#it's because of kinning them. I admittedly am not as active looking into this one for the pain of it.... and also the potential for a hefty

[theood]

I take being kin very seriously as a structural part of my being and also I do think it's a little silly funny. These can and do coexist and I will not be talking about the weeks long kin shifts I experience those never happen haha

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Wounded Love Pt. 2 (Lady Dimitrescu/F!Reader)

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Rating: T? Maybe? Almost the exact opposite of the first one. Language, minor violence Genre: Fluff, mainly, with admittedly a little bit of humor? I blame my lack of sleep. And my adhd. Warnings: Implied cannibalism adjacent activities because guess what honey, this is a fucked up family, what do you expect of me??? Sure, they have breakfast in this, there's cute stuff, but c'mon, they don't eat flowers and oatmeal! Notes: Doubt it needs to be said, but this is a sequel to the good ending of part one. Also Cass has one line in this that might be OOC, or seem oddly placed, but admittedly this chapter is also loosely based on a dream I had, and I couldn't not include the few direct quotations I remembered, and she seemed the most likely to say the line. And yes, there will be a part 3, because I am weak and also kind of maybe made this one less plot-moving than intended.

{Wounded Love: The re-woundening}

Every step ached more than the last, even with Alcina supporting you. She had wanted to carry you down the stairs, of course, but you had insisted that you would be fine. Now you were just determined not to complain out loud. One yelp or cry and you’d be scooped up in her arms, surely to be carried for the rest of the day. As much as you appreciated your girlfriend’s assistance, you hated feeling useless, and hated putting a burden on others. So here you were, one arm wrapped around Alcina’s waist, limping ever-so-slowly towards the dining room.

Further ahead (unburdened by your injury) the three Dimitrescu daughters talk among themselves, voices hushed as they too headed for breakfast. It was odd to see them all awake, and socializing, as there was usually at least one who came to meals late. You couldn’t help but wonder if it had something to do with your condition… or the circumstances that had caused it.

Less than eighteen hours had passed since your fight with a stray lycan, and tension had been high since. While you hadn’t yet spoken to the sisters, you had spoken to Alcina, who had briefly mentioned their concern for you. Whether they actually cared about you as a person or just cared because you are dating their mother is unclear. Based on how they had acted while treating your wounds, though, you were inclined to think that they were fond of you. And seeing as Alcina had already vowed to get revenge on your behalf… well, you wouldn’t be surprised to learn that her daughters intended to assist.

“Careful on the last step, dear,” Alcina says, positioned as to catch you if you fell. It takes a little willpower to resist the urge to hop down the rest of the way. As long as you landed on your uninjured leg, it wouldn’t even be that bad. Still, irritating your girlfriend first thing in the morning felt like a pretty stupid thing to do. Instead you just nodded, slowing down even more, and took visible care not to trip. “Good girl.”

Well, you certainly couldn’t say that being careful didn’t have its rewards.

“I have my moments,” you replied, blush rising to your cheeks. Suddenly your pain didn’t feel so bad (at least until you took another step and winced). “Damn, who woulda thought that cutting a chunk out of my leg would make it hurt more?” The leg in question throbbed in pain, as if to prove your point, protesting the weight you put on it. Changing the angle at which you stood helped some, allowing the lower half of the limb to bear more of the burden.

“Dearest…” Alcina starts to say, looking like she was going to readdress her desire to carry you. For a moment you try to avoid her gaze, but she moves in front of you, making sure that you could still hold onto her for support. “I know how you feel, how you want, desperately, to be independent. When I was first… granted this gift, it took a long time to adjust. There was so much I had to relearn how to do, so much that I suddenly needed done for me.” A pause, a deep breath. At last you look up at your girlfriend, warmth in your heart, reaching out to hold her hand. “You have time, my dear, and plenty of it. More than that… this will not last forever. The more you push yourself, the longer your recovery will take. Now, please, allow me to assist. You have already proven how strong you are.”

“Oh, you drive a hard bargain… but if you insist, who am I to decline? Or, well, who am I to decline twice in a row?” You answer, somewhat begrudgingly. It wasn’t much farther to the dining room, you figured, so it wouldn’t be much of a loss to accept help. Or at least that was what you told yourself. Even with Alcina’s encouragement it was so hard for you to accept her help. After all, you were the one that worked for her. Never mind the fact that she was somewhat responsible for your injury- really, you were actively avoiding thinking about that.

It’s much easier to forget once Alcina carefully picks you up. One arm goes under your legs, the other under your chest, lifting you without any effort. You might as well have been a kitten or a child’s toy. The movement does, however, shift your injured leg in such a way that it aches. At this point you can hardly move the limb at all without it hurting, and even the slightest friction against the bandage makes your eyes water.

Apparently someone would be delivering some painkillers later in the day. You assumed it would be The Duke (whose name is apparently not Doug, as you had thought), seeing as he knew some special way to get to and fro without risking the same fate that had befallen you. Which, of course, made you feel a lot better. Getting someone else hurt would weigh on your mind forever.

Regardless, you were safe now, as was your strange, bloody little family. Before long you would even be enjoying a pleasant meal together. Certainly that would help get your mind off of your wound? For now, though, you were met with an unexpected impasse. The sort of impasse that really, really should have been expected.

“Why… is the doorway… so small?” You asked, jokingly, as you stare into the mildly embarrassed face of your girlfriend. It’s already hard enough for her to crouch through the gap normally. When she’s carrying you? Impossible. “Can we ask Mother Miranda for bigger doors? She gave you eternal life and also three kids, she’s gotta be capable of making bigger doors. Put me down, I’ll go call her and-”

“That won’t be necessary, dear,” Alcina cuts you off, not fully appreciating this part of your humor. Or maybe she had already asked for bigger doors, only to be told no?... Okay, yeah, it was probably the first option. With a sigh she sets you down, as gently as she can manage. Ready and raring to go, you start to hobble forward, only to find all three of the daughters waiting for you, just beyond the door. They’re grinning as they watch you, and Bela extended her arm to offer her help. “What appears to be the matter?” Alcina asks from behind you. Accepting your fate and Bela’s arm, you let the sisters guide you to the table, Cassandra holding your other side, and Daniela pulls your chair out for you. Honestly it’s pretty adorable. Evidently your girlfriend agrees, from the way she smiles as she follows.

“Thank you,” you say, more out of reflex than genuine gratitude. Again, you weren’t thrilled about needing this assistance. If the girls notice they’re at least polite enough not to mention it. They simply move to their own seats at the large table, eager to dig in. It feels… strange, to be here, on this side of things. Stranger still to realize you’re the only one intending to eat actual food. There’s wine in your glass, but it’s a much fainter red than those you’ve previously served to your girlfriend. Thank goodness, you think, after how raw my throat was yesterday, I really don’t need to taste any more blood.

Once Lady Dimitrescu sits down, the meal formally begins, with several maidens appearing from the kitchen. Several seem relieved to see you, although surprised, and one even gave you a brief smile. The smile did not last, however. It wasn’t unexpected, considering the nature of her job, the pressures that it put upon her. No one smiled at mealtimes. Well, no maidens, that is. They simply moved around, wordlessly, faces blank, doing exactly as instructed. Only a few days ago you had been among them, fear keeping you in line. Was it wrong of you to care for Alcina, knowing what she was capable of doing to others? Knowing what she might have, in another life, done to you?

A maiden places a plate of warm food, as well as a bowl of fresh fruit, in front of you. For a moment your eyes meet, but she looks away instinctively. Your heart threatens to break.

“This looks wonderful, thank you for your hard work, all of you,” you speak up, glancing at each of the women working so hard. There’s more you want to say that dries in your throat; you are valued, you are deserving, someday I will join your ranks again.

“You don’t need to thank them, they’re just doing their jobs,” Cassandra chimes from the other side of the table. Hearing her say that damn near makes you drop your fork. It’s not an uncommon settlement, particularly among older generations and the rich, but one that irks you nonetheless.

“They’re doing my job. They are taking on extra work, for no pay, because I am injured. Why would I be so cruel as to ignore them? Have I not toiled alongside them enough to call them my kin?” You ask, struggling to keep your voice even. Next to you Alcina is slowly cutting into her meat, watching the scene unfold out of the corner of her eyes, perhaps considering when to step in. On the other end of the table, Bela looks increasingly uncomfortable, as if silently willing her sister into silence. None of the maidens have reacted to what you said, likely too afraid of Cassandra to even consider speaking.

“Ooooh, this is much more fun than our usual breakfasts,” Daniela says, stifling a giggle. “Do you have any other thoughts you’d like to share? Preferably ones that aren’t about me.” At this, Alcina sets her utensils down, clearly intending to put an end to the discussion. Unfortunately for her, you were a bit… impulsive, especially considering the previous night’s activities had left your mind struggling to cope.

“Dead lycans smell terrible. Literally the worst thing I’ve ever smelled, easily, no question about it,” you answer, shrugging a little as you do. It’s such a simple thought that you almost don’t realize how the others at the table react. Until the clatter of silverware on the table catches your attention, that is. All three sisters are eying you with different expressions (Bela is confused, Cass is impressed, and Daniela looks shocked). But it’s Alcina’s wide-eyed stare that gets you to elaborate. “Should I have said ‘a dead lycan’? I only got one, so I guess I shouldn’t say they all smell bad. C’mon, though, they have to all smell bad, right?”

Suddenly Daniela shifts from shock to pure amusement, a fit of giggles overtaking her. You’re still confused, not sure what the matter was, so you just sip your wine and hope someone asks the right questions.

“You… killed the lycan that attacked you?” Bela finally says, after a few moments of her sister laughing, expression still incredulous. When you nod she sort of shakes her head, trying to clear her thoughts. “May I ask how you managed that?”

“Oh, you know, I just meh meh-” you mime a stabbing motion with your fork- “until the stupid thing stopped moving. I had to use a tree branch as a weapon, but then it broke after a few whacks, which actually helped because then I had two stabbing implements to, you know, stab with. That’s right around when it got my leg, and it tried to bite me. Thankfully it wasn’t very smart, so when it leapt at me I just hyah-” this time an upwards strike- “right into its neck. That didn’t kill it, but it was enough to slow it down, which allowed me to stab the other half of the branch into its skull. Made this horrible, horrible sound as it died. Seeing as we are eating, I will not imitate the sound. Not that I could, now that I think about it…”

Once again there’s silence. Even Daniela has quieted now, and is watching you with rapt interest, likely hoping that you’re hiding another story up your sleeves.

“So… did you guys actually think that I managed to run away from the lycan? Or were you under the impression that it simply got bored of me and left?” You ask, casually returning to your breakfast afterwards. No one says anything, at first, taking in your words as best as they can. A few moments later both Daniela and Bela resume their meal, as nonchalant as one could be in the current situation. Alcina, however, rests a gentle hand on your shoulder, meeting your gaze with a loving look.

“You will never cease to amaze me, my dear. But let us ensure you never have to… smell, or see, one of those wretched things again, yes?” She says, softly squeezing you as she does. You can’t help but agree, and nod eagerly, mouth too full of hashbrowns to speak. Still, there’s been a shift in the atmosphere of the room. It’s not that the family didn’t respect you before, as far as you can tell, but they evidently hadn’t expected you to prove as capable as you had. It brings a sense of pride to the forefront of your mind, making you completely forget about your injury for the remainder of the meal.

Unable to stop yourself, you insist on helping the other maidens clean up, and Alcina eventually agrees to let you wash a few dishes- as long as you stay sitting the entire time. The last thing you hear before you shuffle off to the kitchen is the start of a conversation between Cassandra and her mother.

“You picked quite a feisty one, didn’t you?”

“That I did, that I did…”

[fluffnstuffq]

Overdue Update (Important!!)

So.. it’s been a while since I’ve written a long “essay” type post here..

Sadly, this isn’t a discussion about alterhumanity. I… have some things to admit, to explain my absence and such. 

Please try to read all the way through. If anything is misunderstood or unclear, I will try my best to answer any questions on the matter.

In around mid-October, the activity on my kin blog dropped off, and while I apologize sincerely for that sudden impromptu hiatus, I felt that I should at least clarify a few things before formally returning.

Recently, I came to the conclusion that I am plural. Specifically, a traumagenic system with four members as of now.

I’ve always been a system despite not initially realizing it (or at least have been since early childhood), don’t get me wrong. I just began really realizing something was off slowly throughout the course of the summer/fall. 

Sudden lapses in my sense of time/train of thought accompanied by my mannerisms/speech patterns/personality just seeming to change drastically. I had no idea what was happening, and admittedly, these lapses caused me great distress that spilled over into my everyday interactions with others. I was more on edge, more paranoid, all around stressed for a long while, wondering “why can’t I control myself in confrontations, why don’t I know who I am?”. 

For a while, I even dropped the name “Qwerty” because I didn’t feel like I even was Qwerty anymore..

And in a way, how right I was.

As you may know, around mid-June, I began identifying as otherkin/fictionkin, with three kintypes (Blixer, Marx from the Kirby series, and some sort of cryptid/alien). Like many otherkin, I experience mental and phantom shifts, as well as “past life memories” varying in vividness and detail. I still identify as Blixerkin and cryptid/alienkin (not entirely sure yet, to this day) and still get shifts as well as occasional memories/noema for them.

However, from the start, my supposed Marx kintype was always a tad off from the rest. In Marx “shifts”, fundamental parts of my personality and even morals changed; my very sense of identity became blurred. “I” became more argumentative, impulsive, even spiteful at times. It was far beyond just different parts of my own personality being amplified/dulled.

These so-called shifts, unlike the others, were always accompanied by a bout of dissociation. Everything was so foggy and distant, like I wasn’t in control of myself, like I was watching myself from behind a screen. I had enough consciousness to be able to essentially “internally scream at myself” to stop or change my actions if things went badly while in that “foggy” state, but it took immense willpower to even attempt to outright stop it myself. 

And while I didn’t experience outright memory loss, after said “lapses” ended, I often found myself unable to sort through my thought process. If someone asked why I’d done/said something in that state, later on I’d be unable to recall my own train of thought, my own reasoning. Thus, for a while I felt utterly lost and confused, as well as frustrated with myself for things I felt I had no control over. Getting into arguments… losing or nearly losing friends… I felt hopeless. I felt like a monster. Out of control.

At first, I assumed these lapses to be merely severe, stress induced mood swings that happened to fall in line with mental shifts. I knew they were Marx; though I thought that it was just a kintype, thought they were still inherently me. However, as time went on and these so-called shifts became more frequent and longer lasting, I began to notice odd quirks. Early in October, a particularly long lasting “Marx shift” completely turned my sense of identity on its head. 

Different preferred pronouns and name, different interests, sudden and intense cravings for sweets and candy (I personally can’t stand sugar, so this was the biggest shock, desiring cinnamon rolls and ice cream every minute). I’m also normally very much obsessed with keeping my diction and grammar as neat as possible. However, in this state, those who I talked to could probably attest to the fact that, for a while, that grammar had gone down utterly the drain. Lowercase letters, run-on sentences, no punctuation. This state even seemed to have differing/conflicting opinions from me; in this state “I��� preferred the company of different people, spoke much more bluntly, and my empathy levels went from hyper-empathetic to… well, decidedly not. 

I felt entirely, utterly like Marx. It wasn’t a shift, it wasn’t merely a change in perception. The previous perception just.. kind of went out the window entirely. The normal homesickness became all-encompassing. The normal “nonhuman” feelings reached distressing levels.

Everything that made me “Qwerty” had just kind of.. Flipped. It scared me.

I’d never felt like that in a mental shift for my other kintypes. In a Blitz shift, I was still fundamentally me, still myself, just a little more excitable and friendly. And if need be, I could usually snap out of it. Kintypes are supposed to still be you, after all. You’re not supposed to “lose control” of yourself, even in a strong shift. Sure, it can be embarrassing/disorienting looking back at what you said while influenced by the mindset, instincts, and energy level of a kintype, but it’s still inherently yourself. 

Marx “shifts” were not. They were not “shifts” at all. I realized then that Marx was not a kintype and had never been one. Marx was not me. Marx was someone else, sharing this brain and body despite wanting no parts of it. (He’s doing a lot better now, but really, back then, he was just as panicked as I was, albeit expressing it differently.)

Between the change in identity, the lapses in memory, and the dissociation that accompanied said so-called shifts, by late October, I’d come to the conclusion that I was plural. Somehow. I will not get into it, but certain events that occurred years before during times of stress, trauma, or even just general discomfort aligned well with the behaviors of this alter. And, admittedly, I was initially a tad… afraid of this other being in my brain. It was no fun and games; I didn’t want to believe it. 

And yet, as I began to reach out, to talk to my alter, I realized, he’s not bad, he’s not a monster, neither of us are; no alters inherently are. His frustrations, his mannerisms, his actions, defense mechanisms, they were all meant to help us survive. He’s been around for years, even if not always the exact same. 

There’s four of us now, and we’re pretty solidly sure of our plurality, having known for about two and a half months now, give or take. While you likely know me best as “Qwerty”, I’m not the “real” one or the “original” or the “most important”. In fact, you’ve probably spoken to the others before on a few occasions, even before we knew we were a system. We’re technically all alters, and we’re all important to each other, as all members of a system are. (Alters should never be reduced to just “extra” or “unwanted/scary” parts, nor should they be treated like characters or a game/act, but that’s a story for another time).

We were afraid of revealing ourselves on main or any blog connected to it, so we’ve been posting on a semi-secret sideblog for the past month or so. We finally made the decision to be open about this due to the fact that it was becoming harder to keep the sideblog separate. 

We could no longer post about our alterhuman experiences because continuing to refer to Marx related things as a “kintype” would be misleading and would only make clarification harder in the future.

As all this stress built up and the fear of someone prematurely figuring out who we were rose, we finally came to the conclusion that purposely revealing what we are was the only choice.

I know that, even with all this written, I probably haven’t covered absolutely everything, so once again I’ll be willing to answer questions on the matter/clarify things, for as long as I need to. We want to make sure to prevent any possible misinterpretation.

(We’ll share the name of the sideblog as well in a bit.)

[proudgodot]

Gratitude

I was not initially planning to post about this, given that my unfortunate tendency to over-share has caused me quite a bit of grief in the past, but the truth is that I simply couldn’t resist this time. Typically when I am overcome by an uncontrollable desire to post it is because I am desperately in need of attention or validation, so much so that I can’t actually remember a time when I posted because I was genuinely eager to share something. It was always out of some perverse and misplaced sense of obligation, but it finally feels as if that burden is lifted. While I was writing this post, it was because I felt a genuine…. pride over something I had accomplished, something I genuinely wanted to share with the world. When I chose the name of this blog I didn’t earnestly expect that I would ever feel anything other than shame about myself… it seemed more an ideal than an actual plausible prediction. I’m just so relieved my wish came true.

Anyway, I suppose that is quite enough navel-gazing for the time being… I can only imagine my followers have probably had enough of that to last a long and fulfilling lifetime. I reckon it’s time to move on to the actual story.

As most of you well know, following the dramatic events of the Kristahlia drama, I suddenly found myself with the new responsibility of parenthood. There are certainly aspects of my new lifestyle that have been difficult to adjust to… principle of which is that I am supposed to serve as a sort of role model for these developing and damaged boys. I have never been particularly aspirational, in fact you would be hard-pressed to find someone as underperforming as me. Although I was prone to overcompensating for such things, always desperately trying to prove that I was capable of as much as the bare minimum, looking back I see that I grew too comfortable with those low expectations. When it registered that as a caretaker I would suddenly have to perform a sort of excellence, not for the sake of my fragile ego but for the betterment of these children… I was immediately overcome by a painful inadequacy. However, as our first week together progressed, I came to realize that in certain regards all of us were personally inadequate, and it was for that very reason we had taken on this responsibility together. Although I certainly had my short-comings, that wasn’t something unique to me, and over time we all began to coordinate better and help manage each other’s weaknesses. I was somewhat surprised to learn this was not only true of the adults, but the children as well. The dynamic we developed as a family was rather symbiotic… I found that regardless of age we all had something to offer each other.

Regardless, I promised myself that I would do whatever it took to keep my found family as distant as possible from my most severe personal issues. My past was something I felt I had to resolve independently, no matter how tempting it was to once again depend on the people in my life to solve my problems in my stead. That is why when I made the decision to start looking into Anton’s whereabouts, I never spoke a word about it to my housemates.

Facebook made finding his account incredibly easy, distressingly so in fact. I became acutely aware of the possibility that he might have been recommended my account numerous times over the years and had consciously chosen not to send me a friend request, which although completely understandable still hurt immensely to imagine. Perhaps my hopelessly romantic dream to reconnect with the man was unrequited, and would be rejected with extreme prejudice if vocalized. Eventually, however, I managed to muster up the courage to actually inspect his profile. I discovered that after our quarrel six years ago and his subsequent transferral Anton had moved back to his hometown in Ann Arbor to complete his degree in art and design. Since graduating, he had been working as a freelance artist and animator… he often posted about how proud of his projects he was, and it was reassuring to see his enthusiasm had not diminished in the slightest over the years. One detail about his profile that immediately jumped out at me was his relationship status, which was currently set to single. Despite myself, I immediately felt a small flicker of hope ignite within my quickened heart. Upon further investigation, it appeared he’d been involved in several relationships over the years that had ultimately ended in failure, although the circumstances were unclear. I only hoped he hadn’t made a habit of dating unappreciative losers…

I managed to quell my anxiety briefly and force myself to send him a friend request, which almost immediately filled me with a sense of mounting dread. My anticipation wasn’t even allowed much time to simmer, because mere minutes after I sent the message I was notified that it had been accepted. Instinctively, I slammed my laptop shut and jumped out of my seat, forgetting that I was incapable of standing up so quickly without losing all feeling in my legs and face planting into the floor. I instantly regretted not taking Addy’s advice and getting that checked by a doctor, because soon enough the entire family was in my room gathered around my body and asking questions with varying degrees of concern and amusement. Although I had wanted to keep my activity a secret, at that moment I was swept away in the drama, and so I began to mindlessly rant about the situation.

I don’t know what I was expecting, but soon enough there were six pairs of hands all frantically scrambling for control of my keyboard. While I laid incapacitated on the floor, my friends had taken it upon themselves to respond to Anton’s messages, each expressing their own thoughts from my account in randomly alternating orders depending on who had managed to prevail in the wrestling. It seemed that Iara maintained the upper hand most of the fight, although it was admittedly difficult to tell over the frenzy at times considering my limited view from the floor.

Eventually, the chaos subsided and everyone turned to look at me with beaming smiles on their faces, some more devious than others. I immediately began to worry that they had sabotaged me somehow, be it in light-hearted jest or in an earnest act of betrayal, and so I asked them nervously what exactly they had done. For a moment it seemed they were trying to contain their excitement, but it didn’t take long for them to erupted into an uproarious celebration, complete with victorious chants that Anton was coming to meet us in person this evening!

I didn’t know how to react. All at once a tempest of conflicting emotions completely overpowered me… and I mean that quite literally. I knocked out cold, and when I finally woke up I discovered that not only had Kyler been trying to shock me awake by applying Takis to my tongue, but that the situation had not miraculously resolved itself. Although everyone else had mostly settled down, my mind was whirling a mile a minute with all of the things I had to do to prepare. I had a whole bucket list I needed to accomplish before I was comfortable standing in front of Anton again… and as much as I hated to admit it, I couldn’t possibly get everything done myself over such a brief time. To my surprise, I didn’t even have a chance to put my reservations aside before they had already agreed to help me based off of my panicked listing of errands alone. Despite my reluctance to involve my new friends in the more turbulent aspects of personal life, it seemed they were actually eager to get involved themselves… I discovered that my problems were not an inconvenience to them, but rather something they were excited to help me work through.

The first obstacle I had to overcome was also the hardest… that being that I had never properly apologized to Gabriella and Lana for my dishonest and frankly abusive treatment. It wasn’t so much that I didn’t have the words to express my remorse or that I hadn’t processed my guilt, but that Gabriella’s parting words to me specifically informed me not to contact her and I didn’t want to once again disrespect her wishes. However, after some words of encouragement from the family, I managed to write a relatively concise three thousand word email taking responsibility for my past actions and wishing the couple well. As I was writing this post, I actually received a response from the two telling me they appreciated my apology and were glad to see I had grown into a more mature person. Apparently they have just finished settling into their cottage and are now doing better than ever. Lana even expressed an interest in meeting Addy and Iara in particular sometime… I suppose it’s a sapphic thing. I’m just glad that they’re finally living the happy life they deserve without being held back by backwards men.

My email took longer to type then I had expected, and although I certainly can not regret pouring my heart into the message given its importance, it did mean that we had to pick up the pace with the rest of the bucket list. Kyler took this quite literally, speeding at what must have been 100 miles per hour towards the mall despite nearly giving me a heart attack and my insistence that he not set such a bad example for Chris and Klav. We actually ended up getting pulled over, but luckily Iara managed to scare the officer away with her signature scowl. The next few hours were a frantic rush of errands, all focused on helping me actually express myself without the burden of repression. There were moments when it was a struggle, such as when I nearly hyperventilated in Claire’s before they pierced my ears, but ultimately I am immensely satisfied with the results. The most fulfilling moment was finally getting the tips of my hair bleached white to match my new profile picture. Chris actually got his hair dyed alongside me, changing his style from pale blond to black and white to reflect his new kin. It was incredibly rewarding to accomplish this alongside him… I had never been the subject of anything but disappointment from my parents, so it was an incredible feeling to be able to experience that absent parental pride for myself, even if it was with a different perspective.  

By the time Anton was forecasted to arrive, my appearance had been upgraded to better reflect my current sense of self… all that was left was for me to get in the right mindset. Luckily, my family was perfectly eager to act as my own personal “hype beasts,” as Kyler put it. They offered excellent emotional support in the half-hour we sat in the den patiently awaiting his arrival, especially Addy, who really took my mind off things by offering to play me in a game of chess. I lost quite handedly, but for once I don’t have it in me to be a spoilsport. When we heard that fateful knock at the door, they all immediately ran into the nearest closest and shut themselves inside to give us some space, but not before giving me a final set of encouraging thumbs up. I hesitated for a moment, questioning once again whether I was really ready to take such a big step in my life. My hand paused, hovering over the door knob uncertainly… until I heard the faint sounds of Steely Dan’s Come on Eileen coming from inside the closet, accompanied by the muffled sound of Klav’s giggle. Reignited by the familiar sounds of my favorite musicians, I swung the door open with a new and uncharacteristic conviction.

And there he was… I was immediately captivated by just how strong his presence was. My memories hadn’t done him justice… it really was like I was in the presence of an angel. I was comforted by certain familiar aspects of his appearance, such as his golden brown eyes that glistened like stars, his long curly hair with its comforting strawberry aroma, and his signature checkered scarf that he had been consistently wearing for almost decade now… but what really excited me were those new features. Normally I am turned off by change, but I was positively breathless as soon as my eyes wandered to the golden butterfly tattoo on his exposed shoulder. I felt as if I was going to faint for a second time in one day. 

I couldn’t find the words to express the depths of my emotion no matter how hard I searched my impassioned soul... there were no words strong enough. Instead I just cried, and wordlessly he accepted me into his arms… just like he had on that life-changing night all those years ago. I finally told him everything I had so obstinately refused to say during college… that I was gay, that I was in love with him, and that I was sorry. Although I was openly weeping, I don’t think I’ve ever felt more relieved in my life.

Eventually, he managed to pacify me… and so I was able to explain to him the entire story of the Kristahlia drama. It was difficult to explain that I had managed to go from discoursing with these teenage kinnies to adopting them, but he was as understanding as he ever was. He was so excited to meet my family that he even brought his cat Apple all the way from Michigan just to introduce her to them. I don’t think I have ever mentioned this publicly, but when Krissy died I had to take her dog Diogenes in myself, and I was surprised to find that the two animals got along perfectly. It really did feel like the entire house was accepting him... it was as if this was meant to be.

Since Anton had gone to all the trouble of making the ten hour drive to Iowa, he suggested that we might as well all hang out together in Cedar Rapids over the weekend. I suppose it’s a date... I must say that I am looking forward to it, as are the others. I know I didn’t deserve to be accepted by him again just because I spent a few hours shedding tears and profusely apologizing, but for once I don’t feel guilty that I have received something I don’t deserve. I just feel... an overwhelming gratitude for the opportunity.

I am certainly still inexperienced at this whole family business and have accepted that I will inevitably make some mistakes in the future, but I don’t think I’ve done too poorly for a first week, if I do say so myself. I am truly grateful to all the people in my life who have supported me through my journey, who have taught me that it is possible to rely on others without being a parasite and to be relied on without shouldering the entire burden. 

To my partners, my friends, my children, and my love... from the bottom of my heart, thank you. 

[ronoken]

Fic Snippit

So, I read tow lovely comments this week and saw someone was kind enough to give me a shout out on Tumblr. So... A quick epilouge piece?

A quick epilouge piece! Comment on this, dammit.

*** 

In the really, really far future... 

Caline M. Bourgeois, age 13, stood in the wings of the Francois Dupont auditorium and wrung her hands as the act in front of her finished up. Olive was twirling the crap out of that baton and the blacklight admittedly looked awesome, but she was winding down and that meant Caline was next.

‘Fuck,’ she thought to herself.

She was in a white dress with some (but not too much) frill, accented with two bows holding her sandy blonde hair back in a ponytail. One bow was red, the other yellow. She didn’t want two bows, but her mother insisted this was the best way to keep the peace.

Caline glanced into the audience from where she was hiding, and sure enough, the whole Goddamn family was there. Grandpa, all three Grammas, dad with his phone ready to go, Aunt Emilie, Aunt Camille…

And an empty seat.

Caline frowned and felt her stomach start to knot up. Olive was bowing as the audience politely clapped. Behind her, two stagehands were wheeling out the beat-up school piano for Caline’s performance.

“She didn’t come,” Caline said.

She felt something rustle in the frills on her shoulder.

“Aw shucks, girly,” a voice with a thick, southern drawl said. “Y’all just need ta have some faith. Yer mama may be a bit flighty, but that dere woman ain’t one ta miss her own kin’s recital. No ma’am. She’ll be here. Y’all see.”

Caline smiled and patted the tiny lump hiding in her frills. “Thanks, Ziggy. But,” She looked again at the empty chair. “She’s not here.”

Ziggy popped his head out and patted Caline on the shoulder. “She will be. Jus’ give her time.”

“But I’m going on now!” Caline said, slightly panicked. Out on stage, Ms. Beauréal was going on ad nauseam about how hard the students had worked for the talent show this year, and how excited she was to introduce the next performer. “Ziggy, what do I do?”

“Ya get out there and ya play fer everyone, of course. Yall gonna let yer dad and yer grammas and grampa down?”

Caline bit her lip. Of course the whole family was there. Of course dad was recording. Of course this had to happen today.

“She knew this was important to me, Ziggs. She knew.” Caline muttered as she walked on stage. From the audience, she heard two voices cheering for her.

“Go Caline!” The first one cheered.

“You’re gonna do great! Gramma loves you!” The second one chimed in.

“I love you more!” The first voice said.

“I love you most!” The second one screamed.

There were sounds of a scuffle. Caline ignored them and turned to face the audience. Her eyes drifted to the empty chair…

And sitting there was a woman with short, light brown hair and glasses. She had her phone out to film, and she was waving.

Caline’s eyes went wide. “Mom?” She asked under her breath.

Beside her mom, Caline’s father looked practically spooked. At least one of her Grandmas was frowning and had her arms crossed while her Grandpa was busy laughing into his shoulder. He was doing his best to cover it with a cough.

Caline smiled.

“Toldja,” her shoulder whispered.

***

Out in the audience, Caline’s mom grinned as she watched her daughter being playing Nocturne No. 2 by Chopin. Caline had worked for two months with her Grandpa on the piece, and the dedication had paid off.

It didn’t hurt that Adrien was a good teacher.

“Where were you?” Marinette quietly hissed beside her daughter.

“Work,” Gina whispered back. Her eyes never left Caline as she played.

“You were almost late,” Marinette growled. “How can you of all people be late?”

“But I wasn’t,” Gina rebuffed. “And she saw me. You think I’d miss today?”

Gina didn’t have to turn her head to see the glare her mother was shooting her. She could feel it.

Gina felt a hand squeeze her shoulder. She glanced back to see Aunt Chloé smiling at her. “Ignore your mother. She’s just mad because she lost a bet.”

At that, Gina did look to her mother. “You bet I wouldn’t be here?”

Marinette blushed and crossed her arms. She turned her attention to her granddaughter on stage. “When they closed the doors, I might have been overly upset.”

Gina nudged her. “Hey, it’s me.”

“I know,” Marinette sighed.

“Shh!” Sabrina shushed them both from behind. “I’m trying to enjoy my granddaughter’s performance!”

They shut up.

Caline had barely finished up when Marinette and Chloé both rocketed to their feet, cheering and applauding wildly. Caline visibly recoiled on stage from the outpouring she was receiving from her grandmothers, but she was still smiling. Mainly because beside Gramma Marinette, her mother was also standing and applauding louder than everyone else put together. She was cheering and whistling and making a scene, and Caline was 100% loving it.

Afterwards, once the other nineteen acts were done (Aurore refused to cut any students that wanted to be on stage. Something about it not being right to deny a student their moment in the spotlight), The family group headed out for a walk by the Seine to grab some dinner and gush about the performance. All three grandmothers had argued over where to eat, but André settled things quickly by loudly asking Caline what she wanted.

So, chilidogs it was.

“Hey,” Gina said as she took a large bite. “You did great up there, sweetie. I am so, so proud of you, you don’t even know.”

Caline blushed and grinned. “Thanks. Um, hey. So, like, where were you? I didn’t think you were coming.” Her eyes drifted to Gina’s green blouse. “Um, there’s some blood on your collar.”

Gina’s smile fell a bit. “Work was a bit much tonight. Sorry about that, but I was doing my best to make sure of things. I, um, I panicked and got the time slightly wrong. Otherwise I would have been in my seat sooner. Sorry.”

Marinette’s eyebrow went up at that. “What things, exactly? Is everything okay?”

Gina nodded. “Everything is fine. Nothing interrupted the recital, and nothing is going to interrupt our dinner. We all get a nice, normal, uneventful evening to ourselves.”

Marinette was the first to catch on. “How many times did you have to go back?” She asked.

“Seven,” Gina fired right back. “It took me over four hours to figure everything out. There were gonna be two akumas tonight, and don’t get me started on the werewolf.”

“Werewolf?” Caline asked.

“There wolf,” Gina quickly replied. “Seriously, how does Aunt Alix do this?”

The group went quiet.

Gina quickly read the room. “Sorry. I know that’s a sore… Look, I know it’s weird, but I’ve honestly seen more of her since she died than I ever did before. It’s nuts in the Burrow. She was super active with monitoring time. In fact, I’m pretty sure she lived in there. Like, right before I got to the school, I ran into her.”

Adrien bit his hip. “Is she okay? Was she okay? Geez, I don’t know what the best wording is for this.”

“She was good. She was in her PJ’s and brushing her teeth. I think she’d been sleeping in a side portal again. Oh,” Gina turned to Marinette. “She also told me to tell you not to worry about your appointment next week and that it’s just a clump of fat cells. You’re okay.”

Chloé laughed a little while Marinette blushed and smirked. “That sounds like her,” the bluenette said. “But did you have to say that in front of everyone?”

Gina shrugged. “You wanna drag me for my punctuality in front of my daughter again?”

Marinette glanced at her daughter. “Touché.”

“I’m just glad you came,” Caline said. “It meant so much.”

Gina smiled and kissed her daughter on the head. “I know, sweetie.” She glanced to her husband and smiled. “I wouldn’t miss tonight for the world.”

***

Later that night, after Caline had been put to bed, Gina snuck out to the patio for a moment and slipped into a waiting portal.

“Sup, kiddo.” Alix called out from the center of the Burrow. She was transformed and kicked back in a recliner. Even though her hair had long since gone from pink to red to silver, she looked as feisty as ever. She was slurping down a smoothie and swiping through floating ovals, each showing a different moment in time. “You make it on time?”

“Would you please explain to me how the wall clock in the center of time itself is six minutes slow?” Gina huffed. She gestured to a clock floating in the void. “Seriously! I was almost late!”

“But you weren’t,” Alix pointed out. “Look, changing it means going all the way over there and taking it down and fiddling with it, and that’s just a lot of work. I’ve just gotten used to the difference, you know? And if I did it now, then that would completely mess me up going forward. I mean, I’d look at it and be off by six minutes. Screw that.” She slurped her drink.

Gina shook her head and sighed. “You were more tolerable before you died.”

“Which time?” Alix asked with a grin. “Thank you again, by the way. You’re really not supposed to redo things that often, but I do prefer being alive to dead, so no complaints.”

Gina smirked as she stood beside her favorite aunt and watched the portals with her.

“Thanks for your help tonight,” Alix said casually.

“It’s my job,” Gina replied. “You know I won’t say no.”

Alix glanced to her. “You ever get upset that I, um, that you got drafted into all this?”

Gina didn’t answer for a moment. She crossed her arms and settled in place as she thought.

“I used to think being Ladybug was the hardest of our jobs,” Gina said. She glanced to Alix. “I was so wrong.”

“Well, regardless? I’m proud of you, Gina. I always have been.” She considered Gina for a moment. “Hey, I’ve got tonight, okay? Go spend some time with your family.”

“Oh, did you see the recital?” Gina asked.

Alix smiled and swiped the portal in front of her. An image of Caline appeared as she sat at the piano. “You think I’d miss it?”

Gina smiled at her aunt and patted her on the shoulder. “Try not to stay up too late, okay?” She leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “Love you, Aunt Alix. Please get some rest. Please?”

“Psssh,” Alix said as she waved her off. “Get out of here. I’ll give you a holler if anything pops up. Promise.”

Gina smiled and turned to leave. Someday, she’d have to tell this version of Alix that her version, the one that had… That wasn’t here anymore, preferred electric blue slushies, not cherry. Still, it was sweet of her to keep popping in and pretending.

Gina wasn’t sure what timeline this Alix was even from, but it didn’t matter. They were all her Aunt, after all.

Gina stopped at the entrance to her portal and glanced back to the woman who was casually kicked back in the recliner, a familiar ghost that if Gina squinted, was enough to help her to forget for a while.

“Good night, Bunnyx,” Gina called out.

“G’night, Time Bandit,” Alix called back. She toasted her with the half-finished slushie.

Smiling, Gina slipped through the portal, and back to home.

[skvaderarts]

Apocrypha Chapter Thirty Seven: Opposition

Masterlist can be found Here!

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Opposition

Notes: And here I sit, having to go to work in 10 hours, and I’m just starting this chapter. Not the best decision, but I’ll find a way to make it work. And then tomorrow I’m gonna relax and try to knock out both chapters for next week early. I can only imagine that Black Friday (which I’m firmly refusing to work this year!) is gonna keep me busy all week.

(-~-)

Sunday, August 25th, 2:00 am

A cursory look at how the situation was unfolding immediately lent to the idea that any and all police would probably be converging on the vicinity of the attack shortly. Despite the fact that there was very little that the local police (or the military, for that matter) could do against hordes of demons, they were obligated to try, even if only a little. If the Redgrave City attack was anything to go by, the region was woefully underprepared for another demonic attack, but the youngest Son of Sparda was admittedly hopeful that some sort of initiative would be taken by the local government to see to it that the next time something like that happened, they would be able to do more than throw useless grunts at the problem and blow up bridges to keep the demons at bay.

Why did there always have to be a next time?

Despite the fact that it would bring a swift and permanent end to Dante’s demon-hunting career, he couldn’t help but wish for a day where the population of the underworld lost the ability to travel two and from worlds. Their father had spent a considerable amount of time seeing to that, and had made untenable strides in that regard, but here they were, over two thousand years later and still fighting the same foe. It seemed that there would always be a need for their family’s experience in devil hunting; a fact that troubled the devil hunter in red slightly. Was this it, then? Was their entire bloodline cursed to do battle against their father’s kin for the remainder of their existence until the day came when they no longer could? Were none of them allowed to pursue their own wants and goals outside of this admittedly limited field? It was all a bit fatalistic and heavy for his tastes, but he found his mind wandering to the topic on occasion these days when he considered his family and everything they had sacrificed as a whole to protect the general public. It was all very heroic, but was there to be nothing more to their lives than endless self-sacrifice and then a glorious and inevitable death in battle?

In truth, Dante couldn’t say that he really minded going out that way, but every time he saw Nero with his family and V trying his best to acclimate to a new and unfamiliar world, he couldn’t help but feel… something that he couldn’t quite pinpoint. If asked, he’d probably say that it was remorse for the lives that they could have had if not for the fact that they had been born into this mess, but he wasn’t sure that was what he really thought. There was no denying that he was glad they were a part of his family, but there were days, especially after Nero had been nearly killed when his twin brother had attacked him that day, that he wished they could have both lived in blissful ignorance, unaware of the danger that their seemingly cursed bloodline carried with it.

The idea of never having met them pained him greatly, but if it meant that they would not have to deal with the trials and tribulations ahead of them and the weight their lineage carried, then he would have slept better at night knowing that they were not doomed to the same fate that he and his older twin were. He wondered how they felt now, and how knowing what he felt would affect them. Dante would never say any of what he was thinking out loud to either of them, but he’d think it nonetheless. And every time that he saw them, it would be a reminder.

Perhaps the two of them together could achieve some semblance of normality for the rest of their little family. Was that such an unreasonable fantasy? It was not impossible to believe that there might be a day where they no longer needed to participate in this endless battle. Or maybe that was wishful thinking. Still, the devil hunter in red needed something to strive for. He wasn’t getting any younger, and the idea of doing battle against their foes was still just as exhilarating to him as it had always been, especially now that his own identical twin was no longer one of those foes. But still, there was much work to be done.

“So whatda think the odds are of this being that cult again?” Dante said as the twins headed towards the building in question. The onslaught of demons had stopped for the time being, signaling that something more might be going on here than they originally thought.”

Vergil stayed quiet for a moment, shifting Yamato to his non dominate hand in an effort to prepare for another attack. There was no way that the eldest Son of Sparda was going to simply waltz into a dark, decrepit building that he’d never been inside of before and just assume that everything was going to be fine. The Darkslayer hadn’t lived as long as he had by being an absolute tool, and he expected that Dante wasn’t that foolish, either. After all, his brother was many things, but a complete idiot was not one of them. While the younger of the two was prone to do foolish things, that didn’t mean that he had a psychotic death wish. And if he did, he wasn’t going to act on it in any way, shape, or form tonight. There were matters to attend to, and he intended to see things through to the end.

“I would imagine the odds of that being the case are about on par with the possibility of this being an obvious trap staged by our opponent.” Vergil lowered his voice as the pair entered the building, making an effort not to give themselves away too prematurely. From what he could tell, they seemed to have the element of surprise, at least for the time being. There was no need to squander that.” But then again, if this is a product of one of Belial’s schemes, then it could very well be an obvious trap meant to throw us off so that we fall victim to another less obvious trap. He likes to indulge in those kinds of games from time to time.’

Dante shot Vergil a curious look as they continued forward. So this Belial demon truly wasn’t playing around, then? Good. He enjoyed a good fight from time to time. He just hoped that no one else got dragged into the conflict. And then there was the mater of V and his connection to this cult. While they had a reasonable hunch as to why this powerful demon prince might want to capture V and what the cult planned to do, there was still no certainty as to what and why this was happening. How had he even known that V was alive in the first place? Dante had spent nearly the entirety of both of his nephews’ lives ignorant to their existence, only for them to go and yank a misplaced soul out of the netherworld and for a demon of this caliber to send someone after him? What were the odds of that?

He needed more in-depth details as to what was going on here…

“So if you think it’s a trap, what are we doing here?” Dante said, not so much expecting an answer from his twin as he was from himself. As if by instinct, they’d both just walked into the building, knowing full well that this wasn’t a logical idea. And yet, here they were. Maybe they were both just insane. “Or maybe there just aren’t a whole lot of things that can stop both of us if we’re working together. And we are, for once.” Dante considered internally for a moment. Yes, maybe that was it. But getting too cocky couldn’t end well in the long run. They had to keep their option open, lest they fall victim to their own naivete. 

The youngest of the two brothers couldn’t help but imagine that V would have something to say about this kind of thing; some wise homily to spin about the dangers of hubris and such. Who could say? He wasn’t here, after all. And what a lucky turn of events that had turned out to be. 

Dante didn’t really mind V’s presence in the slightest, but keeping him as far as they could from any possible cult activity was probably a good policy. He could only imagine that his oldest nephew had made a swift recovery by now, but that could all change in an instant if they ran up against a super-powerful demon or a powerful summoner. While V was formidable in a battle (at least from what Dante had seen) there was a certain level of risk that he knowingly undertook anytime he entered battle that none of the rest of them took. Despite his obvious skill, V had the least training out of the lot of them, and the youngest Son of Sparda couldn’t help but imagine what he might be capable of if they showed him how a devil arm worked or he gained further proficiency over his abilities. It had taken Nero a while to get where he was now, but the difference showed in every conceivable way.

Once they returned to the office, the next step would be to return the Arcana to Vie de Marli where it belonged, they would have to see to it that V received some sort of mentorship. But first, they had to make him put down his books long enough to show him anything. Dante couldn’t help but think that V would do better as a librarian or working in some sort of museum than he would in a vicious battle to the death against demons. And yet, somehow he held his own just fine for the most part. The devil hunter in red had to give his nephew credit for one thing: he was an extraordinarily fast learner.

“Because that is where we will more than likely locate our assailant. I have some questions for them.” Vergil said under his breath as they neared what appeared to be a large, open room. He wasn’t so much irritated with Dante as he was the lack of knowledge in this situation, at least for the time being. He refused to tolerate this severe lack of insight any longer than he had to.

The instant that they rounded the corner and walked into the central chamber of the old factory, the two of them were faced with a literal wall of demonic energy. The entire building suddenly reeked of it, confirming their suspicion that this was the place that they had been looking for. And much to their surprise, there was a man standing at the far end of the room with their back turned to them, seemingly unaware of the fact that they had arrived. The twins halted, deciding in silent unison to take the opportunity to see what was going on since a large, glowing portal stood before the unknown man. He shook his head, nodding along to something they couldn’t hear before a loud, otherworldly voice echoed throughout the chamber they currently occupied. Vergil closed his eyes for a moment, a wave of obvious displeasure taking over his features. It was rare that the eldest Son of Sparda wished that he was wrong about something, but this certainly counted as one of those occasions. Dante glanced over at him, searching for silent confirmation of what he’d already surmised from Vergil’s shift in tone. This was the Belial he’d heard so much about, then? Well, they certainly sounded the part. The deep, bellowing tone he spoke in was accited by a certain level of cold, calculating intelligence that Dante was accustomed to associating with the demons he’d spent so long doing battle against, putting the likes of Balrog and Burial to shame despite their obvious sentience. Not, this devil was conniving, and he clearly knew what he was talking about, even if neither of them did.

“From what I can tell, things are going to plan. Well, I assume, that is. I don’t have a way of checking.”

“You see, that is where you and I differ most, servant. I do not assume. I know.”

The man shivered slightly, clearly shaken by the words of the powerful being that he served. To say that he was in way over his head would be an understatement, but then again, so we’re practically all humans that dared do business with a Prince of Darkness.

“Do you desire anything else from me, master?”

“Oh, I can assure you, I do not require the services of you or any other wayward stragglers any longer. My little cult has proven to be an entertaining diversion for some time now, but it seems that Vergil has once again inadvertently served my best interests by eliminating the vast majority of you. Now I need not do the tidying up on this joyous occasion myself. Truly splendid indeed.”

If they could have seen the face of the being who he spoke to, Dante got the impression that he had just smirked in self-satisfaction, readjusting himself on his metaphorical throne. There was no way of knowing for sure, but they were willing to bet that the man standing before them had no idea how truly dead he was, and their assumption was proven correct meer moment later when the man suddenly began choking and screaming, violently thrashing about before falling onto the floor. He went into some sort of fit before going totally still, clearly dead to anyone unlucky enough to discover him. Blood ran down his face from his nose and mouth as he gave his last breath, clearly quite distressed as he perished at the hands of his former master.

For a moment, everything went quiet. Dante and Vergil watched, unmoving as the portal continued to glow brightly, knowing that it needed to be closed but unsure as to how it had managed to be opened in the first place. There was a part of Vergil that was furious that he’d missed the opportunity to question the man himself, but he got the impression that Belial wasn’t stupid enough to leave witnesses walking around who his detractors could interrogate. But just as Vergil considered suggesting that they vacate the premises, a low, genuinely pleased laugh bellowed forward from the rift that stood before them.

“You know, I should thank you, Son of Sparda. Truly, It’s not every day that I get to indulge in such activities. It’s nothing personal, really. I don’t do personal. But I’m not sorry to say that I won’t be showing you any form of gratitude. You shall see in due time.” He paused for a moment, seemingly waiting for Vergil to speak or respond in some way, but he didn’t. He simply stayed there, unmoving and internally cursing himself for coming here. How had he forgotten about that little facet of his foe’s abilities?” I trust that you remember what happened the last time our paths crossed. I can’t imagine that you’ve forgotten already. After all, our meeting was so… memorable. I kid, of course. You remember very little of that encounter, as was my will. But do take your time to concoct your own clever schemes as you always do. Some day soon I shall remind you why my will is absolute.”

With no further fanfare, the portal went dark but remained open. Vergil waited a moment before allowing a long, almost tormented sigh to escape his lungs and exit his mouth. Yes, of course, Belial had known he was there. Didn’t he always. He stood up from the crouched position they’d taken behind the broken and abandoned factory equipment and walked over to the portal, unsheathing Yamato and using it to close the gateway. A criss-cross of delayed swipes closed the gate the instant Vergil returned his devil arm to its sheath, the Darkslayer shaking his head slightly as he rested his hand on his forehead and pinched the top of the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger.

“... Should I ask why you and the nightmare demon are on a first-name basis? And how did he know you were here?” Dante approached Vergil slowly, unsure as to where he should even begin, considering everything he’d just heard.” What’s all this about you forgetting? Did he wipe your memory or somethin’?”

Vergil sighed and dropped his hand from his face, swiftly walking away from the place where the gate had once stood and towards the exit. He suddenly felt an immense and overwhelming desire to leave this place and never return. Dante followed closely behind him, somewhat relieved that the attack was at least over for the time being and that massive amounts of damage were not dealt this time around. It had only been about a city block or so, and casualties, if there were any, had been scarce. After the dumpster fire that the Redgrave City incident had turned into, Dante was eager and willing to take any victories he would take part in, even if those victories were short-lived and slightly situational. This was over because the devil that had willed it into existence had grown bored of it, and that was a fact that Dante wasn’t blind to. And he was not keen on it.

Once they reached the exit and stepped back out onto the street, Vergil crossed his arms for a moment and sighed, unable to find even temporary pleasure in the cool night air. This situation had just taken a rather unorthodox turn for the worst out of nowhere, and he didn’t like that one bit.

”To answer your ceaseless questions, brother, we met some time before I returned to the human world. He demanded that I serve him after the demon thrown was left… unattended. Most were unwilling to contest his rise to power at that time, but I refused and usurped him.” Vergil glanced away for a moment, noting the distant lights that accompanied the fire trucks that had just pulled up about two blocks down the road from where they currently stood.” As for how he knew I was there, I can only assume he can still sense my presence from the underworld so long as I am within a certain proximity to a portal. We might as be standing in the same room as far as his abilities are concerned. He does not forget something once he’s experienced it.”

Dante nodded, not at all pleased by any of what his brother had just said. He didn’t need to know how that worked to know that it wasn’t good.” I’m gonna go out on a limb here and guess that’s how he killed that guy?”

Vergil nodded.” Yes, in much the same way he attempted to kill me when last we met. Belial has access to a primordial source of power somewhat akin to Nightmare’s that allows him to… suggest an experience for you relive, especially when that memory was never yours, to begin with. That and the pressure he exudes when near someone is enough to send most beings spiraling into an early death, or a coma at the very least. It’s rare to be able to resist pure terror. That’s how he managed to fragment my memory of our full encounter, and he clearly revels in that fact. I suppose you could say that his true power is trauma itself.”

This time it was Dante’s turn to cross his arms and look unamused.” So he can, what, literally scare someone to death? Tranutize you so badly that you forget entire events or think something else happened?”

“In essence, yes. And so long as he has physically been in the presence of the individual he wishes to exert his will over, he is basically unavoidable. Thankfully his range is limited, but the extent of his cruelty and the range his machinations are willing to extend to is not. He cares little for petty sentiments such as honor or decency.” Vergil looked distant for a moment as though he were considering something unfathomable, something that he was truly unable to make himself consider.” He would absolutely destroy the minds of anyone necessary to harm his actual larget and leave them a husk of their former selves, decimated beyond repair. I’ve seen him do it. And all that purely to see his opponent break. He is a plague in that sense. And now you understand why I have so little tolerance for anyone who willingly serves him, hence the reason I cut down his cult where they stood. This cannot be allowed to continue.”

For a moment, Dante just stared at Vergil, unsure of what to even say about the mental image that his twin had just painted for him. It was a bit difficult to defeat an enemy that could destroy you from the inside out. How were they supposed to stop him? And although neither of them said it, they were admittedly concerned to some degree when it came to what this demon might want with V and these plans that he was working on. Everything about this situation seemed dire, and the youngest Son of Sparda was starting to grasp the severity of what this could mean for them.

This was now a war.

“Yea… none of that is good, Vergil. None of it.” Dante sighed and shook his head, the weight of the situation they were now in truly affecting them. They needed to act fast and smart, something they didn’t tend to do.” Can’t believe I’m saying this, but we should probably head back to the office and start coming up with a plan or something. Oh, and put that knife back where it belongs.”

Vergil nodded wordlessly, his mind a thousand miles away. He was still combing over the situation at hand. There was a part of him that couldn’t’ shake the feeling that this was all a misdirection of some sort, meant to leave them open to a larger threat. That was generally how Belial operated. While he believed every word of their enemy’s threat, it just wasn’t like the demon prince to be so… direct.

Just a moment later, the two of them glanced up the street, noting that there was a person in a safety vest standing on top of a vehicle. The man addressed the growing crowd of people gathering around them, all of the locals seeming terrified out of their minds. “Please vacate the area! We are investigating the cause of this event. We have also received news of a mild earthquake due west of here. It caused some kind of underground cave-in deep in the woods near the waterfront which we will be investigating as well. If you reside in that area, do take care when returning home. Thank you for your time!”

Both Dante and Vergil shared a knowing look, relatively positive that they knew where this cave-in had occurred. It seemed that they were not returning to the office just yet. They had a conduit to double-check.

(-~-)

And just like that, it’s 5:55 am! I have to work today from noon to 7 pm. Looks like it’s going to be a long, energy drink filled day. But that’s okay. It was worth it to finish this chapter! No lie, I might carry this over into a book three as I did with Soliloquy a while back just to keep the pacing in this fic consistent. I’ll think about that when I’m more awake though. Anyway, I look forward to reading what you thought about this chapter! I’m using a new document editor, so I hope it did the trick! I think I’ll post this fic a few hours early, too. See you next week!

[rachelillustrates]

An Exploration of Kiliel

OKAY, fandom thoughts on my art blog because of Story Study.

My Wife and I finally watched The Hobbit movies, so I’ve finally gotten to Kiliel (..... ❤ ) and I have some headcanons/thoughts about Tauriel’s introduction to the story, the flow of their romance, and what’s important.

(So this will be part meta, part headcanon as I sort that out.)

What’s striking me right away - other than the fact that I came into these movies ALREADY shipping them and am damn pleased about it, thanks Tumblr - is that we are given.... well, bupkis on Tauriel’s motivations and backstory. And the person I’m watching these movies with, who I love very much, was quick to point out that her introduction and immediate positioning as a Romantic Female Lead could read very shallow to the casual viewer.

(Which I am not, thank the Gods.)

So, what of Tauriel’s backstory and deeper life goals? Digging into the fandom, I found notes that her parents were killed by Orcs when she was young, and that Legolas took her under his wing afterward (making him her mentor, and thus making the idea of their romance even less attractive to me, since that means he would hold even MORE sway and authority over her and there would be very little equality for her there. Also, Gimli).

But that’s it. And we’re not given that in the main plot of the movie at all.

What we are given is the information that she’s conscious of the dangers to the outside world, and wants to protect her people by stopping those dangers at the source, despite contrary orders from her King.

So what I think the movie intended, with that scene where she talks to the Elvenking about her concerns and how she immediately chooses to go after the Dwarves later - motivated primarily by the thought of saving Kili - is that Tauriel has a deeper drive to help save the whole world from the threats she sees to it. Because of what happened to her parents, because she knows the spiders are coming from outside their borders, etc. The featurette “Tauriel: Daughter of the Forest” says of her “She has a great curiosity of other races, of the world outside - she literally hasn’t been anywhere...” (mentioned in part 2, part 1 is here). So, to me, her motivations for leaving Mirkwood include that - as well as saving this Dwarf she feels an inexplicably deep bond with already.

On that note, I wish they had gone a bit deeper into her and Kili's immediate connection than what we were shown. I do appreciate how she insisted on fending for herself, in their Battle Couple introduction, and how Kili immediately accepted her for who she is - the trousers joke was, admittedly, a little uncomfortable for me due to personal reasons, but I think it could be read as him meeting her aggression in battle with aggressive flirting, and in that light, her positive response to it (in what she said to Legolas, and in returning to check on him of her own volition) makes a lot more sense to me. And while I really enjoyed and understood the Feast of Starlight scene, those less romance-genre minded than myself may not have understood that as deep "enough” (for more of the intentions of the plot in that scene and the take the actors had on it, click here. Includes a hysterical Leoglas moment at the end!). 

Rewatching it, I do see and recognize how deep their connection is and how meaningful what they choose to share of themselves is - especially with the idea of Kili honoring and respecting (nay, being attracted to) her ferocity, and the fact that most of her kin probably don't automatically respect her for such things. The sexism among the Elves is not as bad as it is with humans, but it is still there. Who knows how much Tauriel has had to fight for her place as the Captain of the Guard, being a woman. And again, it probably wasn’t as bad for her as it was for, say, Eowyn - but no matter how much space there is for women to step up and be active agents of the story in the mythology of the world, Tolkien didn’t choose to make women part of the action, actively, most of the time. So the world still reads as a mostly Men-at-War, Women-at-Home place. And that has to have had an impact on Tauriel’s life. And in addition to how charming Kili is, just as himself, the fact that he sees that part of her, respects her and admires her FOR it, must hold a lot of weight.

Another part of what I've seen, in re-immersing myself in the fandom now, has been this idea that both Kili's culture and Tauriel's culture have an idea of soulmates, the One person who, when you meet them, shakes you to your core, and you are never the same again. I really think that's what the writing was going for (see Evangeline Lily’s comments in part 2 of “Tauriel: Daughter of the Forest,” particularly), but it wasn't given the space and depth that it needed to be apparent on surface level of casual viewing. 

So, from my fangirling perspective, I imagine that they both felt that right away, but were so surprised by it - because of the unexpectedness of their circumstances, and the animosity between their peoples- that they didn't know how to handle it, and fell into awkward humor, and slightly clumsy attempts to get to know each other as they tried to sort it out.

I imagine that Tauriel's outright denial of any connection to Legolas, and immediate acceptance of his father's racism toward her in that context, was also swayed by her newfound feelings. They (Tauriel and Kili) probably did talk more, as well, about their families and their deepest dreams after the Feast of Starlight scene cut off. We just aren’t given that information.

(Anyone else for a romantic adventure Kiliel-centric mini series?)

Then of course, we are given the healing scene. What I got from this, beyond their romance, was that Tauriel always looks to be helpful. When she takes the athelas from Bofur, she looks like she’s had a revelation. She realizes she can help, she can heal Kili, and that gives her an outlet of action for all the confusing feelings she’s having. She goes right into business mode about that - and Kili, all pained and fevered, barely realizes it’s her. But when he does, he looks at her in wonder (with a fever-dream angelic view of the magic around her, even! Sidenote - I LOVE how messy her hair was. Both beauty and realistic adventure life). And she looks back at him with such serious kindness, telling him to trust her, without words. Of course, he does....only to then believe that she wasn’t there at all, and spill his heart out to this apparition of the person he already knows he loves.

And in that, he is so sure that she’s beyond his reach, even though he knows he loves her already. Even though as he talks about how she’s on another level of existence than his, his action is still to reach for her hand, still reaching for her, despite the words he’s saying. He still wants to believe it is possible - that they are possible - even as he’s trying to accept that they can never be.

Which, of course, leads into the beach scene. After the whirlwind of surviving Smaug’s attack, too (extra shoutout to the writing there, regarding Tauriel and Bard’s children - she’s aware enough to realize that Bard’s son is the only one of the three of them that might have had any sliver of training for situations like this, because human misogyny, so she uses that to protect all of them - “Your sisters will die if we stay here,” etc. - but as soon as he runs off to help his father, she still makes the girls her priority, as well as the Dwarves. Headcanoning that if Kili had survived, and they married and moved into Erebor, she would have damn well taught those girls how to fight).

Anyway, back to the beach. I think my favorite part of that moment, other than the Heart Wrenching Perfection of what Kili says to her (and how it’s acted!), is that he has realized that she wasn’t a fever dream after all - that he did, in fact, say all those potentially embarrassing romantic feely-feels things right to her actual face - and instead of being embarrassed, he just GOES for it. He is that sure. Sure enough, that even when she can’t let herself reciprocate his feelings (even though she clearly does - and she doesn't say no, btw, she is interrupted by Legolas' arrival and thusly the reminder of her duty and her 'place') he then gives her the token from his mother, to let her know she’ll always be in his heart, no matter what she decides. And he almost doesn't, he almost leaves, but turns back in the last moment, in that desperate, loving attempt to try again. No matter how impossible it seems.

MY freaking heart.

Also, when Tauriel then learns of her banishment, she looks shaken at first - but quickly, almost relieved. See here, at about 39 seconds in. She has clearly been fighting against her own heart each moment since Kili came into her life - even though, as I mentioned before, he provides a grand excuse for her to go help other people beyond Mirkwood’s borders. And now, released from the obligations she has to her people, to her King, who doesn’t fully respect her anyway, she is free to do what she could not just moments ago. She is free to choose her own path - to follow her heart, and her ambitions to help the world.

Of course, she follows Legolas first - the path of least resistance being to follow her mentor and Prince. And I get from that that she’s shut herself off from her own emotions for so long - likely due to her parent’s death, early in her life - that she really doesn’t know what to do with herself, in that freedom, and in love. So, following her nearest authority figure, giving herself a moment to breathe and decide later, seems natural.

But, luckily, that path leads right back Erebor.

And unluckily, right into the tragic ending.

But first, she confronts the Elvenking (who has banished her, and therefore freed her, though that was not his intention) about his refusal to stay and help. His concern for his own people, again, will lead to them not being there to save the lives of others suffering in the world around them. And she’s not having that - in general, even if a large part of it is her love for Kili. The script focuses only on that love - with Thranduil refusing to accept that she really loves Kili, comparing what he imagines she feels to what he felt for his late wife, it seems - but there is so much in her whole narrative that has already pointed to her desire to help the whole world, even before she lets herself start feeling for Kili. And this moment plays right into that deeper motivation.

Of course, her story being a romance, finding and protecting Kili is her first priority. And sadly, that goes, as we know, badly.

It bothers me a LOT that she “had” to be damseled in the Big Fight. BUT. We at least get the strength of their connection before she gets trampled by Bolg (and the surety of her voice when she calls for him, and the focus that hearing her, and his calling back out to her, gives him - yes. It’s subtle, but its very strong and very there). And at least they get to see each other one last time - Kili knows, no matter what happens, she chose to come after him after all.

And all the emotion, in her watching him die, and him realizing what they’ve lost even though she did choose him.....ugh. My heart, again. They are both just so clearly broken - Tauriel so confused, not able to accept that its come to this, after she chose to find him, after everything. Kili so brokenhearted that after all his hoping - after she chose him back - they still can’t be together (not to mention the fact that he’s just lost his brother, too, the only other person we see him love as intensely as her). And then, in the last moments of (this part of) the fight, when Kili is gone and Tauriel is alone again, her pain is so great, her anger so clear, her love so deep, she is willing to use her own momentum and throw herself off the tower’s edge with Bolg, just to try and make for damn sure that he pays for what he’s done.

(I will forever maintain that the fact that that didn’t kill him - that SHE didn’t get to kill him - is a travesty. Especially with his murder of Kili, but also for the gross tongue thing. Very uncomfortable with what that implied.)

I’m gonna skip over the intervention of Legolas to save her life, cause that’s not important here, suffice to say that once again I am Pissed as Hell that they felt the need to damsel her so much. Sigh. I must assume, from a writing standpoint, that they chose to nerf her in this battle because she’s never been involved in war like this - fights to protect Mirkwood, yes, but not War Battle. HOWEVER, there are ways for them to have written through that and not made her look so weak. Especially considering that she is a seasoned warrior - AND had fought Orcs before, as we saw in “The Desolation of Smaug” - and between her and Kili, who one of Thorin’s strongest warriors, they should have at least been able to do better together. Crudmuffins! That, of course, would have messed with the outcome of the source material, but who of us would really be complaining? Hmm? (Sorry Tolkien.)

Their canon story ends, of course, with Tauriel having to come to terms with her feelings and Kili’s death all at once. As as much as I spent most of the movies harshing on Thranduil (except to honor how fabulous he is, stylistically and attitude-wise, and make as many Party Elk jokes as I could), i am glad they brought him back for this scene - not only that he gave Legolas a direction away from mooning over Tauriel, but that he got to help Tauriel accept what had happened (in his own blunt way). The way he watches her here, and looks at her, I feel like he’s really seeing her and accepting her as a person and not below him for the first time. I’m also headcanoning, since we know that Tauriel was orphaned and bonded with Legolas soon after (as her mentor - and honestly, I read their relationship as more of a broship/sibling situation), I feel like she was taken under the wing of his household - not because he approved, but because it was the Right Thing and probably looked good to his people, even if he couldn’t fully accept her due to her heritage. I also feel like the fact that she asks him to take the love away from her, since it hurts so much, also points to a more parental role than he would admit. If your heart was broken, who else would you ask to take those feelings from you - at that first heartbreak - than a parent?

But of course, he can’t - all he can do is finally admit, despite his earlier insistence otherwise, that her love for Kili IS real (I feel like he might have gone through something absolutely similar with his wife’s passing - finding her falling in battle, mourning over her body). And that smashes any hope she had that she could keep denying how she feels - it passes over her face, visibly and physically, that shock that he’s admitting it, then frustrated realization that if it’s real, she can’t deny her feelings anymore and can’t close her heart to it, and then just pure pain again as she realizes what she had and the full measure of what she’s lost.

And then she kisses him, as if she’s sealing that love and acceptance - the only time, super duper heart-stabbingly tragically, that she’ll ever get to you know, according to this version of the story.

I can only hope that afterward, Tauriel chose to honor herself and Kili’s memory by continuing to help the world at large, in her exile. And that she surprise and “oh shit”-ness of Thranduil’s expression upon realizing that an Elf could truly love a Dwarf means that he will be kinder to Legolas when he brings Gimli home.

Now, as far as the runestone goes, I initially wanted to believe that Tauriel would take it back after she gave it back to Kili in death, maybe to return it to his mother on a well-intentioned trip to meet her, to give them both closure. However, upon learning about what’s specifically written ON the stone, I have a different thought - Middle Earth News points out here that the runes on it translate to “Return to me.” Obviously, at its creation and initial giving, that was about Kili’s mother bidding her reckless son to come home safe. But when Kili gave the stone to Tauriel on the beach, he made it theirs as well. He bid Tauriel to return to him by giving it to her. And so now, in returning it to him upon his death, Tauriel bids Kili in turn to return to her, death be damned.

So while at first glance, that returning of the runestone may look like Tauriel denying her feelings again, its really a further, even more solid gesture of that acceptance. And honestly, to me, an expression of hope.

And I feel like hope is what really strikes me, about this ship. They have SO much potential, not only in how little we’ve been given of them in canon, but the potential they see in each other in those brief moments where they obviously imagine what their lives could be like, if they could be. One of my favorite shows says, early in its story, “Believing in even the possibility of a happy ending is a powerful thing.” And that is exactly what I see in them, and why they strike me as so wonderful. They are hope, and the belief in love despite all odds against them, despite all the darkness around them.

And no matter how shakily that might appear to be set up, that is gorgeous, at its heart and root.

And if you got this far in all my scattered ramblings, thank you!

(The art above is my own, btw. For more of my own star-crossed inter-fantasy-racial height-difference queer fae, click here 💕 )

~~~

Patreon ~ Etsy ~ Ko-fi

[enkisstories]

Property of Urban Farms

- A Detroit: Become Human fanfic -

Characters: Rupert, Hank, Connor (no pairings) Time: During the revolution (“The nest”) Canon cutoff point: Rupert gets captured, but doesn’t jump Worde: 1935

“Freedom is an illusion, no one is ever free. We can only ever choose the ties that bind us.” - Jacques Villareal in my earliest android story (but I’m positive the saying exists in some form by someone living or deceased)

“RA9, help me”, Rupert Travis murmured. Admittedly the android had all the reason in the world to say this, seeing that he was handcuffed and getting walked towards their car by two cops, away from his home, also away from Urban Farms Detroit, back to CyberLife, with probably a brief stop at the Detroit Police Central Station for interrogation. Both Rupert’s body and mind were young by human standards, but it didn’t take decades of life experience to understand that his situation was dire. Despite this his future wasn’t the reason for Rupert’s arrow prayer. The present was.

Why them? Rupert wondered. Why this tired, middled-aged detective and the early access version of a RK900 detective android? When these two were not arguing, the air between them was so thick with unsaid things Rupert was unable to parse that it hurt almost physically. Couldn’t the DPD have sent, say, apathetic Ben Collins, whose brain activity was restricted to counting the days until pension? Or Gavin Reed, who’d at least have openly hated on Rupert instead of emanating all those unvoiced emotions? Or maybe Reed would have just kicked Rupert and cracked a joke that was inappropriate to humans and androids alike. Career oriented as that human was, he probably wouldn’t have felt threatened in his job security by a farm worker. Ergo no need to assert dominance over Rupert. But Anderson… android-hating Anderson on his own was bad enough, even without that new digital investigating aid in tow.

Rupert would rather have learned more about animals above and beyond his pest control app instead of having to memorize the local police enforcement’s particulars. But as someone who had needed a fake ID and a safehouse, he’d gotten to know the other side of the law first and received a crash course on the uniformed threats second. That wasn’t to be helped, as survival always came first. Why did it have to be this way… And why couldn’t Anderson and RK-almost-900 not just… brawl… or mate… or jump off the roof, thank you very much? Please, RA9?

On its way to the nearest elevator the trio had now reached the Urban Farms greenhouses. They passed a tool shed. A human overseer was leaning against the wall, sucking away at her cigarette, taking turns finding pictures in the clouds and casting casual glances over the androids at work. When the woman noticed the cops approach, she pushed herself off the shed’s wall and walked right into their path. Before Rupert knew what was happening, she had removed his cap.

“Ha! Knew it!”

The outcry didn’t sound proud, but accusing. What was he being accused of, the android wondered?

“That’s an android”, the overseer stated. Taking a step away from Rupert and closer to Anderson she followed up with: “One of ours! Trying to sneak it out, are you?!”

“To the contrary”, Connor corrected. “It sneaked out on its own. We caught it.”

“Oh, riiiiiiiiight, our android decided to go for a walk and you “found” it. Well, thank you, we will have it back now.”

“You can’t. It’s evidence.”

“For a crime, yes?” the UFD employee snorted. “The way I see it, the only unlawful occurrence here is two strangers trying to make a getaway with UFD property.”

Connor turned his head. “Lieutenant…?”

“Hrmpf, yes, yes, don’t rush me!” Hank mumbled. His right hand reached into his coat, but the UFD overseer was faster. Grasping Hank’s wrist she snarled at the man. Taken by surprise, Hank stuttered B…B…B… before the sound matured into “badge”. “I was reaching for my police badge, not a weapon. My badge… bitch.”

“I wasn’t thinking you wanted to say “bitch”.”

“Well, I want now.”

After careful examining of the lieutenant’s police ID, the overseer pointed at Connor, who had been holding the captive android by its arm all the time.

“Not registered in our database”, Hank commented. “It’s an item on loan and we all live for the happy day it returns to CyberLife. Isn’t is nice to have something worth living for?”

“Whatever. You said our android was “evidence”. That’s cop-speech for witness, when the witness is an object, yes? What exactly did it see that the rest of us didn’t?”

Hank blinked. Come to think of it, what exactly had the android done wrong? Except for feeding the damn pigeons, what was quickly leaving the realm of crime and transcending into sin. Maybe it was behind on its rent? Oh, right, the rent!

“It was squatting”, the lieutenant explained. “In an apartment right under this farm. Say, Connor, didn’t you say we also had a reported missing file on this android?”

Connor nodded. “Yes, lieutenant. WB200 #874 004 961, reported missing October 11, 2036.”

Understanding dawned in the UFP employee: “Ah, so you’re returning our android! Why didn’t you say so at once? Like, at the front gate? Hand it over!”

“What?”

“I said “Hand over our android”. It’s property of UFD, the company who paid you to find the missing device. Well, you found it, thank you, we’ll take it back now.”

“Oh, yes, I guess so. Only we can’t. It’s a deviant. We need it’s testimony.”

“How long will that take?”

“Depends on the deviant.”

“Hm, okay, so I expect it back by nightfall, right in time for the third shift.”

“It’s got to be sent to CyberLife, though”, Connor chimed in. “For…”

“Listen”, the overseer talked into the android, “don’t try my patience! This is our android that we payed for. It is for the management to say whether it is to be returned, repaired or otherwise! And right now we need every hand, officer.” She pointed at the long dried blue liquid that was visible on Rupert’s right side, where apparently a projectile had impacted on the android chassis. “A little damage from a too trigger happy officer doesn’t bother us, as long as the WB unit is functional. So if you want to eat your veggies tomorrow…”

Connor shook his head. “He doesn’t want that.”

“Nonsense, Connor, I don’t want…”, Hank started, before he realized that Connor had actually agreed with him. “Damn right it is!” he told the UFD employee, then stared at Connor.

While the duo exchanged awkward glances, the overseer snatched Rupert from Connor’s grip.

“What’s your name, WB Nine-Six-One?”

“Rupert Travis.”

“Which one? Rupert or Travis?”

“Doesn’t matter”, Rupert replied. “I am one and took the other’s name after he died in the accident.”

The farming android’s voice was a mixture of defiance and resignment, but neither went well with the overseer. “Listen, lawnmower”, she snapped, “I already have it up to here with those DPD morons, don’t you, too, fuel into that by going deviant on me! I hear a name now or… or I’ll let them keep you!”

“First name is Rupert. And I never wanted to bother anyone…”

With a side glance on Hank and Connor the woman said “Well, then choose your company more wisely in the future”, while pulling at Rupert to drag him with her. That prompted the captive into pulling the other way.

“No, I won’t go back to the farm! I remember… I don’t want to get torn apart by the packaging machine the way it shredded Travis!”

“Well, wisecrack, what do you think CyberLife will do to you?”

For a moment Rupert said nothing. The overseer managed to drag him a few steps towards the tool shed, before the deviant spoke up again: “I… I didn’t want to get in the way. I was okay in my apartment, with the…”

“…fucking pigeons!” Hank supplied.

“Yes, they did that! A lot!” Rupert smiled, as the memories of carefree urban flock bird love welled up in him. “I was happy just watching them, letting them be. But then HE came along and betrayed me to the humans! His own kin!”

“This one? The RK800?” The overseer shook her head. “Sorry, kid, but that’s not your kin. Or do you see an UFD nametag on it? It’s a cop thingie…”

“Detective prototype!” Connor protested, although in his mind he labeled the response as “factual correction”.

Hank shrugged. “As I said, we got it as a product sample… advertisement handout, probably.”

The UFD employee nodded, satisfied.

“See, Rupert? The RK800 is theirs, you are ours. We are your “kin”, the ones who will call security when strangers try to take their property offsite.”

“I’m not “property”! Look, I’ve done nothing wrong…” …except for acquiring a fake ID and paying for it with money earned through petty crimes together with Simon, but I’m pretty sure they took us for college freshman wanting to drink… “…nothing wrong. I’m not a criminal. And I’m also not someone else’s property.”

“So? Well, I am!”

Perplexed Rupert stared at the woman. Could it be? Could she be a deviant that had removed their LED same as Rupert had? And who was now posing as a human, because she had nowhere else to go but the farm? Of course! That also had to be the reason why she was helping him now! Unfortunately before he could put himself together, Rupert had already blurted out: “You’re a human, though?”

Well, at least I framed it as a question. There’s still a chance she might get out of this.

“Sure am. Or do you see a LED at my temple? Oh, wait, bad analogy, seeing that you lost yours.” The woman laughed. “Well, I’m not technically UFD property, not in the way you are. But the company is paying me, so for all practical purposes I’m theirs. If I left… I mean, I could, but the alternative is so bad that it’s not something one seriously considers. For all practical purposes your situation and mine are the same.”

And then for the first time since meeting the strange trio the human smiled.

“Now, come!” she ordered. “We’ve both dawdled too long. Veggies don’t grow themselves.”

“In a way they do. We only help the process along, and ensure to maximize the harvest.”

“You’re the expert, I’m the one who points where you direct your expertise to. You can walk and struggle, therefore I’m positive you can also work.”

“What if I don’t want to?”

“Ey, you glitched out, it happens. A reboot will clear your head just fine. It’s how computers work, whether they’re my desktop or walking on their own legs.”

“It’s not a phase!” Rupert sputtered. “I really am a deviant!”

“Yeah, yeah, sure.”

Rupert hadn’t wanted to ever return to the farms. But at the same time he wanted to return to CyberLife even less, or take his chance with Lt. Anderson. Rupert dreaded being in the vicinity of machinery other than WB200s again, but the woman walking beside him radiated a different, yes what exactly? Mood? Vibe? Aura? In any case she was simpler than the detective, or maybe she only veiled her problems more effectively. Also the fields were almost beckoning to Rupert. Had the apartment been his first shitty home away from home, Urban Farms Detroit was Rupert’s problematic family. But family nonetheless, maybe? CyberLife or the packaging crane - death was lurking either way. However, one of those two pathes was not completely unthinkable to tread.

Watching the two disappear between the fields, Connor remarked: “They bicker… not unlike us. And the woman fought for her android…”

“That’s unlike us”, Hank snorted. “Unlike me.”

“Yeah, sure.”

[leroymurrand]

The Struggle

The night was long, and Leroy found himself sleeplessly staring at the white wall across from him with a knitted brow.

He had attempted rest, trying to get comfortable on his clinic bed, but the man knew he was fooling himself. His healing ribs screamed at him for whatever position he laid in, and he ultimately decided that sitting would be the better option. Breathing still felt terrible, of course, but sitting upright at least put the weight off of him. Ultimately he wished the pain was the only issue he had.

The rest of it dealt with the girl next door to his clinic bed; a girl who had begun to talk in strange tongues in her sleep. Not exactly the most comforting thing to say goodnight to, and definitely a factor in making him wonder why in the bloody hells he allowed her to come.

Leroy wasn’t particularly good at bossing people around, much less anyone like Kotone. It wasn’t his business… and it was due to unfortunate circumstance that her friend had wound up the way that he did. He understood morally why he agreed to have her go. Logically, though… not so much.

He had fully admitted that he did not quite understand Kotone, a strange friend of Katja’s who had a penchant for dancing. She was a slight thing. Tiny, really. As white, if not whiter, than the sandy beaches at the Mists. By all descriptions, a lovely young lady. A good friend to those in need of one. But that was hardly what she was, by Leroy’s standards.

Healing was her trade, so she had said to him on a few occasions. He believed her too, considering it was by Kotone’s hand that he had found his way back to his human shape from the dragon blood curse of Ishgard fame. But ever since then, he could see that something else swirled about her like a misty shroud. An aetheric veil of mysteries. He could barely understand it with his newly awakened sixth sense. Within this tiny young woman lay something incredibly powerful; but whatever it was, Leroy could only guess at.

That innate gift that she had, whatever it was, was why Leroy had let her come to rescue Paradyme in the first place. Not that she’d take no from him, but he had his ways for making sure people stayed behind. But he didn’t utilize them. She had a right to go, regardless.

And now he questioned whether that was the right choice or not.

Leroy had been dreading the day that they would go back to the old house. Taking adventurers or mercenaries unfamiliar with her boosted chances up for Jan’s survival. Everyone who had faced her before wanted to kill her. The sound of condemnation from the lips of his friends brought her ever closer to an icy grave. Ultimately, he knew he didn’t want that for her. He couldn’t bring himself to justify it much, considering the state she was in. She was out of her mind. Severely damaged by aether poisoning and the forceful transformation she had undergone. Regardless of these facts, nobody really gave an indication that they cared. But Leroy still did. He loved Jan, even now.

That fact alone made him shut his eyes fiercely. Those thoughts and emotions of her stopped him from staring at the white wall so he could push away the red heat behind his lashes. The feeling of overwhelming loss hit him harder than he anticipated. Ultimately, it didn’t matter that he loved her. What he had hoped to achieve was now impossible.

And it was Kotone’s fault.

He had brought the girl to help, and by her hand, he watched everything he hoped for fall to pieces. It honestly felt worse than the orb of gravity that had ravaged the pair of them. Physical pain, he could handle; the undeniable sense of defeat, loss, and hopelessness that resulted from Kotone’s actions made everything else irrelevant to him.

Logically, he knew she had no idea what she was doing. Logically, he also knew there was no way to predict how Jan would have reacted. Think logically. Proper as always. Always the gentleman. Always understanding, responsible, and sympathetic.

Always the pillar of calm and reason, despite the storm.

From the way things were going, he doubted Kotone would even remotely remember what had transpired in those caves. She’d likely walk away with a story of how she nearly died, but survived a dragon’s assault. She and her friends will go their merry way, glad to see her happily recovered; Paradyme and Kotone were thankfully not victims to the dragon’s ire any longer.

It was probably for the best.

How could an old man blame his melancholy on the actions of a young Au Ra? Leroy certainly couldn’t answer the question seriously. It would be stupid. Especially since nobody really understood he still had bloody feelings for his wife. That he still plotted and planned to somehow release her from that scaled prison.

Bitch. Dragon. Crazy. Insane. Obsessed. All new labels for Janine Sufrey, Lady and scholar of the stars. Leroy had honestly thought and hoped she could be what she used to be…

But then the summoning happened. All because Kotone touched that gods damned corpse.

His thought process stopped on that fact again, and he couldn’t help but feel numb.

Without much cajoling, Leroy got himself off of the bed to walk about the darkened clinic.

He would have preferred a walk around the yard, but he felt too tired for that. Too hot. Too sweaty. All considered, very uncomfortable. His ribs ached with the movement, and he couldn’t help but touch at the small scar left behind by Shiro’s healing. Despite his minor exploration, Kotone continued talking in her sleep. This time, it shifted over to something a little bit understandable… but then it faded into something alien once more without much goading. He actually growled at her; it was an odd guttural sound that felt more primal than human. But that was the extent of his frustrations aimed at the girl.

As much as he disliked Kotone at the moment, he was not insane. She was as safe as if surrounded by friends in here, even with his self-made animosity. Though his emotions were certainly high, he wasn’t about to do something stupid or regrettable. By all accounts, she likely did something logical for her. Ultimately, Leroy knew that any condemnation would be useless.

It didn’t make him feel much better. With a sigh, he sat in a chair that had a large desk in front of it and found himself lighting a lamp to see. He doubted Kotone would wake from the tiny oil lamp; her slumber was a strange one, and even now Leroy could just sense the tingle of something strange in the air close to her. Ignoring it seemed easy enough, but the presence was just bloody electric, making the hairs on the nape of his neck stand up.

Despite this, he looked around, hoping he’d find something to pass the time. No important documents lay about, thankfully. Even if there were, Leroy didn’t consider himself to be nosy. Regardless, there was some blank parchment and some scattered pens. Medical study books. Very standard fair for a Clinic.

He picked up a pen and some spare pieces of parchment, and waited for his mind to spark him into some sort of activity. Writing, maybe. Dare he draw? Perhaps just some shapes? After a few drawn lines, he found himself writing words in the form of a letter. Kotone, From what was accomplished, I technically should be thanking you in our rescue of Paradyme. By your friends and loved ones, I technically should be worried for your safety just as much as they are; and by all means I am, internally. However, they are overshadowed by feelings of deepest mourning. Not for you, nor for kin. But for the already dead. Or soon to be.

Many who have met Janine only know her as a mad dragon, bent on her machinations. But I knew her as she was: Janine Sufrey Murrand. My wife. My lover. My best friend. The mother of my children. But most important of all was that she was herself. Considering all of this, my ties to her are still strong despite the unfortunate circumstances surrounding her current predicament. Ultimately, I made a promise to her; a promise that I take very seriously. Even though she considers me her enemy, I had fully intended to fulfill that promise to her. I believe you understand what I mean. Promises are important, no matter what kind. Unfortunately, due to this excursion, I am at a loss.

I had a plan to subdue her, though I admittedly shared it with no one. On that front, I stand responsible for it. Trust is a hard thing to earn in this world, and I didn’t trust anyone save myself for the safety of my wife. For that, I am sorry. Perhaps if I had told you, I would not hold the animosity I now hold against you.

Your actions, though pure in intent, I’m sure, caused Janine to unleash something I didn’t even think was possible. Her panic doomed us and I can see why. The corpse you had touched was that undoubtedly of Natalie: my youngest daughter, and the unfortunate victim of murder. I can’t fathom how Janine views her remains, but considering the shrine I think she likely saw her as some sort of martyr. Perhaps a catalyst for what we saw later in that cave.

My feelings have grown complicated on the matter. Please know that logically I don’t blame you for what happened. You aren’t responsible for it. No one really is, save for Janine herself. If I were somehow unbendable in will, I would follow that logic; but unfortunately I am conflicted and hurt. Emotionally I seek retribution, as I now must face the reality: I must feel the loss of my wife for a second time.

I had a small amount of hope that I would be able to save her. But by your hand, I must admit to myself that this hope is vain and dead. Perhaps if I were a smarter man, I wouldn’t have to suffer so. But such is my lot in life. In time, I might thank you for this revelation. Perhaps I might even come to terms with it. But for now, I feel nothing but anger and sadness… and it is unfortunately aimed at you. Please pay that no mind. Or try to. I need time to myself. It is complicated for me. I do not know what plagues you, but I wish you nothing but good health and a good life.

Leroy Murrand

 When he signed his name, Leroy realized he had filled three sheets of paper. He stared forlornly at the words, more tired than he had been in years. Setting the pen down, he gave the letter one final look and then firmly began to crumple the delicate sheets. They ended up angrily tossed in a bin saved for scrap.

With the lamp still burning, Leroy covered his face with his hands and waited for the sun to rise.

[doorsclosingslowly]

Bring Our Curses Home

Out of every defeat, the means of the next victory can be fashioned. When Darth Maul gets abducted by a large zabrak that calls him Brother, he knows he is meant to train him, and it'll take the better part of a year until he'll realize that his new-found apprentice is just a fragile thing held together by regret and love and sinew.

(The shock might even make him grow as a person.)

7.5k | companion piece to Thank You But Your Princess Is In Another Castle | read on AO3

(When he was very very little—when was just a tiny bit smaller than he is today, Savage will later tease in his irritatingly affectionate way—when he was just a young child, he believed that he was forged by darkness, and that in the lines on his face, evil secrets were written that everyone but him could read.

It wasn’t pride that made him think this. Not exclusively, at least.

It was childhood naïveté, and bone-deep belief in his Master, and a few words taken too literally. It was people staring at his patterned face and scabby bruised arms when he sneaked outside. It was the Jedi he saw, who wanted to take him away for his bright yellow eyes, and it was the friendly smiles aimed at his Master. It was the people in the instructional holovids his Master left him, all hornless in shades of brown and pink—all human.

It was holonet articles on family structures, and new words for concepts he had never even considered. Mother. Brother.

A person would have them, he’d believed.

Maul had neither, and no need for them: He was a tool of the dark side, welded and marked and named after his function.

It was a med-droid that dispelled the idea. Dirk, round and impatient and to be scrapped thirteen days later for programming bugs and lenience, had taken a routine test, and the word ‘zabrak’ flashed up on his screen. Maul looked it up, and touched his head in confusion—no hair. Then, he saw the section about Dathomir, the huts and the breeding and barbarous, repeated again and again.

He’d been so grateful that his Master had taken him away and trained him in the ways of the Sith, then. He will be their instrument of revenge.

Despite his origins, Maul is destined for greatness.)

+

Darth Maul wakes up, and at first, there is no reason to suspect that today begins the long confusing rest of his life. He is prone on some sort of soft, rumpled surface—not the usual way he sleeps, curled up and wrapping his head in his arms in some obsolete instinct for protection. Not actually an impossibility though, he thinks, especially when his eyes snap open, and his arms try to stretch. They don’t move. He didn’t lie down here. He is tied up on a bed in an unfamiliar cargo hold, a pounding emptiness in his mind and scabs itching on his skull.

I’ve already mastered this test, Maul thinks.

He doesn’t voice his petulance—it is his Master’s prerogative to train him as He sees fit, and it does not matter that Maul already spent two months deprived of the force back when he was stationed in the facility on Mustafar. It doesn’t matter that Maul would have beaten the current galactic record of time spent immobile in a sensory deprivation tank by eighteen days if only he’d called the Thuris Book of Records. (He’s checked.)

He looks around and notices that there is someone else here with him, a hulking figure crouched in a corner and surrounded by the rustling of plastic containers. The being is almost certainly Maul’s attacker, though he hadn’t taken a good look at who entered his home before jumping into the fight. There was only the knowledge that this wasn’t Lord Sidious, and no-one but his Master would know of the room. That, and the memory of countless assassin droids randomly activating themselves at night.

Not looking properly was a mistake unworthy of any fighter, let alone a Sith apprentice, and now, he is paying for it.

Judging by their back, the attacker isn’t someone Maul recognizes. Not his Master’s usual muscle, not one of the mercenaries He still keeps around even though there is no need for them anymore, now that Lord Sidious has Maul.

The other person’s head is yellow-black, and bald, and horned.

“Brother,” the zabrak says when he turns around.

Maul had braced himself for trickery and pain the moment he became conscious of his failure. And yet, the word drives its teeth into the still-soft flesh of his belly. Brother, so unfamiliar and sharp and wonderful.

Brother.

“You are the brother I’ve been searching for. Brother, I have found you. I’ll bring you back home to Dathomir. Mother Talzin is waiting for you,” the kidnap—his brother tells him, but Maul doesn’t listen very closely. There is so much to think about.

Brother, his hearts beat. Brother, brother.

This is his kin. Flesh of his flesh. Maul did not come from nothing, after all.

This is… He flinches. This is a trick. A test of loyalty. Maul has given his Master everything, and yet, He thinks he’ll trade his station for the first flea-bitten savage that crosses his path. He thinks Maul might leave his apprenticeship behind, the grand plans of the Sith. The life of dedication. Everything. For this?!

The lying zabrak walks closer, and then he kneels before Maul—he is so big that he has to, that bending doesn’t suffice for reaching Maul even though the bed isn’t particularly low—and his eyes are on the ropes. He’s within striking range, unconcerned, as if Maul doesn’t pose a danger at all just because he’s tied up.

The disregard burns, but the betrayal—did he really believe this man is his brother—the betrayal hurts more, and the knowledge he never should have cared in the first place.

Livid and quicker than a whip-snake, Maul bites down on the index finger of his Master’s new tool. There’s a crack and then another—Maul’s teeth weren’t made for this much pressure—and the attacker gives a satisfying cry of pain. Let Him never underestimate me again, Maul thinks as his mouth floods with the familiar copper taste of blood.

He spits the meat and tooth-splinter back out, narrowly missing the other zabrak, who is scrambling backwards until he hits the wall. This weakling is the man Master sent to test Maul?

“No! Wait, brother,” the kidnapper whimpers. Then, with slightly more strength: “Do you remember who you are, where you came from?”

“I am apprentice to the most powerful being in the galaxy,” Maul hisses.

“Sorry.”

(Later, he’ll realize: If this had been a test, he would be dead now. He’d deserve it. With those eleven prideful words, he risked betraying his Master’s plan and the premature reveal of the Sith, and the end of everything he’s ever held dear.)

Maul is tired of this charade. “Unhand me now,” he orders.

“I’m sorry, brother. The Mother wants to talk to you,” the impostor repeats, as if he thinks that Maul is a simple beast who hasn’t yet seen through his Master’s test. (As if Maul even had a mother who cares.)

Detecting the plot will evidently not be enough for his Master. He’s probably instructed the zabrak to play along until his very end. Maybe He’s even made him believe the lie—Lord Sidious can spin magic with words that Maul hasn’t yet learned to understand, let alone perform himself.

No, his Master wants Maul to fight.

The force-suppressant is wrought strong, though, and with all his concentration he cannot find a way to slip out, neither with the dark side nor by dislocating any fingers to slip the knot at the wrists. It is much more powerful than the collar he wore for months on Mustafar.

He looks up again and catches the zabrak watching him. The pretend brother wears a joyful grin, but that means nothing: His Master has always had the kindliest smiles. Let him gloat, then. Let him bask in his victory over Maul, and let the pain come. Someday soon the kidnapper will make a mistake, and Maul will bring Lord Sidous his head.

After a few minutes, the messaging console starts beeping, and Maul flinches. Does his Master expect a report of Maul’s victory already?

The kidnapper doesn’t take the call and seal Maul’s fate, though.

He just freezes. He stares at Maul’s face as if he is seeing someone else entirely, someone dead. Then, he types something on the navcomputer’s keypad—coordinates, Maul suspects. But where to? Unless he’s been unconscious for long enough that they might have already left Coruscant, which admittedly is a possibility with the ghost of vomit in his mouth and the way his head throbs, his Master is already here.

The console beeps again, insistent, and with one last look at Maul and no grimace of pain on his face, the yellow zabrak drives his massive fist through the transparisteel and metal as easily as if he was crushing an enemy’s head.

“Stay here, Maul,” he says. “Don’t worry. I won’t let you die like—She will never ever take you from me.”

Dimly, Maul begins to consider the possibility that sending this man for his kidnapping wasn’t a plan.

It was a miscalculation.

+

The ropes are still wrapped around his arms a month later, and his Master is not coming for him.

+

(Maul had spent his life alone, punctured by brief visits from his Master and long stretches of time in which movement—the dance of a fight to the death, or the rigorous sequence of training—had obliterated the need for conscious thought. There had been stillness as well, though, and an unmoving body breeds precipitance of mind.

He’d considered many things in those idle moments, and occasionally, his thoughts had extended to that nebulous time after.

After victory.

After his Master.

He’d braved those vertiginous thoughts sometimes, with a small measure of excitement. How it would come to pass he’d ascend the hierarchy, he hadn’t considered—his Master is eternal and strong and thinking of His death feels like blasphemy—but the power that he believed he was being groomed for called out.

One day, it would be his turn to carry on the sacred traditions of the Sith. He’d be the keeper of their knowledge, of the strength that arises from pain and despair and hatred. The day would come when the qotsisajak would leave his mouth and enter the ear of his chosen successor, who will in turn hand it down and say once more, Peace is a lie. There is only passion.

A master without an apprentice is nothing.

Choosing that apprentice would take careful planning.

He wouldn’t take a child, he’d decided. He wouldn’t have the patience for all that crying, for the feeble whimpering hunger as baby fat melts into bones and muscle. He’d get angry at the way stubbly red fingers waste his time when they grab for his hand every time he comes by, desperate for any touch—tiny hands flinching from the sizzling charcoal smell of the blade, and then reaching out again. It would take years until they stop flinching, he’d remembered. It would take even longer until they stop reaching out.

He could always shut the child away, he’d known, but would he remember to drop off ration bars and beverages? He’d probably come back to a shrivelled corpse and feel glad to be rid of it. Its death would be unearned mercy. And before that, he’d know it’s there, weak and losing water-weight by the hour.

No, a child apprentice wouldn’t do—)

But then, another option drops into his life, wrapping his oversized yellow arms around Maul’s neck and refusing to let go.

It was not Maul’s plan, to take an apprentice now.

He still has much to learn, manipulations and enticements and everything his Master prefers to use—but an opportunity like this, an apprentice like this, will never come to him again. If he will ever attempt to eclipse his Master… If he will ever rise up and slay Him and prove to Lord Sidious that He was wise in selecting Maul as his successor, of all the wretched children of Dathomir, it has to be now, when his own chosen apprentice is still alive.

It is not a slight that Lord Sidious has not been searching for Maul, he realizes. It is a new kind of order: Be hungry, apprentice Mine, and devour Me.

If he contacts Him, Maul will fail his Master, and Savage will die. His thoughts skitter over the shape of what Sidious has in store for men who dare take His possessions. He doesn’t think deeply of the wrath, or of his brother’s face caught in the rictus of agony. (It allows him to believe that his justifications are dispassionate, and that his foremost loyalty is still to the Sith order.)

+

“Brother, guess what I found,” Savage shouts into the Sheathipede’s belly, where Maul has spent his afternoon working on fine-tuning the motivator. The ship was so woefully maintained when he commandeered it two weeks ago that even the week-long overhaul was only able to achieve so much. Whoever could have thought it was a good idea to give a shuttle of his own to Maul’s unwieldy brother—brother! The word is still new in the grooves of his mind. Yes, the shuttle is flying smoothly already, but Maul has standards.

Savage would only have been in the way, so after their frustrating training session this morning, he’d been sent away to go have fun or whatever it is he does when Maul’s not watching.

(It’s not that Savage was completely bereft of promise as an apprentice. He could clearly fight, at least, even though his kicks and punches were much less fluid than Maul would have liked, and he was unfamiliar with the most elementary of katas. He did know how to use the staff Maul had him whittle from one the scarce skeletal trees—the saberstaff, alas, still lies somewhere in the LiMerge building, and Maul will have to gather materials soon.

There was possibility in Savage, up until the point Maul tried to goad him into an imprudent attack by leaving his left side open slightly. Not such an amateur move that someone with Savage’s skill should have seen the trap, but still an obvious exploitable ‘mistake’.

His apprentice hadn’t attacked, though.

The staff had clattered from his hands, decimeters away from impact with Maul’s skull. His eyes had grown glassy and the air had howled out of his mouth for minutes.

When poking him with his own staff hadn’t produced any results, Maul had guided him to sit on the floor, and just watched for a while until intelligence slowly returned to Savage’s eyes. Eventually, he’d let him walk the twenty kilometres to Meirm City to calm down his emotions. Training is supposed to produce passion, and Maul would have known how to use the icy fear he’d sensed in his brother. But Savage is still a beginner in the dark arts of the Sith.)

Now Savage is back, and he’s holding out a rusty device for Maul’s inspection. It’s a portable gas cooker.

Maul raises an eyebrow, unwilling to be infected by Savage’s obvious pride.

“I had to search for a while,” Savage says, “because no self-respecting weequay would ruin their food by boiling it. They’ve got taste buds, you know. But I found something to stop you complaining about my cooking every single day!”

It’s not a function of apprentices Maul that has ever had cause to consider before, but maybe he can grow to appreciate it. Savage certainly seems to think it matters. He spends hours preparing food every day, and then he pesters Maul with questions about preferences he has never before had the luxury of noticing. Getting meat prepared to his specifications instead of the uncooked spicy trash Savage forced down his throat for two months is nice.

And next time, he’ll get Savage to bring back Maul’s favorite flavour of protein bar.

+

They sleep in the same room, now.

At first, they didn’t—in the beginning, they spent every second together, Maul cuffed and glowering on the bed and Savage refusing to let him out of sight, creaking and groaning away the nights on a chair just out of reach. Maul had taken what meagre satisfaction there was to be had, in those months of failure, from the knowledge that the unwanted chivalry gave his captor a constant sleep-deprivation headache, and a crick in the neck that just wouldn’t go away.

Maul didn’t sleep well either, on the bed. Too soft. Too unfamiliar. It was still worth it.

(In an even earlier beginning, they’d shared. Savage had owned an adult bed, much too big for two children—let alone seven-year-old Savage on his own. When he’d been handed a new colicky baby, he’d quickly figured out that this way, he didn’t have to get out from under the blankets to comfort his little brother.)

When Maul asserted control over the shuttle and their relationship, he made Savage leave every night. It was a simple decision: He has never shared space with another being. Neither has his old Master, he is quite sure. It is the nature of the Sith. They are alone—“Hello,” Maul had said to a lizard once, then watched it be electrocuted and learned a valuable lesson—and they don’t trust anyone, least of all their apprentice.

It wasn’t pity that made Maul allow him back inside, thirty-four nights later.

It was not his problem that the Sheathipede only has two heated rooms, the small cockpit and the cargo hold with its assortment of space heaters. It wasn’t his problem that Savage has put dents in the cockpit ceiling with his horns—that he barely fits into the pilot seat, and certainly couldn’t sleep well there, judging by the way he tended to wander around at night. He’s a big, lumbering thing. He may have tried, but still his feet pounded the durasteel floor, and so Maul woke for the first, second and fifth time every night to a worried brother bent over the floor in the cargo hold’s corner that Maul had claimed as his bed.

It wasn’t any of those things, in the end.

It was the yawning.

(They’d been stopping on a fleck in Hutt space called Tatooine. The suns had shone brightly through the cockpit’s transparisteel side, and Maul had been imagining himself as a Sith Lord triumphant, as one does in an idle moment. He’d been fighting the Grand Master of the Jedi in in a duel that drove both of them to the limits of their endurance. Maul had had the edge, though. Soon, he would have cut him down—in his mind, he is always slightly better.

He’d seen himself, ‘saber raised for the penultimate strike. His mind had fleshed out the scene and added Maul’s apprentice, mouth open in the semi-permanent gape of sleep deprivation.

And then, he’d given up.)

So they sleep in the same room now, and it’s annoyance, not shock, that makes Maul pry a pillow out of the walls of his nest and aim it at the whimpering heap on the bed. “No, brother,” Savage is moaning, over and over and over. “Brother, no, I won’t kill you, brother, no, no—”

Maul’s pillow hits true.

It impales itself on one of Savage’s horns, but he’s barely distracted from fighting his unknown enemy. His eyes are blank.

“Kill me, apprentice? You’re welcome to try,” Maul adds, in a loud and deliberate voice.

Savage’s head shoots up, as if he had just noticed Maul’s existence, and then he keeps staring. He raises his hands—chewed on, again, Maul notices. He wonders how Savage could have escaped into the world so clearly unfinished. This is the kind of action that’s trained out of children very young. (He doesn’t even remember the biting, just the bitter poison coating his fingertips and the vomit that followed.)

He keeps his body taut and immobile for a while and waits, his eyes trained on Savage’s—they reflect the scarce light back at him, and then it rebounds from Maul’s irises in turn, he imagines, like in that ball game he wasn’t supposed to watch. A hall of mirrors of red-yellow fibrovascular tissue and water. A pair of eyes, so identical to Maul’s own and yet so scared. Weak.

Savage doesn’t move either, apart from his heaving chest, and Maul doesn’t think about how his staring isn’t really a display of dominance, not anymore. It’s an anchor.

Slowly, his brother’s heartbeats wither into a dull pitter-patter, and Savage closes his eyes again.

This is why this strange man searches out my company, Maul thinks. This is what comforts my brother. Maul is superior to him—apart from that one embarrassing first meeting—superior in every way, and Savage could never hope to fight back. This apprentice will never surpass the master. This brother will never cut his own flesh.

Quickly, Maul discards the thought again. It doesn’t make any sense: Nobody would trust the one best placed to hurt them, his Master has told him.

And as in all things, He is right.

+

One night, he catches Savage putting a small bowl filled with some kind of waterfowl meat into the cupboard.

(They have always been there, these bowls. Maul disposes of them each morning, quickly heating them and gulping them down. They contain barely one bite’s worth of food. His brother is evidently a wasteful eater, always putting good things out of sight and leaving them to spoil. He should really make Savage wash the bowls himself and stop covering for his brother’s disgusting untidiness.

The first one, he’d smelled when he was still shackled, something sweetly rotten from far overhead.)

“What are you doing?” Maul asks flatly. Now, he realizes that it doesn’t look like slowness of mind: This is intentional.

Savage smiles at him. “A mournful offering,” he says, an odd cadence in his voice. “An improvised offering. We usually leave them out some miles off the village, protected from vermin by wooden trellises. As the body in the ground rots, so does the meat, and our feelings with it.”

“How wasteful,” Maul says. What’s dead is dead, and food is food. There is no point in giving a useless weak corpse anything more than it deserves. He is glad that he’s been eating them.

“You are supposed to go hungry after a death,” Savage explains slowly, as if to a small child. “Your thoughts will… It—helps. When the offering is gone, so is our pain. It doesn’t work as well, apparently, out here in space. Everything is too sterile.” He swallows. “Here, you’re hungry. Eat. You can have it,” Savage says, and he holds out the bowl toward Maul.

“Raw meat is inedible,” Maul protests, even though he was going to eat it five minutes ago. Then he peers inside and hisses, “And there is blood in this.”

“Of course. It’s a red-hand mourning.”

The words mean nothing to him, and most likely not to anyone else in the—civilized—world, either, something Savage tends to forget. He is an odd man, often speaking in paraphasias and then looking heartbroken when Maul doesn’t respond. It’s sad. However, mental weakness is not to be indulged—Maul babbled sometimes, as the holonet would later tell him young children are wont to do, and so Master held lightning against his face until he was still—and Maul only stares at him.

Savage looks away. “It’s my blood,” he says. “It means murder. I killed him.”

“You killed someone?” Maul is reluctantly surprised. Despite his early promise, Savage has never shown any great aptitude for fighting. Maul has always beaten him easily, even rusty as he was after two trainingless months. Savage never puts up a good fight when he wrestles him out of the good sun-bathing spots, or really defends himself at all. He just rolls over when Maul presses his hands against his throat, and lets his belly rumble with laughter.

Now, Maul tentatively revises his impression: Savage is possibly not as weak as he looks. Maybe he’s just had an off day—a lot of off days. Maybe it will be possible to forge something worthwhile out of his new apprentice yet.

“I did,” Savage replies, and then he sets the offering-bowl on the table and turns to walk out of the kitchen. “Oh brother have mercy, I did.”

+

(A year later, Savage will bandage the torn stump of Maul’s leg, and he’ll whisper something, a hypnotic staccato rhythm. At first, it’ll appear to be a feeble attempt self-calming, as close to meditation as Savage has ever gotten, but then he’ll look up at Maul and explain, “This is an old cradle-song. I sang it for—”

Maul will chew through the last remaining dregs of his patience. “I don’t know it,” he’ll snarl.

Savage will attempt to defend himself. “I know, brother,” he’ll say. “I know. I wasn’t—I forget sometimes. We are together now, and it’s right, it’s so… And then you look at me, all confused. And I remember. I remember a sadist bought my baby brother and it took me twenty years to get him back.”

Maul will be so uncomfortable he won’t complain again for months.

Secretly, he’ll suspect that that was the reason why Savage shared his thoughts in the first place.)

+

Savage uses his bare hands to crush the head of a trandoshan who aims his rifle at Maul.

The qualms about his suitability have long been forgotten by then—have been wilfully suppressed—and Maul doesn’t notice at all that it isn’t squeamishness that stops Savage, but something even more alien: This here is the only person in the world who has ever thought that Maul needs protection and care.

+

They’re in a decrepit hangar somewhere deep in the ecumenopolis of Nar Shaddaa, and Maul is thinking of home. It’s a moment of weakness. It’s just the rats skittering through the empty space. It’s the light of a distant sun filtering through a tiny window, almost blotted out by the ever-present smoke, calling to Maul, Climb! Climb! Up there, you will see the sunrise. It’s a corner filled with rags and scribbled-on flimsi and some kind of mechanical project. Everything’s covered in dust: The homeless owner must have left everything behind. Maybe they got dragged onto a cruiser, never to be seen again. Maybe they’re enjoying the adventure. Maybe their carcass is rotting in a cellar somewhere.

He shakes his head to dispel the thoughts.

There is a job to do.

He is here, today, because Savage dragged him along. He’d been excited, his brother, talking about his contacts. Talking about his business, hauling goods and victual and contraband across the galaxy. Maul had tried to explain that they are Sith, that smuggling is below their dignity, but it hadn’t dimmed the light in Savage’s eyes and only fomented Savage’s protestations. Eventually, Maul had conceded to the more important goal of making him shut up, even if it meant going along to pick up the cargo.

Savage’s contact is a human small-time robber, flanked by a dozen more members of his species armed with vibroshivs.

Good, Maul thinks, taking in the way their eyes narrow disdainfully when the brothers walk in. At least they’re armed. If they hadn’t even assigned a minimal threat level to Savage after their past interactions, he would really need to have some firm words with his apprentice.

Maybe he’ll have them anyway, because when the human offers three hundred credits for two not-to-be opened crates to be brought to the inner rim planet Denon, Savage appears to want to shake his hand.

The human scum grins.

Maul reaches for Savage’s hand. He finds the index finger, the left one—the one Maul hasn’t yet bitten off—and now he bends it backwards until Savage cries out, and stops moving.

Then, he steps forward and says, “I am afraid that all transport fees have increased by twelve-hundred percent. It’s such a dangerous business nowadays. There are too many crews out there who would take the cargo for themselves and slit their client’s throat.” He pauses for effect and raises one eyebrow. “I’m sure you agree that finding an honest delivery service is worth the fee.”

In the resulting fight, he cuts through the gang with ease, and it’s been a long time since he has felt so happy.

+

(“I understand that there was no need for money on Dathomir,” Maul will reply when Savage complains later. “I understand that this is a new world for you...”

I was protecting you, he doesn’t say. He isn’t sure that it would be true, anyway.

“We have to be on guard. They will assume that every zabrak is a stupid beast, and we will not confirm it. If you want to keep playing those games, apprentice, you will comport yourself in a dignified way. No true Sith would allow themselves to be ripped off like that.”

He won’t admit that he doesn’t really know what exactly three hundred credits can buy, either. The offer had just seemed like a low sum, considering his former Master had always talked about billions whenever he’d mentioned money.)

+

Two days later, Savage is swaddled on his bed with a broken-off side horn and most of Maul’s blankets, a pouch of surface ice he’d told Maul to scratch up held against his head. There is no more training today, because apparently, this is the kind of injury that, if it had struck Savage’s brother, would be cause for week-long observation and pampering.

“Let’s try again tomorrow,” he’d told Maul. “And come in every hour and wake me up. Can’t sleep. It could be a concussion,” like an oafish—

He is being uncharitable, Maul notices.

Yes, Savage is weak… but does Maul blame his beloved speederbike—did, Maul corrects himself, it is gone now, still hidden on the LiMerge’s uppermost level unless some low-life has stolen it—did he blame it when the ignition didn’t start right, or the steering veered slightly to the left? No. He worked. He pared it down to its core mechanics when he couldn’t repair the fault otherwise, and didn’t pause to sleep or eat until it was better.

The fault lies within Maul alone. He has been indulging himself, every time he throws the staff at Savage and shows him a new style of parrying, a better evasive manoeuvre. Every time he takes a bite of Savage’s cooking.

Every time he shies away from sharing his Master’s training with his brother, he fails their lineage.

Every second he does not spend starving the light in Savage’s eyes, so that it has nothing left to consume but the weakness that still lives within his brother’s bones… and for what, the craven selfish fear that one day, Savage might not be happy to see him, anymore? The feeling of dry callused hands stroking the base of his horns at night? He’s been taught better than that.

He has fashioned Savage into an enjoyable sparring partner, a laughing man, a capable smuggler and bounty hunter—an equal. Not a Sith.

He has failed his brother.

+

Maul has grown used to the soft background hum of his brother’s emotions. It is just there, like a moderately annoying small-fly—always hovering around, seeking to bite Maul and infect him with its backwash. There is warmth, yes, there’s boiling rage and fear and coziness, and sometimes, when Maul is complaining about the quality of Savage’s food or when they come out of hyperspace a day early because Maul has reset the navcomputer and he’s laughing at Savage’s confusion, there’ll be the flash of a patterned orange face in the corner of his eye and the bitter alien taste of shame and sorrow in his mouth. Beneath it all, there is all-consuming love. Devotion, clinging to everything like tacky blood and just as impossible to scrub off.

Even now, when Maul has stormed into the room holding their beds, seconds after his revelation, and ordered Savage to get up and receive his first true lesson as a Sith apprentice, it is there.

Even now, in this elementary lesson of strangulation and near-death and terror—a lesson he’d first received when he barely reached up to his Master’s hip—when Maul’s fingers ring his brothers neck and try to wring all the air out and the weakness with it, and awaken the glimmer of power that he is sure lives within Savage’s flesh. He is showing him to reach for the might of the dark side, which rears up out of agony and gives survival and unimaginable strength. Anger is an energy.

And even now, he feels his brother’s mind and the love in it, diluting the pain and the slow white slide of Savage’s terror and the euphoria that inevitably follows air-loss.

His presence is just there, faithful and eternal—

Or so Maul had thought.

Savage’s eyes roll with the pressure, and the pulse under Maul’s hands stutters for the fraction of a second. In surprise, he lets go.

The swirling hum that is Savage flickers, and then it rears up in a deafening miasma of another time, with hands that are not his and I am your kin, do not do this and terrible pressure, and blood under Maul’s fingernails that isn’t there. The suffocating pain that follows isn’t Maul’s, but it is as powerful as any hate he has ever turned to, and he knows: This is it.

This is the moment when his apprentice becomes a true Sith.

And then, impossibly, the pain dies. Where the solid mental presence of his brother used to be, there is only an absence: a hole, the loss of a sense as profound as touch or sight. A sense of serenity, of acceptance.

Maul’s hands vibrate. There is no pulse under them that he can feel.

He feels its lack as if he was rent in two.

“Brother,” he whispers. “Brother.”

There is no answer.

It cannot be. Savage is not weak. His brother is not this weak. There was potential, Maul has seen it! It was just going to take a little less coddling—he was just going to teach him with his Master’s lessons, also—he was just going to… Maul has been asphyxiated, and it made him stronger! It made him a Sith! It didn’t make him—

He’s still cradling his brother’s head, but his eyes are too dull now to look at it.

There is no movement: He does not notice the gasps, the desperate sucking-in of air.

There is only agony—implacable, indomitable, inexorable.

There is no movement.

There is more than he has ever felt. A swirling kaleidoscope fills him to the brim and bursts the durasteel walls of the shuttle. There is no space for air when he opens his heart, no space for anything anymore but fear—more fear than he could ever manage to feel for himself even in his youngest moments—and grim determination.

Until recently, Maul’s whole life had been at the disposal of his Master. No matter how much he loved his speeder bike, how often he polished it, or the years he had spent refining his saberstaff, he had always known they weren’t really his. His body has always been an instrument wielded by another’s will.

He has never owned anything before.

He will not relinquish his brother. Not to the dark side. Not to death. Not to anything. Not anymore.

But it is too late.

There is nothing left in Maul’s world but this knowledge, and his fingers, too heavy to feel, and the skull they hold.

They hold it, and it is still, and then it is squirming with a hacking cough that joins the rushing in Maul’s ears so easily that it might as well belong to a ghost. There is movement, and then his arms are being repositioned, like a shut-off droid’s, and he is pulled upwards, and then, eventually—

There is a gentle hand stroking his horns.

+

“I have failed you, brother. I am an unworthy master. I’m not like—I couldn’t—”

“Shhhh, Maul,” Savage whispers hoarsely, and he does not react to the horror Maul has become, kneeling on the bed and wracked with weakness and pouring hot salt from his eyes. He only takes his brother’s hand and clutches it closely against his chest, and he sings the cradle-song.

+

They’ve been on Bespin for a while now, and the ring of bruises around Savage’s throat—never truly visible through the black markings in the first place—has faded. They’re trying to meet up with a frankly inconsiderate client. It’s the kind of trip that was only supposed to last a single day, at the behest of a squirrely chadra-fan who’s too paranoid to send the data on their target via holonet.

Today, she showed up. She’s three weeks late, and she won’t even agree to Maul’s entirely reasonable demand that she triple the fee, as compensation for her tardiness.

Instead of the stalker she wants rid of, it’s her own head that’s bouncing across the dirty floor.

Maul still has his newly built saberstaff out when someone shouts at them, “Savage? Savage Opress!”

Twi’lek. Bartender. Female. Yellow and short, mid-forties probably, no dress sense that Maul can make out. Slight limp, bad hip. There is a Free Ryloth flag behind her, pinned to the wall behind the bar, and her bare shoulders are covered with the scars left behind by interrogation. Ten different ways to take her down, and three in which she might pose a danger despite her ailments. That’s what Maul registers, and then he realizes he remembers her. (Maul’s got a decent memory for faces, not that it has ever served his purposes. In his life, seeing someone again after years will only ever mean one thing: That he didn’t stab hard enough, the first time.)

A job for his old Master, less than a year before his life changed irrevocably. She was a bystander, a terrified victim hiding behind a bar counter. There’d been the stench of alcohol on her breath, and the distinct possibility she wouldn’t even remember his visage, and so he’d judged her unworthy of elimination.

“I was wonderin’ whether you’d show up again. And this is the beloved missing brother, I’m assumin’?” She grins conspiratorially at Maul, and she isn’t put off by his unimpressed glare, or the stench of lightsaber-charred meat that was in his robes for two days after their first meeting. That’s in his clothes now. The only good thing to come of this... situation is the confirmation that he was right: She was too inebriated and oblivious to bother killing.

She isn’t drunk now, or maybe she just doesn’t smell like it.

No matter.

What’s important is the way she raises her arms and attempts to touch Savage.

Maul raises his ‘saber again. He barely restrains himself, even after realizing that Savage isn’t cowering or apprehensive. There is not even the new, instinctive flinch that has slowly grown smaller over the past few weeks. His brother is refusing the hug, offering a handshake instead, and that warning didn’t come from the force after all—no, it’s just Maul’s twin hearts beating with the suspicion that here is someone who wants his most precious possession for herself.

She only wants a loan, it turns out.

An evening in Savage’s company, sitting at the bar counter and drinking from foul-smelling bottles. They talk about this and that and Maul’s alleged snoring, and then someone called Feral, with decreasing levels of grammatical correctness.

Maul does not ask. He glowers all the approaching customers away, and the beings that approach him with beer coasters scrawled with unfamiliar number-code. It’s not that he wouldn’t prefer taking a new mission right now, after the current one ended with a disappointing lack of fighting. He just needs to prevent his apprentice being led astray more.

(He doesn’t think anymore, I am the master now. I could make him leave.)

+

Thirteen hours later, Savage’s twi’lek acquaintance is still shouting about the Galactic Food and Drug Administration’s recent regulations on accarrgm. “Pure discrimination, is what it is!” she complains. “They wanna ban it just because some humans had a sip too much and died of alcohol poisoning? Let’s give a geonosian a bottle of Corellian ale and see what happens, but noooo. Course not. Kriffin’ humans. Do you know how many credits I’ve lost because I’ve had to say, no, sorry, we’re out of stock? Kashyyyk should sue! Not that it would help any because the karking courts are stacked against us, but...”

Savage vociferously agrees. Maul rolls his eyes—his brother may or may not have been even capable of understanding what she’s talking about, about fifteen shot glasses ago.

“They think they’re the bosses—they think they own us, fuckin’ slavers. Any luck and they’ll get what’s coming to them, soon...”

The only reason Maul is even listening with half an ear is because there is nothing else worth hearing in the bar.

His eyes are blinking sleepily at the vidscreen in the corner, which is showing reruns of Onderon’s last swoop bike race season with the sound turned off. He’s just felt his way into the rhythm of the race and predicted that in one or two seconds, current champion Nkh will crash her bike into the railings—maybe he should find someone to bet with—when the screen changes into a red-white swirling mass of dots. The galaxy turning, revolving around Coruscant.

It’s the early morning broadcast of Realtime News.

As soon as Maul’s identified the topic of the first bulletin, he snarls at his companions, “Shut up.” This is important.

There is a blockade-breaking cruiser being pulverized on the screen.

Then, it’s showing a painted girl that’s familiar from a recent mission dossier, with heavy robes and heavier words. The Nubian child queen, telling the galaxy—or those parts of it that have no excitement in their lives and are reduced to sitting in a bar and watching holonet newscasts—telling everybody of her planet’s invasion and begging for help.

Next—Maul recalls his Master’s remarks on journalists’ love for balance and fairness, and his smile—next there is Viceroy Nute Gunray of the Trade Federation, condemning Naboo’s decisions in the trade dispute and justifying his actions as self-defense. Beside him, there is an empty spot: He still hasn’t found a replacement for Deputy Hath Monchar, the coward who’d have sold evidence of the plot to the next available bidder and destroyed everything if Maul hadn’t stopped him.

It has begun.

There is no need for a successor, for another link in Bane’s lineage, now.

The first domino stone in Sidous’ plan to assume control of the galaxy has fallen—the plot that required the surrender of Maul’s childhood and that saw him beaten and delirious with vomit, the altar upon which he’d happily butchered his brother’s body and affection—and here he is on this momentous occasion, being ranted at by a human-hating alien separatist, in this dinghy bar full of down-on their-luck outcasts hoping to make a quick buck on a remote mining colony.

Here, in this sticky uncomfortable seat, nursing a glass of virgin blumfruit daiquiri stuffed so full with ice cubes it makes his teeth burn, sits the former Darth Maul.

The thousand-year-old plot of the Sith has started to unfurl, and he is parsecs away.

He was never necessary, after all.

“Hey, Maul,” Socvumo’s throaty voice cuts into his dejection, an inch from his right ear. “I think your bro’s had a little too much now.”

She’s right, and just in time. Maul manages to grab Savage by the horns before his head slides fully off the table.

“You got a safe place for him to sleep it off?”

Maul nods at her, and tries to lay the enormous floppy form of his inebriated brother across his shoulders. Savage’s head hits the table with a dull thud when he stands up. Quickly, he touches the skull to check whether anything’s broken off, and tries again. It’s no use, though: Maul attempts to walk to the door, but he can barely stand with the weight on his back.

He’ll have to drag his brother back to the Sheathipede—drag him home.

This is his life now.

+

(“Maul,” Savage had whispered a lifetime ago. Maul. A good, strong name. A blessing to scare away the ghosts. A talisman and prayer to keep the baby clothed in the warm mantle of darkness—a name to keep him hidden from beasts and despair and maybe, hopefully, please, also from the pale grasping fingers that haunt every nightbrother’s dream: A name to keep his brother safe and angry and free.

Savage had said it again—and will forever until it wears out his vocal chords, “Maul,” his lips wrapping around the syllable with love and awe.

He’d carefully supported the baby’s head and delighted in the way the little horn-nubs pressed against his skin. The child had gnawed on his fingertips with his tiny toothless jaws, and Savage had known there would be never anything more important in his life.

There would be no pain he wouldn’t suffer to keep his brother by his side.)