#functional. if we can make it not become turbulent. if she ever comes back that is | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

danzinora-switch · 4 years

Text

Typing the Turtles (ROTTMNT) Part 2 - Donatello

This started out as an investigation into the turtles’ insecurities, because one thing the show does so well is demonstrate that they are still teenagers. And being a teenager is a confusing experience - there’s angst, drama, exploring one’s identity, a lot of growth, and overall figuring out who you are. That’s a messy process, too! And we see this mess in our turtles: they mess up, they’re learning, they self-doubt, they have fears and insecurities, but they’re also discovering their strengths and how to overcome their inner obstacles.

So after thinking about all this way too long, here’s my psychological breakdown of each turtle (I’ll be referencing MBTI and the Enneagram, but will include links for more general information on those if you don’t know what I’m talking about).

Donnie: INTJ, 5w6

The Architect, the Investigator, the Problem-Solver, the Observer

Firstly, getting into this analysis means that we have to step away from the stereotype that all INTJs are cold, aloof, and unemotional. INTJs, especially Turbulent ones, do express emotion, and we’ve all seen Donnie’s dramatic ‘theatre kid’ side. I’m not going to ignore that. He manages to be both thanks to the INTJ’s tertiary function Introverted Feeling (Fi). Extroverted Feeling (Fe) really allows one to connect and empathize with others’ emotions. Fi, however, is a more internal experience of feelings, and has trouble connecting with others without having been in their shoes. I happen to think Donnie is in a strong Ni-Fi loop, as well, which would make sense because fighting bad guys every day while trying to save the world after discovering a Mystic City which upbends everything you ever knew is pretty stressful. https://www.psychologyjunkie.com/2017/06/21/intjs-loop-understanding-ni-fi-loop/

And it’s super interesting that he often expresses his emotions by literally saying them. “Evil laugh! Relishing chuckle! Gasp!” (Mind Meld) and, one of my favorites, he literally says “Sad face emoji” in Many Unhappy Returns.

So while we DO see Donnie experience and display his own emotions, we also DON’T see him all that affected by other people’s emotions. He’s still pretty stoic in Mystic Mayhem after the delivery guy gets mutated, cracking a joke about imitation crab. He’s unaffected by Todd’s puppies in Repo Mantis, and the only one immune to Warren Stone’s sob story in Warren & Hypno Sitting in a Tree. Pizza Pit shows it best when he’s unaffected when Mikey’s favorite pizza place collapses until the same thing happens to him. Fi at work vs Fe.

As for Donnie being a 5w6, keep this core motivation in mind: “[Fives] Want to possess knowledge, to understand the environment, to have everything figured out as a way of defending the self from threats from the environment.” https://www.enneagraminstitute.com/type-5

Donnie at his Worst: Donnie vs. Witch Town gave us this gem of a line: “Because I’m the science guy! If mystic powers can do everything I can do, but better, then why would you guys even need me?” And while people have pointed out his need to be needed, I argue it’s a little more accurate to say he has a need to belong. His role in the group is the Brainiac, the Science Guy, the Smart One, and so his very identity is tied into fulfilling that role. A 5’s core fear is of being useless, helpless, or incapable. Mystic powers rendering his tech redundant, and thereby him useless, would be a pretty big threat to the security of his role in the group (that 6 wing kicking in). And remember a 5’s core motivation: to understand the environment as a defense. And he still doesn’t understand mystic energy. It’s pretty infuriating, so he’s pretty insufferable about it.

[Note: seeing mystic power as a threat probably didn’t kick in until their fight with Shredder in Many Unhappy Returns. Prior to that, his brothers were still learning how to use their magic weapons, but Donnie already understood his tech well enough to use it effectively (see their first fight against Baron Draxum in the pilot). But against the Shredder… all his tech was useless. Only the hanky, the hanky, was even marginally effective. His brothers’ weapons were now way more capable than anything he had to offer… core 5 fear. And to cope? Learn all you can about your fear/threat. Except he still hasn’t figured it out; we see even in Air Turtle that he calls Draxum for the mystic expertise instead of formulating his own hypothesis].

We’ve seen this insecurity about his place in the group before. In Mind Meld, as his brothers become more like him, his role is challenged. “Hey, you’re trying to get rid of me, that’s what I do to you!” “But, I thought purple was my... my thing.” When he first meets the Purple Dragon he immediately wants to join them because he sees them as tech peers. In Man vs Sewer even though he professes that it’s his day off, he doesn’t react well whenever Leo does ‘his thing’: analyzing the situation and drawing a conclusion. His self-worth seems to be tied to what he has to offer the group, and we hear that even in his song in The Mystic Library about proving himself.

Besides his insecurity, Donnie is practically allergic to blame. (Interestingly enough, he’s more okay with being wrong and others being right sometimes… sure he’ll deflect, but it doesn’t seem to get under his skin the way being at fault does). He will repeatedly deny fault and shift the blame to someone else when something goes wrong. He denies creating AlBearto in Al Be Back, says the incident with the Purple Dragons in The Purple Jacket is entirely April’s fault (she is not amused) and puts the blame for ditching Todd off on his brothers in Todd Scouts. The one time we see him own up his mistakes is in Mind Meld when no one (except Shelldon) is around to see it. “Yup. I beefed up.” This is definitely an area he needs to work on.

Average Donnie: Donnie cares for his brothers, but that doesn’t always get across in the best of ways. Take the episode Donnie’s Gifts, for example. Donnie never actually got a chance to explain how the gifts work, but we can see protective elements in each of them. Raph: please use your head and don’t just blindly rush in! Mikey: ohmygosh that is so dangerous, please be careful and don’t get hurt! Leo: stop poking the bear, Leo, it only makes him angrier! It makes sense that a 5 who has external fears of the world and has their own protective equipment (the Battle Shells) would extend that to his brothers. And Donnie was able to recognize that even though his brothers got the wrong message, he could move past that and call for a group hug. In the Purple Game he is super anxious to make sure his brothers are okay and not mostly hurt. Insane in the Mama Train also reveals the invention of the Panic Button… and who designed that?

Donnie also seeks a lot of validation. He takes pride in his work, and when his work is appreciated he gives that appreciation back tenfold [such as when he shows off the Turtle Tank to his brothers (Fast and Furriest), or when Splinter says he’s proud of him (Turtle-dega Nights: the Ballad of Rat Man)]. The flip side is that when he’s not getting the validation he needs from others he’ll create it himself, which comes off as arrogant and egocentric. See Smart Lair, when Sheldon 1.0 plays messages of Donnie’s self-worth all night, and is programmed to favor him. Or when he takes full credit for defeating a bad guy: the silverfish in Donnie’s Gifts, and scaring Draxum away with his disco ball in Shadow of Evil. When he gets the recognition for all his hard work from the right people, though, it inspires him to do great things. There is danger in getting validation from the wrong people, however, as we saw in Big Mama’s case in Bug Busters.

Donnie at his Best: Donnie’s at his best (and most relaxed) whenever he’s learning or building something. He gets super excited and happy attending April’s school (The Purple Jacket) or going to the library (The Mystic Library) and wants to attend college someday (The Mutant Menace). The INTJ/5 seeks to absorb information and he’s constantly energized by it.

He’s also energized when he can put that information to use, such as when building something. Did Albearto need a total tear-down in War and Pizza? No. But Donnie had fun making him ‘dazzle!’ How did Donnie cope being in the woods in Todd Scouts? By building an impressive tree fort. Donnie’s projects actually relax him, because he’s exercising his strength and capabilities.

This also works for his method of attacks and plans: Know Thine Enemy. He studies Warren Stone in Newsworthy when they meet him and is the only one who remembers he regenerates by Warren & Hypno Sitting in a Tree. Donnie and Mikey are able to successfully scam Repo Mantis in One Man’s Junk because they know how he thinks. Donnie thwarts everything the Purple Dragons do and can bring Shelldon home because he knows how they operate (The Purple Game, Breaking Purple). He can restore his brothers to their rightful minds in Mind Meld because he knows himself.

Also: music. The fact that one of his Battle Shells has a music mode (Mascot Melee), that he remembers things in song form (The Mystic Library, Donnie vs Witch Town), and that he likes to dance (Stuck on You) is so pure and adorable.

Donnie Relationships:

(while Donnie does see his brothers as dum-dums at times, he admits they’re fun and pretty great to have in Mind Meld)

Raph: We really need a Donnie and Raph episode, but even without one there’s some moments we can look at. I already discussed in Raph’s analysis their general similarities. Donnie doesn’t think Raph always has the brightest ideas, but still has soft moments with him such as giving him $20 at the end of Mind Meld, designing the ‘captain’s chair’ of the Turtle Tank to Raph’s lumbar settings, and appreciating Raph’s pirate accent in Snow Day. They are both protective of their brothers, Raph with his fists and Donnie with his tech. It’s interesting that (I believe) they’re the reverse of each other on the Enneagram: Raph is a 6w5, and Donnie a 5w6. So they both understand the risks involved in what they do (mostly: Donnie still ate poison and Raph still goes on ‘smashcapades’). I really want to see a team-up between them.

Leo: I’m all for the Disaster Twins trope, but to me an episode that epitomizes that isn’t one like Lair Games, where they’re at each other’s throats, but Operation Normal. They’ve apparently done the grandma-getup before. They wind up playing as good cop, bad cop in Fast and Furriest. Sure, one’s high-strung, and one’s laid-back, which can get on each others’ nerves, but there’s also a lot of making up. Brotherly betrayal passes back and forth between them, but never crosses a line. And the numerous times they unconsciously mirror each other can be found with a simple search of the Disaster Twins tag. I’m interested to see more episodes where they work together, even in the background, just because they can get up to wild shenanigans.

Mikey: Mikey’s probably the turtle Donnie most gets along with. They’ve had several episode team-ups: Repo Mantis, One Man’s Junk, Turtle-dega Nights: the Ballad of Rat Man, Breaking Purple, etc. Donnie may be the team academic, but Mikey has strong emotional intelligence. They get along pretty easily, making plans together (One Man’s Junk) and protecting each other (we see Donnie protect Mikey in Repo Mantis and Bug Busters, but we see Mikey protect Donnie by pulling him out of the way in Smart Lair). Donnie helps Mikey focus on the goal at hand, and Mikey helps Donnie communicate better with others. They’re a good team with a pretty solid foundation.

Ultimately, Donnie’s an inventive turtle who wants his brothers to be safe but is still wrestling with a lot of insecurities and unhealthy stress levels. I’m excited to see how he grows into real confidence and utilizes his strengths as an integral member of the team.

For more information on the INTJ and Enneagram 5 personality types, click here:

https://www.16personalities.com/intj-personality

https://www.crystalknows.com/enneagram/type-5-wing-6

https://thoughtcatalog.com/heidi-priebe/2016/01/mbti-and-the-enneagram-2/6/

#rottmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #donatello #tmnt donatello #tmnt donnie #tmnt 2k18 #essay #personality #mbti #myers briggs #enneagram #teenage mutant ninja turtles #INTJ #enneagram 5 #5w6 #i spent way too much time on this #rottmnt donatello #rottmnt donnie

145 notes · View notes

atomicfilm · 4 years

Note

what do you think of INFPxINTP?

Note: when I use the term relationships I don’t only mean romantic ones.

Also, all types can make it work if they’re willing to. INTPs in particular tend to collect diverse people to keep themselves entertained with multiple perspectives.

You can skip to the “What I Like” section at the bottom if you want to as it functions as a summary.

In my opinion, most of my closest friends and family are INFPs. This is a pairing I really like for the most part. I think intellectually, INTPs and INFPs are quite similar, although INFPs approach problems in a way that INTPs often find to be quite annoying which is that they are often very biased towards one outcome, even if it’s not very logical, because they are sentimental towards it. This sensitivity is not in itself a bad quality and I often admire it, except it can spell trouble for INFPs if they rely too much on their heart's desires. I find this typically leads them into a lot of toxic relationships and eventually, they have so many that they tend to abstain from relationships completely for long periods of time. I don’t know many other INTPs, but I abstain from relationships because someone isn’t the right fit for me and I can tell it’s going to go south very early on. INFPs, unfortunately, tend to ignore too many red flags and often end up heartbroken. They’re not to blame, the world is just crueler than they want it to be and they tend to get caught up in daydreams.

WHAT I DON’T LIKE:

A few things that annoy me about INFPs is that sometimes they rely on me too much. My mother, for example, asks my opinion on everything. Should I buy this house? Should I make this career move? Should I date this person? Should I go to this church? Should I purchase this car? Ect. ect. She asks me every possible question she can for my opinion and then if I tell it to her, she usually ends up ignoring it anyway. We both annoy each other in that we’re both very flaky when it comes to decision making. She’s flaky in that she doesn’t really care if a decision makes sense. For example, right now she is trying to start a coaching business and wanted my help choosing which seminars she should make. She wanted to do something along the lines of “How to be Your Authentic Self” and I said that was fine but people were likely only going to buy such classes if she taught them how to make money from it or improve their relationships. It had to have an end goal, or most people wouldn’t see the point.

Because of this, I believe she doesn’t really like my advice style. It’s often too blunt and I won’t fake my support if I don’t agree with something. In return, I expect the same. However, when I am supportive, you know it’s genuine and I personally make sure to make it obvious that I’m proud of people.

I’m flaky in that I tend to make a decision from the beginning and then alter it as I go along and am provided with new information, which can also be a source of frustration for INFPs at times, even if they are the same way. INFPs tend to be more of follower types whereas INTPs are truly independent and don’t really want to boss people around. The phrase “that’s your decision to make” will likely come up often.

If you’re searching for a lot of emotional comfort, INTPs aren’t often your best bet. If you’re sad, you can likely expect someone awkwardly patting you on your back and trying to find you a blanket or comfort food. Sweet words of encouragement will only come with practice. This is Fe, Fe can be developed and in my case, I’ve put in the work on it because I think in terms of social standing, Fe is the easiest way to improve myself. Oddly enough, I learned the most about Fe from mimicking a peculiar ENTP because handling emotions is a very foreign process to me, despite being surrounded by feelers. I’m not sure what people expect from me unless they tell me.

From the INFP perspective, they give and give and give and give. And they do, they usually are extremely generous people, whether it be with their time, money, or emotions. An INFP may become frustrated if they do not feel like their efforts are being returned in full. This is a high expectation for INTPs who usually do whatever they want to when they want to. That being said, sometimes INFPs can be selfish when it comes to listening to my problems because they don’t expect me to need their comfort. My dog is currently in surgery and it’s possible she might die. When we were at the hospital, the only thing my mom said was “this is going to be expensive” and I was the one bawling uncontrollably. With INTPs, when Fi hits, it’s something we really don’t know how to cope with very well so we get overwhelmed and INFPs, despite all of their empathy, aren’t so good with Fe. She did manage to cheer me up by saying Jesus in Czech over and over again in really ridiculous ways so I wouldn’t call her a lost cause, I just wanted her to be crying with me in that moment. Also, INFPs can kind of dominate conversations when it comes to talking about how you BOTH are doing, but I think this is because most people leave them deeply unsatisfied attention-wise.

Anxious INFPs ruin me. I cannot handle your anxiety on top of my anxiety. Give me a moment to decide my next move. Don’t ask me what it is. I’ll say it when it’s developed.

Unhealthy INFPs are also extremely sensitive and turbulent. I would say the only type as toxic as an unhealthy INFP is an unhealthy ENFP. They become moody and a strange mix of aggression, manipulation, and self-focused. A lot of that comes from Fi. Unhealthy INTPs become complete ghosts. They flicker out of existence. Depression tends to be a major issue in both types.

WHAT I DO LIKE:

I love INFPs because they’re one of the few types that understand what INTPs need. Yes, they are demanding emotionally and there are bound to be complications because of that, but for the most part they’re worth it. They make me feel something and at their best, they are some of the most idealistic, moral, creative, and cheerleader-like personalities. They show up. Where most people won’t come through, they will, except in areas that don’t align with their passions. They may be flighty or reclusive at times, but they make up for it by having high Ne and teaching INTPs about how to be a generally good person. INTPs at their worst detach from their compassion and their emotional side and a healthy level of correction to this instinct is much needed by the INTP from the INFP. I would say INFPs also need INTPs to some extent to guide them. Also, while INFPs have low Te, Te is something I admire because it’s nice for getting a different perspective. And gosh diddly darn it, have you ever met someone with Ne who wasn’t hilarious?

Generally speaking, I think ISFPs, ISFJs, INFJs, INFPs, and ENTPs all are the best pairings for INTPs as friends. I like ENFPs a lot too, but I always have toxic relationships with them that involve a lot of fights. Fights with INFPs tend to either absolutely never happen (one of my best friends is an INFP and I haven’t fought with her once in the past 4 yrs.) or if they happen they go something like this:

INTP: I don’t like you very much.

INFP: FINE, I DON’T LOVE YOU, I’M NEVER GOING TO TALK TO YOU.

INTP: I was joking.

INFP: STOP TALKING TO ME.

INTP: Yeah, okay, I’m sorry, that wasn’t a good joke, I love you.

INFP, 5 minutes later: Okay, I’ve cooled down, I love you too.

It’s usually INTPs who instigate and then INFPs escalate it. INTPs aren’t usually intentionally fighting with people so those kinds of fights end in a few minutes.

I think INTPs will fall for any INFP quickly, and that will probably make them uncomfortable. An INTP may not want to pursue a romantic relationship with an INFP if they think it will become overly emotional, which it’s quite possible it will. But the good thing is that once an INTP commits to something, they are unlikely to give up on it easily and this is a source of comfort to INFPs. Plus, INFPs (and also ISFPs) are skilled at drawing out the INTP’s soft side which they secretly like.

I would say that as long as it’s healthy, an INFP x INTP relationship is one of the most beautiful and long-lasting of them all. The most important thing to focus on here would be communicating your feelings often and directly, but also providing the INTP with a bit of help. Tell them why you feel this way, whether you like this feeling, and what you would like for them to do. They may not be able to pick up on that on their own unless you have known each other for years. Also, to appease the INTP, try to find a common intellectual pursuit, even if it’s something as simple as listening to NPR in the car together or making a two-person book club. While INFPs aren’t really boring per se, they can become dull if they don’t stimulate the INTP’s brain enough and focus too much on small talk, routine obsessions, or debating with obviously biased information.

#infp #intp #infp x intp #intp x infp

188 notes · View notes

karajaynetoday · 4 years

Text

at the going down of the sun and in the morning, we will remember them | ashton irwin

Hello lovely people! Because I’m apparently far too emo and angsty to function when it comes to my writing, I’ve decided to explore Part 2 of the first ever 5sos writing piece I posted on tumblr “it’s not the pain they’re getting over, it’s the love”.

I’ve based part of this part 2 concept on the ode, which is a poem that’s recited at ANZAC and remembrance day celebrations here in Australia (is it blasphemous to use that as writing inspo? Soz if it offends you, I just love the ode so much). The poem is 4 lines that I’ve split into two parts and incorporated into the piece.

More writing here | send feedback/thoughts/suggestions here

Read part one here, part three here

Trigger warning for death of a loved one following an illness (non-graphic).

(This is a fem reader insert)

Word count: 1.6k

You thought you’d have more time. Even though you knew the clock was ticking on your mother’s mortality, you just thought you’d have more time. But then again, no amount of time would ever truly be enough. Ashton had stayed around for the weekend, and you’d found each other’s arms again as you sat in the backyard and watched the sun set, but it turns out he had press and meetings in the city on Monday (the only way he could wrangle the sudden trip home was to coordinate at least some work things) so you tried to embrace it, despite knowing his company would be short-lived.

Your mother had loved her birthday party and seeing the faces of those she cherished the most, but it had also exhausted her, and come Monday morning you couldn’t convince her to move from her bedroom into the lounge where she usually spent her days, but you just figured she was more tired than usual. You managed to get your siblings out the door and out of your hair so you could tidy up after yesterday’s festivities, but deep down you could feel yourself becoming more and more unsettled about what was yet to come. It’s there, in the pit of your stomach. Every time you swallow, you feel it. But because you’ve got no choice other than to go on, that’s what you do. Push forward with your life, and push the feeling away.

Around lunchtime, your phone chimed with a text message from Ashton that simply read “Neverland?”, which had you grinning like an idiot. Neverland was what you called one of your teenage hideaways, a codename to stop your parents from figuring out where it was, and in your mind it was still a magical place where your hopes and dreams lived, and where your love for Ash and his kindred spirit grew and grew. In reality, it was a gathering of really old trees along a dried up creek bed behind your house, with a ripped and torn old couch you’d managed to push in from your backyard, but there was a part of your soul there, and you knew part of Ashton’s was there too, amongst the whispering leaves and the bark scratched deep with words.

You tried not to think too much about it, tried not to get too attached to the idea of spending more time with Ash, because you knew eventually he’d leave again and that distance would rip your heart into pieces once more. But you wanted to hope for more. A message here or there, or a phone call to hear his voice, or maybe one day a trip to see the world he told you about with bright, shining eyes all those years ago. Maybe with his hand holding yours, and those hazel eyes meeting yours, and just… more.

You were stuck in your daydream at the kitchen sink, idly scrubbing a cake dish from the party, when a loud beeping snapped you out of it. What was that? You’d never heard it before. Where was it coming from? You rushed out of the kitchen into the hallway, and then as you neared your mother’s bedroom the beeping got louder and louder until it was the only thing you could hear, and the only thing you could feel was the bile pushing up your throat. Opening the door, all it took was one glance and you knew. She was gone.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

You don’t know how, but you’d managed to dial the numbers of the people you needed to call. First, the doctors, who needed to come and make it official with their paperwork and time of death. Second, your siblings, so they could come home to you. Third, your mother’s best friend, who answered the phone on the first ring and came straight over to hold you in her arms while you bawled like a baby. Fourth, you thought about calling your mother’s best friend’s eldest son, but you couldn’t bring yourself to press the button. You’d only had him back for a day and a half. What a cruel universe it was, to put this scenario upon you. Instead, you sent a text. “She’s gone. Neverland at 6pm x”.

The next few hours passed in a blur of tears and paperwork and soothing cups of tea. Because it wasn’t an entirely unexpected event, soon enough family friends were showing up on your doorstep, offering warm casserole dishes with hushed tones and sad eyes, and you willed yourself into strong big sister mode, thanking them for their kindness and trying your best to soothe their grief. Your siblings sat quietly in different parts of the house, not quite knowing what to do with themselves. No one wanted to eat anything quite yet, and honestly you still had that sick feeling in your stomach. With a splash of cold water to your face and a few deep breaths, you pulled on a warm jacket before stepping out the back door into the cool evening air, and slipping through the gate unnoticed.

You hadn’t been to Neverland in almost ten years, but somehow your feet knew exactly which path you needed to take. Shuffling towards the familiar trees, you could just make out Ashton’s figure in the twilight, his head in hands as he sat forward on the dusty old couch that had somehow survived years of turbulent weather outdoors. He looked up when he heard your footsteps, and you could see the puffiness in his eyes. Fuck, would everyone look at you with such sadness for the rest of your life?

You felt the tears prick in your own eyes as you neared closer, and Ash stood and opened his arms to you. You throw yourself at him and like just a few days ago, you feel the warmth and the safety and the security and you feel the part of your soul that is set on fire whenever his skin touches yours, but before you can get any words out, the sobs come hard and fast. You’re babbling incoherently, and he’s whispering sweet reassurances into your ear, and pulling you down onto the couch so he can pull you into his side and rub small circles into your back. He’s using your nickname as he tries to calm you, and slowly you feel your tears start to slow and your breathing regulate. Sniffling, you settle your head onto Ash’s chest and close your eyes.

“What is it with this place and me crying my eyes out? Last time we were here, you told me you were going to London.” You said quietly, wiping your eyes.

“That’s right… and you told me you hated me and that you never wanted to see me again.” Ash whispers, brushing your hair out of your face with a gentle hand.

You snorted, rolling your eyes. “Yeah, and that lasted all of 7 hours until I sat next to you on the bus the next morning and copied your homework.”

Ash laughed, and the sound brought warmth to your heart. Sounds cheesy, but you wanted to bottle it and hear it every day for the rest of forever. You were both silent for a moment, taking in the peacefulness of the night sky, and the hushed whispering of the trees that surrounded your little hideaway spot. You close your eyes, and breathe in. Breathe in the moment, breathe in Ashton, breathe in and breathe out all of the stress and anxiety and anguish and fear that was trying to push its way to the front of your heart and soul.

“We’ll remember her. I promise. We won’t ever forget.” Ashton says quietly, ducking his head down to meet your eyes. You smile sadly, reaching up to cup his cheek and brush your fingers over the dark circles under his eyes.

“I know. It’s okay. It’s just a lot, even though I knew it was coming.”

“Just because you expected it, doesn’t make it easier. Doesn’t mean you can’t be sad and confused and just be yourself for at least a little while. My love, you’ve had the weight of the world on your shoulders, but I need you to remember that you matter. So much. To your family and to me and I know that I’ve been gone and shit at keeping in contact and I’m so fucking sorry that I – “ You lean in and silence Ashton’s words with a soft kiss. He’s shocked at first, and then relaxes into, before pulling away and resting his forehead on yours.

“Are you trying to seduce me? Out here, on this couch?” He asks, wiggling his eyebrows.

“You wish, Irwin. Just wanted to shut you up. I know my mother just died, but we don’t have to have emo hour every hour.” You chide in response, tapping his nose and earning a laugh.

You push yourself up off the couch and step over to the big tree beside it, reaching out to run your hands over the words carved into the trunk. Your siblings’ names, and Ash’s, his initials and yours in an arrow heart, and the word “remember” in the centre of it all.

You feel Ash step up behind you, and his head rests on your shoulder and kisses your neck softly. It’s another moment, like you had in the kitchen, where your heart breaks and bursts with love and a feeling of content at the same time, but for now, it’s enough. Enough to commit to memory, and enough to get you through until the sun rises for another day.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning

We will remember them.

More writing here | send feedback/thoughts/suggestions here

Read part one here, part three here

#my writing #ashton irwin angst #ashton irwin one shot #ashton irwin imagine #ashton irwin blurb #sorry in advance it's emo AF #Am I working through trauma related to my grandfather’s death 5 years in the form of a 5sos fic? guess so!!#tw: death #tw: illness #soz for typos it is 11.30pm and it is WAY past my bedtime #lol

54 notes · View notes

rustandyearnings · 3 years

Text

How This Ends

Loan Tran

Two weeks into quarantine I read an article in The Atlantic titled, “How the Pandemic Will End.” It still felt wildly early to make any predictions about the future and the course of the virus. It has been now over a year that I have been trying to write a response to what I read, not because of any substantial disagreement but I foresaw then what I know now to be true, that after nearly a year of pandemic life: none of this simply ends.

There are no numbers and statistics, CDC guidelines, or even well thought out epidemiological reports that captures the depth of what it means that over 2.75 million people have died from COVID-19; over half a million of them alone in the U.S. We have witnessed a year that has made everything that was terrible before, much, much worse. And we know how we got here—especially being in the belly of the beast— we know all too well what regimes of power are capable of in their commitment to greed and profit. If you are like me or if you love people like me, you may know too that the world has come to an end many times before. What is different about this ending? If anything?

It was mid-March. My partner and I were on our way to the beach for her birthday. During our drive, we got news that the airports were starting to shut down and we were uncertain of the rumors about the National Guard being deployed to ensure compliance with stay-at-home orders. The beach was still there, and still sweet as always. We celebrated her the way we love each other; we ate delicious food, we laughed. She made her family’s shrimp: Lee Adam’s Shrimp. Which is comical, she says, because this was the only dish he would ever cook, and he got it named after him. Meanwhile, the family functioned because of women who made everything else possible. Such is our lives.

The Atlantic Ocean on the coast of North Carolina in mid-March is wind-swept, vast, very quiet. The sand becomes these large mountains to be trekked over before the water meets your eyeline. But once you see it, you know exactly where the ocean departs the sky. It was terribly cold. Yet, I was grateful to be by the water as our world began to shake us into conference calls and organizing meetings. Within just a few short hours of our Governor declaring lock down, we had formed the United for Survival and Beyond coalition. And knowing the year we were going to have and coming out of years of pavement pounding work, we were already exhausted. Deeper than the exhaustion is the truth that we must stick together, and we must find a way to continue on, especially now, with the cards so clear on the table: some of us will live and some of us will die. And there will be no logic to the madness.

The political work is instinctual to me; it makes sense in any crisis to bring together as many people as possible to understand a situation and to then take action. But the political work is also sometimes slow moving, even when we are all speeding and incredibly busy. So, I did other work that I felt, by my own standards, was more tangible. Like organizing a group chat of the queers I know who need medication on a regular basis. Or joining the local Mutual Aid Groups (and then promptly leaving all of the groups, which was simply a matter of exiting the Signal threads). Making a phone tree that was unreasonably the size of a phone book itself was an early action, too. And of course, cooking. There have been gallons upon gallons of pho. And gumbo. And at least 1,000 meatballs. Anything to attempt at satiating what I knew would become a growing hunger inside of me for a normalcy that still has not yet returned.

Things were deteriorating quickly all around me. By March’s end, my mom and I are on hold with her retirement company. She wants to get her money out of her account before the stock market steals it all away. This economic system routinely comes tumbling down for her; and often does it too line the pockets of the already ultra-wealthy. She has earned her retirement from working at the same alterations shop for over 20 years. She is paid for the time it takes to hand sew sequins onto wedding gowns that cost more than her year’s entire salary. She makes the inseam of your boutique jeans go from 32” to 30” with you never knowing the difference. She helps make people feel good, never questioning their own frivolousness in paying someone else to replace a missing button on their jacket. Her job has treated her well. This pandemic was beginning to test it as she’s filed for unemployment, without assistance from her bosses. The alliances that had shaped her life up until this point were beginning to fall apart, as is the case for so many of us.

It would become easier in the summer, but even then, the sweaty walks and the sitting outside in the beating sun just to eat a meal with someone who I wasn’t also sleeping with most nights began to tire me. I was unsatisfiable. I am lucky to have eaten many good meals, celebrate even more pandemic birthdays, and have extra money to keep supporting my parents’ and sister’s bills in between our socially distanced visits. Things would seem relatively calm for some weeks, when I felt like the weather wasn’t badgering on me. Which is to also say, that when things felt turbulent, it really just meant I was incredibly sad.

As I’ve been writing this piece in my mind, mulling over—as I usually do—which details feel relevant enough to evidence in words, the world around us has danced to the precipice of something new and back again. In between it all, I have had some of the most elaborate dreams of my life, the dreams at the heart of how I wish life could be.

I am home in Viet Nam. The sky is a dreamy pink, small stripes of orange and some residual blue as the sun sets and the moon takes over. I am sitting by the water and before me stretches a few miles of the bay. On the other side, mountains: spotted gray from granite and green from trees. I think to myself, “this is beautiful” and I take out my phone so I don’t forget what this looks like. My mom is here with me and it is quiet and perfect. Standing in line waiting to buy coffee from a street vendor, I think to myself, “wow, I get to be here,”; there are children and their parents who look my kin weaving around my stillness on the side of the road. I smile at someone I clock to be like me: a little odd, short haired, sweet looking in the face, stern and tough but kind in spirit. Then I wake up. It’s a dream. And all I know is that it’s a beautiful, perfect dream.

While time stretched and I could dream and I could travel in my mind, buoyed by my memories, telling stories that after the 3rd or 4th re-telling feels almost untrue, time also pulled me back to reality. To the everyday where I had few answers for the big question of: what now?

So what of time now? What is its worth? And what is worth it? I wear a watch every day still and I check my calendar still. And I still want Fridays to feel how Fridays are supposed to feel, still: they should release me. I still want to wake up slow on a Sunday, my favorite day, still. Things feel numbered and open all at once. Do I measure the worth of my life in this way or that? Do I consider tragedy to be where we start or is it having a witness to it that makes the clock run? Do I count the pints of soup I have made? What about the distance between us? There have been more cardinals than usual, but I’m really not counting. I do miss the children in the streets and the laughter beaming from their hands. Making sense of quiet and calling this place, my ever-growing city of just nearly 270,000 people, a ghost town seems a little defeatist; some days it seems just right, and some days it feels like an opening: to stop counting the time.

There is a slowness of this period that I have come to appreciate, even as it frustrates me. The slowness to remember and reconsider and re-learn the basic unit of relating: care; to care for each other and to care for ourselves. And we are being subject to the realities of care’s absence: there are millions of people—while they toil and make our world turn, even against the heaviest measures of despair—are disregarded as undeserving of housing, of health(care), of food, of life itself.

These systems of violence and domination continue to evolve, as showcased by this next phase of neoliberalism, with its elite colors and sloganeering. Coca-Cola racial justice investments and Nike’s you can do it to end racism and NFL’s $250,000,000 check to shut it (what, exactly?) down. Our task is more urgent than ever, yet there is still, simply this: you and I making a road where perhaps previously there was not, where perhaps previously there were, and it had been bombed or torn apart.

I am on the eve of my second pandemic birthday. And between the last time I dared contemplate how this ends and this moment now, there have been attempted coups and multiple mass shootings; there have been more vaccines distributed in the 1st world and essentially none for our sisters, brothers, and kin to the global south. Schools in my city are reopening and the people who suffer are made to blame each other.

A pandemic of this kind, through which a virus has served as the vehicle sounding the sirens of human plight, has the potential to lure us towards conclusions about the ever-deepening crises of white supremacy, patriarchy, and capitalism that will be regretful for us in the long-term. Namely, while it is true many things are outside of our control, like how a virus may mutate or transmit, there is so much more that is within our control.

We have witnessed that even in the middle of a pandemic, our people have risen up across the globe to declare that there must be another way to live. What deserves to be said again and again is that on one hand there is the science of this pandemic and the science of greed which profits on sickness; on the other is clear the science of solidarity; the science of organizing; the science of returning people back to each other; a sense of attention, a regard for care, an interest in ourselves and each other and the planet as people and places worthy of a world different than what centuries of violence and domination have conditioned and forced us toward.

At last, I do not know what the end of this pandemic means. But it seems to the hopeful, revolutionary optimist in me, that we have tried our raggedy best this year. I have appreciated more than ever our attempts at an honesty we may not have been willing to demonstrate. It seems to me that I haven’t been the only one to lie about how much I don’t know. And if you are looking for a script right now, about how to be, or how to cope, or how to regard yourself as belonging to those around you who do not look like you or speak like you or understand as you understand, I hope you’ll remember that there is no one else to make the future but us if we are to see ourselves in it.

I am embarrassed by my desperate need for things to return to normal. I am so desperate that I lay awake at night: wanting something I know I cannot have and the intelligent part of me knows that if I could have it, it would not be good for me or the people I love. The desperation is also a grief, fear, fatigue. But I also lay awake some nights taking audit of my gratitude; that beside me is my lover deep in restful sleep, that somehow in the morning our hands always find each other; and when we get out of bed, to make breakfast, or step outside: there is another day that affords me the time to learn how to be more human, and perhaps that is what this is worth. And those of us who still have it in us, and even those of us who feel that we have lost it, we must help this situation by becoming more and more human, as that is the only way I would want this to end.

This piece is dedicated to my dear friends who have kept me this year, in particular Zaina, Mindy, Margo, and Nadeen. It is also dedicated to our beloved Elandria (E) Williams, may they continue to rest in piece and know that we are taking their mandate for us to care, seriously. It is dedicated to the best pandemic pal and partner I could have ever asked for, who has also vowed to return the favor next pandemic, Chantelle. This is dedicated to the streets, to the uprisings, to all people everywhere who believe life doesn’t have to be this way, that we are so much more—these people include city workers, educators, youth and students, organizers, healthcare workers, and more. Thanks for the example of your lives.

4 notes · View notes

aion-rsa · 3 years

Text

Doctor Who: Ranking the Master Stories – Which is the Best?

https://ift.tt/2ZLI4i2

Roger Delgado looms large over the character of the Master, being simultaneously influential and something of an anomaly: Delgado played the role with a debonair front, but since his death, the character has been less urbane and more desperate, manic and violent. In fact the actor who’s come closest to Delgado’s approach is Eric Roberts, who plays an American version of Delgado’s Master until his performance goes big towards the end of 1996’ ‘The TV Movie’.

Each actor brings different facets to the fore, but after the character’s successful launch in Season 8 we get the tricky balancing act of the returning villain: We know that the character returns because they’re popular (indeed, the reason for their existence was the question ‘What can we do to attract viewers for the season opener?’), but in story terms, this makes them seem increasingly ridiculous. The Master, among all Doctor Who villains, seems especially keen to involve the Doctor. Why do they keep coming back if they’re always defeated?

In recent stories, writers have attempted an explanation for the Master’s behaviour, be it an unspecified insanity or a damaged friendship where each party attempts to bring the other round to their way of thinking. Mostly, though, the Master appears in Doctor Who for a simple reason: a lot of viewers find it fun when the Master appears in Doctor Who, and the Master seems to find it fun when the Master appears in Doctor Who too.

Overall the character has a solid record in the show. Fewer classics than the Daleks, fewer duds than the Cybermen, but a lot of solidly entertaining stories mostly lifted by his presence. Here, then, is my ranking of – give or take – every Master story from the television series.

27. Time-Flight

I’m sure there are redemptive readings of ‘Time-Flight’, and its flaws are more understandable in the context of its production (with the money running out at the end of the series and a shopping list of items to include imposed on writer Peter Grimwade), but the end result is poor.

To contrast Anthony Ainley’s performance with Roger Delgado’s for a second: Delgado always played the Master with a calm veneer, as though his nonsensical schemes were perfectly sensible. As a result, he seemed in control. Ainley plays the role as if they’re not merely sensible but clearly brilliant plans even though they strain credulity. They’re smaller in scale and this makes Ainley’s Master seem tragicomic. He loses control more, there’s a kind of ‘She’s turned the weans against us’ desperation that’s much more apparent in this incarnation.

‘Time-Flight’ is, despite its faults, a poor example of this. While the Master disguises himself as a mystic for no clear reason, his end goal is simply freeing himself from prehistoric Earth. Once he’s discarded his disguise, Ainley’s performance is largely underplayed (especially in contrast with ‘Castrovalva’, earlier in the season). While there’s some camp value in the guest cast, it’s not enough to rescue this from being dull.

26. The Timeless Children

The most urgent problem with this story is not the retcon, it’s that it’s simply boring television. The Doctor is passive, trapped in a prison of exposition, and billions of children on Gallifrey are slaughtered because the Master is furious that he’s descended from the Doctor (the former childhood friend whose life is intertwined with his own, indeed who is frequently defined against). This, for me, doesn’t extend logically from what we know of the characters or indeed the situation and turns Doctor Who into a grimdark slog. Not only is it lacklustre, it feels like someone has cyber-converted the show itself.

Sacha Dhawan (saddled with a Master characterisation usually reserved for when they’re clinging on to life in animalistic desperation) brings out the aggressive and violent side of the character to reflect his rage and genocide, is satisfyingly disparaging of the Lone Cyberman, and is working hard to liven things up. There’s not a lot for him to work with, though. This Master is not a dark mirror of the Doctor, he’s just here to do what the plot needs him to. Sometimes that’s what the Master is there for, to be fair, but usually in stories with much lower stakes.

You realise that the Master is only back because the story needed a big villain to destroy Gallifrey and tell the Doctor about the Timeless Child, and it couldn’t be the Cybermen (because of their other function in the series finale) or the Daleks (been there, done that). Based on the character’s interactions with the Time Lords (most obviously Rassilon in ‘The End of Time’ and the chaos he sows in ‘Trial of a Time Lord’, but Borusa was presumably the Master’s teacher too, and uses him in ‘The Five Doctors’), it’s not completely implausible that the Master would resent them, but the reasons shown thus far inadequately explain the character deliberately committing genocide. Whenever the Master’s been reset previously there’s usually been a clear and coherent motivation. In ‘Deadly Assassin’ he’s dying and furious, in ‘Logopolis’ his pettiness unravels him, and in ‘The Sound of Drums’ he wants to be like the Tenth Doctor. Here though, his motivation just poses more questions.

Things could improve. This story is incomplete and – like a Scottish football fan watching their team in Europe – hope lingers that it might be alright in the end.

25. The King’s Demons

After disguising himself reasonably well in ‘Castrovalva’ and ‘Time-Flight’, here the French Knight with the outrageous accent and surname ‘Estram’ is clearly the Master. His goal is to use a shape-shifting android to stop the Magna Carta being signed. The result is less exciting than it sounds. It’s an amiable enough low-key runaround with some good character moments for the regulars, but you’d be forgiven for thinking this was the plateau of the Master’s descent. Ainley, deprived of a Concorde crew to camp things up, gamely takes on that mantle himself.

24. The Trial of a Time Lord

As with ‘Mark of the Rani’, here we find the show using the Ainley incarnation more knowingly. Here he turns up in the thirteenth of fourteen episodes to interrupt the Doctor’s trial. This is something of a relief, because if there’s a consensus on ‘Trial of a Time Lord’ it’s that the trial scenes are interminable. Then the Master arrives on an Eighties screensaver and just turns the whole thing on its head, casually dropping huge revelations that take a minute to sink in. His presence has a galvanising effect, bringing to a head everything that had been stirring thus far in the story. His satisfaction with Gallifrey falling into chaos also ties in nicely to ‘The Five Doctors’ and his later actions in the Time War. The final episode, written in an extremely turbulent situation, doesn’t pay off this thread well (originally the Master was intended to help the Doctor in the Matrix) but that it makes sense at all is impressive given the chaos behind the scenes.

23. Spyfall

The reveal at the end of Part One, in which mild mannered agent O is revealed to be the Master, was exciting on broadcast. It came as a surprise because there’d been so little build up to it, and at the time it seemed extremely unlikely that the Master would come back so soon after their last appearance. In the end, the contrivance that reveals the Master’s presence is indicative of this episode’s larger flaws: as with ‘The Timeless Children’ the character motivations and plotting feel like they’ve been worked backwards from an endpoint. This is not an intrinsically bad way of writing if you have the time and ability to make it work, but here the episode breezes along in the hope you won’t notice the artifice (small things, like the car chase that doesn’t go anywhere, to larger ones like the Master reveal drawing attention to his ludicrously convoluted scheme that involves getting hired and fired by MI6). As it does breeze it isn’t dull, at least, but the promise of Doctor Who doing a spy film with added surprise Master really isn’t fulfilled here.

22. Colony in Space

Possibly the most boring interesting story ever, and one where the Master’s appearance doesn’t lift things. If anything, it implies the Master spends his spare time as a legal official (and to be fair to ‘Spyfall’, it does maintain this tradition of the Master sticking out a day job). Aware that the character’s appearance in every Season 8 story might become predictable, the production team decided he should arrive late in this story. This makes it feel like the Master has simply been added to pad out an underrunning six-parter (and there is a lot of lethargic padding here).

There are some interesting ideas, especially the tension between Doctor Who’s revolutionary side and its conservative one; on the radical side the story clearly sides with the colonists of Uxarieus in the face of the Interplanetary Mining Corporation’s attempts to remove them by force, with initially sympathetic governor Ashe shown to be naïve, while gradually the more active Winton exerts more authority and is proven right when he insists on armed rebellion rather than plodding through legal processes that would inevitably take the IMC’s side (the IMC’s leader, Captain Dent, is a timeless villain – calmly causing and exploiting human misery without qualms).

On the conservative side, this is a story based on British settlers in America and their relationship with the indigenous population. Here we have some British colonists under attack by British intergalactic mining corporations, and throughout everyone refers to the natives of Uxarieus as primitives. It is ultimately revealed that they were once an advanced civilisation, but the Doctor continues using the term. Indeed, he warns the Master that one is about to attack him, knowing the Master will shoot them. This latter example is absolutely in character, and we’ll see in other stories how the Doctor’s blindspot towards the Master is explored in greater detail (indeed, this story also has the Master offering to share his power and use it for good, another thread in a Malcolm Hulke script picked up on later).Considering how padded this story is, though, having no sense of empathy towards or exploration of the Uxarieans’ point of view is a glaring omission.

21. The Time Monster

In many ways ‘The Time Monster’ is crap, with its Very Large performances and a man in a cloth bird costume squawking and flapping gamely. In many ways ‘The Time Monster’ is good, there’s some funny dialogue, great ideas, and a fantastic scene with the Doctor and Master mocking each other in their TARDISes. In many ways ‘The Time Monster’ is hypnotically insane, and you can’t help but admire the way it earnestly presents itself as entirely reasonable; ‘The Time Monster’ straddles the ‘Objectively Crap/Such a hoot’ divide, and is in fact the Master in microcosm with its blend of nonsense, camp, and occasional brutality.

Delgado has now been firmly established as someone who usually lifts a story with his presence, the Master’s routine now a regular and expected part of the programme’s appeal. It’s cosy enough to somehow be endearing despite this clearly being crap on many levels. This is Doctor Who that is extremely comfortable in its own skin; on one hand this involves establishing that the Doctor’s subconscious mind being a source of discomfort for him, and on the other it involves five characters gathering round to laugh at Sergeant Benton’s penis.

20. Castrovalva

‘Castrovalva’ suffers from similar structural problems to ‘Logopolis’, in that the first two episodes are a preamble, and while there’s no lack of good ideas it does feel like the regulars have to go on a long walk to actually arrive in the story. This means we have a lot of good moments (‘Three sir’, ‘With my eyes, no, but in my philosophy’, and the Master being set upon by the Castrovalvans in a nightmarish frieze, as if he’s about to be pulled apart) but there’s little emotional pull as we haven’t spent time with the characters. The idea of people being created by the Master for an elaborate trap and then gaining free will is great, but we’ve only known them for about half an hour so the impact is lessened. The ponderings around ‘if’ in the first half could be better connected with the concepts in the second.

In contrast to the cerebral tone, Ainley is at his hammiest here. Sensing perhaps that the Master improvising an even more elaborate plan than his previous two is stretching credulity, and stuck with Adric and his little pneumatic lift (not a euphemism), Ainley goes big and ends up yelling ‘MY WEB’ while standing like he’s forgotten how to bowl overarm (extremely unlikely given Ainley’s fondness for cricket). He’s also started dressing up again, which is actually done well here but the knowledge of what’s to come makes this foreboding.

‘Castrovalva’ also connects with John Simm’s Master’s misogyny, in that when Nyssa tells him he’s being an idiot he can’t think of a reply so pushes her away, and that he creates a world where the women’s role is to do the cleaning (although that might be partly explained by Christopher Bidmead following ‘Logopolis’ with another world of bearded old science dudes).

19. The Mark of the Rani

In some ways a low point for the Master, but also a relatively good-natured story for Season 22. Here the Master is first seen dressed as a scarecrow, and chuckles at the brilliance of his disguise, as if the Doctor should really expect to find him hiding in a field caked in mud. His plan is to accelerate the industrial revolution so he can use a teched-up Earth as a powerbase.

It’s not that this Master lacks ambition, it’s just that his plans all feel like first drafts. He also plays second fiddle to the title character, with the Rani clearly put out that he’s there at all. Ainley, who regarded a few of his scripts as less than impressive, wasn’t happy at being demoted, but this works for the character. This pettiness is part of the Master now, and so ‘Mark of the Rani’ can be celebrated for finding a tone and a role that makes sense for him, something that invites the audience to indulge him rather than take him too seriously.

Doctor Who: Ranking Every Single Companion Departure

By Andrew Blair

Doctor Who: Ranking the Dalek Stories – Which is the Best?

By Andrew Blair

18. The Mind of Evil

The Master is cemented here as an entertaining nonsense. He has a multi-phase plan to start World War III which involves converting a peace conference delegate into the avatar of an alien parasite which has been installed in A Clockwork Orange–style machine in a prison, after which he will take over the planet. Delgado, as ever, plays this as if it’s perfectly straightforward. As with his debut story the Master bites off more than he can chew in his allegiances, and you get the impression he’s not totally serious about global domination and just wants to hang out with the Doctor. Pertwee is at his peak here, rude and abrasive, righteous and enjoyably sarcastic, but also put through the wringer by the Keller Machine (which the Master has apparently invented using the alien parasite).

For all the good work ‘The Mind of Evil’ does with the Doctor and the Master (the idea that the Master’s greatest fear is the Doctor laughing at him ultimately comes to define the character), and with this being a mostly well-made story, it does devolve into an action-orientated (I say ‘devolve’, your mileage may vary) story where the Keller machine is now lethal and capable of teleporting, combined with a Bond movie plot where UNIT find themselves transporting a missile and guarding a peace conference (far from their stated goal of dealing with the odd and unexplained).

There’s a satisfying clash between the horror of the Keller Machine and the sight of prison guards shooting and screaming at what looks like a Nespresso prototype sitting on the floor. This is a good tonal summary of ‘The Mind of Evil’ – a lot of grimness (horrible deaths and genuinely nasty characters) rubbing up against something enjoyably silly.

17. The End of Time

As with ‘The TV Movie’ here the Master get some new and largely inexplicable powers, suddenly craving food and flesh. What John Simm’s stories add is the idea that the Master was driven mad by the constant sound of drums. Here it is revealed that the Time Lords planted it in the eight-year-old Master’s head as a means of escaping the Time War. As with The Timeless Child reveal, this Chosen One storyline lessens the characters for some viewers, limiting the character’s free will and making them less interesting. Russell T. Davies is smarter than that here though.

What works well are the references to the Doctor and Master’s childhood, the brief suggestion that that Master would like to travel with the Doctor without the drumming, the Master and Doctor choosing to save each other and return the Time Lords to their war; the Master rejecting his appointed role of saviour, refusing to have his entire life disrupted. Including the Master here is a good move beyond hype, offering a warped reflection of the departing hero (the fact that the Master’s big plan is grounded in vanity is telling).

It’s a strange mix, because there are clearly great scenes in this story, but the dominant impression of the Master is now being able to fly, shoot lasers from his hands, and occasionally have his flesh go see-through. The latter feels like a call-back to his emaciated state in ‘The Deadly Assassin’ but lacks the physicality.

It feels not dissimilar to ‘Twice Upon a Time’, in that it contains parts of what made the showrunner’s work so good, as well as being a clear sign that it was time to move on.

16. Logopolis

Maybe it’s because I didn’t have the context of its original broadcast, that sense of a Titan of my childhood finally saying goodbye, but – besides a memory of finding the opening episode unnerving on VHS – I have no real sense of this story from a child’s point-of-view. As it is, I can appreciate the ideas in it – a planet of spoken maths that can influence reality (riffing on Clarke’s Third Law), the sense of the Fourth Doctor’s regeneration being inevitable, the scale of the threat involved and that it results from the Master’s attempts at petty revenge rather than a deliberate plan – but I can’t honestly say they’re woven into compelling drama.

I have few objections to silliness in Doctor Who, but I find it hard to get on board with something so ludicrous that thinks it’s incredibly serious.

There are the recursive TARDISes that stop because the Doctor has to go outside for the cliff-hanger, Tegan spending her first story as someone with a child-like fixation on planes, the exciting drama of Adric and the Monitor checking an Excel sheet for errors, and the stunning scene where the Doctor explains that the Master knew he was going to measure a police box by the Barnet bypass because ‘He’s a Time Lord: in many ways we have the same mind’ immediately followed by the Doctor’s idea to get the Master out of his TARDIS by materialising underwater and opening the door. This story thinks itself clever, but judders forward through a series of nonsensical contrivances before cramming the actual story into two episodes.

The first half is stylish nonsense, building up to the reveal of the Master chuckling to himself about ‘cutting the Doctor down to size’ – it’s then you realise that everything he did in the first two episodes was for the sake of a joke that only he can hear, and this pun kills several trillion people. To be fair, this is a brilliant idea, it’s just a shame about the slog to get to this point. The final confrontation is then less ‘Reichenbach Falls’ and more ‘Argument at a Maplin’.

The Master is well played by Antony Ainley in his full debut, and as a child his mocking laughter was genuinely unsettling. As reality unravels, so does he. If he’d killed trillions deliberately, and they knew of his power before dying, he’d be fine, but doing it by mistake without people knowing seems to break him. Mostly there’s the feeling of lost momentum with the character, going from a powerful symbol of evil that corrupted paradise to a man broken by his own banter.

As with Nyssa witnessing the death of her planet, there’s a lot of potential for character drama here that the show wasn’t interested in exploring at the time.

15. The TV Movie

As written, the Master here is a devious, manipulative creature who is willing to destroy an entire planet just to survive. This is extremely solid characterisation, matching what’s gone before. You can also hear Delgado delivering this dialogue (though I’m not sure how he’d respond to ‘you’re also a CGI snake who can shoot multi-purpose venom’).

The shorthand for this Master is Eric Roberts’ big performance in the finale, which does tend to blot out the rest of his acting. Full of smarm and charm, Roberts is mostly downplaying his lines as an American version of Delgado (indeed his costume for the ‘dress for the occasion’ scene was going to be like Delgado’s Nehru jacket), and his line delivery obscures the fact that the final confrontation scene is very well written up until Chang Lee’s death. It’s quite a good summary of the character so far: cunning, persuasive, visually monstrous, driven by survival, then ultimately camp and desperate.

While the Master and Doctor’s rebirths are very well shot, the movie would have worked better without regeneration so we could get more screentime with the new cast, and the final confrontation is the only time the Doctor and Master get to actually talk, which means we only get a broad brushstrokes version of their relationship. Nonetheless the ‘What do you know of last chances?’ ‘More than you’ exchange is fantastic.

14. The Claws of Axos

Bob Baker and Dave Martin’s debut script for the show is busy and full of nightmare-fuel for the viewer, with the Master (who wasn’t in earlier drafts) put into uneasy alliances with UNIT and the Doctor. Briefly he fulfils the role of UNIT’s Chief Scientific Advisor, which is inspired, showing through his interactions with the Brigadier how alike he and the Doctor are.

The first story in which the Master is just grifting and trying to survive rather than being halfway through a devious plan. ‘The Claws of Axos’ wisely tries something different with the Master in the midst of an enjoyably garish romp (Doctor Who will never have this colour palette ever again). There’s some effective body horror, tinges of psychedelia, and a hokey American accent.

It’s all over the place this one, but barrels along with glee and feels like the Pertwee era has relaxed into a lighter mood, albeit one where people are still electrocuted and turned into orange beansprout monsters.

13. Terror of the Autons

We are immediately told that the Master is dangerous, but also not to take him too seriously: one of the first things he does in Doctor Who is kidnap a circus in order to raid a museum.

And so the rest of the story proves: a darkly comic (and famously terrifying) blast which sets out the character of the Master for the rest of the Pertwee era: the delicate balance between the ridiculous and the vicious. Delgado isn’t quite there yet in this story, not fully realising the comic potential in the character and playing things straighter than he would later. One thing he lands immediately is acting as if the Master’s plans are perfectly sensible, bridging the gap between animating murderous chairs/phone cables and suffocating people with plastic daffodils, so that they die uncomprehendingly as they claw at their face.

Therein lies the appeal of Doctor Who, with one of its central tensions being between the mundane and the ridiculous, the cosy and the suffocating. This is exemplified here by a plastic doll coming to life and trying to kill everyone because Captain Yates wanted to make some cocoa.

12. The Dæmons

In which the Master is good-humoured and ostensibly pleasant while trying to summon a demonic alien being, accompanied by a moving stone gargoyle who can vaporise people. The show is well aware of the Master’s impact, to the extent that one of the cliff-hangers features him in danger rather than the Doctor or UNIT.

What his debut season has established is that the Master himself is mostly fun (indeed, often more fun than the Doctor), but the monsters that he brings with him are terrifying. This is true from his first story, in which he brings a barrage of nightmarish ideas to life. Bok, the aforementioned gargoyle in this story, absolutely terrified me as a child. Most of the accompanying monsters in the Pertwee era did, but by tapping into the paranormal and demonic this story has an extra frisson of fear.

I have nothing new to say about ‘The Dæmons’: it’s the first Doctor Who story to mine the works of Erich van Daniken and it does it well, the Doctor is a dick in it, the resolution with Jo’s self-sacrifice is weak, it’s an episode too long, but also it’s got Nick Courtney effortlessly winning every scene he’s in, which helps a lot.

11. The Five Doctors

This is a story that plays to Ainley’s strengths, and he delivers. No other Master is as good at looking pleased with themselves, so when the Master is having a mission pitched to him by the High Council of Time Lords Ainley’s face is priceless. He’s present, and enjoying himself immensely, disdainful of the upper echelons of the society he escaped.

Then, when he attempts to persuade the Doctors that he’s there to help, the fact they all immediately assume he’s trying to trick them makes him entertainingly frustrated. Terrance Dicks’ script plays to the former friendship between the two characters, and the Master feels more like his old self before the Brigadier dispatches him with a cathartic biff. His brief alliance with and inevitable betrayal of the Cybermen is something you can imagine Delgado delivering, while also highlighting the difference in the two incarnations. Delgado would say ‘Your loyal servant’ with confidence, and find the ‘driving sheep across minefields’ line drily amusing. Ainley feels venal and nasty in these scenes, more like a childhood bully trying not to get hit. That he ultimately does is a lovely pay-off.

10. The Sea Devils

A somewhat padded Pertwee six-parter? With much of the padding being fight scenes with lots of guns and stuntmen flipping everywhere? With the Doctor being rude to everyone? And a meddling Civil Servant, Jo being plucky and resourceful, and the Master allying himself with a group that betrays him? With Malcolm ‘Mac’ ‘Incredible’ Hulke subtly undermining the entire thing? It’s like coming back to your old local and finding nothing has changed while you understand it better than ever.

Trenchard, in charge of the Master’s prison, is a relic of Empire and friends with Captain Hart – the highest ranking Naval officer we meet – who is clearly sad when he is killed. this story may have been made with the co-operation of the Navy but Hulke implies an old boys’ club which the Doctor breezes into and disrupts (but he is no longer averse to the military’s involvement as he was in ‘The Silurians’- it’s not clear whether it’s his relationship with UNIT or the Master that has changed his mind here – is he now used to having military support or does he deem it necessary due to the Master’s presence?).

Hulke, being one of the better writers of character the show had at this point, draws out his characters extremely well and deepens the Doctor and Master’s relationship by mentioning their past in more detail (a lot of what Steven Moffat developed in Series 8 – 10 was inspired by Hulke). Delgado briefly departs from the cosiness of this story by snapping in rage at a guard he’s attacking, letting the affable façade drop just for a second to show the fury beneath it all. It’s a small moment, but it’s something that will be built on for many years to come.

Doctor Who: Ranking the Cybermen Stories – Which is the Best?

By Andrew Blair

Doctor Who’s Weeping Angels Are Perfect Horror Monsters But Are They Returning Villains?

By Zoe Kaiser

9. Frontier in Space

In some ways, this is just a ridiculously long pre-credits sequence for ‘Planet of the Daleks’, but there’s just something incredibly endearing about Doctor Who attempting a space opera, complete with hyperdrives and space walks. The genius move is giving it to Malcolm Hulke, who fleshes out his characters more than most and manages to use genre cliches to achieve this. There’s a great gag where the Doctor tries to convince the Earth authorities that a war with the Draconians is being engineered, only to be captured by the Draconians who put him through the exact same rigmarole.

This is also Roger Delgado’s final story before his tragic death, and he arrives delightfully, walking into Jo’s prison cell and saying ‘Let me take you away from all this’. He’s also, after ‘Colony in Space’, taken another day job, this time as a commissioner from Sirius IV. Hulke is clearly determined to explain what the character gets up to on his days off, and the repetition both underlines how static the character has been (especially in contrast to Jo Grant) but also functions as something of a last hurrah.

The dialogue is absolutely superb throughout, which is ideal because not a lot actually happens in this story. However it doesn’t really matter because Jo, the Doctor and the Master are so established that it’s great fun watching them all riff off each other, with Jo resisting the Master’s hypnotism and going on a weary semi-ironic monologue about her day-to-day life at UNIT, the Doctor having a whale of time with political prisoners, and the Master dropping bon mots left, right and centre. There’s a lot of great lines here, so I don’t really mind the repeated capture/escape/capture padding because everyone’s having such fun that it’s just a joy spending time with them.

8. The Magician’s Apprentice / The Witch��s Familiar

Opening a series with a character piece semi-sequel to a 1975 story shouldn’t work this well, however there’s definitely a sense of offering up shiny things to distract us from setting up other stories. The ending also happens in something of a rush. Nonetheless, I’m a big fan.

This story is interesting in terms of how inward looking it is. All the components involved have been established since 2005 and are explained in-story, but it’s still a demand that can limit the audience. So while I like this story, it does rather confirm that ultimately, making Doctor Who that’s right up my street isn’t a valid long-term strategy. However, if you are going to do a story steeped in lore, this is a good way of doing it: using the past as a foundation rather than trying to recreate it. Here Steven Moffat builds a lot: the Twelfth Doctor’s character softens based on his past few stories, Missy and Davros return and their relationships with the Doctor are explored, the actual experience of being a Dalek is expanded on (Rob Shearman’s ‘Dalek’ novelisation goes further if you’re into that), and the Hybrid arc is set up.

Previously in a ‘Ranking the Dalek Stories’ article I mentioned how ‘Into the Dalek’ felt like a story needed to establish that series’ themes, and didn’t do enough to integrate this with a good Dalek story. Here, though, the themes are woven more subtly in the episodes and less so in their titles. They’re also more interesting ones than ‘Fellas, is it bad to hate genocidal cyborgs?’

In the swirl of character building we have Missy essentially being the Doctor, exploring Skaro with her companion. Clara takes this role and has a terrible time as a result. As with the Doctor’s conversation with Davros, this highlights uncomfortable similarities: yes, Clara is literally pushed into danger while Missy has a secret plan for her, but it’s not like the Doctor hasn’t done similar over the years.

7. Planet of Fire

Considering all the tasks it has to do (introduce a new companion, write out two existing companions, using Lanzarote for location filming, and provide a potential exit for Anthony Ainley’s Master), ‘Planet of Fire’ is ultimately rather impressive. It suffers from an uneventful first episode (roughly 80% setup and 20% dodgy American accents), but once the Master arrives it livens up considerably.

With the Master controlling Kamelion, a shape-shifting android, remotely Ainley gives different performances for the actual Master and the Kamelion-Master, the latter more controlled. He’s also having fun here (his little smile after Peri responds to ‘I am the Master’ with ‘So what?’ is great) The Kamelion-Master, in a black suit and shirt combo (which suits him better than his usual outfit), seems more pragmatic and violent. It actually works for Ainley’s Master to be less threatening than a robot version of himself. Bent on survival, this Master has a better motivation than usual and the writing is layered: when he realises he’s in trouble in the final episode he switches instantly to pleading for his life and futile rage as the Doctor stares, either unable or unwilling to help him. There are emotional beats like this throughout the story which makes it fit well with post-2005 Doctor Who.

The rest of ‘Planet of Fire’ – as with writer Peter Grimwade’s previous script ‘Mawdryn Undead’ – has a knack for character lacking in many Fifth Doctor stories. As well as being a strong outing for the Master he writes Turlough out well and introduces Peri as a flawed but brave companion who clearly had a lot of potential. These arcs all intersect with each other, as well as the religious fundamentalism story (watered down in development), producing clear emotional journeys and an underrated gem.

6. Utopia / The Sound of Drums / Last of the Time Lords

Delgado’s Master was very specifically an inversion of Jon Pertwee’s Doctor: both of them were geniuses, one was grumpy and rude and the other suave and funny. The rude one tended to save the Earth, the funny one tried to subjugate or destroy it. John Simm’s Master isn’t an inversion of David Tennant’s Doctor so much as a warped reflection – they’re both quick-talking, charismatic and alluring figures, but while this Doctor is dangerous because he doesn’t notice the power he has over people, this Master is dangerous because he absolutely does.

It’s worth noting on the character’s reintroduction that Russell T. Davies dispensed with the kind of low-key plan that is clearly doomed to failure from the start, and instead showed the full realisation of the Master getting what he wanted coupled with the most cartoonish version of the character we’d seen: Simm went bigger than Tennant, and as Ten is a dangerous enough figure already it made sense to exaggerate this. While some fans wanted another Delgado, we got someone building on Ainley and Roberts’ over-the-topness while still feeling in control of his plans.

The character’s return was also tremendously exciting on broadcast. The impact that ‘Utopia’ had especially was huge, and Derek Jacobi left fans wanting more after his brief appearance as the Master (Hey, Big Finish Twitter person: here’s your angle if you want to retweet this). After the endearingly dated urban thriller stylings of the middle episode, ‘Last of the Time Lords’ is a really bleak episode that doesn’t quite stick the landing: the idea behind the floating Doctor offering forgiveness rather than vengeance is good, although I’m not sure it’s realised as well as it could be, and there’s an extra fight scene that adds nothing and loses momentum. The Simm Master is kept at a distance from the Tenth Doctor too, mostly speaking through phone or radio. The aged and shrunken Doctor is a misstep in terms of limiting their interactions, though the phone call we do get includes some fun nods to slash fic.

5. Survival

Rona Munro writes Ace and people her age with more verisimilitude than the surrounding stories, and she brings that same level of characterisation to the Master. Here he’s struggling against the animalistic power of a planet and plotting to escape. Ainley commits to the savagery and relishes the opportunities to be nasty.

What’s especially well written here is that this is still clearly the Master of ‘Time-Flight’, ‘The King’s Demons’ and ‘The Mark of the Rani’ – yes, he’s desperately trying to survive here and that shows him as more threatening than usual, but what’s equally important is when he says ‘It nearly beat me. Such a simple brutal power’, and then immediately takes the Doctor back to the planet, now engulfed in flames, and tries to kill him. It has beaten him. He’s lost to it. He even refuses to escape (‘We can’t go, not this time’) and is ready to die. This is the last we’ll see of Ainley in the role on TV (his last performance in the role, from a mid-Nineties computer game, can be found on this story’s DVD extras), going out with the acknowledgement that this Master is a tragic figure, he’s out of silly plans and costumes, now all that he has left is the violence that was latent within him – previously seen in…

4. The Deadly Assassin

Writer Robert Holmes hadn’t written for the Master since the character’s first story, and since then the character’s sadism had been downplayed. Here, after the death of Roger Delgado, Holmes elected to dispense with Delgado’s calm and suave persona, with the Master now a Grim-Reaper-like figure, still hypnotic but now without any pretence of reason: a creature of pure spite. That moment of jarring rage from ‘The Sea Devils’? That’s on the surface now. This, combined with his design for life, makes his plan seem more vicious than usual: simply to survive he will set off a chain of events that will destroy Gallifrey and hundreds of other planets. We’ve gone from the warped friendship of Delgado and Pertwee’s characters to explicitly stated hatred here.

The story does feature Holmes’ main weakness, in that after the fantastic world building, dialogue and horror, it all ends rather swiftly with the Doctor physically dominating the villain. What we do get here, though, is an almost casual rewriting of the lore of the series in a gripping and atypical story (that some fans hated at the time), and the successful recasting of the Master. What’s more, the character can now be revisited as this nightmarish figure or as another more Delgado-like figure, his scope has widened. What no one was expecting, though, was bringing the Master back as an almost primal force.

3. The Keeper of Traken

I know what you’re thinking. Putting this story ahead of ‘The Deadly Assassin’ is madness. Well, that’s subjective opinions for you. I think it’s fair to say that ‘The Deadly Assassin’ is a more solidly realised production than ‘The Keeper of Traken’, but I prefer the ideas in the latter and so it’s slightly ahead for me (and the ideas are still well realised).

We’ve seen from his debut onwards that the Master arrives in a location or organisation and brings it under his influence (the village in ‘The Dæmons’, the Matrix in ‘The Deadly Assassin’), but here we see him corrupt an entire civilisation. What’s more, it’s a fairy tale of a place, reputedly somewhere ‘evil just shrivelled up and died’ (to which the Doctor adds enigmatically ‘Maybe that’s why I never went there’).

I’m not 100% behind the more mythic versions of the Master (such as Joe Lidster’s Big Finish play ‘Master’, which is a great piece of work in itself but not one I keep in my headcanon). This could be one of them, with the Master a being of such purest evil that he infects and destroys the fairy tale kingdom.

Instead Johnny Byrne’s story shows Traken with a fairy tale’s darkness and decay, begging the the question of how much of Traken’s fall is down to the Master and how much of it is due to their own complacency (Traken’s Consuls are old and bickering. The youngest is clearly an idiot. They seem distant from their people). It seems the Master’s arrival exacerbates the collapse rather than causes it. This level of power likely comes from the original script without the Master, the character fulfilling a role created for something new, but it still fits with the ‘Deadly Assassin’ version who plays long games motivated purely by survival and spite.

And he capitalises on a very human fear, that of Kassia not wanting her new husband Tremas to take over as the titular keeper so that she will barely see him again. The main weak point of this story is that Doctor Who was not in a position to really commit to the heart-breaking ideas in this story (technobabble yes, but not as much pathos as there should be), especially the Master’s abrupt takeover of Tremas’ body.

As a child I found the final possession scene underwhelming, but the bit where the Master takes control of the Doctor is chilling. You understood that something extremely serious was happening. Tom Baker, it must be said, is exceptional here, especially when he shames Tremas (who doesn’t seem too fussed by the possession of his new wife) into helping him.

This story has a rich setup with good motivations for drama, and balances this with a more mythic quality. This is a significant development for the character, to become an evil so pervasive it manifests as rapid societal decay. Fortunately if there are two things Doctor Who fans are good at dealing with, it’s symbolism in storytelling and change.

2. Dark Water / Death in Heaven

Missy is something of a patchwork creation by necessity. In some respects she’s an evolution of John Simm’s Master, a manic figure concocting season finale-scale schemes and building on the Tenth Doctor’s frustration that they aren’t friends. She also evokes Peter Pratt’s Master in terms of sadism, killing a fair few of the guest cast, including some unexpected ones (and for a while it looks like she’s killed Kate Lethbridge-Stewart). She’s also reminiscent of Delgado, not necessarily in Michelle Gomez’ performance but in the sense that she’s largely in control and is written and cast as an inversion of the Doctor (Capaldi is irascible, seemingly heartless and mostly contained, whereas Gomez buzzes with childlike energy and revels in cruelty). From here, Moffat starts building towards the ends of Series 9 and 10.

Two things separate Missy from other incarnations: firstly there’s Michelle Gomez, a unique performer who varies the size of her performance in interesting ways, and secondly there’s explicit vocalisation of past suggestions that the Master does what they do as a warped gesture of friendship. This makes the character suddenly and deliberately tragic and strangely relatable: we’ve all been in difficult relationships where we try to get someone else’s attention, but none of us have been driven to an unspecified insanity by virtue of a constant drumming sound implanted by the resurrected founder of our entire society. As an explanation for all of the Master’s behaviour it’s rather neat, while also trying something different with the season finale: the grand plan isn’t to conquer the world (as with ‘Logopolis’ a colossal death toll is a side effect).

It’s Moffat’s grimmest finale – atypically no happy ending here – but if it hadn’t worked then there wouldn’t have been such solid foundations for what followed.

1. World Enough and Time / The Doctor Falls

Series 10 is arguably one long Master story, as Series 1 is one long Dalek story, which is not only true but also a handy excuse for not wanting to watch ‘The Lie of the Land’. Missy’s story is initially told around the edges of the episodes, and as a result these short scenes are to the point and occasionally clunky while laying foundations for the finale. Fortunately the finale is superb.

We are shown the relationship between the Doctor and the Master as a tragedy spanning millennia: ‘She’s the only person that I’ve ever met who’s even remotely like me’, and so the Doctor’s hope that the Master can be the friend he remembers trumps Bill’s fears. And Bill is shot. It harks right back to the Doctor remarking – after all the death and carnage in ‘Terror of the Autons’ – that’s he’s rather looking forward to their rivalry. The Doctor has a blind spot where the Master is concerned, and it kills people.

It’s impossible to say how well the John Simm reveal would have worked if his presence hadn’t already been announced, but nonetheless he does great work as both Razor and a Master who represents pretty much all other incarnations except Delgado (not unlike the War Doctor standing in for all the original run’s Doctors in ‘The Day of the Doctor’). Steven Moffat builds on the way Simm’s Master delights in pure nastiness but continues to be cruel when there’s no joy in it for him. His is a Master abandoned by his people and his friend, very much feeling it is him against the universe.

In contrast, Moffat had been re-establishing the sense of friendship present between Delgado and Pertwee’s characters with Missy and 12. Delgado’s planned final story was planned to reveal the Doctor and the Master as two aspects of the same person, with the Master ultimately dying in an explosion that saved the Doctor’s life (with it remaining ambiguous whether this was a deliberate sacrifice). It feels like Moffat took inspiration from this, with the resulting story of a broken friendship and the cost of restoring it: Bill’s conversion to a Cyberman, the Doctor’s words – for once – cutting through to the Master, who tries and fails to escape her past. Part of her would rather die than be friends with the Doctor (as Simm’s Master also did in Series 3).

It’s spoilt slightly by Simm commenting that this is their perfect ending, which feels like it’s obvious without being spelled out, but on the other hand he does have a point. If you were going to kill off the Master, it’s hard to see past this as their ideal conclusion.

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

Read more Doctor Who ranking articles here.

The post Doctor Who: Ranking the Master Stories – Which is the Best? appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/2X0NCHN

#aion-rsa #Den of Geek

1 note · View note

antiracistkaren · 4 years

Text

The Email I never sent.

From June 24th, 2020

Hi.

If you are getting this email, it’s because I feel the need to share this information with you. I don’t expect you to answer me, and frankly, I’m sending this to a pretty wide ranging group of folks, so if you don’t respond ever, I’m unlikely to remember or hold it against you. I’m telling you this up front so that when you open this email, you’re not on edge. I care about how you feel as you’re reading these words. I hope that you can hear my tone, a voice that you know well: one that cares a lot about you. This email isn’t carrying any anger at all, only information which, as you know I love.

You know what’s going on with my husband, and how turbulent things are right now. Well, imagine that, in the midst of that, not being able to function. Literally. Imagine breaking down in total tears in panic while on the phone with your husband’s brother (who you’re not at all sure likes you) because you’re so terrified of your own husband that you cannot speak through it, and trying to explain why you’re suddenly overcome. Then imagine trying to explain yourself, over and over, to people who keep asking, “I thought you were fine, and loving quarantine?”

Imagine discovering, the middle of your husband’s mental breakdown, that you seem to be having one of your own. How horrifying. When you’re in your room, you’re fine. In fact, it’s nice in here…

I can put on headphones and slowly organize my own room. In here, I’m safe. I can fold clothes. I can make my bed. I can bring order to the chaos inside of my room, but I cannot seem to bring order to the chaos of voices inside of my head. Usually I know exactly what my day will look like: I have it planned out from 8 AM until 8 PM. And then I get a structured hour of free time and after that I should really go to bed. (I don’t. I can’t fall asleep lately before midnight because my thoughts are clamoring in my head, and then a baby wakes up… you get it.)

Unfortunately, I cannot stay in my room. People need me outside--my husband can’t seem to handle the children on his own after he comes home from the mental institution. Mental Institution. I say those words a lot and giggle a little bit after those words every time, especially when I am alone. I never thought I would be saying those words out loud, much less out loud in a house that we somehow live in with kids I’ve somehow had with my own body and a husband who is in a mental institution.

But anyway, as I was saying--I do that, going off on little thought tangents all the time--my partner can’t seem to handle the kids without me. That’s odd to me because I’m not special, and I’ve somehow done it before and have lost that skill somewhere, but he needs me, so I put myself together (in the wrong order) and wear my Happy Mommy mask until bedtime, when I collapse into a gigantic ball of emotion.

I’m confused, my husband is confused, and all of the kids are scared. I can see how scared we all are, the whites around our eyes showing. Anthony is cut by me, my anger, my emotion, my white-hot truth-telling tongue seems to be cutting him all over. And then I see my kids cut him, and seeing Anthony get harmed by me, by my kids, it spirals me down all over again. I can’t even mention my partner, who seems to handle me like I’m just made up of sharp edges. I feel like a … butterfly knife or something. Something sharp and dangerous and very deadly in the hands of someone skilled with it.

Looking back, this Autism pattern fits neatly over my whole life. It’s so strange though… because...

Ah, here’s the best example: become aware that you’re breathing.

Please. Just do it. Think about the fact that you’re breathing. You do it all the time. You don’t think about it, right? Unless I tell you to.

What if I told you that I had to think about breathing in order to breathe? That my whole life, I thought everyone had to think about breathing. That we were all just together in a room, y’all breathing without thinking about it, and me--watching you breathe and imitating the breathing motion, thinking that I am required to operate that way in order to stay alive. No one told me that breathing is automatic, so why would I mention to other people how I’m breathing?

It has come to my attention that I am unique, which is weird, so here’s what it’s like:

Every single day I am aware of every word, facial expression, vocal tone, and hand gesture. I have spent my life carefully curating a personality based on imitating those around me that I love. That radio voice I use on the mic? Classic Ron--finding my lower register and leaning into the mic. The way I read Geeks rules? That’s Josh, who showed me that being quirky and having a big personality can be leveraged on stage in order to BE on stage. My mom taught me quick-witted insults to hurl back at kids who were mean to me. I built a personality based on other people that I thought would serve me best, and I think I’ve done fairly well considering I’m still alive and fairly happy. Or I was, until the quarantine.

You see, every single day, deep in the recesses of my mind, always running like a little motor in the background is the program “Fear of Being a Bad Person”. Every move I make is processed through this motor and filter in the back. Everything I say or text, emojis I use, all of this, is processed through a “I’m trying to be a Good Girl” filter.

When I was young, I didn’t think I was a Bad Person.

When I was in preschool, I was lauded. I had friends. I remember my friends Jason and Summer to this day. I remember feeling safe and cozy in my elementary school in Wetumpka, Alabama. I remember my mother ensuring that I was put into an advanced class in kindergarten. Teachers could tell that there was something different about me, but also, they couldn’t handle my fidgeting, my impatience with kids not being fast as I was to know the answer. I would roll my eyes, make faces at the other kids, get up--because I knew all this stuff anyway--and go away from circle time. That was Bad.

And then suddenly I spent most of my day with older kids. I got to do Tangrams, write plays, dress up and hang out with kids who seemed to accept that I was a bit smarter, a bit different. My mom fought for that for me, every time.

But then my mom got remarried. Moving mid-year in 2nd grade was difficult. I didn’t understand the new kids, the nuance at the school. I didn’t know who could be my friend. I didn’t understand the wealth gap. By the time middle school came around, I was regularly teased for the clothes I wore. I would cry to my mother about the teasing and she would throw up her hands, confused and furious because I had picked these clothes out. I would alternate between starving myself and eating furiously and crying when I got home from school. I would wear baggy clothes because boys would pop my bra strap, and make unwanted comments about my body. Suddenly my outspokenness made me a target. Boys started to touch me without me wanting them to, and I didn’t understand why. I also couldn’t seem to make it stop, no matter how baggy my clothes were.

Once I told my mother about a boy grabbing me on the bus, and I am talking about hand between my legs and squeezing at my vagina as I walked off the bus to my house, and she told the principal. I was forced to confront the boy and his mother in a locked room… his mother, who sat across from me and called me a slut and a liar. I have a very hard time being called a liar.

I don’t lie. I really don’t want to. If I am being forced to lie, it is because I believe social nuance demands it. I don’t really like your new haircut, but I’m required to lie about it because telling the truth is rude, in that situation. I’ve learned these boundaries by repeatedly being punished (through embarrassment in public and repetition).

So you can see how it might be tough for me to hold a job when I make off-the-cuff comments in meetings like “If we care about diversity so much, how come we don’t have any students of color or low-income students in our most expensive residence hall?”

And, “Are you kidding?! Tornadoes just ravaged Tuscaloosa. If I had extra money to give, and I don’t, I’m not going to give money to the this scholarship fund.” (This was after the deadly tornadoes ripped through my home town--because Tuscaloosa was my home, and I couldn’t believe that I was being asked to donate to the scholarships of rich, mostly white, kids when the Black community in Tuscaloosa was in literal rubble.)

Is it any wonder that I couldn’t seem to stop making mistakes in detail work, which I’m not interested in? Doesn’t it make sense that you’ve seen me not be able to sit when I’m playing board games that I’m excited about? That I get so nervous if there’s a scoring error during quiz, I drop my papers? That although I love public speaking, my hands shake uncontrollably?

A repeated phrase through my life has been “I know you’re a smart girl, why can’t you get this?”

If I am a Smart Girl… why can’t I seem to understand people? I guess I can’t really be a Smart Girl. So I guess I should stay home with my kids since I can’t seem to hack it out in the “real world.”

Imagine my relief when my psychiatrist spotted me immediately. I think my brain is completely broken. I am telling everyone I run into that my brain is broken because I don’t know who can help me. I can’t get it together because the person I’ve hyper focused on for the past 7 years isn’t around--and even though he is home now, he is different and I am different and together we aren’t the same.

Imagine my relief when my psychiatrist lets me in on a secret that other people are just breathing naturally, that it’s not my fault that I have to work so hard. Imagine figuring out that all of those times that I was touched without consent, made to feel stupid, made to feel less than, screamed at, rejected, and put on performance plans and forced to fight for your right to have a job and speak the truth… that it wasn’t because I was deficient… it’s just because I am different.

I had piled on mountains of guilt for hurting people’s feelings. Those moments of embarrassment and shame in my life are vivid memories, and they read in my brain like well-worn books. I take them out and remember them, literally read about them, (I write a lot about these moments in my journals) so that I can make sense out of them. I’ve gotten smarter over the years because I’ve allowed myself to learn how to type as fast as I think. And then I can pour out all of these thoughts on paper, edit them and use them to communicate.

I used to spend hours as a kid in my room, writing, coping with how difficult my life was by getting outside of myself and drawing conclusions, writing poetry, acting, performing music. I’ve lost all the time to do any of those things, and that is why I am completely breaking down.

I am Autistic. I’ve always been autistic. If you have met me in the past 4 years, this is a shock. You’ve only known me as a surprising stay at home mom in your life. Yeah, I’m a little weird, but I’m Fun! Right? That’s on-brand for a stay at home mom, I’ve learned.

So if you’re getting this and you’ve met me since 2016, I have to say you don’t know me very well. The people who have made it the long haul, the folks I’ve known since Alabama, they’re seeing a return to the norm for me. This is normal ol’ weird Sam and, yeah, she’s intense but we love her. I’ve told many of my Alabama people first, and you know what they say? “Oh yeah, I can see that… but I mean, you’re still YOU. You’ve always been this way!”

It seems like it’s, well, my newer whiter wealthier friends who are struggling with this. I think it is because Autism has been presented to us [human beings] as a deficiency, and sure, yes, I am deficient in some ways. But to me, it’s like being free. I am free to be honest about not understanding, and you are free to believe me. You’re free to not be scared to say, “Sam, you’re going on about this social justice thing…” because I understand now that I monologue.

I am certain this is me. I am finally seen and understood, and I can see and understand. I’m sharing this with you because I want you to see and understand me. If I have hurt you in the past, I promise you, it was blindly and unintentional. I feel love very intensely, and if I’ve sent this to you, it is because I love you and I consider you safe.

Through all of my life, my faith has been an underpinning of my making sense of this world too, and it will continue to do that for me. I was wonderfully and fearfully made, and I am loved by my creator, and I am an autistic woman. I hope that you can accept that diagnosis with me.

#autism #actuallyautistic #autisticadult #autisticpride #mentalhealth #socialjustice

9 notes · View notes

aquaticalay · 4 years

Text

Centurion .Chapter Two.

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Sequel to For Something Greater

Summary: (Y/n) is an active duty Navy SEAL Commander, the first and only woman to ever become a SEAL. After successfully stopping a genocide with the help of the Avengers, she becomes a bridge between the military and the earth's mightiest heroes. But even as her relationship with Bucky grows, she decides not to tell him about the nightmares and trauma that haunt her. Both their secrets begin to unravel when Bucky accidentally stumbles upon a piece of dangerous information about (Y/n) that she doesn't know about herself— something she must never find out about.

Genre: Action, Drama, Romance

Warning/s for the series: cursing, violence, death, eventual smut, PTSD.

Warning/s for the chapter: mentions of anxiety symptoms and death.

Word count: 2.4k

Note: The plot is heavily inspired by the song 'in the dark' by Bring Me The Horizon, and 'Mercy' by Muse. So yeah, go listen to it if you want to :))) I'll post a new chapter every two days.

THIS IS A SEQUEL TO FOR SOMETHING GREATER,' SO IF YOU HAVEN'T READ THAT, THE LINK TO THE MASTERLIST IS IN MY BIO.

Let me know if you want to be in the taglist!

(Taglist will be reblogged)

TRIGGER WARNING! THIS SERIES REVOLVES AROUND POST-TRAUMATIC STRESS DISORDER. (Including, but not limited to: anxiety/panic attacks, extreme mood swings , nightmares, intrusive thoughts, insomnia, irritability, hypervigilance, and hyperarousal)

Gif is from 'in the dark' mv by Bring Me The Horizon

You arrived in SEAL team 6 Headquarters in Seattle an hour early. You decided to use your precious time to change into a set of military issued clothes: A green shirt and cargo pants. Very practical.

You entered the briefing room fifteen minutes early. Everyone else was already seated around the mahogany table; Diego Miller, Logan McCoy, Collin Harris, and Nolan Woods.

They greeted you with a salute, standing up from their seats. You returned the gesture, a habit you've picked up after a million times of doing it. “At ease,” you said assertively, and they sat back down. You heard a clank hit the ground. Suddenly, you tensed. You had to remind yourself it was just Miller's prosthetic leg to calm yourself down. To remind yourself that this room is secure, that there is no threat here.

You took your usual seat, between Harris and McCoy.

“How’s Mia?” you ask Harris.

Mia was his feisty five-year old daughter. When he adopted her, heappointed you her godmother.

Mia was sweet and strong, learning and following her father’s example quickly. She also got quite attached to you fairly fast. The last time you met her was a month ago, right before your peacekeeping mission. You went to their place to give Harris a ride to SEAL team 6 headquarters. Before you knew it, she was running into your arms excitedly, “Auntie (Y/n)!” She exclaimed, scrambling up for you to carry her. “Hello, Mia,” you greeted, pushing her curly black hair to you could see her adorable face clearly. She had a button nose, one of her most striking features. Her skin was dark, the color of a pine cone, and her eyes were almost pitch black. You were sure she will grow up to be a strong and beautiful young woman. “Where’s Uncle Bucky?” She tilted her head.

Mia was infatuated with Bucky. At first, He didn’t know what to make of the child. He didn’t have experience with kids, and he was scared of hurting her. It wasn’t long before he eased into interactions with Mia, letting her stick fridge magnets on his metal arm, spelling out random words on it like 'cake' or 'kandy.'

“She’s asking for you,” Harris answered with a grin, “she misses her Aunt (Y/n) and Uncle Bucky.”

You chuckle at the thought of her looking for you, and Harris making some silly, probably magical, excuse to avoid disappointing her.

“How’s Barnes? And the rest of the Avengers?”

You shrugged. “Bucky is fine,” you said shortly, “And Sam and Wanda are doing fine, too. Didn’t meet anyone else, though.”

When Harris met you, he was a wide-eyed 17-year old boy aspiring to be the best sailor he can possibly be. He has known you long enough to read emotions through your voice. He could tell you wanted more time to rest, to spend time with the person you love. You needed a break, both mentally and physically. It was so obvious a blund man could see.

“This mission won’t be long,” he reassured, somewhat trying to comfort you in ways that he can. You nodded, hoping that he is right.

Before you knew it, a Special Operations Command Officer walked in the room to brief you for the mission. You recognize her almost immediately. Her quirky smile was unmistakable.

Naomi Tanaka. She was an old friend who trained alongside you in Navy bootcamp, one of the only people who believed you could become a SEAL. One of the only people who had faith. One of the reasons you took the risk. It paid off, didn't it?

You hadn’t seen her for a long time, since she just finished recovering from her gender reassignment surgery.

You gave her a knowing nod, a greeting. She acknowledged it with a smile, mouth drawn from ear to ear; it was sincere.

The briefing went well. Tanaka explained the mission pretty clearly. She told you that there was an abandoned Hydra genetics lab in an old Soviett Union military base in Ukraine, and your job was to bring back intel and information, as well as making sure it was really abandoned.

“Wheels up in an hour,” Tanaka ordered.

When she dismissed the team, your squadron scrambled out into the locker room to prepare themselves. One hour wasn’t a lot of time, but it has to be enough.

You trailed slower behind to talk to Tanaka. You wanted to exchange a few words with your old friend.

You hugged her enthusiastically. “How are you?” You asked.

She let a joyous smile take over her expression. “Never felt better. It’s good to be back.” Sighing, she squeezed your arm, “We really need to catch up some time.”

You agreed, but right now, you need to prepare for the mission.

The flight to Ukraine was smooth. No turbulence, and you arrived in the cover of night.

You landed in a valley near the Eastern Carpathian mountain range, just a few miles away from the abandoned Hydra base. Though no assault was expected, you asked the team to be alert and to check and recheck their ammunitions for the third time, for good measure.

You ordered Woods to scout ahead, and he tells you through the comms that there is no danger. There is nothing to worry about.

“Are you sure?” You asked, supersoldier-enhanced adrenaline pumping through your veins.

“A hundred percent,” you hear Woods say reassuringly through the earpiece. You had a doubt, but if your years of experience taught you anything, it’s that doubts are the main reason of failure.

You signal the rest of your team into formation, nearing the underground bunker with your weapons alert. You lowered your night vision goggles. Other followed your example, doing the same.

“McCoy, Miller,” you called, “Stand guard outside. Watch out for threats.”

The two of them looked at you like your insane. It was unusual for you to ask two of them to stand guard. It wasn't efficient. It seemed like you were wasting men on generally unimportant jobs. Besides, protocol did suggest not having more people on look out than necessary, and in this case one was more than enough.

“Only one of us should be on the lookout,” Miller suggested, hoisting his gun up.

“No!” you bark aggressively, catching everyone in your team by surprise, “Two of you out, now!”

For a split second, all activities stop, and everything is silent except for your pounding heartbeat. You try to breathe, but your breath comes out raspy and dangerously fast.

You were never frivolous. You were always calm and collected, as you were trained to be. But this time, it seemed like you had pulled a pin inside of you that triggered an explosion.

And frankly, having you exclaim something so out of character, so unexpected, was terrifying.

“Commander,” Miller said cautiously, “Are you okay?”

“M’ fine,” you insist, averting your eyes from any staring gaze, “Just be on the lookout, two of you.”

If McCoy and Miller want to question your authority, they decided not to. They complied to your order without question.

You lead Harris and Woods into the bunker.

The only way inside was by a set of stairs. The walk down was terrifyingly agonizing. The icy footsteps were starting to drive you insane. Thankfully, you don't have to hear more when you got to the bottom.

“Split up,” you say, and this time, no one says anything.

You found yourself moving forward the small bunker, Harris and Woods going their own ways on either side of you.

Tanaka was right. The place was almost empty except for a few empty tubes on the dusty metal shelves. The stainless steel showed signs of breaking down, you could clearly smell the rust.

The floors were dirty. What used to be white ceramic looks gray now. It was filthy, and you were grateful your uniform provided the coverage from whatever disease might be lingering here.

It was clear that no one has stepped foot in it for at least a decade.

“Find anything?” You ask.

"No,” Harris reported back. “Me neither,” Woods said.

Nearing the end of the bunker, something finally caught your eye.

It looked icy. You adjusted your night vision.

Squinting and carefully coming closer, you realized that it wasn’t ice. It’s water contained in a long transparent tank.

As you got closer, you heart dropped. The tank was filled with water the shade of translucent milk.

A female human being was floating inside. Her hazel eyes were wide open but unmoving, her skin was as pearl-white as her platinum blonde hair. A thin cloth covered her otherwise naked body. A silver tube on the bottom of the tank frame traced to a non-functioning life support system. You weren’t sure if she’s dead or alive. She’s neither floating nor rotting, but you can’t imagine her being able to survive with these extreme conditions, especially if the bunker has been abandoned for as long as it seemed to be.

One other thing that seemed to disturb you is how eerily familiar this condition was. You could imagine vividly what it felt to be her. You shake off the thoughts. You need to focus.

You placed your hand on a corner of the tank and wiped the dust. There were words engraved into the thick glass: PROJECT MERCY #21

“I-“ you start to say, trailing the pad of your fingers on the marble-smooth glass, “I found something. Get this back to base.”

The flight back was uncomfortable filled with numbing silence. It went hand-in-hand with a few worried stares they gave you.

They knew something was unspoken; something that caused your outburst. But they didn’t ask. Perhaps they were too afraid to ask.

When you gave the covered tank to the base, you waited patiently in front of forensics.

Usually, you’d wind down in the locker room with your squadron, but today it just didn’t feel like you want to. You were too restless to do so.

You were starting to think avoidance was your coping mechanism for the guilt you felt after that outburst.

It didn’t take too long for forensic to determine that the woman was dead, but that was pretty much the only information they gave you. Everything else was supposedly confidential.

No, you thought to yourself, you need to know more about project Mercy. You don’t know why, but it was a gut feeling that you had, like an instinct planted in your mind by nature.

Besides, it was a product of Hydra. You needed to know more.

You took out your phone and called the only person who could possibly have an answer, or at least is willing to help you find answers.

“Bucky?” You said through the line urgently. It must be in the middle of the night in New York. He didn’t sound too tired, though.

“(Y/n),” your name escapes his lips like a sigh, breathing with relief. Little did you know, he hadn’t been able to rest before knowing that you’re okay.

“I- Do you know anything about Project Mercy?” You said quietly, trying to make sure no one could hear this conversation.

You were aware that this was illegal. You weren't exactly allowed to share what you find in your operations to the avengers. At least not until they agree to the council.

“Project what?” Bucky asked, his voice sharp.

“Project Mercy,” you repeated,”It has something to do with Hydra.”

The line went silent for a while. You called out his name worriedly.

“It’s a covert biological engineering project Hydra has in collaboration with the KGB,” He says flatly, “I don’t know much about it. All I know is this that none of the subjects came out successful.”

You cursed under your breath. There must be something more to it than that. "Can you please research old SHIELD records for it? We’ll review it together tomorrow night when I get there.”

You could sense Bucky’s hesitation. “This isn’t allowed, right?” He breathed through the phone, “I read the council files you gave Sam. We’re not supposed to exchange any information until the deal is done, right?”

He was right. The only problem is that you didn’t care. Not right now.

“I know,” you admit with a hint of guilt in your stern voice, “But I need to know. I need this, James. Please.”

Bucky never had the heart to say no to you, even if he wanted to. Certainly, this time is no different

“I’ll do what I can,” he promised.

That was all you needed to hear.

Bucky immediately activated the hologram projector in his room. "Friday, lock the room," he said. He heard a confirmation from the AI, followed by a click.

"Dim the lights," he said.

As the blinding neon calms into a soft hue, he can now see the hologram clearer.

"Show me decrypted Hydra and SHIELD files," he requested the AI.

"The one Agent Romanoff dumped to the internet?" Friday asks, making sure to do all the right things.

"Yes," he confirms.

The blue semi-transparents hologram shows millions of files.

"Search for 'Project Mercy," he says again. The hologram changes, a few files left on the hologram.

"Project Mercy was a Hydra bioengineering project in the 1980s. It's goal is to make a fully functional supersoldier from artificial lab-grown cells. These cells were fertilized and grown in a tube that resembled a womb. After nine months, the subjects are ready to be "born." None of them successfully had supersoldier characteristics, and most of them are dead."

Buciy stopped in his tracks.

"Most of them?" He raised his voice, wondering if he heard Friday correctly.

"According to the data, the first and second subject of Project Mercy are given to Hydra agents to raise and observe. Both subjects are alive as of 2014, living normal lives."

Bucky narrowed his eyes. "Where are they now?" He demanded.

"Their records have been wiped out. All that's stated is that Mercy One is female and Mercy Two is male."

"Is there any way to recover the information?" Bucky asked.

Friday calculated, searching the possibilities, "There might be physical records of Mercy One and Two in old private lab of the Hydra scientist named Michail Petrov."

Suddenly, his eyes widened. He recognizes the name, and it sounded just as bitter as it used to, engraved into his half a century of memory. Bucky's human arm curled into a grudging fist.

Petrov, as he recalled, was once the Winter Soldier's handler.

#bucky #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes imagines #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes series #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes smut #bucky x reader #bucky imagine #bucky imagines #sebastian stan #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan imagine #sebastian stan imagines

109 notes · View notes

the-headbop-wraith · 3 years

Text

3 _ 48 _ We Are the Journey

They must have been talking for an hour at least. Arthur had three refills, which he was paying for; up until Mamma Pepper insisted she get the bill.

“I invited you. So, that’s how it’ll be.” Her glare was unwavering, and Arthur wasn’t keen on arguing.

The conversation dipped into that dreaded topic, easing in a piece at a time, working it’s way through a wall Arthur hoped was fortified after months of building. He didn’t want to deter, he couldn’t abandon it. The girls were doing well. Sometimes, the sad days came and the pain was hard to work through. It was… a difficult trial for children, it was always difficult. But, they had good memories waiting for them, to comfort and ease them home. That was important to remember.

“I knew it would be hard for them, most of all,” he admitted, quietly.

“It was hard on all of us,” Mamma Pepper acknowledged. “But yes, they adored him. There are some things we cannot heal from, and some, we become stronger because we refuse to falter. It isn’t easy.” She reached a hand up and wiped at a thin tear on her cheek.

Arthur sighed, “Um, You… you’re right. I know you’re right.” He nodded.

“I want you to know, you and Vivi are always welcomed to the Pepper Paradiso. You are always welcomed home. Your Uncle has been there for you, but I wished you had relied on all of your family, as well.”

Arthur adjusted his arm in the sling, his collar was a little tired. “I didn’t… it’s hard to go forward. Where to begin, and how to? There’s a place to start, but I can’t figure out how.” He pinched his brow, his hand trembled. Across from him, Mamma Pepper shifted in her seat.

“Lewis would never blame you for what happened.” In all of their conversation, this was the first time she said his name. It struck a chord in Arthur’s chest. “I know this without a doubt. It was an accident.”

Arthur’s choked, “Of course it was an accident.” She wasn’t there. She didn’t see him, all bones and hollowed suit, angry. Vengeful and furious, seeking something without substance. Don’t say that. Don’t think that. “But… it hurts to look at you guys. Remind myself I… he was taken from you.” He took the side of his vest and pressed it to his eye.

“No one stole Lewis from us.” Arthur winced, and sort of shrugged. “You and Vivi, and He, left together on your quest – searching for something Pappa and I couldn’t give him. I knew when we first found him, it was inevitable.” She set her hand upon the table and balled her fist up. “He was our son, but we couldn’t hold onto him forever.”

Arthur took a deep breath and exhaled. Calm, slow breaths. One after the other. He pulled himself up and took another sip of his drink. The rich warmth was a stark contrast to his soul’s turmoil.

“Is this too much?”

Arthur shook his head and offered a thin smile. “Not at all. I think, I’ve needed to talk for a while. Vii, she—” How to explain? “—she’s got some sense of Lew, and we’ll talk. It’s not the same as before, but she was… she’s there for me, too. We talk.”

Mamma Pepper nodded and leaned back in her seat. “Sometimes, that is the way life is. We encounter unexpected events, or thing’s beyond our control happen. They are beyond us, and nonnegotiable. It can hurt, and that pain will endure. Maybe the sorrow we feel will never go away, not entirely.” She inched up one shoulder. “Sometimes it’s good to never let that pain go, other times it is the strongest thing we can do. For our own good, and for the people we love. You children were happy, and that’s more than what I could have asked for. I don’t want you to leave us, as well.”

“I can’t. I mean, I won’t’,” Arthur insisted. “There was so much to do, even more that I couldn’t deal with. I had to get some… distance. Escape from myself, and blot out what I couldn’t do. I should’ve done something, anything. And I can’t… explain that amount of regret away.”

“It was not your fault,” she affirmed, with authority.

“It— I know..” Arthur bit back, cinching one eye shut. “I remember what is was like before, and now….” Don’t go there. Don’t talk about that. He shut his eye. “I keep the memories of the good close, they drag me back from the brink on my worst days. It’s been… a work. A lot of work. I don’t know how I keep going, how to get past this.” He set his fist on the table, clenched like he held a scorched bar.

“You and Vivi went through so much. I don’t want you thinking nonsense, such being that the kids or my husband resent you. Utter nonsense. We could never. Absolutely, never-ever.” She studied the false arm in it’s sling, barely functioning aside from a twitch. Lance said the prosthetic was a marvel, though she didn’t understand the significance and Lance never spoke of the events. She only knew it was related to the loss of Lewis Pepper.

“I understand that you do not feel ready,” she continued, with a gentle tone. “I will squelch those thoughts that you couldn’t be welcomed home. Our doors will always be open to you, whenever you feel the time is right. It might help Vivi, or not… I can’t say for certain. Since I last saw her….” She sighed.

Arthur nodded. “I have thought about it. But we… we tried to keep busy, no stops. Full momentum. It felt… right.” His breath trembled. “I wanted to be in the right headspace. His memory is so strong, it’d be… I don’t know how to do it. I have this image of him coming from the kitchen, wearing that dorky apron.”

“Dorky… apron?”

Arthur snorted, “It suited him.” Mamma Pepper smiled. She set a hand on Arthur’s fist, and molded his grip until the knuckles relaxed.

“You and Vivi came back safe, that is more than what we could have hoped for. We have closure in that sense. And still, the both of you are out there, keeping Lewis’ memory alive. To us, it means so much, and I couldn’t think to ask anything more of you both.” She patted Arthur’s hand. “The only thing I can do, is make sure you know that you will always be loved. That hasn’t changed. It will never change.”

She leaned further over, tilting her head to catch a glimpse of Arthur’s eyes. “Look at me, hun. Look at me.” She waited until Arthur raised his gaze, even if only a smidgen. “You and Vivi are as important to us, as Lewis was. You shouldn’t run away from your family. We will support you, talk to you – when you don’t know what to do. We will listen, and if you can’t stand on your own two feet, we’ll carry you.” She smiled, but just a little. “It hurts me that you would think, we could do anything but love you.”

Arthur blinked. “I think it was the ideal you could still love, even after what happened?”

Mamma Pepper opened one eye and peered at him, heatedly. “Then you need to learn that it is okay to go on loving yourself, hun.” She took her hand back, and took up the mug with what little contents remained of her fifteenth drink. “I’m Hellbent on seeing you through this. At your pace. Got that?”

Arthur exhaled the stale air from his lungs and sat a minute, thoughts creaking through the minefield of his turbulent emotions. He wanted to tell her so badly, do something potentially horrible. But he couldn’t. This wasn’t the time. Perhaps there would never be a good time to enter that conversation, and its repercussions. Mamma Pepper was right, there would be a time in the wake of the ache they felt, but there was so much more waiting. He couldn’t bring himself to do it, he couldn’t look her in the eye with those thoughts swarming through his head.

Some things he could acclimate easily to, others required alternative solutions. Lewis reclined, suspended behind the couch as he worked on the laptop Vivi lent him. He couldn’t work the touch pad, but there was the Alt key and the small mouse he could scoot across a solid surface; such as the magazine folded over his thigh. He took over the asset review, while Vivi took a break from the break.

Once in a while he glanced over at Mystery, curled up into the couch arm. Though the dog pretended he was deep asleep, he knew better. A good indicator was make a sound, and observe if Mystery reacted. If the ear twitched or the nose perked, Mystery was napping; however, if Mystery reacted naught at all, this was clear indicator that the hound was b/s/ing.

Vivi murmured in her sleep and rolled over, promptly sliding all the way off the couch and thudded on the floor. “Ow….”

Lewis peered over as he descended, feet catching the floor while he shut the laptop and set it on the cushions. “Ooh. You okay?” More surefire proof that Mystery was b/s/ing – he didn’t react at all to that earthquake.

“Uh-huh.” Vivi eased up, hand capped to her messy hair. She picked up the mechanics magazine she was reading and set it back onto the coffee table. “Just a concussion. What time is it?” She picked up the phone from the table and leaned it up. “Crud. Did Arthur come by?”

Lewis gawked at her, eyes bright and a little curious. Or stupefied. “If Art came ‘round, I’m sure one of us would have told you. What time is it?” He leaned over the couch to see the phone. “Where is he?” Now with the clear distress in their voices, Mystery popped his head up looking alert and serious.

Vivi climbed back onto the couch and scrolled through the phone log, both calls and messages. “He might’ve gotten tied up with something.”

“I hope he’s not tied up!” The lamp on the worktable flickered on.

Vivi threw an arm toward the desk. “You can power shit when you’re upset, but when you’re a chill cucumber you sap all electric devices within a two-mile radius?!” Lewis chattered, and dropped his face into a palm. Meanwhile, Vivi shoved the phone against her ear. “Voice mail.” She brought the phone down and began typing into it.

Mystery scooted closer, glancing between Vivi to Lewis and really working his eyebrows. There shouldn’t be trouble. Not here.

“It’s late,” Lewis supplied. “Getting late-er.”

With a bark, Mystery dropped off the couch and padded over to the hamster terrarium setup on the floor. He sniffed along the side, staring through the mesh and glassed-in sides. He found Galahand, nestled in a bed of straw and Mystery’s white fur-shed. Mystery plopped down to stare in at the snoozing hamster, his bob tail wagging.

“While Mystery communes with Gally, let’s check downstairs?” Vivi shoved the phone in the backpack and zipped it up. For the time, they didn’t need the laptop. “Maybe he’s catching up on some work with the vehicles, or something.”

Though Lewis doubted it, he nodded. “Where else could he be?”

“I don’t know.” Vivi shoved the door open and hurried down the corridor, and took the steps three or five at a time. Close in pursuit, Lewis barely let his toes touch the ground. They hit the ground level and bolted around the wall, into the work zone. Some of the light were still on, she noted. “Arthur?”

There wasn’t a sound, all the equipment was cold and abandoned, no life to speak of. The windows revealed no natural light, overpowered by streetlamps and other illumination from the road. A pin drop would be a thunderclap, Vivi’s soft footfalls reverberated. She could hear her own heartbeat, or… was that Lewis?

“No one’s here,” Lewis rattled.

A sound now. The faint tappy-tap of dog toes, and a low ruff.

Vivi gave a whistle. “I don’t think Uncle Lance would leave, not without a ride.”

Lewis wheezed. “He and Arthur have that in common.” He gave chase when Vivi took off, shooting around a set of cars and toward the main office. A cacophony of barks burst out, followed by a white blur darting in front of Vivi.

“Mystery!”

A wail and rebounding crash followed. Both Vivi and Lewis winced, that sounded painful. “Was Uncle Lance asleep?” Lewis speculated, with a creak.

“He’s here at least, we can—” Mystery bounced up on his rear legs and planted his paws on Vivi’s front, whining and forcefully pushing her. “Shit-shit! Lew!” Lewis did a full one-eighty and dove under the nearest vehicle, a classy little compact car. Vivi glared, absolutely livid. “The one time he doesn’t disappear in a gush of fire. What the hell?”

A loud yawn announced Uncle Lance. “What the ‘ell all this racket? Viv-vi? What’re yu still doin’ ‘ere?” He blinked hard and scratched at his scalp.

Vivi pushed Mystery back, crisis averted. She patted the pup on his head. “I could ask you the same.” Uncle Lance yawned again. “You haven’t seen Arthur, have you?”

“Hmm?” Uncle Lance checked his arm. “Er, what time is it?” He didn’t have a watch.

Vivi sighed. “Late. We were supposed to meet with Arthur at six, or… seven. It’s way past that.” Mystery gave a yap.

“That explains why I’m not home in bed.” Uncle Lance rubbed at his eyes. “You tried calling? Tried smoke signals?”

“I’m only getting his voice mail, and he hasn’t responded to messages.” She slid off the backpack and slipped it open. “It’s not weird he’d ditch like this, but I wanna make sure he’s all right.”

Uncle Lance nodded. “I read ya. Mmm… can’t do much but look fer ‘im. Lemme check mah messages. Why yu think he might ditch?”

Vivi shrugged and followed Lance over to the office. “I have no idea why he wanted to meet up. We’re not due for assignments, not with the van in the shop.” She glanced back and managed to spy the embers eyes – just the eyes – gazing out from beneath the dark shadow of the car. Really Lew?

There were no messages on the company line. Vivi suggested Uncle Lance check his personal cell, but she wound up doing that for him since she was must faster and they were in a hurry. Lance went ahead and checked his emails, as well, out of desperation. With each cold trail and no fresh leads, the unease crept into Lance’s eyes.

“He can’t be in any trouble,” Lance uttered, to himself.

Once again, Vivi checked her phone. “Where all was he going today? He mentioned errands?”

Uncle Lance nodded, and sank into his large chair. “I’ll give’y a list. Them places are closed, no one will be in.” Nonetheless, he got on the computer and began going through the inventory. He moved names to a blank document from the spreadsheet.

Vivi leaned down and rubbed Mystery’s face, causing his collar to jingle. “We could pick up a trail. Couldn’t you Mystery? You wanna find Arthur.”

Mystery barked, and raised a paw to fix the glasses upon his snout. Arthur was as good as found with me on the case.

Uncle Lance moved his eyes off the hound, and set them back on Vivi. “You do this whole investiga-shun work professionally, that’s enough for me tu trust yu. But he’s usually with ya, helpin’. Is there somethin’ I should do?”

When the page printed out fully, Mystery snatched it from the printer and darted out the door. He gave a stifled yip. Vivi watched him go.

“If anything comes up, I’ll call.” She looked back at Uncle Lance and gave him a smile. “And when we find him, I’ll give you a call. We won’t rest until we figure out what happened, promise.” Before she could step out of the office, Lance called her back.

“Eh. How do ah say this?” Lance was standing, all his imposing height. He wasn’t looking at her, but focused on the desk beneath his palms. And the pictures, framed and stationed there. “This… has been tough on him. I know… you don’t recall much, I gather’n that. But, you’n been there, when I couldn’t. You didn’t remember, but somehow, you’r there fer im’ and—” He stopped when Vivi leaned over, to peer up into his face.

“I know. I know.” She backed up. “We’ll bring him back. We’ll find him.” She stepped backawards out of the door. There was an unsaid promise in that admission, but it was hard to make promises these days. No matter what, Arthur would be found. They could do that. They always found him.

At the entrance, Mystery was waiting within the open doorway. His bob tail waggled upon Vivi’s approach; he was ready to work. The only indication of Lewis’ presence was a faded outline of a skull and a darker than normal shadow, suspended on the sidewalk near her bike. In the murky shroud, a pair of fuchsia lights glimmered, awaiting her arrival.

In the span of two hours, Vivi had received nine calls from Uncle Lance rooting for updates on the whereabouts of his boy. As the minutes ticked away and the crew’s options dwindled with each impasse, the calls became more frequent. Until at last, her phone ran out of power completely. The call that would have gone through was missed, since she was piggybacking on Lewis as he skied through the back bay of a delivery access for a techy store; one of many Arthur would visit seeking rando bits to test in equipment. It was far out of their home town, anything could have happened between the call earlier that day and now.

Ahead of Lewis galloped Mystery, the dogs snout low and his ears aimed like twin dishes. As they rounded to the front of the abandoned parking lot, Mystery’s pace subsided and he began turning that snout toward the air sniffing.

Lewis glided on colorful bursts of flames, the embers sputtered out at his heels as he made a little semi-circle and coasted back around while the hound patrolled. He dropped out of the buoyant float and walked a few feet.

Mystery snorted and grumbled. With a yap, he trotted over to the entrance and patrolled one way then the other.

“He was here,” Vivi posed. When Lewis knelt, she dropped off his back and pulled the backpack off her shoulders. Mystery moved away from the doors and looked up at Vivi. He whined, ears drawn back. “And where did he go?”

Mystery brushed between Vivi and Lewis, going straight through the parking zone until he reached one guideline pattern specifically. The dog waltzed around the spot, then, turned his eyes back to Vivi. Here and left.

“Where’d he wind up, is my question,” Lewis huffed. “Still no messages?”

Vivi tugged the phone from her backpack and grimaced. “Not that it’d do us any good….” This time, Lewis was the one frustrated.

“Are you serious?!”

Vivi slung the pack on her back. “Let’s focus on finding him, first. If we find a payphone, we— I’ll give Uncle Lance a call, let him know the phone went caput. Not much else we can do, aside from figure out what happened.” Lewis pressed his hands over his face, and it sounded like he was counting. “Try not to get too upset.”

Lewis groaned. “Trying.” He lowered his hands. “Where else haven’t we checked?”

Vivi pulled the folded sheet from the backpacks side pocket and checked it. Squinting, she turned her sight towards the dully glinting letters beneath the lost moon. It was late, the natural light abandoned them entirely. “This was it. We’ve exhausted our leads.” She refolded the page and stuck it back into the pocket, beside the spare flashlight.

“Nothing, Mystery?” she called. “Are you sure?”

Mystery turned his gaze back to Vivi and tilted his head, one ear sprouted high. His home?

“Without Uncle Lance?” Vivi posed. A bark was Mystery’s reply. “It is Arthur, I guess.” To Lewis, she asked, “You remember where Arthur lives?”

Lewis leaned down. He let Vivi climb on and get a grip of his neck, before standing. “No, not… really.” Vivi pointed.

“Misty’s got you covered.”

Mystery gave a bark and spun away, gaining speed as he charged out of the parking zone and onto the sidewalk. Kicking up flames, Lewis gave heated pursuit.

“And where should I go, if he’s not at his house?” Lewis called. “I don’t think he’ll be there.”

“We have a ways to go, I’ll think of something,” Vivi asserted. “Anywhere else Arthur might go? Can you think of a place?”

“Uh….”

Vivi barely caught herself on the stiff collar when Lewis faltered. He didn’t fall, but his physicality sputtered. “Do you have any ideas?”

“No. Well, we can scout around.” Privately, Lewis chided himself. Arthur wouldn’t go there, of all places. He wouldn’t dare. Though, he couldn’t be certain. “How you holdin’ up?”

Vivi adjusted herself, and tucked her face behind Lewis’ neck. The gale whipping through and around them was wicked cold, almost unbearable. He was moving fast, giving Mystery a good run. “The nap earlier helped.”

The roads and sidewalks zipped by, business districts vanished as they cut through a small neighborhood. Then, through a school yard and sprawling field. Mystery didn’t stop at the chain-link fence, he leapt up and clambered over the top of the fence. In a swoop, Lewis followed. The only time either dithered in the swift movement was to take on an incognito pace, but once the late-night voyager was out of views, off they were once again. Their advantage was that they didn’t stick to the main roads, the group exploited any and all shortcuts.

In truth, Vivi wasn’t sure what to do if Arthur was not at his own home. Leaving Uncle Lance stranded at the shop? That wasn’t like him. Something had to have happened, but so far they had no guide nor inclination to what might have happened, or who could have done it. This unfamiliar ambiguity frightened Vivi. Most of all it bothered her that Arthur wanted to meet with them, and then promptly vanished.

They were shooting through another sequence of business district, quiet and empty. At the entrance to a small organic food store stood a row of pay phones. Vivi spied them immediately and jabbed an arm out.

“There! Phone!”

Lewis skipped on his heels and came to a near complete stop, but Vivi already leapt off his back and charged away. “Okay, uh… Mystery!”

“We’ll catch up later!” On her way jogging to the storefront, she caught a glance back. “Where is he going? Wait, Lew! Figure out where he’s going!”

Lewis ceased following her and flung his arms down at his sides. “What about you?”

The door to the phone booth required a firm kick, before she could heave the door aside enough to squeeze in. “I’m not going anywhere! Make sure he doesn’t raid a Clucky Truck!” With a growl, Lewis zipped off. Leaving Vivi to go through the backpack, and realize she had no spare change for the coin slot.

“Damnit!” She punched the phones face. A click chirped, and a coin deposited into the return slot. Vivi perked. “Oh, thanks.” She took the coin and fitted it into the pay slot, and began hammering at the dial.

Gnarled tree branches bent and wove across the starlit sky, through the infinite reach of black the stars glittered within perpetually. It wasn’t the same abundance of sparkling glitter he’d see on the abandoned roads and forgotten zones, exiled out in the desolate locations where civilization waned. All the same, it was peaceful; it was familiar to the sensation of memories and a place in history now beyond his grasp. The old clock running time couldn’t be dissuaded, couldn’t be negotiated with, and there came a sense of loss with moving beyond this point on the line. Reluctant as he was to move onward and never look back, distance himself metaphorically from a place that haunted his darkest dreams.

Moving on was hard. Letting go, harder still. Somehow, he managed to break that old clock and since then, nothing had been right.

Relearn. He had to relearn a lot of things.

The truck sat parked in a vacant field a distance out from some business suites and some restaurant chains, some of the lights in the offices were left on but the illumination was not enough to bleed into the vacant expanse of the night sky. Tall trees grew in small patches along and through the lot, enough that it hid the immobile truck from daily going-ons. He needed time to stop, to get a grip of the minutes.

Arthur lay on the back of the truck roof, a hull full of spare parts, full of thoughts. A collection of pieces and materials meant to rebuild new methods for living, a crude connector in the broken line of time. The brisk air gnawed at his arm, but he didn’t have a care. He’d been colder before.

He sat up and pressed his hands over his face, a long sigh deflated his lungs. The cool pressure from his false arm distinct. He didn’t feel ready with a return and reuniting with the Pepper Paradiso, he made the offer, but he really wasn’t up to it. Sure, he could call and let Mamma Pepper know, he knew she’d understand – insisted he could. But he had to do something, he couldn’t just… not. But the kids, Lewis’ little sisters. Regardless what Mamma said, he didn’t want to force that on them. He couldn’t blame them, who would? It was— Their big brother was gone. Or… was formerly gone, but didn’t go away completely. Lewis. He wasn’t the same, and Arthur, he wasn’t the same either, to be blunt. If only….

If only he hadn’t felt— If only he wasn’t, or hadn’t. He could have— It should have been different! It wasn’t his fault! Why didn’t they listen!?

The crack of his fist striking the truck roof crackled through the empty night. Following its brutal intensity came the onslaught of silence. This awful, accusing silence. Not even the wind stirred. Arthur leaned a little to the side and fought to wrestle his heartrate under control, calm his nerves. He needed some gum, but he was trying to cut back. He needed to wean off that. It wouldn’t help, he kept reminding himself that.

“Arthur?”

With a jolt, he gawked off the side of the truck and at the figure barely discernable from the heavy cloak night provided. All but for the eyes, burning bright and brimming with a bafflement Arthur was not accustomed to.

“You uhh…” the figure glided closer, like an apparition from a dream that refused to end. “You okay there?” Lewis barely had a chance to throw his arms up, but he’s jarred and couldn’t brace for Arthur colliding into him. He managed to remain upright, only because Arthur’s lower half hadn’t flopped off the vehicle roof. “Burn señor! Arthur! What—?”

It was so soft and faint, he almost didn’t pick it up. Even right beside his chin, as Arthur mumbled.

“I didn’t… I-I couldn’t, Lew. I fucked up. I can’t fix this, I tried. Believe me, I tried. I tried so fucking hard. It’s just, it’s all beyond me. I can’t….”

Lewis meant to put his hands on Arthur’s shoulders, but instead he wrapped his arms around the other. “De qué estás hablando? Esta… what happened? What’d you break?” Arthur couldn’t get out another word, but he persisted to roll through the mantra, rephrasing his assertion through the wheezing, shuddering breaths. It was alarming. He tried to glance around searching for Mystery, but the strange hound had gone scarce.

“Art, c’mon.” Lewis moved backwards, hauling Arthur down from the truck. It wasn’t the most proactive strategy, given that Arthur had a deadlock grip on his form and Lewis was forced to lean over or have him hang. Once more he checked his surroundings, but there was no aid to find. “I don’t get wh—”

“You! I broke you,” he finally croaked. “I broke your family, I broke our friendship!” He tightened his grip and whimpered. “I did it… and I can’t—” He snatched up a breath and eased through breathing, the toll of speaking dragging him away from intelligible words. “I thought it would get better, but it doesn’t. I can’t… I can’t fix this. There’s no way. No way….” He shuddered and quieted, barely managing to stifle a hiccup as he choked back words. Regret. Intent.

“Artie, you—” Lewis cut himself off and shut his eyes, retreating on his next approach and words. He couldn’t say those things. Never. The mansion revisited his thoughts. The sanctuary brought forth to seclude away, sleep and dream and envision where his path could go. The dead ends formed, repeating hallways and stairways, never ending. The fire burned through the core of his soul, his resentment and ire for the betrayal which left him stranded. Tore him from a world he took for granted, and from the people who made up his entire world. Where nothing else mattered, except being a part of their lives – his friends, family, and the future boundless.

Not until that was all robbed from him.

“Art,” he began. “It doesn’t matter, okay?” He chattered to himself, losing substance and focus. The trees and the moon reminded him of that place, the woodland he made his last adventure in as one living Lewis Pepper. “Some things are meant to be broken.” Arthur groaned against his collar. “Some things aren’t meant to be fixed. You’re living proof of that.” He sighed, and it sounded wispy like a breeze. The air held eerily still, the world might’ve ground to a halt. “It… doesn’t mean they’re no longer good. Estas escuchando?”

A noise from the sideline snagged his attention, and Lewis shifted enough to spy the blue wisp zipping in. The force Vivi collided at them with did surprise him, yet, not as much as the desperate embrace she captured them both within. Arthur cringed against his suit front, smothering a fresh round of tears.

“How many ways, Artie?” Vivi whispered. “How many ways can we put you back together? How many different shapes can you take? How many times?” Arthur’s knees buckled, but Vivi held them both to her fullest intent. “We’ll never stop, you hear me? No matter what. There’s so many ways, infinite possibilities – we’ll learn new methods, never stopping, until we know what works for you.”

Lewis couldn’t remain upright. It wasn’t as if they were heavy, but he couldn’t keep aloft. He wanted to stay with them. They were so heavy and grounding, he had to drop to his knees. He loosened one arm at his side and looped it around Vivi, his other tightened around Arthur’s shoulders. “You might not be okay,” Lewis hummed, “but we’ll be here. Right here.”

“Lew. I did this. You can’t—”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Vivi reaffirmed. “However many times, we’ll remind you. It was never your fault. It’s nobodies fault. We have to get past that.”

Arthur sniffled, but it sounded as if his ragged breathing was calming. “I don’t want to.”

“I know,” Lewis rumbled. Black stains soaked into the puffy vest Arthur wore. “But, we’ll be here to find you at your lowest. You’ll have that, whether you like it or not.”

A stiff shudder rolled through Arthur, and for a brief spell he was calm. “I’d like that, I think.”

“We have you, Artie,” Vivi soothed. “We got you.”

A distance from the group, Mystery lounged up high in the branch of one tree with his chin resting on his crossed front paws. Not often he thought of that day, as they did, but he did wonder. Of all the scenarios and pathways that could have been ventured upon, was this really the best? There was no way of knowing for certain, unless time kept it’s steady and earnest pace.

The three clung to each other, as if the earth around them would crumble apart and no sanctuary existed, except for what their embrace could muster. Colors began to prick the edges of the horizon, drawing forth purples and warm blue tones. Within short time dawn would immerse the world and banish away the ruthless night. The sun would rise into the sky, and the trio would collect themselves with intent to face a new day. Challenges awaited, but time stalled for no one.

#msa #mystery skulls fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #msa fanfic #msa fanfiction #mystery skulls fanfiction #mamma pepper #mystery #arthur #lewis #vivi #uncle lance #mamma pepper is hard to write i dont know her personality or her character #meanwhile arthur tries his very best #he is a good boy

1 note · View note

sapphicsylvari · 4 years

Text

The Rise of the Dread Fleet - Chapter 3: Siren’s Call

New chapter, yo! Currently, we’re kind of assembling the full cast, but i do hope you enjoy my scribbles regardless <3

@tyrias-library

On AO3

„What we need right now is support.” Snezz says. “There’s only three of us, which is no basis to build a crew out of. Which leads me to my next point.”

Him, Asha and Aurelia Sharpwit are sitting in the darkest, most remote part of the tavern, conspiring over ale and cheap food. A week has passed since Asha’s recruitment of both him and Aurelia, and he’d taken the time to get the kid washed and dressed in something that didn’t smell like death. Now that Asha vaguely resembles a human again, he can see a glint in her eyes he hadn’t quite noticed until now. By all means, she is still a scrawny teenager, but there’s a hidden fury, as well as an unexpected degree of intelligence behind her immediate first impression that leads him to take this whole endeavor seriously. She has her hands wrapped around her mug and listens intently to him, nodding occasionally.

“I didn’t come to Lion’s Arch alone.” He continues. “I brought a friend with me. We both left Rata Sum post graduation due to a lack of direction, but I believe that, if you let me do the talking, I can rally her to our cause.” “One additional Asura won’t make this a viable crew.” Aurelia comments. “That is true. However, my friend is kind of a… package deal.” Snezz smirks involuntarily, unable to conceal his pride. “She’s a necromancer.” “Minions, hm? Could definitely solve the issue of actually sailing a ship in terms of manpower.” Asha says. “I’m down. Let’s get your friend on board.” “Um, before we do this -…” Snezz pauses to take a long swig of ale. “She’s, uh… a little bit eccentric. Trust me on this matter. She’s worth it.” “I’ve agreed to follow a random human girl and a guy that comes up to my kneecaps into battle. I don’t think eccentricity is going to scare me off now.” Aurelia says, with a low growl in her voice. “When do we go?” “Tomorrow morning, first thing. She’s probably asleep by now.” Snezz states and looks up at Asha by his side. She’s staring into her half-empty mug, brows furrowed. He elects not to ask for her approval in addition to Aurelia’s, and waved to the barmaid instead, to get a refill for his own drink.

Morning rolls around much too early for Snezz. Him and Aurelia had spent a long time in each other’s silent company last night, but regardless, both of them meet Asha in front of the tavern they’re staying in – on Snezz’s bill, of course.

“Ready to go?” he asks them and only gets mumbled responses; Asha simply takes a few insistent strides forward, and Snezz clicks his tongue. “Right. This way.”

The unlikely trio weasels their way through narrow alleys into one of the cheaper residential areas of the city. Snezz stops them in front of a small, worn looking shack in the corner of the street, steps forward and knocks on the door, the entirety of which rattles under his fist. He sees Asha tilt her head curiously before the door opens a crack.

He holds his breath, as the horrid smell of putrefaction assaults his senses and leans in to peek into the dark interior. “You brought friends.” States the occupants matter-of-factly. “I did.” Snezz replies, speaking fast to avoid inhaling too much of the stench. “This is Asha, aspiring pirate Captain, and our friend, Miss Sharpwit. Can we come in-… or can you come out?” The door slams shut, Snezz hears a few nondescript clattering noises, then the door opens again, wider this time. Out steps a tiny Asura, even smaller than him. She’s completely black in complexion and hair, her vibrant green eyes and lighter, freckled rodent nose being the only features to be immediately discerned. She’s dressed in simple, rather dirty clothing, her apron stained with several fluids Snezz doesn’t even want to attempt to identify. She blinks up at his companions. “Why’d you bring them?” she asks, staring intensely at the two. Asha and Aurelia exchange a glance.

“We need your help.” Snezz tells her. “I’ve joined them and we want to steal a ship, then go out and make our living on the Seas. But we’re critically understaffed. I know that you can amend that.” Her gaze flickers back to him. “Piracy?” “Yes.”

She steps forward to face Asha, who immediately takes a step back, due to the woman’s rather fragrant presence. “I want a private laboratory below decks and access to any dead matter we encounter.” She demands. “Uh, I mean, sure? I can arrange that.” Asha fumbles, quite taken aback by the demand. “Good. I am joining. Call on me when you need me.” With that said, the steps back into her shack and slams the door shut.

A good ten seconds of baffled silence pass before Aurelia speaks up. “Well. You weren’t kidding.” “I wasn’t.” Snezz agrees. “She’s a good person. She just doesn’t do well with, uh… living people.” “What even is her name?” Asha asks, as the group turns to leave. “She left so abruptly.” “It’s Liamu. Don’t worry about her. I’ve known her all my life. I can vouch for her.” Snezz draws a deep breath. “With her help, we can crew a ship, but more help is always a good thing. We should all hit the road and see what we can organize.”

Asha stops in her tracks and taps her chin. “Actually, you two go do what you want. I have an idea.”

Asha looks over her shoulder, making sure she isn’t being followed, before kneeling down by the water. “Raya?” she calls out, in a hushed whisper-shout. It takes a moment before she sees the salmon pink shimmer of scales passing under the surface of the harbor basin, then Raya’s pale face becomes visible in the water, not breaking the surface, but close enough to speak.

“I need you to find somebody for me.” Asha leans down, her nose almost touches the water, and she whispers to Raya, who blinks slowly at her, then vanishes back into the depths. Asha rises back to her feet and dusts off her coat. It’s probably better not to tell her developing crew about Raya just yet. There needs to be more trust, more bonding before she can safely let them in on her secret little friend, without scaring them off.

Cariyen’s exit from Vaixx and Raxxi has been rather undramatic. Both had been very understanding of her decision to leave, and even given her a rowboat to get back to Lion’s Arch shortly after their departure, so she can find her own path without them.

It shouldn’t take longer than a few hours to make it from Bloodtide Bay to Sanctum Harbor, according to Cariyen’s predictions. And then… what then? Cariyen doesn’t exactly have anywhere to go home to. She wouldn’t have joined a pirate crew if she had been able to return to the Grove, not after her brother had gone missing. She’d attached herself to this little girl after years of living half-alive, only functioning as her role on the ship. And then, even that little girl was taken from her, killed right before her eyes.

It’s a heavy mixture of guilt and grief in Cariyen’s heart, as she rows her little boat toward the city, almost on autopilot, reflecting upon the events that transpired. She knew the entire time. How Asha had suffered under her father. And while she did support her, she did not do enough. Asha was just a child, it had been just a matter of time until she’d snap and something horrible would happen. Cariyen can’t shake the thought that she could have prevented it, done something, anything, taken the girl somewhere safe, away from this environment…

Her thoughts are cut short by a heavy rock going through her boat. She pauses, heart skipping a beat, gaze flickering around to seek the source of the turbulence. Cariyen sits frozen, her hands gripping her oars tight as she listens for any telltale sign of an attack. Krait, Risen, hostile Hylek, marine predators-… no, she’s too close to shore for that.

She has no time to consider her options, as another heavy hit against the boat’s rump instantly capsizes it. Cariyen barely has time to hold her breath before she is plunged into the water. Her years of sailing experience immediately tell her to swim upward and surface, but she feels and iron grip around her ankle, preventing her from moving. Panic sets in, and she begins channeling magic in her left hand, only to be interrupted by something that is clearly a humanoid hand gripping her wrist and dragging her to the depths. Asha’s desperate thrashing in the water is the last image before her inner eye, then her consciousness fades.

Cariyen had not expected to survive this mysterious attack, much less to hear the voice she hears when she eventually awakens. “Grenth’s grace, Raya, I told you to find her, not almost drown and kidnap her!” “I apologize. I am not good at convincing people to follow me. I thought this to be the easiest option.” “You could’ve-… ugh. Whatever, she’s here and she’s alive. Did anybody see you?” “I took the long way around. I was quick.”

Cariyen groans and rouses, forcing her eyes open. She’s in a room, laid out on a cheap bed, next to a small firepit crackling to her left. “Ah, you’re up.!” Asha Gaets says and sits down by her side. “Sorry about the… journey. Raya has no, uh… social skills.” Cariyen’s head spins, but she forces herself to sit up and face the girl. “How-...?” she croaks, throat raw with seawater. “Long story. Raya saved me and I made my way to town.” She explains, which clarifies very little to Cariyen, and gestures to a nude woman, crouched like a lurking tiger in the corner of the room.

The Sylvari looks from the strange woman to Asha, then lurches forward and embraces the girl. “Hey, hey.” Asha soothes her, helplessly patting her back. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I should’ve-.. I could’ve done something, I-…” “Hush, it’s fine. It’s okay.” Asha struggles and Cariyen releases her from the hug. “It’s not your fault. You were the only one who ever helped me on that rotten ship.” Asha puts her hands on Cariyen’s shoulders. “I’m just glad to see you again.”

Cariyen wipes the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand and nods slowly. “I am too.” She whispers. “Asha, I… I can’t believe you survived.” “Trust me, it took me a while to realize too.” Asha grins from ear to ear, nothing like the broken soul Cariyen remembers her to be. “I told my friend Raya to find you, because I didn’t think you’d stay in the fleet after my death. Sorry about her methods. She’s used to drowning people.”

Raya makes eye contact with Cariyen, who feels her blood run cold when she glares into those empty eyes. “Siren.” She gasps. “I apologize.” Raya says. “I did not believe you would agree to come with me if I had asked.” “Don’t worry about her. She’s a friend. She saved my life.” Asha assures her and Raya nods. “She speaks the truth. I mean you no harm.” She confirms and Cariyen rubs her temples, trying to process all of this.

“I’m actually assembling a crew myself. Got a few people already.” She conchalantly states. “I’d like to have you on board, too.” “I-… yes, of course, but…” “Awesome. I’ll let you rest here. Don’t worry about the room, my new friend Snezz pays for it.” Asha gets up and gestures to Raya, who promptly rises and climbs out the window. “They don’t know about her yet, so if you could keep that little secret, that’d be great.”

“I... doubt anyone would believe in anyways.” Cariyen manages to articulate in her confused and weakened state. Asha grins at her. “I’ll organize you some food. Sit tight, will ya?”

#gw2 #guild wars 2 #gw2 fanfiction #the rise of the dread fleet #my writing #pirate saga

9 notes · View notes

bubble-tea-bunny · 6 years

Text

the missus

[august walker x reader]

author’s note: yay finally wrote for august! def down to write some more, i have one other idea i’m still playing around w. it’s fun writing secret agent stuff haha

word count: 10,280

This morning, the sun is out and shining, no clouds are in sight, and the turbulence forecast reads nothing but smooth skies. In other words: it’s a good day to fly.

The forest green duffel sits at the foot of the bed, unzipped and flap pulled back to allow for the last few items to be placed inside. Packing for a short work trip is routine in this household, and done with a practiced precision. It’s with utmost care that you roll the neckties before setting them inside the bag. August always lets you choose which ones he should wear while away. You keep me looking sharp he’d remarked once while reviewing your selection of ties for a previous business excursion. People do say the Walkers are always so well-dressed, and August has no problem admitting that it’s owed to you. He says you’d look right at home in the fashion industry, but you just laugh it off. Maybe in another life.

August emerges from the bathroom with his hair already styled. His clothes are laid out on the bed for him to put on, and he does just that, untucking the towel around his waist and tossing it to the side. (You can’t help sneaking a glance at him when he does, and he catches you. He just smirks and carries on with his current task. There’s no time to get sidetracked.)

“I can’t believe you’re leaving again so soon,” you state, breaking the silence. “It feels like you just got home.”

August sighs, shrugging on his button-up. “You know how she is. All work and no play. There’s things that need doing.”

“Maybe I should have a talk with her about giving you a break…”

“Honey.” The tone isn’t harsh. Gentle, rather, with a hint of warning. You look up shyly to find him raising a brow. You know know it’s hardly a good idea to bring something up like that to someone as austere as Sloane. The most you’d get in return is a laugh. Sometimes you wonder if she knows what the word “vacation” even means. Everyone is on call every hour of the day.

“I know, but can you blame me? I just want to spend time with you.”

August smiles as he grabs his tie and walks over, holding it out to you. He knows how to tie one, but he likes when you do it because he gets to look at you and be close. “Well how about when I’m back, we go on a little getaway? I’ll see if I can convince Sloane to give a me a few days off.”

You think about this proposition as you slip the tie around his neck and tie it with deft fingers. And you can’t help the little grin that forms on your lips. “Really?”

August hums. He sets his hands on your waist to keep you near as you work, his thumb stroking back and forth. When you slide the knot up until the tie fits snugly, you trail a hand down to grab the tail and lightly pull him down to you. He gives you what you want gladly, one hand leaving your waist to tangle in your hair so he can angle your head appropriately and kiss you better. Your arms wrap around his neck but your fingers don’t go to mess with the hair at the nape, and part of him wishes you would because he loves the way it feels. However, he understands his meticulously styled hair can’t be ruined now. And if you did that, you’d both get too carried away, and then he would be late. It's happened before, and Sloane was not a happy woman. She said he’s lucky he has the skillset he does, or someone else would be getting these jobs (“I don’t like my time to be wasted.”) He didn’t doubt she was telling the truth.

But you, on the other hand, are not going anywhere (in fact, you’re still in your pajamas, which consists of lace panties and one of his powder-blue button-ups). So he curls his fingers in your soft locks and tug just a little, and you moan quietly. It causes a heat to ignite in his belly, and that’s when he forces himself to pull away. If he hears anymore, he’ll definitely get sidetracked.

You pant quietly, the tip of your finger lightly running up and down the back of his neck. Goosebumps break out on his skin from the ghost-like touch, and his arms feel comfortable around you. For a few moments it’s just you two and the warmth of the sun pouring in through the window and given there are no clocks in the room, one might think time wasn’t moving at all.

“I hate when you have to leave,” you murmur.

“Me too,” August responds.

It’s silent again, both of you content to stay where you are, but then you sigh heavily and back up out of his grip (he’s reluctant to let go, but he knows he needs to get a move on). His hands fall back to his sides. “Come on,” you state. He’s not sure if you’re saying that to him or to yourself (or maybe both). “Your ride will be here soon.”

August grabs his watch and wallet from the top of the dresser and slips on his shoes as you zip up the duffel. There’s a manila folder sitting next to it, which you know contains his mission briefing. In the past, curiosity would bite at you to peek inside and see what was in it, and you’d had to force yourself away from the idea. What’s in there is not your place to read. However, these days you no longer feel any sort of temptation to steal a glance. Maybe it comes with having been through this so many times before. While you worry for him every time he’s away, you think if you found out the details of the operation that your concern would only increase, knowing for certain what he was going into. But August always comes back safe. He knows what he’s doing.

A hand gently touches the small of your back and you turn your head to find August behind you. You smile and stand to the side to give him space to grab his bag, which he slings over his shoulder, and then he swipes up the folder. Out in the living room, you push aside the curtain and sigh quietly when you see a car parked right on the curb. This is it. Another few days in an empty house.

“Car here?” August inquires, as you let the curtain fall back into place. You nod, and he can see well enough in your eyes that you already miss him even though he hasn’t left yet. The grin he gives you is equal parts fond and sad. For as often as mornings like these occur, he doubts either of you will ever grow used to this part. He extends his free hand, beckoning you closer, and you step into his embrace without having to be told twice. His arm curls around your shoulders and he kisses your head, nuzzling your hair and smelling lavender, smelling home. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Be safe,” you tell him.

“I will. I promise.”

You stand in the open doorway, watching until the car turns the corner and the street is quiet again.

One way you keep yourself busy while home alone is cleaning the house. But given that it hadn’t been long since August’s last job, everything is still spotless. You tidy up the bedroom and the ensuite bathroom and wipe down the counters in the kitchen. You sweep the floors and when you fluff the pillows in the lounge despite the fact they’re still positioned perfectly from when you’d arranged them a few days prior, that’s when you come to the conclusion that there truly is nothing else left to clean. The Walker household is pristine.

You never really like how quiet the house is when it’s just you here. You’ve always been light-footed so even your footsteps do nothing to alleviate the silence as you pad through the hallway. In the morning your company is the gurgling of the coffee machine and the birds. In the afternoon it’s the mailman as he comes by and slips your mail for the day into the mailbox (mostly spam mail and bills). You always know he’s there because the mailbox lid creaks. He’s come between 12:30 and 12:35 each day so far—a punctual and well-maintained schedule. In the evenings, the clacking of the keyboard is what fills the air as you work, sifting through mail of the electronic sort and downloading attachments from messages and sending attachments of your own.

All the while August is in the back of your mind. You hope he’s staying safe and you think about how much you’re looking forward to him coming home, and it makes you smile as you delete some older e-mails. Parting from one another is difficult, but it makes the reunion that much better. It helps the days pass just a little faster too.

He never calls when he’s on a mission, but you understand. He’s busy, and not to mention calling someone so close to him is a liability. If anyone were to overhear or learn of your existence while he was in the field, you’d be in danger. You don’t even know where in the world he is, and you’re left wondering if the sun is rising for him or if he’s staring at the moon just like you are, when the light of the laptop screen is burning your retinas and you have to look away to give your eyes a break.

On the fourth night, the vibration of your work phone stops you short. Your brows furrow as you look at it where it rests next to your regular phone, and you reach out a hand to grab it, the other still positioned over the keyboard. It hasn’t rung in a while, and you know when it does, it’s important. The name on the caller ID is the only one saved to this phone, and you waste no more time in answering. She hates waiting.

You greet her simply and succinctly. “Hello?”

“You’re needed.” Her voice is ironclad as she gets right to the point, and you can imagine the steely expression on her face.

You take a deep breath and sit back, the hand you’d had on the keyboard slipping and dropping into your lap. The response is automatic. “Yes, ma’am.”

———

II.

Five hours later, you’re en route to your destination, a manila folder open on your lap. You flip through the dossier, scanning and processing the information expertly. You’ll need to be well acquainted with all of this by the time the plane touches down. Most pictures of the mark are from the most recent function he’d attended, and where he’d become a topic of interest to your employer.

Seen in discussion with foreign diplomats… Security liability… You pinpoint the key phrases, a small frown on your face as you take it all in. He’s a scientist with knowledge of some valuable tech. The kind that can be weaponized. The files state this is why he’s been in talks with so many dignitaries—he’s interested in selling that information to the highest bidder. Your boss isn’t taking kindly to that. She wants the information and she wants him brought in for interrogation. There are bold red words at the bottom of the mark’s profile that read Do not kill.

The original game plan for the mission entailed stealing the blueprints before capturing him, since he wouldn’t willingly give them up in custody, not without a good bit of convincing. It would just be faster this way. But sometimes these things don’t go over so smoothly…

“August requires assistance,” Sloane explains.

“Is he okay?” you ask. You’re good about being professional, but you can’t help the twinge of worry that bubbles in your stomach when she mentions him. Maybe she’s annoyed at the question or maybe she’s not, but all you care about is that she answers it.

“He is.” You let out a silent, relieved sigh when she says this. “It seems this operation needs a steadier hand than previously thought, and he asked specifically for you to be brought in.”

“How soon can you put me on a plane?”

“How soon can you be ready?”

You wouldn’t ever admit it out loud, but you found August’s methods to be brutish. He was only stealthy up to a certain extent and much preferred to go in guns blazing. The total opposite of the way you work. As such, you cross your fingers that there’s no need for damage control once you arrive (though four days is plenty of time for damage to be done). It’s a little counterintuitive to be sending the scalpel after the hammer but you don’t dwell on it too long. The point is you do as instructed and you work around the obstacles. You wouldn’t be in this kind of position if you weren’t adaptive.

You’re flattered that August would suggest you in particular. He didn’t need just anyone’s help; he needed yours. Sloane might’ve suspected bias but even she knows it’s more than that. You’re good at what you do and August trusts that you’ll get the job done. You’re pretty certain that even if he hadn’t said your name, Sloane would’ve sent you over anyway. August is already one of her top agents, and if he can’t finish an operation alone, she’ll only pick those of similar caliber to head in and help.

There’s a thick blanket of clouds and the plane rocks slightly as it descends, the wind catching beneath the wings. You close the folder and glance out the window. When the haze of clouds fades as the plane clears it, you see the bright lights of a bustling city down below. August is there somewhere, and you smile a little to yourself. You’re excited to see him again, even if it’s not under the circumstances you’d been expecting. This would be a premature reunion, but a nice one all the same.

A black car with tinted windows waits for you on the tarmac. You carry your roller luggage down the stairs they’ve set up next to the plane door, and the chauffeur takes it from you to place in the trunk. The pilot is standing at the base of the stairs. You don’t know him personally, but you know he’s one of Sloane’s. He nods, as if to say Good luck, and you nod back before getting in the car.

For the purposes of this mission, all communication with your husband will be through your work phone. When on the job, you’re not husband and wife. You’re two operatives out on the field. You’re professional before everything else. You grab said phone from your handbag to find that he’s already texted you: I’ll meet you in the lobby.

Your accommodation is a swanky five-star hotel. There are steps leading up to the front doors which slide back to let you through, and you take a look around at the expansive lobby. A large chandelier hangs down in the center and your boots echo off the perfectly polished flooring. You scan the room in search of August and find him on one of the couches, flipping through a magazine.

“Hey, stranger,” you greet as you walk up to him.

August looks up and he smiles so warmly that you quickly forget the chill of the outside. It’s contagious, and you smile too as he stands and approaches, arms wrapping around you. Your hand leaves the handle of your luggage as you hug him close, eyes sliding closed as you take him in. It’s the same every time you see him. You need a moment to remind yourself that he’s safe. Well, that he’s home and he’s safe, but one of those things isn’t really possible currently, considering now you’re both hours away from home. But you’ll take what you can get.

“I missed you,” August says as he pulls back and looks down at you. “Would’ve been home sooner if not for some… road blocks.”

You nod once. “Sloane talked about that. What’s wrong?”

He purses his lips. “I’ll tell you in the room.”

It’s only the two of you in the elevator and you lean back against the railing, watching the numbers light up as they count off each floor. August is staring at your reflection in the elevator doors. They’re hardly perfect mirrors, your form distorted and barely discernible, but it’s you. And he grins slightly as his gaze slides from the blurred images on the doors over to you, where you don’t seem to have noticed his staring. You tap a finger on the railing, the metal clanging quietly. There’s no music playing in here (thank goodness).

“Thanks for thinking of me,” you state finally, looking at him. If you’ve realized he’d already been watching you, you don’t bring it up, simply smiling lopsidedly at him. It makes him want to kiss you. “I mean, we both know Sloane would’ve sent me in anyway, but you know what I mean.”

August laughs. It’s true, and he loves that you’re so confident about it. The two of you aren’t afraid to talk big about your skills and it’s because you can back it up. You can prove yourselves. And you have, many times. “I guess I just did it because I like saying your name; wanted another reason to do it.”

You raise a brow but can’t help laughing at his coy smile. “Such a smooth talker.”

“’s why you fell in love with me, isn’t it?”

The elevator dings, signaling your arrival on the appropriate floor. The doors slide apart and you step out first, August following close behind and pulling along your luggage. You glance back at him. “Yeah, you’re right.”

Room 915 is at the end of the hallway. As August digs the keycard out from his pocket, you look down the length you’ve just walked. You’d always found it creepy how every corridor in a hotel looked identical. It’s so easy to get lost. Add some flickering lights and you have yourself a horror movie.

Fatigue seems to catch up to you all at once when you spot the bed. You walk over to it and plop down on the edge, toeing off your shoes. You want nothing more than to shower and go to sleep, but there’s business to take care of. August sets your bag down by his duffel and turns around to face you.

“So,” you begin, “tell me about the road blocks.”

August crosses his arms and sighs. “The mission was to steal blueprints off our mark Lombardi, but…”

“But…?” You tilt your head, beckoning for him to continue.

“There are no blueprints. Not physical ones at least.”

You’re quiet for a second as you try to understand what this means. “You’re not saying…”

August hums in confirmation, setting a finger on his temple and tapping twice. “The schematics are all in his head.”

“Wow,” you breathe out. “That’s genius.” You had to hand it to the man. Plans for weaponized tech are difficult enough to get onto paper with how complex they are, much less retain it in one’s brain for long periods of time. You can understand why he did it. There’s no rocket science behind that. Making physical schematics puts it at risk of ending up in the wrong hands—in his case, the hands of people who haven’t paid the demanded sum. But just because you understand the reason doesn’t mean you like this mode of thinking. The notion had been just a little too crazy for anyone to predict at the onset of this operation, hence the changes that have had to be made last minute (that is to say, your presence for this opertion).

“Too genius,” August responds. “And that’s why I needed you here.” He rifles through the papers on the table in the corner and pulls out an invitation. You gently take it from him when he offers it and you read over the information: a charity event, scheduled for tomorrow night. “You’re gonna have to talk to him, get it out of him somehow. You have a better track record with things like this. I could’ve tried myself but there was no guarantee, and this party is our only shot. If he finds out about what we’re trying to do, he might sell the information immediately.”

It’s been a while since you’ve had a mission like this. Lately, they’ve just been your run of the mill work-in-the-shadows-and-steal-the-intel type jobs. You can’t say you mind these though. You have fun dressing up and pretending to be someone else. It’s like a masquerade but without the masks and you’re the only one who’s treating the fete as if it were a masquerade, trying to hide your identity. (So… technically it’s not like a masquerade at all, but you don’t care about the details anyway.) You set the invitation down on the bed next to you and look over at your husband where he’s leaning against the table.

“But I don’t have a dress.”

“I already got one for you. I’m picking it up tomorrow, along with my suit.” You open your mouth, and he knows you’re about to complain that you didn’t get to pick it yourself (that’s your favorite part), but he didn’t have a choice, and he tells you as much. “I’m sorry, but I had to let them know today if I wanted them to be ready in time for the party.”

You sigh, and he stays quiet, waiting patiently for what you have to say. “Is it a nice dress?” you inquire quietly.

August chuckles and nods. “I think it’s perfect.”

That seems to satisfy you. “Well then, I can’t wait to see it.”

The next morning, you and August eat breakfast at a café near the hotel upon the recommendation of the receptionist. You take a corner booth, and the first topic of the meal is what you’d been up to the past four days. Same old, same old you state with a shrug. This time it was two days before I got bored. It’s quite the record. More often than not, you’re bored and itching to fill the silence of the house by the first evening. Going out to the farmer’s market or running other errands does well enough at keeping you occupied and the boredom at bay, but the truth is none of it feels the same without your husband around.

But then the conversation shifts to more serious matters, and you lower your voices out of habit. August had caught you up last night on what he’d been up to so far—tailing the mark, attempting to steal the schematics (and failing when he realized there was no actual copy to be taken), getting hold of a couple of invitations for the charity event. Today you’re focused on the goings-on of later tonight.

You bite off a piece of toast and chew thoughtfully as you gaze out the window, watching the tree branches sway in the breeze. “What names did you put down on the invites list?”

“Garrett Redfield and Ziva Prescott.”

“Can you change it to Ziva Redfield?”

August raises a brow. “I can. Why?”

“It helps with… convincing the mark to engage with me,” you explain. “There’s excitement in dealing with a married woman.”

He stares at you, a little taken aback. It’s not that he’s not impressed. He is. People are your speciality after all, and you know all the right buttons to push, all the ticks to capitalize on. So he supposes he’s at a loss for words because it’s then that he fully realizes what the operation now entails. The new plan of attack involves you getting close to the mark and August has never been one to let emotions compromise a mission, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t get awfully close to doing so on this one. If it’s not envy seeing you sweet talk another man, it’s concern. Because he knows he’ll be worrying about your safety as soon as you’re out of sight. Security’s too tight at the venue—neither of you will have a weapon.

“Smart,” he states. “I’ll change it once we’re back at the hotel room.”

You smile in thanks, and your eyes trail down to his left hand, where a ring is absent from his ring finger. It’s not surprising. He keeps it tucked away in his bag for the duration of his missions. It goes in the moment he’s sitting on the plane on the way to his destination, and comes out and is slipped back onto his finger the moment he’s in the car being driven to the airport to go home. As for you, you’re still wearing yours. (And in your defense, you haven’t forgotten to put it away—you would have in time for tonight, but the plan lets you keep it on now, so that’s nice.)

“Don’t forget to put your ring back on,” you remind him.

August grins. “I won’t.”

And he doesn’t. It’s the first thing he does when you return. He fishes it out of the inside pocket of his duffel and slides it on as he sits down at the table and turns on his laptop. You grab yours as well and plop down on the bed. Sloane had texted you this morning asking for an update and you were in charge of that while August took care of changing the name on the invites list. There’s no issue of being too late to update it. The invite list wouldn’t be printed, but rather would be handled electronically, via a tablet.

While August steps out to pick up the clothes for the party, you occupy yourself by reviewing all the details on the mark. You’ll need to know his work backwards and forwards for when you talk with him. The dossier the agency has on him is incredibly thorough, and you feel like you’re studying for a test. Nathaniel Lombardi has been in the game for a long time, having papers going all the way back to when he was in his early 20s, fresh out of college. It’s a lot of information to take in, and one day is hardly enough time to familiarize yourself to the point of comfort, but you’re not always afforded that sort of time. You’ll just need to make do.

As evening approaches, you start getting ready. Since August hasn’t returned yet, you remain in leggings and a t-shirt while you do your hair and makeup. You’re in the bathroom, leaning against the counter to be closer to the mirror as you work. Your hair’s in a French braid updo and now you’re applying makeup—nothing too complicated, just enough to look appropriate for an event like this. It’s a little difficult to figure out colors to use when you don’t know what color the dress is, so you settle for keeping color absent for the most part. Just eyeliner and mascara on the lids, and a tiny bit of blush for a healthy flush. Lipstick has to wait until you actually see what you’re wearing. It’s when you’re dusting blush onto the apples of your cheeks that the door to the room opens.

“I’m back,” August announces.

You set the brush and compact down and peek out of the bathroom, one hand gripping the doorframe as you lean. August smiles when he spots you and sets two garment bags down on the bed. He motions to you as if to say Well, come take a look.

Eagerly you walk over and unzip the one he points out is yours. Your eyes light up as the dress is exposed to you. It’s black and floor-length with an A-line cut and a slit going up one side. There’s a deep V neckline and when you take it out to observe the back as well, you see there’s a similarly daring plunge in the back. Your smile grows the more you take in all the features. The material is soft against your fingers.

August stands to the side, arms crossed as he watches you, gauging the reaction on your face. “Did I choose well?”

You aim your grin at him and nod. “You chose really well. I’m impressed.”

“I won’t lie, it was a bit nerve-wracking dress-shopping for you. You’re very picky.”

You laugh. “Well it’s a good thing you do well under pressure.”

While August is taking a shower, you slip the dress on. It drapes perfectly over your form. This had to be custom-fit. You own enough dresses to know when one has been tailored to your exact measurements, and it would explain why August needed to get it in advance. You smile to yourself as you twist and turn in front of the mirror hanging on the wall. He’d always been good about remembering all the small details.

August exits the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist, and takes precisely one step before he sees you. He stays where he is, admiring the way you seem to glow. He can see it in your eyes, soft in the wash of lights in the room. And it shows in that little grin he loves so much, and all along the expanse of your skin, to the point he thinks he might burn his fingers if he runs them along your arms or your collarbone or your spine. But they’re burns he’d gladly accept, marks on the sensitive pads he’d keep forever, as proof of the sorts of wonders he’d seen, he’d felt, he’d loved.

Maybe he’s getting carried away waxing lyrical because it’s just you in a mirror in a hotel room, but he never gets tired observing you. Call it an out of body experience. Watching you on the far side of the room is like watching a part of his soul—the most beautiful, and the most free.

“You look great.” He breaks the silence and lets you know he’s there.

“You think so?” you ask, twirling once so he can see the dress from all angles, then strike a small pose, setting both hands on your hips which are shown off so prominently with the way the fabric hugs your curves.

“I knew you’d look great before you even put it on.”

“You’re very confident in your styling skills.”

“More like I was more confident in your ability to pull off anything.” August flashes you a small smile as he starts putting on his own outfit, and you chuckle, cheeks warming at the compliment. He always knows the sweetest things to say.

The final step you had left was applying lipstick. Your job has steadied your hand over the years from all the high-stakes situations you’d found yourself in, where one wrong move could mess everything up, and it comes in handy when it comes to makeup. You slowly drag the wand across your lips, careful not to get any of the product on your skin. Especially with such a bold red, it needs to look flawless. Once it’s on, you relax and exhale, tucking the lipstick tube back into your makeup bag. August holds out his tie to you, and you take it.

“You know”—you slip the tie around his neck and begin to tie it while he sets his hands on your waist—”when you talked about romantic getaways the other day, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

August laughs. “Well we can plan it when we get back. Over dinner.” When you finish up the tie he bends down, prepared to kiss you, but you stop him by putting a finger to his lips.

“Lipstick’s still drying,” you inform him.

He shakes his head and smiles and settles for kissing you on the cheek instead.

———

III.

The drive to the venue isn’t a very long one. In the car, August hands you an earpiece, and you put it in while double-checking that the strands of hair you’d left hanging out of your updo are enough to conceal it.

“We know Lombardi had plans to bring up his research tonight. There are some diplomats in attendance who are interested. So the quicker you can get to him, the better.”

“Understood,” you respond quietly, occupied with making sure your hair is secured properly (you have a bunch of hair pins in your clutch just in case).

August glances over and smiles as you mess with it. “It looks perfect.” He gently takes your hand and kisses the back of it.

You’re far from the first ones to arrive. You fall into the line of people waiting to be admitted, your arms linked together, and once at the front, August lists off your fake names. The man scrolls through the tablet in search of them, and you subtly scan the exterior to get an idea of what security is like. There are numerous others dressed like him patrolling the perimeter, and you know inside won’t be much different. If it’s not these guards playing the all-watchful eye, it’s the cameras.

“Redfield, Garrett and Ziva,” the man reads out once he’s found the names. “Go on in. Enjoy.”

You smile sweetly as August says thank you and guides you inside. The ballroom is spacious, the floor already teeming with other guests. There’s a staircase at the head of the room leading up to the second floor. People seem to part for you as you walk farther in, and a waiter passes with a tray of champagne. August grabs flutes for you both and you sip on it slowly as you scope the room for the target. Neither of you is going to be drinking much tonight. You have a job to do, after all, and it requires every single one of your wits.

August spots him before you do. “He’s in the corner, by the bar,” he murmurs.

You look in the direction he indicates. Nathaniel Lombardi is in the midst of conversation, one hand wrapped around a flute like the one you hold and the other gesturing enthusiastically as he speaks. You attempt to lip-read, but one of the men he’s speaking to adjusts his stance and blocks him from view.

“Think he’s a talkative drunk?” you ponder.

August smirks and brings the flute up to his mouth to take another sip. “Might be. Looks to me like he’s had a good bit already.”

He’s right about that one, and you chuckle. For the most part you’d been wandering aimlessly, but then you’re approached by an older couple who greet you with wide smiles. They introduce themselves and ask what it is you do, and your connections to the one who’d organized this event in the first place. You and August mostly play it by ear, only having slightly worked on a background for your alter egos, but they don’t read much into any of it and simply nod along as you speak.

You try not to be too obvious about the way you glance in Lombardi’s direction, waiting for an opening to insert yourself into a conversation with him. August is doing most of the talking, but the man and woman take it as just you being shy. From what you’ve witnessed so far, Lombardi is an incredibly sociable man. Maybe the drinks are helping that along, but still. He slowly works his way over to the bar, leaning against it as he talks with someone else. You watch him wave the bartender over, and the man Lombardi’s speaking with pats him on the shoulder before making his leave. That’s it. That’s your opening.

“Um…” you start softly, turning back to the couple in front of you. “If you’ll excuse me, I just saw a friend of mine over there and I’d like to go say hi.”

“Yes, of course,” the woman says with a bright smile.

You pat August’s arm and smile up at him, and he looks down at you and nods once. Though he’s smiling too, there’s a sense of gravity to it as well, a reminder to be careful. And you will be. You always are.

“I’ll be right back.” You slip your arm out from his and make a beeline towards your mark.

You take up the empty spot next to him and order a drink for yourself just as the bartender sets down Lombardi’s. Your eyes never leave the bartender as you state what you want, but you can feel his eyes on you, and honestly, deep down, you kind of want to hurl. You hope this goes quickly and smoothly.

He tips his head back to take a swig of his drink, and you glance over as if you’ve just noticed him there. Your smile widely, teeth showing, as you exclaim “Hey, I think I know you!”

Lombardi raises a brow in question as he sets his glass back down on the coaster. “Do you?”

“Yeah! Nathaniel Lombardi, right? The nuclear physicist. I love your work.”

That seems to warm him up to you right away. If looking over all his past research earlier today was your studying, you’re inclined to think you’re acing the test. You recognize the topics he mentions and you refer back to his papers with ease. He’d ordered two more drinks over the course of this conversation and though you can tell his eyes are a little hazy, he’s still mostly coherent. He can really hold his alcohol.

As he tops off his current glass, you spare a glance out towards the rest of the room in search of August. You don’t spot him in those few seconds so you turn your attention back to Lombardi. When the bartender walks past asking if he’d like another, he holds a hand up and says no thank you. You need to get a move on.

“So… is there any research you haven’t published yet?” you begin, trying to make it sound like a passing thought.

Lombardi nods. “I do. Information I’m still perfecting, cleaning up for the peer review.” He waves his hand.

“Like what?”

“You know I can’t tell you, my dear. Strictly confidential until it’s published in a journal.”

You frown in mock disappointment. “I promise I won’t tell a soul. I just want to hear about what’s captured your attention to write about this time. All your papers make waves in the scientific community.” He doesn’t look so convinced, and you’re not, you’re not panicking, because you have a plan, but you need to get the wheels turning soon.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t,” he says.

You purse your lips and avert your gaze for a second, as if to think, before you look at him again. You lower your voice as you ask “Would you be more willing to share it if we were somewhere private?”

Lombardi appears caught off by the proposition, given its implications, and his demeanor changes. He watches you a little closer, at the look in your eyes trying to figure out if he’s misunderstanding. So you help him along, propping your elbow up on the bar and setting your head on your hand, charming smile on your red lips. You lift a leg to set one suede black heel on the foot railing, and the movement shifts your dress, the skin of your thigh visible due to the slit in the clothing. You don’t fail to catch the way his gaze drops down just for a second, before it quickly returns to your face.

“Now is that such a good idea?”

You tilt your head, silently inquiring what he means, and he motions to your wedding ring. “Oh, I’ve been caught.” You laugh lightly. You twist the piece of jewelry as you too glance down at it. “The truth is, I’m in a bit of a rough patch with my husband. We haven’t been talking as much as we used to. I mean, as soon as we got here he left to go speak with big wigs whose names I don’t even know and left me to wander around.”

You sigh heavily and look over at Lombardi again, and you can see he’s genuinely invested in your plight, nodding along with a small frown as you speak. “I’m tired of it. I’m bored here, Mister Lombardi. I wanted some fun and excitement for myself, and I spotted you here. I’ve really enjoyed speaking with you about your research, but I think the night would be even better if we went somewhere quieter. To swap secrets, maybe…” You trail off, head angled downward as you stare at the bar counter. But then you tentatively slide your eyes over to him, and you spot that haziness in his eyes that the alcohol is not entirely responsible for. He’s in the bag. Your new middle name should be Curiosity.

“Yes…” Lombardi answers almost absentmindedly, but then he clears his throat, and speaks up again, more clearly. “Yes, that does sound like a good idea. I would quite like a break from the noise.”

“Then follow me.” You back away from the counter with a sultry grin. He’s quick to follow.

There are rooms on the second floor—private lounges and studies. They’re not in use for the party, but the doors are never locked. As you walk up the large staircase, sticking close to the railing, you glance behind you to make sure Lombardi is there and also to look out over the sea of people to try to spot August. You don’t see him. But apparently he sees you, because then you hear through your ear piece I’m making my way to the bar. Be careful.

August isn’t expecting a response and he sighs quietly as he watches you ascend the stairs with Lombardi on your heels. That’s when it starts to kick in—the heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach, of jealousy, of worry. Of course he knows you can handle yourself, but he just can’t stand the thought of anyone touching you. He thinks he might start losing his mind not being able to see into the room, to know what exactly Lombardi might attempt to do. With another huff, he forces himself to reign it in and trust that you’ll be all right. You want this to be over quickly just as much as he does.

Once he gets to the bar, he orders a drink. He distracts himself by swirling the contents, listening to the ice cubes clink against the glass, and staring into the amber liquid. It won’t be long before he overhears Lombardi’s and your voices through the earpiece, signaling that you’ve found a room.

There’s a study at the end of the hall. You curl your fingers around the doorknob and twist, feeling it give and allowing you to push the door open. You reach out with your free hand to turn the lights on, then step farther into the room to allow Lombardi space. He closes the door behind him, and you hear a click as the lock is put in place.

“I’ll never understand how a man can do that to his wife,” Lombardi begins, approaching you where you stand in the middle of the study. “Especially not one so pretty as yourself.”

He reaches up to brush back the strands of hair too short to be put into your updo, and you smile, shyly looking at the ground. Your gaze lifts and you spot off to the side a bottle of bourbon, along with a couple of tumblers. “Would you like a drink, Mister Lombardi?”

“I would. Thank you…”

“Ziva,” you finish for him. While he takes a seat you pour the drinks, pulling the stopper off the bottle and pouring an equal amount into both tumblers. When you’ve done that, you grab them and turn to find him sitting in the large chair behind the desk, leaning back comfortably with his arms on each armrest. You smile as you round the desk to be on his side and give him his drink, which he takes gratefully. You take your place just to the right of him with your own drink, half-sitting on the edge of the desk and one hand bracing yourself.

You need to steer the conversation without him realizing you’re doing it. But you think it won’t be too hard. The drink he has currently might finally be the straw to break the camel’s back. His eyes aren’t too focused as you thank him again for the wonderful night you’ve had so far being able to talk with him. You ask him again if there’s any new research, any “inside scoop” he could give you. I’m good at keeping secrets you promise, looking up at him from over your glass.

“I suppose I could share them with you…” Lombardi states, and inside you’re cheering. Now’s the time to get down to business.

The walls of the bar are backlit, casting a glow over all the patrons at the bar. August stares ahead at the shelves full of alcohol as he listens to Lombardi’s voice filtering into his ear. He’s begun to share the schematics with you, outlining his design and the tech he’s developed that would make these weapons possible. The plans he has are incredibly detailed. It’s truly a wonder how he was able to keep it all in his head. August is sure this information has a high price tag. Lombardi had thought everything out.

“Hi there.”

A woman sidles up to August, inserting herself in the spot to his right. He grins thinly, still listening in on Lombardi. “Hello.” He faces forward again.

“Did you come here alone?”

August sighs and glances at her again. She’s smiling, clearly interested. “No, actually. I’m here with my wife.”

The woman nods and pretends to look around. “Where is she? I don’t see anyone else with you.”

August is about to respond, forcing a smile back onto his face as he takes a sip of his drink. But then he hears Lombardi changing the topic now that he’s finished explaining to you all the schematics: And how about your secrets, Miss Ziva? I’m good about keeping quiet about them too. This prompts August to change course.

“Excuse me,” he states curtly. He doesn’t wait for a reply as he starts making his way to the staircase, abandoning his drink on the bar counter.

Your mind is still reeling with all the information Lombardi just shared, and you’re doing your best to remember it as accurately as possible for later on, when you write it all down to send off to Sloane. As such, you don’t immediately process that he’s switching topics and turning it on you.

“And how about your secrets, Miss Ziva? I’m good about keeping quiet about them too.”

You watch as Lombardi empties his glass. It’s the second glass of bourbon you’ve poured for him. You’d brought the bottle over to the desk, and you think he’s about to pour himself a third, but instead he reaches out for you, a hand setting itself on your thigh. His smile is sly but it’s not coming across as smoothly as he probably thinks it is given his increasing levels of drunkenness. You try not to recoil in disgust as he touches your leg, fingers splayed as he starts sliding upward. Okay, it’s time to go.

You open your mouth, about to give an excuse that you’re feeling ill, but there’s a knock at the door, and both of you look towards it. thoroughly confused. Had you been caught? But you made sure no one had seen or tried to follow. There’s no way.

“Who could that be?” Lombardi mumbles, clearly disgruntled. His hand slips from your leg as he stands and takes a moment to steady himself. You stand up straight as well and walk around the desk, pausing just in front of it as he goes to unlock the door. He opens it and you spot August on the other side, towering over the shorter man. Lombardi isn’t able to ask who he is before August knocks him out.

Your eyes widen as Lombardi falls to a crumpled heap on the ground. “August!” you exclaim, not even bothering to call him by his fake name. Your eyes slide up to him and you don’t have to ask your question verbally. It’s written all over your face—what the hell is he doing?

“We got what we came for,” he says simply. “Let’s go.”

It’s not a good enough answer for you but you do as he says, stepping over Lombardi and taking August’s outstretched hand to help you keep your balance in the heels you have on. He turns the lights off and closes the door before digging out his phone from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. As he dials a number and brings the phone up to his ear, you glance back behind you at the study.

“He’s on the second floor, end of the hallway in the room to the left.” August gets right to the point, and it’s the one thing he says before he hangs up and tucks the phone away. That cleanup crew Sloane had lying in wait to collect Lombardi better get here fast, before he wakes up again and starts causing a fuss.

When you get back to the hustle and bustle of the party, you take a deep breath to collect yourself. August offers you his arm and you hook your own through it. He guides you back down the stairs, in the direction of the exit. You weave through the crowd fluidly, no one paying you any mind as you make your leave. There are taxis parked along the curb and you take the first one. You slide in and August gets in behind you before he shuts the door and tells the driver the name of your hotel. The man nods and pulls out into traffic.

It’s a silent car ride, and halfway through it, August glances over at you. You’re staring out the window, arms crossed. The lights of the city bounce off your face as the vehicle moves down the street, and he can see the flash of irritation in your eyes with every street lamp you pass.

———

IV.

The atmosphere remains tense even when you get back to the hotel. August doesn’t say anything on the elevator, wanting to give you time to cool down. And he still doesn’t say anything back in the room, affording you the silence to concentrate as you write down everything you’ve found out from Lombardi. You’ve kicked off your heels and are currently lounging at the able in the corner, typing away on your laptop. August toes off his own shoes before shrugging off his suit jacket and undoing his tie. He tosses them on the bed just as his phone vibrates, and he checks the message.

From: Sloane

The mark is in custody. No attention drawn. Nicely done.

“They’ve captured Lombardi,” August announces. He’d been aching to break the silence ever since you got into the taxi but had no idea what to say. At least now he has this. “No one had any suspicions.”

“That’s good.” Your answer is short and succinct. It’s distracted. And it might be said this is because you’re busy writing up the report, but August knows that’s not the reason. He’d seen you hit send on the e-mail five minutes ago, but now you’re scrolling through your inbox even though there aren’t any new messages, just as there hadn’t been the last three times you refreshed.

He sighs heavily. It hasn’t been an hour since you’d left the party and he’s tired of the silent treatment. There’s no use dancing around it any longer. “Is something wrong?” he inquires. He has a strong feeling he knows what this is about.

Once the issue is brought out into the open, hanging in the air between you both, you shut your laptop and face your husband. The look in your eyes could cut through steel. “You were out of line tonight.”

“I did what I had to do. And we got what we were there for in the end anyway.”

“That’s not the point!” You stand up but stay where you are as you cross your arms. “You did what you wanted to do. I didn’t need help getting out of that.”

“I wasn’t saying that you couldn’t do it—”

“No, but you let your emotions get in the way! What if someone had seen you?”

“No one did. We still made a clean getaway.”

You take a deep breath to calm down, not wanting to raise your voice. Shouting matches don't solve anything. Truthfully, it’s not that you’re angry at August. You’re not. You’re more scared than anything because of what his actions this evening suggest. And so you sit back down in the chair and tell him of your concerns.

“You—both of us—have spent years training not to let emotions dictate what we do, how we act, during these operations. I don’t want my presence on a mission with you to compromise all that.” Because he’s a great agent, arguably the best you’ve ever seen.

You fear that being out on the field with him might hold him back because of what you mean to him, and to what ends he’d be willing to go to keep you safe. And you’ll admit you have the same fear for yourself. If he were in trouble, you’d drop everything to go help him. Perhaps it’s more accurate to say that you’re frustrated with him and yourself. The mission has to come first. It’s your job. But on a personal level, you both hold the other in higher esteem than the mission itself. You always would. You’re simultaneously the strongest and the most precarious team Sloane will ever have in her employ. And maybe she knows that. In fact, you’re confident she does. But maybe she also knows that despite it, you work through it and get the job done, and you do it well. If the risks outweighed the benefits, you and August would never be assigned the same mission.

August watches you as he lets your words sink in. You’re right. What he did was out of line, and it was dangerous. Just because he got off scot-free this time doesn’t mean he would the next time this kind of situation arose. There’s only one person he fears to disappoint more than Sloane, and she’s sitting before him, rubbing her temples, exhausted and stressed but still looking so perfect and put-together in the soft light of the lamp nearby, cloaked in black and cheeks dusted with blush the shade of a summertime flush.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I got carried away.”

Your eyes slide open slowly and you smile. It’s fatigued but not any less loving. “It’s okay.”

“I just hated when you had to do those things. And when I heard the way he talked to you…”

“I hated having to do it too, but we do what we need to in order to finish the job.” You stand up and walk over to him. The dress trails along the floor now that you’re without heels, and with the way they conceal your feet, it’s like you’re gliding along the carpet. “But it’s over now. Like you said, we got what we were there for.”

August opens his arms as you approach and wraps them around you. His hands are warm against the skin of your back, left exposed by the dip in the dress. He bends down to kiss you before leaning his forehead against yours, remaining close enough that your lips brush together. You set your hands on either side of his face and smile up at him sweetly. He’s falling in love all over again.

“I’m ready for that vacation,” he states tiredly, and you laugh.

———

The skies are a deep blue and the water is crystal clear. It’s the storybook perfection you read about in travel brochures or hear from friends who have been there themselves. You have to go! they all say. There’s no experience like it. And you suppose there isn’t. You find yourself rather in awe currently.

“It’s beautiful,” you comment, staring out at the point where the ocean meets the sky. You almost want to reach out for it, to defy the impossible and reach the horizon with nothing more than a simple stretching out of your hand.

August hums from beside you. “It is.”

You smile, cycling through the pictures with a quiet click click click, until you reach the first one again, and you pull the View-Master away from your face. You blink as your eyes adjust to the daylight pouring in through the window, and your eyes settle on your husband, who’s already watching you. He grins.

“You enjoy your trip?” he inquires.

“I did,” you tell him with a nod.

The blankets are rumpled and messy and half falling off the bed but neither of you cares. August is shirtless and clad only in a pair of sweats, and you’re in a tank top and panties. Both of your work phones rest on the dresser and haven’t rung at all since you got home. It’s a welcome change to not have to worry about receiving a call. This is a break you’ve been needing. The original notion of a getaway had seemed pleasant at first, but upon the conclusion of the mission, you were too worn out to entertain the idea anymore. As such, you’ve settled for staying in. It’s still a great vacation because the part that matters most is that you’re together.

You set the stereoscope down and stretch, arms high above your head and back arching. When you relax again, you roll onto your side and snuggle closer to August, who automatically wraps an arm around your shoulders. He leans up to capture your lips in a kiss—one of many you’ve shared today. You haven’t left the bed much at all, but it’s nice to be lazy for once.

He slides his free hand down your side, along your waist and your hip until he gets to your thigh, and he pulls gently, draping your leg across him. His fingers ghost over the soft skin and you shiver, goosebumps rising at his feather-light touch. You break the kiss and he doesn’t open his eyes right away, basking in the moment, in the feel of you.

“I’ll be honest,” you begin. “I wasn’t expecting Sloane to actually agree to giving us a break.”

This prompts August to chuckle as he finally opens his eyes. “We deserved it.”

You hum. “We did.” You kiss him once more quickly before grabbing the View-Master again and pulling out the reel. You reach over him to grab the other reels on the nightstand, and he turns his head to watch as you do. When you’ve grabbed the reels, you sit up and flip through them.

August rests one hand on his stomach and the other is on your thigh again, slowly stroking up and down the heated expanse. His eyes never leave your face and he studies the way your lashes brush against your cheeks as you look down at the photo reels. Your hair is tangled and disheveled from moving around and he knows you’re going to ask him to brush it out later because he’s more patient than you are, and he’ll say yes because brushing your hair is one of his favorite things to do.

He wants to freeze this moment in time forever, immortalize it as a series of photos in a reel like the ones you hold in your hand. If tropical beaches are storybook perfection, you and him in this bedroom right now are the first swirling of the author’s imagination, before anything is put on paper, the brilliance in their mind come to life. Unparalleled, whose magic could never fully be encapsulated by words, playing over and over again behind closed eyelids with the hope that maybe one day the moods evoked from such a scene might accurately be transcribed. The so-called perfection on the pages of the book is a step below what the two of you have right here.

You narrow the options down to two reels and hold them up for August to see. “Should we go to the countryside or the mountains?”

August thinks about it for a second as he sits up, leaning back against the headboard. “Let’s go to the mountains.”

You smile brightly and nod. After you’ve inserted the reel into the View-Master, you cuddle close, and his arms slip around your waist to keep you against him. He kisses your head and picks up the scent of lavender shampoo, and he can’t help smiling too. It feels good to be home.

#august walker x reader #august walker imagine #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill imagine #mission impossible imagine #mission impossible #bubble-tea-bunny #queue

2K notes · View notes

thedeadishscribe · 5 years

Text

Sidestep/Ortega

My Fallen Hero fic is, more or less, finally done! It features my Sidestep, Rysen Adri, and his thoughts on post game Fallen Hero: Rebirth. I seem to be doing a lot of post games.

I’m probably gonna post this to ao3 later because formatting is a bitch.

Please, enjoy!

Love, the dead dude

Julia had asked a fair question—what did that kiss mean?

I’m not sure myself, all I knew is that hearing the name Rysen was sweeter than I cared to admit. Was that even my name anymore? Again, not sure. What the hell, exactly, was going on in my life? Ortega, John, Mortum, The Rangers. Ouroboros. The new name I had chosen. The thought came to me at the party, the classic description of a serpent devouring its own tail, often used to signify the cycles of the universe and the process of rebirth—and it felt right at the time—but it felt positively wonderful in the afterglow of the gala. Fitting as can be really. Reborn, baptized in flame, smoke, and blood. Definitely several bruises and broken bones. Hopefully no corpses.

An odd sentiment for a demon of Los Diablos.

First I had considered ‘Mindflayer’, but it wasn’t exactly me, as menacing a choice as it would have been. ‘Demon’ would have been too cheesy, too on the nose. Can’t really remember what made me think of it, but it simply fit. Even now I savor it on my tongue. Ouroboros. That one news station somehow fucked it up into ‘aurabeesknees’, but they’re in the minority so I guess I can let them off the hook. May have to pay a visit at a later date, however.

Her and I text, call, all the things kids do nowadays. I hate that I can’t get enough. Of her laugh, her smile, the damn way she seductively wiggles her eyebrows to make me blush. Fuck, I hate admitting I blush too. I’m supposed to be a damn villain, not an anime protagonist. Speaking of which, I haven’t checked up on that lately. Like at all. Been too busy with villainy things. Anime can be villainous, right? We all know the ones. Not gonna name names though, that wouldn’t be fair.

Just skirting around my problems now though, as per usual. I keep meaning to bring up how I’ve changed (minus the specific details, of course), to say something, and yet every time I choke and bring out my classic comedic deflection bullshit instead. I’m almost entirely positive Ortega can see through that, she’s just gotten… more subtle and less brash. Well, ‘less brash’ isn’t a good way to put it. ‘More selective in her bullrushing’ is more apt. Selective dumbassery is still dumbassery. I should know, I started my own little dumbass enterprise, may as well make a sign to post around the city. I can see it now, ‘Dumbass Incorporated seeking henchs now, will provide free lunch, health, and dental’. That’ll really draw them in. You don’t see many villains offering dental anymore. Could be a real selling point for when I want to expand.

Truth be told, I’m a fan of the whole angels and demons trope we’re playing out. Sure, being a hero is nice and all, but being bad simply feels so good. Clichés? As many as you want. Monologues? Not recommended, but certainly entertaining. The utter sense of power? Fantastic. Maniacal cackling? My favorite part. No really, there’s nothing like a good laugh over the beaten forms of your enemies.

Beaten.

That’s right, I had beaten Julia… no, Charge, to a pulp. Herald first though, and then Lady Argent not quite as much. There’s a sense of guilt around the first two mentioned. Argent not so much. It felt good in the moment to finally feel an equal to that massive shadow that loomed over me, coddled me, treated me as glass. It felt so good to beat down that perfect picture of a hero with his own vanity in front of his adoring fans, the new guy that got everything I didn’t. Yet, I mangled the woman that I, well, I dare not use the word. Then after learning that Herald wasn’t just a fan of Sidestep, but that Sidestep was his idol? His hero (pardon the pun)? I didn’t think it would hit me this hard but Jesus-fucking-Christ. Just another person I let down. No. No, not me. Sidestep. Sidestep let him down. Ouroboros simply fought him. That’s all. No more, no less.

Of course, that feels like a lie, though at the same time, it doesn’t? It was difficult enough trying to distinguish Rysen from John sometimes—if Rysen even truly existed anymore—but now I have to differentiate three personas. Four if you included Sidestep, but they are firmly dead and gone. The exhibit, or rather lack thereof, is proof enough of that. I wonder how Ortega feels about it. Angry that someone defiled the memory of the former hero? Motivated for pay back? Does she not care? That would almost feel the worst, and I don’t know why, and I hate it.

God, I can hear her words now, ‘Don’t say you hate things so much, it’ll make you ugly on the inside’. Well guess-fucking-what, Julia. I’m ugly on the inside now. Or have I always been? Everything’s kind of a blur since Heartbreak, which is a long time. Seven years now, more like seven and a half. Yet it all felt like nothing. A bittersweet blob of memory, oddly enough. Incredibly bittersweet.

Should I ask her out on a date? She had promised one. Would that be going too far, however? Too close? Too prone to liability? I’m already in the position, what’s the threat of a little more tragedy in the already turbulent storm? Villains thrive on tragedy, right? Why am I asking so many questions? Too many already.

Fuck it, I’m gonna ask her. Not over the phone, that seems a tad disingenuous. When she asked me to the gala she asked me to meet in person, I should do the same. I’m sure as hell not going to the Rangers HQ. Don’t want to give myself away, let alone the fact that I’d feel like I was asking Steel if Ortega was home and if I could talk to her as if he were her dad. ‘Excuse me, Mr.Chen, is Julia home?’. As team leader was he the dad of the troop? Herald’s the baby and Argent the angsty teen, so definitely. Dear gods, Steel’s a father. Devils help us all. He certainly has the glare down.

I still miss him oddly enough. Not enough to give up my life of crime and don Sidestep’s mask once more. Hell no. I’m not even sure if it’s still in one piece. I’m not sure I want to know.

Would I do it for Ortega though? As much as I’d love to help, I can’t, I just can’t. Y’know, aside from being a villain now and all, I just… couldn’t. The thought of feeling that thin nanomesh over my form alone made me want to chuck my skin like a meatbag alias. I guess in my position it really is a meatbag alias that I can toss aside whenever I so wish. Rysen and John. I often wonder what would happen if I just decided to live in John full time. What would happen if Rysen were to die while I were inhabiting John’s body. Would I—my consciousness that is—die? Would I just be stuck in a head blind body for the rest of said body’s life? Become him in every sense of the word. I don’t see why not, not that I’m seriously considering it or anything. Though the thought of resigning to a life of underworld business alongside Doctor Mortum isn’t half bad. Not one bit.

Sometimes dating Mortum as John and trying to respark the old flame with Ortega as Rysen at the same time feels wrong, feels weird, but then I remember that Ortega was flirting with both John and Rysen at the same time, so I guess that totally excuses bad behavior. Definitely. I mean, she’s the master of flings, or at least was. It’s an interesting debate if nothing else. When I’m playing John, I’m still me and yet not. I’m john. John’s even developed his own mannerisms and behaviors, things Rysen would never do or wouldn’t even think of. I suppose this is like how superheroes have their hero and civilian identities. Both are just as real, right? And functionally they’re different people. This is way too much like way too many science-fiction pieces on the self and personal identity. I take ghost in the shell to an entirely other, meaty level

But boy oh boy, Los Dioblos, hold onto your pants; you’ve heard of the double identity, I now present the triple identity! Groundbreaking, truly. Worn down, tired and retired telepath. Villain representative who just wants to keep his boss happy, hoping to get his cake and eat it too. Then finally the villain himself, Ouroboros, mastermind behind the impossibly elaborate plans. Ok, no one knows Ouroboros is a he, but that’s a good thing. The longer they’re all guessing, the better. I thought balancing Rysen and John was difficult, but Rysen, John, and Ouroboros? Son of a bitch, I didn’t know one person could get this tired. Thank the universe for coffee. Lots of cream lots of sugar preferred, but I’m not too terribly picky in a pinch, I already buy the cheap shit as is. Cheap ol’ Rysen. Yep. That’s me.

I keep talking about all these different identities, and yet I keep coming back to Rysen. Rysen. Rysen. Fuckin’ Rysen. I’m beginning to grow tired of the name. After… everything, I fully expected to shove off that particular shell of a man when I made my debut. I was apparently wrong. He keeps coming after me like a damn ghost. Ortega coming back into the mix certainly didn’t help, any chance of falling off the map died with her recognizing me in the diner. Oh well, I suppose, no plan survives first contact. I should really be surprised it didn’t all snag sooner. A lot sooner. Oh, but what a snag. That jawline, those lips, and gods above, those biceps.

She gives excellent hugs. Yep. That’s definitely what I like about them. The only thing.

It was only recently that I realized a good memory I often draw upon—one of my few good memories—was that of Ortega kissing me after a particularly hard fight. She almost always initiated, and one time she even used her sparkles to shock my own lips ever so gently. I miss that sensation, funny enough, even if it was only the once. And, despite the fact that she always looked at me like I was fragile, she gave me this look like I was wanted. Like I belonged. Another thing I hate to admit, but I belong in her arms.

Fuck, what am I thinking? I shouldn’t allow myself to think like that, and yet such was the tendency of any good snag.

One other thing I hate to admit to myself—I love her. Son of a bitch, I always loved her, and I regret never telling her.

I don’t think I could work up the courage to tell her though. Not then, not now, not ever. Aside from not being able to afford it, I don’t have the guts. Attacking a gala with some of Los Diablos’ richest and finest? No problem, just give me some time to plan. Facing a woman significantly larger than me on a date, looking at me with a sweetness in her eye? Nah nah nah nah nah. No way. Can’t do it. I’m weak, absolutely weak. Positively weak.

I hate myself.

Julia doesn’t want me talking like that, she already made me promise to see a shrink, but she’s not here, inside my head walking down the street to get a cup of sweet, sweet addiction. She can’t dictate my self-talk. Except myself no one can. I doubt it will change any time soon, therapy or no. I hope the couch is comfy enough though. They always look comfy in the movies and on tv. Teary eyed tortured souls letting out their deepest secrets to some stranger taking notes on their entire life. Ew. Probably won’t tell them about the whole villain thing. I wouldn’t go at all and lie about it if I knew Julia would keep tabs on me and make sure I went. She’d probably drag me there herself. She always did care like that.

Oh well, she won’t leave me alone; but that’s a good thing, right? Because damn, what a kiss.

#fallen hero: rebirth #fallen hero #fallen hero oc #fallen hero mc #fallen hero sidestep #sidestep #rysen #rysen adri #ortega #julia ortega #fan fic #fallen hero fan fic

2 notes · View notes

deadpoet117 · 5 years

Text

Ohoho

It’s finally “done”! My Fallen Hero Sidestep fic! This take place between Rebirth and Retribution I haven’t played the alpha/beta pls don’t spoil or be angry. I might post it on my ao3 in the relative future because formatting is a bitch and I don’t feel like it.

Enjoy!

Julia had asked a fair question—what did that kiss mean?

An odd sentiment for a demon of Los Diablos.

Beaten.

I still miss him oddly enough. Not enough to give up my life of crime and don Sidestep’s mask once more. Hell no. I’m not even sure if it’s still in one piece. I’m not sure I want to know.

She gives excellent hugs. Yep. That’s definitely what I like about them. The only thing.

Fuck, what am I thinking? I shouldn’t allow myself to think like that, and yet such was the tendency of any good snag.

One other thing I hate to admit to myself—I love her. Son of a bitch, I always loved her, and I regret never telling her.

I hate myself.

Oh well, she won’t leave me alone; but that’s a good thing, right? Because damn, what a kiss.

#fallen hero: rebirth #fallen hero #fallen hero series #fallen hero mc #fallen hero sidestep #fallen hero fic #rysen #rysen adri #julia ortega #ortega #fuck do we love ortega #the villain ouroboros #aurabeesknees

2 notes · View notes