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theseerasures · 3 years

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Re: that anon who asked about the shuffle step of the themes of sacrifice

I also found the ideological shift in the volume very interesting, and I think she most interesting bits are with Team RRAYNBOW. Like I think the dynamic between Yang and Ruby and their respective missions this volume is very interesting (if maybe a bit underdeveloped, atm at least). You said a little about it with Team JOYR in Chapter 7. Do you have anymore thoughts about the "shuffle step" in regards to that?

i’m gonna admit upfront that i find this question kind of perplexing, because i don’t know what “ideological shift” it could be alluding to when imo our heroes didn’t so much pivot (or shift, or shuffle step) ideologically so much as make a series of context-specific decisions according to what they felt in the moment they could live with, or would die for (don’t make me tap the sign, etc).

what i DO think might be helpful, though, is to lay out what was at stake in each of the weighty choices/discussions our heroes took part in, from the very beginning of the Long Night to the end of volume 8, to see what (if any) throughlines persist or change. so:

Cordially Invited (7.8) to Out in the Open (7.10): our heroes are all in accord. transparency (telling the truth to Robyn) and collaboration (working with/helping Mantle) are paramount, and Ruby specifically takes steps to remedy her own wavering in that earlier in the season, by letting Oscar tell the whole truth to Ironwood. what’s key about this run, though, is that our heroes aren’t calling the shots yet. they advocate for certain actions when advising Ironwood, but they still trust him to take charge of deciding Atlas/Mantle’s fate.

Gravity (7.11): the Big Shift in terms of status quo. our heroes (JNR more implicitly) remain in accord--abandoning Mantle is the line in the sand they refuse to cross. but what does RWBY advocate for, if not Ironwood’s plan? they all agree that the best thing to do is to stand their ground, but for what? Blake and Weiss are comparatively silent on that front, but Ruby and Yang are more explicit. Ruby makes her plea about Amity--that if they hold out long enough, they can do what they always planned, and unite the world, and get help. Yang’s argument is that Huntsmen and Huntresses don’t back down from a fight. (she’s also the first person to suss out that Amity isn’t ready for launch.) this difference is going to come up later.

The Enemy of Trust (7.13): Oscar makes his last individual plea to Ironwood. his reasoning, much like Blake’s (and presumably Weiss’), is simply that abandoning Mantle is a sacrifice of such magnitude that it becomes unconscionable. it’s wrong because it’s wrong, and Ironwood’s rebuttal that it’s pointless to argue about philosophy when Salem’s right on their doorstep, is dickish, but not incomprehensible. Oscar is still looking to retain the advisory capacity that Team Unwieldy Acronym has had for the entire season, and guide Ironwood to making the right call, but that bridge has already been burned. they have to decide the fate of Atlas/Mantle now if they want to save both.

Divide (8.1): The team is no longer in accord. Ruby and Yang recognize that though they agree about Ironwood, their reasons for not abandoning Mantle are different. Ruby’s looking at the big picture, both in terms of what they have to do for the world, and what the world can do for them. Amity looks to be the only obstacle to getting both and saving everyone. Yang thinks it’s pointless. Yang didn’t want to abandon Mantle because that’s just not what you do, but she has no expectation of fighting toward any good outcome. she’s gonna do what seems more readily achievable, which is saving whatever lives can be saved. Ren and Nora split along similar lines more acrimoniously, because Ren at this point is desperate for tangible success and Nora is...just as desperate for total consuming optimism. Blake throws her lot in with Ruby, Weiss abstains, remaining the most quiet on the fate of Atlas/Mantle despite being Atlesian. Jaune and Oscar, though they go with Yang, mostly go for pragmatic reasons.

Refuge (8.2) to Midnight (8.6), Yang’s Team: the plan to help with Mantle is almost immediately derailed when the Hound kidnaps Oscar. i’ve talked about JYR’s plea to Winter in War, but that of course is not the first time that team chooses the few over the many; they do that IMMEDIATELY after Oscar is kidnapped, when Fiona calls for their help and they--without even verbally consulting with each other--go for Oscar instead. in that moment the more proximal thing they can and need to achieve becomes rescuing their friend, whose captor was still in view. but crucially: as soon as they lose Oscar in Fault, and especially after they discover the Grimm River in Amity, JYR had been on their way back to Mantle, and presumably, back to the less impossible thing to do, the thing they promised the Happy Huntresses they’d help with. running into the AceOps and Salem’s invasion throws a monkey wrench into that plan. suddenly rescuing Oscar becomes possible (though not probable)...

War (8.7), Yang’s Team: but not if Ironwood blows up the Whale, whereupon the equation changes again because now doing nothing for Oscar means leaving Oscar to certain death. tbh the confrontation on the airship is about like fifteen different things at once, because the variables keep changing and everyone is having their own argument over whether to rescue Oscar, and why. Yang’s response once she hears about the bomb is mostly you can’t; it is once again just not what Huntresses do, with some personal stakes thrown in. for the AceOps it is about the weighing of lives, and how they can’t put the mission to save Atlas on hold for one life. Jaune is the one who thinks of an idea where they might be able to do one without delaying the other (the second time this season Jaune has suggested the “go for both” option), where they would be the only ones risking their lives, and no harm comes to the greater good. only then does Ren jump in and shift the argument to caring and friendship; that is to say, after the stakes have been lowered so it’s not Oscar vs. Atlas anymore. i don’t think it takes away from his big moment, though: we know from Fault that Ren has taken Yang’s challenge of “let’s do what we can do” and run with it, and come up with “and what we can do is nothing because we’re not ready and we get everything wrong,” so him vowing to do whatever we can here is important. the point is clear: Team Hero draws their strength from their friends, and they’re willing to die for each other...but the question of if they’d let the world burn for their friend is put off for now.

Strings (8.3) to War (8.7), Ruby’s Team: in contrast to Yang’s plan faceplanting at the first hurdle, Ruby’s plan...works. they accomplish their primary objective! but they had to pay a steep price, and the only immediate consequence of that victory was entirely negative. Nora threw so much of herself into Ruby’s optimistic gamble that she now has lasting scars, and if they had never gone to Atlas Command Penny would not have been hacked (so easily; she might have been regardless). Ruby successfully put the ball in the world’s court, but that the problem: the ball is in the world’s court, and the longer it stays there the less sure she is that help will come. and it IS just about the help they’ll receive by War; Salem batting away Atlas’ hard light shields has shifted the goalposts from “hope the other Kingdoms can prepare :/” to “BLAKE’S PARENTS CAN YOU PICK US UP???” the question of Atlas or Mantle rears its ugly head for the first time since Gravity, and this is the first time Weiss is the first one to advocate, and she says we can’t leave--which, not coincidentally, is also what RWBY said to Ironwood in Gravity. May’s argument, of course, is driven by far more compassion: the need in Mantle is greater, and having finished facilitating Ruby’s (and Robyn’s) plan she’s going to do what Yang decided to do, what Joanna wanted them to do, which is fight for every last life. there’s no longer any big wheels to turn, nor any big powers to convince; all they have to do is decide what they themselves will do, and who to fight for. and Weiss finally shows her hand here. she believes in not leaving Mantle behind, but when it comes to the faces she’d fight and die for, Weiss’ are still in Atlas. Blake and Ruby are the ones to abstain this time, and notably when Ruby tries to argue that they’re all in this together it’s much less effective, because...there’s nothing left for them to do together. Ruby is out of concrete solutions.

Witch (8.9): what goes easily missed here that in retrospect is very important is...Oscar kills Hazel. (which means that an Ozcarnation killed BOTH of the Rainart twins.) we all thought he doubled back to make a sacrifice play, and he did, but not for himself. he received Hazel’s verbal consent, and Hazel would have died regardless, but the point still stands. he had to kill Hazel to neutralize Salem, to buy them the time they desperately needed. an unsettling portent for what comes later, innit? it highlights what his own kidnapping, Nora’s injuries, and Penny’s hacking already illustrates, which is that they are now risking every inch of their body and souls in this fray, and it also illuminates the other part of that, which is that by continuing to throw themselves back into this conflict, they now control the fates of other people as well. Hazel trusted Oscar to make the right call, but Oscar had to make the call.

Risk (8.11): where we ultimately land with the splitting of teams is that: Yang’s team went out to achieve the easily graspable, and they ended up forging alliances they never anticipated and dealing a devastating blow to Salem. Ruby’s team went out to achieve what should have been much more difficult, and they did, but with little palpable impact beyond the negative. what comes out and blends exquisitely with their conversation about Summer is that yes, Ruby sent out the call to warn the world, because she believed in humanity and unity, but Ruby sent out the call because she wanted help. she wanted people--say, parental figures--to save her and tell her things would be okay, and she wanted back the innocence to believe them. Ruby didn’t ask to be the face of the war against Salem, and she most certainly does not want to be in charge of it; she has lived with the material consequences of her family being the centerpiece of that war for her entire life. the Hound reveal is the final twist in the knife of Ruby’s childhood, because now the figure on the highest pedestal in Ruby’s mind has been perverted to a malevolent specter, and if that’s the case there are no more adults. THEY have to be the adults now, and look what a terrible job she’s done with that. Yang’s response is that Ruby is not alone--either in her traumatic fall into adulthood, or in her choices not panning out as expected. all they can do is the best they can in the moment, and Yang’s probably going to keep defaulting to what feels more tangible to her, but that doesn’t mean she wants Ruby to stop going for pie-in-the-sky options, either. Summer is still Yang’s hero, which means Ruby is too. what matters most is that they remain responsive to the moment, and don’t get bowled over by despair when something inevitably go off the rails.

so given all these developments, what are we to make of the plan from Creation (8.12) to The Final Word (8.14)? we start with the archetypal Third Option, as championed by Ruby and Jaune: use the Staff to save Penny and Mantle, and Atlas along the way. but the priorities of the plan--civilians first, presumably even before the Relics or the Maiden powers (though the question of one of them or a Relic is really only answered by Winter, who does not speak for Team Hero)--have Yang all over them. we have to do this for Yang isn’t just because Yang’s gone, it’s because they know it’s what Yang would have wanted, and they will respect that. they made a Ruby n Jaune style Big Plan, but when that plan fell to pieces there was no time to think of a fourth, or fifth, or sixth option that would get everyone out, so they had to improvise and double down on what they all agreed was most important. the choice between their friends or the people could no longer be deferred, or augmented, so they chose. civilians, then the Relics and the Maiden powers, then each other. and when any of them wavered--Blake, Ruby, Jaune--someone else checked them, reminded them to trust and respect what they all committed to. they’re still drawing strength from each other, still dying for each other, but they acknowledge that they are not directing just their fates with their decisions anymore. they took a huge desperate gamble to save Atlas/Mantle, and it worked, but what they gambled with was their own lives. and they made themselves make peace with that--that they’d have to do what they can, everything they can, without hoping for salvation for themselves, even from friends or family.

in the end, what comes across just from doing a close reading of these moments is that RWBY’s views on sacrifice, logic vs. sentiment, the greater vs. the few, etc can’t really be plotted on a solid line. that’s why i can’t really think of what happened this volume as a palpable shift--because so many of these choices were context and character dependent. what i DO think happened with our heroes’ ethical beliefs (or “ideology” ig) is that they were tested across a sequence of stressful and traumatic situations, and as a result they had to compromise on a few things they hoped to never have to compromise in order to shore up defenses on what they were certain they could not live without, or would die for (or both! in the case of six of them). if they have to die like every other Huntsman in history so be it, but they refuse to be so cavalier with the lives of others. none of that is meant to be definitive, however: in-universe RWBY is far from over, and Team Hero is going to get to re-litigate and reexamine these questions from lots more angles, out-of-universe...RWBY is far from over, and the point of the show is not to provide an ethical rubric against which the audience can judge themselves and the characters. there are things--like y’know. genocide--that this show will always consider to be beyond the pale, but in terms of grayer complex questions it is content to simply feel out what is and is not allowable in each particular instance, without trying to resolve all options into One Correct Option.

because sometimes you do just have to sit with the discomfort of there not being one right choice or one golden rule, and sometimes you are awash in the consequences of not only your own actions but the actions of others. and then you have to keep going.

#Anonymous #rwby #helen writes meta #people often complain about how takes on rwby fights often rely on video game logic that doesn't exist #but i'm starting to wonder if takes on rwby OUTCOMES aren't driven by similar logics #where...idk paragon outcomes are supposed to always lead to good things #and our protagonists are always making their choices without the horrible telltale countdown bar over their heads #but it's...not like that. there is no secret golden ending to unlock and if this volume has driven anything home it's THAT #when i say 'rwby is a show about being kind' i don't mean 'rwby is actively providing instructions on how to be kind'#i mean 'rwby looks on all of its characters--even the worst villains--with a sublime and terrible compassion'

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camslightstories · 3 years

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Tolerate It - Part 12

Lena Luthor x reader, Kara Danvers x reader, Alex Danvers x reader. Baby Danvers. Female Reader.

Notes: Hey guys! How are you all doing? Well its been a long time since I updated tolerate it and its because I haven't had much inspiration, I been in a literal block, a part from that everything i been writing lately I hate it but I didn't want to let you guys hanging. So thanks to @captain-josslett for checking and helping me in this part.

I love to hear your theories, opinions, suggestions and more so if you have any comments leave on my inbox or message me. I wanna hear what you guys think is going to happen or what you want to happen. But right now I'm not receiving any requests since my inbox is full of them and I don't wanna leave you guys hanging. I hope you guys enjoy, and have a great day!

Taglist: @multi-images @captain-josslett @aznblossom @venteen @coxmicbabygirl @lezzzbehonesthere

Russian Translations:

Принцесса - Princess

The throbbing pain surges through your body as the cotton full of alcohol touches your wound softly, sending chills through your body. You laid on the white hospital bed in silence as your ex-girlfriend check the ripped wound on your torso.

With the myriad of thoughts and feelings running through your head only to fail, making you groan. Lena glances at you carefully and curiously as you kept quiet, her focus not leaving the ripped wound she was trying to mend. Noticing the different types of scars on your body some of them longer and worse looking.

“Can you tell me how does it feel?” She asks, gulping down when you made no move to speak. With her voice full of worry, she nods and takes her gloves off, only to stop when you spoke loud enough for her to hear.

“It’s fine” You state, keeping your eyes on the ceiling. In a monotone voice, as your heart almost bounced off your chest when she asked.

Clenching your fists, you move to sit only to groan in full pain as the wound touches the shirt cotton. The green-eyed woman immediately runs to your side, with fear. You took a deep breath before helping yourself up ignoring her questioning expression.

The Luthor woman out of desperation yells as tears fill her eyes. Throwing her hands into the air. “Can you at least look me in the eye?! Talk to me!”

“What do you want me to say, Ms. Luthor?” You answered rubbing your temples at the sound of her voice, a neutral tone and expression on your face as you looked at her. Her green eyes full of retained tears and her lip trembles as she looks at you.

She cried, cleaning furiously her tears as you looked at her. The last word came out quieter than the rest, showing a hurting part of herself. “I don't know! Just… please.”

“Ms. Luthor, I don't know what to say to you, nor I know what you wanna hear and I'm sure you don't either.” You answer in a soft yet determined tone as you tried to walk away only for Lena to get in the way crossing her arms as she tried to keep control of her emotions.

“You are just going to walk away?” She remarked loudly, exasperated for an answer. You stopped as you heard the words coming out of her mouth, the obvious distress in them.

“It seems to be the only thing you can do,” She added looking at you in the eye. You shifted uncomfortably before moving past her as fast as you could, ignoring her scoff.

She scoffed as you walked away from her, clenching your fits trying to find control as you felt the urge to yell at the black-haired woman. Now the free-flowing feelings in you have become stronger and harder to restrain.

You press your lips together and clench your jaw when the black-haired woman shouts loudly and desperately at you. “What about the ring?! What did I feel? What about everything?! Because you are here pretending nothing happen”

The smell of the alcohol invaded your nose, as the itching pain on your lower stomach kept throbbing, feelings run around your heart and head openly without any control. The white lights annoy your eyes as you try to focus on something else only to fail. The sneaky feeling tugging at your heart when you heard the break in her voice.

The feeling of conflict as the two sides of yourselves began to fight on how to act, how to feel, how to be normal. One part of you asked you, begged specifically to go and wrap the green-eyed woman in a comforting embrace, protecting her from getting hurt. And the other remained you from all the pain, the anger, the sadness you had resorted to when you left and reminded you how easy life was when there was everything clear with a common goal.

Lena shouted again this time, in an angrier and determinate tone. Stepping closer to you, in her CEO stance but the only difference was the fact that it looked forceful like she was trying so hard to hold it together, you heard her in her voice, in the way her feet hesitated to step closer. And as much as you hated it, it broke you inside. “Y/N! Just tell me something!”

You didn't know, how, when nor why, you turned around facing her with your heart clenching at the sight of her tears springing free. Her eyes looked tired and sorrowful, her cheeks were covered in tears and the ruined makeup, her hands were in a fist that you could tell where a base for self-control. You hated the pain she was revving, you hated the sadness in her eyes, and the tears that sprung freely but never even if you tried you could hate her.

“Just fuck off, dammit!” Your mind seemed to be in automatic mode when the words came out of your mouth. The green-eyed took a step back in shock when you snapped, the now wide-eyed woman made you regret every decision in your life as her eyes restrained hardly the tears she desired to disappear.

Against every fiber in your body, you shocked your head before starting again, glancing at your ex-girlfriend. Cutting the tension you took a deep breath before speaking, gaming Lena’s attention. “Look-”

You weren't even in the middle of what you were going to say when two well-known, familiar voices interrupted you. You tensed as you heard the voice of your sisters, the urge to just walk out and the urge to shout everything out were confronting each other as your mind running with all the different scenarios. “Y/N!”

You kept quiet as your sisters got closer, without hesitation you started to walk away to the run you had been staying only for a familiar blur to stand in front of the door with her arms crossed and a knowing smile on her face. Hope, happiness, and regret radiated out of her, while Alex stood behind you with a determined look on her face as you turned around to walk the other way.

A part of you wanted to yell at them until there wasn't anything left and the other wanted to walk away leaving everything behind to keep leaving the simple life you had been living for the past 3 years. Lena kept quiet as her mind kept doing rounds of possible explanations, while both of your sisters decided to stand in front of you with nothing but questions. But you remained silent as they did.

Questions such as “Why do you have so many scars?” “What is the tattoo on your chest?” “What do you mean of the Bratva?” “Why were you with Roulette the other night?” were thrown at you by your older sisters as you tried to ignore each one, only for them to keep pressing.

Lena had stayed in the same place, as they interrogated you. The black-haired woman somehow noticed the way your patience was getting closer to the end when you clenched your fit with so much force that the veins on your arms started to show slowly.

“Don't you think we deserve an explanation?” Kara asked, taking a step closer, which made you clench your jaw, the feelings running around your body screamed at you as the pain and anger started to build by second.

The feeling of anger and betrayal under all of those layers you tried to put up, under what you thought it would make you okay, it would make the pain go away, the memories, the feelings, everything...

Your oldest sister yelled, getting frustrated by the minute. “Feel free to fill up the blanks, but it seems that you are not going to do that are you?” The redhead asks sarcastically, covering somehow the relief of how you were but adding the worry of what had happened in the last few years.

When you didn't respond, ignoring the redhead. Your sister hits the table with her fists showing her frustration. Kara looked back where Alex stood with both of her hands on the table as she looked at you angrily. You stared at her, challenging the redhead, making Lena furrow her eyes when she noticed Alex walking back where Kara stood in front of you letting out a scoff.

“Don't you think we as your family don't deserve to know?” Kara asked with sorrow in her eyes and voice. Tears swelling up in her eyes as she searched in your eyes for any sign of her baby sister finding none but a challenging glare to the redhead and her now.

You felt everything come out, and you were seeing red. As you were about to snap, a strong familiar voice shouted in determination stopping you.

“THAT’S ENOUGH!” Your clenched jaw and fists kept the pressure making your vivid expression and reaction be acknowledged by all of them.

Oliver had been standing with Anatoly catching sight of the interaction between you and your sisters. The blonde man remembers vividly how going back the emptiness, the feeling of just wanting the pain to get away, the angriness at the world, every single detail. Seeing the mark on your chest, oblivious to outsiders but obvious to him, a torturous feeling in your chest as you tried to keep yourself in the corner, in the darkness, where you knew not to expect anything.

He saw the expression in your face, the way your eyebrows knitted together, the way your hands were converted into fists drawing blood at the pressure, the way you clenched your jaw, trying to keep control, the way your eyes were painted deep down with suffering but were void and incomprehensible on the outside, the way you tried to distance yourself into the darkness feeling the only calmness there, the way every time your fists hit something were not in act of defense or attack but in letting your hidden feelings out.

The way you tried to keep control, of yourself, of your feelings, of the world around you, of the memories, of everything but you, felt powerless in the darkness. Feeling the need to yell and run away from everything, to isolate yourself from the world, believing and trusting in yourself and only trying to keep everything inside.

“Принцесса, I see you finally decided to escort somebody” Your focus immediately went to the Russian man when he spoke, walking closer to you with a black garment suit bag in his right hand. Holding it up, as you make your way to grab it. His teasing voice made you roll your eyes while snatching the bag out of his hands.

Smiling at Lena and your sisters, the man walked closer to them as he spoke. Making you sighed in annoyance, while Oliver suppressed a smile. Lena looked at the man in the suit and took his hand with a firm handshake, Kara and Alex following to do the same as he presented himself. “Anatoly Knyazev, at your service. Принцесса friend”

“Work partner, if you don't have vodka or I don't have the green light with your new friend and I'm not courting anyone” You corrected giving him an annoying look, he shook his head when you hissed irritated.

The Russian man grinned at you before shaking his head as he spoke. “Roulette is not our business associate anymore, too ambitious and mercenary for her own good”

“Nice, then friend. I'm gonna go change, and I can solve a certain complication” You grinned sheepishly, which made Oliver sighed while your sisters and your ex-girlfriend looked at you curiously.

The Queen man waited for you to be out of hearing sight to speak “This isn't helping”

Anatoly kept quiet as he sat on the sofa, while Oliver spoke. Lena and your sisters stood in front of him, each one of them with expressions of annoyance and worry.

The blonde man took a step back, crossing his arms as he tried to reason with them before either of the three could respond. "I get it you guys want answers, but right now she needs to let herself be vulnerable again, she needs to feel safe, to feel she isn't in the darkness anymore and neither you nor I know what she went through and it's not going to help if you guys keep pressuring her”

The explanation had left the three feeling uneasy

“You do not get to tell me how to treat my sisters, Queen.” Alex spits at the vigilante. Lena and Kara try to calm the redhead down but your voice stops them.

“Let’s go” You enter the room and sensing the tension between the two, but you ignore it and walk to where the Russian man sits. Catching the attention of the group of four turning around to see you grabbing the gun from the shelf putting it behind the jacket you carried.

Alex didn't think twice before running up to you grabbing you by the upper arm, holding you back when you tried to get out of her grasp. Oliver sighed as you spoke, your eyes connected yours and hers in a glance, the staredown between the two created a visible tension. “Alexandra, let me go”

Tilting your head when Kara stepped in to put her hand on your oldest sister's shoulder, looking between the two before walking away with the Russian man by your side.

----

Entering the car shop you notice the obvious and threatening silence. Letting out a sarcastic sigh when you heard the sudden movement behind the next wall, the sound of the gun clicking, and the pushing from the same source. You looked at the Russian man before shaking your head to the side, taking out your gun.

Walking down the stairs you felt the end of the arm on the back of your head, and a hand topping your mouth. You kept in place for a second, raising your arms, before flipping the person down the stairs, keeping the gun in your hand before discharging it and throwing it away.

You walked down the stairs before shooting at the man on his thigh when the other two came out. You rolled your eyes when the two guys pulled their guns at you but were thrown to the side when an arrow hit them. Noticing the green arrow you sighed in annoyance before continuing.

“Leave it alone” Anatoly who sat on the chair waiting for you to be done, looked over to the group of four noticing your sisters and ex-girlfriend's expression of shock, while Oliver made his way to you. Noticing the man behind you, you spoke threateningly at him, before turning around.

----

The tall brunette guy who was now with a black eye and a busted lip, as you kept your hold on his throat. You murmured when the guy kept silent. “Okay then it's the hard way”

Pushing him down before shooting him, you looked over to the black-haired man staring at you with wide eyes. You walked where he was before lowering to the floor having the same eye contact, you looked at him and recognized the immediate fear before speaking. “Taking a wild guess, I'm gonna say you don’t wanna end up like those two, do you?”

The man without thinking shook his head, which made you let out a sarcastic laugh tilting your head at him before helping him up. “Okay, then where is Roulette?”

“I don't know, I don't know” He kept sputtering and shaking his head.

“She left this morning and left us here with the order to keep watch on someone” When you took a step closer to the guy, making him speak which made you look at him curiously before pushing him to the wall.

“On who?” You asked.

“Her, Lena Luthor” He responded, whispering only for you to hear, looking over where your ex-girlfriend stood.

A switch had changed and in seconds you felt everything come out, the rage, the pain, and in seconds you were seeing red. The calm, determined dementor had changed to an angry, protective one. A sudden outburst was what you had.

Moving your arm, pinning the man onto the wall with anger, you spoke eagerly and unease, threatening. Rage in your eyes, as you claimed to press harder into his chest, making the man cough in pain. “You tell Roulette that if she even thinks of breathing the same air in a 200 miles area as Ms. Luthor then I would make her life a living hell and everyone who is with her too”

Kara, who was listening in, smiled softly before looking down. The outburst had shown your care for her best friend, and that was a baby step that meant more than anything. The fact that you snapped at the moment your ex-girlfriend began mentioning showed that maybe it wasn't lost at all.

Your oldest sister looked at Kara curiously, before giving her a shoulder bump, giving her a questioning glance while your sister responded with a silent glance to you and a smile.

You pulled away from the man, giving him a second to breathe before striking your fist right at his jaw. Immediately knocking him down, the sound of the body plumb into the floor made you realize what just had happened, the myriad of feelings flowing through your mind were taken out the moment an arrow grazed your cheek and the soreness of your knuckles were now bothering you.

Looking behind you, identifying the red arrow, you let out a laugh before taking it out of the wall, throwing it to the side before turning around, softly moving your hand trying to relieve the ache. Oliver seemed to have caught up with the situation as he grabbed the arrow letting out a sigh.

“Still doing the same?” You shouted turning around where Thea stood on the top of the car with her bow in hand and black leather jacket on. A smirk on her face as the brunette jumped landing on the floor perfectly before making her way to you.

“I see you hadn't left the throne, princess” She claimed, teasing the last word. The two of you sharing a silent glance, when she came down. The small spark in her eyes didn't go unnoticed by you and neither by Oliver.

“And you are not so intimidating, princess” You flirted with the brunette, cleaning the small substance of blood coming out of the graze on your cheek with a teasing smile.

Lena knew the tone you were using, the smile you gave her, the little spark in your voice and eyes as you did. You were flirting with her, the jealousy feeling creeping inside her chest as she noticed. Drawing daggers in the brunettes back, she stood straight pulling out her CEO stand and expression, even if she felt her heart begin twisted remembering the once she was the one receiving the smile, the glance, the tone, everything. And she hoped that one day you would do it again.

#lena luthor #alex danvers x reader #lena luthor x reader #kara danvers x reader #baby danvers #supergirl imagine

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i-will-physically-fight-you · 4 years

Note

How about 1. (Guess I’m a Parent Now) with Logan as the parent and a side of your choice as his newly adopted person for the random prompt fics :)

Title: Rest Your Head Close to My Heart

Summary: In a world where humans are the practically extinct ones and dragons freely roam and rule the skies, Logan is a young draconic adult in search of a human to decipher the knowledge lying within the books of his hoard. He just didn’t expect to find a crying human hatchling by itself all alone.

Pairings: Parental logicality

Word-Count: 1.5k

Warnings: Crying, Language Barrier, Death Mention, Blood Mention, Hurt/Comfort

Heh, this could easily be applied to the most recent fic I posted, but this sparked another idea which nearly ran away from me in the process.

Once upon a time, there were humans. They were small, squishy beings. Not equipped with spikes or thick-plated scales to protect them from harm. Oh, but they were magnificent, fearsome beings. In the midst of their biological shortcomings, they had intelligence that rivaled even the smartest of dragons, living or dead. They crafted their own spikes and armor out of rock. They were very good at making all sorts of things in fact. Good enough that dragons from across the lands coveted their things.

At first, it was peaceful between both dragonkin and mankind. The dragons would trade the humans materials in exchange for their craft. But then, a war broke out. And in the billowing, heaving smoke and ash that resulted, the humans vanished completely from the world. As far as all dragonkin knew, not a single human sighting has been reported in half a millennium.

Logan thought this to be a great shame. His hatching had taken place one-hundred and seventy-nine years after the war’s end--far too late to have personally seen a human. Several elders in his clan had.

“They were dangerous, conniving vermin,” A Clan Elder scoffed, “as wondrous as their things were, it’s better they stay gone.”

Perhaps this was true, but Logan couldn’t help the ineffable curiosity that ignited his inner flame so. Humans were the creators of the things he found worthy of coveting.

Things like rocks molded into impressions of humans, beasts and forestry. Furs and skins humans took from others and remade to fit over their own like shells. His favorite were the things called books. Rectangular objects filled with leafy material that contained black markings on them. Knowledge was stored on them, though no dragon alive could decipher its meaning.

Knowledge was what Logan coveted most. He wasn’t likely to give up easily unless another could offer something of equal or greater value for it. Knowledge rarely manifested in physical objects, thus making his hoard easily transportable. This was good, because Logan traveled aplenty in his years following maturity.

He wanted to find a human. He needed to know what his books contained and only humans held the key to the knowledge he was so close yet so far to absorbing into his hoard. Humans had to be out there somewhere. And he was determined to be the first dragon in half a millennium to see one.

He just did not expect it to be a hatchling. Or what he presumed to be a hatchling because while humans were small, this one was very much small. Only just the size of a newly hatched whereas adults were described to be three times that. And wailing. It had to be wailing, a high-pitched cry for a caretaker not present.

Logan stared at the hatchling for a long while, hidden away from its view. It’s golden floppy not-quite fur hung over its head. It strangely did not cover the rest of it’s body. Just the head. It wore a blue-and-grey covering over its skin. Its’ strange talon-less forepaws covered its head as it shook. All curled up like a hatchling trying to disguise itself like a rock. Poorly, he might add with the aforementioned shaking and wailing.

He did not know what to do. He was never one to take care of hatchlings even back when he lived with his clan. He did not covet them like his hatchmate had. He also did not dislike them. He felt very neutral towards them. But this was a human hatchling--a being that had not been sighted in so, so long. Perhaps this hatchling still knew the knowledge that laid within his books.

So very cautiously and very, very silently, he coiled himself around the human hatchling. He did not want to spook it away, as he heard tales of humans being fast when fleeing perceived danger and able to wiggle themselves into spots full-grown dragons like himself couldn’t reach. Then he let out a soothing warble, one his parents used whenever Logan or his hatchmate had a nightmare. This quieted the human hatchling. Not because it was consoled by the action; startled would be the better word for it.

The human hatchling lifted its head upwards, limbs folding away from its body in the process. It was then Logan saw it. Dark red stains soiling its skin covering. Logan leaned his head towards the hatchling to inspect it closer. His inner flame trembled at the tinge of copper that wafted into his nose. Humans’ blood was not like dragons. It didn’t glow the color of a dragon’s inner flame, boiling to the touch. Their blood was known for a bright red color that turned brown in time and its coppery scent.

The hatchling had to be injured. No wonder it was crying. Only, that in and of itself presented another complexing problem; he did not know how to care for injured humans. The knowledge out there about humans was very bare on the subject. He knew a plethora of ways to harm a human. But not a single one on how to go about caring for an injured one.

He did not have much time to ponder this. For the human did something unexplained. It latched its cold, soft forepaws to his snout. Logan’s neck frills flared out in surprise but he did not move. An incomprehensible gurgle emanated from the human hatchling. A puff of smoke exited his nostrils, intriguing the human hatchling further. It stuck a forepaw closer to the opening, as if trying to discern what caused it.

Carefully, he eased his snout away from the human hatchling. This seemed to upset the hatchling, making a distressed noise as it reached upwards for him. He hesitated, dropping his head back downwards. Instantly the human hatchling latched on, running its cold forepaws against his scales. The human hatchling’s blue eyes widened as it made an inquisitive sound.

“Curious, aren’t you?” Logan rumbled, keeping his maw closed as much as possible. The human hatchling stilled for a second. Then it squealed back in its own language, its forepaws resting on the ridge of his snout. He hadn’t quite realized that of course, if dragons hadn’t seen humans in centuries, the same in reverse had to be true for humans. Not until now, with a living human hatchling touching his scales with the same reverence he held for a book or another thing touched by humans.

“I know you can’t possibly understand me, but are you injured? There’s blood on you and unless I’ve been misinformed, that generally remains inside of humans just like it does for dragons. Also, I wonder, where are your parents? Surely humans are just as protective of their young as dragons and other species.”

The human hatchling predictably did not understand him. Or if it did, it could only respond in the lilted, melodic odd noises that made up human speech. It was fascinating to hear even if Logan couldn’t understand it. None of the stories talked about human languages and what they sounded like. It was something lost to dragonkin after the war.

The human hatchling chattered on and on as it stroked his scales. At first it started out bright and happy-sounding. But then an odd choking noise came from the human hatchling. This alarmed Logan who presumed it was a sign of the human hatchling’s injury. It alarmed him further as it continued as the human hatchling attempted to speak through it, its chatter stilted and stifled.

He pressed his snout closer to the human to reassure it. And this time, unlike before, it seemed to work. For the human flung its forelegs very clumsily around his snout. It couldn’t possibly envelope him. It tried its best though as the choking noise continued intermingled with the first cries of before.

It was then that Logan realized something. There was human blood on the human hatchling, yes, but it wasn’t their own. It belonged to a different human with a different scent. A scent nearly identical to the human hatchling but not their own. Most likely their parent’s. And if the human hatchling had been all alone, crying, with its’ parent’s blood on them...well.

A strange feeling stirred in Logan’s inner flame. As much as he previously sought after humans and their knowledge of books, all of that paled considerably to this new feeling. It wasn’t exactly a new urge to covet something but it was quite similar. It was a “Oh dear Agni, I presume that I’m a father now” feeling.

He hardly knew how to care for hatchlings, much less human ones. But this didn’t matter, for the human hatchling chose him and denying a rite of parentage would be grievous. He would care for the human hatchling to the best of his ability. Above all else, he’d see that the human hatchling would never meet the same fate as their bloodparent.

“There, there,” He awkwardly crooned, easing gently the human hatchling underneath the protection of his wing, “for as long as I can fly swiftly and breathe fire fiercely, you will be safe.”

And while the human hatchling couldn’t possibly understand him, he almost believed they could as they clung tightly to him, their sobs dissipating at last into a few final quivering hiccups.

#thomas sanders #sanders sides #logan sanders #patton sanders #kat writes #i guess logan being an inhuman entity unexpectedly becoming a father is now my brand lol

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cdyssey · 4 years

Text

Headaches

Summary: Four weeks in London later, both Lyra and Mrs. Coulter have full heads.

AO3 Link

—

One quiet night, four weeks in London later, Lyra sits on the couch, pretending to read some history book that Mrs. Coulter insisted upon, while Mrs. Coulter herself is curled up in the chair opposite, scrawling notes in the margins of a thick book. Her loopy handwriting is pretty and small and illegible to Lyra, who never learned how to do cursive. (She ducked out of those particular lessons by feigning chicken pox; Roger obligingly dotted her with berry juice, snickering a little as he poked her right between the eyes.)

Mrs. Coulter always looks pretty, but Lyra reckons she’s the prettiest when she’s got her hair all down, and she’s not dressed to kill a man. Like tonight, for instance, she’s got on a silky robe, lavender and luxurious, its hem pooling like liquid on the floor. She seems ethereal, like a fairy almost, fragile and elegant and light, and it’s with a fond smile that Lyra remembers the conversation that they had at the beginning of all this, when they established what it means that she’s comfortable enough to wear pajamas around Lyra...

Pantalaimon, in his favorite ermine form, urgently nudges her hand, calling her back to her senses.

But think about it—that was weeks ago, Lyra, he whispers into her mind. Shouldn’t we be focusing on Roger? Shouldn’t she...? She promised...

She said to trust her, Pan... maybe she’s working on it right now, readin’ that big, fancy book of hers…?

I highly doubt Roger’s going to be found in a book, he returns crossly, turning into a wasp hovering next to her face. The buzzing of his wings catches the golden monkey’s attention; he’d been heretofore slinking up and down the stretch of floor next to Mrs. Coulter’s chair, looking strangely restless.

Surprised, Pan promptly pops back into his ermine skin again, landing on top of her chest with a neat thud.

Real smooth, she snaps, glaring at him over the top of her book.

I can’t help it!

“Lyra, dear?” Both Lyra and Pan look up to see that Mrs. Coulter’s attention has also been snagged from across the room. Indeed, she and the monkey both have directed their undivided attention towards them now, and their dual intensity is enough to force Pan to turn into a kitten, pressing his gray paws clumsily against the fabric of her shirt. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Lyra mumbles immediately, her cheeks feeling hot, “just thinking about a lotta stuff, you know?”

“The kind of stuff that makes your head feel full, huh?” Mrs. Coulter’s brow bends sympathetically as the monkey resumes his methodical pacing, back and forth and back again, his tiny hands clicking against the sleek wood. Pan watches him, a little discomfited, a little mesmerized, wondering why he’s so cagey tonight.

“Exactly!” Lyra exclaims. “That’s it. My head’s just a lil full.”

“Ah,” Mrs. Coulter sighs, the gesture less sound than susurrus, “I know the feeling.”

And she raises the thick book she’s reading, allowing Lyra to get a good glimpse at the text for the first time. To her surprise, her guardian’s elegant handwriting isn’t the only part of it that’s entirely incomprehensible to her. Indeed, the tome seems to be written in an entirely different language.

Or, more accurately still, it looks like English would if someone completely didn’t know English and was just making excellent educated guesses.

“Latin,” Mrs. Coulter supplies, correctly interpreting the confusion in Lyra’s face. “The liturgical language. I began to learn it when I was around your age.”

It’s an impressive statement, communicative of just how intelligent Mrs. Coulter is, but frankly, Lyra isn’t all too surprised anymore.

This lady seems to know everything, answering every question that the twelve-year old has with patience, kindness, and poise.

Even the little things.

The stupid ones.

Like how anbaric lights work.

Or why the sky is blue.

She won’t give you a straight answer about Roger, though, Pan reminds her stubbornly, kneading her pajama shirt with his claws.

Lyra works hard to ignore him.

“Looks fancy,” she replies, “and hard.”

“It’s most certainly both,” Mrs. Coulter shakes her head, replacing the book on her lap. “I used to be able to read it so fluently when I was in college, declining nouns like a Roman conqueror... but now, out of practice, out of touch...”

“—your head feels all full,” Lyra finishes, tilting her head sympathetically.

“Precisely, darling.”

And for the first time in a long time—perhaps since the very first week of their acquaintance—she studies her guardian's face, deconstructing it like one of the math problems the Librarian used to keep setting in front of her. And her findings prove thus, the variables all clear—beneath the mask of her gentle smile, there’s an exhaustion about Mrs. Coulter.

Slight.

Subtle.

Tinged with the indefinable manic energy of someone who works and works and works.

Staring at the faint lines beneath her arctic blue eyes, Lyra suddenly thinks of Lord Asriel for some reason. As driven as he is, as cold and as fierce and as clever, sometimes, on his rare visits to Jordan College, she’s noticed that he looks a little exhausted, too.

“If your head feels all full,” Lyra asks, “why don’t you stop for awhile? Try again in the morning?”

The monkey briefly pauses in his tracks, staring at Lyra with open curiosity—tender, probing, mild—before continuing onwards, a dutiful soldier committed to his guard.

“Believe me,” Mrs. Coulter sighs, “I’ve asked myself the same question, but my employers... they’re always expecting me to produce innovative material, even when my project is more ambitious than their wildest dreams.”

Her voices raises a little at the end, and the golden monkey, his face turned away, growls lightly, his beautiful tail stiffly coiled.

Pan transforms into a monkey, too, empathetically trying the emotion on for himself—the pent-up frustration of never feeling like he can do enough.

The form’s a little strange, but it kinda fits, too.

Because Lyra thinks about Roger again.

About how there’s so much more she can be doing to help him.

“Stick it to ‘em, Mrs. Coulter,” she says, sudden fierceness in her voice, flooding passion. Pan is a wildcat on her lap, black hackles raised. “Seriously. If you know you’re better, forget all the toerags that don’t get it.”

Mrs. Coulter’s eyes widen in quiet surprise, mouth slightly parted, before she suddenly breaks out into a laugh—sudden, sincere, and musical—the faint lines in her face creasing pleasantly. Even though he continues to pace, the monkey’s expression softens incrementally when he comes back around.

“My, my,” she chuckles, “what coarse language... but thank you, Lyra. I appreciate it. Sincerely.”

And she gives Lyra another one of those radiant smiles again, the one that she loves so much, that makes the girl feel like she’s maybe, very possibly loved.

And Pan, feral though he appears, brushes against her cheek, purring.

“But, since we’re trading secrets now,” Mrs. Coulter continues, her brow furrowing above her eyes, “why is your own head full, dear? Feeling tired? Is it bedtime for you?”

Lyra’s nose automatically wrinkles in disdain. In London, she’s had a strict bedtime every night, which is a far cry from how her caretakers at Jordan College handled her nightly routine.

(Which is to say that at Jordan College, she didn’t really have a nightly routine. Someone would just yell at her to go to bed, and then she’d maybe do it or maybe not depending on her mood.)

“No,” she shakes her head defiantly, but then, a little more gently, a little more politely, “no... I’m just... I’m thinkin’ about Roger again, Mrs. Coulter. He’s gotta be so scared and lonely and confused…”

Pantalaimon, now an ermine again, watches the golden monkey, far bigger than him and far more graceful and far better at keeping a neutral face.

But as soon as Lyra mentions Roger, the golden monkey’s nose twists unpleasantly, as though he’s smelling something awful, and Pan lurches, instinctively recognizing the emotion for what it is.

Disgust.

Mrs. Coulter smiles sadly, her slender face perfectly free of her dæmon, and the monkey turns away again.

“I imagine so,” she murmurs, “but all my best people are doing their best to look for him, Lyra. Haven’t I told you this before?”

And even Lyra can hear the warning note in her voice this time, the implicit insistence that she shouldn’t push.

Push anyway, Pan encourages, pressing his black nose gently against her neck. For Roger, Lyra. He needs you.

“I... I know,” Lyra mumbles, “but I just thought we could help look for him, too, you know? All hands on deck.”

The monkey makes some sort of impatient sound that registers as such in the empty air, but still, Mrs. Coulter’s expression remains perfectly pleasant.

Soft.

Compassionate even.

Lyra’s heart thuds with its own confusion.

“If all else fails,” Mrs. Coulter promises, straightening her silk-enclosed shoulders, “we will, sweet girl. I wouldn’t lie to you—ever.”

Pantalaimon isn’t so sure about that, but Lyra half-heartedly brushes him off again.

Because she likes Mrs. Coulter.

She really does.

We can like someone and not believe them, Lyra, he reminds her gently.

That’s scary to think about, Pan.

I know.

Mrs. Coulter’s smile is so kind… so warm… so inviting…

Someone can like us and still not tell us the truth, Pan warns, watching the monkey’s vaguely cross expression.

That’s even scarier somehow.

I know.

#marisa coulter #lyra silvertongue #his dark materials #f: his dark materials #reginianwrites #last one for this weekend i swear lmao

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yokelish · 4 years

Text

Rhetorical.

This is not easy-peasy-lemon-squizzy. This is difficult-fucking-difficult.

I hate myself for the person I am because my first reaction was “that’s a drag, I don’t remember much of the manga already”. But then I remembered complex human relationships is nyom-nyom-nyom. And so fell in love with working on it more and more as I went. So here you go, @gogolparadise

Unfortunately, I am one of those people who doesn’t blame Ango for Oda’s death. My blaming scale looks more like this: Gide, Oda, Mori, everyone else. I blame Oda for Oda’s death, mostly. And there’s no denial about who shot Odasaku in the first place. But Ango isn’t blameless. He done fuck up.

I won’t write how and when Dazai sabotaged the airbag, I am sure even he wouldn’t know it either. P L O T. The scene between Ango and Dazai unfolded differently in manga and anime. And I like manga’s version better. I rarely use Japanese respectful suffixes like “san” and “kun”, but here….it’s sorta important.

✏ Fandom: Bungou Stray Dogs ✏ Characters: Dazai Osamu, Ango Sakaguchi ✏ Word count: 2,166 ✏ Warnings: none?

Rhetorical.

He couldn’t deny the fact that having a gun in his hand felt distantly pleasant. The power and control that came with the weight in his hand would add more pleasure to it. But the weapon was oddly light compared to his memories of handling one. It wasn’t loaded. A good decision: a smart and safe decision. If Dazai couldn’t trust himself, he could trust in the distrust people have for him. And no one would know that better than someone he once called a friend. The two loyal guard dogs wouldn’t be able to stop him if that’s what he wanted. The resting blade against his neck only sharpened that tiny thrill coursing through his veins. It was bringing up old memories of having his life on the line every other day. The sound of raining shots, the lightning bolt shine of it, the heat of the muzzle afterwards. And the lingering smell of gunpowder. Unloading the gun was the smartest decision his once-friend had ever made. Because Dazai also couldn’t deny the fact that when it was aimed at the back of Ango’s head, it felt invigorating.

“What on earth made you think…” Dazai asked calmly. “…that I had forgiven you?” He didn’t regret asking. The question didn’t need to be answered. There was no need to have a conversation about that part of history. After all, there was too much to forgive, and Dazai didn’t even start on it. But asking had to clearly state where they stand.

“I was the one who cleaned your record when you fled the Mafia. If anything, you are the one who owes me,” Ango replied, unfazed by the threat, and even sounding a little exasperated.

“Alright.” Dazai easily dropped the threat, the aim of the gun, the feeling coursing through his veins. “The gun isn’t loaded. You knew I’d do that.”

A hand was offered to collect the empty weapon. “I am glad you catch on so quickly.” The man in glasses offered a calm, collected smile, with a little amusement traced in the lines of his face. Dazai would roll his eyes at this if the man wasn’t so obviously looking. Credit given where its due, Ango wasn’t slow on the uptake — always deceitfully sharp. But Dazai didn’t appreciate proximity or eye-contact. Least of all he wanted to grow an appreciation for Ango’s quick thinking, stoic and neutral approach, and overall efficiency. He remembered the man from the past too vividly, and separating those images was harder than it should have been. Liar. Traitor.

“If we are not rekindling our old friendship,” Sakaguchi spoke again, more hesitantly this time. “…What do you want?”

How eloquent and bold it was to say that there was something to rekindle between them. When a torch goes out, you look for a fire to light it again. You don’t wet the cloth and chop up the wooden stick. And you sure do not let the torch burn to ashes. If so, there was nothing to rekindle.

With his back to Ango, Dazai allowed himself to smile. The half-masks he knew how to transform and switch seamlessly. His goals were for him to know. Ango would find out soon enough. The bandaged man shifted his smile into a childish grin. “Oooh…” He patted the roof of the car. “You government men drive fine cars, eh?”

The government man graced him with an unamused stare. A sharp look of a man who didn’t want his car touched in such manner. Pity, really, that should be the least of his worries. Government men drive fine cars, but there are many fine cars in this world.

Ex-Mafia rested his elbow on the car if only to gauge a reaction out of the man he once made a mistake to call friend. “Care to go for a drive?” Dazai didn’t regret asking. The question didn’t need to be answered.

Fine cars indeed… For what those government men got those fancy cars Dazai could only guess. “It’s your job to keep those skill-oriented crimes in check, isn’t it? You mustn’t shirk your duty like that.” He spoke leisurely, enjoying, savouring. There was something sickeningly amusing in the ease of the situation. The tension that was visibly lacking in the air. Ango’s safe driving befitting of a good citizen. The calm Dazai couldn’t help but feel. He almost felt guilty about it, too. The calm that comes with the knowledge of what’s to come. And yet, by all canons of the world, it should not be as easy as breathing.

“We have been keeping tabs on the Guild as well,” Ango finally gave a reply fitting for a government man. A limited, careful answer.

Dazai’s interest was piqued by the narrowness of such words. “You knew…and you simply let them be? Do I have that right?” He knew he did. The question didn’t need to be answered. But he didn’t regret asking, he savoured it without guilt.

“Unlike you, Dazai-kun, I believe in an honest day’s work,” Sakaguchi answered evenly, never taking his eyes off the road. “Do you even know what kind of kind of group the Guild is?”

Dazai could guess that this feeling inside him was glee. There was nothing compared to the feeling of knowing and seeing through the deceit of others even if that deceit was a delusion for one’s self. He cared little for the games the government played, he just despised them. He cared not for the power the Guild possessed, he just wanted to beat it.

“Oh my, wait a moment,” the bandaged man said. “This discussion is taking a strange turn.”

“This is politics, Dazai-kun.”

That’s an exceptionally fine carpet word for lies, deception, manipulation, power play and the like. Perhaps, it was a matter of perception, the things one believes in. If perception can stop you from seeing the world upside-down, if it can grant you the vividness of colours and appreciation for abstract, then it surely must be able to install a belief in the greater good.

“…to grant immunity to their members…”

Like Ango believing in an honest day’s work. Or Atsushi believing in his own worthlessness or that saving people will justify his existence. Like Kunikida upholding his ideals stronger than any other man alive.

“…truly, above the law…”

Perhaps, it was all about the installed moral compass within a person. The lines one draws to walk a straight path. Those constructed margins of morality that should never be crossed lest the world changes its meaning or loses it completely. Dazai’s compass had been broken for the longest time, he could admit that much. There were too many bold strokes beyond the margins: crosses, stains, incomprehensible lines made in indifference and irresponsibility.

“…they’re surveilling our little conference even now…”

But, truly, how morally superior is the government handling the bizarre world of skill-users compared to the Mafia? He couldn’t be the one to judge and tell. He couldn’t understand.

“Dazai-kun, start running away. Now.” The urgency in Ango’s voice brought him back to the oncoming reality. Whatever emotions were hidden behind the glasses, Dazai couldn’t press into his memory. The mind was too preoccupied. He pressed back into the seat — a response of his body to the upcoming and unavoidable danger. The thought of dying had never once scared him, but pain, broken bones, and the like — loathed.

“Run, and tell your agents that danger will find them soon —” It didn’t matter what the answer was. There was no need for it.

If there were indeed parallel worlds — an infinite number of possibilities of the current one — then it could be different. In another world, perhaps, it could be different. They could have never met and, thus, never had their past shared. Two perfect strangers to each other — two parallels never meeting. In a different world where the events unfolded differently, where they still met, became friends and met in a bar with, preferably, a similar menu. In a world where he didn’t die, they could remain forever as they were back then. Dazai would feed them his terrible tofu and talks about suicide. They could eat and drink together while sharing nonsensical stories. There would be no guilt or regret. But that would have to be a different world.

In this world, Sakaguchi Ango, a government agent, successfully infiltrated Port Mafia and then Mimic. In this world, Sakaguchi survived in the Mafia and climbed the ranks. In this world, he had successfully pretended to be a friend to Dazai Osamu, youngest Executive in history, and Sakunosuke Oda, the lowest of the ranks. He done so not out of necessity but because he could. In this world, Sakunosuke Oda was dead, killed in confrontation with Mimic. Ango’s betrayal of the Mafia didn’t matter in the least. After all, Dazai had done so too: even he wasn’t such a hypocrite. In this world what mattered was the death of a man who didn’t get to write his novel. In this world, Dazai Osamu wasn’t a better man to forgive. In this world, ex-Mafia held grudges despite knowing the regret of another.

If he were in a different world and was a different human being, he would understand the necessity for the flowers when visiting a hospital. But he wasn’t, and he didn’t really understand it. Nonetheless, he had done it. A man who believes in honest day’s work deserved that much, at least.

“Why, hello there, Ango!” Dazai’s chirpy voice carried through the ward. “How are you doing?” With a bouquet and a basket of consumable goods as visiting protocol dictates. And a bright friendly smile, of course. “Well, you look lovely,” Dazai lied effortlessly, seamlessly. He had done so not out of necessity but because he could. “I have a fine story for you!”

It was in the very same bar where the three of them met that he witnessed it: regret. Sakaguchi Ango, a government agent who infiltrated Port Mafia and climbed the ranks, expressed regret. Perhaps, that alone was the thing that steadied the Executive’s hand. That, and Odasaku’s presence. Unfortunately, there was no more Odasaku to steady the bandaged Executive’s hand. Only the words of a friend now gone to guide this ex-mafioso.

It was much later that Dazai truly saw the guilt behind the round glasses. It’s much easier to recognize guilt in others when experienced. He couldn’t tell if it was cleverly hidden from others or if Ango had hid from himself.

“Thirty-five count murderer?” the bedbound man asked, unsurprised. Dazai was a visitor but he sure wasn’t a good one after eating from the basket. According to him, that’s what he planned. According to everyone else who could be in the room to pass judgement: selfish, inconsiderate, and even mocking. He didn’t do it out of necessity but because he could.

“Murder is murder,” Sakaguchi stated simply. Dazai remained a patient listener despite how easy it would be to probe at wounds unhealed, to uncap the bottled regret, to stir their shared but erased past. He knew full well what murder was. So did Ango. But the thing about murder and death is that it often was accompanied with guilt. And guilt was a disobedient spirit: it didn’t follow you because you murdered, it followed because it could. For all that Ango did, for all the lies and treacherous moves, Dazai knew one thing for sure: in the moment it mattered most he had nothing to offer Odasaku to cling to. In that vital moment all he could offer were pitiful words that wouldn’t even convince a child. If he had to live with the guilt of it, he would.

“…if you seek other help…I’d be glad to do that.”

“Is that so?” Dazai asked, getting up from the chair. That was all he needed to hear. The task was accomplished. “Well, I’ll be back.”

“Dazai-kun.”

That stalled him at the doorway.

“I am accepting your offer of treatment in exchange for support. So just tell me one more thing.” Sakaguchi Ango was deceptively sharp as ever and just as calm. “When we were struck by that mystery vehicle, the airbag on my side alone failed to inflate. Would you happen to know the reason?”

Just as Ango doesn’t put his regret and guilt out on display, Dazai, too, had trick to hide his darkness. If guilt was a disobedient spirit, then darkness was a parasite set on self-destruction.

Oh, he hoped to make his once-friend regret the question. For it would be easy to hide the smile with his back to Ango. It would be equally as easy to switch one smile for another. But there was no need for that. Whatever it was he hid, the other would soon find out. Dazai allowed himself to smile with sincere darkness of his mind and offer it to the man who betrayed him. There was no need for an answer.

#yokelishtorturesenglish #bsd scenarios #bsd imagines #bsd fanfic #dazai osamu and ango sakaguchi #dazai osamu #ango sakaguchi #did i allude to BEAST? who knows~#i am not very happy with this work because it's not fucked up enough #i want more fucked up thank you #a very shitty character dynamic exploration

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arotechno · 4 years

Text

The Heartless: Chapter 9

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Chapter IX: in which people can change

Travelling with Knife Boy was something of a fever dream; I would wake up every morning of the journey a little unsure of how I got there, trekking eastward with a near stranger who had for months prior been appearing in my nightmares as the faceless specter of everything bad that had ever happened to me. In the light of day, he was strikingly ordinary, albeit a little peculiar, but with all due respect to myself, I had little room to talk about peculiarities. My very existence was an anomaly, born out of something incomprehensible and bordering on evil, a fact of which Knife Boy liked to remind me any chance he got but which seemed to bother him very little. For all he did to hold me at arm’s length, he never threatened to expose me, and I started to be convinced that he really didn’t wish me any ill will. But Carita had had ulterior motives for helping me, so I kept one proverbial eye over my shoulder and waited for the other shoe to drop.

Why I agreed to the plan in the first place was beyond me, and I often went to bed expecting Knife Boy to either kill me in my sleep or be long gone by morning. Nevertheless, he was always there when I woke up, sprawled on the ground examining the maps or scattering the remains of the burnt-out fire to hide the evidence of the previous night’s camp. (While Knife Boy typically slept on the ground, I still took to the trees every night, fearing what would happen to me should anyone discover us and realize who—or what—I was. For all the things we had in common, that was the key difference between us, I came to realize.)

Knife Boy beckoned me out of my tree one morning a few days into our journey by pelting me with acorns from the ground below. I nearly tumbled to the forest floor as I bolted awake, but managed to right myself in time, hanging upside-down with my arms wrapped firmly around the tree limb.

“Do you mind?” I snapped.

“Come down here,” demanded Knife Boy’s upside-down likeness rather impolitely as he tossed another acorn that hit me square in the forehead.

In my still half-asleep delirium, I had half a mind to stay like that just to laugh inwardly at his inverted figure, but it occurred to me that if Knife Boy wasn’t in on the joke then it wasn’t as funny—so I scrambled to find purchase and dropped down to the dirt, Knife Boy’s disgruntled form flipping right-side-up. He waved me over to where he had multiple maps spread out and knelt before them, huffing exasperatedly as he waited for me to join him. I noticed that the remains of last night’s fire had already been scattered and Knife Boy’s usual leaf pile dismantled; I wondered if I’d overslept, which would explain his somehow worse-than-usual bad attitude.

“While you were sleeping away precious daylight, I came up with a plan,” he explained tersely, smoothing his hand across the maps. He pointed out our current approximate location, in the northeastern woods just a stone’s throw from the nearest town. Then he traced his finger along the perimeter until he reached the castle grounds at Amistadia’s eastern edge.

“We should probably stick to traveling through the woods as much as possible. The towns close to the castle grounds are crawling with royal guard,” Knife Boy explained, tapping the parchment for emphasis. “Then,” he switched to a map of the castle grounds, “we’ll approach the castle from the north by night. There, we can hide and wait for the best time to make our move. It’ll take us a few days to get there, but if we ration the rest of our food, we should be able to make it without making a supply run.”

I nodded, but there was a question nagging at the back of my mind. “Where did you even get maps this detailed?”

“They were my mother’s,” Knife Boy replied simply. “She was a historian.”

His tone welcomed no further interrogation, given the No Personal Questions Clause of our unwritten contract, so I kept my mouth shut and went to gather my things for the next leg of our journey.

Knife Boy was a perplexing mix of pensive and disagreeable as we traipsed through the woods, picking at our meager rations from the alley in complete silence. As the lingering fog of sleep cleared from my brain, my mind began to race with thoughts that what we were doing was a spectacularly stupid idea, conjured up by a younger boy with unclear motives and something to prove. However, given that saying as such while Knife Boy was in a mood would likely get me nowhere, I opted to apologize for my own shortcomings instead in an effort to wipe the glower from his face.

“I want to apologize if I overslept this morning,” I said. “I had some trouble sleeping last night.”

Unfortunately, Knife Boy’s expression softened only into a grimace (if that could be called a softening of any kind).

“I did not ask, and I do not care,” he shot back. Then, more neutrally, he added, “If it were that much of a problem, I would have woken you sooner.”

“Ah,” I mused, “so you were being nice.”

Predictably, Knife Boy puffed up like a defensive cat and growled, “I was not.”

I smirked, satisfied to have gotten a rise out of him since my olive branch had been rejected.

“So, why’d you let me sleep in, then?”

“So I didn’t have to listen to you run your stupid mouth.”

“Sure,” I snorted.

“What, you don’t believe me?” Knife Boy prodded indignantly. “I’ll have you know I— Do you hear something?”

I stopped in my tracks, listening. My ears pricked at a rustling in the bushes, and the distant sound of voices. I knew Knife Boy heard it too when his eyes widened in surprise.

He hissed, “Someone’s coming! Could be guards, hide!”

I dove into the brush, thorns and branches snagging my clothes, and lay flat on my stomach in the dirt, blood rushing in my ears. Belatedly, I noticed Knife Boy had not followed me and peered through a small gap in the bushes to see him standing where I had left him. I nearly called out to him to move, but before I could open my mouth, two men appeared from the right in the unmistakable opulent uniform of the royal guard.

“What are you doing out here in these woods, boy?” the taller of the two asked darkly, eyeing Knife Boy suspiciously. Slowly and silently, I drew an arrow and lay as still as possible, barely breathing.

“I’m homeless, sir,” Knife Boy responded, taking a measured step backward. “An orphan.”

The shorter guardsman laughed. “A street rat like you, all the way out here in the east? You must be joking.”

“It’s no joke, sir.”

The taller guardsman closed the distance and towered over Knife Boy, but the latter stood his ground.

“What’s in the bag?” Tall questioned, gesturing at the sack of food clutched in Knife Boy’s hands. Even at this distance, I could see his grip tighten. For a brief moment, he reminded me of Petra, small and vulnerable and doing what was needed to survive. It was crystal clear, then, who our common enemy truly was.

“Food scraps, sir,” Knife Boy answered honestly, earning a hearty chuckle from Short.

Tall, however, was not laughing. “Looks like it’s time for you to pay your taxes, boy.”

Short stepped around from behind and kicked Knife Boy’s legs out from under him. When he hit the ground with a thump, the bag flew from his grasp, and Tall quickly snatched it up. Before Knife Boy could regain his footing, the two royal guards were already passing him by.

"Stay out of trouble, kid,” Tall called over his shoulder. “You’re not going to like what happens if you don’t.”

Knife Boy and I both stayed on the ground as they disappeared into the woods, lying in wait like two wounded animals playing dead. Eventually, the sound of the guards’ heavy footfalls faded from earshot—Knife Boy sat up and looked in the direction of the bushes where I was hiding. I took that as a cue that the coast was clear and scrambled out, shaking the dirt and leaves from my limbs. I put my bow away and reached down to help Knife Boy to his feet, but he pushed himself to his feet on his own, pointedly ignoring my offered hand.

"Are you alright?” I asked.

Knife Boy wiped the dirt from his pants.

“I’m fine,” he responded, voice a bit clipped.

I was quiet, unsure of how to address what had just transpired.

“Well, now we’re going to have to go into town for supplies after all,” Knife Boy lamented.

“Why didn’t you hide?” I blurted. Whoops.

“I thought we agreed on no personal questions,” Knife Boy grumbled.

I couldn’t resist the urge to roll my eyes.

“I hardly think that counts as a personal question.”

Knife Boy huffed, “My legs just wouldn’t move, okay? I wasn’t fast enough.”

“A practiced thief not fast enough to move on instinct? I find that hard to believe, if a certain encounter a few days ago is anything to go by.”

“That was different.”

“Why is it any different?”

Knife Boy whirled around, and I immediately regretted prying.

“Because I’m scared of the royal guard, you asshole!” he shouted, fists clenching at his sides and face contorting in rage just inches from mine, though he was a bit shorter than me. The dagger on his belt caught the rays of sunlight peeking through the treetops like a deadly kaleidoscope, and I was suddenly reminded that this kid could kill me if he wanted to.

Knife Boy must have seen this in my eyes, as his expression softened and he took a step back, looking a bit shameful.

“Sorry,” he muttered, looking away. He started walking ahead. “No more questions, please.”

I followed tacitly behind, too stunned to say anything more. Any rapport we had established in our fragile partnership seemed to have crumbled beneath our feet, leaving us both to scramble for higher ground.

***

“Okay, here is our mission.”

Knife Boy peeked out over the top of the stone fence surrounding the market square, where vendors were closing up shop for the night as the sun dipped below the horizon. The place was mostly empty, save for a few lingering shopkeepers and a young woman who was lighting the streetlamps in a battle with the dwindling daylight of autumn. Knife Boy scanned the area for a moment before ducking back down, crouching beside me.

“You see that man on the far side of the square?” he whispered conspiratorially. “The one with the baskets of apples?”

I spared a quick glance into the market and nodded.

“I’ll go distract him. You sneak around the other side, and when his back is turned, take the goods, got it?”

“Got it.” I nodded resolutely. We’d already swiped some scraps from a nearby tavern like before and filled our canteens at the town’s well without incident, so this was going to be easy as raspberry pie.

Knife Boy copied the gesture. “Good. Let’s go.” He stood and waltzed into the market, shoulders held high with undue confidence as he approached the fruit stand. I slipped around the outskirts of the square behind the wall, more or less crawling along the perimeter.

“Good sir! May I ask you some questions?” Knife Boy was saying to the man when I arrived on the other side, voice dripping with faux reverence.

“Why, sure, what for?” the fruit vendor replied, voice firm but not unkind. Briefly, I felt bad about what we were about to do, but if the elegant wool coat draped over his shoulders was any indication, he wasn’t going to miss a few apples.

“Well, as you can see, I am very poor,” Knife Boy lamented sweetly, and I had to suppress a chuckle. “I noticed you were selling such wonderful looking fruit, and I was hoping you could tell me about it. You see, I am hoping to grow my own food.”

The man’s voice softened as he said, “Ah, I see,” before launching into an animated explanation of best growing practices and the proper time to plant and harvest. As he spoke, I reached silently over the wall and grabbed a few apples from the large basket behind the man.

“Uh huh, that’s real interesting,” Knife Boy said with obvious disinterest, eyes wandering to watch my movements.

The man paused. “Kid, what are you looking at?” he asked, and started to turn around.

“Wait!” Knife Boy shouted, drawing the attention of both the fruit vendor and the lamp lighter, who was passing by. The latter looked up and spotted me, still half-splayed over the wall, apples in hand. For a moment, her eyes lit up and I held my breath, but then she merely shook her head with a smile and kept walking.

“What now?” The man was starting to sound exasperated. Seeing an opening, I hoisted myself back down onto the far side of the wall and scrambled back around to the other end of the market.

“Um, uh,” Knife Boy was floundering, and I stood just in time to see him upturn a basket on top of the display stand, turn heel, and run off toward me. As he approached, he waved a hand at me frantically, and I took off in a sprint down the street.

“Hey, get back here, you brats!” the fruit vendor shouted after us, scrambling to chase down the rogue apples rolling through the market square in Knife Boy’s wake. Somewhere behind me, I could hear the young lamp lighter laughing.

Knife Boy and I kept running until we had left the marketplace in our dust, and skidded to a stop in a quiet neighborhood on the edge of town, both of us doubled over and panting.

“What was that?” I teased between ragged breaths.

“Look, I panicked!” Knife Boy responded defensively, equally out of breath. “It’s been a long day, I’m off my game.”

We stared at each other for a moment before we both burst out laughing, our ugly cackles echoing through the empty streets like discordant church bells.

“You should have seen his face when you started running!” I snorted.

Between peals of laughter, Knife Boy mused, “You know, we actually make a pretty good team.”

I could not believe my ears.

“Yeah?”

Knife Boy nodded.

“I still think there’s something messed up about you, and you still kind of freak me out,” he began, which did not set a high bar for the second half of his statement. “But you know what? You’re not so bad.”

The honest smile on Knife Boy’s face belied his seemingly harsh words. In a different life, it occurred to me that maybe we could have even been friends—but an enemy-turned-ally, even if only for a short time, was more than I’d ever expected to find, and more than enough for me. I returned Knife Boy’s smile with one of my own.

I couldn’t help but laugh again.

“You know, I’ll take it.”

#the heartless #aro #aromantic #aro writing #aro writers #aspec #aspec writing #aspec writers #writing #writeblr #op

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shiningamongdarkness · 4 years

Text

Chapter 25. Things are gonna be very different

Shining among Darkness

By WingzemonX

Chapter 25 Things are gonna be very different

When Carrie said there was nothing interesting about Chamberlain, it seemed she was not exaggerating at all. According to the little that Matilda was able to investigate on the Internet, it appeared to be a fairly ordinary small city, like hundreds of others that existed in the country. Its population was low, and the main engine of the economy was the textile factory. And basically, that was all.

The trip from Boston to there was about three hours by car, and by bus, it would surely take a little longer. Matilda thought about the experience that it must have been for a girl who had never left her town to do all that tour alone. Now she was the one making the opposite journey. Two days after her interview with Carrie, on a Monday in spring, she left Boston at mid-morning with her cup of coffee and her GPS showing the northeast route.

Back then, she was still in the process of acquiring her own vehicle in Boston for her personal use. I would be possible mainly by her adoptive mother's help since almost all of Matilda's savings had gone on the move and in conditioning her department and office. In the meantime, she chose to rent one, something that she had followed on her multiple trips.

She found some congestion when she was already entering Maine due to an accident, and ended up arriving at Chamberlain around two o'clock.

The only thing Lucy had found Was the address of Carrie's house and school. Her first option was to go to school and talk to her principal. However, she really didn't have any right to do it yet, because Carrie was not officially her patient. Right now, she was more a complete stranger from another city that was coming to intervene in a subject that did not concern her. The second option was to go to her house, but she had to be careful to not overstep the line. She drove to the address Lucy had given her on Carlin Street and parked on the opposite sidewalk. The house was white, relatively simple in appearance, even somewhat run-down despite being in a moderately sophisticated neighborhood. The grass in the front yard was slightly overgrown, and in some areas, it had darkened.

Matilda waited in the vehicle for half an hour, maybe a little longer. Carrie was leaving school at three, and if what Lucy had told her was right, she hoped she could see her coming down the street at any moment without delay.

The young reddish-blonde girl appeared just as she expected after twenty-past three. She walked down the street along the sidewalk, apprehensively holding her books, with her backpack on the back and her gaze fixed on the concrete. Matilda recognized her even from a distance. Not by her face or hairstyle, but by her posture and way of walking: always fearful and self-conscious as if she feared that someone was watching and judging her at every step.

Discreetly, Matilda got out of the vehicle, crossed the street, stopped on the sidewalk in front of the house, and waited there. Carrie kept her eyes so low, or perhaps she was so immersed in her own thoughts that she didn't notice her presence until she was close. Then she stopped a few meters from her and looked at her, at first somewhat confused but soon recognized her face, and then she jumped, almost scared, so much that she leaned back a little.

"Dra. Honey?!" The girl exclaimed, stunned. "What are you doing here?"

It was evident that she was not exactly happy to see her. Matilda smiled gently, trying to muffle the mood.

"I'm sorry to appear this way, but I didn't hear from you again."

"How did you know where I live?"

"We have our sources," Matilda replied neutrally. Carrie, for her part, looked at her suspiciously; her arms tightened on her books.

"What do you want?"

"Just keep talking to you. Our talk the other day was a little inconclusive."

"Sorry, I can't talk now," Carrie said hastily and stepped forward to turn her around and head straight for the house. "My mother is about to arrive, and she shouldn't see you here. Please go away."

"Listen, Carrie," Matilda said slowly, like a professor giving a lecture. "I know that right now, you are confused and scared, and the last thing you want is that someone finds out what is happening to you. But, even if it is not with your mother, you need someone to talk and count to cope with what may happen."

Carrie stopped halfway to her door and turned slightly toward Matilda, looking at her with an expression worthy of a frightened little dog. They both looked at each other in silence for a period in which Matilda assumed she was trying to decide how to answer, and she also wanted to give her the time he needed for that. If Carrie was planning to respond something, Matilda wouldn't know because, at that moment, the front door of the house opened wide, causing them both to turn in that direction at the same time with frightened eyes, like two girls who had just be caught in mischief.

"Carrie," the woman blurted out at the door, staring at the girl. She was a tall woman with a strong complexion. Her hair was a shade quite close to Carrie's, and it was styled back and braided. Her eyes were deep, severe, and an almost unreal blue sky. She wore a completely black dress that covered her completely, from the neck to the ankles.

Matilda felt slightly intimidated by that almost ethereal presence standing in the door, which did not take long to actually put her enigmatic eyes on her. Her face was hard and cold. She only remembered meeting a person before with that intensity, almost aggression, in her eyes... and was a person with whom she did not want to cross paths again.

"Mo... mo... mom!" Carrie finally managed to exclaim, after babbling incomprehensibly for a few seconds. "What are you doing here so early...?"

The woman ignored her question entirely. She then descended the steps of the door and walked with a firm run towards them. She passed Carrie aside, stood in front of her, and faced Matilda in a challenging and contemptuous way.

"Who are you?" The woman asked severely.

"Mom, she's already..." Carrie tried to explain something to her, an intense tremor in her voice. The woman in black, however, raised her hand to her at that moment without even looking at her, forcing her to remain silent with that single gesture.

Matilda remained firm to the situation. That woman must be Margaret White. Matilda didn't know she was home. In the time she was waiting in the car, she had not seen her enter. It was not precisely her intention to meet her now, but it was also a possibility she had to face.

"Nice to meet you, Mrs. White," Matilda muttered affably, holding herself in place without taking a step back or forth. "I am Dr. Matilda Honey..."

"Doctor?" Margaret repeated, sounding as if that word was stinging her. "What kind of... doctor? What do you want here?"

"I am a psychiatrist. I came to talk to your daughter..."

"For what?" She interrupted abruptly again.

Matilda looked at Mrs. White for a moment, then turned to look at Carrie's fearful face over her shoulder, who seemed to beg her with her eyes to not say anything. To Matilda, all this brought to mind a distant memory of that night when Miss Honey came to her house, and her parents did not receive her in a friendly way, nor did they pay attention to what she said. Now she was in a very similar situation. Generally, in those two years, she had to go to places where people asked for help, not so much where she had to practically interfere in this way without being invited.

She took a deep breath, stood up straight, and looked at Mrs. White firmly.

"You sure know what happened a few weeks ago in Carrie's locker room at school, right?" Matilda asked normal, and Margaret White stared blankly at her, but not surprised or confused by her words, so she supposed she indeed know. "There is even a video on the internet circulating..."

"Internet," Margaret White snapped, annoyance caught in her throat as she spoke. "That thing is the window of the Dark One. Perversions and sins, all available and at the hand of anyone with a lack of faith, to take it and exult in their rot. But the Lord is our rock, and what happens outside our home will not harm us, especially on... the Internet."

Matilda froze, not sure what to answer to a speech like that. She glanced at Carrie. She looked at the ground in absolute silence.

"Yes, of course," Matilda murmured slowly, making an effort to not sound sarcastic. However, she felt that she had not succeeded. She cleared her throat a little before continuing to speak. "Still, I think it would be a good idea for your daughter to talk to someone. This situation can be tough..."

Margaret White suddenly took a big step forward, her eyes fixed almost wide on Matilda as if she were about to jump and hang her. Then she began to scream wildly.

"No one here needs the help of charlatans alienated from God, who promises to save the body and the mind, at the cost of sacrificing the immortal soul. If my daughter needs to put herself in the hands of someone, it will be only in the hands of God! He is the real way, not supposed doctors, messengers of the Dark One without even knowing it."

Margaret looked her up then down contemptuously as if he saw something disgusting. Matilda wasn't exactly upset, but instead... perplexed. Was what she said real? What distant year did that woman come from? Matilda did not lose her cool. She breathed again through her nose, holding herself back.

"With all due respect, ma'am, but Carrie is almost an adult. She has complete freedom to choose what she believes best."

Margaret hardened her face and leaned back as if she had offended her in the worst way. She then turned a little to her daughter, leaving her in the process again entirely in Matilda's range of vision. The young girl shyly looked up at her mother, submissively.

"Carrie," the woman snapped harshly. "Do you have anything you want to discuss with this... doctor?"

Carrie hesitated. She looked at her mother, looked at the ground, and then shrugged at Matilda.

"Thank you, but I don't need your help, Dra. Honey," Carrie whispered slowly. "Only God's."

Matilda was disappointed, but not surprised. That short and almost surreal conversation gave her a slightly broader picture of what the young girl was dealing with.

"You already heard it," Mrs. White declared harshly. Then she took Carrie by the arm and started pulling her toward the house. The girl followed without much opposition. "Now, get out of my property, or I'll call the police."

Matilda stood in her place, silently watching as they entered the house and then slammed the door behind them roughly. She stood there a few seconds more, stunned, but then started walking towards the vehicle.

Carrie White's situation was much worse than she thought.

— — — —

Matilda spent the afternoon touring Chamberlain and doing a little more research about Carrie and her mother. As is common in small towns, people tend to be kind to strange visitors, but not very forthcoming when it comes to their neighbors' personal issues. Margaret White, however, seemed to have certain particular fame among some locals. They did not hesitate as much to express their opinion about her. They used different words, some more friendly, others quite the opposite. Still, the average seemed to be inclined to consider her too eccentric, too strict with her religious beliefs, even by the standards of a strongly religious person, and too introverted and lonely. She didn't use to interact with almost anyone in town except for the people with whom she worked, and in reality, she did not do much with them either. Some disparagingly described how she spent her time telling everyone that they would go to hell for anything or nothing. Also, Matilda heard about some altercations that had happened, some even that could be classified as violent.

Margaret White was quite a character, saying it in a friendly way. It was impossible not to see how her influence had fallen on Carrie, creating her personality so withdrawn and insecure. In any teenager, that would be a time bomb, but Carrie was not just any teenager; she was something else.

Matilda spent the night right there in Chamberlain at a small inn. She contacted Eleven to inform her about everything she had discovered, and she seemed genuinely puzzled. However, for better or worse, Margaret White was still Carrie's mother, and she was still a minor. There were lines that they couldn't just cross despite her abilities. Matilda knew this, but she suggested trying to make one last approach to Carrie. Even if she couldn't treat her officially or directly without her mother's permission, in a few months, when she turned eighteen, that would no longer be a problem. But it would be important for the young girl to know that when the moment came, there would be someone who would lend her a hand. Eleven agreed, though not without warning her to be careful about what she would do.

Since Carrie's house was totally inappropriate terrain, Matilda had to choose the second-best option: her school.

During one of the breaks that day, Carrie spent hours in the library, reading more books about the subject that occupied her so much and surfing the Internet for the same purpose. Once she was done there, she took three of the books, borrowed them from the librarian, and then headed to her next classroom. She cut her way through the football field, which at that time was totally alone. She was walking a little hastily, her books hugging her tightly because she was late.

"Carrie!" She suddenly heard someone exclaim loudly behind, calling her. Carrie stopped and turned around, confused. Walking along the same path she came from, Matilda Honey approached precisely.

Carrie was startled.

"What are you doing here?!" She exclaimed, almost frightened. "You can't be here!"

"Listen," Matilda began to say calmly as she approached her, "I'm sorry for went to your house like that..."

"You must be sorry!" Carrie reproached her annoyed, and then quickly turned away. "You don't know... the problems it caused me..."

When she turned, her blond hair covered almost her entire face... but not enough. Among all that sea of blond and misaligned curls, Matilda managed to distinguish her reddened cheek and the mark of a recent blow between it and her temple.

"Carrie... did your mother hurt you?"

Matilda made a gesture to want to get closer, but Carrie quickly reacted, backing away to create more distance between them. That reaction seemed quite usual for abused children she had seen in her career. Matilda decided to keep her distance and not somehow trespass her space and make her more uncomfortable than she already was.

"Sorry, I know you think I'm meddling where you don't want me, but you have to understand that I'm trying to help you. Your situation is difficult, and your ability must be controlled before it becomes stronger and more difficult. I can help you..."

"I don't need your help," Carrie interrupted sharply, turning to look at her with overwhelming aggressiveness in her gaze. That was something Matilda had also seen in abused children before. "Just... leave me alone, please."

"Carrie..."

"Go away!"

With no intention of giving her any more opportunity to respond, Carrie turned quickly and began to walk hastily. Her haste was such that her feet failed her, entangling one another and causing her to fall to her knees. Instinctively she dropped the books she brought with her to stop with her hands, and they fell to the ground below her.

Carrie wasn't saying curses out loud, but one had ricocheted off her head right now. She felt no discomfort, but rather shame. Everything went wrong; now, she couldn't even walk without humiliating herself.

She looked at her dirt-covered hands and shook them hard, perhaps more than necessary, between them. She reached out to take one of the books, but when she wanted to do the same with the second... it rose in the blink of an eye.

Carrie froze at the sight of this. What was happening? Was she doing it herself? As she questioned it, she saw how the third book also rose from the floor along with the second. She came to think for an instant that she had lost control, and now those blissful powers were beginning to activate on their own. However, at that moment, both books started to rise higher and then passed over her head. Carrie stared after them, stunned, as they gently approached Matilda's outstretched hands, placing them one above the other.

Matilda smiled and approached her with the books in her hands. She stood directly in front of her and held them out to give them to her. However, Carrie was unable to take them; she just looked at her from below, her eyes filled with confusion and fear... but also quite a lot of admiration.

"You too…?" Carrie murmured, barely audible.

— — — —

Carrie was relatively late for her class, so they were probably not even going to miss her. But also if it hadn't, Matilda's small but meaningful demonstration was enough for Carrie to agree to speak to her again, now without reservation. They went to the bleachers on one side of the field so they could sit down, be comfortable, and talk quietly. They continued totally alone during all that time, so everything was more than perfect.

As they sat there in the sixth row from bottom to top, Matilda began to tell her more about who she was, and what the Foundation she represented really was. It was a speech she had shared with several children before, and that she would even tell Samara Morgan when they first met four years later. Carrie listened attentively, word for word.

"Shining?" The blonde girl exclaimed, somewhat intrigued by the term Matilda had just used in her story.

"It is the name we use internally within the Foundation," the Psychiatrist explained. "The term comes from our founder and teacher. In my case, it started showing up when I was six years old... six and a half years old, actually. My parents…" Matilda's face turned slightly serious at the time. "They weren't perfect... or close. Although, perhaps I am very unfair to them. After all, we had a nice and clean house, and I never lacked food or clothes. They didn't yell or hit me, more than usual or necessary. In fact, I think most of the time, they preferred to pretend I didn't exist. Even so, what affected me the most is that they never understood me... not one little bit. I spent those early years feeling like a freak, caught up with people I had nothing in common with, and for whom I was little more than a hindrance."

Matilda sighed slowly, sat up straight, and tried to clear her mind a little before continuing; Carrie was still watching.

"Everything got better when I started elementary school. Almost at the same time, I started doing this." At that moment, she extended her hand to the side, and from her bag, which she had placed down between her feet, her mobile phone rose, placing itself almost between her fingers. Even though Carrie herself had done similar and even bigger things, it seemed really exciting to see someone else do it too. "It took me a while to understand it, but I did it with a little practice. Not long after, my parents had to flee the country because of my father's dirty business. I stayed in my hometown, and I was adopted by my then school teacher. She is the sweetest, most charming, and exceptional woman I have ever had the good fortune to come across. My life was much happier since then, and it also allowed me to further develop my skills. As it grew, they became stronger and stronger. I was delighted with that…" Again, a marked seriousness appeared in his face. "Until I was thirteen. I was in my last year of high school..."

"Wait... At thirteen?" Carrie questioned, believing that maybe it had been some kind of mistake. But it was not like that. Matilda smiled at her in amusement and smoothed back her hair, already a little uncomfortable with the occasional blowing wind.

"I skipped a few years," she replied naturally. "The thing is, at that time, it was as if my skills had taken an exponential leap overnight. They started shooting uncontrollably, and the more scared or worried I got, the worse it was. It was like a destructive traveling time bomb."

"Could that happen to me?" Carrie inquired with interest, although she didn't exactly sound too worried about it.

"Probably, but don't panic. When it happened to me, my mother... my adoptive mother, I mean, looked for someone who could help me. And that's when I met Eleven."

"Eleven? Like the name of the Foundation?"

Matilda laughed a little.

"Obviously, not her real name, but it's how everyone calls her. She taught me to control myself, to keep my abilities calm, and to awaken them only when necessary. She doesn't like to be called that, but she was like my teacher back then. Like my Yoda or my Obi-Wan."

Carrie stared at her at the moment, not understanding.

"From Star Wars?" Matilda added, trying to clarify her reference, but Carrie kept looking at her the same way. "Never mind. What I'm trying to say is that maybe I didn't go through a situation exactly like yours. Still, I know what it's like to suddenly have these skills, and feel the excitement, the joy, but also the fear and confusion. Eleven helped me a lot to understand what was happening to me and how to control it, and I can do the same for you, Carrie. I have helped others like you before, and… I feel something special about you. The fact that your ability has manifested itself at an already more mature age, it might seem like a disadvantage. Still, it could be the opposite at the same time with the proper routing. Especially if you have someone who can teach and guide you. If you wish, of course."

The blonde girl under her gaze, somewhat shy and thoughtful. Her curly hair fell over her face, almost hiding it entirely in that reddish-blond suitcase, and her fingers intertwined and moved nervously on the skirt of her dress.

"I would love that, you don't know how much," she murmured slowly, with a small trace of a smile on his lips. "But... I don't have much money, and neither does my mother. And even if she did, she would never support me in something like this. You already met her, she wouldn't take this well if she found out."

"I don't do this for money, Carrie," Matilda informed her gently, but that didn't cause the girl to lift her face from his new one.

Matilda was silent, analyzing the possibilities. Having her mother really seemed like a lost cause. However, she would soon be eighteen, and at that point, whatever her mother wanted or didn't want, she only went as far as Carrie could tolerate. But if she dared, the ways to help her expanded significantly.

"Tell me one thing, what will you do once you graduate?" Matilda asked curiously. "Have you already thought about a university?"

Carrie laughed a little, ironically.

"No, not really," she murmured in a muffled voice. "University is for people who have the qualifications, the money, or the sufficient support of their parents... And I don't have any of the three things." She shrugged then and smiled a little forced at her. "I was planning to stay here, maybe work with my mother, or something else. There are not many other options for me, actually."

"Perhaps there are more than you think," Matilda pointed out with some intrigue. "Would you like to work with me in my office?"

Carrie stared at her, totally stunned.

"As my assistant and receptionist," added the brunette. "I would pay you for your help, obviously. I would teach you how to use your skills, and maybe you can study something else that interests you. And perhaps eventually apply for a scholarship from the Foundation, if you work hard enough."

Carrie couldn't get out of her amazement and confusion. Her lips parted a little intending to say something, but for a few seconds, no sound came from her. It was as if it was difficult for her to process the right words.

"Do you want to hire me as your assistant?" She murmured incredulously. "But... why would you want to do that? I'm not good at almost anything, I don't even know how to use a computer. I would be more of a hindrance than a help ..."

"I think you are much smarter and brighter than you think, Carrie. Those of us who shine are usually so. And I'm not saying it out of self-centeredness." She leaned toward her slightly, not invading her personal space too much, just enough to see her in front of her eyes. "But think about this: you have never used a computer, or left your city. But when you set your mind to it, you were able to find me and reach me. Have you not thought about what other things you would be able to do if you wanted to?"

Carrie averted her gaze as if Matilda's eyes somehow intimidated her. Then she looked down at her feet, somewhat thoughtful and doubtful.

"Listen," Matilda continued in a more serious tone, "I know I am a complete stranger, who perhaps has already crossed the professional line enough with all this. You have every right to mistrust me. But, if I can be honest with you, I really think you are an exceptional person, Carrie… even if you have a mother and classmates, who don't always appreciate you right now." Carrie raised her face slightly towards her at those moments. Matilda took the opportunity to smile at her as gently as possible, just as Jennifer Honey smiled at that little girl of six years old, long time ago. "But one day, things are gonna be very different."

Carrie, perhaps unconsciously, returned the smile, just as Matilda herself surely did to her somewhat naive elementary school teacher.

"I appreciate it, Dr. Honey," replied the young woman, still somewhat shrunken. "But I don't think I can leave my mother and go to Boston. It wouldn't be... the right thing to do."

"I know it looks that way at the moment. But sooner or later, you will have to make your own decisions and decide your own path. Although for this you have to go against your mother's wishes. In a few months, you will come of age. When that time comes, you will be legally free to take the path that suits you best."

Sure, she said it easy, but it wasn't as simple as that. There were adults of much older age who still could not completely detach themselves from their parents, the younger ones have even more reason, and also the children already near the age of majority. And especially if they had a mother like Margaret White.

Either way, Matilda was convinced that she had given her plenty to think about by now, and she shouldn't weigh her down anymore. She looked at her phone, which was still in her hands after taking it out of her bag with her powers, and turned on the screen for a second to see the time.

"I think I have to go," she said suddenly, standing up from the bleachers and putting her bag on her shoulder.

Carrie looked at her from her seat, almost worried.

"Already?"

"Yes, I must return to Boston before it is done later. Why don't you give me your cell number or email? This way, we can communicate more easily, and without disturbing your mother."

"I... I don't have a cell phone... or email ..." she replied shyly.

"Sure, I thought so."

Matilda rechecked the inside of her bag and took out a few moments later, another cell phone. This one looked smaller and older than the one she used regularly and held it out to the young woman in front of her.

"Here, it's yours."

"What?" Carrie exclaimed, almost frightened when she saw the device in front of her. "No, no, I can't..."

"Of course you can, it's my emergency phone. It is old, but it works. It already has my number saved and everything."

Carrie looked apprehensively at the phone and slowly raised her hands to it, holding it between her fingers as if it were the most delicate piece of crafts in the world. She held it in front of her face and stared at herself reflected in the dark surface of the dim screen, like a mirror made of black glass.

"If you need anything, just send me a message," the brunette said, drawing her out of her fascination. "And by the way, you can just call me Matilda. Agree?"

Before Carrie answered, she started to walk toward the stairs and then carefully down the stairs. Carrie followed her with her gaze.

"I hope we can see each other soon, and it won't be until your next birthday. Think about my proposal without pressure."

"Yes, I will," Carrie exclaimed with slight force, hoping she could hear her.

Carrie kept watching it go down until she reached the field again. Once there, Matilda turned to her and said goodbye with a casual wave of her hands, which Carrie answered, although not so effusively. Matilda immediately made her way to the main building. When she was no longer in Carrie's range of vision, Carrie stared silently at the phone between her fingers. She would spend several minutes there, almost half an hour, thinking about everything that this talk meant, or could mean.

Inevitably, she had to stand up and set off so as not to miss another class. Although, at that time, the classes didn't really matter to her.

****

Four years later, in the courtyard of the Eola Psychiatric Hospital, Matilda would perfectly remember all those few, although very significant, conversations she had with that girl. She would remember her face, her voice, her trembling eyes, and her shy smile. But above all, she would remember her horrible final image, which would remain forever tattooed in her memory since that horrendous night of May 25...

At that moment, the phone she was holding in her hands began to tremble and then to ring with significant force, since she was holding it very close to her face. This alarmed her. At first, by the sudden and drastic way in which it had broken the absolute silence in which she had hovered, and then by the fact that such a phone was not supposed to even be able to be switched on. It wasn't as bad as she really thought it was? As it was, he wouldn't question it much at the time.

She took a look at the screen, and although it seemed to be a little affected because it was somewhat diffuse, she did manage to see the name of the person who was calling: Jane Wheeler, as if it were some kind of cruel joke of fate... or surely it was something quite different from destiny. She debated with herself for a few moments whether to answer or not, but in the end, the answer seemed more than obvious. No matter what, she really needed to talk to Eleven right now, and maybe that's why she was calling her.

Matilda accepted the call and placed the phone to the side of her right ear, while with the opposite hand, she clutched her aching head a little.

"Do you fix telephones remotely now?" She murmured in a tone too serious to be joking."

"You were thinking about Carrie, right?" The voice of her mentor on the other end of the line questioned her bluntly. "Cole shouldn't have told you that. I understand what he wanted to do, but he shouldn't have done it that way. I'm sorry."

Matilda laughed a little inside. At this point, no one questioned how Eleven knew anything; you always had to take it for granted that she might be seeing you right now, which could be a little scary at times.

"You're ok?" Eleven asked quietly. Matilda sighed and leaned her body forward, almost as if she wanted to hide her head between her thighs.

"No... I'm not ok," she answered in a heavy voice. "Her mother and her classmates made that girl's life hell. But I... I did something much worse to her, something much crueler..."

There was a second of silence, and then Eleven took it upon herself to finish his statement:

"You gave her hope."

Hope, that which managed to move so many, but in the end, could also make others fall so hard. Matilda took a deep breath and allowed herself to close her eyes slightly, thoughtful.

"And now, I'm doing it again with Samara..."

END OF CHAPTER 25

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

—As with Carrie, Margaret White's portrayal will be primarily based on Carrie's 2013 film version, with some aspects of Stephen King's original novel.

—For the moment, the story of Carrie and Matilda will stay here to resume the plot of the present in the next chapter. But don't worry, everything else that happened back then will be revealed in the story progresses in later chapters.

#Matilda Wormwood #matilda #carrie white #margaret white #carrie #eleven #jane eleven hopper #stranger things #shining among darkness #resplandor entre tinieblas #fanfic #wingzemonx

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jjkmagic · 5 years

Text

Happy Days - Dramatical Murder Fic

Title: Happy Days

Pairing: Mink/Clear Rating: G

Word Count: 2475 Summary: When the Oval Tower collapsed Clear felt uneasy. He didn’t exactly understand why, and he didn’t expect it would be Mink who stayed behind and helped him figure it out. Clear also didn’t expect that this day would mark the beginning of the happiest time of his life. Tags: Fluff, Family Feels, Mink has a little son and Clear absolutely adores him. A/N: It’s been ages, but I promised one lucky person who supported me by filling out my bachelor thesis survey a little request fic. The moment I first read that request I knew this was going to be a challenge. I have never written a family fic before. I have never written Mink/Clear before! It’s honestly a pairing I never even considered lol I’m sorry, it’s so short despite the eternity it took me to write it! This is for @qinsei! I hope you enjoy, even if it isn’t exactly as you described xD

Happy Days

They had accomplished what they had set out to do.

Everyone was eager to return to their homes in Midorijima, but they couldn’t help one last look upon the remains of the Oval Tower, as if needing to convince themselves of the fact that it was really over, that the people were free of Toue’s reign.

There was no trace of Toue himself, or the people who had worked for him. Even if some had survived the fall, it was unlikely they would ever return.

Satisfied with what they saw Aoba and most of the group left, only Clear’s gaze remained transfixed on the tower’s ruins. There was a… feeling within him that he could not place. He had worked with the others towards a common goal, and yet the view presented to him left him feeling unsatisfied, unsettled even, and he remained frozen to the spot.

Clear thought he was alone until a shadow fell over him as Mink stepped up to stand next to him. In any other situation Clear would use the moment to voice his amazement at how tall the man was, blocking the sun like that, but for some reason his throat constricted and no words were forthcoming.

Silence reigned and Clear expected Mink to leave at any moment, but he didn’t. After an undetermined amount of time Mink spoke up: “You helped free these people.”

There was no hint of emotion in his words that would make it easier for Clear to understand why he chose to say that. Confused he could only look up at the other man instead.

He could see Mink watching him out of the corner of his eyes, but he didn’t turn to look at Clear directly.

There was a pause in which silence settled over them once more. Clear watched the minute changes of Mink’s expression, realizing that the other man was thinking about something, though Clear had no idea what it might be.

After a while Mink straightened, not looking at Clear at all as he voiced his next words, words so sudden and unexpected they froze Clear to his core: “Don’t you think it’s time for you to be free as well?”

The words processed in his mind, but they made no sense to him, or rather there was so much they could possibly mean that Clear had no idea what the most fitting response here was supposed to be.

‘I don’t understand. I am free.’

But the words vanished before they could ever leave his mouth.

He shook his head inwardly. There was no way Mink could know what was going on inside Clear’s mind right now, what unsettled him so that he found himself incapable of leaving the Oval Tower behind him for good. Clear had held steadfast onto his grandfather’s words. No one knew because no one was allowed to know.

Realizing he would get no response Mink continued: “There is no one left to stop you, no one left to judge.”

There was no response in his mind, and yet his mouth opened, unprompted.

“I…” His voice quavered on that single syllable. “I was told I should never…”

“Who’s telling you that now?”

Clear paused, his eyes wide, though his mask hid his surprise from the world.

Mink wasn’t looking at him, wasn’t judging his reaction, his weakness. Instead he continued speaking calmly: “The evil haunting this island has vanished. The people are rejoicing. You should join them.”

“I…” Again, he did not get past that word without his voice abandoning him. “Is that really okay?”

Mink shrugged noncommittally.

“It’s up to you.”

Clear hesitated. Being offered a choice was new to him. He had always been free in a sense, free to go and do as he pleased. And yet, even without the “power” forcing him, he had always chosen to follow instructions rather than to deviate from them. When it came to his grandfather and Aoba he had known that they always meant well, so following them came naturally to him. He liked listening to them, to help them or even to make them happy.

But Mink was right. Clear’s grandfather had fled to escape Toue and passing away he had told Clear to stay hidden because he was different, recognizable.

But that didn’t hold true anymore, did it?

On the other hand it had never felt much like a restriction before, not until this very moment, when he was suddenly offered a choice.

“And if I wanted to…?”

Mink only offered another shrug, not commenting on the way Clear’s voice trembled.

“As I said: no one’s here to judge.”

Clear wavered. Could it really be that easy?

“O-okay…” he managed to say and somehow Mink’s nonchalance about the whole matter actually did make it okay, enough so that Clear slowly reached up to the clasp holding his mask in place.

Mink turned slightly toward him, but that remained the only indication that he was curious. His face remained carefully blank.

Clear’s fingers shook, about to falter in his decision. Clear took one deep breath and pulled the clasp open. He felt the mask come loose and reached up to lower it slowly, its weight multiplying in his hands the more of his face was revealed.

He clutched onto the mask until his fingers hurt, too afraid to open his eyes for what felt like hours but was probably only a few seconds. When he did open them the world suddenly seemed too bright and too much to bear, so he averted his eyes, turning to Mink instead.

Mink looked at him for only a moment with an expression of surprise on his face before quickly looking away, mumbling something incomprehensible. At least it would have been if Clear’s enhanced hearing didn’t allow him to understand every single word as it was muttered in exasperation: “Of course he wears a mask to hide his stupid face…”

Pain registered in Clear’s mind, though he was certain that he had not suffered any physical damage.

“It is… stupid…?”

His grandfather had said that it was different. Was that what he had meant?

Mink visibly tensed at having been heard and sighed exasperatedly, suddenly looking like this was the most unpleasant conversation he had ever been a part of. Doing his hardest to look anywhere but at Clear he added quietly: “Stupidly beautiful.”

Clear looked up startled, not sure if he had heard right. Mink wasn’t looking at him, but the faintest hint of red on his cheeks - possibly invisible to the human eye - told Clear more than thousand words might.

Clear returned to gaze at the ruins, a wide smile spreading on his lips, one he could not have refrained from even if he had wanted, and for the first time it was there for the whole world to see. It was only fitting, he thought, for this was probably the happiest day of his life.

- - -

Happy days continued to grace Clear’s life from that day on.

How else would it be possible that just a short twelve months later he was sitting in a lovely home with a little boy in his lap chattering happily about his daily adventures while Mink was in the kitchen working on dinner.

Naga was the light of his life: a beautiful boy of six years, always curious but well-behaved. The latter was definitely more Mink’s influence than Clear’s who didn’t even need convincing to talk and play all day long. It was so easy when every moment Naga was smiling Clear was hopelessly delighted as well.

Life was beautiful, life was perfect, in Clear’s eyes anyway.

“I saw a puppy on the way home! It was so cute! Hey, can I have a puppy, too, daddy?”

Even though the boy was still excitedly talking to Clear, he was clever enough to direct that question towards the kitchen from where Mink had just emerged.

Mink’s face remained carefully neutral, even though Clear was sure the question came as a surprise. This definitely was the first time Clear heard of the little boy wanting a pet.

“If you prove that you can take care of it, we can talk about it.”

“Really?” Naga’s eyes were as wide as saucers, still Mink remained earnest.

“Now go wash your hands, dinner is ready.”

“Yes, daddy!” Naga said quickly, dashing off Clear’s lap and down the hall, clearly motivated to prove that he could behave himself.

Mink sighed quietly once he was out of sight.

“We can have a puppy?” Clear asked, eyes probably just as wide as the little boy’s.

Mink looked at him, clearly exasperated.

“A pet isn’t a toy, it’s a lesson in taking responsibility,” he explained.

“And they are fluffy!” Clear added happily.

He still clearly remembered just how wonderfully fluffy Ren had been, though he also remembered that one evil dog that kept barking at him in Midorijima. He tried to forget about that in favor of being excited at the prospect of an own little puppy.

Mink sighed.

“Remind me that I will have to take care of it if Naga turns out to be too young for a pet.”

“But you don’t think that,” Clear said.

Mink was never one for empty words. If he said he would consider it then he already had good enough reason to think it would work.

“He’s a good boy, despite your influence.”

Clear’s eyes widened.

“That’s just mean, Mink-san!” he said pouting.

There was the faintest upturn to Mink’s lips, the man’s version of a soft smile.

“You also take good care of him, so I’m willing to overlook that,” he said, and had that been a joke…?

Clear’s surprise quickly melted into a smile of his own. Obviously Mink was in a good mood, and that simple fact was enough to make Clear happy, too.

- - -

Dinner was never a quiet affair in their little family. Naga was well-behaved, but he was also incredibly energetic and loved to talk, often much to Mink’s chagrin.

Once, just once, Mink had confided that he wished he knew how to handle the boy better. He didn’t want to seem cold, least of all to his son, but he was simply a quiet person by nature. Back with his gang “Scratch” his calm, commanding presence had been the only thing keeping everyone in line. Authority was important in a family, too, but so was trust and the ability to talk freely with each other. Mink wanted to provide that, but he wasn’t sure if he could.

Clear on the other hand, listening to Mink’s worries, couldn’t think of anything but Naga’s wide, excited eyes, about how much the boy loved and admired his father. So Clear had only laughed softly, and told him that there was nothing to worry about. Naga understood what his father was like, and that Mink seeming reserved at times didn’t mean that loved his son any less.

“Daddy?” Naga asked.

Mink looked up from his almost empty plate.

Clear and Naga had been keeping the conversation going when Mink had eventually withdrawn from it after a while. It seemed like a miracle that they both still managed to empty their plates before Mink did.

“What is it?”

The little boy’s gaze was fixed on the table, clearly hesitant to voice whatever was on his mind.

“Our teacher said there’s going to be a festival soon… can we go see it?” he asked, looking up with hopeful eyes.

Naga knew exactly that his father wasn’t a fan of any boisterous events that involved lots of people, and was thus visibly hesitant to even ask.

Mink threw a glance at Clear, looking as calm as ever, but Clear had learned to read the other man, and recognized the glance as a request for help.

“I’m sure Clear would love to go with you,” he said.

Naga clearly contemplated those words, shyly looking at the table once more.

“I know that,” he said, “I just… wanted all of us to go, together.”

Clear loved the little boy more than anything, there was no way he would be able to refuse a request like that, and even Mink seemed to deflate at those words, even if he still didn’t like the idea of visiting a festival.

He sighed.

“I’m sure we’ll find a day where we can go together then.”

“Really? Thank you, daddy!”

With that Naga got up and walked around the table to hug his father. Mink smiled, his hand coming to rest on his son’s back. It seemed almost massive compared to the little boy.

Naga pulled away after a moment, grinning broadly.

“I’ll go wash and go to bed now. Don’t stay up too late!” he declared before dashing off.

The boy really was too good for this world, and even Clear had to admit that there was no way that Naga had his manners from him.

“You said I was spoiling him yesterday,” Clear said cheekily, grinning at Mink.

There was the faintest hint of red on Mink’s cheeks that he hid behind his usual serious facade.

“I see no reason to deny him such an earnest request. It’s not like we go out together often,” Mink said, always the voice of reason.

He watched Clear’s continued grin in exasperation before he sighed. Clear looked at him curiously as Mink got up to approach Clear’s side of table.

Clear blinked at him as Mink leaned down, his tall form all but looming over him, and pressed a quick little kiss to his lips. Clear’s eyes widened, casual affection was such a rare thing coming from his partner, but when he finally found his voice again, Mink had already returned to his seat.

Mink smirked at him.

“You would better hurry. Don’t tell me you’ll let him go to bed without a lullaby.”

Clear just stared at him. Of course he wanted to put his little boy to bed, but he also wanted to figure out the reason for Mink’s rare, affectionate mood, if there even was one, but Naga-

Clear pushed back his chair and got up.

“I’ll be right back. Wait for me, Mink-san,” he said, hoping he would get the chance to do both as he hurried down the hall to the boy’s room.

As he did so he heard Mink chuckling, another, oh so rare thing, and Clear couldn’t help smiling.

In the end it probably didn’t matter. Clear was in no rush.

Mink and Naga would still be here tomorrow, and the day after, and hopefully far into the future.

With them at his side many more happy days were waiting for Clear. That alone brought a bright smile to his face as he sat down to sing for his little boy: a lullaby about a tower and how its fall had brightened the world. - - - - - - - - - - - The request actually had them visiting the festival as well but… that would have turned into a massive fic xD It’s already much longer than expected, oops. If you enjoyed it regardless, reblog and/or leave a like^^ I’ll also “kind of” open commissions soon, so if you want a fic like this and challenge me with pairings I have never written before (xD) follow or message me for updates on that^^

#DRAMAtical murder #DMMd #mink #Clear #fanfiction #jjkmagic #qinsei

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abundantchewtoys · 5 years

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HS Epilogues, Meat p26 reaction

Well, we unexpectedly went on a little hiatus there, in our liveblogging. It's just one of those things you got to find time for doing, you know?

So, last time in Homestuck Epilogues, Dirk was present for Rose's ascension into omniscience. Although he did state he still had a manner of control over her, and was going to do something to anchor her to her living body. So, you know, they're not on equal footing just yet, in part because Dirk hasn't relinquished control of the narration to her.

I hope the POV switches to John again, but since we just had a page from his perspective, it might be going back to Kanaya? Or Roxy, but Dirk might not want to spent more time around her "unfathomable" mind than is necessary for the plot to advance. It's not something you'd relish, as a supposedly omniscient narrator.

---

"Jade kicks her shoeless feet behind her slowly, as if she’s swimming with the current of the gravitational waves pulling her ever closer to their source." Oh! I didn't think we'd see her again, at least in the Furthest Ring. Thought the Black Hole had already swallowed her up. Though maybe as a Space player, and one with a connection to a seven-year-more-experienced version of herself located outside of canon and thus with more guaranteed conditional immortality than normal, she might be able to... resist getting thorn to pieces, as she crosses the event horizon? Unlike, presumably, every other being sucked into this thing.

"the ruby slippers are gone. She kicked them off hours ago, as if to jettison all hope of returning anywhere resembling a place she used to call home. The fond remembrance of such a place no longer has any pull on her.

Now, something else entirely is pulling her." Welp, guess the Black Hole is kind of hypnotic, ain't it? Or maybe it's Alt Calliope's strong personality.

"Believe me, I’m sympathetic to the temptation. It’s always just there, isn’t it?" To jump into the void? I don't think it's ALWAYS there for everyone Dirk, but thanks for the unique perspective into how your mind functions.

"There’s something about being alone for so long, it makes time feel like it doesn’t exist. She knows this almost better than I do." ... Yes, well, Lonely Jade did, and it seems as if she might have taken over, or melded with, Reload Jade? So yeah, her three years of isolation would indeed have given her some inkling of the feeling of loneliness that Dirk and the cherubs must have experienced, being physically alone all their life. ... Right, of course her childhood on Hellmurder Island would have also done that regardless.

"Jade also knows well enough by now that time doesn’t actually exist in a literal sense, the way we generally understand it. It’s just one aspect of many, and the complement of her own, Space. It therefore can be neutralized by the introduction of her essence. Reduced to white noise or soft light. The continuum of time is therefore demonstrably an illusion. The field of sequential moments and physical conditions that stretch on and on, resulting in the mirage of loneliness, is pure projection from disproportionate attention given to a single side of one cosmic, polar pair of ideas: time." Ah yes, aspect exposition time! To quote the swamp bender: "Time is an illusion", huh? We're going that route? Well, sure, but for most people a rather convincing one, no matter what your Aspect is. Though it would be interesting to see what "disproportionate attention" given to Space would result in... Despite a ravenous Black Hole consuming an entire realm, I guess.

"It’s my way of saying, and thereby alerting her mind to what she already knows, that this feeling of all-consuming solitude and despair haunting her since childhood—it’s in her head." Like, I can only root for Dirk in trying to save Jade from whatever Calliope has cooked up, but he's still manipulating her for his own purposes.

"The ticking of time is a little contrivance in her mind as a byproduct of imbalance, of the vast disparity between her limited self and her Ultimate Self." So, what, his past is as real to Dirk right now as his present and future?

"It lives rent free there the way Dave once did, and for this version of Jade, probably still does." Funny how that points to this still being Reload Jade more than post-canon Jade.

"Maybe Dave broke her heart a little, and he keeps doing it too, no matter how many different timelines they try out." Okay, see? This applies to post-canon Jade! It seems to swing around from moment to moment, the direction the narration points into. Though, I guess post-canon Jade might really benefit from absorbing her pre-retcon selves memories regarding her relationship with Davesprite, to assess how to go about handling Dave on Earth C.

"She slips closer to the event horizon, still making no effort to impede her descent. My persuasion skills are admittedly a little rusty. Bear with me here." So very rusty, so very unused recently. :P But yeah, she's different from Rose AND John, so he'll need a different approach.

"In my experience, there’s something about being alone that can take a person’s limited meat-engine and make it imagine that it can see beyond the confines of its own electrical processes. Make it believe that it is ascending to a place where it can see the four dimensions spread out beneath it like a set of windows." Is he... paraphrasing Jade's current mindset? Or his own, isolated on B2 Earth? Sounds also as if he's describing a medidative monk, kind of.

"Like sheet music. Like a garden, where Jade used to spend so much of her time with her hands in the earth and her head in the clouds, dreaming about flowers that bloomed in six colors and grew when she played them a song. Was that real? It’s hard to tell. But it made her happy, didn’t it?

Isn’t that what she needs now?" Ooh, so he's trying to persuade her to turn around by getting inside her head and trying to figure out what made her most happy. Being omniscient, he might just have a hard time distinguishing the important bits from the trash? He seemed to describe it in such a way, as if Jade might sometimes have been daydreaming in a way it overlapped with dreaming on Prospit! And so, she might have created a space for her dreamself that didn't stick to the confines of the dreamroom.

"Isn’t it reasonable to presume that’s the only thing capable of persuading her to slow her descent—to being invited to imagine, fake or otherwise, that which once made her happy? That which could still make her happy, if only she’d slow down, think about it, and do whatever is necessary to place herself in those surroundings again?" So, he's trying to shake her out of it by thinking happy thoughts. :P

"It’s possible that manning the other end of a suicide hotline, transmitted through pure thought in a metatextual format, may not actually be my true calling." (He actually kind of sucks at this.)

"I’m doing my goddamned best here. She just isn’t slowing down, for some incomprehensible reason." So, uh, what's stopping you from pulling a John and just, like forcefully move her thoughts to where you want them?

"Perhaps my touch is too soft. It wouldn’t be the first time." Said no one ever that ever knew you. :P

"Perhaps the limits of persuasion itself are being tested by the most powerful gravitational force to ever exist?" Now that'd be something! That a pure manifestation of an Aspect could overcome narrators of omniscient inclination.

"Or perhaps it’s true that insistence is just the more effective half of persuasion.

So I’m insisting now." Took him long enough.

"Jade Harley will not go into that hole. She does NOT want us to all to see what happens when she unsettles the spirit residing there." So Dirk also seems to be convinced she's survive? Or maybe he thinks that, adding her to the matter inside the Black Hole, would upset some kind of balance.

Basically, he's like: "No, Alice, don't go into the rabbit hole!" and "No, Dorothy, don't look behind the green curtain at the wizard residing there!"

"she does, though." OOOOOOoooooohhhhhh!!!! Battle of the narrators!

Guess Alt Calliope's eon-long isolation, coupled with her Spacey thing, gave her the same powers as Dirk's. So that answers the question whether ghosts can grow into an Ultimate Self! It has interesting implications regarding Aranea and (Vriska), for one!

"Fucking yikes.

Jade throws on the brakes. I say she does. But by now, the gravity is overwhelming. Is she even trying to resist, or is it just that it’s useless to try? I’m not... I’m not sure I can tell?" Wow, yeah, so here we see what happens when Dirk encounters another narrative force of equal or greater power. He loses the ability to discern everything. But Alt Calliope remains eerily silent, only 2 comments from her so far.

"Jade realizes, preferably before it’s too late, that this is fucking serious. She needs to turn this around. She doesn’t want this. She doesn’t want to die.

she wants to return to me." ...? Eh? Does Alt Calliope see herself as THE Self now, devouring all other beings into some sort of hivemind gestalt? Or does she refer to the time Jade (either version) spent with Calliope (either version)? Seems a bit stupid if she'd mean that. On the other hand, it might be a childish response, a desire for affection so deeply rooted into the main Calliope, that Alt Calliope during her ascension absorbed it.

"All right, I’m done messing around.

YOUR name is Jade Harley. YOU decide, right now, that you do not want to die. You resist the pull of the black hole with all your might. What would killing yourself accomplish? Sure, most of your friends are dead. But John is still looking for you. Do you want to let him down? Do you want to crush his soul? Do you have any appreciation for what he’s going through, Jade? He can take you home. To your new home, Earth C. The home I made for you, Jade. Your friends are all there, alive and well. Rose, Dave, Karkat, slutty adult Jade, Jane, Jake, Roxy, me. You wouldn’t want to disappoint them. You wouldn’t want to disappoint me, would you, Jade?" Well then!! Pffff, I didn't think a Strider could ever evocate "Stern Fatherly Disapproval" like Dad Egbert/Crocker can, but here we are. Let's just skim the implications of taking a teen Jade back to Earth C to live with adult versions of her friends, as well as Dirk's less than gentle tone here, and agree that her survival is definitely desirable, just cuz IT'S ABOUT HER, SURVIVING.

Still, you have to wonder what Dirk's ultimate plans for her are. I'm starting to doubt he'll be successful, though.

"You’re close now, to the ceiling of the cancerous deformity. Too close. Just skimming the edge of this thing’s vicious horizon." It's like he's describing the event horizon as a quantum vacuum decay, which for all we know in science, it just might be.

"You dip your toes through the place where the singularity is snapping everything apart at the seams. It’s so loud that it’s completely silent. You can already feel yourself stretched thin, distorted, pulled out with your descent elongated for all eternity." I suppose there's no one suited for pulling her out at the last second, is there? No chance for Davepeta to make a last-moment re-entry into the epilogues.

Blaperile points out something significant to me: Dirk has attributed Jade the "you"-ness factor! It would be cool to have Jade come on par with John in the epilogues, but I doubt it'll last past this page.

"When you look down, the stripes of your witchy tights go on and on for miles. Please, Jade. Don’t ever say I didn’t try to stop this.

she closes her eyes and lets go." Is... Alt Calliope going to take over the narration for a bit here, on the next page?

We have three potential candidates for taking up narration at this point - and no sight of Andrew Hussie, the author avatar, who could have been a fourth.

Welp. Now Jade's really gone. I have to wonder what this means for post-canon Jade, who fell unconscious with the sight of the Black Hole seared into her eyes. It can't have been a pleasant thing that happened to her, there. I just hope Alt Calliope hasn't taken over her body like a true puppeteer, giving Dirk a run for his money.

#homestuck #homestuck epilogues #homestuck liveblog #upd8 #reaction #spoiler alert #jade harley #dirk strider #alternate calliope

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anearthstruckalien · 5 years

Text

[ It doesn’t take long for the Psion to arrive back on Earth where it (fortunately) remained in as stable a state as when he had left it. The humans still go about their daily lives. The plants still grow as best as they could in their respective environments. And Mt. Itoi lay as silent, desolate, and undisturbed as ever, its internal facilities included. There’s almost a sense of a strange kind of peace—relief he suspects—upon seeing that everything is as he left it… –that nothing had occurred in his absence and that leaving it be is indeed what’s best for the Earth and all life on it. A nod to himself as a singular dark blue void sharply peers at the entrance (the one through the lost underworld) into The Place That Time Forgot where a barrier (disguised as a closed wall of the cave system) is currently blocking entry. Yes it is indeed better this way. This is how it should have been from the very beginning. And it is precisely why as soon as he arrived on Mt. Itoi and made arrangements to temporarily settle in the location… no time had been wasted in teleporting out to complete the task he had come back here to complete. A pale hand clenches for one tense moment before the Psion simply… brushes it aside by the force of his will and promptly walks right through the barrier and into the cave; he is registered as an authorized person to it after all.

Instantaneously (and before he can even get a proper look at the altered visuals) he can sense that it is different than it had been the last time. Something about it had changed. Perhaps it had been after he eradicated the part of its after-image that the machine (likely a tool again by now as per what may as well be its inevitable fate) had been infected with. Perhaps it had expected for him to come back and prepared accordingly. No longer was its eerie and menacing nature so vaguely threatening. Now it was obvious from the way it seemed like nothing but an overwhelming void darkness comprised it to the sole visual amidst the darkness being that of the path which itself was a sickly-looking grey lined with feverish red cracks atop its surface, likely surface-level features given the relative stability of the pathway itself. He knows where it leads. A few steps along its predetermined twists and turns confirmed it long before he (in a slow yet measured way) eventually reaches the intended destination, where the final battle had occurred during the second invasion of Earth. There’s no turning back now. Not with such an important task to complete. It doesn’t matter how bothersome that nightmarish buzzing at the edges of his mind (slowly built up over the course of his moderate journey) is starting to become. He must do this.

A pale hand reaches up to gently rub at the side of his head as though it would resolve the issue, but he well knows by now that such an effort was rather futile. It’s something of a habit by this point in time, one that is only concluded by a brief shake of the head and then focuses on getting into a proper state of mind for prayers. This must be destroyed. So that no one else gets caught up in it again. So that no one else is made to pointlessly suffer as a result. Something is different here. This means that he must remain vigilant and so, while he does close his eye and direct a majority of his focus onto prayers, the remainder of his attention remains on the surroundings. Something is bound to happen soon. He knows it. Why else would everything look so meticulously prepared…? A deep inhalation of breath, a pause to hold it as though pouring all his tenseness into it, and then a subsequent exhalation and with it, the tension it had absorbed. Then a repeat of the motion. And another. And yet another… only for something to abruptly (about as quickly as one would expect for pure energy or some kind of phantom to move) smash into something invisible about his form (evidently he had shielded himself prior to entering the cave) and cause it to fall apart at once.

His eye snaps open anew. There it is. And in response to this, a much stronger shield is put back up about his form, psionic energy shining a pale blue in the form of something protective before seemingly disappearing; the shield is in-place once again, it’s merely invisible. The force itself is as vague and incomprehensible in form (enough that it’s impossible to describe beyond the fleeting sensation of a reddish tinge) as the powers its source material possesses, but no less dangerous. Even though it is a mere after-image it still holds power and that power alone… that capacity to harm is why it must be obliterated as soon as is possible. That comes with prayers and thus is why the focus should be on blocking while concurrently looking for (or otherwise creating) the best opportunity to counter with prayers. As such, this is what the Psion resolves to do… but just as that human saying goes, ‘easier said than done’ because that corrupted after-image is persistent to say the least. Persistent and powerful. Not only does it mercilessly smash against his shields with unfathomable force (his own strength and force, but even greater in nature) but it leaves very little periods of rest in-between its attacks. Any opportunity that seems to present itself for prayers is quickly eradicated before anything can successfully be done. And though the Psion himself could stand to be a little faster, there is some inevitable degree of difficulty (even with the technology to ease off mental strain of PSI usage) of being any faster than he is now because he can feel that same horrifying and nightmarish buzzing alternating in volume and attempting to dig its claws deeper into his inherently flawed mind.

Eventually, after what feels like an eternity of repeating the same procedure of defending and attempting to pray, he makes an effort to fight back rather than focusing on prayer in the form of an extremely violent and sudden incomprehensible attack way above anything he had used in quite some time in battle and aimed at destruction… though he knows that brute force would only stun it for a short time at best, especially when even this is a small portion of his current power. It hits the phantom precisely where the Psion wants it to and with that, induces the desired effect. It has been stunned. As such, he doesn’t lend much more thought or hesitation to what he intends on doing next… rather as if on instinct, he immediately restarts the procedure for praying. Pointed teeth grit against the pain of the endlessly looping buzzing, fragmented messages, and force pushing against his mind. But. Fundamentally? he is undeterred. He successfully manages to recentre himself (rushed as it is and degraded as its quality likely is due to the ongoing struggle with the phantom’s influence, the extremely lengthy amount of time he’s spent at its very core, and the inevitable mental exhaustion beginning to form) and right as he focuses his precise will together with the sentiments guiding it on that of destruction… –something manages to actually hit him. Something cold, unnatural, and utterly reminiscent of that incomprehensible nightmare of pain. Something that’s a part of himself. Or was. Was.

In his rush to finish this task up and in his determination to succeed, it seems that the Psion had failed to pay a sufficient amount of attention to his environment or at least take note of the precise state of his shield. As a result, it had managed to break through and land the first ever hit on him in forever, likely several hours from the start of the initial encounter. His demeanor remains blankly neutral but there’s something suddenly more void about that singular eye of his as he checks his physical condition. His container had not been the target. And now that same nightmareish pain begins to radiate from his left and all the way to the right side of his head. No. That had never been the point at all. He had miscalculated. And in the process of doing so… it had successfully managed to infiltrate his–…

The conclusion never comes. His senses seem to cease functioning. It seems that a loss of consciousness has occurred. Whether or not it’s a true failure however remains to be seen. ]

#.writingpost #.timeline: interuniversal interference #more to come very soon! i figured that since this would be longer i should split it into parts

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xfulmen · 7 years

Text

&& Are you proud of me?

↯ █ 全能ライトニング

Another war is taking place at this moment. Another war that would bring fatal consequences. Another war that manifests calamity, bestowed upon the lands of Fiore. Another war were mages have to fight for survival. Another war that those who wield the insignia of Fairy Tail will bring victory to. Conflicts of great similarity to thise have transpired in the past and overtly will happen in the future. Those who live to fight, have become accustomed in such confrontations. Quite unfortunate, in actuality. But that was the truth.

The Alvarez empire was reputed for their grand prowess. Power that could bring ultimate destruction. Each single member of the Spriggan 12 has proven to be commendable to write a book about. And Laxus was able to face one of them, and easily bringing him in a verge-of-death state. However, it was the lightning user who merged as the conqueror. It was him who was standing. It was him that brought to an end to one of his opponents.

However, nothing was over yet.

In fact, far from it. Not only all the Guilds had to face those who belonged in the Alvarez Empire, but also they had to deal with an army of a gargantuan number. Incomprehensible, if more so. But inevitable as well. Such was the reality bestowed upon them. A scenario displaying horror at excellence. From a first glance, it seemed impossible to defeat such enemy. The possibilities of the fairies, alongside anyone who was fighting by their side, appeared to be below zero.

THIS WAS THE INCARNATION OF DESPAIR.

Despair. Hopelessness. Terror. All of those sentiments combined in one scenery, demonstrated in front of everyone’s sight to behold. Cruelty personofied right upon them, disallowing them from getting a glimpse of hope. A glimpse of the future. The future where everyone seeks to obtain and write it on their own way. Such task appeared to be out of question, at least for the time being.

Everyone was fighting. Counteract against those recognized as foes. Amongst them, there was a dragon slayer, with lightning as the prime element. Laxus was also fighting alongside with his comrades, focrcing his way to grasp victory and a better future. Notwithstanding his current physical condition, this was not an excuse to lay down and let the rest do what needs to be done. The mere thought of him staying in the sidelines, was making his blood boil. He had to fight alongside with everyone else, and that’s what he was doing. And his dinstictive element engulfing his broad body, was the perfect illustration of what he was doing at this exact moment. Returning the said calamity to those who dared to place it upon him.

However, it was not enough.

He had acknowledged the fact that it would take more than just a variety of onslaughts to neutralize the enemy. This time, the number held great importance. It was overwhelming, for certain. From average lightning attacks to his potent dragon slayer magic. It was definitely doing him a favor, but it was enough.

Then, an idea crossed his mind.

An idea that he never expected to appear in his mind. It was the reason for his expression to alter momentarily, atempting to accumulate a miscellany of contemplations, trying to figure out a plan as well as the perfect execution. But time was also a big issue here. Every single minute, every single second counts. He had to act fast, whilst still being collected.

But he couldn’t help himself but wonder whether this was indeed, a good scheme to perform or not. Last time he attempted to do such a technique, it resulted to a failure. Undeniably, back then he wasn’t as strong as he considered himself to be. Not to mention that such attack is not to be done against those considered as allies. That was the causation for its failure. The fact that in his heart he couldn’t eviscerate those that he had a bond with, whether he would tacitly admit it or not.

But this time, things were different. This time there was no sentiment towards the enemy apart from animosity. This should be the type of emotions that will benefit this particular technique to be executed at excellence. For the better and desired result.

Even so, such ability possesses a great consequence that could be proven to be fatal for his case. The cost of his life is something at stake, and losing a powerful comrade at such circumstance could be a grave mistake done from his part. But Laxus was already aware of this. He had recognized the fact that this is his resolve. And he would make sure to carry out such technique with the best of his skillset. Even if it costs his own life, he will make sure to turn his life as a stepping stone for a better and brighter future.

Perhaps this is what he needed to do. Perhaps this was the ultimate way to demonstrate his redemption towards those that he had once harmed at great extent. Perhaps this was the best way to showcase to his grandfather that he has indeed changed; that he has grown into a better human being. He has become someone that people can rely to. Somebody that people can depend to. A person that people can feel protected and safe. And if the vanquishment of his soul is gonna meliorate the circumstance for his fellow companions, so be it.

And that would be by using one of Fairy Tail’s great three magics.

FAIRY LAW.

And so, without hesitation, the lightning mage started releasing an immense amount of magic pwer, then shaping it into the form of bright light between open palms. The bright light was emitted from his existence, illuminating the atmosphere, the locality--- everything that surrounds him. Ineluctably, numerable individuals glanced at his direction, portraying bewilderment with their current face expressions. Some of them were even horrified that Laxus would go unto such lengths. But he paid little attention to such details. He had already made up his mind. He had already accepted his fate. Whether this was what he wished for his future or not, it held little significance.

However, if there’s one person that he wishes to unveil any final words, that would be his grandfather. As much as he values the Thunder God Tribe, this time the senile figure known as Makarov Dreyar, was standing on a higher pedestal. Not in terms of value, but in terms of sentiment.

He couldn’t recall upon his reminiscences the last time he recieved an approving look from the elder. All what he could remember ever since his attitude took an alteration, was an expression portraying disappointment. An expression showing diisapproval. Nothing positive, not even at the slightest.

But the lightning dragon slayer couldn’t blame him. In fact, he could understand the reasonings behind those expressions. Laxus had gained quite a rebellious persona. He had become an individual that could demonstrate arrogance at a grand level. His way of contemplating things, his beliefs and life was different from the current Master of Fairy Tail. And his actions spoke in the same manner as well. His reputed ‘Battle of Fairy Tail’ event was a detestable remembrancce that he wishes to extinguish. A memory that shall remain engraved in his mind, reminding him what kind of a man he used to be.

Reminding him why his grandfather stopped showing any traces of approval.

Maybe--- just maybe, by doing this, he might be able to obtain a sign of appreciation. A beck of approval. How much he wished for such a sign, God knows. For once, he knew he was doing the right thing. For once, he was aware that he was going to be of great assistance. For once, he was doing something that would help him achieve his grandfather’s approval.

And so, giving a final look at the shorter figure--- the one that the Thunder God held much respect to, he took a deep breath, ready to yell in appropriate chant for the said technique to be accomplished.

❛ Fairy Law. . . ACTIVATE!! ❜

Instantaneously, blinding light enveloped the entire area, forbidding anyone from being able to see anything. Several people were heard screaming out of hopelessness. After all, this legendary magic inflicts massive damage on whoever the caster perceives from their heart as an enemy, leaving friends and bystanders completely unharmed. The choice between friend or foe is decided by the user's heart, and they cannot lie to this Magic. No question as to why it is considered one of the most powerful Magics and is one of the rare legendary spells. Not to mention why Laxus failed the usage of such ability.

The next thing to notice after several minutes that have passed, was smoke surrounding this place, and a significant decrease of number of the enemies. Now, those that were standing tall and ready to bring this war to an end, were those that the incarnation of thunder considered as allies. The tables have been turned. This was the greatest opportunity to strike. The biggest chance that they have gotten thus far.

His pattern of breathing was growing heavy. He could feel his lungs unable to serve the common act of respiring. His body felt numb--- immobile. The capability of moving appeared to be the toughest task to transpire. However, it was unavoidable. He was well awared of this. Hence, he has no regrets. He could hear the voices of his fellow comrades screaming his name out of fear and despair due to what took place at this moment. Most of them were easy to decipher. The Raijinshuu were included, ineluctably. However, it didn’t matter at this point. It was too late.

HE DID THE RIGHT THING.

FOR ONCE, HE DID SOMETHING TO BE PROUD OF.

HE SECURED EVERYONE’S CHANCE OF WINNING THIS WAR.

If there was one thing that he regret doing is not being capable of looking at his grandfather. Not out of shame or any sentiment like this. But merely, because his structure was failing him. Thus, in a few seconds later, his body made contact with the dirty ground. Only a few respirations left. Irises of fire opal ready to be shut for an eternity. And yet, one thought; one question was occupying his-- now frail-- mind. He was capable of perfoming such feat. But did he secure the so-desired approval? Or even a mere approving look from Makarov Dreyar? Who knows. Deep in his most susceptible flexor, his heart, he believes that he secured such a spot. But even so, the same question was still lingering in his mind, as he was about to have his final exhalation.

Gramps... are you proud of me?

#↯ █ LETTERS❜#↯ █ VERSE: AU❜#long post #IN AN AU WHERE LAXUS USES FAIRY LAW INSTEAD OF MAKAROV #HA HA HAAA I'M CRYING RN #I HAVE NO REGRETS #NEXT TIME I WRITE A DRABBLE IT WOULD BE A NON-ANGSTY ONE #OR SO I HOPE #CANT MAKE PROMISES OOPS #tw death

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aliceslantern · 7 years

Text

Nocturnal Memory, a Kingdom Hearts fanfic, chapter 30

[Summary: Dying takes a lot out of you, it's true, but when Demyx wakes up for the first time since his fight with Sora nothing's right. His memories are fragmented and he's missing his true name. And he's not the only one. An incomprehensible mystery and an inevitable war make him question what, exactly, he would do to become whole, and reclaim the music lost to him.

on FF.net/on AO3]

The silence was suffocating and consuming. The smell was everywhere—smoke and burnt hair and something dark and sinister—and despite his previous revulsion he was thankful for the cloak and the protection it offered his pounding heart. He drew the hood up over his eyes and walked through the gray sand, treading a winding path that was all too familiar. He was breathing harshly, his mind racing in a million directions, thinking of his friends, of what he had to do, what he had to say. If he were being honest with himself, he hadn't had enough practice bullshitting.

The darkness pressed in on him. He could feel the Heartless, watching, waiting, but remaining at bay. Possibly they recognized the cloak, and what it meant for their kind. He was grateful that he didn't have to run.

Ahead of him, he saw the dim lights of the Nobody city. He paused. He could run right now, run into the abyss, be gone forever, go to any world of his choosing.

No. He couldn't. There was no way this was all in vain. There had to be something he could still do while he was alive. Still, he had the deep gut feeling that he wasn't going back.

He pushed into the night sky. In the World that Never Was it was raining. Demyx tipped his head up to feel it. Drew strength from it.

Instantly he felt the air press around him. He saw nothing, but he guessed somebody—or something—was on patrol in the area. All of his senses were on high alert, tinged with a brink of panic. He wove through the streets at a pace slightly faster than normal. Anticipation flooded him.

The castle. The god damn castle. It stared down at him, massive and white and unyielding. Demyx felt more presences pressing into his consciousness, all of them sticky with darkness and Nobody blood. He approached the bottom stairs, shaking all over, but he hoped that the fear would be what the committee wanted him to present.

Someone was waiting in the doorway. Demyx recognized the fit of the cloak instantly and tried not to clench his fists.

"I was wondering when you'd bother to turn up," Braig said jovially. "You have a pretty good sense of timing. You know that?" His hood was pulled up, showing nothing but the gaping maw of the hood.

Demyx floundered. "…I do?" he asked.

"Yep. You do. Oh, come on, don't be scared. Don't give me that look. I just wanna talk. Isn't that why you're here?"

A seed of nausea tightened in his stomach. How had Braig known? "Well… yes…"

"That's not a good way to treat an old friend, is it?"

He took a deep breath. "Hello, Braig."

"Hello!" he said rather cheerfully.

"How've you been?"

"Oh, me? I'm peachy. Just peachy." He remained standing in the middle of the doorway, his hands on his hips. "You, on the other hand, have seen better days."

Demyx took a deep breath. "About that. You know what happened to me, don't you?"

There was silence on Braig's part for a beat longer than was natural.

"That's why I'm here," he continued in a low voice. "Look, I can help you. There are things I know about Sora and the Restoration Committee. If you can fix me, I'll… I'll tell you everything."

A low chuckle came from inside the hood. "You really haven't changed a bit, have you?"

The tone of his voice was meant to placate Demyx, but still he could feel something waiting to spring. "I guess not."

Braig took a step closer. He planted both hands on his shoulders and it took all of Demyx's strength not to flinch away or retaliate. He stared deep into his eyes from the blackness. Demyx could just see the outline of Braig's chin. Braig clucked his tongue and let him go.

"So what's your deal? Why'd you come back, after so long?"

He spoke cautiously. "Like I just said. I want to be healed. And I hate that they were using me."

Braid nodded studiously. "Using you how?"

"Using my power. Never giving me information about my condition, even though they had it. They wanted me to use my power against you, not just to gather intelligence, but in the fight. They never liked me, much, even in the old days. They only saved me because they felt they had to."

"But the committee took to you like glue, didn't they," he said calmly.

"Because I helped them through a drought. And I only did that because it saved me, too." He wondered if he was overdoing it. "…As it turns out, do a favor for them and they do one for you."

"Always an opportunist. What do you mean by that?" Braig asked.

He hesitated. He had Braig's interest, but he couldn't tell whether or not he really believed him, or if he really had any power to negotiate. "There was an attack plan on the vessels," he said. "And that's all I'll say until we come up with a deal."

Braig's laughter was genuine this time. "Okay, all right, fine. What do you say we play truth for truth? Here's my first question for you. How did you expect to get away with this?"

A finger of panic slithered down Demyx's spine. "What?" he asked blankly.

"Not a word of what you just said to me is true," Braig said in a clear voice. "You're lying through your teeth. You used to be so good at it." In a flash, he was behind Demyx and wrenched back both of his arms. "So good. You know, I almost believed you. The fear in your voice. That hurt look in your eye. But you forgot a few things. You idiot."

He fought against his constraints, fear coursing through him. He didn't know how to react.

"Zexion used to sew our cloaks once they got ripped up," he said calmly. "I'd recognize that handiwork anywhere. Why would they fix it for you unless they intended for you to use it?" He tightened his grip on Demyx's wrists, pressing it hard against his shoulder blade. "I could see your resolve in your eyes. No. You're not that weak or slimy anymore. Your life doesn't mean shit to you the way you are now."

His breath was coming raggedly now.

Braig laughed. "Come on! You have to admit it's funny."

Braig was holding him so tightly it hurt and he couldn't get any words out.

"This is rich. Rich! To think we wasted all that energy preparing you, only for you to try and double-cross us on their behalf. Yep! Charade's up! It was me! I did it! I broke you. And," he added, like an afterthought, "I'll break you again. Buh-bye." A needle pierced the skin of Demyx's neck. He fought the tranquilizer, but his powers couldn't neutralize whatever this was, and he collapsed in a heap in Braig's arms.

Dazzling, dazzling whiteness.

The room was huge. The domed ceiling was actually so high up he couldn't even see it properly. The floor was smooth shiny tile, and for a moment he saw his own terrified face as he tried to push himself up. He was still here. Still alive. Mostly.

A soft pop. Braig appeared at the other edge of the room, approaching slowly. His hood was down now, revealing his bared teeth, his white hair.

"Oh no! The scary old man!" he said loudly. He slipped out of sight, and Demyx turned around, searching for him desperately.

Another pop. "Right behind you," he said into Demyx's ear. Demyx whirled, trying to knee him in the crotch. Pop. "Sucks when your own plan backfires, doesn't it?" And Braig kicked him right in the groin, so hard he almost passed out. "You're supposed to wear a cup. Jackass. All that preparation, and they didn't tell you that much?"

Demyx struggled against the pain. There was something wrong in his body, worse than the pain. His ears were ringing. His powers were gagged, leaving a foggy smear of consciousness where it was supposed to be. His muscles were shaking.

He pulled hard against the fog, reaching for Arpeggio, reaching for something, but nothing came.

Pop. Braig approached him slowly, at a walk, and seized him by the hair. "You know I was rooting for you? I didn't mind you, the way the others did. You tried. You had an admirable will to live. So I figured, hey, I'll give the kid a bone. Rather than letting you be a stone floating through space—that's right, your world doesn't exist anymore, it's still gone, we needed it gone—I thought, I'll put him somewhere. Somewhere nice. Somewhere he's familiar with." He tugged harder and Demyx fought to break his iron grip. "I used you too. Boo-hoo. I knew you would fall in with that crowd if I broke you just a little."

"Why are you telling me this?" Demyx asked through gritted teeth. Part of him writhed for the answers.

"Because, face it, you're not going to be around much longer." Braig let go of his hair and kicked him solidly in the chest. Demyx felt a rib crack. "And I'm not a prick. You at least deserve the truth. Isn't that what this has been about? Not the guilt over your war crimes, not the love, not the friends you made along the way. The truth."

He choked for air and spat up blood.

"Yes. We were going to use you to get information on them," he said boredly. "That's obvious. Sometimes old man Xehanort is an obvious dude. So obvious you'd never be able to realize he was the one doing it in the first place. In fact, he wanted all of you. The whole set, to put up on a shelf. I said that's ridiculous. You can break them, make them a little bit uncomfortable. Let them help Sora, for all I care. Make the other side feel like it has some hope."

He let Demyx go and he fell hard onto the ground. "I haven't had to do this in a while, so forgive me if I'm rusty. Look. I'm rooting for you. If you answer my questions I might just let you go. You couldn't ever go back there. But you could go. How does that sound?"

He touched his right side, the aching rib. He couldn't catch his breath. "I don't know what I could tell you."

"I think you're a whole lot smarter than anyone gives you credit. Isn't that what this is about?" He knelt by Demyx. "Was the committee really trying to attack the vessels?"

Demyx didn't speak. He should have anticipated that somebody would have figured it out in the end. "Yes," he said.

Braig stood up and turned his back. Demyx struggled to sit up.

"Do you know how we used to turn higher Nobodies into Dusks?" he asked finally.

Demyx blinked. The brightness of this room was stabbing his eyes.

"It wasn't just an empty threat. It's possible."

"But I'm human," Demyx said.

"With your heart the way it is? Who knows how you'll react," Braig said. He took something out of his pocket. It was an average, ordinary medical syringe, still in the wrapping. And a vial of grayish liquid. Demyx tried to back away from him, but the pain in his ribs and between his legs hampered him, and Braig quickly teleported over. He opened the syringe and let the wrappings fall to the shiny floor.

Demyx noticed for the first time that there was a drain in the center of the room. A hot flush broke out across his body. He pushed harder against whatever was gagging his powers, only to have blackness temporarily wash over him.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Braig said. "That stuff's not exactly good for your nervous system."

He must've been right; Demyx's fingers and toes were feeling numb, but that could have easily been the animal panic sweeping over his mind.

Braig jabbed the needle into the vial and filled it partway. Very calmly, he tapped out the air. "A milliliter won't do much other than cause you pain. But more than that? Who knows." Braig grabbed his arm. He thrashed, trying to pull away. Braig yanked up his sleeve. Demyx went, inexplicably, limp, and it took him a moment to figure out that Braig was manipulating the space around him. He felt the needle go in. A coldness ran through his body as Braig's powers held him down.

The serum scraped like razors across his nerve endings, erupting in a pain he could barely conceive.

"It's not magic, that gets them in the end," Braig said calmly. "It's the pain. Breaks down the will to live, all those higher concepts of self. After that, well, the rest is easy. You shape 'em the way you want 'em, like clay." His face was too close to Demyx's. "Was the committee planning to attack the vessels?"

One word. He just had to say one word. He wasn't sure what would come out of his mouth if he managed to unclench his jaw.

"Take your time," Braig said. "That stuff takes forever to get out of your system."

He couldn't breathe. He wished he would pass out; it would make this end all the sooner. But his body kept drawing breaths. His vision had a strangely sheeny quality and the taste of copper filled his mouth. He just had to say yes. Yes. "…No," he said. He was trembling all over.

"Now that wasn't so hard," Braig said. He pushed a lock of hair out of Demyx's eyes. "All that stuff in your bloodstream now? Makes it pretty damn impossible to lie. You can try all you want. I wouldn't recommend it, though." He paused. "You should have just run. Nobody would have judged you. The only thing you used to be good at was keeping yourself alive, and now you can't even do that."

He choked for air. He was too shocked to cry, or to do anything other than tense up and shut down right there. Luxord's Somebody had been right.

#nocturnal memory #demyx #kingdom hearts #kingdom hearts 3d #fanfiction #braig #sorry for being late this week #i worked 11 hours yesterday and was too tired to post when i got home #next chapter will be the last one #i had sooo much fun writing Braig though holy shit #i might have to do more in the future with him/Xigbar

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anonthenullifier · 7 years

Text

An Auspice of Scarlet - Ch. 2

An AU Victorian Scarlet Vision story.

Chapter Title: In which company is sought and revelations are had

Chapter Summary: Wanda settles into life at the manor while attempting to form a connection with the elusive butler.

Word Count: 10k

A gift for: @atendrilofscarlet

AO3 Link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/12184758/chapters/28284888

I hope you enjoy!

The house is extravagant, though not ostentatious, just the right amount of excess intermixed with a surprising level of sparseness. Wanda’s room is, so far on her self-guided tour, the one oozing with the most unadulterated flamboyance. The stairway leading down to the main floor is grand, intricate carvings of imps and angels battling for dominance, but the details are subtle from a distance, overpowered by the white, black, and gold checkered floor. Unlike most of the wealthy homes she has seen, this one lacks the clutter of furniture, lacks the requirement to constantly scan the immediate vicinity to ensure no shins are banged on tables or feet trip over upturned rugs. Each room (from the parlor, to the front hall, the bedrooms, and the four different sitting rooms) contains the barest amount of furniture to allow the space to feel content but not overstuffed. What she’d like to do is ask why this is the case, but her day, so far, has been solitary, though not truly alone.

Vision (the name still feels funny in her mouth) and the other servants are clearly in the house as well, their presence ephemeral yet palpable, traces of their existence left to guide her yet she has not actually seen anyone yet. It is infuriating. Wanda unfolds the carefully labeled map that was left on the table in the dining room (a table she is fairly certain has to be at least three times longer than she is tall) and studies the handwriting, turning the map and reorienting herself to her location in the house. According to the schedule written in the bottom left corner, there is supposed to be tea and cucumber sandwiches available on the back veranda in a quarter of an hour. The hope is that if she arrives early then perhaps she will encounter him.

As Wanda moves through the wood-paneled hallway, she can’t help but think about the elusive man. Even though she has never had any desire for a butler, as she is perfectly capable of providing for herself and cannot fathom any reason someone else should have to deal with the tediousness of life in her honor, it does not mean she isn’t inordinately impressed by the forethought shown by Vision. When she woke this morning, she opened her door to find not only a neatly folded pile of clothes (a note attached in his perfectly legible writing - Miss Maximoff, it is my sincerest hope that you find a suitable outfit from these options until I am able to clean your clothing.) and a steaming copper pitcher with a protective towel wrapped around the handle and instructions on using the washbasin in the room (apparently it has a tendency to lean so she needed to check the footings before pouring). Once she had washed up and gotten dressed (even the clothes provided were expensive, the lack of itchiness to the fabric quite refreshing though the dress was quite unique in its construction), she opened the door to find a cup of perfectly drinkable tea atop a dainty, ivory doily. In the dining room there was breakfast waiting for her, and the map. In each room along her journey there were refreshments and suggested activities: books with marks for ideal poetry to match the room, a deck of cards with instructions on how to enjoy a single person game, a carefully constructed and itemized list of the artwork around the house, and a hearty turkey stew with a small yeast roll at lunchtime. Anything she could want was provided before she ever realized she needed it. Except company.

When she opens the stain-glass door to the veranda her mouth immediately curls into a proud grin, eyes drawn to the lanky form of the suit-clad butler. Wanda remains quiet, making sure to hold the handle down to close the door without an audible click, and cautiously approaches the small table set up on the whitewashed wooden deck. The man seems oblivious to her, bent over at the waist as his black-gloved hands shuffle the teapot and plate of sandwiches around on the table, clearly unsatisfied with the positioning of them. Eventually he allows a minuscule shrug of his shoulders before straightening out his spine, briefly pausing to stare beyond the rail of the veranda. Wanda almost allows her curiosity free rein of her body, almost allows her gaze to follow his, but she fights it, worried if she loses focus then he will disappear again. So instead she takes several hurried, albeit quiet, steps forward until she is close enough that she could reach out and tap his shoulder. “Vision?”

No one could describe his response as jumpy since there is no easily discernible flinch of his muscles or flailing of his arms, but his shoulders do stand just a bit taller, arms just a touch more rigid than before. Wanda grins wider at the victory. “Miss,” he turns around, slow and purposeful, every motion of his body from the rotation of his shoulders to the slight swing of his fingers tightly controlled, voice even yet pleasant as he turns the corners of his mouth up into a serviceable smile, “Maximoff. You are ahead of schedule.”

“I’m not too fond of a structured life.”

The smile flinches from serviceable to genuine before settling back to neutrality. “I see. My apologies for attempting to constrain your freedom of time.” He steps around her, hands gripping the back of the chair as he pulls it out with a slight bow, “Please, have a seat.”

“Thank you.” Wanda sits, hands folding in her lap as she flashes an appreciative smile in his direction, one that he returns while pouring her a cup of tea. Once he has filled her cup he performs another servile bow before turning to leave. Given the solitude of her day, and her enkindled curiosity, the brevity of the interaction is not acceptable. “Would you like to join me?”

Vision hesitates, eyes torn between studying her face, likely attempting to ascertain the seriousness of the request, and the doorway leading back into the manor. The freshly polished tips of his shoes point towards the door, his heel lifting off the ground in preparation to leave, but then his shoulders dip slightly before he pivots on his other heel and joins her at the table, proffering a polite and logical acquiescence to her request. “Since you arrived ahead of your scheduled tea time, I too am slightly ahead of schedule.” His gloved hand rests on the table, fingers tapping a silent melody, the only movement he seems to allow his body. “Have the accommodations been suitable for your needs?”

“Yes, incredibly suitable.”

“Excellent.”

The silence is not nearly as comfortable as the night before, an anxiousness bubbling in the air between them as she cycles through all the possible topics of conversation. Despite thinking about talking to him all day, she finds her tongue deserting her and going dry with indecision. Wanda carefully takes a sip of tea, hoping to whet her verbal skills and grasp one of the many comments whirling through her mind. She determines to start with the most baffling observance of the day. “Where is everyone else? I haven’t seen anyone all day.”

“Oh,” the question seems to fluster him, fingers tapping more fervently before ceasing to move altogether, his other hand rising to emphasize his words. “There is no one else, at the moment.”

Wanda finds the information incomprehensible, the tasks far too numerous and done with such precision as to be inhuman for one man to accomplish half a day. “That is enough to make a stuffed bird laugh*.”

“I assure you that it is only you and I. Other than Mr. Barton’s intentions to visit for supper, no one else is expected for another couple of days.”

The claim is audacious. She has spent her entire day exploring the manor, and though it is a spacious and dizzying labyrinth of a structure, it is inconceivable for him to have always been three steps ahead. “How have I not seen you then?” Wanda leans closer to him, a conspiratorial finger leveled at his chest, “Can you walk through walls?”

This receives a breathy, perfectly executed laugh. “I never considered the possibility of such an ability. Sadly,” Wanda is mesmerized at the way his persona shifts, still distant, but moving from a cool, detached aloofness to one brimming with warmth and congeniality, “I have not acquired the capability to walk through walls, which is quite unfortunate as it would save me approximately…” he tilts his head in contemplation, eyes focusing on the wispy clouds lazily crawling along the cerulean sky. “I would say two hours each day if I did not have to traverse the hallways.“

“Well if you cannot walk through walls, what is your secret?” Wanda considers not including the next comment, but the notion that she may not be alone, that she has, perhaps, found a kindred spirit convinces her to toss out a waggish** (but utterly hopeful), “Can you read minds?”

He breathes in, lips turning up slightly at the playfulness in her voice, a response she intends to pull from him each time they talk as she finds it exhilarating. “That too would be an incredibly appealing prospect. No, a butler, according to Robert Roberts, is supposed to be unobtrusive and discreet, it is my job to anticipate not only your needs but also your actions and whereabouts so that I can provide for you while remaining out of sight.”

The explanation is disappointing in its commonness, but she brushes off her dismay, replacing it with a cutting smile and pointed look. “I will interpret that to mean you spend a lot of your time hiding behind corners and doors.”

Another laugh escapes his lungs, this one loose and unexpected, louder than his last one and far more authentic. “That is a fair interpretation, though the most parsimonious explanation would be my use service passages.” His hand leaves the table, dipping into his coat and removing his pocket watch. “I do apologize but I must check on the laundry.”

Wanda watches him stand, feels her heart tumble from her chest all the way to the pit of her stomach at the notion of losing his presence, a troubling realization that she determines to scrutinize later, and finds words racing out of her mouth without contemplating exactly what she might be willingly agreeing to do. “Can I help you?”

“You are a guest.”

The tone clearly conveys that this piece of information is enough to keep her in her seat, but Wanda has never been one to adhere to social rules, and so she stands, placing her hands resolutely on her hips as she levels a challenging gaze in his direction. The simple fact of her defiance to rules, however, does not mean she cannot use them to her advantage. “Would Mr. Roberts condone the notion of denying a guest’s request?”

Vision narrows his eyes, hands lifting in the air while he prepares to counter back, use logic and manners to insist she not join him. But then his hand stops moving, a smile threatening to break the serious line of his lips, and he glances down, bringing his hands together in a thoughtful clasp. He is almost successful at vanquishing the effects of her well-played manipulation, features solemn minus a twinkle of delight in his eyes. “My apologies for acting contrary to your wishes, Miss Maximoff. Though I do not require nor insist on aid, you are welcome to shadow me, if that is a sufficient compromise to your request.”

“It is.”

A slight bow of his head obscures his face long enough for him to reset to his emotionless baseline, his voice posh and steady as he says, “Then please, follow me.”

The journey is mostly silent as he leads her through several hallways, occasional comments are tossed over his shoulder informing her of the history of the woodwork or the means by which the artwork was acquired. Eventually they stop in front of a bookcase and he reaches out to select a pristinely kept edition of The Count of Monte Cristo. “Since you inquired as to my furtiveness…” the book only partially strays from the shelf, clicking back in place as a low groan shakes the surrounding books and the shelves open into a passageway.

“That’s dramatic.”

A slight, proud arc forms on his mouth as he nods in agreement. “It is perhaps the fourth least dramatic one.”

Wanda glances at him, assuming he is joking but the sincerity in his voice matches the earnestness of his face. “Fascinating.”

She follows close behind him, somewhat disappointed that the passageway is dim and undecorated, a stark contrast to the extravagance of its entrance. But this disappointed flees at the wonderment (and a negligible trace of trepidation) that overtakes her mind when they enter the back hall, the space filled with steam and the echo of metal churning relentlessly from an enormous contraption. “This,” Vision raises his voice slightly, compensating for the whine and whistle of the pistons. “Is,” he leaves her side to grip a long metal rod, expanding the width between his feet as he bends his knees, bracing himself to pull the metal tube towards him. Suddenly the commotion stops, the last of the rattling vibrations dissipating until the air is calm though oppressively wet. “Friday.”

“Friday?”

“Yes,” four long strides bring him to her side, a small hand towel grasped in his fingers that he uses to wipe down the leather palms of his gloves. “The first successful completion of a laundry cycle using the machine was completed on a Friday, hence the name.”

Wanda gives a distracted hmm, feet carrying her closer to the machine, eyes taking in the ten wide wheels laced with a tough fabric, the grated panels of the conveyer belt and how it dips into a vat of water over which hangs fist sized balls of metal attached to thick metal rods. “It is quite impressive,” the butler joins her, the facade of disinterest fading as he excitedly explains the process using words she cannot comprehend like hydraulics and reciprocating engine, but what she’s drawn to the most, and what, besides the stifling humidity in the room, is the likely culprit for the heat budding in her cheeks, is the passion in his hands as he mirrors the movement of the machine to better help her understand the workings.

Nothing quite measures up to Friday for the duration of her shadowing, moving from the machine to the kitchen to throw vegetables into a pot for supper, then on to the stables where they feed the horses and Wanda watches in fascination at the way the water pump is set up to ensure Vision does not sully his suit. The walk back to the manor from the stables is her favorite part, a peaceful stroll against the backdrop of rolling, green mountains, the man next to her quiet, yet conversational beyond what she assumes his holy book of butlering would allow. Yet his conversation depends on one small aggravation - she must always choose the topic. If she remains silent, so does he, but if she asks him a question or makes a trailing comment, then, and only then, will he respond. It is as he is finishing informing her on the intricacies of collecting eggs each morning without the (his voice becomes quite distant and laced with disdain) bricky*** beasts pecking apart the threads of his pants, that Wanda attempts to formulate the next topic, eager to keep him speaking. Her mind fixates on the gentle lilt of his accent, particularly in its purity as compared to butchered and harsher cadence she is more likely to hear in every tavern in every town since coming to this country. “Are you originally from England?”

The inquiry surprises him, blonde eyebrows raising as disbelief creates lines around his slightly agape mouth. “Yes, London, though technically-.” His lips remain parted, hands toying with the idea of lifting to add more information, but then he shuts his mouth, glances towards the mountains, and once he turns his attention towards her again she senses that he has realigned his train of thought to what might be a more acceptable follow-up, an assumption that stokes her curiosity and almost convinces her to reach for his mind. “I consider myself quite skilled at placing accents, and yet, I find myself uncertain as to your nation of origin beyond simply belonging to the Russian Empire.”

“You are correct, broadly.” She redirects her attention away from the intensity of his anticipatory gaze and stares at the rings adorning her fingers. Thoughts of her home country and the memories of a lost life are typically kept locked within her subconscious. It is easier that way. A deep breath ensures she only pulls out the barest, most necessary information to answer the question before shuttering the opening from further disturbances. “Sokovia. Novi Grad, specifically.” Her next question is fueled by the comfort of his presence and her distaste for his name. “So, was your name Vision on the ship list?”

The man almost stops walking, fingers curling into fists at his side and she worries that the question is a step too far given the paucity of their interactions. But whatever ire manifested is dissolved by a tiny smirk and a shake of his head. “It was not, though, quite unfortunately for,” he sends a deliberate, and what she might almost describe as mischievous, look in her direction, “curious minds, such records are currently not made public.”

“That is quite unfortunate,” her voice shifts from jocular to serious, recalling the protests recently about the sharing of ship lists, ”though perhaps for the best given the Nativists****.” Vision nods, a grim line forming on his lips, even out here, in such an isolated spot, clearly aware of the smatterings of rumors spreading about a planned increase in regulating immigration, which for some would simply be deportation.

“Indeed.”

Clint is waiting for her when they arrive back at the manor and as soon as Wanda greets him, Vision vanishes. His presence is still keenly felt but only as a wraith. This, Wanda determines, is more distracting than if the man stood in the corner waiting on them, because she cannot seem to concentrate on Clint’s questions and stories, her mind wandering continuously back to the butler as an unmistakable itch of curiosity to unravel the enigma of his being takes root in her mind.

The next day Wanda resolves to take action.

Upon waking she opens her door, unsurprised to find another pile of clothing (this one with her own sole surviving, freshly cleaned and mended outfit on top) and a steaming copper pitcher. For this step of her plan, Wanda plays along, scooping the clothes into her arm and carefully lifting the pitcher, balancing the bottom against her hip as she closes the door. A tendril of scarlet wraps around the pitcher, removing it from her hand and carrying it to the wash basin, while a second, smaller strand exits the door, feeling the hallway for any buzz of thoughts that might approach. Wanda unties her dressing gown, allowing it to fall to the floor along with the pile of dresses, smiling as she slips on her familiar, though somewhat itchy, patchwork skirt and blouse. Her hands work without thought, twisting her hair up into a loose, swooping knot, held together with pins. Moments later she can sense orderly thoughts, each marching in a line, ticking off the various tasks for the day, the current image at the front of the mind a tea cup and a doily. When the mind stops in front of her door, Wanda allows a wicked smile to part her lips as she yanks on the handle. “Good morning.”

Credit must be given to the fact he does not drop the tea cup or the doily, in fact, the only sign of his complete surprise is the painfully slow blink of his brilliant blue eyes and the longer than polite pause between her greeting and his, “Good morning, Miss Maximoff.” The tea cup is brought to rest between them, “Tea?”

“Thank you.” The porcelain cup passes into her hand, fingers curling around the welcome heat as she smiles innocently up at him. “Hypothetically, what would happen if you, through the quite voluntary and eagerly offered help of another person, managed to complete all of your chores earlier than scheduled?”

If the door opening unexpectedly shocked him, this question appears to decimate his understanding of the world, eyes darting away from her face as his feet shuffle in discomfort. It is endearing in the same way as watching a shy kitten approach a foreign ball of yarn, all she needs now is for him to pounce. Each syllable is elongated as he forms his thoughts. “Hypothetically,” he pauses, eyes sliding to the side before snapping back to her face, “if I allowed such an offer, despite the blatant disregard it would have for the comfort of my guest’s well-being, then I would be able to fill that time with whatever activity or task is deemed most appealing.”

Wanda beams up at him as she sips her tea, “Such as that peculiar game you pointed out on the lawn yesterday?” It had been on their way to feed the fish in the pond, iron hoops rising out of the ground in a haphazard fashion as one of the ugliest gardens Wanda had ever seen.

“Yes, Miss Maximoff, pale-maille*****certainly is always an appealing option.”

“Excellent.”

His, “excellent,” is not nearly as enthusiastic but he doesn’t verbalize his disdain at her request.

They start with the candlesticks, Vision reluctantly setting a bowl of sudsy water between them as he grips a piece of felt in his hands, which are adorned not with his typical leather gloves, but instead with thicker hydrophobic fabric. “Simply dip the felt in the water and clean in a clockwise pattern to expurgate the filth. Do not,” his voice drops an octave as he tilts the candlestick in his hand to show her a green fabric base, “get the baize wet, it will spoil the material and require mending.”

Wanda inspects the materials in front of them, “Understood.”

Once the candlesticks are done she watches him demonstrate the quick, small movements required to polish the mahogany serving trays, yet her eyes keep trailing away from the demonstration to instead linger on the angles of his face and the adorable squint of concentration when he works. After the trays they move on to the silverware, which Wanda finds increasingly bizarre, particularly when he instructs her to stab the forks repeatedly into wet sand, explaining, with a twinge of defensiveness in the face of her disbelief, “Mr. Roberts swears by this technique and it has never failed me.”

They clean the plates, the decanters, the tea pots, and the cruets; refill the lanterns (“You are quite fortunate I cleaned those several days ago, the process is quite unpleasant and one I would not subject you to regardless of your desire to help”); and polish the steel grates in each hallway. Vision completes his portion of each task much quicker than her, the precision, efficiency, and uniformity of his movements stupefying. At the moment his pile of brushed blankets is at least three times higher than hers and she finds her mind crafting an amusing image that she believes he’d enjoy as well. “Vision?”

His hand does not stop its circular motion as he cocks his head to indicate she has his attention, “Yes, Miss Maximoff?”

“Are you, by any chance, related to Friday?”

The assumption is that he will, with a fine-tuned deadpan, respond with a playfully logical explanation, as he has for all her other comments, but instead he drops the blanket to the ground, an almost imperceptible tremble to his hand as he picks the item back up. The brush hovers in the air, horsehair bristles hooking into the fibers just enough keep the blanket steady, and his face pales as he swallows. “Pardon me, Miss Maximoff.” The blanket is delicately placed on the pile, the brush next to it as he stands, eyes never quite returning to her face. “I somehow forgot I need to run to town. I shall be sure to expedite my errands so that we can maximize the three-quarters of an hour your aid has made available for me to teach you pale-maille.” With an unusual abruptness he is gone, leaving Wanda to stew in confusion, the strokes of the brush in her hand half-hearted and likely ineffective at removing the grime from the blankets.

With no tasks to complete and not another living soul around, Wanda wanders the hallways, fingers brushing the walls and toying with every sconce, frame, and book she touches in hopes of discovering more secrets of the manor, yet nothing happens. Slowly her feet bring her to the veranda, heart dropping at the absence of a teapot. Wanda sits, taking in the expanse of green grass that climbs slowly up into distant, tree blanketed mountains, mind churning through their last interaction, attempting to determine why he seemed so disconcerted by her question. When the click of footfalls sound behind her, Wanda stands, ready to apologize as she turns but freezes at the sight of a red-haired, well-dressed woman. “Who are you?”

The woman tilts her head, her lips following suit into a half-smile that gives the impression of a recently sharpened dagger. “I believe that is a question more suitable for me to ask. So who are you?”

Scarlet courses through Wanda’s veins at the threat in the woman’s voice, a readiness forming in her hands and feet to attack or flee, depending on whatever happens next. “I am Wanda Maximoff.”

The smile dulls, now matching what might be flashed to the only other stranger on the road for the day, a look that is congenial enough but does not offer an invitation for further contact. “Clint tells me you are a spiritualist.”

“Clint?”

“Yes, Barton.” It is not until the woman sits down that Wanda even processes how quickly she traveled across the veranda. Slowly Wanda shifts one chair over and sits as well, palms pressed firmly against her thighs to hide the shimmer of red pulsing in unison with the erratic drumming of her heart. “I’m Natasha Romanov.”

A hand is held aloft between them. Wanda eyes the black glove adorning the hand, noting it is expensive yet practical, a elegance in the way the fabric stretches along the fingers but there is also a surety in the seams that this is a hand to be grasped with precaution. Wanda tightens her fingers into a fist to dispel the last of the scarlet before unfurling her fingers and gripping the gloved hand long enough to say, “Pleasure.”

“Sorry for surprising you,” there is no apology in the tone, “but it is not often a spiritualist has an actual reputation for talking to the dead.”

Wanda calculates all the possible responses, an uneasiness pricking at the back of her neck, the same uneasiness she feels when a swim in the river is impending. “For such a reputation, you would think people would not respond so poorly.”

The rise and fall of Natasha’s shoulders is almost as dangerous as her smile, an indifference so palpable Wanda has to fight against allowing it to reduce her own opinion of herself. “It is not surprising, people rarely want what they say.” When Wanda met the Fox Sisters she knew instantly they were cons, yet there was still power in their presence, in their words and their falsehoods. The same power exudes from the woman next to her. “So, Wanda Maximoff, what is it that you want from staying here?”

“Simply a safe place while I decide where to go next.”

“Have you found that here?”

Wanda considers the question for only a moment before reaching a conclusion. “Yes, Vision has been more than accommodating.”

A meaningful, “Hmm,” vibrates in the woman’s throat, but her next thoughts are silenced by a thudding of feet and the tap of wood behind them. Their heads turn to take in the shifting gaze of the butler as he stands halfway on the deck holding a wooden mallet in each hand. “Hello, Vision.”

His gaze finally comes to a halt, eyes falling on the red-haired woman as he takes the final six steps to stand a respectable distance from the table. “Miss Romanov, I was not expecting you.”

“Have I ever shown up when expected?”

The pause is the perfect length to be polite as to show consideration of the question, but short enough to imply the answer was already known and that he is playing along with her wishes. “Not once, Miss Romanov.”

Wanda decides to alleviate the tension in the air, shaking the last of her nerves from her fingers as she indicates the mallets in his hands. “Are those for pale-maille?”

The man lifts the mallets up, inspecting them with an odd detachment as if he had forgotten they were in his hands. “Oh, yes, they are, Miss Maximoff.” The mallets lower down to his side, the movement seeming to draw his lips in a similar downward arc. “Unfortunately, I believe I need to prepare Miss Romanov her coffee,” Natasha opens her mouth to talk, but is quieted by a nod of Vision’s head, “with a splash of vodka.”

“Perfect.”

“My apologies, Miss Maximoff, I shall endeavor to allot more time tomorrow, if you wish.”

He does not wait for her response before he disappears through the stained-glass door, a subtle and incisive clearing of a throat requiring her attention. “Pale-maille?” Natasha touches the tips of her fingers conspiratorially to Wanda’s wrist. “With the butler?”

Immediately her voice becomes defensive, unappreciative of the scandal in the woman’s voice. “Yes, I helped him earlier today so he would have time to show me.”

The thing is, Wanda has, quite unfortunately, discovered that her words usually incite more scandal than they dispel, Natasha sitting up straighter with a keen smirk. “That man barely allows guests to lift their own cup.” An amused huff follows the sentence, hanging in the air as she stands from her seat. “Will you please pass my apologies on to Vision, I forgot I promised Clint my company.” Natasha does not wink but the expression on her face, once the memory of the day fades and distorts, will no doubt be recalled as a wink. “May you find your safe place here, Wanda.”

As evening falls, Wanda finds herself alone again, Vision far more removed and distant after the discovery of his improprietous decision to potentially socialize with a guest. She’s embarrassed at the anticipatory hope that tightens her chest each time she approaches a corner or door, but none are hiding the butler. There is, once she retires for the night, a cup of hot chocolate on the desk of her room, a billowing stream of steam confirms the recency of its delivery. Cautiously she curves her palms around the porcelain cup, breathing in the sweetness, her fingers flinching slightly at the heated ceramic against her skin. If this is still hot it means he is likely awake.

The schedule on the map from the day before stopped at bedtime, no indications given as to where or when she might be able to show up to intersect with his own schedule. Which means she has to resort to other methods. Hesitantly Wanda extends her index finger, eyes closing in concentration as a mist of scarlet releases into the air, sending out a beacon for other minds, the energy spreading and then rebounding back with information. A smile crawls along her lips when she locates the stir of thoughts. Cup still in hand, she allows her body to follow the murmur of his mind, engrossed by the neat and orderly nature of his thoughts, each one following at even intervals before disappearing into different sections of his mind. It is not until muggy air engulfs her body that she opens her eyes, finds that she is on a smaller, more enclosed balcony, not nearly as impressive as the veranda.

Vision is there, just as she suspected based on the mental link, though the details are difficult to parse out, the gaslamp on the table illuminates enough of the balcony for her to study the general appearance of him from a distance. It is evident he is not anticipating her company, his jacket and waistcoat gone, leaving him only in a slightly wrinkled shirt and black pants. He is reclined in a chair, feet resting on a wicker footstool and Wanda is enamored with how relaxed he appears, his hands working in methodical patterns to clean whatever is gripped between his fingers, a slight gleam from the gaslamp makes her think he is polishing metal of some kind. There is a war waging in her body, her heart yearning to call out his name, sit in the empty chair next to him, to bask in the honeyed tone of his voice, but her mind quickly points out all of the cues that he would not welcome company. A man of order, one who favors a pristine and ambivalent appearance, might not appreciate a surprise attack when he is at his least controlled, particularly after the embarrassment on the veranda.

Yet somehow, with his preternatural butler abilities, he senses her before she has a chance to back away. “Miss Maximoff, is something the matter?” The concern is evident in his voice, but more so in the quickness of the motion from sitting to standing, the casualness of his attire contrasting the seriousness pulling his lips into a frown.

Wanda shakes her head, though his frown remains, whether it is because he is unable to accept her answer or because it is clear now that she has simply decided to intrude upon his evening. “I,” at one point in her life, Wanda truly believed in honesty and forthrightness, but for the sake of survival she has become accustomed to providing legitimate, albeit false, reasons for her actions. What she should proclaim right now is that, since his presence rescinded for the day, she has only been able to think about his company, cannot explain why she wishes to delve into his thoughts, feel his soul, discover who this man is, but her instincts prohibit such a confession. “I could not sleep.”

The dull light of the gaslamp emphasizes the softening of his features, the frown retracting, replaced with an understanding nod. “It cannot be easy adjusting to a new accommodation, particularly given the circumstances.”

“No, it is not.”

A sympathetic tilt forms on his mouth, “If there is any assistance I can offer, please do not hesitate to inform me.”

This friendly but strained back and forth is exhausting, and Wanda can’t seem to temper her impatience and annoyance with the requirement, based on the recommendations of some other butler who happened to write a book, that she must initiate all conversations beyond offers of help. “Are you ever not a butler?”

“I-” shadows form on his face as he shifts his feet, brows furrowing and casting his features with a mask of indecision, “am not certain that is possible, given the nature of my employment.”

“So you are saying you are no longer a man? Only a butler?” Her mind instantly goes back to the veranda and the discussion of wants and how Wanda seemingly can never parse out the true wants of her clients. Perhaps she has misread this man as well, maybe his kindness is simply due to the code of the butler and nothing more. A possibility that renders her lungs unable to function at their full capacity. “You have no wants other than to serve?”

The oppressive silence coils her stomach into uncomfortable knots and Wanda turns to leave, deciding this is her last night in the manor, unwilling to deal with the dehumanization of servitude and the possibility that any gentleness from this man was simply part of his job. She’d rather wander the countryside for the next town then accept that notion. “Miss Maximoff?”

Her fingernails dig into the palm of her hand as she turns around with an exasperated, “What?”

He takes a step around the chair, body falling into the light of the lamp, revealing that the cuffs of his shirt are unexpectedly rolled up twice and that his hands are bare. It is the first part of his skin she has spied beyond his face and there is a humanizing quality to it, until he follows her gaze and hurriedly shoves his hands into his pockets. “I want,” uncertainty mars his forehead, bunching the skin in erratic patterns, and his eyes fall to the ground. Then he raises his head and a sheepish lift of his shoulders produces a funny, fluttering feeling in her heart, “I would very much fancy your company, if you are not opposed to such a tête-à-tête.”

The tightness unravels as her eyes revolve before she can stop them, almost as defiant as the grin that forms instantaneously on her face and the zealousness of her, “Not opposed.”

An uncharacteristically free smile dances across his face, though she wonders, briefly, if it is simply a trick of the lighting. He waves a hand at the other chair, remains standing as he waits for her to sit down, to twist and shimmy into the chair until she is comfortable, and then he returns to his prior position, but this time his feet don’t dare go too casual and thus remain on the ground. “Miss Maximoff-”

“You don’t need to formally address me every time you say something.”

The man nods, lips tight as he processes the information. “I understand, thank you. Did you enjoy your time with Natasha?”

The conversation from earlier replays in her mind, it was not terribly different from speaking with Vision in that both he and Natasha guard their words carefully. But where they do diverge is in the general demeanor and air, Vision polite and caring while it felt as if Natasha was interrogating her. “It was not unpleasant, though quite unusual.” One of the many thoughts that has remained with her since meeting the woman is a curiosity, perhaps more of an inkling to make a connection. “The dress from yesterday-”

“Yes, Miss-” he cuts himself off before he finishes her name, an impressive display of his attempt to remove the influence of being a butler for the sake of the moment, though she is still not certain if it is truly him or simply him following her order. “Yes?”

“Was that dress Natasha’s?”

A quick “Yes,” confirms her suspicions.

“Does she always keep a dagger in her bodice?” It was a surprising discovery when she first put on the dress, but, for some reason, it never seemed the correct time to inquire about the weapon.

Vision glances at her without moving his body, the lack of surprise on his face far more amusing, she finds, than if the comment had rattled him. “Yes,” his voice grows distant, eyes traveling to stare into the darkness over the railing, “the few times she has forgotten to remove all of her armaments from her clothing has caused severe malfunctions in Friday.”

The plurality of the admission does not go unnoticed and Wanda recalls the confusion, in addition to the confounding discovery of the dagger, at the five holsters she found in the dress along with several slits in the fabric to increase the ease of accessing the holsters and the numerous hidden pockets that presumably hold dangerous objects. “Why does she require an arsenal?”

“Miss Romanov is involved with,” his mouth shuts, lips clasped in a thin line as he contemplates the next words, “covert political operations between the Russian Empire and the United States.”

“Are you implying she’s a spy?”

A shrug and a nervous puff of air is answer enough, but he still verbalizes it as well, just to be clear. “That is the implication, though I cannot speak to the directionality of her allegiance nor do I believe it is in the favor of my livelihood to inquire.” Wanda releases an amused snort, the glimpse of pride in his eyes clear even in the dim lighting. Silence descends around them, but tonight, she vows, if he wishes to converse, then he must direct the flow of topics. Thankfully, it does not take long for a tentative, “Miss Maximoff?”

Both his habit of inquiring if he can make an inquiry and using her name are still strong, but Wanda decides to let this one escape a retort, instead angling to throw him off in another way. “You may call me Wanda, if you” the confidence she had going into the comment dissipates almost immediately, getting caught in the humid breeze that stirs the air around her. So she finishes her thought on a weakened, anxious, “like.”

“Wanda.” He tests her name slowly, holding out the Wan and overemphasizing the duh in the second syllable, but he does so with an awed, almost boyish exuberance. The second, “Wanda,” returns to the cadence and tone of his Miss Maximoff, “I have been reading many works concerning the spiritualist movement.” He pauses as if what he has just said is a question, but Wanda isn’t sure what he is expecting, and so she waits, eyes glancing away from him briefly to try to identify the location of a distant boom of thunder. The hesitant but rich inflection of his words draws her attention back to him. “I am aware of your proclivity for séances,” the and ending up in a river is left unspoken but hovers quite clearly in the air, “but was curious if you offer other readings in line with the spiritualist movement.”

“I occasionally do tarot readings, though,” the image of her wrecked quarters and the torn up and charred cards immediately flashes through her mind, “my tarot deck was ruined with the rest of my belongings.”

A flash of anger crosses his face, lips drooping into a scowl before lifting just enough to erase the brief ire. “Unacceptable.”

Wanda nods, agreeing with his assessment but aware nothing can be done at this point. “I used to also have a small table set up for palm reading outside of Castle Garden.” The location was ideal, particularly on days when there was a play or performance, the giddiness of rich socialites to learn of their impending love lives provided her with a lot of food and decent housing while she lived in the city, even if she does not particularly believe in the method. But, as with all good things, it ended abruptly and not in her favor the day she was visited by a man in a bowler hat. Wanda shakes the memory, narrowing her eyes as a dangerously appealing idea forms in her head. “Would you like your palm read? You were gracious enough to show me your trade today, I would enjoy the chance to repay the favor.”

Predictably the offer is met with resistance, his body seizing up just enough to be noticeable and his eyes bouncing to every object and item except her. “Oh, I do not think that is necessary.”

“Why? Are you scared?”

He hesitates and the fear is palpable, though it does not have its intended consequence of quelling her curiosity, instead stoking the fire of her interest. “No,” with a single word she knows he is a terrible liar because she does not even have to reach out and brush his mind to know the truth. “I personally view, with no offense meant to you or your livelihood, the spiritualist movement as pure balderdash.”

Typically, offense would be felt at such a statement, but the fact he was willing to say it directly to her is proof that she is interacting with Vision as a person and not a butler, and she determines to ensnare this side of him for a bit longer. “Have you ever had your palm read?”

“No.”

A deceptively innocent grin forms on her face, “Well how can you make such a claim if you have never determined the veracity of the technique?”

He freezes, lips parted slightly in contemplation while his eyes focus on a point just above her shoulder and she can almost imagine tiny gears clicking in his eyes as he attempts to counter her claim. “I suppose it is empirically impossible to support my claim without evidence.” The words come out slowly, a pause inserted at every third word.

Wanda smiles, lifting her arm so that her hand hovers between them, palm up, “I am glad you have seen reason, may I?”

The disconcerting gaze moves from just above her shoulder to her palm, his own hands delving deeper into his pockets as she stares at him. “It is quite late.”

“It will not take long.”

“You are a-”

Wanda glares at him, flexing her fingers in an attempt to encourage his compliance, “If you attempt to rationalize your refusal on the basis of me being a guest in this house then I will turn it right back on you and insist, as a guest, that you comply. But,” the glare softens as she offers him a smirk, “I would much prefer to avoid such awkwardness.”

Momentarily the fear leaves his face, replaced by a gleam of fascination that almost derails her plans. Thankfully, his voice breaks the spell, “My hands…”

It is undeniable, based on her experience so far with him, that his job requires a great deal of work with his hands, some of the liquids corrosive, and so she assumes he is going to attempt to argue that she should not have to touch such hands. “The only way that sentence can end with my agreement is if you inform me you are actually an avian beast with talons for hands. Because then,” she sends him another smile, “you would have no palm to read.” Vision remains silent, eyes boring into her own, creases of deep contemplation forming on his face and her heart drops at the fear on his face, concerned she is pushing him too far. “But if you truly do not want it, that is fine too.”

He holds her gaze for a small eternity before he sighs and a spike of exuberance bursts from her stomach as she watches him remove his hand from his pocket. Haltingly he moves it to her own hand and whispers an apologetic, “I am not sure you will be able to read it,” that does not make sense until she touches him, notices a subtle texture to his skin that she has not felt before. Wanda reaches out to turn the knob of the lamp, increasing the light, and hates herself for gasping when she takes in the deep, wrinkled red scarring of his skin. Immediately he pulls his hand back, but she lunges forward enough to grab it and gently guide it back to the area between them. Fingers lightly brushing along his skin, trying desperately to assure him that it does not bother her.

“What happened?”

His face becomes stoic, closed off, and the action constricts her heart, a deep, aching pain forming in her chest as he simply states, “An unfortunate event in my past.”

Nothing else is added nor is there any sign that he wishes to divulge more and so Wanda brings his hand closer to her face. “Please let me know if you are ever uncomfortable.”

“Of course.”

The order in which the major lines are assessed varies based on the reader, or so Wanda determined when she bounced from tent to tent back in Sokovia as she learned the art of palmistry. Typically, she begins with whatever the person is least interested in learning, understanding that you must keep them invested in order to receive the full payment. But, since he isn’t exactly a client, she determines to move from least interesting to her to most, hoping to ease him into the reading, make him feel more comfortable, since currently the muscles in his hand are taut and trembling. “You can relax your hand, it increases the accuracy of the reading.” A quirked eyebrow meets her words, his disbelief in the reading presenting an exhilarating challenge more so than an annoyance. His hand does relax slightly, and she brings her index finger to his palm, placing the tip of her nail between his thumb and index finger. Gently she traces the indents in his skin, searching for the head line and doing her best not to smile at the twitch in his fingers with each pass over his skin. “I am inspecting your head line.”

“What does that tell you?”

This time her smile breaks loose, eyebrows raising as she meets his gaze, “Patience, Vision.” Slowly she follows the line, noting how it does not curve even as it traverses almost his entire palm. “It is straight, which implies you approach life with logic and practicality, that you are meticulous.”

“How can I determine that is due to the line and not your observance of my meticulousness the past two days.”

Wanda glances up at him, expecting to find a seriousness in his brow at his defiance, but instead his features are relaxed, amused, and oddly intrigued. “I suppose you cannot know for sure.”

A triumphant arc forms on the right side of his mouth. “That is unfortunate.”

She ignores his boastfulness, angling her face down to hide her smirk. “Your line is also long, stretching from one side to the other which means you are a more methodical thinker, not terribly impulsive.” Her finger swipes across the line two more times, exerting a slight pressure as she examines the depth of the line. “You also have a good memory as your line is deep.”

“So far you are correct, but,” a slight shrug and another smile from the man spurs a warmth to grow in the pit of her stomach, “I am not convinced.”

“Would you be willing to save your judgment until the end?”

His other hand escapes his pocket long enough to wave her on, “Of course.”

Wanda is torn which line to assess next, an unusual trepidation associated with either one. Her finger hovers above his hand before dropping down just below his fingers. “The heart line,” her own heart is racing, much to her annoyance, as her finger brushes his hand, attempting to locate the beginning of the line, a smile forming on her face once she finds it, which is odd given her own qualms with this methodology. “Your heart line begins here,” her finger presses just under his index finger, “that implies you are quite selective in choosing your romantic partners, but that once you select a partner, it is a satisfying relationship.” Wanda’s eyes turn up, glancing at him to assess his response, which is a barely decipherable hmm and a tension in his face as he deliberately does not glance at her. Her finger follows the line, noting the way it branches, one part traveling down and the other curving up towards his ring finger. “It branches.”

“What does that mean?”

Finally, he looks at her but whatever is going through his mind is unreadable based on merely looking, her own mind itching to connect with his to determine his thoughts. Yet, for some reason, she feels as if now is not an acceptable time that, in fact, the thought of entering his mind again without asking would be an unspeakable act. “It means you are quite skilled at balancing your logic and emotions, you are not driven exclusively by emotions nor do you wear them on your sleeve.” The line is also deep, a fact she intends to tell him but instead internalizes it with a slight grin, understanding it means that once a romantic relationship begins it is deeply satisfying due to an intense commitment. “Lastly,” Wanda breathes out, the pad of her index finger not leaving his palm as she moves back to the area between his thumb and index finger, “the life line.”

Vision shuffles slightly, bending forward at his waist which brings his face closer to hers as he watches her search for the line. “Are you about to tell me when I die?”

A laugh falls from her lips, this question a common misconception, although some readers assert the length of the line is related to the length of the life, but she never interprets it that way. “No, I am not in the business of soothsaying. Now,” she grips his hand a bit tighter, rotating his wrist to allow her a better view of the line as she tries desperately to ignore how much closer he is to her now than he has been since they met. “It is quite shallow which means you have not moved through life easily.” She waits for a response, but is only provided with a nod and a release of air from his lungs. Gently she allows the tip of her nail to traverse the line, noting two places where the line stops and then starts again, one seems to be from the scarring the other, she is unable to tell. “There are two breaks, which implies unfortunate accidents or major changes.”

“I, so far, am only aware of one.” The words revert back to his utter, unemotional seriousness and it breaks her heart. “Perhaps we will have to determine if you are a soothsayer for the other.”

Wanda turns her full attention to his face, eyes locking with his blue irises. “Have I convinced you then?”

The serious from before falls away with a chuckle and a shake of his head, “Not at all, but I am willing to entertain the notion until it is utterly proven false. Given you predict something else in my future, I suppose I must wait to make my final determination until then."

“Thank you for your partial openness.”

“Of course.”

Wanda flashes him a grin before returning her attention to his palm, drawing her finger the rest of the way along the line, content and relieved at the fact it is long, so long in fact she can follow it from his palm to the base of his wrist, which is where she is met with a new texture, one that is cold and smooth, akin to the feel of the silverware they cleaned earlier in the day. “What is-” he immediately yanks his hand from her grip, nervously rolling the sleeve down to cover his wrist.

“It is nothing.”

The atmosphere around them grows denser as her eyes narrow, attempting to ascertain the new reason for his demeanor to shift, now not the calm yet confident man nor the intensely focused and unemotional butler, but his body taking on the airs of nervousness, feet unable to remain still as he shifts in his seat. Even his eyes cannot determine what to focus on. “Vision?” Wanda reaches out, grips his hand in hopes it induces a sense of calm.

“Wanda, I,” slowly he regains his typical poise, body stilling as he straightens his spine and tilts his chin up, a move she believes might be an attempt to convince himself more so than her that everything is fine. “I believe it is about to rain.” A flash of lightning illuminates the balcony. “It is also quite late.” An admission that breeds disdain deep within her, her desire is to remain with him, figure out what is wrong, but she also recognizes that whatever is bothering him might need time, and that she worries about pushing the issue.

“It is.”

Vision stands, fingers expertly buttoning the cuff of his shirt, ensuring it cannot ride up and reveal whatever he is hiding, and then he surprises her, reaching out his hand in assistance out of the chair. The offer is accepted, her fingers curling over the edge of his hand, giving him a reassuring squeeze. “Would you like to be accompanied to your room?” Wanda is stunned at the connotation, as is Vision, who pauses, his eyes widening and mouth dropping open. “I meant would you like me to walk you back to your room?”

The corners of her mouth rise into a simper, heart beating quite quickly as she strives not to read too much into the fumbled offer. “I think I can manage on my own. Thank you, though.” Wanda gives his hand one more squeeze, allowing her fingers to linger on his skin as she pulls away. “This was nice, are you here every night?”

“It was,” a bashfulness overtakes his body, hands clasped nervously in front of him as his mouth attempts to decide if he provides a small smile or a broad one. “Yes, I am here each night and you are always welcome to join.”

Wanda’s grin grows wider at the offer. “Good night, Vision.”

She exits the balcony, eyes finally taking in her surroundings and notes this area is far less richly decorated, even the materials seem more common and she realizes this might actually be where Vision lives. A door to her right beckons her but she determines to inquire about it later, perhaps several nights in a row of meeting with the man instead of the butler will illuminate this aspect of the manor. Then she hears footsteps behind her and a, “Wanda."

Wanda turns to find Vision in the hallway, the row of lighting on the walls providing her with a more complete view of his casual attire, his shirt even scandalously undone three buttons down which reveals a similar pattern to his skin as his hands and her heart breaks all over again. She steps towards him with a, “Vision?”

“Wanda,” he cocks his head to the side in confusion at the tremble in her voice. “I meant to inform you earlier that Mr. Stark will be arriving tomorrow.”

Everything freezes around her, heart and lungs constricting as she struggles to breathe, managing only a stuttered, “St-stark?”

His head remains tilted, but now his eyes join his confusion. “Correct, Mr. Stark, the owner of the manor.”

There must be a multitude of individuals with the name Stark, and so Wanda attempts to clamp down her panic long enough to inquire, to make sure it is a different Stark. “Tony Stark?

Vision nods and her heart drops to her feet as her head swims, “Correct.”

Perhaps there are multiple Tony Starks. “Tony Stark, of Stark Industries?”

“Technically the eponymous Stark of Stark industries is the late Howard but yes, Mr. Stark owns and operates it now.”

The straightforward, logically playful response is not appreciated right now, her body developing a tremble as her eyes dart around her surroundings. Then she breathes in and locks her eyes on the blonde-haired man in front of her, releasing an accusatory, “You work for Tony Stark?”

The ire in her voice must not be clear, since he doesn’t seem to be responding to the horror of the question, doesn’t seem to understand why this is information that should be rattling his very existence as much as it is hers. “That is the most logical and parsimonious connection, yes.”

Wanda can feel the panic rising up from where her heart still lays at her feet, can hear the reverberations of explosions in her memory, the heat of the fire that destroyed her life. But much more prominent than even that, is the complete betrayal of the man in front of her. “Excuse me.”

A hurried, concerned, “Wanda?” barely registers as she turns to leave.

And Wanda runs.

Victorian language decoder: *Make a stuffed bird laugh = Ridiculous **Waggish = Playful ***Bricky = Fearless ****Nativists = A political movement at the time that was anti-immigration, demanding the United States cut off its borders to others *****Pale-maille = Croquet…but it wasn’t called croquet yet.

Next time expect some melodramatic encounters and a thickening of the plot.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter!

#scarlet vision #scarletvisionexchange2017 #sve2017 #vision #wanda maximoff #victorian AU #fanfiction #ao3 #aos

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