#in all of it's single minded innocence and utter irrationality

[chenpire]

my post series recommendation is that if you've never listened to the orchestral version of hero by faouzia while thinking about Wilhelm and Simon's utter trainwreck of a romance, you should. I think you should.

[von-posts-stuff]

Hyacinth

Dedicated to @dead-bones

Synopsis

When Wilbur sends Technoblade his plea for help, he sends it much too late for it to be of any use. Two months later, Technoblade arrives in the Dream SMP after an error with his communicator and comes upon a bloody revolution being fought with no resources and little chance of success. It gets worse from there.

(Takes place in an alternate universe, where Minecraft is its own reality with its own rules - demigods and their vassals, servers with supernatural sponsors that act as small pocket dimension, and a more fantasy take on Minecraft game elements - and there is a lot more going on in the dream smp than just a Hamilton a/b/o fanfiction nock off. This chapter (one) is 11k ish words!)

• Chapter One •

The encroaching heat he felt permeating his skin was a comfort in a way only he would understand. Constantly, he felt this stirring in his chest, a feeling which drew him closer to the sweltering heat of summer and the feeling of molten rock just meters from his grasp. Feelings which spoke of warm, dry nights curled into crevices to hide from the fan ends of the outside world, or sweltering trips to foreign villages where local residents would gaze at him and see either prey meant for the hunt or an abomination meant for the pit. These feelings, memories and instincts all neatly wrapped together, were stronger when he gazed upon the few surface lava pools which littered the fields around the home of his — Father? Brother? — friend, or noticed how the clear, blue skies of above held a source of burning which many overlander’s viewed as a burden. He actually quite liked that light source, so much like the glowing stones of his homeland, and yet so different. It reminded him of home, even if he rarely truly missed the harsh weather and unfriendly company of the Underlands.

Instead, it was a feeling of instinctual longing, perpetuated by the cacophony of voices echoing through his head like an audience yelling from the seats of an amphitheater. A feeling he couldn’t quite explain in either his tongue, or his dear friend's tongue. There was no descriptor for it. It just... was.

A lot of things about Technoblade just were.

His arms swung in a rhythmic motion, striking up and down with trained precision. The open field he occupied was blistering, the sun beating down against his bare skin — he still didn’t quite understand the concept of layered clothing — in a way that was both uncomfortable and deeply satisfying. Rarely was it this sunny in the mountain wilderness of the land his friend occupied; land he now occupied.

That was also a strange concept to him, land in which he belonged. Land which belonged to a person. The lands only belonged to the higher beings, ownership couldn’t be given away without permission and it would never truly belong to a single individual. He had lived in his homeland, a world scattered with fire and brutal tribes, and yet no single race owned any land. It all belonged to their patron.

He wondered idly when this concept of ownership came about, and what granted these overland dwellers such arrogance to think they weren’t subjected to these laws.

The gold blade in his hands made another swing down, stopping just below his waist. He had been out here for hours, practicing with the aid of his voices. Listening to instruction, adjusting his grip, imagining his enemies being cut down by the sword which had been with him for as long as he remembered. This practice was cathartic, something he did to maintain the illusion of routine in this new world. His friend always told him how he should sit down and relax, not understanding that it was something he needed to do.

(Swing your sword properly, don’t get distracted Technoblade, you need to focus, keep your shoulders back, that was awful form, Blood for the Blood god-)

He needed to focus, needed to fix whatever was wrong with him, square his shoulders, and somehow, someway, ignore that comforting heat against his skin and the dark desire to slice and kill-

“Techno!” A voice cut through the symphony of noise screaming at him from all directions, in a way which separated it from the sounds in his head. It made him pause mid-swing, causing his entire body to tense in reaction to the shout. The voice was bright, extremely young, and a couple pitches lower than his own. The name, his name, on the almost-stranger's lips was poorly pronounced as well, sounding like a warped version of his native tongue — like a child mimicking an adult with no real understanding behind that repetition. The pronunciation was irritating; too sharp, with no accent. It made the voices wail with injustice, frustrated and angry at the disrespect which was being given to him, their vessel. Technoblade didn’t care much. After all, he didn’t quite grasp the common words those overworlders spoke yet.

The little Wilbur Soot, his friend's son he learned. He had been there for only a few days, and yet he could only recall three things about the boy. One, he was extremely attached to Technoblades friend and his even younger second son; two, he was irritatingly chipper and endlessly excited about artistic hobbies; Three, he was quick to get attached to Technoblade and now spent his days wishing to pester the underworld native.

It was a weakness, to become and stay this attached to people. Something that Techno was constantly reminded of when the echoing voices called for the blood of the feeble child. It would be so, so easy to snap his neck, or to bring his golden blade down on the small beings neck, rendering him incapable of babbling endlessly at him-

(Kill, kill the disrespectful one, he doesn’t deserve to live after giving you such cheek, no don’t, the blond one will be sad, hes irritating, destroy him, don’t Technoblade-)

Technoblade was a child as well, but it never really felt like that. He felt so much older than his age, aided in his education by hundreds or even thousands of warriors and fighters. Techno could never enjoy the music which was strummed out of a guitar, or how the wild flowers littering the hills made beautiful flower crowns. He would never understand that simplistic beauty that could only truly be seen through the lense of an innocent child. He’d seen too much of this cruel world, and how sentient beings abuse each other.

Wilbur, the bright child with dark coloring and a love for the artistic, ran up with such vigor to Technoblade. He looked excited, willful and joyful. It was clear the small human with mildly pointed ears - maybe his fathers hybrid blood peaking through? - was on a mission, and Techno took a guess that the mission was him. More than a few voices called for him to take the gold sword which was now dropped to his side, clung in his right hand, and drive it through the child’s jugular. Techno had learned it was best to ignore the voices in this new, colder world when they wanted him to kill and maim.

“Techno, Techno! Dad wants you to come back in for dinner!” The child ran up the hill, stopping just before the pink haired warriors formed, panting heavily. He took a minute to catch his breath, before standing up straight and giving Techno a light smile before continuing with what was clearly on his mind. “We are having pork, freshly caught from a pair of wild boars-“

There was a pause, where Wilbur’s face fell. Technoblade felt his ear twitch, passively raising an eyebrow at Wilbur’s sudden hesitation. He idly wondered if Wilbur had stopped. Was having pork of any kind some sort of taboo in the overworld? Technoblade didn’t quite know what pork was, but he did know that wild boar was a species of hog. He was sure it tasted fine.

“That, uh”, Wilbur wring his hands in front of him, a sign of nervousness about a topic (weakness, it’s a weakness, exploit it Techno, use it-), “that isn’t, like, cannibalism or anything for you right?”

The eyebrow which was raised went even higher, the look on Techno’s face transferring into a deadpan which he was sure caused Wilbur’s heckles to rise. He had no way to express himself with his broken common, but he was positive his expression delivered his utter disappointment in the question. How would it be cannibalism? He wasn’t a wild hog, or a boar. He was a piglin, a hybrid. He wasn’t anything like Wilburs pathetic, weak overworld livestock. He was sure that these tusked pigs were more like the violent hoglins than anything like the piglins Technoblade was barely similar to.

“Hey! Don’t look at me like that, how would I know? You are part piglin, which is like… a species of boar or pig right? At least that’s what Dad told me.” Wilbur took a moment to pause, staring at Technoblade with dismay and stubbornness. “So it only makes sense right? I’m not crazy.” Wilbur crossed his arms, a defensive stance in his small posture. The hybrid noticed how his lip jutted out and he tried to square his shoulders to appear taller. It wasn’t working as intended. The child was still tiny.

(Small, small, so small, easy prey, easy to kill, so easy to destroy, consume him Techno-)

Technoblade shook his head, unsure whether it was to inaudibly tell the voices off, or in response to Wilbur. It communicated his message effectively either way, as the kid before him brightened at the action, grinning wide at the hybrid-who-didn’t-quite-feel-like-a-child. His easy acceptance of Techno’s nonverbal answer mildly surprised the piglin hybrid. The warrior had thought for sure that the child would become angry or frustrated at being wrong. But he only brightened in response, uncrossing his arms and reaching out towards Technoblade with excitement.

Rushing forward and grabbing Technoblade by his free hand, Techno almost dropping his golden blade in the process, Wilbur yanked on the piglin hybrid with all the vigor of a distracted toddler. It was like Wilbur was a pet, whining and touching for attention, beckoning Technoblade to come with him. It caused Techno to tighten his grip on his sword, irrationally afraid it would be ripped from him, leaving him alone and defenseless in a world that was so much colder, with monsters just as dangerous as his homelands native species, and left afraid and without anything to defend himself, left weak-

(Never defenseless, always here, we are here, Techno is never alone, you will never be defenseless, the blood god is with you, we are with you, you are strong, strong, strong, powerful, you will be-).

His fears were only slightly abated with Wilbur’s large grin and wide innocent eyes. He looked so happy to just hold onto the hybrid warrior, dragging him from his practice with extreme vigor. Wilbur wouldn’t take his sword — he wouldn’t be able to, he just couldn’t. Technoblade was too strong for him, too powerful. He could take him apart with a wave of his hand, there was no need to panic.

Staring at his hand held in Wilbur’s grasp, Technoblade felt himself warm in a different way. The heat which came from inside of his chest instead of from the blazing sun. It was a strange sensation, one which he didn’t quite want to explain. It was as if the moment he came to the realization that Wilbur wasn’t going to harm him in any way, he had relaxed in the child's hold.

(Strange, this shouldn’t happen, destroy the child, it's comforting, let him take you home, don’t go with it, this is nice-)

“Come on!” Wilburs tug became even more insistent, “Dad and Tommy are waiting, and you know how much Tommy hates waiting! He’ll probably bother us, asking about training, or what we did today, or asking questions about-“ Wilbur continued to go on and on, pulling harshly on Technoblades hand as he led him south to the home his friend and Wilbur’s father stayed at. This time, Wilbur succeeded in moving him out of the wide flower fields and into the direction of the homely cottage with little to no effort. The child didn’t need to exert force with Technoblade so willing and compliant.

After all - for some odd reason - the voices quieted while Wilbur rambled on and on, and that desire for the heat of his homeland and the feel of boiling blood against his skin slowly drifted away as it was replaced with a new heat in his chest.

Warmed spread through him, and his grip instinctively tightened on his blade, grasping it for dear life. He wasn’t used to this need, this feeling of being...wanted for small and insignificant things such as commentary. Maybe this is what his friend (Phil, Dad, Father, Brother, Phil is friend) meant when he told Techno about the meaning of a home, and the meaning of family. Maybe this was what it was like to have a place to belong.

The voices let Technoblade have a moment of silence as Wilbur continued to ramble on. The silence in his head brought Technoblade nothing but comfort.

———————————————————————

The blistering heat of the uncovered sun irritated his skin and made him long for winter nights and dark shade. It was sweltering, irritating in a way that he had grown to know. He instead wished for those shaded days and winter nights where he and his closest allies made the world their own. The sun, as it was on this balmy day, high in the sky indicating noon time, caused him immense annoyance.

Once upon a time, he would have found the light beating down against his skin, causing him to sweat extensively, a comforting feeling, reminding him of his homeland and his patron.

Now it only served to frustrate him as he plowed and tilled his vast fields of potatoes, his shirt soaked against the front of his chest and back. He had even had to hide his tail, the sensitive skin becoming blistered in the blazing heat. With barely any plant variations for natural herbal protections on Hypixel’s large sky island fields he had claimed as his own, there wasn’t much he could do to protect himself from his greatest annoyance.

His native lands had long since ceased being home to him, and his patron god was a fickle master whom Technoblade viewed with more negative skepticism than any other. Unlike other demigods, such as the grand Hypixel and the flashy Beast, the Blood God never graced the mortal world with his presence. Instead, much like the God of Destruction and the missing End God, the supreme being sat on his metaphorical throne, watching the runes of his lands suffer under exploitation and limited innovation. Now, unlike when he was younger, Technoblade was more bitter than he liked to admit.

Bitter enough to grow a resentment for the heat, despite how the cold bites at his skin, and to avoid battles and blood sports after the downfall of his own state by hiding away in self-imposed isolation, only pulling himself from his loneliness to briefly placate the ghosts which lived inside him.

Technoblade had been in Hypixel for over a year now, specifically the Hypixel sky islands generated for personal use for much more wealthy and adventurous clients, and he had still not gotten used to the scheduled weather controls which served as part of the territory's famed functions. It wasn’t scheduled to rain, or to even overcast, for another few days if the ruling he had read in town a few weeks back was to be remembered. That didn’t change his current situation though. Technoblade was still blistering in the heat.

(Heat, heat, warmth, we like the warmth. Home, when are we going home, It's boring, why don’t we fight, lets go, battles to be won, wars to fight, kill, kill, maim, destroy-)

Technoblade ran a clawed hand over his sweaty brow, narrowing his eyes in concentration as he tried to determine if there was any relevant or important information being spewed at him. Turns out, like usual, there was nothing. “Chat”, Technoblade called out, talking at the blank space of air in front of him as he swung his farming hoe and let it casually rest on his shoulder, “shut up. You aren’t contributing anything useful”.

Like usual, the reprimand only served to irritate the cacophony of voices in the piglin hybrids head, causing them to screech even louder, rattling his brain with their bombardment of noise. With a groan, he took the same hand he used to wipe his brow and pressed it tiredly against his face. First the damned heat, reminding him so callously of the nether, now Chat was acting up and shouting opinions left and right. He still had another whole field to till before the night hit and he would have to defend his crops from wayward spiders and baby zombies, he didn’t have time to get distracted by the voices in his head.

Technoblade has been in this section of Hypixel for over a year now. He had first come to this land, this new territory of the Hypixel demigods' personal server, as an escape. The demigod’s vassale, Simon, had even hooked him up with all he needed to maintain a boring and nonviolent (for him) livestyle. Sure, there were small skirmishes which broke up the monotony - he still couldn’t understand how he had come about battling Squid Kid of all people in potato farming - but he had mostly kept to himself these past months, cutting contact with the outside world and staying away from tournaments, competitions, events, and anything in-between. He did not want to be involved with any state authority anymore, to be used and then discarded like a blunt weapon when his opinions and beliefs no longer align with the majority. He had no desire to spend time underneath the thumb of an oppressive regime, whether it be someone else's or his own.

He needed to be as far away from the Antarctic Empire and its bloody history as possible, and with all communicators and cameras turned off, he found himself desiring more and more of the peace brought about by the simplistic lifestyle of a farm on a private island. So, he obtained a prime piece of land, used his funds to get himself started, and then grinded dungeons in the territory's inner city to make ends meet - all while hiding himself from the public eye. He had dropped out so suddenly from the campaign event within Earth that it was inevitable that he would have to hide as the whole thing blew over. After all, his popularity had skyrocketed during that campaign, and the empire he and… his friends had built gained a completely absurd amount of notoriety.

Hiding was inevitable, and this quiet life was something Technoblade found himself desiring.

(Lies, utter lies, you miss it, we miss the carnage, we miss the grand battles, we miss Phil, battles and honor, glory, blood spilt in honor of the patron, blood for the blood god, blood for the blood god, blood for the blood god-)

This amphitheater of voices moved to a crescendo, echoing around him, shouting from all sides. The chant echoed and repeated throughout his mind, invading each and every one of his thoughts as it became louder and louder. Technoblade began to tremble, the hybrid's hands shaking before dropping the farming hoe. It wasn’t because of any fear or nervousness, but rather the voices channeling their feelings and desires through Technoblade, forcing him to feel the need for bloodshed and the need to destroy. He grabbed his shakiest hand, the one which dropped his farming hoe, with his decidingly steadier one. Clutching at it, he took three deep breaths, inhaling and exhaling slowly as he tried to calm his body's reaction to what was being echoed around him.

It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened during his long vacation, if he could even call it that. They, Chat, had been getting more and more agitated and angry with him in recent months. He had stopped visiting the dungeons to take out monsters and mobs three months ago, had stopped interacting with other community members four months ago after he had won the potato harvest against Squid Kid. Techno had taken his routine seriously, falling into it easily. Get up at dawn, eat the harvested crops for a meal, go out to till and sow the fields, maintain his crops until noon, eat his harvested vegetables, go back out to remove any dead crops and replant more, head in at sunset, consume more harvested foods, go to sleep. It was a routine he had stuck to for almost three long months. No visits to the outside, only the occasional spiders or zombies invading his expanded floating island, barely any signal for his communicator to give him updates, just the same old steps repeated day in and day out.

So, Chat was upset with him. But they were always upset with him, when he ran from his responsibilities with the determination to hang his sword and axe up for good. They wanted him to go out and provide exhilarating fights, battling for honor and fortune. They wanted him to slay his enemies, or anyone else who got in the way, and consume the world as if it was his to devour. They wanted the world in the palm of his hand, so that they could see how it felt to hold it. Technoblade supposed that was just in their nature, being shades and ghosts of people who had long since passed, who had forgotten what it meant to be people as they were trapped within the vassal of the Blood god.

That would be him, far in the future. A cursed existence set to live out his afterlife trapped within the next poor soul who would be chosen upon birth to represent the patron.

Shaking his head, Techno looked out at his field pulling himself back together. “Chat, I need to work. I don’t have time for this.” His words incited another loud round of chattering, but at least they weren't chanting or channeling their wills through him, undermining his own personal freedom of choice. Reaching down, Technoblade picked up the farming hoe from the ground, swinging it a few times as he rolled his shoulders and looked out to his fields. He had almost finished the west field, its crops - potatoes and melons - almost ready to be completely harvested. Looking to the sky, Technoblade made note of the time as he put a hand up to shade his eyes. The sun was still relentless and glaring,but he noted how it seemed to be just past its highest point. He supposed he could take a break now, after all, he'd been in the field for hours at this point.

With a pointed sigh, Technoblade turned away from his farm lands, ignoring the cheering of his Chat in the background, and headed towards his small house over the hills. He had built it out of wood and stone, acquired through both natural and material means. It wasn’t home, per say, but it was a house he was comfortable with. The piglin hybrid wasn’t sure if he would ever have another home again.

Climbing up over the hills, using his beaten dirt paths and carved markers to tell which way he was going despite the fact he knew this land like the back of his own hand, Techno saw his house in all its glory. Heading in its direction from the west field, the trek was only ten or so minutes before he was standing in front of the structure he had seen at a distance. At closer inspection of his temporary home, he noticed the worn cracks along the cobblestone and the rot that was beginning to set into the wood. He needed to start maintaining renovations for the place, it was turning into a disaster. It might just fall apart on him while he slept.

Entering his home, Technoblade felt the rush of cool shaded air hit his overheated body, instantly chilling him. It was nice to be away from the heat. Not only was the cool shade pleasant on his body, but it also calmed his nerves and his agitation. No longer was his mind being subconsciously brought back to the nether of all places. The cold air and the cool colors of his small farming house dragged his thoughts away from bright reds and burning flame. This wasn’t his homeland, and it never would be. He was in the overworld, only his own personal choice could force him back into the fires of the underworld.

Moving through the house and winding in-between furniture, Technoblade headed for his kitchen, determined to get something to eat. He had long since given up maintaining or taking care of livestock after one too many incidents with kept bovines, but he had an abundant supply of pumpkins, melons, potatoes, and other various fruits and vegetables. It wasn’t as good as a steak or even some golden carrots, but it was nourishment enough for him to keep his physique and continue his work.

Roaming from one side of the kitchen to the other, the hybrid began rummaging through his cabinets, looking for any kind of stock base to use to make himself some sort of soup, when he saw it out of the corner of his eye.

A lit up communicator, sitting square in the middle of his crafted table.

The communicator had been dark for almost a year, the occasional message from Phil checking up on his notwithstanding - he never replied to those, eventually seeing their decline and cancelation. A lit up communicator meant an emergency then, either with the server he was occupying or with his… family.

Was his family in danger?

Moving quickly from his spot, Technoblade dashed forward to the communicator, grabbing it with a clawed hand and ignoring how his tail twitched in nervousness and worry. He hadn’t spoken to his family in years, besides Phil, and even those communications had been cut off and discarded with his lingering resentment towards the crow hybrid. He hadn’t even seen Tommy or Wilbur since the fateful day he and his dear friend (father, Phil, dadza, Phil is dad, Phil is your father, Techno-) had left to enter the campaign. That was nearly three years ago, Tommy would be almost seventeen now.

(Small Tommy, sweet Tommy, very rambunctious, Wilbur too, we miss them, why not go visit, they could be injured, maybe even worse, anyone who hurts our brothers must perish, we shall destroy anyone who harms them, did they get caught up in a scheme, where were they-)

Were they hurt? Did something, anything, happen to them?

Reaching forward, grasping at the old modeled communicator, Technoblade looked at the screen, desperately searching for the name of the sender. His eyes wandered from letter to letter, seeing but not completely understanding or grasping the situation.

Wilbur.

It was from Wilbur.

Why would Wilbur contact him now? They hadn’t seen each other, hadn’t been on the best terms even before he had left in pursuit of greater things. There was nothing for them to talk about, no acknowledgement needed between them. Wilbur wouldn’t contact him, not unless he truly and desperately needed him.

Opening his communicator up, he read the message out, noting how it sounded on his lips as he mumbled the letters and scanned the page.

“Techno”, he began to read the words, starting with the address sent by Wilbur, “ We haven’t been close in a while. We haven’t even spoken in… years.” Techno didn't know why that declaration stirred something inside him, igniting his soul with an ache he could only describe as longing. Had his absence in Wilbur’s life these past years affected him so much? Why did he contact him now then?

“Tommy and I found a place for ourselves, on a server created by a minor demigod and his vassal.” Subconsciously, Technoblade ran through the list of demigods and demigoddesses he knew of with territory. Hypixel, The Beast, The Hermit, and of course all the minor demigods and admins working for the Mojang Corporation, partnered with the God of Creation - Notch. There shouldn’t be any unregistered celestials, especially not young and minor ones, going around and creating servers with unregistered vassals. Already, the situation was beginning to worsen in Technoblades mind. Even he was registered as the Blood Gods vassal.

Technoblade continued on, ignoring the voices screaming out names and locations and threats of violence as he did so. “We created our own place, a community for ourselves. Just like you and Phil did, years ago when you left.” That gave him pause, before he continued on. “Our place has been taken from us now.”

What did Wilbur mean by ‘a community’ for themselves? Like what he and Phil did? What they had done, years ago, was enter a campaign organized by the major companies, a competition where communicators would broadcast the creations and the empires built from nothing on a server created to mimic the original Earth. It was a glorified television spectacle, with real world empires and bloody battles and death which could be permanent. His and Phil’s ‘place’ was an empire they had built from nothing and used to take over the entire campaign, securing their victory over a two-year long event. It wasn’t a home, certainly not after how Technoblade was betrayed. Certainly not now. He hoped to the gods that Wilbur and Tommy - little Tommy who was still a child by his calculation - were out there creating countries and starting wars. What kind of brother would he be if it was true, and he had abandoned them for years while they went around recklessly without his protection? Had running from his responsibilities really backfired this much?

He ignored the unanimous “yes” being echoed throughout his head.

Techno paused as he read the next part. “A tyrant has come to rule it, exiling us from our own home. We-” Techno took a steadying breath, before continuing, his chest alighting with injustice.

“We need you, Techno. We need help.” Techno stared at the paper in front of him, reading out the very last note before Wilbur had signed it.

“Please. For your brothers.”

How did it come to this? Where Wilbur would send such a desperate note, pleading for Technoblades help instead of just asking him. Techno did not need his brother to beg for his help. He didn’t need an emotional note filled with explanations and traced with sorrow and repressed anger. The hybrid would have come, even without all of that, if Wilbur really needed his help.

… He would’ve, right?

The piglin hybrid thought back on what he had been doing for the past year, hiding away and participating in harvesting competitions of all things. No, no he probably wouldn’t have left, would he? He was too content, too scared of facing Phil after up and leaving their empire to the dust, too desperate to get away from blood and death and fighting. Now, his brothers were fighting against the corruption of a failed empire - something which hit far too close to home fr comfort - and they needed him.

He needed to leave.

Putting his communicator up to his pointed ears, Technoblade was desperate to hear Wilbur’s voice. He didn’t know when this message was sent, he didn’t know if it had come through late or if it was an alert that came through today. He needed confirmation with Wilbur, needed to tell him he was on his way - he just needed to know where to go.

The communicator rang. And rang. And rang.

No answer.

Technoblade tried again and again, nearing twenty times before Chat started insisting it was useless and to stop wasting his time. Wilbur was not picking up, either indicating he couldn’t get through because of the distance between them, this server Wilbur talked about and it's whitelist settings, or there was damage on either of their ends. That worried the hybrid immensely. He needed to get into contact with someone who knew what was going on, who had an idea on where to start to get information about Wilbur and Tommy and what they were doing. Without getting the facts from the original source, Technoblade could only think of one person who may have the answers the piglin hybrid was seeking.

He needed to see Phil.

A feeling of dread and frustration filled his being as Chat began to scream Phil’s name around him. He didn’t want to speak to the other hybrid, he had been avoiding him for so long that he wasn’t even sure if their relationship would survive. Six months or more since the last message, a year since the last phone call and it had ended in a screaming match where Techno had accused Phil of betraying their friendship. He didn’t want to face that again.

He had no choice though, if he wanted to figure out what was going on with Wilbur and Tommy.

His palms were sweating as he narrowed his eyes at his communicator. The heat had begun to creep its way through the farming house yet again, causing him to grow warm in a way he hated. It was too warm, too balmy. It was overwhelming in a way only he could truly feel, in a way he couldn’t put to words. It just was.

Too many things about Technoblade just were, and he hated it. Pushing his communicator to his ear, he heard it ring twice before a click was audible and Techno knew he had reached who he was looking for.

“Phil, we need to talk”.

———————————————————————

Leaving Hypixel was easier than he thought it would be.

All he had to do was pack up a travel bag, grab all the important things littering the house and place them in an ender chest, and head out immediately to the ruined portal. Fixing the portal itself - which would take him to the hub town for the floating islands territory - took only an hour at most, and then he was in the small town center heading to the bustling city of Hypixel’s main territory. Another portal jump, and he was there, looking out at the vast tournament arenas, the large number of tourists and competitors which littered the expensive shops and restaurants, and the few residential areas usually kept for the more famous warriors and influencers. Technoblade used to have an apartment in that area, having been one of the largest earners all throughout his teenage years before his anarchist beliefs and bad experiences sucked all the joy out of corporate and nation sponsored tournaments.

Occasionally, on his way to the main server hub, he would witness crazed fans cosplaying competitors and fighters whom they enjoyed, and Technoblade even saw a costume depicting his own signature crown and cloak. It gave him a mild start, at first. He hadn’t known he was still relevant, not with his year long break from the public eye and his status as a hybrid. Usually, there was only begrudging respect given to those of mixed races on the sponsored public servers. A prejudice - especially against aggressive mob hybrids - which Technoblade remembered all too well with a shiver.

From the sector which took rich tourists and residents from the sky islands territory, it was easy to hide his more distinct features. Covering his sharp, downturned ears with a cloak hood, and his protruding tusks and piglin-like eyes with a plain bone mask. His tail was tucked into his trousers, and he made a point of keeping his hands - more specifically his sharp claws - out of obvious sight as he moved through the busy roads and occasional back alleys. He reached the Hypixel server hub soon, making sure to stay out of sight and not cause trouble. The only individuals who would know he left the server would be Simon and his admins, since Technoblade needed to enter his residents key to leave and enter Hypixel. He trusted Simon to keep his departure out of the public eye.

(Leaving, leaving, we are leaving, finally, are we going on a road trip, now the interstate is paved- be quiet-)

Shaking his head, Technoblade let out a sigh as he looked for an unassigned portal, where he could enter a personalized whitelist code. He needed a portal without a locked teleportation key to get to Phil’s small residential server. Noticing an unlit, unattended, unlabeled portal near the back of the Hypixel server hub, Technblade entered his residence key and headed to the back, ignoring the wide-eyed look that the admin on duty gave him.

From there, he entered the whitelist code for his- for Phil’s home into a transportation portal, and watched as it was lit, admiring the deep purple shade of energy and particles. Portal technology always baffled him, ever since he had entered his first one as a young child, searching for any way out of his homeland. They functioned off of the energy created by the servers, connecting them in a web of essence and almost-magic. A supernatural device which admins, vassals, and demigods have perfected the creation of, though Technoblade himself didn’t know any inner workings behind portal creation. Then again, he didn’t have his patron god present to guide him like many vassals did. His patron was too elusive and never present. A cruel, toxic master in some ways, leaving his blessing upon his vassals at birth and leaving them to figure out their purpose and allegiances alone, with only the previously dead vassals for help. And they were all decidingly unhelpful shades of their past selves.

Still, the portal was lit.

It was all too easy to enter the bright veil of spatial energy, feeling himself warp and bend and tear apart as he was deconstructed and reconstructed at the designated spawn point. Landing smoothly, Technoblade heard a small ping on his communicator, letting him know his arrival had been sent out in an alert in the small servers public channel.

It was too easy to come here, to enter the portal and arrive at the center of the small world which Phil had claimed his own. There was no grand entrance, no feast or welcome waiting for him. There was nothing to stop his pursuit either, the entire process of portal jumping entirely painless and normal. In the back of his mind he knew it would be like this, knew how easy it would be to get to this point, but the hybrid had expected it to be at least a little harder. It didn’t feel right to Technoblade, with how vehemently he was avoiding this place and its single occupant. He was expecting more.

It made him feel foolish for ever avoiding Phil in the first place.

Taking a look around the center of the server, Technoblade noticed how the once barren field had been cleaned up, decorated with wood and stone. A nice, clean path had been installed, heading in the direction of the home he remembered from his youth. In the distance, Technoblade could see the flower fields he used to train on, back when he had first arrived in Phil’s small world and came under his care, back when he wouldn’t let go of his golden sword and his language skills left much to be desired and he longed for the intense heat of his homeland. Oh, how far he had come since then.

Beginning his trek down to the cottage, Technoblade chose to listen to the ramblings and ravings of Chat as he tried to take note of every difference and change, trying to decide if he was happier with them, or distraught that everything didn’t look exactly like he remembered. He moved from the open clearing of the small plains biome to the spruce forest, following the path set forth by who he assumed would be Phil. Even the forest had grown, in its own way. What did that say about Technoblade, so caught up with the past to move forward?

Technoblkade shook his head at those thoughts, not wishing to get caught up with his own grievances when he was here for someone other than himself. He needed to know what was going on with Wilbur and Tommy, and Phil is the only one whom he could speak to about it.

He trekked along for another ten or so minutes, before the trees began to slowly decline in their frequency, indicating he was close to his… to Phil’s home. He saw it then, coming up to the tree line. A medium sized cabin, beautifully built and maintained, surrounded by gardens and small farms, and looking exactly like Technoblade remembered it. Everything else in this place had experienced some sort of change, from the trees to the land, but not this cottage. It looked exactly like it did when Technblade was first brought here, huddled sick in Phil’s arms, only knowing him as a friend instead of a father. It looked exactly the same as when Technoblade left - the second time - only to not return until all these years after that fateful day. The piglin hybrid didn’t know how to feel about the fact that it remained untouched by time, not carrying on to depict any of the bad memories he had gathered after he had left. With a sigh, Technoblade walked up to the oak door and banged on it twice.

“Phil! It’s me.”

He heard a muffled bang, as if someone had crashed into a piece of furniture, as the sound of footsteps hurried to the door. Anxiety began to push its way into Technoblades chest, bubbling up from the pit of his stomach as he began to worry. Was it a mistake, coming here? Would Phil turn him away, now that he stood at his doorstep? Would Phil even speak to him, would Phil even miss him if he turned around now and went straight for the portal at the center of this server, or would he watch with cold eyes and whisper good riddance while watching his back? Did Phil even want him here? On the communicator, during their call, he had only told Phil he needed to speak to him in person and all Phil had said was a simple and pleasant “okay, mate”. This was a mistake, this was a mistake and before Phil (Dad, Phill, Dadza, Crow Father, where’s dadza, we miss him, we want him, you want to see him too Techno-) answered the door, before he messed up, before his anger took over and he ruined his already damaged and strained relationship with his truest friend, his father-

The door was yanked open with such force, that Technoblade found himself flinching at the action. In the doorway was a heavily breathing Phil, looking up at Technoblade with wide eyes, standing in the doorway looking like he bolted for the door the minute Techno knocked. It made Technoblade gulp nervously, raising a single hand in a half-hearted wave and opening his mouth to greet the crow hybrid with a pathetic greeting. “Hey, Phil-”

Technoblade flet the embrace before it completely registered. Philza reached up, grabbing Technoblades tall form and bringing him down to him with the deceptive strength Phil hid from most of the world. The piglin hybrid didn’t register the action at first, eyes wide as he froze mid sentence, unsure what he was supposed to do. Instead, he waited for Phil to make any sort of additional reaction, holding him close in an embrace which provided so much more comfort than Technoblade would ever be willing to admit.

“Techno”, Phil spoke softly, barely above a whisper as his arms tightened around Technoblade, “welcome home.”

The hybrid tensed, before he instinctually relaxed into Phil’s arms. He was home, wasn’t he? Why had he refused to come back, why had he avoided his problems? His arms cautiously moved up, gently holding Phil back being careful to avoid the large wings protruding from his back. He didn’t want to ruin whatever this was, not yet. He needed it, needed the comfort and feeling of easy acceptance Philza was giving him. The slow burning anger in his chest that he remembered holding onto like it was his lifeline, the feeling of betrayal and angst, the denial and avoidance he dished out to the winged hybrid… it was all entirely pointless, wasn’t it?

His anger wasn’t with Phil, it never really was. Pete was the one who had instigated the decline in the Antarctic Empire, had started consuming their resources to start pointless wars and used their advantages to destroy their competition with extreme prejudice, and who used Technoblade as a weapon to point at the territories they would then take over. Pete was the instigator; Phil just did nothing at all to stand in the way as it happened. Too consumed with his own wanderlust, filled with too much desire to begin moving once again to catch or care about what Technoblade was going through.

Technoblade never told him either, did he? He had never communicated with Philza - about how much his actions hurt Technoblade, how the fact that the piglin hybrid was constantly being sent out to reclaim and take territory, to expand the empire they started together, and how it made him feel less like a person and more like a ticking time bomb. He had never talked to Philza, only taking his anger out on him when it was convenient and running away when it mattered most. It wasn’t Phil’s fault, not really. The Antarctic Empire was doomed to fail from the start, its power set to corrupt anyone at its head from the very beginning.

And as Techno stood there in the doorway, holding Phil and letting the winged hybrid to hold him in turn, he realized he didn’t want to be angry with Phil anymore. He just wanted to be able to come home, to spend time with the person who had taken him in and raised him when he was broken and warped beyond measure. Technoblade just wanted his family back, all together.

The realization snapped him back to reality, letting him pull away from the other hybrid's warmth as he looked down at him. For a few seconds, there was a stretch of silence as Technoblade fought to find the words for this situation. Phil, for his part, was giving Techno a soft smile, looking at him with joy in his features. It made the fuzzy feeling in his chest even worse as the voices cooed and chattered in the background.

“... hey Phil”, Technoblade hesitated, before steeling himself and continuing, “I’m home”.

———————————————————————

“So”, Phil started, handing Technoblade a cup of herbal tea of some variety, “Wilbur contacted you?”

The piglin hybrid took the tea cup, lifting the drink to his nose and taking a smell of the fragrant concoction. It smelled of Lemon and Honey, a flavor he favored. Taking a sip, Technoblade hummed to Phil’s question, nodding as he closed his eyes to savor the taste. “Yeah, and I now can't get a hold of him. No calls are getting through, no messages. It’s weird, I don’t even know how long ago this message was sent.”

Phil let out his own hum, looking off to the side as he set his own tea cup down on the coffee table, not bothering to take a sip as he folded his hands in his lap. His gaze was off, looking at the fireplace with a strange intensity that Technoblade recognized as remembrance. It was never good when Philza drifted off like he was now. It usually meant melancholy reminiscence, or bad memories. Technoblade could never tell when either was happening.

Setting his own cup down, Techno turned more fully in Philza’s direction, clearing his throat to get his attention. The action caused Phil to flinch slightly, as if startled by the noise, to which Technoblade raised an eyebrow. In response, Phil sent a warm smile in his direction, still that sad recollection in his eyes. “I’m alright, Techno. Just a lot on my mind.” Technoblade couldn’t help the tilt of his head as he gave Philza a more discerning look.

“What kind of things are on your mind?”

There was hesitance in Philza’s stance as the piglin hybrid raised an eyebrow at him, silently insisting he continue. Technoblade needed everything that Phil knew, especially with Wilbur being awol and Tommy without a communicator number that he knew or had saved. He needed information, and their touching moment early notwithstanding, Phil had that information and Technoblade would do anything he could to obtain it. The hybrid had let go of his long standing grudge, but that did not mean all was forgiven. Though he figured that was the case on both of their sides. The Angel of Death was notorious for holding a grudge.

“I am only thinking.” Technoblade could tell he wasn't telling the whole truth, instead choosing to continue giving Phil a narrowing look until he caved. The silence stretched between them for a few seconds longer before Phil let out a long sigh as he picked up his ceramic tea cup and took a long gulp, nearly finishing the drink in one go. With a satisfied breath, Phil closed his eyes and took a breath, finally electing to look at Technoblade. “Fine, you win. I may have left out some information-”

“-Great! So, you just tell me and I-”

“But”, Phil continued, putting an emphasis on the but, “It's personal.”

Technoblade let out an irritated sigh, his impatience getting the best of him. Usually, he was the epitome of collecting, taking the principles of Sun Tzu as seriously as he took his potato farming. But, with Phil, his more childish side always seemed to come out, and this was one instance where his irritation was mostly justified. He needed to get to Wilbur and Tommy, and this delay was not helping him, or the loud chorus of voices in his head, achieve their goals. Quite the opposite, actually. He had yet to get any useful information about Wilbur and Tommy’s wearabouts and what server he needed to get whitelisted on to go and find them. For all Technoblade knew, they could be dead. And that was a thought which scared him.

“Phil, just tell me.” Technoblade practically growled the demand. Even Chat was beginning to get frustrated, and when the voices were collective about something there was usually very little Techno could do about it and how it affected him and his emotions.

(Tell us, we need to know, Wilbur and Tommy could be in danger, we need to kill, we need to go, patience is a virtue, enough patience has already been exerted, just tell us Philza-)

Philza gave Technoblade a hard look, his eyes narrowing before he exhaled his breath sharply and stood from his seat on the cushioned couch. Watching him closely, Technoblade noted how he headed straight for the fireplace, picking up a small box which sat on the mantle. He hadn’t even noticed the wooden container, its form blending seamlessly with the burgundy background. What could possibly be in it? Why would Phil get that specific box in response to Technoblades question?

Sitting back down on the couch with a sort of grace only he could achieve, Philza’s wings shuffled as the box was placed in his lap. Looking up from his locked gaze, Philza’s eyes met the piglin hybrids, giving him a serious look. Whatever Phil was about to show Technoblade was of serious importance to the crow hybrid.

“Wilbur”, Philza began, stopping only briefly to steel himself, “he had been sending me letters.” Technoblades own eyes widened at the statement, his eyes immediately darting to the box with a hungry look. That was the key to getting more information about this situation, to get more of an explanation than a brief plea for help. This was the key; he needed to see what was in the box.

Philza continued, pointedly ignoring the glint in Technoblades eyes. “He had said to me, in his first letters, that communicators were known to act up where he went. Cases of people not being able to contact the outside too effectively. So,” Phil gestured to the box, “he began sending me letters.”

Technoblade felt his hand reach out in the direction of the box, only for Phil’s grip on the container to tighten. Giving the bird hybrid a curious look, Technoblade tilted his head. “I need to see those letters, Phil. I have no information on where Wilbur and Tommy are, how to get there and who to talk to. I need this, in order to help them.” Technoblade paused for significance, giving Phil a serious look. “They could be injured, Phil. Or dead. If what you told me is true, then we have no way to ascertain when the message I got was sent.”

With a pained look in his eye, Philza tightened his grip once again, before loosening it with a sigh and the sagging of his shoulders. “I just… mate, I promised Wilbur I wouldn’t share them. And you know how I feel about promises.”

Technoblade did know. Philza Minecraft, in all his years as an adventurer and a survivalist, an entertainer and even a father, had broken many promises. He had promised his late wife he would take care of his sons, and he had broken that promise. He had promised his boys, all of them, that he would be there for them, and yet that promise was abandoned when he abandoned him years ago. He had promised Technoblade he would never betray him, and yet their entire relationship was strained by Philza’s presumed betrayal. Promises, when made by Philza Minecraft, the Angel of Death, were always inevitably broken. And Technoblade knew just how much those broken promises ate at Phil, keeping him away from sleep late at night and causing him to chase after adrenaline and adventure as a means of avoiding that pain. Though, during the late nights when Techno would meet Phil out in the cold, gazing up at the stars above the stronghold base of a young Antarctic Empire, Phil had confided in him how much he regretted the need to travel and the need for the rush of excitement. How he had always wanted to be a better father, how he felt he had failed his wife by choosing personal gain over familial commitment, and while in a way this was for Wilbur and Tommy, it still ate him up inside to leave the two boys. At the time, Technoblade had no answers for Phil, instead just lending him a hand which rested on his shoulder in comfort, sharing his worries in silence. It was an eye opening moment for the younger Technoblade, who had put Philza on a pedestal, not quite realizing how flawed he really was.

Now, Technoblade knows better. Now, he understood the worth of a promise to Philza, after so many times getting it wrong. And so, it pained him even more to ask Philza to share the letters.

But Wilbur and Tommy’s safety was more important. And Phil seemed to think so as well, because when Technoblade began to let out a resigned sigh, Philza closed his eyes and ran a hand over his own face, before loosening his grip completely on the letter container.

“You need this information, for Wilbur and Tommy. Just… let me tell you what I know. Don’t read them yourself. I want to keep at least that much of my promise.”

It was a vow Technoblade was more than happy to agree to. With a vigorous nod, Technoblade felt himself give Phil a smile. “Thanks, Phil.”

Philza for his part nodded seriously at Techno’s thanks, the bird hybrid still all business. “Sure, mate. For Tommy and Wilbur.” Technoblade nodded along, his own face growing serious. The voices had even quieted enough for Technoblade to expertly ignore them, their white noise fading into the background as he focused completely on the conversation in front of him.

“What can you tell me?”

Phil looked to the box, and with a single combination, it was open. Taking out a few of the worn letters - written on parchment of all things - Philza quickly gave them a brief glance over, most likely refreshing his memory of Wilbur’s writings and ramblings. “Wilbur and Tommy had ended up in a server owned by a man called Dream, apparently the server was supposed to be used for a campaign event but it was scrapped and opened as a regular community server.” Shuffling through a few papers, Philza read out more information. “Wilbur, Tommy, and even Fundy - Will’s own son, all grown up now - had gotten into the business of creating nations.” At this time, Philza paused briefly, eyes locking with the worn old letters.

Technoblade took the moment to wait, before speaking. “What does it say, Phil?”

“Oh,” Phil seemed to snap out of whatever was bothering him, shuffling the papers before continuing after clearing his throat, “he- uh, Will, I mean, said he created his… L’manburg as a way of proving his worth.” Phil seemed to stare off into space for a second, his next words seemingly breaking through without his consent, “he never needed to prove himself, not to me...”

Technoblades own features softened at Phil’s words, ignoring the screaming Chat telling him to get up and embrace the avian hybrid. “Wilbur wanted to go with us to the campaign event, remember? He even followed us halfway there, Tommy sneaking along right beside him, together like they always are.” Techno felt himself look away for a moment. “I think I called them kids, and told them they’d never make it in the real world. Pretty ironic, at the time, coming from the guy who was a year younger than Will. He may have taken it as a personal challenge.” Turning and locking his gaze with Philza, Technoblade gave him a meaningful look. “You aren't at fault, Phil. Wilbur isn’t the same kid we left behind when we went to Earth. He’s a grown man, with a kid of his own, a grown kid. His decisions are his own, but he's also still… family.”

Phil nodded, eyes still gazing periodically at the letter he had set aside, steeling himself as he picked up another piece of parchment to continue. “Sorry, mate. Got lost in the head there for a moment.” Phil let out a cough, as if clearing his throat. “Well, Will also mentioned an election. He wrote that he won, but he and Tommy moved away and were now creating a new home, almost like a side project… no, that can’t be right. He told you he was in danger, right? Exiled from his own community? There was a serious look of concern in Philza’s eyes, as he locked his gaze with Technoblade.

If Wilbur’s letters were to be trusted, then Wilbur and Tommy wouldn't need Technoblade help. The voices in Technoblades head began screaming at him, calling out for Wilbur, calling him a liar, and yet Technoblade needed to confirm for himself. Taking out his communicator, he scrolled through his messages with Wilbur, rereading it to varify its contents. No, it was right.

The letters message, and Technoblades recieved plea for help, were completely different both in tone and story.

Technoblade looked up from his communicator, and stared into Philza’s eyes. “No, the communicator message is right. Its a cry for help, which means…” Technoblade trailed off as his eyes fell to the letter, along with Phil’s. Wilbur had lied in his letters to Phil, and for a purpose Technoblade had no knowledge of. The piglin hybrid was sure it wasn’t for innocent reasons.

“Maybe there was a mistake, mate. Will wouldn’t lie,” Phil continued to look at the letter like it was completely foreign to him, “not like this.”

Technoblade looked at Phil, and in a steady voice, spoke evenly. “We don’t know what Wilbur was thinking, but that still doesn’t change the fact that the message I received speaks to something a lot more sinister going on than you thought.”

Phil absently nodded, gripping the parchment piece tightly before setting it to the side. With a deeply conflicted look, he picked up another letter and continued on from where he left off, an unsure look crossing his features. “Wilbur talks about the server in this letter. Dream needs to whitelist everyone who enters, there isn’t much Will seems to know about the patron god who sponsors the land, and it seems Dream is a rather elusive figure.” Phil paused then, looking to Technobalde. “Does that name ring any bells, mate? Dream.”

A sigh escaped the piglin hybrid, his thoughts racing through the long lists of fighters and influencers he knew from his Hypixel hay-days. Dream didn’t ring any proper bells, though. Unless…

“Does Wilbur mention a mask at all when he talks about this Dream guy?”

Philza shuffled through the letters, bringing a couple more parchments out and scanning each of them carefully. His brow knit in concentration and Techno saw his lip curl as he read through the words. His eyebrows then lifted, a look of astonishment on his face as he turned back to Technoblade. “Yeah, right here, mate. Dream wears some sort of strange smiley face mask according to what Will says.” Technoblade couldn’t help the curse which escaped his lips at that confirmation. It just had to be that Dream, didn’t it? It couldn’t have been any other Dream someone he didn’t have a previous acquaintance with. “Techno, do you know this guy?”

Sighing, Technoblade let the agitation bleed into his voice, “yeah, I do. He’s an old competitor of mine, we've got a casual rivalry. He’s, uh… a bit much. But I know where to find him and how to get a hold of him.” At that declaration, Phil’s face lit up, a bright smile crossing his features.

“That's fantastic!” There was a moment which passed between them, where Phil’s bright smile dulled into a sardonic grin. “Though, I don’t know how much help that’ll be. From Wilbur’s letters, he seems to be a bit of a problem. You sure you know how to handle him?”

Technoblade nodded, humming softly. He knew exactly how to deal with Dream, especially after their duel almost two years ago. The hybrid had bested that mask wearing weirdo before, he could do it again if need be. No matter how strong he had gotten over the last few years. Technoblade knew how to take care of his type, the type who always schemed and who always seemed to yearn for control. Keeping him in check would be easy. It was finding him which was the hard part.

Looking at the cold tea, still sitting on the coffee table, Technoblade felt his voices yelling excitedly in his head. Last they had seen of Dream, it was just after the battle in The Beasts sponsored arena. It was a grand tournament, where Technoblade and the green clad mask wearing fighter had fought in a ten round competition for fame and fortune. The fight had ended then, in Technoblades favor, but it was a hard battle. Six to four is nothing to brag home about, even if Tommy had been singing his praises after that win. Even then, Technoblade had sensed something about Dream which unsettled and intrigued him. He had the same aura that Technoblade got from Simon and Mister Beast, the aura of a vassal.

And that made Dream incredibly dangerous.

Even if he found him, and somehow convinced the mask-wearing warrior to let him into his territory, Technoblade would still have to worry about how much Dream is a threat to his family. And if he could be turned into an ally, or a business associate.

(Dream, Dream, will we fight Dream again, can Dream be our friend, we should destroy him before he destroys us, hes unsettling Technoblade, don't trust him, that smile is the work of the chaos god for sure-)

Still, that could wait, if only a few more hours. With Phil here, and so much to talk about between them, Technoblade didn’t want to leave even with the urgency of the message he received. The piglin hybrid needed to talk to Philza, needed to explain and to clear the air between them, to reassure him that he still thought of him as his family, that wherever Phil was would be home. Because Techno had missed him, this past year. And it wasn’t until he had seen Philza, who had embraced him for the first time since the Antarctic Empire, that he realized how much he was missing by holding onto his anger.

Dream could wait, just a few more hours. Technoblade needed to take care of his father.

[raisedbyfandomwolves]

Prompt: Kara takes Mon-El to a museum for the first time :)

This one got REALLY long but that’s just what your prompt did to my brain and if I get into any kind of trouble for this I’m blaming you. Also this was supposed to be set in show canon but some of my own writing slipped in so... yeah.

---------

The idea comes to her out of the blue, and the longer Kara considers it the more sense it makes.

She hasn't been a great mentor to Mon-El, she's willing to admit as much, but now that she's aware of it she's trying to make up for her past mistakes and do it right from now on. Of course, sheer determination only gets her so far and she ends up getting kind of stuck pretty quickly... that is, until an innocent little pamphlet in her mailbox gives her some unexpected but brilliant guidance.

“We're going to the museum,” she announces with a bright smile and more than a fair amount of enthusiasm the next morning when she visits him in his quarters at the DEO.

Predictably, he does not share her excitement and simply stares at her with a perplexed look on his face. “We are? Why?”

Uncharitable thoughts about Daxamites and their blatant disregard for higher learning fill her mind and all but erase her jubilant mood but she fights to keep her irritation from showing. Deep breaths, Kara. You promised yourself you'd be patient with him. It's too soon to give up just yet. “Because if you're going to fit in on Earth, you need to know more about it and unless you want to attend school for the next twelve years instead, this is a pretty good alternative.”

Maybe it's her prejudice speaking but she expects him to refuse because it doesn't sound fun. To her pleasant surprise, however, he barely waits a second before he shrugs casually. “Okay. When are we going?”

“Oh. Um.” Caught somewhat off guard by his almost immediate agreement and maybe feeling a little guilty at having prejudged him – again – without real cause, she flounders momentarily. “We could... go now? If you're free?”

Once again, he just shrugs and puts away his phone – a loaner from the DEO, like pretty much everything else he has – before getting up from his bed where he had been sitting. “Sure. Lead the way.”

He's similarly compliant throughout the journey to their destination, never once giving the impression he doesn't actually want to do as she suggested, and because of that she lets herself slowly believe the trip is going to be a resounding success.

Of course, he proves her wrong pretty much the second they set foot inside the first gallery which happens to be focused on human evolution.

“This is what the first humans looked like?” he asks a little too loudly for her liking as he scrutinises the Neanderthal models in the exhibit with a raised eyebrow. “How long did they take before they started resembling us?”

“Shh!” she hisses at him with a mix of panic and anger as she throws furtive glances around them to check if anyone has overheard his incredibly suspicious questions. “Not so loud! And you talk as if there's no chance your distant ancestors didn't look anything like this!”

Her counterargument naturally fails to have its intended effect because he just turns to face her with that infuriating grin of his. “Nope. Not a chance. I mean, look.” He angles his head so that it's somewhat aligned with that of the Neanderthal model and gestures between them. “There's no way this-” he points at his face, “-could have come from this,” he finishes as he points at the face of the model.

She doesn't really know why she's letting it get to her so much when it's clear he's just fooling around – how she's so certain about that is something she doesn't want to think too much about – but instead of just dropping the matter, she feels compelled to keep the argument going. “So you're saying Daxamites were perfect or something from day one?”

His grin widens as he steps closer, and she gets the distinct feeling she's walked into a trap without realising it. “Why, do you think your ancestors looked like that once upon a time?”

There's no two ways about it; he's got her cornered there, and the realisation makes her grind her teeth with so much force she's almost sure the sound is echoing inside the mostly empty gallery. “Just keep moving,” she finally growls when she decides that responding to his question won't work in her favour and all but bodily drags him towards the next gallery.

True to form, Mon-El is just as insufferable at the next exhibit and every single one after that, making dumb comments and even dumber jokes that she absolutely was not going to laugh at no matter how much he insists otherwise. By the time they're approaching the last gallery, she's one stupid wisecrack away from tossing him into the river and calling this plan an utter failure.

As they come to a stop in front of the dinosaur fossils on display, Kara mentally braces herself for yet another barrage of questions and statements designed to piss her off. Jokes about the T-Rex's tiny forearms most likely, for starters, and maybe some ridiculous comparisons between the triceratops and whatever creature he's seen on another planet.

Instead, he stands statue-like as he stares up at the ancient bones that make up the exhibit in complete silence with an expression she's hesitant to name.

All the irritation she felt before vanishes and she suddenly feels like she's intruding on an extremely private moment even though she can't quite understand why.

“Do you miss them?” he asks apropos of nothing, unreadable gaze still fixed firmly on the fossils.

Restlessness turns into confusion in a heartbeat as she frowns at him. “Dinosaurs?”

He still doesn't look at her. “The dragons.”

Oh.

It clicks then – that almost lost expression, that look in his eyes that suggests he's not really seeing what's in front of him but rather something far in the past, that uncharacteristic quietness... She knows them all too well because she still catches herself doing all those things even now.

He's thinking about home.

“The prince had a dragon, you know,” he says softly before she can figure out how to break the silence although she wonders if he's talking to her or no one in particular. “She was called Nes'th; it means 'swift' in old Daxamite.”

They're the only ones here and he's not being too loud which means there's no need to worry about being overheard. Besides, it doesn't feel right to tell him to stop so Kara steps closer and keeps her tone respectful and gentle. “What was she like?”

A ghost of a smile curves his lips, whispering of fond memories and heartbreaking sorrow, and it's so unlike the Mon-El she knows that she finds herself irrationally and inexplicably hating it. “She was beautiful – the most beautiful dragon to ever grace Daxam's skies. The way her black and blue scales glinted under Rao's light... It was like she was the night sky in physical form.”

“You sound like you really cared about her,” she comments carefully. It strikes her as a little strange why a simple guard would be so attached to a dragon belonging to the prince but this seems like a terrible time to ask about it.

“I helped look after her,” he answers her unvoiced question before he finally meets her gaze with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes – eyes which she notices with some disquiet are presently a dull grey instead of their usual colour. “Sorry, could I just... have a moment?”

For a moment, she wants to insist on staying – to tell him that she's here for him and he can talk to her or something along those lines – but stops herself before she actually does it. This is about him, not her; he needs space right now – has openly asked for it, even – and the best thing she can do for him not just as his mentor but also as... a friend, if she dares to use that term... is to give him that. “Sure.”

Kara stays long enough to mumble a soft 'you're welcome' when he thanks her before she does as she'd promised, wandering off until she finds herself in the gift shop of all places. Unsure how much time she should wait before she goes back for him, she browses the souvenirs on sale with no real intention of buying anything until she spots it: a small pterodactyl figurine. It's obviously a toy meant for kids but something compels her to pick it up and take note of the price.

Mon-El's uncharacteristically sombre expression surfaces in her mind and she makes the purchase before she can think twice about it.

Even so, her stomach is in knots for reasons she can't figure out as she goes back to find him and all but thrusts the little gift bag out for him to take. “Here.”

That melancholic expression of his is gone – whether it's because he's gotten over it or buried it under that happy-go-lucky facade of his is unclear – and he looks confused even as he accepts the bag from her. “What's this?”

Her stomach churns as she watches him pull out the toy in slow motion. “It's not a dragon, I know, but it's all they had.”

He stares at the little figurine in his hand like it's the most precious thing in the universe for Rao knows how long and her anxiety just keeps growing until he finally lifts his head and gives her a smile that lights up his entire face. His eyes, she notes somewhat idly, are more blue than grey now too, and it's strangely a relief to see them that way. “Thank you. I really appreciate this.”

Like magic, the knot in her stomach disappears and her heart does a weird flip-floppy thing. “I'm not going to buy you another one if you break it,” she says just to stop herself from saying... what exactly escapes her.

Instead of being offended, he just smiles that little bit brighter and her heart does that weird flip-floppy thing again. “I'll take really good care of it, I promise.”

(When he moves in, the pterodactyl figurine – still in perfect condition – occupies a special spot on one of her cupboards.)

[sweetautumnwine]

there’s a name appearing on Gon’s phone with heart emojis and he’s been texting this person for the entire day, ignoring killua. Killua finally confronts him about it only to be surprised that it’s not at all what he thought. #request

Killua tried to disregard it, but as the day progressed into afternoon, he found his patience dwindling, his confidence wavering. 

Gon was ignoring him.

The realization stung, and Killua bowed his head, clasping his hands in an arc above his scalp as he wrestled with the thought. Gon had just fled the hotel room, cell phone held tightly in his grasp, with a weak farewell left in his haste. 

All day, Gon had spent his time with his eyes glued to the small screen of his Beatle. He’d gotten pretty adept at texting, and his fingers flurried across the keyboard, his eyebrows furrowing when his speed increased.

Whenever Killua tried to speak to him, offering him chocolate or a playful quip, Gon brushed it off. Killua, in a desperate attempt to secure Gon’s attention, had even blurted out that he would run away if Gon kept this up. But Gon didn’t look up, just pursed his lips as he continued his message and murmured, “Sure thing, Killua.”

It didn’t help that whoever Gon was texting was clearly important. More than once, Killua had snuck a glance at the screen only to spot a collection of hearts alongside the unreadable contact name. He wouldn’t admit it, but his heart felt sore after that first glimpse.

Alone in the hotel room, Killua rose from the lone table and retreated to his bed, collapsing backwards onto the comforter and draping an arm over his eyes. Evening would come soon enough, then dusk, then night. The passage of time was always something to rely on, even if his dearest friend wasn’t.

His lips quivered, but he forced them together to keep them from moving. With a deep breath that strained his lungs, Killua sat up, his mind turned solemn and still. Blindly, he sought his own phone, still lying on the nightstand, and dialed the one number he’d bothered to memorize.

Gon answered on the second ring, his voice dwarfed by what sounded like the soft din of a crowd. “Killua?”

Killua gripped the phone. “Where are you?”

“I’m just... in the lobby.” Gon clearly covered the receiver with his hand and made a muffled shushing sound, and the uproar grew quieter. “Do you need something?”

Gritting his teeth, Killua sucked in air through his nose before speaking. “Yeah. We need to talk.”

The silence that followed was maddening, even though it only lasted a few moments. “Sure. I can come back to the room in a little while.”

“It can’t wait.” When Killua felt the prick-sting of tears in his eyes, he hastily wiped his sleeve across his face and continued. “I’ll just come down to you.”

Growing serious, Gon exhaled, the sound almost of defeat. “Oh. Okay. I’ll be waiting.”

“Yeah,” Killua said, staring at the opposite wall so intensely he imagined the wallpaper smoldering into flame. “See you soon.”

_

Killua took the emergency stairs, deciding that it would be better to make Gon wait—and to give himself time to prepare for the worst.

For months, they’d been together, but there had been times when Killua would lie awake at night, plotting an escape. Should Gon tire of his presence or determine that Killua wasn’t suited for his company any longer, Killua decided that he would make his exit as gracefully as possible.

Now that the scenario seemed more likely than ever before, Killua found that he was clinging to the past, burying his claws in it, resisting his escape plan even when he knew it would be for the best.

He reached the ground floor and lay his hand on the door knob, his touch light and reserved. He closed his eyes, bringing his chin to his chest, and dispelled the tension from his features.

As much as the day had distressed him, Killua wanted to believe in Gon. He wanted to believe that nothing was wrong, that it all had been a misunderstanding, but something knotted in his stomach, telling him he was a fool.

Knowing that he couldn’t delay himself any longer without good reason, Killua pulled the door into the stairwell and stepped into the lobby.

Gon stood facing the elevators, but when he heard the door open, his head swiveled. The grin on his face was blindly, and Killua froze in place, captivated by Gon’s light.

How can you smile like that when… when…?

As Gon drew closer, his pace slowed as he registered Killua’s expression. He tilted his head to one side, his eyebrows pinching with concern. “What’s wrong?”

Killua clenched his fists by his side. He could feel each pulse in his palms and his temples, pounding enough to ache. “Why…”

Gon reached Killua and stopped just a foot in front of him, his worried hazel gaze searching for answers. “Killua?”

Normally, Gon’s concern would embarrass and delight Killua. It was foreign, after all, to be cared for. But now, it made Killua angry, and though he knew he was behaving irrationally, he ground his teeth together and hung his head as he tried to contain his emotions.

“You’ve ignored me all day,” he choked out, unable to meet Gon’s eyes. “But now that I seek you out, you greet me with that grin? What are you trying to do here, Gon?”

When Killua lifted his head, he knew that his cheeks were red and wet, but he immediately forgot his fury upon registering the devastation on Gon’s face. His tears stopped from the shock.

And then, Gon smiled again, tentatively this time, as he extended a hand. “I’ll apologize later. For now, come with me.”

Killua shook his head, unsure if Gon was truly that insensitive or if he was dumber than Killua thought. “No, what—”

“Trust me,” Gon insisted, taking Killua’s hand by force. “You’ll understand in a minute, Killua. I promise.”

Though reluctant at first, Killua allowed himself to be led to an adjoining room as Gon wove a path through unconcerned patrons. The double doors were adorned with brass knobs and decorations, but Killua hardly had the time or sense to admire its appearance. Gon easily nudged both doors open and turned toward Killua as he stepped backward into the darkened room.

As Killua entered, brilliant flashes of light disturbed his vision, sharp pops and hisses filling the silence. Killua nearly recoiled, but Gon’s grip held him there, firm yet gentle.

The overhead lights slowly bloomed into brightness, and Killua’s sight adjusted with ease. However, it took him a few seconds to understand what he was seeing.

He saw Leorio and Kurapika, beaming like idiots, along with Melody, Hanzo, Satotz, and Ikalgo at the first table. Behind them were a dozen other tables, around which familiar faces—Hunters, chimera ants, and nearly-forgotten comrades—gathered. Many of them wore colorful pointed hats atop their heads, and in their hands were an assortment of firecrackers and confetti launchers.

Once Killua caught his breath, he stepped further into the room, eyes wide. All fear had vanished from his mind, leaving only utter confusion. “What… is this?”

Gon threw his arms around Killua’s shoulders, nuzzling into his neck as his full weight fell upon him. “Happy birthday, Killua!”

Realization struck like a jolt of electricity, and Killua blinked hard. “My… birthday. You mean this is for me?”

Gon pulled away just enough to nod. “Sorry I ignored you. I was making plans all day. There were a lot of hiccups near the end.”

Killua remembered the hearts and felt his chest grow tight. He leveled his voice and tried to convey a tone of curiosity, though it certainly fell flat. “Who else was involved?”

Tapping his index finger to his chin, Gon hummed in thought. He seemed unwilling to part from Killua’s side, and Killua couldn’t bring himself to push him away. “Well, Leorio helped with wrangling everyone, Kurapika dealt with food, Melody got the entertainment booked, Netero worked with the hotel staff, Ikalgo organized the gifts—”

“But what about the hearts?” Killua blurted, slapping his hands over his mouth as soon as the words escaped.

Gon blinked, his mouth still agape. Once he processed the inquiry, Gon furrowed his brow and withdrew his phone, pressing a few buttons before displaying the screen. “Which ones?”

Now that Killua had a clear view of the screen, he quickly realized his mistake. Every contact name in sight featured a name along with a smattering of emojis, a majority of them an assortment of colorful hearts.

Killua balked, turning an incredulous gaze onto Gon. “What the hell, Gon?”

“I add them for all my friends,” Gon said innocently.

“What about me, huh?” Killua demanded, wiggling out of Gon’s hold and crossing his arms over his chest. “Do I get hearts?”

To Killua’s surprise, Gon averted his gaze for a moment, then scrolled through his contacts once more before handing the phone to Killua. “Not exactly.”

When Killua took the phone, his tongue felt thick in his mouth. Gon’s behavior was undeniably strange. Was he ashamed? Embarrassed? Remorseful?

Then Killua looked at his contact name, and his cheeks grew hot. There, beside his name, resided a single red heart.

Killua thrust the phone into Gon’s chest and turned to address the crowd, ignoring the fact that his face was flushed. “Well, we’re all here to celebrate me. Where’s the food? Where are my gifts?”

Leorio made some comment about how kids like him never change, do they? and Killua spared another glance back at Gon whose grin had finally returned. He wondered, for a moment, if his immediate assumption was correct or if he was simply projecting his own desires onto something mundane.

Gon’s eyes met his. Killua saw that their usual sparkle had returned in full force, and he smiled back, reasoning that there were more important things to concern himself with for the time being.

[rhetoricandlogic]

ESCAPE FROM BAGHDAD! BY SAAD Z. HOSSAIN

T. S. MILLER

ISSUE:

6 APRIL 2015

With an unembarrassed exclamation point to punctuate its classic pulp adventure title, Saad Z. Hossain's explosive first novel announces itself as something other than entirely serious. But readers in the early 21st century immediately understand that the desire to escape from Baghdad is the desire to escape from an unending nightmare, a geopolitical cataclysm that cannot be reversed—and perhaps can only be laughed at. Self-consciously outrageous and at times silly to the point of becoming sophomoric, Escape from Baghdad! achieves its true emotional impact through expressions of genuine wit bound to powerful meditations on the inanity of war, and on the special inanity of a particular 2003 war.

Of course, Hossain is not the first novelist to approach the traumas of armed conflict with a strong sense of the absurd—Vonnegut and Joseph Heller will spring to mind as obvious precedents—but, if a single modern war deserves to receive this kind of darkly satirical treatment, it would certainly have to be the Iraq War. Although I doubt that, for example, Hossain's farcical depictions of the dysfunctional bureaucracy of the American military command bear any resemblance to historical fact, these scenes finally seem no more outlandish than, say, Dr. Strangelove's portrayal of the same dysfunction, and operate similarly as a critique of power and violence. In terms of both sheer hilarity and profounder insight on war, Hossain's novel never quite rises to the heights of a Slaughterhouse-Five or Kubrick's inimitable melding of existential terror and absurdist humor in his 1964 film. Even so, Escape from Baghdad! remains an honorable new entry in this same tradition, and also refreshingly brings us a war story that focuses largely on civilians, civilians who, for instance, find that their financial assets have become "fictional" (23), and whose interpersonal relationships dissolve into nothing as family members become collateral damage and neighbors and acquaintances of all kinds begin to doubt one another's allegiances. Hossain ingeniously links the brutal chaos of post-invasion Iraq to the carnivalesque as a mode: a nation at war is necessarily a world turned upside-down, so why not turn it over to a few drinking, swearing, and wisecracking Lords of Misrule?

The opening chapter introduces us to Kinza and Dagr, two black-market "purveyors of medicine, gossip, diesel, and specialty ammunition" (9). The former is a natural criminal, and the latter an unassuming professor of economics who is still able to playact, when some American infantry grunts come knocking at the door, "the exact composite of the innocent Iraqi these farm boys from Minnesota had come to liberate" (12). These soldiers strike Dagr as "big, idiot children [ . . . ], capable of kindness or casual violence as the mood took them, unreadable, random, terrifying" (12), an assessment perhaps not so different from the standard portrayal of the Iraqi Other in recent narrative treatments of the war as an unpredictable, even capricious unknown, a generous and smiling ally who might reveal a suicide vest at any moment. One of the great achievements of the novel lies in Hossain's ability to find plausible threads that unite all of the very differently motivated and differently professing groups occupying the contested space that is "postwar" Baghdad. The novel's main American character, Hoffman, is just as aimless and self-annihilating as the Iraqi civilians who have lost their old lives, and is unpersuaded by the lofty rhetoric of his own high command and the jingoism that carried his nation into yet another Middle Eastern war. A fellow black marketer himself—a "market parasite" (10), as Dagr would say—Hoffman declares himself nothing but a "cog" in the American war machine (75); although he becomes, nominally, a commando on special assignment to hunt down weapons of mass destruction (what else?), he remains content just to get by. In the past, Hoffman has helped protect his friends and business partners Kinza and Dagr from the American military, but their entanglement with a high-profile political prisoner whom they have "inherited" necessitates a quick departure from their old black market beat (9). This prisoner, Hamid, becomes an unlikely third wheel on Kinza and Dagr's mad flight out of Baghdad: we learn that Hamid, as a part of the ancien régime, had been a "star striker on the torture pitch" (9), but was not deemed sufficiently important to the Americans to merit inclusion in the famous deck of 52 playing cards (he might rank about 56th on the list, we hear). But Hamid can offer Kinza and Dagr something that they desperately need: a destination to give their journey purpose.

The plot takes innumerable twists and turns as the characters weave their way past official checkpoints and across hostile Baghdad neighborhoods, such that it begins to take on an almost labyrinthine shape—not by coincidence a recurrent architectural motif in the novel. In fact, new plot developments often carry the novel into entirely new generic territory, resulting in a rich collision of genres. Hossain alludes overtly to Dumas, the Sandman comics, medieval alchemy, and Greek mythology, but also mashes up private military contractors and secret police with djinni and semi-immortal magicians; cryptographic police procedural with twisted buddy comedy; hallucinogenic drug trips with a healthy dose of Islamic occultism; and the science fictional possibility of life extension via telomere manipulation with an enigmatic alchemist named Avicenna, a Rappaccini in his desert garden. And, at one point, we turn a page and suddenly find ourselves on the island with Dr. Moreau. I suppose we could attempt to pin down the genre of the novel as a kind of highly ecumenical urban fantasy, but the novel doesn't simply examine the legacy of the Iraq War using the lens of urban fantasy. Instead, in some way it posits the Iraq War as urban fantasy, an intimate rather than epic space in which layers of suppressed history combine with widespread irrationality to produce a simultaneously surreal and very grittily realistic experience.

Or perhaps the medieval romance is the historical genre that best matches the shape of Hossain's narrative, even a specifically Arthurian strain of romance. After all, Kinza and Dagr agree to take on various quests even before medieval alchemy and its promises of temporal riches and everlasting life become more central to the plot. Hoffman, too, leaves on his own perverse version of a Grail Quest, seeking the WMDs that would finally justify the Iraq War to the international community and to the individual consciences of the "boots on the ground" that he represents. (He doesn't find any.) Kinza's whimsical acceptance of these quests—as well as his increasingly irrational, borderline suicidal devotion to completing them despite increasingly adverse circumstances—can then be understood as part of his efforts, as a hero of a neo-chivalric romance, to cobble together a crude code of honor: "I said I'd kill this man, and so I will" (31); "He [Kinza] was manic about words once uttered and would never, could never, back down from a declaration like that" (87). Above all, Kinza's pseudo-chivalric quests and oaths reflect a desire to impart meaning on his hollowed-out shell of a life, in a bombed-out city, on a perpetual battlefield that, as readers in 2015 can't help but remember, will remain a battlefield for years to come, an unstopped arterial flow of new horrors.

As the pages turn, the novel's emphasis on the American occupation fades as the supernatural and the science fictional dimensions of Hossain's world rise to the surface: we come to understand that the American invaders had blundered into something they didn't understand here in Baghdad in many more ways than one. But Escape from Baghdad! is far from merely a one-dimensional critique of the American invasion and occupation: the Iraqi characters can become victims of self-delusion just as easily as an American colonel (or president). For instance, a local thug, sensing a power vacuum that he imagines he could occupy, "began to remember additional truths" about his role in various conflicts, "giv[ing] birth to a new truth" (89). Every side in every conflict proves as self-deluded and self-deluding as the next, and—the events of the novel taking place in the immediate aftermath of the Iraq War—there are many sides and many conflicts. By and large, the novel does not delve too deeply into the particulars of any given group's ideology, and indeed seems curiously uninterested in religious difference as a contributor to ideological difference, despite the constant reference to Sunni and Shia populations. With the important exception of the self-admittedly fanatical imam/strong man Hassan Salemi, the other characters, major and minor, tend simply to scoff at the idea of a God. Hassan, by contrast, becomes a kind of God-lashed Ahab, and Hossain creates an especially vivid image of murderous fanaticism as that which reshapes the world "into a single terrifying image, like the barbed tongue of a lion scraping off the ghostly remnants of fur, skin, and meat from bleached-white bone" (156). More usually, the novel sacrifices a more probing analysis of specific ideologies for a more detached satirical take on the observable effects of ideologically motivated violence: its most felicitous phrase may be "confused gun," a weapon passed through many hands, issued and reissued by various military bodies that may even be in conflict with one another (11). This intriguing concept also suggests the extent to which the individuals involved in the Iraq War may themselves become reduced to tools wielded by larger institutions, confused guns all of us.

But does this jumble and juxtaposition of different speculative genres and different literary modes hold together in the end? For the most part, Hossain demonstrates good sense in knowing when to dial up the humor to bitingly sharp satire, and when to preserve the high seriousness appropriate to certain scenes of violence. Despite the new absurdities that crop up every few pages, the novel contains several gripping portrayals of brutality, and is capable of inspiring real terror. For this reader, it was actually the humor that sometimes fell flat: for example, the stray weak lawyer joke; some excessively puerile banter in the Hoffman-focused chapters; and a handful of crass asides about rape, homosexuality, the mentally ill, and certain ethnic groups. Finally, the grand conclusion of the novel, an extended action sequence that would be the envy of any director of a big Hollywood action movie, also failed to meet the expectations raised by the rest of the book: the great crescendo to which the novel builds turns out not to be philosophical or satirical, but simply action-packed and explosion-filled. In the novel's last lingering scenes, is Hossain reveling overmuch in the violence and hero-narratives that his novel elsewhere dissects and critiques so well? In spite of some such imperfections and distractions, Hossain has succeeded in producing a haunting portrait of a city and a populace rich in history and potential for the future, but trapped in a long moment when tragedies and traumas could make it easy for anyone in Baghdad to feel, as Dagr does, "unmoored from either past or future" (52). The novel encourages us to escape from—or challenge—the nightmare of the present with the aid of comedy: on the subject of war, one character memorably quips, "[t]he important thing is to have a sense of humor about it" (59). Escape from Baghdad!, by turns infectiously riotous and deeply disturbing, has left me pondering just what possibilities adhering to this advice might offer us going forward, and what it might distort.

[obclus]

JOURNAL  ENTRIES  ;  002.  —  XMTASK !

There are birds sitting outside of my window at the moment —– they remind me that we are still so very far from home. Though it is only the first of many days I assume are to come out of Eriadon's and I's venture here   .   .   .   Even from oceans away I still feel a call to flock back to my roots where the grass seeps only blood and sweat. My bones feel a heavy ache to go back to the motherland. But it is the soft tissue of my brain that rationalizes that it is in fact better to steady our course here. Ironic. I still know very well what awaits us back in the Netherlands. As of late I haven't turned on any of the televisions, to be frank with myself, I think I am trying to avoid them. But the fruit of this tree does seem to be growing plentiful. Starting ties within this community will certainly bring forth some very unexpected connections, that I am sure off. Just today I witnessed a girl simply think of something only to have it appear right before her. Another, who's name I am still unaware of has the ability to transform their body into anything within the animal kingdom — which I honestly find rather humorous. It's been quite the eye–opening experience so far. There are people here who have no realization of all they are capable of. Mass scale implications and would alter the course of all humanity. Then again, demographic wise the make up of the school seems to be all over the place. I remember first hearing about Xaiver's school and thinking just how monumental it's existence simply was. All of these people who most of the world live in fear of, coming from all corners of the Earth, ending up under one single roof — like a simple act of defiance. Standing against all those who condemned and casted them out of a society that is just as equally theirs. Humankind it seems will never learn. Always looking for something new to fear, to take down or to claim. The only reason they feel fear is because they recognize something so beautiful and wild — nature, evolution. They cannot stand to be left behind while the rest of the world moves on without them. So instead of growing their horizon and accepting their fate, they respond in the only way they know now — seclusion, genocide, SAVAGERY. I wonder if they will ever learn.

I suppose it is in their nature though. If they weren't willing to put the lives of innocents in danger I might even deem it honourable, but they are. If they aren't careful in which direction they decide to go in it won't be long until THEY become the very monsters they think mutants are. We live in a time where so much of the existing world has become so malleable under the influence of fear, reaping to socities to believe more and more in actions of violence and irrationality as some sort of solution. You would think that from this tired, reoccurring theme in the continuation of man’s time on earth humanity would have learned better by now. instead they chose death - cutting off all the heads of LERNAEAN HYDRA, like it's somehow the safest option, overpowering the need for ethics and morals — essentially the very thing that makes humans, HUMAN. It is humanity that cultivates extinction, and now, when met with nature's omnipotence they turn away, avoiding their truths. Xavier believes there can be peace between all of us and I am not sure where on the line to stand. Mutantkind has already sacrificed so much, the fact that the rest of humanity forgets the fact that everyone has lost someone on each side, now or in the past is troubling to say the least. I'm afraid his ability to empathize is clouding his logical judgement. He is what reminds me that in some ways mutantkind is more human than actual homosapiens, maybe that is the power of hope. Nonetheless, my hands are now stained with blood as well. I know father would praise the action, but mother might think it impulsive. I still remember the way the shadows ripped them apart. My fingers themselves twitch whenever I conjure back the memory. The sounds of flesh slitting open with blood spilling out. Air that smelled so strongly of copper and utter death. The clearest memory features my own pale hands wrapped so tightly around the neck of the monster who ordered the attack on them. The moment he realized his demise had come for him in the form of his past. His futile attempts at cawling my hands away. I saw the light erupt out of him from every orifice. This was the man who took everything from both my brother and I. There was no question about it, I was going to assure that he would know pain. My only regret is that I was not gifted with the power of illusions, to show him what I was going to do to all the ones he loves. That I would be the one to erase every existing tie to him and wipe his very essence, leaving him a ghost within his own mind. Whomever said revenge does not bring peace has either never known peace, or is just a MORON.