#death cycle and despite her best efforts he does die over and over again and theres nothing she can do to truly save him

[arolesbianism]

Let it not be forgotten how much I love Abby. She is the character of all time. 2 me. It's me and my needlessly in depth Abby hcs against the world

[angelofchaos001]

Meet the Parasite

(Images soon to be seen)

The Parasite is one of my scugs, lol

Anyway backstory time and then gameplay stuff: (Info under cut)

Whisp was an older pup who was going out with their siblings, another unrelated slugpup, two adults, and Gourmand to gather food and explore. They split up at some point in Industrial Complex, with Gourmand instructing one group to visit Shoreline for some snacks and the group he led was going to visit Pebbles for some delicious neuron flies. Whisp was with Gourmand, along with her siblings and one adult.

Anyway, they were going up through Unfortunate Development due to lack of karma for the Wall, and as they did, of course, rot does what rot does best and attempts to eat them. Despite Gourmand's best efforts to keep the whole group alive, the other adult was sucked in and devoured. Whisp was also attacked trying to save them, but was pulled away by her siblings.

Once they got to Febbles, and (begrudgingly) he gave them marks, he pointed out clearly that Whisp had the rot infection growing inside of her from the attack. He suggested to kill it immediately, and almost did, if not for Gourmand being a protective father figure. Gourmand insisted he'd take care of it. 'Taking care of it' ended up being abandoning Whisp in a shelter in Pebbles, hoping she died on her own without much food or protection. He couldn't bear to directly kill the poor pup.

Fast forward some time, Whisp hasn't died. Instead of the rot consuming her from within, she's grown with it. Become dependent on it to survive. A diet of nothing but neuron flies and rot, happily munching on Febbles like any other creature would. Overtime, she got bigger and grew more, becoming similar to the Daddy Long Legs she lived with. Of course, every day was a struggle to get enough food for both herself and the rot growing in and on her, especially while trying not to get absorbed by other rot, but soon enough she started eating the rot creatures as well.

Eventually, come the time when Pebbles collapses. Without his structure to thrive in, the rot, including Whisp, begins to wither away and die. However, Whisp, being more intelligent than your average rot creature, isn't going to take this. With an insatiable hunger and a limited amount of time, she has plans to make it to the next suitable host. Someone who recently became a little more active, just enough for the rot to have a chance of surviving in there.

Okay now gameplay shit

The Parasite needs 9 pips to hibernate, and can hold 3 over for the next cycle. They are omnivorous, and can maul dead creatures.

They are locked on a cycle timer, similar to Hunter, that starts at 20. It decreases by 1 upon both death and a successful hibernation. To counteract the fact it will go down much quicker, the cycle timer can be increased by mauling creatures of rot, who, instead of giving you food, give you a number of cycles proportional to the creature. (Baby gives 3, Brother gives 5, Daddy gives 8, and, if you somehow did it, Mother gives 12) The max number of cycles you can have at any time is 45. Further cycle gain does nothing.

Their main gimmick, however, is the fact that they change forms (and with it, abilities) depending on many cycles you have left.

With 1-19 cycles left, you assume a form similar to a Brother Long Legs. You have small rot tendrils, small cycles, and a black-brown color to you. Your only capabilities are a tentacle whip (a short range attack done when pressing throw without holding an item), and the power to cling/climb walls (touching the wall and holding the direction of it grabs it, up or down moves you up or down, jumping releases it). Creatures scared of rot are scared of you for 17.5 seconds the first time they see you each cycle.

With 20-39 cycles left, you assume a form similar to a Daddy Long Legs. You have much larger rot cycles and tentacles, enough that they can propel you in the air with great force. Tapping jump again in the air, provided you are close to the ground, will prompt the tentacles to launch you upwards and in the direction you're facing. You also have the tentacle whip and can climb walls. Creatures scared of rot are scared of you for 17.5 seconds the first time they see you each cycle. Thrown spears can be blocked by the tentacles passively, though it does stun them for a bit and disable the tentacle whip (they can also be deflected with a well-timed whip).

With 40-45 cycles left, you assume a form similar to a Mother Long Legs. You have huge cysts, taking most of your body, and long tentacles as well. As well as propelling yourself with a double jump, you have increased movement speed, jump height, backflip height, crouch jump distance, and wall jump height/distance. You can still climb walls and have the tentacle whip. Creatures scared of rot are scared of you for 30 seconds the first time they see you each cycle. Thrown spears can be blocked passively or by a whip, but a spear hit as a 15% chance to not kill. Lizard bites, except for 100% lethal ones, are always non-lethal. Your spears and tentacle whip also do more damage, being 1.2 and 1 respectively. (Tentacle whip normally is .8)

The way to get more cycles is by eating rot: But that only exists in Pebbles, right? Wrong, at least with this guy. A creature killed with a tentacle whip will come back the next cycle as a rot creature, depending on what it was. Small creatures (Snails, Batflies, etc) simply die. Medium creatures (Scavs, Yeeks, Most lizards) become Baby Long Legs (described below). Larger creatures (Red lizards, Vultures) become Brother Long Legs. You can then kill and maul them for more cycles (do we warned, they can still kill you)

The Parasite has a hefty damage increase against rot. Any attack considered to be from you deals extra damage to a rot creature. (Exact numerical increase tbd, but it's enough to kill a Brother in 3-4 spears)

Baby Long Legs are small rot creatures that are teal or cyan in color. They are considerably smaller than most rot creatures, being similarly sized to a Hunter Long Legs (slightly smaller). They are considerably weak, with little ways to defend themselves and both blind and deaf, but still have 50 health. They do have an explosive weakness.

The Parasite starts in Silent Construct, waking up in the same room as Febbles, from an inactive (but alive) Proto Long Legs. Your goal is to either ascend or reach Moon. However, as the rot spreads and Moon has some power, she has taken the precaution to lock all gates leading into Frigid Coast to Karma 10 so that (hopefully) no creature carrying the rot could get anywhere near her. You start with 5 max karma, and visiting echoes raises it normally. The intro cutscene shows a view of Pebbles' collapsed structure, then goes in closer to a cluster of Daddy Long Legs. Then it focuses on one in particular, the one with the slugcat body. Then the game comes in focus with the bitch waking up. Pebbles makes some offhand comments about you, a mix of fear and confusion, but mostly just begs you to leave. Preferably, to go find your way to where the land fissures and leave everyone alone. You can attack him just to be a silly goober, he does not like it.

The world is in Saint structure, snow and all. Anyway, the two endings are these:

Ascencion

Getting to 10 karma and simply doing an ascend is an option. This results in the ending being images of The Parasite swimming in the sea, a dark substance coming off of them. As they swim closer, they see the slugcat tree. The last of the darkness comes off, and they turn around to see the darkness form into a golden rot creature behind them. Finally freed of their affliction, they swim away towards the tree and ascend.

Infection

If you get to 10 karma and instead choose to go to Frigid Coast, eventually reaching Moon, she is terrified and confused how you got in there. She does her best to keep herself as far as she can be from you. Her dialogue includes pleas for her life, appeals to the slugcat inside of the Parasite, as well as grief for how bad Pebbles must be right now and threats on you (despite her not being able to do much). Leaving causes her to be relieved, re-entering confuses and scares her. De to the gravity distortions that happen periodically it's not hard to bonk her with a tentacle whip, prompting her to fall to the ground and writhe on the floor of her chamber, starting the ending sequence.

The ending involves the Parasite attacking Moon (color dependent on form), striking her eye. She covers the wound, but then removes her hand to show the cyst in her puppet. As she falls to the ground, the Parasite stands over, watching her depending on their form. As a Brother, they are crouched by her, gently poking her with one of their tentacle. As a Daddy, they tower over her, tentacles menacingly threatening to drag her away. As a Mother, they take most of the image up, binding Moon in all their tentacles as the game fades out.

Dumb Shit to exist

-Attempting to return to the slugcat tree (One where Monk, Survivor, and Gourmand are from) prompts Gourmand to come flying out of the air and crush you, killing you instantly with funky dialogue. The dialogue may be specific to the form (Are the purple ones . . . even stronger? ; A monster of blue, gone. ; Even the smallest thing can kill), but usually references defending the others (I won't let you hurt the others! ; Your illness will not reach us.), expressing confusion how you got here (How did such a creature come so far? ; Are you from that robot?), or showing regret and sorrow over what happened to you (I wanted to save you, Whisp ; The one I lost . . .)

Creatures with the mark can talk normally with each other in my hc. (Also this is pretty much just a joke thing so don't take it too seriously)

Yeah this thing is taking up space in my brain lol. IDK if it's balanced or fits in lore, I don't really care about it too much, because I'm just kinda happy with this result.

By the way, the reason they never died of old age is bc 1) cycle and 2) the rot kept them alive.

If they ever got in-game, it would also add some minor rot creatures in Moon's region as that is the canon ending for the Parasite.

[princesssarisa]

A defense of the ending of “Wuthering Heights"

@astrangechoiceoffavourites, @theheightsthatwuthered, @wuthering-valleys, @heightsandmoors, @incorrectwutheringheightsquotes

 I’ve been reading other people’s opinions on Wuthering Heights this past year, I’ve noticed a small recurring theme.

It’s the idea that the ending feels out of place; tacked on; anti-climactic; too tame compared to the rest of the book. That it feels wrong for Heathcliff to simply lose interest in his revenge and then lose the will to live, or for the surviving characters to have any kind of happy or hopeful ending after so much brutality.

One book I read excerpts from on Google Books (I don’t remember the title or the author) suggested that maybe Emily Brontë originally wrote a very different, more brutal and Gothic ending, now lost. The author proposed that the final ending was probably the result of Anne and/or Charlotte urging Emily to tone down the book’s “immorality.” Of course this is pure conjecture. This same author also speculated that in the novel’s first draft, Heathcliff was explicitly Mr. Earnshaw’s illegitimate son, but that Anne and/or Charlotte persuaded Emily to change it. I’m not at all convinced by that theory, since @astrangechoiceoffavourites has argued very eloquently that to make Heathcliff and Cathy’s love forbidden because of the incest taboo rather than because of social class and race would go against the plot’s main themes and make nonsense of Heathcliff’s revenge on the Lintons and Earnshaws.

Still, this theorist isn’t the only person to think the ending (and possibly the whole second generation storyline) feels like the work of a different author than the rest of the book. Just recently I read a comment on Facebook arguing that a more cohesive, consistent Wuthering Heights would have had “a much darker and more explosive ending.” I assume a similar mindset is why some theorize that Branwell wrote the novel’s first half and Emily wrote the second. (I think I hate that theory even more than I hate the theory that Branwell wrote it all – “He didn’t write the whole book, but he did write the part everyone likes best.”) And if we compare the various adaptations’ endings to the ending of the book, there’s definitely a trend of giving Heathcliff a more brutal death.

I understand all of this. The ending of the book is ironic. Heathcliff himself knows it’s ironic: “It is a poor conclusion, is it not?” he asks Nelly, “an absurd termination to my violent exertions?” We don’t expect a towering, terrifying yet fascinating Byronic anti-hero like Heathcliff to become apathetic and ineffectual in the end and then die quietly (albeit mysteriously and eerily) in bed. We’d sooner expect him to freeze to death chasing Cathy’s ghost through a blizzard, or to be shot by his worst enemy, or to be lured by Cathy’s ghost to commit suicide by gunshot.

But I know I’m not the only person who thinks the entire book is fully cohesive and who sees nothing wrong with the ending whatsoever.

As far as I’m concerned, Heathcliff’s “absurd” end is more interesting than anything “darker and more explosive” would have been, precisely because it’s unexpected and yet makes perfect sense. Revenge never makes Heathcliff truly happy or brings him peace of mind: we know that all along. It might distract him from his pain, but it can’t cure it. While initially surprising, in hindsight it’s not surprising at all that, with no out-of-character repentance or remorse, he eventually loses the will to seek any more revenge. At heart it was never what he really wanted most; his real greatest desire is and always has been to be with Cathy.

Then there’s the strongest factor in his loss of his will for revenge: his grudging empathy for Hareton. Again, as far as I’m concerned, this is fascinating irony. Heathcliff has purposefully set out to shape Hareton into a copy of himself. Ultimately, that scheme “goes horribly right,” because he sees too much of his younger self in Hareton to hate him as much as he wants to, or to have the will to separate him from Cathy II the way he himself was separated from Cathy I. Then there’s Hareton’s resemblance to his aunt, Cathy I; even though Heathcliff’s passion for Cathy has been the motive for all his revenge on the two families that separated them, in the end it’s what makes him unable to ruin the lives of her lookalike nephew and her daughter, even though they’re also the children of the two men most responsible for taking Cathy from him. Again, it works because it’s handled delicately and without sentimentality. He still shows no remorse or regret for his past actions, and never shows any real kindness or fondness to Hareton or Cathy II, but despises the conflicted feelings they stir in him. But the fact remains that, despite all his efforts to be a monster over the years, he’s still a human being, capable of some empathy for people in whom he sees aspects of himself and of his beloved Cathy. I think it’s fascinating that this humanity, and not his monstrous actions, is what undoes him in the end.

Also, as some critics have pointed out, the very fact that Heathcliff receives no punishment for his sins (apart from his inner torment) makes the ending subversive by Victorian standards. If he had died a brutal death, it could easily have been viewed as his comeuppance, demonstrating God’s justice. From a moral and religious perspective, it might be all the more disturbing that instead he gets to die as close to a peaceful death as his character allows, with a devilish smile on his face.

Moving beyond Heathcliff’s death, I don’t see anything wrong with Hareton and Cathy II′s ending either.

First of all, it isn’t necessarily a straightforward happy ending. It’s definitely bittersweet if we have any sympathy for Heathcliff, and not just because he dies. This penniless, abused, disdained orphan of color defied the classism and racism of his society by clawing his way to wealth and status and by bringing down the two families who once oppressed him, but in the end, it’s all for nothing. Wuthering Heights and Thrushcross Grange go back to the Earnshaw and Linton heirs and the only trace left of Heathcliff is a single name and death date on a tombstone. He’s just as much of a “nobody” in death as he was as a homeless child. Of course it’s tempting to cheer for this fact because of his cruelty and because Cathy II and Hareton are sympathetic, basically innocent young people whom he unfairly punished for their parents’ sins. But in a way at least, especially in Marxist readings of the book (which I don’t fully agree with but do see validity in), the ending can be viewed as the triumph of the classist and racist status quo.

Nor, as some critics have argued, is it guaranteed that Cathy II and Hareton will live happily ever after. First of all, the fact remains that Hareton loved and loyally served Heathcliff to the end, and to please Hareton, Cathy had to stop speaking out against Heathcliff even though he had horribly abused her. There’s also the fact that Hareton once hit Cathy himself; only once, and before they were even friends, let alone lovers, but in the real world it rarely bodes well for a woman to marry a man who once slapped her. A few critics have wondered if Hareton is really permanently “tamed” in the end, or will eventually revert to the roughness Heathcliff bred in him and abuse his new power and status the same way Heathcliff did. On the flip side, there’s the fact that apart from her conceding not to criticize Heathcliff, Cathy seems to rule over Hareton almost as much as her mother did over Heathcliff when they were children. She educates him, he craves her esteem and does her bidding, and in his lessons she meets his mistakes and inattention (however playfully) with “smart slaps” and threats of hair-pulling. Some critics have wondered if we should view these as red flags; if Cathy II is destined to be an emotional abuser like her mother was.

But even if you don’t subscribe to those darker interpretations of the ending... even if you view Cathy and Hareton as fundamentally good people who genuinely grow and change for the better, find a healthy balance between the worlds of Thrushcross Grange and Wuthering Heights, and will be truly happy together... well, what’s wrong with that?

Is it really so impossible to believe that sometimes the cycle of abuse can be broken, or so “out of place” to show it being broken at the end of a book that shows its horrors? Is it just naïve delusion to hope that, with effort, children can avoid repeating their parents’ mistakes and opposing social structures like the Heights and the Grange can be reconciled? That at least one young couple might manage to combine the good aspects of both worlds while discarding the bad, rather than combining the worst of both worlds the way Heathcliff did? Just because the book is dark as a whole, do we really need to be so cynical when reading it that we can’t allow it to end on a note of hope?

Besides, I’ve written before about the mirror-image character arcs of the two Cathys. Cathy I is born and raised at Wuthering Heights, but eventually leaves it for Thrushcross Grange when she marries the latter household’s heir; she initially loves the rugged dark-haired Heathcliff and wanders the moors with him, but then gains snobbery, treats Heathcliff with increasing disdain, and shifts her attentions to the prissy blond-haired Edgar, whom she marries; as a result, her life ends in misery. Cathy II is born and raised at Thushcross Grange, but eventually she leaves it for Wuthering Heights when she marries the latter household’s heir; she initially loves the prissy blond-haired Linton, whom she marries, and treats the rugged dark-haired Hareton with disdain, but eventually she loses her snobbery, learns to love Hareton, and wanders the moors with him. In no way is Cathy II’s positive ending “tacked on” – her entire character arc is structured to be the opposite of her mother’s tragedy.

I understand why some people don’t care for the ending and think it feels anti-climactic or out of place. But as far as I’m concerned, it’s a thoroughly effective ending and fully consistent with what came before.

[komahinasecretexchange]

Title: Delicate Cycle

Author: @cellophanerose

For: @akito666us

Rating/Warnings: G/No warnings apply!

Prompt: Hinata helps Komaeda to recover from PTSD

Author’s notes: Hello!  It’s my first time writing fic, but I still hope you enjoy!  It’s more of “Hinata helps Komaeda recover” in general - I hope that’s ok!  Thanks for reading!

Hinata had already known that his past was indelible, even if he couldn’t remember it.  This was something that class 77-B all had in common – their lives in despair seemed like a hazy memory of a story someone once told, not the painful truth of how responsible they all were for the effective end of the world.  Ironically, most of the class more clearly remembered what had happened in the simulation, even though only the “survivors” left with their memories completely intact. Still, it wasn’t something easily brought up – asking a murder victim if they remembered how they died, or the blackened if they could still feel the phantom pains from their executions.  Because that was the thing – although no physical harm was carried over, the mental scars cut deeper than any murder weapon.

Despite all their attempts to move forward and forgive each other, Koizumi still flinched when she ran into Pekoyama alone, and Sainoji surreptitiously rubbed her throat when she thought no one was looking.   Hanamura froze up when his batter splashed onto him, and Tanaka clutched his fists hard enough to draw blood when loud stampeding sounded. Truly, even a fictional past was inescapable, but they all silently agreed that this would be their penance.

However, Hinata noted, Komaeda remained virtually unaffected.  No panic attacks when walking by the warehouse, no nervous sweating at the sight of ropes or fire, not even the spears they used for fishing or bright red containers..

“It was something I did to myself, Hinata-kun,” Komaeda once tried to explain.  “I knew exactly what to expect and prepared myself for that. Besides, I’ve been in plenty of other terrible accidents and trauma-inducing situations!” Komaeda tried laughing it off, but Hinata still felt he wasn’t getting the whole truth.  But, since he had nothing to go on save for a gut feeling, Hinata decided to let it go for now. Plenty of his classmates vocally asked for his guidance, so he wasn’t going to pull teeth trying to get Komaeda to reach out for help. He wouldn’t even worry about it!  At all!

Or so Hinata had told himself.  Until, one night, his mind was screaming at him that he wasn’t doing enough – that he would never be enough – that offering his entire being to the sacrificial altar of Hope’s Peak Academy for a chance to mean something still wasn’t enough – kept him awake.  (Between visions of a talentless reserve, a bored god, and a dead digital girl, he hardly ever slept through the night, but none of his friends needed to know this.) Tonight, however, instead of futilely chasing sleep that was never coming for him, Hinata slipped his sneakers on and stepped outside.  He figured he could do some preliminary work for the day ahead, namely making rounds and noting any malfunctioning equipment or depleted supplies, but truthfully he just felt the need to move.

Hinata left his cottage and headed towards the communal washing machines when he noticed the light was already on.  Not an odd thing, per se – several of his peers also had trouble sleeping, but the quiet music did pique his curiosity.  It was definitely a familiar song, but he didn’t connect the dots until he opened the door and found Komaeda kneeling on the ground, looking like a marionette whose strings had been cut.  It was then it all came together in Hinata’s mind – the heat from the fire, the smoke causing his eyes to tear, the pounding of feet and the shattering of bottles, and finally the sprinklers turning on, leaving only the overwhelming feeling of dread and anxiety for reasons he was too afraid to confront.  So many sensations had led up to that point, but when they pulled back the curtain, all Hinata could remember was ((despair)). The smell of blood, the look of terror permanently affixed to his face, the spear grotesquely impaling his stomach, every nauseating detail came giftwrapped in a single thought, a single moment, a single truth – Komaeda was dead.

Hinata snapped back into the present.

Komaeda was alive, and he needed Hinata’s help.  Hinata instinctually dashed to the radio and slammed the power button, then immediately pivoted and fell onto the floor beside Komaeda.  Komaeda’s usually crisp and clear eyes were faded and swirling with a slight darkness, and his façade was distressingly blank.

“Komaeda,” Hinata was shaking, but he still placed both of his hands on Komaeda’s shoulders in an effort to ground him.  His grip tightened when he received no answer.

“Komaeda!” he raised his voice, panic bubbling inside him, “It’s okay!  I’m here with you.” He couldn’t eloquently string words of comfort together, but he tried his best.  “You’re safe, you aren’t alone, you’re going to be fine, just please listen to me!”  Komaeda offered no reassurance that the words were reaching him and continued staring blankly through Hinata, to a place only he could see.

Hinata’s hands were still trembling when he wrapped his arms around Komaeda.  They had never been physically intimate like this, but at that moment, Hinata needed to feel Komaeda’s warmth just as much as Komaeda needed Hinata.  “I’m here,” Hinata mumbled, surprising himself when the words, “I’ll always be here,” slipped out. The most shocking part, Hinata found, was that he wanted it to be true.

Hinata had lost many of his friends during the killing game, and he cared about each one of them, but he would be lying if he said Komaeda’s death didn’t leave an especially strong impact on him.  Even after it was revealed that Komaeda had orchestrated his own death, Hinata felt a sadness and regret that he didn’t want to name at the time. Nanami paid the ultimate price for Komaeda’s actions when she didn’t get the choice, so it was easy to bury those earlier feelings under anger and frustration.  After everything had settled, and Hinata was reunited with their digital classmate in a moment of great distress, he couldn’t ignore those buried feelings.

Hinata didn’t want Komaeda to be alone.  Luck had constantly torn those who cared about Komaeda away from him, leaving him with no one who loved him.  Komaeda had told Hinata once that he was afraid of dying alone, and though Hinata at the time fell for Komaeda’s lie of “it was something I read in a book!” it wasn’t because Hinata truly believed it, but rather because it was easier to do so.  Komaeda had given him an out in the form of a flimsy lie, and Hinata had taken it.  Of course Komaeda was afraid of dying alone – after spending as much time as he had with Komaeda, it was an obvious conclusion for Hinata to reach.  And yet, Komaeda manufactured a situation where he would not only die alone, but also in such a horrific manner. He chose to die alone, and that was something Hinata could never accept.

So when Komaeda finally raised his arms to return Hinata’s embrace, Hinata felt such a wave of relief and calm that it nearly brought tears to his eyes.  

~

When Komaeda came to, he admonished himself for being so weak, and started brainstorming ways to explain his reaction away.  Telling Hinata he wasn’t having problems with his death, and yet here he was, putting on such an unsightly display. …Actually, what was Hinata doing here in the first place?  Embracing Komaeda, of all people? Maybe it had something to do with why Hinata was shaking, he thought. He might as well venture a guess (and buy himself some more time in the process.)

“Hinata-kun, why are you shaking so much?  Are you getting sick, maybe?” The question was asked in earnest, but Hinata reacted with anger.

“Don’t make light of this!  Do you really think I would be so heartless as to not react?” Hinata was still trembling, but he let his arms fall from Komaeda and balled his hands into fists.  Komaeda felt a flash of disappointment before curiosity returned. Maybe he was thinking of this the wrong way?

“…Are you angry with me, Hinata-kun?”  Komaeda felt a little silly trying to have a conversation while kneeling on the floor, but he wasn’t going to complain.

“Is it really that hard for you to imagine that I was worried about you, Komaeda?  That I feel things other than anger and boredom?” Hinata stood up, and Komaeda quickly followed.  Hinata looked directly into Komaeda’s eyes, but whatever he was searching for, he must not have been able to find.  “…Sorry,” Hinata continued, “this isn’t… I just was scared, all right? Hearing that music, and seeing you like that, I… Actually, it doesn’t matter.”  Komaeda was ready to refute that ‘No, it actually matters a great deal,’ but Hinata still continued.

“Are you ok, Komaeda?  Does that happen often?”  Hinata looked painfully earnest, so Komaeda held back his self-deprecating comments for now.

“Thank you for worrying about me, Hinata-kun, but I’m all right.   That song simply caught me off-guard. Up until today, I had completely forgotten it was part of my plan.  Only somebody totally useless like me would let such an insignificant thing shut them down!” Komaeda hoped Hinata would let his ‘useless’ slide for now.  Hinata sighed and placed his hand on Komaeda’s shoulder.

“It’s ok to not be all right, you know?  I know you don’t think you’re worth it, but we’re all here to support each other.  You went through something terrible. And don’t say it doesn’t count ‘cause you did it to yourself!  You wouldn’t be collapsed in front of a washing machine at 3 AM if you weren’t hurting. Maybe you don’t even realize it, but even if that pain isn’t on the surface, I want to remove it from you.”  Hinata held Komaeda’s robotic hand with both of his own. “I won’t let you get lost in despair again.”

Komaeda was deeply shaken by those words, and even if he wanted so badly to believe them, he just couldn’t bring himself to do so.  He ached to open up, to lay everything out to Hinata that he couldn’t even tell himself, but he knew he wasn’t brave enough to do so.  Instead, he fell back into his failsafe: being contentious.

“Haha…Tell me, Hinata-kun, what makes you think you have the power to do such a thing?  What could a failure of a reserve course guinea pig do to help someone like me?” He was on a dangerous line, he knew - already he had slipped up and admitted that he needed help.  But the faster he hurt Hinata and pushed him far enough away, the better. “I never asked for your pity.”

The words stung both of them, Komaeda realized.  He was so used to pushing away people he cared about, but hurting Hinata felt especially vile.  However, Hinata surprised him by doing the exact opposite of what he’d planned - instead of getting angry and storming off, he agreed.

“I guess I am pretty useless,” Hinata started.  “I’ve always known I was a failure, and you’ve never hidden your contempt for that part of me.  But I won’t let that stop me. Because I know you, and I know you want this,” Hinata laced his fingers with Komaeda’s, “And so do I.  You can’t push me away this time, Komaeda.”

Komaeda’s heart was pounding so loudly that he was afraid the roof would collapse from the sound.  He looked up into Hinata’s eyes and saw all stubborn determination and kindness and hope.  Komaeda’s lips trembled.

How long had he wanted this?  Someone to talk to him, someone to comfort him?  Someone to take his hand and make silly, irresponsible promises?

“…I guess if you’re going to be that stubborn, I won’t be able to stop you,” Komaeda tried saying nonchalantly, but a genuine smile was sneaking its way onto his face.  He still couldn’t bring himself to fully believe it, but looking at Hinata’s expression, he couldn’t not believe it either. Hinata relaxed in understanding of Komaeda’s thinly veiled acceptance.  He squeezed Komaeda’s hand once more before letting it drop. Suddenly, it was like the force that was keeping Hinata steady had vanished and his visage changed to one of pure exhaustion. He swayed towards Komaeda, who held him upright.

“Hey, Hinata-kun?  Have you been sleeping poorly lately, perhaps?”   He paused for a second before deciding to take it a step further.   “I’ve also had problems sleeping recently. Do you want to talk about it?”  Hinata looked like he wanted to object, but realized the hypocrisy of such and decided to answer honestly.

“A little bit.  Nightmares, y’know?  Sometimes I can’t get my brain to shut off,” Hinata admitted. “ A lot of the times I can’t remember if what I see in my dreams is real or not.”  Komaeda had a hunch on what Hinata was referring to, but didn’t interrupt. “…Sometimes, I dream about you.” Komaeda jolted to attention.

“Ah, my features are quite haunting, I suppose-” before Komaeda could spit any more vitriol, Hinata cut him off.

“About your death,” Hinata clarified.  Komaeda’s vision briefly flashed to visions of fire and blood and pain, but a quick squeeze of Hinata’s arm brought him back to reality.  Well, that was surprising. Komeada chalked it up to sleep deprivation that Hinata was admitting this, because the thought that he wanted Komaeda to know how much it affected him was too much to handle.  

“…Do you want to tell me?” Komaeda didn’t know how far he could push his boundaries.

“No- I mean - yes, but… I do want to talk with you eventually, but I’m not sure if I have enough energy for it right now.”  Was his death truly something that haunted Hinata to such a point? Komaeda had no reason to believe he was lying, but still…

“Let’s try getting some sleep, then,” Komaeda suggested instead.  “We can always talk more at a later time!” Komaeda gave Hinata a tired, but bright, smile.  He was elated when Hinata returned one in kind.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Hinata grinned.  Hinata was so bright, like a beacon of hope for Komaeda, but he was still so human and flawed.  He had felt a kinship with Hinata from the very first time they met, but through all the trials and tribulations they went through, Komaeda had found himself drawn to something more than a feeling of similarity.  He listened to Komaeda’s ramblings, and while he didn’t always agree, he always engaged. It felt like someone was finally seeing him, and that prickly kindness Hinata offered was ‘hope’ in his eyes.

Yes, to say Hinata was Komaeda’s hope wasn’t an exaggeration.  Every version of Hinata was dear to him, and the man standing before him despite all odds was the man he grew to love.

~

Hinata was dizzy with exhaustion and giddiness (at being heard, at finally reaching out and being honest with Komaeda, at Komaeda reaching back) that when Komaeda gave a small wave and turned to leave, he called out to him.

“Komaeda!”  Maybe Hinata didn’t want this bubble to pop because he was afraid that, even after tonight, nothing would change, or maybe he could blame sleep deprivation.  But when Komaeda turned around in response and Hinata pulled him into a hug and whispered, “thanks,” Hinata realized there wasn’t a reason - he just wanted to hold Komaeda. Hinata was treated to the sight of a slightly red-faced Komaeda, awkwardly deciding how to react.

“Nnnh…No problem?” Komaeda asked, clearly looking for an explanation from Hinata.  However, when Hinata dropped his arms and walked away, he left Komaeda with nothing but a ‘good night.’  If Hinata’s ears were burning by the time he got back to his cabin, Komaeda didn’t need to know.  

That night, he dreamt of soft touches and interlocking fingers, of white hair and pale eyes.

Hinata wasn’t naive enough to believe that this was the end of nightmares or breakdowns for either of them, but when Komaeda invited him to stargaze and air some more things out before they fell asleep, he had hope that both of them were healing.  Even when Komaeda’s luck inevitably brought a storm that covered the stars and drenched them both to the bone, Hinata had never felt as calm as he did when Komaeda dozed off while leaning his head against his shoulder. He spent a long time listening to the soft sound of Komaeda’s breathing and feeling the slight movements beside him before following Komaeda into sleep.

While it was still true that they couldn’t erase their pasts, they can still move towards a brighter future together.

[rosethesongbird]

Alone

Content warning: violence, abuse, mentions of amputation, blood, vomit (emeto), drug abuse, temporary character death... this is a rough one, guys. 

Day to day life (if you could call being imprisoned in a basement with no windows “life”) was not easy, for Serizawa. Crawling around on the floor on amputated stumps with no companionship or help most of the time. One meal a day, at best. Bouncing back and forth between being so drugged up he couldn’t think straight and withdrawals that made him vomit until his throat bled. And on top of it all, living in constant fear of further violence—sometimes because of something he did. Sometimes because of something someone else did. Sometimes random, unprompted. Like he was a human punching bag. Sleeping on the floor like a dog, often in a puddle of his own blood, sweat, and tears. It was, quite honestly, hell.

Getting sick down there?

That was worse. 

The first sign was the fact that he slept. Most people lose sleep when they aren’t well. However, when you’re plagued by horrifying, vivid, realistic nightmares six or seven times a night, you don’t sleep well, ever. And yet there he was, getting shaken awake by Minegishi. 

“Serizawa, wake up,” he frowned. “Are you alright? It’s lunchtime,” 

“Mh,” he blinked his eyes open, using his bandaged upper arms to rub the sleep from them. “Must’ve been tired,” 

“Apparently. Come on, sit up. I’ve got okayu for you today.” Minegishi reached out his hand, gently lifting him off the floor, cautious when touching constantly bruised ribs. “You feel warm.”

“My head hurts.” Serizawa desperately wanted to squeeze the pressure points at his temples, strong fingertips rubbing all over his scalp, alleviating the headache. Really, that was what he missed the most about not having arms. It really made him realize how seldom he was touched. 

“I’ll ask President Suzuki if I can get some medicine for you. Here, eat. We’ll both get in trouble if he notices I’m down here too long.” 

He opened his mouth obediently, going through a few spoonfuls before wincing and turning away. “No more. I feel sick.” 

Minegishi frowned again. “Are you sure?” 

“Mm-hmm,” he squeezed his eyes shut, laying back down onto the cold concrete floor, supporting his head on what was left of his arms as he curled up into a ball. “I feel faint.” 

“I-I’ll try my best, but—he’s in a really bad mood already,” Minegishi hung his head in shame. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to come back until tomorrow.” 

He took in a shaky breath. His headache was getting worse. “Not your fault, M’negishi,” he whispered, slurring. “Don’ worry.”

He heard Minegishi sniffling as he rose, wordlessly, and left the room, door clicking shut behind him. 

Probably nothing, he thought. Maybe a weird one-day bug or something. Mama always said it was good to sweat a fever out, anyway.

I’ve handled worse. 

He lay there, face down on the floor, for what felt like hours; the only indication of his life being the slow, shaky rise and fall of his back with every breath. Focus. In and out. In and out. Don’t throw up. Focus. His head was pounding stronger and stronger, and he felt beads of sweat dripping off his forehead. 

He deeply regretted the few bites of porridge as they finally came back up, burning and stinging his mouth and nose until there was nothing left in his stomach. The motion of gagging and retching ignited a burning pain in his stomach.

He slowly crawled away from the vomit, spitting in a desperate attempt to get rid of the disgusting taste. The burning pain did not subside, and he felt an intense need to rub his sore stomach—like Mama did, when I was little, Mama, I don’t feel good. A sensation of freezing cold came over him as he started to shiver, cowering in the opposite corner of the room, his back to the door. Several short cycles of sleep went by, interrupted by waves of nausea causing him to gag, his curls sticking to his sweaty forehead despite still feeling like he was in a freezer. Focus. Focus. Breathe in, breathe out. You’re okay. Mama, help. It’s okay. You’re okay. Focus. In, out. Throw up. Don’t throw up. Breathe. Mama. 

He flinched, yelping at the sudden touch on his shoulder. The burning pain had graduated to an excruciating stabbing pain, with a feeling like someone twisting a knife every time he moved, and he realized his breathing was shallow in an effort to minimize it. 

“It’s okay, it’s just me,” said Minegishi. “I got some medicine for you. Open up.” 

“Mmmmh. Can’t,” he whined. “Throw up.” 

“Just try. It’s all I can give you.” 

He cautiously opened his mouth, allowing Minegishi to place a few pills on his tongue, as they had so many times before. Usually, it was a blessing, but to his fever-addled mind it was a source of barely contained panic. He swallowed anyway, hoping it would cause the pain to stop. 

The back of Minegishi’s fingers brushed gently across Serizawa’s face. “You’re burning up. Where does it hurt?” 

“Stomach,” he whimpered, already feeling the medication trying to rise in his throat. 

“Let me see.” Minegishi went to pull up his shirt, revealing the multitude of bruises all over his body in various states of healing. It’s okay. You trust Minegishi. Minegishi won’t hurt you. Breathe. Breathe in. Breathe out. “Right here?” 

Serizawa screamed, seeing stars at the light pressure. Minegishi jerked his hand away at the sudden movement as the ailing man vomited from the pain, sobbing as he fell to the ground, curling in on himself in an effort to quell the waves of pain still emanating from the sore spot. 

“I-I’m sorry,” Minegishi stammered. “I… let me see if the President will let me—“

“No, no, please, please don’t,” he coughed, wincing. “Please, I’ll be fine, please don’t tell him, please—“ 

“Serizawa, I barely touched you and you screamed. You need a hospital.” He got up from the floor, walking toward the door as Serizawa exploded into feverish pleas of no, no, Minegishi, please, he’ll hurt me, please don’t, please, no, no no no. He began to weep as the door shut behind Minegishi. 

Mama, please. Please save me. Help. I need help. It hurts, I’m dying. I’m going to die. I have to protect myself. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t trust Minegishi. Minegishi wouldn’t hurt me on purpose. I have to, I have to. I have to trust Minegishi. I can’t trust anyone else. I can’t. No one cares about me. I’m dying. I’m dying alone. 

“You’re sick, Serizawa?” Touichirou crouched to the ground where he was curled up. Please. Please help. 

“I-I don’t know, sir,” 

“Minegishi here says you are. What’s wrong?” 

“M-my stomach, sir, it hurts—“ he gasped as Touichirou pulled up roughly on his shirt. “P-p-please, please be g-gentle sir—“ 

Touchirou’s two fingers pressed—hard—into the sore spot. It did hurt, but not the way Serizawa had expected. 

What hurt was when he let go. Excruciating agony, pulsing, burning, squeezing, he was screaming, he was wailing, he was dying, help, Mama, help me. He lost all inhibition as he continued weeping in front of the President and a horrified Minegishi. 

“Huh. It’s been a while since I heard you scream like that, Serizawa. Too bad you aren’t sick more often.” He jabbed his fingers into the spot once more as Serizawa shrieked before his eyes rolled back, going completely still as he blacked out. 

—

“Mama,” he cried, breaking into a sprint.

“Katsuya!”

They met in the middle, embracing, sharing tears of joy between them, his mother’s fingers in his hair. 

“I missed you so much, Mama.” 

“I missed you too, my heart.” 

She pulled back, looking at him, confused.

“Wait…you aren’t my son.”

“Mama, I am, I’m Katsuya,” 

“No,” she said, stepping back. “You’re disgusting. My son’s not like you. He’s not a cripple. He’s not a coward.” 

“Mama, I’m not—“ 

He reached out to her as his arms crumbled into dust, starting at the fingertips. 

“Look at yourself,” she said, bitterly. “You can’t comb your hair. You can’t wash yourself. You can’t feed yourself. You can’t do anything. You can’t even embrace your own mother.” 

“Mama, no, please, it’s me—“ he fell, kneeling, to the ground, losing sensation in his legs as they too faded away in the wind like ash. 

“You’re not my son.” She turned and walked away as he began wailing. 

“Mama, no, please, please come back Mama, please—“ 

“Mm… m… mama… pl… m…” 

“Shh, shh.” Shimazaki gently stroked the side of his face with the cloth Minegishi had given him. 

“How is he?” Minegishi walked in, summoned by the small pained sounds Serizawa was making.

“Delirious. He’s not really asleep but… not really awake either.” 

He crouched down to eye level with the man, now mercifully lying in a bed. “Serizawa, can you hear me?” 

Half-lidded eyes flickered, blinking, struggling to open towards the voice. “Ma…ma?” 

“No, it’s me, Minegishi. Can you feel this?” He began to vigorously rub Serizawa’s shoulder. 

A near-imperceptible lowering of the eyebrows, a shuddering sigh. Eyes dull, blurred, still barely open.

“I think that’s a no,” said Shimazaki. 

Minegishi sighed. “Okay, let’s try this. Can you feel this, Serizawa?” He steeled himself, gingerly placing a hand on his stomach and pressing lightly. 

His eyes shot open, screaming until his throat was raw, sobbing, back arching off the bed, coughing, retching, pleading, stop, Minegishi, stop, it hurts, stop, please. 

“Damn.” 

“Can’t you give him anything else?” Shimazaki cautiously began stroking him with the cloth again.

“I’ve already given him more than the max dose. Any more could kill him.” 

The excruciating touch had brought a few moments of awareness to Serizawa. After Touichirou’s rough handling, he had allowed Minegishi to move him to the infirmary as his condition worsened. The inordinate amount of pain medication he was given was enough to make his face and the tips of his stumps numb, tingling, buzzing like static—yet it still hadn’t touched the agony that had spread throughout his whole stomach. 

“Is this really okay?” He flinched as the tips of Shimazaki’s fingers brushed his sore abdomen. “His fever’s worse, and look, it’s starting to swell here.” I can’t move it. It hurts to move. It feels weird. 

“What do you want me to do, Shimazaki?” Minegishi snapped. “I’m not a surgeon, and even if I was the President won’t let me do anything.” Surgeon? I don’t want to have surgery. I’m scared.

“So what, then? We’re just going to let him die?” 

“Don’ wanna die,” he whimpered. Scared, I’m scared. Scared scared scared scared don’t wanna die. Don’t let me die. Can’t. Can’t die. Please. Mama, please. Scared. Help me. He began to panic, his breathing growing faster and shallower. 

“Shh, it’s okay, we won’t. We won’t let you die. Go back to sleep.” Shimazaki looked toward Minegishi pointedly before returning his focus to Serizawa.

“Can’t,” he moaned. “Hurts.” He would have given anything to have his hands back, or at least to have someone touch him gently, comfortingly. Mama. The ends of the manicured fingernails scrubbing his scalp. The slow, gentle circles on his chest. Anyone. He began to cry again, the sensation of tears touching his numb, overheating face almost unbearable, yet wiping them away was impossible. 

“We have to at least get that fever down,” said Minegishi, suddenly. “Could you handle a bath, Serizawa?” 

“Don’ know,” he said, gasping. “Could try.” Anything. Anything. Please. 

“Okay,” Minegishi let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Okay. I’ll go start one. Just… hold on.” 

He lay there for a moment, whining like a hurt dog, when suddenly Shimazaki spoke up. 

“I’m sorry, Serizawa.” 

“S’okay,” he somehow managed to choke out. “Not…your fault.” 

“I just…” he sighed. “I just wish we could do more.” 

“Mh, s’enough.” 

“It’s not, though. One of us should have stepped in.” 

“Th’ President’s… scary,” he wheezed. “Don’ blame you.” 

“That’s an understatement,” said Shimazaki, chuckling humorlessly. 

“Shimazaki, I—“ he started to panic, thinking of the suffering he had endured at President Suzuki’s hand— “can’t breathe,” 

Shimazaki laid his hand on Serizawa’s chest, gently, feeling for the rise and fall. “You’re okay, you’re breathing fine. Just slow down. Try to stay calm.” 

“It hurts,” he moaned. 

“Where?” 

“Everywhere,” he began to sob.

Minegishi ran back into the room, out of breath. “Okay, okay. Come on, Serizawa.” He slipped his arms under the feverish man, pulling him up quickly. 

Serizawa gasped, keening, writhing in pain at the sudden motion. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay. It’s just for a minute. You’ll be okay.” He picked him up with ease. 

The pressure on Serizawa’s stomach from being lifted up caused him to yelp, sobbing, pleading that hurts, Minegishi, please, it hurts— 

Shimazaki jumped up, interjecting “Hold on, Minegishi, slow down—slow down for just a minute—“ 

Serizawa began to slip from Minegishi’s grasp as the two began to argue.

“No, look, we have to hurry and get the fever down,” 

“But he’s really sick, Minegishi, you can’t just grab him like that.”

“What, do you have a better idea?” 

“Don’t you think he’s in enough pain as it is? Who do you think you’re helping?” 

“Well, I’d like to see you try to help every once in a while—“

Minegishi absentmindedly shifted Serizawa onto his hip, trying not to drop him. 

The pain pulled at every nerve ending, every synapse, building—cresting—crashing—he vomited, screaming, choking on stomach acid, pressing his overheating face into Minegishi’s neck, inhibitions lost, desperate for the human contact yet just as desperately wishing Minegishi would put him down, please, please, it hurts, help— 

He heard the two men calling out for him, echoing, muffled, he was choking, hyperventilating, can’t breathe, hurts, no, no, not again, no, no more—

He closed his eyes, disordered speech trailing off, passing out. 

—

It’s okay, it’s fine. It’s fine. He’s really sick. He’s overheating. The water’s not that cold but it’ll wake him up right away. I’m sure. I’m sure he’ll start complaining as soon as he touches it. 

Minegishi’s thoughts seemed to echo Shimazaki’s calm, measured words. Yes, no sense in worrying. Surely, surely Serizawa would wake up from the sensation of the bath. 

He did not. 

The two of them gently—gently, this time—lowered him into the water, curls sticking to his sweaty forehead, old worn sweatshirt billowing in the lukewarm bath to reveal the swollen, bruised abdomen. They started to let go, reassuring themselves, see, there he is, he moved a little—as he sunk, limp, into the water, Shimazaki’s heightened senses coming through in the clutch to catch his head as it lolled to one side, mouth open, breathing through dry cracked lips (but just barely). 

They sat there in silence, air in the room growing thick, heavy with the echoing thought what if he doesn’t wake up?

“If he wakes up, I—we have to take him to the hospital,” said Minegishi. 

“More so if he doesn’t, don’t you think?” Shimazaki responded. 

“I’m just—I don’t know how the President will react, but I can’t… I can’t sit by and watch this. I draw the line here.” 

Shimazaki nodded. He dipped his hand into the water, lightly pouring handful after handful of water over Serizawa’s hair. 

Minegishi approached, cautiously, uncharacteristically nervous. The pain he had caused to the man in the bath—whether by action or inaction—ate at the pit of his stomach like a parasite. He took a deep breath, steadying his shaky hands, and reached out to search for a pulse on Serizawa’s neck. 

“Well?” said Shimazaki. 

“It’s fast, but it’s weak,” he said, feeling around. “And something’s infected. His lymph nodes are all swollen.” 

“Has he cooled down at all?”

Minegishi frowned. “Maybe a little, but not much,” 

He pulled his hands away, swiftly, as Serizawa’s eyelids twitched and a low whine came from the gently parted lips. 

“Ah, there he is. See, I told you. Serizawa, wake up,” 

Serizawa struggled again to open his eyes. 

Sensation. Floating. Floating in water? Cold water. Hot. So hot. Overheating. Dying. Not dying. Breathing. Breathing. Talking? Someone is. Water. Clean—wash—bath. Gentle. Not gentle. Hurts, hurts hurts hurts hurts hurts gone. Sick. I’m sick. Me? My name. Who is it? 

“Mh,” he slurred, eyes opening, vision blurred through long eyelashes that Mama said were beautiful, so beautiful. Light. Ceiling. People, like me. They’re like me. They’re not like me. They have hands, and feet. 

“Hey,” said Shimazaki. Tears fell, unhindered, from Minegishi’s eyes, overcome with relief, I didn’t kill him, he’s alive. He’s alive. 

“Hhh... Shi… m…” lips slowly regaining feeling as the pain medication began to wear off still wouldn’t cooperate. 

“Shh, it’s alright. Don’t talk.” 

“Mm,” he nodded. 

“We’re going to get you to a doctor, okay? So don’t worry. Right, Minegishi?” 

Minegishi sniffed, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. “Right,” he sighed. “Right. How’s your stomach?” 

He moaned, voice cracking. Bad, bad, bad. Hurts. Wrong. Something’s wrong. Help. 

“I’m sorry… about earlier. I—well, I panicked.” 

He shook his head, weak, as Shimazaki poured another handful of water over his hair. “Nnn. No. S’okay.” It hurt. Hurt. Hurt hurt hurt. Don’t blame you. Hurt me. Accident. 

“Here, Minegishi. Let’s get him dry.” Shimazaki slipped his hands underneath what was left of Serizawa’s arms, slowly pulling, sliding him out of the bath. 

He whined, weak, in pain despite the careful handling. Minegishi wrapped a dry towel around his shoulders, holding him against his chest as he began to shiver in the cool air. 

“I’ll go talk to the President. See what I can get him to agree to.” 

Minegishi nodded, pulling Serizawa closer protectively. 

A feeling of warmth washed over the sick man’s face as he leaned back, relaxed despite the pain. Despite the uncertainty to come he was safe, for now, in the embrace of a trusted friend. His lips twitched into a smile, and he closed his eyes, sinking into the warmth. 

He awoke what felt like just a moment later, blearily, groggily, gasping, every breath feeling like his ribs were grinding together, surrounded by unfamiliar faces, looking toward an unfamiliar ceiling, and light, sunlight, blessed warm sunlight just barely filtering in through a nearby window. 

“That’s right, just breathe. Just keep breathing, you’re doing great, sweetheart.” A woman standing by his head was patting his cheek with her hand. Someone placed an oxygen mask on his face. Who are you? Who? Where? 

A man standing above him was shining a light in his eyes. He tried to pull his head away but it wouldn’t move. 

“Oh, thank God. I’ll go tell the guys who brought him in,” said a different woman, fading out of focus as she walked away. 

The people still in the room worked wordlessly, like he wasn’t even there, except for the woman at his head, still gently patting his cheek, running her fingers through his hair, speaking soft words of encouragement as he struggled to comprehend what was going on. 

Not… the basement? Where? Suddenly, he noticed the absence of Minegishi and Shimazaki, and began to panic. 

“Shh, you’re okay, you’re okay. We’ve got you.” The woman at his head leaned over, stroking his cheek, cooing and whispering to him. “You’re in the hospital. You’re okay.” Hospital? President Suzuki. Why? How?

Will I get punished for this? 

“Come on, Serizawa-san, you’re alright, you’re okay,” said the woman. “Can we get him some more? He’s getting a little agitated,” she said, turning to look at the man who thankfully had stopped shining a light in his eyes. 

“Yeah, I think we can up it a little. Hold on.” 

Almost immediately, his eyelids began to droop. Fine, everything’s fine. 

“Try your best to stay with us, Serizawa-san. I know the drugs are probably making you drowsy, but try to stay awake for me, okay?” 

Okay. 

A familiar voice faded in, sobbing and hiccuping as the woman from before returned to the room. 

“Thank you, thank you—I just, well, he wasn’t breathing and I, I didn’t know w-what to do—“

“I totally understand. That must have been a really scary experience for you.” 

“Yeah. Serizawa really knows how to scare the shit out of us,” chuckled another familiar voice. 

“Hey, stay awake. Look, see, your friends are here,” the woman at his head rubbed her knuckles into the back of his neck, massaging a knot that he hadn’t been able to reach for months. 

Minegishi appeared at his bedside, eyes red, gripping a very used tissue in one hand like a security blanket; Shimazaki not far behind. He stood there for a moment, sniffling, before blurting out “I thought you were dead.” 

Shimazaki chuckled. “We both did. Thank God for my teleportation. Although I think it scared the nurses.” 

The woman at his head smiled. “We’ll get you fixed up soon, okay, Serizawa-san?” 

He nodded, somnolent. 

I’m not alone.

My friends. 

I have my friends. 

[incarnateirony]

Question for fellow neurodivergents

tw/ mental health, depression, disassociation, random stresses, idk. 

tw/ I’m living 24/7 triggered lately and that’s in the post and looking for some temporary work arounds.

To begin: I’m diagnosed ASD, but generally just not... IDK, in the community, largely because my mother refused to believe anything was “wrong” with her child and summarily I was too “high functioning” (yes I know it’s a bad term, that’s the point) to be a problem, then after that life propelled me through a bunch of survivalist trauma But you know, “nothing can be wrong with my kid, she’s too smart, she tested 5th grade level in kindergarten! Collegiate level in everything by THIRD GRADE! hurDUrHeHURRR.” Just shove the kid through speech therapy to get rid of related impediments and it’s fine right?!

Eventually I got into a better situation and self managed efficiently, because Alabama barely has health care much less knowing how to treat a 30-something year old woman falling apart with a rare connective tissue disorder and autism still seen as a conversion-worthy disorder (or you know, my gayness, but hey) -- yet again, now I’m too high functioning haha autism sure whatever everybody’s autistic these days or would you like extreme approaches, these are your choices.

That said, while waiting for my engine to be repaired, I’m trapped in a situation that’s persistently rubbing against my PTSD triggers (from the survivalism period) even if theoretically benign but alternately constantly being talked at, more than to. My options are “old lady constantly talking a cycle about death, pain, hospitals, and more death and pain, even when I’m trying to silently put cereal in my face” or “in laws that mean well but don’t understand I literally can not hold conversations for 2 consecutive hours much less 8 when we escape there and they keep trying to engage me about arbitrary topics and seem disappointed that I’m not engaging.”

And I get it she’s lonely and she hurts and I feel awful but I literally don’t know what to do with an endless battery of negativity. Even trying to reroute her onto something nice like, I dunno, dogs inevitably loops back to death somehow. And for reasons above and below I am not emotionally equipped to deal with a constant negative waterfall running like I put it on ListenOnRepeat. And even if, IF you manage to break the death loop for any period of time there’s general patience levels when she shuffles around her kitchen refusing to sit down and let us get anything while she fusses over her milk going bad for an hour. Or about whatever other little thing. Until she self breaks that loop and goes back to death and pain.

Sometimes it’s “I can’t die until I do my paperwork” that is actually null paperwork her son already handled but she won’t listen and has shuffled the same paperwork for three years. I’m fairly certain this woman talks to Death every night but in her mental scape scoots around in her stroller telling him to hold on while she finishes her paperwork and somehow cons him into standing outside holding wires to put up her hummingbird feeders for the bees in October at midnight until he decides to come back another day before he hears about her milk or oxycodone again. And I know that makes me sound callous but goddamn

I really don’t have anywhere to go and simply be quiet right now. If I hide in the basement with aforementioned old lady she opens the door, risks letting the cats and dogs out, generally inserts herself, bangs things around upstairs and sets off my hyperreactivity, or just outright calls us up to do things for her that she doesn’t actually let us do for her and instead starts talking about pain and death again, generally while overworking me. I’ve repeatedly blown my hip in progressively worsening stages from my connective tissue problems in the two weeks I’ve been here, and get zero empathy despite attempted explanations that I can’t jog up and down steep 1950s stairs for her all day. Hell, I can barely climb them a few times.

Perhaps I should clarify my survivalist life cycle began with my mother taking too much oxy, and then being cut down and she snapped; pain grandmother mcgee refused to enter proper end of life care and has been taking too much oxy, and they’re weaning her down and she’s in the same withdrawls pattern; after that I migrated to an equally bad situation where I got trapped and efforts to escape backfired and turned into quite literal 10 year battlezone of survival that I still have scars and wounds from that will never heal -- how that connects to my current breakdown situation, you can figure out. All that stacked together into one big ball of FUCK YOU defines my base line of 24-7 right now much less all other irritants.  Like it stacks both chapters of my life going down an increasingly violent toilet bowl that was outside of my control into one aggressive old woman who temporarily controls my life.

That all said, even when we go to the “safe zone” of the inlaws, by the end of the night I am surrounded by eternal buzzing of conversation and expectations. Even if they aren’t talking to me specifically (after I’ve spent hours desperately trying to stay plugged in) it’s like having a fly bounce off my face repeatedly with the eternal buzzing of conversation I feel the need to try to pay attention to. But with loops of death and pain and my own actual real pain and eternal buzzing, endless buzzing, requirements of conversation, no quiet places, no place to be safe, feeling caged and rubbing related PTSD triggers, I’ve disassociated into some pretty dark mental loops lately.

Like I’m missing the days when I knew an area well enough to find the right park to disappear into the woods of and hide under a bridge there or something and just sit there and disappear for a while. Not that I can really motor around well enough to do that now anyway.

It took me a while to add up WHY this batshit crazy 88 year old woman was doing such a number on me since I’ve literally had my life burn down and people I love die and just packed up and kept soldiering on while barely blinking, but I recently put it together and there’s the big ball of FUUUUUUUUUCK NO WONDER but now that I KNOW it I still can’t figure out how to situationally FIX the other stressers that keep compounding the neverending PTSD+stress loop.

Bonus points just to put icing on the shitcake, I used to smoke a pack of cigarettes a day. I converted to vaping, then to low mil vaping. Guess who banned vaping inside? Guess who gets magically spotted any time I step out? Guess who is living in an eternal nic fit on top of this and has regressed a year of quitting to just about eat cigarettes when I get five minutes of peace, and yet despite my best efforts of eating them in desperation, have taken a solid week per pack, because that’s how little time I have to myself, despite outright chain smoking at the inlaws, I’m not even kidding. (Guess who is rebelliously vaping at midnight in said basement since it smells like candy and I know her ass is unconscious and won’t pop open the goddamn door)

“Seek treatment” is sort of pointless where I live, lemme put that out there now, especially since I’m yet again trying to leave the state in a few days.

But does anyone have any particular stim methods or... anti-stim for that matter that can help in this sort of situation to just decompress my eternal overload turning into hardcore shut down? I’m not nonverbal but by about 7-8PM these days I *become* nonverbal. Before I run out of metaphorical spoons in the morning I’m still myself, if with my awkward social function, but by 8PM it’s like someone’s wired my jaw shut or disconnected TalkerBox.Exe or unplugged something because even with all the thoughts in the world, I literally can not will my mouth to move anymore, and that’s... not normal for me. Talking-reserved, sure. Quiet, sure. Mouth welded shut like I’m Neo in the matrix, not so much.

I just need something that can last me through like, 3 days to sort of find my old ways of having quiet places even if I can’t have quiet places. Suggestions?

---

As a bit of a side I wonder if this is also a bit of class upset going on. Said 88 year old woman who is now all but financially broke was the lower-upper class wife of a lobbyist banker that used to work with Jeff Sessions and pretty much got him in office, but Sessions dropped the family like a hot potato when said husband died, so my “fighting for food scraps from the trash, working from 14 to support my disabled mother, cyclically homeless” gay liberal ass is squatting with a bitter former upper class southern lady republican woman turned deadass senile and I C A N T

[truthbeetoldmedia]

The 100 6x10 “Matryoshka” Review 

You know, when I was assigned this episode to review, I wasn’t expecting to be discussing a moment like THAT (you all know what I’m referring to), so please, be kind while I process by obsessively refreshing Twitter and try to put my thoughts together. 

There’s definitely a lot going on in this episode, some of which I LOVED (take a wild guess on what part that is folks), and some of which I was less than fond of. It’s all high tension and high stakes, even more than the last. I’m a big fan of the moves they made to set everything into place; this is probably one of my favorite episodes of the season. 

Action and Reaction 

Here’s the thing. Putting almost all of your characters in one place forces conversation and development, which can turn out fascinating, or it can illuminate the truly unnecessary plot points and characters that have been hanging on all season. 

Raven and Abby are back from space and being taken prisoner like the rest of the Arkadians when Simone, angry about the loss of both the synthetic nightblood and the mind drive they used for Kane, tells Abby that Clarke is dead. As the audience we know that this isn’t exactly true, but Abby has no reason to think she’s alive, since every other host body is completely taken over by whoever’s mind drive is put in that body. 

I was pretty peeved with both Raven and Abby’s reactions to Clarke’s “death,” even though it’s been an ongoing joke online that Josie!Clarke could basically say and do anything and Abby still wouldn’t notice that something was up with her daughter. Raven’s been mad at Clarke for the entire season, so I guess I understand a lack of reaction on her part — but Abby? Her lack of reaction is only so off-putting because just last episode we saw an absolute outpouring of grief over Kane. It makes no sense that the news of her only child’s death wouldn't even garner 10% of that. 

The thing is, that’s poor characterization either way. Failing to show an emotional response that makes sense is a failure of the writing, and making her grief over Kane much more significant than over Clarke on purpose only highlights how far gone she is. That’s not a character worth keeping around, especially if this difference in emotion and priority is never addressed (and I don’t think it’s going to be). If the writers room is so keen on keeping her around they need to put some effort into showing the audience why that’s worthwhile. I know there are people who like Abby, but when it comes down to plot, what purpose does she serve? In a cast so large they need to trim loose ends or suffer for it, and I think hanging onto Abby for so long is an example of that. What has she done all season besides hole up in the library looking for a way to heal Kane, who’s been technically dead since the Season 5 finale? You could argue that they need her for the synthetic nightblood, but giving Becca’s notebook to Raven and having her do it also makes sense, especially since Abby doesn’t even leverage that ability when she should. Case in point: when Russell decides to burn them all at the stake after Simone’s murder, Murphy is the one who brings up being able to make nightblood from bone marrow, thereby saving everyone from a super vintage execution (for now). 

While we’re at it — I can’t believe Abby is actually mad at Murphy for helping the Primes, even though he and Emori explain that they both thought Clarke was actually dead and nothing could be done about it. Sure, what Murphy did was a little cold and sketchy at best, but it’s right on brand. Clarke’s dead? Nothing can be done about it? Better leverage this to my advantage. Self preservation, baby. That’s much less than Abby did literally ONE episode ago, being fully complicit in Gavin’s murder and actually recruiting him to host Kane’s mind drive even though she knew exactly what would happen. 

That’s exactly why these scenes with everyone felt stale: not every character is pulling their weight, and when that happens the scene gets bogged down with unnecessary interactions. There’s too many characters that really only take up space. Characters like Jackson, Miller, Niylah, and even Echo are dead weight at this point. Again, I know that these characters have their fans. That doesn’t change the fact that as far as the narrative is concerned, they're all relatively useless. Just being a named character doesn’t automatically give them significance, that significance has to be shown. What exactly does Miller bring to the show? Or Niylah? Even if they were once important that importance is dwindling if not non-existent. Miller could have been a compelling character: he was Bellamy’s right hand man in Season 1. He’s one of the original hundred. They could have done more with him, but in reality he’s replaceable. If you took Miller, Jackson, and Niylah out of the show, nothing would change. You could even say the same for Abby and Echo; they have more screen time than the rest, but Abby’s continued presence on the show feels forced and Echo is far from a developed character. Their “skills” can easily be transferable to other characters. Characters like Jordan and Emori are MUCH more compelling. 

Another thing that drags the episode down (and the season, if I’m being honest)? The whole “Sheidheda” making Madi a murder princess. I absolutely cannot fathom WHY grounder culture is still a thing on this show. They are on another planet, over a century later, with a thousand better things to focus on. I understand that Madi’s nightblood is significant, and the flame might be as well (from a technology standpoint). But why introduce this “dark commander”? if they wanted Madi to go full assassin, the pain of losing Clarke would have been enough to justify it. Also, what point does Madi/Sheidheda being so threatening towards Gaia serve? Having to listen to anything about the commanders is honestly exhausting, and it’s holding the show back. They’ve moved on (literally) in almost every capacity, and the show’s tendency to beat a dead horse only ever backfires. 

Not to sound too harsh, but that feeling I get whenever someone calls Madi “heda” is the same feeling I get if I’m at a party and this one person can only talk about how great high school was. This again? We’re in our late twenties. High school wasn’t great. Please, let it go. 

With that being said, they are setting up the next episode in a way that makes me think they might take the flame out of Madi for good, so we’ll see how that goes. 

Now, there are some compelling pieces here: it was nice to see Raven go back to being sciencey and a little bit philosophical after almost a full season of nothing but self-righteousness. Her conversation with Murphy about morality, not immortality, as a way to avoid hell was well done. The 100 loves a good morality conversation, and with things getting more dire in Sanctum and the growing comparisons between the Primes and Arkadians I’m sure that’s not the last we’ll hear of it. 

Getting almost everyone in one place, setting the stage for getting the dark commander out of Madi’s head, and setting up one last ditch effort to appease the Primes was great. The pacing in this case was well done and well executed, despite the issues that I did have, and I know that the final showdown will be epic. 

The hold that the Primes have over Sanctum is disintegrating, to put it mildly, and my guess is that a mass witch trial-esque execution isn’t exactly the way to put the populace at ease. 

There’s even an internal rebellion being incited by Ryker, who tells Delilah’s parents and another man that their loved ones aren’t “one with the Primes,” that nothing is left of the original host when the Prime’s mind drive takes over, and they’ve been lied to for decades. I’m curious to see the reaction when everyone in Sanctum learns the truth. 

The Primes are Dead. Long Live the Primes.

Here’s the thing about the Primes and the Arkadians — they’re so concerned with not being like each other that they conveniently ignore or justify what they’re doing. Russell is hellbent on not ending up like the Arkadians, but how, in any way, are the Primes better than the Arkadians? At their current positions, I’d say that the Primes are decidedly worse. Here’s the thing, though — they’ve had time. Josie said it herself — she wasn’t always like this. Give the Arkadians a few centuries, and who's to say they wouldn’t devolve into something similar? 

The driving force for both groups has always been taking care of “their people.” What’s not usually discussed is that in order to put your people first you need to put other people last. Someone almost always suffers, it's just about prioritizing that suffering. 

It circles back around to that question of trying to save humanity but never bothering to question if it even should be saved. Sure, the Primes can live forever. Should they?

Clarke even gets a glimpse of Josie’s morality, or the morality she used to have, as their minds start to disintegrate and Josie’s memories bleed into Clarke’s mind space. We see Josie in love with Gabriel, watching that memory fondly until she absolutely has to let it go. In another episode, Clarke already discovered that memory of Josie’s from that diner on Earth. 

Finally, when Gabriel and Octavia find Bellamy and Clarke/Josie and Gabriel is about to take out her mind drive, almost all of her memories are gone. Eliza Taylor absolutely kills this whole scene, and I actually could have shed a tear for Josie when she speaks through Clarke, saying she can’t remember, but she’s sure she did terrible things.  

Josie had morality. Josie lost it. 

The entire run of the show has been exploring morality and what it means — no simple task, I know. I think, however, that Gabriel really embodied that when he let Josie die. He said it himself, he’s been in love with her for centuries. But he needs, everyone needs, the cycle to stop. Putting an end to using hosts is the only way to do it. 

That’s Love, Bitches 

I mean… come on. Come ON. 

This scene was everything. Well acted, well written, well directed. I cried, you cried, everyone cried. Twitter imploded. I’ll go to my grave being adamant that Bellamy and Clarke’s relationship is THE best and most well done thing about the show. The entirety of the sixth season is built on Clarke being gone and Bellamy fighting for her to come back. Love, sacrifice, forgiveness — all are main tenets of The 100, and all are wrapped up in Bellamy and Clarke. 

It’s crystal clear that they’re paralleling Gabriel and Josie with Bellamy and Clarke. Josie dies, Gabriel letting her go while saying that their time is over, only for Bellamy to immediately bring Clarke back? Josie and Gabriel’s time is over, and Bellamy and Clarke’s is starting. A literal new life.

They really threw every romantic trope at them this episode. Clarke’s heart stopping in front of Bellamy and him pleading for her to come back? Bellamy saying he needs her? The CPR? The remnants of Josie try to kill Clarke, and she only comes back when she hears Bellamy’s voice? The first thing she sees when she comes back is Bellamy’s face? Octavia’s smirk in the back? The audacity. 

This scene was lead up to with a full six seasons of development — from the beginning they were the head and the heart. Gabriel said it, the heart needs the head to tell it to beat. Clarke, clinging to her mind space, only came back because Bellamy restarted her heart. He’s her literal heart, guys. 

Bellamy has thought Clarke was dead three times now — the first was during Praimfaya, the second when he discovered Josie was inhabiting Clarke’s body. Both of those times he could only witness and not do anything, so you better believe he wasn’t going to let Clarke die if he had anything to say about it. 

There is a clear stage for romantic Bellarke being set here, and anyone who says otherwise is not watching the same show. You don’t have to like it, but it’s happening.

Honestly, anything I could say about this has already been said. Just know that this episode killed me, and I’ll be watching the next one from the afterlife. 

Alyssa’s episode rating: 🐝🐝🐝🐝

The 100 airs Tuesdays at 9/8c on the CW.

[suddenrundown]

                            All the Time in the World: Chapter 8 

Read previous chapter

In hindsight, she may have been a bit dramatic.

That wasn’t how Lup would generally describe herself; she could think of plenty of other things that fit her way better. Outspoken? Maybe, in a cool way. Outgoing? Absolutely. Confident? Hell yeah. Awesome? Always.

Hardly ever dramatic; that was Taako’s thing. But still, she could be. Occasionally.

About…some things.

Like that whole thing about being in love with Barry Bluejeans?

Dramatic as hell.

Continued under the cut, or you can read it on ao3

Beads of sweat slid down her forehead as she raced forward, occasionally kicking up loose dirt behind her as she ran. Panting, she reached up to wipe some of the sweat away, despite knowing how useless the effort was. Running around a hot desert in the afternoon heat wasn’t really a dry activity, nor was it a smart one. But sometimes you just gotta run your frustrations away.

Frustrated. That’s what she was.

Because okay, sure, she had feelings for Barry. Clearly. But was she in love with him? Of course not! That was ridiculous. That was crazy. That was…

Dramatic.

It was just a crush or something. No big deal. Nothing earth shattering, nothing life altering, nothing to freak the fuck out over. Just a crush. She’d had crushes before, she could deal with it. Except she didn’t really know how, not in this case. She knew how she would normally do it: get it out of her system. Make a move, act on it, get over it and get out. But she couldn’t exactly do that now, could she?

She worked with Barry. Every day. And not only that, but she would as long as the cycles continued. And it wasn’t like anyone knew how to stop them, so she was looking at forever, here. So if she did try and get it out of her system, there would be no escaping any resulting awkwardness for the rest of eternity.

There was also the fact that Barry wasn’t just some dude she had a crush on. He was her friend. Arguably her best friend, aside from Taako. She couldn’t imagine any sort of life without him at this point, and definitely didn’t want to try. And she absolutely didn’t want to mess anything up between them, either by acting impulsively or by treating him any differently. He wouldn’t want that either. Neither of them ever came right out and said so, but she knew that she was just as important to him as he was to her. Not in the same way, of course. Barry didn’t think of her as anything but a friend.

Which was fine, she was cool with that. Totally cool. At some point, this whole crush thing would go away, and everything would be back to normal.

Admittedly, things were a little less than that now. In the few months since they’d escaped from Jaden-Province and found themselves in this desert town, Lup hadn’t exactly been spending as much time with Barry. She wasn’t really avoiding him, definitely not, they saw each other every day. No, it was just that the amount of quality Lup and Barry time was often cut short by the fact that she kept getting…distracted. By him.

For as long as she could remember, Lup had thought Barry was more than a little cute. Big, goofy science nerd with an insatiable quest for information who blushed and stammered his way through most conversations? Come on, who wouldn’t find him adorable? She definitely did, and she was pretty open about thinking so.

And now? She still thought so. But she didn’t just think he was cute. She thought he was cute. Barry fucking Bluejeans made her heart stutter and, occasionally, made her nervous over incredibly minor things. She really hated not being able to say anything, and having those feelings at all made her frustrated as hell, in more ways than one. With all that pent-up energy, she needed an outlet, and running seemed to do the trick. Hey, at least it was healthy. And exhausting. Super inconvenient that her dumb feelings had to start now, when the only constructive thing she could do was run laps around a desert. Next cycle better have a swimming pool.

She slowed down to a walk as she neared the Starblaster, trying to slow her breathing. Sweat continued to drip down her forehead, and she was acutely aware of the hair that had fallen loose from her ponytail and now brushed her shoulders, making her itchy. God, this heat was annoying. Maybe she should just chop some of her hair off, give herself a style that didn’t add to the oppressive feeling she got every time she stepped outside.

Or, she could just get a grip and stop going for runs every time Barry smiled at her.

Yeah, that was a good idea, too.

With no one in sight, Lup made her way to the kitchen. She found a glass and filled it only halfway up before impatience got the best of her and she downed whatever she had. Shit, she was thirsty. She was halfway through another glass when Taako came into the room.

“Damn, you look a little damp there,” he said, giving her a once over.

Lup made a face at him as she filled up her cup again. “Hello to you, too.”

“Go on another run, did you?” he asked, coming up beside her and grabbing a glass as well.

She watched him fill it up. “What gave that away?”

“Well, you definitely don’t smell like you just took a shower.”

Ignoring the comment, Lup chugged the water as fast as she could. When she finished, Taako handed her his glass, and she gratefully took that one, as well. He said nothing, just studied her as she drank it, and when she emptied it, she set it down between them.

“What’s with the face?” she asked. “Got something on your mind?”

“I was gonna ask you the same thing,” he responded.

“I mean, I’m fine. Why are you asking?”

Taako continued to stare at her curiously. “That doesn’t really answer my question, Lup.”

“Okay then, there’s nothing on my mind,” she insisted. “Again, why are you asking?”

“I don’t know, you just seem a little…off.”

She tried to keep her expression as neutral as possible, hoping not to give him any indication that he might just be right. “Don’t feel off,” she said with a shrug. “Don’t think I’ve been acting off, either.”

“I mean, you don’t normally go running in a million-degree weather.”

“It’s also not normally a million degrees,” she laughed.

He didn’t. “Lup-”

“Taako, I promise I’m fine! Just picked up a hobby, is all. A girl can have hobbies, can’t she?”

Taako fell silent a moment, expression searching as he looked at her. Then he sighed. “Sure, but does it have to involve the possibility of you kicking the bucket from heat exhaustion or something?”

She smiled. “What if I promised to only go out in the evening when it’s slightly less than a million degrees? Would that make you feel better?”

“Yeah, probably.”

“I can do that,” she said, patting him on the shoulder. “You worry too much, babe.”

“’Scuse me for trying to make sure you live,” he replied with a huff.

Lup softened at that. She put her arm around him and leaned her head on his shoulder. “Poor choice of words. I think I meant thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled, but he rested his head on top of hers, and she knew she was forgiven.

They stayed like that in silence, enjoying the comfort for a moment, but Lup couldn’t help the prick of guilt she felt. She hated not being completely truthful with Taako. Normally, the two had no secrets, there was no need, but she didn’t feel like sharing this with him. Or anyone else. The IPRE was basically a weird little family by circumstance, but they were, first and foremost, a group on a mission, and she wasn’t sure how acceptable romantic relationships between them were. Not that she was interested in that. She wasn’t.

And as for Taako? Why bother him with something neither of them could change? Nah, she’d keep this to herself. After all, it wasn’t a big deal.

She nuzzled into him a little. “I should go shower.”

“Mhm, I was about to say,” Taako said, giving her a small shove with his shoulder. “Still kinda smell.”

“Rude,” she gasped in mock offense, wrapping both arms around him.

He made no move to resist. “Gross.”

                                                             ~

“What do you know about necromancy?”

Lup turned to stare at Barry, surprised at the sudden question. A moment ago, they’d been talking about what supplies they were going to bring back to the ship, which was hardly connected. “Pretty much nothing,” she told him, putting the scarf she’d been looking at back on the stand where she found it. She gave the attendant at the stall a smile, and then turned back to Barry. “It’s like, dark magic, right?”

“Essentially, that’s what it’s referred to as, yes. It’s the sect of magic dealing with power over death.”

“Does sound pretty dark, then.”

Barry hummed in agreement, but then fell silent, rubbing the back of his neck. His nervous tic. Clearly, he wanted to talk about this.

Lup smiled. “What about it? Why the sudden interest?”

“I guess I wouldn’t really say it’s a sudden interest,” he confessed, not entirely meeting her gaze. “I just haven’t really mentioned it before.”

“Go on,” she prompted.

“Just something that’s been in the back of my mind for a few cycles now. I mean, power over death seems like some far-fetched, creepy idea, right? But then again, we’ve basically had that for eighteen years now. We can die all we want, but we come back as soon as the year is up.”

“That’s true,” Lup agreed, intrigued now.

“We just don’t have control over it. I’m just curious what we could do if we did.”

This sounded like research, and she was so down for something cool to science the shit out of. “Now you’ve got me curious.”

Barry chuckled. “Well, like I said, it’s only been a passing interest for a while now, but I think it might be worth looking into. It’s not as if I don’t have the time.”

“Hell yeah, go for it!” She couldn’t help her excitement. Even if he was just looking for basic information now, at some point down the road, she’d probably be involved. And she did so love to be involved. For now, there was one more thing she needed to know. “Do you know where you can start?”

Barry rubbed the back of his neck again. “Well…”

“You do!”

“I guess I did hear about another town a few miles from here that supposedly has a shop whose owner dabbles in necromancy. They might have some sort of literature.”

“And you want to go there, right?”

“Whenever we have the time…”

“Barry,” she teased, drawing out his name.

“Fine, you caught me. I would really like to go there right this very second.” He finally made eye contact with her. “Please?”

Shit, how could she resist even if she wanted to? “Duh, of course we’re going!” She ignored the way her stomach seemed to be doing flip flops and turned him around by the shoulders, gently shoving him forwards. “What are we still here for? Get a move on!”

“Yes ma’am,” Barry said, laughing again.

                                                             ~

It was really hard to concentrate.

She was trying, she really was, but it was hard when it was just so fucking hot. It probably didn’t help that she was willingly sitting outside in the sun, but the Starblaster somehow felt just as stifling, so what was the point? She could be outside if she wanted to; the heat could bite her.

There was something else, though, besides the heat that kept distracting her. Someone, actually.

A ways off, Barry sat in a wooden lounge chair, deeply engrossed in a huge book. He’d had his nose in that book for the past few weeks, ever since they found it in the neighboring town, and still didn’t seem halfway through it. Unlike herself, the heat didn’t seem to be bothering him; no, he looked pretty comfortable. Lup watched him adjust the wide hat that he was wearing to keep the sun from his face and then reach over to grab the fruity drink that was sitting next to him and take a small sip of it. Taako had made those for the crew not too long ago, and she had downed hers quickly, but Barry didn’t do anything all that fast. He took his time when he enjoyed things.

Ugh.

“Anyway, I was thinking that I’d shave my hair into a mohawk and die it purple.”

“Yep,” Lup responded, absentmindedly.

“Oh my god, Lup, you’re not even listening to me,” Taako whined.

She quickly turned from Barry to her brother across the table, embarrassed. “What? Yes, I am!”

Taako scoffed. “Then what was I talking about?”

“Uh…giving yourself a radically different hairstyle?” she asked, knowing that it definitely hadn’t been the real subject.

“Like I ever would,” Taako said, stroking his braided hair. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing, I just wasn’t listening.”

“Then why are the tips of your ears red?”

She reached up to cover them, as if that would disprove what he’d already seen. “They are not.”

“They so are.” He leaned forward, eyeing her seriously. “Look, you’ve been acting weird ever since we got here. And you keep telling me it’s nothing, but it’s not nothing, and you and I both know that.”

“It’s nothing,” Lup sighed, “important.”

“But important enough that you don’t want to tell me.”

It wasn’t a question, and Lup felt guilty once again. “I wouldn’t even go so far as to say that.”

“You don’t have to tell me what it is, Lup,” he assured her, despite the hurt in his eyes. “I just don’t want to hear that nothing is up when it’s clear that something is, alright? But I’ll stop asking you about it.”

Lup leaned her head back, squinting irritably at the hot sun for a moment, then leaned forward and hid her face in her hands. What even was the point in keeping anything from Taako? She’d tell him absolutely anything, why not this? Especially when this was not! A big! Deal!

“I think I have a tiny little crush on Barry,” she confessed quickly from behind her hands.

A beat of silence, and then Taako spoke. “I’m sorry.”

Lup groaned and let her hands fall. “I said, I think I have a-”

“No, no, I heard you,” he interrupted, smirking. “I just meant I’m sorry you have a thing for the IPRE’s very own fantasy Bill Nye the Science Guy.”

“Shut up! You like Barry!”

“Yeah, natch, but apparently not as much as you,” Taako responded, sing song.

Lup groaned and hid her face in her hands again. “Remind me never to tell you anything ever again.”

“Will do,” he said, clearly amused. “So, when’s the wedding?”

She immediately looked up again. “Never! It’s just a crush, okay? It’s not anything to get excited about, it’s not a big deal.” She pointed a finger at him as threateningly as she could. “And for the love of all the gods that there possibly could be, don’t you ever say anything to him about it.”

“Oh no, this is your thing, Lulu. I’ll stay out of it completely.” He made finger guns at her. “Trust.”

“Wow, thanks so much,” she deadpanned.

Taako just giggled in response, and she slumped back in her seat, pouting. She wasn’t sure what she expected, but it could have been worse. At least now, in some small way, it was off her chest.

As she tuned out her brother, she found herself sneaking another glance over at Barry who, none the wiser, flipped another page of his book.

                                                       ~

There really didn’t seem to be a need for this impromptu crew meeting.

Lup shuffled her feet impatiently and tried not to zone out thinking about how she could be taking advantage of the evening hours by running. But clearly Davenport wanted to capitalize on the fact that everyone was around and not doing anything all that important just to get an update, even if none of them really had anything important to share.

“No one in my congregation has any idea what the hell I’m talking about when I ask if they’ve seen a big glowing Light,” Merle reported. “But some of them have told me they’d be willing to go out and help look for it if I asked.”

“Oh yeah, how is Merle’s Church of Pan 2.0 doing?” Magnus asked him.

Merle beamed. “Pretty great, actually! Everyone’s pretty committed, and it’s nice to have people to teach again.”

Lup wasn’t sure why it had taken him this long to start up another church like he had in the Mushroom Kingdom; he was clearly charismatic enough to get people involved. Maybe because he was just too busy dying.

“And they’re all real generous, which doesn’t hurt,” he added.

“Please do thank them for donating those supplies to us,” Lucretia requested. “We would’ve had a harder time trading for such high-quality goods with what we had from Jaden-Province.”

“Have already, but sure.”

Magnus raised his hand. “If Merle’s church dudes wanna go exploring for the Light, I’ll go too.”

“Didn’t you die last time you went with Merle’s ‘church dudes’ to chase after that thing?” Taako snickered.

“Yeah, but what does that have to do with anything?”

“We’ll keep that in mind, Magnus, thank you,” Davenport interrupted hurriedly. He then turned to Barry. “Bluejeans, have you heard anything?”

Barry’s face turned slightly red at the sudden attention. “Oh. I, um, no,” he replied awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve been…distracted?”

Lup could definitely relate.

Davenport gave him a small smile. “I was only asking. Anyway,” he continued, turning to address everyone. “We still have a little over half a year left here, so we still have time. I just wanted to see where we’re at.”

And with that, he dismissed them and the team scattered to go about their business. Lup glanced out the window and noted the darkening sky, feeling suddenly irritated over the lost running opportunity. Damn it, she really needed it today. Maybe if she got up really early tomorrow—

“You alright, Lup?”

She turned to find Barry looking at her with mild concern. “Always, Barold,” she replied with a smile, hoping it masked the impatience she felt. “Why?”

“I don’t know, you just didn’t say anything during the meeting. Didn’t heckle Cap’n Port even once.”

“Oh shit, do you think he missed it?” she joked.

“Possibly,” he chuckled. Then he sobered. “So you’re fine?”

“Definitely. Think I’m just tired.”

It wasn’t really a lie. She was, in fact, tired of her own nonsense.

Barry smiled, seemingly satisfied. “Good. Because, well, I didn’t really want to add to it if anything was wrong, but I was going to ask you if we could take a rain check on using the telescope to study the sky tonight? I know we had tentative plans, and I honestly hate cancelling, I really do, but I’m trying to finish that book, and I’m almost done with it. Well, halfway, at least. I think. The one on necromancy, did I mention that? I don’t think I did. It’s the necromancy book I borrowed. I mean, I really want to get through it because, well, for one it’s rather fascinating, and also I don’t want to keep it from that guy too long, you know? He might—”

“Take a breath there, Barry,” Lup interrupted him, giggling. “I’m not mad. The sky will still be there after you finish that thing, so go read your heart out. But,” she added, “you better fill me in on every single detail when you’re done.”

“Of course,” he replied. “I’m taking copious notes.”

God, why was that so cute? She hoped that the warmth suddenly spreading from her chest wasn’t as blaringly obvious on her cheeks as she felt it was. “Hell yeah, can’t wait!”

He chuckled, thankfully unaware. “Same here.”

And with that, he was off, and with nothing else to do, Lup wandered towards the kitchen. She found Taako there, as she’d hoped she would, stirring something in a bowl.

“Whatcha making?”

“Don’t know yet,” he replied, looking up at her. “Where’d your boyfriend go?”

Lup rolled her eyes. “Barry had shit to do.”

Taako grabbed some sort of spice and added it to his bowl. “You know what I don’t get?” he asked with a smirk.

“Oh please, do tell,” Lup sighed, leaning against the counter.

“Why Barry?  I mean, you could have a crush on anyone.”

“Like who?”

“I don’t know. Magnus maybe?”

Lup raised an eyebrow. “Would you prefer that?”

“Oh gods, no. I’m just saying, Magnus is like, a big tough dude. Or, he thinks he is, at least. That sounds like something you’d be into.”

“Really?” Lup snorted. “Why’s that?”

“Isn’t that the dream? Strong dude carrying you around? Magnus could like, sling you over his shoulder or something. Think Barry could do that?”

Lup made a show of pretending to picture that scenario. “Damn, I sure hope so,” she sighed dreamily.

“Too real!” Taako exclaimed, holding his hands up. “Didn’t actually wanna know, thanks.”

“You shouldn’t have asked, then,” she laughed, pushing herself off the counter and heading back out the door. “Have fun with that mental image.”

“You have fun with it,” Taako replied.

“Good one,” she called back over her shoulder, despite the fact that she could feel her cheeks grow hotter.

It occurred to her that Taako wasn’t necessarily wrong. She could remember having a thing for tough guys, way back when. But that clearly wasn’t something she was into now.

Now she got excited about sharing copious notes about necromancy with the biggest science nerd she’d ever met.  

                                                              ~

Was it getting hotter or was it just her?

Lup leaned over the railing of the ship’s deck as she stared across the dry land, feeling restless. No one else seemed that offended by the heat, so maybe it was just her. Either way, it was insufferable and she was over it. But she had made it this far without combusting, so there was no reason to think she couldn’t keep soldiering on. She just needed to distract herself, which couldn’t be all that difficult. It never was.

The first step was to stop moping. Lup gave herself a mental shake as she turned from the railing and went back down inside the ship. As she ambled down the hall, she spotted Lucretia walking hurriedly and ran to catch up to her.

“Lucretia dear,” Lup greeted, “where’re you off to?”

Lucretia turned at the sound of her name, looking preoccupied. “Oh, Lup, hello. I’m sorry, I’m in a bit of a hurry. I need to get Merle some ice.”

“He ok?” Lup asked, worried.

“I’m sure he will be. A couple members of his church brought him back here saying he fainted. He must have gotten too hot or something.”

“Do you need help?”

“Actually, yes, if you don’t mind. I left him in the infirmary, if you could go and watch over him until I get there, that would be helpful. I won’t be too long.”

“Of course, no problem.”

Lucretia thanked her and Lup made her way to the infirmary where she found Merle lying on a bed, not totally unconscious.

“What’s up, old man?” Lup said gently, pulling up a stool.

“S’ hot,” Merle replied, eyes closed.

“You can say that again.”

“Hot.”

She stifled a giggle, unsure whether or not he meant to be funny. Her best guess was not so much.

Merle fell silent again, and Lup followed suit, unsure what else to do. She stared at the clock on the wall, and wondered how long Lucretia would be.

"Am I gonna die?”

Now Lup did allow herself a small chuckle. “Don’t think so this time.”

“What don’t you think?” Lucretia asked, coming into the room with a tray.

“He was asking if he was gonna croak.” Lup answered.

“Oh dear, not today, Merle,” the woman said. She then gave a small smile. “I am terribly sorry to deliver the news.”

Lup laughed a little louder at that. Lucretia didn’t often try to be funny, but Lup found it adorable when she did.

Lucretia set the tray down on the counter and picked up a bag of ice off of it and a rag. She wrapped the bag and then sat down next to Lup as she rested it on Merle’s forehead, holding it in place. “Is it too cold?” she asked him.

“Feel’s good,” he mumbled.

Lucretia smiled again and then turned to Lup. “There is a cup of tea on the tray for you, if you would like some. I was later than I meant to be because I was making it. My apologies.”

“You’re a gem and should be sorry for nothing,” Lup assured her with a wink as she grabbed the cup. She took a sip. “It’s awesome, thanks!”

“Thank you for your help.”

The two sat in silence, Lup sipping her tea and Lucretia tending to Merle. After a few minutes, Lucretia turned to her again.

“How are you doing, Lup?”

Lup took a long sip of her tea, thinking over her answer. “Could be better, could be worse,” she finally said.

“Oh?”

She nodded. “Heat’s getting to me a little.”

“That does seem to be going around.” Lucretia adjusted the bag of ice for emphasis.

“I guess I could definitely be worse,” Lup replied sheepishly.

“There is always that possibility. But that doesn’t mean you can’t express your feelings if something is going on.”

“Is that your way of asking if I’m okay?” Lup asked with a chuckle.

“Not necessarily.”

“No?”

“No, mostly because you tend to speak your mind no matter the circumstance, so I would assume that if you had something to say, you would say it.”

Normally she did. Lately, though, the thing that was on her mind the most was something that she wanted to keep to herself as much as possible. She was still waiting for this whole crush on Barry thing to disappear, and talking about it made it seem like a bigger deal than it was. And it was hardly any sort of deal at all.

Lup laughed. “You saying I talk too much?”

“Never too much, Lup.” Lucretia smiled at her sincerely. “Never too much.”

                                                        ~

How thick was that necromancy book?

Lup sighed as she watched Taako’s magic missile crash into a sand dune, making the darkness glow a little brighter than it already was in the moonlight as sand flew in all directions. She hadn’t seen much of Barry all week, but last she saw him, he’d said he was almost done reading and was excited to tell her everything he’d been learning. That was yesterday morning.

Taako tipped the front of his hat and whistled. “See that one, Lup?”

“Rad,” she replied, attempting to muster up some enthusiasm.

It clearly didn’t work. “No need to sound so impressed.”

“I’m sorry, I guess I’m just not in the mood.”

“I can see that. We can call it a night, if you want.”

Lup wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead. “We did just get here, though.”

“Yeah, but no point in being out here if you don’t want to be.”

By way of an answer, Lup extended her arm and produced a fireball in her hand, searching for the perfect sand dune to aim it at.

“Probably wouldn’t be so grumpy if Barry hadn’t been a hermit all week,” Taako joked.

Lup groaned in frustration and turned and tossed the fireball just passed her brother. “Well now I’m leaving.”

She turned and stalked back towards the Starblaster off in the distance, hearing Taako’s footsteps as he trailed after her.

“Lup,” Taako called, sing-song, “where you going?”

She didn’t respond as she continued walking.

“Lup, I didn’t mean to imply that your boyfriend was ignoring you,” he giggled.

She rolled her eyes and stopped in her tracks, turning to face her brother. “Oh my god, Taako, please.”

He stopped in front of her. “What?” he asked, smiling innocently. “You know, I still don’t get it.”

“Get what, exactly?”

“What it is about Barry.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, irritated.

“I mean, he’s like, not at all your type.”

“So?”

“So, what gives?”

“I don’t know, Taako,” Lup snapped, louder than she meant to. “Is that actually something anyone can explain? It’s not the easiest thing to do! I could just list things off about him, like how he’s sweet, and quiet, and how hard he works to figure things out. And how he’s funny.”

Taako cocked his head. “You think he’s funny?” he asked.

“I guess! I sure laugh a lot when I’m around him! He’s a huge-ass nerd and he gets embarrassed so easily, it’s ridiculously cute, and he has the biggest heart of anyone I’ve ever met. And he doesn’t seem to own a single pair of pants that isn’t jeans. How does that happen?”

“I don’t—”

“And,” Lup interrupted, on a roll now. “Every time we solve some sort of cosmic mystery after hours and hours of work, he always looks like he’s on cloud nine! Just so damn happy about it, and it makes me happy just looking at him. And even before I liked him, it made me happy just to be around him. So I don’t know what it is about Barry Bluejeans, but apparently it’s something!”

She took a deep breath, deflated. “But I guess lately it’s not the same because this stupid crush is distracting me. I can’t just enjoy being around him like I usually do, because I’m too busy trying not to say or do something dumb. And for some reason that’s really fucking hard? Like, I know that he doesn’t have feelings for me, which I’m tota-lly—”

Lup felt the lump in her throat and heard the crack in her voice, and snapped her mouth shut immediately. She stared up at Taako who she knew from his expression had heard it, too. Her face flushed, and she cleared her throat.

“I-I’m totally cool w-with—”

She felt the first tear hit her cheek at the same moment as Taako reached out and pulled her close. Pressed up against his chest, she felt more tears fall as Taako rubbed her back soothingly.

“Lup, hey, I’m sorry” he said, gently and sincerely. “I was teasing.”

Lup sniffed. “It’s not because of you,” she told him.

“I really didn’t know you felt that strongly about him.”

“It’s alright,” she replied, taking a shaky breath. “Neither did I.”

Neither spoke again as he continued to hold her while her tears subsided. After a moment, Lup let out a watery little laugh.

“Shit, I’m sorry for being such a mess.”

“I’m sorry for being an ass.”

She wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed. “You weren’t trying to be.”

Taako squeezed her back. “It’s gonna be alright, Lup.”

“I know. It’s just a crush. It’ll go away.”

“You…sure it’s just a crush?” he asked hesitantly.

Lup sighed shakily. “Nope.”

“Then—”

“Shhh,” she whispered, looking up at him. “Don’t say it.”

A long moment passed while he stared down at her. Then he gave her a small smile. “You got it.”

                                                         ~

“All in all, necromancy sounds useful, but I can definitely understand why it’s regarded as a rather taboo subject. It’s definitely dark, no doubt about that.”

Lup looked up from her notes and watched him adjust the telescope he was setting up. “Still cool as hell, though.” She looked back down and found the line she’d left off on. “Most of it, at least. This lich thing sounds pretty spooky.”

Barry bent to peer through the telescope. “Bounding your soul to magic? Definitely.”

She flipped the page back and forth, scanning. “Doesn’t say how that happens.”

“I know,” Barry groaned, looking back down at her. “You’d think whoever wrote that book would have spent a little more time on the subject with how long they’d already made it, but I guess not. And I tried to ask the shop owner, but he refused to talk about it, so that’s a dead end.”

“Maybe that’s for the best?”

“Perhaps.”

Lup could tell he wasn’t entirely convinced that was true, but he didn’t say as much, so she let the subject drop.

“Well, now you have some cool new shit to look into when you get the opportunity. Maybe next cycle is full of necromancers. Or at least more books.”

Barry chuckled. “One can hope.” He then paused and looked down at the ground, nervous. “Hey, I’m sorry I’ve been so distracted lately.”

Distracted? If anyone had been distracted, it had been her. “What do you mean? You haven’t been at all!”

“I’m just saying,” he replied, sitting down next to her, “I tend to get engrossed in things to an extreme. And I feel like I put this particular subject ahead of everything else, which wasn’t my intention.”

“I didn’t think it was, Barry. And I don’t think you did that, either.”

“If you say so,” he said, looking embarrassed.

“For real, Barold,” she smiled, “you’re good.”

He blushed as he returned her smile, and she felt an urge to reach over and rub his head affectionately. But she didn’t. Instead, she looked up and pretended to be distracted by the night sky.

Lup couldn’t help the small nag of guilt she felt over Barry’s own worry that he’d been distant; she knew that she’d been the distant one. Distant and irritable, and that just wasn’t her. But she was done with all of that. She didn’t have time for it, and it was exhausting. Lying to herself was exhausting. Apparently, you can’t run away from your feelings, who knew?

You can refuse to label them, though. She wouldn’t let Taako, and she wouldn’t do it herself. Feelings were complicated little shits, and there was no point agonizing over trying to figure them out.  So fuck it, she liked Barry. More than she ever really planned to.

A small breeze whispered by, making her hair tickle her cheek, and Lup let out a relieved sigh. Maybe she’d like Barry for a cycle or two, maybe she’d like him for twenty. Maybe it would suck sometimes. Either way, she’d learn how to deal. She’d be fine.

“Are you good?” Barry asked her, looking up at the sky as well.

“Who, me? Please, you forget who you’re talking to.”

She looked over at him and gave him a playful shove, then stuck out her hand.

“I’m Lup. I’m awesome.”

Barry took it and gave it a shake as he laughed. “Always.”

[dwestfieldblog]

THOSE WHO DO NOT WANT TO HEAR MUST FEEL

This temporary apocalypse could be seen as a globally overdue Long Night of the Soul, an initiation of sorts which might result in a deeper understanding of what actually matters for human evolution (despite the very best efforts of the scum who are trying to reverse any spiritual progress because it weakens their hold.) There are several ways in which the negative side could truly take over, starting with the horror nightmare prospect of DT (aka ‘Just Another Scumbag’ as Bannon once called him) re ‘elected’. The realistic pessimist in me is sure that if he wins, this planet in this dimension is finished. His winning will be a final signal to the world to give us up. In my lifetime, we have never been so close to the mass breakout of totalitarianism and utter lack of empathy than we are now. Actual fascist populists, not some wet Liberal bleating but the real thing, ready to go live. Covid has bankrupted hundreds of thousands of businesses, millions have lost their jobs, migration from the truly poor and dangerous countries continues...into the becoming poor and dangerous countries. Those who live there and are already ruined by the disasters in every home will be easy prey for the populists. Speaking of whom...

Steve Bannon has spent a great deal of time and other people’s money in setting up a network to overthrow the (arf arf arf) ‘deep state’ and replace it with... a new deeper state...still run by the rich, who will use the populists, who in turn will use the mass of the angry and frightened...etc etc...And power, as most people recognise it, will stay in the hands of the unhuman swine with the most gold and the least soul. WER NICHT HOREN WILL, MUSS FUHLEN...

‘...the human nervous system properly programmed, can edit and orchestrate all experience into any gestalt it wishes. We encounter the same dismal and depressing experiences over and over again because they are repeating tape loops in the central programmer of our brains. We can encounter ecstasy over and over by learning the neurosciences that orchestrate all in coming signals into ecstatic tape loops.’ R.A.Wilson. Prometheus Rising, Hilaritas Press.

It takes a lot of effort and Will to do this but what else is worth it other than to attempt to break out of the vicious cycle and evolve? Even I have managed this when I focus on choosing it. Giving up ingrained behavioural habits often hurts; this is, however, a choice. It doesn’t have to unless you are a masochist.

Flew to England for three weeks in August, full flight sold out, all of us wore masks (apart from one 6 foot 6 mad eyed American who kept pacing up and down the cabin.) Right up to the point where we were all given a bottle of water, some crisps and two biscuits...All masks off at the same time, all passengers attempting not to breathe while we drank and ate. Love seeing how many in both countries wear masks under their nose or even only on their chin. As Bill Hicks would say ‘Any questions why we’re f.....d up as a race?’ As Jonathan Pie does say; ‘Put a f...... mask on.’ I have been coughing since February, and drinking heavily, so not especially optimistic about getting C19.

I avoided almost all of the news while in UK, watched five minutes in total on the TV and only read headlines in the paper. It was enough. Since I have been back in Prague I have continued to avoid the news other than that which I am told by friends and students but I can tell from daily receiving over one hundred emails that things are truly breaking. Hexagram 23 and total Weltschmerz is upon us. Mental health is twisting up globally. One by one, all my friends are suffering serious damage, one way or another. Hearts are breaking apart and many damnable souls, who should be burning, are not. People are afraid to breathe or to embrace, looking to the very worst set of leaders in my lifetime for answers and being manipulated en masse to mass crises.  

(Jaz Coleman....On the Day the Earth went Mad...watch the video, listen. Feel. Weep. Rage. Change.) QUI NOLERUNT AUDIRE DEBERE SENTIRE.

Love the interviews I saw with those who voted for Trump and realised they made a mistake...after FOUR YEARS. What clued them in? Which particular excremental atrocity of his foulness gave them the alert? Will the Electoral College let him ‘win’? Before I left, I saw the Trump interview where he said ‘It is what it is’, with regard to the massive number of deaths in the USA. ‘We are below the world’. Blood pressure rising, I even checked his Twitter account where he published two letters, one from the eternally unlovely NRA and the other from the American Police Federation, assuring him he was the best president to ever serve their interest and they would back him to the hilt. His plan to stir the US up into open civil war continues and Putin sits back and smiles. As does Jared it seems, the smug sadist advisor in the same style as (England’s off Broadway Trump) Boris’s Dominic Cummings.  Herd Immunity? Well yes it might work at some point after a few years and millions dead. You evil alien bastards. The  main individuals in the British Government will make millions from a no deal Brexit, perfect timing. The country will die.

The newest PC bullshit has got even the wonderful JK Rowling into trouble just for speaking her mind politely about transgender issues. I love PC... it is how dumb useless Liberals can act out their secret fascist impulses and feel hard of c..k and wet of p...y...feel good to be so righteous... same with overly ill humoured religious folk,  but the PC tribe cannot use God to justify anything so they are a bit weaker...You morons... ‘People who menstruate’, People with a cervix’? PEOPLE? Really? Women is a bad word is it? Too specific? (Well it has the word men in it, so seems almost inclusive.) You bastards are annihilating language; raping semantics...get another hobby you ridiculous cretins. (Be sure the populists well understand how to manipulate such fools.)

Extinction Rebellion is being used (among a multitude of other groups in other countries, hello Black Lives Matter) by the Kremlin to stir up shite, they are mostly well meaning on the road to Hell. Stop being so dumb and stop helping those who are against you at home and abroad. Dogmatic faith leads to mistrust, violence and hatred, says the lone derranger...And as for the absurd Q Anon, it is those who seek a Deeper State who are using you to do it. Well done.

Jacob Blake, shot seven (count them) times in the back by police even though charged with no crime and paralysed was handcuffed to hospital bed. That goofy twat of a 17 yr boy who wanted to be a policeman, shooting at blacks because he believed he had carte blanc (arf) from Trump to defend his country against ‘terrorists’...he will probably escape much punishment because... he was bullied at school...WHO WASNT?? The only people who weren’t were bullied at home. Guns ‘open carry’ in various states as the NRA rejoice in what they encourage. ‘Your first amendment means I can say your second amendment sucks d...s’. JimJeffries. Damn straight. By the time even I was 17, I had grown out of wanting to kill half the world. Wannabe cops are a little slower. 

Everything is the new normal. Too late for a mid life crisis unless I die at 108 but I never forget that statistically there is more chance of being killed by death than anything else. ‘Heres to my love! O true apothecary! Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die.’ Walking... see three funeral services shops in the road leading to/away from the hospital, clever businessmen...walking...masks off, between two conveniently placed flower shops and smoking outside the fuming crematorium in black suits and highly polished shoes. Waiting. That’s us.

I MISS YOU MARLENE. I MISS YOU MARLENE. I MISS YOU MARLENE. Nice headline seen on US newspaper...‘Can any good from cyberstalking your online crush?’I wondered that after falling in fascination with a woman in Germany who wrote like a poet and wove a spell of stories to charm and beguile. I would have walked from London to Hamburg to see if she was real. Everyone expresses love and the need for it in different ways. Reprogramming a deeply imprinted circuit is usually uncomfortable and so it proved for both of us. We shall see...if there is time. ‘One of us is crazy and the other one’s insane’

I can remember one of the days I Changed (seven years old?) We had a history lesson and were told about English kings and their ‘Divine Right’ to rule. Because God told them. And they told the people. And the people believed them. I remember the light in the classroom, where I was sitting, the smell of the tables, old unused ink wells, pencil shavings... and just thinking whatever a child’s version of F..K OFF...THATS BULLSHIT ISNT IT? would have been. That was the first moment I started questioning the class system, gullibility and bastards. A couple of years later, the absolute freedom of being, sent to collect the class register, walking down the empty corridors and not in the classroom...a beautiful feeling of being OUTSIDE. Free. Two of many experiences which have never left me. (The Angel Choir, the Rituals, the EYE across the Multiverse dream, the Reconnection...) Even if Freedom turns out to be as much of an illusion as everything else, it is still as beautifully sensual to me as music.

One summer night in 1990 after my 3rd breakdown, I had a dream. I think. Bear (or even bare) with me on this, I know how this sounds but it is only reporting what I saw in my mind. Two Aliens, thin and shadow like, came though my open bedroom door in the night (I could see the silhouettes) and one took a long shiny silver needle like a hypodermic for a horse and stood behind me and pushed the needle in through the top and centre of my skull, penetrating my brain. I FELT it slowly being pushed in, it hurt but I was paralysed. There was no voice but I heard (try not to laugh) ‘So now you have Superintelligence’. They moved out, the door closed, I slept. As usual with me, I remember every single dream I have ever remembered as if they were films I have watched over and over...and after a dream, the atmosphere stays with me for 23 whores. Later that day, I picked a big hardback book to find some info on something (A Cyclopaedia) with pages as thin as a bible. I sat almost motionless and without food for eight hours, DEVOURING every subject in it. Economics, geometry, geopolitical events, medicine, beliefs, systems.....the next day I finished ninety percent of it and went on to read books by five philosophers from second hand shops, started watching insects, stopped swearing, worked out, and read and read and read. All the knowledge I hadn’t cared about in school and college I picked up that one summer. It led to making new friends, new possibilities, new work, new love and led me to fly to Prague in this sequence while continuing to practice many ‘New age’ techniques by a writer called Stuart Wilde. They all worked and I continued...with regular fallings and breakthroughs.

‘Religion was invented when the first scoundrel met the first fool’. Faith is believing what you know not be true’. The seeker finds a belief and stops thinking for themselves...‘Every ideology is a mental murder, a reduction of dynamic living processes to static classifications, and every classification is a Damnation, just as every inclusion is an exclusion.’RAW

I had a four hour conversation with a Christian bloke, thirty, intelligent, believes in Satan as an actual being with horns. Etc. He couldn’t quite see any flaw in saying that any prophet who saw angels, white light and heard the voice of God, healed, etc but was not actually Christ, was only being tempted and used by the devil. He told me to watch the beautiful side of evil...

‘Every act of authority is, in fact, an invasion of the psychic and physical territory of another’. Human progress ‘is the concrete manifestation of some person’s refusal to bow to Authority.’  

‘WE GOT ELECTED ON DRAIN THE SWAMP, LOCK HER UP, BUILD THE WALL. THIS WAS PURE ANGER. ANGER AND FEAR IS WHAT GETS PEOPLE TO THE POLLS. THE DEMOCRATS DON'T MATTER, THE REAL OPPOSITION IS THE MEDIA, and the way to deal with them is to flood the zone with shit.’ Said Bannon, who also said. ‘Darkness is good. Dick Cheney. Darth Vader. Satan. Thats power.’ Has he met Putin yet? Is he also on speed dial along with Boris and Trump? People! Create better leaders. NOW.

Happy birthday Aleister Crowley on the 12th October and Happy Halloween to all readers, stay healthy and sane (arf) Remember you are magick...buy the re-release of Musick to Play in the Dark by COIL and become moonlight... And those in America, if you actually do truly believe in a good God...go and vote and remove that evil ego and his cohorts in the White House with absolute overwhelming victory or we are done in this lifetime. Be healthy.

LOVE!!!

[scribefindegil]

Cycle Eight--Week 2

[AO3] [Week 1]

Day 8

Merle has set himself up in the town center, telling all who will listen about the word of Pan. To our surprise, ‘all who will listen’ seems to be most of the town. It may just be the novelty that makes them stop and ask him questions about his faith, but it may be something deeper. He prayed and sang the scorch teams on their way again tonight, and this time there were more than a few hesitant voices that joined in.

“Some of them really don’t believe that we can just breathe the air where we come from,” he told us after dinner.

Taako looked at him askance. “We came here without masks on. What do they think we were doing?”

“Dunno.” Merle shrugged. “I mean, they know we were on the ship. It’s not that weird we could breathe there. It’s the thought that there’s whole worlds without poison death spores in the air that throws ‘em. And where nobody needs to wear masks! You know how weird they think it is that we’ve all seen each other’s faces?” He paused and waggled his eyebrows. “Probably assume there’s some really kinky—”

“Gross.” Lup threw her spoon at his head.

“Speaking of which.” Magnus glared at him. “I know you’ve got your whole weird plant thing but please for the sake of everyone’s sanity and eyeballs, no flirting with the death mushrooms.”

“Hmph,” said Merle. “Here I am, trying to give these poor people the first taste of hope they’ve ever felt in their lives and all you can focus on is whether or not I wanna fuck the death mushrooms.”

To no one’s surprise, the conversation ended quite abruptly after that.

Day 9

I was able to go out into the forest again today. Frelya grumbled about it—she hates the mushrooms and doesn’t understand why I find them so fascinating—but she agreed anyway. I think perhaps Nita talked her into it. I brought my paints with me this time, and a tarp of oiled cloth for protection.

I’ve never found this set of pigments lacking before, but no matter how hard I try to capture the hues of the mushrooms around me my drawings end up looking pale and lifeless in comparison. There’s a vibrancy to them that I find myself simply unable to portray.

Although it’s been only a few days since my last visit to the forest and Frelya took me along the same path, the landscape looks completely different. When we do set out on our mission to recover the Light, navigation will be challenging; it’s hard to find any landmarks that won’t be overgrown within a few weeks. Some of the smaller specimens that I had sketched now tower far above my head, and there are new growths—tall red fungi bursting out of their veils that look like tentacles unfurling, stands of delicate lacy orange mushrooms that a species of large spotted insects use as hives, and light blue tendrils that dangle like strands of rope from the caps and stems of other mushrooms.

(Three pages are filled with detailed watercolor sketches. Next to some of them are faintly glowing dots of color, and next to one is a black stain that has eaten through the paper. The note next to it reads “Orange lace mushrooms highly acidic! Beware!”)

I noticed some of the herbs that Nita had introduced me to. They grow larger in her greenhouses, and they are so small and easily hidden out here in the shadows of the giant mushrooms. I picked a sprig of Sparkweed and could smell the peppery scent of its bruised leaves through the layers of my mask.

Frelya sat silently for most of the day, but as we were heading back to the village she said, “Those colors . . . they don’t hurt you?”

“Well,” I said, “They would make you sick if you ate them, but the paint is safe to use, yes.”

It hadn’t truly occurred to me before, but nearly everything in the village is brown or white or gray. Colorful things are associated with the mushrooms and death. It must be so strange to see the seven of us in our bright red uniforms. They look like new now, as they do at the beginning of every cycle. Mine has already acquired some stains and tears, but the others are clean and bright and crisp. It’s no wonder it was so easy for the villagers to accept that we come from another world.

I attempted to express as much to Frelya. She shrugged and said, “It’s all right. You don’t glow.”

I listened more closely to Merle’s hymn when the scorch teams headed out. Like so many hymns, it sings praises of the light. I may need to have a word with him about symbolism. On this world, unexpected light can easily be an omen of death. They have so little darkness that they’ve learned to covet it, to love ashes and the dark spaces left after the passage of flames.

Day 11

Magnus is already impatient to leave. I caught him arguing with Davenport this morning.

“We don’t know how long it will take!” he was saying. “We have the whole Southern half of the planet to search; we can’t just sit around waiting or this world could die!”

Davenport is less than half of Magnus’s height, but he has an aura of command about him that can make even the biggest human take a step back.

“We’re not going to charge in blindly!” he said. “We need to prepare or the whole mission could be doomed! We know almost nothing about this world and it’s up to me to make sure we make it to the end of the year at all! Oh, ah . . . hello, Lucretia.”

I haven’t been able to convince any of my crewmates that they should ignore my presence and continue with their conversations; it’s my job to chronicle, not to interfere in other people’s arguments. But the sound of my quills does tend to put people off despite my best efforts, and so that was where the conversation ended for today.

The interest in Merle’s evangelizing is still growing. He leads them in song at every meal now, not just when the scorch teams head out in the evening. They didn’t sing much before he arrived. As far as I can tell, they didn’t really have music at all.

“We sing to babies,” Nita said when I went to find her in the greenhouse. “But no, it’s not something we ever gave much thought to. Always too many other things to do.”

“And now?”

She laughed. “Well, there’s still too many other things to do! But it’s . . . nice. It’s like your stories.” She raised one of her canes and tapped my journals. “You don’t need it to live, but it makes being alive feel more important.”

Mico seems especially taken by the word of Pan. Whenever I walk past they’re sitting with Merle, plying him with questions. If Pan is a god of nature, why would he allow a world like this to happen? Was it a punishment? Why should they believe?

Strangely enough, it isn’t the great theological queries that are the sticking point. It’s the pipes.

Merle doesn’t play them much, but he carries a set with him, and he uses them to gesture sometimes when he’s praying. Mico simply can’t grasp the idea of them.

“But you couldn’t play them with a mask,” they said over and over.

“I know, kid,” said Merle. “That’s what I’m telling you. When you sit at the arm of Pan you won’t need a mask. You can breathe free!”

Mico laughed and shook their head, like that was the funniest thing they’d ever heard.

Day 12

Never mind Pan. Fungston is going to start worshiping Lup.

She and Taako have mostly been keeping to themselves and working on new cooking techniques that the residents can use to spice things up, but apparently Lup’s been getting bored.

She volunteered to go out with one of the scorch teams.

They were reluctant to let her at first; it’s a very important job and they’re more cautious about letting outsiders assist with that than with anything else, but with some cajoling and a frankly over-the-top blessing from Merle they agreed.

It’s important to remember that while magic is important to the Fungston life, they mostly use cantrips and they mostly use them for crafting. I’m not sure why higher-level spells are so uncommon, if it has something to do with the mushrooms or if they just never developed them, but regardless of the reason these people have never seen a truly powerful magic-user before.

Usually the scorch teams can burn the mushrooms back for a few hundred feet. When Lup sauntered back into town blowing dramatically on her fingertips, a full quarter-mile of forest to the South of the village had been reduced to smoking rubble.

It was chaos. She stood in the center of town and used Prestidigitation to cast sparks for everyone who wanted to see, and between the people drawing away and the people who wanted to get closer (Vetch used her influence with Magnus to make him carry her over so she could hold Lup’s hand) it was a mob scene. Lup loved it, of course. There are vague plans for her to tutor the townsfolk on Evocation magic, but for now she’s content to bask in her glory.

Day 13

For the first morning since we’ve been here, the first morning in a long time, the mushroom forest hadn’t reached the first ring of sentry fires by dawn. The villagers stood and stared out at the cleared earth.

Most of them were silent, but Nita actually laughed.

“There’s so much of it!” she said. “The biggest open space I’ve ever seen!”

Merle met my eyes, and I could tell it broke his heart as much as it did mine. He nodded slowly to himself, and then looked up at the assembled villagers.

“Oh yeah?” he said with a wink. “Well I can show you something better.”

He strode out to the center of the blasted ground and raised his pipes in one hand and his holy book in the other. He closed his eyes and muttered a prayer under his breath, then stamped his foot on the ground.

The villagers muttered and drew back as the earth around him cracked and shoots began to emerge. Soon they realized that none of the things that were sprouting glowed at all—they were just brown and grey and soft, fresh green, and the murmurs of fear turned to wonder.

I had seen no grass in the forest. Only a few herbs. Hardly any flowers.

It was like watching the whole world turn green. Grass sprang up, and wood sorrel and thyme and clover. Bushes of blueberries and lingonberries grew and flowered and fruited before our eyes.

“Show-off,” muttered Lup. I could tell that she was grinning under her mask.

The villagers froze for a moment. Then Vetch, brave girl, took one step onto the grass, then two, and then ran laughing into Merle’s arms. The rest of them followed, stepping as if in a trance beyond the outer ring of bonfires. They knelt on the grass, ran their hands through the soft leaves, picked the berries and held them in their hands as if they were unsure what to do with them.

“You can eat ‘em,” Merle explained. “Gotta take them back to camp and clean them off, but I bet our favorite chefs here could whip up something—”

“It’ll be divine. Don’t even worry about it.” Taako had pulled his boots off and was digging his toes into the grass. Hesitantly, some of the villagers followed suit.

I felt a tug at my arm.

“I need these plants,” Nita gasped. She was crying and laughing at the same time. “I need—help me get them to the greenhouse, please!”

She and Gully and I dug up samples and carried them inside. There was barely room in the soil for them, but we made do—“The sageweed can keep in water, nettles were getting overgrown anyway . . .” Nita muttered, frantically digging.

When we finally sat back I had green stains on my robe and my fingernails. Gully was staring hungrily at the blueberries.

“Here,” I said, pulling a handful I’d picked outside from my pocket and quickly casting Prestidigitation to clean them. The other two removed their outer masks and loosened their veils, and they each took six berries.

Gully savored hers, eating them one at a times as slowly as she could. Nita put all six into her mouth at once. Her eyes shone with joy and tears, and after she swallowed she threw her arms around Gully and then, after a moment of hesitation, around me.

Day 14

Not much time to write. Have been drafted by Nita to keep moving samples of the plants Merle creates indoors. Village in joyful chaos; talk of expanding borders for the first time in living memory. Lup and the scorch teams working to burn the forest even further back. Everyone knows the green sward can’t be permanent, but for now it exists. The children are grass-stained from head to foot, and though everyone’s faces are still covered the villagers walk like they’re smiling.

[dragonasheswrites-blog]

The Mercy of the Judge

"Go on in, Sansy Pansy. There’s someone who would LOVE to see you."

The Judgement Hall, through other eyes. What has Sans gotten himself into now?

Click here to read on Archive of Our Own, or read more below the cut.

Sans struggled to keep his eyes open.  He could feel his slippers - and thankfully it was slippers; the untied sneakers he sometimes wore would have sent him flat onto his face - dragging on the ground with every step.

He wanted to lay down.  He wanted to drop the...the thing in his hand.  He wanted to  s t o p.

“Here we are!” chirped a voice Sans never wanted to hear again.  It made his head throb.  When would this end?

“Come on,” the voice continued.  Something coiled around Sans’s spine.  It was pointless, of course; Sans hadn’t been able to move his body in...was it days?  Weeks?  He couldn’t tell.  Regardless, all squeezing his spine did was hurt him, threaten his single HP.  It didn’t even hurt that much, compared to the broken femur and clavicle he’d had since Waterfall.

Undyne really knew how to put up a fight.

“Struggling?”  The voice asked, tauntingly.  “I didn’t think you had it in you!  Need me to remind you WHO IS IN CONTROL?”

Sans tried to answer in the negative - tried to get his voice, or his head, or anything to cooperate - but all he could achieve were some twitches and a soft moan.  Something around his neck tightened, and he had the horrible sensation of choking without being able to clear whatever passed for a throat.

Dark spots danced in his vision, but all Sans felt was relief.  He felt his knees give out.  Maybe...was it finally over?  Really?  Finally?  Was he going to be so merciful?

No, of course not.   He let up just as Sans was on the edge of unconsciousness, leaving him weak and panting on the ground.  Sans was tempted to try moving his arms, to push himself upright, but he couldn’t muster the energy.

It didn’t matter.  He was dragged to his feet moments later, then continued his forward motion.  Once again, he found himself fighting to keep his eyes open.  He wanted to - to see what was going to happen.  That was worse then not-seeing, right?

A sob tried to fight its way out of him, despite his best efforts.

The sound of horrible laughter snapped against the inside of Sans’s skull.  “What was that?  Are you actually going to cry now?  Where was that when Papyrus was hunted down?  When Grillby’s was cleared out?  Where was that when Undyne begged - begged! - you to ‘please, stop, Sans?’”  The voice turned into a surprisingly accurate mimicry of Undyne’s rough alto.  “What was it she said?  ‘We can fix this?’  HA!  If only she knew, right?”

Sans didn’t bother even trying to reply.  There was nothing to say.

“Oh, come on, trashbag!  This is what you wanted, right?  Something new?  ‘A break from the endless cycle of RESETs’ - isn’t that what you asked for?  And what do I get in return?  Ingratitude.  Crying.  Golly!  You really are DETERMINED to be miserable, huh?”

He was almost there.  Out of the corner of his eye sockets, Sans could see the grey houses and alleyways that formed the backdrop of New Home.  Almost there.

The king’s house was empty, as it usually was.  Hopefully Asgore was taking shelter with the other monsters instead of watering his flowers.

Picking things up, Sans discovered, was an interesting endeavor in his...condition.  Sure, he was holding the...well, he was holding something he was not going to think about, but he’d been holding that since the Ruins.  It had practically…grown onto his hand.  That left him with his off-hand and the malevolent weed voice and the vines things wrapped around his wrist and fingers, trying to maneuver him into picking up the pair of keys that would open the way to the king’s garden.

It succeeded, unfortunately.  He wouldn’t call what he was doing ‘holding’ the keys - they were just strapped to his fingers, really - but it seemed to work.

“Wait.  Let’s check the rooms first.”

Sans felt dread sink into his nonexistent gut at the tone the voice took.  It knew something.  Not surprising, really, but that knowledge never boded well for Sans or anyone else.

He found himself lurching towards the first room in the hallway.  The door stuck, like it hadn’t been opened in years, and Sans’s shoulder was used as a battering ram against it.  Each hit jolted his broken clavicle, sending shudders of pain through his whole body.

It took three good shoves, but it finally opened.  A soft hisss revealed that the door hadn’t been stuck; it had been trapped.

“Move, move, MOVE!”

Some kind of green vapor filled the air, even down the hallway where Sans had retreated.  Strangely enough, it didn’t seem to have...any affect at all on him, actually.

Then his chest started heaving with Flowey’s - his coughs, and Sans figured he could make an educated guess on what that was.  He fought the urge to chuckle.  Hopefully the coughs covered it up.

“Right, that’s clear.  Let’s get go...wait a minute, are you laughing at me, you smiley trashbag??  You...you…”

Everything felt tight, like Sans was being compressed into a space too small for his bones.  It hurt more than he expected and he fought to breathe through it.

“Just...whatever.  Whatever.  It’s too late to turn back now, anyways.”

Sans moved back down the hallway.  The green smoke had cleared out, though Sans still felt a few jolts to his sternum as the thing coughed.  Inside the rigged doorway was a bedroom as grey as the rest of the house.  Even the drawings tacked to the walls were faded.  Two beds sat on opposite sides of the room, dusty like they hadn’t been used in centuries.  On the floor were two white boxes with bright red ribbons, the only source of color in the room.

“Empty,” the voice hissed.  “Of course.  Of course.  I should have suspected that they were behind this.  Neither of them was ever any use.  Well, it doesn’t matter, does it, trashbag?”

Sans made his way down the stairs.  The things holding him together were a bit more coordinated after all this time, thankfully; he was spared a repeat of the embarrassing (and painful) tumble he’d taken in Tori’s house.  Still, it was an awkward maneuver at best.

The voice was grumbling empty threats against Sans by the time they reached the bottom.  Sans knew they were empty because half of them were anatomically impossible, even for skeletons.  Even if they were, most of them would result in Sans’s death.  If there was one thing Sans had learned from this hellish experience, it was that

He

Could

Not

Die.

That was the worst part, really.   He wondered if F̴̝͇͔́̄̌ͩ́r̩̣͍̐͑͜ĩ̴͍̻̦̞̲̭̼̦̬́ͬ͌̒͒̃͟͡s͔͈̰̺͍̿ͯ̑ͪ͗͜k̝̘̲̞̜̹̗͕̰ͮ̍͊͑͆̅͢ had ever felt this way .

“Hey!”  A flat something smacked Sans across the back of his skull.  “Pay attention!  This is the best part!  This is what we’ve all been waiting for, right?  This is the big finale!  The final act!  Don’t pretend like you didn’t want this all along!”

Sans was pretty sure he had never wanted anything remotely similar to this, but it was hard to tell.  Everything was fuzzy.  He was so, so tired.  The door in front of him looked as imposing and immoveable as the barrier.

“Go on in, Sansy Pansy.  There’s someone who would LOVE to see you.”  Horrible laughter echoed around him once again, and he wished he could lay down and die...

Suddenly, he was standing in a familiar tunnel of golden light.  Sans lost the battle against his drooping eyelids in the face of the brightness.  Surprisingly, nothing forced him to move or open his eyes.

He wondered how long it would last.

“Get moving,” the voice hissed, squeezing Sans’s spine again.  When Sans didn’t twitch, it sighed.

His feet started moving of their own volition again.  Of course.  He opened his eyes, feeling a little queasy at the involuntary motion without visual reference.

Halfway through the hall, Sans noticed something out of the corner of his eye socket.  His backbone stiffened in spite of himself, and he felt...cold.

Oh.  Oh.

This was how the game was going to be played.

The figure moved further into his vision, and Sans got a good look at his...opponent.  Short, about his size, though he was sure he had at least a good inch on her.  Blue sweater with magenta stripes.  Brown cargo pants and well-worn, sturdy shoes.  A golden locket around her neck.  A body posture that screamed DETERMINATION.

Frisk.

“Look who made it!  Wow, I thought we’d never see you!”  An awful, too-familiar grin on her face.  Eyes that flashed red.  And in her hand...a knife.  A real knife.

Chara.

The human’s expression shifted, the red fading away.  “Sans...what happened?  Please, tell me!  What...what’s going on?”

Red eyes.  A sigh.  “Sorry about that.  Little Pacifrisk doesn’t get it.  But we do, don’t we...Azzy?”

A snarl emitted from Sans’s ribcage and for the first time since this all started, Flowey showed himself.  His petals brushed Sans’s chin from where he positioned himself just above Sans’s clavicle, hiding the break in the bone.

“What the flip gave it away??  I made super sure not to show myself on any cameras!  There was no way you could’ve known!”

“Psh.  Do you really expect us - either of us - to believe that Sans would do something like this?  He’s not like you and I, Azzy.  He’s not bored.  He’s not looking to play around or entertain himself in this little time loop we have going on here.  No; he just wants it all to end, don’t you, Sans?  One way or another, it doesn’t matter to you.  You just want it to be over.”

Sans felt his eye sockets closing again.  The kid was right.  There was little he wouldn’t give just to stop the resets, to stop living the same few months over and over and over and over and over…

Flowey hissed and slapped Sans on the back of the skull again.  “So what?  What made you think he didn’t just snap and start rampaging across the Underground?”

Brown eyes stared into Sans’s eye sockets, full of compassion.  “Because I - we - believe in Sans.  He would never do something like that.  It had to be an outside force.”  A smile.  “And really, Flowey, you weren’t nearly as careful as you thought.  He’s covered in vines, you know; that’s hardly normal.  Besides, just because we can’t see you doesn’t mean we can’t hear you.  You have a very...distinctive voice.  Even if we hadn’t overheard you cussing Sans out, the echo flowers had some...interesting things to say.”

Flowey screeched in indignation, his vines digging into Sans once again.  This time Sans couldn’t quite suppress a grunt of pain.

“Enough.”  The kid’s eyes were red again.  “We’ve come to an agreement, Frisk and I.  No matter what, no matter how...we will stop you, Azzy.”

Flowey screeched with laughter, and Sans winced against the headache it brought.  “No you won’t.  You said it yourself!  Sans is a friend.  You believe in him.  You wouldn’t hurt a friend, now would you?”  Sans felt his hand come to rest against his sternum.

“Oh, please.  We’re not doing this to stop Sans; we’re doing it to stop you.”  A pause.  “Oh, and Frisky here wants me to ask you to give up, we’ll spare you, just RESET and give us back the timeline, blah, blah, blah.”

“Hehe.  She really doesn’t get it!”

A nasty smile spread across Frisk’s face.  “She really doesn’t.  I mean, look at all the times I took over!  Sans didn’t even hesitate to take both Frisk and I out!”

Flowey stiffened.  “Wait, wha-”

“Sans understands all too well that there’s only one way to end this.  Frisk is sweet, but against creatures like you and me?  ‘Sweet’ doesn’t cut it.  There’s only one language we understand.”

Sans felt himself being drawn into an encounter.  Flowey’s vines maneuvered the arm holding the dusty toy knife out to one side, poised to strike.

“We FIGHT.”

It was obvious from the first swipe (MISS) that Chara wasn’t even trying to aim for Flowey, poking his head out of Sans’s sweatshirt.  She was going for both of them, trying to take out the puppeteer and the puppet in one fell stroke.

Sans did understand.  As Chara had said, he’d taken out Frisk and Chara more times than he cared to count.  He hadn’t bothered to try to tell who was in control.  He knew - he knew - that Frisk had been in control for parts of some of those fights, trying to SPARE him.

He couldn’t chance letting a power-mad Chara out of the Underground any more than Frisk could chance letting Flowey and Sans out.  And they would get out; Asgore wouldn’t put up much of a fight against them, not with their LV.  They could take Frisk’s soul and the six souls already gathered by the king, and become…

...become...well, something awful.  Something that no human was really prepared to face.  It would be a massacre, if they reached the surface.

Sans felt himself dodge another swing from Chara.  He couldn’t tell what Flowey was doing on their shared turn, but at least he wasn’t yanking Sans’s arm around anymore.

Another swing, another miss.  Whatever Flowey was doing, it didn’t seem to be having much effect on Chara.

“COME ON, SMILEY TRASHBAG!”  Flowey screamed.  “DON’T YOU WANT TO LIVE?  DO SOMETHING!  ANYTHING!  THEY’RE GOING TO KILL US AT THIS RATE!”

Good.

The kid was eyeing him, though.  Sans had always been good at reading expressions, and it looked like Chara wanted him to attack.  The humans had a plan, then.  Sans waited a few more turns, then started sending out bone patterns.  They were broken - all but useless - but it was something.  He nicked the kid’s shin once, and was both relieved and worried to see that the attack did exactly one point of damage.

The kid had no LV.

The kid had no LV.

It hadn’t really occurred to him - muddled as his mind was - that Frisk (well, Chara) usually fought him with 19 LV; that her HP, ATK and DEF were usually so high because she’d been killing monsters.

Oh, it was great when it came to Sans’s Karmic Retribution - without LV, it wouldn’t even trigger - but in general?  The kid was probably doomed.

And without the ability to RESET, Sans and Flowey would be out on the surface in no time.

“Hahaha!”  Chara swung wildly.  She didn’t even look like she was aiming.  “Don’t give up on us yet, Sans!  We’re stronger than you think, even without LOVE!  Don’t you remember what you always tell Frisk?”

You didn’t gain LOVE, but you gained love.  Does that make sense?

Flowey hissed like a leaky balloon.  “Stop talking to him!  I’m the one you need to be concerned about!  I’m the one who killed everyone!  I’m the one who set all this up!  Come on, Chara; aren’t you even going to TRY to stop-”

The kid glanced at Sans again with a look in her eye.   Finally.

A single bone attack went straight through Flowey’s stem.  The weed twitched, turned its ‘face’ towards Sans with a gruesome expression.  “W h a t   d o   y o u   t h i n k   y o u ‘ r e   D O I N G ,   t r a s h b a g ?”

SMASH!

Sans choked on the pain.  Chara - as he had expected - took advantage of Flowey’s distraction.  Flowey was still in control of Sans’s body, so without Flowey’s direction he couldn’t dodge Chara’s strike.  His entire body convulsed; he could hardly tell where the kid had hit-

A manic grin still on her face, she rushed forward.  She raised the knife and brought it down, decimating both Flowey’s ‘face’ and Sans’s clavicle.  Sans screamed.

Again and again and again Chara stabbed Flowey, until there was nothing left but little bits of stem and yellow petals that Sans could barely see out of his barely fading vision…

“Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop- ”

It wasn’t Sans saying that.  He glanced up.  The kid’s mouth was moving, even while her knife kept stabbing into him.  He couldn’t even feel the impact anymore; it was all just dust.

Finally, it stopped.  Frisk’s body relaxed, settling her weight back on her heels.  A clatter signified that the knife hit the ground.  When she opened her eyes, they were brown.

“h-heya, k…”  He felt like he was choking, but...but…

Arms were under the remains of his shoulders and the back of his skull, yanking withering vines away..  “Sans...Sans, I’m so sorry!  I’m so, so sorry.  I tried to get Chara to stop...there must have been another way…”

“You know...better than that, kid.  There’s no stop...ping someone like...that.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!  I should’ve tried harder!  I should’ve done something!”

“Heh.  That’s...how I...always feel.  Not...your fault.”

“Oh, Sans.  It’s not your fault either.”

“Ditto.  And...sorry.”

“I just said it’s not...Sans?  Sans, no, wait, don’t-”

“SANS!”

Sans pulled the covers over his head.  He was so tired.

“SANS, IF YOU DON’T WAKE UP THIS INSTANT, YOU WON’T HAVE TIME TO HAVE BREAKFAST BEFORE YOU HAVE TO START WORK!”

Work?  Work?

Sans leapt out of bed with more energy than he’d felt in years.  He nearly tripped down the stairs - moving his body felt good for once, but his coordination was apparently still asleep - and skidded into the kitchen.  Papyrus was taking a pot of oatmeal off the stove, the same breakfast he always had the morning after a RESET.

A RESET.

Sans felt tears coming to his eye sockets.

“SANS?  WHAT’S WRONG, BROTHER?”

He collapsed right there on the kitchen floor, unable to hold back the sobs.  He could hear Papyrus yelling something - encouragement, maybe? - before he was bodily hauled up into loving, bony arms.

“SANS, ARE YOU ALRIGHT?”

“yeah, paps,” Sans managed to gasp.  He wiped the tears away with one sleeve of his pajama shirt.  “yeah, everything is amazing.  you’re here and i’m here and...and we’re all great."

Except, Sans realized over his oatmeal, that he owed Chara a thank-you for saving the world.

Well.  He could do that later.

...Much later.

[marrowflavored]

==> Weeks in the future, but not many...

      [ access plain text ]

   Shou demanded to leave the house as soon as he saw the lava Kanaya showed him, but halfway trying to get his immobile ass out the door he collapsed backwards and clutched his chest. He stopped trying to leave at that point, just kind of in dumb shaky shock as he lay back on the couch, shivering. Couldn't eat meat for a few days. Completely nonverbal for at least a day or two. Big eyed and confused and so shaky he needed both hands to drink water. He'd stared really large eyed at Alex and Frenchie when they got back, and it was hard to tell if he was surprised or not from the way he was already deer in the headlights but.    Mentally afterwards, he's in shambles. Between the memories trying to force their way up and Jave's Self poorly reintegrating he's ungodly scatterbrained, muttering apologies and curling up on himself. His best exercise seemed to be literally that, exercise, so when he was mobile again got to grinding hardcore. He was always there for listening or holding someone, but he was helpless and useless otherwise, something that frustrated him to no end. He wanted to see Ghostie but wasn't in a state to insist, as much as he wanted to. He wanted to hug Alex, at least once. Frenchie, for sure, all the way through his alcoholic descent.    He wasn't sure if Jave was 'there' or not but that the same time he kind of knew he was but wasn't sure how to integrate or properly deal with that. Since he was BACK but PART of shou again--Jave's things were becoming shou's, and there wasn't enough separation between the two to say 'he's here' without being utterly cruel.   Shou takes a while before he stabilizes. It's poor stabilization anyways, but it's there. He'll still wince or shudder as a new memory tries to rip through him, but he's trying.   He likely talks to Zack often. Often enough to know what the plan is. Enough to be nervous and hysterical about the prospect of being doomed and disappearing, but not without hope.   Shou took some kind of hit when he had that fit on the day Jave died--he hasn't been quite the same since. Aside from being a neurological wreck with the worst memory issues, he just. Didn't hold himself the same. There would be times he'd stand there with his face utterly dead expression, sitting in his hip and hands tucked in his pockets. Suddenly Zack can't rely on Shou to be his sous chef, unless they're preparing things cold, since even the sight of a warm oven or boiling pot will send him into panic. He's been found under a blanket pile during a rainstorm, curled up with an ancient stuffed animal from his closet and whimpering like a small child. His voice will go strangely flat sometimes, less empty and more just. The Wrong Delivery of his words.   He frowns if asked about it, sometimes just frowns in general, thinking hard. Apologizing quietly if he can't grasp it.  Fighting in the day, and holding people close at night. Usual, if strained, Shou things.   But especially towards the end, but sometimes in peeks before, there's something different. One of the hugs Frenchie gets feels different, no less forgiving but something in it is stiller and deeper than usual. Like someone else is there.   Ghostie, of course, will get his before he leaves. Before, or after, it's hard to say, trying to track Alex down before she winds up dead.   Hopefully, finding her before that point. Catching her arm when she tries to leave. Trying to explain the time plan. To fix this. To change this.   When she tries to leave again, holding her in a hug from behind. Before she leaves with her portal, just muttering, "Star girl, please. Stay with me."   "It's going to get better, I promise. We just gotta hang on a little longer."

  Frenchie went several nights without sleep after watching his friend die, staying awake through the night to watch over Shou, Alex, and Zack. The first time he would manage to doze off would only last a few hours before he was woken, trembling and sweating, by nightmares of turning on the lights in the Miller's movie theater to see Jave's face crumbling to ash.   Frenchie was noticeably jumpy and on edge for a week, unable to get more than one or two hours of sleep at a time, and became prone to nervously following Ghostie around the house to make sure he wasn't getting into anything shifty. Driven to desparation by paranoia and lack of sleep, he eventually turned to the only thing he knew was a surefire way to get some rest and relaxation - self medication. Whoever found him passed out near the alchemiter would only shake their head and move the empty bottle of whisky somewhere safer. It was only a matter of time before relapse arrived in this timeline, anyway.    It eventually became clear to him that Alex was avoiding him (she was avoiding everyone, but in his vulnerable state it felt especially personal). Convinced of everything that he had suspected all along, that she only tolerated him until she could drop him and be with her real boyfriend, he tried several times to contact her before giving up and, in a fit of inebriated despair, deleting her number from his phone.    A mixture of guilt, depression, and anger drove him to solitude, even as he sought to protect his remaining friends from the lurking threats of Sburb. he could usually be found outside, using lightning and fists to wreak havoc on Shou's endless enemies, or hiding in the bathroom, alone. Heavy drinking and hours of combat were the only ways he could maintain a regular sleep cycle and still drive off recurring nightmares.    Frequently he would approach Shou, trying to comfort and find comfort in him, and sometimes it almost worked. Shou had the natural ability to make him feel Forgiven. But eventually the solace would end. Other times, he would attempt a casual hangout with Zack, but they'd both be too distracted to really have any fun doing it. Their contact mostly included tearful hugs or working in the kitchen together, not exchanging words.

   Alex mostly cried the first few days. Similar to Frenchie, she didn’t sleep much and when she did it was mostly nightmares about Jave’s cooked corpse. After she calmed down, she would accept a little help, but remain kind of detached. Hugs from Shou would be met with a half-hearted pat on the back, talks with Frenchie just made her guilty or sad that she couldn't help him as a moirail. Relaxing makes her restless and she ends up thinking, which creates a downward of thought. She’d be angry at Ghostie for not listening and getting Jave needlessly killed. She'd be sad and upset about Jave's death, commenting about how she wasn't there to help him or even comfort him as he died. She'd think about going back to his planet for a burial but couldn’t make herself face that place again. 
So more and more she sneaks out and runs off and goes the OPPOSITE way of her peaceful exploration, going out and looking for danger. The more she wandered off to get distracted the less she’d look at her phone and respond. When she sees Frenchie’s drunk texts, she feels even worse about not being a good moirail and keeps spiraling down until she virtually stops contact all together.    One day Shou stops her and asks "Star girl" to stay, the nickname was only every used by Jave. She doesn't stop her violent explorations, but she does try to stay around closer to Shou's house, the home base. Shou never calls her that again, and she's in doubt enough to not consider the reason he did, and aware enough to know it wasn't a fluke or a trick of the mind.

   Zack was more moral support overall. He’d try and comfort Shou with hugs and shoulder pats, and hug Frenchie close. He'd even give Alex hugs which aren’t returned. When Shou’s more healed up, Zack heads off to find answers, telling everyone his plans and making double sure that they know what he's up to. He Knows things weren’t supposed to go this way in the timeline, and he follows that trail of thought to his planet and his new God Tier. Because of the ascension he has a clearer knowledge of how things can be fixed, the most favorable option being “Wait through hell until Ghostie gets the bright idea to go back himself.” Until then, he keeps calling Alex and updating here even if she doesn't respond, taking drinks away from Frenchie, and helping Shou as best as he emotionally can.    When Shou shows his fear and panic over heat after the incident, Zack changes to an all salad/sushi diet, or basically anything that can be consumed or cooked cold. Usually separates meals too, in case there is something like meat or warmth involved.

   Ghostie held it together for a total of about an hour after Jave’s death. It was long enough to try (and fail) to find an adequate burial place, then wander the newly destroyed land, shell-shocked and shivering despite the heat. Then he broke down, violently, screaming and scratching at his arms until Frenchie dragged his catatonic body back to Shou’s planet.    Ghostie knew he was alive now, and subsequently doubled his efforts to hurt, maim, and punish himself. He ate next to nothing, frequently raided the cabinets of Shou’s home for pills and alcohol, and never slept, instead choosing to sit awake in the corner. He picked fights with imps and ogres. He sought Frenchie’s attention by stealing the alcohol that he alchemized, but Frenchie refused to take the bait. After a couple of attempts to contact Alex, he could no longer face her rejection and gave up.    He took to following Zack around, trying to stay out of sight, but for some reason taking comfort in his presence. He frequently revealed himself by accident, unable to be as stealthy as he wanted, but Zack never seemed to threaten him or mind his presence. In fact, it was quite the opposite, and a silent sort of kinship developed between the two. Ghostie found the older boy’s activities interesting to watch, and it made him think.    To stay in this ruined timeline and let himself fade into oblivion was no less than what he believed he deserved, but after several weeks of guilt and self-destruction, he began to wonder if somehow, this could be fixed. Watching Zack grow stronger, honing his powers over time, Ghostie developed a suspicion that maybe this timeline was supposed to fail - and some other, fortunate one was meant to succeed. Maybe, for some other version of himself, there was hope.     Maybe Jave could still live. 

[thissupposedcrime]

otayuri as... batcat....

Fam, I am so sorry. I wrote 2k of Otayuri dramatic superhero AU before realizing you requested Batman/Catwoman dynamics. If it helps, picture the Hero of Kazakhstan having no idea how to handle Yuri dressed like Chat Noir from Miraculous Ladybug. Maybe I should write that next?

Superhero AU 

In which there is very little skating but the universal constants in Yuri Plisetsky’s life are Victor ruining everything and Otabek Altin’s distracting jaw line.

Before Yuuri Katsuki, Yuri Plistsky is happy. 

All he has ever wanted is to be a superhero, and his dream is real after years of injuries, training, and trauma.

They have a good thing going, a well-oiled machine of badassery and rage. Yakov has been training superheroes for decades, since the 1970s when having a secret identity was still outlawed in Russia. He and Lilia even lead the revolution and protests for heroes to retain separate personas. 

(And like everything Lilia involves herself in, she wins.) 

Lilia’s elastic bones enabled a terrifyingly electric career as a ballerina. 

Yakov’s power of flight and telekinesis made him a masterful hero and a terrible task master of Russia’s secret hero development program and leader of St. Petersburg’s heroes. 

Civilians know him as a businessman. A few assume mob connections but Yuri’s hung out in enough malls, alleyways, and schools to know people pretend ignorance of Yakov’s identity. Because it means something to him. Jesus. 

Under Yakov and Lilia, Yuri P (20, abnormal flexibility, spite, and ability to communicate with animals) thrives, protecting St. Petersburg with: 

Mila (23, controls fire, and makes jokes about having no chill that Yuri would rather kill himself than hear again).

Georgi: (27, an actual fucking witch who can’t keep his shit together depending on his heartbreak or the lunar cycle)

The lunar cycle thing is bullshit, just an excuse for his really emotional days.

And…the ice-man cometh himself.

Victor (28) is a dick. Victor is a dick, thinking with his dick. Only that asshole would go to charity dinner celebrating the Sochi Grand Prix and fall in love with a fucking ice skater named Yuuri Katsuki (24) INSTEAD OF GUARDING THE PLACE.

The dude was drunk and likely doesn’t remember who Victor is, but did that stop him from rushing home to Yakov’s training space, squeeing about soulmates? No.

Victor trashes the place in his haste to pack, leaving destruction and a garish, proud note, “Retiring to Japan for love!” in his wake. 

Years prior, when Victor was 14 and successfully adopted by Yakov, he asked if Victor would like to continue skating or go into ‘the family business’ of protecting St. Petersburg

The dick just had to become the best superhero Russia ever had. Fuck people with ice powers in Russia. They have to do nothing and get all the credit. Fuck Victor.

Naturally, they can’t let Victor go without a fight, but, plot twist, THE ONLY ONE TO REMAIN IN RUSSIA IS YURI P. 

Yakov follows his dipshit son out of foolish, displaced loyalty (everyone knows he wants to meet his prospective new in-law)

Lilia looks on with disgust. Yuri inherited this look from her.

In hysterics, Mila and Georgi are not missing out on this. Besides, Mila knows about the hot springs. She’d literally light anyone on fire who tried to stop her. Georgi lives to see Victor get yelled at. Yuri can relate.

“We deserve this Yuri. We’ve dealt with him longer.”

“Assholes, you didn’t live with him and Yakov for the past decade!”

So Yuri P stays home with Lilia because someone needs to actually do their damn job around here.

“Are you sure you’re not jealous that Katsuki threw himself at Victor and not you?”

“Shut up hag!” There are not posters of Yuuri Katsuki’s skating in his bedroom, despite what she insinuates.

There are. Many.

More importantly, Katsuki’s a fucking civilian. Dating those is a death sentence. Look at half the superhero community for proof.

Yakov isn’t irresponsible. Just his children are. So he contacts a few old friends to see who wouldn’t mind covering for his missing team while they’re out of the country.

Yuri isn’t good at interacting with the teen girls who mob crime scenes during danger. 

Yuri thinks if they’re stupid enough to stay when someone is shooting thunderbolts from the sky, he doesn’t need to save them. This is natural selection trying to work things out.

Honestly, part of the reason they want Victor to come home is because he’s the only one who handles the public well. 

When Yuri was 17, he was nearly strangled by a supervillain because Mila and Victor were busy entertaining the crowd by melting ice to water and then freezing it into ice sculptures.

Yuri should have stayed in Moscow

(Tragic backstory of civilians-heroes dating in his family and always dying)

“Fuckers, I can protect the city on my own. I basically do already!” 

“Language!”

“Lilia, it’s true! Last month Georgi was too busy crying and almost let a bank robber escape.”

Despite his compelling arguments and temper tantrums, no one listens to Yuri. The story of his life. 

On a bleak January morning, two foreign gifts arrive for Yuri:

A postcard from Mila describing how amazing Yuuri Katsuki and his town are. Using a lighter, he watches it burn with deep satisfaction.

A man from Kazakhstan, flanked by a duo of pale losers, marches into Yakov’s training center, unarguably the prime superhero compound in the country.

(”In Europe,” Victor has been known to drunkenly proclaim until reminded it’s a secret, asshole)

The two men are dressed in nondescript suits, clean-cut but scuffed shoes. Bureaucrats from Russia to help the paperwork and assistant coaches. 

Ugh.

The other man? He’s broad shouldered, compact but graceful as he navigates the wild superpowers and children training under Yuri’s less than watchful eye. He’s at least three centimeters shorter than Yuri yet intimidating and imposing, standing in front of a window as the gray skies outside outline his body. 

Yuri is disgusted to note the man is wearing sunglasses indoors, and uses that fact to justify ignoring that his jaw is better cut than any diamond or how large his biceps appear under his leather jacket. This man stares at Yuri, like an old friend rediscovered. Yuri growls.

“Who the hell are you?” Yuri asks, hackles raised while the bureaucrats realize they’re in over their heads in assuming Lilia hasn’t been running things with brutal effectiveness since Yakov left.

It does not matter that people have been collapsing in exhaustion or crying during training. Fucking Yakov has clearly been coddling people if three weeks with Lilia has broken their spirit.

Yuri despairs of what will happen once he retires.

This city is going to wither and die.

“Otabek Altin,” the stranger replies, taking off his glasses and tucking them into a pocket. At least he didn’t put them on his head. Hesitating for a short moment, he reaches a hand out to Yuri, who decides to grasp it as firmly as possible.

Altin doesn’t even wince, handshake powerful and strong. Impressed, Yuri smirks and thinks Altin won’t be so bad.

Naturally, Yuri is right. Otabek, Beka, proves himself an indispensable revelation, a gift from Kazakhstan requested by Yakov to help out in training. 

His scowl terrifies their cockier recruits but calms the students skittish when people without powers train them. Unlike countless others before him, no one questions if Otabek should be present, despite his lack of laser beams or telepathy. 

Proudly, Yuri calls Mila and tells her to keep enjoying Japan, for Beka is doing a better job than any of them ever had in training and supporting him.

“How rude Yura!”

In the background of one such call, Victor is building an impromptu ice rink for Yuuri on a beach while Yakov and his beloved scream about his usage of powers.

“Do they know who Victor is?” Yuri already knows the answer to this question.

“Well. They love him regardless, and that’s all that matters to Yakov,” Mila offers brightly.

But back to Beka, wonderful, thoughtful Beka who understands what Yuri wants before he asks, patiently listens as he whines about the villains he has faced and his annoying colleagues. 

Beka hums encouragingly every time he collapses against his warm shoulder during practice, allows him to nestle his chin against his collarbone.

Lilia doesn’t hate him. Clearly Beka isn’t a regular civilian but powered by miracles and effort.

Occasionally, when he stops raving about Beka to Lilia during dinner, he delicately broaches the topic of keeping him once those losers come home from vacation. 

“He’s good for you,” Lilia states. He takes it as tacit approval to amp up his efforts to show off St. Petersburg. 

Yakov will be overjoyed he’s found someone so capable to make up for the defects he calls teammates, Yuri decides.

It is a shame he cannot keep the Hero as well.

Nearly a month after Victor fled, Yuri breaks up a museum heist. Most of the criminals are normal, powerless, but the leader shoots plasma from a gauntlet on his hand. 

Ice Tiger has successfully knocked out all but the jackass leaking liquid from his wrist, and cautiously moves around the columns at the front of the museum when jackass gets a lucky shot, and sends the columns Ice Tiger rests between into a crumbling mess.

Before Yuri can start swearing, and dodge, a man clad in all black, save for a dark blue belt, steps next to him and presses a palm against each column, steadying them. His mask spans the bridge of his nose, circling around to the back of his neck.

Yuri scampers away with, not stupid enough to hesitate or question during battle, and sends plasma jackass flying with a well placed kick to his upper chest. 

He might have given him a collapsed lung, but Yuri cares more for the man standing behind him, nonplussed as he holds up tons of weight.

Once the police arrive and danger settled, Yuri impatiently drags the stranger up to the rooftop. 

“Who the hell are you?”

The man blinks, but his dark costume and the pale snippets of moonlight make it impossible to determine the color of his eyes. Alarmingly, he pauses to consider his answer and Yuri wonders if debris concussed him. “Hero.” He finally settles on.

“Hero. Hero of what?” Yuri rolls his eyes in frustration.

“Hero of a far off land, where I use my strength to protect my people.” 

“Why. are. you. here.” Yuri grits out between clenched teeth, frustrated he’s been saved, by the slowness of his conversation, and over the powerful upper body of this super-strength junkie. He’s shit at upperbody power, known for his lithe form and kicks. Mila regularly outlifts him.

“Yakov requested-”

“Motherfucker,” he yowls. Alley cats in the street below make noise in unison.

“Sorry for rescuing you,” Hero replies placidly. 

“I had it under control!”

“Of course you did. You’re an excellent hero, but I thought it best to avoid more damage to the museum.” Yuri’s shoulders relax slightly at the sincere, admiring tone of Hero.

“Whatever. If Yakov sent you, I might as well make sure you don’t accidentally destroy my city.” For some reason, Yuri doesn’t loathe this guy, despite his nondescript costume or the assumption Yuri can’t protect the city alone.

“Thank you for your confidence,” he replies, tumbleweed dry, and Yuri muffles a laugh, oddly charmed and at ease.

“Do you normally dress like that?” Yuri can’t help but ask as he paces across the roof, preparing to jump down to a fire escape.

“No, I reserve my real costume for home.”

“Oh. Alright.” Better than nothing.

Cue a night of Hero being impeccable and charming and the best partner Yuri ever asked for

In the morning, Yuri will call Yakov and tell him how slowly the Hero aid he requested arrived but he doesn’t disapprove.

When Yakov hangs up the phone, he’ll turn to Mila and wonder if he imagined Yuri’s praise of Otabek Altin for the past week.

Mila laughs uncontrollably, once she pieces it together.

Victor is impossible to drag away, but Yakov refuses to give up, and Mila and Georgi refuse to abandon the show. Georgi might be trying to fall in love with a local girl. Yuri doesn’t want to know.

It means perfect weeks with Otabek in the day, sharing brunch. Beka takes on some of Yuri’s instructor duties (something he’s shit at anyway) so he can train with the upper level students.

Whenever possible Yuri tugs him out of the training center early, desperate to show off his city and give Beka a reason to stay.

Among the many perfect things about Otabek is his understanding of time. He never calls Yuri until the afternoon on weekends, because his week is busy with training in the day, fighting for half the evening. 

He even orders “more sleep” when Yuri awakens before 1 PM on a Sunday and calls him. Beka is so thoughtful.

It means perfect weeks with Hero in the night, silent communication and a fearlessness Yuri’s never understood before. The crime rate keeps low so they explore St. Petersburg in the dark or sometimes they play, chasing each other across the rooftops or seeing how many cats Hero can carry, along with Yuri perched on his back. 

Hero shares secrets more freely than Beka, the only complaint he has. 

He’s waiting for someone to remember him.

His laugh is ugly when Yuri tells him no one is worth his time if they can’t remember Hero.

Yuri falls in love in the mornings, falls in love during the night.

Yuri doesn’t realize the trouble he’s in until early April, when Mila disrupts an early dinner with Beka to announce their return.

“A man held a gun to Yakov’s head and Yuuri punched him! Oh Yuri, you should have seen it. Victor’s still crying over his fiancee throwing himself into such peril for the family.”

“Did Yakov already disarm the gun with his powers?”

“Well yes, but Yuuri didn’t know that! Yakov’s charmed and helped Victor shop for a ring.”

“Wait, what?”

“Vakov approves! We’re coming home.”

A dial tone interrupts Mila’s explanation of their flight details. 

Yuri has this huge night long panic as he figures out he’s in love with two people, doesn’t know what to do.

Falling in love with civilians is a death sentence. Just look at his family.

He loves Otabek far too much to put him at risk. So he lets him go.

Ultimately, he cares about Hero because he’s powerful and shares everything with Yuri. Yuri feels safer than he ever did with Mila or Victor or even Lilia who treats him like her own.

Someone needs to tell Yuri the only reason he feels this way is because part of him must realize its Otabek and only trusts him because its Otabek but god help him, he is slow and still doesn’t connect the two after over a month.

But then Yuri remembers Hero belongs to his own country, to another person. So he lets him go as well. 

If a gun was put to his head, he’d pick Otabek anyway

The following few nights are awkward, as both understand there’s a countdown for Hero to leave.

On the final night, it is silent. Neither speaks as they guard the town. There is no goodbye, and Yuri feels like a failure.

The days are worse, as Yuri has the option to ask Otabek to stay because he doesn’t belong to Kazakstan the way Hero does to his country. Yuri nearly bites his own tongue off twenty times as he swallows down how badly he wants to beg Otabek not to leave.

He remembers every hero who loved and lost a civilian and refuses, even as he drives Otabek to the airport.

Otabek keeps staring at him, waiting for something he can never offer.

He departs, taking parts of Yuri with him.

Uh this is getting long and we’re at risk at me deleting this in favor of a 10k actual fic version of this so let me wrap up

Yuri sulks for weeks, is a beast to everyone

Beka returns after a month, as does Hero 

(the person I’m waiting for is still here. Yuri is still clueless)

Beka’s life is at risk somehow as a civilian but separate from Yuri

Yuri realizes that danger can come regardless and commits to dating Otabek

Yuri tries to confess to Beka, but fucks up horribly, accidentally makes it seem like he’s settling for Beka because he can’t have Hero.

A lot of fucking drama, so much crying

Georgi screaming in the background about how he just left Japan, why is he dealing with this again

Eventually Yuri proves he’s wanted Beka the entire time, long drawn out love confession where he offers to leave Russia and being a superhero (what he loves most) behind if Otabek will have him

Beka is weak, so weak by love

Reveals he’s the Hero, specifically the Hero of Kazakhstan (super famous, super skilled, kick ass costume inspired by his skating uniform) and has known Yuri since they trained together as kids

Traumatic backstory where people always loved Hero, not Otabek

Yuri’s like “I love you for you, you could retire tomorrow, I still want to be here…WAIT NO YOU GOT TO RETIRE RIGHT NOW I DON’T WANT TO SEE YOU HURT OH MY GOD RETIRE”

Beka eventually calms him down and they live happily ever after. They spend vacations in Kazakhstan

“Beka, do they even have villains here?”

“Beka, do they even have a training program for heroes here?”

And a lot of time in Russia, where Otabek takes on Yuri’s training duties of baby superheroes/kids with powers while Yuri scouts and fights

Victor is offended no one thanks him at their wedding for setting this entire thing in motion.

I frantically typed this out so sorry for the bad spelling and sorry again for not following the prompt. Should I make this an actual fic?

Update 1/16: Here, it’s becoming a fic. 

[glopratchet]

origin-of-astrly-wylde

The atmoshphere of the planet is an ocean of blood, a pool of gore, a river of fire They have searched for ages in the depths of hells dungeons, but they never found each other so long ago What adverse effects would temporal disturbances in this area have? If he could only remember why he let them into his life so long ago the emotional pain fuels their ambitions of explosive creativity Their craft invovles a lot of suffering dirt The three have been intertwined for many years now; Red skin is peeling across his face--scorched by unholy magik His orange beard is covered with crispy green goo and flecks of black dirt as their hands run through his hair, "let yourself go All three of them could achieve greatness but each of the three has their own will " they whisper to him as their hands run through his hair, to their wills, he feeds their desires He obliges to their wills, --casting, raising, summoning, conjuring, manifesting, placating, banishing But he can't remember what they're trying to summon He screams at himself over and over and over again--casting, he tells himself, stripping off his dirty shirt and throwing it on the ground " I could go for a beer right about now " he tells himself, gesturing and shifting patterns in the air around him the hell do I do this? " he asks himself, staring at the crystallizing pattern above him "look, a distraction! "why the hell do I do this? they ask him--voice unaccusically blaming him "it's what they wanted, " they scold " they ask him--voice unaccusically blaming him to humanity times infinity "I think we're ready, " they note He goes over the final calculations, infering, presuming Plus a multitude of other mentions of the worst expletive that are known to humanity times infinity from it's underwater exile "Do you really want to do this? His conscious reemerges from it's underwater exile and barely functioning " he exclaims, letting his hand move from side to side, waving a GUI widget away from his face his face from side to side, "just say yes " she whispers to him as he moves his face from side to side, everything--but now all he understands is that he is powerless as they move about him, commanding every move Things he used to remember have now been forgotten and perfect memory was a state he felt most comfortable with understanding everything--but now all he understands is that he is powerless as they move about him, he's alienated from the external world He feels dirty, unclean, and unhappy--but that doesn't matter right now as the keyboard has become small, red-hot irons But that doesn't matter either Parts of it even hurt, that it almost catches fire Nothing he does makes an impact on anything around him Like having the worst seizure known to man multiplied by infinity The ui glitches out so badly that it almost catches fire and disappear over and over again He tries playing with it, bringing the windows back more and filling his desktop with explosions of text messaging him at incredible speeds Windows upoon windows upon windows fill with text and disappear over and over again --which makes sense But this wasn't really happening He slaps himself to get his mind back on track It tells him about his current surroundings--which makes sense It's been sent by the one who created him and his friends The one who'd promised so much but made them murderers these flash in front of him, filling his head--a malevolent entity that feeds on itself, growing and speaking inside his very own thoughts Such terms as these flash in front of him, for blood burned in his mind--Bertrand's cold dark humor haunting nightmares as he slowly pushes a sharpened screwdriver into people he once loved Astryl astounding lusting for blood burned in his mind--Bertrand's cold dark humor haunting nightmares as he slowly pushes a sharpened screwdriver into people he once loved on him bone dry as he--The master thing in charge in this room--masters everything here Astryl longest mouth sucking on him bone dry as he--The master flashing in front of his eyes as she--The master thing in charge in this room--masters everything here none of them matter anymore Astryl filthy grab assing flashing in front of his eyes as she--The master thing in charge in this room--masters everything here excuses of corpses bring shame to the dead and trodden on for the almighty dollar "Man! Astryl glazing necropolitical excuses of corpses bring shame to the dead and trodden on for the almighty dollar into green goo sizzling all-consuming banality Astryl sluggish falling into green goo sizzling all-consuming banality rotting ones and zeroes--corpses rotting away in the green glowing sprawling Astryl abominable decomposing rotting ones and zeroes--corpses rotting away in the green glowing sprawling slow death struggles of ones and zeroes--unable to die in the new material world--1's and 0's--billions and trillions swirling around and Astryl relentless bleeding slow death struggles of ones and zeroes--unable to die in the new material world--1's and 0's--billions and trillions swirling around and deaths as ones and zeroes--the cold, dying electronic lagging--melting into the fire Man, you're dark Astryl morose withering deaths as ones and zeroes--the cold, slow death into white nothingness Astryl placid dwindling slow death into white nothingness cryptorbitals ending into blackness Maybe he doesn't remember what Astryl's like because he blocked it out? "Hello? Astryl disquieting decaying cryptorbitals ending into blackness through bad poetry in class and myspace about meaningless romance "Man, stop fooling around with Toni and get me another soda from the fridge Astryl insufferable sobbing through bad poetry in class and myspace about meaningless romance for love crack in ones and zeroes Astryl lazy uncoupling for love crack in ones and zeroes rampantly forensics you're stupid You are malicious Astryl sensuous binding rampantly forensics poetic profanity into a device owned by the human race to communicate Astryl gassy footing poetic profanity into a device owned by the human race to communicate gray path of ones and zeroes--covered in ash from where you came from Toni was a cruel mistress You are cryptic Astryl mystic emitting gray path of ones and zeroes--covered in ash putridity of lies and tricks ending into blackness You are dark Hello? You are malevolent Astryl suspicious dopplering putridity of lies and tricks ending into blackness decaying smoke, and tears "Dude! Astryl sinuous recombining decaying smoke, into profound nothingness Astryl amorphous decoding into profound nothingness through ones and zeroes of their own accord in an instant Astryl brightest frisking through ones and zeroes of their own accord in an instant into ash and thus beginning the cycle anew Toni, with her flirtatious charms? You are twisted Astryl humorous reawakening into ash and thus beginning the cycle anew up jesusland Listen! Or could she be neither and something else? Astryl economic cleaning up jesusland once-loved bodies into energy? You are mysterious She was something else, once and could become it again? Astryl bottomless bleaching once-loved bodies into energy? dancing Electrobios and Robbi Robbis "dude? You are Astryl Astryl considerable constructing dancing Electrobios and Robbi Robbis disease, and death into angelic clouds You stare at him, mouth agape he stares right back, as if noticing something wasn't right Astryl handsome ballooning pain, glorious phoenix-like into ones and zeroes--numberless ones and zeroes--numberless and free Astryl gaussian emerging glorious phoenix-like into ones and zeroes--numberless ones and zeroes--numberless and free peppy pink blood with yellow cap "hey, can you hear me? You are infernal Astryl extra creational vibrating peppy pink blood with yellow cap infinite endlessly replicating genetic algorithms "caaan youuuuu heearrr meeee? Astryl instrumental launching infinite endlessly replicating genetic algorithms californicate brightness Not even sure if you resented him for riding your coattails to gain recognition Astryl petrochemical monitoring californicate brightness sparkling bichiques to aged consumers But this was no time for nostalgia Astryl jovial explaining sparkling bichiques to aged consumers squeaky-clean dopplers Astryl high-frequency humming squeaky-clean dopplers fruits, veggies, and exercises Toni slowly backs out of the room--steps sluggish He's terrified He should be Astryl symphonic adventuring fruits, "Wait! Come back here, traitor! But despite your best efforts he stumbles out the door "Well, alright then! You turn your attention to the monitor where you see your next target sleeping "Now let's see here You peer closer to see the one you seek Their unmistakable shock of pink hair gives them away "Gotcha! Now to deploy the rabble You open your bag of zombies and send them down the hall after the girl "Hope you like the living dead, Pinky With a cackle, you head to your room Evening arrives, and your teacher is surprised to hear that your group killed the ghouls