnaws away at them from the inside. The Mage of Light is driven to know all there is, was, and will be, and whether they are willing to play dirty or not simply depends on who the Mage of Light truly is. Mages of Light are truly some of the most brilliant people, but it is truly up to them whether they decide to use their knowledge for good, and share it with others, or if they decide to be cruel, and use it to twist the arms of people and bend the rules of whatever game they have been placed within. No matter what, though, Mages of Light are the ones who dared to look at the Sun when very few others could. Not only did they stare at it, but they challenged it to that of a staring contest, and instead of losing the game and their eyesight, these Mages instead rose above everyone else and were gifted with the greatest weapon anyone could ask for, and one only they can truly understand how to wield properly: Knowledge.

[chickensarentcheap]

Sanctuary - Chapter 20

Warnings: none really

Tagging: @c-a-v-a-l-r-y, @alievans007, @innerpaperexpertcloud, @valkyrie-of-the-light

She stares at the cellphone in her hands; trying desperately to keep back the flood of tears that threaten. Tears of worry. Sadness. Relief. Anger, even. And frustration. So much frustration. That he’s been sent into yet another shitty situation.

 It’s willingly.  Offering himself up for people that don’t even know him, putting himself into harms way like some sort of sacrificial lamb for strangers that…for the most part…don’t understand the choices he has to make on their behalf. The danger he puts himself in. The lives he has to take. The way that he’ll have to escape death just trying to keep them alive.  Most never express thanks: very few of those who are rescued -and even less of their families- ever offer up even the smallest bit of gratitude. He’s being paid, they figure. He’s taking the money. Isn’t that enough gratitude?

“Mommy?” TJ is at her side, looking up at her with those huge blue eyes. One of which is going to be black and blue in a few hours; Millie had caught him square in the face with a right hook.  A knee to the face causing a bloody nose.

“Let me see…” she sets her cell phone down and hooks a finger under his chin, tilting his head backwards. “She got you pretty good, huh?”

He nods, not even flinching when her fingertips press against the swollen orbital bone and the bridge of his nose.

Definitely his father’s son.

“Well nothing’s broken,” she says, a sigh of relief escaping her lips.

She’s tended to many of her husband’s injuries. Seen a lot of bloody noses and black eyes and a hell of a lot worse. Fractured ribs, both stab and gunshot wounds.  She’s pulled shards of glass and other debris out of his skin with a pair of tweezers. In Dhaka she’d stitched up a wound on his right bicep with a needle and run of the mill sewing thread. Without anything to dull the pain.  And she’s seen the aftermath of shoulder and knee replacements; the one that would clean the incisions and apply fresh bandaging when homecare nurses weren’t able to make it.

He holds up a sandwich bag with near melted ice cubes in, and she takes it to the sink and dumps it out before adding fresh cubes from the freezer and tying the bag up tight. “Does she look worse than you?” she asks, as she presses the ice to the bridge of his nose.

“I didn’t hit her back, mommy. She’s a girl.  Daddy said never to hit a girl. No matter what. That it’s wrong. Did daddy ever hit you?”

“Daddy knows better. He knows I’d drop him. But he wouldn’t do that, anyway.  He’d never hit any girl. Especially me.”

“I’d beat him up. If you did. Just so you know.”

She leans down and presses a kiss to his lips.  “You keep the ice on it for a little while longer, okay? Just to keep the swelling down. You’re going to have a hell of a shiner tomorrow. You’ll get to show that off to daddy when he video chats with you guys. He wanted me to tell you that he’s safe and sound in Ireland. And that he loves you and misses you. He misses you so much.”

“I miss him too. Maybe he won’t be gone for very long.”

“Maybe. Hopefully. Here…” she takes his hand and places it against the back of ice against his nose. Then moves to the freezer once again and takes out three popsicles. “One for you and Tanner and one for Ovi. Can you ask him to watch you guys for a little bit longer? There’s something I need to do. Someone I need to call. Can you ask him, please?”

Her son nods, then turns his face up for another kiss.

“You’re my favourite,” she says with a wink, and pecks his lips. “And be careful out there, please. I don’t need you breaking an arm or a leg. Or a neck. Just take it easy, okay?”

“Okay mommy,” he chirps, as he rushes from the kitchen. Nearly colliding with the glass patio door that he’d forgotten he’d shut behind him.

“Tyler…” she sighs. “…really?”

“Ooops,” he giggles, then gives a shrug as he hurries outside.

She stands over the sink and watches him through the window, bounding across the deck in his bare feet, leaping from the top step and hitting the ground running. The landing never even breaking his stride; those long, lanky legs carrying him through the grass to where Ovi is pushing Declan in the baby swing and Tanner in the regular sized one.  TJ begins handing out the popsicles and explains to Ovi what she had asked, and the teenager looks up towards the house and gives her an okay sign.

***

Picking up her cell phone, she flips open the cover of the case and plucks a business card from the inside fold.  She wasn’t planning on hanging onto it; she’d taken their conversation at the park as a one off and was going to just throw the card away and get on with her life. Satisfied that she’d been able to give him the absolution that he’d desperately searching for. Finally able to put that long and dark chapter of her life behind her.

Instead, she finds herself dialling the number, leaning sideways against the counter as it rings on the other end. Nervously drumming her fingertips against the granite, tapping one foot against the floor.

“Are you busy?” she inquires, before he even manages to get a whole greeting out.

“Esme?” Shocked. But pleased.

“I really need to talk to you. Do you have a few minutes? I wouldn’t have called you if this wasn’t important. If I didn’t think you were the right person to go to.”

“I’ve got some time to spare. Anything for you. You know what. What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“Tyler’s in Ireland. On a job. And I don’t trust the person that he’s working with. The one that asked him for his help to begin with. I need you to look some things up for me. I’d do it myself, but with four kids to manage on my own…”

“Let me just grab a piece of paper and pen…” there’s a slight rustling noise as he searches for the items in question.  “…go ahead. What is it?”

“I need you to look up the name Michael McCann. M…C…capital C…A…N…N…”

“Got it.”

“He says he’s ex IRA. I’m worried he’s still active IRA. That should be available info, right?”

“Should be. There’s always articles about those guys. They’ve been a little quiet the last couple of years, but there’s bound to be something. You know what his role was? Or might still be?”

“By the sounds of things, he might have been…or still is…some kind of intel. An inside man. He knows a lot of secrets. He’s done a lot of dirty work for them.  He might still be doing dirty work for them. That’s what I need you to find out. I need to know what this guy’s story is. The real story. Not the line that he’s been feeding Tyler.”

“Is he falling for it? The line?”

“No. I think he’s starting to realize that something isn’t quite right.  None of this is sitting right, Mark. It’s leaving a bad taste in my mouth. He is not who he says he is. He came to Tyler for help. He suddenly just showed up in Telluride one day. Said he’d even followed him while he was in Guatemala.”

“How did he know Tyler was in Guatemala?”

“There’s someone giving him information. Someone that works for Nik. I haven’t even started to look into that yet. But I will. This guy says that he tracked Tyler down through me. That he’d heard about what happened in Dhaka and somehow my name got out there as being connected to it. Which is weird, because Nik said she kept that on the downlow. I don’t even have a personal file with her. I was a ghost. I didn’t even exist as far as the outside world was concerned.”

“The worldwide web is vast, Esme. You can find information on anyone. And if he heard your name and somehow connected that to this Nik…”

“He told Tyler that someone I used to work with told him my name. Which makes no sense because how would that person even know I was in Dhaka? And how would they tie me to Tyler? We weren’t married then. I still had my maiden name. So where would they get Esme Rake from? It makes no sense.”

“Well they’ve gotten it somewhere. Information is easy to find if you know the right people. And have the right amount of cash.”

She sighs. “I suppose so.”

“This guy just showed up? In Telluride?”

“He asked Tyler for help. Said that his wife and his kids were taken by the IRA. Had videos of them and everything. All bound up, beaten to shit. I didn’t see them. Tyler watched them. He said they were legit. And Tyler’s instincts are never wrong. He’s being doing this a long time. He knows when something is bullshit. He would have known right away if it was just a game. He doesn’t just jump blindly into things.”

“Could it be some kind of elaborate ruse? It isn’t unlike terrorist organizations to do pull out all the stops. It could be someone that is after Tyler. Someone that feels slighted. Someone he crossed paths with or got the drop on.”

“Tyler says he’s never dealt with the IRA. He’s never even been to Ireland. Until now.”

“Doesn’t mean someone he’s pissed off doesn’t have connections to them. Strong enough connections that they’d do a favour for them. Loyalty runs deep, Esme. And money runs even deeper. I’m sure Tyler’s pissed off a lot of people. Not that I don’t agree with what he does. Because I do. I’m quite fond of vigilantism myself. I admire him for taking on other peoples’ shit and doing the dirty jobs no one else wants to do.”

“So what do you think?” she asks, as she moves to the fridge, opening it and taking out a bottle of water. Fingers briefly lingering on the wine before changing her mind and shutting the door with her hip. “Sounds weird, right?”

“I’ve heard weirder, to be honest. Could be something. Could be nothing. I’ll look into it for you.”

“Off the books, right?”

“What do you mean? What…?”

“Mark, I know what you do. My mom told me. I know you’re FBI.”

He sighs.

“You didn’t have to keep it a secret. It’s no big deal. So you’re a Fed, so what? This means you have connections, right? You have ways of finding out shit that normal people wouldn’t be able to do? And you must know people that know people. People that have even farther reach and deeper connections. Right?”

“Esme…”

“This is between the two of us. I do not want this getting out there. And I especially do not want Tyler finding out. Not yet. Not until you dig something up. If there is anything to dig up. Can you do that for me? Everything off the books? Between us?”

“I can. I probably shouldn’t. But I can.”

She sips her water, glances out the window and watches Ovi and the kids are they feed the chickens and goats. “There’s something else.”

“Go ahead.”

“I know this is a lot to ask of you. So feel free to tell me to fuck off.”

“I’ve gotten myself in this far. Might as well jump right into the deep end. What is it?”

“Do you know anyone in Ireland? And by that I mean people like you. Feds. Ex Feds. Ex Marines even?”

“I know a couple. Why?”

“If I send you Tyler’s info…his cell number, his SAT number, where he’s staying…can you get someone to monitor all that?”

“Doesn’t he have his own people keeping an eye on him?”

“An extra pair of eyes wouldn’t hurt. I just want someone to watch out for him. He’s going into this alone, Mark. With nothing but the word of this McCann guy to go on. If something goes wrong and Tyler’s people can’t reach him or find him…”

“You’re really stirring the shit pot here. I highly doubt he wants you doing all this. What’s going to happen when he finds out? Because he will. Find out.”

“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. Please Mark. I need your help. And I know you can do this. This isn’t easy for me. Asking for help. Especially from you. And it can’t be easy for you either. Me asking for help for something that involves my husband.”

“It’s a little…awkward,” he admits.

“He saved me, Mark. In every way a person can be saved. My life was so different after we broke up. I was in a really dark place that I didn’t think I’d ever get out of. That I didn’t know if I really wanted to get out of. I became a completely different person than the one you remember. Tyler came into my life at a time where I needed someone the most.  And it shouldn’t have happened the way it did. It was stupid and it was dangerous, and it never should have gone down like that. But it did. And I don’t regret it. I don’t regret falling in love with him. Or staying in Australia. Or getting married and having kids. His kids. You said you just wanted me to be happy.”

“I do. That’s all I want, Esme.”

“Then help me. Please. Because I can’t lose him, Mark. I almost lost him once. And this time I don’t want to lose him for good. I need your help. And that’s what would make me happy.”

He sighs heavily. “Send me the information. Email. I have an account on a protected server. I’m sending you the address now.”

And with that, he disconnects the call.

 *****

Tyler’s not sure how long how he’d been asleep for. After devouring three orders from room service and opening up another bottle of scotch, he’d stretched on one of the beds to watch the local news. Fully intending on staying up in case Yaz had already gotten to work and was able to dig up some information to send him.  He’s still lying on his stomach in middle of the bed; fully dressed, sheets and blankets not even turned down, his cell phone lying next to him, feet up by the headboard. Jolted awake by a sharp rap of knuckles upon the door.  

His head swims: a mixture of booze and the painkillers he’d taken after he ate.  A dull ache in the base of his neck as he places his chin on the forearm he’d been using as a pillow, eyes blinking against the harsh light of the cell phone screen within the dark room.

12:53.

His time? Colorado time? He doesn’t even know anymore. It couldn’t be the latter. Not if it had already been one in the afternoon when he spoke to Esme. He was tired; but he wasn’t THAT tired. There’s no possible way he’d sleep that long. Even with the help of meds and alcohol. And he’s pretty sure he changed the time on his cellphone. Or maybe it had done it itself.

He clears sleep out of his eyes, rubs at the back of his neck. Internally yells at his muddled and disoriented brain to get shit its shit together.

The knocking continues. Louder. More insistent. And he attempts to ignore it, switching positions on the bed and resting his head back on one of the pillows. The smooth cotton of the pillowcase cool against the back of his head. Eyes closed; hands clasped together at his chest. Knowing if he just stays quiet, whoever it is will just fuck off and leave him alone. Whatever it is, it can wait until the morning.  And he’s just beginning to nod off again when he hears whispering from in the hall; Irish accents, two female, one male.  One of the female’s asking the other two if they’d seen the man that he’d checked into the room. Had he left sometime in the middle of the night? If he did, do they know if he came back? He can’t make out the reply, but there’s a heavy sigh followed by more knocking.

It’s louder. More intense. A different sound than what knuckles make against wood. The dull thud that ensues when you use the toe of a sneaker or a boot.

His eyes snap open and he reaches for the top drawer on the nightstand, quietly pulling it out and then slipping the Glock from the holster. Flicking off the safety as he slips off the bed and silently makes his way towards the door. Pausing with a hand on the deadbolt as he listens; trying to pick up any hints of a conversation or any other noises coming from the hallway. Palm resting against cool, smooth wood as he peers out the peephole.

She’s young. Twenty at the most. A simple grey hoodie and blue jeans. A ball cap pulled over bright red hair. Carrying a purse along her left forearm, cell phone in her hand. A file folder clasped in her right.  She pounds at the door now, slamming her fist against it with all the power she can muster.

He holds the Glock down at his side, opens the deadbolt but leaves the chain across. A foot against the door, preventing her from trying to open it further.

“Who are you?” he asks.

“Are you the Australian?”

“Yeah, I suppose I am. Answer my question now.”

“Can I come in?”

“No.”

 “Why?”

“Because I have no idea who the hell you are.”

“I’m Erin.”

“Erin what?” he presses.

“Ferguson.”

“What the hell do you want, Erin Ferguson? It’s almost one in the morning. How’d you know who I was? Where to find me?”

“A lot of people know who are,” she says. “You’re the Australian. Here to get Michael McMann’s wife and kids back.”

He smirks. “Word travels fast. Who’s they? And how did they find out?”

“They. As in the people who have them. The people who took his wife and his kids. The people who are watching your wife and your kids.”

Tyler’s blood runs cold. Hand tightening around the Glock. “What did you just say?”

She cocks her head to the side, a smirk curving her lips. “Can I come in now?”

“No. Whatever you have to say, you say it right where you’re standing. What do you mean they’re watching my wife and my kids? The IRA?”

She nods.

“Why?”

“Because you’re sticking your nose in other peoples’ business. You don’t belong here, Australian. This isn’t your fight. If you knew what was good for you…for your family…you’d leave. Right now.”

“If you knew what was good for you, you’d stop talking in riddles. And you’d know that I have a loaded gun behind the door and my finger is already on the trigger. So stop the bullshit and tell me who you are and what you want, or I won’t think twice about putting one between your eyes, you hear me?”

That wipes the smirk off her face.

“Who are they” he repeats. “The IRA? You’re working for them?”

“I work for a lot of people,” she says. “They asked me to give you this. As proof.”  She offers the file folder.

“Proof of what?”

“That they aren’t messing around. That you’ve gotten yourself mixed up in something that you never should have wandered into it.  What goes on between them and McCann is their business. Not yours.”

“It became my business when McCann hired me. So you go back to whoever you’re working for and tell that their games won’t work on me. I don’t scare easily. And it’s them that’s gotten mixed up in something they don’t want to be mixed up in. I don’t fuck around. I’ll find his wife. And his kids.”

“And the risk of losing your own?”

“They’ll never get near my wife or my kids. They can try. But it won’t happen. You tell them I said that. And you tell them that if they so as much go near my family, I’ll come after them personally. And they won’t like the results. Tell them that. You tell them exactly what I said. That I’ll bring them within an inch of their lives and then I’ll stop and start all over again. You got that?”

She nods, shoves the folder toward him.

“Put it on the ground,” he orders.  “And then back away. Nice and slow. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

She places the folder on the carpet and does as she’s told, hands up as she slowly steps backwards, until she’s almost pressed against the door across the hall.

Tyler removes the chain from the door and pulls it open, casting a glance down both ends of the hall, keeping the Glock pointed at her. “Now go. Move. To the elevator.”

She walks backwards; hands still up, eyes never wavering from his. She never blinks. Never shows any signs of fear or nervousness with a gun trained on her.

“Press the button,” he orders. “Get on when the elevator gets here. Go back and tell them exactly what I said.”

He waits, gun still focused on her, until the lift finally arrives and she steps on. Not picking up the envelope and backing into his room until he hears the elevator doors slide closed and he knows she gone for good.

***

He hurriedly snaps the deadbolt back in place; refastens the chain and then stalks across the room. Tossing the gun into the middle of the bed and tearing at the envelope; splitting it down the middle as opposed to the flap or the seams. His heart pounds mercilessly in his chest; stomach clenching and brain swimming with a thousand different thoughts. None of them good.  And the frowns when he finds two smaller envelopes inside of the first. Each one marked with the words PROOF OF LIFE.  One dated two days ago, one just this morning.

What the fuck…

He rips into the most recent one first. Photographs. Of McCann’s wife and kids.  The kids are no longer hog tied and restrained on a filthy mattress. Sitting in crude metal chairs, hands and feet bond by what he easily identifies as rock climbing rope. Both kids are naked from the waist up, most likely so whoever views the pictures grasps the extent of what’s been done to them: bruises covering the entire rib cage, finger marks from wrist to shoulder. There’s dried blood on their face: caked under their noses and around the corners of their mouths. And the skin is raw where the duct tape over the eyes had been cruelly ripped off.

He feels sick. Bile rising in his throat.

The wife is in far better condition. But still bears the marks of her ordeal. Her hair has been crudely chopped off; chunks missing, the edges just skimming the bottoms of her ears.  Unlike the children, she’s in a wooden chair that’s in remarkable condition; polished, a clean, like new cushion. Bound only by her wrists. He frowns at that, holding her picture and one of the children side by side. It makes no sense. Why the children would be in such inhumane conditions while she…despite the hacked hair job and her own bruises…is still in pretty damn good shape. Normally the kids are treated better than the adults; it’s easier to beat on and torture adults, as they’re in far better condition and can take a hell of a lot more punishment before death finally takes over.

Photos still in hand, he wanders around to the side of the bed and grabs the SAT out of the drawer of the nightstand. Pressing three on the speed dial.

“Yeah?” Yaz simply greets.   There’s no hint of sleep in his voice.

“Did someone just come to your door?” Tyler asks.

“I was just going to call you. A girl came here. Looking for you. Said her name was…”

“Erin,” he finishes.

“Yeah. I take it she found you? I wasn’t the one who told her. I acted like I had no idea what the hell she was talking about. But she obviously knows me. She talked about Dhaka. About me flying the helicopter that got Ovi out. She kept going on and on about how ‘they’ know all about us being here. About you being the one that killed Asif.”

“Well technically that was your sister. What else did she say?”

“Just kept calling you The Australian. Says that ‘they’ know all about us. All about you, especially. About Esme. And the kids.”

“Fuck…” he mutters. “…what the hell? How’d this get out so quick? How’d they know we were here?”

“I don’t know. I have no clue.  I was going to call Nik after I talked to you. Maybe we’ve got a mole on the team. Someone is feeding them information. What did this girl want with you?”

She gave me pictures. Of McCann’s wife and kids. Proof of life as of six hours ago.”

 “How they look?”

“Kids are fucked up. Wife looks pretty good though. What’s her name? The wife? We have any information on her? Maiden name, anything like that?”

“First and married name. That’s it. Why? What are you thinking?”

“Something isn’t right here. Why are they being held in different spots? When was the last time we ever saw that when we had multiple marks?”

“Never.  Not in the ten years that I’ve been doing this, anyway.”

“The kids have been worked over pretty good. Whoever sent these wanted us to see that. Just how fucked up they are. But the wife? Worst she has is a shitty hair cut and some bruises. The kids are being kept in some shit hole and she looks like she’s just been tied up for shits and giggles in someone’s dining room.”

“You think we’re being played?”

“Yeah. But I’m not sure by who. You find out everything you need to know about the wife. Like right now. Don’t wait.”

“I’m on it,” Yaz says, and hangs up.

Tyler drops the SAT into the middle of the bed, followed by the photographs, then reaches for the second smaller envelope. Pausing before he opens it, stealing himself against what he knows is inside. He’d known as soon he saw the first selection of photos. Hell, he’d known as soon as Erin had brought up his own family.  He also knows that it’s a scare tactic, that whoever is behind their existence is hoping it will cause him to give up the search for McCann’s wife and kids in favour of returning to his own family.  The chances that someone will actually hurt Esme and the kids are slim to none. That’s not what these people want. Their endgame isn’t to hurt him. Just scare him enough to send him running home.

He tears into the paper, dumping a handful of polaroids into his palm. His heart once again pounding ferociously, ever muscle and tendon in his body suddenly tense.  Hands remarkably still despite the trembling travelling through the rest of his body as he flips through the pictures. Ovi and Mille going into the ice cream shop, Esme and Millie while out of their girls day, him and the boys while leaving after their getting their hair cut, the entire family out together for dinner, him and Ovi at the shooting range, Esme and him, alone on that hammock in the backyard.

Fuck…fuck…fuck…

He grabs his SAT once again, this time calling Nik.

“Yaz just called. Talk to me.”

“They know, Nik. Whoever has McCann’s wife and kids. They know who I am and why I’m here. How the fuck do they know?”

“I have no idea. Yaz thinks there’s a mole on the team. Someone who has access to all your files.”

“Just how many people is that?”

“Half a dozen.”

“For fuck sakes, Nik! This was supposed to be kept quiet. McCann knew I was in Guatemala. He said he followed me for the entire week I was there. Now whoever has his wife and his kids know who I am and why I’m here. Explain to me how the fuck this happened?!

“I’m working on that, Tyler. You’ll have answers as soon as I get them.”

“I have pictures, Nik. Pictures of my wife and my kids. Even pictures taken in my backyard. What the fuck is going on?!”

“They’re trying to scare you, Tyler. They’re trying to force your hand. They want you to back out and go home. Don’t give in to them.”

“You get someone to my house,” he demands. “I don’t care if you have to go there personally. You get someone there to keep an eye on my family. I’ll stay here. I’ll see this job through. But you get someone to my place, Nik. Now. Not an hour from now. Not two hours from now. Not six. Now.”

“I’m already on it. What do I tell Esme? Do I tell her about the pictures?”

“No. Just tell her that you think it’s better that way. To have some folks there. That you sent people ‘just in case’. That will be good enough for her. At least for now. Don’t even tell her that I talked to you. None of this ever happened as far as she’s concerned.”

“Do you really think McCann’s wife has something to do with this?”

“I don’t know. Everything is fucked. Right off the hop this time.”

“We should call it off. I should just bring you and Yaz home.”

“The job’s not finished. We haven’t even started it.”

“The job is fucked, Tyler. We’ve lost the element of surprise.”

“Doesn’t mean the job can’t go on. I’ve got this under control, Nik. At least on this end. You just make sure that my family stays safe. Because if anything happens to my wife or my kids…”

“They’ll be fine. I’ll personally make sure of that. Keep your head on straight, Tyler. Don’t let them win.”

“I’ve got shit locked down over here,” he assures you. “You just make sure you do the same thing over there. Take care of my family, Nik.”

“I will,” she promises. And ends the call.

[fursasaida]

Do you have any advice for someone who loves learning and reading about all kinds of stuff but isn't academically trained to understand lots of things? Tbh, I'm curious about everything but I feel stupid when I read things I don't understand right away. It's like I lack critical thinking which makes me endlessly sad because that's something I'd like to develop but idk how. It feels like I passively absorb info, and even the things I understand, I tend to forget or don't know how to articulate :(

I think it would help if I had a concrete example or some more details about what exactly you’re struggling with, but I can offer some general thoughts. (I’m procrastinating on some research by answering this, so it got long. If anything needs clarifying, feel free to come back and let me know.)

“I feel stupid when I read things I don’t understand right away.”

I think it’s very important to understand that being smart or being stupid are phrases so broad they barely mean anything. Understanding a text right away means you have certain skills and knowledge that enable you to do that. It says nothing about your potential to develop those skills and that knowledge base.  I am very good at understanding texts, which means people say that I am “smart” because that skill is valued in a particular way. If you asked me to plow a field I would suddenly be “too stupid” to do it, because I do not have the skills and knowledge. But I could learn them!

And for that matter, even if you never become someone who “gets” texts right away, so what? A lot of people could stand to slow down, if you ask me.

This brings me directly to:

“It’s like I lack critical thinking”

That feeling of running into a wall is actually one of the best tools you could have for thinking critically. Many, many, many people who easily understand academic/analytical writing fail to question what they read, precisely because they can just sort of gulp it down. If you are getting snagged on what someone is saying, it’s not because you are incapable of grasping the Expert Truth they are conveying; it’s because on some level you disagree, or don’t share the worldview that underlies their thinking. (Or also, and this option is not always given enough credence, because they’re a bad writer. [Coughs in Donna Haraway’s direction])

This is true even, or especially, if what’s snagging you is that you don’t understand what they’re saying. This is because in their writing they have assumed their readers share a lot of contextual knowledge and assumptions. That’s not bad in itself; if everybody stopped to fully explain every single term, connection, and assertion in everything they wrote, shit would be impossible. But I want to emphasize that if you happen to fall outside the bounds of those assumptions, it not only does not mean you are stupid, it means you are especially well equipped to question and criticize them--so long as you do the work to understand them, in good faith.

(I add that last corollary because there is a problem where people don’t bother to understand where things are coming from before attacking them, and that’s not useful to anyone. But clearly you are not one of these people. I’d like to encourage you to consider these “I don’t get it” moments not as reasons to give up but as a genuinely good starting point for developing the critical skills you so badly want to have.)

An author makes a statement. The statement doesn’t make sense to you. Why not? Are there words you don’t know? Look them up. Look up their etymology, or examples of their being used in sentences, if you need more than the definition is giving you. Is it the content of the statement itself? Then clearly the author and you are coming at whatever the subject is with different background information and assumptions. (This is still true if it’s a subject you know nothing about! That’s a prime example of coming at it with different assumptions. The author assumes a lot of things about the world that you don’t, because you haven’t learned them.) The important question is not What’s wrong with me that I don’t share this author’s assumptions? Rather, the question is Can I figure out what is behind this author’s statement? And once you arrive at some idea about the answer to that, the task is not necessarily to bring yourself into agreement with it, but to decide whether you think it makes sense or not.

This is where an example would be helpful, because “figure out what the underlying assumptions are” is very vague and I’m sure you’re sitting here like, “Oh, sure, just like that.” So, to start with: The things that pull you up short are the things you should ask questions about. What is it in my understanding of the world that makes this statement not make sense? (One way to look at this is: is there a different but related statement that does make sense to me? What’s different between the two, and why does it make such a difference to me?) What would I have to believe, or assume, for the statement to make sense to me? Why did this person mention this example and not those, and can I interpret this choice as something that makes sense to me? Or as a clue that reveals something about where this text is coming from?

And to be clear, when I say “underlying assumptions,” I don’t mean that this only/always means sussing out bias or prejudice in the usual way those words are used. I also mean the things that author learned in their field before writing the text, which you have not. Like, a lot of what I write now depends on the assumption that there is a difference between “absolute space” and “place.” You might have to read up on that a bit to know what I’m saying at a given moment because you aren’t specialized in what I’m specialized in. You might then decide you think this distinction is bollocks! Reading up on it isn’t necessarily just to get you to agree with me. It’s to get you to where you can make an informed decision about agreeing or not.

Often the biggest assumptions lie in the simplest statements. I’m reading about the Cold War a lot right now. If someone says, for example, “The Cold War was the dominant structure of international politics between 1945 and 1989,” this seems very obvious and straightforward. It’s a basic statement of what most people mean when they refer to “the Cold War” at all. It’s “a historical fact,” a piece of information for those interested in history to “absorb.” But there are a lot of questions worth asking about this! Are we sure there was only one, singular (“the”) Cold War? Was it really “the dominant structure” for everyone, everywhere, that whole time? What is a “structure” and what makes one “dominant”? Are we completely sure about those start and end dates, and do they apply everywhere?

Now one can imagine that if I were to ask all these questions of someone who referred to the Cold War this way in a dinner conversation or something, I might appear very ignorant--or “stupid.” But being critical means not accepting things at face value. I may know perfectly well exactly what this person is referring to, but if I want to question the assumptions built into that reference, I have to ask about things that are “obvious” or “well known.”

The good news is that when you’re reading a text, you don’t have to worry about other people at the table judging you. It sounds like right now you are doing that to yourself, and I would very much like to encourage you not to. Having “dumb” questions is being critical. The only difference between “I don’t understand this sentence about the Cold War” and “I have a critique of this sentence about the Cold War” is that in the first case, I have questions about the sentence; in the second case, I have developed answers to my own questions about the sentence. But both of them involve looking at the sentence and saying “this doesn’t add up to me.”

Criticism is a process. Developing expertise does mean getting to a point that you don’t need to do extensive research every time you read or criticize something, but there will always be new things you don’t understand and have to put in the work to be able to critique. The vast majority of ~inspiration~ among academics, if you read/listen to them talking about their research projects, comes out of bumping up against something they don’t understand and just not being satisfied until they could account for it. That could be anything from the way the word “democracy” was used in the Iran-Contra hearings to the everyday social fact that women are routinely expected to have longer hair than men in much of the United States.

So. You are actually in a great place to get better at this, because everybody who is seriously and honestly trying to be critical has to start from making the obvious not-obvious--from not understanding something.

That brings me to the last thing I want to address:

“It feels like I passively absorb info, and even the things I understand, I tend to forget or don't know how to articulate.”

Criticism, or just--learning--isn’t just a process; as what I was saying about academics above already suggests, it’s a project. This is not only true of academics. Plenty of people who aren’t academics do research or study things on their own just because they’re interested. But the kernel of that interest is a desire to understand something, whether it’s for a practical purpose or not. Maybe you’re teaching yourself to sew and having a lot of trouble with a particular stitch, and you want to figure out if that stitch is standard because it’s actually the most functional or if there’s some other reason, which would mean you could use something different. Or maybe you just really want to know what’s up with sea turtles. Either way, there is something you want.

I think if you identify specific questions about or interests in the world and pursue those, you will have an easier time building these skills and retaining information. (This doesn’t mean you have to give up your general curiosity! Just that at any given time, you are focusing on a few specific things.) Information sticks with us because it’s useful somehow. If your goal isn’t just “know things” but “figure out this thing, specifically” then information about that thing has an actual use for you. So think about something that you’ve had a lot of trouble understanding and that you want to understand--not because you feel like you’re supposed to, or because you feel ashamed that you don’t, but because you want answers to your questions. Your project is now satisfying that curiosity.

I find the more I think about a question I have, the more I start to see information that’s applicable to it popping out of the world all around me, everywhere, even when I’m not actively “working on it.” And I remember those things because they are not just “information.” They are of significance to something I am trying to do, which is answer the question. And that question is not assigned to me by anyone else, not even the author of a text I don’t understand. I can only assign it to myself (I have to want to understand that text!).

And you can support this with the way you read! Reading is interactive (yes, even when it’s just you and a page and you’re not making any noise). The more you approach it that way, the more you will retain of what you read--even if you end up disagreeing with it--because you are not trying to be a container for information to fill, which is absolutely bound to leak. Instead you are looking for things that are useful to you, which may or may not be findable in the text you are currently reading. You are not a receiver. You are a spelunker.

So what does it mean to read interactively? It can mean almost anything. For people like me, it often means a lot of making notes, annotations, and so on (the physical act of annotating a text does a lot to help me retain things, for example). I have files upon files of notes and quotes and outlines from different research projects. I write out paragraphs of musings to try to articulate how my questions are shifting as I learn, or what exactly the thing I’m struggling with is. (You mentioned struggling to articulate; writing things out for yourself is one way to practice at this. So is bouncing things off a friend, which I also do a lot.) But it doesn’t have to look like this.

If you are pursuing an interest, then ultimately what you’re doing ought to be pleasurable. (I don’t mean that it should make you jump for joy every second, but the feeling of making progress toward a goal, even if a particular step is unpleasant, is still pleasurable.) If “taking notes” for you looks like drawing, then great. I once outlined a paper by drawing it as a floor plan for a two-story house. I make research playlists that I consider to be functionally identical to syllabi. I have tagged collections on this tumblr that represent some of my thinking through one set of questions or another. What I’m trying to get at is that in working to answer your own questions, you are not just abstractly trying to “understand” something, which miraculously happens or doesn’t depending on whether your mind is ~good enough~ to receive the Content. You are interacting with statements, pieces of information, images, texts, etc., which you are collecting and arranging and rearranging in order to try to reach a place where you’re satisfied. All of that is part of the process of “understanding,” and if you’re genuinely interested in that process, then the work involved shouldn’t feel like homework. So the literal things you do as part of it don’t have to be similar to schoolwork, if those kinds of things are boring or painful or just unhelpful to you. Do whatever! You’re in charge!

So, to summarize all of this: I think the first thing you need to do is think of yourself not as ignorant, stupid, or uneducated, but as someone who is actively wanting and trying to engage and learn about the world. This is admirable! This is exciting! Thus your goal is not to “absorb” information to make up some deficit, or to become some other, “smarter” person who would understand things the first time you look at them. Your goal is simply to answer your own questions about the world. From that point of view, not-understanding is not a problem. It’s necessary. It’s where the questions come from. If you have to answer a lot of sub-questions along the way--if it takes you weeks to really get what a single essay is saying--this does not say anything bad about you. It just means you’re doing the damn thing. But in order to succeed at it, you do need to have some motivation; it needs to mean something to you. (One of the biggest tricks the devil ever pulled was the idea that inquiry could ever possibly be impersonal.) And whatever that personal meaning is is good enough, I promise.

[thebiasrekkers]

Shouldn’t Be- KNJ [Part 2]

For the @btswriterscorner​ - Amor Fabula Launch Project in celebration of the month of Valentine’s Day!

Plot: Kim Namjoon is a Doctor whose most challenging client ends up teaching him about how love could heal.

Rating: PG-13 // SFW

Genre: dystopian!au/dystopian themes | angst | romance/fluff

Pairing: Kim Namjoon x Female OC (Madeline)

Warnings: Strong language, mentions of conversion, violence

Links: FAQ || BTS Masterlist || Admin L’s AO3 || [ REQUESTS ARE OPEN ]

Word Count: 1,985

AN: This certainly was a challenge to build a world like this. It was a bit different than what I like to write (supernatural and fantasy) but I feel satisfied with it. I hope you guys like it as well! Comments, reviews and all around messages are always welcome!

© thebiasrekkers (Admin L). All rights reserved. Reposting/modifying our work is prohibited. Translations are not allowed. Plagiarism/stealing is not tolerated by any means. Legal action will be taken in instances of theft. 

Freckles. 

That was the main thing that he noticed when he bent down to examine the woman that had stumbled there that night. Namjoon had been working late into the night because he was on the verge of something that would be able to help provide a greater success rate for others. However, in that process--he’d pretty much ignored his social life and his new Match of 6 months. The man had shut himself away just to do it, much to her agitation. 

Now because of that, he was now staring at another woman who had been hurt. All week, he’d been seeing reports of the Rebel activity in the area but never thought that there would be some sort of demonstration or attack so close to him. It was something that he really hadn’t seen in person either, only by education and reports. That was the extent of his knowledge of violence and to see the results of it before him? It rattled him, to be honest. Human life was very precious to begin with, not even suicide was allowed in their lives because that one person could help produce more people. That was the very reason he worked so hard to help the population live, to expand and to rid themselves of their faults that had been passed down from generations ago. 

She trembled in his arms, after weakly beating at the door to get his attention. Her face was slowly losing its color and Namjoon’s mind went into overdrive. Each of them had the training to treat people but his specialty was in the genetics and reproduction area. Still, he was woefully under prepared to treat trauma like that where he was. 

“Miss? Miss? I need you to stay awake--focus on my voice.”

She murmured something that he couldn’t make out but he could tell that she was trying. Namjoon figured that she might have been caught in the crossfire with the authorities and the Rebels. He bent down and scooped her up, the need to get her to a better spot to be treated was becoming more apparent as he shook himself out of the daze he was in. Silently, he thanked Felicity for the fact that she wanted him to look better--of all things. 

“Miss? What is your name? ID number?! I need those for the ambulance.”

She started to claw at him but he held her close, worried that she would make her injuries worse. Finally, he was able to get to one of the rooms where he could properly take a look at her--noting the clothes that she had on as they looked like she had been cut with something. Shrapnel? Knives? Just as he was about to inject her with some painkillers, she grabbed at his arm and pleaded with him before he was able to administer it. Her voice was shaky but her grip was firm as her eyes told of an emotion that he hadn’t felt in such a long time.

“No please. No doctors, I’m so scared. Please don’t let them get me…”

“But I am a doctor, Miss and you need more treatment than what I can offer here!”

Tears started to leak out of her eyes and it took everything in him not to become like that himself. What was wrong with him? He’d dealt with a great many things but the pressure that was beginning to grip his chest? It concerned him just as much as her refusal for treatment did but that’s what he chalked it up to. No doctor would be lenient with a life in their hands those days. He had to do something to get her to relax enough for him to do something until the ambulance got there. 

He lowered the needle and grasped her hands, the ones around his forearm. Sighing again, he worried about the consequences of what he was about to do. He needed to help her but then again, what if she was a Rebel? Mentally shaking his head, Namjoon decided to take that out of the equation because he had a responsibility to help her--to help save a life. 

“Miss, I at least need to know your name and blood type if you need a transfusion….”

“Madeline.."

He nodded and against his better judgement, he started to treat her as best as he could without having to call anyone else out there. He could tell that she was determined to not have anything done to her unless he didn’t call anyone. The wounds, after cleaning and inspecting them, would have been bad had she not had any treatment at all. However, working with what he was just going to be good enough. He frowned as he worked, sewing up the places and gluing some together. She finally settled into a state where the drugs were kicking in and he was able to inspect her more closely. 

It was the freckles that caught his attention more, almost like he was connecting the dots on her skin. They reminded him of a constellation map of the sky--just like the ones he used to look at when he was younger. They reminded him of a time long ago when he wanted to fly in the sky and see what was really out there. His boyish imagination was quickly shut down with the System’s rating of him, placing him in the Medical Field. He had to tear his eyes from them as he resisted the urge to map them out. 

He reached over to tie her hair up and realized that her hair seemed to be one of the softest things he’d ever touched. It took everything that he had not to marvel in it, to run his fingers over the locks and spread them out to inspect them. His heart hammered in his chest as he got a better look, trying to see if there were any more wounds that he needed to attend to. His throat hurt from swallowing so harshly throughout the process but after stopping the bleeding, he could finally breathe just a bit easier--just like her. 

Her breath started to even out a bit more from the frantic panting, slowly starting to breathe deeper and easier. He had to thank whomever was up there that she was able to make it to someone that could treat her--even if it was a little bit. 

She wearily opened her eyes, the sparkle that had dimmed a bit but still was twinkling strong. He needed to get her some place safe, an area to rest until her injuries had healed. Her gaze stirred those strange feelings inside of him again, the ones that he’d been taught were dangerous and caused the literal Hell on Earth that they were experiencing now. The very reason why they had to live in colonies due to the wars and annihilation that their ancestors had caused. 

Looking at her, he had to wonder about why those were banned. Why they all were taught something different since basically birth and placed in the areas that they were currently in. He didn’t even look at Felicity that way and she was his wife. What was it about that connection that drew him in so? Namjoon had to figure it out, his curiosity starting to over take him. 

“Where else does it hurt?”

She sighed and struggled to speak due to the drugs in her system. He realized that it would soon be a trial to even keep her conscious so he shook his head, a little grin on his face appearing. He was being so stupid for asking, he realized. He reached up and placed a hand on her head, smoothing back some of the sweaty hair that had placed itself there. He then knew where he could take her to recover where he could easily keep an eye on her. But first, he had to get her there safe and sound. 

He was truly lucky that he and Felicity hadn’t moved in together yet, despite her insistence. Leaning over her again, he double checked what he had done and when he was satisfied--that was when he presented the idea to her. It was a bit silly to do so since she was slipping into delirium but the doctor would feel odd should he not tell her what he was doing. After all, they were going to be seeing each other quite often once he got her set up. 

It was damn near a miracle that he got Madeline to his home without anyone noticing what had happened. He even made it a point to let his co-workers know that he would be taking the next few weeks off due to personal issues. The authorities had descended on the lab and even made it a point to question everyone that worked there, himself included. Being the honest soul that he was, Namjoon told them everything that he could--only omitting the fact that he treated and kept a person in his own home. 

But now that the fervor had died down, he could concentrate more on his new patient. Madeline had been asleep for nearly 48 hours and that was starting to bother him. After the questioning, Namjoon had checked up on her in the spare room. Her light breathing calmed him down after bending over to check her pulse. His fingers found her wrist and he closed his eyes to help him focus on counting the beats. They were a lot stronger than they were before, when he had stitched her up and it gave him a little more hope about her recovery. 

It would still be a long one but that was why he decided to take that time off. Namjoon really couldn’t let her leave with all of that and as strange as it was for him, he needed to have her around to figure out what it was about their connection that drew him in so. Was it also a genetic thing, to want to touch and to feel the warmth radiating off the other? Was it something ingrained in them so deeply that they couldn’t engineer it out of themselves? 

“So, you like holding hands--don’t you?”

He snapped out of his thoughts to her voice, something that brought him back to the reality of the situation before him. He felt a bit silly for reacting that way but when she spoke finally, it was the timbre of it that nearly made him crawl in there with her to sleep. And he always had trouble sleeping too. 

“I--uh was checking your pulse. You’ve been out for nearly 48 hours but you’re safe!” He hastily added, the confidence ebbing away the longer he talked to her. “I took you back to my place so that way you could rest.”

She gave him a grateful smile and sighed, almost trying to turn over in the bed but he stopped her. Even the huff that escaped her lips made the corners of his mouth turn up in a smile. He shook his head at her and reminded her that she still had fresh stitches so she had to stay still. The unspoken communication between them was almost like they were yelling at each other, her eyes on something or if she sighed a certain way--he knew what she needed. He knew every time she was in pain because of the stitches or when she pulled some out by accident when she had a nightmare. 

Namjoon knew and she knew that his quiet soul yearned for something more. It practically was screaming out for someone to notice and there she was, quite literally falling into his lap. They started to have a little bit of peace while she healed--and that was something she didn’t ever think she would get again. But he made it possible as she healed, as they both healed. 

[pocketseizure]

The Seven Heroines

Zelda and Riju have tea together and bond over their geeky interests as they discuss the Gerudo legend of the Seven Heroines.

2,000 words * Zelda & Riju Friendship * (On AO3) * (Cover Illustration)

* * * * *

“Thank you for joining me,” Riju said as she welcomed Zelda into her room. She hoped the princess wouldn’t notice the stiffness in her voice. Aside from Link, whom she hadn’t actually invited into her private chambers, no one outside of her intimate circle of advisors and guards had ever been here. She cleaned the room herself, and she was very particular about its decor.

Now, however, she couldn’t help but see her bedroom through the eyes of a stranger. It might be possible that there were too many sand seals. In fact, there were probably too many sand seals. Definitely. She silently prayed that Zelda wouldn’t judge her too harshly. While the princess was fighting the Calamity, she had been accumulating a pile of sand seals big enough to dive into, and –

“I love them!” Zelda exclaimed, walking right up to a low couch covered in stuffed animals. She reached her hand out but then hesitated, withdrawing her arm before turning around to face Riju. “Do you mind if I touch them?”

Zelda’s face had turned an alarming shade of pink, and it took Riju a moment to realize that she was blushing. “Please go ahead,” she replied as her embarrassment dissipated.

Zelda picked up one of the larger stuffed seals. She squeezed its soft body as she brushed her hand across the ridge of fur running along its back. She turned it over, using her fingers to wave its flippers back and forth as she admired the embroidery lining the pad of felt on its belly.

“Did you make this yourself?” she asked.

“Yes,” Riju answered. How did Zelda know?

“My mother taught me the same stitch,” Zelda said with a smile. “She told me she learned it from Urbosa. I wanted to learn it too, but I was never any good at sewing. I suppose I could have asked Urbosa directly, but there were always so many other things to talk about. Especially since she was such an ardent fan of sand seal racing. The way she described a race, you felt like you were right there watching it. Link tells me that you’re quite skilled at the sport yourself.”

Riju smiled and opened her mouth to respond but then shut it just as abruptly. She needed to choose her words carefully, especially since she knew that she tended to become overexcited about her hobbies once she started discussing them. Zelda didn’t seem like the sort of person who would mind; but, then again, they hadn’t known each other for that long. This was only the second time Zelda had visited Gerudo Town, after all, although she’d introduced herself to Riju almost immediately after Link defeated the Calamity. Zelda was much calmer than she was then. She'd seemed distracted when they met, and Riju wondered if she even remembered the conversations they’d had. Meeting Zelda informally like this was like meeting her for the first time, or at least meeting her real self for the first time.

Riju heard a soft rapping on the sandstone wall behind her, and Zelda shifted her eyes, saving her from the awkwardness of coming up with an appropriate response about sand seal racing. Riju turned to find a warrior-in-training, only a year or two younger than herself, holding a ceramic tray bearing two steaming cups of tea. Before they were allowed to wield their first weapons, the palace guards were trained to brew tea. Riju had been through the process herself. The purpose was ostensibly to help with balance, precision, and patience, but Riju suspected that the adults just wanted an excuse to have their juniors serve them tea.

“Come sit down.” Riju gestured to Zelda as she took a seat at the low table in the center of the room. The trainee seemed as if she wanted to say something to the princess, but Riju shook her head and silently mouthed the word later. The girl smiled and nodded in acknowledgment, withdrawing from the room as Zelda took a sip of tea.

“This is lovely,” Zelda remarked.

“Isn’t it?” Riju replied. “The leaves are harvested from the wild herbs that grow in the shade of the ruins by the Ice House outside of town.”

“Is hemp still cultivated there?”

Hemp? It took Riju a moment to understand what Zelda was referring to before she remembered what she had been taught in her history lessons. “No,” she answered, “we’ve let the fields lie fallow, although I think some people still use the land for small plots of hydromelons. It’s much easier to trade with the Rito than to manufacture textiles ourselves.”

Zelda regarded her with an expression of intense concentration. Riju could see her mind working, and she wondered if she should pursue this line of conversation. It would probably be polite to let the matter drop, but she decided not to.

“Does it interest you that we trade with the Rito?”

“It does.” Zelda nodded. “There’s still so much about this world that I haven’t yet learned.”

Riju recognized this as the answer of a politician. “But why are you interested in this specifically?” she insisted.

To her relief, Zelda didn’t seem bothered by being pressed on the issue. “Hyrule used to be the center of textile production in this region,” she explained, “and I’m wondering what we should specialize in now.”

“You’re wondering how you should restructure Hyrule’s economy, you mean.”

“Yes, precisely that.” Zelda lowered her eyes as she took another sip of tea.

Riju had been drilled on trade relations with Hyrule since she was old enough to read, and she was happy to finally be able to put her knowledge to use.

“Back in the time of the Seven Heroines,” she said, “Gerudo Town was apparently the center of textile production. Hyrule was a crossroads, and I was taught that it was mainly because of its location that a market sprang up around the castle. I think your kingdom was primarily known for its horses, plus a few agricultural products grown only in outlying villages, like pumpkins.”

Zelda frowned, and it occurred to Riju that her lecture had been wasted on the princess, who more than likely knew all of this already. Zelda’s next words surprised her, however.

“What do you mean, the ‘Seven Heroines?’”

“The Seven Heroines venerated by the Gerudo. Haven’t you heard of them?”

Zelda shook her head, so Riju explained.

“The Gerudo used to worship seven warriors who split a great power between them. Each of the heroines had a specialty, like ‘skill’ or ‘endurance’ or ‘flight,’ that sort of thing.”

“So, when you said that Gerudo Town used to be the center of textile production, do you mean during the era in which the Seven Heroines were worshiped, or when they actually lived?” Zelda asked.

It took Riju a second to grasp the distinction. “Oh, when they were worshiped,” she answered. “I’m not sure if they ever actually lived. If they did, their deeds are more legend than history.”

“Where were they worshiped, these Seven Heroines? Did they have a temple?”

Zelda’s look of intense concentration had returned. Riju didn’t understand why the princess of Hyrule was so interested in the Seven Heroines of the Gerudo, but she was interested herself, so she was happy to share what she knew.

“No, there was never any temple, but there’s a secluded canyon to the east with statues of the Heroines. They’re so huge that you can’t help but wonder who made them, and how, and for what purpose. I mean, they’re so monumental that they transcend ‘art,’ and I can’t imagine praying to something that big. Each of them was built on the same scale as Vah Nabooris.”

“Are they like the Divine Beasts, then?”

“No, not at all,” Riju answered, shaking her head. “For one thing, they’re made entirely of sandstone. They’re also either much older or much younger than the Divine Beasts. It’s hard to tell. Some archeologists here in Gerudo Town made serious plans to study them, and they set up scaffolding and everything, but then there was the trouble with Vah Nabooris…”

“I see,” Zelda said before taking another sip of tea. Her voice had lost its warmth in that brief response, but Riju had no intention of changing the conversation. She was intrigued by Zelda’s questions, and the best way to satisfy her curiosity was to ask questions of her own.

Riju picked up the teapot and refilled Zelda’s cup. “If you don’t mind me saying so, it seems as if there’s a reason you’re asking about the Seven Heroines. You can tell me what you’re thinking, if you like.”

Zelda’s face lit up with a smile of genuine pleasure. “You really don’t mind?”

“Of course not,” Riju answered, somewhat confused. “Why would I mind?”

“Well, you know, I…” Zelda paused for a moment before continuing. “I keep forgetting that people now don’t remember me from before the Calamity. I used to have to pray every day, and sometimes the process could take hours. What with all that praying, I never actually had a chance to study the origins and purpose of the rituals. Time was strange for me when I was sealed in Hyrule Castle, but I ‘saw,’ I guess you could say, some things that helped me understand exactly what I was up against. I never cared for all the old legends before, but now I understand that they’re a form of history. The books in the castle library have been remarkably well-preserved, and I’ve been going through them as we’ve been repairing the structure. Not too long ago, I learned that Ganon was first sealed by Seven Sages. I wonder if there’s any connection to the Seven Heroines…”

“That’s fascinating!” Riju exclaimed. “Why don’t you tell me about the Seven Sages?”

Zelda laughed and shook her head. “Oh, it’s a long story, and…”

She met Riju’s eyes and then looked down quickly. To her embarrassment, Riju realized that she’d been staring at the princess. She hoped she wasn’t coming off as pushy, but she really did want to know more about the story. How amazing it would be to solve a mystery that had fascinated people for ages! If Ganon was real, then what else might be hidden within the maze of history and legends?

“Listen,” Riju said, not bothering to contain her excitement, “why don’t we go see the statues for ourselves? They’re not that far away, and we can take a break at the Lookout Post, which has a great view of Vah Nabooris. Have you ever ridden a Sand Seal before?”

“You’re suggesting that we study the Seven Heroines for ourselves?”

“That’s right!”

“But don’t you have duties keeping you here in the palace?”

Riju laughed. “Of course I do! But I’m lucky to have people who will take care of them for me. It’s nice not to have to worry about doing everything myself. And besides, we might learn something important, right?”

“Right!” Zelda drank the rest of her tea and set the cup down on the table. “That’s a brilliant approach to the situation. I could get used to it, I think. When do we leave?”

“Excuse me, I’ve asked for Patricia and another sand seal for the princess to be saddled and waiting,” said a voice at the door, and Riju looked up to see the guard who had served their tea standing at attention. As she’d told Zelda, it was good to be surrounded by people she trusted. Riju winked at the young woman, who took it as a sign to escort Zelda outside.

Riju stretched her arms above her head as she followed along behind them, thinking that she and Zelda had a lot to learn from one another. There was no need to be nervous. Zelda was just a girl like her, albeit a girl who had resurrected a hero and defeated the Calamity. That didn’t mean Zelda’s life was over, however, and Riju wanted to think that their adventures were just beginning. They were both still young, and the world was still full of secrets waiting to be discovered.

[corwynte]

Keith Jacket Tutorial

I made my Keith cosplay jacket, and I’ve had quite a few people ask about it, so I’ve complied this guide!  It’s quite long, but hopefully it helps if you are going the DIY route!  You can either see this guide on Google Docs (recommended) or under the cut!

If you like this guide and found it helpful, consider fueling my future cosplay efforts by buying me a ko-fi?  

Materials List:

Marine Vinyl

Red - i think i bought a yard of this?

White - i had about a yard and a half of this and half quite a bit leftover.  A yard would probably do.

Yellow - 6” cut (default width from Joann’s is 54” so this is plenty!)

Burgundy - 6” cut (see above)

Marine vinyl isn’t the most expensive cosplay fabric out there (*cough* Yaya) but it isn’t exactly cheap at $19.99/yard.  I got lucky and found some big pieces in the remnants bin.  It seems to rarely go on sale, so maybe save those 50% off coupons for this!

I DO NOT RECOMMEND YAYA’S 4-WAY PLEATHER.  I bought some in red to use originally for the red portions for the stretchiness, and it BLED on my white vinyl while the materials sat waiting to be used, so i opted not to use it (and had to scrap that portion of vinyl).  The stuff you want looks like this on the backside!

Needles

I used leather needles in my sewing machine, since i was using marine vinyl as a substitute for leather.  They are specifically designed to cut through the heavier material.  Mine were 90/14.  You might want something even heavier.  These would probably do just fine.

I used stretch knit needles for the jetset (see “lining”).

Thread

You will need white, red, yellow, and burgundy thread to match the vinyl.  Either buy at the same store so you can check that it matches, or take a small sample snippet with you to make sure the colors match!

Zipper

I used a 12" sport separating zipper.  These come in 2” increments, and I am on the tiny side (5’2”) so you might need a longer one if you are taller (or want a longer jacket)

Pattern

On the advice of CrescentShay (who is very talented and you should follow her if you aren’t already!) I based my jacket on McCall’s “totally not pokemon go trainer” pattern (M7556).  You will also want either tissue paper (from your local dollar store), tracing paper, or medical pattern paper.

Lining

I used Red JetSet for my lining - i think i bought like 1.5 yards because it’s pretty cheap.  It’s soft, colorfast, and fairly easy to work with.  It also has some stretch and a nice flow to it.  You can use whatever you’d like.

Mockup Fabric

I bought crazy cheap satin from walmart cuz it’s $2/yard.  You can use muslin, old bedsheets, whatever you have handy, as long as it isn’t stretchy because THE JACKET WILL NOT BE so you want the mockup to have the same fit.  DON’T. SKIP. THE. MOCKUP!

Tips and Notes:

Marine vinyl DOES NOT STRETCH.  This guide is written based on the jacket I made as of its writing (Sept 2018) and thus is written based on NONSTRETCHY material.  If you use a different material, be mindful of how that material works!

MEASURE EVERYTHING TWICE

Do not skip the mockup!

Pine & try it on frequently!

Watch your foot (of your sewing machine!)

Test stitches on scraps first!  You want to make sure that tension and stitch sizes are what you want them to be!

Finished seams make it look professional

This portion will be broken down into several components:

Pattern and Mockup

Jacket base

Sleeves

Collar

Cuffs

Burgundy stripe

Lining and zipper

I will assume you, dear reader, have a base knowledge of sewing with a machine (like to sew inside out, how to thread the machine & adjust tension/stitch size, etc.) but you are welcome to DM me if anything is unclear or I have left out details!  I am @corwynte on most social media.

Pattern and Mockup

If you have never used a pattern before, it is important to make sure you CHECK YOUR MEASUREMENTS.  Pattern sizes are usually NOT standard sizes!  I am a size 10 in patterns and a 0-6 in most clothing. So check your measurements!  I used the “B” design for the pattern, because the jacket has a collar.  This pattern is designed for sweatshirt type fabrics, not vinyl, so if you are not sure, GO UP A SIZE because again, VINYL. DOES. NOT. STRETCH.

I cut out my pattern pieces, but you might want to trace them instead.  I trace my patterns now because then I can reuse them.  Your call.

You will need pattern pieces 3, 4, 7, and 10.  The band and cuffs are meant for stretchy material, so we’ll make our own patterns for those.  You can also freehand the collar but I worked from the base of the hood.  

With your tracing paper, add an extra 3” to the bottom of pieces 3 and 4.

Follow the instructions to cut out the vest and sleeves from your mockup fabric.  Be mindful that many patterns have seam allowances, and for this pattern they are ⅝”.  We are going to use this standard allowance.  

My machine has marks on it, so I line up the edge of the fabric with these for my seams.  If yours does not, you can mark them out with a marking pencil or a sharpie.  It doesn’t matter if your mockup is a mess, we are going to draw on it later anyway.  You do want to sew the seams properly though because NOW IS THE TIME to make sure the fit is correct.  

**Save your patterns!  We will use them for the lining too!**

You only need to attach the sleeves and pieces for the mockup - the rest of the sems don’t need finished.  Once your mockup is complete, try it on!  Make sure it fits the way you want it too.  Don’t worry too much about the length - we’re can add a couple more inches to the bottom with the burgundy.  

With help from a friend or with a dressform if you have one, trace out the lines for the different colors on your mockup.  

My white came out pretty big.  You can adjust this to suit your own preferences, because this is an animated show so the size and shape of the jacket does vary slightly, and if you are basing your jacket on fanart rather than screenshots, different artists interpret the marks differently.  Find what you like!

Once you are satisfied with the marks, either cut up your mockup for patterns, or trace the shapes with your pattern paper.  I opted to trace, because my mockup was cheap satin which shreds easily and because I wanted to be able to reuse the mockup.  For now we only need the chest portion of the vest - we’ll come back to the sleeves later, so don’t cut those apart just yet.  

**Label your pattern pieces!**  important things to include are:

Color the piece should be

What the piece is

How many to cut

Marks for where pieces will join together

Which side is which (side, front, top, etc.)

Jacket Base

If you are using vinyl, you can trace your patterns directly onto the backside of the vinyl with a light colored sharpie pen (mine was light pink).  **ADD YOUR SEAM ALLOWANCES!!**  You can eyeball these, since you will have the marks on the back of the vinyl to know where to stitch, but you should add ½  -⅝” seam allowance.  

Cut out your pieces for the front and back of the jacket.  Pin the “T” for the back of the jacket to a red pieces.  You will need to notch the allowances to get it to lay right, but don’t jump into notching too quickly.  Be careful with the T - you want to get it as symmetric as possible.

Once the back is done, pin the front too, then pin the front and back together and try the whole thing on!  

It will fit slightly more loosely when the seams are done

The armholes might be tight (mine were) - we will adjust these later

Mostly we want to make sure it is lookin’ good, feelin’ good!

Sew the seams with a normal straight stitch first.  Them we will fold over the excess and sew the seam again, lining up the seam with the edge of the foot and sewing a line in the color of the top material to give it a finished look.  I did this to help my “T” lay flat and it really makes a huge difference in the look of the jacket - this will give it that “pro” touch!

For the “T” - the white should be the “top” layer.  

For the front stripes, white is the top over red, and both reds are top over yellow.

For the top seam, i sewed the back as top over the front.  

Sew the sides together last.  We will not fold over and double stitch that seam.  

Now you’re done with the base!  Pat yourself on the back!

Sleeves

Okay, now it gets harder from here.  

A few notes before we start the sleeves:

Remember your seam allowances!

Vinyl does not stretch!

You can take extra fabric away, but you cannot (nicely) add more, so when in doubt, size up!

Measure the final width of the white on the shoulder of the jacket base.  Good.  Now measure it again.  BE CAREFUL because matching these widths is really important to having the final product look clean and professional!  (And remember your seam allowances!)

On your sleeve pattern, mark out the width of the white on the top of it and at the bottom of the sleeve (wrist).  Use a straight edge to connect the lines. I made my white fairly wide, but again, suit your own preferences!

REMEMBER YOUR SEAM ALLOWANCES!

I made my sleeves MASSIVELY over-wide and trimmed them down a ton, because I was worried about not being able to bend my arms.

Test the size of your arm holes now, with your chest portion of the jacket complete.  Widen them ass necessary so you can comfortably put on the jacket by cutting away from the BOTTOM portion of the arm hole.

Sew the white into the middle of the sleeves, again, being VERY CAREFUL to make sure the width matches up.  Test it a bunch.  Measure it a bunch.  If you think you’ve measured enough, measure it one more time.  

Finish the seams with white on top and a line of stitching.

Turn the sleeve inside out and sew the red pieces together.  We will not fold over and double stitch this part either.  

Turn the jacket base inside out and pin your sleeves to the base.  Start at the top and MATCH UP THE WHITE.  The excess should be at the bottom of the sleeve.  You will probably have a bunch if you followed my advice.  That’s fine.

Try it on again (Carefully!  Pins!)  Test the sleeves.  Bend your arms, see how it feels.  Get a sense of how much you want to take in the sleeves.  Take it apart, take in the sleeves, pin it on again.  

CAREFUL with the “pinches” that will develop from the sleeves (the bunching) - I was not careful with mine and they are not quite evenly pinched.  You want these in the same spot.  

Sew on your sleeves.  Exhale.  Be proud.  The foundation of our jacket is now laid!

Collar

Okay, now we are going off the books.  Remember pattern piece 10?  The hood?  We are going to base the collar on this because it is sized appropriately for our collar.  Trace the pattern onto your pattern paper.  Hold it up to your jacket.  Tweak it, feel it out.  Adjust as needed.  

We are going to want a little extra for the hems, so BE MINDFUL of that as we proceed.

My collar is HUGE because aesthetic.  You may want a smaller collar based on your own preferences, practicality for wearing, etc.  

If you are using vinyl, you won’t need any interfacing because the vinyl is pretty stiff.  If you are making your jacket from cotton, fleece, canvas, THE FORBIDDEN PLEATHER, etc. you will definitely need interfacing to stiffen it up.  

I’m sure you know this by now but…

ADD YOUR SEAM ALLOWANCES

MEASURE IT TWICE

Cut FOUR pieces - be careful with mirroring these.  

Sew the middle bits (back of neck) together first.  Trim the excess (this is one of the ONLY times we will do this!) on this seam.  Stitch the front edges and the top together.  Leave the bottom open.  Cut the corners diagonally so it can lay flat when you turn it right side out.  Finish your seams with another line - be careful at the corners!  Pin the collar to the neckline and check.  It is okay if the neckline has a tiny bit extra at the front - we still need our zipper!  If your collar is too big, take it in along that middle seam.  Then, stitch your collar to the jacket.

Cuffs

Okay you know the drill by now.  Allowances.  Measure twice.  Etc.

Measure around the bottom (wrist) of sleeve.  Measure LOOSELY around the sleeve where you want the top of the cuff to be.  Mine was 4½”.  

Cut a pattern with the measurements that has a shape like the one shown.  You’ll need 2 - one for each arm.

Fold the cuff in half with the “V” edges together - stitch these together.  

Turn the cuff right side out and fold to make a tube.  Stick the tube, top of cuff out, into the sleeve, and CAREFULLY stitch the cuff on.  The fold the cuff up and over the sleeve.  Make sure both sides are even!

Burgundy Stripe

Pine the burgundy vinyl to the base of the jacket and sew a seam.  Fold it over, then finish the seam with the line of stitching.  Easy peasy.

Lining

Use the patterns from your mockup to make a lining.  I used red jetset, it is soft, it is colorfast, is has some give and is easy to work with.  You can use whatever you like.

The only parts you will hem will be the bottom of the jacket and the bottom of the sleeves (near the wrist).

Sew the lining to the collar (right sides together) - this will finish this inner seam.

Stuff the arms into the sleeves.  Pop your cuffs back down, then sew the lining into the sleeve (this is a tricky bit).  The bottom we will leave open, so the last part to attach is the seams along the zipper.

Zipper

HOMESTRETCH!

Turn the jacket inside out.  Open up the zipper and sandwich it in between the vinyl and lining.  Sew the zipper on.  Do the same on the other side.

Turn the jacket right side out and FINISH THOSE SEAMS!  You will need your red, yellow, and burgundy thread for this. Use the appropriate color for the portion of jacket.  My machine got real cranky on the burgundy cuz of the layers.  I am going to tweak this guide with where you can trim excess to make this easier.

CrescentShay - her post helped me get started on my jacket!  It was immensely helpful

My mom - she taught me how to sew, helped me make all my early cosplays, gave me her sewing machine, and always answers the phone when i call begging for tips and advice on a new project!

[yanafiles]

Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow! (ph edition)

          It’s raining hard right now and I don’t think it’s out of the Christmas season. Technically, I love sunny days but that doesn’t mean I should let myself go gloomy today. Some of you may not know that there are plenty of things better done while the rain is pouring. Others probably are listening to a sentimental song, gazing sentimentally on their glass windows while having sentimental thoughts. I don’t deny that rainy times are a perfect time to go sentimental. Back to my course, I’ll give you some pastime ideas while the weather weeps.

Recommended Pastimes During Rainy days

Watch a movie. This may be the top on the list by some since a rainy day is a good excuse to postpone appointments, trips, works, and household chores. Days like today give us time to chill. I tend to be really lazy to go to school because cold weather would literally glue me up on the bed. So, consider watching movies, specifically holiday-themed ones.

Try poetry. On sentimental days like this, words will just eventually pop into your head. Play with them a little and you can create short poems about your thoughts, and your day. You can even find yourself unexpectedly writing several lines and thinking of the next rhymes. Anyway, a poem doesn’t have to be long. A stanza is good enough.

Read books. Rainy days are pretty relaxing and just by staring outside, your mind may be at ease. While you’re at it, grab a romance novel, sci-fi fiction, or non-fiction book. Grab anything to read and exercise your imagination.

Study. I don’t know why but the rain motivates me to open my textbooks. How about you?

Take a needle and a thread. Lately, I’ve been addicted to making my own scrunchies and headbands and they were so pretty. Open your cabinets and drawers and look for your old clothes that don’t fit anymore. Their fabrics are precious because you can do a lot of things from it. You don’t have to have a sewing machine. Hand stitching is another great way to relieve your stress. You can also consider doing some crochet or cross-stitching.

Fixing a jigsaw puzzle. I would love to buy another box of it. If you’re on a diet and didn’t want to eat often, try connecting the puzzle pieces and you might never want to get up. I became so addicted to it that it amazed me how I managed to find the right position for each even though they almost look the same.

Bake your own cookies. Of all the baked goods out there, chocolate chip cookies are my favorites and I have no reason for having so. But seeing freshly baked ones out of the oven is so satisfying. They are easy to make and it doesn’t require an electric mixer. You can just follow the recipe and you’re done. I’ve seen some people using their pan as an alternative to the oven. Also, if you’re on the kneading side, you can try making some pies or cinnamon rolls. Anyway, I think everything is available on Youtube.

Blog. I was just supposed to do some blogmas every day and this idea came up. Rainy days can be very motivating to do the things you can do while just sitting around. I think I wrote something before about rainy days entitled “Let it rain, let it rain, let in rain.” It was actually a rendition of Dean Martin’s Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow! And since it’s finally Christmas season, I present to you my let it snow, let it snow, let it snow version. Well, you’re probably wondering why I’m blabbering about the rain, it’s just that it will never snow in my country. I hope I’ll get to experience one someday.

          Whatever you want to do during rainy days is really up to you. The things I shared with you are just random suggestions which you may or may not be your thing. But whatever it is that you feel like doing on a given day, always be hopeful and acknowledge the things that you should be grateful for. Happy Monday!

[elane-in-the-shadows]

Red Queen Fan Fiction - Blood Curse part 8

Find this on wattpad

chapter 1

chapter 2

chapter 3

chapter 4

chapter 5

chapter 6

chapter 7

chapter 8

chapter 9

chapter 10

chapter 11

chapter 12

chapter 13

chapter 14

chapter 15

chapter 16

chapter 17

chapter 18

chapter 19

chapter 20

chapter 21

chapter 22

chapter 23

chapter 24

chapter 25

chapter 26

chapter 27

chapter 28

chapter 29

Final chapter

Gisa POV

At first, all Lacey wants is me to accompany her when Tramy can’t. It’s difficult to separate her tasks from mere socializing: I think she doesn’t want me to know about her work as I’m not a Scarlet Guard member, and I still don’t intend to become one. Yet the same is true for every Silver I know apart from her. Cal, Julian, Sara, they all seek only their own benefits. Cameron’s told me as much though she wavers on Sara’s wishes. She mentioned Sara’s help in training her which comes close to praising for Cameron. Now the skinhealer is in Corvium along with Mare and Cal while Mr. Jacos sits between his papers, beakers and bulbs.

Lacey visits him frequently when she has me come along. I was curious the first time, but I learned it’s more small talk between them, mostly old stories with Queen Elara being blamed. Apparently, Lacey’s mother was a Merandus but her own family abused her at a young age and hurt her too deeply to heal. It left Lacey with an enduring hatred for her own kind. She doesn’t say this to Mr. Jacos but her words are lined with judgement and guilt.

What I don’t find out is whether Mr. Jacos prefers to remain ignorant or takes her insights to heart. I suspect she doesn’t really care either. She’s dissembling, wanting to keep him talking and having access to him – and his studies.

Julian Jacos likes to drone about his projects even more, to her rejoice. Though his reports aren’t very detailed, as I manage to understand them as well, thus I suppose it’s not enough for Lacey. She might’ve known these things from an early age while they just help me to patch up questions I’ve had for some time. But she keeps on smiling, to everyone she meets, and I play along, versed in this game as well. Yet I remember her expression, it’s same one she wore when I thought her to be a vain and air-headed rich Silver, a girl to be dismissed.

“Actually, Mr. Jacos is not as ignorant as you may think he is,” Lacey says to me when we leave the part of the archives he’s working at. “He usually prefers to be the enlightened one himself, who sees through our games and facades. Now he would’ve to agree with me instead, in the presence of a Red like you, and he’d rather argue with me but can’t.”

She glances at me and I meet her eyes. I wish she’d just go on, not play with me.

“It unsettles him,” she adds after the unnecessary pause. “Makes him wish to change the topic so he can prattle. Until he lets something slip.”

She looks proud of herself and it’s my turn to be silent and let her wonder. Seconds drag by.

“I thought about our earlier conversation, Ms. Ventos,” I say eventually. “About how I feel uncomfortable to be your … friend.” I take a breath until I have her full attention. Even though I’ve earned as much, her humbleness is hardly satisfying to me. “When you were the lady and I was the servant, I was always afraid, of every step and stitch I made. I could barely trust my mistress, Ms. Hadley, though she never punished me for real. But I could’ve lost my apprenticeship at any time, if I wasn’t good, talented, or diligent enough. Or if I messed up with a customer – someone like you – and drew rumours to the shop and a bad reputation to me. I would’ve been banished from Summerton.

"So I had to be perfect and I was. With every praise I collected, my fears vanished and I could dream of a better life. But when you and your kind entered, my self-confidence was replaced by nervousness.”

I’m good at keeping my tears at bay, I’ve been for a long time. “Ms. Barrow,” Lacey says with strange compassion, but I’m not finished.

“You Silvers don’t act logical, so what were my efforts worth? You could’ve gotten away with almost everything, if you wanted to damage me, and out of a whim. You had power over me, and I can’t forget that. Nor can I trust you when wariness is what kept me alive”.

But it didn’t help me in the end, I think. I offended the Silvers, paid for it, and lost my future. Maybe it was for the better, given what we were pulled into in the end. I shouldn’t wish back my old life, but I loved a not small part of it, of becoming a mistress in creating beautiful fashion.

Lacey had enough time to swallow my words. Again, her consternated face means nothing to me, it’s only the bare minimum. “I apologize for exploiting your position,” she says finally. It startles me. “I tell you I resent the other Silvers, yet I looked away when it felt easier. I … claimed I wanted to use my connections, but how can I say that when it took my capture to turn my coat for real?”

Warm winds and chirping birds are the only noises around us while I brush my tears away. Lacey holds her composure, of course, but it costs her. I see the fractures in her attitude, her conviction to be a “good” Silver. It’s gone, replaced by shame, and she’ll have to live with that. As all humans have to live with their wrong-doings, more or less severe.

“I don’t want to fight,” I say. “I want me and my family to be happy.”

“Yes,” she admits. “Thank you for telling me all of that. It’s never easy.”

I nod gravely. “So you fight for us, and I’ll help you.”

Days later, she asks for me again. Seems like both of us preferred other work and company for a little time, though I’m a little glad she approaches me again. Whatever she searches for, it can’t wait any longer. I should demand her to tell me about it, out of fairness. Accomplices need at least some kind of trust.

Yet we keep up our charade, displaying distance only broken in fractions of moments when we look at each other, smirking, while our unaware informant doesn’t pay attention. Today it’s the colonel who isn’t allowed to pay attention to my and Lacey’s connection. I stop in time before he opens a door, but he storms out of the room without hesitation and almost stumbles over me. I give him a glare in his daughter’s manner and I’m lucky he recognizes me, thus displaying a modicum of politeness. While he apologizes and I greet him, Lacey takes flight to Jacos’s archives. I wonder why she’s so careful, it’s possible Mr. Jacos or another person is telling the colonel about her comings-and-goings.

The colonel moves to pat my shoulder in a strangely fatherly manner but I step away. “You haven’t visited us in a while,” I remind him. “My mother is worried, the baby cries, and my brothers are nervous. Please, if something happened to my sister – “ I stop in a pleading voice though my concern is real. There has to be a reason they’re staying away for so long, yet the whole base is ignorant of these politics.

The colonel jumps at my bait. “I’m surprised, Ms. Barrow, your brothers already know about the broadcast this evening. Your questions should be answered then.”

I blink, startled. “Oh.”

He outstretches his hand again but only to touch my sewing basket. “It won’t be long until the return of our operatives,” he adds.

“I see,” I say, give him a placating smile and turn away. “Well, I have some shirts to deliver.”

He waves his hand in farewell, it’s almost amusing.

Lacey crouches in a corner of the archives, Mr Jacos isn’t there. I go to her and notice she’s occupied with an unremarkable door, fumbling at the lock with a lighter.

“What are you doing,” I whisper, “intending to melt it?”

She blinks, blushing silver. “That won’t work,” I tell her, “and would be impossible to hide. Let me.” I sift through my sewing basket to find a set of needles, picking those I can do without. “I would expect a spy to be a lock-picker. Now, you’re lucky Mare and I trained this.”

She chuckles. “I’m humbled, you’re wonderful. Actually, my cousin Cassie can open every locked door, but she’s a telky and that … can’t be taught.”

During the minutes I work at our entryway, she keeps looking out for visitors. “You don’t want Mr. Jacos to know?” I ask.

“He doesn’t go in there either, and I would’ve taken his key if he did. That part of the archives is practically a mystery.”

The lock clicks and I rise with a moan, giving Lacey a smug glance.

“Thank you very much, Ms. Barrow, I’m indebted to you,” she says and curtseys to me.

The room is dusky, dusty, and full of books and other papers placed in simple steel shelves. It’s not huge but totally crammed. The part I look through is hardly useful. Every book is written in code or languages I don’t know, and I’ve never been good at reading strange hands. Lacey went further down and skims through folders, probably type-written. I take a last try before joining her, with a small book with one page larger than the rest. I flip to it and see it’s a photo. Old, showing a lovely Asian young woman with black hair and a pale, rosy complexion. I turn it around to read on the bakside, “Irene Asada, Ardent, 16 y.” I shrug and approach Lacey. She’s obviously dissatisfied, switching from her paper to mine immediately. I don’ think she expected much but her eyes widen at the sight of the photo. Then she focuses on the book.

“You can read it?” I marvel.

“I speak a little of the Lakelands tongue,” she replies without looking up. “Some people in the north west do as well, like this writer.”

“And?”

“Oh, this is a prize,” she mumbles. “Irene is an Ardent brought by her parents … similar to me, umm, actually not, her touch is like a drug, not … sickening?” Lacey blinks, confused, and sits down. “An asset for the Grand Task … I don’t think it’s grand, it’s murder … but necessary … many healers have died so far … but more – “ She gasps. “Every one of the scattered bases is a new challenge … Irene’s helpful, people do her biding … then I – Oh!” She stops.

“What is it?” I insist, curious to learn, but she stares into nothingness.

“They killed them …”

“I thought so?”

“No, they,” she has to clear her throat. “I am a plague, the writer says. Oh, gracious queen.”

“Can you please explain?”

Lacey frowns at me and sighs loudly. “Imagine all skinhealers died.”

“Hmm.” Their presence is a relief, our Red medics are versed, but expensive. I flex my right hand. Without Sara, it would still hurt and be hardly useful, and Dad would still be in his wheelchair. Yet we dealed with our states –

“The Silvers don’t have medics,” Lacey says finally, weirdly calm. “If someone just coughs or sniffs, a skinhealer is called. You think we’re gods, Gisa Barrow? We’re only humans with weak, cursed blood. Spread an infective disease among Silvers and we die like flies without our magic healers.

"And that’s what happened to the Monfort Silvers. They lived in clusters and fortresses, but Irene and her trainer broke in, as the trainer had the ability to make people ill.”

I flinch as she slams the book shut. “I’ll give this to the general when she comes back. Maybe she reads the Lakelands tongue as well.”

I realize I don’t wholly believe her. She’s completely shaken by this revelation and able to incinerate the book in an instant. Perhaps she’s just like Cal, protective of Silvers. But she’s already left before I can speak up or take the book from her.

There’s an assembly hall at the base, but my family and I go to a smaller room, designed for meetings. “I’ve no idea how things are at home at the moment,” Dad says and shakes his head, excited about getting news.

“They hardly tell us anything here,” Mom adds.

“There aren’t only Nortans here, Ruth.”

“Still, should be better.” Mom is disgruntled, but I’m sure she’s curious too, like all of us. If my brothers and Kilorn know more already, they don’t show it. I cross my arms like Mom, but quickly change my position again, nervous without something to occupy my hands with. I glance at the officer preparing the screen for the broadcast, but he makes no announcement before the screen lights up. The picture is dark at first, apart from a silhouette standing in the spotlight. The camera zooms in and I gasp – the person on the screen, still in a half-darkness, is Mare.

“We’ll rise, red as the dawn,” she calls. Her face brightens slowly, like the only light in a storm. “Citizens of Norta!” she goes on and the picture changes. A stage becomes visible, with several persons on it, Mare in front of them. She steps back and I take a look at her companions, and for a moment, I fall back into the days of her captivity. Because at first, all I see are the metal princess and the fire king with her. I blink, again and again, until my vision clears. Not the fire king who tortured my sister, but Cal. Mare stands on the right side of the group, next to Diana. Cal’s in the middle, then come the metal girl and the Monfort premier, Davidson.

It’s not like then it’s not like then it’s not -

“You know me, Mare Barrow, as the Lightning Girl swaying from one side to another. As I had to fight to survive, I had to tear myself apart, to play roles dictated on me, but I never forgot my dream. To end the suffering of the Reds by Silver hands. Now Maven Calore ended the war with the Lakelands, but only to focus on slaying Reds more directly, actually those rising with the Scarlet Guard and anyone who doesn’t fit his restrictive worldview. Although his actions have torn apart our country, this is a chance for renewal, for Reds, Silvers and Newbloods.”

Her part is over, and the camera shifts to Davidson on the left. “Ladies and gentlemen, the country Ms. Barrow wishes for exists. I am Dane Davidson, the premier of the Republic of Monfort, and a Newblood. We have built a state with democratic values, a government consisting of elected representatives. After years of becoming a new nation, we procured contacts to the Scarlet Guard in Norta and the Lakelands, to support those brave Red men and women in their fight for justice and equality. Despite Maven Calore’s lies and accusations, we have found great allies with the Scarlet Guard who strive for peace between the bloods and races. They are a group which has only ever welcomed Newbloods like me, as well as Silver supporters.”

Diana goes to the front, with a stiff composure and a serious expression where Davidson appeared friendly. Of course, she only smiles for Clara.

“The Scarlet Guard,” she begins, “has seen itself confronted with vicious propaganda, set to undermine any further support and recruitment of the rebellion. We, the Scarlet Guard, could not let that stand, yet I and other commanders decided to prove our intentions and aptitude with actions instead of words which Maven Calore uses only for lies and deceptions. So we fought. We conquered and defended Corvium, freed Ms. Barrow and many more Newbloods from their captivity and forced service by the pretender king, and we reunited the soldiers of the choke with their families. While we’re glad about every person who decides to join our cause, we won’t conscript them like slaves. We want your loyalty given according to your own free will and conviction, or not at all.

"And thus, I’m happy to still find Prince Tiberias at my side, fighting for Reds, for what is right, and now determined to destroy the pretender and tyrant Maven, by taking back his throne as King Tiberias Calore VII!”

What?!

Diana shouted the last line like a herald, to my great shock. A smile shows on her face, but it’s not amused at all, more like flashing a dagger and gone in an instant.

Just when Cal is about to start talking. He doesn’t display the self-confidence of the previous speakers and shifts on his feet before he begins. Yet he finds his stance soon enough, like the royal he was raised as.

“Ladies and gentlemen, my lords, Your Majesties and dear subjects, these are times of change. I have faced these challenges personally, and I will continue to do so, even while seeking unlikely partners. Monfort and the Scarlet Guard have the grace of backing the claim taken from me, as does the royal House Samos of the Rift.

"The Norta I was born in, as were many others, exists no longer. But that should not make you afraid because with your help, I will build a new country which will offer generosity to Reds, esteem to Silvers, and respect for each other. This will happen in peace, as Norta and the Kingdom of the Rift have pledged to support each other, settled by the union of me and Princess Evangeline Samos, my future queen, who will help me along with the Scarlet Guard and Monfort, to create the country of Norta anew.”

Cal outstretches his hand to the metal princess and she takes it like the demure ladies in ancient stories, stepping forward with her “betrothed”. I cannot believe what this is. Mare stands next to the man she loves as he announces a wedding between him and another woman. And Diana? Proclaiming Cal as “king” after making fun of his regal antics behind his back and being impatient to see all crowns fall? None of this seems real or makes sense, yet it must be. I feel lost, confused, I need answers, I want Mare back and –

Princess Evangeline lets go off Cal, it’s her turn to speak. I force myself to concentrate. She waits, enjoying her moment in the spotlight, having the last words. Mare’s told me of her intricate dresses she molds from metals, suspecting it interests me. It does. But the princess’s outfit today isn’t a miracle of fashionable design, or a dress. She’s covered with tight sheets of metals, shaped like the uniforms her companions on the stage are wearing. She looks like a toy soldier made of cast iron, like a frozen mockery.

Yet her face becomes lively, determined and threatening, when she finally speaks. “To create King Tiberias’s visions, grand tasks lie in front of us, and they will not be easy to fulfil. As we will have to ruin and destroy before we can rebuild.”

The screen turns dark, the light in the room is on again. The colonel was wrong, my questions weren’t answered by the broadcast. So feels everyone in the room as their quarreling starts. 

Thanks to @calliopexclio for reading my first ideas <3

@mareshmallow @redqueenfandom @lilyharvord @clarafarleybarrow @mikey-waysjawline @universegamer @clara-farl3y @wrenskonos @runexandra @hannaharies @red-queen-united

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