#it was bits of wood just cobbled together. totally could not be used as an actual wheel for things

[milkweedman]

Was dragged to a tiny local museum so my sister could flirt with the museum director, but they had some really nice handwoven rugs.

And also a spinning wheel (?) that perplexed me. The flyer is on the wrong way around, for a start, and it's really hard to tell how the treadle and footman were supposed to be positioned (that triangular bit on the side was definitely attached either as the treadle or as part of it, judging by the remnants of the leather straps. Mostly I'm dubious because I couldnt tell if the orifice actually went anywhere, but it didnt look like it did. So I think it might have been a spinning wheel shaped object, but im not sure at all. Didnt get good pictures of it, sorry. It also wasnt labeled at all. Given how the pictures are I doubt theres enough for anyone else to go on but if you have thoughts on it i'd love to hear em !

God, the rugs though. Loved the rugs. Need rugs now.

[lokimostly]

Polaris (Ch.16/?)

Loki x Reader, Pirate!AU

Word Count: 4,466

Warnings: violence, language

Summary: Your life has always been set in stone. Born to a wealthy merchant family in the Caribbean, you’ve spent your years as an heiress in the daytime, escaping at night to wander the streets of St. Thomas. Now, on the eve before your life settles into mundanity for good, you discover someone who could change everything– if you choose to trust him, that is.

A/N: As promised, this chapter is entirely from Loki’s perspective! Don’t worry, we’ll get back to our debutante reader soon. For now, this is his part of the story. Let’s let him tell it.

Chapter One ~ Chapter Two ~ Chapter Three  ~ Chapter Four ~  Chapter Five ~ Chapter Six ~ Chapter Seven ~ Chapter Eight ~ Chapter Nine ~ Chapter Ten ~ Chapter Eleven ~ Chapter Twelve ~ Chapter Thirteen ~ Chapter Fourteen ~ Chapter Fifteen

The sun was making its first appearance over the glass sea, turning the sky pink and lighting on the waves with a rosy glow. The clouds were as pale and wispy as stretched cotton. As the sunrise dimmed the map of stars above, it burned bright in the reflection of Loki’s bloodshot eyes, staring out at the waves as they turned to gold.

His hands were already blistered from rowing. The sinew of his muscles had been stretched to their limit a few hours ago, and so he had let go of the oars to hold his head in his hands instead, filled with a despair that felt larger than the ocean around him. Hot, frustrated tears fell from his eyes, more to try and soothe their dryness than to curb the aching in his chest. Perhaps it was a mix of both. It was only in raising his head to dry his eyes, blinking away the water and fatigue, that he saw the merchant ship approaching.

Loki’s brows pulled together. It was a trading company ship; not Odin’s. Rather small. The bell on deck was ringing, signaling a man overboard as they approached, and a few seconds later, a rope landed in Loki’s lap.

Several pairs of hands helped haul him over the side, pulling him onto the deck, but they were quick to leave him; Loki’s reddened eyes and haggard look gave him a frightening aura, one that the men obviously weren’t keen to hang around. He slowly straightened his posture, rolling his sore shoulders and looking down at the Captain, standing in front of him. 

Loki gave him a single glance, surveying him without much consideration. He was small and portly with receding hair, hardly intimidating– though clearly he was doing his best to look nonplussed by Loki’s sudden and unexpected arrival.

“Glad to have you aboard, sir,” he greeted, as warmly as he was able. “I’m Cap’n Montgomery, and this’s my ship The Duchess. How’d you wind up all the way out here?”

Loki didn’t answer. He stood still on the rocking deck, his posture stiff, looking out at the pale dawn sky with a hardened expression. 

Captain Montgomery waited awkwardly for his response, shifting his posture. Then he cleared his throat. “Perhaps you’d like to talk elsewhere?” He gestured to the doors that led to the Captain’s cabin.

Loki’s eyes trailed to the left, and he nodded. He followed the Captain inside, walking slow and cat-like with a look of apprehension as he stepped over the threshold. His eyes were quick in surveying the small room, unadorned by lavish decor. The only notable object of interest was the mahogany desk that Captain Montgomery sat himself behind, setting his elbows atop its surface and waiting for Loki to close the door.

He did so, and stepped over. The ship’s charter laid open-faced by the Captain’s hand, and Loki’s dark eyebrows pulled together. “Where is this vessel headed?”

Captain Montgomery’s eyebrows raised and he held out his hand in a stopping motion. “Now, hang on a minute. I have some questions to ask you first–”

Loki reached forward and spun the paper to face him, scanning the lines. “Kingston?”

The Captain’s eyes flickered. “Aye, that’s right, sir.”

Loki’s frown deepened. “That is exactly the opposite of where I need to go,” Loki muttered in annoyance.

The man shifted in his seat, visibly uncomfortable. “Well–”

“What day is it?” Loki interrupted again, looking up at him. His gaze was sharp enough to cut glass. They might have been a different color, but when he wanted them to, Loki’s eyes could hold just as much chill as his father’s. 

The Captain blinked. “Uh– the first of August, sir.”

“What was your name again?”

“Mont– Montgomery. Captain Montgomery.”

Loki hummed shortly, leaning on the desk. He glanced back at the closed doors, then returned to the paper in front of him, running a finger over his lip in thought. The captain watched him uneasily as he stood there, still as stone, with nothing but the rocking of the ship to mark the passage of time.

Suddenly Loki reached forward and grabbed the captain by the collar, slamming his face into the mahogany and twisting his arm behind his back in one fluid motion. The Captain shouted in surprised pain, only to be silenced when Loki twisted his arm further, his lips curled in a snarl.

“Listen to me very carefully, Montgomery,” he threatened between his teeth. “It is in our mutual best interests that you take this ship to St. Thomas immediately. One more inch in the wrong direction and this arm will break. If you don’t do as I say, the same thing will happen to your neck.”

The Captain struggled fruitlessly beneath Loki’s grip, his face squashed against the desk in a contorted expression of anger. “You – you bastard!”

“Pirate,” Loki corrected, applying the slightest fraction of pressure. It was enough to make the captain gasp and pant in pain. “Do we understand each other, Montgomery?”

“It’ll–” The Captain wheezed, struggling to speak. “It’ll take more’n three days to get there. The wind… the wind’s against us.”

“Then you should bear a hand and tell your men to come around,” Loki suggested coldly, and let go of him. Captain Montgomery stood up so fast that he stumbled backwards, holding his arm and staring at Loki with frightened eyes. He darted past Loki and out of the cabin, running faster than Loki suspected he ever had in his life. Judging by his portly stature, it was probably a good thing for him. Nothing like a healthy fear of death to keep you fit.

Loki stood in the empty cabin and listened to the muted sounds of the captain shouting orders above, and he tightened his jaw, reaching into his pocket. The cold coin was there, safely stowed away. He rubbed it between his fingers, smoothing over the serpent’s pattern with the pad of his thumb. His eyes drifted to the window. Somewhere, out there, you were being held in a cell – stuck behind rusted bars while the sand in the hourglass slowly sifted through.

August the first. That meant he had until the end of the month to secure your safety, with at least four days already spent by the time he reached St. Thomas. Loki’s grip tightened on the coin. If fate had pushed you together – and he firmly believed that hit had – then fate would keep you from being pulled apart.

~

Nearly a week later, The Duchess floated into the rainy port of St. Thomas. The sun peeked out occasionally behind the clouds while it showered. It was one of those odd, rainy summer days before hurricane season where the weather couldn’t quite whip up enough energy to storm with full rage and intensity; not yet.

The sailors were still tying the small merchant ship to the dock when the gangplank dropped and Loki descended from the ship, running down the slippery wharf so fast that he nearly stumbled. He dodged the men loading crates, ducking underneath a load of lumber carried between two sailors, and climbed the cobble stairs with exhausted determination.

Home was only a few hours away, but Loki wasn’t headed there; not yet. Instead he headed up the street, doing his best to keep his tired legs from giving out underneath him. He made a right and found the corner bar, stumbling inside. This was the place you and Loki had first encountered one another, but also somewhere that he’d frequented long before your fateful meeting. The creaking floorboards beneath his feet were as familiar as the mattress of his own bed, and the heady smells of mahogany and beer reassured his senses that he was safe. Home. 

Being the middle of the day, the corner bar was totally devoid of customers. Light streamed in through the fogged windows while the building’s only occupant, the bartender, polished glasses behind the counter with monotonous repetition, glancing up only when Loki pulled himself into one of the barstools and leaned against the counter, his hair and clothes dripping wet. The only sounds were the steady shower of light rain outside and the squeak of fabric rubbed against glass.

“You’re a bit early in the day, young master,” The bartender observed curiously. The man sported a heavy accent behind his mustache, but his tone was good-natured and amiable. He was as much a part of the bar as the polished countertop and neatly lined bottles on the shelves behind him.

“I need a drink,” Loki said hoarsely, dropping his head into one hand and massaging his temples. His whole body ached, inside and out. Beating slow inside his chest, Loki’s heart weighed him down as though it was made of lead.

The glass slid down the counter and Loki caught it with his free hand: cold, polished glass with dark liquor inside. He tilted his head back and downed it in one go, setting the empty cup down on the polished wood. The bartender refilled it without asking, handing it back to him before returning to his former task. He polished the cups until they sparkled like crystal, despite the fact that they were already clean; no doubt it was a soothing, repetitive notion to help the empty afternoon hours pass by. “You ‘ere to talk, or just drink?”

Loki scoffed. “What’s there to talk about?” He asked, squeezing his eyes shut and rubbing them tiredly. Dull sparks floated behind his vision, signs of dehydration and an oncoming headache.

“Fair ‘nough, sir. I won’t press you.”

Loki dropped his hand and regarded the man with a flat expression. His mouth pressed into a thin line, and he dropped his gaze, spinning the glass of liquor in his hand. He stared at the distorted wood pattern of the bartop through the brown liquor. 

The bartender watched him with soft, dark eyes for a moment longer before he tried again. “Is it a woman?”

“Of course it’s a woman,” Loki snapped, though his words didn’t have much bite; they never did when he was telling the truth. He thumbed the rim of the glass. “It’s the woman,” he admitted, more quietly.

The bartender nodded knowingly, tossing his rag aside and fetching a fresh one. “She leave you?” He asked, his tone conversational and unassuming, from decades of practice with discussions far more delicate than this one. 

Loki shook his head. His wet raven hair slipped past his shoulders when he did, falling in gentle waves past his ears and smelling of saltwater. “No. I lost her.” He frowned at the sudden blurriness in his eyes, downing his second glass and setting it down with a gentle thud. He sniffed. Straightened in his seat. “I’m getting her back.” Whether he said this to reassure the bartender or himself, Loki wasn’t entirely sure.

The city bell tolled out the hour, bringing him back to a state of clarity. It was later than he’d thought. Loki reached into his pocket for money to pay – and then realized he didn’t have any, apart from the serpent coin. The coin he couldn’t give away. Loki stalled, his elegant fingers still at his sides while he tried to think of a solution to this sudden dilemma. 

The bartender noticed his hesitation and extended his hand with a polite shake of his head. “You’ve been generous in the past, young master,” he stated. “I trust you’ll be back.”

Loki met his eyes. Normally he would take offense to a gesture of charity; Loki had never lacked for money, not once in his life, and he never intended to. But if he’d learnt anything from the past weeks, it was that even his best intentions didn’t guarantee the future. He met the bartender’s eyes and found them to be soft and reassuring. He bowed his head. “Thank you.”

The man shrugged, like it wasn’t any problem to him, taking Loki’s empty glass and polishing it alongside all the rest. “Bring your woman next time.”

Loki laughed once, humorlessly, and stood. “I will,” he promised, with a final nod of thanks before he turned his back to the bartender and walked back out towards the drenched cobblestone street, feeling renewed somehow – perhaps by the drink, though more likely by the man’s kindness. Not everyone in the world was bloodthirsty and rotten.

Not everyone in the world is a pirate, Loki thought. Of course, he considered himself a rare exception: Loki was a pirate, yes, but a reputable one. Honorable, even. However – somewhere deep in his heart – Loki was beginning to come to terms with the fact that getting you back might permanently soil that reputation. He intended to do whatever it took, however foul, even if it meant killing Vane and all his crewmen with his bare hands.

Would you be able to love him, if it came to that? If he became a murderer? Would you let him touch you with bloody hands, or would you turn away in fear and disgust?

The thought disquieted him, and he shook his head to clear the thought. Whether you hated him or not at the end of this didn’t matter, so long as you got out alive. He owed you that much. 

His seaglass eyes looked up instinctively towards the road that he knew lead home, but he turned the opposite way instead: there was still one more errand to run. 

In order for Loki to both save you and maintain a clear ledger inside his father’s business, he had to find a way to combine the two. That meant enlisting in his family’s help, while simultaneously making it look like he wasn’t involved at all. During his time floating adrift in the waves, waiting for the sunrise, Loki had surmised a plan of action. With some skill, and a great deal of luck, it would prove itself successful.

He hoped his luck hadn’t run out yet.

Loki found himself in a familiar backside alley, the entrance hidden behind empty fruit crates stacked six feet high. He stepped carefully down the narrow cobble path, wrinkling his nose at the stench of city sludge and old bathwater dumped unceremoniously onto the ground. The clotheslines above hung limp in the afternoon, the fabric heavy and wet from the rain – whoever put them out had neglected to retrieve them. He found the heavy wooden door with gold hinges and knocked, twice. Then he stepped back into the rain, no more than a light mist at this point, and waited. 

He was considering turning away when it finally opened. The man who answered the door had dark skin and eyes that shimmered like copper. His hair fell over his broad shoulders in locs, decorated with metal clasps. His face wore a stern expression that revealed exactly nothing, and he waited with one hand on the door – prepared to shut it again at a moment’s notice. “Yes?”

“Heimdall,” Loki greeted solemnly, and glanced out at the alley for listening ears.

“You don’t have an appointment.”

“This isn’t my usual business,” he explained, squinting as misty rainwater dripped down his face and clung to his eyelashes. “It’ll be quick. I only need one page; no forgings, no signatures. It just can’t be my hand.”

The dark man hesitated, gripping the door while he considered this. Loki’s clothes stuck to him, and he silently wished that Heimdall would at least let him inside, but he knew not to press the matter. Their relationship was a strictly professional one, and he knew how much he was asking. “I’ll pay twice whatever you ask,” he added.

Heimdall’s copper eyes met Loki’s, his expression still flat, and then he opened the door further. “Come in. Don’t sit. You’ll ruin the chair.”

Loki obliged, stepping in quickly. The room was dark and smelled of leather, lit only by candles and the narrow, cross-hatched windows that lined one wall. The other three sides of the small, square space were lined by bookshelves, lined with bottles, parchment, and bookkeeper’s tools. Less conspicuously, there were a few shelves full of antiquated volumes, which he knew to contain ledgers upon ledgers of signatures and scripts. A forger’s library.

Heimdall sat down at the desk, dipping his quill into the inkwell. “You’re lucky. I’m not busy today.”

Loki nodded in agreement, feeling relieved. “Yes, I know – it’s short notice.”

“So,” Heimdall began without looking, pulling a clean sheet of plain paper from the desk drawer. “This isn’t a false shipping charter, or an inventory log, or a bank note. What is it?”

“A ransom letter.” Loki regretted revealing this information the moment it left his mouth, but he had no choice – better to tell it now, rather than when Heimdall started realizing it halfway through writing and risked blotting a page.

Heimdall’s metallic eyes flitted up and he frowned at Loki, setting the quill down and leaning back in his chair. “Now, why would you want me to write that?”

Loki looked up and set his jaw, shaking his head slightly. “That, I can’t tell you.”

Heimdall regarded him silently. Whether it was judgement, scrutiny, contemplation, Loki couldn’t say for certain. Heimdall’s expression didn’t change. While Loki respected his ability to be discreet, Heimdall’s strong-and-silent personality made reading him nigh impossible. Finally, he raised one eyebrow. “It’ll cost extra.”

Loki’s mouth opened slightly and he nearly rolled his eyes. “I can afford it,” he grated, feeling a flicker of agitation in his chest that the man would even be concerned about such a thing. “This isn’t a fleeting interest. Give me what I want, receipt it under my private catalogue, and I’ll be on my way. ”

Heimdall sighed and picked up his quill again, leaning over the desk. “Fine.”

Loki inhaled deeply, raising his eyebrows and directing his gaze to the ceiling. He’d been devising a speech from memory for a week, running it over his tongue inside his mouth and sounding it out when no one was around. He dropped his eyes and began reciting the words from memory, watching Heimdall’s skilled hand start painting the words on the page almost as soon as he spoke. “To his esteemed grace who receives this note …”

~

“... I hope it finds in a prosperous enough position to enable us both to get what we want,” Thor read aloud, his elegant brow furrowed in both concentration. He unfolded the letter further and skimmed a few more lines silently. Flipped it over, and found no return address.  He looked up at the maid standing at the door and held it up in the air. “What is this?”

Her eyes were wide with innocence and confusion. “I – I don’t know, sir, it was delivered with all the rest.”

Loki sat silently at one end of the long table, holding a spoon in his hand and stirring the bowl of soup before him in slow, disinterested circles. Green flecks of some kind of vegetable rose and fell from its cream-colored surface; neat chunks of tomato, too, alongside pale meat cooked to perfection and pulled apart. 

It was a favorite of his. He knew this, somewhere in the back of his mind, but even the smell of it wafting up in gentle curls of steam failed to appetize him. Every ounce of his focus was bent on looking unassuming as Thor continued to read the note aloud; the note that he’d carefully hidden amongst the other letters, delivered at breakfast every morning.

“I have in my possession one soon-to-be bride of your eldest son. I understand she means a great deal to you, so let me get to the point: in exchange for 12,000 guineas, I will return her unharmed, so  long as the exchange is made at the end of August…”  Thor’s brow furrowed further. 

Loki had been home for three days– it was the ninth of August now, and an otherwise ordinary Wednesday morning. It felt strange to know the date again after being stuck on an island, where the only sense of time could be ascertained in the rise and set of the sun.

Only last night had he decided to risk delivering the note. Waiting to reveal your situation to Thor and his father was agony, but Loki couldn’t afford to take any kind of risk. The coincidence of his arrival and the note’s arrival on the same day would have been too close for comfort. Loki was cautious to a fault, and he was painfully aware of that fact: he was treading on your borrowed time, after all. His stomach twisted, feeling physically ill, and he abandoned the spoon entirely, staring out the window with a thinly veiled expression of discomfort as Thor finished reading.

“Otherwise, she will die gruesomely, after her usefulness and entertainment to us has been spent. With a letter V as the signit,” he added as an afterthought, setting the letter down carefully, like it might bite him. He reached for the envelope it had been delivered in and tilted it, and the serpent coin fell into his palm. He gazed at it in silence.

Loki was practically crawling out of his skin. “V,” he repeated, breaking the silence with false curiosity and looking between Thor and his father. “Like Charles Vane, perhaps? The pirate?”

“No doubt,” Odin replied amiably, reaching across the table for the letter. Thor handed it to him, his expression stony, waiting while their father read the ransom note over for himself. He let out a derisive scoff and shook his head, letting it drop. “Twelve thousand guineas.”

Thor’s handsome face lit on confusion. “You will pay the ransom, won’t you? Her ship was supposed to arrive in Norway weeks ago. Who knows how long she’s been held captive.”

“That much for one girl?” Odin said skeptically. “A girl who wasn’t keen on marrying you either, I recall. Ungrateful thing. The whole arrangement has been nothing more than a bad business venture.”

Loki’s face was dangerously pale, anger lighting up his veins like fire on alcohol. “But we have the money,” he argued, trying to keep his vocal tone only mildly invested. It cracked. “And you made a deal with her father.”

Thor nodded in agreement, though clearly exhibiting a great deal more patience. “Loki’s right, Father. We have a duty of care–” 

“Silence!” He interrupted, and they both shut their mouths. Odin set down his fork to eye both of them with a steely grey stare. “There is nothing we can do.”

“But we can,” Thor argued, leaning against the table on one hand and gesturing with the other. “We’ve seen the bank ledgers – Loki and I both,” he added, nodding to his brother. “Your wealth would hardly be dented. I don’t see why –” 

“I will not deal with pirates,” Odin groused firmly, his voice icy and cold.

Something inside Loki snapped. He stood abruptly, turning to Odin. The chair scraped on the ground behind him. 

“So that’s it, then,” he began. He was smiling, but in more a baring of teeth than an expression of joy. “You would first resign her to marry a man she doesn’t know, and then let her die when it’s inconvenient to help?” He pointed an accusing finger. “You’re just afraid Vane will slip through your grasp, the same way he did before, and wound your pride more than he ever could your prospects.” Loki realized that he was snarling, his lip curled and tone venomous, cheeks flushed uncharacteristically red but he didn’t care – it was too late now. The man who he called Father stared back with equal animosity, the two of them locked in heated, palpable silence.

Thor excused himself from the dining room with a quiet, grumbling apology, and Loki followed.

When he exited the room and the doors shut behind him, he saw Thor walking down the hall – but his footsteps were slow, and he clearly didn’t know where they intended on taking him. Loki’s eyes flickered, and he sighed, loud enough to draw Thor’s attention and halt his steps. 

He turned around and came to Loki’s side. He watched his brother reach up and press at his eyes, rubbing them none-too-gently, and he glanced back at the gilded door. “It sounded like you know a great deal about her,” he stated quietly, breaking the thin silence between them. His large hands were restless at his sides, wanting for actions instead of words. 

Loki dropped his hand and cleared his throat, and his eyes were distant. “I spoke with her at the ball before she left. You remember.”

Thor grunted, looking out the window. “I didn’t get the chance. I had business to attend to.”

Loki’s lips upturned in a bitter smirk. “You always do.” His gaze found the window, too, staring out at the palm fronds as they blew in the humid afternoon wind. His chest tightened with the reminder of your island – the trees and the cave, of your smaller body pressed beneath his, smelling sweet and tinged by saltwater. Of feeling complete.

Loki could only guess at how much his father knew. Thanks to his outburst, Odin knew Loki was aware of his true parentage – which meant it would only take one line drawn in the sand between Loki and Vane to connect the dots and undo all his work. Your life and Loki’s livelihood, felled in one devastating blow.

Thor was uncharacteristically still, a sign that he was deep in thought. His wide arms were crossed over his barrel of a chest, brow furrowed, and he shook his head almost imperceptibly, silently dissatisfied. “We have to do something.”

Loki scoffed and rolled his eyes, picking at the dark green fabric of his wide sleeves and spreading his fingers, staring disinterestedly at the faint scars that lined the back of his hand from years of seamanship. “Don’t humor me. You would never act outside father’s orders.”

“I would,” Thor argued, and paused, glancing over his shoulder at Loki. “If I had help.”

Loki’s expression flickered and he looked up, meeting Thor’s gaze. The two of them shared a silent exchange; the same kind that they had since boyhood, a silent discussion and a mutual agreement. Perhaps your cause wasn’t lost after all.

The corner of Thor’s mouth turned up in a smile, and he shrugged his broad shoulders, returning his gaze to the window. “Besides,” he added, “What kind of husband would I be if I couldn’t keep her alive?”

At the same time as a humoring chuckle left his lips, Loki’s breath was punched from his lungs. Realization hit him like a hollow bell – something he had forgotten to consider when he decided to enlist Thor’s help. The two of you were, by all accounts, still engaged. If Thor and Loki succeeded in rescuing you, you would wed him all the same, hopelessly stuck in the same trap as before. His mind searched frantically for an easy solution, some weakness in this sudden and unexpected obstacle, but to his growing panic he found none, and a feeling of utter hopelessness rooted inside his chest that was too deep to claw out.

Loki might yet be able to save your life. But it wouldn’t be a life with him that you’d return to.

~~~

Tag List (open): @neontiiger, @un-consider-it, @jessiejunebug, @nerdypisces160, @lokiisntdeadbitch, @e-wolf-90, @cursedmoonstone-blog, @kikaninchen-2, @bluebellhairpin, @evy-lyn, @midnight-queen-1, @travelingmypassion, @harrybpoetry, @adefectivedetective, @absolutecraziness13, @kumikokagato, @randomfangirl7, @timetraveler1978, @tarynkauai, @arcanethamin, @ornate-ribcage, @julianettedoe, @kinghiddlestonanddixon, @yespolkadotkitty, @befearlesslyauthenticc, @ladybugsfanfics, @thisisaclusterofablog, @groupies-do-it-better, @just-the-hiddles​, @quenilla, @amyy-moonlightt, @pandacookieowo, @thatweirdwalangpake​, @alexakeyloveloki​, @littlemissporter​, @yes-captainstark​, @dearspacepirates​, @beautyandflannel​, @eyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy​, @myoxisbroken​, @rjohnson1280​, @the-republic-and-face-of-texas​, @snapessecretdiary​, @sailortaylorfin, @cottoncandy1010​, @androgynousdeputyfarmhero, @blackcherry26-blog​, @saljstuff​, @devilbat​, @scarlettghost13​, @arch-venus25​, @is-it-madness​, @deliriousgeek​, @ladyhubris​, @myraiswack​, @mazda098​, @orpheus-you-dingus​, @wombatgirl-blog​, @brightranger​, @wittysidecharacter​, @lokislilslut​

[totallyrhettro]

Blacklight

Word Count: 2296 Rating: PG Warnings: Implied activities Summary: After pulling a harmless prank, Chase learns more about his bosses than he every wanted to know. Notes: Present day, Rhett and Link aren’t married, Chase POV

Three days. Three long days. That was how long they’d been filming this new music video. Rhett, Link, and many of the crewmembers had been all working their butts off to finish this video and tensions were running high. The room they were working in was almost completely dark during shots, with glow-in-the-dark paint splattered over the walls, floor, props, and even on Rhett and Link themselves.

“It reminds me of ‘So Dang Dark,’” Link commented between takes. Rhett nodded in agreement. The set from the first music video of their Buddy System series was very similar. 

“Only we were wearing less clothes then,” he noted with a smirk, holding up his costumes’ head. It was a cross between a wolf and a bear, plus horns. Link had a similar mask to wear and both of them looked like something out of a kid’s nightmare. In ‘So Dang Dark’ they had been wearing what amounted to modified underwear and their bodies had been painted in orange and green stripes. Sometimes even they didn’t know where they got their weird ideas.

“Okay, guys,” Stevie was saying, coming up to the two of them. “I think that’s a wrap. We got everything we need.” A cheer went up in the crew from all corners of the large room, excited and gleeful. Rhett and Link smiled, happy along with them, and pleased with what they had accomplished over the last few days.

“Great, I’m going to take a shower,” Link told her, wiping the sweat from his brow.

“I got next,” Rhett chimed in, quick to follow his lifelong friend out of the room. While the bosses meandered off to get themselves clean, the crew set about cleaning up the room. It had been a hard three days and they were all eager to be finished but there was one last thing they had to do: the after party. It was to be hosted in this very room and they had to get rid of the props and paint first.

Once they finished cleaning they started getting ready for the party. They left on the lights from the shoot; the multicolored spectrum giving the place a wonderful glow. The blacklights were turned off, however, as all the paint that would glow under it had been washed away. A long table for snacks was set up on the far end and a large stereo was wheeled in for music. Everything else was to be put in storage, including the tubes of glow paint; under normal light the paint was invisible but it would glow green under blacklight. It had a neat effect and they had used quite a bit for the music video.

Chase was just packing up the tubes of glow paint when he had a sudden thought. It was silly, it was devious, and his prankster side loved it. After checking if anyone was looking, he quickly tucked the small tube into his pocket for later. Then, very nonchalantly, he continued working. The rest of his plan would have to wait until later. 

Soon enough the party room had been set up and the rest of the crew was already starting to gather around the snack table. There was still no sign of their bosses, Rhett and Link, in the party room or their office and it was to the ladder that Chase went. Checking and double checking that the loft was empty, he crept in and headed straight for Rhett’s desk. Pulling open one drawer, than another he rapidly found Rhett’s stash of lip balm (wondrously wild wood ‘n berries) and a wicked grin came over his face.

Taking the tube of glow paint he had taken earlier, twisting open the cap, he picked up one of the lip balms and speared a very small drop onto the side. With his finger he smoothed the drop over until it covered the entire tube in an almost indistinguishable layer of the invisible liquid. When he was done even he could barely tell he had done anything at all. Putting back the balm he immediately moved onto the second and a third until every single tube had been laced with the paint.

Once he was finished, and all the lip balm was placed back exactly where they had been before, Chase closed the drawer and stuffed the leftover paint tube back into his pocket. The deed was done and all that was left was to get out before anyone caught-

“Hey, Chase,” came Rhett’s charming and melodic voice. Chase turned on the spot to see one of his bosses leaning on the doorframe, looking a bit smug and very curious as to what his employee was doing here. “What’s up?” He didn’t look mad in the slightest, with a bearded grin and raised eyebrow, but Chase couldn’t help but immediately feel guilty. After all, he was guilty.

“I, uh, just looking for a-” ‘Think fast!’ “Pen.” Not the best excuse but it was all he could think of.

“For what?” came the obvious response.

“To… leave you a message.” ‘Good answer.’ Not good enough.

“Well,” Rhett chirped, stepping into the room with slow but long strides. “Now you don’t have to. You can just give me the message in person.”

“Right, yeah,” Chase agreed with a nervous smile. There was a short pause filled with awkward silence before Rhett shook his head.

“Well?” he pressed. “What’s the message?”

“Ah, right. Um, the… party’s getting started?” It was a lame answer, but the best he could think of. Rhett didn’t exactly buy it but he was in too good a mood to second guess it right now. Chuckling more to himself than at Chase, Rhett waved it off.

“Okay. I’ll meet you guys down there in a minute.” He strode past Chase to his desk and opened the middle drawer. “I just came in here to grab something.” Chase held his breath, watching as Rhett picked up one of his lip balms and popped off the cap. With practiced ease he spread the balm over his lips before putting it in the front pocket of his jeans as if nothing was out of the ordinary. He gave Chase one last smile before heading out. It wasn’t until he was gone that Chase could finally breathe again.

Everything was fine. Everything had gone completely according to the plan.

He held back his celebrations for now but he couldn’t help but grin like an idiot that things had gone so well. Any minute now Rhett would touch his own hair, beard or shirt, and there would be invisible glowing paint all over him, just waiting for a blacklight to show it off. It was a silly prank, but harmless, and that was the kind that Chase liked best. 

Scurrying back to the party room, he waited near the light controls for the final part of his plan. Everyone else was already there, hanging out, chatting away and eating snacks. They’d even started up the music and it was blaring through the stereo. There was talk of karaoke later but Chase didn’t pay close attention. He was waiting for Rhett.

Five minutes went by. Ten. Twenty. Finally after twenty five minutes Rhett strolled into the room, Link close behind. Their eyes lit up at the sight of what the crew had managed to cobble together for the party and immediately began to mingle with everyone. Rhett went straight for the snacks, of course, while Link went to see what tunes were available for the karaoke. Chase waited until his boss was close to the blacklight before making his move. 

His hands were quick, his movements precise. With one flick he turned off all the lights in the room. With no windows to the outside world, the entire space was instantly plunged into total darkness. Then, at nearly the same time, he turned on the blacklight that stood just a few feet away from Rhett. Turning his head he eagerly hoped to see the results of his handy work.

Just a few seconds later, he hastily turned the house lights back on and the blacklight off. His jaw was still set firmly on the floor. Everyone was trying to get their bearings, frantically talking as they tried to figure out why the lights had gone out for a second. Chase, of course, was right next to the switches and several people turned to see if he had done it and why he had done it. Picking up his jaw and blushing furiously, Chase profusely apologized to everyone, fiening his clumsiness and telling them he had bumped the switch by accident. A few people were skeptical but no one questioned it. They just resumed their fun and conversations while Chase dashed from the room, unnoticed.

He was still reeling from what he had seen when the lights had gone out.

The glow paint had worked alright, wonderfully in fact. There were streaks of the green illumination in Rhett’s hair, specks on his beard and all over his fingers- but that was not all. Link, who had been standing right next to Rhett, was also marked. Green on his shoulders, green on his arms, green all over his head and hair.  Lines of green all the way down to his waist and smudges of green at his zipper. 

Oh gosh, so much green on his pants.

Chase tried to blink the memory away, to reassemble what he had seen into a reality he could comprehend, but every time he closed his eyes he saw those tell-tale green marks just the same. All over Rhett. All over Link. The implications were intense, to say the least, and his mind just couldn’t handle it. Surely this couldn’t mean-

Maybe Rhett let Link borrow his lip balm? Maybe. Maybe. Still, that couldn’t have accounted for that much green, could it? All over his arms, his shirt, his pants. It was barely any on Rhett and Chase knew for certain his boss had used the tainted lip balm. No, there was only one explanation that, despite the connotations, could even begin to explain those marks. 

They could only have been put there by Rhett.

Had anyone else seen it? The lights were only out for a few seconds and Chase had already been looking at Rhett when he turned the black lights on. He hadn’t heard a single gasp of shock, or any murmurs about Rhett or Link’s clothing. Maybe he had been the only person to see the green on their bodies, or at least understood how they got there. Chase wished he didn’t understand how they had gotten there. He really wished he was still ignorant but he had seen the evidence and now… Now he could never look at his bosses the same way again.

How could he even look them in the eyes, knowing what they had done? Plus it had to have happened somewhere in the building. At the thought Chase’s mind immediately began to run through all the rooms it could have happened in. The loft, their dressing room, the recording studio? Which room would was now tainted by the libidinous activities of the two men he thought were just friends? The more he thought about it, the more he shuddered.

It wasn’t that he was upset that Rhett and Link were having what appeared to be a physical relationship. He was fine with that, if very surprised. It was the fact they had been hiding it from everyone for who knows how long and (apparently) having their relations in the very place their employees worked nearly every day. Chase really didn’t want to think about Rhett or Link naked in the spaces he worked, the places he ate, let alone doing anything else in those places.

Chase took a deep breath, trying to clear his mind of the wild and lurid scenes that his imagination was currently conjuring. Instead he tried to focus on how happy he was that his bosses, who have obviously been in love with each other for like, always, had finally realized it. He was happy for them, honest and truly, and he was just about ready to relax and rejoin the party when Link came around the corner and found him.

“Hey, Chase,” he began, kind and worried. “What’re you doing out here?” It was very nice of his boss to come and check on him, but Chase immediately remembered why he had come running out of the party room in the first place. He focused his eyes at Link’s face, trying very hard not to look anywhere else, trying not to picture the green paint that covered the man’s shirt and pants, but he could still envision the green on his face and in his hair even though it was all totally invisible right now.

“Just… needed some air,” he explained, feeling very embarrassed and still picturing the green. ‘Did Rhett just grab fistfulls of hair to get that much paint in it?’

“Alright, well… look- no one’s mad about the lights. You just scared us, is all.” He patted Chase’s shoulder reassuringly before heading back towards the party. Without thinking Chase let his eyes look over Link’s backside. Not because he was really into his bosses’ ass but because he couldn’t help but wonder how much paint was there that he just couldn’t see. He immediately shook the burgeoning thoughts from his head and looked away. Leaning against a wall he sighed to himself. Now that he knew, he wasn’t sure how he was going to be able to work here without getting distracted. Even worse, he wasn’t sure how he was going to be able to keep this a secret from everyone.

Especially Rhett and Link.

~

More Fics

[samkat10423]

Well, I still haven’t gotten around to the Butterfly Pavilion, but I did whip together a tiny park over by my middle-class homes. BTW, I build in one rendition of the world, then place the lots into my actual town, when I’m mostly happy with them. That’s why this looks so empty.

There’s not really much to do in it – other than sit and look at the fountains and chase lizards. I may put some of those picnics-basket thingies on the grassy parts. But yeah, nothing special. But then, taking walks was a thing back then, so I guess it fits the time-period. (That’s what  I keep telling myself anyway.)

Anyway, there was a 64x61 open lot near the bridge that separates the poor section from this area, and since I have an unwed mother sim (such a no-no back then!) who’s LTW is to be a jockey – another no-no back then – I decided to plunk down a horse ranch over there. When Youlie25, over on TSR, was doing her whole “remake-Riverview” thing 8 years ago, she made a horse ranch that I sort of liked. It was on a 40x40 lot, so I knew I had plenty of room left to tweak it a bit. So I plunked it down and did just that. First thing I did, was change out the fencing. We had a hunt club in St. Louis County that catered to the super-rich (called Bridlespur Hunt) and I tell you, they were totally into the whole split rail fence thing. They have since moved to a larger site, further out-state, but they haven’t changed. 

So, I left her fence that encloses the eating and viewing areas that she created, but changed all the rest. Then I changed out the tables to something a tad fancier – because believe me, those folks expect tablecloths when they sit down to eat. No eating off a plate that’s touching bare wood. No sirree! I also went in and changed all those chairs you see in this shot, to benches. Then I curbed all the walkways and did some minor landscaping – adding some more trees and whatnot – plus a couple more horsey obstacles. And of course, some spawners. I also added a door to the office inside the stable area – since it didn’t have one. And upgraded the furniture to “antiques.” 

Then there was this 40x40 lot down by the port. And since I never did get around to plunking down another grocery store, I decided this would be the perfect spot for one – what with goods coming in daily on the ships. So, I found this residential lot over on MTS – while I was looking for something else – that looked interesting. It was created in 2009 by ninotchka, and is called Quartier du Cafe de Louis. Anyway, I figured I could convert it into something useful for that space. 

So I plunked it down and proceeded to gut out all of the interiors. Then I put down curbing to define my new walkways from the cobbled street areas. Then I re-sided 3 of the buildings to break up the sameness. I added the red brick, the grey brick next to it, and pale grey to that diagonal build. In the one with the seating out front, I changed out all the tables and chairs to the Old Town set the Store pushed years ago, when they were into their whole New Orleans thing. Inside, I made a tiny ice cream shop, using that item Sandy came up with when Arsil released his mod. (Thank you both!) And outside, I gave it a chimney and covered the walls with vines. And plunked down different flowers all over the place and “planted” those trees out front. 

I put my grocery rabbithole rug in that build shop with the red-and-white striped awnings. The sign is one jenba made years ago when she was doing her Whimsett Cove.  In that pale grey, center shop – that you can hardly see – I’ve put the styling station and the sauna and massage table. Other than that, the buildings are empty – mostly because I don’t know what I want to do with them at this point. And everything is at ground level – so I’ll probably put those “skip level” markers on the remaining 3 stories.

And finally, by the wine barrels – where she had all her parking – I put some items for a tiny, outdoor market – and an easel for a street artist trying to make a simoleon or two.

[the-fresh-air-of-tyria]

What Are You...?

I find myself alone, often.  Even among the Pact and its numerous bodies of flesh, fur, muscle and foliage, those with half a mind to do so will avoid me.  I could not say this upsets me; after all, with so many decades of solitude under my skin, it can be difficult to desire anything else.  Perhaps they find me frightening...  I certainly couldn’t blame them; they unearthed me from this place, after all.  That would frighten anyone.

There are times I am approached, however.  Times where a member of the Pact, be they initiate or a master of the battlefield, becomes curious of my presence here.  Really, though, can anyone find fault in that?  I don’t dress like these people, nor do I speak as they speak.  I was found in an odd place, and now, I follow their orders.  Curiosity must burn within the ranks of them, yet fear holds their tongues in as tight a grasp as their desire to approach.

However, there are times the apprehension simply cannot win.  The fascination and determination undermines it.  And sometimes, I get a visitor.

This young man looks much too youthful to be in a war against dragons.  Small and thin, with hair wavy like seaweed, skin dark, dusted with some of the pale, salt-infused soil of Orr.  His eyes hide behind glasses with rims too thick to be accidentally broken, dark like pools of oil.  His armor appears to have been cobbled together with a misguided prayer, a bit of metal plating here, some chainmail under some leather there.  His weapon, a longsword borrowed from the Vigil.

Here, atop the overlook of Malchor’s Leap, where the ill-fated sculptor met Grenth by his own hand, this outmatched little human approaches me.  He isn’t aware I know this, at first; his approach is from behind as I peer over the edge. I hear him, however.  I hear the way his feet faintly scrape their leather soles against the loose earth, marred and mixed with dead coral.  The way it grinds under his weight, and his breath, exhaling in a tremulous wheeze as he approaches.  When, at last, he comes to a halt at my side, I note his distance from me.  Two full arm’s lengths.

For a while, I say nothing.  Normally they speak first.  The Asura are especially forward, even if they’re just as wary in their approach.  The human, on the other hand, says nothing, and keeps glancing toward me as I stand to the left of him.  I certainly thought I was an eerie one, but the incessant staring does eventually get to me.

“Can I help you?”  It’s a rasp, perhaps.  My voice has been ravaged entirely, from sea salt.  Yet it remains strong, deep and forceful.  It sends a visually impressive shudder through the young man, whose hair is like seaweed, and whose eyes are like pools of oil.  He turns, however, instead of excusing himself, and finally trains his gaze upon my own.

“Where do you come from?”

That pitiful little voice.  It’s small.  It’s weak and gentle.  It breathes out like a soft summer breeze’s sigh.  Like the feather of a hummingbird slipping past one’s ear, certain that it’s been felt, yet leaving no trace.  It speaks with little conviction, uncertainty and fear embedded to the roots like a poison.

However, I’m caught off guard, somewhat.  The question makes me turn toward the young man, who seems to steel himself as though I intend to attack.

“Where do I... come from?”  The young man nods his head, gently forcing his body to relax a bit.  Still, I can see in the way his legs place themselves that he’s ready to bolt at any given moment.  The question, on the other hand, still rings odd to me, as enigmatic as a sun-bleached series of puzzle pieces.  “That’s a bold question for someone like you.”

“The rest just... speculate.  Wild rumors keep flying about with no reason to them.  I need to know.  I need to know.”

“You don’t need to know.  Nobody would believe such storied tales.”

“I’m sure we would.  You’re not like the Sylvari.  The... other Sylvari, at least.  You smell like ocean water and wood rot.  We found you in Arah, in a place none of us had explored yet... you were buried under rubble and didn’t know any of us.  Dressed oddly.”

I can feel the pull of a smile on my lips, the most rare motion my face could make, indeed.  This must have frightened the human, who looked more wary and leaned backward.  “Alright.  I knew someone would ask eventually.  No---I do not come from these Sylvari’s tree.  I come from another, deep within the jungle.  I found myself wandering, exploring, a very long time ago.”

“There... is another tree?”

“Was.  It died long ago.  It could not survive where it was seeded, and the jungle is a ravenous beast.  One only survives if they are strong... and it was not as strong as it could have been.  It bore few fruit.”

“So there... there’s more of you?”

“I’m not sure.  I saw one, not long after I set out.  A purple one.  His name escapes me.”

“Why did you leave the jungle?”

I study the young man’s gaze, now boring intensely into my own.  The fear seems to have gone, replaced by a hungry fascination.  He’d make a good Priory scholar, I think.

“It had nothing for me there.  I disliked having to struggle daily to survive.  While the jungle provides what one needs, it isn’t willing to give it freely, nor easily.  And I became... lonely, I suppose.  I found myself among strange beings I learned quickly to be human.”

“They didn’t find you odd?”

Another smile, and this time I feel a strange... sensation in my throat.  I realize it’s a chuckle.  Rough, sandy.  “Quite the contrary, in fact.  They... considered me a deity of their nature god.  An aspect.  I was given offerings often, food and clothing, small shiny trinkets.  I felt that trying to explain what I truly was might... dampen their spirits.”

I turn away from the young man, who exhaled softly.  “You stole from them.”

“They gave me everything I took.  I did not lead them astray---they assumed, and I was grateful to accept their beliefs.”

“You---that doesn’t mean you didn’t steal from those people.  They thought they were honoring Melandru, and you took those offerings!”  A soft shrillness accompanied the man’s voice, and I turned my head quickly to look at him.  His sudden burst of confidence quelled as swiftly as a small campfire in a torrential rain.

“I did not ask to be their aspect.  I did not know their god.  I still know nothing of their Melandru.  The statues here to their gods are nothing to me but laughing shadows, memories that were never washed away.  Their gods did not save them from the Charr, did they?  Quite the contrary---they left Arah.  They left their worshipers behind.  Are you saying I fully contributed to that?  Or was it simply the selfishness of these apparently all-kind, all-seeing deities?  Does my taking small material things insult these gods so very much?”

“They didn’t leave... forever.  They watch from beyond the veil.  They watch us, hear our prayers and our... voices.  Our requests.”

“Then request to your gods that I be further punished.”

The young man blanches, and he turns toward Malchor’s Leap.  Such a befitting name for this outcropping of stone.  Then he looks back at me, pushing his dark hair back, exhaling once more.  “What did you do to... survive so long since then?  How did you make it through the years of Orr... below the waves?”

This time, my smile becomes more of a distant, disgusted smirk.  I feel my nose wrinkle with the motion, and I can smell a breath of my own stench---that of a ship’s waterlogged, rotting wood and cold seasalt.  “I came to Orr.  I heard that its lands were saturated with magic, with belief, with... their gods’ presence.  I thought I might live well there.”

“You were wrong.”  The young man is half accusatory.  The rest seems... morbidly curious.

“I was, yes.  They... knew I wasn’t an aspect of their Melandru.  Something---someone---told them.  Their god, I assume, before they departed.  I was caught, as they came for me, trying to steal from a noble family.  I was put on trial.”

“You were... convicted?  What crimes?”

“Quite a few.  Most of them I forget.  But the one that bound me here, I remember very well.  Passing myself off as an aspect of their deity was the worst of the offenses.  Such a despicable act that they felt I would be an eternal lesson.  Forbidden magic was secretly used upon me, binding my spirit to my vessel.  Forcing me to live for eternity, but never free.”

The young man’s brows have furrowed.  “We... found you in a collapsed building with bars rotted away.  There were some bones here and there, white as paper---”

“I wasn’t alone in that prison.  Other prisoners... of course they didn’t survive the sinking.  But I did.”

“You...?”  His mouth opens softly, a gentle gape.  “You survived going down so far---?”

“I survived the sinking of Orr.  The feeling that the world was being ripped from under my feet, the way the interior walls and bars... crushed like twigs and wood.  The total blackness, being so far beneath the waves, trapped in a prison with so many bodies pressed against the ceiling and unable to escape.”

“But you lived...”

Unfortunately.  That was a stipulation of my curse.  I live through everything done to me.  I lived for countless years beneath the waves, in frigid water, breathing it in and expelling it, smelling and hearing but never seeing.  Feeling the viscera of rotting bodies surround me, then sweep away in the currents that reminded me that there are exits... many exits.  But the stone was too heavy for me to move.  The holes were too small to get even a hand out of them.”

“Was it... painful to come back up?”  Awe is written upon the young man’s face.  Like a child hearing his mother tell him a bedtime story.  It’s almost endearing.  It might have been, were the memories not clutching at my chest.  Reminding me that my every breath now feels like inhaling sand and pushing it back out.

“It felt... strange.  The crushing pressure was lifted so quickly that my body struggled to accept it.  I felt myself reform, yet I have no idea what I might have begun to look like so far below the waves.  My sight returned, but the pinpricks of sunlight felt like hammers.  The water faded, and the heat of dry air seemed to ravage my skin like the heart of Mount Maelstrom itself.  I can still... feel the claws of dry air rend into me.  The bones within me creak like the deck of an old ship.  My eyes find it difficult to adjust to the moonlight, despite its gentle touch.  Tracks of memory.  This entire wretched existence... because the Orrians...”

He shakes his head.  I glance at him, raising a brow.  “They... punished you for what they felt was the highest crime.”

“I have been punished beyond reason.”  I feel my voice darken.  The rasp from the saltwater worsens.  “I have seen my death come and go so many times I no longer have a grasp on the count.  Creatures tore at me in the depths!  Yet my skin reformed with each bite until they were satisfied, and left me be.  My lungs exploded in my chest, coming back together with every few breaths.  My body atrophied, writhed and shrank, and when I came back up within this world, I was torn asunder, forced back.  Is that a fitting punishment for one who took mortal trinkets from your supposedly benevolent deities?”

“Crimes... must be paid for, Eir---”

“I would rather you did not speak my name.”  My voice is cold now.  It makes the human shiver.  “My crime would have been paid for in full had they taken the trinkets back.  Had they forced me to work in Melandru’s temples.  Had I simply been imprisoned.  But they wished to torture me.  Beyond any reasonable measure, they wished to know I would never know peace.”

The young man lowers his head, swallowing gently.  “I... I’m sorry.  You’re right.  I’m sure Melandru would not have wanted to see you suffer so much.”

“Had she shown mercy, rather than abandoning this world, perhaps I would agree with you.”

He nods faintly.  “Ah... I’m sorry---”

“At least, now, you know where I come from.”

“I do.”

He clasps his hands, shakily pacing back toward the temple we are meant to be guarding.  Silence, once more.  I exhale, and I feel my lungs crack and creak as though a salt shell breaks and contracts with each motion.

Perhaps, if I were Malchor, I might jump from this ledge as well.  I know true insanity, the likes of which drove him to his final descent... I just hide it well.

What a pity the swim back to shore wouldn’t be worth this deadly leap.

[cyb-by-lang]

Shell Game (25/?)

Obito and Kakashi get in trouble.

Obito really didn’t mind burning a day by stalking a hero. The weather was nice, big screens everywhere were happily showing the Sports Festival wherever Ingenium stopped for a second, and snacks were easy to pick up at any corner store. Kei wasn’t here, but she was keeping up a cover identity. And while Obito wasn’t necessarily happy about it, he’d gotten used to not having Kei around for missions ever since February.

Off to Obito’s left, Kakashi bit down on a sneeze as the two of them hopped across a gap between two rooftops, still following the silver-armored hero on his patrols. The local air was still weird.

If he was being honest, Obito half-expected this method of finding Stain to be as much of a bust as the scent-tracking. The Turbo Hero Ingenium was the leader of Team Idaten agency, and therefore he was one of the better-connected heroes in Hosu. If something did happen, he had a radio where Obito and Kakashi didn’t, so he’d probably be on the scene of any crime as fast as he could. Therefore, Obito and Kakashi were saving themselves a tremendous amount of trouble stalking his various sidekicks by just following the big silver team coordinator around.

It helped that Ingenium’s helmet made it difficult for him to cover his own blind spot. Someone probably ought to let him know.

…Just not until this tactic of last resort was fully explored.

Unfortunately, though they’d tracked down another police investigation, the victim was carted off to the hospital before Kakashi or Obito could Sharingan any answers out of them. The police had already trampled all over the site, making it useless for Kakashi’s tracking technique. And to add salt to their collective wounded pride, Stain had apparently departed the scene via the sewer system. There was a lot Kakashi could do, both with his dogs and on his own, but all three of them had come to the sad conclusion that scent-tracking was just not going to work for this case.

Not that Kakashi would subject his dogs to city air if he could avoid it, but Obito understood. Some situations were a bit too complicated to have an easy solution. And even besides that, summoning techniques didn’t appear to work on this side of Kamui.

Thus, stalking.

Not that Ingenium made it easy. Per Kei’s explanation, this hero had engines built into his arms that helped him run faster or something. Obito didn’t think it compared to shinobi speed, especially since he and Kakashi were some of the fastest people Konoha could throw at the problem, but he definitely took corners way faster than a normal person, and while blowing smoke everywhere. Because roof-hopping required a bit of foresight and Ingenium didn’t seem to believe in slowing down except to make calls, Obito had been leading with his Sharingan ever since this mission started.

“Slow,” Kakashi said, his gloved hand brushing against Obito’s right shoulder. Sensation was a little dull in that side, but it was definitely a tap.

Obito shook the gleam of Ingenium’s armor out of his eye before he dug his heels in properly. Rooftop gravel crunched under his feet as he skidded a bit, then turned to face Kakashi.

Kakashi jerked his masked head back and then down. Without any further words, he marched back over to the gap they’d just leapt over and dropped down with no ceremony. They’d found their Hero Killer, then, and Obito moved to follow.

At that point, the clank of light metal and rushing air met Obito’s ears. Likewise, an armored shadow passed over him and, when Obito looked up, he spotted a silver figure careening overhead.

Ingenium landed in front of him, elbow pipe things jetting smoke. While his body was angled forward, as though expecting violence, his voice came out surprised. “You—you’re a vigilante? Or a villain?”

Obito shrugged. He raised his right hand to scratch the back of his neck, feeling his face heat up under his mask. To salvage the situation, Obito almost mimicked Ingenium’s voice right back at him just to make the awkward feeling fall on someone else for a change, but then steel met steel in the alleyway below.

Obito had already Kamui-warped from the roof to the ground before he even finished his master plan. Ingenium got a glimpse of a person spiraling away into a ribbony mirage, centered on the right eye of the mask, before Obito stepped out into a dingy alleyway.

“Wolf!” he barked, landing farthest from the street.

Kakashi didn’t respond except to nod.

And from the shadow of a dumpster, the Hero Killer rose.

Taller than either Kakashi or Obito, but hunched as though his head was set a bit too far forward. His arms were bare under bandages running up to his biceps, balancing combat gear resembling cobbled ANBU gear. Obito noted the shift of shapes under his clothes and on belts, his Sharingan alerting him to dozens upon dozens of hidden knives, folding blades, and spare sharp objects. Heavy soles on already-modified shoes indicated yet more blades, perhaps spring-loaded. He was built like someone who fought for a living, complete with a damaged katana and ragged scarf to accompany the tails of his mask. His face was even flattened due to a total lack of nose, probably on purpose.

Stain looked like a jackass, was the point. It was a flexible word. Obito had picked up a few things here and there from Kei’s vocabulary.

Between him and Kakashi, the Hero Killer was bracketed in by an ANBU agent and someone who had all the training and the power to sidestep attacks. Judging by the knife embedded in the brickwork, Kakashi had already deflected an attack or two with his kunai.

…If Stain had enough knives, this would be a very short fight.

Obito slid into a combat stance as Kakashi shifted his grip on his kunai. While both of them could have carried katana into this fight, Kakashi didn’t need one and Obito could grow his own. Besides, that would have implied that either of them wanted anything to do with a fair fight with this jerk. If it was going to be a two-on-one beatdown, Obito would count it as a good day.

For a second, it was a standoff. Kakashi on one side, kunai held defensively in his left hand. Obito on Stain’s other side, right hand flexing like he was going to go for—instead of grow—a weapon. Wood Release tendrils started to snake out from under his gauntlets, crawling down his leg and toward the nearest wall.

“More wannabe vigilantes trying to bring me to ‘justice,’ I see,” Stain spat, drawing no more reaction than a cocked head from Obito. Seriously, what was this guy’s deal? “Every time I kill you maggots, more just appear. You’re not even worth dirtying my blade.”

Across from Obito, Kakashi’s Sharingan flashed noticeably, despite how he was backlit by the street. His right hand and arm lit up with white chakra lightning, running along gloved fingers like static.

Lightning Release: Stunning Flash. Obito knew that technique like the back of his hand.

Just like Kakashi knew his Wood Release moves, even if he couldn’t copy them. Wood Release: Butterfly Net.

There were benefits to sending long-standing team members on serious missions together.

“The only thing worse than you are those fake heroes you keep dogging, like their fame will wear off on you,” Stain went on, seemingly oblivious to the slowly rising tide of violence.

Then Ingenium hopped down from the rooftop, and the situation got needlessly complicated.

Now, Ingenium wasn’t a bad guy as far as Obito knew. He rescued cats from trees, too, and he walked kids across the street sometimes. He organized people to do good. He seemed like a dependable hero. But he was also big, wore armor, and there was just not enough room in this alleyway for four combatants without getting in each other’s way.

“Your reign of terror ends here, Hero Killer!” Ingenium squared his stance and raised his fists.

“No…” And Stain’s flat face turned toward Ingenium. “It’s just getting started.”

Obito held out his free hand, snapped his fingers to get Stain’s attention, and made a gesture that left little to the imagination regarding his opinion of the Hero Killer’s self-satisfied ranting.

This did not meet with approval. While Kakashi clearly rolled his eyes based on how his Sharingan light blinked out for a second, Ingenium coughed. Then Stain hissed, “You’ll die first.”

Obito said, in Stain’s voice, “Come at me, bro.” And just to make the moment complete, he added a mocking “come here” motion with his left hand.

Stain lashed out at speeds nearly comparable to a tetchy chūnin, but Obito’s Mangekyō Sharingan slowed the entire world to a crawl. While Obito grinned under his mask, Kamui shifted along with the slash of Stain’s ragged-edged katana as it seemingly sliced him open from shoulder to opposite hip with no resistance.

“No—” Ingenium began as Obito flopped forward onto the ground, only just avoiding cracking his mask on impact.

Or so the two Tokyo-natives seemed to think.

Stain lifted his blade and then stopped dead. Just as he realized the broken steel was still clean, Stain tried a follow-up attack that stabbed downward through Obito’s head.

To exactly as little effect as before.

“Nice try, asshole,” Obito said, still in Stain’s voice. He stepped back, watching the man’s eyes widen. “You’re just too slow.”

Kakashi was too professional to sigh, but it was a close thing. Instead, Obito heard him say, “Ingenium, you’re in the way.”

“As useful as his Quirk is,” Ingenium noted, not taking his attention from Stain, “arrests are Hero work. I can’t let you two handle Stain on your own, no matter what.”

“Your call,” Obito chirped. Given the funny look everyone gave him, he imagined no one quite expected to hear a cute, piping voice coming from behind his eerie white mask. He stalked behind Stain, putting his hand up against the Wood Release web he’d already started. “But you should still back up, say, fifteen meters.”

Ingenium didn’t, probably because Stain went for him next. A knife flew and struck one of the places where his armor didn’t cover his undersuit, slicing through his tricep on its way to the street.

The hero staggered two steps back with a shout of pain—

Kakashi’s arm lit up until it was nearly blinding—

Stain leapt for Ingenium’s throat, katana curved in a lethal upward arc—

Obito slammed his chakra into his right arm just as a knife whipped out of nowhere and hit him square in the right shoulder. It bit into muscle, but couldn’t touch bone even if slammed home with Tsunade’s strength—his Zetsu arm didn’t have any bones to break. And the pain was only about as bad as a sharp slap. Getting Kamui up first was more important, and his Mangekyō ached again to let him know that was a great plan.

—Obito’s Wood Release vines snaked up from the ground and hardened to something akin to steel bars, blocking Stain from reaching Ingenium as though a door had just been slammed in his face—

—Stain’s tongue slipped through the bars and caught a drop of flying blood—

—Ingenium hit the ground with a thud—

—and Kakashi’s lightning arced out directly for the man carrying the most steel, engulfing the alleyway in white light. Bolts passed through Obito like nothing, making his fingertips tingle.

Obito was pretty sure, after the fact, that he saw his own retina from the flash. He would give Kakashi a thorough ribbing for that later. As he blinked the red out of his vision, he took in the scene.

Stain was upright only because Obito’s Wood Release had made a sort of Hashirama tree in the middle of the alley, and it was awful hard to pry anybody out of the wood without a much heavier weapon than Stain’s sword. They’d be chopping him out with an axe, and hopefully with a lot of heroes making sure he wouldn’t stab anybody again.

Speaking of, it’d probably be easier to be sure of that if Obito stole all his goddamn knives for the police to process. Still, Obito glanced around to be sure his two fellow fighters were all right.

Kakashi crouched over Ingenium, peeling back a layer of undersuit to check on the injury. He’d made a heavy bandage out of gauze and some medical tape, and folded it even as he kept his Sharingan trained on the wound. Then, “It’s not deep. Can you keep pressure on it?”

“I would if I could.” Ingenium’s voice was about half an octave higher than usual. “But I can’t—I can’t move. At all.”

“Huh,” said Kakashi, and then pressed the pad to the injury as he levered the hero’s arm up and above his heart. “Quirk?”

“Probably.” Ingenium groaned quietly, wincing noticeably even with his full-face helmet as Kakashi worked. “Are both of you all right?”

Kakashi nodded.

Obito idly pitched two combat knives over his shoulder. They clattered to the concrete. “Yep.”

“Good.” Kakashi helped Ingenium sit up, still clamping his hand over the wound. “My communicator is in my helmet. Any chance you could help me reach it?”

“The two of us are outta here the second your sidekicks show up,” Obito warned, kicking a multitool toward the dumpster. He jabbed a thumb at the still-unconscious Stain. “He’s going to jail on his own.”

Ingenium’s helmet canted to the left. “You think I’d try to get you arrested for vigilantism?”

“…Yes?” Obito replied, finally turning away from the Hero Killer. He’d get out of there when someone helped him, not before. “I mean, it’s in all the pamphlets.”

“If I’d tried taking him on alone, I’d probably have died,” Ingenium explained. He still couldn’t move, apparently, but Kakashi was being patient about the whole thing. “I don’t think the police would agree, but it’s a hero’s job to keep innocent people safe even if it costs us everything. Sometimes, that includes legal protection.”

“Oh.” Obito scratched the back of his head, and then remembered he was wearing a full head covering and it was than less effective. “Uh, that’s actually nice of you to say. Wolf, maybe if we make sure the paralysis wears off first…?”

Kakashi sighed. “Make your call, Ingenium. Stain isn’t any more arrested than he was a minute ago.”

Ingenium managed a pained laugh, now that his adrenaline rush was starting to wear off from lack of use. “All right, all right.”

Ingenium got his full movement back (or nearly) a little before his now-alerted sidekicks started converging for real. He was going to be mobbed by worried heroes and carted off to the hospital soon, apparently. Once they were all sure Stain’s Quirk had worn off and the guy still wouldn’t be going anywhere, Kakashi let Ingenium take over caring for his own injury before disappearing ahead of police sirens.

By that point, Obito had managed to wheedle a masked selfie out of the hapless hero—because of course he had to. Ingenium seemed more baffled than annoyed, probably by how quickly events had progressed, and obliged. With a cheery salute, Obito vanished up the wall like a spider caught in the light, leaving the police and pro heroes to deal with the serial killer. He could send photographic evidence to Kei about their successful mission, so she’d finally stop worrying.

He sent it immediately after he and Kakashi were both out of sight and away from any of the swarming heroes. So: ten blocks away.

It took until a couple minutes later, when he went to change into civilian clothes inside Kamui, that he remembered Stain’s knife was still sticking out of his shoulder.

Kakashi facepalmed hard enough to put Kei to shame.

[oldcoyote]

tumblr won't let me find and comment on ur post, but: that circle of concrete could be a good base for a herb spiral? and it's nice and close to the house for snipping things when you need them. I could totally see you making a couple of enclosed beds/greenhouses with like the old-window hinged lids (that you can also use as shade cover if needed?) as long as there's still space for frisbee with Solo you have a lot of options for garden layout! a couple of potato bags/tire stacks would be useful

herb spiral! i just googled them and oh my god, yes. man there are so many circle gardens on pinterest holy crap i had no idea?

those greenhouse-style enclosed garden beds are so gorgeous too. i have a wood yard near my house that sells cheap leftover wood scraps i could totally cobble something together from those. i might have to use cheap plastic or flyscreen though bc glass can get a bit expensive

there’ll definitely be room for Solo up front i think i mostly want to keep the plants to the border and maybe raised beds down past the shed? i have to test the light, but man it’s so excited to actually be planning it all out and to be getting so many great ideas!

[cyberneticlagomorph]

Wonderland & Underland

ok it’s been a long while since I've done one of these so forgive me if I’m a bit rusty. But that’s all unimportant.

Let’s get this started shall we?

EDIT: THIS POSTED ENDED UP 5 MILES LONG SOMEHOW I’M SO SORRY…

Some background:

Wonderland is a country on Fairyland, a planet in another solar system in another dimension accessible by most any manner of portal. 

Fairyland is a pretty silly name for it, its original name is Alfheim and it has been home to the majority of fae kind for millennia

Fairyland/Alfheim was founded by the First Fae, the literal first faeries ever born.

The First Fae were descended from literal stars, void, stone and raw wild magic floating around out  in space

They found Fairyland when it was just a barren planetoid with no star to orbit and terraformed it with magic, afterwards they stole some other planets to form a solar system, made their own star and boom called it home

Fairyland was eventually overrun by True Royals, the offspring of Elder Gods and Fae. 

It was rough and sent a lot of First Fae into hiding, before they could be hunted down and murdered 

Jack, Alice, and the Red Queen are all related. Alice is Jack’s grandmother on his mom’s side and the Red Queen is Jack’s great-grandmother on his father’s side (it’s complicated, time fuckery happened at one point)

if u have questions abt fairyland (or anything else for that matter) please ask, not a lot abt it will be covered in this post for time’s sake tbh?

ok so, the history of wonderland:

wonderland was “founded” (read: stolen from the First Fae) by an Elder God by the name of the Lifeblood

The lifeblood is the goddess of carnal desires (lust/love/sex), blood, (re)birth, hearts, fertility, and chaos

she founded wonderland but immediately gave it up to her 4 true royal children as a gift

Dusk (eldest, Queen of Spades), Clover (second eldest, prince of clubs), Shard (third oldest, prince of diamonds), and Diamour (Youngest, Queen of hearts)

All but the queen of spades previously held the title prince(ss)

Each had their particular peculiar “collection”

Hearts collected cores (the metaphysical “heart” of one’s soul where emotions are kept), dyed her clothing in the blood of her enemies, made a show of her brutality by beheading people in public 

Clubs was almost gentle, loved pets of all kinds (even sapient ones) and had a vast menagerie, he fed those that displeased him to his creatures 

Diamonds was a creature of greed and excess, everything he owned was gilded and golden, if it was expensive and strange he wanted it but quickly grew bored with his new playthings, he had the bodies of his enemies dipped in molten gold while they were still living and kept them as statues in his gardens

Spades... Spades was vitriol and death wrapped in calm smiles and offerings of tea. Cool and calculating, she studied combat, war, the arts, medicine and necromancy alongside her "womanly duties". She took a husband young and let him think he ran the show, she killed him a dozen times over until there was nothing left but screeching essence

wonderland was prosperous for awhile until Princess Diamour learned just how small a fourth was and decided that she wanted the whole country and killed her siblings one by one

Presumably she was under the control of the Wyrm Tyrant, an ancient Dracolich that wanted/still wants to take over the world and isn’t above commiting and number of atrocities to do it (it’s “dead” now, more accurately it’s a disembodied consciousness under heavy guard locked away in Hel but it still has reach and influence but that’s another post in itself)

After disposing of her siblings, Diamour crowned herself Queen and reshaped the country in her image and anyone who dared oppose her was beheaded in public as an example

Everyone else in the country was subject to Diamour’s Charm, an ability found in most True Royals to manipulate the emotions of their victims, after all it’s hard to commit regicide if you love your Queen so much you’d die for her

Overuse of Charm can cause withdrawal symptoms, or even brain damage

Wonderland was widely considered place of "madness" which could both be attributed to Queen Diamour overusing her Charm and the flagrant shows of decadence and sexuality that might have startled any human visitors

The Bloody Queen of Hearts was eventually usurped by a young Witch named Alice and a band of freedom fighters

The country was ravaged by war, and then ravaged by the Lifeblood who turned it into a wasteland after Diamour was presumed dead

Diamour was not dead, just locked away with other Royals in a complex prison-lock to protect the Looking Glass

The Looking Glass was a relic, an item made from the body parts of an elder god or true royal, that could peer through time and space and thus gave Diamour (and previously Dusk) a huge military advantage over her neighbors. As if having a monopoly on agriculture wasn't enough.

The present-ish:

Jack eventually opened the prison lock, killing the trapped royals and destroying the Looking Glass (there was a whole event about it awhile back that I need to go find and like… tag or something)

Diamour escaped and hid herself inside his body, gathering her strength and biding her time, eventually turning his heart into a soulstone crystal and enchanting it to be her phylactery

She later made herself a body using his blood (this was also a Big Thing that i actually DID tag, you can read it HERE)

After getting her ass handed to her by Jack several times she slunk away to some unknown region and really hasn’t been seen until recently

Since opening the prison-lock jack has been carefully rebuilding wonderland from the ground up and ruling it as Prince Regent 

Diamour, now “affectionately” nicknamed Queenie, has built her own kingdom in the abandoned catacombs and buried First Fae castles far below wonderland

Ok now that i have you all up to speed, lemme get down to the real nitty-gritty

Wonderland NOW:

Obligatory Pinterest board so you can understand the aesthetic better

Now that it’s under jack’s control it’s a lot softer than it used to be

Surrounded by a giant living wall made of magical metal and thorns  

Populated almost solely by test subjects jack saved from delta facility, some Andrids and a few other people that decided that they wanted to live there

More technologically advanced than it was in the past, earthly cars have been converted to run on liquid magic instead of gas, there are condensers that suck ambient magic out of the air and turn it into a more usable liquid form

The architecture is more or less the same it was when Diamour ruled, very one with nature, hard to spot from the air unless you know what you’re looking for. 

Houses built into trees/mushrooms or underground as burrows

Lots and lots of plants, GIANT plants, thanks to the volcanic ash and old magic in the soil even the most mundane plants get MASSIVE if planted in wonderland

Oh yeah wonderland sits on top of a mostly dormant-ish volcano, there are hotsprings scattered all over the place and the beaches have black sand but it hasn’t erupted in millennia so it’s fine… probably

The crater left over from the last time the volcano erupted is now an inland sea of considerable size that provides seafood and salt to the rest of wonderland

Has the potential to be an agricultural powerhouse if jack can ever get the hang of food production on such a massive scale

There’s a railway but it’s in serious need of repair and renovation

Jack promotes the worship of the Lifeblood since she IS a fertility goddess and doesn’t really ask much besides a few (animal) sacrifices in her name

Wonderland’s main exports are: tea, flowers, tobacco products, hemp, mushrooms, sea food, sea salt, silk, wool, honey, milk, fruits, vegetables, and a few exclusive things like jubjub bird eggs, tulgey wood, tulgey seed oil, and raw magical energy

Underland:

Obligatory Pinterest board so you can understand the aesthetic better

Created by diamour after she realized that it’d be way too much trouble to fight jack for control of wonderland

Effectively “wonderland 2” as far as Diamour is concerned

Located below wonderland the abandoned catacombs, caverns, lava tubes and buried First Fae castles literally under the land

Diamour no longer uses her Charm to help her rule, and has stopped brutally murdering people that disagree with her (for now)

It is unknown if she has turned over a new leaf or if she's just biding her time

Surrounded by old mines and mineshafts that allow eerily complete access to much of the surface, allowing Diamour and her followers to bounce around wonderland totally unseen

Populated by any number of folks descended from the original wonderlandians, succubi/incubi, goblins,vampires, and just anyone who’s looking for a good time

A giant, near-constant bacchanal (her mom is the goddess of carnal desires after all)

A lot of their tech is goblin in nature, specifically earthborn goblins that know how to keep up with things. That is to say, kingdom-wide Wifi babes.

Architecture is a little showy, most structures are carved from the surrounding stone and accented with metals and gems of varying worth. Sure paint is cheaper but the gems and metal shine in whatever light is present and make a bigger statement 

A lot of buildings are built into stalagmites or stalactites, the ones that aren't are cobbled together from loose stones, built into the mineshafts, or hang from the cave roof on chains to safe floor-space

Any plants down here are either some sort of fungus/moss/mold, or are magically modified to grow underground which is difficult and time consuming 

It’s all very whimsical, lots of plants and fungi have biolume and are often used as living streetlights 

In terms of weather, the cave system allows enough condensation for fog and occasionally rain but not much else. It’s cold, wet and dark.

Worship of the Lifeblood is alive and well, with orgies and sacrifices being held in her name on an almost daily basis

The first wonderland was thought mad for its shows of sexuality and decadence but underland makes that look like an absolute joke

There are feasts, orgies, literal fountains of booze, parades, drugs and other parties at varying levels of debauchery being held every day

Despite all of this, underland is very dependent on trade and tourism

Underland’s main exports are: alcohol, spider silk, elysium (a potent, highly addictive faeire drug, sometimes called “the saffron of narcotics”), precious metals and gems 

[arizaluca]

Just read your mcsm stories today and OH MAN they’re so well-written!>w

Ah, thank you! I’m really glad you like ‘em. I’ll do my best!

“ARGH!!” Xara practically let out a scream in frustration, throwing her hands into the air and almost throwing the wrench. “Notch damnit why can’t I f*cking get this right?!”

She usually wouldn’t have freaked out like that– at most, maybe muttered a swear under her breath before trying again– but having Romeo somewhere in the vicinity had torn her patience levels down to Underneath-level. 

Porkchop had been very pleased when they dumped a tied-up and gagged Romeo on the ground in front of Xara, trying to talk through the gag but failing miserably.

They seemed to be even more pleased because Romeo didn’t seem to be an Admin anymore. 

Normal, overly pale skin (probably because he was terrified that Xara was about to murder him, if his wide eyes were any indication), gold eyes with only the irises colored and the whites actually being white, normal t-shirt and jeans and sneakers that were a little muddy.

Five responses flashed through Xara’s head in the time that it took for her to blink slowly at Romeo, ranging from killing him on the spot to tackling him in a tight hug because holy crap it was Romeo, it wasn’t the Admin anymore, it was just her old friend.

Her old friend who killed her other old friend.

Finally, she simply stepped forward and ripped the gag off with such force that she wouldn’t have been entirely surprised if she’d ripped his tongue off along with it. “What are you doing here?”

Romeo didn’t flinch at her tone, which was so sharp you could’ve used it to cut someone’s head off, although she did see him wince. “I, uh… I came back. To fix things. Down here.”

After a short, awkward (on Romeo’s part) explanation about how, in short, Jesse had taken his powers away, and he’d decided to come back to the Underneath to help everyone out if they needed it, he finished on saying, surprisingly meekly, “Well, but, uh, that’s if you… are okay with it.”

F*ck no, I’m not okay with it. You killed my best friend.

Xara thought about vocalizing that, but in the end just let out a growl in his direction. “Don’t come within twenty feet of me. I don’t want to ever speak to you again.”

This time Romeo did flinch a little, but she didn’t care as she stalked away, his mouth opening silently as he tried to say something to her retreating back.

She didn’t care, she didn’t care, she didn’t care.

Periodically, the scavengers would stop by to give Xara random updates. Mostly letting her know if they’d discovered anything interesting (the guy in the Enderman head brightly told her that the giant Enderman had stopped showing up) or if anyone had fallen down there (no).

Rarely, they’d include a bit about Romeo, although they tended to ask before telling her in case she didn’t want to hear.

Porkchop had stopped wanting to dismember him on sight and had actually started up a small trading system with the guy. Val, Soup, and Llucy were helping Romeo figure out how to gather certain materials to build… something. (Porkchop hadn’t gotten details.) He’d helped them when the guy in the creeper head (Xara was sort of crap with names and couldn’t remember it for the life of her) had hurt his leg. 

The first few times, Xara had waved it off. It’s just his way of trying to apologize. He’s hoping I’ll hear. He’s just trying to fix it and once we get comfortable he’ll just revert to being a total ass.

The next few times, she didn’t wave it off. She’d silently listen as these little things (and sometimes big things) would build up. Val no longer sent him the evil eye whenever he got too close to Llucy. He’d periodically come back with some wood or some materials that someone needed. He’d started working on the extra mobs that weren’t supposed to be in the world.

After that, Porkchop and the scavengers stopped asking if she wanted to hear. She stopped cutting them off if they started telling her. 

The reports of Romeo being a nice person, not stopping being a nice person but on the contrary getting nicer at times, were starting to confuse her. And when Xara got confused, she just got pissy.

Trying to fix the Oasis was a good distraction. At least she could slam a hammer into something and claim that she was trying to fix it.

Except she’d been stuck on getting this one building right, because the logistics of this one involved too much redstone, and when she placed blocks sometimes the actual machine would screw it up or get stuck, and she had been working solidly on this for three weeks.

It had been a very long time since she’d actually done any redstone or building– about a hundred years, to be precise– and she couldn’t remember the logistics properly and she was just so out of patience at this point that she practically threw the wrench. It flew out of sight, probably lost until she went scrounging around in the ruins of her city for it tomorrow.

Or next week, or next month, forget it, she might not ever get this building back to normal at this point.

She can’t say she cares that much.

The same way you don’t care about Romeo seeming to go back to normal? 

She swore loudly, voice echoing through the empty remains of her city.

Xara was so glad she could actually sleep that whenever she did, she’d just conk out. You could probably blow up a grenade outside her window and she’d just go right on sleeping.

So she’s not sure why she can’t do it tonight.

Maybe it’s stress. After all, she’s been working on this one building for what feels like ages. Maybe. But probably not.

Maybe it’s anger. She has every right to be angry, really. Romeo did something horrible, and then had the nerve to come back and apologize. As if that would ever fix anything. Too little too late. Maybe. But probably not.

Maybe it’s Romeo himself, because his behavior of late has been such a huge contrast to what she’s used to that she’s confused and irritated, she knows he’s somewhere down here but she doesn’t know exactly where, she wants to hate his guts because he killed her other best friend and he hasn’t apologized.

Maybe it’s because you haven’t let him try.

Maybe.

For whatever reason, Xara had been trying to sleep for the past three hours, but hadn’t been able to get to it. So she just sat up and looked out her window, at the building with the machine that she hadn’t been able to get right.

She blinked. Squinted. Looked again.

And then she quickly tossed the blanket aside, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and then walking out of her house, staying to the more shadowy areas as she tried to get a closer look.

When she got within thirty feet, her eyes finally accepted what she was seeing as real and not a hallucination.

There, on the building, is Romeo, frowning bemusedly at it as he raises a finger in the air, waving it around and looking like he’s doing a mental math calculation. 

Xara watched as Romeo took down a few blocks from the walls she’d set up, before shifting those around, adjusting everything as he went, continually stopping and doing his mental calculations or whatever they were.

He was fixing her building for her.

His hair was messed up and looked like he hadn’t combed it in three weeks, his t-shirt was torn badly at the collar and peppered with little burn marks, his jeans looked as if he’d tossed it to a rabid wolf, and his sneakers were scorched, and even in the dim firelight surrounding everything she could see the shadows under his eyes and the unnatural pallor of his skin indicating that he hadn’t slept properly for, well, a while at least.

But he was still fixing her building for her.

Slowly, she slipped through the shadows, closer, until she was standing near the bottom of it. Romeo probably would’ve noticed if he wasn’t so intent on repairing her building for her, but he was focused on it that even when he looked up and was staring right at her at one point, he didn’t notice her.

The clock that Xara had managed to cobble together one day ticked resolutely onwards. It passed midnight, passed 3 in the morning, and was almost six AM when he finally finished, stepping down and giving a little sigh, barely ten feet from him.

“Romeo.”

He flinched in surprise, bonked his head against the wall, and then spun around to face her.

Close up, she realized he looked even worse than when she was watching him try to build this one building that she hadn’t gotten for months. There was one long scar from the corner of his eye to his chin that hadn’t been there the last time she’d spoken to him, he had a makeshift bandage that looked suspiciously like a part of his shirt wrapped around his head, soaked with almost greenish blood, his eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with red, his lips were chapped and cracked, and he had bruising all down one arm. Not to mention he was a lot thinner than she remembered.

“Oh– uh– hi Xara– I didn’t mean– sorry, I’ll– I’ll leave–” Romeo spluttered, stumbling over his words almost sluggishly, as if he couldn’t quite figure out how speaking worked.

Xara interrupted. “Where’s this from?” She touched the corner of her eye and then traced down her cheek to her chin to indicate the scar.

Romeo stammered a bit, as if he was about to answer, but then Xara interrupted. “Never mind. When’s the last time you slept?”

“Uh…” Romeo’s gold eyes blinked slowly, before he glanced down and started counting on his fingers. He got to the the second hand before he looked confused and then started over.

Xara watched him do this three times, looking more and more confused each time, before she sighed. “And this?” she pointed at her head, the area where Romeo had wrapped his bandage.

“Zombie.” It seemed to be easier for Romeo to speak in two-syllable words at the moment, because this came out easily, as did the next two-syllable sentence. “Clawed me.”

Xara felt her eye twitch in irritation against her will. “Don’t tell me you didn’t disinfect it.”

Romeo’s lips barely twitched up at the ends. Blood immediately started leaking from a crack at the corner of his mouth, but he quickly reached up and smeared it away with one hand, the one without bruising along it. “Okay. Then I won’t tell you.” 

Xara had to repress a small smile at that, which surprised her. She hadn’t expected to remember how to smile. “And let me guess, you haven’t eaten or had anything to drink for at least a day.”

“I had some water…” Romeo trailed off, eyes glazing over. He apparently couldn’t remember. 

Maybe Xara couldn’t forgive him yet. And she couldn’t forget either.

But she could at least keep her former friend from running himself into the ground.

“Get some sleep. There’s a mostly-intact sofa in that house over there.” Xara jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “I’ll check on you later. I’m going to get back to it.”

Romeo opened his mouth to protest, apparently thought better of it, and let out a sigh. It devolved into a cough halfway through, each hack making his shoulders shake violently as he clapped a hand over his mouth. Some more blood leaked out of the corner of his mouth, but this time it seemed to be coming from his mouth. 

What the hell had this idiot been doing?! Eating ashes?!

“And you are going to let me check and make sure you’re not killing yourself later. I don’t care how much you dislike the taste of healing potions,” Xara snapped as an afterthought.

When Romeo’s coughs finally subsided, he lowered his hand and gave Xara a weak smile, more blood leaking out of his cracked lips. “Still as much of a tough love mom as always, huh.” He let out another sigh, this time trying to keep his exhale more shallow, and nodded. “Fine. I’ll try to come out and help–”

“No. No helping. You sleep. I don’t care if you sleep for three days straight, because right now you look like a pile of crap and your body is probably about to self-destruct.” 

Xara grabbed him by the shoulders, ignoring the way Romeo’s shoulders tensed slightly in surprise, before she spun him around and literally steered him into the house, grabbing a random blanket that she’d put there (sometimes she slept there too. Why do you think she knew about it?) and almost literally throwing it into his face. “I’ll be back tonight. And I want you to look like you at least slept for eight hours, got it?”

He let out a dry laugh that ended up sounding more like a smoker’s cough. “No promises.”

She made a half-joking swipe at his head, which he barely dodged under, before turning and preparing to leave.

She stopped at the threshold of the door, just for a moment. She’d forgotten to say something.

“Thank you.”

Before Romeo could say anything (actually, if he had, she would’ve turned right back around, made him lie down, and force-fed him a narcotic potion if she had to), she was out the door.

She didn’t forgive him. Not by a long shot.

But she did at least take a tiny step in that direction, and any progress is good progress.

Notch, if she’d ever said that aloud to Fred he would’ve started teasing her.

[frenchy-and-the-sea]

Traditions; OC Kiss Week 2018

Hey ho, here’s another one. Features @rufinagertrude‘s Anarchy/Justice Hollister, and the twins Davin and Finn, who I borrowed from @colonelcupquake and who will probably not let me use them again after this, lmao. These are three characters I have never goddamn written so it’s a bit of a mess, but it’s hopefully a fun mess. Ilu guys and I’m sorry. <3

1159 words, in that weird nebulous modern AU Rufina and I always use to talk about these dickheads.

Five minutes to midnight, just as Davin was finishing the last of his drink, Justice Hollister strode over from seeming nowhere and slid into the seat between him and his brother.

“You two,” he said brightly, throwing his arms over both of their shoulders. “Seem to be in need of another drink.”

Finn ducked his way out of the embrace almost before the arm could even settle, scowling fiercely.

“Fuck off,” he growled, “We ain’t looking to owe you something, now or later.”

“Owe me?” Justice managed to look properly abashed despite the drama in his voice, leaning back with a hand spread neatly over his heart. “You wouldn’t owe me anything! I always buy my friends a drink to ring in the new year. Sort of a tradition of mine.”

He winked. Over the top of his head, Davin caught his brother’s eye and rolled his.

“Go on and find ‘em, then,” he said, finally shrugging Justice’s arm off of his own shoulders before jerking his head back towards the rest of the bar. “Must be around somewhere.”

Beside him, Finn snorted into the rim of his emptied pint glass.

Before Justice could muster up a retort though, the sound of a chair scraping back interrupted them both, and Davin felt someone slide into the seat on his right.

“Tried to warn you, mate. Miserably daft, these two.”

Alex still had snow melting off of the shoulders of her jacket and the soles of her boots, which sheared off in chunks as she kicked her feet up against the crossbeams of the bar. “I’ll take their drink though, since you’re offering.”

“How very generous of you.”

Davin couldn’t be sure, but he swore he heard a line of force in Justice’s remark, thin and warning. When he looked up though, the man was all smiles.

“Of course," he went on, "If they’re not going to take free drinks when they’re offered...”

He trailed off to look pointedly between them, too earnest to be as nonchalant as his tone implied. Sighing, Finn glanced over towards Davin and gave a halfhearted shrug of surrender.

“Fine,” he said, fluttering a hand towards the bar. “If it’ll get you to go away, fine.”

“No shit, though,” Davin called as he turned to go; but if Justice was focused on anything other than his gleeful hunting down of one of the bartenders, it was be a veritable miracle.

He returned barely two minutes later, winding his way back through the crowd as quickly as he seemed physically able while juggling three pint glasses in his hands. The third, to Davin’s immense relief, was not kept, but slid in front of Alex, who took it with a kindly nod.

“You three are cheap dates,” Justice said as he stepped back, propping his hands on his hips. “I asked the bartender for another round of whatever you were having and she actually grimaced at me.”

“Ought’ve brought back something better, then,” Davin muttered around the lip of his pint. Beside him, he heard Alex snort and mutter a quiet, "Ass," under her breath. Justice, of course, pretended not to hear.

"I can’t imagine it’s that bad though. You’re drinking it, right?" He wedged himself further into the increasingly too-small space between them and grabbed at Davin's glass, who jerked away on reflex. Barely a second later, his drink was a full swallow emptier.

“Hey!”

"Oh, no. It's bad." Justice recoiled with a step back, ignoring the shout to a one hand theatrically over his mouth. "Forget what I said; whatever I paid for that was too much. Do you two have as bad of a sense of taste as Alex, or did someone just forget to wash that glass? God, that's gotta be it. Here."

Without missing a beat, he wheeled around, grabbed Finn's drink too, and tipped it back in one long swig. Finn started towards an indignant noise, but it was drowned by the early rumblings of the midnight countdown, and by Alex's long sigh of suffering.

"Fuck’s sake, Justice. Sharing a drink doesn't count," she said, with a tone that suggested that she had expected this and was disappointed anyway. The glass cluttered abruptly back onto the bartop, and Justice turned to her with a look of begrudging acceptance.

"Won't give me that one, huh? Damn." He sighed and tapped the screen of his phone. A dimly lit '11:59:52' appeared for a moment, then was whisked away into a pocket. "Guess it's onto plan B, then."

That was all of the warning Davin got. Suddenly, there was a hand on his shoulder, then on the back of his neck, and then the solid press of lips against his cheek. It vanished nearly as quickly, in a blur of dark hair before he could even move away; a second later, Finn let out a shout of alarm. The wooden legs of their stools squealed in unison against the wood as they both leapt to their feet and whirled on their attacker….

But Justice was already gone, well out of grabbing distance and already making quickly for the door.

“Before dawn, Alex! Remember!” he called, grinning and gesturing to his phone. Then the clock ticked over to midnight, and he disappeared in the explosive chaos of waving arms and upheld glasses that turned the crowd around them into a shouting, cheering mob.

Finn swore loudly and pushed himself over to the line of revelers as if he were about to give chase, but Davin’s brain worked half a second faster than his blood, and he rounded towards where Alex sat sipping at her drink, watching with the casual disinterest of someone who had already seen the climax of this particular situation before.

“You were in on this,” he snarled, jabbing a finger in her direction. She raised an eyebrow at him. Shrugged.

“Justice has been begging me for John’s number for near a week,” she said simply. “I told him that if he managed to get a New Year’s kiss out of the both of you, I’d give it to him. And since Adelina had already bet me that you two wouldn’t be caught dead getting tangled in something like that…”

She shrugged again, but a smirk had crept across her lips that even the edge of her pint glass couldn’t quite hide. Davin glared back at her, seething. He had been used. For a bet. And not even a well-made one; he’d been the unfortunate victim of someone else’s cobbled together wager, and he wouldn’t even see the spoils from it. He didn’t want to.

He jabbed a finger towards Alex again and opened his mouth to summon some sharp, biting retort to his aid. What came out was a hissed, “Fuck you,” in as deadly a tone as he could manage before he stormed off to the bathroom, determined to scrub the left side of his cheek totally raw.

[aliceslantern]

Nocturnal Memory, a Kingdom Hearts fanfiction, chapter 9

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

on FF.net/on AO3]

"Are there any rooms in the castle full of junk?" Demyx asked Even over dinner.

He looked up from his notes. "May I ask why you want to know?"

"I'm… um… looking for something. I don't know. Maybe an instrument." It wasn't like he could afford to buy one, and even if he could it wasn't like any place around here sold any. Something simple, like a ukulele, or a harmonica… he had to start with the basics if he was going to work his way back up to sitar.

"Well, I highly doubt that you'd find anything like that. It's mostly old books, broken equipment, furniture, and so on. But, if you absolutely must, you can look all you like. It's not too far from the lab."

He went by himself. He wasn't sure at all what he was expecting, but the room was more the size of a small warehouse, piled practically floor to ceiling with stuff. For the first hour he searched with a rabid sort of urgency; but Even was right, none of this stuff meant anything to him.

A prickling desperation crept down his spine and his search became more and more reckless as he pushed deeper into the cramped room.

What would he do—what would he do if—?

Blearily, he slipped on some cloth on the ground and fell. On the way down, his elbow caught some glass and metal gizmo and it shattered on the ground next to him, leaving him with a handful of glass. Blood trickled down his palm. Demyx swore and tried to stand without further cutting himself. It was around then that he saw it, out of the corner of his eye—the familiar curve of a leather case.

Red splotches of blood fell to the floor. With his uninjured hand he reached through a gap between a massive cabinet and a rotting highboy for the case. It stuck in the small gap. He pulled harder and felt the glass through his clothes. He pushed the cabinet with his feet and tried to get it to budge just ten fucking centimeters, but with all the stuff next to it took a lot of strength. Finally he was able to squeeze the case though and it hit his chest with a hollow thunk.

Something warm dripped onto his leg; he remembered the stinging in his hand and healed it. Demyx hugged the case tight against his chest and inched away from the broken beaker, back towards the door. Bright tears of relief prickled in his eyes and, trembling with anticipation, he pried open the case just outside of the door.

He should have known. It was a guitar, but it was an absolute mess. The fingerboard was cracked almost in two and half of the tuning pegs were missing. There was not a single string to be found. The wood of the body had an odd texture to it, probably from repeatedly contracting and expanding in a room vulnerable to the elements. It felt like it might fall apart in his hands.

He gathered it gently and went to the library.

He found it hard to believe that there wasn't a single book on instrument repair. He expanded his search instead, looking for books on carving and wood crafting, and found a few things that might be helpful. And then just to be thorough he found a title about types of wood so he would know what the guitar was made of and how to deal with it.

Before he could even begin reading he had to find supplies, or at least stuff he could work with. Even with his fractured memories he was pretty sure he'd never had any type of expertise with this sort of thing. Whenever something had happened to his sitar, he'd just unsummoned it and when it came back, it was fixed. And any of the other little instruments he had, he'd just taken them to another world where there was someone who could fix it. He used to know anything and everything about the craft of sitars, but his knowledge about anything else was a bit more limited. And even the stuff about sitar was still vague and dreamlike, like trying to remember a name of an acquaintance met many years ago.

The next day he wanted to forage in the junk room again, but he had to work. The bitter relief of finding the guitar made him dread it a little less. At least he had something to look forward to, even if today was awful.

Demyx met Yuffie where he and Cid had left off yesterday. She was pale and, while he saw no scars, her skin was pink in places, especially across her neck. The words came out of his mouth before he was aware he was asking. "How are you feeling?"

She didn't glare; her expression was totally indifferent. She shifted the toolbox to her other hand, and by the way she twitched and rolled her shoulders he knew she was sore. "What's it to you?"

"It's called, you know, being a polite human being," he said. He crossed his arms.

"Polite, huh," Yuffie said. "Let's just get to work, mullet boy. I really don't feel like dealing with you today."

"Yeah? Well. The feeling's mutual."

They worked in silence, only speaking when absolutely necessary. Her voice was lower and less shrill, and he guessed that she was still feeling unwell. Demyx wasn't feeling so hot, either. Whatever energy that his new project had brought him had long since gone, and that bone deep exhaustion from yesterday was back with a vengeance. The water fought him harder than usual even though there was no physical resistance and made his arms burn. Was he losing his powers? Was that what this was?

"We should really try to hurry it up. We've got a lot to do," she said.

"This is harder than it looks," he said tersely. His vision started to swim and he let go of the water. "Whoa." He leaned against a wall.

"What's wrong with you?"

"Just… just…" There was something familiar about the burning in his muscles that he couldn't quite place a finger on.

"If you're tired, take an ether."

"It's not that. Shut up and let me think." But he couldn't, not with his head spinning like this. "This is a different water source than the one that goes directly to the town now, right?"

"Yeah. That's the point."

"Where is the source? I know it's underground, but is there a reservoir? Somewhere I can actually see it?" He tried to stand and stumbled.

"Uh, yeah. But why do you need to? You're just wasting time."

"I don't think so. Something's wrong with it." Demyx was able to get on his feet this time.

"Wrong with it? Or wrong with you? Maybe your powers are just crappier than you thought." She crossed her arms.

"I really think we should go. Just—" He was about to say "trust me."

"And what if I don't want to?"

"Then give me the map and I'll go on my own."

She exhaled and gave him a good once over. "Can you?"

He wasn't sure, but he wasn't about to let her know. "I'm fine."

Yuffie rolled her eyes. "Let's go so you can stop whining."

His legs were shaky and he struggled to keep up with her. He drank part of a potion he'd had, and that helped for a little while, but then it just got worse. Maybe—ugh—Yuffie was right and it was just him, and he was about to make himself look like a big asshole.

The reservoir was out of the way at the far back of the town, and the path that took them there was in perilous shape. Parts of the ground looked like they had been gouged out and most of the city walls had fallen, leaving behind jagged teeth of rock. More than once they had to climb and he really was losing all strength. Even if something was wrong with the water, he didn't have the energy to fix it.

The fountains and aqueducts immediately before the reservoir were all dry; mineral sand crunched under their feet, and it sparkled dully in the sun. Finally they got there. The purification system was massive and covered in splotches of rust. Several big vats sat corroding in the sunlight. They had once been covered with glass or something similar, but now all of it was broken. Demyx and Yuffie both looked down into the darkness, unable to really see anything, and she huffed in exasperation.

"There," she said. "Happy?"

He could feel something down there, but there was a cloying stickiness to the liquid that he couldn't place. His teeth were numb. He was sure he'd encountered it before… but his head was so foggy that he was having trouble keeping up. The water vapor below had an edge to it, almost like ammonia, but…

"Shit," he hissed.

Yuffie put her hands on her hips. "What's wrong this time?"

"The water… there's…" His words were slurring together. Demyx swallowed and tried to speak more clearly. He tried to let go of the elastic pressure the water had on him, but he couldn't separate it from his consciousness. It kept feeding. "There's…" He gripped the edge of the vat so as to not fall in and pressed a hand to his forehead. The burning in his muscles intensified.

"Spit it out," she said.

"It's…" It was singing through his blood. He had to let go of it. He had to, but by now this feel for water was an instinct and not something he could easily turn off. He had to get away, but his trembling knees gave out from under him, and he blacked out.

For a while he got half-hidden glimpses of consciousness. He was being dragged again across the cobbles—thump thump thump, thump thump thump—and he remembered trying to talk to Yuffie to tell her. "I have… I have to…" he kept slipping in and out. Getting picked up by a black coat with a red kerchief. His blood was ringing with it. They had to know. Someone had to know—

Demyx woke up aching from the inside out. His stomach churned and he crouched over the side of the bed retching. Nothing came up; he would get no relief.

Someone had to know. But what was it they had to know? He pressed a hand to his forehead—he still felt like he was spinning—and tried to remember. He muttered under his breath as if that might help.

Demyx could feel everything.

His power extended beyond his reach like a web. The water in the pipes of the castle buzzed all around and above him. It scratched his skin. Even more irritating was the blood in everyone's veins; mostly water but not quite there, he could sense them. The fluid rushed in Demyx's ears. He was sure this had never happened before—using the full limit of his powers involuntarily—not as a Nobody, not in the Organization. It was an immense strain on his whole being. He tried to pull the web back but to no avail.

Someone came to the door—Demyx sensed them before they entered. The pressure radiated all the way down into his lungs and he couldn't breathe—

"Nine. Nine, are you alright?" Ienzo took a step towards him and the pressure increased. Demyx clutched at the sheets.

"I can't—" He forced the words through his teeth. "It hurts, it's ripping—"

Ienzo took him by the shoulder and forced his chin up. "What's going on? What did you remember?"

Ienzo's proximity made him dry-heave. He heard through muddled ears Ienzo yelling for someone to get Even, but Ienzo was misunderstanding the problem, if only they would let him speak—

Even's green eyes. Two people in the room were more than he could handle. He gasped for air. He saw Even pull out and prep some sort of needle but couldn't fight against the bite of sedation.

It took him a long while to shake the medicine, and when he finally did Demyx was so thirsty he couldn't believe it. His tongue was as dry as sandpaper and his joints ached, but at least he could no longer feel the blood moving in people's veins. He struggled to sit up and tried to clear his throat. There was a glass of stale water at the bedside and he drank it all down. It didn't ease much of the thirst, but at least he could speak. "Is someone… is someone there?"

Even popped his head through the crack in the door. "Nine," he said as he entered. "What on earth happened? We had thought we were going to lose you. It was quite frightening."

Demyx shuddered. "Can I have some more water?"

"Of course." He left and brought back a small pitcher and a cup. "You seem… intact," he said. "What did you remember?"

"I didn't remember anything, it's… the water," Demyx said. He looked at the liquid in the clear pitcher, but his thirst was too painful to resist drinking it. "There's something wrong with the water, and it's…"

Even also studied it. "Like what?"

"Darkness." He said it at last. "I could feel it in my body. The whole south reservoir is poisoned with darkness."

There was a very long silence. Even had gone still and glassy-eyed as he thought it over. "…You're certain," he said.

"I would never forget that feeling." Sitting here now he wanted rip off his skin to ease the crawling sensation.

Even turned. "Ienzo!" he yelled. "Where in the blazes are you?!"

Footsteps down the hall. Ienzo barged into the room; his face was flushed and he was breathless. "Oh… Nine, you're all right. Whatever is the matter?"

"Ienzo," Even said. "It's time we go to the lab."

Demyx saw Ienzo flinch, but he kept his tone neutral. "I was just there myself. What did you need?"

"Boy, you know what I mean."

Ienzo exhaled. "Why must we go there?" He didn't look Even in the eye.

"Because the whole town might very well still be in danger due to our mistakes," Even said. "Nine, you'd better come with us."

[isabella-casey]

RUNNING THE PARIS MARATHON

In April 2017 off very little training, I managed to pull off what seemed like the impossible; I ran the Paris Marathon. This post is about the trials and tribulations surrounding the adventure.

THE PRELUDE TO THE STORM

  In June 2016 I moved to Lyon, France to complete a year-long student exchange as part of my Melbourne University Arts degree. Adapting to the set of challenges which accompanied this move wasn’t just tough, it was painful. To name a few, there were visa requirements to fulfil, notoriously difficult French bureaucracy to contend with, subjects to be selected without a subject master-list or guide, a foreign uni campus (and city) to navigate, not knowing a soul upon arrival and a language barrier to overcome. Suffice to say, I was stressed out to the max for the first few months and it was a struggle to simply enjoy myself. However, down the line I did manage to meet some people, one of whom, Jake, was running the Paris marathon the coming year in April. I immediately saw this as an opportunity to improve my situation as it seemed like a goal that was big enough to cut through the stressful fog of my new French life.

  First, I had to get my body into a state which could actually start running again as I had lost a lot of fitness since my arrival so I joined a yoga studio with my friend John Paul. After a couple of weeks of attending yoga classes daily and waking up my body, I started running again. However, before I could get into any kind of running groove, winter came and it was time for me to travel (mostly by myself) during the Christmas break. From Lyon I took a bus to Paris and stayed with a nice French lady in her Airbnb, went to many galleries and caught up with John Paul before he left to spend Christmas in the US. I then took another bus to Brussels and explored the Christmas markets, ate some waffles and oysters and visited many more galleries (all of which were Magritte heavy). From Belgium I caught another bus to Amsterdam and met up with some family friends, the Van Schaiik’s with whom I was to spend Christmas. We explored Amsterdam for a couple of days before heading to the Dutch countryside to meet up with their extended family and have an authentic Dutch Christmas in Oudewater. Over this time, due to the freezing weather, living out of a backpack, and being constantly on the go, no runs were completed. However, Emily Van Schaiik was training for the 100km Oxfam walk so we did do a full day’s hike through the beautiful pastors of Holland, followed by a long bike ride along one of their many premium bike lanes. Little did I know that this would be the only exercise I would complete throughout my winter travels *gasp*. After a good stint in Holland which included trips to Utrecht and Baarle-Nassau, I bid “vaarwel” to the Van Schaiik’s and caught a train to Berlin. This is where I saw my first snow for the winter and it was nothing short of a thrill (I may or may not have shed a tear). It was a bit of a shock being by myself again after spending time with a close family over Christmas but, needless to say, travelling alone is character building (especially in the snow!) From Berlin, I took a train to Prague and revelled in the heavy snow that fell there, despite it taking me ten times as long to walk through the slush in my Melbourne boots. After sampling Prague life for a good week and a half, I was lucky enough to take a couple of trains to the Austrian Alps and do a week’s skiing. Unfortunately, during this time I caught a bad cold which knocked me for six, but skied on I did! After an incredible week in Hopfgarten, Austria it was time to come home to Lyon, commence another semester of French university and finally start training for the marathon. The only problem was, was at this time it was only 5 weeks until race day and the weather was often below freezing! Nonetheless I commenced “training” and began running regularly along the Quai du Rhone, through the Parc de la Tête d'Or and up the steep steps of the Croix-Rousse, a village in the hills of the city. In addition, I got back into yoga which was my only cross training. In this way, I began to enjoy living in the city of Lyon way more and really appreciated what it had to offer. I was seeing sunsets from the top of the Croix-Rousse with the snow-capped peaks of the Chamonix alps in the distance and I interacted with the giraffes, deer and other zoo animals that dwelled in the park/free zoo, Parc de la Tête d'Or. These are just some of the experiences that opened up to me in the short time that I was training for the marathon. Even though the I never managed to increase my training distances above 20km, I saw so much of the city that I otherwise would not have seen and perhaps more importantly, had a purpose (on top of becoming fluent in French and travelling as much as possible.)

THE EYE OF THE STORM

   Very quickly, the date of the marathon weekend came upon me. Two days before the race, I caught the bus from Lyon to Paris. Needless to say, my pre-race preparations were totally unconventional. The day before the big 42.195km’s, I spent the day racking up a high walking mileage, exploring the city of Paris. In the morning I headed to the race village to pick up my race bib, had lunch in the Jardin des Tuileries, and visited the Musée de l’Orangerie, revelling at the panoramic paintings of Monet’s nymphs and clearing my head the day before the race. As I was staying in a small Airbnb apartment atop Montmartre, that night me and my friends did a warm up jog around the church of Sacre Coeur, stretching our legs on its steps and popping in for a quick visit before bed time. Like I said, my preparations were unconventional and totally surreal. During this time I was having visions of other runner’s night-before rituals and trying not to be nervous about the fact that I was so physically unprepared that I didn’t have any. Nevertheless, after loosening up around Sacre Coeur, my friends and I made some pasta for dinner in our tiny Parisian apartment and that was about as ritualistic and planned as it got. The following day (Sunday the 3rd of April) we awoke nice and early, caught two metro trains and arrived at the Arc de Triomphe to, omg, run a marathon.

   It was a cold, sunny morning and I remember standing at the start line and being astounded by some of the French runner’s nutrition supplements - many had brought chestnut cream and various jams to consume throughout the race (I brought energy gels). Despite this weird nuance, we all lined up together to attempt to run the epic distance and the race finally commenced. The first 1km was achieved by simply running down the cobble stone paved street of the Champs Elysees. As you would expect, however, the running became harder and by the time I was passing the spectacular Eiffel tower, it did not seem so spectacular. I was in a world of hurt, slowly trudging along, vowing to do more training the next time I was to attempt such a long race. With Paris being a relatively small city, the race itself covered an incredible number of historical sites, including the Louvre, Place de la Concorde and the Place de la Bastille. It also ran through the Vincenne and the Boulogne woods at both ends of the city, along the Seine river and through the tunnel where Princess Diana was killed.

  One thing I learnt from my first marathon experience was that you get what you train for. I never exceeded a half marathon distance in training and, low and behold, it was around the 22km mark where my body started failing and my average time/ km ballooned out. Not only that, but my pre-race nerves led me to tie my shoe laces too tight, so I had to stop several times to loosen them up as my feet became painfully numb. Because of this, my time for the race was nothing to brag about. However, I had known that my training wouldn’t be sufficient, so to offset my physical unpreparedness I had tripled down on mental preparations, vowing never to quit the race no matter how hard it got. More than anything, it was this accumulated mental toughness that got me through the second half of the run.

  The final stages of the race came around the Louis Vuitton foundation and as I was hobbling along, I saw John Paul, who had visited the Louvre while I was running and then came to cheer me on at the end. He ran with me for a couple of hundred meters and then I powered through to the finish line.

THE AFTERMATH

  All in all, it was a tough run but an incredible experience that made me stronger. When it was over, I called my parents in Melbourne then caught the metro back to Montmartre with my friends to get changed and head off to the Marais area for dinner. It’s hard to believe that such an epic event only spanned the course of a day, but it is one that I will remember forever and use to spur me on through other tough moments in life. After taking 2018 off, I will give running a marathon another go this year, most likely at the Melbourne marathon in October. I hope to achieve a much faster time compared to the Paris race, but then again there will be far less astonishing sights to see, so I’m sure that I will.

[I’m a 23 year old Melbourne Uni Arts student. Into yoga, running, travel, art, music.]

INSTAGRAM: belle__casey EMAIL: icasey@student.unimelb.edu.au

[seattleboundwritergrl]

And after four years in Seattle, Baby makes three…

July 5th will mark the 4th anniversary of our arrival in Seattle. I’m writing this in advance because I expect to be busy that day. I’m pregnant with our first child and due tomorrow. I suspect he’ll be a little late. In fact, he might even choose to be a week late and arrive on our Seattleversary. As much as I want him to come NOW (because I am anxious to meet him, pregnancy is pretty uncomfortable, and all of the major to-dos are done), that would be kind of perfect. It wasn’t until I was here, finally in the home of my heart, that I felt I could consider having a child. It was certainly something I longed for, just not something I felt was tangible for me.

I was thirty-three going on thirty-four when we left to Chicago area. I’d been married for almost four years to a partner that I could absolutely envision having a baby with—in fact I had envisioned it, the two of us with a little boy, so uncomfortably early in our relationship that it was one of those things I wrote in my journal and cringed at the thought of even my best friend reading. It was not something I’d ever discussed with my partner because it didn’t seem like it could ever happen. I’d put my career first, my writing, and it was not going as planned. I’d put out two books by the time we were married, but I was in no way earning a living off of them, or even the combination of books, freelance writing, and teaching writing. My main income was from bartending. I had the crappy in-case-of-near-death health insurance you get when you are self-employed. Neither of these things was conducive to pregnancy in my mind. Not to mention that other than having a great partner and great friends, I was deeply depressed. I’d gone from feeling somewhat content in Chicago in 2003 to merely tolerating it in 2006 to absolutely loathing it in 2012. I had not been a happy child there and would not want to raise a child there.

Right before we moved, two of my good friends had babies. As I held them, and especially as I looked at my partner with my friend’s brand-new son in his arms, my heart nearly burst with desire. Not that I told anyone. I wrote it in my journal, lamenting that it was probably too late. That I would just have to settle with finally getting out of Chicago and moving to my heart city. I didn’t know, after all, if Seattle would be different. If I would find work quickly. If I would still be struggling to cobble together income from different sources.

But Seattle was different. After six weeks, I got a job at a university, one I actually liked, even though it was full-time and meant a big shift for my writing. I also had great benefits, and as I recall, I used those to bring the idea of parenthood up to my partner. “Look,” I said, “I could have a baby and all the prenatal care and time in the hospital would be completely covered!” It was intimidating to have this discussion, to even admit that this was a thing I wanted—really, really wanted—even though I had never said much about it before. It was also intimidating to consider—the responsibility and especially the fact that as much as I wanted a kid, the cynical and damaged part of me had grave doubts about bringing one into the ugly, fucked-up world. Again, it was Seattle that changed my perspective. The beauty of this place that I used to regularly document and marvel at right here on this blog. It had been so healing for me, so transformative. It made me think that life could be good, that I could raise a child in a happy place instead of one that felt suffocating and wrong like the Chicago area had for me. Most important of all, my partner and I had taken a huge leap and done a Big, Scary, Seemingly Impossible Thing when we’d moved across the country. This made me feel like I could do anything.

We talked about it for over a year. I shed a lot of tears. I practically gave up when I saw that the cost of childcare was basically my take-home pay from the job that had made it all feel possible in the first place—the job I both wanted and knew I would have to keep. And then there was the fact that my partner had never seriously thought about this possibility, had always just assumed that it would be just the two of us and I would be as happy as he was with that. This was totally fair on his part since it had taken me years to confess this secret desire. We tried to set deadlines to make a decision. One loomed during our first visit to Mount Rainier and I have a horrible, tear-stained memory of the bumpy drive back down thinking that even though we’d just made one of our toughest climbs together, that we may never get past this hurdle. He seemed more on the verge of no than yes, and while I knew I had to honor that, I wondered—as did he—if I would ever feel whole in our previously near-perfect relationship again. I confessed a sappy secret: that I’d written the initials of the boy and girl names I’d liked in the sand next to a lake when I’d gone off alone. Though the conversation would go on for a few weeks longer, he would later tell me that for some reason that hit him hard. The idea of letting those initials go turned his pending ‘No’ into an ‘I’m still terrified, but okay, yes.’

There was another struggle to come, one that is too long to get into here and needs to be written in the proper time and place, but I’ll just summarize by saying that once we started trying, it took a year and a half to get pregnant. It was one of the most painful experiences of my life. I thought my depression was bad right before I left Chicago. This was worse. On par with (and also painfully interconnected to) how I’d felt in the aftermath of my sexually abusive relationship.

They say it happens at the perfect time, though, and it did. Also, somehow, despite month after month of thinking this and being disappointed, I really did know deep down that this was our month. We took a relaxing anniversary trip to the coast. I took the pregnancy test the day before my best friend, the girl of my heart, came to visit me in the city of my heart for the first time. I blurted, “Hi! I’m pregnant!” to her right as she stepped off the street car. It was a particularly joyous visit.

There are too many details about the pregnancy itself to get into here. I admittedly hated a lot of it—the sick, exhausted, painful parts—but I’ve been through a wide array of emotions that, again in the right time and place, I will document. (When one of your big personal hurdles to deciding to become a parent is “But the world is a pretty terrible place,” it is quite emotional to hear your baby’s heartbeat the day after instead of electing the first female president as you so deeply believed and hoped would happen, a racist, xenophobe who proudly committed sexual assault is put into office instead.) It’s been odd to me, the girl who has journaled everything since third grade, that I have barely documented this. I haven’t really blogged since before I got pregnant due to the aforementioned infertility-related depression, but I also haven’t recorded much in the beautiful pregnancy journal that I got for myself and I’ve gone days and weeks at a time without writing in the daily journal that I’ve kept for five years. A lot of this is due to exhaustion—working full-time while growing a human is intense!—but also because pregnancy is equal parts super slow and super  fast, or it has been for me anyway. I spent the first half waiting to feel better and also to reach X milestone that would make me feel more secure that this baby would be born okay (though as the daughter of a NICU nurse, I didn’t really feel okay until I hit 37 weeks). Then I spent the second half overwhelmed with all of the to-dos both baby related and not.

But here we are, the day before my due date, and a lot has been accomplished. Our house is as set-up as it can be (though not nearly as cleaned and purged as I was hoping). I’m as prepared as I can be for birth and a newborn (though not nearly as prepared as I would like to be as reading like writing went mostly by the wayside for me, so a lot of the books I intended to read are half or not at all read and I feel a bit like I’m about to take a test that I had no idea how to study for). And though I didn’t journal or blog, I did write. Once I hit my second trimester, I devoted 30 minutes each morning before work to chipping away at my novel—a very dark YA about rape culture, girl power and witchcraft set in the woods of Washington—and I came away with a 100 page partial and synopsis that I am very proud of and hope will sell while I’m on maternity leave. I trained my temp at work last week and just yesterday I finally finished knitting a big baby blanket and made my labor playlist which had been vexing me. Today, the first wave of visiting family arrives.

So I’m ready, though perhaps baby is giving me some time to reflect before he comes, which is nice of him. And maybe he will time his debut to match our Seattleversary in some way, whether arriving on that day or coming home the day we came home.

Because almost four years in, there is no doubt that Seattle is home. People asked, of course, as soon as we announced the pregnancy if we were moving “home” to be closer to family. Since I have such tough feelings about Chicago (not to do at all with family!), it took everything not to hiss and spit that I am home. I know it will be hard to do this without family around and I selfishly hope that my parents might retire out this way to be close to their grandchild. They also both understand that it was only possible for me to be strong and happy enough to do this, to have a child, in Seattle. My mom, the NICU nurse, has marveled at the medical care and options I’ve had out here even compared to her top-ranked Chicago hospital, like for example, the doula program at my hospital. Child care is going to be expensive, and like basically everyone who doesn’t work in tech, we are very worried about the steeply increasingly cost of living in Seattle. I’m not sure we’ll be able to afford to buy a house (though part of this is a Chicago problem—my inability to sell the house I have there before the market skyrocketed here). But I know we’ll make it work. The journey to get to Seattle, and to get to our family of three, has made me and my relationship with my partner stronger than ever before.

I look forward to year five in Seattle, our first year as a threesome. I hope to get back out into nature and to find a way either on here or elsewhere to do more reflecting on our life.

[jaws330]

Fatalis but with actual edits this time

Allot easier to read and with real grammar. cheers Sonya for the help. im not a writer by nature so it helps when people with actual talent help out.

________________________________________________________________

Four men sit apart from each other in the hull of a ship. Wood creaks as the ship pushes through another swell. The men haven’t spoken much to each other since preparing for the trip 2 mornings ago. Jackson scans the room, checking on his team members. Marlow and Ike hadn’t moved in hours, and Hans was still focusing on his meditation. The group’s Palico, Thellow, had brought down fish from the upper decks and encouraged everyone to eat, but no one seemed interested. The journey was worse than many of the hunts the men had been on.

Jackson and Ike had been hunting wyverns and dragons all over the continent for the last 10 years. Marlow was new. That isn’t to say he was without skill. Jackson and Ike had seen the kid rip a diablos tail clean off with 5 good slice shots that Ike had bet strongly he wouldn’t be able to make. Marlow had a keen eye, but he didn’t have the same willpower the others did. Jackson was worried he wouldn’t be up to par for this hunt.

He didn’t have the greatest tact when talking to others, so after a while of contemplation he moves over to Ike and sits next to him on the floor. The floor creaks more as Jackson’s weight sinks upon it. The damp wood smell doesn’t help to lift the mood either, not that any of them seem to notice. The simple act of moving towards the prey they had been asked to hunt was harder than any of them expected.

Jackson leans his head over to Ike and whispers, “Could you check on Marlow? I don’t think he’s doing well.”

Ike looks back at Jackson. His eyes are red, and the skin under them sags. He must have been sobbing, though Jackson hadn’t noticed. Ike gulps, taking a deep breath. He looks like he’s about to say something but can’t find the words. He exhales in despair. The two look to Marlow, who has lifted his head at the new activity. Marlow stares back at his two seniors, and within a few moments he breaks down and cries. Ike rubs his eyes and starts to compose himself. Standing up, he walks to Marlow and places his arm around his shoulders, comforting him as best he can.

Hans hasn’t said anything, or even noticed the energy in the room change. He had been meditating for the last day. The Wyverians had it easy. They could focus their minds and remain steeled even in the worst situations. The rest of the men were only human and could not help but dread the impossible task they had been given.

The monster they had been sent to kill was growing more and more confident in its prowess. Everyday it seemed like its area of influence was growing. More towns burnt to the ground. More bodies are incinerated while running for their lives. And more hunters burnt, killed, or mutilated beyond recognition. The impression of glory from the hunt had faded from most hunters’ minds. All that was left was the depression of knowing that those who face this creature have forfeited their lives.

Jackson was nervous, but had expected a fight like this to come at some point in his career. Ike too, but with less acceptance than Jackson. Marlow had only been an official hunter for 2 years. He showed lots of potential but still had a lot to live for.

Despite showing strong will in the face of an impossible task, there was still something burning in the back of Jackson’s mind. He’d had a song stuck in his head for the last few days since news of the hunt came in. He was surprised by the persistence of his own brain to keep the song running at every waking moment. It was not even a good song. It was only ever sung by kids playing games, and Jackson couldn’t remember the last time he had even heard it sung out loud. But in stressful situations the mind can fixate on things. Even things you might not want it to.

_______________________________________________________________

A few hours later the boat comes up to port.

“Finally,” says Ike.

He is the first and by far the most eager to get off the boat. Jackson thought that getting on with things is probably the best move for everyone. Waiting just let the mind stew and overall wasn’t going to help the hunt at all. Hans jumps to shore first and ties down the boat. The others prepare their gear and pass it over one by one. The metal boxes of explosives, ammo, and blades were an awkward shape, and heavy for most. Ike jumps on shore as well to help Hans with carrying everything, while Jackson and Marlow pass the boxes across. They take extra care not to slip on the wet stone of the port. It had been sleeting here for some time and most of the stone and wood was covered in moss. Losing a weapon box here would be not only embarrassing, but tragic. Even losing one weapon would put a huge burden on the rest of the hunt and create even more risks which none of the men wanted to take.

Once the supplies were on shore, they set about looking for a place to stay the night. The clouds around Schrade were always thick and dark ever since the beast moved in. The port town at the base of the mountain where they had just landed was a hollow shell of what it used to be. The town’s name had been burned away with its people. Now all that was left was a few streets of wooden shacks, either black from ash and fire or bleached white from the sea and time. The streets were an eroded cobble path of wet granite. Grass and small plants were pushing past the stone to reach what little sunlight they could. The group venture into town, already knowing the location of the one building that would give them some refuge for the night.

At the end of the main street there is a well-built stone and oak building used by the town's fire brigade. Suitably, it was the only building that was not totally destroyed by fire. The hunter’s guild had already scouted out the area to make the journey a little easier, and after the two nights of sailing the old abandoned building seems like a luxury hotel. The metal door swings open easily and inside there are a few old sleeping mats, a pile of firewood, and a pile of paper scraps. The group pauses after seeing the rather basic and dismal interior. Marlow let out a disappointed exhale. He had been looking forward to a real bed. Hans enters first and moves to the right-hand side of the building. He drops his bag and swings around, clapping his hands together.

“All right boys, who’s getting the fire started?”

Thellow crawls in between the hunter’s legs and runs for a pile of old drapes. Rain was not a Palicos friend and scraps of cloth were a nice reprieve. Marlow, Ike, and Jackson let out the first smile in days. They needed someone like Hans to take the reins for a bit.

After about an hour, Marlow got the fire burning. Thellow had set up a camping grill and was preparing some fish for the group. Hans was thumbing through the scraps of paper while Ike was writing on one.

"Would you like to write one too, Jackson?” Hans called out from across the fire.

Jackson was going through the metal boxes they had brought, checking everything was where it was meant to be. Some hunters hated how neurotic he got when preparing. However, his policy of triple checking before a hunt meant that no one hunting with Jackson had ever worried about running out of medicine or drugs during the expedition. He had checked the weapons and med packs 12 times since packing.

Hans called out again. “ Jackson, are you going to add your own letter or not?”

Finally out of his packing trance, Jackson perkshis head up and quickly replies: “Yes, yes, of course I’ll write something. Let me just finish and I’ll come over”.

Hans rolls his eyes while Ike snickers. They are both a bit sick of this behavior.

Ike stands up and says: “I think this will do. If anything happens then at least people will know how cool I was.”

Hans addsIkes paper to the stack. For a hunt of this caliber it was tradition for hunters to leave a note at base camp. Each hunter would write a bit about themselves and why they were going after the monster they were. The notes would pile up at base camp until someone slayed the monster. Only the winning person or team could take the papers home with them. A symbolic way of carrying the efforts of other hunters with them. Even if hunters did not lose their lives, it was still a way of showing respect to others in the field. After another 3 minutes Jackson walks over and takes the pen from Ike. He doesn’t want to write anything too sentimental or emotional, but considering the monster they were going to be fighting he tried his best.

Thellow was just about done with the first part of dinner. Grilled fish with lemon and mashed potato. It was basic, but filling. Marlow and Ike take the first servings. Hans would eat a small amount after everyone was done. He wasn’t the one hunting. Hans was a Recorder and Handler for the hunt. It was his job to get the hunters safely to the monster and gather what information he could during the fight.

Jackson puts his pen down, satisfied with the drivel about the honor of such a hunt. The song rattling in his head didn’t help. He writes and scratches out a few parts, and the whole thing looked a bit fake. He moves to get the next serving of dinner while Hans starts reading Jackson’s note.

While Jackson fills his mouth with potato mash, Hans snaps at him. “Is this really what you want to leave? You’re not doing any of these other notes a service by mixing your crap in with them.”

He gestures to the pile of 50 or so papers piled on a supply crate. Ike and Marlow both look at Jackson, assuming he had written something dumb about it being bullshit that they even need to do this.

Jackson finishes his bite and swallows. “I did really try, but I couldn’t find it, ya know? It’s kinda hard to think about good things for a hunt that we are being forced into.”

Ike and Marlow look back to Hans, expecting a well formed argument, but are surprised when he nods in agreement. “I know it's not the best situation, but every day more and more towns are destroyed. The guild can’t get hunters up here on short notice like this.”

Marlow cut in. “If we don’t kill it now then the next closest town is Minegarde. Hans is right, we should knock on its front door rather than let it come knock on ours.”

The port town of Minegarde was usually safe and had a high quantity of hunters ready to take on whatever challenged them. But stories of an elder dragon, Darhen Mohran, had drawn most of the town’s skill away to the east.

Ike lets out a laugh and says: “Bet you don’t think the Mohran hunt is overrated now, Jackson.”

Jackson laughs as well, and sheepishly replies. “Yeah, I kinda wish I had gone with the rest. Probably would have been a livelier trip.”

Marlow offers a small smile, and Hans chuckles.

Jackson looks back to Hans. “Would you like to write it for me then? You seem to be better with words than me.”

Hans shakes his head. “No, this will be fine. I’ll make sure anyone who comes here will know of the great Jackson who thought he had better things to do than hunt an elder dragon.”

It was the first time the 4 men had laughed together in days. The joy a simple meal and good conversation can bring to people’s hearts is astounding.

The dinner bolsters the spirit of the party far more than expected, and when armor and skill are stripped away, spirit is all that’s left. An hour later the group settles in for the night. They all try to get a good night’s sleep before tomorrow’s hunt. Jackson still struggles to sleep, the song running in his head like a ticking clock. He starts wondering if maybe the song was written by the monster itself, to drive hunters mad before they even fight it.

Eventually, he dozed off.

_______________________________________________________________

Morning came, but day did not.

The sky is still dark, and only a few rays of sun pierce the black clouds that loom over Schrade. They are unnatural. They weren’t from a volcano or storm, but they linger around the mountain where castle Schrade once stood. The castle had been destroyed hundreds of years ago. The town was a settlement that tried to take advantage of the castle’s well-built infrastructure. They had planned to turn castle Schrade into a hunting hub for the mountain ranges above Minegarde. It would have made a great port town between the western coast and northern town of Pokke. It would have, if it wasn’t for the last living resident of castle Schrade.

The group spends the early morning getting ready. Hans helps the men get their heavy armor on, while Thellow sorts the packs to make sure everyone has the correct equipment at the ready. Jackson gets his armor on first, a nice well-made set from a Brachidios. He had a reputation at the guild for his humorous encounter with it, so he figured it was a good choice of armor to wear for a hunt like this. The Brachadios’ obsidian hide was naturally fire resistant, and considering his role at the front line, it fit both thematically and practically. He cleans his gun lance one last time while Ike and Marlow are getting ready.

Ike is a jack of all trades, and enjoys hunting with whatever he finds most suitable for each hunt. For this particular hunt, he chooses the matte red Rathalos armor and a greatsword. He figures that to kill a big monster he would need a big sword.

Marlow was to provide cover fire and support from behind with his bow gun. He doesn’t usually bring more than a few kinds of ammunition. He likes to keep it simple. As long as he can shoot the monster down then it will be fine. For this hunt, he makes sure to bring a wide variety of ammunition. Poison, electrical, and a few sticky bomb shots.

Each of the hunters have prepared an appropriate kit for a fight of this caliber.

Finally, the crew is ready to depart. Hans would be climbing the neighboring mountain to observe and record the encounter. From there he will be able to tell if the crew is successful, and if anyone or anything survives the fight.

Hans grabs Jackson’s hand and looks straight into his eyes. "Don’t let this beast be your end, Jackson. I will see all of you when you return. Legends of the guild.”

The three wave goodbye as Hans starts his own journey. Jackson feels hollow, as he watches the only natural leader among them walk away. Now it's his turn to lead. The group doesn’t waste any time, and sets out climbing the mountain to castle Schrade.

The sides of the mountain area trial in and of themselves. They have narrow walkways, coated in damp mud with a sheer drop on one side. For a gun lance user like Jackson this was a bit of a joke. He has Ike and Marlow go before him for the first part of the climb, and even tiesa rope around his waist just in case the weight of the cannon mounted on his back becomes too much. Eventually the path comes to an end at a plateau. The area is larger than expected at this height. The group could easily fight the beast here if it were not for the rusted graveyard of old weapons.

Before them was 20 or so old worn out Dragonators. A metal spear several meters in length, designed to drill straight into the hide of even the toughest monster. They were a devastating defense the guild had been employing since its early years and they were a staple of elder dragon defense operations. This pile must be hundreds of years old. It’s hard to tell if the previous occupants of castle Schrade used this as a nearby dump or if they had been hauled to the castle and simply forgotten. Regardless, the team climb over with care, making sure not to slip and fall onto one of the vicious spikes.

The real climb was just beginning. A sheer cliff with only a few outcrops for about 100 meters. Jackson and Ike tie their equipment to a rope and would hoist it up after they had made it to the top. They aren’t the best mountain climbers, but they make do. At about halfway up Jackson pulls his head up into a cave that can easily fit the party.

He calls out to the crew. “We should take a rest here.”

After entering the cave the group line up and, together, pull the weapons and Thellow up the cliff into the small cave. The Palico makes sure the knots stay firm and the weapons don't rock too much while ascending.

Ike makes a snide remark while huffing and pulling on the rope. “Jeez, Thellow, how much fish did you eat last night?”

The Palico meows loudly from outside the cave as the group pulls the equipment inside.

They all fall to the ground and pass around a water bottle. While Marlow and Ike have a drink, Jackson investigates the back of the cave. Finally he’s able to spend more time examining it. It isn’t very big, but at the back is a pile of ash and rusted metal. He walks over to inspect it. Reaching out to wipe the ash away, the whole thing crumbles and explodes into a black cloud. He wipes the black soot from his visor and has the chance to see what remains. It is an empty suit of old armor. It only takes a second for Jackson to realize what the ash filling the armor used to be. He loses focus for a moment. The song is louder than ever. He can even hear  the voices of the children singing it now. His heart is pounding, feeling like it’sbanging on the metal armor around his chest.

“What was that?” Ike asks from behind.

It snaps Jackson from his trance, and he swivels around. “Nothing, just some old scrap”.

Jackson has some water and the group continues up the mountain. Another 40 or so meters and Jackson finally places his hand on the stone base of what once was castle Schrade.

_______________________________________________________________

 Pulling himself up, Jackson pauses for a brief moment to take in the fortress. The enormity of the structure staggers him for a moment. The wind blows softly but carries the scent of decay. Distant metal structures can be heard creaking and clunking as time passes them by.

Jackson, realising he still has friends climbing the cliff, turns to assist them up onto the final ledge. Without hesitation, Ike and Jackson begin pulling up the weapons once again. Upon reaching the top, both Ike and Jackson quickly grab their tools. Being unarmed for that long has made them both a little jumpy. Marlow has already started surveying the area. He needs good vantage points and places to move to while gunning. In front of them is a large courtyard made of stone bricks. On the upper side isa castle wall connecting to a stone watchtower. Spears and swords lay around it, as if the men they belonged to simply evaporated. It was giving all of them chills.

Behind that is more of the castle. The entire building is massive and expanded over 2 mountains,crossing the range in between. This is only the entrance. It is by far the best place to fight something big. The rest of the castle is too jagged, with corridors that will restrict movement to much. The team knows that the monster will almost certainly take advantage of that and blow them to pieces before they even know it’s attacking. Out in the open is the best they can hope for.

Marlow has already started moving to the side wall to get some height. It is a great place to have a gunner, and gives a brilliant view of the area. There are a few pieces of old ammunition around. Not much, but some ballista and cannon balls might help if given the opportunity. The castle wall still has one intact Dragonator in it, unfired. Jackson has already set to work getting a plan ready, using what little they have in  the castle.

It is only morning, but the sky is still dark. Not much light can get through the clouds, even this high up. It still feels like night is around them.

Ike moves over to one of the cannons and starts checking the fuses while loading a ball in. Jackson starts walking to the eastern side to check if the last cannon has a working fuse. He stops, frozen in place. The creature appears out of blackness. As if the clouds that swirl around this mountain are the monster itself. A beam of light shines across it, revealing the full size of the dragon.

It is a lot bigger than anyone expected. Standing on his back legs, it stands easily over the entire watchtower, over 40 meters tall. Its tail is an enormous black whip that stretches the whole length of the beast and more. Its legs are short, but its claws are long, crusted with blood from those who had come before. The spines along its back look like bladed gravestones. Its scales are a hideous black and blue, as if all of its skin isone giant bruise. The wings on its back stretch into the air, welcoming the hunters to its roost. Its neck is long, which gives it incredible height. At the top is a head full of more teeth than its mouth can hold. Two sets of two horns each side of its head that twist away from its skull. And its eyes. Its awful eyes. They have black slits like a snake, but a furious red iris that looks like a fire storm inside its head.

It hasn’t even made a sound. Jackson isn’t even sure it is real yet. He doesn’t know if Ike or Marlow are even still here. The world pauses for a second. The dragon’s tongue slithers out of its mouth and licks its lips. It stares down at its new guests. Jackson has fought a lot of monsters, and after fighting enough he can tell why a monster fought by the way it looked. Some are hungry. Others are scared. But this is something new. Never has Jackson seen a monster smile back at its combatant. This unholy creature of night doesn’t care for food or to defend its home, it just wants to kill. It is genocidal to the core and wants nothing more than for hunters to die. The dragon is going to enjoy this.

Jackson yells out to whoever might still be behind him. “Time to show it what we're made of!”

He flicksthe main barrel of his gun lance down and takes out his shield. Turning the safety off with a click, he rotates a few shells through the main gun. The dragon lets out a bellowing cry that changes from a roar to a shriek. This close, it feels as if his ears are going to bleed just from standing near it. His heart slows down, and a smile creeps into the corner of his mouth. Both the song and his fear leave his mind. Without his fear he feels confident, nothing holding him back from his fate.

The song’s lyrics make sense now.

The Legend of the Black Dragon

When the world is full of wyverns, the legend is revived

meat is eaten, bone is crunched

and blood is sucked up dry

he burns the earth and melts through iron

he boils the rivers and mows down trees

he awakens the winds and lights the inferno

he is called Fatalis, the wyvern of destiny

he is called Fatalis, the wyvern of destruction

call for help, run for your lives

and don’t forget to pray to the skies

he is called Fatalis, the wyvern of destiny

he is called Fatalis, the wyvern of destruction

Fatalis, Fatalis

Heaven and Earth are yours

Fatalis, Fatalis

Heaven and earth are yours

[entergamingxp]

Half-Life: Alyx review – a legend returns in elegant form • Eurogamer.net

The Strider is the greatest of all Half-Life’s creations, if you ask me. Sure, you could argue that it’s just another spin on HG Wells’ tripods, but seriously, look at the thing! Those legs, so horribly long and horribly jointed, that hideous hint of poultry flesh and machinery spliced together, all pain and wrongness. In Half-Life 2, I watched one of this awful lot stoop to duck under a bridge, and the thing about the Strider is that it never reminds you of just one thing, always a horrible bodging-together – almost a flamingo as its joints worked, yet almost grandparent nipping up into the attic for something heavy too. An internal life: that sense of self-preservation and cruel intelligence they have, of seeing only their own priorities. That sense of being autonomous in the moment, but also deeply mission-driven. They give me goose-bumps because it’s so entirely clear that they can probably get goose-bumps themselves.

Half-Life: Alyx review

Developer: Valve

Publisher: Valve

Platform: Reviewed on PC with Index

Availability: Out 23 March on PC

I had been waiting for this moment, then. Half-Life: Alyx, set five years before the events of Half-Life 2 and delivered sixteen years – is that possible? – since Half-Life 2 and thirteen years since Episode Two, the last installment. (How we had talked at the time about that gap between the first two Episodes. We had no idea.) Suddenly, City 17 lies before me once more. I am on a rooftop somewhere: Alyx Vance, 19-year-old daughter of Eli Vance, on reconnaissance for the resistance.

The metropolis is a mess of alien cables, black and heavy, draped thoughtlessly and sagging over honey-coloured European architecture with its weary finials and tiles and crenelations. It’s VR, so a moment or two to look at the creamy skybox dithering into distant mist, then another moment to delight in a nearby radio, fiercely analogue tech, that can be picked up and heaved around, the dials turning and moving a little marker along the display, an aerial that properly extends and everything.

Behind me, inside a little conservatory, there is a video call from Dad, and more importantly there’s a range of felt pens that have been used on the dirty glass to map Combine movements, but which can also be used to – what? – do anything really. Graffiti, Killroys, my daughter’s name in my own instantly recognisable handwriting, somehow captured inside a video game space. I’m on the move, so I heave back a hidden door and explore a few dingy Winston Smith bedsit rooms. Then out again onto a different ledge and, do tell me, what in the world is that sound?

That sound is a strider, horribly large and horribly close, heaving its carcass body up the side of a building, stepping where it wants because the crumbling world of human things is not really a concern for an alien invader. It stops. Has it seen me? I stare up – because it’s VR, I’m actually staring up – at this awful, wretched thing that I have always loved, and which is now here more fully than ever before, its knotty joints bolstered with servo-motors and shards of the Combine’s black-slate tech. It hasn’t seen me. It doesn’t care. It turns and unplugs a clump of cables from a nearby building – the human world is its junction box – and then it’s off into the distance. And yes! I had been waiting for this moment. And this moment did not let me down.

Not my only encounter with a strider in Half-Life: Alyx, but I’ll honestly try to spoil little more than that. What I should say is that for the last few days I have been a bit of a strider myself, strangely focused on a private agenda, strangely blind to the finer details of the human landscape around me, as I have navigated City 17 with a VR headset covering my eyes – two worlds, one laid over the other. All this, as I’ve taken on headcrabs and Combine troopers and all the rest, all this as I have puzzled and rewired and upgraded – while simultaneously bodging around my own PC set up by my desk. House cats and scarves dumped on the backs of chairs startled me when I brushed against them at the wrong moments – generally moments involving headcrabs. My daughter, moving a doll’s house behind me one afternoon, almost finished me off in a boss fight when we bumped together. “When you’re behind me, tell me you’re behind me!” I said. Five minutes later, when I was deep in the horror of the underground somewhere, she obliged, having snuck up close before announcing, “I’M BEHIND YOU, DADDY.”

In other words, Half-Life was always going to work in VR. But what’s fascinating is how it works. If you’re expecting an explosion of let’s-try-anthing creativity a la Boneworks, a game in which every conceivable kind of physics interaction is gleefully gimmicked together as you tumble through its wonderfully scrappy campaign, you’re going to be a bit disappointed. Half-Life would rather focus its ambitions – and in turn rein-in the scope of what you can do – than risk breaking the illusion or frustrating the player. Something is lost in that decision, certainly. It’s Alyx’s way or the highway. But a lot is gained too.

As a result, Alyx is marked by restraint. Which is to say, I think, that it understands that VR itself is still such a continuous gimmick for many people that it can play things straight, paring the Half-Life concept back closer than ever before. Yes, it has radios to play with and the inevitable VR piano to prod out a Goldberg Variation on, but it’s not one of those VR games that serves as the equivalent of those early 3D movies where people were forever throwing knives at the screen. Most of the time, it uses VR to steadily put you deeper and deeper into the fabric of this grimy, flaking Victory Gin world.

This is a simple story, direct yet consequential, studded with wonderful set-pieces, most of which are pitched towards a sort of sci-fi-tinged survival horror: you, a gun, ammo scavenging and them lurking all around as you slowly inch towards your next destination. VR is used to continue the Half-Life ambition, begun with that tram-ride back at Black Mesa and extended via the Gravity Gun and the magnifying glasses and the facial animation tech of Half-Life 2 to truly embed players in its reality. Cats, children, scarves and bookcases aren’t just victims of this approach. They feel like an important part of it.

The basics are straightforward. All I’m going to tell you of the plot is that you’re trying to meet up with your dad and figure out what big strange thing the Combine’s currently so excited about. Events zip along quite briskly and objectives are always clear. If there’s a problem, it’s that the game is hemmed in a little, in terms of narrative, because it so clearly has one specific job to do.

The controls are as clear-headed as the narrative. Playing room-scale or simply standing with a more confined space, you can choose one of four movement options, two of which work brilliantly as teleport jobs while the other two offer continuous movement guided by either the hand or the head and seemed to me pretty clumsy and nausea-inducing. Whatever movement you choose, one hand generally holds a weapon or gadget – switching them is as easy as pressing a button and waving your arm up and down – while the other is always free for interacting with the environment, opening doors, grabbing ammo clips from your backpack and ramming them home, priming grenades before lobbing them.

Both hands wear gravity-gloves, a cobbled-together precursor of the gravity gun. They’re beautiful things. Hold your hands up and it’s like some addled genius has built mittens for your out of diodes and Technical Lego, while little displays show you your health and ammo levels. These things are not for pulling sawblades out of walls and firing them into crowds of zombies, though. They’re precision affairs, a little flick of the wrist yanking a highlighted object out of the environment and bringing it into your hand with a neat little slap.

The gloves have been created by a new character, Russell, played by Rhys Darby, who despite being cast as a genius, stays wonderfully close to Murray, the dim and easily bruised band manager from Flight of the Conchords. Because Alyx also speaks – a performance from Ozioma Akhaga that is forever revealing different facets of personality, while being wonderfully alive to graveyard wit – the game is essentially a two-hander, Alyx out in the world while Russell monitors her progress from a distance, cowardly, prideful, tender and quirky by turns. I love this combination. Beyond anything else, following up the biggest video game in the world with a Rhys Darby simulator is a total power move.

The texture of the game these two travel through is relentlessly – and gloriously – practical, pragmatic and down-to-earth. This is a game about navigating space and killing everything you meet, but it’s all so carefully wrought. A nervous skittering on the soundtrack is ultimately the buzzing of an old fluorescent light tube. Puzzles are made of gravity, stacked boxes, and wood used to prop open windows. These challenges can be maddeningly clever, but Newton always keeps them honest at the same time. Elsewhere, a vaguely celestial sounding clue in the main plot turns out to have a very mundane solution, while car posters you pass on the remains of the subway show boxy Soviet saloons accompanied by ad-talk that’s even more oppressive than usual: Reality Defined. This is science-fiction with both feet on the ground.

This works because the interaction, enlivened by VR, is tangible and playful. It elevates everything, from wiring puzzles – a real theme of this game, using both a gadget that allows you to see electricity flowing through gates inside the walls, and a bit of good-old-fashioned cable-following – to hunting for ammo and other supplies, including the worm-eaten hockey pucks of grey stuff you use as currency in the machines that allow you to upgrade your weapons.

Weapons are real presences because of VR. It’s not just that you have to change clips and pull that slidey thing at the top of the pistol before you can shoot the zombie that’s already groaning towards you. It’s that they have a complex, weighty, rattly presence in your hand. You can sense these guns are each one thing made from many smaller things working together. Valve has always been good with this stuff, and the upgradable weapons of Alyx are very special. From that pistol and a shotgun to something a little more exotic, they’re filled with character and a sense of power, even before you start adding laser sites and bigger clips.

Gun management as well as gunplay, wiring puzzles as well as hacking challenges, traversal with physics hurdles so nicely weighted that you can predict the outcomes in your head: all of the various aspects of Alyx appear simple, but they all work together to bed you deeper and deeper into the game until you reach the point where, if you’re like me, you’re talking back to Russell out loud as you catch up after each fight.

Oh man, but never forget: at the very center of it is all is those incredible gloves. The gravity gun has always had a habit of working its ways into other games for me. Not directly, of course. It’s just that I’ll be playing Gears of War and I’ll see a grand piano or a panel truck and think: I wish I could just lob that somewhere. The gravity gloves have already gone beyond that. They have a habit of getting into my head. I’ll be lying on the sofa and thinking: I wish I could just flick that book from the other side of the room into my hand. At the front door I’ll wish I could turn around and grab my keys from the stairs. The things I could do with Jaffa Cakes, mate.

The gloves are a less ostentatious kind of magic than that offered in Half-Life 2 – again, you won’t be chucking a car at anyone with them – but in some ways they’re a more startling kind of magic. I was half an hour in and pausing mid-reload to pull an interesting bit of set design off a distant shelf and inspect it. The levels are filled with bits and pieces to pick up and examine: cutlery, pipes, video cassettes. Chuck in the reloading and this is stuff you can get good at – you can master it until you’re fighting through the apocalypse and foppishly checking out the detailing at the same time. Half-Life has always sought to startle, which is probably why the last instalment came out in 2007. The right material, the right opportunities, take time to present itself.

What detailing that lost decade or so has allowed for! This is a game that has been allowed to percolate. City 17, strangely noble in its ravaged state, a faded relic being steadily eaten by alien technology, is still one of the great locations in video games, even if you tend to just see bombed out apartment buildings, train yards and subway stations for a lot of the campaign. But the greatest details this time around are the Combine tech, which has never been so monolithically grim. Outside it’s grey sheeting and stark angles: designs that could give you a nasty cut. Inside, though, it’s often big chunks of offal instead of circuitry, as if Darth Vader had teamed up with Fergus Henderson, the man behind the nose-to-tail eating movement. Health stations, pretty much unchanged from the first game, are so much more visibly present in VR. You inspect the squealing white worm that is squished to make the lurid Mountain Dew healing substances, and then you have to pull down a plate and rest your hand on it, enjoying the dancing jabs of a dozen little syringes while you scan the surroundings for oncoming threats.

All of this stuff comes together with wonderful set-pieces. Due to the exhausting nature of VR combat, massive pile-ons like Nova Propsekt are out of the question, ditto the open-world ram-raiding of the White Forest. Instead, troops are dropped in surgically – their strangled tannoy barking giving you a moment to panic and hunt for ammo and hopefully come up with a plan. As for the bestiary there’s a shocking new enemy who I won’t spoil, but even the old guard return and bring a vivid kind of enhanced fear with them. I had dreaded VR headcrabs, and then the game not only introduces them but immediately loses the first one in some pipework. That was a nice two minutes. (I regret to inform you that there’s a new kind of headcrab now too, even if its design can’t quite match the queasy supermarket horror of the original.) Elsewhere it feels like a testament to the brilliance of the original creature design on this series that you feel dread rather than nostalgia whenever one of the classics turns up again. Or maybe it’s another sign of the sheer weight of immersion Alyx can conjure: there’s a real sense of apprehension when the game leads you out of the light and back underground for a spell. You live in these spaces while you move through them.

There are ingenious set-pieces, increasingly piling up towards the end of the campaign, but I’m so struck through by the sheer thrift of a lot of it. It’s that restraint again: make the VR work, get a handful of killer things out of it, and then repeat and remix without breaking the spell. There are Hollywood moments that will stick with me, but I also remember being in a room filled with oil drums while a tank of explosive gas was being winched up towards the mouth of one of those horrible limpet things that sit on the ceiling. That’s the kind of clock Valve likes to put in a scene to add suspense. Hitchcock would be proud: you can see all the moving parts and yet the magic is still there.

And the more I played of Alyx, the more I thought about how VR and Half-Life were made for each other. And the more this left me thinking about the G-Man, the shadowy figure in a suit who turns up at crucial moments throughout the series and does intriguing stuff. The G-Man is the focal point for a lot of lore conspiracies in Half-Life. Who is he? Is he human? Is he Gordon Freeman himself?

Let’s not worry whether he makes an appearance in Alyx or not. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Because throughout the course of this game, I think I worked out who he really is. He’s Valve. Think about it: inscrutable Valve, a company that seems to see further than most, that seems to have a separate agenda to that of most developers – and who, granted, doesn’t always seem to be entirely benevolent. The G-Man disappears for long periods of time, but then turns up just as events have caught up with his intentions. It’s his way or no way at all. He waits for the right pieces to appear, and then he makes the most of them with little apparent effort.

from EnterGamingXP https://entergamingxp.com/2020/03/half-life-alyx-review-a-legend-returns-in-elegant-form-%e2%80%a2-eurogamer-net/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=half-life-alyx-review-a-legend-returns-in-elegant-form-%25e2%2580%25a2-eurogamer-net

[devilboyblues]

snailio dealio

i have the idea for using my smaller kritter keeper for the shier, smaller group snails. they might come down and explore more often if not sharing a space with the large group of snails. and with a smaller amount of snails it will be easier to clean. 

the larger group of snails (fossil shell family) will have their own large tank in a bioactive terrarium. bioactive because i want it to be mostly self-sustaining. i want to add pillbugs as cleaners and for something else fun. so im holding off putting the snail family back in the big tank until im sure it’s ready with the new substrate. the pillbugs require a bit different substrate because they mostly feed on the substrate itself. so it has to have calcium and leaf litter and/or wood pieces in it. of course, the snails won’t like snailing over the wood pieces so i have to be creative. 

yeah i am doing a lot of research. now i am thinking about the bottom layer of the substrate so it retains water for consistent moisture without growing fungus and mold, like i had before i completely cleaned out the tank

i am having fun really getting into this, and a lot of it is striking out on my own because surprise, there is not much info on keeping snails. i have to cobble pieces together. and i get devastated when i mess it up. i lost my millipede shortly after getting it and i don’t know why. i lost a snail because i didnt see it attached to the lid (i checked i swear) and it fell into the boiling water i used to sanitize the tank. 

oh right, you can’t use any chemicals or even soap to clean the tank because snails bodies are extremely permeable. that makes me even more cautious about adding anything to the tank because it might be made for a reptile but is it safe for snails? 

i’m totally like that shrimp guy. when i kept a betta that was socially acceptable (i also threw myself into the care of the betta and i’m glad i did, i upgraded him from a very large vase to a heated and filtered tank as soon as i knew better). i know my own brain too, in that i am forgetful and have trouble with motivation so i need low maintenance pets that will be happy while im in a funk. 

my own cat too, i’m very thankful his health needs are pretty good. he is happy with any kind of litter and all kinds of food, tho he seems sensitive to dry food even though he eats it happily. so i stick to wet food. most of his needs are emotional, so he’s kinda clingy. lately he’s been pushier but he’s also an old man and i’m not trying hard to change him. i work around him. 

i just get so emotional thinking about thinking about caring for animals. they’ve improved my life so much and it is a privilege to have them. keeping them in my home is my choice and thus my responsibility. they are subject to my whims and flaws and the least i can do is give them the best life possible

relatedly, this is why i could never raise children. the responsibility would be overwhelming, and ever mistake could be devastating. i know from my own experience the consequences of bad caregiving. and even with my good intentions, i could easily see myself becoming overbearing and controlling. or possibly too permissive by fighting my own upbringing. a child doesn’t deserve that.