#but then scar at every opportunity was like i need to make it explicitly clear i am jealous and this is all in a romantic sense

[infizero]

its been said a thousand times before but god desertduo rlly were insane for the double life cheating plotline

[primrose-path-of-dalliance]

on bren and feeblemind.

(cw: lots of caleb backstory. self-explanatory, i think?)

.

.

this isn’t something i’ve talked about on my blog yet, but since the campaign has begun drawing to a close, i want to make sure i say my piece on the popular theory that bren/caleb was institutionalized because trent ikithon feebleminded him to disable him.

my piece being that it’s exceptionally unlikely he did—at least as a premeditated plan. this kind of theory also falls prey to the exact beliefs ikithon has tried to exploit in caleb.

for our mutual reference, i’ll quote the spell description of feeblemind.

FEEBLEMIND (PHB) 8th level enchantment

Casting time: 1 action Range: 150 feet Components: VSM (a handful of clay, crystal, glass, or mineral spheres) Duration: Instantaneous

You blast the mind of a creature that you can see within range, attempting to shatter its intellect and personality. The target takes 4d6 psychic damage and must make an Intelligence saving throw.

On a failed save, the creature’s Intelligence and Charisma scores become 1. The creature can’t cast spells, activate magic items, understand language, or communicate in any intelligible way. The creature can, however, identify its friends, follow them, and even protect them.

At the end of every 30 days, the creature can repeat its saving throw against this spell. If it succeeds on its saving throw, the spell ends. The spell can also be ended by Greater Restoration, Heal, or Wish.

considering the characteristics described and implied by actors other than ikithon—caleb and astrid prominently—who are not motivated to deceive on ikithon’s behalf, feeblemind is not consistent with caleb’s mental break.

fact the first: when bren broke, he became violent and spellcasted.

when astrid describes the circumstances in which he was taken to the vergessen sanatorium (e89, 1:49:30), she refers to his lashing out as “creat[ing] a lot of sparks everywhere else” and rubs at burn scars across her neck. she says that they had to subdue him because he was too dangerous. all of these statements add up to a bren who was viciously spellcasting at his friends and mentor when he broke down.

this wouldn’t have been possible if he’d been feebleminded. feeblemind explicitly prevents the affected creature from casting spells or activating magic items. in that scenario, the only thing bren would’ve been capable of is throwing hands. from him? not very dangerous at all.

how do we know astrid wasn’t lying or intentionally deceptive? because she (and eadwulf) still cares so much for caleb that she risked her life multiple times to aid him. no one who would give caleb a map to a secret volstrucker vault with her own handwriting on it (e127, 29:29; and 30:57)—or intentionally fail to counterspell him when ikithon could’ve seen her do so—would lie to caleb about ikithon attempting to permanently feeblemind him if she knew.

to preempt the idea that astrid had set the m9 up: it’s very obvious she didn’t, since trent ikithon had clearly had no forewarning of a break-in. he would’ve at least been waiting in the vault, already prepared to subdue them quickly, if he’d known.

so it’s fair to determine that astrid would either be honest to the extent of her knowledge to caleb or make it clear that she couldn’t answer him. since she didn’t imply the latter, we can assume she was being honest. and because of astrid’s competence, it’s highly probable she would’ve noticed if his behavior was symptomatic of feeblemind over the years.

fact the second: bren’s mental condition repeatedly improved and regressed while he was institutionalized.

astrid states this in the same conversation about their subduing him after his breakdown (e89, 1:50:50). considering this with the context of their romantic relationship prior to his breakdown, her genuine care for him, and her rise to power that included accompanying ikithon frequently to the sanatorium (e127, 31:07)—astrid would’ve had the motivation and the opportunities to visit bren in person. she could’ve also kept well-abreast of his condition.

actual times of improvement and decline in the mental state that astrid first observed during his breakdown wouldn’t be consistent with feeblemind. although it reduces the victim’s intelligence score to 1, they still retain thought and their sense of identity without problems.

this is a maintenance of consistency and (relative) reason. feeblemind does not actually damage a person’s basic perception of reality. but the health of bren’s behavior throughout the years was instead very unstable.

fact the third: caleb doesn’t remember anything from the burning of his home up to his healing by the unknown cleric.

in the conversation with astrid in e89, he asks her what happened when he broke and explicitly says, “the last thing i remember is my home” (1:46:58). when he first tells beau and nott about his past, he explains that he doesn’t remember much of what happened to him there (e18, 2:51:54).

beyond the reduction to their intelligence, feeblemind doesn’t affect the victim’s ability to form memories. caleb’s keen mind feat and established narrative element of his eidetic memory would’ve still been present as well. therefore, feeblemind alone can’t explain such a significant, near-empty gap in his memory. he would still remember something.

even the possibility of trent ikithon altering them directly is precluded by the fact that the cleric’s healing removed the alterations to caleb’s memory. if all those years had been magically blocked away, they’d have returned when he was healed of everything else.

fact the fourth: sometimes, people really do just break.

nothing about caleb’s backstory is inconsistent with just... being a person living their life, even a terrible one. he was a young man that believed so zealously in his country and his purpose, abused by a powerful older man, that he did many horrible things and believed they were right. until finally he did something that he couldn’t process and broke down.

there’s two reoccurring, underlying assumptions i’ve noticed behind why this theory seems to be so compelling and popular:

caleb just seems so remorseful and traumatized by his double patricide. there’s no way he would’ve willingly murdered his parents. ikithon must have known and decided to preempt his inevitable betrayal.

everything we know about bren, especially from the horse’s own mouth, suggests that he had been willing (at least up until his mental break) to murder his parents. he was literally an extreme nationalist—a fascist, if you will. he was lawful evil (twitter source). he gratefully executed many “criminals” put in front of him, more than likely by burning them to death based on his ptsd. victims whom we now understand may not have been guilty of anything at all.

he was glad to do what he thought was best for the dwendalian empire, and he truly thought being volstrucker was the correct path. trent ikithon, his abuser, treated him as his favorite (e110, 3:30:58). because he believed.

that fervent faith, in fact, is the key to something like his breakdown in the first place. hearing the dying screams of his parents, bren was forced to confront a violent dissonance between his radical beliefs that condemned traitors (as he believed until the cleric’s healing) and the intuitive horror of murdering his parents that he couldn’t reconcile. this fathomless sense of betrayal is why caleb so deeply despised ikithon and himself.

a young evocation wizard who didn’t want his parents dead would’ve run into that burning house, feebleminded or not. someone magically compelled to set that fire would’ve understood what happened as soon as the charm left him and would definitely remember every detail once the cleric healed him.

caleb is remorseful and traumatized because he willingly murdered his parents. as well as many others.

it can’t be that simple. caleb was institutionalized for eleven years just because his abuser pushed him too far? there must be a more nefarious reason. ikithon even said he basically stored him for later.

putting aside the fact that bren having a breakdown in the way he did makes complete sense for his situation, ikithon’s “claim” that he orchestrated all of caleb’s subsequent years is not only something he never actually says (e110, 3:16:34)—it is a claim that’s patently absurd.

i’ve written meta that discusses this in the past (link here). essentially though, the number of moving pieces and assumptions that would be needed for such a series of events is ridiculously improbable. even assuming that ikithon feebleminded him—so that caleb’s mind would be intact when he ‘woke up’—even assuming that ikithon somehow procured the service of a cleric of the archeart—a banned deity in the empire that would oppose ikithon...

why in the world would he ever reasonably believe that caleb widogast, the man he viciously betrayed and lied to and abused, would do anything to benefit ikithon?

trent ikithon is a mortal man. he has power, yes; enchantment magic, authority, and a history of abuse and manipulation over caleb’s head, yes. but ikithon is a mortal man. not a puppeteer in the sky piloting people’s bodies.

he certainly wouldn’t have led caleb to a whole new family that would change everything about his life for the better. a family that would love him, truly—a family that would help him heal, bear the weight of his guilt, and find a real future waiting for him again instead of a self-destructive end. a family that would fight tooth and nail for caleb’s sake against ikithon.

abusers lie. their biggest lie, the one they always circle back to in the end, is that their victim is unique: that there is something which makes them deserving of abuse, and that their abuser is both right and inescapable.

ikithon is read as honest because he chooses his words carefully and has the self-confidence to believe it. everything he’s claimed about caleb and his past have either been implications that he encouraged others to reach for him or platitudes empty of everything except gaslighting intent.

caleb has escaped. and everything ikithon wants is to convince caleb and his friends that he continues to control caleb’s life, that caleb is special, so he can regain some influence over a man who’s come to command so much power.

the idea that caleb must’ve been feebleminded—that he couldn’t have just had a mental breakdown like so many other prospective volstrucker before miraculously, then strenuously, recovering to create a hopeful future for himself—falls into the trap of validating ikithon’s lies.

trent ikithon didn’t see and believe in caleb’s ‘full potential’ before anyone else did. he didn’t foresee a single ounce of the man’s struggle to put himself back together after what he suffered. caleb was not institutionalized to serve as a toy to one day pull back out of the closet. there was no feeblemind or other secretive plan that could only serve to obfuscate the brutal truth:

ikithon abused a boy until he shattered, and tried to hide the evidence. a crime that he’s committed against countless other children. plain and simple.

so that’s my piece.

caleb widogast—bren ermendrud—was not the victim of a premeditated feeblemind from ikithon, based on the mechanics of the spell. even more importantly, the narrative of his and ikithon’s stories would suffer if he was.

now,

A LOGICAL POSSIBILITY I WON’T DENY.

what if ikithon feebleminded him as a method to subdue him after the breakdown?

this is more or less an alternate theory that’s irrelevant to the points i actually wanted to make. but i want to talk about it anyway because it’s kind of fun.

fact the bonus: bren spent eleven years in the sanatorium.

eleven years is a long time. he would’ve been able to save every 30 days after the initial failed save. the exandrian calendar has about eleven 30-day periods every year. assuming a feeblemind spell cast on him just prior to his institutionalization, that’s somewhere around 121 possible save attempts, give or take a few.

what’s the likelihood of him actually saving? to go through the mechanics:

normally, feeblemind reduces a person’s intelligence score to 1, modifier -5. caleb, as a variant human, possessed the feat keen mind from the beginning both mechanically and story-wise. this would make his intelligence score 2, modifier -4, even after feeblemind.

as a level 1-2 wizard, he would’ve had proficiency in intelligence saves. this would be +2 to his save.

in total, the modifier to bren’s intelligence saves would be -2.

in order to cast feeblemind, trent ikithon would have to have been a minimum level 15 wizard. this leaves two possible proficiency bonuses to determine his spell save dc: +5 or +6.

it’s probably safe to assume that his intelligence score is at least 18–20, likely 20. this would be a modifier of +4 or +5. (his intelligence could be 22+ if matt wanted to be a real dick, but let’s assume otherwise.)

spell save dc = 8 + spellcasting score mod (for wizards, this is intelligence) + proficiency bonus.

this means trent ikithon’s possible spell save dc is somewhere from 17–19.

therefore:

at minimum—17 being ikithon as a level 15–16 wizard with an intelligence score of 18–19 at the time of casting—bren would have to roll a 19 or nat 20 to make the save with his -2 save modifier.

at a dc of 18—ikithon either being level 17–20 or having an intelligence score of 20, but not both—bren would have to roll a nat 20.

at a dc of 19(+), it would be impossible for bren to save without additional bonuses such as bless.

i don’t have the brainpower to calculate some real statistical probabilities, but depending on your opinion of trent ikithon’s probable capabilities at the time of bren’s mental break, he may have been able to save against feeblemind sometime during the eleven years he spent at the sanatorium.

naturally, this has the earlier-mentioned conundrum of remembering that return of clarity once he was healed by the cleric, should ikithon have been retrieved to recast the feeblemind and altered his memories. nevertheless, it may or may not be a fun thought to play around with.

[vivithefolle]

Not sure if you already talked about this. (I’m pretty sure you have) but someone seemed to notice that when the trio get into fights, Hermione’s always in the right. Even when she’s supposed to be wrong she always seems to be half right. That kind of bothers me. Especially since it’s evident in the whole Scabbers situation.

I have indeed, on Quora, so let’s move yet another answer of mine to Tumblr!

Hermione is seldom wrong in the Harry Potter books. Sometimes she makes mistakes but those mistakes are either completely swept under the rug or downright ignored.

It’s partly due to lazy writing and partly due to Rowling’s own growing bias in favour of her Author Avatar that was fuelled by Steve Kloves, the primary advocate of the Hermione Granger Is The Perfect Girl Ever line of thinking (an utterly ridiculous line of thinking mind you).

Lizo: Steve, Hermione is a character that you have said is one of your favorites. Has that made her easier to write?

Steve: Yeah, I mean, I like writing all three, but I've always loved writing Hermione. Because, I just, one, she's a tremendous character for a lot of reasons for a writer, which also is she can carry exposition in a wonderful way because you just assume she read it in a book. If I need to tell the audience something...

JKR: Absolutely right, I find that all the time in the book, if you need to tell your readers something just put it in her. There are only two characters that you can put it convincingly into their dialogue. One is Hermione, the other is Dumbledore. In both cases you accept, it's plausible that they have, well Dumbledore knows pretty much everything anyway, but that Hermione has read it somewhere. So, she's handy.

Now this, right here, is the exact core of the problem.

Rowling herself admits it: if she wants the readers to have information, she puts Hermione in the scene. Hermione is our primary means of exposition because, like *grits teeth* Sssssteve puts it, it’s easy to assume that she’s read about it somewhere and it makes sense.

That’s all well and good but at first, if you notice, Ron also gave us exposition about the wizarding world, mostly about its culture. He was able to recall the exact year of the Wizarding Confederation that outlawed dragon breeding in Philosopher’s Stone! He explained what were respectively a “Mudblood”, a “Squib”, and Parseltongue, Hermione doing a little exposition about the history of that last one! He was also able to identify Sirius, after being dragged into the Whomping Willow, as an Animagi!

But then Goblet of Fire happens and you can notice the first change that will exponentially grow through the books: instead of Ron, pureblood Ron, born-before-the-end-of-the-war Ron, lived-through-the-aftermath-of-the-war Ron, identifying the Dark Mark, it’s instead Hermione, muggleborn Hermione, lived-as-a-Muggle-for-most-of-her-life Hermione, has-no-idea-about-the-emotional-impact-of-the-Mark Hermione who looks terrified as the Dark Mark shoots into the sky!

And it only will get worse, by the end of the series, Hermione pretty much knows about everything the plot needs her to know, instead of having to work with things she knows but can’t always apply to the situation:

Suddenly has a deep knowledge of Magical Law (in the will of Dumbledore’s chapter, while we had Rufus Scrimgeour who could have provided it to us, or to a lesser extent, Ron could have explained how a wizarding will basically worked)

Is suddenly an expert at finding edible plants and mushrooms. Apparently books are always the goddamn answer in JKR’s world, you can literally learn anything from them

She can decipher all the Tales of Beedle the Bard (may I remind you that they were written in Runes, okay Hermione may have a few years of Ancient Runes education BUT I once tried to translate a 3k+ story I had written for fun, from French to English, which means I knew what the subtleties and intentions were, I knew which turns of phrase I had to preserve so it would make sense in the end, and it still took me two gruelling weeks to get a satisfying result!)

Has suddenly grown a sense of quick-thinking (escaping Xenophilius’ house, using the jinx to make Harry’s face weird-looking) despite it being the only remaining flaw she had at the time (remember when she turned her back on her enemy while he was still conscious just to compliment Harry, and almost died as a result, even though she had been training in the DA to learn how to fight Death Eaters?) Quick-thinking under pressure can be learned, but it takes time and a lot of work to force your brain to override its instinct - and it’s fine because we’re all human and different. But no suddenly Hermione is the Greatest Strategist Evah™ and those silly boys (who actually were the original quick-thinking ones, and one of them was established as the strategist early on) better be grateful for this literal goddess because she protects them from all harm with her superhuman brain.

Somehow knows about Quidditch stuff - she knows about a Snitch’s “memory-touch”. Why should she give all the answers? Why can’t Ron give us this particular tidbit of information?

And then when we come to something Ron actually knows, the damn narration itself goes “woah a book that Ron has read but Hermione hasn’t??? shocking!! incredible!! Ron is not dumb, somebody call the news channel”. But… is that really so surprising? We’ve never seen Hermione read wizarding fiction or even Muggle fiction. We’ve never seen Hermione with anything other than schoolbooks in her hands. Of course Ron has read books she hasn’t read since she doesn’t seem to read fiction at all!

Sorry, bit of a tangent over here.

There are only two characters that you can put it convincingly into their dialogue.

So, that’s one part of the problem: the fact that Rowling, after making Ron our insight into magical culture and Hermione our provider of knowledge, ended up saying “eh whatever I guess Hermione can tell us everything we gotta know because it’s more convenient for me”. Which is a decision that was not based on Hermione’s character, but simply lazy writing. Long story short, it probably went: “Could Ron explain this bit of trivia? Meh, better make Hermione say it cause she’ll have read it in a book. It’s convenient and I won’t need to bother myself with exploring Ron’s characterisation.”

(And thus completely forgetting that Ron could maybe ask his big brothers via owl and provide us with a good heap of extra advanced knowledge - Bill is supposed to have aced his NEWTs after all.)

The other part of the problem is quite simply that Hermione is more often than not, either painted as a victim by the narrative (which makes more people take her side, classic manipulation tactic), or made to be right anytime it’s about a plot point.

Hermione’s mistakes are never explicitly stated, corrected, or even pointed out as being unethical.

Hermione only gets one mistake expressedly pointed out as being a mistake: her misadventure in Polyjuice Potion. The rest of them? Even her crush on Lockhart can’t be counted as a mistake - people get crushes all the time, based solely on physical appearance, it’s not something awful or terrible (Except when it’s Ron who crushes on someone. Ron crushing on someone is absolutely forbidden, and he must be punished with much ridicule and humiliation if he thinks he can get away with not worshipping Hermione like the goddess she is. The nerve of him, really.).

Throughout the books Hermione eventually morphs into Rowling’s Powerful Angel of Vengeance, that punishes the people who dared to do something she disliked - Rita is silenced but at a very ethically dubious price; Marietta gets scarred for life because she was more loyal to her mother than to a bunch of people her friend insisted she hang out with; Umbridge is led to a very, very alarming fate that is never made clear but some people have ideas and they’re not all very kid-friendly; Ron first is “helped” without knowing it because Hermione can’t be bothered to have faith in his capabilities, then when he fails to dutifully reward her for “helping” him, she causes him bodily harm before actively bullying him for not mind-reading her interest in him; causes even more bodily harm to Ron because that’s how feminism works; etc.

Hermione’s mistakes are always justified through the plot itself (which is lazy writing).

Turning into a cat? Only affects her.

The Firebolt? Scabbers? Well, in the end, it was really sent by Sirius Black and Crookshanks really wasn’t the culprit. Therefore all the feelings that were hurt and all the trust lost are irrelevant because Hermione was right all along.

Trying to free the house-elves? Well, it’s the intent that counts, right? And we’re never told enough about house-elf lore to know whether they’re poor brainwashed victims or powerful Penate-like symbiotes who need to serve a wizard to survive?

Kidnapping Rita Skeeter, trapping her and blackmailing her? Rita may be one foul little beetle, but that’s going a bit far, isn’t it? Harry approves? Oh, well, I guess it’s okay then…? A main character can’t have a dubious morality, right?

Manipulating Harry into forming Dumbledore’s Army and forcing him to relive a traumatic event with the same woman she’s kidnapped and blackmail and that she knows he hates? In the end, it all works out for the best and Harry’s hurt feelings don’t matter since it’s all about the greater good.

Using the centaurs to get rid of Umbridge (which poses the highly distressing question of what did the centaurs do to her?), realizing that the centaurs aren’t nice little horsies that are going to gently obey her every orders like good Disney princess’ companions, my goodness could this be an opportunity for character growth - nevermind, here comes Grawp the Giant Ex Machina, saving her arse and protecting Hermione from all that scary possibility of introspection. Thanks, Grawp Ex Machina.

Trying to dissuade a highly stressed-out and irrational Harry from rescuing Sirius by telling him exactly what he needed not to hear, a.k.a. “you have a saving people-thing” which causes Harry to completely go bonkers and go save his godfather without thinking twice? Well she was right after all, it was a trap! Nevermind how mind-boggingly insenstive and inadept at dealing with someone else’s feelings she was being, she was right! That means it wasn’t Hermione’s mistake!… probably. (Geez, I’m sensing a pattern here…)

Endangering Cormac’s life (Confunding him WHILE HE’S ON HIS BROOM) to promote Ron’s success? Oh but that’s so romantic! (Yeaaaah, how romantic to display exactly how much faith you lack in your crush. Top it off with a broken neck and that’s a picture perfect first date!)

Assaulting Ron with magic and causing him even more scars than he already had? But he was being cold with her first, right? And he totally should have known she was asking him out! It’s not like her invitation was even worse than his attempt to ask her out two years earlier! Plus she’s just a teenage girl expressing her emotions, anyone who tries to find fault in this is a disgusting abusive misogynist pig! Ha!

Getting all jealous that Harry is better than her at Potions, then pretending she’s not jealous by claiming that TEH BOOK IS EVIL, HARRY, and giving him the cold shoulder too? But no, she’s right, look, Harry used Sectumsempra and he almost killed Draco, nevermind that he’s very horrified about it! Hermione was right, like she always is!

Hermione Obliviating her parents, which pulls her from the “ethically dubious” zone into the “wow okay I’m pretty sure that this counts as a violation of basic human rights” zone, makes her one of those quirky wizardfolk who have the privilege to control those simple-minded Muggles because it’s for the greater good? But nooo she’s crying about it so it’s obviously very sad and angsty and it shows her devotion to the cause!

Splinching Ron while fleeing from the Ministry? Eeeh, but he’s fine, they’ve got Dittany, he’s good as new!… blood loss? Anaemia? What’s that?

Hermione was wrong about the Deathly Hallows not existing? Um, um, that doesn’t matter, LOOK DOBBY IS DEAD AND HARRY IS BACK TO LOOKING FOR THE HORCRUXES!! Therefore Hermione was right, the Hallows weren’t important for their quest, therefore the Hallows might as well not exist, HERMIONE WAS RIGHT NO REALLY I’VE GOT RECEIPTS -

The books never forget to remind Harry and Ron of their own shortcomings and moments of weakness.

Harry’s wrath and recklessness cost Sirius his life. This is the lesson he has to learn from his entitled behaviour in OotP: actions have consequences, and the greater your responsibility, the greater the cost will be.

Ron’s envy and insecurity lead him astray; they’re used to humiliate, ridicule and torture him throughout the books. They’re supposed to teach him that he’s worth something - but how is he supposed to believe that, when nobody ever tells him he’s worth anything? When nobody ever apologizes to him? When his feelings are taken for granted over and over? When his two friends seem to discard him whenever he does one thing wrong?

Hermione is never punished. Hermione is never said to be wrong, never shown to be wrong, never called out on her behaviour. From Prisoner of Azkaban to mid-Deathly Hallows, she stays exactly the same character. She doesn’t grow up. She doesn’t learn. She doesn’t change. She has virtually no character arc.

The only time, THE ONLY TIME IN SEVEN BOOKS, the only time we have something remotely resembling a call-out of Hermione’s horrible behaviour is with this sole quote in HBP:

Harry was left to ponder in silence the depths to which girls would sink to get revenge.

Note how it’s about “girls” and not Hermione in particular, which implies that any girl would do what Hermione does to Ron. Thanks for the generalization, JKR, but I like to believe I’m actually a decent sort of person that doesn’t resort to petty cruelty and exploits my friends’ insecurities whenever I’m angry with them.

Hermione NEVER has to apologize. Hermione NEVER has to learn from her mistakes because she’s always presented as a victim when she really isn’t. Hermione NEVER develops into something more - she’s emotionally stuck at fourteen years old. Even less than that when you consider that her reaction to Ron’s return in Deathly Hallows is to trash him with her fists - and she was going to get her wand!! The utter psychopathic b- wanted TO THROW BIRDS AT HIM AGAIN!!! - and this reaction is an appropriate one for a four-years old girl, but certainly not for a supposedly “mature” seventeen-years old.

(Yes, because what separates a child from an adult is the ability to reign in your emotions and not succumb to your impulses. Exactly what Ron did when he left the tent (notice that he had drawn his wand, then he left before he could start hexing Harry), he left to calm himself down. Exactly what Hermione fails to do when Ron returns (she has the impulse to strike him and immediately succumbs to it, which proves to us that The Brightest Witch Of Her Age has all the maturity of a very small child).)

All of that, on top of the awful portrayal in the movies which removes all of Ron’s characteristics to stuff them into Hermione and turns her into some impossible epitome of perfection, eventually contributed to the portrayal of Hermione as the one who is always right and knows everything.

Add to it JKR’s own ridiculous bias (“Ron was quite emotionally immature compared to the other two”, yeah right I don’t see him trying to force freedom onto unwilling creatures or making Harry fly into an irrational rage with mere words but you do you, Jo) and the sexist misconception that “girls are innately more mature than boys”, and you get yourself this apparent behemoth of righteousness that was literally the sole reason why those two silly boys survived everything, and don’t you dare criticize this angel of perfection OR ELSE.

[mybg3notebook]

Gratitude and care in Astarion

Disclaimer Game Version: All these analyses were made up to the game version v4.1.101.4425. As long as new content is added, and as long as I have free time for that, I will try to keep updating this information.

It’s hard to say if Astarion has a level of gratitude, which can be understandable since, as he said explicitly during the bite scene, it takes some time for him to trust in another person due to the torment that Cazador made him pass through (but like everything with Astarion’s words, it may be a plain lie to excuse himself in front of Tav ). The main reason for this lack of gratitude, or a twisted version of it—if there is any—, comes from the possibility of “Dark Desires” working on him (check post about Vampirism).

Astarion has two situations in which he seems to show, ever so slightly, a thread of gratitude. 

The first one is during the bite scene. The acceptance of his vampire nature is not exactly what he is grateful for, but for the willing offering of blood. This is—if we believe in what Astarion told us—the first time he has ever tasted blood from a thinking creature. This may be, like all words from Astarion’s mouth, a lie/half truth. We need to remember that Astarion considers a broad group of humanoids who are thinking creatures as animals (check Astarion Analysis). So he may or may not have drunk blood from a, let’s say, goblin or a gnome before. It’s also true that the only images we saw in his head by using the Tadpole were rats in his master's crypt; we don't see anything about his recent feedings (we know it was a boar). From Astarion’s perspective, killing a nearby goblin would count as feeding on animals, but technically it is not and therefore, Tav is not his first. 

In any case, putting aside this consideration, Astarion explicitly says that this offering of blood is a “gift” that he will not forget (if your rolls succeeded in stopping him). We still need to see how this apparent “gratitude” will manifest—if it ever does—.

If we got the bad luck of failing those checks, in which Tav asked Astarion to stop twice, but he did not, Astarion would end up killing Tav. In the next morning, he is not even guilty or ashamed for his excess (an excess that one could understand a bit since the vampiric bloodthirst is too intense in general), but his careless attitude and his dismiss of the gravity of the situation, giving an apology more concerned about his permanence in this group than being honest with Tav, shows that Astarion cares little for Tav. If he does, it’s always around the fact of guaranteeing his permanence in this group of powerful members that gives him safety and potential solutions in controlling the tadpole. When Astarion kills Tav there is no scene of “gift”, so Tav is completely unaware of how important this event was for Astarion…. if it truly was such (why would Astarion not say anything about it later since it has been such a “gift”? I’m deeply distrustful about his gratitude). Later, in datamined content, we will see Astarion subtly asking for permission to feed on the companions (Check post Astarion's Standards and Manipulation)

The second time he shows a minimal hint of something remotely similar to gratitude is in datamined material, related to a pair of videos that pjenn has shown about the scars on his back [1] [2]. He needs help to read it since he can’t see his body in reflective surfaces due to his vampire nature. We get from the narrator: 

* He might be sneering, but you can see pain in his eyes. He needs help, but doesn’t know how to ask. *

Helping him to decipher the infernal message on his back (if Tav is a tiefling) or at least attempting to (if Tav can’t decipher it at all), Astarion will add “thank you by the way, this is… well, it’s something.”

And that’s all. That’s all the content in EA where you can see a hint of “gratitude” in Astarion, if you squint your eyes, scratching content from a single phrase in two scenes. There is also no meta-knowledge information to add to this, or any explicit reaction from Astarion that could imply more gratitude than this. As a character who represents a “bad behaved victim” probably makes sense. He has only focused on himself and on his own needs for survival. There is little room for gratitude there.

Should we expect any gratitude? Personally I don’t think so. Although he follows the troupe of the bad-behaved victim, he is also a power-focused character that manipulates constantly every situation in order to guarantee his survival or simply to have fun (bloodshed or sex). Those small details of apparent gratitude may have perfectly been part of the games he plays. 

Could he eventually be grateful? Hard to say in EA. If he is, it seems to me that he will be in the evil way. When I say this I keep in mind what Swen said in several talks/videos about how they were not considering alignment change in characters but only in the main char. Which is a curious change from bg1 or bg2, or simply the true reason to work with more generalised alignments: good, neutral, and evil alone. 

It is clear that we cannot trust in Astarion’s gratitude, only shown in two single lines that will not always be seen. Astarion is a great manipulative char and that small hint of gratitude he shows may be one of the many tricks he uses to survive and gather power.

Does Astarion care for someone?

Since we are talking about gratitude, we can also talk about care. If Astarion has shown something clearly during all EA, it is his lack of honest interest for the well-being of any creature beside himself. This includes the members of the group. There is never meta-knowledge information displaying that “deep down, in a silent way” he cares about his companions.

The only opportunity in which he apparently seems to care about some companions, is when he is reading the book of Thay, which apparently is asking him to kill the group, to which Astarion answers with a “No, I won’t kill them. Maybe *insert scripted companion’s name*”. 

We know at this point that he would enjoy seeing his companions suffer and die, because bloodshed is always “fun”, but he is prioritising how this group protects him. This concept can be seen pretty clearly when we are witnesses of Lae’Zel’s death at the hands of the githyanki patrol. Astarion will say something along the lines “what a pity, she was a powerful specimen”. Another proof of this aspect is when he approves of sacrificing one of the companions to the fish-people who worship Booal. Astarion doesn’t truly care about anyone of the group (not even the main char, to whom he may kill in a bite dismissing the gravity of the situation) but he needs them as protection and also as the only way to find a way to control his tadpole. It’s always about his needs.

After all, we should not forget that iconic phrase during the stargaze scene: 

“You think I’d kill you, just like that? Darling, I would never. I still need you.”

And this had been stated in every opportunity: The most important thing at any moment is survival. Astarion doesn’t care about killing or betraying. He enjoys it, “it’s fun”. He is not turning against the group basically because, by now, it’s the only safe and promising means to guarantee his survival. He needs this group so badly that he won’t abandon it even if a good aligned Tav mistreats him and disrespects him at every opportunity they have. Tav is the one who has to insist for Astarion to abandon the group, and even then, he will try to convince them of the contrary. That speaks volumes about what this group (and Tav) truly means to him. Like everything with his character: just a means for survival.

This post was written on April 2021.

→ For more Astarion: Analysis Series Index

[eldritchteaparty]

Chapters: 8/20 Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Sasha James, Rosie Zampano, Oliver Banks, Original Elias Bouchard, Peter Lukas, Annabelle Cane Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Fix-It, Post-Canon Fix-It, Scars, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, I'll add characters and tags as they come up, Reference to injuries and blood, Character Death In Dream, Nudity (not sexual or graphic), Nightmares, Fighting

Summary: Following the events of MAG 200, Jon and Martin find themselves in a dimension very much like the one they came from--with second chances and more time.

Chapter Summary: Following their misadventure at Hill Top Road, Jon finally takes some time off; Martin remembers something disturbing about the archives’ collection of books.

Chapter 8 of my post-canon fix-it is up! Read at AO3 above or here below.

Tumblr master post with links to previous chapters is here.

***

“Jon, take the pills.”

Jon, wrapped in a blanket and staring out over the railing of the flat’s small balcony, stayed silent.

“Fine, I’ll just wait.” Martin set the vitamin bottles and the glass of water on the sturdiest-looking part of the railing, and shifted the second chair enough so he could sit down.

“You’re going to get cold,” Jon said.

“Yeah, probably.” Martin was dressed in a light jumper with only a t-shirt beneath it. It had been warm enough earlier in the day—the weather was getting nicer—but as the sun started to go down it was cooling off.

“Your choice.” Jon picked up his lighter from the small table between them and lit another cigarette, and they sat together as the sun continued its journey below the horizon. It really was beautiful, Martin thought. He hadn’t taken the opportunity to observe any part of nature in a long time. It hadn’t ever been much of a priority to him, but there was something nice about taking in the colors that spilled across the sky—deep yellows and oranges that gave way to pinks and purples, and eventually a dark glowing blue that was only barely distinguishable from black.

Martin wrapped his arms around himself.

“At least get a coat,” Jon said.

“At least take those pills.”

“God, you’re stubborn.” Jon readjusted in his seat to pull his legs up under the blanket a little more.

“Pot and kettle, Jon.”

“Why should I take them? You heard the doctors, there isn’t anything actually wrong with me. They’re just grasping at straws.”

After an hour or so on the porch at Hill Top Road, Martin had calmed enough to make the decision to go to A&E. Although Jon had protested, the fact was that he had been too weak to do anything about it, and Martin only felt a little bad taking advantage of that. As he’d said then, he couldn’t believe he hadn’t insisted on doing it before; he’d become so used to not being able to get help, that he hadn’t really considered it until then. He wasn’t going to mess around anymore, though, especially now that he realized he might not always be able to help on his own.

After hearing about Jon’s recent fatigue and his fainting episode, the healthcare staff had run a lot of tests. They’d hooked him up to monitors, measured things, done blood draws. Martin had to admit Jon’s description of their conclusions wasn’t far off—they didn’t find anything explicitly wrong with him. There was no diagnosis they felt comfortable giving, although they had pointed out a few possibilities that they should monitor. And they’d recommended the vitamins, of course.

“They did say you have nutritional deficiency—”

“—minor nutritional deficiency—”

“—and your vitamin D levels were actually quite low.” Martin shivered involuntarily in the cool night air.

“God damn it, Martin.” Jon fidgeted with the lighter on the table, but didn’t actually reach for another cigarette. “Will you take the blanket, anyway?”

“Will you take those pills?”

“They won’t help with anything,” Jon protested. “We both know that. This is ridiculous.”

“Speak for yourself,” Martin countered. “I’m not assuming anything about what will help. Beyond that, given how you’ve been eating, they can’t hurt. And finally, yes, I am being ridiculous, and I don’t care.”

“I didn’t say you were being ridiculous.”

“No, I said it. I’ll own it. I am being ridiculous, because I don’t want to lose you, and I’m scared. I don’t want to lose you now any more than I did when we were walking through an apocalypse together, or when you were being kidnapped by actual monsters every week, or when you were taking unannounced holidays in coffins or whatever.” Martin shivered again. “Look, it’s just not that hard to take them, Jon.”

“Well, when you put it that way, I’m behaving like an ass,” Jon sighed.

“Now I didn’t say that,” Martin replied. “I’m not trying to ignore what you’re feeling Jon, and I know there’s not a quick fix for any of it. It’s just that it’s—it’s such a small thing, and if it helps, at least it’s something.”

Jon grumbled.

“And not to bring this up again, but—I mean, it might help if you would just talk to me?”

Jon shook his head. “I can’t. When I try to put it into words, I—it never comes out right. I sound like a—well, a monster.” Jon seemed to shrink back into the blanket even more. “Or maybe I am one, and I can’t face you knowing it.”

“Jon…” Martin hesitated, but decided to finish the thought. “I’ll be honest with you. I’ve asked myself if—if you are.”

Jon turned to him. “And?”

“And I don’t think so,” Martin said simply.

“Why not?”

“To be completely clear, it’s not the most rational reason. I just don’t think I could love you like this if you were. You’re just not bad. You’ve only ever wanted to do the right thing. You’ve only ever wanted to protect people, to protect me, even if—” Martin cleared his throat. “Even if we haven’t always agreed on what that looks like.”

“I see,” Jon said softly, turning to look over the railing again.

“So, if you don’t want to talk, that’s fine.” Martin leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, blowing warm air into his hands. “But in that case, it’s vitamins and freezing myself.”

“May I ask a favor first?” Jon said, eyeing the glass of water warily.

“Depends on the favor.”

“Will you make me some tea?”

“Of course.” Martin was relieved; that was one thing he imagined he’d always be happy to do. “But you’ll take those pills if I do?”

“Yes,” Jon said. “You’ve made your case.”

He reached down to kiss Jon’s head before he walked back into the kitchen, and noted with comfort that Jon leaned into him as he did.

***

That was Sunday evening. Since they’d returned from A&E, Jon had spent most of the time before that afternoon sleeping. He’d been restless, and Martin had slept on the couch for a few nights to try to let Jon get as much sleep as he could. Of course, he had woken anxiously every few hours needing to check on Jon, so he was more than ready to go to bed after their discussion on the balcony. He ended up turning in before Jon, so he was a little surprised to find him already awake and sitting back against his pillows when he opened his eyes on Monday.

“Hey,” Martin said, moving closer to rest his face against Jon’s hip, throwing an arm over his legs.

“Hey.”

“Did I keep you up?” Martin asked.

“No.”

“What time did you get in bed?”

“I don’t know exactly. Not that long after you. I’m just not that tired. Maybe I finally slept enough.”

“That makes one of us.” One night of sleep hadn’t done Martin as much good as he had hoped.

“I’m sorry.” With his eyes still closed, Martin felt Jon’s hand come to rest on his head, gently rubbing his scalp just above his ear.

“I’m going to have to cut my hair soon.”

“I like it,” Jon said, gently tugging at a few strands. “I mean, I like it shorter, too. I guess I just like your hair.”

“Flatterer.” Martin yawned, then pressed his face into Jon even harder for a moment before rolling back to his side of the bed. “Just so long as you know it’s not getting you out of those pills. Do you want to shower first?”

“Actually, I was thinking I might not go in today.”

“Really?” Martin sat up to look at Jon. “How are you feeling?”

“Better.” He picked at an invisible spot on the quilt. “It’s more that I’d just—I’d like some time to think. If you’re ok with it.”

“Yes, of course I’m ok with it. I’ve been trying to get you to take it easy ever since we got here. We can—” He stopped when he saw the look on Jon’s face and realized what he was actually asking. “Oh, you meant—just you. Yeah, no, of course that’s fine. That’s great.”

“Are you sure? I mean—if you want to stay too—”

“No,” Martin interrupted. “No, it’s really fine. It’s not a problem. I mean, I know I’ve been really irritating with the—”

“That’s not it,” Jon said reassuringly. “It’s really not. I’m—I’m glad you’ve been here for me. It’s just my mind’s been so cluttered, and it finally—I feel like I can gather my thoughts.”

Martin nodded. “I get it. I do.” He did, mostly. “Would it be ok if I called to check on you?”

Jon smiled. “I’m sure I’d worry if you didn’t.”

So Martin went in by himself. He told Tim and Sasha the truth, mostly; Jon had blacked out after therapy, of course, not in an abandoned house in Oxford where there existed a possible gap between dimensions and realities, but the part about going to A&E and Jon staying home to recover was straightforward enough.

“Glad something slowed him down,” Tim said, and Sasha gave him a look. “Well, something was bound to happen, and at least Martin was there. It could have been worse. He was pushing himself too hard.”

“You’re not wrong,” Martin agreed, and Sasha patted him soothingly on the shoulder.

He went in by himself the next day, too. Jon seemed to be doing well enough. They didn’t talk much; Martin was tired and Jon seemed lost in his thoughts. Martin wasn’t sure what Jon was doing most of the day, though it didn’t seem to be much of anything. He was eating—well, drinking the nutrition shakes Martin had picked up for him—and Martin suspected he was sleeping a little, based on how the bed looked when he came home. Jon managed to eat solid food at supper again that second night, and reached protectively for his half-empty plate when Martin assumed he was done.

“Sorry,” Martin said with his hands up in apology, leaning back into the couch. “Does that mean—maybe you’re feeling better?”

“I think so. Starting to.” Jon stretched out his feet to rest them on the bottom ledge of the coffee table. For an instant, Martin already missed the feeling of Jon falling asleep against him—but this was better, he knew. He pushed the mournfulness away.

He went in by himself again on Wednesday. A little after noon, Sasha joined him and Tim in the assistants’ office.

“Want to come to lunch?”

Martin assumed she was asking Tim, but when he didn’t hear an answer, he glanced up to find both of them looking at him.

“Oh—me?” Martin asked.

“Yes,” Tim replied, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair. “Might be nice to take up some old habits again.”

Martin didn’t have to think for too long to figure out what Tim was referring to; memories from this world came easy now. Not long after his mother had died, they’d started going out for lunch together once a week. It had almost certainly been for his benefit, but no one had ever admitted that to him; instead, they’d all acted like it was a spontaneous idea that for some reason had never occurred to any of them before. Martin had been so grateful for the company that he’d simply accepted it without thinking about it too hard.

“We’ll miss Jon, of course,” Sasha added, “but he can come with us next week.”

“Oh, whatever,” Tim said, elbowing Martin good-naturedly as they left the office together. “This just makes up for those times Jon couldn’t wait and stole Martin out from under us.”

Martin remembered that, too; there had been a few times when, despite their best intentions, he’d been overwhelmed by the thought of lunch with the whole group. Jon had somehow understood and anticipated those days, and had come up with some reason he had to go early, asking Martin if he’d wanted to join. They hadn’t said much when it had been just the two of them, nothing important, but that had sort of been the point, hadn’t it? It was a nice memory, anyway, and Martin was glad he had it now. He wondered if Jon had remembered it yet.

***

Lunch was pleasant enough, if a little bit awkward. Martin hadn’t spent much time with Sasha, at least not compared to how much time he’d spent with Tim, and he could tell she was being careful with him. She was polite, keeping the conversation easy, deliberately avoiding topics that held anything other than surface interest. After he finished eating, he decided to ask her some things he’d been wondering about, and hoped she’d chalk up anything strange about it to him being a little thrown off from last week.

“Sasha,” he asked, setting his fork down, “do you—like being the head archivist?”

“What do you mean?” she asked, leaning toward him slightly over their table.

“Do you like it? Is it a good job? Is it—is it how you thought it would be?”

Sasha crossed her arms in thought. “Well, I’m not really sure how to answer that. I mean, the Magnus Institute has its issues, I suppose. It’s an academic joke, of course, but it’s not like the respect of my peers was ever that important to me.” She laughed at herself. “And some of our benefactors are… well, a bit full of themselves? But I suppose that’s true anywhere. I am quite happy with the job security, and it pays well enough for what it is. Plus I’m actually using my degree, which is more than I can say for most of my classmates.”

“Have you ever—wanted to leave?”

Sasha frowned slightly. “No—no, not really. Why?”

“No reason,” Martin said as casually as he could. He couldn’t exactly say just wondering if you’re trapped here. “Just been doing some thinking, I guess.”

“Well,” Sasha said, “I’ll admit the job’s felt a little bit different lately. Hard to say exactly how… I guess I’ve been struggling a bit with—well, I’m still not sure how to handle the—incidents, I suppose? It doesn’t make any sense, but it feels like I’m responsible for the people who come here to talk to us. Like I should be keeping track of their stories, somehow. I just don’t know what to do with them. Honestly, I’ve just started asking them to write everything down. I feel bad, but I just can’t listen to some of them. I’ll have nightmares.”

“Oh. They’re still coming in, then?”

“Sometimes. Not every day, but enough.”

“I—I didn’t know. Does Jon know?”

“He’s been there for a few, yes.”

Martin took a few sips of water. Jon hadn’t mentioned that specifically, but it probably wasn’t anything.

“What about—what about Elias? He doesn’t seem too fond of the Institute. Why does he stay?”

“You’ll have to ask Tim,” Sasha said, poking at what was left of her salad with her fork again. “They’re best friends.”

Tim laughed. “We are not best friends. However, I do think you should spend a little more time with him outside of work. You’re missing out.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Oh, come on.” Tim poked her arm playfully with the tines of his fork, and she batted him away. “He and Allan are a trip.”

“Exactly,” she replied.

“What I meant was, they’re funny. Especially Elias.” He turned to Martin. “Now the key to understanding him is to recognize that he has money—and also that he hates money, even though he has no idea how to function without it. And people with money, he especially hates. But at some point, I suppose, his father wore him down, and he has now accepted his position in life with as little grace and composure as he can.”

Martin thought back to what little he knew about Elias Bouchard, the actual Elias Bouchard, from his own world. “That… makes sense, actually.”

“And it makes him a pain in the ass when I need something,” Sasha added. “But on the positive side—he does leave me alone to do my job, for the most part.”

Martin remembered Allan’s name too; Martin remembered he had died after finding an old book. “So Allan is—his roommate?”

Tim raised his eyebrows. “That, Martin, is none of our business.”

“What?” Martin was genuinely confused before he realized what Tim was getting at.  “Oh—oh god, no, I didn’t—”

“However,” Tim interrupted him, “if you find out let me know, because I believe Sasha will owe me 10 quid on that day.”

“Doubtful,” Sasha said, grinning over the phone she was now scrolling through. “Very doubtful.”

Martin could feel his face turning red, so he was grateful for the distraction when Sasha leaned forward with her phone.

“Speaking of working at the Magnus Institute—look at this,” she said, attempting to angle the phone so both Martin and Tim could see at once. “I cannot get over how much she’s enjoying her retirement. I never thought she’d leave, but then it was like she was just up and done one day, and she never looked back.”

It took Martin a moment to understand what she was showing them, but it was a picture of Gertrude Robinson—a Facebook picture. He might not have known it was her, if it wasn’t for the name posted above it. The biggest difference was that in every picture he’d ever seen of her, she’d been wearing her hair in the same tightly-pulled grey bun; here, she was wearing her hair down, and it flowed softly past her shoulders. The next most obvious difference was he didn’t think he’d ever seen her smiling in a picture before, and she looked quite happy in this one, drink in hand, next to an equally-cheerful looking older man who had been holding up the phone to snap the photo. The caption read catching up with an old friend.

Sasha pointed at Martin to emphasize his surprised reaction. “See, that’s what I’m saying. I guess you just never know.”

“Who—who’s in the picture with her?” Martin asked.

“Oh right, I forget you never met him in person. That’s Jurgen Leitner.” She shook her head. “I didn’t think she was that fond of him, really. Must be another retirement thing.”

Jurgen Leitner—what was his connection to the Institute here? It’s not like he would have been living in the tunnels, there was just no—

The realization hit him like a ton of bricks. The Leitner Room. In this world, the Magnus Institute was home to every book Jurgen Leitner had ever collected. He had collected them, of course, only his library had never been destroyed because there was nothing to make that happen. When he’d decided to downsize in his later life—when he didn’t feel quite the same sense of pride in them—the archives had been the perfect home for his books. Of course, up until now, it meant nothing except a new collection and a nice endowment for the Institute.

What did it mean now?

“Are you ok?” Sasha asked. “You look—”

“You look like you just got run over,” Tim finished.

“Sorry.” Martin pulled his hand away from his mouth; he hadn’t even realized he had put it there. “I just—I just remembered something. It’s, um…”

“Do you need to get back?” Sasha asked after a moment of silence.

“Yeah,” Martin answered, apologizing with his voice. “Yeah, if you don’t mind. You can stay, if you want—”

“No, I’m done.” Tim took one more drink to empty his glass. “Sasha?”

She shrugged. “I’m ready.”

“Thanks,” Martin said. “I—there’s something I need to take care of for Jon.”

***

After they got back, Martin tried to look busy at his desk, hoping they’d think that he was taking care of whatever it was online. He took the opportunity to review the records in the system, and was comforted to note that nothing in the Leitner group currently had any special notations connected to it. All of the books were, at least in principle, on the shelves, and no one had requested access to any of them. He’d been hoping that was why his attention hadn’t been drawn to any of them previously, and it seemed like he’d lucked out. It was an obscure collection, and there were a lot of restrictions on them at Jurgen Leitner’s request; not just anyone could come in and browse them, and only a very specific set of research purposes qualified for special permission to remove them from the library.

He relaxed a little, and then waited for an opportunity to leave the office without attracting attention. He had to wait a while, but eventually Rosie came in with something for Sasha to review. A moment later Sasha called Tim in to her office, and Martin took the opportunity to leave. He just didn’t see a reason to risk drawing anyone else’s attention to the Leitners, especially since it seemed they were all but forgotten as they were.

He walked out past Rosie’s desk and back into the stacks; the room really was quite out of the way, buried deep in a corner of the shelving units. It wasn’t a large room, and if you weren’t looking for it, it would have been easy to miss. Even the sign above the door, emblazoned with the word Leitner, was barely distinguishable from the metal door frame behind it. The room was kept locked, but as an archival assistant Martin had a copy of the key. He held his breath and turned it.

Walking into the room was anticlimactic; it didn’t feel like much. There was no threatening aura; there was no sense of danger. It felt like nothing more than a small room full of musty old books, like many other small rooms of musty old books Martin had been in before.

He took a quick look at some of the titles on the shelves. At first glance, he didn’t see any he had heard of before, but of course he hadn’t heard of most Leitners. He continued to look, straining his eyes at words written on faded spines, occasionally pulling one gingerly off the shelves to check the front cover; he just needed something to prove to himself he wasn’t overreacting. Finally he found one he knew: a thick, black paperback labeled The Boneturner’s Tale. Martin felt a shiver run down his back as he involuntarily jerked his hand away from it.

He closed the door to the room, locking it behind him, and pulled out his phone. Thankfully, he had service, and he immediately dialed Jon’s number.

“I ate,” Jon said when he picked up.

“No,” Martin said. “Well, yes, I’m glad, but—”

“Martin, are you—what’s going on?”

“I—I don’t know how to tell you this. I’m…” Getting Jon to remember for himself was going to be much easier than explaining it.

“Are you ok?”

“Yes, I—well, all right. At lunch, Sasha showed us a picture of Gertrude Robinson. On Facebook.”

“Oh,” Jon sounded puzzled. “I knew she had retired, but I hadn’t thought to—”

“Well, that’s not it. She was with someone in the picture.”

“Who?”

Martin took a deep breath. “Jurgen Leitner.”

There was a prolonged silence before Jon spoke again. “Oh. God.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re there, aren’t you? Right now.”

“Yes. I’m—I’m not sure what I should do.”

“First, don’t touch anything.”

Martin didn’t respond.

“Ok—don’t touch anything else, then.”

“All right,” Martin said.

“Damn it. I should be there. I should be there with you.”

“No—no, it’s fine. I just—what should I do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can I—ok, can I destroy them?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like—” Martin swallowed. “Ok, I’m sure this isn’t the best idea, but—what if a fire were to start in here? Or—something?”

“Do not,” Jon commanded. “Martin Blackwood, I have never been more serious in my life, do not do anything of the sort.”

“Ok, ok,” Martin said. “I said it probably wasn’t a great idea—"

“Some of those books would—let’s just say burning them would not have the desired effect. Or wetting them down, or chopping them up, or—”

“All right, all right. I get it. I mean—that’s not surprising, I guess. So what do I do?”

“Did you check the system? Are any checked out, or reserved, or—?”

“No,” Martin answered. “I mean, yes, I checked the system, and they’re all—they’re all here, in theory. No one’s asked for any of them.”

“Ok.” Martin heard the relief he’d felt earlier echoed in Jon’s voice. “That—that’s good.”

They sat in silence for a moment, before Jon spoke again.

“You’re—you’re not going to like this, but—I think you should go. For now.”

“And just leave them all here?”

“Yes. Believe me, I’m just as frustrated as you, but I don’t think there’s another option just yet. They’re relatively protected there, and hopefully they’ll continue to not draw attention.” He paused, and then added softly, “Right now, I just want you out of there.”

Martin sighed. “Right. Ok. Um… I guess… I can at least set up an alert so I get notified if anyone puts in a request?”

“That’s a good idea. And I’ll—I’ll keep thinking. Are you leaving yet?”

“Right after we get off the phone. Just in case. I don’t want to attract attention if someone else is down here.”

“All right. Message me when you’re back at your desk.”

“Sure.” Martin hung up, disappointed there wasn’t more to be done, but Jon was almost certainly right—it would be much too easy to do damage instead of prevent it, if he acted rashly.

Before he left though, he had one more thing he wanted to do.

***

That night, when Martin got home, he found Jon on the small balcony in back again; that was what he’d been hoping for. He grabbed the small metal trash bin out of the toilet in the hallway and stepped outside, closing the door behind him.

“Martin,” Jon said, stamping out a cigarette in the ash tray on the small table as he stood up. “You startled me. You’re a bit early—we can go in.”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to—I should have said something. Actually, I wanted to catch you out here. I brought you something.” He set the bin he’d brought out with him on the balcony, between the two of them.

“It’s a trash bin,” Jon observed.

“Well, that’s only part of it.” He picked up the lighter Jon had left on the table and handed it to him.

“If this is commentary on my smoking habit, I think the ash tray is big enough. Besides, I don’t plan to keep—”

“No—no, that’s not it. I don’t care about the smoking. Well, I don’t love it, but that’s really not it.” Martin sighed. “Look, I know you said not to touch anything in the Leitner Room, but—well, here.”

From behind his back, he brought out a small, square book; he could see Jon didn’t need to read the title to recognize it in the dim evening light.

“Martin,” he whispered. “I—”

“Don’t say anything. Don’t think, don’t open it. Just—take it. Burn it. This one should be fine. I can do it if you don’t want to.”

Jon reached a hand toward the book, running his fingers hesitantly over the scribbled black spider webs illustrating the otherwise plain white cover. He spoke as if he were in a dream. “Yes. I imagine this one would be ok.”

“Light it,” Martin encouraged him, reaching for the hand that held the lighter to pull it closer. “Now.”

It seemed too easy; he was afraid it wouldn’t catch, or that Jon would change his mind, or any number of other things would go wrong—but nothing did. The cardboard cover caught beautifully, the yellow-orange flame spreading elegantly out from the corner in less than a minute, swallowing the book front and back.

“Now let go,” Martin said, as the flame began to spread, and Jon nodded. They dropped it together into the trash bin, and Martin watched as the title words A Guest for Mr. Spider were consumed, slowly, letter by letter. They watched together, transfixed, until the fire burned itself out and all that was left was a smoking pile of ash.

“You shouldn’t have done that for me,” Jon said quietly. “Going through the shelves—taking it out—it could have been dangerous.”

“Yeah, well, you said the web was probably still weak, and—” Martin reached for Jon’s arm. “Anyway, it’s done now.”

“Thank you,” Jon stepped carefully around the trash bin, and then his arms were around Martin’s waist and his face was in his chest. “Thank you.”

[anthropwashere]

phango19: we go around, one foot nailed down

\o/ 30th DP fic and it’s the infamous dissection trope \o/

(you know I had to do it to ‘em)

Legit though, I’ve been wanting to write a DP dissection fic since, jeez, since I joined the fandom in '13 probably. It's practically a rite of passage to have one of these under your belt, isn't it? So here's me, giving you the gift of Danny Having a Bad Time.

There'll be some notes about the research I did for this one for the curious at the end, but apologies to anyone with an ounce of scientific know-how. I almost failed high school chemistry and that was something like 12 years ago. I am but a simple idiot with Internet access. Please call me out if there's something egregious in need of correction; otherwise... blame it on ghostly handwavium?

Title comes from TOOL’s “Pneuma.”

AO3 | FFN

=

It had been agony, at first. But like anything he’s ever set his mind to, it’s gotten easier with practice. 

He’s had plenty of opportunities to practice.

That doesn’t mean it doesn’t still hurt. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t wish he could quit the whole ugly business right this moment. Burn every file, lock the lab up for good, and pray for no more nightmares. But this ugly business needs doing and he’s the only one for it. He can’t allow Maddie to shoulder any more of this burden than she’s already insisted on. He won’t let those white-suited bastards lay so much as a finger on his family either, not while he’s got any say in it. There'll be hell to pay for going toe-to-toe with the GIW, but that's fine. He doesn’t care what happens to him anymore, so long as Maddie and Jazz are kept clean of all consequences.

If his luck holds out the courts will be hashing it all out for a while yet anyway. He’s never had a head for fine print or subtlety, nor doing anything so morally gray as—well. Everything lately. What should be done is clear as day to him, but if the courts agreed that easily with the GIW he wouldn't have a chance to make up for what he’s done.

He needs to do that much. 

The courts and those bastards will eventually agree he doesn’t have a leg to stand on, regardless of blood relation or his wealth of experience in an incredibly niche field. Sooner than later those bastards will come, and when they do there's only so much protest and fighting spirit they'll indulge in. That's a fight he'll lose once it comes, but in the meantime those bastards and all their clever little monitoring devices can’t come within 300 feet of Fenton Works without causing an uproar.

He has to take advantage of the time they have left.

This evening the house is empty, just him and—

Well.

Maddie’s out there fighting the good fight, Jazz and Sam and Tucker at her side. The three of them have got more experience than Maddie and him ever realized. They’ll be just fine. They’ll handle whatever toothy specter is out there terrorizing the good people of Amity Park and make sure nothing gets in the way of his work. He needs the peace and quiet. No distractions. He needs to do this by the book.

Working by the book isn't a habit he’s ever had to cultivate, not with Maddie there to shore up his madcap inventions with reams of reproducible data and neatly labeled blueprints, all hard copies done in triplicate and the digital files regularly updated to a secure server off-site. You can’t ever be too cautious when you’re putting pseudoscience to the test and winning, Maddie always said with a grin, and he’d kissed her every time for being so much more brilliant and beautiful than he deserved. What would he do without her? How far could he have gotten without her? Would Danny still be—

He swallows.

Best to banish that train of thought before it can run him down. No distractions. No what-ifs, no maybes. Not if he wants to make up for what’s happened. What they’ve done. What he's done. This one’s all on him, no matter how Maddie tries to tell him otherwise. Either he fixes this or—

Well. 

There is no ‘or,’ is there? 

He presses the record button on the Jack Fenton-improved observation rig. Blinking red lights and a momentary whine of feedback means he’s good to go. “Nov—”

Too hoarse. Clarity and enunciation are key here. Slow and steady. He’s got to do this right, each and every time. He clears his throat and begins again.

“November 24th, 2006. 9:43 p.m. This is the ninth full examination of the ectobiological aberration self-identified as ‘Phantom,’ legal name Daniel Fenton. General details of the aberration's previously accepted physical characteristics can be found in the recording and transcript of the first examination. General details of the aberration's current physical characteristics can be found in the first, second, and third examinations. Detailed characteristics that have remained unchanged between forms—the wholly living, the selectively living, and the wholly deceased are also recorded in the first and second examinations."

“For the record, I still don't think I qualify as an 'aberration,'" the body says.

He breathes. Swallows. Chooses to ignore the interruption. 

“This examination will consist of further study of Phantom's physical deterioration, to include the taking of samples of hair, skin, bone, and various fluids and tissues as necessary. Additionally I—" 

He hadn't identified himself, despite the GIW's explicitly written protocols on ghost examinations. He curses inwardly, decides not to bother. He's the only examiner on any of the recordings, after all.

The body takes advantage of his pause to add, “Oddity maybe. Hell, anomaly sounds pretty cool. But aberration? That makes me sound like I'm on the verge of a villainous origin story or something."

He presses on through gritted teeth. "I'll be conducting several tests as outlined separately—exact location in the Phantom file will be added to this examination's transcript—to see if it's feasible to separate the Phantom aberration from Daniel Fenton's remains."

"How many times do I have to tell you that Phantom has always been—"

"Danny."

The body sighs. Well. Its inhabitant does anyway. "Sorry, sorry."

He resists the urge to thank the body. He resists the urge to pat its mottled green hand. He doesn't trust his voice to remain steady if he does either.

"External examination.” He describes the body from toe to tip, his voice measured, unhurried, detached. Dark green skin, healed as flawlessly as it had seven times before. Untamed black hair that shines a glossy green in the harsh overhead lights. Eyes red as holly berries that shine with the predatory gleam so common among true ghosts when the overhead light hits them. The skin is firm, and firmly attached to the lean muscles beneath, and those too still conform to the bones as if the body hasn’t been dead for months. The body is as limp-limbed as a ragdoll in his hands as he goes through the checklist. He confirms that it’s continuing to lose weight incrementally despite no outward signs of decay or starvation—

(Can a dead thing still starve? God, but what were those two years like for Danny? All those worries, those fears, all those questions without answers, and now….)

Nothing untoward or abnormal—in shape, if not in color—can be noted. A normal male distribution of body hair. Teeth in fair repair. Gums, tongue, and oral cavity all normal, albeit pale green. Symmetrical and normal in appearance are checked off wherever they need to be checked off. On, and on, and on. An exhaustive process that embarrassed the body’s inhabitant horribly the first few times. Now it’s borne in silence, with only an occasional gruff sigh.

No deformities. No injuries, except for the postmortem thread that’s bunched up at weird angles as the body stubbornly insisted on healing practically overnight. He makes a note of it as he takes a small pair of shears to the tangles, snipping and pulling as needed. The small holes trace out a capital letter Y that’s gone a bit hunchbacked and knock-kneed. Another day or two and that scar will be gone, replaced by a new one that will stretch stark and symmetrical, for a little while. The small holes left behind don’t bleed. There isn't any blood or ectoplasm pooled or pulsing through the body. The heart is still, a fist-sized lump of dark green muscle. He'd drained the clay-colored fluid that had operated as blood out into a jar marked DP Specimen #58 - 3.85ltr ecto found w/in complex circ sys(!) w/ unk contaminant(s?). It hasn't clotted, and the body hasn't produced more.

They don't know why. They still don’t know why the body continues to heal. There’s not enough energy in the remaining ectoplasm to generate such a speedy recovery, but neither does it heal enough. Danny’s ghost—the aberration—is still bound to this inanimate, impossible corpse. Danny is still trapped.

Not to mention that the healing seems to be failing incrementally as the days pass. He doesn’t know what it means. He doesn’t know if they’re running out of time or not. He doesn’t know what will happen to Danny if—

There’s no ‘if.’ He’s fixing this. 

He has to.

“You’re staring,” the body says quietly.

He swallows, shaking himself out of it. “I—I will now begin the internal examination to compare the body’s current state to that of the eighth examination conducted on November 16th. Additionally, with the data gathered from the previous examinations and tests conducted upon various tissue samples and the body itself it’s believed that optimal results might be achieved with as little biological interference as possible.”

“You said full examination,” the body interrupts. “Brain included?”

“Brain included,” he confirms. He can’t quite keep the apology out of his voice. Not as if those bastards would notice an ounce of kindness if it—

Focus.

The body doesn’t breathe. It can’t. Those lungs gasped their last 36 seconds after Maddie landed a neat hit on Phantom with a full 450 milliliters of their experimental paralytic. 

(He’d said it himself, not 24 hours before that day. Enough to lay out a ghost ten times his size! What a damn stupid, blind idiot he was.)

The inhabitant inside the body makes the sound of a slow, steadying breath. It shouldn’t shake. It shakes anyway. “Just. Don’t keep my face c-covered any longer than you have to.”

Danny’s made this request each time. As if he’d forget to give Danny what mean comforts he can through—through this. Danny had screamed all throughout that first examination. Not out of pain—he insisted he couldn’t feel anything anymore—but out of sheer, visceral horror. He doesn’t blame Danny one bit for that. 

(He’d hoped removing the brain would do the trick, that it would free Danny’s ghost, put him out of his misery. But it just grew back. There are three of them resting in glass jars of glowing formalin now. At the rate he’s going the entire lab will soon be nothing but bits of Danny in jars.)

“Sure thing,” he whispers, and picks up the scalpel. 

He narrates as he works, making small notes on the diagram at his elbow with a gloved hand that grows damp over time with green fluids. He makes the initial incision, running over it repeatedly where necessary, and inch by inch peels the anterior thoracic musculature and subcutaneous layers away. 

(He’s almost gotten used to making these incisions, to applying the necessary force as pulls the layers apart. The motions have almost become habit. It’s all the sounds of peeling the body open that continue to haunt him.)

The flesh folds like a thick blanket, draping over the body’s elbows out of the way. There’s no need at this time to study the neck musculature or organs. He leaves that stretch of skin where it’s meant to stay. He focuses on cutting away the pale bits of fatty tissue that might interfere, fully exposing the deep black bones of the body’s rib cage. 

(That had been a hard shock, the first time. He’s almost used to the sight now.)

As with the body’s hair and eyes, the bones have a faint green gleam to them. The same iridescence of a raven’s feathers. They yield to a rib cutter the same as any human’s would. He makes the cuts close to the sides rather than near the breastbone; he wants to get a good look at the heart and lungs in situ today.

The inhabitant begins to breathe rapidly. 

He pauses, the front of the body’s rib cage gripped carefully in both hands, pulled halfway out. “Do… do you want me to move the mirror?”

Oh, but he had put his foot down about the mirror. There was no way, no way, he would force Danny to observe as his own father cut him open—did this to him. Danny had asked first that his eyes not to be taped shut, because laying there paralyzed and feeling nothing in the dark was so much worse and anyway his eyes don’t seem to be going anywhere, right? The third examination is when Danny had asked for a way to watch him work, and he’d protested and blubbered and even shouted, enough that Maddie had called down the stairs in a voice thick with tears if everything was—if everything was—did he need help?

Yes, he needed help. But he didn’t tell her that. He told her everything was—was—that she needn’t worry, that he had everything handled. 

Danny had asked again. Again and again and again, and every time he said no, told Danny all the reasons why he wouldn’t, couldn’t, would never—

But Danny kept asking.

I want to understand, Dad. Please. I’m gonna go crazy if I all I do is just lay here until you and Mom fix me. I—this is all I can do. I want to see what you’re doing to me, instead of trying to imagine. Please. Please, Dad.

He’d relented for the seventh examination. He’d attached an arm to the observation rig above the table, attached a mirror to the arm, and messed with the angle of it until Danny said he could see himself perfectly. 

It had been such a terrible thing to do to Danny, but Danny had thanked him all the same.

The body sighs, chuckles weakly. “N-no. No. I just—hate that sound. That—cracking. Gets—gets me every time.”

He nods, not trusting himself to speak. He tries to be as gentle as he can, separating the breastbone from the clavicle, but some sounds are unavoidable. After setting the rib cage aside he swallows, and swallows again. His voice betrays him anyway. “M-mediastinum intact again as well. Comparable in color to previous examinations. The residual fatty thymic tissue present….”

And on. And on. Cutting and pulling and weighing, comparing weights and textures and colors to the eight other times he’s already done this.

How many more times will this be necessary?

Danny breathes, sometimes, hitching like he means to say something, or like he's trying not to cry.

 Danny doesn’t do either, but he hates himself anyway.

“Decellularization continues apace,” he murmurs near the microphone, tracing a careful finger across one lung in the scale. It and its twin had been a vivid lime green in the beginning, but like nearly every other organ it’s begun to shed its inhabiting cells, leaving a colorless scaffolding in the same rough shape of itself behind. 

Ghost organs. He’s never heard of such a thing happening outside of a microbiology lab. It’d almost be funny.

He doesn’t know what it means.

 He doesn’t know what any of this means.

The accident should have killed Danny completely, left a well-cooked corpse and an entirely separate ghost behind. Not hybridized him. Not at the risk of this. Their paralytic is what killed him—

(his son, his boy, little Dann-o, gone gone gone and it’s all his fault)

—but if he’d died another way would this have been the same result? This powerlessness, this fading? There’s no knowing, and that most of all is what keeps him up at night.

He finishes comparing all the numbers to those previously recorded. Then samples are taken and the cell debris drained, all the vials and containers marked appropriately. Lastly he bags the organs he intends to keep for study to minimize leakage, leaving the rest in their individual trays. If he were to place them all back in the body the bags would—somehow—vanish within a few days, all the organs reorganized and reattached exactly as they should be. If he doesn’t, new ones will take their place. 

Maddie suspects this to be the cause of the decellularization. The body is drawing on its own limited materials to regenerate because the ectoplasmic core once sustaining it has been snuffed out. None of their instruments can even pick up that Danny’s still in there, but there he is all the same. No one knows what to make of that.

All in all, it’s been over an hour by the time he carefully suctions out the last of the fluids pooled within the emptied cavities, filling and marking one more container to join the collection on the stainless steel counter. He’d lined the interior of the body with cotton, the first time. It had gone the same way as the bags, vanished or vaporized or who even knows. He doesn’t bother this time, returning the unbagged organs to rough approximations of where they should be. He gives the small intestine up as a bad job, grimacing apologetically. In the space where the right lung sat he places an oblong monitoring device small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. Something clever Maddie cooked up to measure all sorts of things, all potential avenues to make sense of the body’s physiology and shake the ghost clean of it. It shouldn’t be too intrusive once the lung grows back. Not that it matters.

It’s far too late to save their son. They know that. That doesn’t make this any easier.

“Brain next?” The body asks once he’s finished up the new Y incision. 

“Brain next,” he confirms wearily, setting aside needle and thread. “Your moth—”

He bites his cheek hard enough to taste blood, but that’s not enough to take back the slip. No familiarity. No acknowledgement of their relationship. No divulging more details than strictly necessary. That had been part of the agreement.

He wiggles the rubber block out from under the body’s back, moves it to support the head, cards his fingers—a fresh pair of gloves on—through its thick dark hair. Danny can’t feel it but hums a wordless thanks anyway, watching in the mirror. There’s the faintest shiver of motion at his eyes; not the eyeballs themselves but of a fey light within. It’s the only sign anyone’s still in there.

He makes the incision across the crown, sloping from behind one ear to the other. The scrape of the scalpel against bare bone makes Danny suck in a breath. He peels, he cuts, he peels. He whispers an apology as the anterior flap covers the eyes, the nose, the mouth, the chin. The inhabit’s imagined breaths come faster than ever, but it’s only the dark that upsets him. It is. The dark, the numbness, the helplessness. A hell that can’t be imagined, only experienced.

He moves quicker now, his narration stuttering in favor of action. The posterior flap peeled and cut and folded out of the way, then both of the temporal muscles severed. The scalpel traded for a blade like a bread knife to etch out a rough guideline around the crown of the exposed skull. Then the hammer and chisel.

Danny whimpers all throughout.

As soon as the brain—the same gray-green color of mold—has been removed, he gently pulls the anterior flap back, lets it dangle over empty space as he wipes the body’s face clean of a few green drips. “Keeping this one for testing, I’m afraid,” he says.

“Okay,” the body whispers.

“Nearly finished now.”

“I know. I’m okay.”

He doesn’t acknowledge that. He can’t afford to. The brain—what a brilliant kid, a professional ghost hunter, reaching for the stars since he first realized they were up there, the sum of his son cradled in his hands and this isn’t ever going to get any easier, it’s not, it’s not, it’s not—

He takes a deep breath. Steadies himself. Sets the brain carefully aside to be dealt with shortly. Soft as Jell-O, brains are, but unfathomably powerful. Science has only scratched the surface of what goes on in that three-pound mass. Danny might still be—somehow—tied to the body, but maybe the answer lies in the brain. 

Nearly finished. He can do this.

The skullcap is held awkwardly in place as he sews the scalp closed. It’ll be good as new in no time, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t still take care to make the stitches tidy. He uses the back of his hand, the cleanest part of his glove, to smooth the dark hair over the seam.

“This concludes the ninth examination of Daniel Fenton, AKA Phantom,” he croaks into the microphone, and at last, at last, he can kill the recording. As soon as he has he reaches up to nudge the mirror askew so Danny doesn’t have to stare at himself a second longer.

“Done,” he says, his voice gone hoarse again.

“Yeah,” the body says.

He stands there a long, long minute, braced on the examination table staring down at the twisted corpse of his son, both splashed with any number of ghostly-bodily fluids. Arms shaking, his knees rubbery, breathing through a throat of sand. He’s tired. He’s tired. He doesn’t know how much longer he can do this.

As long as he has to. As long as it takes to help Danny. That’s how much longer he has to. No ifs, ands, or buts. 

“Are you okay?” Danny asks.

He laughs. It comes out wetter than he meant it to, but it’s fine. All of the recording equipment is off. The only person who’ll see him cry now is Danny. “Sh—shouldn’t I be asking that?”

“Maybe,” Danny says, “But it’s not easy on anybody. Is it?”

“...No. No, it’s not.”

He’s made such a mess of this corner of the lab. Maddie’d be furious with him if she saw. Not that she will. He’s cordoned it off with tall curtains and begged her on bended knee to leave this whole ugly mess to him. She hasn’t looked yet. He’d know if she had. He's seen the way her eyes linger on the curtains while they're working in another part of the lab, how her hands fumble, how her mouth thins. She's not slept more than four hours at a time since—

Since.

"Quit staring," the body orders. "Mom'll blow a gasket if you leave the lab like this. So c’mon now. Hop to it."

He laughs again, sniffling thickly as he pats the mottled green hand nearest him. Danny can't feel or see him do it, but it feels right to do it all the same. "You're a good boy, keeping your old man on task."

Danny hums. "Somebody's got to."

Well. That’s true enough, isn’t it? He’s always needed a firm hand to keep him focused. It’s been Maddie since the day they met in college, his rock in all things. All things but this. He won’t let her carry this burden. Not the messiest parts he can protect her from anyway.

So. Another checklist.

Juggling trays full of specimens off the second examination table to the counter so he can wipe the table clean. Then cleaning the body. Then moving the body to the second table so he can clean and sterilize the first. 

(Like a twisted game of musical chairs, Danny had joked once. Neither of them had laughed.)

But before that comes organizing and storing all the specimens for Maddie to study tomorrow with that eagle eye and incredible patience of hers. She’s doing the real work, laying out all the pieces of Danny to see what makes him tick, working on a way to free him even as she tries to understand him. They’ve dedicated another corner of the lab to this; nearly an entire wall, really. All their other work has gone by the wayside, shelved apart from the necessity of dealing with any ghosts that slip out to wreck a little havoc. 

Funny, how few times that’s happened—since. They’d worried, once Jazz and Sam and Tucker had told them the whole terrible truth, that the ghosts might celebrate Phantom’s condition. Take advantage of his helplessness to get revenge or at least run amok in Amity Park. They know news got out; the ghost Phantom had been after the day Maddie got her lucky shot in had gotten away. 

But there’s been nothing. Almost nothing, apart from a few non-sapient threats. Mean and cunning things, but nothing half so dangerous as they’d feared would come. Danny doesn’t seem surprised, or worried for that matter. If he knows something though, he’s staying quiet.

Once he’s passed back through the curtains the body says, “Jazz visited me again last night.”

The curse slips out him before he can help it, anger and worry and shame and grief a hot migrainous mess hammering away at his skull, matching the pace he’d chiseled at Danny’s. “She knows better—!”

“Yeah, and I told her to get out too.” Danny chuckles. “She never listens though.”

“I….” He sighs and shakes his head, exasperated. “...Yeah. She gets that from your mother. How is she?”

“Figured that’d be obvious.”

“She won’t talk to either of us,” he replies, and goes to clean and disinfect the table and floor. Easiest to get that done with before he spends 20 minutes hunched over the sink and autoclave. His back’s already clamoring for a hot shower and a handful of ibuprofen after—

Well.

“She’s not as angry as she was,” Danny says in a pause between clangs. “She hardly cried at all this time.”

“Good. That’s—good.”

“Hey, Dad? Do me a favor?”

He’s at Danny’s side at once, taking one hand in his and leaning enough to be in more than Danny’s frozen peripheral. “What is it?”

“She’s gonna try to sneak Sam and Tucker down here this week—”

“What?”

“—so can you make sure the security system will let them in?”

His knee-jerk reaction is to put his foot down, to remind Danny and then Jazz of how tenuous a position they’re in with the GIW, of how they can’t afford the littlest slip or look for loopholes or do anything to risk Danny—

But.

Danny’s been down here so long now. Alone apart from him, from Maddie’s voice on the other side of the curtains, Jazz’s midnight visits. Just his family and the ceiling and hours of silence and a hundred experiments and failures and—

And that’s no way to live. That’s no way to live at all.

“Is that what you want?” He asks.

“I… I really don’t want them to see me like this,” There’s nothing but revulsion in Danny’s voice, self-loathing and guilt and horror. “But they’ll do it no matter what I tell Jazz, and I don’t want them to get caught either.”

“Okay. Okay then. I think I can finagle three days before anyone might notice. Make sure she knows.”

“Yeah. Thank you.”

He goes back to cleaning, finishes the area and moves to the instruments and trays. Ectoplasm is notoriously difficult to scrub out. It takes time. The smell of bleach burns his eyes and nose, eventually overpowering the citrus sting of ectoplasm. Once the autoclave is set to run he tosses the latex gloves into the hazardous waste bin and takes a moment to let his hands breathe. Never did like the feel of latex, but his usual pair don’t allow him the finesse he needs for—well, this kind of work. His fingertips have gone pale and wrinkled. His fingers ache. His wrists are on fire, to say nothing of his shoulders and back.

How many more times is he going to do this?

“How do you feel?” He asks.

“I’m fine,” Danny says. Too quickly.

“Be honest, kiddo. Please.”

“I… Cold. Heavy. Like I got stuck phasing through the ground, and any second I’m gonna slip up and go solid and it’ll—” Danny makes a small, miserable noise and falls silent.

He rubs his aching eyes, gritting his teeth against every stupid, useless thing he wants to say. He’d asked, hadn’t he?

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s been months.”

“I know.”

Danny’s voice breaks. “I have to get out of here.”

“I know,” he repeats. It’s the only thing to say. He’s exhausted all apologies. “We’re trying, son. We’re working on this day and night. We’ll get you sorted, you know we will.”

“...Yeah. I know.”

He forces his aching legs to the cabinet to pull out a fresh sheet to drape over the body, then Danny’s comforter over that, pulling them both up to the body’s chin to hide the edges of the incision. “Eyes open or shut tonight?”

“Um. What time is it?”

He glances at the wall as he carefully swaps the rubber block under the body’s neck for a plastic-wrapped pillow. “Just after midnight.”

“When will Mom be down?”

“Six sharp, same as always.”

“Right. Um. Shut’s fine.”

He gently tugs the medical tape off the body’s face, smoothes the eyebrows flat and brushes the bangs aside. The green skin feels even colder on his bare fingers. 

This is the part where he bids his dead son good night and retreats upstairs. This is the part where he passes by Jazz and Maddie with his eyes firmly on his feet. This is the part where he near boils himself in the shower until he feels almost clean again, scrubbing his skin raw to wash the smell of ectoplasm away. This is the part where there’s only nightmares followed by silent hours spent staring at the ceiling of their bedroom, trying to imagine how helpless and terrified Danny is down here.

He stays where he is, hands braced on the table again. He asks the question that's festered in his gut ever since Jazz threw herself over Phantom's prone shape and spat the truth out through a stream of furious tears. "...Why didn't you tell us?"

Danny is quiet for a long, long time. Then, "I was always gonna end up on this table."

He shudders, pulling away. "We— you don’t really think that. Do you? We love you, Danny. We wouldn't. If we'd known, we wouldn't have."

Another long silence. Then, "Good night, Dad."

“I….” He shuts his eyes, weary in a way he’ll never find the words to express. “Good night, Danny-boy.”

He shuts the lights off on his way up the stairs.

=

Notes: Decellularization is cool as hell. Check out the >Wiki page< for it, and if you don’t some close-up pictures of a pig heart >here< is a fascinating DIY to create your very own ghost organ as a Halloween decoration! (Scientists are amazing.) For the rest of the research I did for this, I’ll just say that boy! You sure can find some extremely specific How-Tos on the Internent, huh? I sure learned a lot this week!

Anyway, thanks for reading! You’re great. <3

[putmyteethtorest-blog]

on leaving and being done

If you begin reading this, read it to the end. It’s important.

The idea of this is to get a few things off my chest about the past few months.

When we broke up, I asked, I desperately wanted to make sure you weren’t going to hate me.

Yet you have come at me filled with nothing but that.

I’ve done nothing wrong to you, I have not harrassed your friends. I reached out to Tommy a month ago when I had no one else to speak to, because I mistakenly believed he was my friend and was willing to support me in my time of vulnerability, cos I’d done the same for him in the past. I hear later both of you decided to mock me and call me a bitch, laughing at me.

You sent a friend of yours my way to ask something you could have asked yourself. I made it pretty clear when I messaged you about Andy harrassing me that my sole intention was to warn you of that. I had an opportunity there to complain to you or try and strike up a conversation, but I avoided doing so because I knew you wouldn’t want to listen and because it doesn’t do any good anymore. I told your friend that I meant no offense, but that in the future there was no need to play messenger. Based on the heated nature of your dms to me after that, I can only assume one or both Tommy and Cass lied about what I said to them or the way I treated them. Cos i sure as fuck haven’t been harrassing them.

There isn’t really a lot left to say exactly, except that in the time I’ve not been interacting with you I’ve learned a lot about myself. I have things I carry with me, reflex responses, built on months of stress and tension between the two of us. I have damage I literally have to unlearn because of us. I ignored warning signs and gut feelings because I was in love with you.

I knew for a long time that things didn’t feel right. But I remember a different person than the one that exists right now. You come to me, you lie to me. You try to make me feel bad for ever having had feelings for you, when you know that wasn’t my fault at all. You pretend I’m somehow to blame for any unresolved feelings you had for Shay while we were together. How insecure can you be, Em? How insecure do you have to be right now to try and rub my face in the dirt when I literally don’t have anything to do with you anymore?

You lie when you insist I should have known. You deflect blame from yourself for not being honest with me, and you try to shunt the burden of this relationship onto my shoulders even though that’s not how it was. You used to look in my eyes when we were together, tell me I was the best thing to ever happen to you. You would tell me how other people (including Shay) had made you feel bad about yourself. About your scars, about how it sometimes takes you extra time to read something or process what’s been said. I’m not perfect, but I was in no way responsible for reading your mind. You either are an extraordinarily good liar (which I doubt because of the way you’re acting now) or you were in fact in love with me.

Your heart never “belonged” to me because I didn’t try to possess you like that. I was clingy and a piece of shit sometimes. But I never wanted you to be unhappy. I never tried to force your hand with Shay.

It feels like you expect me to be jealous of Shay in some way. I am not, because I already know there’s a slim chance in hell that your relationship with her can ever hope to be healthy. Neither of you are healthy. Unhealthy people don’t have healthy relationships. You and I both have to learn how to be alone before we can find our people. But you’re running, you’re running as fast as you can. You hated me for holding you accountable for anything you did. You didn’t like that I picked up on your desire to be married and said I’d propose. I started representing real life consequences to you and that was far too much to handle.

But you can’t keep running your whole life, baby.

You gotta stop sometime. You have so much work to do.

Both of us know damn well what love is supposed to look like. But we don’t give it properly. We both historically put others needs before our own and it turns us into unhappy people.

I fell in love with you because we had that in common. I hated seeing you sad, so I did everything I could to fix that. I ignored the flaws and tried to force my way of thinking on you because I thought if it worked for me it had to work for you. I know that’s not how it works now and I’ve been working on letting other people speak and deal with things in their own way, and only offering my advice if they explicitly ask for it.

It can’t always be about the other person! You think you did this for yourself, but you didn’t! Because there’s comfort to be found in habit, and habit is easy. Habit is giving yourself back to what you said you were done with. Habit is refusing to admit to anyone you know that your relationship with Shay ended for a reason, even if you were still in love with her at the time.

You have shit in your life that’s scary. I don’t blame you for dumping me. Now that I’m alone, even though some days i’m nearly crushed under the weight of emptiness, I can see the things I forced to be a certain way for you. I’m a damn fool. When I dated Andy, I didn’t like spending time around her, but when I dated you, we both seemed to want it. And then I couldn’t let it go. It shouldn’t have been as hard as it was, obviously.

Dating you has ingrained stress into my body. I literally don’t know how we ever made it as long as we did, fearing that the other would somehow ruin a perfect day every single day. Now, in theory, I’m supposed to feel liberated. But I’m not, because somehow you keep coming up, long after I’ve left. If you must talk about me to your friends, if you must dm me on tumblr and immediately block me. Stop hating me.

I didn’t do enough that was wrong to you to merit that. You don’t get anything out of it. I’m already dumped, there is no need to keep making me relive it whenever you feel particularly rude.

I had wanted to romanticize the idea of you coming back to me, but I can’t. For a few reasons.

1. It is unhealthy and unproductive to do so, seeing as you aren’t going to come back anyway.

2. The person I remember who showed me the vulnerable kindness of her heart doesn’t exist in my world anymore. She might in someone else’s world, but not to me.

3. Whenever I have to interact with you, or talk about you, or talk to someone who behaves like you did whenever we fought, I shut down completely. I get bowled over by anxiety. I want to throw up. It’s crippling. If under some strange circumstance you try to get back into my life as my girlfriend, don’t. I can’t trust you anymore. Even though I still have feelings for you somewhere in my heart, I can’t trust you. I can’t look at your face and not be reminded of the unnecessary cruelty you treated me with.

I’ve wondered if perhaps the reason why you’ve been so mean is to try and force me to dislike you. But it doesn’t work properly, because that literally isn’t how being in love works. You should KNOW that, better than anyone. So if that’s your goal, please, stop. All you’ve done is caused even more damage and confused my heart more. It’s not what I need right now.

I still love you even though you’re bad for me. You don’t have to feel the same way or give a shit about me. But if you don’t want to be civil with me...leave me alone. It’s over, Em. It has BEEN over. Go away. You’re 21 years old and you’re acting like you’re 14. Stop telling your friends lies about me, stop lying to yourself, stop lying to me, stop being a petty asshole and dming me rude shit and then blocking me cos you know you don’t want me to respond.

[asarsgyan]

Chapter 8 - The T. Doll Factory

Two days later, still with the bruises that were scattered all over her body after the beating that Dona Hilda gave her and plunged in great sadness over the loss of Albeiro, Catalina appeared with Yésica at the clinic where, months ago, they had operated on her breasts. They asked for Dr. Alberto Bermejo and waited for him all morning until the cosmetic surgeon left to perform a blepharoplasty. None of them understood what that word so "disconcerting" and strange meant, so they decided to get to the point after nodding their head, as if not to be ignorant, when he asked them if they knew what a blepharoplasty was and before asking what could serve them.    "Doctor Bermejo, my friend needs her boobs enlarged."    "An augmentation mammoplasty." He said in a low voice without taking his eyes off her and amazed at the young age of the patient.    With some compassion, he began the difficult task of convincing Catalina to postpone the decision. He asked him how old he was and he almost died when the apple of Albeiro's eye told him that he was around fourteen.    Moving his head sideways, the surgeon fought deeply to avoid curtailing the innocence of the girl in front of him, but his words, his warnings, or his attempt to misplace her with a speech worthy of a scientific congress, with expressions so complicated and technical words that Catalina and Yésica remained in the same.    He began by telling them that he had to observe through an ultrasound that the breast tissue had a normal distribution and echogenicity and that the fibroglandular pattern did not produce acoustic reinforcement, a sign of the absence of fibrocysts, fibroadenomas or dominant lesions in the upper outer quadrant towards the axillary tail, which was where, presumably, the cohesive silicone gel with rough walls was going to be implanted, without affecting the subcutaneous cellular tissue or the retroaureolar region with subglandular subfacial position.    Before the premeditated verbiage of Dr. Bermejo, the faces of Catalina and Yésica became as strange as when someone is waking up from an epileptic attack. Undoubtedly the surgeon searched all the terminology at his disposal to confuse them and he succeeded. When they asked him to repeat in Spanish what he had just said to them, he tried to lower the level of his presentation a little: "    Better said, how can I explain them," he told them when he saw their confused faces, "I can implant the prostheses. silicone either through the axillary cavity or the aureolar circumference, that is, the nipple. The problem is that due to age in the girl, none of these areas, not even the mammary glands, have developed sufficiently that we run the risk of non-congenital deformations at the end of development. So if you insist on surgery, I will be forced to leave a very unsightly inverted T-shaped scar or, failing that, a vertical cut scar in the submammary groove.    Catalina still didn't understand half a word the doctor uttered, but she told him, with great cunning, that he was the surgeon and that she trusted in what he knew how to do. That he put the silicones where he wanted or where he could, but that he put them, because otherwise she would die of sadness. And that she didn't worry about the scars because the only thing her boyfriend cared about was that they were big, even if they were scratched.    Without any other remedy, Alberto Bermejo agreed to carry out the examination and the price, established a rigorous diet and demanded a series of examinations, requirements without which he would not undertake to operate on her. Catalina told her not to worry that she would comply with all the indications with great judgment and the doctor reminded her that the main one was to bring five and a half million pesos in cash to which Catalina replied not to worry, but to give it to her. I left in the closed five million because I couldn't get more    They agreed to that and Yésica took the opportunity to find out about the chin operation. Alberto Bermejo told him that it was called mentoplasty and that it could be increased, using silicone implants, or it could be shortened, filing the bone of the lower jaw. Which of the two things required, whether to increase or decrease the chin, because to tell the truth he did not know which operation he needed, in a clear manifestation that she did not need either of the two. She looked at herself in the mirror, first from the front and then from the profile, but she couldn't answer.    He then chose to quote an operation to increase the size of his buttocks and another to decrease the size of his cheeks. The doctor told her that the postoperative period of the first surgery was filthy and desperate, but like Catalina, Yésica did not listen to reasons and had the operation scheduled, which, according to Alberto Bermejo, consisted of implanting a pair of prostheses under the gluteal muscle or in injecting into the buttocks fatty liquid extracted from the abdomen or elsewhere by means of liposuction. The other surgery was known as bichectomy and consisted of removing a pair of glands from the face to reduce the size of the cheeks. Yésica promised to get the money to do the two transformations.    With faith in her future and visualizing her completely transformed figure, based on how profitable her new life was going to be with her operated breasts, Catalina asked how much all those operations that the doctor had named could cost, that is, that of the breasts, the tail, the lips, the liposuction, the chin, the nose, the cheeks and the mouth, and the doctor responded, with some mockery, terrible humor and a lot of knowledge of the trade of women between trachets, that a lot of money:    —More than you can earn during the weekends of the year, but as long as you have someone to back you up, don't worry that we even trust you here. A little annoyed by the joke, but at the same time very animated, Catalina left the place rehearsing how to tell Cardona that the operation no longer cost five but six million pesos to be able to keep a million with which to help her mother in house expenses.    —It's cool, that ticket for those guys is nothing. It's like pulling a cat's hair, ”Yésica said, laughing as if to reassure her, and even offered to accompany her the next day to Cardona's apartment, which was on the top floor of a tower of 15 where, among other personalities, drug traffickers, politicians, lived State contractors, ex-guerrillas reinserted, retired military personnel, ex-officials of a former president who financed his campaign with money from drug trafficking, paramilitaries and the occasional honorable person.    When she got home, Catalina met an Albeiro who was very sorry for having hit her and took advantage of her guilt to impose conditions: she told him to leave because she never wanted to see him again in her life. That the slap was never going to be forgotten, that she would never obtain a pardon from her, that she would not marry and much less live in concubinage with a gouache who beats women and that, from that day on, she was going to Doing what she wanted because, overall, everyone considered her damaged, then doing or not doing something, she didn't care.    Albeiro, for his part, made a heartfelt and sincere speech in search of forgiveness. He told her that he had never hit a woman and that in his life he would do it again. That he let himself be carried away by anger but that it was the second time in his life that it was manifested to him. That he loved her more than his own existence and that if she did not forgive him and return to his side, he would die. He repeated, as many times before, that she was the apple of his eye, that he wrote songs for him, that he wrote poems for him, that he danced with his memory, that her angelic face was sculpted in his memory and that he remembered her at the same rhythm with the one who breathed, who without her was nothing, who would never mistrust her innocence and who without her love all lost meaning.    "Are you threatening me?" Catalina asked, looking as if she would not give in to her boyfriend's blackmail, to which he replied with the same sincerity:    "No, my love, but I swear to you that I would rather not live without you."    Catalina was quite impressed by the expensive decision with which Albeiro promised to kill himself in case she didn't accept it again. Still, he did not bow. She thought that if she gave in to blackmail, she was going to have him threatening her all her life with throwing herself off the railings of the viaduct at any of her tantrums. Albeiro wept heavily and even knelt for her to absolve him, but the apple of her eye knew that, even if she wanted to and even if she wanted to go back to him and kiss and hug him and allow herself to be pampered, she could not forgive him without taking him out. At least the permission for him to have her breasts operated.    That is why he left him on fire and locked himself in his room without Albeiro's tears, or Dona Hilda's blows on her window overlooking the street, or Bayron's new madrazos were worth.    The next day, when she came out of her bedroom and found poor Albeiro sleeping on his knees and with his head leaning against the door, Catalina pityingly picked him up, laid him on his bed, gave him water from the aqueduct to drink and forgave him, then of a long speech of demands, most of them unjust, and after making him swear that he was not going to get angry that she was sent to enlarge her tits.    Within the extensive specifications negotiated by Catalina, which included freedom to hang out with her friends, more understanding towards her immaturity given her young age, less distrust, fewer questions when she was late at home and more financial help, among others no less absurd, was left A clause explicitly prevented the cowardly Albeiro from finding out about the origin of the money she was going to spend on the operation. He accepted each and every request of his little Machiavellian girlfriend. In any case, and in order not to feel defeated, he convinced himself that this was the only way he had to continue living. Happy for the advantageous agreement reached, Catalina went to rest, looking forward to Christmas,    But things were not going well. Something unexpected was about to happen. In the streets there was a strange movement and the atmosphere was rarefied. The traffic was restless, the drivers denoted a lot of insecurity when driving. Car horns polluted the environment. The wind did not move a single leaf from the trees and the sun did not appear all day. The faces of all the people walking along the ring road looked suspicious and the police cars moved silently, but at full speed.

[devilsclergy]

50 Questions, answered.

Putting this under a cut for length. Since SOMEONE requested all of them. 

01. What does your character’s name mean? Did you pick it for the symbolism, or did you just like the way it sounded?

The answer is both! Endō Haru (遠藤春)

The surname Endō comes from Japanese 遠 (en) “distant” and 藤 (to, do or fuji) “wisteria." 

His given name, Haru comes from Japanese 陽 (haru) meaning "light, sun, male”, 春 (haru) meaning “spring” or 晴 (haru) meaning “clear weather.” I chose the character for spring.

In relation to him, the significance of his name is in the Wisteria’s symbolism:

“The wisteria plant is known to live for upwards of a hundred years, even living centuries. Because of its extensive lifespan and elegance, the wisteria is thought to be a symbol for wisdom. Throughout its life, the wisteria plant grows increasingly larger. It expands as it takes on new wisdom and experiences. The long vines of the plants are forever extending to seek new knowledge.

A final note from the wisteria plant symbolic meaning is one of nostalgia and memory. The wisteria is witness to several generations and absorbs lessons from every time period. The plant knows that valuable lessons are hidden away in our pasts and that we can learn from previous mistakes and the mistakes of those who came before us. Take these mishaps and turn them into strengths. Like the plant, practice strength and resilience." 

All of these factors are key, important pieces of Haru’s character that play into how he interacts with others and approaches his daily life.

02. What is one of your character’s biggest insecurities? Are they able to hide it easily or can others easily exploit this weakness?

Probably his kindness or naiveté. Haru likes to portray himself as a neutral, clinically minded fellow who makes all decisions based on logic and reason. He spent much of his teenage and adult life studying, reading, experimenting, and assisting his father in his work, which led to a lack of certain social graces. Knowing that he lacks in “street smarts” is unsettling to someone so concerned with accuracy and depth of understanding. And ultimately, his kind nature often allows for him to be taken advantage of, or to put others’ safety before his own.

03. What would be their favorite physical trait about themselves?

Probably his eyes, as they are like his mother’s.

04. What are their favorite traits about their lover? (one psychological and one physical)

If he had a lover, it would very likely be their cunning or intellect, as Haru is invariably drawn by those who intrigue him mentally. As for physical, that would vary person to person, so it’s hard to pin down. 


05. Are they sexually confident or more of the shy type?

Most definitely shy, as he is incredibly inexperienced. 

06. Do they have any hobbies that their lover finds unusual, odd, or otherwise annoying?


Probably his tendency to obsessively clean his surroundings. Again, if he had a lover.

07. Is there a catchphrase or sound that they tend to make a lot (likely without being aware of it)?

“Mmn.” or tongue clicking while he works. 


08. What is, perhaps, their biggest flaw? Are they aware of this or oblivious to it?

Haru’s biggest flaw is his inability to see his own worth, and, how that manifests itself in his actions. For example, he is extremely observant and keen in picking up others’ feelings or motives, even if they are well hidden or orchestrated in a way meant to deceive. As such, he is likely to put faith in them where others may not, sometimes to his own disadvantage. By not being able to see how valuable his insights, skills, and person are, he diminishes himself. 


09. Do they have a favorite season? What about a favorite holiday?

Haru’s favourite season is spring, when everything is at the height of beauty. 


10. Is your character more feminine or masculine?

He’s pretty masculine in the standard sense; his style of dress, the way he carries himself, and how he speaks. But he is quite sensitive and emotional under the surface, as level-headed as he attempts to remain. 

11. What is something that would make your character fly into a rage?

Haru’s anger is rare and difficult to incite. But someone he cares about being careless with their own life or making a decision that would put themselves or others he cares for in danger would likely do the trick. Or, if he is helpless to prevent such danger from befalling them. 


12. Is there some particular talent, skill, or attribute that they simply could not give up?


Haru would not be the same without his skills with white magic and talent for aether sciences. The core of what drives him, his thirst for knowledge and desire to turn that knowledge into useful advancements, has heavily influenced who he is and what he wants to become. He also would not wish to survive without his ability to perform certain types of white magic, for it would have meant the loss of a dear friend.

13. What are your character’s sleeping habits? Heavy or light sleeper? Blanket stealer? One that always rolls onto the floor? Pushes their lover onto the floor? Sleep talker or walker?


Haru sleeps heavily, typically. Once he’s in a comfortable position he won’t move much, but if he had a lover, he’d most likely gravitate toward them. He’s rather warm-bodied, so blankets are usually light or he will kick them off partially. He only talks sometimes, explicitly when having nightmares.

14. Do they live alone or with family? How do they feel about their family/roommates?


Haru lives alone. Until recently, it was a non-issue, but he is starting to experience a degree of loneliness beyond “kinda wish I had someone to share a meal with”. His father and any other relatives live back in Kugane.

15. Is there a certain person in this world that they cannot stand? The very mention of this person’s name makes them tremble with anger or fear.

He’s not the kind of person who really holds grudges or gets angered easily. So at the moment, there is no such person. But there are whispers a certain person may be entering his life soon whom could fall into this category. :^)

16. Is your character the athletic type or more of a couch potato? What are some sports/games that they like?


He isn’t lazy, and his line of work requires him to be up and about much of the time. He practices his swordsmanship when he has down time and when he is at work, he’s actively moving around or fighting. He does like to play triple triad, chess, and sand volleyball (do they have volleyballs in Hydaelyn?) occasionally. 

17. Does your character have dreams of getting married and/or having children?

Haru has never fantasized about the ideas of marriage and a family, but it is not totally off his radar. However, the current involvements that he has professionally may deem him unable to pursue those interests. He’s far too busy to go chasing after kids, at the very least.


18. What kind of home would they want to live in? Where would they place this abode?

His current home is in the Mists Topmast apartment complex, which suits him just fine, but he would not mind having a nice, secluded home in Shirogane or the Lavender Beds. 


19. Would your character be the kind to get into fights? (physical or verbal) Would they be a good fighter or cave in rather easily?


Haru is not overtly aggressive physically or in temperament. He can hold his own in a fight, however. 

20. Does your character like animals? What are some of their favorite animals? Would they want pets? What about mythological creatures?

He does like animals! Lots of types, actually. He’s studied a vast array of things in his pursuits of intellect, so he has had the opportunity to meet/interact with some of Eorzea’s strangest and more obscure creatures. His favourites include, but are not limited to, unicorns, bandersnatches, narbrooi, syrictae, and drakes. Of all the creatures he’s heard of, the ones he remains most interested in, are dragons. He’s also very fond of cats.

21. What is one of your character’s biggest fears? How would they react when dealing with this fear?

Haru is absolutely afraid of failing to protect, heal, or otherwise prevent mortal bodily harm to someone he cares for. He will typically show signs of distress, anxiety, and tends to raise his voice at those who go against what would be in their best interest. He does try to keep all of these things at bay, though, because he knows if he loses control, or loses focus, things could get much worse.


22. What kind of tattoos, piercings, birthmarks, freckles, and other such unique physical features do they have?


Haru has both horns pierced, but is devoid of any tattoos. He has a few scars littered across his body, and a crystal burn on his hands. This is why he is often wearing gloves. His largest scar stems from his left shoulder down to his elbow joint on the anterior side of his body. 

23. What is your character like when it comes to school? What subjects are they good/bad at? Do they get in trouble a lot or are well behaved?


Haru. Loves. Scholastics. He would be the kid at every book fair, every spelling bee, and every mathlete competition. He is least skilled in creative writing, but all things scientific, mathematic, and chemically related, he excels at. And he is a perfect angel what are you talking about.

24. In their own words, how would your character describe what their lover is like?

He doesn’t have a lover. 


25. Is there something traumatic from your character’s past that greatly affects them even to this day?

Yes. Yes, very much. Like he has night terrors a few times out of the week about those events. Get to know him IC and it may be revealed to you (highly unlikely).

26. What is their lover like sexually? How do they feel about their lover’s quirks, needs, etc?


I can just feel Haru blushing. See question 24.

27. If your character was going to get arrested, what would be the most likely reason for it?

Black market trade, probably.


28. If your character became a celebrity, what would they be famous for?

A Nobel prize for inventing some incredible aetherial mechanism. Or a drug which actually cures all ailments and/or prevents mortal death. 


29. What is one of the most courageous things your character has ever done for a loved one?

Faced his own fear of going into the sea, learning to swim. 


30. When it comes to the arts (music, film, theater, etc), what does your character like?

Haru likes music and theater. Most entertaining live performances he is fond of.

31. Would your character be the kind capable of killing? Would they enjoy killing or only use it when necessary or, perhaps, refuse to kill no matter what?

Haru tends to be a thinker, which means he tends to believe that any conflict can be resolved without violence. But he is not so naive to believe that everyone shares his views, and he understands that, unfortunately, sometimes violence is the only answer. He would avoid killing anyone who is innocent at all costs, but if it meant saving someone he knew intimately or loved, he would. It would haunt him, though. It would eat away at him.


32. If your character’s lover offered to take them out on a dream date, what would they want to do?


He would probably want to visit some ruins he had not yet been privy to see.

33. If your character wanted to be alone, where would they go?

His apartment, or to the beach in the middle of the night. 


34. Does your character have favorite foods? (breakfast, lunch, dinner, dessert, snacks, etc)


Haru mostly enjoys foods that remind him of his childhood home, so traditional dishes like soba, yakitori, rice and eggs, sukiyaki, and dumplings. But he enjoys cooking and therefore has experimented with Eorzean dishes like meuniere.

35. Is your character afraid of death? If they got to choose how to die, how would they want to go?

He’s not afraid to die, but I don’t think he’s looking to go anytime soon. If he could choose, it would be while protecting someone he cares for.

36. Does your character have any medical conditions? Are they serious or minor? Do they affect their day to day life?

None.


37. What are some of your character’s pet peeves? What are some things that annoy them or disgust them?


Haru is a bit neurotic; he likes things to be neat, symmetrical, and aligned just-so. He also dislikes messy or noisy eaters. 

38. What kind of weather does your character like? Cloudy skies, rainy days, sunshine, etc?


Haru enjoys rain, but it carries with it a nostalgia of sorts for him. 

39. When people look at your character, is there some assumption they might make about them just by appearance? Is that assumption correct?

That he’s a nerd, and yes they would be correct.


40. Does your OC have any guilty pleasures they enjoy? Hobbies, past times, music, etc that they wouldn’t want known by others?

He loves to study the effects of potions and herbs on beastkin and mankind alike. This has… led to some embarrassing discoveries and interactions. He also loves a good, hot bath and will not miss an opportunity to indulge in one. I wouldn’t say that is a secret, though.

41. Does your character’s family affect your character in any way?

His relationship with his mother and father greatly affect how Haru behaves to this day, in very differing ways. These are things I prefer for people to discover through interaction with Haru, though, so I won’t go into detail.


42. Is there anything in your character’s past that they regret, haunts them, or they wish they could change?


Yep. See question 25.

43. Does your character have a switch that changes aspects of their personality whether they are around friends, family, etc. Is there someone who gets to see their true self?


There have been very few to see the side of Haru that is not completely reserved, professional, serious, and task-minded. The switch for him is emotional, but it’s hard to say how to illicit it. It could be triggered by different things.

44. Is there a particular event that would emotionally devastate your character?

The death or murder of one of his close friends or allies. 


45. Is your character the kind to hide their true emotions or do they wear their heart on their sleeve?

Haru tends to keep things hidden most of the time.

46. What is some random affectionate thing that your character always does to their lover?

Read: he doesn’t have a lover, and this would probably vary person to person.


47. Is your character outgoing? Would they be the leader of the friend group, or the quiet one that gets dragged along?


Haru is a bit shy and very reserved, so he would be the one who is dragged along and forced to interact. Or alternatively, he would be the one who is approached for conversation more likely than being the one to initiate it.

48. Is there anything in particular that would ignite your character’s jealousy? Or does your character not get envious?


He does not really experience jealousy, as he is not a very possessive person.

49. What is something that your character has nightmares about? Are these frequent? Do they heavily affect your character’s mood?

Well, since this is probably the 4th time it was asked, I suppose I can shed some light. Haru experienced a tragedy with a close friend years ago during an experiment they were conducting. It was Haru’s fault, and he has never forgiven himself for it. When he has a night terror about it, it usualy leaves him aching and lonely in ways inexplicable, and he will usually resort to smoking to soothe his nerves. This is one of two incidents he would have a nightmare about.


50. If your character confessed love to their crush, boyfriend, girlfriend, etc, what would they say? 

He would probably blush and stumble over his words and avoid doing it all-together. But if he really wanted them to know… Haru would tell them how they occupy his mind so much that he cannot focus on his work, and that it’s really a problem but it’s a problem he doesn’t seem to mind having.  Tagged by: @vylbrand Tagging: All y’all @vylbrand @rgael @ff14vamir