#it has motivated me to go back to job-hunting though because my god.

[littlegodzilla]

Strangers. Part 3.

Norman Reedus x Reader.

Part 3.

Warnings: Slow burn.

Words: 3300.

Summary: Memories. Dreams. Questions and Doubts.

Part 1, part 2.

≈≈≈≈≈≈≈

Andy watches his friend with curiosity, he isn't the only one, Jeffrey, from his desk, fiddles with a pen between his fingers without taking his eyes off him. Norman is still working, with his headphones on, shaking his head, concentrating on his computer, retouching the photos he has taken that morning before coming to the office.

"He's certainly in a good mood." Andy comments, looking at Morgan who nods.

The three of them have known each other for so many years it's almost hard to remember. Jeffrey and Norman went to high school together, partners in friends and trouble, spent great youthful times together, Andy joined soon after, and college, from London, they teamed up early and have been inseparable ever since. The idea for the magazine was Andy's and between the three of them they are managing to make it work and get it off the ground, with more and more people taking an interest online every day and bookstores asking for more issues for their shelves.

The beginnings are always hard, but the three of them are really motivated. And it's all starting to pay off.

"Do you think he's had any luck with his mystery girl?" Jeffrey asks him and Andy laughs.

"If it had been that, he'd be floating, at the moment I still see him as very earthy." He teases managing to get a laugh out of him.

"Is no one else going to work today?" Norman asks hunting his friends looking at him curiously.

"Sorry man, but you radiate so much energy it's hard to concentrate." Jeffrey says sincerely.

"What happened?"

Norman stares at them, chewing his lip several times, doubting whether or not he should tell them what happened, however, he is happy, he talked to you and even though it was a tense conversation, it ended well, or at least he thinks it did. He'll come to see you at the restaurant that night, and that's fine with you.

It certainly sounds like a victory.

He takes a deep breath and gets up from his desk to approach his co-workers and tell them the news. His childhood friends listen attentively to his story, of course he avoids any details about dreams or fated partners, he knows it would be going into too much detail and while they would never make fun of him with intent to harm him, they would never take him one hundred percent seriously either, so he keeps that information to himself. Andrew and Jeffrey are surprised, they know their friend's love life and he may not be a Don Juan, but they've never heard him talk like that about anyone either.

Except.

"This reminds me of when we were in college." Andy says cutting the story short. "That girl you said you were dreaming about."

"Holy shit, it's true!" Jeffrey laughs. "That one you were talking about that looked like a real person but on campus there was no one who looked like her." He laughs again. "Are you imagining things again, man?" he jokes.

But Norman pales feeling his throat go dry. He'd forgotten that. In college, after his father explained the problem with his dreams, he asked Andy to draw him a picture of the girl he was dreaming about. He had to put up with teasing from his friends, but Andy did a perfect job and it was almost as if he was looking back at him. He never thought his friend would remember something like that. Much less, when he gets up looking through his things for something to suddenly pull out a portrait he'll never forget.

It's you, God, how he remembered those dreams, you much younger, but it's you, that gesture that's in his mind every time he closes his eyes.

"Why do you have that?" He asks Andy, completely confused.

"Why? Because you detailed it to me so much, with such conviction that she existed, that I had to keep it." He shrugs. "It's my little payback if I ever have to embarrass you of a possible Mrs. Reedus." He jokes but Norman shakes his head feeling his heart stop for his second.

"But make sure it's not a dream." Jeffrey interjects.

"Fuck you." Norman growls hearing the loud guffaws of his friends.

He can't get mad at them, they are too special to him, friends, brothers even, he knows there is never any malice in their words and the moment he doesn't feel comfortable with something, they will stop bothering him, even apologize if they see they have overstepped the allowed limit. Norman picks up the portrait curiously, studying your face, at how little you have changed over the years, a smile forms on his mouth without being fully aware, but Andrew does see it, he sees perfectly how your eyes sparkle, his gaze travels over the paper, he even perceives that his thumb brushes the drawing there where he is holding the sketch. He purses his lips a little, but says nothing.

Jeffrey and Andrew calm down, stop bothering Norman, but are curious about this mystery girl their friend is talking about. They continue to look at him curiously, he hasn't lost his sparkle, despite having seen the portrait, he's still in the same mood as when he arrived that morning.

"Do you think it will be the final one?" Jeffrey asks curiously.

"We know our friend likes women, but to say definite sounds like he's a womanizer."

"I keep hearing you assholes."

"We're just worried about you."

"I'm fine, I'm not a kid anymore. You don't need to keep an eye on me."

"Yeah, right." Jeffrey jokes.

"Well, now then, that's enough, let's get to work or next week's issue won't come out until next month." He reproaches them and they all get to work.

**************

You take a second, then a third turn in bed, you sigh and feel your body protesting because you can't lie there any longer, so your sleeping hours are over.

It's still early, you know, you've barely slept four or five hours, but for you it's another of the problems added to the night shift. Sleeping during the day is impossible. Too much light, too much movement, too much noise. New York is a bustling city in itself, but it's certainly a little more peaceful at night.

You pull back the sheets and tuck your hair before getting up to make some coffee. While you wait for the coffee maker to finish, you tidy up your apartment. It's not very big, it has two bedrooms, a bathroom, the kitchen and the small living room, the rent is not very high and you are lucky that your landlord is not an overly grumpy man, you can't miss payments, but if there is a breakdown he is always available. It doesn't matter what time it is.

On top of that, it's located on a busy street in the city, so sometimes you spend the hours watching people come and go at full speed. Especially these days when your own clock has slowed down a bit due to the days off, you like to relax and let the hours pass by sometimes doing almost nothing.

When the coffee pot starts to bubble, you turn off the heat filling your first cup of the day, setting the rest aside, take a sip and grab your uniform to put it in the laundry basket. There's a laundry in the basement of the building so you'll take advantage of the morning to do your laundry. You rummage through your pockets for your notebook, miscellaneous papers and frown when you notice something rectangular that you didn't even remember was there.

Norman's card.

You move it curiously in your hands, drop the clothes in the hamper and grab the mug and walk over to the couch. On your cell phone you look up the name of the magazine, not many search results, but it's real, as you said, it's relatively new. You browse through the articles on the website, it's current affairs, with curious interviews, a bit of the world around us, curiosities that people don't know; you look at the photos and wonder if they all belong to Norman, whether they do or not, they are of quality, you can appreciate the man's work, the time dedicated to them. You bite your lip and keep looking, you are surprised because he has even written an article.

Without realizing it, you spend part of the morning reading several of the man's contributions, forgetting the rest of your tasks.

*******************

"Norman... I want to see the sea." You whisper leaning against his chest.

"The sea? We're in the middle of winter, honey..." He replies in a very soft tone, stroking your hair.

"But I miss it, you know I hate being cooped up here..."

"Okay, then we'll go see the sea." He concedes kissing your head.

You smile excitedly, you get out of the bed that keeps your bodies naked, warm, and pick up the clothes from the floor to get dressed. You feel his gaze on your back for a few seconds before he mimics you.

The two of you leave the house covered in thick coats, you get into the man's car and the two of you let the road open up before you. The rattle and purr of the old vehicle rocks you, the conversation is pleasant and enjoyable, you laugh and share caresses. Norman doesn't take his eyes off the road and you can't take your eyes off him.

The sea breeze tangles in your hair next to the sand of the beach, the waves crash as they hit the land, everything is calm, peaceful, there were some people strolling along the harbor promenade, the seagulls flying over the place looking for food.

You sigh and a cry of surprise escapes you when Norman lifts you in his arms dragging you towards the shore.

"Norman! Norman!" you shout trying to let go, you both laugh.

"You wanted to see the sea right?" He jokes.

"See it! The water is freezing!" You squeal with laughter as you feel the water splash your ankles.

He continues to hold you, but keeps you away from the water, not wanting you to get really wet. You turn to hug him and press yourself against his body with all your might. You share a look and a long kiss, his hands caress your cheeks tenderly, you tremble in his arms.

"I love you..." You whisper as a confession and he smiles.

"I love you too, sweetheart."

***********

You open your eyes with a gasp. You need a second to get your mind back to work, still immersed in your dream. Confused, but so clear you can almost remember the feel of Norman's lips on yours.

You slowly sit up on the couch, you've fallen asleep lying there after flipping through the magazine page and finishing your coffee, you haven't done anything else and it's been at least two hours since you first opened your eyes.

You don't even remember falling asleep when all those images have flooded your mind. You don't even know where you were. You had never seen that room, those roads, the car was a very old model, the beach with no buildings around to overcrowd it. Norman...

Norman was so different. Those clothes, the much shorter hair, he wore a hat, but it was him, it was the same man who had come to see you in the coffee shop those days before. Your mind playing tricks on you, creating fantasies like that.

"You're not going to let those blue eyes brainwash you, are you?"

Mandy's voice in your mind paralyzes you for a second. No, that's not it. She's scared you too, you're not going to fall for a guy you don't know, that you've only seen two or three times in your life that easily. Nevertheless, your mind has created a most idyllic and romantic scene.

"Stop it, it was just a stupid dream." You say to yourself before getting up and getting down to business.

You're not hungry, so you decide to spend the rest of the day getting your chores done. You go down to the basement to put the washing machine on, you spend the waiting time getting the house in order. Whatever it takes to keep your mind busy.

By mid-afternoon you are exhausted and hungry, but after folding your now clean sheets, the whole house seems to sparkle again, the smell of floor cleaner freshens the place up completely and you can't help but smile with pride in yourself. You sigh feeling your bones relax a little and you hold your phone again, opening the screen you're still on one of the articles Norman had written, you haven't even finished reading it when you've fallen asleep.

"Maybe tonight I'll stop by for a coffee and a sandwich...get some work done...if that's okay with you."

Your gaze falls on the clock on your screen, it's almost time for the night shift. It's been two days since Norman commented that he would be dropping by the restaurant and you suddenly feel guilty, maybe you should have told him that you weren't going to be there.

Would he have gone anyway? What would he have thought when he didn't find you? Would you have dissuaded him to stop looking for you? Would he still go?

"Stop it, that's not my fucking problem." You growl angrily and get up again to put your clothes away.

**********************

He has to admit he's disappointed, sad, even embarrassed. Anger began to boil under his skin as well, but he didn't allow himself for one second to be truly consumed by it.

He had no right to feel angry.

He told you he would be there, you knew his purpose was to see you, but at no time did you comment on the detail that you would not be there. At first he was surprised, he waited a couple of hours, but you still didn't show up, neither did Mandy. The idea that it was your day off appeared in his mind, it was logical, if you had worked for a whole week, you needed a day off, so he did not give it importance and decided to come back the next day.

But the result he got was exactly the same. You were not there. On your shift were the same colleagues as the day before. It didn't take much more for him to understand that you weren't going to show up, that whatever it was, it wasn't your shift that week, that you had moved to the mornings, or that it wasn't your turn to work that week.

It was frustrating, for a moment he wanted to get up and leave, not to come back, but he managed to calm his nerves and drank his coffee and his sandwich, he continued with the plan he had planned. After all, apart from you, the place was always quiet and a good place to work. So he stayed.

And he's back, he's there again. He doesn't know how to explain it, it's like a magnetism that prevents him from leaving that place. He's not sure if it's because his ancestor met his wife there or if it's simply because the connection that binds you together compels him to stay close. Whatever it is, he takes a seat at the same table again, pulls out his phone, notebook and laptop, your companion takes note of him; coffee and sandwich and he's alone again.

"You're here."

He lifts his head like a spring. His eyes widen. You are in front of him, standing there by the table, for a second he has the urge to get up too, but restrains himself as he realizes you are nervous, possibly wondering what you are doing there, why you have gone. He smiles a little and nods.

"I told you I'd come, if it was okay with you." He responds calmly and gestures, offering you a seat.

You hesitate, but accept, take off your bag setting it aside and slide into the couch-shaped seat. A slight hint of cologne reaches his nose, he recognizes it, it's not the first time he smells it from you, it's part of you, of your personality, just like that thin black line on your upper eyelid, he has never seen you in street clothes, only in your uniform, you're wearing a blue sweater and jeans. He can't claim to be a fashionista either, most of your t-shirts are black and your pants are jeans sometimes so wide that you have to hold them tightly with your belt so they don't end up falling down.

"Your coworkers have changed your shift." He dares to comment.

"Mandy and I have the week off. I should have told you." You try to apologize, but he shakes his head.

"Actually no, you didn't have to tell me. You were within your rights." He shrugs.

"But you kept coming back..."

"I like it here, it's quiet and I can concentrate when working." He admits pointing to the laptop.

"I've been..." You start to say, but Zack then appears with Norman's coffee.

"Hey, what are you doing here, not even on break can you get away from here?" he jokes with you and you smile.

"I just stopped by to say hi." You look sideways at Norman. "It was a coincidence."

"Really?" He looks at your partner, his brow furrows a little and Norman tenses his jaw, sensing that Zack is examining him.

"Can you get me some dinner too, please?" You ask. "I've been fixing the house all day and I'm starving."

Zack averts his gaze from Norman to direct it at you, smiles nodding his head before turning away and heading back to the kitchen. Norman shoots you an amused look, raising an eyebrow, you can't help but laugh and feel your cheeks redden.

"He's just a friend..."

"Now." He understands. "From the way he looked at me it's obvious you had your thing."

"Does that bother you?"

"Not at all." It does a little, but he's not going to say it out loud.

Neither of you say anything else, there's a lot of questions that are plaguing Norman's mind. Why are you there? What made you change your mind? Are you still angry with him? But he admits that he'd rather have the silence that has formed between you than spoil it again. Besides, it's not an uncomfortable silence, you're letting him work while you talk to your colleagues or comment on his work. When the food has been brought to you, you take a short break and again the atmosphere is pleasant between the two of you.

"I've been browsing through the magazine page." You tell him then, catching his curiosity again.

"Really? What did you think?"

"I already knew about it, well, the name rang a bell, a family member told me about it, but I'd never bought it." You look a little embarrassed at that and he smiles curiously. "Are all the photographs yours?"

"Not all of them, my coworkers also take and edit theirs, but if you've read any of my articles, yes, all are mine." He smiles.

"The truth is they are very interesting, you have a very particular approach."

"Thanks, do you want to see the ones I'm working on now?" he offers and when you nod, he hands you his phone so you can take a look at them.

"Wow, they're impressive."

Norman feels like he's floating, maybe it sounds cheesy and cloying, but it feels that way right now. His eyes are riveted on you, studying every gesture you make, the smile that forms on your mouth from curiosity. It's the first time he's seen you truly relaxed, that he can talk to you and not feel you're tense or uncomfortable next to him, there's no transcendental or incredible conversation, they're absurd topics, as you look at his photos, but to Norman it's enough to feel levitating. Maybe this is the moment, maybe this is the opportunity you needed, the turning point for things to change and go for the better.

Maybe.

"What are you doing with this picture?"

The tone of your voice puts him on alert. He comes down from the clouds to focus on what you're asking him. His eyes see what you're showing him, a picture on his phone, the picture of Andy when he was in college, when he drew that portrait of her. His heart races and his mouth goes dry. He looks at you again and you have your face transform into an angry grimace.

Norman then feels himself crash.

**

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To be Continued.

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Hope you liked it!

See you in the next stories.

@green-eyedladywrites @minervadashwood @livingdeadblondequeen @bringinsexybackk69

[shallowrambles]

What is your favorite episode or saying from Supernatual

Over time, the lines that have stuck with me are Dean's and Cas's words about trying to get better/be better.

I think Cas's was something like: "You can start being good anytime." and Dean's (to Jack) was "Every day we have to believe we can get better."

I have come to love Optimism for the showcase of Dean's growth away from the fear-clinging in particular.

To Jack, he says: "It's not about being right. You're gonna make mistakes."

And I LOVE that.

///

Sorry I get...rambley when I'm sick:

Since I got here, I notice in fandom that there's a lot of "specialist talk," where ppl identify themselves as an X-girl brand themselves as stuff like: "I'm an understander, I'm a Ph.D is <special topic> and I'm literally always right about my analyses."

And well. I think it was maybe ilarual or angelsdean or maybe even queermania that put it best: SPN is a revolving door where each character goes through periods where they enjoy the moral high ground.

(And I know I've said this a couple times, BUT if I ever go on any of my blogs professing to be "right" or "an understander", please please please shoot me. I'm either already dead or someone is impersonating me.)

The truth is, no one is "right" all the time, in the story or the analysis. All the mains say hurtful things. They all engage in defense mechanisms that hurt others. They all horribly overreach for power, and that reaching for power tends to have multiple, sometimes even competing motives:

(1) For Sam, he wants to be strong to do all this "good guy” stuff, but he also loves the power itself; his tendency to dissociate and sunder his emotions (like *Rowena) can manifest in callous pragmatism. (2) Dean wants to take out the threats, and so many of his arcs are about torturing too! Which is about the revenge power fantasy, of "being the one to dole out the suffering for one (see: Dean in hell, Demon Dean). Dean is neurotically rigid at times because he so desperately wants to keep you safe. (Mary and Dean’s convo in Exodus comes to mind.) (3) Cas wanted to be a "just" God, to put beloved humanity first, but he also really really really wants to punish, becoming authoritarian, demanding adoration, love, etc as reward for his good deeds. Those good deeds ranged from real political threats to thought crimes and run-on-the-mill hypocrisy, often lurching into overly severe punishments.

And Jack ofc, has arcs that echo and represent all three: doomed child that might need to be executed, sacrificial soldier-child, and disconnected heir to the throne/"God."

///

SPN does a pretty good job showing flawed men, and though the flaws of characters like Lisa ("doormat tendencies and people as projects") and Amelia (“currently having a great big OOC freakout/nervous breakdown"), Jo (“become a hero to fill the void of the loss of her father”) are present in small doses, it goes even harder with characters like Amara and Mary! I love love love that no one is an ideal.

So when I talk about it, know that I favor it because it represents how real relationships tend to generate and change. When an ideal exists, it's usually positioned as a fantasy or juxtaposed with a character's psychological wound/big freakout in response to a stressor. (Yes, I think even Sam from season 8 is having a Big Freakout. An "OOC" Nervous Breakdown, if you will. It happens. When Sam goes hard into hunting or gets back into hunting, he tends to overcorrect. He doesn’t wanna “choke again.”)

And Mary Mary Mary…my love. Mary's whole arc was, "I'm not just a mother," because it's trying to make the point that archetypes, even in writing, are just simplified boxes, and we have to step back sometimes and reminds ourselves of that.

///

I feel like the back-half of SPN and especially SPNwin is about loss, closure, and trying to see each other as the flawed selves that we really are. “I wanted you to see that the real Mary was better than (the ideal).”

I feel like sometimes we can veer into distinctly Chuck-coded territory when we pretend we are always right or don't change our minds about a topic OR don't entertain both the least charitable and the most charitable viewpoints.

I've come to realize that I can hold several viewpoints at once, including "Dean as neurotic-controlling villain / Sam as callous-pragmatic villain / Cas as grandiose-idealistic villain," shadowlines. It’s about the anxiety underlying worst self / best self.

Which is pretty cool.

[scribbly-dee]

Inspired by this post

I adore corruption arcs, so I graded how well the non-archivist characters would have damned humanity if they had been the archivist.

Sasha James 11/10, would be an ideal archivist, this plus her height is probably why the stranger monster targeted her before she could peak

I have a soft spot for any au that knows Sasha has never seen a brain cell in her life and that any unhinged!Sasha au is really just a regular Sasha au. Picture it with me. Sasha and Jon have parallel archivist tracks, until Sasha (my beloved show off) decides: you know what would make me more efficient at snooping? Becoming a Human Google. And things accelerate. The Web doesn't even need to bother with subtly magic lighters, it slaps all 14 marks on her at once by pulling up next to Sasha in a windowless van with "free secrets 👍" written on the side.

After the Unknowing, Sasha takes over the institute from Elias instead of Martin and Peter. With Tim dead, Jon in a coma, Martin lonely-snatched, Melanie compulsively homicidal, Daisy in the coffin, and Basira on autopilot, she quickly bonds with Rosie, the ultimate nosiness enabler. Sasha is a fully marked archivist for a good long while, but doesn't start the apocalypse right away because she's eager to read ALL the ominous notes Elias left, so the watcher's crown statement is in her to-be-read pile. When the apocalypse starts (Rosie: "Hey, Sasha, I just read something extra fucked up that Elias wrote, wanna see?" Sasha: "God yes."), she books it to become the pupil with Rosie as her anchor. Mayhapse an anchor-archivist polycule with Archivist Jon and Martin? Mayhapse Jon is just a normal eye avatar here and deeply invested in all of Sasha's eyepocalypse statements, so it's Sasha and her plus-three? Mayhapse it's a race across the eyepocalypse wasteland between Archivist Sasha and Archivist Jon to usurp Jonah and become the pupil?

Tim Stoker 2/10 dude's here for a good time, not a long time

The only way I see this working is if Elias disguises not-stranger clues as circus related so Tim is motivated to investigate. Otherwise, his archival assistants are way more curious than him and disobey his direct orders to 🍹chill🏝. Jon, Sasha, and Martin inadvertently bring marks home to him like cats bring home dead birds. He asserts his agency when he decides the best course of action? Actually? Just blow up the archives. This unfortunately puts him in a false sense of security, and Elias makes him read the watcher's crown statement by cat fishing him on grindr and sending the ritual as a dm mid conversation.

Daisy Tonner - 9/10 archivist, would have started doomsday before she was at the archivist job long enough to use her PTO

Daisy already had a lot of experience hunting down fear-entity-related people in sectioned cases, which means she possibly canonically already has all the marks from just hunting avatars who use their powers in self defense. The reason she lost one point is because she's too much of a jock to read, only nerds are culpable to watcher crown statements, so this would be the only delay but oh what a delay it will be.

Melanie King - 7/10 archivist, points awarded for achieving her breakthroughs by smashing her head against a wall until she literally breaks through, points deducted for doing so in full clown makeup.

If Jon got a handful of marks by just asking anoying questions in the same room as an avatar, imagine how much faster Melanie would get marks by bringing her trademark Chaotic Brat personality on fear entity investigations. The apocalypse would have started in like two seasons: one season to hire her off the streets and establish shakey, complex relationships with her new assistants (Jon and Sasha put in the time with the institute but were passed over on this promotion for some random YouTuber (plus they're tighter with Tim and Martin, so proletarian solidarity against the boss)).

Then a second season to stab every mark and get stabbed in return. Melanie would blitz through all 14 marks because what precious little impulse control she starts with is slowly replaced with slaughter juice. One fun moral ambiguity to explore could be if Melanie tries to use her new, dangerous Eye/Slaughter powers to revive her reputation and platform in the supernatural community now that she can, ya know, identify supernatural things for the first time ever. Does she acknowledge her entire career up to her hospital episode apparently only investigated fake sightings? A better question to ask is whether Basira, Tim, and Jon ever let her live down how Ghost Hunt UK's professional dignity was contingent on the legitimacy of her sCiEnTiFiC gHoSt eQuIpMeNt in those episodes, so the temperature spikes set to dramatic music were well and truly just temperature spikes and dramatic music. Sasha found a clip of that music playing as Melanie narrates "it's a message... from the other side..." and made it as her text tone.

Also, it would be hilarious if Melanie tried to kill Jonah on sight in the panopticon, once again botched assassination attempt number 1,963,538, and then Jon quietly snuck in to finish the job on his first try just like in canon.

Jon: "What, like it's hard?"

Basira Hussain 3/10 archivist, her eye alignment manifests as office gossip, like a normal person

Basira has the most formidable super power of all: the power to nope tf out of any conversation or plan she wants. She therefore would probably take 10x longer to start the apocalypse than any other archivist because her fatal flaw is refusal to directly engage with a lot of personally difficult things (like the slaughter bullet surgery she organized, Daisy In General, etc). The marks will be slow going if she resists putting her safety on the line or invests time in making good plans (which is smart, but unhelpful for dooming humanity). She would for sure still get marked and end the world because once she's convinced of a plan (aka Elias convinces her of a plan), she's ruthlessly efficient. So I'd stay out of her way that last year or two, she marks the entities right back at them.

Martin Blackwood 2/10 archivist, considering a prerequisite for creepy eye avatar staring is the ability to make eye contact.

S1 Archivist Martin would probably dote too much on the employees under him to be hugely susceptible to Elias' isolation-dependant manipulation. Any progress Martin inadvertently achieves toward the watcher's crown goal would have to be contingent on it helping his loved ones, which is perfect fuel for a "corrupted by good intentions" arc. This would be key because Martin has superb bullshit and manipulation detection, making the marks are tricky but not impossible to orchistrate considering Jon can't stay put in a safe corner for 10 minutes and Martin's mother would refuse to stay with him where she's safe from avatar threats.

Imagine the petty drama when Jon and Sasha learn he got the promotion they wanted because he lied on his CV.

Other than that, Martin would be even worse about pit stops on the apocalypse road trip than Jon because his Kill Bill mode would have no off switch. Does Archivist!Martin and his anchor Jon ever reach the panopticon? Eventually, but not until after they lose points for significantly reducing the apocalypse fear quantity. Would Annabelle survive to deliver her cryptic MaCHiNAtIoNs and achieve the Web's goal? Hard No, additional point reduction for neutralizing the multiverse invasion. Points potentially earned back if Martin's Web connection is strong enough to come up with the multiverse invasion plan on his own, though.

Georgie Barker 4/10, as a fearless coward, all the fear she feeds to the entities would be khaki flavored. They'd get their apocalypse, but they probably wouldn't enjoy the meal.

Similar to Basira, Georgie has the super power to Fuck This Shit I'm Out. She would overall be a subpar humanity damning archivist; a major archivist success factor of Jon's is that he has enough affective empathy to be afraid with every statement giver he reads, so when Jon archives a statement, he unintentionally contributes to the fear soup seasoning. Combined with how Georgie doesn't want anything to do with entity drama, so any corruption specific to the watcher's crown would stagnate. Even her casual exposition conversations would go like

Georgie: "I've connected no dots."

Melanie: "you've connected a lot of dots??"

Georgie: "I've connected shit all dots."

The reason she gets one more point than Basira is because Georgie's fatal flaw is the passive observer quality the Eye tried to stoke in Jon. Her level of engagement oscillates between two extremes, impulsive over commitment and judging from a distance. This would probably lead her to geting involved just long enough for her involvement to become irreversible, at which point she would try to cut that shit out of her life after it's trapped her. She'd linger, barricading herself on the margins of this problem as the marks that are targeted at her slowly tally up until boom. Apocalypse is on and she only half understands what's happening.

Georgie would wander around an apocalypse hellscape confused, but vibes and physical health fully intact. Anchor!Melanie would have quite the emotional journey starting with Georgie on that pedestal Melanie placed her, and ending with a slaughter avatar stabbing the person who convinced her to work on her slaughter inclination.

[artsbysakurachan]

A Kuro fan-theory in the Year of Our Lord 2021 because I am always late to the damn party!

I only caught up on Kuroshitsuji’s latest chapters in the last few months and this obviousness just smacked me in the face so I’m posting about it.  The speculation about who shot Soma.  Most have ruled out O!Ciel being the shooter because of his reaction when he and Sebastian find Agni dead and Soma seriously messed up.  He actually freaking cries which is not something the ‘Phantom Menace’ does very often (*bows* yes, thank you I did come up with that on my own, you’re welcome XD).  

But, O!Ciel is a cold-ass sunova-bitch who has killed people he likes before now, Doll, for example, so that’s not enough for me to rule him out.  Also, who killed Agni? Remember that Agni was killed while protecting Soma, which is when he’s at his strongest because he enters Samadhi when he’s defending his “God.”  So I seriously doubt any human could have taken out Agni in that state.  That leaves us with two non-human options because only two species of non-human have ever been introduced in the series.  Demons and Grim Reapers.

That narrows our options down to Sebastian (the only demon we KNOW is around) or a reaper.  We can narrow that down further by looking at reapers who are sticklers for the rules (not interfering with human lives/deaths) and those who like to bend those rules (I’m looking at you Grell Sutcliffe >_>).  Then there is the Undertaker who didn’t just bend the rules, he smashed them to bits with a freaking sledgehammer, jumped up and down on them just to be sure and torched whatever was left.  

I’m ruling out Grell because frankly, she has no motive and in fact, has a pretty good motivation stop whoever is behind the zombie apocalypse.  Why?  Because she freaking LOVES death and her job, that’s her motivation. What Undertaker and the Blue Oyster Cult are up to threatens to undermine the whole concept of death entirely and I’m fairly sure that Grell would not be down for that At. All. So, back to the heresy of suggesting O!Ciel shot Soma and Sebastian killed Agni.  Relax I don’t think that’s what happened but I wanted to walk through the possibility to show why people shouldn’t rule it out just based on Ciel’s emo arse.  So what did rule out O!Ciel and Sebastian for me?  

Soma was shot by someone with a Winchester .45 Revolver.  We’ve only ever seen O!Ciel use a revolver once!  When he pulled it out from under his pillow and put it to Sebastian’s head because he was woken up suddenly.

Every single other time that O!Ciel has a gun it’s a snub-nosed semi-automatic pistol, the same one he carries everywhere in a shoulder holster.  The sole exception was the one time he went hunting where he carried a hunting rifle which isn’t relevent because we can clearly see that Soma wasn’t shot with a hunting rifle.  

Side note: If there’s one thing I’ve learned today it’s that I know a lot more about guns than I thought I did.

But he could have taken the revolver to kill Soma right? Sure, but why bother when he has a better, more reliable and more easily concealed gun with him all the time anyway?  But more importantly, when you’re a survivor with PTSD who keeps weapons within easy reach of where you’re most vulnerable - the place where you sleep - you DON’T move them.  I cannot stress this enough.  You. Do. Not. Move. Your. Weapons.  Because you want the security of knowing that the thing you need to protect your life is exactly where it needs to be at all times. And I would know because I do this myself.  I’m an abuse survivor with an ex who can be somewhat unhinged and a woman living alone in a place where I don’t know that many people so not taking precautions would be stupid and potentially fatal.  I have weapons in strategic places around my house and in my handbag.  Not guns, you can’t just go out and get a gun in my country which is probably a good thing, but the same logic applies.  The weapon by my bed stays by my bed, the one in my handbag stays in my handbag and the others stay where they are placed so I always know where they are.  If you know someone in law enforcement or the military ask them about this yourself because you’ll probably find they do the same thing. There’s also the fact that O!Ciel and Sebastian had been staying at the town house for most of this segment of the story.  While there is likely a different gun under O!Ciel’s pillow in the townhouse, it’s one we haven’t seen so it’s unlikely that Yana would just pull that gun out of thin air because she likes dropping hints.  Her entire brand at this point is basically “this is a big game of iSpy.”  

So, here is what I think did happen.  I think R!Ciel took the gun from under O!Ciel’s pillow back at the Manor and used it to frame his twin because he’s a dick. R!Ciel fits all the requirements for the shooter.  He’s shorter than Soma and he’s someone Soma would recognise, or rather mistake for O!Ciel.  I’d bet money that R!Ciel also took one of O!Ciel’s spare eye-patches at the same time he took the revolver from his bedroom.   Then there’s the fact that when O!Ciel and Sebastian find Soma locked in with Agni’s dead body still blocking the door, Soma straight up clocks Ciel in the face!  How can it be more obvious?? Soma believes Ciel did it and he believes that because R!Ciel went out of his way to make him believe it.  I suspect he may even have left Soma alive so that he would point the finger at O!Ciel.

So the next question is who killed Agni?  I originally thought Undertaker but since when does Undy don a hooded robe and go around stabbing people when he’s super attached to that death scythe and his gimp outfit?

Seriously though, there is one clue and that’s height.

Trivia time: According to Yana, the official unit of measurement in Kuro is 1 Sebastian...

SERIOUSLY??? WTFAWREOIUJGEOGNOGAERKHBG!!!

*sigh*

Sebastian is 6′1 and Agni is roughly half a head taller than Sebastian, so 1 and 1/16th Sebastians? (Fuck you Yana XD). The person who kills Agni is nearly as tall as he is, around Sebastian’s height or possibly a bit taller.  That rules out Undertaker because...well...sorry Undy fans but he’s a short-ass at around 5′8-5′9 which means he only comes up to Sebastian’s chin.  Also rules out Grell who is even shorter at 5′7.  It rules out most of the main characters who are all shorter than Sebastian.  And that’s it, I’m stuck at this point, I don’t know who it could be and I got nothing.  THANK YOU AND GOODNIGHT! XD

[glacecakes]

Wild Hunt

Eugene isn't exactly well liked by his men, but when they want to induct him into their ranks, he's not going to complain! All he has to do is hunt down a beast that they prepared for this event specifically-

It's Varian. Eugene is accidentally hunting down Varian. Now the two have to survive the night together, while one of them is injured, against a squadron of Corona's best men.

Uh oh.

IM BACK! Kinda. Finals are due Tuesday and I wrote this instead of doing them but WHATEVER WHO CARES

This was mostly written on the Varian Hivemind server, with some lovely inputs from the folks on there, and I edited it and finished it before throwing it up here. So uh. Yea. Team Awesome my beloved

Life and Times and VVO will also be updated soon!!! I hope to have at least one if not both chapters done by the end of the month 

ANYWAY HERES 8K OF TEAM AWESOME ANGST

Being Captain of the Guards sure had its perks.

For one, he got to attend meetings with Rapunzel, finally. You'd think being the princess's future husband (probably) and Prince of the Dark Kingdom got him some recognition, but noblemen are jerks and elitists, so what can you do. Granted, the meetings were boring as all hell, but still, it felt like he was actually being respected and taken seriously. Something Rapunzel had been pushing for since the start. Personally, he wasn't all that sure he deserved it, but if she was happy, so was he.

Another was that the guards no longer gave him shit. That's not to say they did before... well, they did. Stan and Pete didn't, but every other guard called him Flynn Rider at least once or twice before begrudgingly accepting him as their teacher and now commander. He no longer had to worry about someone breathing down his back, waiting for him to slip up or commit a crime, eager to throw him back in prison.

Speaking of which...

He turned the corner to see a few guards, couldn't remember their names off the top of his head, forming a small circle around a corner. Their predatory grins barred down on whatever their target was, whichever poor soul had angered them. One of them had his hands on someone much shorter, so short he couldn't make them out beyond the red coats and gleaming gold... which could only mean it was one person.

"Don't get comfy, brat," the one hissed, pushing Varian up against the wall with an audible crack as a skull hit stone, no doubt hoisted up by a shirt collar. "One of these days the princess is gonna get sick of you, and when she does, we'll toss you back into your old cell... and we'll restart our favorite game. Ain't that a swell idea?" Varian hissed, a soft thunk of his boots scrambling for purchase against the wall.

"Hey!" Eugene snapped, having heard more than enough. "Put him down now ." His words were like fire, causing the other two to jump back and reveal the battered and bruised alchemist. His lip was split, a large scuff of dirt on his white shirt.

One of the guards snapped his head around, whacking the leader's shoulder to get his attention. The guard frowned. "Oh yea? Or what?"

Before his new position, he would've leapt into the fray, hackles raised, punching the lights out of these jerks, but now, he had a much better stance. "Or you're fired." He crossed his arms, the perfect picture of a guy in charge who knew how to keep his men in line.

Someone who was clearly not him.

The guard hummed. "You don't have the nerve." To emphasize his point, he shook Varian a little harder, the kid's toes barely scraping the floor and his hands gripping the soldier's wrists. Leather gloves creaked with how tight the pressure was.

But Eugene's glare didn't waver, hand itching for the sword at his hip, his anger radiating in waves. It was enough to get the other two to back off.

"Cmon, Aaron," one whispered. "It's not worth it."

"Yeah, it's not." Eugene agreed. "Put him down now, and I'll lighten your sentence to a week in the stables instead of a month."

Aaron's face turned sheet white, then bright red. With a huff, he dropped Varian to the ground, readjusting his gloves while Varian cried out on the floor.

"You got lucky this time, brat," he hissed.

Oh, he knew that type of speech. The Baron used it all the time. Anyone who got told that never lasted to the next month. "And all other times," he said. "Because if I see you go anywhere near him I'm taking you to the princess."

Aaron rolled his eyes, clearly uncaring, and stormed off with a huff, his buddies trailing after. No doubt they didn't like a criminal ordering them around. Or, ex-criminal. He'd have to keep an eye on them.

A sniffle broke Eugene's musings, the fog of satisfaction and annoyance quickly replaced by concern for his younger friend. Varian sat up, wincing as he did so. He rubbed his neck, feeling for any injuries and finding none except for his ruined collar. "Aw man," he mumbled.

Dad had fixed his collar for him that day, a proud smile on his face. "You need to look sharp for your first day on the job," he'd said, ruffling Varian's hair. They'd grown so much closer in the past few months, the man always seeing his son off. Today was the first day back after his kidnapping, after all; he'd spent a month recovering from a broken rib.

"It's not my first day, I've been working there for weeks," Varian had grumbled, but let him do it with a cheeky grin.

"First day of the week," Quirin rectified, placing a kiss to his baby's forehead.

A forehead now covered in dust and a bruise.

"Hey kid," Eugene offered a hand that Varian gladly took, stumbling a little as he was helped upright. "You ok? Nothing knocked outta place?"

"Just my pride," Varian joked, smile quickly fading. "I'm ok though, really. I'm used to it." He shrugged, hugging himself for comfort. Maybe he could pretend dad was here, hugging him... he always had the best hugs. Even when Varian was little, before they drifted apart. Back when he was just the weird magic kid. Back when his biggest worries were some older kids picking on him... Dad would always scoop him up into a big hug with flowery words and a book of Flynn Rider.

A warm hand wrapped around him, pulling him into a red chest. Eugene took his other hand to ruffle Varian's hair, earning a squawk of complaint.

"Just because you're used to it doesn't mean it's ok, you know that, right?" Silence followed. Gosh, this kid... say what you want about being an orphan, at least everyone around you was on the same boat. No place for bullies, nothing to bully about, when everyone was doing just as badly. "If they ever give you more trouble, you come to me, yeah?"

"Huh?" Confused blue eyes met warm brown.

Eugene smirked. "You say the words and I boot them out of the castle, goggles. Team Awesome looks out for each other."

"Oh," Varian mumbled, dazed. He'd never had a protector, never had anyone looking out for him. Cold sneers and flowery words, manipulation and secrets and ulterior motives, sure. His chest fluttered, a laugh escaping.

But then... the anxiety returned full force, maybe even stronger.

If those guys got fired because of him, good god, he could only imagine the fallout. Well, that's not true. He absolutely could. One time in prison a guard got fired for beating a cellmate within an inch of his life, and though the guy lived, the second he was out of prison he got jumped, or so the story goes. In all honesty it was probably an embellished truth, stretched out to frighten prisoners into silence, but god damn if it didn't work. No one ever complained about their beatings. A peep was all that was needed to spend a night in the infirmary for even worse injuries.

"No, no, it's fine," Varian flicked his wrist. The dial on his hand spun with each flick, the ticking grating. "Besides, we have work to do!"

"Oh, yea!" Eugene gasped. Right! The whole reason he came out to this part of the castle was to look for Varian specifically, after all.

"So, right, maintenance stuff." Varian waved his hand, motioning for Eugene to follow. "Here's what I had in mind..."

-

It was a week later, late at night, when Aaron approached him. The moon lay low in the sky, just bright enough to allow for vision without torchlight, but not bright enough that anything beyond shapes were clear. True to his word, the guard had been stationed on stable duty for the past several days, coming back to the barracks covered in dirt and angry every time.

So maybe Eugene had whispered to Max about him. Big deal.

Anyway, the captain was knee-deep in paperwork when Aaron knocked on his office door. "Sir," he said. "Finished up for the day, and I wanted to talk to you."

"Oh?" Eugene put his quill down hesitantly. Aaron was his first big show of power, the first punishment he'd dished. Everything else had been a variation of "keep doing what you're doing" as he settled into his new role. Who knew being in a position of power was so stressful?

(Everyone. Literally everyone.)

"I wanted to apologize for testing you, sir." The man shifted, eyes never meeting. His face was unreadable. "I wasn't sure you were going to be as..... sharp, as our previous captain. And I'm sorry for that."

"....Ok," Eugene said. "Thanks? I think?"

"So, I uh... wanted to do something for you." The man continues. "Me and a few others. It's sorta a ritual for guards. We didn’t do it before cuz of, yknow, Cassandra and stuff. And you're one of us now, so...?" He raised an eyebrow, a quiet invitation.

Oh boy.

Knowing these guys, it was probably something really stupid. Most of the guards were pretty nice, maybe a bit airheaded, but a lot of meatheads mostly. Big fans of machismo and showing their strength, boosting their ego, stuff like that. It's why none of them were fans of being run by a criminal. And no doubt Eugene would have to clean up their mess anyway, so he sighed deeply and rose from his seat. "Alright, what did you do now?"

Aaron placed a hand to his chest. "Why, sir, we did this out of the goodness of our heart! We're just welcoming you to the team!" He laughed a bit at that last part. He pointed out the door, leading his superior down the suspiciously empty barracks, and out into the courtyard.

About a dozen or so guards were outside, waiting. One of them was holding a horse's reins, and a crossbow.

"He's in!" Aaron called, and the guards all broke into cheers and raucous laughter.

"Yea, nice to see you guys too, uh. What am I... in?" Eugene asked, shifting awkwardly.

Aaron's smile widened. "It's just a fun little game, sir."

"The game is simple, really," Aaron slung an arm around Eugene's shoulder, pulling him close, not unlike how Lance does. But unlike his larger friend, this man is wiry, more of a weaselly kind of build, with stick thin arms that hide his muscle. "See, when someone new joins the guard, we test their skill by having them hunt down a beast in the nearby forest. Once they catch it, we all celebrate together! And welcome him into the ranks!" The guards all cheered, no doubt thrilled at the prospect.

"....right...." Eugene smiled uncomfortably, cheeks pulling and stretching, a puppet controlling the strings attached to his face. His stomach swirled, bouncing all over as he was passed around.

"But see, you're not just any guard, you're the Captain," Aaron's smile took an equally unpleasant demeanour. "So we figured we'd give you some extra... challenge." Outside of their little circle, no sounds could be heard. Not a peep from a cricket, or a cry from a bird, just dead silence in the surrounding glen. Just the crackle of torches, and the rustling of men.

"The beast for this occasion is small, smart, and fast. The goal is to catch it before it reaches the wall at Old Corona. All you gotta do is," he makes a noise with his mouth to emulate the crossbow. "Hit the target, and the rest of us will finish the job."

"Finish?" Eugene echoed.

The guards around him smiled with all of their teeth. "Well yea, we're not just gonna waste a perfectly good beast, are we?"

Eugene narrowed his eyes. If Rapunzel heard about this, no doubt she'd flip. "How will I know what I'm looking for? And why should I even approve of this?"

"Relax, sir," Aaron shook him, patting his chest with a heavy fist. "We're not just killing an innocent creature. It's always something that's been marked for slaughter, or is causing problems. And trust me," his voice deepened. "You'll know."

No horse was as good as Max, but that was probably for the best, what with his gut screaming about how this all felt so goddamn sketchy. "This isn't some trap where it turns out I'm the one being hunted, right? Cuz I don't want to shoot any of you with this," he joked, brandishing the crossbow.

"No, sir, not at all! In fact we'll be supporting you! No one makes the first shot until you do." He promised, patting the horse's flank. "Rest assured, no tricks here. Just a beast already marked for capture. Or recapture, in this case. We picked this one special for you."

"That sounds like it's supposed to be flattering but it really isn't."

Aaron shrugged. "Not my problem. Good luck!" With a smack to the horse, she cried out, spurring Eugene forward.

They rode through the Capital, out into Corona proper, lush with trees. At this time of night, no one would be about, not even thieves, laden in their straw beds and cots. The only things out right now are animals, or a beast, in this case. How is he supposed to know what he's looking for? What, is it going to be some giant thing with red eyes? No, Aaron said it was small, how the hell is he going to...

Then he hears it.

It's faint, almost like a windchime, but sure enough, the clanking of chains, and a small whimper. Somewhere through the trees there's a rustling, something moving. He can't make it out, the guards didn't give him a torch, but a blob of something rushes forward, the only thing he can make out the distinctive shine of metal, a chain reflecting in the moonlight.

Ah.

Eugene smirked, the rush of adrenaline from a chase beginning to pump through his veins. It'd been a while since an adventure without any stakes, without any daring challenges or risking death. The last time must've been... gosh, probably the Herz de Sonne misadventure? And even then he and Lance had just goofed off for the majority of it. Maybe the Spire? That one was much riskier but he and Rapunzel had been so outrageously drunk during that whole endeavor that it felt more like a fun jaunt.

He shook himself out of his reverie. Focus, Eugene! Fun or no, you're proving yourself to the guards! Show them that you're a worthy Captain beyond just barking orders and supporting the princess!

He spurred the horse forward, hooves thundering against the undergrowth and disturbing the leaves below. The beast let out a shriek, shrill and shaking, rushing forward. It weaved between trees, trying to throw Eugene off. Man, Aaron wasn't kidding about how fast it was. Even on horseback he couldn't keep up very well. The chains wrapped around the beast's legs screamed in complaint, clanking and clattering with each huff of its breath.

Eugene lowered the crossbow, sticking his tongue out. Steady... steady.... he fired.

The bolt whizzed through the air, lodging into a tree just a few feet away from its target. The beast flinched but didn't slow, scampering through the undergrowth, leaping over a fallen tree towards the river.

"Hyah!" He yelled, leading his horse over the log and splashing down into frigid waters. Water rushed past his horse's hooves, dulling the sound of chains, and when he looked around, the beast was gone.

Drat.

Eugene grumbled, reloading the crossbow before urging his horse onward. If this beast got away he'd never hear the end of it! They'd be all "Yes sir, Captain! We'll catch that criminal! As soon as you catch that beast!" And then they'd laugh and he'd moan and he'd have to go catch the criminal himself which is honestly not too far off from how it is already-

Anyway.

It took a few minutes to find it again, the beast trying to muffle it's movements by shuffling, but the metal song was too alluring to ignore. There was no time to waste. With the horse at a fast trot, quieter and steadier, he fired the bolt, this time getting much closer, barely whizzing past the silhouette and lodging into a tree trunk with a chunk of hair.

The creature cried out again, beginning to run and renew this dance of cat and mouse, but Eugene wouldn't have it. Dexterous fingers clasped a new bolt and quickly reloaded, giving barely a few seconds for the creature to try and run before firing again.

He didn't miss.

It was almost silent, the bolt's descent. Its tip gleamed in the moonlight alongside the chains keeping his prey in place, the one thing that slowed it and gave Eugene the upper hand. Whatever this beast was was quick, too quick, and if he lost it again, no doubt he'd never find it again. So when he aimed, he aimed down, and sure enough, the bolt embedded itself into the beast's calf, sending into stumbling.

It shrieked, screamed and sobbed in agony, noises bordering on almost human-like as it thrashed on the floor. The arrow stuck straight up, bright color on the end almost a beacon for the beast's location. Poor thing. He really should've just aimed for the head and put it out of its mercy, but this was the only way to ensure a clean shot.

Eugene slid off his horse, crouching low to the ground as he readied the final blow. But as he got nearer, as the moon hung lower in the sky, providing light through the filtering trees. He hesitated.

The beast was crawling, still trying to run, front legs pawing at the forest floor and clenching the leaves beneath with hands.

Hands...?

Eugene's stomach sank, lower and lower with each passing step, heart climbing higher and higher in his throat, the closer he got, the more ill he felt.

He saw the chains first. No, not chains like that on a cattle’s neck. Prison shackles, the kind wrapped around a prisoner's legs. And they were wrapped around legs, keeping strides from being too large.

And their torso.... clothed torso..... The beast heaved, each breath causing it to rise and fall with rapid panic.

The Captain's hands brushed against the tree with his other bolt embedded in it, eyes trailing onto it, and he froze.

Blue hair, stabbed by the bolt.

"No," he breathed. "No no no no no..." His boots picked up the pace, speed walking over to his catch, to his victim. Please, for the love of god, let him be wrong. Let this be a cruel prank, just a bear or deer dressed up to fool him... don't let it be...!

The creature heard him approach and sobbed, flipping itself over on shaking hands to get a better look at its assailant.

There, lightened by the moonlight, chest heaving, tears streaming down his face and blood oozing from his leg, was Varian.

"Varian....?" Eugene whispered, tears of his own budding when his friend whimpered, scooting back and away. With each step forward Varian scrambled back until his back hit a tree, at which point he curled into a ball. Like a frightened animal. Like a cornered beast.

Oh god... this whole time, he thought it was just one of the farm animals marked for slaughter, or a meddlesome woodland critter... he thought it was an animal destined for someone's table, so why not the guards'? Why on Earth did he agree to this? Was he so desperate for approval from his peers that he would simply shrug off the ringing alarm bells, put aside his gut instinct, and dive in blindly?

Yes, his mind whispered. You would, and you did.

"Hey, buddy," He leaned down, inching closer. "Varian, goggles, it's me. It's Team Awesome." His hand shook as he reached forward, but Varian flinched violently, causing his leg to spasm. The boy hiccuped, a hand clamping over his mouth to stifle his sobs. A small mercy came from the shadows of the night, with it too dark for details, Varian wouldn't see the blood rapidly soaking his pants.

The crossbow glinted, a sharp refraction bouncing off frightened blue eyes and causing him to wince. Eugene tossed the weapon away like it burned him.

"It's me, it's Eugene," he reassured, scooting closer bit by bit. "I'm here to help. I'm not gonna hurt you."

"You did," Varian gasped, whole form shaking. "You did."

And that really was the crux of it, wasn't it? At the center of Eugene's self loathing was the spiral of guilt that you shot him, you shot the kid. He trusted you, and you shot him.

"I know," he rasped, trying to keep his voice level. "I did. I'm so sorry. Fuck, I'm so sorry." Varian sobbed, unfurling slightly if only to reach out for comfort. Even if this was the man who hurt him, who hunted him on horse and acted as the boogeyman straight out of nightmares, he was also Eugene, his friend, the one who stood up for him against Cass and Aaron, held his hand and promised he'd be there if Varian ever needed it. And god did he need him now.

Shaking, gloved hands connected in the middle, Eugene's grip gentle but grounding, a careful smile on his face. "That's it, bud. You're safe."

“Aw, ain’t that cute?”

Faster than a bullet, the smaller hand retracted, Varian’s eyes wide and horror-struck. In his attempt to comfort the boy, Eugene had let his guard down. He’d forgotten the final rule of the game.

No one moves until you make the first shot.

They were surrounded.

Aaron swaggered up to the duo with a grin, torch in hand. It flickered and sputtered, illuminating his blinding white grin amidst the darkness. The other guards formed a circle around them. Every other man carried a torch, while the rest had a weapon or tool or rope.

“The Captain has captured the beast! And in remarkable time, too.” Aaron simpered, waltzing up and gripping Varian’s cheeks in his hand. The boy snarled, teeth grit as he stared up at his bully.

From behind them came Aaron’s two buddies, the guards from before, each one wrapping an arm around Eugene’s shoulder, hauling him up and away.

For a moment, Eugene's insides were pure ice, frozen in time, unable to react despite the screaming in his mind as the puzzle pieces failed to connect. They jumbled and sloshed in his mind, the picture only half complete and the rest of the pieces strewn atop, obscuring the image from his view.

"Eugene...?" Varian whispered, thawing him.

"What have you done!?" He bellowed, anger hardening his voice. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!?" He strained against the guards.

"Just as we told you, sir!" Aaron mocked, forcing Varian to meet the Captain's gaze. "We captured a beast for you to hunt down! And now that you have," The grin was razor sharp, shark's fangs practically drenched in blood. "We'll dispose of it properly."

A guard from the circle threw a rope, the ends tied into a loop. Like a ring toss, the aim was true, ensnaring Varian's wrist and tightening when he pulled. Another guard followed suit, yanking the boy back and forth till his arms were spread eagle and unable to move.

Varian turned a stark white, paler than the moon that neared the horizon. He cried out, straining to try and escape, but another spasm from his leg paralyzed him. “N-no, please not again…!” He sobbed. “Let me go-!”

"Again!? Varian, what do you mean? VARIAN!" Eugene yelled. "VARIAN!"

The boy screwed his eyes shut, praying for the nightmare to end.

"LET HIM GO!" Eugene strained against the guards, lamenting once again, his own stupidity. He should've brought Max, or an actual weapon, like his sword, or something! He'd gone in totally blind, expecting that the guards were decent people and that this wouldn't be anything out of the ordinary. Honestly, he should've known better! After everything he's seen and done, never leave the house without a concealed weapon! You were almost executed by half these assholes!

When he gets back, he's firing everyone except Stan and Pete.

A third rope flashed through the air, this time with a loop larger than the others. It latched itself onto Varian's neck, wrapping tight and close. His eyes snapped open in pure terror, mouth opening in shock. But before the boy could protest or scream, the rope was pulled taut, and his face turned an awful shade of purple. He coughed, thrashing in place with tears of fear and hypoxia trailing his cheeks.

"Aw, the beast is scared! Doesn't he know how all animals are slaughtered?" Aaron cooed, faux sympathy marring his features. "You know, don't you? You were raised on a farm, after all." His question went unanswered, Varian too busy rasping for breath to respond.

The man with the rope pulled harder, forcing Varian's face down into the dirt where his muffled cries barely caused the leaves beneath to move. A steel boot stomped onto his head, and the cries went still.

"WHAT DID YOU DO TO HIM!?" Eugene bellowed, the protective instincts in his mind going haywire, overheating and exploding with pure rage and an intense need to save him, free him. He let this happen, if he had been smarter, stronger, if he hadn't shot him, hadn't let his guard down, hadn't shrugged and taken the guards' words at face value… “Oh relax, it'll be painless!” Aaron hummed, producing a knife from his belt. “The beast didn’t answer the question, but, I’m sure you can figure out how animals are killed after falling unconscious.” He jokingly slashed the dagger in the air above his throat, and Eugene saw red.

"YOU ARE SO FIRED!" He screeched at Aaron. "WHEN RAPUNZEL FINDS OUT-"

"Oh?" Aaron mocked, turning around and placing a hand to his chest daintily. "When the princess finds out? You're making her do all the heavy lifting?" He sauntered up to Eugene, hips swaying with each step till they were nose to nose. "This is your job, sir. You are in charge of keeping us in line, keeping the prisoners in their place."

"Varian is NOT a prisoner," Eugene hissed, meeting his gaze with pure fury. "He is a friend, my friend, my brother."

"Perhaps to Eugene Fitzherbert, but not a Captain of the Guard." Aaron shrugged.

Eugene lowered his head. For a brief moment, Aaron grinned victoriously. Now he's getting it.

"Too bad for you, I'm both."

Aaron's face fell, the cheerful facade falling into a brutal glower. "What does that mea-"

He was cut off when Eugene slammed his face into Aaron's, hitting the bastard's nose with a CRUNCH. He staggered back, and his buddies loosened their grip on Eugene to see if he's ok. It's all the advantage Eugene needed, quickly pushing them both off him and charging Aaron. His shoulder bowled into Aaron, sending him sprawling, and Eugene only stopped to grab the dagger he dropped before sprinting for Varian's crumpled form.

"Oh sun, please be ok, come on kid," Eugene chanted, slashing the rope around his neck. It leaves a brutal ring of red around his neck, as do the ones around his wrist when they're dispatched. There was no time to remove the chains, what with the remaining guards quickly regaining their senses and gearing up for a fight.

He lifted Varian up into his arms as if he were made of glass. Dark black hair lolled against the Captain's chest as he stood to his full height, glaring down at his employees, the hazers, the conspirators.

There was no hope of taking them all on, that much was clear. Charging into battle with hands full and armed only with a knife was stupid. He'd have to outrun them, play the game, and make it to Old Corona where Quirin could protect his son and he could get actual backup from loyal men.

Perhaps this was the true game, the true test of his worthiness.

Aaron snarled, staggering up while clutching his nose. "GET HIM!"

Eugene crouched, letting the first guard try and charge him before jumping out of the way at the last second. This he was used to, dodging men who wanted nothing more than to hurt and destroy what he held dear, making a run for it to the relative safety of the familiar. He fell into the old routine without too much difficulty, leaping over heads and ducking under blows. It helped that Varian barely weighed more than a few grapes, still a stick from his year in prison. He and the others had been hard at work trying to help him gain at the very least some muscle, though Varian was a big fan of skipping meals for science.

According to Quirin he's had that habit for a while, and right now it was a minor blessing.

Huh, he thought to himself as he dodged a crossbow bolt, taking off into the trees. Captain of the Guard isn't all that off from my usual life, just with some added benefits. Another arrow nearly took off his ear. Yea, same old stuff.

His feet pounded against the forest floor, dredging up leaves and dirt alike as he ran. There was no time to cover his tracks or be discreet, there was a whole battalion after him, so it wouldn't do much good anyway. But as his steps quickened, as Varian bounced up and down in his arms, the chains still rattling, the boy stirred, groaning in pain with each motion.

"Gene...?" He mumbled, muffled through the man’s coat.

"Hey kid," Eugene grinned down, not slowing for a second. "Glad to see you're ok. How's your throat?"

"On fire..." a weak hand pawed at his throat, rubbing the soreness away.

"Sorry about that, you're gonna be just fine, ok? It's all gonna be ok."

Varian hummed, eyes glossy and not fully there. His head fell back onto Eugene's chest, a soft smile full of love that he didn't deserve. "K. I trust you."

Varian fell back into an uneasy sleep after that, his breaths wheezing against Eugene, lips stained blue and face clammy. Anytime exhaustion tried to creep into his bones, tried to sneak into his soul and drain him to surrender, he looked down at Varian and his spirit would renew.

At some point, they were hiding behind a tree, keeping to the intense darkness. A few guards could be heard not too far off, their annoyed mutterings like an alarm bell, a siren's song of false security. Just as they passed, Varian coughed, clutching at the fabric for comfort. It was an ugly sound, weak and ragged, as if there was something coming up.

When he looked down, those blue lips were now stained red.

He picked up the pace after that.

But even he couldn't run forever, no matter how light Varian was or how determined he was. Inevitably he had to stop for water, hiding Varian behind a fallen tree and drinking from a stream whose sounds hid them from view.

He just finished his own drink when Varian stirred, and the Captain was quick to help Varian get some water of his own.

They sat by the stream for a bit, catching their breaths, Eugene from exertion, and Varian from strangulation.

It was here that Varian recounted his side of the story, tears dripping and mixing with the stream below him. "I was so scared..." he whispered, voice hoarse.

"I bet," Eugene soothed, running a thumb over Varian's palm. "What happened?"

"....I got jumped," his eyes turned downcast, shame coloring his features. "T-they grabbed me when I was gonna head home. Said that they wanted to make it up to me, to... to give me "a job befitting my talents"...." He sighed. "You can probably guess what that was, huh."

Eugene's ears burned. A flame simmered in his gut, nausea falling away as his free hand clenched at the leaves below him. "Yea. I can." He bit out.

For a moment, neither spoke, unsure of what to say. What could they say? The situation was insane, it was cruel, it was... it was…

Varian hacked, more blood than before coming up and splattering on the shackles that remained.

"Oh, let me get those," Eugene hissed. "I'm sorry, shit," He fumbled for his pockets, procuring a lock pick and making quick work of the shackles. "We gotta move. We can't let them find us." His hands hovered over the bolt, unsure. "Can I... I mean, you can't run with..."

Varian turned a shade of green, barely visible. “It’s stopping the blood from coming out.”

"Yea, good point, sorry." He coughed awkwardly, the stream bubbling and gurgling a simple melody.

"Why do... why do you keep apologizing?" Varian asked, not meeting Eugene's eye for a second.

"Wh- seriously?" He let out a bark of laughter, fading when Varian's face didn't change. "Kid, it's my fault you're in this mess! Sun above, I shot you. I said I'd keep you safe and I shot you." Anger swelled in his words, but Varian didn't flinch. He knew it wasn't directed at him. "Some Captain I am, I'm being chased by my own guys."

Varian bit his lip. "Did..." he hesitated to ask. If the answer wasn't what he was hoping for, he'd never recover. "Did you know it was me?"

"No!" Eugene's eyes widened. "No, I never would've agreed if I knew it was a person, let alone you!" He ran a hand through frazzled hair.

"So..." Varian hummed. "You shot me on accident, and then saved me. Again. Even when your men tried to convince you otherwise." Each sentence was slow, filled with Varian needed to take in a breath, but he met his friend's eyes this time. "I think that's a pretty good Captain."

Eugene blinked, then smiled. "Thanks, kid."

Dark voices shouted across the clearing, words incomprehensible. Varian jolted, hands flying up before doubling over hacking. Each cough shook his body so hard you’d think the boy was trembling with fright.

“Woah, easy,” Eugene’s hand rubbed over his back. “Deep breaths. Come on goggles. You got this.”

“You would think,” Varian rasped. “But I do not.”

Finally, with one final hack, his coughs ceased. Each gulp of air felt like heaven, or at least it did for the first few seconds. Then it was replaced by a searing hell, leaving him scrambling again.

God, what is the culprit?

As his breathing quieted, as the burn turned to a small simmer, Varian’s eyes trailed to the forest floor beneath him.

Stained with blood.

Varian’s eyes widened, his pupils shrunk to pinpricks as his entire world focused in on the blood. The dark blues of night left it hard to see, more a black shine than the vicious red, but there was no denying what it was.

“What-oooh,” Eugene hissed, grabbing Varian’s shoulders for support. Shit, this was bad. He made a mental list of symptoms for the inevitable doctor visit: raspy voice, struggling to breathe, coughing up blood... all signs pointed to the noose as the culprit. Whichever guard had tried to strangle Varian was getting fired and arrested.

No, screw it, all of them were.

“Focus on me, hair stripe,” he warned, shaking his brother slightly. “Are you ok to move?” All he got was a weedy moan.  “I’m taking that as a maybe.” With no preamble, he scooped his arms under Varian’s knees and back, pulling him into his arms as he stood in one fluid motion. “I’m gonna try and make a run for it, ok? We’re almost to your dad. I just need you to stay with me.”

Silence, and then a faint nod moving against his coat.

Each step sent vibrations up Eugene’s spine, tingling and thrumming in his veins and pounding in time with his heart. The sun would be rising soon, it had to be, with the dew that is forming at his feet.

At some point Varian readjusted, shifting so that he could see over their shoulders. He couldn’t run, couldn’t fight, but at least he could keep an eye out.

And it’s a good thing he did, when he beats wildly at Eugene’s chest in a signal. The captain was about to duck behind a bush, but the forest’s edge is within sight! Maybe if they made a break for it...?

An arrow grazed his side.

The pain looped through his system, joining the adrenaline for a joyride through his mind and it sent him sprawling. Varian rolled out of his arms, collapsing at the forest’s edge.

Eugene groaned, raising his face with the sun to see Aaron’s smug grin glowing in the upcoming dawn.

“Well, look what I caught! A daddy beast and a baby beast!” He said.

Eugene gaped. “Could you be any creepier? Really, gotta go for the weirdest shit to say, don’t you?”

“Eh,” Aaron shrugged, crossbow in hand. He stepped past his boss (Er, ex boss), boots crunching on leaves and leaving nothing but dust in their wake. “I’m a weird guy, I guess.”

“Yea, a real weirdo. Kidnaps a teenager and has the captain hunt him for sport. A nice quirk, ain’t it!” Each word is angrier than before until he is spitting acid.

Aaron doesn’t even argue; he’s too caught up in his victory. Varian shook as he struggled to sit up, arms quivering with effort. Just as he raised his head his eyes met the gleaming tip of an arrow, aimed right between the eyes. “Say goodnight, kid. Don’t worry. I’ll make a fine trophy out of you. Hang your goggles over my mantle.”

“Would you knock it the fuck off!?” Eugene wheezed, scrambling up. His feet gave out near instantly, but he leapt forward, colliding with the guard and driving his aim up. The arrow whizzed overhead, harmlessly lodging into a tree.

“Varian, run!” Eugene yelled, still on top of the other.

“I CAN’T! What part of arrow in my leg don’t you get!?” Varian yelled, immediately followed by coughing.

Eugene went to answer, only for the butt of the crossbow to whack him in the face.

Aaron laughed, loud and manic, the sound like nails on a chalkboard. It was quickly stopped by a punch to his stomach from the furious man above him. If the others found them, it’d be game over. Literally.

Whether or not Eugene would be killed was unclear. While he didn’t always need Rapunzel to save him, her good graces granted him immunity from most local threats. But they’d definitely kill Varian, and that was the bigger concern to him.

Unfazed, Aaron slammed his skull into Eugene’s, sending him tearing back. The guard quickly flipped them, crossbow still in between.

“Face it,” Aaron snarled. “You’ll never be a true captain. You can’t control your men, can’t protect a kid, can’t even protect yourself. You just got the job because you saved the lost princess.”

“In my defense,” Eugene wheezed. “Your previous guard couldn’t do that either.” That only angered him more, digging the crossbow into Eugene’s Adam’s apple.

The two men wrestled briefly, Eugene finally getting a good grip on the crossbow, and kicking Aaron off of him. He scrambled to Varian, fully prepared to scoop him up and begin the dance again, just for a little longer, but Aaron just yelled out in anger, drawing a sword from his belt. As strong as Eugene was, he couldn’t outrun him with Varian in his arms. He would know, he trained his men to match him in speed and strength.

Varian moaned in pain. He had to do something, he couldn’t just sit here! Eugene had spent the whole night running around, working his ass off to keep him safe after the initial mistake, he couldn’t let him down...

But the arrow scraped against his bone, pain sending stars across his vision any time he stood…

The captain’s hands clenched down on wood, eyes calculating. He looked into Varian’s eyes, then down at his leg. Then up again. And down again. He hissed between teeth, kneeled down, and clenched his fist around the arrow. It sent a pulse of pain through Varian’s leg, the boy wincing, but understanding.

“Do it,” he hissed.

And yanked.

The pain was so sharp, so intense, that for a moment Varian was certain he was dead. There was no way anyone could survive with this much pain, he must surely be dead or dying. White hot agony stabbed into his leg, and he bit so hard on his lip he broke skin. It took everything in him not to scream.

Aaron laughed again, shadow blanketing them. Eugene turned to see him looming over them, sword above his head. “Say goodnight, Sir!” he shrieked.

Fwip!

Thunk!

The man’s grin vanished in an instant, replaced by sheer shock at the arrow sticking straight into his throat. Blood trickled down the wound, looking more like an impulse tracheotomy. Suddenly, he pitched forward, face hitting the forest floor with a sickening shick as the arrow went the rest of the way through his throat. There wasn’t even a struggle, no death rattles or cry of pain, just the sounds of a morning dove in the coming dawn.

Eugene’s shoulders slumped, and Varian leaned back into the cool grass.

“You doing alright there, Goggles?” Eugene called.

“My lungs are on fire, I can’t feel my legs and I’m sweating in places I didn’t even know I could sweat. I’d say I’m in the mood to die, but I literally just spent the whole night trying to prevent that.”

“...fair enough.”

-

The weeks that followed were, for lack of a better term, a total fucking nightmare.

After pulling themselves together, the brothers managed to hobble to Varian’s house in Old Corona, just in time to greet Quirin at the door. Imagine the poor man’s shock when he was headed out to work only to be greeted by his son’s blood and the captain’s exhaustion. Suffice to say, they got a proper tongue lashing the whole cart ride to Corona proper, the father fussing over them both while he rushed them to the infirmary. And then they had to get chewed out by Rapunzel, and Lance, and pretty much everyone else, despite their repeated insistence that it wasn’t their fault this time.

“What did you expect us to do? We were being hunted!” Eugene whined at Rapunzel while a nurse cleaned up a cut.

“Uh, I was being hunted. You were hunting me .” Varian hoarsely piped up from his own bed, leg propped up in a cast. He paused at the frantic stop motion Eugene was making, and the paling faces of his father and princess. “Oh. Was I. Not supposed to say that.”

“You’re not supposed to be talking,” Rapunzel chided lightly, though that was clearly not the problem. The doctor had been pretty quick to explain Varian’s breathing issues were just from the throat trauma, and would heal with time and supervision.

“I didn’t know! In my defense,” Eugene held up his hands as if to shield from Quirin’s murderous face, but if looks could kill he’d be a pile of bones. “I didn’t know.”

“How do you…” Quirin pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m going to remind myself that you saved my son’s life and ignore the part where you endangered it in the first place.”

“Yes, please do,” He said, shifting under the glare.

And then came the paperwork.

Trying to figure out who among the guards was part of the hunt was hard enough, seeing as outside of Aaron and his cronies, no one was going to say a word. All they had to go off of were the men who saw Eugene off, and the ones who initially captured Varian. And since they hadn’t run into anyone else directly, no one could be properly accused and charged. But Eugene wasn’t going to take any chances, and therefore anyone who he saw at least once was fired, and if they wanted to dispute it they could come to him and explain why they were willing to throw his little brother to the wolves.

Suffice to say, no one did. Which left Eugene with only two thirds his original squadron. He spent a good while of his recovery vetting new recruits and creating incentives for others to try out, and while he was able to replenish his ranks, they weren’t nearly the same elite task force they’d started with. And considering the threats they faced on the regular, that was a serious problem.

It was after a long day of training and interviews that Eugene finally stumbled into the castle library, ready to destress with a nice long binge read of Flynn Rider. He grabbed a few books off the shelves as he walked, headed for his favorite couch and the cozy fireplace at its side, only to stop dead in his tracks.

Varian lay spread across the couch, foot propped up on the armrest as he glossed over some scientific text that Eugene had no hope of understanding. His eyes flitted up and down the page, clearly not actually reading and more just staring at the words.

“Hey,” Eugene called, and Varian barely reacted. “Oi, kid, that’s my spot. Scooch it.” “I got here first,” Varian said, not looking up for a second.

“Older brother gets first dibs.”

“Little brother gets his way.”

Oh he was gonna play it like that was he? Eugene smirked, plopping his books down at the floor before collapsing directly on top of Varian, making care to not crush the injured leg. Varian squawked in protest, limbs flailing.

“Get off! You’re heavy!” he yelled, trying to push him off. When that failed, he resorted to whacking at him.

“Never!” Eugene laughed. “Your little punches feel like flowers!”

“I have an iron deficiency!” Varian responded, cheeks red but smiling slightly. The captain finally stopped suffocating him, but didn’t get off, instead wiggling in close so they could share. “Mean,” Varian whined, a pout on his lips, but didn’t complain.

“Oh hush,” Eugene chided, grabbing a book from the floor. “You know you love me.”

Varian simply hummed, buck teeth peeking through a tiny grin. “So, what did you grab for today?”

“Ah, glad you asked!” Eugene held up the cover, which Varian oohed in appreciation. “One of the older ones, came out when I was your age.” He wrapped an arm around Varian, pulling his brother close, the warmth of his side and the fire combining to create a heavenly cocoon. “You want to read, or should I?”

“Your turn,” Varian responded, stifling a yawn.

The book creaked in protest, Eugene gazing down at his little brother with a smile. He leaned his cheek on the boy’s hair, deep voice dripping with fondness as he started to read.

Being Captain was fun, but being a brother was even better.

[tiifalockhart]

End of the F**king World

Pairing: Sephiroth/Reader

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: major character death, implications of stalker behavior, mentions of torture, mentions of insanity, portrayal of mental illness, end of the world, anxiety, depression, alludes to suicide

A/N: this wasn’t a request, however, this idea had been on my mind for quite awhile. with lots of motivation, i finally put it into words. please keep in mind that there are huge trigger warnings for this content, since it is probably the most angsty and intense thing i’ve written on this blog!! i hope you enjoy reading, feedback is greatly appreciated

Ao3 || Masterlist 

After it all had fallen apart, there was nothing left to hope for. 

Genesis was gone, Angeal was dead, Zack was dead, Sephiroth was... Dead? His body was found deep inside the destroyed Nibleheim reactor, so it was possible that Sephiroth was dead, right? But...

You aren’t supposed to see dead people.

So why was it that Sephiroth was constantly following you around? Why was he silently watching you at all times? No matter where you looked, he was there. It was chilling to see his cat-like mako eyes pierce into your skull. His twisted smirk made your stomach churn and want to run away as fast as you could, but there was no where to run. He was always with you. Whether you wanted him or not, it seemed like you didn’t have a choice. 

What did you do to earn such a strange connection to the dead? 

That’s right... In Nibleheim, you were there. You were one of the sole survivors that witnessed it all. The roaring flames, the deafening screams and cries of dying people, the sound of buildings collapsing and blades crashing against one another, you relived it every time you closed your eyes. 

Sephiroth sought out to kill you, even though you were a simple bystander. But... That wasn’t the complete truth, was it? You were more important than anyone else at Nibleheim. That’s why he came after you, right? Think of it as... Young love, a childhood best friend, his only friend, that’s what you were. That is, until you mysteriously disappeared and left him all alone. You were taken far away from Shinra after being deemed as... “Intruding.” You and Sephiroth were just children, you didn’t understand the world. You always thought wishfully because even as a child, you knew that Sephiroth didn’t belong in a laboratory twenty-four-seven. You put all of these ideas of “running away” or “sneaking out” into his head. He became obsessed with the idea for the longest time. He wanted to run away, he wanted to experience this life that you mentioned so many times, he wanted to experience normalcy. 

When Hojo caught wind of this... Disobedience, he sent you and your family far away. He sent you as far away as he could. Your father began to work at the Nibleheim Mansion as a book keeper as punishment for your indiscipline. Sephiroth felt betrayed by your disappearance. He blamed you for the punishments he received for wanting to escape. He blamed you for leaving him alone to deal with it. He never forgot about it, instead he bottled it up and chalked it up to some kind of cruel training he had to go to. 

As he grew up, those thoughts bothered him less and less. He figured he would never have to see you again, therefore he would never have to face that trauma again. Instead of coping with it, he pushed it away to the deepest place he could and tried to forget about it. But as things around him began to crumble, all of his past traumas began to surface again. Genesis ended up leaving him, so did Angeal. His two friends, his only friends since you, ended up leaving him. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it? 

Surprisingly, it didn’t take long for him to snap. The moment he knew he was being sent to Nibleheim for a mission, dread began to build up inside of him. As if it were a sixth sense, he knew something was going to happen here. He made sure to keep his guard up as they arrived at Nibleheim, who knew what was going to happen?

What he didn’t expect, though, was that the threat he was dreading would end up being himself. Dealing with the loss of his two friends was enough, but he never expected having to face you after all those years. You looked exactly the same from when you were a child. Sephiroth knew who you were in an instance when he saw you in that village. He knew that he couldn’t stay. He had to run from you, he had to run, he had to. He avoided you like the plague, unwilling to unpack the bottled-up regret and anger he held for you. His mind couldn’t stop wandering to his childhood with you, he began to question everything. Why were you here in Nibleheim? Why did you leave him? Why was he punished because of you? Why did Genesis and Angeal have to leave, too? He felt sick, he felt weak and dizzy, nothing was making sense anymore. 

That was just the tip of the iceberg, though. 

The moment his eyes landed on those monsters in the reactor, he felt something inside of him shatter. He needed answers. He needed anything. 

He needed something. 

Something to grip onto.

He was losing his mind. 

What was reality? What was real and what was fake? 

He couldn’t hear himself over his own thoughts anymore. He was descending into madness. He couldn’t stop himself from wandering into that library. It was similar to a deep, primal instinct. It felt like he was hunting for prey. But there was no prey. He was hunting for... Nothing? It didn’t make sense, nothing made sense anymore. The voices of concern were drowned out by his mind screaming at him. His mind told him that he couldn’t eat or sleep until he had answers. Who was he? Who were his parents? Why did he want to escape? What are these voices in his head? 

He paced back and forth until his legs were numb, his fingers frantically flipped through the pages of those books, his heart pounded in his chest to the point where it was deafening. He was terrified for the first time in his life. But it wasn’t because of some foe he had to face. No... 

He was terrified of himself. 

That’s when he stumbled upon the documents named ‘Project S.’ His fingers trembled as his eyes scanned the pages. His arms grew weak, he couldn’t stand anymore and ended up collapsing against the wall. He slid down the wall slowly as he took in every bit of information. 

He was... A monster? 

No.

He was an Ancient...

He was a God.

This was his world. 

It all belonged to him.

He was betrayed by everyone. He was treated like an experiment on his own Earth. He was destroyed and numbed to the cruelties of this Earth, used by simple humans for their own bidding. He was dumbed down to a puppet. Everyone else had to have known, right? His mother was Jenova... The J.E.N.O.V.A.? They lied to him. How could they all keep this from him..? His own friends, his mentors and companions? Why did they... It didn’t make sense. Even Zack hid all of this from him... His last friend...

It all started with the books. 

Sephiroth burned them all. He was caught up in a fit of rage. He was betrayed by everyone. Everyone he’s come to know has known what he is, but decided to hide it. His entire existence was a lie. It was all fabricated from birth. How many people knew besides the scientists? The people he laid down his life for ended up betraying him. He would never forgive the human race for what they’ve done.

Before he knew it, the entire village was in flames. Overcome with rage, Sephiroth decided he was personally going to rip the world apart. Everyone would suffer because of what they’ve done to him. There was no room for negotiation anymore, they lost that privilege many years ago. 

During this fit of rage, Sephiroth’s eyes managed to land on you. This was where it all started, wasn’t it? You could have saved him, you could have told him the truth. You knew what he was, but you participated in treating him like... Like some lab rat. You lied, and you were just as guilty as everyone else. 

He couldn’t stop himself from raising Masamune over his head. His vision was red with anger, he was no longer thinking for himself. His mind screamed at him. This is what they wanted, wasn’t it? A truly powerful being... 

He’d show you what power really looks like. 

It was all your fault. 

How you managed to escape was a mystery to all. How Sephiroth was still alive was a mystery to you. You couldn’t wrap your head around it. 

You remembered that day very clearly. You hadn’t even known Sephiroth was in Nibleheim. You didn’t know that he still remembered you. You didn’t know that you planted the seed for his inevitable mental break. 

Now, you were cursed with a daily reminder. His eyes would never leave you for as long as you lived. You assumed the same fate followed you into the Lifestream. 

The day of the Nibleheim Incident, you took off into hiding immediately. You couldn’t face the guilt that possessed you. You could still clearly hear the pain in Sephiroth’s cries as he stood over you. “You took everything from me!” It played in your mind on repeat. He died knowing that it was all your fault this happened. His last few words would be permanently ingrained into your brain. You slightly wished that he had just finished the job in Nibleheim... But you somewhat convinced yourself that that wasn’t his intention. 

Now that he was staring you in the face, you couldn’t believe that he intended for you to die in Nibleheim. He fully intended on you living with your sins and carrying that burden until the end of your time. 

It’s been months now since his first appearance. You remembered when you first saw him after Nibleheim many months ago. You were making your morning deliveries, casually walking around the Sector 5 slums. You approaching the small orphanage located at the top of the slums, ready to face the children when you suddenly stopped in your tracks. Your eyes had been focused on the ground as you walked, so when you saw black boots suddenly appear in your vision, a confused expression formed on your features. You slowly lifted your head to look up at the mysterious figure, only to let out a blood-curdling scream and fall back. 

In front of you stood the silver-haired SOLDIER, he wore a twisted and sickening smirk, his eyes held a glint of... Desire. His left hand tightened around the hilt of his blade as he stared down at you. Fear consumed you as you prepared to finally die, your eyes squeezing tight as your hands came to cover your head. 

When nothing happened, you slowly lifted your head again to see everyone around you staring at you in confusion. Sephiroth was gone as if he completely vanished into thin-air. The ladies working at the orphanage stared at you, fear evident in their eyes. They held the children back from approaching you, as if you were the one to be feared.

No one else had seen Sephiroth. 

You were the only one. 

You quickly got up, not bothering to dust yourself off or gather your things, before taking off to your small shack. Surely, it was part of your imagination. People have mentioned having hallucinations and stuff, maybe that’s what happened. You tried to think it through logically as you splashed cold water on your face. When you lifted your head again, you felt his presence in the back of the room. 

“Why are you here?” You asked, your voice shaking as you turned towards him. He was leaning against the wall casually, his smirk still present. Instead of answering you, he simply looked in your direction before walking further into the house. His gaze sent chills down your spine. What kind of desire is he holding inside? 

Life went on like that for months. Eventually, you were forced to grow used to his presence, no matter how oppressive it was. He would follow you anywhere, basically. He hardly said anything, if he did, it was probably something obscure and ominous. Eventually, you began to talk to him more, finding it unreasonably hard to cope with what life has become. You were never sure if he was listening or not, but deep down inside, you kind of hoped. 

You were never sure what Sephiroth was intending to get out of spending all of his time with you. It kind of made you anxious, knowing that you had some... Purpose to him, something that made you special from everyone else. Even through the hard times like the fall of Sector 7, he hardly ever left your side. 

There was one night where you felt particularly lonely. Sephiroth seemed to be gone, no where to be found. It was odd, even if you were his sworn enemy, you still found yourself concerned if he wasn’t around. That night, to somehow distract yourself, you wandered out into the Sector 5 slums, hoping to cope with the suffocating loneliness. That’s when you heard the news channel booming from the monitor at the center of the town. You approached the crowd quietly, feeling your heart drop at the announcements. 

President Shinra was dead. They claimed it was from Avalanche, but you knew better than that. From behind you, you heard his chilling voice. 

“You agree that he deserved it, don’t you?” Sephiroth asked, his voice low. It sounded like just a whisper in your ear. The question was odd... He wasn’t asking for your opinion, instead he was asking which side you were on. 

President Shinra did deserve it, though, didn’t he? While you would never wish death upon someone, it was undeniable how terrible of a man the President was. You could only respond with a weak nod of your head, feeling too repulsed to give him anything more. 

You moved to take off back to your home, only to feel the burning sensation of his gloved hand wrapped around your forearm. “The end is nigh... Who’s side will you be on?” He questioned. You forced yourself to look back at him. 

“What end?” You asked, your voice shaking as you spoke. Sephiroth didn’t give you an answer, instead he let go and slowly backed into the shadows, leaving you alone once again. 

What end was he talking about? ...End of the world? No, he doesn’t have that kind of power, does he? Honestly, you weren’t sure what Sephiroth was capable of in this form. He was powerful before he died, but what is he capable of now that he is dead?

You wouldn’t know his true power until it came to you in dreams. Since President Shinra’s death, and your odd conversation with Sephiroth that night, you had been having weird dreams. They weren’t the kind of weird that you forget in an instance of waking up, no... These dreams were visions. They were of what was to come. You saw visions of people you didn’t know dying, you saw a giant star in the sky slowly closing in on the Midgar tower, you saw visions of the Lifestream erupting from the ground... They had to have been connected, didn’t they? 

Sephiroth was no longer around for you to question him. It’s like he suddenly vanished, like he never existed after Nibleheim. Had you imagined it all up? It was getting hard to tell. You couldn’t bring yourself to search for him. You didn’t want to see him anymore. Truthfully, you wished you had never seen him in the first place. 

It seemed like months had passed since then. You were really keeping track of time anymore, honestly. Things began to change in the world around you, though. Above you, in the sky, a meteor pushed against the atmosphere of the world. Everyone else was terrified of it, but... You honestly couldn’t say that you were afraid of it anymore. After months of visions, you saw it coming. 

This was the end that Sephiroth was talking about, wasn’t it? 

The end of his torment.

The end of the human race.

The end of the fucking world. 

You hated him for it. There was no one that could stop him... He knew that, everyone seemed to know it except for the innocent lives. You heard the daily questions from bystanders.

“Why is this happening?”

“Are we all going to die?”

“There is nothing we can do to stop it, is there?”

Humanity’s downfall rested in the palms of a revenge-stricken God, and there was nothing that could be done about it.

By now, you had already accepted death. It was inevitable at this point. The fates of everyone were completely compromised at this point, death stared everyone in the face. It was only a matter of time until the Meteor made contact with the Earth. 

You remembered when the evacuation of Midgar began. Every single person was forced onto trains, cars, buses, whatever mode of transportation was available in poor attempts to escape fate. You watched from the window as the bus drove away, your eyes glued to the Meteor. Only a few days from then...

Those next few days were absolute torture. The entire world played a waiting game. There was really nothing to do to prepare for impact. Any preparations would be futile. In the end, there seemed to be a collective loss of morale. 

This was the end.

Just a few hours before the Meteor struck, you remembered hearing that familiar unsettling voice. “What a beautiful creation.” Sephiroth commented, his eyes fixated on the star. You looked up at him, your burning gaze quickly turning into one of shock. He stood next to you, blood decorating his face and suit. 

“What happened to you?” You asked softly, your brows furrowing slightly in concern. As much as you hated to admit it, you still cared for him. 

He shook his head slowly. “I...” He hesitated, seeming to return to his old self for just a moment. He slowly turned towards you, regaining that twisted look. “Will never be a memory.” He hissed, before completely dissipating in front of you. 

Below you, the ground began to shake. Your eyes shot up to the Meteor, expecting to see Midgar destroyed by now, but to your surprise, streams of green were fighting it off. There were screams coming from the people around you, they all cheered on the Lifestream. You couldn’t bring yourself to cheer though. This was fate, wasn’t it? You found yourself strangely conflicted. 

In the end, the Meteor ended up being destroyed before it could even touch Midgar. You watched as the Meteor disintegrated into small rocks. The population around you cheered unendingly, thanking the Gods for survival. You found yourself unsure. You survived, but at what cost? This battle with Sephiroth isn’t over... You knew that deep down. A quiet sigh left your lips as you turned away from the celebrating crowds, finding it hard to relate. 

This wasn’t the end, after all. 

[tanoraqui]

okay I have to do this today because even I wouldn’t do it after the godforsaken finale airs, and it’s basically my specialty and I did spend like an hour thinking about it last night while washing dishes. Definitely partly inspired by @words-writ-in-starlight​‘s insightful post on everything Supernatural did wrong, and apologies in advance to all the characters for dragging them into anything related to Christian mythology:

Wei Wuxian’s parents die in a house fire when he’s 6(? I refuse to look anything up) months old

Jiangs are a hunter family I guess? That whole disaster of a family dynamic, except WWX dips out at some point to be idk an environmental activist bc at the time, that seems like the larger threat to the whole world. “Mom and Dad went on a hunting trip and they haven’t come back”, “bitch” “jerk”, 2 brothers in a beat-up old car, you know the drill

Jins are also an old hunting family, but more Men of Letters energy - they have a fancy bunker and do research and avoid getting their actual hands dirty. Jiang Yanli ducked out of the active hunting life a few years ago to be happily married to her peacock and settled down with a baby and she’s fine. We’re not going to bother Yanli. She’s safe and happy and doesn’t need to involved in any of this

so, WWX is the demon blood child developing exciting new abilities like telekinesis, mind control, exorcising demons by sheer force of will...etc, and Jiang Cheng is the Righteous Man. Lucifer, Michael, etc.

s1-3 probably proceeds more or less as spn canon...which I more or less remember...by the time they find their parents at the end of s1, Jiang Fengmian is...ugh, we probably shouldn’t kill him offscreen, I mean, we should probably meet him before he dies. I guess. Madam Yu lasts longer because I’m way more interested in her. But we do know that both Jiang parents are totally inclined to fling the boys into a metaphorical or literal escape boat and go hold the line for as long as possible, so...that’s spn energy...

Xue Yang is the one who’s like “fuck yeah, demon powers” and opens the gates of Hell, because I want him to have nice* things

*nice for Xue Yang

from characterization rather than memory, I’m 90% sure that Dean tried to hide his crossroads deal from Sam, but Jiang Cheng does it...better. I think it does come out, though. Right before the hellhounds do.

here’s where it starts to go farther off from spn canon. Jiang Cheng crawls his way out of the grave, gets stalked by a menacing presence that explodes windows for an episode, incidentally can’t find WWX...*Lan Wangji voice* “I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from Perdition” (a baller line then and a baller line now)...and then the next episode starts with them all awkwardly standing around, and JC is like, “ok well let’s go find my brother then”, and you think there’s going to be an mdzs-riffing JC+LWJ Roadtrip To Find WWX...and they’re immediately attacked by like a dozen demons

in fact, the first time we see WWX in s4 is here, wherein he goes toe to toe with an angel and...holds his own. that’s new and terrifying! also is leading a squad of demons??

because here’s the thing: for the last 3(?) months, there’s been war in hell

because unlike Some People Mooses, upon finding out that his brother’s soul was legally nearly-owned by a crossroads demon, heir-apparent-to-Satan!WWX went, “actually fuck that” and kicked open the door of Hell (metaphorically, not loosing any demons this time) and was like, “who do I have to beat the shit out of to get a specific crossroads contract around here”

this did not work, obv. He didn’t know until it was too late, Lilith had already snapped up the contract, etc. etc.

obviously he also tried to offer himself instead, and got rejected for some reason

Since Jiang Cheng died, however, there’s been a war for control of Hell. Leading one side, Lilith, the Original Babe, who wants to break all 666(?) seals keeping Lucifer bound and in the meantime, break the Righteous Man so Heaven won’t even have Michael’s destined host ready for the Final Battle. Leading the other side, Wei Wuxian, infamous upstart, who wants to rescue the Righteous Man and restore him to life, tear Lilith’s guts out through her nose, and also stop her from doing the Lucifer thing because Wen Qing explained that yes, that’s a Thing, and it’s Bad.

Wen Qing! I’ve decided to combine Bela and Ruby’s roles and let WQ be both the cool badass example of how demon deals can go Bad and the demon deliberately leading our heroes astray for most of s3-4. Wen Qing is a very new demon; she used to be some sort of herbalist/witch but then she sold her soul in a crossroads deal to cure her brother of some lingering illness. 10 years of happiness and then boom, hellhounds. WQ is so obviously competent, though, that they (Lilith, I guess?) immediately offers her a job, with the promise threat that gee, that’s a nice brother you’ve got there, even with his Designated Chronic Health Condition getting all relapse-y. It’d be such a shame if something were to...happen to him...

we find this out at some point in last s3 I guess? some Monster of the Week case involves WN as a witness or something, or possible next victim, and WQ shows up to be A Normal Amount Of Invested In This, while desperately trying to avoid actually interacting with her brother (who thinks she’s dead). YES, the truth comes out; YES there’s a tearful reunion

now in s4, Wen Ning is fine actually, health-wise, bc he maybe made a crossroads deal with Wei Wuxian personally, and Wen Qing may or may not have admitted that she’s supposed to be working for Lilith to get WWX ready to host Lucifer? Or potentially that comes out later, idk. Either way, she’s 100% his top lieutenant in this exciting Hell War they’re waging

[insert whatever the hell (ha) happened plot-wise in s4 of supernatural]

we obviously mix up the relationships, too, bc it’s like, *LWJ internal monologue* I’m too young to remember my brother Lucifer as he was before he Fell, but surely Wei Wuxian is his Heir and Destined Vessel in truth, for he is Charismatic and Charming and Makes Me Feel Things, with his Clearly Feigned Righteous Drive and Compassion for All God’s Creatures and - why does heat keep pooling in the lower abdomen of my vessel when I look at his lips, which I am definitely doing a Normal and Not-Weird Amount - I’m just keeping an eye out for the famed Silver Tongue, and not in any way wondering how it would feel in my own mouth -

it’s actually DEFINITELY plausible for Lucifer to still be released even if our designated Heir Apparent is using his demon powers to his full potential and no one’s lying to each other about their motives. You just need to let Lilith be more scary too, and especially bc by “no one” I mostly mean Wen Qing; the angels are still totally hiding the fact that they, too, want to jumpstart the shit out of this apocalypse.  LWJ decides at the last minute that that’s a bad idea actually, gets himself discorporated to send JC to intercept WWX because he accidentally releases Lucifer, etc. etc. Oh yeah, the boys were def fighting before this, bc JC has actually fairly reasonable concerns about the sort of things WWX is getting up to in his quest to become King of Hell...

SO

...I neither know nor care what happens in s5

it does end with both Lucifer and Michael locked in the cage probably, bc I rather liked that solution. Fuck both of ‘em, basically.

I was toying with the idea that WWX also found Madam Yu in whatever hellish torment she was suffering after making a deal so her idiot son(s) would survive, and she was leading forces for him in the war against Lilith as well. If she came back to life somehow, body and all, it’d probably be compelling if she offered her own body to Michael - bc it’s her lineage! - and we’re all led to believe that she’s, uh, being a bitch and actually wants to risk destroying the world in order to destroy all demons...but then she seizes back control and flings herself/Michael and Lucifer into the Pit, because she’s just That Hardcore?

which means we’d actually have had her around and having characterization for most of s4-5, too, which would be fun

More importantly, it ends with newly crowned King of Hell Wei Wuxian appointing Wen Qing as Queen-Regent and ditching to go on an indefinite honeymoon with his new angel boyfriend (they’re going to fuck for like three weeks straight, then roll up their sleeves and go conquer Heaven in the name of free will), and Jiang Cheng gets to live out his hitherto-unknown-to-himself life’s ambition to be the sugar baby of the Queen of Hell. It’s very Hades/Persephone, except he goes back down to the underworld at least once a month. He gets his own demon squad whom he trains up in all the hunting techniques and it’s gr9. Wen Qing is reforming the crossroads deal process to make it more fair to the humans.

the end

Addenda:

it should go without saying but Jiang Yanli is definitely a recurring character, like, at least once a season there’s a filler episode where they go to Jiang Yanli’s for dinner and have to get along as a family, and also do the much easier job of defeating some sort of terrible demon that gets loose in the bunker and turns the evening into a horror movie. She’s their main research/emotional check-in person, a la Bobby, more often appearing in later seasons when there’s, uhhh, more to emotionally check in about.

Jin Zixuan is actually a perfectly competent hunter; he’s just a priss and we don’t Like him

we like Mianmian, though. Oh, I guess the official Hunter’s Guild or w/e tries to declare WWX a public enemy on account of the whole “King of Hell” thing and she’s like “actually what if you’re morons and assholes?” and joins hte team in s4 or 5? Yeah.

idk how the 3zun disaster happens in this ‘verse but I do encourage it to be happening in slow motion as a recurring subplot for several seasons. NMJ is a hunter, LXC is obv an angel, and JGY is...I wanna say one of the more human monsters, like a vampire? Or, you know, something that could be born from JGS sleeping with someone/something he shouldn’t have

[gingermintpepper]

After thinking it over for a bit, I've decided that I might as well do a proper underrated 3DS game rec list. I'm a bit of an ATLUS junkie and that's gonna be pretty disgustingly apparent in this list, but it's not my fault that they released hit after hit and all of them were duly ignored.

Due to tumblr's 10 image limit (and my struggle to keep motivated to do one thing for more than three hours) I'm definitely gonna have to break this up into parts and I'm fairly certain one of these lists is just gonna be MegaTen games lmao but I'd like to let people know about these excellent titles and see if I can't at least get people interested in them so they can get more traction.

So, without further ado:

Some 3DS Games that were criminally slept on (part 1)

Monster Hunter Stories

God, where do I begin with this game. Well, the basics: It's a JRPG spinoff title of the now widely successful and popular Monster Hunter series featuring a different take on interacting with the varied and intricate monsters populating the world: Riders.

Yep, instead of hunting the beasties, you play as a young rider who's completed their intiation ritual and can now bond with 'Monsties' as they've cutely labelled the usually ferocious monsters of the wilds. The great thing is that you still fight Monsters--tons of them in fact but this isn't a paid review and in my humble opinion, the most impressive thing about this game is the visual style. The landscapes, the armour, the way they redesigned and 3DS-ified the classically hyper realistic and monstrous beasts to not only be absolutely adorable but still capable of being intimidating when the time calls for it, the stellar animation of special moves and combination attacks--it's delicious, nutritious, stupendous, I can and will consume it like it's part of my recommended caloric intake.

It's very akin to Pokemon in the way its basic gameplay premise is set up, however, instead of catching--or even indeed befriending--the Monsties in the game, you rummage through their nests and steal their eggs, later hatching them and getting yourself a brand new lightly kidnapped monster pal!

Other general things about the game:

Pros:

The armour and weapon sets for both male and female characters slap along with the general character customisation options. They're incredibly diverse (though limited in body type) and you can switch around traits and features whenever you want from your house.

The POGS--these porkers are everywhere and they serve as tiny little achievements for exploring every odd and end of the world. Also they have little outfits. They're so cute. 🥺🥺

You can actually ride the Monsties. All of em. Or, at least the ones that you have available to be your buddies. They all have exploration skills and traits that not only make exploring much more interesting but encourage you to swap out your active Monstie and play around with your options a bit.

Y'all breeding Monsties is complicated and I live for just how intense and ridiculous you can get with optimal builds for these things.

The story is really competently put together! The characters, character designs and even the internal conflict with your starting trio of characters is really compelling along with the mystery of the blight that's infecting Monsters across the world. It's not anything worth awards but it's compelling and it makes you care about the characters if that's what you're in the market for.

Amazing sound design, expansive world, everything about the presentation of this game oozes that Monster Hunter charm even if the art is cutesier than usual. You'll never get bored of its stellar visual presentation!

Available for around twenty quid on the Google Play store, so if you want, you could actually get the full game on your smartphone or tablet. Note though that it would be a battery nuker.

Cons:

If you're on a regular 3DS, frame rate drops are a given. This game kinda pushes the visual capabilities of the 3DS to its absolute limit--a lot like Okamiden did back on the DS.

One save file :( It's pretty much for the same reason as above but still.

If you're playing as the girl, you can't get male armour and vice versa. Since there's only one save file, you'll never be able to have all of the armour sets in a single playthrough and that's criminal because both of the sets for the genders are absolutely breath-taking, thank you.

I 👏can't 👏make👏my👏 own 👏Palico👏

Multi-player for this game is pretty dead seeing as it's almost five years old by now and never got much press or traction. Usually this wouldn't be an issue - this game is 99% singleplayer and you don't really need to fuss about with multi-player to have fun, but if you want to collect all the Monsties, you'll need it since the only way to get Glavenus is through pvp achievements. :/

Final thoughts: Play it if you find yourself getting tired or disappointed with 3DS Pokemon games but still want something that feels as fantastical as Pokemon. It outshines the 3DS Pokemon games at every turn and I will never be over just how thoughtfully put together and fully realised these games are. Of course, if you've ever played Monster Hunter, then you know just how intensive these games are with the lore, biology, cultures and world of their Monsters but seeing that translated into JRPG format was just very sobering and it's a game that, to this day, continues to awe me with just how much love and attention went into it.

Last note: If you're still unsure about it, there's a demo available on the e-shop of the 3DS that allows you to play through the entire initial area of the game. Your data does carry through to the full release and to give you an idea of how much I've been able to squeeze out of it - my playtime for that demo is currently sitting at 22 hours. Make sure to get a hold of that Cyan-Kut-Ku!

7th Dragon III Code: VFD

The title may sound intimidating but the premise is not! A mysterious disease called Dragon Sickness spread by the Dragonsbane flowers that have cropped up all around the world. You and your team are recruited by the Nodens game company after you display extraordinary prowess in their hit virtual reality game 7th Encount. As you go through the adventure, you are tasked with finding out the truth behind the Dragon Sickness and asked to stop both it and the Dragons that are destroying the world.

This game is fun. It's another turn-based JRPG however, in this game you create all of your characters yourself from the myriad of classes available to you from the jump. Different classes of course have very different specialisations - Samurai focus on high powered cutting damage with their swords, Duelists are summoners who can influence the element of the battlefield as well as summon monsters from each element, Agents can hack into your enemies and inflict a barrage of nasty ailments, just to name a few - and you are given three teams of three characters each to experiment with different team comps and find the balance that works for you. There's also a wide variety of Dragons to hunt and kill in the game, which directly affects how infected your world is with the Dragon Sickness causing Dragonsbane. Along the way you will also come into contact with many interesting characters, concepts and confrontations that will make the task of saving the world all the more imperative.

Pros

1. The character creator and differing classes give way for tons of experimenting and playing around with your own unique approach to combat and carrying out your missions. Granted, 'character creation' is generous, it's little more than palatte swaps but the classes are really where VFD shines. Eight main classes may not sound like a lot, but the expaniveness of the character skills, their synergy with their fellow classes and the uniqueness of some of the classes in and of itself allows for so much flexibility and creativity in approaches to even tougher bosses. It also encourages the switching about of your party members to really finagle with the options available to you.

2. God this game is pretty. The locations, the character art, the creature design - all of it is gorgeous and this game capitalises on every bit of the 3DS's presentation limitations as it can.

3. You can romance anything and everyone - yes, you can even be gay/lesbian/poly in this game. In fact, one of the main characters - Julietta - is gnc and he's a constant source of joy as well one of my personal favourite characters, right behind Yuma.

4. Exploration is very very forgiving as the game has healing spots and teleport nodes all over the world to allow for quick, seamless travel between quest points without feeling like anything is too much of a hassle. There are also special enemies that allow for quick grinding as well as quick farming of money. In general, the game does a really good job of making sure that the grind is never unbearable or inconsiderate of your time.

Cons:

1. This is the fourth game in a series the West has never seen any other title for, and from the looks of it, will probably never see any other titles for. Because of that, there are some elements that may seem confusing or revelations in the plot that may seem to come out of nowhere.

2. While the visuals are great, the OST of this one is pretty short making for a lot of reused soundtracks that can get really annoying if you're like me and need your audio to be interesting or consistent so it doesn't distract you too much.

3. This one isn't really a con but it is divisive: This game gets pretty difficult at times. A few of the main dragon enemies including and especially the final boss can give you a serious run for your money in the annoy-o-meter in terms of the kind of absolute JRPG fuckery they can pull out of their magic bag of bullshit movesets and while I generally enjoy that kind of thing, I know it's not for everyone. Most regular combat shouldn't be too tricky once you have a team comp that works well together but you also need to pay attention since the same team that carries you to victory one time might be worth beans against another dragon.

Final thoughts: This is... a really good game. Interesting story, really interesting characters, pretty world and a battle system that really makes you sit down and think. There's also a demo for this available in the e-shop and while your data doesn't carry over - you do receive multiple perks for carrying over your demo data including some exclusive items that, while not game breaking, do help a ton in the early stages of the game.

This isn't a final list by any stretch of the word; I only have the energy to do these two right now, but the next games up for coverage are Ever Oasis and Stella Glow! If you're interested in my full plan of games I want to cover here then my current lineup includes: Theatrhythm: Curtain Call, Project Mirai: Deluxe, Culdecept Revolt, Alliance Alive, Radiant Historia: Perfect Chronology, Etrian Odyssey V, Devil Survivor 2: Record Breaker and Shin Megami Tensei IV: Apocalypse.

Finally, if anyone has played any of the games I mention, cover or plan to cover PLEASE REACH OUT TO ME, I AM SO LONELY IN MY FORTRESS OF SAND. On a serious note, I'd love to hear what other people who've played these games think!

Thanks for reading,

-Ginger

PS: @feralpeacock Because a million years ago, on my first underrated games post, you asked that I remember you. :D

[takerfoxx]

The Owl House, Season 2, Episode 1, "Stranger Tides," First Impressions!

Yo ho, yo ho, it's a pirate's whaler's life for Luz!

Now, if you'll recall, a common problem I ran into while reviewing season 1 is that while I was definitely enjoying it, it was so episodic that I often found it difficult to find something new to say about each episode. There wasn't a whole lot carrying over from one episode to the next that I could really sink my teeth into and fill out a full review, with the plot not really kicking in until the final two episodes.

Fortunately, I did not have that problem here, and now that season 2 has started, I have PLENTY to say about its debut episode.

So, this is what you'd expect for the first episode of the new season, an episode basically intended to bring everyone up to speed on how the characters are dealing with the ramifications of the previous season and introduce a few new elements that will set the tone for the season to come.

And basically, things at the Owl House are...not really great. I mean, sure, everyone got away and it looks like Emperor Belos hasn't really made their recapture a priority (most likely deliberately), but thanks to Lilith deciding to share Eda's curse to neutralize it, they both have found themselves powerless. They're not completely without magic, but what they have left is so meager to be practically useless. All expect for Eda's detachable limbs. Those still work. For Luz, as she never had magic to begin with and had to work extra hard to get around that handicap and find ways to keep up with everyone else, that means she's suddenly the breadwinner of the family, the one with the most power despite living with two (previously) notoriously powerful witches, and thus has taken up bounty hunting (sort of ironic, if you ask me). For Lilith, that means coming to terms with losing literally everything important to her, from her power to her position as the Emperor's Coven's poster girl, having been replaced by a spoiled teen prodigy (and oh, ho, ho, we will get to him!) as well as her own feelings of guilt for having cursed Eda in the first place.

Actually, guilt is the main motivator in this episode. Luz feels guilty for having gotten Eda trapped and that Eda now has to prioritize what little money they have for Luz's sake, which motivates her to take on more and more dangerous bounties to try to make it up to her. And Lilith feels rotten for the curse and that the fix ended up sapping Eda's powers, so she's driven to find some way of making herself useful, which fills out this episode's A-plot and B-plot.

Meanwhile, Eda herself is...handling things like a champ, actually. Sure, she's not thrilled about losing her power, nor does she care for the sudden dip in respect from the locals as a result, but she's not wallowing in self-pity. No, she's working and innovating, finding ways to adapt and keep ahead of the game. And to rip off the Empire too, because fuck those guys.

So anyway! Let's start with our A-plot: Luz the bounty hunter. She's doing her best to keep her spirits up and keep food on the table, but bounty hunting is a tough job and because everyone knows that Eda is powerless, the bondsman has no problem ripping them off because he knows he can get away with it. Furthermore, with the portal gone, Luz's messages to her mom aren't getting through, which is weighing on her mind.

Okay, we already know that Luz's mom is probably going to get involved this season. I predict that at some point, Emperor Belos completes his repairs of the portal, and when he does, all those unsent message will suddenly spill out all at once, giving good ol' Mama a heart attack.

Sort've serves her right though, because, you know, G-RATED CONVERSION THERAPY!

But anyway, she overhears Eda talking about eschewing her booze in favor of getting Luz food she can actually eat, so she resolves to make it up to her by taking on the biggest bounty of them all, which so happens to be a magical creature called a Selkie-dama, which requires her to join a ship that's setting out to do that so she could get a cut.

A ship that just so happens to be under the command of Lilith's replacement, who also so happens to be the mysterious spy working for Emperor Belos that we met last season, whom we will get to!

Anyway, they fortunately rush through the bit of Luz proving herself to the crew, because who cares, King finds out agent's private room (in a reveal that calls back to a similar scene in Gravity Falls) and gets captured, and they find the Selkie-Dama, in which Luz shows us how far she's come by utterly wrecking shit.

Unfortunately, the bounty is stolen by a mysterious figure, and Luz isn't about to get ripped off again, so she goes after them, only to find that that SURPRISE, it's Eda, who figured she'd cut out the middleman and just steal the bounty directly, because you have to admit that that does make sense.

But anyway, none of that matters, because that's when HE finally is properly introduced.

Hear that? That's the sound of thousands of thirsty fangirls (and quite a few fanboys and fanenbys as well) shrieking.

Meet the Golden Guard. Yes, he's arrogant. Yes, he's sassy as fuck. Yes, he's voiced by Zeno Robinson. And according to his brief appearance in the OP...

HE'S A PALE-HAIRED PRETTY BOY, Y'ALL!!!

So. We now have this season's small antagonist.

And since Luz is the only resident of the Owl House with any real power (Hooty aside, but we'll get to that) and now with Amity as Luz's close friend (more on that later as well), that makes him Luz's new rival! Ooooh, I can smell the Enemies to Lovers fics already!

Yeah, it's gonna be a HUGE ship, but that's no prediction, everyone knew that anyway.

But while I doubt they're actually going to get together (though count on our bi-queen Luz getting smitten once she sees his face), I do smell a redemption arc for this guy. I mean, why would they make him so likeable otherwise?

Yes, he was a jerk, but he was a jerk in an endearingly entertaining sort of way.

But beyond that, I do note that he also has a tech-powered staff (seems to be the same one that held the palisman that Belos fed off of last season, but with an upgrade), and wields the same flesh-based magic as well. Now, his ears do show that he's not a human, but I still wonder if all that tech magic (which has to be manipulating the flesh of the Titan itself) is either a crutch for the magicless or a shortcut for those who want power fast.

Also, in addition to slotting in as Luz's rival, he also has taken Lilith's place as the face of the Emperor's Coven and also uses Eda's "BYYYEEEEE!!!" catchphrase, he's set up to be a foil to just about everybody!

Anyway, he's not here to take them out just yet, but instead forces them to kill the Selkie-dama. They don't, of course, and instead trick him into thinking that they did, but it does show that 1. Emperor Belos is content to leave them be for the moment, and 2. Emperor Belos is seeking the destruction of magical creatures. Huh.

Also, called it on Luz becoming Eda's teacher when it comes to glyphs.

But speaking of rivals and ships, the question over all of this is Amity, who's been MIA with a broken leg for a while. No doubt she's not going to be upset about Luz being stuck in the Boiling Isles, but if Luz does start crushing on Prettyboy Golden Guard, I can see her feel all sorts of upset about that. I still thinking that Lumity is endgame, but now she's got to work for it, and there is going to be angst.

Anyway, our B-plot has Lilith trying to make things up for Eda, by putting together a scrying potion to spy on the Emperor's castle. Nice, will probably be important later, but the real important part, in addition to her getting over her pride (not an easy thing) was the surprisingly touching friendship she's building with Hooty of all people! I didn't see this coming, but they honestly have some great comedic chemistry.

And honestly, I can see it. Lilith's first introduction to Hooty was him opening a can of whoopass on her and her men, and now he does it again to save her from the fire bees. Sure, he's weird and annoying, but he's strong and competent as hell, something that she would naturally respect. I honestly like what they have building, and the Lulu and Hooticifer nicknames were adorable.

And now, onto our brief glimpse of Belos, who still managed to steal the whole damned episode with just a few words. We see he's gone that long, white hair thing going for him, so not a rogue palisman. So, human or shortcut-exploiting conman. Regardless, just as he seems content to leave the Owl House be despite Luz having the key (which will definitely be important later), he also seems aware of the scrying, and has no problem letting it go on.

Okay, this season is shaping up to be a great one. And next episode is an Amity episode, in which her parents meet Luz, so let's fucking GOOOOOOOOOOO!!! on the Lumity teases and oh God NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!! on the awkward cringe comedy that is sure to result!

[bubonickitten]

Fic summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Full chapter text & content warnings below the cut.

Content warnings for Chapter 29: discussion of Jon’s & Daisy’s restrictive diets & associated physical/mental deterioration (and potential parallels with disordered eating etc.); arguing & relationship disputes (that are not immediately resolved in-chapter); self-harm (burning oneself with a lit cigarette); cigarette smoking; discussion of suicidal ideation; panic & anxiety symptoms; discussions of grief & loss; cyclical mental health issues (post-traumatic anniversary reactions; related self-loathing, internalized victim blaming, & survivor’s guilt; generally speaking, Jon’s relapsing into self-isolating, worse-than-usual headspace, esp towards the end of the chapter); depiction of parental neglect/rejection (Martin's mother). SPOILERS through S5.

There’s also a Hunt-themed statement that contains descriptions of indiscriminate violence & unprovoked warfare against a civilian population. Oh, and a cliffhanger.

Let me know if I missed anything!

_________________

“Statements ends,” Jon says, somewhat breathless as he fumbles to stop the recording.

“You alright?” Daisy asks.

“Fine.” The word is punctuated by a click and a whirr as the recorder resumes spooling.

“Are you, though?”

“Yes.” Scowling, Jon jabs his finger at the stop button – only for it to keep recording.

“It’s the Hunt, isn’t it.” Daisy sighs, rubbing the back of her neck. “Sorry it’s been so prominent for the last few. I’m… not quite scraping the bottom of the barrel yet, but–”

“It’s fine, Daisy.”

“Still, I–”

“I said it’s fine–!” Jon winces at his sharp tone. “I’m sorry, that was… I’m just – on edge, I suppose.”

Which is an understatement, really.

Because it’s September. It’s September, and after September is October, and October is–

Well. These days, he can’t even look at a calendar – can’t even look at the time and date on his phone – without icy dread coursing through his veins.

Sporadic flashbacks have become an everyday occurrence, set off by the smallest of stimuli: a dropped glass shattering on the breakroom floor becomes a window bursting inward into shards; a thunderstorm heralds a fissuring sky, marred by hundreds upon thousands of greedy, unblinking voyeurs; his own voice is a doomsday harbinger, a key crammed into a lock he can’t keep from unbolting. The memories are too immediate, too vivid to feel past-tense.

It’s to be expected. Studies, common knowledge, and anecdotal evidence all point to the impact of anniversaries on mental health. He knows what a textbook post-traumatic stress response looks like. Monster or not, in this particular sense he remains overwhelmingly human. No matter how much he rationalizes it, though, intellectually understanding a psychological phenomenon does little to soften the lived experience of it.

And it does nothing to temper the chilling knowledge – bordering on conviction – that it may happen again.

“Would be worrisome if you weren’t stressed out, considering… you know. Everything.” Daisy leans back in her chair, stretches her legs out in front of her, and rolls her shoulders. “Speaking of the Hunt. Any new developments?”

“I mean… nothing since yesterday? Everything I know, Basira knows.”

“Basira… isn’t keeping me updated,” Daisy says, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

“Ah,” Jon says, with tact to spare. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”

“It’s fine.”

“Is it?”

Daisy sighs. “She thinks that I think she’s wasting her time.”

“And do you?”

Daisy gives a jerky shrug. “Don’t you?”

“Not… necessarily,” Jon hedges. Truthfully, his answer to that question is as mercurial as his moods these days, shifting from hour to hour, sometimes minute to minute. Daisy gives him an unimpressed look. “I won’t lie and say I’m optimistic, but that doesn’t mean it’s not worth trying.”

“You sound like Martin.”

“Well, he spent ample time drilling it into me,” Jon says with a wry smile. “I don’t have the same capacity for hope as he does, but improbable doesn’t mean impossible. If I’d had it my way, I’d have lain down and died ages ago. I’m only here now because of him.”

“Mental health check,” Daisy says automatically.

“Not thinking of hurting myself,” Jon replies, just as rote. “You don’t have to do that, you know. I’ve told you, I’m physically incapable of killing myself even if I wanted to.”

“That doesn’t stop you brooding.”

“Anyway, I wasn’t referring to anything recent.”

“Weren’t you, though?” At his blank look, Daisy gives an impatient sigh. “It hasn’t even been a year since you woke up, Sims. Up until six months ago, you were wandering an apocalyptic wasteland–”

“…I found myself utterly alone. Facing down a room full of nothing eyes, willing myself to take action. I never did, though–”

“–I wanted to act, to help, to do something, but – my mind had all but seized up, and I felt helpless to do anything but watch as events progressed–”

“–there was nothing I could do to save him – he died – so did any hope I had of – doing good in the world–”

“–there’s a sort of numbness that you adopt after months or years of bombing–”

“–I did spend a lot of time just… slumped in despair – had no reason to think it would help, but I could see no choice but waiting for death–”

“–hoping against hope that – it wouldn’t be forever–”

“Hey!” Daisy’s voice finally breaks through the rush of static. Or perhaps it was the pressure: Jon looks down to see her bony fingers caging his own in a bruising grip.

“Sorry,” he says, catching himself as he starts to list woozily.

“Not to say ‘I told you so,’ but…” Daisy gives his hands another light squeeze. “You sort of just proved my point there.”

“I’m well aware that I’m – traumatized, or whatever–”

“Not ‘or whatever’–”

“–but I’m not a danger to myself, so could we please just move on?” Jon mumbles, averting his eyes. “You wanted a Hunt update.”

Daisy scrutinizes him for a long moment before she allows the conversational pivot to stand.

“Basira said you’ve heard back from that Head Librarian,” she says, “but she blew me off when I started prying.”

“Zhang Xiaoling,” Jon says, his shoulders relaxing. “She was able to confirm some of Jonah’s intel. They do have a statement about a book matching that description in their records, and she agreed to forward a copy once it’s been digitized. They’re further along in their digitization process than we are–”

Daisy snorts. “Probably because they’re actually working on it.”

“That, and they have the benefit of a Head Librarian who actually has a background in archival studies,” Jon says drily. “In any case, they have a large archive, so it’s a work in progress. She’s processed our inquiry, though, and she says she has someone on it. We should hear back by tomorrow at the latest.”

“Huh,” Daisy says. “Sounds…”

“Like a functioning archive?”

“I was going to say ‘streamlined,’ but sure.”

“The wonders of a hiring process that prioritizes job qualifications as opposed to a candidate’s apocalyptic potential.”

“What are the chances their institution is also led by a centuries-old corpse with a god complex?”

“Non-zero, I imagine.”

Daisy wrinkles her nose. “Ugh, don’t say that.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t have evidence one way or the other.”

“It doesn’t. Does she know about…” Daisy waves her hand vaguely. “All of this? The Fears, Rituals… Jonah?”

The question gives Jon pause. He thinks back to his meeting with Xiaoling all those years ago – well, last June, from her perspective.

“Some of it, I think,” he says slowly. “She seemed familiar with some of the Archivist’s abilities. There were parts of my visit that struck me as odd at the time. I didn’t realize until later that she had been speaking both Chinese and English at different points in our conversation.”

Daisy frowns. “She didn’t clue you in?”

“She didn’t, no. But…”

Elias made a good choice, the Librarian’s voice echoes in Jon’s mind. I did offer him someone, but he thought the language might be too much for him.

It does tickle me, Jonah’s voice chimes in, that in this world of would-be occult dynasties and ageless monsters, the Chosen One is simply that – someone I chose.

“I don’t know if she’s aware of Elias’ true identity.” Jon swallows with some difficulty, his mouth suddenly dry. “Or his intentions.”

“So is it really smart to trust her?”

“If she’s in communication with him, there’s nothing she can tell him that he doesn’t already know. We’re just following up on information he gave us. And he’s likely spying on our correspondence whether she’s in contact with him or not. Not much we can do about that.”

“She could have her own ulterior motives,” Daisy says.

“True enough, but… I got the sense that her primary interest is curation. Studying phenomena, building a knowledge base–”

“In service to cosmic evil,” Daisy says pointedly.

“W-well, yes, but – I don’t think she has delusions of godhood herself, and I don’t think Jonah has tempted her with the idea.” Jon huffs to himself. “He wouldn’t want to share his throne.”

“Hm.”

“I’m not saying we trust her or the Research Centre as a whole. I had reservations about their motives then and I still do. It’s not unthinkable that they’re a front for something more sinister in the same way that the Institute is. But… I don’t think there’s any especial danger in utilizing their library.”

“Sims,” Daisy sighs, “your danger meter is broken beyond repair.”

“In my defense,” Jon says, bracing one arm on the desk to leverage himself to his feet, “at this point, everything is just differing degrees of dangerous.”

As the two of them leave the tunnels, Jon’s phone buzzes in his pocket. When he glances at the screen, he sees a text notification from Naomi – in addition to two missed calls. He frowns to himself. The two of them text regularly, but she rarely calls.

“What’s up?” Daisy asks, her brow furrowing in concern.

“Naomi,” Jon says distractedly, already returning the call. Naomi picks up on the first ring.

“Jon?” Naomi’s voice sounds thick and tear-clogged.

A cold weight settles in Jon’s stomach. “What’s wrong?”

“I j-just” – Naomi pauses to clear her throat – “just needed to hear a familiar voice.”

“What happened?” Jon asks – and realizes too late that in his urgency to discover the source of her distress, he’s poured too much of himself into the question.

“Nothing.” What starts out as a self-deprecating little laugh quickly deteriorates into a half-sob. “Nothing new, anyway. It’s always like this, this time of year. Evan and I didn’t have an exact date planned, but we’d talked about an autumn wedding. Thought it would be fitting, since we met in September, you know? Tomorrow is our anniversary, actually. Or – or it would’ve been. A-and then by the time I’ve picked myself back up, the holidays will have crept up on me, and that’s always hard, and – and then before I know it, it’s March, a-and that’s its own kind of anniversary, and it’s just… it’s a lot.”

“Oh, I – Naomi, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–”

“It’s fine,” she says with a sniff. “Don’t think I would’ve been able to get it all out, otherwise.”

“S-still, I–”

“It’ll be three years this March. And it still feels like it was yesterday. I spend six months out of the year feeling like I’m still stumbling through that cemetery, and I just…”

This time last year, Jon thinks with a lurch, I was still the monster in her nightmares.

And even now, he still pulls her there whenever they’re both asleep.

“When does that stop?” Naomi laughs again, a desperate, pleading thing. “When does the healing come in?”

“I… I don’t know,” Jon says truthfully. “Anniversaries are… they’re hard enough on their own. It doesn’t help that… well, it’s difficult to heal from something when you’re still living it.”

“What do you mean? Evan’s dead,” Naomi says, her voice breaking on the word. “He’s not coming back. It’s… it’s over.”

“There are still the dreams. The narrative might have changed, but the stage dressing is still the same.” Jon draws his shoulders in, one arm pressed tight to his stomach. “Keeping the memory fresh.”

“It’s not so bad.” Naomi sniffles again. “Better than being alone.”

“‘Alone’ or ‘nightmares’ shouldn’t be your only options.”

“I have my own nightmares, you know,” Naomi counters, sounding slightly annoyed. “When I’m asleep and you’re not. And they’re worse, because in them, I actually am alone. Nothing supernatural about it. It’s just… me.” She sighs. “This time last year – and the year before – I didn’t have anyone. And I just… I didn’t – I don’t want to be alone.”

“You’re not,” Jon says. “Not anymore.”

“I – I know, but I…” Naomi takes a breath. “I was… I was thinking – maybe tomorrow I could come by.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says gently, “truly I am – but it’s not safe. Especially for you, especially right now. Not with Peter here.”

Naomi is already the equivalent of an unfinished meal to the Lonely. That, together with her association with Jon, is more than enough to mark her as a potential target should Peter take notice of her.

“Feels safer than being alone,” Naomi says. “The Duchess helps – a lot – but I…” She lets out a fond but tearful chuckle. “I can’t expect her to grasp the nuances of… grief, or loneliness, or what have you.”

“How about this,” Jon says. “We tell Georgie what’s going on – as much or as little as you’d like, even if it’s as simple as ‘I don’t want to be alone right now.’ I doubt she’d be opposed to having you over.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose. I mean, I – I’ve not spent much time with her outside of just… spamming the group chat with cat photos. I like her, but she’s your friend. I’m just… a friend of a friend.”

Nestled between the words is a familiar sentiment, unarticulated and nonetheless resounding, echoing all of the earnest conviction it had when first she made such a confession: All my friends had been his friends, and once he was gone it didn’t feel right to see them. I know, I’m sure they wouldn’t have minded, they would have said they were my friends too, but I could never bring myself to try. It felt more comfortable, more familiar, to be alone…

“People can have more than one friend,” Jon says. “I can’t speak for Georgie, but she wouldn’t go out of her way to talk to you if she didn’t like you.”

Indeed, that might be the reason Jon was able to open up to Georgie in the first place. He observed early on that she had no qualms disengaging from people whom she had no interest in getting to know. Whatever Jon might have felt about himself on any given day, the simple fact of the matter was that Georgie would never have let him get so close if she hadn’t seen something redeeming in him.

And she likely wouldn’t be letting him stay close now if she didn’t still see something worth salvaging.

“It’s up to you, of course,” he says. “I won’t pressure you. But I think Georgie would be more receptive to friendship than you expect. And I think – I think you’d get along with Melanie, too.” Naomi is silent on the other end of the line. “At the risk of overstepping, I… I know being alone feels like the natural state of things, but it doesn’t have to be. If you want, I can talk to Georgie. Lay the groundwork. I won’t give her any of the details – it’s not my story to tell – I’ll just let her know that you’re feeling alone and could use some companionship.”

“Okay,” Naomi whispers. “Just… let her know she’s not obligated.”

“I will. On the extremely off chance she says no, or if she’s busy tomorrow, I can keep you company remotely. We can spend the whole day holding up the office landline if you want.”

“It’s a Friday.”

“And?”

“It’s a work day?”

“Naomi, my job is wholly comprised of monologuing to any tape recorder that manifests within a six-foot radius and doing my utmost to render my department as counterproductive to both the Institute’s professed and clandestine organizational objectives as humanly or inhumanly possible.” Naomi barks out a startled laugh. “I won’t be fired no matter what I do – which is a shame, seeing as it became my foremost professional development goal somewhere between finding out my boss murdered my predecessor and virtually dying in an explosion at a haunted wax museum. Barring a sudden and unexpected apocalyptic threat – which, admittedly, is unlikely but not unthinkable– I’ve already cleared my non-existent schedule for you.”

“Okay.” Naomi makes a sound somewhere between a sniffle and a chuckle. “Thanks. Really.”

“Any time.”

_________________

The statement is an unnerving, circuitous thing: a firsthand account from an unnamed member of the Drake-Norris expedition in 1589. In many ways, it’s eerily similar to the last statement Jon accessed from Pu Songling’s archives: Second Lieutenant Charles Fleming’s shellshocked, guilt-fueled confession of atrocities committed under orders.

The historical record is rife with accounts of Francis Drake’s cruelty, Jon knows: his role in the transatlantic slave trade, the unprovoked massacres committed in his name, the preemptive strikes that incited further bloodshed. The statement giver speaks in awestruck horror of the bloodlust lurking in the man’s eyes, the vitriolic fervor with which he undertook his campaign to seek out and destroy the remnants of the Spanish fleet – and the depths of his rage when his efforts ended in defeat. Humiliated, he turned his vengeful eye to the Galician estuaries.

The writer tells plainly of his own complicity in the sacking of Vigo, razing the town to the ground and slaughtering its inhabitants with indiscriminate zeal. For four days Drake’s men carried out their rampage, retreating only when reinforcements arrived to stem the tide.

“You may ask yourself,” the Archivist reads on, “how it is that a man born into the reign of Good Queen Bess sits before you today, some four centuries past his due?

“You see, as we left the shores of Galicia that day, I heard from behind us a vicious braying, as if someone had set loose a great host of hounds. They were close – close enough for me to sense their stinking breath hot on the back of my neck. Such a thing was impossible, for we were by that time far from shore, having already rowed half the distance between the beach and the waiting armada. That did not stop me dreading the dogs lunging and tearing into me at any moment.

“I am not ashamed to admit that I let out a whimper.

“As the seconds ticked by and the pack failed to descend upon us, my curiosity grew to outweigh my terror. I turned to look – and was thus ensnared. It was, I realize now, the instant at which I became beholden to the blood. My greatest folly.

“Perhaps I oughtn’t have been so surprised to see no hounds surging toward us atop the waves, but you must understand that the proximity of their snarling was far more convincing than their visual absence. In looking behind us, though, I was able to appreciate the havoc we left in our wake: the great plumes of ash rising from the smoldering rubble, backlit by a flickering orange glow, and wails of despair so profound as to combat the noise of the wind, the waves – even the discordant shrieking of the hounds.

“It was a scene of such devastation as I had never seen before or since. Looking back, I think upon the acrid stench of charred flesh on the breeze with horror and… indescribable remorse. It shames me now to admit that at that time, I had never felt such… rapture.

“That was when a motion caught my eye. Between the distance and the billowing smoke, it should have been impossible to discern such detail, yet there he was: quarry I had left for dead, emerging from the debris and staggering away from the ruins of his… wretched life. As he looked out to behold our retreat, I could see the grief playing on his face, the fury, the fear – but what most set my blood to boiling was the spark of relief I saw in his eyes.

“It awakened something in me – a famished and merciless thing, composed of tooth and claw and a mind beginning and ending and utterly encompassed by the call of the pack. With a roaring in my ears and a single-minded violence supplanting my sensibilities, I deserted the rowboat and swam to shore. A chorus of howls carried me forward, and I let them be my wings, steering me down the swiftest, straightest path to my target.

“I slowed for nothing, and I made certain my prey did not live through the night.

“As you can likely guess, the chase did not end there. Those baying devils who had so called me forth continued to hound my steps, nipping at my heels, spurring me ever onward to the next quarry. Those who once knew me would scarcely have recognized what I became. Whenever I dared look into a mirror, I would see in myself a dogged, seething violence so akin to that which had lived in the eyes of my former commander. A cruelty that once had frightened and repulsed me had become the blood and breath of me.

“For a time I sought to refrain from the chase. The longer I refused the call, the weaker I became. The hounds’ breath on my neck grew hotter; their braying swelled louder. I found myself wasting away: always hungry, never sated. Eventually my faculties began to slip. I would lose myself to such… bestialimpulses, and only the stain of blood on my teeth would return to me my reason. It pains me to confess to you now that it did not take long before I ceased my resistance entirely.

“It was at the turn of the sixteenth century that I happened upon the artefacts now in your possession. Their previous owner was a formidable adversary. I spent nearly a fortnight tracking him before I managed to run him down, and he fought like a tempest before he fell.

“Ordinarily I did not linger after a kill, instinct hastening me ever onward to the next great game. As I turned to leave, though, I was overcome by the sense that the hunt was… unfinished. Troubled, I reached down to check the man’s pulse. I was reassured to find him quite dead, but as I drew back, I noticed the brooch.

“It was a simple thing made of tarnished copper, fashioned into an incomplete ring, the ends of which resembled the heads of dogs. The moment my fingers brushed that ornament, I knew it was meant for me. It went into my pocket with nary a conscious thought.

“The itch of the hunt was still crawling down my spine, though; the frantic snuffling of phantom hounds yet filling the air all around me. I continued to search his person until I found what was calling out to me: a thin volume bound in leather. Curiosity ever my folly, I opened it.

“Up until that point, I had never learned to read nor write Latin with any degree of mastery. Yet I could understand the text within with perfect clarity. The script did not transform to English before my eyes, nor did the book render me proficient in the language. No, I simply… beheld the pages, and the meaning flowed into me.

“The story tells of Herla, legendary king of the Britons, who visits the dwarf king’s realm. Upon leaving, he is gifted a hound and warned not to dismount his horse until the dog leaps down. When Herla and his men return to the human world, they discover that not days but centuries have passed: all those they had known have long since perished, and the Saxons have taken possession of the land. In their distress, some of the men dismount, whereupon they turn to dust. Herla warns the survivors to stay in their saddles, to wait until the dog leaps down.

“‘The dog has not yet alighted,’ the author tells us, ‘and the story says that this King Herla still holds on his mad course with his band in eternal wanderings, without stop or stay.’

“The next several pages are unreadable. The language resembles none I have ever encountered, and I have yet to find a soul who can decipher it. I can however attest its hypnotic qualities. I have spent many hours mired in those words, but I could not for the life of me tell you what I saw there. Others to whom I presented the text found themselves either enthralled or agitated, though none could recall such episodes once lucidity returned to them. I expect you mean to unravel its secrets, but you may do well to let its mystery stand.

“The final passage – a single page, this written in English – tells of Herla’s escape: how, weary and driven to despair, he casts the dog from the saddle and into the River Wye. The instant the hound hits the water, Herla and his band crumble into dust, at last meeting the same fate they spent so many hundreds of years trying to outpace.

“I have had hundreds of years of my own since first reading the tale to digest its message, and that is why I come to you today. Although I have killed several times since these items came into my possession – it should come as no surprise that there are those who covet them – I have not sought out a single hunt since I vanquished the man who yielded me these trinkets. The hounds at my heel have not ceased their clamoring, but so long as the brooch is on my person, they cannot sink their teeth in me. I am always hungry, yes – but I am no longer starving.

“But I am also weary. I have come to understand that even as the hounds can never catch me, they will never leave me. In my four hundred years, I have played the role of both the hunter and the hunted, and have learned that they share the same ultimate plight. Whether I be predator or prey, I am trapped in the throes of an endless pursuit. So long as I should live, my blood shall never quiet.

“And that is the key: so long as I should live. Even now, the fervor in my blood insists that the hunt is eternal, but I know now that one cannot outrun one’s end forever. Much like my constant, howling companions, Death will always be nipping at my heels. In that sense, he is perhaps the ultimate hunter. Just as I have delivered to him so many souls, neither can I escape his judgment. If ever I am to rest, I must bow to his supremacy.

“And so, like Herla, I shall cast the dog away from the saddle. I leave it in your care now, and the book. I should be so lucky to exit this life with the dignity I denied so many others, though I fear I shall be found undeserving of such a swift end. I can only hope that, whatever my comeuppance should be, I shall have the grace to accept it without complaint.”

With a heavy exhale, Jon depresses the stop button on the recorder, then puts his head in his hands, putting pressure on his closed eyes.

“You alright?” Basira asks.

“More than I’d like,” Jon mutters.

“If I thought there was any chance this guy was still alive, I wouldn’t have given you the statement to read.”

“I know. Just…” Jon waves his hand vaguely.

“Unpleasant, yeah.”

And rejuvenating, Jon thinks bitterly. It’s only been a few days since his last statement from Daisy, and already he had begun to feel famished.

“They sent along some supplemental records,” Basira says, rifling through printouts. “The statement is cross-referenced with two objects in their Collections Storage – here.”

The document she slides across the desk contains two catalog listings:

Item No. 9820702-1

Description: Pennanular brooch, copper alloy. Geometric and interlace motifs. Confronted zoomorphic terminals (canine profile). Moderate surface oxidization and patination. Dimensions: 5.5cm x 4.5cm body; 12.5cm pin. Artefact dated ca. 500–700 CE.

Properties: Primary subject (Case No. 9820702) reports mediating effect on the Hunter’s affliction (unverified). Item implicated in subject’s alleged abnormal longevity (unverified). Further study suggests dormancy and/or lack of reactivity to unafflicted subjects (see associated Investigation Log).

Storage: Special Collections – Inorganic Storage, Container Unit No. 982-05. Acid-free board housing, etherfoam packing. Environmental parameters in brief: maintain stable temperature (16-20°C); relative humidity, 32-35%; light levels, <300 lux. Handling protocols as per Acquisitions & Collections Policies and Procedures §3.5.3: Artefact Preservation – Metals – Copper and Copper Alloys.

Access: Upon request. Curator approval required prior to initial visit. Applicants may submit statement of intent to Acquisitions & Collections Department Head Curator for clearance. Terms, procedures, and degree of supervision subject to Curator’s discretion.

Provenance: Surrendered 2nd July, 1982 upon receipt of accompanying statement (Case No. 9820702), subject name unknown. See also Item No. 9820702-2.

Appendices:

· Investigation Log No. 9820702-1;

· Supplemental Documents Nos. 9820702-1.01 through -1.03.

Cross-reference:

· Case No. 9820702;

· Item No. 9820702-2;

· Acquisitions & Collections Catalog §3.6.4: Antiquities – Adornments and Jewelry (Inert).

Item No. 9820702-2

Description: Bound manuscript. Front and back covers unembellished leather (source undetermined) stretched over wood board (source undetermined). Leather cord binding (calf, bovine). Paper and parchment leaves. Ink corrosion and paper degradation present but minimal (fair condition inconsistent with age and media). Dimensions: 8.8cm x 14.0cm x 2.5cm. Artefact dated ca. 1190–1450 CE.

Contents: Eighteen (18) pages total, one-sided.

· Title page (1) iron gall ink on parchment (sheepskin): Gualterius Mappus – De nugis curialium – xi. De Herla rege

· Pages two (2) through four (4) iron gall ink on paper (hemp pulp, linen fiber): Medieval Latin (ca. 12th century) script.

· Pages five (5) through sixteen (16) ink (chemical composition undetermined) on paper (cotton fiber): alphabetic script (unknown roots); refer to Supplemental Document No. 9820702-2.03 for comparative linguistic analysis (inconclusive).

· Page seventeen (17) ink (chemical composition undetermined) on paper (cotton fiber): Middle English (ca. 15th century) script.

· Page eighteen (18) parchment (sheepskin): blank.

Transcripts and translations (where possible) provided in Supplemental Document No. 9820702-2.01*.

Properties: Primary subject (Case No. 9820702) reports total comprehension of Latin portions of the text despite lack of proficiency. Text alleged to diverge from source material (De nugis curialium – Map, Walter, fl. 1200). Both claims verified upon further examination (see associated Investigation Log). Probable association with the Hunter’s affliction.

Storage: Special Collections – Secure Storage. Environmental parameters in brief: maintain temperature at 20-22°C; relative humidity, 32-36%; light levels, ≤50 lux. Housing and handling protocols as per Acquisitions & Collections Policies and Procedures §2.5.5: Document Preservation – Premodern Inks – Iron Gall and §9.2: Special Precautions – Occult and Esoteric Texts.

Access: Restricted.

Provenance: Surrendered 2nd July, 1982 upon receipt of accompanying statement (Case No. 9820702), subject name unknown. See also Item No. 9820702-1.

Appendices:

· Investigation Log No. 9820702-2;

· Supplemental Documents Nos. 9820702-2.01* through -2.07;

· Incident Report No. 9930214.

Cross-reference:

· Case No. 9820702;

· Item No. 9820702-1;

· Acquisitions & Collections Catalog §2.1.1: Archival Media – Occult Books (Active);

· Interdepartmental Bulletin No. 9941002, “The Library of Jurgen Leitner: Lessons Learned.”

*Addendum, 16th February, 1993:Supplemental Document No. 9820702-2.01 reclassified as Restricted Access. Direct all inquiries to Pu Songling Research Library Head Librarian or Acquisitions & Collections Department Head Curator.

“So?” Basira prods. “What do you make of it?”

“Well, assuming the statement is a reliable account, it seems…”

“Promising, right?” Basira says, her eagerness tinted with relief. “If we can–”

She stops abruptly as the tape recorder on the table clicks back on.

“I think that’s our cue to move this conversation elsewhere,” Jon says.

Not that it will stop the tape recorders from listening in, but he has no desire to make Jonah’s surveillance any easier for him.

_________________

It takes some hemming and hawing, but Jon manages to convince Basira that this really ought to be a group discussion. As she recaps the statement and shares her own remarks, Jon keeps a close eye on the other two people in the room. Martin is listening attentively, leaning forward slightly but otherwise at ease. Daisy, though… she’s all corded muscles and jittery legs, taut and precarious on the edge of her seat.

All the while, Basira appears impervious to the storm brewing in Daisy’s eyes, even as Martin catches on and begins chewing on the inside of his cheek, darting nervous glances between the two of them. By the time Basira finishes her overview, the tension in the air is palpable, nearly electric.

For several seconds, no one speaks.

“So,” Martin says, his voice a bit pitchy. He clears his throat before continuing. “Magical, Fear-resistant brooch, huh?”

“It wouldn’t be unheard of,” Jon says. “Remember what I told you about Mikaele Salesa?”

“The apocalypse-proof bubble? Yeah.”

“That camera of his didn’t just protect him from the Eye, it hid him from the Powers in general.”

“What was the catch?” Daisy asks pointedly. “Got to be a catch.”

“Does there?” Martin asks. His hesitant smile falls at Daisy’s blank stare, and he tilts his head back with a sigh. “Yeah, alright.”

“It’s… not entirely benign, no,” Jon says. “In Salesa’s statement, he called it a ‘battery’–”

“–charging itself on all the quiet worries that come from living in hiding, and then when the sanctuary collapses, all that fear flows out at once. No doubt, if my oasis breaks before I die, the Eye will get quite the feast from me, but in this new world–”

“That’s enough of that, I think,” Martin says, resting a hand on Jon’s arm.

Jon bites his tongue, shuts his eyes, and takes a deep breath in, only daring to speak once the tingling on his lips subsides. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for.” Martin offers him a reassuring smile. “Just didn’t want you getting bogged down.”

“That’s one term for it,” Jon says, not quite under his breath. It’s true enough, though. Sometimes it feels like the Archive is pressed up against the door, watching for the tiniest crack, waiting for any opportunity to surge through and drag him under. Lately, Martin has grown uncannily adept at sensing when to interrupt these lapses before they spiral out of control – likely because they’ve been growing more frequent.

“That’s what I thought,” Daisy says. Puzzled at the apparent non-sequitur, Jon glances at her, but she isn’t looking at him. All of her attention is focused on Basira. “This thing is probably the same. It’s not some… some harmless miracle solution. If we mess around with it, it’s bound to blow up in our faces sooner or later.”

“I’m… not sure about that, actually,” Jon says. “The brooch didn’t free the Hunter, it just made it so he couldn’t be caught. I think that’s what it was feeding on – the Hunter’s gradual awareness that he was no different from the hunted, that sensation of being perpetually stalked from the shadows by a greater predator. It spent centuries charging itself on that fear, and it culminated in the realization that he would never escape it. He would always be waiting for the axe to fall, and Hunt was happy to keep him as perpetual prey. If he wanted the chase to end, he had to give up the artefact – and once it was no longer keeping him in stasis, he had a choice to make.”

“Go back to hunting, or let it catch him.” Daisy breathes a humorless laugh. “The Hunt, or the End.”

“But it would keep you alive,” Basira says. “It would buy us time to find a way to free you for real.”

“What about the Leitner?” Martin asks. “That’s what Jonah sent us after in the first place.”

“Turns out it’s not actually from Leitner’s library,” Jon says. “No bookplate, and it seems the statement giver had it in his possession since the 1500s. It’s… difficult to tell from the statement whether it had any significant effect on him. He called it ‘hypnotic,’ but he was already a Hunter by the time he found it. I imagine it might have different effects on someone not already under the Hunt’s influence.”

“He sort of alluded to that.” Basira takes a moment to peruse the statement, running her finger along the page until she finds the relevant line. “Here – they ‘found themselves either enthralled or agitated.’ A bit obscure, but… he says it like it’s an afterthought. If it outright turned anyone into a Hunter, he probably would’ve said so.”

“That doesn’t mean it isn’t dangerous,” Daisy says.

“I never said it wasn’t,” Basira replies coolly. “The record references a transcript, so I assume they had someone read it at some point. And it also mentions an incident report.”

“What was the incident?” Martin asks.

“Don’t know,” Basira says. “They didn’t provide any of the supplemental documentation, just the catalogue listing and the statement itself. But they acquired the book in ‘82 and didn’t make the transcript restricted until ‘93, so… either it was dormant when they first studied it and became active later, or they didn’t study it closely enough to activate its effects, or it doesn’t affect everyone the same way, or – or maybe their workplace safety guidelines just changed and they decided not to risk studying it anymore.”

“Jonah did say something about its effects varying depending on how much of it a person reads, right?” Martin asks. “Though who knows where he got that from.”

“There might be some truth to that,” Basira says. “The catalogue entry does describe what’s on the title page, so I’m assuming that part at least is safe. I’m most curious about the untranslated chunk in the middle.”

And I’m a universal translator, Jon thinks, fidgeting with the drawstring of his hoodie. Basira’s eyes flick to him, as if reading his mind.

“I… suppose I could–”

“No,” Martin and Daisy say simultaneously.

Jon scowls. “You didn’t even let me finish the–”

“You threw yourself into the Buried – twice – to save me,” Daisy says severely. “You can’t keep sacrificing yourself at every opportunity.”

“I wouldn’t be–”

“What, re-traumatizing yourself by reading a Leitner?” Jon shuts his mouth, pressing his lips tightly together. “It’s not worth it, Sims.”

“Daisy,” Basira begins, but Daisy cuts her off.

“No. I’m not having him throw himself to the wolves just because you’re curious.”

Basira flinches, hurt momentarily crossing her face before her expression goes stony.

“You really think that’s what this is about?” she says, her voice shaking. “Knowledge for knowledge’s sake? Me being curious?”

“You can’t tell me you’re not,” Daisy says, and then her expression softens. “And I love that about you, I do – you’re brilliant, Basira – and driven, and passionate, and…” She sighs. “But sometimes… sometimes you need to let things go.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jon notices Martin cross and uncross his legs, his lower lip captured between his teeth. When Jon catches his eye, Martin jerks his chin minutely at Basira and Daisy, a grimace on his face. All Jon can offer is a helpless, equally awkward shrug. Near as he can tell, Basira and Daisy seem to have momentarily forgotten that they have an audience, and judging from their locked eyes and thunderous expressions, he doubts either of them would appreciate a reminder right this second.

“Let you go, you mean,” Basira says tersely. “When you say ‘it’s not worth it,’ what you really mean is that you’re not worth it.”

“Well, I’m not.”

The cavalier tone is the last straw, it seems.

“Why won’t you just let me help you?” Basira slams her hand down on the rickety table, straining its wobbly legs. “You’re just so ready to–” She lets out a frustrated groan. “You never used to give up this easily.”

“Maybe should’ve done,” Daisy says flatly. “Might’ve lowered my body count.”

“Giving up Hunting doesn’t have to mean giving up on living,” Basira says. “I might have finally found an alternative, and you won’t even consider–”

“I’m not doing anything that’s going to hurt someone, and that includes exposing Jon to a fucking Leitner.”

“I’m right here, you know,” Jon mutters testily, the friction finally getting the better of his nerves. “Don’t I get a say?”

“No, you don’t,” Daisy says, rounding on him. Now that all of her brimming agitation is funneled in his direction, he regrets saying anything at all. “Because lately, whenever I ask you if you want to hurt yourself, the best you can give me is ‘it doesn’t matter because I can’t die anyway.’”

“Jon?” Martin says urgently, his eyebrows drawing together.

“Th-that’s not what I–”

“You’re not thinking rationally,” Daisy speaks over Jon’s stammering. “You’re thinking like a condemned man with a rope around his neck and something to prove, and I’m not going to be the noose you use to hang yourself with.”

“Will you listen to yourself?” Basira says heatedly. “You get on my case about double standards–”

“That’s enough!” Martin bursts out. “This isn’t helping. Daisy’s right, Jon. You’re not going anywhere near that book – I don’t want to hear it,” he adds before Jon can retort. “Not now, anyway. We’ll talk later. But Basira’s right, too,” Martin says, turning his attention to Daisy. “You can’t make amends by dying, and you can’t do better going forward if you’re not alive to try.”

“Who says I deserve a chance?” Daisy says.

“Whatever you think you ‘deserve’” – Martin gives Jon a meaningful glance as he says it – “you’ve got a chance, and people who want to help you through it, and you ought to consider that before you assume you’d do more good dead than alive.” He exhales a sharp breath. “Anyway, forget the Leitner, and forget what Jonah said about it. The brooch seems like the more promising option here.”

“I agree,” Jon says, cowed. “Between the book and the brooch, the statement giver credited the latter with keeping the Hunt at bay. And perhaps my bias is showing, but truthfully I – I’m not inclined to see those books as anything but tragedies waiting to happen.”

“What’s the difference?” Daisy says flatly. “It took a decade for something bad enough to happen for them to make the Leitner’s transcript restricted. The brooch could be just as much of a time bomb. Just because it doesn’t have any ‘incidents’ connected with it now doesn’t mean it never will.”

She isn’t wrong. Looking back, Jon had found it infuriating that Leitner would continue meddling with the books even after he witnessed the horror they wrought, all while claiming to have learned from his hubris. Just because this particular artefact isn’t a book doesn’t make it any less ominous.

And yet…

“I think it’s already shown its more sinister side,” Jon says slowly.

“You think,” Daisy scoffs.

“It doesn’t give a Hunter strength, it makes them perpetual prey. It… won’t be pleasant for you, I’m sure,” Jon admits, “but Basira’s right – it could keep you alive while we search for a better solution.”

“There might not be a better solution,” Daisy says stubbornly.

“Which is what I said before you browbeat me into taking statements from you,” Jon counters.

“I didn’t browbeat–” Jon raises his eyebrows. Daisy gives a flustered groan. “It’s just – it’s different, okay?”

Much as Jon wants to disagree, he knows better than to argue. They’d only end up talking in circles.

“I think it’s an avenue worth pursuing,” he says. “Given the alternatives.”

“Please, Daisy,” Basira says. “Just… consider it, at least.”

The for me remains unspoken, but Jon can hear it loud and clear. As can Daisy, it seems – the defiant set to her jaw falters for a moment before she tenses again.

“Fine,” she says grudgingly. “But if it starts to go south–”

“If it manifests any new properties, we’ll prioritize containing it over interacting with it,” Jon says.

“You promise?” Daisy asks, but she looks at Basira when she says it. It takes a moment, but Basira does nod.

“Do you think Pu Songling will let us have it?” Martin asks. “Seems like their protocols are…”

“Rigorous?” Jon supplies.

“You’d almost think they were running an academic institution or something,” Basira says drily.

“Yeah, but treating the artefacts like museum pieces, it’s… it’s weird, isn’t it?” Martin says. “It’s not as if they’re fragile, right? They’re held together by… nightmare alchemy, or whatever.”

“I suppose it’s to be expected,” Jon says. “I know the Librarian has a degree in information science. And I recall her telling me that the Curator is an historian with a background in museology. But you’re right – it would be nice if Leitners were as delicate as the average old manuscript.”

“At least they’re flammable,” Daisy mutters.

“We spoke with the Head Curator,” Basira says. “She’s willing to work out a trade.”

“A trade?” Martin asks.

“Knowledge for knowledge,” Jon says. “An artefact for an artefact. I get the impression that the Librarian and the Curator are both very… collections-oriented. True to their titles, I suppose.”

“Hold up,” Daisy says. “‘The Librarian,’ ‘the Curator’ – are those just job titles, or are they, like… Beholding Avatar titles?” Jon blinks at her, perplexed. “I mean – the way you keep saying them, it’s sort of like…”

“What, ‘Archivist’?” Jon gnaws on his thumbnail as he pauses to consider. “I… don’t know, actually. I wasn’t really doing it consciously? It just…” He shrugs helplessly. “It felt right.”

“Is it coming from the Eye, then?”

“I have no idea, Basira.” Jon leans forward, props his elbows on his knees, and digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Hm.”

“In any case…” Jon exhales slowly, forcing himself to sit up straight again. “They seem to take the research and curation aspects of their roles to heart. They aren’t reckless with their pursuits, they take ample precautions, but the scholars at Pu Songling do study the items that come into their possession. And from what I understand, the Curator takes avid interest in adding to their collection. Same as the Archivist’s role is to record stories. To what extent her efforts are driven by her connection to the Eye versus her own innate curiosity, I couldn’t tell you, no more than I can make that distinction in myself.”

“Sort of a chicken-or-egg situation, then,” Daisy says.

“From an evolutionary perspective, the egg came first,” Jon says automatically. “Amniotic eggs have been around for over three hundred million years. Birds originated in the Jurassic, true galliforms didn’t evolve until at least the Late Cretaceous, phasianids don’t appear in the fossil record until about thirty million years ago, and chickens as we know them were only domesticated about eight thousand years ago–”

“Oh my god,” Daisy groans, putting her head in her hands.

“What?” Jon says, heat rising in his cheeks as Martin muffles a snicker beneath his hand. “I’m not wrong.”

“Pu Songling’s Collections Department is larger than our Artefact Storage,” Basira interjects, “but the, uh… Curator has a shortlist of artefacts she’s been on the lookout for. I checked our records and found a match. A ring – probably belongs to the Vast, based on the reports surrounding it. Looks like the Institute purchased it from Salesa in 2014, shortly before his disappearance. The Curator considers it an ‘equitable exchange,’ but she still wants to assess the ring in person before making the trade.”

“And we still have to talk to Sonja,” Jon adds. “On the one hand, she likely wouldn’t object to being rid of an artefact, but on the other hand… I imagine she won’t be keen on letting it out into the world.”

“I think it would be a harder sell if you were just going to swap it out for another artefact – something unfamiliar that they’d have to develop all new protocols for,” Martin says. “But yeah, even if you won’t be making the brooch her problem, she’ll probably still want to know what we want with it. And I can see her pressing the Curator on why she wants the ring when she gets here.”

“The Curator won’t be coming here,” Basira says evenly, casting a surreptitious glance at Daisy to gauge her reaction. “Says she’s too busy to travel.”

“So you have to haul the ring up to her,” Daisy says.

“I mean” – Basira breathes an uneasy laugh – “it’s a ring. Not much hauling involved–”

“Oh, don’t start–”

“–and there are precautions I can take. Looks like Artefact Storage has relatively thorough documentation for this one.”

“‘Relatively’?” Daisy repeats, unimpressed. “You were just complaining about how sparse their records are. ‘Relatively’ isn’t saying much.”

“Well, it’s better than nothing.” Basira rubs at her face. “I have to do this. Just… trust me.”

“You know I do–”

“Then let me have your back,” Basira says, practically pleading. “Let me help you.”

“Fine,” Daisy mutters, her posture going slack. “Do what you want.”

It’s not exactly a resounding endorsement, but it’s as good as they’re likely to get.

_________________

Despite Daisy’s lack of enthusiasm, Basira immediately throws herself into making arrangements. The Curator at Pu Songling is more than accommodating, seemingly as eager as Basira to make the trade. The real challenge is the Head of Artefact Storage.

It takes over a week of cajoling, lengthy justifications, and a concerted, collaborative effort from Basira, Jon, and Martin before Sonja finally, albeit reluctantly, agrees to discuss the matter with the Curator. Over the following days, Basira and Jon facilitate negotiations between the two: mediating a fair amount of (professional, but nevertheless pointed) verbal sparring early on, and later arbitrating the terms and conditions of the trade.

“You’d think that in the course of dealing with literal supernatural evil on a daily basis,” Basira gripes at one point, “bureaucracy wouldn’t be the biggest priority.”

“I’ve found that the bureaucratic process gives me ample time to make assessments,” Sonja says, unruffled. “Red tape has a way of bringing out the worst in people. Sometimes that’s a procrastinating student who woke up this morning, realized their deadline is next week, and ‘needs access to our materials, like, yesterday,’” she says, complete with finger quotes and a mocking tone. “And sometimes it’s some shady rich snob who’s been consistently cagey about his motives, and eventually he starts to go from impatient and entitled to desperate and frustrated, and that’s when the red flags start popping up crimson. After a while, you learn to distinguish the mundane sort of desperation from the more sinister sort.”

“Huh,” Jon says, smiling to himself. He knew Sonja was clever, but he never knew she was so calculating. It seems Jonah made the same mistake with Sonja as he did with Gertrude – overestimating a person’s curiosity and malleability, underestimating their prudence and pragmatism, and then promoting them to a position where they were free to act in a decidedly un-Beholding-like manner.

Once Sonja is sufficiently assured that the Curator has no intentions of utilizing the artefact or allowing it to venture beyond the secure confines of Pu Songling’s Collections Storage, the process starts to go a bit more smoothly. As expected, Sonja is amenable to the prospect of having one less piece of malignant costume jewelry, as she puts it, provided the Archival staff take full responsibility – both for the ring once Basira signs it out and for the artefact they receive in exchange.

“The ring has a compulsion effect,” Sonja tells them. “Makes people want to put it on – and once it’s on your finger, it’s not coming off until you hit the ground. Luckily it’s not a particularly active artefact, at least not compared to some of the other things we have here. I wouldn’t call it safe, obviously, but” – she raps her knuckles on the wooden beads of the bracelet on her opposite wrist – “it’s never breached containment.”

The how and why become abundantly clear upon seeing the closed ring box, so caked in earth and grime that it’s impossible to make out the color or material underneath.

“Buried, I take it,” Basira murmurs, giving Jon a sidelong glance.

“Yeah.” Jon grimaces at the phantom taste of soil on his tongue. “An artefact to contain an artefact.”

“Looks like the Curator is getting a twofer,” Basira says.

“Fine by me,” Sonja says with a nonchalant shrug. “That’s the box it came in, actually. Don’t know why it works, but it does, and that’s all I care about. So long as you keep it closed, the worst you’ll get is vertigo. As far as we’ve observed, anyway. There’s always a chance that an artefact has more secrets than it lets on at first glance. Assuming you know everything there is to know is a good way to end up in a casket.”

“We’re well aware,” Jon says. “Believe me.”

“Seriously, though – if this goes tits up, I don’t want to hear it,” Sonja says sternly, all but wagging a finger. “And if you call up here a few months from now to tell me that you’ve got a rogue artefact wreaking havoc in the Archives, and I’ve got to put my people at risk to contain it, I will unleash unholy hell.”

The funny thing is, Jon believes her.

_________________

Despite the progress they’re making on obtaining the Hunter’s brooch, dissent continues to simmer within the group – particularly where Daisy is concerned. As the escalating tension in the Archives becomes ever more tangible, Martin begins to feel claustrophobic under the weight of all the things left unspoken.

Daisy is consistently ill-tempered: bellicose in one moment and taciturn in the next, frequently seeking out solitude whenever her agitation gets the best of her. Martin suspects that her volatile mood has as much to do with her deteriorating condition as it does to do with her lingering aversion to the rest of the group’s efforts. Although she and Basira haven’t had another row – so far as Martin is aware, anyway – there’s been an undeniable friction between them. On the worst days, Basira keeps to herself, burying her head in her research while Daisy slinks off to some dark corner of the Archives to brood until Jon comes to drag her away from her thoughts.

Not that Jon is much better. He’s been sullen lately, growing more withdrawn, sleeping less and jumping at shadows even more than usual. Martin often catches him in a trance, staring vacantly into space and droning horrors under his breath. More and more he lapses into statement clips mid-sentence, regardless of how recently he’s had a statement. Sometimes, all it takes is a momentary slip for Jon to lose his footing and devolve into a frenzied litany of back-to-back, fragmentary horror stories. On a few recent occasions he’s lost his voice entirely, though luckily it’s only been for an hour or two at a time.

(So far, Jon says morosely after each episode.)

Most unsettling, though, is the chronic faraway look in his eye, like he’s seeing something else. Like he’s somewhere else, lost across an unbridgeable divide.

Martin is well-acquainted with the sensation of feeling alone in the presence of others. That doesn’t make it any less distressing. It’s not that Jon intends to be distant. He might not even be aware of it; would likely be mortified if he knew just how much that detachment stirred Martin’s longstanding fears of isolation and abandonment. Jon’s still affectionate, after all. Although he seems reluctant to actively seek out comfort these days, he’s still prompt to take an outstretched hand, to lean into a kind touch, to accept a proffered embrace. Still makes a concerted effort to muster, however feebly, a soft smile whenever Martin enters a room. Still attempts to be present and attentive and open.

But sometimes it feels like Jon is out of reach, separated from the rest of the world, watching it pass him by through layers of frosted glass. Martin knows the feeling. What he doesn’t know is how to fix it.

Before long, Basira is set to leave for Beijing, an artefact of the Vast nestled away in her luggage amidst assurances to Sonja that, yes, under no circumstances will Basira attempt to take it on a plane or into the open ocean because, no, Basira does not have a death wish, thank you very much.

Martin half-expects another quarrel to break out on the eve of Basira’s departure, but Daisy is oddly subdued. Perhaps she just doesn’t want to part ways with angry words and unresolved arguments, or perhaps she’s simply come to accept the rest of the group’s decision to move forward with the plan. Considering the dark circles under her eyes, though, it’s just as likely that she’s simply too fatigued to start a fight.

A few days later, Martin descends the ladder into the tunnels to find Jon standing at his makeshift desk, staring down at the map unfurled across its surface – the product of the group’s ongoing efforts to survey the sprawling tunnel system of the former Millbank Prison. The blueprint-in-progress is an equally sprawling thing: sheets of mismatched paper layered one atop the next and taped together, its irregular borders comprised of haphazard angles and dog-eared edges.

The hand-drawn map on its surface is chaotic, reflecting the penmanship of four different authors. Jon’s contributions might be the messiest – the burn scar contracture on his dominant hand renders his lines shaky at best, and his handwriting has always been a tad chickenscratch. Daisy’s isn’t much better. Conversely, Basira’s additions are the neatest, her strokes as steady as the persona she tries to project to the world. Martin’s are passable, if only because, unlike Jon or Daisy, he actually has the patience to use rulers and book edges to trace straight paths.

To be fair, it would probably look a mess no matter how painstaking they were in constructing it. The tunnels are as labyrinthine as expected: a vast network of arterial corridors with offshoots along their lengths, branching into three- or four-way forks, most of which lead to dead ends. Occasionally, they find a path that loops back around and connects other parts of the maze, creating a series of meandering, convoluted closed circuits. It’s difficult to tell just by looking, but they are (Martin hopes) making progress. At the rate they’re going, they have to be on track to find the Panopticon before the winter solstice.

In any case, as Martin approaches the desk, he sees that familiar vacant look on Jon’s face, as if he isn’t actually seeing what’s in front of him. The effect is underscored by the cigarette burning away in his hand, hanging limp and forgotten at his side. Martin clears his throat lightly, in deference to Jon’s hair-trigger startle reflex. He doesn’t count the fact that Jon doesn’t jump at all as a success. If anything, it’s cause for concern.

“Jon?” Martin tries. There’s a slight delay before Jon glances over, giving Martin no acknowledgment aside from a sluggish blink before lowering his head again.

“I, uh…” Martin offers a weak smile, attempting to keep his tone light. He gestures at the cigarette. “I thought you quit?”

Jon shrugs, refusing to meet Martin’s eyes. “Not like it’ll kill me.”

“Might catch up with you later, though,” Martin says, scratching at his neck. “You know, once we find a way out of here.”

“There is no ‘out’ for me,” Jon says mulishly.

“You don’t know that. Or Know it.” Jon’s only reaction is to press his lips tightly together, like he’s biting back a retort. “Look, I’m not trying to nag you, I just wor– Jon!” Martin yelps as he watches Jon put his cigarette out on the back of his hand.

Martin lunges forward, grabbing Jon’s hand and yanking it close to inspect the damage. It’s the same hand that Jude shook, already textured and pitted with webs of hypertrophic scarring. Somehow, Jon managed to plant this newest burn on a patch of previously-undamaged skin, sandwiched between two bands of knotted tissue.

The contours of her fingers, Martin recognizes with a queasy lurch – followed by another when he thinks to wonder whether Jon sought out that scrap of healthy skin on purpose just now.

Jon barely reacts, staring into space with wide eyes and dilated pupils. Martin looks down again to see the circular singe mark already knitting itself back together, leaving only a small, shiny patch of discoloration ringed with a dusting of ash. In all likelihood, even that will be gone by morning.

If only all wounds would heal so easily.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Martin hisses, fighting to keep his voice even. He brushes a soothing thumb over the spot, as if to apologize to the abused skin on Jon’s behalf.

Jogged out of his reverie by Martin’s sharp tone, Jon stares daggers at him, his mouth open as if to unleash a scathing reprimand, the set of his jaw so reminiscent of those early days in the Archives. An instant later, though, he withers, cringing away and fixing his eyes on the floor.

“I wasn’t,” he mumbles, at least having the decency to sound contrite. “Wasn’t really paying attention.”

It’s not the first time Martin’s witnessed a self-inflicted injury. When pressed, Jon always claims that it’s not a deliberate, planned form of self-punishment, but rather a reflex reaction that kicks in when he starts feeling adrift in time. Somewhere along the line, it seems, he convinced himself that physical pain is as good a shortcut as any – a sort of panic button to bring him back to the present when he needs grounding.

Whatever his intentions, though, and no matter what rationalizations Jon wants to dole out, it’s not a healthy coping mechanism. And it’s difficult for Martin to believe that self-punishment doesn’t factor at all, considering Jon’s obsessive guilt spirals and his blasé attitude towards being hurt.

“‘S already healed,” Jon says with a spiritless shrug. He drops the snuffed-out remainder of his cigarette on the floor and unnecessarily grinds it under his heel.

“That’s not the point.” Martin doesn’t realize how tightly he’s grasping Jon’s hand until Jon winces. Although Martin relaxes his grip somewhat, he doesn’t let go. “It doesn’t matter how quickly your body heals, or that you’ve had worse, or whatever other justifications you want to make. You’re still getting hurt. That’s not okay, and – and if it were me in your shoes, you’d be telling me the same thing.”

“I’m sorry.” Jon’s hair falls to cover his face as he ducks his head.

It’s fine, Martin almost says – except it’s not, is it?

“Come on,” he says instead, guiding Jon to sit in the nearest chair before taking a seat next to him. Where before Jon was all stiff limbs and rigid spine, now he looks like he’s given up the ghost, drooping like a wilting flower.

Though he allows Martin to keep hold of his hand, Jon doesn’t return the pressure. And Jon’s skin is freezing – no doubt partly due to the damp chill of the tunnels, and partly because he has, by his own admission, always had shit circulation. Combined with his limp fingers and loose grip, though, the overall effect is far too reminiscent of those months spent keeping vigil over Jon’s hospital bed, his hand nothing but cold, dead weight in Martin’s.

It took too long for Martin to admit that he had been foolish to hope that Jon was still in there somewhere, aware of Martin’s presence, fighting to regain consciousness. The whole time, Martin was just keeping his own company. Jon wasn’t just unreachable – he wasn’t there at all.

(Martin had been wrong about that in the end. He doesn’t know that he’ll ever forgive himself for not being there when Jon woke up.)

Martin bites his lip as he formulates a response. He’s learned over the years that when Jon is like this, it’s best to strike a careful balance between docility and defiance. Push too hard too fast, and Jon will dig his heels in; approach him too tentatively, and he’s liable to interpret concern as pity; force him to talk about his feelings, and he’ll bolt; smother him with tenderness, and he’ll balk.

Granted, Jon has become much more receptive to tenderness over the years. Most of the time, anyway. When his skewed self-worth and convictions about what he does and doesn’t deserve don’t get in the way.

“At the risk of being a nag–”

“You’re not a nag,” Jon says softly.

“When’s the last time you had a statement?”

“A few days ago.” The response is too quick, too automatic.

“A few days ago,” Martin repeats, allowing a bit of disbelief to seep into his voice.

Jon nods stiffly. “Monday, I think.”

“Today is Tuesday.”

“I–” Jon cuts off his own retort, turning to blink owlishly at Martin. “Is it?”

“Yeah,” Martin says, his heart sinking. Jon must be losing time again. “So you had a statement yesterday?”

“No, I – I don’t…” Jon squints up at the ceiling, wracking his brain. “I don’t think so? It’s – I think I would recall if it had been shorter than one day.”

“So, last Monday?”

“I don’t – I don’t know,” Jon says, growing testy. “I suppose. Must’ve been.”

“Are you hungry?”

“I’m always hungry.” The admission is devoid of all the simmering agitation that had been there only moments before. Now, he just sounds tired.

“Well… I think you might be due for one.” Although Martin had been striving for gentle suggestion, there’s a harsh edge to the words. Rather than get Jon’s hackles up again, though, he seems to crumple under what he doubtless reads as an accusation.

“You’re right,” he says hoarsely. “And I’m sorry. I know lately I’ve been…”

“Tetchy,” Martin offers, just as Jon says, “a bit of a prick.”

“Your words, not mine,” Martin says with a tentative grin. Jon returns his own feeble half-smile, but it quickly falters.

“I’ve almost exhausted Daisy’s catalogue,” he confesses. “Only a handful left now. I’ve got to make them last until the solstice.”

An apprehensive chill runs down Martin’s spine at that. “And then what?”

“I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

There’s virtually no chance that Jon, prone to rumination as he is, hasn’t been dwelling on it.

“Basira said she has a few statements, right?” Martin asks. “Which… if you already have a statement about an encounter, can you still get nourishment from other statements about it, so long as it’s coming from someone else’s point of view?”

“Probably.” Jon shrugs one shoulder. “The factual details of the encounter are less important than the subject’s emotional response. Different perspective, different story, different lived experience of fear.”

“Then… you have my statement about the Flesh attack, but there’s still Basira’s. And – and maybe Melanie–”

“I’m not taking another statement from Melanie,” Jon says tersely. “She’s been tethered to me for too long without say, and I’m not dragging her back in.”

“But if it’s consensual–”

“It won’t be, because I don’t consent.”

“If the alternative is literally starving–”

“I’ll find another alternative. Or I won’t. But I’m not asking Melanie for a statement.” Jon keeps his head bowed, but he looks up at Martin through his lashes. “The first time she quit, I was worried that she might show up in my nightmares again, but she didn’t. I don’t know if her severance from the Eye will keepher out of my nightmares if she gives me a new statement, and… I can’t risk it. I can’t do that to her. Even if the nightmares weren’t an issue… I’m not going to ask her to relive yet another traumatic experience for my benefit–”

“–I shall choose to die rather than take part in such an unholy meal–”

Jon claps a hand over his mouth, a panicked look in his eye.

“…nor shall I take my own life, whatever extremity my suffering may reach,” he tacks on, too much of an afterthought for comfort.

“Which means we need to plan for the future,” Martin says, forcing calm into his voice despite the way his heart picks up its pace.

“But it can’t involve Melanie,” Jon says – gentler than before, but still firm.

“No, you’re – you’re right,” Martin relents. “It wouldn’t be fair to her. But we could still ask Basira.”

Jon makes a noncommittal noise, his expression rapidly going pinched and closed off again.

“Lately,” Martin says, licking his lips nervously, “lately it feels like you’ve been shutting everyone out again. It isn’t healthy–”

“Healthy?” Jon’s glare could burn a hole in the floor. “I don’t need to be healthy, I just need to be whatever it wants.”

Once, Martin might have been daunted by Jon’s scathing tone. By now, he knows that Jon is all bluster – and that the brunt of it is turned inward, against his own self.

“Please, Jon. Tell me what’s going on. You’re worrying me.”

Those, apparently, are the magic words, because Jon finally capitulates.

“It’s October,” he tells the floor.

“It… is October, yeah.” Bewildered, Martin waits for elaboration. When a minute passes with no response forthcoming, he prompts, “Is that… bad…?”

“Historically, yes, it has been,” Jon says with a tired, frayed-sounding chuckle.

“I… Jon, I need you to help me out here,” Martin says helplessly. “I can’t read your mind.”

“October is when it happens, Martin.” Jon glances at Martin once, quickly, before returning his gaze to the ground. He’s twisting one hand around the opposite wrist now, fingers curled tightly enough to blanch his knuckles. “The eighteenth. When everything goes wrong.”

“You mean…”

Jon’s sharp inhale becomes a choked exhale, which in turn abruptly cuts off as the Archive takes its cue.

“…what settled over me wasn’t dread; there wasn’t enough uncertainty for that. It was doom. I was certain that some sort of disaster was on the horizon–”

“–something bad. Something unspeakable. And I would have helped make it happen–”

“–the fear never really went away. I’ve heard that being exposed to the source of your terror over and over again can help break its power over you, numb you to it, but in my experience it just teaches you to hide from it. Sometimes that might mean hiding in a quiet corner of your mind, but–”

“–soon enough, I could no longer fool myself–”

“–the calm I had been getting accustomed to had been torn away completely, and where it had been was just this horrible, ice-cold terror–”

“–that – we can’t escape the ruins of our own future–”

“–a future where – humanity was violently and utterly supplanted, and wiped out by a new category of being–”

“–there are terrible things coming – things that, if we knew them, would leave us weak and trembling, with shuddering terror at the knowledge that they are coming for all of us–”

“–I think in my heart, I have been waiting for this moment. For the final axe to fall–”

“–we create the world in a lot of ways. I suppose it shouldn’t be surprising that, when we’re not being careful, we can change it–”

There’s a breathless pause before Jon continues, in a nearly inaudible whisper: “What could I have chosen to change? Would a different path have been possible?”

“It is,” Martin says firmly, “and we’re on it. What happened last time won’t happen again. We won’t let it.”

Jon doesn’t acknowledge the reassurance.

“I should’ve known,” he says with a quiet ferocity, in his own voice this time. “It was too peaceful. I should’ve known it wasn’t going to last. And – and on some level I did know – I knew it wasn’t over – but I just… I didn’t want to be the one to shatter the illusion, I suppose.” His expression goes taut. “Didn’t much matter what I wanted, in the end. But I still should’ve seen it coming. Can’t let my guard down again.”

“How could you have known?” Martin doesn’t intend for it to come out as exasperated. He tries to reel it back, to gentle his tone. “You’ve said yourself that you can’t predict the future–”

“No, but I knew Jonah had plans for me. And I knew nothing good could come of feeding the Eye, but I kept on anyway.”

“It’s not like you were doing it for fun, Jon! You needed it to survive, and Jonah took advantage of that. Or…” No – that makes it sound purely opportunistic, doesn’t it? In reality, it was all part of Jonah’s long game from the start. “He made you dependent on statements specifically becausehe wanted to take advantage of that.”

“I made choices,” Jon says tonelessly. “I can’t absolve myself of responsibility just because Jonah was nudging me in a particular direction.”

“You were manipulated,” Martin insists, “and I’m not having you apologize for surviving it. For not starving to death.”

“You don’t understand,” Jon says, growing more distressed, reaching up with both hands and tangling his fingers in his hair. “When that box of statements finally arrived, I… I couldn’t shoo you away fast enough. I was hungry, yes, but I wasn’t starving yet. I could’ve waited longer, but I just… I wanted one–”

“–should have fought harder against the temptation – but my curiosity was too strong–”

“You shouldn’t have to wait until you’re literally on death’s doorstep before you fulfill a basic need,” Martin interrupts.

“I should when that ‘basic need’ entails serving the Beholding,” Jon says heatedly. “And I – I should’ve known better – should’ve known not to jump headlong into the first statement that caught my eye. I’d known for a while that the Beholding leads me away from statements it doesn’t want me to know. It logically follows that it would lead me towards statements that would strengthen it. If I’d had any sense, I would’ve been suspicious of anything in that box that called out to me. It didn’t… it didn’t feel any different, but I – I suppose that somewhere along the line I just got used to… to wandering down whatever path I was led. I didn’t think, I never stop to think–”

“If anything, Jon, you overthink. You’re overthinking right now.”

Martin has known for a long time now that Jon will latch onto the smallest details, allow his thoughts to branch into an impossible number of routes and tangents, tie together loose threads in countless permutations in the interest of considering all possible conclusions, no matter how outlandish. He will apply Occam's razor in one moment before tossing it into the bin, only to fish it out again: lather, rinse, repeat. His mind is a noisy, cluttered conspiracy corkboard, and he’ll hang himself with red string if given half a chance, just to feel like he’s in control of something.

“It’s easy to look back and criticize your past self,” Martin says, “but he didn’t know what you do. If we knew the outcome to every action, maybe we wouldn’t make mistakes, but we’re only human–”

“Not all of us.”

“–so we just have to do the best with what we have in the moment,” Martin continues, paying no heed to Jon’s grumbled comment. No good will come of guiding him down that rabbit trail right now. Anyway, Martin has a more pressing concern–

“Why didn’t you tell me about any of this sooner?” he blurts out, immediately wincing at his lack of tact. “That came out wrong–”

“Why didn’t I tell you how quick I was to chase you out of the house and sink my teeth into a statement the moment temptation presented itself?” Jon scoffs. “Because I’m ashamed. Why else?”

“No, not–” Martin scrubs a hand over his face. It’s a struggle, sometimes, not to grab Jon by the shoulders and shake him until all of that stubborn self-loathing falls away. “About the fact that you’ve got a – a post-traumatic anniversary event coming up, I mean. You haven’t been well, and I thought I understood why – thought it was just… all of it, in general. But here I come to find you’ve been agonizing over the upcoming date of the single worse day of your life–”

“One of the worst,” Jon says quietly.

“What?”

“I didn’t lose you until much later.”

Martin’s breath catches in his throat at that, a sharp pang shooting through his chest.

“Well… you’ve got me now,” he says meekly. “So – so you don’t have to suffer in silence, is what I’m saying. What happened to you – no, what was done to you – it was horrible, and it wasn’t your fault. I know you don’t believe that, but it’s the truth.”

“Either I’ve always been caught up in someone else’s web, passively having things happen to me with no control over my life–”

“–the Mother got exactly the result she no doubt wanted, one that would lead to a fear – so acute that I could later have that horror focused and refined into a silk-spun apotheosis–”

Jon bites down on one knuckle, eyes shut tight as he waits for the compulsion to subside.

“Or,” he says after a minute, “or I do have control, and I can change the outcome, which makes me culpable. I don’t know which prospect I hate more. Which probably says some unflattering things about me.”

“It’s not that simple–”

“It is,” Jon says viciously. “If there is another path, then I should’ve found it last time!” He closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose, and takes a steadying breath. When he speaks again, he’s no longer bordering on shouting, but there’s a quaver in his voice, a fragility that Martin finds more disconcerting than any flash of anger. “The way I see it, there are two options. One, what happened in my future was inevitable and nothing I could’ve done would’ve changed it – which certainly doesn’t bode well for this timeline. Or, the outcome can be changed, in which case my choices matter, and had I just made better choices, maybe I could have prevented all of this from ever happening in the first place.”

“You’re not being fair,” Martin says, his hands clenching into fists – but Jon isn’t listening.

“Doesn’t make much difference, I suppose. The consequences are the same either way–”

“–billions of – people making their way through life who had no idea what was right above their heads–”

“–would-be occult dynasties and ageless monsters–”

“–minds so strange and colossal that we would never know they were minds at all–”

“–idiots who destroyed themselves chasing a secret that wasn’t worth knowing–”

“–there, caught up in a series of events that I didn’t understand but that terrified me – I did the stupidest thing I’ve ever done–”

“–running was pointless. To try to escape from my task would only serve to fulfill another. I finally understood what I needed to do–”

“–I don’t know if you have ever drowned, but it’s the most painful thing I have ever experienced–”

“–I do not suppose I need to dwell on the pain, but please know that I would sooner die than endure it again–”

“Would you?” Martin says abruptly. Jon won’t look at him. “Jon, I need to know if you’re feeling like hurting yourself.”

“What would it matter if I was?” Jon still won’t look at him. “I’m categorically incapable of hurting myself in any way that matters.”

Martin blinks in disbelief. “Okay, that’s blatantly untrue.”

Jon has been a glaring portrait of self-neglect for as long as Martin has known him. That simple lack of consideration for himself, together with compounding survivor’s guilt, was the perfect stepping stone to active self-endangerment. Now that Jon’s convinced himself he’s invulnerable to a normal human death, he’s all the more careless with himself.

“I don’t want to die,” Jon whispers. “That’s the problem.”

“What—?”

“Before, I was unknowingly putting the entire world at risk by – by waking up after the Unknowing, by crawling out of the Buried, by escaping the Hunters, by continuing to read statements like it was – like it was something routine, as unremarkable as – as taking tea. Now, though – now I know better. I know what Jonah is planning, I saw what I’m capable of, and still I… I don’t want to die.”

“Well… good,” Martin says. “You should want to live–”

“It doesn’t much matter what I want–”

“–I never wanted to weigh up the value of a life, to set it on the scales against my own, but that’s a choice that I am forced into–”

“–doesn’t get to die for that – gets to live, trapped and helpless, and entombed forever – powerless–”

“–a lynchpin for this new ritual – a record of fear–”

Shit, Martin thinks the instant he recognizes the statement. It’s the worst of them all, virtually guaranteed to send Jon spiraling.

“–both in mind as you walk the shuddering record of each statement, and in body as the Powers each leave their mark upon you – a living chronicle of terror – a conduit for the coming of this – nightmare kingdom–”

“Okay, okay, stay with me–”

“–the Chosen one is simply that: someone I chose. It’s not in your blood, or your soul, or your destiny. It’s just in your own, rotten luck–”

“Jon, can you hear me? Jon–”

“–I’ll admit, my options were somewhat limited, but my god, when you came to me already marked by the Web, I knew it had to be you. I even held out some small hope you had been sent by the Spider as some sort of implicit blessing on the whole project, and, do you know what, I think it was–”

Martin reaches over, taking both of Jon’s hands in his own and squeezing tightly. The pressure seems to do the trick: lucidity sparks in Jon’s eyes and he takes a deep, ragged breath, as if coming up for air.

“There you are. Are you okay?” Martin rubs both thumbs over the backs of Jon’s hands in rhythmic, soothing motions. “Hey, it’s–”

“I don’t want your kindness!” Jon snaps, jerking backwards and snatching his hands out from Martin’s grip.

Both of them lapse into a stunned silence. As mortification dawns on Jon’s face, Martin can feel the color rising in his cheeks. It only takes a few seconds for the blood rushing in his ears to be drowned out by another voice.

Martin can remember with cutting clarity the days prior to his mother’s departure to the nursing home. She had been in (somewhat) rare form, her already-short fuse dwindled down to nothing, sniping at him around the clock, full of caustic observations and spiteful accusations.

I don’t want your help, she had sneered as she entered the cab, swatting his hand away.

It was one of the last things she ever said to him.

“Well, tough,” Martin bites out, “because you deserve it, and you never should’ve had to go without it, and you’re not going to change my mind about that, so you may as well stop trying!”

“Martin, I – I – I’m sorry, I didn’t mean–”

He saw, Martin realizes all at once, his skin crawling with humiliation.

“I’m going to go make some tea,” Martin says, rising to his feet.

Jon reaches out a hand. “Martin–”

“I just need a breather, okay?” Martin says, a pleading note to his voice. His lungs are constricting, his chest is tightening, there’s a lump in his throat, and he really doesn’t want to have a panic attack in the tunnels – or in front of Jon. “I’m not – I’m not angry, okay, I just need some air.”

Jon opens his mouth, then immediately closes it, clutches his hands to his chest, and gives a tiny nod that Martin just barely glimpses before turning to flee.

_________________

“Stop crying,” Jon hisses at himself, furiously scrubbing at his face as the tears slide down his cheeks. “Stop it.”

He plasters the heels of his hands over his closed eyelids. It does nothing to stem the flow, only brings to mind images of pressing himself bodily against a door to hold it closed, only for the crack to continue widening, millimeter after millimeter, the flood on the other side trickling through the gap, rivulets swelling into rivers, frigid eddies biting at his ankles, a whitewater undertow threatening to drag him below the waves–

“Enjoying our own company, are we?”

Once, Jon might have been humiliated to be caught mid-breakdown, raw-voiced and puffy-eyed, especially by Peter Lukas of all people. Several lifetimes spent in thrall to cosmic horrors have a way of putting things in perspective.

“What do you want?” Jon says with as much ire as he can muster.

Peter hums to himself, starting a slow, back-and-forth pace in front of Jon. “It occurred to me that I’ve been derelict in my duties as far as the Archives are concerned–”

“That’s just now occurring to you?”

“–and, as such, I thought it was high time that I met the infamous Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute.”

“Well,” Jon scoffs, gesturing at himself, “you’ve met him.”

“I must admit, I was expecting something a bit more… hm.” Peter taps a finger against his lips. “Formidable.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” The scathing sarcasm is rendered pitiful by an ill-timed, involuntary sniffle. Jon can’t bring himself to care.

“The state you’re in, you hardly seem fit to work.” A pause. “Have you ever considered taking some time off?”

“A six-months hospital stay has a way of eating up your PTO, oddly enough. I’m told that payroll already has already had to make special exceptions for my ‘unprecedented’ circumstances.” Jon chuckles to himself. “On multiple occasions. Did you know the Institute considers a kidnapping in the line of duty to be an ‘unexcused absence?’”

“I think you’ll find that Elias and I have different management styles,” Peter says mildly. “I’m open to making allowances – particularly since your department can function so smoothly in your absence. Your assistants have proven themselves to be quite capable of working independently – and seeing as your approach to supervision borders on fraternization, I imagine they would be more productive without excess drama to distract them.”

“I’ll take that into consideration,” Jon says acerbically.

“No need.” Jon squints at him, and Peter stare him down. “It’s not a request, Archivist. It’s an order.”

There was a time, not long ago, that sneaking up on the Archivist would have been difficult. Only Helen had consistently managed to ambush him, and that was because she didn’t waste time sneaking – she manifested and launched the jump scare in the same instant, giving him no chance to See her approach. Readjusting to a binocular point of view had been a process, but rarely does he find himself yearning for the panoramic field of vision that had been foisted upon him during the apocalypse.

Occasionally, though, there are moments when 360° sight would come in handy. Too late, Jon realizes this is one of those moments.

By the time he notices the tendrils of encroaching fog, they’re already curling around from behind him, pooling at his feet, ghosting across the back of his neck, affixing themselves around his wrists.

“It’s alright,” Peter says placidly, almost soothingly. “You can let go now.”

Jon shivers as his heart pumps ice through his veins, fingers and toes going numb as he struggles for breath.

No. No, no, no, no, no–

“I am not Lonely anymore,” Jon gasps out through chattering teeth.

“No,” Peter says with an air of nonchalance. Then he smiles, sharp and cold and cruel and the only detail Jon can still discern through the fog. “But you will be.”

___

End Notes:

Daisy: hey siri, google what to do if i suspect my bff has been possessed by the ghost of a fussy paleornithologist Jon: why are you booing me????? i’m right

Pretty sure this is the longest chapter yet? Probably bc of the statement. I could’ve split it into two, but, uh. I like that cliffhanger where it is. >:3c (Sorry for that, btw.)

Quite a bit of Archive-speak this chapter. Citations as follows: Section 1: 122/124/011/007/047/155. The Xiaoling quote is from MAG 105; the Jonah quote is ofc from 160; the Naomi quote is from 013. Section 3: 181. Section 5: 058 x2; 144/130/086/143/121/149/134/144/143/069; 147; 017; 147; 057/160/106/111/067/121/129/098; 155/128/160; 160 x3. Section 6: 170, of course.

I’m taking wild liberties with Pu Songling Research Centre’s whole deal. I’m conceptualizing their spookier departments as being like… actually academia-oriented, instead of “local Victorian corpse with illusions of godhood throws a bunch of traumatized nerds with no relevant archival experience into a basement, what happens next will shock you”. Xiaoling is out here like “our digitization is still a work in progress, I’m sure you know how it is” and Jon Sims is like “digitization who? i don’t know her”. (Listen, he tried once. Tape recorder was haunted, he got kidnapped a bunch, there were worms and things, he died (he got better), his boss used him as a battering ram to open a door to Fearpocalypse Hell – it was a lot.)

Likewise, we didn’t get much info about Sonja in canon, so I’m having fun envisioning her as a certified Force To Be Reckoned With (and a bit of a Mama Bear wrt her assistants). Most of the Institute is leery of the Archives (& especially Jon) but Sonja’s seen a lot of shit and Jon Sims doesn’t even rank on her list of Top Spooky Scary Things.

re: the statement – it’s not clear in-text, but I want to clarify that I’m not conceptualizing Francis Drake as being influenced by the Hunt. Fictionalizing aspects of history is tricky, and I’d feel personally uncomfortable chalking up Drake’s real life atrocities to supernatural influence, even in fiction. In the case of this particular fictional member of his crew, he was (like Drake’s real-life crew) complicit in following Drake’s orders for entirely mundane reasons and was only marked by the Hunt at the point in his statement where he first recounts hearing the Hunt chasing after him.

At some point in writing this chapter, I had 137 tabs open in my browser for Research Purposes and like 20 of those were bc my dumb ass seriously considered writing that statement in Elizabethan English before going “what are you DOING, actually.” If I’d tried, it would have come off as inauthentic at best, if not ridiculous, bc I’m unfamiliar with English linguistic trends of the 1500s, and I’d basically be badly mimicking Shakespearean English, which isn’t necessarily indicative of how everyone spoke at the time, and I don’t know what colloquial speech would look like for this particular unnamed character I trotted out as exposition fodder, and it was probably unnecessary to formulate a whole-ass personal history for him for the sake of Historical Realism for a single section of a single chapter of a fanfic, and… In the end, I decided that this pseudo-immortal rando can tell his life story in modernized English, as a treat (to me) (and also to those of you who don’t think of slogging through bastardized Elizabethan prose as a fun endeavor).

Speaking of research – shoutout to this dissertation that had an English translation of the Herla story in Walter Map’s De nugis curialium, and if you want to read the whole story, you can find it on pages 16-18 of that paper. I feel it’s important for you all to know that IMMEDIATELY after Map dramatically proclaims, “the dog has not yet alighted, and the story says that this King Herla still holds on his mad course with his band in eternal wanderings, without stop or stay,” he goes on to say in the next breath “buuuut some people say they all jumped into the River Wye and died, so ymmv. ¯\_ (ツ)_/¯ anyways, can I interest you in more Fucked Up If True tales?” (Herla throwing the dog into the river wasn’t in the original story though. I made that part up.)

Thank you so much for reading! <3

[mediaevalmusereads]

The Alienist. By Caleb Carr. New York: Random House, 1994.

Rating: 4/5 stars

Genre: historical fiction, mystery, suspense

Part of a Series? Yes, The Kreizler Series #1

Summary:   The year is 1896. The city is New York. Newspaper reporter John Schuyler Moore is summoned by his friend Dr. Laszlo Kreizler—a psychologist, or “alienist”—to view the horribly mutilated body of an adolescent boy abandoned on the unfinished Williamsburg Bridge. From there the two embark on a revolutionary effort in criminology: creating a psychological profile of the perpetrator based on the details of his crimes. Their dangerous quest takes them into the tortured past and twisted mind of a murderer who will kill again before their hunt is over.

***Full review under the cut.***

Content Warnings: ableism, homophobia/transphobia, racism (including slurs), sexism, rape, abuse, child abuse and sexual assault, child prostitution, animal cruelty, blood, gore, violence

Overview: This book has been on my TBR list for a while, so I figured I’d finally get around to reading it. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, but I was actually surprised by how much I enjoyed the reading experience. Carr writes in a way that pretty closely imitates 19th century detective fiction, and while such a style might not be for everyone, I thought it went a long way in creating atmosphere. My criticisms have mostly to do with pace and the creative decisions that probably didn’t have to be made (such as depictions of child sexual assault, use of slurs, etc), but even with those faults, I have to give Carr’s craft and research a lot of credit, so this book gets 4 stars from me.

Writing: As I mentioned above, this book mimics detective fiction of the 19th century. If you’ve read any of Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes stories, you might get the idea: first person, characters displaying almost whimsical behavior, stuffed with contextual details that may or may not be relevant. At first, I thought the reading experience was going to be a slog, but once I realized what Carr was trying to do, I readjusted my expectations and found the prose to be quite engaging. If you like 19th century literature, you might appreciate what Carr does, but if you find older lit to be a challenge, this book might not be the thriller you’re hoping for.

That being said, I do think there were some areas where Carr could have picked up the pace or even cut some of the contextual details. It’s obvious that Carr did a lot of research before writing this book, and it’s understandable that he would want to show off some of that research, but there were times where I felt like it was a little much.

I also think there are a lot of things in this book that will offend modern sensibilities. I recall at least one use of the N-word (which is spoken by a racist minor character) as well as remarks that make it clear that characters think same-sex intimacy is “deviant” or abhorrent. I can understand why Carr put them in his book; if we’re trying to evoke an atmosphere and make the story feel like it’s set in the 19th century, it’s not realistic to expect everyone to be accepting of gay sex or treat POC with respect. But also, I think it’s on Carr to bear the responsibility of creating plot points and characters that have those attitudes in the first place. The character who uses the N-word could have easily not done so, and characters could have been more clear that their revulsion was at child prostitution rather than same-sex relationships.

Still, I was able to follow the plot with no problem and the sentences flowed in a way that made the reading experience feel quick (no 10-line sentences, thank god). So while there may be some things I would have liked to see adjusted to fit my own tastes, I think Carr did a wonderful job of making me feel like I was reading an older work.

Plot: The plot of this book follows a group of investigators as they try to use psychology to catch a serial killer. As far as being an “original” or unique thriller, this book doesn’t necessarily deliver a plot we haven’t seen before; but what made it so interesting (at least to me) was that it was less interested in the thrill of catching the killer and more interested in thinking through the “whys.” Why did the killer do X? Why did he do Y and Z when he could have done A or B? In this sense, the suspense doesn’t come from the action or the “chase,” but from the building of ideas and a foggy picture becoming more and more clear.

If I can fault Carr for anything, it’s that I think he crafted his mystery around some subjects that are... touchy (for lack of a better word). Most of the murder victims are children - specifically child prostitutes - and a lot of the killer’s motivations are rooted in some combination of racism and exposure to abuse. If you’re looking for a book which handles these issues with sensitivity, I think you’ll be disappointed. But I have to give Carr some credit for not overly sensationalizing these things; for example, while he did include characters who were racist towards Native Americans, he also included characters who were sympathetic and who insisted on not judging tribes for their defensive violence. Not everything is perfect, and there were some moments that made me uncomfortable, but I felt like Carr painted a complex picture of 19th century America, so I was able to keep going.

Characters: The plot of this book is told from the perspective of John Schuyler Moore - a newspaper reporter who teams up with his friend, eminent psychologist Dr. Laszlo Kreizler, to catch a serial killer. As a protagonist, Moore isn’t overly compelling - he’s more like a neutral, blank slate that the reader can project themselves onto. He serves much of the same function as Watson in the Sherlock Holmes stories: to be a witness to other characters’ brilliance while occasionally making some helpful insights. Still, I didn’t outright hate Moore - he was kind and loyal, and I admired how he went out of his way to try to help people.

Kreizler, the psychologist (or “alienist” as they were called in those days), is somewhat of a Sherlockian character in that he’s eccentric, confident, and had abilities that stun the people around him. For the most part, Kreizler was fun to follow. I think the only times I got truly frustrated with him were when he would allude to some knowledge and then leave Moore in the dark - like “aha! This thing is obvious!” “What thing?” “No time to explain! I’ll tell you at dinner!” Those moments were a little irritating.

Sarah, the most prominent female character, was more complex than I expected her to be. She has clear career aspirations and doesn’t let anyone hold her back, and I liked that she was presented as this kick-ass woman who still felt human. She struggles when faced with the horrors of the murder, but she doesn’t let the horror put her off of her task. She’s confident and never seems to have a moment of self-doubt (which is refreshing). She notices interpersonal things without being boxed in as “the woman who notices emotions.” Granted, Sarah does serve some token function - she’s brought on in order to provide a “female perspective,” which was a little frustrating, but she held her own so well that my annoyance melted away.

Marcus and Lucius, the two brothers who work for the police department, are also quite charming characters. I loved how they brought technical expertise to the group by being knowledgeable about anatomy, fingerprints, photography, and the like, and I especially enjoyed the way they bickered with one another. Their presence immediately made scenes feel lighter, and they brought something of a family aspect to the whole band.

Supporting characters were well-crafted in that no two felt quite the same. Teddy Roosevelt (yes, that one) was cheerful and warm while still demanding absolute cooperation and loyalty from his men. Cyrus and Stevie - two of Kreizler’s employees - were charming, though I wish Cyrus had gotten to do more than just kind of silently stand by awaiting orders. Mary - Kreizler’s maid - was a lovely character, and I appreciated the positive disability representation we got with her, though I do not like how her character arc ended and how it related to the main plot. The crime bosses were intimidating without feeling too much like stock characters, the thugs did their job. I don’t think there was a character that was poorly written, just characters who served purposes that may or may not have been needed.

As for the murderer... we don’t get to see him very much, but I felt like I got to know him because so much of the book was focused on mapping out his life and psychology. It worked much better than books where the antagonist is looming off to the side, acting as a vaguely threatening force but not really a character, and one that doesn’t even show up until the last quarter of the book. When the killer finally does appear on page, I felt like he had been involved in the story, even without being physically present, so I was able to accept him as an active force on the narrative, not just a surprise twist at the end.

TL;DR: The Alienist is a well-crafted mystery that uses atmosphere and psychology to create an engaging mystery. While some readers may struggle with the period-like prose or the more disturbing aspects of the story, Carr creates a compelling narrative by focusing on understanding and knowledge over spectacle and action, and by using well-developed characters.

[antagonistchan]

god i have had a Month

the beginning of january was just kinda business as usual

but as we rolled into mid-january, shit got miserable

the worst month of my life was february 2018, because i just spent that entire month having a Bad Brain Time where something was fucked up in my head and making me just consistently really miserable and afraid, particularly afraid that the joy in life was starting to run out, that i had exhausted everything i had to live for somehow

and mid-january? i had a bit of a return to that

it wasn’t quite that bad, though. i’ve got much more of a support structure now than i did then, which helped SIGNIFICANTLY. hanging out with the friends i actually have now is an EXCELLENT distraction. but i also had something new: deep and intense regret. i fucking wasted 2021, and to a lesser extent 2020, and it very suddenly all came crashing down on me how those two years of my life were basically gone. i wasn’t truly living for them. how much had i missed out on?

but then in late january, i bounced back quite heavily. my Bad Brain Times weren’t quite over, they were still troubling me, and i was also still filled with regret....... but now that regret was starting to fuel an increased motivation to fix my shit. “antagonist gets her shit together: the movie” was kinda on the backburner for the entire pandemic so far. but not anymore. suddenly i felt so much more of an intense need to FIX things, so that i didn’t have another 2021.

one thing i immediately threw myself into was cleaning my room. my room has basically been consistently dirty since i was in first grade. long ass time. cleaning my room has been a 17-year-long project. i’ve made strides towards it, but never really got through all of it. the most i’ve ever been able to do is get my floor clean.

but god, my room is actually cleaner than it’s been since, well, i was in first grade. i am so close to just having a fully clean room.

and now, going into february, i even think the Bad Brain Times are starting to back off. having meds again for the first time in two months probably helps.

right now, i’ve got five priorities:

finishing cleaning my room (it’s not really as important as the remaining priorities, but it’s actually the #1 priority just because i’m so close, if i keep pushing i can FINALLY get this shit squared away)

looking into getting therapy

looking into job hunting

throwing myself more into my art, because i don’t make nearly enough of it and i feel like time is running out for certain things i want to do. like i wanna do certain things while they’re still relevant, yknow?

just DOING things. making plans and following through on them.

in a way, this is kinda Antagonist Gets Her Shit Together: The Movie 2. the sequel to the hot coping strategy that ruled the world from 2018-2019 and then kinda limped through a continued existence from 2020-2021.

[dontasktheradiodemon]

Cuddly Date Time

Alastor & Telly @usedhearts have a date night and completely ignore their movie and snacks because Alastor found a list of questions for partners to ask each other.

And so they ask each other a million questions.

It's very nice.

Telly

Date night! Telly had the Eggs set up the projector on the bridge, and pull in one of the chaise lounges. He had a bowl of popcorn, and mixings for drinks.

And he wore just a t-shirt. He was a comfy snake tonight.

Alastor

Date night! Never content with one snack where multiple would do, Alastor had spent the last couple of hours in the kitchen, putting together bacon-wrapped pineapple, stuffed mushroom caps, and a couple dozen crostini each topped with a random assortment of whatever looked fun in the fridge. He'd discovered he liked hand-feeding his partner, and by god was he *gonna.*

The longer he lived with Telly, the more obvious it was that he needed to get himself more casual clothes; but for now, he'd make do with a t-shirt (stolen from Telly's stock) and his bath robe to get comfortable. He swooped in with a tray of snacks, summoned up a side table to set it on, and slid his arms around Telly as he sat. "Why, hello there~"

Telly

Telly smiled, leaning into Alastor's side.

"Hello to you, too. Fancy seeing you here." He laughed and kissed Alastor.

"Are we ready to go?" He lifted the remote, to point backwards at the projector.

Alastor

He returned the kiss and settled into Telly's side. "Ready when you are!"

Telly

"Here we go!" He clicked the remote and the lights dimmed and the movie started. That done, he wrapped his arm around Alastor, turning to kiss his cheek.

"So, what culinary delights did you make for me to try this time?"

Alastor

Alastor hummed along to the opening notes of Music Man, then glanced over to his tray of food. "Mushrooms, bacon-wrapped pineapple—I thought you'd like a little tropical fruit—" smooch, "—and a veritable rainbow of crostini treats!" He'd sort of tried to stick them in rainbow order. He doesn't quite remember rainbow order. "We had some odds and ends of jams and cheeses and pickled things, so I got creative."

Telly

"Oh, sounds tasty! I will leave it up to the discretion of the chef which I try first." He smirked and winked.

His eyes flicked back to the screen for a moment, and he hummed.

Alastor

"Well, in that case..." He'd gotten the pineapple specifically for Telly, so he plucked that up to offer first.

Telly

Telly opened his mouth to accept the pineapple. He hummed as he chewed, and nodded. "Oh, that is delicious!"

Alastor

"Good!" Alastor was constantly amazed at how gratifying the little things were these days. Things like Telly's little hum.

He picked up a mushroom cap to offer next. "I'd forgotten how much I enjoy the first song! With all the train sounds." That said, he's already only paying about 40% attention to the movie. The movie is mainly an excuse to cuddle.

Telly

"Oh yes, it's quite ingenious!" Telly turned his head to glance at the screen before focusing back on Alastor. He took the next bite and his face scrunched a moment, before smoothing to contentment.

"Mm, interesting!"

Alastor

Huff! "Is that interesting good or interesting bad? I can take them if you don't like them."

Telly

"Interesting good! It just wasn't the flavor I was expecting them to be." He grinned and picked one up to offer Alastor. "But I _will_ share."

Alastor

"Why, *thank* you! Don't mind if I do." He took the bite then kissed Telly's thumb before he sat back to chew.

Telly

Telly followed as he sat back, pecking his cheek. "You looked so _indignant_ just then, it was adorable."

Alastor

"I did not," he said good-naturedly. "I happen to know for a fact I was smiling the whole time."

Telly

"Yes, you were! But I've started to identify your different smiles. That one was definitely indignant." He nodded for emphasis, even as he fought to keep his face in a mock serious mask.

Alastor

"Really!" He laughed, grinning wider. "Well, what's this one, then?"

Telly

"That's your 'I'm amused at my partner-in-crime's antics' smile." He giggled.

Alastor

"Close! But you missed the utter adoration."

Telly

"Oh yes, how could I miss that!" He laughed and leaned to kiss Alastor.

Alastor

He returned the kiss, then leaned in to nuzzle Telly's neck. "Say. It occurs to me that I'm not paying terribly close attention to the movie, and I can't help but notice you aren't either. If you don't mind paying a little less attention, I picked up a game that might be fun to play?"

Telly

"A game?" Telly tilted his head, smiling at the nuzzling. Sometimes it still sent a thrill down his spin that Alastor was here with him, like this, and he felt it now.

"What sort of game?"

Alastor

"Well, considering the topic we were just on..." He pulled out his phone with a flourish. (It was hard to flourish with a cell phone, but he was determined to make it work.) "Questions to get to know each other better! I don't think there are any about smiles, but it's a fine list nonetheless. Personally, I always love a good interview—and I know I still don't know half as much about you as I'd like to."

Telly

Telly blinked. "Oh! Well alright, that sounds fun."

He grinned and kissed Alastor again. "Alright, go for it. First question."

Alastor

"Okay! This list here has about two hundred questions and I narrowed them down to only the ones I want to know the most about you—so, naturally, I have over a hundred." He laughed and scrolled through the list. "Let's see, let's start with an easy one—Do you prefer living in the countryside, in a town, or in a big city, and why? I know you've moved around some, and it's hard to tell how an airship counts."

Telly

"Hmm," Telly said, stroking his chin as he pondered.

"I do enjoy city life, with all the people-- we as long as I can separate myself from the majority of them. But I adored my time in Dover when I was alive. The crashing of the sea as I worked was a great focus."

Alastor

"So away from all the city noise, down by the seashore?" He considered that. "We'd have to move a few rings to find a proper shore—how do you feel about prerecorded ocean sounds? I think I can swing that much!"

Telly

"I do like those, it's always fascinated me how they could replicate things like that."

Alastor

"So do I! Sound effects in general are an under-appreciated art! I've got a wide variety of things I listen to to fall asleep, and background sounds like that are high in the list!" His smile turned sheepish. "Or—used to be, anyway. Nowadays I usually listen to you instead."

Telly

Telly blinked. "Listen to me? My heartbeat?" He tilted his head.

Alastor

"And your breathing." He is, in fact, still capable of being a little self-conscious about his moments of sappiness.

Telly

Telly glanced away and for the million and first time he was glad he no longer blushed. "That is....very sweet and romantic, love."

Alastor

"Oh, is it!" He looked a *little* less sheepish. "Here I was worried it might be a bit too much."

Telly

"No, darling, the fact that you fall asleep to the sound of my heart and breathing is definitely not 'too much'." He smiled and leaned over to kiss him.

"Well, next question, yes?"

Alastor

"Well, when you put it *that* way, it sounds charming." He returned the kiss. "Next question!" He handed the phone over to Telly. "Your turn to pick one. Interview the hell outta me. I'm ready for my closeup."

Telly

Telly took the phone and inspected the list of questions, humming softly.

"Hmm, let's see..." He scrolled down. "How about this one. 'What is the most thrilling-slash- adrenaline seeking thing you would consider doing?'"

Alastor

"Oh! Well? Hm." A pause. "Is that counting things I've already done, or only things I haven't tried yet?"

Telly

"I think only things you haven't tried yet." Telly read over the question again. "Yes."

Alastor

"Oh, well then!" He tipped his head back while he thought. "You know, I've always thought skydiving sounded fun! But it's hard to find an instructor and pilot that I didn't think would get me splatted on the sidewalk because they were too terrified of me to do their jobs right." His eyes lit up. "Say, this thing doesn't get high enough for skydiving, does it?"

Telly

"I don't think so." He laughed, shaking his head. "But if you ever want me to toss you out to give you a briefer experience, let me know."

He paused, humming again. "Now I'm curious, though, what was the most thrilling thing you already did?"

Alastor

"I'll keep it in mind!"

He winced. "Oh, I talked myself into that one. And here I didn't even get to the question about relationship dealbreakers first. But, uh... hunting people for sport?" He laughed self-consciously. "I kept meaning to bring it up, but there's really no easy way to work that into a conversation."

Telly

"You did mention something about being out there to kill when you died. So, you hunted people?" Telly's tone stayed completely casual-- this was Hell and he'd been here a while, one got used to most things.

Alastor

He hadn't *thought* it was going to be a problem, considering what Telly was up to when he died, and considering everything Alastor got up to that Telly already knew about—but you never really knew how someone was going to react. And if Alastor knew anything about mass murderers, it was that depending on their motives or methods, they couldn't even get respect from other mass murderers. "People and deer, usually. But by the end, the deer were mainly a consolation prize and an excuse to get close to the real prey."

Telly

"I see." He stroked his chin. "How many do you think you killed? Did any get away that you know of?"

Alastor

"Oh, only two or three dozen tops," he said modestly. "I'd have to ask how many the infernal treasury credited me with, but even that number wouldn't be quite all of them. There's a few I shot and left that I never saw show up in the papers, so they might have got away, but none I know for sure. "

Telly

"Hm! Well, no wonder you wanted a hunter rifle for your present." He grinned and laughed. "Alright, next question for me."

Alastor

"That's it?" He raised his eyebrows, surprised. "You know, I always kind of thought that one would generate more discussion. Huh." He turned back to the list of questions to scroll through—and picked up another snack to feed Telly while he looked for a question. "Here's an intriguing one—what are you deliberately ignoring, even though you know you should deal with it?"

Telly

Telly took the offered snack with his mouth. He hummed, thinking as he chewed.

"I don't think that I'm deliberately ignoring anything right now?" He squinted, and his head tilted. "So, only unknowingly ignoring, then." He chuckled.

Alastor

"Well, tell me something you're unknowingly ignoring!" He said, like a little shit.

Telly

"Obviously, I don't know what those are, Alastor." He rolled his eyes.

Alastor

"No? You're positive?" He grinned impishly. "Well, all right! No skeletons in your closet, I suppose!" He passed the phone back. "But next time I'll get something interesting out of you."

Telly

"Yes, yes, next time." He took the phone back and scrolled through again. "Hmm, how about this: What calms you down the most?"

Alastor

"Oh." A long pause. And then a tiny wince and a mumble, "Do you know what ASMR is?" It's worth noting that he's more self-conscious over this than the serial killing.

Telly

"Vaguely. But tell me more about it." He leaned in, grinning malevolently.

Alastor

Ahem. "*Well.* When I was alive, and we were all still trying to figure out what to *put* on the radio, some of the earliest programs were, just... musical programs with sort of a vague plot narrated between them. And when I say 'vague,' I mean 'today John Doe is driving into town, let's play a bunch of songs about farms and meadows and bridges because that's what he's driving past.' And I appreciated those plotless little shows. But they weren't too popular—people wanted more stories in their stories, so they went away." He was going somewhere with this, really. "And then a little after I died, shows really started pushing the envelope with what they could do with the *sound* on radio, you know, with sound effects and the like, getting really experimental with it. And I tell you, I ate that up! I probably spent most of the forties with headphones practically glued to my head—and this was before they started offering the high-quality headphones for sinners that don't have their ears on the sides of their heads! And uh, that—that's more or less what ASMR is. Like those early shows with nearly-plotless plots, with the music taken out and copious sound effects to support the plot instead. That's... that covers most of the appeal." He did NOT make eye contact and he WAS embarrassed.

Telly

Telly blinked. Well. He hadn't realized that was such an in depth topic. He sat quiet as he processed a moment and then nodded.

"So you like it because it feels familiar?"

Alastor

"Not exactly, no—more because it... has those things I already liked." Mumble, "And it makes my ears tingle." Mumble mumble, "And sometimes it's nice to pretend I can get a haircut from somebody who isn't afraid to look me in the eyes."

Telly

Telly smirked, leaning against him. "Well, sometime you'll have to show me one."

Alastor

"Really?" His brow wrinkled. "Well—alright. But fair warning, I've probably oversold how interesting it is. I mean—the people who are interested in it find it interesting, but..."

Telly

"I at least would want to hear it once, just because you like it so much." He kissed Alastor's cheek.

Alastor

"Oh... sure, then. I'll see what I can find for you." He returned the smooch. "I'll try to avoid the more esoteric ones."

Telly

"Yes please, darling." He purred. "Next question?"

Alastor

"You know... I think I want to ask you one that you asked me." He grinned. "What's the most thrill-seeking thing *you'd* do?"

Telly

"Thrill-seeking...." He pondered that for a moment, finger tapping his chin again.

"Probably seems typical for me, but I think it would be a great thrill to finally attack Vox."

Alastor

"Hah! Put *that* one at the top of the list! Oh, I hope that by the time we go for him, he's so outmatched that he's *boring*."

Telly

"Yes, we can hope!" He laughed, grinning wider.

Alastor

He tugged Telly in to plant a firm kiss on his cheek. "I just love when we're on the same page."

Telly

Telly purred, turning to kiss Alastor's lips. "I love _you_," he muttered, wrapping his arms around him.

Alastor

"I love you, too." It's something he still has to practice saying without his breath shuddering; sometimes there's still a little static hitch. But it's coming more easily.

Telly

There was still a thrill that went through him, hearing Alastor say it back-- a thrill that made him beam and kiss him all the more. He sighed happily against his lips, cuddling close.

Alastor

He slid an arm around Telly's waist, holding him closer, humming along to the love song in the movie as he kissed Telly.

Telly

Telly let the kiss keep going for a while, before pulling back, a grin on his face. "I also love kissing you."

Alastor

"I think I've developed a taste for it myself." Understatement.

Telly

He laughed. "Yes, it seems you have." He leaned in for another kiss.

Alastor

He wasn't about to get any complaints from Alastor. Just a hungry return kiss.

Telly

Telly pushed closer, arms and tail coiling tightly around him. He pulled back after a time, and giggled.

"Oh, look at us, making out during a picture show like teenagers!"

Alastor

"Ha! I never made out at the picture shows as a teenager!" He paused thoughtfully, then added, "And as a teenager *you* never went to a picture show. But what's time to the dead?" He laughed. "I wouldn't have enjoyed it then, anyway."

Telly

"We simply must get the teenage experiences we never had! Even if they are ones that we wouldn't have had otherwise!" He laughed, kissing over Alastor's face.

Alastor

He laughed as he was smothered in kisses. "I didn't *want* that teenage experience! Do you know, *do you know* how *hard* it is to ask a gal you're friends with if she'd like to see a show with you, and then actually *see the show*? There I am, early twenties, with some dame desperate to introduce me to her lips, trying to watch Mister Buster Keaton, and—and..." His laughter momentarily overtook his ability to speak. "I should've taken a cobra to the movies. Do you think they'd have let me? Just escorted one on a day trip from the Bronx Zoo?"

Telly

"No, I don't think so. A python, maybe." He grinned and laughed, nuzzling close to Alastor. "But just think, you can take _this_ cobra to a picture show!"

Alastor

"I certainly can! And you're a better conversational partner!" He pulled Telly deeper into the nuzzle. "I can't think of anyone else I'd rather ignore a movie with."

Telly

Telly grinned wider, chuckling against Alastor's neck. "Mm, I think we lost track of the questions sometime around the second kiss, but I certainly don't mind, do you?"

Alastor

"No, not terribly." He kissed Telly near start of his hood. "Although I'd like to loop back around to that sooner or later. There's *so much* I want to ask you, and I feel like we never get to talk enough."

Telly

"Hmm," Telly hummed, sitting up, but taking Alastor with him. He situated him on his lap and grinned. "How about one asks a question and the other has to answer whilst being kissed?"

Alastor

"Ooh. You know, that *does* have its appeal." He straddled Telly's tail, looped his arms over Telly's shoulders, and pressed their foreheads together. "*However...* not to be the cliché libidoless talk show host we all know I am, but—I really do want to *talk* with you. Without the conversation playing second-string to a distraction." He offered a crooked, uncertain smile. "If that doesn't sound too boring for you? I don't want to hold you hostage in a conversation you've lost interest in, mind."

He was still hesitant, still self-conscious whenever what Telly was looking for physically was less than what Alastor was currently looking for. It was easy enough to say "no" when he was flat-out uncomfortable with an activity; he could even let himself think that he was giving Telly an opportunity to be gallant by graciously reigning in his own desires for Alastor's comfort. He felt less sure of saying "no" when he was simply not terribly excited by the idea at the moment. He felt like he was the one giving up the opportunity to be gallant. It was a new quandary for him, and he didn't enjoy his own uncertainty.

But thus far honesty had never steered him wrong with Telly, so he'd tell the truth first and figure out the rest later.

Telly

Telly purred as their foreheads pressed together, and then gave Alastor a squeeze. "Of course. We can just talk. As long as you don't mind if I simply _must_ occasionally interrupt you because the urge to give you a kiss is _unbearable_."

He leaned back to dramatically press the back of his hand to his forehead, before cracking open an eye and grinning. He readjusted himself to be snuggled back in close.

"I forget whose turn it is, so why don't you start us off again."

Alastor

Alastor's grin widened again, as much with relief as amusement. "Far be it from I to deny you if you're in such desperate need! Why, I might need one or two myself." And just to prove it, he planted a quick peck on Telly's forehead. "*I* kept track. We got off-topic because you said you wanted to take down ol' blockhead and I thought it was the most beautiful thing you said today. So it's your turn to ask one."

Telly

"Oh, alright." He looked around, finding the phone from where it had fallen in their kissing frenzy. He scrolled through it before making a face briefly.

"You know, there's something I've wanted to ask that's not on this list, and what better time than now?" Telly smiled, albeit sheepishly, turning to glance away as he worked up the nerve to ask his question.

"So, to preface this, I know when it comes to bedroom things, there are things you definitely do not want to do, one being me touching you in the--" He gestured vaguely to Alastor's crotch. "But I was wondering, what's your opinion on.....blow jobs?" He muttered the last word, looking away even harder.

Alastor

"Really? 'How do you feel about blow jobs,' they left that one off the list?" He squinted in exaggerated puzzlement at the phone. "How did they miss *that* one?" He tutted chidingly, then turned to Telly. "Giving or receiving? Or both? Or just as a general cultural phenomenon?"

Telly

"Well, I assumed that since you don't want me doing anything--" He gestured again to Alastor's crotch. "-- _down there_, that it would be giving."

~~He is still not making eye contact. He is not Looking.~~

Alastor

"Well... actually, I've been thinking about it." A dramatic pause. "And I'm still thinking about it."

Okay, now that he'd got the instinct to be a troll out of his system: "Here's the thing. Most available options, I've got clear opinions on and I don't have to wonder about them. Hand jobs? Sure, I've been giving them to myself for over a century, no problem with that. Anal? God hung a sign over that door that says 'exit only,' and while I'm perfectly happy to ignore that sign to sneak into a theater or a gourmet kitchen, I don't feel compelled to break into the back door of my sewage facility. And so on! But blow jobs, though?" He shrugged expansively, clueless.

"It's always looked disgusting, but that was when I was considering the prospect of all that hair and sweat and the crust of poor hygiene. None of that's a factor here. On the other hand, I generally don't stick things in my mouth I don't intend to chew and swallow—see, that sign on one end marked 'exit only' is accompanied by one on the other side that reads 'entrance only.' Kissing is fine, licking and nipping are fine, but the idea of sticking something in there and... *holding* it? Sliding it back and forth? It's..." He trailed off. "Well—neither good nor bad. Just... alien. I can't really imagine how it'd go."

He took a deep breath. "And of course, the fastest way to find out would be to go 'Well, whip 'em out, let me slobber on them and see how I like it!' But: I don't want to offer that if I don't already *know.* I don't want to get your hopes up just to find out in under ten seconds that I hate it and I'm never doing it again."

Telly

Telly listened, giving a small chuckle at Alastor's analogies. He pondered for a moment, his hand moving up to stroke at his chin. "Well, the thing is, how _will_ we know unless we try? That's a thing in science: you form a hypothesis and then conduct experiments to see if you're correct. You know that if something doesn't work out, or you _don't_ end up liking it or wanting to do it again, that's fine, yes? I'd rather us try and fail, than never try at all for only fearing the failure.

"Now, I'm not saying we jump right in and try it out right this very minute, but sometime in the future, why not give it a shot? The worst case is you don't like it, and then we know and we don't have to wonder anymore. Best case? We have another position we're both comfortable with.

"And stemming from that, if you don't like the idea of sticking the whole thing in, then there's always just licking-- or even eating me out, my slit where they're usually stored _is_, ah, capable of experiencing that as well. There's variations we could test. And if you don't like them either, no harm, no foul." He shrugged, one hand going to cup Alastor's cheek.

Alastor

"Don't scientists also do research first? To base their hypothesis on what they already know? I'm confident I could do more research." He leaned into Telly's touch, eyes sliding shut. "I'm... not ready yet." Which was embarrassing as all hell for him to admit—him, *Alastor* the *Radio Demon*, not ready for something. "I want to know that at least I haven't overlooked something obvious just because I rushed it. I—" he winced, "I don't consider myself a nervous person—but the thing is I don't want to be the least bit nervous while I've got a very delicate piece of equipment between my teeth."

Telly

"And that's fine, too. Like I said, we don't need to jump into it _right now_, or anything. We can wait until you're ready to try." He smiled and leaned in to give him a kiss.

"Alright, I think it's your turn now."

Alastor

Kiss! "All right, what have we got here..." They were down in the relationship and sex questions. He scrolled a bit, barked out a "HA," gave Telly a shit-eating grin, and read, "How well do you think our sex drives match up?"

Telly

Telly blinked at the question-- before breaking into a fit of cackling. His head tossed back, his laugh was loud and echoed in the cavernous bridge.

Alastor

Alastor cackled along with him, so loud his voice took on a note of distortion as if blasting from an overburdened speaker, and he flopped off of Telly's tail and onto his side. "Pff—perfectly synchronized," he wheezed, "right?"

Telly

Telly wheezed as well, trying to get out his reply. "Oh yes, perfectly!" He flopped back, giggling manically.

Alastor

He tugged Telly down to pull him into a hug, even as he laughed. The fact that they could laugh about it was good. Even if they weren't in sync, at least they weren't in conflict. That was what mattered.

"Ahh... I'll find a real one, give me a second."

Telly

Telly's chuckles tapered off as he settled against Alastor, purring. "You're hilarious, you know that, right?"

Alastor

"*Thank* you!" Now here was a smile that could light up a room. "I know it, but I like to know you know it too." He scrolled through the list, looking for one of the more serious questions he'd wanted to ask. "What are some of your relationship goals?" He paused. "Besides blow jobs."

Telly

"Relationship goals?" He tilted his head, a confused frown on his face. "I'm...not sure? Does a relationship need _goals_? I'm happy to be with you, no matter what."

He considered for another moment. "I suppose...us being happy is a goal? Can that be a goal?"

Alastor

"Sure! It can be a goal! The most important one, I think!" He propped himself up so he could look at Telly more directly. "You're not planning all this too far ahead, are you? Besides our next raid or two and the next thing to build and a list of enemies for us to topple?"

Telly

His face scrunched briefly. "No, not too far in advance. That's where I got into....complications before, when it was all planning, no _doing_. I thought a different approach would work better this time around-- but that's about conquering, and not about _us_. Sure, my goals for Hell are important, but as long as you're by my side, I feel like....that part will go much more smoothly."

Alastor

His smile warmed at Telly's faith in him. "I think relationship goals and conquering goals overlap. Like, say, what if your goal was to conquer and rule Hell with me, but my secret little goal for us was to find a way we could permanently sneak out of Hell and live in the mortal realm? I *don't*, but just for example. Both those would affect which direction our relationship goes—so I think they'd count as relationship goals. And we'd be in trouble if we both assumed we'd get ours without talking to the other."

Telly

"That is true, I just thought that the question was more specifically about goals for our relationship by itself. But you're right! Life-- or rather, Death Goals also affect relationships!" He chuckled.

Alastor

"It could be." He looked at the question and shrugged. "Whatever gives us a more interesting answer, I think! So! I'll amend it: have any relationship goals or goal that'll affect our relationship?"

Telly

"Well, in that case, I have the goal of conquering Hell with you by my side!" He laughed, winking at Alastor.

Alastor

"You know, that's on my list, too!" He laughed as well. "Just the two for now, then? Keep it nice and simple?"

Telly

"Yes, for now!" He shrugged, taking the phone back to scroll through questions.

He hummed as he looked and then grinned wickedly. "Alright, here's one I like: 'What are some things you really like about me?'"

Alastor

"Oh! How much time do you have!" He laughed. "Where to start? I like that evil smile of yours!" He pecked Telly's lips. "I like how you embrace what got you damned, instead of either denying it or moping about it. I like your organ playing—and your dancing—and the way you move. I like how you can think up some insane contraption, go, 'let there be a freeze ray!' and behold, within a day there is. I like how when I look at all you can make, I really do believe that you're the one human who could beat gods and demons not by borrowing their tricks but just by being human. I like how much you enjoy my cooking. I like how you hum when you work. I like how passionate you are about your inventions. I like your taste in interior design. I like your laugh. I like watching you swim. Should I keep going?"

Telly

As Alastor spoke, Telly curled around him, his purr starting up. He coiled tighter and grinned wider, until he was beaming and his face looked near to breaking. He squirmed briefly and laughed.

"Heh! Is that all? Is there more? Please DO feed my ego!!"

Alastor

"Oh, fine, fine! I also like how megalomania looks on you when your ego's been fed! And that menacing rumble you get, low in your chest. And the way your body feels." He ran a hand down along Telly's tail. "And the color of your eyes. *And* your scales. And the fact that you're theatrical enough to keep up with me. And the way you'll dress up to go somewhere fun with me. And when I'm going a hundred miles an hour, you don't ask me to slow down, but go a hundred and five. And you enjoy torturing a prisoner or seeing a musical or burgling a mall all just the same. And you have terrific taste in weapons. And your idea of a good date is having a picnic over the grave of the man who mistreated you. And you've never been horrified by me, even when you damn well should be. And you have a sadistic streak that borders on a form of art. And you make my dead heart start again when you sing. And you can play string duets like it's nothing. And you mix your own fragrances."

Telly

Telly couldn't help the overly pleased look that grew on his face. He purred and pressed his face into Alastor's shoulder. "If I could blush, I'd be bright as a traffic light." He kept grinning against Alastor.

"Love you, dear..."

Alastor

"Love you, *mon roi.*" A smooch to the side of his head.

Telly

Telly nuzzled and then looked up to kiss Alastor's lips.

Alastor

He returned the kiss, broke it long enough to say, "—and your teeth—" and went back in.

Telly

That little addition earned him a nip, and a grin against his lips.

Alastor

He nipped Telly back, chest trembling with silent laughter. Maybe he should start keeping a list. Make sure he remembered to tell Telly about every item on it at least once.

Telly

He laughed, too, giving another nip. He squeezed Alastor with tail and arms.

"One of these days, I'm going to make you blush like you make me."

Alastor

"I thought you said you couldn't blush." Alastor winked. "I'll look forward to that day! I'd better be red as a tomato!"

Telly

"You may not see it on my face, but you _know_ when you do, Alastor!" He chided playfully.

Alastor

"I might," he said innocently. "Tell me—was all that the answer you wanted to hear? I didn't leave out anything important, did I? There's just so much to try to remember!"

Telly

"Mm, no, I think you covered your bases pretty well," He said with a grin.

Alastor

"Good!" He beamed brilliantly. "I want to make sure you're feeling properly appreciated, after all!"

Telly

"You do, you do." He laughed, handing back the phone as he cuddled closer. "I think it was your turn now."

Alastor

"I think you're right!" He scrolled slowly through the list. "We just did a couple of relationship questions... So! What are some of your earliest memories?"

Telly

"Hmmm..." He sat back, taking Alastor's free hand with him as he pondered.

"I suppose it would be my mother overseeing the governess dressing me for some function when I was very young."

Alastor

"The governess! I don't think you've ever mentioned her." Although it made sense that a noble family had a house full of help, didn't it? "What was she like? Was she the one who taught you?"

Telly

"We had a number of them over the years-- never kept one too long, Father always said they got 'overly familiar' after a while." He shrugged.

Alastor

He had to take a moment to process that. "Is that code for 'he fired anyone who started to express concern for his children's well-being,' or 'he was sleeping with the help and fired them whenever he got caught'?"

Telly

"The former. There was one governess who was especially concerned about me, when I was, oh, six or seven, I believe? She went to my mother to speak with her about something regarding me, and the next day she was gone."

Telly snorted. "It's like they expected these women whom they hired to raise and teach their children to do so without becoming emotionally invested in said children."

Alastor

"Well, *they've* got no trouble regarding their children like vessels for their legacy instead of people, why is it so hard for someone they hired to do the same?" He shook his head. "You were already worrying people at six? What kind of trouble were you in?" He hoped it was the "already making dangerous inventions" variety rather than the "unusually miserable for a six-year-old" variety, but he wasn't getting his hopes up.

Telly

"I was either very quiet or very loud, I couldn't pay attention or I focused too hard on things, etcetera." He shrugged again. "The normal 'this child is not a neurotypical child' thing."

Alastor

"*There's* a five dollar word! You too?" Alastor laughed ruefully. "Funny thing, all my teachers said the same thing. Except *they* didn't get emotionally invested." He grimaced. "But then I wasn't a noble boy—I was just somebody's bastard."

Telly

"What, did you think the compulsion to create great machines of awe and destruction and take over the world came from the mind of someone who _wasn't_ afflicted with many neurodivergencies?" He chuckled.

"But yes, a few of them were worried, and a couple more tried the 'beat it out of him' method of fixing it."

Alastor

"There's a *six* dollar word. Does it include shocking inspiration and genius beyond any other human's capacity? Because I suspected that part."

Alastor sneered, his lip curling up to expose his teeth, as if contemplating sinking them into the throats of whichever governesses had dared pull such a stunt. "I'm familiar with *that* method." He shifted to kiss Telly's forehead. "I doubt it worked any better on you than it did on me."

Telly

"Yes, I believe so! It didn't work at all for me." He chuckled. "There were some better than others-- I really hated the one that used a switch." He shuddered.

Alastor

"Yard stick," Alastor said mournfully. "I think my mother would have murdered anyone who took a switch to me, but I wasn't friends with that yard stick."

Telly

"They would smack me when I focused too hard, and then when I couldn't focus at all-- it would send quite the mixed signals." He shook his head, and leaned in to kiss his forehead in return.

Alastor

A bitter laugh. "And for some reason they think the constant looming threat of punishment *helps* you focus!" Alastor shut his eyes to bask in the kiss.

"I don't suppose you've ever talked to a doctor about that, have you? I talked to one a couple of decades ago that said these days they think poor focus is a medical thing. They make drugs for that now."

Telly

"I haven't talked to any doctors, no, but I've done plenty of research on my own! After all, I like to think I'm smarter than most doctors who would end up in Hell!" He laughed.

"I've figured out that I likely had ADHD and a random assortment of co-morbid disorders, such as anxiety, depression, possibly mild OCD, and anger issues!" He seemed proud of that-- the fact he'd been able to suss all that out.

Alastor

His eyes lit up. "Oh! You too!" A pause. "The ADHD part, I mean." Says the man with depression oozing out of every pore. "Why, I should have guessed! Look at us, two peas in a pod!" He'd never thought discovering he has the same extremely specific mental condition as someone else would ever be something so *delightful*, but here he was. "Do you *want* drugs for that? I know a reliable adderall dealer."

Telly

"I've tried a few, they don't work right for me-- or at least, I don't like how they work for me." He shrugged again, and then smiled.

"I had an inkling that we might share that, though!"

Alastor

"I can't say I'm *surprised.* I should have suspected it when I learned how often you skipped meals to keep working." He tilted his head. "I've got a recipe for a focus potion I could teach you? All natural except for the ritalin, but we can leave that ingredient out if you don't like how it affects you." The ritalin may, in fact, have been the part that made the focus potion work. (When he said "all natural" that description was including the cocaine.)

Telly

"We could try it-- but mostly, I've found ways to manage without, mostly. I'd be game for trying, though." He smiled. "Is the focus potion what you use to keep yours in check?"

Alastor

"It helps! Potions, drugs—and I've been told *coffee* helps too, although I never would have made the connection myself." He shrugged. "I was about a hundred when I got a diagnosis, I'm sure by now all my tricks to 'keep it in check' are so intrinsic to my life I'll never realize that's what I'm using them for! What about you, what are your 'ways to manage' it?"

Telly

"Mostly using the Eggs to help me remember to do essential things, but otherwise letting my focus run its course. Of course, that doesn't always work, as you know."

Alastor

"Oh! Yes, of course—I delegate all my 'essential things' to my little shadow helpers. I don't have to remember to do it if someone else is doing it."

Telly

"Exactly! It's one reason I made the Eggs in the first place!" He laughed.

Alastor

"Someday, I hope you'll teach me *how* you made them, because I'm just dying to know." He had a hard time believing magic hadn't been involved.

Telly

"It was a little of this and that, and some other things." He shrugged.

Alastor

"Uh-*huh.*" A smirk. "All right. Keep your secrets. I'll dig them out some other night."

Telly

"Yes, some other night." He grinned back.

"My turn now, though." Telly took the phone back and scrolled through. "Hmmm, 'What habits do you still have from childhood?'"

Alastor

"Huh..." He thought a moment. "This is a cheat, since we were talking about it earlier, but I can't fall asleep without listening to something. First my mother singing to me, then a record player, then radio. And now you." He gave Telly a crooked grin. "But that's not fair, you could have guessed that one! Uh... crunching leaves, splashing puddles... singing and dancing at people who didn't ask for it... counting on my fingers... humming... reading on the toilet..."

Telly

"All of those are very cute, save for the toilet one." He chuckled, giving Alastor a squeeze. "Did the seasons change enough in Louisiana for crunching leaves, though?"

Alastor

"Sure! Not as spectacularly as you get up north, maybe, and we've got some stubborn trees that don't have the sense to drop their leaves in the winter—but they change! Usually, oh..." He closed his eyes, trying to remember. "Sometimes by Halloween—every year I'd hope they would—but not always. Usually by December, though. Brown leaves all over the sidewalks." He opened his eyes again. "I'd see prettier foliage on hunting trips from time to time, especially in parishes farther north. The trees were bare where I died, I remember that."

Telly

Telly listened, his mind running ahead a mile a minute. "Is red your favorite color?"

Alastor

"I don't make it *too* obvious, do I?" He laughed.

Telly

"Was it always your favorite? Or did that change over time?"

Alastor

He thought. "It's almost always been red! Crimson, particularly. But ruby too. Green was my favorite for a bit in my twenties, and I have phases where I just can't get enough of yellow and gold, but I always come back to red." He beamed at Telly, "Guess why I like yellow."

Telly

Telly laughed and flared one side of his hood, grinning. "I think I know why. But that's interesting! Red and yellow are both fall sorts of colors, but green! That's different. Green is more spring!"

He paused and shrugged. "I don't know what it means, but it's interesting!"

Alastor

"It makes me think of summer, actually! Not pale fresh greens but those rich, warm greens." Shapes in lights appeared above him, aimless spirals as he tried to wrestle their hue away from his magic's typical red and into the greens he was thinking of; after a few attempts, he managed several spirals in shades of emerald and basil and moss and olive and hunter green.

Telly

"Ah, yes, I do like those greens! You know what those shades of green go well with?" He flared his hood again, grinning. "Gold! I've always been fond of that combination, green and gold, and along similar lines, blue and silver-- they're pairs that are rarely made because one sees more red and gold than green and gold. Blue and silver is a more common occurrence, though, but still rarer than using red, I think."

Alastor

He summoned up the swirls of color again, letting them hover around Telly's face in front of his hood. "You're right! Have I ever seen you in green? I think your Mardi Gras dress had some green, didn't it, but that was more of a blue-green. I'd like to see a real vivid green on you." He reached up to lightly, almost absentmindedly run a finger along the edge of Telly's hood. "What are your favorite colors overall? I'm guessing gold's right up there."

Telly

"Yes, that was more of a pale teal than a true green-- a sea green, as the theme would have it." He chuckled, head tilting, one half of his hood folding back to allow the motion.

"Gold, black, blue, green-- I became fond of the particular shade of pink that my eyes are after death, but before then, I stuck to deep saturated and rather dark colors."

Alastor

"You know, *I'm* fond of that particular shade of pink, too!" And then he had to look at the color to remind himself of why he liked it, and then he was just staring into Telly's eyes. Wow. He had pretty eyes. What were they talking about?

Telly

With Alastor staring into his eyes, he couldn't help but stare back at Alastor's, and he found himself saying, "You know, I think I've become rather fond of brilliant true red, as well...."

Alastor

"Yeah?" Eloquent. It took him a second to remember the topic. "I should hope so, considering I'm filling half your rooms with red these days." He slid his arms around Telly's shoulders. "We should have a green room..." Aaand pulled him down into a kiss. He distracted himself with all that deep eye contact.

Telly

He was more than happy to be distracted by kisses, the eye contact got to him, too. He squeezed Alastor, nipping his lips.

Alastor

He nipped back, eyes sliding shut, melting into the constrictive embrace. Who needs Heaven when he can get this in Hell.

Telly

Telly lingered in the kiss, lazy and slow, before he pulled back. "Mm, it's fascinating how many different ways one can find to kiss someone."

Alastor

"Isn't it?" His eyes opened a slit, and for a moment he eyed Telly's lips contemplatively. It would be very easy to just keep going... But they'd have time enough for that later, and his desire to keep talking to Telly was stronger. (When wasn't it?) "That time, I think I really did lose track of whose turn it is."

Telly

"I believe it's yours. I was the one who started us off on a tangent after you answered one." He smiled, nuzzling against Alastor's cheek, pressing little kisses along his jaw.

Alastor

"Right! Uh—" Oh he's distracted again. He tried to focus on his phone over Telly's shoulder. "What—what's something we could do to bring us closer together as a couple?" A pause. "Besides blow jobs."

Telly

Telly paused as well, face nuzzled against Alastor's, lips still there against his skin as he spoke. "Mm, I think what we're doing right now? Just...talking about things, enjoying being with one another. Maybe a few more couple bonding murders..." He laughed.

Alastor

"Ooh, more murders. I like the sound of that." He nuzzled Telly back. "What else? Something we're not already doing. I—feel like we've only just begun and there's room for us to do so much more."

Telly

"Honestly? I'm not sure! I may have more experience than you, but only by a fraction," He said, humming against Alastor's skin.

Alastor

That hum traveled down Alastor's neck and up the side of us head. His brain is jelly. "Well—think on it and let me know, would you? I want to do more for you. And with you."

Telly

"I will," He said, chuckling. "My turn?" He hummed again. "Alright, how about the same question: is there something you can think of that would bring us closer as a couple?"

Alastor

"Hell. You already took murder, what does that leave me with?" He laughed, then trailed off thoughtfully.

After a moment, he said, "I'd like if you asked me more questions about me. I know that's what we're doing now, but—in general. When I ask you about your beliefs, ask about mine. When I tell you I hunted humans for sport—ask why I did something crazy like that. If—if you want to know, I mean." Implicit: *you do, don't you?*

"I know we both know I never shut up, so I could just *tell* you, but... I prefer to be asked. I like to know you want... more of me than just my surface level. I'm still an entertainer, you know—I react to what my audience shows interest in."

Telly

Telly listened, lifting his head as he tilted it in thought. "Okay. I think I can do that. Generally, I don't....ask more because I don't want to pry."

He winced, looking away. "Another bad habit George instilled in me, I think."

Alastor

Alastor laughed in disbelief, "You mean he wasn't taking every opportunity to talk about himself? Color me surprised!" But then he'd probably just wanted Telly to be quiet. *Shut up and look at the stars.*

"Well, unlike *George*"—he said the name like an insult—"I *want* to know you, and I want *you* to know *me.* So if you wonder, you can ask. And I'll let you know if you ask something I can't talk about."

Telly

Telly smiled, softly and shyly at first and then with more confidence. "Okay. I will."

He let out a breath. "Did you ever tell me how you got started in radio?"

Alastor

Alastor beamed. "I don't think I did! It was in '24! I'd realized that New York didn't have what I was looking for, and I was looking for an excuse to go back to New Orleans, when my mother mentioned in a letter that a new station was going up and they were looking for somebody with a cultured accent to announce the evening orchestras. Well, I knew my way around a hobby radio kit, so I paid to make a long-distance call to the station manager, read off the first paragraph of a musical review in my best Broadway stage voice, and asked him, 'How about that, is that the voice you're looking for?' He hired me sight unseen!" He laughed. "I told myself it would be a fine part-time job until I could get in with a jazz band or a vaudeville troupe, something like that, but... I think part of me knew even then."

Telly

Telly smiled brightly. "Sounds like destiny to me. Now, when did you start killing? It was after going back to New Orleans, correct?"

Alastor

"When I started killing seriously, yes. I'd committed one murder before then, and..." A thoughtful squint. "Well, I *might* have got some Germans, but I don't know for sure. They don't exactly call you from across no man's land to congratulate you on your shot."

Telly

Telly's head tilted again, curiosity piqued.

"Who was your first? Kill, that is."

Alastor

"My racist grandfather who taught me the word 'bastard' when my father wasn't listening." He smiled grimly. "'Hunting accident.' *Very* tragic."

He nodded at Telly, "Who was *yours*? Was your attack on London the first time, or did you get a taste for it before then?"

Telly

"First that was fully intentional? My...business partner. He wanted to pull the funding for my work. I killed him and wrote letters to keep the money flowing."

Alastor

"Your *business partner*? You had a business partner? Who was *he*?" Alastor paused. "No, wait—'fully intentional'?" He paused again. "No no wait, tell me about the business partner first!"

Telly

Telly's face scrunched, and then flattened, and then scrunched again, as if he was trying to decide if what he was about to say was terrible, hilarious, embarrassing, or all three.

"He was Olivia's father. He saw potential in me, which is why he agreed to the engagement in the first place."

Alastor

His eyebrows went up. "Her *father.* Your—your friend's father! George's father-in-law. Him. Were you writing letters as him to *them*?"

Telly

Telly nodded, and let out a manic sort of laugh. "Yes! I made assurances everything was fine, that he was staying in Dover for a time as the sea air did him good, that sort of thing. Never suspected a thing."

Alastor

He blinked, an amazed smile on his face. "To your *own friend.* Oh, that's *cold.*" He laughed, pulling Telly into a quick kiss. "Did they ever find out anything had happened before you died?"

Telly

"To be honest, I wasn't thinking about her when I did....any of it. But no, she never knew until after my death."

Alastor

"She must have had a miserable time after you died, poor thing." He shook his head sympathetically—not *too* sympathetically, but he wasn't going to make fun of her when he knew Telly had actually cared about her. "Was it your airship you were working on when he tried to pull his money?"

Telly

"Yes. I'd hired a good few people to work on it day and night, and we were so close to finishing....though, 'close' was more like 'another two years', but back then that was _very_ close!" He laughed.

Alastor

"For something that size, first of its kind? I should say so! What made him want to pull out?"

Telly

"Well, that leads back to them, uh..._unintentional_ deaths. You see, I did not care for workplace safety." He chuckled.

Alastor

"*Ha!* I see! No surprise, having them work on it day and night!" He cupped Telly's cheek in a hand. "Did your callousness frighten him, my darling?"

Telly

"That and the, ah, _amount_ of men who died." He beamed.

Alastor

Alastor hooted. "You even sound *proud*! Were you proud at the time, or did you have to learn to be?"

Telly

"At the time, I was unconcerned. Mostly still am. They died so that my vision became a reality! It wasn't shameful-- their deaths had purpose!"

Alastor

"And a hell of a vision it was!" Although it might explain why apparently one of them had done slipshod work on the pipes; but pointing that out might sound like a criticism instead of an observation.

Telly

"Yes, well, Lord Everton was considerably disappointed in what he called a 'lack of safety' and 'lack of progress'. But I dealt with that."

Alastor

Alastor scoffed. "Oh, and what kind of progress was *he* expecting on the world's first flying ship? Did he think he'd be sailing it over the English Channel in three months?"

Telly

"_He_ thought it was to be just a submersible!" He laughed. "And he thought five years was more than a generous amount of time for it."

Alastor

"You didn't tell him it was going to *fly*? Why, I thought that would be a selling point!" He had no idea how long it was supposed to have taken to make a submarine in the late 1800s, so he couldn't comment on *that * part.

Telly

"Well, at first, it _wasn't_ but then I changed the blueprints a number of times and it just became an airship, too." Telly shook his head. "I was frantic and possessed by my genius."

Alastor

A strange look crossed Alastor's face. "Sounds like it must have been one hell of a time. In both good and bad ways." He almost said more, but paused, waiting to see if Telly had more to add to the story.

Telly

"It was, certainly, it was." He nodded and sighed, leaning against Alastor.

Alastor

He rubbed Telly's back for a moment, thoughtfully; then said, "That's probably how I would have described myself as a murderer toward the end. *Frantic and possessed.* Not by genius—and certainly not by something *forcing* me to kill—but I was... trying to make something." He said the words slowly, choosing them carefully. "I needed to take something inside of me and create it in the real world, and I couldn't stop until I succeeded." He looked at Telly searchingly, seeing whether he understood.

Telly

Telly locked eyes with Alastor, and nodded slowly. "Yes. I wanted to leave something behind, something grand, and it didn't matter what got in my way. Nothing was too high a cost for trying to complete _this thing_. I suspect it was a little different for you, with your killing, but....I thing the feeling was probably the same."

Alastor

"I wasn't trying to leave something behind, but I was trying to... *be* something, or—or *do* something, and I wouldn't be *complete* until I'd done it. By the time I died, it was almost the only thing that mattered." He took a deep breath. "It's like a forest fire, isn't it? There's nothing as beautiful as that blazing light, but it consumes everything in you."

Telly

Telly found himself nodding on instinct, and then when he realized what he was doing, he nodded more vigorously. "It starts like a spark and then just grows and grows until the blaze is all there is, and it's terrible and beautiful and you can't help but just....let it consume you."

Alastor

"And then you burn out. And then you're dead. And what have you got for it but the ashes of the life you could have lived if you hadn't kindled that obsession?" He gave Telly a sad smile. "Still. I wish I'd seen you when you blazed. I'll bet you were glorious."

Telly

"Sometimes you burn out even after death. I was still riding that blaze long after I think. At least, until..." He trailed off.

"I'm sure you could find old newspapers or broadcasts of my glory days in Hell, if you wanted."

Alastor

"Oh, I *plan* to! The only reason I haven't been devouring every article ever written about you is because I've had to read how to repair pipe organs first!" He smirked cheekily for a moment; but the mood wasn't right for that, and the smirk faded.

"I only *blazed* for... oh, I don't know, it might have been as short as my first day in Hell. Just long enough to ruin everything." He huffed. "Sure, I *really* crashed and burned a few decades later, but that was different. That had nothing to do with the murders. I think the old obsession's still smoldering, but—it doesn't consume me like it used to."

Telly

"Yes, there's something about dying and then falling from grace that does that, isn't there? I was flying high until-- that....incident. And then that failure tempered my drive...or squashed it, more like..."

Alastor

Alastor nodded thoughtfully. "Would you go back to that frantic and possessed feeling if you could?"

Telly

Telly thought for a long moment. "...No. No, I don't think I would. That fire and drive were intoxicating, but it didn't leave room for anything else. It was all just....the creation of it."

He turned to smile at Alastor, pressing his hand to his cheek. "I have things now that I want to have plenty of room for."

Alastor

He smiled crookedly back. "I don't think I would, either. I think I'm too old for serial killing now. I get tired just thinking of the kind of schedule I used to keep." He laughed wearily.

"... What if that's what it takes to conquer Hell, though?" He placed his hand over Telly's. "If I see you pushing yourself into obsession, do you want me to pull you back? Or do you want me to come with you?"

Telly

He considered that for another long moment. "I'm not sure. I don't have an answer right now-- I think that's a 'we'll cross that bridge when we come to it' sort of thing. But whatever the answer, I'm glad you'll be with me." Telly leaned in for a kiss.

Alastor

He accepted the kiss and held it for a moment, then drew back and pressed his forehead to Telly's. "We don't need the answer tonight—but I'd like to have it before we reach that bridge. Once we get there, I imagine pulling you back from the brink would take a fight. Better to know *before* then whether you want me to try."

Telly

"Yes....yes, you're right. It's just such a vast sort of question, because how are we to know the circumstances that would surround such a second descent?" He took a breath. "It would be complicated. But I don't think I'll go there again-- when I went there in life, it was from a very dark place, and the obsession became everything. I don't think I'd be able to get to that place again without something....drastic."

Alastor

"For now we'll call that a soft 'no', how's that? But we'll play it by ear. We can talk it over more in the future."

Telly

"Yes, I think that would be best." He laughed, leaning against him.

Alastor

Alastor adjusted his arms around Telly—and then, during the brief lull in the conversation, glanced at the movie. "... How long has that been off?" He laughed.

Telly

Telly blinked and looked over as well. "Goodness, I don't know. We talked through the whole thing!" He laughed.

Alastor

"And you know, I bet we had twice as much fun as we would have watching the movie!" All the same, he started quietly playing the soundtrack—to make up for not hearing it the first time. "Well, what now? The night's still young."

Telly

"Well, we still have food. And we could put on another movie if you'd like, and this time watch it." Telly chuckled. "I'm ready for whatever you wish, darling, I just want to keep holding you."

Alastor

"We *do* still have food." He grabbed a couple crostini, popped one in his mouth, and offered the other to Telly. "Oh, I don't know if I could pay attention to another movie—but I like this 'keep holding you' idea, I think we ought to do something with that."

Telly

Telly accepted the snack and smiled. "Yes, that would be good. Maybe some more kisses, too."

Alastor

"Do you know what I think about *that*?" Without waiting for an answer, he pulled Telly into a deep kiss.

Telly

Telly's eyes flashed wide for a moment before he melted into the kiss. What a night this had been.

Alastor

What a night indeed. Alastor nipped at Telly's lip and pressed closer against him; yes, he could happily stay right here the rest of the night.

[archive-of-the-guild]

 Character Bio and rules are below the line

You can call me Shadow. i’m a 28yo male that hasn’t rped in years. Last time i did was i think 3 maybe 4 years ago so i am plenty rusty. I know this doesn’t say a lot about me but if there’s anything you’d like to know, just ask.

About Karisa

Name: Karisa

Race: Tiefling: A Humanoid people descended from humans who made pacts or crossbred with demons.

Age: 18

Height: 6'3"

Hair color: black

Occupation: Golemancer, Adventurer, occasional Blacksmith

Appearance: As a tiefling, Karisa has several traits that distinguishes her from Humans. She has Lavender colored skin, ice blue eyes, two horns, pointed ears, and a 4 foot long tail.

Personality: When it comes to enemies, Karisa can be downright ruthless. if she hates them bad enough, she will leave an enemy broken but alive to let them try again. She swears a LOT around everyone no matter who they are with the exception of children and has a habit of making enemies through her mannerisms. She’s bad enough with her words that there have been jokes made about weaponizing her lexicon and isn’t afraid to cuss out friends! BUT if you can take her words with a grain of salt and actually befriend her, then no matter what she says to you, she will protect you with her life. In her words, “You may be a cunt, but you’re MY cunt. And no one FUCKS with my cunt!”

Background:

Karisa was born on a small farm and raised by her parents until she reached the age of 8 when they passed away. Since then she would delve into golemancy as a way to cope, keeping her hands busy and moving foreword as best as she can. This is around the time she found the large crystal that would become Grom’s core. At the age of 10, she made her way to the city with her golem Grom, who was wood at the time, to try and become an adventurer. There she met the Dwarf Bormi who gave her a place to stay and taught her in the ways of the blacksmith.

Modern Verse (Hazbin Verse rewrite):

Karisa is Tiefling who was born into an organization known as The Adventurer’s Guild. The purpose of this organization is to deal with supernatural threats to society as a whole by hunting down creatures, artifacts, books, and other things that could pose a danger. If it can’t be recruited, it is to be either destroyed or relocated. People of course know about them but there is a general distrust of the organization due to their habit of employing non-humans and the Guild’s use of magic.

When it comes to the forces of Heaven and Hell, the Guild was able to get their hands on a blueprint for portal technology. The portal they have doesn’t always work and sometimes accesses realms other than Heaven or Hell. This can have a tendency to get adventurers stuck in realms outside of earth.

Skills-

Golemancy: Throughout her life, Karisa has made a variety of golems. These golems can me made from just about any solid material if given enough time. Golems made from metal, stone, wood, and even flesh are within her area of expertise. Her favorite golem is an 8 foot tall minotaur automaton she named Grom.

Cooking: Karisa LOVES to cook. She’s always experimenting with different dishes and creating a few of her own.

Basic Martial Arts: Since she turned 13, Karisa has trained with a quarterstaff and dagger so that if her golems failed, she could still take care of herself.

Magic: In addition to Golemancy, she has a small arsenal of spells at her disposal.

Fire Spells: All Tieflings are capable of fire magic. Fireball, Burning Hands, and Firewall to name a few. Using fire helps her a lot if she has to weld parts together on a golem.

Lightning Spells: Karisa can perform rudimentary lightning spells but this mostly equates to coating her hand in electricity to use. The strength of this can range from the power of a normal stun gun to enough power to jumpstart a city’s electrical grid.

3D Movement: This is a form of wind magic that allows her to “kick” the air. by doing this, Karisa can give off the impression that she is flying. This does not mean she stays in the air, only that she can move in it. she usually only uses this to get over walls or cliffs or maybe to get into a tree.

Empathy Link: This is something she originally learned in order to better deal with golems in order to find out what their orders are. it can be used on other creatures and objects to get a kind of idea of either how they are feeling or how they are used. She MUST make contact with the palm of her hand for this to work.

Golem Creation: As a golemancer, Karisa carries a number of golem cores on her at all times. These cores can often be infused into whatever matter she chooses to create a quick golem in the field. These golems aren’t as effective as one she has time to prepare but they get the job done. Golem cores are also extremely volatile! Damaging a core will cause any magic in it to go haywire and explode in relation to the core’s size. This makes golems and their cores effective bombs if she needs to!

Golem Override: This is a skill that allows Karisa to manually control her golems and see through their eyes. HOWEVER this is only a last resort because it leaves her immobile and defenseless. 

Please send Karisa questions and asks either from yourself or your characters! i will fill this out as i go!

Rules

1: i am all for fight scenes and such but please do not god-mod. meaning do not assume what happens to my character. (EX: “My character fires a gun and hits your character in the shoulder.” or “Your character tried to dodge but my character cuts off their arm before they can.”) In my responses, i’ve taken to rolling a dice to determine whether or not my character gets hit and how badly she gets hit. I do not mind my character dying in a particular thread so long as it is discussed at length beforehand and is necessary for the development of the plot. communication is key for stuff like this.

2: Don’t send hate. I don’t mind criticizing because it helps me reflect on how i’m doing. Hate is just a dick move though.

3: I reserve the right to choose whether or not i rp or answer an ask. There will be times that i don’t have the inspiration or motivation to continue it or there is not enough for me to go on. An example of this would be if i responded to an rp and the response i get back is “Character ducks.” or something as equally short.

4: I don’t mind reminders but i DO mind spamming. I will mostly be rping either on the weekends or some afternoons when i can get up the motivation. DO NOT spam me reminders every day or every other day. I have a 5 month old son and a job that has me working monday to thursday with the occasional friday up to 12 hours a day. Those come first.

5: You will see a lot of stuff on here that i will do my best to tag from gore to n//s//f//w// threads. If there is anything in particular you would like me to tag when it shows up, please let me know! Anything truly spicy will placed uner a read more and tagged as “Read at your own Risk!::NSFPC” (nsfpc stands for not safe for public consumption.

6: While i accept starters, memes, questions and comments through asks, starters and starter memes WILL be turned into a post to start a thread. I will not rp through constant asks because this can lead to more dash clutter than the post will. That being said, i will trim the post before it gets too long and will try to have any appropriate tags on it.

7: THERE WILL BE LOTS AND LOTS OF SWEARING! Enough that i will not be tagging it because it is everywhere! I will not tone down her swearing except around child muses because this is part of her character and i ask that you please understand.

8: When it comes to shipping, Karisa will make things fairly clear on whether or not she wants to be with your character. I love shipping but i also know that not everyone will ship their characters with Karisa and that's perfectly fine! Karisa WILL flirt and get touchy with people she's interested in but if the mun or character they are controlling doesn't want that, TELL HER! Not me. HER. Have your character reject her advances, tell her "no" or even smack the shit out of her if she gets too handsy! I will not be upset and i will completely understand! A lot of people plan ships out and tell others there has to be chemistry, but as I'm thinking about it, im going to be removing that little section from my rules. Why? Because failed ships have the potential to create drama, angst, and even enemies if done properly! If she comes onto a character and it makes you uncomfortable or you're just not interested, EXPRESS IT THROUGH YOUR CHARACTER! The same will apply to her! The only time i will have any sort of problem is if she says no, gets into a fight, and you try to godmod it to your liking or try to guilt ME about it. My character makes up her own mind about how to do things just like yours.

I may add more rules as time goes on but it’s pretty straightforward. Don’t be afraid to come and talk to me! I’m pretty open about things and i would love to see you around! Come and join me on discord for more Mun stuff! Just make sure you edit your name to match your tumblr url so i know who you are please! https://discord.gg/6ftZuSP8XH 

[star-killer-md]

Dream a Little Dream of Me Pt. 8

Well folks I have returned after a long break. I was hit with a wave of no motivation and life shit but thank you to everyone who has read all my other shit and left me such nice feedback. I am patently horrible at responding to comments but I see them all and love them so much. There is not much Kylo in this chapter, so apologies in advance but I promise there will be plenty of him to come. 

AO3 Mirror

Part 9 to come

Warnings: Angst, angst and more angst, not much else except for that so buckle up. 

Summary: In which you discover sometimes knowing is worse. 

Ship: Kylo Ren x Negotiator!Reader

Word Count: 6.4k

Your breathing stopped along with the footsteps at the door. One hand remained pressed firmly against your mouth while you shrunk as far under the desk as possible. There was only horrid stillness for the next few moments. You got the distinct impression that whoever stood at the entryway was tasting the very air, sniffing like a predator for blood spilled into the sea. And a chill ran through you the second he caught your scent. A voice like ice and stone rang out as the hunt began in earnest. 

“You know, it’s impolite to enter a room without permission,” Atreus mused from behind you. 

The sound of it coupled with the knowledge that he was only mere footsteps away made your limbs shake. Like a wild creature caught in a snare, you were flooded with instinctual fear at the sound of the door clicking shut. 

“Though I will admit, I was hoping you would pay me a visit.” 

He was pacing now, footsteps softened by the carpet but still perceptible. To your right the embellished wardrobe doors were flung open accompanied by a dissatisfied grunt. You frantically searched the immediate area for paths of escape—or potential weapons if it came to that—but there was nothing. Your back was to the door and Atreus stood directly between you and the only way out. 

As the likelihood that you would walk out of this office dwindled, you cursed yourself and your hubris for ever taking this job in the first place. 

There must have been a saying about this type of thing somewhere, but you couldn’t seem to recall any at the moment. 

“You ought to show yourself,” he continued, every word laced with mockery and disgust. 

He was getting closer with each step. There were only so many places to hide and judging by the fading noises of clutter being moved, all but one had been exhausted. He was going to find you and you were going to die. 

At least you would be right about one thing. 

Kylo Ren really was a liar. 

 “I never took you for a coward,” fingers drummed on the desk above you and it creaked as Atreus leaned his weight over the top, like a ship's hull as it kicked into hyperdrive. 

He was so close now you could smell him, all artificial cologne and shoe polish. If you hadn’t been trying so hard to hold your breath before you certainly were now. His own came in calm, measured puffs and you closed your eyes tightly as if that could hide you any further. While your last moments alive and breathing wasted away, you recalled all the times the Commander had called you arrogant or prideful or any other combination of synonyms that all meant the same damn thing: foolish. 

Before you might have called it confidence. Might have thought he and all your other superiors were simply threatened by their inability to tear you down. Now you just kicked yourself for being cocky enough to leave your back turned. 

“Seems I was mistaken, Ren.” 

What? 

You recoiled at the name and very nearly said the word aloud as your eyes flew open in shock.  But the legs which came into view—unnervingly long and thin— and situated directly in front of the desk turned anything you might say to dust on your tongue.    

Why was it, even at the moment of your imminent demise, that the Commander was inevitably mentioned? 

Could you really not be executed for political gain in peace?

“I know you’re here. I can feel it,” he began but was interrupted by two more approaching footsteps and a blessedly familiar voice. 

“No, I’m sorry sir, I’ve been away sampling catering options,” Lem’s soft, clear tone was more relieving that you’d care to admit. 

You swore if you lived through the next five minutes, you’d apologize for every rude thing you’d ever said to him. 

Well, all the rude things you’d been wrong about. 

“You were in your office just before I left,” Gahl grumbled and stopped just outside the door, wrapping twice. “Atreus, are you quite finished in there? I’d rather not be late to dinner just because you’ve stained your tie.” 

The creak of hinges nearly had you slamming your head into the desk in shock. 

“No sir, I lent the space to our guest from the First Order,” Lem prattled nervously and you heard Atreus growl as he shifted in place. 

“You shouldn’t be letting just anyone wander around here, Alba,” the advisor huffed before adding under his breath, “You never know what they might get into.” 

“Really, you’re the one that suggested we invite—” Lem was drowned out by another soft knock and the creaking of a door across the hall. 

You didn’t bother tuning into what Gahl had been mumbling about as Atreus’s knees slowly bent and you were once again filled with the rush of dread at the prospect of being discovered. At best you’d be labeled as a conspirator and sent back to the Finalizer for Hux to have you killed himself for destroying Order relations to Coruscant. At worst, you were destined to die on the goddamn floor at the feet of a greasy, poor excuse for an advisor. 

But in fact, neither of those options played out. 

Instead, you found the world going black for just a split second—no more than a blink—and when you woke it was to a hand gently rocking your shoulder. 

You bolted upright, startled to find yourself no longer cramped on the floor, but seated in Lem’s office. There was a small puddle of drool on the desk and Lem himself staring down at you, brows knit in concern. 

“You alright?” he asked quietly. 

But you didn’t respond right away, just looked wide-eyed out the door as Atreus rose from the floor and met your gaze with his own indecipherable expression. 

From beside you, Lem squeezed your shoulder again and you turned to face him. 

“Yes, sorry,” you muttered, shrugging away from him and rolling your neck. Every joint and muscle in you felt stiff. “I must have dozed off a bit.” 

“I can see that,” he chuckled but his face never lost it’s questioning look. 

“Right, well,” you continued, hastily gathering your things.  The air felt thick and stuck in your throat. You wanted to get out—needed to get out—immediately. “Thank you for the office, I’ll be on my way and send the drafts to you later this evening.” 

Passing by Gahl at the doorway, you gave him a friendly nod and a quiet, “Representative, I hope you have a lovely evening.” 

You were nearly out of the wing entirely when that god awful voice sunk it’s claws into your leg again. 

“Oh, but you must join us for dinner,” Atreus hummed. 

He had sauntered back out to stand behind the Representative and was pinning you down with a horrifically sweet smile. It was so wrong on his face you shuddered at the sight. Gahl, annoyingly, nodded along as he looked you up and down. 

“A good suggestion,” he said heartily. The redness of his cheeks and the slight sway in his step suggested he’d had more than just one drink before returning. “We haven’t had the chance to speak much since you came.” 

Shit. That bastard knew you couldn’t refuse a personal invitation lest you run the risk of seeming rude or suspicious when you were here to supposedly mend ties. Gahl might have been drunk enough to forget the impasse but Atreus was not as dimwitted. 

“Well, I suppose I can’t refuse such a kind invitation,” you gritted out as politely as possible. 

Gahl clapped once, loudly and turned back, calling to Lem, “Wonderful! Lem my boy, you’ll meet our friend in the lobby, yes?”

“Of course,” he said, blonde head popping out of the doorway and offering you a sympathetic smile. “You can go drop your things off and change if you’d like, I’ll wait for you.” 

You sighed and flashed a hopefully convincing grin at the three men, “Thank you, I shall see you momentarily.” 

With that you tried your best not to turn and bolt, but waited at least until you got three corridors down before collapsing to the floor in a pile of stuttering breaths and shaking hands. You tucked your head between your knees and tried to inhale deeply. The insides of your head pounded with the slick, viscous sound of Atreus’s words. The only thing that pulled you to your feet again was the insistent need to get as far away from it as possible. 

The hallways blended together as your feet carried you father and father from the offices, the Representative, and your almost murderer. You had hoped your room would offer some reprieve from the panic, that there may be someone waiting for you inside to spin comforting lies of safety. 

There was not. 

The room contained nothing but freshly made sheets and a white blotch on the wall where a hole had been patched. 

Nothing at all to indicate the Commander had set foot there since your return. 

You considered calling for him briefly. It had worked before, and the shame of crawling behind his hulking form to hide away was incredibly alluring. But instead you found yourself discarding your jacket and top in favorite of something slightly more upscale. The clothes landed in a pile by the bed where you sat for a moment. 

With the door and several floors of high rise architecture between you and that slimy bastard of an advisor, you thought again about what your second dive into espionage had dredged up. 

‘In his head’, Atreus said you were in his head long before you ever came on this assignment. Kylo had bristled at the words, shut you down quickly and you were used to secrets—you had many yourself—so you knew one when you saw it.   

Bond. 

The word rolled around in your skull, burned on your eyelids in that awful, messy script. 

It hurt to think about. 

Physically hurt, like someone was digging needles into your spine. 

So you didn’t think about it. 

Not yet. 

Instead, you finished fixing your outfit and walked back out of the empty room. There were answers and you would find them, but it was clear you’d have to get them on your own. So you let the door click shut behind you and took a deep breath. It was just dinner. You could do dinner and you would get your answers. 

On your own. 

****

The food looked painted onto the plate, contrasting colors and lovingly set out, but tasted like sawdust in your mouth. A shame too, it smelled better than anything you’d been served yet on Coruscant and was certainly a hundred times more extravagant than anything the Finalizer’s cafeterias stocked. 

But having the man who was seconds away from killing you just a short hour ago stare diagonally across the table with his corpse like eyes every time you moved did quite the number on your appetite. 

Thankfully, Lem was seated in front of you and had been prattling away for most of the meal, leaving you with little silence to fill. Part of the way through your fourth or fifth wood-chip bite, Gahl decided to change that. His voice was low and grated with age as he turned in the seat beside you to speak. 

“So, how are you enjoying your stay on Coruscant?” he asked, inching his leg out of the chair and closer to yours. 

“You’ve been very hospitable, Representative, I have absolutely no complaints,” you lied through your teeth, smile just as purposefully arranged as the food in front of you. 

Gahl’s hand patted your thigh just as he’d done at your first meeting, “Glad to hear it, I’m sure it’s nothing like those Star Destroyers.” 

You cursed every social rule of polite society which kept you from putting your knife through his hand. 

“It’s certainly a change of pace,” you mumbled around another flavorless mouthful. “Lem has been a wonderful guide.” 

In fact, you would give anything to be surrounded once again with nothing but bland, grey durasteel and the eyes of officers who were more than happy to pretend you didn’t exist. You’d even take standing in General Hux’s office, watching his ginger head flit about between sifting through files and insulting your diction in reports. If the Commander would even bother to look your way, you would have taken his cold, inaccessible stare over this as well. 

As your thoughts drifted further in the direction of Kylo Ren, another chilling voice joined the conversation. 

“Oh, don’t feel the need to flatter him,” Atreus chose that moment to chime in, scoffing into his napkin. “No doubt Alba’s simply talked your ear off about his low class, wait staff dalliance.”

Lem bristled, cheeks a comical pink with rage, “He has a name.” 

“Well, I’m sure he does, but I simply do not care to learn it,” Atreus sipped his drink and scowled. “You shouldn’t be fraternizing with the servers at all, it’s unbecoming of an aide to the Representative.” 

Across the table, Lem deflated and looked between you and Gahl. You were given the distinct impression this was not a new topic of conversation. 

“He’s right about that my boy, you can buy whoever you like now on the salary I pay you,” the Representative chuckled and downed the contents of his glass. 

“I’m sure our guest would agree,” Atreus’ eyes were trained on the plate but you felt his gaze on you all the same. 

“Relationships between superiors and subordinates are...frowned upon in the Order, I suppose.” 

You only caught a glint of the light off Lem’s slicked yellow hair as he turned toward the man beside him. 

“Certainly but it must happen,” he said.  

“Of course it does,” Atreus looked at you then, the blue of his iris was so light it nearly blended into the whites. “But it would be quite a dangerous predicament, especially somewhere like the Order, would it not?”

You were sure to keep your face blank and unassuming, though it was either much less convincing than you believed it to be or Atreus was actively capable of hearing the panicked screaming of your internal monologue. 

“Yes, yes it would be,” you nodded and looked back down to the table. 

“Particularly with someone of your standing, working directly under the General, I can only imagine the implications of a relationship with anyone high enough to be your senior.”

You could feel your eye twitch and your jaw tense almost against your will, as if Kylo Ren himself was choosing this very moment to inhabit your body. Really, you almost wished that he would, especially with his aggravating ability to remain completely unreadable in even the most stress inducing of situations. But alas, the only part of you Kylo inhabited was your mind in the form of an incredibly inappropriate slew of evidence for your so-called ‘dangerous predicament.’ 

“Hm,” you hummed quietly in agreement, hoping he’d drop the subject. “It would be quite unsightly, I’m certain.”

Meanwhile, Lem stared at you incredulously and hurriedly excused himself from the table mumbling something about the restroom. His blonde head quickly disappeared into the crowd and you were left alone with the Representative and his advisor, a pit developing in your stomach. And it was only made deeper by the muted betrayal in Lem’s parting tone. 

“The boy has always been too sensitive,” Gahl offered by way of explanation and Atreus nodded slowly. 

“He cracks too easily under scrutiny. He should know by now that softness is not a very useful trait in this line of work.”

You frowned and shifted in your seat, swiftly moving the Representatives gnarled hand from your leg. 

“Some amount of give is crucial in politics,” you said, gaze flicking between the two men. “It’s important to be able to bend to your adversary every so often. Being underestimated by your opponent often means you’ve been unwittingly awarded the high ground.” 

Gahl laughed heartily again as you excused yourself as well, though Atreus remained stony calm even when you glanced back between the sea of tables and waiters and expensive suits. 

Lem emerged from a side door not long after you’d posted yourself in the short, empty hallway leading to the restrooms. He would have walked straight past you if not for your hand swiftly yanking him back by the arm. 

“Wait,” you hissed as he turned to face you huddled in one of the doorways.

“What?” he hissed back.

Well. That was a fair enough question, though you hadn’t exactly thought that far. 

Lem stared at you with brows furrowed, obviously less than thrilled with how things were left off. A small part of your mind, which you were more than happy to bury and ignore, whispered that you ought to apologize. But that was most certainly not why you came after him. 

No, leaving the table was simply to punctate your last statement. 

Not because some part of you felt...guilty. 

Absolutely not. 

In fact, this was a perfect opportunity to do some more digging. Lem was your pseudo-informant and that was all. 

Right. 

That was certainly why the following words left your mouth in a tumble. 

“Are you okay?”

Lem paused as you let your hand fall from his arm, shuffling back so he could stand out of sight in the door frame across from you. He still looked cross, but his lips quirked up just a bit. You supposed he’d asked you the same so many times in just the last day, it would be appropriate for you to return the favor.  

“Yeah,” he mumbled. “That was by no means a new conversation.” 

“Under different circumstances, I would have been a bit more…” you trailed off and Lem offered you a signature toothy smile. 

“Appearances and all, I get it. Atreus uses any excuse he can find to bring up Jane since he caught us a week or so before you got here,” Lem sighed, running a hand through his neat hair. 

“Who?” 

The look you received was even more incredulous than before. 

“Jane, my—”

“Right, the waiter,” you nodded and raised your hands in apology, “so, why exactly does it matter who you’re seeing?”

Lem shook his head, “It doesn’t really, since I’m just an aide, but I’m fairly convinced he’s been trying to get rid of me since he was brought on.”

A gaggle of restaurant staff rushed past to the bar where a woman was loudly complaining about her food. You welcomed the attention her display drew away from you. 

“Oh, he wants me gone too,” you muttered and quickly waved off the comment when Lem leveled you with another confused glance. “Any particular reason why?”

He shrugged and hunched over so he could lower his voice, “Not sure, but I do know he’s been butting his greasy head in whenever the opportunity presents itself. He climbed the ranks quicker than most of the other staffers.” 

Now that was interesting. Bless Lem and his affinity for gossip. 

“That seems odd,” you frowned. “I hadn’t heard of him until this assignment, and I like to think I’m fairly well informed.” 

Lem scoffed and peered over his shoulder as if he would find Atreus there, breathing down his neck, “I’m sure you are. He just happened to materialize one day, determined to take my job.” 

Yes and your life as well, but Lem needn’t know about that. 

“Strange.” 

“Yes it is,” he replied. “And they’ll think the same if we’re gone much longer.” 

You nodded and watched him turn to merge back into the crowd, but he paused halfway into the hall. 

“Thank you,” he said simply and slipped away, past the bar and into the waves of diners. 

You waited another few minutes after Lem disappeared, and allowed yourself a small, secret smile. If for no other reason than your success at finally piecing together some information about the spiraling mess your life had become. But mostly at the rosy cheeked and chuckling sincerity that alleviated some of the uncomfortable fluttering in your stomach. 

And you found the food a little less like chalk, the nerve wracking stares and inappropriate touches a little more bearable the rest of the night. 

***

The elevator ride back to your room was far more excruciating than any of the other unpleasant encounters you’d experienced that day. At least when you were cowering on the floor making peace with the fast approaching end to your mortal body, you couldn’t feel the bearer of your death breathing down your neck. 

It was so uncomfortable, you actually wished that the touch-happy, drunken Representative had tagged along instead of staying back till last call at the bar. Your heartbeat racketed up three times its normal rate when Lem pressed the button for his room a few floors below yours instead of riding back with Atreus to the office suites. 

“Did you want to discuss my notes for a bit?” you asked, trying and somewhat failing to keep the desperation out of your voice. 

Lem looked at you with a strange expression on his face, nose turning a darker shade of pink than usual, “Oh, ah, another time maybe. I have, um, someone waiting for me.” 

From behind, Atreus scoffed. 

“Truly, you are shameless, Alba,” he said and you heard him shift behind you. 

“Right,” you wanted to push the issue harder, but it would be worse if Atreus suspected you knew anymore about his plot than he already did. “I’ll see you later in the week then.”

The panel above the transparent sliding doors rang and Lem stepped out into the hall, “Yes, well not too long till the big reveal, so I’m certain we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.” 

The soft hiss of the doors closing again reverberated in your bones like the thunking of an executioner's blade. You swallowed as your tongue turned to stone in your mouth. There were only a handful of floors in between before your stop but that would be more than enough time to maim your body beyond recognition and throw it down the incinerator shaft. 

You reminded yourself sternly that it was unlikely Atreus would exact whatever assassination plan he had in place in such a secluded space, but fear responses were not easily reasoned with. 

Atreus remained resolutely out of your line of sight and that only made the deep, instinctual part of your brain howl for you to run, claw, bite. Oh if only it were that simple, there would surely be far fewer aggravating superior officers in your life. 

The numbers on the panel moved far more slowly than you thought they ought to. With every extended second you spent in that horribly cramped lift, the air grew thicker with tension and the rancid smell of panic. Finally, finally, the panel flashed your floor number and the doors moved aside to reveal the beautiful sight of an empty hallway. But just before you crossed the threshold to freedom, an iron grip clamped hard down on your wrist. 

“So sorry to keep you,” Atreus began and you spun to face him. “It has only just occurred to me I haven’t had the opportunity to discuss anything with you regarding the Representative and the subject matter of your speech.” 

He really had to wait until now to do this, now when escape was dangling over your head like an unfortunate prisoner hanging over the maw of a hungry sarlacc. 

“Yes, well Lem has been providing council with respect to the Order’s representation of Representative Gahl in all our official statements,” you replied calmly. 

The slightest twitch of your hand revealed a shocking amount of force hidden in the advisor's lanky arms. You stuck your foot back as the doors began to close, unable to bear another minute trapped behind them. 

“Of course, I simply wouldn’t want you being led astray by any of Alba’s short comings,” the grip on your wrist tightened almost imperceptibly, “I’d like to work more closely with you as we approach the first campaign endorsements.” 

 “Certainly,” you forced a tight smile in his direction. “I would greatly appreciate your input.” 

The words sliced your lips as they tumbled out. You were accustomed to lying, yes, but stars that was potentially the least believable statement that had ever left your mouth. 

“I’m sure.” 

Staring hard into his dead man’s eyes, you tried not to breathe a sigh of relief as he unfurled his fingers from your wrist. Stepping back clumsily into the hall you waited until the doors hid his cheap imitation of a smile before you heading down the hall to your room. Better he not know which turn you took. 

You ran the rest of the way back. 

The tightness in your chest subsided by degrees the farther you got to safety and you didn’t even bother denying to yourself the hope that your Commander in all his black cloaked, looming glory would be waiting to stand between you and the reality waiting just outside. 

You really should have known better than to put any faith in his promises. 

“Kylo?” you whispered into the empty room. 

He didn’t answer. Of course he didn’t, and maybe that was the only reason you were brave enough to call out for him. 

There was a familiar black bag propped in the corner by your luggage which indicated Ren had at least returned to the Federal District at some point during the evening. That at least was something of a comfort, though a very small one. 

You grabbed one of the chairs from the table and shoved it securely back under the door handle. It scrapped against the floor and your shin throbbed as you kicked it in place. Once again the clothes on you wore seemed to have been permeated with whatever disgusting, oily sheen that leaked off of the absolute slug of a man currently puttering around in his office planning the best way to choke the life out of you. They itched and stung and you tugged at them quickly, pulling each item off in a flurry like coals blistering your bare skin. 

Free from the growing pile of discarded laundry you dug around through your cases. Your hands still shook as you scattered the contents, pulling on fresh bottoms that didn’t reek of lies and aftershave. You paused as your fingers brushed against something far softer than any of your Order regulation garments. 

Large, flowing, and predictably black, Kylo Ren’s undershirt hung in your hands like a shroud. 

You battled with your instincts. Half of you—the portion still living in the past where hatred was a simple comfort—wanted to ball it up and stomp it full of dusty boot prints. That side did not win and its screaming reduced considerably as the shirtsleeves made their way down your arms. You were enveloped immediately in a sense of sheer relief coupled with the feeling that what you were doing was profoundly reckless. 

But even if it was a false sense of security, your hands and knees were not shaking as badly as before. 

The Commander was intimidating and cold, but in addition he was intimidating and cold and standing resolutely between you and danger which was more than you could say for just about any other coworker. 

You supposed he was probably a bit more than that now. 

Eyes shut, you recalled the warm, full feeling of his approval upon seeing you in his clothes. The way it rushed through you and pulsated when he let his voice echo in your head. You wondered what it felt like for him. Was your voice a grating nuisance or was it a tingle at the back of his neck, the shiver of cool hands or maybe the surge after a well won battle. 

How did he do it, you wondered. How did it feel to read you so easily? To know all your doubts and fears and micro-defiances before they left your mouth. And how did he remain so resolutely aloof? 

Even now, as you tensed your jaw and tried to focus on the smell of him surrounding you and conjure his presence, there was nothing but dead air. You sighed and let your knees thunk down to the floor.

Unsurprisingly, it seemed that Kylo Ren only appeared when he wanted to, only answered your thoughts when it suited him. You could scream his name into the void of your mind but you couldn’t force him there—couldn’t Force him there. Which was unfortunate for many reasons. Being capable of wielding the throat crushing, invisible fabric of the universe at your will would have come in handy in so many situations. As you rubbed your eyes and prepared to wallow more thoroughly in the mess your life had devolved into, something caught your eye amongst the sea of clothing. 

From the Commander’s open bag, you could see something brighter amongst the masses of black fabric. Further inspection revealed that the item was shoved into the back pocket of his trousers and when you looked closer, it was clear what you were looking at. 

Your underwear. 

Your underwear was hidden away in Commander Ren’s luggage. 

And in your half shocked, half strangled endeared state, a memory surfaced. 

The night you’d spent writhing on your bed as Kylo sat, watching as the Force fucked you open. The image of him was clear in your head—a princely, demonic being refusing you the luxury of pleasure through his touch and taking your soaked panties along as a trophy when he was finished with you. 

 It seemed like a lifetime ago. 

You’d thought it was a dream then. 

And wasn’t it? The lines between waking and fantasy were blurring more and more with every passing day. But Kylo hadn’t left. He was there when you woke, that you did recall clearly. But these were the same, still unwashed from all those nights ago. 

Kylo had said there was a difference between dreaming and projecting, and to be fair you’d never been able to tell them apart. The Force was somehow involved. The same Force which seemed to have a questionable relationship with existing inside you. But it stood to reason, if someone as incompetent and disconnected as you could think yourself into Kylo Ren’s presence on very specific occasions, that he could do so whenever the hell he wanted. 

And while the implications this knowledge had on all your other sexual escapades was at the forefront of your mind and burning your face to a crisp, another inkling was forming amongst the embarrassment. 

If the Commander truly had projected himself—whatever that really meant—into your room to fuck you into oblivion without lifting a finger and kept what he’d taken, maybe you could do the same. 

Maybe, sitting inside your coat pocket was your own dream contraband. 

Crawling across the floor, you sifted through the mess at the foot of the bed until your hand felt something small and hard. Your breath stuttered in your chest as you pulled a familiar leather bound notebook from the pile and turned it over in your grip—hefty and solid and so very real in your hands.  

Staring down at the book you were at once intensely excited and overwhelmingly terrified. Logically, you knew that you were alone here and free from prying eyes no matter how desperately you wished not to be, but delving into what promised to be the source for so many of your questions felt too risky in the open of your bedroom. 

Quietly, you leaped over the bed and scrambled into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you and sliding down to the floor. Only then, with your back barricading you in with the tile cooling your heated skin, did you crack open the cover and begin to read the sloppy, looping scrawl across each page. 

A picture began to form in your mind growing clearer with every passing page. 

It was very much like reading the ramblings of a madman, and upon passing the first ten or so pages, your initial deduction of mad ravings only grew more accurate. The entries were similar to that of a diary, each one detailing a new piece of intel discovered. And just as you’d noted before, almost all of it had something to do with Kylo Ren. 

And you’d thought you were a bit obsessive. 

There were names you didn’t recognize, and some you did—members of the Order, high ranking and not, scattered about. Occasionally passages were quoted from what seemed to be incident reports and older texts of galactic history. And of course, there were consistent references to the ever mysterious Force. All of which were written in such personal detail that you could be certain they came from someone who, unlike you, could and knew how to use it. 

The words were so jumbled, you had to reread each line and follow it like a hunting trail to the next running sentence. And the farther you got, the deeper you dived, the more you felt your insignificance looming—that tight in your throat feeling of being so small in the grand scheme of things. 

In this scheme of things at least.  

From what you could understand, all the events leading up to your assignment to Coruscant and everything that had transpired since your arrival all boiled down this: power and the struggle to possess it. 

And at the center of it all was Atreus, Kylo Ren, and, inexplicably, you. 

In this story, you began as nothing more than another pawn on the chess board. Your name appeared maybe twice in the entire first half of the nearly full notebook. You were a footnote, a name scribbled in the margins connected to the General due to your position. After that, it seemed Atreus had gotten his hands on some more confidential documents, dozens of them in fact judging from his lists. Some were immaterial and contributed nothing, but from what you could gather, buried amongst them were dozens of your correspondence all pertaining to the Commander and all of which more than hinting at the small grudge you carried for him. 

He’d even quoted lines from you. 

As you progressed, the text became even more garbled, the handwriting rushed and nearly illegible but it was easy enough to see where it was heading. 

You were meant to be an example—of that you were certain. But not for the First Order, not because one Coruscanti representative wanted to stick it to its totalitarian overlords. Oh no, the threat of your death was meant as an example to Kylo Ren himself. It was a message, a lure, cast down from Atreus. When you first began to piece this together, it sounded intensely nonsensical. 

Almost entirely due to the fact that this plan hinged on Commander Ren of all people, having a vested interest in your life. Which, up until very recently, you would have deemed impossible. If anything, you’d have guessed he would greatly benefit from your demise seeing as you were at best an annoyance and at worst a roadblock between him and forceful galactic takeover. 

But then you reached that word. 

Bond.

Scribbled over and bolded with arrows and circles. You still couldn’t truly grasp the gravity of what it meant, but looking it over again, you knew it was true. Whatever this thing was, between you and your Commander, this was its name. And having read the journal in its entirety, you understood now why that singular word had struck you so thoroughly to your core. 

“You aren’t going to die.”

How many times had Kylo said that to you now? 

And it was constructed to bring your downfall. This was exactly what it seemed Atreus was banking on. It seemed all this want, all this hypothermic, desperate searching for one another was manufactured. The sense of wholeness,  a sham. The pit inside you, the anger, the balm of Kylo moving inside you—all orchestrated somehow to fit into this master plan to remove the Commander and take whatever he was standing in the way of. 

Without this, you would have remained a nuisance swearing at Ren from across conference tables. Nothing more than a bug to be smashed against the wall and left to rot.  And that sat terribly on your shoulders. 

Just as the book fell from your hands and onto the tile floor, you heard a familiar rattling coupled by a crash from the room just outside. Heavy footsteps rang out against the floor and a door slammed. 

Your name was called softly into the stillness. Just as you had called for him. A few moments of silence passed before you could answer, and when you did your voice felt strange in your mouth. 

“In here,” you replied quietly, listening to his foot falls approach the door and come to a halt. 

When you closed your eyes, you could almost hear his breath. Kylo paused at the door, the soft thump of his hand coming to rest against the wood the only other sound he made. You didn’t move from the floor and he made no attempt to open the door. The tingle at the back of your neck, the slight tugging of your strings, told you he could feel the thoughts racing in your head. 

Only minutes ago you would have been relieved to feel the warm of him spreading slowly down your spine. Now it felt strangely soured. For a moment you thought he might rip open the door, maybe bend you over the vanity again and teach what happened when you called for him out line. 

But he didn’t. 

When you didn’t shift from your spot to step into his grasp, you felt him pull away and heard the rustling of sheets and clothing outside. You didn’t know what you would say to him now, so instead you got up slowly and turned the water on. The mirror fogged over as you stripped and tucked the little notebook away under your clothes so the steam didn’t seep into the pages. 

You could wash now, you thought, and hopefully Kylo would have fallen asleep or left to stalk the halls again when you finished. Then you could buy yourself some time to think, unbothered by other prying eyes in your head. 

You stepped into the stream and scrubbed your skin raw, and all while the little black book watched you from its place on the sink, ever plotting. 

---------------------------

Taglist lovelies: @couldntfuckingtellya @contesa-lui-alucard @thewilddingleberries @isaxhorror @cowboy-kylo @findyourdarkness @kit-jpg @shesakillerkween @obsessionprofessional

[shepard-ram]

Part 2 of Echo’s Madoka AU

-This is just gonna be me explaining my reasoning behind why I assigned some people certain roles.

-Also this is important but in this AU everyone is around the age of 16-17 because it makes things easier. Okay? Okay!

🚫TW/CW for death, violence, angst, also Spoiler for Madoka Magica🚫

-Anyways I put reader as Madoka because yeah...no reason other than they the protag. Just saying it now, Reader doesn’t become a magical girl until the very end of the AU.

-Tommy is Sayaka because I feel like making you all suffer with Tommy angst. That’s not the only reason but I gotta explain more actual character stuff. In the show Sayaka is best friends with two girls, Madoka and Hitomi. Sayaka wants to become a magical girl for two reasons. Reason one, one of the first magical girls she meets is Mami, and Sayaka looks up to Mami. The second reason is that she wants to use her wish Kyubey will grant to heal her crush, Kyosuke. Kyosuke used to play the violin but he permanently damaged his hands so he can no longer play. After Mami dies Sayaka decides to use her wish to heal Kyosuke and becomes a magical girl. Sayaka gains a rival named Sakura and they almost kill each other on several occasions. Sayaka’s friend Hitomi confesses to Kyosuke that she likes him and he accepts her feelings. The despair this causes Sayaka causes her to turn into a witch.

-So, in this case scenario the reader, Tommy, and Tubbo are all good friends. Tubbo likes to play the piano in this AU so after he permanently damaged his hands he becomes depressed that he can no longer play. Tommy uses his wish to heal Tubbo’s hands so he can play again. Tommy is happy to see Tubbo happy until Tubbo starts slowly leaving him behind and making new friends. Specifically with this new transfer student named Ranboo. Tommy already had to go through the grief of losing Wilbur, having to deal with Techno, and finding out the truth of the soul gems, this was seemingly the final straw. He felt all alone after Tubbo left and almost regrets wishing for his hands to be fixed. His soul gem breaks and he becomes a witch.

-Wilbur is Mami because they are both good with their words, they think things through, they are wise, brave, and strong. Mami in the show saves Sayaka and Madoka then they become friends. Kyubey and Mami think that the two girls have potential to become strong magical girls. Mami is seen as the perfect magical girl in almost everyone’s eyes. She fights for justice and the people of the city.

-This is where I think Wilbur’s character in the AU would be slightly different. At one point in time Wilbur did believe in those things. At one point he fought for the benefit of the people. That was until he had a major falling out with a close friend of his. His friend had very different beliefs to his on how they should be taking down the witches. One of the biggest reasons why magical users fight witches is for the grief seeds used to keep their soul gems clean. A witch that has killed more people is more likely to drop a grief seed. Wilbur’s friend thought it was better to let the witches kill a few people before hunting them down. Wilbur didn’t agree with that and they fought. Neither sides won the fight and they split up. After the whole situation Wilbur kind of stopped caring about justice and fighting for the people. He grew tired of it all, that was until he met the Reader and Tommy. He could tell they both had a lot of potential and he could use them to make his job easier. The whole fighting for justice thing was something he was on you really saying to make himself look better in front of the pair. He honestly didn’t care about the two of them that much...at first. He found himself getting happy when he got to spend time with them. Sure Tommy was hella annoying but he enjoyed having him around. Wilbur had fun teaching them about what it meant to be a magic user. Reader confesses that they see Wilbur as a real hero and they want to be like him. Wilbur breaks and confesses that this whole time he hasn’t been honest about really caring about justice. He was just fighting because it was the only thing keeping him alive. He fought because at this point he had no other choice. But now he feels like he actually wants to try and fight for justice with the reader and Tommy by his side. He wants to change for the better and his sudden urge of motivation drives him to be reckless and that’s what leads to his end.

-Techno is Kyoko because they are both strong, powerful, they can be kinda rude, and maybe a bit selfish, but they have soft sides to them.

-In the AU the friend Wilbur had a falling out with was Techno. After their fight Techno leaves to a different city to hunt for witches somewhere where he wouldn’t be bothered. He only came back to the main city after hearing Wilbur kicked the bucket. He felt a little sad but acted like it didn’t affect him. He was so confident that he would be able to easily control the area until Tommy showed up. Tommy had the same idealism as Wilbur. Fight for the people, not for yourself. Techno tried to kill off Tommy after their first encounter but it failed. Afterwards he would often taunt Tommy and even threatened to kill Tubbo at one point. Tommy got pissed at Techno so they fought on a bridge over a highway. The reader and Karl interrupted though and it caused Tommy’s soul gem to fall onto a moving truck. This is when they all find out about half the truth of soul gems. (Soul gems can only be a certain distance away from the users body for else the body will die. They can be brought back though if the soul gem is still intact)Techno feels bad for what he did when looking back on it. When he looks at Tommy he sees Wilbur but he also sees a old version of him. Someone who made their wish for someone else and it backfired. Techno tries to reach out to Tommy but it fails. After Tommy becomes a witch he goes into denial asking for the reader to help him turn Tommy back to a human even though it’s not possible. The reader almost dies until Karl saves them. Techno ends up killing Tommy’s witch by sacrificing himself to let Karl and Reader escape. Techno knew he could have escaped too but he rather die with Tommy then let him be alone.

-Karl is Homura because time magic go brr.

-Homura is seen as a cold, mysterious person but in reality she’s not. She’s seen so much suffering and so much pain that it made her act the way she does. Who was it that was suffering? It was Madoka. Homura was weak and alone till she met Madoka. Madoka brought color and hope into her life when she saved her from a witch. Madoka always said she was her friend. Then a terrible witch named walpurgisnacht appeared and destroyed the entire city. While protecting Homura, Madoka died. Homura blamed herself for what happened and wished to be able to go back in time to protect Madoka. Her wish was granted and she was given time magic. In countless timelines she watched Madoka die but she continued. She repeated the same time of events again and again. She eventually found out the truth behind the soul gems and Kyubey’s existence and so she made it her goal to prevent Madoka from ever becoming a magical girl and to kill walpurgisnacht.

-In this AU Karl grows very attached to the reader. They were the first person who showed interest in his hobbies and encouraged him to be himself. He never felt that loved until then. Then in the blink of an eye it was all gone, you were gone. He watched as you sacrificed yourself for himself for him as screamed and begged for you not to go. He only had one wish to protect you from this fate. He didn’t care how many times it took he was determined to create a timeline where you could live happily with your friends and family. He would do anything to keep you safe even if it meant it made you hate him at the end of it all. Your the only friend he has in this god forsaken world and he won’t let you go so easily.

And that’s all I got. If anyone wants to add onto this AU or write about it then feel free too just credit me for the idea :p (also sorry if my writing is bad I don’t really write stuff like this)

GOD DAMN THIS IS GOOD-

Again not exactly my thing but,,,,, the emotional drag you can feel on all the characters is just- You can really get a sense of just how cruel and grueling life is for them