#i about made this observation an hour ago but decided it was too cynical. but it's been dying very rapidly.

[sangfielle]

like. vice?? vice.com??? genuinely the internet as it exists is in its death throes atp

[write-a-bad-romance]

Holy Woman (Ikevamp Angst Week 2020)

Ao3 link: Here

Prompt: “Character Death” and “Loss”

Words: 2761

Made for Ikevamp Angst Week Day 8 and 9. Tagging @ikevampangstweek​.

This work features mild spoilers for Jean’s route and a genderbent (female) version of Jean d’Arc.

dulce et decorum est pro patria mori 

In the dark of the night, she ran amidst the clamor of gunshots and shouts far behind her. The blizzard became her cover —she was deaf to the entire world save for the ominous howling of the wind right beside her ears.

Her long silken hair, free from its bindings, trailed like spun silk as she bounded across the snow. With nothing to guide her, not even the hand of God Himself, she escaped into the wasteland.

Like a specter she vanished, abandoning her crown and a condemned history behind her.

"Drat!" Charles cursed, shaking his head as the horse finally breathed its last.

And when I'm so close to the town too! This can't be happening! Last night's blizzard was horrendous; he had to take shelter at the dilapidated empty house, horse and cart, and all. Delivering every crate containing vials of serum in tip-top shape had been his objective.

But there was little he could hope for, not when he had a horse with a broken leg.

"No, no, no." Tears pricked in the corner of his eyes. Years carrying corpses and dying men back and forth on the battlefield made him immune to the sight of mortality. But the combination of fatigue after days on the road and lack of sleep was more than enough to break his already dwindling spirits.

"No," he repeated, slapping himself on both cheeks. "This won't do. Think of the townspeople. They're waiting."

With heavy steps and an even heavier heart, Charles sat by the side of the road. It would take at least five hours to reach his destination on foot. Gears turned inside his exhausted head as he devised a plan: hide the crates inside the house, walk along the road, and see if there are any houses nearby. Walk up to their door, knock, smile and ask them if you can borrow their cart —

And risk leaving the crates unsupervised. Right. No one would have the mind to somehow spirit away crates full of vials of dubious substance, but Charles dreaded losing his precious cargo if that meant another three days' ride to the Medical Center.

What a conundrum! Charles's idle hand grabbed fistfuls of snow, feeling the raw chill bite into his skin. The sensation helped alleviate his fidgety nerves.  

Besides, there's no guarantee I'm not going to get caught in another blizzard when running around seeking help. The rose-haired man sighed, scratching at the memento wound around his neck. What should I do now? Stay put and pray for a miracle to come my way?

Back at the battlefield, in the flapping tents where prayers die on the mouth of soldiers reaching to grasp at specters of their beloved, Charles lost his faith in the Almighty. H is more cynical colleagues joked that God had been replaced by the emperor, his enemy monarchs, and whatever whims they impose on us poor, downtrodden common folk.

It wasn't until his mother pestered him that Charles once again re-adopted a habit of praying. Ironic, considering his mother's pragmatism towards their soiled family business. War was capable of moving the smallest of things, it seemed.  

Charles realized he had been dozing when he felt something approach. The tremor he felt underneath his feet signaled that it was another cart, most likely heavy duty. The young doctor jumped to his feet, regretting it immediately as he felt himself swoon and nearly losing his balance.

"Excuse me!" He waved at the cart, a figure clad in a dark blue cloak from head to toe at the reins. "Are you in any way passing through the next town?" Charles yelled.

The stranger stopped his cart right in front of Charles, silent. Worried he didn't hear him the first time, Charles composed himself and cleared his throat.

"Will you, by any chance, be passing through the town? The one with a mountain abbey?" He pronounced his words carefully, his heart beating in trepidation as the veiled stranger didn't seem to respond. He could wait for another cart to pass by but damn if he let this chance slip.

The figure nodded, and a deep-toned, feminine voice reverberated through the crisp, winter air.

"I am heading to that town." The woman answered severely. "How may I be of service?"

Charles was perplexed by her manner of speech but approached her nonetheless. "My apologies. I was transporting some cargo on my own cart when the blizzard came, and I had to take shelter in that empty house over there."

The cloaked woman regarded him in silence as Charles struggled to resume his explanation. Did she find him suspicious? Was she to be suspected, herself? Countless scenarios rushed through Charles' restless mind as he motioned vaguely at the dilapidated building.

"And then my horse broke one of its ankles—"

“Your horse?”

Charles was ready to receive whatever tirade the woman was prepared to discharge, judging from her pressing tone. But to his surprise, the woman was already jumping off her cart, the wind knocking back her veil.

Revealing a burn scar mark in the shape of a spark over her right eye, concealed in part by her thick, lavender bangs. It extended across the side of her face and neck, disappearing underneath her collar. Her left eye was hidden under a black eyepatch, revealing a scarce expanse of alabaster skin.

Charles' face grew red as he realized that he was staring. Her dark, empty orb seemed to suggest that she too had noticed. Quickly, Charles apologized.

"Forgive me, I didn't mean to stare—" but the woman had already turned towards the house.

"Show me the horse," she commanded.

Swallowing his guilt away, Charles brushed invisible snow off his pants and followed suit. "Right," he coughed. "This way, Madame."

"So, you've met Sister Joanna." Monsieur Faust concluded. He was the town's only doctor, a strapping young man in his late twenties. He had on him shapely, robust shoulders and intelligent eyes behind a pair of square, thin-framed glasses.

The only aspect Charles found disconcerting about his temporary senior was his penchant for sardonic, offhand remarks that seemed to serve as a barrier between him and the vernacular crowd.

"Sister?" Charles exclaimed, having signed the last of the transport papers. "Is she part of the convent?"

"No, not at all." Faust chuckled. "In fact, I believe it's been years since anybody's ever seen her inside the church or taking part in any religious gathering."

Charles recalled how the lean woman helped him move the dead horse out of the barn and buried the horse by a nearby tree. He was still amazed by the woman's astounding demonstration of strength as she loaded the bulky crates onto her own cart.

"It was the nuns who called her that during her stay at the abbey. The nickname carried long after she left," The older man continued. "I was the doctor who treated her when she first arrived a year ago."

Those burn scars, Charles gulped, amethyst eyes still boring into his own long after their parting. "What does she do now?"

"She's the town's handywoman, for lack of a better word." Faust's nimble hands arranged the vials into neat rows inside a cabinet. "She accepts odd jobs every now and then, though you're more likely to see her at the weapons shop by the square. She seemed to have lived quite close to the military at some point."

The man's curious pause before rolling the word military didn't escape Charles. Whether it was said out of genuine disdain for their country's warmongering exploits or twisted sympathy for his own history, he didn't know.

"Other times, especially outside winter, you can find her attending to flower beds just outside of town," Faust muttered. "She would bring back different-colored flowers in vases and deliver them to the flower shop. You'll see what I mean quite soon."

"Flowers? The military?" Charles was at a loss for words as the man slew exposition after exposition in rapid succession. And he had pegged him to be the quiet sort! "I take it she must have been living quite illustriously before she came to town."

"That she is," The other man nodded. "Quite the character, isn't she? Sister Joanna does what she likes, regardless of what others see."

Charles decided to take a stroll after lunch. Now that he's done resting and arranging his belongings at the inn, it was time to explore the rustic town.

The innkeeper was an amiable man with ivory hair and crimson eyes, not much older than Faust. The flower shop the doctor mentioned was adjacent to the inn's lobby, and the owner of both establishments introduced himself as Vlad. Not Vladimir, not Vladislav, just Vlad.

Charles detected something beyond mere eccentricity beneath the man's lighthearted disposition. There was a noble air to him that made Charles suspect Vlad was related to one of the hussar princes the Continental army overthrew seven years ago.

The man responded to Charles' prodding joke with a subtly accented, good-humored reply. "I hail from Targoviste! But now that you mention it, my family is descended from a long line of voivodes from the Middle Ages . "

Charles decided not to pry further lest he be turned to fertilizer for the pansies at the inn's backyard.

His feet took him to the town square, where Sister Joanna's weapons shop supposedly was if he remembered correctly.

In the center was a sizable statue of a peasant woman, her arm cradling a bundle of wheat to her bosom. The other arm was reaching towards the sky, a long strip of sash winding around the limb like a vine. Charles found it so lifelike it could've been fluttering along with the icy wind.

Sister Joanna was standing by the base. Her slacks visible below her dark robes and sinewy stature made it easy to confuse her with a man. Charles walked towards the lone woman, intending to thank her.

“Sister Joanna!” He called excitedly. “Sister Joann—”

Charles fell quiet as he observed the woman pressing her hands firmly pressed together in front of her breast, long fingers pointing towards the statue in silent prayer.

It took a moment before she finally turned to look at Charles. The young man noticed a bundle of freshly picked snowdrops and hellebore resting at the statue's foot.

Charles found himself speechless as he was once again met with Sister Joanna's hollow gaze.

"Yes?" Her dry voice penetrated the once-welcome stillness. "Do you need anything?"

It wasn't that Charles was unaccustomed to make small talk with women. It was Sister Joanna's mannerism that had put the younger man at unease. He collected himself and knelt down, paying heed to spare her some distance.

"I think I should pray, too." He smiled, hoping to reduce the tension. "But I don't have any flowers on me. Too bad."

"Do as you see fit." The woman replied impassively.

Charles' heart regained its composed pace after he offered hushed words of prayer for the souls of his fallen comrades. He rose and beamed at the indomitable woman, whom he caught staring.

Sister Joanna wasn't the least bit unfazed when Charles's youthful face broke into a grin. "Do you know who you're even praying for?"

His eyes returned to inspect the statue, the granite matron towering over the strange couple. "This statue was built in honor of the fallen soldiers and their widows, was it not?"

Sister Joanna didn't respond, seemingly absorbed in the statue's presence as well.

"The Emperor marched through these passes on the way to claim his first victory. Thousands of the men died in the expedition, and they were laid to rest by the abbey."

Charles stepped forward to run his palm over the statue's nameplate.

"The Weeping Widow," He read. "The woman's statue was meant to stand for the widows and lovers of the fallen men, waiting somewhere at the other side of the country. I can't imagine what it feels like to have someone come knocking on your door and tell you that the man you love is dead."

Ignoring Sister Joanna's lack of commentary, Charles continued. "This statue was built with the hopes that no more widows would have to share that fate. That's a beautiful thought."

"How did you come to know all this?" she finally interrupted.

"My uncle took part in the expedition. He lost an arm after the battle and was recuperating in this town when they built the statue." Charles recounted heartily. "It is sweet and proper to die for one's own country, he’d say to his nephews and grandchildren. He kept boasting about wanting to follow his friends to heaven. Or hell."

"It is sweet and fitting to die for the homeland is a more precise translation," The elder corrected. "They keep omitting the following lines:

sed dulcius pro patria vivere,

et dulcissimum pro patria bibere.

Ergo, bibamus pro salute patriae.

'A reasonable translation would be but sweeter still to live for the homeland, and sweetest yet to drink for the homeland. So, let us drink to the health of the homeland." She recited, her sonorous voice unwavering. "Why choose to die at the behest of unconcerned rulers when you can return to a loving home and family?"

Charles was taken aback by the mistress's sudden erudite lecture, almost sharp in its delivery.

"Forgive me," Charles blushed in embarrassment. He'd been correct —Sister Joanna was as enigmatic as her appearance, if not more.

 “To die for one's own country. The Emperor's beloved quote." Sister Joanna murmured. "A flowery epigram befitting an equally deranged man."

"I beg your pardon?"

Two years after the Emperor's death, all of the Continent remained in discord after his abdication and subsequent death. There were demands of his generals' execution after they failed to have the ruler beheaded himself.

In some parts of the country, statues in his image were toppled, and his estates were raided. Angry mobs and disillusioned former soldiers banded together to hunt down possible adherents to the old, 'warmongering' regime.

The recalcitrant woman stood tall against the backdrop of a secluded, provincial town hidden among mountains. Maybe there was a truth to Faust's words about her past dealings with the military.

Speak no ill of the dead doesn't apply to warlords and rulers, it seemed. Joanna sighed. "I can't imagine anyone deigning to pray for his poor soul."

His family, Charles dreaded to say. Whatever was left of the royal family were chased to the shores, some immediately captured as they attempted to land in the Isles.

Their encounter had taken quite the morbid turn. Yet it didn't deter Charles from wanting to know more about the woman standing by his side. The young doctor felt small, figuratively and literally, considering his shoulder didn't quite reach hers.

"I should return." Sister Joanna announced. "The sun is setting."

She was heading to the weapons shop, no doubt. Charles nearly forgot his reason for wanting to approach her in the first place.

"Wait!" He called, "I forgot to thank you for your help!"

"What?"

Charles panted as he struggled to match Sister Joanna's pace. Not only does she act like a soldier, she even walks like one!

"I haven't thanked you enough for this morning." He considered extending his hand but refrained, remembering that in proper circumstances, she would be the one extending her hand.

"I don't think I've introduced myself properly, have I? My name is Charles. Charles Henri-Sanson." He flashed her what he thought was his most bedazzling smile. "I might be staying here for the next four months or so,"

Sister Joanna regarded him with mild interest. "I see." She nodded. "Nice to have your acquaintance. I presume the doctor has told you plenty about me, considering you called me by name."

"He did!" Charles answered, not missing a beat. "He told me many things about you."

"Did he, now?"

The pair continued to make their way towards the edge of the square, Charles continuing to engage her with a barrage of questions, and Sister Joanna placating his curiosity with lukewarm zeal.

It didn't take long before they arrived at the entrance to the shop.

Sister Joanna uncovered her cowl and faced Charles. The entirety of her charred visage was now visible, unobscured by the midnight-colored fabric.

"You're a strange man," she observed. "Are you not revolted by the sight of my face?"

"Madame, I used to serve as a doctor until the last days of the war," He chuckled in earnest. "Before I was captured by the Coalition and became a prisoner.”

To be continued in Part 2.’

Special thanks to @batteryrose​ for her doodles of Jean with burn scars all over his body.

[katehuntington]

Title: Ride With Me (part fifteen) Fandom: Supernatural Timeline: 2008 Pairing: Dean x Reader Word count: ±5200 words Summary series: Y/N is a talented horse rider who is on her way to become a professional. In order to convince her father that she deserves the loan needed to start her own farm, she goes to Arizona for six months, to intern at a ranch owned by Bobby and Ellen Singer. Her future is set out, but then she meets a handsome horseman, who goes by the name of Dean Winchester. A heartwarming series about a cowboy who falls for the girl, letting go of the past and the importance of family.  Summary part fifteen: The sun rises and it’s time to bring the herd home, but not before Dean reconnects with an old friend. Warnings series: NSFW, 18+ only! Fluff, angst, eventually smut. Swearing, smoking, alcohol intoxication, alcohol abuse. Mutual pining, heartbreak. Crying, nightmares, childhood trauma. Description of animal abuse, domestic violence, mentions of addiction. Financial problems, stress, mental breakdown. Description of blood and injury, hospital scenes, character death, grief. Music: Dean & Rocko scene: ‘Road To Perdition’ - The City Of Prague Philharmonic Orchestra. Final scene: ‘Ride’ - Hans Zimmer. Check out ‘Kate Huntington’s Ride With Me playlist’ on Spotify! Author’s note: It’s about damn time, ain’t it? Thank you @kittenofdoomage, @girl-with-a-fandom-fettish​ and @winchest09​ for helping me. You girls are awesome betas and friends.

Ride With Me Masterlist

     Slow hoofbeats, little rocks and earth crunching underneath the thousand pound animal. Surprisingly light on its feet, never disturbing the quiet, as it scours the land for the last grass of the season. Calm breaths, taking in over a gallon of oxygen with each inhalation, followed by a soft purring sound when the air is pushed out through the nose. The cold of the night lingers and the air condensates. The first glint of the sun catches the moist clouds coming from its nostrils, turning the fierce creature into a dragon. Kind eyes, calm when it’s safe, but scanning the environment nevertheless, always on the lookout for predators. Pointy ears, flitting back and forth independently, picking up even the smallest whisper, like two little space antennas scanning the sky. 

     Dean watches the herd from a distance, with Y/N still sound asleep in his arms. He can tell she’s exhausted, because she didn’t stir once in the past three hours. The cowboy made sure she was fully covered with the unzipped sleeping bag, holding her close to keep her warm. She seems so comfortable, so trusting; it humbles him. Apparently she’s completely at ease being so close, her self-consciousness burned away by his never ending adoration. Of course he noticed the hesitation when they all went for a swim yesterday evening. She wanted to disappear, covering herself with her arms crossed in front of her chest, her expression shameful. And then there was the insecurity just hours ago, her mind clearly spiraling when he couldn’t give her the confirmation she so desperately seeks. Dean wonders what happened for her to lack confidence. If she has some douchebag ex-boyfriend maybe, who didn’t treat her right. 

     Staying awake wasn’t any trouble overnight, because he had plenty to think about. He’s not the guy to analyse his every thought, he'd rather stuff it all down and ignore them all together. But spending several hours under the Yucca tree, in an embrace with the one person that has his mind reeling, left him no option. So many questions, so much doubt. He wishes he had more answers, he wishes he could have a glance into the future in order to tell if he’s on the right path. If he can make it work with her, if he can step up to become the man she’s looking for. If she will stay with him, even after the internship, because the thought of her leaving brings back an anxiety that he used to experience when his family threatened to fall apart, which is exactly what happened, eventually. He came to one conclusion, though; he’s not going to let her go. 

     His gaze remains absently fixed on the horses, who have moved a few hundred yards closer. The oldest stallion of the herd had spotted the wranglers about an hour ago, but after careful observation decided that they weren’t a threat. It’s a beautiful sight, beams peeking over the mountain range, framing the horses’ silhouettes with gold. Small bugs twirl in the air like fireflies, surrounding the large animals. Dean squints and tips his head forward when the rising sun becomes brighter. The warmth is welcome; he hasn’t moved an inch over the past hours, not wanting to wake Y/N, causing the cold to settle in his bones. 

     A new dawn means they’ve got work to do and Dean is left no choice but to wake the heavy sleeper. The arrival of morning does the job for him, however; even with her eyes closed, the light seeps through. It triggers her to turn into him and hide her face in the crook between his shoulder and his chest. Y/N grunts, disagreeing with the time, and Dean sniggers. He’s not much of a morning person either, but his intern takes the cake.      “Mornin’, Yankee.”       She opens one eye and looks up, meeting an amused yet adoring smile.       “Morning…” Groggy, she rubs her face with the back of her hand. “Five more minutes?”      “You’ll miss the view,” Dean says, nodding at the horizon.

     His eyes reflect the scenery he’s beholding, the colors vibrant as the sun hits them just right, adding amber to the jade in his irises. It peaks her interest, and Y/N turns her head to face the new day. Only leaving a crack for the light to pass her long lashes, she takes in the mesmerizing scenery. On the edges of her vision, a darker shade of blue transitions into a lighter one, the tones changing from cold to warm as they enclose the sun. Cirrus clouds catch the first rays, curling across the sky like wisps of silk hair. From cobalt to pale turquoise, from apricot to saffron. The painter of this picture used every color on the spectrum. And smack in the middle, the sun rises. So bright, she seems to be aware that planets orbit around her. The Superstition Mountains stand proud and tall in the south, the peaks catching the early light, making the volcanic formations seem blood orange, as if lava is erupting from the earth once again. 

     The herd is only a couple of hundred yards away now, grazing calmly. They don’t seem to  be aware of the humans sitting on the top of the hill, almost as if Y/N is in a cinema, watching a gigantic movie screen. It would explain the idyllic Wild West decor, because such magic can only be created with CGI in a Hollywood studio. But they are here. Y/N can smell the air, sweet and earthy. She can hear the wind rustling small bushes and blowing gently through the canyons. She can feel Dean, the warmth radiating from his large form that has enveloped her.       “It’s breathtaking,” she says softly, leaning into him.      He places a soft kiss on her hair, and she smiles, content.       “Thanks for letting me sleep.”      He shrugs it off. “You needed it. We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”      Y/N sits up and rolls her neck to loosen her muscles.       “It’s going to be intense, isn’t it?” she guesses, getting to her feet.      “I’d call it adventurous and exciting,” Dean chuckles, stretching his back now that he can move freely again. “Just like the old spaghetti westerns, y’know? Well… without the gun slinging and bounty hunts. It’ll be awesome, trust me.”

     Y/N sniggers, strolling around the Yucca tree to meet her horse. She finds it cute how the tough cowboy, who’s closing in on thirty, is beaming like a little kid. After ruffling Joplin’s mane, she takes a small case from one of the saddlebags, which holds her toothbrush and a small tube of toothpaste. She has found a new level of appreciation for these simple products of hygiene, given that she has been stripped from luxury and has to do with the absolute necessary. Especially since she’s not just kissing Dean in her dreams these days.

     Looking forward to the day on his doorstep, Dean pulls his radio phone from the front saddlebag, turning it on and twisting the knob to find the channel.      “Benny? Come in?”      He lets go of the PTT button, the device beeping once when he does, then it’s quiet for a moment. Mirroring Y/N’s actions, he one handedly fishes out his toothbrush as well, but when his friend doesn’t respond, he pushes the talk button again.      “You better get your lazy ass out of bed, Lafitte. Gotta bring the horses in.”      Dean clips the radio to his belt. He has brushed his teeth, rinsed his mouth and cleaned his face by the time the farrier replies.      “Good mornin’ to you too, Chief.”      Dean grins at the slightly cynical tone of the Southerner. He pushes the button again, moving the speaker closer to his mouth.       “We’re with the herd, on Black Top Mesa, close to Dutchman’s Trailhead. Ya’ll ready to move?”      “Sure am, just cooking up some breakfast to go. Do you want some or did you already eat out?”

     Y/N has never timed taking a sip of water worse, because it comes out through both her mouth and nose. Dean stares at her mortified before he snaps the walkie talkie to his mouth.      “She can hear ya, you jackass!” he returns, his voice higher than he anticipated.      “Oh, I bet she can.”      The head wrangler shuts his eyes and cringes, turning away from Y/N to hide his red face. His free hand goes for his belt loop first, then rubs the back of his neck, before wiping the sweat on the denim of his jeans. Shit, this is embarrassing.       “I - I - We… You know what? I don’t owe you an explanation,” he hisses into the radio phone.      “I’m just saying, brother, if you haven’t yet, it’s gonna take us at least forty five minutes to get to ya, so--”      “- Over and out, Benny!”

     Quickly, he turns the device off, breathes out, and scoffs. That son of a bitch. Dean isn’t sure how he’s going to make Benny pay just yet, but he will taste his wrath. He carefully glances over his shoulder to check on Y/N, who he finds with her hand clasped over her mouth, trying her very best to contain her giggles.      “You think that’s funny, huh?” he mutters, flustered.      She laughs warm and hearty, wiping tears from her eyes as she approaches the cowboy.      “You don’t need enemies with friends like him, that’s a given,” she chuckles.

     He glances at her, his mouth pulling into a smile. She can spot a hint of relief, now that he knows she’s taking it well, but blood still warms his cheeks, making his freckles invisible. It amazes her every single time how all that confidence washes away once he loses direction. Benny was just teasing him, Dean must be aware of that. Besides, it’s not like the green eyed wrangler to take things easy, as he said so himself, so it’s not strange his Southern friend figured he covered at least a couple of bases overnight. She can feel a blush add color to her face as well, when the thought crosses her mind. Honestly, she too silently hoped he would have gone ‘down that road’. 

     “Well, unfortunately he assumed wrong,” she addresses boldly, taking the collar of his stockman coat gently between her thumb and index finger, reeling him in. “But he was right about them taking at least forty five minutes to get here.”      Stunned eyes flick over her features, wondering if he’s imagining things or if she really just gained the confidence he’s lacking at this very moment. Once again she blows him off his feet with her newfound assertiveness, like she does every so often. Shit, she’s sexy when she takes the lead like that.       “He sure was,” he returns, his hands now moving to her waist.      “I know we agreed to take it easy,” she tilts her head slightly, folding her arms around his neck now. “So what should we do with all that time?”

     Dean smirks at her from under his hat, shaking his head amused without breaking eye contact. What a tease. He couldn’t resist her to save his own life. Her radiance is brighter than the rising sun behind her. The pull he’s experiencing, the level of attraction, it’s so strong; he knows he’s going to have a tough time sticking to his boundaries. He has to, though, he has to do right by her. But that doesn’t mean they can’t have a little fun along the way.      “I got a few ideas,” he implies.      Before Y/N knows it, the strong wrangler lifts her up, pulling a squeal from within her, followed by a fit of giggles. He adjusts his grip when she folds her legs around his middle, smothering her sly grin with a sweet kiss. The low chuckle that escapes his throat sounds both gentle and gruff, adding to the wholesome sensation that fills her chest.       By the Yucca tree, he lowers himself to the ground, still holding the cowgirl in his arms until she has found her balance and straddles his lap, a knee buried in the gravelly sand on either side of him. The intimate connection strengthens as they get lost in the moment, the laughs dying down, eyes falling shut. 

     Dean lets his fingers wander over the fabric of her clothes, tracing the lines of her neck, her spine, the curves of her hips. Feeling no pressure that this needs to lead somewhere right now calms him, because even though it’s proven to be difficult to keep their hands off each other, he knows she will give him the space he needs and, despite this little tease, she respects him more than he respects himself.       He makes a little mental note when she whimpers, as he continues to leave a trail of kisses from the corner of her mouth, down her throat and her collarbone. Dean might not go down on the beautiful cowgirl today, but he will remember the little touches that make her sigh and squirm. 

     Their agreement to take it slow, combined with Benny’s remark, sparked something new. Since their first kiss, she has been willing, eager for more, but now that what she wants is just out of reach, she finds it difficult to control herself. He can tell in the way she touches him, the audible breaths that reach his hearing when their mouths aren’t sealed together, the longing in her eyes when she opens them for a brief second. Dean never thought he would say it, but taking their time might have an advantage he hadn’t considered before. Teasing him, tempting her… it’s an interesting way to pass the time. Making each other wait might feel like a torturous game right now, but when the moment does arrive for them to take things to the next level, it’s going to be something else. And just like that, the bachelor who didn’t waste a second to get around with so many women, doesn’t mind waiting for the one.

     The two lay together for at least half an hour, making out like teenagers. Sweet touches, cute giggles, all smiles. If they could freeze time, they would. But when Dean glances north and notices the dust clouds coming from La Barge Canyon, they have to interrupt the intimacy; Benny and the others are on their way.

     Five minutes later, Dean shrugs off his long coat, now that the sun has cast out the crisp of the night. He folds it up tightly and stuffs it into one of his saddlebags. Y/N has already mounted Joplin, at home in the Tucker trail saddle. The mare didn’t entirely awaken from her slumber apparently, because for once in her life, she stands still and doesn’t bounce around impatiently like a bronc in the holding box at the rodeo. Her rider has her wrists crossed on the horn, the reins casually between her fingers, as she stares at the herd ahead.       “That’s the leader, isn’t it?” she says.

     Dean turns his head, looking at the dark bay horse, who stands between them and his congeners. The animal stares back, ears perked forward, one of them flicking back to the herd every now and them. The stallion observes him carefully, he doesn’t seem entirely sure how to deal with the presence of humans. He’s alert, ready to bolt and take his herd to safety, yet at the same time curious. Understandable, because these youngsters spent most of their life living as feral horses, only seeing men when they were moved from the reservation to the large winter pastures closer to the ranch, and back to the mountains when spring was around the corner.       “Yeah, seems like it,” Dean confirms, watching the beautiful creature.      He returns his gaze to the task at hand, tying the sleeping bag behind Ted’s saddle, but then realization hits him. Wait a minute, is that…? The wrangler turns to face the interested horse again, who is looking at him from about two hundred yards away, like he seems to recognize the cowboy as well.      Y/N glances from the wrangler to the horse and back. “Dean?”

     But he doesn’t respond, slowly stepping away from Ted, narrowing his eyes to see better. The horse’s mane grew long, his forelock covering his face, the black hair growing all the way down to his nose, but a hint of a blaze still visible through the curtain. Dark brown eyes take Dean in as the stallion waits, so still that one could mistake him for a statue, save the wind playing with his tail. The low vegetation hides the white markings on his legs, so the wrangler can’t tell for sure. It can’t be. He couldn’t have grown that big, he wouldn’t be the alpha, he reminds himself. But besides the horse’s size and rank within the herd, there’s nothing that indicates the animal, isn’t him. 

     Dean moves his hand to his mouth, pressing the tabs of his thumb and index finger together, creating a circle, before he places them on his lips. He inhales and whistles sharply. The sheer, high-pitched sound moves across the land, reaching ears miles away. The ears the whistle was meant for, pick up the unique sound too and instantly the caution and doubt in the horse’s stance is gone. He neighs back, loud and strong, confirming Dean’s suspicion.      “Well, I’ll be damned…” he breathes.      “You two know each other?” Y/N wonders.      Dean beams. “Yeah, we go way back.”

     He leaves Ted and Y/N on top of the hill, carefully making his way down the slope without spooking the feral horse. But the stallion doesn’t feel threatened anymore, now that he recognizes Dean. He jogs up to him, taking a few more steps before he halts. Friendly eyes take in the wrangler, his nostrils flaring when Dean tentivally reaches, picking up his scent. As a content smile spreads across Dean’s face, he lets his fingertips brush the horse’s nose, soft as velvet. He takes another step, gliding the palm of his hand up his jaw now, to his cheek and then down his neck, following the flow of the horse’s dark hair. The short summer coat has already partly been replaced, now that the cold of winter will arrive in a month or so.       Last time Dean saw him, he was barely two years old. A youngster, a boney juvenile, who was a tad small. Obviously the fellow needed more time. That’s why the wrangler gave his horse another year to grow. It worked out well, because look at him now.      “Hey, bud,” Dean says softly, ruffling the horse’s mane. “You got big.”

     From a distance, Y/N watches the reunion. She doesn’t know the whole story, but the connection between man and animal is unmistakably strong. They have a place in each other’s hearts and even though they have been apart for a while, that didn’t change. The leader of the herd, who one would expect to be dominant, accepts a human touch without hesitation. It’s an unusual response for a horse who has lived off the grid for years. 

     Warmth fills her chest, a smile on her lips, similar to the one Dean carries. It’s incredible to witness him around the animals that captivate them both. She has enjoyed his interactions many times before, watching him handle them on the ground, seeing him ride. Always kind, always respectful. He has a way with horses that is special. Her grandfather would have said he’s gifted. He also would have given her a thumbs up. Grandpa always offered wise words, often followed by silence, the quiet giving them even more strength. One of his sayings comes to mind: You can judge a man’s character by the way he treats his horses. Well then, if that’s a given, then Dean is definitely one of the kindest and most loving souls she has come across.

     The wrangler rubs the stallion’s shoulder, before he slowly turns around. He tries to beckon the beautiful dark horse with a simple shoulder movement, using only body language to invite the large animal to follow him. After a moment of hesitation, during which the stallion glances at his herd and back at his human, he follows. No rope, no pressure, no constraint, but free will. It’s hard to miss the pleased expression on Dean’s face when he looks up at the cowgirl, who still watches from Joplin’s back.      “I know country boys aren’t known for manners, but aren’t you going to introduce your friend?” she jokes.

     The stallion stops at the bottom of the small hill, aware that as the leader of his group, he still has a task to fulfill. He stands tall, checking on the herd, the autumn breeze catching his tangled mane, folding his tail around his hind legs. He looks almost mythical.      “His name is Rock N’ Roll.” Dean takes him in, proudly. “But he goes by Rock’o.”      “Is he yours?” she asks, curiously.      The wrangler nods. “I was there when he was born. He had a rough start in life. I bottle fed him the first couple of months.”      Amazed, she smiles at him. “No wonder you two are close.”             He returns her expression, taking a moment to absorb the image of both the woman who is conquering his heart, and his horse who already claimed it years ago.       “It’s gonna be much easier to bring in the herd with him on our side,” Dean says, moving to Ted’s left side, after which he puts his foot in the stirrup and swings the other over the saddle. “We have to handle it delicately, but he trusts me.”      “You think he will follow you?” Y/N assumes, keeping Joplin on the spot, who seems to have woken up from her nap, now that Dean mounted his horse as well.      “No, but he will keep the herd together. It's a misconception that the stallion leads the group. They are usually in the rear, driving up stragglers,” Dean explains.

     The head wrangler glances over his shoulder at the growing dust cloud, an indication that Benny and the rest of the crew are closing in. Within a minute, he spots the four riders and their pack horses coming over the hill. The mischievous grin on the Southerner’s face can be spotted from far away.      “Had a nice mornin’ ride, Chief?” he nags under his breath, once he has joined the two riders.      Dean shoots him a glare, his fiery green eyes demanding him to shut up without using actual words. Y/N heard the farrier, however, and no one is prepared for the comeback.      “Oh, we didn’t have time. Forty-five minutes isn’t nearly enough for what I had in mind,” she counters casually.

     Dean snorts, caught by surprise, while Benny cocks his head at the intern, staring at her bug-eyed. Y/N doesn’t give the the blue-eyed cowboy another second of her attention and leads her horse to Ted, her fingertips briefly touching Dean’s thigh as she passes him, before she rides down the hill, her head held high.      Amused, the head wrangler waits for his friend to catch the wide grin on his face, which he does once Benny snaps out of his trance. He shakes his head sniggering, his laugh rumbling deep and low in his chest.      “Brother, you are in way over your head,” he states. “She’s a pistol.”      Dean admittingly raises his brow, nodding in agreement while watching her ride off.      “She sure is.” 

     “Yah!”      In full gallop Y/N speeds up along the left flank of the herd, directing the horses back to a compact group every time they fan out. Benny and Macy are leading, Dean tailing, while Brad and Jon cover the right side. The head wrangler wasn’t lying when he said that it was going to be exciting, because she feels like she’s living a Wild West fantasy. 

     Joplin has her ears in her neck as she sprints away, cutting off two stallions who fan out. Her rider doesn’t even have to give a signal, the feisty dark mare knows exactly what to do. Even though she is smaller than the others, she stands her ground and didn’t think twice when one of the juvenile stallions took an interest in her. With a squeal and a firm kick she made clear not to mess with her, her zero-tolerance attitude keeping them at a safe distance. Y/N had a hunch Joplin was good at the job, otherwise Dean wouldn’t have chosen the strong minded horse for his intern, but she didn’t expect her partner to be this fierce. Unflagging, focussed, and fast as a bullet. It’s an absolute thrill to work with her.

     They pursued the herd into O’Grady Canyon, the higher cliffs on both sides helping the wranglers keep them together. They passed the rock formations of Tim’s Saddle and Dean and Y/N briefly exchanged a look and a smile as they crossed the small creek. Revisiting the place where they shared their first kiss only two days ago feels special, that night’s energy still in the air. So much has happened since, and yet their journey has only just begun. 

     After a quick drinking pause, they continued, before the herd could fall apart. Some of the animals are restless, while others follow a lot more calmly. Using horses instead of dirt bikes or even a helicopter is a lot less stressful for the feral animals, but being chased makes them nervous nonetheless. Rocko’s laid back attitude towards the humans keeps the panic in the herd contained to a minimum, though. 

     Thankfully, the weather is working in their favor for a change. A cool breeze is sweeping across the terrain and swishing through the canyons, keeping the temperature from rising to the heights it reached in the past couple of days. It’s a good thing the conditions are a lot more tolerable, because the riding is intense. The wind, together with the stampede, does kick up a lot of sand, engulfing the wranglers in clouds of earthy particles. Dean, being at the back of the herd, has pulled his neckerchief over his nose, keeping the dust from entering his lungs. 

     Halfway through the afternoon, the wranglers have managed to guide the group of horses safely down the slopes on the east banks of the Superstitions. A time consuming detour, but crossing the mountains without a herd is challenging enough, not to mention with over a dozen wild animals added to the clan. After descending the much smoother slopes for hours on end, the canyon functioning as a tunnel and relieving the pressure from the riders, the walls on either side fan out. Before them lays the valley, the small town of Gold Canyon in the far distance to the west, the sun edging towards it as the day begins to close in on the night. 

     “Yankee!”      It’s Dean who gets her attention, his voice rising above the sound of the stampede. Y/N turns in the saddle while she continues to follow the movement of her horse with her hips. Behind her, three young stallions have wandered away from the group in a matter of seconds. Joplin hasn’t noticed them yet, fixed on holding the flank ahead, but when her rider moves her hand to the left, she rolls away like a fighter jet. The little dark mare needs no encouragement and is at full speed within five strides, shooting across the terrain at a speed of forty miles an hour. Y/N has bent over Joplin’s neck, staying low in order to increase the aerodynamics. The fast rhythmic sound of hoofbeats tremor the ground, the wind rushes in her ears and drags tears from the corners of her eyes. The two cut off the youngsters, redirecting them back to the herd like they have been doing this together for years. Y/N’s partner in crime pushes her ears back and snaps her teeth, not so kindly advising the horses to hurry it up or else, triggering her rider to grin at her feisty character. Once the three join the others, the cowgirl lets out a cheer, adrenaline coursing through her veins. Dean was absolutely right, this is just like a spaghetti western. 

     They ride along the promontory of the mountains to their right, roughly following the Lost Goldmine trail. By the time the company passes a volcanic remnant called Turk’s Head, the sky begins to change, adding orange to the blues. A glance at her old watch tells her it’s 5.10 PM. Three days ago she kept feeling her back pocket for her phone whenever she needed to know the time, or felt the urge to check her messages, but not having her Iphone with her turns out to be a blessing in disguise. Who would want to stare at a screen and miss all the good stuff? 

     Ted’s strides are long and consistent, not a trace of fatigue noticeable with the bay gelding. From behind the group, Dean should have a good overview, if it wasn’t for the dust clouds obstructing his vision. The small particles cling to his skin, his lashes, the fabric of his clothes. He can still see the boys holding their ground well on the right, the steep slopes running up into the peaks of the Flatiron assisting them, working as a funnel. Benny and Macy are keeping a good pace; if they continue at this speed, they will be home before dinner. Y/N is doing outstanding on the other flank, forming a dream team with eager little Joplin. Thankfully, Dean has eyes up ahead, because the radio on his belt begins to crack.      “Two miles to go, Chief!”      Dean takes the radio phone and presses the PTT button before he answers.      “Let’s bring them home, brother.”

     With his thumb he twists the channel nob, switching to number four, before he calls in again. They should be within the perimeter now. “Bobby, do you read me?”      It’s quiet for a moment, but then the static breaks.      “Loud and clear, son.”      The head wrangler smiles, glad to be delivering good news after three days and nights filled with nerve wrecking moments. Treacherous terrain, suffocating heat. Drought, snakes, minor injuries.       “We’re comin’ in hot. Thirty minutes.”      “The gates are open. I’ll tell Ellen to put the casserole in the oven.”      Dean’s mouth begins to water when his aunt’s famous dish is mentioned. No disrespect to Benny, but after all that canned food, he can’t wait to sink his teeth into that delicious corn, beef, and onion stocked, stomach filling meal.      “In that case, I’ll make it twenty. Over.”      “We’re ready for ya. Over and out.”

     The head wrangler hooks the radio back on his belt and glances aside. Rocko is galloping about thirty yards to his left, ahead by a few nose lengths. Sweat shimmers on his neck and shoulders, his dark bay coat almost black now. With big, powerful strides he pushes forward like a steam train, yet agile, maneuvering past rocks, cacti, and bushes. Even untrained, he has grown into a strong horse. Dean can’t wait to work with him. To strengthen that bond even more, to teach him. Watching the stallion by his side and under Dean’s wing as it were, fills him with pride already. It’s at this moment that Dean realizes; this horse is going to be something else.

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to reblog my work or buy me coffee (Link in bio at the top of the page)

Read part sixteen here

[1001galaxies]

Commentary on Netflix’s Cursed: Episode 2

Edited for language, because I have a few younger/more sensitive readers.

THE MONK SPEAKS. HOT DIGGITY DANG.

Well, DAYUM again. The monk meeting Squirrel is delicious. The LOOK in Daniel's eyes. The staging and lighting. A+

“Born in the dawn.” “To pass in the twilight.” I burst out laughing so hard. The cheesiness. But also. When it's DANIEL SHARMAN SAYING THE FIRST LINE, I mean. I M E A N.

Just watch, that’ll be the new 'may we meet again'.

Squirrel is a discount version of Blue from King Arthur: Legend of the Sword, but he's cute, so that makes up for a lot. And he does have some decent lines so far. “Do you hate them because they're so beautiful and you're so ugly.” “Even your horse is ugly.” “And I love horses.”

But, hang on, his line: “You're so ugly.” *looks at Daniel Sharman* *looks at Squirrel* *looks at Daniel* *blinks* Ah, kids.

Dang, they really do give Nimue every single flippin YA teen girl trope in the world, from both fanfic and traditional fic. Wow. That's impressive, even by my standards.

Joss: “Get up you murdering pig...tie him up...I think we've caught the big killer.” Me: You haven't caught anything, and if you think you have the upper hand with the MONK? Oh honey, you poor deluded fool.

Joss: “Ever been dragged by a horse with a hot coal up his bum?” Monk: “Not that I can recall.” Me: Dang, HIS VOICE. Me: Secondly, there are better ways to motivate horses than that, excuse you.

Monk: “I've got no interest in the boy. He's bait.” Joss: “Bait for what.” Me: Oh yeah, here we go, awriiiiiight. Monk: “For YOU.” *kicks Joss*

Who cares that Daniel is the bad guy, he's the only interesting one. Hot DANG, that roll over the horse. HE'S FIGHTING WITH HIS HANDS BOUND. Gives a new meaning to 'hands tied' Also dang. And WHAT DID I SAY, JOSS. You got owned.

Monk: *kills five or six people with //his hands bound//* Me: Now that's what I'm talkin’ about. Me: Wait, he just killed innocent people. Me: Eh, he’s still the best character so far.

How does Daniel manage to sound sexy saying “go.”

Every SINGLE time we come back to Nimue: Me: okay, booooooring.

Obviously, they’re going with the traditional representation of Bors as a brash lout. Eh. Why.

Can I have Bors played by Tom Hopper, please. He was a good Percival, but I'd like to see him play a surprisingly FUNNY and GENTLE and SMART Bors. Twist the traditional representation.

Ah yes. Cursed: LOOK AT US, WE'RE SO ENLIGHTENED AND SUBVERSIVE AND DIFFERENT that we're going to have the guy save the girl the same way 90% of all fantasy saves occur. Much impressed.

I mean, TELL her, Arthur, yes please. She didn't think, that's the problem. She just reacted with the sword. I get she’s a teen, but come ON, why must every single teenager ever—male or female—react with impulsive emotion. Not every single teen in the world always reacts with emotion first.

Well, this heroine rant is like every other YA fantasy heroine guilt-trip rant I’ve ever seen. I get being sad and emotional and being guilt-stricken because of how events have fallen out, but really on the wording? Really.

Arthur: “And I'm not a cutthroat.” And his head tilt. That's cute. Arthur is genuinely likeable so far, which is /good/. Also nice to see the guy taking care of the girl solicitously for once instead of the other way around. I do appreciate that.

And here we have the OH SO ORIGINAL trope where the heroine was bullied as a child and 'oh you made the village boys pay romantic attention to you with your magic' backstory. REALLY. REALLY NOW. I'm absolutely positive I've got YA fantasy heroine bingo at least twice over by now.

Nimue’s mum: “When you were five years old, you faced a dark god alone in the ironwood and survived.” Bingo again.

Let's play a game called: how many times can this show throw out a Game of Thrones reference/imitation?

IRONWOOD. REALLY? REALLY. Here's the thing. a) Game of Thrones did this already and called it the Godswood, and if you think people aren't going to see what you did there, you 100% have another think coming. and b) THE LAST TIME I CHECKED TRADITIONAL FAE LORE, iron KILLED and/or BURNED fae. But THAT is what you unironically* called your SACRED WOOD THAT PROTECTS YOU???? *Only being 2 episodes in, maybe I'll find out later that it was/is an ironic name, but it suuuuuuure doesn't seem like it so far.

Nimue’s mum: “You are not some fragile maid, you are a warrior..." Me: She's going to say 'and you are strong'. Nimue's mum: "And you are strong." Me: See, this isn't even fun. There's no challenge to this. Also, YA fantasy trope bingo again.

Arthur: "It's a rare blade, I'm not sure I've seen its like." AT LEAST THAT is a decent line. Normally, they say “I've never seen its like” with this awed tone, but he's just factually observing. Cool, cool.

ARTHUR WITH THE SWORD. I'm going to be an Arthurian geek for just a minute and revel in this. I know there's more to this story. Much of it is dead boring. But I'm just going to enjoy this minute because //Arthur with the sword//.

I really did not expect to like this Arthur. He's nothing extraordinary yet, but he's fun. Without being a copycat of BBC's Merlin or King Arthur: Legend of the Sword. He's just a young knight (possibly a prince somewhere along the line??) who is genuinely caring, not super arrogant, and just a DECENT AND FUN GUY. So far.

Arthur: “I've seen a lot of lives wasted fulfilling the dreams of the dead.” YES? FINALLY? SOMEONE SAID IT? I'm here for this. Call out that fantasy trope that is all well and good in some doses but is basically THE FOUNDATION OF EVERY SINGLE YA FANTASY ARC EVER, and it's so annoying. Give us some VARIETY now and then.

Nimue to Arthur: “Spoken like a true mercenary.” No, spoken like the only sensible person in the show so far, Nimue, you twit.

AW YEAH. YOU TELL HER, ARTHUR. She's shrugging off everything you say AFTER ASKING FOR YOUR HELP. Geeeeez. It’s so annoying when people do that.

Arthur: “Get an hour of sleep.” Implied: Everything looks better after sleep + you’ll need your strength. Me, who hates sleep: I feel so attacked right now. ...But he’s right.

Merlin is TOTALLY fantasy Haymitch.

Veiled Lady: “You told us the sword of the first kings was destroyed. You lied.” Okay, so MAYBE Merlin's getting mildly interesting...but are they going to do a good job with it? DOUBTFUL.

Veiled Lady: "This affects all of us, not just you. The fae are on the verge of extinction." Um, THEN WHY EXACTLY ARE YOU DOING NOTHING ABOUT IT? Is this another ‘we can’t bend the rules of heaven for mere earthlings’??

Veiled Lady: “If the church acquires the sword of power, then they will decide who wears the crown. Have you forgotten the words?” Merlin: “Forgotten them? I WROTE THEM.” Me: Okay, that's a good delivery. Merlin: “Whosoever wields the sword of power shall be the one true king.” Me: And a nice mocking accent on that, Oooh yeah, I like. Merlin: “But I'm wiser now. There IS no one true king.” Me: Huh. Now see, that's slightly interesting. Give me more of that.

Pretty sure they told Gustaf to model his Merlin on Starz Camelot's Merlin, “but make him fun and drunken.” He's got that whole Fiennes vibe going on, but also definitely fantasy Haymitch. (Someone else on tumblr said Jack Sparrow, and I could see that one too, thought not as much yet. Where I am, Merlin doesn’t seem super keen on adventuring for the sake of adventuring. He has the bitter past and cynicism of Haymitch right now. Maybe he’ll get more Jack Sparrow-y as this goes on.)

MERLIN HAS NO MAGIC BECAUSE HE GAVE IT TO THE SWORD, okay, that right there is a GOOD element, and chock full of potential. Especially his bitterness. And his insistence that he won't touch the sword again. Are they going to do a good job of using it? Dollars to donuts, NO. Ugh.

Veiled Lady: “I sense fear around the sword. But also great power.” And here we have our Galadriel imitator. Dang, I need TWO more bingo cards.

Veiled Lady: “The sword is finding its way to you, Merlin, but which end of the sword, the point or the pommel, is another question.” Me: *snorts* Cute.

Merlin: "The sword was forged in the fae fires, and to the fae fires it shall return. I shall melt it back to its origins."

Let's play another game called: how many times can this show imitate LOTR?

Veiled Lady: "You are aware the fae forges burned out a thousand years ago?" Yeah, cause Frodo and Sam destroyed Mount Doom, guys, go read your history.

Veiled Lady: “Oh dear.” Veiled Lady: “Tell me you're not planning to steal from him. Without your magic.” Merlin: “I still have my wits and my charm.” Veiled Lady: “I fear you overestimate both.” Ahem, the lady has a point.

CONCLUDING THOUGHTS:

- Arthur is still interesting. That could change super quickly, but so far, I like him.

- The Monk is beautiful, and I'm so here for upcoming stuff I won't talk about, but also for his arc period and more interactions with Squirrel.

- Squirrel is cute, but nothing above the average so far. Still, better than almost anyone else on the show.

- Merlin has the potential to be intriguing, if only they use it.

- Obviously, I'm going to keep watching.

Footnote:

I saw spoilers today about the Monk’s arc, and I'm HERE FOR IT, so here, so beyond here for it, GIVE ME THAT RIGHT THE HECK NOW. IT'S THE ONLY REASON I HAVE ANY EXCITEMENT FOR THIS SHOW RIGHT NOW.

THE WEEPING MONK AS *SPOILER* I. CAN'T. FREAKING. WAIT.

[princelestatdelioncourt]

*fanfict*

“Why the hell should I go down and meet him?” I protested

You know the story. I will explain what happened in between the lines.

I finally went and met the draper and his son. The actual story never said what it was felt but the basics of meeting and receiving these gifts for my good job killing wolves. At least I was compensated and given thanks for something I’ve done. For once.

My brothers were annoying on if I really killed all these wolves by myself and it was not an imaginary thing I have created in my mind and I lied to them for attention, you know Augustin’s reaction. Them thinking instead it was only that wolf I have carried back home. But at least the Villagers found the dead scene, the horse, my dogs and the wolves. So yes its was all true.

And now my brothers saw that instant connection with Nicolas. They became more annoying. Gods know when it was the last time I saw Nicolas. I was maybe, 10? I Cant even remember. He was sent to study to Paris, they had money for that. I was barely no much around the Village but when I needed to go. So I wasn't sure when he departed to Paris. I spend most of the time at the castle and later on in the mountains, hunting, my own happiness.

And so now Nicolas was back. I could remember very briefly our childhood days when we were 5 or 6. That bitter kid. Now he was looking splendid.

The sun shone on his back, it even seemed he had his own light all around him. His silhouette. He approached to me offering me the gifts and his voice was soft and captivating. Yes, I could remember him now. I looked down at the cloak and boots. Just so magnificent and gorgeous items. So soft. How could something  was alive, just weeks ago, then I killed them and now I could wear it. Is like the Medieval Times, kill they prey and wear his fur, Kill the enemy and carry his head.

I looked up, into his eyes when he was giving me the respectfully thanks, like these rich Parisians do, I just found it stupid but I thought that he either acted or he was actually that polite. I wasn't paying attention to what he said as I was submerged on my thoughts. I never knew how to thank properly as I was never given any gifts. I just looked into his eyes, so dark and so deep while he continued talking. His voice was like a soft faded song on the background. He shone, he was beautiful dressed but I also saw in him something that was familiar to me, in his eyes. Something that I knew of as well. I could see his handsome smile but I could see sadness or frustration in his eyes. It was like a self reflection of myself. Different but similar.

I ignored or tried to ignore these thoughts about him. Perhaps it was just me and my own misery receiving these gifts and his perfect outfit something that I knew I would never have. I knew that now, I would feel more alone, becasue of the wolves and now if I would wear this beautiful cloak. Surely I was in love with that cloak and boots, I never had garments like this before. But I was happy,  that I saw him again as well.

And as always, that happiness once again faded when my mother told me she was dying. Like a cold ice shower over me. I froze. I could not think, I could not act, I could not imagine but I imagined the horror that was coming my way. To have to be there when she will be on her last minutes, to listen and see her pain...unbearable. It drove me insane and mad. Mad why her. Why she had now to suffer this after all these years trapped in misery like me. WHY! Why not them, why not someone else who deserve its, Not her. I was angry with hr why she now will have to leave me that way and for her suffering, I was angry to my father for making her life miserable and mine as well, I was angry at my brothers, I was angry at the Castle, I was angry to every thing that surrounded me. I had these nightmares, killing one after another, every night, gone, and she shone, alive, young, beautiful, I saved her, They were dead and she was alive and beautiful and then she was gone, gone, gone...Mother... dont leave me...I love you...Mother...

I have stayed in my room for a week with these thoughts in my mind and these  nightmares that awoke me with despair. I wanted to be alone, to cry in silence, to think and not to think, to drink until I could not handle anymore, to run away without going anywhere, to hunt and kill whatever crossed my path...I was furious with everything... I had my dogs and they gave me some peace and company. New adult dogs I adopted days after the wolf battle when I was able to handle to have dogs. So I was able to go hunting again. Not even the servers talked to me, neither I wanted to talk to them.  All that time I was in my room, after the battle and now this about my mother, we only ate vegetables and broth. Cheese. Bread. No one, was capable to go hunting but me. So basically we starved. I wasn't hungry anyways. I had too much in my mind. I didn't care about food.

The red cloak on my bed and the boots near the fireplace. I thought about Nicolas then. I felt I was like in a dark cloud all this time, grey skies all around me, cold, unable to see past that cloud but that cloak was so bright red, was so vibrant, like when I saw Nicolas, he shone. How much I wished everything was a dream. The wolves, my mother, my brothers, my father, Nicolas...all a damned dream. But not, it was very real.

Days after my Mother came back to my room. Just as she always did when she came to my room. Same walk, same back and forth, slowly and calm yet so secure and her voice, strong but weak “Go down to the Village and meet Nicolas. His father will be happy to know he is friends with the Marquis Son.” she said

That didn't help. The hell with the Marquis and whatever people thinks I am now. I hated that. I hated it all. I hated to see my mother decaying. I hated her words. I hated to see her gray hair. I didn't say anything to respect her and not to aggravate her on her pan, I just stared at the fireplace in silence, not even looked at her now. She gave me that last look before she left my room. I saw it by the corner of my eye....moments later, I finally decided to go to meet Nicolas.

I looked horrible. I shaved with that old straight razor and splashed my face with cold water. The servants always refilled the basin with water but it was always cold. I was horrible mostly during winter times. All clean now. At least my face was. I was dressed with my old white yellow with age shirt, the jacket I owned and over my shoulder the red cloak and the new boots. It felt warm. It feel good. I make an order for the dogs to stay and they obeyed.

I’ve heard my brothers laughing and whispering on my back while I was on the way to the barn but Ignoring their presence and their ridiculous comments, I continued walking. The last thing I wanted to do now, was to fight with them.

Went down to the Village and I realized some people looked at me and bowed at me. I took a deep breath. I knew why. The wolves...I took a deep breath and made myself to continue and ignore anything else.

I went in to the Tavern and sat down. Ordering a wine I could not pay. I drank my first glass and looked around. People drinking, people drunk. Laughs. Warmth, cold. And I just sat there, with my red cloak, observing the Villagers. Thinking why I could not be like them? They seemed happy. They had each other... can we trade?

Submerged to these thoughts, I’ve heard the door opening and hitting the wall. It woke me up from my stupor and there he was. Nicolas. He was like if he came from a long run. His hair was messy but still tied back with a bow. He seemed excited to see me there. What an excitement. He rushed to my side and I just looked at him without a word wondering why he was so happy to see me . Again, reactions like that, were new to me, unknown to experience in my daily life.

He ordered more wine and supper and up to the room we went. I followed him and I really hoped he had the money to pay all of that and not to expect the Lord to pay becasue the Lord had zero money in his pocket. I chuckled just thinking about it. I imagined myself running away at night with the inn keeper screaming to me to pay for all the ordeal.

That room felt so comfortable. So warm. And “our Conversation” began.

“What was it like, Monsieur, killing the wolves?” he stared at me

"Why don't you tell me what's it like in Paris, Monsieur? “ I said and it seemed mocking and rude. You know I was furious about my life and I simply replied the way I always replied to my brothers. But he was not like them. I knew it. I apologized he seemed to understand.

Hours and hours have passed. Drunker we were, glass after glass. I asked a full load of questions about Paris, the University, Music, Theaters...I was imagining how the city was in my mind. How glorious everything seemed in Paris, How brilliant, How one could do many things and not being yelled at it. Theaters....I looked at him, seated in front of me and I listened but I did not. I was dreaming. I was drunk and I think I smiled. I smiled like a fool. Paris....

Then we talked religion and how cynic he seemed to me on his beliefs and how bitter he was talking about it. He just lost his faith and that seemed to be creating him some turmoil. Me, I never believed n God. Never my family. We went to mass just becasue of duty. But I not even believed in God when I was at the Monastery, I just believed on the Priests and them teaching me. Nicolas had that swirl of passion and light when he spoke. I was truly enjoying that conversation.

Then we talked about the witches place. It still gave me chills to think about it but I remembered when that happened and I cried and my mother had to come and pick me up and she was all upset with the Priest for telling us all these stories. I smiled and I felt embarrassed about the thought but I was just a kid. I drank more wine to stop that moment. I knew he was studying me. I felt his eyes on me and I loved that. I think I loved him or so I thought but I was stopping myself on thinking or to say something like that out loud. Its the 18th century, It was a scandal and a sin and much more strange for two men to say they love each other.  I was very drunk so I thought it was just that.

And there came the unexpected after my thought. He leaned closer asking me if I was a werewolf for killing the wolves and I could not believe or actually express what I felt when he did that and touched the fur on my cloak that I was still wearing over my shoulders. It was a blurry vision yet so enchanting. I just didn't want him to stop talking. I wanted him to tell me everything. I never had a conversation like this with anyone. ever. To stop looking at me. I smiled then laughed.

I wanted to know so much from him, his stories, why he didn't believe in these things and why he did believe in these other things, why he thinks Paris was a hellhole, The Village is a hellhole... I'm a dreamer..Yes I am and I wanted him to understand me that everything can be like that bright yet I loved his cynicism.

"Ah, you are a dreamer!  "  he was delighted.  He was beyond handsome when he smiled.

"And I'll know people like you, " I went on, "people who have thoughts in their heads and quick tongues with which to voice them, and we'll sit in cafes and we'll drink together and we'll clash with each other violently in words, and we'll talk for the rest of our lives in divine excitement. " I was stupidly drunk and looking like a fool under his spell. I didn't care. I was so happy.

He reached out and put his arm around my neck and kissed me.  We almost upset the table we were so blissfully drunk.  "My lord, the wolfkiller " he whispered against my lips.

I can assure you I was completely lost. I didn't move, I stayed there while he was holding me. I was listening to his voice even if now he was kissing me. I saw him in my mind even if now my eyes were closed. I realized I was returning that kiss.

Someone knocking at the door, that woke me up from that moment. Behave. What the hell just happened. A kiss? The Inn keeper, more wine. He sat down again and we then started to talk about our lives, more privately. Our fathers, our siblings, or duties, beatings, pain, misery, and somewhat to find our own happiness on what we had, mine hunting and him playing music. I absolutely hate to open myself to that vulnerable level to anyone but I felt Nicolas understood and I was not yelled at it for expressing and so I understood on his when he explained about his life.

We both agreed on that conversation, we replied to each other with “Yes!” “Exactly!” “I know what you mean” and the more I opened to him, the more we shared about our live experiences, the more captivated I was. He was just like me. Nicolas had that own light and pain like I did. I looked into his eyes when he talked and I could see that frustration and furious look. His voice tone, his expressions and gestures. But he had that handsome smile when he spoke about music that made his eyes shone again. He understood, I understood and I knew we had that invisible connection and I realized that I needed him. I needed that conversation.

Holding all these thoughts and opinions in me now could be released, explained and understood. Yes he had a different point of view on some things but that made it perfect. That made us to have intense conversations yet to enjoy each others company. That’s why I loved him. Not only for his handsome look but for that deep soul search meaning in our conversations. I needed someone to talk to in my life, never was able to and he was there now. And I knew I was there for him as well. The feeling and need was mutual.

“Please play the violin for me” I begged

And he ran immediately to his home. Just across from the Inn. It was almost night and we never had supper, I didn't care. I laid on the bed, just thinking about that day. I did not want to the day to end. I felt I was happier than I had ever been in my life. I listened to his words in my mind once again and remembered him walking and talking and smiling...I found myself smiling to that.

He came back. I looked at him and smiled, still lying on bed. He stood in the middle of that small room and he bowed and smiled to me and I smiled back. I laid there with my hands under my head and he started playing. I was astonished about that sound. I stared at him and I could not believe that music that came from him and that instrument. It was peaceful, it was happiness, it was intense, it was him talking through that song. It was inexplicable what I felt. The demons in me dissipated with his song but I felt his delicate and frustrations in as well. It was us! Yes that songs was us!! It was part of our conversation!! Our pain and our happiness, our tears and dreams...yes thats what I felt!

I had my hands holding my head when he finished the song and he seemed worried about my expression. I went up and kissed him and the violin and I threw myself back to the mattress and I started to cry. I dont know why but I wanted to cry. It was a relief after listening to the song and that music, It was a relief for having him there, it was a relief for him understanding me, it was a relief for his company...I cried becasue of my past, becasue of my brothers and father, their beatings, my mother, the wolves, my miserable life...I cried becasue on him and his handsome smile, his music and this happy moment, and the wine and the night at the inn together. I released all that pain and frustrations I held inside of me for so very long time. I needed him, I craved to have someone like him my whole life and now I had his company and his music.

“Monsieur, what's the matter! “ he said

"Stop calling me Monsieur, " I said.  "Call me by my name”

I couldn't tell him why I why crying. And I hated the Monsieur, Lord...always did. This is just me, This is Lestat. I'm not a Lord I'm nothing here just me, this me, love me becasue this is me not the Lord. How much I wanted to say that and I I feel inside of me and just the thought of it made me cry even more.

He sat next to me and held me, he said nice things to me and he tried comfort me, he caressed my hair...How in the hell nobody did that to me before when I cried? Why? What was the reason I had never had physical contact with my family other than beatings? why the hell I did wrong? and I cried more thinking about that. That pain I felt in my chest becasue of my thoughts and for feeling him now close to me, holding me and telling me everything will be alright. His soft voice. There were no more jokes, there was no more wine. The room stood quiet but my sobs and his voice and the fireplace. I held his arm and I grabbed his shirt tightly. I didn't want to go or move, I could not. I wanted to stay there in that room, in his arms and I felt he understood and he never left my side.

Moments later, cant say how long it passed until I felt somewhat better, I think I finally stopped crying and I felt my eyes so puff and blurry it hurt opening them to look at the fireplace, I felt the warm and I felt his arms still around me. I finally passed out or I went into stupor becasue I could not remember anything else than flashes of moving, feeling cold, the night, a door, the castle, my room and darkness again...

Did he stay with me that night at the castle? I do not know. What he did when I passed out in my room? I do not know. I felt tired from all the emotions and the wine and I just slept. And the first thought as soon as my eyes opened the next morning, was him.

I suddenly awoke, the sun was out and it was so bright. I dont know how long I slept. I realized I was in my bed, still all dressed up with the cloak over my shoulders, the dogs by my side and I stood up quickly, splashed my face with cold water, I looked fair enough, went to the kitchen and found a bottle of wine and I went down to the Village not even thinking on hunting or anything else than to be with Nicolas, to talk to him, I needed it so very much.

And there I was standing in the crooked stone street in front of his father's shop, tossing pebbles up at his window.  When he stuck his head out, he looked at me with that swirl on happiness and his handsome smile, messy hair and I said with enthusiasm:  

 "Do you want to come down and go on with our conversation?  " I smiled to him. I felt so happy again.

I never expected, specially at that moment in my life, to have switched from grey days, misery, frustration and loneliness to light, smiles, understanding, company and love. He came to my life when I most needed it. when I was about to lose my mind. He came after all these nightmares and fears. I loved to talk to him about all these different things and beliefs, he has his point of view and opinions, which sometimes upsets me, on a good way for a good argument. We discussed different matters but that do not last more than a few minutes and there we are again, loving each other in our company and enjoying our conversations.

Nicolas is so cynic, so pessimist, but he had his reasons on these frustrations yet he has that unique light that I found so appealing. He could say the word “Spite” on every sentence. And me, I just could see a positive thing even on his words. There was always a way to find happiness on the misery and darkness we lived. Or at least thats what I learned from myself from all these years, alone, hunting and living with the misery. Now Nicolas was part of that happiness. My happiness. I spent so much time with him when I was not hunting. I needed his presence, I needed his opinions and our conversation even if we were not on the same page. Just two different point of views. We had each other and that helped us to get through our lives the best we could. Or at least I felt it that way...

[collapsingintojupiter]

Philosophy and Hot Chocolate

And look who’s back with some more dumb fanfiction rambles

ha, yeah, that would be

this bastard.

@just-perhaps wanted to see the braincell boys debate, so I bring you all this. You’re welcome.

Characters: Logan, Deceit (sympathetic), Roman, Patton, Virgil.

Pairings: None. Just platonic all around here.

Warnings: Alcohol mention, and Idk of anything else? Let me know if you’d like something added tho.

It was getting late in the diner. For Logan, that was nothing new. He just sat quietly at his booth by himself like he always did, absentmindedly stirring a cup of black coffee with a spoon and ignoring the creamer that was in a tiny metal bucket near his mug. Few customers remained as per usual at this hour, which meant that the place was finally, relatively quiet. 

For a cutesy diner, things got interesting here after about 10pm. All the nice pictures crowding the walls became dark with shadow after the sun went down and the lights dimmed, and the little knick knacks began to look like haunted artifacts from their perches around various shelves in the main room. 

Logan liked that about this place. When the night got old everyone else was gone, but the diner still remained open like it always did, dutifully serving its customers clear into the next morning. The night shift had started a few hours ago now; but one lonely staff member standing behind the bar with a few of the usual drunks. They’d be leaving soon enough when they got too rowdy to stay, and then finally he could have his silence.

Then the door opened. 

Logan looked up as a strangely-dressed character entered the diner, a bowler hat topping off his honey-colored hair, tanned skin, and sharp green eyes. A thin scar ran up from the left side of his mouth to the base of his ear; a mouth that was currently twisted into something that looked like a smirk as he slowly sauntered past the empty tables, then slid into the booth across from Logan. 

“You look bored,” he said. 

“I’m not.” Logan glanced across the table at the stranger, who was wearing a yellow shirt and black jacket over top. He looked like a hornet. “Interesting clothing choice,” he commented.

“I might say the same about you.”

Logan glanced down at the black shirt and tie he currently wore, then raised an eyebrow. 

“Fair enough.”

“Hey Logan, can I get something for your friend here?” Both turned as a new character approached, this one with curly hair that hung over round glasses and a light blue apron. His name tag read Patton. 

“You’re a regular here,” the other man said. 

“And you’re not.” Logan looked over at Patton. “Can we get a basket of fries?”

“Of course!” Patton smiled at him, then turned to the hornet man. “Can I get you anything, sir?”

“Iced tea. Unsweetened.”

“Okay, I’ll be right back.” Patton flashed them a smile and left, humming something to himself as he disappeared into the back room. The stranger raised an eyebrow at Logan.

“Fries?” he asked.

“I don’t see why not.” 

“It’s almost midnight.” 

“Says the one ordering iced tea.”

“That’s not the same.” Logan only shrugged, automatically reaching up to adjust his glasses.

“Maybe for you it isn’t.” He yawned, turning as Patton returned to the table with a small red basket of fries, offering the waiter a nod as it was set down in front of him. 

“Thank you, Patton.” 

“Sure thing! You guys just let me know if you need anything else, okay?”

The stranger reached across the table as Patton returned to his station by the bar, grabbed a fry, and took a bite. 

“I like these,” he decided after a moment, and reached for another one. 

“Do I get a name?” Logan asked. 

“No.”

“Very well, Diogenes.” The other man sipped at his iced tea. 

“A famous cynical philosopher. Touché.” He smiled a bit behind his drink as Logan reached for a fry. “My name’s Dorian.”

“Logan, as I believe you’ve already heard.” Dorian nodded to him, then took another fry. 

“I was correct in my guess that you were educated.”

“Oh?”

“The only people who frequent these places at this hour are either genius, drunk, or mad. Because you clearly aren’t drunk and you don’t speak like a churchish pig, genius is the only category I’m left with to define you by.”

“You forgot a category,” Logan stated, sipping at his coffee. He took a fry, looked at his drink, and dipped it in his coffee before trying it. Too bitter. He made a face and sipped at his coffee again, trying to wash out the weird taste in his mouth.

“What would that category be?” Dorian asked, looking amused at Logan’s unsuccessful flavor combination. 

“Desperate. And perhaps...adventurous, though those show up rarely. Even they sleep.”

“Desperate falls under the category of mad, I believe. Adventurous certainly does.”

“How so?”

“Mad with desperation, for example. That is a thing, you know.” Dorian took another fry. Someone in a far booth gave them an odd look. He looked drunk, though he had no beer in front of him and hadn’t been to the bar all evening.

“I am aware of that phrase. However, it all depends on your definition of mad, and your definition of desperation,” Logan countered. Dorian smirked. 

“Tell me more.” 

Logan tilted his head, then shrugged and adjusted his glasses again. This wasn’t the strangest thing that had happened to him by far, and he saw no harm in rolling along with the visit of this strange “Dorian” character as long as he remained civil. Which, so far, he had. 

A waltz started to play quietly in the diner. 

“For starters,” Logan said, pulling on his ‘teaching voice’ as he began, “the phrase ‘mad with desperation,’ as you put it, hinges on the definition of both words, not just the one or the other. Madness can mean anything from insanity and psychosis according to some, to mental illness, to mere eccentricity, which by psychological definition is not mad, but merely different from the norm. Desperation, on the other hand, can mean several different things as well. Someone desperate to use the restroom, for example, may come here to relieve themselves. Or on the other end of the spectrum, someone fleeing a toxic or abusive situation may wish to seek temporary shelter here. You would not call them mad, would you?”

Dorian leaned back, sipping at his iced tea. 

“I suppose I would not,” he conceded at last. “You intrigue me, Oh-One-With-The-Glasses.” 

Logan hummed his reply, then looked aside. “Ah, more visitors. I thought he’d come over here eventually.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to stare...” The man who had been watching them earlier now spoke up, standing behind Dorian with a partially apprehensive, partially embarrassed expression. A red and white varsity jacket hung from his shoulders, which were slumped with what Logan guessed to be exhaustion. “Ah...does your table have room for one more?” Dorian and Logan exchanged glances. 

“I suppose so. Who would you like to accompany for this fine conversation, Logan or myself?” Dorian asked. The new character looked between the two, then sat next to Dorian, who obligingly scooted over to make room. 

“I’m Roman,” he said as he sat down, his face blushing a delicate shade of red. “You guys... uh...you seemed interesting, I-I guess.”

“We met less than ten minutes ago,” Logan stated bluntly. 

“Ah, but that’s the fun part!” Dorian grinned at last, looking between Logan and the new visitor. “See, the reason that drunks, geniuses, and madmen all visit this place at this time is because the line between each is so thin, it may as well not exist at all.”

“I don’t drink,” Logan said. 

“For some of us, anyhow.” Dorian looked over at Roman. “And where do you fall in this category?”

“You two are insane.” Roman shook his head, reaching for a fry. “But...I couldn’t get to sleep, for some reason. Figured I might as well go somewhere rather than toss and turn all night.”

“Madman,” Dorian said with a nod, chuckling at Roman’s half-tired, half-outraged expression.

“Ha,” he said. “I guess you’re not wrong.”

“You’re sleep deprived,” Logan said. 

“Eh,” Dorian waved his hand, which had a yellow glove on it that Logan hadn’t noticed before. “Same difference, right Roman?”

“Falsehood. Just because the majority of a population believes in a fact or observation does not make said fact or observation correct. For example, the geocentric theory was believed by the majority in some places for hundreds of years, until science proved them wrong.” Logan crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. “Therefore, your statement is invalid.”

“I’m not following,” Roman mumbled. 

“Don’t worry about it.” Dorian locked eyes with Logan and grinned again. “This has been much more invigorating than I had expected...I like you,” he announced. 

“Just like that?” another voice asked. 

“Patton!” Logan spun around, and the waiter tilted his head at him. “You...you startled me.”

“Oh, sorry!” Patton held up his hands, still smiling cheerfully (how did he do that at this hour, anyways?). “It’s just me! My other customers left, so you guys are the only ones still in here.”

“You’re bored,” Dorian stated, and Patton nodded. 

“Welcome to the table.”

“What is it with you and inviting people to a table that’s not yours?” Logan asked as he scooted aside for Patton to take a seat next to him. “Some people would consider that to be bad manners, you know.”

“You’re not ‘some people,’ however, so that statement is redundant.”

“...Fair point.”

“You guys are insane,” Roman said again. 

“Everything is insane depending on how you look at it.” Dorian looked at his empty iced tea, then shrugged and grabbed another fry. 

“Do you want a refill?” Patton asked. 

“I’d like that.”

“Can I have hot chocolate?” Roman looked up from where he’d been staring at Dorian’s gloves, tilting his head slightly. 

“Sure!” Patton got up and quickly disappeared into the back room, returning a few minutes later with the ordered items. Roman sipped at his hot chocolate and nodded. 

“This is good,” he announced loudly as he set his mug down. “Good hot chocolate.”

“A real philosopher, are you?” Dorian asked with an amused look. 

“No philosophy, only chocolate.” Roman hugged his mug close to him and began whispering something at it. Logan raised an eyebrow. 

“So...you wish to debate?” he asked slowly, locking eyes with Dorian. 

“Pick a topic,” Dorian answered, leaning back against the booth. “Whatever you want.” 

“Oooh, this is gonna be fun!” Patton grinned, reaching for a fry and munching on it while he watched. Logan leaned back in his seat as well; looking at Dorian; considering his offer. 

“Human morality,” he said at last. “Tell me your opinion.”

“You choose a fascinating topic. Kudos to you.” Dorian sipped at his new glass of iced tea. 

“It’s useless and we’re all gonna die,” said a new voice. 

“Did I advertise a party over here?” Logan looked over at the new voice, who belonged to a grumpy-looking character with purple-dyed hair and eyeshadow-smudged cheeks.

"Hey Virgil!" Patton said cheerfully. "What brings you here from the back?"

"Boredom," was the answer. Virgil pointed at Roman. "And that idiot's shouting."

"You just don't understand chocolate," Roman declared, looking up from his mug. Virgil rolled his eyes and adjusted the patch jacket around his shoulders. 

"Scoot," he said to Patton, who obligingly moved over so he could sit. Logan made a face as he retreated to the corner of his booth to make room, but didn't object.

What a night this was turning out to be.

"As I was saying," Dorian said, waving a gloved hand in the air as he spoke. “Morality. That certainly has a fascinating role in society, does it not? After all, without it we wouldn’t have a society.”

“And we’d all be dead,” Virgil added. Dorian glared at him. 

“Not my point.”

“You believe that morality is necessary to form a society?” Logan asked. 

“I believe it is necessary to form a society such as the ones we humans live in, yes.” 

“Fascinating.” Logan leaned back against his booth, automatically reaching up a hand to fidget with his tie. 

“Mmmm...chocolate,” Roman murmured into his mug. 

“I mean, think about it,” Dorian continued, glancing at Roman but ignoring his dramatic proclamation. “Without morality, we would have no system of justice, which can only logically produce anarchy. The system of ‘strongest wins all’ would be the only system, larger governments couldn’t possibly form, and so on and so forth. Morality is necessary for the existence of society, and also beneficial to those who know how to exploit it.”

“Which is why it is not the groundwork of society, but a mere addition,” Logan cut in. “After all, society cannot exist without structure, no matter how advanced the morals of its citizens are. Logically, people will naturally come together for the benefit of the group, and a system of justice would arise by itself in order to preserve the good of the many. Therefore, morality isn’t necessary for justice at all; rather, it can actually hinder it due to the actions of those with morals that are considered to be ‘bad.’” He leaned forward and took a sip from his tea with a smirk, watching Dorian for a reaction. The other man grinned at him for the third time that night. 

“Well done, Logan,” he said. “I applaud you.” He raised an eyebrow. “So, you believe morals are unnecessary?” 

“They are for me.” At last, Logan himself grinned, sliding the bill over to Dorian and standing up. 

“Checkmate.”

[kamwritesshit]

Velvet Violet.

Whoop, starting over again. I’ll just post whatever I want this time, lmao. Here’s something I wrote for a challenge on Amino, inspired by All the Bright Places by Jennifer Niven.

Trigger mention: Suicide mention, strong language, anxiety mention

Word count: 2,156 words

Your irises were velvet violet.

That was my initial thought when I saw you on the other side, the school bell an enourmous barrier separating the two of us. Your figure was a bit small, but I could see you clearly. Your eyes were filled with uncertainty and fear as you looked down from above. I looked down too. As expected, a crowd had gathered and they're all glancing up at us, rumours already floating amongst the sea of strangers.

It was strange, seeing you there with me on the ledge of the school's roof that can crumble at any time. Mostly because you're the most popular guy at school — and also a pretty famous actor in Japan. Sumeragi Tenma, I wondered, what brought you here? Your life's as perfect as it should be; famous, rich, popular, what more could you possibly want or need?

"You come up here often?"

I rhetorically asked, knowing damn well I'm the roof's regular customer; only customer, in fact. Pretty sure this ancient roof wasn't expecting any other visitors, let alone Sumeragi Tenma. How did you get up here, I kept wondering. I locked the door to the bell tower when I climbed up here; maybe you had some tricks up your sleeves. Wouldn't bet on that though.

I still remember how you looked to me with those wide eyes, the violet violent yet scared. Probably because it's Hyodo Juza who's calling out to you on a crumbling roof during the calm before the storm. People think I'm cynical, stoic, which I am — kinda. I've grown tired of that so I usually try to entertain myself whenever I'm up here. I thought that maybe I could've entertained you too, even if our sense of humour might differ.

You ignored my question and looked down on the others again. I sighed and inched backwards, not wanting to see or hear whatever the others were spouting about, especially because you were here with me. I could hear my classmates and homeroom teacher yelling insults at the top of their lungs while the counsellor just wanted the both of us to come down.

"Fucking Hyodo at it again!"

"Just jump off, you freak!"

"You two, please come down! It's dangerous up there!"

I flinched at every words thrown up here, as if they were bricks that could finally break the roof and grind it into dust. I, feeling tired, absentmindedly got up and went over to where you sat, jumping all over the roof to which the crowd roared. You jumped at my sudden presence as I sat down beside you. I looked down this time.

I was just that to them — a freak, a monster, a ghost and most importantly, a loner. My appearance has always been scary and everyone avoided me in the hallways but when I'm up here, unreachable, that's when they launch their missiles. I've grown to get used to it, even bored by it at times, depending on my mood. And sometimes, I'm severely affected by it.

It prompted me to actually jump off once or twice. Almost.

I only shook my head and turned my gaze to the grey horizon, searching for the answer for one simple question: what were you doing here, a territory I never meant to mark and rule? You were obviously scared; what good would it be to run up here, especially knowing damn well that Hyodo "Freak" Juza would be up here, talking to himself and occasionally looking down on students with such intense neutrality? Why—

"No."

You mumbled, to my surprise. What surprised me more was the fact that you mumbled the answer to my question. I even chuckled because we both obviously knew the answer to that question. You immediately glanced at me as if I was crazy. And according to almost everyone at school, that pretty much sums up my whole character, apparently. If they think I'm crazy, then you must be weirded out by the fact that I'm not in a mental asylum.

"Of course not. I'm the only one who comes up here."

I replied, adding another chuckle. I could see that you were resisting the urge to smile too but I made no comment. You nodded in agreement and looked down again as I lied down despite the protests from my back. The sky was grey, just how I liked it. But instead of continuing to look at the sky, I looked at you and how your body shivered, whether it was from the pre-storm chill or fear. I wanted to offer you my jacket but 1) you probably wouldn't want it and 2) that's probably gay.

Still, your body sagged and you seemed...lifeless, which was a rare sight. What happened to the high and mighty Sumeragi Tenma everyone knows and loves? Something was definitely up; the only reason I could say that for certain was because I've always observed people from afar rather than engaging in a conversation with them, like a normal person would. Unfortunately, I'm a freak.

"What happened?"

It was a simple question. You turned to stare at me and I hear you mumble a "Huh?". I only sighed and sat up, my eyes and attention fully on you. I wasn't trying to look intimidating — I was just patiently waiting for you to answer my question, seeming how simple it is. You avoided making eye contact with me by staring at your feet. I sighed for the umpteenth time that morning.

"Look, I may be a freak, but I ain't no dunce."

I continued. You shifted a bit, uncomfortable with my words and unsure whether you should retort. Probably because I can throw a mean punch if I want to. Thing is, I didn't feel like raising a single muscle, except maybe to smile so you wouldn't actually jump off. Finally, you slightly raised your head to look straight ahead at a few skyscrapers.

"...One of my close friends died recently and I...just feel weird."

I didn't hesitate to reply.

"Weird as in you feel like going up here and look down on people, wondering whether you should jump or not?"

You fell completely silent and still. I supposed I hit the nail on the head; I wanted to comment on you having close friends since it seemed like you were close friends with everyone you met, excluding those who hate how you're so confident in yourself which could easily be perceived as being egotistical. Even if you were, you had the right to strut the hallways of this god-forsaken school.

I opened my mouth to say something but the bell beside us rang and almost deafened us, but definitely reminding us that we should get our asses to class. Despite that, we both sat still, as the stagnant air mingled with the grayness of the sky. Looks like the storm won't be coming any time soon; still, the calm was alarming. The crowd had dispersed, giving up on us just like how I gave up on myself a long time ago.

"You should get to class."

I spoke up and waited for you to leave. Instead, you shuddered and brought your legs to your chest, your head sulking into the space between your knees like clouds drifting among mountains. I reached out a hand to console you but I had a feeling that you'd freak out more at that and accidentally jump off and I'd be the accidental murderer, as if being a freak wasn't enough. I was half-hoping you'd stay, half-hoping you'd leave my territory, but you chose both.

"...I'm not going unless you're tagging along."

I was genuinely shocked, I felt my eyes widening for more than just a second. But at the same time, I was kinda pissed.

"What, you want me to waltz to class with you so people can praise you and call you the hero who saved the freak of the school? Even when you're this big shot actor and shit? Like I said, I may be a freak but I ain't no dunce."

At this, you raised your head and gazed intensely at me for the first time in forever. Your eyes were violent again but they're just that. Violent and mad, just like the scowl on your face. For the first time in my life, I felt slightly terrified by someone with a smaller figure than me.

"I don't mean it like that. I just don't want to mingle with all those fake people in the halls wanting to get close to me just for money or fame or love or any of that bullshit. My close friend who died...he was the only one who knew the real me. Igawa. I fucking miss him," you rambled. I wanted to reply but you cut me off, continuing.

"So what if you're a freak? At least you're genuine and honest to yourself. To everyone. I spent my whole living lies people had told me. You're allowed to hate someone. I can't. You tell yourself every day that you want to die but you don’t. I was confused. And that's why...that's why I came up here. I wanted to see you."

You stopped venting, breathless. And then, finally, you broke into tears. You cried and cried and cried. I didn't hesitate to give you my jacket as you were shaking more than ever. You wrapped yourself up with it and held on tight to it for dear life. I even rubbed your back which made more tears leak out unapologetically. You even blowed your nose on my jacket. And it was completely fine. Looked like the storm didn't even need to come and ruin your day any more.

After you've done crying, we just leaned against each other. You closed your eyes, but you're wide awake and still so afraid. We spent a few minutes just like that and it was comforting in a way. Having someone lean on you like that; I've never felt such...warmth pulse through me. It felt really, really nice. For what felt like hours, I broke the silence.

"You wanted to see me because I wanna die but don't?"

You nodded, eyes still closed shut, ignorant of the still-grey skies and ugliness of everything. In spite of that, I smiled to myself for no reason and lied down again, completely comfortable this time. I waited for you to talk; I kinda like the way you talk when you're not boasting about your latest role in a movie or some shit. Soft and reassuring. Humble, even. But since you were silent for a while, I decided I should lighten up the mood.

"It's just that...jumping off this roof would be a real boring way to die. Some days I just wait for lightning to strike me or some shit."

Do you remember what you did next? You laughed. A breathy laugh, not the usual one echoing in the school corridors. But I like that too. That whole side of you was pretty refreshing to watch. And to know that I, Hyodo Juza, made you, Sumeragi Tenma, laugh made my chest pound harder than it should. Probably the anxiety of me having potential to make an actual friend. Even after you laughed, you finally smiled. And best yet, my humour spread over to you.

"I don't think you'll die. You'll probably turn into a superhuman. Like Thor or Ultraman..."

Then it was my turn to laugh, not just because I was feeling giggly and playful — he's also very, very wrong. Man, for an actor, he's surprisingly ignorant of famous movie characters.

"You do know that Thor is an actual god, right?"

He denied not knowing, like the tsundere everyone keeps saying he is. And to be honest, I started liking every side of you. Flawed or flawless, I liked each and every one of it. Because you were my first friend. You did that to me. I couldn't even do that to myself. For once in my life, I'm not talking to myself or an imaginary person at school. I'm always talking to you and it's surreal how you make me feel like me, whoever me is supposed to be.

I actually looked forward to school, just to see and talk to you. The best thing is you never grew tired of me. You even dragged me into acting, which I've grown so, so dearly fond of. We're real friends; we talk at school, hang out on weekends, all that stuff. I couldn't ask for more; this was too much of a miracle. Every time I see a glimpse of your bright, orange hair in the hallways, I'd rush over to you and tease how you look like a "fucking tangerine". But most importantly, I'd gaze into your eyes and think of the day I was on the bell tower with you.

Falling in love with your velvet violet irises again and again.

[stachmousworld]

True love (Lesbian story)

Maria Borges and Neelam Gill by Jonas Bresnan for L’oreal Paris (picture and caption found on @/sand-snake-kate)

Pairing: Mara x Carole

It’s not tragic. I love drama too much.

The main character’s POV is unreliable

Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7

Mara’s POV

She needed to get out. Like yesterday. The rush was making her dizzy. Her knees buckled and sweat was running down her spine. God.... Everything was going south, and she didn’t know how to react. She went out in the backyard then straight to the biggest car to hide herself. She fell onto the floor, head between her bent legs.

Breath in. Breath out.

A few hours ago, they decided to go to this party. She wasn’t really a party animal and would have rather stayed at home but the smile on her girlfriend’s face had been enough to convince her. Carole, her girlfriend, had been a ray of sunshine in her life. And Mara felt as if she was a burden. She didn’t like most of the things Carole did. Hell, they didn’t even come from the same social circle, and they still managed to make it work to her own surprise and against all odds.

A little earlier today, she had decided to put make up and doll up for Carole. It has been a long time since she had done that. Her work as a nurse had become a little bit more tedious, the more the festivities of Christmas approached.  

Mara was rarely at home when Carole was, and she missed her dearly. But…every time they talked to each other; Mara was expecting the other shoe to drop; for Carole, to tell her that they were through. And she knew it wasn’t healthy. At all. But Mara was unable to face Carole without that kind of thoughts running through her mind.

She sighed deeply. What a clusterfuck.

“Need a hand?”

Mara rolled on the concrete and hit her head on the tire. The fuck! She hissed in pain and finally noticed the presence of the stranger next to her.

“Sorry, I thought you heard me,” the girl said.

Mara grumpily accepted her help but stayed on the floor.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“Don’t mention it.”

Mara expected the girl to say add something. There were more than a dozen cars she could have chosen, and she chose Mara’s.

“Do you need something?” Mara asked, annoyed.

The girl shook her head and focused on Mara.

“No, no, I guess I saw you and wanted to be myself alone.”

Mara raised an eyebrow. “There are enough cars in the parking lot for you to hide and wallow in your sorrow. And yet...”

The girl flushed heavily. “No…no I didn’t mean it like that.” She avoided her eyes. “It is just that you looked…I don’t know, it seems like both our nights were going bad and I…”

“It’s okay. It was a joke”, Mara interrupted. She wasn’t sure to understand what the other girl was saying but she felt it in a deeply subconscious way.

“Yeah? A joke. You must be thinking that I’m stupid?”

“Nope. Unless you threw up on your crush. Then yes, that’d be pretty stupid.”

“If only. If only,” she sighed. “I wish it was only that simple.”

Mara looked at her for a few seconds and considered the situation. The quicker the girl talked about what upset her and the quicker she’d be out of her sight.

“What happened?”

The girl threw a quick glance at her.

“You don’t really want to know,” she replied instead with self-deprecation.

Mara sighed inwardly. She wasn’t ready for this kind of shit. She should get up and move, but her body obey.

“If I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t ask, so…”

The girl took a shaky breath and released it before speaking. Mara expected a deep and concerning declaration, because the girl looked as if she’d seen something deeply disturbing.

“I saw my ex at the party. We had been together since we were 13. I didn’t…I never imagined my life without her by my side. But two years ago, I sent out of the country. I’m in the military. Had to go overseas for the foreseeable future. Didn’t know when I’d be back. I wanted to marry her, you know. And then the whole thing went downhill. She… (her throat choked up and she stumbled on her words, Mara felt sick and cold, as the girl went on), had met someone. From her bookstore. A girl, who wasn’t in the army and could be there for her every goddamn day. Fuck! she screamed. I would have given her the world and she broke up with me for someone else.

 Silence.

 Mara couldn’t really breath. Her blood was rushing in her body and she could feel dizziness take over her. Goddamn it. She was feeling…She heaved. The girl, who she figured out was Carole’s ex, patted her back and held her hair, even though Mara wasn’t really puking. If she knew who Mara was, she’d probably leave her chocking on her own vomit.

 A few minutes passed before Mara was calm. Physically because mentally she was a mess.

“Are you okay?”

No, she wanted to reply but settled on silence.

“Do you want some water? It will help with the nausea.”

Mara accepted the bottle, eyed the content and drank it. It tasted like normal water, but it could be poisoned for what she knew.

The girl made sure she wasn’t taking large sips and held her upright. Mara couldn’t understand why Carole didn’t stay with this girl. Unless she wanted the boring, safest option. Something you kind of like because it is next to you and will never leave you. The boring type. Where passion was not needed, as you settled for a white picket fence, a dog, two kids and a shitty job.

 God, could this night be shittier.

 “I’m good, thanks,” Mara said, as she handed the bottle of water. The girl, which name was still unknown, for Mara had never asked to Carole, was starting to reply when they heard footsteps.

Silence.

“Mara!”

She closed her eyes in recognition. Carole was looking for her. Great! Totally and fantastically great. That’s really what she needed tonight. She decided to put an end to this play and be the adult for once. The boring one.

She stood up despite her dizziness. The girl on the floor was looking at her quizzically. Mara frowned.

“Mara!”

Carole screamed as she saw her. She ran toward Mara and hugged her firmly. She took her head between her hands and kissed her nose.

The boring one, she heard the voice in her head repeat.

Mara stepped back when Carole tried to properly kiss her and looked down to where her ex was.

“Ce’?”

“El’?”

Mara swallowed with difficulty. She felt as if she had swallowed a ball. A grenade threatening to explode any minutes from now. She observed them. They were staring at each other with longing. She sighed shakily and clenched and unclenched her fingers. I can make it through. I prepared myself for this kind of situation, everything is going to feel like hell but hey, I knew it, she thought cynically.

“You still wear it?” El’ said, almost imperceptibly.

Carole put a hand on her chest, where there was a necklace and a ring. Oh. It did explain her words: “I wanted to marry her”.

Oh God…Mara was a fool. A fool. The concrete seemed to swallow her and her vision tunneled. They didn’t even seem to notice. A tear rolled down her cheek. She sniffed without sound.

 Move, Move, go away, let them have their happy ending, you don’t have to torture yourself, she repeated herself, unable to do so.

 In her sorrow, she didn’t catch if Carole replied. El’ looked relieved and pained. Carole was toying with the ring mindlessly. Mara felt as if a million small cuts appeared in her heart. Sometimes, when Carole didn’t notice she’d look at her, she’d be toying with this ring. For the longest time Mara had thought it was just nostalgia that made her keep it. But maybe she was wrong, maybe it was more than that. Unfinished business. Love and Hope.

The boring one, the voice muttered sweetly in her head.

Mara toyed with the sleeve of her shirt. And listened to the rest of the conversation.

“Why are you here, El’?”

“I…m back, love. The tour just ended and I’m back for good. I have bought a house; the one we wanted. I’m back for good.”

Mara was transfixed by the main expression on Carole’s face. Happiness. She never looked at her like that.  She stepped back and gripped her chest as a blooming pain erupted.

Get a grip. Let her go, she convinced herself.

“I’m…No…I’m with someone else, El’”.

There was a short uncomfortable silence. Mara didn’t dare make a move to attract a lot the attention.

“Oh, I…I didn’t think…I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry.”

Mara gulped some much-needed air. She should be relieved, happy that Carole had chosen her. What was wrong with her? Couldn’t she be for once selfish?

“It is ok”, Mara finally said. “I understand if you want to be with her.”

Carole tried to interject and took a step toward her.

“She only talked to you for a few minutes and you look happier than the whole two years we’ve been together. Fuck, I’m exhausted.”

Carole tried to reach for her, but she backed away, still avoiding looking at either of them.

“I don’t want to be the one to hold you back. I just want you to be…happy,” she said, choking on the last word. “You don’t have to settle for the safe one, now,” she finished with a brittle smile.

Silence.

It was almost too silent. Mara raised her eyes. Carole looked shocked beyond words; she was gaping. El’ was looking at her with a weird expression. Mara gave them a little smile before running away.

In the nighttime, only the neon of her shoes shone. The sound of her steps on the concrete disrupted the loud music of the nature. Through her blurred eyes, the world seemed brighter.

Mara took off the first moment she could. She had retrieved her clothes from Carole’s place, and left. If she had stayed and seen her…she shook her head. She didn’t want to think of that.

She booked a ticket for the West Coast. Somewhere she’d never been. “Let’s go on an adventure”, they had promised to each other.

She thought she heard Carole’s laugh in the crowded airport. But she was alone. Lonely. She…had never travelled before. She had wished they’d do it together. Carole had promised her, she’d show her the world and be her adventurer and guide.

I guess, it was all for naught, she cried, as she boarded.

As the plane took off, she gripped the armchair, wishing it was her hand in hers.

 I love you, my love, she whispered as the plane reached the sky. Its beauty rendered her speechless. I hope you are happy.

 Part 2

[datingsimreviews]

Steam prison is genuinely a good game. Like the world and fantasy of the whole thing really immerses you, and each of the love interests are complex well written characters. Not only that but each of the endings adds more to the story and some of the “none good endings” can even be seen as better if you’re more interested in the world’s politics instead of smooching some guys.

Plot:

The plot is as follows. 400 years ago there was a big flood. All of the scientists made a tower in the sky to escape the flood. They left for their new country and didn’t allow the rest of the people to join them because they didn’t have enough room. The flood came and killed most of the people, their culture and animals, but they managed to rise up anyway and create steam punk land.

The main character Cyrus is from the heights (the tower), one of the descendants of those scientists that left. She’s a police officer and people only descend to the lower level nowadays if they’ve committed a crime. They’re exiled to the “depths”.

After checking out the depths on an observation mission after passing a police exam, (Because police are required to look at the sanctuary district in the depths if they move up in rank) Cyrus’s parents are murdered and she is charged with the crime of their murder. She’s immediately exiled with no formal investigation into the depths.

Each route focuses on her exile in a little different way uncovering a little bit more of why her parents were murdered and about this world.

  Ines:

Usually I firmly advocate for players to choose their first character to play and not get a set of guidelines or something. However in this case I really like playing Ines’s route first because he’s the only route that lets you truly punch your parent’s murders face (besides just uncovering who ordered it or why).

Ines is the second in command of the HOUNDS, the police who monitor the criminals in the sanctuary district. The HOUNDS are basically the definition of police brutality, killing and hunting their criminal victims as much as they want and beating people up. Ines follows the Head’s orders knowing it’s evil under hope that he can go back to the Heights someday and investigate the crime his partner was charged with.

The Hounds don’t come to the depths themselves out of choice, they’re moved dishonorabley there too, making most of them very very bitter. In the Heights Police work in pairs and if one police officer commits a crime and is exiled their pair isn’t reassigned they’re moved discharged and moved into the Hounds. But Ines never believed his partner committed a crime and thinks it was falsified charges sort of like what’s happening with you.

He’s lowered himself into a monster in hopes that he can get justice for the dead.

The romance in Ines’s route makes a fair bit of sense, given that Cyrus (the protagonist) becomes his teacher in the ways of nobility and is just given time to sit around all day thinking about him so her feelings develop. I don’t know why Ines loves her but the romance in this game isn’t as great as the story and that’s honestly okay.

Ines also has the added bonus of being the police officer who inspired Cyrus to become a police officer.

Also he’s one of the few good Fins paths (more on Fins later.)

 Adage:

Adage is another criminal in the depths, but he gets by a lot better than the rest because he’s a doctor so he has a lot of money and doesn’t starve as much as the rest of the criminals. He’s rather cold and cynical and Cyrus becomes his assistant because she needs a job to get money for food.

Adage has no bedside manner refusing to help patients he believes he can’t save, but he’s still a good person trying his best to save the ones he does think he can save. A lot of other reviewers said that his path was terrible romantic wise, but I think his path was honestly a lot cuter and fluffier when it came to romance. Adage’s a big fan of romance novels so even though most people who come from the heights don’t know what love is, Adage does (Despite romance novels being banned because love is a crime there and arranged marriages prevail)

His route focuses on why Cyrus was convicted of a crime she didn’t commit, his father the HOUNDS doctor saw her during her observation and wanted to use her in his experiments because of her rare blood type.

Adage and Cyrus have to confront his father together and take him out. Which his father rightfully deserves. He’s been killed and dismembering people to make a Frankenstein child.

I was shocked by Adage’s evil father because he was a good guy on the previous route except at the very end where he randomly went to jail. I always wondered what he did. It was cool to get more of the world.

 Ulrik:

Ulrik is the only character who’s actually Cyrus’s age so that’s a plus. (they’re both 18). However he’s also the only character that fits into a normal otome cliché personality of “the tsundere”

Ulrik isn’t from the Heights. He’s from deeper in the Depths and is not one of the criminals. Past the sanctuary district wall are the survivors of the original flood and steam punk town. He is one of those survivors.

It turns out that Ulrik’s father was one of the main people who built the Heights but decided to stay behind despite being offered the position because he didn’t want to abandon his family. Through the generations this story has been twisted over and over again to say that the heights abandoned him and Ulrik’s family now hates the heights and anyone who comes here, causing him to initially hate the protagonist.

Still he eventually comes to understand that the heights just has people in it just like the Depths and realizes the truth of his family.

The protagonist never learns about why she was sent to the depths instead focusing on just surviving in this route but it tells us more about the flood.

Eltwood:

The ruler of one of the districts in the depths. This guy is your classic rich playboy businessman, but he still had an air of eccentricness that made him fun. He’s enamored with the heights despite not being from there and immediately falls in love with Cyrus’s knight like ways and makes her his bodyguard. This route had a lot of knight/prince or bodyguard/person they’re guarding vibes.

Eltwood’s route focused more on the relationship the depths had with the sanctuary district with the criminals and the other districts. It had an epic conclusion and was genuinely very cool.

I didn’t like the romance in his route as much as the other routes though. Probably because he immediately convinced Cyrus to kiss him instead of hours of build up and although Cyrus consented she didn’t really know what kissing was due to the harsh censorship of the Heights and situational consent ain’t cool. I mean I was happy she consented but it felt off to me.

Still the only scene that made me cry in this dating sim happened in his route. It was in one of his not good ends, where he ends up talking about his backstory and how his father and him were invited to the heights to celebrate the saint’s 400th anniversary. His father was enamored with the heights just like him and was so excited. He finally got to the Heights and everybody made fun of him and pranked him into doing embarrassing things in front of the saint and spoke behind his back. On the way back down in the lift to the depths his father cried for the first time and through out all stuff about the heights after.

It was just such a sad scene.

 Yune:

I was really excited for Yune’s route because Yune had saved me a few times in the other routes reforming the government and exposing that Cyrus had been exiled due to false charges. Yune himself is a saint and is worshipped like a religion. He’s immortal and nobody can hurt him. Both the depths and the heights love him even though he’s only in the heights.

Yune’s route….I had some problems with the good ending maybe because I wanted Cyrus to stay in the heights. But the other endings were very good. Less a dating sim and more political intrigue in the other ends. But I love immortal characters.

Yune saves Cyrus from exile in his route to hire her as his personal attendant instead. Not because he believes she’s innocent unfortunately but because he wants her to figure out a way to kill him because he’s grown tired of immortality and nothing he does can harm him.

Over time because he’s able to be his true self with his hired assassin he grows to love her and soon realizes that the only thing that can stop his god like heart is love and when he’s close to her he grows closer to dying. Various endings do different things with this and in the good ending he’s able to take out the god rock from his chest (Because he’s like a mechanical doll it turns out and a magical rock has been put in him which requires a key to remove that’s in the depths) and restart his aging just enough so that he can live with Cyrus like a normal human.

I like the endings a lot more where Cyrus ends a relationship with him, he doesn’t die but he does reform the government to take out all the corruption that caused Cyrus to have a false crime. But if you want good things for Cyrus just wait until the Grand Ending.

 Grand Ending:

The grand ending is the route with no depths that is unlocked after you play the other five routes. I loved it despite the fact that it had no romance. Cyrus’s parents don’t die because she stops the person who tried to kill them with her fighter skills (who turns out to be her ex-fiance). Yune helps root out that he won’t be charged properly because his father is a rich noble and that he needs to reform the government so he sends Cyrus to the depths to bring back delegates so that the depths can be represented and so that the two communities can work with each other and share their various technology.

She brings back all four of the other love interests who all fight off the evil police force and reform the government.

And there is no Fins death unlike most of the other routes.

 And finally:

Fins:

Oh poor Fins. Fins is Cyrus’s partner in the police force who gets sent down to the depths to be a HOUND because she committed a crime.  He was a good boy before that.

I didn’t really understand all the love towards a side character who wasn’t romancable but…This game seriously should have just made him into a main character. He’s a romancable character in the Japanese exclusive psvita version but alas I can not speak Japanese.

The reason I think why Fins is so beloved is that during the common route after you beat one route it skips to Fins being tortured just at random moments. I just had to be like “poor buddy why am I in this POV?”

Because Fins was such a good boy he didn’t gel with the police brutality so the head of the hounds beat him up, didn’t let the doctor give him pain medicine as they healed him and then beat him up again until he was a loyal dog. And instead of just telling us that they show us that…Over and over again.

Luckily Fins believes in one thing! That Cyrus the protagonist will save him or that she’s still the only good light in his life that he’ll find someday and then he’ll be happy and whole again. Unfortunately he’s not romancable in English so that never happens.

There are a lot of bad endings that involves this guy going full yandere but in most of the canon love interest ends he dies. Brutally. Before confessing his love to Cyrus and then dying to protect her.

Fins you see was always in love with Cyrus. The game makes sure to remind you of that in all the routes he dies in brutally (Adage, Eltwood’s and Yune’s. He makes no appearance in Urrik and come in the very end of Ines’s to be Cyrus’s good friend) It continues to switch to his pov throughout other guys routes just to remind you “hey!!! Your friend is suffering and there’s nothing you can do about it!”

It was good writing but harsh. I think it would have felt a lot more whole if his route was included in the English version. And a lot of other people agree.

Luckily he never gets tortured in the Grand Ending and he and Cyrus remain police officers and he tries unsuccessfully to confess to her but she’s just too dense.

 This game had some great writing but I truly recommend playing it not for the characters but the world. The dystopian Heights doesn’t feel truly like a dystopia and I love the world about the clouds sort of thing. It’s a really cool game and the art, music and interface all make it just a lot more beautiful.

[nikky-the-writer]

Come Home

Pietro Maxioff x Reader

Summary: AU

Will reveal of Pietro's secret tear his marriage apart?

Warning: cursing

___________________________________________________________

You were always one of those people who was called cynics as you would often say that true love or soul mates don’t exist. Mostly you said it because you believed that there was nobody for you; however you never even tried. You were a pretty reserved person and most would say that you were shy, but you didn’t really like the presence of strangers and that was why mostly you were alone. You had no parents, no family, not even a pet as your building didn’t allow them, but it didn’t mean that you didn’t go to the animal shelter when you had time to play with animals.

And as to most people you seemed unapproachable just as those you were working in a pastry shop however to one of them you didn’t seem like that. His name was Pietro, he was already working there before you got hired and as you would like to say that you hit it off immediately, you didn’t. You haven’t spoken to each other for more than four months and then one day Pietro started talking to you as you have been friends for years and you didn’t mind it. After that, a year of good friendship turned into a relationship which after more than a year and a half turned into marriage.

Now you were both married for eighteen months and you couldn’t be happier, you are both more than comfortable with each other and you love one another. You are also a good friend with his sister and everything was going great for you, you even opened your own bakery, so after all that happiness it was meant for the happy bubble to be pierced.

___________________________________________________________

You were watching confused as a young woman was talking to Pietro. She actually walked over to your table in the dinner a moment ago and acted as she knew Pietro. You weren’t jealous just confused, however, you soon realized what was happening and you almost got angry at him.

“God, I watched you almost every day, my friend and I were so sad when you stopped,” she said pouting before smiling again as she said quickly how much she liked his videos and she quickly excused herself.

During the conversation, you failed to notice how Pietro’s body stiffened and that his lips were pressed into a thin line as your attention was on the overexcite girl.

“You are really a jerk, you know that?” you said pretending to be serious and you notice how the color in Pietro’s face was drained now.

“What?” he managed to ask as his leg couldn’t stop tapping onto the ground.

“I have been talking about it for months,” you said thinking that he finally knew what you were talking about, but he somehow didn’t seem completely present.

“You…you wanted to do what?” his voice was like a whisper and you couldn’t understand the sudden change in his behavior he almost looked ashamed of something.  

“A baking tutorial, what else?” you said a bit more firmly than intended.

“No, no that’s what I was thinking, yeah…” Pietro said quickly before drinking water from his glass to calm himself down.

The whole atmosphere was changed during your meal; Pietro was unusually quiet and seemed as he wanted to run away from there. You also noticed that he kept glancing towards the table where that girl was sitting and you would think that he knew her, however when the girl approached the table she wasn’t sure if it was him and it didn’t seem they really knew each other. You were starting to freak out as Pietro never closed himself from you like this. He just stared at his food and ate not even once trying to talk to you. Finally, after you both finished and paid Pietro excused himself to go to the bathroom; he just needed to collect himself. You took the time of his absence to approach that girl. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust him, it was that he never lied to you and now the whole conversation seemed like a lie.

“Hi,” you said approaching other two girls at the table and the one from earlier smiled widely at you and you couldn’t tell why.  “I’m really sorry to bother you, but about what kind of videos were you talking about?”

“Cam boy,” she said. Her smile quickly disappeared as she realized what she said. She just assumed as if you were friends with him or whatever that you would know.

“A what?” you asked as you weren’t familiar with that expression.

“That is when people make videos where they are doing something sexual and they get paid for it.” The girl’s friend answered.

“So porn?” you asked already feeling the sting in your eyes as they were getting watery. Your fingers instantly moved to the ring on your finger.

“No, they,” the first girl started not finding really the right words. “In a way, yes, but it’s mostly one person in a video and th…Oh my God…” her eyes went wide as they fell to your hand immediately set on the wedding band around your finger. “Did I just destroy a marriage?” she asked quickly while her hand was already covering her mouth.

You could see that she was feeling guilty, but in your eyes, there was nothing that she did wrong, “When was the last time he did that?” you asked ignoring her question about your marriage.

“Look I’m really sorry…I don’t want to come in between…”

Tears were already rolling down your cheeks as something inside you told you that what you were about to hear won’t be what you need to hear. “Please…”

“Around a year and a half or more…”

“Oh my God…” you said as you realized that he was doing that behind your back as you were already in a relationship then.

“Y/N?” Pietro asked as he came closer to you, but you only stepped away not even looking at him. “Y/N, please talk to me,” he came closer reaching for you and you flinched from his touch.

“Don’t touch me,” you said loud enough for the whole dinner to hear. “Don’t fucking touch me, I can’t believe I ever trusted you,” you said disappointed before running away.

___________________________________________________________

It took you longer than you intended to get home and you were sure that he was already there waiting for you. You have stopped crying half way there and came to a realization that you can’t actually lean on anybody that you were destined to be alone and that was why you decided to leave him. You didn’t want to be in a relationship poisoned by his lies you didn’t need that in your life.

“Please, talk to me,” it was the first thing Pietro told you as you walked into your home.

You headed to your bedroom ignoring his please and grabbing your suitcase before throwing your clothes inside.

“Please, don’t do this,” Pietro tried to take the clothes away from you and you let go of it looking straight at him.

“You lied to me,” you said while observing his sad face, his eyes were red maybe even more than yours and he was still crying.

“I was ashamed of what I did, but I needed the money and I couldn’t lose you.”

“I don’t care what you did or why. You lied to me…you...you cheated on me…” you forced yourself to say those words as you still couldn’t believe that he actually did that to you.

“I have never cheated, please listen to me,” he begged you and his voice cracked at the end.

“When was the last time?” you asked wanting to give him a chance to say that he didn’t lie, you wanted to give him a chance so badly.

“Last time?” he asked a bit startled with your question.

“When was the last time you made a video?” you asked quickly and he looked away.

“A week after I proposed,” his voice came out as a whisper but you heard him and you only got even more disappointed and sad.

“I can’t believe this, the week when we opened our bakery together…” you mumbled in disbelief.

“I did it because of it,” he tried to reason with you although he already knew that he was the one wrong in the fight, he should have been honest with you from the start.

“Don’t put the blame on me, I don’t care what you did, you lied,” you said firmly before putting your attention in filling your suitcase.

“You have to understand that I never wanted to do it, but I worked a lot of hours at that bakery and I needed more money when Wanda got sick and to save for my own bakery.”

“For how long?” you stopped your actions looking at him, you would understand if it was for a few months to earn quickly, but his answered stunned you.

“Four years…”

“I can’t do this right now,” you zipped your suitcase with half of your stuff not inside and some peeking out.

“Please, I will tell you everything you want to know,” he said standing in front of the doors stopping you from leaving the bedroom.

“Don’t you think is too late now? I have your ring on my finger and I didn’t know what a random girl on a street could know about you. I...I can’t even look at you right now,” you said pushing past him leaving him broken, but he wasn’t the only one who was broken.

“Please don’t walk away,” it was the last thing he told you and that you heard. His number was blocked on your phone and only times he could hear your voice was while watching videos on his laptop of you two while letting his heat shatter more with every minute passing by.

He gave you time, the one thing that you asked for. And then a week passed by and another after it and after another one passed he start losing hope. He started thinking that there was no amount of time that could pass by and bring you back home.

___________________________________________________________

 A/N: Thank you guys for reading this!!!! Please leave feedback!!

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[pickalilywrites]

Model/photographer fic with the pairing of your choice. Bone points if its a rare pair because they deserve more attention.

you’re absolutely right!!! ah, but i read it wrong and accidentally made it a makeup artist and not a photographer ;~; i made a model/photographer au for jeankasa that you can read here~

Not Meant to Be

MaruMina. Celebrity AU. 

1866 words. 

Buy me a ko-fi!

Mina has never understood the hype around celebrities and hadn’t understood the concept of being completely starstruck by someone until today. It’s not that she doesn’t keep up with pop culture - actors, actresses, singers, and models - or has a complete disinterest in it because she does. After all, it wouldn’t make sense for her to remain in the dark about celebrity culture when she works at Rosé, one of the most well-known beauty and fashion magazines that oftentimes feature these celebrated idols. Of course, she’s never gotten a big head from working here. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. She’s had more than her fair share of rude encounters with pompous pop stars and arrogant actors - she recalls just last week an action star had her run out to buy him an iced coffee despite the fact that she needed to do his make-up for the shoot - and had even more instances where the stars had ignored her completely. These experiences haven’t made her bitter, but they have made her more or less indifferent to these many stars, and she doesn’t expect anything much from them anymore. If she’s learned anything from working with stars, it’s that they’re human just like anyone else. Except, perhaps, Marco Bodt.

Admittedly, Mina hadn’t been aware of his name until about a year ago despite the fact that the young actor had made his film debut when he was a teenager. He had been cast in many period pieces, but he had only gained recognition recently after playing a young detective in an action-thriller that had recently won him an Academy Award. It seems that now that he has gained fame, people - fangirls, especially - have realized just how handsome and talented he is, flocking to every movie he’s starred in, including a romantic comedy released just last week where Marco Bodt plays a frazzled salaryman with no time for love. Now, magazines like Rosé are clambering to have the actor’s freckled face grace their glossy covers.

The entire building had been abuzz when they had heard that Marco Bodt would be visiting for a photoshoot. Many discussed the possibility of getting an autograph or photo of the actor while others just whispered dreamily about this lucky chance to see the actor up close. Mina, however, did not participate in these idle conversations, choosing instead to focus on mentally preparing herself for this upcoming photoshoot. At best, Marco Bodt will cooperate with the artists and photographers involved and everyone will go home happy. At worst, he’ll be an absolute demon and the photoshoot will take several days instead of a few hours. She’s had too many bad experiences to expect the former, though. Admittedly, Mina probably shouldn’t be so harsh when it comes to judging celebrities. After all, it must be difficult for them to be constantly hounded by paparazzi, and she’s sure that the constant exposure is sure to wear them down eventually. Although, Mina thinks amusedly, one would think they’d have fewer problems with all the money they have. It is, however, this exact cynicism towards celebrities that causes her to become surprised upon meeting Marco Bodt, and she thinks that she has inadequately prepared for their meeting after she’s introduced to him.

“Mina Carolina?” The make-up artist looks up at the sound of her name and is surprised to see Marco Bodt in the flesh, standing in front of her with a box of donuts in his arms. On his face he wears a beaming smile that is just as bright as the one he had worn on the red carpet just a week before. She had been certain that his smile, like most smiles that celebrities wore at those events, was just for show, but up close she sees nothing disingenuous about it. When she meets his gaze, his smile seems to grow even larger, and he lifts the box of donuts out towards her. “I heard that we were working together today, so I bought you and your team some donuts. I figured it’s the least I could do since you guys are going to be working so hard today. Compared to everyone else, I’m pretty much doing nothing.”

It’s probably the first time anyone has ever given her a thank-you gift. The most she ever gets is a card, although those cards are usually addressed to the chief photographer. Usually, she and the other employees that worked behind the curtain were completely forgotten as soon as the photoshoot was over. The kind gesture surprises her so much that she doesn’t realize she’s been staring for a while until she notices the actor shifting awkwardly in front of her. Mina quickly clears her throat and gestures for Marco to sit down in her studio.

“Thank you, Mr. Bodt,” she says, taking the box of donuts from his hands and passing it to one of her coworkers to set on a nearby table. She gestures over to an intern, who hurriedly fetches Mina the make-up palette and brushes that were decided upon for today’s shoot. “You’re far too kind. It’s already enough that you’ve shown up.”

“It’s alright for you to call me Marco,” he tells her with a laugh. He’s silent for a moment, watching as Mina pours a dab of moisturizer on her fingers to apply on the actor’s face. “It really is you who is doing all the hard work. I’m just here to sit and take pictures … although it’s my first time modeling for a magazine as prestigious as Rosé. To tell you the truth, I’m kind of nervous. I would hate to mess this up for you guys.”

She’s sure that he’s only saying this to be nice, perhaps putting up the nice-boy facade that the public finds so appealing, but she’s surprised when she glances down at his hands and finds him gripping so tightly on the arms of his chair that his knuckles have turned white. Mina begins to think that perhaps she shouldn’t have assumed such cruel things about him. Even if he’s a celebrity, he’s a stranger to her and it’s not as if she knows his life.

After she finishes applying the foundation, Mina wipes her hands on a towel and reaches down to squeeze Marco’s hand lightly. “I’m sure you’ll do fine,” she tells him with an encouraging smile. Her words must have calmed him down because he returns the smile, but it’s bashful this time. “After all, you’re in good hands.”

“I’ll leave it to you then,” he replies.

Generally, Mina doesn’t like it when her clients try to converse with her while she’s applying their make-up. While she understands their need to fill up the silence, their moving jaws and tilting heads make it difficult for her to apply make-up properly. At times like these, she usually requests her clients to remain as silent as possible, but she finds that she doesn’t seem to mind it when Marco talks. As she converses with him, she finds that he’s far more relatable and easy to talk to compared to other celebrities. Rather than talking about himself and red carpet experiences that others can never connect to, Marco asks more about Mina and her experiences in the make-up industry, sometimes even speaking with the other artists and interns in the studio so that nobody feels left out. There are a few times where she requests that he pauses for a moment so that she can apply foundation properly, and he clamps his mouth shut immediately with an apologetic look on his face, but Mina always finds herself asking him another question so that she can get him talking again.

She finds him absolutely stunning when he speaks, and she’s grateful to be able to observe him up close as he talks. His strong jawline is even more prominent when she’s within inches of him, and she makes sure to highlight it as she goes about applying make-up. She does the same with his freckles, taking care not to cover up the golden spots sprinkled across his cheeks and nose. Above all, though, Mina finds that the natural upward curl of his lips - this hint of a smile - to be his best feature, and she’s certain that it will come in handy during the photoshoot.

Mina had never really seen the hype around Marco until meeting him. After seeing his movie, she did have to admit that the man was talented, but she still didn’t know why he had so many admirers or why they had put him on such a high pedestal. Now that she’s spoken with him, she understands their feelings completely. He’s more than just a Hollywood star with a nice-guy-next-door persona - he’s the real deal. Despite his fame, he remains humble and genuine, and Mina must confess that she’s swooning a bit after meeting the star. She didn’t really have any plans to check out the romantic comedy he starred in, but perhaps she should make time for it sometime this week.

The minutes fly by and Mina finds herself spending more time on Marco than she had originally intended. Instead of working as quickly as possible, she finds herself applying blush and concealer as slowly as possible, hoping to drag out the time they can spend together. She wonders if he notices at all. Before she knows it, it’s already thirty minutes have passed since the time Marco was scheduled to arrive at the photographer’s studio downstairs, and an under-paid intern has burst through the door, breathless and with her hair in total disarray, begging for Mina to finish up so that the photographer can get some shots in.

“Is it that time already?” Mina asks, surprised. A flush of pink creeps across her cheeks, and she wonders what on earth has gotten into her to cause her to waste all her precious time. “I’m terribly sorry. I’m just about done. Please wait a moment and we’ll be down there in a minute.” She apologizes again, this time to Marco, but the actor only shakes his head.

“You’re doing a great job. You’re only taking a long time because you want it to be perfect,” he tells her, but he’s only half-right.

In the end, they both go down to the photographer’s studio - Marco to model and Mina to make any necessary touch-ups in between shots. It’s the most interested in a photoshoot she’s been. She admires how Marco’s skin glows brilliantly underneath the bright studio lights and how poised he is despite the nervousness he had confessed to feeling earlier. He does brilliantly in every pose - brooding, thoughtful, angst-ridden, pensive - but she thinks he’s the most breathtaking when he turns to the camera, a smile on her face. Just seeing his lips curl upwards in that familiar expression is enough to make her hold her breath. She knows that this is a photoshoot, that he is meant to stare straight at the camera so that those who purchase the magazine can pretend that he’s looking straight at them, but she wishes just for a moment that he would look at her and only her. But she knows he never will.

[feitclub]

who knows what closet obsessions lurk within the hearts of men? Certainly not me.

--The following blog post appeared on feitclub dot com (it’s not mine anymore, don’t go there) ten years ago. I read it today and felt like I should reshare it with the world.--

I was riding the train this morning and taking in the human scenery around me when I made this observation via Twitter:

sitting on a train across from a man (NOT a teen) reading a pro wrestling magazine. Even when I was a fan I knew those mags were crap.

In hindsight this sounds harsh but it wasn't meant as a strict judgment of the man, just his choice of reading material. And yet it took less than a second for his magazine of choice to color my whole opinion of him. I started looking at his hair and decided it was weird. I thought the way he ate his breakfast was comically ape-like. My entire opinion of a stranger was dependent on his method of passing time during his morning commute. All this from a man who used to be one of those people who not only watched pro wrestling every week on television but actually spent a good deal of money on attending live events.

After looking across the aisle for a while, I glanced at the man next to me. He was wearing a suit and coat with a briefcase on his lap, and he was reading a Golgo 13 manga. This made more sense to me because Golgo 13 is awesome, but why? Just because I preferred one hobby over the other, I found one guy normal while the other was some kind of primate? That didn't sit right with me.

I know we all have our inner passions, many of which are far from mainstream. Earlier this same morning, I read the following message from Robert Ashley on Twitter:

"... is overrated" is one of the emptiest phrases in the English language. People love everything too much. That's fandom.

As much as I agree with his first point (the Internet is awash with cynical morons who declare "[popular thing] is overrated" ad nauseum) his second point is what echoed inside my head on the train. Falling in love with something means getting excited about it beyond the "appropriate" attention level as decided by the masses. Even those niche hobbies that are considered mainstream, like baseball, have their own subculture of intense statistical analysts and historical archivists whose enthusiasm would not have much in common with the casual fan.

Looking back on my own life, I've had my share of (unhealthy?) hobbies and interests over the years. Overlooking my fondness for certain toy lines as a boy, when I was a teenager I spent my free time playing a lot of video games and watching a lot of Star Trek. While I always had at least one friend who shared my enthusiasm at the time, I always had at least two friends who weren't interested at all. There were video game friends and Star Trek friends, but not both. I would bounce between hobbies and fluctuate my passion depending on the company I kept.

Last night I was watching the latest episode of House which featured an unusual "patient of the week" who had lost all impulse control and said whatever came to his mind. This led to a lot of awkward conversations where he insulted his clients, pointed out the doctors' physical attributes (good and bad), and clashed with his wife about her charity work. But hidden amongst the sitcom-level gimmickry was one interesting idea: what is this man's real personality? If this is what he thinks about all day but he chose not to say it before, does that mean he's always been a raging asshole? Or is the way he decided to behave his actual self?

We all have our own little quirks and habits, and we all shift our behavior depending on who we spend time with. Your average man is not going to comment aloud on a new attractive coworker in the office, no matter how striking she may be, but he will certainly bring it up around his friends afterwards. I know my wife talks a certain way around me, a different way around her parents, and yet another way when she talks to her friends. Which one is the "real" Mako? Likewise, I behave in a certain fashion while at home and in a very different fashion when I attend the Tokyo Game Show. Was her panic concerning my gaming around New Year's really a frightened reaction to seeing too much of my geekiness?

I can't help but wonder if the world would be a better place if we had fewer social pressures to keep our interests bottled up. "Honesty is the best policy" isn't always necessarily true, as evidenced by the guy on House, but isn't more honesty better than less? What if Trekkies could wear Starfleet uniforms in public as casually as sports fans wear team jerseys? What if Danny Choo was just one of a million Star Wars fans who dressed up in stormtrooper armor on the weekends?

I honestly believe that half of the people going to conventions are just looking to be "themselves" for a few hours around people who won't judge them so harshly. I've been to more than one Star Trek convention in my life and I assure you, there's not much to do there. Maybe you get to hear one of the actors speak, maybe you even get an autograph, but the reason I kept going back was the opportunity it presented to just immerse myself in all things nerdy. The exact same thing is true now with my love of Den Den Town. I almost never buy anything but I love being surrounded by old games and marveling at the passion surrounding that old technology.

So go ahead - take this chance to leave a confession in the comments section. What hobbies or interests do you feel uncomfortable sharing with everyone? It's the Internet, let yourself go!

PS: What was I doing on the train this morning? Listening to my iPod, specifically a playlist made up entirely of Neo Geo music. Hell yeah.

[virtual-crisis]

⭐Alpha Centauri⭐, Part Eight

So, demons. As you can imagine, they can’t enter holy ground like churches/synagogues/mosques/etc. But the likes of Chick-Fil-A? Oh baby.

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Eventually, Nebb had to go back to his dorm, so Chai and I went to have dinner… At Chick-Fil-A.

The reactions were delicious. Pious, devoted and devout followers of God were for the most part shielded from the ‘ill sensations’ us demons would give with proximity to them, but the ‘Christian’ crowd that frequented and ran CFA were infamously not so. Hypocritical, decadent, prejudicial. Come to think of it, they were basically mortals acting like soldier-of-heaven angels.

When we got to the front of the line, we ordered one at a time. I took a good few minutes vocally puzzling over the caloric consequences of different options, like some ‘weight watcher’ insisting to themself that simply eating less of the same fast food would turn fat to loose flesh. While I was no wrath demon, I could feel the frustration of the others behind us. While they were getting sick of standing, my legs numbed themselves to the point I may as well’ve been sitting, using my thighs as a seat.

Then, despite my mock-indecisiveness, I wound up ordering a good ten or so greasy, deep fried, chewy-biscuit ‘chicken sandwiches’, with a different similarly unhealthy side for each one. To top it off, I spent another minute negotiating an extra large soda cup with a mix of drinks in it, trying to convince the cashier to let me have said drink——to hand off to Chialer, because holy shit that would melt me from the inside out. Audible groans of impatience came from all but Chai herself, in the line.

“Yo, girl’s gotta eat, thought ya boi upstairs said to love your neighbor,” I said to this, casting a cynical look over my shoulder. Chai gripped a hand tightly around her mouth, her chest seizing up as she tried desperately not to laugh.

The price came up on my order, and I added the real cherry on top of the infuriation: fumbling around with a total mess of different-valued dollar bills and no change except for pennies to handle the tax with. By this point, even the cashier was urging me to just give an extra dollar and take the change, but I insisted it was my last one dollar bill and needed to swing by the bank to make proper change.

Unfortunately for the process of moving the line along, they didn’t want to start actually making the huge order until I’d actually put up the cash for it. But once the money was in the register, I sidled out of the way. Little did the humans expect that I was the lesser of their problems, for Hell hath no appetite like the gluttons of its ranks.

Chai, clearly, stoned herself in preparation for coming here, which she’d recommended in the first place earlier in the afternoon. Rush hour, sedated with marijuana, planning ahead of time to be unhelpful… Her process of ordering was so much more infuriating than mine that I could swear the cashier was trying to decide between an aneurism or risking getting fired to lash out at her. The mortals still waiting behind her were exponentially more agitated, with more red skin than racist depictions of native Americans, enough clenched fists to rival a rock concert, and more eyes glaring at my roomie than I had secreted away on my wings. I quivered in place with that sadistic catharsis that ran like blood through our kind. Not like I can help one of my primary purposes for existence being to torture the damned.

My food started coming to me as Chai got in a pointless argument with the cashier about how to pronounce ‘burger’ at a place that didn’t even serve those; once I was loaded up with fast food bags, I went to take the biggest booth-table in the dining area. From there, I could see a group of people make various sounds of frustration as I’d clearly taken their place for whatever over-a-meal ‘team building’ shit they had planned in place of the sort of missionary work religious types eagerly sought out back in yester-century.

From afar, I observed a carefully planned and heavily handicapped dance: Chialer, uranium-skunk demoness of gluttony and envy, working carefully to maintain hostility with the cashier and even a couple other customers, but keep herself from being kicked out of the restaurant; all while stoned off her ass with weed, which didn’t get along with her anyway.

One minute, she was arguing about ordering hashbrowns, even though they were part of the breakfast menu and it was dinnertime. The next, she was antagonizing the cashier with horrifically nitpicky specifics on *just* how much vegetables and sauces would be on each thing… Oh damnit, she got them to call out the manager. I forgot that whoever did that quicker dodged having to pay…… Couldn’t blame her for not stopping me from paying when I hadn’t done so at all during my order.

It took a good half hour before she got to my table with me. She sat next to me, sidling up against me and gently thumping my chest with the back of her hand. I sneered, letting out an obnoxiously loud belch. Only Chialer and myself were amused. Unfortunately for them, Chialer had a similarly crude sense of humor, and we kept up, acting like completely undignified slobs. That, mortals, is what happens when gluttony meets sloth. Alongside, ironically for my end, leaving no leftovers to take home. It was Hell on my stomach (ha ha), but Chialer being around helped a ton (also ha ha).

People cringed, faces squinched up. Kids were giggling, which their parents quietly shushed. Personally—and I can’t speak for Chai here, necessarily—I enjoyed the kids’ reactions the most. They enjoyed what we did: lots of food, lax on ‘customs’ and ‘following the norm’. Modesty, in my opinion, was easily one of the worst traits of humanity.

But all the while, something felt… Insufficient about it. Something not adding up to the sum. I looked around. One couple—an asian duo, looking more than a little out of place in a crowd of white people—were casually sat and eating food as if nothing was wrong, despite all the noise from us. I stared at them for a minute… The man looked really… Tired, while the woman looked very tense.

“See those two?” I whispered across the table at Chialer.

Chai glanced up. “What about ‘em?” she replied quietly.

“They’re not even reacting to us…”

“Maybe they’re deaf, who knows.”

“And coming to a fast food place, ordering food without holding up the line at all? Bullshit.”

“Whatever, Cen, just keep eating. Or let me, if you’re too high on conspiracy theories.”

I furrowed my brow. She wasn’t wrong, but she also was. I knew something was up there, so I sat and pouted for a while, staring at the ceiling. Eventually, the husband got up and walked to the bathroom.

I followed.

He may’ve gone into the men’s room, but I had… Reasons I could go in anyway. Independent of me being a demon, don’t get me wrong. I still looked around to be sure nobody was watching, then slipped in, carefully scanning for others besides the one I was tailing.

The man in question… I saw his shoes in one of the stalls, and… Well, you know what sound I heard from in there. So I used a long, wadded up strip of paper towels to stick the door shut from the inside, and waited for him to come out. When he did… He’d give some answers. If they were innocent enough… Well, hopefully I could zap him in the right way to only erase his memories of the last hour. Electro-neuroscience was very difficult to get right.

“Okay, who the hell are you?”

The Asian man looked up from brushing off his jacket. “I not speak English,” he said calmly. No conviction, no sort of gesture or look of confusion… Yeah right.

I crossed my arms. “Then how did you order food.”

“My wife order food, I eat.”

I scoffed, narrowing my eyes. “If you don’t speak English, how did you understand that.”

The man narrowed his eyes as well, hunching over somewhat. “...Takuya Nakano. Now piss off.” he said flatly, walking around me to wash his hands.

I looked down, pulling up a sleeve to glance over my upper arm momentarily. Some time back, I’d written on it with permanent marker, occasionally reapplying it if it seemed to be fading. Mom had told me the line years and years ago, and I wanted it on hand [or close enough while out of sight] in case I needed to use it…

“Shilton lot-zipper……?” I murmured.

The man lifted his head, glancing over his shoulder for a moment, before shaking his head and going back to washing his hands.

I looked over my shoulder at him, furrowing my brow. “לוציפר שולט." ‘lotziper sholt’. Lucifer reigns.

The water from the sink abruptly stopped. Given the improvised soundproofing I put in the door, it was now dead silent. I couldn’t even hear anything through the walls.

“Where did you hear that.”

“My mom.”

The man shook off his hands for a moment, going to dry them off. “When.”

“Eight years ago, as she sent me off to college. Told me it was a ‘code phrase’.

“Only the princes of Hell pass that knowledge around. Hebrew is a dead language outside of the middle east.”

I let out a huff of air. “So that’s why you’re so nonchalant about my roomie and I.”

“I was trying to have a nice, quiet dinner with my wife. We were ignoring you.”

“Mortals can’t just do that.”

“I noticed.”

“So what are you, then?” I demanded.

The man grumbled in frustration, walking past me again to the door. When he had trouble opening it, he looked down then stomped on the wadded up paper towels and scraped them out so he could leave.

I peered out the door around him. Someone had been trying to get in, and thankfully hadn’t seen me yet. I quickly ducked into a stall and let the guy enter as well. Once I was sure his view would be blocked by a stall door, I snuck out and scoped out ‘Takuya’’s table. His wife was gone.

I ducked into the girl’s bathroom and searched it. Didn’t recognize any of the shoes—hers were pure black boots, really stuck out from the other patrons—so I headed out and made a lap around the building. The alcove for the dumpster out back was a crack open, so I peered in, and sure enough…

“What do you want?” the woman spat in an expected Japanese accent. She was leaning against the back wall of the enclosure, smoking a cigarette with indeterminate components.

I stepped in, closing the gate behind me. “I was trying to chat with your husband a minute ago—nothing flirty or anything, I saw his ring—and he was being evasive about a question I asked…”

She blinked slowly and deliberately. “His dick’s four and eight-tenths inches, he subs in bed, and yes we do use condoms.”

My eyes went wide, and I raised both brows. She smirked. “Woah? Yikes? Okay shit, I’m part succubus and that’s TMI to me.”

“Part what?”

I waved a hand boredly. “...Yeah yeah, לוציפר שולט and all that,” I murmured. “You two are demons and he’s not admitting it.”

The woman blinked again, same as she had before. She then stepped away from the wall and turned around, rubbing the burnt end of the cig on the brickwork. “His name’s Tsuki. I’m Shihai. We’re trying to have an anniversary date, so contact us later about it,” she said. Awfully trusting...

“You’re just…”

“A demon hunter or angel wouldn’t just spit out that they’re part succubus in response to a line like that. They’re too serious, especially for jokes like that.”

I shrugged. “Well I… That’s probably gonna get you fucked up sometime.”

“Believe me, if it were going to, it would’ve happened long before you. Now take your notes and let me smoke,” she said. Afterwards, she pulled out a new cigarette, lit it, and stood aside from an ashen graffiti tag of a pentagram. I quickly ran up to it, looking over it carefully and memorizing the runes drawn in the spaces around it. There were ones representing several of the seven deadly sins—but not all—and an elemental rune corresponding to each. The center held a manji: ‘svastika’ in Sanskrit, but well, you wouldn’t want the symbol nazis stole to be referred to by such a similar name, even if it was the original one.

I nodded slowly. “...Holy shit, you’re—”

“Out. Now.”

I winced, then nodded slowly, going back to open the gate and head inside to finish up dinner with Chai—or rather, yell ‘angrily’ at her for eating all the rest of my food. That svastika (okay, let’s just call it a manji like they do in Japan) had a very specific meaning among demons: versatility. Power. Maybe a certain elder goat-demon would be able to give me more information on the topic...

[oneweekoneband]

As I get older I have less resistance to certain strains of starry-eyed woo. Some of it comes from observing over time that the division into woo and non-woo camps correlates less with lived experience than I’d once smugly assumed; there are, actually, people with what anyone would agree are Real Problems that believe, for example, that everything happens for a reason, and there are plenty of easy cynics manufacturing bitterness out of a thoroughly average existence. Mostly, though, it’s that I’ve begun to accept that the mind does not rule the heart, and the heart follows its own laws, and I get further, easier, trying to learn the laws of my heart than I do trying to force it to submit to my mind. There are many important and beautiful realms where the mind can have its kingdom; I’m a teacher, I love and admire several of these domains. But then: I’m a teacher, I know reason has no curative powers for a wounded heart. Mostly I am learning to need things less to be smart and more to be useful.

Kesha wrote this song in rehab. Of its origin, she wrote:

This is how the song “Rainbow” came to be. The whole album idea and tour and everything, came from me crying and singing and playing and dreaming until my hour was up and they took the keyboard away again. Every day I would just cry and play that song because I knew I had to get through that incredibly hard time. I knew I had to change and learn to take care of and love myself, and I had no idea how to even begin.

“Rainbow” was the beginning. That song and the lyrics were a letter to myself promising that I was going to take care of myself going forward and that I was going to be okay.

I’m only rarely interested in the biographical backstories of creation as more than entertaining curiosities for my fannish side, but I think about this a lot: Kesha in rehab for an eating disorder, making music for an hour at a time, writing a song about seeing the beauty in the world. Kesha beginning to fight to save her own life, writing a song about what it looks like on the other side of survival. Rainbow is the album about living a free life Kesha made while she was not free; Rainbow is the song about joy Kesha wrote from the epicenter of her pain. A promise she couldn’t know yet she would be able to fulfill. A shooting-star wish she would be the one to grant herself.

She wrote I used to live in the darkness, still waiting for the sun to rise; she wrote been lookin’ for a star-sent sign that I’ll be alright, but she crafted her own omen, her own promise of redemption. I turn this over and over: how brave it is to choose to hope for something you don’t yet know how to do. To welcome in a love you can’t yet feel. To look at your sad, sorry self and decide she is worth believing in.

Belief is a hard thing for me. I say belief, but I mean useful belief. I still think about stumbling across David Foster Wallace’s famous Kenyon College commencement address as a depressed twenty-year-old who had never heard his name and being transfixed less by his exhortation to stay aware and awake than by this idea: that everyone worships, and we only get a say in the question of what. I never decorated my room that year or any other that I spent in a dorm, never bought anything for the sake of ornament, not because I couldn’t but because I thought it wasn’t worth the effort. It was only temporary, it was just my room—logic that expands too easily into it’s only temporary, it’s just my life. Or maybe that’s backwards; maybe all along it was my self I couldn’t see the point of, and the bare walls were just a reflection that deeper emptiness. Maybe it matters, maybe it doesn’t. Being wrong isn’t helpful, being right hasn’t once saved me yet.

Now I see that colors are everything Got kaleidoscopes in my hairdo Got back the stars in my eyes too Yeah now I see the magic inside of me

Inside, outside. Marie Kondo says Tidying is a confrontation with the self, that the heart of making a home you love is understanding the person you are. I wanted to believe there was no connection, I wanted to believe I could outsmart them both, I wanted to believe that if I understood the parameters of what had happened to me I would somehow be inoculated from the hurt. I own a turquoise couch now, a peacock-colored shag rug, some days everything is still hard—hard because it’s pointless, pointless because I’m hopeless. It’s so seductive, still, the story that feels like truth because it will never succumb to being proven wrong. I read about astrology, I pull tarot cards in the mornings, ways to circumvent the endless rational-sounding explanations my brain creates automatically for giving up, talismans of my tentative faith in the importance of faith. The most insufferable hippie belief I’ve been forced to make peace with is the idea that happiness is a choice, not because you choose it and then it comes but because if you don’t choose it it never comes.

This song is a penny in a fountain, a stray eyelash, blown-out birthday candles: little rituals that acknowledge what we want, that acknowledge that we want. I forgot how to daydream. Little kids are great at this: wanting things, wishing, understanding themselves as creatures that dream. Deep down I’m still a child / playful eyes wide and wild she sings, right before I can’t lose hope—like the two are connected, like she owes it to that little girl dancing in the sun. Like that girl is still inside her, and deserves to live as the person she might yet become. How do you develop that kind of faith, that kind of love? How do you find it in yourself to look at all the places you have rotted away and say what’s left of my heart’s still made of gold? How do you decide that you can become the person who lives in a life you love—that in fact you are that person already, contrary to all perceivable evidence?

Trust me, I know life is scary. We know she knows, and I wish we didn’t need to know why to take her at her word; some of us have always trusted that she knew how to see the darkness. Put those colors on, girl / come and paint the world with me tonight, singing to us the song that she sang herself. I turn this over and over: how gentle she is with her terrified self. How in making something beautiful and soft, she gave herself the language to begin rewriting the voice in her head, the story she was telling herself about herself. I’m feeling right back in love with being alive / dreaming in lights. Some days, walking home through light like amber, I do look to the sky, and it does seem magical, and the part of me that can see that feels like the truest part of me.

In The Goldfinch Donna Tartt wrote: “Whatever teaches us to talk to ourselves is important; whatever teaches us to sing ourselves out of despair.” Kesha has been that for me for a long, long time. I love the words to this song I couldn’t have believed in years ago, but the best part comes in the middle, in the wordless, soaring bridge. The orchestra fills the space like light spilling across floorboards, a warm swelling glow, led by Kesha’s voice, fluttering and playful, loose and lovely, arcing across the sky on a melody like the flight of morning birds, like the sparkle of a meteor shower. You can see in her voice what you hear in her voice: the delight of creation, the sheer delight of making something beautiful. No words, no arguments, no justifications. Joy is enough. She is enough.

My favorite use of a rainbow, lodged in me permanently through the wonder of childhood discovery, is still The Muppet Movie. Not the beginning, although I do love Kermit, alone, singing about wanting magic, about trusting that it’s there, waiting to be found. But the end, the big sentimental figurative and literal mess, the outlandishly happy ending collapsing into cheerful disarray for a moment of wonder, of something like awe: the crack in the ceiling letting in the light, the rainbow saying what a rainbow always says—you’ve made it this far: Life’s like a movie, write your own ending / keep believing, keep pretending. Write your own ending not because you write it and it comes true, but because it ends whether you write it or not: in the dark I realized that life is short. Choose what you worship, which is sometimes not so firmly after all on the other side of maturity from that idiom of childhood, make believe. In rehab, in the dark, Kesha made belief of out music, made beauty out of survival. A kind of magic, an alchemy of hope. Now it’s hers and ours too, the lovers and the dreamers and those of us trying to remember how to do both, to take from it what we need, to fashion it into something we can use. To sing ourselves out of despair. To believe in, until we can choose to believe that we’re enough.

—Isabel

[sunlitroom]

Gotham – s4e11 – Queen Takes Knight

As I watched it, and some random observations here and there.

Previously on Gotham:

The Pyg fiasco, and the unceremonious ditching of Harvey.  Sofia says Jim wanted a gangster,and that’s what he got.  I have to hear Pyg fucking oink again.   We learn his real name is Lazlo Valentine. Lee likes Ed now.  Bruce is not the hero Gotham needs.  Sofia used Martin as a pawn, so Oswald faked his death.  You wanted a war - you got one!

As always, long post will be long.  There are likely to be rambling digressions. Gobblepot might appear (although I welcome all shippers and non-shippers alike :)).  There will be naked favouritism and naked not-favouritism.  There will likely be inchoate screeching over the angst truck hitting my favourite again. Broader comments at the end on plotlines and parallels and general direction.

 At the Iceberg Lounge, the loyal Mr Penn bustles in with some men, waiting for Oswald’s instructions. Stupid music announces this week’s instalment of Girl Gang Badassery, with Sofia joining them.  She stares down her nose at Mr Penn

Where is Penguin, little man?

(An aside, Sofia has evidently inherited her father’s disdain for anyone who doesn’t match her particular pattern of acceptable.  No doubt Oswald is also that freakish little man in her mind, too)

 Jim and other officers are hunting for the escaped Valentine.  They run up some stairs to find an almost dead black market doctor, choking on his own blood.  Jim follows his gaze to the wall behind him, where Valentine has left another of his whimsical messages

Toodles Gotham, it was a gas

Jim is wearing an awful beige coat that doesn’t suit him.  Given his actions later, he deserves this sartorial punishment.

 At the Iceberg Lounge. Tabitha is torturing someone who is wailing in agony, presumably - although I hope not – Mr Penn.  Barbara, meantime is complaining that while they’re here, Oswald is out calling on his support amongst the gangs.  Don’t worry, Barbara.  It doesn’t matter how much ingenuity we know Oswald must have demonstrated on building himself back up after every downfall, the political alliances he created, all the legal trickery – he’ll wind up fucked over when the storyline demands it.

Sofia’s face barely flickers at this.  She says that if they kill Oswald, then the gangs will support her.  She’s still a Falcone

Barbara rolls her eyes

Yeah – you mentioned that

Tabitha saunters out. Whoever she was torturing doesn’t know where Oswald is. Sofia’s phone rings.  Her face shifts on taking the call, and she says she’ll be right there.

 Back at GCPD, Harper tells Jim about what happened on the train, and the subsequent meeting under the bridge.

(An aside – this is the first example in this episode of something which became outrageously annoying during the Galavan plotline – communication failure -  to create rifts between characters.  It’s not a bad thing when it’s sparing and plausible – but Gotham tends to employ it scattergun when they want to shove a plotline in a certain direction by lobbing idiot balls in all directions.  Jim literally spoke to Oswald hours ago.  He managed to get an agreement from him.  Here, he doesn’t even evince puzzlement at why Oswald might immediately break that agreement – he knows that Oswald operates on favours and promises, or wonder if Sofia engineered it somehow.  He just rushes headlong in the direction the plot demands)

They decide that Oswald has to be found.  Jim says he’ll find Sofia.  Valentine’s new face can wait.  

We’ve got a war to stop people

(An aside – Jesus fucking Christ Jim – your war.  Your war that you specifically requested.  Am I supposed to have forgotten this?  Or is Jim the biggest hypocrite in the city.  If it’s the latter – how can you sustain him as a heroic figure?  He doesn’t have the self-awareness or self-doubt to be an antihero.  So what is he?)

Sofia, Barbara, Tabitha and Selina are at the Falcone Mansion.  Falcone enters, and Babs and Tabs look anxious.  Falcone kisses Sofia, and tells her she looks tired.  He also tells Ms Kean it’s good to see her again – Barbara having gone to him way back when to plead for Jim’s safety – probably something else that Jim’s conveniently forgotten.

The writers, having seemingly given up on emotional depth for Barbara, don’t really do much with this, just giving her a lame and shallow

So this is weird

Sofia asks why he’s here. Falcone asks her to remind him of what he told her about not being ready, and then angrily remarks that she came back anyway.  He said he should have acted then, but he was indulgent, curious

Who is this daughter I raised?

Sofia protests. Oswald is weak, they can take the city from him – Falcone loves this city.

Carmine shakes his head. He used to love it – but he’s dying now. He cares about his family.

Sofia lapses into the entitled princessy behaviour we’ve seen glimpses of before

I want this.  I deserve this.  Gotham belongs to me!

In a unpleasant scene, Carmine backhands her, and Sofia falls to the floor.  

Your actions have disgraced the family.

He remarks on her sleeping with Jim, the man who killed her brother.  Sofia is now tearful and sullen.  Barbara is wide-eyed at this news.

Sorry, what?

Falcone says he always knew the meaning of honour, but she has proven that she does not.

Children - they can be such disappointments

Oswald enters the room. Sofia is furious, protesting that she was winning.  Falcone cuts her off

I came when Oswald called because you were going to lose.  Anyone but my daughter would be dead right now.

(An aside.  This is true.  Sofia is manipulative and clever, but virtually everything she’s achieved has been down to the Falcone name – something she repeatedly comments on herself)

At Wayne manor, we see the aftermath of a wild party which the police have been called to after a noise complaint.  As Alfred strolls the room, we see Bruce passed out next to two girls.  Alfred throws the melted ice from the champagne bucket over him.  As he splutters awake, Alfred tells him that the party is well and truly over.

Bruce apparently did the whole wild party in a black woollen jumper.

 Jim arrives at the Falcone mansion.  He begins to tell the driver by the car outside that he’s looking for Sofia, but Carmine cuts him off

my daughter

Jim says he didn’t expect to see him.  Carmine tells him he arrived this morning and made a deal with Oswald – take her away, and she lives.  Jim curls his lip – commenting that he made the same deal with Oswald but he didn’t keep it.  Carmine comments that he’ll keep it with him.

(An aside – this right here should also have made Jim stop and think.  Why would Oswald make the same deal twice?  Why risk bringing Carmine to town at all, given that Oswald is intimidated by his legacy?  If he’d wanted to kill Sofia, he could have done it by now.  There’s no reason for Oswald to want to lure Carmine back to kill him, either – it would only create more trouble for him from Falcone loyalists. However, Jim is holding armfuls of idiot balls right now, so on we go).

Falcone regards Jim, stone-faced, and says he glad he never killed him.  Jim responds with a sarcastic thanks, but Falcone is unimpressed.

Don't thank me.   Killing you would be a kindness.  You’ve no idea what you’ve brought to your city.  When you find out the truth, it will destroy you. And that’s a comfort.

Sofia strolls out, face sullen

Another day, another man sending me out of Gotham

(An aside – those satin coats are very trying, to be honest.  The theory is good – but beyond a catwalk, they tend to look unfortunate)

Falcone says that he’s trying to keep her alive

Sofia’s not interested in this

Neither of you believed in me.  It could have been so different

(An aside – Sofia will do this again later, excuse herself of responsibility of her actions by saying that she was forced to do A,B or C because she wasn’t adequately appreciated, or respected, or loved enough.  There’s something chilling about it.  Look what you made me do is a classic abuser’s line.)

As she walks past Jim, she stops to kiss him.  This is likely partly to spite her father, but also – as we’ll discover later – because she wants this to look convincingly like a final farewell.

Carmine turns to Jim

I doubt we'll see each other again.  

He looks balefully at his old home

The sun never shines here

Sofia talks to him before getting into the car

Everything I did - I did for your love – but it doesn't matter, does it?

Carmine regards her grimly

I still consider you my daughter - that's enough

Sofia decides she wants to take one of the roses her mother planted with her.  She pricks her finger on one of the thorns.  Jim sees a van approaching in the distance.  He yells get down – but it’s too late.   Sofia is shot in the hip – and Carmine is killed outright.  She screams and sobs when she realises her father has been killed, and Jim hugs her, because he’s a gigantic blond dope.

In the kitchen, Alfred watches the TV news reporting on Falcone’s death while enjoying a cup of tea. A hungover/still drunk Bruce lurches in, and tells him to clean up vomit from the car.

Oswald watches the news, mouth pursed.  Victor, standing in the doorway, asks if Oswald would have told him if he was going to kill Falcone.  Oswald tells him that of course he would have.

Victor tells him everyone on the street thinks he did it. An exasperated Oswald exclaims

Let them!  My hands are clean.  You have my word.

(An aside.  This is all a bit mystifying to be honest.  Yes – Victor seemed to be especially loyal to Falcone way back when.  But if he was that loyal, why work for Oswald at all?  Why not follow Falcone out of the city, or work to undermine Oswald’s organisation, or just flat out refuse to have anything to do with him.  None of Victor’s previous actions make sense if I’m to believe what follows

On top of that – Victor seems most concerned here about whether he’s been lied to.  But he has no reason to think that’s the case.  He knows Oswald sees him as his most trustworthy employee.  Why is he suddenly doubtful?  Cynically – Victor also knows where Martin is.  Why would he risk pissing him off by killing Falcone and lying about it if Victor could take revenge by delivering Martin right back to Sofia?)

Falcone’s funeral, which is a very grand affair.  Actually, is this the funeral or the vigil?  I didn’t see a priest.

Oswald and Victor sit in a pew.  Oswald looks anxiously at Victor.  Sofia is wheeled into the church in a wheelchair, wearing hilariously obvious scarlet gloves of guilt.  She might as well be wearing a t-shirt with ‘#1 dad killer’ on it.

Jim makes sorry noises and accuses Oswald of having carried out the murder based on, well – nothing. The same level of conjecture as that on the streets.  Truly, he’s worth whatever GCPD pays him.

Sofia’s crocodile tears in response are neatly highlighted by costuming choices: a veil is lip service when combined with bare shoulders.

Oswald fumes at the sight of Sofia.  As he does so, a tearful Victor stands and walks to Falcone’s coffin, putting a bullet in his pocket.  Sofia watches this, and watches as Victor strides past Oswald, who is left hissing his name from the pew.  It’s a clear message, Victor is offering allegiance to Sofia and quitting Oswald. It makes no fucking sense, but it’s a clear message.

Jim broods in another pew, but notices Harvey.  He comments that his leave is almost up, and it’ll be good to have him back.  

(This is a really disorganised funeral – why are people just chatting and changing seat?)

Harvey is infuriated, asking why Jim hasn’t arrested the little weasel.  Oswald apparently still owns the judges.  This detail will fly out the window later, but anyway.

Harvey is still incredulous. Jim – not able to look him fully in the eye, tells him that it was Sofia who paid off the mayor to make him captain, but he didn’t ask for it.  Hmmm. Let’s not be disingenuous here, Jim. You wanted the Pax gone by any means, and didn’t rule anything out.  You also repeatedly remarked that you deserved the captaincy.

Harvey is triumphant about the fact that Jim did have to do something to get the captaincy – but also comments that it’s a hell of a debt to owe.

Jim acknowledges this – saying that she’s pressing him to act on Oswald, even before the recent mess, but he can’t allow her to make GCPD her personal army.  Harvey says Jim needs to incite Oswald to do something and convict him for it.  Jim starts to make protesting noises – but Harvey clarifies.  He doesn’t give a tinker’s damn about Oswald – but as far as he sees it, everything that’s happened here – right up to Falcone’s death is on Jim’s initial decision to go after Oswald.  He should finish what he started.

(An aside – Harvey’s not wrong in remarking that this is all on Jim.  Everything here goes back to Jim’s decision to go to Falcone to fix his problem.  What doesn’t really make sense is his advice to see his plan through… just because. There���s nothing rational about continuing with a terrible plan just because you started it.  It takes more backbone to admit you fucked up, accept blame, and work to remedy it.)

Oswald views Falcone.

Goodbye old friend.  I will not forget all that you taught me

Stepping back, he approaches Sofia.  He tells her he had great respect for her father, but she….

Jim yanks him away as he threatens Sofia, and then pushes her back down the aisle.

Sofia asks what he’s doing.

Finishing what I started

 Oswald storms into GCPD. Tapping the microphone, he calls Jim out.  He wants him to hand over Sofia, but Jim refuses.  Oswald, wide-eyed, asks if he’s seriously going to go to war for her. Jim – without a blush – says he’s upholding the law, no-ne gets to decide who lives and who dies.

Oswald is irate – he protests that Sofia has manipulated Jim, lied to him.  Jim smugly tells him the law is the law – get over it or face the consequences.

Oswald just about reels at this.

(An aside – I am, I always admit, nakedly biased.  Oswald is my favourite by a country mile.  Here though – I think just about anyone could empathise with his frustration. We know that Jim is bullshit, just going through with this to see his own shitty choice through to the end.  We know that Sofia has lied and manipulated him. Oswald is just about seething with confused frustration at Jim’s refusal to acknowledge this, and it’s easy to empathise with him)

Oswald changes tack and offers a bribe, telling the officers that Jim is risking all their lives to protect a gangster.  GCPD has turned virtuous within weeks, apparently, turning their noses up at Oswald’s bribe.  Two officers ask if they can throw Oswald out.  Jim nods assent, and Oswald is dragged from the station – screaming to Jim that blood will run, and it will be on his hands.

The cops all turn to look at him.  Jim puffs up for a grand speech.

From the first day I put on the badge, I was told things could never change - Gotham and GCPD are corrupt.  Criminals ran things.  You just showed me different.  

He tells everyone to suit up – which I think means ‘grab lots of guns’

(An aside – so Oswald is apparently the convenient scapegoat for everyone’s sins?  The corruption Jim found when he arrived, Falcone’s reign, Sofia’s deceit – we decide Oswald can be the representative of all that?  Not only is this horribly unfair, but given part of Oswald believes, albeit in a very twisted way, that he is good for the city, and given – also -  that he genuinely cares about it: this is just ugly.  Fuck and off.)

 Gotham’s favourite pastime: shooting in random warehouses.  There follows a tedious scene whereby the Sirens, tied up, manage to escape.  I am bored by everything to do with this plotline. Does Selina utter more than two words this episode?  She doesn’t have to, I suppose.  Her character has been diminished now to an eyeroll in a catsuit.

 Sofia and Jim in the Captain’s office after his big speech about how GCPD is all shiny and clean now.   Sofia is complaining that the gangs all owe Oswald allegiance, and tells Jim to arrest him. Jim says that Oswald is using proxies, and he can’t.  Sofia sits back and regards him coldly, and then observes that Jim is baiting Oswald into committing a public atrocity.  Jim visibly flinches a little, blinking, because – as I commented elsewhere – he doesn’t like people to notice and voice the grubby things he does.

Sofia is still in those murder gloves.  She asks Jim what if Oswald has already committed an atrocity, and tells him about Martin. Jim has apparently forgotten Oswald flinging himself between Jim and Valentine to protect a child – and only asks why Sofia didn’t tell him this sooner.  She said she had no proof, but smiles – saying that Oswald never understood how people cared for her father, and one of those people just called her.

 At the Iceberg Lounge, a frustrated Oswald is ranting to Victor about how Jim has every cop in Gotham behind him.  Victor comments that he must have good leadership skills, at which Oswald says – after all this – they need to have a chat about the chain of command, and screeches at him to go do something horrific.

Jim arrives.  Oswald asks if he’s lost his mind, and reminds Jim that the armed men here work for him.  Jim says he’s here to arrest him.  Oswald asks on what charge?  He didn’t kill Falcone.  Jim says it’s for Martin – which makes Oswald laugh.  Jim asks what’s so funny – but Oswald says it’s that Martin’s death was only faked to stop Sofia using him

(An aside – this still doesn’t give Jim pause.  Fine.  Fine, Jim.)

Oswald evades giving an answer on Martin’s location, but says Victor can confirm his story.  Jim looks smugly to Victor – who equally smugly lies through his teeth, calling Oswald a kid killer.

Oswald has to be held back and then dragged away, calling Victor a lying traitor.

Jim walks up to Victor and tells him that this doesn’t give him a free pass.  Possibly just a couple of free murders in Jim’s stainless new GCPD.

Victor looks down at him

Jim - not now

 Oswald is taken to the cells in GCPD.

Harper looks proudly at Jim

You did it, cap.  You won

The assembled cops applaud Jim

(An aside - I hate everything and everyone la la la la la)

 At Sofia’s home, Victor says Gordon doesn’t know the kid is alive.  Sofia tells Victor he played his part, and that Oswald showed he was weak.  Victor shrugs.

At the end of the day - he's a Cobblepot, you’re a Falcone

He gets down on his knee and kisses her hand

Sofia smirks at the Sirens.

Smile ladies.  It’s a new day

(An aside – the question could be asked here: does Victor know, and plan to get close to Sofia for revenge for Falcone’s death, seeing Oswald’s incarceration as acceptable collateral damage?  Does it matter – given whichever writer deals with episodes later might totally forget what was in this one, as happens in Gotham?)

 At the Iceberg Lounge, Babs is pleased to have the club back.  Tabitha is less enthused, and leaves to go do something on her own.

 At Wayne Manor, Bruce is looking through some documents.  Alfred enters, and tries to be jovial.  He’s packed cases – Operation Save Bruce Wayne.  He jokingly says he’ll kidnap Bruce if he won’t come willingly, but then says he’ll appeal to his better angels.  He’ll beg.

Please - do it for me

Bruce – with his back to him – says that he’s not thought about Ra’s or his parents these last weeks. Alfred tries to sell him on no life without pain – no love, no joy, and tells Bruce he’s miserable.

Bruce tells him to stop what he’s doing.  Bruce isn’t what anyone thought he was.  He tries to leave, saying he’s going to see Tommy.

The situation deteriorates, and a physical fight breaks out.  In the course of this, Bruce headbutts Alfred, and Alfred punches him in retaliation. He’s aghast the moment he does it, and apologises, but Bruce leaves the room quickly.

 In the Narrows, Ed is engaged in a familiar battle in the mirror, trying to gain the upper hand over his reflection.  He repeats that he is in control, but RiddlerEd asks why he would want that – they had fun when they were him.  RiddlerEd’s face falls.

Oh no - tell me it’s not that

He gives Ed a riddle – the answer to which is love

You're in love with Lee Thompkins - you pathetic loser

Ed yells in rage at his own reflection.

A confused Butch approaches.

Ed angry at mirror?

Ed says that he isn’t

Ed angry at Ed?

That is… surprisingly perceptive

Ed leaves to go get some air.

(An aside.  I don’t find this implausible.  Ed had a little crush on Lee way back when – the new medical examiner who was kind to him, and who smelled nice.  Now the good part of him has been admiring her altruism for the last few weeks, while the bad part has been impressed by her newfound power and attitude. He regards her intellect highly enough to think that she would be able to cure him. He’s gratified by her trust in him, and touched by her friendship.  It’s more explicable than his ‘love’ for Kristin, which was more fixation and projection)

Butch hears the Solomon Grundy nursery rhyme playing and follows the sound to a gramophone.  When he gets there, Tabitha quickly approaches, and knocks him out.

When Butch awakes, he’s tied to a chair.  Tabitha is essentially going to beat him around the head until he remembers her. She’s frustrated by his frightened plea to return to ‘friend Ed’ – reminding him that Ed electrocuted him, and cut off her hand.

She kisses him before resorting to the clubs –

Remember me, Butch.  I’m Tabby.  Your Tabby.

He can’t though – and apologises.  

He pleads with her

Pretty lady

As she approaches with a club.

 In her home, Sofia sits before the fire, malignancy dripping from her.

(An aside – CR has done an excellent job with Sofia, particularly evident in this episode when you compare her to the Sirens, who are – bluntly – woeful.  She’s very beautiful, but there’s a frightening stillness to her quite frequently in this episode.  She’s like encountering one of those big fat black spiders – the terrifying ones that don’t scuttle away)

Jim enters the room, and says that they need to talk.  She agrees. He asks her not to do what she’s about to do – unify the gangs, put Falcones back in charge

(An aside – Jim, what the actual fuck?  You are the definition of wanting to have your cake and eat it.  If you wanted a gangster who would just do you random favours, you had that in Oswald)

Sofia looks askance at him.

That was the deal.  You law, me order

Jim says if she takes over, then he will come after her.  Jim believes his own hype, and Sofia laughs at how predictable he is.  She asks if he’ll hear her proposal.  He says he’s not interested, until another voice cuts in.

I think you are

Valentine is here. Jim is slack-jawed.

Valentine asks if he can tell Jim, but Sofia has probably been looking forward to this for weeks.

You came to me because you had a problem.  I’d heard of a contract killer impersonating serial killers.  I thought, what if he could be a cop killer? You needed the police to turn on Penguin – so I sent a monster to the city and let him improvise

Valentine cuts in and says he got carried away with cooking folks

The only hiccup was the mess with her daddy.

(An aside – that means that Oswald did temporarily outsmart her with that move, and force her to think on the spot.  Crucially, though, the notion that Sofia could kill her own father is likely one that Oswald, who put parental love on a particular pedestal, couldn’t even fathom, and thus did not factor into his plan.)

Jim turns, horror written across his face.

It was you

Sofia’s justification for killing her father is pretty chilling.  She gave him a chance – if he’d only appreciated her, then he would be alive.  We saw her react similarly when Oswald wasn’t sufficiently impressed by her advice, or Jim appropriately grateful for her favours.  It produces an almost immediate fit of temper.

Jim slowly muddles through the details.  Gawd help the GCPD, at this rate.  He saw her shot, but there must have been another shooter.  

Valentine cuts in boastfully – he took care of that shot, couldn’t leave it to random thugs.

Jim does what he often does when he feels out of control of a situation, and decides to start punching. He tells a reeling Valentine that he will go to Blackgate this time, and he will rot there.

There’s another shot, and Valentine drops.  Jim turns, open-mouthed, to see Sofia – now pointing the gun at him.

Jim is still open-mouthed. Sofia turns on him.

That was his moment of truth, this is yours.  How many cops died under Pax Penguina?  None.  It was you who couldn't stomach it.  You who came to the Falcones for help.  There’s direct line from your decision to a dozen murdered cops.

Jim hits out with a truly bewildering

You're insane

(An aside – that would maybe have been a bit more convincing after she said she murdered her father, not after she’s detailed exactly how Jim is as guilty as sin.  But then, Jim is quick to ascribe insanity to anyone he can’t bear to understand.  Arkham is his personal oubliette.)

Jim asks why she doesn’t just kill him, and then realises she needs him at the top of GCPD.

You’ve been planning this since the first day we met.  This is revenge for me killing Mario

Sofia puts her gun down

You want to arrest me, then arrest me - but I will talk and the cops who died and the friend you betrayed will have been for nothing

She goes on to tell him that GCPD will crumble and that

Penguin or someone worse will take over

(A bitter aside – gosh, can there be anyone worse than Penguin, repository for everyone in town’s contempt?)

Or you can keep GCPD - let them think you’re a hero, but live knowing who you are and what you’ve done.  That is my revenge.

Sofia has tears in her eyes – presumably from the emotional catharsis of revenging her brother.  She calls GCPD and hands Jim the phone.  He takes it.  She angles her body away from him in the chair, signalling both her lack of interest and confidence in what he will do next.  He only pauses for a moment before doing exactly what she expects.

This is Gordon.  I'm at Sofia Falcone's.  I just shot and killed Pyg.

Sofia smiles into the fire.

 Wayne Manor.  Alfred’s relief at Bruce’s return is short-lived. He’s drawn up emancipation papers, and fired him, telling him to get the hell out of his house.

 An exhausted Tabitha is still beating Butch.  We see a vision blur like it did back when he recognised her.  Tabitha, though, is about to give up.  She asks Butch to say something.  When he can’t, she apologises, kisses him, and then leaves

I’m sorry.  I tried.

 Alfred is leaving Wayne Manor.  He turns the lights out, but leaves that one window with the billowy Total Eclipse of the Heart curtain open.  This is spliced with images of Bruce at the club, finishing with a long unhappy stare out at the audience.

 Jim arrives back at GCPD, just as Harvey exits his office.  Jim is clearly pleased to see him, hopeful that he’s returning, but Harvey tells him he’s just dropping something off.  Before leaving, he tells Jim that he heard he got Oswald and Pyg – so everything turned out well.  

You didn’t even need me.

Jim asks, with a little desperation at the edges, if he’s got a second to stop and talk.  Harvey’s not stopping, though, only telling Jim

They believe in you - don't let them down

He walks away. Glancing into the darkened office, Jim sees Harvey's badge and gun on his desk.

 Back at the warehouse, Butch is coming round.  Slumped forward, he sees his reflection in a puddle and frowns.  He looks up, and looks around, confused.

What the hell happened to me?

 Arkham, where vaguely circus-like music while Oswald is ranting, voice cracked with rage.  He’s going to kill Sofia – flay her alive, Gordon and Zsasz too.  He’s interrupted, and spins, ordering the random voice not to talk to him

I get it, pal.  This place is full of looneys.  We could help each other out

Oswald is disbelieving, and asks how they could possibly help him.

Not to toot my own horn – but I’m very resourceful.  Toot toot!  

Laughter follows and a wide-eyed Oswald clicks

I know that laugh!

What do you say, pal?  I’ll be your best friend.  Gimme a smile!

Hi, Jerome.

 General Observations

I’m not who anyone thought I was

Bruce can’t deal with the Ra’s murder – neither the act itself or the fact that it did nothing to salve his grief for his parents.  He’s anaesthetising himself now with excess.  

He’s also trying to be another Bruce Wayne, a Bruce Wayne of whom no-one has high expectations, because he can’t bear to have fallen so far from who he thought he was, from who his father, mother, Alfred all expected him to be.

Jim isn’t who anyone thinks he is, either.  GCPD see him now as their bright, shining new captain – but it’s all a lie.  He’s a walking farce, a mockery of everything he thought he stood for.  He’s betrayed anyone and anything that mattered.

Oswald might be many things – but he’s not what others would paint him as: a child murderer, Falcone’s killer, the source of all Gotham’s woes.

Sofia wasn’t who anyone thought she was – ingenue, or dutiful daughter, or ally.  She’s in it for herself entirely – Jim only a dupe in a bigger game.  She has Oswald’s old problem, now, though.  She’s shown her hand.   The most ominous plot point for her right now is Victor’s loyalty.  I think if he suspects she killed Carmine, then she’s toast.

Ed’s struggling with his old problem.  Who is he? The man in the mirror?  The man in love with Lee Thompkins?

Butch has just awakened, having regained some sense of himself – ironically enough, in his reflection, where Ed’s sense of self tends to fracture.

 Sofia is being set up for a huge fall of Galavan proportions.  She murdered her father, stitched Oswald up (using a child the audience knows Oswald acted to protect), duped Victor, effectively got rid of Harvey, and has Jim as a puppet. The audience is actively being encouraged to hate her and eagerly await her downfall. If I have to guess at this point, I think Lee will be the architect of her destruction – the ‘good woman’ punishing the ‘bad woman’.

Thoughts?

[allyinthekeyofx]

Genesis - 15 & 16

Previous Chapters

1 & 2  //  3 & 4  //  5 & 6  //  7 & 8  //  9 & 10  //  11 & 12  //  13 & 14  

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Mulder was first aware that his throat hurt; a gritty discomfort that no amount of swallowing would ease. It almost felt like his throat was scratched or bruised in some way but he could think of no reason why this should be so.

He could hear sounds around him, an incessant bleeping which cut through his escalating headache like a scythe. He fought against the need to sink back down in to the sweet oblivion of sleep in order to block it out, answering instead to the small voice inside of him that demanded he wake up fully. He had been mindful of the voice for a considerable length of time, and he had struggled to obey its commands, willing his eyes to open and throw off the bounds that held them closed. Something inside of him told him over and over that he was needed - that to sink back in to the abyss would be somehow disastrous and it was this pressing thought that forced him finally to come back in to a state of full awareness.

Slowly, painfully, Fox Mulder opened his eyes.

He was more than a little surprised to find himself focusing on the stark brightness of a fluorescent light and for a few seconds he had absolutely no idea where he was.

As his mind cleared, however, he was able to identify the slightly antiseptic scents that had become all too familiar over the years.

He was in a hospital.

The how and why would follow shortly, and for the present time they didn't really concern him. Instead he focused on the light above him, willing and able to wait until he felt more together before asking himself questions he couldn't answer.

The sound of a door being opened somewhere to the left of him prompted him to attempt to lift up his head, but the slight movement caused a wave of dizziness to wash over him as his equilibrium struggled to cope with the sudden rush of blood. A hand on his chest ceased his efforts, and somewhere beyond the roaring sound that filled his head, a familiar voice reached him.

"Take it easy, Mulder."

The damage though had already been done, and Mulders last waking thought before lapsing back in to brief unconsciousness was surprisingly lucid. -- Why was Skinner in San Diego? -- and the answer came right alongside it, that whatever the reason was it was bad . . . very bad.

XXXX

"So how are you feeling now?"

The man had earlier identified himself as being called O'Brien, and from what Mulder could gather, he had been overseeing all of his treatments over the past twenty four hours, and was now continuing along that same vein.

Mulders earlier lapse in to unconsciousness had been brief and he had awakened once again to find Skinner gone and this man in his place.

He had allowed himself to be thoroughly checked over, and had attempted to furnish the doctor with some kind of explanation for his recent illness. He also knew by the man's guarded expression that he was still at a complete loss as to how to give any kind of definitive reason for Mulders previous condition.

Mulder too was unable to piece together anything that could be of much use. He remembered hazy details of his being in San Diego and the reasons for it, but beyond the vaguest of recollections, his mind was a complete blank. The headache was still there, pounding away in his skull and, despite the pain relief the medical staff had administered, it was not abating at all.

Mulder forced himself to rise above the pain in order to arrange his thoughts in to some kind of distinct pattern that would enable him to make sense of why exactly he was here, and more importantly why Skinner had chosen to fly half way across the country to be here too. His instincts told him it wasn't simply out of concern for his health.

He eyed O'Brien as the doctor jotted some more notes on to the chart that hung at the bottom of the bed and voiced the question which had been buzzing uncomfortably around his head since his awakening.

"Is my partner here?"

His tone was casual, but the words hung in the air as O'Brien busied himself with his writings. The seconds ticked by as Mulder waited patiently for a response, and when it became obvious that he was not going to answered he tried again.

"Agent Dana Scully. Is she here?"

O'Brien raised his head, and although he attempt to remain carefully neutral, something about the way he shifted his eyes away caused momentary panic to surge through Mulder.

"Dr. O'Brien?"

"Um . . . no. She's not here."

He replaced the chart in to its slot at the end of Mulders bed and turned away, abruptly ending a conversation he did not feel equipped to handle.

Mulders unease edged up another notch.

"I think Agent Mulder that you should talk to Mr. Skinner.

Mulder nodded numbly, not trusting himself to speak as the doctor raised his eyebrows in an unspoken query, wondering just exactly he was about to hear from his superior, but knowing that whatever it was it was unlikely to be good news.

O'Brien pivoted quickly and Mulder, from his prone position on the bed, heard rather than saw his exit from the room, just as he was aware of Skinner's sudden presence before he actually saw him appear above him, the concern on his face was unmistakable.

"How are you feeling, Agent Mulder?"

"Where's Scully? Why isn't she here?"

Skinner closed his eyes briefly, knowing that he could not escape answering, but at the same time knowing that Mulder was in no shape to confront the realities of his partner's situation until he was stronger. He briefly considered lying, but dismissed it when he realised that weakened or not, Mulder would no doubt see right through him. He finally decided that optimistic honesty would be his best course of action for the time being.

"Agent Scully is missing.....but we have every available resource....."

"What?"

Skinner winced as Mulder struggled to sit up.

“What do you mean she’s missing?”

“Mulder...take it easy...”

He placed a hand on Mulders shoulder in an attempt to calm him down. Mulder though, shrugged him off easily.

“Skinner?”

Skinner shook his head, the movement almost imperceptible.

"Agent Scully hasn't been seen or heard of since late last night. There was an incident at the motel you were staying at. A man was fatally wounded."

Mulder narrowed his eyes.

"And?" he prompted.

Skinner sighed as he realised that honest optimism had flown out the window. Only the truth remained, as elusive as ever.

"A witness has identified Scully as firing the shot, that it was an unprovoked attack. She hasn't been seen since driving from the motel."

"That’s impossible"

Mulders voice was heavy with cynicism, and Skinner eyed him levelly.

"I don’t think anything is impossible with the two of you Agent Mulder"

“What? You’re kidding me right? This is Scully we’re talking about.”

The barely suppressed fury on Mulders face made Skinner instantly wish the choice of words back in to his mouth, especially in light of his own deep misgivings regarding the case. But the words had been said. He couldn't take them back.

Skinner opened his mouth to speak, but Mulder threw him a look that was dripping with disgust.

“Save it. Sir”

Slowly and with obvious effort, Mulder pushed back the covers and manoeuvred himself in to a sitting position, bare legs dangling now over the edge of the bed.

"What the hell are you doing, Mulder?"

He watched as the younger agent struggled to his feet, only moving when it was obvious that Mulder was in no state to be standing up. He grabbed his arm and applied just enough pressure to let Mulder know that he wasn't kidding, and Mulder in turn allowed himself to be pushed back in to a seated position.

"I'm checking out. I need to find her."

Skinner laughed, the sound hollow and totally without mirth.

"And how exactly do you propose to do that? E.S.P? Don't be ridiculous."

He allowed his voice to soften slightly as he regarded the expression on the younger man's face, a face that appeared two shades greyer than it had five minutes ago.

"Take a look at yourself, Mulder. How long do you think you'd last before you wound up right back in here? You're in no shape to be going anywhere. You are sick. And running half-assed out of here isn’t going to help Agent Scully...”

He flinched slightly at Mulders next words.

“How are you helping her? You shouldn't be here, you should be out there finding her."

Mulder attempted again to get to his feet. Again Skinner pushed him back.

"Mulder, I have half the San Diego Bureau trying to find her and the other half figuring out ways to help find her. Believe me, I've got it covered, and what I don't need is another of my Agents going missing, especially one who has no business walking around. It won't help you, it won't help me and it won't help Scully."

He waited a few seconds for his words to register, and it was with a certain amount of relief that he watched Mulder relax slightly, knowing that for the time being at least he was having at least a measure of success.

“Well I need to do something. I can’t just sit here....”

Skinner swallowed.

"What I need from you, Agent Mulder, is a narrative. Everything and anything you can remember that might help. I don't care how trivial it might seem."

To his intense relief, Mulder nodded slightly.

"You're right. I'm sorry, I just . . . I don't know what to think any more. . ."

"It's Okay."

Mulder closed his eyes, the weariness showing all too clearly in his face.

"I’m so tired. But I need to know that she’s alright"

Skinner observed the unhealthy pallor of his Agent, and was reminded sharply of how ill Mulder had been. The last thing he needed right now was to be pushed too hard, especially in light of everything that had happened, and Skinner was smart enough to realise that a couple more hours would hardly make any difference either way. He made the decision to leave quickly.

"Get some rest. I'll come back later."

He waited a few minutes until Mulder was sleeping, and then quietly left the room, taking the opportunity to grab some much needed food and a change of clothes.

He returned to the hospital ninety minutes later and headed straight up to Mulders room. He was less than pleased, although not particularly surprised, to be confronted with the sight of the recently removed canular laying on the bed. The drops of Mulders blood a sharp contrast against the pristine white cotton. The window was still open, a breeze stirring the humid air within the room, rendering the air conditioning ineffective.

Open just enough that he could make his escape.

To find his partner.

Before it was too late.

XXXXXXX

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

In her dream state, Scully was running. From whom or what she wasn't yet certain, but a strange sense of urgency forced her to carry on even as her throat began to burn from the effort of her exertion. She could hear the heavy tread of footsteps behind her but didn't dare turn around for fear of losing her balance and falling, knowing that to do so would surely mean the end for her.

In the distance she could hear a child crying, a pitiful keening sound that awakened a part of her that had only existed for such a short time, and she focused on the sound, allowing it to guide her during her headlong flight.

The crying grew in volume as she continued to run, and within a few seconds she had rounded a corner to find herself face to face with a small child. A blonde haired little girl with blue eyes – a tiny version of herself.

Emily stood, arms outstretched, the tears falling freely to leave streaks on her pretty face.

Mommyyyyyyyy please make it stop.....

Without hesitation, Scully scooped the child up in her arms and held her close, breathing in the scent of her child, rewarded as she felt Emily's grip tightening around her. The sweetness of the moment was short-lived though as she felt the child become rigid in her arms, eyes widening in terror.

No Mommy..........

The footsteps behind her had ceased.

He was here.

She spun around to confront him, still holding Emily tightly to her. And for a second she relaxed, a moment of absolute relief.

Mulder. Thank God.

Until she saw the gun his gun - pointing straight at her, at Emily.

"Give her to me Scully"

His voice was hard, uncompromising but Scully simply clutched Emily closer to her and took a stumbling step backwards even as Mulder advanced. Her eyes darted wildly around, seeking an escape route but finding none. Her only hope was to get past him, but he seemed to sense her strategy and easily out manoeuvred her, grasping her arm so tightly that she cried out.

"Mulder, what are you doing? Please. . ."

"I said give her to me, Scully. Or I will take her from you."

She struggled to make sense of his words, eyes widening as she realised he meant to kill her, regardless of whether she surrendered Emily to him or not.

But this was Mulder.

This was Mulder for God's sake.

This is not happening.

She gasped as the barrel of the gun dug in to the soft flesh beneath her ribs. The whispered words from a man she had trusted with her life. A man for whom she had willingly risked her own life to protect.

“Give her to me Scully. Or I will kill you both.”

Scully’s throat constricted painfully and she suddenly couldn’t seem to breathe. Her voice, when she finally managed to speak, sounded far away.

"Mulder please don’t do this. Why are you doing this........? "

She recoiled slightly as he brought his free hand up to lightly touch her face, brushing a strand of hair away from her cheek and tucking it behind her ear. And then he leaned in closer.

“Because it’s what you want Scully. It’s what you’ve always wanted.”

She shook her head, quite unable to prevent the tears escaping and sliding down her face, unable to comprehend the enormity of the betrayal.

No. This isn’t real. Not Mulder. It’s just a dream. A nightmare.

She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to awaken until suddenly the world exploded in a barrage of sound and light. And along with it a terrible realisation. A realisation that nothing would ever be the same.

Oh God the pain....the terrible pain....

She felt her hold on Emily weaken, feeling the child slipping out of her arms.

Noooooo you bastard. Give her back to me.......

The word fading in to the distance as he stole her daughter away from her.

XXXX

Scully's eyes snapped open abruptly, and for a few seconds relief washed over her as she realised that it had been no more than a simple nightmare, no doubt brought on by the rigours of the case.

And then a question, chasing away the horror of the dream.

Where am I?

Something was very wrong. For one thing, the room she found herself in was way too bright, the bed beneath her hard and unyielding. And the pain.....

Why am I hurting?

The awful stabbing sensation in her left side that seemed to synchronise perfectly with every beat of her heart. She attempted to sit up and the stabbing became a chain saw cutting her in half. She was barely conscious that the high pitched yelp she heard had come from herself.

Until she felt a hand drop on her arm, stroking softly as the voice reassured her.

Mulder?

"Sshhhh. It's OK, Dana. You're safe here. Don't try to move...."

Not Mulders that voice.

Her vision was slightly blurred and she blinked a couple of times in an effort to clear it, focusing finally on the face that hovered above her, identifying it immediately as belonging to John Wickham.

The senior agents brow was creased with concern, and from the growth of stubble that adorned his cheeks, it was patently obvious that he had been there for some considerable length of time.

Scully ran her tongue over lips that felt dry as sandpaper, and then attempted to speak.

"Where am I?"

Her voice was little more than a strangled whisper, but Wickham could hear the raw fear behind her words. The fact that she was frightened was good. It would make his task all the easier.

"You're in the hospital, Dana."

He answered softly, aware that she would expect more than that, but the key to winning the game was to wait for her to ask rather than simply supplying the information to her unprompted.

"For what?"

Again the question was voiced in little more than a whisper, and for the merest instant Wickham had the crazy urge to pick her up from the bed and take her as far away as he could from the men who had put her here.

Instead he slammed the door on the thought and gently smoothed the hair back away from her brow.

"Don't you remember?" he asked softly

He watched as she frowned up at him, the confusion all too evident in her eyes, struggling to make sense of her circumstance.

"I . . . no, I don't remember . . ."

Her voice trailed off uncertainly.

"You were shot. The bullet perforated your left kidney – you started to bleed out and for a while it was touch and go. You've been unconscious for over a week. If we hadn’t found you when we did.......” 

He trailed off.

“We didn't think you were going to make it."

And then he smiled

"I guess you're a lot tougher than you look."

Scully shook her head from side to side, trying to deny his words even as she began to remember.

"It's OK, Dana. Take it easy."

Scully struggled to sit up as Wickham watched the blood literally drain from her face. From the forced memory or from the pain, he couldn’t be sure.

"Who shot me, John?" she whispered hoarsely, knowing that her time for denial was coming to an end.

Oh God Please no. Please don’t say it. Please?

But already a chill was working its way up her body. A hideous truth that was already buzzing around her confused mind. Refusing to be quietened.

"Oh, Jesus. You really don't remember, do you?"

She heard the strain in his voice as he prepared to be the one who would shatter her. And suddenly she wanted to pull the words back in. To sink back in to oblivion. To wake up in a world she could make sense of. Because none of this made any sense. She closed her eyes tightly. Reverting back to a childhood trick of counting to keep the bogeyman at bay.

One

"Dana?”

Two

“Oh God I'm so sorry.....”

Three. Stop now, please just stop.

“.....so sorry to be the one to tell you....I know what he means to you..”

Four....

“We have witnesses that put Agent Mulder at the scene.....”

Scully pressed her hands over her face. One hand atop the other.

Five. I got to five, you bastard........

Wickham delivered the kill shot.

“We aren’t seeking anyone else in connection with the shooting...”

He’s lying. He’s lying. He’s lying.....Oh God why is he saying this?

“WHERE’S MULDER?!”

Wickham recoiled at the level and ferocity of her words. He hadn’t expected this.

“WHERE IS HE YOU LYING SON OF A BITCH.....WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH HIM?”

Wickham backed away from her. He had expected tears from her. He had expected confusion. Anger even.

But this level of denial wasn’t in the game plan. And suddenly he was struck with a realisation that they had grossly underestimated the allegiance Fox Mulder had garnered from this woman. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.

Fuck.

He directed his stare squarely at the small mirror that hung on the opposite wall,

“Hey, I need some help in here...”

And then things happened quickly. The room suddenly became way too crowded as they began to work on Scully. Swiftly restraining her as they plunged the needle deep in to her upper arm while she writhed and twisted on the bed beneath them, fighting them with a ferocity that belied her current weakened condition.

Wickham turned away from the desperate scene before him. Shame washing over him as her screams reverberated around the tiny room. 

Calling for Mulder. 

Over and over she called for him.

Until finally, her screams became less. The sedatives working their insidious magic on her and rendering her incapable of emitting more than a series of hitching sobs.

The first segment of the plan had been executed, albeit not quite as smoothly as they expected. But he had done his job. He had not wavered. They would be pleased with him. He should have been happy – elated even – that he had played his part so well.

But as he stared down at the now sleeping form of Dana Scully he just felt numb.

Continued chapter seventeen